The Happiest People in the World (23 page)

T
hey had not taken the bus, because Locs hated taking the bus, and so she lied to Mr. Korkmaz about there not being a bus to Broomeville. Instead they rented a car. Who knew what kind it was. Locs wasn't paying attention to that. She drove, following the snaking highways and bridges through New York City, then up the Hudson to Albany, then west, along the canal as far as Utica, then north. She registered the changes in scenery without really paying any attention to them. The entire way she was thinking nothing but, Matthew, Matthew, love, love, until thirty minutes from her destination, when she remembered to think: Broomeville. Five minutes later they came to the house of the guy who was well known for selling illegal fireworks and much less well known for selling illegal firearms. But Locs knew: two years earlier, on the run from Broomeville to Denmark, she'd sold her many guns to the guy for traveling money. Now she was back. “You're back,” the guy said. Everyone called him Buddy, but Locs refused to call him by that name or to refer to him, even in her head, as anything but “the guy.” Locs was hoping the guy would sell her something high caliber. But all he had were handguns. With Mr. Korkmaz's money, Locs bought two handguns.

“Who's the fucking old man?” the guy said, easily loud enough for Mr. Korkmaz to hear. The guy himself was probably forty, but he had an enormous white beard, big enough to hide things in, and dressed in denim overalls and dusty brogans and a faded floppy hat, as though at any second he expected to be whisked back to the Dust Bowl, and in all respects he looked like an old man himself, which presumably, in his mind, gave him the right to refer to actual old men as fucking old men, rather than with the respect they deserved. Locs didn't know why she was getting so worked up about this. Maybe because she was preparing to get worked up about other things. Quickly she loaded the gun and handed it to Mr. Korkmaz. “Go ahead and shoot him,” she said.

Then she walked back to the car. “Hey!” the guy said, but then she didn't hear Mr. Korkmaz shoot him, which was too bad. Locs got into the driver's side, and a second later Mr. Korkmaz got into the passenger's. They drove onward. Locs turned on the heat. It had gotten cold; snow was starting to fly. That was the right way to describe it, too: the snow was not falling; it looked, as with an airplane, like it was proceeding horizontally from one place to the next. Broomeville, Broomeville. Then a sign saying it:
BROOMEVILLE: 7 MILES
.

“I would not shoot that hairy man,” Mr. Korkmaz said.

Locs almost drove off the road. Not because of the sentence, but because Mr. Korkmaz had spoken: Was it possible that he'd really not spoken for over four hours? What had he been thinking? It occurred to Locs to ask him something. Locs knew
her
plan: She would somehow evade Capo et al. and go to Matthew's house, where he would be, and then they would figure things out from there. Love. Barring that, she would shoot people until she found Matthew, and then they would figure things out from there.

“What's your plan?” Locs asked Mr. Korkmaz. She didn't see the gun. He was wearing a heavy waxed coat with many pockets. Locs assumed the gun was in one of them. She'd bought both guns for herself; she had not intended to give one to Mr. Korkmaz. But she didn't ask for it back. Old, frail Mr. Korkmaz would not look, to anyone who didn't know him, as though he was likely to have a gun, let alone be able to use one. It might end up being good to have someone who didn't look like he'd have a gun, have a gun.

“My plan?”

“We get to Broomeville . . .,” she said, turning to look at Mr. Korkmaz, who was looking out the window at a billboard that said
NIRVANA: THERE'S ONLY ONE
! She had no idea what the billboard was advertising or whom it was quoting.

“You assist me to find Søren. I prevent him from murdering the cartoonist. We return to Skagen.” He shrugged, rubbed the dashboard as though for good luck. “Or we stay here.”

“In Broomeville?”

“In America,” Mr. Korkmaz said. “PT Cruiser.”

“What?”

“What does it mean, PT Cruiser?”

Locs realized that he was talking about the rental car. It was a PT Cruiser, the most ridiculous of all the ridiculous American cars with their ridiculous names: it was humpbacked and clunky and was supposed to remind you of American gangsters standing on the running boards with tommy guns in the movies and no one actually getting hurt except for the one or two guys who absolutely deserved it and the one or two guys who were totally expendable.

“It doesn't mean anything,” Locs said. “It's supposed to remind you of America.”

“Well, it succeeds,” Mr. Korkmaz said. “I like it.”

“You do?” Normally, Locs would have thought the person who would say such a thing too stupid to live. But Mr. Korkmaz had already lived such a long time. Plus, she really did like him, or would have, had she not been manipulating him and had there been more time. They were almost in Broomeville now: one mile to go. “Listen,” she said. “Suppose Søren has already killed the cartoonist?”

Mr. Korkmaz shrugged again, still looking out the window. It was starting to gust: the trees were bending and bowing; the ground was still bare, but the air was getting thicker with snow, and little tornadoes of it were touching down here and there on the road. It got even colder in the car, even with the heater on high. It felt, atmospherically, like something big was about to happen.

“Søren could not kill anyone with intention,” Mr. Korkmaz finally said. Locs thought he was probably right. On the other hand, she knew of several people who could definitely intentionally kill Søren. But she didn't say that. The sign told Locs to turn left to get to downtown Broomeville. She did, driving through the narrow chute of trees and tenements and railroad tracks and railroad cars. The snow was now pouring through the narrow opening above; it was as though they were at the bottom of a mailbox and someone was dumping snow in the slot. But through the snow, Locs could see the town square up ahead. “I would shoot that hairy man if he had previously killed Søren,” Mr. Korkmaz said. “That would be the only reason.” And before Locs could respond to that, she saw Matthew and Kurt pull up outside the Lumber Lodge. Matty—wearing his Cornell hat, of course—got out of the passenger's side; Kurt got out of the driver's side. Kurt is old enough to drive, thought Locs. Oh, Matthew, we've wasted so much time. And while she was wasting time thinking this thought, Matty and Kurt walked into the Lumber Lodge.

A
s soon as Kurt had told Matty what he'd remembered about Henry, what he'd told his mother, Matty had insisted they go down to the Lumber Lodge immediately. He barely knew why himself. Matty just had some vague sense that if Ellen dumped Henry for lying to her, which Matty was sure she would do, then Matty needed to be around, the way Henry had been around when Ellen had dumped Matty. And Matty also had the vague sense that it'd be better if Kurt were there, too, so that Ellen could see the whole family to which she could be returning, not the broken Dane (Dane?) she should be leaving behind. But Matty didn't know how to explain all this to Kurt, so instead he said, “We need to go to the Lumber Lodge.” And then, before Kurt could ask why, Matty added, “You can drive.”

Kurt had, adequately. Now they were walking into the Lumber Lodge. The first thing Matty saw was the streamers. Some of them were sagging low, and Matty had to resist the mighty urge to tear them down. The next thing Matty saw was Ronald standing in the middle of the bar holding an enormous gun.
Holding
was perhaps the wrong verb. His left hand was on the trigger—if that's what you called the firing mechanism on a gun that was as big and menacing as the one Ronald was holding, and Matty wasn't at all sure that it was—and his right hand, his crippled hand, was kind of supporting the barrel. When Ronald noticed Matty and Kurt, the barrel slipped a little bit, but he caught it with his claw and raised it again. And only then did Matty look at where Ronald was pointing the gun. To the left of the bar, standing up against the wall, one hand in the air, the other in his coat pocket, was
Dr.
Vernon. Behind the bar was Ellen. Sitting on the other side of the bar was Henry. His back was to Ronald; he was sitting there, apparently eating chicken wings, like there was nothing else in the world to do.

“Kurt!” Matty said. Because Kurt was walking across the room now. Past Ronald, at whom he nodded, and who nodded back, gun still trained, it was obvious, on Henry. Kurt walked past Henry, whom he smacked on the shoulder, as you'd do with anyone you knew who was eating wings at the bar. To his mother. He put his left arm over her shoulder and left it there. Had he ever done that before? Ellen wondered. Was this what stupid people meant when they said stupid things about all the good that came out of the bad? Meanwhile, Matty was standing across the room. He should have been over there, with her, with their son. But no, Matty was standing there on the far side of the room, paralyzed. I can't believe I was ever married to him, Ellen thought, and then she thought, But then again, I kind of can't believe that I'm still not.

“I really am going to kill you now,” Ronald said. It was clear that Ronald was talking to Henry. But Henry didn't turn around. “Guidance counselor!” Ronald shouted. And still, Henry just sat there, eating! Ellen started to itch all over. What is wrong with you? Ellen thought. Who
are
you? Don't you know how much trouble you're in? Is there anything more infuriating than someone who doesn't seem to know he should be terrified? But then Ellen saw Henry's barely raised eyes looking at the huge mirror behind the bar. Eating, eating, calmly, unimpressed, in his very Henry way, but also looking in the mirror, seemingly aware of everything going on behind him, and next to him, too. He glanced at her, raised the chicken wing to his mouth, smiled with his eyes, then returned them to the mirror. And wow, Ellen realized how much she loved him and always would. She loved him so much that she couldn't believe that she wasn't going to take him back, that she wasn't going to forgive him for lying to her. It would be, she thought, something she would probably always regret. But. Ellen put her arm around Kurt, and together they walked across the room, toward Matty, whom Kurt was trying to command with his eyes.

Go! Kurt was trying to tell his father as they walked toward him. Back up slowly, slowy, out the door, and go get help! But just then, through that door, came Kurt's uncle Lawrence and Crystal, Crystal looking as though she'd really like to hurt someone, maybe his uncle Lawrence, who was going on in his usual way, not paying attention to the scene into which he was walking, talking about some other place, some other time, some other person—Kurt couldn't really concentrate on the particulars, it was very difficult to concentrate when there was a gun in the room. Anyway, his uncle Lawrence, talking, talking, until he and Crystal reached the center of the barroom. And only then did he seem to notice Ronald and Ronald's gun.

“Well,” Lawrence said. Smile, he told himself, and then he did that—at Ronald, and then at Crystal, who had moved to the far left side of the room and whose right hand was in her coat pocket, and then back at Ronald, who was kind of turned, half his face toward Lawrence, but the rest of his face, and his whole body and gun, still trained on Henry. Relax, Lawrence was trying to say with his smile. Everything is going to be just fine. Thinking, I should have stayed in Beirut, Palermo, anywhere else. Looking at all these miserable, scared faces. Thinking
,
The world is full of happy people. Wondering, Why are all of you so, so unhappy? Thinking, But that's a rhetorical question. Saying, “Ronald.”

“I
am
going to kill him.”

“Because he killed your sister,” Lawrence said. And only then did Henry swivel on his stool to face the rest of the room. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, too. Ronald looked to Henry's left. That garish
Dr.
Vernon was standing there,
his
hand in
his
pocket. That made five armed people in the room. Out of them, one was a Dane, one was no doubt on narcotics, one had a crippled hand, and one was a borderline psychotic, although a borderline psychotic in Lawrence's employ. And all he could think was, They are so lucky the other person with a gun is me. Everyone in this room is so lucky to have me. The world is so lucky to have me.

“No,” Henry said, looking at Ronald, at Ellen, at everyone, everywhere.

“He murdered the stranger as well.”

“No!” Henry said.

“Yes,” Ronald said, his gun still somewhat pointed at Henry, but his face somewhat pointed at Lawrence.

“It's a compelling theory,” Lawrence said. Just then, Doc came in the door, and in front of him Joseph in handcuffs. Joseph's head was down, as though in preparation for its being lopped off. Doc steered him into the middle of the room, between where Lawrence and Crystal were standing. “Compelling, but incorrect.” Doc patted Joseph on the back, and Joseph said, with his head still down, “It was me. I killed both of them.”

Ronald dropped his gun to his side, holding it with his good hand. He was looking at Joseph, thinking, Who the hell are you? Aren't you the school cop or something? Do you even have a
name
? To Ronald, this was the saddest thing yet: that his sister had been killed by a nameless nobody, a person so unimportant that Ronald hadn't even considered him a suspect. It left him almost speechless. “You're a coroner and also a cop,” Ronald finally said to Doc.

“Deputized,” Doc said.

Ronald raised his gun again, pointing it at Joseph now. “Why?” he said. “Why would you kill my sister? Why would you kill the stranger?”

These were good questions. Lawrence hadn't gotten so far as to come up with an answer that would explain Joseph's guilt while not incriminating Lawrence himself. But before he could come up with an answer, he saw movement to his right. “Oh my,” he said. Because Locs had walked into the room, and next to her was an elderly gentleman of Middle Eastern descent. Turkish, Lawrence guessed, by the color of his skin, the secularity of his dress. Istanbul! he thought. “Locs,” he said. But Locs wasn't looking at Lawrence. She was looking at Matty, who was standing with Ellen and Kurt. The happy family. Overhead, there were streamers. Oh God, it was a party. Probably a party for the happy family. Oh God, she was stupid. Matty was looking at her with a sick look on his face. It might have been love. But it was probably only apology. I'm sorry you're so stupid, he was probably trying to tell her. I'm sorry you're so stupid that you're still wearing my stupid hat. She took it off her head and flung it toward him, but Ellen caught it and then immediately dropped it. Kurt bent over and picked it up, remembering now, from two years ago, the woman in the hat who had almost run over him and his cronies while they were looking at Henry's cartoon, at the Danish word that meant “counter.” Here you are again, Kurt thought. But who are you? Whoever she was, he felt like an idiot holding her hat. He walked across the room, gave the woman her hat back, and then returned to where he'd been standing. Meanwhile, Ellen had sort of wandered into the middle of the room, moving in the general direction of the cartoonist. They both had dazed looks on their faces. He reached his hand out to Ellen; she seemed to be strongly considering taking it. Good: that gave Locs some hope. But then Matty opened his mouth to speak. Locs could almost see the words coming out of them: Ellen, he would say. I'm sorry for whatever. Please forgive me. And Ellen would. The idiot. Married forever to
Matty,
the idiot. Was everyone in this room (the fat guy in the ridiculous shirt, for instance, and the guy with the crippled hand and the big gun, and certainly Joseph, who looked like he was going to take the fall for something because he was too stupid not to take the fall for something, not to mention Capo, fucking Capo, and his Crystal and his Doc) too stupid to live? Was everyone in this town, this
world,
too stupid to live? Locs was sure they were. Might as well kill them all. Except . . . Matty didn't say anything. He just looked at Locs, smiling sheepishly, as though to say, I think we're really going to do this thing. And suddenly Locs could see the future: In it, Ellen really would marry Henry. Matty would marry Locs. Kurt would split his time between them. Capo would not kill her, would not have her killed. Because you did not kill your sister-in-law. Because you did not kill someone in love. Love, love: it does not make you stupid, it makes you invincible. Finally, Locs thought, I'm going to be happy; finally, everyone is going to be happy; finally, everything is going to be just fine.

“Who is meant by ‘the stranger'?” Mr. Korkmaz asked. But he knew. Everyone knew. “Oh, Søren,” he said.

“Oh no,” Locs said. But it was too late. Mr. Korkmaz took the gun out of his pocket. He pointed it at Joseph and then seemed to change his mind and pointed it at Henry, and when he did that, Ellen stepped in front of Henry, but by that point Henry had already taken out his gun and fired it at Mr. Korkmaz. The sound was so loud that it sort of scrambled everything, for everyone. It took a second for everyone's normal way of seeing and thinking to return. When it did, Henry saw Ellen lying on the floor, Kurt kneeling down next to her, Matty standing, paralyzed, over both of them. Henry dropped his gun, put his face in his hands. “Please just kill me,” he thought and then also said, through his hands. Mr. Korkmaz once again trained his weapon on Henry. And then he and everyone else in the room who had a gun just started shooting.