His body, however, was not like theirs; the effort always showed, and he panted and grunted, trying to keep up, sometimes managing to sprint ahead, but always his brow perspired, his chest heaved, his breathing was labored.
Sometimes the lead swan held out her hand, long and white and graceful, sometimes revealing rubies, sometimes emeralds; sometimes empty, waiting only for his hand to grasp it, and the two of them smiled their conspirators’ smile and he felt himself no longer working so hard or falling behind, and it was effortless, the two of them together, pulling ahead of the others, sometimes turning to wink or grin.
But then, at the end; as the radiance began to descend upon them, raining down diamonds and sea glass, something happened. He never knew what. Only that he faltered once, smiled, danced, turned his back or ran too far ahead, he never could quite understand which it was. But he closed his eyes, opened them, and found himself once more back on the shore, his feet caked in mud, rooted, left behind. Alone.
And the swans swam on toward that shimmering waterfall of luminescence; they never looked back, no matter how much he cried, how he screamed until his throat was raw and his face was red; they glided forward, one by one disappearing into the slender shadows between the moonbeams, the lead swan allowing the others to go ahead; she stood guard, watching them. And finally, she turned to gaze at him once more with those grave, understanding eyes, and he screeched her name, begged her forgiveness, pleaded her favor, but she turned away to follow the others.
And she, too, vanished into the shadows between the light, and there was nothing left of any of them, only the faint ripples of their wake in the water, which he watched and watched with tears in his eyes, tears that turned into diamonds that turned into dust, the tremors of that wake widening, spreading, rippling into the crystal-dusted indigo of the pond that was the lake that was the ocean that was the dream of a forgotten world.
Until it, too, disappeared.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was a girl, I was one of those people who were drawn to New York.
I was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana. A lovely place, but I always had the sense that I didn’t quite belong. Somehow—and I honestly don’t remember how on earth this was possible—when I was fairly young, I got my hands on copies of Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. I suppose maybe they were carried in the local library, or perhaps the one bookstore at the mall stocked them. All I know is the first time I opened The New Yorker—not quite understanding the cartoons, but pretending I did—I realized, finally, where I was meant to be.
And so I wished myself onto these magazines’ sophisticated pages.
I read about—and imagined I knew intimately—people like Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal and Brooke Astor; I devoured descriptions of night life and openings and galas and vignettes about Central Park, Tiffany, Bergdorf Goodman, 21. Truman Capote was always featured in the pages of these magazines, and of course I knew about him. I saw him on television, a bloated, campy figure waving his hands, telling outrageous stories. I saw him in Murder by Death, which at age thirteen, I thought to be hilariously witty.
I knew that Truman Capote was the author of a book called In Cold Blood, a book my mother owned but wouldn’t let me read. That was about all I knew about him from a literary perspective, however. He was simply one of those flamboyant 1970s characters, just like Liza Minnelli and Halston and the Village People.
In the pages of Vanity Fair, I also read, frequently, of a woman named Babe Paley. A fashion icon—that was always how she was described, along with other names like Gloria Guinness, Marella Agnelli, and Slim Keith. By the time I was aware of these women, they were already spoken of reverently, in the past, a past that was still longed for even in the late 1970s. They were ghostly, beautiful images to me, wearing clothes that were exquisite and unattainable. I didn’t know anything about “fashion,” of course; I got all my clothes at Sears and J.C. Penney. But I dreamed of fashion, just as I dreamed of New York, and the only thing I regret in my life is that I didn’t get there. I was a child of the Midwest, of midwestern parents who, well-intentioned, instilled the fear of God and big cities in me, even as I visualized myself on gritty urban streets, fantasized about taking the subway, longed to be surrounded by skyscrapers and people who talked loudly and in interesting accents. But the fear won out, I’m sorry to say. For a very long time.