Self Portrait, 1972 Francis Bacon, The Francis Bacon Estate
Alfred
When I was in college, I took a course in Shakespeare with an erratic professor - that is, a professor who taught Shakespeare and also dropped acid. He wanted to “date me” in exchange for an “A”, which, I believe, is what we call sexual harassment today. Also, and this was a little tough at 10 o’clock. on a Monday morning, his critical responses were hard to decode. He might respond to a question by saying, “You’ve been staring inside the mirrors inside the mirror for too long.” One day, when I asked, what did that exactly mean, he gripped my arm, dug his fingers in, and hissed: “There are stranger things than you know.” I took an incomplete in his course rather than earn my date night “A”, but he was right. There are stranger things than you know, and I know this because of Alfred.
Alfred was a beautiful child. A camera wouldn’t have done him justice because he was always drooling, and his smile was kind of like a Francis Bacon schmear across his face, but he was a delight to behold. And I don’t know how he did it, but he transmitted a kind of joy not light, and I don’t think a camera would have captured that either.
He was not merely retarded but profoundly retarded, with an IQ of somewhere between 0 and 20. The IQ range for mildly retarded is between 60 and 80, moderately retarded between 40 and 60, severely retarded between 20 and 40, and profoundly retarded is measureless. And yet, as astonishing as it was to conceive of a brain of, literally, measureless expanse, I still felt - profoundly - that Alfred inhabited a far more complex human existence than I could ever lay claim to. But finally, as if to underscore the complete tyranny of his physical existence, he had cerebral palsy too although, after all these years, I don’t remember if that was the exact reason why his legs were in braces. I do remember, though, that it was my job to help him to move and, in particular, to negotiate the narrow stairs of the old converted elementary school on East 9th Street in Huntington.
Naturally, he was on some kind of powerful medication - maybe it was ritalin, maybe phenobarbitol - but it was something powerful, and sometimes he would be so zonked out, he’d walk into the cement wall and smack his head. But that wasn’t Alfred; that was the meds. Alfred himself was utterly lovable. He was seven years old with sandy brown hair, slate blue eyes, and soft, white skin. I seem to always remember him dressed in a white cotton tee shirt edged with light blue trim and light blue shorts. He looked so precious in light blue that he could pass for an almost normal little boy. But then, as if to check, you’d look into his eyes and some vital light would be missing. It was as if the lens aperture of his mind was always in the closed and folder position, each triangle plate resting comfortably, mysteriously, on the plate beneath it.
Sometimes, for no apparent reason, Alfred would let out this soul-crushing wail. It was not a hearty child’s howling sound but a keening, empty stream of grief. It was terrible, and we would do anything to make him stop. But finally, when Alfred laughed, the air seized; it was the sound of flooding, incomprehensible joy. It began on the low end with a giggle, like the sound of stones overrun with rushing water, and ended on a precipice with rhapsodic shrieks - long, incontinent, spiking shrieks. what an incredible sound. We never knew where that sound came from or why it came, but we knew - no thanks to us - that Alfred was happy.
Every day after lunch, Alfred and I would climb up to the second floor stairwell and then painfully, slowly, return back to the first floor. I was more of a companion than a guide because I hd no idea what I was actually supposed to teach him, but Alfred knew what he had to do and was a good sport, cheerful even, on the slow but steady climb to the top. Going down stairs made him miserable, though. First, it was harder to go down stairs than up because it required more balance, and Alfred, as I said, was it braces up to his thighs. Second, if one learns from what one already knows, then what Alfred knew on the way down was frustration and failure. In retrospect, it was amazing that I could block out the bitterness and frustration of the day before and still look forward to my twenty minutes with him, as if his hot tears and terrible howls were an anomaly and not sinking into my heart every day. At night, my dreams were intense and primordial. Waking up, I’d stare exhausted into the morning sky.
One day in early August was just a perfect summer’s day. The sun was shining, beaming almost, and the sky was brilliant, sequined blue. There was a light breeze rippling through the leaves and the whole air was just infectious with happiness. None of us wanted to stay inside. At lunch, Rose, who was an elderly, Irish-Catholic, and sensible colleague - safe to say, my mirror opposite - was just overcome with laughter. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she said. “Just wait until you see Alfred today. We went outside this morning and Alfred - I’ve never seen him like this - he was just so full of beans. He was running and laughing and jumping up and down and, of course, falling on his little tail. Then we’d get him up, and he’d laugh harder and fall down on his tail again! Oh that little monkey! He was having such a ball!”
After lunch, Alfred fairly flew up the stairs. He really was in a delightful mood, laughing and burbling like a winsome, happy child. I remember him flapping his arms like some fledgling pale bluebird as he he hopped up to the top of the stairs. And then, he walked down. Just like that. He made it down the stairs all by himself. I don’t remember anything that happened after that, but that doesn’t matter now. I do know he made it down. That night I dreamt of a brilliant sunrise. And I’ll always remember this: I smelled apricots.
The next morning I didn’t notice that Alfred wasn’t there, but I did notice that Rose was gone. “Where’s Rose?” I asked a colleague. She seemed to hesitate as if not believing that I didn’t know what everybody else already knew. “She’s not coming in,” she said and then waited for me to say something. Finally, I caught on. “Did something happen?” I asked. “Alfred died,” she said. When Alfred got home that afternoon, he was, as Rose had said, still full of beans. His family, who were really lovely people, had a four-foot above ground swimming pool that no one had ever worried about childproofing because Alfred had never climbed up the small wooden ladder by himself. He climbed up; he fell in and he drowned.
I was twenty three the summer that this happened. Up until that point, I hadbeen kind of epically naive. I hadn’t experienced many deaths; I had no idea what grief was, and I certainly, at least consciously, had no idea that I was going to die. Now I know I am going to die.
A few nights later, I drove to Alfred’s wake. I took the back roads through Patchogue to the funeral home in Sayville. The purpose of driving through the back roads was to miss the congestion of Patchogue’s Main St. Additionally, Main Street had a flatness that, uncannily, seemed to mirror my life. The back roads passed through residential areas, but in fact, they required a focus and concentration that distracted you from scenery. It was a mazelike route with sharp right, quick left, checkerboard turns every fifty to seventy five yards.. I used to know the names of all the streets, but if I did it today, I’m sure I’d still find it from the sound of the transmission. At Division Street, which runs parallel to the railroad station, I became aware of a small white moth in the car. I opened the windows, but the moth didn’t get out. It stayed on the passenger side, near the window, near, the ceiling, but it didn’t leave the car. For the next several minutes I drove through the back roads of Blue Point and Bayport until finally, I turned onto Main St. of Sayville.
At the funeral home, I was a little tense and nervous, so I didn’t notice what had happened to the moth when I finally got out of the car. It was my first wake. Inside, all I remember is the eerie whiteness of the lights and the walls and the flowers. Alfred was in an open casket in a powder blue cotton suit with a white dress shirt and a powder blue bow tie. I don’t remember if his eyes were open, but I guess they were closed. I don’t remember if I cried. I don’t remember anything. Except this: When I got back into my car, I felt an incredible lightness - as if my heaviness had flown away. Alfred took my sorrow from me. I think that moth was part of Alfred’s soul; Alfred was a part of me; and there are things stranger than you know.