by Mike Heppner
Broke
Unable to read anymore, Donna Skye put down her magazine and stared out the window. It was spring, almost summer, and someone across the lake was working on his boat, listening to bright, melodic guitar-rock on the radio. She drained the rest of her chardonnay, set the empty glass down and padded up the stairs. Back in bed, she reached for another magazine, then sighed and left it on the nightstand. The light coming through the window moved across her body, and when she closed her eyes, she could sense the sun going in and out of the clouds, orange and then black, a malarial back-and-forth.
Half past one in the afternoon. Why sleep now? Why now, for God’s sake?
Sitting up, she scurried off the bed and across the room. The bed was an evil thing. It wanted her soul, the empty remains. Donna Skye was a forty-eight-year-old woman who drank and slept all day. No! That wasn’t her at all. She was a published author, a big seller by some accounts, and while the press had ridiculed her first attempt, she could still take pride in accomplishing what she’d set out to do. Even as a little girl, Donna was never supposed to exert her own will. Derek’s story was similar to hers; both of their courses were predetermined a long time ago— hers by her father, his by suicide.
And now? They shared something else: bad reviews. She hadn’t read the book yet, a bit put off by the write-up in The New York Times. The critics all suggested a failure so profound only a genius could pull it off. They’d always hated his work—hated’s not the word, they ignored it, because his followers were not apparently well educated and therefore worthy of academic study but not respect. They ignored him, and now . . . to chastise him this late in the day? That was the real crime. Leaning against the closet door, she hoped her husband (still her husband!) hadn’t read the papers. Derek was having a hard year. This wasn’t what he needed. He needed her, the perfect unit they made together. Removing her purse from the door handle, she slung the strap over her shoulder and fled down the stairs. She had to see him.
When she reached Derek’s apartment, it was not yet two in the afternoon. She parked and sat in the car for a few minutes. What to say? The first thing, plan it out. Derek, honey, I know you don’t want to see me but—no, just “Derek,” no “honey.” Crossing the front path, she noticed that the door was open—little door, little hallway, a bachelor’s pad, no place for a man over fifty (God! she’d missed his birthday). Derek, I’m sorry I missed your birthday. Let’s go away from this place. The steep stairs leading up to the top flat, clam! clam! clam!, drives the neighbors crazy every time he comes in at night, stumble-bumble at two in the morning. Where are you, my little bleached bimbo? Some sixteen-year-old sassyslut—probably got the crabs, not that he cares, so long as it’s nice ’n’ tight. Pound -mmmm! Pound-mmmm! Bedsprings snapping. What the minions don’t see. The legions, the clamoring fans. The phone ringing at six a.m. Sure a long way from Crane City. His hand on my back. Long limos outside. You folks ready to dee-part? Barking orders. The push of bodies. This is my wife, Donna Skye. You must feel so honored. Yes, ladies, I am honored. No question is too personal. Coffee chats in motel reception rooms. 2:30–2:45. Tea with Mrs. Skye. White letters on a black signboard. THE DEREK SKYE SIX-DAY SEMINAR—yes, that’s fine, but this is my husband we’re talking about! Reaching the top step, she pushed her way into the apartment, expecting some reaction, a turn, a shocked stare, a stammer, b-but Donna, don’t Donna me, the words filling her mouth, too much to say and not enough time, not for this, not the blood, smears on the floor, on the walls, red stains on white Formica, fingerprints (swirls and grooves), falling, falling, elongated fingers, sloppy marks, darker pools on the carpet, soaked fibers, still spreading, Derek’s hand clutching the blade, a straight-edge, a little notch halfway down, sharp steel fringed in blood, tiny red tongues, and his own tongue pushing, trying to speak, whisperwhisper, wouldn’t the pain . . . ?, how can a person do this to himself?
“Dahn-nah.” Derek coughed and a black geyser of blood shot into the air, covering his face with an ugly warm splatter. One pale tube twisted from an anchor deep inside his throat. With his neck hacked open, he looked thirty years older; his whole face seemed to sink toward the hole.
Donna rushed into the kitchen and, trying not to panic, called the police, her hands trembling, arms wrapped up in the cord. Hanging up the phone, she hurried back into the living room and fell down next to him. “No. Ohno ohno. Oh please. Oh please God.”
“Muhh-nuhhh.”
“Unnh? You want . . . ?”
“Mmmmuu.” Derek’s movements were slow and aimless. His spread arms reached for things and fell back, a weak grab.
Frantic, she dug her fingers into the wound, pulling out a terrible wad of veiny, salmon-colored gore—sloppy, with loose strands connecting it to the body like a rooty section of turf. Looking into her husband’s eyes, she saw a new intensity there, something focused and immediate. She leaned in, brushing his cheek with her long hair. “Whuwhuwhubaby, tell me.”
Derek’s eyelids fluttered. A strange weight seemed to be tugging on one side of his mouth. “Muhn-nyeh.”
“Oh Derek I love you.”
“Myaaairr!”
His expression hardened. A final word escaped, speaking directly from whatever part of his dying presence still remained. “Unfair,” it said.
His fingers curled as one hand dropped and turned over. Donna looked up at the ceiling (the fan stirring slowly, stuck in a low gear). She wept, her eyes closed, head tilted back. Derek’s absence changed everything; her voice seemed higher, thinner than before.
For ten minutes, she stayed at his side. He’d turned into an object, one of many inside the room: a cloth sofa, two pillows, a table, an extension cord . . . Derek’s body. The smell of cooking in the downstairs apartment rose through the floor. The carpet was sloppy with blood.
Two policemen appeared in the doorway, not moving as a team of medics stormed up the steps and raced into the room. They stopped, looked down, then away from the body. An officer approached her, cupping his hands around her shoulders as the medics rolled Derek’s corpse onto a stretcher. A bit of the dead man’s neck hung over the edge of the cart; the lead attendant discreetly scooped it up and stuffed it back into place.
“Ma’am, would you like a sedative?” The officer searched Donna’s eyes for a response; finding none, he signaled to his partner, who produced an Altoids tin filled with tiny round pills. Donna placed one of the pills under her tongue and allowed the men to lead her out of the room. They carried her to the bed, then stood sentry as the drug took hold. A narcotic sensation, rather like a hand pressing down on her face, came over her, and she soon fell asleep.
Waking, she noticed no loss of time. Both officers were staring at her, and she could smell the chemical odor of industrial-strength carpet cleanser, thick and noxious in the air.
“Mrs. Skye? How are you feeling?”
“Oh . . . I . . .”
“Do you know where you are?”
Donna nodded as one of the two men turned and left the room. Through the wall, she could hear voices, some nearby, others crackling over a walkie-talkie. The one remaining officer brought a notepad out of his coat pocket. “Your husband has been taken to a nearby hospital,” he said.
She laughed, wiping her face on her sleeve. “What for?”
He nodded, head bobbing from side to side. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a sick complexion the color of uncooked ground beef. “Well, we need to . . . examine the situation to determine just what happened.”
“I don’t have to—”
“Oh, no. You can stay right here. We won’t ask you to do that.”
“I can’t stay here.” Running her hand across the mattress, she noticed the little dips and lifts, the places where the springs pressed against the surface. “I don’t live here, you know. This isn’t my house.”
“I see.” He rifled through his notepad, finding a clean page. “This is where your husband lived.”
“Yes, that’s right.
”
“Alone?”
She looked down at the bed. Narrow. Enough room for a lover. “As far as I—”
“As far as you know. I understand, Mrs. Skye. I understand entirely. So you would visit him . . . ?”
“N-no.” She closed her eyes, confused. “We rarely saw each other. This past year we . . . no. I just happened to . . .” Frowning, she looked back at him. “Don’t you have to write this down?”
The officer straightened. Thoughtlessly, he closed his notepad. “Oh, I . . . I have a very good memory. I just . . . I get very nervous, you see.”
“You do.”
“I find it terribly upsetting.” His lips began to tremble. “Particularly when . . . ch-children are involved.”
Donna swallowed hard. She felt a sudden desire to touch the man’s arm. “Oh, well . . . Derek and I never—”
“No, I mean, children, when children get into unpleasant situations, I find it terribly upset—” His voice broke. The other officer ran into the room; looking around, he smiled at the woman on the bed.
“Come on, Cliff,” he said, drawing the cop out of his chair. Cliff followed in a blind daze, head down, shaking. The notepad fell from his hands. Pushing him into the next room, the second officer apologized. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re just going for a little walk.”
Donna sat for a moment and listened to the sound of weeping as it faded down the stairway; then she picked up the notepad, set it on the bed and left the room, closing the door behind her.
When she got outside, the ambulance had already pulled away, blowing the stoplight at the top of the hill. The sedative she’d taken now reasserted itself, but instead of making her sleepy, it overwhelmed her with a swirling abundance of information. A dizzy feeling made the ground seem uneven, and she could almost sense the curve of the earth.
Unable to drive, she left her car and started back on foot, but every time she focused on something specific—a signpost, a newspaper dispenser—it betrayed her by melting into vagueness. An expression formed upon her face, pleasant and withdrawn. For the first time she began to resemble—not her father, but her mother, whose life had also been smothered by circumstances. Her mother had worn this expression for more than sixty years. This was the expression Donna would wear for the rest of her life.
XXVI
Survivors
Thank You
Now that’s not something you see every day. Must take a half hour, forty-five minutes just to get to the hospital. No thank you, brother. When I go, I go ...
Whoo, those socks sure stink! Somethin’ foul . . .
People live too long anyway. I’ve got nothing left to prove. My mother knows I done good. That there’s money in the bank, when you start talking about computers and the Internet and such. A few weeks of work on that typeface, boy, and ding? I even said to the man, You want to buy the copyright from me, that’s fine, because I’m on a fixed income and I could use the extra money. No one ever went to hell making an honest dollar. That’s what they call, “Good gettin’ when you can get it . . .”
I need to call that woman from the registry tomorrow. They keep getting the name wrong. It’s C-A-N-D-A-C-E. Three times, I told ’em. That’s the most important part . . .
I ain’t kiddin’ about them socks . . .
That’s all for my mother, boy, because my mother gave me everything I have, and I didn’t do nothing, I was too busy looking after myself, and selfishness is what makes a man old and lonely and nothing to show for himself at my age . . .
At least I did one thing right. Candace Mason. All those women, back in Pittsburgh. Building bombs, trying to keep it together. They’re all dead now. Thank God I got a way to remember . . .
Best pull the blinds, here. No one want to see my naked body . . .
That siren’s stuck on the hill. Whoever it is, he’s a goner. When I go, they won’t even need the ambulance, ’cause I’m just gonna be dead . Might as well take me away in an ice cream truck. I mean it! No great tragedy in dying anyway . . .
Now who’s that good-looking guy in the mirror? Heh. I look like a pile of garbage . . .
Ssssss, that’s cold. Should’ve warmed up by now.
Oh, I see what I did . . .
Mmmmm . . .
Get rid of some of this stank . . .
Try to go to bed early tonight. Six o’clock. The six o’clock special. Winding down the track. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Ain’t never coming back . . .
John Steinbeck Was a Friend of Mine
Across the water, Gray Hollows was gazing at the tower in the middle of the lake. It looked the same as it had a year ago, when he’d first visited his frmargin-top: 2em;iend in the country. Now he’d come—not for Olden’s sake, of course, but for his own. The tower had been calling out to him for weeks, sending messages. There was a machine inside the tower, just as there was a machine inside his head. But Gray’s machine was different; Gray’s machine was ungovernable, a complicated tangle of axons and data-processing centers, all signals programmed to fire at once. This was high technology: Gray’s brain, not the Gloria 21169.
In a flash, then, it came to him: the lake was not a lake, but a pool of blood, and the tower was not a tower, but a snapped vocal cord, stretched taut to the sky.
Charged with this new energy, he turned from the lake and walked back to his car. The drive into Crane City was quick, and he guzzled cold coffee the whole way, riding on recycled energy. By the time he pulled into the lot behind his apartment, his eyes were throbbing with a weird blue light. Running upstairs, he burst into his unit and heaved his electric typewriter onto the kitchen table, plugging the cord into the wall. Great writers never used computers, and Gray wanted to be a great writer.
The typewriter spat and zizzed as the ribbon cartridge slid along a beam. Reaching for the phone, he dialed long distance and waited for three and a half rings. His mother picked up; in the background, he could hear a loud banging, metal against metal.
“Mom?” His hands shook as he spoke; nervous, he typed a mess of nonsense letters, then tore out the page and started over.
“Gray, your father’s outside . . .”
“That’s okay Mom, just tell him—”
“Herbert!” Her voice faded. He pictured the room, the stretch of the cord. Bath slippers, a robe. Sure, save the sports section. Coffee on the counter. Ow! Whaddaya doin’?
“Tell him, I lost my job.”
“You did? Oh, he won’t be happy to hear—”
“Tell him I’m going to write that book, the one I started when I was a kid.”
“I don’t know what he’s—”
Reaching under the table, he lifted a fresh stack of typing paper and broke the seal. “Remember that book, Mom?”
“He’s been out there with a hammer for the past—”
“I’m gonna do it. I just wanted you to know. I’m getting started right now.”
“Well, you certainly are adventurous!”
He took a new sheet from the stack and guided it through the roller. “HA HA! I am, Mom! I’m gonna put it all down. The whole story. I’m going to tell as much as I can.”
The banging stopped. Through the connection, Gray heard angry footsteps slapping against linoleum. His father’s voice: God-damnit! He could see his mother standing with her finger in her ear, trying to hear over the racket. “Well, write a good one,” she said, brighter now. Her voice drifted in and out of range. “Make it as good as Of Mice and Men. That’s my favorite.”
Gray smiled. He loved his mother, her easy tastes. This was his responsibility. To write someone’s favorite book. To make it as good as Of Mice and Men. For his mother’s sake. He would do his best. “I like it too, Mom. It’s very tightly written.”
Shuffle shuffle.
“. . . okay . . . here comes your father . . .”
The Rules
Welcome to the home page for the Gloria Corporation of Ann Arbor, Michigan. We’re glad you could stop by. We’ve had a lot of ex
citing new developments over the past few months. Feel free to look around, and remember, if you have any questions, we’re just an e-mail away.
For a complete listing of related Fuck You!!!!
Okay, folks, haven’t got much time. We’ve had a lot of exciting new developments, too, and the next few months promise to be just as thrilling, if you like watching a former superpower collapse under the weight of its own hubris. So here’s some advice—
THE EGG CODE’S TOP TEN RULES FOR NOT BEING A PEASANT
Do not put too much credence in the words of rock stars, sports players, fashion models and professional celebrities.
Do not have contempt for people who are more successful than you are. Learn from them instead.
Do not believe in UFOs. UFOs do not exist.
Do not allow yourself to become overly suspicious of the federal government. In doing so, you are shunting personal responsibility for your own bad decisions.
Do not buy too many useless products. Look around your room. There are many useless things here. Why did you buy them?
Do not support the toy industry. Do not allow your children to play video games.
Get two sources for everything.
Do not watch too much television, and stay away from the Internet.
Do not believe in the afterlife. It doesn’t get any better than this.
Idealize no one. A hero is not a person, it is a way of life. (Oh, and I forgot . . . )
Read.