“Quit trying to seduce me,” she said. “I know you’ve been bringing prostitutes into the basement. I can smell their marijuana cigarettes in the stairwell.”
“Alma…”
Alma paused. She looked at Horace’s chest and squinted her eyes.
“Why is this happening to us?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, unconsciously inferring that this had been an existential query about why his wife had contracted a hyper-rare sleep disorder that wasn’t even supposed to exist. In truth, Alma was asking why both of their bodies were suddenly becoming translucent. But under these specific circumstances, that is probably the same question.
April was the worst month of their lives. May was better, only because Alma became catatonic. She spoke her last words on the morning of May 2: “The soul is a circle. I remember this.” From that point onward, she sat silently in a recliner, twenty-four hours a day. It was like living with an emaciated mannequin. Her facial expression suggested bemusement, but it did not change; she would drink water, but she did not eat. For the first two weeks of May, Horace often sat across from Alma and made one-sided conversation; he had heard on the TV that comatose people could sometimes hear loved ones who spoke to them. And while Horace realized that losing the ability to sleep was (technically) the perfect opposite of being in a coma, it still seemed applicable.
“You were the only woman I could have ever married,” he would say. “Sometimes I run into other women and all I can think is, What a pill. I think, How awful it must be to be married to that bimbo! Such a marriage would feel like a prison sentence. But I always knew you would be different, Alma. I knew being married to you would be a breeze. You were the only girl who didn’t force me to dance. The average gal will pretty much demand to get on the dance floor as soon as the band starts swinging, because that’s the only reason she went out on the date in the first place: She wanted a dance partner. But you were never like that. You were like, ‘Oh, I can take it or leave it. I don’t mind just sitting here, drinking punch and people watching.’ And that made me want to dance with you. You know what I mean? That’s why I fell in love with you. You were always so levelheaded.”
All the things Horace told his catatonic wife were true. And—as is so often the case in the midst of any tragedy—they were things he would not have told her under nontragic circumstances. He imagined strangers watching his life as if it were a movie; the audience would be amazed by his undying affection. He would be viewed as romantic. But that illusion faded. He found himself repeating the same anecdotes and relying on platitudes. The whole affair started to seem silly: He could not recall a single evening from the previous twenty-five years when he and Alma had sat in the living room and discussed their relationship. Why was he doing it now? He looked at Alma and saw nothing but unsleeping bones. Her vampire pupils stared directly through his translucent torso. Horace was now like the carpet; Horace was made of glass. There was nothing more to do. He angled her recliner toward the television and they watched Hawaii Five-0. Horace fell asleep at 11:30, his enormous eyeglasses falling off his face. Alma kept watching until CBS concluded its programming, and then she watched the static.
Horace spent the next three weeks asking himself one question, over and over and over again: “Is it my ethical obligation as a husband to murder my wife?”
Alma’s death was reported on June 5. There was no autopsy.
DECEMBER 21, 1983
(Mitch)
Wednesday night was (and is) church night. This has always been the case.
There are no high school sports on Wednesday nights, and there are no choir recitals or FFA meetings or drama rehearsals. On Wednesday night in the Midwest, Catholic kids go to religion class, and the schools schedule life accordingly. Elementary school Catholics go to religion class immediately after school (4:00 p.m.). High school students go after the conclusion of basketball practice (7:30 p.m.). Tonight, the high school members of the Owl CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) sat in the church rectory and discussed the virgin birth and the concept of Jesus being man and God simultaneously. It all seemed reasonable. As a tangent, they also discussed the theory that Jesus was black; this somehow seemed less plausible. When class dismissed at 8:30, Mitch and Zebra did what they always did following CYO: They drove around the countryside in Zebra’s silver Dodge pickup, smoking Basic cigarettes and ignoring spirituality completely.
“I think I’m going to nail Miss America,” said Zebra. His comment was connected to nothing. This was how they spoke. “Her name is Vanessa Williams, and she is so unbelievably hot. You will not believe how hot this black woman is. I saw her in People magazine.”
“Why are you reading People magazine?”
“My mom gets People. It’s not terrible. And besides: Vanessa Williams. So hot. She doesn’t even look black.”
“That’s racist,” said Mitch. “I think you are being, like…pretty racist, I think.”
“Why is it racist to say Miss America doesn’t look black?”
“I don’t know,” said Mitch. “I guess because you made it sound like her lack of blackness makes her hotter. I think that counts as racism.”
“You are obsessed with black people,” said Zebra. “I think you want to be black.”
“How does not worrying about the degree of Miss America’s blackness—in relation to her alleged hotness—indicate that I want to be black?”
“True or false,” responded Zebra. “T or F: You always root for Georgetown.”
Mitch was, in fact, obsessed with the Georgetown Hoya basketball program. And that was, in fact, because the Georgetown Hoyas were the blackest people he had ever seen. Mitch’s understanding of African-American culture was completely based on how Georgetown played defense. They were the only black people he knew.
“I like their players,” said Mitch. “I had a lot of respect for Sleepy Floyd. I also like Michael Graham and Horace Broadnax. They rule ass.”
“Exactly,” said Zebra. “That proves my point. All those guys are black.”
“Well, you love Michael Jordan,” said Mitch. “He’s black.”
“Not really,” said Zebra. “Michael Jordan is black the way Vanessa Williams is black.”
“T or F,” asked Mitch. “You’re an imbecile. The answer is T. Also, this music is terrible.”
“How can you not love Judas Priest?” asked Zebra.
“Why would I love them?” asked Mitch. “I don’t even know who they are.”
“Maybe you’d like them more if they were black.”
It started to snow. The flakes flew toward the windshield like accelerating stars. It looked the way Star Wars portrayed spaceships that were jumping into hyperspace. Zebra flipped his headlights from high beams to low; when it snowed, it was easier to see the road with dimmed headlights. They were on a gravel road, sixteen miles south of Owl. It was a good night. They had more cigarettes than necessary. Smoking feels wonderful if you do it only once a week.
“What do you make of this latest Cubby Candy rumor?” Zebra asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mitch. “I don’t think it can possibly be true.”
“That’s what I thought,” Zebra said, “but I’ve now heard the story from three different sources. The dude is unhinged.”
“I know,” said Mitch. “I believe the first part of the story, and maybe the second part. But not the part about the dog.”
Four days ago, Cubby Candy drove to Jamestown to wash and wax his Barracuda. That evening, he (allegedly) drove to a bar called the Jackelope and immediately got into a dispute with another patron in the parking lot; Cubby proceeded to beat the stranger senseless. That was the first part of the story. The stranger’s horrified girlfriend then rushed into the bar and explained the situation to three members of his posse. The trio (allegedly) went outside and angrily confronted Cubby, and one of them (allegedly) scratched the door of his Barracuda with a house key. This was (allegedly) a poor decision, because Cubby (allegedly) respon
ded by wordlessly grabbing the man’s hair and smashing his face against the Barracuda’s hood, thereby breaking the hooligan’s nose, an orbital bone near his temple, and seven to ten teeth. Cubby then (allegedly) attacked the other two guys simultaneously and obliterated both, (allegedly) breaking a total of three arm bones in the ninety-second melee. That was the second part of the story. The third part of the story was that Cubby (allegedly, and somewhat inexplicably) exited the bloodbath by walking into the Jackelope’s entrance and consuming five beers at the bar, all by himself. When he exited the establishment two hours later, the brother of the original beaten stranger (who had been phoned by the horrified girlfriend) was waiting next to the ’Cuda with a frothing Doberman pinscher by his side. “You are going to pay for what you did,” the brother (allegedly) said. “Serpico is gonna make you bleed, fuckwad.” Upon that (alleged) declaration, the brother released Serpico’s leash. The hound jumped for the jugular, which was his (alleged) nature. But Serpico didn’t make it. Cubby (allegedly) caught the dog by the throat and smashed its snout into the pavement. He (allegedly) squeezed its windpipe with his left hand and punched with his right; he (allegedly) hit Serpico until Serpico (allegedly) stopping twitching.
This was the part of the story Mitch did not believe.
“People have seen the key scratches on the ’Cuda,” said Zebra. “Curtis-Fritz has verified that the car was keyed. I’m sure the fact that he had just waxed the vehicle intensified his bloodlust. T or F: That psychopath loves his car? The answer is T.”
“I’m not questioning the likelihood of his car being damaged,” said Mitch. “And I’m sure somebody got beat up that night. I just don’t believe the stuff about the dog. Are we supposed to believe that some guy brought an attack dog to the parking lot and just waited there for two hours? What kind of person would do that?”
“True,” said Zebra. “T. But that notwithstanding…if all this is even semitrue, it’s a pretty amazing story. He won a street fight against a Doberman! That’s like punching a mountain lion in the face. I’m starting to think Candy could defeat Grendel.”
“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Mitch. “I don’t think any human could win a fight against an animal.”
Just as he said this, an amorphous shape zipped across the road, twenty-five feet in front of the pickup. It immediately disappeared on the other side of the road. The shape had been visible for .75 seconds. The shape was extremely fast, brownish in color, and weighed between ten and ten thousand pounds.
“What the fuck?” said Zebra. He slammed on the brakes. The vehicle almost fishtailed. “What the fuck was that?”
“A fox?” Mitch guessed. “A deer? A wildebeest?”
“Let’s go,” said Zebra. He slammed the truck into park and reached behind the seat, pulling out the double-barreled shotgun that was always there. They scampered onto the road in front of the vehicle, leaving both of the truck’s doors wide open. They stared into the darkness; they saw nothing, except for more darkness.
“That was outrageous,” said Zebra. “I want to know what the fuck that was.”
“It must have been a fox,” said Mitch. “It was quick like a fox. What the hell did you bring the gun for?”
“I don’t know,” said Zebra. “I guess I’m no Cubby Candy.”
“Well, as long as you have it, you might as well shoot it.”
“Good point,” said Zebra. He raised the barrel of the shotgun toward the moon and fired both shells skyward. The meaningless reports echoed toward God. They sounded massive.
“Nice,” said Mitch. “You’re an outlaw.” They meandered back to the truck, lit new cigarettes, and drove away. Zebra removed British Steel from the cassette deck and replaced it with American Fool.
“So, here’s a question,” said Zebra. “You know how we were talking at CYO about the likelihood of Jesus being a black guy?”
“Yes,” sighed Mitch.
“Knowing what we know now, and knowing how you feel about the Georgetown Hoyas, I’m curious about something: If Jesus turned out to be black, would that make you want to be a better Christian?”
“I don’t know,” said Mitch. “Would Jesus be black like Vanessa Williams, or would Jesus be black like Horace Broadnax?”
“Don’t make me shoot you,” said Zebra.
“You’d never get away with it,” said Mitch. “You’d die in prison. T or F?”
It is important to have questionable friends you can trust unconditionally.
DECEMBER 22, 1983
(Julia)
Owl High School was (and is) almost (but not quite) perfectly square. It was four hallways, connected by four right angles: The north-south hallways measured 120 feet and the east-west hallways were 110 feet. The gymnasium was in the interior of the building; the classrooms were on the outside perimeter of the hallways, four doors per hall. If it were possible to tear off the facility’s roof and look upon it from the perspective of a blimp, the school would have looked like a brick, surrounded by a tile moat, protected by interlocking cubes. It had the aesthetic character of massive beige Legos.
Every morning from 8:10 a.m. until the first bell at 8:35, certain students walked laps around the halls in a continual loop, half of them moving clockwise and half in the opposite orbit. These certain students tended to be females between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, although the practice was also popular among eighth-grade boys. They would briskly walk in pockets of three or four and gossip, occasionally saying “Hey” to kids walking in the opposite direction; for anyone still waiting to pass driver’s education, this was the pedestrian version of driving around town. It had no goal, but it had purpose.
In order to police the undangerous hall walkers, all members of the Owl faculty were expected to stand outside their respective rooms as figureheads of menace, making sure no one did anything disruptive or obscene. Julia’s assigned prebell post was twelve feet from John Laidlaw’s door; unless one of them was in an exceptionally angry or empty mood, they typically moved a few steps closer, stood alongside each other, and talked about things they did not care about.
“The cattle are restless this morning,” said Laidlaw. This was true: Because it was the last day before the beginning of Christmas vacation, everyone was talking louder (and walking faster) than usual. Boys were shoving each other and forcing their laughter.
“Today will be a waste,” said Julia. “We might as well send them home at noon.”
“We might as well shoot them,” said Laidlaw. Julia chuckled at this sentiment, but just barely.
“Going back to Wisconsin for Christmas?” asked Laidlaw.
“True,” said Julia. This was like taking a test. “I’m going to get up tomorrow morning at six and drive straight through.”
“Worried about the weather?” Meteorologists had forecast snow for the weekend.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s why I’m going to leave so early. The idea of waking up at six is already making me cry.”
“Well, just be careful,” said Laidlaw. “And if you do get caught in bad weather, don’t leave the vehicle. Always stay inside the car.”
“I know,” she said. “Truthfully, I’m more concerned about the gridlock through Minneapolis. If it snows, it’s going to be a madhouse.”
Teenagers continued to walk and talk with maniacal enthusiasm. At the other end of the hallway, a fat ninth grader named Andy stole the hat off a seventh grader’s skull and held it in the air like a severed head. When Laidlaw noticed this, he said, “Andy!” The hat was returned. That was all it took.
“Any plans for your last evening in town?” Laidlaw asked Julia.
“I have to wrap some presents,” said Julia. “After that, I might go uptown for a drink or two. But nothing exciting. Like I said, I want to be on the road by six thirty or seven. Do you have any plans?”
“No plans,” said Laidlaw.
“How come you never go to the bar?” asked Julia. “Don’t you drink?”
“I drink,�
� said Laidlaw. “But I don’t get much pleasure from it. Besides, my wife runs my life. You know how it goes.”
Julia did not respond to this remark. She did not know how it went.
The two teachers stood in silence, comfortable with each other’s presence. Mitch Hrlicka walked by with Nineteen Eighty-Four in his left hand, trying to ignore both of the authority figures who were watching him. His hair was out of control. There were bags under both his eyes.
“Merry Christmas, Vanna,” said Laidlaw. “Are you going to be an elf this year?”
“Probably not,” said Mitch. “No.”
“You would make a fine elf, Vanna,” said Laidlaw. “You could be Sleepy.”
“Sleepy was a dwarf,” said Mitch.
“So what? Don’t you think elves have names?”
Mitch slouched toward Bethlehem.
“I don’t understand that kid,” said Julia. “He seems nice enough, but he always looks depressed.”
“Mitch is a good kid,” said Laidlaw. “He’s a really good kid, relatively speaking. But he has no sense of humor. That’s his problem.”
The bell rang.
DECEMBER 28, 1983
(Horace)
His ’58 Chevy Apache was still chugging in place when he exited the café, exhaust billowing from its tailpipe in slow motion. He had allowed the pickup to idle for the last two hours; this was standard procedure when the air was fourteen degrees below zero. Everyone in town ran their vehicles continuously on afternoons like today; if you turned the engine off, the liquids inside the engine block would become viscous and immovable. Your vehicle would turn into a metal house. During the coldest snaps, people who owned diesel pickups let the trucks run all night, twenty-four hours a day, never turning back the key for weeks at a time. Diesel fuel burns slowly and is not molecularly designed for arctic conditions. Almost all the vehicles (diesel or otherwise) had extension cords peeping out from under their hoods; this allowed their owners to plug them in overnight. The charge from the current kept the engine block warm and fluid. Once, when he was driving through Indiana, a confused mechanic noticed the extension cord on Horace’s Apache and asked him if he drove an electric truck. Horace enjoyed telling this story. He usually told it two or three times a winter.
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