“Oh, I see.”
I often wondered if they ever discussed it between themselves. They never did with me. Never asked me why I thought he did it. Had they even asked themselves? In the silence, and in the dark, ask themselves why their son would make such a choice?
I think Dad almost asked me once.
It was long after Breathed, and we were sitting on the porch of their house in Pennsylvania. Him on the porch swing, me on the steps. He was looking at me.
When I turned to face him, he said, “Grand was a fine boy.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Do you know…?”
“Do I know what, Dad?”
He recrossed his legs and picked up the paper by his side. “Do you know if that fella, the one Grand knew…”
“Ryker?”
“Was that his name?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he still works at The New York Times?”
“Ryker died, Dad.”
“He did?”
I nodded my head. “He died in ’85.”
“Oh.” He shook the paper out in front of him. “Grand would’ve been a fine journalist. Don’t you think?”
“If he wanted to be.”
“He would’ve been a fine baseball player.”
“If he wanted to be.”
“He would’ve been a fine husband and father.”
“Only if he wanted to be.”
“Well, what is it he wanted to be?” Dad hastily folded the paper and smacked it down.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
I got up to leave.
“Fielding? Wait. Do you know…?”
“Know what, Dad?”
It was on the tip of his tongue. That question of why Grand had killed himself. Would I have answered it had he asked me? No. My father was too rid of any muscle by then. He was an old man and he wouldn’t have been strong enough to withstand the tragedy that was his son’s life. Maybe he saw this in my eyes, that I wouldn’t tell him the truth. Maybe that was why he said never mind and looked out over the marigolds growing in the nearby flowerpot.
What was he thinking of? Was it how he screwed in handles along the side of the clock so there’d be something for the pallbearers to hold onto? Dad was a pallbearer, as was I. Grand’s body wasn’t heavy but his death was, and sometimes I thought I’d have to let go of the handle because the burden was just too much.
It was like trying to lift something pouring in a river wideness and spilling out farther than my hands would ever be able to catch. A deep, torrential pouring that swore to drown me in a limitless sinking. Just when I thought my hand was going to break under the strain, we lifted the coffin into the back of the hearse and I could breathe, not freely but enough to live.
As we were preparing to take the short drive to the cemetery, Mom tugged Dad’s sleeve to tell him she wouldn’t be going with us.
“Why, Mom? Is it because you’re afraid to go outside again?”
“I’m not afraid. Today I choose to stay.”
“Why?” Dad asked, but I don’t think he really cared. He was too busy looking at his son’s coffin in the back of the hearse.
She grabbed his hands in hers and patiently held them until he finally turned from the hearse to her.
“Autopsy, my love. When you get home, you’ll say to me, ‘Honey, the funniest thing happened on the way to the cemetery.’ And I’ll ask, ‘What happened, my love?’ And you’ll say the door of the clock suddenly opened and Grand jumped out. Said he was never really dead at all, just pretendin’.
“Then he’ll run away. Run right away. And I’ll ask you, but where’d he run away to? And you’ll answer, where all clocks go. The place where time never runs out, the place of beautiful eternity.”
I looked out the car window as we drove away, at her standing in the front yard. Her yellow handkerchief was her wave. Sal was the only one to wave back.
I faced front, straightening my tie. Mom had bought Sal a suit as well, and while I wore my tie like a heavy laying on the chest, Sal’s was more like a gentle dropping. He looked at home in a black suit. Sometimes when I think of him now, I see him in that suit, a small form crying on a pew out in the middle of an overgrown field. A tractor going behind him. His shoes shiny on dull soil.
On the way to the cemetery, we passed Elohim and his followers. They were standing in the woods, close enough to the edge to see them. I glanced at Dad and Sal. Dad was staring straight ahead. Sal was looking out the other window. I was the only one who saw Elohim, the little garter snake slithering in his hand.
The cemetery was a flat-top meadow on one of the hills. It was called Reflection Hill because if you were buried there, your stone was a full-body effigy of yourself, laid on the ground. Your reflection, hence the cemetery’s name.