by Lydia Millet
Jonah T. would have made a good slave. He lifted free weights four hours a day and his room was full of barbells, gold, black and silver ones, plus Jonah T. had all these trophies on shelves he built himself. The trophies were for javelin, shotput and junior bodybuilding competitions. Every time she went into Jonah T.’s room, no matter how many times she’d already seen it, he showed her all the trophies again like it was some big deal, not saying much but just leaning against the shelf and nodding his head like he was hot shit, when they were just a bunch of plastic crap painted to look like brass. Once she flicked the paint off with a fingernail and there was cheap white plastic underneath.
Liza B. said he cut class to buy steroids from some guy in Tijuana. Guys like Jonah T. probably wouldn’t mind being slaves as long as they got trophies for it to show girls in their room. Most Rocks Lifted in L.A. County in the year 2004.
She knew where there was a pyramid. It was far away in Las Vegas. She saw it in a movie on Cinemax. It even had that big lion in front of it, the Spinks. Like in Egypt. She would have to drive him there and it could take a long time, but it was worth it. Once she saw a movie called The Mummy Walks. That was on Cinemax too, before her mother cancelled it because of bad influence. Anyway The Mummy Walks wasn’t scary just dumb. The special effects looked homemade.
She lifted his left leg, holding it by the bony ankle, and smeared Krazy Glue like Mike Lamota once sniffed in Shop till his nose bled. She had got it from Mr. Alan’s kitchen closet. It would keep the strips of cotton from unwinding. If Mr. Alan was a mummy he could live forever. The curse would be lifted one day and he would rise from the tomb, not scary but just a little dumb like regular people could be.
If she did this she was done and clear and home free.
—It’s okay Mr. Alan. See Mr. Alan, it’s okay.
4:38
Approaching the Kreuzes’ apartment she saw two workmen coming out the front door, rolling something between them. It was a stroke of luck. The martyrs would be avenged! She would anyway, and she stood for all of them. She walked boldly and with confidence like she was supposed to be there.
—Hello.
—You the lady of the house?
They were pulling and pushing a metal cart with a large crate on it.
—Yes I am, said Bucella.
—All yours then.
They rolled it down to the sidewalk and the second one waved at her casually as she slipped in the front door and closed it. The Kreuz apartment was spotless. Clearly they kept their own place spic-’n-span, and went elsewhere to vomit.
She saw a list stuck to the refrigerator.
1. Lightbulbs 40-watt not 60. Remember this time Barbara!
2. 1% Acidophilus Milk. Expiration date!
3. 3-4 p.m. Spiritual Health!
Next to the phone was a red Sharpie marker. She picked it up and went back to the front door and opened it just enough to get her arm out. They hadn’t noticed CHI and STER so they wouldn’t connect it with her. She craned her neck around the doorjamb, saw the coast was clear and quickly scribbled in big block letters THIEF!!! Without further Ado. To paint it over wouldn’t cost two hundred dollars but maybe fifteen or twenty. She shut the door and went back to the kitchen, where she unplugged the fridge for good measure. Hopefully it contained a hundred and eighty dollars’ worth of perishables. She was victorious! Sure it wasn’t exactly Turn the Other Cheek, but sometimes it couldn’t be. Everyone was a sinner anyway, etc.
Then she walked back through the living room into the hall, gazing at Inspirational Plaques on the walls. They were not embroidered but printed sternly. We must have trials and self-denials, until all error is destroyed. —Mary Baker Eddy, 1875. He had probably coerced the Challenged Felon into stealing the gnome. He was probably a Kleptomaniac.
She tried one door, but it revealed a closet lined with cleaning agents. Comet, Formula 409, Lysol, Anti-Bacterial Soap, Woolite Spot & Stain, Windex, Pine Sol, Arm & Hammer. She closed the door and tried another. It was their bedroom. Twin beds, neatly made. Each had an identical alarm clock beside it and an identical lamp. There was only one difference: across the pillow of one bed lay a stuffed animal. It was a floppy-eared dog with a ribbon around its neck and a heart pendant hanging from the ribbon. On the pendant were the words Arf Arf I Wuv Oo, Even the dog was mentally challenged. She picked it up, opened the window and threw it out.
Finally she opened the last door off the hall. Lordy God! Buck Naked, sitting strapped to the toilet with silver tape over her mouth, was the Retard herself. Bucella screamed.
4:44
—Young man, I would like to test-drive your top-of-the-line wide-screen TV. I have a palsy in my right hand. You will have to man the controls for me, if you would be so good.
The salesperson was slow-moving and bovine. His eyes were dulled with boredom.
—Uh okay. I guess. This one here’s the biggest, that what you want?
—I was looking for something a little larger, but that will have to do I suppose. What is the retail price?
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Ken, grazing placidly amongst the video equipment. His head could barely be seen over the shelf.
—$1999. Lemme go get a DVD to pop in there.
And the meek shall inherit the earth.
—You wanna screen E. T. or Apocalypse Now?
4:52
She had entered the building marked CORONER some time ago, but had still not emerged. Phillip remained at the wheel of the rental, parked across the street, watching the building’s doors. He tapped a march beat on the steering wheel, which he had sterilized cautiously with a Handiwipe before he initiated epidermal contact. He noticed a smear on the gun-metal matte of the dashboard. It was located next to the odometer, and yellow-white in color. A weaker man might be drawn to speculate on its origin or properties, but Phillip refused. He would not look at it. That way lay abomination.
The doors of the Coroner’s building could disgorge his quarry at any moment. She had left the office soon after she was informed of her father’s demise; probably she had come here to identify his remains. She would be in a weakened state when she came out again. His presence would be required to soothe her.
Her letter had been unexpected, he had to concede. She hid her devotion well. Possibly the personal tragedy would strip her of her false confidence, her indifferent facade.
She wanted to be stripped. That was clear.
4:55
—Goodness me, said Bucella. —These are tight.
She had managed to peel the tape off the mouth and was at work on the tape that had Barbara’s feet trussed to the base of the toilet. Meanwhile the patient sat there slack-jawed. She held a towel up to her chest, which Bucella had handed her quickly from a rack on the wall. She obviously failed to understand its purpose however, since she kept letting it slip off her lap, and when it did Bucella saw her Good Gracious. —I came over to, um, check up on you after last night, she told her as she picked at a gummy edge. It was a lie but only a white one. —The door was wide open. Didn’t you hear me calling?
—They took Bronco Bill, said Barbara in a monotone.
—A large crate was removed, I noticed that, said Bucella. One strip of tape peeled free, but there were many more. Scissors would do the trick. —Where are the scissors? she asked Barbara.
—I heard them take Bronco Bill. He did this so I couldn’t stop them.
—Who taped you? asked Bucella. —Phillip? He taped you to the toilet? Your own husband?
—He taped me so they could take Bronco Bill.
—Bronco Bill, said Bucella. —A pet? You bought a dog?
—Bronco Bill, said Barbara, shaking her head slowly. —Fun in your home, and good for parties.
—Inhumane, said Bucella, fuming. —They carted your dog off in a box with no holes. I will call the ASPCA. But where are the scissors?
—Scissors? asked Barbara dreamily. Clearly Bucella would have to locate them herself.
—Stay right there, I’ll be back.
—No riding of Bronco Bill, murmured Barbara behind her.
For the mentally Deficient, it was obviously difficult to distinguish between dogs and horses. Dog-loving was this woman’s hobby. She had talked about it throughout dinner and on her pillow was Arf Arf the Challenged Spaniel. Bucella went outside, bent down and picked up the fluffy pooch from the sidewalk. Possibly it would serve to console the woman for the loss of her real pet.
5:02
Decetes had time to kill before his appointment with Ken. Passing storefronts and bicycle racks, stunted shrubs in concrete blocks and multiple-personality war amputees riddled with sores and reeking of piss, he liberated a knapsack from a chair on a restaurant patio. Its contents were exposed during a rapid search in a men’s room. They included a textbook entitled Economics: The Science of Common Sense, a pink lipstick, a keychain featuring a rubber Pokémon, and a bulging wallet. Hosanna in the highest.
Decetes was pleased with the driver’s license. Deborah Louise Grossman, it said, but the round-lettered signature read Debbe. He was gratified to note that the name on Debbe’s American Express card was not Deborah Louise Grossman but Leon B. Grossman.
Leon B. entered an upscale bar and signed his name with a flourish when the bar tab was presented. Four whiskey sours and a plate of breaded scampi. Catch as catch can. The youthful must be tutored in the rigid regulations of Darwinism, or they would never know the satiation of a fresh kill. Weaker, small-bodied animals were commonly left to scavenge through heaps of old carrion, to find their meager nourishment in the leavings of the strong. Once again, he, Dean Decetes, had rendered a service. He was an educator as well as an ironclad man of action.
Deborah Louise Grossman would not remain Debbe for long.
5:09
—You should go home and rest now, said Alice. —Your daughter will come back. Teenagers go off on their own. Asserting independence. It’s only normal.
—She’s having relations, said Riva. —With boys.
—Count your blessings, said Alice.
—It’s that school. They teach them Sex Ed and how to use a diaphragm. I found one in her room.
—I’m sorry but I’m tired, said Alice. —I have to go. Don’t worry about the clothes. You can keep them.
5:11
He watched her step into her vehicle and slam the door. Only a silhouette was visible. She sat there with her head bent. Phillip sympathized. It was always unpleasant to view the remains of a parent.
His own father had gone to his reward from a nursing home in Marina del Rey. Phillip had visited him most punctiliously, once every two months on Saturday mornings from nine until 10:15. It was before he met Barbara the wolf in sheep’s clothing, that dark day in Vons.
The elder Mr. Kreuz disappeared during seniors bingo and could not be located by the attendants. Since he suffered from Alzheimer’s they feared he had wandered into traffic or toppled into a canal. Finally, however, they found him under his cot, in a fetal position, clutching a woman’s old bedroom slipper. He was deceased of a heart attack.
She edged out of her parallel parking slot, looking over her shoulder. He turned the key in the ignition.
5:15
Barbara, still naked as the day she was born, had wandered into her kitchen and was standing in front of the open refrigerator, dazed. Either she was in shock or her subnormal mental abilities rendered her immune to certain stimuli. Bucella felt guilty. It was becoming more and more obvious that the poor woman was a Victim of her arch-criminal Spouse. Special people had great faith in God.
—Goodness, your refrigerator seems to be unplugged, said Bucella —I’ll just plug it in for you. There we go.
—I can’t be the best possible me, muttered Barbara as she dropped an egg into the sink.
—Excuse me, ventured Bucella, approaching with averted eyes. —I don’t mean to pry, but I suspect this may be an abuse situation. A husband is not supposed to tape his wife to the toilet. Phillip may not want you to have a pet but that is no excuse for domestic aggression. I’m sure you did not enjoy having that electrical tape ripped from your mouth. I understand. I come from a broken home myself.
—I wanted to ride Bronco Bill, said Barbara. —Good for abs.
—Of course you did, said Bucella.
It would serve no clear purpose to disabuse her of the notion that dogs could be ridden like ponies. Possibly she had loved horses as a girl, and was still holding fast to her Dream. Her mother had probably not let her ride a horse. Mentals and equestrians did not go hand in hand.
—Phillip told you to steal that garden gnome, didn’t he?
—He said Mind of Christ. . . .
—I’ll bet he did. I hate to break it to you but your husband is a thief. Come on, I’ll help you get dressed. We’re going to teach him a lesson.
5:41
Decetes strode out of Korean Massage with a spring in his step. They took credit cards, and Leon B. was a man with chronic muscle fatigue. The little geisha had no tits, but she could deal out handjobs with the best of them. Leon B. would make a whirlwind tour tonight, before Debbe had time to blow the whistle. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, to have a thankless child, but Leon B. would forgive her in time. He could hit every Handjob Haven in town before dawn. By sunrise he’d be dry as a bone.
There was a payphone not twenty paces ahead. He clutched the Classifieds lovingly to his chest. Ho! A man stood in front of him, big as a house and black as the ace of spades.
—Speak of the devil. You remember me bud? From Sizzler?
—Can’t place the name but the face is familiar, lied Decetes, attempting a sidestep. Leon B. protected his plastic assets.
—You don’t remember me now, you’ll remember me soon, said the leviathan. —Boy.
5:49
Alice had decided without deciding, after the dead girl. She was headed for the bar, dark and enclosed. The dark was so lovable! No measuring sticks, no unsightly rashes. Fear slid away, and in its place there was the roaring instinct of release. Embarrassment left, time stopped threatening, and the world lost all its sharp teeth. The world was toothless and velvet.
Yep, drown her sorrows like puppies in a bag, on the bed of a slow-flowing river. No houses, trees, cars, airplanes. Only warm nothing, where you went when you died.
Still, over the bones and moss a breeze drifted. One day she’d know what to do and how to do it. Possessed by the spirit of victory, in the turn of a second, she would watch the fractured splinters of her will fuse again, a perfect sphere of resolve. It would illuminate her landscape like the noonday sun.
Until then, and against the chance it never would, have a drink.
She slowed to a stop at a red light.
—Orange three dollar, grape super-cheap.
—Are they seedless?
—No seeds señorita, grape one dollar super deal.
—Here. Thank you.
She parked a few blocks away from The Quiet Man. Walking always provided the illusion of progress: when she walked she was going somewhere, even if she wasn’t. She ate from her bag of grapes as she strolled, felt the warm air on her shoulders and smiled. Strolling. She was strolling, as though delighted at the privilege. Young, she used to peel each grape before she ate it, careful not to make dents in the pulp with her fingernails. She said to herself that they were the tender eyeballs of plants. They had to be kept whole until the very last moment.
When she’d eaten half the bag she ducked into a corner payphone and dialed the office.
—Ernie it’s Alice. I’m having a bad day. Long story, but I was just at the morgue with a little dead girl and a woman who was happy to see her.
—Are you kidding? You poor dear! Someone you knew?
—No. I didn’t know her.
—Still . . . listen, sweetie, there’s no one here anyway. I’m a rat on a sinking ship. Relax. Drink some Lemon Zinger, do a peel-off facial mask. Meditate.
—Thanks Ernie. I’ll
do that. I’ll do something.
—So what did you think of the dress?
—I think you look better in A-lines.
—I knew it. The ruffles were too much. I looked like a wedding cake. Just say it, you won’t hurt my feelings. Say Ernie, you looked like a wedding cake. Someone should put you in a freezer for twenty-five years and take you out for the Silver Anniversary. Come on. Hurt me.
—Ernie, you looked like a wedding cake. But you danced like Carmen Miranda.
—You are so brutally honest.
—Hold on. I think I see someone I know.
Unbelievable, almost. Slithering along the pavement like a snake, on his stomach, was Bucella’s drunken brother.
Alice stared.
—It’s Bucella’s brother. You remember? The drunken pornographer who kept falling down at Thanksgiving? He’s lying on the sidewalk in front of me. Right now. He seems to be pulling himself along by his chin.
—That poor man.
—Ernie he’s a piece of human flotsam. The other night he leapt on top of me at a party and had a hard-on the size of a Blutwurst. I’ll see you tomorrow.
She hung up and approached.
—Excuse me. Do you need some help?
He rolled over onto his back and gazed at her. His face was like a raw slab of beef, washed-out blue eyes glistening between bloodied flaps.
—You’re hurt. Let’s get you onto the bench.
—You have fine breasts, for a Samaritan.
—Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Take my hand. Upsy daisy.
She hoisted him and guided him to the bench with an arm around his waist. He limped, and as she bent to sit him down he trailed the back of one arm mournfully across her pelvis.
—You’re a scumbag, but you already knew that. So what happened? Been doing more falling down lately?
—Most Samaritans are not known for their secondary sexual characteristics, he said, licking blood and dirt off his upper lip. He adjusted himself with a casual hand on his fly. —Take Mother Teresa, for instance, though I was never a fan of hers myself. It might be hypothesized that Samaritanism is inversely proportionate to sex appeal. Madam, you are a notable exception.