Well, Sisler figured this was as good an idea as any, so when T.J.’s foot was next to his he began to sidle his off that mine, heel an’ toe, ’til his foot was clear, while T.J. took up the position. I tell you, and you can imagine, there wasn’t hardly a breath drawn that whole time an’ there wasn’t hardly no drama durin’ the whole war to equal what was happenin’ there. But T.J., he was just grinnin’ like there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary goin’ on.
“That’s good,” says T.J. once Sisler was clear. “Now you boys best stand off a bit, just in case . . .”
Well he didn’t have to say so twice. Jus’ ’fore he turned to go, Christy said, “You sure you know what you’re doin’?” an’ T.J. said, “Sure I do,” an’ kept on grinnin’ that grin, so they figured he must. Now you’ve gotta know that there’s no more than a minute, most often less, says Butchy, ’fore them things go off anyway all by themselves, and T.J.’d used most of that up by now, and he knew it.
Soon as Sisler and Christy was out of harm’s way, T.J. took off his hat an’ waved it at everybody and said: “That was one heckava game, boys. Don’t let nothin’ keep you from playin’ it out. You play for all your worth, or don’t play at all.” An’ then that mine went off and that was the end of T.J., but it wasn’t so cut and dry a proposition as you might suppose, ’cause while most of ’im was still in the air, this dust man comes rippin’ outta the leftovers and took off for third, and everybody there saw it when it hit that pad—which was a German P.O.W.’s backpack—and made full-tilt for home an’ the catcher just stood aside when he saw it comin’, an’ it slid across the plate feet-first and just disappeared into the wind.
And that’s how T.J. made it home.
It was Christy, and Cobb, and Sisler who cut that swath through the record books them old men down at the emporium used to think was reserved for T.J., but I tell you somethin’—an’ you can ask any catcher in the league if it ain’t so—every time one’ve them fellas stepped up to bat in years to come, they’d whisper, “This one’s for you, General,” an’ they was talkin’ ’bout my little brother T.J.
Make of that what you will.
A World War I government-issue canteen was suspended by its strap from a hook on the wall of the Pullman. It rocked back and forth to the gentle cadence of the train’s forward motion. Most of its canvas covering had been worn away by constant use during the war, leaving its tin surface exposed, worn to a bright sheen in which Rat, his eyes swaying back and forth in keeping with the movement of the canteen, examined the progress of his soul.
When Cummings at last thrust his squash-like head through the curtains that divided the sleeping compartment from the world in general and the island in particular, Rat had nearly hypnotized himself into oblivion.
“Hello, Cummings,” he said dreamily, in response to the butler’s greeting.
The Resident had clearly not passed an easy time. “It is good to see you, sir,” said Cummings, and he meant it from the bottom of his perfectly polished Abercrombie Brothers’ Footwear for Gentlemen in Service. His own experience, since last they spoke, had not been without interest in that, periodically, various part of his personage became invisible. Though he felt it not his place to encumber the Occupant with his problems, the condition—and the likelihood of its recurrence—were never entirely out of his mind.
“Good to see you, too,” said Rat sincerely.
Gone, Cummings noted with some pleasure, was the superficial bravado that had marked his Guest’s earlier conversation. Gone was the frequent profanity upon which he relied to express himself. Gone, too, the petulant sarcasm, the uneasiness between them. In its place had grown a pleasant, confidential familiarity. Almost, though not quite, he allowed himself to believe, a friendship. Rat cast an appraising eye over the butler’s extremities. “You’re looking very three-dimensional today.”
Cummings inclined his head. “Good of you to notice, sir. The condition has not been without sequel during your recent . . . absence, but one may hope it is passing by degrees.”
“Good news, Cummings.” Rat’s attention returned to the canteen.
“You detect improvement, sir?” Cummings inquired hopefully as he arranged a simple breakfast upon the silver tray without which he seldom sallied forth from his pantry.
Rat didn’t reply immediately. He studied the reflection. Of the gargoyle it had once been, there was little in evidence. What remained was much more like him than like anything else, enough so his grannie could have identified it as belonging to her Little Harry. Yet further amendments, he knew, would be forthcoming. It was not so much what it was that concerned him any longer, but what it was to become. “Three nights left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s still got a ways to go, but construction is pretty well under way.”
“We are pleased, sir.”
Cummings carried out the remainder of his chores in silence, allowing Rat to ponder his experience as the brother of General T.J. Grandy. “What do you know of the Great War, Cummings? After your time, wasn’t it?”
Cummings demurred into the back of his immaculately laundered and pressed white glove. “Yes, sir. I believe hostilities began some years after my departure from England. However, I have had the honor to serve other guests who were intimate with the conflict. From both sides. A great tragedy.”
Rat echoed the statement. “A waste. Sheer bloody waste. And for nothing.”
“You were there, sir?”
Rat nodded. He picked up a ragged old three-fingered baseball mitt and slapped his fist into the pocket. For a while his thoughts were too heavy for words to carry. “Yet, such times reveal things about men, Cummings,” he said at last.
“Indeed, sir.”
“The best and the worst,” said Rat. “The central figure was a baseball player. You know baseball?”
“An American innovation upon the British game of rounders, sir. Yes. I prefer Cricket, which I find a more gentlemanly sport.”
Rat, who had somehow in his travels become familiar with the game under review, took exception. “If an alien being, intent upon performing humanitarian deeds among the inhabitants of underprivileged planets, arrived upon ours in the midst of a cricket match, Cummings, he would write off the species that had concocted such an aberration as utterly beyond hope. No,” he said preemptively as Cummings inhaled to protest. “I could not continue to regard you with respect if you were to defend the pastime. It is a game devised by demons as a means by which to torture mortals with boredom and confusion and thereby beguile eternity. The Great War, by comparison, was a sane and practical endeavor. Say no more of it. The subject leadens the tongue.”
“As you wish, sir,” Cummings replied, though his lips were not as loose as would have been those of one without a strong contrary opinion on the subject. He concluded the preparations for breakfast without further comment.
“I’d like to tell you about it,” said Rat as he drank the last of his juice. “Is that permitted by the Rules?”
“It is not countermanded, sir,” Cummings replied, a little stiffly.
Rat leaned his head back upon the pillow, closed his eyes and related the experience with startling vividity. At the end of the telling, Cummings was breathless, his recent pique entirely forgotten. His lashes were bejeweled with tears.
Rat opened his eyes. “I knew those boys, Cummings.”
Never had Cummings felt himself so deeply a part of another’s experience. He, too, felt he knew them, as if he had been in the trenches with them, suffered with them.
“What do you make of it?” Rat asked as a long, emotion-encrusted silence drew to an end.
“As you say, sir, there is a lot in it.” Cummings sighed. “I would say it has to do with selflessness and personal sacrifice.”
Rat absorbed this, nodding slowly. “Selfless and sacrificial are not words that will be engraved upon my tombstone, Cummings.”
“No, sir?” Cummings replied, wiping away a tear.
“N
or noble. Nor honorable. Nor peace-loving. Nor gentle. Nor caring. Nor loving. Nor compassionate, nor good, brave, honorable, trustworthy. Dig into your over-used thesaurus, my good man, and contribute to the conversation.”
“I apprehend, sir. You feel you are deficient in these attributes?”
“With a capital ‘D,’ said Rat. “My memorial, if inscribed of even date, would bear the words of my critics: “cruel, controversial, and cool.”
“If you are not warm enough, sir, perhaps I could . . .”
“Temperature has nothing to do with it, Cummings. The upshot is that I have done nothing to improve the human condition. Nothing to elevate the spirit of those with whom I share the planet. Nothing to assure a better future for those who come after me. My life, ’til now, has been pretty much—no, let’s be honest, entirely—focused upon whatever was best for Harold Erasmus Jackson. This sort of existence doesn’t earn high marks in the Book of Judgment to which my grannie often referred.
“The world will benefit more from my passing than from my presence.”
“The observations are worthy of contemplation, sir. If I may, I would suggest the fact that you make them bodes well for their revision henceforth.”
“Realizing one is on fire is not the same as dowsing oneself with water, Cummings.”
“No, sir. But it is an important beginning.” He raised Rat’s chin slightly with the forefinger of his left hand and thereunder inserted the silk ruffle of a soft satin sheet.
Only now did Rat notice that the rocking had stopped. They were no longer on a train.
“Day’s end, Cummings?”
“Day’s end, sir.”
“Another scorcher in your personal annals?”
“I keep no written record, sir. The events of our intervening days are consigned to memory alone.”
“Don’t sell ’em to the tabloids,” said Rat. He looked around. He was in a mobile home, much like the one he occupied between concerts while on the road, though even more opulent.
“Familiar territory,” said Rat, becoming groggy.
“May your journey be productive, sir,” said Cummings. “If there is nothing else?”
Rat swung his head dismissively until the pendulum of his sight caught a large mirror on the ceiling over the bed. Therein, in place of his own reflection, was that of a bearded white man, a television director whose sleep was frenzied by the looming shadow of yet another failed pilot in the making . . .
The Devil’s Bequest
The nineteenth night
Push the envelope. Push the envelope. Generate controversy. Shock. Whatever it takes; deviancy in all its endless variety. Push. Push. But there was so much competition. It had all been done. Everyone was plumbing the bottom of the cesspit. How much deeper could he go?
God bless the First Amendment. If there was a bottom, he’d find it.
If only the public wasn’t so easily jaded. Today’s excess was tomorrow’s after-school special.
If there was just some way to guarantee that the Southern Baptists would come out against the show—maybe take out full page ads in major newspapers—success would be assured. That would get him on the talk-shows. Free PR. He could conjure up a few tears for his art. He was, however, an artist. This was his art. A statement of the human condition! He was being censored!
Push. Push.
Those religious fanatics had gotten so complacent it was almost impossible to shock them into action anymore. They were fighting the battle on too many fronts. And there was no way any of them could fight their mutual foe, the Internet. It was all there. Bestiality. Snuff films. Any kid could log on to the perversity of his choice at the local library, courtesy of the Constitution.
The title had been a stroke of genius: The Devil’s Bequest. That should get those self-righteous hypocrites going. But he had to deliver. The Ultimate Reality Show. At least the ‘actors’ were no problem. Even he was amazed at the extremes to which people would go to claim their fifteen minutes of fame. The possibility of big bucks and face time on national TV, even for a pilot that might never be seen!
It was high-concept stuff: Search and destroy.
It would be a hard sell. Sponsors would be antsy. That’s all right. Part of the business. But if you could deliver the demographics, they’d be killing one another to get on board.
Killing one another. The director smiled in his sleep. That was the irony. Killing one another. Push. Push.
“Okay, people. Listen up!”
The director shouted into the megaphone. The sound of his voice, electronically amplified, cut across the early morning mist, commanding immediate silence. He was God in a world of his own design. The cast hung on his every word with a reverence Moses would have envied. The crew were his obedient servants. Sycophants. Their careers were in his hands, and they all knew it. The sensation of absolute power coursed through his veins, reviving his confidence after a long, restless night.
He’d practiced his speech over breakfast. “We’re about to make history here. The Devil’s Bequest is not going to just push the envelope, we’re going to annihilate it! And you’re all a part of it.”
Cheers swept the fog aside. Cheers from the grips. Cheers from the second unit. Cheers from the lighting and sound engineers. Cheers from the talent, even the caterers. Cheers like adrenaline injected straight into his brain.
“No one’s going to just sit and watch this show. We’re going to shock ’em. We’re going to get them off their fat asses and throw ’em against the wall!”
More cheers. More adrenaline. He was the general, ordering his troops to march face-first into hell, and there was nothing they wouldn’t do for him. He was the director.
Even if it failed, he’d get on Letterman and the Early Show. A boost for his cred.
“Trailblazers don’t have an easy time. Every one of you is going to be pushed to the limit. But when you feel like throwing in the towel, I want you to think about what you’re doing. You’re not just making a television show. You’re not just providing an hour’s entertainment for a bunch of couch potatoes back home (and around the world if we can stay on the air long enough for subsidiary and syndication markets to kick in). You’re taking the ultimate stand for the First Amendment. You’re risking the ultimate sacrifice to preserve free speech! You are Americans!”
The speech was met with less enthusiasm than he’d imagined.
“And you could win one million dollars!”
The applause was almost deafening. Stop over-estimating them, he reminded himself.
“Now, I’m going to go over the rules of the game one more time. Listen carefully. One of you is a murderer,” his fingers bracketed the air with quotes, and he smiled. The cast laughed. “And you’re out to eliminate the rest. The last one ‘alive,’” bracket the air again, playfully, “is the winner. It’s that simple. Make sure everyone else gets killed before you do. Of course, we will be throwing in a few surprises.” A diabolical smile. Good-natured, restless laughter. They were eager to get on with it. Good. Very good.
What he didn’t tell them was that each of them had a secret that only he knew. They had all been selected from a carefully screened pool of people with unique combinations of psychological problems; manic depressives with histories of violence, persecution complexes, incapacitating phobias, and suicidal or homicidal tendencies. Either would do. He studied them, his expression carefully benign. They looked normal enough; the housewife from New Jersey, the professor from Northwestern, the postal worker—perfect!—the bartender, the stripper, the hairdresser from Miami, the Alaskan fisherman, the insurance salesman from Duluth, the dance instructor, the manicurist, the waitress, and the Broadway understudy.
They had no idea why they had been chosen from among thousands; no idea how carefully he and the staff psychologist had sifted through their records, how intimate he had become with their transcripts detailing their greatest fears and their worst nightmares, nor of how he was about to use that knowledge to drive each of t
hem to their breaking point—with a little luck.
“On the island in the middle of this swamp is a mansion. It dates from the Civil War, but it’s been abandoned since the mid-50s. It’s fairly sturdy, but watch where you step. We can’t guarantee the floors are as solid as they seem. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.” Uncomfortable tittering.
“Why is it abandoned?” says one of the actors, as he had been instructed to do.
“Well,” the director replied, with a knowing smile, “if you give any credit to local legend, a mother killed her two babies there, in one of the bedrooms. They say the place is haunted by their ghosts.” He laughs. Two phobias addressed on one breath. “I suspect,” he adds, “it has more to do with location. Who wants an old white elephant in the middle of the bayou? Anyway, that will be your home for the next three weeks.” (Twenty-one days, twenty-one shows in the can. That’s a full run. Good for syndication.) “There are twelve bedrooms, from the attic to the basement where the house slaves used to sleep. Some are very nice, some are pretty nasty, and they’re allotted on a first-come, first-served basis.”
“What if we want a room someone else has?” says another actor, also on cue.
The director smiles broadly. “Conflict is what makes drama. Survival of the fittest, I guess.” Broad laughter. “Now, just a reminder that we have cameras everywhere. If you’re looking for privacy, you’ve come to the wrong place.” More laughter. “Everything you do will be caught on tape. And I do mean everything. Pick your nose, and we’ve got it for posterity. You all understand?”
Of course they did. It was all carefully spelled out in the release they signed.
“So, do what comes naturally. Or unnaturally. Cast aside your inhibitions. Remember, the more outrageous your behavior, the more likely the show is to reach the air. That’s the whole point of a pilot. Got it?”
They got it.
“Good. Then let’s get on with it. We’ve built a little dock over there, to your left, where you will find eleven canoes, each of which can hold only one passenger. That means one of you is going to have to swim.” The contestants eye one another, sizing up the competition. Good. “When I shoot this starter’s pistol, it’s every man for himself—or woman, as the case may be. Ready?”
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