I’m buckled into the passenger seat of a minivan. The stranger in the peach golf shirt is driving.
“That’s what we call a Simi Valley speeding ticket.” He reaches for my face. With his thumb on my cheek, he stretches my left eye wide open. “You there?” He lets go of my face and takes the wheel. “The question is,” he says, “can you do it again?”
My fingers crackle. My motor control thaws as I rub my palms together. A voice behind shouts for ice cream, a child’s plea coming from a grown man.
“We’re going to get some ice cream right now, son,” the driver says. Then to me, “What happened to the hard-ass I used to know? Only a couple of weeks ago you were pure brains and attitude. Now, you’re a shivering wreck.”
The taste of metal lingers. My tongue won’t move and I can’t swallow. I might choke on my own spit. The windows are up, the air conditioner blows the faint lemon and pear blossom smells away with cold, empty air.
“Ice cream.”
“Settle down, son.”
Wherever I am, it’s far from the Firebird’s part of town. We drive among the houses I’ve seen in the distance from my window, box-shaped insect hives the color of sand, with red tile roofs behind high walls or iron fences. They cover the hills like barnacles. The Summit. Shady Pointe. Vista Acres. Groups of Mexican men trim hedges and lawns every half mile. The brightest color is the manicured grass that’s never seen a picnic blanket, lawn chair or baseball game. I don’t smell anything.
“I’m sorry about the shock,” the man says. “My son likes his toys and I’m a big believer in a strong offense. You used to know that. That’s my boy back there. You’ve met him before, many a time.”
He gauges my reaction in silence.
“Nothing, huh?”
Nothing.
“Don’t fool yourself,” he continues. I’m paralyzed and have to listen. “He knows every major artery, nerve cluster and pressure point on the human body. He can gut, cut and pack a grown man into a garbage bag in under forty minutes. He’s still just a child in most ways, always will be. But he’s got a knack for the job most pros will never come close to. Ever. He’s a legend, in some circles. You’re the best, aren’t ya, Toe Tag?” he says to the rearview mirror.
“Love you.”
“I love you too, son. Here we are.”
He pulls into a shopping complex, the same bleached sand noncolor of the surrounding developments, and parks in a blue zone. The dirty, idiot boy from Ford’s opens my door. Toe Tag. He unbuckles my seat belt, grips the crotch of my arm and hoists me to my feet. I’m a doll full of feathers in his grip.
The evening shadows bleed like fresh ink until they’ve covered the ground. The desert air soaks them up, staining the sky deep blue, the color of morning glory petals. The sweeping hands of the enormous, outdoor clock make me dizzy. I stare at my feet and let Toe Tag guide me. My legs are still numb and I can’t risk slipping on a wet shadow.
My escorts leave me at an outdoor food court opposite a movie theater. I hear the hornet’s hum of current running through neon. When they return, the boy plows into a waffle cone, smearing ice cream across his face, oblivious to the world.
“My name is White,” the man says. “They call me Manhattan, but I’m from Rochester. I’ll repeat myself. The question is, can you do it again?” He strokes his son’s hair once, twice, then folds his hands in front of him, never taking his eyes from me.
“You’re really going to make me go through this from the beginning, aren’t you?”
I still can’t talk. Neither shaking my head nor nodding seems like a good idea.
Toe Tag says, “Share,” then offers a spoonful of ice cream to his father. Manhattan White lets the boy spoon-feed him a bite, then continues.
“You and I work for the same organization. Rather, we used to, as you’ve taken an unscheduled leave of absence. Among our interests is a chain of pharmaceutical manufacturing and supply, wherein you reported to me as part of Research and Development. Head of Research and Development, I should add. I reported, and continue to report, directly to Mr. Hoyle.”
Toe Tag immerses a plastic army man into his ice cream. Hip-deep in vanilla, the soldier with the seam down the center of his face rears back to lob a grenade into mine.
“That placed you very high up in the chain, you understand,” says White. “You’ve made a great deal of money for us, and yourself, and we’ve been quite pleased with you, until this recent debacle.”
“And to whom does Hoyle report?” A rope of drool spills onto my numb and tingling hands. I wipe my chin with unfeeling fingers.
“This is going to take longer than I thought,” says White. “Hoyle reports to no one. He’s the first and last link in the chain and everything in it belongs to him. He’s the last word in this organization, his organization, and you’ve managed to land on his blacklist. Most people would have been given a pink slip in your situation, but you’ve got yourself one hell of a parachute, so we’re prepared to negotiate.”
“You’ve got my undivided attention.” My words are mashed together like warm clay.
“Sarcasm. Sounds as though the old Eric is coming around,” he says and smiles. “There’s that fire you started. That is not an accusation, so we’re clear. Neither I nor Hoyle believe you did that on purpose. Your precautionary measures were exemplary for the entire chain and your compensation was ample, to say the very least. Nobody doubts it was an accident but, the fact remains, the lab was your responsibility and the fire happened on your watch.”
“Hoyle ought to be insured.”
“He is and he isn’t,” White says, “but it’s not that simple. In addition to the significant loss of our assets, both manufacturing and finished product, there’s the question of some intellectual property, work you did for hire, which therefore belongs to us, and lastly, there’s reason to believe, and I’m being generous here, that you were personally responsible for inventory shrinkage at the site. Now with your legal situation, we face the potential compromise of your Nondisclosure Agreement with the organization. This poses the most significant danger to Hoyle, which thus poses the most significant danger to you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes. Would you like it in writing?”
“I haven’t said a thing to the cops.”
“But they’ve asked.”
“I didn’t answer.”
“I know you didn’t,” says White. “Otherwise Toe Tag here would have issued you a severance package. But they’ve asked nonetheless, and will continue to ask, as will they continue to barter your future in exchange for a violation of your Nondisclosure.”
I dig my nails into my palms and bite my lower lip until the pain punches through the static.
“I can’t barter with what I don’t know, and I don’t know anything.” My words are solid and clear. I scrape my tongue across my teeth and force sensation to return. I taste blood.
“You’re right, I probably was responsible for shrinkage because I’ve done some serious damage to my brain, so you can forget about my saying anything. I’m guessing Hoyle can’t use the fire as a tax write-off, if I’m hearing you correctly. And I’m in no position to compensate Hoyle or the chain for the damage you say I’m accountable for.”
“The police are saying it as well, so I don’t think that issue’s in dispute.”
“Right. So what are you and I discussing?”
“One of two things,” White says. “First, you say you’re unprepared to compensate for the loss of the lab, but you’re mistaken. You were one of our highest-salaried nonexecutives. You were also a workaholic with a modest lifestyle. So, it’s fair to assume that you are, in fact, capable of compensating for the damage. We’re prepared to wait until you’ve recovered from the incident in the desert and can access whatever offshore accounts or storage units you’ve invested your earnings in.”
“And if I can’t?”
“There’s the matter of some research and development. Again, you
’re in possession of some intellectual property of ours.”
“I’m not in possession of intellectual anything.” My spit tastes like I’ve been drinking from a metal can. The electric numbness gives way to a fire beneath my bandages. If I hurt them when I collapsed, the skin grafts might not take.
“I’ve known you for a while, Eric. I have faith in you.” He stands and, without a word, Toe Tag once again helps me to my feet.
“Nonetheless, in your present state, your Nondisclosure Agreement remains uncompromised. It’s my job to see that, as your mental condition improves, you’re able to solve our issue of compensation while maintaining the integrity of our trade secrets.”
“What’s my job?”
“Remember. And keep your mouth shut.”
“That’s exactly what the cops, and my lawyer, said. You’d all get along. Want me to introduce you?”
“Once more, I see the old Eric coming through. Trust me, this will work itself out sooner than you think.”
“I need to get back.” I never made it to the Glass Stripper.
“Where’s back?”
Whether Anslinger’s tailing me or White, I don’t want them dropping me at the hotel.
We drive in silence. Moths cluster against the streetlamps, throwing shadows the size of vultures against the stucco fortress walls protecting Shady Pointe and Vista Acres. The anthill houses are all the same color of dark once the sun has set. White never looks at me or at his son. If Toe Tag is awake, he’s studying the back of my head.
“Here you are,” White says. I said anywhere, so he drops me back at Ford’s. “Let’s grab a latte some time.”
eight
MEMORIES SWARM TO THE BRIGHT POINT BURNING IN THE DARK LIKE A SHELL of dust around a dying star. I see patterns in the formation, gaps between the humming wings and antennae. The code in the patterns is as real as your skin pressed next to mine, and the code tells me I’m a boy again.
I’ve doubled my hit from yesterday, bracing myself to fall from the sky in flames when the rush wears off, but it’s worth it to feel your arms coiled around my chest, your nose and lips pressed to my neck. It’s worth it to feel the kiss of the universe surging from my stomach, up through my heart and down through my legs.
Jack was right, I can hear the current in the wires. I’ve unplugged the lamps and unscrewed every bulb, but the currents hum like an angry locust trapped in my ears. I can walk my room blindfolded, guided by the drone of the currents and the taste of rancid tin. I stuff a towel beneath my door and cover the wall sockets with pillows, but the sounds intrude the way a leaking pipe taps through my sleep.
I bought a piece of God, ground to dust and mixed with alcohol in a glass bottle the color of molasses. It said “Poison” above the red skull and crossbones, and “Arsenic” below.
“Rat shit.” Dad crouched on the floor of our cellar darkroom, pinching a bead like soft, brown clay between his thumb and forefinger.
I heard them during night, the scratch of their claws and the drag of their tails like leather ropes across our roof. We dripped arsenic onto sugar cubes and smeared seltzer tablets with peanut butter. We planted the bait in pie tins on our roof and in our cellar. Some rats ate the tainted sugar, others ate the peanut butter and ruptured from the inside, their innards swelling out of their dead, gaping mouths. I experimented on my own, my curiosity leapfrogging from combining different poisons to new methods of disguising bait. Arsenic, I learned, was an element, one of ninety-eight atoms composing the entire universe. God, I reasoned, was part arsenic. That part of God killed vermin and sent people into convulsions.
While other kids my age mowed lawns or delivered newspapers, I shoveled hairy lumps of meat from our rooftop and cellar. Storm season had arrived and Mom was terrified of being trapped underground with a single rat, dead or alive, much less a colony.
Dad taught me about the sirens. My job was to open every window in our house when they sounded, and to keep the outside entrance to the storm cellar unlocked. Each second between the sky’s flash, one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, and the thunder equaled one mile between you and the wrath of God, and God was nothing if not faster than your change of heart. He could be flooding the next county or burning the next state then, six thousand, three thousand, one thousand, before you can slide the deadbolt shut and whisper for mercy, His dogs are on you.
You haven’t heard loud until you’ve heard God’s jackbooted angels kicking down the door to the sky, ripping yours from its hinges and your house from its foundation. Angels don’t knock or ask for paperwork. They cleave the biggest tree on your property down the middle, blow your fuses, smoke your television, radio and phone lines and leave you for dead.
Sometimes thunder sounded that wasn’t thunder, but a slamming door that made the windowpanes, drywall and picture frames shudder. Mom and Dad never shouted or raised their voices. Anger was a sin. If they didn’t shout, it wasn’t anger. Being drunk was a sin. Drinking was not. Having a drink doesn’t make you a drunk, Mom said. So they drank in secret, each of them hiding it from the other. Following an afternoon of clandestine drinking, they’d be not drunk and not fighting. They hissed through clenched teeth and flaring neck veins. The wrong question, Where’s Dad, What’s for dinner, Can I watch TV, tripped the tension wire. The explosion with a belt or wooden spoon wasn’t anger, but discipline, so it wasn’t a sin, either.
The force and volume of routine activity marked the tension, whether food was served or slapped onto plates, dishes stacked or dishes dropped. The tapping and scraping of silverware were the only sounds during a wordless meal. Their rage was as tangible as a change in the weather. Between the clatter of the coffeepot and the descending silence I counted, one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, before a door slammed or a plate exploded without a word. I glazed shattered windowpanes, spackled walls and hung doors without being asked, complicit in whitewashing the quiet hate crushing our house.
In the red glow of the storm cellar, Dad and I heard the sirens. I ran upstairs, opened the windows and grabbed my radio. Dad was gone when I returned. I heaved open the doors leading outside, hail stinging my face and my ears popping, calling for Dad. My voice was a whisper buried in the roar, the sound of a train engine all around me.
Dad stood, snapping pictures beside the pear tree in our yard, ignoring the sirens, the wind, hail and sound of the roaring train. In the distance, a chunk of the sky came loose and fell groundward, dragging the rest of the sky behind. It hit the earth like an enormous black spike, and I saw a house vanish in a puff of splinters. The black spike twisted and squirmed, the sky fighting to pull it back into place. It fought back. It threw mailboxes, dogs and doors, anything and everything, to keep hold of the ground. Dad finally waved me downstairs, then followed.
We crouched in our red and ratless storm cellar darkroom while God, all of God’s dogs and God’s biggest, fiercest angels kicked and screamed from outside. They tore the inside of our house to pieces and threatened to crush the house itself. They kicked in the doors, snapping them from their frames. They hammered at the rusty deadbolt on the outside entrance and they howled and shrieked at us to open up, raining concrete dust onto our heads, spitting hail through the cracks in our basement. The red lights flared on, then off, then exploded in a rain of white sparks. We couldn’t hear our own voices over their screaming but we never moved, we never let them in.
nine
DEBRIS RAINS INTO MY EYES. I TRY TO PICK THEM CLEAN BUT FIND NOTHING.
The house isn’t shaking and God isn’t kicking the door down. I’m at the Firebird. The shower of dirt is a hive of phantom bugs picking at my skin with a million invisible mandibles. Someone swapped my skull for another during the night. It’s too big for my face, but too tight for my brain. The bones in my shoulders, elbows and knees vibrate within my muscles like rusty hinges. I drink from the tap until my stomach can’t hold any more, but my throat is still packed with cotton, my bandages stuffed with sawdust.
&nb
sp; Shaving might as well be eye surgery, my hands quivering like they are. Something darts across my bare foot. Tiny claws and a pink leather tail. Spinal chills kick the phantom mandibles into overdrive. My hand slips and my razor drops into the sink, a layer of spent foam, wet stubble and fresh blood.
They’ve chewed through the damp baseboard beneath the sink. I grab a pair of dirty socks and stuff one into the rat hole and mop my bloody chin with the other.
Jack and the Beanstalk sit together like an old couple. Jack reads a newspaper. Beanstalk sits transfixed by the television static, a pair of headphones clamped to his ears.
“You’re in love, aren’t you?” Jack doesn’t look up from his paper.
I dig change from my pockets for the coffee machine. Maybe Jack catches me staring at his friend.
“He hasn’t spoken since Miles Davis died,” he says.
The coffee machine drones like an earth mover.
“You can’t be troubled,” says Jack. “I understand.”
A cardboard specimen cup drops from the chute, followed by a hot trickle.
“Did you find Desiree?” His paper is years out of date. The front page announces a U.S.-launched missile attack against Libya.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“And you’re in love. Am I right or not?”
“Sure. Sort of.”
“Of course you are. You reek of it.” He folds his newspaper, slowly and deliberately, so someone else can read about the manhunt for Gadhafi.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, “every time is like the first. There’s nothing like it.”
“Right.”
“And the currents?” The same patronizing, metronome voice. “Are they a menace, or simply a nuisance?”
The coffee tastes like dishwater boiled in a discarded tire.
“You don’t realize what’s inside the walls until you can hear it,” Jack says. “Miles of wire, humming with current. Power lines, transformers, radio waves, microwaves, radar. Do you have any metal fillings?”