When Pigs Fly (17 page)

“But I
am
your Mom.”

Mack sighed.

“Are you in love with her?”

“We’ve only known each other two days. I'd say I'm in like, but I can’t speak for her.” Cal winked at Mack and gave him an encouraging nod.

“In like who? Like Flynn?”

“Mrs. Durgin,” Cal said, “I see you've been shopping.”

“Indeed, which reminds me why we came here.” Brodie reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a small white box with a ribbon on it. “For you, dear. It's just a silly thing we picked up here in town.” Cal undid the ribbon and opened the box to find a glass sphere with a desert scene inside: a man riding a burro alongside some cactuses. Cal shook it and watched white flakes fall to the bottom.

“A saguaro snow globe! Thank you! I didn't have one!”

Carrick became serious. “And now the reason we came to see you, Mack.” There was a long silence. Brodie whispered in her husband's ear, and he pulled out a package that looked like it contained a framed picture.

Carrick cleared his throat. “You were an officer of the law for thirty years.”

“See, Cal? I told you.”

Cal speared a slice of avocado and looked up at Carrick. “I never doubted you.”

“Children looked up to you, the citizenry of Lowell felt safe with you, and many killers, thieves, and drug-dealing dregs went to jail because of you.”

“Mack Durgin, this is your life.”

“No,
you’re
Mack Durgin. And you retired without ever making Captain.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Brodie smiled. “But your father and I decided that you deserve an appropriate honor for your achievements.”

Mack pondered what those achievements might be. There were the usual citations, of course, a few successes that garnered clippings from the
Lowell Sun
, none of it quite the stuff of legend. When he retired, he and Mary had bought a half interest in a donut shop, Mack joking that it was a natural segue from the public safety arena. Cal remained quiet, her eyes alive with curiosity.

“You have thirty years of great public service to your credit,” Carrick said. “Your diligent detective work brought down the notorious Canal Street gang. After the great mill fire of eighty-six, you relentlessly tracked down the arsonist and put him behind bars.”

Mack shook his head and began to speak. He felt a sharp, painful kick in the ankle from Cal at the same time she reached out and held his hand and kept her gaze on his father. Brodie’s face glowed with admiration for her son. The litany went on—much of it true, but pumped up like the walk-on-water resume of a perfectly competent cop who was bucking for commissioner.

“Your father and I thought you deserved a special honor,” Brodie said. “We called Northeastern University—your alma mater, you know—and they weren’t equipped to help us. Then we surfed the Internet at the public library.”

“I’m a goofy foot when it comes to surfing,” Carrick said. “Did you read that David Daniel novel,
Goofy Foot
?”

“Of course I did. So what did you guys find, Mom?” Mack’s ankle still smarted.

“It means right foot first on a surfboard. Who says you can’t learn from fiction?”

Brodie sipped her glass of Pinot Grigio. “We found that not all institutions of higher learning consist of bricks and mortar, son.”

Carrick straightened himself in his chair, looking slightly embarrassed. “Therefore, by the authority vested in us by Cyberspace University, the most prestigious non-accredited distance-learning institution in America, we, Brodie and Carrick Durgin, do hereby present you with the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Life Experience.” Together, Mack’s parents reverentially handed him the award. Mack felt the heat in his face, but Cal applauded. It was handsome calligraphy on parchment, with a cherry wood frame his parents probably added separately. Mack hugged and thanked them, then looked at the “degree” with Cal. He hoped his folks hadn’t been scammed too badly.

“It’s going on my wall tonight,” Mack said.

“
Universitas Cyberiensis
,” Cal said, her hand warm on his wrist. “
Very
impressive.”

“Latin was extra,” Carrick said, “but you’re well worth it.”

“Your parents are so cute,” Cal said later. She rode in the passenger seat of Mack’s car, her window down, her elbow catching the warm onrush of Arizona night. Rain had fallen briefly and laced the air with the tang of wet creosote. Tires hissed as the car sped past the Interstate sign, toward the Pincushion exit and Mack’s home. In the darkness lurked cactus ghosts and owls feeding off the night. Mack thought about his Mom and Dad, who had given him life, fed him, nurtured him, taught him. He remembered Mom reading
Johnny Tremaine
aloud at the dinner table, Dad teaching him to fish, Mom making him finish his math homework, helping him understand the quadratic equations he would never need to see again in his life once his finals were over. Dad teaching him how to box and how to walk away from a fight. To laugh a lot, keep your promises, toss back undersized fish, keep yourself clean, make your gray matter work for you, never take what’s not yours. Mom’s mind had been razor-sharp during all the years of Mack’s childhood and far beyond. When had her edge begun to dull? She’d always had the zinger, the punch line, the quotient just a breath ahead of Dad, while the answers or the wisecracks were still forming in Mack’s mind. Now she seemed unable to reason her way across the street without Dad’s help.

“Are your parents still alive?” Mack asked.

“It’s been years,” she answered. “Cherish yours while you can.”

Mack slowed for the exit, hoping to slow down the evening and keep it from coming to a close. How much of the warmth he felt was the night air, and how much was Cal? It was a foolish question; the dashboard clock said 10:53, and the temperature had to be at least eighty degrees. A trace of moonlight brought Cal’s face out of the shadows for a moment and cause a sexual stirring in Mack. But he didn’t want any more one-night stands, no more bop-and-runs. If only he could persuade her to stop running, to stay here awhile where it was safe. He also thought about his obligation to his old friend, his old dead friend he carried around in a ceramic container in the trunk of his car.

He dropped her off at his house. She hugged him and gave him her pursed-lip smile, her face aglow in the carport lights, maybe expecting a night in his bed, or a good-night kiss, or an invitation to mount his new degree on his living-room wall. “Good night,” he said. “See you in the morning?”

“I’d better head for the coast in the morning.” She squeezed his shoulder and let him go. “Good night. You’re a dear man.”

In a minute she was gone, the red tail lights of her Dodge receding into the night.
Dear man?
Only Mary had ever called him that. Mack felt like an idiot, just letting her go so easily.

Poindexter didn’t know what to make of his situation. The humans who led him inside the shack were as naked as he was. The floor was dirt, and the air was filled with a smoky aroma that was new to him.

“He has arrived,” said a human.

“It is written, a beast with cloven hooves shall redeem us. We shall prepare the holy roast.”

Poindexter was ushered into the middle of the room and surrounded by cross-legged, glassy-eyed humans. Mealtime, he thought. He peed with excitement. The smoke made him dizzy, though, so he didn’t object when they tied him to a long pole and suspended him by his feet above a pile of wood.

A female human held a knife in her fist. “We must drink a cup of his blood before we light the holy spark. So it is written.”

“So written where? The Book of Fred says he must be roasted alive!”

“Apostate!”

“Unbeliever!”

“Fred-worshiper!”

There was a lot of shouting and shoving, and then there wasn’t. Poindexter enjoyed all this attention and happily wondered what would happen next. Then a man squatted next to him.

“Who’s got a match?” he said.

Mack shook his head at his own stupidity as he unlocked his front door, his unearned degree under his arm. He’d have no way to get in touch with Cal once she left the area, and he definitely wanted to see her again.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he knew he wasn’t alone. He heard a muffled noise from his den, and something—or someone—stunk. A shiver iced his back, and he wished he had the gun he kept in his bedroom. As he took a step backward, something cracked sharply against the back of his head. Between his ears a neon sign pulsated with dull red letters. As he fell to his knees, he tried to make out what the sign said, but the letters kept changing shape and color.
Funeral. Durgin. Home. Mack Durgin’s Funeral Home?
On a distant television ad, someone seemed to be saying,
I’m not only the president, I’m a customer.
The red letters became green, yellow, purple, nausea, black. “Wake him up.”

Bright light washed Mack’s face. He squeezed his eyes, but the light filled his skull anyway. Hot pain seared his head. There were several voices. Someone was called Diet Cola. There was someone named Frosty, an Elvis, a Zippy and an Ace. Some guy with skull art triggered a vague memory involving a bra and a pistol. Ace and Frosty sounded familiar, echoes from his police career. Elvis was dead, though; he had to be. His face was on a postage stamp.

“Wake up, merry sunshine!” A hand smacked his face. Mack opened his eyes and saw the owner of the hand—and the source of the smell. It—he—had enormous bulk and a stupid grin. He had a round face and double chin with heavy black stubble, sunken eyes, dirty ponytail down to his shoulders. His t-shirt had yellow armpit stains, and if he had a neck, Mack couldn’t see it.

“Who the hell are you?” Mack asked.

“Robin Hood.”

“That’s not his name, he’s Diet Cola.” Mack recognized Frosty’s voice. Diet backhanded Ace, who staggered and grabbed his nose with both hands.

“Ow! That was my brother said that.”

Mack wobbled to his feet. “Get out of my house. Everybody out.”

Diet Cola punched him in the gut. Mack staggered backwards and collapsed onto his living-room couch.

“What do you want here, Mister Cola?”

“Mister. People only call me that when they want to sell me something or they’re scared shitless. And I’m thinkin’ you have nothing to sell.” Diet Cola spoke with a strong Boston accent. Had the two men crossed paths before? Mack was sure he would have remembered this one.

“I sure want to cooperate with you. Tell me what I can do.”

“Mister Cola. That’s like a lullaby, man.”

“Certainly, Mister Cola. How about I get you gentlemen something to eat? Or a drink? Want a beer?”

“You don’t have anything.”

“Sure I do. I shopped yesterday.” Mack tried to ignore the pain as he staggered into the kitchen. There were empty cartons and dried egg yolk on the counter, dirty dishes and cracked eggshells in the sink. A glob of grape jelly stuck to the counter like a bruise. Inside the fridge were three leaves of iceberg lettuce and an unopened stick of butter. Nothing else. In the freezer, the ice cream and the ready-made pizza were gone. He grabbed a fistful of ice cubes and held them to the back of his head. They didn’t help.

Zippy—Mack remembered him more clearly now—held up the degree that Mack had dropped on the living-room floor. “The fuck is this?”

Mack ignored him.

“A degree,” Frosty said. He took the parchment from Zippy and looked at it with apparent reverence. “I got one of them.” Frosty went to college? Mack’s head throbbed still harder.

Ace looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Doctor of Life Experience,” he said. “Holy crap!”

“You people didn’t just drop by here for a snack,” Mack said. “If you’re here to rob me, you picked the wrong house.”

Diet Cola’s nostrils flared, his mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. Blood vessels bulged in his temples. His fists opened and closed as though looking for an excuse to strike. Mack’s mouth went dry.

What was that smell that made Mack’s eyes water? Limburger? Sun-drenched garbage? It came from Diet Cola. There were no flies around him; they all must have gone into toxic shock. Mack had to find a way to take control.

“Now what is it you guys want?” Mack spoke directly to Diet Cola.

“You’ve got an urn, and I’ve got pliers.”

“I do? You do?”

“Don’t play Mickey the Dunce on me. It has jewelry in it, plus some ashes and other shit.” He pronounced it
joolery
.

They were after the urn? What the hell for? “Well, you’ve had a chance to look around. If I owned an urn, wouldn’t you have found it?”

“Your parents FedExed it to you. What’d you do with it?”

“You’re misinformed, Mister Cola.”

“That’s too bad. If you don’t have my urn, then you’ll have to meet a friend of mine.” Diet Cola reached into his back pocket with his left hand. His right one, Mack noticed, was gauze-wrapped and gimpy.

Diet Cola held up a pair of needle-nosed pliers up to the light. “Meet Mister Truth.”