The Eden Express Read online

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Miller.” There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about him. Was he a faith healer? Did he know what my problem was? Was he going to do something about it? What had Joe and Mary told him?

  “What seems to be the problem?” Good question. Here I was in the emergency ward, just what was the problem? Why hadn’t someone asked me that before? It seemed so straightforward. What was the problem?

  “Well, I think my friends are worried about me.” It sounded stupid as soon as I said it. I had to be able to do better than that. He just sort of nodded knowlingly. “They’re worried about me not passing my immigration physical.” That seemed even sillier. Why should they be worried or not worried about my passing my immigration physical? What was the problem?

  Stainless steel, gleaming lights, plastic curtains, iridescent floor tiles. One foot in front of the other, counting out nothing, doing my best to answer the questions. Doing my best to make sense to the doctor. One foot in front of the other, on my own power, avoiding looking at anyone. Following my imaginary trail of crumbs. Past all the sick and dying, the coughing, the pale, crippled, confused faces. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  One way or the other I found myself back in the front seat of the Microbus. Relieved, breathing a little easier. But all was still not well in Mark land. The sky still threatened destruction. There was still a tenseness in me and the people around me. I guess more was required than just seeing Dr. Miller. There was a little piece of paper. It was a prescription for pills I was supposed to take “if the going gets rough.” I think I put Kathy in charge of that. How was I supposed to tell when the going got rough? Cyanide to take before I got into the wrong hands? What were right hands, what were wrong hands? Where did the Royal Canadian Mounties stand on all this? The faith healing thing Joe had said on the way still bothered me. Were they going to turn me over to Oral Roberts? Fly me to Israel for a special part in an Easter pageant? The fact that Joe and this Dr. Miller were somehow in cahoots was both comforting and disturbing.

  While we were in the drugstore parking lot the wind and rain picked up some. Everything looked dead. Kathy got the pills.

  We were just a few blocks from where I was supposed to take my physical. There was maybe about forty-five minutes before my appointment. All the lonely, sick, unhappy people. The sky was crying. Everyone was dragging, stumbling through life. A fat girl went into the drugstore, a limping woman came out. Cars were choking along. The wind and rain slashed through everything, biting and cold, and here I was, safe inside the bus.

  I started crying. It was just too awful what life had done to these people. Limping along in their death-spewing automobiles, trying to do chores of one sort or another, and they were all going to die. “It’s all right, Mark. You’re on the outside.” Mary’s words. On the outside? The suffering I was seeing wasn’t really going on? It was just being projected on the windshield?

  “You’ve got to worry about yourself. Just worry about what you have to do. Your tears won’t do them any good now.”

  So just worry about myself, be tough, keep truckin’. It seems so cruel to not cry, seeing all that terrible stuff. But it wasn’t real or didn’t matter. Was Virginia inside or out? Ma and Pa and Zeke and all the others? But get tough; worrying about myself is the best way to help! Remember Lot’s wife.

  The physical? Had Dr. Miller diagnosed something? Was it imperative that I not see some doctor who hadn’t been clued in? I left the decision up to the others. They decided the physical wasn’t such a hot idea.

  Errands done. Pills in hand in case things got rough. Still blacking out from time to time, body not in much control, voices talking up a storm. Back to Joe and Mary’s cabin. Back to Fan David and Becky and Sarah and David’s dog. Everybody seemed to be all right.

  See, what did I tell you? Nothing bad happened. How lucky I am to have friends who are fearless and loving enough to let me stay on the loose, instead of being petty about the whole thing and having someone locked away the minute they get a little out of line.

  Somewhere in there I started calling Fan David Tom. He looked a little like Tom, an old friend from prep school, and Tom was one of the people I wanted around. I needed someone who could understand a lot of these images. Tom could play the piano, which came in handy, and he was one of the first people I ever talked seriously with. He and I had shared a lot.

  I remember getting a certain amount of resistance. “No, Mark. That’s David, not Tom.”

  I stuck to my gust. “You’re Tom and you play the piano.”

  Fan David’s was the most persistent “Far out, that’s cool,” etc., I have ever run into. I remember how I finally shook him up. I went into the room where he was sleeping. He started up, per usual, being enthusiastic about how far out I was. His dog was lying next to his bed. I reached over and jacked his dog off. Fan got very upset. I guess everyone has a limit.

  Little by little, person by person, the mood switched over from the thrill of having a real live prophet guru to worry about my pain and what to do with me. Even in the beginning there was some worry about me and even in the end there was some feeling that I was on to something very important and real. It was never all or nothing.

  A WALK WITH FAN. I must have been gritting my teeth or shaking or something. It was a pretty rough time just about sunset of the second day. David came up to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Come on, brother, don’t hold it all in. Let some of that energy go. There are lots of people who could use some of it.”

  “No one wants this shit.”

  “No, you’re wrong. It’s just that you’ve got too much. Give some to me.”

  “You really want it?” I was incredulous. “I really don’t want to put anyone through this shit.”

  “No, really. I could use it. Give it to me.”

  I wasn’t real sure how to go about it, but my religion-major days weren’t for nothing. I put both my hands on his head. “OK, you want it? Here it comes.”

  What exactly went on, who can say? But I felt something pass from me to him. I felt a rush of relief as something went from my hands into his head. He stepped back; his eyes were wide. “Wow, you’re not just fucking around, are you?”

  I just sort of nodded and shook my head all at once. Like so much else, that something real had happened was both frightening and comforting.

  I said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Sure,” he said, half in a daze, and we headed down a little two-rut dirt road that ran toward the woods behind the cabin.

  “I think I’m starting to catch on,” he said.

  “Well, it’s a funny thing. Once you start to get it, you won’t be able to figure out why you never saw it before. It’s really so simple.”

  “Has your father been here?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But he knows or strongly suspects it’s here. For some reason he couldn’t make it or didn’t want to. He sort of decided to send me instead.”

  It was the first rational conversation I had had in a long time. Actually just about a day or so, but it seemed much longer. I felt relaxed and not half so lonely. Fan was catching on. There was someone to talk to. I started crying softly.

  “What’s wrong, Mark?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, really. I just sort of wish he was here. I wish I could talk to him here like this. I mean with his body here like mine. I mean, I can talk to him like this now, but if he were here, if he brought his body along, all we’d be able to talk about would be Mickey Mantle or something neither of us really gives a shit about.”

  “You mean he’s here now?”

  “Yes. Dad, we know you’re here. Why don’t you bring your body along sometime?”

  “Hi, Mark.”

  “Hi, Pop.”

  “Hey, Mark, did you ever think that maybe I’m writing this script?”

  “Hey, Pop, did you ever think that maybe you’re not?”

  “I mean, Mark, did you think that maybe I’m a good enough writer to write what yo
u’re going through?”

  “Frankly not, Pop. I don’t think anyone could.”

  “Well, Mark, you’re probably right. I couldn’t begin to write what you’re living, not even begin. But you know there were guys who were really good. It’s really incredible some of the things people have written.”

  “You mean like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky?”

  “Ya, and there were some others, too.”

  “Well, Pop, guess what your college-educated son just happened to pick up for light reading fresh out of the nut house? I just happen to have a copy of The Brothers Karamazov right here in my pocket.”

  “Oh, shit, Mark, was that ever a mistake. But what a beautiful one. I mean, really, first thing you picked up when you got out?”

  “Yup, Dad, you guessed it.”

  “Well, Mark, let that book fall open.” I let the book open. About halfway down on the right-hand page, one sentence stood out, glowing from the rest of the print: THE END OF TIME WILL BE MARKED BY ACTS OF UNFATHOMABLE COMPASSION.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Then I started to laugh in spite of myself just a slight chuckle.

  “What’s funny, Mark?”

  “Not much, Dad. I was just thinking what shit I would have gotten if I had Cat’s Cradle or something instead.”

  “You don’t have to rub it in. There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you, Mark.”

  “Fire away, Pop.”

  “Well, Mark, just how exactly did you get here anyway?”

  “Well, Dad, that was the one thing I thought you probably knew. After all, it was something I sort of picked up from you. It’s really amazingly simple. Just never turn down an invitation.”

  “By, Mark.”

  “By, Dad. See you around and thanks for dropping by.”

  SARAH. There was something about Joe and Mary’s kid Sarah. Evil? Sexy? She wasn’t your standard three-year-old. You got the feeling that she knew things she shouldn’t know, being three and all. It was a lack of innocence. I know what it was now—the lack of innocence that comes from a calcium deficiency. She had rickets, but nobody knew that then.

  When did she start calling me Daniel? And I called her Lion or Fire as the mood took me. Why wasn’t she in bed like good little three-year-olds would have been at that hour? But what hour was it? Chronology wasn’t my strong point. And she was the only person I could communicate with. She was overjoyed to find someone her age to play with. When times gets funny, age gets funny.

  Her being young was the whole point. She was the hope, the future. If I could somehow get her to know all I knew about art, about life, about religion, about craziness, then maybe it wouldn’t be lost. Someone had tagged me, so I had to find someone else to tag with all this stuff as quick as I could. If they came to get us, the cops or someone, and destroy us as the carriers of some awful truth, surely they would spare the child. Who, even among the hardest-hearted cops, could resist that kid’s smile? Who would suspect that even most perverse Mark would stoop to hiding the goodies in a three-year-old girl?

  Patience. Waiting for Easter was all right but maybe this bitch, whatever it was, would go on past Easter. I set my goals ahead a bit more, so as not to come up for air too quickly. I was waiting for Sarah to grow up, so we could live happily ever after as man and wife and have lots of nice kids and all: If I’m willing to sit here and wait for Sarah to grow up, you don’t have to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Time to move to higher ground? Relax. As soon as Sarah is eighteen or so we’ll think about it.

  She was such a bright, attractive kid, Joe and Mary must have been doing something right, but the way they treated Sarah was one of the things that hip folk put them down for. YOU DON’T HIT KIDS. Not that they really clobbered the kid, but she came in for some pretty healthy whacks now and then. I couldn’t help wincing when Sarah screamed and Joe hit and Sarah screamed louder and Joe hit harder and Sarah screamed like the end of the world and Joe hit harder.

  I had never heard Sarah screaming so loud. I couldn’t stand it. My face must have been contorted in agony. I started crying. “It’s all right, Mark. Children recuperate quickly.” That was Mary.

  “Oh, my God. What have they done to her?” More bloody murder, screaming, piercing. Maybe I was responsible. Was my condition contagious? Had I ordered the demon or whatever that was in me to take her over? Or maybe in one of my blanks I had told Joe and Mary that Sarah was somehow tainted and had recommended some sort of exorcism rite which they were putting her through.

  The screaming subsided into pathetic sobs and then stopped altogether. I sank into utter despair, drifting nowhere, just the other side of consciousness. I felt Joe’s hand on my shoulder. I looked up with tears in my eyes. His face was very somber.

  “Want half of my sandwich, Mark?” Oh, my God, how could they? How could he? Tears started pouring out of my eyes. “Here, Mark, help me eat this.”

  “Shit. This has gone too far.” Joe had shown faith. I’m a bigger bastard than God. If only I had known, maybe I could have said something like, “Hold it, Joe, there’s some bologna caught in the brambles.”

  “Here, Mark, eat this.” Joe was still holding the sandwich in front of me. His look was insistent. I took a bite. Gagging and choking, I couldn’t swallow. My mouth and throat just froze up solid. I couldn’t move a muscle. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t see.

  But I could still think and vow. Vow I did. “God, if that child doesn’t recover! I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I don’t know what Joe did to her. I don’t know what I passed on to her. But, God, if anything happens bad to that kid I am going to kick Your ass all over heaven. I’m not sure how, but I’m catching on to You little by little. You can put me through hell for as long as You like, shock treatment, padded cells, the works. But I’ll remember You, cocksucker. Kick my ass around all You like, but if You start fucking around with Sarah, and Joe and Mary, I’ll find a way to make You very sorry. Her mother said she’d recuperate quickly and You damn well better make her mother right.”

  THE ARTS. “Mark, I’ve never read much.” Joe talking. It was part apology, part regret, part accusation. The talk got pretty heavy into literature now and then. I remember Kathy saying things like, “Don’t worry, Mark, just think of this as Lear backward without the script.” I was talking to Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and lots of other guys. Fan was heavy into my father’s stuff. Joe must have felt left out by the whole thing. “I never read anything by your father.”

  Apology—maybe if he had read more, paid attention to that sort of thing, he might have been able to understand more of the things I was saying. Regret that he had missed something. Accusation that we, the upper middle class, the intellectual elite, were leaving him out. If the secret of life, the real goodies of one sort or another, depend on a liberal arts education, if little parts of the puzzle were squirreled away in War and Peace, Shakespeare, here and there in a combination that only someone like me would have a chance of coming upon, it wasn’t very fair.

  “My father never read anything. He had an eighth-grade education.”

  My answer to Joe on all counts was a crash course.

  “Well, old man,” I said affectionately, putting my arm around him, and started reciting Moby Dick from memory. It seemed like as good a place to start as any.

  I had only read Moby Dick once and hadn’t made any effort to memorize it. I had been going on for about five minutes before I realized what I was doing. “Incredible, I’m reciting Moby Dick from memory. How can this be?” But there it was, and the more I relaxed, the more it came.

  It was a stall. I wanted a story that took a while to finish. The length of Moby Dick was a big point in its favor. I had already done “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” but that went too fast. Somehow I figured the world would keep going or I would keep going as long as I had things to do.

  War and Peace wouldn’t have held his attention as well. I could get to it later depending on how Moby Dick went. Too much history and other background stuf
f was necessary for War and Peace.

  I remembered Mary, a few months before, rapping on drunkenly, “Why do I love this lout? It’s not just that he has a cock that stretches from here to here,” she said, stretching her arms as if telling a fish story. Moby Dick was just right in lots of ways.

  So I took Joe to the chapel and we listened to the sermon. We went on board and set out in search of whales and adventure. We lived through tempests in the hold with sperm lamps flickering. The smell of ropes and salt and tar. We breathed the close air of the holds and the brisk salt air on the deck. We sailed through the tropics to the Arctic Circle. We slaughtered whales, thrilled to the chase, thrilled to the dangers. Wept together over dead friends. Bitched about the food and the captain. Dreamed about what we’d do with our pay. We’d be rich men some day, owning land and boats. Mansions and big families on Nantucket. Telling whaling stories to our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a good life. He lost a finger in the ropes. I lost three toes to a harpoon. In the end, we drowned in each other’s arms when the Pequod went down.

  Some was done with gesture, some with words, some was done in ways that can only be called psychic.

  I remember feeling his hand on my arm, shaking me. And then, slowly, the sea and the Pequod went away and we were back in his cabin. “I think I understand, Mark. Thank you. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.” There were tears in his eyes and in mine too.

  “But I can’t let you go on. I’m afraid of what it’s doing to you. Take this.” He handed me one of the pills that Dr. Miller had prescribed if things got rough.

  “Well, so this is it. It’s all right, Joe, I understand you have to do it.” I recognized the pill. It was exactly like one a greaser hippie in Philly had laid on me a couple of years earlier. I had thrown the damn thing away. “Yes,” I said, looking at it. “I was supposed to take this a long time ago. I hope no one minds too much that I overstayed my welcome. I guess I just didn’t want to leave. Good-by, Joe. No blame.”