Still Soft With Sleep - Chapter 11 [FIN]
by Vincenzo Barney
We conclude our second quarterly Contest with the final chapter of Vincenzo Barney’s harrowingly lyrical Still Soft With Sleep. Catch up with the previous chapters below. Next week we’ll be departing from our normal contest format for a bit, but we think readers will like what we have in store - stay tuned for that.
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Vincenzo Barney is a Vanity Fair contributor. He wrote Still Soft With Sleep for his senior thesis at Bennington in 2018. He is working on a book about Cormac McCarthy and Augusta Britt, a story he broke for Vanity Fair last year.
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There was a gentle rain out on the water as if the fireworks had bombarded it out of the sky and the water was a sullen violet. The mood of the night in violet. The rain vanished just above the purple and I could not see it touch the surface. The harbor lights looked like fallen stars that bobbed the waves and could not sink down in the darkness to that last depth that fords into purple. The boathouse party went until ten or eleven and then migrated to the Yacht Club a mile down the road where a big party was going on. The weather picked up slowly and now the harbor was spread in a great rain. A wet singing. We spoke into the rain.
“Frank’s back tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want you to be there. It’s not your responsibly.”
“My dad’ll be here first light.”
“Probably better you’re gone. I don’t want any of it falling on you. I’m going to kill Chris too.”
I sipped my whiskey. “Have you thought it all the way through?”
“It’s the only thing I’ve thought about.”
“I know. But you’re gonna go to jail.”
“I don’t care man. All my life I’ve lived in this restraint. I’ve never had to force myself to live. I’m 21. I’ve got a long life ahead. I’ll be out by the time I’m 30. Look, I was born into all this wealth. I owe it in a way to do this, because I’ll be fine on the other end and if I don’t do it my soul will be dead by the time I’m 30.” He drank deep and refilled his glass. “When I went under I was in this place where I was gonna die. And I couldn’t tell what voice it was, if it was me, or God or something, but it said we’ll get you to shore, you will live, and when you get there, you have to kill Frank. It was like killing him was part of the pact of living. I think really that I’ll die if I don’t do it. Die in some way. Somehow my dad will die again if I don’t do it. The light of him. My name. I’m doing it for Brock, for Rosie. For Jamie. Show him what a man is. Our family name. Our dad. Be a man.”
The whiskey had gone to the ends of my fingers. I was heavy with uncharted weight and felt the eye of the needle. I wanted to tell him about Caleb but the depth the whiskey dropped me into warned me it would use up some vital strength to do it.
“So this is goodbye then.”
“Yeah.” He said it tentatively. Then he accepted it. “Yes. It’s goodbye.”
“It’s going to be real strange.”
“I know.”
“You’re not gonna be at Londonberry in the fall.”
“Neither will you.”
“I know. But when I’m back from Italy you won’t be there. You won’t graduate or make your film.”
“Maybe I’ll do my last year when I get out. Really focus,” he laughed.
“Yeah, be 30 on campus.” I laughed. “What should I tell everyone?”
“You’ll think of something in Naples.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll come visit.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you gonna clean the gun? Do you know how?”
“I found a video for it.”
I grabbed his palm and squeezed it, numb with whiskey. The whiskey had gotten into his hands too.
“Proud of you man.”
“Proud of you too.”
When Elvis had gone up to bed I checked the time on my phone and drank the last of the whiskey until I fell through into a weightlessness. The whiskey was in my toes now and the crown of my head. But the pain of the swim was like ballast and kept me balanced as I walked through the house and into the garage. I took a rag and engine oil and a fold of screw drivers from the garage and then filled a bucket with dishsoap and hot water and grabbed all the tools of the maid’s trade from below the sink in the kitchen. There was a toothbrush for small holes and rubber gloves and I mounted the stairs with them.
I passed our bedroom door. The stairs to the fifth floor curved just past it. It was strange never to have gone up there. To wake everyday and walk past an unexplored stairway but I had followed it like a vow.
Its steps were carpeted and I took them as quietly as I could. The key was under a fold of carpet, wedged into a divet.
The door gave on a creak, an intimation in the old timbers of Mayflower and I felt I was opening a door in all the hearts of the Gavins, ajar in the middle of their dreams. The door opened on an old widow’s peak of dark rose and brown wood. It was the original wood of the house which I’d never seen. There was a divan and a wooden desk at the window that overlooked Chappaquiddick. The bullet that killed Rosie had passed across the glass of this window. A telescope canted toward the moon and I wondered if the telescope was still used or if in the curve of the lens could still be the last thing Elvis’s father had ever looked upon. There were photos of him all over the room, and a large safe at the back and framed awards and old clothes on hangers and on the desk in the moonlight the silver front leaf of the gun glowed.
I hit a creak in the floor as I stepped into the white moonlight where it lay. The creak was above our bedroom and I remembered the creaks I could hear in the room when Elvis was up here and I was in bed. I slid my feet to the chair which was pulled out just enough that there was space to sit without sliding it against the floor. I put the bucket of oil and cleaning tools next to the desk and I sat into the chair’s old flexings. Hello, Ed.
I peeled back the plastic bag which Elvis had ripped open. It lay over the components of the gun like an awning. Much of the duct tape had lost its stickiness. I leaned forward to look and the chair flexed and I felt I was flexing Elvis awake. The gun was in better shape than I’d expected. With the rubber gloves on I looked over the parts in the moonlight. I weighed the creaks I made against dawn’s distance and the shape of the gun and made a decision. I took the sideplate and lined it against the grooves of the frame and it slid together. I found the screws and tightened them in a criss cross. I thought the hammer moved easily but was in a rush. I inserted the crane and clicked the cylinder closed and screwed the crane screw back in. I only checked that the cylinder swung open after I screwed the grips back on. There was the silver mark I had asked Elvis to make. I took the two bullets and loaded them into the chambers and lined up the chamber with the silver mark.
I had taken off the gloves and was about to wrap the gun when I heard footsteps behind me. They sounded to me like the footsteps of a giant and there was a swing of light. The door swung open all the way and I was like Jack up the beanstalk.
“Jamie?”
I didn’t answer. He had his phone flashlight in his hand.
“Adam? What are you doing up here?”
There was no course left now but to come clean.
“I’m reassembling the gun.”
“I was gonna do that.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m taking it.”
He waited to speak. “What?”
“To Brock.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“But you agreed with me about Frank.”
“Only to get you across the water.”
There was an anger in the silence. He tried to whisper but anger caught against his voice.
“Oh yeah? You swam for me? Fuck you. Get out of my dad’s fucking chair.”
I stood up. “You’re right. I mean as motivation. I wasn’t going to argue about it in the water.”
“How many times have you been up here?”
“Never.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are? It’s clean this way. I do it. You’re fucking everything up.”
“It’s not going to happen that way.”
“And you know what way it’s going to happen?”
“I think I’ve known the whole time.”
He screamed now. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” There was violence in his voice and I could see his eyes in the dark. “You’ve done nothing but sit around and get wasted on my liquor in my house with my family.” His face was close now and his finger was in my face. Dawn too was close. He had broken that magnetic perimeter that exists between men where only violence was possible a step further. He grabbed for my shirt and I blocked one of his arms but he followed through and pushed me and the flashlight in his hand strobed my eyes. I stumbled back. I did not want to fight him. It would wake the house and destroy the room and my strength was not for this. He shoved me again but it angered me and I lost my mind in the light and shoved him back. My arms ached to push him but the adrenalin was welling again. We were clumsy in the whiskey and the soreness of the swim and the hour of early morning. He began swinging wildly at my head, winding up and curving big roundhouse swings and I backed from them and then took a gap to clinch him but we spun with such force and held on tight to each other and I ran him into a timber in the wall and some of the frames fell. I wanted to speak some calm into him but he was gone. He would not kill Frank or Chris and vivify some light of his father in his heart and as I had taken that from him here I was to field the violence. I had him in a clinch where I could have given him an uppercut but I did not want to punch him and he pulled out of it. He was throwing punches with all his strength at my head and the light from his phone kept flying by my eyes. I wanted to grab him and restrain him but it is a hard way to fight when you don’t throw any punches back. I ducked inside of a swing and grabbed him in a headlock and his punch travelled around my head and bent around my neck and the phone in his hand clipped my front teeth and the light blinded me and I felt my teeth fly out of my mouth across the room. I rammed him into another timber and made for the gun. He reached for it too and it came away in my hands in a dull pop and a blow to my stomach that put a rage in me. There was a sour smell in the air and it had not been the sound or the smell of when Chris had fired it. I didn’t know someone could punch that hard. It travelled a pain right through the original pain of the swim. In the wall behind me there was a hole and an ejecta of moonlight pouring through and motes falling. I played my finger through it like a string and felt a burning in my stomach where Elvis hit me.
“Adam.”
“You coulda shot me man.” I grabbed my stomach. “I’m your friend. You wanna kill your friend? You’re gonna kill your friend.”
“Adam.” There was fear and sadness in his voice. I walked backwards to the door. “Did it graze you?”
“No it went through the fucking wall you crazy bastard. Leave me alone. Leave me alone now.”
I stepped over the doorsill with the gun and felt for the banister. My hand was wet. I put the gun in my waist band because I needed both hands for balance. Every step down tugged at the blow but I went fast to get clear. There was a tunnel of pain tearing through me and fire at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t know someone could punch that hard. The muscles in my stomach were seizing around the punch and I thought I might vomit. I rounded the fourth floor and felt a burning tug in my back and pushed through it. I got down to the third floor and here when I rounded into the moonlight I could see my shirt was soaked in bright blood. I felt over the front of it at a small hole.
“Ah shit.”
My pant legs were running slowly and my heels felt damp in my socks. I took the sidedoor no one used and opened it with my dry hand and was out in the grass. I paused to catch my breath and held down hard on the hole in my stomach and let off in the pain. Not here. There was no layer now between the pain and the outside of my body. I could smell my blood in the saltair and my breath was burning and twisting the tunnel in me. My heartbeat high up in my ears and it throbbed the pain and I thought I would pass out. I had never felt that deep inside myself before, but I could feel every inch of the tunnel. I reached my arm around my back and felt flaps of skin under my shirt.
“Ah shit.”
I felt a little more bravely and it was a large and ragged hole. Good. It went through.
The rain had stopped and every step through the wet garden to the boathouse tore and throbbed at the tunnel of my wound. Keep going. I looked for the tourniquet in the hatch under the cushion seats. With shaking hands I unzipped it and brought it out in the sand and the moonlight to see. I clenched my teeth and lifted my shirt to see the front wound. I felt with my hand and the gush in the back was worse with blood. I did not touch it with my fingers but could feel the edge of the hummock and folded skin and I shivered and the shiver shook my wound. Don’t spook. I wadded the gauze pads and pressed them into my back. I let off in the pain and wadded my t-shirt and bit down on it and pressed again, screaming through my teeth into my shirt. The roots of my broken teeth were exposed but I bit through the pain and moved the cloth to my molars and clenched until I thought I would break my teeth. I pushed all the bruise and pain into the wound as long as I could, but there is always another layer to pain and I pushed harder until the bleeding seeped. I felt my breath heavy against the pain. I did it to the front and saw orange stars and electric blue. I rolled the gauze around the pads on the wounds tight until I could hardly breathe and then pulled tighter. Then I went into the boathouse and laid on the cushions and the lights went out on me.
I woke at false dawn and my head was down in the cushion and I couldn’t breathe. I swiveled and a wave of nausea blurred my eyes. I reached for one of the solo cups and put it to my mouth. The wall of my stomach and back tore at the wound as I retched. Nothing much came out and I mostly screamed in rage into the cup. My eyes watered. No blood. That’s good. Alright, don’t be a pussy. What’re you whining about?
The long cushion I’d slept on was soaked in blood. I felt the bandage and it was dried and crusted and the vomiting had not opened the bleeding. Good, let’s not apply pressure again, alright? Not crazy about it. I took the gun and opened the cylinder. I emptied the last round in my hand and held the cylinder to the moonlight. The chamber I’d asked Elvis to mark was black and smelled foul. I looked down it. The water must have gotten into the powder of the round that shot me. I always knew being lazy would save my life one day. I looked at the last round in the light. The primer was clean and smelled right and I could hear the powder in my ear when I shook it and it sounded dry. The casing was tight. I closed the cylinder and cycled through. The hammer was gummed but came clean. My prints were all over it now. I opened the cylinder again and loaded the last round into the cleanest chamber.
What now. Don’t stop.
I stripped off my bloody clothes and unzipped the soaked cushion and shoved the clothes inside. I walked out onto the dock. The silver was going out of the sand and the moon was over the island in the Sound. The harbor was taking daylight. I walked down the dock and threw the cushion in the water and my stomach tore. You’re gonna start bleeding again, friend. I walked back into the boathouse and took one of the spare cushions out of the hatch and placed it where the old one had been. My Larsen sweats were in there too. I tied a random shirt left from the party around the bandage so I wouldn’t bleed through and tied it with a pink Vineyard Vines tie. Now you’ve got style. I put my sweats over it and wrapped the gun in another shirt so its shape wouldn’t show in the sweatshirt pocket and started out on the sand, kicking over the dark spots from where I’d bled earlier.
Ok, here you go. Get going. You got more time than you think. More time than in the movies. I walked slow. I was moving through honey. Thick slow honey. Dear neighbor throw open the blinds and see me shambling over your beach. A raw tunnel straight through me. Go in and out. Yes. Thee. Ah Thee, I smell Thee. I smell Thy breath and Thy neck. I smell Thy arms. Why do You sleep in my dreams?
The beach was canted and if I took a wrong step my stomach throbbed and nausea waved. Wave back. You better walk a straight line or you’re gonna start whimpering again. Say the alphabet backwards. Follow my finger with your eyes. Fuck you.
At the Harbor Master’s I cut up the road. The pain was worse without the give of the sand and going up hill gravity pulled on it. My sweatshirt was still clean and it was still dark. The stars were clear in the sky. I wanted to get out of the tight wrapping. It made me sick. I felt it with my hand and there was a slow bleed opening. Warm. Keep going.
A mist was caught in the street that led to the ferry. I was sweating in it. The downhill was shallow but felt sheer and steep on my wound. I almost fell forward. The door was open to the small ferry office and Brock was through the door standing at the desk looking out the window at Chappy. Steam rose out of the close of his hands. He sipped his coffee.
“Brock, I’m real sorry I haven’t been to see you.”
“Adam.”
“I thought you’d want to be alone but my heart has been broken about Rosie.”
He looked me over. Speaking now I could feel my bottom teeth tap the open roots of the top and it hurt.
“Adam,” he said again. “You look worse than me kid. Sit down.”
“I’ll never get up.” My voice came to me in a new arrangement. “I have something for you.” I took the gun out of my sweatshirt. The front leaf poked out and I held it open for him in the loose shirt. “A .44 Magnum. Belongs to someone I know. Went to a party at his house about a week ago. Nice house, in Chappy. Bout half a mile from the camping grounds in Cape Poge. Kinda guy who likes to shoot his gun straight up in the air during fireworks. You know what I mean?”
His eyes widened and he took the gun from my hands. I saw his eyes read the engraving. Chris McConnell.
“You might’ve heard of him.”
“I know him.”
“You might return it for me. He left it on Pasque Island. Lives down North Neck, last road on the left before the golf club.”
“Adam, sit down.”
“I can’t. Bear left between the white pillars.”
He saw now my hands were bloody. “It fires,” I said. “But apologize to him there’s only one round left. It’s been through the elements so to make it count you’d want to get real close. Failing that, he’s got plenty of rounds under his bed.”
Brock looked at me now as if a part of him had been waiting for this. Indeed the justice in him had drawn and tugged all week on this possibility, and had put a fever into its delay.
“Which room is his?”
“Bottom floor boxed out to the left of the porch, facing the beach. He’ll be asleep so you’ll have to wake him. Tell him Adam thought he should have it back.”
He grabbed my hand despite the blood and shook it. The light of the dawn broke through the window. “I gotta go now. My dad’ll be here soon.”
“Good, I won’t breathe a word, kid.”
“Preciate it.”
He took a rag and wetted it in his coffee and scrubbed at the blood.
“Take care of yourself off island.”
“Yeah, you too.”
I was shaking going up the hill of Daggett Street. The mist was gone and I knew it would be a hot day. Now the bottom fell out. There was a new pain from fighting the pain. I wondered could the body have anticipated the pain of being shot or did it react with creativity to the bullet. I had no desire to move. I felt the lassitude of a very deep sleep and was dropping through myself. What would you rather, be shot or swim the Sound again? Maybe be shot. See, there ya go. You’re lucky. Well, they’ve both got their drawbacks. What are they? Well they both suck, for starters. Alright, don’t stop. I rounded the Harbor Master and walked back along the sand. I was leaving a little blood now and the eye of the needle caught a glint of light and walking toward the vast beginning of sunrise I smelled Her breath. Our first kiss was on my lips and my legs buckled in the pink. Why did You leave me? Which road did you take to the quarry? The highway or Route 9A, through the country and the woods? I’d like to know that. I’d like to know which path you walked to the jump, because there are two. There’s two ways, you know. And which side of midnight? You see, it makes it hard to know the exact date. But my grievance gets in the way. I know, it blocks me from you, how upset I am. You ask a lot, you know, to accept You took Yourself away out of the world and not to be upset with You. Do You know my heart broke when the flowers in Londonberry bloomed this Spring, the first Spring since You were born in Bethlehem without You in the world? Do you know I kissed Your cold lips goodbye? I pretended You were sleeping in my arms. I sat in Your empty dormroom where the bed used to be. I put my hand on the spot where Your head had laid and I kissed the spot. I laid on the ice of Lake Paran looking up at the snow falling and I couldn’t see past it to where exactly it fell out of. It never touched what it fell out of it just fell and I never cried so. And if I start now I’ve got no chance. Keep going. I stumbled in the sand and caught myself on a dock. Do You know a part of me will be waiting for You forever? Is that what You’re doing now, waiting? I can smell You through the gate. Why don’t You come through it, to me? I’m not going in. I’m going to be a very old man. With children. I thought You’d have so many. I thought they’d be mine. I’m not coming in. I know You don’t ask it of me. I ask it of You, to meet my lips and kiss me into You. I’ve done all this just for a kiss. Can’t you come alive just a little? For the seconds of a kiss? To say goodbye. You never said goodbye. You know You jumped without saying goodbye. You called me the day before You did it and we spoke about our argument and You said we’d talk again in a few days, let’s give it the time it needs. Here’s me, giving it time. Here, I’ll die a little and you live a little. You feel that? I’m dying a little. No not the whole way. Now you come alive.
Elvis was on the dock, jogging through the boathouse. He was in a panic looking for something. Oh yeah, me. He must have seen the blood now in the light and knew he shot me. I stood a few docks away and waited for him to go. Let’s give it the time it needs, I said to him in my head. Feels like a dream, don’t it? Standing here at dawn dying. No, you’re not dying. Why’d you say that? I rested against a pilon and heard the Chappy Ferry behind me. Brock was at the wheel and his truck was the only car on. Keep going.
I got to Elvis’s dock and wrapped my arms around a pilon. I vomited into the water. No blood. Maybe it went right through and didn’t touch a thing. Blessed am I. And here you are whining. I started to leer backwards and caught myself. My wound tore inside when I grabbed on so tight to the dock. Don’t sit down. All you gotta do is wait for Dad. Don’t sit down. And don’t let’s think about the last kiss. When You were unravelling and I couldn’t see it until the knot was gone. When You bit my lip so hard You drew blood. When You got out of bed and walked the cemetery on campus in the December moonlight and you came back and you laid in bed with me stiff and cold like a puzzle piece that would not fit. Did You know then? That You would do it when semester ended and I was home? Was some part of You already dead then? Was I in some last nerve of a last cell screaming against it as You jumped or was all of You in it? The way that part of You was already dead when You walked the cemetery, is some part of You still alive? Is part of me already dead to talk this way? Where will I be when You come back? Here, in the harbor. I’ll leave a part of me in the harbor. In the sand. Like the rose you must drop to leave a dream. When you love someone deeply they enter a layer they can’t get out of without leaving a part of themselves. Like a dream you must drop all the drowned flowers you’d spent the night gathering to leave, and leave it in that layer, in the sea, in the grass. You must leave behind your memory of it. The swath you cut deep as a seam and trust it knotted into other dreams and other seams. Was it the sea conceived in sorrow, and the elegy of her tides? The tides from the old wound of the moon. Yes. The ocean filled the hole of our lost soul, after we’d gambled her into the sky. Maybe the soul is not inside us but orbits us, hides from us, shocks us in full sight some nights in a field, in a clearing. It has a face we’ll never see. It is on the dark side of us and then eclipses us in the day and hangs ghostly in the blue sky. It keeps its mysterious schedule and gives us once a month to study its seas and mountains and floodplains but it pulls on our tides all the time and there is a side we’ll never see. We don’t gain a soul until we’ve lost it. The soul is something we’ve lost. It is born in this loss. The memory of waves. The mourning of the tides. I’m not going to die but I’ll leave part of myself in the sand. Where the water touches. Let’s drop it together. Out of the same hand. Come now. Yes, I knew You’d had something for me. The layer I left in You. I promise I will forget it. I will keep it inside without remembering. We’re dropping it. Look, it’s dropping. Ah Thee, I love Thee. Watch how I love Thee.
And there was my father drifting up in the Key West. His hair was blonde and blown back in the wind, and his eyes had taken on the blue of the water.
I got up onto the dock and shuffled down it. My sweatshirt was wet in the back and the blood was coming down a small trickle in the back of my sweatpants. It was only wet in spots.
“Morning Adam.”
“Hey Dad.”
“You cut your foot.”
“Yeah, on the dock. Not deep but lots of blood.”
“No bags?”
“Nah.”
“You’ll be back.”
He laughed at me.
“Early night?”
“I’m sick.”
“Didn’t I teach you how to drink?” he joked.
“Yeah, drink too much.”
I put my hood on as I walked and tightened it a little hide my face and teeth. I grabbed the teetop as he held onto the dock. I was behind him so he couldn’t see me grimace in pain. I had mastered a little of it so I didn’t make much noise.
He’d see through it soon, but we just had to get out of the harbor first. I sat in the back. Just get out of the harbor Adam. I knew I’d never deepen into such concentration
We drifted back and he put us forward. I liked the familiar sound of the engine changing. I looked over and the Chappy ferry was snug against the ramp and Brock’s truck was gone. There was a short file of cars in line. Keep waiting.
We drifted forward and I heard the suction sound of the balcony door to Mayflower open. Too much pain to twist and look back.
“Look at these yachts Adam. Christ.”
“Yeah,” I said. But I turned back and Elvis was at the edge of the dock. He held my Bally shoes in his hand and the fifth floor was high above his head looking down. I raised my hand to him and knew I’d never bring myself into such concentration again in my life and some color went out and Elvis did not move but stared at me going away like coming a layer awake in a dream and trying to hold it and hear it and the actors of the dream knew you were trying to see it and they stood still. The tide was coming in now and filling all those secret channels and beaches and islands of the mind that had opened and the corridor was closing and the feeling saying Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye Elvis.
The last pink of dawn was in the sea in the direction of home, and my father spoke to me now. “Now, if you’re my son, then I bet you know all about the craziness that’s been going on here.”
“I do. I’ll tell you when we get home.”
“I told your mother you’d know. I’ll take it nice and slow for ya back there.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“What time do you think we could make to Falmouth?”
“Day like this? Twenty minutes.”
“And home?”
“Hair under an hour. Why, you wanna go to Falmouth?”
“Just curious. There a hospital there?”
“There is. Why?”
“Oh, I’m just whining about my hangover.”
“You’ll make it. It’s a flat calm.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, gorgeous. Look at this beauty Adam. What the Hell, thing’s insane.”
“It’s called a Gidal.”
“I’ve never heard of it. How’d I never hear of it?”
“It’s custom made. I’ve been on it.”
“You’ve been havin a time, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’m looking forward. Hear that? Someone’s still shooting fireworks.”
“Is that what that sound was?”
“Sounded like it.”
“Does look calm out there.”
“Yeah, no rips. I’ll go slow for ya though. Ready?”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
And there, free of the harbor, long past the no wake sign with the Vineyard behind us and Chappaquiddick far enough to haze, I stood up and opened my hand, and showed my father my wound.
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