“I don’t even know what we use this for,” he said. “There’s a lot of it in the last warehouse. I’ve been taking an inventory personally, to check on pilferage of materials, small tools, and so on. That’s where I kept Harry, in that warehouse. This piece just happens to have perfect weight and balance. I picked it up by accident the first time. After that, every time I picked it up, old Harry would start rolling his eyes like a horse in the bullring.”
He bent suddenly and took a quick swing, very wristy, and hit Meyer on the back of the right leg, just above the knee. It made an impact sound halfway between smack and thud. Meyer bucked his heavy frame completely off the floor and roared.
“See?” Paul said. “Heavier stock would crush bone and tissue, and lighter stuff would merely sting. I experimented with Harry and went a little too far. I whacked him across his big belly once too often and possibly ruptured something in there, God knows what. For a time neither of us thought he could walk into the bank for the money.”
“I’ll trade Meyer for all you want to know about the letter.”
He looked at me owlishly. “All of Meyer? Alive and free? That’s naive, you know. Meyer is dead, and you are dead. There’s no choice now. I could trade you, say, the last fifteen minutes of Meyer’s life for information about the letter. He would approve a deal like that when the time comes. But what would be the point? I’m not that interested in your letter, really. I learned a little bit from Mary and more from Lisa and a little more from Harry. Now I can check what I learned and learn a little more. Why should I deprive myself?”
“Why indeed?” Meyer said in a husky voice.
“I like you both,” Paul said. “I really do. That’s part of it, of course. Remember, Travis, how Lisa became … just a thing, an object? It moved and made sounds, but Lisa was gone. I made the same mistake with Harry but not until the very end. The problem is to keep the person’s actual identity and awareness functioning right to the end. Now we have to get Meyer out of here. Get up and go bring that hand truck, Travis, please.”
I got the truck, and at Paul’s request I bent and clumsily wedged and tugged and lifted my old friend onto the bed of the truck. Meyer ended up on his right side. He squinted up at me and said, “I have this terrible pun I can’t seem to get out of my head, like one of those songs you can’t get rid of. Let’s hope his craft is ebbing.”
“How is your leg?” I asked him.
“Relatively shapely, I think, but considered too hairy by some.”
“Are you trying to be amusing?” Paul asked.
Meyer said in his public speaking voice, “We often notice in clinical studies that sado-sociopathic faggots have a very limited sense of humor.”
Dissat moved to the side of the truck, took aim, and clubbed Meyer right on the point of the shoulder, and said, “Make more jokes, please.”
Meyer, having exhaled explosively through clenched teeth, said, “I hope I didn’t give the wrong impression, Dissat.”
“Are you frightened, Meyer?” Paul asked politely.
“I have a lump of ice in my belly you wouldn’t believe,” Meyer said.
Instructed by Paul, I rolled the hand truck along the warehouse flooring, turned it, and backed laboriously up a ramp, pulling it up. He unlatched a big metal door with overhead wheels and rolled it aside. The white sunlight had turned yellowish outside as the world moved toward evening, but it was still bright enough to sting the eyes. I wheeled the truck along the loading dock and down a steeper ramp where it almost got away from me.
I pushed the truck along the concrete roadway, the steel wheels grating and clinking. I became aware that with each stride I could feel less resistance to bending in the wire joining my ankles, and I was afraid it would snap before I wanted it to. I took shorter steps and changed my stride, feet wider apart to put less strain on the wire. We went through the big gates in the fence and over toward the asphalt plant. Dissat told me to stop. He put a foot against Meyer’s back and rolled him off the hand truck. We were in a truck loading area with a big overhead hopper. The concrete was scabbed thick, black, and uneven with dried spills of asphalt tar. Paul motioned me away from the hand truck and pushed it back out of the way. Above us was the hopper and a square, bulky tank that stood high on girder legs.
“Do you see that great big wad of wasted asphalt over there, Travis? Meyer is facing the wrong way to see it. Vandalism is always a problem. Last Thursday night some hippies apparently came over from the beach, and for no reason at all they dropped at least two tons out of the holding tank. That’s the big, square tank overhead. It’s insulated. Just before the shift ends, they run what’s left in the plant into the holding tank. It’s hot enough to stay liquid all night in this climate, and in the morning while the plant is being fired up and loaded, the trucks draw from the holding tank. But last Friday morning they couldn’t drive the trucks under the hopper until they got a small bulldozer over here to blade that solidified hunk of warm asphalt away from where I’m standing. It’s all cooled now, of course. And our old friend, Harry Broll, is curled right in the middle of that black wad, snug as nutmeat in the shell.”
I remembered being taken on a hunt when I was a child and how my uncle had packed partridge in clay and put the crude balls into the hot coals until they baked hard. When he had cracked them open, the feathers and skin had stuck to the clay, leaving the steaming meat. Acid came up into my throat and stayed, then went slowly back down.
I swallowed and said, “And the patrol checks here tonight and finds more vandalism?”
“You belabor the obvious, McGee. They’ll have to blade your hydrocarbon tomb, big enough for two, over next to Harry’s. It’s hotter now, of course, in the holding tank than it will be by morning.” He moved over to the side. “This is the lever the foreman uses. It’s a manual system. If I move it to the side …”
He swung the lever over and pulled it back at once. A black glob about the size of your average Thanksgiving turkey came down the chute, banged the hanging baffle plate open, and fell—swopp—onto the stained concrete, making an ugly black pancake about four feet across, very thin at the perimeter, humped thick in the middle. A couple of dangling black strings fell into the pancake from overhead. A tendril of blue smoke arose from the pancake. Meyer made a very weary sound. Pain, anger, resignation. The pancake had formed too close to him, splattering a hot black thread across his chin, cheek, and ear. In the silence I heard the faraway flute call of a meadowlark and then the thunder rumble of a jet. I smelled that sweet, thick, childhood scent of hot tar.
When Meyer spoke, his voice was so controlled it revealed how close he was to breaking. “I can certify. It comes out hot.”
“Hardly any aggregate in it,” Paul said. “It cools and hardens quickly. Travis, please turn Meyer around and put his feet in the middle of that circular spill, will you?”
I do not know what started the changes that were going on inside me. They had started before the meadowlark, but they seemed related somehow to the meadowlark. You used to be able to drive through Texas, and there would be meadowlarks so thick along the way, perched singing on so many fenceposts, that at times you could drive through the constant sound of them like sweet and molten silver. Now the land has been silenced. The larks eat bugs, feed bugs to nestlings. The bugs are gone, and the meadowlarks are gone, and the world is strange, becoming more strange, a world spawning Paul Dissats instead of larks.
So somehow there is less risk, because losing such a world means losing less. I knew my head was still bad. It was like a car engine that badly needs tuning. Tromp the gas and it chokes, falters, and dies. It has to be babied up to speed. I had a remote curiosity about how my head would work with enough stress going on. Curiosity was changing to an odd prickling pleasure that seemed to grow high and hot, building and bulging itself up out of the belly into the shoulders and neck and chest.
I knew that feeling. I had almost forgotten it. It had happened before, but only when I had turned the last card
and knew the hand was lost, the game was lost, the lights were fading. I had been working my wrists steadily within the small slack I had given myself, bending a tiny piece of connecting wire back and forth, and the bending was suddenly easier as the wire began to part.
The hard, anticipatory joy comes not from thinking there is any real chance but from knowing you can use it all without really giving that final damn about winning or losing. By happenstance, he’d made a bad choice of wire. And maybe the twisted child was so eager to squash his mice, he might give one of them a chance to bite him.
The wrist wire broke as I put my hands on Meyer to move him. “Can you roll?” I asked in a voice too low for Paul to hear. Meyer nodded. “Roll on signal, to your left, fast and far.”
“What are you saying!” Paul Dissat demanded. “Don’t you dare say things I can’t hear!”
“Careful, darling,” I told him. “You’re going into a towering snit. Let’s not have any girlish tantrums.”
He quieted immediately. He picked up his chunk of aluminum. “That won’t do you any good, and it isn’t very bright of you to even try it. You disappoint me when you misjudge me. You take some of the pleasure out of being with you again.” I looked beyond him and then looked back at him very quickly. I couldn’t be obvious about it.
The instant he turned I broke the ankle wire with the first swinging stride. He heard me and spun back, but by the time he raised the aluminum club, I was inside the arc of it. I yelled to Meyer to roll clear.
My head went partly bad. I knew I had turned him back into a kind of corner where the girder legs of the holding tank were cross-braced. I was in gray murk, expending huge efforts. It was a stage. Somebody was working the strings of the big doll, making it bounce and flap. At times its doll chin bounced on my shoulder. It flailed and flapped its sawdust arms. I stood flatfooted, knees slightly bent, swaying from left to right and back with the cadence of effort, getting calves, thighs, rump, back, and shoulder into each hook, trying to power the fist through the sawdust and into the gristle and membrane beyond.
Pretty doll with the graceful, powerful, hairless legs, with the long lashes, red mouth, and hero profile. Sawdust creaked out of its throat, and Raggedy Andy shoebutton eyes swung loose on the slackening threads.
Soon a blow would burst it, and it would die as only a doll can die, in torn fabric and disrepair. I had never killed a doll-thing with my hands before.
Somebody was shouting my name. There was urgency in the voice. I slowed and stopped, and the gray lifted the way a steamed windshield clears when the defroster is turned on. I backed away and saw Paul Dissat slumped against a crossbrace, one arm hooked over it. There was not a mark on his face.
I backed away. I imagine that what happened next happened because he did not realize what punishment to the body will do to the legs. He was conscious. I imagine that from belly to heart he felt as if he had been twisted in half.
The shapely, powerful legs with their long muscle structure had carried him through the slalom gates down the long tricky slopes. They had kept their spring and bounce through the long sets of tennis. So perhaps he believed that all he had to do was force himself up onto those legs and run away on them.
He tried.
When his weight came onto them, they went slack and rubbery. He fought for balance. He was like a drunk in a comedy routine. He flailed with both arms, and his left arm hit the load lever, and he staggered helplessly toward the thick, gouting torrent of asphalt from the overhead hopper. He tried to claw and fight back away from it, screaming as I once heard a horse scream, yet with an upward sliding note that went out of audible range, like a dog whistle. But it entrapped, ensnared those superb and nearly useless legs and brought him down in sticky agony. I ran to try to grab him, yank him out of that black, smoking jelly but got a steaming smear of it across the back of my hand and forearm. I turned then and did what I should have done in the first place, went for the lever and swung it back to the closed position. The last sight I had before I turned, was of Dissat buried halfway up his rib cage, hands braced against the concrete slab, elbows locked, head up, eyes half out of the sockets, mouth agape, cords standing out in his throat, as the black stuff piled higher behind him, higher than his head.
I yanked the lever back and spun, and he was gone. A part of the blackness seemed to bulge slightly and sag back. The last strings of it solidified and fell. It was heaped as high as my waist and as big as a grand piano.
I remembered Meyer and looked over and saw him. He had wiggled into a sitting position, his back against a girder. I took a staggering step and caught myself.
“Pliers,” Meyer said. “Hang on, Travis. For God’s sake, hang on.”
Pliers. I knew there wasn’t time for pliers. The gray was coming in from every side, misting the windshield as before. I found my way toward him, fell, then crawled, and reached his wrists. I bent the wire, turning it, freeing it. I saw a sharp end bite into the ball of my thumb, saw blood run, felt nothing. Just one more turn and then he could …
Twenty-three
I was not entirely asleep and not yet awake, and I could not remember ever having been so completely, perfectly, deliciously relaxed. The girl voices brought me further across the line into being awake.
Rupe had said how very sweet their voices were, how touching, how heartbreaking, aboard the Belle. Their harmony was simple, their voices true and small.
“What a friend we have in Jeeeeee-zusss. All our sins and griefs to baaaaaaaare.”
I wondered why the extraordinary crew of the Hell’s Belle should select a number like that. Yet there was the tidy warmth of Teddie’s thigh under the nape of my neck, a sweet, firm fit. Fabric over the thigh. I opened my eyes, and it was night. Light came slanting and touched the girl faces, touching their long, hanging hair. I realized I was on a blanket, and there was the unmistakable feel and consistency of dry sand under the blanket. Teddie’s face was in shadow. I lifted a lazy, contented arm and put my hand over the young breast under thin fabric so close above my face. It had a sweet, rubbery firmness.
She took my wrist and pushed my hand down and said, “No, brother.” They had stopped singing the words of the song. They were humming the melody. “He has awakened,” the girl said. It was not Teddie’s voice. They stopped singing.
A man’s voice said, “How do you feel, brother?”
I raised my head. There were five or six of them in a glow of firelight. Bearded, biblical men wrapped in coarse cloth. I had been hurled out of my historical time and my place.
I sat up too quickly. I felt faint and bent forward to lower my head down between my knees.
A hand touched my shoulder. Meyer said, “I was trying to get you to a doctor and ran off into the sand. This one here is their healer, and he—”
“I was a third year medical student when I heard the call. I’m the healer for the tribe on this pilgrimage mission.”
I straightened and looked into a young bearded face. He nodded and took my pulse and nodded again. “We got that tar off your arm and hand with a solvent, brother, and treated your burn and dressed it.”
My arm was wrapped with gauze. There was a bandage on my thumb. I turned my head and saw the beach buggies and several campers. A baby was crying in one of the campers.
I lay back very carefully. The thigh was there, cozy as before. The face leaned over me and looked down. “I will comfort you, brother, but no more grabbing me, huh?”
“No more, sister. I thought I was somewhere else with someone else. A … different group of girls.”
“On a pilgrimage, too?”
“In a certain sense of the word, yes.”
“There is only one sense, brother, when you give your heart and your soul and your worldly goods and all the days of your years to the service of almighty God.”
“Did your … healer put vinegar on my burns?”
She giggled. “That’s me you smell, brother. Blessed providence sent you and your friend to us this after
noon before I flipped right out of my tree. If it isn’t sacrilege, my sisters and I are enjoying a peace that passeth understanding ever since.”
I tried sitting up again, and there was no dizziness. One of the sisters brought me a cup of hot clam broth. She wore a garment like an aba, made out of some kind of homespun. She too smelled of vinegar. There was a crude cross around her neck with green stones worked into it. The automatic slide projector in my head showed me a slide entitled “The Last Known Sight of Paul Dissat in This World.” A small gold cross hung free around his straining throat.
After I drank the broth, I tried standing, and it worked reasonably well. They were not paying any special attention to me or to Meyer. We were welcome to be with them. Feel free to ignore and be ignored. Listen to the sweet singing, taste the broth, and praise the Lord.
I found the vinegar girl and gave her back her cup with thanks. Meyer and I moved away from the fire and from the lights in the campers.
“I panicked,” Meyer said. “I got the rest of the wire off me and threw you in the damned car and drove like a maniac.”
“Where is the car?”
“Up there on the shoulder. It was in deep. They pulled it out with a beach buggy.”
“What about that limousine?”
“Good question. Joshua and I went back in there on his trail bike. The keys to it were on the desk in the office. We put the trail bike into the trunk. I locked everything in sight, and we were out of there before seven thirty. I took the long way around, and we left it at the West Palm airport, keys in the ashtray. Call it a Dissat solution. By the way, I made a contribution to the pilgrimage mission collection plate in both our names.”
“That’s nice.”
“One of the wrapped stacks of hundreds from the Southern National. Initialed. Unbroken. There were four stacks in a brown paper bag on the desk in the warehouse office.”
A Tan and Sandy Silence Page 24