T.C. Boyle Stories II: The Collected Stories of T. Coraghessan Boyle, Volume II

by T. Coraghessan Boyle

  In the safety of the hallway, the door closed and locked behind us, my brother turned on me. “Are you crazy?” he shouted, and you would have thought I was the enemy. “You want to go back to jail? You want lawsuits? What were you thinking anyway—are you stoned on something, is that it?”

  I looked away from him, but I wanted to kill him too. It was beating in my veins, along with the Desoxyn I’d stolen from the clinic. I saw my nephews peeking out of their room down the hall. “You can’t let these people push you around,” I said.

  “Look at me, Rick,” he said. “Look at me.”

  I was dodging around on my feet, tight with it, and I lifted my eyes grudgingly. I felt like a kid all over again, Rick the shoplifter, the pothead, the fuckup.

  “You’re just playing into their hands, don’t you see that? They want to provoke you, they want you to go after them. Then they put you back in jail and they get the headlines.” His voice broke. Denise tried to say something, but he shut her up with a wave of his hand. “You’re back on the drugs, aren’t you? What is it—cocaine? Pot? Something you lifted from the clinic?”

  Outside I could hear them, “We Shall Overcome,” and it was a cruel parody—this wasn’t liberation, it was fascism. I said nothing.

  “Listen, Rick, you’re an ex-con and you’ve got to remember that, every step you take. I mean, what did you think, you were protecting me out there?”

  “Ex-con?” I said, amazed. “Is that what you think of me? I can’t believe you. I’m no ex-con. You’re thinking of somebody in the movies, some documentary you saw on PBS. I’m a guy who made a mistake, a little mistake, and I never hurt anybody. I’m your brother, remember?”

  That was when Denise chimed in. “Philip,” she said, “come on, Philip. You’re just upset. We’re all upset.”

  “You keep out of this,” he said, and he didn’t even turn to look at her. He just kept his Aqua Velva eyes on me. “Yeah,” he said finally, “you’re my brother, but you’re going to have to prove it to me.”

  —

  I can see now the Desoxyn was a mistake. It was exactly the sort of thing they’d warned us about. But it wasn’t coke and I just needed a lift, a buzz to work behind, and if he didn’t want me to be tempted, then why had he left the key to the drug cabinet right there in the conch-shell ashtray on the corner of his desk? Ex-con. I was hurt and I was angry and I stayed in my room till Philip knocked at the door an hour later to tell me the police had cleared the mob away. We drove to work in silence, Philip’s opera chewing away at my nerves like a hundred little sets of teeth.

  Philip didn’t notice it, but there was something different about me when I climbed back into that car, something nobody could notice unless they had X-ray vision. I was armed. Tucked inside the waistband of my gray Levi’s, underneath the flap of my shirt where you couldn’t see it, was the hard black stump of a gun I’d bought from a girl named Corinne at a time when I was feeling especially paranoiac. I had money lying around the apartment then and people coming and going—nobody desperate, nobody I didn’t know or at least know through a friend—but it made me a little crazy. Corinne used to drop by once in a while with my roommate’s girlfriend, and she sold me the thing—a .38 Special—for three hundred bucks. She didn’t need it anymore, she said, and I didn’t want to know what that meant, so I bought it and kept it under my pillow. I’d only fired it once, up a canyon in Tujunga, but it made me feel better just to have it around. I’d forgotten all about it, actually, but when I got my things out of storage and shipped them to Philip’s house, there it was, hidden away in a box of CDs like some poisonous thing crouching under a rock.

  What I was feeling is hard to explain. It had to do with Philip, sure—ex-con, that really hurt—and with Sally and the clinic and the whole Jesus-thumping circus. I didn’t know what I was going to do—nothing, I hoped—but I knew I wasn’t going to take any shit from anybody, and I knew Philip didn’t have it in him to protect himself, let alone Denise and the kids and all the knocked-up grieving teenage Sallys of the world. That was all. That was it. The extent of my thinking. I walked into the clinic that morning just as I had for the past week and a half, and nobody knew the difference.

  I cleaned the toilets, washed the windows, took out the trash. Some blood work came back from an outside lab—we only did urine—and Fred showed me how to read the results. I discussed the baseball strike with Nurse Tsing and the prospects of an early spring with Nurse Hempfield. At noon I went out to a deli and had a meatball wedge, two beers, and a breath mint. I debated dialing Sally just once more—maybe she was home from school, headachy, nauseous, morning sickness, whatever, and I could get past the brick wall she’d put up between us and talk to her, really talk to her for the first time—but when I got inside the phone booth, I just didn’t feel like it. As I walked back to the clinic I was wondering if she had a boyfriend or if it was just one of those casual encounters, blind date, back seat of the car—or rape, even. Or incest. Her father’s voice could have been the voice of a child abuser, easily—or who even knew if he was her father? Maybe he was the stepfather. Maybe he was a Humbert Humbert type. Maybe anything.

  There were no protesters out front when I got back—they were all in jail—and that lightened my mood a bit. I even joked with Fred and caught myself whistling over my work. I forgot the morning, forgot the gun, forgot Pasadena and the life that was. Coffee kept me awake, coffee and Diet Coke, and I stayed away from the other stuff just to prove something to myself—and to Philip too. For a while there I even began to suffer from the delusion that everything was going to work out.

  Then it was late, getting dark, and the day was almost done. I pictured the evening ahead—Denise’s cooking, Winnie-the-Pooh, my brother’s scotch, six wind-blown blocks to the store for a liter of Black Cat—and suddenly I felt like pulling out the gun and shooting myself right then and there. Uncle Rick, little brother, ex-con: who was I kidding? I would have been better off in jail.

  I needed a cigarette. Badly. The need took me past the waiting room—four scared-looking women, one angry-looking man—through the lab, and into the back corner. The fluorescent lights hissed softly overhead. Fred was already gone. I stood at the window, staring into the nullity of the drawn blinds till the cigarette was a nub. My hands were trembling as I lit another from the butt end of the first, and I didn’t think about the raw-looking leftovers in the stainless-steel trays that were like nothing so much as skinned frogs, and I didn’t think about Sally or the fat-faced bearded son of a bitch shackling himself to the bumper either. I tried hard to think nothing, to make it all a blank, and I was succeeding, I was, when for some reason—idle curiosity, boredom, fate—I separated two of the slats and peered out into the lot.

  And there she was, just like that: Sally.

  Sally in her virginal parka and fluffy boots, locked in her mother’s grip and fighting her way up the walk against a tide of chanting zombies—and I recognized them too, every one of them, the very ones who’d been dragged away from my brother’s door in the dark of the morning. Sally wasn’t coming in for an exam—there weren’t going to be any more exams. No, Sally meant business. You could see that in the set of her jaw and in the way she lowered her head and jabbed out her eyes like swords, and you could see it in every screaming line of her mother’s screaming face.

  The light was fading. The sky hung low, like smoke. And then, in that instant, as if some god had snapped his fingers, the streetlights went on, sudden artificial burst of illumination exploding in the sky above them. All at once I felt myself moving, the switch turned on in me too, all the lights flaring in my head, burning bright, and I was out the door, up the corridor, and pushing through the double glass doors at the front entrance.

  Something was blocking the doors—bodies, deadweight, the zombies piled up on the steps like corpses—and I had to force my way out. There were bodies everywhere, a minefield of flesh, people stretched out a
cross the steps, obliterating the sidewalk and the curb in front of the clinic, immobilizing the cars in the street. I saw the punk from this morning, the teenage tough guy in his leather jacket, his back right up against the door, and beside him one of the dumpy women I’d flung him into. They didn’t learn, these people, they didn’t know. It was a game. A big joke. Call people baby-killers, sing about Jesus, pocketful of posies, and then the nice policeman carries you off to jail and Mommy and Daddy bail you out. I tried to kick them aside, lashing out with the steel toes of my boots till my breath was coming in gasps. “Sally!” I cried. “Sally, I’m coming!”

  She was stalled at the corner of the building, standing rigid with her mother before the sea of bodies. “Jesus loves you!” somebody cried out and they all took it up till my voice was lost in the clamor, erased in the everlasting hiss of Jesus. “We’re going to come looking for you, brother,” the tough guy said then, looking up at me out of a pair of seething blue eyes. “You better watch your back.”

  Sally was there. Jesus was there. Hands grabbed at me, snaked round my legs till I couldn’t move, till I was mired in flesh. The big man came out of nowhere, lithe on his feet, vaulting through the inert bodies like the shadow of something moving swiftly overhead, and he didn’t so much as graze me as he went by. I was on the third step down, held fast, the voices chanting, the signs waving, and I turned to watch him handcuff himself to the door and flash me a tight little smile of triumph.

  “Sally!” I shouted. “Sally!” But she was already turning around, already turning her back to me, already lost in the crowd.

  I looked down at my feet. A woman was clutching my right leg to her as if she’d given birth to it, her eyes as loopy as any crackhead’s. My left leg was in the grip of a balding guy who might have been a clerk in a hardware store and he was looking up at me like a toad I’d just squashed. “Jesus,” they hissed. “Jesus!”

  The light was burning in my head, and it was all I needed. I reached into my pants and pulled out the gun. I could have anointed any one of them, but the woman was first. I bent to her where she lay on the unyielding concrete of the steps and touched that snubnose to her ear as tenderly as any man of healing. The noise of it shut down Jesus, shut him down cold. Into the silence, and it was the hardware man next. Then I swung round on Mr. Beard.

  It was easy. It was nothing. Just like killing babies.

  (1995)

  Captured by the Indians

  At the lecture that night they learned that human life was expendable. Melanie had sat there in shocked silence—the silence of guilt, mortification and paranoia (what if someone should see her there in the crowd?)—while Dr. Toni Brinsley-Schneider, the Stanford bioethicist, had informed them that humans, like pigs, chickens and guppies, were replaceable. In the doctor’s view, the infirm, the mentally impaired, criminals, premature infants and the like were non-persons, whose burden society could no longer be expected to support, especially in light of our breeding success. “We’re hardly an endangered species,” she said with a grim laugh. “Did you know, all of you good and earnest people sitting here tonight, that we’ve just reached the population threshold of six billion?” She was cocked back from the lectern in a combative pose, her penurious little silver-rimmed reading glasses flinging fragments of light out into the audience. “Do any of you really want more condominiums, more shantytowns and favelas, more cars on the freeway, more group homes for the physically handicapped right around the corner from you? On your street? Next door?” She leveled her flashing gaze on them. “Well, do you?”

  People shifted in their seats, a muted moist surge of sound that was like the timid lapping of waves on a distant shore. No one responded—this was a polite crowd, a liberal crowd dedicated to free expression, a university crowd, and besides, the question had been posed for effect only. They’d have their chance to draw blood during the Q&A.

  Sean sat at attention beside Melanie, his face shining and smug. He was midway through the Ph.D. program in literary theory, and the theoreticians had hardened his heart: Dr. Brinsley-Schneider was merely confirming what he already knew. Melanie took his hand, but it wasn’t a warm hand, a hand expressive of comfort and love—it was more like something dug frozen from the earth. She hadn’t yet told him what she’d learned at two thirty-three that afternoon, special knowledge, a secret as magical and expansive as a loaf of bread rising in a pan. Another sort of doctor had brought her the news, a doctor very different from the pinched and angry-looking middle-aged woman at the podium, a young dark-haired sylph of a woman, almost a girl, with a wide beatific face and congratulatory eyes, dressed all in white like a figure out of a dream.

  —

  They walked to the car in silence, the mist off the ocean redrawing the silhouettes of the trees, the streetlights softly glowing. Sean wanted a burger—and maybe a beer—so they stopped off at a local bar and grill the students hadn’t discovered yet and she watched him eat and drink while the television over the bar replayed images of atrocities in the Balkans, the routine bombing of Iraq and the itinerary of the railroad killer. In between commercials for trucks that were apparently capable of scaling cliffs and fording rivers, they showed the killer’s face, a mug shot of a slightly built Latino with an interrupted mustache and two dead eyes buried like artifacts in his head. “You see that?” Sean said, nodding at the screen, the half-eaten burger clenched in one hand, the beer in the other. “That’s what Brinsley-Schneider and these people are talking about. You think this guy worries much about the sanctity of human life?”

  Can we afford compassion? Melanie could hear the lecturer’s droning thin voice in the back of her head, and she saw the dour pale muffin of a face frozen in the spotlight when somebody in back shouted Nazi! “I don’t know why we have to go to these lectures anyway,” she said. “Last year’s series was so much more—do I want to say ‘uplifting’ here? Remember the woman who’d written that book about beekeeping? And the old professor—what was his name?—who talked about Yeats and Maud Gonne?”

  “Stevenson Elliot Turner. He’s emeritus in the English Department.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s right, and why can’t we have more of that sort of thing? Tonight—I don’t know, she was so depressing. And so wrong.”

  “Are you kidding me? Turner’s like the mummy’s ghost—that talk was stupefying. He was probably giving the same lecture in English 101 thirty years ago. At least Brinsley-Schneider’s controversial. At least she keeps you awake.”

  Melanie wasn’t listening, and she didn’t want to argue—or debate, or discuss. She wanted to tell Sean—who wasn’t her husband, not yet, because they had to wait till he got his degree—that she was pregnant. But she couldn’t. She already knew what he would say, and it was right on the same page with Dr. Toni Brinsley-Schneider.

  She watched his eyes settle on the screen a moment, then drift down to the burger in his hand. He drew back his lips and took a bite, nostrils open wide, the iron muscles working in his jaw. “We live by the railroad tracks,” Melanie said, by way of shifting the subject. “You think we have anything to worry about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The train killer.”

  Sean gave her a look. He was in his debating mode, his put-down mode, and she could see it in his eyes. “He doesn’t kill trains, Mel,” he said, “—he kills people. And yes, everybody has something to worry about, everybody on this planet. And if you were listening to half of what Brinsley-Schneider was saying tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if every third person out there on the street was a serial killer. There’s too many of us, Mel, let’s face it. You think things are going to get better? You think things are better now than when we were kids? When our parents were kids? It’s over. Face it.”

  Something corny and ancient was on the jukebox—Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, somebody like that—because the place smacked of the kind of authenticity people were looking for, the
kind of authenticity that cried out from the fallen arches, ravaged faces and sclerotic livers of the regulars, to whom she and Sean—at twenty-nine and thirty, respectively—were as inauthentic as newborns.

  —

  At home, she changed into a cotton nightgown and got into bed with a book. She wasn’t feeling anything, not elation or pain or disappointment, only the symptoms of a headache coming on. The book was something she’d discovered at a yardsale two days earlier—Captured by the Indians: 15 Firsthand Accounts, 1750–1870—and the minute she opened it she was swept up into a voyeuristic world of pain and savagery that trumped any horror she could conceive of. It wasn’t a good thing to be captured by the Indians, as Sean had snidely observed on seeing her poised behind the cover the night before last, not good at all. There were no notions here of the politically correct, of revisionist history or the ethics of one people forcibly displacing another: no, it was the hot flash of murder and reprisal, the thump of the musket ball hitting home, the operation of knife and tomahawk on unresisting flesh. To die, to be murdered, to be robbed of your life and consciousness and being, that was the stuff of morbid fascination, and she couldn’t get enough of it.

  Sean was in his underwear, the briefs he preferred over boxers, the sort of thing she’d always associated with boys—little boys, children, that is—and as she watched him pad across the carpet on his way to the bathroom and his nightly ritual of cleansing, clipping, flossing, brushing, tweezering and shaving, it struck her that she’d never in her life been in an intimate situation with a man—or boy—in boxers. “The last they heard,” Sean was saying, and he paused now to gaze at her over the mound of the bedspread and her tented knees, “he was in the Midwest someplace—after leaving Texas, I mean. That’s a long ways from California, Mel, and besides, his whole thing is so random—”