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Happiness

Jim Meirose

    In the tall wide lecture hall at the university, tall bald bearded Professor Jones scanned the curved rows of students rising before him. His blue eyes shone clear and bright, searching the rows.
    Don Bosco sat three rows up, looking down at his hands from his wide squat grizzled face.
    Artillery battles are the worst kind. Limbs are ripped off, blood, white bones are protruding, the din is ear-splitting, the fear is explosive. I saw too much and felt too much back then. The pain while waiting at the first aid station. The bloody crushing work of the cannon on my limbs. The months in the hospital. Pools of blood and urine on the floor. When can I drive? I asked the doctor. At last the doctor said I could drive, after I had exercised for months, with my new wooden foot. So its been twelve years since then. So what? There’s still cannons and bombs in the world they’re used every day someplace somewhere. Someone is getting crushed and rent right now but it doesn’t involve me this time. Here I am, safe in school, and the supercharged Chevrolet ran good today didn’t it? It’s got lots of pickup and lots of balls. It’s good to have a car with lots of balls. It’s parked out under the trees now in the silence. That’s today that’s not years back in the desert. The bird shit will get the car but its in primer anyway. The birds in the spare wasted trees flew off with a loud rustle as the cannon blasted off in ranks along the sandy berm. I ran but it did me no good. I went down—my legs, my foot— cannonades, cannonading—some words. Bite lip. Hard. I remember the chaplain told me about Saint Barbara and the sudden death by lightning of her father but her father deserved it he truly truly deserved it lord God I truly hate cannon I didn’t deserve it I will never ever forget the world is bristling with cannon and bombs and dismemberment—
    Don Bosco! You there! Look up at me! exclaimed Professor Jones, pointing sharply up into the seats.
    Don Bosco’s eyes opened fully as he looked up.
    Thoughts of horrible war-wounds flew out the walls of the building and went on roiling and boiling silently and invisibly outside.
    Yes Professor Jones? filled Bosco’s mind. He listened to the words coming out his mouth as his eye went on the tip of the Professor’s red nose.
    Name the inner moons of Jupiter! said Jones.
    The Professor’s hand slowly lowered as Don Bosco spoke after lightly clearing his throat.
    Metis, Adrastea, Amalthea, and Thebe, are the four inner moons of Jupiter, Professor Jones.
    Good! Very good! Did you hear that, class? I hope all the rest of you studied that as well, and know it too.
    He resumed scanning the rows of seats.
    Don Bosco sat straight, proudly, hands folded on the blonde wood worksurface that folded up from beside the chair.
    I knew the inner moons of Jupiter. Just like that. Snap.
    I am so proud.
    I am so happy.
    Things are so simple.
    Things are so good.
    The sounds of the cannon were gone behind the silent walls. A ball of lightness, balloon-like, began forming in Don Bosco’s mind—a ball of happiness.
    Tall slender crewcut Adolph Kolping sat three rows back and to the left or Bosco, looking up toward the white sculptured dentil molding that ran across the wall up behind the Professor, above the massive whitefaced clock that was put there to make the time creep. He rubbed at a red eye and slightly yawned.
    Must stop sleepwalking. Its a terrible habit. Its a terrible disease. Why must I sleepwalk? Its dangerous to do so. Makes one afraid to go to sleep at night. How many sleepless nights lying there afraid to close my eyes, how many nights lying there with eyes forced wide open, afraid— who was it with that problem that safety pinned their nightclothes to their sheets? That would be a solution. But I sleep nude. I can’t sleep with clothes closing me in, suffocating me. Never could and never will. Sleepwalking’s dangerous—you could walk into the pool outside, or walk into the kitchen and turn on all the burners and light up the stove full blast and then go back to bed and let it all burn. You could plunge into the pool asleep and breathe water instantly. They say it’s good to have a pool but it’s no good to have a pool—not if you’re a sleepwalker. You could drown or burn the house down. Yes, burning the house down is a possibility. Walking in your sleep is dangerous. You could walk out in front of traffic. Just walk right out there—and be killed. It’s fearsome, dangerous. That can’t be stressed enough. The traffic is dangerous enough, even when you’re awake. All those cars and trucks roaring along. And me in my oil-leaking Volkswagen bug. The oil spreads like blood over the driveway. The car’s leaking its life’s blood. It burns oil, too. Go to New York, put in a can of oil, come back home, put in another, go someplace else, put in another. Because it needs an overhaul. Needs brakes too. The brakes are bad, it’s dangerous. Dangerous as sleepwalking but its all I can afford though why is there no money there’s never any money—maybe that greyhaired guy down the street who’s always tinkering with his old bug in his garage, dropping the engine and taking it all apart and putting it back together, nothing I could ever do, nothing I could understand, would fix my car. But I’ve never even spoken to him and there’s always Saint Dymphna walking in her sleep with her arms out, breathing easily unafraid, unaware of if its water or air or whatever, nightdress flowing freely behind, casting shadows in the starlight but in terrible danger too just like me every night oh lord how terrible— maybe that would be a cheaper way to get the damned car fixed. Talk to the old guy down the street who works on his own bug all the time—meet him, get to know him, don’t be shy—
    Adolph Kolping—you! Stop staring into space. Is the wall up above and behind me that interesting? Isn’t the clock moving fast enough for you? Let’s see how well you’ve studied! Name the galilean moons of Jupiter! boomed the Professor, pointing.
    Kolping’s face snapped forward, his shock of black hair snapped nearly straight up. All thought of sleepwalking emptied away into the floor and went under the floor and came up outside and boiled about rolling in and around and through the thoughts of cannon already there and the dark bloody drowning thoughts blended together and began circling the building like dark dangerous unseen missiles ready to strike down the unwary.
    The names of the moons entered Kolping’s silent mind and came out his fast-moving mouth past his full lips.
    Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto, are the four galilean moons of Jupiter, Professor, said Kolping.
    Good! Good work, exclaimed the Professor, grinning crazily, running his hand down through his long grey beard. So class—I see that more than just one of you has studied. Now, let’s see who else has—or hasn’t—
    Once more, he scanned the rows of seats, squinting slightly, wringing his hands.
    I know the four inner moons of Jupiter, thought Don Bosco, wide awake and sitting tall.
    I am so proud.
    Life is so simple.
    I knew the four galilean moons, thought Adolph Kolping, his eyes trained firmly on the professor.
    I am so happy.
    Life is so good.
    The balloons of happiness grew in both of them—slowly silently filling, soothing them, having forced out all their cares.
    Up behind them in the center, tall broad blackhaired Peter Canisius slumped in his seat tapping the eraser of his pencil on the desktop before him and looking up at the spot where the two walls met the ceiling to the right of the professor. A long crack ran spidery in the plaster up there out to a network of finer cracks in the center of the room. He tapped the pencil faster as his eyes followed the cracks back and forth in time with his quickening thoughts.
    Why did my baby sister have to die? Why her of all people? Its been over a year—but I can’t get over it. She was so small and precious—look there’s her round face, her small mouth, her big eyes—up there in the air by the corner there, see it? Why did the world have to fall apart like this? Remember when she was well and frisky as a pup, before she sickened and spat up blood, suffered in the hospital bed, in the pediatric ward, with the hustling bustling nurses and the bulletin board decked out for Christmas with Santa and reindeer and snowflakes and silver garland hanging in big loops and wrapped presents on the counter with big bows. Happy animals giraffes and zebras were painted on the walls by the elevators—so why would God take such an innocent? And in such a painful agonizing grisly way? The large long powerful old faded Cadillac with the great wide heavy tires went back and forth from school to home to the hospital and round and round and back again, when things got really bad. But that was a year ago—or maybe one or two or three—but pull yourself together already—she’s in a better place, that’s what they always say of the dead, she’s in a better place and she’s resting in the grave with a small tasteful stone and that big black car’s outside right now, under the trees. It gets less use now. It’s past due for a tune-up. Hasn’t had a tuneup since she died. The things under the hood are full of carbon and gook and everything is weak—but Dad had said regular tuneups are how you get a car to last forever. Need to get the car to the dealer—but where’s the dealer for a child? How do you tune up a child to last forever? I don’t know, but don’t torture yourself any more, forget about that—just make that service call to the dealer today. Service department, they’ll say, answering. I’ll make an appointment. Don’t want to have car trouble on top of everything else I’ve got inside myself to remember. Saint Felicity’s portrait hung on the wall by the bank of pay phones near the elevators on the pediatric floor and it said on a goldtoned plaque under the painting her name and it said she was the patron saint of dying children. And it was a Catholic hospital one of the best tall and wide with new brick walls and wide bright corridors with glossy tile floors but they still suffer and they still die—you’d think a patron saint would save people isn’t that what a patron saint’s for—why have a patron saint of those who are sure to die? It makes no sense but tomorrow I’ll call for the car appointment much too upset to call today what’s one more day when its been so long already plus its too late the child is already dead just one phone call won’t bring her back or two or three of five—
    Peter Canisius, snapped the Professor toward the seats. Peter Canisius, look at me—
    What—
    Thoughts of children suffering and dying faded away out past the walls and joined the other dark brooding thoughts circling the building cannonades and sleepwalking and the dying child rocketed around—for thoughts don’t die they just go someplace else to wait to go back to their homes again.
    Name the outer moons of Jupiter! said Professor Jones, once more tugging his beard; a bad habit. A nervous habit.
    Hair from his beard came away in his hand and floated to the carpeted faded frayed stained floor.
    Peter coughed into his hand to clear his throat and empty his head and then rattled off The outer moons of Jupiter are Leda, Himalia, Elara, Pasiphae, Sinope, Lysithea, Carne, and Ananke, Professor Jones.
    The Professor threw out his hands in joy and his eyes bugged in his bearded face and his cheeks and nose reddened even more than usual.
    Wonderful! he yelled, throwing back his head. His teeth shone in the light of the long neon tubes above. It’s wonderful! he repeated—three in a row and they’ve studied so hard—if only all of you would study so hard—now just ask yourselves—you who’ve gotten away with not getting called on yet—think how many of you could have answered those questions like these fine young men have.
    Don Bosco sat proudly, looking straight at the Professor.
    I knew the four inner moons of Jupiter.
    I am so proud.
    Life is so simple.
    Outside, the cannonading thoughts circled grimly.
    Adolph Kolping once more coughed into his hand, then sat straight and proud. He had known his answer.
    I knew the galilean moons of Jupiter.
    I am so happy.
    Life is so good.
    Outside, the thoughts of sleepwalking rocketed around.
    Peter Canisius grinned, his head empty of thought. He had known the outer moons, even though there were many.
    I had know all outer moons, he thought, sniffing back.
    I am so proud I am so happy.
    Life is so wonderful.
    The dead child spiraled around the other thoughts that had been sent outside the building and they rocketed around spiraling in and out and around each other and people outside thought they saw movement out of the corner of their eyes but when they looked there was nothing there—that’s how strong all the bad thoughts in the air can get—you can almost see them. The Professor touched the tip of his nose and resumed scanning the room.
    In an upper tier sat Jocopone Da Todi. His long finger was up beside his nose and his lank red hair hung down around his slender pale face. He shuffled his sneakered feet nervously.
    The medicine’s been keeping away the hemorrhages, but for how long—the hemorrhages have gone away but I still have pain there, inside there, but at least there are not bedpans full of bloody urine and pans full of stinking red blood now around my hospital bed but they never got to the bottom of why it all flared up like it did but I’m out of the hospital now, the medicine is working—the two blue capsules each twice daily—but what about the side effects the Doctor warned me about? Watch for side effects, he said—if side effects occur stop the medicine immediately and call me at once. Watch for tremors, convulsions, nausea, dizziness. And don’t drive or operate heavy machinery, says the label on the bottle. But who in today’s world can not drive? Driving’s the only way to get anyplace. A large, long black sedan of indeterminate make sat outside in the open in the center of the lot. Funny, funny—he’d often been teased about it—what kind of person can’t keep it in his mind what make and model of car he drives? Why can I not retain this knowledge, thought Jocopone. But it must be I’m too preoccupied with living. Too busy waiting for the hemorrhages to start again. Watching for spots of blood on the sheets, watching for spots of blood in my underpants, the bleeding’s gone now but it’ll come back I know it will and I found out Saint Lucy is the patron saint of hemorrhages maybe saint Lucy knows when they will start again maybe I should get on my knees and clasp my hands and look up to the sky and pray to Saint Lucy—now what kind of car is it I have what kind of God-damned car—please let me know what kind of God-damned car I have saint Lucy, please—its stupid not to know. Yes maybe I should pray to Saint Lucy but somehow that seems like the wrong thing to do if I just take my pills like I’m told I’ll be all right but—
    You! Jocopone! said the Professor, pointing.
    Jocopone sat erect—the thoughts of hemorrhages shot away through the walls in every direction and joined the other thoughts that had been forced outside as Jocopone said What?
    Empty-headed he sat waiting for the answer.
    Name the new moons of Jupiter, insisted Professor Jones. He tapped his hand on the podium and stood with the other hand thrust down in a pocket. Jocopone listened in amazement to the words coming freely from his own moving mouth.
    The new moons of Jupiter are W1302, W1700, W1704, W1704_2, W1800, W1903_s, W1805, W1902, W1904, W2002_2, and W1700_2, Professor Jones.
    Wonderful, wonderful! This class is studying hard, said the Professor. It’s not fair. There must be someone I can stump! Placing his hands behind his back, he squinted hard, again scanning the room, pacing like a cat, crouching slightly.
    Don Bosco sat proudly, hands neatly folded.
    I knew the inner moons of Jupiter.
    I am so proud.
    Life is simple.
    Dark thoughts still circled outside seeking him.
    Adolph Kolping sat smiling, leaned back in his seat.
    I knew each and every galilean moon.
    I am so happy.
    Life is so good.
    Thoughts wound about those of Don Bosco, seeking Kolping also.
    Peter Canisius leaned forward, hands clasped beneath his chin, deeply satisfied
    I knew the outer moons of Jupiter.
    I am so proud I am so happy.
    Life is so wonderful.
    Thoughts of the dead child rode the wave of black thoughts circling madly and crazily outside above the puffy green trees and the silent calm parking lot with the sunlight slanting down.
    Jocopone Da Todi sat back, one arm hooked on his seatback, looking the Professor in the eye.
    I knew the new moons.
    I am so happy I am so proud.
    Life is so fantastic.
    Blood chased through the air after the other thoughts. Warm red rushing gushing blood from every pore; all the other thoughts that had been in them before roiled in black and crimson clouds above and around and under the lecture hall but could not be heard or felt or seen but still existed nonetheless, streaking at the speed of light.
    We are so happy.
    We are so proud.
    Their balloons of happiness slowly expanded, comfortably filling them with coolness and calm. They’d been asked the questions; they had known the answers.
    Professor Jones resumed scanning the room for victims. He thrust both hands deep in his pockets and looked up at the seats with one eye closed like Popeye.
    Thomas Becket sat with his long legs crossed slumped down in his seat, a finger pressed into his pimply cheek, his eye set upon the dead center of the great clock hung above the Professor.
    The second hand moves so slow.
    The minute hand moves so much slower.
    The hour hand moves the slowest.
    The purpose of the clock is to mesmerize; stop time.
    All times are one.
    Heavy-jowled Father Barret strode sternly up and down the slick-floored rows in the grammar school religion class, his chest pushed out and his hairy hands clasped firmly behind his back.
    Ask yourselves, he said as he strode. Everyone in this room, ask yourself—would you die for your faith?
    He stopped abruptly at Thomas’ desk and stood over it and leant down close.
    Would you die for your Faith young Thomas? he said harshly, his stale breath spreading over Thomas’ face.
    Yes, Thomas heard himself quickly say.
    Well good. That’s good.
    Father Barrett straightened and walked on past Thomas’ desk—but Thomas knew he had told a lie—instantly he knew it was a lie—but was it a lie—others had died for their faith he could die for his he hadn’t lied but he had lied. What could he die for? What should he do with the rest of his life and end up dying having done? This was the question that formed through the years in him, since he’d smelled the stale breath of Father Barrett. And now he thought why am I in this class about space? What’s so important about Jupiter, the planets. They’re there, isn’t that enough? Why does anyone have to know all about them? His feet shifted uneasily on the floor before him. His ninety five Oldsmobile Cutlass sat at the edge of the lot in the sun. A more immediate problem existed. The temperature’s rising inside the car. Should I have left the cake in the car? The cake that we need for the party this evening? I should have known better than to let the cake out there to melt in the car. It gets hot in the car too hot for pets too hot for babies too hot for candy and too hot for cakes. The heat could kill quickly. Martyrs died for me. Many martyrs died in the flames. Saint Margaret Ward—patron saint of martyrs I lied I didn’t lie I lied I didn’t I’ve never forgotten his face close to mine his breath his glistening teeth his stale smell and his great hands locked together behind his back as he walked but my cake is going to melt—Lord let time pass—many holy people have died in the flames—
    Becket! called the Professor from beside his podium. Becket! What are the newest moons of Jupiter?
    Becket straightened in his seat. His mind cleared. The center of the clock he had been gazing at became a funnel that sucked the tumbling thoughts out of him now that he’d been asked a question. The thoughts went through the wall and joined the others streaking around outside.
    Well, said Becket, clear-eyed and with a pure voice, they are two and are as yet unnamed though for the purpose of this class we have called them Aidan_1 and Aidan_2, Professor.
    The Professor clapped his hands together hard and the sound of the clap bounced all around the walls. His mouth opened in a great toothy grin.
    Good, he snapped up toward Becket’s seat. Good, good. And so that’s it! That’s all the moons of Jupiter class. All the rest of you are off the hook, thanks to these fine young men.
    Don Bosco sat proudly erect.
    I knew mine.
    I am so happy.
    Life is so good.
    Adolph Kolping sat hands neatly folded.
    I knew mine.
    I am so proud.
    Life is so simple.
    Peter Canisius sat leaning forward, ready to answer whatever question came his way.
    I knew mine.
    I am so happy I am so proud.
    Life is so wonderful.
    Jocopone Da Todi sat beaming down at the Professor.
    I knew mine.
    I am so proud I am so happy.
    Life is so fantastic.
    Thomas Becket sat arms folded, lower lip thrust out.
    I am so happy.
    Life is so cool, so calm, so sweet.
    The dark thoughts that’d been forced outside roiled in a dark cloud hovering above the trees.
    We want homes, thought the thoughts.
    We had homes once—now we want them again.
    The balloons of joy inside the five students expanded near to bursting inside them.
    The Professor came up behind his podium and locked his hands onto either side.
    Good class today, he said.
    Good class. See you Thursday.
    I’m happy, the five thought suddenly in perfect unison, and this made the happiness spread from them across the room, infecting everyone, and everybody smiled, rose, got up their books, and left in a clatter of folding desktops and shuffling feet and closing books and all the students started for the exits, down the aisles and across the rows. They all got outside into the sunlight, and the sight of the trees and the blue sky lifted each and every one. As Don Bosco and Adolph Kolping and Peter Canisius and Jocopone Da Todi and Thomas Becket walked to their respective cars, the balloons of happiness in their minds began to leak and slowly let the happiness and pride out, as always happens with the passage of time and the passage from one compartment of life to the next. The dark thoughts that had been forced out and that had been hovering about outside the lecture hall caught sight of them and swept down and coiled about them again. The thoughts forced out the happiness faster, a degree at a time. As each of the five drove away they again filled with thoughts of rending limbs and broken bones and the cannon and the dead baby sister and the sleepwalking and the hemorrhages and the great lie told to the stern priest in that grammar school class so long ago. The now forced out happiness and pride trailed behind them striving to keep up, a great pure clear cloud behind each car, waiting to be called into service again by whatever their next small victory might be.



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