Recompense

Michael LaReaux
Recompense
Rachel isn't pregnant. Lucky. You can't believe you actually got away with it. No harm done, right? What she doesn't know won't hurt her. You smile, and look at the picture of Erica and the children dressed in their Sunday best. You keep it on your desk next to the wedding picture. Erica looked so beautiful in white, that day. But those reports need to be on Mr. Charles' desk by close of business today, or you're not going to get that promotion.
You look up from your work. It wasn't a noise that startled you, rather, it was a lack of noise, as if the world was holding its breath in anticipation of some monumental event. You get up, feeling strangely alert, and walk to the window. The world continues as normal. Harried bikers on ten-speeds thread their way though bumper-to-bumper afternoon traffic. Pedestrians crowd the sidewalks, each eager to get to his or her destination before anyone else does. The billboard opposite your window still reads, "Got Milk?" with a picture of some famous model with a milk moustache. It's much better than the cat food ad that was there last month.
You hear it before you feel it: a low, deep rumbling that builds as it grows nearer. You don't have time to wonder what it is. There's a tremendous jolt, and suddenly, you're on your back. The shaking gets worse. You hear beams groan and snap. The room tilts violently, and you're sliding. The water cooler rolls past you. Desks, chairs, and computer equipment tumble over each other as the building continues to collapse. Pieces of ceiling dust get into your eyes and you're temporarily blinded. Rachel is screaming, until something heavy comes down and silences her with a wet thud. Bookshelves tumble. Brad Thomas is pinned to the wall by the huge steel safe where the deeds are kept. As you slide past you see the terror in his eyes. You feel his blood, warm and wet, saturate your shirt as you slide through it.
Then, the floor disappears.
Your last thought before you hit the street is who is going to pick up Elizabeth and Alex from day care, and who's going to take Duchesne for a walk.
It is white. Or, rather, it's the absence of anything at all. You fight for self awareness. You feel as if you're underwater, struggling to reach the surface before you perish for lack of air.
You try to panic, but find that you can't.
You start to tingle. It begins in your chest, near your heart, and gradually spreads out, into your arms, and legs, and your head. Gingerly, you try to raise your hand to your face. It doesn't seem to work.
Yet, your hand appears.
It's a gray mist, coalesced into the form of your hand. You realize that the tingle you feel is simply the memory of what your body felt like. You begin to rediscover yourself, just as if you were a child again. Here are your fingers. Five on each hand. Here are your toes. You try to bend them. You can move, by remembering what it was like to move. Was this how it was, you wonder, during infancy? Was learning to move accomplished by remembering? Is this what babies dream about? You concentrate. You remember. Eventually, you're able to rise.
The key, it seems, is remembering. You remember that there should be...something...something to put your feet against…something upon which you can walk...
A floor of white polished marble appears around you, expanding like the wake of a stone dropped into a pond.
The floor can't go on forever, you remember. There must be...boundaries...
White polished marble walls appear, as the lack-of-anything clears. You find yourself in a large chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. There are no adornments. The walls, floors and ceiling are the same white polished marble, seamlessly joined so that it is impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins.
You hear weeping. Someone is weeping, very softly, echoing across the vaulted ceiling. You realize you feel some of the sorrow, and that the mourner's sorrow is your fault. You know this, but don't know how you know.
You search for the mourner. The chamber is more vast than you thought.You walk, but there is no way to tell how far you have gone, or how long it has taken for you to get there. In the distance you see a figure standing next to a large oval object. As you get closer, you realize that the object is a large mirror.
The man is looking into the mirror, and sobbing. He sinks to his knees.
He is hunched over, and his shoulders shake. His bearded face is covered with his hands. You notice his skin is a vibrant olive-copper color, not gray mist like you, and that his robe is tattered and worn, though clean.
You move closer. He continues to weep, shoulders racked with pained sobs. You remember how to reach out, to touch...
You cannot look at his face. Although he stands right in front of you, you cannot even catch a glimpse of him. You concentrate on him, focusing on some point of reference on his face in an attempt to gather in the whole, but each time, you find yourself staring at his hands.
He points to the mirror, in answer to a question you didn't ask.
And you see yourself.
You're a boy. You're lying to your mother. You're making fun of the fat lady, of Grandma, of Chinese people. You're hurting people, without realizing the harm you're doing. You're telling jokes about black people. You're tossing firecrackers at cats. You know you had a choice.
You chose wrong.
You're older. You're making fun of the kid without brand-name sneakers. You're switching seats to get away from the cripple. You're talking behind your friend's back. You laugh as a man is beaten in the street because he has no place to live. You're making jokes about AIDS. You're sleeping with girls, and keeping score. You're bragging about it in the locker room. You know you had a choice
You chose wrong.
You're in Rachel's apartment. Erica won't find out. She'll never know. Rachel reminds you of Erica back in the beginning. She reaches out to you.. Rachel says she wants you. You had a choice. You cheat on your wife. It is over. You put on your clothes and leave her sleeping on the couch. She looks old. You don't even kiss Rachel goodbye.
You chose wrong. People heard your jokes. The fat lady heard your jokes. Your high school gym teacher died of AIDS. He heard your jokes. Erica was feeding Alex, expecting you home late. She missed you. It was your choice. Why? You knew what you were doing. Why?
Because you never thought it was your problem.
You feel all the hurt you caused, all the sorrow, all at once. You collapse. You scream.
You feel a hand on your shoulder, and you look up.
The bearded man is there. He kneels down next to you, and puts his arms around you.
He takes the pain away, and disappears.
Suddenly, as if a dam had burst, gates open and people pour into the enclosure. Some are gray, some vital and coppery-skinned like the bearded man. You see some, filthy and surrounded by a deep, sickly, greenish-yellow mist, slink off to the side, avoiding everyone, including each other.
You see Erica. She's vital, and coppery-skinned, and she is smiling, smiling beautifully. She is so radiant, you dare not approach her.
You're gray. You feel...ashamed. You're gray, not vital. And it is because you chose wrong. You're gray, and you can't bear to approach the woman you love more than anything. You feel like falling at her feet and worshipping her. And apologizing. Too late.
You get as close as you can. You see families, coppery-skinned, find each other in the crowd. You see them embrace. You see coppery-skinned children, looking for parents.
You see some gray people waving calling out to them, but the children don't seem to notice.
You see Elizabeth, and Alex. They're looking for their mother. They see you, but look past you, without a hint of recognition on their sweet faces. You point to their mother, but they don't respond.
You watch, but can do nothing.
Their faces light up as they find their mother. She runs to them, and your family is reunited. Without you.
You whisper good-bye to her. You don't know if she hears you. She's still looking for you. She can't find you. She will never find you.
But that was so long ago...or was it? It is so difficult to keep track of....of.....the word escapes you. You're comfortable, and your family has faded into dim memory. There aren't any angels here. No wings, or halos, or clouds. But there's no pain either.
You look across, and see the sickly green-yellow creatures, huddling in the corner wailing and gnashing their teeth.
At least you're not among them.