Loon, quoting one of the ancients, wrote that the white objects that shine within the eyes are engendered by white atoms, and the black objects are borne of a black seed. Charter falls asleep thinking that objects seed the eye—a lovely idea — and dreams he has made an observatory out of cardboard and paper and that it fits the Circle, illuminated by the moon. He takes Asthma by the hand and leads her around the perimeter. Asthma says: I want to look inside, and kneeling, peers into a hallway that leads straight to the big dome and its telescope. Looking into the telescope she sees her own face painted on the moon. Oh, Brightfellow! she says. Now you’ve gone and done it again, Brightfellow! And Charter knows he has “done it again” and this knowledge is terrible. But what it is he has done again he cannot say. Now you have done it again! He hears Asthma’s voice as he awakens before dawn, chilled to the bone and damp with dew. He goes inside for a shower, the dream hot in his mind, his head once again ringing. Oh, he is alive with bells. As when, years ago now, he had returned home after a long absence, and found his father there on the floor in a heap, the gentle man he had not seen much of when he had sold seeds; Charter had seen too much of the other one, broken and ghostly, who installed toilets. The doubled father, seeded black, and seeded white, who had been — with everything around him — reduced to ashes because it had seemed at the time the one and only thing that Stub could do, should do. A great big cleansing fire.
As Charter showers, Billy stirs. He hears the water running and then falls back asleep. Just as Charter gets into bed, the sun rises, Billy reawakens, and as always the somewhat incomprehensible moments unfold. Billy is aware of the slightest thorning of his heart, which he imagines is something like a tiny prick of the thinnest pin, thinner even. . and he is aware of his nausea — this also slight; he is anxious, and this despite the presence of the boy — the boy, Charter — who (at last!) assures him a place on a planet that spins, a place to stand firmly and feet to walk as others do, without question — or so he supposes — except that today, as Charter sleeps deep into the morning, he is full of questions again. Perhaps this is all about the fact that he is on his third cup of coffee, or the fact that the sky is growing quickly darker, a thunderstorm is rolling in and the darkness, the taste of metal in the air recalls his marriage, a marriage in which — or so it seems to him now — he was often to blame for something or other. And he was to blame, after all, for a wife who had not been what he had actually wanted, when you got down to it. The young men were what quickened him, above all the young clerk at the small family-run shoe store, with whom he had once talked about the merits of a pair of oxfords. Billy had asserted that the shoes were not quite the right size although the clerk — Billy did not dare ask his name — the clerk who smelled of bitter almonds told him they were perfect, just right; they fit like a dream. He has never forgotten the feel of the clerk’s two hands on his heels, his ankles, how he looked on, captivated, as the laces were tugged and tied. He bought them, of course, the oxfords! And kept them in their box — a talisman, the clue to an essential memory, the emblem of his longing, the sinew of his soul. He never once wore them.
As the first of the rain needles the windows, Billy thinks that if they fit, he will give the oxfords to Charter. Charter will wear them and they will enable him to somehow step into his own life. An insane idea, perhaps, but Billy embraces it. It is too late for me, he thinks. But for Charter the world has only just begun.
By the time Charter descends into the kitchen, Billy is gone, gone to Kahontsi to meet with his lawyer. Billy is happy. Something important has been solved.
The day is dark, chilly — unusually so; there is rain. Looking out the front door, Charter sees Dr. Ash at her upstairs window, her mind brimming with numbers and strange ideas. He knows she is considered a genius; he has seen numbers tattooed on her wrist but does not know their significance, supposes they are emblematic of her profession. His brilliant mind is riddled with lacunae such as this. The chiming in his head is dizzying; he reverberates. His soul’s metal is hammered to within an inch of its life and he is cold. Soon it will be fall, he thinks, although it is only June. Trembling, he decides to build a fire; there is nothing to do but build a fire.
There are no logs by Billy’s fireplace, so he goes down to the basement, where he finds stacks of cardboard, the Ohneka Tribune, and a few old orange crates. He makes logs of cardboard and paper rolled together and tied with string, breaks up the crates, and constructs a fire, setting the logs down on top of the kindling. He spills kerosene liberally and lights a match, then watches as the entire structure bursts into flame. It’s beautiful! But the damned thing starts to roar and smoke floods the room. Charter is at a loss; smoke fills his nose, his eyes; and the mantel is smoking, sizzling! The map of France hanging above it cracks and glass rains down.
Charter dashes to the sofa, grabs a pillow, and shoves it into the hearth; he grabs another, then a third. Runs into the kitchen for a basin of water and sends it cascading into the mess. The room smells like smoke, toasted rayon, and chicken feathers. He sits down on the couch, devastated.
“You’ve really done it now,” says Asthma, coming into the room. She sits down next to him. “Everybody knows these fireplaces are pretend.” Then, quickly, breathlessly, she leans to his ear and says: “Dullfellow. My best-ever friend.”
There is no way out of this dilemma, no way to explain it. Agitated, pale, Charter dashes up the path as soon as he hears Billy’s car. Asthma is there also, bouncing with excitement.
“Something terrible has happened!” Charter cries, clearly distraught. “Something terrible!”
Billy, deeply concerned, embraces Charter, says, “My boy! My boy! What has happened?”
“Fire!” Asthma explodes. “But we caught it in time! Didn’t we, Brightfellow?”
Billy enters the living room, sees the damage to the fireplace, the map of France, the ceiling blackened with smoke — the mess on the floor where the scorched pillows have left a mark.
“It is amazing,” Billy says with good humor, “when you think of it, that this has not happened before. It is irrational, irrational—like so much in our world — to build a fireplace that cannot hold a fire! It’s O.K., Charter. I’ll give a call to Buildings and Grounds and we will get on with what remains of the day.” He bends over and pecks Asthma on the cheek, says, “You have spunk. I do appreciate that in a child.”
“I’ll replace the pillows,” Charter begins, but Billy stops him, says:
“You have better things to do with your insignificant allowance than provide me with pillows!”
When the mornings are lazy, the coffee thoughtfully prepared, the conversation cheerful and already leaning into dinner, one’s shirts pulled hot from the dryer, the refrigerator ample with orange juice and cottage cheese — well then the days are effortless, effortless the hours, and Charter begins to let go, to take things as they come, to take things in. He dares believe there is a place for him. He dares believe he is not so strange after all.
A merry band of men in overalls undo the damage to Billy’s living room. Windows are washed, sheets changed. The lawn has never been greener. The lilac never more fragrant. Billy and Charter go into town to hunt down sofa pillows. There is a lunch in a gracious white inn with a view of the water. Roast-chicken sandwiches made with thick house mayonnaise and pickles.