Interfictions (23 page)

But the smack-sickness shakes her down and she has to move.

Even her rats are weak, she can see. They are staggering and puking. Sometimes they half-heartedly bite one another. She wants to die, but her Chris takes too good care of her, except when he hits her, for that to happen.

When they were curled up together under the covers back in London, which is already acquiring the coloring of a home in her quietly bleeding memory, Lily had asked Chris how much he loved her. More than air, he said. More than smack. Would you douse yourself in gasoline and set yourself on fire if I needed you to? she asked. Yes, he said. Would you set me on fire if I needed you to? she asked. Not that, he said. I love you, I couldn't live without you, don't, don't, don't leave me alone. Not that. Anything but alone.

The regular chant of lovers.

If I needed you to? she pressed. Wouldn't you do it if I needed you to?

He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Then you don't really love me at all, she told him, if you don't love me enough to help me when I need it.

So he had to say yes. And he had to promise.

Now, in piercing gray New York City she puts the knife in his hand and reminds him of his promise. He pushes her away. No. But he doesn't drop the knife. Perhaps he's forgotten to. She reminds him again and somehow she finds energy and drive she hasn't had in months to scream and berate and plead in a voice like fingernails on a blackboard. She hits him with his bass and scratches at his sores. A man keeps his promises, she tells him. A real man isn't scared of blood.

She winds up shaking and crying to herself on the bathroom floor when Chris comes in, takes her head on his lap and stabs her in the gut, wrenching the knife up towards her breasts. He goes on stabbing and sawing and stroking her forehead until she stops breathing.

The last things she sees are the expression of blank, loving concern on his face and the rats swarming in as her blood spreads across the bathroom tiles.

He watches the rats gnaw on the soft flesh of her stomach and crawl through her body in triumph until finally he watches them lie down and die, exposing their little bellies to the ceiling. The next morning, he remembers nothing.

The police find him sitting bolt upright in bed, staring straight ahead, with the knife next to him. They take Lily away in a body bag. No more kisses.

He is dying now, he thinks. Her absence is slowly draining his blood away. His rats are all dead and their corpses appear everywhere he looks.

You know the rest of the story. He dies a month later of an overdose procured for him by his mother. Why are you still reading? What are you waiting for? The kiss? But he kissed her already, don't you remember? And she woke up, and afterward she was never alone.

They were children, you know. And there still are children in pain and they continue to die and for the people who love them that is not romantic. Their parents and friends don't know what is going to happen ahead of time. They have no narrator. When these children die, all that is left is a blank, an absence, and friends and parents lose the ability to see in color. The future takes on a different shape and they go into shock, staring into space for hours. They walk out into traffic and they don't see the trucks, don't hear the horns. A mist lifts and they find that they have pinned the messenger to the wall by his throat. They find themselves calling out names on streets in the dead of night. Walking up the block becomes too hard and they turn back. They can't hear the doctor's voice.

Death is not romantic; it is not exciting; it is no poignant closure and it has no narrative causality. There are even now teenagers—children—slicing themselves and collapsing their veins and refusing to eat because the alternative is worse, and their deaths will not be a story. Instead there will be an empty place in the future where their lives would have been. Death has no narrative arc and no dignity, and now you can silkscreen these two kids' pictures on your fucking T-shirt.

"Yesterday I thought I was a crud. Then I saw the Sex Pistols, and I became a king."—Joe Strummer, 1976

Punk rock saved my life when I needed it most. The Clash—Joe Strummer in particular—made me feel powerful, like there was lightning in my blood, and I don't think I'm the only one, though I guess I don't care if I am. But nothing works for everybody; punk rock wasn't enough to save Nancy Spungen's life, and it wasn't enough to save Sid Vicious either. I wrote “Rats” because I was angry with the way the recent coffee-table histories of punk seem to have no problem with demonizing a dead, mentally ill, teenage girl. This story is about what it means to grieve for the suffering of a thoroughly unpleasant, even hateful, person (it's easier when you've never had to deal with her personally, of course).

"Rats” is at war with the idea of Story even while it uses the most traditional narrative conventions. Its main character is a girl about whom nobody, myself included, has a good word to say, so it can take place only between the lines of what people
do
say. Those tensions make the story interstitial: it is tearing itself apart in order to lay bare the violence inherent in the very notion of Story. “Rats” invokes recent history, and then peels it back to reveal the magical thinking that is truer to experience than realism ever can be—the rats in the walls.

Veronica Schanoes

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When Pa died, it was generally agreed that he might not make it to the happy side of the Afterlife. He just hadn't been sweet enough to tip the scales the right way.

"Friends, we have a soul here in grave need of intervention. The journey to Salvation comes at a price, and our Brother Lemuel Task is a few dollars short of the fare."

So said Reverend Samuels, and the rest of the congregation nodded in response.

Cole and me sat in our pew, heads bowed, lips moving, and tried not to squirm. We knew what was coming and prayer wasn't going to change things.

"Brother Task needs to travel the long, hard road, friends. He needs to go up Redemption Mountain. Can I get an
amen
?"

"Amen!” our neighbors chanted.

Amen, and amen, and damn y'all to Hell
, Cole whispered, his face going gray under the tan.

I just sat there, picturing the Mountain.

We wrapped Pa up good and tight in real linen, and Maisy Reynolds painted a bunch of Paradise scenes on his wrappings. She really knew her Bible, and Pa's body could've been displayed at one of them fancy museums in France or Germany or New York. There was Moses as a baby in his basket, and David with his guitar, and a whole lot of saints and prophets with long beards and long faces. Mary was there, too, right there where the cloth bunched up around Pa's nethers.

Mary looked kind of like Maisy. Not sure what that meant.

The whole town came out to build the Heaven-Cart. Darby Wheelwright and Jamie Cooper and Kurt Smithy—even old Burly Mason, who didn't really have anything to do with the cart but lent moral support by yelling at people a lot and pointing.

Ladies brought basket lunches and lemonade, and the little ones ran around the fields playing
Soul-Catcher
or
Bear-the-Cross
, just like Cole and me did back before Mama died.

Course, Mama never went up Redemption Mountain. Her soul's done gone.

Pa was another story.

The Heaven-cart looked like a big beer barrel tipped over sideways. No tap, no lid. Two big wheels with heavy wooden spokes and thick iron rims, and two padded handles up front, so the folks pulling the cargo wouldn't get blisters.

Pa went into the open top of the barrel. Me and Cole took up the handles, taking a minute to settle the leather pads on our shoulders.

Reverend Samuels gave the send-off speech, speaking the words like they were new-born.

"—'The road is narrow, and few there are who follow it.' Thus saith the Lord.”
Amen.
“—'Treat thy neighbor as thyself.' Thus saith the Lord.”
Amen, Brother, amen.
“—'We are all brothers and sisters under the eyes of God,' thus saith the Lord.”
Amen, amen, amen, Brother.
“—'Your neighbor is your brother or your sister; we are all family in His eyes.' Thus saith the Lord.”
Amenamenamen.
“—'Forgive your brothers and sisters, your
family
, a thousand times and a thousand times again.' Thus saith the Lord."

A hush.

"—'And help them carry their burdens, as you would want them to help you.'—"

"Thus. Saith. The Lord!"

The folks answered so loud they could've shook the floor out of Paradise itself.

"Heard it all before.” Cole kept wiggling around, like he was already pulling the cart. He spat on his hands and gripped his handle, like that would do some good.

"You ain't never hauled a Heaven-cart, Cole. I can't even remember the last time we built one."

Cole shrugged his shoulders, finding the most comfortable place to let the handle rest. “Still heard it all before. Reverend-talk. Lots of words that don't mean nothin'."

"They're
Book-words
, little brother. Don't ever forget that."

Cole found his spot, lifted his side of the Heaven-cart. “—'Less you learned to read since this morning,
big brother
, you don't know no more'n I do.” He nodded toward Reverend Samuels, spat. “Neither does he."

"You saying you don't believe? You gonna go heretic on us?” I hadn't even grabbed my handle yet, and Cole already had my dander up.

"I'm sayin', shut up and pull."

We started up Redemption Mountain, Pa behind us and a long hard road ahead.

Maisy Reynolds ran up and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “You get this man to the top, Ben. You make sure he gets saved. For m—for your dead ma's sake."

Then she was gone, back with the rest, and I wondered why she cared so much.

Cole lurched forward, and I grabbed and pulled just to keep from being run over.

Shouts and prayers echoed from the valley. Hard to tell which was which.

I never really noticed how much bigger Cole was than me until we started pulling that cart up the mountain.

Two years younger than me, and he outweighed me by twenty pounds at least, all of it muscle. Taller, too, not by much, but enough so it counted, especially when I was trying to match my step with his and keep the handle in a comfortable spot on my shoulder.

So while he trudged along with his cart-handle in an easy notch next to his collarbone, I pushed my legs harder to keep up, and the handle on my side kept hitting me in the same spot,
thwack, thwack
, until I could feel the blisters forming across my neck and shoulder.

I knew I couldn't say a word, though. I was the older brother. I was the
man
. We were taking Pa to Eternity, and I had to be strong.

We walked for hours, hauling Pa's body along a well-worn path. The rise stayed even, but I could tell we weren't making a lot of progress to the top.

"How long you think this'll take? No one ever mentions it, you know? Like they're not sure or something."

Cole plodded along, not even turning his head when he answered me. “Don't know. Don't care. Takes as long as it takes."

"Ain't you even curious? C'mon, Cole, it's been a long time since anyone we know's done this. Don't you think about what's up there?"

Cole stopped dead. My handle slid off my shoulder, and I felt the cart try to twist sideways. I grabbed hard on the raw wood knob at the end, splinters ramming into my palm.

"I don't want to think, Ben. I just want to get this damn rig up the mountain and drop it off. Don't care who was here before, don't care who'll be here after.” Cole took a deep breath, readjusted his hold on the cart, and spat a thick glob right next to my shoe.

"Any more questions?"

I took the hint.
Shut up and pull.

Right after we started up again, the blisters popped.

I hardly even noticed.

The trail got rougher. The wagon shook and moaned, and I wondered if Pa's soul was beating the slats trying to get out. The wheels went off-balance, pitted by rocks and roots, and even Cole grunted under the strain of pulling the thing along.

Then we hit a nasty switchback that took us around an old, weathered oak and a jagged crack in the rock itself. We fretted with the cart for near an hour, nursing the wheels around roots and wedges of rock, finally able to get the rig facing up the slope again—

—and they were everywhere.

Heaven-carts. No two alike, big and small, different woods, shapes, wheels. Sitting there abandoned, some near whole, others just skeletons. Ribs of wood, rims of rust. They slumped together on either side of the path—the
end
of the path—crippled and forgotten.

Like Pa, almost. Like his gray old soul.

"Why are these all here?” I kept staring at the wrecks of carts, couldn't move to save my life. Pa's Heaven-cart got heavier, and I felt the pain shoot across my raw shoulder until Cole lifted the handle off me and pushed me away.

"Looks like the carts only make it this far.” Cole didn't spare me a glance. He just looked further up-mountain, whistling between his teeth.

I finally quit tallying the wagons and saw what Cole saw—no path, no way for a cart or even a horse to pass. Just broken rock and dried-up shrubs and a long, rough climb to the top.

"We gotta
carry
him?"

I turned to look at Cole, but he'd already moved on, checking out the other wagons.

"Don't suppose that's necessary, Ben."

"What's that mean?"

"Means,” Cole said, tugging a length of yellowed linen from one of the abandoned carts, “this looks like the end of the line, big brother."

Something rattled when he pulled the cloth, and toe-bones spilled out and bounced across the path.

Everything spun, and I sat down hard beside Pa's Heaven-cart. I might've even passed out for a minute—I saw the little demon-spots you see when the Devil steals your breath. My ears buzzed with a swarm or two of bees.