Galilee (24 page)

And then there's Luman the impersonator, who can suddenly speak in a voice that is so unlike his own it's as though he were possessed. Last night, for instance, he impersonated Dwight so well if I'd closed my eyes I wouldn't have been able to tell it from the real thing. And then later, just as he was leaving, he spoke in Chiyojo's voice, quoting a piece of a poem my mother wrote:

“My Savior is most diligent;
He has me in his book
With all my faults enumerated,
And I am certain there.
It's only the Fallen One
Who wants us perfect;
For then we will not need an angel's care.”

You can imagine how strange that was to hear: my wife's voice, still distinctly Japanese, speaking a thought that came from my mother's heart. The two great women in my life, emerging from the throat of this raddled, wild-eyed man. Is it any wonder I've been distracted from the flow of my story?

But the strangest portions of these exchanges are those with a metaphysical cast; no question. He's evidently thought long and hard about the paradoxes of our state: a family of divinities (or in my case a semidivinity) hiding away from a world which no longer wants us or needs us.

“Godhood doesn't mean a damn thing,” he said to me. “All it does is make us crazy.”

I asked him why he thought it had done that. (I didn't argue with his basic assumption. I think he's right: all the Barbarossas are a little mad.) He said he thought it was because we were just minor gods.

“We're not that much better than them out there, when you come to think of it,” he said. “Sure, we live longer. And we can do a few tricks. But it's not the deep stuff. We can't make stars. Or unmake 'em.”

“Not even Nicodemus?” I said.

“Nah. Not even Nicodemus. And he was one of the First Created. Like her.” He pointed up to Cesaria's chambers.

“ ‘Two souls as old as heaven . . .' ”

“Who said that?”

“I did,” I replied. “It's from my book.”

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He fell silent for a few moments. I assumed he was mulling over the prettiness of my phrasing, but no, his grasshopper mind had already jumped to something else; or rather back, to our problematical godhood.

“I think we're too farsighted for our own good,” he said. “We can't seem to live in the moment. We're always looking off beyond the edge of things. But we're not powerful enough to be able to
see
anything there.” He growled like an ill-tempered dog. “It's so fucking frustrating. Not to be one thing or the other.”

“Meaning?”

“If we were
real
gods . . . I mean the way gods are supposed to be, we wouldn't be pissing around here. We'd be off—out there, where there's still things to do.”

“You don't mean the world.”

“No, I don't mean the world. Fuck the world. I mean out beyond anything anybody on this planet ever saw or dreamt of seeing.”

I thought of Galilee while he was talking. Had the same hunger as Luman was describing—unarticulated, perhaps, but burning just as brightly—driven Galilee out across the ocean on his little boat, daring all he knew how to dare, but never feeling as though he was far enough from land; or indeed from home?

These ruminations had put Luman into a melancholy mood, and he told me he didn't want to talk anymore, and left. But he was back at dawn, or a little thereafter, for his third visit. I don't think he'd slept. He'd been walking around since he'd departed my study, thinking.

“I jotted a few more notes down,” he said, “for the chapter on Christ.”

“Christ's in this book of yours?” I said.

“Has to be. Has to be,” Luman said. “Big family connection.”

“We're not in the same family as Jesus, Luman,” I said. Then, doubting my own words: “Are we?”

“Nah. But he was a crazy man, just like us. He just cared more than we do.”

“About what?”

“Them,” he said; “Humanity. The fucking flock. Truth is, we were never shepherds. We were
hunters.
At least, she was. I guess Nicodemus had a taste for domesticity. Raising horses. He was a rancher at heart.” I smiled at this piece of insight. It was true. Our Father, the fence-builder.

“Maybe we should have cared a little more,” Luman went on. “Tried to love them, even though they never loved us.”

“Nicodemus loved them,” I pointed out. “Some of the women at least.”

“I tried that,” Luman said. “But they die on you, just as you're getting used to having them around.”

“Do you have children out there?” I asked him.

“Oh sure, I've got bastards.”

It had never occurred to me until this moment that our family tree might have undiscovered branches. I'd always assumed that I knew the extent of the Barbarossa clan. Apparently, I didn't.

“Do you know where they are?” I asked him.

“No.”

“But you could find them?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“If they're like me, they're still alive. Growing old slowly, but—”

“Oh yeah, they're still alive.”

“And you're not curious about them?”

“Of course I'm curious,” he said, a little sharply. “But I can barely stay sane sitting out there in the Smoke House. If I went out looking for my kids, turning over the memories of the women I bedded, I'd lose what little fucking sanity I still possess.” He shook his head violently, as though to get the temptation out from between his ears.

“Maybe . . . if I ever go out there . . .” I began. He stopped shaking his head, and looked up at me. His eyes were sparkling suddenly: tears in them, but also, I think, some little flame of hope. “Maybe I could look for them for you . . .” I went on.

“Look for my children?”

“Yes.”

“You'd do that?”

“Yes. Of course. I'd . . . be honored.”

The tears welled in his eyes now. “Oh
brother,”
he said. “Imagine that. My children.” His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. “My children.” He caught hold of my hand; his palm was prickly against my skin, his agitation oozing from his pores. “When would you do this?” he said.

“Oh . . . well . . . I couldn't go until I'd finished the book.”

“My book or yours?”

“Mine. Yours would have to wait.”

“No problem. No problem. I could live with that. If I knew you were going to bring me . . .” He couldn't finish the thought; it was too overwhelming for him. He let go of me and put his hand over his eyes. The tears coursed down his cheeks, and he sobbed so loudly I swear everyone in the house must have heard him. At last, he recovered himself enough to say: “We'll talk about this again some other time.”

“Whenever you like,” I told him.

“I knew we'd become friends again for a reason,” he said to me. “You're quite a man, Maddox. And I choose my words carefully.
Quite a man.”

With that, he went out onto the veranda, stopping only to take another cigar from my humidor. Once outside, however, he turned back. “I don't know what this information is worth,” he said, “but now that I trust you as I do, I think I ought to tell you . . .”

“What?”

He began feverishly scratching his beard, suddenly discomfited. “You're going to think I'm
really
crazy now,” he said.

“Tell me.”

“Well . . . I have a theory. About Nicodemus.”

“Yes?”

“I don't believe his death was an accident. I think he orchestrated the whole thing.”

“Why would he do that?”

“So that he could slip away from
her.
From his responsibilities. I know this may be hard to hear, brother—but I think the company of your wife gave him a hankerin' for the old days. He wanted human pussy. So he had to get away.”

“But you buried him, Luman. And I saw him trampled, right there in front of me. I was lying on the ground, under the same hooves.”

“A corpse ain't evidence of anything,” Luman replied. “You know that. There are ways to get out, if you know 'em. And
if anyone
knew those ways—”

“—it was him.”

“Tricky sonofabitch, that father of ours. Tricky and oversexed.” He stopped scratching his beard and made me an apologetic little shrug. “I'm sorry if it hurts to have me bring it up, but—”

“No. It's all right.”

“We have to start being honest around here, it seems to me. Stop pretending he was a saint.”

“I don't. Believe me. He took my wife.”

“There, you see,” Luman said. “Lying to yourself. He didn't take Chiyojo. You gave her to him, Maddox.” He saw the fierce look in my eyes, and faltered for a moment. But then decided to stay true to his own advice, and tell the truth, as he saw it, however unpalatable. “You could have taken her away, the moment you saw what was happening between them. You could have packed up in the middle of the night, and let him cool down. But you stayed. You saw he had his eyes on her, and you stayed, knowing she wouldn't be able to say no to him. You gave her to him, Maddox, 'cause you wanted him to love you.” He stared at his feet. “I don't blame you for it. I probably would have done the same thing in your shoes. But don't be thinkin' you can stand back from any of this and pretend you're just observin' it all. You're not. You're just as deep in this shit as the rest of us.”

“I think you'd better go,” I said quietly.

“I'm going, I'm going. But you think on what I've said, and you'll see it's true.”

“Don't come back for a while,” I added. “Because you won't be welcome.”

“Now, Maddox—”

“Go,
will you?” I said. “Don't make it any worse than it is.”

He gave me a pained expression. He was now obviously regretting what he'd said; he'd undone in a few sentences the trust we'd so recently forged. But he knew better than to try and explain himself further. He took his sad eyes off me, turned, and walked off across the lawn.

What can I tell you about this terrible accusation of his? It seems to me very little. I've recounted as honestly as I could the salient points of our exchanges, and I'll return to the subject later, when I have a better perspective on it all. It probably goes without saying that I wouldn't have been so distracted by all this, and felt the need to report it as I have, if I didn't think there was some merit in what he said. But as you can imagine it's not easy to admit to, however much I may wish to be honest with myself, and with you. If I believe Luman's interpretation of events, then I am to blame for Chiyojo's demise; and for my own injuries; and thus also for the years of loneliness and grief I've passed, sitting here. That's hard to accept. I'm not sure I'm even capable of it. But be assured that if I come to some peace with this suspicion, then these pages will be the first to know.

Enough. It's time to pick up the story of Rachel and Mitchell Geary. There's sorrow to come, very shortly. I promised early on that I'd give you enough of other people's despair to make you feel a little happier with your own lot. Well now it's me who needs the comfort of somebody else's tears.

T
he Monday following Mitchell's gift of the apartment, Rachel woke with the worst headache of her life; so bad it made her vision blurred. She took some aspirin, and went back to bed; but even then the pain didn't pass, so she called Margie, who said she'd be over in a few minutes and take her to Dr. Waxman. By the time she reached Waxman's office she was shaking with pain: not just a headache now, but crippling spasms in her stomach. Waxman was very concerned.

“I'm going to put you into Mount Sinai right away,” he said. “There's a Dr. Hendrick there, he's wonderful; I want him to take a look at you.”

“What's wrong with me?” Rachel said.

“Let's hope nothing at all. But I want you to be examined properly.”

Even through the haze of pain Rachel could read the anxiety in his voice.

“I'm not going to lose the baby, am I?” she said.

“We'll do everything we can—”

“I can't lose the baby.”

“Your health's what's important right now, Rachel,” he said. “There's nobody better than Gary Hendrick, believe me. You're in good hands.”

An hour later she was in a private room in Mount Sinai. Hendrick came to examine her, and told her, very calmly, that there were some troubling signs—her blood pressure was high, there was some minor bleeding—and that he would be monitoring her very closely. He had given her some medication for the pain, which was beginning to take effect. She should just rest, he said; there'd be a nurse in the room with her at all times, so if she should need anything all she had to do was ask.

Margie had been calling around looking for Mitchell during this period, and upon Hendrick's departure came back in to say that he hadn't yet been located, but his secretary thought he was probably between meetings, and would be calling in very soon.

“You're going to be just fine, honey,” Margie said. “Waxman likes to be melodramatic once in a while. It makes him feel important.”

Rachel smiled. The painkiller Hendrick had given her had induced a heaviness in her limbs and lids. She resisted the temptation to sleep however: she didn't trust her body to behave itself in her absence.

“God,” Margie said, “this is a rare occurrence for me.”

“What's that?”

“Cocktail hour and no cocktail.”

Rachel grinned. “Waxman thinks you should give it up.”

“He should try being married to Garrison sober,” Margie quipped.

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but as she did so she felt a strange sensation in her throat, as though she swallowed something hard. She put her hand up to touch the place, a squeak of panic escaping her.