Transcription

by Ike Hamill

  “Mitchell was no saint,” I say.

  “He wasn’t a murderer,” Jeremy says.

  “A dozen people from a grocery store would argue that point—if they were still alive to argue.”

  “You know what I mean. He wasn’t a murderer before he turned. I’m arguing the point that you were trying to make months ago. Why exactly are you taking the other side now?”

  “I’m a reporter. We play devil’s advocate. It’s the fastest path to the truth.”

  “The fastest path to an argument,” he says. “Anyway—long story short—Blackburn-Lynch says that his numbers will flip the evil switch given the right circumstances. You were in those circumstances last night. If nothing else, I thought it might make an interesting sidebar to your story.”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s a good point. What’s the name of his book?”

  “Don’t worry, you can have my copy. I’m all done with crackpots.”

  I laugh. “I guess we won’t be speaking again.”

  “Wrong again,” he says. “I’ll thank you for the hamburger you’ll buy me when your book is published.”

  “Fair enough.”

  When we hang up, I stare at the phone.

  It’s true—I was the one who originally floated the idea that something about the cell was causing people to flip. In fairness to me, it’s just my nature to take the opposite side of an argument. When I’m chasing a story, I have to see things from every angle. It’s the skill that helps me predict the future and chase down leads. Judith won’t even talk to me about a story sometimes. I get schizophrenic, switching back and forth between opposing viewpoints at the drop of a hat.

  It’s not my job to try to chase down the mechanism of what went wrong with The Big Four. If I can simply make a case for a connection between them, then I’ve done my work.

  The real point of Jeremy’s phone call doesn’t occur to me for at least an hour. I’m sitting there at my desk, organizing my notes and retyping the good ones, when I stop and look up.

  I actually say aloud my revelation—“He thinks I’m infected.”

  It makes perfect sense. Maybe it occurred to me earlier. It might have been lost in my ardor. From time to time, I get so lost in a piece that I forget to watch out for myself. It’s corny, but we call it “Story Fever.” Someone will say, “Jesus, Bob, how come you didn’t get out of there when the gunfire started.”

  He’ll just say, “Story Fever,” and everyone understands. When you’re standing to the side, trying to observe everything objectively, you almost feel immune to the situation. There’s some basic survival instincts you don’t let go, but Story Fever can put you right in harm’s way with nary a thought to your own safety.

  I have the urge to wash my hands, like that will take away the danger.

  I laugh at myself and return to my notes.

  # # # # #

  When I think back to golden moments of the past, nothing is better than that last evening. Jimmy came home, bubbling with his youth. Judith had a smile and two loaves of bread she bought from her co-worker. We had a wonderful little family moment—making dinner and laughing. The world had taken us in different directions for a day and then returned us, healthy and happy, into the arms of each other. There’s no sweeter feeling. It wouldn’t last.

  After Jimmy went to bed, Judith sat in the corner of my office in the Papasan chair. She had a book and a glass of wine. I sat down to write. I had promised myself that I could waste time on fiction, and I intended for it to be dark. I had no idea.

  I wrote about Mrs. Dando. Terrible things began to happen to her. I stabbed at the keys of my typewriter, as the villain of my story stabbed out her eyes. It’s the darkest, strangest, goriest, most horrifying thing I’ve ever written.

  Judith yawns and gets up while I’m pulling a page from the typewriter.

  “I fell asleep,” she says. She tilts up her glass, but it’s empty. She marks her page with her bookmark and comes over to kiss me on the cheek.

  “You’re on fire,” she says. “When do I get to read that?”

  “Oh, you know,” I say. I don’t share any fiction that’s in progress. My ideas have the tendency to dry up and float away if I share them too early. Of course, I don’t think I would share this one anyway. Nobody ever needs to know what I had the capability to imagine. I wrote the piece about Mrs. Dando just to cleanse my brain. I’m certainly never going to show the story to anyone. I usually hold on to stories even if they’re no good, but this one I might burn. It could be cathartic—even more cathartic than writing it—to burn it up. Let the smoke carry the story to a better place, I think.

  “Well at least you had a good time,” she says. “Back to real work tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” I say. I like it when Judith keeps me on track, and she knows it.

  “Come to bed,” she says.

  “In a minute,” I say. “I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up here. No more than fifteen, I swear.”

  I mean it at the time, but it turns out to be a lie. I’m up for the rest of the night writing that story. Even more bad things happen to Mrs. Dando’s little dog. Then, bad things happen to the neighbor. The story gets worse and worse. Even as I’m writing, I think about the crimes committed by The Big Four. There are similarities between my story and some of those cases. I must have internalized them too much—they’re coming out in my fiction.

  I wrap the tale as the sun comes up. I date my story, staple it, and file it away. My mood brightens immediately. When I write fiction, it’s almost like I’m possessed. The story inhabits me and then emerges through my fingers. I’m watching the story unfold as if I’m a reader. I have no schemes or designs on the plot before I read it. If something really dark comes out, I always figure it’s a reflection of my state of mind at the time. At least I have this outlet, and I don’t resort to yelling or throwing things when I’m in a foul mood.

  I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, and then I’m back up with everyone else. I have yet another day where I’m catching up with sleep while everyone else is working.

  I’m interrupted from my catch-up nap around noon. The phone jars me awake.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Tommy,” Judith says, “I completely forgot—I’m not going to be home for dinner.”

  “Oh,” I say, rubbing my face. I’m trying to get my head around what she’s saying. Obviously, I understand, but the fog of sleep has temporarily robbed me of my wits.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well you’re going to have to drag yourself out of bed. We’re out of everything. I was going to go shopping after work, but then I remembered this conference. Pick up milk, cheese, eggs, bread—all that jazz. Also, I need tampons and shampoo, as long as you’re going. Oh, can you get veggies for me to cut up for Friday, and some mayo so I can make…”

  “Wait! Stop. You have to give me a second!” I yell. I always thought the expression about “seeing red” was derived from flashing a red cape at a bull. Now, for the first time in my fairly calm life, the world actually begins to appear red with my rage. I can’t even hear Judith. She’s the burned up match at the far end of a lit fuse. I imagine that my blood vessels are so engorged with unnatural pressure, that they’re coloring my eyes and causing the red hue that I see.

  If she were there in front of me, I would gladly clamp my hands around her throat until she stopped that incessant noise. I know what I’m going to write about that night. I’m going to wait until the sun goes down again—such tales should not be exposed to sunlight—and then I’m going to write a story about a wife who gets what she deserves. I’m going to document every…

  “Thomas?” she asks. Her voice is perfect sweet and calm. I had imagined her as a screaming harpy, but she’s still my normal, loving wife.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” I say. I pull the notepad from the nightstand. “Can you give me that list again real quick?”

  “Sure,” she says. I can sense
her kind, exasperated smile. “Sorry, I was trying so hard to not forget anything that I started barking out items like you’re my butler.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  She’s not at the fourth item before a headache begins in the center of my brain. I write down the items faithfully, but I’m thinking of nothing other than the story I’m going to write. There’s no warmth in my heart. When we make our goodbyes and hang up, my mind starts to clear. I shake off the last of the sleep and run my fingers through my hair. I’m going to get up, take a shower, and then get over to the store. There’s plenty of time to do the shopping and get back in time for Jimmy’s return.

  When I’m in the shower, taking a moment to let the water wash over me, I remember Jeremy’s concerned tone. Maybe there is a mental infection. Maybe it just descends on you as an idea and then gets lodged in your head. You know that other people in the world have done evil things, so your brain starts to consider those things possible.

  Life’s too short to spend any time on such unpleasant thoughts.

  CHAPTER 13: BALCONY

  JAMES DIDN’T KNOW EXACTLY what to do with his hands. Sitting on his balcony, next to Bo, didn’t seem right. Without the excuse of a gin delivery, it was uncomfortable. Bo didn’t seem put off by the change at all.

  “You know what the best part about working on air conditioners is?” Bo asked.

  James shook his head.

  “You get to go into other people’s houses,” Bo said. “You know what the best part about that is?”

  “No,” James said. He couldn’t believe he missed the booze so much.

  “Aha! Trick question. There is no good part about going into people’s houses. I hate it. Most people do. One of my co-workers, Quoddy, he loves it. Loves it, loves it.”

  “Quoddy?” James asked. He tried to count out mentally how many days he had been drinking before asking Bo to stop bringing the gin. It’s not like he felt he was out of control, but remembering the story of what happened back in West Virginia was too much. He didn’t want to risk having another memory like that.

  “Nobody could pronounce his name, so we started calling him Quoddy. Anyways, Quoddy wears these sunglasses when he goes into a house. If you’re standing to his side, you can see his eyeballs jumping all over the place when he walks into a place. He’s like the Sherlock Holmes of dildos. If you’re hiding a rubber phallus in your linen closet, he’s going to find it. Nine times out of ten, he’s going to smell it.”

  “Ugh. You mean he finds it because he can smell it?” James asked.

  “No, not quite that bad. He finds the things because of the dirty fingerprints on the paint, or the pattern of dust above a drawer pull. He’ll say something like, ‘This door is always opened by a clean hand, and closed by a dirty one.’ Before you know it, he’s waving around a sex toy.”

  “Aren’t the homeowners around?”

  “Most of the time, no,” Bo said. “I’m working mornings now, so people just leave their places open if they’ve got an emergency repair that needs doing. Nobody can afford to take the day off to wait for the AC guy. At the same time, nobody wants to come home to a hot house. This time of year, people would do anything to make sure their house is cool.”

  “Even leaving their place open?”

  “Exactly. Before, I was just doing maintenance. I would come in, change the filters, clean the intake, do a couple of other things, and then update the tag. Now that I’m doing mornings, I’m doing a lot more repairs. Quoddy has been showing me the ropes. He smells funny, but he’s a good guy. You know, I could never tell him that he smells funny, but he told me I did—right to my face. Weirdo.”

  “Your company must have a policy against looking at a client’s possessions,” James said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble.”

  “Nope,” Bo said. “Even if they had a nanny-cam set up, I still wouldn’t care. For one, I never touch the things. Quoddy might get fired, but I wouldn’t. Second, I think ninety-nine people out of a hundred wouldn’t dare report that their collection of sex toys was pawed through.”

  “Huh,” James said.

  “I don’t share in his fascination,” Bo said. “And I don’t like going into houses in general. I am fascinated by secret rooms. You don’t find them very often, but when you do, it’s like Christmas.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Bo looked at James and tilted his head while raising his eyebrows. “What do you mean, you’ve never heard of them?”

  “People actually have secret rooms? How do they build them? Do houses come already built like that?”

  “No,” Bo said, shaking his head. “Most of the time, someone just shoves a piece of furniture in front of a door to disguise it. Other people are more creative. You can wall off a section of your basement and make it only accessible through a crawl space or something.”

  “For what?”

  “Grow rooms, mostly,” Bo said. “They grow weed in there. Sometimes they cook meth. Those are the ones you have to be really careful of. People do okay with Quoddy checking out their toys, but you don’t want to go into a grow room. Once I figure out they’re there, I leave it alone.”

  “How do you know?” James asked. He began to imagine what it would be like if he could shove all of his father’s boxes into a tight room. Could he live in a big open house with a well-contained secret?

  “I always know because of the floor plan. I have to get a pretty good sense of a place if I’m going to know how the venting should work. People always have the dampers set wrong on their AC units. If you have the dampers set wrong, your unit won’t be able to keep up with the heat and then the coil freezes up. So before I start looking for a mechanical problem, I need to check all the vents. Next thing you know, I’ve discovered a grow room.”

  “Huh,” James said. Not for the first time, James wondered if he could somehow put all of his father’s documents onto a computer. Maybe he could consolidate all those boxes into one portable machine. He couldn’t afford the risk. If it didn’t work, and he messed up the procedure even one night…

  “Hey, darling!”

  James looked up and saw that Bo was talking to someone down on the sidewalk. He straightened up and saw that it was Danielle.

  “What are you guys doing up there?” she asked.

  “We’re just hanging out. What are you doing?”

  She waggled an envelope. “Mr. Dilton’s mail was delivered to us. I’m just dropping it off.”

  “Come on up here,” Bo said.

  James began to wriggle in his chair.

  Bo must have sensed his discomfort. He spoke low to James. “You don’t mind if she comes up, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” James said. He didn’t have another outdoor chair. Someone would have to stand, or sit on the railing.

  “Give me a second,” she said. Danielle disappeared into the building. The mailboxes were at each door. James figured the mail carriers probably hated the arrangement, but it worked well for the older residents. It was a big plus for him, as well.

  She appeared again on the sidewalk, looking up. “Can you let me in?”

  “You’re going to have to climb, darling,” Bo said.

  “Climb?”

  “I’ll show you,” Bo said.

  James started to have second thoughts as soon as he saw Bo dropping over the side of the railing. Company was a bad idea. Bo was fun to talk to now and then, but this was opening a whole new can of worms. Before he got up the nerve to object, Danielle’s head appeared over the railing, followed closely by Bo. He was right there, making sure she didn’t fall. James stood up and offered his hand. Danielle didn’t take it. She hopped over the railing and smiled.

  “I used to be more of a tomboy,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Take my seat,” Bo said.

  James cursed himself for not offering first. Danielle took the other chair as James settled back into his. It occurred t
o him to offer his seat to Bo, but Bo had already found a spot on the railing where he could put his feet up and lean back against the side of the building where it jutted out. He looked more comfortable there than he had in the chair.

  “You’ve got good trees,” Danielle said.

  “See?” Bo asked.

  “Yeah, ours are terrible,” she said. “Our building is at a different angle, so some of the apartments get sun in the morning, and some get it in the evening. They’re both miserable in their own way.”

  “I’d take the morning,” Bo said. “I like waking up with some light.”

  “It sucks on weekends,” Danielle said. “You just want to sleep in, and you end up sweating.”

  “You’ve heard of curtains, right?” Bo asked.

  “What about you, Jim? Didn’t you say you sleep during the day?”

  James cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if I said it or not, but yes, I do. I work at night.”

  “That must be lonely business,” Danielle said. “I like to have activity around when I’m focused. It makes me feel more vital or something, you know?”

  James shrugged.

  “Except when Chloe is practicing.”

  “She still does that?” Bo asked.

  Danielle rolled her eyes. “Constantly. Don’t tell her I told you—nobody is supposed to know. She’s determined that the next time she sings at karaoke, she’s going to pleasantly surprise everyone.”

  “It would pleasantly surprise everyone if she just didn’t sing at all,” Bo said.

  Bo and Danielle laughed.

  “Oh, that’s so mean. She tries. And she loves to sing so much, but it’s just painful to listen to. I have to leave the house when she starts. Sometimes I go down to the coffee shop and take my laptop, but that seems so pretentious. It’s like you’re there just hoping someone will see you working, you know?”

  “How is that worse than those meet-ups you organize every fall?” Bo asked.