Laughing Man

by Wright, T. M.

  "What's that!" Erthmun demanded. "Did you say something to me?"

  Marty shook his head a little. He did not want to annoy this man. Marty had seen him move at a speed at which no man should be able to move. He thought, upon awed reflection, that the man had even become invisible for a moment because he was moving so fast.

  "Do you know this?" Erthmun snarled. "Do you know this?"

  Again, Marty shook his head a little.

  "Do you know this?" Erthmun repeated, and Marty got the fleeting impression that Erthmun had no idea that he was asking a question, that the words were simply an echo. Marty shook his head again. Another dollop of drool fell to his neck; he tried to ignore it.

  Erthmun said, "I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill you." Short pause. "But maybe I need to!"

  "You don't!" Marty whispered.

  "Maybe I do! How do you know what I have to do? How do you know what I'm compelled to do? You don't know me. Who knows me? You don't!"

  Marty said nothing.

  Erthmun cocked the gun. "Maybe I do want to kill you! Maybe there's no maybe at all about anything I do. I do what I do because I feel good when I do it. And so I do what I do to feel good, because it's part of being alive. Feeling good is part of being alive. I feel good. You feel good. We do what we do and we feel good. That makes sense. Doesn't that make sense?"

  Nothing.

  "Answer me, goddamnit! Answer me!"

  "Yes," Marty whispered.

  "Do you know me? How can you know me? Who knows me?"

  Marty shook his head in terrified confusion.

  Erthmun took the gun from the man's mouth, pointed it at the ceiling, fired, fired again, again. Marty's body lurched with each shot.

  Erthmun tossed the gun far across the deli. He held his hand up, fingers wide, for Marty to see. "I don't need that," he said. "I have these!"

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Helen had finished. She was drenched in the blood of the homeless woman, whose eyes had opened in the past few minutes; the woman's husband had dimly noted this from his perch above, and, as dimly, he had ascribed it to some errant reaction of nerves. It did not occur to him for long that his wife had been alive through her own devouring. The idea was monstrous; no one could continue living in the human community, or could go on believing in an ordered and sane universe, and accept that such a thing had happened to one who is loved.

  Helen had finished, had consumed her last meal, had known her last great pleasure.

  And now she was dying.

  The homeless man did not know this. He saw her move off—with more clumsiness than the quiet grace with which she had made her appearance—into the near dark on the first floor of the brownstone. Her hip-length auburn hair was the last he saw of her. And as he stared at his disemboweled wife, the fleeting idea came to him—as a combination of abstraction and words—that surely he and his wife would never have children now, not only because she was dead, but because her ovaries and uterus had been ingested by the naked woman, and that was a fact that would never change.

  And he realized this, too: He realized that he had never been hungrier.

  "My mother," Erthmun declared—he was still holding Marty bent backward over one of his stoves—"writes poetry! Isn't that civilized? What more civilized thing is there than fucking poetry?"

  "Uhn—" Marty groaned.

  "It's very bad poetry," Erthmun said. "But still it's civilized because she is civilized. My mother is a very civilized woman. And because she's civilized, so am I!"

  "Yes," Marty managed.

  "But poets can kill, and have," Erthmun declared. "Poets bring us more pain than whole armies of armed men!" Marty said nothing.

  "I'm not a poet," Erthmun said. His tone had softened. He spoke in what could almost pass for a quiet and conversational tone now, except that there was much tension in it. "I'm a cop. I investigate murder. That is what I do and it is what society expects of me, so I do it happily, and well. I get money for it, and a place to live. I write nothing, I create nothing. And I have never killed." He cocked his head, continued. "Perhaps I should begin. I think there's something very deep inside me that wants me to. It feels deprived, neglected, left out . . . of the human equation. Do you have that same feeling"—short pause—"Marty?"

  "No," said Marty.

  "I think you do. I think you may be lying."

  "No," said Marty.

  Erthmun felt the man's terror, panic, and desperation. He could see a life in it, and pain—Marty's life, and Marty's pain. It made him soften his grip on Marty's shirt collar. Marty stayed put. The terror, panic, and desperation passed. Erthmun's grip strengthened again, and he said, "You're talking to me, aren't you, my friend."

  "No," said Marty.

  "But you are. You're telling me all about yourself. You're telling me you want to live, and you're telling me about your children, you're telling me that you don't want me to hurt you, and you're telling me that you don't like pain. Shit, that's nothing new. Who likes pain?"

  "I'm not saying nothing," said Marty.

  "I can hear it, my friend. I can hear you speak."

  "No," said Marty.

  "And the big question is—am I going to listen?"

  Greta loved chocolate. Not cheap chocolate. Not mud. She loved expensive chocolate, chocolate made with pleasure. Chocolate was childhood. Childhood was life.

  And what did these people here, in this city, know of pleasure? They took no pleasure in anything, they moved about from sunset to sunset to dawn to sunset, and their weeks became years until their years were done.

  Hers were just beginning.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Summer, outside the House on Four Mile Creek

  The man asked, "Is it salvageable, do you think?" His own guess was no. The paint had long since flaked off the clapboards, the grouting had crumbled from much of the stone foundation, the chimneys were little more than stumps.

  The real estate agent was a woman who was new to the area, but she wasn't new to real estate, or to architecture and construction, and she said, "I think it is. It's a beautiful house underneath that dark patina of age."

  The man looked at her and smiled. "You're something of a poet, aren't you?"

  She blushed. She didn't know what to say. She had seen her phrase merely as a descriptive enticement, although it was true enough as well—the house was certainly salvageable. She explained, "All the windows are intact, as remarkable as that may seem. Some of them are cracked, certainly, but they can be repaired. And since the windows are intact, and the roof itself is not too far gone, then the house hasn't been victimized by the elements in the way that it might otherwise have been."

  "Even though it's been empty for how long? Thirty-five years?"

  "Thirty-five years? Yes. About that long."

  They were standing just outside the house's gray, stylized picket fence—much of it had fallen; only a few tilting sections remained—and the man said, "This is very pretty. It looks hand-built."

  The real estate agent nodded. "It is."

  "What a pity that it can't be salvaged as well." Short pause. "Could we look inside?"

  "Of course."

  PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT OF THE INITIAL INTERROGATION OF ROBERT W. GARNISH, AS CONDUCTED BY DETECTIVE PAUL MCBRIDE, OF THE 20TH PRECINCT:

  P.M.: This won't wash, and you know it, Robert. This is crap from the get-go.

  R.G.: My name's not Robert. It's Bob.

  P.M.: Okay, Bob. Your call.

  R.G.: Shit, too.

  P.M.: Yes, you're right, Bob. It's not your call. It's our call. And I'd say our call is for twenty-five to life. Shit, Bob, if it were up to me I'd feed you to the fucking bears at the fucking Central Park Zoo. That would be a fitting punishment. That would be . . . shit, that would be fucking irony, Bob. But it's not up to me, and you can thank your lucky stars for that.

  R.G.: I don't have any.

  P.M.: Any what, Bob?

  R.G.: Lucky stars.

&
nbsp; P.M.: Damn right, Bob. All the fucking stars in the sky and not a lucky one for you. You've had a fucking tough few months, haven't you, Bob? No job, no place to live, nothing to fucking eat!

  R.G.: Yeah.

  P.M.: Sure, you have. We've all had a tough time. Life's tough. Living's tough. Finding enough to fucking eat is tough, isn't it?

  R.G.: I didn't do that to her. I told you who did it, and it wasn't me.

  P.M.: Yes, you did, Bob. And the amazing thing is this: The amazing thing is—you actually expect us to fucking believe that fantasy. Naked woman, my ass!

  R.G.: It happened.

  P.M.: No, it didn't. We both know what happened. We both know what happened. So tell me, Bob—how was it? Was it finger-licking good stuff? Did it go down good? Was it nourishing, Robert? Did it contain your daily allowance of vitamins and fucking minerals?

  R.G.: Shit on you!

  P.M.: Tell me something, Bob. How do you feel about chocolate?

  Two Miles from the House on Four Mile Creek

  What had he expected? Had he expected to find her here? Had he expected to see her sitting by this stream and spooning mud into her doll's mouth? That was the past. That was thirty years ago or more. She had been a child, then, and so had he.

  He turned his head. He was in a valley, and the tall golden grasses were swaying in a soft breeze. The white noise they created was comforting, and called up memories he had long suppressed. He thought that, from this vantage point, he could see the house. But he could not. It was too far away, over the hillock. He would have to do a lot of walking and climbing if he wanted to see it.

  He looked at the little stream again. If there were ghosts, would she be sitting there, doing what she had been doing so long ago? Perhaps. If so, he did not have the power to see her.

  Why had he come back here? he wondered. The answer was obvious. He had come back because this was where he had begun his life. There was something sacred in that. Childhood itself was sacred. Adulthood wasn't. Adulthood was profane, violent and perverse. But he was trapped in it. There was no way around it. He was trapped in it, and he had to make the most of it.

  He climbed the hill that was on the opposite side of the stream, and went back to his rented car. He sat in the car for a long while and asked himself if, after driving all this way, he was really going to simply turn around and go back to his city without returning to the house he had grown up in. Yes, he realized. That was what he was going to do. The house itself meant nothing. The house was simply a dark blotch on the tall, golden grasses. It was wood, shingles, cement, stone, and memories that were not as delicious as they had once been.

  And he had work to do.

  He started the car and drove off.

  They were on the second story of the house on Four Mile Creek and the man lifted his foot and brought it down hard on the wood floor. "Solid enough," he said.

  "It is," agreed the real estate agent.

  They were near a window. It looked out—through the sad remains of a lace curtain—on hills and fields lush with golden grasses that were swaying gracefully in a playful breeze. The man stepped over to the window, parted the lace curtain, looked out at the golden grasses. "This is beautiful," he said. "Very beautiful."

  "Best place on earth," said the real estate agent. "A great place to raise kids."

  "I would say, though," noted the man, "that it's hell in winter."

  "Before the bond issue was put through," explained the real estate agent, "I would not have recommended that anyone live here in the winter. But, as you know, there is a road being built to take the place of the one we drove on to get here."

  "Uh-huh," said the man. He seemed suddenly distracted. He glanced back at her, said, "I see some dust rising at the horizon. What do you think it is?"

  She came over to the window, looked out. "It's that dirt road. When it's dry like it's been, cars can kick up a hell of a lot of dust on it."

  "Yeah," he said. "I see." He paused, continued. "And what do you think that is?" He pointed to indicate an area a hundred yards from the house.

  She looked, said, "An animal."

  "What animal?"

  "Take your pick."

  "Yes," he said. "I see now. It's a raccoon." He paused, continued. "I thought they were nocturnal."

  "Yes, well, they usually are," said the real estate agent with an odd tone of apology.

  "Then what's that one doing out in daylight?"

  The real estate agent hesitated, then said, "I should caution you about some of the wildlife."

  Book Two

  The Loon - or - The Species Returns

  Chapter One

  "Oh, there is so much to see in the country—little tiny insects, and great insects (like burying beetles, which are as large as postage stamps—even larger, some as large as the caps on Mocha Frappucino bottles), and you can see animals, too, like coyotes (which are abundant in some parts of the state), and bears (which you can see at Letchworth State Park, though mostly you hear them when you're trying to sleep in your tent or your cabin, and it scares the crap out of you; and you can see them, too, in the Adirondacks, though these are just black bears, not brown bears, which are very dangerous), and small wildcats, and wolverines, and beaver, and various kinds of ducks and geese and swans. The red-tailed hawk is quite prevalent in all of the state, and it's a noble and beautiful bird, especially when the sun catches its tail feathers and turns them a bright, screaming red (hence the name).

  "In the countryside, death happens as easily as rain. If you look closely enough, you see it happening. You see one large bird attacking a smaller bird (and sometimes it's the other way around), or you see that your cat has brought a headless mole into your yard, where it eats the rest of the poor creature, or you see roadkill, which is everywhere (on the roads).

  "The countryside is very different from the city. There's grass and trees in the city, it's true, but mostly there's just asphalt and tall buildings, cars, sewers, and people looking for work, or people working. The deaths that happen in the city are usually the result of one person killing another, not the result of some animal killing a person, or some animal killing another animal.

  "I saw a person kill someone else when I was visiting the city. I saw a large person beat up a small adult person who seemed to be minding his own business. After a while, police came and took the large person away, and a medical examiner's van came and took the dead person away. It was a sad sight to see, even sadder than rain (which isn't really sad), or fire that burns the countryside, though probably not that sad.

  "I think you must understand that death is not a part of life, and if it were a part of life then it would be strange, because death is death, which is 'no life,' and life is life, which is 'life.' I don't understand it when I hear people say that death is a part of life. It's like saying that an empty Mocha Frappucino bottle is like a full Mocha Frappucino bottle. They aren't alike. One is an empty bottle, and one is a full bottle.

  "And that doesn't mean that I don't know what people are talking about when they say that death is a part of life. They think they're being pretty smart saying it. They think, well, there you are, alive, but you won't always be alive, because death will catch up with you eventually, then you'll be dead. But that's stupid, because death doesn't catch up with anyone, people catch up with death. They run toward it all their lives, know what I mean? They smoke cigarettes and eat too much and have sex with people who have diseases, or they do stupid, hazardous things like ride three-wheeled bikes in the countryside, or hop on freight trains or bungee jump. I think people are always chasing after death as if it's some kind of lover, and if only they could touch it for a moment or two, it would be the best sex they ever had. People are stupid. People make things up as they go along. People can't be trusted. And most of all, people are born of women with red lips and breasts brimming with milk. They aren't born of a mother with hollyhocks in her forehead and rivers running through her belly.

  "I'm telling you this,
though—I'm telling you that there are things everywhere in this world that will kill you quick as a wink, no matter who your mother is, and it will be so seductive, like the lover, so teasing and fantastic and seductive, that people will fall all over themselves just to have it, like it's a great big bottle of Mocha Frappucino.

  "Well, you know, that's this guy you're talking about. This Fred. That his name? Fred? Yeah? Good. Fred. Stupid name. So many people named Fred. It sounds like a kid's name. Hey, Fred, get your ass in here and eat your goddamned macaroni and cheese and drink your Kool-Aid. Fred, ha! Anyone named Fred deserves what this Fred got. Well, not having their insides eaten. Not that. I mean, think about it. Just think about it a little. You're not really dead when your insides start getting eaten. You're still alive. And you're watching your insides get eaten. Maybe your intestines first (which you can live without for a couple of minutes), your spleen (same thing), or your stomach. Of course, it depends a lot on how fast your insides are getting eaten, I guess. Quick is good. Not so quick is not so good. I guess Fred's wasn't so damned quick, is that what you're telling me?

  "But if you think I ate Fred, then you got to think again, because I'm a vegetarian. I don't eat people. I eat vegetables. Okra, especially. And greens. Celery is good. I don't much care for tomatoes, though. But they're a fruit. Do you know that? They're a fruit. Like Fred. I guess Fred was a fruit. Not that I have anything against fruits. If you want to drill someone who's got the same plumbing as you, that's your business.

  "But it doesn't mean I killed him and ate him because, like I said, I eat okra, and celery, and carrots. Not the cooked kind. I hate that. Mushy crap. Or cooked cabbage either. Mushy crap.

  "Do you know that Mocha Frappucino is a Starbucks product? Other manufacturers manufacture it. Some of those manufacturers are in New York State, my home state. One of those manufacturers is Upstate Farms, and they make a Frappucino that they call Cappuccino, I think because Starbucks has a trademark registered on Frappucino, which means, I think, that if you use the name in some press release regarding the killing and eating of Fred, then you have to get permission from Starbucks. You don't want to get sued.