A Child Across the Sky.pdf

A CHILD ACROSS THE SKY

by Jonathan Carroll

flyleaf:

Across America, readers are delighting in what their European

counterparts have long recognized: Jonathan Carroll is a novelist of rare and

terrifying power. Pat Conroy first recognized Carroll's magic, calling him a

"cult waiting to be born." Now, spanning the literary spectrum from Stephen

King to Ruth Rendell, _Booklist_ to the _Berkeley Beat_, the growing and

diverse ranks of believers testify to the fact that Carroll is the first

orignial movement in contemporary American literature.

_A Child Across the Sky_ is a modern _Faust_, a seductive psychological

descent into evil set in the chic world of film. An intellectual,

Oscar-winning filmmaker, Weber Greston is horrified to learn that his best

friend Philip Strayhorn has committed suicide. Strayhorn, the creator and

antihero of the cult series of "Midnight" films, leaves behind only a

disturbing videotape as explanation. The tape forces Weber to confront the

twisted significance of Phil's movies. In the process, he learns not only how

little he knew about his best friend, but also just how far he's willing to go

in the name of Art.

Carroll's fifth novel and his richest offering, _A Child Across the Sky_

shimmers with invention and feeling. It is both a stunning addition to his

work and, for those who have yet to experience Carroll, a dazzling entree to

his world.

JONATHAN CARROLL is the author of _The Land of Laughs_, _Voice of Our

Shadow_, _Bones of the Moon_, and _Sleeping in Flame_. He lives in Vienna.

Jacket illustration by Janet Woolley

Jacket typography by Suzanne Noli

PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY

a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. 666 Fifth

Avenue, New York, New York 10103

DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are trademarks

of Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carroll, Jonathan, 1949-

A child across the sky / by Jonathan Carroll. -- 1st ed. in the U.S.A.

p. cm.

I. Title.

PS3553. A7646C5 1990 813'.54 -- dc20 89-29086

CIP

ISBN 0-385-26535-2

Printed in the United States of America August 1990

FIRST EDITION

For Beverly -- My life across the sky

"They are coming to teach us good manners. . . . But they won't succeed

because we are gods."

Giuseppe Lampedusa,

_The Leopard_

one

_The people_

_one loves_

_should take all_

_their things_

_with them when they die._

GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

_Love in the Time of Cholera_

An hour before he shot himself, my best friend Philip Strayhorn called

to talk about thumbs.

"Ever noticed when you wash your hands how you don't really do your

thumbs?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's your most important finger, but because it sticks out, away from

the rest, you don't really wash it. A little dip and rub, maybe, but not

nearly enough attention for all the work it does. It's probably the finger

that gets dirtiest, too."

"That's what you called to tell me, Phil?"

"It's very symbolic. Think about it. . . . What are you reading these

days?"

"Plays. I'm still trying to find the right ones."

"I have to tell you I bumped into Lee Onax the other day. Said he'll

still give you half a million if you direct for him."

"I don't want to direct films anymore, Phil. You know how I feel."

"Sure, but five hundred thousand dollars would help your theater a lot."

"_Five_ dollars would help a lot. But if I went back and did a film now,

it'd be fun and seductive and I'd probably want to direct movies again."

"Remember in the _Aeneid_ the hundred and forty thousand different kinds

of pain? I wonder what number yours would be? 'I don't want to be a famous

Hollywood director anymore because it'd make me confused.' Pain number 1387."

"Where are you calling from, Phil?"

"LA. We're still cutting the film."

"What's the title?"

"_Midnight Kills_."

I grinned. "Terrific. What's the most horrible thing you do in it?"

The telephone line hissed over the three thousand miles.

"Are you still there, Phil?"

"Yeah. The most horrible thing is what I _didn't_ do."

"You were making a movie, man. Bad things happen sometimes."

"Uh-huh. How are _you_ doing, Weber?"

"Good. One of my main actors is really sick, but you've got to expect

that when you're working here." I looked at the small Xeroxed poster tacked to

the board above my desk. THE NEW YORK CANCER PLAYERS PRESENT FRIEDRICH

DÜRRENMATT'S "THE VISIT." "Our Opening night is in a month. We're all getting

nervous."

"Theater's so different, isn't it? With movies, opening night means

everything is finished: nothing you can do but sit back and watch. In the

theater, though, it's all beginning. I remember that."

There was a worn-out echo in his voice that I took for exhaustion. I was

wrong.

Sasha Makrianes called to tell me he was dead. She'd gone over to cook

lunch and found him sitting on the patio in his favorite high-backed armchair.

From behind, it looked like he'd fallen asleep while reading. A copy of

Rilke's poetry was on the ground next to him, as well as an unopened can of

Dr. Pepper. She called his name, then saw the book was covered with blood.

Going over, she saw him slumped forward, what was left of his head spewed in a

wide splintered arc over everything.

Running into the house to telephone the police, she found the body of

Flea, his Shar-Pei dog, in the big brown wicker basket Phil brought from

Yugoslavia.

Hearing he'd killed the dog too was almost as shocking as the news of

Phil's death. Sasha often joked through gritted teeth that he loved Flea as

much as her.

The first thing that came to my mind was our thumb discussion. Was he

thinking about that an hour later as he loaded the gun and put it in his

mouth? Why had he chosen _that_ as the topic of our last conversation?

A few years before, we'd been through an earthquake together. As the

ground rumbled, Phil kept saying over and over, "This isn't a movie! This is

_not_ a movie!"

We'd been creating or adapting scripts so long that all part of me could

think of was setting and the last words this character, Philip Strayhorn,

would have chosen. I was ashamed my mind worked like that, but if Phil had

known he would have laughed. In the process of spending almost twenty years

trying to get our names onto the silver screen, we'd lost parts of our

objectivity toward life. When someone you love dies, you should weep -- not

think of camera angles or last lines.

After the phone call, I went out for a walk. There was a travel agent

down the street; I'd book a flight to California the next day. But a few steps

out the door, I realized what I really wanted to do was visit Cullen James.

Cullen and her husband, Danny, lived up on Riverside Drive, a good

hour's walk from my apartment. Pulling up my collar, I started out with the

hope exercise and the tiredness it'd bring would take some of the edge off the

news of Philip Strayhorn's death.

In the last few years, Cullen had become famous in a peculiar sort of

way. When we first met, she was going through what could best be described as

an "otherworldly experience." Every night for a number of months she dreamt of

a land called Rondua where she traveled on a bizarre quest after something

called the "bones of the moon." I fell in love with her then, which was very

bad because she was happily married to a nice man and nursing their first

child. I am not a wife stealer, but Cullen James made me crazy and I went

after her as if she were the gold ring on my personal carousel. If I'd been a

sailor, I'd have had her name tattooed on my arm.

In the end I didn't win her, but during that confused and passionate

time I began dreaming of Rondua too. Those dreams changed my life. Those

dreams and the earthquake.

When I got to the Jameses' building I was cold inside and out. The death

of a loved one robs you of some kind of vital inner heat. Or perhaps it blows

out the pilot light that keeps your burners lit. Whatever, it took an hour of

hard walking in the blue lead cold of a New York December for me to really

hold in the palm of my mind the fact my best and oldest friend was dead. He

had almost no cruelty in him. After twenty years I knew Philip Strayhorn was

even better than I'd ever thought. He once said there are thirty-one million

seconds in a year. So few of them are worth remembering. Those that are,

thrill and hurt us without end.

"Hello?"

"Cullen? It's Weber. I'm downstairs. Do you mind a visitor?"

"Oh, Christ, Weber, we just heard about Phil. Of course, come up."

There was a giant holiday wreath on their door. The Jameses loved

Christmas. For them, it started in November and went on well into January.

They used their daughter, Mae, as an excuse for the festivity, but it was

clear they liked it more than the kid. There were always oranges stuck with

cinnamon cloves in every corner of every room, Christmas cards on the

windowsills, a tree out of a 1940s movie like _The Bishop's Wife_ or _It's a

Wonderful Life_. It was a good place. Slippers belonged there, and a friendly

dog that followed you from room to room.

Cullen opened the door and smiled. There are perfect faces. I've known

and slept with some, but they were meant to remain placid and untouched, not

shaken or distorted by the push and pull of great emotion or a long and full

night in bed. They're tuxedos -- you wear them only on special occasions and

then hang them up carefully in the closet afterward; a stain or wrinkle on

them ruins everything. Cullen's is not a perfect face. She smiles too much,

and many times it's obviously false: her safe and easy defense against a

curious and persistent world. But she is beautiful and . . . whole. When I

first met her she was full of love and confusion. Even then I wanted it all

but knew I'd never have any. Without trying, she handcuffed herself to my

heart.

When she opened the door that sad day, instead of offering a hug, Cullen

took off the silver bracelet she was wearing and handed it to me. When I was

trying to woo her, I'd once asked her to do that. It was the only real

physical intimacy we would ever share: her warmth, my only moments of owning

it. Although she'd blushed when I first told her that, since then it had

become her way of saying, I'm here, friend. I'll do what I can.

"How're you doing, Weber?"

"Not so good. Where's Mae?"

"Inside with Danny. We haven't told her yet. You know how much she loved

Phil."

"Such a nice man." I started to cry. "You want to know something strange

as hell? The last time Phil stayed with me here, on his way back from

Yugoslavia? He slept on the couch and wore my pajamas. When he left the next

morning, for some strange reason I took the pajamas and put them up to my face

so I could smell them. Smell _him_. I don't know why I did that, Cullen. He

was there. He's gone. He was everywhere."

She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me gently into the

apartment. Almost as soon as the door closed behind us, a little black Cairn

terrier that looked exactly like the dog in _The Wizard of Oz_ came trotting

importantly from another room. Her muzzle was completely, comically white.

She'd obviously just been rooting around in something thick and foamy.

"Mama! Negnug ate all the whipped cream!" Mae James, age five, came

running in, arms windmilling, tongue stuck out, big eyes delighted. "Weber!"

She leapt up on me and wrapped her legs around mine.

"Hiya, Mae! I came over to say hello."

"Weber, you cannot imagine what just happened! Negnug ate all the

whipped cream Mama made for the cake."

Danny walked in with his great warm smile on, something I always liked

to see. He stuck out his hand and we shook hard. After a moment, he put his

other hand over mine. "I'm glad you came, Weber. We were worried about you.

Let's have a drink."

"But, Pop, what about the whipped cream? Aren't you going to spank

Negnug? If I did that, you'd spank _me_! Now she's probably going to throw up

all over the rug, like she did last time."

A small fire burned in the grate in the living room. The dog was plopped

down on its side nearby. It looked pleased and exhausted. Mae walked over and,

hands on hips, shook her head disgustedly at the furry traitor.

"Now our cake won't be half as good because of _you_, stinkpot."

Cullen and I sat on the couch, Danny in a paisley-covered armchair

nearby.

"Mae, honey, would you do me a favor and go see if the tea is ready yet?

Just tell me if the water's boiling, but don't touch anything, okay?"

"Okay, Mom."

When the child had left the room, Cullen spoke quickly. "Fool around

with her a little, Weber, okay? Then she and Danny are going to the movies.

You and I have to talk."

"About Phil?"

They looked at each other. Danny spoke. "About a couple of things." He

reached down and pulled a box from beneath his chair. "We got a package from

Phil in the mail a couple of days ago. We thought it was Christmas presents

for Mae. But when we opened it, this box was inside along with two others.

It's got your name on it."

I sat forward. "It's from _Phil_?"

Danny shrugged. "We didn't understand it either, except he knows we all

spend Christmas together. Cullen thought maybe he wanted us to open our

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