by John Warner
I hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the door, but then I ran to pick it up.
“Hey,” I said.
“Oh … oh … hi. I thought maybe you’d left.” She sounded flustered, like maybe she was hoping she’d get to make her speech into the machine.
“Just on my way out.”
“How much did you hear?”
“All of it. I was listening.”
“Okay, good.”
“Yeah.” There was a long pause and I listened to her breathe. I remembered this breathing. It is familiar to me as my own, more so, because I’ve never paid attention to my own breathing, whereas, Beth’s, as she slept, I could watch her for hours.
“So how are you doing?” she said.
“Okay, considering … not bad.”
“That’s good,” she said. I thought that maybe there was a nagging something about to be appended, how maybe I wasn’t looking all that good, but she swallowed it back. “Like I was saying,” she said, “I just wanted to tell you that I hope it doesn’t go too terribly and everything.”
“Nothing I don’t have coming to me.”
“No, no,” she said, like she was forcing the words out. “You don’t. They’re judging you on your worst moments and it isn’t totally fair.”
“How else am I to be judged?”
We listened to each other breathe. We held the line, just listening. She said, “Good luck, all right? I’m thinking of you today.”
She hung up before I could thank her. I can say it here, for what it’s worth. Thank you to the love of my (first) life.
37
NOT LONG AFTER my swim with Bonnie, the treatment regimen lightened up considerably and I was given increasing freedom to roam the grounds and “study independently.” For the most part, I wandered unchecked (though never too near the southwest compound), but it seemed all I had to do was think about needing or wanting something and Chet would appear to fulfill that need. One day I was on an early-morning walk that turned into a hike to the top of a small peak at the center of the island. I’d been doing a lot of walking, but had previously balked at trying to make it all the way. However, that day I decided to follow the path upwards. At around halfway I realized I hadn’t brought any water. I was about to turn back when Chet materialized in front of me, two canteens slung like bandoliers across his chest.
“Refreshment, sir?”
“It’s like you read my mind, Chet,” I replied.
“Yes, sir.”
I drank heavily from the canteen. It was like liquid ice.
“How is it still so cold?”
“Did you want it to be cold?”
“Sure.”
“Then there you are,” Chet replied.
“Join me,” I said, as I started back up the hill.
“Gladly, sir.”
FROM THE TOP, standing in a small dirt clearing, we had a 360-degree view of the island. There wasn’t another landmass in sight, though to the north there was a blue-gray haze that might have been a very distant shore. Down one side was an impenetrable canopy of tropical greenery, while down the other I could see the buildings of the White Hot Center, and then a distance removed, with more heavy foliage in between, the southwest compound.
“It’s a beautiful place,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“Where are we, anyway?”
“The precise location of the White Hot Center is not divulged to any nonemployees for obvious reasons, but you can see with your own eyes that we are on an island. Through the simple process of deduction, by measuring climate, the sun’s declination in the sky as well as star patterns, it is plain to see that we are in the northern hemisphere, though just barely. I am also authorized to tell you that the White Hot Center is not only for the study of what you’re studying, but is itself a sovereign nation whose borders and integrity are recognized by international law. To protect these borders we have a military budget that is, per capita, higher than any industrialized nation save the United States of America.”
“But where do you keep all the stuff?” The island was big, but not big enough for what I’d seen of the Center, plus a million-man army.
“Stuff, sir?”
“You know, soldiers and tanks and planes and shit.”
Chet shook his head. “Maybe you aren’t progressing as much as we thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, with what you have seen and experienced, do you really think we need such obvious brutality to protect ourselves?”
“Right,” I said. “Sure, I get it.” I didn’t, not at the time, anyway. Sometimes I’d try to draw him out, make an attempt to get to know the real Chet.
“How long have you worked for the Center?”
“My entire existence.”
“Seems like forever, huh?”
“It does not seem like forever, it is forever. I am a native of the island. All employees of the Center are.”
“No shit?”
“Born and raised, though raised isn’t quite the right word for what happens here. Grown would be more like it.”
“Is that what’s going on at the southwest compound? Is that why Mr. Bob said we shouldn’t go nosing around there?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“So what is going on there?”
Chet looked at me seriously. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, sir.”
I laughed, but stopped when his look deepened.
“Don’t worry,” Chet said, “it would be swift and painless and your corpse would be unmarred. Your remains would be returned to your family with a look of peace and tranquility on your face.”
“You’re just a big ball of sexy fun, aren’t you, Chet?”
“I try my best, sir.”
“It must’ve been something, growing up here.”
A hint of wistfulness crossed Chet’s face. “I know every inch of these islands.”
“Do you ever think about leaving?”
“We leave often. If you recall, I came and brought you here.”
“Don’t play dumb, Chet, you know what I mean: leaving for good. With a face like yours you could make a fortune as an actor, or model, or probably anything else you wanted to be.”
“My understanding,” Chet said, “is that those pursuits don’t have all that much to recommend themselves. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Besides, my parents would kill me.”
“You have parents?”
“Of course.”
“And do you get to see them often?”
Chet shaded his eyes from the sun and looked down the hill. “Quite often; most every day, actually, if things aren’t too busy. My mom says I’m the best thing that ever happened to her and that I better not ruin that by doing anything stupid.”
“Like becoming famous?”
Chet smiled.
“I’d like to meet them,” I said.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” he replied. He seemed a little disappointed about this.
“Why not?”
“It is forbidden. You would understand why if you knew what was there.”
I drank more from the canteen, just as cold as before. My ankle throbbed lightly from the hike, but the surgery had mostly ended that pain. As the weeks passed at the Center, I felt better and better, dropping some weight, seeing a little bit of muscle tone. No one would’ve mistaken me for a world-class athlete, but I was ready to take my shirt off in front of Bonnie again. In all my wanderings, though, I hadn’t seen her. Our singularly designed paths were not crossing. There was no central reception area where we could ask for a bungalow number or leave a message, so everything was left to chance. (Or so it seemed.)
I don’t know how long it was until Chet spoke. “Do you want her?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I replied.
“Nonetheless,” he replied.
I sat on the ground and stretched my hamstrings. “How’s my progress coming, anyway?”
Chet loomed, the sun behind him, putting him in shadow. “How do you feel you’re doing?”
“Good. Pretty good, anyway. I’m afraid that I’m forgetting things.”
“Sir?”
“Not forgetting, exactly. It’s not like that. It’s more like, I remember them, but before the memories came with feelings.”
“It works for us, sir,” he said.
“You don’t have any feelings?”
Chet cocked his head. “I have many feelings, sir, just none of the bad ones,” he said.
“But if you don’t have any bad ones, how do you know the good are actually good?”
“That good must come with bad is a myth, sir. Good can be built on good. You’ll see.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” Chet replied. “We feel you’re probably close to completion.”
“I feel like I’d like to stay here forever,” I said, as much to myself as to Chet.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir, for you.”
“What does that mean, ‘for you’?”
I could see the hesitation on Chet’s face. He looked around to make sure we were alone.
“I’ve said too much already,” he said.
“Come on,” I replied. “Impossible for me, what does that mean? That it’s possible for some people?”
“I shouldn’t have spoken.”
My brain began to put two and two together. “What’s going on in the southwest compound, Chet?”
“As I’ve said previously, sir, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Which means you do know what’s going on?”
“Correct.”
“But you won’t tell me?”
“Yes. While I am well aware of what is going on in what you refer to as the southwest compound, I will not tell you what is going on. My suggestion is that you go see for yourself if you’re so curious.”
“Mr. Bob was pretty clear on that front,” I said. “Seems like he said we’d be killed without warning.”
“I remember it differently,” Chet said. “I remember him saying that you may be killed without warning, not that you would be killed without warning.”
“What are you saying, Chet?”
Chet hesitated again. “Probably too much, sir.”
We looked at the view awhile longer. The air started to cool as the sun set, but then I wished I was warm and I was.
“Chet?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Sometimes, when I’m asleep here, I dream that I’m back in my apartment. That I’m in real trouble. What do you think that means?”
“I think it means the work here is harder than anyone thinks,” he said.
We started the hike to the bottom, Chet leading the way. He was moving impossibly fast, and no matter how much I wished to catch up to him, I couldn’t.
Three days later, after a Chet-less hike, I returned to my bungalow to find Bonnie sitting on my front stoop, reading. The book was resting on her pressed-together knees and she looked up as my shadow crossed over the page. Her canary yellow tracksuit looked better on her than on me.
“Hey,” she said. “You know what? I really like reading. I never knew it before. They pretty much took me out of school when I was ten, so I never got a chance to find out, but turns out, I dig it.”
“That’s great,” I replied. “The reading part, not the taking you out of school at ten part. That sounds wrong to me.”
“Yeah, like child abuse or something, right? It’s the kind of thing people get locked up for and here my mom wrote a bestselling book about parenting your champion child.”
“Ironic,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “As you can see, I’ve got some bitterness.” She held a hand up to me and I lifted her into a standing position. She closed the book and held it against her side. I couldn’t see what it was, but I wanted to.
“Anywho,” she said. “I was wondering if you had plans tonight because there’s a place that I like to go that I wanted to take you.”
“It’ll break Chet’s heart to not have the chance to kick my ass in chess, but he can get over it.”
“Great,” she said, starting to bounce away. She walked on her toes, athletic, ready for action. “Wear something dark. I’ll be by at sundown.”
38
OH, IT IS good. It is sooooooooo, soooooooo, gooooooooood. Whatever it is, this stuff in the patch, it drips like honey from the spot on the funny man’s back where it is affixed all the way to his bombed-out foot/ankle. It shuts things down, flips switches to off, presses the mute button. Life is fuzzy. Life is good. The exhaust fumes trapped by the tunnel: gone. The honking: silent. And look at this: The shit is magic because the traffic is loosening and the funny man begins to move more than 5 mph for the first time in a long time. Everything is back on track. Maybe a little lying-down time when they get to the apartment, just so he can enjoy the patch a bit more before they head to the diner. The boy can play video games solo, then they’ll grab dinner instead of a snack. It’s all the same. It’s even better, matter of fact. They’ll order meat loaf, the one where they cook a whole egg in the middle and you get a portion of it with each slice. The boy is going to say yuck, but the funny man will insist that he try it and he’ll fucking love it because there’s a lot to love in that meat loaf, as long as you’ve got enough ketchup poured on top.
The traffic is loosening, but then here’s these assholes pulling up next to him and honking and waving their arms like lunatics. God, it sucks to be so recognizable. All right, fellas, the funny man gestures with his hand, I see you, move along now. But they don’t move along and are in fact joined by another car on his opposite side where some woman is doing the exact same thing. For God’s sake, kill the honking. There’s nothing that harshes the buzz more than the honking.
Oh, thank thank you thank you, the funny man thinks. There’s a cop with his flashers on, come to protect the funny man from these lunatics. Good luck for him this day, finally. This situation could have turned into a real Lady Di thing, but this cop will save him from the shenanigans, and look, there go the lunatics, peeling off as the cop pulls alongside. The funny man salutes; thank you, Officer, and takes advantage of all the traffic in front of them parting from the cop’s siren to go a little faster.
Police escort, sweet, the funny man thinks. Membership does have its privileges. They’re going to get home in no time now. Even if the parade is still going, this guy is going to let them cut right through. The funny man thinks about what it might involve to hire someone like this on an as-needed basis to just sort of grease the wheels for him and makes a mental note to check on that.
He said thanks, so why is the cop rolling the window down and what’s with the gun? It’s a nice gun, pretty big, but why does he need the gun out, and what’s the deal with pointing it right at the funny man like that? He’s shouting something and pointing with the gun, but no way is anybody going to be able to hear what he’s saying. The tunnel just makes all the engine noise echo and swallows up anything under a low roar, and those sirens aren’t helping either.
Because of the patch and its muffling properties, it is not immediately apparent that the cop is firing the gun. They appear to be warning shots, but what the fuck is up with that? Carefully, because there’s a cop there that’s shooting at or at least near him and he doesn’t want to antagonize the man further, the funny man signals his move to the curb with his flashers before stopping.
The cop angles his car in front of the funny man’s, blocking his way, as if that was even necessary, and slams on the brakes, squealing the tires. He’s still carrying the gun and as the funny man exits his own car, he can now hear what the cop is saying, over and over and over. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The funny man steps up and says, “What is it, Officer?” but the cop blows past him, his arms reaching for the roof and the funny man turns and he sees his boy there, frozen, his fingers gripped on the window edge. His boy, my boy, on top of the car, his hair crazy wild,
dried tear tracks visible through the soot on his face.
My boy, releasing his grip only as the cop—who, come to think of it, doesn’t look like a regular cop—takes him into his burly arms, wrapping the boy up so the funny man, so I, can barely see him and stuffing the boy into the back of his cop car, and this is when I fall to my knees and begin to wail.
But this cop who doesn’t look like a regular cop is not done with me. No, when the boy is safe in his backseat he turns and he grips my shirt with two powerful hands and hauls me up and throws me on the hood. The cop is screaming in my face as he roughs me up against the car. “What the fuck, dude? What in the fuck!”
I have no answer.
It is the kind of thing that happens, but for which there is no explanation. We read about it all the time, but there are no answers. The funny man should die. Immediately. On this spot. He hopes that the cop splits open his head on the car’s hood or that the patch is laced with poison. His life should be flashing before his eyes, but nothing comes because he has no life. It has been taken from him. No, that is wrong, he has thrust it away from himself. Underneath the cop’s arm he sees the gun back in the holster, but not snapped down and the thought comes into the funny man’s head, “I need that,” and so he reaches for it, but the cop is way too fast and strong and snatches the gun first and the funny man is staring down the barrel of the gun, which is what he was after with the grabbing. He smells the gunpowder and feels the heat of the barrel, and he can see that the cop, who doesn’t look like a regular cop, is crying and the gun is trembling in his hands. No, his hands are trembling with the gun in them and the cop is screaming, “I should blow your fucking head off!” and the funny man is saying, “Yes, please please do. Please.”
PART III
Closure
39
I HAD NOTHING dark, my wardrobe being limited to my canary yellow tracksuit and appropriate undergarments. Chet had whisked away my party duds following our one social gathering, but for some reason, that evening as I went to prepare and dress, I wasn’t surprised to see an outfit of dark jeans, black turtleneck and windbreaker in my wardrobe. Everything fit perfectly, of course, and inside the windbreaker was a black stocking cap. I left it in the pocket as I went outside to wait for Bonnie.