Coldheart Canyon (15 page)

“I ain’t endin’ up like any o’ these ol’ fucks,” he remarked on more than one occasion, “I’d blow my fuckin’ brains out ’fore I’d sink that fuckin’

low.”

“It won’t happen,” Todd had said.

“How’d you reckon that, white boy?” Austin had said. He’d patted Todd on his backside; which he took every possible opportunity to do.

“When we’re as old as these folks there’ll be ways to fix it,” Todd replied.

“You mean we’ll live forever? Bullshit. I don’t buy any of that science-fiction crap, boy.”

“I’m not saying we’ll live forever. But they’ll have figured out what gives us wrinkles, and they’ll have a way to smooth them out.”

“Will they now? So you’s goin’ to be all smoothed out, is you?”

“I sure as hell am.”

“You’ll still die, but you’ll die all smoothed out an’ pretty?” He tapped Todd’s ass appreciatively again.

“Will you quit doin’ that?” Todd said.

“I’ll quit when you quit wavin’ it in my nose.” Austin laughed, and slapped Todd’s ass a third time, a stinging swat.

“Anyways,” Todd said, “I don’t give a shit what you think. I’m going to die pretty.”

The phrase had lingered. To die pretty; that was the grand ambition.

To die pretty, and not find yourself like poor old Duncan McFarlane, look-

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ing down at his own nakedness and saying, over and over:
Oh Christ, look
at me. Oh Christ, look at me. Oh Christ
. . .

Two months after Todd had left Florida to go to Los Angeles for a screen-test, he’d got a scrawled note from Austin Harper, who—given that it was more or less certain that they’d never see one another again—figured it was okay for Todd to know that if Austin had had a chance he would have plowed Todd’s ass “all the way to Key West and back.” “And
then
you’d be all smoothed out, baby,” Harper had written.

“Oh, and by the way,” he’d added, “that old fuck McFarlane died a week ago. Tried to give himself a bath in the middle of the night.

Drowned himself in three inches of water. That’s what I call a damn fool thing to do.

“Stay smooth, m’man. You’re going to do great. I know it. Just remember to thank me when they gives you an Oscar.”

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T W O

“Kiddo?”

Todd was floating in a blind black place, his body untethered. He couldn’t even feel it.

“Kiddo? Can you hear me?”

Despite the darkness all around, it was a comfortable place to be in.

There were no predators here in this no-man’s-land. There were no sharks circling, wanting ten percent of his flesh. Todd felt pleasantly removed from everything. Except for that voice calling him.

“Kiddo? If you can hear me, move your finger.”

It was a trick, he knew. It was a way to get him to go back to the world where once he’d lived and breathed and been unhappy. But he didn’t want to go. It was too brittle, that place; brittle and bright. He wanted to stay where he was, here in the darkness, floating and floating.

“Kiddo . . . it’s Donnie.”

Donnie?

Wait, that couldn’t be right. His older brother, Donnie? They hadn’t talked in months. Why would he be here, trying to seduce him out of his comfortable hideaway? But then, if not Donnie, then who? Nobody else ever called him Kiddo.

Todd felt a dim murmur of anxiety. Donnie lived in Texas, for God’s sake.
What was he doing here?

“Talk to me, Kiddo.”

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when he finally coaxed his lips to shape it the sound he made was as remote as the moon.

“Donnie?”

“Well, howdy. I must say it’s good to have you back in the land of the livin’.” He felt a hand laid on his arm. The sensation, like Donnie’s voice, and his own, felt distant and dulled.

“You had us a bit stirred up for a while there.”

“Why’s . . . it . . . so
dark
in here?” Todd said. “Will you have someone turn on the lights?”

“Everything’s going to be okay, buddy.”

“Donnie.
Please
. Turn on the lights.”

“They
are
on, Kiddo. It’s just you’ve got some bandages over your face.

That’s all it is. You’re going to be just fine.”

Bandages on his face
.

Now it all started to come back to him. His last memories. He’d been going under Burrows’s knife for the big operation.

The last thing he remembered was Burrows telling him to count backward from ten. Burrows had been smiling reassuringly at him, and as Todd counted he had thought: I wonder how much work
he’s
had done on that face of his? The nose for sure. And all the lines gone from around his eyes—

“Are you counting, Todd?” Burrows had said.

“Ten. Nine. Eight—”

There hadn’t been a seven. Not that Todd could remember. The drugs had swept him off to their own empty version of La-La Land.

But now he was back from that dreamless place, and Donnie was here at his bedside, all the way from Texas. Why? And why the bandages over his eyes? Burrows hadn’t said anything about bandages.

“My mouth’s so dry,” Todd whispered.

“No
problemo
, buddy,” Donnie replied gently. “I’ll get the nurse in here.”

“I’ll have a vodka . . . straight up.”

Donnie chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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Todd heard him get up and go to the door, and call for a nurse. His consciousness wavered, and he felt himself slipping back into the void from which he’d just been brought by Donnie’s voice. The prospect of that lush darkness didn’t seem quite as comforting as it had a few moments before.

He started to panic, scrambling to keep hold of the world, at least until he knew what had happened to him.

He called out to Donnie:

“Where are you? Donnie? Are you there?”

Footsteps came hurriedly back in his direction.

“I’m still here, Kiddo.” Donnie’s voice was tender. Todd couldn’t remember ever hearing such tenderness in it before now.

“Burrows didn’t tell me it’d be like this,” Todd said.

“There’s nothing to get worked up about,” Donnie replied.

Even in his semi-drugged state, Todd knew a lie when he heard one.

“You’re not a very good actor,” he said.

“Runs in the family,” Donnie quipped, and squeezed Todd’s arm again.

“Just kidding.”

“Yeah . . . yeah . . .” Todd said. As he spoke a spasm of pain ran from the bridge of his nose and spread across his face in both directions. He was suddenly in excruciating agony. “Jesus,” he gasped. “Jesus. Make it stop!”

He felt Donnie’s reassuring hand go from his arm; heard his brother crossing to the door again, yelling as he went, his voice suddenly shrill with fear: “
Will somebody get in here. Right now! Christ!
”

Todd’s panic, momentarily soothed by his brother’s voice, started to rise up in him again. He raised his hand to his face. The bandages were tight and smooth, like a visor over his head, sealing him in. He started to hyperventi-late. He was going to die in here, if he didn’t get this smothering stuff off his face. He began to claw at the bandages. He needed air. Right now!

Air, for Christ’s sake, air
—

“Mister Pickett, don’t do that! Please!”

The nurse caught hold of Todd’s hands, but the panic and the pain made him strong and she couldn’t prevent him from digging his fingers beneath the bandages and pulling.

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There were flashes of light in his head, but he knew it wasn’t the light of the outside world he was seeing. His brain was overloading; fear was leaping like lightning across his skull. His blood roared in his ears. His body thrashed around in the bed as though he were in the grip of a seizure.

“All right, nurse. I’ve got him now.”

Suddenly, there were hands around his wrists. Somebody stronger than the nurse was gently but insistently pulling his fingers away from his face.

Then a voice came to find him through the sound of his own sobs.

“
Todd?
This is Doctor Burrows. Everything is fine. But please
calm
down
. Let me explain what’s going on. There’s nothing to worry about.”

He spoke like a hypnotist, the cadence of his sentences even, his voice completely calm. And while he went on speaking, repeating the same information—that everything was fine, all Todd had to do was breathe deeply, deeply—he held Todd’s arms against the bed.

After a few moments, the bright bursts of light began to become less frequent. The din of blood began to recede. So, by degrees, did the waves of panic.

“There,” Doctor Burrows said, when the worst of it was over. “You see?

Everything’s fine and dandy. Now why don’t we get you a fresh pillow?

Nurse Karyn? Would you please get Mister Pickett a nice fresh pillow?”

Oh so gently, Burrows raised the upper half of Todd’s body off the bed, talking to him all the while: the same calming monologue. All the strength to resist, indeed all
need
to do so, had gone out of Todd. All he could do was abandon himself to Burrows’s care.

Finally he said: “What’s . . . wrong . . . with me?”

“First let’s get you comfortable,” Burrows replied. “Then we’ll talk it all through.”

Todd felt the motion of the nurse as she slipped the fresh pillow into place behind him. Then, with the same tenderness as he used to lift him up, Burrows carefully lowered Todd back down upon the pillow.

“There. Isn’t that better?” Burrows said, finally letting his patient go.

Todd felt a pang of separation, like a child who’d been abruptly deserted.

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“I’m going to let you rest for a while,” Burrows went on. “And when you’ve slept, we’ll talk properly.”

“No . . .” Todd said.

“Your brother Donald’s here with you.”

“I’m here, Todd.”

“I want to talk now,” Todd said. “Not later. Now. Donnie! Make him stay.”

“It’s okay, Kiddo,” Donnie said with just the right edge of threat,

“Doctor B.’s not goin’ anywhere. Answer his question, Doc.”

“Well, first things first,” Burrows said. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes, if that’s what you’re worried about. We just have to keep the dressings in place around your eye-sockets.”

“You didn’t tell me I’d be waking up in the dark,” Todd said.

“No . . .” Burrows replied. “That’s because the procedure didn’t go
quite
as we planned. But every operation is a little different, as you’ll remember I explained to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke . . .”

Now that he was calmer, Todd began to recall some of the things about Burrows that had irritated him. One of them was that voice of his: that fake
basso profundo
that was a practiced attempt to conceal his queeniness, and to match his voice to the heroic proportions of his body. An artificial body, of course. The man was a walking advertisement for his craft. He was fifty-five at least, but he had the skin of a baby, the arms and the chest of a body-builder and the wasp-waist of a showgirl.

“Just tell me the truth,” Todd said to him. “Did something go wrong?

I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

There was a pin-drop silence. Todd waited. Finally, Burrows said: “We had a few minor complications with your procedure, that’s all. I’ve explained it all to your brother Donald. There’s nothing—
absolutely
nothing
—for you to be concerned about. It’s just going to take a little more time than we’d—”

“What
kind
of complications?”

“We don’t need to go into that now, Todd.”

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“Yes, we do,” Todd said. “It’s my
face
, for fuck’s sake.
Tell me what’s
going on
. And don’t screw around with me. I don’t like it.”

“Tell him, Doc,” Donnie said, quietly but firmly.

Todd heard Burrows sigh. Then that studied voice again: “You’ll remember that during the preparation evaluation I did warn you that on occasion there were reactions to chemical peels which could not be predicted. And I’m afraid that’s what happened in your case. You’ve had an extreme, and as I say completely unpredictable, allergic response to the peel. I don’t believe for one moment there’s going to be any significant damage in the long term. You’re a healthy young man. We’re going to see some swift epidermal regeneration—”

“What the fuck’s that?”

“Your skin’s gonna grow back,” Donnie replied, his Texan drawl turning the remark into a piece of cold comedy.

“What do you mean?” Todd said.

“The effect of the procedure we use—as I explained in our evaluation, and is fully described in the literature I gave you—”

“I didn’t read it,” Todd said. “I trusted you.”

“—the procedures we use may be likened to a very controlled chemical burn, which produces changes in the
dermis
and the
epidermis
. Damaged or blemished skin is removed, and after forty-eight hours at the most, new, healthy skin is naturally generated, which has pleasing characteris-tics. The client regains a youthful—”

This time it was Donnie who interrupted Burrows’s molassic flow.

“Tell him the rest,” Donnie said, his voice thick with anger. “If you don’t tell him, I will,” Donnie went on. He didn’t give Burrows a chance to make the choice. “You’ve been out of it since you had the operation, Kiddo. In a coma. For three days. That’s why they sent for me. They were getting worried. I tried to have you moved to a proper hospital, but that bitch of a manager—Maxine, is it?—she wouldn’t let me. She said you’d want to stay here. Said she was afraid the press would find out if you were transferred.”