Syd looked at them, began to giggle.
Just like real life, he thought.
And that started him to laughing, a manic Renfield cackle that continued as he wandered from room to room to room, for the first time realizing that what he had was not a home but a shrine, an altar to a dead past upon which to sacrifice his hope for the future.
Whatever else Nora had done, she had also—in the space of a few short days—blown holes in every weak-kneed rationalization he had for continuing to piss his life away: letting it slip past him one second, one month, one decade at a time, until one day there would be nothing left but bitter regrets and recriminations; miserably staring back down the wrecking-ball trail of all his missed and blown opportunities.
For the first time in years, he'd actually felt like it was good to be alive. Like it was worth any price to stay alive, so long as it was lived on these terms and no others. By comparison, nothing else mattered: not his job, not his friends, not the place where he grew up or the existence that had evaporated out from under him. It was all completely worthless without her.
He wandered into the bedroom then, collapsed into a fugue-state of physical and mental exhaustion. As he drifted off the events of the last several days blurred and ran in his mind until he didn't know what was real and what was a dream anymore, or exactly where the line was drawn.
He only knew that since he'd met Nora the life he'd been living made no sense at all.
If it ever had.
SYD AWOKE TO strange sounds from the kitchen. But this time, he didn't wake up confused. From the moment his eyes opened, there was only one thought in his head: the sum total of all his obsessional focus. His only prayer, answered.
She's here. She actually came back.
There was no way to overstate the magnitude of his relief. It was like getting the Governor's phone call, two seconds before they threw the lever and the trapdoor dropped. To downplay his relief would be to minimize his panic, and his panic had been nothing short of epochal.
But at the same time, there was no peace in the revelation, no automatic reprieve from the killing tension. Her return did not imply a full pardon. It might merely be a stay of execution: a way of dragging out the torture for another day or two.
I gotta go out there, he told himself. And then we've got to have a little talk.
He had blacked out on the bed with all his clothes on.
His body, upon waking, was exactly where he'd left it. He pulled his face from the pillow, looked up at the clock. It said five thirty-six. He heard the clank of plate on plate, unconsciously braced himself for the dejd vu sound of destruction. When it didn't come, the psychic noose eased off a notch: not enough to free him or anything, just enough to keep him from choking on the stress.
His footing was a little unsteady as he hoisted himself up. He braced himself on the bedside table, instantly flinched as he remembered the cut on his hand. He looked at his palm.
The gash was gone.
Had he really cut himself? He couldn't clearly recall. All this drinking had screwed with his memory as well as his equilibrium. Syd had some very uneasy associations with alcoholism, and the psychology of blackouts frankly terrified him, with their tacit self-exonerating clause of oh, I must have been drunk, I didn't know what I was doing. Lurking way in the back of his head was the understanding that they'd have to discuss this aspect of their relationship someday. But not yet. Certainly not now. There was plenty of time to work those kinds of problems out later.
The main thing was, Nora was back; and there wasn't a thing in the world that couldn't be worked out from there.
Syd opened the bedroom door and the smell hit him: rich and heady, overpoweringly compelling. It was the smell of meat, receiving the kiss of flame. She was cooking again.
He vaguely remembered something about yesterday morning—was it yesterday?—and feeling ill from the odor of food cooking. He felt no such illness now. He tried to lock on the memory, felt it skitter from his grasp, usurped by the staggering aroma.
Then he rounded the corner, and Nora was there: barefoot and freshly showered, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Her magnificent hair was damp, swept back. A skillet was sizzling on the front burner of the stove.
She looked up, saw him. The space between them began to hum, as if someone somewhere had thrown a switch, charging the air with nervous energy.
Then the next thing he knew, she was crossing the kitchen: wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Her embrace was more than strong; it was ferocious in its intensity. Syd felt a rush run through him. Every place where their bodies connected pulsed with energy. She kissed his neck, and his knees went weak.
"I am so sorry," she whispered at last.
"Me, too," he said. He felt his throat tighten, forced his words through the gap. "I was afraid I'd never see you again."
"I couldn't stay away," she said, then added almost in a whisper, "especially not today."
It took a second for that to sink in; then suddenly it dawned on him that he'd utterly forgotten: in all the excitement and insanity of the last few days, it had totally slipped his mind. "Oh my god, you're right." He shook his head and laughed out loud. "Thirty-five. I can't fuckin' believe it."
"Believe it, Grampa." She grinned and licked his nose. "Happy birthday."
He laughed again, and then they kissed: a soul-searching plunge into each other's depths. When they came up for air he said to her, "I can't believe you actually remembered."
"Hard to forget the birthday of someone you love so much," she replied.
Syd did a double take. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I love you."
Syd heard the words and felt something give inside him, like a floodwall collapsing. The words were like a force of nature that swept away every stick and shred of resistance. And it felt so good to hear those words again, to know down to his bones that they were true, that this was really happening. His mind sped back to the day he was married: to the feeling of standing in a chapel as a robed and rambling priest prayed to some distant, cloud-bound deity.
And all those words were fine and dandy—they'd assuaged the flock in their search for meaning—but Syd himself in that moment had taken an alternate route: reaching inside, to make a very personal covenant. This is the one I've chosen. This is the one I want.
Then he flashed forward, back to the wild and wonderful creature in his arms. And suddenly it was all very clear.
"I love you, too," he said, losing himself in her eyes.
And because he was inside those eyes—because they were virtually touching souls—he knew that she knew the utter depths of his conviction. Knew that he would do anything for her: drop everything he'd ever owned, dump everyone he'd ever known, chase down the shadows in the darkest corners of the world. And even kill: yes, without a doubt. He would even kill for her.
Nora saw it very clearly, in that moment. Slowly, she nodded her head. Her eyes had never been more intense.
"You must be starved," she said. He nodded. Nora gestured toward the kitchen table. A place setting was lovingly laid out. "Have a seat," she said, and he gladly complied.
Then she went to the stove, returned with a heaped and steaming plate. Syd looked in amazement at a huge curving slab of meat, two fried eggs sidling up to it like a pair of bulging eyes.
"Jesus," he softly exclaimed. "Is that steak?"
"It's a special cut," Nora explained.
"Mmmmm." Inhaling deeply. "Where did you find this in the middle of the night?"
Nora smiled. "Oh, I had to hunt around a bit. But I finally found a place that had what I was looking for." She took a seat across from him, her eyes bright and attentive. "Dig in."
Syd smiled, picking up his knife and fork. The meat was red and thick and rich, barely singed by the griddle. Drops of juice squeezed from the striations as he sliced it, dripped from a lone protrusive vein. Nora watched attentively as he brought a forkful to his mouth, popped it in, bega
n to chew. His eyes went wide. His smile expanded.
"Well?" she asked, grinning. "Do you like it?"
"It's . . . great. Jesus!" There was reverence in his tone. Nora beamed. Syd chewed and swallowed. "I've never tasted anything like it." He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. "How'd you make it?"
"Secret recipe," she teased, and it was clear that her delight was enormous. She watched as Syd chowed down, cutting another hunk off the slab and scooping up a forkful of eggs.
"I can't believe how hungry I am," he said, champing happily. "Aren't you gonna have any?"
"I already ate."
Syd nodded and dug in. As he ate, he felt a strength and a clarity return to him. There was something in the bloody taste and buttery texture—in the experience of the meat itself, dancing around his teeth and tongue—that grounded and centered him in his body. It was the most deeply satisfying meal he'd ever had.
Syd took one last look around his kitchenful of ancient relics; and in that moment, it was over. The withered umbilical cord that had held him to this dying place was severed; the cut was surgical and clean.
"Darlin'?" he said. There was food in his mouth. He talked around it. "I've been thinking about everything you said."
"Uh-huh."
"And I decided you're totally right. There's nothing to hold me here." He sawed off another hunk and shoveled it in, then waved his fork at the room. "A couple of days to get it together, and"—he stopped in mid-thought, picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth—"I could probably be ready by the end of the week."
Nora grimaced slightly. "Why so long?" she said. "I don't understand."
"Well," Syd countered, "basically, I'm ready when you are. . . ."
"And what if I'm ready today?"
It was Syd's turn to grimace. "I still need a couple days," he said. "Till Friday, at least____"
"No," she said.
"Nora . . ."
"I'm not staying around here that long."
Getting frustrated now. "Baby, I've got a lot of shit to take care of. There's loose ends to tie up, people to say good-bye to, I've got to pick up my paycheck from work . . ." He tore off a hunk of bread, began sopping up the blood and yolk that intermingled on his plate. "Plus I wanna see if I can unload my stereo. . . ."
Nora stood then, began pacing the cramped confines of the kitchen. "Waitaminute, waitaminute," she said, suddenly annoyed. "Are you saying we've got to hang around here for the rest of the week so you can sell a goddamned stereo?'
Syd looked at her, surprised. "Well, shit, between that and my CD collection I can probably get close to a grand. . . ."
"Who cares?"
"What do you mean, 'Who cares?' I care!" This was starting to piss him off. "I mean, leaving's one thing, but I can't just cut and run without a dime in my pocket! How are we gonna pay for gas? Hotel? Meals?" He speared the last of the meat off his plate, scarfed it down. "I mean, we do plan on eating, right?"
Nora bristled with tension. "Why do you worry about shit like that?" she asked. "Money's never been a problem for me—"
"Yeah, well, money's always been a problem for me!" Syd cut in, definitely annoyed himself now. "I've had to work for every fucking cent I ever got! And I think about things like that because it's my nature to think about things like that!"
There was an electric beat of silence as they faced off. Syd made a conscious effort to pin back the tension in his voice, the sudden flaring rage he felt.
But the fact of the matter was that he was pissed. And he was not gonna be whipped into submission by this woman, no matter how much he loved her. She could see it in his eyes. She could hear it in his voice. But rather than flipping her out, it was visibly getting her off. There was a carnivore's curl to her fierce little smile, and he had her complete attention.
And Syd realized that this was a woman who liked to play hardball; that was what made her such a contrary bitch. She was no fawning little batty-eyed baby girl, waiting for daddy to spank her when she was bad. He got the feeling, in that moment, that he was finally earning her respect.
Syd stood abruptly, moved toward her. Nora held her ground. Her eyes never left his. He caught her by the sink, wrapped his arms around her.
"Listen," he said. "Last night you said you wanted my strength. You wanted someone to take care of you." He pulled her close, drew her tight. "Well, this is part of my strength. I gotta take care of myself. If I can't do that, then I can't take care of you.
"And then I'm no fucking good to either one of us."
He held her, leveling her with his gaze. Nora met it with equal fervor. There was one long elastic moment, where everything hung in the balance.
Then she embraced him, and he felt a wave of raw emotion pour out of her as a low, throaty moan escaped her lips.
"On the table. Now"
And he gave himself over to the urge, the insatiable sensation, picking her up and spinning her around in his arms, then lifting her up to set her on the table. Her hands swept back as her legs wrapped around him, drawing him in. This time, the sound of breaking dishes didn't bother him a bit. Her hands found his zipper and tugged it down to free him even as his hands unbuttoned her shirt, exposed her nakedness.
They made love savagely, the table bucking and groaning beneath them.
And this time, when she told him to bite her, he did. It was the best.
22
BY THE TIME Syd arrived at the mill, it was ten twenty-six. Not so great from a job-security standpoint, but he was no longer thinking longevity. He parked and shagged it up to the foreman's trailer, taking his sweet time to do so.
There was no line, of course, and hadn't been for four hours; the distant sound of clanging echoed through the plant, bespeaking men already well into doing their job. He got a weird pang of nostalgia, listening to it: the kind of feeling you get when you know you're doing something for what is probably the very last time. Even the dust kicking up around his heels had a flavor that he found himself noting and filing: an experience captured, a memory preserved.
Beau Harrell, on the other hand, was not a nostalgia-inducing experience. Syd could smell him from twenty feet outside the door, and one thing was for certain: the sooner their lives were no longer intertwined, the better.
He was seated, squat and sweating, behind his desk when Syd walked in. In person, Beau was even less impressive than he was in theory: an ugly little toad-man,
Horatio Alger gone horribly wrong. He was a self-styled wheeler-dealer and post-Reagan robber baron; but despite his fancy German car and Armani suit, he still managed to carry his success with the cheesy elan of a trailer park tyrant, a big mean fish in a small and stagnant pond.
His bald head caught the reflection of the bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling. He had put on weight, squeezing his seams like an overripe kielbasa. Looking at him, Syd couldn't help thinking of Jon Polito in Miller's Crossing, minus the ethnic slant and esoteric ethical contemplations: running tings, ya gotta know, it's a lot tougher den you'd tink. He had a ton of paperwork spread out before him, as usual—the man was nothing if not ambitious—and as he looked up, his expression shifted abruptly from apelike grin to rabid foam-at-the-mouth exasperation. He tended to stammer when upset.
"Jarrett!" Harrell bellowed. "You're four fuckin' hours late! You better have one huh-hell of an explanation, I can tell you that!"
Syd noted the drying-up of neanderthal laughter, cast a glance off to the little sofa to his right. It was Beany and Cecil, Bobo's toady and pit bull, respectively. Beany was Bennie Holtzapple, a wormy little pissant in a black leather Members Only jacket and a turtleneck, and he was blessed with a knack for agreeing with whatever Bobo said. Cecil was Cecil Karwicki, and he was built like an industrial freezer. He wore a navy cashmere overcoat over jeans and a snow-white designer sweatshirt, and his feet sported pointy black sharkskin boots that looked made for kicking. His feet, like his hands and every other part of him, were enormous. He had the total mental wattage of
a refrigerator bulb, and he did exactly as he was told.
Cecil held, in his beefy mitts, a dog-eared copy of Big Butt magazine. Suddenly, Syd understood completely: it wasn't just that he was late, but that he'd interrupted something important. An honest-to-god enormous mudflap stared at him from the glossy back cover, beneath the slogan MORE BUTTS FOR YOUR BUCKS!!! Syd couldn't help but crack a smile of his own.
"What's so, what's so fuckin' funny?" Beau demanded to know.
"Umm . . ." Syd shrugged, grinning. "Big Butt magazine, I guess."
"Don't get fuckin' suh-smart with me!" Bobo was practically apoplectic. "You, you got some explainin' to do!"
Syd tried to wipe the smile off his face, couldn't quite bring himself to. The reek of Brut and pheromones was unpleasantly thick in the room. He was not a welcome addition to their sweaty, leering inner circle. They wanted their Big Butt all to themselves.
Jesus. Syd started to laugh. He got a sudden vivid flash of Nora, juxtaposed it against the fumes off this squalid cro-mag boner session. He could practically taste the rancid low-rent locker-room tang, cheap and stomach-churning, redolent of the fragrance of heedless jiz and macho posturing.
"JARRETT!" Bobo was standing semi-upright now, leaning hard into his desk, asserting his authority. He looked like a flabby, shaved baboon. His face was red. His jowls jiggled over his too-tight collar. He had the kind of washed-out pale blue eyes that come from thirty years of Johnny Walker on the rocks. "WHAT'S SO FUCKIN' FUNNY?!"
And there was something in the way he did it—some trigger buried in the tone of his voice, the smell of his sweat, the look on his face—that reached out and spoke directly to the new Syd: the one now awakening under his skin. It was like opening a single can of Alpo in a kennel full of starving dogs. It was like giving him Vaughn Restal to tear through all over again. Suddenly, everything about Beau Harrell consumed him with the urge to kill.
Animals Page 18
