Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (95 page)

"So now, when you see something, violence for instance, you will laugh and laugh and laugh, because it’s hysterically funny. Do you know why it’s funny? Because it’s meaningless. It’s so utterly meaningless, and people have attached to it such grave meaning. When you see an act of violence, Andy, you will laugh and say ‘How meaningless.’
 
Values no longer concern you, Andy. You are above them. They are falling away beneath you. You have just taken the first step toward becoming something better."

# # #

god comes to Vi after she pushes her third meal in a row through the slot beneath the door. god always waits until they try to starve themselves to death. It is a sign of their malleability.

When she hears the voice from the darkness overhead, she thinks she’s crossed into delirium. Weak, starving, she has hardly the strength to sit up, so she rolls over onto her back and stares into the blackness above.

"What’s up, God?" she says.

"Are you mad at me, Violet?"

"You do this to me?"

"’
Fraid
so."

"Then I’m mad at you."

Vi laughs in god’s invisible face. god laughs, too. The sound of god’s laughter is the most disturbing thing she’s ever heard. Her subconscious image of God is one of those oil paintings of a hippie, blatantly Caucasian Jesus in a clean, white robe, staring out of the canvas with sad, penetrating eyes. God isn’t supposed to laugh. Her God is holy and solemn, and if Vi were honest with herself, perfectly boring.

Under most circumstances, Vi would disregard any voice that intimated it was God. But after thirty days in soundless, pitch black isolation, when a voice suddenly speaks to you and tells you he’s God, you have no perspective from which to refute it.

"Everything you’ve been told about me is wrong," god continues.

"I couldn’t agree more."

"You want to die here, Violet?"

"No."

"You’d like to see your husband again? Max?"

She lets that name and what it could do to her bounce off her like a rubber ball.

"Of course I would."
       

"Then I need you to eat, Violet. Can you do that for me?"

"Why?"

"We have things to talk about, and you’ll be dead soon at the rate you’re going."

"Why can’t you just save me?"

"I’m doing exactly that, Violet. Only the things I’m saving you from, you may not want saving from."

"Like what?"

"Values. Comfortable illusions. Lies you’ve been told all your life by cowards."

"I don’t un—"

"You will understand. If you trust me. Do you trust me?"

"No."

"Then you’ll die here alone."

"Okay, I’ll try."

And she means it, and so begins the process of lying to herself. God has come to her. He’s come to save her. It’s so much easier to believe than the truth—whatever that may be.

# # #

And the captives sleep—two in darkness, dreaming of god, half-mad with sensory deprivation, one in bed, out of his mind on painkillers. They are being
mindfucked
each day. Whether the things god tells them will stick remains to be seen. Suggestion is powerful coupled with narcotics and exhaustion and isolation. But it can’t
loose
what isn’t there. god is looking for his diamond core. Where it is, he will nurture. Where it isn’t, or rather, where it can’t bear itself, he will make a brutal end.

But now god is sitting on a couch with his wife, a fire blazing in the hearth, Bing Crosby filling the musty corridors of his great stone house.

As he watches his son decorate the Christmas tree, his old wife rises to replenish her hot chocolate.

Would Rufus care for some more? He certainly would.

Luther hangs the final ornament, a wooden airplane he’s had since childhood, then comes and sits beside his father.

It’s a raw December evening beyond those drafty windows, and the cold fog spilling in from the sound has begun to enwrap the two live oaks in the front yard.

But they are warm, the logs hissing, popping, just the boys now. Rufus puts his arm around Luther, thinking of Christmas, fast approaching, his boy being home, the three souls now under his care, and the miserable little wretch named Horace, writing for his life upstairs.

You would think such a man did not know happiness, that his life of darkness would make him a creature of anger and melancholy and fear.

"Merry Christmas, son. Came together beautifully, didn’t it?"

And they sit watching the fire together, Rufus reflecting on the days to come. He’s quite joyful for someone whose passions direct them to go spelunking in the shunned caves of human psyche. It would be comforting to say that Rufus did not know happiness, that he was swallowed up in misery and self-hate.

But it would be a lie.

# # #

Next comes Christmas Eve. Maxine Kite carries the last casserole dish of candied yams up the staircase to the third floor cupola of the ancient house. Her guests have been dressed and seated. The long table is candlelit, moonlit. Through the west wall of windows, a thin moon lacquers the sound into glossy black. Through the east wall of windows, the Atlantic gleams beyond the tangle of live oaks and yaupon. The tourists gone, the island silently twinkling, the evening is cold and glorious and more star-ridden than any night in the last three years.

Breathless, Maxine sets the yams on the tablecloth beside a platter of steaming crab cakes. Then she takes a seat at the end of the table, opposite her husband, and releases a contended sigh. "Mrs. Claus" is spelled out in rhinestones across the front of her bright red sweater.

Dressed up as Santa Claus, Rufus occupies the head of the table. To his left sit the spasmodic Andrew Thomas, Elizabeth Lancing, and Violet King, their faces twitching involuntarily. At Rufus’s right sit Luther and Horace Boone. Luther also wears a Santa hat but does not look happy about it. Horace holds a leather-bound journal in his lap. His legs and torso have been duct-taped to the chair, and he trembles.

"Beautiful," Rufus says, addressing his wife, "I think I speak for everyone when I say this looks absolutely scrumptious."

Rufus rises and steps behind Andy, Beth, and Vi—a haggard-looking bunch. The ladies have been helped into two of Maxine’s faded house dresses. Andy wears one of Rufus’s tattered leisure suits—too tall and too narrow in the shoulders.

"Would Miss Violet care for some cranberry relish?" Rufus asks.

Vi looks up over her shoulder and smiles at the vibrating three-headed god.

"Ha-ha-ha, yes Miss Violet would."

Rufus scoops a spoonful of relish onto her plate and inquires if she’d care for a serving of mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Oh please. I’m eating for two, you know."

"Is that right?" Rufus says. "Well, I’ll be."

Vi’s head seizures intensely for five seconds.

"
Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhat
was fun!"

Luther reaches for the broccoli casserole.

"Boy!" Maxine yells. "Not until the guests are served!"

When Rufus has finished serving the twitching threesome, he returns to his chair at the head of the table, removes his Santa hat, and says, "Dig in, everybody."

As the platters are passed around, Horace watches the three tremblers across the table try to feed themselves. Roughly one out of every three attempts ends in someone missing their mouth and shoving the food directly into their face. When Beth inserts a spoonful of yams down the neck of her dress, Vi giggles, then chokes and snorts mashed potatoes through her nose. The entire table laughs, and Rufus says, "Boy, the Christmas cheer is just palpable."
  

Then the party goes quiet and the room fills with eating sounds. Luther’s plate is covered in raw oysters on half shells. He lifts one after another, shaking a few drops of Tabasco sauce onto the cool oyster, and sucking it down his throat like a swallow of briny spicy snot.

"Oh my God!" Andy suddenly exclaims, peering at something under the table.

Rufus finishes off a hushpuppy and gently takes hold of Andy’s arm.

"What is it, Andy?" he asks.

"What happened to my leg?"

"Oh," Rufus chuckles. "Had to do a little surgery. That bear trap nearly took it off. I told Luther it was too big a snare. You almost lost the leg. Thought I might have to saw it off. Yeah, that’s about ninety stitches there."

Andy glares at Rufus, his head convulsing violently, then bursts out in laughter.

"Thank you!" Andy shouts.

Rufus lifts his fork, smiling, "Merry Christmas, Andy, you get to keep your leg!"

Again, the table erupts in laughter, everybody but Horace, who just stares at his plate, food uneaten, tears welling from his bloodshot eyes.

"Why the long face, boy?" Maxine asks. "You ain’t hungry?"

"He’s just nervous, Beautiful," Rufus says. "Totally understandable. He’s waiting for the verdict. Show everybody your book, Horace."

The boy lifts the slim leather journal up from his lap for everyone to see.

"That right there is
Horace Boone’s Philosophy of Evil
."

"I didn’t know you were a writer," Vi says.

Beth has passed out in her food.

Andy stares at a grouping of peas on his plate, mesmerized.

"That’s wonderful," Maxine says, "what you got to be nervous about, boy?"

"It’s shit," Rufus says. "That’s what he’s got to be nervous about."

Horace buries his face in his hands.

"I told him the first night he was here, ‘Horace, I didn’t invite you. If you want to stay, convince me you’re worth it.’"

Rufus takes a half shell from his son’s plate and sucks out the oyster.

Wiping his mouth, he continues, "I told him about my collection of treatises. I explained what would happen if I didn’t find favor with his, and he accepted the risk. So Horace, look at me you big crybaby."

Horace looks across the table at the hideous Santa Claus.

"For the record, I have
not
found favor with your treatise. Your rage is great, but your mind is small. You long to burn people. To smell cooked flesh. Eat human ash. Interesting cravings, sure, but Horace, you would murder without calm. You’d do it out of fear and confusion and rage. It would be brutal, but it would serve your deficiency, not your strength. You’re a kitty-cat who wants to be a lion."

"Rufus, just give me—"

"You were told not to speak. In short, you aren’t what I’m looking for, Horace. Few are. I saw your heart in your words, and it’s a broken, desperate organ, for which I have no use."

"Pop," Luther says, "why don’t we just let him burn one of the girls?"

Rufus turns and smiles at his son. He lifts his hand, scratches his nose, and backhands Luther across the face.

Vi giggles.

Andy licks peas, one by one, off his plate.

Beth snores.

Maxine shakes her head.

Horace weeps.

Luther glares.

"You go on and take him downstairs, son. I don’t care what you do with him. I might be down later. Better say goodbye to your idol, Horace."

Crying hard now, Horace glares at Andy and his peas.

"You misjudge your former hero," Rufus says. "I knew his brother. That’s the stock I’m looking for. That’s a lion who wishes to God he were a kitty. Leave your pathetic book on the table. I want it for my collection. Merry Christmas."

Luther rises, discards his Santa hat, and pushes his long black hair behind his shoulders.

Horace begins to beg.

Maxine pinches his cheeks as Luther slides Horace’s chair back from the table.

"You give a shit about this chair, Mama?" Luther asks.