by 19
The boy stood there, looking vaguely dazed, not at all hysterical. He looked after Elijah, holding out his hands, and then let them drop back to his sides, and shook his head. The boy turned and walked back towards the front of the tent, away from the preacher, looking angry and betrayed.
He had seen enough.
He couldn't let that happen, couldn't let that end like that. It wasn't fair. He had a weakness for that. No, the world was never fair, and probably never had been, but he could not accept that and hoped he never did.
And that was what made him move.
He pushed at Mary, his hand on her back, until they were back out into the aisle, and pulled her along, chasing the dark-skinned boy. –Wait. Wait a minute, he called, and he let Mary's hand go, and snapped, –Stay right there, and ran up to the boy and grabbed his arm and spun him around.
The boy stared up at him with deepset eyes, confused and angry. –What do you want? he said, spitting out the words, accusing and afraid.
–He didn't heal you, did he?
–What?
–It still hurts. Your lung. It's partially collapsed. You always feel dizzy and faint and out of breath. It hurts you. He didn't heal you, did he?
The boy's face was wiped blank, his mouth hanging open. He tried twice, and on the third attempt managed, –How in God’s name do you know that?
He pulled off his sunglasses, leaned over, gripped the boy by his upper arm and struck the left side of his chest with his fist, lightly, and said,
–Breathe.
The boy's face went absolutely white.
He drew in a deep, painless breath.
And screamed.
–No, no don't, don't do that, he hissed, terrified, and he tried to cover the boy's mouth, and the boy tried to run, and fell over a chair, and kicked and scrambled and picked himself up and ran, still screaming. In the general din, nobody really noticed.
He didn't chase the boy. He stood there, desolate and not at all surprised, and put his sunglasses back on.
Mary was pale and frightened beside him. –What on earth did you say to him?
–I asked him how he liked the sermon. Let's get out of here.
As they left he saw two barrels flanking the door. He glanced into one. It was a third full of jewelry, small wrapped packages, silver coins, two handguns, two gallon jugs of gasoline, even cash, real paper money. Offerings. He reached into his pockets, not knowing what he was looking for until he found it, and dropped in the desert rasp of a rattlesnake's dried tail.
(13)
There was an awkward and solemn picnic outside, with long splintered tables spread with platters of chicken and fried vegetables and just about every kind of cliche picnic food ever invented. There were smaller tents overhead, and sporadic clumps of people on folding chairs, talking quietly and eating quickly. It reminded him of a wake.
They managed to get plates. You learned to never turn down food, the world being what it was. They sat apart from the others. They didn't really talk. Finally the tension and the silence was too much, and he threw a green bean at her and nearly made her strangle to death on a mouthful of lemonade. She was laughing again. That was what mattered. This little bit of immaturity earned them some resentful stares. He ignored them.
She didn't even notice them to begin with. She was telling him about a snake she had found when she was seven that she had carried all the way home to ask if she could keep it as a pet, and when she'd gotten there her dad had nearly had a heart attack. She'd carried a baby rattlesnake over a mile.
She hadn't seen him drop the rattle into Elijah's barrel. He nodded at her story, not surprised. Something in him tightened. Worry, maybe. She was too perfectly crafted to mesh into him. It would hurt him very badly to lose her, even now, after two and a half days.
Suddenly, everyone was silent. It was as quick as a curtain falling.
She shut up immediately and stood up, searching with her eyes. –It's Aaron and Nila. It has to be, she whispered to him.
Aaron was a bald ancient man in round black-lensed glasses and a black wool coat, sitting in an antique wheelchair with his back absolutely straight, the set of his mouth and chin scornful and imperious. The legs of his pants were empty, the loose ends tucked under the stumps of his knees.
Apparently Elijah's limits fell somewhere short of healing amputations.
There was a knife of a woman in a black Puritan dress pushing the chair. The wheels were wide and thickly treaded, re-designed for desert sand. Nila wore a black veil, and her hands were studded with emeralds set in silver. What he could see of her face seemed carved out of a block of disapproval.
They stood, about thirty feet away from the sparse gathering, only looking, until Nila turned the chair at some invisible signal, and pushed Aaron inside the revival tent. Probably that vicious silliness–the laying on of hands–was over. He could hear them singing some kind of hymn, more calmly and in key than before. He listened until it gave him a headache, but he didn't hear Nila or Aaron join in.
(14)
–Do you want to get stoned?
He turned on the voice and almost swung before he saw who it was. –Jordan! Don't fucking do that!
Jordan cringed, his face crumpling close to tears of hurt surprise.. –I just...I wanted...I’m sorry, what did I do?
He sighed, his heart going like a triphammer. He drew Jordan close, hugged him, feeling him trembling. –I'm the one that’s sorry. I'm not angry at you. You just startled me.
–I just thought you might want to smoke. What's wrong? You've been sitting out here staring at the chickens for like an hour, Jordan said, nearly wailing. He couldn't stand anyone shouting at him, being angry at him. It broke him into pieces.
He hugged Jordan until he stopped shaking. –I'm sorry, he said again
Jordan sniffled. –You didn't bring Mary back with you? he asked. There was something endearingly jealous and hopeful in his voice.
It was nice to hear, in an ugly way. And here I felt guilty about being jealous of Zillah, he thought. And I was just being human, after all. –No. She's at her house. I might go back there tomorrow. I don't know yet.
–Did it go okay?
He wanted to laugh. He didn't. He had walked her back to the house after the revival, kissed her twice with desperate passion. She still wouldn't let him use his tongue. He found himself barred by lips and teeth, despite the arms winding him starving close.
The taste of her was driving him insane.
Finally, he'd left her there and found the truck. He'd driven back to the safehouse in a delirium of happiness and dread and worry and lust and happiness. He wanted her. He wanted to keep her and see her every day and make her laugh until they were eighty and all that laughter he had given her was etched onto her face. He couldn't stop smiling.
–Yeah, it went okay, he said. The words were limp and inadequate. He didn't go into it to spare Jordan any more pangs of jealousy.
–Do you love her?
He stared at Jordan for that one. –I don't even really know her yet, he said, avoiding Jordan's eyes, pretending again. –And yes, I would love to get stoned.
Jordan leaned closer, and said in a confiding whisper, –You did it again, didn't you? I can tell. You're all pale and you're tired and you snapped at me. Was it at that revival thing?
He sighed. –Jordan, are we actually going to smoke, or was that a cruel tease on your part?
Jordan shrugged. –Fine. Don't tell me. Yeah, we'll smoke.
He usually smoked just enough to get pleasantly altered. Tonight he topped the bowl with opium, and smoked as much as he could as fast as he could, drinking vodka at the same time.
Spectre watched this miniature drug orgy, seeming vaguely amused. –You're in love, he said, sounding pleased and proud and a little smug.
–You're delusional. He blew smoke through his teeth. –I like her. That's all.
–Then why are you trying to kill as many brain cells as possible? Are you going for the recor
d? Most illegal substances consumed within a single night?
–Spectre, that sense of humor is eventually going to cost you your front teeth, he said, passing the pipe to Zillah.
–Are you going back tomorrow? Spectre asked him.
–Yes, he said. Damn it. Not only could he not lie to her, he had found that he was unable to lie about her.
He ignored the laughter Spectre gave him back in answer.
He was in Spectre's bathroom three weeks later, brushing out his hair, staring at himself in the mirror. He found his own gaze uncanny, uncomfortable. His brain had a new habit of pointing out how strange looking he was, how his nose was too long and his teeth were too big. She couldn't possibly actually want to be with him, it would never work. The person in the mirror seemed contemptuous of him, scornful, mocking. He half-expected to fall into the mirror, to be left standing there while his reflection picked up the keys to the truck and left the house, and went to her.
He turned away from his own face, grabbed the keys from the counter.
Mary was pale and unpainted at her door, wrapped in her bathrobe again. –Don't look at me. I look awful. And don't kiss me. You'll catch whatever it is I have.
He stepped inside. Pulled her close and kissed her anyway. –What's wrong?
–A cold. Something. I'm just sick, she said. She was burning up under his hands, and her skin was gleaming with sweat.
–You can't be sick. I don't want you to be sick. He moved her back to the bed, made her sit down.. –How long have you been running a fever like this?
–Since about an hour before you left yesterday.
–Mar, are you crazy? You have to take something.
–I did. I just need to sleep it off, she said.
–Do you want me to come back later, or tomorrow?
–No, no, she said, clinging to him. –Could you stay? Just for a little while?
–I'm staying, I'm staying, he protested, laughing. She had thrown her arms around his neck. –What's wrong? I'm not going anywhere.
–I just wanted you here. Last night. I was so sick, I couldn't really sleep, and I was remembering how it was when you were here that night. The house is so empty without you. I missed you. I thought about walking to Spectre's to be with you.
–You didn't try, did you? Here, he said, trying to maneuver her under the covers.
–Yes, but I didn't get very far.
He surprised her by taking her shoulders, shaking her once, hard. –Don't you ever do that again. Ever.
She looked at him, stunned, her mouth loose. –I do it all the time–
–Not anymore, you don't, he told her.
She seemed to consider saying something, nodded instead. –I won't.
–Now, tell me exactly how you feel.
He had finally persuaded her under the covers. He took off his boots and dropped them and slid behind her, with his back against the wall, so that she was sitting up with her back against his chest.
She resisted briefly, then leaned into him, sighing. –Hot and cold and shivery. And stuffy. And I hurt all over, and I keep wanting to cry.
He was working on her shoulders, carefully. He was also fighting not to get aroused. She's sick, and she's STILL sixteen, and you had just better behave yourself. –It's the fever. Do you think you can sleep?
–No.
–I promise I will stay right here, Mar.
–No. I don't want to sleep, I don't want to dream dreams like that again...
She was crying, now, and it stunned him, his reaction to this. He wanted to pick up the biggest stick he could find and storm around until he found whatever was to blame for her tears and beat it into a smear. Instead he kept his arms around her, kind of rocked her a little, and kept saying her name and shhh and it's okay, I'm here. He felt abysmally, terrifyingly helpless. –What did you dream?
She shook her head, turned her face against his chest. He was stroking her hair, holding her carefully, like a butterfly, like he might break her. –I was standing out in the desert, and I saw an angel fall out of the sky, and he was lying on the ground, and when he looked up, it was you, only you had long teeth and long nails, but I wasn't afraid of you. Then Aaron made a tornado come and take you back up, and then he was going to send me away to a hospital. And there were guns, someone had a lot of guns, and the noise was so terrible. And then Spectre was there, and he was bleeding and he wouldn't talk to me, she said, still crying. –I knew it was silly but I was so scared, and I wanted you here.
Cold. Ice. Dread. His tongue pushed against his teeth, still too-big, still flat. Not pointed at all. –I'm sorry I didn't know that you needed me, he whispered.
–You couldn't have known, she said, sniffling.
Yes, I could have, and I would have, but I was stoned out of my mind so I wouldn't keep seeing you under me, moaning and pleading and wanting me, so I wouldn't hear you in my head, so I wouldn't wonder what we might name our children.
–I'm here now, he told her. –Go to sleep. I won't let you dream anything.
–I don't mind dreams. Just not like that one, she said, laughing a little, her voice still strained.
–Other dreams, then. Dream this, he said, and whispered something medium-to-heavy filthy in her ear that made her squeak and smack at him lightly. –I'm kidding you, Mar. Sleep. It's okay. I'll be here when you wake up.
–Will you?
–Yes. Right here, he told her again, knowing she needed to hear it.
He held her, felt her relax, listened to her breathing grow steady and slow. She was too hot against him, and her hands were cold, and he was worried to death.
Hours later he eased himself out from under her, tiptoed the few steps to her tiny kitchen and poked around until he found a glass. There was a refrigerator with a freezer. He opened it. She needed more of just about everything, unless the emptiness was normal, and he made a mental note to leave in search of some kind of grocery store if she was well enough to be left alone. The faucets had running water that was mostly clear and actually got hot if you waited, the same as in the shower. She probably had a generator somewhere. He would have to check it out, if he ever found her any light bulbs.
She murmured in her sleep.
He went back to her. She wasn’t asleep, he discovered—awake, but dazed. He had a glass of cold water, four aspirin from his bag. –Here, he told her.
She shook her head.
He made her sit up and swallow them anyway.
–I just hurt. Everywhere. She was getting hoarse. After she spoke she started coughing.
–I need to go out to the truck. Stay here.
–No, she pleaded, holding out her hands.
He kissed her forehead.
–I'll be right back. One minute. That's all. I brought the rest of the opium.
–No, we can't do it here, they'll–
–We're the only ones here. Don't worry about it, he told her. –It'll help you. It's good for pain. And good for
lungs, he thought
–cough, he finished, and even to his own ears it sounded, lame. Substituted.
She followed him with her eyes all the way out the door.
He wrestled open the glove compartment, found the little plastic bag with the gummy ball of opium. The pipe was under bleached papers there, and he took that too, stuffed them both in his pocket.
It was getting dark. The sunset was usually beautiful. Tonight it was hideous, a sickly violet-green smeared with gray clouds. He stared at this omen, shivering. She's fine. She'll be fine. It's just the flu. A virus. Anything. It'll pass in a day or so.
He thought of Elijah, pretending to see snakes and demons afflicting his followers. He never saw it that way himself. He would see a dark heavy membrane like a shroud, clinging and winding through flesh and bone. He would take hold of it, and pull it out, cast it into the air, the ground, into himself when nothing else would work.
He hadn't seen it on Mary, that sticky darkness, because he wasn't looking. He didn't want t
o see it.
Back inside, he sat beside her, loaded the pipe, found a lighter for her. It made her cough, and she handed it back to him.
He hit it himself, and cupped the back of her head and breathed smoke into her mouth. That worked better. She could manage that without coughing. After the fourth or fifth lungful he could feel the drug burning in her skin, and he snuck in a kiss, licked at her teeth, at the roof of her mouth. She gasped, giggled, and that started her coughing again. –Quit laughing, then, he told her, laughing too.
–You cheated! And that feels so weird! Her hand was moving between her mouth and her neck, not touching in either place, just wandering.
–Here. Give it back to me, this time.
They passed a lungful of smoke between them until she had to move back for air. He lured her into another kiss. She didn't cough or giggle this time.
He groped and banged his way to the kitchen, managed to put the kettle on the gas stove.
–What are you doing?
He found bread in her freezer, pried off two slices and put them in her antique toaster. –Making you tea.
–With the toaster?
–And toast, he amended, and fought with the little plastic switch until it stayed down. One more thing to add to his list of things she needed: new toaster.
–I don't want any toast.
–Well, that's just too bad, oh so sad, Mar, because you're having some anyway, he told her.
She didn't answer. He peeked down what passed for a hall and thought he saw her smile.
It wasn't real tea. That was almost impossible to get, now. It was the same fragrant substitute that Spectre used. It reminded him of blackberries. His first toast experiment burned it into charcoal, which made her laugh again. He displayed his accomplishment with a bow and a flourish. She applauded. He trashed them, tried again and succeeded. He brought it to her, on a plain white plate, along with the tea still hot and filled with too much sugar.
