Driving away, I watched them in the rearview mirror until I passed over a small crest and they were gone. Only then did I become aware of the pressure in my bladder. It felt like I’d explode if I didn’t piss immediately. There were no houses around or cars coming down the road, so I stopped, jumped out, undid my pants, and barely wrestled it free in time before the stuff blew out of me in a fury.
Despite all of the terrible matters flying around in my head, it was bliss to pee. All the complicated, perverse, and dangerous things that had happened and were sure to come, none was more important than this dumb little function I did ten times a day.
“Winner and still champeen, the cock!” I announced to the New Jersey countryside. Which reminded me of Lily’s sweet curiosity about my penis. One of the first times we went to bed, afterward she held it in her hand and inspected, jiggled, poked it until I raised my head from the pillow and asked if she was conducting a science project. No, she’d just never had the nerve to look at one so closely.
“Never? You didn’t even look at Rick’s?”
“Naa, I was always too shy. I always felt self-conscious, you know?” She looked up from her position across my thighs and beamed. Partners in crime. Such a happy, comfortable moment. So adult and childlike at once, like playing Doctor. It was around that time I began thinking how deeply I loved this woman.
I had two options—fight or flight. I doubt if many people ever seriously consider running away from their lives altogether. It is either childish or desperate, and luckily few of us behave like that or experience such dark extremes. I knew one woman who was beaten very badly by her husband. An hour after he left the house for work, she packed a small bag and took a taxi to the airport. Charging a ticket to New York on his credit card (wanting him to think she’d gone there), she paid cash for a ticket to London. The ploy worked, and by the time he found her months later, she was safe and well protected.
In comparison, that seemed so cut-and-dried. Her life was threatened and she ran. My situation, “my danger,” was more complex and tricky. Yet in this era of quick relationships, when people go from A to Z at the speed of light and then separate, I could have gotten away with saying to Lily: I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work, bye-bye. The easy, despicable way out, but given the alternative… Plus what was the alternative? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have to tell the police about you.
Sometimes the solution to a problem comes so quickly and resolutely that it leaves no trace of doubt about what must be done.
While I was driving back up the turnpike toward New York, my mind was fidgeting wildly about what to do. Traffic was busy but not enough to heed. The radio was on loud, tuned to a rock station; my companion for the trip.
There were so damned many Lilys in this. The Lily I knew. The Lily I thought I knew. Lily the kidnapper. Lily—
“Hey!”
In a far part of my mind I had heard the sound of a very loud car rattling up behind on the left. But turnpikes are full of clanging clunkers you ignore and just hope they don’t strangle you with their exhaust.
“Hey, fuckhead!”
In the middle of my muddle I looked quickly toward the shout. Right out my window, a man was pointing a gun at me. He wore a huge grin and every few seconds kept yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Then he laughed a screech and, before I could move, pulled the trigger and the gun exploded.
I pitched the car to the right. Because I was in the slow lane, I hit no one. Screech and his driver both howled with delight and, clanking louder, their car sped up and away.
Braking, I pulled further over onto the shoulder of the road. Why wasn’t I dead? He must have fired a blank. Why would he do that? Why hadn’t I panicked and crashed? Luck. Or blessed. Why had he shot at me? Because. Life gives no explanations or excuses. We’re the ones who think them up.
Sitting there trembling and cursing, thanking God Almighty for this break, I felt the moment slowly unwind and pass. Adrenaline stopped pumping terror and relief through me and shakily my own life with its present and future returned.
Lily returned too, and what filled my mind once the scared-to-death feeling passed was immense love for her. Love no matter what. Death one moment, Lily Aaron the next. I had survived and, returning to life, thought first of her. It was clear she was all that mattered. Cars rammed and rummed by on the left, night was purpling the sky. I would go back to her. I had to find a way to bring our love and a new life together through this wall, this world of fire we now faced.
I rang the doorbell but no one answered. After waiting a while longer I used my key. It was three in the afternoon. Lincoln would still be in school, Lily at the restaurant. Dropping my bag on the floor, I smelled the familiar bouquet of home—scented candles, dog, cigarette smoke, Lily’s Grey Flannel cologne. As I walked slowly through the place, it struck me as a kind of museum now—a museum of our life as it had been. Everything the same, everything different. This is where we played Scrabble together, that is where I spilled chili sauce on the carpet. A comic book of Lincoln’s was on the table. I picked it up and riffled through the pages.
Lincoln. This new world centered on him now, and the contradiction, if that was the word, was that he was one terrific kid. Smart and well adjusted, he often had a sense of humor and insight that made him a real pleasure to live with. Who knows how much we’re born with and how much is a result of upbringing and education. From living with the Aarons and watching the way the two interacted, I believed Lily was a great mother and had had a profoundly positive effect on the boy. That was part of the problem: she was so good for him.
Cobb was lying on his big bed in the kitchen. When he saw me, his long tail whacked the floor a couple of times. I waved hello and that was enough for him. He groaned contentedly and closed his eyes.
For want of something to do, I opened the refrigerator. In among the bottles and bags was a white clay figure of what looked vaguely like one of the characters in my “Paper Clip.” Why it was in the fridge was a mystery, but such enigmas are common when you live with a ten-year-old. Taking it carefully off the metal shelf, I turned it slowly in my hand. Was the artist ten years old, or nine as the Meiers had said? I thought constantly about that sad fragile couple, their house and the scarred life they led. How thrilled they would be if they were shown this figure and told who’d made it. How much joy it would give them to know it was by their son, who was well and happy. Like filling their lungs with air all the way instead of shallow breaths.
“Max! You’re back!”
Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard the door close. Turning, I felt small arms grab me from behind and hold tight.
“Max, where have you been? I missed you so much! Did you see my “Paper Clip” statue? I made it for you. You know who it is? You like it?”
I took him in my arms and closed my eyes as tight as I could. That way the world stayed outside a moment. Besides, I had begun to cry as soon as I knew it was him. There was no way to stop it.
“I like it very much, Linc. It’s the perfect welcome-home present. I’m really happy to be back.”
“Me too! We didn’t do anything while you were gone. But we talked about you a lot.”