Ambient (15 page)

"And I haven't," Throttler interrrupted, appearing overly
gleeful. The Old Man stared at him for a moment.

"And I haven't," he went on. "They all said goodnight and
rolled up the window and drove in. Gates shut and I just stood
there in the rain. It was obvious He was filled with the glory of
the Lord--

I'd paid closer attention to the Old Man this time, attempting
to discern signs of impending madness. He sounded no more irrational than he ever had.

"-though if I didn't know better, I'd of sworn He was stoned."

Avalon rolled over onto her back, and closed her eyes as if to
sleep. Her sweater pulled up in front.

"Then I left. I like to think I followed His wishes as He asked
me to. You know, had Jesus been real, and if he'd been in the
same situation as E, he'd have done it all the same way."

And vice versa, I supposed, picturing E in that jumpsuit, crucified.

"Where's the cake?" the Old Man suddenly asked, as if returning from an unexpected trip.

"It's ready?" Throttler asked, looking up.

"Better be," said the Old Man, pressing a button. As he lay
back, his lalas dived for him. Again the panel descended, bearing
away dishes and half-eaten dinners. One of the guests nearly tumbled in, chasing the last crumbs on his plate. Dinner ended when
the Old Man finished. When the panel rose once more it bore a
six-foot-high cake of memorable form: a combination of Graceland and the Tower of Babel might be the most accurate description. Ten candles rounded the dais on which it sat.

The Old Man rubbed his hand over Throttler's hair, as if trying
to wipe something off. "He's a good li'l feller."

"Wish it, son," said Mister Dryden, smiling again.

Throttler blew out the candles one at a time, so as not to strain
himself.

"What'd you wish for?"

"A copter," he said, eyeing the cake. "This tried and passed?"

"You don't eat the cake, boy," laughed the Old Man, "You
eat what's in it."

The top of the cake popped open; a lala leapt up. She was
fifteen or so, and naked. The effect didn't come off as intended.
Halfway through the opening her hips stuck; she struggled helplessly as all silently watched. When at last she pulled herself free
it was with such effort that she lost her balance, sliding down the
side of the cake head first. She rolled against Mister Dryden,
getting frosting on his trousers and shoes. He jumped up and
kicked her in the stomach, then drew back to kick her again.

"Stop it," yelled the Old Man.

His foot landed again; she doubled up, holding her sides.

"You dumb fuck, stop it!" screamed the Old Man again, rising suddenly and taking hold of his son's arms. "She's Throttler's present, not yours."

There was a dull throb at the back of my neck. I excused myself and left the room. I could have blinded myself to anything,
were I to see it often enough.

In odd moments I'd gathered the material I needed to complete
the morning's project, and so I knew I could spend time late this
evening assembling and rigging the timer as I wished, once I was
in my room in the main house. I went to the garage to see how
Jimmy was coming with his adjustments. He was attaching a new
headlight onto the left fender as I walked in.

"How's it going?" I asked.

"Not so bad, man. How goes inside?"

"They're playing with Throttler's present."

"Yes, man. Saw her when she come through. Nice bungo-
bessy,sure. "

I heard wild laughter, and a steady chant of approval, and her
screams.

"Sound like he took his free grind ticket, man."

"I suppose."

"Now he bust the double figures, he be bullyrige like his father, to raas."

"Or worse," I said, trying not to hear the sounds within. "You
having any trouble there?"

"None I can't fix," he said, "Unlike some."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Boy Dryden, man, and I mean his father, too. Walk
blind like they do and one day they walk one step too far. "

"Could be-" I said, trying to spot his stance, seeing if this
was but a lure to lead me out.

"Boy Dryden especially," said Jimmy. "Knows he spin too
fast now. Don't want Papa to pull out his bag of tricks."

"Tricks?"

"You know, man. What he keeps so tight. His snake in the
rock. Shark in the water."

"I'd keep still for the moment, Jimmy-" I said, hoping to
draw a response.

"I be no penny catcher like they gather, man. I be here to drink
milk, not to count cow. I and I will come forward soon, irie? Big
tree gonna fall hard one day. "

"May be."

"He rax up plenty great, man. Boy Dryden be scared over. If
I be that man I be scared too. There be much confusion before
Babylon falls, the Lion say. Much fullness brimstone from Jah
on high. Much fullness for him."

Throttler walked out, slipping on a tee that said Surrender
Dorothy across the front. I heard stirrings and soft conversation from within, as if from a dream; they prepared for the evening
events. The Misters Dryden first emerged, shotguns loaded. I
think little of guns, usually; an amateur's tool. Guns have been
outlawed for so long that they would seem obsolete but for the
fact that the Army-amateurs all-finds such use for so many.
Owners, of course, may own guns; for protection, and for sport.

"Let's roll, O'Malley,' said Mister Dryden.

Biff and Scooter led the group; I walked behind the Drydens.
There were fourteen players. The women never participated, nor
did the children, not even Throttler.

"Good shootin' weather," said the Old Man.

"Get much this week?" asked Carlisle.

"I honestly don't know," he said. "Haven't looked yet. Hope
so.''

It was a leisurely stroll, some three-quarters of a mile, to the
playing fields, through shady groves of evergreens, fresh and sharpscented as a Christmas-tree lot, past a small pond edged with
cattails, by a red gazebo tucked in a bosky glade, through a stand
of weeping willows. The wind blew gently and the songs of birds
serenaded us as we trod along.

"You see the latest Gallup?" one of them said. "The president's got 91 percent preference. "

The Gallup in question enlisted the opinions of twenty-three
people, including both Drydens.

"Way ahead of whatsisname. This election's safe."

They always were.

We reached the range, a long meadow between two wood lots.
Fifteen guards were positioned at the far end, near some shrubbery; I knew that a haw-haw ran behind them. Each guard wore
a gray Sherlock hat; each shouldered a long knobby club. The
quarry lurked in the bushes nearby. The Old Man walked over to
the gamekeeper, who wore a bright red cap so as to avoid falling
prey in moments of excitement.

"What came in, Titus?"

"Had trouble with the shipment, sir," said Titus, nodding toward
a white semi parked on the field's edge. "Packed sardine-tight.
Smothered, every one."

"Shit," said the Old Man. "Round up some replacements?"

"Yup. Fresh vanload. Plus the one sent down."

"Sounds good. Everything set?"

"Yup. " Titus clicked on the tape in the box he carried and,
following Mister Dryden's request, "All Shook Up" began playing.

"Spread out, everbody," yelled the Old Man. "When I give
the high sign, move forward at a steady clip." The players aligned
themselves at the head of the meadow.

"Ought to play sometime, O'Malley," said Turnbull.

"You know that boy," laughed the Old Man. "He ain't much
for sports." He raised his arm over his head, shouting: "Yeee-
hah!"

The band trotted across the meadow. The guards thwacked at
the brush with their clubs. Figures leapt up, peering about, running like hellbats, hoping only that they might be overlooked.
There was so much chance of that as of the president being Republican.

"Asked 'em if they wanted to come to the country," Titus said
tome. "They did."

Twenty-six trophies danced through the dark. All were naked:
black, some of them, and some Asiatic; the rest Latino. Before
she went down I saw the lala who had rumpled Mister Dryden's
suit.

"Yeee-Hah!"

They preferred children; there was less to clean up afterward.

Before I turned in, not long before midnight, I set
the alarm and prepped my material. The study was
on the first floor, near the foot of the central stairs.
Mister Dryden assured me I'd have no trouble getting in.

Had the alarm not sounded at five, rousing me from my depths,
the dream I suffered just before waking would have been lost in
sleep's successive hours. I dreamed I walked along the seashore.
In the distance, near tide's reach and breaker's grasp, I saw
something struggling. Running down, arriving in a trice, I found
Avalon, lying naked on her back, her arms and legs buried in the
sand. She looked at me, silently pleading for help; she couldn't
get out. I pulled her free. She took my hand, led me up the beach,
far from the ocean. She lay down, drawing me toward her, pushing my head between her legs, and shoving my face against her
quim. I kissed. She grew, or I shrank; at once all around was
dark and wet. Unable to pull my head out, I struggled, but only
worked myself in further; she grasped my legs and quickly pushed
me in. It seemed a marvelous way to drown. Suddenly I saw her
from above as she lay on the sand, her teeth ashine as if set to
bite. She stood, walked to the water, swam past the waves, dived
and disappeared. I awoke, sweating and shaking, wanting her all
the more.

I dressed and gathered my toys. The house was dark as I crept
through the hall, gliding silently down the stairs. I pressed my
fingers to the study door, and it opened. No bell rang, no light
flashed; I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. There was
vague illumination within the room, coming from the fish tank
built into the far wall. Steel shutters covered the room's two windows; no predawn light filtered past. In seconds my eyes adjusted. There was much to see. Hanging on either side of the
fireplace were the Old Man's honorary degrees, his business
awards, his civic trophies, and governmental citations. Near the
mantel, on the right, was Mister Dryden's first award, given the
year he was graduated: the certificate announced him as one of
the Jaycee's Ten Most Outstanding American Young Men. Over
the fireplace hung the Old Man's portrait, done when he was
Mister Dryden's age; but for the color of his hair, he looked the
same now. Framed photographs lined the mantelpiece, showing
the Old Man with, among others, the present Czara of Russia and
the last ten American presidents, five of whom had been assassinated, one after only two months in office.

On the wall opposite was his forty-eight-inch TVC monitor.
Between the windows were rows and rows of tattered record albums, preserved still. Across from his desk were three black file
cabinets, always locked. His desk was perfect for the need at
hand: the top was wood, neither too thick or too thin; high enough
in the central part that the user's knees would not brush against
it, low enough so that nothing attached underneath could necessarily be seen. The blast's force would go outward and upward,
toward the seated-toward the Old Man.