Grist 04 - Incinerator (34 page)

“I wouldn’t think you were the camping type.”

“I’m not. And, because you’re correct, you may look at me.” I did, focusing on the sweat-smeared death’s-head. His eyes were jumping like peas on a skillet.

“Imagine the Grim Reaper as a child,” Hoxley was saying as though lecturing to a class, “way too skinny to be popular, not so much ugly as odd-looking, these terrible clothes”—he looked down and plucked at his robe—“probably hand-me-downs from his uncles, the Four Horsemen. Who’s going to play with him? Too weird even for the Middle Ages.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes on his face, so I turned and gazed through the windows opposite me. Nothing seemed to be happening outside the truck.

“So what was he supposed to do with his youthful energy?” Hoxley mused. Then he coughed sharply. The muscles in my back leapt at the sound. “Auden says, ‘Human beings are creatures who can never become something without pretending to be it first,’ or something like that. I like to imagine the lonely little Reaper when he was still a black-robed tyke trying out his power, knocking on the doors of people’s huts to give them the flu or strolling solo through the woods, obliterating ant colonies with a frown.”

“You’re the Grim Reaper now?” Outside, there was no sudden posse of Canadian Mounties riding to the rescue. No Hammond in his tight suit.

“This is makeup,” he said, “remember?” I looked around to see him rub at his brow, the tight, hopeless gesture of someone with a migraine months old, and his hand spread the paint down the left side of his face, dragging his features down and sideways until he looked like a moon that had been ripped into fragments and reassembled itself amateurishly out of sheer will and gravity. The only things left in their correct places were his eyes, poisoned raisins in a botched Christmas pudding. “I’m the
Gay
Reaper,” he said through the smear, “or, rather, given the corrupted state of the language at present, the Happy Reaper. And it’s still boring, now that I’ve done it all. Well,
almost
all.” He jerked his chin at me, an abrupt upward tic. “I’ve changed my mind, turn around. You’ve tried my patience enough in the past. You don’t want to do it now.”

“What about her?” I asked, facing out the window again and gesturing in what I hoped was the direction of his mother.

“I was thinking of cooking and eating her,” Hoxley said, calming himself. “I’ve got all the equipment. How’s that for religious symbolism? Enough to win your poor little psychologist, the one I saw on TV, a second Ph.D. But I’m afraid she’d be tough. She always was tough.” He gave me the laugh again, sudden as a breaking violin string.

“Changing the subject,” he said, “it always amazes me, a society as advanced as ours is supposed to be, playing host organism to psychologists. The most pernicious of social parasites. Paying money to priests and drug dealers I can understand, we have to have some fun, but psychologists? I could outsmart my psychologist when I was ten. He sat there getting off on my aggression at eighty dollars an hour, pretending to take a note or two whenever he remembered, and I made stuff up just to keep him breathing hard. I never burned any little animals, whatever
she
might have told you. For one thing, I hadn’t thought of it, and for another they’re not satisfying enough.”

“Well, that’s something,” I said. “I figured every time you broke a shoelace, you set fire to a sow bug.”

“That was later,” he said, contradicting himself, “and it was just a phase, like acne. The things with exoskeletons explode, which is kind of cute, but they don’t
feel
it. No nerves in an exoskeleton. With mammals, all the nerves are in the skin, and that goes first. Besides, most little animals don’t have vocal cords. Vocal cords are essential.”

He paused and looked down at the gun as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. “My head hurts,” he said to the gun.

“Blow your brains out,” I suggested.

He looked up at me quickly, and I glanced away. “Mr. Used-to-Be-Clever. Your paper was really good, you know.”

“What paper?”

“ ‘Faces of God.’ I broke into Blinkins’s office one night and read it. It infuriated me. I had spots in front of my eyes. I knew how little work you’d done. You broke appointments with me, yawned when I gave you facts and even pictures, wonderful pictures, probably cranked the whole thing out the weekend before it was due. And it was better than anything I could have written. Graceful, you know? All airy and light. If I’d written it, it would have taken me months, and there would have been quotes everywhere and footnotes speckled all over the pages like someone sneezed on them with his mouth full. You didn’t even put a colon in the title. Didn’t you know that all serious academic papers have colons in the title? I’d have probably named it ‘The Faces of God: Representations of the Divine Visage in Post-Carolingian Northern Europe’ or something like that. You just called it ‘Faces of God’ and said the hell with it.”

“I barely remember it,” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” His voice was louder, and I could feel him looking at me. “I know that you were more important to me than I ever was to you.”

“And why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said shortly. “Not any more.”

“You haven’t got much longer,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound wishful. “Sending Eddie out to meet me was like calling the cops yourself.”

“We’re
waiting
for the cops,” he said. “Have you been shaving points off your IQ or something? Maybe people are right to avoid reunions, they’re always a let-down. Here I’ve been thinking about you for years—not often, but from time to time and bang, you surface in the newspaper, and
what
are you doing? You’re a detective. Well, I think, could be he’s remained interesting, although so few people do. Aging seems mainly to be a matter of getting duller. Do you think I’ve gotten duller?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, you have. It’s actually funny. You’ve gotten little and pinched and tiny, and I’ve gotten, well, enormously interesting, and
you’re
the one who doesn’t remember
me
. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

His mother moaned again. I heard Hoxley’s feet scuff against the floor as he turned toward her, and I put both hands on the counter and swiveled toward him, ready to leap, and found myself looking into the end of the gun.

“Not yet,” he said. Then he smiled, his teeth yellow in the smeared gray-and-white face. “We’ll just ignore Mom for now. I’m sure she’d prefer that to the alternative.” He looked around the truck. “It’s sort of cozy, just the three of us. You never came over to my house when we were in school, did you? No, of course not.
I
never went over to my house when I was in school. Not with the little Hebe there. ‘What a falling-off was this.’ Another quote. The beast with two backs and so forth. Not much of a quoting man, are you? I should have known from your paper.”

“I’m too dull,” I said. “Quoting requires an original mind.”

“The little greaseball,” Hoxley said scornfully, not listening to me. “He was a bookie, did you know that? A real, honest-to-God Damon Runyon bookie. Took me to the track from time to time, you know, get to know the boy, make like a best pal.” He shuddered from head to foot, and I became aware that the gun in his hand was shaking violently. “A
pal.
Me and that revolting gob of phlegm. Shame you never came around. What fun the three of us could have had, him spitting numbers at Lady Luck and you writing airy prose with your left hand and me figuring out how to burn a horse. I did, too, finally. Working my way up, I burned one for Eddie.”

“Do horses have vocal cords?”

“Nay,” he said, and released the shrill laugh from its cage again. “That’s a pun, nay. Do you get it? Say you get it.”

“I get it.”

“Then explain it.” His eyes twitched toward the windows. “Never mind. What time is it?”

“Past eight.” I was watching the gun. It was jumping around in his hand like a live fish.

“Okay,” he said. He pulled his eyes away from the windows and slid his tongue over his lips again, as if unsure what came next. “Here’s the deal. I hate to cut this short, just as we’re getting to know each other again, but fuck it. Get off the counter and turn around. Do it very slowly.” He retreated a step to watch me.

I slid my fanny over the edge of the counter until my feet hit the floor and turned my back to him. “Hands behind you,” he said. “Knot your fingers together. Good and tight now, hear?”

“I hear.”

“I want your knuckles to turn white. You’re doing fine. Now over there, under the counter next to Mom. First, get the stool.”

A tall, four-legged wooden stool stood beneath the counter. I went slowly to it, not looking back at Hoxley, unknotted my fingers, and pulled it out.

“Put it behind you,” he said.
“Don’t turn around.
Just slide the stool around you until it’s behind your back. Good. Now kneel down—try to do it gracefully—and put your hands back between the legs of the stool. You’ll have to unlace your fingers, of course, and you have my permission to do so. Do it now.”

As I knelt, my knee touched Mrs. Lewis through the plastic sack, and she started violently. Then she began to weep. Small air holes had been torn in the bag covering her head.

“Calm down, Mom,” Hoxley said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Simeon, I want one hand on either side of the leg of the stool. The leg farthest from you. Now put your fingers back together. Shake hands with yourself, my little man. Be your own best pal.” I knotted my fingers together, the wood rough and thick between my wrists. My elbows were captive between the nearer legs. Hoxley opened a drawer behind me, a grinding metallic sound.

Mrs. Lewis went on crying, long, gulping sobs that seemed to tear her soul up by the roots and scatter its pieces into the air. She was quivering, the plastic bags rustling and shaking.

“Now I’m going to have to use both hands for a minute, Simeon,” Hoxley said, “but don’t revert to your youth and get clever, because by the time you pull your arms free, I’ll have lots of time to pick up the gun and blow your head off. Clear?”

“Clear,” I said. My voice sounded like a raven’s croak.

“A little fiber,” Hoxley was saying, “can do us all a world of good.” Something thick was being wrapped around my wrists, pulling at the hair. “Of course, I think you’re suppose to eat it.” Whatever it was went over my fingers, and then I felt him reach around the leg of the stool and wrap it around my forearms. “When in doubt,” he said, “wear it. There we are, fiber tape. Tensile strength, three thousand pounds per square inch. Stronger than affection, stronger than the ties that bind. Stronger than hate? Good question. And while we’re at it, shut up, Mom. Did you know that the web of the common garden spider is the strongest fiber in nature?” He paused, and then knocked something against the stool.

“No,” I said promptly.

“Well, it probably isn’t. Anyway, this will have to do.” He gave my hand a proprietorial pat, and I heard him stand up. “Fine,” he said. “Like the turtle, you carry your home on your back. Now turn around, on your knees, so you can see me. I’ve really
lacked
an audience, did you know that? Here I am, the greatest act since Houdini, and all the people who’ve seen me in action had short attention spans. Distracted by the here and now, although I can’t really blame them. The here and now was pretty diverting. Still, there have been times when I felt like a great painting hanging in a miser’s basement. For whom, after all, does the Mona Lisa smile?
Turn around.”

The stool made it impossible for me to shift my weight, and I almost fell as I turned. Only by throwing one knee in front of me could I stay upright.

“Good boy,” Hoxley said as I faced him. He’d shed the black robe and stood in front of me in a white T-shirt and blossoming boxer shorts. His arms and legs were thin and white, filmed with reddish hair, and I felt my eyes being drawn down to the black shoes, the left one thick and heavy, with a brace that stretched partway up his calf.

“Ah-ah,” he said in a warning tone.

“I knew you’d wear boxer shorts,” I said. “And an undershirt. Even in this weather.”

“That’s marginally safer ground,” he said. “But only marginally. You won’t tell anybody, will you? No, you won’t.” He hobbled over to the black rubber trench coat and put it on, catching the wig in midair as it slipped from the coat’s folds. Another coat, the third one Willick said he had bought, lay crumpled at the bottom of the pile. Turning to a polished aluminum surface above the sink, he adjusted the wig until it was perfect and then intentionally knocked it askew. “Jauntier this way,” he said, studying his reflection. “I really should have thought of the makeup earlier.” Satisfied, he spread his arms and pirouetted toward me, pivoting on the heavy shoe. “So. What do you think?”

“All dressed up,” I said, “and no place to go.”

“Wrong as usual,” he said, sounding smug. “Listen, I really can’t tell you what a pleasure this has been.” He leaned over and picked up a long black cylinder that had been hidden by the coat, vaguely familiar-looking, with straps hanging down from it. “We all have to go sometime, of course,” he said, slipping the straps over his shoulder so that the cylinder was cradled against his chest. It culminated at the top in a stretch of flex cord connected to a funnel. “But what a treat to see an old friend again just before Act Five.”

The thing against his chest was a fire extinguisher.

“Cute, no?” Hoxley said. He took the funnel in his right hand and pointed it at me.
“Fwoooooo,”
he said. I cringed. “Opposites attract, hey? Here I am, with Mom and my friend along for the epiphany. Except, looky here.”

He backed to the far end of the catering truck and pulled out a box of wooden matches. Pulling the box open, he took one out and struck it. It broke, and he swore and struck another, holding it in front of the funnel.

“Prepare,” he said, “to meet your maker.” I was scrambling backward until the stool struck the counter and its edge cracked me on the back of the head, and Hoxley turned a sort of faucet handle at the top of the cylinder and fire spewed out. I think I screamed.