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He would remember pulling a blanket to her chin and then returning to the living room, where for a long while he lost track of his whereabouts. All around him was that furious buzzing noise. The unities of time and space had unraveled. There were manifold uncertainties, and in the days and weeks to come, memory would play devilish little tricks on him. The mirrors would warp up; there would be odd folds and creases; clarity would be at a premium.
At one point during the night he stood waist-deep in the lake.
At another point he found himself completely submerged, lungs like stone, an underwater rush in his ears.
And then later, in the starwild dark, he sat quietly at the edge of the dock. He was naked. He was all alone, watching the lake.
Later still, he woke up in bed. A soft pinkish light played against the curtains.
For a few seconds he studied the effects of dawn, the pale ripplings and gleamings. He’d been having a curious nightmare. Electric eels. Boiling red water.
John Wade reached out for Kathy, who wasn’t there, then hugged his pillow and returned to the bottoms.
9 (#ulink_7c026d38-385c-5d4b-bf1e-e9e1f42f7f44)
Hypothesis (#ulink_7c026d38-385c-5d4b-bf1e-e9e1f42f7f44)
Maybe it was something simple.
Maybe Kathy woke up scared that night. Maybe she panicked, just walked away.
It’s conjecture—maybe this, maybe that—but conjecture is all we have.
So something simple:
He was yelling bad things in the dark, and she must’ve heard him, and maybe later she smelled the steam and wet soil. Almost certainly, she would’ve slipped out of bed. She would’ve moved down the hallway to the living room and stopped there and watched him empty the teakettle on a geranium and a philodendron and a small young spider plant. “Kill Jesus,” he was saying, which would’ve caused her to back away.
The rest must have been automatic. She would’ve turned and moved to the kitchen door and stepped out into the night.
Why? she thought.
Kill Jesus. That brutal voice. It wasn’t his.
And then for a long while she stood in the windy dark outside the cottage, afraid to move, afraid not to. She was barefoot. She had on a pair of underpants and a flannel nightgown, nothing else.
A good man. So why?
Clutching herself, leaning forward against the cold, Kathy watched him pad into the kitchen, refill the teakettle, put it on the stove to boil. His movements seemed stiff and mechanical. Like a sleepwalker, she thought, and it occurred to her that she should step back inside and shake him awake. Her own husband. And she loved him. Which was the essential truth, all that time together, all the years, and there was nothing to be afraid about.
Except it wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. Filtered through the screen door, his face looked worn and bruised, the skin deeply lined as if a knife had been taken to it. He’d lost weight and hair. His shoulders had the stooped curvature of an old man’s. After a moment he lay down near the stove, sunburnt and naked, conversing with the kitchen ceiling. Not the man she’d known, or thought she’d known. She had loved him extravagantly—the kind of love she’d always wanted—but more and more it was like living with a stranger. Too many mysteries. Too much walled-up history. And now the fury in his face. Even through the screen, she could make out a new darkness in his eyes.
“Well, sure,” he was saying. “Shitfuck Jesus.”
Then he said, “You!”
He chuckled at this.
He jerked sideways and clawed at his face with both hands, deep, raking the skin, digging in hard with his fingernails, then laughed again and muttered something indistinct.
A bit later he said, “Beautiful.”
Again, Kathy felt a little gust of panic. She turned and looked up the narrow dirt road. The Rasmussen cottage was barely a mile away, a twenty-minute walk. Find a doctor, maybe; something to settle him down. Then she shook her head. Better just to wait and see.
What she mostly felt now was a kind of pity. Everything important to him had turned to wreckage. His career, his reputation, his self-esteem. More than anyone she’d ever known, John needed the conspicuous display of human love—absolute, unconditional love. Love without limit. Like a hunger, she thought. Some vast emptiness seemed to drive him on, a craving for warmth and reassurance. Politics was just a love thermometer. The polls quantified it, the elections made it official.
Except nothing ever satisfied him. Certainly not public office. And not their marriage, either.
For a time Kathy stood gazing at the night sky. It surprised her to see a nearly full moon, a stack of fast-moving clouds passing northward. She tried to inventory the events unfolding in her stomach. Not only pity. Frustration. The fatigue of defeat. The whole election seemed to have occurred in another century, and now she had only the vaguest memory of those last miserable weeks on the road. All through August and early September, after the newspapers broke things wide open, it was a matter of waiting for the end to come exactly as it had to come. No hope. No pretense of hope. Over the final week they’d worked a string of towns up on the Iron Range, going through the motions, waving at crowds that weren’t crowds anymore. Accusing eyes, perfunctory applause. A freak show. On primary day they’d made the short flight back to Minneapolis, arriving just before dark, and even now, in memory, the whole scene had the feel of a dreary Hollywood script—the steady rain, the threadbare little crowd gathered under umbrellas at the airport. She remembered John moving off to shake hands along a chain fence, his face rigid in the gray drizzle. At one point, as he stepped back, a lone voice rose up from the crowd—a woman’s voice—not loud but extraordinarily pure and clear, like a small well-made bell. “Not true!” the woman cried, and for an instant the planes of John’s face seemed to slacken. He didn’t speak. He didn’t turn or acknowledge her. There was a short quiet before he glanced up at the clouds and smiled. The haggard look in his eyes was gone; a kind of rapture burned there. “Not true!” the woman yelled again, and this time John raised his shoulders, a kind of plea, or maybe an apology, a gesture vague enough to be denied yet emphatic enough to carry secret meaning.
In the hotel that night she found the courage to ask about it. The early returns had come in, all dismal, and she remembered John’s eyes locked tight to the television.
“Is what true?”
“The things they’re saying. About you.”
“Things?”
“You know.”
He switched channels with the remote, clasped his hands behind his head. Even then he wouldn’t look at her. “Everything’s true. Everything’s not true.”
“I’m your wife.”
“Right,” he said.
“So?”
“So nothing.” His voice was quiet, a monotone. He turned up the volume on the TV “It’s history, Kath. If you want to trot out the skeletons, let’s talk about your dentist.”
She remembered staring down at the remote control.
“Am I right?” he said.
She nodded.
“Fine,” he said, “I’m right.”
A moment later the phone rang. John picked it up and smiled at her. Later that evening, in the hotel’s ballroom, he delivered a witty concession speech. Afterward, they held hands and waved at people and pretended not to know the things they knew.
All that pretending, she thought.
The teakettle made a sharp whistling sound. She watched John push to his feet, lift the teakettle off the stove, and move down the hallway toward the bedroom. After a second she nudged the screen door open and stepped inside. A foamy nausea had risen up inside her. She glanced over at the kitchen counter, where the telephone should have been. For a while she stood motionless, considering the possibilities.
The gas burner was still on. She turned it off and went into the living room. At that point a wire snapped inside her. The smell, perhaps. The dead plants, the puddle of water spreading out across the floorboards.
Right then, maybe, she walked away into the night.
Or maybe not.
Maybe instead, partly curious, partly something else, she moved down the hallway to the bedroom. At the doorway she paused briefly, not sure about the formations before her—the steam, the dark, John crouched at the side of the bed as if tending a small garden. He didn’t turn or look up. He seemed to be touring other worlds. Quietly, almost as a question, Kathy said his name and then watched as he leaned across the bed and raised up the teakettle. There was the scent of wet wool. A hissing sound. He was chuckling to himself, saying, “Well, well,” and in that instant she must have realized that remedies were beyond her and always had been.
The rest had to follow.
She would’ve turned away fast. Not afraid now, thinking only of disease, she would’ve grabbed a sweater and a pair of jeans, hurried back to the kitchen, laced up her sneakers, and headed down the dirt road toward the Rasmussen place. Then any number of possibilities. A wrong turn. A sprain or a broken leg.
Maybe she lost her way.
Maybe she’s still out there.
10 (#ulink_cbac253b-53ec-513a-b160-cc39e78e47dd)
The Nature of Love (#ulink_cbac253b-53ec-513a-b160-cc39e78e47dd)
They were at a fancy party one evening, a political affair, and after a couple of drinks John Wade took Kathy’s arm and said, “Follow me.” He led her out to the car and drove her home and carried her into the kitchen and made love to her there against the refrigerator. Afterward, they drove back to the party. John delivered a funny little speech. He ended with a couple of magic tricks, and people laughed and clapped hard, and when he walked off the platform, Kathy took his arm and said, “Follow me.”
“Where?” John said.
“Outside. There’s a garden.”
“It’s December. It’s Minnesota.”
Kathy shrugged. They had been married six years, almost seven. The passion was still there.
It was in the nature of love that John Wade went to the war. Not to hurt or be hurt, not to be a good citizen or a hero or a moral man. Only for love. Only to be loved. He imagined his father, who was dead, saying to him, “Well, you did it, you hung in there, and I’m so proud, just so incredibly goddamn proud.” He imagined his mother ironing his uniform, putting it under clear plastic and hanging it in a closet, maybe to look at now and then, maybe to touch. At times, too, John imagined loving himself. And never risking the loss of love. And winning forever the love of some secret invisible audience—the people he might meet someday, the people he had already met. Sometimes he did bad things just to be loved, and sometimes he hated himself for needing love so badly.
In college John and Kathy used to go dancing at The Bottle Top over on Hennepin Avenue. They’d hold each other tight, even to the fast songs, and they’d dance until they couldn’t dance anymore, and then they’d sit in one of the dark booths and play a game called Dare You. The rules were haphazard. “I dare you,” Kathy might say, “to take off my panty hose,” and John would contemplate the mechanics, the angles and resistances, and then he’d nod and slide a hand under the table. It was a way of learning about each other, a way of exploring the possibilities between them.
One night he dared her to steal a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar. “No sweat at all,” Kathy said, “it’s way too easy,” and she straightened her skirt and got up and said a few words to the bartender, who went into a back room, then she strolled behind the bar and stood studying the selections for what seemed a very long while. Finally she made a so-what motion with her shoulders. She tucked a bottle under her jacket and returned to the booth and smiled at John and dared him to order two glasses.
He was crazy with love. He pulled off one of her white tennis shoes. With a ballpoint pen he wrote on the instep: JOHN + KATH. He drew a heart around these words, tied the shoe to her foot.
Kathy laughed at his corniness.
“Let’s get married,” he said.
First, though, there was Vietnam, where John Wade killed people, and where he composed long letters full of observations about the nature of their love. He did not tell her about the killing. He told her how lonely he was and how he wanted more than anything to sleep with his hand on the bone of her hip. He said he was lost without her. He said she was his compass. He said she was his sun and stars. He compared their love to a pair of snakes he’d seen along a trail near Pinkville, each snake eating the other’s tail, a bizarre circle of appetites that brought the heads closer and closer until one of the men in Charlie Company used a machete to end it. “That’s how our love feels,” John wrote, “like we’re swallowing each other up, except in a good way, a perfect Number One Yum-Yum way, and I can’t wait to get home and see what would’ve happened if those two dumbass snakes finally ate each other’s heads. Think about it. The mathematics get weird.” In other letters he wrote about the great beauty of the country, the paddies and mountains and jungles. He told her about villages that vanished right before his eyes. He told her about his new nickname. “The guys call me Sorcerer,” he wrote, “and I sort of like it. Gives me this zingy charged-up feeling, this special power or something, like I’m really in control of things. Anyhow, it’s not so bad over here, at least for now. And I love you, Kath. Just like those weirdo snakes—one plus one equals zero!”
When he was young, nine or ten, John Wade would lie in bed with his magic catalogs, drawing up lists of the tricks he wanted—floating glass balls, colorful fekes and tubes, exploding balloons with flowers inside. He’d write down the prices in a little notebook, crossing out items he couldn’t afford, and then on Saturday mornings he’d get up early and take the bus across town to Karra’s Studio of Magic in St. Paul, all alone, a forty-minute ride.
Outside the store, on the sidewalk, he’d spend some time working up his nerve.
It wasn’t easy. The place scared him. Casually, or trying to be casual, he’d gaze into the windows and stroll away a few times and then finally suck in a deep breath and think to himself: Go—Now, he’d think—Go!—and then he’d step inside, fast, scampering past the glass display cases, letting his head fill up with all the glittering equipment he knew by heart from his catalogs: Miser’s Dream and Horn of Plenty and Chinese Rings and Spirit of the Dark. There were professional pulls and sponge balls and servantes—a whole shelf full of magician’s silks—but in a way he didn’t see anything at all.
A young orange-haired woman behind the counter would flick her eyebrows at him.
“You!” she’d cry.
The woman made his skin crawl. Her cigarette voice, partly. And her flaming carrot-colored hair.
“You!” she’d say, or she’d laugh and yell, “Hocus-pocus!” but by that point John would already be out the door. The whole blurry trip terrified him. Especially the Carrot Lady. The bright orange hair. The way she laughed and flicked her eyebrows and cried, “You!”—loud—as if she knew things.
The ride home was always dreary.
When he walked into the kitchen, his father would glance up and say, “Little Merlin,” and his mother would frown and put a sandwich on the table and then busy herself at the stove. The whole atmosphere would tense up. His father would stare out the window for a time, then grunt and say, “So what’s new in magic land? Big tricks up your sleeve?” and John would say, “Sure, sort of. Not really.”
His father’s hazy blue eyes would drift back to the window, distracted and expectant, as if he were waiting for some rare object to materialize there. Sometimes he’d shake his head. Other times he’d chuckle or snap his fingers.
“Those Gophers,” he’d say. “Basketball fever, right? You and me, pal, we’ll catch a game tomorrow.” He’d grin across the table. “Right?”
“Maybe,” John would say.
“Just maybe?”
“I got things to do.”
Slowly then, his father’s eyes would travel back to the window, still searching for whatever might be out there. The kitchen would seem very quiet.
“Well, sure, anything you want,” his father would say. “Maybe’s fine, kiddo. Maybe’s good enough for me.”
Something was wrong. The sunlight or the morning air. All around him there was machine-gun fire, a machine-gun wind, and the wind seemed to pick him up and blow him from place to place. He found a young woman laid open without a chest or lungs. He found dead cattle. There were fires, too. The trees and hootches and clouds were burning. Sorcerer didn’t know where to shoot. He didn’t know what to shoot. So he shot the burning trees and burning hootches. He shot the hedges. He shot the smoke, which shot back, then he took refuge behind a pile of stones. If a thing moved, he shot it. If a thing did not move, he shot it. There was no enemy to shoot, nothing he could see, so he shot without aim and without any desire except to make the terrible morning go away.
When it ended, he found himself in the slime at the bottom of an irrigation ditch.
PFC Weatherby looked down on him.
“Hey, Sorcerer,” Weatherby said. The guy started to smile, but Sorcerer shot him.
John Wade was elected to the Minnesota State Senate on November 9, 1976. He and Kathy splurged on an expensive hotel suite in St. Paul, where they celebrated with a dozen or so friends. When the party ended, well after midnight, they ordered steaks and champagne from room service. “Mr. Senator Husband,” Kathy kept saying, but John told her it wasn’t necessary, she could call him Honorable Sir, and then he picked up a champagne bottle and used it as a microphone, peeling off his pants, gliding across the room and singing Regrets, I’ve had a few, and Kathy squealed and flopped back on the bed and grabbed her ankles and rolled around and laughed and yelled, “Honorable Senator Sir!” so John stripped off his shirt and made oily Sinatra moves and sang The record shows I took the blows, and Kathy’s green eyes were wet and happy and full of the light that was only Kathy’s light and could be no one else’s.
One evening Charlie Company wandered into a quiet fishing village along the South China Sea. They set up a perimeter on the white sand, went swimming, dug in deep for the night. Around dawn they were hit with mortar fire. The rounds splashed into the ocean behind them—a bad scare, nobody was hurt—but when it was over, Sorcerer led a patrol into the village. It took almost an hour to round everyone up, maybe a hundred women and kids and old men. There was much chattering, much consternation as the villagers were ushered down to the beach for a magic show. With the South China Sea at his back, Sorcerer performed card tricks and rope tricks. He pulled a lighted cigar from his ear. He transformed a pear into an orange. He displayed an ordinary military radio and whispered a few words and made their village disappear. There was a trick to it, which involved artillery and white phosphorus, but the overall effect was spectacular.
A fine, sunny morning. Everyone sat on the beach and oohed and ahhed at the vanishing village.
“Fuckin’ Houdini,” one of the guys said.
As a boy John Wade spent hours practicing his moves in front of the old stand-up mirror down in the basement. He watched his mother’s silk scarves change color, copper pennies becoming white mice. In the mirror, where miracles happened, John was no longer a lonely little kid. He had sovereignty over the world. Quick and graceful, his hands did things ordinary hands could not do—palm a cigarette lighter, cut a deck of cards with a turn of the thumb. Everything was possible, even happiness.
In the mirror, where John Wade mostly lived, he could read his father’s mind. Simple affection, for instance. “Love you, cowboy,” his father would think.
Or his father would think, “Hey, report cards aren’t everything.”
The mirror made this possible, and so John would sometimes carry it to school with him, or to baseball games, or to bed at night. Which was another trick: how he secretly kept the old stand-up mirror in his head. Pretending, of course—he understood that—but he felt calm and safe with the big mirror behind his eyes, where he could slide away behind the glass, where he could turn bad things into good things and just be happy.
The mirror made things better.
The mirror made his father smile all the time. The mirror made the vodka bottles vanish from their hiding place in the garage, and it helped with the hard, angry silences at the dinner table. “How’s school these days?” his father would ask, in the mirror, which would permit John to ramble on about some of his problems, little things, school stuff, and in the mirror his father would say, “No problem, that’s life, that’s par for the course. Besides, you’re my best pal.” After dinner John would watch his father slip out to the garage. That was the worst part. The secret drinking that wasn’t secret. But in the mirror, John would be there with him, and together they’d stand in the dim light, rakes and hoses and garage smells all around them, and his father would explain exactly what was happening and why it was happening. “One quickie,” his father would say, “then we’ll smash these goddamn bottles forever.”
“To smithereens,” John would say, and his father would say, “Right. Smithereens.”
