It was later, when the kids left the table and started filling the dishwasher, that Becca snared Will.
“You’re not telling me everything about today,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he said.
And then he got up and walked away to his office.
Where he hid until it was time for the sleepy ritual of goodnight kisses and bedside tales.
Becca didn’t press. She was good at that. She’d give him time, space. One of the good carryovers from their own wonder years, the days of revolution and rock and roll.
Instead, when he finally shut the beside light off, she reached down and fondled Will, playing with him, while she nuzzled his cheek.
For a second he lay there. Unresponsive.
Thinking: Nothing’s going to happen.
Not tonight.
Because of all the stuff that’s in my head. All that crazy stuff. I’m in no mood to be turned on . . .
But Becca was nothing if not experienced, and her deft persistence paid off, as thoughts of Kiff — his rat-hole apartment, his books, his crazy paranoia — gave way to a sudden need.
* * *
28
It was near closing time, past two, heading toward three, and for a Monday, it was late enough.
Kiff sat slouched on a stool near the corner, watching the last slugs of beer go down. Jimmie had his apron off — a signal to his customers. He looked over and winked at Kiff, another sign. He even poured himself a cool one, the very last thing he did every night before closing.
You can’t run a gin mill and be your own best customer, he always told Kiff. Jimmie never had a drink until it was time to kick the bums out.
Sometimes he had to get real direct, and tell them to move it, that it was closing time. But these guys were regulars . . . one a fireman on disability, the other an unemployed, divorced insurance salesman who told his sad story every fucking night, no matter who was there to hear it. Chained to his miserable story . . . trapped.
Sometimes, sitting here, Kiff felt like a vulture. I wait until they leave and then I swoop down and pick over the carcass.
Kiff was supposed to clean the whole place after Jimmie left.
That was his job.
But Kiff didn’t do that. He did a quick run-through with the broom, and then he got all the lights off and made sure the doors — front and back were locked.
The rest, he left until morning.
Until it was light.
Jimmie didn’t know about that. But what the hell difference did it make?
The fireman left, pushing himself unsteadily away from the bar. Then the other guy, the insurance salesman, his eyes red and bloodshot — not just from booze. The poor sucker lived through his bad fortune every night.
They drifted out the front door, letting in a sudden gust of cold air, refreshing, but out of place amid the smoke and the beery stench.
Jimmie tapped the register, removed the money, and shoved it into a canvas night-deposit bag.
“Okay, Kiffer, guess we’re all done for tonight.”
Kiff stood up.
A soldier standing at attention.
Jimmie dug his jacket out of a shelf below the bar. He pulled it on and then finished his beer.
“Guess we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, Jimmie . . .” Kiff offered. “You take it easy …”
Jimmie nodded, heading out the door.
Always an anxious moment for Kiff.
Always.
Because then he’d be alone. From now until ten in the morning.
Kiff half followed Jimmie to the door.
And Jimmie stopped. “Oh, right. Damn, I knew I forgot something.” Jimmie turned around. “We’re nearly out of cans. Just the light shit. Meant to tell you before.”
Kiff cleared his throat. “I’ll get them in the morning.” But Jimmie shook his head, disappointed. “No. We need to get them in the damn cooler tonight. The goddamn thing is working at half power anyway.” He looked up. “Got to get them in tonight, Kiffer. Give them time to get cool.” Jimmie smiled. “Just a couple of cases. That should do us until the morning.” He turned. “Don’t forget.”
Kiff watched Jimmie open the door. “Night.”
“Good —” Kiff started to say, but the door slammed shut.
Jimmie looked back at him and signaled for Kiff to lock it.
As if I need reminding, Kiff thought. As if that isn’t the first thing I’d do.
He turned the Yale dead bolt and then twisted the door lock, all the time wishing he had one of those bars, one of those heavy metal bars that pressed against the door.
And Jimmie didn’t have an alarm system. Too expensive, he said. Besides, you’re here all the time.
Ha-ha. Who needs an alarm?
Jimmie disappeared into the darkness. A newspaper headline danced in the street, swirling from curb to curb.
Kiff turned around.
And for the longest time, he just stood there . . .
He stood there thinking that maybe he didn’t have to do it.
He almost convinced himself that he could do it in the morning. That would be okay. Jimmie wouldn’t know, wouldn’t give two shits —
It would be no big deal.
But that just wasn’t true.
The beer would still be warm when Jimmie came in. He’d be pissed. And when he got pissed, he threatened to kick Kiff out, put him on the street.
And that wouldn’t be good. Not at all.
No protection there. None.
So — Kiff took a breath — he knew he had to go down to the cellar and grab a few cases of beer. I can do it fast, he told himself. Real fast. And then hurry upstairs, lock my door.
And wait for morning.
He nodded.
Almost convinced.
The feeling was familiar. And he tried to place it, tried to search through his tired brain, navigating all the sharp turns and dead ends inside his damaged neural pathways. Searching for what event in his past felt like this.
He took a step, ready to give up the mental chase, when he remembered.
It was in Quang Tri, just outside another small, pathetic village that the lieutenant had ordered torched. Nobody asked the lieutenant why they torched the villages anymore. After the first few — with the mumbled stories about infiltrators and arms caches and spies growing harder to believe — no one asked.
They just did it.
Kiff got used to the way burning skin and straw mixed. It smelled like a cookout.
We’re doing our job, the lieutenant always said. Search and destroy.
The lieutenant always grinned at that point.
And we’re destroying.
But then an old man, some lucky Cong sympathizer who happened to be out in the fields, told the lieutenant that there were others hiding in the caves, yes, way up one of the low hills that surrounded the province.
So they marched up to the hill, to the caves. The lieutenant split everyone into parties of two and three — there were just too many caves for everyone to stick together.
And Kiff remembered how he felt, how he prayed that some other lucky bastards would be the ones to find the hiding VC, that they’d get the punja sticks in their gut, or step on a land mine, or have their face riddled by an Uzi. Nobody hurried. Everybody listened.
Until Kiff was looking into the third cave. Standing between two back grunts, one from Atlanta with a indecipherable accent, the other from the wilds of Bed-Sty. Neither of them had much to say to Kiff. But that was okay.
It was that kind of war.
They looked into the dark pit of the cave.
Took steps inside.
Something flew out, a bat, a fucking flying squirrel, Kiff didn’t know . . . They didn’t fire at it.
They took baby steps into the cave.
And all the time Kiff felt that for sure — this was it. We’re the bait. They’ll shoot us and then the others will come and blow the VC to hell.
“I don
’t like this,” the kid from Atlanta said.
Kiff hissed at him to be quiet.
There was a noise inside the cave. A rustling, a squawking sound. Kiff felt something go flying over his head.
Another bat, he thought. He held his M-16 in front of him, playing with the trigger, wanting to just let go and wail. Fill the fucking cave with bullets. Shoot until they didn’t have any bullets left.
Another step. The clatter of rock.
And then Kiff heard gunfire rattling from light-years away, the sound distant, muffled by the thick stone of the cave.
He turned to the other two soldiers. He smiled. He guessed they smiled back, though he couldn’t see anything.
“They’re not here.” Kiff grinned.
Fucking-A,” Bed-Sty said.
And as Kiff walked out, he had only one feeling. He was glad someone else had found the cave, that someone else got all shot up, ready to be sent home in a plain pine box.
That’s what the war was all about.
Hoping the other guy got it.
This time, there are no other guys; Kiff thought. Just me.
But then, there are no Cong.
Go fast, he told himself. Just go down, do it, and get the hell upstairs.
Kiff forced his legs to start moving, and he was amazed that they obeyed. He coughed, wanting some sound to fill the bar other than the shuffling of his own feet. He walked straight to the back to the two rest room signs, and the brown door leading to Jimmie’s cellar.
He grabbed the doorknob, his body still — incredibly — following his instructions. He thought: I’m halfway there. Halfway down, and then up, and then —
The door opened with a nasty shriek. An ancient spring attached to the door pulled against Kiff. He stepped in, fumbled for the light switch. The door slapped shut behind him.
He wished he could have left it open.
But the spring pulled it closed behind him.
The light switch turned on two lights, one at the top of the stairs that showed just how uneven each step was, and another, down in the cellar, that did little to light up the stacks of beer cases, liquor, and shining metallic kegs.
Kiff hesitated.
He never went down there except in the daytime.
I’m not crazy, he thought.
Fat chance. I’ll be away from all my protection.
He took a step. And stopped.
I could go get a cross, he thought. Some water. Maybe one of the books, one of the Bibles I got blessed by every priest and minister that I could find. Charge up them batteries, he thought, get as much good shit working as possible.
He grabbed the handrail hard.
He shook his head. No. That’s crazy. Go up to my room and get the stuff? And then come down again? To here?
No.
He could see the beer cases. Now just twenty, thirty feet away.
He forced himself to move down again. The steps creaked. The wood moaning about its age, its dryness.
Kiff looked left and right, scanning the cramped cellar. Maybe there are rats, he thought. He hated rats. Jimmie had an exterminator come once a month. The place was clean.
They never saw a rat.
Still. They could be here.
Could be hiding.
He got to the bottom, to the stone floor. He felt how cold it was. Damn, the beer would be just as cold if it was left here.
No need to come down, he thought. None at all.
He walked over to a stack of Bud Light. He slid three cases off, easing their weight onto his arms. He grunted, hefting them up.
He heard something.
At first the sound seemed to come from down here. He froze. Already cold, he now felt icy. Frozen. Holding the cool cans of beer up near his face. It was hard. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be.
He turned, looked around.
The sound was a shuffling sound.
No, he thought, it was an electric sound. A spark.
No. That was in my head. There was no sound. Just my nerves.
He breathed in, started toward the steps. Heard a sound again.
Kiff stopped.
There. That was it. I really heard it that time. Off in the corner. Near the sidewalk entrance to the cellar.
There were steps leading up to the sidewalk, and heavy metal doors, and giant bolts with heavy locks. Nothing could get in here.
He thought: I should put the cases of beer down. Drop them, maybe run. Up the stairs.
Thinking: Where’s the crucifix?
Picturing in his head . . . where is it? How many steps to get to it?
But when there was no new sound, when nothing else burbled over in that corner by the doors, Kiff scolded himself again. Just nerves.
Or no nerves. Too damn wired from drinking. Can’t tell what’s real or not anymore.
As he went up the stairs, he kept telling himself that. A mantra, over and over.
Just nerves. Too wired. Too much booze. Gotta . . .
As he went up, listening for anything behind him.
There was nothing.
Looking ahead, thrilled to be almost back in the bar, happy when he came to the door, and pushed against the door, and heard the spring screech out its boinging protest.
And he pushed on through, not worrying about the light.
I’ll shut the fucking light off tomorrow.
Fuck the light.
And now, standing in the doorway, almost breathing normally, almost done, almost safe . . .
When Kiff saw someone sitting at the bar, someone hunched over —
As if waiting to place his order.
Kiff blinked. The man was still there, slumped over the bar like a mannequin. There were just a few lights on, a Miller sign, and a white light under the top-drawer liquor bottles, the good stuff that rarely got tapped.
The guy was still there.
“Hey,” Kiff said, still in the doorway.
He felt the weight of the cases in his arms, pulling on the thin muscles of his forearms, digging into the skin of his hands.
And again, “Hey. We’re closed. Closed. You gotta leave.”
The man didn’t move.
A mannequin.
And Kiff remembered. Jimmie left. I locked the door. All the locks.
He remembered the sound downstairs.
And he thought: I could be in deep shit.
Kiff cleared his throat. He moved forward. And the cellar door held open by his body now slapped shut. It made a sound like a gunshot.
It’s a robber, Kiff thought. A junkie looking for cash.
“There’s no money here. The owner took all the money away. And I — I —”
The man started turning in his seat. Sitting up straight.
“I got nothing.”
The man turned.
The cases of beer hurt Kiff’s arms so . . . but there was no place nearby, no place to put them down. And —
The man, in the shadows, spoke.
“That’s not true, Kiff. You have a lot.”
Kiff squinted. The voice. It was familiar. Somehow, Kiff thought, I know that voice. And he tried to think about anyone he might have fucked over, anyone he might have screwed.
Who’d want to come and get him.
“You’d better go,” Kiff said. “Get the hell out of here. I’ll call the cops.”
The shadow man shook his head. He stood up. “No. You won’t do that.”
Kiff thought, What’s happening here? What’s going on?
And a terrible thought appeared. A horrible thought.
This is it.
This is it.
And I don’t have my cross, or my water, or my books or anything.
Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . oh —
He looked at the bar. To where he had hid the cross, down low.
The man was there, between him and the bar.
“You know,” the man said, the voice still oddly familiar, “you’re a lucky one, Kiff. Because you know what’s happening. Now
, isn’t that lucky? You know almost everything about it. Very . . . lucky. Except you don’t know how to stop it. You screwed up there, didn’t you?”
Kiff nodded.
He gagged.
Why am I gagging? he thought.
But then he knew. I’m scared. I’m so scared.
He heard a noise. On the ceiling.
A rat went scurrying across the ceiling. He watched it.
Then another, then another. Across the ceiling.
‘Cause there’s no gravity.
More rats. Scurrying across the ceiling. Until the ceiling was gray with rats, a sea of wormlike tails. The ceiling dotted with the eyes looking at each other, then looking down at him.
Rats on the ceiling.
Wait a second, Kiff thought.
Wait a fucking minute. This is just the DTs. Yeah, that’s all this is. The fucking DTs. Went a bit too far. Made my head too damn wet, and now I’m seeing things. All wet heads see things. He looked back to the shadow man. And I’m hearing things too. Like the chirping of the rats.
Kiff almost grinned.
“You’re not real,” he said. “This is just a fuckin’ hallu —”
The beer cases slipped from his arms. His arms just gave out. And the cases tumbled to the floor, the six-packs splitting open, the cans rolling away. Some cans popped open, shooting their spray across the floor. Kiff looked down, at the sprawl of cans and boxes.
He saw some of the cans moving.
They were . . . Christ, they were bulging.
He heard the creak of the aluminum.
Creak. Creak. They bulged out, as if breathing.
Until they popped open. And something crawled out.
A head. With teeth. And eyes. And hair. A human head, but covered with the gore and slime of a new birth. Tiny, small. A stunted human head, slithering out of each can. One, two, three . . . dozens of them.
Kiff backed up against the door.
The heads slithered out because they were attached to bodies, snake bodies.
Of course snake bodies. Of course.
“No,” Kiff mumbled. “No fuckinway.” He looked up to the shadow man. “Just the DTs.”
He felt something dripping on him from the ceiling. Something plopped on his head, onto his thin, almost vanished stand of red hair. It felt warm against his skull. Then another plop, hitting his eyebrow, then dripping down, onto his cheek, near his lips.
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