Earthbound

By Seb Cameron

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.

- William Shakespeare

His mother jumped off the church tower five years after he fell from her womb. Now, in his nineteenth year in this small, insignificant town on this small, insignificant planet, he liked to think, in his deeper moments, that the whole of his life consisted in the reliving of that moment, those emotions, in various different ways. His mother descended through the air. A dog, was it a mongrel? chasing its tail; an orgy of confusion for the beast, delight for the unsuspecting onlookers. The local drunk, sitting on the church steps, looked into the sky, his face a mixture of confusion and wonder. He was sure he had seen the smallest flicker of a smile on his face.

Shit. He thought. These weren’t thoughts to be thinking at such a time. A young country gentleman – upholder of virtue, paragon of manliness and all that is good and pure – does not think about his mother committing suicide whilst in the shower. His brow creased with frustration as he opened the shower door, fumbling for the towel. A sudden shock, a surge of heat and he pulled back his arm. The radiator always fooled him. He muttered some oath in Italian which it would not do us dignity to translate. The small bathroom always felt tighter, almost alien in the early morning, before the sun had bathed the house in golden light. The shadows in the room swung from side to side, as a single, un-shaded bulb vibrated gently with the breeze.

He could never remember how he summoned up the will to rise in the morning. Of course, jobs had to be done, animals had to be tended. If he would not rise before five on a Thursday to sell produce at the local market, so that he could pay old Sally’s wages, what a state the world would be in! It would be as if Lucifer’s gates had swung open, and all the demons of Hades were rampaging across the Italian campagna.

Looking in the mirror, he examined himself. His hair was unquestionably black today. He grinned. Mother had always maintained it was brown; there would have been no argument this morning. A few damp strands fell pleasingly across his forehead, trespassers and rebels. The hair would do. Sharp blue eyes roved across his form in the mirror, searching for an imperfection. He saw a light blue shirt, black trousers and black shoes, clean but not recently polished. A button, plastic, done here; a crease rearranged there. He stood, one last check before he went into battle. Yes, he could face the day.

He laughed, hysterically, suddenly, so loudly that his father awoke from his drunken slumber with a start, oppressed by the ringing laughter and his blinding hangover. He, Alec Kennedy, an Italian gentleman? Still grinning at his own invention, he opened the front door and stepped onto a bustling New York sidewalk.

The walk to college was quick, in fact much quicker than he would have liked. There was never enough time these days, he mused, to truly enjoy things as they stood. Life could only be lived, he was sure, through observation. That young girl, hair tied back, smiling at the passers-by, a prostitute. The man, well-dressed and clean-shaven that stood near her, a pimp. They looked relaxed, at ease. She sighed, her hand covering her mouth as she yawned. He looked at his watch. Their nightly struggle with the rest of existence was over.

But what about the tall man, sharply handsome, that stood at the café counter, arguing with some poor, defenceless Filipino serving girl. Where does he fit in to the great struggle? Alec blushed, distracted, he continued staring at the man. Already he had a name, a favourite hobby, book, play, film; already a lover, not a wife. He was firm, but never cruel, and his brow creased slightly when he laughed. He suddenly stopped, looked around him, saw a pair of curious eyes. He hurried along, cheeks flaming. I can have my fantasies, he thought, but no more, or else how could I survive?

He practically ran along the pavement, ashamed at being discovered. He glared at the stone paving, resentful that they could not sense his pain and split in two, swallowing him whole and hiding him from the world’s inquisition. A woman – red blouse and yellow skirt – smiled warmly at him as he rushed along. He only swallowed and looked away. How could he meet such a terrifying gaze? The cold of an autumn morning was no longer bracing, as it had been. It was only the harbinger of decline, inevitable discovery and exile. Suddenly he stopped, felt his left foot stuck, immobile. His head plunged forwards, arms flailed uselessly, flapping as if they believed that by force of sheer will they could propel him upwards to safety. He was falling now, he knew how it would end, but for this moment he was comfortable. The puddles on the New York sidewalk, glistening with oily rainbows seemed oddly welcoming, a sea ready to receive him. Was this how his mother had felt?

He touched down, no pain yet. Felt the cold rock against his forehead, the rainwater cover his eyes and mouth. The taste of petrol lingered on his tongue. His briefcase, which had left the care of his right hand as it tried to prevent his humiliation, still sailed above the cars.

“My mother used to cry when father was angry. She would hide in her room, sitting against the far wall, head in her hands, palms wet from her tears. I mean, you could tell that she was crying, even though she didn’t make a sound. Her body would shake, only slightly but you could tell. Her shoulders moved up and down with every shallow, snatched breath, rhythmically; if it wasn’t for the tears she could almost pass for a woman in a trance.

“She was beautiful, man, she really was. Even then, like that, she was a hundred, a thousand times prettier than anyone else I’d ever met. On those mornings, the light – her bedroom faced east – fell, practically draped itself across her, like a pall, fighting to envelop every inch of her beautiful body in its cloak. Her arms, white, immaculate, would glisten as the water reflected the sunlight, the pattern always changing as another tear made the journey down her right – yes it was always her right – arm. Her long hair, blonde, shimmering, used to fall across her face and hands when she wept, it was almost as if it felt pity for her, and wanted to hide her disgrace from the world. If she hadn’t, you know, done that thing, she would be the most sought-after fifty-something in the state of New York.”

“And still you talk about her, Alec, still you let her saturate your mind. Have you gone a single day without thinking about her? It’s charming, in it’s way, but am I disturbed by your obsession. You always act as if you’re the only person who has problems, like it’s only you that has these terrible events imposed upon them, and you won’t be satisfied until we all know about them. We’re all fighting, Jesus, all of us. It’s like those stories you write; your central character, always a boy of between ten and sixteen years of age, feels put-upon and helpless, because of the betrayal of his best friend, always a girl of between ten and sixteen years of age. Can you really not find it in you to write about something relevant, something, fuck it, something important?”

“That’s all I’m qualified to write, Ste.”

Stephen survived by taking drugs every night, working in a 9-11 every day and never failing to laugh at the steady decline into obscurity, old age and impotence that was his life. He was not yet twenty-one years old.

“Bullshit.” The word hung in the air.

Alec Kennedy was the kind of man who felt tremendous sympathy for the whole of the human race. If he saw a child crying on the street, he would cringe and feel guilty; if, while attending a concert, a violinist were to play an obviously wrong note, he would feel the musician’s embarrassment and the audience’s disapproval almost as keenly as the violinist himself. He had to leave the theatre when, during a performance of As You Like It, Jaques managed to forget the first line of his most famous speech. Life was difficult when you felt the injustice and misfortune of others as keenly as he did.

“Can you remember what we talked about the first time I met you? What we spent almost four hours discussing?” Stephen smiled slightly, remembering their first meeting. At the cafeteria across the road from NYU, it was their first day. Neither of them could connect with other people easily, and so it was the most natural thing in the world that they should end up at the same table. Ageing neon lights flickered above their heads, creating the illusion of rain as they tried, falteringly at first, to talk. Both stuck to what they knew, Stephen talking about his passion for poetry – “…but it’s far too easy to underestimate the impact that Byron had on the modern form…” – and Alec talking about his mother’s end. Neither was comfortable, both shifting in their seats, and neither listened to the other, only planning what they would say next. Alec balanced on the edge, nervous, unsure, had he made the right impression? His chair tipped forward, the slightest move and it would slide and fall to the floor. Like lovers courting, they knew the significance of every pause, every sigh, every laugh that seemed too long or too loud. They measured every cough, every glance at the other’s face was timed precisely. Under the flickering lights they jousted, courted and danced together a thousand times, before retiring in time for the 3PM lecture.

“I talk about her, think about her so much because she was my mother, the only person in my life who has ever cared about me. I’ve never… mattered to anyone but her.” His cheeks were growing red. “She loved me, Ste, and I love her. She’s the only person in my life who’d never betray me. Whenever someone hurts me, I just think of her, but every time I do, I remember that day in Orvieto…”

“So her death was a senseless tragedy, but imagine the moment when she was falling, imagine what it must have felt like. To experience such freedom, Alec, isn’t that every person’s dream? God how I love those moments, when, when, when you cease to be earthbound. Moments like those are what I live for, Alec. Sometimes I feel so sorry for you, always watching from the sidelines, condemned to be nothing more than a spectator. You really still are that little boy, on the pavement at dusk, trousers red from sitting in the dust for too long, watching your mother.”

Alec smiled slightly, apologetically. He tapped his foot against the table-leg. His throat felt tight, and although his arm was shaking, he placed his hand gently on top of Stephen’s. He had screwed up his courage to the sticking place, tired of doing nothing but watching, hoping, dreaming. They stared into each other’s eyes. His friend’s smile faded. He drew away his hand, rose, muttered a hasty goodbye and walked out of the diner. Alec stared at the empty chair.

The Kennedy family, like their more famous namesakes, were used to tragedy. The father’s eldest song, his dream for the future, cut short by Vietnam, death of a nation’s dream. He was not yet twenty, sixteen years older than his brother.

The father, 53, short, irritable, yet to develop the natural, easy charm of the middle-aged, stumbled through the doorway into the house his wife tended. The man collapsed onto the couch, coat still dripping from the rain. She came in, smiled, false but practised. She knew how to survive. Dinner was ready, she said. And I’ll be there when I’m ready, he said. The smile faltered slightly, she sat down beside him. Their younger son watched from behind the door.

“But Alec’s hungry, and he hasn’t seen you for days. Come and eat with us, it would mean so much to him. You are his father, after all.” He turned away from her sharply, eyes falling onto an overflowing ashtray. “He misses you, sweetheart, come and join us, please.” The father looked closer at the stubs, now barely listening. He leant forward, first finger of his left hand rooting through the burnt-out stubs. Her voice grew higher, more insistent. Finding what he was looking for, his hand jumped forward, pulling two half-smoked cigarettes from the ashes.

“What brand of cigarettes do you smoke now?”

“Whatever I can find, sweetheart…”

“You’re lying, Kathleen, you smoke these.” He held one of them up to her face. “So what is this one doing here?” Two different brands. Her mouth tightened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling, I smoke whatever’s around. You know that. Come to dinner.”

He stood up, took her by the wrist and led her to his study, slamming the oak door behind him. Half an hour later, the door opened and his mother ran up to her room. Father emerged a little later and strode back out of the door. Alec still stood, watching it all. He ran upstairs to join his mother.

How he longed, if just for one moment, to touch his cheek, to lean towards him and ever so gently, so that it could hardly be felt, to kiss him. That, he thought, that moment would make me complete.

“Give me that moment!” he howled out into the night. People walked on, women holding their children closer, men increasing their step. Even the cars crossing the bridge seemed to drive a little faster when they passed him. A lady in white looked at him, her hands growing red from the cold but her eyes sharp, uncaring. Am I so undeserving, so insignificant? A tear ran down his left cheek, mingling with the raindrops. It had rained when mother fell. He laughed, ironically, archly; he knew what he must do. All became black, his mind empty, blotted out. All he could see; a railing before him, tears falling from the sky, the deep, mysterious blue of the Hudson.

He looked at the water. This should be all. His father’s voice faded, the ravings of youth becoming barely coherent mutterings. The little house by the sea, filled with childhood, now submerged by the tide beneath this ocean of memory. Half-remembered faces; his grandfather, a pilot, killed in action two days before the end of the last war; his sister, with her throaty, hoarse laugh, yet another reason to give up smoking; his mother… But here he stopped. What was her favourite colour? How red were her eyes when she got up every morning? Did she like the cheap soap father bought, or would she sneak money from his wallet, get on a bus into town and buy the nicer stuff, the soaps they used in the big, white houses down by the vineyard, the ones that smelt of rich? Each question had an answer, he was sure. He had lived this.

He was sure he could do it too. He finally understood. In a move he plunged forward, head down. They fell from a great height. He saw the ripples running across the water, a small tug heading towards Ellis Island, the reflection of the floodlit Lady Liberty glowing on the water. She closed her eyes when she climbed over the railings, the bronze church-bells behind her, vibrating slightly with the breeze. She perched on the metal guardrail for a second, ready, as if preparing to do no more than jump into a pool. Then she pushed off, free at last. A smile covered her face, eyes closed, long blonde hair streaming behind her. He remembered the lash of father’s belt upon his back, how he had not been allowed to cry. She remembered nothing but her son, sitting on the pavement below. A sudden thought flashed through his mind, a moment of intimacy, fulfilment once.

He laughed.