Ben looked at me with a glassy expression. He told me he wasn’t sure how he felt about any of this, about his father being in the tree; it sounded strange to him. Besides which, he went on to explain, his dad was buried a good distance away from the cherry tree. Ben pointed, “Over there. By the brook.”
“Is there a tree over there? Strictly speaking, it needn’t be a tree. Your dad could be in a bush or the flowers or even a blade of grass. Or if he’s near the brook he might be in one of those goldfish.”
“There aren’t any goldfish. I ate them.”
“Then I guess he’s in you, isn’t he?”
The boy wore a stricken look. I backpedaled, saying, “Heh heh, just kidding. Don’t take things so seriously. It was only an idea. Anyway, it’s getting late and I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.”
“Mr. Robinson?”
“Yeah, Ben?”
“Do you believe that stuff about trees and flowers and fish and all?”
Good question. I explained to Ben that, in this instance, my beliefs were of secondary importance, except as a compliment or contrast to his, whatever they might be, vis-à-vis the whole “spirit afterlife” issue. I also pointed out to Ben that, whatever his personal convictions in the matter, it so happens that many societies, around the globe and throughout history, have regarded enclosed gardens like this one, the one we were standing in, as sacrosanct. “Your father’s around here somewhere, Ben. You can bet on it.”
With that I took my leave. Halfway up the hill to the abandoned playground, I turned and looked back. The moon was high. I could see, by its silvery light, the entire Japanese garden: the brook, the walkways, the decorative pagoda; and, not far from the garden’s bamboo gates, hard by the glowing bench, the figure of Ben, hugging the cherry tree, weeping. I decided, then and there, that I’d come back here soon and bury, as a symbol of the lifeblood that passes from fathers to their sons, the ex-mayor’s freezer-paper-wrapped heart. Not, though, without first thawing it out and letting the kids in school pass it around. Jim’s vital organs would make splendid show-and-tell exhibits. Maybe not the genitals. The genitals would serve better in a high school setting. But Jim’s liver, lung, spleen, hand, and assorted viscera — that stuff would be super at any age. I got so revved up, planning the classes I could build around Jim’s anatomy, that I completely forgot the dangers of walking through Turtle Pond Park. I was relaxed and happy, excited about the future, eager to get home and tell Meredith all about my encounter with Ben, how I’d been able to make him feel a little better about his loss. Also, I wanted to make love without contraception, because spending time with Ben had made me imagine how great it would be to have a son of my own, a son who would kill for me, and whom I’d name Ben. And while jogging past the boathouse and into the dense woods, I pictured all the things we’d do together, my son Ben and I, the ball games we’d play and the bikes we’d ride and the fish we’d catch. These father/son tableaux images looked beautiful to me. So beautiful, in fact, that it began to seem inconceivable that Meredith would be anything but wildly enthusiastic about the idea of a son. Certainly she’d share my desire to have sex without contraception, wherever we happened to be at the moment: on the kitchen floor, or on a table or the counter by the sink basin, or on the fold-out sleeper sofa in the living room; or how about out back in the wet sandy mud by the trench! Or just plain in bed, beneath soft cotton sheets, nice and easy, in order to conceive right away.
The forest floor was dark. Not much moonlight reached beneath the tangled canopy of leaves overhead. Ground-level creeping vines were everywhere, there was no avoiding them, it was a real obstacle course. The image of Meredith was my beacon. I kept thinking about how lovely she’d be, pregnant. It was invigorating, sexy in an elemental and potent way, stampeding through the thorns with a hard-on, beating a path to her. By the time I got to the car I was pretty torn up, and I felt good about it. Each scar, each bruise, each bleeding wound, was a badge signifying passion, intensity, and the untamable fires of procreative love.
I jumped in the Toyota. The streets were empty. I navigated in cool style, shifting down before banking on the right-angle curves, four-wheel drifting into the opposing lane with that satisfying high-RPM, low-gear engine whine, then easing out the clutch and accelerating onto the straightaway, surfing the whole road and going fast. I’m not, as a rule, in favor of reckless driving, speed for the sake of speed. However, it’s a good thing, from time to time, to let go of worldly cares and flatten the accelerator to the floor. Tonight the Toyota performed admirably — for a mid-price. On Main Street I caught a glimpse of the BIG WEEKEND CLEARANCE SALE! ALL MENSWEAR HALF PRICE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! sign in Dick Morton’s clothing store window, the same sign I’d noticed earlier in the day, on the way to the park; and I remembered my plan to pick up a new bow tie for school. Now, unfortunately, it was too late. The store was long closed. For an instant, cruising along at close to eighty miles per hour, I had an amusing vision of myself slamming on the brakes and skidding to a halt, leaping from the driver’s seat, hurling Martyrs Mirror through the plate glass fronting Morton’s store, and ducking in and looting a bow tie — just one tie, that’s all, in a muted paisley or classic two-tone rep stripe, or better yet a bold, high-fashion silk, something tasteful yet with flair to suit my mood. I wouldn’t even care if I got cut on a shard of window glass. Big deal, what’s another cut?
At home, the lights were on. I wheeled into the driveway and secured the hand brake. There was blood on the steering wheel, blood staining the gearshift. A warm trickle made its way down my neck. It felt sweet. I gathered the books and went around back and up the wood-plank steps to the kitchen door.
I could hear, from within the house, the deep and rhythmic pounding of drums.
“Meredith, it’s me, I’m home,” kicking open the door, marching inside. The drum tape was booming loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. The last thing we needed was a noise dispute with the Kinseys or the McElroys. Those kinds of confrontations invariably create discomfort.
But not such discomfort, I’m afraid, as that caused me by the sight of Meredith sprawled on her back on the living room floor, on the plush blue carpet, her nightgown twisted up around her waist, her arms and legs thrashing and kicking and drenched in perspiration that glistened amber beneath the living room’s low-wattage lamplight.
“Hey, Meredith.”
She jerked from side to side. Her hair was a mess. Fish bones and seashells lay in piles on the coffee table; more shells were scattered across the floor. There were so many shells. The rug was transformed — it was like a scaled-down seabed environment, a clutter of cowries and oysters and cockles and scallops that glowed liquid pink on the inside; and zebra-striped star shells, spiny-edged and no bigger than coat buttons; and top-shaped shells like iridescent children’s toys, their nautiloid exteriors gaudy with spots, speckles, and blotches.
Meredith opened her mouth. Her tongue stuck out. It wasn’t sexy, it was grotesque, and it upset me to watch it. I cleared a space and put the books on the coffee table, knelt beside her and said, “Honey?”
She was shivering and her face was white. I cradled her head in my lap. Her breasts beneath her lavender nightgown rose and fell with her breathing; her head was heavy. Fine strands of black hair clung to her forehead. I brushed the hair from her face. And I tried to avoid smearing blood on her, blood from my hands, but a little got on her cheek. I wet my shirttail with spit and wiped it away. Here in the warmly lit living room I could examine the full damage of scratching on my arms. They looked, my arms, as if they’d been assailed by frenzied kittens.