The words still ring, carried by your changeless voice, always, in my head.
Ma, you served dinner. Meat loaf. Dad, you tossed The Spy on top of the Norge and took a seat. Ike reluctantly, slowly, put aside Frank and Joe Hardy — I always wanted, still want, to ask him why the signpost was sinister. I moved my math text onto the radiator, felt its heat, and put it on the seat of the rocker. We dug into the meal. Warm and delicious as every one you ever served. The night went on.
All three of us, you two and me — Ike, I think, was probably unaware of the exchange — agreed it was the right decision. For Dad. For my father. I still think it was. But I learned something in that moment, seated there at the kitchen table. And I learned it in that way where it never leaves you, it becomes a permanent, central part of your essence. I learned a truth in a moment of epiphany.
And the truth was: There are people who want love. And there are people who want power.
And it occurs to me now, sitting in this awful open grave, sitting at the same level, in the same ground, where my parents, my flesh and blood, are buried, that the reason this would be the last memory to fade from my brain is that it was the moment when I changed. If you can stand the triteness of this thought: it was the line of demarcation between my innocence and my adulthood.
The standard way to mark that passage, that dividing line, is sexual. Maybe the first menstruation. Maybe the loss of virginity. These were secondary events for me. Because I’d already made a choice. For whatever reason, I was a changed girl. I wanted power. To the exclusion of all else?
You two tell me.
I am so cold right now. I have pushed my body, my nerves, to a point where some kind of collapse seems to be imminent. I don’t know what I feel anymore. And I’ve got neither the energy nor, really, the desire to find out, to find a system that might bring me back, full circle.
A few weeks back, Ike said to me, in his kitchen now, I don’t know what we were talking about, but he quotes some writer he likes. He says—“I believe in the politics of the lamb.” And the stupidity of that statement made me enraged, made me want to leap across the table at Ike, my brother, the last person I have left, and choke him. I can’t even talk to him anymore. Ike. Gentle, mutton-headed Ike.
Remember, Ma, a popular term of my childhood — Crisis of Faith. Capital letters. I don’t believe in anything anymore, except will. And I’m losing the hold on that. Mother. Father. Words. It’s all come to a head. I’m winding down. I’ve got maybe enough muscle and meanness and piss for one last seizure. And there are some fuckers about to be on the receiving end of that idea that took me, that entered me. Of that word: Power.
A sound cracks in her ear. A door being opened. Large, metal. Into a hollow-sounding interior. Obscuring echoes. Her fingers stop drumming. The deal makers have entered the Pachinko Brothers train car.
She hunches herself up a bit in the grave, brings a hand back to the earpiece, brings her teeth together, and listens:
ROURKE: Okay, listen up. The two parties in this transaction should be here any minute. I don’t want any screwups—
WILSON [exasperated]: Billy, please …
ROURKE: Let’s just run it down. The three of you did a walk-through, right? Okay, and Bromberg’s patrolling the new section and Jacobi’s got the old?
WILSON [amused]: Patrolling. For Christ sake, Billy, talk normal.
ROURKE [angry]: Talk normal, I ought to smack your head, talk normal. This is not a goddamn mail route, you little bitch. This is not screwing around. You didn’t see the two gooks he brought to the bar, okay? Where did these fuckers come from? This was not in the plan. We’re his brokers. He was supposed to come alone. Get that goddamn flashlight out of my eyes.
[More sounds of jostled, echoing metal. Feet climbing up into the train car]
ROURKE [mockingly polite]: It’s the chauffeur. Donna, take the man’s lantern. That’s a beauty, that’s like a real railroad job there. Now, give me your hand, there you go. Where’s the boss?
MINGO: Give me the lantern.
ROURKE: I get it. Signal time. Like Paul Revere. Wasn’t that the guy? Paul Revere?
MINGO: Where’s your guy?
ROURKE: Be here any minute. And who do we have … Mr. Cortez. And his associate, Jimmy, isn’t it? Here, let me give you two a hand up.
Graveyard’s full of bodies tonight.
[Rourke’s awkward laughter. Hollow, metal echo]
CORTEZ: Where is he?
ROURKE: Expecting him any minute. Once he gets here this shouldn’t take a second. I assume, I mean, the briefcase—
CORTEZ — is none of your concern at the moment, Mr. Rourke. When I see the product, you will see the money.
ROURKE: Of course, sure, listen, I was thinking, maybe the way to do this, just to make sure there are no mistakes and it’s all handled professionally—
[Laughter]
ROURKE: Why’s he laughing? Why’s your driver there laughing?
CORTEZ: Mingo, please. Go on, Mr. Rourke. [Quiet for a moment. Foot shuffling]
ROURKE: I thought maybe I’d stay in the middle, here, and you and your people could stay to one side, and then, when they get here, him and his people, they could stay on my opposite side. If that’s all right with everyone? We could pass the cases back and forth through me. You know, broker.
CORTEZ: No objection.
[Indiscriminate noise]
ROURKE: Bingo, here they are now. Gentlemen, good to see you.
[Climbing up on metal, movement, coughing, repositioning of bodies]
ROURKE: Beautiful, so we’re all here, tremendous. Mr. Cortez, this is the Paraclete. Mr. W, I’d like you to meet Mr. Cortez.
CORTEZ: A pleasure to finally meet.
PARACLETE: Likewise.
Lenore’s whole body seizes up. The voice enters her ear and it’s like she’s been smashed across the back of the head with a board, a fat, sturdy two-by-four out of nowhere. No preparation, no time to flinch. Just a pure impact against her fragile skull.
It’s Woo’s voice. Absolute certainty. The Paraclete is Woo.
Lenore comes up onto her knees, hugs the Uzi to her chest, starts to rise, and hears:
CORTEZ: Who’s the hostage?
WOO: A visual aid, if you will. I thought you might like to see what my product can do.
CORTEZ: [possibly to Rourke]: I’ve seen. All over my streets lately. There was no talk of this. There was no mention.
WOO: Yes, I understand there was some [pause] confusion concerning the samples that were sent to you—
CORTEZ: Who is he? Untape the man’s mouth. This was not part of the plan.
WOO — but I thought you might like to witness the process, as they say, up close and personal. Our guest for the evening is a former associate of Mr. Rourke. A fellow letter carrier. Mailman, as they say.
She grabs the rope and starts to climb out of the grave, frantic, all panic and no finesse. Back on the surface, she swings the Uzi on its strap around to her back and falls on her stomach. Rourke’s sidekicks are definitely out there somewhere and who knows what kind of backup Cortez or Woo has planted.