Nos4a2

by Joe Hill

  A dazed lassitude—not entirely unpleasant—stole over him. He felt no desire to move, to shout, to plan, to cry, to worry about what was next. His tongue gently probed at one of his lower front teeth, which felt loose and tasted of blood. Wayne wondered if he had struck his head so hard he’d managed to partially jar the tooth out of its socket. The roof of his mouth prickled against his tongue, felt abrasive, sandpapery. It didn’t concern him much, was just something he noticed.

  When he did finally move, it was only to stretch an arm out and pluck his moon ornament off the floor. It was as smooth as a shark’s tooth, and its shape reminded him a bit of the special wrench his mother had used on the motorcycle, the tappet key. It was a kind of key, he thought. His moon was a key to the gates of Christmasland, and he could not help it—the notion delighted him. There was no such thing as arguing with delight. Like seeing a pretty girl with the sunlight in her hair, like pancakes and hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire. Delight was one of the fundamental forces of being, like gravity.

  A great bronze butterfly crawled on the outside of the window, its furred body as thick as Wayne’s finger. It was soothing to watch it clamber about, occasionally waving its wings. If the window was open, even a crack, the butterfly might join him in the backseat, and then he’d have a pet.

  Wayne stroked his lucky moon, thumb moving back and forth, a simple, thoughtless, basically masturbatory gesture. His mother had her bike, and Mr. Manx had his Wraith, but Wayne had a whole moon to himself.

  He daydreamed about what he’d do with his new pet butterfly. He liked the idea of teaching it to land on his finger, like a trained falcon. He could see it in his mind, resting on the tip of his index finger, fanning its wings in a slow, peaceful sort of way. Good old butterfly. Wayne would name it Sunny.

  In the distance a dog barked, soundtrack of an indolent summer day. Wayne picked the loose tooth out of his gums and put it in the pocket of his shorts. He wiped the blood on his shirt. When he went back to rubbing his moon, his fingers spread the blood all over it.

  What did butterflies eat? he wondered. He was pretty sure they dined on pollen. He wondered what else he could train it to do: if he could teach it to fly through burning hoops or walk across a miniature tightrope. He saw himself as a street performer, in a top hat, with a funny black stick-on mustache: Captain Bruce Carmody’s Bizarre Butterfly Circus! In his mind he wore his moon ornament like a general’s badge, right on his lapel.

  He wondered if he could teach the butterfly to do wild loop-de-loops, like an airplane in a stunt show. The thought crossed his mind that he could rip off a wing and then it would fly in loop-de-loops for sure. He imagined that a wing would tear off like a piece of sticky paper, a slight resistance at first, then a satisfying little peeling sound.

  The window rolled itself down an inch, the handle squeaking softly. Wayne did not rise. The butterfly reached the top of the glass, beat its wings once, and sailed in to land on his knee.

  “Hey, Sunny,” Wayne said. He reached out to pet it with his finger, and it tried to fly away, which was no fun. Wayne sat up and caught it with one hand.

  For a while he tried to teach it to do tricks, but it wasn’t long before the butterfly tired out. Wayne set it on the floor and stretched back on the couch to rest, a bit tired himself. Tired but feeling all right. He had milked a couple of good loop-de-loops out of the butterfly before it stopped moving.

  He shut his eyes. His tongue restlessly probed the prickly roof of his mouth. His gum was still leaking, but that was okay. His own blood tasted good. Even as he dozed, his thumb went on stroking his little moon, the glossy-smooth curve of it.

  Wayne did not open his eyes again until he heard the garage door rumbling into the ceiling. He sat up with some effort, the pleasant lethargy settled deep into his muscles.

  Manx slowed as he approached the side of the car. He bent and tilted his head to one side—a querulous, doglike movement—and stared in through the window at Wayne.

  “What happened to the butterfly?” he asked.

  Wayne glanced at the floor. The butterfly was in a pile, both wings and all its legs torn off. He frowned, confused. It had been all right when they’d started playing.

  Manx clucked his tongue. “Well, we have tarried here long enough. We had best be on our way. Do you need to go winkie-wee?”

  Wayne shook his head. He looked at the butterfly again, with a creeping sense of unease, maybe even shame. He had a memory of tearing off at least one wing, but at the time it had seemed . . . exciting. Like peeling the tape off a perfectly wrapped Christmas present.

  You murdered Sunny, Wayne thought. He unconsciously squeezed his moon ornament in one fist. Mutilated it.

  He did not want to remember pulling its legs off. Picking them off one at a time while it kicked frantically. He scooped Sunny’s remains up in one hand. There were little ashtrays, set into the doors, with walnut lids. Wayne opened one, stuffed the butterfly into it, let it fall shut. There. That was better.

  The key turned itself in the ignition, the car jolting to life. The radio snapped on. Elvis Presley promised he would be home for Christmas. Manx eased in behind the steering wheel.

  “You have snored the day away,” he said. “And after all of yesterday’s excitement, I am not surprised! I am afraid you slept through lunch. I would’ve woken you, but I reckoned you needed your sleep more.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Wayne said. The sight of Sunny, all torn to pieces, had upset his stomach, and the thought of food—for some reason he had a visual image of sausages sweating grease—nauseated him.

  “Well. We will be in Indiana this evening. I hope you have recovered your appetite by then! I used to know a diner on I-80 where you could get a basket of sweet-potato fries caked in cinnamon and sugar. There is a one-of-a-kind taste sensation for you! You cannot quit eating until they are all gone and you are licking the paper.” He sighed. “I do like my sweets. Why, it is a miracle my teeth have not rotted out of my head!” He turned and grinned at Wayne over his shoulder, displaying a mouthful of brown mottled fangs, pointing this way and that. Wayne had seen elderly dogs with cleaner, healthier-looking teeth.

  Manx clutched a sheaf of papers in one hand, held together by a big yellow paper clip, and he sat in the driver’s seat, thumbing through them in a cursory sort of way. The pages looked like they had already been handled some, and Manx considered them for only half a minute before leaning over and shutting them in the glove compartment.

  “Bing has been busy on his computer,” Manx said. “I remember an era when you could get your nose sliced off for sticking it too far into another man’s business. Now you can find out anything about anyone with the click of a button. There is no privacy and no consideration, and everyone is prying into things that aren’t their affair. You can probably check on the intertube and find out what color underwear I have on today. Still, the technology of this shameless new era does offer some conveniences! You would not believe all the information Bing has dug up on this Margaret Leigh. I am sorry to say your mother’s good friend is a drug addict and a woman of low character. I cannot say I am stunned. With your mother’s tattoos and unfeminine mode of speech, that is exactly the crowd I would expect her to run with. You are welcome to read all about Ms. Leigh yourself if you like. I would not want you to be bored while we are on the road.”

  The drawer under the driver’s seat slid open. The papers about Maggie Leigh were in them. Wayne had seen this trick a few times now and should’ve been used to it but wasn’t.

  He leaned forward and pulled out the sheaf of papers—and then the drawer banged shut, slamming closed so quickly and so loudly that Wayne cried out and dropped the whole mess on the floor. Charlie Manx laughed, the big, hoarse hee-haw of a country shithead who has just heard a joke involving a kike, a nigger, and a feminist.

  “You did not lose a finger, did you? Nowadays cars come with all sorts of options nobody needs. They have radio beamed in from satellites, seat wa
rmers, and GPS for people who are too busy to pay attention to where they are going—which is usually nowhere fast! But this Rolls has an accessory you will not find in many modern vehicles: a sense of humor! You’d better stay on your toes while you’re in the Wraith, Wayne! The old lady almost caught you napping!”

  And what a hoot that would’ve been. Wayne thought if he’d been a little slower, there was a good chance the drawer could’ve broken his fingers. He left the papers on the floor.

  Manx put his arm on the divider and turned his head to look through the rear window as he backed out of the garage. The scar across his forehead was livid and pink and looked two months old. He had removed the bandage from his ear. The ear was still gone, but the chewed ruin had healed over, leaving a ragged nub that was slightly more palatable to the eyes.

  NOS4A2 rolled halfway down the driveway, and then Manx pulled to a stop. Bing Partridge, the Gasmask Man, was walking across the yard, holding a plaid-patterned suitcase in one hand. He had put on a stained, dirty FDNY baseball cap to go with a stained, dirty FDNY T-shirt and grotesquely girlish pink sunglasses.

  “Ah,” Manx murmured. “It would’ve been just as well if you had slept through this part of the day also. I am afraid the next few minutes may be disagreeable, young Master Wayne. It is never pleasant for a child when the grown-ups fight.”

  Bing walked in a swift-legged way to the trunk of the car, bent, and tried to open it. Except the trunk remained shut. Bing frowned, struggling with it. Manx was twisted around in his seat to watch him through the rear window. For all his talk about how things were soon to become disagreeable, there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “Mr. Manx!” Bing called. “I can’t get the trunk open!”

  Manx didn’t answer.

  Bing limped to the passenger-side door, trying to keep his weight off the ankle that Hooper had gnawed on. His suitcase banged against his leg as he walked.

  As he put his hand on the latch for the passenger door, the lock banged down of its own accord.

  Bing frowned, tugged on the handle. “Mr. Manx?” he said.

  “I can’t help you, Bing,” Manx said. “The car doesn’t want you.”

  The Wraith began to roll backward.

  Bing wouldn’t let go of the handle and was pulled alongside. He jerked at the latch again. His jowls wobbled.

  “Mr. Manx! Don’t go! Mr. Manx, wait for me! You said I could come!”

  “That was before you let her get away, Bing. You let us down. I might forgive you. You know I have always thought of you as a son. But I have no say in this. You let her get away, and now the Wraith is letting you get away. The Wraith is like a woman, you know! You cannot argue with a woman! They are not like men. They do not operate by reason! I can feel that she is spitting mad at you for being so careless with your gun.”

  “No! Mr. Manx! Give me another chance. Please! I want another chance!”

  He stumbled and banged his suitcase against his leg once again. It spilled open, dumping undershirts and underwear and socks down the length of the driveway.

  “Bing,” Manx said. “Bing, Bing. Go away. I’ll come and play some other day.”

  “I can do better! I’ll do whatever you want! Please, oh, please, Mr. Manx! I want a second chance!” Screaming now.

  “Don’t we all,” Manx said. “But the only person who has been granted a second chance is Victoria McQueen. And that’s just no good, Bing.”

  As the car backed up, it began to swing around, to face the road. Bing was pulled right off his feet and collapsed on the blacktop. The Wraith dragged him for several feet, squalling and yanking at the handle.

  “Anything! Anything! Mr. Manx! Anything for you! My life! For you!”

  “My poor boy,” Manx said. “My poor, sweet boy. Do not make me sad. You are making me feel awful! Let go of the door, please! This is hard enough!”

  Bing let go, although Wayne could not say if he was doing as he was told or if his strength simply gave out. He flopped in the road, on his stomach, sobbing.

  The Wraith began to accelerate away from Bing’s house, away from the burned wreck of the church up the hill. Bing scrambled back to his feet and jogged after them for perhaps ten yards, although he was quickly outdistanced. Then he stopped in the middle of the road and began to beat his head with his fists, punching himself in the ears. His pink sunglasses hung askew, one lens smashed in. His wide, ugly face was a bright, poisonous shade of red.

  “I would do anything!” Bing screamed. “Anything! Just! Give! Me! One! More! Chance!”

  The Wraith paused at a stop sign, then turned the corner, and Bing was gone.

  Wayne turned to face forward.

  Manx glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m sorry you had to see all of that, Wayne,” Manx said. “Terrible to see someone so upset, especially a goodhearted fellow like Bing. Just terrible. But also . . . also a bit silly, don’t you think? Did you see how he wouldn’t let go of the door? I thought we were going to drag him all the way to Colorado!” Manx laughed again, quite heartily.

  Wayne touched his lips and realized, with a sick pang in his stomach, that he was smiling.

  Route 3, New Hampshire

  THE ROAD HAD A CLEAN SMELL, OF EVERGREENS, OF WATER, OF WOODS.

  Vic thought there would be sirens, but when she looked in the left-hand mirror, she saw only a half mile of empty asphalt, and there was no sound at all but the controlled roar of the Triumph.

  A passenger jet slid through the sky twenty-four thousand feet above her: a brilliant spoke of light, headed west.

  At the next turn, she left the lake road and swung into the green hills mounded over Winnipesaukee, headed west herself.

  She didn’t know how to get to the next part, didn’t know how to make it work, and thought she had very little time to figure it out. She had found her way to the bridge the day before, but that seemed a fantastically long time ago, almost as long ago as childhood.

  Now it seemed too sunny and bright for something impossible to happen. The clarity of the day insisted on a world that made sense, that operated by known laws. Around every bend there was only more road, the blacktop looking fresh and rich in the sunshine.

  Vic followed the switchbacks, climbing steadily into the hills, away from the lake. Her hands were slippery on the handlebars, and her foot hurt from pushing the sticky shift through the gears. She went faster and then faster still, as if she could tear that hole in the world by speed alone.

  She blew through a town that was little more than a yellow caution light hanging over a four-way intersection. Vic meant to run the bike until it was out of gas, and then she might drop it, leave the Triumph in the dust, and start running, right down the center of the road, running until the fucking Shorter Way Bridge appeared for her or her legs gave out.

  Only it wasn’t going to appear, because there was no bridge. The only place the Shortaway existed was in her mind. With every mile this fact became clearer to her.

  It was what her psychiatrist had always insisted it was: an escape hatch she leaped through when she couldn’t handle reality, the comforting empowerment fantasy of a violently depressed woman with a history of trauma.

  She went faster, taking the curves at almost sixty.

  She was going so fast it was possible to pretend the water streaming from her eyes was a reaction to the wind blowing in her face.

  The Triumph began to climb again, hugging the inside of a hill. On a curve, near the crest, a police cruiser blasted past, going the other way. She was close to the double line and felt the slipstream snatch at her, giving her a brief, dangerous moment of wobble. For an instant the driver was just an arm’s length away. His window was down, his elbow hanging out, a dude with two chins and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. She was so close she could’ve snatched the toothpick from between his lips.

  In the next moment, he was gone and she was over the hill. He had probably been gunning it for that
four-way intersection with the yellow caution light, looking to cut her off there. He would have to follow the winding road he was on all the way into town before he could turn and come back after her. She had maybe a full minute on him.

  The bike swung through a high, tight curve, and she had a glimpse of Paugus Bay below, dark blue and cold. She wondered where she would be locked up, when she would next see the water. She had spent so much of her adult life in institutions, eating institutional food, living by institutional rules. Lights-out at eight-thirty. Pills in a paper cup. Water that tasted like rust, like old pipes. Stainless-steel toilet seats, and the only time you saw blue water was when you flushed.

  The road rose and dropped in a little dip, and in the hollow there was a country store on the left. It was a two-story place made out of peeled logs, with a white plastic sign over the door that said NORTH COUNTRY VIDEO. Stores still rented videos out here—not just DVDs but videotapes, too. Vic was almost past the place when she decided to swing into the dirt lot and hide. The parking area extended around back, and it was dark there beneath the pines.

  She stood on the rear brake, already going into her turn, when she remembered there was no rear brake. She grabbed the front brake. For the first time, it occurred to her that it might not be working either.

  It was. The front brake grabbed hard, and she almost went over the handlebars. The rear tire whined shrilly across the blacktop, painting a black rubber streak. She was still sliding when she hit the dirt lot. The tires tore at the earth, raised clouds of brown smoke.

  The Triumph jackhammered another twelve feet, past North Country Video, crunching to a stop at last in the back of the lot.

  A nighttime darkness waited beneath the evergreens. Behind the building, a loop of sagging chain barred access to a footpath, a dusty trench carved through weeds and ferns. A dirt-bike run, maybe, or out-of-use hiking trail. She had not spied it from the road; no one would, set back as it was in the shadows.