“Goddamn it!” Manny said, and the words echoed off the neighbors’ garage. He had exclaimed partly in frustration about the cold water and the fact that he’d been wearing a clean sweatshirt. But it was mostly frustration with himself, the way he was being so cowardly with his dad. Did that make Manny a coward? It was true that he’d also never been able to stand up to the jocks at school, but that was more a question of self-preservation.
Manny’s fingers brushed something deep inside the downspout. By now he’d lost almost all the feeling in his hand, so it wasn’t clear what he was touching. Whatever it was, it had to be what was blocking the flow of water. But for the moment, it was just out of his reach.
He leaned in closer, careful not to lose his balance on the ladder. He only needed another inch or two. Cold water soaked up to the shoulder of his sweatshirt, but he was already so wet that it didn’t matter.
Finally he had it. His fingers closed around something pliable, but with a brittle, spiky exterior. A pinecone? He pulled on it, but it was wedged in there pretty tightly.
I’ll do it, Manny thought to himself. He’d finish with the downspout, and then he’d confront his dad. Because no matter what his dad told him, it had to be better than not knowing.
Manny gave the clog a hard jerk, and finally it gave way. He lifted it up through the muck. Still more water splashed out of the gutter, but at least he’d gotten the obstruction. He lifted it up so he could see what it was.
A dead pigeon. It had to have been in there for weeks, and it was partly decomposed. The eye sockets were empty, and the body was soft and bloated. It was the broken feathers and curled claws that had felt prickly in his hand.
“Eewww!” Manny said, flinging the bird away, almost losing his balance.
He started down. First, he was going to go inside and scrub his hand with soap. Then, a promise to himself was a promise. He was going to have it out with his dad.
“Dad?” Manny said back in the kitchen. His father started in surprise. He’d been slicing a cube of tofu. Meanwhile, Manny hadn’t even bothered to change out of his wet clothes.
“Manny,” his dad said. “What is it? Did you clear the gutter?”
“It’s taken care of. But now I want to ask you something.”
“Did you check the others? Because they might have clogs too.”
“Am I adopted?”
On the stove, onions sizzled in a frying pan.
“What?” his dad said.
Manny repeated the question, even though he knew his dad had heard him perfectly.
There was another hesitation. Then his father laughed. “What makes you think that?”
But his dad’s hesitation had already answered Manny’s question.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Manny asked.
His dad stood by the stove a very long time, until the onions started to smoke. Then he turned off the burner and walked to the kitchen table and sat down.
“How did you know?” his dad said.
Manny took the seat across from him. “I’m not sure exactly. It was just a feeling. That something wasn’t right.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being adopted.”
“I don’t mean with that. I mean with us.”
His dad nodded once.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Manny asked. “If you don’t think there’s anything wrong with being adopted, why did you keep it a secret?”
His dad searched the Formica tabletop, as if for an answer. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “You were just such a sensitive baby.”
“So?”
“So there’s a stigma.”
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t understand,” his dad said. “I was a single father.”
“What do you mean?” Manny said. “What about Mom?”
His dad thought for a second. “I didn’t adopt you until after she died. I guess it was my way of moving on.”
Manny thought about all this new information. The man and woman he’d thought were his parents weren’t his parents at all—and the woman he’d thought was his mother wasn’t even his adoptive mother.
“Anyway,” his dad went on, “people judge you when you’re a single man who adopts. People think you’re depriving the child of a mother.”
Manny didn’t say anything. He couldn’t deny what his dad was saying.
“So we moved,” his dad said. “We left town, came to the city. We left everything and everyone behind. Then people wouldn’t know I adopted you.”
Manny nodded. That explained why they didn’t have any old friends, or old basement junk either.
“What do you know about my—” Manny almost said “parents,” but he stopped himself in time. His dad was his parent. His being adopted didn’t change that. “My birth parents?” Manny finished.
“Not much,” his dad said. “They were killed in a car accident. You were home with a baby-sitter.”
A car accident, Manny thought.
“How old was I?” he asked.
“Almost three. That’s what I always wanted to explain to people. Adoptive parents want babies. They’d rather have a baby of a different race or the wrong sex than a toddler of the same race. They want to make their mark. Or maybe they’re just afraid that the birth parents have already messed the kid up and it’s too late to change him back. Anyway, at three years old, you would’ve been hard to place, even though you were white. I was doing a good thing!”
“Dad! Of course you were!”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Manny. I’m sorry I lied to you.” Manny was all set to say that he understood, that his dad didn’t have anything to be sorry for. But before he had a chance to speak, his dad said, “But now I’ve got to get back to my stir-fry. Let’s talk about this later, okay? Why don’t you go check the rest of those gutters before it gets dark?”
That was it? He was dismissed? Manny wanted to say more, to have his dad say more to him too. He would’ve thought his dad would have wanted to say more; that was the way he usually worked. But apparently there was nothing more to say, at least not now. They’d talk about this again later, his dad had said. But would they? It had sounded kind of final to Manny. And now he was just supposed to go outside and check on the gutters?
Manny didn’t go back outside. He went up to his room to undress for a shower. As he did, he looked out the window. He could see the gutter from there, the one he thought he’d cleared when he removed the dead bird. It hadn’t drained. The gutter was clogged by something deeper still.
HARLAN
Harlan felt like every eye in the room was on him—which was saying something, since it was the night of the annual Eye Ball and the whole room was decorated with eyeballs of every sort. There were thousands of eyes in all: eyeball balloons, plastic anatomic eye models for the table centerpieces, even eyeball ice cubes in the punch.
Of course, the two eyes that mattered most were his mother’s. He could sense them trained on him like the scope of an assassin. But Harlan wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of looking back at her, of acknowledging her existence. He also wasn’t going to talk to anyone. Nope, he was just going to stand there by the wall, Pepsi in hand, staring listlessly out at the dance floor. His mom had forced him to come to this thing, but she couldn’t make him mingle—“shake out some votes,” as the Senator liked to say.
His mom wasn’t even supposed to be here. This was supposed to be a solo Harlan gig. But she’d made it a point to come tonight because she’d sensed dissension in the ranks. She’d blackmailed him into going and now she had to come, to make sure he did what he’d said he would do. But even she couldn’t make him do any more than fulfill the letter of the law.
“Harlan!” said a familiar voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
It was Beth Farrell, the novelist he’d met at the Bittle Society dinner. With all the charity and fundraising events Harlan had attended, he’d never seen her before that dinner; now he’d run into her t
wice in a matter of weeks. What were the odds?
“Ms. Farrell,” he said, nodding politely.
“Beth!” she chastised him.
“Right. Beth. You were looking for me?”
“I was.” Suddenly she was digging into her handbag, which was far too large to be in any way fashionable. “I wanted to give you…” She kept rummaging until she finally found what she wanted. “This!” And with that, she produced a book. The title was The Moment of Truth, and the cover was a picture of a man looking into a mirror, while the face in the mirror was looking away.
Harlan read the name of the author. “It’s yours,” he said.
“I seem to recall your saying you’d never read me. Here’s your chance. Signed by the author and everything.”
Harlan smiled. “How’d you know I’d be here tonight?”
“Oh, I read something somewhere about your being a ‘Cornea Crony.’”
“‘Corporal’!”
“Right!” Beth smirked. “Anyway, I figured anyone who had to put up with an embarrassing name like that deserved at least one freebie.”
“Well, thank you,” he said, reaching for the book.
She pulled it back from his hand. “But I’m only giving it to you on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“If you don’t like it, you have to lie and tell me you do.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m sure I’ll love it.”
“Now what did I just say?” Beth said. “You have to lie convincingly. There’s no way you can know you’ll like my book until after you’ve read it!”
“But I’m not lying. I know I will like your book.”
She looked at him wryly. “How in the world can you possibly know that?”
He grinned. “Because I know I like you.”
She blushed—the desired response. “Why, Harlan. You little flirt.”
“I try.” Harlan was flirting—with a thirty-five-year-old woman, no less. It felt good to feel like his old self again.
He looked over at his mom, on the other side of the dance floor. She was pretending to talk to the wife of the city manager, but she was really watching Harlan. He knew exactly what she thought about his talking to Beth Farrell again. It made him happy to know that he was driving his mom crazy.
Harlan turned back to Beth Farrell. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything. I’m an open—well, you know.”
“Is it weird to have fans? People who feel like they know you because of your books?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Beth said. “It’s very flattering, of course. But mostly, I just keep wondering when they’re all going to realize what a fraud I am.” She grimaced. “I guess you could say I’m not very comfortable being in the spotlight.”
Harlan nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Oh, please!” Beth said. “Don’t pretend you can relate, because I know you can’t. You were born to be the center of attention.”
“Well, I guess I am kind of a people person,” Harlan admitted.
Beth laughed. “I’ll say you are.” She thought for a second, then said, “I once read this great definition of the difference between an introvert and an extrovert. An introvert is someone who gets energy from being alone, and who is drained of energy by being around other people. An extrovert is the exact opposite—someone who gets energy from other people, and who is drained by being alone.”
Harlan nodded. “Everything being equal, I guess I’d rather be around people.” Certain people, anyway, he thought.
“Ever do any acting?” Beth said. “Spending time in an actual spotlight?”
“Harlan,” said the voice of Harlan’s mom. “I need to speak to you a moment.”
His mom? Where had she come from? He’d been so busy talking to Beth that he’d lost sight of her.
“Excuse us, won’t you?” his mom said to Beth, in a voice so innocent that it made Harlan want to strangle her. He felt like he should say something—object to his mom’s interruption of their conversation. So why didn’t he?
Beth gave his mom a look that was equal parts amusement and disgust. Then she turned to Harlan. “Be sure and tell me what you think of my book,” she said. “But remember: I want praise, not the truth.”
And then she was gone, and Harlan was alone with his mom. He was furious with her, but didn’t know where to begin. But before he could begin, she grabbed Beth’s book from his hand. “I’ll take that,” she said.
Harlan found his voice at last. “Mom! You can’t just interrupt me like that! And that’s my book!” Could she be more of a bitch?
“I was just going to hold it for you,” she said, even more innocently than before, in a tone so convincing that it almost had Harlan fooled.
“Hold it? Why?”
“Because you’re on. You’ve got to go up now and pick the winning raffle numbers.”
Harlan stood behind the stage—really just a raised wooden platform underneath hanging lights. He was waiting for Dr. James Berman, the evening’s “‘Macula’ of Ceremonies,” to finish describing all the prizes in the Retina Raffle. In just a moment, he’d introduce Harlan so he could go up onto the stage to pick the winning numbers.
But that was one stage Harlan didn’t want to be on. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the spotlight or the crowd—he’d told Beth the truth when he’d said he was comfortable being in front of people. What he didn’t like was being there on orders from his mom. But he did have to go up onto that stage; he didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to keep swimming.
“Third prize is for all you husbands whose wives say you never do anything romantic,” Dr. Berman was saying into the microphone. “It’s the perfect night on the town, starting with dinner for two at the Rose and Lobster!”
Out on the dance floor and at the surrounding tables, people applauded. Dr. Berman went on explaining the details of the prize. But Harlan shivered. The hall wasn’t cold—on the contrary, people had been dancing, and the air was stuffy. But he felt a strange chill.
“Our second prize will be a real treat for the shopaholics in our audience,” Dr. Berman was saying. “The merchants at North Park Mall have all gotten together to donate a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate!”
An image flickered in Harlan’s mind—but it was vague, too dark to make out. Was he having one of his premonitions? Here? Now? In front of all these people?
No, he thought. He had to fight it—to use that anti-premonition technique he’d used before. He deliberately slowed his breathing and imagined himself on life support, trying to make the filling and emptying of his lungs as even as possible. Then he forced himself to concentrate on the here and now, to be aware of every little thing going on around him.
“And for the grand prize in the Retina Raffle,” Dr. Berman was saying, “a week-long trip for two to Hawaii!”
Harlan’s technique wasn’t working; no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t seem to be able to stop this premonition from coming. But this one was different from all the others. The feeling of dread was getting stronger and stronger and the image in his mind was somehow growing bigger, but it still wasn’t any clearer; it was just a haze, completely indistinct. And yet the uncertainty of this vision, its elusiveness, actually made it even more unsettling than any of his other premonitions.
“Harlan?” whispered a voice. “That’s your cue.”
Harlan turned. Sharon Blakely, the special events coordinator, was standing beside him. She was staring out at the stage, toward Dr. Berman and the audience beyond.
“Huh?” Harlan said.
She smiled at him reassuringly. “You’re on.” Sure enough, Harlan heard applause coming from the hall. But Harlan didn’t—couldn’t!—move. Sweat dripped from his scalp. It felt like he was breathing through a pillow.
“Harlan?” Sharon said. “Are you okay?”
He wasn’t okay. By now, the vision had expanded to fill his brain, but it still wasn’t focused. It was infuriating, like
the blind spot in the corner of your eye that, when you look right at it, isn’t there anymore.
Out in the audience, the applause faded away—abruptly, impatiently, almost like someone had pulled a plug.
“Harlan?” Dr. Berman said, up onstage, in a mock sing-song voice. “We’re waiting!”
“Harlan!” said Sharon, beside him, more emphatically.
But suddenly he felt a new presence near him behind that stage.
“Harlan?” his mom said. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you going on?”
He looked at her, but he couldn’t get enough of a breath to speak. It was like she was one of those vacuum pumps that are used to preserve food and she had sucked what was left of his air right out him.
He shook his head no.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but it’s not going to work. Now get up there.”
She pushed him up the small set of steps.
Harlan stood at the top of those stairs, in the shadows at the back of the platform, out of the range of the hanging stage lights overhead. He felt like a quadriplegic—someone with no control over his arms or legs. But quadriplegics could at least blink; Harlan couldn’t even do that. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing into a puddle of saline solution.
His mom had followed him up the steps. She pushed him again, and momentum alone sent him stumbling forward, through a curtain of light and into the glow of the brightly lit stage.
“Ah!” Dr. Berman said to Harlan. “I see you decided to join us at last.”
But it was at that exact moment that the premonition crystallized in his mind. It was an image of…
Nothing. Harlan had never seen, or even imagined, anything like it. It wasn’t darkness or gloom or haze or shadows or fog. It was nothing. A void, a vacuum—the absence of matter, of light, of anything!
As if Harlan himself did not exist.
It was true that all of Harlan’s premonitions so far had involved the prospect of his own death. But this one went even further, beyond death, to the nonexistence—the terrible nothingness—that came after. Or was this just a glimpse of what it meant to have no self?