by Josh Emmons
“Oh?” said Martin. “Well, I wasn’t going to approach the journal as a historical record of the facts. I was more interested in Leon as a mental illness victim. I like your initiative, though, and your desire to help is very generous, but—”
“You think that’s going to sell for more money?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The mental illness thing. You think that’ll command more dough?” Shane smiled widely and had oppressively white teeth and gave Martin a look that barely passed for good humor. “Wrong again. If we played that angle, we’d pull in ten, fifteen cents a word, tops, because we’d be looking at the Times-Standard or the Humboldt Beacon to publish, maybe the Chronicle if we got lucky, the point being they all have limited readerships. The way I see it, we go with the disappearing story, sell it to one of the national papers for a dollar a word, or better yet one of the slicks for two or three bucks a word, and then get an agent and do a package book/film rights deal for a mill minimum.”
“That’s—wow. You’ve given this some thought.” Martin stared helplessly at his water.
Shane drummed his fingers on the table. “Now I think we should take a second to discuss business. You haven’t brought it up and I understand it’s a delicate subject, but I’m thinking that since I’m your key witness—like you said, I’m the last person mentioned in the diary—and since I got in on the ground floor, what seems fair to me is a sixty/forty split, my favor.”
“Shane—”
“Of course I respect your artistic vision—like I said, you’re the writer—but I am going to do a hundred and ten percent of the selling here. You don’t know how to finesse a sale. No offense, but it’s true. You struck out trying to line up interviews, and they aren’t even businesspeople. So sixty/forty seems like the right breakdown.”
Martin sat up straight and cleared his throat and avoided Shane’s gaze by looking instead at his chest. “I don’t think we should keep discussing this. I’m not writing a sensationalistic piece about an old sorcerer and all the people he performed for. And this isn’t a business deal and we’re not partners and while I thank you for your thoughts, I have to tell you right now to leave it alone. There is no Leon Meed story. I’m not doing it.”
Shane breathed in sharply through his nose and tilted his head to the right until his neck made three distinct popping noises. His smile was unchanging. Then, reaching across the table, he grabbed hold of Martin’s chin with his thumb and forefinger and said, “You don’t go in for a lot of bullshit. I like that about you. So I’m willing to go fifty-five/forty-five on this, and in return you’ll quit thinking about the mental health of Leon Meed and start concentrating on making it the most sensationalistic story about a sorcerer that’s ever been. Understand?” He moved Martin’s head up and down as though testing a light switch, stood up, and then went to the desk in the front room. “So is there a list of the other witnesses around here, or what?”
The next afternoon Lillith met her friend Tina for coffee at Ramone’s. Tina was no longer a Wiccan, but they were still friends and she had agreed to join in a postmortem on Lillith’s Live from Somewhere appearance. The two women sat down on wide rattan chairs beneath a hanging geranium that at long intervals rained down fingernail leaves of pale green and auburn. Photographs of children begging in São Paulo hung from wall hooks around the room and were so detailed and hyperhued that customers, in a conscience-salving move, assumed they were movie stills.
“I felt humiliated in front of the whole county,” Lillith said.
“You shouldn’t. Not that many people listen to the show,” Tina said, getting up to wipe down their table with a rag she stole from a nearby bus tray. “Plus it’s not like you started crying on the air. You kept your dignity.”
“Thanks.”
“A lot of guests have done worse with more important topics.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That the host is a prick. Remember what he did to Franklin, how he fucked him and then didn’t call? Franklin’s not a casual sex kind of guy; it was a big deal for him to go home with Barry, and then to be dropped like that was devastating.”
Lillith opened a packet of sugar and poured a quarter of it into her coffee. “One-night stands aren’t exactly freak accidents in the gay community. I’d forgive that.”
“I’m saying that in the end he’s only hurting himself and you shouldn’t take it personally. You just made an especially easy target on his show by representing neopaganism, which is such an obvious joke to most people. Maybe you should call and let him know what’s on your mind.”
“He probably knows what an asshole he is.”
“Men can never get enough reinforcement of that nature.”
Lillith poured in a few more grains of sugar, trying to count them. “Can I talk to you about something related to this?”
“Sure.”
“You know how that reporter wanted to interview me about Leon’s diary and I said no because I figured he was in collusion with Barry?”
“Yeah.”
“This morning someone called and said that if I don’t do the interview I’ll be in trouble.”
“Who? The reporter?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You’ll be in trouble how?”
“I don’t know, but I got the sense that it was a physical threat.”
“The guy sounded serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“No.”
“You have to. He could be a psychopath.”
“I know.”
Tina flicked off a pair of leaves that had landed on her forearm. “This never would have happened if you’d forgotten about Wicca and moved on.”
Lillith dropped the sugar pack. “Excuse me?”
“I’m on your side, don’t get me wrong, but by broadcasting this stuff you attract all the überpervs out there. You’re twenty-six; you can’t go around talking about the Astral Plane forever and not expect something like this to happen.”
“You’re blaming me, the victim?”
“Go to the police and report the call, and then you need to consider giving up this pseudofeminist mysticism. It sounds foolish coming from an adult. I’m sorry; you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve indulged you for too long and it’s true.”
“Mysticism? You were there!” Lillith was practically shouting. “You saw Leon disappear too!”
“It was dark and we were in your bed; he could have come in and gone out your bathroom window for all I know.” Tina laughed a little and then went to get a coffee refill.
Lillith tried not to think about the indefinable pain of friends renouncing a shared understanding, especially one that had been forged at such a critical time in her life, when she’d gotten an abortion and had a reckoning with her mother about religion. Tina came back and talked about her job and the miserable sex she’d endured recently with two brothers, neither of whom knew about the other. Lillith blocked the renunciation from her mind and went along with the conversation and only in the smallest, quietest part of her brain did she hear the words repeated, again and again, that she was an adult and foolish.
If Barry had been superstitious, he might have thought that the flurry of Leon activity lately meant something for him personally. He might have added up a death, a newspaper article, an interview request, and a heavy breathing phone call telling him to talk about Leon or else, and found a message of which he ought to take heed. Instead he considered it only a reason to tell the police that someone with a sick sense of humor (or worse) was out there. After changing into pants and a sweater, he was prepared to leave his apartment when his phone rang.
It was his friend Donald inviting him to the annual Knavetivity Scene party on Christmas Eve, a deeply sacrilegious and sexually bottom-heavy event.
“I’m not sure I can make it this year,” Barry said.
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Donald sternly.
“I haven’t been feeling well lately. I might need to be alone.”
“I just want to know if you’re coming as a Joseph or a Mary.”
“Better plan the party without me.”
“If you’re angling to be the Baby Jesus, there can be only one and I’m him.”
“It’s not that.”
“All right, I’ll let you be one of the wise men. You know I never let anyone come as one of those ridiculous sages.”
“Seriously, don’t count on me. But if I come, I’ll be Mary.”
“Just so you can ensnare more Catholic men?”
“Bye.”
Barry locked his apartment and walked four blocks to the county courthouse, where he climbed to the fourth floor and entered the sheriff’s office. A policewoman at the front desk asked his name and business.
“I’d like to file a report about a threatening phone call, please.”
“From this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your name?”
“Barry Klein.”
“And the call pertained to an interview request made to you earlier this week by a Mr. Martin Nemec?”
Barry apparently didn’t have to say anything to signal his assent, because the policewoman gestured behind her with a pen, consulted the computer screen in front of her, and said, “You’re the seventh person to file a complaint. Mr. Nemec came in this afternoon to answer questions and give us a list of everyone he believes was called.”
“Is he under arrest?” Barry looked in the direction to which she’d motioned, but behind her was only a tan wall with digital bulletins, a small dry erase board, and two closed doors.
“Mr. Nemec denies all foreknowledge of the calls and claims that someone else placed them, a Mr. Shane Larson. Unfortunately, the calls were made from a pay phone and we don’t have enough evidence to book either man.”
The name Shane Larson, like the voice on the phone, rang distant bells for Barry. “What should I do?”
“Our advice is to keep your doors locked and stay in public places.”
“That’s it?”
The policewoman nodded and looked flatly at Barry, who then left. Outside, he walked through Old Town and turned a corner onto E Street and saw Lillith step out of her car in a strapless red evening dress in front of Mazotti’s Restaurant. This was fortune handing him the opportunity to apologize and clear his conscience. She seemed to be having a hard time getting her key in the car door. He saw what he had to do—confess to her that the worst temptations of his job had overcome him, that he’d been exactly the sort of talk show host he most disliked, and beg her forgiveness—but he felt a familiar paralysis from the past, from the time before he came out of the closet. Lillith dropped her keys, yet Barry stood rooted to the corner of Second and E, waiting for something to scare him into motion (where were the Leon Meeds of yesteryear?). Why was he so prone to knowing what to do and being unable to do it? With a groan of relief Lillith locked her door, turned around, didn’t see Barry, and walked into Mazotti’s. Barry went home to open a bottle of whatever.
Inside Mazotti’s, Lillith was the first to arrive at the Coastal Orthopedic Medical Group holiday office party, an event that attracted people from all areas of the health-care community due to the famous hospitality of local orthopedists. Three waiters stood next to a food cart loaded with appetizers. Lillith turned on her cell phone to verify that she hadn’t any messages and tried not to appear idle while walking around the room. At the food cart she removed a slender breadstick from its cloth-covered bundle and said hello to the waiters, who nodded but didn’t take the conversation further. The breadstick was buttery and she mentally adjusted her breakfast the next morning to include a pear and to exclude the croissants she’d bought that day, her diet being a zero-sum game.
There were depressing things to think about while she waited. The possibility that Leon hadn’t gone to the Astral Plane and she hadn’t performed real magic. The police’s inability to protect her from the threatening caller. The Wiccan retreat she’d organized which had been canceled that day because of storm damage to the bridge leading to Wolf Creek Park. The countless phone calls and leaflet printings and confirmations—she would have to reschedule and find a new venue, if she even had the heart to continue her neopagan activism.
Through the doorway one of her bosses, Dr. Steve Baker, entered with his wife, Elaine, followed by a radiologist whose name Lillith couldn’t remember. They hung up their jackets and zip-up sweaters on the coat tree by the door and walked into the empty space the way couples did at an unexciting open house, looking to find the realtor and get it over with. The waiters broke out of their gossip circle and assumed the right attitude of servility.
Lillith met Steve and Elaine at the wine table. “Hi,” she said, “happy holidays.”
“Same to you,” Steve answered. He picked up a glass of Chardonnay and held it close to his side.
Elaine shook her head no at the wine he offered and said, “Lillith, I heard you were on the radio recently.”
“I was on Live from Somewhere to promote a Wiccan festival for the winter solstice, except that it got canceled.” Lillith had met Elaine at the previous summer’s July Fourth office barbecue at Sequoia Park and spent a long time with her searching for Dr. Shikoda’s daughter, who’d wandered away and was, in the end, found hugging a tree stump for safety. Lillith liked her better than the other doctors’ wives, who were generally condescending and rude, as though working as a young secretary at their husbands’ office made her a vamp.
“The show got canceled?”
“No, the festival did.”
Steve said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and left in search of the bathroom.
“Is he all right?” Lillith asked.
“I don’t know,” Elaine said, looking after him.
A number of people entered the restaurant at once, bringing with them the hum of small talk and shuffling feet and rustling jackets. Prentiss approached the table where they stood and raised a glass of apple juice in greeting. Elaine smiled at him and pulled a tissue from her bag because she was coming down with a cold and could feel her sinuses alternately blocking and clearing. Turned her head away to blow. With equal tact Prentiss and Lillith paid no mind. A thin waiter wearing a hint of purple mascara placed fresh antipasto on the table. Candles were lit in the room’s corners as an Italian rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” began to play.
“Prentiss,” said Elaine, pocketing her tissue, “do you know Lillith?”
“I don’t. How do you do?”
“Good, thanks,” said Lillith.
“Lillith was just saying she was on Live from Somewhere. Have you ever heard that show?”
“On Wednesdays in the afternoon?”
“Yeah,” Lillith said.
“I listen sometimes. What were you on for?”
“Let’s not talk about it. It was a bad experience.”
“Okay,” Prentiss said, rolling up a cheese and salami slice. “We could talk about our New Year’s resolutions instead. I’m giving up pork. As of January first, I’m going to make other important renunciations, but the pork is to begin with.”
“That’s good,” said Lillith. “I’m going to stop watching television.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Even the occasional special news reports, such as if a president gets shot or a man lands on Mars or something?”
“I’m donating my TV to the Salvation Army.”
Prentiss nodded. “You’re right to do it. Aim as high as you can. The best way to move forward.”
He seemed nice and was perhaps a little old but Lillith had sometimes gone for the quote/unquote mature male, and the guys in her age range around Eureka were all married, engaged, sleazy, gay, or unavailable for more than unsatisfying single-shot sex slams, which, if books and movies and television shows were to be trusted, was true of men everywhere. Yet that was an oversimplification and she wasn’t
helping the world by repeating the clichés (aim high, move forward). She’d never dated a black man, not because of a dating policy but because she’d never known one in the right capacity. It was going to be hard for him to give up salami; he was on his sixth slice already. She attracted überpervs. She was foolish.
Steve returned then and shook hands with Prentiss. The music crept up a decibel, and with it rose the pitch of everyone’s conversations. Someone spotted a stick of mistletoe stapled above the entryway and a collective “oooh!” arose. Two or three women pushed each other toward it with laughing resistance. A man taking off his jacket at the coat tree grinned obscenely.
“I know what you’re thinking about me eating salami,” said Prentiss to Steve, “considering I have a pet pig, which is why I was just saying I’m giving it up for the new year.” There was a moment of silence as Steve seemed unwilling to comment. Prentiss continued, looking at Lillith and Elaine for support, “At any rate, there’s supposed to be an anonymous gift exchange tonight.”
Lillith said, “I didn’t bring a gift.”
“Me, neither.”
“Not everyone does,” said Elaine. “I haven’t for the last couple of years, not since I got a broken shortwave radio once.”
“Who’d do something so low as bring a defective gift?” Prentiss said.
“Actually, Steve did. He said it was an accident but of course he would say that.”
“You going to defend yourself against this charge?” Prentiss asked Steve.
Steve shrugged gloomily.
“If you’ve got laryngitis,” said Prentiss, “you can prescribe yourself something.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Elaine said. “He’s giving me the silent treatment and you’re getting caught in the crossfire.”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” Steve said, taking Elaine’s arm and walking to the end of the table and bowing his head toward her confidentially. Prentiss and Lillith subtly turned away from them.