Chapter 3
Like a blooming rose, Saturday morning unfurled with the unspoken promise of beauty and perfume. But by ten o’clock any semblance of floral fragrance and grace was gone—crushed under the heels of Helios’s mad dash across the daytime sky. He poked his head over the horizon at 5:39 a.m., but instead of going away, he did what he always did. He grew bolder, rose higher and higher (and hotter and hotter), and gave Mother Earth both the sustenance she needed and the death she lamented.
It was upon such a heartless onslaught that Hector Graham awoke, dazed, hung over, and oozing sweat out of every pore of his body. The first image his eyes registered upon opening was the yellow patina of vomit on the Jeep Wrangler’s floorboard. It was also the first thing his nose smelled.
Where am I? he thought, peeling his sweat-glued skin from the faux leather seats. Using the steering wheel for leverage, he hefted his stinking bulk up to a sitting position. He slumped over the wheel. Leaning forward, he peered through the bug-splattered windshield, but what he saw before him was a lie.
Ten feet away, a shoulder-high grass wall serpentined lazily to a breeze that wasn’t there. Hector rubbed his eyes and the stalks shot straight up. Curious, he chanced looking out the side windows. The grass flanked him. That’s when the audio kicked in. The clicks and groans of countless cicadas and grasshoppers infiltrated the cabin and attacked his peach-fuzzed skull. Their voices bored tiny holes into his brain, making him think of miniature dentist’s drills. He didn’t like the sensation one bit, even if it was all in his head, so to speak.
Not long after the imaginary drilling began, the transactions of the previous day flickered to life and began replaying in jerky pantomimes across the grass screen. The first scene was of him punching Pete in the doorway to the piano room. Along with these flashing images of a doubling over human figure came the rumblings of a conflict inside of him. Somehow he found a way to push this troublesome feeling aside, to suppress it through sheer force of will, while at the same time remembering all the little ways the jackass had pushed his buttons: making fun of his ideas, contradicting every other word out of his mouth. Pete deserved what he got. After all, he had barbequed for the prick, had made him feel like part of the group.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
The next scene that scrolled by was the fight with his mother. They had gone at it for over an hour, him hurling insults her way and her pretending she didn’t hear them. She had hummed! That bitch. He watched himself run up to her and knock the plate out of her hands. The look on her face as the plate shattered was classic Debbie: those hopeless, what-can-I-do eyes could have won her an Oscar. The (movie?) didn’t show this, but he remembered leaving the kitchen soon after (and being more than a little drunk) and deciding to go somewhere safe to let off some steam. The Black Cats were out of the question; they were buried somewhere in the back of his closet. What he needed was an immediate release. So he had veered into the piano room and plopped down on the bench. Then.…She should have been happy he was doing something constructive—something creative—but she had screamed, which was weird because she almost never screamed anymore.
Then he had split. Just got in his Jeep and hurried the hell out of there. He hazily recalled driving aimlessly around town, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Eventually, he wound up on Deer Street, not knowing whether he had picked that particular street for his destination or if some other force had guided him there. By then it was completely dark, and the tree limbs overhanging the street were pressing down on the Jeep’s roof like a giant foot on an empty can. Crushing him, making him smaller. Erasing him.
The sudden feeling of silent suffocation must have sobered him up some for the next part he remembered starkly. Making a U-turn in the wide street, he hightailed it back to Johnson Avenue. He continued down that road until coming to the cross street he wanted. There, he hooked a right onto Magnolia Drive, which wasn’t nearly as creepy as Deer Street at night, headed straight for about an eighth of a mile, then stopped in front of a modest one story, got out, and tripped up the stone path to the front door. Leaning drunkenly against the doorframe, he rang the doorbell.
Faint voices swirling deep inside the house. Then the patter of feet rushing toward the door. A loosening of deadbolts, a turning of the doorknob, and the door opening.
She lingered in the doorway, dressed in a pair of frayed jean shorts and a black Iron Maiden t-shirt, gnawing a cud of what was possibly meatloaf. He stared openly at the half moon of her navel before letting his eyes drift down her long tan legs to her bare feet, where, on the ring and middle toes of her left foot, a pair of metal rings pinched the streetlight. One ring was dull silver, the other rusty gold.
He was working his way back up to her crotch when she waved, breaking his concentration. "Hector…hello?…I’m up here." She swallowed. "You’re drunk again, aren’t you? Go away."
She started to shut the door, but he jutted his arm out and blocked it. "Wait…Michelle—can I judst spen da nigh?"
"No, Hector," she whispered angrily, looking over her shoulder. "We’re through. You can’t be coming around here anymore."
"Baby, pleeeaaase?"
"No! How many times do I have to tell you? I’m sick of your shit—your drama. Go home. Go shoot off fireworks. Hey, I’ve got an idea—why don’t you go make us all happy and blow your fuckin’ head off with an M-80 or something."
"But I—"
She slammed the door in his sweaty face and turned the deadbolt.
Dejected, he sat on the porch and stared off into the empty street. The, growing restless, he began prying scabs loose from his thick, hairless legs and flicking them into the grass. Abandoning his calves and thighs, which after twenty minutes were a bloody polka dotted mess, he stood, pressed his ear to the door, and listened for voices—her voice. All he heard were murmurs, so he decided to do the next best thing. He crept around the side of the house and started climbing the chain-link fence. Halfway into it, he gave up and fell back into the front yard. The view he had from where he stood was good enough anyway.
What he saw as he rested his forearms on the bird shit-covered aluminum bar was typical dinner activity at chez Donovan. Looking smart in a blue polo shirt, the dad, Bert, sat attentively, nodding intermittently, an active listener to the conversation at hand. The mom, Cindy, did most of the talking. Her back was to the window, so Hector couldn’t see or read her lips, but he could, through her expressive hands, get a general idea of the topic of conversation. It was obviously one of mirth, because Bert suddenly broke into raucous laughter. His guffaw cut through the glass.
Michelle Donovan sat at the foot of the table, her head rolled back and her purple hair cascading over the back of her chair. From where he stood, Hector caught only the faintest tinkle of her giggle. Once he heard it, though, he wanted to hear it louder. The problem was Bert. His goddamn horse bray drowned everything out.
When Michelle lowered her head, her azure eyes shimmered in the kitchen light. Mrs. Donovan must have told a good one because a minute later they were all still laughing. Michelle’s face reddened as she tipped back in her chair. Then the chair slipped out from under her and she disappeared. A loud thud and silence. When her head popped up over the table a split second later, old Bert’s bray started up again, louder this time, as did Cindy’s tittering laugh.
Michelle stood, crossed her eyes, and jutted out her curled tongue. She pulled her hair back, dusted off her shirt, and sat back down in her chair.
Hector swatted a mosquito on his left thigh. He raised his hand to examine the bloody smear on his palm—jet black in the wan moonlight—before wiping the mess on his shorts. After that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he once again began the process of hefting his mighty ass onto the aluminum bar. He knew there was a gate somewhere, but in the dark he couldn’t see it and was more than likely on the other side of the house.
The instant he got one ham hock over, a low rumble arose from the far fence. He ceased moving
and the growling stopped. He looked into the dusky yard, then to the rectangle of light and the embodiment of perfection framed within it. Straddling the fence, he began the uncomfortable chore of getting the other leg over. The growling started up again, this time followed by a succession of loud, angry barks.
He heard it slashing through the grass, the thumping of a large running animal. The Doberman. Hector rolled left and fell into the front yard just as the beast skidded to a stop behind the fence. Through the wire diamonds, the dog snarled and barked, a dark muscular thing with bright, jagged teeth. On all fours, Hector crawled for the house. As he fled, he glanced at the kitchen window. All three Donovans’ faces were pressed to the glass, their hands cupped around their eyes.
Hector stood, pushed his back against the whitewashed wood, and sluggishly slid toward the corner. I can’t let them see me, he thought, inching along as inconspicuously as a drunk overweight teen possibly could. The instant he rounded the corner to the front, the back door opened and Bert whistled.
"What is it, Freddy?"
As the Donovan clan spilled into the backyard, Hector jogged to the street. Back behind the wheel of the Jeep, he gunned the engine and sped off. His last memory of the day was of leaning over to grab the bottle of Jim Beam from the passenger’s seat, then reaching in his hip pocket for his cigarettes.
Now he was here—wherever the hell here was. He scanned the grass walls again. It pained his neck to do it, but when he glimpsed the faraway scrim of pine trees over the tips of the stalks, he temporarily forgot his discomfort. The visual discrepancy between near and far caused a sudden vertigo to seize his head and body. He attempted to grip the steering wheel in order to steady his gyrating torso, but the hard rubber slipped through his sweaty hands and he fell over onto the passenger seat. He lay there completely still—frozen—for close to two minutes, unsure whether he was going to puke, shit, piss, or come. In truth, all four felt like they were about to happen at once. Not only that, there was also the sensation that the Wrangler was rolling.
Then, like the outgoing rush of a tide, the vertigo passed and he was staring at the yellow splatter of dried vomit again.
Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
He sat up the same way he had before: by using the steering wheel as an anchor for his massive bulk. Halfway up, his hands slipped on the slick rubber and he crashed back onto the passenger seat. He dried his hands on his shorts and tried again. This time he was able to lift himself all the way.
Staring through the windshield at the flaxen screen, he attempted to recall how he had gotten to be where he was. He tried piecing together the broken fragments of his consciousness—the moments after leaving Michelle’s house—but there were no fragments to be found. He didn’t like the fact that he had woken up outside, either. He didn’t like that feeling of being lost.
Not knowing what else to do, he twisted around and peered out the back window, hoping a solution out of the mess would come on its own. And miracles of all miracles, that’s exactly what happened. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he was actually parked within a small clearing, and the matted-down grass trail to his rear was the path the Jeep had carved through the field. The dimmer switch in his head turned as, little by little, it dawned on him that if he were to retrace his tracks he would find his way out of there.
The keys were still in the ignition, which Hector took as a propitious sign, but his shirt was missing. He searched the cab but it wasn’t there. Maybe he had barfed on it during the night and chucked it out the window. Maybe someone had stolen it right off his back. And if the latter turned out to be the case, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised, because lately the world was becoming a more and more…
Ah, fuck it. It’s just a stupid t-shirt.
He cranked the engine and rocked the transmission to drive. Easing off the brake, a faint picking sound arose above his head. Dismissing it as part of the hangover, a remnant of the long, lost night, he ignored the noise and brought the vehicle around. Far off in the distance, across the sea of grass, the bright red panel of a Coca-Cola truck moved left to right, ghost-like and ephemeral in the sweltering heat.
At least there’s a road nearby.
The picking on the roof was now accompanied by a loud scratching sound, like an ice pick dragging over a piece of cloth. His mind doubled back to Lola in her younger days, pawing frantically at the back door whenever a thunderstorm sat low and distant on the horizon—the way her nails clicked against the wood and left permanent scratches that couldn’t be sanded clean or hidden with paint. Hector raised a hand and caressed the canvas. Something was definitely up there. Whatever it was, it weighed enough to form a depression in the roof. Not thinking of the consequences of his actions—as was his way—he punched the inverted mound. The mound went up, then just as quickly, came back down. The thing (What is it?) was still there. And it was still picking, still scratching.
Cursing, Hector stopped the Wrangler and got out. He swayed and nearly fell as his legs and brain fought for a shaky equilibrium. He looked to the roof of his Wrangler and saw a frenzied raccoon standing perfectly still, claws clenched deep in the black canvas. The animal’s back arched and twisted out at impossible angles; its mangy, salt and pepper fur stood on end. Instinctively, Hector backed away. The animal didn’t budge. Holding its ground, the creature hissed and flashed its tiny, needle-like teeth at Hector. Spittle frothed from its nose and mouth, spilling onto the roof and collecting there like sea foam.
Hector continued to flee. Crouching low, he swept his leg over the dry earth like a mine detector, searching for a rock or anything hard. The raccoon’s glassy, black eyes followed him into the thicket. Hector stared back, but the beast would not look away. It peered through the flaxen stalks, seemingly right through him, making him feel as though he wasn’t there yet was being seen.
The Jeep slowly vanished—swallowed up by the rising grass tide—until all that was left was the black canvas roof and the sick raccoon perched on top of it. From a distance, the eyes that had terrified him moments before became the eyes of a worn-out stuffed animal. He couldn’t believe he had let a little old coon scare him so badly, but his running away was proof that he’d had. He also knew what that particular raccoon carried in its blood, tissues, and organs, and if he wasn’t scared of that, then maybe he really was crazier than Mike O’Brien.
Some seldom-used, corroded gear turned inside Hector’s head—tying a connection between the situation before him and some hazy scenario his brain would not allow him to fully recall. He let the connection slip, opting instead to focus his attention on the current mess he had somehow gotten himself into. The connection could wait till later.
Hunkered below the grass line, he realized he had to do something. He couldn’t just squat there all day. So in an attempt to discern the direction of the road, he began rotating his head like a radar dish. Eventually he heard it: the faint watery rush of vehicular movement, barely audible over the constant chatter of insects and birds. But it was there—off to his right. He started to move that way, remaining low to the ground in a kind of crouch-walk. A few steps into his trek, the sole of his shoe lighted on something small and hard. He stopped and reached between two grass stalks to pry the object out of the hardpan: a sparkplug, barely recognizable under a thick maroon shell of rust and dirt. Hector hefted it in his hand and nodded. This will do just fine.
He changed directions and skulked back to the Jeep, circling it from fifty yards away. The raccoon still stood frozen on the roof, staring off into infinity. Hector approached the vehicle from the rear. Ten yards away and he was staring at the ass-end of the varmint. It wouldn’t do; he needed a head shot. He tiptoed around the driver’s side until the critter’s head came into profile.
Perfect.
He reared back, bringing his right hand over his right shoulder, and threw the sparkplug as hard as he could. The plug whistled through the air, struck the raccoon’s head, and ricocheted up and to the right
. A mist of blood exploded skyward; the creature tumbled over the side of the Jeep.
It’s dead. Has to be, Hector thought. But he checked anyway. He had to be sure. Cautiously, he rounded the hood and looked down. In the matted grass by the Jeep’s front tire, the beast writhed and squirmed in a gray and black ball of agony. Pink saliva spritzed from its mouth, darkening the red paint of the Wrangler’s front panel. In its death throes, the thing hissed savagely at the human who had brought about its painful demise. Hector watched it die with a pity that verged on reverence.
Poor sonuvabitch.
Then, unceremoniously, he climbed into the Wrangler and sped off through the field, on his way to a road he had definitely traveled yet could not remember.