Fifty-six miles inside Oregon, Highway 95 swung east toward Idaho. They crossed the Owyhee River, and then the state line.
By six o’clock, they arrived at a campground north of Boise, Idaho, where they hooked up to utilities.
Preston bought takeout for dinner. Mediocre Chinese this time.
The Black Hole loved rice. And though she was wired again, she was nevertheless still compos mentis enough to eat.
As usual, the Hole directed the conversation according to her interests. She required always to be the center of attention.
When she mentioned new design ideas for carving her daughter’s
deformed hand, he encouraged her. He found the subject of decorative mutilation stupid enough to be amusing — as long as he avoided looking at the girl’s twisted appendage.
In addition, he knew that this talk terrified the Hand, though she hid her fear well. Good. Fear might eventually burn away her delusion that she had any hope of a normal life.
She had chosen to thwart her mother by shrewdly playing along with this demented game. Listening to the Black Hole enthuse about going at her with scalpels, however, she might begin to realize that she had not been born to win any game, least of all this one.
She had come out of her mother broken, imperfect. She was a loser from the moment that the physician slapped her butt to start her breathing instead of mercifully, discreetly smothering her.
When the time arrived for him to take this girl into the forest, perhaps she would have come to the conclusion that death was best for her. She should choose death before her mother could carve her. Because sooner or later, her mother would.
Death was her only possible deliverance. Otherwise, she would have to endure more years as an outsider. Life could hold nothing but disappointment for someone so damaged as she.
Of course, Preston didn’t want her to be entirely pliable and eager to die. A measure of resistance made for memories.
Dinner finished, leaving the Hand to clean the table, he and the Hole took evening showers, separately, and retired to the bedroom. Eventually, reading In Watermelon Sugar, the Hole passed out. Preston wanted to use her. But he couldn’t discern whether she’d been hammered by drugs into deep unconsciousness or whether she was just sleeping soundly.
If she were merely sleeping, she might awaken in the middle of the action. Her awareness would ruin his mood.
Waking, she would be enthusiastic. She knew that the deal they had made didn’t permit her active participation in physical intimacy. Yet she would be enthusiastic nonetheless.
The deaclass="underline" The Hole received everything that she needed in return for this one thing that Preston wanted.
He was mildly nauseated by the thought of her enthusiasm, her intimate bodily participation. He had no desire to witness the functions of anyone.
And he was loath to be observed.
When suffering from a head cold, he unfailingly excused himself to blow his nose in private. He didn’t want anyone to hear his mucus draining.
Consequently, the prospect of having an orgasm in the presence of an interested partner was distressing if not unthinkable.
Discretion was underrated in contemporary society.
Uncertain as to the nature and reliability of the Hole’s current state of unconsciousness, he turned off the light and settled on his own side of the bed.
He contemplated the babies that she would bring into the world. Little twisted wizards. Ethical dilemmas awaiting firm resolutions.
SUNDAY: BOISE TO NUN’S LAKE. Three hundred fifty-one miles. More-demanding terrain than what Nevada had offered.
Usually he didn’t hit the road until nine or ten o’clock, with the f Black Hole still abed, the Hand awake. Although they were seeking a close encounter, their mission wasn’t as urgent as it was dramatic.
This morning, however, he hauled the Prevost out of Twin Falls at 6:15 A.M.
Already the Hand was dressed, eating a granola bar.
He wondered if she had discovered that all the knives and sharp utensils had been removed from the galley.
He remained convinced that she lacked the guts to stab him in the back while he drove the motor home. In fact he didn’t believe that she would prove capable of making a serious effort to defend herself when the two of them were alone in the moment of judgment.
Nevertheless, he was a careful man.
North out of the broad chest of Idaho into the narrow neck, they passed through spectacular scenery. Soaring mountains, vast forests, eagles in flight.
Every encounter with Nature at her most radiant gave rise to the same thought: Humanity is a pestilence. Humanity doesn’t belong here.
He could not be counted as one of the radical environmentalists who dreamed of a day when a virulent plague could be engineered to scour every human being from the earth. He had ethical problems with the systematic extermination of an entire species, even humanity.
On the other hand, using public policy to halve the number of human beings on the planet was a laudable goal. Benign neglect of famines would delete millions. Cease the exportation of all life-extending drugs to Third World countries where AIDS raged epidemic, and additional millions would pass in a more timely fashion.
Let Nature purge the excess. Let Nature decide how many human beings she wished to tolerate. Unobstructed, she would solve the problem soon enough.
Small wars unlikely to escalate into worldwide clashes should be viewed not as horrors to be avoided, but as sensible prunings.
Indeed, where large totalitarian governments wished to expunge dissidents by the hundreds of thousands or even by the millions, no sanctions should be brought against them. Dissidents were usually people who rebelled against sensible resource management.
Besides, sanctions could lead to the foment of rebellion, to clandestine military actions, which might grow into major wars, even spiral into a nuclear conflict, damaging not just human civilization but the natural world.
No human being could do anything whatsoever to improve upon the natural world — which, without people, was perfect.
Few contributed anything positive to human civilization, either. By the tenets of utilitarian ethics, only those useful to the state or to society had a legitimate claim on life. Most people were too flawed to be of use to anyone.
Soaring mountains, vast forests, eagles flying.
Out there beyond the windshield: The splendor of nature.
In here, behind his eyes, inside where he most fully lived, waited a grandeur different from but equal to that of nature, a private landscape that he found endlessly fascinating.
Yet Preston Claudius Maddoc prided himself that he possessed the honesty and the principle to acknowledge his own shortcomings. He was as flawed as anyone, more deeply flawed than some, and he never indulged in self-delusion in this matter.
By any measure, his most serious fault must be his frequent homicidal urges. And the pleasure he took from killing.
To his credit, at an early age, he recognized that this lust for killing was an imperfection in his character and that it must not be lightly excused. Even as a young boy, he sought to channel his murderous impulses into responsible activities.
First he tortured and killed insects. Ants, beetles, spiders, flies, caterpillars…
Back then, everyone seemed to agree that bugs of all kinds were largely a scourge. Perhaps the ultimate grace is to find one’s bliss in useful work. His bliss was killing, and his useful work was the eradication of anything that creeped or crawled.
Preston hadn’t been environmentally aware in those days. His subsequent education left him mortified at the assault he had waged on nature when he’d been a boy. Bugs do enormously useful work.
To this day, he remained haunted by the possibility that he had known on some deep level that his activities were unethical. Otherwise, why had he been so secretive when pursuing his bliss?