I don’t see the Benz anywhere. It’s not like Claire to be late. I get hit with a wave of panic as soon as I think that and then a streak of dread in the form of a bilious razor on my liver. I shake it off and try to focus on where she might be along the road — not why — just how the car moves down the highway, wide and squat with those white-blue halogen beams leading it on. But I don’t get close enough to see inside or far enough away to be able to tell if it isn’t just the same short stretch of road again and again.
Ten minutes pass, then more, with me standing there, watching the cars on the highway and access road, watching the headlights coming out of the black of the approach to the parking lot. Nothing. I put my bag down and feel my face with my hands, imagine her there, looking at me. And we both know what she sees. And I look for her again, this time in the night sky. I’ve heard that in the constellation of Orion smaller suns are sometimes moved by the enormous forces of a giant one, and that what looks like a tail of light to us is really the beginnings of new planets. This sun is all the way down. So I call to her, “Godspeed.” What else can I say?
Headlights sweep off the road and semicircle around the outer loop of the lot with a dark form behind — like a comet moving backward. She pulls up to the curb, leaves the car running, and opens the big door slowly. She lifts herself out gracefully and leans against the car, not moving, just looking at me, blankly, her eyes only half open. Waiting. Finally, I step forward, and then she does, too. She opens her eyes wide and reaches for my face with both hands.
“There’s my husband,” she whispers. My Claire, a long crooked nose now to match. She turns her head to the side and pushes it into my chest. I hold her. The world seems to rock around our stillness.
My stomach rumbles. She puts her hands on my sides.
“You’re skinny.”
“I’m all right.”
“Did you sleep?”
“A little bit.”
She kisses my chest, inhaling as she does. “You smell good.”
“No,” I mumble.
“Yes. To me.”
I softly trace the line of her nose. She leans away.
“No, I’m hideous.”
I go to kiss it. She winces, but lets me.
She turns to the idling car. “They were just dropping off.” I look in the window — the stillness. She leans back, lets go of my waist, lets her hands slip down my arms, and lets me catch her.
“Can you drive?” she whispers.
I nod. She squeezes my wrists, and we get in the car.
I move the seat back as far as it will go and stretch. I lay my hands on my thighs: They throb into each other. I shake my head once quickly to make sure I’m awake and then nod — more like a forward pulse of my body — to assure myself that I can do this. Then I just stare out the windshield into the night.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She puts her hand on mine. I turn to her, but she’s looking into the back. She whispers, “Someone’s happy to see you.” I turn. There’s my girl in her car seat pointing at me — softly bended arm.
“Dada,” she whispers, honoring the silence. I blow her a kiss. She smiles, puckers, and those deep brown eyes are glowing — beyond me. I shut the heavy door as softly as I can, then look back at them again. They’re still there. Claire squeezes my hand. There’s strength in it. C sleep-talks something quietly, and X moves slightly as if to respond. There’s all their breath in the quiet, my wife’s hand on mine. I start to face forward, but I turn back, take one last look at my own: the boys, I hope, dreaming in their own hue and time and my girl in the fading light; the little, changing face of love.
Acknowledgments
There are many people, friends, and family I must thank:
My patient agent, Eileen Cope.
Everyone at Grove/Atlantic, Inc., especially Deb Seager and the great and loyal Dara Hyde, (you were right about Youk), Michael Hornburg, and Morgan Entrekin.
Elisabeth Schmitz, my editor: Thank you for your faith, your time, and grace.
Al and Judy Maeda, Samareh Eskandaripour, Sarah Morse, Glen Mazara, George (Joga Bonito) Sanchez, Emily Stone, David Levinson, Britt Dean, Lindly, Al and Julie Boegehold, John Milkey, Daphne Klein, Cathy Fuerst, Craig Townsend, Rebecca and Michael Bruno, Gabe and Marty, Cecil, Elizabeth Gaffney, Brigid Hughes, Emily Frankovich, Sandy McLean, Keli Garrett, Martha Southgate, Robert Sullivan, Van Jordan, Jim Collier, Kim Wiley, Colin Erickson, Carol Wood, Charles and Dorthea Bowen, Jane Morse, The Newsome Family, The Nestor Family, Brooklyn Patriots FC.
Thank you Caroline and Leslie Marshall and Clay Miller for your generosity.
Uncle Russell and Aunt Pauline, Lisa and Russell Houston, all of the Fowlkes and Allens, Pauline Sweet, Seddon Ryan Wylde, John Wylde.
Mentors: Frank Kirkland, Elizabeth Beaujour, Eleanor (my Virgil) Wilner, Chuck Wachtel, David Haynes, Peter Turchi, David Winn, Dexter Jeffries, Barbra Webb, Bill Root, George Willauer. Protégées: Eliana Kissner, Mohammed Saleem, Shokry Elady.
Teri Rosen — of course you are a part. Jennifer McMahon, Eisa Ulen-Richardson, Stephen Wetta, Ira Elliott, Tony Mancus, Mark Bobrow, Thom Taylor, Margret Laino, and all the good folk in HW1238.
Where are you?: Leslie Williams, Will Gardiner, Herbie Dade, Kieran Murphy, Hal Herring.
Those remembered: Margret Owens, Cecil Irton Wylde, Cecil C. I. Wylde, Joan Thomas, John Potter, David M. Thomas Jr. — my father.
Charles Beatty Medina—Gracias: you helped build my home.
We will sail someday John Manderson.
“Fare Forward” Jyanto.
Anne Grazino: Great poet — elegant and bright: Go raibh maith agat.
Sally Wylde: You are not Edith. It’s good to see you painting again. Thank you for everything.
Caitlin Wylde: I know you understand.
David, my brother — Peace.
Thank you to my sister, Tracey, who has a knack for producing laptops when needed; who taught me how to tie my shoes.
Mauro Premutico: Molto Grazie al mio amico profondo.
Padraic Michael O’Reilly and Dominic A. Taylor: I could not have done this, nor much of anything else, without you.
Elise Cannon: I’m so glad I went for coffee. You are rare and beautiful. I love you, friend.
Thelma Louise Allen Thomas: I’m sorry for taking the long way “all ‘round Robin Hood’s Barn.” I hope you know I’m proud to be your son.
Cecil Alexander, Miles Fowlkes, and Ella Sweet, I know I don’t say it enough: your father loves you and always will.
About This Guide
We hope that these discussion questions will enhance your reading group’s exploration of Michael Thomas’s Man Gone Down. They are meant to stimulate discussion, offer new viewpoints, and enrich your enjoyment of the book.
More reading group guides and additional information, including summaries, author tours, and author sites, for other fine Black Cat titles, may be found on our Web site, www.groveatlantic.com.
Questions For Discussion
1. Why do we read coming-of-age stories? Think of Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, Dickens’s Great Expectations, and Fielding’s Tom Jones. All have flawed heroes if not rogues who go on journeys or quests to find themselves and end up forging stronger, wiser selves. How does Man Gone Down reflect these traditions? Do you see similar traits in the protagonists? Energy? Imagination? Big hearts? Raw intelligence? Canniness? Self-delusion? Wry bedrock honesty? What else? Is there even some of Byron’s Don Juan in this narrator?