Louse (24 page)

“That's my intention.”

“All of the money?”

“Most of it,” he says, nodding his head. “I have no choice in the matter. Either I take the money or I don't take the money.”

The mirrors continue throughout the halls, making passageways that appear to turn left and turn right. I have to hold onto the real Herman Q. Louse in order not to falter, in order not to run into mirrors. And I now understand how it is no one could possibly find him.

“I don't want to stay and fight. You have to understand, Mortimer, I'm more like you, you're more like me. I'm taking what Poppy has chosen to give me and fulfilling his wish.”

“On the tropical island of Z.”

“A beautiful place in the Gulf of R.”

“Just tell me one more thing.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“What about everyone else?”

“They'll be fine. They'll be free to return to their lives as soon as they regain consciousness.”

“It somehow doesn't feel right. We were complicit. We could have defied a little. Done something extraordinary.”

“Come now. The arrangements are made, it's time to go.”

“It could have come sooner,” I assert.

“But it's coming now. Now is the time. It's the best I could do. I'll suffer, Mortimer. I promise, I'll suffer.”

“How do you suffer rich on the tropical island of Z.?”

“Just follow me. Follow me.”

Herman opens another vault-like door at the end of the hall. I follow after him with my heavy briefcase under my arm. A feeling of light-headedness takes hold of my body as the melody I've been humming all evening returns. I still don't know where it comes from or what it is. It's caught on the roof of my mouth and I realize there are words that go with it. I can see myself in the rear view mirror of a car, singing them as I look back to a dark stretch of highway recessing into the distance beyond my tail lights whose crimson glow matches the color of my tearful eyes. I can feel little deaths occur in my spirit with each passing phrase. I feel as if I have done something wrong, if not horrible; a simple act of cowardice, perhaps, that destroyed me long before I ever arrived in G.

“Now be careful, Mortimer,” Herman says to me as he opens a door.

“Yes,” I say.

He walks through the threshold and steps into the darkness. As I approach the entry I see there is a ladder leading up and down. Down, I see nothing. It looks like a bottomless pit. Up is Herman climbing to the higher floors.

“Don't be afraid,” he calls down. “But come quickly.”

I step out onto the ladder and as I take my first step up, the briefcase clumsily slips away from my crooked thumb. I grunt and then grope for it, and as I watch it drop I want to dive after it.

“Let it go,” Herman calls down to me. “All that it had to tell you, you'll soon know yourself.”

The briefcase drops into the shaft and is swallowed by the darkness. I feel part of myself falling with it as though I have just experienced a minor shock of vertigo. I begin climbing quickly and catch up to Herman, whose body is swiveling about. All I can think of is his great weight falling on top of me and plummeting us down to the basement.

“It isn't much farther, Mortimer,” Herman assures me.

We climb toward a dim square of light. With every new rung it grows brighter. When we finally reach the light Herman begins banging at the center of the square. He pushes up on it with his palm and moves it off to the side. The narrow passage becomes illuminated to the point that I'm blind to the rungs. Herman climbs through. I climb after him, cautiously reaching for each thin strip of metal. When I reach the top, Herman takes hold of me and nearly lifts me through.

When my eyes adjust to the brightness, I can now see that I am in Poppy's study. We have come through a stained glass floorboard the same color as the carpeting. I recognize the smell of leather and the stagnant air. The vault full of butterflies is open and I can hear someone inside rummaging about. After a moment, Helga Zimmerwitz leans her head out.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Blank,” she says with a smile.

“Hello, Ms. Zimmerwitz,” I say.

Helga smiles some more and then turns to Herman. “Do we need to take all of these?”

“No,” Herman says. “Only as many as you can fit in the bag.”

“O.K.,” she says cheerfully, and she pops her head back into the vault.

“You have a decision to make, Mortimer,” Mr. Louse says as he replaces the panel on the floor, distracting me from the sight of Ms. Zimmerwitz.

“What is it?” I ask.

Mr. Louse removes the piece of paper he ripped from the pad earlier when he was in Mr. Blackwell's chambers and hands it to me. On it are a number of codes.

“Poppy has planned for you to go to the city of N. and activate these accounts.”

“What are they?”

“Retribution payments for injustices done to you and the others.”

“I see,” I say.

“All you need to do is hand the list over to a Mr. Milken at S. Bank in N. You and the rest of the staff of G. will be properly reimbursed for your time, patience, and hardship. Poppy has assured me.”

“He's been very generous,” Ms. Zimmerwitz assures as well. Her head is sticking out of the vault again.

“You won't be disappointed, Mortimer,” Mr. Louse says.

I look at the list of codes and look at Herman and feel that my patience is wearing thin at the thought of this gesture. I fold up the piece of paper and place it in my pocket.

“If you are willing, then, I will ask you to do one more thing before we leave,” he says.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I need you to go to Poppy's chambers and bring him back here.”

“What will you do with him?”

“You'll see when you return,” he says. “He has planned for all of us. Just go, Herman. We don't have much time.”

I consider his request, thinking that there is no reason for me to do anything but walk out the front door.

“I'll be back shortly,” I say.

“Mortimer?”

“Yes.”

“You'll be away from here soon.”

“Yes, Mr. Louse.”

I exit the study and walk out into the southern wing along the glass cabinets of paper planes. When I approach the western wing I find all the members of the 6
A.M.
cleaning crew face down on the linoleum. When I reach the kitchen, I can see Mr. Lutherford and Mr. Heinrik are still sprawled on top of Ms. Morris. I continue down the dim, silent hall toward Poppy's chambers. I walk through the main entrance to find the lights turned all the way up.

Poppy sleeps soundly. His gaunt face is ashen and sweating. He breathes slowly and laboriously as though his heart and lungs are the only things left of his body that still function. The clothes Ms. Lonesome left out hang over the back of the wheelchair stationed next to the western night table. I step between the wheelchair and the bed and, with my bare hands, take hold of Poppy's wrist and feel for his pulse. It beats once for every two breaths I take. When it does beat, it feels like a small fly buzzing and suffocating under the grip of my fist.

I let go of Poppy and walk to Bathroom Number Three, thinking, What act of courage does it take to destroy someone already so
destroyed? I enter the supply closet and pull out a pair of shears from a drawer. I then return to his bedside. I kick some legal pads under the bed, bend over, and pull him close to me, wondering if I have ever cradled death in my arms before, wondering why I treat him with such respect considering his role in all this.

I pick up the shears and rest Poppy's head in my lap. I admire his vulgarity for just a moment, and then take hold of his greasy beard. I pull his chin toward me, and then holding the ends of the beard tight, I cut a large clump of hair. Holding it up to the light, I consider its texture, then throw it onto the bed. I begin cutting it all away in large clumps. I cut and I snip and sculpt around the edges of his jaw, away from his cheeks, under his chin, until the bed and the floor are covered in matted gray hair and Poppy's beard is trimmed, motley as it is, close to his face.

I then carefully lift him up onto his headboard from under his arms and lift my shoe onto the bed as I hold his shoulder with my knee to keep him steady. I take a fistful of the hair spreading around his crown and clip away just over his ears. I pull him forward and cut away at the nape his neck. I cut close to the scalp so that there is only a centimeter or two raised. I cut the few hairs rising off his crown. I then remove my knee, step off the bed, and grab him under his shoulders to lower him back down. I take hold of his pinkie between my thumb and forefinger and snip away the curling nails of his hands. Each nail flips into the air and lands in the mulch at my feet. When I'm finally done I look up to find Ms. Lonesome, glowing in the bright light like an apparition, standing beside his wheelchair.

She holds out his clothes for me.

“Hello, Mr. Blank,” she says.

“Hello, Ms. Lonesome,” I say.

“It's a fine morning,” she says.

“Yes it is,” I say. “I hope the day is equally as fine.”

I look at her. She looks away from me. And I take the clothes from her hands without saying another word. I lay them down in a pile beside Poppy's head. I carefully pull his limp body around so that his legs hang off the edge of the bed. Struggling with the flimsiness of his limbs, Ms. Lonesome and I slip on his pants. I pull his upper torso toward me by his shoulders and Ms. Lonesome lays out the shirt on the bed. I ease him down onto it and gently slip his arms into the sleeves. I button the buttons down his chest and his cuffs. I tuck the front tails into his pants. I turn him over and Ms. Lonesome tucks in the back tail. I turn him over again and clasp the clasp at his waist. Zipper the fly. Ms. Lonesome rolls on his socks. I stick his feet into his shoes and tie up the laces.

“We'd better hurry, Mortimer,” she says.

“Yes, Ms. Lonesome,” I say, looking at her with wonder.

In the same manner that I put on his shirt, I put on his jacket. I adjust the sleeves. I straighten his pants. We lift him up into the wheelchair so that he is sitting upright. We place his shoes on the stirrups. We step back and look at our handiwork. Ms. Lonesome bends forward and brushes away whatever hair and whatever flakes of skin have clung to his clothes. For the first time since I have known him, he looks like a man.

With one hand on his shoulder and the other on the handle of the chair, I push him around the bed to the door and out into the hall. Poppy's head hangs low, but Ms. Lonesome, with a hand on his shoulder, manages to keep him erect. I am no longer nervous or ambivalent, especially with Ms. Lonesome by my side, walking as
she does, being who she is. Her motions eradicate whatever doubt I could ever feel about myself. For the first time I can remember, I actually feel like a man.

“Let whatever may come come, Ms. Lonesome.”

“Yes, Mr. Blank,” she says, clomping in her heels, stepping over the arms and legs of the cleaning crew that have begun to writhe a little with life.

We weave around all the groggy bodies until we turn the corner of the southern wing. We move fast, so fast the planes in the cabinets look as though they are hovering in flight. One after the other, they blur by me.

When we arrive at the study door, I knock.

“Mr. Louse!” I call out. “Mr. Louse!”

The door opens.

Helga Zimmerwitz stands before us dressed in a flight jacket and ascot.

“Good morning, Ms. Lonesome,” she says, and then nods at me.

“Ms. Zimmerwitz,” we say.

She is bubbly and buxom.

“Nice to see you again.”

Herman is off to the side near the desk carrying a large sack over his shoulder. “Come this way,” he says, now looking at Poppy dressed and groomed. “That's very nice,” he remarks as he leads us into the back of the study. We walk into a dimly lit room I have never been in.

“What are you planning to do with him?” I ask as Herman pulls open a large cabinet to reveal an elevator door.

“We're going to take him on his final flight. And drop you at your destination.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“You'll see,” he says.

Herman presses the button of the elevator.

The doors open, we enter and ride up.

When the elevator doors open I find that we have been let out onto the roof. The sky is so bright that I can hardly stand it. As my eyes adjust I breathe the fresh hot air of the wind. It whistles into my ear in such a way that I suddenly have the image of myself walking through the silt of the desert. I can feel it clinging to my eyebrows and my fists.

I follow Mr. Louse out onto the vastness of the roof. It stretches out so far I can hardly see its edge. All I can see is a runway that leads back to a replica of the German Gotha flown by Roy Ruteledge at the end of
H.A.
13-3. In the distance the incomplete silver dome of Paradise rises into the sky. It reflects the sun so brightly I can't stand to look at it for more than a moment.

I follow Mr. Louse's immense shadow as we walk over to the plane. Ms. Lonesome walks by my side, silent and aloof; she seems rigid compared to Ms. Zimmerwitz's bounciness. I wonder what it is about Helga that Herman finds interesting. Just as I think this, Herman turns to Helga and they look at each other as though they have finally come to the point in the plot in which they should gaze knowingly into each other's eyes. There is a brightness in Herman's cheeks as Helga lays her hand on his belly and stands on her toes to kiss his flushed face and whisper something in his ear.

“Here, help me get him up, Mortimer,” Herman says, turning away from Helga.

Herman lifts Poppy from the wheelchair and rests him against his chest. I climb up into the cargo hold of the plane. Herman hands Poppy to me. I gently grab him under his arms and pull him
up. I cradle him against my chest and walk him through the short narrow space to the tiny cockpit door. Knowing he isn't feeling a thing, I stick his legs through, then station his body into the copilot seat. I fasten his seat belt and strap on his shoulder harness. Ms. Zimmerwitz pulls the sack up from Herman and pulls it toward the cockpit. She begins unloading the glass cases of butterflies and lays them out onto Poppy's lap and then takes a seat in the cargo hold, to the left of the cockpit. She straps herself in and smiles at me. Ms. Lonesome then gets aboard, followed by Mr. Louse, who has moved the wheelchair off to the side.