by Douglas Lain
You keep that pie-hole shut, the hotel owner said. Now git on back to your room. C’mon, git!
The girl rolled her eyes and rose to her feet. She rearranged her underwear and slunk on down the hallway. With a smile or a sneer, she opened a door and disappeared to the dull gray light of a TV show.
Don’t mind her, the blue-haired woman said. With a violent jerk she pulled open a jammed room door and handed me the key. Well, I sure do hope you enjoy your stay, she said. She studied my corroded features for a moment, her amblyopic eye drifting toward her skull. And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.
I won’t need anything, I said.
The room was what you might expect. Grime scrubbed walls. A sloppily-made bed. An old Kelvinator refrigerator with the kickplate ajar. A filthy window overlooking a filthy town.
I sat down on the bed and removed my jacket and my boots. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a can of George W. Helme snuff, a bottle of plum brandy, an army-issued bayonet, and my worn leather King James Bible, the pages starting to yellow.
I snorted some tobacco, took a long pull of burnt wine, and opened the Bible: And Gideon said unto him, Oh my Lord, if the LORD be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all his miracles which our fathers told us of, saying, Did not the LORD bring us up from Egypt? but now the LORD hath forsaken us, and delivered us into the hands of the Midianites… .
The power of the passage moved me, and I collapsed on the bed, eyes squeezed tight. I was beginning to think that there wasn’t a single righteous person in the world. I was beginning to think that everybody had secrets, terrible secrets.
That night I lay in my bed, bonnell coils jabbing my skin, and stared at the mildewed ceiling. There was a long jagged crack. I watched it grow. Water dripped from the crack into a rusted pot. Drip, drip, drip. Chinese water torture. Through narrow slits, I gazed out the window. The moon was the color of jaundiced skin.
I couldn’t sleep at all. The mice and rats had taken over the house. I could hear them scurrying along the wooden floors, climbing up the walls, gnawing at the furniture. And then I heard something else. The faint echo of footsteps on the pavement down below. I crawled out of bed and stared out the window. A man walked slowly down the street, just out of the glow of the streetlight. He wore a tattered suit, a blue tie hanging around his neck like a noose. He had iron-gray hair, badly disheveled, a skeletal frame, and a haunted, emaciated face. When he saw my silhouette in the window, he froze and stared right at me. I shivered involuntarily. A lunatic smile spread slowly across his face. I took a couple of steps backward, my breath trapped in my windpipe… .
An hour or more passed. I sat in the bed clutching my knife. Every so often I’d take a peek outside. He hadn’t moved; he just stood there, waiting. The wind was blowing, the rain was falling, and a screen door was slamming open and shut.
12:05 a.m., and I heard a knocking on the door. Three short knocks. I gripped my bayonet tightly. I walked slowly across the room, sinews all full of dread. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Dull light spread across the hardwood floor and I shielded my eyes with my hand. But it wasn’t the stranger. It was the redhead from the bar, her face all blurry, a rain-soaked windshield.
I know it’s late, she said in a little girl’s voice.
I wasn’t sleeping.
Can I come inside?
I’m not gonna stop you.
She smiled that crooked smile and stepped into the room, the door slamming shut behind her. She wore a red Nancy Drew raincoat tied tightly at the waist. I was wearing boxers with bears on them and an A-frame undershirt. She looked me up and down. You’re well-built, she said. I don’t mind the face. I’ve seen worse.
Maybe, I said. Do you want something to drink? I have plum brandy. Don’t have any glasses, though.
Well, that would be just fine, she said. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?
No, ma’am.
She wasn’t wearing much underneath. Just a futuristic-looking little silver dress and the same red boots as before. I handed her the bottle of brandy and she took a nice long swig, watching me from the corner of her eyes. She was a drunk, a bad girl, but she reminded me of somebody from long ago… .
I wanted to thank you, she said, for how you helped me this afternoon. Most men would have walked away.
I shrugged my shoulders. The way I was raised, a fellow’s not supposed to lay a hand on a woman. And if he does, you’re supposed to do something about it. Who was he?
She took another swig, this one longer than the first, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. My husband, she said.
I nodded. And you gonna stay with him?
Probably.
I said: A guy hits you once, he’ll hit you twice.
Oh, he’s hit me more than twice, believe me. You didn’t see anything today. She stared at me for a long moment, then pulled up her sleeve and showed me the remnants of a couple of cigar burns.
I clenched my jaw and shook my head. You ought to leave him, I said.
It’s not so simple.
Sure it is. You pack up your bags. And you leave. Simple.
She didn’t say anything for a while. Then: This brandy sure is good. I’ve never had brandy before.
Yeah. I like it okay.
For the next hour or so we drank the brandy and smoked cigarettes. I’d stopped thinking about the stranger, stopped thinking about the Mountain. Off in the distance calliope music was playing. The girl touched my leg with her hand. Her skin was soft, her fingernails filthy. She licked the corner of her mouth, said, And Joseph? Do you think I’m pretty, just a little?
Yes, I lied. I think you’re very pretty.
Well, then?
She moved closer on the bed. Her face was in soft focus. Pimpled skin. Bloodshot eyes. Lovely, no. But I was in love. It happens too easily for me.
She placed her hand on mine and moved it beneath her dress. The calliope music got louder. I was feeling good and anxious. There were some things I wanted to do. I wanted to howl at the moon, I wanted to knock her around. But I was paralyzed. She leaned in close. I could smell the layers of perfume and sweat and burnt wine. Her mouth smiled against my skin.
I pulled her toward me. A dog barked spastically. I placed my hand between her thighs. She moaned. A familiar revulsion spread through my veins. I felt like I was going to be sick. Maybe we shouldn’t do this, I said. Maybe it isn’t right.
She grinned, baring her fangs. For how long have you been concerned about right and wrong?
I thought that one over for a moment. Then I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. With a quick jerk, I shoved her against the wall. She gasped, but the smile never left her face. I studied her eyes. I could’ve found the truth, maybe, but I didn’t want to. Instead, I reached back and slapped her across the face, got her attention. Then I kissed her hard, biting down on her lower lip until it bled.
There’s not much more to tell. She let me do some things. I couldn’t stop myself. When we were done she told me we might fall in love.
I don’t even know your name, I said.
Lilith, she said. Created from clay… .
After that we lay in bed for a while without talking. Outside, the wind kicked a tin can down the sidewalk and I felt good and empty. I squeezed my eyes shut and fell asleep. I dreamed that old familiar dream: a murder of crows, circling over a mining shack, cawing in excitement, and me being pinned down by faceless demons… .
When I woke the sun was rising and the sky was a bloody mess. My body was drenched with ethanol sweat. I sat up, head aching but good. Lilith was lying on her side, head propped up on the palm of her hand. A sly grin on her face.
So? Did you have fun, Joseph?
Well, sure.
Just so you know, I don’t usually do this kind of thing.
No. I’m sure you don’t.
I’m not that kind of a girl. Not usually.
She lit a cigarette and sucked down the smoke, eyes
unblinking. And then the question. Unspoken usually. Not with Lilith. No transition even. Your face, Joseph. The scars. What happened? I know I shouldn’t ask, but …
I met her gaze for a moment and then shook my head. It’s okay, I said. I reached across her body and grabbed the package of cigarettes. I stuck one in my mouth but didn’t light it. It bounced up and down as I spoke. I told her the story. I knew the story well.
I was in the Marine Corps, I said. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Stationed in Mosul. Bank of the Tigris. Home of Jonah. Home of Nahum. To me it was hell on Earth. I hadn’t been there long, not more than two months. I was with my unit and we were driving in a Humvee. We were trying to secure the area or hunt for insurgents or build a nation. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, we were driving down this dirt road and it was pitch black, and our lights were off. We were wearing night vision goggles, so we could see. We came to this tiny bridge over a canal. Nobody was worried, soldiers were joking around, talking about whores they’d screwed and towelheads they’d killed. We drove across the bridge and suddenly I got this bad feeling. I don’t know why, can’t explain it. It wasn’t a moment later when we hit the tripwire. They got us but good. My eardrums exploded and the world went up in flames.
The Humvee finally came to a stop. I could tell I was torn up pretty good but I didn’t feel any pain. Flames were everywhere. Then I heard my squad leader screaming: I think I lost my leg! Oh, Jesus, I think I lost my leg! And my best friend Dan was in the front passenger seat where the bomb went off and he was screaming: Where’s help? Where the fuck is help? And then everything went quiet.
Time passed in a dream sequence. Everything was out of order and mixed up. I saw trucks materialize through the dust and flames. And then a soldier with a gas mask. His head was jerking all over the place in a strobe light. He disappeared and the flames got stronger, hotter. Then he reappeared and I saw him crawling into the Humvee, sticking out his hand. I guess he saved me. I never saw him again.
Next thing I knew, I was lying on the dirt and my whole body was burning and throbbing and I tried to cry but I couldn’t. I reached for my face and it was all swollen on one side, and when I touched it my middle finger went deep into my temple. Everything started getting blurry. I closed my eyes.
I heard voices loud and panicked and incoherent. They thought I was a goner. I wanted to open my eyes, wanted to say something, but I had no control.
The world ended for a time. The next thing I remember is being in a chopper, flying over the burning desert, and I wasn’t sure if I was dead or not and I prayed to God that I was. And then I drifted away again and I don’t remember anything else until I got to the hospital… .
I stopped talking and looked over at Lilith. Her shoulders were trembling and her eyes were moist. She touched my cheek with what might have been tenderness.
I guess I’d told the story well.
Chapter 3
The next morning, I got my truck towed. The day was cold and windy, the sun a dull flash in a gun-metal sky. The shop was nothing but a little brick building with the words Auto Repair written in big block letters. It was squeezed between a dilapidated food market called Charlie’s and a derelict church, its bell rusted into a permanent slant.
In the front lot there were all sorts of oddities: a rotted canoe, a covered wagon, an open coffin. There were hubcaps and unicycles and antique gas pumps. There were mangled jalopies and rusted car parts. A young guy with slicked-back rockabilly hair sat on a metal bench in front of the office. His face and hands and overalls were covered in filth; he looked like a Vaudeville performer in blackface. He was smoking a short stogie and drinking a Squirt. He didn’t seem happy to see me.
Having some problems? he said. He had a smiling skull ring on his middle finger and dried spittle in the corner of his mouth.
It’s an old Chevy C30, I said. Never had a problem before. And now it just stopped driving. Let me down big time. Think you can fix it?
He flashed a tobacco-stained smile. Gimme a tool set and I could fix Venus de Milo. If this here truck can be fixed, I’m the one who can do it. Good thing you didn’t take her to Paul’s. He wouldn’t know the difference between a V8 engine and V8 drink. He’s ruptured more piston seals than I’ve screwed horny housewives.
Is that a lot?
Hell yeah, that’s a lot!
He farmer-blew some snot onto the ground before getting into the truck. With the door flung open, he turned the ignition a couple of times and shook his head. Then he got out and looked under the hood and spat. When was the last time you had this thing worked on? he said.
I shrugged my shoulders. Been awhile, I said. It’s not my truck. The truck belongs to a friend. He lent it to me.
Ain’t a drop of oil left, that’s one problem. But it ain’t your only. Have a seat in that there office, and I’ll take a look, give you an estimate. I’m fair, too, not like Paul. He’d overcharge a goddamn beggar, yes he would.
For the next hour or more, I sat inside the dingy little store reading Motor Trend and Playboy and drinking cold coffee while Hal took apart the pickup piece by piece. I could hear him cursing and complaining and mumbling under his breath. Finally, the glass door slammed open and Hal entered, wiping perspiration from his forehead with a rag. His lips were tugged into a frown, his eyes darting all over the place.
She can’t be fixed, Hal said, his bedside manner lacking.
What do you mean she can’t be fixed?
I mean, the old girl is ready for the junkyard. She ain’t got another mile in her. You got a hole in the cylinder. The piston rings are completely worn down. The crankshaft ain’t turning. And that’s just for starters.
I thought you said you could fix any vehicle.
That ain’t what I said. I said I could fix her, if she could be fixed. This one can’t be fixed. I’d have to replace the engine completely. Ain’t worth your time or trouble. You’d be better served junking this one and buying another. There’s a few used car lots down on North Main.
I’m not interested in another truck, I said. This is a good truck. I drove it all the way across the country. She hasn’t failed me yet. She can be fixed. I know she can be fixed.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an oversized pinch of leaf tobacco and stuck it into his mouth. He spat on the floor and said: Like I said, I’d have to replace the engine. It would cost you a lot of money.
How much?
A new complete engine would cost you two grand at least. A salvage yard one might cost up to a grand. Add another five hundred for the work. You could buy a brand new used truck for not much more than that.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and kicked at the dirt. I thought things over for a few moments. Put in a salvage yard engine, I said. Be sure it’s a good one. I need to make it up to the Mountain. There’s somebody waiting for me.
Whatever you say, boss. It’s your money.
How soon can you have it done?
Gimme four, five days, top, he said. Got a number where I can call you?
I shook my head. I’ll just come back in five days, I said. It’s a good truck.
And I started walking.
I made my way back to town, along dirt roads lined with rotted mailboxes and sad-luck houses. The wind blew through the skeleton trees and everything smelled like a feedlot. My hands were buried in my pockets. I was thinking ugly thoughts. You know the kind. Death and destruction. I walked past rusted metal barrels and mounds of used tires and rows of dying alfalfa, but no humans. The sky was the color of bone. Down about a quarter of a mile, I came upon a cemetery that hadn’t been cared for in years. Dignity denied in both life and death.
In the middle of town, on top of Jagged Hill, stood the Church of Sacred Blood, a white-spire structure with a mural of Christ surrounded by drunken angels, the wooden cross weary, hanging on for dear life. A preacher’s voice echoed across the plains: And you have heard it said that as you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you shall fear
no evil, for He is with you; His rod and staff comforts you. But I say to you: Be afraid. Because the Lord does not want any whores and bastards. The Lord does not want any thieves and beggars. The Lord desires the righteous. And how many of you are righteous? Well? How many? Hell awaits you. Yes, my friends, Hell surely awaits unless some changes are made. For you are nothing but maggots and cockroaches, a blight in the Lord’s eye. And there is time for conversion, for restoration, but time is running thin …
I made my way along a broken path until I came to my hotel, all marked by sorry dilapidation and decay. Breathing heavily, I leaned against the brick wall and yanked out a cigarette. I sucked in the smoke slow and tender and spat it out fast and mean.
And that’s when I saw the stranger.
He was a block ahead, wearing the same tattered suit as before. His face was in the shadows, but I could tell it was him. The wind was blowing, and a few specks of snow were swirling above, never seeming to land. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and started walking down the splintered pavement, past a slumbering Mexican clutching a bottle of Sauza, past an elderly woman walking her vacuum cleaner, past a mangy calico cat gnawing on a piece of rotting flesh. The stranger must have seen me too: he started walking, following after me.
My slow gait changing to a gallop, I made my way down the street and then ducked into an alleyway. There were broken bottles and bloodied underwear and seagulls lost from the landfill. There was a wild-looking old woman with splayed gray hair and a whale skin jacket, trying to light a fire in a trashcan. When she saw me, she charged toward me and started pounding open-fisted on my back. She was shouting about satellites and wiretaps and port-a-potties. She smelled like mothballs and soda fizz. I pushed away from her and spun into the service entrance of one of the dilapidated buildings. The door shut behind me, and everything was dark. It took me several moments before my eyes adjusted. There were dozens of empty plastic crates. There was also a darkened staircase. I walked up the staircase slowly, the wooden steps moaning beneath my feet.
