Weatherhead Read online

  That Maggie in the dream had had this number on her shirt. Yes, he was thinking Roman. That was the jersey number of Randy Johnson, her imaginary arch-nemesis. Oh, but about that dream!

  How spacious our capacity for fantastical things, he mused. Imagining the dead returned to upright, forthright. Someone had ringed his house with happy lights. Giant ones that flooded every room with white-yellow scream. It made the writing on the bottle of lithium bleed together. He had found this inside the tank of the toilet. It was completely full. The child-proof seal hadn’t even been cracked. He’d been thinking about his racing pulse and looking for something bellows-like and had thought, in a moment of inspiration, perhaps he could fashion one out of the float in the tank of the toilet when he found the lithium. Li.

  He noticed the crusty layer covering the back of his hand. It flaked off of his knuckles all biscuit. What— Something or someone was pounding away somewhere nearby. He put his hand to his chest. Shit, that wasn’t his heartbeat. Those assholes had stolen it or muffled it or something. They were knocking on the door again. He had his gun out and the door can’t get kicked in because it’s no longer there and they dragged him out into the street clawing and screaming. They were still in the place they called Weatherhead. He twisted his head back. That wasn’t his house, he observed with mild horror. His house was somewhere in a country called Alaska. There was no gun in his hand.

  ⧜

  Where the fuck am I? he cried to them hoarsely. They had roughed him out into the street and stood him against a cracked and pathetic wall. What is—

  Green, a voice hushed into his ear, urchin tongued green. The Colored Girl was holding his left arm, Frank his right. She was smiling at him. He slackened his contortions. They relaxed. The faceless youth, Rapey, he now thought of him, appeared now and did his business with the little portable bellows and accordion, and cried, G sharp!

  Mr. Moustache scribbled this down on a greasy pad with a greasy pencil and then he made a sign with a twitch of his nose. They let go of his arms. Rapey had tucked away his beat-breaking equipment and had drifted away from their little band, squawking and exposing himself to a nearby flow of locals.

  Mr. Moustache laughed and shook his head. Lawlessness is graven in the breast of all youth, he told him, beasts, all!

  Stormhead purple, the Colored Girl added.

  Tell me what the fuck is going on, he said as cordially as he could. His tone betrayed promises of light beatings, finger breakings. Where am I?

  Weatherhead, champ, Frank said. He was standing nearby smoking his pipe.

  We’ll be the ones tossing off questions, mate, Mr. Moustache replied, in a tone whose gentleness belied his words, just a few more formalities and then we’ll be off and you’re free to—well—his voice trailed off and he looked up at the drab, sunless sky. Not really. He nodded at the other bandits, Rapey had reappeared, wiping drool off of his chin. It left a smear of darker across his dusty cheek. They ushered him down a broken-angled alley that was punctuated every few yards with a clumsy outcropping of grey and brown stone and concrete. The city had seen better times. He thought again how it looked like the still-born hostage of a war of some kind, bombs’ frottage against architecture, but the people here, though bent of head and angular of sight, seemed to go about their dusty, grey lives with a banality that bespoke fears that emerged from somewhere inside rather than outside, so whatever conflict it had been, it must’ve ended. Or made itself at home, part of him intoned. They sang as he walked. In G sharp, he assumed. What had made him imagine Maggie Mechaine in a place like this, he wasn’t sure. The blows to the head, he wagered.

  ‘Tis her city, Mr. Moustache warned. They could hear his thoughts. She took it, conquered it, now she rules it. Don’t make wonders in your pants fussing about all crybaby about the whys and wherefores, friend—

  Black, said the Colored Girl.

  Mind her words, Mr. Moustache panted as they tromped through the streets, she knows. We all do. It’s a matter of bounties, see?

  Bounties, he snapped, bounties for what? Why did you bring me here? Kidnap me?

  The worst mauve ever, cried the Colored Girl with laughter.

  Frank stared at him in wonder. No one kidnapped you.

  They had stopped in front of a collapsed building. Here, Mr. Moustache touched Rapey on the shoulder and the younger man smashed his shoulder through an already splintered wooden door and led them into a dark, rubble-strewn ruin. The ceiling had half-collapsed and filled the room with debris. The four bandits spread out. They were obviously familiar with the place for they moved quickly into respective corners and examined hidden stores tucked under shattered bricks, inside grates set into the wall until, satisfied, they remembered him standing there watching.

  Fuuuuuuck—Frank moaned. Look. He held up a broken bottle of some kind. That was my last one, too.

  Blue, blue, blue, the Colored Girl frowned and clucked her tongue. She shrugged off her leather jacket and waved for him to sit. There were five chairs arranged in a silly circle behind him, he saw.

  Not to worry, we’ll be back there before you know it and I’ll spring ye for a replacement spirit. Then, Mr. Moustache turned to their charge. Nows about, we need to pin a few questions on your ears. As we told ye, there’s been some amorous rumors going about, troubling ones as to the distance between life and death hereabouts. He waved his hand vaguely in the space between them.

  Perfect yellows, gushed the Colored Girl. She perched her perfect bottom on what had once been perfectly a chair and crossed her perfect legs primly.

  Mr. Moustache nodded with approval, Right, and then we’ll be off.

  And I’m going to stay here, is that right? What makes you think I won’t do everything I can

  There’s no can, friend, Frank said gently, and no will or might other than hers here. Imagine an orchestra—

  Mr. Moustache cleared his throats. His tiny face looked perturbed. No time for analogy. Les jes get on wit the heart of the thing. He held his arm out before him and pushed up his sleeve with a greasy hand. Squints at the skin there meant writing. Now. Ahem. You maintain that your wife was killed the last day of March of this same year of the Common Era as marked by, well, you lot?

  He said nothing.

  Right, good. Now, there’s been some speck-lation over that day in particular when rumblings were first being made as to the inexactitude prevalent in estisessments of her being deceasedly

  Particular oranges and whites, the Colored Girl looked at him from under her low brow.

  He laughed. She’s dead. Haven’t you heard the story of how I picked up every single piece of her? It’s how I introduce myself at parties. The bandits exchanged glances. There is nothing to doubt here, people. She died that day. I know she died. I was there.

  Mr. Moustache rubbed his chin, tongue jutting up and out. Uh-huh. And then you pulled your firearm on your brother officers?

  He looked down. Yes.

  Frank leaned forward. How many bullets did you fire?

  None. But you know that.

  How many shots? Mr. Moustache insisted.

  None! I didn’t shoot at anyone.

  The names you gave these velocities? Speed has names, usually saved for types of prophesized cheese.

  Orange smears, the Colored Girl looked angry. He wondered how she could kill him. She was probably stark good at it, more than the others, the bitch.

  I.Shot. No. One. That. Day. How many other fucking ways—

  Mr. Moustache called Rapey over and they both squinted at the writing on his forearm, conferring in hushed tones. The former apologized to him out of both mouths. We’re not the most organized bunch. Not exactly office material. But sez here you shot point-blank three different brother officers. Shot dead.

  Arrow red?

  Yuh, Frank told her. And the empty pistol to prove it.

  What exactly am I being accused of here?

  Why, having a not-dead dead wife! Mr. Moustache seemed astonished that he�
��d ask this.

  And what does that have to do with my not-shooting cops shooting cops?

  Could be, it’s all your fault? How do you spend your Aprils through Decembers? Hm? Tell us.

  Blues out of reds.

  She was right. They all knew. They just needed to hear him say it. I spend them alive.

  Here, Frank said softly, it is always March.

  He swallowed, pretended not to understand their words. If she’s alive, prove it.

  They began preparing to leave, breaking off conversation with him the moment he uttered these words. Mr. Moustache approached again and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. His second face yawned. A word of caution, mate. Weatherhead is a rough town. One of the worst we’ve been through in a while. Now’s it ain’t our purgative to pry, whatever business brought you here, we pay it no mind!

  I didn’t want to come here, he protested.

  Mr. Moustache held up a bedraggled hand, We pay it no mind, he repeated, but heed this, this ain’t a not dangerous place.

  So much blood! Rapey cried. He loved it here, which was probably a bad sign.

  Red and black and more more red, the Colored Girl put in with severity.

  Mr. Moustache looked from them back to him. I ain’t seen the like of it in a while, but these empire hearts, they buzz a weird bizzy-buzz. I prefer the country by the sea, myself, not these plains of demons and fissure-women wives and whatnot, places of immense and sharp pronouns. Gimme a boat anyday and a woman to sail her by—

  Or a man, Frank put in gently.

  Or a man, yes, yes, Mr. Moustache replied testily. Point is, friend, stick to the beginnings, let misery ask for misery to end. Don’t stick yer nose in where it don’t belong. There wasn’t a day made out of hours that she won’t desecrate.

  She—who is she?

  Black, white, the Colored Girl said.

  Punch you in your neck while she has her way with you, Rapey crowed.

  A hammer to nail, Frank said. They gathered their things quickly. It was apparent they were in haste to abandon him here, their part done.

  We’ll be about, Mr. Moustache touched his finger to the brim of his dirty ol’ hat, she keeps us near the city most of the time, so we’ll be seein’ you again. They nodded farewell to him each in turn.

  He followed them out and watched them walk, single file, one by one, down the alley from whence they came. He stood silent and scared in the middle of the ruined lane.

  ⧜

  And he perhaps should have wondered at that feral, malevolent shade of Maggie Mechaine he’d dreamed of yesterday, but he didn’t. Who can predict what unravels in one’s mind when one expires? Ghosts and spirits are all names of the most primal fear.

  And yet, here she was—alive!

  She’d been somewhere in the greyland outside the town. He knew this from the dust on her traveling clothes. Through the ash trees lining the avenue leading into Weatherhead she came, drawing terror and screams in her wake. The city made way for her by crumbling and burning out of her path, preferring self-immolation to her claw. He followed her from a distance, keeping his eyes down the alleys to his left as he skirted down the street parallel to hers, breaking even with her pace.

  Who was this woman? By all appearances, she was Maggie Mechaine, but she was no Maggie Mechaine he had ever known. She seethed, whoever this was, was no thin-framed, enfolded, hoodied, cross southern bale. She was empire sinister, but lacking that regal frugality that won hearts and minds. Now, she had a brutal vitality. You could see it in the way her shoulders rose slightly when she pulled her hood back, letting her hair spill down the back of her dusty, blue-grey coat. You could see it in the way her teeth were perpetually bared—meat could drift by one’s face at any moment: be prepared. You could see it in the way she ignored everyone because they were dead already. As stately as a gallows, as sensuous as a garrote. The city closed as she approached, it re-opened as she passed.

  He abandoned his furtive chase alongside her. He fell onto a wrinkled bench and laid his head back. He was having a difficult few days. She had an erratic rhythmic relationship to night and day, so it didn’t bother her as much. He couldn’t find her for a moment, and then he saw her faint outline sitting in the prow. She’d be dead in less than a year. She kept checking her watch. Was she counting down ‘til then?

  “It’s midnight,” she drawled and chided him for nodding off. “Look.”

  “That’s the sun alright,” he croaked. He hadn’t slept in three days. She moved off, away from him. The next time he woke up she was smoking a joint on the top deck with what appeared to be the captain.

  “You have a way with people.”

  “No,” she decided so simple. He found his corner and slept.

  (5 Down) I Told You Never Say ‘Never’ on Your Knees!

  On his third day after they entered Weatherhead, the four ruffians came for him again. These words had already woken him and he was lying there eluding nightmares when they burst in. This time they were distant and silent and spoke little. They tied his hands at the small of his back and hustled him into an ancient-looking stone cathedral. She was there and didn’t look up when they brought him in and left him standing at the wall behind her before disappearing without a word. She hadn’t acknowledged him yet and he began to doubt that this figment was really Maggie Mechaine. Yesterday and yesterday’s yesterday, she had given no sign of recognizing him, had shouldered him roughly aside and went on her way. But this day, without looking at him as he lingered nearby, she suddenly paused and looked to the side and down. Near at him, he noted with terror.

  There was a line of rumpled townsfolk wending through this church she had come to, queued out the front door. She was waving them forward one at a time and drowning them in the baptismal fount stationed at the back of the church where the lectern or altar would’ve been. Each one would walk quietly up to her, she’d stare into his or her face flatly and then seize him or her by the scruff of the neck and press their faces down into the water with a gigantic lean of her slender frame, feet lifting up at times as she held them down. The only resistance they put up was involuntary. She’d let the corpse flop to the floor and then stand over it with her hands on her hips, or chewing on a finger, and study the dead face.

  But now as the next victim approached she held up her dripping hand to halt their approach. Then she spoke,

  Quietly,

  Did I drown?

  In desperation that this nightmare end, he countered, Do you know who I am?

  She said nothing for a moment, then: Your name is and has never been alley, friend, or resemblance. You are also not cuff, sleeve, or sock. Shake up your alphabet and spill it on the floor and I’ll find you a name.Her dripping hands she still held out to her sides, an aquaphobiac Ophelia. Drown the hands! She indicated the vague distances with her chin and asked, See where it say rib tip?

  He looked at the far wall of the church. No.

  She shrugged. What is memory, anyway? Another bag of stupid letters we tie around our necks. She wrung out her sleeves and then motioned for him to wait. She turned and addressed in a loud voice of chrome and linnet those still patiently waiting in line: Your lips are turning blue because all the twists and turns of our monster lead to this place—she swept her hand around the church—I will cover and kill you with stone, now. I want the arches torn out like open, you of the shit-rabies eyes. Bring low this place so that strangers may no longer meet here and let God’s only prophecy left ringing through the ruins be one of pitch and black. None of you are innocent.

  And with that the crowd, until now docile and even milling about bored, he thought, watching their fellow citizens drink death, erupted into a frenzy and scattered like fools into the corners of the church, splintering pews for bludgeons and laying into the masonry. She made a gesture for him to follow and they made their way through the romance of desecration unfolding around them. At the door, she stopped short on a sudden and waved over an elderly accountant-type who was urina
ting fever all over a pile of stained glass. Leave that be—and the ceiling—I’ll want to wander through it if it ever rains again. He wagged his head excitedly and ran off to tell the others.

  It was only one moment of her life, but it must have been ambitious, for it punished him for following this creature by surfacing just then:

  Once Maggie said, “Man makes tragedy and I plug up my ears.” But he knew this wasn’t entirely true. She had taken to sleeping in the cage he had built for her in the backyard, their first summer in Alaska. He came home from work with the stutter-wink of night blindness and peered out into the yard. She hadn’t stirred yet. He forced an echo of love up out of himself and patched together a breakfast for her and made a path through the white spheres that’d been flung down on the insult of a ground.

  He shook her gently through the bars and she sat up and blearily regarded his hand and its plate. “Hi.” She slipped her headphones off and something that dishonestly called itself music blasted out. She oiled her sleep with these sounds. The ‘heavy’ meant her lids, she explained once. If all else was silence, then that must be what kept her awake, she reasoned. “I don’t have the key?” She nodded and licked her lips and let him in. He stretched out on the woolen blanket that served as mattress and watched her back as she ate. She listened to him talk about work. A child had been born. Then it had died. Neglect, they said. And the mother had tried to kill the father over it. Hence police.

  It was then that she said, “Man makes tragedy and I plug up my ears.” But he knew this wasn’t entirely true. “Thanks for the food.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “There’s worse things ‘n countin’ your steps back to the bathroom—walkin’ backwards, I mean.”

  “Starting from where, though? And where do you draw the line?” He wasn’t about to let her out. His big hands pushed down her jogging pants.

  She pushed his hands away. “From here to there,” she cut an imaginary swathe in space, geographical space. She lay next to him for a moment and stared at the sky. “Do they make happy shades, too? For summer?”