* * *
That evening, as they cooked together, he stood at the sink and shook the lettuce dry in a clean dish towel, feeling the teardrop shape of dripping vegetable weight in his fist. He put the lettuce down on the counter. (Skulls in bags, men being hoisted up in nets, bodies in bags, he thought.) In the living room he turned on the television, fiddled the antenna to bring the signal. Then he went to the bedroom, found her stash, and lit a joint and took a deep hit. Wendy was whistling to herself as she cooked in the kitchen, and on the television a man hunched in the bush with a foam-ball microphone, whispering his report to the wire. His hair was slicked back and combed with a neat part and he gave the location of the fighting as if it were his hometown, his voice lulling, as safe as any man on Madison Avenue, one more con man packaging the goods to sell to the public, unaware, as he spoke, that his image was slipping as the vertical hold wavered, and he was passing up over himself with a small ribbon of fuzzy gray between him and his replicated self, until Singleton went over and pushed the button and watched the screen sweep itself into a small pinpoint of light that seemed to eye the world with incredulous judgment before it — the light — dashed up to the edge of the set and disappeared.
All he had was the sound of her whistling in the kitchen.
“Yes, sir,” Singleton said to the dark screen.
OUT OF THE WOODS
Those are Rake’s, Hank was saying. There’s no other reason she’d be washing those sheets. Not for me at least.
They had come in along the beach trail and stopped to watch MomMom hanging fresh sheets from the line.
We’re going to step right in there as if nothing in the world happened, aren’t we? Just like we rehearsed. We’re going to walk right back into Rake’s scene and he’s not going to detect a thing in the way we move or talk. Not a clue. I’ve handled him before and I think I can handle him now. He doesn’t know the side of me you saw out there in the woods — doesn’t know I’ve enfolded all that shit. I’d kill him and end all this but then, like I explained, that would go against everything that I’ve enfolded. I just don’t have the will to do it. I have the desire, because it would solve everything, but if I went and killed him, everything might come back. I’m not sure I’d know how to do it. You think it’s easy killing someone, but it’s not, not at all, he said.
On the way back to the house they had stopped in a small inland clearing to rehearse, standing together in the dappled sunlight.
I want this deep inside you, planted there. We’ll go through the motions until it becomes secondhand. You’re gonna have to go blurry-eyed, to persuade yourself that I’ve beaten you back into submission.
Imagine we’re in the kitchen now. That’s where he’ll be when we get back, if I know Rake, because the first thing he does when he comes back from an excursion is to start eating, so we’re gonna pretend we’re in the kitchen. I’ll play the role of Rake and you play the role of Old Meg. Not New Meg. I want you to go inside yourself and find the voice of Old Meg. New Meg has a natural voice. New Meg speaks easy and honest. Old Meg speaks in a song, like she’s trying to get her daddy to buy her a lollipop.
Say: Hey, Hank, how’s it going?
Hey, Hank, how’s it going?
No, that’s too sure, too flat. If he hears that he’ll hear New Meg and he’ll sense you’re feeling better. Too easy, too precise, and too sure. Singsong it now like a baby girl wanting a lollipop, he said, and he took two steps back and watched her.
Hey, Hank, how’s it going.
Perfect, he said, and he took two more steps back and said, Now I’m Rake, I’m going to say, Where the fuck have you been? in my best Rake voice, and you’re gonna say, Hank took me with him to look for a tree, and remember, we’re in the kitchen and Rake is fixing you with his eyes; he has you in his eyes, even if he’s not looking; he’s totally got you under his gaze, even if he’s directing his look out the window. Now say what I told you to say after I say what I said I was going to say, he said, and he said, Where the fuck have you been? and she said, Hey, Rake, Hank took me with him looking for a tree. Her voice rose slightly but not enough and had too much in the way of assurance and Hank told her so and told her to try it again and she did, saying, Hank took me with him into the woods to look for the Mother Tree, tightening her words up into that part of her that was lost and sad and wanted to survive.
That was better, he said, but not good enough. He’ll hear it in there. He’ll sense the firmness in the way you’re landing on your words. Try it again, but this time pretend you’re trying hard to pick up each word; pretend each word weighs a ton, but as soon as you pick one up and start lifting, it deceives you and is lighter than you thought and you’re startled. Do it that way — think of it that way, he said, and she did and her voice lilted, became airy and thin, and Hank said, That was great, perfect, and she said, I’m scared, and then she began to cry. You’re a great actress. You’re brilliant, he told her. You’re gonna win an Academy Award when you’re through with this. Being afraid of Rake is good. The fear’s going to lend your voice the right tenor, so long as you remind yourself to lift each one and then allow yourself to be surprised as the word comes up.
Stay behind me when we cross the yard. Hang your shoulders like I told you and before we go in try not to blink so your eyes are nice and glassy.
Hey, ho, anybody home? he said, striding across the yard. The house baked in the sunlight, and in the corner of the yard the dog lay in the shadows, draped in chains. The car trunk was open, full of pills wrapped like mummies and a few new pieces for his arsenal.
In the kitchen, at the stove, Rake stood holding a long spatula, lifting the edge of a pork chop. A kid sat at the table. He was albino white and skeletal thin. A real mountain freak, Hank thought. One of those junkies of the old school, with a certain delicacy to his posture. He made a motion to stand in greeting, but then, glancing over at Rake, he thought better of it.
Where you been? Rake said, tending the meat.
Lumber running.
Took her along?
Thought it would be the safe thing to do, Hank said. He stood easily on the balls of his feet, with his hands in his pockets. Then he took two steps into the room.
Why’d you take her along?
Like I said, thought it would be the safe thing to do. She’s a handful, in a weird way, and I didn’t trust MomMom to keep an eye, and I caught scent of a big one out there and had to go for it.
I’m pretty sure I told you to stay put. I’m pretty sure I told you not to take her out. No, I’m certain I ordered you to keep her in the house, out of sight. I said it just like that. I said, Keep her here out of sight and don’t go chasing after any trees, my friend.
Hank chuckled, found a respectful hesitancy, and watched Rake lift the chop with the spatula with an easing of the sizzle sound, letting oil gather heat, and then flip it in a roar of hot fat.
Name’s Haze Hall, the guy at the table said, putting out his hand.
Shut up, Haze, Rake said. You talk when I tell you to talk and keep your yap shut the rest of the time if you know what’s good for you. He lifted the meat again and again the sizzle died down. Visible in the window over the sink, MomMom was in the backyard with clothespins in her mouth, lifting her sagging arms up and down.