He gropes in the air for the pull cord to the hanging bulb. He finds it. Pulls. The room dimly presents itself, and he turns his eyes toward the kitchen table. He recoils. Her body sits there in her green velvet Tudor dress and her neck is ragged along the axman’s line and her head is gone. He looks at the tabletop. It’s not there. He looks around the room. Nothing. Her body is motionless, her hands crossed in her lap.
“Anne?” he calls.
There is no answer.
“Darling, I’m home,” he cries.
No answer.
He draws near to her body. He leans forward and picks up one of her hands. It’s warm. He bends to it and kisses the knuckle on her middle finger. The hand does not respond. He puts it gently back on top of the other one.
Anne’s head is not on the floor near the chair or under the table. It is not on the kitchen counters or in any of the cabinets. He sweeps around their little living room and it is not on or beside or behind their couch, their chairs. He is doing this systematically, going outward from the body that had to find its sightless way to the kitchen table.
He goes into the bedroom, which is dark. The TV is off. He shuffles his feet gently to the end table and turns on the lamp. Her head is nowhere to be seen, not on the floor, not on the bed, nowhere. Hatcher moves to the closet and opens the door.
And he is looking directly into Anne’s face. Her head sits on the shelf. Her great, dark eyes are full of tears. Her cheeks are wet.
“Anne,” he says.
She closes her eyes and squeezes out a rush of tears.
“I wanted to do more,” she says.
“I know,” Hatcher says.
“I wanted to be more,” she says.
Hatcher lifts his hand, reaches out, draws the back of his fingers across her wet cheek.
“Motherfucker,” she says, softly, sadly. She closes her eyes. And after a moment, she says, “Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.”
And Hatcher makes a loose fist and thumps his right forearm on his chest. And again. And a third time. On her behalf. And his own.
After this, Anne lets Hatcher put her back together and she takes off her gown and he takes off his suit and they lie beside each other naked in the bed in the dark, and on this night they do not even try to have sex. They lie listening to each other breathe until they both, surprisingly, fall asleep.
And the next day, from Broadcast Central in the Great Metropolis where all rivers converge, all storms make a beeline, all the levees look a little fragile, and the anchorman, Hatcher McCord, is looking particularly fragile tonight, the Evening News from Hell is well under way. Cerberus has rabies again and is raging his way through Everland, the densely occupied molester estate on the edge of the city. Michael Jackson and Gary Glitter inadvertently swap severed penises in the aftermath. Bobby Fischer, though always playing white, is mated for the thousandth straight time by a chess-playing computer named Hadassah. The Chicago Cubs lose.
And with the news finished and the preview aired of the Barbara Walters-Oprah Winfrey boiling-tar-pit naked wrestling match and with the eventual end of a classic This-Is-What-You-Want-But-You-Can’t-Have-It-In-Hell commercial — a long, relooping version of the McDonald’s commercial where everything the Hamburglar touches turns into a McDonald’s Cheeseburger, including his own head — Hatcher goes to a live remote with the new entertainment reporter, who thinks he has finally remembered his own name, although only the first one. Hatcher improvises the lead-in: “Now, at the site of the free Power to the Denizens Concert, our only partially brain-dead entertainment editor is reporting live. Take it away, Nick.”
The entertainment reporter formerly known as Mineisbigger and now known as Nick, still unable to remove his terrorist mask, is standing in a bright light with his microphone. Behind him is a welter of bodies lunging and fighting and slashing — there are obviously sharp weapons involved because there are pulsing plumes of blood everywhere and flying body parts — and beyond, distantly, is the stage, also crowded with a brawling mob. Nick says, “Yes, Hatcher, the vast crowd here at the free concert finally couldn’t contain its anger. They’ve listened for several hours to the All Star Polka Choir made up of Presley and Hendrix, Joplin and Marley and Jagger, Cobain and Shakur and Lennon and Madonna, Houston and Selena and Coolio and Morrison — both Morrisons — all dressed in lederhosen and Alpine hats and playing accordions and fighting among themselves about who will sing lead vocals on such classics as ‘The Polish Sausage Polka’ and ‘In Heaven There Is No Beer.’ As you can see, the crowd couldn’t take it anymore, the flash point being Madonna’s version of ‘Who Stole the Kishka.’ But Hatcher, I’ve got an exclusive interview here and some hot news about the Evening News from Hell.”
And with this, Nick looks off camera and makes a motion, and Robert Redford, dressed in white shirt, dark suit, and bright red tie and beaming a fixed smile that makes the deep creases of his face seem somehow boyish, steps into frame beside Nick.
Nick says, “Bob. I understand you’re in negotiations to become the new face of the Evening News from Hell.”
Redford nods gravely. “That’s right, Nick. I’ve always wanted to play a network anchorman.”
And now the crowd behind them swells, and a tsunami of blood and body parts washes over Nick and Bob and the camera.
Hatcher, with absolute, suave anchorman cool, says, “Thanks, Nick. That was Nick Mineisbigger reporting live, though presently decomposed, from the Power to the Denizens Concert.”
And Hatcher goes on with the news and he finishes the news and not once does he give his bosses even a tiny, corner-of-the-mouth twitch of a clue that he is concerned about his job. Nor does he show even a brief eye-sparkle of a clue that he is pleased to be thus torturing Satan and Beelzebub over their inability to read their subjects’ minds. And he is surprised at himself over his inner calm. He does not want to give up this chair. But he knows whatever is afoot may end up with him keeping his job and thereby torturing Nick and Bob primarily and him only if he lets it. But any way it plays out, he is ready to accept that and go on.
So when he steps out of Broadcast Center, he finds Judas Iscariot crouching near the door. The ex-apostle leaps up at the sight of him and rushes forward. He talks very fast, his hands fluttering before him. “You’re here. That’s good. At last. I had a hard journey to get to you and it’ll be a hard journey back and there’s not much time, there’s no time, man, time is slipping into the future. I figured I owe you this. But just for you, you know, off the record, deep background. You understand? Deep throat stuff. So here’s the deal. I heard the screaming in the night. A bunch of the other signs had already occurred and that was a big one. I heard a screaming in the night sky and there was just one more thing and that one thing came to pass today. You know what finally shows up at the Automat? Lamb chops. Lamb chops. Behind every little door. Every last one of them is lamb chops. Only three nickels away. And nobody’s buying. We’re all crying, ‘Sacrifice! Sacrifice!’ And we all just sit there fasting when there’s finally meat, and we’re all righteous at last. Then one dumb shit — Thomas, of course — he puts his three nickels in and we’re all going, Don’t do it, man, but he’s doing it, and we’re white-knuckled and gritting our teeth, but it’s okay, the righteous thing is only about us, see, about each one of us individually. Thomas can fuck himself over if he wants to, but that’s just him and it’s not about us. So Thomas sits down and he starts eating, and after a moment he jumps up and he cries out, ‘It’s tofu! It’s just tofu!’ Like he would know tofu, right? Like they can make a whole lamb chop out of tofu, right? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. And so the old boys tear him apart. Limb from limb. And they throw his parts into the street. And that’s according to the prophecy as well. Trust me. So it’s going to happen. Soon. Real soon. He’s coming back for us. Come to the Automat and look at those chops and turn away quick. Maybe you can hitch a ride out of here.’