The Phone Company
Page 17
Steve almost couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Marvin had constructed his own conspiracy web, complete with color-coded strings connecting various pictures, newspaper clippings, and weird random objects—some of which he’d taken straight from the dump.
“What’s that?” Steve said, pointing at a blue, red-splotched bandana.
“Tupac Shakur’s do-rag, day he was killed.” Marvin put air quotes around “killed.” He loved his air quotes.
“Hokay,” Steve said, turning around. “Bye, Marv.”
“No, please. Look. The PCo, the candidates, the war—look, they’re all connected.” He was doing this weird gangly yet graceful dance from one end of the web to the next, pointing at things here and there. His finger tapped a clipping about the USconn mass suicide, then he flicked a snippet on the mud-slinging at Harcum Cemetery, followed by the picture of Colonel Sanders for some reason. The Martian even had Das Verlag, the book publisher, on the board.
It, the PCo, the war, the corpses taken from Harcum Cemetery, Tupac’s do-rag: somehow, some way, it all stemmed back to a single day five years ago, to a yearbook picture of Marvin’s son.
“Oh, Marv,” Steve said, taking a step forward. The picture of Chuck Jones was at the nexus, at the navel, where the two hemispheres of the web narrowed to a single point.
That Day.
Everything before it, and everything after, fanned out. But That Day was the linchpin of the timeline.
Steve had always felt sorry for Marvin Jones. Marv had taken the loss hard, and now Steve had dug up the seed of the man’s obsession. Chuck. That beautiful little smiling face with the lazy eye and the shock of red hair and freckles.
The Martian had always thought the company was behind the shooting. “Gun Hitlers,” he’d called them. Gun grabbers, looking to disarm us all. So, of course, he’d included PCo in that pantheon of evil corps that somehow contributed to the death of his son.
“Can I take a picture of this?” Steve said, digging out his phone only to remember that Marvin had taken his battery. Damn it. He studied the web, trying to memorize as much of it as he could for Bill.
This.
This was motive enough to do something bad.
Marvin went to the left hemisphere of the web, to the past, everything before That Day. He went to a little patch of pig leather with images burnt into the hide. “The Ebumnanyth knew,” he said, tracing the pictographs of natives dancing around, not a fire, but a hole in the air. “That’s why they built their data center here. Because of the ley lines. Because of the cracks.”
Steve, studying the map of ley lines, said, “So what’re you going to do about all this, Marv? Are you going to pay them back?”
When Marvin didn’t answer, Steve turned to face him.
“Look,” the Martian said. He’d taken off his CIA hat, unleashing the unruly mane of red hair matted around his bald spot. He showed Steve the tinfoil lining the hat. “Creates a sort of Faraday cage around your head. Got two more if you want one. An ATF one and an FBI one. I also got a tinfoil yarmulke and a wig, your pick.”
“Seriously, Marv?”
“Hah! No. I’m kidding. I do have the hats, though.”
Steve held up his hand. “I think I’m good, thanks.”
“Man, I’ve said too much,” Marv said, pulling his cap back on. “I should’ve known.”
“I’m not going to say anything,” Steve said.
“Man, you don’t have to. Don’t you get it? I’m such an idiot. As soon as you go back out there . . .” He pointed beyond the walls of batteries and the lead door, all that lead, copper, and aluminum in crates and pipe. “You’re theirs again. They can beam whatever they want straight out of your head. You know what, man, here’s your battery back. Just take your part and GTFO, okay?”
So Steve did.
He immediately texted Bill.
On his way out, Steve passed a moving van packed with fifty-gallon drums but didn’t realize what he was looking at. He wouldn’t until later.
CHAPTER 16
“I’m sick of all your smileys,” Anastasia Disney said that Sunday. “Like, since last week.”
The whole next day at school, Sarah thought about how stupid Anastasia was for saying that, and how mean. And yet Anastasia had given Sarah more nicotine patches. Why? Why be mean only to be the nicest person on Earth?
It made no sense.
At least when Anastasia was mean, Sarah understood her. Sarah had gotten her in trouble; Anastasia had every right. But a nice Anastasia Disney was a mystery.
Sarah got good use out of the patches that day at school. The little medicated squares got her through pre-calc and kept her mind off her stupid phone with smileys from last week.
The balance of Sarah’s bank account, because she’d checked, had actually gone down, even though she hadn’t spent a penny since losing her job. It took her a second to realize the monthly fee had been deducted. The nicotine kind of helped with that, too. Nevertheless, by the end of school she was itching for a smoke.
To Sarah, though, on her cruddy old clamshell phone, it displayed plain text:
/|(;,;)/|
“How was it?” her dad asked.
“Same as always,” Sarah said, shutting her door. Usually, she said much less. Sometimes simply “it sucked.” Today she didn’t care to elaborate, so she’d used more words upfront.
Honestly, it was as if adults wanted you to write these pointless essays to explain yourself, but then they’d only read up to a certain page. They were that lazy. Yet they expected kids to work and work.
Sarah heard a sound in the backseat, other than Barksdale panting. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to do that,” she said.
Her dad looked in the rearview. “JJ, your sister’s right. Not in the car, you’ll make yourself sick.”
But JJ didn’t look up. His eyes remained on his Tether, hooded by his hat. Barksdale sniffed his touchscreen.
“JJ?”
Sarah cast another look at her dad, making sure he saw it. “Thought it was for homework.”
“It is homework,” JJ said, still not looking up.
“Yeah? What subject?”
“Huh?”
“Show me,” Sarah said. “Come on, maybe I can help. I used to be a tutor, come on.”
“Sarah,” her dad said, putting out his hand. “Sit.”
But Sarah refused to sit. She wasn’t freaking Barksdale. She gripped her headrest and craned around, scrutinizing her brother, his stupid hat.
He was only doing this now to set her off, she knew that. If she were at his level of immaturity, she would’ve stolen his hat. Instead, she acted like a grown-up. “I think it’s that video game,” she said.
“Huh?”
“That’s what you’re playing, isn’t it? That war game? I think that’s what’s making you so violent.”
“What? Shut up.”
“No, I did a report. Video games make kids more aggressive. Especially boys. I bet that’s why you got kicked in the nuts by your good friend the Dick.”
“What?” her dad said, looking away from the road. “Dick—what Dick? Are you talking about Richard Clement?”
Sarah shot him a glance. She’d forgotten how smart Mr. Grammar Nazi was with words. If she couldn’t catch JJ lying right now, she’d lose this whole argument.
“Come on,” Sarah said, grabbing for JJ’s phone. “Show me. What homew—”
Barksdale growled at her hand.
Sarah nearly screamed and jumped back. “What the fu—” she said, catching herself. The German shepherd didn’t even look at her. He just stared at J
J’s phone and balanced himself with the movement of the car.
“I don’t ever want to hear you calling someone that again,” Steve said, “you understand?”
“Yes,” Sarah replied, finally sitting back, but not without another glance at Barksdale. He’d never done that.
For a second, her dad took his eyes away from the road, so Sarah pretended to look out her window. Really, she was looking at her own reflection, all alone and trapped in the cold glass, trying to bite back the tears. Her stupid brother. Her stupid mouth.
Stupid Anastasia too, Sarah thought as her phone dinged.
Except it wasn’t Anastasia.
It was her brother.
JJ texted.
* * *
his sister shot back.
JJ’s thumbs were raring to send the photographic evidence of Sarah smoking Friday night, but something stopped him: Sarah had said in her text.
After years and years of his dad’s lectures, JJ knew enough about present tense to know he and his sister weren’t talking about the same thing. He was talking about Friday night. What the hell was she talking about?
JJ felt a brief stab looking at the picture he’d taken. Somehow, the screen had made it real for him in a way that looking at his sister in real life could not; somehow, staring at her picture, he understood her use of present tense.
Sarah seemed stunned in the front seat, staring at his text as if not sure what to say. JJ kept watch on her, head down, eyes just under the brim of his hat. If she even began to look back, he’d just pretend to be absorbed in his phone.
He could’ve really gotten her busted. After all, Mom’s smoking was one of the only things she and Dad ever argued about. At least in front of JJ.
The picture would’ve gotten Sarah grounded, not just till next week, but next school year. JJ didn’t want to see his sister cry, though, not again. He wasn’t a creep.
If she’d just leave him alone, they’d be all right.
* * *
“Maybe I shouldn’t take you, then,” Steve said, as if finishing some internal debate. He stared at the road, pretending he hadn’t seen the sob rippling silently up his daughter’s back.
“What do you mean?” JJ said, and Steve met his son’s eyes in the rearview. Finally, JJ was looking up.
Barksdale wasn’t.
“I mean Sarah. I was going to swing by the PCo store but—”
“What?” Sarah said.
“Now I don’t know. The way you two are acting?”
Sarah’s eyes were still red. She wiped her nose on her hand anyway and looked straight at Steve. Then she did something he didn’t expect, especially with her brother in the car. Sarah reached over and draped herself around his shoulders, laughing but sobbing the word sorry into his neck, and I love you.
Barksdale leaned forward and licked tears off her cheek, and Steve felt her flinch. He didn’t understand.
When the old police dog had growled, Sarah had jumped back as if she’d been bitten. But Steve had seen the whole thing. Barksdale hadn’t been growling at her, he’d been growling at JJ’s phone. He was surprised Sarah didn’t know that.
“Thanks,” Steve said, patting his daughter’s back and his dog’s head. “Me too. I appreciate the apology, I do. But you’re going to have to listen to me, all right?”
Sarah nodded, lips pursed, lashes wet, but earnest.
“JJ?”
“What?” his son said.
Barksdale sat back, but paid attention too.
“If I take you, if we go to that store, then you both have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Sarah said. “I promise.”
“What’re we promising?” JJ asked.
Steve ignored him for a moment, considering his daughter. He had already decided to get her a Tether. It was something Bill had said; Steve couldn’t remember the exact words because he’d been drunk, but he knew Bill was right. And though Steve didn’t like rewarding bad behavior, he knew after years and years of teaching, after years of listening to his late mother’s (and late grandmother’s) advice, it really was true what they said about the sugar. Part of it, though, was knowing when someone needed a spoonful.
“After this,” Steve said, “we’re all going to sit down and have a serious chat. All right?”
“All right,” Sarah said, sitting back and drying her tears.
“All right. Then I promise, too. We’ll go to that store.”
Sarah pulled down the passenger vanity and looked at herself. Steve frowned. At some point during this talk about having the Big Talk, somehow he had ended up sounding irresolute, not Sarah. Steve was proud, though, that he’d set this in motion, this Big Talk.
As many people with kids know full well, it can be hard to talk—especially face to face.
* * *
A few minutes and a couple makeup adjustments later, Sarah looked ready to show her face in public.
“Wow,” she said, sitting forward as they approached the new PCo store. In the rearview, Steve saw JJ and Barksdale sitting forward, too.
So weird, he thought, wondering why Barksdale had been growling at the phone. That dog didn’t growl at anything. One time on a walk, they’d stumbled across a mountain lion; Barks had sat there like some cop until the big cat slunk off. Why growl at a phone?
Steve focused on the PCo store that had replaced the old used car lot. The remodeling on the old showroom looked nearly finished, but a “closed” sign hung in the glass door. The huge showroom window had been papered over inside, too, an utter black.
What the . . . hell? Steve thought.
A bigger sign, a banner, hung across the street at Mountain View Church.
Experience a spiritual awakening!
#PCoTether
The banner hung vertically and was nailed through its eyelets to the arms of the cross. The giant Tether printed there was all screen, except for the giant fish-like eye of the camera.
Wearing black hats, CIA and FBI alike (and one gold-and-blue Bobcats cap), three protestors stood out front of the church, blocking everything but the rock pillars of the sign. Steve was surprised not to see Marvin.
“You don’t need a phone to talk to God,” one of the picket signs said. Another sign posed a simpler message:
PRIVACY?
Accept
Decline
Despite the different sentiments, all three signs looked like the Martian’s handwriting. Apparently, Marvin controlled the Mafia’s rhetoric even when he wasn’t around.
“I’m really starting to second-guess this,” Steve said. He pulled into the lot anyway and tried to find a spot. “It’s Monday, right?” He ended up parking in the grass at the back, the lot was so packed. His car sat sandwiched between a Camaro and a van with a rust spot in the shape of a heart.
“Why do this here?” Steve asked, staring at the chapel, at all the PCo signs practically papering the church windows. A few loose flyers flapped in the lot. “Why even allow this?”
The kids weren’t asking any questions, though. They hopped out of the car and headed for the church.
“Dad! Come on.”
Steve climbed out, but before he could shut his door, Barksdale jumped forward and nosed his way out, too.
“Hey.”
Steve followed him across the gravel lot, but Barksdale had already disappeared between cars. “Whatever,” he said, waving the dog away. Barks was always doing that. Just today, he’d shown up at HMS out of the blue. Steve just found him lying beside his car, as if waiting for a ride.
Inside, the PA system blared so loudly it vibrated the exterior walls. Sermonizing? Steve thought, surprised. What kind of church event was this that involved the PCo?
As he and his kids drew closer to th
e stairs below the white steeple and bell, Steve saw something. The moving van from the dump.
Barksdale stood with his paws on the driver’s-side door, mad-dogging Marvin “the Martian” Jones, who sat sweating behind the glass.
“Get off me!” the Martian screamed from inside the cab.
“Barks, down,” Steve said, and Barksdale landed in the gravel. “Come here. Heel.” Ignoring Steve, the dog sniffed around to the other side of the van and out of sight.
Steve peered into the cab. Big clear droplets ran from the Martian’s forehead and nose. Even his tie-dyed shirt was soaked, chest, back, and pit.
“Marvin, you all right?” Steve said, rapping a knuckle against the window. “He doesn’t bite, you know that!”
The Martian, scratching his scalp by lifting and donning his hat, said, “I’m fine! Get out of here—scat!”
Frowning, Steve started to turn away, but he took a second look, realizing it wasn’t just sweat Marvin was wiping out of his eye.
“You sure?” Steve said.
“Go away!” Marvin sobbed. “Go and drink your Kool-Aid!”
“Okay,” Steve mumbled, turning away. Couldn’t help those who didn’t want your help.
He walked toward the stairs, staring at the gravel as he went, remembering something Bill had asked him to do at the junkyard.
Steve shot a look back through the windshield of the moving van. Marvin, blowing his nose in a Grateful Dead handkerchief, saw him, scowled, and then fired up his van and started to pull out. Steve’s blood pressure lowered a bit.
“Hey, Sarah, I’m not so sure . . .” he began, looking around for his kids, but his kids were already inside.
* * *
The church interior hadn’t changed much since Steve last attended. Same worn pews hand-carved by Old Becker himself, same commercial carpeting; same smell, kind of like a retirement home. Today, though, PCo signs hung everywhere: from the ceiling, from the walls, even from the pulpit of Montana Ghost Wood. Tethers, printed onto pamphlets, peeked out from the Bible holders on the back of every pew.