Stories (2011) (116 page)

But now, with the ice and the cold and the dark, with us
frozen in and with no place to go, I clean them at night. Not during the day
while they are gone.

I clean them at night.

In the dark.

After I visit with the shadows.

My friends.

All the dark ones, gathered from all over the world, past
and present. Gathered out there in my yard—my wife's parent's yard—waiting on
me. Waiting for me to be one with them, waiting on me to join them.

The only club that has ever wanted me.

––

They are many of those shadows, and I know who they are now. I know it on the
day I take the duct tape and use it to seal the doors to my wife's bedroom, to
my parents-in-law's bedroom.

The dog is with my wife.

I can no longer sleep in our bed.

My wife, like the others, has begun to smell.

The tape keeps some of the stench out.

I pour cologne all over the carpet.

It helps.

Some.

––

How it happened. I'll line it out:

One night I went out and sat and the shadows came up on the porch in such
numbers there was only darkness around me and in me, and I was like something
scared, but somehow happy, down deep in a big black sack held by hands that
love me.

Yet, simultaneously, I was free.

I could feel them touching me, breathing on me. And I knew,
then, it was time.

––

Down in the basement, I opened the trunk, took out a well-oiled weapon: a
hunting rifle. I went upstairs and did it quick. My wife first. She never
awoke. Beneath her head, on the pillow, in the moonlight, there was a spreading
blossom the color of gun oil.

My father-in-law heard the shot, met me at their bedroom
door, pulling on his robe. One shot. Then another for my mother-in-law who sat
up in bed, her face hidden in shadow—but a different shadow. Not one of my
shadow friends, but one made purely by an absence of light, and not an absence
of being.

The dog bit me.

I guess it was the noise.

I shot the dog too.

I didn't want him to be lonely.

Who would care for him?

––

I pulled my father-in-law into his bed with his wife and pulled the covers to
their chins. My wife is tucked in too, the covers over her head. I put our
little dog, Constance, beside her.

How long ago was the good deed done?

I can't tell.

I think, strangely, of my father-in-law. He always wore a
hat. He thought it strange that men no longer wore hats. When he was growing up
in the Forties and Fifties, men wore hats.

He told me that many times.

He wore hats. Men wore hats, and it was odd to him that they
no longer did, and to him the men without hats were manless.

He looked at me then. Hatless. Looked me up and down. Not
only was I hatless in his eyes, I was manless.

Manless? Is that a word?

The wind howls and the night is bright and the shadows twist
and the moon gives them light to dance by.

They are many and they are one, and I am almost one of them.

––

One day I could not sleep and sat up all day. I had taken to the couch at
first, in the living room, but in time the stench from behind the taped doors
seeped out and it was strong. I made a pallet in the kitchen and pulled all the
curtains tight and slept the day away, rose at night and roamed and watched the
shadows from the windows or out on the porch. The stench was less then, at
night, and out on the porch I couldn't smell it at all.

––

The phone has rang many times and there are messages from relatives. Asking
about the storm. If we are okay.

I consider calling to tell them we are.

But I have no voice for anyone anymore. My vocal cords are
hollow and my body is full of dark.

––

The storm has blown away and in a small matter of time people will come to find
out how we are doing. It is daybreak and no car could possibly get up our long
drive, not way out here in the country like we are. But the ice is starting to
melt.

Can't sleep.

Can't eat.

Thirsty all the time.

Have masturbated till I hurt.

––

Strange, but by nightfall the ice started to slip away and all the whiteness
was gone and the air, though chill, was not as cold, and the shadows gathered on
the welcome mat, and now they have slipped inside, like envelopes pushed
beneath the bottom of the door.

They join me.

They comfort me.

I oil my guns.

––

Late night, early morning, depends on how you look at it. But the guns are
well-oiled and there is no ice anywhere. The night is as clear as my mind is
now.

I pull the trunk upstairs and drag it out on the porch
toward the truck. It's heavy, but I manage it into the back of the pickup. Then
I remember there's a dolly in the garage.

My father-in-law's dolly.

"This damn dolly will move anything," he used to
say. "Anything."

I get the dolly, load it up, stick in a few tools from the
garage, start the truck and roll on out.

––

I flunked out of college.

Couldn't pass the test.

I'm supposed to be smart.

My mother told me when I was young that I was a genius.

There had been tests.

But I couldn't seem to finish anything.

Dropped out of high school. Took the G.E.D. eventually.
Didn't score high there either, but did pass. Barely.

What kind of genius is that?

Finally got into college, four years later than everyone
else.

Couldn't cut it. Just couldn't hold anything in my head. Too
stuffed up there, as if Kleenex had been packed inside.

My history teacher, he told me: "Son, perhaps you
should consider a trade."

––

I drive along campus. My mind is clear, like the night. The campus clock tower
is very sharp against the darkness, lit up at the top and all around. A giant
phallus punching up at the moon.

––

It is easy to drive right up to the tower and unload the gun trunk onto the
dolly.

My father-in-law was right.

This dolly is amazing.

And my head, so clear. No Kleenex.

And the shadows, thick and plenty, are with me.

––

Rolling the dolly, a crowbar from the collection of tools stuffed in my belt, I
proceed to the front of the tower. I'm wearing a jumpsuit. Gray. Workman's
uniform. For a while I worked for the janitorial department on campus. My
attempt at a trade.

They fired me for reading in the janitor's closet.

But I still have the jumpsuit.

––

The foyer is open, but the elevators are locked.

I pull the dolly upstairs.

It is a chore, a bump at a time, but the dolly straps hold
the trunk and I can hear the guns rattling inside, like they want to get out.

––

By the time I reach the top I'm sweating, feeling weak. I have no idea how long
it has taken, but some time I'm sure. The shadows have been with me,
encouraging me.

Thank you, I tell them.

––

The door at the top of the clock tower is locked.

I take out my burglar's key. The crowbar. Go to work.

It's easy.

On the other side of the door I use the dolly itself to push
up under the door handle, and it freezes the door. It'll take some work to
shake that loose.

––

There's one more flight inside the tower.

I have to drag the trunk of guns.

Hard work. The rope handle on the crate snaps and the guns
slide all the way back down.

I push them up.

I almost think I can't make it. The trunk is so heavy. So
many guns. And all that sweet ammunition.

––

Finally, to the top, shoving with my shoulder, bending my legs all the way.

The door up there is not locked, the one that leads outside
to the runway around the clock tower.

I walk out, leaving the trunk. I walk all around the tower
and look down at all the small things there.

Soon the light will come, and so will the people.

Turning, I look up at the huge clock hands. Four o'clock.

I hope time does not slip. I do not want to find myself at
home by the window, looking out.

The shadows.

They flutter.

They twist.

The runway is full of them, thick as all the world's lost ones.
Thick as all the world's hopeless. Thick, thick, thick, and thicker yet to be.
When I join them.

––

There is one fine spot at the corner of the tower runway. That is where I
should begin.

I place a rifle there, the one I used to put my family and
dog asleep.

I place rifles all around the tower.

I will probably run from one station to the other.

The shadows make suggestions.

All good, of course.

I put a revolver in my belt.

I put a shotgun near the entrance to the runway, hidden
behind the edge of the tower, in a little outcrop of artful bricks. It tucks in
there nicely.

There are huge flowerpots stuffed with ferns all about the
runway. I stick pistols in the pots.

When I finish, I look at the clock again.

An hour has passed.

––

Back home in my chair, looking out the window at the dying night. Back home in
my chair, the smell of my family growing familiar, like a shirt worn too many
days in a row.

Like the one I have on. Like the thick coat I wear.

I look out the window and it is not the window, but the
little split in the runway barrier. There are splits all around the runway
wall.

I turn to study the place I have chosen and find myself
looking out my window at home, and as I stare, the window melts and so does the
house.

The smell.

That does not go with the window and the house.

The smell stays with me.

The shadows are way too close. I am nearly smothered. I can
hardly breathe.

––

Light cracks along the top of the tower and falls through the campus trees and
runs along the ground like spilt warm honey.

I clutch my coat together, pull it tight. It is very cold. I
can hardly feel my legs.

––

I get up and walk about the runway twice, checking on all my guns.

Well-oiled. Fully loaded.

Full of hot-lead announcements.

Telegram: You're dead.

––

Back at my spot, the one from which I will begin, I can see movement. The day
has started. I poke the rifle through the break in the barrier and bead down on
a tall man walking across campus.

I could take him easy.

But I do not.

Wait, say the shadows. Wait until the little world below is
full.

––

The hands on the clock are loud when they move, they sound like the machinery I
can hear in my head. Creaking and clanking and moving along.

The air had turned surprisingly warm.

I feel so hot in my jacket.

I take it off.

I am sweating.

The day has come but the shadows stay with me.

True friends are like that. They don't desert you.

It's nice to have true friends.

It's nice to have with me the ones who love me.

It's nice to not be judged.

It's nice to know I know what to do and the shadows know
too, and we are all the better for it.

––

The campus is alive.

People swim across the concrete walks like minnows in the
narrows.

Minnows everywhere in their new sharp clothes, ready to take
their tests and do their papers and meet each other so they might screw. All of
them, with futures.

But I am the future-stealing machine.

––

I remember once, when I was a child, I went fishing with minnows. Stuck them on
the hooks and dropped them in the wet. When the day was done, I had caught
nothing. I violated the fisherman's code. I did not pour the remaining minnows
into the water to give them their freedom. I poured them on the ground.

And stomped them.

I was in control.

––

A young, beautiful girl, probably eighteen, tall like a model, walking like a
dream, is moving across the campus. The light is on her hair and it looks very
blonde, like my wife's.

I draw a bead.

The shadows gather. They whisper. They touch. They show me
their faces.

They have faces now.

Simple faces.

Like mine.

I trace my eye down the length of the barrel.

Without me really knowing it, the gun snaps sharp in the
morning light.

The young woman falls amidst a burst of what looks like plum
jelly.

The minnows flutter. The minnows flee.

But there are so many, and they are panicked. Like they have
been poured on the ground to squirm and gasp in the dry.

I begin to fire. Shot after shot after shot.

Each snap of the rifle a stomp of my foot.

Down they go.

Squashed.

I have no hat, father-in-law, and I am full of manliness.

––

The day goes up hot.

Who would have thunk?

I have moved from one end of the tower to the other.

I have dropped many of them.

The cops have come.

I have dropped many of them.

I hear noise in the tower.

I think they have shook the dolly loose.

The door to the runway bursts open.

A lady cop steps through. My first shot takes her in the
throat. But she snaps one off at about the same time. A revolver shot. It hits
next to me where I crouch low against the runway wall.

Another cop comes through the door. I fire and miss.

My first miss.

He fires. I feel something hot inside my shoulder.