damage as well. And I can’t see the color red.”
He laughed out loud; for a moment, his whole face changed.
“Is that funny?” I asked.
He stopped laughing. Stared at me. “Maybe.”
“You’re not going to pull a gun on me like you did to Dr. Wyman?”
“It wasn’t loaded,” Lazarus told me. “He ran before finding that out.”
What no one had mentioned about Lazarus Jones was that he was beautiful. Younger than I was; twenty-five or thirty, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were dark, darker than mine. I wondered if whatever he’d learned in those forty minutes had turned him to ash. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and old jeans, work boots. His hair was dark and he hadn’t had it cut in some time; it was longer than mine. When he stared there was something hot in his gaze, as though he could burn you alive if he wanted to. If you gave him a reason.
“Well, you’re here,” Lazarus said. “What do you want?”
This sounded like a trick question to me. If I answered incorrectly, perhaps I would turn into ash myself. Burned alive.
We stared at each other. Putting my hand through glass was nothing compared with this. I was in this moment, no other time. Now when I thought about New Jersey it was like remembering a mythological country.
You had to do the thing you were most afraid of, didn’t you? In every fairy tale the right way was the difficult path, the one that led over boulders, through brambles, across a field of fire. I took a step forward and looped my arms around Lazarus Jones’s neck so I could be near him. Every person had a secret, this was mine: I couldn’t begin anything that remotely resembled a life until I understood death.
Lazarus Jones smelled like sulfur. People with sense run away from fire, but not me.
“Now that you’ve done it once, are you afraid to do it again?”
In response, he pulled me closer, just for an instant. For that time I didn’t hear the clicking in my head, not one snap. I didn’t smell oranges or feel the gritty dust.
“That’s for me to know. I’m not sure you want to find out.”
He let go and started walking away. Then he stopped and turned around. I was still there. He hadn’t imagined me or gotten rid of me. Yet.
“You want to know what I’m afraid of?”
He cast a shadow along the yardspace between us. A dark shade. The sun was no longer blinding me. I could see right into his face. Maybe I nodded. I must have, because he spoke.
“It’s the living that scares me most of all,” Lazarus Jones said.
He went on then, inside his house. After he’d closed the door, I heard the lock click into place. I felt lost, standing there. Sweltering in the sun. It was so hot out no birds were in the sky. They were all perched in the shadows.
A group of men were sitting in the shade as well, taking a break from picking oranges. One of them approached me as I walked back to my car. He was young, high-school age, tall and rangy. He had a curious, friendly expression and his hair was buzzed off. He reminded me of Renny, but he was healthy and strong; his hands were rough, covered with blisters. I wondered if the blisters caused him great pain. If he rubbed them with Vaseline. If some girl who loved him put his fingers in her mouth, healed him with a kiss.
“Was that Jones you were talking to?” the boy asked me.
“For a minute,” I said.
“He never talks to any of us. He leaves what we’re owed out on the porch. Then the fruit distributor sends trucks out, and those guys have nothing to do with him, either. I never even saw him before today. You were up close. Was he all deformed, or something?”
Deformed, no. Merely beautiful. But I didn’t think it was my place to comment if Jones wanted to keep himself locked away.
“I couldn’t really tell.”
“That’s what we all figure. He got hit by lightning and he’s all scarred up.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Let us know if you find out. Maybe we’re all working for a fucking
He laughed out loud; for a moment, his whole face changed.
“Is that funny?” I asked.
He stopped laughing. Stared at me. “Maybe.”
“You’re not going to pull a gun on me like you did to Dr. Wyman?”
“It wasn’t loaded,” Lazarus told me. “He ran before finding that out.”
What no one had mentioned about Lazarus Jones was that he was beautiful. Younger than I was; twenty-five or thirty, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were dark, darker than mine. I wondered if whatever he’d learned in those forty minutes had turned him to ash. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and old jeans, work boots. His hair was dark and he hadn’t had it cut in some time; it was longer than mine. When he stared there was something hot in his gaze, as though he could burn you alive if he wanted to. If you gave him a reason.
“Well, you’re here,” Lazarus said. “What do you want?”
This sounded like a trick question to me. If I answered incorrectly, perhaps I would turn into ash myself. Burned alive.
We stared at each other. Putting my hand through glass was nothing compared with this. I was in this moment, no other time. Now when I thought about New Jersey it was like remembering a mythological country.
You had to do the thing you were most afraid of, didn’t you? In every fairy tale the right way was the difficult path, the one that led over boulders, through brambles, across a field of fire. I took a step forward and looped my arms around Lazarus Jones’s neck so I could be near him. Every person had a secret, this was mine: I couldn’t begin anything that remotely resembled a life until I understood death.
Lazarus Jones smelled like sulfur. People with sense run away from fire, but not me.
“Now that you’ve done it once, are you afraid to do it again?”
In response, he pulled me closer, just for an instant. For that time I didn’t hear the clicking in my head, not one snap. I didn’t smell oranges or feel the gritty dust.
“That’s for me to know. I’m not sure you want to find out.”
He let go and started walking away. Then he stopped and turned around. I was still there. He hadn’t imagined me or gotten rid of me. Yet.
“You want to know what I’m afraid of?”
He cast a shadow along the yardspace between us. A dark shade. The sun was no longer blinding me. I could see right into his face. Maybe I nodded. I must have, because he spoke.
“It’s the living that scares me most of all,” Lazarus Jones said.
He went on then, inside his house. After he’d closed the door, I heard the lock click into place. I felt lost, standing there. Sweltering in the sun. It was so hot out no birds were in the sky. They were all perched in the shadows.
A group of men were sitting in the shade as well, taking a break from picking oranges. One of them approached me as I walked back to my car. He was young, high-school age, tall and rangy. He had a curious, friendly expression and his hair was buzzed off. He reminded me of Renny, but he was healthy and strong; his hands were rough, covered with blisters. I wondered if the blisters caused him great pain. If he rubbed them with Vaseline. If some girl who loved him put his fingers in her mouth, healed him with a kiss.
“Was that Jones you were talking to?” the boy asked me.
“For a minute,” I said.
“He never talks to any of us. He leaves what we’re owed out on the porch. Then the fruit distributor sends trucks out, and those guys have nothing to do with him, either. I never even saw him before today. You were up close. Was he all deformed, or something?”
Deformed, no. Merely beautiful. But I didn’t think it was my place to comment if Jones wanted to keep himself locked away.
“I couldn’t really tell.”
“That’s what we all figure. He got hit by lightning and he’s all scarred up.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Let us know if you find out. Maybe we’re all working for a fucking
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