Marvel and a Wonder (8 page)

A little bell rang as Quentin entered the pet store; he walked up to the counter where the clerk, Gilby, was busy inspecting a nudie magazine. The periodical was open to a two-page spread and featured a pair of Asian girls, bound up with silken white ropes. There was no freckle or flaw on the flesh of either one of them, which gave them a phantomed look.

“What you got today?” Gilby asked without having to look up.

“Pinkies.”

“How many?”

“Three dozen.”

“You want cash or trade?”

“Cash.”

Gilby nodded, still staring down at the slick magazine pages, walked over to the cash register, rang the transaction up, hit the sale button, and stood back as the drawer whirred open. He got three dollars from the till and placed them in Quentin’s hand, eyes still on the entwined women.

“I don’t usually go for Asian girls, but these two . . .” Gilby confided. “I only wish there was a war over there so I’d be inclined to go visit.”

“I guess,” the boy said, looking away, then glancing up at Gilby’s face. “What happened to your eye?”

Gilby sniffed, his long nose twitching, as he placed two fingers below his left eye. It was swollen black and purple, and some of the white of the eye was pink with burst blood vessels. The rest of his face looked equally disheveled; his narrow upper lip was marked with what appeared to be a cold sore of some kind; his pointy chin and sallow cheeks looked like they had not been shaved in days. “Somebody I know doesn’t understand the meaning of a joke.”

“Who was that?”

“No one,” he sighed, and then, “My brother.”

“Walt?”

“Walt? Shit. Walt’s still in high school. And he ain’t brave enough anyway. No, my older brother, the cocksucker, he’s back in town.”

“Who’s that?”

“Edward. Everybody calls him Cocksucker. He’s the oldest.”

“You got an older brother?”

“Yeah. He just got back yesterday.”

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know. Jail. In California. Then he was in Chicago for a while.”

“How long was he gone for?”

“I don’t know. Three or four years, I guess.”

“I didn’t even know you had an older brother.”

“He comes and goes. My mother don’t let him stay too long. He usually gets himself thrown out after a week or two.”

“And he’s the one who gave you the black eye?”

Gilby glanced back down at the two girls forced together, their pale bodies crashing upon each other like some kind of mysterious sea foam. “He don’t look like he’s tough, but he’s mean. You think he’s got a sense of humor but then you find out he don’t. I always end up saying something I wish I hadn’t. And then I get one of these.” He tapped his two fingers below the eye again. “It’s a goddamn shame because we used to have fun when we were kids. Now he takes himself too seriously. Which is a problem if you don’t happen to think he’s kingshit of everything.”

Quentin nodded then, though he did not know why.

“Hey,” Gilby said, remembering something. “We’re trying to get rid of that old reticulated python back there. He’s an albino . . . Nobody wants an albino. They all want the tiger kind now. You got any interest in it?”

Quentin shrugged his shoulders and took a few steps down the aisle toward the glass tank. The python was fearsome-looking, long—almost a dozen feet, and curled up on itself in round, lazy loops. Its skin was a creamy white, with pale yellow and gray markings, its arrow-shaped head a yellow brighter than any kind of tropical flower.

“We tried to feed him a live rat but he wouldn’t touch it. We had to take the rat out because we were afraid it would scratch him up. I wanted to leave it in there and take bets but Mr. Peel said the snake wasn’t worth anything to us dead.”

Quentin tapped the glass. “He looks bored. You ever take him out at all?”

“Nope. He tried to bite me last time I did that. He’s got an attitude problem. He thinks he’s better than everyone else.” Gilby tapped the glass once, then again, the snake flicking its tongue in response. “But he ain’t. He’s the wrong color and so he ain’t shit.”

Quentin squinted a little. “What’s this?” he asked, staring at another glass tank. “When these come in?”

“Those are Chinese water dragons. They came in a couple days ago. They’re like iguanas pretty much. Except they like living in the water. Supposed to change their water every day because they shit in it and then try to drink it.”

“They’re terrific.”

“They’re all right.”

“You got a pair?” the boy asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I dunno.”

“You thinking of breeding them?”

Quentin nodded, pressing his hand up against the glass. “How much are they going for?”

“For the pair is thirty.”

“Thirty?”

“It’s an investment. You going to make money off them. As soon as you get some young ones, you can sell ’em back to Mr. Peel. The folks we bought them from said you can play this one cassette tape with Chinese music and then they’ll start breeding like crazy. You get the pair and I’m sure Mr. Peel will throw in that cassette tape too. Easy money.”

Quentin nodded once more, tapping the glass carefully with his fingertip, making as if he was touching the ridged neck and bumpy skin of the creature on the other side. “I’m gonna buy them. As soon as I save up enough. How long have they been here for?”

“A couple days. But Bobby Dare supposed to come in next weekend. He’s going to a trade show in Ohio and he usually cleans us out.”

Quentin tapped against the aquarium glass again and turned, glancing down at his watch. “I got to go. I’ll be back Monday. Or Tuesday. Don’t sell them until then if you can.”

Gilby nodded, once more returning to his spot behind the small glass counter. He stared down at the unfolded magazine. The boy gave the glass door a shove and stepped back outside into the distant glare of the sun.

* * *

Cocksucker was back in town. Mount Holly. There he was. On the go. A shadow in Mount Holly’s town square, the only shadow. It crossed over the birds on the bench. An omen, a bad cloud, scaring them all off. Flap-flap-flap. The dusty feathers, in summer, bird snow, made him cough. Lungs like asbestos, hack-hack-hack. He made his way past the feed store, trying not to have a coughing fit. Inside the feed store, civilians gathered around the counter, talking irrigation and drainage. Hayseeds in overalls. Mud on their boots. Not for him. Stopping at the corner now. Spitting at the side of the mailbox, taking his time to get the phlegm up, making a regular show of it. What came up was translucent and a little yellow, tinged with some pinkish blood. It was the consequence of smoking generic, unfiltered cigarettes and also doing a few lines of crystal cut with inferior cleaning products. He coughed and spat again. This one landed directly above the majestic outline of the blue post office eagle. Why an eagle? Who do you think you are? America. America. You ain’t nothing anymore. And he strode on, his boots rattling as he walked. His mother had chased him out of the house this morning, so he had not bothered to fasten the buckles. He tripped once, then again, before leaning over and hitching them. He looked up, out of breath.

Two boys, school-age, were playing with their yo-yos on the corner, sitting on the curb. Red-yellow, red-yellow, the yo-yo rearing up and down, the other silver-flecked like a comet, both of them spiral-like, spinning scientifically beside their knees. The sight of it made him dizzy. And then angry. He made a grab for one, yanking it from the boy’s hand. Boo. The kid screamed like a girl, the yo-yo rolling down the curb toward the sewer grate, lying faceup beside a soda pop bottle. The other kid dropped his, the two of them running off together. Two shadows disappearing down an alleyway. The sound of rubber soles on hot pavement.

On he strolled. The Band-Aid on his nose falling off. He stopped in front of the Bide-A-While and found the door to the saloon locked. He made a disappointed sound in his throat, and then coughed again. He squinted inside, the glass window coated with a black film that only reflected his unwashed face. His jawline was coated in blackheads and stubble. He looked like a charity case in need of a haircut. The hair was dark hanging over his ears. He tried the door again. Locked. He blinked up into the sun. Hot for August. Too hot. He turned to squint at the clock tower in the center of the square. One of its faces read 1:30, the other 2:15. The sign on the door read 4 p.m. Either way, it was still too early so he fumbled for the pack of smokes rolled up in his sleeve, lit one, then ambled back down the street. A semi pulling a trailer full of dairy cows crawled past. A song was blaring from its cab,
I know it’s only rock ’n’ roll but I like it . . .
He whistled along, traveling westward now.

On down the sloping street, he stopped before the parking lot where as a boy he’d always run whenever he had stolen something. There. He might have curled up right there in between those rows of parked cars, the smell of motor oil and gasoline and his own fear as distinct a memory as the taste of the powdery, brittle bubble gum that came with each pack of baseball cards he slipped inside his coat. The gum not at all enjoyable but something which you put in your mouth simply because it was there. It being part of the practice of opening a pack of cards which had been carefully pocketed. The ones he stole always came out to be doubles of players he had already. Carlton Fisk. Dwight Gooding. Reggie Jackson
.
Even at a young age he learned that crime was something you did simply for its own fun. Because when you stole something, it usually wasn’t worth the trouble you spent.

When he crossed the street again, back to the saloon a half hour later, he found it was still locked. So. He had a serious coughing fit just then, his chest feeling like it was on fire once more. Until he could bring up the phlegm which looked to contain little pieces of his lungs. He fumbled for another cigarette and again noticed how the tips of his fingers were swelled up. Much too round, like the digits of a cartoon character. A boy he had been fucking back in San Diego, Derek, another ex-con, had said he had Mickey Mouse hands. The boy’s sister was an RN and took one look at them and declared, “You got something wrong with your circulation. You oughta make that cigarette your last,” and he had tried for a week or so, even going out to buy the nicotine patch. But it didn’t last, and neither did the boy. Derek had been the only one he had ever met who did not say no to anything he asked for in bed. But he had given the boy a black eye and the boy pulled a can of mace on him. Then that was the end of that. So.

When he stopped coughing, he stood on the corner. Watched the traffic go by for a while, then headed back to where his own red pickup truck was parked. He fooled around with the driver’s-side mirror, which was just about ready to fall off. Hung there with banding wire. Would not stay in place, no matter what. Lit another cigarette, searched underneath the bench seat. Found the pistol, a .45 Chief’s Special. He slipped it into the waistband at the back of his pants. Found the pair of black gloves. The black ski mask in the truck’s glove compartment. Shoved the mask and gloves under his left arm, and glanced around to be sure he wasn’t being watched. Coughing once more, he struggled to catch his breath. It took a few minutes before he was breathing right again. He searched in his pockets and found some Nembutals. Took two. Then he popped some caffeine pills. Four of those, their shape odd against his tongue. Looking around again to make sure he had not been seen, he stomped off in the direction of the drugstore at the shady end of the street. Okay. Now don’t forget to breathe.

* * *

By three p.m. the grandfather had finished his business at the feed store, slinging the sacks of oats and a few bales of hay into the back of the pickup, holding his shoulder where it was now sore. He did not ask the clerks at the feed store for help with the hay, as he had never needed it before. So he leaned his left arm against the door of the pickup, the metal panel having been warmed by the sun, and soon the throb and ache slowly faded. He groaned with a little relief, closing his eyes, the joint and muscle once again settling into place.

A shadow fell across his tightened eyelids and so he quickly opened them.

“That arm still bothering you?”

It was Doc Milborne, with his round face, gray beard, and craggy mouth. He had to be ninety if he was a day, still practicing, his blue eyes like carnival glass behind a pair of narrow specs.

“No, doc. Shoulder’s just a little stiff is all.”

“Why don’t you make an appointment to come by the office sometime next week? We’ll take another look at it.”

“Much obliged,” Jim said, tipping the white cattleman’s hat. “I’ll call when I have the time.”

“You either make the time or the time’ll be taken from you.”

“You go to all those years of medical school just to learn sayings like that?”

“No. I went for the chance to meet girls. And I still haven’t found the right one yet.” His eyes seemed to fog over with a distant memory before he said, “Now don’t be mulish. You give the office a call. I expect to see you sometime this week.” Then the good doctor stiffly marched off.

Stepping around the corner, the grandfather walked up the stairwell and found Jim Northfield’s office empty. He trucked back down to the street and discovered the saloon had not yet opened, and so he decided to pay a visit to the Masonic lodge. The door to the lodge—a pair of offices on the second floor of a two-story building, directly above a vacant optometrist’s shop—was slightly ajar.

“So much for secrecy,” Jim mumbled, slipping off his white hat. The walls of the lodge were now bare; the outlines where Egyptian-motif banners had recently hung were all that remained of the baroque decor. Everything had been packed into boxes, which stood piled in a corner. The three senior officers, all old-timers, Jim Northfield, Jim Dooley, and Jim Wall, were sitting around a table, tipping a fifth of bourbon. At the center of the table was a framed photograph of Burt Hale, the lodge’s longtime treasurer. The officers all muttered their salutations to Jim, conducted their secret handshakes, and managed to find a fourth chair somewhere among the debris. Jim took the seat, swallowed down the shot of whiskey that was quickly placed before him, and felt his left eye begin to water.