The Kingdom of Heaven

by 19

  –There's more stuff out in the truck, he said. Too much silence.

  –I'll get it, Zillah offered, shocking him with the texture of his voice. Strange. He had a clipped, almost northern accent. His voice was much deeper than it should have been.

  How old is he? Fifteen? Thirty?

  What the fuck is he doing here? This is just all I needed right now.

  He tossed the keys over, against his better judgment, waited until Zillah was out of eavesdropping range, and turned to Jordan.

  The question broke apart on his lips.

  Jordan's eyes were following Zillah, out to the dim shadow of the truck. His face was as transparent as it had always been. The pure adoration in his eyes left the question already answered.

  He asked anyway.

  –Jordan, you're not...are you? The two of you? he said, more pleading than inquiring.

  Jordan gave him a stark, sad look, then turned to watch Zillah again.

  It made him straighten his back, sorry he had spoken. He helped himself to the pipe again. –Do you know how dangerous that is? he asked, quietly.

  Jordan shrugged, still looking out into the desert, muttered something inaudible.

  –What?

  –I said, I don't care how dangerous it is. I...I love him, I think, Jordan told him, sounding almost angry, defensive.

  There was a long silence after that.

  Zillah returned carrying the two canteens, with the sleeping bag over his shoulder.

  He took his bag from Zillah, muttering something similar to thank you. He unrolled it, extracted the package of drugs. More marijuana. A twist of paper around a rainbow clump of pills. A gummy ball of fragrant opium, the size of a shooter marble. A rusted tin box that said Altoids in faded letters, packed full with a baggie of cocaine.

  Flashback: in the little office outside the jail cell, flashlights casting the room in strange crooked angles.

  Jordan behind him, saying, Are you crazy? Come on, they'll fucking hear that.

  Himself, kicking at the filing cabinet again and again with the steel toe of his boot, seeing bleeding faces and broken jaws, until it exploded, choking up a neat little shoebox full of Haven's confiscated drugs from the past year. He had been yelling, over the crashing of his kicking, They fucking owe me. At least this much, they fucking owe me. This will feed us in places where cash won't, keep us from caring when nothing we have will feed us. More furious incoherency along those lines, scrabbling through paperwork and confiscated switchblades, shaking in rage.

  The handcuff was still stinging around his wrist, the cuts from the sawblade raw and aching.

  Jordan laughed, dragging him out of his dreaming. –This has got to be the best thing you ever got out of that town.

  He grinned instead of answering. It wasn't much, stealing the police's little lockbox of dope on the way out, just an immature little bit of payback. There was more there than he had expected in a town as small as Haven had been, but he hadn't really done it for the dope. He had done it so he could think about the police coming in the next morning and finding their wrecked little office.

  –Out of what town? Zillah asked.

  He held up his arm, showing him the handcuff. –Haven, he said shortly.

  –I heard Haven wasn't such a bad place, Zillah remarked.

  He glanced sharply at Zillah, searching for some accusation. Either there wasn't one, or the man was a gifted actor.

  –It isn't. Unless you do something stupid, he said, trying not to sound angry.

  Zillah laughed. –What did you do that was that stupid? he said, gesturing at the cuff.

  –Zil, Jordan began, sighing. –Don't.

  He ignored Jordan. He didn't answer either of them. He only stared at Zillah until he'd made his point, turned his attention back to reloading the pipe.

  He was tempted to say, nothing half as stupid as the two of you are doing.

  He didn't.

  Because that wasn't entirely true, was it?

  Much later, when the fire was a dim glow and the stars were leaving glittering trails as they melted down into the desert, someone nudged his shoulder. He struggled to find his way back to Earth.

  Zillah was leaning over him holding out one of the canteens.

  He took it, and when he put it to his lips he discovered it was filled with some insanely strong kind of alcohol that made the vodka seem like cheap beer. He swallowed, struggling not to choke, handed it back.

  Zillah drank too, without blinking. –I'm sorry I said that to you, he told him, abruptly.

  He shrugged. –It's okay.

  It wasn’t okay, but for Jordan he would pretend.

  –Did they... Zillah hesitated. –Hurt you, I mean?

  He closed his eyes and his teeth, too hard. –Not really.

  He was out at his truck again, sometime much later. He'd assembled a pile of pebbles and was standing on the tailgate, tossing them as far as he could into the darkness, one by one.

  Jordan wandered over to him, stood watching until he ran out of rocks. Then, they both sat there, for a minute or an hour, before he finally gave in.

  –Jordan, you might as well ask me.

  –I don't know if you're mad about it, or something.

  He shrugged. –Why would I be? I did what I had to do. They were cops. They were doing what they had to do. That was it.

  –What did you have to do? Jordan asked, in a very small voice, hardly daring.

  He sighed.

  Lit another joint.

  When the smoke had done its trick of unlocking his throat and smoothing the edges of this ugly story, he began it.

  (2)

  Haven hadn't been a bad town. Not really. There was electricity in most of it. Even though it was little more than a wide place in the road, there was enough food and water to go around, and work if you knew where to look for it and you weren't picky about getting your hands dirty.

  He'd left Jordan out on the highway, with food, a tent and orders to wait.

  He'd gone into town feeling wary. Some places had immense, violent prejudices against outsiders. In other towns, he had been beaten, attacked, chased, even shot at once or twice, simply for not belonging there.

  He had found that here in Haven, the locals were more or less indifferent to his presence. They were coldly polite, that kind of civil hostility that was carefully practiced to let him know he was permitted to stay even if he would never be exactly welcome.

  He'd rented a room from a crooked thin man who wore battered dyed-black overalls and a woman's black wide hat, dripping veils. He'd gotten a job in an antique store the next day, and a second night job in a warehouse moving loads of wood and scrap metal.

  Two days later, three men in blue had come by his room to talk with him. They'd simply explained their own little local laws, not very original by any stretch of the imagination: fear God, love one another, work your ass off or get the Hell out of Haven.

  It was a very sedate, calm discussion, one in which he nodded in all the right places, smiled in the closest way he could to friendly. His books had still been in boxes and bags, thankfully. The Bible he always put out first was lying on a scrap of wood beside his mattress.

  He tried to come across as a little slow-witted. From the grins they gave him and the looks they gave each other on their way out, he supposed he'd succeeded. After they had gone he'd laughed a little, muffled behind one exhausted hand, warehouse dirt still under his fingernails.

  –Did they tell you the Ten Commandments?

  –Yes, they did. Made me repeat them back, he said, smiling a little, almost sadly.

  –You weren't really going to stay there? Jordan asked, almost fearfully. Like he didn't already know the end of the story.

  He shook his head, drank from a bottle of truly horrible peach schnapps. –No. Just trying to lay aside some cash. Move on.

  –We're still looking for it? The Sanctuary? Jordan said, pleading. He already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear the words aga
in, in the only voice he trusted.

  –Yes. We're still looking, he said.

  Jordan nodded, the line of his mouth smoothing back into a curve. –Did they arrest you?

  –Not then. Not yet, he said. –That part came about two weeks later.

  It was a long two weeks, the days a blur of backbreaking work and cheap alcohol. He avoided getting into his tiny stash, afraid to even smoke weed with the crooked man in the rooms below him, probably bent over a worn Bible, sniffing the air, casting suspicious glances towards the ceiling.

  He'd walked out to Jordan's little camp once or twice, told him he was fine, that Haven would be a good place to get some cash, brought him supplies. This was their usual procedure. Jordan was uncomfortable and unwelcome in most townships. He had no social skills whatsoever. His incessant happiness and oblivious innocence made him a target.

  The owner of the antique store had figured out that he actually had intelligence, and began leaving him alone during the day. He had no idea where the man went. Drinking or whoring, probably.

  On his third day alone, she walked in.

  She was a woman sketched without a single straight line, smooth perfect curved hands, breasts that drew his eyes with uncomfortable magnetism. She was wound in an almost cloying veil of sensuality, almost a scent or a taste in the air. She had long thick dark-blonde hair, a doll's face with lips so full he wondered if she might be part African or American Indian. Her round eyes were a dark blue-green that looked artificial against her copper skin. She was wearing a deep purple sundress that fit her badly, some thin fragile material that would have been a soft enigma under his hands.

  –You're not from around here.

  It wasn't a question. Whatever the Hell it was, it wasn't flirting. It was almost an accusation. She was testing him hard with her eyes.

  He didn't move, but he backed off quick just the same, a psychic closing of doors, testing deadbolts. He erased the reaction in his eyes, that strange mix of attraction and revulsion. –No, I'm not, he agreed, and didn't offer anything more.

  He wondered what she was. She seemed to be some kind of reptile wearing human skin.

  She smiled. It didn't reach those eyes. His mind was curled around an awful image, of himself putting his hands down inside the low neck of her dress, cupping her breasts, only he was afraid his fingers would press right into her flesh, as if through rotting meat.

  –I saw J.D. and Isaac come from down your way. Couple of weeks ago, she said.

  The police. She knew where he lived, then. He shrugged, pretended interest in the first piece of paper he picked up, an incomprehensible invoice of some kind. He was glad the battered counter was between them.

  –So what did they say? she asked, insistent, looking at him so hard he wanted to physically step back.

  He shrugged again. How eloquent of you, muttered the automatic little voice that men were born with, that voice that thought the point of existence was to Get Some. She wanted something from him, that much he knew. He wondered what a thing like her could possibly want. –Not much. Just ran me through the rules, about Leviticus, all of that. It's the same thing you get everywhere.

  She smiled. This time, it did touch her eyes, but she was Alaska-cold. He wanted to crouch down behind the counter, hide from her until she went away, He stared at the invoice again, thinking danger, danger...

  She was leaning over the counter, narrowing the barrier of space between them. She was forcing him to look back. She smiled even wider, pushing the smile into him through his helpless eyes.

  He felt his lips pull back in a stiff rictus, against his will. She smelled of sweat and dust underneath a strange perfume that made him think of burning hashish.

  –Yes, she said. – I've been everywhere, too. Same old thing.

  There seemed to be a dark allegiance between them, suddenly.

  –Some of us are getting together, tonight. We could go. You could get to know everyone, she suggested, her voice silky, almost a whisper.

  –I don't really plan to stay here all that long– he began, his throat tight, his hair damp with sweat under the band he'd used to pull it back.

  –If you go, you might change your mind. Haven's not such a bad town. Especially with the right friends.

  He sighed. He knew, suddenly, that this was the next step, that he would go with her whether he wanted to or not. –Where is it? he asked, defeated.

  –I'll come by for you, she said, already turning to leave.

  –Wait. What's your name?

  She made a strange face at that. –Lucretia.

  Jordan was inching closer. They were both lying in the cab of the truck, now. He gave up, let Jordan snuggle against him, even put his arm around him.

  He supposed Jordan was the closest thing to family he had.

  Jordan sighed happily. –So was she gorgeous? That was just like him to absolutely miss the point by concentrating on a nonexistent bright side.

  –No. Yes. She was...

  He stopped.

  He wasn't sure there was a word for her. If there was, it wasn't a nice word. It was a dark-closet corpselight word.

  –Anyway, he said quickly. –I went home after work.

  He was walking with his head down, watching the dust swirl around his combat boots. The sun was glaring out of the western sky, slashing around the sides of his dark glasses.

  He'd pulled the rubber band out of his hair. It hung past the middle of his back, wisps of it blowing against his face. It would be filthy tomorrow; he would have to wash it in the rusty sink in his rented room.

  Right now, he didn't care about that.

  He wanted to feel the wind, to see the black strands snapping across his vision.

  Lucretia was there, sitting on the last step of the rickety wooden staircase that led up to his door.

  She held up her hand, for him to pull her to her feet.

  The purple dress had been replaced by an oversized gray coat over something that had a long black skirt. She had painted just her eyes, with thick black lines that were artless, almost deliberately grotesque. Her hands were soft, feverishly warm.

  He noticed that along with her strange makeup her nails were raggedly long, crusted with dirt and faded chips of red nail polish.

  –Wait. I need to go in, he protested, already being pulled towards the street.

  He realized how impossible it was as soon as he said it.

  He couldn't see her waiting outside on his steps.

  He certainly wasn't going to let her into his house. He would never have been able to sleep in there again.

  –Why?

  –Because, I need to change– he improvised, thinking he could lock the door, ignore her until she went away.

  –Don't worry about it. She gave him that uncanny smile. He noticed she had black makeup caked in her eyelashes. –It won't matter. We should get there before it gets too dark.

  –After that, he admitted to Jordan, his voice fragile and strained, –it gets...blurry.

  He was stroking Jordan's dreadlocks absently, staring up at the stars. It looked cold up there. Clean.

  –How does it get blurry? Like drugs?

  –It was drugs. And it was... He searched for words, for reasons, for justification, for something he could have done differently. –It was bad. The whole thing was just...bad. Wrong.

  –Don't you want to tell me? Jordan asked him.

  No, I don't, but you saved my ass, and you deserve an explanation, he thought.

  (3)

  Lucretia led him in a crooked daze through the worst part of town. It was overcast, making the night a strange shade of gray-violet-yellow, the color of an old bruise.

  The houses were spread out now, the yards crowded with trees and kudzu, dead washing machines and skeleton cars. She stopped at the hulk of a boat. A boat, here, with a weird scary symbol painted on it in red.

  She drew him through the vacant lot behind it, into a tangled confusion of underbrush and trees.

  He
followed her along a thin trail that eventually widened into a kind of dirt road. He heard crickets and frogs, and cracklings and rustlings that were probably snakes and rats and who knew what else. They went past, and occasionally over, piles of trash that had degraded until it was unrecognizable. He thought he saw a sewing machine, an industrial wringer, an old screen door, and a heap of crooked planes that might once have been scrap wood. He was resisting the urge to rake his hands through his hair. He had a horror of ticks. –Where are we?

  –The woods, she told him. –You can't really have any kind of party in town, so we come out here.

  Oh. Now he understood.

  He knew what kind of party this would be.

  He'd been to hundreds of them.

  Lucretia, maybe a couple of other girls, a few good old boys, sitting around smoking shitty homegrown weed and drinking beer. She'd probably be in his lap the minute they sat down, trying to impress some redneck local with her infidelity.

  At best, he'd get a couple of drags of free weed, shitty or not.

  At worst, he'd end up getting a social disease, or getting the shit beat out of him from her jilted ex.

  Or both.

  He rolled his eyes, because it was too dark for her to see him. For this, he was walking through this mess of trees and grass and insects.

  Lucretia.

  There was something wrong with that name. His mind kept sneaking back to it, to worry at it like a blister or a toothache.

  And there was something terribly wrong with his theory of this party.

  First of all, there were a Hell of a lot more people than he had expected. A couple of girls? A few good old boys?

  There were at least thirty people gathered in a wide round clearing, and more wandering in. None of them were putting off the ignorant swamptrash vibe he had expected. A truck parked just outside the edge of the circle was blasting grating industrial through its open windows. He caught the scent of opium, the thick wet green of marijuana, the dark sweet sticky kind.