“How regular?”
“Once a year. Maybe twice.”
“Is this the first since we’ve hooked up?”
“Yes, it is. I have a favor to ask before I go. I’d like to take Ivan with me.”
There was a silence. “He’s my dog. I’d miss him.”
“I know, but I want him with me.”
“Why? He’s not... sold on you yet.”
Coming down from the lovemaking, Sky was aware of the Black Not having moved closer. He felt the first little burst of pain in his stomach, always in his stomach, left side and low. Like a bee sting, but deeper. Followed by a hard ache that would grow in area over time. Until it had his whole body — the quick of his nails, the nerves of his teeth, the arches of his feet, even his testicles. “Ouch.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I want to take Ivan because I like Ivan. And he’ll distract me.”
“You can have him for your trip. Can you call me?”
“No bars out there.”
“I hope you’re not just playing me like your next dumbass chick. I’m trusting you, Sky, but I don’t tolerate disrespect. Zero tolerance. Take care of Ivan. You know what he means to me.”
“I should get a move on.”
He hit the market and the gas station on the way out of town, got his usual provisions, and for Ivan a box of chew sticks designed to clean his teeth. The dog stood on the passenger seat with his front paws on the window frame, watching the world go past.
Three hours later, Sky was down south and west of Randsburg, in the high desert, wind whistling through the hard arroyo of rock and scrub where the cabin stood. His truck bounced up the last half mile of two-track, Ivan managing to keep his balance and a weather eye on the rock-strewn, sparsely vegetated, faintly moonlit desert.
Sky came to the cabin and parked. It sat in a loose stand of Joshua trees, which shivered spikily in the wind. Dug into the western hillock above the arroyo was a long-abandoned copper mine. The tailings formed a pyramid at the base of the hill and the tailings glowed blue in the moonlight. Sky got out and stood a moment and looked at the blue light surrounding the mound like a halo. Ivan waited at his feet, still, nose to the wind, ears cocked.
The cabin belonged to an acquaintance Sky had given ski lessons to one winter, and who was willing to replace the window glass the vandals broke, and keep it locked and baited against the kangaroo rats. No water or electricity, which suited Sky fine. Inside, it had a picnic table and benches, bunk beds with thin mattresses, perfect if you had a sleeping bag.
The important thing was the privacy, being able to confront the Black Not without having to worry about the commotion. You couldn’t go through a battle like this with people around. People trying to help. People watching you unravel. Straitjacket time. He hoped Ivan could handle it. Dogs were forgiving. Years ago, he’d come here with Tyrell, a formidable pit bull/rottweiler mix who had kept a silent eye on Sky through the rantings and ravings. More than once. Tyrell was big enough that Sky hadn’t worried about the coyotes here. The dog had met his end against a speeding driver on Minaret one evening, and Sky hadn’t yet found the heart to get another. Which had left him vulnerable to Ivan’s charms.
Before unpacking, Sky poured two fingers of añejo tequila into a coffee mug and took that first promising sip. He was still living almost totally on Soylent, which had ground a few pounds off his lean frame but allowed him greater strength and stamina in whatever he did. Earlier this week, his runs on Helixon’s Imagery Beast had been nothing short of amazing. Even Brandon was impressed. Brandon had taken a run on the Beast himself, just to see if maybe the clock was off, but no. What else could Sky attribute those times to, other than Soylent and clean living? And aside from two weeks of excessive intestinal gas to start out, the Soylent was absolutely agreeable, once you got used to the idea you no longer got to enjoy conventional food. Sky flavored his Soylent with chocolate or vanilla and sometimes cheap Kool-Aid-like products from the market. He’d never gone through an encounter with the Black Not while living on Soylent. He figured the lack of substance — once mixed with water, Soylent was more of a goop than a liquid, but certainly far from solid — might make the effects of alcohol even more dramatic with the Black Not upon him.
That first night wasn’t too bad — just a lot of trembling and not much sleep, and night sweats that soaked his T-shirt and briefs. Then the eerie awakening to a new day with the Black Not fully within him, tightening down his vision, tensing up his muscles, multiplying the pain. And the worst of it, really, wasn’t the pain, but the hopelessness the Black Not brought. That was the Not part — the utter impossibility of all that was good. The Black Not poisoned all his hope and optimism, all his dreams and wishes. All in his father’s voice.
Not.
No.
Never.
That morning he walked Ivan into the desert on his leash. It was easy to imagine the dog taking off after a rabbit and never coming back. Terrier fearlessness was a threat to their survival. Megan would be crushed if something happened to Ivan, and Sky loved Megan. The October weather was mild. He poked around up on the hillside, where the copper ore tailings shined in the sun. Picked up a few warm pale blue rocks for Megan.
He smiled to himself bitterly while the Black Not told him in his father’s recorded voice how poorly he would do at the Gargantua Mammoth Cup in January. Sky imagined Wylie sending up a victorious rooster tail of snow in the out-run. The Black Not asked him why he thought that Soylent and the Imagery Beast and clean living would be enough to defeat destiny. Was it pride? And wasn’t that what ruined every man? The prideful attempt to deny one’s fate? And was it not true that Megan would take up with Wylie after he won the cup? She was a very attractive woman who would need more from a man than losing, noted his father. Of course she will take up with a winner, he said. Yes, Sky had to agree: Of course she will.
The pain had spread. While standing on a low hillock, the arches of his feet suddenly cramped, as they often did, just knotted right up, like fists. Sky gasped and dropped to his butt and tore at the laces of his hiking boots. How could a foot arch hurt that much? When he’d gotten the boots off, he used both hands to unclench one cramp, then the other. It was like trying to unbend metal. Then the first arch locked tight again.
Ivan seized the opportunity and ran. Sky foresaw coyotes. He ordered Ivan back, but the dog tore off along the bottom of the hillock, leash bouncing along behind him, apparently fixed on something that Sky couldn’t see. Sky tried to run a few steps, but the rocks were brutally sharp, so he high-stepped back and plopped down and got the boots on as fast as he could, but the long laces kept falling out of the “speed hooks,” so by the time he finished, the boots looked like they had been laced by a chimpanzee.
Sky ran around the base of the hill. Ivan was out of sight, but Sky heard his barking and understood that the dog was soon going to die here in some painful and gruesome way. It was the only thing that could happen. He slipped and fell, and this did not surprise him, because the Black Not only allowed him pessimism, defeat, pain, and death. Even an appreciation of beauty, like a sunrise, say, or gratefulness for sudden good luck, or the genuine joy in a glass of cold, clean water — all this was forbidden by the Black Not. Banished. Only Black. Only Not.