by Lydia Millet
The rolling tides cast him again and again on cold shores. California was turning arctic. Even in the hot sun he shivered: walking on the sidewalk after Ken left, he had felt the sun on his shoulders and back but the cold crept over him from his waist, burning like ice. And bright buildings falling into shadow as he walked. Snow-blind in the City of Angels.
Skin decaying. Where had he smelled it? Wide bed, low, soft, sagging in the middle, no spine left. Both of their weights, his slight behind her. She made a bigger dent, he was tipping into it, he was close. Thin orange curtains in the window and the sun going down. Tell a story okay. Okay a story? He was the prince in stories, always. No answer. Round slumped shoulder in the dirty flannel: on it a pattern of—what was it? He squinted and almost saw. Ducks? Ducks! Blue ducks. Also ducks! The first ducks. Long ago. Touched the shoulder through flannel. She wasn’t warm anymore. —Bucella, he said, —she isn’t warm anymore.
—Sir?
—Nothing!
Shut the fuck up. Said the old man.
—Ready for another there?
—There’s something wrong with this whiskey. Tastes like something rotten.
—Then why are you drinking it?
Behind the barkeep on the TV they trundled a man quickly by on a stretcher. In the background, an alley and a Dumpster. The headline said Beverly Hills Murder.
—Turn it up! said Decetes. —Quick!
A John Doe in Beverly Hills, they said. Wrapped up like a mummy. Strangled.
Suddenly he knew. As if the archangel Gabriel sang.
5:04
She would drop the canned goods at the twenty-four-hour Vons for the food drive. She would work all afternoon and night packing and in the morning the Great Adventure would begin. She could sell the car when she got there. Dean was forty and that was high time to leave home. She would box up his possessions and put them in the front yard.
The front door was unlocked and standing ajar. Dean. She dropped her purse on a chair in the entry hall. Lordy! There was a nude Blowup Doll upside-down on the floor. Terrorism.
She dragged it by the hand onto the front porch and left it there for him, locking the door behind her, and tied on her KISS THE COOK apron. It didn’t matter if the neighbors saw the Blowup Doll because she wasn’t going to live there anymore anyway.
First she would remove her books from the shelves, the linens from the beds and the files from the cabinets. The Army might arrive at any time.
—But but but, said Barbara, entering the kitchen in a bikini and Dean’s wraparound sunglasses that he got free at a downtown street fair from Budweiser.
—Good Lord. Put on your slacks! Right now, Barbara. I am preparing to enter the service of the Lord.
—But but but—
—Please, Barbara. You put your clothes on and then we can have a conversation.
—But, and she turned and shuffled out again.
The last of her Burdens. Barbara, too, would have to fend for herself. Bucella could no longer be a crutch for the Weak. She had a higher calling. Being a Mental Barbara was slow on the uptake, but in due course even the Blind could learn to walk alone.
Bucella lined the spices up in order on the kitchen table. No perishables for the Army. Mrs. Frenter did not deserve them, but Charity was Charity and always commendable no matter how unworthy its Objects.
—You have to come see, said Barbara, reappearing, thank the Lord, fully clothed. —The little guy’s down.
—Little guy? I am very busy Barbara, as you may notice.
—He’s not moving. At all. Not moving!
—Barbara, I do not understand. Are you referring to your dog again?
—Come on, said Barbara impatiently, and tugged at Bucella’s sleeve.
—All right. But quickly. I am busy Barbara.
She followed Barbara out to the backyard. Behind the screen of trees at the back was her Nature Retreat tent. Darn that Dean. She would give that away too. Barbara motioned behind it with her head. Bucella stepped over a pile of clothing and craned her neck. It was the Philistine Midget, nude as a newborn, flat on his back on the ground.
He was unpleasantly hairy.
—Lordy Lord Barbara, what is this?
—Phillip hit him on the head.
—And where is Phillip now?
—Ran away.
—My God!
Barbara took off the sunglasses and bent over.
—Ugly! she exclaimed.
—Hush. God made all creatures great and small. Go get a blanket please Barbara. Run! He could be catching a cold.
When Barbara had turned away Bucella shook the Midget by the shoulders. His mouth fell open. She placed two fingers beneath one of his ears. She felt no beat.
—Lordy Lord God.
Another Tribulation. Who should she call? Phillip had done it. Animal Abuse and Domestic Violence led directly to this. Alice would know what to do. She knew the Lowlifes and the Criminal Element. Bucella ran into the house after Barbara, grabbed the phone and dialed.
—Alice please, I need your help. There is a small dead man in my yard and Phillip is apparently to blame. Please come over.
—Don’t play with me Bucella. It’s been a long week.
—Alice I am not joking. It is serious. He’s an acquaintance of my brother’s. I think he is deceased. I cannot detect a pulse.
—Call 911, said Alice. —I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Bucella was flustered. Palpitations. It was certainly a Sign. She must remove herself from this world of Turmoil. This Tragedy made it all the more obvious.
In the doorway Barbara was struggling with a flannel sheet, which seemed to be wrapped around her legs.
—I said a blanket Barbara, but that will have to do. Anyway he is dead.
CHAPTER THE TENTH
The Moon rises; an Honest Man takes to the hills; the path to Glory is chosen; and the Salvation Army arrives
FRIDAY EVENING
5:56
Two cop cars were parked out front, lights still flashing, and two vans, Coroner and LAPD Crime Scene Unit. Alice made her way down the drive. Neighbors lined the fences, staring. A teenage girl in earphones blew a green bubble and popped it loudly. The man next to her, in a gray suit, cradled a cell phone between chin and shoulder and gestured as he talked. She caught a glimpse of a bright plastic Santa Claus peeping from beneath a garbage-can lid, and then a crowd scene. In the backyard cops were milling around, stretching yellow tape from tree to tree, a wall of them at the back of the yard beside a small tent. Bucella stood talking to a detective, wearing an apron that proclaimed KISS THE COOK.
—I was not an eyewitness to anything! said Bucella as Alice rounded the corner of the house. —I was in the middle of packing. Tomorrow I am entering the service of the Lord. I am preparing to leave. I am giving away my worldly goods.
—Well you’ll have to delay ma’am. This may be the scene of a crime.
—But I had nothing to do with it! He’s a friend of my brother’s. From AA. His family’s in Orange County I think. I only met him yesterday. My brother is an alcoholic and his acquaintances are unreliable. He slept here last night. Only because Dean begged and out of charity I said yes. Then this morning he crept into my room and he, well, exposed himself to me. And that’s putting it delicately Officer. He was a pervert. I kicked them both out. This has nothing to do with me!
—Where’s the lady who found him? asked the detective.
—Right there, said Bucella, and pointed.
Alice followed her index finger. Right there, sitting on a lawn chair, was the woman who had twirled half-naked in the street at the party. She was gazing at the sky.
—But that’s Phil’s wife? blurted Alice. —She was the one—at the—he said there was a fire?
—Name, ma’am?
—Her name’s Barbara Kreuz. Babs for short but I think Barbara is more dignified. She also stayed here last night because her husband was abusing her. She is mentally challenged.
—She claims her
husband came running in here and hit the guy?
—She does.
—And is her husband, uh challenged too?.
—In a manner of speaking, put in Alice. —I think he’s having a nervous breakdown or something. Seizures, I don’t know. He’s a little unstable.
—This is my co-worker. We are employed with Mr. Kreuz. At Statistical Diagnostics.
—Okay. That’s it for now, said the cop, and walked over to Barbara.
—Alice thank you for coming. Someone crushed my azaleas!
—So what happened?
Bucella led her to the foot of the garden, to the tent. It was blocked off with yellow tape.
—You can see from here, said Bucella.
Alice edged up to the fence and craned her neck. A small pale man lay face up on the ground. The cops were leaning over him. A man in a suit was touching the corpse with latex gloves.
—Myocardial infarction, he said, rising from his squat beside the body. —Heart attack. My best guess for now.
—The Salvation Army! said Bucella. —They could be here any minute!
—Salvation—
—To pick up my belongings. I will send Ernest a letter. I mean just—a resignation letter. I am entering the service of the Lord.
—So you said. You weren’t kidding?
—I just have to put things in boxes. They could be here any minute.
—Are you sure—?
—Yes Alice, I am sure. Could you watch Barbara? She is a mental and not very strong. I have to keep packing.
Barbara Kreuz was rocking back and forth on the lawn chair, clutching her knees. The detective flipped over a page on his pad as Alice approached.
—Thanks. That’s okay. We’ll be in touch.
Alice knelt down beside the chair as he turned away and put a hand on Barbara’s arm.
—My name is Alice, she said. —I work with your husband too. Are you doing okay?
—She’s mean.
—Who?
—Her, and she pointed at Bucella. —She keeps saying I’m mental.
—Well, you don’t have to listen to her.
—I’m not mental.
—I can see that.
—She might be mental, but I’m not. Sometimes I don’t talk right that’s all, I just forget the words that go in between, see there’s a whole syndrome. I had a speech therapist but he said it cost too much.
—Don’t worry. Bucella’s just a little preoccupied these days.
—It’s not nice to call people mental.
—I agree. So you saw Phillip hit him?
Barbara nodded.
—Did Phillip know the guy?
She bit her lip and shook her head.
—Why do you think he hit him?
—Mad.
—But why was Phillip mad?
Barbara cocked her head to one side. Her face twisted: she was about to cry.
—It’s okay. You’ll be fine. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
—Secret! whimpered Barbara.
—Secret?
—Promise!
—I won’t say anything.
—We were doing it.
—You and—?
—Little guy. Because I had sunglasses on so I think he thought it was the other one at first because he called me her name. He came back there and got on top of me!
—Oh.
—But then I—see what happened was . . .
—It’s okay. Take your time.
—I kinda got on top.
She paused and looked sidelong at Alice, her shoulders hunched slightly. Alice nodded, neutral.
—See I had my sunglasses on. But then the little guy stopped moving. Then Phillip was there and he yelled the lust and covetous and mind of Christ and pushed me over and he slapped him. But not too hard. And then he felt his neck and looked at me and ran down the driveway and he drove away and left me there.
—I see. Did you tell the police?
—But see the little guy—
—What?
—He was already like that.
—Like—?
—Unconscience.
—You mean he died while—?
—I think he got squished.
—Alice! There’s a news van out front! called Bucella from the back door.
—Might wanna tell the CSU to hold up on that for now, yelled a cop across the yard. —Gotta heart attack here. Looks like it’s not a homicide.
—Come on, said Alice, and took Barbara’s arm. Keep her away from birds of prey. —Let’s go inside and give your sister a call.
—Okay.
A fire. She remembered her lit Camel, falling between the wooden slats of the front deck. She had never seen it go out.
—You were in a fire the other night? she asked Babs as they walked up the steps.
—Yep, a fire.
—And was, was anyone hurt?
—Nope, no one.
—Did they tell you how it got started?
—Nope not how, but they said where. Under the porch.
You could torch the world just by looking the other way.
6:18
His vision began to blur due to the perspiration seeping into his eyes. He pulled jerkily to the side of the road and parked the rental, rigid in his seat. Murderer! Perdition, calumny. He removed a tissue from his packet and patted at his brow. He must restore himself. Deep breaths.
There was an insect in the vehicle. A long-legged mosquito. It bounced lightly along the slope of the windshield. He folded his tissue neatly and daubed at it, once, twice along the glass, but it was too quick. They were carriers, hosts. Skittering and bouncing, always twitching at the edge of sight.
The law would hold him and press him into servitude. He had to run. He would go far away. That cottage in Montana, his dead father’s old shed. He had not been there since he was ten. And now: sanctuary. The key unlocked the door.
The bells were quieting now, pealing gently. A summer afternoon in the country. Summer country. Mountains and leaves. Only the germs of nature to fear, not the gray city’s multitudes. Alone and vigilant, alone and free. The bells were gentler now, yes. They chimed faintly.
Barbara was depraved. She was more than unworthy, she was a blemish. From the first time she had made prurient advances to him, in their nuptial bed at the Ramada Inn, he had suspected her for being what she was, not a child, as first she seemed, but an animal. Many had mistaken animals for innocents, and been slain for their error, a lion’s fangs in their throat. Animals bit the hands that fed.
Out of the steadfastness of his constitution he had wished to believe in her virtue. Garbed in a flimsy tight nightdress she had beckoned to him, reclining in a manner she no doubt considered suggestive. It was more than embarrassing: it was an offense against good taste.
He had placed a towel over her midsection and explained the situation. —Think of me as your tutor, he had informed her softly. She had been quite sullen for days. She had refused to accompany him on prescheduled historical sightseeing tours, which were included free of charge in the vacation package. Finally, in due course, the nobility of his bearing and rectitude of his purpose became apparent to her. Needless to say she longed to be given the gift of his carnal attentions; that in itself was not surprising. Patrician, his aunt had remarked, and it was apt. If, one day, he felt called upon to propagate his kind, he would resign himself firmly to the task. He had assured her of that. In the meantime, the body must be effaced so that the spirit of the savior could prevail.
She had accepted it mutely, though he suspected her of covert self-abuse. Direct physical evidence had been lacking however.
To find her in a coworker’s backyard, copulating! A pig rutting, a swine. His tutelage gone to waste, lost and forgotten. It had been a terrible shock. No upstanding man would deny that his actions had been understandable. Rotten abomination! Filth!
And in the alley the defeat, the shame—. Deflected, brought low. The blond slut was
a thorn in the flesh, II Corinthians 12:7. An ignominious fall. Yes, that had been the error of his ways: he gave the scheming harlots more credit than they deserved. No more.
The profane servants of the law. He had already been their faultless victim once.
Montana. The shed would require extensive repairs, a generator, wiring, plumbing. It would have to be sanitized for his protection. But when the work was done, peace. There he could chart his course in safety, away from this, from harlots and abominations. A clean start. Logistics? Work freelance via DSL, running regressions, regressions, more regressions. A steady flow. He had done it before and he could do it again. There in the summer country, to remain vigilant. It was always his duty: he was vigilant. He was society’s quiet watchdog. Unsung.
The mosquito, thankfully, had migrated. Order would be restored. Henceforth he and only he would be the keeper of the light. No scarlet women would trespass upon him now. Get thee behind me.
He would have to return the rental before he left. The train: the anonymous train. Into the rolling hills it would take him, far away. He rolled up his window and drove.
6:33
Decetes wore a cowboy hat he had found on a bus seat. A little the worse for wear, but it added panache. He was an outlaw now. He had to look the part.
He would hold his press conference in his sister’s front yard, just before the onset of dusk. A magic hour for light, known to cinematographers as the golden hour, if he remembered correctly from the pass/fail Filmmaking Techniques class at USC. The public spectacle would be her final humiliation: payback for the insults.
But hark! In front of the house, a frenzy of cars and vans. He quickened his step, knapsack bouncing against his side. He pulled down the brim of the hat: a jaunty angle. Police cars. What could this indicate? Yes: Ken had taken his advice. That was the situation. Little Ken had attempted sexual assault, and Bucella had called in the troops.
And then he saw it. A roving TV news van.
He was still cold under the sun, but providence was with him yet. And now in perpetuity, for he would harness the power of the Fourth Estate. The tabloids and the sound bites were his allies now, his buglers and his flagbearers. His stage was set and victory was nigh. From this day onward he would always be a prince, dark shining moment in collective memory. A fragment of the lives of untold watchers in their homes. He was the massed unacted will of millions, gathered in one point of flame. A testament to the impotence of crude institutions. A monument to the folly of the soul’s captivity, the final broken triumph over fear. He was the glorious scapegoat.