Big Machine (12 page)

So when I went on methadone, or even tried to totally kick a few times, my friends and even coworkers praised me up through the ceiling. But the more they focused on this one achievement, the more I realized I’d never accomplished anything else. When I was twenty-two, I could convince myself that better things were coming, but by thirty-six their praise sounded like pity. As I left my office, I leaned against the doorway and I prayed for strength.

“WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK
of us?” I asked Lake as we came down the far steps, at the other end of the Library. Lake had a longer stride than me, and I tried to keep up, but soon my right leg went cold. I didn’t mention it, but the sound of my right foot dragging behind me made the statement, so we went pretty slowly as we moved past the staff offices.

“Who all?” he asked.

I pointed at the closed doors. I heard the squeaks of office chairs and the mumble of women on telephones.

“The staff and guards. How do you all feel about the Library? About having a bunch of black folks living up in your woods?”

Lake said, “Vermont has lots of poverty. Especially around here.”

I nodded, but didn’t see how this answered my question.

“The Washburn Library pays regular. And it’s getting harder to find steady work. That’s what
we
think about.”

We’d reached the recessed staircase that led up to the Dean’s office. I’d only seen that little man come out of the room that one time, for our banquet. At some point we all decided he must have had a back door so
he could shimmy out on the sly. We said this, but I don’t think anyone believed it. Speaking for myself, I felt convinced that the Dean
couldn’t
leave the Library, the same way my brain can’t abandon my body.

Lake looked up at the Dean’s door. He touched the wall with his big bare hand. Rubbed the index finger along the groove of a stone, then tapped the surface slowly. It reminded me of gesture I’d seen years before.

His hand continued to slap against the stone, and I remembered the man who’d done it before. A cop, back in New York. Lying on his stomach, tapping the pavement with his right hand while I stood over him.

“You ought to go up now,” Lake whispered.

How many times had I looked up at that door as I went to work? Me and the other Unlikely Scholars. Every weekday, for nine months. We’d turned a simple flight of steps into a holy mile. You’ll see stairs like these in any office building, a small school, any old house. They weren’t special. Nothing like the ones that led in and out of Scholar’s Hall, that’s for sure. And yet I felt a fire up through my legs as my foot touched the first small step.

IT WAS AN ODD DAY
when I saw that New York cop facedown on the pavement, tapping the ground with his right hand. Sunny but cool out, and the sidewalks were dirty, but that wasn’t unusual because it was 1983. I was only eighteen and a stubborn kid, but that’s not unusual either. I hadn’t slept in a couple of days and really needed to eat. Though I didn’t feel hungry, my body refused to pretend anymore. My guts groaned because they’d been ignored for so long. I’d been on my way to St. Mark’s Place because I knew a hot dog vendor who’d sell me three buns for fifty cents, enough filler to get my stomach back on my side so I could then focus on scoring more dope. But when I reached Astor Place, I found a parade standing between here and there.

I came up behind one group of people and expected to see balloons or a marching band or a waving mayor. Instead I heard police sirens. I turned away on instinct, and my feet got the notion to run. Two cops came down the street on motorcycles with their sirens going loud, clearing the road for a patrol car behind them. And behind that patrol car another two cops on bikes making just as much noise. They were in a big blue hurry.

Then this guy on a delivery bike just pedaled out into the road. I mean completely oblivious. The idiot was wearing headphones! Shot out into the road, and the patrol car swerved to miss him and went right into an empty newspaper stand.

It sounded worse than it was. The first noise was just this bump. Made me think they’d hit a person and not a pile of wood. Then the patrol car, moving too fast, flipped right over, upside down. Now, that was louder. The cops on the bikes behind them went flying too. But the two lead cops, who’d been clearing the road with their sirens, only stopped their motorcycles long enough to pick up a satchel from one of the guys in the patrol car, and then they were gone. Looked pretty heartless to me. I only found out later, from nighttime news, that four guys had hijacked one car of a 6 train at gunpoint. The patrol car had been carrying a satchel with the ransom for the hostages. No wonder those cops didn’t wait around.

I didn’t know that at the time, though. And I wouldn’t have cared. The thing with heroin, if you take it long enough, is that you lose that natural sense of concern. Feelings for other people, even for yourself, chuck them out the door. So right after this big wreck I just strolled through the crowd and right into the street. A real saunter. Went straight over to this one cop lying on his stomach. I couldn’t tell if he was tapping the sidewalk to prove he was alive or if it was a Morse code signal or simply a way to pass the time until an ambulance arrived. But what seemed obvious was that he couldn’t get up. Easy pickings. I bent over his body, so casual about it I’ll bet the crowd thought I was an undercover cop helping out his comrade. I put my hand on his holster, flipped the little button, pulled out his revolver, and ran like a fiend.

The human mind, it needs a moment to process such a thing. So by the time the crowd started screaming at me, I was far beyond them. I carried that gun just nine blocks before I found a friend who helped me sell it. I didn’t spend the loot on hot dog buns. New York deserved its reputation back then.

THIS EPISODE STAYED
with me as I reached the top of the stairs. The Dean’s oak door was as understated as the staircase. I didn’t knock. Just stood there with my chin at my chest. I wondered how I’d fooled the Dean into believing I deserved to be there. First at the Library and then at his door. Did he know me? Did he understand the things I’d done? I should just toss myself down these stairs, I thought. I should steal a truck, drive down to the airport, and fly myself back to wretchedness. I imagined myself forty years from this moment. Who would I be if I ran away?

I saw an old man, sweeping.

Then I knocked so hard I thought the walls would fall down.

The oak door didn’t open, but I heard a buzz so I grabbed the handle and pushed. The office was so dark that even light from the stairway didn’t penetrate it. My feet stayed at the threshold and I leaned my head in.

“Can you hear my voice?”

Months and months since that banquet, but I still recognized the Dean’s croak. I pictured his sneer.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then follow it.”

“Can I get a flashlight at least?”

No answer to that and no flashlight. I stepped in slow, testing the darkness with my foot.

“Shut the door behind you.”

And now, sealed off, I might’ve been floating through the deepest region of space. Fallen into a black hole. I closed my eyes, concentrated on my feet because at least they touched something solid.

When I opened them again, the room hadn’t become any brighter, but the Dean’s voice cut through the gloom. He’d been talking, but I hadn’t heard a bit of it.

“What did you say?” I shouted. “You’re gonna have to repeat yourself.”

“I don’t have to do a damn thing! You better show more manners than that.”

I wanted to smack that gnome already, even reached out my left hand on instinct, but he wasn’t close enough. So instead I felt for the doorknob, just to get my bearings. It should only have been inches away. I hadn’t taken a step yet. But I couldn’t find it. As if some current in the room had moved me, pulling my body farther from shore. So I went down on one knee and touched the ground with both hands, fighting against nausea.

“Do you hear my voice?” the Dean asked again.

“You know I do.”

“Then get off your knees and follow it.”

I stood, but moved slow. I put one foot in front of the other like I was walking on a balance beam. I bent at the knees and stooped my back, one arm in front of me and the other to the side. The Dean spoke to me in the dark. I struggled to listen and keep my balance.

“Judah Washburn is the founder of this Library. A Georgia slave who escaped bondage in 1775. He ran west, into the arms of the Spanish. With them he explored New Spain, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.”

There’d been so little blocking my path that I thought the whole room was empty, that I could just follow a straight line to the Dean. Soon I was moving too fast to stop myself, and I hit a table, hard. The edge got me right in the thigh, and I slammed the tabletop angrily. The thump echoed.

“Brush yourself off now, Ricky. Keep going.”

I used my right hand to find the top of the first chair alongside the table, and once I found that, I edged along to the next.

“Judah Washburn had reached Northern California. But he still wasn’t content. He’d traded an American master for a Spanish master. Was that really the best he could hope for?”

No more chairs, but I kept moving. My head cocked to the left, listening, my hands out in front, my eyes closed.

“Judah escaped his Spanish masters and wandered into the marshlands. Slept under oak trees. Living a fugitive’s life, but still a free man’s life. And one morning, at dawn, he heard a voice calling to him.”

I had my hands out in front, at about waist level, so I wouldn’t bump into another table. Instead I smacked into a lamp. The shade bashed me right in the face, and we both fell over. As the lamp hit the ground, I heard its bulb crack, shards clicking against the wooden floor. I put my hands out so I wouldn’t land on my face, and pieces of the bulb dug into my palms.

The Dean’s voice grew louder now.

“The Voice said ‘Do you hear me?’ And Judah felt too scared to answer. So it asked again, ‘Do you hear my voice?’ Finally Judah cried, ‘Yes!’ And the Voice said, ‘Follow it.’”

I got to my feet, brushed my hands against my pants. Brought my palms up to my face, but my eyes had only adjusted enough to see their outlines. I licked my skin and tasted blood.

“Judah Washburn stumbled. He searched. He lost his way. He cried for help, but only heard the same command. ‘Follow it.’ Until he realized the call wasn’t coming from the woods or the sky, but the soil. Underground!”

When I dropped my hands again, I thought I saw the Dean’s silhouette. Small and slim; as subtle as a whisper. It stood still. I moved toward it. Then the figure stepped backward.

“Judah Washburn found a path, and ahead of him he saw a figure. Too tall to be a man. It led him forward, though he never could quite reach it. And as he followed, the Voice kept calling. ‘Do you hear my voice? Follow it!’”

I lunged for the Dean. I didn’t know if I should choke him or hug him. Really, I just wanted contact, a little help. Instead I ran into a chair, heavy and immovable, and I stumbled to the ground a second time.

“Finally, Judah Washburn had gone well underground and reached a cold chamber. He couldn’t see a
got damn
thing. The man had been struck blind. But he
heard
. The Voice spoke to him, saying, ‘I am the father of the despised child.’ And Judah Washburn shouted, ‘Then I am your son!’”

My knees hurt, my palms were raw. I hadn’t moved that far, but I couldn’t catch my breath.

“The Voice said, ‘I made this land for my children. And all my children will have their reward.’”

I cried. I felt ashamed, but couldn’t stop myself. I wanted the Dean to pull me to my feet. Just that would’ve been reward enough.

“I could use a hand,” I whispered, snuffling like a panicked child.

The Dean said, “I hear you.”

And just like that, the Dean turned on the lights. One light. A small lamp sitting on his desk. He stood over me, smiling.

I would’ve kissed the Dean’s hand if he’d set it in front of me then. I felt humiliated and grateful at the same time. I’d started sweating badly, and wiped my face with my coat sleeve. What a mess. My only relief, the slightest solace, was that we were the only witnesses.

“So what do you think?” the Dean said.

I looked up at him, opened my mouth, a garbled answer at the ready. But he wasn’t looking at me. The Dean’s head turned to the left.

There were two chairs on this side of his desk. The one I’d bumped into and a second.

And the Gray Lady sat in it.

Adele Henry looked at me straight, cold as the polar ice caps. She shrugged.

She said, “He’ll do. I guess.”

WHILE THE TWO OF THEM
talked, I stewed. I looked off into the distant regions of the Dean’s dark office and wondered how far I could get if I ran.

“Have Lake pack Ricky’s clothes,” the Dean said.

“I’ll ask him,” the Gray Lady answered. She spoke with a smoker’s rasp. It sounded like a thunderstorm brewing in her throat.

They wouldn’t stop talking around me, the way you might discuss taking your dog to the vet. Speaking quietly because you believe the stupid thing just might understand. I really wanted to knock the shit out of them. Both of them. So I popped off my knees and stood straight because the only thing I had over these two was my height. Once upright I felt like an adult again, and a grown man has the right to demand answers.

“What in the hell is going on here?” I yelled.

But they didn’t even look at me.

The Gray Lady had a large green handbag swinging from her right forearm, big enough for a bowling ball. She unzipped it, reached one chubby hand inside, and a maroon scarf hung from her fingers when her hand reappeared. In a quick motion she wrapped the scarf around her head twice, until all of her white hair disappeared.

Then I truly saw her face—straight, no chaser: round and a bit flat. She had large, brilliant eyes and a tiny dimple in her chin. The Gray Lady looked eager, concentrated, damn near combustible. I was angry, but a little impressed.