See You in Paradise

by J. Robert Lennon

  “Yes, dear. Liquor.” She seemed to relax a bit and released me, leaving pale throbbing stripes on my numb wrist. I slowly dragged it into my lap. “You were about to ask me,” she went on, “what the point was of killing that … creature in my home.”

  “What’s the point?” I obliged.

  “Do you,” she asked me, “love your job?”

  “I hate my job.”

  “Do you love your employer?”

  “I can’t stand her.”

  “Would you prefer never to have to work again? Would you like to invite your employer to perform a sex act upon herself?”

  I pictured a scenario of this variety, one that would beg to be followed up with an all-natural douche. I said, “I’d like that, yes.”

  She pushed the little gun an inch closer. It made a sound like fingernails scraping the lid of a coffin.

  “We’ll take care of everything,” Mrs. Larsen whispered, leaning close. “We have means. People like us always get a second chance. And now we’re giving you one.”

  Slowly, gently, I reached out and picked up the gun.

  In the taxi on the way to the apartment, I tried to get it all straight in my head. If the existence of the revivs meant there was no God, then revivs were as human as anyone else, which meant that killing one as wrong. But if the revivs, by their very soullessness, proved that God was real, then it was all right to kill them, because they weren’t human. But, given this logic, the existence of God made killing okay, and his nonexistence made it a sin. Somewhere I was missing something. I watched the buildings of the Avenue heave by outside as darkness brought their corners into sharp relief, and I considered just how unimportant it was—what I was about to do—to almost all of humanity, and how very much peculiarity the world seemed capable of absorbing.

  I got out at the Larsens’ building and walked to the elevator. The doorman nodded at me, glancing at my jacket, which was tugged down on one side, from the gun’s surprising weight. I managed a nervous smile.

  There was no one else in the elevator, no one else to slow down the ride. I stared at myself in its mirrored wall. I didn’t look like a killer. I wasn’t a killer. I was merely going to set things right: the balance of nature, the balance of my checking account. I cleared my throat, though I didn’t have anything to say. I didn’t intend to speak to Zombie Dan, just put him out of his misery.

  He answered the door before I even reached it. The doorman had called ahead, of course.

  “Ah, hellothere, comein, fudderfudder. Wewerejusttalkingaboutyou.”

  “Um. You were?” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the apartment.

  “Good evening,” Chloe said. She was standing in the hallway in a bathrobe, rubbing a towel on her hair. She turned to Dan. “You’ve got this under control, honey?”

  Dan nodded. “Nicetizz.” I reached for my pocket and found Dan’s hand there, waiting for me. His other hand already contained the gun. His tongue gently dragged along his top, then bottom, lip; he seemed to have found a stylish way of executing the tic. “Fuddernevermindthis,” he said. “Mypoormother. Dreamingnightandday. Peanut. Ofmydeath.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Shealreadytried. MattnJane. AndRick. NotPaul, shesafraidofhomos, fudder.”

  “Is that so?”

  He was leading me into the living room. The gun he tossed onto the pink shag. I winced as it hit the ground.

  “Donworry, fudder, Itookoutthebulletsthismorning. Now.” He sat me down on a comfy chair, removed a cigarette from a pack in the pocket of his sport coat, and inserted it backwards into his mouth. “Wehavealot. Totalkabout. Niceass.”

  “We do?”

  His eyes were not blank, not empty. There was something in them, something new and strangely comforting. I felt, under their scrutiny, very small and inert, like a pebble, perhaps, or a scrap of paper. Dan’s smile was crooked and not quite under control, and the unlit cigarette twitched on his lip.

  “Whyyeswedomyfriend.” He blinked, and blinked again. “Suchasyourfudder. Father. Forinsssstance.”

  “I never knew my father,” I said. Behind him, Chloe could be seen sauntering barefoot into the kitchen in a cotton sundress and cardigan. She caught my eye and gave me a little wave. She seemed different, too. More confident. Gentler. I longed for her.

  “Ofcourseyouknewhim,” Zombie Dan said, crossing his legs. “Thefishingtrip. Whenyouweresix.”

  “I never went fishing with my father,” I said. “He left my mother when I was too young to remember. He was … abusive. It led to her breakdown.” I’d said this so many times before, to so many people: therapists, girlfriends. But for the first time it didn’t sound quite right.

  “Butyouseethatswhereyourewrong.” The cigarette stood at attention, wiggling at me like an accusing finger. “Fudderfudder. Itwasyourmother. Whodrovehimaway. Nizass. Thefishingtrip, hetoldyouthis. Butyoudidntbelieve, fudder.”

  “That’s not true!” I said. My underarms were slick with perspiration and I had to pee. I thought about the phone conversation I’d had earlier. With my boss. When I was trying to get a cab. The terrible things I called her. The suggestions I made to her about what to do with her douche label. I sunk a little deeper into the comfy chair.

  It was in a cabin of course, a log cabin. In the Adirondacks. It had a shag carpet and smelled like spray deodorant, and we ate all-beef franks raw from the plastic package.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Donworryoldbean,” Zombie Dan said, leaning close and resting a cold hand on my knee. “Thislife, fudderfudder, ismerelyascrim. Betweentheconsciousmind. Andthesoul. Tits. Andnowwepull. Backthecurtain. Cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke,” I said.

  His response was a stiff, sad smile. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and proffered it, backwards, to the vicinity of my face. Chloe’s head poked out from the kitchen door.

  “Go on,” she said to me brightly. “It feels so good to let go. Just give him what he wants.” And she disappeared with a wink.

  Where was he now, my father? Far away, no doubt, maybe with some other family. And my mother? Right where I’d last seen her, in her sad, sagging house upstate, four hours away. Too bitter, too angry, too crazy, really, for me to visit. A card at Christmas, a card on her birthday. If she was so terrific, why had I changed my phone to an unlisted number? Why did I shudder at the very thought of her? My life, I could see now, had been a lie. I supposed that I had always known—why else would I have lived it so leadenly, in denial of its impermanence, insulated from its deepest pleasures and agonies? Like I wasn’t really alive at all.

  I looked deep into Dan’s eyes. His hand was steady. His tongue darted out and licked his lip. I opened my mouth and let him place the cigarette there, a sacrament.

  A Stormy Evening at the Buck Snort Restuarant

  The Buck Snort Restaurant is empty of customers. This is not unusual for any Thursday night, but on this night, to any reasonable observer, it would seem nearly inevitable. The storm outside is severe; few travelers would dare risk the roads. A hurricane of this magnitude hasn’t reached so far north and west into New Jersey in generations. Trees have been uprooted and have crushed the roofs of houses; power lines are down, spitting sparks into yards and alleys. Most informed and mobile residents of the area have left: by and large, these are affluent people, people who work elsewhere. Sensible, responsible people. This particular corner of the county, however, is as poor as it was a hundred and fifty years ago, when its first itinerant farmers, Civil War veterans granted land by the federal government, set up operations and—due in part to the clayey soil, in part to their own ineptitude—failed to thrive. The nearest town is called Banner, but the Buck Snort is not in any town. It would be a roadhouse, but it lacks a liquor license. It’s a low, brown wooden building surrounded by a cracked asphalt parking lot. The sign that announces its existence is painted on wood and hangs by two rusted hooks in a log frame at the edge of the lot. The legs of the log frame are p
lanted in a couple of half-barrel tubs that are bolted to the asphalt. The tubs also contain dirt, which supports several dead yew bushes. Each side of the sign is illuminated by a single lightbulb mounted in an all-weather light fixture that is in turn mounted to the frame. The sign itself is flapping and twisting in the wind as though it were made of cardboard, and the rain lashes violently against it.

  At 8:20 PM, the wind grabs the sign and flings it so hard against its frame that it smashes one of the lights. There is a flash and a pop. The one remaining light, and the lights inside the Buck Snort, wink out in sympathy, then, a moment later, come back on.

  One of the two people sitting inside the restaurant glances out the window, then grunts. His name is Bruce. The other is named Heather. They’re brother and sister. They’re both thirty-seven years old. They are sitting, silently, at separate tables, in opposite corners of the Buck Snort. Neither has spoken in three hours. In front of Bruce sits a plastic model of a sports car, which he has been meticulously gluing together for the better part of the day. Arrayed around the model is a debris field of plastic bits and scraps, and pages from an assembly manual. Arrayed around the debris field are a three-quarters-empty bourbon bottle, an empty and very dirty glass tumbler, and four mostly empty plastic snack bags. Heather is slumped behind several piles of old magazines, a stack of eight and a half by seventeen inch construction paper, and a large bottle of wood glue. She is holding a pair of scissors and is using them to cut out the torsos of women from advertisements in the magazines. Her stash of comestibles occupies a paper grocery sack on the chair beside her; it includes a gallon of pulpless orange juice, a plastic tub of garlic-flavored bagel chips, and several jars of pickles.

  Heather and Bruce are still here because they didn’t know the storm was coming. They don’t have a television or computer. They have been living at the restaurant for six months, since their late parents’ house burned down. Heather has been sleeping in the storeroom. Bruce has been sleeping in their truck. They’re running out of money. They are only dimly aware of this.

  There’s something wrong with them, but nobody in the county knows what it is. Drugs, maybe. Their parents were strange, too, even when they were running the Buck Snort at full capacity, liquor license and all. Every morning at nine Bruce illuminates the neon OPEN sign in the window, and every night at ten he turns it off. When somebody comes in, he hands them a menu and walks away. If they stay long enough to order, Heather tries to cook what they ask for. Usually the customer doesn’t eat it. Usually they leave without paying. Sometimes somebody pays without eating. No one ever eats and then pays.

  At a quarter to nine, a car pulls into the parking lot. It’s a late-model Toyota containing a diminutive couple in their early fifties. Their faces suggest that they are quite terrified by the rain and wind and are relieved to have found an open restaurant. They both wear glasses and outdoorsy clothes that appear new. They converse for a moment, gesticulating wildly, then, in a coordinated effort, fling open the car doors, leap out, slam the doors behind them, and run for the entrance of the Buck Snort. Inside the foyer, they assess one another’s appearance. They have only been exposed to the elements for four or five seconds, but they are drenched. The man holds up the car key fob and presses a button. Outside, the car’s headlights blink twice and the horn sounds. Now they turn and enter the restaurant.

  Here is what they see: a large, lodge-like room decorated with paintings, or posters of paintings, of bears, eagles, and deer, and furnished with a collection of rustic wooden tables and chairs. A man and a woman sit at two of the tables, each surrounded by a collection of some kind of refuse. The man is heavily bearded and of indeterminate middle age. The woman’s hair is long and dirty, and she gives the impression, confusingly, of also having a beard, even though she doesn’t. She is also in her late thirties or early forties.

  The man and woman look very similar and wear similar expressions of puzzlement at the sight of the diminutive couple.

  The diminutive couple detects a foul odor in the Buck Snort, perhaps a number of foul odors mingled into one. They look at each other, then back, out the window, at their car being battered by rain and wind. They seem to arrive at a decision and step fully into the dining area of the restaurant.

  “Evening!” the diminutive man says brightly. He removes his glasses and wipes them dry with a cloth taken from his pants pocket. His name is Roy. The diminutive woman does the same to her glasses, with a similar cloth. Her name is Fern.

  A few moments pass. Bruce and Heather have not responded, but they are still looking at Fern and Roy. So Roy tries again. “Glad to see you were open,” he says. “We were caught out in the storm.” He has to shout over the sound of the wind, and because his own voice, even in a quiet room, doesn’t carry. His mother taught him this: “You’ll need to shout, little Roy! A little man like you will have to work to be noticed.” She was right—Roy’s loud talking, combined with his small stature, have always made him a figure of fun among his students, but they pay him the necessary respect. He is a professor of veterinary science.

  For her own part, Fern usually does most of the talking when they are together, as she is a talker. But not tonight. She is wary. If it weren’t for the storm, she would have turned and left immediately upon seeing Heather and Bruce. Fern owns a yarn shop. She believes that it has given her great insight into the human condition. She is correct.

  Fern and Roy have been fishing here in the greater Banner area. They live in Pennsylvania. Their fishing trips are frequent and deeply pleasurable, and the only times when they have sex. On this trip, before the storm, they caught many bass and had sex several times. They were so absorbed in these activities that they failed to listen to the weather report. That’s why they’re stuck here with Bruce and Heather.

  Bruce gets up.

  Bruce walks to the hostess station, which is right near where Fern and Roy are standing. Fern and Roy both take a step back. Bruce takes two menus from a wooden holder and moves to the table that is at the farthest equidistant point in the room from his and Heather’s two tables. He sets the menus down and then he returns to his seat, where he glues, with great precision, a tiny off-white license plate to the back of his model sports car. Within seconds, he has completely forgotten the existence of Fern and Roy.

  Heather has not. She would appear, from Fern and Roy’s point of view, to be watching them hungrily.

  Fern and Roy walk to the table Bruce put the menus on and sit down beside each other. This is how they sit in restuarants. Some people find this charming, other find it irritating. Roy is bothered by people’s judgment in this matter. Fern is not. Eighteen years with her mother, that degenerate witch, taught her that other people’s judgment is typically worthless and self-serving. Roy is the only person she trusts, will ever trust. This restaurant, she does not trust. The menus are simple inkjet-printed pieces of paper. They haven’t been laminated. Food and drink stains have obscured much of the text, so that Fern and Roy must cross-reference each other’s copies in order to read it. Their jerking heads and darting eyes would probably look comic to anyone watching besides Heather, but only Heather is watching.

  There is nothing on the menu that Fern and Roy want to eat.

  Roy says, “Maybe we should leave.”

  “The storm.”

  “We could sit in the car with the doors locked.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Do you think they’re dangerous?”

  Fern narrows her eyes. “No. Maybe.”

  “I think we should leave,” Roy says.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps we should.”

  But before they can, Heather stands up and hurries across the room. Glides might be the better verb. Heather glides to their table, her heavy dress billowing out behind her. It is a kind of muumuu, brown and burlappy, giant pockets bulging with something or other, even Heather couldn’t tell you what, if you asked. Fern imagines that she inherited this garment from her mother, and she is right. Heather
gazes at Fern, then Roy, then says, “So?”

  “Ah …” says Roy.

  “We’re not hungry,” says Fern, and holds out her menu to Heather. Heather does not take it.

  “Maybe we could have some coffee,” says Roy.

  “No coffee,” says Heather.

  Fern is still holding out the menu and Heather is still not taking it. “How about some tea, then?” Fern asks.

  Heather’s jaw works. She seems to be chewing on the idea of tea. She emits a low hum, almost a growl, as though something inside her is shorting out. She glides away to Bruce’s table, leans over him. They confer in low voices.

  Fern has not lowered her arm. It’s sticking straight out, holding the menu toward where Heather was standing a moment ago.

  Roy says, quietly, “Are they twins?”

  “Yes.”

  Heather returns. She says, “Fine,” then takes the menu out of Fern’s hand, and the other menu from the table in front of Roy, and then moves toward a darkened area of the restaurant that Fern supposes must be the kitchen. Roy thinks, it’s the dress that makes her appear to glide. It nearly reaches the floor and it billows when she walks. She is like a hovercraft. Before she disappears into the darkness he sees her crumple the menus and throw them onto the floor.

  In the kitchen, Heather has located a flashlight and is waving it about, intermittently illuminating rusty metal tins, unwashed utensils, countertops filthy with mouse shit. She is muttering oaths under her breath. A careful listener might discern a version of the conversation she just had with Fern and Roy. Hrm. Nothungry. Maybesomecoffee. Nogoddamcoffee. Maybesometea. Wantsafuckintea. Hrm. Wantteadowehavetea. Fuckinwehavetea. Heresyourgoddamtea. The flashlight’s beam rests, trembling, on a glass canister, furred with grease-adhered dust. There are tea bags inside. At some point, moisture has gotten into the canister, and the tea bags have been stained by their own contents. But they appear dry now. Heather grabs two, drops them into a pair of dirty coffee mugs, fills the mugs with tap water, and shoves them into a microwave oven. As they heat, sparks jump from the staples that affix the tags to the strings. One of the tags catches fire and burns up. The other is merely singed.