Yes, a dark time passed over this land, but now there is something like light.
– Dave Eggers, “Zeitoun”
Yes, a dark time passed over this land, but now there is something like light.
– Dave Eggers, “Zeitoun”
It was five in the morning when they heard him coughing again. They were so used to it that at first the father sunk his face deeper into the pillow and prayed it would stop, not a prayer of healing but a prayer of self-preservation. But the coughs became ragged and accompanied by little shrieks and sobs, and they knew something was different this time. The mother pushed his arm and they rolled off opposite sides of the bed and ran into his room where he was curled, wracked and sobbing, a pig tail of limbs and snot and wet hair.
The father carried him into the bathroom and turned the red knob. While the room filled with steam he shifted the boy to one arm and unscrewed all but one of the light bulbs over the mirror, but when he turned it on the boy whimpered in even that dim sudden light so the father turned it off and sat on the toilet and held the boy in the steam and the dark. The mother tried to make the boy drink from a bottle of iced orange juice but he just rasped and buried his sweat-soaked head into his father’s arm, and by noon he was comatose, and by midnight he was dead.
The mother did not hear the words. The doctor said them again. The father stood between the mother and doctor and took the words and stared them back at the doctor, and stared them at the ground, and stared them around the room, looking for the seams that would reveal the illusion and collapse the dream. But the doctor was still making new words, his mask pulled down and bobbing like an idiotic wattle beneath his chin. His eyes were watery and sincere but the things he said were compressed and mathematically designed to move the family through the stages without appearing to move the family through the stages, and he seemed a little inconvenienced when the mother didn’t beg him frantically to change his words and also did not fall to her knees like an empty bellows, choking on the fire in the air, the way parents do when their five year old child is a dumb lifeless shell in the next room. She stared away at a painting on the wall and the father clutched her arm and her eyes were glassy beads and her mouth was a rigid horrible flat line.
The funeral was very short. The father said a few words but the mother only sat by the casket and watched the people. Before they lowered the lid she kissed the boy on the forehead and she did not cry.
They would have to move. The thing wouldn’t make sense to anyone outside of them, and besides, they would only need themselves. The edges of their wholeness, the definition of their boundaries, the space that made up who they were and just as importantly the negative space that made up who they weren’t and was itself another type of definition, were all so clear to her now. Elated, she planned, and loving, he helped, though a concern burned deep inside him.
He arranged things with his job and she told a story to their family and friends. Even the people who advised against change during such a delicate time knew to let grief express itself in its own voice. If they needed to move away for a while, even if that was a really bad idea, then they wanted to support them.
They used his hair. He had been buried whole but they had a lock from his first haircut, and the quiet scientist dressed as a doctor said that would be enough. They took half and dropped it into a vial and whisked it away to be liquified and centrifuged and studied under microscopes and generally made magic.
She took hormone pills, and there was a terrifying period where they had to talk about candidates and survival rates, but in the end it was a textbook case, had there been a textbook. They injected her one morning while she stared up exposed at the buzzing fluorescence and within two months they heard the immaculate heart beat from within her.
They made the due date the same. Not that the boy had been born on his, but so the development would be the same when they induced her. She did all things again, as best she could remember. She played the same music and went for the same runs and ate the same foods. The new house had a different geography than the old and this worried her, but they arranged it closely using memories and manifest recordings.
One night they stood in the doorway of the nursery and he held her pulsing stomach, and her eyes shone at the reliving.
On the appointed day, the boy was born again. They gave him the name bequeathed to him, and stared at him and at each other and the bellows filled with clean air. The boy grasped her finger and her eyes thawed and ran and she looked at him deeply and said “My son, my son. My son, my son.” The father wept and clutched them both and kissed him and kissed her, and the burning was for this moment suppressed by reuniting.
There is a street in a large city that is smooth and flat and straight with respectable shops and offices on either side. It is clean and safe and when light bulbs go out, they are replaced quickly. You can walk down this street and the most anyone will ask of you is the time. You will not be disrupted or distracted. The street is made to stay out of your way. It will not burden you with interest or thought.
Between a pharmacy and a tax preparer, there is an alley. You can tell it is an alley because the smooth and flat pavement stops and the old cobblestone appears. You can tell it is an alley because if, as you are passing it, you stop and look in, you will see vents belching warm steam. You will see trash cans lying dented and empty on their sides. You will hear a sudden unfamiliar quiet, out of tune with the comfortable buzz of the street, but a moment later the quiet will be rent by the scream of a cat, which will make you jump and continue walking again. You won’t have seen the end of the alley, even if you had squinted, because of the steam and the trash cans and the way the buildings leapt up and made a canyon in the city that never let the sun illuminate the cobblestone below.
If the cat had not screamed, and if you had looked a moment longer, you would have seen, about half-way down the alley—though you wouldn’t have known it was half-way at the time—a small wooden sign hanging from an iron rod at about the eye level of a small child. The sign would have read The Book Cellar, and beside it would have been steps leading down beneath one of the nice clean thoughtless shops to a door made of heavy oak with frosted panes. Because you would have been there quite early in the morning, the glass would have been dark, and you would have pressed your face against it and tried to make out the geography inside. Between frost and dust you would not have seen much, but a warm and sad feeling would have turned over in your stomach. You would have been surprised by the warmth and the sadness, because you wouldn’t have been used to feeling either of those things on that street in the morning on your way to work in the office beside the travel agency. But it would not have been the sort of sadness that made you cold and drove you away. It would have been the sort that made you want to set down the things you were carrying, and look for anyone near you, and ask them “It will be alright, won’t it?” and tell them “Yes, it will be alright.” And the warmth would not have been the warmth of the sun on a beach which made your skin glow, it would have been the warmth of a strong drink on a slow and rainy day when you couldn’t start the fire but so you wrapped yourself in a second blanket and stared at old photographs and made them move with your mind. You would have looked so deeply into that glass that you were almost certain you saw movement inside, that one of the dark shapes turned and looked at you. You might have knocked gently, but the shape wouldn’t have moved again and you would have decided you didn’t see what you thought you saw.
There were no hours posted, so you would have decided to come back over lunch and try again, when perhaps the door would be open or at least light leaking out of the frosted panes in the oak door at the bottom of the stairs beside the wooden sign on the iron rod at the eye level of a small child half-way down the cobblestone alley belching warm steam off the smooth and safe street in the large city, and then maybe you would find out how to feel that warm and sad feeling again.
He lay in the long grass and waited for the sky to darken as he did every night, his head resting on a pillow of dirt and tangled black hair. The deepening blue was torn and re-torn by waving blades of green and brown, whispering and rasping in his ears. He listened to their murmurs and smiled.
Away down the hill, the great fire was kept alive by brown bodies glistening orange and gold at the edges. Kills were opened and dismantled, bright red blood making dark puddles in the sand. He was too far away to hear the people chatter or the flames roar or the skin tear and bones crack, but he heard sometimes the sharp report of stone on stone, as natural as thunder and yet warning that same nature, “Do not hide, we are coming, and in greater numbers.”
The first lights were appearing now. He didn’t have to wonder where to look. Twelve times he had journeyed around the great light, 4,380 times had seen its face. His oldest memory was of wandering away from a flickering safety to the glittering darkness beyond. Lights above the horizon calling him innumerable, lights below blinking hungrily and darting forward. A scream. Rough ungentle hands snatching him back into the protective ring. The lights below extinguished with a snap and disappointed growl.
Now he raised a finger and touched the white glow. The fat traveler, never happy to move as slow as the others. He appeared first and shone brightest, and the boy wondered if the others looked at the traveler with love or looked away in the shame of comparison. The boy knew one of his own kind like that.
The singing below had started, syncopated howls punctuated by dust-clapped feet and cracks of wood on stone. The boy knew from other nights that he was not the only one looking up, but that the others wore unknowing faces, merely gathering information like the testing of wind. Only he was awaiting the arrival of company.
The great light had long reddened below the ragged black edge of sight, and tonight the great white would not appear. The boy scowled. He did not count the great white among the others. It was not fair to count a tree among the grass. The fat traveler was great and bright and fast but was undoubtedly one of the rest. The great white, so beloved by the boy’s people when it lit the dark and made it safe, frightened so many meeker lights away. No, the great white was not for him. But tonight it would not appear, its cloak was fully drawn as it rested. The boy smiled.
Produced this video for Shard’s Kickstarter campaign, along with a quick companion piece on hand-carving a clear ice ball.
The death of Gramie brought us home. From across Texas, from Arizona, from Jamaica, and in a brilliantly kept secret, even from France, as Conrad walked in the front door with nonchalance and beer. Only a few absences made the reunion imperfect.
For three days our independent lives stopped. We were again children, but children with children, swarming about the family home like a gleefully disrupted ant pile. There was a memorial service at the center, somber and teary despite our attempt to celebrate life. On either side of the service was the true celebration, three generations reveling in the joy that Gramie bequeathed.
There was no guilt in hours of coffee and cigarettes on the porch, watching Eli and Ava and Ethan inch permissively from paddleboats to swimming. No guilt in Cody and Conrad playing wandering games of pétanque, nor Cameron studiously tuning everyone out for bitwise operators. None in the sisters running regimens around the lake in brown-limbed clusters, or Ashton waddling gleefully from Savannah to Jon, arms outstretched toward his endless family. In Mama and Papa rocking, relaxed and reflective, on the porch as their generations played out before them. Arguing Lord of the Rings and George MacDonald with Will and Carolyn deep into the night. Tacos from the taco shack, misunderstandings and explanations, flared anger and quiet forgiveness. It was sheer and endless joy, deep and true joy. It was one of the better Bluth parties.
It’s an odd and beautiful thing, that death can be the nucleus for so much life. Odd, but so completely natural. “When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass.”
Only the insecure wish to be grieved. Gramie would be happy to know she was the reason for all these beautiful moments. We miss her, but more to her liking, we guiltlessly swim in the joy of being.
Today was the first day since December 20, 1927 that my Gramie did not wake up. She died at 9:07pm yesterday, holding the hands of my brother and sister-in-law, her son at her feet. She lived 87 years, almost 70 of them married to my Grandad. She was a triumph of class, dignity, and poise. She went by Joey to her friends.
For days we took turns keeping vigil and company while she slept. She roused herself only briefly for quiet conversation and smiles. She would reach for Grandad first, ever present in his wheelchair by her side. Then she stopped waking at all. She might open her eyes and briefly see you, but just as quickly slip back away.
We knew this was coming. It was no surprise. The body falls apart at the end, an unhappy but gracious preparation for everyone.
Yesterday, the day she died, I came to her door. Grandad was sitting alone beside her bed, watching her. He asked her a question. I didn’t hear it, but I heard her silence. Grandad waited a few moments and said, gently and truly, “Another time, maybe.”
Ashton woke up early today. I took him to the park and let Rae and Ethan sleep. The sun rose without Gramie. Ash ran guiltless and squealing after squirrels.
My sons will only know her through museum glass. They won’t know her shimmering bell-chime laugh, often delayed by asking someone to repeat the joke. They won’t know the way she would look deeply in your eyes and pour her concerns into you and draw your concerns into her, and the way she would gasp, moved beyond measure by your travails, and say “Oh, Justin.” They won’t know that peculiar combination of intimidation and warmth you felt upon entering her perfect home, where tiny china cups of coffee sat beside ferns she’d potted that morning, where a sparkling crystal decanter cast rainbows on a sleeping cat. They won’t know her as a woman of unimpeachable grace, who showed her class through kindness and hospitality. They will know of her, but they won’t know her.
But another time, maybe.
Somehow, in the flurry of the holidays, I forgot to post Important Things: first, that No Matter How Far is finally through with festivals and publicly viewable, and second, that we have a website for it with BTS photos and a history of the script drafts.
There are myriad flaws and we can’t wait to do better, but we’re proud of what we accomplished with a skeleton crew and less than $500.