Big Machine

by Victor Lavalle

  But my ears hadn’t stopped up yet, something that usually happened to me whenever I tried to quit. So I could hear. And always, always, the creaking floorboards. I imagined Murder moving above me, dragging his weight from one room to the next. That big Belgian finally on his feet, dancing on my grave.

  THE NEXT DAY, in the afternoon, I had such awful diarrhea that I expected Murder to send someone down to spray me with a hose. But no one came, and by evening the backs of my pants had dried and stuck to my skin. I felt lucky for the stuffy nose then. All the feral cats had run off except for the bobtail. It was still there and, if anything, even closer. It wasn’t more than a foot from Wilfred’s gigantic skull, which only made the cat seem smaller, like it was resting in the shade of an enormous hill.

  And you know what? I got jealous. I was lying on my hands in some Belgian’s basement in Iowa, couldn’t even feel my fingers anymore, a powerful thirst was scratching at my throat even as my withdrawal chills were getting worse, and yet all I wanted was for some dumb cat to come play with me. The bobtail had chosen Wilfred, and this seemed like the last insult. The final injustice. Talk about pathetic. I watched it huddle near Wilfred and felt the deepest outrage.

  “Hey, cat,” I whispered. “Get your ass over here!”

  Surprisingly, that didn’t work. The bobtail only blinked at me and snuggled closer to him. Wilfred Tanner opened his eyes then and gave me a very dizzy smile.

  “It’s just like Annabelle,” he whispered. “Ladies love Wilfred.”

  He giggled, the sound coming through his runny nose.

  “Annabelle Cuddy killed herself,” I said. “She jumped in front of a train in 1993.”

  I knew it would hurt Wilfred to hear that, so I told him more hurtful things. I couldn’t yell at this point. Anything more than a whisper tore through my dry throat. We’d been down there for nearly two days by then.

  I said I’d probably shot up with his now-saved mother in some tenement years before. That I’d watched his father turn her out just to buy more crack. My God, the things I told him. And he didn’t argue, not even about his mother’s honor, which surprised me, because that boy loved his junky mom more than Navajos love fry bread.

  As the second night wore on, I thought of more taunts, but I’m too ashamed to share them. While I spoke, Wilfred inched himself up. He had the silhouette of a manatee that’s made the mistake of washing ashore, but really he was just a scared man looking for something, anything, that would provide a little warmth. The bobtail was a better bet than me. It touched him. It didn’t run away.

  “Annabelle,” he said throughout that second night and into the dawn.

  “Annabelle.”

  He wasn’t listening to me, I felt pretty sure.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, after the bobtail woke and skipped off, that I could see.

  Wilfred Tanner was dead.

  He didn’t seem dead, though. His eyes had rolled up slightly, but it only looked like he was thinking about the answer to a vexing question. That deep, rich skin of his hadn’t lost its glow, and I’ll bet that if I could’ve touched his face, the skin would still have been warm.

  I only knew Wilfred was gone because of his tongue. It hung down between his teeth, oily and pink, and it brushed against the old pillowcases under his chin. Loose, limp, a piece of stretched taffy. That one thing, that’s all it took to convert him into a corpse.

  But I didn’t see how he could’ve died so quickly. He hadn’t been shot or stabbed, hadn’t been beat. So what had done it? Maybe none of us had actually lived through that night in the stairway so many years before. It just took some of us longer to realize we were dead.

  67

  WE GOT DOWN from the overpass and pedaled to Grand Avenue, but soon enough our bikes had to be abandoned. The streets were crowded, but now the sidewalks were too. Grand Avenue feeds right into Garland’s business district, and many workers were hoofing it that morning. We asked people to move aside, but that didn’t work for even a minute. If we’d tried to plow through on our bikes, folks would’ve become violent.

  I saw the men moving ahead of us, but Ms. Henry and I couldn’t catch up. Worse than my numb leg was the thump of heat along my spine. It seemed to beat in time with my own heart. I kept slowing down as I listened to it.

  There were four bus stops on three of the corners at West Grand Avenue and Adeline Street. Each bus stop had generated a crowd. These poor folks looking to the horizon, when it was clear no bus would arrive. There were too many stalled cars blocking the way. Maybe four hundred people, including the ones in their cars, utterly unaware. The Church of Clay snaked right through them undetected. We even lost sight of those men for a time.

  When we finally caught them again, their flock had thinned down to just one guy standing by a telephone pole. Where were the others? No time to check. This one had a blue duffel bag at his feet, the top already unzipped. He shuffled his weight from the right foot to the left, a panhandler’s dance. The guy went into his pants and took out a book of matches.

  He struck one match, then lit the whole book.

  The homeless dude held the book up as it sizzled.

  This one wasn’t a decoy.

  It’s amazing what folks don’t notice. Even two men on the other side of the telephone pole hadn’t realized what was happening. They stood with their backs to the bomber.

  We were only yards away close enough to be turned to ash, but unlike Martin at the lake, this guy wasn’t sticking around. That boy might’ve been willing to sacrifice his life, but this older man hesitated. And that’s what saved us all. His will to survive.

  He dropped the burning matches onto the bag, but turned to run at the same time, and he kicked the duffel bag over. A little of the liquid inside splashed onto his cuffs, but most of it soaked the concrete. The hot matches landed on top of the upside-down bag. Nothing would ignite until they melted through.

  The only people moving were the homeless guy and us. The rest of the crowd was too confused to blink or breathe. We reached the bag, and Ms. Henry scooped the matches up in her left hand even as she continued to move. The fire sat in her palm and she grunted with pain. Then she snapped her hand shut and strangled the fire until it died.

  With that danger passed, the Gray Lady changed direction. Back after the homeless man. He shot off, running south down Adeline. She didn’t glide, I wouldn’t call it that. More of a forward-moving stumble. Ms. Henry went like an off-balance bat out of hell. And I was right beside her, a spasming snail. Quite a pair of heroes.

  68

  MY EYES CLOSED, I didn’t close them. And hours passed, though it only seemed like minutes. When I opened them, the sun had set. Could it really be the third night in Murder’s basement already? The pains of withdrawal were nothing compared to the start of dehydration. My heart burned so badly I thought it would rip the muscles of my chest apart. My gut rattled hard enough to hurt my hips.

  These pains distracted me for hours, so it took me a long while to notice that Wilfred’s body had been taken away. Upstairs I heard the pots banging on Murder’s stove again, and then the weak creak of an oven door opening and slamming shut.

  What were they cooking now?

  My shoulders had swollen up because my hands had been tied behind them for seventy-two hours now. Those shoulders felt as big as grapefruits tucked under my clothes. And my hands, where were my hands? I couldn’t feel them at all.

  I tried to sit up, but the most I could manage was rocking side to side. My arms didn’t like that, and neither did my breastbone, but I wanted to get onto my belly, needed to be in any other position. My sanity relied on a little movement just then. I didn’t turn over, but I did get my left arm out from under me, and as it snapped to my side, the pain was a series of blasts, bright flashes behind my eyes. I wanted to move my right arm too, take advantage of the fact that the rope had come free, but that was too much to do all at once, so I rested.

  In a little while the feral cats returned
. The bobtail was last to come inside, but remained the boldest. It didn’t even creep toward me cautiously. It practically hopped into my arms.

  Now, even more alone, I concentrated on the closest living thing: that cat. It looked older somehow. Little white dots freckled its gray nose, and the gray hair didn’t just poke out of its ears now, it seemed to spool down as far as its legs, which made the thing appear ancient.

  But instead of feeling happy for the company, I entertained a different line of thought. I wondered why that bobtail had been so quick to settle right next to my cousin. Maybe it was more than body warmth, more than playing favorites. The other feral cats had frolicked and fought nearby, but none had been bold enough to make a bed by Wilfred’s ear. Except this one.

  I’d always heard that dogs could smell fear. Maybe cats could smell death? Smell death and even feel attracted to the scent. I can be a superstitious guy. Suddenly I didn’t want the bobtail’s company quite so much.

  But it wanted mine.

  I tried to scare it away, hoped to push it back with my newly freed hand, but that arm must have thought I was crazy. It couldn’t do more than throb. So I tried to scare the cat away by making gruesome faces and spitting and whispering curses, but that old thing only hissed at me until I went silent again. Then it crept in close. I felt its wet fur as it tucked against my neck. It huffed hot breaths, and I held mine. I passed out while it slept.

  ABOVE ME I heard dishes being washed in Murder’s kitchen. That’s what brought me back to consciousness. I didn’t have much of a voice at that point—very late on the third night. I doubt even the bobtail would’ve heard me. And it was still right there, perched against me. I felt it but refused to open my eyes and confirm. Who would I have called to anyway?

  I heard a broom brushing Murder’s floors. That chuff-chuff noise as the bristles reached a corner, the hard clack of the shaft knocking the walls. It seemed worse to hear domestic acts up there, better if they were torturing animals or firing cannons. At least then it would’ve been hell above and hell below.

  The bobtail gave a deep sigh.

  I peeked now, impossible to deny the damned thing any longer. I watched it cross its paws, rest its chin on top of them, and shut its eyes again. What could I do? It was like sleeping in the same cell as your executioner. I shut my eyes too.

  AT DAWN the bobtail remained there at my neck and let out creaky, squeaking breaths while it slept. As the faintest sunlight began to enter the darkened basement, I could see the old cat better. This little peanut was as fragile as me.

  You want to share feelings, you want to empathize with living beings, humans do. That’s what I believe. Some sense of communion with life, particularly as death approaches. Even a death-smelling feral cat will suffice, if that’s your only choice! My left arm had healed enough to move, to touch and feel, so I tried to overcome my crazy fears and superstitions.

  An old cat would just need body heat where it could find it, I told myself.

  First with Wilfred and now with you.

  It didn’t kill Wilfred. It’s not here to kill you.

  It’s not to blame.

  It’s not to blame.

  Then I bent my left arm, and the tips of my fingers brushed the bottom of the bobtail, but the cat didn’t flutter, so I left my fingers there. Touching. It felt wonderful.

  I wanted to laugh because I’d thought it was going to wake up, claw me in the face, and run. Instead we reached a weary peace. In my blunted euphoria I looked around the rest of the basement, and then saw there, down near my waist, on my right side, a second bobtail curled up and sleeping too.

  But it wasn’t a similar cat. No. It was the same cat. Had those white freckles on its snout, threads of gray hair coming from its ears, chin propped on top of its paws, and even the sickly wheeze that had made me feel tender minutes before. The only problem was that the first bobtail hadn’t moved. It lay there against my neck.

  But it also slept down there beside my waist.

  Okay, I told myself, it’s no surprise. You’ve just gone crazy. No one could blame you for a few hallucinations. It’s been almost four days without water or food. And you weren’t in great shape to start. The one on your right is just a pillowcase. It’s still a little too dark in here and you can’t see straight. That’s all.

  But you know how it is when you try to convince yourself of something rational: the more you tell yourself the sane explanation, the more you believe the insane one. That’s how it was. I’d rested myself awhile, and though it hurt even worse than the first time, I twisted my right arm out from under me. As it popped back into proper alignment, it made the same horrible snapping sounds the left had, but my mad curiosity overcame my pain.

  And through all that, neither bobtail moved. They were waiting to see what I would do.

  See that? I thought. Look how you’re thinking. The cat hasn’t moved, and that pillowcase down there can’t move.

  Eventually my right arm recovered enough to twitch, and once it twitched, it wasn’t long until the spasms, and after the spasms I regained bodily control. That lump down there is just a blanket, I said to myself. It’s a couch cushion. Now prove it to yourself.

  I put my right hand out.

  I touched it.

  69

  MS. HENRY AND I WATCHED in shock as Garland swarmed over the fugitive. They came out of their cars and off the sidewalks to catch him. He ran down the middle of Adeline. Trying to catch up with the others, I guess. When cars doors opened to block him, he switched and ran across trunks, over roofs, down onto hoods. But the crowd stopped him, they snapped him up. One moment he’s on the hood of a Subaru, the next he’s yanked to the ground. And after that? I couldn’t see. I shouldn’t say. The crowd worked as one mind and didn’t even notice us. Ms. Henry and I didn’t wait to see if they would.

  We ran, but not for long. We got winded after three blocks. As we speed-walked, I looked at this woman beside me. She’d developed a limp, but wouldn’t complain. When she stepped down on her left foot, she winced slightly and lifted her meaty shoulders the tiniest bit.

  The Gray Lady.

  Ms. Henry.

  Adele.

  “How’s your hand?”

  She opened and closed it. “Burnt.”

  She’d admitted a lot to me by now. A bit too much about Snooky Washburn. But a person like her doesn’t do that easily. It felt unfair to play dumb anymore. I didn’t want to keep secrets either. Now’s the time, I thought. To tell her what happened, what was inside me.

  “Adele,” I began. “When we went down to the sewer …”

  “Ricky.”

  “I’m not asking more questions. I’m trying to tell you something.”

  “Ricky,” she said, “turn around.”

  Two Devils were falling out of the sky.

  Their arms opened wide.

  It’s exhaustion that makes you brave. I went for the pistol in my coat pocket quickly, and yet I hardly realized I was doing it. But even before I gripped the gun, the Devils were on the ground. They reached us in a blink.

  The Devil beside me landed on its feet and quickly pulled my left hand out of my coat. It stooped over me, leaned close, so I couldn’t see it clearly. I only registered the touch. Its skin felt rough on my wrist. Imagine being squeezed by a squid. I tugged hard, hoping to free myself like Adele had done in the Devils’ Well, but it must’ve learned from that encounter. It held me tighter.

  The other one grabbed Adele in much the same way, pulling her right hand out of her purse, away from her flares.

  Still holding us, they rose to their full size and cast shade across our bodies. Both were very tall, maybe eight feet, but their bodies were nearly as flat as flags. With sage skin everywhere, but their bellies were lighter, almost yellow.

  They had faces, in a way. Two tiny milky eyes that looked like pearl onions. And below those eyes two small nose holes, each no wider than the head of a tack. And just below that a wide flat mouth, really just a slit in
the skin that curled down at either end so they seemed to be frowning.

  This close up I could even see they had tails that hung down and whipped side to side. I heard something scraping the asphalt, and looked down to see sharp nails at the tips of their tails, the nails as gray as old bones. That must’ve been how one of them had stabbed me, how it impregnated me.

  These were Angels? In whose creation?

  The one grabbing my hand shook me hard again. I stopped fighting. Let go of the gun, and it fell into my coat pocket heavily. I tipped my head back and beheld the Devil’s face again.

  Are you the one from the sewer? I thought.

  Is one of you growing inside me?

  But it didn’t respond, not one word. What do you do with all that silence?

  Then it let go, flapped its body once, and flew into the air. It landed again, half a block away. The second one let go of Adele and did the same. We’d come pretty far along Adeline Street, but there were still a few cars on the street, still some adults waiting at another bus stop. But none of them screamed, none ran in terror. Maybe no one else could see the Devils of the Marsh.

  “Yo!”

  Adele and I turned around to see a big yellow school bus with young kids sitting inside. Third or fourth graders maybe. Girls and boys had their faces pressed to all the windows on the left side, facing us and the Devils. The bus driver only looked ahead, at the traffic.

  The bus chugged as it moved forward. The driver snaked that bus through gaps that seemed dangerously narrow. The kids all opened the windows on the side near us. Some stuck their heads out and gaped. Others crowded the glass door at the back. One boy had an arm out, as well as his head. He pointed at the Devils of the Marsh frantically, trying to direct the eye of any adult nearby. He shouted again. It sounded even louder with his window down.