by LYNDA BARRY
I looked closely at the vampire. It was the King’s Castle Carpet man. It was suddenly very clearly the guy from the King’s Castle Carpet commercials dressed as Dracula. Had the Nightmare Theater vampire always been him? How come I never noticed it before?
I said, “Julie, do you know who that is?”
When she yelled “SHUT! UP!” her voice was unusually violent.
My nose was still bleeding at the first commercial. I leaned over the bathroom sink and rinsed my face and watched the water swirl pink down the drain. Both nostrils was unusual, like Julie said. In the mirror I saw that my pupils were still fully expanded and that the lightbulb above the mirror had ray-rings around it, the light was expanding out of it in concentric halos. I felt the creeping chills clawing their way up my back and my jaws felt tight and inside my mouth saliva gushed.
“It’s back on!” Julie shouted. The haunting Dracula music twirled up the stairs and found me. It was happening again. The rushes, the rushes. I heard the Turtle singing to me.
And then I was heaving, bent over the toilet and heaving, and more than anything, anything, I wanted to see him.
Chapter 20
YLVESTER THE nude mummified man at Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe was not the first dead person I had seen, but he was my most influential one. He had a piece of ancient cloth over his privates but otherwise he was completely exposed.
The sign that explained him said he had been found in the desert. It was the heat and sun that dried him out before he had a chance to rot. You need moisture to rot correctly. Bacteria and certain insects that help the process have to have moisture. But if you croak in the middle of the desert during a hot time of year, all of your moisture can go very quickly and your skin can shrink fast onto your bones and if the blowing sand rolls gently over you it can make you smooth and shiny. Sylvester was smooth and shiny. His eyes were collapsed, understandably, but his mustache was there. His lips were very shrunken but there was no mistaking the reality of his teeth. Very yellow, the front teeth slightly overlapping. His arms were crossed over his stomach and his toes were pointed and the sign said to look for the bullet hole and it was there, easy to see in his chest. The one thing that kept bothering me was that they displayed him standing up.
If it was me doing the display I would have had him laying down. I would have had sand in the case. I would have made it look as realistic as possible and most of all, I would not have covered his vulnerables. I would have wanted everything displayed. In the interest of science. To show what happens to a dead man’s pecker in the sun. I thought it even before what happened, happened. But I wouldn’t count that as ESP.
At five o’clock I stood in front of the bus station waiting for the father. I watched the black-glass door of the Golden Egg for half an hour and then another half an hour. People wobbled in and people wobbled out but none of them were the father. Finally I crossed the street running and went inside.
It was a very dark place and the air was thick with exhale. A long bar barely lit up, and haggish heads leaning over it, drinking the fantastic booze, sucking it down and tapping empty glasses for more. I examined the faces but none of them belonged to the father. The bartender yelled for me to get out.
A few minutes later a junker car, pink and black and bashed in places with one of the back doors roped shut pulls up next to me and the father leans across the front seat and shouts, “I been circling the damn block. Where the hell were you?” He leaves me in the front seat with the engine running and gets our bags. When he comes back he is happy to report the suitcase still has the tape he put along the edges to make sure, just to make sure no hands have opened it.
The car smelled like old milk and cat pee. The dashboard was cracked open and powdery sponge showed through. Also there were bite marks on it. Teeth marks. Human ones.
We drove up hills that increased in steepness until we were on a hill I could not believe. The street had deep zigzagged gouges for traction. I felt like I was on the first part of a roller-coaster ride, my full weight pressed into the seat back. The father was cussing the transmission. “Shift! Shift! You worthless piece of shit!” The car barely crawled.
All of Dentsville seemed to be nothing but hills, steeper and steeper. When we got to the top of one, there was another, until finally it was time to start down. The father pumped the brakes and got pale. He hated heights. He gripped the steering wheel and said, “This ain’t going to—oh shit—oh SHIT!” And we wound around Dentsville like that. Crawling up and skidding down with the emergency brake pressed as far as it would go. And then we came to the neighborhood the father was looking for.
I couldn’t believe a place could be so grim. So full of sad yards and boarded-up houses. I didn’t see anyone, not a soul except the scrounger trucks driving by with junk piled high and tilty. The father said, “You know what you’re looking at here, Clyde?”
I shook my head.
“This is progress.”
He rolled the car to a stop and took out a cigarette and handed me one. He pulled out the Old Skull Popper and took a glug and passed the bottle to me. I wasn’t really in the mood, but I took a glug because I could tell he was about to lay something on me, a plan was about to be explained, and I learned that in such circumstances a glug of fantastic booze is not a bad idea.
“Clyde. Clyde. Listen to me good.” The father was reaching into a paper sack with CRISS CROSS DRUGSTORE printed on it. He pulled out a beige-colored roll of fabric, an extra-wide Ace bandage. He said, “Take off your shirt.”
I hesitated, and he cuffed me. “I don’t got no time for your shit right now. We partners? Are we?”
I took off my shirt and he wrapped the bandage around my middle. “Don’t want it too tight. Want it comfortable. Is it? You can breathe?” He fastened it with three silver-toothed clips.
He reached over the backseat and pulled his knife case out of his duffel. It was a custom-made case. Tooled leather with ancient patterns, saddle stitched, oiled and polished. It belonged to Old Dad. All of the knives had leather sheaths with names embossed on them. There was Big Girl, and Francine, and Cleoma. There was Margy and Lisa and Baby Sue. All of them custom-made with bone handles that had never seen water. They were cleaned only with oil and sharpened so often a few of the blades were quite narrow. Francine was barely wider than a licorice stick. She was Old Dad’s favorite. A boning knife he’d been devoted to. The first thing the father did was take Francine out, and slam the pull-out ashtray onto her blade and snap it off clean. He said, “There, you bastard.” He threw Francine out the window.
From under the front seat he pulled out a sheath I’d never seen. He said, “You know what this is, Clyde? I about shit when I saw it in the pawnshop. You know what the hell this is?”
I had never seen a knife like it. The handle was black and peanut shaped with diamond grooves cut into it like you see on a gun handle. The blade was five inches long, wide and pointed, with razor edges on both sides. The father is right when he said knives are in my blood. There was an involuntary reaching of my hand toward it.
The father said, “That’s Sheila.”
The father watched me holding her, weighing her in my hand, being fascinated by her balance. Her edges seemed to be sharpened to near transparency. I looked up at him and he nodded. “Ain’t she a bitch and a half? And you know what? She has a goddamn sister.”
He handed me a similar sheath, saying, “This is Little Debbie.”
Little Debbie was even more vicious looking than Sheila. I can’t say why exactly, maybe her compact size. Her fit in my hand was incredible.
“You know what these are, Clyde?”
I shook my head.
“Elite Forces. Fucking Navy Special Issue fucking Elite Forces. A hand-to-hand man’s dream. Her blade is perfect. You drop her? I’ll snap your neck.”
He sheathed Little Debbie and tucked her into the Ace bandage where she would lay flat against my skin and had me practice pulling her out, first with my shirt off and then wi
th my shirt on. He showed me some moves.
“Now, remember.” He flashed Sheila and his arm arced and his wrist flicked. “Smooth. No hesitation. Follow through.” He pointed to the top of his thigh. “The femoral, OK? That’s what you want. Right here. Deep as you can, twist, then rip her down. OK? Just in case, OK?”
I said, “In case of what?”
He hung a fresh cig from his lips. “Believe me, Clyde. You’ll know. I won’t need to tell you. Partners, right? You in? Ready to stir up a world of shit?”
We turned onto a gravel road that exploded clouds of gray dust behind us. The houses were mostly small, all abandoned, none of them had doors at all. The father said, “Freeway coming through. See here? All of this? Take a good look because it ain’t going to be here next week.”
The gravel road ended beside a dead-grass play field. The weeds were high but I could see the chalk lines marking the baseball diamond. The blown-out backstop still stood. Above it was a mostly boarded-up school. Some of the unboarded windows had high scorch marks along the top. Someone had tried to start a fire but failed. Fires can be harder to set than you would think.
The last house on the road had a filthy blue blanket tacked up over the doorway. Parked out in front was a shiny new car with a shiny new trailer attached. The father laughed a high-pitched “Hee-hee!” He slammed the steering wheel with the flat of his hand and said, “We got ’em, Clyde. We got ’em now.” He hit the gas and gunned the car into the yard, right to the doorway and laid on the horn.
From behind the blanket someone yelled “Je-mph CHRIMPH!” A corner lifted, and a bald head stuck itself out, looking disoriented and pissed off. The father stepped out of the car very casual, took a last drag off his cig, and tossed it. He said, “Got your love letter.”
The bald head said, “Lemme pum my meeph im,” and disappeared behind the blanket.
The father flicked his eyes at me and touched his fingers to his lips. L.L.S.S. I nodded.
He said, “What happened to your door, Lemuel?”
“I mphoph im!”
“What?”
The man stepped out, still shoving his top denture in. He had on suspenders and greasy pants, a nude pregnant stomach, wino shoes, and dirty ankles.
The father spit. “I didn’t catch that last you said.”
“I SOLD IT! Some colored guy come around taking all the doors, see.” He gestured at the houses. On his forearm was a smeared-looking tattoo. A lady in a bathing suit with a head too small for her body. “He drive up here collecting doors and I say, ‘Hey, you black bastard! You can’t just go taking them doors! They ain’t for free!’ Well, I got my due off him is what I’m trying to say.”
“Yeah?” said the father. “What’d you take him for?”
“Fifty cents,” said Lemuel.
They both started laughing. The father said, “You ain’t changed.”
Lemuel jutted his chin at me. “Ugly little shit. Looks like a dogfish. Must be yours.”
“No,” said the father. “No, he ain’t.”
Lemuel made a grunting sound and pig-eyed me for a while. He said, “Let’s get us something to drink then.”
The father said, “I brought you one. Clyde, go get a fresh soldier out of the car for your uncle Lemuel. Get him that one we bought him special. In the white bag. That’s right.”
“Clyde, huh?” said Lemuel.
“Yup,” said the father.
“But he ain’t yours?”
“Nope.”
“Shit,” said Lemuel. “What are you trying to pull on me?”
“Well,” said the father. “That depends.”
Lemuel’s voice got lower. “I heard it was you that found Old Dad.”
“That’s right.” The father rubbed his face with both hands.
“That had to be a shock,” said Lemuel.
“A hell of a shock.”
I held the white booze sack out to the father. “Not me, Clyde. It’s for your uncle Lemuel.”
“Clyde, huh?” said Lemuel. “Well, who beat the crap out of you, Clyde? Or did you come out of the box that way.”
“He don’t talk,” said the father.
“No?”
“Faller’s disease.”
“Faller’s,” said Lemuel.
“Brain damage,” said the father.
“But he seems to understand you fine.”
“Oh yes,” said the father. “Understanding’s no problem for Clyde if you keep it simple. Remembering is what he has trouble with. Can’t remember nothing at all. Maybe it’s a blessing for him. He’s had it rough.”
“Rough,” said Lemuel.
“He’s a stray,” said the father. “His daddy come looking for work up to our place one day, and drove off without him. Never came back. Never said boo. I thought, what the hell. Keeps me company.”
I need to mention that while this interesting conversation was going on, there was a smell so horrifying that my stomach was ripple-convulsing. Nothing at the slaughterhouse ever smelled as bad. Where was it coming from? It felt like the fumes were coating my eyes. The father and Lemuel didn’t seem to notice it, neither of them reacted, but I could hardly hold myself steady. I was trying to breathe through my mouth but I could taste it.
The smell was coming from the trailer. It was so strong the air almost radiated with visible waves. I saw what looked like dried blood on the door. I saw dried brown crusts on the handle and thick spatters on the step-up. There were bottle flies crawling on every crack and crevice. They were going insane trying to find a way inside.
Lemuel pulled the bottle out of the white sack and whistled low. “Holy Christ,” he said. “Whitley’s. The Gateway.”
“The Gateway.” The father nodded. “Many are called but few can get up afterwards.”
They passed it and glugged and then the father passed it to me and I glugged.
Lemuel looked astonished. “He drink?”
The father said, “If you had brain damage, wouldn’t you?”
Lemuel looked me up and down.
This new booze, this Whitley’s, it was very different. It seemed to evaporate off your tongue as you drank it. I felt it go straight to my legs and I began to sway.
The father pointed at me. “Clyde, lay in the grass before you fall and bust your face again.”
Then it was quiet. Lemuel pulled out a tin of Copenhagen and untwisted the lid. His bottom teeth came spitting out and he took a honking black wad and pushed it into his cupped lower lip. I could feel a funny crackle in the air between them.
Lemuel leaned toward me. He spat a jet and said, “You’re kind of puny, son. Come over here.”
The father flitted his eyes at me. The look. The famous go-along-with-it look. Lemuel patted his knee. “I won’t bite you.”
“Haw!” said the father.
Something about Lemuel put me on alert. When he smiled my stomach twisted. The smell from the trailer was hammering me. In the darkness beneath the trailer I saw a very beat-up-looking cat. One of its eyes was crusty and sunken. It was clawing at the underside, it was trying to find a way up.
I watched the father take out a cig and spend a long time lighting it. He inhaled deep and examined the cig and he exhaled.
He said, “So where’s Sugar Dick?”
“Goddamn it, now,” Lemuel spat, “Don’t start that shit with me.”
“Sugar Dick.” The father blew a smoke ring which hung in the horrible air.
Lemuel said, “I told you when I called you, I want to see this thing straightened out. I told Leonard the same. You think I like being the man in the middle?” Lemuel spat again. “Fuck all.” He picked his bottom denture up off his lap and turned it over in his hand.
“Police involved?” asked the father.
“Hell no,” said Lemuel.
“And the suitcase?”
“There ain’t no suitcase.”
“There ain’t, huh?” The father took a drag and pinched his eyes.
“I told yo
u on the phone. Leonard says there is no suitcase.”
The father scratched the side of his face. “Gee. I wonder where it wandered off to.”
Lemuel pointed to the car and trailer. “There’s your goddamn suitcase right there. How much you think that all cost?”
The father snorted. “That ain’t a tenth of what Old Dad paid out.”
“I heard Old Dad stiffed you,” said Lemuel. “Hell, I’d be mad too. When Leonard showed up here crying the story to me, I didn’t like it a bit. That’s why I called you, you stupid son of a bitch. You got a new car and trailer, full tank, keys are in the ignition. Why do you want to stand there and piss on it?”
“Where is he? Where’s Leonard?” said the father. “He inside?” The father jerked his head toward the doorway and called, “Sugar Dick, you in there?”
Lemuel turned his bottom denture upright and rubbed his dirty thumb across the molars. “Let me tell you something, Leonard said—”
“Shit on Leonard.”
“Shit on you. You going to hear me out or not?”
“Sure.” The father glugged some Whitley’s and passed it back. “Lie to me, you fat son of a bitch. Go ahead.”
The father snatched the denture out of Lemuel’s hands and flung it into the play field across the road.
“Aw,” said Lemuel. “Why the hell you have to do that?”
“Go hunt it, Clyde. Go find Uncle Lemuel’s bottom teeth.”
I took my time. Their voices came clearly to me across the road. The story Lemuel told the father went something like this.
Old Dad owed money to Old Man Mottie but Old Man Mottie was dead. Earlis was his grown son and Earlis was a homo, and Earlis tried to cover it up by marrying a lady older than him with huge bags under her eyes and an ass four feet wide. She owned her house and Earlis thought what the hell. Then Earlis met Leonard, who worked at the A&W. He was crazy about Leonard and stories began to spread.
And then the suitcase came.
“You said there wasn’t no suitcase,” said the father. The light was low and his burning cig end was getting a glow to it.
