“This is no fucking cartoon, Max! I’m not fucking ‘Paper Clip’! Stop talking shit! That crazy fucking shit! I’m not your cartoon. I’m not an angel! Why don’t you say the truth! Why don’t you say the truth for once in my life!”
I think I could have stopped his arm the next time, reached out fast and blocked it, but I didn’t. He hit me again on the cheek, on the throat, on the top of the head. I wanted to lift my arms to keep him away, keep him off, but there was no strength. He hit me again and again until I blacked out. The last thing I remember was he kept saying “Daddy” as he beat me with all his might.
“There once was a very great magician who, having grown old, decided to work his greatest magic by turning a mouse into a beautiful woman. After he had finished his masterpiece, he felt that because she was so exquisite, he had to find her the most powerful being in the world for a husband. After much thought, he went to the sun and asked him to marry this woman. The sun was touched by the offer, but said no because ‘there is someone stronger than me—the cloud, who covers me when I shine.’ The magician thanked him for his honesty and went to the cloud with the same offer. Much to his surprise, the cloud said no too because there was someone even stronger than him—the mountain, whose ragged peaks stop the cloud’s movement across the sky. Shaking his head, the magician went next to the mountain but again heard no. ‘There’s one stronger than even me,’ he said. ‘It is the mouse, because he can burrow into my side as often as he pleases and I am powerless to stop him.’ So at last the magician went home and sadly turned the beautiful young girl back into a mouse so that she could take another mouse for a husband. All things return to their origin.”
Finky Linky sang his crazy goodbye song and the show ended. Lincoln turned to me and squinted a disbelieving eye. “A mouse is not the greatest thing in the world. It’s not greater than the sun!”
I could feel a great father-son moral lesson coming on here. I took a deep breath and was about to begin, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. I could move my jaws and lips but there was no voice in me, not a peep. I cleared my throat but even that made no sound. I tried again. Nothing. Rubbing my neck, I nodded at him. He was waiting for an answer but his quizzical expression asked if I was playing a joke on him. He began to smile. I tried harder to talk but couldn’t. My silence began to scare me. I pushed him off my lap and sat up straighter. I tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I began to panic.
I woke up.
The dream was a recurring one I had had over the years and it would have gotten worse as it invariably did if the pain hadn’t woken me. I was conscious but there was only pain. My eyes were all right. I opened them and was not surprised to see an unknown white room around me. After a time it made sense that this was a hospital room. My face felt huge and hot. When I put a tentative hand up and touched it, pain barked back at me to stay away, leave it alone or it would really get me. I said okay, okay, I’ll be careful. But I had to know how bad the damage was. I had to know what was there. This pain became a dog in my mind, growling in a corner of this big white room, ready to attack the moment I did the wrong thing. As gently as possible, I touched my face and felt a battlefield of cuts, bruises, swelling. Once sure that was all, there was no more, I slid the hand down and over as much of my body as I could reach and prayed thanks when I felt no casts or heavy bandages. He’d done my face. That must have been enough for him.
I saw a buzzer for the nurse and shakily got hold of it. I moved my head too fast and suddenly the pain dog growled loud.
“Well, hello, Mr. Fischer! You’re back on earth with us, huh? How’re you feeling?”
“Happy to still be around. Can you tell me what happened? But please go slow, I’m not really here yet.”
“Sure. The police found your car all banged up and went lookin’ for you. They found you down an embankment and you were unconscious. We thought you might have a bad concussion or a skull fracture along with those cuts, but they did a scan and didn’t find anything. You’re sounding pretty good now. What the heck happened out there?”
I sighed to give myself time, then realized a lie wasn’t necessary because most of the truth would do for now. I told her a stranger had forced me off the road and at gunpoint made me go over the embankment with him. Once there, he started hitting me until… I couldn’t say more and she didn’t press it.
“It’s so crazy, so scary these days. Sometimes I get scared just going out of the house to buy some milk. My husband told me—” She would have gone on, only a state policeman walked into the room and asked if we might be alone for a while. She took off. Sitting down on the chair next to my bed, he took out a notepad.
I told him the same story, and with a few specific questions here and there, he appeared satisfied. He was particularly interested in what the assailant looked like. I described a man in his early thirties, nondescript, but with a surprisingly deep voice. I thought it best to add one memorable characteristic so this fantasy attacker sounded more real. No, I had never seen him before. No idea why he would want to hurt me. I said who I was, and when asked why I was in New Jersey, I said business. The cop was a nice guy, friendly and sympathetic. He shook his head often, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. When I was finished, he asked me to sign a form and said it wouldn’t be necessary to meet again unless I had questions. As he was leaving, I touched his arm and asked how long I had been in the hospital. Checking his watch, he said ten hours. Ten hours! I could barely keep from shouting. Ten hours! What had Lincoln done in that time? All the possibilities were horrible.
Alone again, I eased myself up to the side of the bed and picked up the telephone. It was difficult but I talked the hospital operator into placing a long-distance call to our home in Los Angeles. What time was it there? It didn’t matter. The phone rang and rang. Pick it up. Pick up the damned phone!
“Hello?”
“Hello, Lily? Lily, it’s Max—”
“Max, Jesus Christ, where are you? It’s Mary.”
“Who?” I couldn’t understand. Why hadn’t Lily picked it up?
“Mary. It’s me, Mary Poe. Max, for God’s sake, wherever you are, get home. Lincoln’s dead, Max. He hung himself. Lily came in and found him. Max, are you there? Do you hear me? Lincoln is dead.”
My clothes were in the closet. There was a mirror on the inside of the closet door with a small lamp over it. I turned it on and looked at myself for the first time in ten hours. My face was as bad as my fingers had said, but I’d seen worse-looking people at bus stops in Los Angeles. The pain dog was bellowing as I slowly dressed. I left three hundred dollars on the table next to the bed, along with a note saying if that wasn’t enough to send the bill to me in California.
I opened the door to the room, saw no one in the hall, and walked out. Luckily there was a door that opened onto a large garden. Outside smelled of good fresh things and made me want to cry. It was evening. I walked on cobblestones across the garden and then through some high hedges into the hospital parking lot. A taxi had dropped someone off at the front door and was just pulling away when I flagged it down and got in.
“Hey, you’re lucky. I was almost out of here. Where to?” The driver looked in the rearview mirror and his eyes widened. “Holy cow! What happened to you?”
“Car accident. Would you please take me to Newark Airport?”
“You sure you’re all right? I mean, it’s okay to travel and all?”
“Yes, please just go to the airport.”
Hanged himself. It was absolutely the crudest, most brilliant thing he could have done. What had he said back there? “I’m no cartoon.” Did he say that? Yes, something like that. But now this and it was so hideously perfect that nothing in the world could have been more effective. I was certain he had done it somewhere in the house where Lily would have been sure to find him. Lily or Greer.