Face in the Window

I don't believe in a populated heaven—at least not the pearly one, populated with dead relatives and their floating immortal orderlies who sing a lot. I suppose I ought to believe in the concept in a literal, astronomical sense, since there are more stars than we can count, and some of them must have planets with some sort of thinking, feeling creatures on them. But then, to those creatures, we would be heaven, whirling round our little point of light in one of the suburbs of the galaxy. And nothing could refute the idea of a benevolent heaven more than our violent Earth taking its place in the prayers of some little green men somewhere light-years away. If I could reach into their dreams and set them straight, I'd tell them they're knocking on the wrong door, for sure. Not that they'd listen. I long ago gave up trying to talk sense to my fellow bipeds, or even, half the time, to myself.

Heaven or hell? They're love and hate, I suppose. And they come to an end with our lives. Whatever electricity it is that spins inside our heads and makes us think we are who we are, it seems to be held in our flesh, which itself, like all of matter, is energy congealed. When the flesh is broken, and at the end it always is, the electricity dissipates. To love somebody, or to love yourself, is to be tender with the flesh.

Here's my heaven: standing at this second-story window, looking down at the street I live on, knowing that behind me somewhere in the dim gray rooms my wife lies sleeping. Watching the neighbors walking past, recognizing the ones that I know and talk with. Looking past them across the street to the other apartment buildings, some of them graceful, some of them dull. Looking past the roofs to the night sky of the city, made bleary and starless by the thousands of desperate lamps that fend off darkness. This is what I do before I go to bed and after I get up: stand in the dark and look down into my street, thinking of my wife, my friends, my city.

Tonight, thin clouds drift across the night, faint gray bands that shine the lamplight back at us and lie to us about the darkness beyond. The moon is sometimes hidden by them, sometimes bright and hard, sometimes a phosphorescent smear in trailing vapor. On nights like these, I often take a short walk before bed, if I am still dressed, and I am. I am careful not to click the latch of the door too loudly, since my wife lies sleeping in our bedroom, then I go downstairs and out the lower door to the street. The air is fresher than inside, and cool but not cold. The usual round takes me to the end of the block, then down the boulevard, which is still busy at this hour, because of the restaurants and a couple of bars. People walk by, usually in pairs or groups, chattering loudly, studiously ignoring our stolid homeless neighbors camped in the alcoves of utility doors or under the bus stop shelters. There's a supermarket nearby with its parking underground and a grand entrance right on the boulevard, and since it's open all night long, people drift steadily in and out, plastic bags drooping from their hands as they head for home. A security guard leans against the glass wall by the doorway, looking eternally bored. 

Beyond the market is a dead block of offices, locked up for the night, then more restaurants, then a park. I walk as far as the park, turn away from the boulevard for a block, then turn again towards home, finishing my rounds along a quieter street, with apartment windows at my shoulder all the way. I am back to my home block in twenty minutes, nod to a neighbor or two, and look up at my building from across the street.

Tonight I see something in the window, though I'm not sure what. A spot a little paler than the night, indistinct and oval. Is my wife standing there, in what I consider "my" self-assigned station, looking out at the night the way I like to? I am standing under a street lamp, so she must see me. I wave my arm, and the spot fades away, without returning the gesture. I trot across the street and let myself in, hurry quietly up the stairs, but the apartment is absolutely still when I go in. When I peek into the bedroom, I see the mound of blankets that represents my wife, and I hear her even breathing. Although she's a playful sort when she's awake, she takes her sleeping seriously. There's mystery afoot.

I take off my shoes and patrol the house, listening carefully before I enter any of the rooms: bathroom, second bedroom, the tiny dining room where I like to stand at the window, finally the dark fragrant kitchen. No unusual shadows anywhere, no sound of anyone's breathing but my own. I go to the window and look out, studying the sidewalk where I stood under the streetlamp moments ago. As I watch, the clouds move away from the moon, and a pearly light floods into the room. The angle is right: it was a reflection of the moon shining weakly through a wisp of cloud.

I hear a creak, followed by soft footsteps that I recognize as my wife's. She has gotten up and put on her robe. She greets me with a silent kiss and nestles under my arm, leaning her head on my shoulder as she likes to do. I gesture towards the sky with my chin. "What a beautiful night!" she says. "No wonder you're still up. I was worried." She nestles closer, still warm from the bed, and together we stare up at the heavens, and at the cold dead stone we associate with love.