“When we were interviewing members of the gang, we noted one man named Beau Lynch, who bore a striking resemblance to Ted Knoll’s description of Mr. Nymph. This aroused some curiosity in the team, though the man appeared normal and was not otherwise suspicious. During questioning, it became clear that at one point during the cookout, Mr. Lynch and a young woman had sex in the pond.”
This raised dozens of questions in my mind that I actually didn’t want the answers to.
Tasker continued, “By tomorrow, there will be a twelve-foot fence around the hill up here. Those signs will be posted every twenty feet.”
She nodded to where one of the signs was leaned against the church. In urgent red and white it said:
RAW SEWAGE
CONTAMINATION HAZARD
$1500 FINE FOR TRESPASSING
24-HOUR SURVEILLANCE
I shook my head. “It’s not gonna work. People will figure out there’s no sewage here. They’re just going to get curious.”
Below us, one of the crew members shouted a signal. Then there was a sputtering noise and a gush of raw sewage sprayed out of the hose. The stench reached us a moment later.
Amy wrinkled her nose and said, “That’s … wow.”
“Okay,” John said, “just to get this straight, in the meantime, these parents have to spend the next however many days or months or years raising these fake monster children? How is that not going to end horribly for everybody?”
Tasker shrugged. “That is simply the way of the world. All they know is that they love their children very much. Love is not always a two-way street, sometimes you pour your energy into something that never gives back. Like people who keep lizards as pets. Is that worse than being alone, or without purpose?”
I said, “Way worse.”
Tasker glanced at her watch and said, “Well, if you have any suggestions, you know where to find me.”
I watched her duck into her car and pull away. I imagined her turning her neck too quickly the next time she went to back up and her head just toppling off her shoulders.
Amy said, “So, we need to resume the conversation we were having.”
“Which one? About whether or not a plane could take off if it was sitting on a giant treadmill? We decided it would take right off, the wheels have nothing to do with it. Nothing to discuss.”
“No, the one we were having at John’s house. About your sadness demon? And you said that wasn’t the time to have the discussion? Well, that time has arrived. I’ve got a number for you to call, I know for a fact they can get you in early next week.”
“We can talk about it later.”
“No. We can’t.”
She looked at John, like this was his cue to jump in. They’d planned this.
John, looking like he’d rather be chewed up in the belly of a shark than standing here having this conversation, said, “She has a bag, at my house. Clothes and stuff. A little money. Friends ready to come and get her. She’d made the decision to go, is what I’m trying to say. I talked her out of it. Told her that if you knew, if you really knew what this was doing to her, you’d fight it.”
That black pool of shame bubbled up in my head again. Then, a spark came along and set it alight. The choice between feeling the toxic ooze of self-loathing and the fire of mindless rage is no choice at all.
I turned on her. “You know what? If you want to go, why don’t you—”
John stepped in front of me. “Can we just skip this part, Dave? The part where you have this knee-jerk anger reflex over being given an ultimatum? Because it’s not an ultimatum and nobody is trying to push you around. I’ve been here a million times, you know I have, and that anger, it’s the rage of a kid getting dragged out of a warm bed on a cold morning. That’s all it is. Because that depression, it’s the most comfy bed in the world and you will say whatever you have to say to stay in it for one more minute. But there’s people out here who love you a lot, telling you that there’s a truck heading for that bed. And if you can’t work up any concern for your own life, then think of it like this. Somebody Amy and I care about a whole lot is about to get hit by that truck and only you can save them. The person we need you to save just happens to be you. Also, the truck is filled with shit, I don’t know if I mentioned that.”
“I just assumed.”
I sighed and carefully studied the patch of nothing in front of my face. “I am ninety-nine percent sure this is just the way I am. Been like this as long as I can remember.”
Amy looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course it’s the way you are. But having really hairy legs is the way I am, and I still shave them regularly. In our natural state, we’re all smelly, sticky, angry creatures nobody would even pay to look at in a zoo. We’re all at war with that awful, primitive version of ourselves, every day. You’re scared. I get it. You’re scared you’re going to get cured and suddenly be this corny, boring person. Well, I have good news—there is no cure. You just wake up another day and fight it, day after day, until that’s who you become. A fighter. Look, it’s up to you. Only you can do this. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life watching you slowly rot to pieces, stuck to the sofa like some kind of an airplane that is totally unable to take off from a treadmill, due to the laws of physics.”
“If nothing else,” said John, “remember that people depend on you. The next crisis is always right around the corner.”
We stood there and watched the shit-flooding operation for a while.
I gestured toward the crews below us and said, “I don’t like this.”
Amy said, “Well, it’s gross on like thirty-six levels.”
“No, I mean, in general. We’re basically being asked to turn a blind eye. Living our lives, knowing this is here. Like an—”
“An itch you can’t scratch?”
John flicked a cigarette butt and turned to go. He put his hand on my back, as if to lead me away.
“Forget it, Dave. It’s Vaginap—”
33. A COMPLETELY UNEVENTFUL DENOUEMENT. WE CAN PROBABLY CUT THIS PART, SERIOUSLY, STOP READING
Where the flood had receded, it had left behind a thin film of dried mud that turned lawns, sidewalks, and blacktop all the same grayish brown, like we had all been sucked into a sepia-toned photograph. But the town was still here.
We were doing Amy’s belated birthday at John’s place two weeks after the actual date, having agreed to at least hold off on the celebration until we were no longer at risk of trench foot. The stealth house had made it out of the flood needing only new carpet on the first floor (which had been badly overdue anyway, the old carpet having been assaulted by everything from coffee spills to fireworks burns).
We showed up at the door at eight that night, to hear John screaming at someone from inside. The last phrase I heard before we knocked was, “That shit isn’t cute anymore.”
He yanked the door open and let us in without a hello. He looked like shit, like he was five days into a bad flu.
John had been fighting with Joy. She was off in a corner, messing with her phone, as if she’d checked out of the argument long ago.
To John, I muttered, “So … she’s still here.”
John snapped, “She won’t fucking go! This is fucking ridiculous.”
Joy looked up from her phone and said, “I dumped his stash. He’s not happy.”
“You … what?”
“The meth, the Adderall, the weed, all of it. Down the toilet it went. Whoosh. Bye-bye.”
John stabbed a finger at her. “You don’t get to make that decision.”
I said, “You’re arguing with a swarm of shape-shifting bug monsters, John.”
Joy said, “And losing!”
Amy said, “I’m going to go get the casserole out of the car,” and went back out. There was no casserole, or anything else, out there.