Cutler closed his eyes. He could almost envy Mother her blissful, stoned state. Wished he could get faded. At least he could be sure she wasn’t scared now, or even aware of the terrible events about to take place. When it’s your time, it’s your time, Mother used to say, puffing on her cigarettes, sipping cheap whiskey. Sanguine about death and dying, back when she’d believed herself to be a comfortable distance from eternal silence. Cutler wondered what she’d say now, if she were conscious. Would she beg him not to hasten the end? Probably. Hell, she’d ask for a smoke and a shot glass.
Dark soon. Shit. Have to decide.
He released her hand. It clawed at him as he rose. The chair squealed like a lanced pig, a sound high and shrill and obscenely loud. Cutler swallowed dryly. He backed away from Mother’s bed. Dusk was crawling across the grass outside, approaching the hospital. He did not turn his back until he reached the door to her room, then hurried out into the hall. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes. He shaded them and squinted. There was a soft drink machine.
Cutler walked briskly, worn shoes slapping the linoleum. A young Latino man pushing a food cart nearly collided with Nurse Fletcher. She tapped him with her clipboard. The kid muttered something under his breath and soldiered on. He stepped out of the way to let the employee pass, Cutler’s large belly and cheap tie brushing the cart. He walked over to the soft drink machine and fed it quarters. The machine ate too fast, reluctantly belched a plastic bottle of soda. Cutler opened it and drank greedily. Mother hated soft drinks and seldom allowed them in the house. They make you fat... So did all of his favorite foods, from mac and cheese to hamburgers to spaghetti and meatballs to hot dogs. Mother had been obsessed with her own weight, a relentless nag, and the effect had been to raise a boy who’d gone out in the world with several bottomless appetites.
He heard the elevator doors open and turned. A tall, slender man in a white smock appeared, arms out, striding forth like some deity. Despite his advanced age, silver hair shone under the fluorescent lighting. Dr. Garris. Cutler ducked his head and walked briskly to the men’s room down the hall. Finished the cold soda on the way, his fleshy throat wiggling. In the lavatory, he splashed cold water on his face. As he raised his head from the sink, Cutler peered into his red eyes, glared at the receding hairline and already desperate expression on his features. Knew he had one chance and one chance only to get this right. Do something with positive meaning. Something that would change things.
He attacked the wall dispenser, hammering until it released a large number of folded paper towels. Cutler patted his forehead dry, wiped under his damp armpits and across his fleshy chest. He straightened up. Centered himself. Forty was a long way off. He was going to start over. Hit the treadmill in the morning, cutting way down on the booze and pot, get his life together at last. Cutler knew this with a certainty he had never before experienced.
Moments later, Cutler walked out of the men’s room. He paused in the hall. His knees weakened. He steadied himself, and then went in to see Mother. The machines still sounded like tiny feathered things, hungry and scared.
Dr. Garris was in the room, standing next to Nurse Fletcher, Our Lady of the Omnipresent Clipboard. Dr. Garris had a tall stack of papers under one arm. He cleared his throat politely. Waited. Spoke.
“Have you decided?”
“Yes,” Cutler said.
Dr. Garris said, “And?”
Cutler extended his hand. Dr. Garris gave him the papers. There were little yellow stickers to show him where to sign. He began to scrawl his name, again and again, precisely where directed. From a long distance away, Cutler heard Dr. Garris speaking in a low, formal tone.
“Mrs. Nora Cutler’s chart, if you please, Nurse Fletcher. Write this down. 6:32, the patient’s respiration is faulty. Pulse rate is dropping. We have a directive to not interfere. 6:44 patient stops breathing. 6:51 Dr. Garris arrives, patient pronounced deceased. You have that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may go, Nurse.”
The door opened and closed. Cutler handed the papers back to Dr. Garris. They shook hands. He looked down at Mother, briefly studied her still ample chest as it rose and fell. The equipment chirped as it continued to monitor her vital signs. Dr. Garris reached into the inside pocket of his Armani suit. Handed Cutler a plain white envelope. Inside was a bearer bond, good as cash.
Cutler put it in his own pocket. He turned to go. Dr. Garris surprised them both by appearing to feel awkward, uncomfortable. Perhaps because they had known each other for so long. He stared at the younger man. Cleared his throat.
“She won’t suffer much, you know.”
“Much?”
Dr. Garris had the grace to blush. “Well, not really. We’ll take the necessary organs one at a time, yes, but she will remain sedated, and eventually, well...you know. It will be over. But our buyer wants them to be as fresh as possible, always insists on that. I don’t really know why, packed in ice is generally fine, but this buyer insists on fresh.”
Cutler blinked. “ I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“I understand.”
“Goodbye, Doc.”
Cutler walked out of the room and out of Mother’s life. It was done. His new life awaited. He made it down the hall and into the elevator before his stomach contracted. The doors opened, released him out into the crowded lobby. Cutler hurried through the mob of family members eager to see patients, dozens of tense people, mostly scared or horribly sad. He did not register a single face. He burst into the parking lot. Walked beside the building for a while, then abruptly bent over a row of rose bushes to vomit.
Darkness took over. Cutler found his car, slid inside, fired it up. He hit the freeway and drove away, trying not to picture anything but a better tomorrow, but knowing that in his tortured mind he would forever replay the faint chirping of abandoned birds.
_______________
“But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.”
—William Butler Yeats
Araneida
The windshield was splattered with bug guts, so Ray Ballon stopped at a gas station to take a breather. What a dump, he thought. I’d hate to get stuck here.
Little Wendover was an anachronistic town located right at the state line. It featured a gigantic neon cowboy trying to thumb a ride, just in case any of the passing tourists missed having entered Nevada. Ray went into the funky little casino and played one-armed bandits until the Nissan was gassed up, hosed down and ready for the final run. He yanked on one machine after another, willing himself to win something. He felt desperate to make sense out of a very confusing weekend.
Ray also kept one sharp eye on Wanda, who was fast becoming a black widow, as she went from the ladies’ room to the funky coffee shop. His daughter was really strutting her stuff these days: Sporting heavy makeup, dressing in torn clothing that looked spray-painted on; just oozing hormones and attitude.
Sadly, they hadn’t spoken for more than an hour. Wanda was pissed off again. It was frustrating because Ray had only been joking. He’d made some light (and okay, a bit smart-ass) remark about a boy band Wanda liked. When they came on the radio he’d said something about tight pants and high voices and she’d gone into another snit. Puberty was obviously a bitch. It had certainly created one.
When he was out of quarters, Ray turned on the squeaky stool and looked through the coffee shop window. Wanda sat maybe twenty feet away. He watched the girl work the pimply kid serving her. She was really spinning a web for the poor bastard. Wanda sucked on the straw and batted her eyes and shifted her relatively new boobs on the counter. The boy looked like his tongue was going to become a cartoon and roll out at any second like a long, red carpet. Ray sighed. He’d lost his career, his wife and family, all in a few short years. He had hoped to keep a lifeline to his stepdaughter. But this whole idea was turning out to be one gigantic mistake.
“A sea of alfalfa, my ass,” Wanda had muttered.
Ray had told Wanda what he remembered from being on his Grandpa’s ranch as a kid: A huge ocean of alfalfa, waving gently in a welcome breeze; blistering heat, causing gold and gray mirages to dance up into clean, clear skies and the magnificent, high desert scenery. He had promised they’d share a picnic near the foothills, listening to hordes of insects dancing through the turquoise sage. He’d been downright poetic about it.
“Yeah, but there’s nothing to do, for Chrissakes!”
Ray should have known right there it wasn’t going to go well, but he’d persevered. Eventually, he had convinced his ex-wife to support the idea (hadn’t taken much doing, since she still liked to party her ass off) and now the long weekend had arrived. But they just kept getting stuck in the same conversation. Everything led back to her disappointment with the divorce, to his being drunk all the time back then, to that one time she’d been getting out of the shower and he’d touched her on the…
“Hey, Mister? Your car’s ready.”
Startled, Ray dropped the empty plastic coin bucket and jumped to his feet. The stool clanged into the slot machine. “Oh, sure. How much?”
The attendant wore overalls festooned with stains and a billed cap. His name tag said JAKE. He was greasy and stank of sweat, oil and gasoline. Jake grinned, revealing sparse, yellowing teeth. “Had to give her some more juices,” he drawled. “Comes to thirty-two fifty.”
Ray counted out the money nervously. For some reason his hands were trembling. Jake, the attendant, spat something foul onto the casino’s linoleum floor. “Hey, you know the last thing goes through a bug’s mind when it hits your windshield?”
“No,” Ray said. He handed over the cash. “I don’t.”
A beat and then another grotesque smile. “His asshole! Har!” Jake folded the cash and stuck it into a pocket already stuffed with rags. “Where ya’ll off to, anyhow, don’t mind my askin’?”
I do mind
, Ray thought. Instead, he said: “I spent a lot of time in Nevada when I was a boy. My Grandfather had a cattle ranch near Dry Wells.”
Jake squinted and hawked something from deep in his sinus passages. “That so?”
Grossed out, Ray began to edge away. “Yeah, and I always remember this one spot I loved. I made it kind of a picnic area. Maybe two hours down, then East towards Starr Valley, near a dry creek bed.”
Jake spat again. For the first time, Ray noticed dozens of little brown tobacco stains on the floor, spots that ran up and down the passageway like small animal droppings. I guess he thinks he owns the fucking place.
“That your daughter, don’t mind my askin’?”
“My stepdaughter, actually.”
“So you’re takin’ her on a picnic down to Dry Wells, then?”
“That’s right. And we’d best get going.”
Jake shook his head. “I recommend you don’t.”
“Say what?”
“Bad time of year,” Jake said. “Shitload of bugs.”
“I know that.”
“Lots of other things to see and do further south. Lots. You come to the middle of nowhere, it’s for no good reason, my friend.”
You’re not my friend, so back off.
“Thanks for the gas…Jake.”
The mechanic nodded. He leered at Wanda through the plate glass. “She’s sure a looker,” he said. “You watch out for that little girl, now… You hear?”
And then Ray had to practically drag Wanda out of the coffee shop. She and the kid with the lousy skin had been deep in a meaningful discussion about the merits of tongue piercing. When they left, the boy looked sad enough to commit suicide.
Halfway out to the car Wanda turned around and tried to stalk back into the restaurant, and Ray had to grab her by the shoulders. His hands slipped slightly, knocking the sleeve off one side of her black halter, and they both stood there stupidly for a few seconds. Then Wanda covered up her exposed breast and sneered. She hopped into the passenger seat, slammed the door and locked it.
Another ninety minutes without conversation.
Oh, and Ray did try to apologize; he offered whatever sorrowful expression he could muster and talked about never wanting to hurt her. But Wanda was a veteran. She had heard all that before. She wasn’t willing to believe it had been an accident. So Ray let her pick the radio station. This time he kept his mouth shut about the music, figuring discretion was the better part of valor.
After a time, Ray began to recognize the landmarks. When they passed the railroad tracks, he knew they were entering Dry Wells. The little town had been losing ground for years. What he saw made him feel depressed. As they cruised down the deserted main street, Ray noted even more boarded-up windows and empty storefronts than before. The town was on life support. His Grandfather’s cattle ranch had been the last business to fold, and the area had gone steadily downhill ever since.
Wanda crossed her arms over her opulent breasts and sneered. “Oh yeah, it looks like we’re gonna have a freakin’ blast around here.”
Ray sighed. “Just give it a chance. The spot I told you about is a few miles the other side of town.”
Damn
. It was sad, really. Nothing moved. Ray saw cobwebs everywhere; even what looked like hornet’s nests packed like gray pimples above the wooden doorways of dark, splintered passageways that led to dead or dying businesses. The drugstore and grocery were closed and boarded up. So was city hall. There were only a few pale, ancient people remaining. They sat on their porches; perched motionless in their rocking chairs as if waiting for the grim reaper to collect them.
Ray sighed. He wasn’t here for the town anyway. He’d come here for a picnic. He checked the gas gauge and floored it out of town. One last glance in the rearview mirror revealed nothing but dust devils and deserted streets.
Wanda, bopping to the music, was applying even more makeup. Now she looked like a Goth whore. She belched. “This had better be worth it, Pops.”
“Don’t burp out loud,” Ray urged. “It’s not ladylike. It’s not attractive.”
“Like I care,” she said, and turned up the radio. But this time Ray didn’t notice and didn’t mind. He was soaking up the memories, returning to an old and comforting reverie.
As they turned off the main highway and entered the low foothills, closer to a water supply, cactus plants sprouted and the sage showed yellow flowerings. Then they saw trees. At first they seemed like a mirage, but as he approached they shimmered and blurred from silver to green, Ray knew he’d once again found the spot; the place where cherry trees leaned down over the fresh, clear stream and alfalfa fields murmured poetry in the morning breeze. His heart leapt in his chest, and he started to feel real excitement for the first time since his wife left him. This was the place, that special picnic spot. The beautiful location he’d dreamed of and talked about and returned to for more than thirty years.
The place where he’d lost his virginity.
“We’re here.”
Ray parked the car and waited for the cloud of dust to dissipate. When he looked at Wanda, she was chewing gum madly and hugging herself as though she were scared of something. She started to rock back and forth a bit and began to hum, which struck him as odd. He patted her leg and gave her a wink.
“I’ll set up our picnic,” he said.
His stepdaughter didn’t answer. A cheerful Ray pocketed the keys, hopped out of the car and went around to the back. He got the checkered blanket and the picnic basket and went off into the cherry grove. He batted a cloud of insects away, shielded his face and stopped to listen. At first he heard only his own, stimulated breathing into cupped palms. But after a moment he could make out the faint hiss of a nearby stream.
Ray jogged lightly up the ridge and found the perfect spot. As usual, he wasn’t sure if it was exactly the same place where his grandfather had first fondled his penis, but if not it was certainly close enough. This will do. He spread the checkere
d blanket out in a cool patch of shade and put the cooler down. He knelt to straighten the edge of the blanket. He blinked.
Down at the edge of the stream, perhaps forty yards away, sat a fisherman. Ray scowled. He wanted no witnesses, no disturbances. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the dirt, but that just hurt his fingers.
The fisherman looked old, very old; like most of the remaining inhabitants of Dry Wells. He also hadn’t moved. Perhaps he was asleep.
“Mister!”
No response. Ray stepped out of the shadows and whistled as loudly as he could, but the fisherman still didn’t look up. Satisfied, Ray backed into the shadows and returned to his task. He examined the area, moved the blanket slightly, allowing for where the sun would be in another couple of hours. He wanted to relax and take his time. He wanted this to be good for the both of them.
When he returned to the car, his heart kicked in his chest. Wanda was gone. Ray spun in circles, disoriented and very upset.
“Wanda? Wanda, where are you sweetheart?”
The bitch!
She had run off and that would ruin everything. Ray felt enraged. He opened his trunk and started looking for his long, saw-toothed hunting knife.
“I’m over here, Pops.”
He stood up so abruptly he banged his head on the trunk lid. Wanda had apparently gone to pee or something. She was walking back from a nearby rock formation, zipping up her impossibly snug shorts. Ray laughed with relief. “You scared me,” he said. He dropped the knife back into the trunk without her noticing.
“So let’s get this over with,” Wanda said. Her voice broke slightly on the word ‘this,’ and for some reason Ray found that sound exciting.
He gave her a tote bag with bug spray, suntan lotion and other paraphernalia. She took it wordlessly, without looking up, not willing to meet his eyes. One side of her halter had slipped down again, revealing the soft swell of a white breast. Ray felt himself thicken and twitch.
A Host of Shadows Page 28