The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (with bonus content) (91 page)

T
HERE WERE A HUNDRED AND TWO
after all; the man from the moving company said so. He and his partner had just finished stacking the last of them in the garage, around and on top of and alongside the crate that contained the pearly residue of the Golem of Prague. Joe came out to the driveway to sign for everything; he looked a little funny to Tommy, windblown or something, red in the face. His shirttails were untucked, and he jumped from foot to foot in his socks. Tommy’s mother watched from the front door. She had taken off all of her city clothes and returned to her bathrobe. Joe signed and initialed the forms wherever it was required, and the movers got into their truck and drove back to the city. Then Joe and Tommy went into the garage and stood looking around at the boxes. After a while, Joe sat down on one and lit a cigarette.

“How was school?”

“We watched Dad on TV,” Tommy told Joe. “Mr. Landauer brought his TV into the class.”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said, watching Tommy with a strange expression on his face.

“He was, well, he was sweating a lot,” Tommy said.

“Oh, he was not.”

“The kids all said he looked sweaty.”

“What else did they say?”

“That’s what they said. Can I read your comic books?”

“By all means,” Joe said. “They’re yours.”

“You mean I can
have
them?”

“You’re the only one that wants them.”

Looking at the crates stacked like masonry in the garage gave the
boy an idea; he would build himself a Bug’s Nest.
^*
When Joe went back into the house, Tommy started dragging and shoving the stacks here and there, and after an hour he had succeeded in transferring space from the edges to the center, hollowing out a shelter for himself at the heart of the pile; a hogan of splintery, knotholed pine, open at the top to let in light from the ceiling fixture, breached by a narrow passage whose mouth he disguised with an easily moved stack of three crates. When it was done, he dropped to his hands and knees, and scrambled on his belly through the Secret Access Tube to the Innermost Cell of the Bug’s Nest. There he sat, chewing on a pencil, reading comic books, and paying unconscious tribute, in his igloo of solitude, to the ice tunnels in which his father had once come to grief.

As he sat, biting down on the ridged metal collar of his pencil, stirring a sour-tasting electromagnetic ache in the filling of a molar, the Bug noticed that one of the crates that made up the walls of his Nest was different somehow from the others: time-blackened, whiskered with splinters, more spindly-looking than the other crates in Joe’s hoard. He rolled onto his knees and inched toward it. He recognized it. He had seen it a thousand times, in the years before the arrival of Joe’s things; lying under a canvas tarp at the back of the garage, with a bunch of other old stuff—a fabulous but sadly defunct Capehart self-changing record player, an inexplicable box full of men’s combs. The crate had a loose lid of slats, crudely hinged with loops of thick wire, and a clasp of the same crooked wire, tied with a length of green string. French words and the name of France were stamped, or maybe burned into, its sides; he guessed it had once held bottles of wine.

To any boy, but in particular to one whose chronicle was contained in the sound of a roomful of adults falling silent all at once, the contents
of the wine crate, ossified by dust and weather into a kind of solid unit of oblivion, would have seemed a treasure. With the precision of an archaeologist, mindful that he would have to put everything back just as he had found it, he prized apart the layers, one by one, inventorying the chance survivals of his prehistory.

And then, bent and twisted and adrift at the bottom of the box, a strip of four photographs, from a coin booth, of his mother and Joe—grinning, startled by the flash; all tongues and bug-eyes; with their cheeks and temples pressed together; and then kissing, a heroic and heavy-lidded kiss like two people on a movie poster. In the pictures, they looked absurdly skinny and young and so stereotypically in love that it was obvious even to Tommy, an eleven-year-old boy who had never before in his life looked at any two people and had the conscious thought:
Those two people are in love
. As if by magic, he heard their voices, their laughter, and then the knob turning, and the creaking hinges of the door. Quickly, he began replacing the things he had taken from the box.

He could hear their lips meeting and parting with a sticky sound; the clicking of their teeth or the buttons on their clothes.

“I have to work,” his mother said at last. “ ‘Love Made a Monkey Out of Me.’ ”

“Ah,” he said. “Autobiography.”

“Shut up.”

“How about if I make dinner,” he said. “So you can keep on working?”

“Hey, that would be swell. Unheard of. Maybe you want to be careful, I could get used to that.”

“Get used to it.”

Those two people are in love
.

“Have you talked to Tommy yet?” she said.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I haven’t found the right moment.”

“Joe. You have to tell him.”

The folder filled with memorabilia of the Mighty Molecule’s career slipped from Tommy’s hand. Photographs and clippings fluttered everywhere, and as he tried to gather them up, he knocked against the crate, and its lid fell shut with a splintery crack.

“What was that?”

“Tommy? Oh, my God. Tommy, are you in here?”

He sat in the dim hollow of his sanctum, clutching the strip of photographs to his chest.

“No,” he said, after a moment, knowing that it was, without question, the most pathetic thing he had ever said in his life.

“Let me,” he heard Joe say. There was a scrape of crates and some grunting and then Joe’s head poked into the Innermost Cell. He had wriggled his way through the passage on his belly. He propped himself on his elbows with his arms tucked under his chest. Up close, his face was blotchy, and his hair was all crabgrass and dandelions.

“Hey,” he said. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“So,” Joe said, “I guess maybe you heard a few things out there.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come in?” It was his mother.

“I don’t think there’s room, Rosa.”

“Sure there is.”

Joe looked at Tommy. “What do you think?”

Tommy shrugged and nodded. So Joe pulled himself all the way in and crammed himself, hunched over, up against the side of the Cell, his hips pressed against Tommy’s. Tommy’s mother’s head appeared, her hair hastily and imperfectly tied up in a scarf, her lips showing right through her lipstick. Tommy and Joe each reached out a hand and pulled her in with them, and she sat up and sighed and said, happily,
“Well,” as if they had all settled down together on a blanket in the shade beside a sun-dappled stream.

“I was just about to tell Tom a story,” Joe said.

“Uh-huh,” Rosa said. “Go on.”

“That isn’t something I—I’m more used to doing it—with pictures, you know?” He swallowed, and cracked his knuckles, and took a deep breath. He smiled a weak little smile, and unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket. “Maybe I should draw it, ha ha.”

“I already saw the pictures,” Tommy said.

His mother leaned forward to look with Joe at the two people they once had been.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “I remember that. It was that night we took your aunt to the movies. In the lobby of the Loew’s Pitkin.”

They all moved a little closer together, and then Tommy lay down with his head in his mother’s lap. She stroked his hair, and he listened while Joe went on unconvincingly for a while about the things that you did when you were young, and the mistakes that you made, and the dead brother for whom Tommy had been named, that unlucky, unimaginable boy, and how everything had been different then, because there was a war on, at which Tommy pointed out that there had also, until recently, been a war in Korea, and Joe replied that this was true, and it was then that he and Rosa both realized that the boy was no longer listening to anything they were telling him. He was just lying there, in the Bug’s Nest, holding his father’s hand, while his mother brushed the bangs from his forehead.

“I think we are okay,” Joe said finally.

“Okay,” said Rosa. “Tommy? Are you okay? Do you understand all this?”

“I guess so,” the boy said. “Only.”

“Only what?”

“Only what about
Dad
?”

His mother sighed, and told him they were going to have to see about that.

S
AMMY LET HIMSELF
into the house. It was past midnight, he was sober as a headstone, and in his pockets there were tickets for the Broadway Limited and the City of Los Angeles. There was a light on in the living room, and he saw that Joe had fallen asleep in the armchair with one of his dusty old books on Kabbalah or whatever it was—Volume IV of Ginzberg’s
Legends of the Jews
—pitched like a tent on his lap. A half-empty bottle of Piels sat on a raffia coaster on the deal table beside him. When Sammy came in, Joe roused a little and shifted in the chair, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the bulb. He gave off a stale, drowsy smell of beer and ash.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Sammy said. He went to Joe and put a hand on his shoulder. He kneaded the muscles there; they felt knotted and hard. “Everyone all right? Tommy all right?”

“Mmm.” Joe nodded, then closed his eyes again. Sammy switched off the light. He went over to the sofa, picked up a peach-and-mustard afghan—one of the few things his mother had ever knit and the only visible remnant of her in his life—carried it to the armchair, and draped it over Joe, careful to cover the orange-tipped toes of Joe’s stocking feet.

Next Sammy walked down the hall and entered Tommy’s bedroom. In the bend of light from the hall, he could see that Tommy had wandered, in his sleep, to the far edge of the bed, and lay with his face mashed against the wall. He had kicked away all the bedclothes; he had on powder-blue pajamas with white piping at the lapels and cuffs (Sammy, naturally, owned an identical pair). Tommy was a very energetic sleeper, and even after Sammy pulled his head away from the wall, the boy went on snuffling, twitching, his breathing so rapid that it
sounded almost like the panting of a dog. Sammy started to pull the covers up over him. Then he stopped and just stood there looking at Tommy, loving him, and feeling the usual spasm of shame that it should be while he was watching the boy sleep that he felt most like a father, or rather, the happiest to be one.