Factory Town Page 10

  I didn’t know what Charlie was talking about, and I didn’t know how to respond. I guess I should have shouted at him or pushed him or hit him. But I didn’t do anything. I just sat there while he continued berating me, berating Mrs. Carver.

  Don’t you get it, Russell? She’s never been true to you. Not for a single day. She’s played you for a fool. You working your butt off, trying to make a better life for the both of you. While she goes from bed to bed, ass in the air, getting fucked by everybody in the goddamn neighborhood.

  That’s not fair. She…

  You think Frank Delaney was the only one? Is that what you think? Shit, Russell. You’re stupider than I thought. Hell, even I fucked her! Does that surprise you, buddy? Well, you’ve gotta figure things out, but quick. And now you’ve got a little taste of what your old man had to deal with. Now you can understand a bit, can’t you? You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you? One of these days, you’re bound to turn into the old bastard! You even look like him. You have the same eyes.

  And then the lights dimmed and the previews started. Charlie grinned like nothing had happened, and then he ate his popcorn and drank his soda, and this was the strangest theatre I’d ever been in…

  * * *

  The movie was tragic, so tragic. Lois Lane suffocating beneath dirt and debris. Superman, unwilling to use his power to travel back in time, heeding his father’s warning to never interfere with human history. The movie ending with Superman weeping over her crushed body. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help myself, and I began crying too. I cried and cried and I couldn’t stop, and when I looked up Charlie was gone, and I had so many regrets; I was buried alive in them.

  * * *

  I made my way home, the suburban streets more hushed than usual. Porch lights glowing dully. Curtains closed. Blue lights flashing from television sets. There were no humans, no cars, no wind. I blew into my hands, trying to warm them. And then I sat outside the house, my house, behind a bush, watching and waiting, watching and waiting, and I drank more than I should have. The sky was dark and the stars were dead and gone, waiting for a burial.

  Time passed, and a car came creeping down the street. It was out of place in the suburbs—a long hearse, no longer black, now candy apple green. I was hoping the strange car would keep on moving, but I knew that it wouldn’t. Sure enough, the driver pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

  I ducked down further behind the bush, making sure that I was out of sight. I heard voices, drunken voices, but I was too anxious to peek for fear of being discovered. A few moments passed, and then I could hear the front door open and the lilting voice of Mrs. Carver. There was more laughter, and then the door slammed shut and all was quiet, that nightmarish suburban silence.

  CHAPTER 15

  I sat outside that house for a long time. I had a flask filled with cheap brandy, and so I drank and drank and drank, and then I thought about what might happen next and I shivered.

  Voices again, whispering in my ear, and I rose from behind the bush and walked slowly down the path toward the house. I stood on the porch and the sign said HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS. I turned the handle but it was locked. I pulled out a key from my shirt pocket and tried sticking the key into the lock, but my hand was shaking and I couldn’t make it fit. I took another nip of brandy and that helped matters. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Slowly I walked through the darkened house, everything tidy and clean. Vacuumed floors, dusted windowsills, polished mirrors. Cleanliness next to godliness and so forth. I walked through the hallway and came to the bedroom door. A light was flickering beneath the door, and I heard industrial music and carnal moans. For a long time I just stood there, thinking, thinking. Then I took a deep breath, shook the cobwebs from my brain, and pushed open the door.

  A woman stood in the middle of the bedroom, swaying drunkenly, falling all over herself. Only it wasn’t Piper Carver. It was the whore from the hotel. She wore a moth-eaten teddy, her breasts spilling out the top. Her lipstick was smeared, and heavy mascara did nothing to hide a pair of black eyes. Two men lay on the bed. One of them was a young man, enormously obese with a buzz cut, body completely shaved. The other man was old and skinny. The words Jesus Lives tattooed on his fingers. The pastor from the party. The young man was caressing the pastor’s penis, but it remained small and shriveled. When the pastor saw me, he pushed the young man away and covered his body with an electric blanket. In the name of Jesus, he said, but he didn’t finish his declaration.

  The whore turned around. When she saw me, her eyes narrowed contemptuously into coin slots. You again! she said. What the fuck do you want?

  Wh…what do I want? I stammered. This is my house! This is my bedroom.

  Oh, please, she said. And then she walked over to the bed and sat on the fat man’s semi-hard penis and started bouncing up and down, glaring at me with contempt.

  Things got out of control in a hurry. I strode across the room and pulled the whore off the fat man, he pleading with me to let him come at least. Then I got right into her face and slapped her hard, staggering her. She released a high-pitched shriek and told me to stay away, stay away, but it was too late for that. A man can only take so much. I dragged her to the hardwood floor and pinned her arms above her head. Then I pulled my head back and jerked forward quickly, spearing the whore in the face. Blood spurted from her nose and spilled down her face and onto her chest.

  The music stopped playing. I rose to my feet and the pastor and his companion watched in silence. The pastor reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a pipe and a Zippo lighter. He lit the pipe and sucked down the narcotic smoke, and soon his body went limp, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

  I towered over the whore, said, Serves you right, you goddamn whore. Charlie was right about you. Fucking the whole goddamn neighborhood. A goddamn shame. She moaned and groaned for a good long while before finally pulling herself to her feet. She glowered at me through bloodshot eyes and then staggered across the room, locating her leopard-skin purse. She fumbled through it for a while, tossing aside cigarette boxes and hypodermic needles and tampons and a diaphragm. She finally located her makeup kit. Without washing the blood from her nose and face, without tending to her cuts and bruises, she hastily began covering her face with foundation and concealer, blush and mascara. The end result was grotesque, an apocalyptic hooker.

  I shook my head in disgust. Nothing but a goddamn whore, I said.

  Oh, go to hell, Russell.

  I clenched my fists, ready to teach her a real lesson, but I resisted. Instead, I turned and walked out the door, kicking it shut behind me.

  * * *

  The keys to the hearse were in the ignition. Furtively, I glanced around the neighborhood. There wasn’t another human being in sight. I opened the door and stepped into the driver’s seat, then closed the door gently behind me. I hit the ignition and the engine grumbled for a few moments before catching. Then I drove.

  I didn’t know where I was going. Still, it felt good to be behind the wheel, to be the driver of the hearse, if not my destiny. The radio was tuned to a fire and brimstone preacher, and I listened to his voice but not the words. The sky was gray and, once again, it looked ready to rain or snow. Despite the fact that the heater was on full blast, I shivered as the car barreled down the avenue, lined with strip malls and car dealerships and fast food restaurants that seemed to repeat every few blocks.

  I drove and drove, and eventually the suburbs were gone, and I found myself on an abandoned highway, the landscape changing to dirt and desolation. My windshield was cracked and blurry, the radio station going in and out and in again, mariachi music, the scariest thing I’d ever heard. And then up ahead I came upon a little strip with a post office and a liquor store and a bar, the neon sign flashing Budweiser, and me cold and hungry and lost.

  I stepped out of the hearse, my legs weak and atrophied, and limped toward the bar, the sound of country music muted and blurry behind the do
or. I shoved open the door and it creaked, western movie-style. Inside there was a pool table with a game half-finished, some wooden booths and metal tables. The jukebox was playing, but the bar was empty, not even a bartender. I sat down at the counter and looked around, called out, but there was no answer. Minutes or hours passed, and I was impatient, angry, but then I heard a sickly voice behind me and I jumped. I spun around and saw an elderly man, ninety-years-old at least, wearing a newsboy’s hat and a Boy Scout uniform, carrying a blind person’s cane. He said: Sorry about that, mister. I didn’t hear you come in. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long. They say when you go blind your other senses become more acute. Not me. I’m seventy percent deaf, too. God piles it on, in my case.

  It’s no problem, I said.

  Mike’s the fellow who owns the place, but he had to run. Family emergency. His brother lost an arm in some farm machinery. Second arm he’s lost. He told me to watch the place. I understand the irony. In any case, what can I get you?

  I could use a beer, I said.

  I can do that. Might take me just a minute…

  The blind man felt his way around the counter and fumbled around the icebox for a beer. He found a Budweiser and cracked it open for me. Three bucks, he said. Cash only.

  I slapped some green on the counter. There’s five dollars, I said. Keep the change.

  Thank you, sir.

  Course, it could be a single. You’d never know, would you?

  He shook his head and smiled. No, sir. I guess I wouldn’t.

  I drank the beer and then another and another. Outside, the thunder groaned and a dog howled.

  And then the door opened and in walked a man that I recognized, the last person I wanted to see. He had silver hair and a white suit stained with blood. Fennington, the Cowboy’s secretary. As he entered, he didn’t seem to notice me. He sat at the opposite end of the bar and tapped his fist a few times on the counter. C’mon, Paul, he said. I’m thirsty.

  That you, Mr. Fennington?

  In the flesh, Paul. Where’s Mike?

  Family emergency. Brother lost another arm.

  Shame. Nice kid. Nice family. Well, what can you do? The devil makes you pay. Get me a drink, Paul. Fuzzy naval. And better make it a double.

  The blind man fumbled around, touching each bottle as Fennington guided him toward the peach schnapps. He filled up a pint glass: 2/3 schnapps, 1/3 orange juice, stuck it in front of Fennington who quickly took to drinking. I remained in my seat, back turned slightly, sipping my own beer.

  The bartender, Paul, sat down in a chair and stared straight ahead with his diseased eyes. After a while, I could hear him snoring lightly, although his eyes remained open, twitching.

  I didn’t dare glance down the bar counter. But soon I could feel Fennington’s eyes boring through the back of my head. I finished my beer and wiped my mouth with the palm of my hand. And then the jukebox started playing, only it wasn’t country music or super hits, it was a concerto, dark as hell, Sibelius or Tchaikovsky.

  I heard footsteps. When I turned, I saw that Fennington had moved into the stool next to mine. He placed his hand on my shoulder. I figured I’d find you here, he said. Where the miserable go to hide.

  I didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead.

  How is the investigation going? Any luck in finding the girl?

  I shook my head. No. No luck. I’ve made inquiries. Nobody knows anything, or, if they do, they won’t tell me a thing. They’d just as soon let her die. And some people, the sheriff, the doctor, are placing obstacles in my way.

  Well. They are misguided. And you should know that the Cowboy thanks you for your service. Thanks you for your commitment. He’d be happy to give you more money, if that’s what it takes. A worthwhile investment, to be sure.

  I rubbed my face with my hand. The music was loud, making it hard to think.

  That won’t help, I said. Ever since I arrived in this goddamn town, I’ve been lost. A series of darkened corridors, an endless number of riddles. I don’t understand a thing, a goddamned thing!

  Fennington took a long gulp from his fuzzy navel. Then he nodded his head slowly in a sign of empathy. Yes. Yes, indeed. Things are confusing, aren’t they? But don’t think too much. The answers will reveal themselves. All that matters is how things end. We forget the rest.

  This girl, this girl!

  Perhaps if you read the Book of Edicts, things would become more comprehensible. Do you have a copy?

  No. No, of course not.

  For it is written: The town must die with us.

  I’ve heard it before. I don’t understand.

  You should read the good book. Everything will be clear then.

  But the girl…

  Yes, the girl. She means everything and she means nothing.

  Who is she?

  Why, she’s just a girl.

  No. That can’t be. Who…is…she? Who the fuck is she?

  Please. Mr. Carver. Calm down.

  I realized that I was now standing, face surely red with anger, and that I had knocked over my beer bottle, sending it shattering on the floor. The music had stopped playing, but Paul, the bartender, remained asleep or dead.

  I need to know! I shouted. Who is the girl?

  Yes. Well then. Mr. Carver. I shall tell you. This girl. Alana as you call her. She is the daughter of the Cowboy. Flesh and blood. So you see why it is so important—

  You’re lying!

  No. I’m telling the truth.

  Where is this cowboy? I’d like to pay him a visit. I’d like to discuss a few things.

  That isn’t possible, of course. The Cowboy is a very busy man, indeed.

  Too busy to chat with me, his potential murderer?

  Please, Mr. Carver. You are out of control. Emotions are running high. Take a deep breath. We all want what is best for the girl. Isn’t that right?

  I don’t know, I said. I just don’t know.

  Here, take this book. He handed me his copy of the Book of Edicts. Read it. That will make everything clear. The Cowboy isn’t a bad man. Certainly not. He wants what is best for Alana. He wants what is best for Factory Town.

  I dropped the book on the counter, shoved it aside. My father made a prophecy, I said. It’s bound to come true! He knew the devil well. They were close confidants.

  The Cowboy isn’t a bad man. Your father isn’t a bad man. Please listen to me!

  I rose to my feet and staggered across the bar. Michael Fennington called after me, but I was done talking to him. I kicked open the front door and stood in the wind and the snow. I came upon the hearse, but it had been badly vandalized: wheels gone, windows shattered, steering wheel bent. I sat down on the ground, and I could feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

  The town must die with us, I mumbled. We must die with the town.

  I lay down, a weary man. I closed my eyes and soon I was asleep, drifting away from this wasteland that was now my home…

  * * *

  I awoke to the sounds of footsteps on the crumbling asphalt. I opened my eyes and saw a young boy, breathing heavily, racing down the sidewalk, his black cape swaying in the mist. The Annihilator.

  CHAPTER 16

  And so I followed after him. He was holding his toy sword and it was streaked with blood. He ran without slowing down, glancing stealthily over his shoulder every few minutes.

  As I made my way down the shattered sidewalk, I noticed that my right leg was suddenly exceedingly sore, and it soon became very difficult for me to keep up the pace. With enormous exertion I would lunge forward, my leg dragging behind me uselessly, then lunge forward again, but as soon as I got within shouting distance the Annihilator would himself speed up and disappear into the night fog.

  This went on for some time until I noticed we were back on the abandoned highway, the Annihilator racing down the middle of it, sword secure in its sheath, cape swaying majestically behind him. The black asphalt stretched ahead forever and I felt scared, scared for the boy,
scared for me.

  The sound of thunder and gunfire off in the distance. And still the boy raced on. My head was aching, the wound worsening, my leg in bad shape as well, gangrene a distinct possibility.

  And then I saw something that startled me. Up until this time the land surrounding the highway had been stark and vacant, nothing but snow-covered dirt and frozen sagebrush. But now I came to a small parcel of land illuminated by a gas lamp hanging from a poplar tree. And on the ground, flowers, hundred of them, all varieties and colors. Roses and daisies and lilies and tulips and poppies and on and on and on…

  I sat down in the midst of the flowers and I felt a profound sadness; it had been so long since I’d seen any semblance of beauty. The cold wind blew and the moon was frozen. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and then opened them again. Overwhelming color bathed in gas lamp light. I was overcome, and I had the strange notion to just stay there, stay there forever, because it was beautiful, and I knew it would always stay beautiful, while out there, back on the highway, back in Factory Town, it would remain ugly and terrible, monsters hiding behind bushes, ready to pounce. But I had promises to keep, so I got down on all fours and began picking the flowers, picking them by handfuls, and then stuffing them in my pockets. I stayed on the ground for a long time, and then I noticed that I was crying, tears of pain, tears of regret, and when I rose to my feet I was covered with the petals of a China Rose. I wiped the petals from my clothes, wiped the tears from my eyes, and then I got back on the highway.

  * * *

  Somehow, despite my detour, the boy remained within sight. I limped along, pockets full of flowers, and eventually the boy veered off the highway and onto a dirt road, turned muddy. I shouted out, but he didn’t turn back, and the only light was the moon shining through the thick clouds. I was gasping for breath and my head was aching and my leg was dying. And then the stark terrain gave way to some trees, and at first there were just a few of them scattered across the plains, but the farther we walked the more dense the trees became until we were in a forest, dark and cold.