Disintegration (3 page)

“Hey, baby, I guess you're working late again. Taylor wants Daddy's Special Chicken, and Robbie…”

I'm off the grid now. I have been for a while. There are no mirrors in my apartment. I have forgotten my own face. My wife is a distant memory, and I can't remember what she smells like, the melody of my son's laugh, the gentle kisses of my daughter's soft lips on my cheek. They are shadows that haunt my every movement, and I drown them out, blur them every chance I get.

I lurk in the blind spots and only come out at night. I wait for the rain, the clouds to pass over, the wind to rush in off the lake. I don't make eye contact, but when I do, you'll know it's your time. I can't stop. And I don't want to.

The envelopes are all the same: a name, an address someplace in Chicago, and a picture. That's the only variation. It can be a professional portrait. It can be a sketch. I've seen Polaroids and hasty 5x7s on Kodak film that's printed at the grocery store, the drugstore, down at
Walgreens—unaware
of the death sentence they were issuing.

I stand by the edge of the bed, and pick up the lipstick. Rolling it around in my hands, I pull open the drawer and toss it in with the rest of Holly's stuff—a nail file, an amulet, a hairbrush, a thin tube of fragrance, a pair of leather gloves, and her thick pink vibrator. I stick my head in the drawer and inhale. For a moment she is here with me, her hands resting lightly on my back, leaning over, pressing her head against my back, wrapping her arms around me. I straighten up and she is gone.

Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, the blinds down, I pick up the envelope and turn it over in my hands. Red currant drifts to me from the candle on the dresser. It's sickly sweet, and I can taste Holly in my mouth. Sliding my finger under the lip of the paper, I run it down the length of the envelope, tearing it open, a hot flash of moonlight and the curved blade of my knife running up and into a rib cage, a gush of air, foul as a mausoleum, wet on my hands, up and in. So many nights standing naked in a strange backyard, a desolate cornfield, an alley, a bottle of lighter fluid in one hand, a lit match in the other, hovering over a hole in the ground, a steel barrel, a pile of black cloth and denim, white tube socks, all spattered with blood. Whether I'm invisible or not doesn't matter. I believe I am. And it may be my downfall. But I have work to do. And the justice I sought when my own world toppled down around me, it never came. There are the laws of man, and then there are the laws of mankind.

When I meet my maker I will look him square in the eye and ask him for nothing.

The slip of white paper has only the two lines, in blocky letters:

Peter Masterson

2139 East Fulton Market

His picture is from a party of some sort, a side shot. A big laugh and a shock of white hair. He looks like John Malkovich—if he was dying of AIDS.

After the van, there is the park. And it spirals into the darkness from there.

The sun is going down, a dull ball of red phosphorous glowing at the edge of my vision, and I'm licking a vanilla ice cream cone. The world is having dinner, television sets buzzing in the background as I sit on a green wooden bench, the slats about ten minutes away from annoying. The park is ringed with trees, oak and maple, a green crown encircling this patch of grass and amusement. Two college stoners heave a Frisbee back and forth on the far side of the park, shirtless and tan—young and blessed with nothing but time. In a beaten and faded black polo and blue jeans, I consider joining them, but don't. Boots. I'd last five minutes.

Four days have passed since the BMW and nothing. Vlad took one look at the van, back at me, realized what a mess I was, and just shook his head.

“Out of your paycheck, it comes.”

“What paycheck?”

“Exactly,” he says, pointing a trigger finger at me and firing.

I've worn the same clothes for as long as I can remember now. The apartment has four things in it: the dining room table, the armoire, the dresser, and the bed. There are no dishes yet, not a glass or a fork. I have not been able to brave any store beyond Nik's. I may need help.

The suit is sitting across the baseball diamond from me, thirty feet tops. I lick the cone, and wish it was a woman. I wish it had a taut, pink nipple on top of it. I watch him because I have nothing else to do, and I'm trying to create a moment here. Trying to claw my way up. My skin itches and a ring of gnats circles my head. The peace is starting to slip away.

“That's what I said to her, the stupid bitch.”

He yaps into his cellphone, and at his feet sits a sad-eyed beagle puppy. I can't look at it or I'll start to cry. I'm just that raw. It sits there and pants, glancing up now and then. It's not his dog, not his new little friend, I can tell that much. He's oblivious. When the pup whimpers, he just yanks the leash. She whimpers for the tenth time, then simply squats and pees. The pup, it turns out, is a girl. A look of large-eyed joy washes over her face. She must have been waiting a long time. When the puddle creeps over to his black wingtips he finally looks down.

“Goddamnit, what the hell…” he yells. “Hold on, man, I gotta call you back. Dog just pissed on my brand new Ferragamos. Naw, man, it's Heather's. I know. Whipped.”

He clicks the thin phone shut and slides it into his jacket pocket and bends over to look at the puppy, her tongue wagging, her furry little butt shaking back and forth, looking up at this pin-striped giant with nothing but love. He backhands her across the face. I drop my cone and her yelp echoes across the park.

My stomach turns and I lick the top row of my teeth, glancing around. Clenching and unclenching my fists I adjust my seat. The puppy pops back up, head bowed, ambling over to him again—wanting to know what she did wrong, what she can do now to fix it.

The phone chirps and he straightens back up. A plane roars overhead. O'Hare to someplace. I watch the silver beast move slowly and wish I was on it. Somebody is making a roast, garlic maybe, onions. It smells like nothing I've known for weeks. I could chew off my own arm right now. It's a moment at a dinner table, all eyes on Mom, blessing said, hands clasped, a pause before the silverware clanks and scrapes across the plates.

He rambles on, a laugh here and there, the sun going down now, the Frisbee players gone. We are alone except for a homeless guy at a trash can by the pavilion. Way too many layers for this kind of day. The occasional car drifts by, bass thumping, a flash of red light. I don't think the suit knows I'm even here.

“No, don't,” I whisper.

The puppy is lying down by his feet, sniffing the dirt, pawing at her nose. A loose shoelace flops in front of her face as he moves his feet around. She nips at it. She tugs at it, and pulls. He moves his foot again, a good game going now, and she's entranced. She barks a quick yip, and he waves a hand at her.

“I know,” he says. “Two martinis, that's all it took, I'm telling you man…”

He places his foot by the puppy again and she bites out, dragging her sharp baby teeth over the soft black leather, long scrapes and he stops talking.

“Dude, hold on. I'm gonna kill this damn dog.”

He sets the phone down and looks at the puppy.

“You like that, huh? Tastes real good, huh bitch? Well, here, have a little more.”

I can hear him, and I go cold. Few things are sacred—babies and puppies, kittens.

He kicks her in the face and she goes tumbling, snot and blood flying as she flips end over end, and I'm up fast. She lands in the dust of the infield and doesn't move. Not a yelp or whimper. I go.

“Sorry, man, listen, where was I,” he continues, back on the phone, one leg crossed over the other.

I'm across the dusty ground in four steps, a quick glance over to the puppy. She stirs, but doesn't get up. Reaching out I grab the phone out of his hand and drop it under my boot heel and twist it, crushing it in one motion. He stands up with an open mouth and I shove my fist in it. I grab his lapel and I'm back at the van. I pound him again, over and over, hardly a word escaping his lips.

“Hey…”

I let go of him so I can use both fists, because one is not enough.

“Dude…”

A flurry of knuckles, right, left, right. His neck snaps back and forth and I finish him off with a black hole uppercut from beyond my hazy vision, a swarm of gnats and bugs around me. The sun has gone, and in the last bit of daylight, the shot catches him squarely on the jaw, snapping it, sending him reeling over the bench behind him and then onto his back. I walk around and drop to my knees. Placing my hands on both sides of his neck I squeeze. The world has gone dead around me. The only sound is my labored breath, lips in a snarl, spittle flying, nose running as I push in, a cracking sound as my thumbs bury in his neck. My teeth are bared like a rabid hyena. I look up to his eyes and they've faded to ivory, two buttons, and I let go. Standing up, three birds shoot out of a tree across the fading blue sky. Shadows wrap around me and I scan the park.

Nobody.

I ease over to the puppy and pick her up. She's not dead, but she's hardly breathing. I pick her up and walk toward a vet I saw just down the street, over on Milwaukee. I hold her to my chest as tears stream down my face. I'm sobbing, my shoulders shaking as I cut through the alley.

At the Wicker Park Veterinary Clinic I walk in the door, the bell jingling, and place the puppy on the counter. Before the ladies in their colorful smocks can look up, I've turned and headed back out the door, catching it before it closes.

“Sir? Sir, you can't just leave this here, sir?” the woman says.

But I do. I lunge to the left, back behind the building, out of sight, and start jogging down the stinking alleyway toward my apartment.

“No more,” I say to the black alley, as a part of me shrivels, withers, and dies. A hard substance, cold and solid, settles into the middle of my chest. It's found a new home, this darkness. I welcome it.

“…and Robbie, well you know twins, they either totally agree, or don't agree at all. He wants macaroni and cheese…”

It's dark now, and I'm ready to take a ride. I pull on my leather coat and zip it up. I'll bring no weapons tonight but my bare hands. I shrug my shoulders. Sore. Whether it's the remnants of Happy or the sixty push-ups I banged out today, I don't know. Don't care. I laugh. It's an inside joke.

I decide to do something different tonight. It's been a while since I've seen Holly, so I decide on the artificial. I toss back two Happy pills and finish them off with the last frosty swallow of my beer. I'm not driving. I lean over the large black trash bag that squats at my feet and drop the can into it. A metallic clank, and I tie the red ribbons shut.

“Crap. Gotta empty this, now.”

I wander back to the kitchen and prop open the window. Yanking open the cabinet I stare at five hundred cans of cat food. Things just show up sometimes. Part of the deal, the payments. A scratch at my door, and seventy-two rolls of toilet paper. A thump in the hall and a case of Jim Beam. A whisper in my ear and a pallet of cat food. I tear open Super Supper and dump it into one of two bowls I own and set it on the floor. I grab the other brown ceramic bowl, fill it with tap water, and place it next to the other. They sit under the window, so I won't trip over them later. So many nights I've stumbled into this kitchen only to impale myself on the sawhorse monstrosity.

Back to the door, and I pick up the trash. Opening it I head out into the hall. I have neighbors.

Next door, Guy. #2F. Big fat slob of a man. Never seen him leave. I think he deals drugs. The sickly sweet smell of pot constantly oozes from under his door. I've heard he has books piled up to the ceiling. If I ever have the desire to get stoned and read some William Burroughs, I'll bang on his door.

Downstairs. Whole first floor. Nice young alternative couple. Pale, black hair, tats and piercings. She's pinup-girl hot, and he's freaky, skinny strange. The usual around here. He must have a huge cock. And I think she brings a girlfriend home now and then. Youth.

Up top. #3R. Right above me. French girl. Paulina. We've passed in the hall. Well rounded and shy. I think she's a nurse. I could fall asleep in her cleavage. From her screams and stomping around, I figure there must be a boyfriend back in Nice. Her eyes wander. I may have to borrow some sugar.

#3F. No idea. Another ghost. I smell curry now and then. The mailbox only says Avinash. I don't know if that's a man or a woman, a first name or last.

Down the steps, sixty-four of them. I count them every time. In my childhood, I would do the same thing, at water fountains, I think. Sipping cold water and counting the swallows. I don't know why.

Keys at the front door and voices. Vlad. And somebody else. I stop.

“I'm telling you, Officer,” he says in an especially loud voice. “Not him, no way. He's only been here for six months, not three years.”

I turn around like I'm sneaking out of my parents' house. Past their bedroom and their brass bed, high as a kite, on tippy-toes. Back up the stairs and I skitter down the hall.

“No, I'd say more like six foot two, one eighty, not six feet, two twenty. And definitely not blond hair.”

They keep on coming as I head to the back door, pushing it open and I'm down the back stairs, praying I don't bang the bag of crushed aluminum and alert them to my flight. Faster and faster around and around I go. It can't be me. The van?

Heading out the back door, for a split second I can still hear them. The door at the top of the stairs is open, and right before the door at the bottom closes shut, right before it seals the voices out, I hear one thing.

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you that, sir. He's been missing….”

And the door clicks shut. I'm out the back, down three steps, and across the cement path to the back alley. I deposit the black trash bag into an open dumpster and head north toward Division. A bus to catch. Back over to the 21 south on Milwaukee. Down to Fulton Market.

What was that about?