An Orphanage of Dreams Read online

  Some in the crowd outside had climbed up the trellises and were now slapping the upper windows with the flats of their hands, a regular tam tam tam. There was a tremendous thud against the door and more cheers. In the face of this, Marie-Claire did the only thing she could do and pretended not to notice. She raised her voice and began reading what she claimed was a message from Walter, but of course I knew it was not an authentic message from Walter. Richard was grousing again, wagging his big head and mumbling to himself. I turned around and positively hissed at him. “I am trying to concentrate,” I hissed, and he shut up.

  Marie-Claire was talking about self-reliance. This was not on the program. I was thinking that here was just another example of Marie-Claire’s high-handedness, when Denise interrupted. “Excuse me, Marie-Claire,” she said, “self-reliance is not on the program,” and she held the program up, turning it this way and that for everyone to see. Marie-Claire said, “Thank you, Denise, for pointing that out. I’ll be sure to mention it to Walter,” which was a crushing thing to say to Denise of all people, who never got to mention anything to Walter. Denise just smiled meekly, though I’m sure she wanted to scratch Marie-Claire’s eyes out.

  I wondered if Walter had overheard their exchange, and I reflected on how peevish we had all become lately. There was a time when no one ever said anything that did not make someone else feel better. Before coming here we had all been living in holes, as Walter called them, and we were always terrified he would catch us in some catty remark and make us stand up in front of everyone and take it back and go through the exercise he called climbing out of the hole, which was a terrible experience, even though one always felt better afterward.

  The commotion outside and the pounding and banging at the windows and door were so loud I was convinced the back rows were not catching a word of what Marie-Claire was saying, and Richard had started up again, carrying on in an angry voice about her hiding Walter, and everyone was getting very nervous. If Marie-Claire had had an ounce of brain, we would have had extra security. There we were, under fire practically, with people pouring in across the lawn nearly every day, with Walter forced to rely on Marie-Claire for the smallest thing, and we had to make do with Belton, who was only marginally adequate when the worst we had to deal with was shoplifting from the gift shop. That very morning I had watched him lumbering across the grass in pursuit of two women half his age. I said to myself then that all we needed was for Belton to have a heart attack, and now I could just picture him outside in that crowd trying to pry people away from the door and being completely ineffectual, just one more item to bring ridicule on us.

  I turned around and saw that Eileen had buried her face in her mittens, and I was sure it was because of the ridicule. Her husband was staring up at Marie-Claire. He seemed to be chewing on something thick; he looked stunned. No one had ever liked Marie-Claire, but we put up with her for Walter’s sake. We had talked it over together when she first came, and we had made each other understand that Marie-Claire possessed a lot of sex appeal even for someone as advanced as Walter. Even so, it was hurtful to visit the lodge for our appointment and to sit there earnestly reporting on our progress and being chastised or encouraged, depending, and to realize that someone was in the shower, and then have her appear at lunch, sitting at his table with me and Richard and a few others who were allowed to sit there, damp hair and all, while Walter fawned over her, feeding her bits of food, and she with her chair pushed right up against his and her mouth open like a horrid little baby bird.

  Of course we had all deteriorated since then, gone terribly downhill physically speaking; we were crumbling actually, though Walter, I was sure, had only increased in wisdom, and Marie-Claire had really broadened, was now as squat and round as a pickle jar; “like a penguin carrying two bags of silicone,” was how Richard put it. Naturally we all forgave Walter, and we tried to like Marie-Claire, but we never could. That was especially true for those of us who had been there longest, Richard and myself and a few others. When she started recruiting all those new people for whom Walterism was just slogans, who thought a retreat was all about balloon rides and trips to Disneyland, we tried to put a stop to it, but it was no use if Walter would not get behind us.

  Now Marie-Claire was asking everyone to please apply the skills we had learned from Walter, and some did try, closing their eyes and humming, but it was difficult with everyone else fidgeting and whispering, and Richard shouting again. I thought, “For God’s sake, Marie-Claire, bring him out.” But at least the people outside had finally stopped banging. And then Bill Ekman stood up and pointed at the windows. “It’s one hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit outside,” he said. “Those people are going to die out there.” I looked up and saw the people at the windows were pressing their bare chests against the cool glass, and some of them were licking it. There was no sign of Belton. Everyone began to argue about the people outside, some wanting to let them in and others fearing that this would cause a stampede and urging us to think of Walter, but at least Richard, who had stood up also and was staring bug-eyed at the naked people plastered against the glass, had finally shut up.

  Richard had a lot on his conscience. It had been his idea to bring the New Life Foundation in to work on Walter—a total waste of money, in my view. The lumps were still there, all over his body, and there were new ones on his neck. We were all so desperate and hopeful and really counting on Walter when we came here, each of us so alone then, on the verge of suicide most of us, and over the years we had become completely dependent on him. We found it impossible to even think about losing Walter. Without him there would be no hope for any of us—just solitude and longing and disappointment and hating ourselves. Sometimes, thinking about a future without Walter, I wanted to just get down on my knees and bang my head on the floor.

  I was already up on the stage and had reached the curtain when I heard the glass shatter. I glanced back and saw them pouring in through the smashed door. The people inside were trying to hold them back, linking arms to form a barricade between them and Walter. Richard was shouting, “Save Walter.” People in down jackets and mittens were wrestling with people who were practically naked, and Marie-Claire was shrieking for everyone to please sit down.

  I slipped behind the curtain. I looked down at Walter, who was slumped over, leaning heavily against an arm of the wheelchair, his poor head twisted at an awful angle, and my heart just froze. I knelt, took his head in my hands, lifted it gently. The eyes stared straight ahead; they were not even the right color, and I could tell they didn’t see me. Bits of straw clung to his sweater. His right leg was just a mass of lumps. “Walter,” I murmured, “what have they done to you?” And that was when I saw the opening at the base of his neck, a mouth-like gape. A tongue of white stuffing oozed from it. It must have happened when his head fell to the side. I thought, “Damn Marie-Claire.” I thought, “Damn her, damn her, damn her.” I took Walter in my arms—he was no heavier than a large pillow—and carried him over to the little daybed. I laid him down gently. The shouting and banging beyond the curtain grew louder; they must have been throwing chairs; and I heard sirens in the distance. “This will be the end of us,” I thought, and I lay down on the bed next to Walter. I put my arm under his head, cradling it, and tried to push the stuffing back in with my fingers. Marie-Claire came in behind the curtain and stopped dead in her tracks. She looked at me lying there in bed with my arms around Walter, and I could feel her just withering.

  Animal Crackers

  Muskrat

  The muskrat is an important animal. It lives in holes. It seldom experiences any of the extreme forms of anxiety. It is not in holes because of that. It does not fear nuclear attack. It smells bad, hence the name. It smells good to other muskrats. We have no idea how it smells to other muskrats. At what point will we cease being fond of it? It used to be valued in coats. They were not called muskrat coats because that was too much like rat coats. It doesn’t like being made into coats. It makes little stick h
ouses on the ice. It is not a miniature beaver. It does not do well in college. Male muskrats engage in bloody combat over female muskrats. It does not mature easily. It must not be confused with the European water rat. It does not like moles.

  Pangolin

  It eats ants. It is not an anteater. Nobody seems to know what it is exactly. It is a scaly mammal. It prefers the simple life. When frightened it curls up into an impregnable ball. A frightened pangolin is the size of a basketball. If you puncture a pangolin, air does not come out. It is capable of making a hissing sound but that is not the reason. It possesses a thin, very sticky tongue that it uses to capture ants and termites. The tongue is so extremely long it is kept in a sheath that reaches to the pangolin’s abdomen. When people have epileptic seizures it is important not to let them swallow their tongues. There are no epileptic pangolins. There are no photographs of Dostoyevsky with a pangolin. When Dostoyevsky was twenty-eight he was sentenced to be shot for sedition. He stood in the prison yard. He was in his underwear and it was very cold. They were to be shot three by three. He was in the second group of three. He was not allowed to curl up into a ball.

  Porcupine

  It hates its name. It is not a pig. It has piglike eyes. It can’t jump. It is nearsighted, has a large brain and an excellent memory. Resentment builds up. It is lonely. It goes to the park by itself. It is always alone on its bench. It is prickly and no one wants to sit with it. It feels like a pig. It dreams of an address in Hollywood. Sometimes on dark nights it roosts in trees. It has a tiny apartment in a suburb of Cleveland, the most distant place it had money to get to. What a life. In the winter it eats conifer needles and bark. It is deeply pessimistic. It is more pessimistic than any animal before it. In the spring it eats flowers.

  Wolverine

  It is always angry. It takes medicine for this. It has tried meditation, long-distance running, yoga, nothing helps. It tried golf, but that made it angrier. It looks like a portly and well-fed bear though it is constantly afraid of starving. It is fond of moose. It is a noisy eater. It sits at the counter in the diner and people stare. It wears a brown soup-stained cardigan that it never washes. It complains to anyone who will listen. When it was still young it went off to London, because it wanted to improve itself. It found a room in Ealing. That was in 1963. It bought a trench coat. It tightened the belt across its belly and turned the collar up. It bought a hat. It made sandwiches and ate them in Hyde Park. It did not want to be recognized. One night it went to Covent Garden to see Margot Fonteyn dance with Rudolf Nureyev, who had just defected from the Soviet Union. It kept its hat on. People were looking at it. They were wondering what a wolverine was doing at Covent Garden. Nureyev danced. It was the most beautiful thing the wolverine had ever seen. It was so beautiful the wolverine began to cry, and the block of anger inside it melted and flowed away with the tears.

  That was a long time ago. The Soviet Union is gone. Nureyev is gone. The wolverine is old, it has forgotten the forest, it has forgotten London, it sits at the counter, tears at its food, and complains.

  Weasel

  After work the weasel gets together with other weasels that hang out on the corner across from Eddie’s Meat Market. That’s their corner, everybody knows it’s their corner, polecats and stoats are not welcome. The weasels don’t have a lot to say to each other, they just bitch and complain and leer at people walking past. Eddie at the market hates having them there, they scare customers off, he says, nobody wants to walk past a bunch of leering chicken killers. They hang out there anyway, out of spite, just to show him they are somebodies. The weasel doesn’t give a damn about the other weasels’ problems, he barely listens to their whining. It feels good to complain aloud after bottling it up all day at work, just saying the words feels good to him even if none of the others listen or would care if he dropped dead tomorrow. Afterward, at home in his burrow, he wonders if the others are as lonely as he is. It would be funny if they all really just wanted friendship and love and couldn’t get any closer to it than standing around bitching on a street corner.

  Klatsch

  Their number fluctuated from week to week, but they were almost never fewer than three, three was the bottom limit. He could remember only a couple of times with just two. It was awkward when they were just two, hard to get a conversation going, and, once going, steer it in the right direction, keep it from collapsing into long awkward silences that only got worse with every second, until the awkwardness started to feel more like panic, until finally one of them, nearly desperate, would toss something out, any odd thing, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter which two it was, none of them had the sort of personality that held up well under those conditions, facing each other across a little table in a coffee shop, the usual topics didn’t work under conditions like that. The conversation, the repartee, the jokes felt contrived, rehearsed, his own voice, he could hear, sounded stilted and insincere. When he saw it would be just two of them, his impulse was to call the klatsch off. But he couldn’t actually do that. To even suggest such a thing, and explain why he thought it was a good idea, presupposed an intimacy that was not in the ethos of the klatsch, even though he was sure the other person felt the same way, was thinking the same thing. So they had to go through with it, had to sit there and chat in that painful stilted way for an hour or more, even though they were not enjoying it, when enjoying the company of others was the whole point of the klatsch. After the last time that had happened, when only Harv of all people had showed up, he had come up with the idea of a quorum rule. The next time they all got together he would ask them to make it a rule that, when only two people came, it was not to be considered a proper klatsch, in which case they could just go back home, turn on their heels and leave without any fuss or discussion, because that was the rule. But he didn’t know how to tell the group that he wanted this, it was not the sort of thing they talked about in the klatsch, they were not close in that way, so he never brought it up. They kept it light, a lot of joking, sometimes a bit of good-natured teasing. There were no formal rules, but they all understood that nobody wanted heavy trips. Occasionally, it is true, they would turn on an absent member and gossip about him in a way that was sometimes vicious, but face-to-face they kept things amiable. He was never absent, the one person who had never missed a klatsch, because living alone, having no family nearby, he had nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. They met in either of a pair of coffee shops, in Jack’s Java Joint two blocks east of his place or the Lighthouse three blocks west, so it was nothing for him to just walk over. The group was maybe ten people, counting the ones who came only now and then, with just five regulars, or six if you included Lena, who was semiregular. It took a lot to keep the regulars away. On the day of the giant blizzard, four-foot drifts on the sidewalks and the city practically shut down, they were all five at Jack’s, the only customers in there. Jack had opened the shop just for them, he was that sure they would show up. He made them coffee and pancakes with bacon or sausage, and when they had all been served he fixed a cup for himself and sat with them. They were men and women, they were of different ages, from different walks of life, a lineman for the electric company, a dog trainer, a middle-school music teacher, it was hard to say what they had in common. Maybe they didn’t have anything in common and that was the point, was the thing that made the klatsch interesting, hearing the various perspectives people had. They never saw each other outside of the klatsch. He was the intellectual of the group, the news junkie, the one with the statistics. Being on disability he didn’t have anything to do all day but read the papers and watch CNN. He liked knowing what happened the moment it happened. During big unfolding events like a hurricane or a hostage situation, he would get up in the night and turn on the computer to find out the latest. It always seemed to him that the others, who showed less interest in such things, were cutting themselves off from the world. He was often angered by things he read and saw, the lies of politicians, the cupidity and fraud of Wall Street, the ignorance an
d folly of people generally. He knew more than the others, had more facts ready at hand, and sometimes he worried that he might be going on for too long. Sometimes, reflecting on it afterward, he felt he had been too insistent or too forceful with his opinions. He sometimes lost control of his voice and could sound irritated and peevish without meaning to. No one became blatantly angry with him when he held forth for a long time or lost control of his voice, but he was aware of a kind of tension in the air, and thinking it over later he would wonder if they wouldn’t be happier if he weren’t part of the group, or maybe not part of it every Sunday. When he walked into Jack’s a little after ten this morning he was surprised that none of the others were there yet. He got coffee, took his usual seat at the head of the long table by the window, and waited. He read the front page of the paper that he had already read at home. He guessed they were at the Lighthouse, he must have been distracted when they were deciding where to meet next, and so he walked over there, but they weren’t at the Lighthouse either, and he came back to Jack’s. He couldn’t figure it out, it was eleven o’clock already. He decided to call. He never called, he didn’t even have numbers for most of them, but he called the ones he had. Nobody answered. That wasn’t surprising. A crisp, clear autumn morning, people had better things to do than sit in a stuffy coffee shop. That was normal, they weren’t married to each other. Nobody came every Sunday. It was just a coincidence that they had all stayed away today, it was bound to happen eventually. He could have been one of them, he might well have found something else to do on a day like today, he might have gone for a long walk, he really ought to walk more, or for a drive in the country. He might have stopped for lunch in some little country town. That would really have been strange, if he had actually done that, the hour of the klatsch arriving and nobody there at all. He ordered an egg sandwich. He ordered the same thing every Sunday. They teased him about that, about being a stick-in-the-mud, he never ate an egg sandwich otherwise. The waiter set it down in front of him, a rye bread sandwich topped with a sliced pickle in a nest of potato chips, and he just looked at it. He didn’t feel like an egg sandwich. He wished he hadn’t come, he wished he had done like the others and just not showed up, it was stupid, he was always the odd man out. He studied his face in the window glass. He looked terribly tired, even depressed, he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on like this. He was forty-eight years old, he had already had most of the life he was ever going to have. Seated at the head of the long empty table, he was conscious of looking ridiculous. If the others had showed up, if even one of them had thought to show up, the morning might have been different. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck every goddamn one of them. He got up to leave. He told Jack he wasn’t hungry. Outside on the sidewalk, in the Sunday morning quiet, a cardinal balancing on a wire directly above him whistled clear and clean, the chill sunlight of early autumn flooded the street and ricocheted from the windshields of cars, the sky was blue and cloudless.