by Jon Methven
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From the Hendersons’ yard to my shed, the supplies are then transported to the abandoned grocery store in Chinatown where Petty and Linda assemble the parts. There were three scenarios by which our vengeance would play out, which we put to a vote. The first, Phil and Petty suggested kidnapping one of the Sedlock children, preferably the slutty one, and use her as bait to encourage Harry and Allie to abandon the school shooting tour. I was opposed. As corrosive as Tungsten has been to Iliza’s junior year, she is a child and deserving of guardianship. It was voted down four to two. Second, Linda suggested cutting the project off at the head by assassinating Allie Sedlock, a strategy that might have worked. It was voted down five to one, with Linda actually voting against her own proposal.
The third scenario, mine in the primordial phase which Whitman enhanced with ingenious subplots, turned out to be the winner. In a public and loud fashion, we will explode by pressure-cooker bomb the various members of the murder culture syndicate who plan to publicize the school shooting tour. The Sedlocks are paying them for favorable reviews, which is probably not necessary, blood money for kind thoughts they would have offered freely. Each of the fifteen writers has received ten warnings, by Whitman’s doing: a campaign of emails, phone calls, handwritten letters, video clips—not so subtle hints to drop out of the visit. By now the Sedlocks and Connor Mack and perhaps the members of the investment club have learned of the threats, dismissing them as mindless jabber.
Phil and Linda and Josey and Little Petty volunteer to carry out the precarious detonation, offering themselves to the rubble. I was able to talk them out of martyrdom, convincing them of the pain and terminality of sainthood. But also, I believe them to be important. For every school shooting tour that gets slain, every illegal backroom negotiation uncovered, every political handout and corporate sin and rueful blunder, there are fifty more creeping out of our deplorable unworthiness to stain our children’s future. We need people like Josey and her kind if we hope to survive ourselves.
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From the sidewalk, the Gopa lobby seems docile, mourning, no one wishing to compromise the ceasefire. We sanitize and hydrate, exchange air kisses, ask about the kids. Three more have been accepted into the ECI program: Murray Randall, a four-term regional spelling bee champ; Gumption Barr, an artist who uses scabs to create surrealist paintings; and our very own Tungsten Sedlock, specialty unknown. More aggravating is a tidbit that Laura uncovers. Doug Whorley, infamous puncher of my head, is dating my daughter. Further gossip from the nanny chain is that he recently got into a fistfight with Toby Dalton, landing a few haymakers before it ended premature to Toby’s brain matter leaking onto a gymnasium floor.
“I don’t care what the video shows. It was obviously doctored,” a mother tells me about the petition to have me expelled, small talk in the entrance. She does not recognize me without the facial hair or swampy odor, and I quietly smoke and listen to her observation. “That man killed his nanny. And there’s no telling me different.”
And Many More
We arrive at the McClutchens with two trays of standing pancakes decorated like the birthday girl, sans the snot, a peace offering to our neighbors who no more want us there than we wish to attend. Maddie’s third birthday party is a popular event, neighbors from Slancy along with Gopa parents who own a child of similar age and showed the initiative to make the midweek trek to the island. Everyone gathers in the backyard while Ray feigns knowledge of his charcoal grill. The rest of us pretend to care that the allergenic celebrant survived another trip around the sun; sunlight also makes her sneeze. Iliza and Gus dropped out at the last minute. They sense we are not wanted and prefer Clint Eastwood and the kittens to parental posturing.
Lacrosse parents are in attendance, standing in rigid formation with Harry and Allie. Most have signed the petition that would see the Pistilinis ousted from Gopa, a tested theory that if enough of the money complains, the administration will fold. They think they have me, but they fear me and the combined insanity and zeal and fury of my tribal lords. One rumor out of the nannies can be ignored. But a series of rumors, over several months, and I have them on their heels. They do not know what role I played in their coach’s death, or how I manipulated the season to ruins. They have seen the videotape absolving me of Tilly’s death. And though they have likely studied the tape, played it back, discussed it in private, they can convince one another of my impropriety if they stay determined.
I wander over to the grill, a smoky mess that an aproned Ray is making worse. It is the Smokerbeast LKX Deluxe BBQ Inlet that retails for $7,000 on VillageShop, and which Ray uses twice a year, typically to cook hot dogs. It includes a propane gas stovetop, a rotisserie, and a charcoal pit, which is causing all the combustion. He doused the briquettes in lighter fluid and did not let them burn off before adding the chicken legs, which no one will eat anyway because chicken legs are the new veal, according to the Gopa website. He has a pile of half smoldering bird, part of the coals still black, the others smoking insensibly beneath the poultry. It will take hours to finish.
“Need a hand,” I say.
“Eh.” He waves the spatula and nearly falls into the fire. Olivia is spreading rumors that she is pregnant just to bother him and her lover is topping off his guests’ drinks. Ray is intoxicated over the flames, made worse because Devin Brenner, of all people, has cut him off from the beer cooler. I do the compassionate thing and retrieve him a beer, and commandeer the spatula.
“Thanks, Pistol.” He takes a long pull from the bottle, which steadies him. He slurs into surrender. “Don’t even ask about Moveable Museums. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“I wasn’t going to. You’ve been more than helpful.”
“Harry is suspicious enough as is.”
The only reason I approached Ray at his Cadillac grill is for additional espionage. “But while I have you.”
“Shit, I knew it.” He bends his chin, buckles in close. “I gave you the names of the writers. What else do you want?”
I’ve managed to get the lid on the fire, which halts the smoke, and turn on the propane. Once that gets hot, I’ll have the food ready in thirty minutes, and then Laura and I can depart. “The location on Saturday. Still Gopa, no change?”
“That’s the intent.” He drinks angrily. “Tell me what you’re planning.”
“Better you don’t know.”
“Is it illegal?”
“Don’t be stupid, Ray. Of course it’s illegal. What you’re involved in is ethically illegal.” Ray closes his eyes as if absorbing a slap. What he is involved in, all of us, goes against every bullshit word he has ever written or thought. “The thing I don’t understand is—why Gopa? What are they planning?”
Ray does not answer. He glances over me at the crowd, mostly Harry, waiting for someone to make eye contact and rescue him from my persistence. He leans close, voice low. “A school shooting reenactment. Harry says it’s important everyone understands the look and feel.”
The look and feel, Allie’s doing. A school shooting reenactment will highlight the beginning of every tour, both regional and national. In its profound morbidity, it is somewhat brilliant. I don’t even have to ask but I do. “Real students?”
“The Sedlocks hired the cast of Our Town,” Ray says. “There’s no matinee on Saturday. Parents were fine with it.”
“Why were they fine with it?”
Ray shrugs. “It’s a paying gig.”
It has moved from unethical to pernicious, involving our children. Making it worse, the purportedly righteous side is staging bombs in the vicinity of where our theater department will perform its most dramatic tragedy. Josey needs to know. Bill Chuck and Lieutenant Misch will have to be briefed.
“One more thing,” I say. This is where it gets tricky. “I need a hundred thousand dollars by Friday.”
He coughs into a fist, steadies himself on the gr
ill and burns his hand. Yelping, I hold Ray’s arm as we lock eyes.
“For what?”
“To pay off Russ’s drug dealer.”
“What if I say no?”
“He’ll kill me. Then he’ll kill Gus and Iliza and probably Laura.” I flip the meat. “Moveable Museums will become an international phenomenon. You’ll get rich. Olivia and Devin will live comfortably with their new kid. Everyone will be happy. Except for you, Ray, and do you know why?”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Because you’re one of the good ones, Ray. One of the worthy. And I want to be one of those guys, too.”
The food taking too long, dusk settles over the McClutchens’ backyard. It is past Maddie’s bedtime and Olivia skips the traditional order of birthday celebrations, moving forward the cake and presents, her useless husband failing at his one task. Even by three-year-old standards, it is a horrendous party, everyone starving, parents separated into adverse cliques, the hosts settling on opposite sides of the yard. I could not understand why Laura pushed so hard to attend this event; she and Olivia have never been close. And then I understand.
Just before the cake is cut, my wife has a hand on Olivia’s shoulder, the two laughing like the dearest of friends. The only other person who notices is Allie, who watches with disdain. Laura’s hand disappears below the sea of bodies, and when it emerges, she is holding one of the Standcakes dressed as Maddie, which she offers Olivia. At first there is resistance—no, no, no, I’m watching my figure—and then persistence as Laura pushes the delicacy toward Olivia’s mouth. It’s like a lesbian wedding, Olivia closing her eyes at the taste as Laura presses forth the erect pancake, actually wiping the gooey fruit smoothie syrup from her lip with a finger and depositing it onto Olivia’s tongue. All self-help pop-psychology aside, my wife is a barbarian. I know without ever questioning her that she spiked the upright pancakes, dressed as little children, with the semen that Olivia stole from our freezer. Most likely the frosting as well.
Tonight at the campfire, Jason Isbell croons over the destruction of beautiful things that will have to be rebuilt. The amorphous bunnies have facilitated a pact with the chipmunks, the two tribes coexisting, sharing the creek that the rabbits discovered, too preoccupied with the new supply to drown in my wrecked lagoon. Even Clint Eastwood seems satisfied with the arrangement. Bill Chuck is here, Little Petty, Ray McClutchen who has no place to stay. We are Josey-less, Jackson-less. I revamp an argument I tested earlier on the Gopa website, which caused my latest handle, WifeBanger, to be revoked, after a parent suggested I was a proponent of kidnapping daughters. There is an island 8,500 miles away from Slancy where two warring tribes swapped children to end a land dispute that lasted three decades. The exchange of children, it is believed, would bridge the differences between the people and emphasize their similarities. The example is a metaphor. I was not actually advocating that we swap children every few months to better acquaint ourselves with the plights of our neighbors.
“Give us the princes in exchange for the dweebs. Give us your lonely for the destined that did not require orthodontia. Give us the sad, timid, homely girls, the pale, thin, painfully shy boys, those who have not reached puberty, those with acne and bright smiles and silky hair and cellulite. Let us push each through the grinder of another family’s rituals, learn to win and loose from a fresh bedroom, and when we all meet in the lobby, see if we are not better and happier and awake and worthy.”
Do Terrorists Kiss Their Families Goodbye?
Today at Lustfizzle, a livestream of people trying to deliver pizza to the wrong address as American hilarity ensues. The delivery personnel come in various genders and ethnicities, one being the popular and always-on meteorologist, Penelope Garcia. The reaction of the customers, who seek only to stare at the television and not participate in germane and clever cultural entertainment, is the point of the clip. Depending on the delivery person, the customer is combative, or angry, or even scared. Several times the authorities are phoned. Pizza arrives at breakfast. Pizza arrives while families are already eating. It arrives late at night, when folks turn on lights expecting a prowler or bad news and discover, instead, warm and gooey comfort. Some pretend they actually ordered the faux pie, that they paid over the phone, accepting the stolen meal. In one clip, Penelope Garcia is eating the pizza when a man opens the door, a skintight dress as she wolfs it down, and when she demands an outrageous amount of money, the customer willingly pays. It is a social experiment of race relations and sexual metaphors and pizza. It is irritating for its grandeur, and because it is impossible to stop watching.
The opening night of Gopa Academy’s spring play, Our Town. A day earlier, a sex tape was leaked showing what was described as an administrator showering with the play’s female lead. The faces of both the now-deceased faculty member and actress are blurred, the footage edited for time, my daughter’s drug cameo cut from the premiere. The tape arrived at the apex of the news cycle, as if planted by a professional marketing firm, the media picking up on the significance and inciting a full day of lustful coverage. It was the lead story on Channel Fourteen this morning, a news anchor rapping about private school entitlement and dead lacrosse coaches and civilized rape. Laura and I combed the tape closely, thankful and proud it is not our daughter ensconced in an older man’s embrace, even though that very misconception is what doomed him.
Rumor has it the Sedlocks threatened a lawsuit, both against the school and the wealthier Daltons, and the play will go on in spite of the media attention. News vans park outside the school, reporters trying to discover the connection between the dead coach and the actress, already whispers of the father a modern folk hero. It is the most guarded high school play in the history of theater. Gopa’s security will canvass the stage, armed guards at the exits and seated plainclothes wardens throughout the auditorium. The school hired a private investigator to tail me on opening night, just to know where I was, which is at dinner with my family. A hankering for pizza, we meet in a small restaurant far away from Gopa. Bill Chuck has a friend tailing me as well, protection against Capra. From my table, I watch the man outside watching me, and Bill’s guy keeping tabs on my guy, all of us speculating. It occurs to me to introduce them, which I do. It turns out they know of each other, know the same police, and I suggest they have coffee while I dine with my family.
Tonight, Laura is driving the kids north for the weekend, disguised as a summer shopping excursion. I have revealed to my wife a general strategy that will take place in her absence. She suspects amped up vandalism, just like Edison, and I have done nothing to correct the illusion. It is imperative that if I am caught, or worse, that Laura be able to raise our children without implication. She is scared and sullen, but as a couple we are determined and better and more worthy of loss. I do not know how terrorists say goodbye to their families, but along with pizza and soda and wine, I have purchased gifts. A bracelet for my wife, a book on writing for Gus, a wrapped box for Iliza, inside of which is another box, inside of which is her cell phone that was confiscated last month.
I do not listen to music at the fire this evening, only the crackling of the cell phone trees, the crickets in the darkness, the dripping waterfall, the mewling kittens threatening to open their eyes to participate in this strange terrain. It is only myself and Ray McClutchen, a duffel bag, all of it in neat denominations.
“Will I ever see this again?”
“Doubtful. But I’ll pay back every dime. It might take years.”
“What if you don’t come back?”
“I already thought about that. I want you to take care of Laura, take care of my kids the way you do yours.”
This is the time we hug. This is when we grope in the darkness, creatures who need other people. Instead, Ray disappears to his own tent, too proud to weep in front of me, conflicted about which outcome he desires. The house empty, rooms full of beds and couches, we prefe
r the primitive intonations that dwindle to a whisper as the wind disappears, the fire settles, when all of what we built rests.
I place a phone call. Toby picks up on the third ring. “Took in some theater tonight. Culture, Pisser. Thought I might see you there.”
“Brave of you, Toby. I’m surprised to hear you’d go anywhere near a school event that Doug Whorley might be at. Heard you boys had a falling out.”
“What do you want?”
“I have money. The handover is tomorrow.”
Toby chuckles. “It’s called a drop, Pisser. And good for you. I’ll be out tomorrow afternoon for the stuff.”
“No, Toby. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
There is a shift on his end, Toby coming to terms with an arrangement that conflicts with his refined exemption. “Why would you pick me up?”
“You’re dropping the money yourself.”
“Where?”
“You’ll find out in the morning.”
“No fucking way.”
I let it settle into Toby’s shifting desires. “I came through with the money. To square things with Capra, you need to hand it over yourself.”
“What if I say no?”
“I know where you live. Which means Capra knows where you live. This is the only time a hundred grand will fall in your lap. See you in the morning.”
I hang up and take a final excursion across my lawn to my neighbors’ property. It is late but I see a light in the living room. Jackson is a night owl. I gently rap at the backdoor until he approaches, large and shirtless. His shoulders slump when he sees me. He unlatches the lock and softly slides the glass.