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Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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with what I’m saying. That little-Joe shift checked out a while ago, and now there’s a new bunch in you running things.”
I looked to see if he was serious. He wasn’t smiling, and his hands were unusually still.
The idea intrigued me. If only the Joe-Lennox-who-killed-his-brother crew had left. I’d be clean. A whole new me who had had nothing to do with that day …
“I’ll tell you, all you have to do is look at my wife if you want proof of my theory. She hates to think about dying. Christ, she doesn’t even like to admit she’s sick. But you know what? She loves to read about diseases, especially really rare ones that kill you, like lupus or progeria. And her favorite films in all the world are horror movies. The bloodier the better. Give her a Peter Straub novel and she’s in seventh heaven. Now, you cannot tell me the same crew’s working inside her. Not unless they’re all schizo.”
I giggled. “You mean there’s different guys in there doing all different things too? Like a football team? You go out for a pass, you block …”
“No doubt about it, Joe. Absolutely.”
Neither of us said anything for a while, and then I slowly nodded my head. “Maybe you’re right. I think my mother was like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She changed all the time. She was a peacock’s tail of emotion.”
“And you’re not like that at all?”
“No, not a tad. I’ve never been very emotional or flamboyant. Neither has my father.”
He winked and smiled devilishly. “You’ve never done anything out of the ordinary? No disturbing the universe?”
The moment froze like film in a broken projector. It almost started to burn from the middle outward. Paul Tate knew nothing about what had happened with Ross, but suddenly I had the feeling that he did, and it scared me.
“Yes, well sure, sure, I’ve, uh, I’ve done some strange things, but —”
“You’re beginning to look a wee bit cornered, Joey. It sounds to me as if you’ve got some dark trunks stored down in your basement.” He leered, delighted to know it.
“Uh, Paul, don’t get your hopes up too high on that. I ain’t no Attila the Hun!”
“That’s too bad. Didn’t you ever read Dorian Gray ? Listen to this: ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’ Amen, brother. I bet you Attila the Hun died a happy man.”
“Come on, Paul —”
“Don’t play footsie, Joe. You know exactly what I mean. There isn’t a person on earth who isn’t up to their elbows in badness. Why don’t you drop the damned facade and admit it?”
“Because I think it’s better to move away from it! Get on to other things! And hope we’ll be able to do better next time, if we’re given a next time.” I was getting too excited and had to turn my volume down.
“Joe, you are what you’ve done. You are what you’re doing. Okay, we’re all trying to do better, but it just isn’t that easy, you know. Maybe it’d be better if we just looked what we’ve done smack in the face and started dealing with it. Maybe instead of always looking forward to tomorrow, trying to ignore what we did yesterday or today, it’d be better if we squared off with our past actions —” He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me queerly. His face was bloodless, but what really struck me was a kind of terrible stillness in his eyes and on his lips. It was gone in an instant, but it left his face looking drawn and blurred, as if something important had gone out of him, leaving him only half filled. Ironically, no sooner had I gone to sleep that night than I started dreaming about Ross. As far as I can remember, nothing much happened, yet something scared me awake; it was a long time before I could sleep again. In the dark I looked toward the ceiling and remembered the time he had poured syrup on me. How do you square off with your past actions when you don’t know if they were right or wrong?
“Who’s that?”
“Us, dummy! Can’t you
I looked to see if he was serious. He wasn’t smiling, and his hands were unusually still.
The idea intrigued me. If only the Joe-Lennox-who-killed-his-brother crew had left. I’d be clean. A whole new me who had had nothing to do with that day …
“I’ll tell you, all you have to do is look at my wife if you want proof of my theory. She hates to think about dying. Christ, she doesn’t even like to admit she’s sick. But you know what? She loves to read about diseases, especially really rare ones that kill you, like lupus or progeria. And her favorite films in all the world are horror movies. The bloodier the better. Give her a Peter Straub novel and she’s in seventh heaven. Now, you cannot tell me the same crew’s working inside her. Not unless they’re all schizo.”
I giggled. “You mean there’s different guys in there doing all different things too? Like a football team? You go out for a pass, you block …”
“No doubt about it, Joe. Absolutely.”
Neither of us said anything for a while, and then I slowly nodded my head. “Maybe you’re right. I think my mother was like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She changed all the time. She was a peacock’s tail of emotion.”
“And you’re not like that at all?”
“No, not a tad. I’ve never been very emotional or flamboyant. Neither has my father.”
He winked and smiled devilishly. “You’ve never done anything out of the ordinary? No disturbing the universe?”
The moment froze like film in a broken projector. It almost started to burn from the middle outward. Paul Tate knew nothing about what had happened with Ross, but suddenly I had the feeling that he did, and it scared me.
“Yes, well sure, sure, I’ve, uh, I’ve done some strange things, but —”
“You’re beginning to look a wee bit cornered, Joey. It sounds to me as if you’ve got some dark trunks stored down in your basement.” He leered, delighted to know it.
“Uh, Paul, don’t get your hopes up too high on that. I ain’t no Attila the Hun!”
“That’s too bad. Didn’t you ever read Dorian Gray ? Listen to this: ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’ Amen, brother. I bet you Attila the Hun died a happy man.”
“Come on, Paul —”
“Don’t play footsie, Joe. You know exactly what I mean. There isn’t a person on earth who isn’t up to their elbows in badness. Why don’t you drop the damned facade and admit it?”
“Because I think it’s better to move away from it! Get on to other things! And hope we’ll be able to do better next time, if we’re given a next time.” I was getting too excited and had to turn my volume down.
“Joe, you are what you’ve done. You are what you’re doing. Okay, we’re all trying to do better, but it just isn’t that easy, you know. Maybe it’d be better if we just looked what we’ve done smack in the face and started dealing with it. Maybe instead of always looking forward to tomorrow, trying to ignore what we did yesterday or today, it’d be better if we squared off with our past actions —” He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me queerly. His face was bloodless, but what really struck me was a kind of terrible stillness in his eyes and on his lips. It was gone in an instant, but it left his face looking drawn and blurred, as if something important had gone out of him, leaving him only half filled. Ironically, no sooner had I gone to sleep that night than I started dreaming about Ross. As far as I can remember, nothing much happened, yet something scared me awake; it was a long time before I could sleep again. In the dark I looked toward the ceiling and remembered the time he had poured syrup on me. How do you square off with your past actions when you don’t know if they were right or wrong?
“Who’s that?”
“Us, dummy! Can’t you
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