“Well Hitler had the wrong thing going, you see, he had all this heavy German stuff around him, all that shit about the Jews and the master race — well, there is a master race, but it’s nothing crude like being a whole nation. But he was one of the beasts of Revelations, right? Think about it. Hitler knew that he was sent to prepare us, he was like John the Baptist, see, and he gave us certain keys to understanding, just like Crowley did. I think you understand all this, Miles. There’s like a brotherhood of those who catch on to all this. Hitler was a screw-up, right, but he had insight. He knew that everything has to go smash before it can get better, there has to be total chaos before there can be total freedom, there has to be murder before there can be true life He knew the reality of blood. Passion has to go beyond the personal — right? See, to free matter to set matter free, we have to get beyond the mechanical to uh,myth maybe, ritual, blood ritual, to the physical mind.”
“The physical mind,” I said. “Like the dark seat of passion and the column of blood.” I quoted these catch-phrases despairingly. The end of Zack’s tirade had depressingly reminded me of ideas in Lawrence’s writing.
“Wow.” said Alison. “Oh, wow.” I had impressed her. This time I nearly did groan.
“I knew it, man.” continued Zack. He was just gleaming at me. “We gotta have more talks. We could talk for centuries. I can’t believe that you’re a teacher, man.”
“I can’t believe it either.”
This sent him into such happiness that he slapped Alison on the knee. “I knew it. You know, people used to say all this stuff about you, I didn’t know if I could really believe it all, about the stuff you used to do — I got another question. You have nightmares, don’t you?”
I thought of being suspended in that blue drifting horror. “I do.”
“I knew it. You know about nightmares? They show you the revelations? Nightmares cut through the shit to show you what’s really going on.”
“They show you what’s really going on in the nightmares,” I said. I didn’t want him to analyze my dream-states. I had ordered another two beers while he ranted, and now I asked Freebo for a double Jack Daniels to soothe my nerves. Zack was looking as though oil had come pouring out of his scalp, as though he expected to be either stroked or kicked, His face was wild and skinny, framed by thick sideburns and that complicated ruff of hair. When the whiskey came I drank half of it in one gulp and waited for the effect.
Zack went on. Didn’t I think the situation had to be loosened up? Didn’t I think violence was mystic action? Was selfhood? Didn’t I think the Midwest was where reality was thinnest, waiting for truth to erupt? Didn’t two killings prove that? Couldn’t they make reality happen?
Eventually I began to laugh. “Something about this reminds me of Alison’s father’s Dream House,” I said.
“My father’s house?”
“His Dream House. The place behind Andy’s.”
“That place? Is that his?”
“He built it. You must have known that.”
She was gaping at me. Zack was looking irritated at this interruption in his sermon. “He never said anything about it. Why did he build a place like that?”
“It’s an old story,” I said, already sorry that I had mentioned the place. “I thought it would have a reputation for being haunted.”
“No, nobody thinks it’s haunted,” she said, still looking at me with determined curiosity. “Lots of us kids go there. Nobody bothers you there.”
I remembered the mess of blankets and cigarette butts on the ruined floor.
Zack said, “Listen, I’ve got plans—”
“What was it for? Why did he build it?”
” I don’t know.”
“Why did you call it his dream house?”
“It’s nothing. Forget about it.” I could see her begin to look impatiently around the bar, as if to find someone who would tell her all about it.
“You’ve got to know about my plans—”
“Well. I’ll find out from someone else.”
“I’ve been doing some things—”
“Just forget about it,” I said. “Forget I ever mentioned it. I’m going home now. I have an idea.”
The bartender was beside us again. “This is an important guy, you know,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “He wrote a book. He’s some kind of artist.”
“Also,” I said, “I think I’m going to give you some novels. You’ll like them. They’re right up your street.”
“I considered we might see you in church today.” Duane was still wearing his suit, the old double-breasted pinstripe he had been wearing to church for ten years or more. But the new informality had touched him too: beneath the jacket he wore a tieless open-collared shirt blue with patterns of lighter blue. Alison must have given it to him. “Do you want some of this? It’s Tuta’s day off over at your place, isn’t it?” He lifted one big hand toward the mess that Alison had left bubbling on the stove — it looked like pork and beans., with too much tomato sauce. Like the general disorder of the kitchen, this too would have riled his mother who had always prepared gigantic lunches of roasted meat and potatoes boiled so long they crumbled like chalk. When I shook my head no, he said, “You should go to church. Miles. No matter what you believe in, going could help you out in the community.”
“Duane, it would be the most blatant hypocrisy,” I said. “Does your daughter usually go?”
“Sometimes. Not always. I reckon she has little enough time to herself, taking care of me and doing for me the way she does around here, so I don’t grudge her some extra sleep on Sunday. Or a couple of hours with a girlfriend.”
“Like now?”
“Like now. Or so she says. If you can ever trust a female. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Well, she has to get along to see her friends sometimes. Whoever the hell they are. Anyhow, Miles, this is one day you should have gone.”
Then I heard the emphasis I should have heard the first time. And wasn’t it unusual that Duane was still wearing his suit an hour after the service? And that he was sitting in his kitchen instead of doing an hour or so of work before lunch?
“I’ll bite. Why today, especially?”
“What do you think of Pastor Bertilsson?”
“I’ll spare you. Why?”
Duane was crossing and uncrossing his legs, looking very uncomfortable. On his feet were heavy black brogues, immaculately polished. “You never exactly liked him, did you? I know. He maybe did go a little out of line when you and Joan got married. I don’t think he was right to bring up all that old stuff, even though he did it for your own good. When I got married, he didn’t talk about any of my old mistakes.”
I hoped that his daughter would forget all about my reference to the Dream House — it had been a serious betrayal. While I was trying to think how I could tell him that I had let his secret slip out to his daughter without actually telling her anything about it, Duane got over his own nervousness and finally got to the point.
“Anyhow, like I was saying, he said a few words about you today. In his sermon.”
“About me?” I yelped. My guilt disappeared like flash powder.
“Wait, Miles, he didn’t actually name you. But we all knew who he was talking about. After all, you made yourself known around here, years ago. So I guess most everybody knew who he was talking about.”
“You mean I’m actually having sermons preached about me? I guess I really am a success.”
“Well, it would have been better if you’d been there. See, in a community this size — well, a small community like this sort of draws together if any trouble happens. What happened to those two girls was a terrible thing, Miles. I think a man that can do something like that ought to be slaughtered like a pig. The thing is, we know none of us could have done it. Maybe some over in Arden, but none of us here.” He shifted in his chair. “While I’m talking on this I ought to say something else. Look. It might be better if you didn’t go around trying to see Paul Kant. That’s all I want to say about that.”