Demon's Door (2 page)

On a hoarding on Hollywood Boulevard, where they were fitting out a new health spa, somebody had scrawled the words END IT WHAT'S THE POINT in bright red paint.

Jim had wondered if he were suicidal without knowing it, and that was why he had picked up on all of those mentions of people who had killed themselves. But he didn't
feel
suicidal, just tired and bored. Maybe he
should
go to Le Poteau tomorrow night and watch Summer pole-dance. It might be mildly embarrassing. It might be
highly
embarrassing. But it would make a change from sitting on his sagging maroon couch with Tibbles, drinking Fat Tire beer out of the bottle and eating pretzels and watching repeats of
The Mentalist.

Tibbles appeared on the first-floor landing, and stared at him balefully through the wrought-iron railings. Jim was tempted to climb out of the car, pick Tibbles up by the scruff of his stupid neck and lug him back up to his apartment. But then he thought,
no, Tibbles needs to be taught a lesson
, the same as all of the foot-shuffling students he was going to meet for the first time today. No suffer, no grow. You make a decision, you have to learn to live with it.

He switched on the car radio. Bruce Springsteen was singing ‘Part Man, Part Monkey' so he changed the station. He was allergic to Bruce Springsteen. He sometimes felt that if he accidentally met Bruce Springsteen in the street, he would headbutt him, just for the sake of it. ‘Bruce! Hi!'
Klonk!
He shifted the Mercury into R and twisted around in his seat so that he could back down the driveway. He didn't see Tibbles running down the steps.

He had to wait for a while to allow a gardener's truck to come laboring up the hill, its transmission whining like the female mourners at a Mexican funeral. Then he gunned the engine and swerved out into the street. As he did so, he felt that unmistakable thump, crunch, and knew that he had run over something living.

He stopped, and pressed down the parking brake. It was probably a raccoon, or an opossum, or more likely a gopher. Lately, a whole tribe of gophers had been digging in the landscaping in back of their apartment building, leaving mounds of dirt, and even a visit from a cross-eyed operative from Go-Fer Good! Inc. had failed to get rid of them completely.

Jim walked around the car, twice. He couldn't see any gophers. Maybe he had hit one but it hadn't been hurt too badly, and it had managed to limp away. Just to make sure, he knelt down in the road and looked right underneath the chassis. It was than that he saw Tibbles, lying on his side, staring back at him.

He suddenly felt as if he couldn't breathe. ‘Tibbles!' he cried, hoarsely. ‘You stupid goddamned stupid cat!'

He reached underneath the car and managed to catch hold of Tibbles' back legs and drag him out. He laid him down gently on the driveway but there was no doubt that Tibbles was dead. He looked as flat as a child's nightdress case. His ribcage and his pelvis were crushed and his whiskers were bloody.

‘You goddamned stupid cat,' Jim repeated. ‘Why the
hell
do you think I told you to stay inside? But, oh no, you knew better, didn't you? You always think you know better. Well, this time, buddy, you proved that you
don't
know better. In fact you know absolutely
squat
.'

He picked up Tibbles' disjointed body and cradled him in his arms. Tibbles continued to stare back at him, unblinking. Inside his fur, he felt crushed and lumpy. Jim could hear his bones crackle.

He was still standing there when old Mrs LaFarge came shuffling down the steps, wearing a circular straw sun hat like a 1950s flying saucer and a billowing red linen dress. She had huge black sunglasses and a pointed nose, so that she looked like a giant insect. As usual, she was wearing lavender-colored desert boots.

She approached Jim and stared at him with her head tilted to one side. ‘Why, Jee-
yum
!' she said, in her lispy Cajun accent. ‘I do believe you weep! And what is wrong with your
petit chaton
? He don't look none too good to me at all.'

Jim had to purse his lips. He wanted to tell Mrs LaFarge what had happened but his throat was too tight and he couldn't speak. Mrs LaFarge came up closer and tickled the top of Tibbles' head with her long, clawlike fingernail. She had rings on every finger, including a ring that looked like a human skull, with rubies for eyes.

‘
Oh-h-h!
' she breathed. ‘He's day-
ud
!
Il est mort!
How did this happen?'

Jim nodded toward his car, with the driver's door still open and the engine still running. ‘I – uh – I didn't see him,' he managed to choke out. ‘I don't know why he ran out into the road. He's never done that before, ever.'

Mrs LaFarge took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were watery gray, the color of roofing slates after a rainstorm. She had a slight cast, so her right eye appeared to be looking over his left shoulder. She always gave Jim the disconcerting feeling that there was somebody standing behind him.

‘You must not blame yourself, Jim. Everybody believe that cats are wise, but cats are just as foolish as any other animal, and much more arrogant than most. All the same,
c'est très triste, n'est-ce pas
? It is very sad. We must think about a funeral.'

‘I can't believe it,' said Jim. ‘I ran over my own goddamned cat. That has to be some kind of bad luck, right?'

‘For your cat?
Oui
, for sure, very bad luck. For
you
, who knows? It may be a warning. You know what they say in Louisiana?
Si vous tuez un chat, son esprit vous attendra toujours.
If you kill a cat, its spirit will always be waiting for you.'

Jim blinked at her through the tears that were clinging to his eyelashes. ‘What exactly does that mean?'

‘You know something?' said Mrs LaFarge, taking hold of his arm. ‘I never really knew. But my grandfather was always saying it. I suppose it means that whatever we do we cannot avoid the consequence.'

Jim said, ‘I have class today. I'm going to be late. I'd better take Tibbles inside.'

‘Do you want me to arrange the funeral for you? I have a friend who works for the Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park. His name is Albert. You have to have a funeral.'

‘Violette, he's a cat.'

‘I know. Do you want him buried or cremated? What sort of casket would you like?'

‘Violette, I just ran him over and killed him. I'm very upset.'

‘I understand, Jim. He was your companion.'

‘Yes, he was. He was interesting. He was funny. He was intuitive. I think at times he even liked me, just a little.'

Mrs LaFarge stroked Tibbles' ears. ‘All the same.
Le pauvre
. He must have a funeral.'

Jim was very close to saying something that he didn't want to say. But he took a deep breath, and said, ‘OK . . . let's talk about it this evening, when I get back from college. Right now, I don't think I'm in any fit state to talk to anybody about anything.'

Mrs LaFarge leaned forward and kissed Tibbles on the nose. ‘
Au revoir, mon petit chaton.
Safe journey. There is a golden basket waiting for you in heaven.'

Jim climbed the steps back to his apartment and opened the door. He carried Tibbles' body through the living room, opened the sliding doors and laid him on one of the sunbeds on the balcony.

He stood there for a while, half-expecting Tibbles to jump up and give him one of his disdainful looks, and then start licking himself. But Tibbles stayed there, not moving, not breathing. He had been flattened by a two-ton automobile, and Jim had to admit that he was dead. Blood was leaking from his anus, and dripping on to the sunbed.

‘Why did you have to do that, Tibbles?' he demanded. ‘Why did you have to come after me?'

He turned around and punched the wall, and said ‘
Fuck!
' because it hurt so much.

TWO

H
e arrived at West Grove Community College fifteen minutes late. As he walked along the corridor, his sneakers squeaking on the freshly waxed tiles, he could hear Special Class Two from more than a hundred yards away. Shouting, laughing, hooting and playing gangsta rap. He stopped for a moment, next to the lockers, and thought:
You don't have to do this, Jim. You could turn around and walk away and never come back. By this time tomorrow morning you could be fishing for steelhead on the Umpqua River in Oregon.

He was still standing there when the classroom door next to him opened and Sheila Colefax came out. Sheila was a petite bespectacled brunette who always dressed in pencil skirts and formal blouses, with a brooch at her neck, as if she were attending court. Jim always fantasized that she wore a black garter belt and black stockings and black lace panties underneath her skirts, and that once she had taken off her spectacles and shaken her hair loose, she would be a tigress in bed.

‘Ah, Jim. Do you think you could keep your class a little quieter, please? We're trying to discuss our Spanish reading list for the coming semester and the
noise
they're making. It really is very distracting.'

‘Sure. Yes. Sorry, Sheila. How was your vacation?'

‘My vacation?'

‘Yes. How was it? You have quite a glow about you. Did you go someplace exotic? Bali, maybe?'

‘Sherman Oaks.'

‘Oh. Oh, well. Staying at home, that's always pretty relaxing, isn't it?'

‘Not really. I was taking care of my mother. She has Alzheimer's, and she's doubly incontinent.'

‘Oh. Sorry to hear it. I'll – uh – tell my class to put a sock in it.'

‘Thank you, Jim. I'd appreciate it.'

Sheila Colefax went back into her classroom and closed the door. As she did so, however, she looked back at Jim through the circular window and he was sure that she lowered her eyelashes at him. He blinked back at her, but she was gone.

Pull yourself together
, he thought.
You're dreaming. She probably wears fifty-denier pantyhose up to her armpits and goes to bed every night with a mug of hot chocolate and a Mary Higgins Clark novel.

He walked along to Special Class Two and opened the door. All of the students were out of their seats. Some of the boys were throwing a basketball across the classroom, while some of the girls were perched on top of their desks polishing their nails. Others were scuffling or pushing each other. A tall black boy in a spotted silk headscarf and impossibly droopy jeans had a huge boom box on his shoulder. He was playing a G-Unit song and mouthing along with it, with his eyes closed. Another boy was dancing and jumping and spinning on the floor.

‘
Shawty you know I want dat cat – drop it now, pick it up, drop it, work dat back – hustle now, hurry now Shawty, make dat stack
—'

Jim walked across to his desk and put down his canvas bag. He rummaged inside it until he found the book that he was looking for. Then he sat down, opened it, and started to read. He said nothing, and didn't even look up.

Gradually, the class realized that their teacher had arrived. One of the boys caught the basketball and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, and when his friend said, ‘Come on, man, throw it over here,' he shook his head and said, ‘Wait up, OK?' Almost all of the girls climbed off their desks and sat down, although one black girl with elaborate gilded cornrows remained where she was, one long leg raised up high, polishing her toenails in purple frost.

The last to wake up to the fact that Jim had walked in was the boy with the boom box. He was still singing ‘
No discrimination – blacks and da Asians – even Caucasians – got dem all shakin”
when he opened his eyes. Every other student was staring at him. Immediately, he switched off the music and sank down into his seat, although he stuck one leg out into the aisle, with a red Kanye West sneaker on the end of it.

Still Jim didn't look up. He continued to read, while the class watched him in silence. Over three minutes went by, and the students looked at each other and frowned and shrugged and started to grow restless. The boy with the basketball tossed it over to his friend, who caught it and tossed it back again. Jim turned the page, and sniffed.

Eventually, one of the girls raised her hand and said, ‘Sir? Is you our teacher?'

Jim tucked a Hot Tamales wrapper into the page he was reading, as a bookmark. He raised his head and looked around the classroom. ‘Do you
want
me to be?'

A short black boy with a polished head and glasses said, ‘Aint down to us, sir, is it? If you da teach, then you da teach, whether we likes it or not.'

‘What's your name?' Jim asked him.

‘Arthur, sir.'

‘Arthur What?'

‘That's right, sir. How jew know that?'

‘How did I know what?'

‘My name, sir. Arthur Watt.'

Jim thought:
This day is becoming more surreal by the minute
. He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk.

‘Do you know something?' he said. ‘I ran over my cat this morning, before I came here. I killed him. Right now he's lying on a sunbed on my balcony, and he's dead.'

‘And what?' asked a sallow-faced boy with a large bony nose and masses of black curly hair. He wore an orange and brown T-shirt that was much too tight for him, with a picture of the Jewish reggae singer Matisyahu on the front of it. ‘Are we supposed to feel, like,
sad
or something?'

‘No,' said Jim. ‘Why should you feel sad? You didn't even know him. But I am. I'm sad.'

‘And this relates to us how?' asked the sallow-faced boy.

‘I'll tell you how it relates to you. You all came to this class because you have difficulty in communicating. You find it difficult to express your feelings to other people. And there are two reasons for this.