Read Online The Nobodies Album by Carolyn Parkhurst - Free Book Online Page A

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    Pareidolia describes the human tendency to find meaning where there is none. Take the man in the moon, for example: we raise our eyes, and there, in lifeless markings of bedrock and basalt, we find a human face. We’re hardwired to look for patterns in the Rorschach of the natural world: a woman’s reclining form in the curve of a mountain range, the Virgin Mary in a water stain on a concrete wall. We want the world to be both known and mysterious. We’re looking for evidence of God, or maybe just for company.
    When Milo was small and afraid of the dark, Mitch told him that he didn’t have to worry because the man in the moon was always just outside his room, looking out for him. Milo’s bed was under a window, and sometimes I’d catch sight of the two of them looking out, checking to make sure that the pale gatekeeper was still out there, keeping watch. (Note where I am, by the way: not quite in the scene and not quite out. That was me as I often was in those days, hovering in doorways, unsure how to move in and sweep up my child as confidently as Mitch seemed to. Always happy for him to be doing the work, so I could have a moment to myself. “Time to myself,” that grail forever sought and lost by mothers of young children—that was what I thought I lacked back then. I was always waiting for Mitch to come home or the babysitter to arrive so I could slip away to spend a clandestine hour inside my own mind. And then, coming upon the two of them in a moment as sweet as that one, I’d stand and observe, my heart in my throat, my arms hanging empty. Sometimes I’d even snap a picture.)
    Later, maybe a year after Mitch and Rosemary died, I went into Milo’s room to see if he was ready for bed, and I found him looking out the window. “What is the man in the moon?” he asked. “I mean, really.”
    He would have been about ten, I think. Too old for Santa and the Easter Bunny, but still willing to play along with the ruse of the tooth fairy. He’d shown some interest in science and astronomy, so I told him what I could about the surface of the moon, and I explained the idea of pareidolia. He listened and nodded and asked questions. And I never saw him look out his bedroom window at the moon again.
    The FreeMilo Web site continues to disgust me, and I continue to read it. What amazes me most is that these people—mostly young men, I assume—think they know my son. They’ve pieced together a man from song lyrics, videos, fragments of interviews, and they believe it’s genuinely Milo. Not that I can be so sure I know him much better, I suppose; I’ve just built my version of him from a larger sample of material.
    I’m almost ready to put an end to this unhealthy gorging when I see a new headline, screaming at me from the top of the list: VIDEO OF THE MURDER HOUSE—BEFORE THE MURDER!!!
    The Murder House. Of course, I’ve never been to Milo’s house, and it hadn’t yet occurred to me that it would now take on this added significance. I know that houses where murders take place become stops on a gruesome pilgrimage route, and I wonder if there are people there—right now, a matter of blocks from here—camping out alongside the yellow crime-scene tape, taking pictures and toasting the dead. I wonder if the house will be demolished eventually. Sometimes they are, more for real estate reasons than symbolic ones: the property values, the privacy of the neighbors, the decency of letting the dead rest. Still, it has the feel of an ancient rite. Purification by fire. On this site, blood was spilled.
    I click on the subject heading. Inside, there’s a link, accompanied by the following explanation: “My cousin’s a film editor on Turf Wars , and he got this amazing footage of a Milo/Bettina episode that was supposed to air next month. They filmed it three weeks ago. It’s a rough cut, so it’s not as smooth as it would be if it were actually on TV. Check it out!!!!”
    Turf Wars , I know, is a TV program