Back at the house, the only person who came over was Charlie Lewis. Tom was sitting on the porch with his parents when Charlie paid his respects and offered his sympathy in such a courtly manner that Tom had to smile. "I'll be over shortly, Charlie," Tom finally said. "Make sure the beer's cold." Charlie smiled sadly, nodded, and returned to his cottage.
"Tommy," Ed said after a few minutes, "we'll be going back to Florida on Monday. I called and got tickets last night."
"Dad, you don't have to do that . . ."
"No, it's best. You need time to yourself now." Ed shook his head. "We shouldn't have come to begin with. Bad timing. You still needed to adjust, you didn't need us around. But if there's anything we can do to help, just say so, all right?"
Tom put an arm around his father's shoulder. "Sure, Dad. Thank you."
He had a light lunch with his parents, then went over to Charlie's and had that beer. They talked for a while, mostly about baseball and the weather, nothing at all about Josh. The conversation drifted to Laura Stark, and Charlie intimated none too subtly that Tom could do a lot worse than to get involved with her. Tom smiled in tacit agreement, and went home after another beer.
He called Laura and thanked her for coming to the funeral, and begged off taking her to the show at the playhouse the following night, a request to which she graciously acquiesced. Then he hung up, told his father he would be in his workshop, and went down into the cellar where the block of wood waited for him.
Gilbert Rodman was in there, and as Tom examined the piece of wood he could see him inside, waiting for release. He did not know what Gilbert Rodman looked like, but he knew what he was—a brutal and malignant force, rough-hewn and savage. Tom circled the block warily, as if the creature inside could doff his mantle of wood and spring out at him as ferociously as on the night he had cut his way into Laura's tent.
And slowly, as he scrutinized the block, he became aware that not only was Gilbert Rodman there, but something else as well. This was the tree, he thought, on which Sam Hershey had died in agony. And though he knew that wood was not sentient, Tom felt the presence of that other nameless, faceless killer who had murdered two people and been indirectly responsible for the death of a third, his own son. They were both in there, maybe one and the same, or at least the same mad rage that drove them both.
He touched the wood and could almost imagine that it was warm, that the thing inside was eager to be free.
All right then. He would free it. His craft, his art would free it.
He picked up his tools.
Tom Brewer spent the rest of Friday and most of Saturday laboring over the block of pine, stopping only to sleep and eat and talk to Bret Walters on the telephone when Bret called to tell him that no charges were going to be brought against Ralph Goodwin, a decision that Tom agreed with. He pitied Ralph, and was not surprised when Bret told him that Ralph and his wife were planning to sell their house and move away from Dreamthorp. Tom's lack of vengefulness surprised him, but still, he wished Ralph Goodwin nothing but peace.
By Sunday morning, Tom had nearly finished the basic form of the sculpture. All the corners were hacked off, the projections removed. What remained was the configuration of a giant in a low crouch. Tom removed the last large chunk and stepped back to observe his work.
It was a good start, he thought. Crude, but a powerful shape. There was potential there for a masterful piece, the best he had ever done.
"You're there, Gilbert," he said with quiet intensity. "I know you're there now. I can see you."
Did that man with the idiotic laugh and the blurred utterance ever love?
—Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp
Gilbert Rodman, the real Gilbert Rodman, if such a being existed, was not in Tom Brewer's workshop in Dreamthorp. He was in Chicago, waking up on a sofa in the living room of Danny Vernon's apartment. His mouth tasted like the paper on the bottom of a bird cage. The last thing he remembered before sleep was his father guiding him up a flight of stairs, saying, "Can't go home tonight like you are . . . sleep onna sofa . . . have 'nother drink firs' . . ."
They had both been terribly drunk. There had been a scene with Freddy, who had wanted to go to Minnie's but refused to go with Gilbert. Danny wouldn't go, "Not unless Johnny comes too," and there was a lot of "Well, fuck you," "Oh yeah, fuck you," "Well, fuck you and fuck Minnie too, man," and on and on.
Gilbert had no desire to go to Minnie's again. He had almost lost control the first time and didn't want a repeat performance. Besides, he thought, how many times can you go to a whorehouse without dropping your pants? So Danny had told Freddy to go alone then and fuck you one last time, and he and Gilbert had hopped around to the clubs that were still open past two, listened to jazz, and drank more and more. Gilbert had tried to limit himself to beer, but Danny kept plying him with bourbon, and Gilbert kept drinking it, feeling foolish, knowing all the while that he would be sick, and that the only reason he was doing it was to please and impress his father.
Before he even realized it, he was a giggling drunk, barely capable of standing on his own power. That had been when Danny had taken him back to his apartment. Gilbert remembered going up the stairs, but that was all.
Now he was awake, and the smell of fresh coffee was strong and tempting. The room he was in was decorated, if that was he word, in a shabby Danish modern. There were a few pictures on the wall, one a nude of a black woman with a rampant afro, another an oil on velvet painting of a black saxophone player. Gilbert thought it was supposed to be Coleman Hawkins, but wasn't sure.
Then he felt something stir at his feet and started violently. A cat fatter than any he had ever seen uncoiled itself, oblivious to Gilbert's sudden motion, stretched, yawned, and rolled as much as it jumped off the sofa, and lumbered through a doorway into another room.
"Hey, Fats," he heard Danny's voice say. "What you want, huh?" There followed the sound of a chair sliding across linoleum, then footsteps, and Gilbert saw Danny, wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt, standing in the doorway. "Well, you awake, sleeping beauty? 'Bout time. It's almost noon. You think you could keep down some breakfast?"
Gilbert cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, I guess so. A little."
"Fine." He turned toward someone in the other room. "'Becca, how about rustlin' us up some eggs. Put a little onion and peppers in 'em."
"We ain't got no eggs," the voice said, and Gilbert was certain that it was the woman he had talked to on the telephone when he dialed his father's number several weeks before.
"What do you mean we ain't got no eggs?"
"We're out of eggs. You eat too many eggs anyway. That cholesterol ain't good for you."
"Says who?"
"Says Dr. Art Ulene. All the time."
"Who the hell's Dr. Art Ulene?"
"That doctor on TV—The Today Show."
"Well, fuck Dr. Art Ulene—go down to the store and get some eggs."
"Hell, no. I ain't your goddam servant, and if you want eggs you can get 'em yourself. I ain't gonna help put you in an early grave. It's bad enough you smoke and drink so much and God only knows what else. One of these days you gonna bring home somethin' you catch from messin' around out there and I'm gonna laugh."
"Well, if I bring it home, you'll get it too."
"Maybe I just better cut you off then. Or cut it off, I don't know which."
"Shit." Danny looked back at Gilbert. "This's my wife, Johnny. Don't ever get married."
"Says you," came the voice from the kitchen.
"I'm goin' down for some eggs," Danny said, heading for the door. "Be back in fifteen." The door closed behind him.
Gilbert sat up, still dressed, and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to find the bathroom, both to drain away what he had to drink the night before, and to splash cold water in his face and mouth. Then 'Becca walked through the doorway to the kitchen.
Gilbert was surprised by her appearance. He had expected a human equivalent of the cat, fat, slovenly, and much t
he worse for wear. But 'Becca was a handsome woman who appeared to be in her early forties. She was tall and slender with skin the color of milky cocoa. Her straightened hair fell to her shoulders, and she held a cup of coffee in one long-nailed hand.
"Well well well," she said in a voice much softer than the one that had come stridently from the kitchen. "You're a whole lot cuter than most of the trash Danny brings home. Johnny, is it?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Johnny."
"And you're white. That don't happen often neither." She smiled and breathed deeply, pushing the lapels of the thin robe she wore further apart, so that the inner arcs of her breasts were visible. Gilbert looked down at the floor.
"Do you . . . uh, where's the bathroom?" he asked her.
"Planning to escape? Don't worry, honey, I ain't plannin' on hurtin' you." She sidled over and sat next to him on the couch. He began to get up, but she put a hand on his arm and held on. "What's the matter? You don't like me or somethin'?" There was a teasing, petulant smile on her face.
"Yeah . . . sure, I like you fine."
"Well, loosen up then. My husband sure does loosen up. And what's sauce for the goose . . ." She set her coffee cup on the floor and leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Now Danny gonna be gone for quite a while after those eggs. How you think we could spend the time? Doin' somethin' constructive?"
Gilbert felt a rush of nausea sweep over him, and he started to tremble. 'Becca's expression grew serious, and she leaned toward him, oblivious of the way her robe opened, and put an arm around him.
"Whoa, whoa," she said. "Hey, you really are sick. Relax now, I was just foolin'."
"What the fuck?"
Gilbert had not heard the door open. Now, as he looked up, he saw his father standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously. "What the hell you doin' here?" 'Becca said, pushing herself away from Gilbert and drawing the front of her robe together.
"I come back for my wallet. What the hell are you doin'?"
"The kid's sick."
"And you sure enough look like you're tryin' to mother him!"
"Hell, Danny, I was just foolin' around, just teasin' him a little . . ."
"Teasin' him? That what you call stickin' your titties in his face? Teasin' him? Get the fuck outa here, Johnny!"
Gilbert looked from the man to the woman and back again. "No," he said softly. Though he was still shaking, he felt strangely in control.
"No? Whaddya mean, no?"
"I mean no. It wasn't all her fault."
"Oh, now you sayin' you had somethin' to do with it? I ask a guy to my home and he starts tryin' to dick my wife? Well, that's just fine, and I'll deal with you later, you motherfucker—"
motherfucker
"—but I want to deal with this bitch right now, so you get the hell out of here while you can still walk . . ."
"No."
Danny's eyes narrowed. "Hey, boy," he said, and went over to a small desk in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer and took a knife from it. When Gilbert saw it, he smiled. It was shiny and curved and long, a knife to gut a deer with. "Now did you hear me or didn't you?" Danny went on, holding up the knife.
Gilbert kept smiling.
"Danny," 'Becca whispered, "don't you be a fool."
"Shut up. Go next door, 'Becca. I'll deal with you later. Right now I'm dealing with this boy."
"I ain't goin' nowhere."
"Go," Gilbert said, his eyes still on the knife, wanting it. "Go on, Mother."
"You watch what you call my wife, you little fucker!"
"You said it yourself. She was mothering me."
"Move, 'Becca!" Danny snarled, turning the knife in her direction.
"You put that knife away first," she said.
Danny took a step toward her and flicked it across the front of her robe. It ripped the material and made a narrow gash in her flesh. Gilbert thought it looked as though Danny had drawn a narrow paint brush across her skin. She gave a short, tiny scream, as though she could not believe what her husband had done, and backed away from him.
"Next time, 'Becca," Danny said, "it'll be worse."
"You bastard!"
"Out, 'Becca!"
Sobbing, she ran to the open door and went through it into the hall. Gilbert heard her bare feet pounding down the stairs. He wondered how much time he had before she came back with someone. Probably not very much, but time enough to tell him.
"It wasn't all her fault," Gilbert said again. "You see, I always thought it was, always blamed her, never you. But now I know better."
"What the hell are you talkin' about?"
"You did the same thing today, didn't you? You went away and left us. You left us both. And the same thing happened all over again, didn't it?"
Danny looked understandably puzzled. "You still drunk or what?"
"No no," Gilbert answered, still smiling. "I'm very sober, believe me. And I can see very, very clearly now. I thought you'd be different, but you're not. You did it again, went away and left me with that Great Bitch. And she wanted it, just like they all want it. Oh, I blame her, but I can't blame only her anymore."
"You're nuts, kid," Danny said. He was holding the knife toward Gilbert, and his hand was shaking. "You're either nuts or drunk or stoned. That it? You stoned?" He laughed crazily. "You got some shit you weren't gonna share with your old buddy Danny? That ain't very nice after I shared my place, my wife—"
"It's not the first time . . . Father."
"Father? You must be stoned. You think I'm a priest?" Danny asked, chuckling.
"Oh no. Priests are good men. They wouldn't go away and leave their wives alone with their sons, if they had wives. Or sons."
Danny frowned more deeply, as if trying to resolve a particularly irresoluble paradox or accept an impossible anachronism. "Sons . . ." he whispered, the point of the knife slowly pointing downward as he struggled in thought.
"Sons," Gilbert said, "Father."
At last Danny understood and spoke one word, Gilbert's given Christian name. It was the last thing he ever said. Gilbert was by his side in an instant, taking the knife, whipping it up and across Danny's throat, then leaping back to avoid the rush of blood that spattered the floor. Danny, like a tree falling, followed his blood to the floor. He lay on his side, and was still alive when his son knelt next to him, pulled Danny's right hand from beneath his body, slammed it flat against the floor, and sawed through the four fingertips with the knife.
"No more jazz, old man," Gilbert said as he swept the four bits of flesh and bone away with the knife blade, then took the left hand, slapped it down, and began to hack.
"No . . . more . . . fucking . . . JAZZ!"
Danny was dead by the time Gilbert had severed the remaining fingers, and did not see Gilbert cavalierly whisk them across the bloody rug and stick the knife into the floor.
The last thing Gilbert did before he left the apartment was to take the saxophone from its case and toss it on top of his father's body. "And no more requests," Gilbert added as he went out the door. "Not from me."
The hall was empty when he stepped into it, and he saw no one as he made his way down the stairs. He wondered where 'Becca was, then decided that it didn't matter. He couldn't risk waiting for her to come back, because he didn't know who she might have with her.
He took a cab back to his hotel, packed the few things he had, paid his bill for the week, and started to walk toward the Kennedy Expressway to catch a ride south around the lake, and then east. He should not have done it, he thought. He should never have come to Chicago, never have seen that man whom he remembered as being his father.
But perhaps, he thought, it had been for the best. It had written an end to a part of his life that had tormented him for years. But now, no longer bound by illusions of filial love, he was finally free, free to go east, free to find the Bitch. His father's sin had in no way expiated her guilt or the guilt of the Great Bitch herself, for that matter. They were all at fau
lt, and as he paused and jotted down the name of Danny Vernon and the date on the slip of paper he carried in his backpack, he thought that what he would do to Laura would make what he had done to his father look like love.
The spectre has the most cunning disguises, and often when near us we are unaware of the fact of proximity.
—Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp
Tom Brewer was working in his basement when the noise began. Loud noises were unknown on Dreamthorp Sunday mornings, so the first sound made Tom look up from his bench.
It was a hollow thud, as though a heavy book had fallen on the floor upstairs. Immediately he tried to think of where everyone was. His father was probably seated on the small chair in the entry reading the paper—he had been bothered by a particularly insistent wasp on the porch. His mother was probably having a cup of coffee in the kitchen and staring at the wall, the same thing she had done since hearing of Josh's death. Tom was worried about her, and so, he knew, was his father. She seemed almost catatonic. But when either of them suggested seeing a doctor, she would have none of it. And Josh was probably still sleeping upstairs. . . .
Josh. He remembered. Josh wasn't sleeping upstairs, was he? Josh was sleeping in the cemetery, and Tom was alone now.
There was another noise overhead, and Tom jerked his head up. He thought he heard a cry but was not sure. He listened.
Were those footsteps, he wondered, the sound of feet leaping about, almost dancing but for their irregularity? The sound went on for a few more seconds, and then there was a heavier, more solid thump, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.
Tom whirled around and headed for the steps, which he took three at a time. When he hit the top, the first thing he saw was his mother standing just inside the entry, holding something in her hand. He was surprised to see that it was the carving of the woodpecker he had made, the one that sat on the entry bookshelves. He saw too that the painted wood was spotted with blood, the beak a solid red. And, finally, he saw his father's feet sticking out from around the corner.
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