Tomorrow I Will Kill Again

by Matthew Allred

  Jen took a job at the U, partly to fill her time while Paul wrote, and partly as a form of silent protest. She threw herself into her new position at the University of Utah’s Center for Disability Services because—as she had reminded him more than once—she had nothing else to throw herself into.

  With the forty minute commute, plus all the extra work she was doing to get her department in order, he was lucky to see her more than a couple hours a day. They didn’t talk about kids much nowadays, but she had made it clear that although she would rather fill her time with a family of her own, she wasn’t about to sit around sipping wine and watching General Hospital.

  He liked to think she enjoyed her work.

  He was too excited about the car and too upset about Jen to seriously consider breakfast, so he snagged a red apple on his way through the kitchen. The house felt empty that morning, more so than usual. Maybe if they had a chance to talk about it that evening he would tell her he was ready to start a family, even if he didn’t feel ready. He didn’t concern himself with the fact that he’d had that same thought almost every day for the last six weeks and had never mentioned a word of it to Jen. The fact that he was still not “ready” (whatever that meant) emasculated him, made him feel like an old man no longer physically capable of fathering a child. As he had so many times before, he pushed all this away from him the way one forms a wave in a pool, puuush away, puuush away.

  Right now, he thought, biting down on the apple, I’ve got another baby to pick up. The fruit turned out to be brown under the skin, and once he was out the front door, he chucked it into the patch of trees that started at the driveway and continued to the river.

  3

  Paul drove to Salt Lake, stopping at Chinese Gourmet, a large restaurant that was somehow grungy and nice all at once, for lunch on the way to the Acura dealership. He missed Flat Top, the Mongolian grill in Chicago, but the one inside Chinese Gourmet was still pretty good. He sat by himself, drinking coffee and watching the white people and Hispanics eat with their big families. If Jen had been there she would have pointed out that there were virtually no other ethnicities present in the restaurant aside, of course, from the Asians who worked there. Jen didn’t appreciate Salt Lake or Utah like Paul did, but he had been in love with the place ever since he’d come to do research for his fourth novel, Manpower. It wasn’t a huge city, not like Chicago, but it was big enough, and clean. Paul had never seen a city so clean in his entire life. And the dual peak of Mount Olympus towering over the city like that? Beautiful. He’d never get over it. This state was perfect, Mormons aside. And even they weren’t so bad when you got past the obvious barrier of not being one of them.

  He’d first come to Chinese Gourmet with Tyson Hills, the historian he’d hired to help him navigate the mountain of pioneer-centric information available when he was getting started with Manpower. In addition to being a historian, Tyson was an uncommonly devout Mormon, at least in Paul’s mind, a man who attributed both his personal and professional success to his membership in the church.

  “Paul,” he’d said, once the waitress had led them to a table, “you’re a man who appreciates good writing, wouldn’t you say?” He laid his expansive black arms out on the table on either side of the placemat. He tilted his large head down and watched Paul from underneath his coal-colored, tightly trimmed curls.

  The question was so absurd that Paul had accidentally laughed. Tyson either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You could say that,” Paul had said, when it was clear Tyson actually wanted an answer.

  “I mean, you write your books, and I can see how you put double-meaning into things. You know how a lot of writers, be it horror or romance or whatever, all they care about is getting you to turn the page. But some writers—writers like you—you really feel like you have something to say, don’t you? You want to take your books further into the artistic landscape than the other kind of writer.” Tyson’s voice was deep but musically playful in a way belied by his big body and serious face.

  “Yes,” Paul said, pretending to wipe something away with his napkin so he could hide his face a bit. He had never known how to deal with direct praise. He tried to keep eye contact with Tyson, but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes in just the right spot. Part of the reason he was so uncomfortable with this turn in conversation was because what Tyson was saying was not just true, but vital to Paul’s writing sensibility. Taking the Civil War genre as deep into the realm of true literature as possible had always been his unspoken goal. If he had ever said this, and someone had asked him why, he knew he would have no real answer. Why do fish swim? He might ask back.

  Tyson said, “A lot of people ask me to do for them what I’m doing for you, but usually I have to say no because I just don’t have the time. I have a real job, too, you see? I help people with their books when I get a chance, or—” he said, looking at Paul like he was majestic animal in the wild, “when I think the book is really going to be something special.”

  “Okay,” Paul said as the short, wide-faced waitress brought them their sodas.

  “Thank you,” Tyson said to her with a light smile. Something in that deep voice of his promised that his gratitude was genuine, not canned. It really sounded like it meant something. She lingered by the table for a moment as if about to say something back, but then she returned his smile and walked on.

  Tyson’s attention came back to Paul. There was a weight to his gaze, one that made Paul feel like Tyson was actually seeing him, not just looking his way. “Do you know what kinds of books people normally ask me to do? The ones I almost always say no to?”

  “No.”

  “Mormon stuff,” Tyson said. “A lot of nonfiction, some historical fiction, some of it total nonsense. They’ve made the quite the business out of our faith. And that’s fine, if that’s what they want to do. If the books are any good then I really don’t mind, but the thing is, they usually aren’t. It’s usually crap.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said. It was a stupid thing to say, but he had to respond with something. He sipped his Dr. Pepper and relished the harsh feeling of bubbles working down his throat. Behind him some woman coughed.

  “But I’ve read you. Before I ever even thought about you trying to call me or talk to me, I read you. Soldier, Black was the first book of yours I got my hands on, and right away I saw value in it.” Tyson took a long draught of water from his cup, half emptying it. “And not just because I’m African-American. I saw value in it because you’re good.”

  “What do you mean by value? That’s a word that people sometimes throw around,” Paul said, wondering where Tyson was going with this. They hadn’t even gone to the buffet to get their first plate of food yet.

  “Good writing. Layers. Meaning,” Tyson said, as if it were the most self-contained word in existence. “That’s what I like. That’s what I’m interested in. When I got your call, I was saying yes before I even had a chance to spit.”

  “I remember.”

  “But there’s something I want you to do for me if we’re going to be working together on this.”

  “What?”

  Hills seemed to lose a little momentum. For the first time, his gaze faltered. Then he reached into his big shoulder bag and pulled out a flimsy blue book. Golden letters on the cover proudly proclaimed it was THE BOOK OF MORMON. “This book,” he said, “has layers like you wouldn’t believe. A good novel will open itself up to you. You read it and there’s a story, but underneath that story there’s more. A great novel is like watching a 2D object enter the third dimension. You hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, wondering how or if he could politely decline the offer that was clearly coming. He did know what Tyson meant, though. A great novel could be read five times, ten times, each time giving a new and greater meaning.

  “This is like that, but more. I’ve read this book almost twenty times cover to cover, and every time it gets me. It shakes me. We believe in the Holy Bible, too, but it’s been war
ped over time. Not this,” Tyson said, holding up the book in one thickish hand. “This is the way it was when the prophets first wrote it, a long, long time ago.” Tyson looked like he was gathering up a load of gear in his mind. Maybe it was just confidence he was trying to get a hold of. He looked Paul right in the eyes, and Paul subconsciously held his breath. “Will you read this, Paul? Sometime? It doesn’t need to be this week or even this month. I’m not going to make you wait or anything. We can get started on Manpower right away. But sometime, like maybe this year, will you read this?”

  “Sure, Tyson,” Paul said, and for a moment he actually meant it. Who knew? Maybe what the man was saying about the book had some truth to it. It probably wasn’t The Ever-Loving Holy Word of God, but maybe it would be interesting to read.

  “Thank you,” Tyson said, as if Paul had just offered him a kidney. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Thanks for sharing this with me.”

  The rest of the meal was spent eating and doing business, and for that Paul was glad. He liked Tyson, liked him a lot, but he hadn’t come for a lecture on faith.

  In the next couple of months, they spent a lot of time together at the various Church history museums and landmarks, researching. Tyson would never say it flat out, but he obviously believed Paul would never be truly happy until he joined the LDS church. Paul had been touched by the man’s sincerity, but that was as far as his interest in Tyson’s message had ever gone. Soon enough he’d learned that sincerity was rather widespread in this area of the US, and he’d felt even more kinship with the state.

  That had been two years ago, and Paul didn’t even know where that copy of The Book Of Mormon was now. Probably in the trunk of the very car he’d driven to the restaurant. Of course he had never read it. Thinking about Tyson, and the man’s generous nature, Paul left a big tip as he left Chinese Gourmet and went out feeling more like it was spring than early November.

  He did feel guilty about not having contacted Tyson since they’d moved to Utah, but he didn’t want to have to deal with telling him he’d never read the gift he’d been given. Maybe he’d suck it up and give the man a call anyway. It wasn’t like Paul had anybody else to go fishing with come summertime.

  At Mike Hale Acura, Paul looked at the RDX and ILX. The NSX was silly, anyone could see that. It was made for some kid who didn’t know what to do with his parents’ money. Eventually, the ILX reached out and grabbed him and he needed it. He was impressed when the salesman offered to drive his old car home for him if Paul could bring him back to Salt Lake. He enjoyed driving the new car, but found it annoying to make sure he didn’t lose the salesman tailing him. Once at Paul’s house, the salesman got out and hopped in the passenger’s seat.

  Paul had agreed to the arrangement, but wished he hadn’t once they began the forty minute drive back to Mike Hale. One of the reasons writing worked for him was that he didn’t have to deal with anyone except the occasional phone call with his agent or editor. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, but he often wasn’t comfortable with them, especially strangers. Paul was a man who enjoyed his alone time.

  The salesman, whose name was Mike (no relation to the owner, he joked) looked about forty-five, but he was short and fidgeted like a child in the passenger seat, flipping the vent from side to side and tapping the dash periodically. Paul drove, happy to have a pair of dark sunglasses on and the road ahead of him on which to fix his eyes. He turned the satellite radio to a modern classical station and was pleased to hear one of his favorite Shostakovich quartets, number fifteen. Mike, apparently not content to simply listen to the discordant music, said, “Who do you like this year?”

  Paul, who cared only vaguely about sports, was still culture-male enough to know he meant the NBA season. He said what he always said when asked that question, “Well, I’m from Chicago, so I’m legally obligated to say The Bulls.”

  The man laughed, obviously glad to be talking sports. “Good luck with that. At least you guys don’t have that lunatic anymore.” Mike fiddled with his seatbelt, turning it and flipping it.

  Paul, who couldn’t care less about Dennis Rodman one way or the other, played the conversation game anyway. “You said it. You don’t need green hair to throw a ball.”

  The man stopped fidgeting, and an uncomfortable silence fell. After a time, Paul felt a stagnation between them, as if the moment had gone physically stale. Even the jaunty Stravinsky suite that started up on the radio seemed more like the pretense of sound than actual music. Mike, who had become all but still, said, “You didn’t tell her.” His voice, while clearly still his own, now sounded different. It made Paul think of an intelligent frog.

  Paul said nothing. Just as he had known before the man meant basketball, he now knew they were talking about Jen, who Paul had hardly mentioned during the course of the sale. Mike meant Paul hadn’t told Jen about his nightmare. Something red. Something wet and heavy. He meant Paul hadn’t told Jen about going downstairs and finding the blender. Like the music, the cars around him seemed suddenly fake, as if he were driving in a blue-screen world.

  Mike said, “You didn’t tell her because you knew it wasn’t her that left the blender out.” He held out one hand, as if holding a coin, “It wasn’t you,” he held out the other hand next to it, “and it wasn’t her.” The man pressed his hands together meaningfully.

  Paul kept driving, his mind searching for anything that might explain the bizarre turn the conversation had made. He tried to speak, but only squeaked out a half-formed, “Uh.”

  Mike continued, speaking slowly, as if explaining something to a child: “How can you fight an enemy you do not understand? Best to give in. Best to let him have his way with your delicious mind.”

  The highway seemed to tilt before Paul as if it were a horizon seen from a banking plane. Still Paul said nothing. He only drove.

  “I’ve never been a Warrior man myself,” Mike said, his tone now became remarkably smooth, “but even I can get behind Ellis getting on that All-Star roster. He reminds me of Skiles back in the early 90’s. That man can guard.” He had the seatbelt in his hand again, flipped it, twisted it.

  “Excuse me?” Paul said, his stomach turning more than the seatbelt strap.

  “Ha ha, no, I know. It’s Heyward or bust right?”

  Paul said, “Right,” and wanted the man out of his car. Soon they entered a canyon and the traffic thinned out. For the last twenty minutes of their ride Paul ground his teeth. Mike seemed to understand this meant their b-ball conversation had come to an end and simply gazed silently out the passenger window, obviously feeling uncomfortable himself. But he handled it well. As a car salesman of luxury vehicles, he was used to dealing with eccentric people.

  4

  On the way back home Paul began to relax and enjoy the ride. Picking up speed on 189, he learned there was a little more than luxury in the engine of his new toy. He felt as if the speed was blowing away little pieces of the strangeness that had settled on him since waking from his nightmare the night before. Weeks later, in a considerably altered state of mind, he would muse about how much a man can ignore as long as no one else knows about it; if one faced a curiosity alone it did not have the same quality of tangibility.

  Once he hit about 95 MPH his marriage problems couldn’t keep up either. In a feat of blindness that could only be called remarkable, he successfully rejected the full weight of the conversation with the car salesman, allowing it to quietly wait in a dark part of his mind.

  By the time he slowed down for Peoa’s colloquially called “Main Street” (more accurately, Highway 32) the more harrowing bits of his everyday troubles had returned to their usual spot under the microscope, obscuring even further the need to think about Mike the car salesman. Had Jen ever considered leaving him? Was there more going on at the University than she let on? Was there another man? Neither of them had stated it in clear terms, but it had been clear that moving to their dream home was supposed to be a fresh start.

  He p
arked the ILX and cut the engine, silencing some complicated concerto he didn’t recognize. He stared into the nearby trees.

  As they had been packing to come to Peoa, Jen had laughed at a two-picture frame showing Paul as a baby on one side, and Jen as a baby on the other. His mother had given it to them as part of an anniversary gift. Jen lovingly wrapped the frame in three layers of newsprint and looked up at him to say, “It really doesn’t matter if we have a boy or a girl, does it? We were both cute as sin.” She’d had a bandana on then, Rosie-the-Riveter style, and a tank top that would have been a bit too low for company. She’d seemed suddenly young to him, full of life and pleasant promises. Paul had almost taken her then, without any protection, in the middle of their boxes and photo albums, as a way to say, See? I’m not afraid. I’m ready for this.

  If only I had, he thought. The impulse to do so had not returned with any kind of force since they’d moved. Without a condom, he’d found it all-but-impossible to perform the act, a fact that had done more than just embarrass him. He now avoided intimacy the way a man with bad teeth avoids the dentist’s chair.

  As he turned the key in the lock of their nine-foot front door, he wondered just what his doubts were. What, exactly, was he afraid of? While it was true they weren’t fighting like they did back when they were first married, living in Armour Square, or in the nicer apartments they’d lived in before coming to Peoa, Paul suspected that was largely because they spent so little time together. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t in some way enjoyed it, the distance of their new situation. He loved Jen and didn’t want to lose her, but the selfish part of him savored all the time he now had to write and think. Oh? he thought. All the time to write? And just what have you written so far? Not much, he admitted, but he’d kept busy. Reading, doing a little research here and there, and of course pacing around the house or the little patch of woods outside.