The Right Kind of Wall

"David, I see you have your belt on." Mrs. Carver Chestnut lived next door to David, and many evenings they sat together under his walnut trees. The branches of the walnuts shaded his yard to the south, and when the day wore down, his dining room windows testified to their golden leaves.

"Yes, Ma'am, I do have my belt on," David said. He ran his fingers over his new prized possession. "Thank you for it."

"Well, David, Mr. Chestnut thought you'd like it."

"How did he know?" David's brows furrowed in genuine inquisitiveness.

"The other day, you know what he said to me? He said, 'David has all sorts of tools and things. I bet I know what he needs.' That's all I got out of him." She laughed and bit into a gingersnap. "I brought this plate of cookies over, David, and you haven't touched one of 'em."

"Oh," he said, and took one.

"That's right. He didn't say another word about it."

"Yes, Ma'am, I just want things fixed," he said. Then he had another thought. "And what about Harold? Did he want one, too?"

A minute change rippled over Mrs. Carver Chestnut's face and was gone, wiped clean in the time it takes a mother to straighten her child's britches. "David. How well of you to think of Harold. No, he's a busy one, too, but with them books."

David took a deep breath and nodded as he let it go. "He's a good boy."

"Yes," she said, then looked away toward the horizon. "He is."

***

David Ala began to wear his gift from the Chestnuts the moment it was out of the box: It was a military-style belt made of green fabric. It had double rows of eyelets, which were reinforced with metal grommets. What pleased him most about the gift, besides the official feeling he got when he put it on, was that it held his clips securely. And the clip that pleased him most was the duct tape clip. He used the gray tape for everything. He hung plants with tape braids, fixed cracks in the wood on picture frames, yes, but he needed it most for his Cityway wall.

It was a small hole in the drywall next to a window that started it all. A stream of air slipped through on a windy day, and David used two lengths of tape, one on top of the other, to keep it out. A shadow led him to affix the next few pieces; the shape cast onto the wall looked like an arch, a high arch so that he had to set up his ladder to reach the top. And he had to work from the side, leaning out, so as to keep the shadow intact. If someone had been close by, they'd have heard him murmur to himself about capturing the "new way through." Through to where, he didn't say. When all was done, and the tape replaced the shadow, he labeled it on the keystone with a black permanent marker: Arch.

Later, when he looked at his work, he placed another strip over the label Arch and instead wrote Cityway.

After that he added bits here and there when he had spare time, building what amounted to another wall, a "brick-by-brick" kind of wall taped on top of the existing one. Of course, he left the space under the Cityway arch open. That just seemed right.

***

"I haven't seen you in your workshop much this week, David." Mrs. Carver Chestnut's observation was meant to be casual, something to say to get David talking a little.

"Oh!" David's eyes grew. "Yes, Ma'am. Well." His hands leaped to life -- checking over his belt, smoothing over the end of the tape roll, adjusting his glasses -- and they didn't slow down as he talked. "I been workin' on my wall. So many times I walk into the dining room, and I can't but help put another strip down and then another. Then it's I don't know what time -- "

"David, what are you talking about?" Mrs. Chestnut set her tea down and turned herself toward him. "You're talkin' too fast, for one thing."

"My wall." David conquered his hands by clasping them together on his lap and leaning forward. "It's just, oh, it's nothin' really, Ma'am. Just tape."

"Don't get shy, David. You can tell me."

"It's just tape, Ma'am," and he said no more.

The rest of the evening they chatted about the birds congregating in the trees overhead, and David's hands obeyed, but when Mrs. Chestnut had gone home in the sunset light, he went straight to his wall. He pressed his fingers on some of the corners of individual pieces and sighed. "Well," he said aloud. "She don't have to see it. She wouldn't understand."

That was the foggy idea that drifted to David when Mrs. Chestnut questioned him -- that she might scold him and tell him to remove it. He'd have to, of course, if she said he should. That was the kind of lady she was, and David knew it. It would be better not to talk about it.

A few days later, however, David had to talk about it.

***

If you asked him, came right out and asked him, Harold Chestnut would, eventually and with much hesitation, tell you that, yes, his father wanted little to do with him. And yet, because no one asked him, the notion of this truth remained just that -- a notion that only hinted and prodded and drove him to study.

Then, in your clairvoyant moment, if you continued to press him, this time for a reason, all the while pointing out to him that there were plenty of counter-reasons his father should be proud -- optometry is an upstanding profession, isn't it? -- Harold would simply reply that he was an only son, and not just that, but the only son of a business owner who'd dreamed of passing the family work to him, or to a son at least.

But you're not asking. And Harold was the type of young man who'd just as well not look conflicts straight in the face. Therefore the notion grew each time he passed a test or finished a class; exactly when Harold had something new to present to his father as an accomplishment, the weight of the unnamed shame made him hold back, made him inch away.

***

"Mrs. Chestnut," David said one particularly chilly evening. "Mrs. Chestnut, when will Harold be home again?"

"You think about Harold a lot, don't you David?" Mrs. Chestnut smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile.

David looked at his hands. "Sure. We used to talk. But we don't much now."

"Oh, I know. I know -- " she opened her mouth to say something, but checked herself in time. "David. No, it's natural for you to wonder about him, isn't it? He'll be 'round in a few days. Soon's he wraps up his semester."

"Oh. Okay."

On the way home in the cold wind, Mrs. Chestnut muttered to herself and shook her head.

David, however, let himself inside and sat down opposite his wall. He did think about Harold a lot, especially after Mrs. Chestnut went home and his house opened its silence to him. This particular evening, a handful of memories swept past, all of them with Harold at the center. One recurring memory surged at him: It was Halloween, and Harold brought brownies, he said, from his mother. Soon, it became clear that Harold had baked them, for the special ingredient he added to the usual recipe was a fast-acting laxative. It was true, and David knew it to be true, that later Harold felt badly, for he'd asked David to forgive him -- which, of course, David had. And there were so many more memories, good memories, for David to hold onto. Yet, for the life of him, and more so these last few years, he could not escape the look in Harold's eyes as he'd eaten the brownies. "Go on," Harold had said. "Eat 'em all." Which, of course, David had.

And there it was now, Harold's young face directly across from David as he sat at the dining room table. This time, however, the look meant something else entirely. It meant Harold had seen his duct tape wall and hated it.

"I know it's just tape," he said to the empty room. "But I thought you'd like it, Harold." The inward struggle intensified, making David bow his head and moan. "I wanted you to see it, to see the way through, but -- oh, but I ain't so sure now."

***

And the real Harold, who hadn't thought of David for weeks, stood in line at the bus station. Having finished yet another semester, and with only one more left, the reality of seeing his father weighed his shoulders down and turned his stomach. The human warmth and collection of human smells from every direction mixed with this reality, this soon-to-be reality, and as he approached the counter he thought he wouldn't go home -- he'd call and make some kind of excuse. But someone was speaking to him.

"Sir, may I help you?"

Harold blinked and said, "Oh, I'm not sure -- "

"You been in that line for over an hour and you ain't sure?"

"Um -- " Harold was one second from stepping out of line, when he saw the name tag of the man questioning him. "Your name's David?"

"Yes. Look, there's people who'd like to get on their bus, so -- okay, that's right. Where you going to?"

And so, with David now at the forefront of his mind, Harold paid for a ticket, boarded the bus, and tried keep him there.

Can't you see him in his seat now, across from the large woman in the deep red wig? Even though she wheezes and coughs -- which would be enough to drive any normal person distracted -- Harold held onto the rooms in David's house he knew like his own. And it was, after all, a desperate holding, a grasping that changed from the smells and the light in the rooms to David himself -- smiling David lifting just the right bolt, laughing David with his arms wrapped around his sides -- and Harold kept David before his mind's eye until the bus's aisle bulbs flicked to life.

Do you blame him for turning from that woman? She slept, but her mouth and neck seemed to remain awake and very active. And wouldn't the sound of her snoring keep you in its grasp now, too -- now that you'd heard it? Because this was the case with Harold, the pleasant thoughts of David were no match any longer and were replaced with the dread that had filled him before he bought his ticket.

He rubbed his chest and groaned at the thought of walking in the front door of his parents' house, his father remaining in his chair, his mother feigning excitement. No, he couldn't do it. A burning fluid rose from his stomach, and he popped two antacids. A moment later and he popped two more with little effect. He rubbed his temples and let the large woman's snore fill his mind, tried to be aware of the rain now tapping on his window --  but his stomach continued to riot, and every inch of his throat was aflame.

"Hey!" A shout from the back of the bus woke the woman and made Harold jump. "Can we get a smoke break or what?"

It was a strange mercy. The bus stopped at the next gas station. Harold walked into the rain and let it pelt his face and uplifted, open mouth. David was back. There -- now you see it, right? the corners of Harold's mouth show it -- there was David, under the walnut trees, arms stretched out to catch the raindrops on his palms.

***

"Carver -- you awake?" Without waiting, she continued. "Did you see David this afternoon? In an' out of that workshop?"

Mr. Chestnut had been awake for hours. His back toward Mrs. Chestnut, he tried to keep his breathing even, his muscles in a sleep-like repose -- maybe she'd stop.

"All afternoon." Maybe not. "Just in an' out, and I ain't seen what he was carryin', but it was something small." The tone in her voice had taken on the quality of someone digressing into thought. Perhaps the silence and the darkness would win out, would -- "I'll ask, that's sure, but it looked like he was in a hurry. You know that hop he does when he's excited?"

And then, just when Mr. Chestnut thought she'd go on all night, she stopped. She stopped because the hop she mentioned was so familiar to her, and now she let her mind travel back to times she'd seen it, and the thought of David almost skipping like a child killed her instinct to talk.

Because her silence came suddenly, Mr. Chestnut had not been able to stir up an adequate amount of annoyance, which was housed abundantly just below the surface of his placid forehead. A new subject of frustration replaced this disruption in his routine: her silence. His mind roared to life. What in the world could it be that made that woman quiet? He slipped easily into anger. It would be hours more before he fell asleep. -- Especially now. Now that Harold had been presented to him as a source of Mrs. Chestnut's silence.

And then, even more abruptly than when she ceased, Mrs. Chestnut said the unthinkable -- unthinkable because she spoke the very words splashed all over his brain: "David will be excited to see Harold."

If only the darkness would swallow him, swallow him whole. With his eyes open, Mr. Chestnut beckoned the dark, begged the dark, to take him. All over his body warmed, beginning with his face, then descending to his bowels. Yes, now he shook and tried not to shake as the heat came sliding into his throat. He swore aloud and threw the cover off.

"Where you goin'?" Mrs. Chestnut knew exactly where he was headed. "It's late to be out of bed, ain't it?"

Mr. Chestnut walked into the kitchen and explored the corner cabinet until he found the antacids. They wouldn't help, but he ate them until the chalk gathered on his lips and filled his molars.

***

It was a funny memory after all, wasn't it -- the memory of David running to the toilet? Well, it had been, that is until Harold listened to his victim on the other side of the restroom door. And you see him now, there, under the walnut trees? He arrived on foot from the bus station, set his bags down in full view of the house he grew up in, and turned toward David's place. The brownie memory weighed him down almost immediately -- what was it he'd read recently? That we're animals, and the position of our bodies brings forth attitudes, etc. -- and why? Why did that special guilt come to him? For one thing, he realized, he was sitting the exact way he'd sat on David's floor so long ago: knees pulled up, arms squeezing, face hidden.

He'd needed to repent then. What about now? To the air surrounding his body he whispered, "But they're insufferable; I can't see them -- " and he sobbed at the fact that he was unable to pray anything but excuses. His hands tried to rub away the pain in his throat and chest, but it rose and burned him.

***

David Ala up early was not such a strange thing; David Ala up early and unable to work, now that was strange indeed. He knew the dining room lights would make Mrs. Chestnut curious, so work on the wall was impossible, and when he thought about what he could do in the shop, well, his focus was gone, swept away by what he needed to do to complete the arch.

Recent developments had caused David to put the tape away in favor of a paint brush. One 20-hour period had been dedicated to finding colors that would suit him, for, he reasoned, not just any colors would do -- not just one either. He needed the right blend for the Cityway arch to be inviting. No, that wasn't right. He needed the right blend to match what he'd seen in his dream -- that was it. And it had been inviting, after all, but there was also danger there, a kind of danger he chewed on now while he waited for sunrise.

He'd been so lost in his reflection on how danger could ever cause anyone to want it, when he sensed another presence. Yes, in the shadows of the doorway there was someone standing, waiting.

"Hello?" And David didn't have time to act or be afraid. In fact, he knew who it was. "Harold, come in. We can't turn the light on yet, but come and sit down."

"David, how -- " but Harold stopped mid sentence. He sighed and accepted the fact that David knew he'd be there. It made sense somehow. "I've been away a long time, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you have."

And now that the two of them were seated at the same table together, the words both Harold and David had planned were hard to gather. So David said the first thing that came to mind. "What was you thinkin' out there?"

Then the words came like brands of fire over Harold's forehead, and if he didn't say them they would sear his flesh. "David." He choked on a sob and tried to breathe just a moment before saying, "I was remembering. How I need your forgiveness again."

"What?" David's hands came up to the tabletop and reached out, but touched nothing.

"David, when I was, oh, I don't know how old I was. Twelve? When I sat on your floor over there, by the bathroom. Remember how sick you got?"

"Harold, that was long ago."

"Yeah, I know, but -- will you just tell me?"

David knew what Harold meant just like he knew he was the one standing in the dark a moment before. "Well, Harold. Sure. I forgave you then, and I forgive you now. You's just -- "

"No, David. Don't excuse me, please, don't write it off."

"Okay, Harold, I won't."

"It was a nasty thing. Just forgive me."

"Okay, Harold. Okay." Then, at his back, David felt the work he'd done with duct tape and paint and time, and instead of the fear that usually rose up at the thought of Harold seeing it all, he only felt the work -- what it was meant to be and what he thought of when he worked on it. "How long till the sun's up, Harold?"

"Huh?" Harold's newfound weightlessness consumed him. "What?"

"The sun. Will it be up soon?"

"Ah, yeah, I think."

"Then I'm gonna turn this light on." And he did.

And the strong overhead lights revealed the wall and the arch suddenly and fully to Harold. He saw it, the tape, the paint, but he also saw, in the swiftest of moments, what David saw: In the time it takes for an angel's wing to cover continents, both men glimpsed the earth remade, renewed.

"David," Harold said from his chair. "Whatever you do, do not let my mother talk you into taking this down."

But David couldn't speak. He only nodded.

Harold stood and walked to his neighbor. "Thank you." He put his hands on David's shoulders. "Thank you for teaching me how to forgive and see -- today and, well, for as long as I've known you."

"Oh. Well."

"Really, David. I have to go see my parents now, but I can -- I can because of you." Another thought came to Harold. "Hey, why don't you call my mom in about an hour? I'll answer the phone and invite you over. We'll all need you, I'm sure."