This has always been a poignant, though somewhat delusional, time for Lulu. After her ersatz morning sickness passes, she lies back and puts a hand once more on her belly as, within, a reconstitution begins, in this case Hatcher’s. She begins to hum “Sympathy for the Devil”, though softly, even sweetly, not the Rolling Stones version at all, and Hatcher can hear her from inside, as once did, in this same circumstance, the briefly famous, newly arrived British reality-TV music critic, Simon Cowell, who cried out, desperate to curry Lulu’s favor, “Brilliant, you’ve made it your own.” And within Lulu: My little baby, how boisterous you are, I know you will be a girl this time, I can feel it. A mother knows. I can feel your sweet downy wings trying to unfurl, but that will have to wait just a little longer, my darling, there will be time for that. I will teach you to fly in good time. We will rise together into the hot, sulfurous sky, and we will soar, you close at my side, and we will fly to the great city, and as we approach, I will show you the men below, scattering at the passing of our shadows—how adorable your little shadow is—and we will find a small and lively one for you already here in Hell—a Genghis Khan or a Yasser Arafat or a Sammy Davis Jr.—and you will begin. And you will learn, my daughter. Through them. You will understand who you are. It’s what men are for. And so I will also find you a small and thoughtful one—a Voltaire or a Mahatma Gandhi or a Jean Paul Sartre—they are not as lively but they will give you depth—wait until you swallow Jean Paul’s sweet brain, my darling, he knows a thing or two about your world—and you will move on from him, of course, you will grow and grow and you will have full-size kings and billionaires and serial killers—but you will always have me to guide you, you won’t have some desperate old bitch of a mother who didn’t teach you a thing worth knowing and then grasps at everything that’s yours. Hell is other succubi, my darling.
And inside Lulu, as Hatcher begins quickly now to reassemble, he also considers parenthood: Summer, my little child of dumb-shit flower children wannabes—that was your mother and me—we went a little mad and you suffered for that, and then we went abruptly sane and you suffered for that. And Angie, my little child of a face on TV, my TV face was so much less loving than Mr. Rogers’s, so much less charming than Kermit the Frog’s. How could I compete with them when I had to bring you the four-car pile-up on I-70 or the fog at Lambert Airport or the latest from the St. Louis County Council meeting? I wonder if I would’ve been better for you both if you’d been boys. But no. My distraction, my obliviousness would have hurt you even more deeply. As girls you had your mother, who was more important for you, and I was glad for that, I excused myself for that. I did what I did to become what I became and I am so fucking sorry.
And Hatcher is whole in body again, though naked and curled tightly into a fetal position inside a succubus in a double-wide in Hell. But not inside a succubus for long. Lulu stops humming the Rolling Stones and spreads her legs and props herself up on her elbows and lifts her hips and she begins to daaa-daaa-daaa-da-dummmm the brass fanfare for dawn in Richard Strauss’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra.” At this very moment, somewhere in the Great Metropolis, Strauss and Friedrich Nietzsche and Stanley Kubrick are locked in a tiny room together listening to the 190 decibel version of the same passage for the ten thousandth straight time. At the other end of the room, Lilith rolls her eyes at Lulu’s flair for the dramatic. She jiggles the new snow globe in her hand. Hatcher’s own special snow swirls around a small, hand-painted plastic bust of the anchorman. And Hatcher himself suddenly feels a squeezing upon him, and his curled body begins to move.
Lulu stops da-dumming, because even succubi suffer in Hell and this is one of those times, with every cell in Lulu’s body feeling as if it is in a vise and being squeezed to pulp, and she screams wordlessly for a while until she manages, “She’s crowning!”
“It’s just that man who was here,” Lilith says.
“Fuck you,” Lulu cries.
“Pant pant blow,” Lilith says.
“Fuck you,” Lulu reiterates, and to distract herself from the impression that her body is being split up the middle by a white-hot gutting knife, she briefly does her best to imitate the horn section of the Berlin Philharmonic, returning to Strauss to introduce what she expects to be her daughter into the world.
Hatcher’s whole head emerges between Lulu’s legs, and Lulu pauses her pushing and stops the music. Hatcher looks at the ceiling and tries to squinch the muck from his eyes.
Lulu pushes again, and as Hatcher’s shoulders pry her open and as the gutting knife renews its work with a special focus on her treasured private parts, she screams “I’ll make you pay for this forever, you little bitch!”
And Hatcher moves faster and faster, torso and hips and legs all folded together, and with a splashing all about him and a loud sucking-shut behind him, he slides onto the bed between Lulu’s legs.
Lulu falls back flat. Both mother and faux child pant for a while, the latter slowly trying to move his stiffened limbs and the former renewing her pledge to make this daughter of hers forever regret having put her mother through this torture.
Finally, though, Lulu is ready to face the little bitch and she struggles to sit up, just as Hatcher has struggled to sit up between her legs, and they come face to face.
Lulu says, “Oh fuck. Not again,” and she fists up her right hand and punches Hatcher square on the nose. He flies across the room, landing about halfway along, and slicked up by Lulu’s bodily fluids, he skims the rest of the way to Lilith, who calmly lifts one fat and furry foot—pedicured meticulously, however, in French tips—to bring Hatcher to a halt.
The trip back to the city has certain uncomfortable complications. The sun has risen. It was a short night, this time. And Lulu no longer clasps Hatcher to her body in flight. As they fly off, she holds him painfully by the scruff of the neck, at arm’s length, with him dangling full-frontally over the passing landscape. And she’s in no rush. And she begins to sing. Defying the fact that she’s technically pretty nearly a baritone, in a key intended for a pop-diva soprano, failing painfully but still succeeding in conveying a sobby self-pity, she sings: “All by myself. Don’t wanna be all by myself anymore.”
She swoops low through a dry riverbed, and in the broken prow of a ship that resembles the Titanic, a woman stands shackled and wrapped in furs before the hot sun and she is herself singing—compelled to, as a matter of fact—about how her heart will go on forever, no doubt wishing otherwise, and when she sees Lulu and Hatcher, she stops her song and looks up and is unable to look away. Lulu circles her quite closely and continues to circle until Lulu has sung “All by Myself” six times, from tremulous beginning to excruciatingly botched glory-note climax to simulated studio fade, and from the first bars of the first go-around, Hatcher recognizes the singer on the ship prow, and whatever she is suffering for these thirty-one minutes and eighteen seconds, Hatcher would argue that being dangled naked before Celine Dion is worse.
Then Lulu finally veers away and flies off straight. They swoop up out of the riverbed, still flying quite low. The city is suddenly upon them, spreading from the left horizon to the right. Now, at the city limits, the crowded streets begin abruptly. As the shadow of Lulu and Hatcher passes along the jostling throng, like a coordinated wave in a sport’s stadium, the faces of people rise, and Lulu is so low that Hatcher can even see the movements of all the eyes to the dangling part of this dangling man.
It takes him a long few moments of this to get a bright idea. He calls out over his shoulder to Lulu, “Thanks for flying low. I’m afraid of heights.”
The brain of a succubus, even at its best, is far from quick-flowing, but post-coital it is downright sludgy. Lulu, still pissed at Hatcher for not being a daughter, beats her wings heavily at this and they shoot straight up until the faces below recede into indistinguishability, as does, Hatcher hopes, his own naked body.
Finally Lulu dumps Hatcher in the mouth of his alley and flies off, dissatisfied as always, with the way these thing
s end. Like all succubi—and many others—she is puzzled how the ravenous sexual desire she so recently felt has turned trivial and empty now that it’s sated. She is also puzzled how she forgets this feeling each time and is thus puzzled anew when each man is done with. This is a great deal of self-reflection for Lulu, and as a result, she distractedly flies into a light standard along Grand Peachtree Parkway.
Meanwhile, Hatcher is nakedly beating it down the alleyway and up his circular stairs and along the outer corridor of his apartment building, hoping mightily to sail past a closed Hopper apartment door. He is disappointed on both scores. The door is open, and as he approaches it, his limbs become heavy and his movements turn into an exaggerated slow motion. Peggy and Howard are sitting in their chairs.
“There’s the famous TV person,” Peggy says. “Try not to be rude.”
“Rude my ass,” Howard says.
“You never used to use language like that with me,” she says.
“What difference does it make anymore?” he says.
“Plenty.”
“Plenty?”
“Plenty.”
Howard shrugs, “It’s not such a terrible word. And you criticize me for saying the word but you don’t even notice that the famous TV person’s ass is bare?”
“I notice,” she says.
“But no matter. I’m the one who’s wrong.”
“He probably has his reasons,” Peggy says.
“Reasons? I’ve got reasons too.”
“Good evening,” Peggy says to Hatcher.
“Good evening,” Hatcher says.
“Forgive my husband,” she says.
“Forgive my ass,” Hatcher says.
Peggy giggles.
Howard looks sharply at her. He clearly has an opportunity to score big in this argument. But her giggle runs deeper in him now. He can’t place the exact moment, but that same giggle once bubbled up sweetly between them, early on. Was it their wedding night? He can’t quite bring back the room, the touch, the few words before, after. He thumps his forehead with the butt of his palm. That moment is long gone. That woman is long gone. It’s all over long ago.
And Hatcher moves past the Hoppers’ door.
He opens his own.
Anne is standing in the center of the floor, facing him, and she is also naked.
“Is someone here?” Hatcher says, his mind following by a few beats the instant suspicion of his body, a few beats in which Anne’s face darkens.
“No,” she says.
“What is it?” he says.
“My head is on,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Are you glad?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have furry wings,” she says.
“That’s good.”
“It is?” The darkness is gone from her face. Her eyes fill with tears.
“Yes. Very good.”
“I am small and dark.”
“That’s very good too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I know what she is.”
“I had to go,” Hatcher says.
“Yes,” Anne says. “I believe that.”
“But it still hurt you?”
“Did it?” she asks, seeming not to have thought of this.
“Apparently so.” Hatcher is struck by how he seems attuned to her, seems to be saying the right things for once.
“Perhaps worried me,” she says.
“Worried this way,” he says, gently, nodding at her body.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m naked.”
“I’m naked too,” Hatcher says.
“I noticed,” Anne says.
He comes near to her. But they don’t touch. It’s this next step where things always somehow go wrong.
Anne says, “But she came here so openly. I know she can do that because you’re dead. But there seemed to be more to it than she was a fan of yours from TV and happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Hatcher hears Anne’s voice starting to ice up. He could try to press forward with regards to their mutual nakedness, but the trouble has already begun and he knows it would quickly go very bad. So he says, “She had information I needed, information I couldn’t figure out how else to get. I didn’t anticipate what the price would be.”
Anne cocks her head at him.
“You can believe this too,” he says.
“What kind of information?” she says.
He plays his trump card. “Henry’s whereabouts.”
Anne stiffens, though her voice goes soft. “My Henry?”
Hatcher pauses a moment to absorb the body blow of that possessive pronoun. But he can’t simply endorse it. “Henry VIII, former king of England,” he says softly.
“You did that for me?” she says.
“Yes.”
“Why? I know this drives you crazy.”
“If it’s what you need.”
Anne lifts a hand and lays her palm on his cheek. For a moment he thinks that they will have sex now and it will be good. But the gesture is simply gratitude, he quickly realizes, and the sudden, visible heaving of her chest is about something else.
She drops her hand from his face. “When can I go?”
Hatcher hasn’t thought this out. He knows where Henry is and he knows she could never get there on her own.
“I’ll have to go with you.” This actually sinks in only as he says it.
“Now?” she says.
Hatcher, for several reasons and in several ways, is suddenly feeling thoroughly drained. He has gone weak in the legs and heavy in the chest, and he says, “I’ve had a bad night.”
“Then when?”
“I have to lie down now.”
“When can we go?”
“After the evening news,” Hatcher says.
This arrangement, uncomfortable for both, floats between them for a long moment. Then Anne says, quite softly, “Thank you.”
And Hatcher has never been sadder that the sex between them has never been good.
When Hatcher arrives at Broadcast Central, he heads toward Beelzebub’s office. It can’t be avoided. He needs a car. He strides along the corridor and he’s hoping mightily that Lily is on a sex break. He does not want to face Lulu’s sister today. He turns in at the door of the outer office and Lily is there, eating from a box of what one would normally assume are chocolates—small balls, some dark, some milk, some white—but, as has been previously noted, this is Hell and this is a succubus, and so when she smiles slyly at Hatcher and offers one, he declines with something less than gracious reluctance.
“Pathetic,” Lily says, and it’s clear to Hatcher she’s referring to more than his refusal of a treat.
He just keeps on moving, toward Beelzebub’s inner office. The number-two demon sees Hatcher coming and he rises from behind his desk. “Hello, my boy. I’m very pleased with the J. Edgar stuff. I do like a good epiphany, you should excuse the expression.”
“Thanks,” Hatcher says.
“It’s Clinton airing today?”
“Bill. Yes.”
“And the other Clinton?”
“She’s coming up.”
“Splendid. Do they blame each other?”
“No.”
“Ah. Too bad.”
“I’ve found out where Henry VIII is located,” Hatcher says. “I’d like to do him. He’s got lots of reasons to understand why he’s here, but it’ll be interesting to see which ones are on his mind.”
“Well well well,” Beelzebub says. “Your girlfriend’s old flame. That should be painful for you, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Good. You intrigue me, McCord.”
“I need a car.”
“You got it. I like what you’re doing with this series. Self-reflection is hell.” He chuckles.
Beelzebub doesn’t go out of his way to give compliments, and hearing this one gives Hatcher an idea. So he says, “You want me to clear each one with you? Ther
e are sometimes targets of opportunity.”
Beelzebub gives this only a flicker of a thought. Hatcher feels keenly the power of his secret: this is going to work because Bee-bub can’t imagine Hatcher feeling free to have a covert agenda inside his head.
“I’ll put Dick Nixon at your disposal for the series. Anytime.”
Hatcher restrains his elation, but he does flip Beelzebub a jaunty little salute, in effect dismissing himself.
Beelzebub raises a hand to stop him. “One other thing. You’ve got a new entertainment reporter. He’s been cooking for a while, but I think he’s ready for work. He was the mastermind behind an Internet gossip site specializing in Manhattan media gossip. Then he moved up to celebritygenitals.com and was shot dead by a rapper with a tiny dick.”
“Who is he?” Hatcher says.
“I’d rather not say. He can still only remember his screen name, and I’m enjoying that.”
Having been stopped once, Hatcher waits. Beelzebub says, “Go. Go.”
Hatcher does. Lily is staring thoughtfully into her box, and he tries to move by her quickly and quietly. But as he’s passing, Lily lifts the box toward him. There are only two left. Milk chocolate balls. She says, “Please.”
He hurries past her, saying, “No thanks.”
“They’re presidential,” she says.
And Hatcher, who should be interested in the way the nation went immediately after his demise, hustles down the hall trying to think of anything but.
In the commercial break just before the Clinton “Why Do You Think You’re Here,” Hatcher ponders how painful it might indeed be, later this afternoon, when he takes Anne to Henry. But he also finds himself wondering if he might get a little spiritual credit for the act, something to begin to qualify him for a one-way ticket at the next Harrowing. That thought immediately seems pathetic to him, but it lingers, working on him, nonetheless. It’s why he’s seeking out his wives, after all, and he’s already planning to use the car to find another one, Deborah, who is nearby.
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