I closed my eyes. “Well, go on then. Tell it to me.”
“We all called him Cen. He had a vineyard, and one winter he found a grape growing out of season.
“He ate the grape, and people said he was sick for doing so. That it was unnatural to eat a grape out of season. That it went against the laws of God. They forgot that God is the great authorizer, and a grape can grow out of season only with His permission first.
“The people, in their fear and ignorance, chased Cen out of the town and into the woods. There he lived alone and unhappy as the sick Cen no one could accept.
“Then came the day the light went out. No sun shone. No flashlights turned on. No candles would light. God wanted the people to realize who they had chased away, so He left them in darkness to find out.
“After weeks of night, a light suddenly appeared in the woods. The people, desperate and hungry for light, ran to it, surprised to find Cen. They had been so certain of what they thought was wicked. Of what they thought was a sick desire. And yet, in that darkness, Cen was the only light God allowed.
“The light was coming from Cen’s blood. He had cut his finger by accident in the dark, and his blood was a bright pouring. That was what eating the grape had done. Light was the gift, the beautiful result of the man who dared not question his hunger for that which grows out of season.
“The sorry people fell to their knees before this very light. They said they were wrong to run him out of town. They had been fools, they cried. Won’t you forgive us? they asked.
“Other men would have turned them away, but Cen was a grand man and he allowed them to stay in the light. He would have allowed them to stay there forever, but his finger stopped bleeding and when that happened, the light stopped as well.
“‘It’s so dark again,’ they cried. ‘How will we ever get home?’
“‘I can help you home,’ Cen said.
“‘But how? You’ve no more light.’
“He took out his pocketknife and cut his arm, the light shining them through the woods to town. There were so many people to see home, Cen had to keep cutting his arm in order to bleed more light.
“After walking the last person home, he had to sit down, for he was far too weak to continue. He’d bled so much for them and there was no more to bleed, not even a drop left. He died alone and in the dark.
“The next morning, in the light of the returned sun, everyone saw the body of Cen on the ground. I guess some say he killed himself, cutting his arm like that, and I guess he did. But at least he killed himself on the way to something else. And that’s what I told Grand.
“I said to him when you hold the knife, you have to ask yourself will more light come from this than dark? And if the answer is yes, then by all means cut away. If through your death, you can walk someone home, then do it—but if by your death, they lose a home, then think again.
“I guess to him, slicing open his arm was walking someone home. It was walking himself. And how can you be mad at him, Fielding, if he’s home now?”
25
Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth
—MILTON, PARADISE LOST 1:620
THE NIGHT BEFORE Grand’s funeral, Dad sat on the porch, squinting his eyes, folding his arms, and crossing his legs. He hadn’t bothered turning on the porch light. In those dark days following Grand’s death, lights were rarely turned on. It was as if we no longer knew how to pull a lamp cord or flip a wall switch. We’d suddenly gone dumb of the way to light.
Darkness was everywhere for us then. A darkness so thick, it was near solid. And it was all over the place, from Dad’s silence to the creases of Mom’s tissues. Everywhere there were tissues. Some piled, some scattered, some on tables, and some you had to step over on the floor. If you did step on one, your foot would be wet, the snot and tears carried on your heel.
These tissues light as air but denting the ground beneath them. As we were dented. Every time we passed Grand’s quiet room. A dent. When we looked at his empty chair at the table. A dent. When we saw all those crumpled white tissues and thought of baseballs. Dent, dent, dent. We were scooped out, hollowed in, and pocketing darkness all over us.
Dad stopped shaving. His hair came straight from the bed. His cheeks puffy, a coming swell. In his mouth, you could hear thunder in the distance and his breath came humid and smelled like toothpaste laid aside.
He stopped wearing his suits and wore a T-shirt and pajama bottoms all day and days at a time. He didn’t eat. He was trying to get even in the bone with Grand. If you thought it was a shadow passing, it was probably Dad.