g。
Panasonic。
33
What time was it when I opened my eyes； sensing someone or something nearby？ Was it an odd…numbered hour？ The room was soft and webby。 I stretched my legs； blinked… slowly focused on a familiar object。 It was Wilder； standing two feet from the bed； gazing into my face。 We spent a long moment in mutual contemplation。 His great round head； set as it was on a small…limbed and squattish body； gave him the look of a primitive clay figurine； some household idol of obscure and cultic derivation。 I had the feeling he wanted to show me something。 As I slipped quietly out of bed； he walked in his quilted booties out of the room。 I followed him into the hall and toward the window that looks out on our backyard。 I was barefoot and robeless and felt a chill pass through the Hong Kong polyester of my pajamas。 Wilder stood looking out the window； his chin about an inch above the sill。 It seemed I'd spent my life in lopsided pajamas； the shirt buttons inserted in mismatching slits； the fly undone and drooping。 Was it dawn already？ Were those crows I heard screaming in the trees？
There was someone sitting in the backyard。 A white…haired man sitting erect in the old wicker chair； a figure of eerie stillness and posure。 At first； dazed and sleepy； I didn't know what to make of the sight。 It seemed to need a more careful interpretation than I was able to provide at the moment。 I thought one thing； that he'd been inserted there for some purpose。 Then fear began to enter； palpable and overwhelming； a fist clenching repeatedly in my chest。 Who was he； what was happening here？ I realized Wilder was no longer next to me。 I reached the doorway to his room just in time to see his head sink into the pillow。 By the time I got to the bed； he was fast asleep。 I didn't know what to do。 I felt cold； white。 I worked my way back to the window； gripping a doorknob； a handrail； as if to remind myself of the nature and being of real things。 He was still out there； gazing into the hedges。 I saw him in profile in the uncertain light； motionless and knowing。 Was he as old as I'd first thought—or was the white hair purely emblematic； part of his allegorical force？ That was it； of course。 He would be Death； or Death's errand…runner； a hollow…eyed technician from the plague era； from the era of inquisitions； endless wars； of bedlams and leprosariums。 He would be an aphorist of last things； giving me the barest glance—civilized； ironic—as he spoke his deft and stylish line about my journey out。 I watched for a long time； waiting for him to move a hand。 His stillness was manding。 I felt myself getting whiter by the second。 What does it mean to bee white？ How does it feel to see Death in the flesh； e to gather you in？ I was scared to the marrow。 I was cold and hot； dry and wet； myself and someone else。 The fist clenched in my chest。 I went to the staircase and sat on the top step； looking into my hands。 So much remained。 Every word and thing a bead…work of bright creation。 My own plain hand； crosshatched and whorled in a mesh of expressive lines； a life terrain； might itself be the object of a person's study and wonder for years。 A cosmology against the void。
I got to my feet and went back to the window。 He was still there。 I went into the bathroom to hide。 I closed the toilet lid and sat there a while； wondering what to do next。 I didn't want him in the house。
I paced for a time。 I ran cold water over my hands and wrists； splashed it in my face。 I felt light and heavy； muddled and alert。 I took a scenic paperweight from the shelf by the door。 Inside the plastic disk floated a 3…D picture of the Grand Canyon； the colors zooming and receding as I turned the object in the light。 Fluctuating planes。 I liked this phrase。 It seemed the very music of existence。 If only one could see death as just another surface one inhabits for a time。 Another facet of cosmic reason。 A zoom down Bright Angel Trail。
í turned to immediate things。 If I wanted to keep him out of the house； the thing to do was go outside。 First 1 would look in on the smaller children。 I moved quietly through the rooms on bare white feet。 I looked for a blanket to adjust； a toy to remove from a child's warm grasp； feeling I'd wandered into a TV moment。 All was still and well。 Would they regard a parent's death as just another form of divorce？
I looked in on Heinrich。 He occupied the top left corner of the bed； his body tightly wound like the kind of trick device that uncoils abruptly when it's touched。 I stood in the doorway nodding。
I looked in on Babette。 She was many levels down； a girl again； a figure running in a dream。 I kissed her head； smelling the warm musty air that carried up from sleep。 I spotted my copy of Mein Kampf in a pile of books and journals。 The radio came on。 I hurried out of the room； fearing that some call…in voice； some stranger's soul…lament； would be the last thing I heard in this world。
I went down to the kitchen。 I looked through the window。 He was there in the wicker armchair on the wet grass。 I opened the inner door and then the storm door。 I went outside； the copy of Mein Kampf clutched to my stomach。 When the storm door banged shut； the man's head jerked and his legs came uncrossed。 He got to his feet and turned in my direction。 The sense of eerie and invincible stillness washed off； the aura of knowingness； the feeling he conveyed of an ancient and terrible secret。 A second figure began to emerge from the numinous ruins of the first； began to assume effective form； develop in the crisp light as a set of movements； lines and features； a contour； a living person whose distinctive physical traits seemed more and more familiar as I watched them e into existence； a little amazed。
It was not Death that stood before me but only Vernon Dickey； my father…in…law。
〃Was I asleep？〃 he said。
〃What are you doing out here？〃
〃Didn't want to wake you folks。〃
〃Did we know you were ing？〃
〃I didn't know it myself till yesterday afternoon。 Drove straight through。 Fourteen hours。〃
〃Babette will be happy to see you。〃
〃I just bet。〃
We went inside。 I put the coffee pot on the stove。 Vernon sat at the table in his battered denim jacket； playing with the lid of an old Zippo。 He had the look of a ladies' man in the crash…dive of his career。 His silvery hair had a wan tinge to it； a yellowish discolor； and he bed it back in a ducktail。 He wore about four days' stubble。 His chronic cough had taken on a jagged edge； an element of irresponsibility。 Babette worried less about his condition than about the fact that he took such sardonic pleasure in his own hackings and spasms； as if there were something fatefully attractive in this terrible noise。 He still wore a garrison belt with a longhorn buckle。
〃So what the hell。 Here I am。 Big deal。〃
〃What are you doing these days？〃
〃Shingling here； rustproofing there。 I moonlight； except there's nothing I'm moonlighting from。 Moonlight is all that's out there。〃
I noticed his hands。 Scarred； busted； notched； permanently seamed with grease and mud。 He glanced around the room； trying to spot something that needed replacing or repair。 Such flaws were mainly an occasion for discourse。 It put Vernon at an advantage to talk about gaskets and washers； about grouting； caulking； spackling。 There were times when he seemed to attack me with terms like ratchet drill and whipsaw。 He saw my shaki…ness in such matters as a sign of some deeper inpetence or stupidity。 These were the things that built the world。 Not to know or care about them was a betrayal of fundamental principles； a betrayal of gender； of species。 What could be more useless than a man who couldn't fix a dripping faucet—fundamentally useless； dead to history； to the messages in his genes？ I wasn't sure I disagreed。
〃I was saying to Babette the other day。 'If there's one thing your father doesn't resemble； it's a widower。'〃
〃What did she say to that？〃
〃She thinks you're a danger to yourself。 'He'll fall asleep smoking。 He'll die in a burning bed with a missing woman at his side。
An official missing person。 Some poor lost unidentified multi…divorced woman。'〃
Vernon coughed in appreciation of the insight。 A series of pulmonary gasps。 I could hear the stringy mucus whipping back and forth in his chest。 I poured his coffee and waited。
〃Just so you know where I'm at； Jack； there's a woman that wants to marry my ass。 She goes to church in a mobile home。 Don't tell Babette。〃
〃That's the last thing I'd do。〃
〃She'd get real exercised。 Start in with the discount calls。〃
〃She thinks you've gotten too lawless for marriage。〃
〃The thing about marriage today is you don't have to go outside the home to get those little extras。 You can get whatever you want in the recesses of the American home。 These are the times we live in； for better or worse。 Wives will do things。 They want to do things。 You don't have to drop little looks。 It used to be the only thing available in the American home was the basic natural act。 Now you get the options too。 The action is thick； let me tell you。 It's an amazing ment on our times that the more options you get in the home； the more prostitutes you see in the streets。 How do you figure it； Jack？ You're the professor。 What does it mean？〃
〃I don't know。〃
〃Wives wear edible panties。 They know the words； the usages。 Meanwhile the prostitutes are standing in the streets in all kinds of weather； day and night。 Who are they waiting for？ Tourists？ Businessmen？ Men who've been turned into stalkers of flesh？ It's like the lid's blown off。 Didn't I read somewhere the Japanese go to Singapore？ Whole planeloads of males。 A remarkable people。〃
〃Are you seriously thinking of getting married？〃
〃I'd have to be crazy to marry a woman that worships in a mobile home。〃
There was an astuteness about Vernon； a deadpan quality of alert and searching intelligence； a shrewdness waiting for a shapely occasion。 This made Babette nervous。 She'd seen him sidle up to women in public places to ask some delving question in his blank…faced canny way。 She refused to go into restaurants with him； fearing his offhand remarks to waitresses； intimate remarks；