Snake boots were on sale. Upland vests and blizzard hoods, he marked these down for later. He wanted cold-weather gear. It wasn’t even the middle of October, and the peaks were already white. Every time the catalogues came he found more things he needed. He tabbed them like college textbooks, and he tried to ignore her when she came into the kitchen. She was watching over his shoulder again. She was waiting for him to finish. She opened the fridge and looked inside. She opened it a half dozen times a day, but she usually shut it without taking anything out. She was on Weight Watchers again and careful with her points.
She took a diet Sprite and popped it open. “Maybe your mom can come.” She sat down beside him. “I think she’s in town this year. Her cruise isn’t till December.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. She was always careful when she brought up his mother. He could see how she hesitated, unsure of what she’d find when she pulled that curtain back.
“Sure,” he said. He closed one catalogue and reached for another. “She’d love to see you.”
“Now you’re just being sour. You’re always happy afterward. It’s only before when you make a fuss.”
She took out her planner and wrote down some more names. Things were coming together. She’d ordered a cake from the new bakery down on Platte, and she could tell him the flavors but not the decorations because those were a surprise. Even Marshall was coming, she said. It wouldn’t be right to invite the associates and the interns and not to invite the boss. He looked up from the catalogue then because she didn’t know. She lived with him in this tiny place, this third-floor apartment with its sloping floors, and they were mysteries one to the other.
His father died at forty-three. Peacefully, in his sleep. That’s what people said. They told him to be thankful because at least his daddy didn’t suffer. There’re worse ways to go, they’d say. Car accidents and dismemberments and serial killers, fires and creeping disease. Better to close your eyes and not open them again. That’s the way for me. They were wrong, of course. They had no idea. Even two doors down he could hear the gasps and that strange rattle. His father’s heart must have been thrashing behind his ribs. It was struggling to break free.
The ambulance came with all its sirens going. Get back to bed, his mother shouted when she saw him standing by the door. Get back inside your room. Her eyes were bright and hard, and she frightened him more than his father, who lay unmoving on the bed. He saw the shadows of the paramedics beneath his door, walking in thick rubber boots because it was raining outside. It was coming down strong and steady. He heard them yell and one of the vases broke in the hall, and his mother wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t talking at all. They left together, his mother and the paramedics and his father on a stretcher. In her panic she’d forgotten him, her only child who wasn’t even eight. She left him alone inside the house. The ambulance didn’t run its sirens when it pulled away. It went slowly in the rain, and that was when he knew. He stayed in his room until she came back. He waited beneath his blankets.
Five days, six days, seven, eight. He slept an hour or two at most. He slept and woke, and the neighbors were arguing. They slammed their cupboard doors, and the wife was crying. Cars drove by with their radios too loud. Power ballads and Johnny Cash and rappers he didn’t know. The sounds came through the floorboards and the cracks around the window air conditioner. They filled the room, and Becky sighed sometimes, but she didn’t wake. She was talking to the people inside her dreams. Her voice was gentle. She sounded like a mother talking to her baby.
It wasn’t good all his reading about night diseases. He surfed the Web too much looking for symptoms. Bangungot in the Philippines and the Japanese called it pokkuri and there were more names for it, this strange disease that killed young men in their sleep. People over there blamed the angry spirits. A fat ghost lady of the forest who sat across men’s chests and kept their hearts from beating. An old man who smothered their faces out of spite. It was easy to laugh at those explanations, but in the end they were as good as any. What could science say, what comfort could it give when sometimes a heart just stops? It stops at night when you’re forty-three and your wife is sleeping beside you. When your son is two doors down in his Spiderman pajamas. It stops, and staying awake wasn’t the answer either. What about fatal insomnia, now there was a disease. It killed those Italian families by keeping them awake. Strange curling proteins tangled up their brains, and maybe that’s why Becky was sleeping and he was listening to cars. She turned and threw her arm across his chest, and she opened her lips the way babies do.
Sonata, Ambien, Lunesta, Ativan, Becky knew all the names. She knew people who slept the whole night through with only a single pill at bedtime. Make an appointment with Doctor Tischmann, she told him. Go see him for a prescription. Maybe it’s your thyroid. You ought to have it checked. She bought him melatonin drops in the meanwhile. Chamomile and kava kava and strange little scented pouches. Lemon balm and lavender and Saint-John’s-wort and other witchy things. She set them on his nightstand, and that was where he left them.
They had the party the Saturday before his birthday. She’d hired mariachis to play even though Toscanini’s was an Italian restaurant and people were eating pasta. The band strolled around in their charro suits and sashes, and even he had to laugh when his mother set down her beaded purse and danced with one of the interns. And he’d never have guessed old Marshall would be out there in the middle. He was flapping his arms like a German at an Oktoberfest. He was doing the chicken dance. It’s a great party, Fish, he was saying from across the floor. His face was pink, and there were sweat marks beneath his arms. Your wife is really a prize.
Fish moved away from the group. He had a piece of cake, and it was frosted in a camo pattern. She’d chosen Mossy Oak, and there were plastic bears on top and little men with guns. She’d given him a certificate for wing-shooting classes. He’d have an instructor who’d show him how to mount a gun and how to follow the clays. What’s the point of watching all those shows, she’d wanted to know. What’s the point if you’ve never even held a gun? Sporting clays were okay, but she didn’t want him to kill birds. He could tell it made her sad to think of them falling in midflight. She liked a steak every now and then, but at heart she was a vegetarian.
He finished his cake and used his fork to scrape the last of the frosting from the plate. Becky and his mother were standing beside the platters. His mother was talking. Becky tilted her head the way she did when she was really paying attention. She was looking over at him, and even from across the room he saw something in her face. Disappointment maybe or surprise.
It was strange seeing them together. Becky who was older now than his mother had been that night. How young she’d been and he didn’t notice. A widow at thirty-four. All those years and she hadn’t remarried. Clyde the banker and old Jerry the retired school principal and Daniel the rare gun dealer who wore a turquoise bolo and more that he couldn’t remember. She was nice to them one after the next. She invited them in for drinks but turned down all their offers.
His mother came over just as he set down his plate. Her hands were shaking from the wine. They’d be shakier still before the party was over. It can’t be right, she said. My boy is forty-three. You’re making me feel old. She reached for him. She pulled him close, and she felt light in his arms. Tiny as a bird that was only hollow bones and feathers.
He saw angels in the streets. Gold-colored birds flew upward into the branches, and everywhere there was a pattern to things. Old women were beautiful with their shopping bags. They were beautiful how they closed their collars against the chill. The sky was clear because the wind was blowing hard, and the sun shone, but it gave no warmth. He needed to close his eyes. He needed to rest before he could walk again, but he kept going because he was late and Marshall would be waiting. He passed the old Antlers Hotel and then the Holly Sugar Building, and there were men up high on a tiny platform washing down the windows. A girl walked in front of him. She was wearing a down vest. The wi
nd caught her ponytail and blew it upward like a fan. He caught a glimpse of her face reflected in the window, and she was another angel. He wanted to fall to his knees.
There were patterns in the shadows of the branches. In the starlings that flew and the spreadsheets, especially the spreadsheets. The numbers were their own language, and he spent hours watching them move. He kept his wool coat on because it was cold inside the office. He shivered at his keyboard. He trembled and laughed, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. Marshall came and stood beside his bay. He looked a little worried. Sweet Marshall with his moon face. Fish laughed even harder. He held his stomach and set his head between his knees the way passengers are supposed to when their plane is about to crash.
She was waiting for him by the door. Marshall must have called her. She took his coat and his laptop bag and set them on the coffee table.
“You need to go to the doctor. We’ve waited long enough.”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll go.” He really would. Tomorrow was his birthday, and he’d call at least and make an appointment. That’s what he told her, but he didn’t know if it was true. He said it without thinking. His voice didn’t sound like his own.
She relaxed a little. She turned on his shows and set the table in front of the TV and not in the kitchen where they usually ate. He took his plate to his camping chair, and she didn’t grumble for once. She tucked her feet beneath her and ate on the sofa, picking at her chicken and the broccoli florets. She rubbed his shoulders when he finished. She really took her time. I can feel the tension, she was saying. Right here in your neck. He shivered under her fingers. He felt it all the way down his arms, and it was how his mother had touched him the morning she came back. She’d held him by the scruff, as if he were a kitten. His father was dead, and all the softness was gone from her face.
Becky left the dishes in the sink and came with him to bed. She’d cleaned out the bedroom. The bicycle was gone and all her nursing books. The laundry was sorted and the hampers were closed, and there were new shades on the windows. She’d bought vinyl black-out shades and screwed them into the frames herself. She’d gotten the holes off center on one of them, and he felt a surge of gratitude when he saw how it hung crooked. His eyes welled up, and he didn’t know why.
She waited until his spot was warm, and then she moved in close. “I’ll stay awake until you sleep. We’ll stay awake together.”
The artists on the second floor were having another party. A woman was shouting over the music. I knew it, she said. I knew it all along. Something broke, glass shattered, and people clapped and laughed. He met them sometimes on the stairs, his neighbors, and they never said hello. He was invisible to them. He was just another pale guy in a suit. They wore their youth like armor.
He rolled onto his back, but he didn’t let go of her hand. They’d gone to the badlands once together. In her peacock blue Chevy Cavalier. They took the trip right after she’d finished nursing school. He’d dropped out of law school and was waiting for the next thing, and it was the last time they’d both be free. He didn’t know it then, of course. Back then he didn’t know much except that he loved her. Ten days driving the desert up through Nevada and Utah and back into Colorado. They stopped at the Green River and looked at the dinosaur bones. At night they rolled the windows down and opened up the sunroof. There were no lights anywhere, no cars and no people and nothing outside but rocks and the wheeling stars.
Her breathing was deep and steady, but she was still squeezing his hand. She was telling him she was awake. He squeezed it back. The rocks had looked like shipwrecks in places. It hurt to look at the sky. They’d stood together by the bank and watched that slow green water. He’d wanted to buy a canoe right then and follow where it went. Even now he felt its pull.
The party downstairs was winding down. The music stopped midsong, and the door opened and closed and opened again. The guests were laughing as they went down the stairs. They talked in loud drunken voices. He should have told her. She shouldn’t have to hear things from his mother. He squeezed her hand again. He closed his eyes and waited.
Wrecking Ball
First he drilled out the top of the cartridge. It was one of the empties from his dad’s old BB gun. He opened up the shotgun shells next and gathered up their powder. His friend Bean had given him four shells. Bean who was scared to hold a gun even though his daddy was a soldier. He tamped the powder into the cartridge and dropped the BB in. Bean leaned in close to watch. Let me clamp it, Bean was saying. I know how to do it, Mason. I know it well as you. He crowded in beside the vice, but Mason ignored him because he didn’t have a gentle touch with the metal. It needed only a little bend, just enough to keep the BB in once the powder had ignited.
Bean took the cartridge when Mason was done. He had the match heads ready. He stuffed them down the canister’s neck, working them in tight. He stuck his tongue out the way he did when he was taking a test. Mason stepped back and let him work. The fuse was easy. Not even Bean could mess it up. Bean tore the filter off one of the Marlboros that lay on the workbench. He stuck the cigarette in the hole so the tobacco touched the match heads.
It was dark outside though it wasn’t even five. Dark as January and just about as cold. People stayed inside this time of year. They sat on their sofas and watched their shows, and their living room windows glowed blue. Mason went first, and Bean followed in his yellow parka. Idiot, Mason said. Take it off and leave it. Wearing colors instead of black. What good were those grades Bean got, what good all his science experiments, if he had no sense when it mattered. Mason pointed at the parka, and Bean took it off and went outside in his camo shirt.
They walked along the street, their heads low because the wind was blowing. “My fingers are stiff already,” Bean was saying. “I need to go to Miami. I’m gonna go to South Beach and look at the Brazilian girls.”
“Miami, Ohio maybe.” Mason held the canister against his parka. He cradled it in his hand. “Next year you’ll be at Loaf ’n Jug if you’re lucky. You’ll be wiping down the windows for those Seventh-day Adventists.”
Bean laughed at that. He knew his shortcomings, even Mason had to agree. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid. They came up to old Foster’s metal mailbox. It was the nicest mailbox on the street. It had two wooden blue jays perched on top and lilac branches painted down the sides. It was like everything else at the Foster house. Immaculate and a little fussy.
Mason gave the canister to Bean, who held it like a chalice. Mason took a breath and looked along the street to make sure nobody was turning at the corner. His hand shook when he flicked the lighter. Bean started fidgeting. He was shivering from the wind. “Hold still,” Mason said. “Quit your shaking before I burn you by mistake,” but his hands shook a little, too.
They tried to act casual once the bomb was inside. They tried to move slowly, but they ended up running anyway. They ran, the both of them, they ran with their arms pumping, and they slipped along the ice where old Mrs. Fieberling always forgot to shovel. Who knew skinny Bean could move like that. He was fast as Mason who could have been on track, that’s what the coach said. If only you’d apply yourself. They reached Bean’s old Camry at the same time and knelt down against the tires. Mason closed his eyes. He covered his mouth and waited. The air was so cold it burnt going down. So cold he felt his nose hairs freeze, and he was just where he wanted to be.
The cigarette was burning in the mailbox. That perfect orange circle was coming closer to the hole. The cigarette would light the match heads, and the powder would ignite. All that pressure inside and nowhere to go. Nowhere because the neck was bent and the BB was blocking the way. His hands were numb, and he rubbed them together. He cracked his knuckles in turn. This was only the beginning. He’d find a bigger canister. He’d get more shells and empty out the powder.
Twelve minutes in and Bean shook him by the shoulder. “It should have gone by now.” He pointed to his watch. His voice went up high as a girl’s.
&n
bsp; “Maybe it’s taking a little longer. Maybe it’s the cold.”
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Bean said. “I knew we’d mess this up.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. He was talking about how it was a crime to mess with mailboxes. It was a federal offense.
“That’s for U.S. mailboxes, imbecile. Not Foster’s painted birds.”
Bean stood up. “I’m going to get it. I’ll take it out before anybody sees.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Mason grabbed Bean by the elbow.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Bean said again. He shook himself free and stepped away from the car.
Bean walked slowly this time. He didn’t listen when Mason called. He walked instead like it was summertime, and he latched his thumbs in his front jean pockets. His arms were skinny as knitting needles. They looked almost blue in the light. He went past Mrs. Fieberling’s house, and Mason stood up to watch. The streetlights were coming on, first on Pikes Peak Avenue and then along the side streets. They shone over the snowbanks and the cars. Bean stopped just before the Foster house. He wasn’t twenty feet from the box. The wind had stopped blowing and the stars were out, and Mason felt it before it happened. He felt it through the stillness and the beating of his heart. The flame was coming to the powder. It was quiet in the street. Peaceful how it must have been right before the stars were born. He held his arms out the way conductors do. All the windows shook in the houses as if responding to his signal. They rattled in their aluminum frames, and a smoke ball rose over the mailbox. It made a perfect mushroom cloud.
Bean went to his knees like somebody who saw Jesus. He covered both his ears. Mason stayed where he was, and things moved slowly around him. Those painted birds flew over the street. They were bent at strange angles. The mailbox looked like a porcupine from all the metal pieces that had blasted their way out. It leaned over on its base, and Foster was opening his front door. He was wearing a plaid bathrobe and his mouth was open wide, but Mason didn’t care. He saw only how beautiful things were. How the smoke drifted upward, how it was white against the sky and it wasn’t even done yet and he was thinking about the next one. He’d use a bigger cartridge. He’d find some sprinkler pipe.
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