Blood Standard

by Laird Barron

  “Hi, hey! You must be Isaiah. I’m Lauren, Meg’s friend. We work together at the library. She’s running late, so come on in. Yep, she wasn’t kidding. You are definitely a big guy. Follow me. Watch your head on the ceiling, ha, ha! Want a drink? Meg says you like scotch. Sit down, I’ll pour you a glass. Got to run in a minute, but make yourself at home.”

  This monologue was a staccato affair. Lauren situated me on a couch and continued to prattle nonstop, her voice fading out as she disappeared into the kitchen with the vase of roses I’d brought, then fading in when she returned with a glass of something peaty.

  “Meg says you work at the Hawk Mountain Farm. I love horses. We had horses when I was a kid in Colorado. Arabians. I think it was Arabians. Show horses. My mom raised them. Are there Arabians at the farm? How’s the scotch?” She didn’t know what to do with her hands as she watched me. Red nails, perfectly manicured. She touched her hair, brushed her sleeve, gestured meaninglessly.

  I thanked her and tasted the liquor while I studied the living room.

  Hardwood floors and kitschy throw rugs. Floor lamps provided a pleasant accent to the china cabinet and antique coffee table. Bookshelves and lots of books. Girl liked science fiction and horror, it appeared. A simple, cozy home appropriate for a librarian. Someone had assiduously picked up all the toys, but evidence of a child’s presence remained in the grooves and gouges that no amount of wood stain or Sheetrock caulk could completely erase. A stepladder and a bucket rested near the far wall beneath the wiring exposed by an unbolted sconce.

  The man who owned the equipment walked around the corner and stopped dead. Average height and lean, with the knotty hands and wide shoulders of a carpenter. Shaggy hair. His rough face belonged to that of a man who spent time in the elements and then drank a double when he got home. Intemperance glinted from his narrowed eyes and the set of his jaw. A quick to war, quick to peace, heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy. “Meg had mentioned her deceased husband was a carpenter. Oops.”

  Lauren wrung her hands.

  “Um, right. Isaiah, Mac. Mac, Isaiah. Mac’s here to change the lights. I have to go. Meg will be here any minute. Booze is on the counter. Have fun. Nice to meet you. Bye. Bye, Mac. Thanks.” She snatched her purse and beat it out the front door.

  Mac stared at me, looked away, then back again. Same as a dog deciding whether or not to bite. He wore a tool belt loaded with screwdrivers, chisels, and box cutters. A framing hammer dangled in his right fist. Apparently, Meg’s ex-husband was alive and well. Thinking to be polite, I’d left my revolver in the truck. Silly me.

  “Isaiah.” He rolled it around in his mouth. Nasally. His nose had been busted many times. Faint scars etched his hairline. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the hammer. “Hoo boy. This is one on me.”

  “A woman’s got to have her secrets, evidently.”

  He tapped the hammer against his leg. Dark eyes, hard as the hammerhead.

  “I’m gonna grab a beer,” he said. “Want one?”

  I raised my mostly full glass.

  He thumped around a bit and returned with a can of Coors. He sat awkwardly in the love seat across the way and cracked the beer. The hammer remained in his lap.

  “Meg didn’t say she was expecting company,” he said after a couple of swallows.

  “Nope.”

  A long, unhappy silence ensued.

  “You’re real.” When I didn’t take the bait, he went on. “I mean to say, you’re not acting. Me, I’m scared of all kinds of shit. Losing. Becoming an alkie like my old man. Falling off a roof or getting fried rewiring a light. Arthritis. You aren’t afraid, though. You’re a big, bad man, aren’t you?”

  He couldn’t have missed the mark by a wider margin.

  “After what I’ve gone through today, you’ll find it difficult to get a rise out of me. It’s a character defect. Things that should frighten me don’t. Should I be afraid?”

  “Well, I dunno.” Tap, tap, tap with the hammer against his thigh.

  “Make up your mind, you let me know.”

  More silence, and this time it really dragged.

  “Where you from, Isaiah?” His tone indicated he wanted to ask something else entirely.

  “Alaska. All over, but mainly Alaska.”

  “Alaska. Always wanted to go. Too damned cold. Too damned dark. I hunt. Lots a hunting up there. Caribou, moose. Best meat, caribou.”

  I allowed that, yes, Alaska was cold and dark and there was indeed a lot of good hunting.

  “Meg tell you she had a man?” Another long swallow.

  “She suggested you were deceased. She probably meant to say ‘estranged.’”

  “Might a been fantasizing about my demise. Our marriage is a cold war.” He smiled with a depth of rue that was shocking and then covered his nakedness with another, longer, pull of beer.

  I pondered that for a few moments.

  “Not divorced?”

  “Nah, dude. Separated going on two years.”

  “Separated.” My turn to roll a word around like a marble.

  “Mackenzie Shaw, at your service. Carpenter, painter, dad. Dad, yeah. We got a son. He’s five come August. I don’t suppose she mentioned Devlin either.”

  Now I concentrated on my glass as if the secrets to life swam in its contents.

  “I saw the Big Wheel’s in the yard. Devlin. That’s solid. Glad you didn’t go with an M name.”

  “M name?”

  “Mac and Meg? Precious enough, don’t you think? No need to hit a triple.”

  Mac inhaled deeply and let it out again. He finished the beer and carefully set the empty on a coaster on the coffee table. He pointed at the flat-screen television between the bookcases.

  “Bought that for her and D last year. Tired-a D watchin’ cartoons on the shitty box we had since before he came along.”

  I sipped and noticed that three fingers of scotch had dwindled to a fingernail.

  He sighed again.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I’m not an asshole. Not a complete asshole. I care about what happens. Some of the guys she’s brought around . . . I don’t know what to tell you. It’s complicated between Meg and me. Man, we’re not together, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. And Devlin . . . He’s my little man. You know?”

  I waited because I didn’t know.

  “Yeah, well.” He blinked rapidly. “Basketball fan? Playoffs are on. I got three hundred on Miami to go the distance.”

  “I’m partial to Philly.”

  “Seventy-sixers are bums.” Mac found the remote and clicked on the set. “Celtics versus Bucks. Goddamned Celtics. I’d give a week’s pay to see them drop this one.”

  “I remember when it was Bird, McHale, and Parish beating the world. Enough to drive a Sixers fan to drink.”

  He tossed the hammer underhand and it clattered into the tool bucket.

  “Bro. Real men don’t need no excuse to drink. We just do it.”

  “Ah. Is that what we are? Real men?”

  “Hell yeah. Got to ask?” He’d grown steadier. The blinking stopped, at least.

  “Want to hear everything I’ve learned? You got three seconds?”

  “See those guys?” Mac plowed ahead animatedly, his gaze fixed upon the screen. The sight of men in uniforms engaged in stylized conflict had magically restored him. “Those guys ain’t worth a tinker’s damn. Bird and McHale, they’re bronzed in a museum. Ain’t nobody like them playing anymore. Weak sisters rule the world now.”

  * * *

  —

  MEG WALKED IN THE DOOR about forty minutes later. She was glossy and made-up and appealing in a red skirt and heels. Her calves were steely as any runway model’s. She carried a bag of groceries under her arm. Her expression suggested she was neither pleased nor expecting to see us menfolk kicked back, watching the Celtic
s torch the Bucks.

  Mac leaped to his feet like his foreman had caught him on an unscheduled break. He muttered about circuits and fuses and said he’d return that weekend to finish repairing the lamp.

  “Spectacular,” she said. “Except, I never asked you to fix the fucking lamp in the first place.”

  “Don’t want my son going blind trying to read his comic books in the dark.”

  “Devlin can’t read. He doesn’t look at his books here. He plays in his room. I read to him in his room. The lamp in his room works fine.” All this she said through gritted teeth.

  “Okay. I’ll get this taken care of Saturday.” He gestured in my direction as he departed without looking directly at me or Meg.

  Then it was us chickens and a bunch of guys chasing a ball on TV.

  “Honey, you’re home,” I said. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti,” she said.

  “Going to show that Italian joint how it’s done, eh?”

  She didn’t answer but went into the kitchen and made dinner while I sat with my thoughts. I had no idea what to feel about the situation. That hadn’t changed when she dimmed the lights and set the pasta, garlic bread, and wine on the dining table.

  “Found your girl?” she said after a while.

  “Not yet.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” She set her fork aside and lifted her wineglass. “My life is really, really complicated. You met Lauren. She’s . . .”

  “Loquacious.”

  “High-strung. My housemate. Pays half the rent. If I counted on Mac, I’d be out on my ass.”

  I thought of his offhand remark about laying three bills on the Heat to win all the marbles in the NBA finals.

  “Seems like a good guy. Blue-collar, salt of the earth. Those types can be reckless as they are large-hearted. It’s what kills them and sustains them.” I wanted more alcohol but stuck with water.

  She swirled wine in her glass and tilted her head and regarded me with an inscrutable expression.

  “That salt-of-the-earth guy is a drunk. He’s an inveterate gambler who owes goons like you money he doesn’t have. He fucks around. He won’t sign the divorce papers and he won’t stay away even though he doesn’t live here anymore. He runs off anyone who shows the slightest interest in me and Devlin. But he’s handsome and folksy and sufficiently cunning to bond with the only man I’ve dated who’s big enough and mean enough to knock him down. Don’t know how much more of that large heart I can take.”

  “I collected comics as a boy,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Spider-Man. Captain America. The X-Men. What kind of comics does Devlin like?”

  “Know what we’re not going to do? Talk about my son. Let’s save that for another evening.”

  “Farmed him out so we could have a quiet date? Shouldn’t have. I do great with kids.”

  “Devlin is with his grandmother. I didn’t send him away so you and I could canoodle. I did it because I wasn’t sure if you and Mac would . . .” She stared at her plate, then speared me with a glare. “Anyway, you think I’m going to let a person like you around my child? Think again.”

  “That’s probably more of a third date kind of thing. Really, am I any worse a bet than a mom who sets up a kid’s dad for a beating by a raging maniac?”

  Her eyes glittered. I’d gotten the color wrong. They shifted from brown to hazel, depending upon her mood.

  “This is about the other night,” I said. “And the festival.”

  She nodded.

  “You have the wrong idea about what I do,” I said.

  “I think I have a very good idea about what you do.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t punch annoying ex-husbands in the face. Not unless they’re a danger and not unless I’m getting paid. Goes double for annoying husbands who aren’t quite exes.”

  “Oh, my mistake. What are your rates?”

  I massaged my temples. The headache had come on with thunderous intensity. She brought aspirin and dropped them in my hand. I washed the pills down with the rest of my water. The heat of her as her blouse brushed my cheek was distracting.

  We retired to the living room. The Cure sang, dim and sweet. Disintegration has rated among my favorites since junior high. I drank another glass of water. She rolled a joint and smoked it, her body curled into the opposite arm of the couch.

  “Want a hit?” She extended the smoldering joint.

  “I don’t smoke anymore. I drink a little.”

  “Uh-uh, you drink a lot.”

  “A little a lot.”

  “You hurt people. At least sometimes.”

  “All the time,” I said.

  “I don’t know if I like that part.”

  “You’d be a psycho if you did.”

  “Been married?”

  “No. Dodged that bullet.”

  “Hmm. But you came close.”

  “I had a great love. When I was young.”

  “And?”

  “She left me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she saw me for what I am.”

  Meg inhaled and held it, exhaled and coughed.

  “What’s with the rabies tags?”

  “A memento. I’m sentimental every now and again. Long story.”

  “I get the impression it’s a tragedy.”

  “I don’t want to dissect it tonight,” I said more gruffly than I’d intended.

  “What’s your favorite book?” Her smug expression suggested she’d scored a point in whatever game we were playing.

  “I told you already.”

  “When did you tell me?”

  “At the Sultan’s Swing.”

  “No way, I would’ve remembered.”

  “It’s your turn to spill a personal detail.”

  She smiled. A small thing but real.

  “Wrong. I’m not the one on trial.”

  “Glad we got that straight. What am I on trial for?”

  “Whether or not you’re going to get into my panties.”

  “Women decide that within the first thirty seconds of meeting a dude. So my guess is, case closed. Or open.”

  She covered her mouth and snorted.

  “The Odyssey,” I said. “It’s the precursor to Heart of Darkness. The sea voyage with all the evil kings and monsters, and screwing of sea nymphs and lonely witches. The revenge against the suitors. I was an angry kid. Revenge appeals to teenagers. I admired Odysseus, but my heart went out to put-upon Polyphemus. Trespassing Greeks eat his mutton and drink his wine, stab him in the eye, and sail off merry as you please. The other Cyclops laughed. He got a raw deal. That said, I’m still more in Camp Hercules than Camp Odysseus.”

  “Funny you should mention Odysseus.”

  “How so? Anyway, Mother Walker mentioned him recently. I hadn’t thought of the old salt in an age.”

  She glanced away as though trying to shake a dark thought.

  “You should try Michael Shea. He wrote a collection called Polyphemus. I think he loved the big dope too. Although Shea was a horror writer, so it’s hard to say.”

  Meg polished off her wine and poured another glass. She set the glass aside and knelt before me and took my hand, palm up, and examined it.

  “Are you a fortune-teller?” I said.

  “Also an acrobat and a speed reader. Mama did witchcraft until Daddy stole her virtue. Crazy lines you have here, Mr. Coleridge.” She traced my skin with her fingernail. “I dreamed of you the other night.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Don’t get excited. Nothing erotic.”

  “Aw. An acrobat, eh? That’s unusual.”

  She stood and shoved the coffee table against the wall. Then she bent at the waist and pressed into a handstand. Lifted her left hand from t
he floor and remained steady. She walked around the room on her hands, and, when that bored her, she did a series of freeze-frame cartwheels. Her body flexed in such a way that I only got a flash of black silk panties. The final revolution deposited her on the couch. She breathed normally. Her cheeks were bright.

  “Well, I never,” I said. “The possibilities seem endless. Dirty, but endless. How come you’re a librarian and not working with, I don’t know, Cirque du Soleil?”

  “I traveled with a circus. Long time ago.”

  “The Trapeze Club isn’t part of the larger picture?”

  “Fell and busted my ankles, so I went to college. Now it’s all in fun.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No use in that.”

  We sat in silence for a minute before she tilted her head and gazed at me sidelong.

  “Why is Odysseus funny, you ask?” She squeezed my hand. “Because I dreamed you were on a ship, the old kind with square sails and banks of rowers, and you sailed on a rough sea the color of green glass. You put in at several islands. Upon each island, you paid homage to its king. Horrible, vile men who reposed upon thrones of bones and whose sandals were caked in the blood of their victims. Each desired to slay you, but you were wily and resourceful and escaped with your skin. The palaces, the forests, the grass in the fields, everything around you, blazed with fire. You left the islands floating amidst the black like burning jewels and sailed into outer darkness.”

  “Art imitating life,” I said. “I’ve visited two kings. Haven’t set any fires.”

  “There’s still time to wreak havoc,” she said. “It’s running through your fingers, though. You’ve got to hurry. ’Cause you’re gonna die, in the end.”

  “How do I die?”

  “A woman betrays you.”

  She kissed my knee and then abruptly stood and moved away.

  “Go home, brave warrior. My son will be here soon and I don’t want him to see you here.”

  THIRTY

  Sleep came in fits and fragments over the next couple of nights. My dreams were haunted, not by rough seas or tyrants shouting from their thrones but by images of Reba galloping Bacchus into the black mouth of a cave and men in fatigues dropping through the earth into tiger pits. Lionel cried for help and I was afraid to look over the lip of the trap. A man I recognized from a previous incarnation of myself, but whose name I’d forgotten, entreated me from his knees not to shoot him. I pulled the trigger anyway. Tony Flowers leered as I struggled to escape the iron chair. My mother’s body lay, cold and blue, near the water, her lovely face disfigured by a gash from an oar, and Mervin stood in silhouette, the very figure of the Reaper. I dreamed of Achilles sliding against the loose rocks of a cliff, accelerating away from my grasp. We both plummeted into the green abyss of eternity.