they had to evacuate the grade school on tuesday. kids were getting headaches and eye irritations, tasting metal intheir mouths. a teacher rolled on the floor and spoke foreign languages. no one knew what was wrong. investigatorssaid it could be the ventilating system, the paint or varnish, the foam insulation, the electrical insulation, the cafeteriafood, the rays emitted by microcomputers, the asbestos fireproofing, the adhesive on shipping containers, the fumesfrom the chlorinated pool, or perhaps something deeper, finer-grained, more closely woven into the basic state ofthings.
denise and steffie stayed home that week as men in mylex suits and respirator masks made systematic sweeps of thebuilding with infrared detecting and measuring equipment. because mylex is itself a suspect material, the resultstended to be ambiguous and a second round of more rigorous detection had to be scheduled.
the two girls and babette, wilder and i went to the supermarket. minutes after we entered, we ran into murray. thiswas the fourth or fifth time i'd seen him in the supermarket, which was roughly the number of times i'd seen him oncampus. he clutched babette by the left bicep and sidled around her, appearing to smell her hair.
"a lovely dinner," he said, standing directly behind her. "i like to cook myself, which doubles my appreciation ofsomeone who does it well.""come any time," she said, turning in an effort to find him.
we moved together into the ultra-cool interior. wilder sat in the shopping cart trying to grab items off the shelves aswe went by. it occurred to me that he was too old and too big to be sitting in supermarket carts. i also wondered whyhis vocabulary seemed to be stalled at twenty-five words.
"i'm happy to be here," murray said.
"in blacksmith?""in blacksmith, in the supermarket, in the rooming house, on the hill. i feel i'm learning important things every day.
death, disease, afterlife, outer space. it's all much clearer here. i can think and see."we moved into the generic food area and murray paused with his plastic basket to probe among the white cartonsand jars. i wasn't sure i understood what he was talking about. what did he mean, much clearer? he could think andsee what?
steffie took my hand and we walked past the fruit bins, an area that extended about forty-five yards along one wall.
the bins were arranged diagonally and backed by mirrors that people accidentally punched when reaching for fruitin the upper rows. a voice on the loudspeaker said: "kleenex softique, your truck's blocking the entrance." applesand lemons tumbled in twos and threes to the floor when someone took a fruit from certain places in the stackedarray. there were six kinds of apples, there were exotic melons in several pastels. everything seemed to be in season,sprayed, burnished, bright. people tore filmy bags off racks and tried to figure out which end opened. i realized theplace was awash in noise. the toneless systems, the jangle and skid of carts, the loudspeaker and coffee-makingmachines, the cries of children. and over it all, or under it all, a dull and unlocatable roar, as of some form ofswarming life just outside the range of human apprehension.
"did you tell denise you were sorry?""maybe later," steffie said. "remind me.""she's a sweet girl and she wants to be your older sister and your friend if you'll let her.""i don't know about friend. she's a little bossy, don't you think?""aside from telling her you're sorry, be sure to give her back her physicians' desk reference.""she reads that thing all the time. don't you think that's weird?""at least she reads something.""sure, lists of drugs and medicines. and do you want to know why?""why?""because she's trying to find out the side effects of the stuff that baba uses.""what does baba use?""don't ask me. ask denise.""how do you know she uses anything?""ask denise.""why don't i ask baba?""ask baba," she said.
murray came out of an aisle and walked alongside babette, just ahead of us. he took a twin roll of paper towels outof her cart and smelled it. denise had found some friends and they went up front to look at the paperback books inspindly racks, the books with shiny metallic print, raised letters, vivid illustrations of cult violence and windsweptromance. denise was wearing a green visor. i heard babette tell murray she'd been wearing it fourteen hours a dayfor three weeks now. she would not go out without it, would not even leave her room. she wore it in school, whenthere was school, wore it to the toilet, the dentist's chair, the dinner table. something about the visor seemed to speakto her, to offer wholeness and identity.
"it's her interface with the world," murray said.
he helped babette push her loaded cart. i heard him say to her, "tibetans believe there is a transitional state betweendeath and rebirth. death is a waiting period, basically. soon a fresh womb will receive the soul. in the meantime thesoul restores to itself some of the divinity lost at birth." he studied her profile as if to detect a reaction. "that's whati think of whenever i come in here. this place recharges us spiritually, it prepares us, it's a gateway or pathway. lookhow bright. it's full of psychic data."my wife smiled at him.
"everything is concealed in symbolism, hidden by veils of mystery and layers of cultural material. but it is psychicdata, absolutely. the large doors slide open, they close unbidden. energy waves, incident radiation. all the lettersand numbers are here, all the colors of the spectrum, all the voices and sounds, all the code words and ceremonialphrases. it is just a question of deciphering, rearranging, peeling off the layers of unspeakability. not that we wouldwant to, not that any useful purpose would be served. this is not tibet. even tibet is not tibet anymore."he studied her profile. she put some yogurt in her cart.
"tibetans try to see death for what it is. it is the end of attachment to things. this simple truth is hard to fathom. butonce we stop denying death, we can proceed calmly to die and then go on to experience uterine rebirth orjudeo-christian afterlife or out-of-body experience or a trip on a ufo or whatever we wish to call it. we can do sowith clear vision, without awe or terror. we don't have to cling to life artificially, or to death for that matter. wesimply walk toward the sliding doors. waves and radiation. look how well-lighted everything is. the place is sealedoff, self-contained. it is timeless. another reason why i think of tibet. dying is an art in tibet. a priest walks in, sitsdown, tells the weeping relatives to get out and has the room sealed. doors, windows sealed. he has serious businessto see to. chants, numerology, horoscopes, recitations. here we don't die, we shop. but the difference is less markedthan you think."he was almost whispering now and i tried to get up closer without ramming my cart into babette's. i wanted to heareverything.
"supermarkets this large and clean and modern are a revelation to me. i spent my life in small steamy delicatessenswith slanted display cabinets full of trays that hold soft wet lumpy matter in pale colors. high enough cabinets so youhad to stand on tiptoes to give your order. shouts, accents. in cities no one notices specific dying. dying is a qualityof the air. it's everywhere and nowhere. men shout as they die, to be noticed, remembered for a second or two. to diein an apartment instead of a house can depress the soul, i would imagine, for several lives to come. in a town thereare houses, plants in bay windows. people notice dying better. the dead have faces, automobiles. if you don't knowa name, you know a street name, a dog's name. 'he drove an orange mazda.'
you know a couple of useless things about a person that become major facts of identification and cosmic placementwhen he dies suddenly, after a short illness, in his own bed, with a comforter and matching pillows, on a rainywednesday afternoon, feverish, a little congested in the sinuses and chest, thinking about his dry cleaning."babette said, "where is wilder?" and turned to stare at me in a way that suggested ten minutes had passed since she'dlast seen him. other looks, less pensive and less guilty, indicated greater time spans, deeper seas of inattention. like:
"i didn't know whales were mammals." the greater the time span, the blanker the look, the more dangerous thesituation. it was as if guilt were a luxury she allowed herself only when the danger was minimal.
"how could he get out of the cart without my noticing?"the three adults each stood at the head of an aisle and peered into the traffic of carts and gliding bodies. then we didthree more aisles, heads set forward, weaving slightly as we changed our sightlines. i kept seeing colored spots off tothe right but when i turned there was nothing there. i'd been seeing colored spots for years but never so many, sogaily animated. murray saw wilder in another woman's cart. the woman waved at babette and headed toward us.
she lived on our street with a teenage daughter and an asian baby, chun duc. everyone referred to the baby by name,almost in a tone of proud proprietorship, but no one knew who chun belonged to or where he or she had come from.
"kleenex softique, kleenex softique."steffie was holding my hand in a way i'd come to realize, over a period of time, was not meant to be gentlypossessive, as i'd thought at first, but reassuring. i was a little astonished. a firm grip that would help me restoreconfidence in myself, keep me from becoming resigned to whatever melancholy moods she thought she detectedhovering about my person.
before murray went to the express line he invited us to dinner, a week from saturday.
"you don't have to let me know till the last minute.""we'll be there," babette said.
"i'm not preparing anything major, so just call beforehand and tell me if something else came up. you don't evenhave to call. if you don't show up, i'll know that something came up and you couldn't let me know.""murray, we'll be there.""bring the kids.""no.""great. but if you decide to bring them, no problem. i don't want you to feel i'm holding you to something. don't feelyou've made an ironclad commitment. you'll show up or you won't. i have to eat anyway, so there's no majorcatastrophe if something comes up and you have to cancel. i just want you to know i'll be there if you decide to dropby, with or without kids. we have till next may or june to do this thing so there's no special mystique about a weekfrom saturday.""are you coming back next semester?" i said.
'they want me to teach a course in the cinema of car crashes.""do it.""i will."i rubbed against babette in the checkout line. she backed into me and i reached around her and put my hands on herbreasts. she rotated her hips and i nuzzled her hair and murmured, "dirty blond." people wrote checks, tall boysbagged the merchandise. not everyone spoke english at the cash terminals, or near the fruit bins and frozen foods, orout among the cars in the lot. more and more i heard languages i could not identify much less understand, althoughthe tall boys were american-born and the checkout women as well, short, fattish in blue tunics, wearing stretchslacks and tiny white espadrilles. i tried to fit my hands into babette's skirt, over her belly, as the slowly moving lineedged toward the last purchase point, the breath mints and nasal inhalers.
it was out in the parking lot that we heard the first of the rumors about a man dying during the inspection of the gradeschool, one of the masked and mylex-suited men, heavy-booted and bulky. collapsed and died, went the story thatwas going around, in a classroom on the second floor.
