The Normals

by David Gilbert

  Standing there, now crouching, he thinks, okay, now what?

  That's when he starts sneaking into rooms. He inches open doors and edges through narrow shafts of light and creeps in and stays still until his eyes have absorbed the darkness. He waits for the nocturnal rhythms to settle in around him, for the snores to breathe him into their dreams. The heads on pillows emerge in various shades of scotopic gray. He's ready for shouts of "Who's there?" and a speedy exit, but once he's certain he's gone undetected, he ventures forward, like a defrocked tooth fairy who can't give up the game. Going from bed to bed, he watches the faces sleep. They look so peaceful, almost lovely. They seem to hold a reflection of childhood. Billy is filled with benevolence. He wants to touch hair, tuck in sheets, kiss foreheads, smooth over any nightmares. A person sleeping is the sweetest saddest thing. Maybe because you're alone. Maybe because the sleeping person is gone from you. Maybe because you're both ghosts. Who knows?

  He touches Gretchen's door (he could be testing the temperature for a fire inside) before slowly pushing it open. The TV is on. Maybe she's fallen asleep with the weather. Wider, wider, wide enough for his head to crook in and Billy sees her bathed in boob-tube blue, the watery light reflecting against her face with the sensuality of skinny-dipping which—she smiles. Christ, she's awake. "Hello," she says like a mind reader who senses her own presence in your every thought.

  "Hi."

  "Prowling around, eh?"

  "Can't sleep," he says.

  "Me neither. You might as well come in."

  "Okay," Billy says, taking the bed nearest the door. A bass line of act cool, act cool, act cool pounds in his head, which seems the antithesis of acting cool, which, after further deliberation, leaves him dorky. "You're not watching the weather," he says.

  "No. I'm newly hooked on a sports memorabilia home-shopping show. For the last half hour I've been watching two guys vigorously praise the wise investment strategy of baseball trading cards."

  "Oh."

  "But I love anything on late-night TV."

  "Me too," Billy says.

  "Public access—"

  "The best."

  "And the weird movies you find."

  "And watch," Billy says. "You actually watch those late-night movies whereas other times you wouldn't bother."

  "Very true." Inspired by the company, Gretchen begins traveling up the dial, pausing long enough on each station—A&E—so the show can sink in—Law & Order—and tease Billy with her taste before she moves on—Bravo—coyly—Inside the Actors Studio, Christopher Walken—but with consideration, like she's part of the Nielsen family—VH-1—their temptress daughter—Behind the Music, Rick Springfield^who understands the power of consent—E!—as she cruises the early A.M. offerings—True Hollywood Story, Adam Rich—clicking higher—MTV—languidly steering the remote—The Real World, Hawaii—serially unsatisfied—Court TV—while Billy watches her—Trials of the Century, Fatty Ar-buckle—the cathode-ray tubes as flattering as candles—The Food Network—her tongue curling from the commissure of her lips—EmerilLive—her pupils wet with light—The History Channel—no doubt catching Billy in the corners—World War II: The Bombing of Dresden—and basking in her own rating share—AMC—while around her the room breathes with shadows—Jules etjim—with Jeanne Moreau racing across a railway bridge dressed as a man—Comedy Central—Gretchen sliding her left leg from the sheets with the intrigue of a bare ankle glimpsed from under a hoop skirt—Talk Soup, scenes from Jerry Springer—as she climbs into the high two figures, the business loop of public access and pay-per-view and home shopping—QVC—and curls her toes and cracks the knuckle of the little piggy who had roast beef—Luxelon Floral Embroidered Twin Sweater Set, $49.95—and moves up into the scrambled neighborhood of the tenderloin.

  Gretchen stops.

  The vertical hold might be unhinged, the tones blurred, the frame fractured down the middle, twisting, trembling back and forth, but Billy instantly recognizes the world of subscriberless porn. Behind this waving curtain live the basic mechanics of sex. Billy's pretty sure they've entered the blowjob section of the fuck. The TV is a sonograph of hmm-ooh-aah.

  "What do we have here?" Gretchen asks.

  "The Disney Channel, I think," Billy says.

  "You think?"

  "Pinocchio is my guess."

  "He must be fibbing his brains out."

  "But she doesn't mind."

  Bodies are split down the screen, half here, half there.

  "Almost dirtier this way," Billy says.

  "Certainly more acrobatic," Gretchen adds.

  In front of them the amoebalike stud demands, "Oh yeah, suck my balls, baby," as if the line has been written expressly for this moment, as if somewhere between lip and shaft there's a cue, and Billy briefly thinks of Sally and their last sexual encounter. Porno words as a final good-bye. She's probably in Cambridge by now, the apartment in New York no longer holding any traces of their life together, just scratches on the floor, nail holes in the walls, his books probably returned to used-book stores from whence they were born, like salmon spawning another generation too cheap, too poor, to buy new, a dog-eared begot. Billy listens to every thrust, every grunt, as if hearing himself. The only natural sound emitted is horribly intimate and beyond control.

  "How romantic," Gretchen says.

  Billy squints. "I have no idea where the bits end and pieces begin."

  "It's like spin art," Gretchen says. "With pink as your only color."

  While they talk, the fractured couple contemplates their next move.

  "I want to fuck you."

  "You want to fuck me?"

  "Oh yeah, I want to fuck you bad."

  "Then fuck me bad, fuck my cunt."

  "Oh, I'll fuck you."

  "Fuck me now."

  "I think they want to fuck," Gretchen says.

  "I'm getting that impression," Billy says.

  Billy stares at Gretchen, almost challenging her to ask What? My God, she's not beautiful. Her skin shimmers against yes yes yes, the light worthy of La Tour. Not beautiful and looking innocent the way people who've seen everything can look innocent, as if all fault has been beaten from them. Her face finds purity in a smirk. Billy wishes he could touch her. If only they were in the same bed then he could play accidental footsie, could reach across the divide with his pinky and investigate her enthusiasm. Maybe other men would've gotten up and climbed into bed with her, but Billy is more subtle, shy until the first kiss. Okay, timid. Wimpy even. In the beginning. He depends on incidental contact, the bump that lingers, the handshake that sticks, the soft agreement that reclines. He tries seducing Gretchen by telepathy. He pushes the space between them, opens up his pores hoping he might feel small bruises of air.

  "Billy?"

  He—"Yes"—answers perhaps too quickly.

  "Where do you suppose her legs are?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Or her head for that matter?"

  "I don't know," Billy says.

  He can fall in love so easily. Maybe not true love. Not undying commitment. God no. It's more the words, the verb form embraced by pronouns—/ love you—the profound simplicity of the sentence.I love you. Amazing, the power of that syntax. In high school, in college, in studio apartments after too much drink he could suddenly drop / love you between belt buckles and bra straps. Not as a line. He just wanted to hear himself say the words.

  "Fuck me up the ass."

  "You want me to fuck you up the ass?"

  "Yeah, right in my asshole."

  "Your tight asshole."

  "Uh-huh."

  Thus follows a series of particularly violent seizures. At one moment the reception lands upright and roughly intact and remains frozen in place for one, two, three seconds and counting, the man and woman clear as a bell, the man pumped up, seemingly more interested in his delts and pecs, the woman constantly flipping her dirty-blond hair—they both grimace with phony pleasure as they fulfill the anal requirement of their contra
ct, until finally, thankfully, this modern-day Paolo and Francesca fall back into the whirlwind.

  "I better go," Billy says.

  "You're leaving?"

  "I should at least try sleeping."

  "Are you tired?"

  "No."

  "Then why go. I can change." Gretchen waves the clicker. "Here, the weather."

  "No, I should go. It's late."

  "You can stay if you want."

  But a feeling has come over Billy, a self-defeat in the face of love. He thinks about kissing her good night, maybe under pretensions of tucking her in and being sweet, but instead he waves and nods and slips away. In the hallway, in that harsh forensic light, he kicks himself for leaving. He should've stayed. Please, she had him watching scrambled porn. Is there a clearer message? Billy clenches his fists and grimaces as if electrocuted by this missed opportunity. He's always the gentleman by accident, and in retrospect, the rake. He thinks about turning around—just turn around and storm back in and tell her you forgot something, meander toward her bed and lean down and kiss her, barely implicate your tongue and curl your hand behind her head and leave your other hand flat on her chest, copping balance. Sounds good. Almost sexy. Maybe cheesy. Too silky smooth. Or he could stumble back in, all flustered and confused, and confess, "I'd like to kiss you very very badly," with an endearing stammer. Better. More honest. Practically the truth. But now just another rehearsed line.

  Billy is spinning in circles when down the hall a door opens up. He spots Dullick sneaking out and creeping along the wall's edge. Four steps into his mission Dullick realizes he has company. "Schine," he startles.

  "Hey."

  "What the fuck you doing out here?"

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "Now what, you're guarding the hall?" Dullick farts. It's a toot of interrogation, a gassy Hmm? He blushes. The big man is in poor shape, pale and sweaty and far from terra firma. Another fart escapes him, longer and more portentous. "Sorry," he says. "The food is killing me."

  Billy nods his sympathy. Dullick is dressed in black and he carries a walkie-talkie. Maybe the absurd fantasy of Ragnar is a possible reality.

  Maybe this is the night of Operation Billy Schine. "What are you up to?" Billy asks.

  "I could ask the same thing," Dullick says. Then he tilts his head and freezes, like he's heard a twig snap in the intestinal forest. Clearly, danger lurks in those dark places. Dullick spins around and scurries back to his room.

  Billy goes to the door and eavesdrops. "Abort, abort" is hissed into the walkie-talkie, followed by desperate clawing toward the bathroom.

  31

  MONDAY is the last dose day for Allevatrox; from here on in, all they do is bleed and give evidence of the drug scattering from their system. By Friday, they should be clean enough for discharge. The green normals swallow the after-dinner pills with celebration even though they still drool and twitch. The end is near. Money will follow. The nurse with the penlight and the tongue depressor checks Billy's mouth for the last time, and as a flirtation, Billy hides the pills in the back corner of his cheek. She spots them like cavities. "Cute," she says. "Now swallow." In the bleed room, Joy is gone. Ron, her replacement, tells Billy it's her day off. Ron has rough hands, as if blood is pulled from the ground. Billy begrudges him his sample.

  That night, Billy watches the moths thwump the window like drops of light-hungry rain. He can see Do in the reflection. His hands are tucked in the Bible and his lips move silently through the minutes of Luke. A few moths take on a head of steam and slam the glass while others flutter and search for a way inside, going up and down, resting, and starting again. But Billy is more interested in Do. Earlier, he had thrown up. After dinner he had slipped into the bathroom, and the sound through the closed door was unmistakable: the ratchet of finger on epiglottis, the first few false gags, then the splashdown of fried chicken, peas, mashed potatoes, and butterscotch pudding for dessert. Billy and Lannigan exchanged looks. Lannigan seemed pleased, as if overhearing gossip; his hand covered his mouth with what-do-we-have-here. Billy moved toward the bathroom door, quietly because Lannigan had a point. Vomiting is a private affair. Billy overheard mumbling, almost a chanting in tongues made even more Gregorian by the acoustics of the toilet bowl. It was a relief when another stomach-emptying aria interrupted the recitative.

  Lannigan hopped out of bed and went to his section of the bureau where his toiletries (a city compared to the towns of Billy and Do) stood. He grabbed the Right Guard skyscraper, shook the can until primed, and paraded toward Do's side of the room. He began crop-dusting the sheets, holding his nose the whole time.

  "What're you doing?" Billy whispered.

  "Taking advantage of the situation," Lannigan said.

  "Don't be a jerk." Billy knocked on the door. "Do, you all right in there?"

  More mumbling, this time sounding like a didgeridoo.

  "Should I get a nurse?"

  Do shouted back, "No! No-no-no-no."

  Lannigan stopped with his aerosol assault. "What we really need is an exorcist," he said. "This is beyond BO. This is closer to demonic possession. This stink stars Linda Blair." He returned to his skyline and picked up a phallic-shaped bottle of cologne. "Holy water," he said, "by Calvin Klein."

  "Come on, Lannigan, enough."

  "I agree. I have had enough."

  Billy opened the bathroom door, pulling and peeking inside, a sort of neighborly yoo-hoo. Do was on his knees, leaning over the toilet and force-feeding his hand down his throat. Most of what could come up had already come up. Only spit remained. The bowl was a mess of what was once considered food but now resembled subhuman slop. Smelling like internal mildew, mustiness made chunky, it instantly reminded Billy of the fine line between puke and digestion. Do kept pushing his fingers deeper, reaching as far as yesterday's lunch. "Okay," Billy said. "I think you're done." But Do was undeterred. He tortured up empty gags, which he treated with contempt, as if somewhere the Gestapo were screaming Speak! Billy reached down and thought about patting his shoulder or gently rubbing his head, but those moves seemed too intimate, too paternal, so he flushed the toilet and told Do, "Let's take a break for a second."

  Do's ID dangled in the bowl. This ten-day-old Do circled the drain and smiled for the camera, while the Do above him, incalculably older, took in the small drama of his official likeness spinning faster in the whirl, nearing that black hole and its end pirouette. But the chain held. The ID floated back to the surface. "There's more in me," Do said. "I know it. I can feel it. I didn't get it all. Not everything. There's more."

  "You got most of it," Billy promised.

  "Not nearly."

  Billy handed him a wad of toilet paper. "Just do me a favor and sit back."

  "I can still feel it in my gut." Do pinched his belly.

  "Feel what?"

  "They're slipping something extra in my food. I've seen them do it. They're preparing me. Getting me ready. You'll see. Soon enough everybody will see and they'll take me away forever. I need to get this out"—he began treating his belly button like pull tab—"because otherwise they'll be able to track me wherever I go."

  Billy sat down on the bathroom floor, hoping he might impersonate comfort with proximity. "Do, it's the drug. You're having a bad reaction, that's all."

  "It's not the drug. It's me."

  "I think I should get a nurse," Billy said.

  Do grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare."

  "But this is getting serious."

  Do glared, his heavy brow like knuckles on a ledge. "If you tell anyone, I'll never forgive you. That might not seem like much coming from slime like me, but know for the rest of your life there's somebody in the world who will never forgive you."

  "Okay, okay."

  Lannigan's voice, desperate for attention, broke through the bathroom, Lannigan standing over Do's bed, sprinkling the sheets with drops of cologne, chanting, "The power of Christ compels you" over and over again like a priest battling low-thread-count cotton.r />
  "Lannigan, shut up," Billy shouted.

  "The power of Christ compels you!"

  "Shut the fuck up, I'm serious." Billy tried screwing his face so he might communicate the gravity of the situation, the absolute bad idea of the joke, but the high priest only continued.

  "Don't listen to him," Billy told Do. "He's an idiot."

  But Do was newly calm. The liquid tremble had washed away. What was left behind was colder and far more troubling, a certain smooth resignation, Billy thought, implacable, like a stone no longer submerged in a river but holding all the years of wear. Even Lannigan must have been struck because he stopped his little homage and tilted his head like he could hear what dogs hear. A slight tectonic shift. A high-frequency yell. Do said nothing. He just wiped his chin, got up from the floor, walked past Lannigan and crawled into his newly perfumed bed.

  The cologne odor still lingers, bonded unpleasantly with funk. Billy watches Do's reflection in the window, wondering if Do is watching him, if their eyes are meeting or if Do is focused on the moths and the black beyond. Billy goes over and closes the thick curtains, explaining, "Bed­time," so Do might not suspect his dead harvest moon face is the culprit.

  "You feeling all right?" Billy asks.

  Without moving, Do gives the impression of nodding.

  32

  THE NEXT morning, Do is gone.