smell the airplane fuel. He watches as the practiced flick of a deft forefinger on the propeller brings the little engine sputtering to life. The volume and pitch of the sound rises, the engine screaming, the scream building to a constant shriek. On the way home from the park, trailing his father, his taciturn father, he falls on a pile of stones. His knee is cut and bloody. The blood trickles down his shin onto his sock. He doesn’t cry. His father looks happy, looks proud of him, later tells his mother about his great achievement, that he’s reached an age where he doesn’t have to cry anymore. It’s a rare thing for his father to look at him with pride. His mother says, “For Godsake, he’s only four, he’s allowed to cry.” His father says nothing.
He sees himself driving his car. A familiar Catskill road. A deer crossing ahead of him, a doe passing into the opposite field. And then her fawn following her, unexpectedly. The thump. Image of the twisted body, mother looking back, waiting in the field.
Danny in the gutter, the red BMW speeding away. The pigeon he was following into the street flying away. He was only four.
Nino Rota music. Poignant, ironic, giddy. Like a sad circus. Sonya Reynolds slowly dancing. The autumn leaves falling.
V
“Can he hear us now?”
“It’s possible. The brain scans yesterday showed significant activity in all the sensory centers.”
“Significant? But…?”
“The patterns remain erratic.”
“Meaning?”
“His brain shows evidence of normal function, but it comes and goes, and there’s some evidence of sensory switching, which may be temporary. It’s a bit like certain drug experiences, hallucinogenics, where sounds are seen and colors are heard.”
“And the prognosis for that is…?”
“Mrs. Gurney, with traumatic brain injuries…”
“I know you don’t
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he recovered fully. I’ve seen cases in which a sudden spontaneous remission-”
“And you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t?”
“Your husband was shot in the head. It’s remarkable that he’s alive.”
“Yes. Thank you. I understand. He may get better. Or he may get worse. And you really don’t have a clue, do you?”
“We’re doing as much as we can. When the brain swelling goes down, the situation may be clearer.”
“You’re sure he’s not in pain?”
“He’s not in pain.”
H
Warmth and coolness bathed him like the inflow and ebbing of a wave or a shifting summer breeze.
Now the coolness had the scent of dewy grass and the warmth carried the subtle scent of tulips in the sun.
The coolness was the coolness of his sheet, and the warmth was the warmth of women’s voices.
Warmth and coolness were combined in the soft pressure of lips against his forehead. A wonderful sweetness and gentleness.
J
New York County Criminal Court. A crappy courtroom, bleak, colorless. The judge a cartoon of exhaustion, cynicism, and faulty hearing.
“Detective Gurney, the accusations are voluminous. How do you plead?”
He can’t speak, can’t respond, can’t even move.
“Is the defendant present?”
“No!” cries a chorus of voices in unison.
A pigeon rises from the floor, disappears in the smoky air.
He wants, tries, to speak, to prove he is there, but he can’t speak, can’t utter a word or move a finger. He strains to force even a syllable, even a gagging cry from his throat.
The room is on fire. The judge’s robe is smoldering. He announces, wheezing, “The defendant is remanded for an indefinite period to the place where he is, which shall be reduced in size, until such time as the defendant is dead or insane.”
H
He’s standing in a windowless room, a cramped room with stale air and an unmade bed. He looks for the door, but the only door opens into a closet, a closet just inches deep, a closet backed by a concrete wall. He’s having trouble breathing. He bangs on the walls, but the bang isn’t a bang; it’s a flash of fire and smoke. Then, by the side of the bed, he sees a slit in the wall and in the slit a pair of eyes watching him.
Then he’s in the space behind the wall, the space from which the eyes were watching, but the slit is gone and the space is totally dark. He tries to calm himself. Tries to breathe slowly, evenly. He tries to move, but the space is too small. He can’t raise his arms, can’t bend his knees. And he topples sideways, crashing to the floor, but the crash isn’t a crash; it’s a scream. He can’t move the arm beneath his body, can’t raise himself. The space is narrower there, nothing will move. An accelerating terror makes it almost impossible to breathe. If only he could make a sound, speak, cry out.
Far away the coyotes begin to howl.
L
“Are you sure he can hear me?” Her voice was pure hope.
“What I can tell you for sure is that the activity pattern I’m seeing on the scan is consistent with the neural activity of hearing.” His voice was as cool as a sheet of paper.
“Is it possible that he’s paralyzed?” Her voice was at the edge of darkness.
“The motor center wasn’t directly affected, so far as we can see. However, with injuries of this sort…”
“Yes, I know.”
“All right, Mrs. Gurney. I’ll leave you with him.”
“David,” she said softly.
He still couldn’t move, but the panic was evaporating, somehow diluted and dispersed by the sound of the woman’s voice. The enclosure that held him, whatever it was, no longer crushed him.
He knew the woman’s voice.
With her voice came the image of her face.
He opened his eyes. At first he saw nothing but light.
Then he saw her.
She was looking at him, smiling.
He tried to move, but nothing moved.
“You’re in a cast,” she said, “Relax.”
Suddenly he remembered the mad dash across the room at Giotto Skard, the first deafening shot.
“Is Jack all right?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Tears filled his eyes, blurring her face.
After a while his memory expanded backward. “The fire…?”
“Everyone got out.”
“Ah. Good. Good. Jack found the…?” He couldn’t remember the word.
“The remote lock thing, yes. You reminded him to look in Ashton’s pocket.” She made an odd little laughing, choking, sobbing sound.
“What was that all about?”
