by Jon Bassoff
My eyes opened but I didn’t speak; I was too tired to say another word.
It’s right there, he said, pointing straight ahead. I pulled myself to a sitting position and stared in the direction he was pointing. Indeed, less than a hundred yards away, there was a small house, a shack really, nestled in a crown of trees.
And just beyond the shack, I could see the white farmhouse from which we’d just come.
CHAPTER 7
The inside of the shack was strange. The floors were covered with green felt, and the chairs were all mismatched, Mexican style. On the walls were photographs of insects: jewel beetles, peacock swallowtails, dobsonflies. And in the corner of the room, in a large aquarium, a snapping turtle, its skin a sickly yellow.
Get you something to drink, pal? Charlie asked, his smile as wide as ever.
I shook my head. No, thanks. I just need to sleep.
Sure, sure, I understand. Like I said, you’ll be sharing a room with my mother. She’s very sick. Stopped eating. But don’t worry, she won’t bother you. She just sleeps all day, hardly moves. You won’t hardly recognize her, Russell. It’s a shame, don’t you think? God can be cruel.
He showed me where the bathroom was, handed me a beach towel in case I needed to shower, then took me to his mother’s room. It was small: more like a closet than a bedroom, but each of the walls was mirrored, making the room seem infinite. There were no windows, of course, and no furniture other than the single bed in the middle of the room, covered with a heap of blankets, Charlie’s diseased mother hidden beneath.
Well, this is it, he said. It’s not much, I know, but at least you’ll have a place to lay your head…
I shook my head. Well, it’s fine, I said, only it doesn’t look like there is any place for me to sleep. I mean, there’s only one bed.
Charlie smiled. No need to be modest, buddy. You can share it with my mother. She won’t bother you. She won’t even move, I bet.
Charlie, I don’t know…
It would mean a lot to her, Russell. Just to have a warm body next to her. She doesn’t have long to live, you know.
I sighed and nodded my head. I was too tired to argue. Okay, I said. Okay.
Thanks, buddy. You’ll sleep like a log. It’s a waterbed. You like waterbeds?
Yeah, sure…
That’s great, buddy. And then tomorrow, you’ll be well rested and you can continue your investigation. Alana is her name, right? Yes, yes, we’ll find her. I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding. I’m sure she’s safe. There’s a guy you should talk to. He’s the Messiah. No kidding. He’ll know where she is.
And then Charlie was gone, and I stood in the middle of the room, the mirrors causing my reflection to repeat forever. Head spinning, eyes heavy, I managed to stumble to the bed and lie down, still fully clothed. The mattress swayed, but Charlie’s mother, buried under the blankets, didn’t stir. There wasn’t much room on the bed, hardly any at all. I lay on my back, on top of the sheets and blankets, my left arm and left leg dangling over the side of the bed. My body started to relax, just for a moment. Then I realized the lights were still on, bright fluorescent lights. I sighed deeply. I pulled myself out of bed and staggered across the room, but I couldn’t find the light switch anywhere.
This wouldn’t do. I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t do so with the bright lights glaring overhead. I would ask Charlie for assistance. Perhaps the light switch was outside the room. But finding the door proved to be an equally difficult task, the mirrors causing the room to expand and condense, expand and condense. I got frustrated, overwhelmed. It must have been a pathetic sight, me crashing against the walls like a trapped moth, pulling out my hair like a madman. Forgetting the diseased woman lying motionless in the waterbed, I began shouting out for Charlie, pounding on the mirrored walls, my face bug-eyed and panicked, until one of them finally shattered, shards everywhere, causing my hands to bloody. I spotted the door behind the splintered glass, so I stepped out of the room, still calling for Charlie, my childhood friend, but he was nowhere to be found. I wandered to the living area. The front door was wide open, the snow was blowing into the shack, and Charlie had vanished.
Back in the mirrored room, still brightly lit, now freezing cold, and I returned to the bed and burrowed under the covers, shivering badly. I could feel her body, cold, dead perhaps, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will sleep to come, but my mind was deteriorating due to the fumes from the factory…
For hours I lay in bed, next to this strange woman, and she didn’t move, didn’t move at all. And just when I’d decided to get out of bed and break out of this strange little house, just when I’d decided that this insomnia was an incurable disease, I felt her move, felt her touch my arm, and I gasped.
She pulled the covers down slowly, and, in fear, I toppled out of bed and came crashing to the hardwood floor. I sat on my haunches, heart beating rapidly. Wheezing heavily, she managed to pull herself to an upright position and then sat there leaning against the headboard, staring at me behind black eyes sunken in yellowed skin. Her face was that of a skeleton, her body that of a corpse. Her hair was steely gray.
After a few moments, she turned her gaze toward the shattered mirror, her reflection a Picasso painting. Then she reached across to the nightstand and grabbed a brush. With long, sweeping motions she began brushing her hair. I watched her from the floor, with that familiar feeling of dread. And as she brushed, I noticed that the hair was falling out in clumps.
You must be one of Charlie’s friends, she said.
Yes. I didn’t mean to intrude. I only needed a place to sleep and he said I could—
Did he tell you that I was sick?
I nodded my head. Yes, he did.
Well, he’s wrong. I’m not sick. It’s my husband. He’s a wicked person. He’s paranoid. So he beats me. He poisons me. He caused a miscarriage. I’ve had enough. I’m ready to die. So I’ve stopped eating. It’s the best way, really. Look at me. I’m just a skeleton. Not much more.
I shook my head in disbelief. You’re talking about Charlie’s father? But he’s such a well-respected member of society. Hardly an ill word spoken about him. I have a hard time believing he’d do those things.
But it’s true. He’s a monster. A tormenter. Don’t let his charming exterior fool you. If you had an ounce of mercy you would slit his throat. I would be ever so thankful. I could repay you somehow. I am still a woman after all.
That’s crazy, I said. I’ve never even—
It wouldn’t be difficult. They’d never suspect you…
No. I’m not killing anybody. I’m a protector, not a killer.
What’s the matter? she said. Don’t you care about me, Russell? Don’t you think I’m pretty?
I was taken off guard. I nodded my head slowly. I studied her face, her eyes, trying to recall, just trying to recall. She had once been beautiful, so beautiful that I almost believed in God, but beauty falls apart, just like everything, rusts and rots, disintegrates and deteriorates. Skin peels back and reveals bleach-white bones, nothing more, and all of our laughter is buried beneath the dirt, listen closely. Yes, I said. I think you’re pretty. Of course I do.
She gazed at me for a long time and a sad smile spread across her face. I know you’re lying, of course I do. But sometimes lies can be the kindest words of all, don’t you think?
And then the tears came. She tried shielding her face from me, but the walls were all mirrored and there was no hiding. I placed my arms around her wasted body and said, Don’t cry, ma’am, please don’t cry. Not now. Not yet.
I can’t help it, she said. I hurt all over.
And so we lay there together, and I could feel the rats eating worms from my skull, and she was wasting away, a protest against the world.
Why don’t you leave? I finally whispered. Get out of Factory Town.
No. It’s too late. Where would I go?
It doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here. Somewhere far away.
Charl
ie’s mother wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled a sad smile. I can’t leave, she said. You know that. Nobody can leave.
What are you talking about?
The guards. They protect the perimeter of Factory Town. And they’ll shoot down anybody who tries to leave.
I shook my head. I think you’re mistaken. I just arrived here. I didn’t see any guards. I’m sure I would have noticed.
The guards are there. Everybody says so. And besides—she pulled down the covers below her knees—my husband has seen to it that I’ll never leave this town.
I gazed down in disbelief. The bile rose in my throat. Both her legs ended in grotesque stumps, the result of a saw or a hatchet.
Jesus Christ. He did this?
She nodded her head. So I couldn’t run.
I can save you, I said. Maybe that’s what I’m here for. By killing him, huh? Just by killing him? Maybe I could. Maybe…
Charlie’s mother thought things over for a few moments. Then she shook her head. No, Russell. I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t have it in you. I can see that now. And that’s a good thing. He’s a monster. You’re something better. You’re not like him. So just leave me be. That’s the best thing you can do. Factory Town isn’t forever.
I shook my head. I could save you both. If I just believe. If I just believe hard enough.
Stop. Please. It’s too late for that.
But—
No. Leave me be. And leave her be, too.
There was no use arguing with her. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes, heavy with exhaustion. I fell asleep for no more than a minute; the digital clock, stuck on 11:57, didn’t change. But when I opened my eyes the old woman was gone.
I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. This goddamn town, I whispered. Then, instinctively, I touched my temple with my fingers before bringing them in front of my eyes.
They were covered with fresh blood.
CHAPTER 8
Mrs. Gardner had said the world would be a better place without her husband. But I knew better.
The world would only be a better place without every damn one of us.
Outside, and the sun and moon were both hanging low in the sky. The air was cold and everything smelled like smoke. I started walking and, in addition to the wound on my temple, felt a dull ache in my stomach. Other than my forced feeding of raw ostrich meat, I hadn’t had a bite to eat since my arrival.
I wandered through the neighborhoods, uncertain of which direction to walk, searching for the factory smokestacks to guide me back to town. Abandoned houses, junkyard cars. Not a soul in sight.
I buried my hands in my pocket and walked along the yellowed sidewalk, weeds and brown grass pushing through the cracks. And then I heard the sounds of footsteps behind me. Whipping my head around, I spotted the figure of a man, gaining ground quickly. He had silver hair slicked straight back and wore a white suit, all spattered with red mud. And now he was waving his arms frantically, trying to get my attention, but I ignored him, continued walking. I couldn’t have any more distractions, any more interruptions. I needed to find my way back to town, get some food, maybe some sleep, and then continue my search.
And so I quickened my pace, but then he took up a full sprint, shouting out, Russell Carver, I need to speak to you! Russell Carver! I stopped and turned, waited for the strange man to catch up.
His face was red and bloated, broken capillaries covering his cheeks, and he was wheezing badly. In his right hand he clutched a thick book, the cover leather and worn.
Russell Carver, he said again. I’ve been searching for you. Since your arrival. They wanted me to talk to you. I felt it was unnecessary. But they insisted. You are not an easy man to find, Russell Carver. I figured you’d be in the factory, earning a living like the rest of us. But you never showed up. You never clocked in. I should know. I stood there by the timecards all day yesterday. But you never came. Yes, indeed, you are a hard man to find!
I was shaken by his rambling. Who are you? I said.
Yes, yes. Terribly sorry. How rude of me. Michael Fennington. I work for the Cowboy. His secretary of sorts, I guess you could say.
The Cowboy?
Certainly.
I’m sorry, I said, but I don’t know who the Cowboy is. That is, I’ve heard his name mentioned but…
Fennington looked at me with a bemused expression. Then he nodded his head. Of course, he said. I forget that you are only a visitor. I forget that you don’t know the ins and outs of Factory Town. We don’t have a traditional municipality here. No mayor. No court system. No jails. You see, Mr. Carver, we have our own way of dealing with problems, our own way of dealing with troublemakers. And the Cowboy, he oversees the entire operation. A great deal of respect he has earned for his leadership. Bringing various factions together at the bargaining table. Searching for common ground while holding steadfast to his principles. A true visionary. A true American. In fact, it was he who authored the Book of Edicts.
The Book of Edicts?
Yes, sir. And it might do you some good to read it. To help you understand.
I felt my irritation, my frustration beginning to boil. I don’t have time to read your laws, I said. I have important business here; that is finding the girl, Alana.
Yes, yes, of course. Alana. So sad that she’s gone missing. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.
We were now standing face to face, the trees swaying menacingly, the sky gunmetal gray.
Okay, I said. Talk.
But perhaps in a different setting? Perhaps in my car? I could give you a ride back to town. You seem to have lost your way.
I thought things over for a minute. Fine, I said. I could certainly use a lift.
He led me away from the sidewalk and down a dirt alleyway where his car was parked, an old ’58 Packard, jet black. He opened the passenger side door for me, gestured with his hand, and I slid inside, the seats white vinyl. Then he got in the car, slicked back his hair with his palm, and hit the engine.
And so we drove. The music played softly, Bing Crosby, and Fennington puffed on a Fatima cigarette. I rolled down the window, despite the cold, trying to breathe in fresh air. There were no other cars driving on the street, although there were quite a few of them abandoned on the side of the road, a few of them on fire.
Miles and miles of asphalt, and Fennington’s leathery face became more and more brooding. When Fennington spoke, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. The Cowboy, he said, is very interested in you.
Interested in me?
Indeed. He thinks you can be of great help in finding the girl, Alana. Yes, he’s quite interested in her safe return.
But the way he said it gave me chills. I breathed deeply, gripped the seat cushion. What does the Cowboy care about the girl for? I asked.
Oh, he cares about every little girl and every little boy in town. A kind-hearted man is he. But more importantly, he has a great interest in lawfulness and order. Her disappearance has caused great agitation.
At this, I shrugged my shoulders. Unfortunately, I said, I can’t help you. I’ve been looking, but I don’t know where she is. And nobody in this town seems willing or able to help.
Yes, yes. I share your frustrations. We don’t have many leads ourselves. But the Cowboy wanted me to reach out to you, wanted to make sure we are all on the same page. United we stand and so forth.
I understand.
No, he said, I don’t think you do. Her safe recovery is crucial for the future of Factory Town. If we can’t find her, then…
He stopped talking and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a stack of green, secured by a black rubber band. He tossed it on my lap.
What the hell is this?
Five thousand dollars, he said.
I picked it up, but didn’t say anything.
Keep the money. Buy yourself something nice. Some new clothes. A new whore. Meanwhile, keep looking for the girl. Whe
n you find her, bring her to me. I’m staying at the Lullaby Motel, right across from the abandoned drive-in theatre. Then you’ll get ten more. Tax free, of course.
This doesn’t make any sense. This…
Suddenly, he stopped the car. He said: I’m afraid this is as far as I can take you. You need to get out now. We were in the middle of nowhere, wheat fields swaying all around.
You said you would take me back to town.
I’m sorry, but we can’t be seen together. You’ll find your way. I have great confidence in you, Russell. The Cowboy has great confidence in you.
* * *
And so I staggered through the wheat fields and I had five thousand dollars and a picture of a girl, not much else. Everything was wrong. My temple was throbbing. I touched the skin; the wound had reopened and my fingers were once again bloody. I needed to see a doctor or maybe a mortician…
The weather changed quickly. Lightning flashed from every direction, illuminating the sky, and the rain fell in torrents, sheets and sheets crashing to the ground. A thousand crows flew across the sky, the next great plague. And somewhere in the distance, buried beneath the soaked dirt, the sound of muffled screaming, the dead having their way with the living.
And then the lightning ceased and the rain turned to snow. At first it was soft and slow and brought memories of childhood, but then the gods decided to teach me a lesson or two, and it turned into a blizzard, visibility gone quickly. Only a few minutes and the snow was nearly up to my knees. I could barely walk. I breathed deeply, felt the coldness on my skin, the coldness in my soul, and I was miles from town, miles from my childhood home, miles from my wife, my wife, my wife…
Eventually, I could go no farther. The snow began turning red, and I fell to my knees, and then to my face, and then all I heard was strange gypsy music.
* * *
And so it was that I somehow lived, carried through the snow drifts by an immense man who was unable or unwilling to speak, and dropped in the care of Sister Patricia who lived in a tin shack overlooking Factory Town. It was she who nursed me back to health, her face blurry at first, but gradually becoming clearer, the face of an angel despite the scars around her eyes.
