by G. M. Ford
"Until they find some outlet."
With the swipe of a scalpel, he sliced away the corner of the uppermost purple balloon. A great wet whoosh burst from the corpse. The air was suddenly filled with the smell of primordial swamp gas, of putrefying organic matter, of human compost and dark, rank water. The corpse began slowly to deflate and flatten on the table. It's just--just-- Arrrrgh. I began to backpedal.
I reeled back, slapping at the air around me as if it were alive with bees. I could feel the spores boring into my skin. The ginger chicken I'd had for lunch was packing its bags for the trip north. Clamping both hands over my mouth, I stumbled to the door, out of the room, and out into the reception area.
Tyann Cummings, the college girl who personed the reception desk, opened her mouth as if to greet me and then closed it again. A pair of white-frocked interns pulled their heads apart and looked my way. I kept jogging, right out the door and up the steps. Arrrrrgh.
The cold air washed over me like a welcome shower. I scrubbed myself in it. Brushing my clothes, tousling my hair. I must have looked autistic. So what? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I pressed my forehead to the cool corrugated metal of the construction shed, closed my eyes, and stood still. After a while, a massive orange frontloader, its scoop dripping pea gravel, came roaring by in a cloud of cleansing dust. The driver eyed me hard. I managed a small wave. He rolled on by. I stood and listened to the sounds of fading hydraulics.
Reluctantly I pushed myself off the shed and headed out toward Ninth Avenue. I was walking on rented legs. My knees were asleep. I crossed Ninth and started up Alder on the shady side, keeping the concrete retaining wall hard by my left shoulder just in case these foreign legs should turn out to be defective. Halfway up, satisfied that I was up to the task, I slipped between cars and started across the street.
Had it been one of those new Japanese models so popular with PTA members, one of those silent-gliding, rearengined, thirty-thousand-dollar minivans, I would surely have been road pizza. As it was, I heard it long before I was otherwise aware of its presence.
The throaty roar of an American engine turned my head to the left. A windowless, primer-gray Chevy van, its windshield tinted impossibly dark, was roaring up the street in my direction. Leaving the pedal to the metal, the driver speed-shifted into second gear. "Kids," I thought, and hustled to get out of the way.
I was two-thirds of the way across the street when the van began to veer from the right-hand lane, angling toward me. Very funny.
Just a few years ago I might have stood my ground and given the asshole the one-finger salute. No more. Nowadays the cretin probably had a rocket launcher or something, so I began to move along the line of cars, looking for a break where I could slip up onto the sidewalk and end this silly game. The van was so close now that I could hear the squealing of a worn fan belt. The sound of water moving through the system. Any second now, I expected the stupid son of a bitch to turn away and have a good laugh at my expense.
When the driver held his line and jammed it into third gear, my central nervous system suddenly knew that he was past the point of no return. The crazy bastard was going to hit me. I took three long strides, pushed off on my left foot, and dove up onto the hood of the nearest car. My ears filled with the sound of a roaring engine. My chest felt the initial impact and then the tearing of metal as the van ripped along the side of the car.
I slid across the slick hood and disappeared headfirst over the far edge, somersaulting, coming down hard on my left shoulder, half on, half off the grass strip separating the sidewalk from the street. Using the door handle for leverage, I pulled myself up in time to see the van disappear over the rise on Alder. The Acura's alarm system had been triggered. The car's horn bleated insistently. I stood, shaking.
I tuned out the horn and took inventory. Everything was more or less where I remembered, except for the left knee of my trousers, which now hung down like the trapdoor in Tommy's floater. A flap of skin half the size of a dollar bill had been torn loose from my shin. Twin rivulets of blood ran down into my sock. I tried to return both flaps to their original locations, but they had other ideas. Urged on by the rhythmic horn, I reversed course and limped back the way I had come.
Rebecca, Tommy, the two interns, and Tyann were gathered in a clump next to the reception desk. Having a good chuckle, I figured. All heads turned my way as I burst through the door.
Tommy had untied the top of his surgical mask, which now hung down on his chest. He grinned and waved me off. "Oh no, buddy, I'm not going for it. I got you, man. I got you. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm not going for this crap."
"Really, Leo," Rebecca chided.
I pulled up my pant leg, revealing the carnage. "Really what?" I demanded. "I'm standing here bleeding like Teddy Kennedy's liver, and you jerkoffs are making fun of me."
Rebecca instantly knew I wasn't kidding. She detached herself from the others and came to my side.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Some asshole tried to run me down."
She knelt and pushed up my pant leg.
"Jesus," breathed Tommy.
"Tyann, get my bag from my office," Rebecca said. She looked up at me. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"I don't think so," I said.
She turned toward the interns. "Wilson, call the police."
I wagged my head. "Never mind," I said. "It all happened too fast. I didn't get the plate number or anything. There's nothing the cops can do now but take up a lot of my time."
Tommy wandered over to inspect the wound for himself.
"That's going to be real sore in the morning," he announced gleefully.
Tyann returned with Rebecca's medical bag.
"Not as sore as the owner of that new black Acura out there is going to be," I said, as Duvall led me over to the nearest chair and began to dab at the wound with a clean piece of gauze.
Rebecca stopped dabbing. Tommy stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips. He pointed at Rebecca. "This is despicable. You told him, didn't you? You told him about the car."
Before she could respond, he went on. "This is sick, you know. A grown man mutilating himself just because he can't take a joke."
I looked to Rebecca for confirmation. "He bought a new car?" She nodded. "A black Acura?" She suppressed a small smile.
"No way," Tommy trumpeted. "No way. I'm not going for it."
I looked down at Rebecca, who had resumed her dabbing. "Remind me to go to church more often," I said.
"Forget it, Leo. Just forget it," Tommy sneered. "This time you lose. That's all there is to it. End of story."
"Tyann, open the door, would you, please?"
The girl looked confused but moved across the room and pulled the door open. Above the construction melee and the sounds of passing traffic, the insistent nasal note of the alarm horn rolled in.
12
Yesterday's gaiety was gone. The Zoo was silent. George, Harold, and Normal sat low at the far end of the bar, nursing flat beers. Their expressions suggested that prohibition had suddenly been reinstated. I nodded at Terry, who kept polishing glasses, and limped down the length of the bar.
"How's Ralph?" I asked.
"Parched," answered George, without looking up.
"Arid," Harold added.
Norman met my gaze. ' The whitecoats have freeze-dried his brain."
"What's the problem?" Nothing. I tried again. "You gonna see him today?'' Their heads turned away like synchronized swimmers. I waited. One by one they went back to studying their beers.
I tried again. "How's he feeling?"
"How would we know?" asked Harold.
"You didn't see him?"
Harold wagged his head. George broke the silence. "Nazi bastards threw us out."
"Fascists is what they are," corrected Harold.
"He'll be digital when he comes out," said Norman.
"Thrown out for what?" I asked.
"It's what they do," said Norman. "They throw people out."
&n
bsp; I ignored him. "For what? Thrown out for what?"
They muttered but kept their mouths clamped tight. I wasn't in the mood. Despite my best efforts, the cops had gotten an hour and a half of my time. By the time they got through busting my chops and Tommy got through bouncing around on his head like Yosemite Sam, I didn't get out of there until just before four. Maybe it was because my leg hurt. Maybe I was feeling guilty for not getting down to see Ralph. More likely, I subconsciously wanted a drink. No matter. I decided to stop at the Zoo on my way home.
"Let me take a wild guess," I started. "Let me see, I know this is off the wall, but " I put a finger on my temple. "It couldn't be that one of you geniuses tried to slip old Ralph a little nip, now, could it?"
They huddled closer to one another. Again I waited.
Finally, George unknotted his jaw muscles and swung around on the stool. "We wanna talk to Mr. James. Ralph's got rights, don't he? They can't just hold him there, can they? Poor bastard ain't had a drink in the better part of three days. Mr. James has gotta help us get him outta there."
"What are you, crazy? Mr. James is picking up the tab for this, fellas. He's got Ralph in there on his employee account. No way he's gonna help you guys." George started to speak, but I didn't give him the chance. "What the hell is the matter with you guys, anyway? A couple of days ago Ralph was damn near dead, and now you guys are down there trying to sneak booze to him."
"It'll kill him, Leo," Harold said seriously. "He ain't been sober a day in thirty-five years. He's too old to start now. They dry him out, he'll blow away."
"The snakes are comin' soon," said George. "You're mister booty tooty now, but you know what I'm talkin' about. I seen you when you was dryin' out, Mr. Leo Waterman. I remember what you was like."
"Who knows--" I started, "maybe, you know, Ralph stays sober for a while, you never can tell, maybe he'll like it."
George curled his lip at me. "What is it with you, Leo? You sound like you oughta have a TV show."
Before I could object, he went on. "Wadda you think, none of us ever tried to dry out before? You think you're the only one who ever went through that fucking rigmarole? Shit. If I had a dollar for every goddamn twelve-step meeting I been to, I wouldn't be drinkin' this shitty beer."
Harold piped in. "Buddy used to say that if you counted me and him and George and Ralph, we been through recovery so many times we probably bought Betty Ford her first clinic."
"It don't work for everybody. You got to get that in your head, Leo. Some people find a higher power; some just find the power to get higher," George mused. "Wadda you think, I never thought about any of this? You think I never asked myself how come I ended up like I did? Like I didn't notice I'm on the street or somethin'? Christ. The life I lead, you get to think about where you are every hour of the goddamn day, so if you wanna do your impression of Mr. and Mrs. Clean White America, you take it the fuck up the road, whydoncha?"
I should have known better. Who was I kidding, any|| way? There was no arguing with these guys. These were master rationalizers. They were, after all, the same guys who had invented the concept of having been "over served," wherein one could rise from near death, mottled and shaking, and declare that one's present ghastly condition could be directly traced to having been grossly "over served" by some irresponsible barkeep or other.
"He's in good hands," I countered. "They'll do what's best for him. He'll be back here before you know it." They were not swayed. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll stop in and see him myself. Just to make sure he's all right. Okay?" Nothing. "I wouldn't let anything bad happen to Ralph, and neither would the hospital. Right?" Silence.
They studied their beer and grumbled at my back as I limped back out the door into the last of the winter sunshine. Long shafts of peach light scattered across the ground now, east to west. Bright triangular remnants glowing amber among the square, dark buildings and gathering shadows. I groaned slightly as I eased myself back in the Fiat and continued north on Eastlake, crossing the university bridge and then hanging a nosebleed right down to Northeast Forty-second, keeping the wheel crimped as I rolled all the way around the ramp, back down under the bridge deck, spiraling down toward the ship canal and then east toward home.
I could hear my phone ringing through the door. I fumbled the key into the lock, banged open the door, and sprinted to the phone on the kitchen wall. The recording had already started.
You've reached 329-6480. Waterman Investigations.
"Hello!" I screamed over the recorded message.
Sorry I couldn 't be here to take your call personally.
"That's not right," came from the other end.
Your call is important to us. So if you'll please--
"You there, or what?" the voice shouted.
At the tone, please leave a detailed message.
"I'm here. Just hang on for a second."
I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks.
"Sorry about that," I said when the line went silent.
"That message isn't right," the voice said.
"It's not?"
"You mean 'in person,' not 'personally,' " he said. It was an old voice. Sounded like Jonathan Winters doing Maudie Frickert.
"Huh?"
"On your message. You say you're sorry you're not here to take my message personally. That's not right. You've confused the phrase 'in person,' which means physically present, with the word 'personally,' which means to take something to heart. Personally is the opposite of impersonally, which means detached. Your message ought to say that you're sorry that you're not there to take my message 'in person,' not that you wish you could take my message 'personally.' Got it?"
"Got it. Thanks," I said. "Who is this, anyway?"
"You called me. I ought to be asking you that."
"This is Leo Waterman of Waterman Investigations."
"Oh, a man with a title, eh? Well, then, this here is Chuck Bastyens of the Willapa Harbor Herald. How's that?"
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Bastyens. Thanks for calling."
"What can I do for you, son?"
"I was trying to get some information about a woman who used to live out there in the Raymond area."
"What woman?"
"A woman named Selena Dunlap."
"How old?"
"I'd guess somewhere between thirty-five and fortyfive." A long silence ensued. "A big, rawboned girl?"
"I don't know about the girl part, but the big, rawboned part is about right."
"Son," he said, "don't be getting politically correct on me now. I'm eighty-one. You're all kids to me."
"Sorry."
"Sounds to me like you're talking about one of the younger Graves girls. But that can't be."
"Why's that?"
"Because, boy, I ran her obit a while back, and it's generally considered poor journalism to do that for anybody but the dead."
"Rumors of her death may have been grossly exaggerated."
"Sounds like you read a book once."
"General studies major," I confirmed.
"A Renaissance man, eh?"
"Specialization is for insects," I said.
"So you should have known better than that message, now shouldn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
Semantically satisfied, he went on. "State sent an investigator down. Talked to lots of local folks. Sent me a copy of her death certificate a couple of months later."
"I know. I've got a copy. I showed it to her, too." He was quiet for so long, I was afraid he'd hung up. "What can you tell me about her?" I prompted.
"If this is the same girl, just about everything, up until she was twenty-two or so." I waited until he got around to it. "You know anything about this part of the state, Mr. Waterman?"
"I've driven through a few times."
"Well," he started, "this part of Pacific County is sort of out of joint with the rest of the state. We've got a wild and woolly past. Used to be more whorehouses in Raymond than there were churches, if that gives yo
u any idea. We're not near anything. We're not even on the way to anything. Just about anyplace you can get to by going through Raymond can be gotten to easier by going some other way. You hear what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir. I do."
"We got little pockets of people living out in the mountains who haven't changed much since the turn of the century. We was down south, they'd call the pockets hollers and the folks hillbillies. You understand what I'm telling you?"
"I do."
"Well, one of those little pockets of folks is a little valley over east of town, before you come down the hill into the city. I'm sure it's got some official name on the maps, but around here folks call it Crow Valley because a family named Crow was the first one there. Matter of fact, there's still quite a few Crows around here. Some of 'em still down in that little valley too. Anywho another of the families down in that particular little pocket of plurality was the Graveses. Third-generation loggers. For years, they had a whole herd of bare-ass children running all over the woods out there. Some they sent to school. Some they didn't. Those that went, most of them never made it through high school. Just married somebody from one of the other families in the valley and started the whole thing over again."
"I get the picture," I said.
"Selena Graves was one of the younger ones. Maybe the youngest. I don't remember anymore. Hell, I'm not sure the parents could have told you either." He chuckled. "It was that sort of deal. Anyway, Selena married a boy from out of the valley called Bobby Dunlap. One of the first to marry outside. She couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen at the time. He worked for Weyerhaeuser setting choker. Just another kid with a chain saw and a pickup truck. Liked to party. Liked to drink a lot of beer and smoke a lot of weed, but otherwise a nice pair of kids. I used to see them together at the Raymond Cafe once in a while. Seemed like a nice young couple. Always had their heads together, grinning like they had secrets they were keeping from the rest of the world."
He reminisced for a minute and then continued. "Anyway, about in ... seventy-three, somewhere in there, they'd been married a year or so when she had a baby boy over at the hospital in South Bend. It's a matter of public record. Christened him Lukkas Dunlap, Lukkas with two fc's, which was how Bobby's daddy spelled it. A real piece of work, that one."