Swallowing a Donkey's Eye

by Paul Tremblay

  This is despair. I see it in front of me. I hear it in Quaz’s screaming rage. I hear it in Melissa’s quiet tears very much in the background. What am I supposed to do? What are any of us supposed to do?

  I yell, “Drop that!” and run over to the children. The boy takes advantage of the girl’s momentary surprise at my voice. He snatches the tube from her. He has the treasure all to himself now. He takes off into Dump clutching his prize. I give chase for ten hard, climbing steps. But then a toaster oven lands on my next step.

  I look up and see the oddly shaped raindrops of garbage falling out of darkness and bouncing off the latticework of posts and beams. I look up and see oversized roulette balls bouncing around looking for black or red, or some lucky number. I look up and I know we’re in one of those glass snowballs and everything is all shook up. There is more screaming from everywhere around Dump. Take cover is the hue and cry. I hesitate and the boy is too far ahead of me. Something large lands near him, maybe on him. I can’t tell. I let him go. I run back toward Home. Everything is falling apart around me. It’s all coming down. Mattresses and TVs and engorged green garbage bags and plastic milk bottles and beer cans and dinner trays and tires and armless mannequins and confetti streams of paper and cloth and a red bigwheel missing its bigwheel and broken lamps and nightstands and computer screens and microwaves and I’m not sure but something that looked like a broken elevator car crash lands behind the incinerator and there’s so much more bent and mangled and unrecognizable debris, the sloughed, dead skin of City and this isn’t right, there is too much to be just a garbage dump and soon must be now because City is finally crashing down on top just like that old woman said it would. I dodge and duck, manage to stay upright and running, and the girl is two steps away, hiding under Feroz’s Hep C box. Instinct and inner logic are arguing within me again. Logic says I should leave her here, that I can’t save her, that I can’t save anybody, that she’ll suffer less if she’s crushed under a falling refrigerator and that I might be better served staying out here with the girl and trying to catch the matching washer-dryer set with my head. I give in to instinct this time. I grab the girl. I grab her and run inside Home. Quaz, on my heels, follows me in. We’re all in the body room. Melissa is leaning up against a back wall. Death and rot on either side of her. I stand with the girl in the blue dress in my arms. I’m facing the camera. The lens stares. I stare back. Neither of us blinks.

  I know it’s too late, but I stick my fingers down the girl’s throat until she gags and vomits. She doesn’t fight me. I repeat until her gags are dry heaves.

  I say, “Let’s wash up and take our guest to dinner.” My words sound too normal.

  The camera shuts off. I know this because I watched its red light die.

  51

  ON THAT NIGHT

  On the night before my mother caught me in the elevator shaft, on that night, Mr. Lopez died. He was lonely. He had never been the same after Mrs. Lopez died. He’d stopped taking his walks and he’d stopped leaving kids Tootsie Rolls.

  On that night, Mr. Lopez killed himself. No one saw it coming; my Dad-the-psychic wasn’t there to warn anyone.

  Everyone who was in the building, didn’t matter what floor they were on, heard his antique handgun send an antique bullet into the roof of his mouth and then into his brain, and out the top of his head. The bullet kept going into the ceiling and through a floor and then embedded into the leg of the kitchen table of the person who lived above him. Had Mr. Lopez lived to tell a joke about the prowess of his antique handgun, he would’ve said, “See, they don’t make them like they used to.”

  No one was joking in the apartment building after we heard the shot. No one was joking when the police and coroners arrived, and they arrived loudly complaining about the broken elevator. The landlord was MIA and my mother was the only person in the building who had a key to the Lopez apartment. After Mrs. Lopez had died, Mr. Lopez had given my mother a key so she could check up on him. I’m not sure if she had ever followed through on checking up.

  I was up past my bedtime, sticking my head out the kitchen window, trying to hear what was going on upstairs. There wasn’t much to hear, but someone said they should throw the old bird out the window. At first, I didn’t know what they meant by the old bird. Initially, I thought Mr. Lopez had a pet they were going to set free. I was a stupid kid.

  When Mom got back from the Lopez’s apartment, I asked, “What did you see?”

  She expected the question, and she answered it. Her answer started with, “Poor Mr. Lopez,” and forevermore, she’d only refer to him as Poor Mr. Lopez. She said, “Poor Mr. Lopez was at the kitchen table, still in his chair. He’d moved every picture in the apartment into the kitchen and taped them to the walls, counter, table, and refrigerator. It must’ve taken him a long time. There were a lot of pictures.”

  I was confused again, thinking my mother had stated the obvious. That, yes, it had taken Mr. Lopez a long time, his antique lifetime to take and be in all those pictures. But then my tired, up-past-my-bedtime head caught up with the rest of Mom’s words. I didn’t say anything.

  She said, “Are you okay, bud?”

  “Yeah. Just sad.”

  “Me too.”

  I’m sure she expected me to ask why he did what he did. But I didn’t. I sat and drank a glass of water, kissed Mom’s cheek, wished her goodnight, went into my bedroom, closed the door, and crawled into bed.

  I was hot. Real hot. A City day’s worth of summer heat and sweat collected in my little room. The open window did nothing to help. I stripped down to my underwear and kicked the blankets off the bed.

  I don’t know how long I lay there awake thinking about poor Mr. Lopez and Mrs. Lopez. It didn’t seem like long before Mom knocked on my bedroom door, then opened it. She was hot too. I could tell because she was only wearing white underwear and a tight white tee shirt that ended above her bellybutton. The whiteness nearly glowed against her dark brown skin. She shut off the kitchen light and everything was total darkness for a little bit, but I got used to it.

  Still in the doorway, she said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “I don’t think I am. Would it be all right if I slept in bed with you?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I split up my two-pillow stack, leaving one for her, folding one in half for me. Then I rolled onto my side, facing away from where she would sleep. She got into bed slowly, as if she was sneaking in, afraid of waking me. I was awake. Her body absorbed the bed. I tried to stay tucked away, my own island, but there wasn’t enough space.

  She lay on her side, facing me. I felt her breath on the back of my head and neck. Then soft kisses in the same spots. Then her arm folded over my body, her hand resting on my belly. Her skin was hot, even hotter than the room, hot enough to burn through me, hot enough to turn me into ash. She pulled me close, and pressed against my back and legs. No more island. She rubbed my belly and then my bare chest, and all over. She was crying.

  I wasn’t crying. I thought about Poor Mr. Lopez finding me spitting down the elevator shaft, and I thought about him sitting alone in a room full of pictures. I thought about who and what were in all the pictures. I thought about how he made himself as still and as past as the images, and that thought scared me.

  I was in her hands, and she asked me to flip over and face her.

  I thought about all the things people I knew did to loved ones or because of loved ones. That thought scared me too. And I flipped over.

  52

  BLOW UP EVERYTHING

  On my door, there’s a knock. It’s light, but not hesitant.

  I was asleep on the floor without a pillow or blanket, trying to forget that I was alive. I had no dreams. I am awake now. My right arm is numb and stinging with pins and needles. I try to shake it out. I have no idea what time it is.

  I sit up and see the girl in the blue dress is still asleep on my cot.
She’s curled up into a tight ball with the blanket. She ate two plates of chicken wings and fries at dinner. She didn’t answer any of my questions. She didn’t speak at all. On the way to my room, she fell asleep in my arms.

  There’s more knocking. I whisper, “Go ahead, open the goddamn door.”

  It’s Melissa. She says, “Come out here, please.”

  I limp outside my room. My whole body aches like I’ve been sleeping on the floor for months, but judging by Melissa’s appearance (still wearing her clothes and hat from earlier, but no camera) I don’t think I was asleep for very long.

  “This is my last official act for The Candidate.” She hands me her smart phone.

  I say, “The CM are the last people on earth I want to talk to.”

  Melissa shifts on her feet and fiddles with the phone and her fingers. She doesn’t know what to do when she’s not watching other people, which really doesn’t make her any different than most. Maybe I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.

  She says, “I know that. You don’t have to talk to them. I had them leave a message instead.” She gives me the phone and walks away.

  I shut the door, then think better of leaving the girl all closed in by herself. So I open it a crack, wondering if the light from the hallway will reach her.

  The phone is a grenade in my hand and I want to throw it and blow up everything. But I don’t throw it. I bring it up to my ear. The phone tells me to press 2 to hear the message. Nothing good will come of listening to this message. I know this. But I do it anyway.

  53

  PANDERING WINS BABY

  This is the message on Melissa’s cell phone:

  “Wow,” then, “Wow,” then, “I think I’m having an orgasm,” then, “Me too,” then, “Let’s share,” then, “Ha Ha!” then, “Ha Ha!” then, “That was magnificent,” then, “You were a stud tonight,” then, “A Greek god,” then, “Goosebumps,” then, “A real live action hero,” then, “A walking-talking summer blockbuster,” then, “You performed beyond our wildest expectations,” then, “You’re making us look like geniuses,” then, “Tonight’s finale was the highest rated primetime show in twenty years,” then, “The insta-polls are all too close to call,” then, “Solomon is panicking,” then, “You should see it,” then, “He’s going for a last ditch smear campaign,” then, “He’s running a bit from the show,” then, “Showing you not going after the boy in Dump,” then, “But it’s not working,” then, “Not even a blip on the screen,” then, “No one is talking about that,” then, “Everyone is talking about you and the girl,” then, “You’re going to win,” then, “Can’t get over that final shot,” then, “You standing there holding the girl,” then, “Brilliant,” then, “There isn’t anyone in City who hasn’t seen that shot by now,” then, “Sure, some of the TV critics have panned the finale,” then, “That’s to be expected,” then, “They’d complain about water not being wet enough,” then, “Some are calling the show and specifically that final shot pandering,” then, “Which is fine with us,” then, “They’re not wrong, really,” then, “But who cares?” then, “Because pandering is good,” then, “Pandering wins, baby,” then, “Pussy no more,” then, “We have a real shot at winning this thing,” then, “The Pandering Mayor, maybe,” then, “But not a pussy Mayor,” then, “Congratulations,” then, “Good luck to us tomorrow night,” then, “See you soon, Mayor.”

  54

  WORD FOR WORD

  I wake up on the floor again. This time it’s the next day. My first thought is that today is election day. My second thought is that I hate myself for thinking that first thought.

  The girl is awake in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I ask her if she wants breakfast. She doesn’t answer but she doesn’t fight me when I bring her down to the cafeteria. I don’t carry her this time. We walk. She holds my hand.

  Melissa and Quaz are already in the cafeteria. Father-my-father isn’t there. We eat. Quaz tells me the executive order of the day is that I’m to have the day off from my regular duties. I don’t argue. Melissa promises to keep an eye on the girl. They ask me where I’m going.

  I tell them the truth. Or maybe it’s a lie. I’m not sure anymore. I tell them I’m going to look for the boy. They don’t question me.

  I’m almost certain this is my last day here. Maybe I’m getting a touch of ESP. I have to look around for Mom one last time. Out in Pier and Dump I crawl over trash mountains and descend into trash valleys. I ask people about my mother, they beg me for help. We tell each other sorry. I pass the morning hours this way, walking Dump and not seeing who I want to see. Then I climb posts and beams next, first going down a level or two and sticking my hands in the ocean. I’ve never touched the ocean before. It’s very cold, and the salt stings my lips when taste it. I don’t linger close to the water. Instead, I climb, going as high up as my body will take me. In these higher levels of Pier the posts are slick with fog condensation. No one is up here. The last person I saw was maybe five or six levels below. I didn’t know that person either, as if I really know anyone. I’m alone. And I’ve reached a point where I can’t see through the cloud above me, but I haven’t reached Pier’s ceiling. I haven’t reached City’s floor. I don’t know if I could. I get the sense I’m still miles away from City. Dump is at least one-hundred feet down. It doesn’t look any better from this height.

  While up here, I consider and indulge the following fantasy: The CM know where my mother is, in fact, they have her, keeping her safe for a The Candidate follow-up or reunion-type show, and I can just see it; there’s Mom appearing from behind a curtain or from off the set or the green room and she’s all tears and smiles and so am I and so is the audience, now that’s pandering! And, dammit, I hate the fucking fucker that I am all over again for thinking like a TV producer, for wishing my life was a perpetual media stunt.

  Back to reality. I climb down. The urge to jump never hits me because it’d be too easy. I’m climbing down. I’m climbing down with a purpose, and unlike the rest of my Dump-walking morning and Pier-climbing afternoon, I have a final destination in mind.

  One level above Home. She’s there. In the crook of a post and beam. Still that bird in a nest. Still fussing with the paper and cloth and other nest materials. I watch her and I know before she speaks that nothing really changes.

  I say, “Hi, again.”

  She says, “Don’t come too close! I’m scared. I’m so scared I can’t do nothing anymore. Nothing but sit in this corner. It’s terrible. I get the shakes and shivers. See.”

  She’s saying what she said to me the first time. Word. For. Word. I remember.

  “I can’t sleep. I can’t close my eyes from the worry.”

  I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should stop listening and just pretend to believe my CM fantasy, pretend that everything will really be okay. Maybe I should say something, something to interrupt her, stop her from saying it all over again. Maybe if I can stop her from saying it all over again everything will be different.

  “I’m worrying myself to death, worrying City and all this wood that’s everywhere will come crashing down on my head.”

  I say, “I lied to everyone back at Home. I’m not looking for the boy. I know he’s gone.”

  “Wait! You need to know it’s all going to come crashing down, squash us, drown us, mix us in with water and wood, and buildings and blood and bones.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She keeps talking. “I try to tell them, but no one listens.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Her same words. “That’s the truth.”

  “Please?”

  “I don’t know much, but I know that. Someday it’s all going to come down. Someday soon.”

  She stops talking, but doesn’t throw a can at me this time.

  I say, “I think you’re the only person down here I didn’t ask yet.” And I am Father ESP
’s son, because I know she knows. She’s going to tell me. “Do you know what happened to my mother?” I rattle off her name and try to cram in the memories of what she looked like, how she talked, and how she walked into as few words as possible.

  She looks at me. Really looks at me. The wrinkled curtain of her mouth opens, and one word comes out, dryer than sandpaper. “Sorry.”

  I want to paint the wooden posts and beams with my own blood because I don’t know what she means. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything.

  She’s talking again, looping back to the beginning. “Don’t come too close! I’m scared. I’m so scared I can’t do nothing anymore. . . .”

  I turn my back to her. Tears that only have a vague notion of what they’re all about fall off my face. I walk away and climb back down toward Home, but she’s loud enough that I hear her finish up.

  55

  THEIR STORIES INSIDE

  I return Home. It’s dinner time, only there’s no Quaz or my father or Melissa or the girl in the cafeteria, just some of the other staff. I ask around. Quaz works the incinerator but no one knows where the rest of the gang is.

  You know, Father-my-father is never around like he said he would be. He’s never here when I need him. Despite promises to the contrary, he’s offered no help since he stuck me down here. And he did stick me down here. I understand that my playing along, my following, my refusal to rebel or even ask the right questions equates to complicity.

  It’s more than high-time to get some answers from him. He’s not in his office, so I walk to the sleeping quarters and his door is shut. It’s always shut. I try the knob and no dice. It’s locked. It’s always locked.

  He says, “I’m busy.”

  “Open the door. We need to chat.”

  I wait. I don’t hear any sounds of movement.

  “Go away.”