Rain

A work in progress

 

Prologue

Nicholas walked slowly along the faint deer trail that stretched out for miles behind the graying house. Leaves and patches of pine needles yielded smoothly under his small feet, softened by three days of constant rain. He took careful, deliberate steps, placing each foot exactly the same distance from the last, all his concentration focused on the green, cushiony floor.

It would be their last day in the great house. Brightly colored moving trucks stood idling in the drive above; parents anxiously awaiting their return. Nicholas walked further than usual, faster, away from the trucks.

His sister Dylan ran next to him, taking loud, stomping steps, forward and sideways, backwards and leaping forward again, all the while talking to the trees and plants, to the little frogs she formally greeted and carefully avoided, to the large, hairy, fearsome monsters of her imagination. She was nearly six, with a round face and wide, sandy curls that defied gravity.

"So Papa says I will be exactly half your age tomorrow, and then I can start catching up," she chirped, out of breath from circling him nine times each minute.

Nicholas smiled one of his rare, unrestrained smiles. She was the only one who could seem to get him out of himself, get him to look like a child. She infected him with her happiness.

She began another bouncing circle around him, her big head flopping sideways, sticking her tongue out as if it were dragging her whole head down.

"You'll never really catch up, you know," Nicholas answered in his flat monotone. "And you'll never be as tall as me."

“But I’ll always be more beautiful,” she chirped, still bouncing.

She turned abruptly in front of him and stopped, frowning, nearly causing him to stumble over her. They stood there for a minute, her eyes staring, level with his chest. It was her way of punishing him, and he tried to take it seriously. She pushed slightly with her hand to maintain the proper distance, holding him still and he knew from experience to take shallow breaths; any movement in his stomach would escalate his punishment.

Without warning she rushed and hugged him, mashing her head into his belly and squeezing as hard as her arms would allow. He held her big blonde head with one arm, staying absolutely still the way she liked, so she could push off like a rocket when she needed to bounce again.

Only this time she didn't push off. Instead, she lightly took hold of his hand and pulled him down towards a grand oak tree, tugging at him until he sat facing her. The ground instantly soaked his pants. She folded her arms tightly, creasing her fuzzy parka into pink wormlike segments, and lowered her head so the hood slid down her forehead. The tree behind her made her seem even smaller than usual.

"It is all arranged, Nicholas," she said, still holding his finger in her little hand, pulsing rhythmically to accentuate the random syllables she deemed important. With her other hand, she reached into her jacket pocket and removed two folded papers covered in blocky crayon markings. She studied the pink one for a long minute, then silently folded it and replaced it inside her pocket. The blue one she handed to Nicholas, sweeping her arm in a wide flourish and bowing as it reached his hand.

"This is your passport, Nicholas", she said in a ghostly, trembling voice. "Do not lose it, otherwise you can never return."

He accepted the document, noting the child's lettering on the outside, then the intricate map crossing the inner fold tracing their journey from Reading, Pennsylvania to her imaginary castle in France where they would have his birthday party and celebrate her new beginning in the older half of their lives. She outlined supply stops in Mexico, Australia, Miami, Antartica, Hollywood, Rome.

To a six year old, an ocean is nothing.

She towered above him, smiling her big smile. Little raindrops dribbled from the hood of her parka onto her freckled nose, into her mouth, but she kept still, staring at him sternly. He knew she was holding back the laughter as long as she possible could; that at any moment she would collapse onto him and they would both roll to the ground thrashing in uncontrollable giggles, laughing until their lungs hurt, until their eyes stung from crying and she peed her pants and then they would both lift their faces to the sky and let the rain wash into them, cooling their hot cheeks and making their teeth chatter.

She reached out to grab for his hand, impatient to begin their journey. Nicholas stretched up towards her, climbing out of the wet mud. Just as the tips of her fingers touched his her head slammed backwards against the tree with such force that she seemed to flatten into the bark. She stayed there for a moment, as if glued to the tree, the same stern smile frozen on her face. A small red splotch formed on her cheek, swelling rapidly. Her face seemed to sag slightly on one side, like a balloon losing air.

She was still standing when he heard the sound, a tree branch cracking in the distance. He rushed and caught her as she began to slide to the ground, thinking something from the tree had fallen and hit her on the face. She stared at him as he lowered her slowly to the base of the tree, taking short, panicked breaths, all the previous happiness gone from her face. She was still crying, but nothing else seemed to work. Warm wetness seeped out of her parka, covering his hands and legs, spreading downward and mixing with the rain and mud.

When he pulled back her hood to make a pillow out of it, she arched her back far into the air, nearly folding her little body in half, and her eyes snapped open wider than he'd ever seen them. He put his cheek against hers, crying softly as she stopped breathing. He held one hand, then the other, nuzzling her head, not noticing the blood and gore.

He was going into shock when someone grabbed him up with one hand and threw him off to the side and into the brush.

One of the men threw down his rifle and ran, either going for help or running away. Nicholas watched in horror as the other one took out a long knife and sliced into his sister's parka and the soft shirts underneath, pressing his big hands on her chest and kissing her. Her lifeless eyes stared into Nicholas as her body bucked up and down under the pressure of the man's hands. The tears and blood were already starting to dry when the man sat back and finally looked at Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders.

Nicholas surged forward and plowed into the man with all his strength, scratching and biting anywhere he could, kicking, pulling out hair by the roots, jamming his fingers in eye sockets, ears, nostrils, impossibly brutal for a boy his age. The man covered his head as best he could and waited it out. He would carry child-sized scars for the rest of his life.

Nicholas was still screaming when the paramedics came to take away his sister. His mother and father tried everything but could find no way to quiet him. He screamed for nearly three hours, finally passing out in his own hospital bed.

The hunters have long since gone, chased away by money, forced from their dwindling habitat as the animals before them were forced from theirs. After a few years the memory faded, overgrown by a new town, new families. The grand oak tree still stands as it always has, oblivious, the bullet hole knotted over. There is no sign, no story told or remembered, but some of the new children swear they hear a little boy screaming every time it rains.

One

"Pigeons! You brought pigeons!" Jill screamed, piercing the thin walls of the Chelsea apartment. She stood blocking the front door with one hand on the frame, holding her ground. Nicholas swayed drunkenly, bloody and tired. He could hear his neighbors rustling inside their apartment across the hall, listening, their feet casting long shadows under the door.

The pigeons had been trapped throughout the Northeast over the course of a year, waiting in crates for the annual sport hunt. A few still fluttered, cooing and screeching madly inside the carton, splashing feathery designs in blood against the sides. Others leaned against one another, dying.

Jill let her hand slide down the doorframe and walked away slowly, cautiously. Halfway down a narrow hallway that ended at their bedroom door, she stopped and leaned backwards against a wall, lowering her head and releasing a long breath. Nicholas closed the door and entered their apartment clumsily. He imagined the neighbors peeling their eyeballs off the door, shaking their heads and grunting, settling back to their insomniac trance and an endless parade of late night discount infomercials.

"You promised you wouldn’t do this, Nicholas," she whispered. "You promised!" Nicholas had learned the hard way to measure Jill’s intentions through the many intonations of her words, a mean melody in a voice that was beautiful to him regardless of how it was used, even at its worst, when it’s sharp enough to cut furniture.

He looked up from the pigeons cautiously. "I have somewhere to bring them tomorrow at nine." His voice was hoarse and unsteady.

"You should’ve stayed out. It’s almost 6." She glared at him, her eyes in their little corners.

"Yes, I know," he replied. Jill looked at Nicholas sadly and he could see her letting him off. Even in her anger, she softened when he was sad or weak. Nicholas had spent the last two days retreating to an inner safety, hiding from the brutal reality of the hunt even as he forced himself to watch, alert for any opportunity to run and grab a mangled bird. Seeing the birds die didn’t hurt him nearly so much: it was the people, the drunkenness, the laughter that really got to him.

And the guns.

Nicholas reached out his hand to Jill, to hold her, to steady her somehow, but it never worked. She winced and shut her eyes, pulling in her shoulders, blocking him out. He looked down at his arm, layered in cracked blood. Jill’s face was crunched up, wrinkled in disgust.

Nicholas set the carton down on the old coffin they’d bought at a garage sale and were using as a coffee table. It was about a child’s size; pale, worn wood. It was empty when they’d found it; either previously evacuated, incorrectly sized, or miraculously unneeded. The early morning sun peeked out over the horizon of flat, bare roofs, reflecting off the dirty glass of office buildings into their one window, painting orange squares on the wide, cracked floorboards.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "No one else would take them." He stood motionless for a long moment, staring at Jill in the reflection of their window, admiring the torn, vintage pajamas she loved so much, her baggy clothes, her curls, her impish smiles. He could not really think of anything he didn't love about Jill. She didn't hate animals; she just loved life.

Whenever Jill was mad at him, she accused him of hating people. She said that fighting the scientists and the hunters and the doctors and the carnivores had turned him against everyone. He remembered all the animals he brought home and forced upon her, often only to watch them die slowly after struggling against their wounds, and he knew she was right.

She walked over to the carton and lifted one flap, leaning softly against his arm, peering inside with an odd, beautiful mixture of compassion and horror on her face. The feeling of her skin comforted him somehow, erasing the sadness and frustration, closing the door, if only temporarily, on whatever shadows he’d trudged into. "What happened to your head?" she asked, not looking up from the birds.

"Fell out of a tree," he answered flatly. She wondered if he was lying, as she always did, wondering if he was trying to protect her somehow. But she didn’t want to know anymore. Not really. She’d told him many, many times, with steadily decreasing tolerance. In the beginning he’d come home weary and damaged, often utterly silent, and she’d bring him back to life. No questions, no hiding. It worked for a time. Their life was romantic, immediate. They’d drink cheap wine and laugh for hours, falling on the couch or floor as she tried to dab his cuts with makeup pads soaked in alcohol. He’d let out mock shrieks, whooping and grabbing for her wrists. Then they’d fall quiet and she’d kiss his sadness back, back, deep enough that she couldn’t see it.

No longer.

"I can’t do this anymore," she whispered, touching his face with her long, slender fingers. Nicholas closed his eyes and she said it again, more softly. "I can’t do it, Nicholas."

 

* * *

 

He awoke two hours later on the small roofdeck adjoining their loft, cramped from the cold, sore from a half-dozen wounds and scratches. He often slept outside in those days, when it was warm enough and when Jill was angry. After a few times he came to prefer it, craving the outdoors desperately, to be under the sky, in real air.

He pulled the pigeon box up on his lap and peered inside. "How are you guys?" He tried to cheer himself up, but half of the birds were dead and did not answer. Most of them had not flown since the moment they were trapped, many months earlier. In order to supply the shooter with a moving target, the birds were placed in spring-loaded boxes buried in the field and rapidly ejected into the air, so that even those hunters sober enough to discern shapes could imagine tracking wild, vicious pterodactyls with poison-tipped elephant guns. The birds were sprayed with buckshot or sometimes missed completely, only to be shot on the ground as they stumbled around. Nicholas thought about the birds, wondered what would become of them; perhaps they were lucky he found them and would heal and fly somewhere better. Perhaps they would take three weeks to die instead of three minutes.

He had spent the entire weekend watching pigeons explode with buckshot five yards from his face. He dreamed it over and over while he slept. The sharp pop, the scattering of feathers like confetti. Birds propelled backwards by a twelve gauge blast, rolling helplessly on the ground, sliding around the dirt with a remaining wing. Some had no legs. Local teens, called ‘pigeon boys’, came around to snap their necks and drop them into a sack tied to their hips. Nicholas wished he could say that he was sad, that he was driven by unmitigated grief, but he wasn’t. That was the first part of him to go, and he did not often miss it.

There were many people hiding in the woods that day who ran onto the field hoping to beat the pigeon boys to the surviving birds. These were, with few exceptions, new people, the young and innocent who somehow learned of the hunt and came to do something, or be seen doing something.

At least a hundred state troopers were on hand to arrest the protestors; antagonists, they liked to call them, and cram them into blue school buses. The buses filled up quickly and noisily drove off to holding cells specially setup for the event. They drove through a chorus of yelled support from the soon-to-be-arrested. This was expected, of course. Two years previously, protestors overran the hunt, and the local authorities were no match for them. Several of the pigeon boys were beaten and hospitalized, and thousands of birds were rescued and relocated.

The following year was a well-advertised pissing contest. The governor of Pennsylvania himself came out with his camouflage-draped beer belly to fully back the hunt. Several mainstream animal rights groups turned the next hunt into a rallying point and ran massive campaigns to build enough protestors to swamp the hunt and somehow sway public opinion. They held lectures on protest procedures and civil disobedience in a local KOA campground for two days prior to the hunt, complete with boiled tofu dogs and animal friendly marshmallow roasts. There were even a few KKK members stumbling around morosely in their bathrobes, drawn as usual to any sort of violence. Swat a mosquito and somewhere a yellow-toothed Klansman will smile a little wider. Nicholas considered it little more than an alternative social outlet for the young and useless, yet here he was.

He spent nearly two weeks in a local jail cell, refusing to speak, post bail, or eat their baloney sandwiches. The media loved it. The leader of the largest national animal rights group in the country was arrested as well, and this even brought the FBI. They didn’t get a moments rest. Prisoners were rotated daily, sometimes several times a day. It was obvious that the feds wanted to identify the real instigators of the movement, so everyone got plenty of time to b***h and moan for the hidden microphones. In the end, the FBI scared the s**t out of a few kids and let them all go. They were warned that they’d be watching everyone, had fingerprints, etc.

This year they just quietly arrested everyone who stepped onto the field for trespassing and made it stick, having posted no trespassing signs every few inches. Those who ran and were later caught were charged with resisting arrest. They were considered a group of whining misfits with nothing better to do.

But there were others. Individuals and small groups who carefully selected and planned their activities to either save large number of animals from cruel and unnecessary deaths, or inflict enough damage, subtly or otherwise, to bring a particular event to a close. They were not the terrorists that were portrayed in the mainstream press. They didn’t seek out media coverage, or consider theirs a political cause. They only wanted to save animals.

Nearly all of them were damaged in some way.

Nicholas no longer thought about the manifesto, or whatever name the fanatics put to the voices in their heads. What started out as a direct, forceful attempt to stop animal cruelty had evolved into a social movement. Initially, it was thought if only a handful of the hideous cruelties inflicted on the animal kingdom were exposed, the public would not stand for it and the wheels of civilization would quickly embrace the animal kingdom and right all the wrongs. Be the shepherd and all that.

It did not work out that way.

Jill was sitting at a small round table in the sunlight of their window as Nicholas walked soundlessly into the living room. He looked across at her, seeing her soft hair, just washed, leaving thick blonde streaks on her black Rolling Stones t-shirt. She held a cup of tea in two hands, staring out at Seventh Avenue, as the jasmine-laced steam rose past her face and settled onto the window in a fan-shaped mist. Her broad shoulders were hunched against the chill, but she still looked strong. A true morning person.

"You didn’t have to sleep outside," she said, without looking up at him. Nicholas stared back at her for a long moment, amazed by her beautiful silhouette, her strength radiating upward through her natural, erect posture.

"I like outside," he answered slowly, evenly. "I’ll get rid of the birds and be back in an hour. We’ll talk then."

"You’re bleeding again," she said, bringing her head down against her index finger, still not looking up at him.

* * *

 

The ‘bird lady’, Rose Grenfield, lived in a cavernous apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Nearly 90 years old, she shooed Nicholas along with squinted eyes, directing him to the stairwell like a child, gesturing that she’d take the elevator.

Finally reaching the eleventh floor, panting like a cat, Nicholas paused in the stairwell to catch his breath. As he emerged, still sweating, a gnarled hand followed by a cashmere arm grabbed him roughly and pulled him into the first apartment past the stairs. Once inside, Nicholas smiled at the familiar sight; dozens of animals; mainly birds, but he also glimpsed a turtle under a rattan couch, a large lizard, cats, dogs, a cage of shaved rats, two eyeless rabbits. Forgotten, helpless creatures.

"Come on, come on!" she hissed, tugging at his sleeve. When she opened the carton she made a loud clicking sound with her tongue, looking up at Nicholas, then at the birds, then back at Nicholas. Her darting, haunted eyes masked a friendliness and sociability that apparently was lost on her neighbors. One by one she removed the birds, dropping the dead ones, seven in all, in a plastic bag. Many of the birds were crusted with blood, but Mrs. Grenfield assured Nicholas it looked worse than it was. She found cage and box space for all but three of the birds still alive, which she left on a towel on her kitchen table. She bent over at the waist and took a slow, hard look at the remaining three birds.

"They’re so sweet," she said, running an index finger along the head of one, a smallish, oddly colored bird, whose eyes stared directly at her. "See the grey bars along the wings of this one?" she asked, pulling Nicholas closer. "It is a domesticated Rock Dove, commonly referred to as a homing pigeon. Or, at least, a descendant of one." The little bird was propped up on one wing, half lying, half standing, its body twisted unnaturally, staring up at Mrs. Grenfield with sad, black eyes. "People buy them as pets, then their lives change somehow, and they let them go, but the homing pigeons never stray far from the apartment or house they matured in. They mate for life, but their homing instincts often overpower their instinct to nest safely, so you will find them in trees as close to their original home as possible." She paused for a moment, leaning on the table with one hand. "They can live for up to 20 years, but in the city their nests are often broken up somehow, and, singly, they only last a few years. But so innocent."

"I’m afraid these aren’t going to make it," she said quietly after several long seconds, stretching out to her full height, looking at Nicholas with motherly concern. She left the room for a moment and returned with an oak carving board and a small cleaver. "You don’t have to stay for this, you know."

"Yes, I know," Nicholas replied, shaken by her resolve.

"It seems harsh, I know," she said, gesturing with the cleaver. "They have enormous sensitivity to pain. Those hunters should be castrated and left in the woods to rot." Mrs. Grenfield carried one of the birds to a counter, out of sight of the others. "They can sense death, like cows can. The death of friends." She laid the animal gently on the cutting block, gingerly arranging its head on a folded towel. They stood there for a few long moments, the old woman speaking softly to the bird, stroking its feathers, trying to comfort it. When she was ready, she held the bird down by the chest and slammed the cleaver down with surprising force. The head rolled off the towel onto the counter, leaving a thin trail of blood.

She scooped the head into her small fist and dropped it in the plastic bag. She then repeated the procedure with the next bird, saving the small one for last. Pulling on Nicholas’ sleeve, she pointed to where the animal lay on the cutting block. "They know, Nicholas. They know what’s happening and they know what you did for them and their friends. The others will fly soon. Don’t forget that."

She killed the homing pigeon as its eyes stared directly at Nicholas. As the cleaver separated the head, the eyes didn’t even flinch. They were frozen, set in time.

She pushed the bodies into the bag and left the kitchen for a moment, returning with a strip of cloth, probably once a t-shirt, he thought. "Go home," she said to him softly, wetting the cloth in the sink and wrapping it around his head, the blood forming a light pink circle. "And thank you. Now go home to that lovely, lonesome girl of yours. It’ll be alright."

Nicholas lingered for a moment, feeling relieved, released from the strange burden of a box of pigeons.

 

* * *

 

Nicholas walked home slowly, stopping on 7th Avenue and 21st Street for coffee, Michael’s Muffins. When he arrived home and opened the door to his apartment Jill was cleaning, listening to music. He entered soundlessly and sat on the frayed couch, watching her opening and closing drawers, rearranging things, putting all of their objects in their rightful place. Restoring order. Lost objects, lying without purpose, seemingly aligned themselves to her will. Nicholas drifted off for a moment, awestruck by the simple beauty of sharing a life with her.

He wondered what she thought of him, really. His self-imposed tragedy, his fight to continue, or just to live, imposed unfairly on her shoulders. He thought he was doing something profound once, and those around him were always affected by his quiet determination, his force of action. He remembered his convictions still with surprising clarity, but his was a fading picture, like an aging actor who remembers with fondness his greatest characters. Now, he had to chase that clarity, and it seemed to be getting faster and further all the time. He longed for transition in some form or other, a dull, constant ache.

Jill no doubt had a picture of him he could never see. Misguided, sad, perhaps. Maybe, by now, a fake, a poser. She claimed it was the Japanese in him, that they were all immensely sad and impenetrable. When they talked, sometimes, she would quietly warn him to let himself feel, to recognize and share, then she’d blow up and plead for him to get angry, to yell, to do something, to feel something. But Nicholas was always still. Too still. The strength she once loved in him was breaking her heart. He saw it in her face more and more often, the small laugh lines circling a mislived life, those sad green eyes freezing his thoughts.

Jill turned around and jumped when she saw him. "I swear I’m going to get a bell for you. A collar and a great big cowbell so I know when you’re coming," she teased. "If you’re coming." Her voice trailed to a whisper and her shoulders fell slightly. Jill was like a southern sky, emotions sweeping through like afternoon storms to chill the air, no warning. The sun returns while the trees are still dripping rain. She watched him, studied him constantly. I wish I knew what she was looking for, he thought to himself. Probably she thought the same. Still she studied. And she stayed.

Nicholas stood up and reached for her as she leaned into him slightly, arms inside, against his chest. They fell softly against the refrigerator and Nicholas held her tighter, desperate, longing for her solidness, her smile in the storm.

They stood there for a few long minutes, swaying softly, leaning against each other in their tiny kitchen, sirens blaring in the distance, taxi horns, rap music, curse words in a dozen languages, the laughter and sorrows of the world’s greatest city. She sighed softly, then pulled back and lightly punched his chest. As she turned to walk away she punched again, harder. Gracie, their aging greyhound, stared up from her bed, an orthopedic pad on an old chair. She looked first at Nicholas, then Jill, then back again. Her head fell back on her paws, but she still looked up, tentative, worried, ready.

Nicholas followed as Jill stepped away. "What if we left the city, rented a little house somewhere. Tried something more…" he searched for a better word. "More normal."

At this she stopped suddenly, pulling her head back, squinting slightly.

"What’s normal? A job? You coming back from the train station in a little suit to a house full of rats and squirrels? Crack open a briefcase full of nuts?" She glared at him, her anger, never very far from the surface, bubbling again.

"It wouldn’t be like that," he said. We could get married, maybe have kids someday." Nicholas winced inwardly as he said the words. He never wanted children, was afraid, actually.

"Children! You think because you’re good to animals you could raise children? she said, much louder, shaking her head. "You think I’m crazy enough to have children with you? F*****g insane," she hissed, shaking her head. "This is serious, Nicholas," she said.

Nicholas lowered his eyes and turned toward the window. Gracie slid carefully off her chair, instantly sitting at his legs, appraising her two humans through ever-thickening cataracts, a slight growl on her breath. Nicholas stared down through the window at a fat homeless man with an overflowing cart, shuffling across 26th street, ringing a bell. A sign dangling from his neck read ‘F**k the whales, SAVE ME!’

Serious.

"I can’t stay here anymore," she whispered. Her words froze Nicholas, hanging in the space between them, their invisible bond stretching thinner, its power diminishing by the second. They’d never been so apart. Jill loved a version of him he didn’t even remember. Gracie nudged his hand with her paw, grunting, seeming almost as if she was offering to talk for him. He wanted to tell Jill that it wouldn’t always be this way. But he knew better. A bullshit cop-out as common as dirt.

"My therapist thinks I should leave you," she said, looking up at him with renewed calmness. She sounded almost calculating now, delivering a canned speech, Nicholas thought.

"Maybe he wants you for himself," he answered softly, waiting a few moments, then turning around to look at her.

"Maybe I’ve already left," she whispered.

They stood there for what seemed like a long while, in a holding pattern ten feet apart, odd, conflicting emotions weaving between them.

"I love you Nicholas, I really do. So much that it makes me crazy, irrational, so much that it hurts, Nicholas. It hurts just to be around you."

He opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off. "I fell in love with you because you cared; I’d finally met someone who cared about something. You had passions I’ve never even imagined, but now it’s turned against us. You have enough love for all the rats in this miserable city, yet none for me. None. I don’t know how you can be so passionate, yet so unemotional. It doesn’t fit. But I’m tired, Nicholas. I’m so tired."

She turned and walked slowly out of the room, each step carefully placed, her arms at her side, small fists pointing slightly upward, like she was reaching down with her wrists. Nicholas listened to her voice fade as she whispered quietly to herself, to the apartment, to Sara the wonder cat. Then, the door.

 

* * *

 

Nicholas spent the afternoon in Central Park, walking, seeing, feeling the lightness of the strangers around him. Carefree, silly, happy people. He longed for their lives, their conversations, their connections. They lived.

This was his meditation, his balance. He wandered among the homeless and the careless; the young and old, the privileged and the hopeless. Their lives seemed full of something, and, whatever it was, they had it and he did not. Jill was both shelter and cage to him, and he could see no other way to live. In his thoughts, he loved her, but she rarely saw that love, and often Nicholas wondered if it meant anything at all.

As he made his way home it again it was almost sunset. Traffic thinned along Seventh Avenue; people funneled into Penn Station, important, hurried expressions on their faces. It was Monday, and they were on their way. Coming or going or waiting or planning. Nicholas walked by a window and glimpsed his reflection, the pink spot on the t-shirt still wrapped around his head, the hollow, sad eyes. He stopped and moved closer, staring, feeling the pedestrian anger swell around him, simultaneously enclosing him and pushing him aside. He looked hard at the stranger in the window and it unsettled him. He straggled through life in the world’s most pissed off city, looking like a derelict, fighting his very own species, saving animals who, perhaps, should not even be saved.

He feared that he would awake soon and realize he had become the wrong person.

Jill was on the telephone and lowered her voice to a whisper as he padded into their apartment. Gracie executed her slow, arthritic descent from her bed to Nicholas’ side. It was a ritual between them, and would continue until she died on that same bed. Jill hung up the phone, absently rearranging the few objects within her reach.

"It was Pat, our A & R guy," she explained in her pretentious, music-industry drawl.

"I didn’t ask," he replied, staring at her.

"You seem curious is all." She crossed over to the refrigerator for an Evian.

Nicholas watched her move back and forth, not thinking of a thing. It was one of the things she understood least about him; there were times when he simply didn’t think, disappearing somehow into whatever moment he faced, what she called falling into a hole. Solitude and emptiness are not Western terms, and, in this country of strangers they are unforgivable acts of rudeness and coldness.

"You have messages," she said flatly, walking away. She sat on the couch and switched on the television. Nicholas winced at the sound of newscasters beginning their buoyant march through the day’s trivialities. It was a hated appliance in his life, and whenever it was on, Nicholas felt like Jill was punishing him for some new crime he had committed.

Mr. Nakayama called, said to see him. There was a question mark after this message, as if Jill was annoyed that he didn’t provide the correct information, but Nicholas understood; he did not permit incoming calls into his dojo, although he was required by law to have a telephone, somewhere. If someone wanted to speak to him, they did so in person, at their own risk. The second was from Susanna; it read; The horses are dead. Please Call. Dramatic Susanna, the flapper, the pagan-worshipping, self-proclaimed born-again virgin; translated it meant that the Carriage Horse Act was voted down again. They could, in fact, pull their fiberglass replicas in traffic until they dropped from exhaustion or were squashed by a bus. The third was from Donnie. A simple "Yo. Call." The fourth, and most unsettling, was Cas: Bro, I am in town. Call me right now.

"Want to go out for dinner?" he asked Jill as he walked back to the kitchen.

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then refused. "I’m meeting someone to work on a contract." She hesitated, twirling one of her blonde ringlets in her fingers. "I might not be back ‘til late," she added.

Now Nicholas was curious.

"A few of us are trying to get some younger talent, fresh sounds, and we sort of have to sneak around to meet with them." Nicholas knew she was baiting him, as she often did, but did not react.

Suddenly, Jill whirled around and walked after him. "You don’t even care, do you," she said, much louder.

"Care about what?" he asked quietly, once again feeling his way around their relationship like a small child.

"About what I’m doing," she answered sharply, pursing her lips into an angry frown. "All you care about is your f*****g animals! I’m so sick of it. So damn sick of it."

"I asked you to dinner, is all," Nicholas replied quietly.

She started for the bedroom, then stopped and walked back yet again. "Yeah, to sit on the floor at some half-assed Ethiopian restaurant and eat f*****g cabbage and grass! Maybe I have a date, maybe I’m heading out to eat steak and get laid! You wouldn’t even care."

Another pause.

"I always knew you were strange, Nicholas," she whispered, falling into him slightly, "but I thought I could teach you. I don’t know why, it seems so f*****g stupid now, but I thought you could learn how to love me."

"Love takes many forms. Maybe it’s there and you don’t see it."

"If it were there, Nicholas, I’d see it. I’m not f*****g blind, and don’t talk to me like I’m a child."

"Sorry," he said, head down.

"You’re not, Nicholas. The one thing you never are is sorry." She turned and looked out the window. "So f*****g stupid," she muttered to herself.

Nicholas walked over to the window, Gracie fast at his feet. "The dog likes me, and I let her eat steak."

"You also had her fixed, a*****e," Jill hissed.

"True."

"I’m heading out, Nicholas. Any last kind words for me?"

"Dress warm."

She slid next to Nicholas, her anger deflated for the moment, facing the window at his side. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

Nicholas stared absently down through the window, falling deeper into his hole. "Eat cabbage and grass," he answered.

"No really, you going to be around?"

"No, I’m going out after sunset, will probably be out late. You need anything?"

"No, Nicholas. I don’t need anything." And she was gone.

Two

 

Nicolas last saw Cas a little over a year ago, when their mother was still alive. At times, they got along well, but their mother’s illness was too much to bear for a fractured family with so little in common. When she first became ill, Nicholas quickly learned that the cultural rifts present in the parents distilled downward, manifesting in the siblings in unpredictable ways.

Back in the hospital, with the disparate family forced together hurriedly, with little practice and no preparation, relationships seemed to gel at first. Kyoko Hanson was a strong force, silently arranging emotions in her intractable Japanese way. She was not happy, but she was glad of her family, and the control she had over her mind gave her a small measure of peace. But when Cas flew in from LA, dressed in pastel and crying over his mother like a spoiled child, Nicholas found his love for his mother greater than that of his brother or father.

He watched quietly for hours while his mother comforted the younger Cas, silently seething and cursing his weakness. When she finally fell asleep, Nicholas could stand it no longer.

"Wipe your nose and meet me outside," Nicholas whispered to his brother, so low that Cas himself didn’t hear, but understood enough to follow him into the hallway. Nicholas was twenty feet or so down the hallway by the time his brother caught up, with short breaths and reddened eyes.

"What’s up with you, Nikko. You flippin’ about something in particular," Cas drawled slowly but belligerently, boasting the latest affectation from whatever third rate commercial paid his ridiculous rent each month.

Nicholas continued, walking with long, unhurried strides which made his brother nearly trot to keep up. Hospitals infuriated him, as did his father the brilliant doctor and his brother, the sniveling actor." I can’t believe this is happening, Nikko. Three months. Three f****n months."

Nicholas glared at his brother for an instant, quickly turning away to regain his composure. Cas continued, unabated. "And what’s with you, anyway? You sit there and smile, cracking your dumb jokes with Mom as always, like you don’t have a care in the world. F****n’ prick."

Nicholas shoved Cas into a small break room, nearly causing the younger Hanson to lose his footing. Cas continued, seemingly unfazed. "You ought to just go back your animals and let Dad and me handle this like a family should. Dad’s barely holding it together and you; you’re a f****n’ joke, not even…

Suddenly Nicholas had his brother pinned by the neck, his body slammed halfway into a vending machine, blue and white Pepsi shards raining down on his feet. Nicholas whispered to his brother, barely containing his fury. "Do you want to see Mom again?" he asked. Cas, his face puffing like a grape nodded slightly, terrified but not comprehending a thing. "Good, little bro. Then I hope you’re a good actor."

Nicholas released his hold on Cas’ neck, turning and walking a few steps to lean against a wall as Cas dislodged himself from the Pepsi sign, bits of plastic tinkling to the floor.

Cas immediately started to scream, but saw the look on Nicholas’ face and changed his mind. "What!" he said, still somewhat loudly. "What the f**k is your problem, psycho! Mom’s dying up there and you pull this s**t?"

Nicholas pushed his brother to the wall and held him there lightly, just to keep him from flitting around the room. Nicholas noticed the sole occupant of the snack room, a nurse at one of the small tables, holding a Styrofoam cup with two hands, starting at the two of them, her expression unreadable.

Nicholas turned back to Cas, who shrugged indifferently. "Yes, Mother will die. And whatever time she has left she will share with her family how she chooses. If she wants to cry about her situation, fine. You cry with her. If not, you sit there and smile, no matter what you’re thinking. Clear?"

Cas squirmed away from Nicholas, shaking his entire upper body. "It’s not like that, Nikko-prick. She’s gonna die and it affects me. You hear what I’m saying? It affects me. I have feelings, ok? I’m not a f****n karate-people-hating robot like my fabulous, psychotic, maladjusted brother. You’re causing problems for all of us, like always, just ‘cause you’re jealous that we feel s**t. Same as always, bro. Same as always.

Nicholas’ backhand sent Cas flying several feet towards the young nurse, who had the presence of mind to lift her cup a little higher, but was otherwise unfazed.

"Cas, we’re not going to do this all night. If Mom decides to be happy, regardless of how sad or terrified she is, you will sit with her and smile. She expects that, and she deserves it. When she dies you can have all the drama you like. But while she’s alive, you will control yourself. Do you understand?"

Cas nodded his head, but made no effort to get up. "This isn’t about you and your grief, and is definitely isn’t about whatever you think we have between us. Your mother’s life is over, so be a f*****g grownup and let her live what’s left how she wants. You bring your s**t in there again and I promise you, you’ll have your own bed in this hospital."

Cas rose to his feet to his feet and limped dramatically toward the door where, to Nicholas’ surprise, his father was standing. Nicholas saw the general disapproval that was always present in his father’s eyes, but noticed something else…a sort of disoriented understanding, perhaps even approval in theory, if not method. It did not escape Nicholas that his brother and father continued down the hall, away from his mother’s room.

Nicholas turned to walk away, but a light touch on his arm stopped him. "Sit down," the nurse said. "Whatever other soda machines require your attention can wait until you’ve calmed some."

Nicholas looked at her coldly, but sat down across the small table. The nurse rose and walked towards the counter, returning a minute or so later. "Despite your eat-nails-piss-vinegar performance, or whatever men call it, I get the feeling you’re a tea drinker." She smiled a broad, white, soothe-the-sick smile, which Nicholas always found irritating, but it made him feel better nonetheless. He thanked her for the tea.

"You know, my mother went a little over a year ago. It’s always the same. Sort of like the family member’s sickness gives a meaning to whatever vague, floating depressions happen to be in their lives at the time. Gives them an actual reason to be depressed, or sad, or, as in your case, psychotic, and intensifies those feelings suddenly. There’s actually a medical term for this, though I can't remember it."

Nicholas stared at her index finger as it toyed with the Lipton label. "Are you a shrink masquerading as a nurse, then?" Nicholas smiled at her with genuine affection, grateful for the distraction.

"Almost made it," she said sadly. But when my mom got sick, there was no one else…dad was already long gone, and things fell apart so suddenly." Nicholas saw the pain alter her features for just a moment, and felt for her. "You know, she tried so hard to keep me in school…she actually wouldn’t let me stay in the room unless I studied for half the time. It’s funny looking back now, how we used to fight about it. I dropped out a few months later, but had to keep up the study act the whole time, and boy was she sharp. I almost got caught several times." She laughed softly.

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, feeling relaxed, yet fatigued. "She probably knew anyway, you know," Nicholas replied. "We get so caught up in our own lives that we forget our parents have experienced far more than we have."

The nurse stared at him pensively for a few moments, a crooked smile running up one side of her face. "You’re probably right. Who knows?" She began gathering up her things. "No regrets, though. If I had finished med school, I might really have become an a*****e. Now I can despise doctors without being a hypocrite." She laughed deeply at herself. "Anyway, I’m sorry to her about your mother. If you ever need to talk, I work almost all the time." She smiled that wide, impossible smile at him, and Nicholas thanked her for the offer.

She kept looking at him for a couple of seconds, then smiled again and walked towards the door. "What’s your name?" he asked, just as she turned back to wave to him.

"Oh, ah…it’s Susanna, with two n’s. Got it, chief?" She spun around the corner, leaving Nicholas alone with his horrible Lipton.

His mother’s room was quiet as Nicholas nudged the door open and slipped inside. The only light in the room came from a single, low watt lamp lit in the corner, aside from the blinking Christmas display of the various life-saving and monitoring displays framing her bed in an arch. His mother smiled as he sat in a chair beside the bed.

"Oh Nikko, my boy. Such an unhappy place for families to gather, don’t you think?" She smiled deeply at Nicholas, apparently not in much pain. "We’re all so different from one another, you know? You probably didn’t know it, but I never wanted a family. Your father and I fought about it so much. I lost my family early on, so young I barely remember having one at all."

She adjusted her body a bit higher in the bed and leaned towards him conspiratorially. "I was a bit of a wild girl, you know." She leaned back and winked at Nicholas. He smiled back, shoring up the tears threatening to fall. "But your father was so earnest and unwavering; he made me think anything was possible. And, you know, he was right. I couldn't imagine having another life."

Nicholas looked up at his mother, comforted and amused by her yoda-like presence. Her smile faded a bit as she pressed the button on the morphine clicker. Just as he thought she was drifting off to sleep, she gripped his hand and reopened her eyes. "While you all were outside bickering about who gets what, the docs were in. They’re letting me out day after tomorrow to make room for some really sick people.

She drifted out for another moment, then snapped back awake with tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. "Nikko, promise me I won’t die in a place like this. I want to be home with my birds and trees so I can find them when my time comes." Her voice drifted off again. "Promise me," she said one last time, her grip on his hands softening.

As his father and brother returned with hushed bluster and discomfort, Nicholas was deep in thought. He patted his father on the shoulder and silently padded from the room.

 

* * *

 

Kyoko Hanson was slowly dying as Nicholas was falling in love with Jill. It was not a good death. As he held his mother's hand through the last of their nights together, she told him, in excruciating detail, how undignified it was to rot to death, and, if not for her husband, she would have asked her Nikko to help her die more honorably. Though she was married to a wealthy American and lived a modern life, she was thoroughly Japanese, and tradition, she claimed, was genetic, always passed from mother to son.

They only met once, his mother and Jill. Nicholas never discovered how she found out about Jill. Somehow, she just knew. Jill and Mrs. Hanson came at him from opposite directions. Jill knew him intimately, but didn’t understand him. His mother understood him, but did not know him at all. He was a child to both of them.

Nicholas did not see much of his mother when she was healthy, when he could have known her better. He knew he loved her fiercely; it was a force he simply felt, neither cold nor hot. But many times since her death he had regretted his absence terribly. Jill didn’t know about his family at all. They never called, and Jill never asked. When he told her that his mother was very ill and wanted to meet her, she may have been shocked, but she showed nothing. It those times when Nicholas loved her most.

His mother just knew. Read the signals in her endless steaming pots of black tea. There were many mysteries he simply accepted about his mother. There was never a way inside the woman. I inherited her inaccessibility, Nicholas often thought to himself. As much as possible with a blundering, foreign husband poking around, she tried quietly to raise a samurai spirit in her youngest son. But the boy she raised with a martial fist grew into a sad, unreachable man.

Mrs. Hanson insisted on dying at home. Though her husband was a successful doctor, he could not convince her of the merits of western medicine. She couldn’t stand the smell of hospitals and the wicked, fake smiles of nurses that pumped poison. She was afraid of getting sicker and never returning home. Tom Hanson said nothing there could possibly make her sicker than she already was. She asked him if there was anything there that would make her better. He knew she wanted hope, but he could not lie to her. She was dying, and everyone knew it, even the birds pacing the windowsill, staring sadly at empty bed, searching for the woman who used to feed them each morning. Her husband was a good man, but a soft one.

Jill was very uncomfortable around her. She would fidget and look around the room while Nicholas’ mother stared at her, solemnly appraising the woman. Nicholas loved and respected her, and deferred to her, if only in her presence.

She asked one simple question; "What do you want?" Her forehead was creased with pain, but her stare was fixed and cold. She had pain bottles heaped high on a nightstand beside her bed and a morphine drip on a pole above her, but most of the time she refused all of it. "Death should be painful," she’d say. "It should remind us how much we loved life."

"Want?" Jill answered, smiling sweetly. "What do I want?" she repeated. "I have no idea. I mean, I don’t know." She smiled again, sighing nervously and looking at Nicholas, a worried, unsteady, expression clouding her face.

"Of life." His mother whispered softly. "Of life."

"Would you like more tea?" Nicholas asked, trying to deflect his mother’s attention, but she would have none of it.

"Tom, why don’t you show Nicholas the new room you’ve built for your medicine books," she asked her husband, who was staring into a pipe, appraising the unlit sprigs of tobacco. "You never spend any time together," she said, wincing slightly.

Nicholas smiled reassuringly at Jill, but did exactly what his mother wanted.

Twenty minutes later, the two men returned. Father and son. Jill was pale and sullen, withdrawn. Nicholas hugged his mother and they left in silence, promising to return in the next few days. Jill would never see her alive again. Though Nicholas didn’t know what passed between those two women, he knew right then that it had altered the course of their relationship somehow; a minute fault line that would silently spread, just like the cancer in his mother’s veins, forming an intricate web of cracks and rifts. He would feel the tremors, but never learn the source. Perhaps Jill learned something of Nicholas through his mother, something she did not like, something he did not know.

His mother died three days later. Nicholas spent the entire night watching her go. She told him how sorry she was that he’d had such a difficult life, but that she expected no different from him. No less. There are people in the world, she whispered to him, who skate through life buying televisions and making children, who worry about taxes and traffic and supermarket lines, who drink beer and eat fast food and argue about sports and politics and how love should be. Nicholas would have traded lives with them in a second. His mother understood this and tried, on their last night together, to explain to him why this could never be. She also asked him to be friends with his father and brother; that, in death, they would be his only bond to her.

She told him that he was a good man, and that she was sorry for leaving him her karma. He asked her to explain several times, but she just cried softly in his arms. That moment was the closest he’d ever come to her, to anyone. He sat on the edge of the bed stroking her sleek grey hair with his calloused hand, remembering her incredible beauty, her grace and spirit. She died in his arms as his tears fell on her gray cheeks and the first rays of a cold October sun broke over the Atlantic.

Her husband said she died of stomach cancer. She claimed she died of American food. Nicholas believed she died of loneliness.

 

* * *

 

Nicholas spent most of the evening wheatpasting a half-mile square near the bottom of central park with posters telling people not to ride the carriages, that the horses were driven to brutal extremes to make money, and that most of them rarely made it for more than a year or two. The poster showed a disemboweled horse wedged between the pavement and the bumper of a transit bus, its eyes open, holding its head up above a pool of blood as it slowly died.

He crept around with a small satchel across his shoulder and a black, wool hat, to keep warm for many hours. He felt, and thought he probably looked, like a revolutionary, but inside was a little frightened being so close to these people, whose livelihood he was actively trying to ruin. He pasted his posters mostly flat on the sidewalk, a Nicholas Hanson trademark. It worked well in New York; people here always kept their heads down.

He was exhausted and nearly out of posters when they saw him.

Carriage horse drivers are not by nature a healthy crowd. They smoke and drink and live off street vendors. To watch them break and run after him was a work of fine comedy, and he would have enjoyed it, if he wasn’t so tired.

There were not many things he did well in those days. But Nicholas could run. He almost played with them, jumping the wall on Central Park South, sprinting across Sheep’s Meadow, concentrating in the soft pounding of grass under his feet. It was a clear, sparkling night and the moon split effortlessly through the old, tired architecture of the Upper West Side.

He thought about Jill as he ran, where she was, how she felt. He knew she did not think of him that much. Jill was pragmatic: proximity based, concerned with what was right in front of her. It was one of the things he loved most about her, that she had no layers, that she was physical and solid and real. Nicholas was the perfect opposite, almost ethereal. He knew she needed him to be more grounded, more real, but the harder he tried the more unfit and lost he felt.

His pursuers were very slow. Their bodies moved awkwardly, out of step. Their spirits felt heavy, like storm clouds creeping across a wide skyline. They had miserable lives and Nicholas almost felt badly for them. He did not hate these people at all, but circumstance had made them enemies. He looked at them and saw horses dying and it made him sad, but he felt no hatred.

They began to slow. Nicholas could feel them giving up, fatigue wearing down their anger. It was palpable; he felt the moment they let go. They were no longer yelling at him or calling him names. They were panting and tired like their horses. Nicholas worried for a moment that they’d circle around, but he was far away and it was dark. He slowed to a jog and concentrated on his breathing. He was bone-tired, but felt perfectly safe. Up ahead about fifty yards he saw a bend in the road where he planned to stop and watch them give up from a safe distance. They were turning for the long walk back as Nicholas vaulted a park bench and caught his boot on a head that appeared suddenly from behind the backrest.

He must have been out for several minutes. As he regained focus they were crowded over him, at least six of them. Nicholas rolled quickly onto his arms and pushed himself up, trying to close his mind to all thought and fear. He was standing when they moved on him.

The first blow seemed to strike deep in his spirit. Perhaps he could have defended himself; he’d fought multiple attackers many times and was very skilled, but he did not even try. He didn’t feel the pain of the beating specifically: it was strangely muted, and Nicholas was caught up in an inner turmoil he wouldn’t understand until much later, when it no longer mattered. The blows landed and he could feel their power, but the pain was not there. It was far away, and this unsettled him. He felt their fury, their hatred, and that hurt far worse. After a few long minutes, they started to slow. He took one last hit from a short, heavy woman who had gotten in more than her share, and they were finished.

Nicholas was still standing when they stopped, and for a long moment they just stared at him and shook their heads, mumbling among themselves. He could see that they were not proud or satisfied with themselves. They seemed unsure if they wanted to help him. One of them, who had been standing far back, came over and stared at him… through him, really, inches away from where Nicholas’ head was swaying slowly. He had thin red hair and a soft face. He did not say anything, just stared quietly for a few short seconds. Nicholas leaned back against a tree and slid unsteadily to the ground.

The man whose head he tripped on was sitting over him when he opened his eyes. His face was very close, studying Nicholas intently. One of Nicholas’ eyes was wet and bloody and it was difficult to see him clearly, but he could smell his old, sour homelessness. It was impossible to tell his age, but he had white, crazy hair and was smiling cheerfully.

"This is why I don’t’ socialize anymore in this city. Everyone’s hitting and spitting. Friends of yours there? Owe them money? Drugs? Doesn’t matter. They got you like they get everyone."

"A philosopher?" Nicholas asked distantly. He pulled himself up against the tree, checking his ribs for breaks.

"Lucky for you I was here to protect you, little man," said the old man, snorting the words out, followed by a wet cough.

It was slow and painful, but Nicholas stood and did not feel seriously hurt. Why couldn’t I have tripped over a boxer? "What’s your name?" he asked.

"None of your f*****g business what my name is, poncho," the old man replied, chuckling to himself. "Don’t seem too f****n’ safe to be associating with the likes of you, now does it? If I were a smart man I’d be gettin’ on about now. And I’m a smart man."

"And a brave one," Nicholas said, getting his bearings.

"I took your money, payment for my services. Thought you’d be dead anyway."

"I didn’t know I had any. How much was there?"

"Can’t be sure of the exact amount, seein’ as I was mixed up in the commotion and all. About forty, I think. Barely enough for the stitches I’ll need where your foot entered my head. Where’s the f****n’ hospital, anyway?"

"Forty dollars seems excessive for your services. It doesn’t feel like you were all that much help," Nicholas said, eying him with mock suspicion.

"Just the same, I need it and you don’t. I got it and you don’t." He turned to walk away. "Don’t bleed on the grass son. I live here. Sometimes, anyway."

"Wait! Loan me cab fare, at least."

"Cab fare!" he yelled as he wheeled around to face Nicholas. "You realize I haven’t been in a cab for 10 years and you want me to give you my hard-earned money so you get chauffeured about like a prince! Take the f****n’ bus like the rest of us. You still got a couple bucks on you. I’m not a total loser."

He was gone in seconds, blended into the trees. Nicholas wondered about him as he walked stiffly out of the park, wondering if he watched or simply hid during the beating. Still, he was glad the man was there. He protected Nicholas from other dangers. It was a long walk home.

 

* * *

 

It was past midnight when Nicholas finally reached his apartment building. As he slipped his key into the lock and pushed the door open he knew Jill was not alone. He couldn’t’ say how he knew this or why; it was just something he felt in her, in her mood, or perhaps just in the air. He considered going somewhere else, but there was nowhere and he no longer had the strength.

He opened the door slowly, quietly. Soft instrumental music was playing, something he did not recognize, soft, relaxing. As he closed the door behind him the pain finally came, the sadness, the inevitable aloneness, the anger at himself and his life. He leaned against an old wooden bookshelf next to the entrance, knocking several candles to the floor, sending shiny pink and white ribbons of wax sliding smoothly into the room.

A man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist as Nicholas sunk further into the shelves. The man had red hair and large freckles littering his midsection. He had an aggressive, mean look, and began to whistle as he crossed Nicholas’ line of sight to the small kitchen. Nicholas remained perfectly still and watched him curiously, utterly exhausted, not certain he could muster a reaction even if he wanted to. The man froze when he saw Nicholas, his arm halfway raised, like a question, as their eyes locked.

Nicholas did not think about how he must look to the man, either dangerous or pathetic. Perhaps the man assumed he was an intruder. In his mind, Nicholas imagined them circling one another like wild animals in a battle dance. He reeked of sweat and grass and knew he was weak and injured, but Nicholas stared at the man coldly, confidently. He subtly straightened his back to his full height, sending several books to the floor.

 Jill bounced out of the kitchen towards the man, laughing, and stopped instantly when she saw Nicholas leaning by the door. For a moment, she simply stared, and it was the saddest Nicholas had ever seen her. She didn’t seem to notice the man in the towel at first. She just stared at Nicholas, small tears forming in her sea-green eyes. After a moment, Nicholas gave in to his dizziness, and Jill rushed over to him as he slid down the wall to the floor.

She held his head in her hands and looked all over his face. Nicholas tried not to think, not to wonder. He was hurt, and relieved to see her. "Oh, god, Nicholas," she said. "What happened?" Her voice was soft, and tears rolled out of her eyes. She put her head down against his cheek and whispered his name again and again. "No, Nicholas," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "No, s**t, no…no."

"Wait here," she whispered. As she stood and headed for the bathroom, she noticed the man in the living room with the towel. "Pat, this is Nicholas. Nicholas, Pat." Nicholas was slightly amused by her nonchalant introductions as she stepped carefully around the man with distance to spare, which was not an easy task in such a small apartment. Pat was standing with his arms folded as Jill returned with her box of medical supplies. Nicholas stared at the man, unsure himself of what he would do.

"Go home, Pat," she said evenly.

"What happened to him?" he asked, a serious, artificial look of concern on his face. "Should I call an ambulance or something?"

Jill whipped her head around in a frenzy, startling even Nicholas, screaming impossibly loud. "Get out! Get the f**k out!" She was sobbing furiously now, choking as she tried to scream. The man responded instantly. It did not escape Nicholas that he went into their bedroom for his clothes.

She began wiping his face with makeup pads soaked in alcohol. Her tears fell on his eyes and forehead. It kept them from talking, and Nicholas was grateful. Pat spent several long minutes getting himself together. He had a loud, clumsy presence that could easily be felt rooms away, and with that feeling came the realization that his home with Jill was gone. It was a cold, objective feeling.

Pat stopped on the way out and put a hand on Jill’s shoulder. For a moment, Nicholas thought about breaking it off, how easy and quick and satisfying it would be. "You gonna be ok?" Pat asked her.

"Go home," she answered, not taking her eyes off Nicholas.

 

* * *

 

Jill knelt on the floor beside Nicholas as the door closed and the man’s footsteps receded in the hallway. She kissed his hand softly, then rested her head in his lap and cried softly. Nicholas could feel her sobbing, her tears cooling as they evaporated from his skin. He stroked her head slowly as the pain surrounded him like a sea.

"I’m sorry, Nicholas," she whispered softly, her eyes closed tight. "I’m so sorry."

"You knew I would come home," he replied, in a tired, defeated voice.

"I didn’t sleep with him. He came from golf and asked if he could use the shower."

She lifted her head up and started to wipe his face again. Nicholas grabbed her wrist to stop her and she began crying again, this time more violently.

She stood up slowly and walked to the window, composing herself, Nicholas thought, quite easily. "I keep waiting for that call, Nicholas, from the hospital or the police again, someone telling me that this time you’re not coming back. Always waiting." She stared through the window, trancelike, tears streaming down her face.

"Waiting?" Nicholas said, about to say more, but she cut him off, as she often did.

"I just feel like I can’t start my life with you."

"I thought you already had. What have we been doing for these past two years?" he asked quietly.

"I don’t know," she whispered, shaking her head slowly. "I don’t know."

Nicholas started to stand, but she held her hand out behind her to stop him. "I’ve been seeing him for a while, Nicholas. He’s good for me right now, and I’ve needed that. I’ve needed that for a long time." Her head fell slightly and she started crying again. After a few minutes, with Nicholas silent and still, she opened her eyes again and turned to look at him. "Do you remember when we went to see your mother, just before she died?"

"Yes," Nicholas said.

"She told me that you were a wolf asleep who dreams he is a puppy being chased by wolves." She looked past him, a sad, faraway expression in her eyes. "I’m not even sure what the f**k she meant. The two of you speak in circles. But I don’t want a wolf, Nicholas. I don’t want it."

"There’s nothing wrong with a wolf, Jill. They are honorable, loyal."

"Yes, Nicholas," she whispered. "That they are. You never would have left me."

For a moment Nicholas thought of all the questions he could ask, all the hurtful things he could say, but he let them pass. It no longer seemed important. "He won’t love you like I do," he said quietly, almost whispering.

"No, Nicholas. No one will," she said, still crying softly.

She looked at him sadly, waiting for a reaction. Nicholas closed his eyes and did not give her one. But the tears finally came, slowly.

As he lost consciousness and his body began its healing, she told Nicholas she was leaving.

 

Three

 

Nicholas spent the next few days at Susanna’s house in Brooklyn, going over various plans for their little group of activists. Susanna was younger than both Nicholas and Jill, but wise for her years, and seemed to know Nicholas very well. She was very beautiful, slim yet curvaceous, with straight, jet-black hair, large blue eyes and pale, soft skin. Aside from her career in nursing, Susanna was a Wiccan student of some sort, (Nicholas never really asked), and claimed to be a virgin. He doubted that, but nevertheless, even with the occasional sexual tension evident between them, they had never progressed beyond a working friendship. But he often stared at her lips as she spoke, wondering, as any man would.

He slept on her couch and hid from everything for nearly two days, until she roused him with a home cooked, southern breakfast of biscuits, eggs, potatoes, bacon, juice, coffee, sweet rolls. Nicholas could not ever remember having such a good meal.

"Your face looks better," she said cheerfully, as he was finishing his second cup of coffee.

"Thanks," he replied, smiling back. "I am one of those lucky men who get better looking as they age. Ten years from now I doubt you’ll be able to resist me."

"Trust me," she said, "I have powers. Anyway, we have a meeting on Thursday. It was going to be here, but I think it will be at Randy’s house in the city. More central for everyone."

Nicholas began drifting, not really hearing her words but appreciating her on a deeper level. Sometimes Nicholas thought Susanna was his only link to the real world. She explained everything to him that she read in newspapers and magazines, what she saw on television. She seemed very connected, and almost religiously gathered all the little bits of information she thought would be vital to Nicholas’ survival. He was not really interested, having been thrown out of several colleges and never even having voted in an election, but she thought it her duty to educate him, and it had become an integral and amusing part of their friendship. She was very good in that respect; she seemed to be friends with herself in a way that Nicholas never was. She told him all about Eastern Europe and American politics, about Iraq and global warming, starvation, celebrity divorces, everything.

"Hey, come back, boy," she teased, snapping Nicholas back to the table. "No wonder why Jill left you. You’re horrible the morning after. I can do without the cuddling and s**t, but at least look at me once in a while." She stared seriously at Nicholas for a moment, then broke out laughing.

Nicholas laughed with her, and it felt good. Susanna and Jill had always hated each another, even thought they only met twice. Jill was possessive of him, while Susanna was protective. But who understood women, anyway? At the moment Susanna felt good. Jill didn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed at all.

Susanna didn’t know Jill very well, but she understood why she left. She tried to explain it to Nicholas from the female perspective, but he didn’t want to understand. Nicholas didn’t like to think of the practicality of love. It often made him sad. People talked about human emotions and needs with the same detachment they had when they ripped apart ancient forests to print greeting cards. Distillations of the soul mass produced on dead trees.

On the third day, Nicholas left, promising to see her at the meeting in a few days. When he returned to the apartment, Jill was gone, leaving only a note that Gracie was staying with the neighbor down the hall. The apartment was spotless and virtually empty, save an old couch, some books, and a few small items of furniture. He retrieved Gracie immediately, avoiding any discussions about the breakup. When he returned the dog paced for a bit, looking sadly at the floor, then climbed up on her chair and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

 

Mr. Nakayama finally sent someone for Nicholas. He felt terrible about having avoided him, but did not want to go until his face healed a little. After nearly three months of being away, Nicholas climbed the steps of his dojo in downtown Manhattan.

Mr. Nakayama was in his office upstairs as Nicholas slowly made his way past all his fellow students and teachers. He was once very popular in the school, both as a student and, later, as a teacher, but it had been a long time. He was greeted quietly by his senpai, but respectfully.

The old man was sitting at his desk, looking professional and dapper and very wide, as usual. Nicholas entered and bowed deeply. "Osu," he said gravely.

"Osu," Mr. Nakayama returned, looking hard at his student. "Girlfriend beat you up? He asked, smiling.

"Girlfriend’s too small," Nicholas answered.

"I’m small," he said, "and I beat you up." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Nicholas."

"I’m sorry I have been away so long, Sensei," Nicholas said quietly.

"Yes," the old teacher remarked. "You have been gone. You’ve missed your classes and your fighting terribly. It is very important to you." He said this as a statement of fact, not an opinion.

"Yes, Sensei. It is very important."

"You’re one of my best teachers, Nicholas, and the only one the children really like. That tells me a lot about you. But I sense that you do not do very well outside of this place."

"What do you mean?" Nicholas asked.

Mr. Nakayama closed his eyes and took a long time before speaking again, seeming almost to be resting. When he spoke again, his tone was slightly different, softer somehow. "You’ve come in here like this more than once, with your face beaten and your hands clean. You don’t seem to fight back. I thought this was a good trait and never spoke of it before. People fight too much in this country, and for little reason. You are the exception. But now I wonder why you cannot avoid these fights altogether. You do not defend yourself yet you always seem to be in a position where you have to."

"It is my work," Nicholas said, almost muttering.

 "I know of your work, Nicholas. There are few secrets in a dojo, even where none are spoken aloud. But those are not animal bites on your face."

"No," Nicholas said, head down.

"Because you work with the children here, I have to watch you very carefully, and I do. You’re an excellent fighter and have a spirit I admire. But one day you will have to fight outside of this place, and I wonder if you’ll be able to."

"I’ll never have to fight." 

"You are wrong, Nicholas. You are wrong in many ways."

"I’m not wrong," Nicholas answered, quietly but with some force. "I just make different choices."

Mr. Nakayama slammed his open hand on the desk with such force that Nicholas was frozen for an instant by the raw power, certain the desk would break in two. "You are wrong! You cannot ignore the physical aspects of karate, just as you cannot ignore the physical aspects of life. You think you can for a while, but you cannot. Life is stronger than you are. Much stronger."

He paused for a minute or so. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter, yet stronger somehow. "You somehow think you can escape the pull of life, but you cannot. You are wrong."

Mr. Nakayama left the room for a few moments and returned smiling with a tea tray. Nicholas wondered for the first time why he was sent for. Part of him wanted to get up, to give up.

"You came to my karate school for spiritual reasons and I respect that. Most people here don’t care at all. They just want to fight. But you do. And because of that, I feel a…responsibility to you. You are like a child, Nicholas, a child in the world with no protection, no guidance. You are alone no matter who is with you. But I am not a spiritual guide, and you are not, in fact, a child. I had hoped you’d find what you needed as a teacher. Perhaps you could, if you tried."

He looked at Nicholas softly, with a hint of sadness on his face. "Your mother came here once, shortly before she died. She claimed you had enormous respect for me, and that she wanted to see for herself. I don’t believe that. I think she just missed speaking Japanese. She told me of your childhood, of your sister and family. She asked me to watch over you when she was gone."

Nicholas looked at his old teacher curiously, unsure how to react, when he continued: "You share her quietness, her gentleness. She loved you very much."

"She never mentioned meeting you," Nicholas said a little too quickly, wondering why he was suddenly angry. "But in all honesty, I never really fit in here anyway. I…"

"Shh, Nikko." Mr. Nakayama held a short, stubby finger in the air. "You needn’t protect yourself in here." Nicholas waited for him to continue, but he just stared with an openness which was strangely comforting to Nicholas.

"Where are you, Nikko? You have a place here. A good place. You are well liked. That is my greatest hope for my students here. To build a haven where lives are held at the door. But something else pulls you."

He seemed about to speak again, but he just kept looking at Nicholas. His face was serious, but his eyes seemed to smile sadly. Nicholas felt those eyes probing inside of him, and he felt almost peaceful.

After a long minute, Mr. Nakayama walked passed him towards the door. As he stepped through, he told Nicholas to get dressed. He did not wait for an answer.

 

* * *

 

Nicholas thought there are few places in the world like a good dojo. The smell of wood and sweat. The mixture of peace and fear. The forceful yells and respectful silence. Mr. Nakayama was right. Nicholas missed it terribly. As soon as he stepped out of the locker room his reverie was broken by the laughter of children.

"Sensei Nikko! Sensei Nikko!" Nicholas looked around, pretending not to notice the small hand tugging at his gi. Finally, he crouched down on his knees and stared at a little dark-haired Hispanic girl.

"Happy birthday, Lulu," he said.

She looked at Nicholas suspiciously. "How did you know it was my birthday? I am 11. But really, it is not my birthday until tomorrow, so you’re not so smart after all, are you." She gave a stern look and poked Nicholas in the chest with a little finger. "Are you?"

"No, Lu. I am not." Nicholas stood up and turned his back to her. As he pretended to walk away, he muttered, "but I can do other things," and turned around and flipped her upside down on the mat, landing by her feet with an ankle lock, both of them giggling uncontrollably.

He let her twist out of it and she sighed and looked at him hard. "You know, I was going to marry you, but I have a boyfriend now." She walked away before Nicholas could respond.

As he stood up, he saw his old teacher looking at him, smiling. Nicholas was surrounded by children, and smiling back.

Nicholas led the class through stretching exercises, cracking jokes between each one and glaring at anyone who laughed. He warned the class that if they laughed while stretching they could easily get stuck in that position and have to be carried around, ridiculously contorted, for the rest of their lives. For those still skeptical, he added that they would also stop growing. Some of them believed him. But they laughed anyway. Nicholas needed them far more than he had realized.

When Nicholas finished and had everyone lined up in neat, white-suited rows, Mr. Nakayama started into the little speech he gave before each class he was present for. What he said surprised everyone.

"As you know, it is very difficult to obtain a black belt in this institution. You are free to go to another school, in which you can easily buy a black belt in a year or two, and if you seek that brand of bravado and false confidence, you have my blessing." He paused for more than a minute, looking appraisingly at each silent face in the room.

"I hear you can even get a certified black belt over the Internet nowadays, answer a series of questions every week or day, whereby the teacher assesses your progress." He stopped and laughed at himself. "Certified. I am not disturbed by this. I offer to challenge any first year student of mine with one of their so-called black belts anytime. You will win. There is no doubt in my mind."

"But karate is more than a skill to be learned. It is much more. It is a discipline. A path, as so many people like to call it. And, as such, people veer off this path from time to time. There is no disgrace in this. Life is difficult and complex." The whole room was silent…aware that Mr. Nakayama kept staring at the same person.

He continued speaking, walking towards Nicholas. "A black belt is a privilege, and, although it rarely happens, it can be lost for one reason or another. Sometimes a student loses the desire or the will. It is not about fighting ability. That is yours to keep."

He was halfway across the room, still walking towards Nicholas. "Sometimes a student will commit an act and I will feel he or she no longer deserves the honor, however hard earned it may have been." He stopped in front of Nicholas, reached forward and untied his belt, folding it reverently and placing in on the floor before his feet.

Looking straight at Nicholas, void of expression, he lowered his voice. "And, sometimes, a student just loses his way." He turned and walked back to the front of the group silently.

"I do not know which of these is the cause...It is not my place to know. I am a teacher. If a student wants to learn, I teach. It is very simple." He looked at Nicholas with a soft, almost fatherly expression on his face. "Nicholas. You will retest in 20 minutes. He glanced at Nicholas, waiting. Nicholas gave a slight nod, and Mr. Nakayama walked back towards his office.

Nicholas spent seven of those long minutes stretching, gauging just how out of shape he had become. The dojo was silent, full of whispers. When Nicholas finished stretching, he walked over to a corner to meditate.

Some minutes later, Nicholas heard the distinctive clap of Mr. Nakayama bringing the room to order. When he opened his eyes, there were at least three times as many people lining the walls of the room, some in dress, others in street clothes. Nicholas stood and walked up to Mr. Nakayama.

The two men bowed, and the teacher addressed the room. "A most unusual occurrence. I see more people are interested in this test than before. So be it. You will please maintain quiet and respect. Mr. Hanson had been Nindan, black belt of the second degree, for some time. This, as you know, is a very difficult level to reach in my school. We should all be very proud of him. However, due to his long absence, he will now retest. He has accumulated enough knowledge and experience for 3rd level, so we will see. Mr. Hanson: You are ready?"

"Yes, sensei," Nicholas replied quietly.

"Very good," he answered. "We will warm up. 50 Laps. 100 pushups, 200 situps. 50 pull-ups. You have 12 minutes."

Nicholas was aware of the sighs in the room, and the curious, worried expressions of the children, but he got right to work, surprised at how much it hurt. When he was finished, he spent another 2 hours going through every single move he knew. 100 front kicks, 200 reverse knife-hand thrusts, etc. Following that was nearly 2 hours of Kata, over 25 long, memorized fighting and movement simulations performed blindfolded. Nicholas was nearly collapsing with fatigue.

 Mr. Nakayama walked over to Nicholas and put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you ok?"

"No," Nicholas replied, panting.

He stood over Nicholas for a long minute. "Very Good. There is just one more test. You will spar against opponents of my choosing."

He walked to a group of other sensei, whispering and pointing, and arranged a line of 5 people. The first was Leslie, an angry, suspected lesbian, who for some reason hated Nicholas considerably. "You may wear protective gear, or not, if you feel it hinders you. It is your choice."

Leslie answered before Nicholas could speak. "No thank you, sensei. I doubt he will even get close enough." Leslie was short, about 5’5", rail thin and quick as a snake. She stood in a fighting stance.

One word from Mr. Nakayama set the room reeling. "BEGIN!"

Karate has certain rules. Some are constant: no groin strikes, biting, hair pulling, and the like. The only other rule Mr. Nakayama employed in his matches was no mixing of styles. Students with training in competing arts were instructed to only use the moves of his school. Occasionally, this rule was relaxed during high-level grudge matches.

But there are common sense practices, as well. In a street fight, advanced practitioners of karate will often come on strong and fast, setting up a power strike as soon as possible, with perhaps only two or three moves or feints before launching their attack. Surprise and power are the elements that provide the advantage over opponents of lesser skill. However, in an evenly matched fight, the opposite is nearly always true. If an opponent comes out fast and strong, with a sweeping kick or other knock-down move, they run the very real risk of their own move being used against them by someone who knows how to deal with it. So the fighters will nearly always start out slowly, circling and jabbing, testing and learning. This may go on for several minutes, while the fighters learn their opponents’ reaction times, weight balance, and movement habits. Then they will close in for short strikes and back out immediately, again learning how their opponents handle themselves. They have to respect each others abilities or they will lose quickly.

Leslie chose to treat Nicholas as an untrained, unrespected opponent. Perhaps she was trying to take advantage of his obvious fatigue, or she assumed he was out of practice and could be taken quickly. She closed the distance between them in three fast strides, spinning on the last step and flying towards Nicholas in a Muay-Thai style spinning back kick. Nicholas was indeed too slow to block the move, but he did the next best thing; he lowered his head and took the strike on the hard, round part just above his forehead. Rather than connecting with his chin or cheek and spinning his body partway around to expose his side, Leslie bounced back slightly off his head, coming down off-kilter with her side exposed to him. He let out three short punches to her ribs. With most of the power on the third strike, he could feel her ribs give slightly, cracked or at least fractured.

Leslie composed herself quickly, her small agile body bouncing and circling in short, fast feints, moving well despite the obvious pain. They exchanged 8 or 10 strikes, one opening a deep cut above Nicholas’ left eye, before she switched back to her Muay-Thai kick-boxing techniques. Nicholas chanced a quick look over to Mr. Nakayama, but his face was expressionless. Apparently, the rules were out. Free-for-all mixing of styles was definitely in.

When Leslie came at Nicholas with another sweeping kick, he was ready. He leaned far back on his right heel, losing his balance while simultaneously grabbing her ankle as it swung towards his face again. Spinning with her momentum, Nicholas used his weight to bring her down to the mat, spinning with her until she was flat on her stomach and her ankle was twisted out to the side behind his left elbow in a Jiujutsu-style leg lock. With his right hand, he viciously chopped at the back of her neck and then released the hold on her ankle, springing to his feet and waiting for her stand. She could deal with the pain in her ankle, but the strike to her neck put her on the verge of unconsciousness. Nicholas hoped she would walk away, but she staggered towards him a final time. With lightning-fast precision, he copied her spinning back kick, this time landing squarely on her cheek. Her little body spun twice in the air before coming to rest on the mat.

Mr. Nakayama clapped twice to end the match, and sent two students to look after Leslie. After several minutes, the woman regained consciousness and the other students helped her to her feet. She glared at Nicholas, and for a moment he thought she would charge him once more, but she spun on her heel and stormed towards the lockers.

Murmurs and quiet conversation started around the room, but came to a quick halt as Mr. Nakayama clapped his hands once more, signaling for the next match to begin. The next three matches were long and difficult victories for Nicholas. He was still on his feet when the fourth opponent fell.

Mr. Nakayama called for a five minute rest break. Nicholas was dead tired and bleeding from several places, but did not sit, out of fear his body would begin shutting down. He understood what Mr. Nakayama was doing. If he gave Nicholas a few minutes for the adrenaline to fade he would be unable to fight the last match. He was supposed to lose. Nicholas countered this strategy by remaining in constant movement, sparing with the heavy bag and running through his movements in the air.

The spectators watched sadly, a few children crying softly for their teacher, wondering sadly why he would waste the last of his energy. Nicholas noticed none of it, savagely pounding the heavy bag and breaking plywood squares mounted in brackets on the walls. It was the only sound in the entire room.

Exactly five minutes later, Mr. Nakayama clapped his hands once more.

The room was utterly silent as Sensei Omar walked into the circle of people lining the match area. A second degree black-belt like Nicholas, he had nearly a hundred-pound advantage. He was considered to be of lesser natural ability than the other opponents Nicholas had just beaten, but he was also a wrestler with nearly 10 years of high-school and collegiate tournament-level wrestling behind him. Judging by the allowance of Leslie’s use of her Muay-Thai, Omar would no doubt bring his considerable wrestling experience to bear, if given the opportunity, which is the worst style for a Karateka to face. Nicholas would have to keep him on his feet.

Fighting fatigue and the graying circles steadily reducing his field of vision, Nicholas closed the distance quickly, with a fake straight punch to the face which he pulled at the last moment, leaning back and letting loose a vicious chopping side kick to Omar’s left thigh. Although not a debilitating strike, it would reduce Omar’s speed should he attempt a lunge to take Nicholas down to the mat.

After a few minutes of sparring, Nicholas was able to employ the same technique to Omar’s right thigh. When Omar’s weight shifted reactively to his right foot, his head instinctively swiveled to the other side in compensation. Nicholas around spun instantly to his right with his arm extended to its full length and his fingers stretched forward in a knife-hand position to concentrate the power on a smaller physical area than his fist for maximum effectiveness. Omar’s nose shattered with the impact and began bleeding freely.

He landed several more kicks to Omar’s thighs, slowing the bigger mans movements even further. Nicholas used this advantage to keep Omar turning to the right with him, landing short punches and kicks almost at will. After nearly a minute of ducking and sparring, Nicholas pivoted around and changed directions to his stronger side, landing a front kick to Omar’s stomach and then a vicious snapping kick directly to his chin. Omar stumbled back, swaying heavily.

Nicholas thought to press in close for a submission move, a triangle or leg lock, but was still wary of the huge man’s wrestling skills. After a few seconds, Omar walked towards Nicholas, bleeding and breathing heavily. He didn’t even raise his hands for defense. Nicholas carefully measured the distance, faking a low lunge to the body and at the last moment executing a nearly perfect spinning back kick to the head, connecting with a loud thud he felt vibrate through his entire leg.

Before Nicholas completed his spin to a forward position, Omar locked his arm inside of Nicholas’ elbow and was dragging him to the mat. Nicholas was stunned that the man was even conscious. Almost instantly, Omar had Nicholas in a choke-hold from behind with the crux of his elbow under Nicholas’ chin. In wrestling, this move is nearly inescapable. If he could not get out of the hold, Nicholas would black out within 30 seconds.

He quickly felt the grayness of his vision increasing. Using the sweat and Omar’s blood as lubrication of sorts, Nicholas was able to pivot slightly so he had Omar to his right side. After extending his left leg forward a few inches on the mat, Nicholas brought his knee towards his head, connecting strongly with Omar’s damaged nose, then leveraged his body in the air nearly perpendicular to Omar for a split second.

Sensing a slight gap in Omar’s hold in this new position, Nicholas slid his arm downward between his neck and Omar’s shoulder, letting his weight carry his body back down behind Omar. As he landed, he extended Omar’s arm along with his own, bending the man’s hand backward at the wrist and encircling it with his other hand. The pain must have been excruciating, because Omar released his hold on Nicholas’ neck to make an attempt to free his hand. It was the move Nicholas was waiting for. As soon as he felt the pressure ease on his neck, Nicholas spun onto his side with Omar’s arm stretched forward under Nicholas’ body. Completing the move, Nicholas spun his body 180 degrees, taking the arm with him, and swung his left leg on top of Omar’s chest. Wriggling his body sideways once more, like an eel, Nicholas thrust his hips into the air and dislocated the big man’s shoulder, while continuing to flex the man’s hand backwards at the wrist. If Omar fought against the spinning movement Nicholas had begun, his wrist would snap. He had no choice. As he completed the move, Nicholas slid his other leg behind the big man’s neck and locked his ankles together, squeezing Omar’s neck between his thighs with all the strength he had.

As a wrestler, Omar could have gotten out of this move easily; it is not a submission move per se, but anything Omar tried at this point would only increase the pressure on his dislocated arm, and probably snap his wrist as well. Nor did he have any position from which to strike effectively. After nearly a minute, Nicholas felt the big body slacken, and he released his hold. He lifted himself slowly to his feet, facing Mr. Nakayama and bowed deeply.

The room was completely silent. Many faces stared at Nicholas, familiar, friendly faces. Some felt bad for him, their faces obviously pained. Others smiled in support. Still more smirked in knowing connivance, feigning absolute confidence in their teacher, as if they new all along he would prevail. Nicholas swayed unsteadily, remaining on his feet only through great effort.

After a few minutes of hushed conversation with other sensei, Mr. Nakayama motioned for Nicholas to come over to where he was standing.

"That was an interesting move there, with your feet in the air like a cheap geisha in heat," he said, smiling slightly. "Usually, karate students will dabble in either oriental boxing or Judo, perhaps even Brazilian Jujitsu, but I rarely see anyone studying Japanese Jujitsu. Very impressive indeed."

Nicholas considered the matches for a moment. "I wasn’t supposed to win, was I?" he asked reflectively.

Mr. Nakayama considered this for a moment before answering. "It’s not over yet," he said quietly, staring directly into Nicholas’ eyes, before motioning him back to the center of the room.

Following a subtle movement of his hand and a murmur in Japanese to several other sensei, the overhead lights dimmed almost to nothing, and five young students emerged with burning candles, placing them at the boundaries or the match area.

Mr. Nakayama walked slowly to the old, ornate safe next to his office, deftly dialing in a five-digit combination. When he turned around, he had a new black-belt with three gold stripes and Nicholas’ name and level inscribed with intertwining gold and silver thread in Japanese characters. Without saying a word, he walked over to the center and put his big hands in Nicholas’ shoulders to steady his swaying.

He said a few words in Japanese, too low for anyone but Nicholas to hear, then switched to English. "No, Nicholas. You were not supposed to win the matches. Sometimes, it is how we handle defeat that reveals who we are. I had expected your body to lose, and had hoped for your spirit to win. Sometimes even an old man like me gets to enjoy a surprise." He circled the belt around Nicholas’ waist, snapping the knot closed with a strong jerk that almost knocked him off his feet. He smiled for a few moments at his student, then put his arm around Nicholas’ shoulder and turned to face the assembled spectators, now easily numbering over a hundred.

He spoke softly, but with considerable power. "What you have just seen is very rare indeed. Our black-belt tests are nearly always closed to the public, for obvious reasons. Many of you would be reluctant to experience such a test once, let alone twice. But Nicholas is a very rare student. His example is one I hope you can all learn. When facing extreme odds, seemingly impossible odds, whether in fighting or in life, it is not the skill or techniques that enable you to prevail. It is not even determination, as westerners constantly propose, that will see you through such times. It is your spirit. It is that fire inside of each of us, that starts out like the flickering candles at our feet but, when you need it most, will roar like an inferno."

The room was smiling now, many in awe, having never witnessed anything like this before in their dojo. "I would like you to congratulate your fellow student and teacher, Nicholas Hanson. He has worked very hard, in body and spirit, and he now leaves his old level behind. This award goes to Nicholas, and we should be very proud indeed, but it also goes out to his students, who benefit immeasurably from his efforts. Let us celebrate the elevation of Nicholas Hanson, Sandan, black belt of the third degree. In 25 years of teaching in this country, Nicholas Hanson is only the 9th student ever to reach this level." He turned to face Nicholas and bowed deeply. When he straightened, he said simply and warmly, "Congratulations, Nikko."

The room erupted into thunderous applause, which lasted at least five minutes, with over a hundred people crowding to greet Nicholas. It was a short celebration, but was the happiest time Nicholas could remember in a long while. It was something right in his life, at a time when he needed it more than he realized. Over an hour later, having showered, changed, and had his wounds attended to, Nicholas begged off and walked down the stairs to the exit.

He was smiling broadly as he emerged, lost in his own thoughts. He was happy and peaceful, whistling softly. Turning and walking towards the subway, still smiling, he did not notice the large black man in a sedan across the street snapping a digital Nikon camera.

 

 

Four

 

Two days later, pacing his empty living room, Nicholas finally returned the call to his brother. At 24, just two years and a few days younger than Nicholas, Cas had the intellect of a teenager and the shallow charm and grace of a would-be-successful actor. Or perhaps he was successful. Nicholas had no way to judge.

"I’m in New York for a commercial, man," Cas droned. "Low-end stuff, but I have some calls setup, so who knows?" When he got around to asking about Jill, Nicholas said she was fine. "On a scouting trip," he lied effortlessly.

"Too bad, he answered. There’s a hot industry party tonight at Life. She could have made some good contacts. But you, bro, you have to come."

He was about to beg off, busy with work or something, but Cas pressed on until Nicholas gave in. "Passes at the door, under your name, Nikko. Ask for Tim, and tell him you’re on Russian Rob’s private list."

Nicholas was about to ask whether Rob was actually Russian, but his brother cut him off again. People did that often to Nicholas, and he wondered if he spoke too slowly. His own voice sounded alien to him.

"You have to go, Nicholas. We’re family." Cas’ tone was more somber. He assumed Nicholas had no intention of going, so he switched to a more serious character. It had little effect, but Nicholas thought he might actually go, anyway.

When he asked Nicholas about his work in the ‘animal kingdom,’ Nicholas hurried off the phone. He used to have more to say about his work, but somewhere during the last few months, or years, such thoughts were steadily marching to the back of his mind, settling into the cold desert next to his distant father and the cross-country motorcycle trip he never took.

As he replaced the phone in its cradle, he heard his brother’s final plea. "Midnight, man! Bleeker and…" Silence again, finally.

He left a message for Donnie, who almost never answered his phone. It was a wonder they every communicated at all. Left the club info, asked if he wanted to go.

Nicholas spent some time cleaning and organizing the nearly empty apartment, then took Grace for a long walk in the park.

The dog had been getting progressively slower in the last few months, Nicholas noticed sadly. She was diagnosed with bone cancer nearly a year ago, and had seemingly set into her terminal life calmly. No eating problems, no vomiting or lethargy. Just an increasing sadness and a slower step. Nicholas had no way of knowing how much pain she was in, and medicated her only slightly. Greyhounds were bred to suffer. Still, the time would come soon. Nicholas hoped he wouldn’t have to decide…Perhaps she would go in her sleep, before it got too much worse.

Nicholas returned to the apartment, trying not to notice how quiet it was. Gracie slurped loudly at her water, then rubbed her face against Nicholas’ leg and walked to the tattered couch, looking back several times at her human. It was her way of flirting, although Nicholas had no way of knowing where she learned it. He walked over and sat on the couch next to her. She lifted her head high as Nicholas sat, then let it fall on his leg with a wet thump. Sara the wondercat slinked up minutes later, quietly arranging herself with her tail in Gracie’s snout.

The family slept.

 

* * *

 

Nicholas woke with a start at 7:57 p.m., exactly 3 minutes before he was supposed to be crosstown at Randy’s house. He rinsed in the sink, considered the luxury of a shower and shave and then rejected the idea. He dressed quickly in grey jeans and a black t-shirt with the abstract whiskers of an invisible cat slanting upwards toward his shoulder.

Donnie was waiting for him as he exited the cab in front of Randy’s apartment building, an enormous cinderblock with small windows and a brass plaque outlining the pedigree of the building. Former mental hospital, or something like that. The doorman eyed them suspiciously as they walked through, stating Randy’s name and apartment number. Randy didn’t like to have people announced, and he had an arrangement with the building’s doorpeople to simply let them up. "Don’t want to get up to answer the phone just to wait by the door and answer again," he always said.

"Don't know why you bother with these guys, Nikko," Donnie said solemnly in the elevator. Nicholas eyed him in the elevator mirror, half a foot shorter and probably a whole foot narrower.

"Yeah," was all Nicholas could manage.

"Sit around like a bunch of old ladies."

"Yeah."

The elevator dinged open on the eleventh.

Donnie stopped in the hallway, facing Nicholas. "I'm sorry about Jill, man."

"Yeah."

Donnie fidgeted with his sleeves, adjusting his oversized clothes.

"She was a hottie. I feel your loss, man. Coulda been a model, eh? Now you’re your little birdie in the tree, Susanna, you gonna climb up and get her or can Big Donnie shake her down for himself? He slapped Nicholas on the shoulder so hard he fell into the wall. Donnie shook his head, laughing quietly. He could never manage to be mad at Donnie.

"Still don't know where the f**k he gets the money," he said, changing the subject instantly.

"Yeah."

Nicholas, too, wondered where he got the money. His own support came mostly from whitehatting, working as a hacker for hire for computer security vendors and some private clients. His job was basically to pick at the system’s defenses at unannounced times to see how far into the networks he could get undetected. He often got alarmingly far. It was a good living. Also, you couldn’t beat the commute. From the bedroom to the walk-in closet he’d converted into an office, it was about a ten second trip, if he didn’t run into domestic animal traffic. Still, it was a lonely job.

Randy greeted them warmly with his big, toothy smile. Nicholas genuinely liked the man; he had a certain dumb charm that felt good. Donnie hated him, of course. Randy gestured them into the stark, wide living room and went to the kitchen for a beer. There were eight people in the room on various seating surfaces, all familiar to him, save one, a young-looking girl, pretty in a manicured but playful way.

Nicholas sat on a far couch next to Susanna. She smiled at him with dark red lips and squeezed his hand gently. It was either an invitation, or a warning of sorts. Nicholas could never read her. Everything with Susanna was under the table. Nicholas doubted very much her claim to virginity. With her black bra sneaking out from the front of a tank-top, she was just too aware.

Donnie watched them both, smirking happily.

Small talk went all around for several minutes, like a local train stopping at predetermined topics.

Nicholas knew these people hardly at all, despite spending considerable time with them. Friendships did not easily grow within the animal rights community. People gravitated towards it for different reasons, from borderline mental disorders to deep anger or sadness. It was not a loving circle.

Randy sat next to the new girl, fidgeting and talking too much. He introduced her as Natalia and didn’t say much else. Three beers later, Donnie was somehow sitting next to Natalia, whispering jokes as she bit her fist trying not to laugh. Randy started outlining the schedule for next Tuesday’s bear hunt. He spoke like a leader, sneaking worried glances at Nicholas. It was obvious he wanted to bring the girl. Nicholas didn’t give it much thought. His mind was elsewhere. Susanna kept looking at him strangely, probably the fresh bruises. Or maybe she found him uncomfortably attractive as a new single man.

Randy droned on.

Natalia laughed.

Donnie smiled distantly, his say dark eyes watching Nicholas carefully.

 

* * *

 

I have to tell them soon, Nicholas thought to himself. The voice came to him often lately, with greater force each time. He was not changing his mind. He wasn’t all of a sudden thinking about steak and sport fishing. He was just tired. Whatever drove him in the past was fading somehow, and, if anything, Nicholas was glad. Perhaps it is a childish thing, a misplaced attachment. Nicholas had probably saved thousands of animals during his eight years. It was a matter of pride. If nothing else, he said to himself, I have that. More than most people.

But so much less. He studied people everywhere he went, imagining what their lives were about. Their connections, their business. What they produced with their time. Millions of people, all so busy. To Nicholas, it all pointed to the same conclusion. The time of playful forests and grand animals and coexistence was over. People cared more about something else, something which Nicholas could not attach himself to no matter how hard he tried. They cared about their families and friends, about their jobs, about who and what they were. Sex, promotions, thrills.

They had warmth and softness in their lives; they gave it and got it back. This was the balance of life…people lived off one another far more than they realized. Their identities mingled and curved in a constant state of readjustment, combining with frenzied regularity, shaping and being reshaped, refined. A constantly shrinking core. Nicholas wondered how many of them knew how to start a campfire or construct a usable lean-to.

Randy bent over the table across from Nicholas and slowly placed a beer in front of him. Nicholas smiled and thanked him, shaking the obvious cobwebs out of his head. "So Tuesday at midnight we’ll meet at the Coffee Shop in Union Square, agreed?" He was looking right at Nicholas. "Agreed, Nikko?"

"Yes," he replied. The bear hunts were routine, boring, and exhausting. They went into the woods the night before the bear hunting season started and sprayed leaves with their urine collected in spray bottles. But it was effective. 90% of bears are killed on the first day of the season. After that, they go deep and are very difficult to find. So Nicholas’ group, and others like them, tried moving the season up one day by sneaking in eariler, alerting the bears to the intrusion of humans.

The police, of course, were on to them, and patrolled aggressively, imparting maximum penalties for trespassing. If people were caught after 6 am, it was combined with charges of hunting without a license. Never mind that they were armed only with piss.

"Natalia wants to come," Randy said quietly, but the change was so sudden that everyone stopped talking. It had been like this for some time, Randy wanting to lead the little group, and Nicholas insisting that there be no leader as such. He wanted to refuse, of course, but since Randy put it out there, it was for the group to decide. "Randy," he said slowly, "you know you put everyone at risk by bringing someone new to a field trip. This isn’t a protest. It’s nothing personal against her, she’s very cute and, I’m sure, has useful abilities. But it will be up to everyone here. It’s their necks."

Susanna spoke first. "I, for one, don’t like it." She was angry, talking fast, which was rare for her. She was usually deliberate, measured. Randy and the girl exchanged glances. "How do we know she’s not a writer, or simply a groupie?"

This angered Randy considerably, since obviously she was a groupie. Nicholas had seen many in his time. Being an animal rights activist was an easy taste of the rebellious life. Fight for justice. Risk everything. Rich, bored girls loved it. But they caved in pretty fast. Nicholas didn’t care if she was a writer, unless Randy was f*****g her, in which case he would feed her all sorts of information which could hurt Nicholas and the other people. Some of them had good jobs, families and reputations, and didn’t want pictures of themselves trespassing and peeing on trees showing up in the NYU Beacon the following morning.

He also didn’t want anyone freaking out, doing their own thing, being eaten by a bear or beaten by a hunter. People tend to get out there and lose themselves, or freeze up, or any number of things. S**t happens. It was a small group, and trust and dependability were vitally important.

"Natailia," Susanna continued, talking softly at the girl. "This is nothing against you, really. We can always use good people. But there are risks, not to mention legal aspects. We trust each other mostly because of what we’ve been through together. That trust is hard earned, and supremely necessary." She glanced for a moment at Nicholas, and he was impressed. He smiled back.

Donnie muttered to himself, for and against.

"I think she should come…we need more people. Especially more women," said Cat, a twenty-something punk girl Nicholas barely even knew. Another of Randy’s imports. A few other people argued for and against. If Randy wanted to lead, let him. Let him, Nicholas murmured to himself.

Maybe it’s like this when your ideals fade, he thought. You drift until something else catches you. You wait and wait and wait.

The new voice brought him back to the room. Standing to her full height of 5’4" and dwarfed by the taller Susanna, Natalia spoke up for the first time. "Listen, I’ve been active for two years in other groups and other movements. I just want to help." Her voice was slightly gravely, but too high-pitched to be alluring. She sounded like a kid. I’ve been involved in other rallies and protests with Randy, and I’d really like the chance to do something more useful than protest." She stared directly at Nicholas as she spoke.

"I have no problem with your going, so long as you’re honest about what you’re getting into," Nicholas replied softly. "This isn’t a campout with your boyfriend. It is grueling, dirty, and usually very boring. Do what you’re told and stay out of everyone’s way, and we’ll see what happens. Okay?" Nicholas was greeted by angry silence, especially by Susanna, who sat down on the opposite couch, glaring. Even Randy was angry for some reason; probably thinking that Nicholas was playing with his toy. Nicholas sunk further into the upholstery, weary of the meeting.

That settled, they went over some other mundane details; combined protests with other groups, the legislative status of the Carriage Horse Act, and the hotly debated fur issue. Nicholas wanted no part of the vandalism which was quickly finding its way to the States from Europe; paint guns. He thought shooting little old ladies with paint guns was cruel, not to mention an easy was to wind up in jail. He was resisted by nearly everyone, citing the statistics of the retail fur trade all across Europe, especially the UK. They were right of course; it was highly effective, and although Nicholas had no reservations about breaking laws, there were some things he just wouldn’t do.

People started mingling about the apartment, Randy giving the same tour he always gave; pointing out what was expensive and stylish. Susanna approached Nicholas by the window, her long legs stretching a miniskirt, shooing Donnie away like a fly. She sidled up close next to him, a worried, slightly angry smile on her face. "You did good there, champ," she said sarcastically.

"Let her come…it’s Randy’s responsibility," he said distantly. "I don’t think…"

"You’re wrong, Nicholas. It’s your responsibility," she said, cutting him off. "You formed this group…you have the connections and the will that keeps it going. Besides, how many times have you told me there should be fewer people on the bear hunts? How many times, Nicholas?"

Nicholas said nothing, watching the anger fade from her face.