PASSE-PARTOUT: Book One, Chapter 6
Jamey and I stand at the base of the statue. It looks old, weather-worn, but no longer ominous. We stare into its eyes. Nothing moves. I retain my sense of balance and my clear-headedness. After a few moments, Jamey turns to me and, with a slightly concerned look in her eyes, says “He’s not moving.”
“Yes. It would appear to be that way.”
“And, he appears to not be black.”
“That, too.”
“What do you suggest we do next?”
I sigh and shrug my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Albert, Dad, the statue: I think maybe my seams are beginning to tear loose. That statue is just a statue because, I think, you are here to see it be so. If you leave, it’ll sprout horns and hooves and pitchforks. It’ll point at me and laugh and then I’ll swoon.”
“You know, Paul, I do believe you.”
“Don’t patronize me. I can’t take it right now.”
“Every moment that you’ve known me, you’ve known the real me. I don’t patronize, I don’t mock, I don’t belittle. I tell the truth and the truth sets me free.” She smiles a sweet grin at her little allusion, which I can’t quite place, but right now I don’t care. I stare at the statue and breathe deeply.
“You know, Jamey, that I am in love with you. I love you.”
“Don’t make accusations. You’re not in love with me. You love me because I saved you. And I appreciate the sentiment. I love you, too, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But, if you knew me, which, actually, you don’t, you wouldn’t be “in love.” Your heart would wish it were in pieces.”
I take her hand in mind and hold her hand to my cheek. “I don’t know,” I say, “maybe you’re right…I don’t know. I do love you right now. I don’t know how; But, please, I don’t care—and I don’t want you to care—if it’s ‘in love’ or not: don’t leave me. If you want me to stop saying ‘I love you,’ I will. I will never say it again. But, please, don’t leave. I’m so tired of being left.”
I let go of Jamey’s hand and she caresses my brow and then shields the side of my face in her palm: “You don’t have to stop saying “I love you.” And, I won’t leave you until you ask me to. And, even then, I think I’ll stay a little longer. Don’t worry.”
I sigh and clasp my hand on her shoulder. She covers my hand with hers. We turn to leave the statue to go back to the car. The statue stays behind. Stays still and perched upon formless feet melted to the pedestal. I stop at the car and look at the sky. I want to leave, and am leaving, but something tells me that I will return, but not for happy times, and I’m afraid Jamey will still be beside me.
We get to my apartment and walk up to the room (Hi, lozenges! This is my friend Jamey. She’s nice.) As I walk into the apartment, she follows behind me, surveying the living room, as if she were making sure everything was in place.
“Are you all right by yourself tonight? Is there anything you need?”
No. I’m not all right. I want to hold you close to me and kiss your lips. I want to take you to my bed, and after, I want you to wake up in my arms, look me in the eyes and run your fingers though my hair. I don’t want you to say that you’re leaving. I want you to choose to stay.
— “I’m all right. Really…go home. I’ll be fine. You are coming back in the morning?”
Jamey picks up my hand and hold it in hers: “Excellent restraint and dignity in the face of overwhelming lust and longing, Paul. Well done.”
Her smile causes me to blush and I laugh. “I have to work tomorrow. But, I will be back in the eve with lots of food. If you need me, call my cell ‘cause you’ll never catch me at my place.”
I walk with her to the cargo elevator and watch her leave. At the apartment door, I pause, take a deep breath, and walk in. This is the first time that I’m here by myself since Dad killed himself. I walk from room to room, just listening to the various sounds of the building. A TV next door is on some documentary (I hear lions) and in the distance, I hear people laughing.
I don’t know if I can abide this for too long. I should’ve pled with Jamey to stay, not to sleep with me, but to just stay and talk so I wouldn’t have to endure the “quiet.”
I close the door to Dad’s room and walk to mine. I change clothes, fall into my bed, and wait for sleep. I think about Jamey, about Dad, about Monument. I close my eyes trying to think of Jamey’s smile, but the first image is of Dad, the tendons bursting out of the back of his neck, his head tilting to the side, hitting his shoulder and falling almost in tandem with his body.
It replays over and over and over, and, finally, I clench my eyes shut, force a state of blankness into my consciousness, and in the end…
I fall asleep.
I want you to see this dream: you walk into a room, it has eleven walls, each one inscribed with untold millions of lines of the finest, unintelligible script. In the middle of this room, there is a chair that has risen as a tree through the floor and then petrified into stone, it appears to be of a piece with the floor.
A man sits on the chair. He looks through you, perhaps at the closing door behind you, its seams disappearing. You walk closer to the man and try to rouse him from his apparent stupor. You kneel and clasp his shoulders. He looks away from the distance and looks into your eyes. He whispers to you something you can’t understand. He begins to weep, and his eyes begin to turn blood red, as if all the blood vessels had lost their integrity. As he whispers, you smell his breath; it reeks of moss and mold, of stale air and rancid dust. His trembling, Parkinsonian mouth appears a maw, fenced only by pallid teeth anchored in black gums. He shudders, and you notice that his hands are grasping your forearms. You lean in and try to hear what he’s saying. Amidst all the babbling, in between the languages and the spirit-tongues, you listen and hear: he pauses, as if he knows you listen, and then speaks in a clear whisper:
“Isla.”