Factory Town

by Jon Bassoff

  I couldn’t remember when or where the photograph was taken, but I remembered the photograph itself. My eyes scanned the walls and I saw other photographs, photographs of me, photographs of my family. And then I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling and saw the familiar floral tile pattern, and for the first time I realized that I was in the house of my childhood. I had not recognized the house because it was in such disrepair, but now things were clearer and memories started flooding back. The hours playing with my prized superhero action figures, climbing up walls, destroying the evil around us. Or sitting in the corner of my room, writing adventure stories, illustrating them with stubs of colored pencils. Reading my prized comics: Spiderman and Batman and Superman and The Fantastic Four and… So many hours alone. Because my mother was sick. Because my father… My thoughts were interrupted by more screaming.

  They were coming from the room directly in front of me. Louder than ever. And in between the screams and gasps, cries of help me, help me. I tried twisting the knob but it was locked, so I pounded on the door again and again, until my hands were raw. No answer, only more screaming. This much was clear: nobody would help this woman, nobody but me. They’d just as soon let her die. I started kicking, but the door was heavy and didn’t budge. I felt helpless. I kicked some more, pounded some more, shouted, Are you okay in there? Hang in there, you hear me?

  Time passed and my voice was hoarse and my hands were bleeding and the screaming continued. They’d let her die. That’s the way things were in Factory Town.

  One more kick and the door flew open, slamming against the interior wall. Breathing hard, I stepped inside the room, badly cluttered with clothes and bottles and prescription vials. There was splintered furniture covered with music boxes and magazines, and antique dolls staring at me with dead eyes. On the walls, paintings of desert landscapes and a Thomas Kincaid calendar from long ago. The window was open and the white curtain was whipping around in a great panic.

  On the bed was a man with enormous girth, belly bulging, thinning black hair combed back into an attempted pompadour, face red with exertion. And beneath him, a woman, wearing nothing but winter socks, her face bleeding badly, her nose busted beyond repair, eyes as dead as her antique dolls.

  She was in bad shape and she was moaning and crying and the man was fucking her and punching her and strangling her, and she was bound to die if I didn’t step in and help, if I didn’t pull the man off of her body, but I was suddenly paralyzed, couldn’t move at all. Somehow, neither of them had noticed my presence. I tried calling out but could produce no sound other than a strange guttural noise, one that blended in to the moaning and crying and shouting. My muscles had somehow atrophied, and eventually I collapsed to the floor. The man turned the woman over and pushed her face into the pillow. Her back was covered with an enormous tattoo: a magnificent phoenix rising from the ashes, the sun burning brightly behind it. The woman was struggling for air, her arms thrashing wildly, and then he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his lit cigarette and pressed it against the skin on her lower back. Her back arched in pain, but the man shoved her down, gave her another three or four burns before crushing out the cigarette on the wall and tossing it to the ground.

  I was lying on my stomach, my legs all withered away, and in the manner of a wounded soldier I tried pulling myself forward with my arms, but the going was slow. The man sat up in bed, slicked back his hair with a palm-full of Dixie Peach hair pomade, and then placed a tattered cowboy’s hat on his head. He grabbed a bottle of vodka by the neck and swallowed down his fair share, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The woman curled up into a fetal position, the pillow smeared with her blood and tears.

  For a long time they stayed like that, him sitting at the side of the bed drinking vodka and smoking cigarettes, her coiled on top of the blankets, face starting to swell badly.

  After a while he spoke, and his voice was deep and full of gravel. Don’t like doing that, he said, but sometimes I don’t have no choice.

  No answer from the woman, just sobbing.

  He tipped up his cowboy’s hat and nodded. Ed told me you was getting friendly with that boy from the filling station. Said you let him have a feel and a kiss. You’re my wife, damn it, you made certain pledges, certain promises. I don’t like hurting you. But there ain’t no place for whores in this here house. Whores get beat. That’s only fair.

  And then the man rose from the bed and wandered across the room to where a sink was. He turned on the faucet and started scrubbing his hands with a bar of black soap. He scrubbed and he scrubbed until I could see his hands becoming red and raw. This goddamn town, he said. Goddamn factory. Can’t ever get the stink from my hands…

  Meanwhile, I was still on the ground desperately trying to pull myself forward, but now my arms and spine were also going numb, a rotten situation.

  It’s all them chemicals spewing from the factory, the man said. That must be what causes all the insanity and all the awful things that I do. But I never mean to hurt you. You believe me, Nicole, don’t you? You forgive me, don’t you?

  The woman, Nicole, straightened her body and rolled on her back. Her face was a pulpy mess, with the blood and the bruises and the swelling. I forgive you, she said, barely louder than a whisper. Sure, I forgive you. You got mad. We all get mad. But listen to me, Cory Packer. I never fooled around with that boy. I’ve always been true. If Ed told you otherwise then he’s a liar.

  Cory shook his head. Don’t surprise me. Ed, he ain’t nothing but a good ol’ boy. He makes up stories. I shouldn’t have listened to him.

  I never fooled around with that boy, she said again.

  Cory walked across the room, stepping over my outstretched arms, and sat back on the bed. He pulled his wife to a sitting position and then he held her, stroking her dishwater blonde hair and kissing her battered forehead. I ain’t gonna do it again, he said. I ain’t gonna hit you again. Never, ever. You understand that? You believe that?

  They sat like that for a long time, and everything was quiet, and the curtains were swaying, and if you overlooked the blood and bruising and swelling that the man had inflicted upon his wife, they looked the part of domestic tranquility.

  And then my body spasmed back to life, the paralysis over. I got to my hands and knees and started to crawl toward the door. I didn’t notice, however, a broken beer bottle on the floor, and as I moved forward, a shard of glass lodged in the palm of my hand. I gasped in pain. Cory sat up, said, Who the hell is that? Boy, is that you? You in here spying again, you little snot-nosed punk?

  In a great state of panic, I dropped to my stomach, rolled under the bed, and held my breath.

  Cory rose from bed, and I watched as he paced back and forth across the floor. Where are you, boy? I know you’re in here. Come on out so I can kick the goddamn shit out of you! Cursing, he ripped back the curtain and slammed open the closet door and, finally, got down on his hands and knees and peered under the bed, face red and angry, but I had hidden myself well, in the corner, under layers of moth-eaten blankets.

  Nicole’s voice: Please, Cory. Leave him alone. He hasn’t done nothing.

  The hell he hasn’t! We all done something! We’re all sinners in the eyes of the Lord! We’re all sinners in the eyes of me! Come on out, boy! Where you hiding? I know you’re in here somewhere. Come on out so I can show you what I really think of you! You little freak! Wearing that goddamn cape every day. And that goddamn mask. Who you think you gonna save? Huh? Who you think you gonna save? Piece of shit. Piece of miserable shit.

  But after a while, he got tired of searching the room and crawled back into the bed, the mattress sagging beneath his enormous mass. Then he started laughing, loud and mean.

  What’s so funny? Nicole said. Why are you laughing?

  Just a joke I heard once, he said.

  I stayed under the bed for a long time, hours maybe, until finally I heard the old man snoring, dead to the world. I crawled out from beneath the bed and rose to m
y feet, head foggy and hands trembling.

  The man, Cory, was sound asleep, eyes rolled back into his head, jaw slack, but his wife, Nicole, was still awake. Our eyes met, and her mouth opened as if she was going to say something, but then she just shook her head and closed her eyes. Her hand softly rubbed her belly, a slight bulge there. Feeling good and sick, I walked out of the room, shutting the door gently behind me.

  CHAPTER 6

  I walked through the hallway of my childhood house and down the staircase. The band had stopped playing and the party was slowing down. On a corner couch, an old man with a porkpie hat and three fingers on his right hand drank a mint julep, while a young woman with bubblegum pink hair and an argyle sweater sat on his lap. A woman with insane eyes magnified through Coke-bottle glasses sat on the floor mourning the loss of something. A businessman with his toupee askew paced the floor searching for his dignity and his car keys. A couple of identical Hispanic girls were leaning against the wall, whispering and giggling behind their hands. And Charlie Gardner, my childhood friend, was standing in the middle of the floor, lips spread in a wide grin. Well, there you are, buddy boy, he said. I was beginning to worry about you. Everything okay with that woman? That fellow Corey Packer is one mean bastard, isn’t he? I would have liked to have helped you back there, but you know how things are. Well, what you say we head back to my place and get some shuteye? You gotta be well-rested if you’re gonna find that missing girl, don’t you think?

  I couldn’t argue with him. As we walked out the door, the band started playing again and it was Love Me Tender and Elvis was dead.

  * * *

  The night had gotten colder and the snow was falling, whipped around by gusts of wind. We walked in silence, our shoes crunching on the dirt and snow. When I glanced back, I saw that the house was dark. The party was over. I wondered if the woman, Nicole, was okay. A man hits you once, he’ll hit you again.

  I don’t live far away, Charlie said, and we continued walking.

  We walked through the neighborhood of ranch houses and chain link fences. Ghostly faces peered out from behind foggy windows, the occasional blue light of a television flickering behind them. And a few windows were open, and I could hear furtive whisperings and murmurs. The air was cold, and my lungs burned.

  We walked for some time, and the moon vanished behind a blackened cloud. Up ahead, in an open field, the headlights of a long American car shone, illuminating an old man in a pea coat and red scarf digging a hole with a shovel. There was no one else around.

  What’s this guy doing? I said.

  Charlie grabbed my arm. Leave it alone. Best mind your own business in this town.

  But I was hearing that sentiment too much. Ignoring Charlie, I walked toward the glare of the headlights, stood next to the car, which was still running, humming softly. The old man looked up, his face ashen, his gray hair splayed wildly. For a while we just stared at each other, his blue eyes shining like a feral cat. Then he looked back down and continued digging. And as he dug, it occurred to me that I knew this man, that I knew everybody in this town, though I’d never been here, though I was a stranger, only searching for the girl, my lovely Alana.

  He was old and feeble and was having great difficulty digging through the frozen ground. I took a few steps forward. The old man grunted, pointed at another shovel lying on the ground, said, Watcha waiting for, boy? I could sure use some help.

  He bent down and picked up the second shovel, tossed it at my feet. The blade was dull and rusted, the handle splintered. I picked it up. My brain felt sick, vile thoughts crawling around like cockroaches.

  I didn’t ask questions, just started digging. The old man didn’t help. He leaned against the hood of his car and greedily sucked a cigarette. Charlie, what had happened to Charlie? It didn’t matter. I worked hard, jamming the blade into the frigid ground, tossing the dirt aside. I don’t know why. Faster and faster I worked while the old man watched and the moon reappeared then shattered into a million pieces, scattered around my feet.

  He ain’t here yet, the old man said, but it’s only a matter of time. Just need some mortician’s wax to fill the wound.

  I didn’t look up, just kept digging.

  Shot himself with a pistol. Stuck the barrel to his temple and fired. 3200 feet per second. Past hair, skin and muscle. Gun smoke and powder burning his flesh. Shrapnel in his skull.

  The wind was whipping angrily and I could hear a murder of crows roosting in a nearby tree. My muscles were aching and I was sweating despite the cold.

  But I guess he’s lucky. If he’d shot himself in the heart it would’ve taken some time. Could’ve uttered last words, spent some time thinking about his predicament. But not this fellow. Just a fragment of a second. An explosion of nerve cells and synapses. A lifetime of memories splattered on the hardwood floor.

  One thing was certain: The man was eccentric, crazy maybe. I didn’t respond to his ramblings.

  It was backbreaking work, digging this hole. Time passed, an hour or more, and I’d barely made a dent, maybe gotten two feet down, two feet wide. I looked up at the old man. He was nibbling from a bottle of bourbon, a crooked grin on his face. Keep going, he said. You’re doing a hell of a job.

  I shook my head in disgust, spat on the dirt. The ground is too hard, I said. We need to wait until it warms up some.

  Can’t afford to wait. Gotta have a grave to put him in. Gotta show a little respect. Don’t want the Vultures to get him.

  I jammed my shovel in the ground, left it upright. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you anymore. I’ve gotta get some rest. I’m in the midst of an important investigation. You see, I’m looking for this girl and her name—

  The old man interrupted me. I know about the girl. Everybody knows about the girl.

  But how…

  You should see Miguel Romero. Some people say he can heal the sick. Some people say he can raise the dead. Some people say he’s the Messiah. Surely he can find the little girl for you. Surely…

  At that moment, Charlie appeared from behind a tree. In his right hand he held an enormous crow, good and dead. He tossed it toward the old man, said, You can bury this bird in the meantime. The poor thing musta ate itself to death.

  The old man picked up the bird and studied it. Strange things are happening, he said. It’s because of the factory. All them chemicals leaking into the town’s hippocampus…

  * * *

  Charlie and I kept walking, but his house wasn’t close like he’d said. Three miles, maybe more, but it was hard to say because it seemed like we were walking in circles; I kept seeing the same run-down houses and wrecked cars, the same nightmare trees, branches gnarled and crooked. Charlie walked quickly, and I had a hard time keeping up with him.

  As we walked through the cold night, I pulled out the photograph and studied it again compulsively, looking for a clue or for inspiration, anything that would push me closer to learning her whereabouts. The man. I gazed at the man, barely visible. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity spread through my consciousness. I knew this man, I was sure of it. But how? Had I seen him in Factory Town, in passing maybe, a stranger whose eyes met mine for a moment before ducking into some filthy alley? The problem was my senses, my memory. I couldn’t trust them; lack of sleep had made them unreliable, prone to illusion…

  I heard Charlie’s voice, calling out to me. He was up ahead a ways, leaning against an ancient oak tree, blowing into a harmonica, playing an old blues song I’d heard in another life:

  My girl, my girl, where will you go

  I’m going where the cold wind blows

  In the pines, in the pines

  Where the sun don’t ever shine

  I would shiver the whole night through

  * * *

  I stood next to him, puffing tendrils of frigid air. He stuck the harmonica into his pocket and grinned. We’re almost there, he said. I miscalculated how long it would take. You doing okay there, buddy boy?

  I’m doing fine,
I said, but we’ve been walking a long time. Do you mind if we sit, just for a minute?

  Not at all.

  We sat down beneath the oak tree, and somewhere in the distance I heard a train whistle blowing, all twisted from the wind, and suddenly I felt scared, overwhelmingly so, but of what, but of who?

  Charlie pulled out a bag of leaf chewing tobacco and offered me a dip. I refused and he shrugged and then stuck a big wad in between his right cheek and lower gum. He spat a stream of brown juice on the ground and wiped his mouth with his forearm. In the faint light of the moon, his face looked gaunt, sunken, bleach white.

  And this town, this land, he said, is a place of darkness.

  It was a strange thing to say, uttered without context, but I accepted his comment in silence.

  He continued: My mother, she’s very sick. She doesn’t have long to live. Still, she’d like to see you.

  Yes, I said. I’d like to see her, too.

  You won’t recognize her, I’m afraid. She’s stopped eating. It’s her way of revenge, I suppose.

  I felt a wave of exhaustion, physically, emotionally, mentally, and I closed my eyes. I just needed some sleep, a small respite, then I could continue the investigation. I slumped down on the cold ground, using a rock for a pillow and the wind for my blanket. I began drifting, drifting, feeling the sweet numbness of slumber enveloping my body…

  Charlie shook my shoulders. C’mon fellow, he said, don’t give up now. My house is just up ahead.