Hampton called after me, "You're not sticking your head in the oven, are you?"
"Go fuck yourself," I said.
"-with a big red rubber bulb for a nose," Hampton was droning on, mostly to himself; his voice and the racket of the TV set, the kids' cartoons, assailed me; I put my hands over my ears to shut out the noise. "Head out of the oven!" Hampton yelled.
I walked back into the living room and shut off the TV set; turning to face Hampton I said, "Those two people were in a lot of pain. There's nothing funny about someone who's in that much pain."
Grinning, Hampton rocked back and forth, seated curled up on the floor. "And big floppy hands," he said. "Clown hands."
I opened the front door. "I'll see you. I'm going for a walk." I shut the door after me.
The front door swung open. Hampton came out on the porch, cupped his hands to his mouth and called, "Tee-hee; I'm going to stick my head in the oven. Let's see if the baby-sitter gets here in time. Do you think she'll get here in time? Anybody want to make a bet?"
I did not look back; I kept on going.
As I walked along, I thought about Tim and I thought about Israel and what it must be like there, the hot climate, the desert and the rock, the kibbutzim. Tilling the soil, the ancient soil that had been worked for thousands of years, farmed by Jews long before the time of Christ. Maybe they would direct Tim's attention to the ground, I thought. And away from the next world. Back to the real; back to where it belonged.
I doubted it, but perhaps I was wrong. I wished, then, that I could go with Tim-quit my job at the record store, just take off and go. Maybe never return. Stay in Israel forever. Become a citizen. Convert to Judaism. If they'd have me. Tim could probably swing it. Maybe in Israel I'd stop mixing metaphors and remembering poems. Maybe my mind would give up trying to solve problems in terms of recycled words. Used phrases, bits ripped from here and there: fragments from my days at Cal in which I had memorized but not understood, understood but not applied, applied but never successfully. A spectator to the destruction of my friends, I said to myself; one who records on a notepad the names of those who die, and did not manage to save any of them, not even one.
I will ask Tim if I can go with him, I decided. Tim will say no-he has to say no-but nonetheless, I will ask.
To root Tim in reality, I realized, they will first have to get his attention, and if he is still on the Dex it will not be possible for them to do that; his mind will be tripping and freewheeling and spinning forever out into the void, conceiving the great models of the heavens ... they will try and, like me, they will fail. If I go with him, maybe I can help, I thought; the Israelis and I maybe could do what I never could do alone; I will direct their attention to him and they, in turn, will direct his attention to the soil under their feet. Christ, I thought; I have to go with him. It's essential. Because they will not have time to notice the problem. He will skim his way across their country, be first here, then there, never lighting, never coming to rest long enough, never letting them
A car honked at me; I had wandered out onto the street, crossing unconsciously, without looking.
"Sorry," I said to the driver, who glared at me.
I am no better than Tim, I realized. I'd be no help in Israel. But even so, I thought, I wish I could go.
13
ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, Tim picked me up in a rented Pontiac. I wore a black strapless gown and carried a little beaded purse; I wore a flower in my hair, and Tim, gazing at me as he held the car door open, remarked that I looked lovely.
"Thank you," I said, feeling shy.
We drove to the restaurant on University Avenue, just off Shattuck, a Chinese restaurant that had recently opened. I had never been there, but customers at the Musik Shop had told me it was the great new place to eat in town.
"Have you always worn your hair up like that?" Tim asked, as the hostess led us to our table.
"I got it done for tonight," I explained. I showed him my earrings. "Jeff got me these years ago. I usually don't wear them; I'm afraid I'll lose one."
"You've lost a little weight." He held my chair for me and I nervously seated myself.
"It's the work. Ordering far into the night."
"How is the law firm?"
I said, "I manage a record store."
"Yes," Tim said. "You got me that album of Fidelio. I haven't had much chance to play it ..." He opened his menu, then; absorbed, he turned his attention away from me. How easily that attention waned, I thought. Or, rather, alters its focal point. It isn't the attention that changes; it is the object of that attention. He must live in an endlessly shifting world. Heraclitus' flux world personified.
It pleased me to see that Tim still wore his clericals. Is that legal? I asked myself. Well, it's none of my business. I picked up my menu. This was Mandarin-style Chinese food, not Cantonese; it would be spiced and hot, not sweet, with lots of nuts. Ginger root, I said to myself; I felt hungry and happy, and very glad to be back with my friend again.
"Angel," Tim said, "come with me to Israel."
Staring at him, I said, "What?"
"As my secretary."
Still staring, I said, "Take Kirsten's place, you mean?" I began, then, to tremble. A waiter came over; I waved him away.
"Would either of you like a drink?" the waiter said, ignoring my gesture.
"Go away," I said to him, with menace in my voice. "The goddamn waiter," I said to Tim. "What are you talking about? I mean, what sort of-"
"Just as my secretary. I don't mean any personal involvement; nothing of that sort. Did you think I was asking you to become my mistress? I need someone to do the job Kirsten did; I find I can't manage without her."
"Christ," I said. "I thought you meant as your mistress."
"That's out of the question," Tim said, in the stern, firm tone that meant he was not joking. That, in fact, he disapproved. "I think of you still as my daughter-in-law."
"I run the record store," I said.
"My budget permits a fairly good outlay; I can probably pay you as well as your law office-" He corrected himself. "As the record store pays."
"Let me think about it." I beckoned to the waiter to come over. "A martini," I said to him. "Extra dry. Nothing for the bishop."
Tim smiled wryly. "I'm no longer a bishop."
"I can't," I said. "Come to Israel. I have too many ties here."
In a quiet voice, Tim said, "If you don't come with me, I will never-" He broke off. "I saw Dr. Garret again. Recently. Jeff came across from the next world. He says that unless I take you to Israel with me, I'll die there."
"That is pure nonsense," I said. "Pure, absolute bilge. I thought you gave all that up."
"There have been more phenomena." He did not elaborate; his face, I saw, looked strained and pale.
Reaching, I took Tim's hand. "Don't talk to Garret. Talk to me. I say, Go to Israel and the hell with that old lady. It isn't Jeff; it's her. You know that."
"The clocks," Tim said. "They've been stopped at the time Kirsten died."
"Even so-" I began.
"I think it may be both of them," Tim said.
"Go to Israel," I said. "Talk to the people there, to the people of Israel. If ever any people was embedded in reality-"
"I won't have much time. I've got to get right to the Dead Sea Desert and find the wadi. I have to be back in time to meet with Buckminster Fuller. I think it's Buckminster I'm supposed to meet with." He touched his coat. "It's written down." His voice trailed off.
"It was my impression that Buckminster Fuller is dead," I said.
"No, I'm sure you're wrong." He gazed at me; I gazed back, and then, by degrees, we both began to laugh.
"See?" I said, still holding the bishop's hand in mine. "I wouldn't be any help to you."
"They say you would," Tim said. "Jeff and Kirsten."