Big Machine

by Victor Lavalle

  “I mean, you don’t ever second-guess this kind of life?” Adele added. “Like what kind of difference it really makes?”

  Joyce Chin crossed her arms; the lit cigarette fumed in her left hand.

  “I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know. Who cares about all this nonsense, right? Folklore. It sure won’t make you rich! It’s quilts and handicrafts and ridiculous stories. Even the people I study don’t care about it much. But I do.”

  Wait! There’d been a mistake, an error in the translation. Adele hadn’t meant to insult Joyce, but to admire her commitment, her expertise. Her rigor. She’d meant to say, Thank you for knowing all this. Thank you for sharing it with me. Thank you for being an example. Oh, what was the point? Adele would never be able to explain. She’d only say the wrong thing.

  “I just never met a woman like you before, Ms. Chin.”

  “Sure you have,” Joyce said. “I’m a woman like you.”

  ADELE RODE TO TOWN in a bus that morning, and that evening she steered home on a bike. Adele preferred the second, even though it was more work. In fact, the work was the best part. Your body’s made to act, and once you finally let it, when your lungs turn to bellows that rouse the spark of life in your throat, that’s when you’ll breathe fire. Just as Adele did now. Sure, she’d survived some hard times before, but surviving is far from thriving. Thriving is like this, the simple trick of pedaling up a hill. It got her mind working.

  She’d expected trouble at the front gate of the Washburn property, but the guards already knew her and waved her by. Also, they didn’t seem to care much who went in and out. They were only paid enough for attendance, not effort.

  Instead of riding down the main road and making a loop around to the back entrance of her cabin, a trip across flat land, she snapped the silver bike into first gear and attacked the steep slope veering off to the right. She felt that good. Adele made it about three feet up before she thought, Fuck this. She got off, walked the bike. There’s passion, and there’s pulling a muscle.

  At the top of the hill she saw the San Francisco Bay and a bridge, though it wasn’t the famous Golden Gate. Something smaller that connected Garland, Oakland, Berkeley, the East Bay to the legendary Pacific city.

  Seeing all that structure, the obvious permanence of it, Adele realized why she’d had such a hard time with what Joyce Chin told her. As a human being you tend to think your present moment is the pinnacle, the summit, of life’s achievements. Or at least she thought that way. And yet she couldn’t help feeling envious when she imagined those Heurequeque under the stars. Not because their lives were simple and rustic, none of that nonsense. She doubted that a life like theirs was much more than toil and sleep. But the idea that they might’ve seen their Creator simply by peeking at the night. What a gift. Maybe this was why the idea of Judah’s story being true bothered her, too. No one wants to envy a folk tale. But the wish to see something, maybe even for her, was no myth.

  WHILE MOST OF THE GROUNDS of the Washburn estate had a sculpted look—even the creeping vines on the sides of the guardhouse clung in a decorative W—the woods around Adele’s cabin were berserk. She knew she’d almost reached her place when the trees rose up in clusters, crowding one another for space, and the underbrush spread with violence.

  The driveway wasn’t even visible; you had to know where it was. She found it after a moment’s confusion, and rode its curve to her Spanish-style cabin. A nubby white chimney rose from the orange tiled roof, and all the blue window frames looked even brighter because of the white walls surrounding them. Talk about a stick of butter! She couldn’t help feeling full. The feast of her new life tasted richer when you threw this cabin in.

  She wanted another hot bath. She undressed and put on her kimono, a pair of fleece scuffs to keep her feet warm, and while going through this, Adele reviewed what she’d learned.

  When the Dean told the story of Judah Washburn, there was a figure Judah had followed while underground. Too tall to be a man. That’s what the Dean had said. What about a Swamp Angel, doing the Voice’s will? Leading Judah to his fate.

  And what was hers? In her experience, the only fate you had was the fate you made.

  I’m not a cop.

  I promise you.

  How can I put your mind at ease?

  I won’t enjoy myself if you’re nervous.

  But forget that awful weekend, Adele. Forget it, forget it, cut it out.

  Take a bath.

  Adele went into her suitcases to find that Lake had packed her scented candles. She got a pair of saucers from a kitchen cabinet by the fridge, lit both candles at the oven, placed them on the saucers, and walked them into the bathroom slowly. Set them on the bathroom sink. She shut the door, turned out the light, took off her kimono and slippers. The fat candles offered just enough light to see.

  Just open the car door and get inside.

  Come on, now.

  Be good.

  “Shut up,” she told her mind. “Shut up.”

  The water bordered on boiling when she ran it, but soon it settled down to just pretty damn warm. A temperature that suited Adele Henry well. She got in and felt her legs go jelly. Once her lower back sank under the waterline, the heat untied a knot she hadn’t even realized hid there. The candles burned long enough to release their lilac scent, and because of the closed door and window Adele felt not just surrounded, but overpowered by the smell. She wanted that. It helped her to stop thinking and worrying and remembering and reliving, so she could find her way back to happiness. She hummed to herself because the house lacked a radio.

  She whispered, “Met him on a Thursday, sunny afternoon. Cumulus clouds, eighty-four degrees.”

  You fall asleep when treated this nicely. Adele lay in the water until it cooled and her eyes fluttered shut and the trees outside the bathroom window brushed themselves against the cabin walls. Eventually she woke up and climbed out of the bathtub, blew out the candles, dried herself off, put on the kimono and scuffs again, made her way to the bedroom in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the curtains.

  Adele sat off the corner of the bed, opened her kimono, and spread her legs. Pressed her left hand against her belly. She leaned forward so the firm mattress edge rose up against the bottom of her pelvis, and she slowly ran her right hand down into the pubic hair. The way she’d been masturbating since she was a girl.

  To be fair, the man she imagined walking into her room just now wasn’t actually Snooky Washburn. He only shared the man’s size and complexion. And face. You and I, she said to him. He said her name and then stood before her. He wore a navy-blue suit. She stood and took off his jacket, but one of the buttons on his shirt had fallen off. Adele pressed her finger to the empty buttonhole, and he watched her do this but didn’t move. Then she slipped her hand inside his shirt and touched his beefy chest. Her pointer finger found his small, hard nipple. Whose skin felt warmer, hers or his? You need my help, she said again, but he put his big hand over her mouth. She went silent. His hand moved behind her now. His heart beat out strongly. He didn’t slide her kimono off, he tore it away.

  Adele Henry leaned nearly off the edge of the bed now, her middle and ring fingers going frantically while her left hand grasped the side of the mattress for balance. She hissed as she ground down against the corner of the bed, eyes squeezed shut, back gone all straight, and kept going until her thighs began to shake. Hot shiver in her belly.

  And soon she fell into a lovely sleep.

  LOUD KNOCKS WOKE HER, and she stumbled to the cabin door confused, not even sure who she’d meet on the other side. And when it was Snooky, she felt embarrassed for oversleeping, for answering the door in such a state, and for the fantasy that had sent her to bed the night before.

  “So, good morning! How do? I made some breakfast for you.”

  Snooky wore black jeans, workman’s boots, a green sweater, and a warm coat, much like what he’d worn the day before. He probably hadn’t ever gone in for those bowler hats and
handmade vests like the Unlikely Scholars wore. Costumes of importance. But why would he? His authority lay in his name.

  Adele still felt too shocked to answer, so she stepped aside, but Snooky didn’t come into her cabin. He carried a plate covered with aluminum foil, and only a third of that plate crossed the threshold. She took the plate by its edge and tipped it backward so it left his palm and rested on one of hers. Even through the foil she smelled the biscuits.

  The same green Mercedes 450 SLC sat at the top of the driveway, with Solomon Clay in the passenger seat. Seeing him dressed in a beige tweed jacket was her first reminder that she’d answered the door in her kimono.

  “I can meet you at the car in fifteen minutes,” she said. It was sillier to stand there speechless.

  He laughed quietly. “Eat one of my biscuits, and you’ll need to lie down for half an hour. I’ve got some orange juice for you too. I think I made it the way you like.”

  She took the carafe of orange juice by the fluted tip. She swished the orange juice quietly.

  “Why do you Washburns do all this for us?” she asked.

  “Maybe it’s what you deserve. Is that good enough?”

  She laughed just once. “Folks like me aren’t usually on the list for prizes.”

  “You’re on mine,” he said, and walked back up the driveway.

  HE WASN’T LYING about those biscuits. Adele knew there were people in the world who were entirely too healthy for a meal like this. Had to be four eggs in that omelet, four at least. Half a block of cheese. It wasn’t Maxine Henry’s Spanish omelet, but nothing could be. The orange juice was prepared perfectly, though. With champagne.

  Adele took a half hour to eat, finish the mimosas, wash the dishes, wash herself, and choose a uniform. She felt self-conscious about taking so long, but believed Snooky would forgive her.

  She decided on a gray plaid riding outfit with jodhpurs that fastened along the outside of both calves, and a long, belted three-button jacket. She went into the bathroom and applied a full face of makeup. Adele brushed her hair quietly and wished to wear it in braids again, the way her mother used to do it. Adele remembered the comfort of her mother picking through her hair. How safe she felt when she draped each arm over her mother’s strong thighs.

  Maxine.

  Adele’s outfit felt a bit snug. She worried about the way it squeezed her belly and thighs. That it made her look grotesque. No one else will notice if the clothes are a little tight, she reminded herself. You’re the only one who cares. So stop being silly and get out there!

  Adele walked up the driveway and reached the car. Both men had stepped out to stretch. Solomon Clay posed in his loose tweeds. He looked as elegant as a solid Brigg umbrella. He pointed at her riding suit and said, “Your suitcase is overpacked.”

  As Adele climbed into the car, she stepped on his Chetwynd shoes, scuffing one toe murderously.

  As Snooky drove them off the estate, he said, “Was I right about those biscuits, Adele?”

  “You were. And how did you get the omelet so fluffy, Snooky?”

  Solomon Clay cackled. “Snooky’s wife cooked your eggs.”

  IF A PERSON HAD TO GUESS the least likely destination for Snooky Wash-burn, Solomon Clay, and Adele Henry, it’s still doubtful anyone would have come up with the Albertsons supermarket on Lakeshore Avenue. Nevertheless, that’s where Snooky parked.

  Adele climbed out of the car while Solomon Clay walked ahead, his long legs covering yards with a stride. As he moved toward the front of Albertsons, Adele hissed for attention.

  “Snooky,” she whispered, “do you know where we’re going?”

  Snooky stopped by the trunk of his car. “Sure I do. I’ve been told about Judah and the well since I was in my crib.”

  “Then you believe it.”

  “I believe the story is important to people,” Snooky said.

  She wanted to grab his wrist, pull him back into the car. “If it’s just a story, why go?”

  “You have to do it. It’s like walking on Mount Sinai.”

  In the distance Solomon Clay realized he was alone and came jogging back.

  Adele spoke quickly. “We’re not here just to give you a walking tour.”

  “Oh, no?” Snooky said. He was playful, but to her he looked childish and naïve.

  “We know you’re going to shut the Library down.”

  The smile left Snooky’s face, and he leaned against the car. The metal frame creaked with the weight. “What did you say?”

  “We know, Snooky.”

  “I haven’t even told Cherise yet.”

  Cherise. Adele almost said the name out loud, but caught herself.

  Solomon Clay arrived. He watched Snooky’s stunned face closely, then turned to Adele.

  “You told him.”

  She said, “He had a right to know.”

  Snooky, still leaning against the car, spoke softly. “How?” he asked. “How?”

  Solomon smiled. “We’re onto something at the Library, Snooky. Let me show you.”

  The two men moved. Mr. Clay led Snooky by the shoulder, and this made Snooky look so young. Solomon pointed back at her. “You stay with the car.”

  Adele said, “I bet I won’t.”

  He glared. “What did I tell you about that tone?”

  Snooky found himself again. Shook Solomon’s hand from his arm. He said, “She’s a grown woman and she can come if she wants.”

  Solomon pouted like Snooky had snuck a sandwich into his dinner party. He sped to the front of Albertsons in a rage. Before following, Snooky took out his car keys, opened the trunk, and found a small black case. He opened it, and Adele saw a pistol. Snooky slid the pistol into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Solomon was there for me,” Snooky said. “I know he can be hard to take, but I respect him. And I trust him.” He patted his gun through the denim. “But I’m no fool either. Don’t worry, Adele. I’m still in control.”

  Adele wanted to believe Snooky, very much, but he wasn’t like the Dean or Solomon Clay. Ruthless. Hustlers. Street veterans. Pros.

  Was it progress that now black boys and white boys, yellow girls and brown ones, could be born so privileged that they never doubted themselves? So coddled they considered themselves infallible? Pity them. They dive into chaos where others have the common sense to run away.

  As Adele walked behind Snooky, she realized her mission had changed. Before, she’d wondered if she’d have to kill to protect the Washburn Library. But now she wondered if she’d have to kill to protect Snooky Washburn.

  THE NEWSPAPER of record for Garland’s homeless population is the Avenue Edge, a collection of articles, essays, poems, harangues, and doodles sold by the homeless themselves on corners and in front of candy stores, coffee shops, and in parking lots. The salesmen with charm earn bills, and the ones without get bubkes. It’s a dreadful feeling to end your day with just as many copies as when you started, so imagine the good fortune of our man in front of Albertsons that particular morning. A disagreeable guy. Glowering. Utterly without hope of generating even a quarter that day, and he lucks into Solomon Clay.

  He said something to Solomon, the same grumble he’d inflicted on the Albertsons employees who’d opened the store, and on every customer that morning, but this time his grumble worked. The man passed him a twenty-dollar bill and slipped a copy of Avenue Edge from between those gangly fingers.

  Adele and Snooky passed the homeless peddler, but he didn’t try getting money from them. He was too busy staring at the bill in his palm.

  Adele went inside the supermarket and followed the others down the shampoo aisle. Solomon Clay at the front, Adele Henry in the back, and between them one member of Garland’s aristocracy.

  At the end of the aisle they passed a refrigerated egg display, and Solomon Clay went through a pair of brown industrial double doors. They reached a medium-size package room, dirty concrete walls and flooring, racks of packaged bread ready to be shelved, boxes of vegetab
les ready for their bins.

  There was a large elevator door there. Solomon Clay pressed the button, and they got in. When the doors opened again, they were in a sub-basement. Lightbulbs hung on wires from the ceiling, and the wires were frayed.

  The three of them walked in the same order and did it quietly. The smell of mildew brushed their noses. Adele swatted in front of her face because there were flies. Finally they reached two locked gray metal doors.

  The Devils’ Well, she thought.

  Solomon Clay opened the doors. She expected them to creak, but they moved silently, like they’d been freshly oiled. There was a smaller room inside. An incandescent vapor-proof aluminum light hung on a wall, but it only lit the manhole cover in the middle of the floor. Solomon Clay touched one of the darkened walls, found a shelf and two metal keys that looked like large red soda pop tabs. He inserted the keys into the manhole cover and pulled the lid up.

  There was one black equipment kit tucked into a corner of the chamber. Solomon Clay grabbed it and climbed in.

  “You don’t have boots or anything?” she said to Solomon. “Something I could wear over my outfit, to protect it. Even a plastic bag for my hair?”

  Solomon spat down into the darkness. “Maybe you’d like Snooky to carry you around?”

  As Solomon descended, he muttered, “You could sit on his face.”

  THESE WEREN’T SEWERS. Adele figured that out pretty quickly. Just as soon as she noticed the complete lack of human waste. They were in a wide tunnel, filled with muddy but fresh water that came up to her knees. Like canals. She thought of Joyce Chin, who might’ve appreciated knowing the old Spanish cook hadn’t lied. These catacombs were quiet and dim, but only two people shrank. Down here, Solomon Clay bloomed.

  “The first time I found my way down, I never wanted to leave,” he said. “I wonder if each of us gets made for a certain kind of environment. Like it’s not even up to you. This is just where you’re supposed to be.” He carried a flashlight. Each of them did now. Solomon waved his to and fro.