by Jon Bassoff
“The Messiah?”
“Yes, mister. Don’t you remember his father? I guess you lobotomized him on stage.”
Freeman nodded his head slowly and exhaled. “Indeed I did.”
“If you ask me,” Scent said, “it’s quite a racket you’re running.”
At this, a bemused grin spread across Freeman’s face. “Young lady. That’s quite a thing to say. I can assure you I don’t run a racket. While I don’t feel the necessity to provide each and every one of my credentials, I shall provide some of them to set the record straight. Now listen, dear. I studied under the great Portuguese neurologist Egas Moniz. You have heard of Moniz? He was one of the founders of psychosurgery. He won the Nobel Prize in 1949 thanks, in no small part, to my nomination. Additionally, I co-founded the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology. No small feat. But my crowning achievement, darling, was the transorbital lobotomy. Without this procedure, we would still be in the dark ages of psychiatry, a time when patients were merely contained and restrained, a time when they were simply prisoners, and doctors were simply jailors. No, my dear, I can assure you I don’t run a racket.”
The girl pulled a handkerchief from her brown purse and blew her nose. Then she smiled crookedly, and Freeman felt his heart crash against his chest like a blind bird. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Doctor. Sometimes I make mistakes with my own vocabulary on account that I never got past seventh grade. In fact, some people say you’re some sort of a miracle worker, that maybe you’re the one who should be called the Messiah. What do you think about that?”
And now Freeman pulled himself up to his feet, feeling suddenly giddy. “My, darling. I am no more the Messiah than your poor friend Durango. In fact,” and now he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “I am quite certain there is no God, no Holy Spirit, no resurrected Son. Just science. But don’t underestimate the redemptive power of science. I have data evidencing this power. I have photographs and letters. I could show them all to you.”
The girl smiled. “I’d like to see whatever you want to show me.” Then she stuck out her skinny hand for Freeman to shake. “My name’s Scent.”
“Scent. That’s an interesting name. My name is Dr. Walter Freeman. It’s a pleasure.”
“Yes,” she said. “A pleasure.” For a long moment they stared at each other in silence. Then Scent wiped a wisp of hair from her face and slowly licked her upper lip. “Say, this may sound strange, but would you like to get a soda with me? I could treat.”
Freeman glanced at his pocket watch. He thought about Edgar, who would certainly be sleeping. He touched Scent’s shoulder and said, “That would be fine. But I’m afraid I don’t much care for soda. How about dinner instead? And it would be my treat, of course. Psychosurgery has been quite profitable for me!”
Not a lot of cuisine choices in Burnwood, so they made their way to Coco’s Diner. This evening the place was crowded, much more so than when Freeman and Edgar had eaten here. Old men with enormous beer guts, ladies with hairdos a few years out of style, blue-collar workers with flannels and work boots. Just about every table was filled.
The same skinny redheaded waitress sat them down in a booth and winked at Freeman. “Made a friend, huh, Doctor?”
Freeman’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tensed. “A friend? Yes. Her name is Scent.”
“Sure, I know Scent. Scent has a lot of friends, don’t you, dear?”
At this Scent scowled. “It ain’t like that,” she said. “Me and the doctor are just here to talk. Now what kind of pie you got back there?”
“Cherry and apple.”
“I’ll get two pieces of cherry. And a chicken-fried steak. And a milk shake.”
“Big eater! What about you, Doctor?”
“Just a cup of coffee and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Thank you, my dear.”
While the food was being prepared, they talked about the town and the weather and her boyfriend.
It wasn’t until the food had come and she’d finished her steak and milk shake and was stuffing her face with the first piece of cherry pie that she mentioned her mother. Freeman felt a stab of disappointment. Of course that’s why she’d befriended him. What other possible reason could there be?
“She’s a crazy one, my mother. Hasn’t left the shack in years. Wears the same yellowed wedding dress day after day. Waiting for my father to come home, even though he left us a long time ago, even though he ain’t coming back. You think she’s crazy a little, Doctor?”
Freeman scooped some sugar in his coffee and took a swallow before wiping his mouth daintily with a napkin. “Certainly eccentric. Certainly heartbroken. But every one of us ritualizes pointless behavior. Case in point: each morning we wake up.” He smiled broadly, but Scent didn’t seem to understand his humor.
She spoke with her cheek full of pie. “My mom don’t do nothing to make our lives better. So it’s up to me to get money for us to live.”
“I see. And how do you do that?”
That mischievous little smile and Freeman decided it was the prettiest smile he’d seen all year. “I’ve got a business. It pays the bills.”
“Interesting. What kind of a business?”
Scent licked cherry filling from her upper lip and gazed into Freeman’s gray eyes. “A screwing business.”
Freeman cleared his throat, looked away. “Yes, then,” he said. “We have to earn a living somehow. I avoid judgment, my darling.”
“Mighty kind of you, Doctor. Now about my mother—”
“You’d like me to operate on her. You’d like me to lobotomize her.”
Scent winked. “You’re a smart one, Doctor.”
Freeman gazed at the young woman for a long time, nodding his head absently. The waitress returned, said, “Anything else?”
“Just a check.” Then, looking at Scent, “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
The rain had stopped, but the streets were wet and blurrily reflected the street lamps. Freeman buried his free hand in his pocket and regarded the girl from the corner of his eye. Such a pretty, pretty girl.
They walked in silence through the town quiet and empty. She was just a kid, but Freeman felt the sudden desire to converse with her, to express his hopes, his fears. He hadn’t been able to do that in a long, long time. Not since his son died. Not since his wife turned her back on him.
“The truth is,” he said suddenly, “I’ve had a very difficult day.”
“Yeah? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And it gets you to thinking. What if all of this—my life pursuit—has been a mistake? What if I’m not saving, but destroying? What if?”
Scent didn’t say anything, but she placed her child’s hand on his arm, just for a moment, before removing it.
“Death is a risk,” Freeman said. “More than a hundred times, I’ve hung my head at those moments. And each and every time I’ve told the family members face-to-face. Some doctors send an underling to do their dirty work. Not me. I always faced them. Because I owed them that much.”
Freeman stopped for a moment, pulled out a cigar from his jacket and lit it. When he sucked in the smoke, his eyes narrowed, and the end of the cigar burned orange.
“But what always disturbed me was how often the families were glad to hear about the death. Oh, they rarely said so much, and they often shed tears, but I could sense what they were feeling, could sense the relief. A burden lifted, understood? Indeed, I have no doubt that a good many of the husbands and wives and daughters and sons that hired me weren’t looking for a fix. They were hoping for a hemorrhage.”
“Oh, Doctor. That’s…that’s terrible.”
Freeman stopped and faced Scent. “Tell me. Why do you want me to perform this lobotomy?”
“To help her. To make her better.”
Freeman sucked in some more smoke before spitting out a piece of tobacco. Then he grabbed Scent’s hand and got so close he could smell her foul breath. “Try again. Why do you want me to perform this lobotomy?”
> “I told you. To make her better.”
Freeman squeezed Scent’s hand, causing her to wince. “Tell me the truth, Scent. That’s what I want.”
Scent looked away. “She’s got money,” she said, under her breath.
“Money, huh?”
She tried pulling her hand away, but Freeman’s grip was firm.
“It’s hidden. Only she knows where it is. But she won’t tell. I figured with a lobotomy that she—”
Freeman laughed and released his grip. “You think your mother, delusional about her ex-husband, is telling the truth about a hidden fortune?”
“Yes, I—”
“Maybe I should operate on you, instead.”
Scent jerked her head back and spat a good one into Freeman’s face, splattering his cheek and glasses. Momentarily stunned, he released her hand and wiped off his face with his sleeve, then removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Scent charged ahead. Freeman, gripping his cane, limped behind her, trying unsuccessfully to catch up.
“Wait,” he shouted. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me.”
Scent stopped walking but didn’t turn around. After a few moments, Dr. Freeman caught up to her. They were on the edge of town, the only light coming from the refinery.
“I shouldn’t have said that. Humor gone afoul. Like I said—it’s been a difficult day.”
Scent shook her head. “You don’t know what it’s been like for me.”
“Tell me.”
“Living on peanuts. Screwing perverts for a living. Knowing that fortune and freedom could be mine. But having it just out of my reach.”
“A fortune won’t provide happiness. I can assure you that, young lady.”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. “What does a lobotomy feel like, Doctor?”
Freeman blinked a few times. His head was spinning. He was a doctor. He’d never even met her mother. It would be unprofessional to allow this girl to manipulate him into performing surgery…
“There are no nerve endings in the brain. Therefore—”
“I could give you some of the money, Doctor. I don’t need much. Only enough to get out of here…”
A quick shake of the head and Freeman said, “I’m not looking for money, darling.” And at that point he could have told her no. He could have walked away. But he didn’t. “I’ll pay your mother a visit. Certainly. Perhaps fortune and freedom will be yours after all.”
Freeman could see Scent’s shoulders heaving up and down, her mouth stretched into that mischievous grin. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
And the earth kept dying.
Chapter 22
Down by the river, in a little shotgun shack, Grady Holland was sitting on a whiskey barrel, chewing leaf tobacco, cutting an apple with a knife, and reading Kierkegaard’s philosophy on evil (understood theologically as not simply a moral-religious conundrum, but a radical position of insubordination against the possibility of authentic selfhood) when the telephone rang.
He stuck the receiver to his ear, said, “Hello,” and then sat silently for another minute or two, nodding his head, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, we’ll be there,” he grunted and hung up the phone.
He rose from the whiskey barrel, swallowed down some tobacco juice, and placed his Kierkegaard volume back on the bookshelf. They made fun of him, most of the guys at the rendering plant, for reading such high-minded stuff, but he didn’t want his brain to turn to mush like the rest of them. Converse with his co-workers for any length of time and you’d feel like you were back in junior high—only subjects spoken about being drugs, fucking, and baseball. Not that he had a problem with drugs, fucking, and baseball, but he didn’t want to limit himself. He hadn’t gotten past high school even, so he was making up for lost time. Kant, Locke, Aquinas, Nietzsche, he’d read them all, but he didn’t connect with anybody like Kierkegaard. Probably because he preached about personal choice and commitment. He wasn’t a prisoner to destiny.
The twins, Vlad and Kaz, were in the kitchen, shirtless, eating their morning slop. No words, only animalistic grunts.
Grady pounded on the counter with the palm of his hand. Neither of them paid any mind. “Listen up, boys,” he said, moving toward the table. “That sheriff of ours just called and said he’s got some information about what happened to Dale. Gonna meet him at the old toy store, you hear? Stuff your faces and then let’s get a move on.”
Vlad looked up, his eye patch slipped down showing the grotesqueness of a past jail yard fight. “We should bring our machetes, big brother?”
A bleach-white grin from Grady. “Well, sure. Why the hell not?”
They lived right across the street from the railroad tracks in a worn-down shack just like all the rest of them. A mile from the refinery and not much more than that to the abandoned toy store, which was a good thing since Grady didn’t have a car on account of the bank repossessing it. A ’44 Packard Phantom he’d saved up for six years to buy. Snatched away, just like that. You ever seen a banker man with a grin-like slit across his throat? Soon, Mr. Edwards, soon.
They walked without much conversation. No Kierkegaard for the twins. Too dumb, the both of them. Oh, sure, occasionally Vlad showed some signs of astuteness, but those moments were always mitigated by acts of stupidity like when he’d stolen Mitch Goddard’s motorcycle or skinned Doris Lemming’s cat. They usually went easy on Vlad and the other boys on account that people were scared of Grady, which was funny because he’d hardly ever hurt anybody unless there was real cause. A pacifist at heart, although even a pacifist has his limits.
The toy store was long since shut down and was inside an abandoned brick building at the edge of town. It was one story and most of the windows were shattered. The door was rotted wood and covered with illegible graffiti. Inside, the floors were concrete with several metallic beams rising to the ceiling. The place was overflowing with mangled and broken toys. Trucks and teddy bears and whiffle bats and plastic guns. On the fall wall, a row of shattered dolls grinning horribly. Purgatory for children.
Sheriff Barton sat on a destroyed couch, chewing on an unlit cigar. Grady Holland, his brothers closely behind, walked slowly forward, his arms folded over his chest.
“How you doin’ there, Sheriff? It’s been a while.”
Barton tapped his fingers on the couch, eyes focusing on the machetes. “I’m doing just fine. Can’t say I missed you, Grady. And what’s with those big ol’ knives? Your brothers planning on exploring the Amazon?”
“Ain’t illegal to carry machetes, is it?”
Barton shook his head. “No, sir. In fact, I’d say every responsible citizen should be carrying one at all times. Common sense, you know?”
Grady spat on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Funny man, Sheriff. But let’s talk business. You said you know who killed our brother.”
“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”
“Well, then?”
Barton pulled out a book of matches from his shirt pocket and lit his cigar before waving out the match. “I do plan on telling you, Grady. Sure I do. But tell me this. I understand you and the boys been wandering around Burnwood knocking on each and every whore and pimp’s door, making unruly threats. Even cutting up a few of them.”
Vlad and Kaz took a few steps forward, eyeing the sheriff, machetes dangling from hands. Barton fingered the edge of his holster and grinned.
“Just having conversations is all,” Grady said. “Figure if you fellows downtown won’t do your job, then we will.”
Barton took a few more quick puffs of his cigar, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“Well, sure. I can see that. Taking matters into your own hands. But here’s the thing, and you might find this hard to believe. Every now and then, when I ain’t too busy drinking or whoring, I actually do a little detective work. Taxpayer money and all that. And your brother…hell of a thing. The way he was killed. Probably suffered a good deal. So I imagine there’s a little bit of de
sire to take punishment into your own hands as well. Am I correct?”
“There’s no joy in revenge, Sheriff.”
Barton tapped out his ashes into the back of a rusted toy truck and grinned. “No, there ain’t. But sometimes it’s necessary. Family bonds and all.”
“That’s right,” Grady said. “So which one was it? Which one of Burnwood’s whores killed my brother?”
“Now hold on just a second. Like I alluded to, I’ve been hard at work the past several days, interviewing eyewitnesses, dusting for fingerprints. Heck, even did some ballistics. Working my white ass off is what I’ve been doing.”
“You want a goddamn Medal of Honor?”
“What I want,” Barton said, pausing to puff on his thick cigar, “is some compensation. I got hungry mouths to feed, you know?”
Vlad and Kaz both grunted. Grady just shook his head. “You think we have any money lying around to pay you? You’re nuts.”
“Don’t have to be money, necessarily.”
Now Vlad spoke up, said, “We got moonshine. In the basement. Plenty of it. Me and Kaz been making some. Tastes better than rubbing alcohol.”
Barton looked at Vlad for a long moment, brushed a strand of gray hair back to its proper place. “Now you’re thinking. Moonshine, huh? I do like my moonshine. Get me five or six pints, can you?”
Grady chuckled. “Yeah, boss. We can do that for you.”
Barton leaned back in the filthy couch, placing his hands behind his head. “Like I said. I did a lot of legwork. Spoke to the Lullaby Motel manager. Fellow by the name of Smith or Jones or something. He remembers your brother coming in that day. Also remembers glancing out the window and seeing a woman in his car. Didn’t know for sure who it was—his window was a bit filthy, but when I showed him some pictures, he pointed her out without hesitation. Also, we got matching ballistics to another murder last year. Fellow by the name of Tom Hartwood. We only had a couple of suspects for that murder. Never did find enough proof. But one of the suspects in that case was the very same woman that motel manager fingered. Girl by the name of Scent Wallis. Know her?”
