Voices in the Night (25 page)

There are those who do not like the Place. They point to extreme cases, such as that of Lucy Wheeler, as well as to many lesser instances of confusion, emotional disturbance, and psychic turmoil. The Place, they say, is a force of destruction, which undermines our town by drawing us away from healthy pursuits into a world of sickly dreaming. Many who defend the Place against such charges argue that it produces beneficial, life-enhancing effects, which are not only valuable in themselves but useful in strengthening the health of the town. Others insist that the terms of attack are false: life in our town is not by definition healthy, and events associated with the Place are in no sense sickly. Still others argue that the Place is an essential feature of the town, for without it the town would lack awareness of itself and, in that sense, would no longer be human. For those of us who welcome the Place but don’t claim to have penetrated its mystery, the arguments of its enemies are of special value. We ponder them, we
develop subtle refinements and variations of our own, we do everything in our power to strengthen the case against ourselves, in an effort to lay bare what is hidden from us.

I was standing in a large hall, filled with people who looked like bizarre versions of themselves. Or more exactly: they looked like teenagers who had dressed up playfully, using a great deal of makeup and their parents’ clothes, in order to present to the world the older selves they imagined they would one day become. I had never attended a high-school reunion before. I’d planned not to attend this one, the fortieth, but at the last moment I yielded to an unexpected impulse of curiosity. As I stood trying to decide between two drinks that matched our school colors, I wondered whether I, too, resembled an unconvincing performer of myself, and at that moment I happened to see, standing some ten feet away, Dan Rivers. He was looking directly at me. I recognized him at once—the same eyebrows, the same quick smile, the same ease in his body. Not entirely the same, of course; but it was as though his features and gestures had settled into a more complete and unshakeable version of themselves. “I was hoping,” he said, coming up to me and reaching out both hands. “It’s been a while.” “If forty years is a while,” I said, taking his hands, larger than I remembered but still lean and tight. “I kept meaning to get in touch,” he said, “but, you know”—and there it was, that slow, one-shoulder shrug. “But now,” he said, “we can do some catching up.” We fell into the old easy talk, two seventeen-year-old boys in the bodies of aging men. Dan Rivers was married, with two kids; he was an architect; he had designed dams and bridges. At some point I asked whether he’d ever gone back to visit the Place. I suppose I wondered whether he remembered. “Oh that,” he said, with his boyish laugh. “Of course I
remember it—junior year. That phase I went through. My son used to play fantasy games on his PC six hours a day. It all works itself out.” We talked family, travel, the cost of college. When I suggested he come over to the house, he looked at me with genuine distress. “I’d love to—but I’ve got to get back home. A conference. I was lucky to get away at all. But next time—next time—absolutely.” “Absolutely,” I said. He gave me a warm, long look. “I’m glad we met up,” he said. Someone was tugging at his arm. “Is it Emily?” he cried. “I can’t believe it!” “Hi, Emily,” I said. “Has it really been forty years?” she said. “It seems like yesterday.”

Some claim that the invigorating effects of the Place derive from natural causes. The fresh air, free from the fumes emitted by cars, buses, utility vehicles, lawn mowers, gas-powered edgers and trimmers, and the old smokestacks of the electric plant two towns over, contains more oxygen than the air below; the increase of oxygen to the brain facilitates the release of neurotransmitters that promote a sense of happiness and well-being. In addition, each breath of air strengthens the immune system, increases energy, and sharpens the ability to think clearly, while the abundance of natural light stimulates the body’s manufacture of vitamin D, which improves bone density and helps maintain hormone balance. Although no one denies the benefits of fresh air and sunlight, those of us who support the Place for other reasons are not fond of the Argument from Nature. Its immediate flaw is that it fails to distinguish the Place from any other elevated rural spot. Its more serious flaw is that it attempts to domesticate the Place, to tame it down, to lower it to the level of the town. The Place becomes an open-air health facility, a rival of the new gym on Auburn Avenue. But the Place, for those of us who try to grasp its
meaning, is not an extension of the town. It is what the town is not. It is the shedding of the town, the annihilation of the town. It is the un-town.

Not long ago I went up to the Place and sat on a warm bench, from which I could look down on the little town. In the clear air I was able to see the construction site where the new condos are going up and the nearly completed parking garage on North Main. I thought: Now you’ve become one of the bench-people, coming up for the view. But in fact I was only resting, after the long climb. My legs are still strong, but my heart has taken to pounding on uphill walks—it’s the sort of thing Lily would have urged me to see a doctor about. But all I need is a little rest, before continuing on my way. After a while I got up from my bench and took a walk along the familiar walls, stopping to feel the heat of the upper stones that faced the sun. I asked nothing of the Place. I wanted only to get away from the town, where the edges of houses had begun to glitter like knife blades. And I suppose I’d been thinking of all the recent talk about taking down the stone walls, filling up the dips and hollows, and turning the level land into a high-tech business park, a change that would create scores of jobs and drive property values sky-high. Ever since my wife’s passing, my son, a lawyer himself, has been urging me to sell the house and move into assisted living, but I’m used to the way the light falls in every room and have no desire to leave. In the warm sun I slowly climbed a slope. I could feel my heart starting to pound again. When I came to a wall at the top, I saw, in a field on the other side, a woman in a white dress. She was facing the other way. And I was moved, deeply moved, that she had come back to me, after all these years. I was not surprised that she had remained young, as though no time had passed
since I was a boy of seventeen. For all I knew, I was still sitting against that wall, with my eyes half closed, waiting for my life to begin. The young woman wore no hat. Her hair, light brown, fell halfway down her back, and she stood with one foot slightly turned in and one hand holding the elbow of her other arm. A moment later I realized that she was a friend’s daughter from town, standing there with a white pocketbook over her shoulder. She must have come up as I had. She did not see me watching, and I turned away, so as not to disturb her. The sight of the girl in white soothed and excited me, as if I had been given the gift of witnessing the past and seeing the future. From a nearby wall a shiny black grackle, shimmering with purple, rose suddenly into the air.

Those who think they know us have sometimes called us the Discontents. At any moment, they say, we will leave our backyards and porches and living room couches, we will rise from our restaurant tables, put down our lawn mowers and garden hoses, abandon our families and friends, and head out to the Place. We will park at one of the lots and climb a winding trail, sometimes resting along the way, until we have reached the top. But scarcely have we come to the fields and stone walls when we are seized by a desire to return to the town below, with its softball games and ATM machines and outdoor barbecues. Restlessly we move back and forth between the two worlds, never satisfied, never at rest. To such arguments we make no reply. We are tempted to say: And you? Are you so pleased with yourselves? Or even: Rest is for the dead. Instead we continue to pass back and forth between the town and the Place, in a rhythm that feels more necessary than restfulness. To have one without the other would seem to us a deprivation, even a punishment. The weight of the town would
sooner or later drag us down; the lightness of the Place would release us into empty air. Far better to pass between the two, leaving behind the streets of the town to seek the moment of letting go, leaving the heights to return to the satisfying tug of things. There are those who argue that the town and the Place are nothing but outward and visible signs of an inward and invisible truth: the town and the Place, they insist, lie within. To this I can say only that I do not understand such things. For me, it’s a matter of waiting for the time to come. Then I know that I must leave the town and drive out to the hill. You might say that I go up to the Place only in order to come down again, or that I go down to the town only in order to return to the Place. It may be so. That’s for others to decide. But if you want to know more about it, it’s best to see for yourself. Come. It’s easy enough to find us. We’re right here. Come for the day. You can have lunch in one of our outdoor cafés, where you can watch the tourists passing by. You can take a stroll along Main Street, stopping to look into a shop or two. Then it’s time to set out for the hill. You’ll pass the car dealerships, and the red-roofed buildings of the retirement community, and the mall and the outdoor shopping plaza, before reaching the woods. On the other side, you can drive partway up the hill and park in one of the lots. Get out and have a look around. Start up a trail. You can rest along the way, if you like. There’s no hurry. It isn’t far. Come.

B
ottom of the ninth, two out, game tied, runners at the corners, the count full on McCluskey, the fans on their feet, this place is going wild, outfield shaded in to guard against the blooper, pitcher looks in, shakes off the sign, a big lead off first, they’re not holding him on, only run that matters is the man dancing off third, shakes off another sign, McCluskey asking for time, steps out of the box, tugs up his batter’s glove, knocks dirt from his spikes, it’s a cat ’n’ mouse game, break up his rhythm, make him wait, now the big guy’s back in the box, down in his crouch, the tall lefty toes the rubber, looks in, gives the nod, will he go with the breaking ball, maybe thinking slider, third baseman back a step, catcher sets up inside, pitcher taking his time, very deliberate out there, now he’s ready, the set, the kick, he deals, it’s a fastball, straight down the pipe, McCluskey swings, a tremendous rip, he crushes it, the crowd is screaming, the center fielder back, back, angling toward right, tons of room out there in no-man’s-land, still going back, he’s at the track, that ball is going, going, he’s at the wall, looking up, that ball is gone, see ya, hasta la vista baby, McCluskey goes yard, over the 390-foot mark in right center, game over, he creamed it, that baby is gone and she ain’t comin back anytime soon, sayonara, the crowd yelling, the ball still carrying,
the stands going crazy, McCluskey rounding second, the ball still up there, way up there, high over the right-center-field bleachers, headed for the upper deck, talk about a tape-measure shot, another M-bomb from the Big M, been doing it all year, he’s rounding third, ball still going, still going, that ball was smoked, a no doubter, wait a minute wait a minute oh oh oh it’s outta here, that ball is out of the park, cleared the upper deck, up over the Budweiser sign, Jimmy can you get me figures on that, he hammered it clean outta here, got all of it, can you believe it, an out-of-the-parker, hot diggity, slammed it a country mile, the big guy’s crossing the plate, team’s all over him, the crowd roaring, what’s that Jimmy, Jimmy are you sure, I’m being told it’s a first, that’s right a first, no one’s ever socked one out before, the Clusker really got around on it, looking fastball all the way, got the sweet part of the bat on it, launched a rocket, oh baby did he scald it, I mean he drilled it, the big guy is strong but it’s that smooth swing of his, the King of Swing, puts his whole body into it, hits with his legs, he smashed it, a Cooperstown clout, right on the screws, the ball still going, unbelievable, up past the Goodyear blimp, see ya later alligator, up into the wild blue yonder, still going, ain’t nothing gonna stop that baby, they’re walking McCluskey back to the dugout, fans swarming all over the field, they’re pointing up at the sky, the ball still traveling, up real high, that ball is way way outta here, Jimmy what have you got, going, going, hold on, what’s that Jimmy, I’m told the ball has gone all the way through the troposphere, is that a fact, now how about that, the big guy hit it a ton, really skyed it, up there now in the stratosphere, good golly Miss Molly, help me out here Jimmy, stratosphere starts at six miles and goes up 170,000 feet, man did he ever jack it outta here, a dinger from McSwinger, a whopper from the Big Bopper, going, going, the stands emptying out, the ball up in the mesosphere, the big guy blistered it, he powdered it, the ground crew picking up bottles and paper cups and peanut shells and hot dog wrappers, power-washing the seats, you can bet people’ll be talking
about this one for a long time to come, he plastered that ball, a pitch right down Broadway, tried to paint the inside corner but missed his spot, you don’t want to let the big guy extend those arms, up now in the exosphere, way up there, never seen anything like it, the ball carrying well all day but who would’ve thought, wait a minute, hold on a second, holy cow it’s left the earth’s atmosphere, so long it’s been good ta know ya, up there now in outer space, I mean that ball is outta here, bye bye birdie, still going, down here at the park the stands are empty, sun gone down, moon’s up, nearly full, it’s a beautiful night, temperature seventy-three, another day game tomorrow then out to the West Coast for a tough three-game series, the ball still going, looks like she’s headed for the moon, talk about a moon shot, man did he ever paste it outta here, higher, deeper, going, going, it’s gone past the moon, you can kiss that baby goodbye, good night Irene I’ll see you in my dreams, the big guy got good wood on it, right on the money, swinging for the downs, the ball still traveling, sailing past Mars, up through the asteroid belt, you gotta love it, past Jupiter, see ya Saturn, so long Uranus, arrivederci Neptune, up there now in the Milky Way, a round-tripper to the Big Dipper, a galaxy shot, a black-hole blast, how many stars are we talking about Jimmy, Jimmy says two hundred billion, that’s two hundred billion stars in the Milky Way, a nickel for every star and you can stop worrying about your 401(k), the ball still traveling, out past the Milky Way and headed on into intergalactic space, hooo did he ever whack it, he shellacked it, a good season but came up short in the playoffs, McCluskey’ll be back next year, the ball out past the Andromeda galaxy, going, going, the big guy mashed it, he clob-bobbered it, wham-bam-a-rammed it, he’s looking good in spring training, back with that sweet swing, out past the Virgo supercluster with its thousands of galaxies, that ball was spanked, a Big Bang for the record book, a four-bagger with swagger, out past the Hydra-Centaurus supercluster, still going, out past the Aquarius supercluster, thousands and millions of superclusters out
there, McCluskey still remembers it, he’s coaching down in Triple A, the big man a sensation in his day, the ball still out there, still climbing, sailing out toward the edge of the observable universe, the edge receding faster than the speed of light, the ball still going, still going, he remembers the feel of the wood in his hands, the good sound of it as he swung, smell of pine tar, bottom of the ninth, two on, two out, a summer day.