Borderlands 5 (4 page)

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said, stopping right in front of me and jamming his hands deep into his pockets. “They
made
me do it! They
always make me do it!
I don’t want to. She’s so
little
. And she
loves
all of us. She looks at me with those sweet eyes so full of trust and then I have to … to—I swear to God I don’t want to do it, they
make
me, you understand? 
They make me do it!
”

Every inch of his body trembled with helpless rage. I stepped behind the meter in case he exploded and got his crazy all over the street.

Tears formed in his eyes. “I don’t want to do it anymore.” His voice broke on the last three words.

All I could think to say was: “How bad is she hurt now?”

“Not too bad this time. She was doing pretty well when I left. They won’t do anything to her, they never do. They—”

“—make you do it for them.”

“Yes.”

I wanted to run away but I couldn’t. Listen might take offense and that was the last thing I wanted.

“Can you take her places?” I asked.

He stopped trembling and looked in my eyes. “Uh-
huh
. I’m the only one who ever does.”

I tilted my head in the direction of City Hall at the end of the street. “Why don’t you take her in there and tell the person at the front desk what they make you do? They can put her someplace safe and you’ll never have to hurt her again.”

He dragged an arm across his teary eyes, then inhaled thickly. “
Really?
”

“I’m almost certain, yes.”

He looked toward City Hall and took something from his pocket; a small, cheap, plastic toy modeled after a Saturday morning cartoon character. “I got this for her to say I’m sorry. I always get her something after … after, and she always …
thanks
me. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“They sell these over at the drug store. I could—
hey,
I could maybe tell them I’m taking her out to buy
another
one, then we could go over there.”

“That sounds good. Make sure you use the dark brown metal door on the 5th Street side.” That would take them down a short set of stairs into the police station.

“I’ll remember. You
bet
I will.” And he walked away, gripping the toy as if it were a holy talisman. “
Swear to God
I never meant to hurt her. They made me. They
always
make me. Oh,
God
…”

I watched until he disappeared around the corner. I bent down to collect my spilled change and my car’s horn sounded from behind. After I’d managed to squeeze back into my skin, I turned, still shaking, to see Listen sitting in the passenger seat. He grinned at me and waved. “I’d forgotten they were out of the coconut cream pie,” he said, leaning out the open window. “I took care of the bill. Let’s go for a ride.”

I gathered up what change I could find and climbed in but didn’t start the car.

“Another story, I take it?”

I exhaled. “Jesus, that guy was … was—”

“—at the end of his rope, just so you know. I’d share the specifics of his home situation, but it would only make you sad and sick.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen?”

“Yes. I won’t say he and the little girl will both be fine, because the possibility of
that
outcome died a long while ago. But he’ll get her out of there tonight and take her through the brown metal door and, eventually, things will be better for both of them. Not great—never great—but
better
. Now believe it or not, I am on something of a schedule, so if you would please start the car and drive out to Moundbuilders Park …”

“Why there?”

He huffed and made a strangling gesture with his hands. “Arrrgh!—and when was the last time you heard anyone actually
say
that? Look, do I strike you as being impulsive? No? Do you think I go about will-nilly?  Of course not. Has any of this seemed
unplanned
?”

I started the car and drove away.

“Have you ever seen any paintings or drawings of Jesus?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Can you remember anything specific about them?”

I shrugged. “Beard. Hair. Flowing robes. Eyes.”

“But the faces have always been different somehow, haven’t they? The hair longer or shorter, the beard fuller, the cheekbones higher or lower, fuller or more drawn, even the hue of the skin has been different—yet somehow you always recognize the face.”

“Okay … ?”

“Ever wonder how many different versions of that face exist in statues or paintings or sketches?”

“Thousands, I would think.”

“Seventy-two, actually. Followers of the Prophet Abdu’l-Bahá believe that everything in nature has ‘two and seventy names.’ That’s almost right. The thing that has always annoyed me about the various religions is that, with rare exceptions, their beliefs are too compartmentalized.
This
is what we believe in, period. I’ll tell you a secret: they’re all wrong—individually. The problem is none of them can see Belief holistically. If they were all to ‘gather at the river,’ so to speak, and compare notes, you’d be surprised how quickly people would stop setting off bombs and flying airplanes into skyscrapers. But I digress.

“Everything in nature
does
have seventy-two names. But certain of these things also have seventy-two forms. Like the face of Jesus, for example.”

“You’re telling me that Christ has been portrayed as having seventy-two faces?”

“No, whiz-kid, I’m telling you that Christ
had
seventy-two faces. Every picture you see is nothing more than a variation on one of them. Faces change over the course of a lifetime, dear boy. All in all, each of us wears seventy-one.”

“I thought you just said—”

“—I
know
what I said, I recognized my voice. There is one face we possess that is never worn—at least, not in the sense that the world can see it. The best way I can explain it is to say that it’s the face you had before your grandparents were born.
That
is the face I need from you. It exists
here—
” He cupped one of his hands and covered his face from forehead to upper lip. “—in the
Rami Temporales
.”

“In the muscles around the eyes?”

“No,
those
are part of the
Rami Zygomatici,
an area controlled by the
Temporales
, which is a much larger and influential group in the temporo-facial division of—oh, for goodness’ sake! Are you in the
mood
for an anatomy lesson? Are you worried that I’m going to pull out a scalpel and cut away? I’m not a graduate of the Ed Gein School of Cosmetology, so put that notion out of your head this instant.”

I stopped at a red light on 21st Street. “Then I guess I don’t understand what you mean at all.”

“Perhaps we need to expedite things a bit. Turn left.”

The light changed and I made the turn. Even though the entrance to the park should have been a good six miles farther, here we were. I pulled into the parking area and we climbed out.

“I have some luggage in your trunk,” said Listen. “If you wouldn’t mind … ?”

It was a large, bulky square thing that reminded me of a salesman’s sample case. I lifted it out of the trunk and damn near snapped my spine. “What’s in here, the population of a small Third World nation?”

“
Is
a tad on the heavy side, isn’t it?  Sorry.”  Listen took the case from me and dangled it from one hand as if it weighed no more than a tennis racket.

“Do you have a favorite spot here?”

“You already know the answer.”

“Of course you’re right. I just wanted to see if you’d lie to me again like you did about having your picture taken.”

“How did you know that?”

“I do my homework, dear boy. You’ll be turning forty-two in July, and since the day of your birth you’ve been photographed exactly one-hundred-and-nine times, counting your employee identifications and driver’s licences. By the time they’re your age, the average person has been photographed close to a thousand times, be it individually or as part of a group. But not you. One-hundred-and-nine times, that’s it.”

“It’s over there.”

“What is?”

“My favorite spot.”

“Ah, yes, the picnic area near the footbridge. Where Penny Duffy kissed you when both of you were in the eighth grade.”

I took a seat at the picnic table while Listen walked up to the footbridge and took in the entire park.

“Know anything about ‘places of power’?” he said.

“Like Stonehenge?”

“Exactly. Stonehenge is a perfect example. The Irazu volcano in Costa Rica, the Ruins of Copan in Honduras, Cerne Abas Giant, and Bodh Gaya where Buddha achieved enlightenment are a few others. Places where the forces of the Universe are intensely focused and can be harnessed by the faithful.”

“Don’t go all New-Age on me, okay?”

“Don’t make me ill. There are well over a thousand such spots, but believe it or not, only seventy-two are
genuinely
significant. Only seventy-two are filled with such power that you can feel the Earth thrum like some excited child who’s filled to bursting with a secret their heart can no longer contain. This park—” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “—is one of those seventy-two places. The Indian Burial mounds here are so potent they’re scary.”

“Is that why we’re here?”

“Yes. What needs to be done, needs to be done in a place of power. Such are the ways of ritual.” He joined me at the table. “I have to tell you certain things to aid you in making your decision. Whatever happens, know that Amy’s and Tommy’s future health and happiness is safe.” He reached down to flip the first of four latches on the case. “The  first time a stranger approached you with a story, you were seven years old. It was an elderly woman who was in tears because she’d lost a cameo her late husband had gotten for her overseas during World War One. You sat there on your bike and listened to her and then you said—do you remember this?”

I nodded. “She said she always wore it so she could feel him near. She talked about how he’d loved her homemade strawberry preserves, how she still made a batch every year to give as Christmas presents. This was three weeks before Christmas. I asked her if she’d already made her preserves and she said yes. I knew right away that the cameo’s clasp had come loose from the necklace. It had fallen into one of the preserve jars. I didn’t tell her that, though.”

“No, but you
did
ask the right questions so she could figure it out. Do you know what would have happened if that woman hadn’t approached you? She would have taken her own life New Year’s Eve. This was a dangerously depressed gal, Joel, one who’d been the focus of her childrens’ worry since the death of her husband. You saved her life that day.”

“
No
…”

“Oh, yes. And since that day, because you have ‘one of those faces,’ people keep coming up to you, don’t they? Asking for directions, spare change, if you know a good restaurant … or to tell you things.
Rami Temporales
, the face beneath the flesh. That is what draws them to you. They recognize it in you just as you can recognize the face of Jesus or Shakespeare, because regardless of how many variations there might be, the face beneath the flesh—the First Face, the one you had before your grandparents were born—remains unchanged.” He opened the case and laid it flat. From one end to the other it was at least four feet wide and three across, perhaps two feet deep.

Something wasn’t right. I’d seen this thing closed, had tried to lift it, and though it weighed a ton there was nothing to suggest it would be this wide, long, or deep when opened.

Then he opened it again. Two sections into four, each covered by a square of black material.

“Since your encounter with Cameo Lady, you’ve lost track of how many people have approached you. But I haven’t. Do you know what you are, Joel? You’re a safety valve. People see your face and know you’ll be sympathetic, so they have no qualms about unloading their woes on you. Do you think it helps them?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hm.” He removed a small notebook from his vest. Flipping it open to the first page, he began reading aloud. “Over the course of the thirty-four years since Cameo Lady, your listening to others has prevented forty-three rapes, one-hundred-and-twelve suicides, sixty-seven episodes of child abuse, thirty-three divorces, ninety-eight murders, and so many cases of spousal abuse I ran out of room to record them all.” He tossed the notebook to me. “Look it over later if you’d like. The point is that all the time you’ve secretly felt was wasted while you listened has actually made a difference. If I asked how many people were affected by you today, you’d say … ?”