by Andrew Post
“Do it! He’s probably on his way there now!” Paige exclaimed in English. She hung up and sobbed.
The light turned green, and the traffic ahead of them moved along. Someone honked behind her, and she screamed and floored the gas, lurching them forward and nearly giving Brody whiplash.
“Where are we going?” Brody asked. 00:19:59. “I don’t think I want to be trolling around Chicago in a stolen car.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Paige squealed, turning right and cutting someone off. They honked. She shrieked again and stomped the accelerator. When the traffic stopped at another red light, she had to slam the brake to prevent them from rear-ending the car ahead.
Brody lost his patience when his forehead nearly bounced off the bumper-stickered dashboard. “That’s it. Next chance you get, pull over. I’m driving.”
“I’m so sorry,” Paige said. Her tough-cookie bravado was gone. She was a sobbing wreck. Her face was redder than when she had first walked out of the back room of the steamy dry cleaner’s, a line of drool hanging off her crimson bottom lip, her eyes bloodshot.
Brody pointed at a 7-Eleven. “Stop here.”
11
Paige parked crookedly in a space in front of the convenience store, and as soon as the car was shifted into park, she completely crumbled. She held the wheel and dropped her head down so far her forehead touched the soft pad in the middle of the wheel. Her teddy bear hat slid off her head onto the gritty floorboard.
Brody picked it up and dusted it off, placed it on the seat between them. He looked around for possible onlookers, anyone in the windows of the store giving him the stink eye. People would immediately assume he just broke up with her or slept with her sister. He dropped his cigarette out the window and closed it. The vacuum resealed, and he felt like he was inside a coffin with a crying woman, her noise unfiltered by the urban racket outside. He let her get it out, but all the while he wanted her to switch places with him so they could get the hell out of the city.
This was nothing new to him. More often than not, when he met a battered woman at the community center and she told him about all the times her boyfriend had beat her and the reasons he did it, which never seemed to Brody like valid excuses to hit anyone, she’d fall apart into a sobbing mess. He wondered if it was the simple act of purging what they had been carrying around with them that brought it on. He considered maybe it was simply revisiting times when someone had gotten violent with them.
Either way, it made Brody’s blood boil to see Paige, whom he had already come to know as a strong woman, undeniably shaken to the core. It was obvious that the giant at the diner had done far worse than verbally intimidate her in public. The abrasive way she had about her was an indication of that and how she regarded Brody when they first met. A woman who had experienced violence looked at every man like just another possible deliverer of black eyes. For a moment, he thought of Marcy and how she would probably adopt that shell soon.
Finally after her sobbing had quieted, Brody asked, “Are you okay?” He considered putting a hand on her shoulder but decided against it.
It took her nearly a full minute to say she was all right. She sat up and wiped at the corners of her eyes with her index finger. Her face was swollen, her eyes puffy, and her bottom lip still had the occasional quiver to it.
He looked away; he couldn’t bear it.
“This has never happened before. Normally he comes into the shop and yells and maybe punches the wall, and we go to the safe and pay him. I’ve never”—she chuckled—”stolen his fuckin’ car before. Where are we going to go?”
00:14:59.
“I know a place,” Brody said and opened his door. She moved over into the passenger seat without getting out, and he slid behind the wheel. He started the car and got back on the road. They’d have to pull over shortly after leaving the city limits so he could take out his lenses and put his sonar on, but there was no way he was going to let her drive until then. His neck was still sore.
The edges of Brody’s vision were beginning to cloud when they reached the farmlands. He pulled the beige Fairlane to the shoulder, nearly dipping into the ditch. They had ridden in silence up to that point, and when Paige asked why they were stopping, her voice was still racked from crying.
He flipped down the sun visor, and a pile of Seb’s parking tickets fell into his lap. He tossed them into the backseat and opened the mirror and got a look at himself with his failing vision. He appeared blurry, his reflection obscured with patches of shadows. He removed the lens charger from his pocket and took out one lens, then the other.
“You must be rich,” Paige commented.
He looked over at her with one eye completely blind and the other overcast as if thunderheads had rolled into the interior of the car with them.
“Those things aren’t cheap.”
“They were a favor from an optometrist friend of mine,” he said and removed the second lens and put it into the case, operating by touch alone.
“So, you’re completely blind without them?” Paige asked.
He got out of the car, slapped the sonar to his forehead. He leaned into the open door, showing her the silver dollar-sized not-quite-flesh tone disk stuck to his forehead. “Not entirely. But you have to drive. That is, unless you don’t mind riding with the windshield broken out.”
She moved into the driver’s seat. She was calm enough now to be trusted with the car.
Brody went around to the passenger side, and with the final ping before he opened the door, he detected a quick flash behind him, what appeared to be a crudely mapped skeleton just out of range. He turned and there was the pack of Artificial crop pickers slowly approaching with smooth, effortless strides. He looked down and saw that he had a foot on the loose, crumbly soil of someone’s property. He apologized but it did no good. They continued moving toward him. He climbed into the passenger seat quickly and they were off. The knot they could easily fold his limbs into made him shiver.
His pack of cigarettes was feeling light, but still he fished one out and lit it. He might have to take an involuntary hiatus from the bad habit if things continued like this, being broke all the time. He felt around the interior of the car with the sonar, cocking his head this way and that even though it was kind of unnecessary. He waved a cloud of smoke away, since the sonar didn’t really know what to make of it—just a swirl of cubes. It was hard to process, and other things around it lost resolution with having to reallocate processing power.
He rolled down the window a crack, and the visage of the Fairlane’s interior immediately improved. He could see nothing beyond the inside of the windshield. He could see Paige—in a stack of wire-frame cubes and polygons—with both hands on the wheel and driving with her back held straight, not even touching the seat. Brody switched on the radio to occupy the space, which to him felt claustrophobic and dead.
“So we’re going to Thorp’s place?” she asked.
“Yeah, do you know the way?”
“She took me out here a couple of times. Mostly when she needed to borrow money and brought me along for moral support. Me and him don’t really get along that well, but it was good to see that she had family she could turn to—even if he is kind of a screwball.”
“He means well,” Brody said, getting comfortable and pulling the tail of his peacoat out from under him. “And I hope you’re right, that Nectar’s just out finding herself and all this worry Thorp is going through is simply paranoia.”
“You went to Fort Reagan then, I take it?”
“Yeah, no dice. She never enlisted.”
“Well, that’s good.” Paige chuckled. “Don’t tell Thorp I said that. Actually, he’d probably agree with me, but he’s kind of flip-floppy about the whole Marines thing.”
“Army,” Brody corrected.
“Oh, right. Army. Sorry.”
A beat passed where the sweet melodies of some ancient opera song played through the terrible speakers.
She continued,
“You and him met in the military?”
“Yeah, during orientation.”
“Was he always so … ?” She twisted a finger at her temple. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about him like that, you guys being friends and all.”
“No,” Brody said. “About him being that way, I mean. He wasn’t like that before. We went through some stuff over there, and he hasn’t really been quite right since. He took it pretty hard.”
“Did he throw the pin and drop the grenade or something?” Paige smirked.
Brody decided to be direct since he didn’t appreciate her attitude. “He shot a kid.”
“Jesus.” She stifled a gasp. “I’m really sorry. I had no idea. Oh, my God. Was it an accident or … ? How did it happen?”
“The kid was a soldier. They train them young over there. We were just keeping the general order. We had gotten a call about a man who was caught in a bear trap. We thought it was a joke, another platoon playing a prank on us. We went anyway and saw just that. We pried the trap open and saw that his arm was fake. We knew it was an ambush. There was a kid at the end of the alley with an assault rifle.”
“Why would they do that to a kid?” she asked, aghast.
“It’d be a simple flush on us. They never wanted us there, anyway.” Brody took a moment to draw in a deep breath. “I hesitated; Thorp fired.”
“Did the kid die?”
“Not right away. After we had the whole situation under control, we took him with us back to base and got him to the infirmary. Thorp never left his side. Just sat there and watched the kid take one breath after another. He didn’t eat or talk or go for drills—even when our commanding officer told him he’d be brought up on insubordination charges. He refused to move, like he was rooted in that seat. He stayed until a week later when the kid’s heart gave out and he died.” It was all in Brody’s mind every hour of every day, and speaking it aloud felt dreamlike in its ease.
“I feel really bad for treating Thorp like I did,” Paige said after a moment. “I used to give him all kinds of shit when he wouldn’t let Nectar borrow any money, especially since he’s sitting on a gold mine.”
Brody had nothing else to say. He listened to the half second of silence between songs on the radio, hoping the next one would be a little more optimistic.
12
They turned into Thorp’s gravel driveway and parked beside the house. Brody stepped out and his sonar spread over the property. Not only could he see Thorp riding up on a horse; he could hear the gritty clip-clop of its hoofs on gravel.
Thorp’s face was twisted into confusion. He reined the horse to stop a few yards from the stolen car. “Where did you get that thing?” He turned as the driver’s side door opened and Paige got out. The map of Thorp’s face morphed into a mix of anger and bitterness. He slid off the horse and held on to its lead, keeping his distance from both the car and Paige. He turned to Brody. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, not even trying to mask his distaste for her.
“We got into some hot water,” Brody started and stopped himself. “It’s a long story, and it’s kind of pointless to even attempt to explain.”
Paige stood in the open door of the car, remaining behind it like a shield. She looked at Thorp with newfound sympathy written on her face. “Hi, Thorp.”
He ignored her and came closer to Brody, the horse moving forward as well. “Does she know where Nectar is? Is she pulling something with you? Because she’s not trustworthy.”
“Stop,” Brody pleaded. “Relax, okay? She thinks Nectar just left town for a while to do some soul-searching.”
“You know where she is,” Thorp shouted.
At first, Brody thought he was yelling at him. But then he noticed Paige flinch. Brody stepped between them. “Come on. Relax. She’s on our side.”
Thorp sighed. “I’m going to put Maribel back in the barn.”
Watching him go, Brody could tell by the way he walked—his gait almost taking on a stomping quality—and how he shook his head as he guided the horse away that Thorp had a lot more to say.
When he was out of earshot, Paige groaned. “He hates me. He thinks Nectar gets her wanderlust from me.”
“Let’s just go inside,” Brody said, not wanting to hear any more of it.
Paige collapsed onto the living room couch and turned on the screen as if she owned the place.
Brody went into the kitchen. The table was full of electronic parts, circuit boards, spools of wire, and a soldering gun. Thorp had been an avid amateur electrician and general tinkerer in the service, but he didn’t think the pastime would’ve made it out on the other side with him. He wondered if the compulsive hobby had developed before Thorp enlisted.
He let the sonar probe around the refrigerator. Mapped on all the glass shelves were several bowls with tinfoil over them. He picked one at random and lifted the corner to see what was inside. Food, with the sonar, looked the same. A bowl of olives could just as easily be tiny robin’s eggs or what was hanging from the rearview mirror of Seb’s car. He grabbed one of the tiny round spheres out of the bowl and squeezed it gently. It was soft, wet. He gave it an inspective sniff. Olives. He ate one and then took the bowl out of the fridge and bumped the door shut with his hip. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was nearly two in the afternoon. He picked at the olives one by one.
Rubber boots stomped on the back deck, the sliding glass door opened, and Thorp entered smelling of manure and soldering.
“Trying to find a way to steal cable?” Brody nodded toward the table covered in electronics.
“Actually, I was thinking about something. Can I see that lens charger of yours?”
Brody set the bowl of olives aside. “It needs batteries. There’s no way you can do the right charge with some jerry-rigged RadioShack parts.”
“Come on.” The colorless plane of Thorp’s face folded into a grin, and he gestured invitingly by sweeping his hand toward himself. “Let me see it.”
Brody took the lens charger from his pocket and held it out. Thorp gripped it, but Brody didn’t release it until after he had said, “You break this thing, it’s your ass. You’re my friend and I love you like a brother, but if you fuck it up—I will be seriously pissed.”
“I won’t break nothing. Calm down.” Thorp went to work at the table.
Noises from a television show in the next room found their way into the kitchen. Paige.
Brody saw Thorp stiffen. Before Thorp could shoot to his feet, Brody moved forward, essentially trapping him in his chair at the table. Brody was close enough that the sonar was able to scribble in more details upon Thorp’s face. Enough to detect him mouthing the words: “Is she in there?”
Brody nodded.
Thorp put the soldering gun back in its holder before it had even begun to warm up. He gestured at the cellar door next to the refrigerator and started tromping down the creaky wooden steps. Brody followed reluctantly.
Down in the basement, Brody felt the urge to duck every few steps. Thatches of insulation hung from the open floorboards above in thick, pillowy fingers.
Thorp guided him past the laundry area, then into another room through which Thorp had to use a key.
Momentarily, Brody thought about the possibility that Nectar was in there, locked in her brother’s basement, gagged and bound to a chair. He banished the disparaging thoughts of his friend and followed him into the next room. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were brick. As the sonar felt along the walls, he began to see the shapes of guns hanging from Peg-Board coming into focus. At the back wall, a large gun safe the size of a refrigerator. A worktable and a setup for molding metal into bullets.
The smell of gunpowder, striking his nose with the pungent ferocity of sulfur, made Brody a little uneasy. He hadn’t smelled gunpowder since the service, hadn’t held a gun since the service, hadn’t even been in the same room as a gun since the service. Minneapolis-St. Paul police had cracked down on firearms, and it seemed they were the only folks al
lowed to carry one. Maybe Illinois laws were different, but Thorp’s armory was in his basement behind a locked door so he guessed not. At the same time, he didn’t find the contents of the secret room much of a surprise, given how Thorp had decided to decorate his backyard.
Thorp closed the door behind them and spoke again at a normal volume. “Paige can’t hear us in here,” he reassured him as if Brody, too, had been worrying about such a thing. He stepped over to the workbench where a disassembled assault rifle was spread out in ten different pieces.
Brody remembered that sight. Drills by the ever-ticking stopwatch, taking the rifle apart, putting it back together, cleaning it, and basically treating it as an extension of the soldier’s body. Brody knew that once some lessons, sights, experiences, teachings were in a person, branded onto their minds, they never went away. They could be set aside, boxed away, but they still quietly took up space in whatever attic or basement they were stowed. Like riding a bike.
“You seriously don’t have to worry about her,” Brody said.
“How do you know? Maybe she wanted to come here so she could get information on me or find out exactly how much I get from Hark every month. Yeah? Ever consider that? If we want to find Nectar, we have to think outside the box and consider every possible lead a death trap. That’s all anyone wants anymore: money. By the end of the night, I guarantee she’ll be telling us she has Nectar strapped with a bomb somewhere and unless we pay her x amount of money—”
“Let me explain,” Brody interrupted. “She’s here right now because we stole some asshole’s car that was threatening her. It wasn’t even her idea to come with me. We just sort of paired up and headed this way.”
“Why didn’t you call and ask me? I could’ve told you she was up to no good. She’s a fucking schemer, man. You can tell just by looking at her. That ridiculous hat, the mittens. She’s trying to put shit in your head. Make you think of her as some wayward kid with an abusive boyfriend. All those charity cases have really dulled your soldier’s intuition.”
