A Natural History of Hell: Stories (7 page)

Pretty swept the razor in front of him and slashed Pa
’
s forearm. The gun dipped down for a moment, but Pa groaned a little and raised it again. I couldn
’
t look and I couldn
’
t not look, expecting any second for Pretty
’
s head to be shattered like the glass globe. He brought the razor up as if he meant to split Pa down the middle, and Pa froze in his usual stance when he was about to pull the trigger. Before he could fire, though, we saw some shadow, moving low through the night.

Jundle hit Pa behind the knees and my old man crumpled up and whimpered, the gun flying out of his hands. I dove for it and grabbed it away, but backing up I fell onto my ass. Pa kicked the hog in the head and scrabbled after me on his knees. “Give me that gun, Jr. That
’
s an order.”

He got up and stood over me with burning eyes and a hideous expression. In my fear, I pulled the trigger, and the bullet went through his left eye and come straight out the back with the crack of bone and a splurt of blood and brain. He stood there for a second, that eye hole smoking like the ash on one of Jundle
’
s cheroots, and then he fell forward like a cut tree. I rolled out of the way. He was so heavy with death that he would have made a pancake of me.

I wanted to think about the fact that I
’
d just killed my pa, but there wasn
’
t a second. Alice was standing at the window staring out like she was hypnotized. By the time I reached her, Pretty had already commenced slicing up Mrs. Adler. She was slit open from the chin to belly button and blood was everywhere, soaking her night gown, pooling on the floor in the moonlight. I saw her heart beating inside her. She moved her mouth to make a blood-bubble whisper, and I could tell by reading her lips that her last words were “Pretty Please.”

I pulled Alice away and put my arms around her. She didn
’
t move a muscle and was cold as stone. When I drew away, I found a huge grin on her face. Next I knew, Pretty was beside us, drenched in blood, laughing, with an arm around each of our shoulders. “How
’d we get here?
” I asked Alice when the hug broke up.

“
I don’
t know,” she said, “
but let’
s get.”

I looked around and saw Jundle, recovered from his foot to the face, taking a piss against the side of the house. When he was done, he took the burning cheroot from his mouth and touched its red-hot tip to the planks where he
’
d relieved himself. Fire sprang up as if from gasoline, and in a blink the flames were creeping up the side of the shack.

The hog trotted over to us and made a motion with his head that we were to climb on his back. Somehow, though it didn
’
t seem possible, we all fit. He grunted, squealed, farted, took three enormous jumps, and lit into the sky. We were flying upward on the back of a hog. I was petrified, and could feel Alice
’
s arms wrapped around my chest and her face pressing into my back. I couldn
’
t see Pretty, and didn
’
t know how he was managing to hang on, but I still heard his laughter, which hadn
’
t ceased since he sliced up his ma.

At one point Jundle swept down low over a dirt path through a wood, and we saw the shot and butchered bodies of our parents riding the back of Cynara the old heifer, heading off to, I guessed, hell. By the time Jundle reached an altitude where we were soaring through white clouds and stars, I was exhausted. It was peaceful way up there. I wrapped my arms around the enchanted animal’s thick bristly neck as I fell forward into sleep.

I woke, confused, in my own bed the next morning, and so did Alice and Pretty Please. Ma, who had our breakfast ready as always before leaving for work, seemed never to suspect a thing. We couldn
’
t wait for her to leave for work. When she finally did, Alice said to me. “What do you make of it?”

“Did we kill your ma and my pa?”

“I guess we did,” she said.

Pretty actually nodded.

“
It ain’t possible,
” I said. I ran to the bathroom and checked for the razor in the cabinet. It was gone. I ran back to report to Alice.

“We gotta act like nothing happened,” she said. “Deny everything.”

“Its gonna be hard to forget. How
’
d we get back from Mrs. Oftshaw
’
s?”

“
Jundle,
” said Pretty Please, and me and Alice almost fell over. It was the first time her brother had said anything but that which had become his name.

Later that morning, we were back at the rose garden of the church in order to keep our deal. We sat on the bench, looking at the fountain, all of us still tired from the doings of the night. Eventually the minister came out to see us. We gave him a seat on the bench between me and Alice. Pretty didn
’t budge for him.

“Did you go and look in on Mrs. Oftshaw?” he asked.

I nodded, and Alice said, “We did.”

“She
’
s got a magic hog,” I told him.

“She
’
s got a man
’
s head floatin’ in water,” said Alice.

“We shaved,” said Pretty Please, another surprise.

The minister looked quizzically at us. “You must tell me the truth,” he said.

“Us deputy angels got inside her place, and I took this little box,” said Alice. “I spied on her whispering into it. Then she shut the lid down tight. Must have been a curse or something.”

I looked at Alice, but she wouldn
’
t look at me.

“Give me that,” said the minister and took the fancy box from her hand. “There
’
s no such thing as curses, dear.” He pulled the lid off and held it up to look inside. We saw it there, a shiny red wasp with a long stinger that looked like a piece of jewelry cut from ruby. Only thing is, its wings started to flutter, and then all of a sudden it took off. It flew straight up into the minister
’
s face and sunk that long stinger into the white jelly of his left eye. The box hit the paving stones, and the poor man screamed, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

We never got paid for spying that day ’cause we ran for our bikes with Pretty hot behind us. We pedaled like mad back home and hid with the curtains pulled over, expecting Sheriff Bedlow any minute for hours on end. But he never did come, and the minister never told on us. Maybe he was afraid that people would find out he
’
d promised to pay us for spying on Mrs. Oftshaw. As it was, he had to start using the Mount Chary Galore on that eye, the only thing he claimed would stop the burning.

The summer ended and it was time to return to school for me and Alice, and Pretty had to go back to the basement. We thought that he
’
d start using more words now that he
’
d said a few, but that petered out soon enough. A few weeks had gone by, and I still didn
’
t know what to make of that crazy night. Then one day my ma called all us kids together when she returned home from work. Before we ate dinner, she sat us down on the couch, herself in a chair across from us.

“I hate to have to tell you this,” she said, and I could see her grow weak. She lowered her head slightly so we couldn
’
t see her eyes. “
Your ma,
” she said, nodding toward Alice, “and your pa,” she said to me, “are dead. I don
’
t know how else to put it.”

Neither Alice or me said a peep. If my sort of sister was half as surprised as I was, her tongue felt turned to stone.

My mother cried, and we moved closer and put our arms around her. Finally Alice said, “What happened?”

My ma just shook her head.

“How
’
d they die?” I asked.

She was silent for a time, drying her eyes, and eventually said, “Car crash out in California.”

“That ain
’
t really what happened, is it?” asked Alice, softly, stroking the back of Ma
’
s neck.

Ma shook her head. In a whisper she said, “No.”

“What then?” I asked.

“It
’
s too terrible. Far too terrible to describe.”

A few days later, the summer ended. Me and Alice had to go back to school and Pretty was sent to the basement. He
’
d slowly lost all his new power of speech, but not before my ma got to hear him say the word “Love,” which managed to lift her out of the funk caused by finding out about Pa
’
s death. From then on, when Mrs. Oftshaw was coming to the house, me and Alice made sure we were out. We
’
d had enough of her magic, but it was our secret and we talked about it when we
’
d slip out into the woods to kiss. Late one afternoon that fall, after the weather had gone cold, I spied Mount Chary bathed in the last golden light of day, like an ancient, gilded pyramid, looming in the distance down the end of the one road out of town, and I got a feeling for the first time in my life that everything was finally
right
.

A Natural History of Autumn

On a blue afternoon in autumn, Riku and Michi drove south from Numazu in his silver convertible along the coast of the Izu Peninsula. The temperature was mild for the end of October, and the air was clear, the sun glinting off Suruga Bay. She wore sunglasses and, to protect her hair, a yellow scarf with a design of orange butterflies. He wore driving gloves, a black dress shirt, a loosened white tie. The car, the open road, the rush of the wind made it impossible to converse, and so for miles she watched the bay to their right and he the rising slopes of maple and pine to their left. Just outside the town of Dogashima, a song came on the radio, “Just You, Just Me,” and they turned to look at each other. She waited for him to smile. He did. She smiled back, and then he headed inland to search for the hidden onsen, Inugami.

They’d met the previous night at the Limit, an upscale hostess bar. Riku’s employer had a tab there and he was free to use it when in Numazu. He’d been once before, drunk, and spent time with a hostess. Her conversation had sounded rote, like a script; her flattery grotesquely opulent and therefore flat. The instant he saw Michi, though, in her short black dress with a look of uncertainty in her eyes, he knew it would be a different experience. He ordered a bottle of Nikka Yoichi and two glasses. She introduced herself. He stood and bowed. They were in a private room at a polished table of blond wood. The chairs were high-backed and upholstered like thrones. To their right was an open-air view of pines and the coast. She waited for him to smile and eventually he did. She smiled back and told him, “I’m writing a book.”

Riku said, “Aren’t you supposed to tell me how handsome I am?”

“Your hair is perfect,” she said.

He laughed. “I see.”

“I’m writing a book,” she said again. “I decided to make a study of something.”

“You’re a scientist?” he said.

“We’re all scientists,” she said. “We watch and listen, take in information, process it. We spin theories by which we live.”

“What if they’re false?”

“What if they’re not?” she said.

He shook his head and took a drink.

They sat in silence for a time. She stared out past the pines, sipping her whisky. He stared at her.

“Tell me about your family,” said Riku.

She told him about her dead father, her ill mother, her younger sister and brother, but when she inquired about his parents, he said, “Okay, tell me about your book.”

“I decided to study a season, and since autumn is the season I’m in, it would be autumn. It’s a natural history of autumn.”

“You’ve obviously been to the university,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, I read a lot to pass the time between clients.”

“How much have you written?”

“Nothing yet. I’m researching now, taking notes.”

“Do you go out to Thousand Tree Beach and stare at Fuji in the morning?”

“Your sarcasm is intoxicating,” she said.

He filled her glass.

“No, I do my research here. I ask each client what autumn means to him.”

“And they tell you?”

She nodded. “Some just want me to say how big their biceps are but most sit back and really think about it. The thought of it makes all the white-haired ojiisans smile, the businessmen cry, the young men a little scared. A lot of it is the same. Just images—the colorful leaves, the clear cold mornings by the bay, a certain pet dog, a childhood friend, a drunken night. But sometimes they tell me whole stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“A very powerful businessman—one of the other hostesses swore he was a master of the five elements—once told me his own love story, about a young woman he had an affair with. It began on the final day of summer, lasted only as long as the following season, and ended in the snow.”

“What did you learn from that story? What did you put in your notes?”

“I recorded his story as he’d told it, and afterward wrote, ‘The Story of a Ghost.’ ”

“Why a ghost?” he asked.

“I forget,” she said. “And I lied—I attended Waseda University for two years before my father died.”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” he said. “I knew when you told me you called the businessman’s story ‘The Story of a Ghost.’ ”

“Pretentious?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Maybe,” she said and smiled.

“Forget about that,” said Riku. “I will top that make-inu businessman’s exquisite melancholy by proposing a field trip.” He sat forward in his chair and touched the tabletop with his index finger. “My employer recently rewarded me for a job well done and suggested I use, whenever I like, a private onsen he has an arrangement with down in Izu. I need only call a few hours in advance.”

“A field trip?” she said. “What will we be researching?”

“Autumn. The red and yellow leaves. The place is out in the woods on a mountainside, hidden and very old-fashioned, no frills. I propose a dohan, an overnight journey to the onsen, Inugami.”

“A date,” she said. “And our attentions will only be on autumn, nothing else?”

“You can trust me when I say, that is entirely up to you.”

“Your hair inspires confidence,” she said. “You can arrange things with the house on the way out.”

“I intend to be in your book,” he said and prevented himself from smiling.

After hours of winding along the rims of steep cliffs and bumping down tight dirt paths through the woods, the silver car pulled to a stop in a clearing, in front of a large, slightly sagging farmhouse—minka style, built of logs with a thatched roof. Twenty yards to the left of the place there was a sizeable garden filled with dying sunflowers, ten-foot stalks, their heads bowed. To the right of the house there was a slate path that led away into the pines. The golden late-afternoon light slanted down on the clearing, shadows beginning to form at the tree line.

“We’re losing the day,” said Riku. “We’ll have to hurry.”

Michi got out of the car and stretched. She removed her sunglasses and stood still for a moment, taking in the cool air.

“I have your bag,” said Riku and shut the trunk.

As they headed for the house, two figures appeared on the porch. One was a small old woman with white hair, wearing monpe pants and an indigo Katazome jacket with a design of white flames. Next to her stood what Michi at first mistook for a pony. The sight of the animal surprised her and she stopped walking. Riku went on ahead. “Grandmother Chinatsu,” he said and bowed.

“Your employer has arranged everything with me. Welcome,” she said. A small, wrinkled hand with dirty nails appeared from within the sleeve of the jacket. She beckoned to Michi. “Come, my dear, don’t be afraid of my pet, Ono. He doesn’t bite.” She smiled and waved her arm.

As Michi approached, she bowed to Grandmother Chinatsu, who only offered a nod. The instant the young woman’s foot touched the first step of the porch, the dog gave a low growl. The old lady wagged a finger at the creature and snapped, “Yemeti!” Then she laughed, low and gruff, the sound at odds with her diminutive size. She extended her hand and helped Michi up onto the porch. “Come in,” she said and led them into the farmhouse.

Michi was last in line. She turned to look at the dog. Its coat was more like curly human hair than fur. She winced in disgust. A large flattened pug face, no snout to speak of, black eyes, sharp ears, and a thick bottom lip bubbling with drool. “Ono,” she said and bowed slightly in passing. As she stepped into the shadow beyond the doorway, she felt the dog’s nose press momentarily against the back of her dress.

In the main room there was a rock fireplace within which a low flame licked two maple logs. Above hung a large paper lantern, orange with white blossoms, shedding a soft light in the center of the room. The place was rustic, wonderfully simple. All was wood: the walls, the ceiling, the floor. There were three ancient carved wooden chairs gathered around a low table off in an alcove at one side of the room. Grandmother led them down a hallway to the back of the place. They passed a room on the left, its screen shut. At the next room, the old lady slid open the panel and said, “The toilet.” Farther on, they came to two rooms, one on either side of the hallway. She let them know who was to occupy which by mere nods of her head. “The bath is at the end of the hall,” she said.

Their rooms were tatami style, straw mats and a platform bed with a futon mattress in the far corner. They undressed, put on robes and sandals, and met in the hallway. As they passed through the main room of the house, Ono stirred from his spot by the fireplace, looked up at them, and snorted.

“Easy, easy,” said Riku to the creature. He stepped aside and let Michi get in front of him. Once out on the porch, she said, “Ono is a little scary.”

“Only a little?” he asked.

Grandmother appeared from within the plot of dying sunflowers and called that there were towels in the shed out by the spring. Riku waved to her as he and Michi took the slate path into the pines. Shadows were rising beneath the trees and the sky was losing its last blue to an orange glow. Leaves littered the path and the temperature had dropped. The scent of pine was everywhere. Curlews whistled from the branches above.

“Are you taking notes?” he called ahead to her.

She stopped and waited for him. “Which do you think is more autumnal—the leaves, the dying sunflowers, or Grandmother Chinatsu?”

“Too early to tell,” he said. “I’m withholding judgment.”

Another hundred yards down the winding path they came upon the spring, nearly surrounded by pines except for one spot with a view of a small meadow beyond. Steam rose from the natural pool, curling up in the air, reminding Michi of the white flames on the old lady’s jacket. At the edge of the water, closest to the slate path, there was ancient stonework, a crude bench, a stacked rock wall covered with moss, six foot by four, from which a thin waterfall splashed down into the rising heat of the onsen.

“Lovely,” said Michi.

Riku nodded.

She left him and moved down along the side of the spring. He looked away as she stepped out of her sandals and removed her robe, which she hung on a nearby branch. He heard her sigh as she entered the water. When he removed his robe, her face was turned away, as if she were taking in the last light on the meadow. Meanwhile, Riku was taking Michi in, her slender neck, her long black hair and how it lay on the curve of her shoulder, her breasts.

“Are you getting in?” she asked.

He silently eased down into the warmth.

When Michi turned to look at him, she immediately noticed the tattoo on his right shoulder, a vicious swamp eel with rippling fins and needle fangs and a long body that wrapped around Riku’s back. It was the color of the moss on the rocks of the waterfall.

Riku noticed her glancing at it. He also noticed the smoothness of her skin and that her nipples were erect.

“Who is your employer?” she asked.

“He’s a good man,” he said and lowered himself into a crouch, so that only his head was above water. “Now, pay attention,” he said and looked out at the meadow, which was already in twilight.

“To what?” she asked, also sinking down into the water.

He didn’t respond, and they remained immersed for a long time, just two heads floating on the surface, staring silently and listening, steam rising around them. At last light, when the air grew cold, the curlews lifted from their branches and headed for Australia. Riku stood, moved to a different spot in the spring, and crouched down again. Michi moved closer to him. A breeze blew through the pines, a cricket sang in the dark.

“Was there any inspiration?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s time for you to tell me your story of autumn.” She drew closer to him, and he backed up a step.

“I don’t tell stories,” he said.

“As brief as you want, but something,” she said and smiled.

He closed his eyes and said, “Okay. The autumn I was seventeen, I worked on one of the fishing boats out of Numazu. We were out for horse mackerel. On one journey we were struck by a rogue wave, a giant that popped up out of nowhere. I was on deck when it hit, and we were swamped. I managed to grab a rope, and it took all my strength not to be drawn overboard, the water was so cold and powerful. I was sure I would die. Two men did get swept away and were never found. That’s my natural history of autumn.”

She moved forward and put her arms around him. They kissed. He drew his head back and whispered in her ear, “When I returned to shore that autumn, I quit fishing.” She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder.

They dined by candlelight, in their robes, in the alcove off the main room of the farmhouse. Grandmother Chinatsu served, and Ono followed a step behind, so that every time she leaned forward to put a platter on the table, there was the dog’s leering face, tongue drooping. The main course was thin slices of raw mackerel with grated ginger and chopped scallions. They drank sake. Michi remarked on the appearance of the mackerel after Riku’s story.

“Most definitely a sign,” he said.

They discussed the things they each saw and heard at the spring as the sake bottle emptied. It was well past midnight when the candle burned out and they went down the hall to his room.

Three hours later, Michi woke in the dark, still a little woozy from the sake. Riku woke when she sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I have to use the toilet.” She got off the bed and lifted her robe from the mat. Slipping into it, she crossed the room. When she slid back the panel, a dim light entered. A lantern hanging in the center of the hallway ceiling bathed the corridor in a dull glow. Michi left the panel open and headed up the hallway. Riku lay back and immediately dozed off. It seemed only a minute to him before Michi was back, shaking him by the shoulder to wake up. She’d left the panel open and he could see her face. Her eyes were wide, the muscles of her jaw tense, a vein visibly throbbing behind the pale skin of her forehead. She was breathing rapidly, and he could feel the vibration of her heartbeat.