The Bewildered Read online

  (There are several who help me in my research, though of course they are not aware that it is they themselves whom I study!)

  As many ways as I have located the Affected, there is as much variation among them. For, like the rest of us, they are individuals, and differ drastically, one from another. Some have little comprehension remaining—though in most cases the original intellectual capacities are impossible to determine—and others remain sharp, while adopting new fixations, or regressing to the fascinations of adolescence or even before. They develop new tastes in food, music or fashion. And there is the forgetfulness, the lost time, the erratic sleep patterns, the attempts at self-medication.

  Again, specific examples of this range will follow—and at the same time as I attempt to account for this variation, I will strive to delineate some common features that may, taken together, serve to identify the Affected. Let me now, then, attempt a preliminary definition, with some cursory examination of causes and suggestion toward my hypotheses.

  1. The Affected are those individuals who have been electrocuted almost to the degree of death, yet have not died. They have come close enough, however, that it may be said that they remain suspended (again, there is variation toward which pole they tend) between life and death.

  2. These individuals retain a sensitivity to, and dependence upon electricity.

  3. It has come to my attention that the wire involved in human electrocution is also transformed—that wire which has killed or shocked an individual to an Affected state possesses specific properties that may potentially be unlocked.

  4. Furthermore, it is only the Affected who are able to gauge the transformation in this wire, and it is for this that I employ them, to differentiate and grade the wire so I may seek its potential.

  Are there reasons beyond curiosity that have led me to develop these theories, to gather this body of knowledge and to conduct my experiments? Quite simply, yes. Money, I should say, is necessary, and one product of my search, but it is not an end. No. Knowledge—science, in a way—is what I am after, what I write for, what I hope to share. And this knowledge, it is also for myself. I will transport myself to a different way of life.

  Might it be possible to attain the heights of their experience without suffering the drawbacks? To access what is most electric in us, most alive?

  Answering these questions is akin to science, and also detective work, and has proved a compelling frustration. Much of the difficulty is caused by the one characteristic that all the Affected share:

  5. The Affected have no insight into their condition, no awareness that they are different from other people or how they themselves were before their electrical incidents—in fact, they are unable to recall these incidents. You can explain the situation to their faces (I have tried, in fact, many times) and they will never understand. They will react with disbelief, ridicule, and consternation. These are not people who can explain anything to you.

  17.

  THE AMUSEMENT PARK was almost a hundred years old. Oaks Park, right along the river, all its rides rickety and rattling, providing extra thrills—the Rock-O, the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Scrambler and the Looping Thunder, a rollercoaster held together by duct tape and fear.

  The three rode the Ferris wheel, on the far end of the park, taking it all in from the highest vantage point possible. Kayla sat in one basket with Leon, and Chris sat in the one in front of them; he kept turning around, checking for something. A sign on the back of his basket said DANGER! DO NOT ROCK SEAT! Fluorescent tubes of light stretched along the metal framework. Kayla knew Chris was afraid of heights, that he didn’t like the thrill rides. The Ferris wheel was about all he could take.

  “Look under our feet,” she said to Leon, “it’s the same grip tape as on a skateboard’s deck.”

  “Yeah,” Leon said. “It is. Look at all the people.”

  “Kiken no imi nanka shittemo inai ne.”

  “Whatever you say,” he said.

  “How are you feeling?” she said. “What are you thinking about?”

  Leon didn’t reply. The red sun was setting behind the west hills. The distant silhouettes of the buildings downtown looked fake. A tour boat plowed slowly up the river. Kayla looked down at the pathetic teenagers heading for the roller rink; she looked at the top of the carousel, how the round, orange rooftop was made to look like the top of a tent. As the Ferris wheel took them lower, she could see the horses and other gaudy animals slide past, rising and falling.

  “Wait for a complete stop,” a pre-recorded voice said.

  They swept up, backward. Directly beneath them, whole fat families raced go-carts. Everyone ignored the miniature golf course. Kayla snorted at the sight of it. She wore a skirt, and leaned her leg against Leon’s. He didn’t seem to notice. Turning, she looked carefully at his face, the smooth skin, the slack, clueless expression, his hair still only a hint of bristles. After a moment, he felt her gaze and looked back at her.

  “What?” he said. “Is that silver on your eyes?”

  “Eyelids,” she said. “It’s glitter.”

  Above the screams and shouting, distant fireworks exploded. Leftover Black Cats and bottle rockets, out in the neighborhoods; tonight was the fifth of July. Leon turned farther, to look behind them, toward the sound. Across the bracken, watery nature reserve, above the dead, drowned trees, a hundred-foot-tall great blue heron was painted on the wall of the crematorium.

  “That’s where they burn up dead people’s bodies,” Kayla said.

  “I know.”

  “They hide the smoke, somehow,” she said.

  Kayla saw that Leon was not looking at the crematorium; instead, he focused on the thick power lines, the towers that stretched across the river. Atop some of the towers were platforms—Canada geese nested there, awkwardly coming and going. She had been watching Leon carefully, these past couple weeks, collecting clues. Direct questions had been the least successful; she had to follow wherever he wanted to go. Now he seemed impatient, his hands gently pounding the metal bar across their laps. As they descended the front of the wheel, his impatience increased; he bent forward to see under the carousel’s roof as early as possible, to extend the length of his vision. Kayla did the same, watching the mostly empty horses, the saddled elephants and giraffes come leaping around.

  “No rocking!” said the cigarette-voiced man operating the wheel, his puffy face flashing as they were pulled backward, underneath. “You, girl,” he said, “you’re the one I’m talking to.” Already they were climbing away from him, back toward the top.

  It seemed darker than when they first got on the ride; the plastic bracelets on her wrists were beginning to glow in the dark. The fluorescent lights were brighter, illuminating their dangling feet.

  “Last night,” Kayla said, “you know, Chris and I went to Forest Park and deposited the rest of the money, from Natalie. There’s getting to be a lot of it.”

  “Good,” Leon said.

  “Good? Where were you?”

  “Last night?” He looked up at the pale stars. “There’s a lot going on,” he said. “I lose track. I don’t think I’m sleeping very much.”

  “You don’t think so?” Kayla said. “Where were you?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “My parents, man.”

  “What about them?”

  “I don’t even want to talk about it.” He leaned forward again, straining to see under the roof of the carousel. “Holy crow,” he said.

  Kayla watched the whole painted menagerie—the horses, the ostriches, the lions and tigers—slide past. A few hyperactive children rode these beasts, and a couple who were afraid, their parents standing next to them. And then a grown man came into view, just as Leon exclaimed. The man’s long thin legs were bent up; he rode a giant rooster. He turned his head and his black, pointed beard framed his face.

  “What?” Kayla said. “What is it? Did you see someone?”

  “No,” Leon said. “I don’t know. Nothing.” He looked away, h
is eyes cutting sideways; he scratched at the side of his face.

  “Once more around,” the operator said, flashing by. “I’m watching you!”

  They climbed, Chris in his basket right behind them, then directly above, then in front of them again. He stole a glance backward, checking, and turned to face forward. Almost immediately he spun toward them again, and pointed out over the park.

  “There!” he said. “The sailor’s down there. All the way over there by the Scrambler.”

  All Kayla saw was a figure sitting on a bench, and then the treetops, blocking her view.

  “That fool?” she said. “Let’s go see what he’s doing.”

  “All right,” Leon said, “if you guys want to.”

  Back on the ground, up close, everything was that much more pathetic. Fat women in terry cloth shorts with blurry tattoos on their calves, old guys with mustaches carrying combs in their back pockets, stupid plush animals, inflatable superheroes. Kayla saw how Leon slowed as they passed the carousel; the bearded man was nowhere to be seen. Chris trailed her, too, even though it wasn’t easy walking in her tight skirt, her platform sneakers. She looked back at them, and noticed for the first time that now Chris was taller than Leon. That had happened since the beginning of the summer. She wondered whether to say anything.

  “We could go through the haunted house,” Chris said, “instead of the Looping Thunder.”

  “You wish,” Kayla said. “It’s boring—the black light, the skeletons, the same haunted mill idea as every single haunted house, ever.”

  “People are looking at the way you’re dressed,” he said.

  “If we were in Tokyo, no one would think a thing,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  Teenagers, some of whom she recognized from school, strutted past, pretend-fighting, flirting. The three walked past the pink plastic slides, past the shooting gallery with the two piano players as targets. The most pathetic of all were the teenagers who worked at the park—tired-looking, smoking clove cigarettes, acting old. She didn’t know how people could let themselves fall apart like that.

  They passed the fun house mirrors at the entrance, toward the booth where people threw darts at balloons. And there, facing the Rock-O and the Tilt-A-Whirl, sat the sailor himself, Steven. He wore huge black sunglasses, even though it was dusk. He seemed to be asleep, he was so still. A stupid-looking dog rested next to him, on a short leash. It wore a red vest that said something on it in white letters.

  “Now this is a sad sight,” Kayla said.

  Steven listened to the ringing of the bell. It sounded like a train, a miniature train, which must run right behind the bench, on the other side of the low fence. He could feel the links of the fence with his fingers. He smelled cigarette smoke and popcorn. He could not see a thing. Around him, machinery groaned and gears whined, gnashing; this, combined with the screams, great waves of them, made it seem he was surrounded by a medieval torture chamber.

  “Shoot the clown in the mouth! Right in the mouth! Win Scooby Doo!”

  He listened, trying to imagine the people behind the voices. Reaching out, he felt Ross’s bony, furry skull for reassurance. This was a test for both of them, and the dog sat up at Steven’s touch, as if they might go somewhere. Steven was not yet ready for that attempt. He shivered, and imagined Heather hiding somewhere, spying on him—but of course that was impossible. She couldn’t spy on anyone.

  She had left him here; she said she would return. This was all her idea, and she had taken great care with his eyes. The preparations had taken almost an hour. First, coins, then bread dough, then oblong pieces of black leather that she carefully taped to his eye sockets. Finally, the black glasses with the sidepieces. With these glasses, and the cane, and the dog, anyone would think he was blind. And he was.

  “How many tickets do you have?”

  “You can’t buy a corndog with tickets!”

  “Why not?”

  People appeared out of nothing, nowhere, and disappeared the same way, with the same completeness. Ross settled again, the heavy, steady shape of him against Steven’s leg. Neither one of them was alone. Steven tried to concentrate, to be aware. The blind live in a world of time, not space—he’d heard this repeated so often, and yet he had no sense of how much time had passed. He might have been sitting here half an hour, or much longer. Or shorter. A skittering raced behind his head. A chipmunk, or a rat. And there was the clap of a pigeon’s wings.

  He wanted to take off the glasses, everything, and see what all this was, to unveil the mysteries; at the same time, he didn’t want to, he wanted to remain caught in the confusion, to wallow in it. After all, sight only provided different mysteries, as Heather had pointed out.

  “Mommy! You forgot what Keith said!”

  A river of voices, of footsteps, flowed around him. And music somewhere, some damn Eagles song.

  “You in the tube top,” a man’s voice whispered, “you like me…”

  Steven had never been to the park before, though he’d passed it many times, out on the river. His houseboat had been docked nearby; he had no idea where the boat was now. These past few weeks, Heather had let him stay at her place—on the couch, at first, and then with her, in her bedroom.

  He had imagined how it would be, with her restless hands all over his body, seeing him through touch, but when it happened, she seemed more distant than that. Perhaps his expectations got in the way, or his vision came between them, took them to two different places. Heather’s body was so pale, so smooth. She was wider than he was; on top of her, looking down, he could see her left hip, and her right, on either side of him. At first, he couldn’t help looking, and keeping the lights on, but lately he had been switching them off, closing his eyes. This seemed to help; at the very least, it kept him from seeing Ross at the foot of the bed, watching attentively, the dog ready to help if any assistance was needed, any signal given.

  A trail of screams wheeled overhead, faded. Ross shifted against his leg. It was much more difficult to keep his mind from wandering, Steven realized, to keep himself in this place where he was. Distant from him, he heard young voices, a conversation he couldn’t quite grasp:

  “…a sad sight.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Stay back…”

  “…people around…can’t do…”

  “…thunder, then…”

  “All right.”

  Everything was starting to blur together, all the voices and music and machinery. The cane in his lap was made up of twelve-inch segments held together by an elastic cord that ran inside them. Its handle was like the grip of a golf club and the tapping of its hard tip let people know you were coming, and that you were blind. Now Steven unfolded the cane; Ross stood at the sound and, unsteadily, Steven did the same.

  He shuffled, sliding the soles of his shoes; the cane would warn him, Ross would let him know if there were stairs, or any drop-off. He didn’t trust them; the ground felt suspicious beneath him, as if it were conspiring to trick him. He kept on with the sense of others getting out of his way, close calls as reluctant children were pulled from his path. He crunched through spilled popcorn, felt the cold stickiness of a sno-cone against his bare arm. What if someone realized he wasn’t actually blind? Would they be angry? What would he say? What if he encountered an actual blind person?

  He tried to trust Ross. The dogs were not trained to work with the blind, the mantra went, they were persuaded. Steven did not find this distinction exactly reassuring. And now the smell of food—corndogs, hamburgers—thickened as he neared the snack counter; this he’d passed, on the way in, but now things would become more difficult, now he was not merely backtracking. As he walked, he felt the weight of stares—no one knew better than he, the guiltless satisfaction of staring at the blind, and now he realized how aware they might be. Ross led him gently on, the feeling of people slipping past on either side. He paused at the gentle, calm sound of a water fountain, gathered himself, then continued onwa
rd, through screams and gunshots. Someone leaned close to ask him if he wanted to throw a ball at something, then trailed off, not bothering to finish the offer.

  He veered to the left, and felt a wooden edge, a table. He patted the air, slapped a bench, and sat down again.

  “This area’s reserved for birthday parties,” a man’s voice said. “Oh, excuse me, sir. Sit here for a while, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” Steven said. “Could you tell me what time it is?”

  “Five past eight.”

  Over an hour had passed; he wasn’t certain if time was moving slowly or quickly. He felt exhausted and wondered how far he’d traveled. Probably not far at all; it was the mental effort translating into the physical weariness. Near his feet, Ross panted as if he, too, were tired. Around them, everyone shouted, no one spoke in lowered voices here.

  “Skee ball!”

  “Did you see me skate backward?”

  “It’s just a ball with mirrors stuck to it; they shine lights on it!”

  Steven felt he should move, but also felt an inertia, a need to rest. He wanted to sit for at least five minutes, but had no way—outside of repeatedly asking passersby—of keeping this from sliding into half an hour or more. Suddenly, Ross’s tail slid across the ground, slapping his ankle.

  “Hey there, American,” Heather said. She was close, perhaps sitting across the table.

  “I thought we were supposed to meet at the bench at eight-thirty.”

  “Oh,” she said, “did we have a plan together?”

  “Heather?” he said.

  “Have you forgotten what I look like? True, this black hair—but Denise Michele is Hawaiian, you know—”

  “Natalie,” he said. “I’m sorry.”