“This is a thick one,” the tall and fat sighed to his companions, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one said a word about a ray. A ray is like a fish, but flatter, and with a spiky sort of tail. The point is, smart boy, you have to pay.”
“He didn’t say ray,” chuckled the tall and thin. “He called you gay.”
“He did not call me gay,” answered the tall and fat, stepping forward to grab a twist of the stranger’s shirt in his fist and lifting him by it so that his shoes dangled just above the dirt. “He’s not dumb. He’s just confused.” He shook the stranger slightly. “He’ll straighten out.”
“Listen,” said the stranger, his voice calm despite his newly precarious position. “Perhaps we can help each other. How would you boys like to be of some use?”
“Did he say what I thought he said?” asked the tall and thin.
“He couldn’t have,” said the short and fat.
“He did,” said the tall and fat, excited. “I heard him clear. He called us Jews.”
The tall and fat closed his free hand into a fist as large as the stranger’s head, and with it pounded him hard in the face. When the stranger’s head snapped back, the tall and fat hit him again. The stranger’s body slackened. His package dropped from beneath his arm. The tall and fat opened his other fist, and when the stranger crumpled to the ground, all three fell upon him, a stomping storm of red-laced black boots, harder than they looked, tall and short and fat and skinny, digging into ribs and skull and gut.
When the stranger regained consciousness, the three men were a quarter mile down the tracks. He could just barely hear them singing, and could see them silhouetted against the white sky, tossing something merrily between them: a package. His. He let his head fall back into the dirt, and did not open his eyes again that day.
The ether.
In the lots that sprawled at the edge of the city, not far from the underpass where the bagman and the stranger had together passed a night, the bagman and the preacher came across another man. High reeds grew out of the broken concrete and shattered glass, and swallows dove among them. The man’s back was to them. He was an old man, white-haired, bent at the waist, all sagging flesh and brittle bone. He walked as if he were carrying a cane, though he had none. And he spoke as if he had an audience, declaiming loudly and enunciating with great care, though he showed no sign that he was aware that two men had paused behind him.
“Above the clouds there are other clouds,” the old man said, and jabbed a crooked finger at the sky. “They are whiter than these ones, and softer, and above them is the sun. Between the sun and this second tier of clouds is the ether. They don’t have elevators to get there. You can’t take a plane. This is the ether, people.” The old man kicked a rusted beer can to accentuate his point. “That’s why they call it ethereal. Up there, there are no bugs or birds. There are no angels flying around. It’s thinner than all that. Bugs can’t even breathe in the ether. It’s pure. It’s clean. It’s pure of living things. Only ghosts can live up there. That’s where things go when they’re done being what they were, and things that never were, but might have been. It’s not heaven. It’s no dreamland — this is science, people. This is physics. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, it can only change its form. So where does it go? What form does matter take when it’s not matter anymore? Where did Mount Saint Helen go?”
The old man paused in his oration to sniff at the air. He’d caught the bagman’s scent. He turned around and saw them standing there: the fat, dingy-bearded man, his grimy belly hanging out from under a grimier reindeer sweater, a tall, skinny man almost swallowed by the sandwich board he wore, and three stuffed bags behind them. The old man winked at his watchers, and went on, “There was a whole mountain there, a big one. We all saw it. Not any more. It’s not there. Matter cannot be created or destroyed. It can only change form. I have seen so much. So many things I can’t account for. Where did my wife go? What form is she taking? Once upon a time I intended to become a highly paid shortstop in the major leagues. Where is the man I meant to be? What happened to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics? The stains I’ve left on the sheets of the world, hundreds of sheets, thousands of stains — where did they go? Where is the soap that washed them? Where does the soul go when the body dies? Where did your momma go? Where does the stinking body go? Where did the love go, people? Shit, it all becomes a ghost.”
The old man hobbled over, smiling slyly, pleased with his performance. The bagman greeted him with a nod and hoisted up his bags. The preacher resumed walking. The old man fell in with them. Despite his age and his broken gait, he had no trouble keeping up, and talked as he walked beside them.
“I worked at the dog track over there,” the old man said. “You’ll pass it up ahead. Twenty-six years. I did every job there was to do. When the track closed — it was at least ten years ago, I’m not counting — but when it closed they told me and another fellow to take care of the dogs. I mean kill them. The other fellow had a little .38 and we took turns shooting them. They were half-starved so it did feel more like mercy than meanness. When we ran out of bullets we crushed their skulls with shovels. Greyhounds aren’t pit bulls. They’re delicate dogs. Their heads aren’t that hard, but still they could take a few good whacks, some of them could. Nothing likes to die. It took hardly an hour to finish them all. I’ve done worse things than that in my life but nothing’s ever made me feel so bad.”
The old man studied the words written on the preacher’s signboards. “Why do you hide your face?” he read aloud and laughed. “If only he did hide it. I’ve seen it enough. Ugly old bastard.”
The preacher shot the old man a hard look. His nose flinched and his blue eyes flinched and he seemed to be about to say something, but he didn’t. The bagman did. “Where did you see it?” he asked. “His face?”
The old man inserted an index finger into one ear and twisted it about. “Let me put it to you this way,” he said, frowning as he inspected the harvest on the tip of his finger. “Nowhere nice.”
He grinned and switched ears. “Where you fellows off to, you mind if I ask?”
The preacher and the bagman looked at one another for a long moment, as if trying to decide which one could speak with the least effort, or if they should speak at all. At last the bagman answered. “We’re looking for him,” he said.
“Him?”
“I saw him,” the bagman nodded. “We’re gonna find him.”
The old man twisted his face to one side and then the other. “Him, huh?” he said. “What do you want to find him for?”
The preacher turned and regarded the old man with his best schoolmaster’s sneer. But the old man would not be shamed. He winked at the preacher. “Seek and ye shall find,” he said. “Ain’t that how it goes? Ask and ye shall receive. Merrily merrily merrily merrily, gently down the stream. Something like that right? That’s a funny necklace. You make it yourself?”
The old man did not wait for an answer, but went on: “Satan, Jesus and Mohammed walked into a bar, you know that one? Satan was wearing a backpack, stuffed full. Jesus had two Jews in a cigarette box in his shirt pocket and Mohammed had a Buddhist sitting on each shoulder, meditating like they do, Indian style. The bartender’s standing there drying glasses when they all come in and he puts down his bar-rag, grabs the bat he keeps beneath the bar and says . . .”
The old man stopped mid-joke. “You two are serious, aren’t you?”
The bagman shook his head, then nodded, correcting himself.
The old man spat. He kicked dirt over his spittle. He twisted his face again, then untwisted it halfway. “You think you can just wander about and find him. Like he’s a golden retriever escaped his leash. Like maybe he just went to the library, will be back in time for lunch. Pizza!” He tried to spit again but his mouth was dry, so he made a thin, hocking sound and said, “Shit. I’ve done stupider things.”
The three walked on. The old man’s mood improved. He finished his joke and told ano
ther about Saint Francis making love to twin canaries and a third about a blind priest seduced by his own colostomy bag. They skirted the sand pits and the truck yards. They passed the dog track and the old man fell silent. Without noticing it, the old man stepped on a praying mantis and smashed the only thorax its creator had thought to give it. The preacher’s black sneaker crushed an anthill, killing or crippling two dozen scrambling insects and undoing the labor of a thousand more. A mosquito drained blood from the folds of flesh beneath the bagman’s ankle. A toad ate the mosquito, and grew fat off the bagman’s blood. The old man whistled a melancholy tune. The wind accompanied him, sissing through the grass.
They surprised a little, brown-skinned boy dashing across the tracks. The boy stopped like a deer caught out in the open. He stared at them. They were, they realized, a minor spectacle. The preacher stuttered for a while, but it was the bagman who ultimately got out the words. He asked the boy if he had seen a tall man in a white suit pass by, holding a package wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm. The boy didn’t answer, but ran off, head bobbing as he disappeared into the brush.
“You sure you ain’t seen him?” the old man yelled after the boy. “He’s seen him. Maybe didn’t like him any more than he liked seeing us, but he seen him. ‘Suffer the little children,’ doesn’t it say that in your book?” he said, elbowing the preacher. “That’s the eleventh commandment, ain’t it? Make sure the little fuckers suffer good.”
The preacher stuttered out a flustered “no,” and marched off, showing the old man his back and the edict that it bore: “Let everything that breathes praise the Lord.”
Slow, in single file, the men walked on beneath low, gray clouds. Above those floated other clouds, whiter and softer than those immediately overhead. Above them was the sun, above it the stars. Above them were other stars and more stars still and all the hungry space that connects one star to another and that holds them at the same time apart. And somewhere up there in the space between the spaces, and in the spaces between those, if you searched hard enough you’d find them: barking dogs and fallen mountains, the praying mantis, all the ants.
And another.
When he at last awoke, the stranger was no longer lying in the dirt where he had fallen, but in a small, dark room with a floor of cracked concrete. Rain beat hard on the metal roof. The floor was damp, as was the stranger’s suit. The room reeked of urine and of mold. The stranger’s ankles had been tied together, and his wrists were bound behind him, so he could not remove whatever warm, soft thing it was that filled his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but was unable. He gagged, and tried to choke it out, but that also did not work. He twisted his hands and tried to wriggle out of the ropes that bound him, but he could not do that either.
He heard rustling nearby, steps somewhere outside. He moaned as loud as he could with his mouth obstructed, and banged his feet against the floor. Behind him, a door opened. Light poured in. Rain came with it at a diagonal through the door. Standing above him were the four boys who had stoned him the day before. All four wore yellow slickers. They removed their hoods, shook rain onto the floor.
“Take the mouse out,” the first boy said.
“You take it out,” said the second.
“I’m not touching that thing,” said the fourth boy. “It’s slimy.”
“Yeah,” agreed the second. “And he’s awake now. He might bite.”
“He might yell,” the third boy added.
“Let’s cut off his fingers,” said the fourth boy, the fat one.
“What for?” asked the first.
“We could each take three,” the fat boy answered.
“No, stupid,” said the second boy. “Then he’d have to have 15 fingers.”
“Fine,” said the fat boy. “We’ll each take four.”
“That’s smart,” the first boy said. “Then his prints would get all over. That’s how you get caught.”
“I want to cut off his ear,” the third boy said.
“Cut off his thing!” enthused the fourth boy.
“You’re a faggot,” said the third.
“Why do you guys want to cut stuff off him?” the first boy asked.
The fourth boy shrugged. “That way we won’t forget. So we’ll all be friends forever.”
The boys were briefly silent, taking in this thought.
“It’s not gonna look good,” the first boy cautioned. “It’s only gonna rot.”
“No, it won’t,” objected the fourth.
“It’s meat, stupid. It rots.”
Before they could fully contemplate that notion, and bring their discourse to any resolution, the stranger, ignoring the pain in his fractured ribs and damaged kidneys, focused all his strength on his diaphragm and in one great burst expelled the mouse from his mouth. It skidded to a stop about two feet from his head, its fur matted, half crushed. The stranger coughed and spat a black lump of blood onto the ground in front of him.
“Put the mouse back in!” the first boy squealed.
“You!” whined the second.
“Stuff it in his bum,” chimed the fourth.
“Faggot!” screamed the other three.
The stranger spat again and cleared his throat. “Hello boys,” he croaked. “Untie me.”
“His eyes are freaky,” the second boy said.
“I can help you,” coughed the stranger, struggling with the rope that bound his wrists. “I can give you anything you want. I can make you into men, into something stronger still.”
“He’s a perv,” the third boy said.
“How you gonna help us if you can’t even untie your own hands?” the first boy asked.
“Untie me,” the stranger said. “And I will show you how.”
“We’re gonna be late for soccer,” said the second boy.
“There’s no soccer today,” said the fourth. “It’s raining, dipshit.”
“You’ll never have a chance like this again,” the stranger said.
“There’s practice inside, asshole,” the second boy said. “In the gym.”
“Yeah,” the third boy said. “Let’s go. He’ll be here when we get back.” They put on their hoods and zipped their slickers.
“Boys,” the stranger said. “Untie me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
The first boy picked the mouse up by the tail. “Just hold his mouth open,” he said. “Can you pussies at least do that?”
The dog again.
The dog was sleeping in the road again. The long-haired girl stopped the car in front of it. The wide bench seat beside her was empty. The back seat too. She was close enough to see the dog’s eyelids flutter and its dry black nostrils swell with every breath. She shook a cigarette from her pack and pushed in the lighter on the dash.
The short-haired girl had met a boy and declared their friendship suspended. For now at least, she’d said. The short-haired girl had cried. The long-haired girl, her former friend, had not. The short-haired girl’s nose had run. She had blubbered. I’m so confused, she’d said. The long-haired girl said nothing. But when she later saw the short-haired girl kissing the boy in the hall, it had made her feel as if her ribs had snapped inside her chest, as if their jagged ends were scraping against her lungs. She could still feel them scrape. The lighter popped. She pulled it from the dash and pushed its glowing end against her cigarette. She took a long drag, and coughed. Her foot trembled on the brake.
The heat from the engine caused the air above the hood to quiver. The dog let out a small yelp in its sleep, chasing dream rabbits down dream holes and across wide, dream-rabbity fields. Its lip flapped and exposed its yellow teeth and the mottled pink and black of its gums. It was an old dog. Its skin hung from its bones like a separate creature, imperfectly attached. The long-haired girl suddenly hated the dog, its passivity, its sleep. If she were just to lift her foot from the brake pedal, she would not even have to turn the wheel to run square over its head.
She looked in the rear-view mirror. There was no one
behind her and no one in front. But the creepy guy who lived across the street to her left stood in his driveway, hosing soap from a shiny, black convertible Saab. He wore headphones, and was glaring at her. She glared back. “What?” she said, flicking her ash out the window as she turned the wheel, released the brake, and steered around the dog.
She drove out past the gate, dropped the shifter into neutral and rode the brakes all the way down the hill. She drove aimlessly, turning when she felt like turning. She drove into neighborhoods her parents had warned her to avoid, down empty blocks lined with liquor stores and churches with hand-painted signs. Men and women pushed shopping carts listlessly down the sidewalks, their baskets stuffed with plastic bags. She rolled up her window and locked the doors, then mocked herself for doing so, and unrolled the window and unlocked the doors. She flicked her cigarette butt into the street. Stopped at a light, she watched a policemen point his gun at four teenage boys with hands held high above their heads while another policeman berated them, red-faced and demonic. She locked her door again.
Three blocks later two more policemen had handcuffed a man beside his shopping cart and with gloved hands were tossing his bags into the street. She stopped the car and looked on through the window until the handcuffed man caught her eye and she saw something like hatred boiling in his gaze and she felt suddenly ashamed and understood that just by witnessing it, she had become complicit in his humiliation. She dropped her eyes, and drove on.
She drove into the depths of the city. The streets were crowded, but no one was looking at anyone else. No one was holding hands or walking arm in arm. Music blared from other cars and out of storefronts, their bright windows lined with naked mannequins. She ran a red light and checked her mirror for police cars. After that she drove too cautiously, causing other drivers to honk and curse her when she failed to obey a green light with appropriate enthusiasm.
Ether Page 9
