There Is No Wheel

by James Maxey

  As he said the words, he believed them. He didn’t know if it was deduction, intuition, or simply faith, but he felt a powerful calm settle over him. He would probably never know the “why” of God. Why the Rapture? Why take Mary? Why create angels and men and dogs? Why the world? But the how—the how was knowable. Before the detour of this past year, he’d learned with some detail the “how.” He’d thought that angels falsified science. But studying the angel blood on the drywall on the grass, he understood that in their ordinary matter, angels confirmed science as the path to understanding the mind of God.

  “Uncle Luke thinks he’s broken a couple of ribs,” said Rachael, apparently not knowing how to respond to his little epiphany.

  “There’s a hospital in Roanoke,” said Allen. “We can be there in an hour.”

  He stood up and carried the chunk of drywall carefully, hoping not to contaminate it more than it already was. The next step in understanding the angels was beyond Allen’s expertise. But part of the fun of being a scientist was talking to people who knew a lot more than you did about their specialties. In retrospect, he’d botched the autopsy of the angel, big time. If he’d gone to experts, asked for help, who knows what they could have learned? At least he had a shot at redeeming himself. You can collect a lot of DNA from a blood-spattered chunk of drywall.

  He walked toward the truck, Jeremiah limping beside him. Allen knew a vet down the road. Hopefully Luke could survive a detour to drop off Jeremiah. In the battle between man and angel, the dog had made his loyalties clear, and deserved whatever care could be provided.

  Old Man Young already had the truck revved up. It was decided that Luke and Jeremiah would ride in the cab due to their injuries. Allen and Rachael would have to ride on the back. Rachael abandoned the rocking chair and pressed up next to Allen against the cab as the truck began to pitch and sway down the driveway. From the jumbled mounds of gear, she produced a heavy quilt and pulled it over them.

  It was disturbingly intimate, to be sharing a blanket with a woman with whom he’d shared such an adventure. He’d not thought about women at all since Mary was taken. He had a lot on his mind, as he watched his house burn, filling the heavens with a plume of sparks and smoke. He was, in the front of his mind, still trying to figure out what the night’s events meant. But something in the back of his mind was more concerned with whether or not he should put his arm around Rachel, who was leaning her head on his shoulder.

  Rachael, her voice soft and caring said, “I’m sorry about your house.”

  Allen shrugged. It was what it was. He knew, deep in his gut, that the chapter of his life the house represented was over. The house for him represented magical thinking—the notion that there were things that could happen outside the laws of science. He was almost glad to be rid of it.

  “Things will be all right,” he said. To his own ears, his voice was tired and thin, battered by stress and smoke. His lungs felt sandpapered, and his hands were starting to blister. To show that he meant the reassuring words, he put his arm around Rachael, and drew her closer. It felt right. More importantly, the world felt right. The night had brought him a newfound faith in the essential sensibleness of the universe.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Rachael said, her face inches from his.

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you have that circle drawn on your floor?”

  Allen rolled his eyes. “It’ll sound stupid.”

  “What?”

  “I was trying to summon an angel.”

  “Guess it worked,” said Rachael.

  Allen’s mouth went dry. Rachael’s arrival with the cherub had just been a coincidence, hadn’t it? Old Man Young turned the truck onto the road and gunned the engine. Allen pulled the quilt tighter around them, to fend off the chill night air.

  Echo of the Eye

  KIDD PUMPED QUARTER after quarter into the washer at the Laundromat. The humid air was thick with the smell of bleach and Tide. The water in the window of the machine began to churn pink. A career as a butcher had left Kidd unusually skilled at removing blood stains.

  It was after midnight when Jason pulled the RV into Hog Station, NC. This wasn’t Jason’s first trip to this tiny speck on the map. He’d visited two years ago when his father dumped Cassie at Stanley University, the ultra-conservative, unaccredited college that was the town’s second claim to fame. As her father had pushed her out of the car into the arms of a pair of burley advisors she’d screamed at Jason, “When I get home I’ll cut off your dick, traitor!” At least she’d been speaking to him. Cassie had been in a seven-year sulk since their mother died.

  Jason returned to pick her up a year later, when their father passed. She’d ridden home with her eyes firmly fixed out the window and her lips tightly sealed. After the funeral she’d announced she wanted to go back to Hog Station. When he asked her why, she answered, “I like the barbecue.”

  At the time, he assumed Cassie had outgrown her vegetarian phase. When Jason dropped her off in front of her dorm, she’d said, “I’m sorry I threatened you.” Not knowing what to say, he’d laughed uncomfortably and drove away, never guessing it would be the last time he’d see her alive.

  Hog Station hadn’t changed. Main Street was a row of brick shops facing a rusted railroad track. Most of the buildings were boarded up, with only a barber, a barrister, and a butcher still in business. Yet almost all the parking spaces were filled, not something Jason had expected to see at midnight. The roof of the butcher shop flickered with reddish light, as if on fire. Jason pulled the RV to the curb and opened his door. Smoke washed into his vehicle—savory, mouth-watering smoke. The sound of laughter rolled down from above.

  Jason walked to the butcher shop door. Kidd’s Meats, established 1879. This was Hogg Station’s first claim to fame. Word of mouth about the quality of the meat pulled in customers from far and wide. The shop was frequently mentioned on Food Network. Still, Jason hadn’t expected to find the place open at midnight, especially not on the 4th of July. The lights were on but the door was locked. From the roof, someone yelled, “Around back!”

  Jason followed the narrow brick alley to the rear. A police cruiser sat parked next to a dumpster. An iron ladder ran up the two-story building. At the top of the ladder, tiki torches flickered.

  “Come on up,” someone yelled, though he couldn’t see who. He carefully climbed the rusty rungs.

  A crowd was jammed onto the roof, filling four large picnic tables. One table held the ghoulish sight of an entire roasted pig, the flesh of its face half picked away to reveal menacing tusks and vacant eye-sockets.

  “Oh my God,” a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt brayed as he dug into the pig’s eye-socket with a fork. “This meat back here—Christ almighty!”

  A second fat man at the table knocked back a bottle of Cuervo. Jason recognized him even out of uniform—Doc Law, the local sheriff.

  Law wiped his mouth on his forearm and said, loudly, “My friends, in my youth, I traveled Europe. I visited the Sistine Chapel. When I gazed up and beheld that glorious work of Michelangelo, I understood, for the first time in my life, why God had given me eyes. When I journeyed to Vienna and heard Mozart performed in that grand opera house, I understood why God blessed me with ears. And tonight, dear friends, feasting upon this fine swine’s cheek, I glimpse God’s purpose in giving me a tongue.”

  Law’s speech was met with a simple, “Aw, shucks.”

  This was spoken by a man in pirate garb, with a capuchin monkey perched on his shoulder. The sight of the pig had been such a draw to Jason’s eye that he’d missed both pirate and monkey, partially concealed behind a veil of smoke rising from a large coal-filled drum. Sausages sizzled on a grate above the coals. Next to the drum was a pole that held a realistic human rib cage that bore the hand-painted sign “Dead Man’s Chest.”

  The crowd resumed its conversation as Doc Law went back to devouring pork face. Jason walked to the pirate, who offered a friendly, “Ahoy, matey! Aaahrr!”

/>   “Are you William Kidd?” Jason asked.

  “Aye,” Kidd answered in pirate drawl, “Who be ye?”

  “Jason Rogers.” Jason watched Kidd’s face to see if there was any reaction to the name. Perhaps his sister had mentioned him. Kidd showed only a pirate grin.

  “Want a bratwurst, matey?” Kidd asked. “Or would ye rather grab a fork and pull up to the pig?”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen a roasted pig outside of the movies,” Jason said.

  Kidd dropped the pirate accent, and said in a more southern drawl, “I use all the pig but the oink. When you kill a creature, there’s a duty not to be wasteful.”

  “I guess,” Jason said.

  “If there’s any left, you should get some of the meat in the eye-socket. Good eats.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Jason said. “And the sheriff’s. He’s got quite the silver tongue.”

  “When he’s drinking, the former professor comes out.”

  “He used to be a professor?”

  “Taught literature here at Stanley. Got fired after being accused of trading grades for sex. Instead of leaving town in shame, he used his gift for gab to run for sheriff.”

  “Huh,” said Jason. “I met him last year and took him for a redneck with a word-a-day calendar. Guess I shouldn’t judge people by first impressions.”

  “Why not? Saves time.”

  “True,” said Jason. “Now that I’ve met you, I don’t think this trip has been in vain.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m dying, Mr. Kidd,” Jason said. He dug into his pocket and produced a business card for the butcher shop on which they stood. “You might be my last hope.”

  He handed Kidd the business card. Kidd looked down, at his own name and title: William Kidd, Meat Artist. Kidd flipped the card over, revealing a handwritten number.

  “My cell phone, Mr. Kidd,” said Jason. “Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow?”

  “Um,” Kidd said. “If you’re dying, what do you want me for? I’m not a doctor. I’m a butcher.”

  “I know,” said Jason.

  “I don’t think anything waits after we die,” Cassie said.

  Cassie was always blurting out stuff like this. They’d just had sex and she was still tied spread-eagle to the bed. Her proper line of dialogue should’ve been, “That was fantastic!” Kidd would even have been satisfied with, “My arms have fallen asleep.”

  Kidd had been the one doing all the physical work and was exhausted. He decided not to play into her gratuitous weirdness. He grabbed the butcher knife next to the bed and lunged toward her, slashing the cotton rope that bound her right wrist.

  Cassie raised her arm, stretching her fingers.

  “That tingles. I love the sensation.”

  “You can finish the rest.” Kidd placed the knife in her free hand and collapsed next to her, halfway to sleep.

  “My father has probably putrefied,” Cassie said. Her dad had died two months ago. Kidd had never met the man. The main thing he knew was that her father had treated his manic-depressive daughter with prayer instead of Prozac. The result was the strange skinny girl lying next to him. Each time Cassie knocked on his door she sported fresh ink-pen tattoos on paper-white skin. She had skin you could see veins through, stretched over a torso where you could count every rib.

  “Rotting seems wasteful,” she said, dropping the ropes and knife onto the floor. She curled up next to him, not making any contact. “Indians left bodies out to be picked over by buzzards.”

  “Check Gertrude’s food bowl on your way out,” Kidd mumbled.

  “When I die,” Cassie said, “I’d like to donate my body to a restaurant. Get turned into a stew and have my friends over for a feast.”

  Kidd opened his eyes, feeling more alert.

  “You don’t have any friends,” he said.

  A pounding on his door woke Kidd mid-afternoon. He rolled out of bed, his head throbbing. Gertrude stretched beside him, dead to the world. She’d gotten into the piña coladas. Pineapple, coconut, rum—a monkey didn’t stand a chance.

  The pounding continued. Kidd staggered into the living room and yanked the door open.

  Doc Law stood outside, fist raised to knock again. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

  “ ’Sup, Doc,” said Kidd, his tongue thick and sticky.

  “One of my deputies said he spied Jason Rogers in town. That name mean anything to you?”

  Kidd nodded. “He was at the party.”

  “He was? Why didn’t I notice him?”

  “You know him?”

  Law nodded. “Maybe eight months ago, his sister disappeared. That Goth chick. He came down here and wouldn’t leave me alone for a week. He thought she might have been murdered, or worse.”

  “Hmm,” said Kidd. “Well, he’s back.”

  “And at the party?”

  “Not more than ten feet from you. Didn’t stay long.”

  “Damn,” said Law, shaking his head. “Father Time is taking his toll. In my youth, I could drink gallons of Cuervo and retain my acumen. Ten feet, you say?”

  “Yeah. This have anything to do with me?”

  “I didn’t bother you about this at the time, but Rogers had this baseless theory you were involved with his sister’s disappearance. He’d ventured down here to collect her belongings. Took residence at a hotel in Smithfield to search through her stuff. He found one of your business cards.”

  “Half the people in town have those. More than half.”

  “I know. There was also some poetry—though given my knowledge of the literary arts I am loathe to use that word. The writings were of a genre moody young women are inexplicably fond of, bad free verse of the ‘his love consumes me’ type. Morbid-romantic crap, and not a word naming you. It’s all about some shadowy, unnamed ‘He.’ Many would-be poets display a phobia of proper nouns.”

  Kidd closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. Law could meander for hours on poetry. Not believing for a moment it would work, Kidd tried to get Law back on track. “This involves me how?”

  “Jason thought that you were ‘He,’” Doc Law said. “I gave him my professional opinion. I didn’t know Cassie but I’d seen her around. She obviously didn’t belong at Stanley. I suspect she took the money from her inheritance and hit the road. Jason wasn’t convinced. He found your card among Cassie’s effects suspicious because his sister was a vegetarian.”

  “Big deal,” said Kidd. “So am I.”

  Law’s jaw went slack. He rocked back on the heels of his alligator boots, as if he’d been struck. “Surely you jest?”

  “Nope. Vegetarian since I was nineteen. Mostly.”

  “But . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Butcher, irony, yadda-yadda. Get back to this Roberts guy.”

  “Rogers. Deputy says he saw him downstairs at noon, trying the door to your shop.”

  “I’m supposed to be open. I didn’t get to bed until 9 this morning.”

  “There’s your mistake,” said Law. “I haven’t been to bed.” Law paused to produce a hip flask, from which he took a swig. He offered the silver flask to Kidd. Fumes wafted from the open mouth.

  Kidd’s nose wrinkled. “What is that? Paint thinner?”

  “Ouzo,” said Law. “I’m drinking my way around the world. Momentum serves a man as well as sleep.”

  “I admire your stamina. I’m going back to bed now.”

  “Return to your well-deserved slumber. If this fellow becomes a nuisance, you know where to find me.”

  Kidd nodded, closing the door.

  “We should tell each other our darkest secrets,” Cassie said, as Kidd tightened her blindfold.

  “Too easy. You’d confess anything,” Kidd said, rubbing her cheek with his gloved hand.

  “I lost my virginity when I was thirteen to my best friend Kiera and a cucumber. A week later she died in a wreck. I thought it was God’s punishment.”

  “Okay,” Kidd said. Then, deadpan: “
That’s so shocking. You’re such a bad girl.”

  Cassie pouted. “I’m not trying to shock you. I just want . . . I want more intimacy. All we ever do is screw. We never talk.”

  “You talk all the time,” Kidd said.

  “I tell you everything,” she said, “and you don’t give anything back.”

  Kidd yanked her blindfold off and began untying her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I don’t feel like playing,” he said. “You’re right . . . I just want the sex. If I want conversation I’ve got Gertrude.”

  It was ten at night when Kidd finally called Jason. Jason said to meet him in front of the butcher shop—he’d have the RV there in two minutes. He asked that Kidd come out to the RV—and, to Kidd’s mind, he sounded a little nervous.

  “Come on, Gertrude,” Kidd said. Gertrude sat on the couch watching Gilligan’s Island, but looked up alertly as her name was spoken. Kidd nodded and Gertrude sprang from the couch, flying to his shoulder. She landed light as a bag of cement—Gertrude had filled out considerably under his care.

  Kidd went down the narrow stairs that led from his apartment into the butcher shop. At the front window headlights were pulling up.

  Kidd left the shop, not bothering to lock it, and walked up to the motor home. It was a nice model, very sleek, something you might expect a rich granddad to be driving around Florida.

  The door opened.

  “Come in,” Jason said.

  Kidd admired the layout. The RV was all kitchen, a nice one, with a chunky antique butchers block square in the center. This reminded Kidd of his grandfather’s butchers block—his father had sold it years ago. His father hadn’t had a sentimental bone in him, but Kidd was instantly transported to childhood, watching his grandfather work the meat. He’d never once doubted what he wanted to do with his life.

  “Nice table,” Kidd said, running his hand along the oiled surface. The wood was scarred with knife marks. It even had cigarette burns along the edge, just like his grandfather’s.

  “You bring that monkey everywhere?” Jason asked.

  “I feel kind of naked without her.”