Two evenings past.
Paul was in the kitchen. He was preparing a turkey, a boulder of meat and bone and, of course, skin, wet and dotted and yellow. The skin was important. The skin was the thing.
Zzzzzzzzerttt.
The door. Paul was reluctant to answer, afraid it was that relentless woman peddling her relentless leftovers. Every week it seemed she came, singling him out, leaving him to dispose of her inedible, vile crimes.
But, no. Instead he met a salesman. How tall the man was, how fat, how ugly, how stale of sweat -- Paul noticed none of these things. What he noticed was the suit. How many nights had it seen sleeping in bus terminals? How many mornings spent shaving in diner bathrooms? How often had its pockets been pulled inside out in search of pennies to pay for coffee? The suit said: often. The suit said: every single day. The suit said: this man could disappear and nobody would notice. Nobody would even think to complain.
The new Paul sensed an opportunity. He'd been sent a gift, wrapped in a suit of fraying seams and faded cloth.
The man was, appropriately enough, selling graves. He said his name was Ray. Ray reverently displayed a slim brochure, holding it with a look-but-don't-touch preciousness. New Paul was content to let him talk, to let the twilight creep closer.
"Manicured lawns," explained Ray. "We use sit-down mowers, not the push kind. The push one's don't do so good a job. I'm talking acres. More than seven, less than nine. You ever even seen an acre? It's like farm country. Goes forever, endless. We have a crew, works 'round the clock. I'm talking lawn as smooth as polished stone."
Paul smiled. Or he nodded. He didn't need to talk -- Ray both asked his own questions and answered them. "Are you a smart man, Paul? Yes you are. Ever think about your 'time,' meaning the afterlife? You do, because these things matter. You ever hear of Lawnhill Cemetery? Of course you have, you can't not have. We're the fifteenth largest in the area. And when you're that big, well..." Ray said he greatly admired men of few words. And then he talked and talked.
Memorials, chapels, vaults, caskets, nonsectarian, tiered packages from pauper on up to prince, from shallow ditch to gated and eternal flame'd pyramidal tomb. There was the Glade of What-Have-You and Mount Everlasting So-and-So and a watersprinkled parklike pasture devoted to veterans. Take your pick, pick your price, inside tip -- it's cheaper at the curb.
And then came the final plea. An entire sales commission hung in the balance. "Now here's the truth Paul. I stand here today because I believe in what I'm offering. Yes, I myself own a fine plot of Lawnhill land. But it's more than just the obvious -- a dignified place for peace and eternal rest. So much more. Hear me again, I own this land. Own. Its ownership, land ownership. Do you know what that means? Of course you do. It means that while you, Paul, will lose everything you've worked for upon your day of passing, by God, at Lawnhill you WON'T. In death YOU CAN STILL OWN. You can leave this world with something in your hands!
"Lawnhill welcomes you with openness Paul. Please. Please, won't you join us?"
Paul sought the council of his inner clock. Was it time? Yes. He asked, "Are you alone?"
Ray smiled harder. He tried forcing his pamphlet into Paul's clasped fingers. "Please, please join us?"
Of course he was alone. The suit said so. The suit said: permanent bachelor, dinner for one, baloney on white, brownbag drinker. Paul took the brochure. "Come inside."
Ray was suddenly in the hallway pumping Paul's hand, thanking him profusely. Paul pointed him to the living room and locked the door. If Ray was offended by the untidiness -- the prowling gnats, the calcified dust, the animal odors -- he didn't show it. He sat on the couch and made a space for his briefcase. He produced a second pamphlet and stood it atop the coffee table.
"Are you a mausoleum man?" inquired Ray. "We cremate too, just you see. Grave marker is included with only a minor additional charge. Is there a Missus? Oh, I understand. I should tell however, we do do transfers."
Paul asked Ray if he wanted anything, maybe coffee. The salesman declined. "Ulcer," he said. "But I'll take an installment plan! Ha ha. What's that, you don't have one? Well it just so happens I do! Ha ha."
"Excuse me for minute," said Paul. He crossed the living room and opened the door to the patio. "I seem to have forgotten something."
"I'll abide," said Ray, smiling confidently. "But the day of reckoning won't. It's never too soon Paul, and you are -- if you don't mind my saying it -- an olderly man."
Paul nodded and went outside. He took the meat fork from the barbecue. He paused to examine the tines -- scraped and bent, crusted with old blood, but still sharp. Paul carried it behind his back and returned to the living room.
*
Their arrangement was, Paul cooked and the insect came to eat. Paul's interest in the creature had quickly become that of the doting father; he was intensely proud. And there was much to be proud of. As the years went by, the creature grew stronger, maturing and evolving. It learned to walk, or better, to stalk. Iron knots of dark muscle bloomed. Its head merged with its humped torso and the old face got grown over, the blind eyes getting engulfed. And in a strange paradox, the healthier it got, the sicker it got -- violent, swollen carbuncles, bursting and pink, jutted from its body like peacock plumage, while suppurating cankers draped its chest and dripped fried pus while cancers roamed its face. And of course, the teeth, always more teeth.
Their relationship encountered many milestones. The first had come after Paul had been badly injured -- where or how he no longer recalled, although it must have involved the stairs or bath, one of those innocent seeming fixtures that secretly harbor a hunger for the sick and elderly. It was afterwards, while Paul recuperated, that he stopped cooking and fed the creature food that was raw.
This was a fortunate circumstance, well worth the cost of any injury. Because Paul discovered that the treacly insect actually preferred its meat uncooked -- the fresher the better. 'Enchanting' was the word he'd choose to describe his beloved visitor savoring these slick, bleeding meals, caressing them with its tongue, kissing them with its intestine lips, then sucking on them like candies, savoring every last crumb of protein.
What came next was practically inevitable.
Eventually, Paul found a dog. The stray had followed him, stumbling and hungry, a regal breed brought low -- German Shepherd, maybe. Paul had just come from the butchers. The dog whined as Paul untied the bundle he carried and pulled out a lump of hamburger, letting the dog lick it from his fingers. The canine followed Paul into his house, where he laid out the remaining meat on the living room floor. He then closed the dog inside. He went to the hardware store where he bought rope and a three-foot length of metal pipe.
The old Paul began pleading in earnest with him then. Old Paul had been vocal before, but never like this. He threatened, he debated, he intimidated and appealed. He went ignored.
When Paul returned from the store, he found the hamburger eaten and the stray hiding beneath the coffee table, where it had pissed. Paul took his toolbox out from under the sink and got his hammer. He tied the rope around the dog's neck and pulled it into the backyard. Paul then nailed the pipe into the ground, sinking it about halfway, and then he tied the dog to it. The dog didn't protest, mostly it sat with its head slunk, watching despondently -- these castaways, they knew better than to keep high hopes.
By this time the sun had begun its last stand, begging the clouds to lift it high again, flaring them orange and red in shameless flattery. So pathetic. So futile. Paul watched the inevitable rebuke, and just as the sun finally began to vanish...his guest arrived. When it noticed the animal, tied and shivering, Paul saw it do something he had never seen before: it smiled.
And this smile, it was a triumph. Were there ever to be a night-rise, if dark ever dawned, this would be it -- skewed fangs and inflamed gums worming across the horizon, not just extinguishing light, but hunting it, encircling the sky until all was lost in darkness, the usual nighttime chatter of owls and crickets now replaced w
ith the shuddering, whetting stone sound of teeth against teeth.
The creature pinned the dog in its arms and grazed, whimpering in ecstasy as it mowed free the rubbery epidermis and whatever else popped loose. This was the milestone of all milestones. And now Paul finally knew what it was that this creature loved more than anything else, even more than raw, scarlet, meat. And that was skin. Most of all, the creature loved skin.
The insect went on to make slow work of the canines outer layer, taking extra care to find the stubborn bits and ends, savoring them, regurgitating just to prolong its enjoyment. It would do this with all the animals, would sate itself on their skin and then lose interest in the now exposed and sometimes still kicking carcass. It would then grab onto a limb of bone and drag its prey back to the canal. Paul didn't know where it took these corpses, but he guessed that the creature had found a place to stash them until its hunger returned. After such a meal, usually he wouldn't see the insect again for another couple of nights.
That had been an amazing time. The creature began transforming at an incredible pace, radiating ever more heat and incubating parasite hatchlings in its armpits. Its webbed fingers curled and hardened, lengthening into hollow razors. Paul started feeding it canines whenever possible. Sometimes he purchased live chickens or pigs. Rats and pigeons were easy catches. Paul would adopt any pet, be it lizard, hamster, rabbit, anything at all, and he'd answer any classified ad ("Kitty explosion -- help"). He'd ride the bus to the animal shelter where, until they got suspicious, Paul would be happily obliged with the nasties, the unrulies, and the child biters.
But animals eventually became scarce. In his eagerness to please, Paul had overharvested the supply. And eventually, Paul began to accumulate more hurts, more falls, more age, more illnesses (so many of those, uncountable), leaving him almost entirely homebound. Eventually he had to revert back to butchered meat. Of course, animals would still come around now and again, but only rarely -- most creatures sensed that they should stay away, they could smell the fright of their predecessors, an invisible warning that marked Paul's home as a place of death.
The new Paul blamed himself. He'd let his dear friend down. And he desperately wanted to make amends, to once again accomplish something special, to once again see the creature's smile. He felt he owed it to that sweet, marvelous monster. He owed it to that bug who, until Ray and his suit arrived, hadn't had a living meal in over a year.
*
"Installment plan," announced Ray, presenting yet another different brochure. "We can do easy payments."
Paul showed him the fork.
"What is this, now?" said Ray. He lamely watched the metal rise even with his face.
The day of reckoning, thought Paul. It most certainly does not abide.
Paul struck. He aimed and kept aiming. There were no shouts from Ray, no pleading or prayers or wild shrieks. In fact, he seemed almost resigned, like he'd been expecting this, content to let Paul finish his work. Maybe this was how all salesmen went -- they worked the pavement for years, possibly even centuries if they had to, looking for their natural predator, the murderer, at whose hand they were finally allowed to die.
It was over when the blood stopped. Ray now wore red -- as did the walls, the couch, and Paul. He had about half an hour to get the body ready. He dragged Ray onto the floor, reaching under the arms and pulling him toward the patio. In death the man put up a much more convincing fight. He stuck to the carpet, he snagged on the coffee table; none of his many, now silent pounds would cooperate. It seemed that the harder Paul tugged, the heavier Ray became. Paul had to call on all of his strength, all of his deteriorating energy, all of yesteryear's muscles. His call went deep...maybe too deep.
It was a dirty, swearing tug-of-war getting Ray into the yard. The salesman lay stretched out, feet pointed toward the house, arm draped affectionately around the stake. Paul removed the suit and most of the undergarments, but there wasn't enough time to get it all -- a shoe stayed.
With dusk imminent Paul staggered back to the patio and fainted into his chair. Struggling with Ray had left him feeling flimsy, as if something vital piece of anatomy had jiggled loose, something essential. But then came the gurgle of canal water, right on time, and Paul forgot all about himself. The night, as he had hoped, would prove to be another milestone.
*
From the floor, Paul considered that evening's options. He had some old steaks in the freezer. And there was chicken, from that woman... He hated to say it, it being a rather sore subject for him, but over the past lean year the creature had developed quite an eager fondness for those leftovers of hers. Cooked food, nonetheless. This did not please Paul. The creature's affection was his and his alone, he would not tolerate sharing it with anyone.
The policeman. If only. That would have changed everything. Paul could have shown him the backyard and gored him once his back was turned. Of course, things couldn't just stop there -- he'd have to find others. People sometimes slept on the canal banks, he could feed them liquor until they went to sleep. They'd make a fine meal. And then there were travelers. There were deliverymen. There were women bearing leftovers. There were children. All this time Paul had been feeding his visitor lunchmeat when he was surrounded by top sirloin.
Although maybe...maybe tonight Paul would prepare a classic dish, something meaningful. It would have to be steak. But what if he barbecued it? What if he prepared it just like that first time, when the insect first came into his life, a gift, canal-sent? Surely the grub would appreciate such a gesture.
Intermittently, gradually, Paul managed to gain his feet. He lurched through the house and into the yard...where he immediately faced a dilemma. The barbecue needed charcoal. The charcoal was in a bag. The bag was on the ground. Paul would have to bend, lift, carry, and pour. In his current condition these things seemed like an act of madness, or rather they held the misty aura of fantasy, of childish wishful thinking. Paul squatted anyway, then hugged the bag and grimly started to rise.
About halfway the bag dropped from his hands. Paul felt as if he'd been hit in the chest with a hammer. An urgent telegram was humming through his veins: buddy, it's over. By overwhelming majority. Finished.
When Teresa had died she did it in her sleep, silently, gently. The next morning Paul had lain there thinking how unusual it was for Teresa, the early riser, to still be in bed. He had enjoyed it, to be warm under the covers, resting next to the still, sleeping form of the woman he loved. Only she wasn't sleeping.
Paul toppled away from the barbecue and onto dirt. He crawled toward the stake and curled around it in agony. Amazingly, there wasn't a single word from the old Paul -- here it was, Old's big moment, death in the air and everything (Paul could smell it -- metallic, like spent fireworks) and that nag was nowhere to be found.
Paul's life didn't flash before his eyes. Although he probably wouldn't have minded that, a decent summary of what he and Old had done with all their years. But apparently that sort of thing didn't actually happen, like those stories about simultaneously dying couples. Or at least, it didn't happen to Paul. What he found was that he couldn't recall a single thing, like the significance of the rapidly darkening sky, or the faces of his daughters. Instead, as his pulse quit carrying, there was only one thing on his mind, one thing repeating relentlessly into the void. A single question.
"What have I done?"
>> CHAPTER ELEVEN <<
The police station was supposed to be Alan's gleaming stronghold of law and order. But it wasn't gleaming now.
In truth, it never had.
It gasped instead. It wheezed for oxygen. The forces of justice, they swirled clumsily here, and slowly, and sometimes reluctantly. It had never been what Alan envisioned, but he had borne it. There were cops here -- not all, but some -- who were clinically inept or angry or unfair or biding time for a paycheck and a pension. There were people like Joe. People who didn't believe what Alan believed. And always, Alan bore it. The work, Alan's work, when you examined it
cleanly -- it was like all work. Which is to say it was mundane and it was mean and there was no real glory here. The building was weary, like the work was weary, its corners and edges rounded smooth from decades of too much noise and heat and traffic, it was being erased before everyone's eyes, molecule by molecule, turning to Acropolis. It wasn't uncommon to find the men here slumped onto their desks, or supine in their chairs from accumulated fatigue -- crushed by the deep sea pressure, the constants fathoms, the ruinous weight of unceasing human folly.
It was too human, is what this place was. And yet Alan bore it all. And the place might not gleam, but Alan's desk would gleam. Alan himself would gleam. And eventually that shine would spread from him. It would blast the grit from these men's faces, turn their eyes clear and alert, the weariness and age sloughing from them like an old skin.
But not even Alan gleamed now. Not even he could bear this burden.
Because his day, it was trash. It was 9:25 PM, and what had he accomplished? Problem #5, the problem of the messages, that was subtracted. Finally, peace and order: restored. But Problem #6, the problem of the problems, that had grown in proportion out of simple neglect. Because Alan had trashed a lot of time for #5. All the time he had.
The trouble with the messages was that they didn't stop. They were out on the telephones pro-creating. For every one Alan answered, two more would take its place, delivered by some creep clerk, some oily eyed operator.
And then there were the interruptions. Of course there were, in this imperfect place. People were forming several single file lines:
"Say Alan, since Bleecker said to ask you--"
"Since Bleecker's not here--"
"Since he told me--"
"Since you're the guy--"
And then there were all the others. All the ones who suddenly wanted to know how Susan was doing. Suddenly wanted to know how Eugene was doing. Suddenly wanted to know if Alan saw the game last night; if Alan could recommend a dependable dentist; if Alan wanted to hear about that trip to the shore; if Alan ever noticed how reliable pants were, how in all the times you bent over they never really tore apart at the ass; if Alan had heard the one about the nun, the rabbi, and the severely dehydrated oncologist, oh he hadn't, well sit back and listen close brother, 'cause it's a doozy...
The Canal Page 11