Even when I'm with her, I'm terribly alone. Please come home, Billy. We need your help."
"I really have to go," Billy says.
"Come home, Billy."
"Abe—"
"I have the right pills."
Billy winces, like a hacksaw is the only way to unshackle his hand from the phone.
"But we'll need help with the plastic bags. That's what the Hemlock Society suggests, pills and plastic bags, to be certain, absolutely certain, of the act."
"Abe—"
"Please come home."
"I—"
"Together in bed, that's the way we want to go. On our anniversary. Do you remember the date?"
"September fourth," Billy answers.
"Year?"
"Nineteen sixty-one," Billy answers.
"That's a good boy. It'll be thirty-eight years married. Too bad we couldn't get to 2001, then it would've been forty. I would've made her a gift of rubies though I probably could've only afforded a garnet. But September fourth will be our day. We'll empty the pills into ice cream and mix in some alcohol, rum, I think. But I'll need help getting her back home and into bed. And once we're asleep, we'll need help with the plastic bags."
Billy laughs, unfortunately laughs, awful but he laughs as hollowly as the robotic barflies near his father. "Sorry Abe," he says, "but I'm not going to kill you. Maybe if I were younger, but not now, not in my late twenties."
"But I have it all planned. You do nothing but slip the bags over our heads and fasten them with rubber bands, all of which I'll provide."
"Abe, please."
"You'll be doing us a favor."
"I don't know how to say this, Abe, but our relationship isn't really strong enough to handle me killing you and Mom. I'm sorry." And this is the truth. Billy wishes he loved them enough to kill them, to kiss their foreheads before easing them into death like a good euthanizing son. "I could also end up in jail. No, no, no. It's a supremely poor idea."
"We want to die together, not like this."
"We are not having this conversation."
"I can try it on my own," Abe says. "It just might be messier." Messier strikes Billy as highly disturbing. "Abe, listen to yourself."
"I'm serious."
"Please don't be serious," Billy says. "And let's think about me for a second. I'll be orphaned." Orphaned? A twenty-eight-year-old orphan? "Okay, maybe not orphaned," Billy says. "But parentless in one fell swoop. I'm not prepared for that kind of, well, swoop. No, I need more time. Because September fourth is not far away. For my sake, let's lay off the double suicide for now."
But Abe is unmoved. "We want to be cremated," he says. "We want our ashes mixed together and divided into four equal parts and spread in four different locations: one in front of the Winter Garden Theatre; one while riding the Cyclone in Coney Island; one while cruising the Circle Line; and one on the observation deck of the Empire State Building."
"Jesus Christ, Abe, you're describing a montage."
"I'll put all our wishes in the note."
"I won't do it," Billy warns. "If you do this, I'll bury you in separate plots divided by a highway."
"You won't do that, Billy, because you're a good boy."
"You can't do this to me, lay this on me."
"Come home and help your mother and father."
"This is crazy," Billy says, drained. "Just hold off. Promise me that you'll hold off until I get back in touch with you or come home or whatever."
"No matter what, September fourth is when this is happening."
"Be flexible, for Christ's sake."
"Come home, Billy."
"I don't know if I can come home for this."
"I love my wife, Billy."
"Believe me, I know."
"Come home, Billy."
Back in bed, Billy in shock, the kind of shock that transforms the future into a series of impossible knots, ad nauseam ad infinitum, Billy closing his eyes, Billy rubbing his eyes until blackness grinds with galaxies of rubbed-on light, like a thumb on liquid crystal, like the final scene in the movie 2001, before the intergalactic four-star hotel room, before the baffling fetus conjoins with the atmosphere of earth, when David Bowman travels through jet streams of color, the speed of light scored by the otherworld, Billy rubbing through this retinal space, not wanting to stop for there's pleasure in this abuse, a self-created itch, rubbing long after a mother would say, okay, enough of that.
27
BILLY WAKES up a day closer to his parents' projected death. All night long scenarios streamed in his head, of going home or not going home, of calling the cops and reporting an upcoming crime, of bundling faces in plastic and bags stamped Grand Union. What should he do? Maybe if he had been home more often and experienced their decline he'd have no problem with the chore. A William would be by their bed, a Liam would be sobbing, a Bill would spoon-feed the toxic mush while a Will would read from Goodnight Moon. But this was Billy and all of his suicide scenes were baroque, filled with clumsy measures and Rasputin survival, lips still breathing, Billy panicking and reaching for a pillow, the hands underneath battling him. No good. An imaginary to-do list—finish study, fly home, kill parents—haunted sleep. Eulogies were attempted—"My parents loved each other very much, very very much"—like an essay requiring a minimum of words, but the chapel in his mind was crowded with the homeless seeking shelter, not solace. And then a darker thought: how much could he sell their house for?
Today is also Saturday, PK day for the greens. Today Allevatrox's dose life will be gleaned through blood, lots of blood, a small sample drawn every thirty minutes from 9 A.M. until 7 P.M. For ten hours the greens will remain seated except for twenty quick trips to the bleed room and, when necessary, the bathroom, which will be closely monitored for loitering.
Billy showers, fingers in ears, pressing against what the water might say.
"Precision is essential," the head nurse tells them once they've sat down and swallowed their morning pills. "This should move like clockwork, in and out, in and out, in and out, one after another." She might be snapping her fingers but she looks dubious of their ability to breathe let alone to coordinate themselves in such a fashion. "It'll be a long day for all of us"— me in particular, her eyes flare—"so let's be patient, let's be orderly, and let's be professional. Today you earn your money. Tomorrow you can sleep"—you bums, her lips smirk.
Billy sits between Ossap and Dullick. Not that he planned it this way. After breakfast he insinuated himself with Gretchen by saying, "Hey," with causal coincidence, as if he had bumped into her instead of targeted her. She walked stiffly, her elbow nearest him like a tiller expecting a guiding hand, but Billy was unsure of the direction and just followed the current. He asked her, "Shall we sit together?" immediately despising the stuffy auxiliary verb. But she didn't seem bothered. She said, "Sure," and they found two seats together in the back row. Suddenly a marathon of bloodletting turned into a date. Billy glowed while watching the other greens file in, no doubt envious over his match. Do dragged in his compost stink. Lannigan, hairless, performed a death row march from whatever movie was running in his head. Rodney Letts carried a pillow, a blanket, and a magazine and settled into what could've been a deck chair on an ocean liner. "I should've brought my book," Billy said, but before Gretchen could respond, all-American, faux astronaut Karl McKay popped up from the seventh row and waved for her attention, which he got after an embarrassing half-minute flail. Gretchen said, "Crap, I promised I'd sit next to him." "Just blow him off," Billy told her. "I can't, he brought Battleship with him." "The game?" "He wanted to play me." "I thought you were a solitaire person." "Not exclusively." "Well"—Billy was near pleading—"how about we play Twenty Questions. Or a game of I Spy. Here I'll start: I spy a big loser who wants to sink your battleship." Though she grinned—a klieg flash on an otherwise gray face—she stood up and said, "Sorry, I promised." Billy grumbled, "I should've brought Stratego." "Yup," she said. "Stratego and you would've had me." Karl Mc
Kay, on his gentleman feet, offered Gretchen the red game case with a small absurd bow. Billy seethed. That's when Ossap and Dullick walked in, always last, always huddled and whispering. They searched for seats roughly together—there, in the back row, on either side of Billy.
"Hello," Billy said.
Their answer—"Right"—had the soft nougat center of fucking prick.
The dose room faces the courtyard and the bronze hand expressing the morning sun. Billy spots Joy. She's running from the parking lot. Her left arm holds her chest while her right arm crooks a canvas bag, swinging wildly, four times more unwieldy than her bosom. Strain is translated into a smile, as if she realizes the sight she must make, rounding the sculpture and skipping over the shadow of the finger with girlish dexterity.
Billy, glad to see her, almost waves.
"Hey jerk-off."
Billy turns toward Dullick.
"No, the other jerk-off, jerk-off," Dullick tells him.
Ossap leans forward, his face in mid twitch. The second hand of his internal clock seems to stick every so often, as if struggling with its sweep and getting caught on the more dominant minute and hour. "Yeah?" he says.
"I forgot my spit cup," Dullick sort of says, his mouth steeped in slaver, a pool under his tongue so the words belly flop into / orgah eye ih up. Reluctantly, Dullick swallows, then he shivers. "It's like I'm drinking backwash," he says. "My mouth is like the end of New Year's Eve."
"You're an old toothless cat," Ossap teases.
"Maybe your cat. My cat never got that way."
"Oh, he'd just pee on the brisker."
"It was a warm spot and he was arthritic."
"Lie there in his pee snuggled against that brisker."
"Poor Mickey Deans!"
"How about my Carr crackers and Wheat Thins!"
"You and or ucking—" Dullick glances toward Billy with newfound hostility. "Ut da uck"—swallow—"you looking at?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, asshole," Ossap joins in. "What're you looking at?"
"Nothing, I swear."
Dullick: "Fucklips listening to our conversation?"
Ossap: "Fucking jerk fuck."
"I can't help it," Billy says. "I'm sitting between you two. I'll switch if you want."
"No," Dullick tells him. "Stay put and keep watching because trust me you're seeing something, something you own't underdand undil ees ooh ate."
Billy leans back, away from the crossfire. A thought strikes him: what if Ossap and Dullick are representatives from Ragnar & Sons? What if his phone had been bugged and Ragnar knew all along Billy was coming here? What if Ossap and Dullick have been subcontracted for his death? They're certainly suspicious enough. And those four duffel bags. Maybe they carried brass knuckles, rope, silencers as long as cattails. After all, this would be an ideal place for an unforeseen adverse event, perhaps involving a razor blade and wrists. And so what if the idea of sending hired guns into a two-week drug study just to off a piker like himself seems a bit, well, overboard? Billy, in his present state of mind, entertains the high concept.
"I bet you think you can read us like a book," Ossap scowls.
"Trust me," Dullick says. "You don't know uhding."
Pharmacokinetics is like an odd relay race. The first green in the first green row gets up and heads into the bleed room and only after he returns does the second green get up and go. Et cetera. Et cetera. Up and down. Up and down. It's roughly a two-minute lap from beginning to end. There's a strange mechanical quality to the movement, like an extravagant timekeeping device Torquemada might have invented.
Up Ossap.
Up Billy.
Into the bleed room he goes. He sits down and presents his arm. Joy reaches for his cannula and empties a few drops of blood into a test tube then barks, "Schine, nine-twenty-six," to an assistant who transcribes the info onto a label and places the test tube into the William A. Schine container. The first slot of twenty is filled. That's it. Billy is done.
But in the process, Billy manages a snippet of conversation with joy.
"You were late," he says.
"No talking," she says.
"I saw you rushing through the courtyard."
"I'm working."
"Did you get in trouble?"
"Of course," she says. "Now leave."
Schine, 9:52
"Why were you late?" Billy asks.
"No talking," Joy says.
"Sleep in?"
"I wish."
"Traffic?"
"Around here? Please. You can leave."
"I'll see you soon."
Schine, 10:29
"Why were you late?" Billy asks again.
"My son, if you won't shut up," Joy says.
"He all right?"
"He's fine, he just thinks he's sick."
"With what?"
"Everything. He might as well be allergic to sleep. Now leave."
Schine, 11:01
"Was he faking, your son?" Billy asks.
"You're the only one who insists on talking," Joy says.
"Just being friendly."
"You're not making any friends here."
"I can't just be quiet."
"Well, try. Now go."
Schine, 11:36
"..."
"Don't say a word," Joy says.
"I didn't," Billy says.
"But you were going to."
"You're the one who started."
"This is a long day for me."
"Do you get a break?"
"A small one for lunch. Leave."
Schine, 12:04
"..."
Schine, 12:39
"So you're not talking anymore," Joy says.
"You said 'shut up,'" Billy says.
"Well I was right, shut up."
"Are you smiling?"
"Because you're done."
Schine, 13:08
It's not Joy but her assistant who lords over his assistant, the lowly assistant's assistant, the assistant yelling orders in hopes of covering up his clumsy tug on the cannula and his excessive bloodletting, the assistant's assistant racking the test tube with an exaggerated, overladen dip of his hand, as the assistant, the maestro, rips off his latex gloves and yells, "Next."
Schine, 13:43
"Did you have a nice lunch?" Billy asks.
"If a bologna sandwich is nice," Joy says.
"Not bad."
"But not nice."
"They served us chicken salad sandwiches. It was like a picnic except for all this bleeding."
"You're done."
"I'm saving the potato chips for a snack later."
Schine, 14:18
"What's your son's name?" Billy asks.
"Rufus," Joy says.
"Means red-haired."
"I know."
"Why was he sick?"
"Because he misses home. Go."
Schine, 14:45
"Where's home?" Billy asks.
"New York. The Bronx," Joy says.
"When did you leave?"
"July."
"Why did you leave?"
"Are you interviewing me?"
"Just small talk."
"I got a better job, okay. Now adios."
Schine, 15:17
"The public schools are better here than the Bronx," Joy says.
"I can imagine," Billy says.
"Why can you imagine that?"
"Maybe because it's the Bronx."
"The Bronx has never been better."
"So why did you leave?"
"Because it still stinks. Now go."
Schine, 15:43
"You married?" Billy asks.
"Was. Yourself?" Joy asks.
"Could you imagine me married?"
"Good point."
"Who would marry a person like me?"
"Somebody deaf."
Schine, 16:07
"Why are you here?" Joy asks.
"Get away from things, I guess. Make some money. Hole up, s
hrivel up and disappear. I don't know, but it's not all that bad bleeding into a test tube and being cared for by a nurse named Joy."
"I wouldn't say cared for."
"Then attended to."
"And I'm not a nurse. I'm a phlebotomist."
Schine, 16:42
"How old is Rufus?" Billy asks.
"He's almost nine. School's just started and he's not a fan. He's been playing sick for the last three days, telling me it's something deep in his belly that won't show up on any thermometer. Insists on sleeping with me and he's a kicker."
"He sounds like a character."
"If by that you mean nightmare, yes, he's a character."
"But you love him."
"Of course I do. My God, that's never a question. He's everything to me."
Schine, 17:10
"..."
"No talking, Mr. Schine?" Joy asks.
"I'm getting tired. And please call me Billy."
Schine, 17:48
"I think it's nice that you let Rufus sleep with you. I don't think it's wrong, I just think it's nice. Something you'll remember, you know, how he crawled into bed with you, something you'll tell him when he's older, all those fake stomachaches disguising bad dreams. 'Mommy, mommy' as you pat the bed. Jump on in."
"You all right?"
"Maybe I'm losing too much blood."
Schine, 18:11
"In eight days my father's going to kill my mother and then himself,"
Billy says.
"What's that?"
"My mother has Alzheimer's. It's in its final stages, I guess, and my father wants to end her suffering as well as his own, hence the double suicide, or murder-suicide, or mercy killing, depending on your politics."
"Are you being serious?"
"I think so."
"So what're you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Are you really being serious?"
"Depends on my father."
Schine, 18:50
"Are you really being serious about your parents, because I can't tell," Joy says.
"That's often been the problem with me. Too many jokes."
"Well you should go home and be with them—"
"And help them? Because they want my help, or my father does."
"Leave here, go home, talk to them."
"My father wants me to slip plastic bags over their heads."
"That's gruesome."
"I'm pro-assisted suicide, but I don't know if I'm capable of that. I picture a yellow grocery bag. You know, paper or plastic? Plastic please."
The Normals Page 24
