Kiss Me, Judas

by Will Christopher Baer

But Orpheus was given such a simple task, she says. Like a walk in the park. All he had to do was lead his wife out of the underworld without looking back. And he almost made it. At the very end, he turned to look at his wife. He loved her and he didn’t quite trust her. He wasn’t sure she would follow him. When he looked at her, she vanished and was gone.

  That’s just great.

  There’s no smoking in here, says Jude.

  It’s cool. I disabled the smoke detectors.

  I might love you, she says.

  Yeah. And what happened to Orpheus?

  Don’t laugh, but he was killed at an orgy. He was torn apart by a pack of young girls.

  My face is suddenly cold. I feel something like a rush of stupidity and I don’t know the difference between love and sorrow.

  Something bothers me, she says.

  What?

  You never kiss me on the mouth.

  I know you will betray me in the end, I say.

  She smiles. I wouldn’t do that.

  I stroke her foot. What is your real name?

  My only name is Jude.

  *

  Jude gives me a brief lesson in undercover field medicine. I’m doubtful but she convinces me to sterilize her wound, then seal it with Krazy Glue. She shows me how to make a butterfly bandage and it feels good to take care of her. I help her get dressed and she lets me pick out her clothes. I’m tired of her cold European goddess clothes and I choose torn blue jeans that are a little too big for her and hang loose at the hips, the burgundy boots and a tiny white T-shirt that clings to her like it’s wet. Her nipples are round and dark and clearly visible.

  Do you want me to look like a tart? she says.

  I smile. You look like you’re nineteen and you’re sore from too much fucking.

  You look pale, she says. Is it the pain?

  I realize my hands are slick with sweat. My teeth hurt from clenching them and I’ve been shivering for the last hour. My eyes ache and my belly is a pool of acid. I don’t really want another shot but I can’t say no.

  twenty-one.

  Jude is hungry. She tries to talk me into having breakfast but the shot has settled into my muscles and blood, my bone structure. I am happy to watch shadows race across the floor. And I’m in no mood to see Isabel and Henry. The speedboat salesman, I say. Whoever the fuck he is. I’m bored with his game.

  Jude sighs. You are so innocent, aren’t you.

  Bring me a piece of bread, maybe some fruit.

  Okay, she says. But don’t wander off without me. I don’t want you to get lost again.

  Don’t worry. I’m safe as a bug in a glass.

  This makes me giggle foolishly and Jude shrugs. She takes the blood-soiled sheets to leave elsewhere and I hear a massive click as she locks the door behind her. This isn’t like any Valium I ever had. My sensory perception is ridiculously heightened and I feel shifting waves of ecstasy and paranoia. I can’t say I don’t like it. I watch as silent rushing trees and slabs of rock and yawning open space blur behind the window. If I listen carefully I can hear unseen animals breathing and chirping, scratching and chewing. I can even hear the sun. It sounds like a jet taking off in the middle of the night. I stare at my hands for five minutes and I see endless scars and wrinkled, discolored flesh and there is a taste like chrome in my throat. An inhuman voice invades my head and I tell myself it is only the conductor, he’s telling me the train will be stopping shortly in Las Vegas. I laugh out loud and clap my hands like a monkey because I want to get off the train.

  But I’m not going anywhere without the little green icebox. It’s still locked in the complimentary storage compartment, a little white cupboard made of brightly painted plywood. The lock is flimsy, the kind that takes a miniature key. I’m sure Jude could pick it with a paper clip, with her eyebrow tweezers. But I was never any good at that. I use my knife to pry one hinge, but the other won’t give. I manage to slide my fingers into a tiny gap and with strength that surprises me simply rip the door apart.

  The icebox is maddeningly weightless, as always. She told me it was packed in dry ice and I believed her. But I can’t help thinking the ice has melted and my kidney is wrapped in aluminum foil like a ham sandwich; it’s floating around in there with a few cans of beer and a piece of pie.

  I’m suddenly nervous about metal detectors and I drop my knife and gun on the bed. I still have Jude’s little stun gun. It’s graphite and plastic and it looks so harmless, like a toy.

  I drift along the passageway, mumbling and schizophrenic. The train is so still, so silent. The constant motion was sickening but now it’s gone and I feel lost. Isabel comes toward me, her yellow eyes bright. She’s wearing a short blond wig and a black and white dress that could have come from Lucy’s closet. I try to remember what I did with her clothes after the funeral but all I see are haze and yellow clouds.

  What’s in the box, dear?

  Nothing, I say. My pet rabbit.

  Oh, let me see.

  Don’t touch it, I say. My teeth are chattering. I really want to get off the train.

  She laughs. You don’t really think there’s a kidney in there, do you? Let me tell you a small medical truth. An organ intended for transplant cannot survive longer than twenty-four hours without oxygen.

  It’s packed in dry ice. Dry ice.

  It could be packed in amber and it would still be worthless, she says. It would be a dead piece of meat.

  Why should I believe you? My voice is so faint I could be underwater.

  Don’t then, she says. Let’s open it.

  I don’t have the key.

  That hardly matters. Do you have a gun, a knife?

  I push past her, hugging the icebox to my belly.

  The kidney is fine, I say. Jude knows what she’s doing.

  Isabel blows me a kiss and against a bleeding red filter I see myself drop the icebox and grab her shoulders and snap her fine neck with the raw, damp noise of bone and tissue separating. I pull the clothes from her shattered body and watch her eyes become coins. I set fire to her hair and now she smiles and says, you will see me again.

  Outside and I bend to touch the untrembling earth, the dead wood of the platform. I feel the liquid, visible heat coming from the train. A man in a shiny blue uniform tells me I have thirty minutes before the train leaves. I walk into the station, my lucky hat pulled low over my eyes. I see everything with uncomfortable clarity and I try not to whisper and giggle but the incessant bells and lights of slot machines send me into a shivering panic. The crush of people waiting in lines and talking on cell phones and waving tickets drops me to my knees. I crouch before a short, burly vending machine; it’s blue and white and I think of R2D2, the droll little robot that endlessly beeped and whistled in a faraway galaxy where everyone was so polite and sometimes I wished Luke had the testicles to just vaporize him. The machine before me dispenses newspapers and I glare at one through the glass. The headlines are meaningless but the date in the left corner reads December 25. The sky outside has the impossible color and texture of morning. It’s been only twenty-four hours since we left Denver.

  I fucking hate Christmas. It always drags on, as if it’s dying. I tried to be happy when I was with Lucy. She thought every Christmas might be her last. Everything was thick with symbolism. Every little thing took on the weight of a body, of a dead person. I spent too much money on presents and helped her decorate the tree. I tolerated the music, the smell of orange peels and cinnamon. But it all struck me as a waste of time. I wasn’t any happier than I ever was. In the end, I could only get drunk and make Lucy cry. She would sit on the couch, two miles away and silent. Her face dirty with tears and her legs bent beneath her.

  I crawl and stagger into a frozen yogurt shop and throw myself into a plastic booth. I want to get back on the train. I need Jude to soothe me, to make everyone stop staring at me. There is a salt shaker on the table and I unscrew the lid with twitching fingers. I pour salt into my hand and eat it, choking. It calms me down a bit.
I rest my cheek on the cool yellow surface of the table. I breathe in and out until my pulse is normal. I want to get back on the train but I’m not ready to go outside, not yet. A pair of white pants enters my field of vision. The thick fur coat made from some scrawny animal whose meat is probably too bitter to eat. A black leather belt with a bright silver buckle. I look down at polished black boots and then up, at the smiling face of the Blister. He still wears the bright white gloves and I wonder if they hide prosthetic hands. He holds two sugar cones of soft chocolate yogurt, and he licks one of them boyishly. He slides into the booth and hands me the other cone and I stare at it in wonder. I touch it hesitantly with my raw tongue and it tastes impossibly good.

  Are you having fun yet? he says.

  Did you ever notice that frozen yogurt doesn’t really melt? It uncongeals, I say. As if the molecular bond is only temporary.

  I see that Jude is keeping you well anesthetized, he says. For the pain, I’m sure.

  He wipes chocolate from his lips. There is a bubble of silence around our table and the churning faces of the station seem far away. But there isn’t enough oxygen for the two of us and the bubble will soon burst.

  I don’t mind the pain so much, I say. But the drugs are a nice distraction.

  His tongue flicks across his teeth. I wanted to give you a little pep talk.

  I glance at my wrist and I’m surprised to see my watch is actually there. The porter said thirty minutes but that could have been hours ago.

  Let’s make it fast, I say.

  The Blister smiles and I notice how red his lips are.

  Don’t worry.

  I’m not worried.

  A knot of chocolate surfaces at the back of my throat, apparently rejected by my stomach. I place the unfinished cone in the center of the yellow tabletop. The Blister glares at it.

  I’m afraid that you are losing focus, he says. That your infatuation with Jude might distract you from your purpose. There’s a lot of money involved and I have to be careful.

  I don’t really need your money, I say.

  The Blister bites forcefully into his sugar cone. I was hoping you would say that. I enjoy conflict, now and then. It allows me to apply a little leverage.

  I could use a little leverage.

  Did you know that you have become quite popular with the police? Your name is on everyone’s lips and they are dying to meet you in Los Angeles.

  What are you talking about?

  Murder, of course. And a rape for good measure.

  I stare at him. You raped Eve, of course.

  Don’t be silly, he says. That would be far too pedestrian for me, too messy.

  I’m sure you hate a mess.

  He chews for a moment. The point is that the police think you raped her.

  Oh, well. Then I must have raped her. And killed a person, too.

  You must have, he says. He grins at me. A local drug dealer named Winston Jones. He was a piece of garbage, but still. The evidence against you may as well be on a silver platter.

  Oh you motherfucker.

  I am told that Mr. Jones had a daughter, the Blister says. A sweet little girl who suddenly has no daddy.

  My fingers are tingling and I laugh out loud.

  How are your bowels? he says. Has there been any activity?

  Nothing yet. But I have my fingers crossed.

  You are casual, he says. For a man with a bag of poison in his abdominal cavity.

  The only bag of poison is my heart.

  Oh, the drama. The Blister sighs. Jude bothers me and I want you to kill her, very soon. If not, I may be forced to do it myself. And I can just as easily lay the blame on you.

  The drugs are waning. I look down at the table, at the decomposing yogurt.

  Then go ahead and kill her, I say. But I don’t think Jude will die easily.

  The table is perhaps three feet across, half a body length. I place the icebox in the center like a bouquet of flowers. The Blister stares at it, his shoulders twitching.

  Give it to me, he says.

  Silence.

  I insist, he says.

  Everyone tells me the kidney is worthless. A sad piece of meat you couldn’t feed to a dog.

  It is hardly worthless.

  I’m curious. Are you Luscious Gore?

  He laughs. One day, perhaps. I will be.

  I don’t like this answer. I push the icebox to one side and lean forward as if I have a secret. The Blister bends toward me, his head slightly cocked to one side. I grab him by the ears and smash his forehead with mine. I’ve seen this little maneuver in a dozen movies but never actually tried it. It’s absurdly painful. My eyes are hot with tears and for a second I think I may have done him a favor: I’ve knocked myself silly. But then his mouth turns to jelly and his cheeks are the color of cigarette ash. He slumps sideways and I come out of my seat in mock horror. My friend is drunk, I say.

  No one pays any attention. This is Las Vegas and the tourists drop like flies. I slide in next to the Blister and he is trying to sit up. I find his carotid artery with my thumb and crush it. I count to five, six, seven, and let go. Unconsciousness is a delicate thing and it too easily becomes death.

  twenty-two.

  A year ago I might have carried the Blister up a flight of stairs. But I’m so much weaker than I used to be. I’m a fucking flower, lately. I listen to him breathe beside me. I wonder if he’s dreaming. I’m bored and worried that the train will leave soon. I lean over the Blister and remove one of his white gloves. His hand is ropy and gray with scar tissue, with old, poorly healed burns. His hand is like a prehistoric claw, the gross extremity of some cave-dwelling troll. It could probably use some sunlight. I pull the slick glove over my own hand. There is still a puddle of melted yogurt on the table. With one alien finger, I trace out a wobbly heart in the sweet brown goo. I stare at the top of my finger, at the dripping white leather. The Blister breathes, in and out. His face is stupid with trust. I shrug and wipe the glove clean, then slip it back onto his hand. He comes to life suddenly, eyes rolling and incoherent. He doesn’t seem to know where he is. I guide him to the bathroom, smiling and apologizing to anyone that will listen. My friend is drunk, I whisper.

  The Blister says he wants to lie down. He wants to go back to sleep. I say nothing. I don’t want to weaken. I drag him unprotesting to the handicap stall and prop him up on the toilet, his head dangling like meat on a string. I slap his pockets, smiling when I find a set of handcuffs and still smiling as I shackle him to the guardrail. I take his gun from the shoulder holster and unload it. I open his wallet. He has a stack of hundred-dollar bills and a startling array of false identification; he’s a cop and a U.S. marshal and a secret service agent and a military investigator. He has a dozen names. I pocket the money and drop his wallet into the toilet. The Blister is made of rubber. I feel the rush, the trill of reckoning and I know that I am making a mistake. I have changed the game and now everything is personal. There will be no frozen yogurt next time and I don’t mind. I have been patient for so long. The Blister has a cell phone in his jacket pocket, slim as a cigarette lighter, and I slip it into my pocket. I clumsily pull his shoes and pants off. He has very hairy legs and he wears black bikini underpants. He has also wet himself. I take the panties off with care and I’m vaguely pleased to see that his penis is uncircumcised, ugly, and quite small. Now he wears only the gloves. His eyes flutter and he begins to make unhappy noises. I kiss him on the lips and whisper, wake up sweet Romeo.

  The Blister’s eyes are boiling. He yanks at the handcuffs and groans like a horse. I shrug as he presses his knees together to hide his crotch. He waits for me to speak and I realize I don’t know what I want from him. I crouch and stare at him for a moment, wondering if I should gag him. The men’s room is suddenly alive with noise. The drone of pipes and crashing footsteps, the hum of urine against tile. Someone blows his nose bloodily. Two stalls over, a giant takes a long and terrifying shit. It sounds like he’s drowning someone. The Bliste
r becomes calm. I imagine he doesn’t want anyone to notice us, but I don’t really care.

  *

  Let’s open the icebox, I say. Shall we?

  The Blister is blank now. He looks at me as if I am speaking a foreign language.

  You must be a tiny bit curious.

  He doesn’t answer and I decide to ignore him. I dig through my pockets and come up with the key that I took from Jude’s purse. That was a hundred years ago. I take a deep breath and stare at the icebox until I feel disconnected. If my kidney is inside, I will chew it up like hamburger and go home. I sniff the air and wonder what stinks, but it’s only me. I smell of sulfur, of fear. I’m slick with sweat and my hands are pale as fish. I’m afraid to open the box, to gaze on the lost, bloodied piece of myself. I put the key in my mouth and it’s bitter beneath my tongue.

  For a long shimmering moment I point the Blister’s gun at the icebox and I’m tempted to just fill it with holes. The Blister is soon laughing at me, his voice forced and artificial.

  What?

  There is a bomb in that box, he says. And I would dearly hate to perish with my pants down.

  Do I have a stupid face? Why does everyone think they can sell me a pack of lies?

  The Blister laughs like a demented wind-up toy. He’s trying to give me the trembles again and it’s working. I reach into the toilet and splash chemical blue water onto his thigh. And still he laughs, his voice nearly cracking and I pull out the little stun gun. I press it against his wet skin and give him a nice jolt and it doesn’t seem to make a real impression so I stun him again and again and soon he begins to shriek. His face is twisting and purple and I wonder if I might have really hurt him.

  I’m very sorry, I say.

  His skin is the wrong color and his eyes are wandering, but he never loses consciousness.

  How did you burn your hands? I say.

  The Blister glances at his left hand, still gloved and shackled to the silver rail.

  You will be dead before nightfall, he says. His voice is slushy.