We're All in This Together (30 page)

I went in the bathroom to wash my face. The dead emu was in the bathtub. A few flies darted around his head and beak. I puked
again.

I lay down. The earth moved; I listened to it moan. I moaned back. We were both pretty tired.

I woke at twilight. My head and my stomach hurt. I ordered Chinese food and asked them to bring some aspirin, too. I took
the emu to a Dumpster around back and laid him to rest.

The food came, but no aspirin. I ordered a pornographic movie on the cable box and ate dinner.

There was a part toward the end of the movie when two women were taking a bath together, soaping each other's breasts and
slopping water out on the candles on the floor. I knew they were just acting, but it looked like a lot of fun.

"I'm still dirty down here," one girl pouted.

"Looks like Dr. Sponge will have to operate," the other replied.

I called my house. The machine picked up. My wife told me to leave a message.

At 12:03 A.M. the state of Florida electrocuted Virgil Armistead Pendergast, the Sportscar Splatterer, for three counts of
first-degree murder. I know this because the power in my room went out in a sudden flash, along with the rest of the electricity
in Starke. I read the time by the Day-Glo digits of my watch.

When he called, Wayne told me that as the electricity coursed through him, Virgil's feet burst into flame. No one could figure
out why. "But," said Wayne, "it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that the man didn't clean much in there, in the
toe crevices."

"Are you saying that toe jam is flammable?"

I took his silence as an affirmative.

"I'm on a boat," said Wayne.

"I see," I said.

"I'm not coming back," he said.

"What am I supposed to tell Mom and Dad?" I asked.

"I mean, I'm not coming back right away. Yolanda and I are going to Haiti. So, I need you to drive Virgil's Jaguar home."

"Haiti?" I asked.

"She knows a voodoo guy that says he can bring Virgil back from the dead."

This information caused a number of questions to cycle through my mind, but I picked, "Do you want that?"

"No, not really." Wayne sighed. "But I don't want to be one of those pushy fucking guys, you know? One of those pricks who
never shares the remote control?"

"Well, if she's going to raise him from the dead, where does that leave your relationship, Wayne?"

"We're still trying to figure that out. We're taking it slow, you know?"

Wayne told me to cheer up, and then he said good-bye.

I packed my things and started home.

On the way, I stopped in Appomattox again and hung around for a few days. A few days turned into a week, and at some point
I decided that I was waiting for something to happen—a sign, some kind of permission.

I visited the statue of Traveler and rubbed his nose for luck. I loitered around the steps of the courthouse and made myself
available to other tourists who needed someone to take their picture. But, mostly, I waited, and drank diet sodas, and spoke
to no one who knew me.

Finally, one afternoon, as I sat on the hood of the Jaguar, staring up at the statue of Lee and the rearing horse, a man with
a bucket of soapy water and a squeegee approached me. He had his cap pulled low so I couldn't see his eyes, just the gristled
wedge of his jaw. I could smell the booze on him. "Awright," he said, and held out his hand, "you want me to take it from
here?"

I handed over the keys, and hopped a Greyhound back to New England. When he finally did come home, two years later, and missing
his left eye, Wayne acted like he had forgot all about the car, never even asked.

Albert Michalkiewicz turned out to be an alcoholic and my wife left him not more than three months later. Not long afterward
I read in the paper that he'd declared bankruptcy. Of course, I never went to his bakery again, but when I walk by the boarded-up
storefront, I sometimes pause to sniff; three years later, the sweet smell of his bread still lingers on the sidewalk.

My wife does not talk about this time. Nor do I bring it up. I did not reproach her when she came home. What right did I have?

We are happy, I think, the way people like us are happy: sometimes we share a bottle of wine at the local excuse for a French
restaurant. We watch television together. We have a dog we take for walks. Now that Wayne is home, sometimes the three of
us will sit around and laugh, and play Trivial Pursuit. He's never told me what happened in Haiti, or where Yolanda went,
or if they used voodoo to raise Virgil Pendergast from the dead, but the elbow stump of his left arm and the picture of a
beige-skinned baby in a polka dot jumper that he carries in his wallet tell me enough. These days Wayne works as a parking
attendant at the airport, and lives alone. Once, I drove out to surprise him with a sandwich, and saw him sitting in the booth;
he had removed his glass eye, and he was fingering the photograph of the baby in the polka dot jumper, and staring off into
space. I did not disturb him.

Paula and I built a birdhouse, and on weekend mornings we like to watch the finches flap down, then strut around, and bicker
with one another, and preen, and fly away again. Yes, I am convinced that we are happy enough.

Only the other day my wife and I were curled up on the sofa, nearly in love, nearly dreaming in our collective warmth. I was
only half watching the television, one of those shouting and hair-pulling talk shows.

Then there was Uncle Bob and a delicate, dark-haired man who looked something like my second wife. They were sitting on a
stage, surrounded by an audience on risers. The title card for the next segment of the show suddenly slammed across the screen
in bullet print:

UNIONS OF FREAKS!

THE WOMAN WHO BECAME A MAN AFTER MARRYING OVER

A HUNDRED MEN AND HER BROTHER-LOVER!

My wife was lying against me, half asleep, rubbing my chest.

"You married one hundred and two men, is that right, sir? And you performed the services, sir?" The host of the show wore
a mask of amazement. His hair was outstanding.

"Yes, that's right," said Uncle Bob, nodding somberly. Jesse crossed and uncrossed his legs.

"And you are also married? You and your sister-brother?"

"Yes, sir," said Uncle Bob.

"Man and wife," said my second wife in a quiet voice.

Uncle Bob reached over to Jesse and patted his hand. "Yes, sir. Man and wife."

The host scratched his head and paced back and forth for a few seconds without saying anything. "Wow," he said finally.

The audience laughed.

"You guys are a couple of real weirdos, aren't you?" The host winked at the studio audience. The audience hooted and howled
and stomped. The host did a little jig from one side of the stage to the other; he made sharp fencing motions with his microphone.

Uncle Bob frowned. Jesse shook his head meekly. He looked frail, and old.

"What are you thinking?" my wife asked sleepily.

I reached for the remote control and turned off the power.

"Honey?" She looked up into my eyes. Maybe she recognized something.

"Oh," I said, "I just get tired of those freak shows. They trot those poor people out and laugh at them. It grosses me out."

She nodded sleepily, closed her eyes.

"How did you rescue—" I started, but she put a hand to my mouth.

"I always hated that game," she said.

I watched her drift off and I thought of Starke and Wayne and the guilty hours, of the road and of Appomattox. I had gone
mad and experienced visions. Now I was back from the journey and my life was restored. I ran my hands through my wife's hair
and whispered that I loved her. I know that Lee must have brushed down Traveler in this way, must have murmured in one of
those big sweet ears, must have promised the animal that everything would turn out fine. But had the general ever lowered
his own ear, I wondered, and dared to hear the counsel of his truest friend?

Acknowledgments

There are a number of people I need to thank for putting up with me:

The first is my awesome agent, Amy Williams, who never flagged in her confidence in my writing, explained everything, and
perhaps most important, drove us to see Dylan.

Several hosannas need to be cast in the direction of my editor, Gillian Blake. Her skillful editing made this a better book,
and her enthusiasm made me a happier person. (Sorry again about the couch, GB.)

Among my many wonderful teachers, I want to particularly express my gratitude to Paul Russell, David Plante, and Binnie Kirshenbaum.

Kelly Braffet, Ben Freeman, Barbara Gordon, Lauren Grodstein, Jennifer Guevin, Nathan Hensley, John McNally, Kevin Newman,
Christina Saraceno, Daniel Silver, and Scott Snyder provided friendship, criticism, inspiration, and the occasional cold drink.

Thanks are also due to Matthew Elblonk, Arthur Greene, Marisa Pagano, Surendra Patel, and Greg Villepique.

Finally, I want to say that none of this would have been possible without the support of my family: Mom, Dad, Joe, Leo, and
Naomi. I love you guys.

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Owen King grew up in Bangor, Maine. He is a graduate of Vassar College and holds an M.F.A. from Columbia University. His stories
have appeared in
Book Magazine
and the
Bellingham Review.
He has been nominated for a National Magazine Award and is a recipient of the John Gardner Award for Short Fiction. He currently
resides in Brooklyn.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE

The text of this book is set in Linotype Sabon, named after the type founder Jacques Sabon. It was designed by Jan Tschichold
and jointly developed by Linotype, Monotype, and Stempel, in response to a need for a typeface to be available in identical
form for mechanical hot metal composition and hand composition using foundry type.

Tschichold based his design for Sabon roman on a font engraved by Garamond, and Sabon italic on a font by Granjon. It was
first used in 1966 and has proved an enduring modern classic.