Hystopia: A Novel (14 page)

“That sounds about right. Bullshit, but right.”

“The twin-brother incident.”

“Yes, exactly. What were they called? Pseudonym, I’m sure. The Lawson brothers.”

“Yeah, Kit Lawson lost his twin brother, Drew, in a firefight and so on and so forth…”

“… and after undergoing treatment in the New Mexico facility…”

“… Lawson lost his entire childhood to the enfold…”

“All of it enfolded,” Wendy said. She knotted the towel around her head and stood naked and dry. He remembered the bikini, the oil, the little kid playing in the sand in his field of vision, and he felt his hard-on coming on with force, the blood pulsing in his underwear. They would fuck again and he’d hold that image—the way he’d held the image of her surrounded by Queen Anne’s lace—because otherwise his desire would disappear into the fuzz of his enfolded memories.

*   *   *

That evening, as they cooked together, he stood at the sink and shook the lettuce dry in a clean dish towel, feeling the teardrop shape of dripping vegetable weight in his fist. He put the lettuce down on the counter. (Skulls in bags, men being hoisted up in nets, bodies in bags, he thought.) In the living room he turned on the television, fiddled the antenna to bring the signal. Then he went to the bedroom, found her stash, and lit a joint and took a deep hit. Wendy was whistling to herself as she cooked in the kitchen, and on the television a man hunched in the bush with a foam-ball microphone, whispering his report to the wire. His hair was slicked back and combed with a neat part and he gave the location of the fighting as if it were his hometown, his voice lulling, as safe as any man on Madison Avenue, one more con man packaging the goods to sell to the public, unaware, as he spoke, that his image was slipping as the vertical hold wavered, and he was passing up over himself with a small ribbon of fuzzy gray between him and his replicated self, until Singleton went over and pushed the button and watched the screen sweep itself into a small pinpoint of light that seemed to eye the world with incredulous judgment before it—the light—dashed up to the edge of the set and disappeared.

All he had was the sound of her whistling in the kitchen.

“Yes, sir,” Singleton said to the dark screen.

OUT OF THE WOODS

Those are Rake’s, Hank was saying. There’s no other reason she’d be washing those sheets. Not for me at least.

They had come in along the beach trail and stopped to watch MomMom hanging fresh sheets from the line.

We’re going to step right in there as if nothing in the world happened, aren’t we? Just like we rehearsed. We’re going to walk right back into Rake’s scene and he’s not going to detect a thing in the way we move or talk. Not a clue. I’ve handled him before and I think I can handle him now. He doesn’t know the side of me you saw out there in the woods—doesn’t know I’ve enfolded all that shit. I’d kill him and end all this but then, like I explained, that would go against everything that I’ve enfolded. I just don’t have the will to do it. I have the desire, because it would solve everything, but if I went and killed him, everything might come back. I’m not sure I’d know how to do it. You think it’s easy killing someone, but it’s not, not at all, he said.

On the way back to the house they had stopped in a small inland clearing to rehearse, standing together in the dappled sunlight.

I want this deep inside you, planted there. We’ll go through the motions until it becomes secondhand. You’re gonna have to go blurry-eyed, to persuade yourself that I’ve beaten you back into submission.

Imagine we’re in the kitchen now. That’s where he’ll be when we get back, if I know Rake, because the first thing he does when he comes back from an excursion is to start eating, so we’re gonna pretend we’re in the kitchen. I’ll play the role of Rake and you play the role of Old Meg. Not New Meg. I want you to go inside yourself and find the voice of Old Meg. New Meg has a natural voice. New Meg speaks easy and honest. Old Meg speaks in a song, like she’s trying to get her daddy to buy her a lollipop.

Say: Hey, Hank, how’s it going?

Hey, Hank, how’s it going?

No, that’s too sure, too flat. If he hears that he’ll hear New Meg and he’ll sense you’re feeling better. Too easy, too precise, and too sure. Singsong it now like a baby girl wanting a lollipop, he said, and he took two steps back and watched her.

Hey, Hank, how’s it going.

Perfect, he said, and he took two more steps back and said, Now I’m Rake, I’m going to say, Where the fuck have you been? in my best Rake voice, and you’re gonna say, Hank took me with him to look for a tree, and remember, we’re in the kitchen and Rake is fixing you with his eyes; he has you in his eyes, even if he’s not looking; he’s totally got you under his gaze, even if he’s directing his look out the window. Now say what I told you to say after I say what I said I was going to say, he said, and he said, Where the fuck have you been? and she said, Hey, Rake, Hank took me with him looking for a tree. Her voice rose slightly but not enough and had too much in the way of assurance and Hank told her so and told her to try it again and she did, saying, Hank took me with him into the woods to look for the Mother Tree, tightening her words up into that part of her that was lost and sad and wanted to survive.

That was better, he said, but not good enough. He’ll hear it in there. He’ll sense the firmness in the way you’re landing on your words. Try it again, but this time pretend you’re trying hard to pick up each word; pretend each word weighs a ton, but as soon as you pick one up and start lifting, it deceives you and is lighter than you thought and you’re startled. Do it that way—think of it that way, he said, and she did and her voice lilted, became airy and thin, and Hank said, That was great, perfect, and she said, I’m scared, and then she began to cry. You’re a great actress. You’re brilliant, he told her. You’re gonna win an Academy Award when you’re through with this. Being afraid of Rake is good. The fear’s going to lend your voice the right tenor, so long as you remind yourself to lift each one and then allow yourself to be surprised as the word comes up.

Stay behind me when we cross the yard. Hang your shoulders like I told you and before we go in try not to blink so your eyes are nice and glassy.

Hey, ho, anybody home? he said, striding across the yard. The house baked in the sunlight, and in the corner of the yard the dog lay in the shadows, draped in chains. The car trunk was open, full of pills wrapped like mummies and a few new pieces for his arsenal.

In the kitchen, at the stove, Rake stood holding a long spatula, lifting the edge of a pork chop. A kid sat at the table. He was albino white and skeletal thin. A real mountain freak, Hank thought. One of those junkies of the old school, with a certain delicacy to his posture. He made a motion to stand in greeting, but then, glancing over at Rake, he thought better of it.

Where you been? Rake said, tending the meat.

Lumber running.

Took her along?

Thought it would be the safe thing to do, Hank said. He stood easily on the balls of his feet, with his hands in his pockets. Then he took two steps into the room.

Why’d you take her along?

Like I said, thought it would be the safe thing to do. She’s a handful, in a weird way, and I didn’t trust MomMom to keep an eye, and I caught scent of a big one out there and had to go for it.

I’m pretty sure I told you to stay put. I’m pretty sure I told you not to take her out. No, I’m certain I ordered you to keep her in the house, out of sight. I said it just like that. I said, Keep her here out of sight and don’t go chasing after any trees, my friend.

Hank chuckled, found a respectful hesitancy, and watched Rake lift the chop with the spatula with an easing of the sizzle sound, letting oil gather heat, and then flip it in a roar of hot fat.

Name’s Haze Hall, the guy at the table said, putting out his hand.

Shut up, Haze, Rake said. You talk when I tell you to talk and keep your yap shut the rest of the time if you know what’s good for you. He lifted the meat again and again the sizzle died down. Visible in the window over the sink, MomMom was in the backyard with clothespins in her mouth, lifting her sagging arms up and down.

I said no taking her anywhere, Hank. I said it in the clearest fucking terms.

I understood you to be saying, stay put in this part of the state.

Out the window, the wind twisted the white sheets against the blue sky while MomMom stood examining her handiwork. Rake adjusted a burner and let the meat sit, singeing around the edges, giving off smoke.

Meg, is he telling the truth?

He’s telling the truth, she sang.

I didn’t ask you if he was telling the truth, he said. I asked you, is that the way it happened? He lifted the meat out of the oil and threw it sidearm.

Haze screamed and held his face.

Move, you die, simple as that, Hank said, aiming his gun. Die if you move. Make me do it. Make me blow your head off. He held the gun steady, waited a few beats, and then said, Now put the pan down and greet me in a friendly manner, for Christ’s sake. Then he aimed the gun just to the right of Rake’s head, waited another few beats, and unleashed a shot that shattered the window over the kitchen sink. The concussion seemed delayed, muted by the thick linoleum. The room seemed to flinch. Haze cowered and Meg, who was used to gunshots, gave a voluntary shout, for effect, and said, Don’t kill him, for God’s sake, don’t do it. Her voice was full-bodied. She was inhabiting her character.

With the pan steady, Rake didn’t even flinch. One more gunshot in a year of gunshots. Near misses came and went. He kept his legs apart and didn’t even blink. Long ago his shell shock had mutated into something else: he was well versed in the workings of this kind of fear. The room took on a knowing glow. The fridge kicked on with an energetic hum. Outside, far in the distance, a dog gave an expectant bark. (You had to have that bark, Hank thought. Always that bark.) At the same time, a trickle of blood appeared along Rake’s temple.

The next shot’s going to be between your eyes if you don’t put that pan down and shut the burner off.

You’ll laugh it off when we’re equally armed, Rake said. You let me have a gun so we’re on equal terms and then I’ll know I can trust you, he said.

You think I’d trust you with a gun right now?

I think you let me have a gun, you trust me, I trust you, and we’re on equal terms, Rake said.

You want a gun? Hank said.

That’s right. Let me reach behind and get mine, and I’ll hold it on you and you hold yours on me and we’ll be back where we were before all this started.

Man, Hank said. If I didn’t know you so long I’d think you were crazy. But knowing you as I do, I’ll let you get your gun, he said.

Rake reached around and pulled out his gun and pointed it and said, There. Now we’re both men. Now we’re each facing the same shit.

Both men held and held and went into locked eyes as MomMom appeared in the doorway and sighed loudly. It was the sigh of a mother whose kids were in trouble again. It was an old, weary sigh.

Let’s lower them at the same time, Rake said.

Fine by me, Hank said.

Together the men lowered the guns and then, stepping forward, laughed and gave each other a hug. Man, shit, man, they said, going into a backslap routine, two old buddies reuniting, until Rake cranked his knee up into Hank’s crotch and he doubled over in pain.

That’s for old times’ sake. You’d damn well better be telling me the truth, Rake said. On the floor Hank lay for a few minutes, keeping his eyes closed, while MomMom prayed over his body, saying: Dear Lord our Host, come down here now and take charge of my son’s body and resurrect him, dear Lord. Bring his strength back fully if it be your will. Show him your mercy, oh Lord.

Hank stayed still and enjoyed the sound because it was, as far as he could remember, the most attentive and loving his mother had been in years. Fate or luck had arranged gunplay as a testing point, a way to make sure he wouldn’t kill again, not ever again, even if it seemed to be the most logical thing to do. A few inches to the left and it would’ve been done.

Rake led Meg out of the house to the car and stood with her examining the booty in the trunk, reaching down to pick up a packet or two, holding them out and saying, You’re going to be the test subject on a couple of these. Primo Canadian shit. I had to go over the border for these. I thought I was going on a distribution run but ended up on a collection run. I saw and I collected. There are bodies up in Canada, believe me. A few more than there were before I got there.

He turned her around—she allowed him to move her and fell into the role of submission easily—and said, You’re not fooling me, are you? You’re not going to get the tree-hunting bug and run off with Hank?

No, she said, letting her eyes stray around to the dog, who was barking now at the edge of the yard, pulling his chain. His barks were hard and wooden and came in staccato formations that seemed coded. It was the bark of a dog violent in nature, hungry, covered with burrs and scabs. The bark of a dog on a chain in the woods far from help. He was rearing into an attack stance and barked a few more times until Rake swung around and with one fluid motion took quick aim and fired a single shot.

*   *   *

You’re gonna lose the sight in that eye, Rake said. They were playing blackjack at the kitchen table. Night. Cool air through the broken window over the sink, the sound of crickets, an occasional far-off animal sound.

I don’t think so, Haze said.

I’m pretty sure of it. You’re gonna have monocular vision.

Lighten up, Rake, Hank said.

Sooner he admits it, the better, Rake said, fanning his cards neatly and examining his hand.

My eye’s gonna be fine, Haze said.

I’m gonna take a piss right now, Rake said, And when I get back we’ll settle this argument.

Hank turned to the kid and said, You’d better admit that you’ll never see again from that eye.

Why should I do that?

Because if you continue the argument I know what’s going to happen. If you insist that you’re right and Rake insists that he’s right, he’s going to make sure he’s right by taking the nearest sharp implement and jabbing it through your head. Maybe he won’t do it now, but when you least expect it, he’ll make sure you don’t see from that eye.