{"id":7102,"date":"2016-03-03T16:43:39","date_gmt":"2016-03-03T23:43:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7102"},"modified":"2016-03-03T16:43:39","modified_gmt":"2016-03-03T23:43:39","slug":"the-pendulum","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7102","title":{"rendered":"The Pendulum"},"content":{"rendered":"

Michelle Meyers<\/strong><\/p>\n

The pendulum of the mind alternates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.<\/em><\/p>\n

— Carl Jung<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Tick Tock, Six O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

Billy and Biff decide to go on a walk after their mother tells them to get some fresh air. They are being rowdy, they are being bad boys, shoving chunks of hamburger meat into each other\u2019s hair, spilling streaks of warm milk across the kitchen floor, warm milk that was meant for the baby. Mrs. Henderson flounces in on high heels, pearls sifting around her neck, grabbing each boy by the scruff and tossing the both of them into the front yard.<\/p>\n

\u201cBe back here before the sun goes down,\u201d she calls. \u201cRemember, bad things can happen to little boys after the sun goes down. I\u2019m going out with your father, so the babysitter will put you to bed, okay? Harry? Harry, hon, have you seen my purse?\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019re the ones with the girl who died, aren\u2019t they? Drowned in Lake Arrowhead, came out all blue and gray, and now he has to make small talk with them for an entire evening, gab gab gab, Harry this and Harry that, because Martha says they don\u2019t get out enough and that proper couples must socialize. The girl was so beautiful, too, not the brightest student he\u2019d ever had in his class, she was no scholar on Dickens, that\u2019s for sure, but the way those soft blond curls looped around one another, her lips like the ripest of ripe red cherries — oh yes, he was being clich\u00e9d, he knew — her dark eyelashes fluttering as if she were trying to fly away.<\/p>\n

He hikes the winding dirt path back up to the Observatory, repeats it in his head, again and again. \u201cIt\u2019s James, not Jimmy, not Jim, not Jimbo, not Jamie, but James, okay? James.\u201d Not that anybody cares now. He doesn\u2019t speak to people. He just watches them, waits for them to toss out a half-eaten sub, an extra slice of pizza, some French fries, and then he\u2019ll swoop in, and that\u2019ll be dinner, a mighty fine dinner, yum yum. Afterwards he\u2019ll go back on in to the Observatory and tuck himself away in the bathroom for awhile, feet up on the toilet seat, wait for the staff to lock up the doors until it\u2019s just him, all alone in there.<\/p>\n

She wants to run away with the baby. Sometimes she imagines getting into the car, the baby by her side, the two of them speeding down the 5, vroom vroom, until they are far away from everybody else. She loves the baby girl so much more than she has ever loved the boys. There are some things a mother cannot say but she can think them as much as she wants. There is something special about the baby. There is something different.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, Martha, finish up in there. We\u2019ve got to get a move on or else we\u2019ll be late!\u201d Harry\u2019s voice ripples across the tepid bathwater still left in the tub.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Seven O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

A hike, that\u2019s all, a short hike before the sun goes down. They always choose the same one, the one that goes up to the old zoo. The city closed the old zoo a few years ago, claiming it was inadequate, ugly, poorly designed and under-financed. So they said. But as far as Billy and Biff are concerned, it was haunted, that\u2019s what the problem was, why the city had to move all the animals to the Los Angeles Zoo instead. That\u2019s why the animals kept disappearing and dying. The old zoo was haunted. The old zoo is haunted.<\/p>\n

\u201cHurry up, Billy, last one there\u2019s a rotten egg!\u201d<\/p>\n

Billy runs, he runs ahead, he punishes the gravel dirt under the soles of his sneakers. He pushes ahead of Biff.<\/p>\n

A rustling in the bushes. Somebody is watching.<\/p>\n

They drive by the park with all those green trees cascading down the sides of the hills and the sun beginning its purple descent into night and he thinks about asking Martha, about suggesting it to her, just pulling into that lot by the merry-go-round and traipsing behind the trees for a little, you know, fun in the dirt, in the leaves, in the twigs, rolling around, a bit of an appetizer before the dinner party, right? Why not be naughty? He can feel himself, well, he adjusts his bowtie, tightening, constricting around his neck like a hand threatening to choke —<\/p>\n

\u201cHarry!\u201d<\/p>\n

Screech to a halt, just in time. A cat in the road, a dumb old orange cat that has some kind of death wish.<\/p>\n

Her heart ricochets back and forth inside of her rib cage, the cat slinking away, a specter into the dark. Maybe she would leave the baby behind. It would be easier that way, to just slip away, disappear. No diaper changing, no formula, no caterwauling in the middle of the night. She could go down to Palm Springs, hide away in the desert, or maybe up to Cambria. She\u2019s always loved Cambria, those sheer cliffs above the ocean, the smell of pine needles like some mountain town. She smiles. The baby has colic but tonight she doesn\u2019t care. The babysitter will deal with it. Maybe the babysitter will take the baby. Maybe Martha doesn\u2019t actually love the baby all that much. There is something different about the baby. Something off.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Eight O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

James climbs down from the toilet seat, takes his usual couple of laps around the building to stretch his legs. He passes beneath the mural spreading across the ceiling of the Observatory\u2019s main dome. In ancient times, people used myths to understand what they saw in the skies. Atlas holds the zodiac signs, Jupiter carrying his thunderbolts. Venus, Saturn, and Mercury chase Argos, the god of war. A woman clutches the Star of Bethlehem. Beneath the mural is James\u2019s favorite exhibit, the Foucault Pendulum, a 240-pound bronze ball suspended on a 40-foot cable, in constant motion as the Earth turns beneath it, proof of gravity, proof of rules. He also enjoys the Hall of the Sky, where they have giant telescopes that let you look out over all of the solar system. James likes to imagine that maybe someday he could go out there, swerve through the stars, far, far away from this place.<\/p>\n

Today would have been James\u2019 high school graduation. He thinks of all of his classmates in their black gowns, tassels hanging down over their eyes, the principal droning names, parents dripping tears. He likes it better this way. He\u2019s been gone exactly two months now. He\u2019s surprised they haven\u2019t found him. Could it be that nobody\u2019s looking?<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you hear that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat sound!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably a tiger they accidentally left behind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot funny, Biff. I think somebody\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just the wind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe we should head back. It\u2019s gonna get dark soon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve still got at least a half hour. What are you, chicken?\u201d<\/p>\n

Snap. Snap. SNAP!<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThere it is again!\u201d<\/p>\n

Harry is performing just as he is supposed to, shake the hands, smiles and nods, oh yes, that pot roast does smell so lovely, and yes, I did hear about your daughter, so sad, so sorry, a young mind lost, a boating accident, the worst, and no way, no how do I touch myself at night thinking of her limp, bloated body reborn from the depths of the lake. No, not that part, he doesn\u2019t say that part, he didn\u2019t even think it, not really, a joke, imagining their faces curdling in response. No more dinners at the Mulligans, nope nope! No more dinners ever again.<\/p>\n

\u201cHarry, Martha, come in! Come in! Let me take your coats,\u201d Mrs. Mulligan insists. Harry slides off his sleeves, glances out through the glass sliding doors into the backyard. A coyote streaks past, crooked legs loping, a prize in its mouth. Its lips curl back in a smile to reveal the sinewy chunked tendons of the family\u2019s Maltese.<\/p>\n

What if the babysitter decides to leave early? What if the babysitter scalds the baby\u2019s mouth with too hot milk? What if the babysitter accidentally suffocates the baby as she hugs the baby against her globular double-D breasts? Martha closes her eyes and the baby is blue, the baby is bloody, the baby is decapitated, head rolling down the cul de sac. She should have never let Harry convince her to see Rosemary\u2019s Baby<\/em> at the Cinerama Dome. People have always told Martha she looks just like Mia Farrow. No, actually, nobody has ever told her that.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Nine O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

The baby figures out how to escape the crib. She figures out how to climb onto the countertops, how to unbolt the deadlock on the back door. She soldiers on through the wet grass, barely toddling at this point. She has a mission to fulfill, a mission that only she can understand.<\/p>\n

The babysitter never came. There is no babysitter. Maybe there never was.<\/p>\n

Biff beats his fists against the bars, a warbling echo in the descending darkness. Billy sits on the twiggy floor, rocks back and forth on his heels, arms wrapped around his knees. He did not remember to bring a sweater.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat wasn\u2019t funny, Billy. That wasn\u2019t funny at all. Now we\u2019re locked in here and it\u2019s practically dark!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you, I didn\u2019t lock us in here! It just locked on its own.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCages don\u2019t lock on their own.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell I didn\u2019t do it!\u201d<\/p>\n

Billy\u2019s eyes well up with briny tears. Biff sits down next to him. \u201cIt\u2019s gonna be all right. Somebody will find us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think used to live in here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Just then they hear a throaty growl, a slashing of damp orangey-beige fur against their vision, the thump of leathery paws against the packed soil.<\/p>\n

It takes only moments before all of their clothes are off, the four of them rolling around on the living room carpet, streams of saliva hanging in loose, waving webs between their mouths, Lydia Mulligan\u2019s pink nipples erect as Harry touches between her legs, Martha moaning as Arnold Mulligan slides his tongue around the edge of her left ear. This is what it should all be about, sharing and loving and freedom and all that. The kids have it right. The kids know what they\u2019re doing.<\/p>\n

\u201cHarry, can you pass the roast?\u201d Harry blinks. He is not paying attention. Harry is staring at a spot on the ceiling. Martha often has to ask Harry to pass things across the dinner table two or three times before he hears her. The Mulligans, though, they know how to pass. Martha already has heaping piles of green beans and mashed potatoes on her plate.<\/p>\n

Martha wonders if Harry is thinking about the Mulligans\u2019 girl. She knows he was there, up at that lake cabin, the two of them together, the weekend that she croaked, kicked the bucket, swam with the fishes. She enjoys a bit of dinner theater, waiting to see if Harry will say anything, if the Mulligans will guess. The school will know soon enough, an anonymous note from a concerned parent, and then it will be bye-bye Harry, see ya later! It\u2019s not as if they\u2019ll miss him. He never has been a particularly good teacher.<\/p>\n

Harry finally looks up, realizes his faux pas. The roast swings its way around the table. For just a moment, Martha considers that its snout looks vaguely dog-like. Whatever did happen to the Mulligans\u2019 Maltese?<\/p>\n

They filmed Invasion of the Body Snatchers <\/em>here at Griffith Park. That\u2019s one of the reasons James came. Alien plant spores fallen from space, loved ones\u2019 bodies mysteriously disappearing, but nobody will believe them, nobody will believe! Until it\u2019s too late, that is.<\/p>\n

James lets himself out the back of the Observatory, sits down on one of the white concrete ledges bordering the edge, gazes out into the violent sunset against the hills overlooking Downtown to the south and Glendale and Burbank to the north, the transition into darkness combatted by the constant orange haze of city lights. He has never liked the city, has never felt at home. He is quite sure he is supposed to be elsewhere.<\/p>\n

James looks up into the grit of stars just beginning to appear in the night sky. He squints his eyes, waiting for a sign. He\u2019ll keep waiting, for as long as it takes, until they forgive him for whatever he did wrong and let him come back to his home planet.<\/p>\n

James traces lines between the stars with his index finger. A home far, far away.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Ten O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

Billy and Biff are stuck in a cage. Billy and Biff may not escape. They are too frightened to yell or scream. Urine dribbles down the inner leg of Billy\u2019s pants. They are sweltering hot even though it is only 50 degrees out.<\/p>\n

A tiger, a tiger in the cage with them. The boys cannot see the tiger but they can smell its sour musk, hear its deep chest rumbling breaths, its paws padding around in the dirt, licking its teeth.<\/p>\n

The tiger approaches.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if one of us dies tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n

The tiger growls.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe we should make a run for it?\u201d<\/p>\n

The tiger pounces.<\/p>\n

\u201cBilly!\u201d<\/p>\n

The tiger eats, the stench of blood ripe in the air.<\/p>\n

The baby is not particularly good at hiking, but she figures now is as good a time as any to practice. Her baby Ked sneakers kick up bits of dirt and rocks. She craves milk, breast milk. She must go on without it, though. She has never been awake this late before. It is past her bedtime. This makes her smile. She follows the winding path up the hill until the Observatory comes into view.<\/p>\n

Harry cannot stay at the dinner party. He has to get out. He is feeling ill. He can see it in Martha\u2019s eyes. She knows. She knows everything. Harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom as the others lean back around the dinner table, waiting for the coffee to brew before digging into their dessert. He remembers that the Mulligans\u2019 guest bathroom has a window, a large window just wide enough for a man his size.<\/p>\n

He leaves the car behind. He is not that cruel of a husband, to make Martha walk home alone in those high heels, and plus he does not know how long he\u2019ll be, if he\u2019ll ever return home. He heads toward the park. He likes the idea of the anonymity of the trees, the hills. Oh, what a mess he\u2019s made. What a mess.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Eleven O\u2019Clock<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then, you know, I said to Lydia, I said why wait? Let\u2019s go to Europe now!\u201d Martha hates the Mulligans, Mr. and Mrs. Fakey Fakerson, fake grins and fake stories and even a fake, fake house built out of nothing more than cardboard and Elmer\u2019s Glue, ready to keel over with the next gust of wind. She imagines what she would do if she had a gun, if she could prevent herself from shooting it through the rest of dessert, Arnold\u2019s mouth a septic mess of brownies and cognac. At least she and Harry are self-aware. They know who they are. They know they are performing.<\/p>\n

Maybe the Mulligans\u2019 girl didn\u2019t even die. Maybe the Mulligans just made it up. Maybe the Mulligans just sent her away to boarding school because she wouldn\u2019t stop fucking all the boys on the football team.<\/p>\n

Harry hears the crying from half a mile away. He decides whoever it is, he will help. He will prove himself a respectable man, a good Samaritan of the highest order. He walks faster. He runs. He will be the first to arrive. He trips and falls over a python branch. He scrapes his left knee and knocks out a tooth. Blood seeps down into his tie, but still he will not stop. He stands, sees him. His stomach turns.<\/p>\n

\u201cBiff? What are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDad? Are you okay? You\u2019re bleeding. You\u2019re hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n

Harry stumbles forward. Perhaps he shouldn\u2019t have had so much wine at dinner. He holds the tooth he knocked out in his palm. \u201cWhere\u2019s Billy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, he\u2019s home, I think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, a boy your age shouldn\u2019t be out in the park this late. You should be in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, I got lost.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, come here and I\u2019ll walk you home, all right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Biff pushes open the door to the cage, the hinges creaking in the still night air, not a single paw print in sight. There is blood stained down his chin and the front of his navy shirt, fragments of skin and dirt under his fingernails.<\/p>\n

His mother was right. Bad things do happen to little boys after dark.<\/p>\n

The baby locks eyes with James, the baby who is perhaps not a baby at all. Her eyes are so blue, like a depthless lake. They stand on the concrete steps leading up to the Observatory.<\/p>\n

The baby points a finger up at the sky, at a crackling star moving closer and closer against the black tar of the night. James picks up the baby, cradles her in his arms as she coos. She has come for him. She\u2019ll know what to do next.<\/p>\n

Together they\u2019ll escape into a universe far beyond. Together, they will go home. They are not of this Earth. They were never meant to be here.<\/p>\n

For a moment, James\u2019s mind flashes to his mother, sitting alone on his bed, smoothing out a wrinkle in the covers, using her blouse to wipe a smudge off his prized photograph of the Apollo 11 launch. He tries to push the image out of his head, but he can\u2019t.<\/p>\n

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock . . .<\/strong><\/p>\n

Martha bids farewell to the Mulligans, slipping on her coat, the furry fringes along the collar soft and comforting against her neck. Lydia and Arnold teeter in the entryway. They sway back and forth, too many bottles of red wine. Martha is still a little drunk too, but her house is close, and she\u2019s driven this route many times. She has no idea where Harry is, and suddenly she misses him. She misses him and Billy and Biff and the baby.<\/p>\n

Martha takes a step onto the brick porch out front, her heel landing in a small divot in the mortar. The world is off-kilter, as if everything has shifted a few degrees to the left. Martha feels the urge to turn around. She feels sick, though not from the wine and not from the food.<\/p>\n

\u201cAgain, I\u2019m sorry about your daughter. I can only imagine . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

Lydia blinks several times, as if she had just again remembered her daughter was dead. She looks down at her feet. \u201cIt wouldn\u2019t be so bad, you know, if it weren\u2019t for the news. Everything has to be so sensational, so titillating. But death isn\u2019t like that. Death, violence, they\u2019re not exciting like in the media and the movies. They\u2019re exhausting and ugly in the most mundane way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Martha nods. She doesn\u2019t know what to say. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear, her cheeks flushing pink.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, Harry was up there, the weekend that — \u201d<\/p>\n

Lydia pats Martha\u2019s shoulder. \u201cHarry was here, Martha. We all had dinner together. Don\u2019t you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n

Just then, the Mulligans\u2019 Maltese springs out from the bushes, trotting inside. Its little white tail propellers back and forth as Arnold scoops the dog up into his arms.<\/p>\n

MICHELLE MEYERS<\/strong> is a fiction writer and playwright originally from Los Angeles, CA. Her writing has been published in the Los Angeles Times<\/em>, DOGZPLOT<\/em>, jmww<\/em>, Grey Sparrow Journal<\/em>, Juked<\/em>, and decomP<\/em>, and she has received awards and honors from Ploughshares<\/em>, Glimmer Train<\/em>, and Wigleaf<\/em>. She was a 2015 PEN Center Emerging Voices Fellow in Fiction and is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama\u2019s Creative Writing program. Her debut novel, Glass Shatters<\/em>, will be published in April 2016.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Michelle Meyers The pendulum of the mind alternates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong. — Carl Jung Tick Tock, Six O\u2019Clock Billy and Biff decide to go on a walk after their mother tells them to get … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":7101,"menu_order":1,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-7102","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-1Qy","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7102","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7102"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7102\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7113,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7102\/revisions\/7113"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7101"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7102"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}