He’s an abstracted boy; he’s not like the Boy in the Glen, who dances with panpipe in the wolf hollow and is filled with music. The space between the huddled boy’s hand and the truck take on a burden of almost unbearable weight. Still the child sits near him and puts her hand on his painted steel shoulder — hoping to help him, with whatever it is that is the matter.
THE MOTHER RECEIVED a telephone call from her sister Inga. The sister had some bad news. The child had never seen her mother listen harder to anything than she listened then. The listening had a hard, smooth quality to it, like ice, only hot. After the mother hung up, she curled into a ball and she did not speak or move for a day and a night. The child watched her mother curled up like that, and she thought about nests and she thought about shells. She felt so alone she did not know how she would bear it — and she felt worn by silence and the duration of time.
After a day and a night the mother finally uncurled, but the child saw the mother held something still clenched in her hand. When the mother saw the child, she wept and she opened her hand. In her palm she held the left ventricle of a human heart. The child took the left ventricle of the heart from her mother. She walked down the hallway and she laid it in her bed. Although it had looked blurry and ruined on the screen, here it did not look bad at all. She was happy to have it on the pillow next to her. It cast the room in ruby light. After pink, red was her favorite color. This way, if anything went wrong, she would know right away. She thought of her aunt seven and a half states away. A kindle of kittens appeared under the bed. A clowder of cats soon came to join them outside under the sill. After a while, the child fell into dream. Helpless and blind, the mother cat licked the kittens until they began to breathe. There was mother’s milk for all. Then the mother cat went outside again with the others.
Everything seemed contingent on this arrangement: the clowder under the sill, the kindle under the bed, the ventricle next to the sleeping child, slowly repairing itself.
THE SOLDIERS WERE battling sleep, the most formidable of all opponents, and with their rapiers they sliced the heavy air. The soldiers in endless procession walk through the somnambulant world, singing as they go, an antidote, they hope. It was an invisible adversary and therefore the most dangerous of all. They talked back and forth on their walkie-talkies and gave each other pep talks, but before long, they had found a nestling place and they all curled up like babes together and succumbed.
THE GRANDMOTHER FROM the North Pole came to dispel myths, to correct misconceptions. For instance, she says, if you throw a baby in the ocean, you should not worry because a baby will always float. Its head is rounder and lighter than an inflatable beach ball. And it possesses a supreme swimming memory from before its birth. Besides, the mother chimes in, if a baby doesn’t float, there’s always a lot of commotion and someone goes and saves it. I love to see them bouncing out there on the event horizon, the Grandmother said. Such a beautiful thing!
A BABY SAILS like an inflated star craft high above the ocean, swooping and diving, skimming the surface and then flying back up.
AND THERE’S GRANDFATHER, she says, sailing smooth and straight. On the pale blue. His sails are puffed. He’s still handsome.
MUSIC MOVES THROUGH the left ventricle. And the curtains blow in the breeze.
THE CHILD PUTS the ventricle in a doll’s cradle, attaches wheels to it, and paints it blue. From her book she knew about Permanent Doll State, and she hoped the heart would not lapse into Permanent Doll State forever. The Grandmother from the North Pole reassures her, and points to the sky.
THE CHILD SITS high, high up and looks at herself in the mirror. There is something unnerving about a child dangling in the air while a hand bearing silver airborne scissors glides by. She is having her first haircut. The mother watches as the curls fall in slow motion to the floor. So many things are always falling. The tables fell through the floor, but that is another story. The mother and the child missed already the falling hair and all the feelings they had no names for.
In the Valley, the Palatines dreamt of building boats, but the boats would not float, so they turned to coffin making, but lost heart after a while and decided to try their hand at tables. The Palatines loved tables as all men love tables. They loved tables as women love linens. Tables were a place to plan a strategy, arm wrestle, or drink a stout. But something was wrong with the tables.
The tables were too heavy to lift, and they had a habit of falling through the floor like boats of stone. With coffins it did not matter how far they fell into the earth. In fact, the farther a coffin fell into the earth the better; this way they could layer the dead and the dead would not be quite so lonely or sad. Galileo tells us that the tables fall at the same rate as the child’s hair. The deeper the coffins sank, the more pleased everyone was with the arrangement.
Sitting high, high up in that little executioner’s chair, the scissors and the child gleam. Some men, but not all, revere war. The dead in the Valley lay in layers. The mother gathered the child’s hair and placed it in a glassine envelope. There it will quietly lie through the years of peace and through the years of war.
How many years would tresses fall? Falling on human time. The mother bends to the ground and collects the hair of the young men who will not come home again.
The child’s hair fell a long way to the floor that day.
THE MOTHER FOUND the men named Martin to be the best read of the men, and she preferred to have them for her friends, but they were far and few in the Valley. After the Risen Agains, and the Witnesses of God, the next most popular sect was the disciples of Baby Gabriella, or the Gabbies, as they were called. Whether Gabbies was a derisive name or not, she could not tell; she did not like to think about them. None of the groups read a whit as far as the mother could tell, though they all held books.
There was a city, she knew, filled with reading men like her friend Martin, but it was hard to reach now, so instead she cut off her hair and put it in a Lucite box and left it by the door. The child hated when the mother cut her hair, but the mother promised her it would grow back on the third day. Our passage on earth is brief, but to make up for it, things happen at a dizzying rate. The number of miracles is inexhaustible and never used up, the mother says. That’s just the way life is. On the porch, the Lucite box began to breathe.
She hoped this might attract wise men to her side. But wise men were scarce in the Valley.
She might have liked a life where people read books and where many faces would come and go. She missed the big and beautiful city sometimes, and the Towers where Martin worked that had once presided.
A PIKE IS swimming in the bathtub. A chicken foot is sticking out of the sink. In every room, there was singing and dipping and whirling. These are scenes from the men’s childhoods, and they created the deepest of longings in the mother. Kippered herrings passed before her eyes. Shining fish in their skins of gold. She names all the men Martin as they pass, after her friend Martin who had once delivered the news in his cupped hands. This is what he said, and she has never forgotten that cupped-handed gesture: the fetus is not in danger.
The mother closes her eyes. Many years now had passed since the emergence of cinematic time. This made her smile. Anytime she wanted, she could see Martin again, or if she preferred, the long line of Martins walking, or the child Martin, all alone leaning over the bathtub to pet the bright pike.