In Dark Corners (10 page)

***

The full recognition explodes in my mind like a delayed time bomb. It can't be true. But the proof is there in the big window. How could it happen? I recall the bridge; then a strange word pops into my head: metempsychosis, the passing of the soul at death into another body. Death—?

No! But I'm not sure. My memory is so vague.

My thoughts are a random swirl like smoke in a gust of wind.

Time passes.

Finally I recover partially from the stunned daze. For now, I accept the fact that I'm a prisoner. How or why isn't as important as a solution, a method of escape. I must find a way to communicate my existence. I shift my attention.

It's still dark, early morning. The stream of light in the street has broken, only an occasional vehicle passes by. The music from the BAR is loud and clear: twangy lyrics of thwarted love. Sad, full of despair.

A man and a woman come out of the BAR, the woman guiding the man by the arm. They move up the street past PARKING and closed DINER, and into the HOTEL.

A short time later, the woman returns, pausing to examine her reflection in the window under the BAR sign. She's dressed lightly for this time of night, perhaps warmed by the sunny colors: her slacks match her orange hair, her thin yellow blouse about the color of her high heels. She makes a few swipes at her face with something from her small purse. Satisfied, the woman re-enters the BAR.

Meanwhile, up the street, the man emerges from the HOTEL, and moves in the opposite direction of the BAR. He stops and glances back as the words of the song follow him up the street: "How the heart approaches what it yearns…"

In the dim light I catch a fleeting glimpse of his face. There is no joy, his face etched with sadness, remorse. He disappears out of sight.

Too weary to think anymore, I doze off.

***

I awake. The spotlights are off. It must be morning, but I can't see out because the big window is covered with a curtain of white foam. I feel a rush of claustrophobia intensifying my sense of isolation. I'm on the edge of real panic—

Then, the sound of water hitting the big window, and the foam streaks away. I can see out and breathe a sigh of relief.

A man is squirting water on the big window from a hose connected to a spigot under the skinny tree to my far right. Behind the man I see a van parked against the curb, with block letters across the side door: AL'S JANITORIAL—CALL 252-8941.

As he rakes the big window dry with a rubber squeegee, the man seems overly intent, his lips pursed as if to whistle. He works quickly and efficiently, drying the squeegee with a rag after each full stroke down the window. I feel like a spy, watching a private act. And then I realize the big window is like a one-way mirror: I can watch those on the other side, but they do not see me, not really. I'm invisible! Yet, curiously, I feel no sense of power from my unique state. I'm depressed, lonely.

***

The window washer's concentration for such a routine task is commendable. Obviously I'm watching a man involved with his craft—a person who cares. Perhaps I can make contact with this intense man.

I try to match his high level of concentration.
Hey, Mr. Window Washer, can you hear me? On the other side of the glass
—

He pauses, resting the squeegee against the big window, and cocks his head. He's listening!

I feel a surge of elation, but suppress the excitement.
Yes, yes. It's me talking. Right in front of you. Look up
.

But the man doesn't look at me. Instead, he sets the squeegee down and frowns. Then, after reaching into his breast pocket, he withdraws a small transistor radio. He makes an adjustment. "All the boys think she's a smash…" The window washer smiles; the expression of deep concentration returns to his face. The radio goes back in his pocket, and head still cocked, he absently collects his equipment. Soon the van is packed, and the man drives off.

Only half the window is dry—he forgot to finish. I feel a strong sense of disappointment. It adds to the loneliness.

***

Cool hands are caressing my body. Gentle, soft, smooth. Then I hear a voice behind me: "You're a new one, Sonny. And a real beaut, like the models made by the old Shaw Company…" As the voice trails off, an old man steps into view. He's tiny, his head barely reaching my shoulder. His face matches his elfin size—sensitive, wise, a touch of cynicism.

An elf? Magic?

I feel a surge of excitement.
Hello, hello, Mr. Elf
.

He chuckles self-consciously. "Gotta get you decorated, Sonny. Sorry about the clown costume." He begins to dress me.

Wait. Did you hear me
?

"Yep, another stupid sales gimmick. Them new design college boys…" He looks out the big window. "Used good merchandize in the old days; didn't need funny boys with gimmicks." He shakes his head sadly. "Look at that…the neighborhood." He turns back to me. "But you don't have to worry, Sonny. Mission Street is like a boundary. Most of the riff-raff stays on the other side."

Can't you hear me? I'm right here. You're touching me. Please
…

The old man continues working; he's finished with the dressing and doing something to my face. "Makeup," he mutters disgustedly.

I try to catch his eye, which is barely a foot away.
Please say you understand, that you hear
.

Again he shakes his head. "Everyone in the store in circus costumes. Disgraceful."

It's no use. He's only a window dresser, murmuring to himself. I feel silly for grasping at straws. Elves are for children's dreams.

The old man moves to my right, almost out of view. I'm able to see him fussing over a miniature display: A red and white striped tent, a Ferris wheel, toy animals…the rest is too far back. Moving nearer to the big window, the little man sets a sign on a tripod. He dusts his hands together and says: "Bye, Sonny, see ya next week." He leaves.

Well, I have a name—Sonny, It doesn't seem quite right, but it's as good as any, I suppose. I focus on the street.

Only a few people are out this early, their faces blank, expressionless. They're not shoppers, seldom glancing into the big window. Probably clerks in other stores, hurrying to their jobs.

I lose interest and doze off.

***

Laughter.

I focus on a group of faces pressed against the big window. Shoppers, for many are carrying bundles. They stare. Some point, a few laugh. It continues all day.

I ignore the faces and wait for nightfall, curious to see my clown costume.

***

I'm not a clown! I'm dressed in baggy, dirty clothes and a wrinkled old derby. A sad, gray expression painted on my face. I'm the old derelict! I remember his tears and my embarrassment.

Funny—? Apparently so. A few of the night people have crossed the boundary of Mission Street. Some point and laugh at me, but mixed in with the ridicule, I sense a trace of despair. They mock themselves! The observation makes me feel more despair.

***

The morning shoppers stop to gawk.

"Look, Johnny, look at the funny clown," a woman says, holding up a small boy. "Isn't he funny?" She sets the boy down, and he presses his frowning face against the big window, apparently seeing nothing funny in my face.

A guffaw from a huge, fat man with a bright pink face. "My goodness, look at that sad expression. Almost real…and tears."

"Tears—?"

"Clever," the woman says. "How'd they do it?"

A rough-looking man in blue overalls pushes back his hard hat and answers slowly, his brows knitted thoughtfully. "Hmmm…Must be plastic, ma'am." He nods. "Plastic. They can do anything with plastic. It's the modern wonder."

Yes, they can do anything with it…I'm trapped in it and alone. Silently I shout my frustration. It's maddening.
Is there no one out there who cares, who understands, who can hear
?

I can hear, mister
.

Oh, no. Hallucinations.

I can
.

Impossible. Still, I focus on the little boy pressed against the window, trying to remember his name…Johnny!
You can hear me, Johnny? You understand
?

Yes
. A faint smile. Even in my excitement, I realize there is something odd with this boy's face. He has a sleepy, almost dumb expression—

Don't cry, mister
.

I don't understand, Johnny. How can you talk to me? In your head
?

Easy
. The smile flickers, momentarily brightening the dull face.
I practice with Snoopy
.

Snoopy—?
Your dog
?
Your dog talks to you
?

He sneaks a guilty glance at the woman holding his hand before answering.
No, he doesn't talk, but he understands when I talk like this. He hears
.

Finally my contact with the world!

***

A strangely-gifted little boy. Excitement wells up, and for a minute, I can't think. Then I silently blurt out instructions:
Tell someone about me, Johnny
.
Anyone
.
That I'm here, paralyzed
.
Trapped in the big window
.
But I can think, I can feel, I can talk
.
Tell someone you hear me
.
Tell your mom, now
—

Johnny's shaking his head.
Can't do that, mister
.

Of course you can
! But I feel a sinking sensation in my chest.

Again the boy glances at his mother.
Once I told about Snoopy and I got a whupping for lying. So I don't tell about nothing I can do
. For a brief moment, the sleepy look's gone, and I realize the dull expression's a disguise.

"Johnny," the woman says, "it's time to go."

He nods, still looking at me.
Bye, mister. Don't cry anymore. It don't do no good…even if it hurts
.

No, wait
!

The woman and boy move away from the big window.

Johnny, Johnny, come back
. But I know it's no use. They're gone, lost in the crowd. Perhaps I've lost my only chance. I'm alone now, truly alone.

After a while I remember Johnny's advice. He's right, it doesn't do any good to indulge in self pity, no matter how much it hurts. Inwardly, I turn away from the empty feeling in my chest. I'm alone…I must adjust to it, like the boy. Outside the big window is my whole world.

***

Many seasons pass. The thin little tree outside the right corner of the big window is a calendar. A bundle of gray sticks in the winter. Fresh green buds bursting from the sticks in spring. A crown of waxy green leaves in summer. Then, the multi-colors of fall. A sweet calendar. Yes, many seasons have passed, carrying away the ache, the anger.

And once a week, the old window dresser visits to change my clothes and the scene in the big window. Each visit he tells me of the ways things were. Several times I've been moved, usually to another display in a smaller window; but once I spent a week in a maintenance closet—alone in the dark. Yes, my place is in the big window, watching people. I've adjusted, just like…I've forgotten the little boy's name.

***

Hello
—?

A voice awakens me. For a moment, I think it's my weekly visitor, the window dresser; then I realize the voice is soft, gentle, feminine—

Hello. Is there anyone there
?

Outside, the sidewalk is empty. But inside the big window at the edge of my peripheral field I can see a figure…a figure like me. She's tall and thin, her small breasts barely contouring her naked figure. Cornsilk hair frames a lovely face.

No one there
…The statement trails off, her voice heavy with despair.

I hesitate. After so long, so many disappointments. I don't believe it. I must be dreaming. Still, I answer:
Yes, yes, I'm here
. My voice is stiff with suspicion.

A shocked
Oh
—

There's no expression in her China blue eyes, but I sense her surprise…disbelief.

After a few moments, she says:
You are
—?

Yes
, I answer guardedly,
but where did you come from
? At any moment I expect her to say,
April fool
, and suddenly disappear. But she doesn't.

The storeroom. The old man brought me
.

Neither of us speaks for several minutes. I sense shyness.

I'd hoped to find someone
, she says, regaining her composure,
but after so many tries
—She pauses, perhaps recalling past failed efforts at communication.–
I had almost given up hope
.

You've seen others like us
?

Oh, yes, there are quite a few in the storeroom. In our form, but none alive, able to talk like this
.

The dull lump in my chest eases.
And before the storeroom
?

Before the storeroom
?
I remember nothing before the storeroom
.
Except in the dream
.

Dream
—?

Yes.
in the dream I'm flying, soaring through the air
…
then I'm falling, falling into blackness
.
That's the end
.

There's no bridge
? I ask.

Bridge? Yes!
And fog
.
But the blackness is the end
.
I always wake at that point
.
But I think the dream is a real memory of before this
.

It's remarkable that her dream matches my vague memories. Perhaps we both died and our souls…I try to recall the word, but I've forgotten it. And it's pointless, after all. I ask her name.

The old man calls me, Missy
.

Missy
.
Very nice
.
I'm Sonny
. My distrust is fading like mist under a hot sun. I'm having difficulty trying to contain my rising excitement. So long. I still can't accept my good fortune.