He sighs. His eyes have become moist and his breathing rattles. “That should have been enough. That should have been it, Mr. Brubaker.” He taps the bald part of his head. “Any sane person would have moved out of there after his wife died. But I wasn’t sane. I was a man of God, Mr. Brubaker. Men of God are not sane. So we stayed, Jeffrey and me, in our little house near the 99th Street School. We read from Job: The Lord blessed the latter part of Job’s life more than the first. He had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand donkeys. All that stuff, you know. It helped. He was going to start kindergarten in the fall. But they diagnosed him that summer and I had to keep him out.”
He buries his face into the crook of his arm for a moment. But when he raises his head, I don’t see tears. His face is tight and angry. “Of course I prayed even harder then. Prayed that God would make him better again. Prayed that God would take the cancer out of him and put it into me. And the sicker he got, the more we both believed. He died November 12th, 1980. And I didn’t know until then that it was all bullshit.”
We sit in silence. I wonder if the others are awake listening to this.
“The Tamzene, her design for the hemp burning system, the design of the boat, was all just notes then, an idea Lydia had been scribbling on napkins and the backs of old bank statements. I found it in the garage in a box of her old stuff. The first thing I found was a picture she’d drawn. A picture of this.” He put his palm on the hemp cooker. “It took me years to piece it all together. For every equation I found written on the back of an old receipt, I found I had another book to read—high school chemistry books, then books on thermal dynamics and finite math, and then really obscure complicated stuff sometimes written in Arabic that I had to translate. Then the image began to take shape. The boat. Lydia’s boat.”
“You’re a man of science now,” I say with conviction.
Seabrook nods. “I resigned the day after Jeffrey died. Burnt all of my books, Bibles, robes, crosses, and all the other paraphernalia in a big bonfire in the front yard. Abandoned the house. Hitchhiked out of town. They probably don’t know to this day what happened to me. I took a bus back to my parents’ in Indiana. I’ve devoted myself this past thirty years to finishing Lydia’s work. So I guess I am a man of science now. She was right and I was wrong, you see. God couldn’t save her. There is no God. People say there’s a God because it absolves them of making their own decisions. Because they don’t believe in themselves, they have to believe in something. There’s no basis for it. I was too stupid to realize this before it was too late. Remember that, Mr. Brubaker. The Tamzene is a testament to that.”
He raps on the cooker and it echoes because it’s empty. “When we get to California, with your dad’s help, we’ll prove she was right all along.”
“But you still carry that crucifix.”
He looks at it and frowns. “It was hers. I just . . .”
We sit silently for a while.
“So I guess that’s why you were so wigged out about the Birmingham Kid, then,” I say.
He’s still looking at the crucifix. “No,” he says.
“Well, then what was up back there?”
“I was losing my mind, Mr. Brubaker,” he says. “I’m all right now.” Again he looks at the river. “Thirty years,” he breathes. “Thirty years and you still scratch at it like an amputee at a lost leg in the middle of the night. I was losing my mind because when I was in the hold there I actually did it again. I was at the end of my rope.”
“Did what?”
“Prayed,” he says hollowly.
PART FOUR
Megapixels
“America is addicted to wars of distraction.”
—Barbara Ehrenreich
CHAPTER NINETEEN
murder of crows
The murder of crows wanted to attack the white boats.
Three white boats in a row were anchored at the edge the lake where the crows lived. Men whose uniforms matched the color of the crows’ feathers climbed around the boats’ decks.
The white boats had been killing the crows. They took liquid from the ground and ate it. It came back up again in poisonous burps that billowed into clouds over the cities. Many crows died. Many young crows died in childbirth.
Crows are great listeners. They hide in branches, silence their cawing, and become shadows. They gather secrets into their great wings and fly over the cities, ominous as smoke.
This murder of crows had heard the stories: upriver, elsewhere, animals had begun attacking men.
Crows had never been ones to take orders. But a thought had occurred to them. It came uniformly in a way thoughts seldom come to crows.
Don’t attack, the thought seemed to say. Listen.
So the murder of crows became shadows in the trees over the white boats and listened to their secrets.
Soon some of the men in black cut through the trees. Another man, not in black, was with them. The men in black dragged the other man along.
They made their prisoner sit on the deck of one of the boats. A man in black stood over him, menacing him with a gun.
They stayed that way for a long time, not saying anything. Finally another man in black emerged onto the deck.
“What is it you call yourself again, Mr. Bowden?” the man who’d emerged said. He carried a stack of tree skins.
“I call myself Charlie Lee,” Bowden said. “Folks give me my nickname. Folks who appreciate the things I do in the name of the Lord.”
“And that is?”
“They call me the Birmingham Kid.”
The man paged through his stack of tree skins. “Religious zealotry. Explosives expert. Hatred of shellfish. Interesting. What were you doing there, Mr. Bowden?”
“I was looking for somebody.”
“Awful long way for you to come looking for a seafood restaurant.”
The sitting man twisted his head from side to side. “Nope.”
“No need to lie, Mr. Bowden. You’re among friends here.”
“I take pride in what I do, boy. I was looking for a boat.”
“What boat?”
“Funny lookin’ thing. Sets up on wheels that can drive over dry land. Jimmy Carter is the figurehead. Run by a bald limey, an Injun, and three youngins.”
“The Tamzene?”
“That’s the one. Them that’s on it is the most sinful pack of so-and-sos I ever did run across. And I must atone for my sins with the Steak Shack in Crofton, Kentucky. They’re gonna be smote to pay for my sins.”
“You were aboard the Tamzene?”
“O-o-oh. Y’all were looking for it too? I knew the police must’ve been after them. They had a man shot and weren’t taking him to no doctor—and not because modern medicine is a sin, neither. Yessir, I been aboard the Tamzene. Been tracking her downriver. And when I catch her, I’m gonna blow her to smithereens in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord.”
“Do you know where they’re headed?”
“They’re headed in the direction this boat’s going in,” Bowden said. “I sure as shootin’ talked to them. I thought they were a Christian lot because they took me on board, and one of the young ones looked like he might be a member of the Holy Warriors of Jesus Church since he was carrying the patch with the cat face on it.”
The man in black made a motion the crows couldn’t see. “This one?”
“That’s the one.”
“Says here you were a member of the Holy Warriors of Jesus Church. Church of the Reverend Harlan Spikes?”
“Harlan Spikes,” Bowden said. “Wonderful God-fearing man. He’s the one who taught me and the rest of them about how your body can be a vessel for God’s will. Eric Rudolph was his star pupil. We all aspire to—”
“What happened aboard the Tamzene?”
“Why, they’re nothing but sinners there. Bunch of shellfish eaters. I done tried to do the Lord’s work, and they stopped me. Took my bombs. Thought they got the best of me. But the Lord
will smite them yet. By my hands too.”
“You say somebody aboard the Tamzene had one of these?”
“Yessir. A boy. Winthorpe. I thought that . . .”
Another man in black appeared on deck. He whispered something to the other man.
“Give us a minute, will you, Mr. Bowden?”
Both men disappeared into the cabin.
Minutes passed. The crows waited, silent as shadows.
Both men stepped outside the door and stood next to the cabin. One waved his hands rapidly.
“. . . can’t in good conscience,” he said. “I’m mean, but Christ, the guy’s a fucking psychopath.”
“But high functioning, right?”
“You mean to say you agree with this horseshit?”
Neither man said anything for a long time.
“He’s one of Harlan Spikes’ boys. A guerilla fighter.”
“He’s a psycho.”
“Orders are orders.”
One man in black let out a long sigh. Both men stood in front of Bowden.
“Charlie Lee Bowden,” he said, “our orders are to take you to the nearest town and procure for you the best small boat money can buy. We’re going to outfit you with as much plastique as said boat can carry. Then you’re going to find the Tamzene. And . . . I’ve got a personal message for you from Rev. Spikes.”
Bowden blinks. “You do?”
“Keep up the good work. The Lord will reserve for you a special seat at the supper of the lamb.”
Bowden’s face breaks into a smile. “Well, I’ll be,” he says. “I certainly will be.”
noise
An explosion awakens me.
The sky is still grayish pink. The loud snap echoes and wigs out the birds. They swarm out of the trees.
The forest is a canopy over the boat. Through the branches I can make out a few houses on shore. Is it the Green Police or Charlie Lee shooting at us? When I search the deck I see Kang and Seabrook on their knees, peering over the gunwales.
A rattling noise follows the bang. The trees roar, and the sky is suddenly filled with birds.
A man appears next to one of the houses. He rattles the inside of a pot with a ladle, and each time it clanks, birds scatter.
“What’s he doing?” I ask Seabrook.
The Reverend Doctor is pale, his eyes blazing red. He leans against the side and rubs his temples. “I don’t know. Scaring the birds, it looks like.”
“Why are there so many of them?”
He looks skyward, but keeps both palms planted on his temples. “They look like grackles,” he says.
“Where are we now, Doctor?” I ask.
“Missouri,” he says. “But I’m not exactly sure where. My GPS locator doesn’t seem to be getting a signal here. I think it’s safe to go ask the gentleman where we are, Mr. Brubaker.”
Arthur and Esmerelda are sleeping in the aft end. The two of them have been whispering and giggling lately. I’m right back where I was at Primrose, people. Arthur’s the one she likes. Why does Arthur get all the chances to be cool, saving her life and everything?
So I make it a solo mission. I wade through the shallow river, which comes up to about my waist. When I’m about halfway through, another firecracker goes off and I fall in, soaking myself.
“Hey, you all right there?” yells the man from the shore. He’s an old-timer with gray hair. He lets the pot and ladle slip from his hands.
I sputter and drag myself through the water the rest of the way toward shore.
“Sorry,” the man says. “I didn’t see you.” He looks up. Birds are zooming everywhere, and the trees are still cheering. They look like pepper flowing through milk.
“Damn birds,” the man says. “They make a god-awful mess. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Why are there so many?”
He shrugs. “I read something about it in the newspaper. Weather is haywire this year. Usually they fly further south this time of year, but it’s so warm here. Seems to get warmer all the time. They roost in the trees and sh”—he glances at me—“poop all over everything. That’s why I got my boy out front with the firecrackers. And I bang these pots and pans. Beats cleaning bird poop.”
While he talks the birds settle down. He bends, picks up the pot and ladle, and starts banging away again.
“What’s the nearest town?” I yell.
“What did you say?” he shouts back.
“The nearest town!”
He stops clanging. The birds are mad loud. He tells me that if I follow the river about twenty miles or so, I’ll reach the town of Blysse.
“But don’t . . .” Another firecracker goes off in the front yard, so I miss what he says. I thank him and go back to the boat.
* * *
Back home the Paste Eaters are the most dependable guys I know. They’re constant: other than a handful of righteous bands, movies, and video games, everyone and everything is weak, rank or, as Burton Trotsky says, Dickensian. Pep rally bonfires? Gay. Good grades in school? Lame. Dating a hot cheerleader? Please, dude.
Above all, one Paste Eater would never betray another—certainly not over a girl. Not that there ever was a girl, but I always assumed . . .
Arthur is no Paste Eater. He and Esmerelda stay in the back corner of the boat as we start heading downriver again. They lean against the back of the boat, Arthur scratching things on his pad, and Esmerelda giggling. When I come near, they both clam up. It makes me sick.
Beneath the humming from the hemp cooker is a new noise: a clattering sound. The giant pistons jut back and forth as always, thrusting the boat along, but now they’re sputtering and steam is rising from them.
Seabrook looks at the engine and clicks his tongue. He holds a thermometer against the cooker, reads it, and shakes his head.
“They won’t hold,” he mutters.
The CB radio buzzes softly: “Human beings are the primary species on this planet. Animals and everything else are subspecies whose position is subordinate to that of humans.”10
Even though it’s spazzing, the hemp cooker still needs to be refilled. And who does that? Yourstruly, of course. I march up and down the steps all by myself while Arthur and the chick sit back there and canoodle. Seabrook and Kang aren’t talking much either, so neither of them tell the lovebirds to give me a hand.
“Mute Betrayer” is the name of the first song I compose that morning, and at its center is this searing guitar solo that would literally make concert-goers’ ears burst into flames. Then I write an acoustic ballad called “Shrub Girl Gone” that gives me the misties. The Vienna Boys Choir is just starting its accompaniment on the refrain when Arthur appears at the top of the retractable stairway, grinning like the cat from Alice in Wonderland.
“What’s your deal?” I say, passing him and dumping a bag into the hemp cooker.
When I return to the staircase, he’s still standing there, same stupid grin wiped all over his face. He holds out his pad for me to take: Need a little help?! A curved line under the punctuation makes a smiley face.
I shove the pad back at him and go down into the hold. I say, “What’s the point? It’s almost done now. Where were you five minutes ago?”
I grab another bag of hemp off the pile, and when I turn, Arthur is there. He’s still smiling, but it’s eroded a little around the edges, and his eyes look somewhat concerned. Again he holds the pad out for me.
I sigh and throw the bag to the ground. “I’m never going to get done if I have to stop to read shit all the time. Rain Man was less of a hassle than you.”
I read: I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could bring Esmerelda along with us to the Grizzlies show. She’s pretty street-smart, and there’s safety in numbers after all.
The words swim on the page. Just the day before, I squirted tears of frigging happiness that he’d survived a gunshot. Now I’m all alone again.
“I’ve planned this in great detail, Arthur. And now just because you got yourself a bitch, you’re go
ing to fuck the whole thing up.”
He frowns at me.
“Look, I don’t need this, Arthur. She’s not even a Grizzlies disciple, man. She dissed the Greatest Band on Earth, and if we’re going to this thing together then I want us to be pure. It was supposed to be just you and me, but hey, if that ho is more important to you than us Grizz-heads, suit yourself.”
I don’t wait for him to react. I stoop, pick up the sack of hemp, and start up the stairs. My eyes water as I tear open the bag and dump it into the cooker.
It isn’t like he’s doing anything wrong, people. I know that. Arthur isn’t a bad dude. I’m being a prick—because, well, the hottie wants him and not me. I’ve been working my ass off to get her to notice me. Like all chicks, she has not yet developed a palate discerning enough for the taste of Winthrop. But that’s not Arthur’s fault.
I decide to find Arthur and talk with him—not to apologize exactly, but Arthur held out an olive branch, and I’ll be big enough to take it.
But then I hear him giggling again and I change my mind. Artherelda is back in the corner again, all draped over one another. Arthur is flushed pinker than the Pink Power Ranger. I figure they’re laughing at me, so now I’m really burning.
I sweep the deck. When I get up close, I shove a great big cloud of dust all over them.
Esmerelda stands, coughing. She dusts off her AC/DC T-shirt. Arthur glares at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe if I didn’t have to do all the work around here myself I might not make so many mistakes.”
“Like, what the hell, stubby?” Esmerelda growls. “You’ve been stomping around here like a goon since this morning. What’s bunching your thong?”
“Nothing’s wrong at all, Esmerelda. It might be better form if you two got a room, is all.”
Her mouth falls open and her eyes smolder. Then she smiles and clicks her tongue. She looks to be about thirty years old just now, and it makes me uneasy. I move away.
She follows me. “Winthrop, like, what’s your problem, man?”
I keep sweeping. “I don’t have problem. I just don’t like the idea of you tagging along to the Grizzlies show when just a little while ago you were dissing them.”
We Are All Crew Page 19