by Lynn Crosbie
“Yeah, it says you guys are doing a record together? Dude, that is so queer.”
“No shit,” I said.
“I’m not whipped, I’m just beat up a little,” I sang, and another car, filled with ladies waving bingo-dotters, applauded.
“We’re cougars,” the really old one said, and licked her lips.
MERCURY CALLED ME on the Bleach-only burner he had forced on me and told me that she was with him.
That they were both at the Town Pump, a tavern outside of town.
“She barged in and took off her clothes,” he said. “Now she’s passed out.”
No.
I smoked some dope in the bathroom and did shots of cold gin until my eyes turned into fish-eye lenses.
Drove to the tavern and ran upstairs to his room.
He answered the door in a towel: the room was lit with an assortment of cheap hoodoo candles.
“Where is she?” I said.
Then, “What did you do?”
I got him in a headlock and he started crying. “I sent you both the pictures: they’re Photoshopped. I tried to scare her. Why don’t you love me, why?”
I realized that she had never been with him. That he had loved me all along. That this was why he hated Evelyn, why he was so angry.
“I do love you,” I said. The Bleach phone chirped. Incoming: a picture of Evelyn, eyes closed and ringed with bruises.
“But you may have just killed her.
“If it wasn’t you,” I said, “who? Who has this number?”
We stared at each other and flashed the exact same name between us.
“Hurry,” he said. “I’ll call the cops.”
I ran, but I couldn’t be sure he would do anything.
All over the walls of the shabby tavern room were pictures of me carefully cut out and glued onto construction-paper hearts, then heart-shaped doilies.
She always teased me about driving hunched over, like a little old lady, but I got into the Falcon and turned it into the Batmobile.
After ten miles, it started shooting black sparks, then smoke. Then it stopped dead.
I panicked, smoked more smack, and called 911, and the operator kept saying, “What monster has which princess?”
—
hi im selling my 1995 c280 mercedes benz its white four door . this is the deal i hit a piece of wood in the street and got a hole in the oil pan. i tried fixing it but i dont no how,we parked it at my dads house and a tree limb fell on it and broke the sun roof so it does need a sun roof. the engine runs great good tranny im selling whole car or parting out im asking 700 obo. please call huey 425-255 1227 ,,,,,,,,,,,,windshield broke it could be fixed or a great parts car it all complete 700 or best offer
I tried 911 again and got 411: I asked how to get a car.
The operator was a fan.
“That song ‘Broken’ off The Lady Grace is sick,” he said, then sang a bit: “After you burn what’s left of me, break the jar, your Majesty —”
He looked online and texted something to my phone. Explained how to read it, and said, “Offer him five hundred.”
“Could you call me sometime?” he said.
I felt him steeling himself for the no.
“You have my number, right? Call me anytime.
“And wish me luck,” I said.
“Luck,” he said, and his voice was filled with the magic of disco.
I CALLED HUEY and asked him to pick me up.
“I’ll give you a thousand if you get here in ten minutes.”
He pulled up in the sputtering mess, picking glass and leaves off his ass as he got out.
I handed him the cash, but he didn’t take it.
He took pictures instead.
I drew the line at lying on the hood, but not at quickly writing “HUEY IS COOL” on his arm, and signing it.
“I hope you get her back,” he called after me as I pulled away.
I hit the arrow on the CD player and crossed my fingers.
“I Believe in Miracles” struts out and I do.
WHEN I PASSED Marilyn’s place, it was pitch-black.
I saw a shape on her lawn like a starfish extruding darkened spiralini.
Ours was lit up.
I went in and called his name. Nothing.
Then walked through each of the dirty, empty rooms; over planks of wood and boxes of hardware, can after can of paint.
I pulled a bit of Black tar out of an Altoids tin and a scrap of tinfoil.
As I drew in the smoke, I thought of the hundreds of thousands of dollars we had turned over to him, of our plans to flip the place and give him his own little house.
We never wanted a country mansion: we wanted to please him.
And when it spun out of control, we barely noticed.
“I only care about money when we don’t have any,” she said to me one day, after transferring an enormous sum to Misty for a functional portcullis.
We only care about ourselves, I thought.
Our self, I amend, as my head falls forward and the newly coiffed Heathcliff passes me, in a bespoke suit and high hat, on the back of a small but dreadful-enough, fire-breathing monster.
“I cannot live without my soul!” he says, his face a mask of anger and terrible love.
When Misty walks in, looking like a commando, I am lounging on one of the empty cartons labelled Kitchen, Safari Room, and Powder Room.
He and I look at the message on the wall.
I’M COMING FOR YOU.
“Please accept a maraschino ice,” I say. “The Viscount is dancing so feverishly, les serviteurs ont cassé toutes les fenêtres.
“Also, do you happen to know the whereabouts of my wife and my gun?” I asked politely.
He looked at me and spit on the floor.
“Let’s go,” he said, jabbing my back with a bayonet when I stumbled as we went deep into the woods.
AS WE MOVED forward, I thought of the dream I had when I pulled off the main road as rain spilled through the sunroof:
Misty and I are at a party with Evelyn, who keeps telling us her drink tastes funny.
Mercury is dancing with her, and I am jealous.
She is naked, and he tells her he loves her outfit.
Misty looks at me and shakes his head.
I find him repugnant, I don’t know why.
We all start crashing: it is very loud.
“How well do you know him?” she says, as Misty pulls her away.
Like she asked me when they first met.
I want to wake up, but I can’t.
I hear her begging him to stop something.
“Why?” she says, and her voice reaches inside me and clings.
“I will hurt you,” he says.
I woke up in tears.
I didn’t understand.
“It can’t be true,” I said, and he jabbed me hard. I walked faster.
EVELYN WAS BOUND and gagged by the stone that marked the place where I dug my own grave.
When I worked and wondered who she was sleeping with, and shivered the whole night through.
Misty ripped off her gag and she coughed, looked wildly between us.
“Go ahead and tell him,” he said.
She started screaming.
EVELYN SPOKE, AFTER a while.
“That time, at Mercury’s,” she said, staring vacantly at the sky.
“Misty followed me into the bathroom, and stuck me with a knife. He told me to go downstairs and get in the car.
“Or he’d kill you all.
“When you all split up to find me, he got in the car and drove and drove, as I begged him to turn back, to stop.
“He laughed in my face.
“He finally pulled over behind a Texaco,
and dragged me out of the car.
“He pushed me down, raped me. He raped me and he beat me so badly.
“When I tried to fight, he tied me up. He punched me in the stomach and said he’d kill me if I said anything.
“He must have drugged me.
“I got everything mixed up.
“Mercury never liked me, so I thought it was him for a long time.
“And Page —
“I even thought he had done it, I felt so guilty about what had happened in Berlin.
“I felt guilty most of all because I cared about him, in spite of everything.”
She was crying loudly now, and Misty walked over to her and hit her face with the stock of the bayonet.
“He doesn’t believe you,” he said.
But I did.
MISTY SAW ME look at her and said, “Suicide-murder it is. I’m disappointed in you, Celine. We could have left tonight, and never looked back.
“You hurt me,” he said, rubbing his eyes and smashing his elbow into my face, breaking my nose.
“And you, Evelyn. Like you didn’t have a good time that night.
“‘I see stars!’ you said when I belted you; it was perfect.”
It was very hard not to attack him, but I was afraid of what he would do to Evelyn.
We heard branches breaking, a rush of sound.
A rifle backfired. There was a gunshot, and another: we landed on top of each other.
A huge black and white dog tore out of the woods, breaking through the fog like a spirit, and lunged at Misty.
It was Speck. He fell on top of us, watching us until his eyes clouded over.
Misty laughed and said, “Canem ex machina.”
“I don’t know you at all,” I said, but my mouth was full of blood. He shot me in the chest and made what looked like a gory porthole.
I didn’t feel anything. I tried to sit up and she said, “Please stay.”
I couldn’t make out her face; blood was pouring from a new, smoking part in her hair.
I held her hand that was buried in the dog’s neck.
It was over.
“Just finish us off,” I said, and he aimed into the grave and the sky lit up and thunder rolled through us, as men in black Kevlar and little dark glasses advanced, blasting Misty into red vapour.
They carried us one by one to the car and took off.
There was no rush.
Everything was moving so slowly, it was ravishing.
Mercury had come through.
THE COPS BROUGHT us to emergency, and drove off with Speck.
My wound was pretty bad, but after a few days I was bound up tight and calling for my wife.
She was in intensive care, a nurse said.
They just drilled into her brain because of the hemorrhage.
Another nurse said, “She may not live. You better pray,” and I did, and I had to apologize to God because I also prayed that this nurse would fall into a tank of piranhas.
God was all like, “You’re preaching to the choir.”
THE NEWS SAID that we were both dead, that it was a “grisly death pact!” When they started playing elegiac clips, I smashed the TV.
Let them believe it. I needed a bit of time.
I couldn’t think of who to call, then it hit me.
Q arrived in a half-hour, and started rattling out orders.
He cleaned me up, and took me to her.
I NEARLY FAINTED when I saw her.
“Who are you?” she said, staring at me with her huge, empty eyes.
Then, “Mom, I promise, please.”
She was holding her arms, bandaged into mittens, over her face, deflecting blows.
Her bald head was held together with forty-eight metal staples.
Was I the only one who could see her blanched, hazy skin?
She was strapped to the bed by the waist and neck.
“She keeps trying to get up,” another nurse told me. “She says she has to get out of here.”
“She does,” I said.
I fell asleep with my head on the rail of her bed.
“Who are you?” she kept saying, and I woke up each time and said, “Sadness.”
The sadness will last forever.
WHEN SHE SAID, “You’re not real,” I started to believe her.
“Get me a knife,” she said, tearing off her restraints and standing up.
“I’ll cut my way out of here.”
She cut her wrists instead, with one of the metal sutures.
I was wrestled back to my bed, where I lay on my stomach, breeding infections and deadly toxins in the new path that had opened inside me, and all around it, wooden signs on poles said HELL.
“I killed and buried Page,” I told her. “I cut his head off for what I thought he did to you.”
I told her everything, and she said, “I know.”
“I always have,” she said.
I took a deep breath and she said “Every time we go to the park, it rains. The pistolettes are just ruined. Look.”
She crossed her hand over me, pausing at my mouth.
Tasting blood, I repented, resting my face against the thorns in her head.
I WILL STAY here awhile, I thought.
Grateful for the torment..
For anything that saves her.
WHEN THE YOUNG nurse with a BLEACH tattoo came by with a loaded needle, I begged her to leave me alone.
She must have thought I had given up, because she jabbed me, guided my hands under her skirt, and rode it.
I found the strength to shove her off me, and rang for help that arrived in the form of a Lucha Libra wrestler who pulled her from the room by her hair.
But it was too late. I was already surfing.
I scrambled for a pen and paper.
I WROTE, “IF Evelyn Gray dies, you are to kill me immediately,
“Peace that passeth understanding and burning love.
“Celine.”
I can sleep now.
& out of his flesh grew white orchids & from them, the light of Grace.
THIRTY-NINE
BLACK ORPHEUS / CELINE
My morning shot brings me Josephine Baker, dancing in a grass skirt; the secretive smile of Artie Shaw. My legs fly with angry ease to her bedside, where she dances too, in a tiny beaded skirt and a long rope of jet beads.
Most palliative is a brief visit from T.S. Eliot, dressed in a suit and pink Crocs, who writes THE PASTNESS OF THE PAST on the cover of a new Mead composition book, cracks its spine, and scuttles away.
I nod off and on beside her.
Disguised as Erwin Rommel commanding the Gespenster-Division, deploying ectoplasm in its various guises — gauze, paste, synthetic membranes, and fine thread gathered into phakelos.
The nurse comes in often, cutting her pillows and glaring at me.
“Spit it out,” I say.
“She’ll never get better if you don’t,” she says, and I rub my eyes: she is so tall, and blond, and her eyes —
Her eyes fill with a sweet, rocking baby, before she snaps them shut. I say that I’m sorry. “What can I do?”
“You already know,” she says, in a gravelly voice that shoots right through me.
I mean it when I tell Evelyn that I am done with drugs. I tell this to her as she sleeps and cries.
And fills the bed with tears that I sweep into a dustpan, tears that breed freak fish: goblins, grenadiers, Anableps.
She floods the room with her grief, and drowns.
I pull her to her feet, rattling her: her eyes are gone; her skin is coming loose.
“Help,” I say, but my lungs are filled with water.
The floor collapses and we fall. I remember our dog barking from outside as I hi
t the surface, then drop.
“THE FIRE WILL start slowly,” she is saying.
I wake up. She is talking to Scott, the Mexican wrestler and volunteer aide, who is now gloved and gowned.
She tells him this terrible story:
“People will say, ‘How cozy,’ and remove their outerwear. Condensation is forming on the jagged metal; boiling water will sluice from the pipes.
“The explosives are disguised as furniture: the brave monsters will step on our throats to escape; our skin will unpeel and stick to the walls, and the babies — where are the babies?
“They’re done for.”
A nurse comes by and says something about Haldol, and she tells her to stop being so stupid.
“This tragedy can be prevented!”
I want to help her, but I am dreaming too.
Then a fireball rolls past the door. As the alarm sounds, Scott runs off to get help and I start picking up things to take.
She vanishes.
I leave, holding a piece of paper.
I WAKE UP in the visitors’ room beside a big, exhausted-looking family watching The Middle and laughing soundlessly.
The whiptail of my dream: I kick a window and leave the burning wreck; I kiss a mother and baby goodbye, disgraced and determined.
I am standing in her mother’s house, crying entire planets beside a poster of me.
I look a little too cool, and lonelier than I can remember in all my days.
My head is clear, and I move, certainly, to her side once more.
She looks at me, sightlessly, and asks who I am.
I tell her and she says she is just a kid, and that no one loves her.
I have retrieved her black pearls: she clutches them with one hand as she speaks.
“It hurts all the time,” she says, and I think, without remorse, of Page Marlowe’s remains buried in a hectic wheat field, under a dense blue sky.
“Do you like me?” she says, and I say that I do.
I tear off and dampen a paper towel and scrub some blood from her face and head.
I kiss her dry lips and tell her that the velvet morning is coming soon.
“Please be ready,” I say, and she picks at her head, which looks like geese forming a V as they start their difficult campaign, and hers, towards health.
I START TO get ready to go out and score, but I’m too tired to cover my slip with a sweater; to lace up my shoes.