by Josh Emmons
His death would make these people sad, and the other obituary readers out there would take note of it—perhaps like him they would speculate on its justice—and it would bring his family together for a day or two of discussing him fondly and resolving that life goes on. Silas’s sound and fury would be like the other sounds and furies that had signified nothing. He would disappear.
He looked across the diner at two mustachioed truck drivers—noted the grossly obtruding bellies over scrawny legs and the padded nylon vests and the feet that knew how to maintain 65 mph for several uninterrupted weeks—who hit each other lightly on the shoulder with the backs of their hands to emphasize a point or command a laugh-along. Touching someone makes them your friend. Silas recognized one of the men and miraculously remembered his name, Shannon Koslowski, whose father, Pete, had led the move to price-fix dairy products in the area thirty years earlier. Pete died two weeks ago. Aneurysm. Making an omelet.
Glancing down at the paper, Silas noticed a small box beneath the obituaries that said “MISSING: Leon Meed, of 427 Neeland Dr. Last seen on December 1. Age 54, medium height, curly brown hair. Any information, please call 555/2471.”
I’d rather go missing than die, Silas thought to himself. When you’re missing you still have a chance.
Later that morning at McDonald’s, Silas’s great-niece Lillith Fielding stood in front of an enormous griddle range with her manager, Ron. Heightened-senses Ron who saw everything and forbade—he was honor-bound not to allow—sloppiness and unprofessionalism. She sniffled and he wordlessly, reproachfully gave her a tissue. Her starched uniform rubbed against her armpits—the blisters were a matter of time and patience—and her face was breaking out despite her abstinence from eating at work. As though mere proximity to grease could ruin one’s complexion. She’d been on shift for five hours with only a single fifteen-minute break spent alone because no one else was on her schedule. In the women’s bathroom she’d filed her nails and written a limerick about the weediness of Ron, brushed her shoulder-length brown hair and separated it into two pigtails, and translated the amount of her first paycheck into Wiccan supplies it would buy. Then the break was over.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Ron asked, not looking at her, having eyes only for the range, where three small beef patties curled up slightly around their edges. It was hot in the cooking area and the milkshake machine behind them ground its way through a hundred pounds of frozen soybean crystals and strawberry extract in a successful cold fusion. Everything was equally delicious and nauseating.
“I don’t know,” said Lillith.
“You don’t.”
“No.”
“And you’ve had how many training days so far?”
“Four. But I wasn’t hired as a cook. I’m supposed to take drive-thru orders and then start at the cash register. Ambrose said those were going to be my only two shifts.”
“Ambrose is the assistant manager. I’m the general manager, and I thought I made it clear to you that we’re a team. If Latifa, say, has a problem and needs to leave the range then it becomes everyone’s responsibility to watch over her section while she’s gone. If I ever see you ignoring a problem because it’s not in your so-called section, I’ll deal with the result and you won’t like that deal.”
Lillith looked at the little concave burgers, at the staid runnels of grease scraped to the range’s corners, at the forearm-length spatula upside down beside three salt canisters. “Is the problem that the burgers are overcooked and should have been taken off sooner?”
“The problem,” Ron said, reaching across Lillith to grab a roll of paper towels, “is that this paper product was only a foot from the range, posing a fire hazard. It could have burned the restaurant down. Then how would you have felt about not taking responsibility for it?”
Ron motioned for Latifa, who’d been standing back during this interrogation, to return to the range, and walked away before Lillith could answer, leaving her alone with the feeling that she was a professional failure, and that she’d been cruelly bullied, and that she wasn’t observant enough, and that Ron was an idiot, and that she might lose her job, and that she hated her job and wanted to quit. But her feelings, she knew, were beside the point. This was about power and as in everything there were haves and have-nots.
Arriving home at the end of her shift, Lillith took off her colorful logoed baseball hat—one of the many things she hated about her job—crammed it into her bag, checked the mail, and unlocked the front door. Her one piece of mail was a flyer about an upcoming Wiccan festival in southern Oregon. Banana-grab and plop on the couch—ouch, who left a hairbrush here?—and TV-on and a few impromptu stomach crunches. It was important always to work on your abdominal muscles. She felt fat and the flesh folding over when she did a sit-up proved it. Maybe Sam had called. She rooted under the couch for the phone—where she preemptively hid it so that her little sister wouldn’t be able to hide it from her—and listened to the voice messages. Her mom’s gynecologist—dyke—and dad’s “squash buddy” and a weird high-pitched voice addressing itself to the head of the household and her ancient uncle Silas and that was it. No Sam. Fine. Maybe she didn’t like Sam as much as she thought she did. He was short. Dwarfish. She’d have to buy flat-heeled shoes to go out with him and put up with his Napoleon complex and probably never get to be on top. Why bother?
The next day Silas Carlton carefully lowered himself down the foldout steps of Eureka Transit’s number 9 bus at the South Jetty stop, where he stood between a peeling green bench and a former public bathroom in order to button up his barn jacket with cold, recalcitrant fingers. The bus groaned away and a bubbly blue car floated soundlessly into a parking spot to his left. He had particular difficulty with the top button.
Elaine Perry stepped out of the blue car and locked her door and a minute later was walking beside Silas, whom she didn’t know, up the oversoft sand dune that led to the beach. They avoided eye contact and altered their speed in a vain effort to establish distance between them, like two pedestrians approaching each other on an empty sidewalk who feint right and left in unison, seeming destined to collide until the final second when, greatly relieved, they pass without incident.
Once in sight of the water and at last a few steps away from Silas, Elaine removed her shoes, rolled up her chinos, and went to the shore’s edge. Silas stopped at the charred remains of an old bonfire and, responding to the strong easterly wind, hugged himself in a straitjacket pose and considered what a mistake it had been to make so many bus transfers (three!) just to reach this desolate stretch of ocean. Elaine stooped to pick up bits of shell and polished agates, looking for colors and shapes not already represented in her collection at home. Silas took out his bus timetable, which rattled angrily in the wind, and saw that there wouldn’t be a pickup for forty-seven minutes. In the distance a dune buggy roared; if either of them had squinted in its direction they would have seen it spin around and around, the driver having the time of his life.
It had been years since Silas was last at the beach, back when he’d still had a driver’s license and could chauffeur himself. It was a sorrowful thing to be dependent on public transportation in California. As it was to be old in America. He glanced around to find shelter from the insistent wind, but there was nothing other than the parking lot’s restroom, an abandoned lean-to with survivalist weeds pushing through the cracks in its door, so he took refuge in a fantasy of being seated at home, with a bowl of microwaved walnuts and hot cider.
Elaine stuffed an arrowhead-shaped rock into her pocket. She had come home at lunchtime the day before and found her husband, Greg, performing cunnilingus on a big red-headed woman whom she at first assumed was his hospital affair, Marlene, but who turned out to be someone else entirely. Greg arched up his back and turned to her, his hands still gripping the woman’s knees, an expression on his face like why-do-I-have-all-the-bad-luck? Elaine went to her desk and hunted around until she found their marriage certificate, lit it on fi
re, and dropped it onto the floor next to Greg’s underwear. Just the week before, her friend Rebecca had discovered that her husband was a deviant Internet porn troll. Why were people so disappointing? Why did you get so enamored of them and then learn once it’s too late to leave without serious psychological and emotional damage that they’re selfish and hurtful and better at deceit than anything else? Greg sprang into action when the flame had eaten half the certificate by using his discarded undershirt to smother it. “Elaine,” he said, his eyes smarting from the smoke, “it’s not what you think.” “Who’s thinking?” she asked with a fairly insane serenity. “Who can think at a time like this?” Pivoting around, she left the bedroom and didn’t come back until that evening, by which time Greg had cleared out an overnight bag of clothes and supplies and gone to stay at his friend Steve’s, or so he claimed in a scrawled, self-abasing note.
The ocean was a puce green that produced violent eight-foot swirling white waves a hundred feet out from shore and small clear waves closer in that broke and spread like liquid glass over the hard-packed sand. Elaine kicked the water and sent up tiny sprays in front of her. Sand crabs burrowed into frothing holes. Seaweed eyelashes were splayed in midblink all around.
Silas, not gaining much traction in his daydream of warm nuts and hot drinks, opened his eyes when he heard the loud cries of either a man or sea lion coming from the water. He saw what appeared to be an arm rise out beyond the waves and then walked as quickly as his knees allowed toward Elaine, who stood by the shore surveying the horizon on tiptoes.
“Is that a person?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Elaine, just as the cries ceased. They scanned the water where the arm had been, but where there was nothing now but the ocean’s tumult.
Ten seconds went by.
“Where’d he go?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know.”
“The undertow at this beach is—I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Wait, do you hear that?”
They listened and looked and there was the man again, calling out like he’d never stopped, “Hellllyelllp!”
“I’m going in,” Elaine said, handing her phone to Silas. “Here, call 911.”
Holding the tiny plastic device high and at arm’s length to study its miniature number pad, Silas dialed and then spoke their imprecise location on the South Jetty as Elaine waded into the water and made slow, determined progress against the direction of the tide. The man crying for help was clearly visible now, a head and bit of shoulder being lifted up by the waves and ground into the egg-white surf. Elaine inched closer to him with effort. The man’s voice sounded gargled and desperate; Elaine was practically swimming in place. And then, as suddenly as he’d stopped before, the man went silent and was no longer visible. Elaine kept valiantly swimming. A minute passed. Two. Three.
“I don’t see him!” Silas called out hoarsely.
Elaine turned her head and was instantly pushed back toward the shore. “What?”
“He may have gone under!”
“Did you call the ambulance?”
“Yes!”
“Good!”
“What?”
“Good!”
“Yes!”
“It’s freezing in here; I’m starting to go numb!”
“You should come back. It’s dangerous out there!”
“His body could be floating around! I could drag him in!”
“That’s too risky! You could get hypothermia!”
“I’ve had that before!”
“What?”
“I’ve had that before!”
“Come back!”
By the time Elaine reached the shore she was panting and coughing and purplish with cold. An ambulance dopplered into the parking lot beyond the dunes. Silas and Elaine went to meet it and explain that a man had drowned, that they hadn’t seen him go out in the water, but that there he’d met his end. Elaine insisted that Silas sit with her in her car with the heat on full blast until the police arrived to take their statements. They didn’t know who the victim was. A man. Impossible to speculate on his age, build, or ethnicity. Elaine, Silas, the police, and the ambulance workers all talked on the beach with one eye on the water to see if the body would wash up. Didn’t. Nothing. Sleeping with the fishes. Elaine felt ill, as though she were still out among the waves, rising and falling, searching the water to see—what? What had she hoped to find that wouldn’t frighten her beyond comprehension? Eventually nothing more could be said or done.
It never snowed in Eureka. Too close to sea level—it was sea level—so when Eve Sieber woke up to see her car covered in snow she told herself she was still dreaming. Which wasn’t true. When you’re awake you know it, and you only say you’re still dreaming in order to make a rhetorical point about the strangeness you’re witnessing. Fine, so she was awake, but the snow was nevertheless unusual. Must have been the New Weather. The snows of Kilimanjaro were melting, the polar ice mass was decreasing, the average temperature of southern California had risen two degrees over the last twenty years. Why not snow in Eureka? Why not tempests and tsunamis and terrorific tornadoes? This was a meteorological paradigm shift, and Eve was ready for it.
In the small aqua-tinted kitchen her caffetiere melded together tap water and coarsely ground Peruvian Blend coffee. A city-owned truck cruised slowly past her building as two men shoveled salt directly onto the snow-laden street. Shouldn’t they have plowed the street first? Eve stared at the caffetiere and touched the side of its glass briefly—hot as a fire poker, not that she’d know from personal experience—and then stumbled into the bathroom. Diarrhea was a horrible feeling. She’d gained a pound by the time she was done on the toilet, mysteriously. Is the scale broken? She took a shower and stroked her sore nipples—Ryan had really gone infantile on her last night, nursing on her breasts with the suction vehemence of a cartoon baby One-Tooth, then insisting she tie knots in a handkerchief and stick it up his ass during sex with the instruction to pull it out when he came—and shaved her legs. She was as into experimentation as the next girl—hadn’t the handkerchief been her suggestion?—but she had to worry now about them getting to a stage where normal sex—the old boy/girl in-out—would no longer appeal to her or Ryan. She loved him, or thought she did, which could be the same thing, but their tastes were doomed to become so extreme that eventually death would be their only unexplored sexual aide, and with mutual asphyxiation already behind them—last week, silk stockings, bed knobs and broomsticks—death might not be so far away. Think of what she’d leave behind: her shitty job at Bonanza 88 selling key rings and discount chocolate bars to large, prematurely aged women and their hordes of children. So many kids and such harried women and such sad interest in cheap imitation-brand clothing, not bought for durability or style but for sheer economy. The women didn’t smile, and they were always alone with their kids. If a man was present, some errant father hauled in by the alimony police, he was so obviously just-released from a halfway house, detoxed and pathetically unable to focus on any object long enough to pick it up, that Eve had to think, Why do they take these losers back? This woman here at the register is grim and overworked and I’d hate to be her, but can it possibly be better when that brandied moron is around? Yet Eve knew that the only thing separating her from these women was ten years. Or five. She was twenty-three and still childless and not unattractive—with soft blue eyes and clean high cheekbones, she had, for Eureka, an almost otherworldly beauty—but she’d gotten to the point where she didn’t lie to herself anymore and imagine a glorious future of fame and financial sanguinity. That wasn’t in the cards. Her pair of deuces was the janitor at Muir Elementary School, whose junk habit was quickly getting beyond anyone’s control, and whose celebrated love technique was turning into the kind of thing Houdini would have done if he were irreparably stoned and scatological. So much for the promise of youth. So, so much.
Eve put on a torn zip-up ski suit and a pair of moon boots—God, she looked weird�
��and kicked some clothes and magazines into a corner of the cramped living room. Then she left her two-story apartment building, a gray stucco edifice sandwiched on both sides by single-family homes, and walked to Sequoia Park, where the redwoods were impassively flecked with snow. The old stalwarts, never fazed, never in the least betraying anxiety, not even when the deafening chainsaw buzz finished and they were given a colossal nudge in one direction and fell, fell, were felled. She ripped off a piece of bark and brandished it like a sword, making Zorro curlicues in the air, stabbing at invisible enemies, sidestepping their retaliatory jabs. Touché! She won, for now, her imaginary battle.
Later that evening, in Old Town Eureka, at the Fricatash Club, Eve sat with an energy drink and a carton of cigarettes given to her by Ryan for safekeeping while he visited a self-taught chemist who was said to be doing exciting new things with crystal meth. Eve had come straight from work and so wore a pink short-sleeved shirt with her name stitched over her left breast in a luxurious cursive and the Bonanza 88 logo patched over her right breast. It was hot in the Fricatash and she worried that the black hair dye she’d accidentally gotten on her scalp earlier that morning would smudge down her forehead, half hidden by bangs, when she danced. And had she scrubbed the bathroom sink thoroughly enough that the dye wouldn’t permanently stain it? The show tonight, consisting of four moon-faced bands, was to raise money for the skate park that the City of Eureka had just decided not to build. Eve loved one of the bands, Derivative, and got increasingly excited sitting there with her medicinally caffeinated drink and two hundred cigarettes. Would they be fined by their landlord for the sink’s later cleaning or replacement? Did she even need to ask?
“Eve, you have all those cigarettes.” Skeletor plopped down at her table like a kid late for dinner. He was lanky, he was all lank. Arms and legs like a stick figure’s. Pure bone. Bony knees and elbows and shoulders. Big green eyes like they’d glow in the dark. A rictus for a mouth. You saw his jaw move independently of his skull. The guy was a walking X ray. “Since when can you afford a whole carton?”