KEVIN BROCKMEIER (1974–) is the author of the novels The Brief History of the Dead and The Truth About Celia, the story collection Things That Fall from the Sky, and the children’s novels City of Names and Grooves: A Kind of Mystery. He has published stories in The New Yorker, The Georgia Review, McSweeney’s, The Oxford American, Best American Short Stories, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and The O. Henry Prize Stories anthology. He has received the Chicago Tribune’s Nelson Algren Award, an Italo Calvino Short Fiction Award, a James Michener–Paul Engle Fellowship, three O. Henry Awards (one, a first prize), and an NEA grant. He lives in Little Rock, Arkansas.
There was a sky that day, sun-rich and open and blue. A raft of silver clouds was floating along the horizon, and robins and sparrows were calling from the trees. It was my son Joshua’s seventh birthday and we were celebrating in our backyard. He and the children were playing on the swing set, and Melissa and I were sitting on the deck with the parents.
Earlier that afternoon, a balloon and gondola had risen from the field at the end of our block, sailing past us with an exhalation of fire. Joshua told his friends that he knew the pilot. “His name is Mister Clifton,” he said, as they tilted their heads back and slowly revolved in place. “I met him at the park last year. He took me into the air with him and let me drop a soccer ball into a swimming pool. We almost hit a helicopter. He told me he’d come by on my birthday.” Joshua shielded his eyes against the sun. “Did you see him wave?” he asked. “He just waved at me.”
This was a story.
The balloon drifted lazily away, turning to expose each delta and crease of its fabric, and we listened to the children resuming their play. Mitch Nauman slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. “Ever notice how kids their age will handle a toy?” he said. Mitch was our next-door neighbor.
He was the single father of Bobby Nauman, Joshua’s strange best friend.
His other best friend, Chris Boschetti, came from a family of cosmetics executives. My wife had taken to calling them “Rich and Strange.”
Mitch pinched the front of his shirt between his fingers and fanned himself with it. “The actual function of the toy is like some sort of obstacle,” he said. “They’ll dream up a new use for everything in the world.”
I looked across the yard at the swing set: Joshua was trying to shinny up one of the Apoles; Taylor Tugwell and Sam Yoo were standing on the teeter swing; Adam Smithee was tossing fistfuls of pebbles onto the slide and watching them rattle to the ground.
My wife tipped one of her sandals onto the grass with the ball of her foot. “Playing as you should isn’t Fun,” she said: “it’s Design.” She parted her toes around the front leg of Mitch’s lawn chair. He leaned back into the sunlight, and her calf muscles tautened.
My son was something of a disciple of flying things. On his bedroom wall were posters of fighter planes and wild birds. A model of a helicopter was chandeliered to his ceiling. His birthday cake, which sat before me on the picnic table, was decorated with a picture of a rocket ship—a silver-white missile with discharging thrusters. I had been hoping that the baker would place a few stars in the frosting as well (the cake in the catalog was dotted with yellow candy sequins), but when I opened the box I found that they were missing. So this is what I did: as Joshua stood beneath the swing set, fishing for something in his pocket, I planted his birthday candles deep in the cake. I pushed them in until each wick was surrounded by only a shallow bracelet of wax. Then I called the children over from the swing set. They came tearing up divots in the grass.
We sang happy birthday as I held a match to the candles.
Joshua closed his eyes.
“Blow out the stars,” I said, and his cheeks rounded with air.
That night, after the last of the children had gone home, my wife and I sat outside drinking, each of us wrapped in a separate silence. The city lights were burning, and Joshua was sleeping in his room. A nightjar gave one long trill after another from somewhere above us.
Melissa added an ice cube to her glass, shaking it against the others until it whistled and cracked. I watched a strand of cloud break apart in the sky. The moon that night was bright and full, but after a while it began to seem damaged to me, marked by some small inaccuracy. It took me a moment to realize why this was: against its blank white surface was a square of perfect darkness. The square was without blemish or flaw, no larger than a child’s tooth, and I could not tell whether it rested on the moon itself or hovered above it like a cloud. It looked as if a window had been opened clean through the floor of the rock, presenting to view a stretch of empty space. I had never seen such a thing before.
“What is that?” I said.
Melissa made a sudden noise, a deep, defeated little oh.
“My life is a mess,” she said.
Within a week, the object in the night sky had grown perceptibly larger. It would appear at sunset, when the air was dimming to purple, as a faint granular blur, a certain filminess at the high point of the sky, and would remain there through the night. It blotted out the light of passing stars and seemed to travel across the face of the moon, but it did not move. The people of my town were uncertain as to whether the object was spreading or approaching—we could see only that it was getting bigger—and this matter gave rise to much speculation. Gleason the butcher insisted that it wasn’t there at all, that it was only an illusion. “It all has to do with the satellites,” he said. “They’re bending the light from that place like a lens. It just looks like something’s there.” But though his manner was relaxed and he spoke with conviction, he would not look up from his cutting board.
The object was not yet visible during the day, but we could feel it above us as we woke to the sunlight each morning: there was a tension and strain to the air, a shift in its customary balance. When we stepped from our houses to go to work, it was as if we were walking through a new sort of gravity, harder and stronger, not so yielding.
As for Melissa, she spent several weeks pacing the house from room to room. I watched her fall into a deep abstraction. She had cried into her pillow the night of Joshua’s birthday, shrinking away from me beneath the blankets. “I just need to sleep,” she said, as I sat above her and rested my hand on her side. “Please. Lie down. Stop hovering.” I soaked a washcloth for her in the cold water of the bathroom sink, folding it into quarters and leaving it on her nightstand in a porcelain bowl.
The next morning, when I found her in the kitchen, she was gathering a coffee filter into a little wet sachet. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.
“I’m fine.” She pressed the foot lever of the trash can, and its lid popped open with a rustle of plastic.
“Is it Joshua?”
Melissa stopped short, holding the pouch of coffee in her outstretched hand. “What’s wrong with Joshua?” she said. There was a note of concern in her voice.
“He’s seven now,” I told her. When she didn’t respond, I continued with, “You don’t look a day older than when we met, honey. You know that, don’t you?”
She gave a puff of air through her nose—this was a laugh, but I couldn’t tell what she meant to express by it, bitterness or judgment or some kind of easy cheer. “It’s not Joshua,” she said, and dumped the coffee into the trash can. “But thanks all the same.”
It was the beginning of July before she began to ease back into the life of our family. By this time, the object in the sky was large enough to eclipse the full moon. Our friends insisted that they had never been able to see any change in my wife at all, that she had the same style of speaking, the same habits and twists and eccentricities as ever. This was, in a certain sense, true. I noticed the difference chiefly when we were alone together.
After we had put Joshua to bed, we would sit with one another in the living room, and when I asked her a question, or when the telephone rang, there was always a certain brittleness to her, a hesitancy of manner that suggested she was hearing the world from across a divide. It was clear to me at such times that she had taken herself elsewhere, that she had constructed a shelter from the wood and clay and stone of her most intimate thoughts and stepped inside, shutting the door. The only question was whether the person I saw tinkering at the window was opening the latches or sealing the cracks.
One Saturday morning, Joshua asked me to take him to the library for a story reading. It was almost noon, and the sun was just beginning to darken at its zenith. Each day, the shadows of our bodies would shrink toward us from the west, vanish briefly in the midday soot, and stretch away into the east, falling off the edge of the world. I wondered sometimes if I would ever see my reflection pooled at my feet again. “Can Bobby come, too?” Joshua asked as I tightened my shoes.
I nodded, pulling the laces up in a series of butterfly loops. “Why don’t you run over and get him,” I said, and he sprinted off down the hallway.
Melissa was sitting on the front porch steps, and I knelt down beside her as I left. “I’m taking the boys into town,” I said. I kissed her cheek and rubbed the base of her neck, felt the cirrus curls of hair there moving back and forth through my fingers.
“Shh.” She held a hand out to silence me. “Listen.”
The insects had begun to sing, the birds to fall quiet. The air gradually became filled with a peaceful chirring noise.
“What are we listening for?” I whispered.
Melissa bowed her head for a moment, as if she were trying to keep count of something. Then she looked up at me. In answer, and with a sort of weariness about her, she spread her arms open to the world.
Before I stood to leave, she asked me a question: “We’re not all that much alike, are we?” she said.
The plaza outside the library was paved with red brick. Dogwood trees were planted in hollows along the perimeter, and benches of distressed metal stood here and there on concrete pads. A member of a local guerrilla theater troupe was delivering a recitation from beneath a streetlamp; she sat behind a wooden desk, her hands folded one atop the other, and spoke as if into a camera. “Where did this object come from?” she said. “What is it, and when will it stop its descent? How did we find ourselves in this place? Where do we go from here? Scientists are baffled. In an interview with this station, Dr. Stephen Mandruzzato, head of the prestigious Horton Institute of Astronomical Studies, had this to say: ‘We don’t know. We don’t know. We just don’t know.’ ” I led Joshua and Bobby Nauman through the heavy dark glass doors of the library, and we took our seats in the Children’s Reading Room. The tables were set low to the ground so that my legs pressed flat against the underside, and the air carried that peculiar, sweetened-milk smell of public libraries and elementary schools. Bobby Nauman began to play the Where Am I? game with Joshua. “Where am I?” he would ask, and then he’d warm-and-cold Joshua around the room until Joshua had found him. First he was in a potted plant, then on my shirt collar, then beneath the baffles of an air vent. After a time, the man who was to read to us moved into place. He said hello to the children, coughed his throat clear, and opened his book to the title page: “Chicken Little,” he began.
As he read, the sky grew bright with afternoon. The sun came through the windows in a sheet of fire.
Joshua started the second grade in September. His new teacher mailed us a list of necessary school supplies, which we purchased the week before classes began—pencils and a utility box, glue and facial tissues, a ruler and a notebook and a tray of watercolor paints. On his first day, Melissa shot a photograph of Joshua waving to her from the front door, his backpack wreathed over his shoulder and a lunch sack in his right hand. He stood in the flash of hard white light, then kissed her good-bye and joined Rich and Strange in the car pool.
Autumn passed in its slow, sheltering way, and toward the end of November, Joshua’s teacher asked the class to write a short essay describing a community of local animals. The paragraph Joshua wrote was captioned “What Happened to the Birds.” We fastened it to the refrigerator with magnets.
There were many birds here before, but now they’re gone. Nobody knows where they went. I used to see them in the trees. I fed one at the zoo when I was little. It was big. The birds went away when no one was looking. The trees are quiet now. They do not move.
All of this was true. As the object in the sky became visible during the daylight—and as, in the tide of several months, it descended over our town—the birds and migrating insects disappeared. I did not notice they were gone, though, nor the muteness with which the sun rose in the morning, nor the stillness of the grass and trees, until I read Joshua’s essay.
The world at this time was full of confusion and misgiving and unforeseen changes of heart. One incident that I recall clearly took place in the Main Street Barber Shop on a cold winter Tuesday. I was sitting in a pneumatic chair while Wesson the barber trimmed my hair. A nylon gown was draped over my body to catch the cuttings, and I could smell the peppermint of Wesson’s chewing gum. “So how ’bout this weather?” he chuckled, working away at my crown.
Weather gags had been circulating through our offices and barrooms ever since the object—which was as smooth and reflective as obsidian glass, and which the newspapers had designated “the ceiling”—had descended to the level of the cloud base. I gave my usual response, “A little overcast today, wouldn’t you say?” and Wesson barked an appreciative laugh.
Wesson was one of those men who had passed his days waiting for the rest of his life to come about. He busied himself with his work, never marrying, and doted on the children of his customers. “Something’s bound to happen soon,” he would often say at the end of a conversation, and there was a quickness to his eyes that demonstrated his implicit faith in the proposition. When his mother died, this faith seemed to abandon him. He went home each evening to the small house that they had shared, shuffling cards or paging through a magazine until he fell asleep. Though he never failed to laugh when a customer was at hand, the eyes he wore became empty and white, as if some essential fire in them had been spent.
His enthusiasm began to seem like desperation. It was only a matter of time.
“How’s the pretty lady?” he asked me.
I was watching him in the mirror, which was both parallel to and coextensive with a mirror on the opposite wall. “She hasn’t been feeling too well,” I said. “But I think she’s coming out of it.”
“Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it,” he said. “And business at the hardware store?”
I told him that business was fine. I was on my lunch break.
The bell on the door handle gave a tink, and a current of cold air sent a little eddy of cuttings across the floor. A man we had never seen before leaned into the room. “Have you seen my umbrella?” he said. “I can’t find my umbrella, have you seen it?” His voice was too loud—high and sharp, fluttery with worry—and his hands shook with a distinct tremor.
“Can’t say that I have,” said Wesson. He smiled emptily, showing his teeth, and his fingers tensed around the back of my chair.
There was a sudden feeling of weightlessness to the room.
“You wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?” said the man. “Jesus,” he said. “You people.”
Then he took up the ashtray stand and slammed it against the window.
A cloud of gray cinders shot out around him, but the window merely shuddered in its frame. He let the stand fall to the floor and it rolled into a magazine rack. Ash drizzled to the ground. The man brushed a cigarette butt from his jacket. “You people,” he said again, and he left through the open glass door.
As I walked home later that afternoon, the scent of barbershop talcum blew from my skin in the winter wind. The plane of the ceiling was stretched across the firmament, covering my town from end to end, and I could see the lights of a thousand streetlamps caught like constellations in its smooth black polish. It occurred to me that if nothing were to change, if the ceiling were simply to hover where it was forever, we might come to forget that it was even there, charting for ourselves a new map of the night sky.
Mitch Nauman was leaving my house when I arrived. We passed on the lawn, and he held up Bobby’s knapsack. “He leaves this thing everywhere,” he said. “Buses. Your house. The schoolroom. Sometimes I think I should tie it to his belt.” Then he cleared his throat. “New haircut? I like it.”
“Yeah, it was getting a bit shaggy.”
He nodded and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “See you next time,” he said, and he vanished through his front door, calling to Bobby to climb down from something.
By the time the object had fallen as low as the tree spires, we had noticed the acceleration in the wind. In the thin strip of space between the ceiling and the pavement, it narrowed and kindled and collected speed. We could hear it buffeting the walls of our houses at night, and it produced a constant low sigh in the darkness of movie halls. People emerging from their doorways could be seen to brace themselves against the charge and pressure of it. It was as if our entire town were an alley between tall buildings.
I decided one Sunday morning to visit my parents’ gravesite: the cemetery in which they were buried would spread with knotgrass every spring, and it was necessary to tend their plot before the weeds grew too thick. The house was still peaceful as I showered and dressed, and I stepped as quietly as I could across the bath mat and the tile floor. I watched the water in the toilet bowl rise and fall as gusts of wind channeled their way through the pipes. Joshua and Melissa were asleep, and the morning sun flashed at the horizon and disappeared.
At the graveyard, a small boy was tossing a tennis ball into the air as his mother swept the dirt from a memorial tablet. He was trying to touch the ceiling with it, and with each successive throw he drew a bit closer, until, at the height of its climb, the ball jarred to one side before it dropped. The cemetery was otherwise empty, its monuments and trees the only material presence.
My parents’ graves were clean and spare. With such scarce sunlight, the knotgrass had failed to blossom, and there was little tending for me to do.
I combed the plot for leaves and stones and pulled the rose stems from the flower wells. I kneeled at the headstone they shared and unfastened a zipper of moss from it. Sitting there, I imagined for a moment that my parents were living together atop the ceiling: they were walking through a field of high yellow grass, beneath the sun and the sky and the tousled white clouds, and she was bending in her dress to examine a flower, and he was bending beside her, his hand on her waist, and they were unaware that the world beneath them was settling to the ground.
When I got home, Joshua was watching television on the living room sofa, eating a plump yellow doughnut from a paper towel. A dollop of jelly had fallen onto the back of his hand. “Mom left to run an errand,” he said.
The television picture fluttered and curved for a moment, sending spits of rain across the screen, then it recrystallized. An aerial transmission tower had collapsed earlier that week—the first of many such fallings in our town—and the quality of our reception had been diminishing ever since.
“I had a dream last night,” Joshua said. “I dreamed that I dropped my bear through one of the grates on the sidewalk.” He owned a worn-down cotton teddy bear, its seams looped with clear plastic stitches, that he had been given as a toddler. “I tried to catch him, but I missed. Then I lay down on the ground and stretched out my arm for him. I was reaching through the grate, and when I looked beneath the sidewalk, I could see another part of the city. There were people moving around down there.
“There were cars and streets and bushes and lights. The sidewalk was some sort of bridge, and in my dream I thought, ‘Oh yeah. Now why didn’t I remember that?’ Then I tried to climb through to get my bear, but I couldn’t lift the grate up.”
The morning weather forecaster was weeping on the television.
“Do you remember where this place was?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe down by the bakery?” I had noticed Melissa’s car parked there a few times, and I remembered a kid tossing pebbles into the grate.
“That’s probably it.”
“Want to see if we can find it?”
Joshua pulled at the lobe of his ear for a second, staring into the middle distance. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,” he decided.
I don’t know what we expected to discover there. Perhaps I was simply seized by a whim—the desire to be spoken to, the wish to be instructed by a dream. When I was Joshua’s age, I dreamed one night that I found a new door in my house, one that opened from my cellar onto the bright, aseptic aisles of a drugstore: I walked through it, and saw a flash of light, and found myself sitting up in bed. For several days after, I felt a quickening of possibility, like the touch of some other geography, whenever I passed by the cellar door. It was as if I’d opened my eyes to the true inward map of the world, projected according to our own beliefs and understandings.
On our way through the town center, Joshua and I waded past a cluster of people squinting into the horizon. There was a place between the post office and the library where the view to the west was occluded by neither hills nor buildings, and crowds often gathered there to watch the distant blue belt of the sky. We shouldered our way through and continued into town.
Joshua stopped outside the Kornblum Bakery, beside a trash basket and a newspaper carrel, where the light from two streetlamps lensed together on the ground. “This is it,” he said, and made a gesture indicating the iron grate at our feet. Beneath it we could see the shallow basin of a drainage culvert. It was even and dry, and a few brittle leaves rested inside it.
“Well,” I said. There was nothing there. “That’s disappointing.”
“Life’s disappointing,” said Joshua.
He was borrowing a phrase of his mother’s, one that she had taken to using these last few months. Then, as if on cue, he glanced up and a light came into his eyes. “Hey,” he said. “There’s Mom.”
Melissa was sitting behind the plate glass window of a restaurant on the opposite side of the street. I could see Mitch Nauman talking to her from across the table, his face soft and casual. Their hands were cupped together beside the pepper crib, and his shoes stood empty on the carpet. He was stroking her left leg with his right foot, its pad and arch curved around her calf. The image was as clear and exact as a melody.
I took Joshua by the shoulders. “What I want you to do,” I said, “is knock on Mom’s window. When she looks up, I want you to wave.”
And he did exactly that—trotting across the asphalt, tapping a few times on the glass, and waving when Melissa started in her chair. Mitch Nauman let his foot fall to the carpet. Melissa found Joshua through the window. She crooked her head and gave him a tentative little flutter of her fingers. Then she met my eyes. Her hand stilled in the air. Her face seemed to fill suddenly with movement, then just as suddenly to empty—it reminded me of nothing so much as a flock of birds scattering from a lawn. I felt a kick of pain in my chest and called to Joshua from across the street. “Come on, sport,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
It was not long after—early the next morning, before we awoke—that the town water tower collapsed, blasting a river of fresh water down our empty streets. Hankins the grocer, who had witnessed the event, gathered an audience that day to his lunch booth in the coffee shop: “I was driving past the tower when it happened,” he said. “Heading in early to work. First I heard a creaking noise, and then I saw the leg posts buckling. Wham!”—he smacked the table with his palms—“So much water! It surged into the side of my car, and I lost control of the wheel. The stream carried me right down the road. I felt like a tiny paper boat.” He smiled and held up a finger, then pressed it to the side of a half-empty soda can, tipping it gingerly onto its side. Coca-Cola washed across the table with a hiss of carbonation. We hopped from our seats to avoid the spill.
The rest of the town seemed to follow in a matter of days, falling to the ground beneath the weight of the ceiling. Billboards and streetlamps, chimneys and statues. Church steeples, derricks, and telephone poles. Klaxon rods and restaurant signs. Apartment buildings and energy pylons. Trees released a steady sprinkle of leaves and pinecones, then came timbering to the earth—those that were broad and healthy cleaving straight down the heartwood, those that were thin and pliant bending until they cracked. Maintenance workers installed panels of light along the sidewalk, routing the electricity through underground cables. The ceiling itself proved unassailable. It bruised fists and knuckles. It stripped the teeth from power saws. It broke drill bits. It extinguished flames. One afternoon the television antenna tumbled from my rooftop, landing on the hedges in a zigzag of wire. A chunk of plaster fell across the kitchen table as I was eating dinner that night. I heard a board split in the living room wall the next morning, and then another in the hallway, and then another in the bedroom. It sounded like gunshots detonating in a closed room. Melissa and Joshua were already waiting on the front lawn when I got there. A boy was standing on a heap of rubble across the street playing Atlas, his up-raked shoulders supporting the world. A man on a stepladder was pasting a sign to the ceiling: SHOP AT CARSON’S. Melissa pulled her jacket tighter. Joshua took my sleeve. A trough spread open beneath the shingles of our roof, and we watched our house collapse into a mass of brick and mortar.
I was lying on the ground, a tree root pressing into the small of my back, and I shifted slightly to the side. Melissa was lying beside me, and Mitch Nauman beside her. Joshua and Bobby, who had spent much of the day crawling aimlessly about the yard, were asleep now at our feet. The ceiling was no higher than a coffee table, and I could see each pore of my skin reflected in its surface. Above the keening of the wind there was a tiny edge of sound—the hum of the sidewalk lights, steady, electric, and warm.
“Do you ever get the feeling that you’re supposed to be someplace else?” said Melissa. She paused for a moment, perfectly still. “It’s a kind of sudden dread,” she said.
Her voice seemed to hover in the air for a moment.
I had been observing my breath for the last few hours on the polished under-surface of the ceiling: every time I exhaled, a mushroom-shaped fog would cover my reflection, and I found that I could control the size of this fog by adjusting the force and the speed of my breathing. When Melissa asked her question, the first I had heard from her in many days, I gave a sudden puff of air through my nose and two icicle-shaped blossoms appeared. Mitch Nauman whispered something into her ear, but his voice was no more than a murmur, and I could not make out the words. In a surge of emotion that I barely recognized, some strange combination of rivalry and adoration, I took her hand in my own and squeezed it. When nothing happened, I squeezed it again. I brought it to my chest, and I brought it to my mouth, and I kissed it and kneaded it and held it tight.
I was waiting to feel her return my touch, and I felt at that moment, felt with all my heart, that I could wait the whole life of the world for such a thing, until the earth and the sky met and locked and the distance between them closed forever.