Max heard himself say: Yes.
Before Pan could respond, a white man in a red Durango slowed down as he passed them and threw a plate of beef nachos at Pan. Pan screamed and so did Max, shocked as he was by the hot cheese that splattered against his face.
I’m going to rip that dress off you, bitch! screamed the man. Then he sped off.
Pan dropped his cigarette and sprinted after the SUV yelling. He jabbed his middle fingers into the air in front of him as he chased it, but the Durango was long gone. It coughed out a black stream of gas and left skids on the pavement and the two of them running down an unlit gravel road as if toward nothing.
THE WEEKEND PASSED WITHOUT A text from Pan. Max checked his phone compulsively. The less he heard from Pan, the more space he took up. Worry followed him like a dog. Worry scratched at his leg and howled.
Pan was everywhere Max looked. Pan was Kurt Cobain’s pout, sulking above his bed. Pan was the iris inside the tiger eye. Pan was the protection scissors that had fallen from the ceiling and lay, jaws open, on the carpet for anyone to step on. He was the one who’d said You’re gorgeous, Max, and I think that even when I don’t say it. Pan was the shark tooth he’d never given him.
One text could dispel all the worry, Max was sure. But one text did not come. It did not come as he brushed his tongue, peed in the toilet, poured his orange juice, did a hundred jumping jacks, campaigned at the Judge’s office.
When Max closed his eyes, Pan was in bed, pressed against the length of him. When Max ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth, he tasted the clove of garlic Pan had eaten for lunch. When he opened his eyes, Max was standing alone in front of the Judge’s HQ.
Davis was already through his fourth Dr. Fizz when Max walked in. He belched a greeting. Lorne mumbled on the phone in the corner where he sat proselytizing for his father. Max could hardly look at him.
He slouched to his desk and collapsed into his chair.
A name stared up at him from the list.
A number beside it.
The script he’d memorized by now.
The phone rang.
Had he dialed it?
The phone was at his ear.
A man picked up after three rings.
Hello howdy hi, said the answerer.
The man’s voice sounded bright and Southern.
Hello, sir, said Max, and he began his spiel. I’m calling from the Judge’s office blah blah blah. Then he stopped himself, because he felt the energy on the line shift.
Son, the voice said, steady and sure. Son, can I ask your age? If you don’t mind.
Max liked how this man spoke. Slow and thoughtful. A man in a cardigan, maybe smoking a pipe. A man propped up against a wall of bound books.
I’m sixteen, said Max.
Sixteen, said the man, as if that were something. Sixteen, he repeated. Ah. The age of change.
Max sat up straighter.
Odd fellow.
Sixteen, said the man. You can make your mistakes at sixteen. But do I detect something in your voice? Are you feeling sad, son? I hear something in the way you speak.
Sad? asked Max. I am just from Germany.
That was off script, and it caught Lorne’s attention. He turned his face toward Max and mouthed What.
Son, I don’t mean to pry, which is certainly the point of what you’re doing over there for the Judge. But I hope you’ve given thought to what you’re doing on behalf of that man. That’s not a good man, son. That’s not a good man. Do you listen, truly, to what he says? Have you thought about what you want to stand for?
Um, said Max.
Son. You’re the one who called me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be so forward. But I work down at the university. In the Sociology Department. You come see me sometime. We’ll have a Coke. Go for a walk.
Max hung up. Davis and Lorne stood in front of his desk now, heads cocked, eyes thin questioning lines.
Hey, fellows, said Max. He felt out of breath, like he’d just gone on a run.
You all right? asked Davis.
Yeah, said Max. Looney Tune on the line. So, I hung it up just now.
All right, said Davis.
But Lorne stood there, skeptical. Freckles ran up his neck.
He’s got freckles everywhere.
Keep to the script, Germany, Lorne said. Keep to the script.
MAX TYPED INTO HIS PHONE: Poison drinking Alabama.
He reclined in the giant armchair of the living room. He sank into the cushions, shifting slightly against the lumbar pillow propped up behind him, the one that said Joy! Another flourish of décor that had come with the house. His mother usually positioned it backward, so that the script faced the fabric of the chair and not the living room. His parents sat together on the sofa. His mother sketched in her notebook. She was dressed in all black, her usual uniform. By dressing in one color, she could eliminate one decision from her day. CNN talked at them from the massive screen that sat on the console. After-dinner tea steeped on the coffee table. Beside it a plate of cake.
The first thing Google presented to Max was an article about a war criminal who drank poison in court.
As he scrolled through the Google image results, he saw a refrigerator packed with soda cans. A lineman in a crimson red jersey. A man with his face down on a bar. The Judge standing at the pulpit. No poison. No snakes.
Who are you texting? his mother asked. You can invite Pan over if you want.
No one, he said. He put his phone down. He pretended to watch the TV.
Honey, she said. Want some popcorn? I can make some.
No thanks.
Really? No popcorn? But that’s your favorite.
Not hungry, said Max.
You got a headache again, son? said his father. Maybe you can call your friends and go toss the football.
They’re busy, said Max. And it’s dark out.
You know, said Max’s mother. She rearranged herself on the sofa, which meant she was about to say something serious. She placed her notebook on the coffee table. We’ve been talking. We don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go to church again without us.
You are banning me from church?
No, said his father. We’re just saying we’d like to go with you. Check it out.
I don’t think you’d like it, said Max.
Why’s that? his father said.
If we don’t go, you don’t go, his mother said.
She said it with the kind of control that came from practice. She must have repeated that phrase countless times until it sounded both strict and certain. She lifted her eyebrows like—got it?
Already you’ve grown so distant, his mother said.
And we don’t know about all this religion, said his father.
You know, said Max. Most people’s parents would be happy their son was going to church.
Well, I’m not most people’s parents, said his mother. I’m yours.
Max stared at his nails. Clean, scrubbed squares.
I just want to come next time, said his mother. To the service. See what they do there.
Max could not picture his mother in church. Her closed, judgmental gaze. It would be like bringing in a spy. With her there, he would have to look at it through her eyes, and already he knew he didn’t want to subject himself to that. What if someone fell to the floor and shook? What if someone stepped into the aisle and sung in a language no one else knew? His mother could not open herself to mystery. She didn’t believe in magic. To her, science was wonder. A data sheet expertly executed. A drawing rendered with exact precision.
He felt cold. The need for a sweatshirt overcame him. How could all of those people be wrong? His mother would never open her mind enough to let even the possibility of God in.
This is mine. Can’t I have something that’s mine? he said. You would hate it anyway. It would bore you. You would judge and make me feel stupid.
No one is trying to make you feel stupid. And you have many things that are yours already,
said his mother. I know I’d hate it, but that’s not the point.
Max wondered what his father really thought about all of this. Nothing, probably, as long as Max didn’t stay inside the house with a headache. Lazy. His father hated lazy people. He hated it when his son seemed lazy. Lazy as in sloth. Sloth as in sin. If his father had grown up in Alabama, Max knew he’d be like the other men here. He’d be in the woods worshipping God, drinking magic, tackling a man on a field. He was a product of his environment. A good German engineer with nice German hair and a flat German stomach who ate squares of German cake. He did what he was told. Max admired that: the ability to fit into the mold put before you. Max wished he could see a mold and know how to fit it.
MAX WAS DOING PUSH-UPS at the foot of his bed when the phone rang. He sprang for it, desperate, and yes, it was Pan.
He wanted to sound casual.
How did casual sound?
Let’s work on the plan, said Pan, exuding a level of ease that Max envied.
I cannot, Max heard himself say, do the plan.
He sprawled out on his stomach and rubbed his chin into the carpet. It felt like stubble.
You haven’t even heard the plan yet!
I cannot anyway.
Oh, come on. Are you mad at me for not calling?
No, said Max. I was not ever mad.
Liar. Don’t lie.
Where have you been? asked Max. Why did you not want to call?
Max could hear Pan shrug.
Nowhere, buttercup. I just wanted to give you time to think. Think about what you want.
I want you, said Max, without thinking.
Well, good, said Pan. Because I’ve got a plan. Tell me you’re not tempted. Bring your fingers, they’re part of the ingredients.
What kind of plan? said Max.
I’ve discovered a spell that will let you transfer part of your power to me.
My curse, you mean?
Your power. Just come. Just trust me for once.
FOR A MOMENT, THE WORLD seemed carefree and completely unmagical, like Max had nothing to do but this, walk his body along the beach of a lake and through the night. He followed Pan up a rough sandbank until they located a place to cast the spell. Water ran up to touch his ankles. The lake looked solid enough to walk on.
Pan presented a swath of paper with instructions rolled into a scroll. He unfurled it.
Needed for spell
6 fingernail clippings from Max
1 shaving of callus
Eye of an animal
Leaf
Candle for burning
Sliver of a moon
Thimble of lake
Pan waved a sanded-down stick like a wand. He lit a candle that he unloaded from his purse and recited a spell.
Use this water to draw out his power
Let the moon do its glow
Seed magic in me and watch it grow
Take it from Max and let him go.
Pan bowed his head. The candle had an itchy, ragged smell that made Max cough. Pan leaned in like a suggestion. Closer. Lined red lips, lined green lids. Makeup smeared and dripping. His Adam’s apple pushed at his throat like a Gordian knot. Max saw how far Pan’s wanting went.
Any second now, said Pan.
They reclined on the beach, which was just a patch of wet loamy dirt. Pan bent down to touch his lips to Max’s hip. They sprawled out for a while on the rough earth and talked. The constellations that pressed into the asphalt of sky looked like they were frozen specifically there, right above Alabama. It amazed Max to think these were the same stars that had shone on him in Germany, which felt so far away it might not even be a real place anymore.
Pan talked about pictures he’d seen of the earth from outer space and how beautiful the photographs were and how blue.
There’s nothing more than a thin line of sky that’s holding us here, said Pan.
I guess that is right, said Max.
It is right, said Pan. I heard Al Gore say it on NPR.
I think it is time, Pan went on. He pushed Max off him. I feel something in my third eye.
Okay, said Max. Go test it.
But Max knew the spell hadn’t worked.
Pan retrieved the bag he brought with the dead kitten in it. He removed the stiff, lifeless creature with its matted fur and static eyes.
Damn, Pan said after massaging the body, stroking it.
Nothing happened. The cat stayed dead.
Maybe you need to start with something smaller, Max offered.
Max took the kitten in his lap, and it began to purr. He stoked the cat’s head and scratched its belly. Bubblegum flavored. The cat induced the taste of candy. He closed his eyes and sought the headache.
Pan did not tantrum. Instead, he sang.
Dig them up, dig them up. We’re going to dig the bodies up and bring them back to life. Dig them up. Dig them up. We’re going to dig the bodies up.
Dig them up.
Dig them up.
Dig them up.
Dig them up.
Dig them up.
That’s what Max heard for the next hour, for the next day, for the next week. It was like a mantra that he didn’t want to know. It rang through his head like a bell. Max wished the plan wasn’t what brought Pan back to him. He wished Pan had no other intention than to see him, spend time with him, to stretch out their bodies in the sand side by side, and be absolutely nowhere else.
MAX STEPPED DOWN FROM DAVIS’S TRUCK. Waved a hand like thank you as Davis left him by his mailbox. Max balanced his feet on the curb where leaves accumulated. Autumnal colors. Death’s season drew near. All things would wither. Max would need to resist the impulse to give the camellias and crepe myrtles an early spring. He held the straps of his backpack. He had healed the cat at the beach the night before last. He’d need another resurrection by the end of the day if he wanted to keep his reserves regulated and curb his cravings. He remembered the dying tulip in the kitchen vase. Pan had given him small baggies of sugar to ingest between healings, if his cravings got too bad. He touched the bag in his pocket. Not yet needed. Across the street a neighbor boy tossed a basketball toward a hoop above his garage. He missed again and again.
Honey! He turned to locate Miss Jean’s voice on her porch, her arm waving.
Honey, said Miss Jean when he reached her. Your nose! Did you break it?
Max touched his nose. The sting was there. Helmetless during warm-up, Max had caught Wes’s throw with his face.
No, ma’am, he said. I hurt it during the practice, but I think it will be fine.
The truth was it felt broken. The pain nagged. It distracted, which was nice.
Honey, said Miss Jean. It looks awful. Purple at the edges already. You can’t see it but it’s going to leave a big ole bruise. I’m fixing to grab you a bag of ice from the freezer. Hang on a second.
Miss Jean disappeared inside. Her cat, Puss, came out and rubbed itself against his shin, purring. He felt the vibrations and knelt down to scratch it behind the ear. Animals loved Max. Mr. Sprinkles came meowing each time he was at Pan’s.
Puss, he said. What do you think of it here? You like it?
Miss Jean had a living room on her porch: couch, rattan recliners, rocking chair, side table, the whole shebang. Beside the porch, marigolds, Russian sage, purple cabbage, and pansies bloomed in a raised bed. Miss Jean liked to sit outside rocking and pouring cups of sweet tea from her pitcher into an insulated tumbler filled with ice and stickered with Alabama A’s.
Here you go, sweetness, said Miss Jean.
She handed Max a washcloth tied around a handful of frozen peas. He pressed it into his nose. His face throbbed. A sharpness streaked into his eyes.
Now I need a favor from you, she said.
Okay, sure, ma’am, said Max. He loved any opportunity to say the words ma’am and sure.
Can you get me a yard sign for the Judge? They were out at the campaign office. Can you believe it? But now, I think you might have inside
r access. Isn’t that right?
Max grinned from behind his ice pack.
Yes. I do, he said. I can, I am sure, get one for you.
Can you get me one of those that say rise up, alabama?
Think I can, said Max. Lorne has them, I think, at his house.
Lorne! Look at you on a first-name basis with Southern royalty. Now that’s a good boy, she said. I knew it. I knew you’d find the right crowd quick as sin. I had a good feeling about you right way. Minute I saw you. I thought: this one is special.
You did? he asked.
Sure, I did, honey! Now you go ahead and take that washcloth with you. You can return it when you bring me my sign. And keep that nose iced for at least twenty minutes to cut down on the swelling and bruise.
PAN’S PLAN. MAX MASSAGED HIS temples when he thought of it. He hoped Pan would forget it. Put it off perpetually. A fantasy. But Pan was obsessed.
It would happen in the town cemetery. It would happen in the middle of the night. The witching hour. They would go to the graves of the people the Judge had supposedly poisoned, and Max would raise them up. One by one. An undead army. Pan had made a list of where each person had been buried. The list made Max nauseated. Twelve names. Max had held the list up to the light in his kitchen. Had the Judge poisoned twelve people? Had he poisoned anyone at all? In Pan’s plan, they’d dig the holes, unseal the caskets, and Max would place his hands on the cold skin of each dead person. We’ll clamp our noses with clothespins to protect from the smell, Pan had said. We’ll strap masks over our faces to protect us from their eyes. They won’t know who brought them back. They’ll think we’re angels. We’ll wear wings.
In Pan’s plan, the risen dead would be seen as a miracle, returned to life by angels and the will of Jesus. The risen would report what the Judge had done to them. They would explain that they had been poisoned. It would bring the Judge’s demise. It would be a reckoning.
Why did Pan hate him so much? Max wondered. But in his heart, he knew the answer and the answer was Lorne. The Judge had taken Lorne from him. The Judge had taken Quaid, too. When Pan talked about the plan, Max felt like he was listening to someone recount a bad dream. Pan sounded too crazy to be serious, which was what allowed Max to go along with it, to load shovels into the car, to mold papier-mâché wings, to buy ski masks from Walmart and try them on in the mirror.
Boys of Alabama Page 20