by Ron Charach
When she falls asleep against him, murmuring henry, my henry, he bets that soon she’ll take to sobbing in her sleep again. Luckily he won’t stay for long, won’t have to hear it. He watches her innocent sleep, surveys the more-than-she-really-was grace of her long neck, her small breasts—flattened still more by the ravages of gravity—floating up slowly with her breathing, his own sinewy lever of an arm wrapped snug and dark around her waist like a smooth bough bent by an expert maker of canoes. So Ondaatje…
She might yet tell him: —You were way too rough.
To which he’d snicker and defend himself: —Hadn’t I applied a bit of local first?
A joke only a former medical receptionist—his medical receptionist—could go for.
henry morgan to the rescue
Two mornings later, because it’s decision time for henry, Claire is at her worst.
—That little thing we did the other day, I hope you don’t consider that making love…
—Least we made somethin’. You seemed to like it well enough. You even said so.
—Look, henry morgan, I did not marry you to have you get your head blown off your shoulders.
—Get back to your back-issue chick magazines and housekeepin’ reveries. And I’ll ride with the eight, handicap and all. That’s a choice I made.
—Spare me that “big ones” crap again: the choice you made; you’d think I was never part of the choices you made...
—That was then, this is now. Now and again you still figure in.
—How big of you. And when your brain comes oozing down your nostrils, I’ll be left alone in this godforsaken place...
—...in a godforsaken universe...but if that’s all you’re worried about, goodbye, Claire, ’cause Ah’m no thee-ologian—
—henry wait, for the love of God, wait!
—You and your God.
—You were my handsome young doctor, you wore silk ties...
—Yeah, galloway ties. I remember too. There were plenty o’ ties back then. One fer every shade o’ shirt.
—You were somebody. You helped people, and I did everything to look after you—even followed you out here. Where a woman can’t leave her home without risking the crossfire, where we would’ve had to keep our kids indoors all the time—had we been able to conceive. I had a brave handsome husband with a clever mind, who could converse instead of drink, who drank fine wine instead of rot-gut...
—And who catered to the medical needs of galloway and his executive cronies, don’t forget that, my little chronicler. Ah, Manhattan, Old Greenwich—nothin’ but the best out-o-pocket could pay…
—Stop it, henry. You always put too much on that selling-out excuse; it’s your easy out.
—No, you always ignore it. As if I was some kind of pinstriped saint or something. Goddamn it, Claire, where do you think the money we floated our lives on came from—or are you able to wonder about such things? It came from exorbitant fees and speeded-up services in galloway’s “privatized” clinics—why, I robbed near as many people as cabana ever shot, though I confess I was never as slick a robber as galloway.
—Why compare yourself to galloway?
—You see through him too. It’s just that you don’t let it, or anything else, shake you to the core. Oh, the power of a woman, to take life one day at a time, one pharmaceutical dose at a time.
—That’s not fair! How can you, a grown man, walk out on your wife and medical career just to strap a hunk of steel to your waist and traipse around like a simpleton—then condemn me for accepting help from the only man in town who’s kept up his education, well, aside from that yes-man Doc Halverson. I need these injections; you make it sound like there’s a choice.
—Oh, I forgot: I’m the only one with choices around here—
—You spend your life at that sly old bag ma rosemary’s—who’s got nothing better to do than cut slice-n-bake cookies for a bunch of...
—You’ve said it already—a bunch of simpletons.
—That’s right, blamed simpletons.
—Can it, Claire. I’ve heard this before. You know nothing about ma rosemary or about the big picture around here.
—I’ve tried to get through to that woman. You’d think she’d have the decency to return one of my notes. Damn, I miss that iPhone! Then there’s that little hooker, Carla.
—Look, Claire, you just take your shots—as you say, you’re not a well woman. If they’re what you need to keep goin’… Comfort yourself with the knowledge that we have real good reasons for puttin’ up with this B-movie set-up. There ain’t no other place to be.
—That’s how you always end it: nowhere else to be. Yet you refuse to let us make more of the time we have left. You just ride with those overgrown desert rats. Programmed to do nothing but murder and maim, like some first-person shooter video, and you fancy yourself worthwhile, just because you’re …
—Direct, Claire. Ah’m direct.
—Go ahead, keep faking it! Maybe that’s all you did as a doctor too—fake it. Else you wouldn’t have quit. Believe me, henry, you’ve given up a lot more than just the capital letters in your name.
Hmmm, nicely put.
But he answers: —Oh, so I was a fake doctor too? Yet you always play up what I used to be.
—I was a young love-struck fool.
—You still are. At least the fool part.
—Asshole.
—Don’t you mean prick?
—Fine, then—prick. Doctor Prick.
—Flattery will get you nowhere.
—Flattery! That’s all it is, isn’t it? You’re flattered to know you can still hang on to your pri—but wait henry, don’t just walk out—where will you be!...
—Why, with my peer group, the seven mental midgets, or whatever you want to call the big eight. Forgive me, but I think even if it were still an option, I’d take a pass on Freedom-55, loungin’ with you on a long purposeless ocean cruise. At least with the eight it’s—unpredictable...minute to minute…
—You should have taken up golf, henry. You’d have had all the obstacle courses you needed—and a chance at a hole in one…
Hmm, she must be reading more. Ironic, to be educating herself this late in the game. But then, galloway stockpiled quite a collection of ebooks and remaindered books, “works on paper,” he would laugh.
—You know what I really miss, henry—really, really miss?
—What?
—My iPhone. I keep reaching for it like some kind of, er, lost arm or something.
Yeah, you’d like to be in on my every move, wouldn’t you…
—Yeah, it’s like yore phantom limb…
—Pardon?
—Never mind. Try not to even think about that kind of thing. All them apps and all the bells and whistles of that cyber-crap… Littly cyber-birdie whistlin’ at you whenever you got an incomin’ text. Bots that organized your day and even kept the pest calls at bay. Don’t even think of it.
—I miss my Facebook, my friends and all their likes, the timeline, posting photos… I miss streaming music so much! I miss Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat I miss… Ohhhh!… It’s so awful to have it all gone!!
—You had cyber-friends. One step up from imaginary friends…
—That’s not fair!
—This’ll all jest drive you to distraction… I’d best be goin’. Just remember: there are reasons.
—I’m turning the deadbolt, so don’t think you can come back any time you want to. And don’t forget to keep your cell on…
—Yeah, sure. You want to keep moonin’ over what’s long dead an’ gone, then just go right ahead. Suit y’rself…
—Henry?
—I don’t answer to that name no more, ma’am.
—henry?
—What?
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—Do you love me?
—Not now. Sometimes...
—Do you hate me?
—Damn right. You’re hard to live a lie with.
—Where you off to? You going to fight?
—More likely to watch one.
—Who this time?
—cabana—he’s out lookin’ for galloway.
—Those two can’t fight, I mean…
—Right. The new world order won’t allow it. But I reckon galloway will pro-cure himself some help and hide out in his bunker ’til things are set right again.
—Who will he get?
—Rumor has it that the lucky number’s been drawn by big ned.
—big ned fight cabana? I thought they were friends.
—Yeah, regular co-leagues.
Chuckles all ’round.
—They’ll fight anything ’at moves, those two. After all, they’re also di-rect. Don’t talk much. Think less. Anything more I say might give it all away. Bye, Claire.
—I can’t hear you—wait!
—Bye.
—Whose side will you fight on?
—I dunno. I reckon the winner’s.
an uneventful day. carla closes up
—and opens up
big ned doesn’t get up this Friday; his subconscious jest keeps him sleepin’ an’ sleepin’ an’ never even tries to raise his hairy ass. He is 1) too hungry for the girl to up an’ tell galloway a plain NFW (no feckin’ way), but he is 2) terrified of the thought o’ havin’ to elude cabana’s radar face long enough to plug that patickular gent in his patickular back. So he sleeps and goes on sleepin’—jest gettin’ up every hour or so for a minute, lookin’ out around the rim of the boulder blockin’ the entrance to his cave t’see it’s still light out there. Murmuring shee-yit an’ hittin’ the sack again. When he finally gets up t’seein’ it is dark, he jest tells himself: Well then it’s night ain’t it? Reason enough to reach closure an’ hit the sack again for the Big Eight—hours, that is.
galloway for his part just sits outside the cave waitin’ with the determination of a credit-card co-llection agency. He owns the land that the cave is on and had it wired electric’lly in th’event he’d need to coax a bit of help out of dumbbell ned through the use of a little hands-on procedure. He lies on his roll-away futon-on-wheels—goin’ over his accounts under the e-lectric lights that run off his portable generator, keepin’ business affairs purrin’ smoothly through the vast wire grid that runs under his sizable holdings. All in all—it only takes patience since ned will get up sooner or later.
Back in town nobody—but Noooo-body—left their houses that day—what with cabana prowlin’ the deserted streets with the blood risin’ through his tumescent flesh ’til he looked like an atomic sugar beet sulkin’ an’ shootin’ at whatever moved in his blindin’ly rapid inimitable way. cabana didn’t care to register where in hell galloway might be ’cause while he’d gladly stoop low enough to pump galloway ful o’ lead, he would never set his uninsulated foot on that yellow-livered smart-ass’s home ground. ’Sides he always got dizzy—some sort of phenomenon akin to the jammin’ of his early warnin’ system—whenever he left the downtown dome for the outer terrain. He sensed the whole-damn ground on galloway’s acreage was jest bristlin’ with frequencies ’at only a dog could hear—that contained sub-liminal messages only a dog of a man could take notice of.
As for henry morgan, he’d gone down earlier—just a few blocks shy of the downtown—to come an’ join whoever was fightin’ when he heard dozens of gunshots reportin’ an’ realized they was all comin’ from the self-same semi-automatic. You could always tell cabana’s gunshots ’cause they had a Gawd-awful strong smell to them—like a combo of beer farts and cordite—as fishy as the “right to carry” at a Diamondbacks game or a Tucson parkin’-lot exercise in out-door democracy.
cabana was sendin’ out tracers for galloway so that galloway would more than likely keep his self scarce—and with all them bullets side-windin’ around there was no sense hangin’ out anywhere near Carla’s, where a man could get into some body-piercin’ mighty quick.
So henry took off to ma’s on the outermost skirts of town—where she applied a washcloth to his forehead (best thing for stavin’ off the ole hemi-crania) an’ gave him a few pints o’ cider—scoldin’ him for dawdlin’ so long with that dim and ungrateful wife o’ his who spent all her time dwellin’ on the past or chattin’ with townies ’til she started to act ’n even sound like one. An’ why didn’t he come ’round to visit more often? You’re nothin’ like the rest o’ the eight, henry dar-lin’—et cet’ra. ma had four out o’ seven all sprawled about her livin’ room—drinkin’ cider or eatin’ hot bread, belchin’ ’n fartin’ up a Blazin’ Saddles storm an’ braggin’ about roadie movies they’d seen in galloway’s “media room.” Else they were jest lazin’ about in giniral, mebbe waitin’ for a hot bath in a lion’s claw metal tub with an inflatable shell-cushion an’ a few dribs o’ health-food-store lavender oil. The only big ones missin’ from this I-dyllic scene were cabana, big ned and trapper dan.
But dan soon joined them. He’d gone into the downtown area, which consisted mainly o’ video arcades with Nintendo and PlayStation terminals since galloway redone it. The trapper missed out on the noise emanatin’ from cabana’s trailblazer on accoun’ a he was tone-deef. He’d been draggin’ along his huge bear trap—thinkin’ o’ nothin’ ’cept fer those great-big hairy paws that’d soon step into it—when all of a sudden cabana caught sight o’ him roundin’ the proverbial bend and shot a volley o’ shots his way kind o’ spellin’ out the word va-moose in the dust.
The trapper vacated the area mighty quick and jest made do with settin’ up his sole remainin’ trap in the residential area. When he was through, he lay around in the garden in back o’ ma’s for a while, tonguin’ away for cutworms an’ then chawin’ on ’em—whatta guy. But ma spied him out back and pulled him in by his mangy ear an’ forced him t’eat some of her fresh-baked zucchini confection instead—made from the finest freeze-dried zucchini, the stuff growin’ outside bein’ purely for show or for townies to eat since they already glowed in the dark. The trapper took his cake on the back porch ’cause the other big ones wouldn’t a enjoyed theirs anywhere near him—what with them cutworms stickin’ in his teeth an’ wrigglin’ in his muddy beard so much you’d never think they was Bulk Barn gummy-worms.
Not a soul came to visit Carla’s all day an’ night. Even cabana never done took a moment’s rest as shots erupted from his take-this-personally Ruger-Mini once his AR Bushmaster had run out o’ rounds. Carla decided to close up shop. The bullet-proof awnings were already down, so all she had to do was bolt the steel door from the inside, send Lucy the townie home, turn out the lights, an’ go out the back way down one of the steel-roofed catwalks galloway had de-signed as safe passages home for his van-guard o’ coolies.
On the back door which she deadbolted, she put up the sign “CLOTHES’D FO’ TH’ NIGHT.” Once it had read “CLOSED” but big ned corrected her on the spellin’—pointin’ out quite correckly that when it was lock-up time folks grab their clothes from off the metal coat-racks an’ leave. So ya oughta spell it clothes’d.
She made her way down the pitch-black “laneway” tunnel—damp an’ metallic and lit every now and then by a million points o’ halogen light, a kind o’ faux indoor firmament—while bullets whizzed ’round and ricocheted through the relatively real night outside these protected con-fines. She winded and turned through tunnel after tunnel towards the part of the outskirts ’at was in the opposite di-rection from ma’s—in other words galloway country—’tween the residential area and the desert proper. Once out o’ the protective cylinder, she arrived at an open square where she could almost imagine real stars peepin’ through the smudged glass of outermost dome. The center of that skydome was at least thirty stories straig
ht up, an’ she sighed at the thought of it. After a five-minute walk she arrived at her small studio “cottage,” leased from uncle harold and made out o’ the thickest logs in town—aluminum sidin’, ack-tually, with a little frontier trompe l’oeil elevation.
She opened the door slow ’n careful and peeped around a bit nervously, flickin’ on the lights real fast-like, startled by the reflection of her face in the mirrored wall—then just laughed at herself for bein’ silly and threw her suede coat over the Italian leather sofa an’ stretched her long slender arms in a drowsy yawn. She switched on the fireplace—artificial as galloway preferred ’em—’til it glowed an uneven orange-red then closed the rose linen drapes over the window with no view so her room was cozy as an oven-mitt. She touched the thick thermal windowpane just to feel how cold it was—these freezin’ desert nights—and was thankful for the wondrous warmth of her bachelorette, even if it did have to double as a kitchen and bathroom as well.
Then she padded around a bit, makin’ herself a bit o’ tea, sittin’ around in panties and bathrobe for a while, munchin’ toast an’ sippin’ tea laced with just a hint o’ warm brandy. She scratched ’tween her legs a bit. Where she’d been itchin’ all day but didn’t want to scratch in front o’ Lucy who was a silly prude. An’ when she finished eatin’ she set the dishes in the stainless sink and walked back t’wards her sofa bed, pullin’ it out an’ dimmin’ the rheostat ’til the light had a soft peachy glow. Feelin’ warm an’ protected, she slipped off her fur slippers and let her robe fall around her, peelin’ out of her white panties an’ givin’ them just a little sniff t’see if they needed washin’ and makin’ a little crinkly-nose’d face when it was clear that they did. Naked ’cept for her bra, she strolled to the hamper then undid that too, lettin’ her still-firm convexities wriggle up ’n down a bit as she gazed admirin’ly in the smoky floor-to-ceilin’ mirror. So gentle and complacent she was—and completely unaware of galloway watchin’ from behind the mirror less than half a yard away, his scrawny dick pulsin’ in his hand. She strained ’n strained for a before-bed pee over the fancy rose-colored acrylic bidet uncle harold had installed for her. But nothin’ came o’ her efforts ’cept for a relievin’ jet of air ’at galloway vowed he would never forget an’ that he’d play back for henry morgan on more than one occasion—on one of them Blu-ray DVDs you could set on pause without blurrin’ the picture.