The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

  I looked up at the sky, remembered that same sky projected inside the Griffith Observatory planetarium, how the stars would swim and race down the horizon as the view shifted, season by season, between the hemispheres. L.L. providing commentary, whispering in my ear.

  —You could always get someone to take care of that shit for you.

  —I have an ex-wife, my boy, I don't need another.

  —I was thinking more in the way of an assistant. Or a business manager. Didn't you used to have one?

  He opened his book, turned a page, ignored the implication that he might once have been in the kind of business that would require a manager.

  —L.L.

  —Yes, I attend.

  —Has it ever occurred to you, all these books, the alcohol, open flames?

  He turned a page.

  —Has it ever occurred to you, mother's son that you are, to mind your own business?

  I snapped a stalactite of wax from the edge of the table.

  —L.L.

  —Web.

  —I don't want you to die.

  He pressed the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth and closed his book.

  —I'm choked up, filled with emotion. Imagine, my son not wanting me to die. How many fathers can say the same?

  —Shut the fuck up, Dad.

  He turned his head, looked at me through the candlelight, and waited.

  I threw the spear of wax over the rail.

  —I don't want you to die. I don't mean just that I don't actively wish that you would die, I mean that I don't want you to die at all. I don't want you to trip and fall over that rail one night and break your neck. I don't want you to pass out on your back and vomit and choke to death. I don't want one of these candles to tip into a puddle of 101 and ignite a copy of Madame Bovary and incinerate you.

  He touched his throat.

  —I loathe Bovary. Wouldn't be caught dead with a copy in the house.

  I stretched my arm and slapped the side of his head.

  He looked at me through skewed glasses.

  —You have my attention.

  I stood up.

  —You're a fucker, L.L. The champion fucker of the world. I'm never gonna take the crown from you. I concede, you have the throne all to yourself.

  I showed my middle finger to him.

  —But fucker that you are, that doesn't mean you can get rid of me, you pathetic misanthropic shit. I mean, I'm not saying you don't grow old after about the first five minutes I'm with you, but I can fucking take it. God knows I've had the practice. So.

  I hooked a thumb at the house.

  —I'll be here next week with a truck to start hauling away some of this shit and to get the lights turned on. And. Whatever.

  He straightened his glasses.

  —What's the matter, Web?

  —Fuck you.

  He stood up.

  —What happened? What's been happening? What's this about?

  I put a hand on his chest as he approached me.

  —L.L., all this is about is how I don't want to get a call one day from someone, and find out your corpse has been rotting up here for five weeks and I have to come and smell it and see the stain where you melted into the carpet. I don't want to clean up after you when you're dead.

  He nodded.

  —Well, I didn't want to clean up after you when you were a baby. So I guess that's fair.

  I nodded.

  —King Fucker, L.L., that's you.

  He dropped back into his chair.

  —You hold your own, Web, you hold your own just fine.

  —I have skills.

  He turned his back, put his feet on the lower rail of the deck and picked up his book.

  —Make the most of them.

  I stood there.

  —I'll be back next week with the truck.

  He tugged a stained handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air.

  —As you wish.

  I went to the door.

  —I found the money in Karenina.

  —Did you read the book?

  —Man, I know all I need to know about unhappy families.

  He wiped his nose with the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

  —I guess you would.

  I scratched my head.

  —But I could use some more money.

  He opened his book.

  —Yes, I saw that you are wearing a towel in lieu of actual pants. One suspects you might need the odd dollar or two. As I said earlier, it's in the jar.

  —I need a lot. For a fuckup I know. Someone pathetic enough to need help from someone like me.

  He picked up his glass and toasted the sky.

  —Help yourself. If you need more than what's there, let me know.

  I started into the house.

  L.L. called after.

  —Delightful to see you, Web. Nothing like a visit from the fruit of the old loins to make a man feel his mortality creeping up from behind. Ah, all this gloriously morbid talk. Just what a lion in winter requires on a chill evening. Thanks and thanks again. We must do it again soonest.

  I listened to him as I negotiated the books and bottles in the kitchen and found the rooster-shaped cookie jar from my childhood and took off the lid and began sorting through the wads of bills stuffed inside.

  Sparing a look at L.L. as I headed out the front door, the book back on his stomach, head dropped forward, shoulders rising and falling, King Fucker of the world at rest.

  The light was on in our apartment when I parked the Apache in its spot.

  I stared up at the light.

  —What night is it?

  Soledad had to think about that one.

  —Sunday?

  —Crap.

  I opened the truck door and looked around the cab.

  —It look pretty clean in here?

  She looked at the seats.

  —Looks really clean to me.

  —Sure, to you and me it looks really clean, but to the guy who restored this thing from the axles up, it doesn't take much.

  She brushed some ashes from the seat.

  —Better?

  I got out.

  —Come on.

  I jingled my keys and fiddled with the knob before going in. But I didn't need to give him any warning, he knew the sound of the Apache from a block away.

  I opened up.

  He looked from the TV screen showing a paused frame of Spetters, put a finger to his lips and pointed at Dot, curled sleeping on the couch with her head in his lap.

  I nodded and came in and closed the door softly, and Soledad rapped on it and Dot lifted her head.

  —Mfuh?

  I opened the door.

  Soledad tapped my forehead.

  —Forget something?

  —Sorry.

  I held the door open and she came in.

  —That's Chev. That's his friend Dot.

  Dot rubbed her face all over and looked at Soledad.

  —Whasas?

  I closed the door again.

  —Hey Dot. Hey. This is Soledad. She's. This is Soledad.

  Soledad pointed at the hall.

  —Bathroom?

  —Uh, yeah. Straight back.

  She went down the hall.

  Dot watched her go, looked back at me.

  —She know what a dick you are?

  I nodded.

  —Most definitely.

  She put her head back in Chev's lap.

  —Must've been the steam room look that got her.

  I pulled the towel tighter around my waist.

  —Yeah, she digs the bathhouse scene.

  I bounced the truck keys on my palm and Chev held his hand up and I tossed them to him and he caught them.

  He looked at the keys.

  —You put gas in her?

  —Yeah. Stopped at the corner.

  —It's too expensive there.

  —I didn't remember before.

  He let the keys dangle from
his index finger and studied them.

  —She give you any problems?

  —No. No problems.

  Soledad came out from the bathroom and stood at the mouth of the hall and pointed at the two bedroom doors.

  —I'm tired.

  I pointed at mine.

  —That one.

  She yawned, covered her mouth.

  —OK.

  She took her hand away and peeked around the corner.

  —Hey Chev, Dot, nice to meet you. Hope I get to talk later.

  She waved at me

  —Don't stay up too long.

  And went into my bedroom.

  Dot pulled a thin blanket from the back of the couch and put it around her bare legs.

  —She seems nice.

  I walked over to my bookcase.

  —She is.

  I took a book from the case.

  —Say Dot.

  —Mhun?

  —I'm sorry I was such a gargantuan dick the other day.

  She closed her eyes.

  —Chev says sorry don't mean shit.

  I looked at Chev.

  —He's right about that.

  She found one of Chev's hands and tugged his arm around her shoulders.

  —Then fuck your apology, just try to be nicer to me.

  —OK. I'll try.

  Chev pointed at the TV.

  —You're in the way.

  I got out of the way and he started his movie playing.

  I walked to the hall, stopped.

  —Hey man.

  He held up a hand.

  —I want to watch this.

  I nodded.

  —OK. Tomorrow?

  He nodded.

  —Tomorrow.

  I cracked my bedroom door and looked in and saw Soledad under the blankets, her clothes tossed over the floor. I went in and dropped the towel and took off my shirt and kicked off my shoes and peeled the crusty socks from my feet and got into bed with her and opened the book I'd brought with me.

  She rolled over and looked at what I was reading.

  —Cute kids.

  I turned another page of the Hollywoodland Elementary yearbook.

  —Yeah. Cute kids.

  TOO TIRED TO BE ALONE

  I took a loaf of 99-grain whole wheat that Dot had bought out of the fridge and put a couple slices in the toaster oven.

  —Which toothbrush is yours?

  I looked at Soledad standing in the hall.

  —The yellow one.

  —I'm gonna use it.

  —Sure.

  I watched her go into the bathroom, and found some grapes and rinsed them off and put them in a bowl and got a couple small plates and a butter knife and took it all to the table. I looked at the table, remembered wiping it down, sponging away Talbot's blood, and changed course and took the breakfast things into the livingroom and set them out on the floor in front of the couch and threw a couple cushions down.

  Soledad came out of the bathroom and went into my bedroom and closed the door. The coffeemaker gurgled and I took the pot off and filled two cups. Behind the door Soledad was talking to herself. The toaster oven dinged and I grabbed the two pieces of hot toast by their corners and carried them into the livingroom and set one on each plate. The bedroom door opened as I went back to the kitchen for the cups.

  —Got coffee. Milk in yours?

  —I called a cab.

  I looked at her, face washed, hair pulled back, sunglasses on.

  —I need to get going.

  I set the cups down.

  —Sure.

  I looked around the apartment.

  —I mean, considering the alternative is Malibu, why stay around here.

  She nodded.

  —Especially with all the exciting conversations with law enforcement officials I have to look forward to out at the beach.

  She pointed at the couch.

  —Where's?

  —Don't know. Probably having brunch somewhere. Organic berries and egg whites for Dot, organic espresso and tobacco for Chev.

  —Interesting couple, they seemed.

  —I'd swear it won't last, but I don't know shit about relationships.

  She cocked her head.

  —A girl'd never know.

  We stood there.

  She put her hand on the doorknob.

  —So.

  —Hang on, I'll walk you out.

  I went and grabbed something from my room and we walked down to the curb, the voices of the homeless couple drifting down the street as they worked their way from garbage can to garbage can, removing the recyclables.

  —Fuckhead.

  —Bitch.

  —Asswipe.

  —Cocksucker.

  Soledad nodded.

  —It must be love.

  —Sounds like it, doesn't it?

  A cab rounded the corner and pulled up.

  —This is me.

  I took the roll of bills from my pocket.

  —Do me a favor, give this to Jaime.

  She looked at the money.

  —Web. You don't really have to.

  I held the money out.

  —I told him I'd pay him. I promised. I.

  —He'll just.

  —I don't care. It's his. Maybe it'll help. Maybe it'll keep him out of trouble for a while.

  She shrugged.

  —It won't.

  She took the money.

  —But it's a nice thing to do.

  She put the money in her handbag.

  —OK. So. OK.

  She opened the door.

  —So look.

  She tossed her bag into the cab and looked at the driver.

  —Just one more minute, that cool?

  He nodded.

  She looked at me, pushed her sunglasses firmly against the bridge of her nose.

  —Web. Just so we're clear. I'm. I'm a mess.

  —Really? Wow, you hide it so well.

  —Yes, don't I? But. This isn't, you know, this isn't the normal me. This isn't the way my life normally goes. I'm an even-keel girl, you know. But. My dad. My dad. I'm not on steady ground. And the way I feel now, I just, I mean, look at the decisions I've been making the last few days. It's just. My emotions. I, I don't trust them. I don't trust myself to make the right, to make smart choices now. Especially with someone as spectacularly fucked up as you.

  I looked at the ground.

  —Thanks. Coming from you, that really means something.

  —Thought you'd appreciate the sentiment.

  —Oh, I do, I do.

  She picked at the rubber seal along the edge of the cab door.

  —Anyway. I'm in no shape to get into. Anything. Like. You know. I can't.

  —Sure.

  —But.

  She raised her shoulders and dropped them.

  —I'm just too tired to be alone with all the crap I'm going to have to go through. I don't want to do all this, the police, whatever kind of press, the estate. Jesus, the estate, when my mom starts sniffing around for her cut? That's gonna be a shit storm. And I don't want to be alone with all that. I don't want to sleep alone. I want someone to call. I want a friend. I want a lover. I don't want to do this alone. I want help.

  She took my little finger and squeezed it.

  —And I think you're the nice guy. I mean, I know you have a huge asshole in permanent residence inside, but I think you're the nice guy.

  She leaned over the top of the door and kissed me.

  —So I'm just gonna have to hope I'm right about that.

  She got in the cab.

  —'Cause I'm too tired to do anything else.

  I put my hands in my pockets.

  —Your flattery knows no bounds.

  —Yeah. I'm a sweet talker.

  —Right. So this means?

  The cabby turned and gave her a look and she nodded and looked up at me.

  —I'll see you tonight, Web.

  She closed the door. The cab pulled away. The wi
ndow rolled down and she stuck her head out.

  —If I'm not in jail.

  I watched the cab to the end of the street, standing on the curb, still there a couple minutes later when Chev pulled into his spot.

  I wandered over.

  —Hey.

  He climbed out, ran a hand over the freshly washed door.

  —Lucky you didn't fuck her up.

  —I was careful.

  He closed the door and sat on the running board.

  —Beautiful day.

  I looked at the utterly typical, stunning blue sky hovering relentlessly above.

  —Yeah.

  I sat next to him.

  —Some things.

  He stretched his legs, crossed his ankles.

  —Like?

  I leaned forward, put my elbows on my knees.

  —I saw L.L. again. Last night.

  I looked at him, looked away.

  —He's, not that it matters, but he's in sorryass shape. And I'm gonna, I don't know, I need to see if I can. Help? I guess. And I don't want to sneak around doing it.

  He uncrossed his ankles, recrossed them the other way.

  —He's your dad. Do what you have to.

  —And I took some money from him. For a guy I know. To pay a debt.

  He slipped the smokes from his T sleeve and knocked one from the pack.

  —'Kay.

  —Just so you know.

  —Now I know.

  He lit up, tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes and blew smoke.

  I leaned my back against the hot steel of the door.

  —I want to do better, Chev. I. I want to try and do better. Shit, man, I want to just, I want to try. I'm tired of. Things. I'm not saying. I don't feel any better. About it. I still can't think. About it. Too clearly. It still makes me want to fall asleep. But I know. It. Happened. I know I was there and the girl. I know. It. Happened. And I don't want to be him. I don't want to be L.L. I don't want this one fucked up thing to be who I am and that's it, this is the end of my life. I do not want to feel like this, be like this forever. I mean, I'm not sure, but I think I used to be kind of a nice guy.

  He took the cigarette from his lips, opened his eyes and slid them my way.

  —Web, man, you have never in your life been a nice guy.

  He closed his eyes again.

  —But you used to be pretty damn cool. You used to be a guy a friend could count on. And it'd be nice if you were that way again.

  I nodded.

  —See, that's it. That's it. I want to be that guy, I want to be the guy people can count on. That sounds great. I don't exactly remember how that worked, but I want to try and be that again. Really, man.