The War Against the Assholes (23 page)

He eyed the flower. “It takes a lot of work to accomplish anything,” he said, “you both know that. And part of that work is compromise. Stone was nonnegotiable.” “What,” said Alabama. Her voice flattened. Quiet. “And really John is the only part I feel bad about. I mean that. So don't be sentimental,” said Hob, “because it was unavoidable. Once my brother got on board. He was propping him up. Stone too. But fuck him, actually. He was old. Vincent was like those guys that used to give Kennedy his painkillers. Sworn to secrecy.” Hob proffered the bloom. “They make me think of you,” he said, “irises. They're lovely, the way you are.” The metal iris gleamed. The eels circled in their carboys. I smelled ozone and sulfur. As though we were already in an antechamber of hell. Blame my education for that image. If you go to a Catholic school, you'll leave with a picture of hell in your head. Inculcating it is their specialty.

Hob would not shut up, after that. After our silence. As though we had admitted defeat. He told us everything. How Messaline had come to him, shortly before he'd given me his copy of the
Calendar
. In a dream, he said. One so real you could not distinguish it from waking life. She wore a black gown. She had her raven with her. She told him about the
mappa
. About Quinn. Everything after that, said Hob, had gone as planned. A rarity. “And what would have happened if it hadn't,” said Alabama. Hob shrugged. “I have only faith in you. Come on. You know that. Even if I do think big.” He grinned. His teeth as blazing white as his shirt. He spoke with perfect equanimity. Explaining that Potash deserved what he'd gotten. That Quinn deserved worse. Charthouse and Stone, he said, were moving too slowly. Their whole moral understanding of the situation was outdated. They couldn't be expected to cope under current conditions. The constant vigilance and attrition. The crows. There was no need for it. They exacerbated the need for it. Modern life, he said, had moved past them. With Potash gone, he explained, life would change even more. In ways we could not yet imagine. We'd see. It would take time. Not much. Not anything unendurable. He seemed drunk. I felt drunk. Either from the whiskey or his slippery speaking. Or the late hour. Or all of it. The iris rotating in his hands. The two black arrows of his lapels. I asked where she was now. “You know where she is,” said Hob. “So you're her boss,” said Alabama. He didn't speak. He smiled.

Alabama shoved her gun back into her waistband and stood up. Hob never lost his odd, small grin. “Guys, this is like outside the bound­aries,” he said, “okay? Just wait. Just be patient. You'll see.” Alabama sighed. Weary blood. Weary flesh. My eyelids dropping. I don't make speeches. “I'm leaving,” I said. “What,” said Hob. “You heard me,” I said, “and you can kill me if you want. Or have her kill me or whatever. It won't make you right.” It was bizarre: he could have murdered us. With a wave of his hand. With a thought. Instead he sat there, smiling and spinning the stalk. I kept expecting a blow. Or pain. Or simple darkness. Hob's face still unhealthily radiant. He would not look me in the eye. He twiddled the metal flower instead. “I would never do anything to hurt you guys,” he said. His voice cracked as he said the word
hurt
.

I knew he meant what he said. Insane as it sounded. He looked too exhausted to lie. He looked too much like a young king to lie. We stood there. It was really awkward. The awkwardness made me forget, for one heartbeat. All of my muscles were twitching. Singing. Begging me to go after him. I hated it. I hated being beaten by this schoolmate. So weak and frail. He'd outplayed us, though. When you've lost, you've lost. No amount of fury will change that. “Good-bye,” said Alabama. “Later, skater,” said Hob. “I'm not coming back to school,” he said to me, “so don't worry about like running into me in the halls. I have a lot on my plate right now.” His voice deepened. He hoped we'd ask. Everyone wants to give up their secrets. In the end, you do. And I wanted to know. Part of me did, at least. The sick, sad, thought-loving part of me really wanted to know what he and Messaline had planned. What happened after we left Mountjoy. That's another sucker's proposition. Wanting to know. For knowing's sake. Look what it had gotten us so far. I offered my hand for a shake. That's what you do at the end of a game. Even when you lose. As Hob reached for it, I said, “Hey man, what's the capital of New Zealand.” “What,” he said.

Or started to say. I didn't let him finish. Smashed my forehead into his face. It's easier when your target is shorter than you. You can aim down. When they're the same height it's a harder problem. You have to be more precise. Hob got to the whistle that precedes a W. We're polite in America. We try to answer questions when asked. I hit him dead-on. I didn't even have to drop into slow time. It was a bullshit maneuver. It was borderline criminal. I didn't care. He clucked. He whimpered. His thin nose spread. Blood gushed from it. Staining his white shirt collar. His lips. His teeth. He staggered backward. One step. Two. He fell to the ground. When your gun fails you, you have to rely on good old human confusion. That and your stony skull. If you pull a gun, your opponent is expecting a bullet. He can stop a bullet. He can't stop shit if he's thinking about New Zealand. Stuff like that, by the way, asking for a country's capital or telling a fascinating story is called misdirection. Erzmund is a major proponent of it. You get your target thinking about unrelated and trivial matters. That's when you make your play.

Hob was unconscious. Mouth open. Blood still leaking. “Is he going to choke,” Alabama said. “Not now,” I said. I turned him onto his side with my shoe. So the blood would run to the floor. Not back into his throat. His breathing came easier at once. “What if you hadn't knocked him out,” said Alabama. “We wouldn't be any worse off,” I said. “You have a point,” said Alabama. The metal iris gleamed, eyelike, near the toe of her boot.

32

L
ectures on morality. You have to leave them behind. Hob lying on his side at the bottom of the ladder. Grayish detritus from the gunshot on his cheeks. His blood mustache. His pale, thin face. Exultant even in unconsciousness. His combed hair. One strand loose. He looked smaller. I almost felt bad. You have to mete out in what measure you are meted unto, though. That's from the Bible. Alabama kicked the hatch closed. The clang resounded. I watched the carpet. Charthouse's last stand. With an electric crackle, it unrolled itself over the hatch. The headless mannequin. The globe. Their looming, swaying shadows. Alabama walking among them to the door. Hob, the king, alone and asleep under the floor. Life is hard to understand. This is one of the first things you learn as you get older. The snow had increased. I followed Alabama out into it. She was smoking. One of Vincent's. “Is that the last,” I said. “It's the last,” she said. “Can I have a drag,” I said. “Of course,” she said. “What are we going to use now,” I said. “Aspirin, like pretty much everybody,” she said. I handed it back. We stood there, in front of Karasarkissian's with the stone-blue sentry rats, trading it back and forth. I was glad no cops were around to accuse us of smoking weed.

She didn't say anything about Charthouse. His fate beyond our control at this point. Not that anything else was under our control. Not that anything is, ever, if you think about it. When you go up against a greater talent, you have to be ready to get outplayed. I didn't mention him either. Though we were talking about him, by not talking about him. I didn't even know him that well, and I was praying for his survival. Silently saying Ave Marias. Hard to estimate his chances. We stood and smoked. Eventually I stopped praying. Childish. You have to, though. “So the whole thing was like a waste,” said Alabama. I knew what she meant. “It's not a waste,” I said. “Nothing's a waste.” “You don't even know,” said Alabama. Strictly speaking, true. “There's nothing anyone in the world can do about people being cowards,” I said, “that I do know.”

“It's like five o'clock in the morning,” Alabama said, “feels like.” She was dead-bang right. At least according to my phone. “That's uncanny,” I said. “It's not that uncanny,” she said. “I don't want to go home,” I said, “not right now.” “I know,” said Alabama, “me neither. Like what if you had to talk to your parents.” The stone-blue rats cried out in sequence. Alabama stood slumped against the glass front window of the store. Shoulders down. Body lightly bowed. Hands linked at her belt buckle. A stripe of streetlamp light touching the soft curve of her cheek. “I don't know what we're going to do,” she said. What she meant by
we
unclear. “Well,” I said. “What,” she said. I leaned in and tilted up her chin. I pressed my mouth against hers. Her lips tasted like smoke. Her tongue. Her warm breath. When you have to act, you have to act.

To my surprise, she kissed me back. I had been expecting her to execute a quick head-turn, so I'd get her neck, up near her jaw hinge. Or knee me in the balls. I honestly would not have minded either. I was bone-cold. She covered my ears with her warm palms. I pressed my forehead against hers. “Mike,” she said. “What,” I said. “I don't know,” she said. “Neither do I,” I said. Didn't matter. I heard a car. I shut my eyes. I opened them. Taxi luck: it descends when you least expect it. A cab was cruising along Ninth. Past the dead garden. He slowed as he saw us. I was giving the Hitlerian salute modern Americans use to hail cabs. Nobody ever remarks on this fact. In the backseat, Alabama let her head rest on my shoulder. She had her eyes closed. She didn't speak. I couldn't tell if she was asleep or awake. The driver kept glancing at us in his mirror. I looked at him until he looked away.

When we got to her house, the stone wolfhounds stared at us, mouths open. Alabama let us in. The bluish light of dawn was starting to fill the rooms of the first floor. It reduced every painting to a half-black, half-luminous cloud. We climbed the stairs. Nothing. Her mother or her father was snoring. “My mother snores five times as loud as that,” I said. Alabama grinned. Just for a second. She locked her room door behind us. We stood there. Still cold. Looking at each other. It was one of the moments that make you grateful you were born. At least for me. Not because of her. I wasn't happy. Just glad I existed. Life, as I said, is hard to understand. She removed the gun from her waistband and laid it on her desk. I took off my coat. “So this is what my room looks like at the ass end of the night,” she said. “Pretty grim,” I said. Her thin, soft arms around my neck: that's the next thing I remember. How I nearly bashed my forehead into the wall, struggling out of my pants. How her nipples looked black in the dawn light. How dark her pubic thatch was. How I could still hear the snores.

We stood there naked. Unreality. The first thing I'd thought when I met her:
I wonder what she looks like naked.
Not carnal. Or sort of carnal. Also philosophical. How often do you get your first wish granted? Not often enough. Otherwise fewer people would perish from broken spirits. The vine tattoo wound down from her neck and across her sternum. A blossom, dark blue or purple, covered her left breast. The vine snaked past her navel, next to which another flower bloomed, and twined around her right thigh and ended at her right instep. I followed its course with my eyes. Again and again. Alabama poked me in the cavity above my solar plexus. “I don't have any condoms,” she said, “so if you give me anything I'll kill you.” I took hold of her wrist. Her radial artery beat against my fingers. Slower than my own hammering pulse. “I won't,” I said. The snores choked themselves into silence and then resumed. “Jesus,” said Alabama, “that does not sound healthy.” “Is that your mother or father,” I said. “My mother,” she said. “Would you have shot me,” I said. Didn't mean to. “When,” said Alabama. “You know,” I said. “Don't be an idiot,” said Alabama. “It's difficult for me not to be one,” I said. My throat dry. My mouth dry. My heart kicking at my ribs. “That's all right,” Alabama said, “get moving.” She climbed onto her bed. Huge and white. She parted her thighs. I knelt between them. Going on instinct. Soft skin of her inner thighs against my ears. Her palm at rest on the crown of my head. Her strong, acid-clean scent in my nose. Taste of her in my mouth. I was even harder than I'd been the day Messaline had assaulted me. Alabama murmured. I couldn't understand what she said. So I climbed up next to her. She kissed my neck and told me to lie on my back. She climbed on top of me. She guided me. She knew what she was doing. It's good to find yourself in the hands of an expert. I gasped as she pushed herself down onto my cock. From the shock. From the difference in temperature. She grunted. Sounded slightly surprised. “Are you all right,” I said. “Relax,” she said. The muscles in her lower back tensed under my hands. We tried to be quiet. This was difficult for me. Difficult for her. She made sounds in the back of her throat. I echoed them. In syncopation. Our breath mingled. Her cropped hair lightly abrading my ear.

The massive light of the moon rushed in. I did not see her whole. I saw her in swift fragments. A shoulder, a shin, her soft temples, the bluish hollow under her right arm. In this way her marvelous, fluent body, instead of appearing as just another phenomenon, just another entry in the catalog of visible life, instead of this, it moved me. As a mountain would. Though I'd never seen a mountain. Or an ocean, maybe. Seen for the first time late at night, at a towering height, across an insurmountable distance. Clear voice. Pliant curve of her neck. The bed sighed rapidly under us. The headboard paddling the wall. She had these sharp, scimitar-shaped hipbones. She kissed me. I thrust upward. The sun appeared. Just a slice of it. Enough to tint the light yellow. I'd heard the whole roster of premature-ejaculation horror stories. I don't know how I lasted so long. Probably exhaustion. Or my committed masturbation routine.

“Don't come inside me,” she murmured. “Okay,” I murmured back. She lifted herself off of me. Sat back on her haunches. Wrapped one hand around the base of my cock. The first sunlight made me squint. She stroked me until I came. She was fingering her clit with her free hand. I came all over my torso. I grunted a curt, meaningless monosyllable. Couldn't help it. Her breathing ragged. Her eyes intent. “Jesus Christ, Wood,” she said, “have you like never had sex. There's a towel in my bathroom.” When I got back she was grinning up at me. “What's so funny,” I said. “You also made like a pretty intense face,” she said, “to be honest.” I climbed in next to her. Her abdomen lightly furrowed with muscle and sheened with sweat. She fell asleep then. A real champion of sleeping: awake, then asleep. Eyes black, hair black, open mouth black.

Sun in my eyes. Sun in my open mouth. That's what woke me. Alabama's snores also contributed. Yellow, rich sunlight filled her room. A framed poster of an old man with white hair on her wall. At first I thought it was Mr. Stone. Then I read the huge black letters at the bottom:
JANACEK
. That composer she liked. The black letters directly above the black gun on her desk. Our tangled clothes on the floor. She slept with her limbs splayed out, as though she'd been hurled to earth. I had no idea where I was at first. As my dream drained away. I'd been dreaming of the temple. Of the statue whose face I could not see. Music drifted in. Piano. I couldn't identify it. I did know, however, that I'd lost my opportunity to leave undetected. “If you want to put the dogs on it,” mumbled Alabama. Out of her sleep. I had no idea what she meant.

I dressed as quietly as I could. Not quietly enough. “So you're just going to fuck me and leave,” said Alabama. Her voice hard. Cold. Furious. I shot my gaze up. Pure panic. Filthy shoelaces draped across my fingers. She was grinning. “Man,” she said, “that was too easy.” She was propped on her forearms and elbows. “I'm a cheap date,” I said. “I mean,” she said, “you're like the size of a building but you get this caught-in-the-headlights look. It's kind of great.” I tried to think of a refutation. Her description, however: accurate. You know your own face at that age. You spend a lot of time watching it in mirrors. “See, you're doing it right now,” she said. She was sitting up. I kept checking her out. It was hard for me, as I said, to believe that I was seeing her naked. Again. Good fortune follows on the heels of mis­fortune. A classical teaching. “I would like,” said Alabama, “to fuck you again, to be perfectly honest. I think logistically it might be difficult.” “I have to get home,” I said, “my parents have probably got an APB out on me.” I didn't know what an APB was. They said it on TV. “Yeah,” said Alabama, “plus if you stick around any longer Mark and Lena will make you eat breakfast with us, and I really wouldn't want that to happen to my worst enemy.”

When she said
enemy
, it brought everything back. Crashing into the sunlit silence. Hob. Charthouse. Mr. Stone. We didn't speak. The not-speaking stretched. “Look,” she said, “I'll do some digging. I'll let you know.” “That sounds good,” I said. The sound of our voices was, suddenly, hollow and lonely. Voices on a vast, dark, irremediable plain. I blinked. I cleared my throat. She was standing now, toga'd in a sheet. She locked her palms around the back of my neck. “Don't get all weird,” she said. “I won't,” I said. We stayed like that. I was listening to her breathe. Feeling her fine-built ribs expanding and contracting under my hands. Lungs, heart, brain, eyes, healthy blood. All of it. My pain was back. All of it. I didn't mind. “Good-bye,” she said. “Good-bye,” I said. She unlaced her hands. I started running. When you have to leave, you have to leave. Her parents saw me as I rushed down their stairs. They were sitting and eating. Lilies in a green glass vase on their breakfast table bowed. “Hello,” said her father. Mr. Sturdivant held a plank of bacon aloft on a fork. Couldn't call him Mark. “Hello,” said her mother. Mrs. Sturdivant was tipping a pitcher, a blue rooster. Water leaped from the lip. Couldn't call her Lena. I kept running. And that's how I lost my virginity.