All Things Cease to Appear

  He was alone, of course he was, but still couldn’t shake the uncanny awareness of another.

  He tuned in to the news, hoping to distract himself with the failed escapades of strangers, but the radio suddenly buzzed with static. Seconds later, a classical station came through with alarming clarity—the maudlin reckoning of Mozart’s Requiem. Nearly disabled, he found he had to pull over, and he sat there in the darkness, shivering, waiting for it somehow to end.

  A Struggle for Existence

  1

  HIS BROTHER WADE turned eighteen that Sunday. Vida baked him a cake. His uncle gave him a shot of whiskey. Eddy and Cole chipped in for a radio. It was pretty nice and had a long antenna, so you could get most of the stations.

  After supper they all went down to the junkyard to climb around on the smashed-up cars. Eddy brought his horn. They sat on the tin roofs and he played while Willis rolled cigarettes and he and Wade hunted around for stuff. You could sometimes find things. Once, he found a gold lighter with somebody’s initials on it. Another time a wallet, empty except for goofy pictures of someone’s kids. Eddy had brought some whiskey they passed around and it felt good and warm in his chest. Willis said it made her dizzy and she liked it. She said she wanted to be oblivious. She drew on herself with pen. She drew a horse like it was galloping over her arm. We just go round in circles, she said. That’s all we do. And then we die.

  Eddy started playing with a jazz group in Troy, at an underground club on Fulton Street called Tony’s, and they all went to watch him play, his uncle and Vida and him and Wade. You could hear their music all along the street, and people who couldn’t pay were hanging around outside just so they could hear it. A lot of people he knew turned out for it. Even Father Geary came. He sat alone at his own table drinking a glass of red wine, tapping his hand to the beat on the black tablecloth.

  After the show, Rainer took Eddy aside and said, Your mother would be real proud, hearing you play like that.

  —

  COLE FOUND the note on Monday afternoon, when he got home from school. In his cruddy handwriting Wade said they were sending him to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, and that he’d write again from there. Tell Eddy not to be mad.

  He sat down on the tightly made bed. The room suddenly seemed emptier. Wade could fill a place up, and things felt complete when he was around. That night, without Wade’s snoring, he lay awake thinking about his brother, trying to picture him on the bus on some dark highway. Wade always knew the army was his only way out. He’d told them but nobody listened. They’d figured he was just dreaming. But he’d done it. And now his bed was empty.

  As much as he missed him, Cole was proud of his brother. Wade had proved you could do something in this world. And it showed Cole he wouldn’t be stuck here forever, either. It was up to him to make his own way. To decide for himself.

  —

  HE HAD this class, Communications, with Mr. Delriccio, who had long sideburns and wore a Hot Tuna T-shirt under his blazer. They had to move their chairs into a circle and go around and say how they felt. Cole never said anything except Fine and the teacher didn’t press him, on account of everybody knowing what had happened to his parents and thinking Cole might do the same thing. Nobody wanted that kind of guilt on their hands. Mr. Delriccio was his favorite teacher. He’d look at them right in the face and wait as long as it took to hear what you were trying to say. You could do no wrong in his class. It got Cole thinking about things. How people were, the way they sometimes acted. It was actually kind of sad. People said Delriccio was divorced and Eugene saw him once on the subway in the city wearing a leather jacket; he got off at Christopher Street and Eugene said it meant he was probably gay. They had to read a book called Notes to Myself. When Rainer saw it on the kitchen table he said, What is this garbage?

  It’s for school.

  Their uncle took ill, a virus around his heart. Eddy drove him into Albany to see a specialist, who said he’d be all right if he took his medicine and quit smoking. Vida would catch him sneaking cigarettes and start yelling in Spanish. With Wade gone and Eddy busy with Rainer, Cole was alone a lot of the time. The Clares wanted him most every weekend. He wished he had a real job, even working at Hack’s, but you had to be fifteen to get your working papers and his birthday wasn’t till August.

  Usually they’d want him on Saturday nights. Sometimes they’d have parties. Basically, everyone got drunk and staggered around spilling their drinks and filling clamshells with butts. She’d make exotic food. Hard-boiled eggs cut in half and sprinkled with red powder. Pickles with little toothpicks shaped like pirate swords. She taught him how to make onion dip, emptying a package of dry soup into a bowl of sour cream. Presto, she’d say, tasting it with her fingertip. She’d get dressed up, do her face. Earrings dangling down like key chains. He thought she was beautiful. When they talked about her late at night in their room, Eddy said she was the kind of woman he wanted to marry and have babies with, because she was smarter than most girls and had the kind of beauty you saw in nature that made you stop for a minute, just like you froze in your tracks when you saw a fox or some amazing bird. Eddy said Mr. Clare didn’t deserve her and she was only staying married to him because of Franny and she was a good mother who didn’t want to mess up her kid.

  She drank spritzers. She smoked Larks because she liked the package. A prominent color in Florentine Renaissance paintings, she told him once, pointing out the same red color in a book of saints with red caps. Her cheeks caved in sharp when she took a drag, like the tightly folded wings of an origami bird. She was like some girl in a magazine. Standing in her poncho by the dark pond, her eyes all silvery. One time, he found her out there alone. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She didn’t look at him but told him he was growing up. She said, Life isn’t always what you think. Things happen. He could tell she was a little drunk.

  I know about things happening, he told her.

  She smiled at him, kind of an eerie smile that turned sad halfway through. I know you do, Cole. I guess that’s something we have in common.

  They’d have people come up from the city. She said they were artists, writers, like they were royalty. They were different. You couldn’t predict what they were going to say. They didn’t go out of their way to smile and liked to give you the impression they had other, more important things on their minds. The next morning, you’d see them in town at the Windowbox, nursing their hangovers. They’d complain if they didn’t get served quickly or if the food wasn’t hot enough. Once, he heard one of them ask, Is this margarine or butter? I won’t eat it if it’s margarine.

  Another time, this guy brought a projector and showed a film on their wall. Cole ducked out, but she caught his hand and said, No, I want you to see this. She was always trying to teach him something and it kind of bugged him. She wasn’t his teacher. Anyhow, he sat there and watched. First, a block of white light with little hairs in it and people holding their hands up to make shadows. He made a wolf. She did an eagle with its wings spread and got it flying. Somebody else made what looked like an Egyptian lady. Then the movie started and you saw a car go over a bridge, crash right through the guardrail and fall into the river. For eight whole minutes it showed the same thing over and over, with monks chanting in the background. Like a dream, it didn’t make any sense, but it was also troubling to him, the same bad thing happening again and again. He decided it was stupid. But they all sat there transfixed, with the light flashing over them like some kind of magic show. The guy who’d made the film had a melodic voice that looped around like fancy handwriting. His film was about chance, he said. How sometimes things can happen for no reason and change your life forever. He looked directly at Cole, like he knew everything that happened and was sorry for him, and Cole figured the others knew, too, because they were studying him like he was some kind of zoo animal. He didn’t want their fucking pity. He got up and walked out.

  She called out his name but he ignored her. Anyway, she was too dru
nk to catch up. The door slammed behind him.

  What she didn’t get: it wasn’t even their house, not really. It never would be.

  He walked along the road in the cold air. You could smell the earth, the cold smell of winter coming. He didn’t want to be thinking what he was thinking, or feeling what he was feeling.

  On impulse he stuck out his thumb. It was just after four and beginning to get dark. A few cars passed by, pulling on their headlights. Right when he was about to turn around, a Chevy pickup pulled over to the side of the road. The truck was dirty and splattered with mud, a farmer’s truck. The driver put down his window and leaned out a little and Cole recognized him. It was the man from the library who’d given him the stick of gum that time. Two dogs stood in the back with their tails slicing the air like boomerangs. They came over to him and licked his face.

  The black guy’s Rufus, the gold one’s Betty. Where you headed?

  Troy.

  The man thought for a minute, looking down the road ahead of him. Where at?

  River Street.

  I guess I could take you. Get in.

  Cole thanked him and climbed in. The man hadn’t said where he was going. There was a bag of wool on the floor.

  Here, put that up here. That’s my wife’s. We raise alpaca.

  We used to raise cows, Cole told him.

  The man nodded, commiserating. It’s hard, working a farm.

  We don’t do it anymore.

  I don’t blame you for that.

  It wasn’t by choice, Cole said, surprising himself. We got forced into it.

  Wow, I hear you. That’s too bad, man.

  Cole turned away, his eyes burning, and looked back at the dogs. They had their noses pressed up against the window, wagging their tails.

  You got a name?

  Cole Hale.

  People call me Bram.

  Is that short for something?

  Abraham.

  Thanks for that gum you gave me. At the library.

  I’m writing a book, he volunteered. Let me rephrase that: I’m trying to write a book. He laughed.

  What about?

  That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, he said. It’s taking me a while.

  How long?

  Too long to say out loud.

  Sounds hard, Cole said.

  It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But, hey, I didn’t expect it to be easy. Anyway, it’s the hard stuff that makes you stronger, right? You’ve got to be open to it. You can’t be afraid of hard work.

  Cole watched him. Here was another adult trying to give him advice. Like he was a radio that just happened to be on. You could take what you wanted or leave it, which was what his uncle told him.

  Anyway, he liked this guy. He had kind of a wild look, with messy hair and wild, friendly eyes. The collar on his work shirt was frayed and he had a thermal shirt on underneath that, and around his neck was a loop of rawhide with a colored bead on it.

  I’m not afraid of it, Cole said.

  Good. That’ll carry you far. Man, this truck stinks, doesn’t it? I had a load of pigs back there. They sure know how to stink. You can put your window down if you like.

  I don’t mind it, he said.

  Man, they sure do stink, though, don’t they?

  Yeah, they always do.

  They rolled their windows down and let the wind blast through. After a while, Bram turned off the expressway and went over the Green Island Bridge and then turned onto River Street. Cole directed him to the pawnshop.

  Here we are, Bram said.

  Thanks. I owe you one. It was something his uncle always said.

  All right, then. You take care.

  He got out of the truck and went into the shop and a little bell rang above the door. The place was empty, but he could hear the sound of a TV coming from the back. He took in the merchandise, the stuff on the shelves and in the warm, brightly lit glass cases. He didn’t see his mother’s figurines. The same fat guy his mother dealt with came through the beaded curtain and stood behind the counter. Cole could tell he recognized him, but when he asked about his mother’s figurines the man pretended not to remember. They’re not here, Cole said. I don’t see them.

  Where’s your mother at? the man asked. I don’t do business with kids.

  Cole put his money out on the counter. She’s dead.

  The man’s expression collapsed. Well, that’s a damn shame. Put that away, he said. He opened a small metal box and pulled out a piece of paper, a receipt, then wrote an address on it and held it out to Cole between his fat fingers. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, he said, but I got a soft spot for boys like you.

  They had a little tug of war over the counter, and when the man let it go Cole stumbled backward. You’re a serious fucking kid, aren’t you?

  When he stepped out of the shop everything was dark up and down the street. It was stupid coming down here on his own, he realized. Eddy would be mad if he knew. A little desperate, he looked out toward the main road and decided to walk up there. After a minute a truck rolled up alongside him.

  Hey, kid.

  He was relieved to see it was Bram. Don’t you have someplace to go?

  Not really. I just drive around looking at people. He reached across the seat and opened the door. Come on in.

  Cole was happy to climb in again.

  You get what you needed?

  He nodded, still holding the piece of paper. He glanced at what the man had written down: Hazel Smythe, 422 Main Street, Chosen. It was a name he recognized. In fact, he knew it well.

  —

  THAT MONDAY, he cut his last class and walked over to Main Street and climbed the stairs to her apartment, just as he’d done when his father was alive. He could smell the wet dirt on the stairs and, coming up from Blake’s, the scent of sawdust, alcohol and French fries. He knocked lightly and waited, but didn’t hear anything. Just as he was about to leave, the door opened and she stood there looking at him. Her hair was the color of Rainer’s van, like pipe rust, and her lipstick matched. She had on jeans and a sweater and seemed younger than his mother had. He could hear a bird going crazy and saw the cage behind her, up on a stand near the window.

  Do you want to see him?

  What?

  She let him in. That’s Fred.

  Hello, Fred, he said to the parrot.

  Hell-o, Fred, the parrot said back.

  Cole smiled.

  He’s from South America. Bolivia.

  That’s far away.

  It sure is. I’m hoping to go sometime myself.

  They stared at the bird in the cage.

  He likes it here, though, don’t you, Fred?

  The parrot raised its wings slightly and jumped around on its perch.

  My father raised birds, he said.

  Yes, I know. Here, sit down. The woman cleared up a little space and Cole sat down on the couch. Can I get you something? When he didn’t answer she said, How about some chocolate milk?

  All right.

  He was glad when she went into the kitchen and started making noise. He looked around the small apartment. He didn’t see his mother’s figurines. He could remember his father coming here to see this woman, how Cole would wait for him out on the stairs, listening to their stupid laughter. He remembered thinking how the cold stairway was like a terminal to another world, a place where he fit in better than in this one, and he sometimes imagined those stairs stretching out like Rainer’s ladders, up and up and out of sight. After his mother died he had the same idea and wondered what it would be like to climb up to the top and see her. He’d climb as far as he could just to see her again.

  Once, he went up in their neighbor’s little plane. Just him and his father got to go. They took off out of the field and the plane lurched and lollygagged and Cole worried they’d come crashing down backward, but they didn’t. His dad took his hand and held it very tight and told him that in cases like these the important thing was to have faith. Sometimes yo
u just have to, he said.

  She came back in with the chocolate milk. Here you go.

  Thanks.

  She sat down in the chair and watched him. You look just like him, she said finally.

  I won’t make the same mistakes he did.

  She nodded, her lips pursed. He could tell she felt bad.

  I was real sorry about what happened to your folks.

  He didn’t want the milk anymore and carefully set it down.

  I’ve thought a lot about it, she went on. You have no idea how much.

  Cole watched her. I came for my mother’s things. He slid the receipt from the pawnshop across the coffee table. The woman nodded. I can pay you, he said.

  She glanced out at the street. He watched the flat sunlight cross her face as she moved in and out of it.

  It’s the right thing to do, he said. Name your price.

  I couldn’t possibly, she said. Not for something like this. She got up and went deep inside a closet and came out with a box, then set it down and opened it. She took out one of the figures, wrapped up in newspaper. Cole could see she was crying. I didn’t want nobody else to get them, see.

  He showed her the money he’d earned at the Clares’.

  She shook her head. I don’t want that.

  Then she carefully wrapped the statue up again and put it back in the box and handed it to him. Your mother was lucky to have you, she said. You’re a very special young man.

  Cole tried to smile. He didn’t feel special. You sure you don’t want any money?

  Yes, I’m positive. She smiled, but he still wanted very badly to give her some. He didn’t want the Clares’ money. The whole point of working for them was this moment right now, and it was about to end. Keeping the money felt wrong.

  She walked him down the narrow stairs and held the door open. You take good care, all right?

  Thank you, ma’am.

  Holding the box in front of him, he walked down the street. He knew he’d done something good. He turned around and saw her standing there on the sidewalk with her hand over her eyes in the sunlight, watching him go.