Witz полностью

What once was the immaculate, gently even, geodesic rise of the lawn’s been let wild, overgrown, once suffused with that shade kept only by the richest of lawns and the newest of money now an impoverishedly sad landscape of grass grown out in every grayed shade of the spectrum not green: faded yellows and brown and black and ashdead, whitefrozen. Iciclespikes from the snirt. Mushrooms, umbrella mounds of sandbox sand overturned from holes made by hail. A swingset strangulated. The graves of sisters’ goldfish that hadn’t gone down the toilet so swimmingly. Livestock graze amid the patio. Uprooted foundations, cinderblock scatter, leaning beams, the dull crash of wet wood on wood. Gone to ruin, is going — this rise adorned, too, with the turds of goats on the loose, mating amid stalks of antediluvian weed; chickens peck among the remains of the flowerbeds, the skeleton of the herbgarden; roosters crow noon from the satellitedish, more and more storks nest atop the lightless lamps, the leaning poles…

At His feet is a hole that had held His house. And at its bottom, a glimmer. The Garden’s goys have only disappointed any subsequent looters (the curious, the bargainhunters, and a profusion of new neighbors, their quote unquote relatives moved in from out of nowhere with the approval of no board or committee, even without that of the Keeper himself, also a raider though only of bribes being offered, a hoarder of any finds that find him), having proven themselves thorough, professionally so, greedy and handrubbing, grubbingly giddy: they’d taken everything…or so they’d thought, or so they’d reported so as not to be officially remiss; everything, that is, except this — such glint missed, forgotten, overlooked, don’t look down, who knew, who would still. Maybe they’d respected it, rated it touchingly, it whatsoever it be (Ben leaning over the mouth of the pit as if a word spoken into its echo, the incomprehensible shriek of Israel’s least favorite son, an unmentioned, unmentionable, lastbanished brother of Joseph — on His knees digging, and flinging then falling and hitting the rock of the bottom, the hole’s pithiest black), maybe they’d wanted to leave behind at least one relic wherever it lied, and there unexplained, for posterity inexplicable, the edification of any future paternally stable, maternally exacting, precise: one thing, one object, one item not in their inventory (in the house remade on the Island, and there displayed ever since their return from the traveling tour: the family’s bible, Hanna’s addressbook, her diary, and loose refrigerator lists, a legal index of Israel’s, a tome of building codes, a volume revealing of the intricate mysterium of corporate finance, it’s said — on show in these cases lining the hallways, their glass regrettably fogged, of late seldom cleaned), page 1: one find lost from their catalog cum reliquary…panel 2: missing from their immaculately kept litany of incanbula…plate 3: unaccounted for amid the bulletpoints and crossoffs of their ledger illuminated by nightlight…the glowering glowworm of the hallway upstairs-upstairs — that is, if they have a record, if records anyone keeps anymore. If a miracle, then one He has to work for, uncovering with hands dirtied to warm. It’s a piece of silverware last seen missing from an heirloom set, a spoon for Him to suck on, reduced, immaturely as not table but tea, to rattle at His teeth in defiance; still, its handle the long and strong arm of any parent, its bowl largely wide enough to hold the burn of every sun: twisted to tarnish, anno don’t ask, it’s an antique, smuggled over from God knows where when any oppression would’ve threatened to melt it down to a bullet, which would be used to murder those who once used to spoon with it supper, with a shot in the mouth from a gun of an allied metal — their bodies to tumble down into a pit such as this, where Ben’s found.

Holding it in His hand overhead, up to the sky to glean the light that’s gleaming at noon, He’s awed, struck…He’s stuck. Trapped. Unable to get Himself out. To be held for slavery, for exile to a land named Joysey — and with of all things only a spoon, impossible to dig Himself up but He’s thinking, at least. A son stuck at the bottom of a basement, left by His brethren dead in this hole in the earth that once held His home, if unfinished — without dream or its angels, their ladders, which Israel used to keep in the garage, stacked next to the shovels, the screens.