Horace Afoot

by Frederick Reuss

  She turns to me. Her face betrays nothing. She throws off the sheet. “I want to fuck you for it,” she says evenly. “I want to fuck you for every cent of it.”

  “You can have the money.”

  “No way,” she says. “I want you to pay it to me.”

  She is lying on the bed, breasts splayed across her chest, hands moving across her pubis. An effort of arousal. I notice her sour smell, alcohol and perspiration, the wrinkles at her eyes, the cold stubs of her painted toes. The calculator crashes. She is as remote from me as any stranger, and I am a stranger to myself. She cannot know me nor I her and as these thoughts fly through my head a vacuum yawns inside and my prick begins to stiffen.

  Around noon I am awakened by knocking. Sylvia has gone. I go downstairs and open the door.

  The neighbor kid is on the porch examining the crow in the basket. “They attacked the bus and killed all the terrorists,” he tells me.

  I stand in the doorway, shirtless, uncomprehending. The kid thinks I’m waiting for him to continue. “They killed seven civilians too.”

  “Wait a minute.” I go into the kitchen to get my money. When I return the kid is patting the crow on the head. “Careful. She’s been hurt.”

  “Can she talk?” the kid asks.

  “You’re thinking of mynah birds. She’s a crow.” I hand the kid his dollar. “Thanks for the update.”

  The kid crams the bill into his pocket, gives the crow one last stroke with his finger. “Good girl, Dracula,” he says and then leaps from the porch and races off.

  The police are at the mound. I see their cars from a distance, sheriff, deputy sheriff, State Highway Patrol. The sky is cloudless, the air hot and stagnant. There are no flocks of birds today. Passing by the field—a short, shuffling indeterminism—I don’t think of Hemingway or van Gogh and suicides but of her. All morning I have had little else on my mind. Despite all efforts to dissuade myself from thinking so, today seems marked off from all previous ones. Making love with Sylvia has caused some ineffable change in the chemistry of the universe. Things look different, color, shape, the arrangement and dispersal of objects in space. A reaction has occurred that can’t be reversed, and I am helpless over and against it. Strangest of all, my feelings seem completely independent of my will. All morning I have tried to take it in stride. A fuck is a fuck is a fuck. It is what I will have to think when, later today, I meet her at the bank to pay her for it.

  I return once again to the question of ordo amoris, where the logic of the heart doesn’t borrow from the logic of the understanding and the heart can love blindly and the understanding hate insightfully ad infinitum and vice versa. There is no law in this strange ordo that stipulates that the two can or must ever be in accord. What then of the ordo tranquillus? Or, at the very least, a dumb state of the emotions where the conflicts between heart and head have been put down and our inner language no longer riots at our core but we are internally bathed in the rhetoric and psychology of contented feeling states. Is that happiness? I hope not. I can’t decide which is worse—loony riot or stupid contentment. Both seem equally bad.

  The first person who comes into view as I approach is Detective Ross. He is conferring with the sheriff, Dr. Palmer, and two others. An ambulance idles at the far end of the lot. Middleton and Norris are sitting on the rotten picnic bench smoking cigarettes.

  Ross sees me from the corner of his eye and waves without breaking the conversation. I go to the bench. The two archaeologists nod hello.

  “What’s going on?”

  Norris puffs on his cigarette and gives his beard a tug before answering. “We found a body.”

  “Remains, more like it,” says Middleton.

  “Remains, body.” Norris puffs again, waves his cigarette. “Intrusive burial.”

  Middleton, toying with her black braid, chuckles. “That it was, for sure. But not, strictly speaking, of an archaeological nature.”

  “More of a forensic one, I’d say, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Middleton?”

  “I’ve dug up my fair share of bones, Norris.”

  “Wearing jeans and Nikes?”

  They are both amused.

  “Where did you find it?”

  Norris points up to the summit, where poles and stakes protrude from the earth like pins from a cushion. The police are unfurling a yellow tape, sealing off the area.

  “You’ve taken a good chunk off the top.”

  “Not enough,” says Middleton. “The good stuff is way down. We’re still finding last year’s picnics.”

  “And bodies.”

  “Intrusive burial number one.”

  “Can’t have a mound and not have intrusives,” says Norris. “By the way, how is Mr. Mohr?”

  “He’s so cute,” Middleton says.

  “He’s not doing too well. I doubt he’ll be back out.”

  “That’s sad,” Middleton says. “I love the way he got all dressed up for us. It was sweet.”

  “A regular Schliemann,” says Norris.

  Palmer walks over with a cowled expression and sits down at the end of the bench. “Give me a cigarette,” she says. Norris offers her his pack, and she fishes in it with a slender finger, addresses herself to her colleagues. “They’re shutting us out.”

  “They’re what?”

  Palmer lights up, inhales deeply, then speaks, letting the smoke stream from her nostrils. “Until a forensics team has gone over the site.”

  “They’ll ruin it,” Middleton says.

  Palmer nods, runs a hand through her chopped hair.

  Middleton stands up. “What did you tell them?”

  “What could I say? We found them a body. Now they want to take over.”

  “The whole site?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The whole fucking site? Why not just the burial?”

  “The whole Tucking site.” Palmer masks her agitation with exaggerated coolness.

  “We might as well clear out now,” Middleton says. She is pacing, hands in her back pockets. “Shit. This’ll put us back a week.”

  “They’re talking two.” Palmer says evenly.

  “Two! What for?”

  “For the bureaucracy. Our permit is suspended. We have to reapply.”

  “Son of a bitch! They can’t do that to us.”

  “Tell the sheriff,” Palmer says, smoking calmly. “Do you know what a grackle is?”

  Norris is caught short. “A grackle?”

  “Some kind of bird, isn’t it?” says Middleton.

  “That’s right. A black bird. And this is some kind of grackle nesting ground, and the local grackle club is upset that we are out here messing it up.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? Christ! Look at that factory across the street! Are they upset about that too? I fucking doubt it.”

  “The sheriff thinks it is possible that it might come up during the review of the permit. They complained about not having been consulted the first time around.”

  “That’s ridiculous. They’re going to make us wait two weeks?”

  “I’m not waiting two weeks,” Middleton says. “I’ll come back, but no way I’m wasting two weeks here.”

  “I need a drink,” says Norris.

  Detective Ross, the sheriff, and two people from the State Highway Patrol are conferring by the ambulance. “Don’t go anywhere, Mister,” the sheriff tells me. “I got some questions for you.”

  “For me?”

  “That’s right. Stick around.”

  I peer inside the back door of the ambulance. A wire mesh litter and on it an industrial olive-green bag. Zipped shut. A clump of grass and muddy handprints on the bag, mild reek of newly upturned earth and rubber. Ross approaches. “Been meaning to drop by Mr.—ah—Quintus, is it?”

  “Lucian.”

  We shake hands. The detective scratches the back of his head. “Now, I don’t recall …”

  “I changed my name to Lucian of Samosata.”

  Ross reaches
for his handkerchief. “Now, why’d you go and do that? I kind of liked Quintus Horatio Flack jacket.” He is wearing his signature blue summer seersucker minus the jacket, tie loosened around his neck, collar unbuttoned. He peers into the back of the ambulance. “They think he’s been buried there about a year. We’ll see what the coroner says.” He steps away from the ambulance, motions for me to follow. “Sheriff tells me you still been spending a fair amount of time out here.”

  “I walk out now and then.”

  “Remember seeing anything looked like a funeral?” He grins.

  I shake my head.

  “Down there, back around?” He points. “Underneath a bush?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever put him there wasn’t in too big of a hurry. They got down almost two feet.”

  “They said the body was decomposed. How do you know it was a man?”

  “They’re right about that. Never seen such a maggot-eaten mess my whole life.”

  “How do you know it was a man, then?”

  “Don’t too many women wear size eleven Nikes. They pulled him up in his damn running shoes. We’ll know a lot more when the coroner finishes checking it out. How long he’s been dead. How he died. Who he was.”

  The sheriff walks over carrying his clipboard and wearing an expression right out of television. “I want you to tell me how many times you’ve been out here in the last year.”

  “Exactly?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t say exactly.”

  “Try. Give me a number.”

  “Twenty. Maybe.”

  “You sure?”

  “Give or take a few.”

  “Ballpark. Twenty.”

  I nod.

  “Now tell me who else you’ve ever seen out here.”

  “You. You arrested me here, remember?”

  “Besides me.”

  “Those two drunks last week and them.” I point over to the archaeologists.

  The sheriff writes. “That the only time you ever saw either one of them out here?”

  “The archaeologists?”

  “No. Schroeder and the woman.”

  I nod.

  Ross looks on, amused. The sheriff glances at him, the outline of a dislike professionally underconcealed. “He’s all yours, boss,” the sheriff says. “We’ll let you know when we have further questions.” Pro-forma eye contact. “Have any travel plans?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good,” he says. “Let us know if you plan to leave the area anytime in the next few weeks.”

  I shrug, stop short of agreeing. He turns to leave. “You coming back to the station, boss?”

  “I’ll be back later. Got a few things to check up on first.”

  The sheriff doesn’t bother to turn around but marches away toward his car.

  “Prick.”

  “He’s your sheriff.” Ross dabs at the back of his neck with his handkerchief. The archaeologists are still at the picnic bench. Palmer is gesticulating, cigarette between two fingers. Norris is slumped, fedora pulled over his eyes and stubby legs stretched out. Middleton is pacing and twirling her braid. “Them two you found out here last week—the woman, she was the same one that was raped.”

  “I know.”

  “And Schroeder. She’s his girlfriend.”

  I shrug. Should I tell him about the gun? Put them on to Schroeder so they can put him away? Get rid of him, at least for the time being?

  “People say she’s one sweet bitch.” Ross grins, mopping his neck. “Least that’s what they say out at Jack’s.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Everybody I talked to out there. Deals a little coke on the side too. One dude told me they’re thinking about installing her next to the cigarette machine.”

  I glare at him, resolved not to tell him anything now.

  The ambulance pulls away; the sheriff, the deputy, and the highway patrol follow behind in convoy. Ross’s expression changes. He motions for me to walk with him toward his car. “You remember telling me you heard some shots that day?”

  I nod.

  “And you saw some cars too.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t remember.”

  “How many shots did you hear?”

  “I don’t remember. Two or three.”

  Ross pulls open the door of his car and settles behind the wheel. “Try and remember. Two? Three?”

  “I can’t remember exactly.”

  He pulls the door shut with a grunt, twists the key in the ignition. “I have it written down somewhere. I suppose that’s about it for now. See you around, ah, Luke, is it?”

  “Lucian.”

  “Right.” He lifts a fleshy hand from the wheel and then pulls away, tires spurting dirt and gravel. I watch the car bounce onto the roadway and speed off. Is it possible that he knows more than I do? Has he made a connection between this body and Sylvia and Schroeder? A whir of factors and considerations kicks up. Does he know I know? Does he know I know he knows?

  Palmer and Norris are still smoking cigarettes at the bench. Middleton is loading equipment into the back of the van. I leave without saying goodbye.

  The clock at the bank reads three-thirty. Sylvia is nowhere to be seen. At three-forty I decide to go in to get the money before the bank closes for the weekend. Maybe she was delayed, went off to sleep and forgot. But maybe she is afraid to come into town. Maybe she knows. Maybe the police have her. Maybe she doesn’t want the money.

  Derringer is startled when I tell him how much to withdraw from my account. “You want a bank draft?”

  “Cash.”

  “That’s an awful lot of scratch to be carrying around. A bank draft would be safer.”

  “Cash. In hundreds.”

  He shrugs and fills out the withdrawal slip and goes to the cashier. I settle back in the air-conditioned coolness and look out the window, hoping to spot Sylvia and at the same time not wanting to. Derringer returns with two banded stacks of newly minted bills and places them on the desk. “Five thousand times two,” he says. “You want to count it?”

  “No.” I put the money into my pack and zip it closed.

  Derringer shakes his head in disapproval. “That’s the worst place you could put it,” he says.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I get up.

  “Mind if I ask what you’re planning to buy with it?”

  I shoulder the pack and pause for a moment.

  Derringer is awaiting my answer. “Could it be? Finally? At long last?” An eager grin spreads across his face, and his eyebrows do a canny one-two bounce. “A car? You buying a car?”

  “No. I’m buying a fuck.”

  Derringer’s face registers shock, but in an instant he recovers himself, guffaws loudly with locker-room aplomb. It’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard from me.

  Outside there is still no sign of Sylvia. I cross the street and sit on the bench in front of Town Hall to wait. Of course I’m buying something. I didn’t have to, but I did. Ordo amoris. Ordo amoris. So clear and lucid in theory. The order of love and hate, a simple premise that contains the proper element of sweet and rational necessity.

  The hand of the clock moves steadily toward the hour. I watch the traffic on Main Street. At five o’clock I stand up and cast my last glances up and down Main Street. Derringer emerges from the bank, locks the front door behind him, sees me, waves tentatively. I stand, shoulder the pack, and start for home.

  At Liberty Street the hound catches sight of me and gives chase. He catches up, barking and leaping, then settles into pace alongside, tongue flying out the side of his mouth. Good boy. Good boy! Come on, now! Good boy. At West Street I feel an urge to turn around, to look back, but resist. I stop, pat the dog, but instead of sending the dog away, as I always do, I invite him along with a slap of the thigh—come on, boy—and with vigorous tail-wagging the dog trots along with me.

  I arrive at my front door to find it locked and the house exactly as I left it. The dog
sniffs at the edge of the crow’s (or is it a grackle?) basket. “No. Away from there.” The dog sneezes, waggles its tail, and follows me into the house.

  I lift a bottle of wine from the case in the kitchen closet, dropping the pack on top. Open it, fill a glass to the brim, and sip, wandering out the kitchen door and into the early evening, dog shambling behind me. The newly green trees rustle. A breeze has picked up and on it the pungent smell of fertilized fields. The weather seems to be changing, the humidity easing. I wander to the edge of the lawn, sipping, wondering how it has come to pass that the autarkeia I have held to so stubbornly can have been so easily obliterated? The intentional sublimation of want and desire, the contempt for the instincts—the fucking and feeding and fighting and fleeing—has been replaced without the least effort—virtually overnight. I take down a large gulp of wine, abating consciousness, a pleasant easing inside. Sublimation suddenly seems less sublime, and autarkeia—the worthy goal of Cynics—seems too abstract to live by. Had I not striven to try and attain a portion of it I would be tempted, with another big sip of wine, to deny it altogether. Don’t cynics hold all abstractions in contempt? My bios theoretikos is crumbling, falling gently to my feet, replaced by an elated longing to have Sylvia next to me again tonight, and maybe tomorrow. And the day after?

  Exchanging my glass for the bottle, I march into the woods, swigging, the hound tagging faithfully behind. Presently I find myself near the tracks staring at the shallow grave containing my old clothes and boots. An animal has dug through and uncovered them. One boot lies gnawed and torn in the dirt. The dog sniffs it, paws it, roots around, then loses interest. I drink from the bottle, wiping my chin with the back of my hand, contemplating this grave of mine. A snatch of Horace comes to mind and I recite a few lines, feeling simultaneously silly and serious.

  Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui.

  Whither, Bacchus, am I swept on,

  thus possessed by your wine.