Grist 04 - Incinerator (33 page)

The train was a probe sent to root me out, to push me noisily off the tracks. Hoxley was still in front of me, waiting. Whatever I meant to him, it was enough to keep him where he was, in the center of a web where he knew he might soon be discovered.

As the doors below me banged shut behind Eddie’s ride, I lunged out of the corridor and up the incline, hugging the wall to my back and ignoring the ties, praying for the echo to linger. It boomed back and forth between the pasteboard walls long enough to cover the sound of my movement until another opening yawned behind me and I stepped backward into it, into the realm of some other ersatz ghost.

He’d sent the train to sound me out, or—maybe—to chase me out. Maybe he thought it had. Whatever buttons or levers controlled the train were obviously in front of me, where
he
was. Why go any farther? If he was ahead of me, he’d wait until he couldn’t wait anymore, and then he’d move. If he came toward me, I could kill him. If he ran away from me, out through the right door, I could either chase him or go out the way I’d come in and shoot him in the face. With my left hand free, I swapped a gun into my right, and my fingers wrapped themselves gratefully around the automatic’s handle.
End of the road,
I thought.

And feeling smug, I backed into the end of the road.

I had my left hand stretched protectively behind me and I dismissed the first wisp of cloth as more musty ectoplasm. It didn’t even slow me. I brushed it aside and took two more backward steps and brushed it aside again. And felt a thigh under it.

“No,” I said. And then flame bloomed behind me and I smelled gasoline and my shoulder was on fire, a yellow tongue seeking my face. My hair caught, and I lost it all, all the planning and calculation, and I swatted at my hair and dropped to my knees to get under the flame, shredding the plastic raincoat as I ripped it off me, and succeeded in tossing it a few feet, and kneeling with my spine curled tightly against the flame of death, I heard Wilton Hoxley say, above and behind me, “Simeon. What
terrible
clothes.”

“Don’t,” I said, convulsing into an even smaller ball. The automatic clattered from my fingers, bounced once, hitting my knee, and then landed behind me.

“Don’t what?” Hoxley said. He lit another match. “Ah, of course. Don’t burn little Simeon. Well, I’ve heard
that
before. And what’s this?” I heard the gun scrape the ground as he picked it up. “Well,” he said, “this is an unfair advantage, is what it is. Is this how a couple of guys talk?” His hand touched my back. “Do you know that you’re all wet?” He waited.

“I know,” I said hopelessly, just biting air and spitting it out again.

“Well, this is something new,” Wilton Hoxley said, sounding pleased. “Up until now, I’ve always felt that
I
was the one who was wet. All wet. The wet blanket. Wetback. To wet one’s pants. Wet behind the ears. Not a very nice word, is it?” The match guttered and died, and my lungs collapsed, releasing enough air to inflate the Goodyear blimp.

“I guess not,” I said over the torrent of air.

“And that’s interesting, isn’t it?” Hoxley said serenely. “I mean, in a purely linguistic sense. What’s life, after all, except a little pocket of wet, a little envelope of wet that’s trained itself to move around? ‘Don’t dehydrate,’ life says to itself. ‘If you dehydrate, you’ll die.’ Not fish, of course. Fish don’t worry. But the terrestrials. What are they afraid of, hmmm? All these little dirt-dwelling bags of water, what are they afraid of? That the sun will dehydrate them? Or are they afraid— hold on a moment”—a match bloomed behind me— “of this?”

“Yes,” I said instantly, cravenly. The gasoline fumes clogged my nose.

“And what’s this?” he asked dispassionately, addressing some debating team from the moon. “A spark. A drop of the sun’s sweat. Are you sweating, Simeon? I can think of only one phrase that addresses the issue.” He touched the cold end of the match to my ear, and my reflexes yanked me away from it. “ ‘No sweat,’ kids say to each other, don’t they? ‘Dry up.’ Do you think this is what they mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my lips so dry that they made popping sounds as they slid over my teeth.

“Did anyone ever tell you to dry up?”

“Oh, come on, Wilton.”

He poked the match against my ear again. “Not my name,” he chided. “You haven’t earned the right to call me by my name. Did they ever tell you to dry up?”

“Sure,” I said, “sure they did.”

“I doubt it,” he said. I heard him take a step back, and then a little puddling sound, and then a stream of something hit my neck, and the smell of more gasoline crowded into my skull. “Half a liter,” he said conversationally as the stream trickled down the center of my back, “not much, considering the relative abundance of fossil fuels, but it should be enough. Do you know how often people told me to dry up? How many men and women told Wilton to dry up? Well, they’d all want to be wet now, wouldn’t they?” I was waiting for the match, but even so it was impossible to miss the note of self-pity that threw his tone of triumph into a minor key, and I knew that I’d been playing the wrong card.

I forced myself back onto my knees and turned my head toward him. “They didn’t say it often enough,” I said. “Dry up, asshole.”

There was a silence. Outside I heard the remote music of the carnival, a recording giving evidence of life on another planet, as I waited for the match. When the scraping sound came, it was his voice instead.

“A new tack.” He sounded like he was being held together with baling wire.

“Oh,” I said, driving my fingernails through my palms and trying for a note of command, “just light the fucking match, you pathetic slug.”

“You don’t know who I am.” His tone was almost plaintive.

“Listen up, Wilton,” I said, counting down to my last moment, “who gives a shit?”

There was a booming sound, some bold soul hurling himself against the pair of doors that opened out.

And Hoxley laughed. “We never know, do we?” he said.

“You
never know,” I said, waiting for the match. “Most of us do.”

“We never know,” he said, “how important we are to others. The slightest thing we do or say, something we forget a minute later, can take root in the other person’s soul. You clown. You never think about me?”

“About as often as I think about the United Arab Emirates.”

He jostled me with his knee. “On your feet,” he said. “Time to think about Wilton.”

22

Mother’s Hour

The back door
to the Haunted Castle slammed shut behind us with a deceptively solid sound, and Hoxley located my sacroiliac with the barrel of the automatic and nudged. “Servants’ entrance,” he said, with a wobbly giggle that suddenly veered off in the direction of a sob. It was a new, and not particularly encouraging, giggle. He shoved the gun into me aggressively enough to make imaginary exit wounds bloom on either side of my naval like softballs hit into a screen. “Straight ahead,” he said.

The gun, poised between where I thought my kidneys might be, shook more than his voice did. The portion of the fairgrounds behind the castle was untended and untransformed, a desiccated southern California field of brittle brown weeds. The pageantry, and the comfort of the crowd, were behind us.

“To the catering truck?”

“Don’t get cute,” he said, kicking a heavy shoe against my ankle and clipping my Achilles’ tendon. I stumbled drunkenly. “This isn’t the Age of Cute yet. We’re still poised on the edge of the Age of Discovery.”

“The thirteenth?” I guessed, knowing it was wrong, just wanting to keep him talking, to keep his foot slamming my ankle, if necessary, and his hands away from the trigger and the matches. In my own nostrils, I smelled like a trillion shares of Exxon stock.

“Late fifteenth,” he corrected me pedantically. He came up beside me, one hand still trying to bore the gun barrel—
my
gun barrel—into my back and out through my navel, and I glanced over at his face, a sweating skull with the death’s-head makeup dripping into vertical smears. He was limping along, perspiring profusely, the sweat carrying the greasepaint along with it in pewter-gray rivulets, and he didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes focused steadily in front of him. “America hasn’t been discovered yet,” he said, his voice rising in pitch, “and
stop looking at me.”
I did. “Isn’t that nice, no America? No truncating the rhythms of life into patterns of convenience, no
convenience
stores, no
convenience
restaurants, no one-hour dry cleaning, or even wet cleaning, to return to an earlier theme. And yes, the catering truck, perspicacious of you, the late Mr. Moreno’s catering truck. Poor Mr. Moreno. An enterprising gentleman. Catering trucks and a convenient concession license for the wonderland through which we now stroll, although Mr. Moreno didn’t know about the concession license.” He licked his lips with a pink tongue. “It’s amazing, here in America, what you can do with a phone, a checkbook, and the number of someone else’s business license. Mr. Moreno was even more of an entrepreneur than he knew. And newly arrived in the Land of the Free, too. Isn’t immigration wonderful? One of the dynamics that drives America, I always say. Well, I don’t
always
say it, of course. Wouldn’t that be boring? On the other hand, he served microwaved burritos, Mr. Moreno did, and to his own countrymen.”

We were most of the way to the catering truck by now, and although there were a few people in sight, here on the wrong side of the attractions, no one had even glanced at us. We were just Death and his good buddy Imminent Death hiking through the scraggle of weeds, and Death’s little gun was hidden inside his long black sleeve. Whoever had banged on the door of the Haunted Castle hadn’t followed us.

“So what happened to Mr. Moreno?”

“He got microwaved.” The gun wiggled upward, seeking a soft space between my ribs, and found one. “And now shut up and walk.” Hoxley fell back a step behind me, and I concentrated on doing what I was told.

“How’s life in a catering truck?” I asked as we neared it.

“All the conveniences of home,” Hoxley said from behind me. “Look at the light shining through the window. Here we are, the lonesome travelers cutting their way through the snowdrifts in a Book of Hours, heading for the homely candle.”

“This isn’t going to work,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.

“Oh, please,” Hoxley replied, pityingly. “I know that. This is my swan song. ‘Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.’ Do you recognize the quote?”

“No,” I said, without thinking.

“Well, it’s a classic, and tough shit,” Hoxley said. “I’ve long given up the idea that you might do anything but disappoint me. To the right, now, and watch the step.”

We’ d rounded the corner of the catering truck, and sure enough, there was a set of fold-down aluminum steps waiting for us to climb up. “Upsy-daisy,” he said, wiggling the gun between my ribs.

“Wilton,” I said. He poked me twice, hard. “Sorry,” I said, “but what happens now?”

“The end of the comedy,” he said. “Up the stairs.”

“This is a comedy?” I was already at the door.

“Comedies, as you should know from your study of literature, don’t have to be funny. They’re just stories that end happily.” He reached around me and fitted a key to the lock, the other hand pressing the gun into my back.

“But you said this was your swan song,” I said as the door swung inward.

“In,” Hoxley said, prodding me again.

“So what’s so happy?” I said, stepping inside. “You’re dead?” I heard him behind me, one foot heavier than the other. “That’s a happy ending?”

“One can get bored,” Hoxley said, pulling the door closed, “even with ecstasy. Hard to believe, but true. Hold still.” An electric light went on, and I found myself looking at a world made entirely of aluminum.

The inside of the catering truck was a single dimly lighted metallic corridor: stoves and microwaves and cooking areas to the left, a counter across the wide door at the far end, across which food would normally have been served. A wooden block bolted to one wall held ladles and long wooden-handled forks and knives, the knives positioned sharp edge out and ready for business. The counter was littered with Hoxley’s possessions, and the black trench coat was tossed into the corner behind the door. The straw-blond wig peeped out from the folds.

“Keep moving,” he said. I heard him lick his lips, a small, dry popping sound that sounded like a snake’s tongue looks. “Between the stoves,” he said. “Then turn and sit on the counter, facing back. Don’t look at me, hear?” I hesitated, and he shoved me again. “I said,
hear
?” His voice had taken on a tightwire shimmy, a quaver that threatened to broaden into an uncontrolled tremolo.

I said I heard and did as told, facing three quarters toward the rear of the truck. Opposite me was a line of tinted windows. Through them, in the exaggerated dusk, people drifted back and forth on business. Someone moaned in front of me, and in the darkness under the counter at the back of the truck I saw a large black plastic trash bag, two of them, actually, held together by a long spiral of fiber tape.

“You’ve met Mom,” Hoxley said, extinguishing the kerosene lamp. He emitted a burst of sound that turned out to be a laugh.

He stepped to the left. “Okay, sit on the counter.
Don’t look at me.
Just sit on the counter and be quiet.”

I hoisted myself up onto the counter. Around me, like cosmetics on some grand and peculiar lady’s vanity table, was an apparently random assortment of kitchen and bathroom objects: spoons, knives, heavy frying pans, soap, combs and brushes, deodorant, shaving cream and a razor, hair spray, toothpaste.

“You’ve made yourself comfortable,” I said, sneaking a peek at him.

“It seemed like fun at first,” Hoxley said without turning toward me, gazing instead at the tightly wrapped garbage bags, “like camping. And it was a nice way of getting
them
out. But, like everything else, it got boring.”