Who Has Known Heights

When I was little after watching the animated version of The Jungle Book, I went into the

dining room and climbed under the table. I cried. For two reasons: I wanted to be a panther

in the wild; I wanted to be Bagheera. Secondly, I was outraged at Mowgli for leaving the

jungle.

*

A social worker once told me, ‘You’re highly intelligent. What’s your IQ? Have you ever

been tested?’

Another one, a therapist, held no punches and said, ‘You’re a genius.’ I wanted to tell

her, A lot of good it does. There are different kinds of genius. If being a genius is realizing

we are at the mercy of our own understanding, then I guess I am one. ‘But,’ she continued,

‘you’re loyal to a fault.’ Yes. O’ yes. And I do pay for it.

In kindergarten my teacher got mad at me for going ahead. When my mother picked

me up from school and asked how class went I told her, ‘It was boring. The teacher read

too slowly.’ In high school I took some advanced courses, but no A.P. classes. This was

by choice. My teachers were disappointed. In their regular classes my grade point average

exceeded 100. So, why didn’t I—

My 11th grade teacher took me aside and gave me Walden to read. I examined a few

passages before the language grew laborious.

In college I took an abnormal psych course. One day when I stopped by her office,

Professor Carpenter asked, ‘How are you doing so well? What are your study habits—I’d

like to know? I design my tests to be deliberately tricky.’

A psychiatrist once suggested I was borderline autistic. Clearly a misdiagnosis. For years

I wouldn’t make eye contact. But then I, yes I, took control of my confidence and was never

again afraid to meet another’s gaze. In fact, now I often have the other person looking away,

my focus is so intent.

An acquaintance once told me I reminded her of Little Man Tate.

I want to make one point clear—this isn’t me talking great about myself here. I’m just

telling you what others have told me. Do with this information what you will. To date it

hasn’t done me any good—at least not that I know of.

I once took the postal exam and passed it the first time out. My career with the USPS

lasted 5 days. I couldn’t be a faceless worker bee. If anything, I wanted to be the Queen’s

right arm.

But the truth still remains—I don’t relate to my peers, I don’t assimilate socially. Is it

because I “am” a genius? Because I was reborn into the wrong body? In the wrong time? Or

is it but a combination of each of these factors and something more?

I’ve always been prejudiced against youth. For a long time I was prejudiced against

myself. I longed to be seen for the way I felt, to be old if necessary. I hated my age. Youth

was not wasted on me. I just never had the freedom to indulge, to partake of, and enjoy it.

I’ve diagnosed myself with eidetic memory.

The Fish Woman was right about some things.

Fluorescent lights, artificial lights of any kind, hurt my senses. I hate loud noises. I have

a weak lower back.

If you asked me to name the one feature about myself I most like I’d have to agree

with what a few others have told me—my eyes. They are gray-blue. My sister will tell you

they’re ‘battleship gray.’ Sometimes if I stare long enough into a mirror I see the mysticism

in them. Some old man, some ancient turtle—a heavy burden. My eyes sometimes frighten

me—what lurks behind—the capacity for all manner of thoughts. Darkness too.

My eyelids fold on themselves and my eyes are never wide open. They are shaped like

bird wings. I dislike “wide-eyed” expressions. I prefer shadow within the eyes, seductiveness,

a mist of speculation—introspection.

Now where was I—Oh yes, genius.

Exquisite torment.

I suffered from OCD from age 14-17. I still have some mental idiosyncrasies, but

nothing paralyzing. I inherited this from my mother. My mother was a knock-out in her

youth. Things weren’t always bad between my mother and father, but this was before I was

born. Besides, that’s another story.

I love washing dishes by hand and doing the laundry.

My favorite color is green or blue.

I don’t like white socks. Only navy or black.

The story of the Velveteen Rabbit says more than any Scripture. Where was my Skin

Rocking Horse when I needed him?

I have a Galapagos turtle in my living room. Not real, mind you, but a life-like replica

statue.

If I’d been able to go to West Point like my grandfather I’d have had a pin-up on my

wall of Greer Garson, Maureen O’Hara, Jane Wyatt, Sofia Loren, Juliette Binoche, or Meryl

Streep.

In looking back on my life I always see myself standing at a window—different

windows—and standing alone. I see myself watching the day. I am waiting. Waiting for

what, for whom?

For rest.

I’ve always been very conscious of time—how tedious the years. There is no adequate

substitute for intimate frustrations. I was sexually thwarted, and thwarted is the exact

term—for most, not all, but most of my early adult life—from the age of 22 to 29. My

heart stood in the way of my body. I refused to give myself to just anyone. Without love,

sex offered little appeal. Lest a genuine connection be felt, I preferred my own company to

that of a stranger.

Sex for the sake of sex is an ego-driven, inglorious, primal necessity, easily remedied by

means of a healthy regiment, with or without someone. But affection—virtue—is what the

body craves—the emotional witness—testament to a body not merely needed, but wanted.

I’ve always known a single kiss is more lasting than a shag.

Others are attracted to me—women and men, often enough. But my attractions are

rare. I’d rather be a decent man than a gratified one. Easier in theory. I’ve never substituted

anything! I hate alcohol. I don’t like smoking (I’m not a nerd. My only detriment is my

receding hairline caused by the testosterone I take owing to hypogonadism). I don’t like

smoke, I love a mountain wood fire, but I have no desire to transform myself into a living,

breathing smokestack. I may chomp on a pipe for aesthetic benefits, but I’d be hard pressed

to smoke one. My only vice is talking to you.

I love two women. I’ve only ever loved one woman, truly, at a time. And she—

She loved me.

Anything else I feel you need to know I’ll inform you as we go along.

Regn

_____________________________________________________________________

THE BLUE LINE

Don’t stop, don’t stop for one minute to think

or surely you will be sad

together, the camaraderie of her generation

champagne in hand, glowing the night away on the dance floor

a ride on the train

the boys gentlemen escorts

the girls respectable, both parties willing

but finding more pleasure in the ride, the sights, the freedom, their age, a night

of their lives

He was absent from this night, a scene occurring four decades ago.

But he was there. He ‘was’ there, somewhere inside one of them.

*

The image of breasts in champagne glasses. A German accent and a girlish laughter seducing her own sense of woman. He took her into one of the compartments on the train and he made love to her. She was a virgin. He was a virgin. They made slow love, missing their stop, riding long into the night. She’d taken off her dress and shoes and lain on the softback bench. He’d untucked his shirt, folded his jacket on a handrail and hung his tie from a purse hook. She was trembling with excitement. Together, in the dark, lights from occasional village dwellings passing their window, they undressed each other. She lifted her back and he swung his arm round, gently unclasping the eyes and hooks. He felt her at length, kneading her warming skin. He kissed her neck. She stroked his naked back to the crest of his private ravine. They felt through the darkness of time discovering what moved each other. He slid the cotton blooms from her legs running his Irish fingers through the darkened spirals of triangular landscape. He came from the side and ever so slowly slid over her length, as one sliding piece fits within another, only one true fit born, the perfect design.

He felt himself in a way he did not know, in a way he never had. What organ was this that stood on its own? He took it in his hand and though she could not see, the wetness came from his eyes. He suddenly felt a hand on him; it was not his own. She was holding him there and he could feel it. He came down slowly, her legs wings unfolding. He didn’t want to hurt her. He pushed with reserve, withdrawing, thrusting, withdrawing, thrusting a little farther than just before. It would still hurt she now realized until the rooted innocence ripped open the beginning of the end of her youth. It burned, she wanted him to stop, but instead pulled him closer, held him harder, needing to know she was not alone in this. A cry, a gasp escaped her throat, and he stroked her forehead, brushing her bangs aside, tracing the side of her face down to her chin. Still firm, he had stopped for a moment to give her time. How could he wait—didn’t the men always come quickly? So she’d been told. He raised himself, withdrawing slightly and then with a power she’d yet to experience, he entered deepest. She cried in silence and he felt her cry. A warm shower within, a misting of unspoken communion, she had received him.

He lay inside her for a long while and she let him. Something told her, though she could not say, perhaps it was the thundering of the train’s mechanical gears and the hush of the compartment, it would be a long, long time before such a night came again.

When the ticket master tapped on their door, the pale hand reached for his billfold, apologizing to the attendant. He explained politely they’d been so engaged in conversation they missed their point of disembarkment and needed to pay for a return 4 stops back the way they’d come.

The ticket master looked at the couple; not a word did he speak, nor was one offered by the girl. He opened his mouth and then as though thinking better of it, replied cordially, ‘Very well,’ and received the payment with a white gloved hand.

There was something old about them, and he knew the girl was safer here than anywhere else. They were—what was the word, respectable? The young man, though his justification could easily be countered, was by all determinations honest in his presentation. A certain polite discretion on behalf of himself and the girl who sat quietly, confident in letting him answer the necessary interrogations so benign in nature.

‘Clear night out the window if you keep the lights off,’ the ticket master said, sliding the door shut.

‘When we get there I—’

‘Don’t say anything—’

‘I have to stay—’ his voice drifted.

‘Why?’

‘I hate to leave you like this. But when we get back it should be light enough out to see you home safely. I wish I could take you home—’

‘Where are you going? I thought you were one of Haumer’s friends—don’t you live in town? You always come with the others, or I thought you did.’

‘Yes, but this time—let us sleep for a while.’ He took her soft face in his hands. ‘Wait for me.’

‘But why, I don’t understand.’

‘You will.’ He kissed her then, softly on her mouth, opening his lips to her penetrating tongue. He kissed her forehead. ‘Ich liebe dich, Lass.’ He met her gaze and lay beside her, taking her small body in his arms. ‘Try and sleep.’ He stroked her forehead again, feeling the warmth of her face. She grew still and after a while ceased to intermittently open her eyes. ‘Don’t forget,’ he whispered.

The girl awoke to a rap at the door. Startled, she jerked to an immediate sitting position. Hastily tidying herself, a second rap followed.

‘Yes?’

The door slid open. The ticket master from the night before gave the station call.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied hearing the name. ‘This is my stop.’ And then she became aware again of her surroundings.

The ticket master was already heading down the side panel to continue his announcement. He hadn’t closed the door.

‘Sir, excuse me!’ She got up and stepped out into the hall. ‘Sir, there was a young man here late last night, or early this morning, he paid you our ways. Have you by chance seen him? I mean, did you see if he got off anywhere?’

‘Miss, it is only you in this compartment. I stamped your ticket nigh past 3 this morning. It was only you in the room then. Sorry, Miss.’ He continued down the aisle.

‘Wait!’

He half-turned, mildly irritated. She looked at him hard, verifying her misgivings. She opened her mouth and shut it. No, it was definitely the same ticket master.

She walked back into the compartment and shut the door, standing in bewilderment. In a moment of hope she shot a glance at the hook. No tie. There was no evidence of anyone but herself having been here. Had she really drunk that much? No, but where had her friends gone, and why had they left her? And why was the sun peeking on the horizon? She had no reason to ride the train all night by herself! She sat down not knowing what else she could do. She felt something only she could know. The stealth of intimacy, a private fluid crawling from between her legs. The reservoir gave way and she began to cry. Why, why give me something and take it away? Wait, he said, but how long?

The train pulled into the station. She took out a small square handkerchief with green embroidery along the fringe. ‘Why did I fall asleep?’ She wiped her eyes. Getting ahold of herself, she pulled a tiny mirror from her handbag. Looking at her reflection she remembered his eyes at the dance and later on the train before they’d dimmed the light. Blue gray.

‘Leeeetzter aufruf!’ Laaaast call!

She stood up, ran her hands down the front of her dress, looked around once more, and inhaled long.

She stepped onto the platform.

A small group of American pilots idled nearby. ‘Hey, Davie,’ one comrade called to another, ‘you gotta light?’

As the train pulled out from the station it released a stream of exhaust around the wheels. The girl listened to the hiss. Was it her mind playing tricks or did she not hear someone’s voice, perhaps those soldiers over there, saying, ‘Don’t forget.’

* * * * * * *

He awoke. He went through his body, mentally feeling himself. All the way down he could identify himself. He reached below the abdomen and stopped. Something was missing. He just lay there, not needing his hand to confirm what he already knew. A deep sleep had overtaken him the night before. He’d had two gulps of Chardonnay to take in the holiday at the Christmas party. He felt like he’d been asleep for ages, not just some few hours. He seldom dreamt and when he did the details quickly flew as he rose. But this, this was not the case. He could not get up. Instead he lay still. A sentence came to him. He heard it being said. ‘I hate to leave you like this.’ He had said it to her that morning. No, this morning! But it wasn’t his voice he heard saying those words. It was hers and her voice had a lilt of perfected tone, polished into its accented lightness like wine that enriches and becomes more alive with age.

They’d made love again.

* * * * * * *

He’d gone that night on the train, gone without his knowing, gone on ahead. Ripped from an era he loved, thrust into a generation he could not understand. And she had stayed. Not trusting herself enough she’d succumbed to the resolution, the pressures of social convention that it had been a dream. It had to be a dream. The life she had been brought up to fulfill extended its hand and asked for hers in acceptance. And she slid her hand into another’s.

Though buried deep down, she kept it to herself—the truth. The knowledge that it had happened and the hope that he would return. They’d made love across the ages. Four decades ago on a train and again last night in his room. His stature was oddly slighter than it had been, but the face, skin, and wan complexion were hauntingly untouched with the exception of a quiet sorrow beneath his brow. He had held the girl he still loved, now a woman, to his chest. He didn’t want anything else, just to lie beside one another. He’d moved his head to her breast, listening to the even one-two of her life’s drum. Feeling her escalating intimacies his hand stroked her inner thigh and slowly came from above her abdomen, again slipping through the less darkened, closely trimmed spirals, and searching. He watched her face, her eyes closed in coveted ecstasy. She came in silence. Two lives had ushered forth from that small cavern which he now floated in and out of—a graceful ghost carried on the winds of long ago. He missed seeing her give birth, being able to come to her side, hold her hand, wipe her forehead and reassure as she shamelessly revealed herself in performing the woman’s right to give life. She slipped her hand beneath his band and moved her finger in circular motions. He felt deadened, the warmth filling him only from the waist up. He was about to say, ‘You don’t have to—it’s all right.’ There was wetness in his eyes. He pulled her close and with her free hand he interlocked his own, pressing her cheek to his. He closed his eyes just wanting to sleep. Knowing he would not come he let her stay and moved his legs apart. He felt her reach the foyer and come within. Lying still he held her, silently telling her it wasn’t that he wanted. Her hands alone, just feeling her touch was enough. And then his words repeated back to him. ‘I hate to leave you like this,’ she said.

Wait for me. He read the private book behind her eyes.

How long? He did not ask her. He did not ask himself. Just long enough.

I’ll return her tenderness promised.

Return for good someday? The gentle intensity of his touch kneaded to know.

He’d kissed her on the forehead. His way of telling her I will.

He fell asleep that night, his head the only indentation on his pillow.

Unlike the girl she’d been on the train, after getting home and sliding into a familiar bed, she did not let sleep take her.

Into the night she lay restless. Someone else in the room was breathing. She listened to the hiss. The indentation beside her. The wind whined now and again and the branches on a tree outside the window scraped the pane. Was it her mind playing tricks or were the four rhythmic scrapes not screaming inside her, like a crazed bow screeching across its cello, again and again—Ich. Lie-be. Dich.

Just as their compartment door on the train was shut for privacy, her breast heaved in its protected confinement. I didn’t forget