A Natural History of Hell: Stories (9 page)

The following week, in a private room at the Limit, Michi sat at a blond-wood table, staring out the open panel across the room at the pines and the coast. Riku’s employer sat across from her. “Ingenious, the natural history of autumn,” he said. “And you knew this would draw him in?”

She turned to face the older man. “He was a unique person,” she said. “He’d faced death.”

“Too bad about Riku,” he said. “I wanted to trust him.”

“Really, the lengths to which you’ll go to test the spirit of those you need to trust. He’s gone because he was a coward?”

“A coward I can tolerate. But he said he loved you, and it proved he didn’t understand love at all. A dangerous flaw.” He took an envelope from within his suit jacket and laid it on the table. “A job well done,” he said. She lifted the envelope and looked inside.

A cold breeze blew into the room. “You know,” he said, “this season always reminds me of our time together.”

As she spoke she never stopped counting the bills. “All I remember of that,” she said, “is the snow.”

Blood Drive

For Christmas our junior year of high school, all of our parents got us guns. That way you had a half a year to learn to shoot and get down all the safety garbage before you started senior year. Depending on how well off your parents were, that pretty much dictated the amount of firepower you had. Darcy Krantz’s family lived in a trailer, and so she had a pea-shooter, .22 Double Eagle derringer, and Baron Hanes’s father, who was in the security business and richer than God, got him a .44 Magnum that was so heavy it made his nutty kid lean to the side when he wore the gun belt. I packed a pearl-handled .38 revolver, Smith & Wesson, which had originally been my grandfather’s. It was old as dirt, but all polished up, the way my father kept it, it was still a fine-looking gun. It was really my father’s gun, and my mother told him not to give it to me, but he said, “Look, when she goes to high school, she’s gotta carry, everybody does in their senior year.”

“Insane,” said my mom.

“Come on,” I said. “Please . . .”

She drew close to me, right in my face, and said, “If your father gives you that gun, he’s got no protection, making his deliveries.” He drove a truck and delivered bakery goods to different diners and convenience stores in the area.

“Take it easy,” said my dad, “all the crooks are asleep when I go out for my runs.” He motioned for me to come over to where he sat. He put the gun in my hand. I gripped the handle and felt the weight of it. “Give me your best pose,” he said.

I turned profile, hung my head back, my long chestnut hair reaching halfway to the floor, pulled up the sleeve of my T-shirt, made a muscle with my right arm, and pointed the gun at the ceiling with my left hand. He laughed till he couldn’t catch his breath. And my mom said, “Disgraceful,” but she also laughed.

I went to the firing range with my dad a lot the summer before senior year. He was a calm teacher, and never spoke much or got too mad. Afterward, he’d take me to this place and buy us ice cream. A lot of times it was Friday night, and I just wanted to get home so I could go hang out with my friends. One night I let him know we could skip the ice cream, and he seemed taken aback for a second, like I’d hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry,” he said and tried to smile.

I felt kind of bad, and figured I could hug him or kiss him or ask him to tell me something. “Tell me about a time when you shot the gun not on the practice range,” I said as we drove along.

He laughed. “Not too many times,” he said. “The most interesting was from when I was a little older than you. It was night, we were in the basement of an abandoned factory over in the industrial quarter. I was with some buds and we were partying, smoking up and drinking straight, cheap vodka. Anyway, we were wasted. This guy I really didn’t like who hung out with us, Raymo was his name, he challenged me to a round of Russian roulette. Don’t tell your mother this,” he said.

“You know I won’t,” I said.

“Anyway, I left one bullet in the chamber, removed the others, and spun the cylinder. He went first—nothing. I went, he went, etc, click, click, click. The gun came to me, and I was certain by then that the bullet was in my chamber. So, you know what I did?”

“You shot it into the ceiling?”

“No. I turned the gun on Raymo and shot him in the face. After that we all ran. We ran and we never got caught. At the time there was a gang going around at night shooting people and taking their wallets, and the cops put it off to them. None of my buds were going to snitch. Believe me, Raymo was no great loss to the world. The point of which is to say, it’s a horrible thing to shoot someone. I see Raymo’s expression right before the bullet drilled through it just about every night in my dreams. In other words, you better know what you’re doing when you pull that trigger. Try to be responsible.”

I was sorry I asked.

To tell you the truth, taking the gun to school at first was a big nuisance. The thing was heavy, and you always had to keep an eye on it. The first couple of days were all right, ’cause everyone was showing off their pieces at lunchtime. A lot of people complimented me on my gun. They liked the pearl handle and the shape of it. Of course the kids with the new, high-tech 9 millimeter jobs got the most attention, but if your piece was unique enough, it got you at least some cred. Jody Motes, pretty much an idiot with buck teeth and a fat ass, brought in a German Luger with a red swastika inlaid on the handle, and because of it started dating this really hot guy in our English class. Kids wore them on their hips, others, mostly guys, did the shoulder holster. A couple of the senior girls with big breasts went with this over-the-shoulder bandolier style, so their guns sat atop their left breast. Sweaty Mr. Gosh in second period math said that look was “very fashionable.” I carried mine in my Sponge Bob lunch box. I hated wearing it; the holster always hiked my skirt up in the back somehow.

Everybody in the graduating class carried heat except for Scott Wisner, the King of Vermont, as everybody called him, I forget why ’cause Vermont was totally far away. His parents had given him a stun gun instead of the real thing. Cody St. John, the captain of the football team, said the stun gun was fag, and after that Wisner turned into a weird loner, who walked around carrying a big jar with a floating mist inside. He asked all the better looking girls if he could have their souls. I know he asked me. Creep. I heard he’d stun anyone who wanted it for ten dollars a pop. Whatever.

The teachers in the classes for seniors all had tactical 12-gauge short-barrel shotguns; no shoulder stock, just a club grip with an image of the school’s mascot (a cartoon, rampaging Indian) stamped on it. Most of them were loaded with buckshot, but Mrs. Cloder, in human geography, who used her weapon as a pointer when at the board, was rumored to rock the breaching rounds, those big slugs cops use to blow doors off their hinges. Other teachers left the shotguns on their desks or lying across the eraser gutter at the bottom of the board. Mr. Warren, the vice principal, wore his in a holster across his back, and for an old fart was super quick in drawing it over his shoulder with one hand.

At lunch, across the soccer field and back by the woods, where only the seniors were allowed to go, we sat out every nice day in the fall, smoking cigarettes and having gun-spinning competitions. You weren’t allowed to shoot back there, so we left the safeties on. Bryce, a boy I knew since kindergarten, was good at it. He could flip his gun in the air backwards and have it land in the holster at his hip. McKenzie Batkin wasn’t paying attention and turned the safety off instead of on before she started spinning her antique Colt. The sound of the shot was so sudden, we all jumped, and then silence, followed by the smell of gun smoke. The bullet went through her boot and took off the tip of her middle toe. Almost a whole minute passed before she screamed. The King of Vermont and Cody St. John both rushed to help her at the same time. They worked together to staunch the bleeding. I remember noticing the football lying on the ground next to the jar of souls, and I thought it would make a cool photo for the yearbook. She never told her parents, hiding the boots at the back of her closet. To this day she’s got half a middle toe on her right foot, but that’s the least of her problems.

After school that day, I walked home with my new friend, Constance, who only came to Bascombe High in senior year. We crossed the soccer field, passed the fallen leaves stained red with McKenzie’s blood, and entered the woods. The wind blew and shook the empty branches of the trees. Constance suddenly stopped walking, crouched, drew her Beretta Storm and fired. By the time I could turn my head, the squirrel was falling back, headless, off a tree about thirty yards away.

She had a cute haircut, short but with a lock that almost covered her right eye. Jeans and a green flannel shirt, a calm, pretty face. When we were doing current events in fifth period social studies, she’d argued with Mr. Hallibet about the cancellation of child labor laws. Me, I could never follow politics. It was too boring. But Constance seemed to really understand, and although on the TV news we all watched, they were convinced it was a good idea for kids twelve and older to now be eligible to be sent to work by their parents for extra income, she said it was wrong. Hallibet laughed at her and said, “This is Senator Meets we’re talking about. He’s a man of the people. The guy who gave you your guns.” Constance had more to say, but the teacher lifted his shotgun and turned to the board. The thing I couldn’t get over is that she actually knew this shit better than Hallibet. The thought of it, for some reason, made me blush.

By the time the first snow came in late November, the guns became mostly just part of our wardrobes, and kids turned their attention back to their cell phones and iPods. The one shot fired in the school before Christmas vacation was when Mrs. Cloder dropped her gun in the bathroom stall and blew off the side of the toilet bowl. Water flooded out into the hallway. Other than that, the only time you noticed that people were packing was when they’d use their sidearm for comedy purposes. Like Bryce, during English, when the teacher was reading
Pilgrim’s Progress
to us, took out his gun and stuck the end in his mouth as if he was so bored he was going to blow his own brains out. At least once a week, outside the cafeteria, on the days it was too cold to leave the school, there were quick-draw contests. Two kids would face off, there’d be a panel of judges, and Vice Principal Warren would set his cell phone to beep once. When they heard the beep the pair drew and whoever was faster won a coupon for a free thirty-two ounce soda at Babb’s, the local convenience store.

One thing I did notice in that first half of the year. Usually when a person drew their gun, even as a joke, they had a saying they always spoke. Each person had their own signature saying. When it came to these lines it seemed that the ban on cursing could be ignored without any problem. Even the teachers got into it. Mr. Gosh was partial to, “Eat hot lead, you little motherfuckers.” The school nurse, Ms. James, used, “See you in Hell, asshole.” Vice Principal Warren, who always kept his language in check, would draw, and while the gun was coming level with your head, say, “You’re already dead.” As for the kids, they all used lines they’d seen in recent movies. Cody St. John used, “Suck on this, bitches.” McKenzie, who by Christmas was known as Half-toe Batkin, concocted the line, “Put up your feet.” I tried to think of something to say, but it all seemed too corny, and it took me too long to get the gun out of my lunch box to really outdraw anyone else.

Senior year rolled fast, and by winter break I was wondering what I’d do after I graduated. Constance told me she was going to college to learn philosophy. “Do they still teach that stuff?” I asked. She smiled. “Not so much anymore.” We were sitting in my living room; my parents were away at my aunt’s. The TV was on, the lights were out, and we were holding hands. We liked to just sit quietly with each other and talk. “So I guess you’ll be moving away, after the summer,” I said. She nodded. “I thought I’d try to get a job at Wal-Mart,” I said. “I heard they have benefits now.”

“That’s all you’re gonna do with your life?” asked Constance.

“For now,” I said.

“Well, then when I go away, you should come with me.” She put her arm behind my head and drew me gently to her. We just sat, holding each other for a long time while the snow came down outside.

A few days after Christmas, I sat with my parents watching the evening news after dinner. Senator Meets was on, talking about what he hoped to accomplish in the coming year. He was telling about how happy he was to work for minimum wage when he was eleven.

“This guy’s got it down,” said my father.

I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but I said, “Constance says he’s a loser.”

“Loser?” my father said. “Are you kidding? Who’s this Constance, I don’t want you hanging out with any socialists. Don’t tell me she’s one of those kids who refuses to carry a gun. Meets passed the gun laws, mandatory church on Sunday for all citizens, killed abortion, and got us to stand up to the Mexicans . . . He’s definitely gonna be the next president.”

“She’s probably the best shot in the class,” I said, realizing I’d already said too much.

My father was suspicious, and he stirred in his easy chair, leaning forward.

“I met her,” said my mother. “She’s a nice girl.”

A gave things a few seconds to settle down and then announced I was going to take the dog for a walk. As I passed my mother, unnoticed by my dad, she grabbed my hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

Back at school in January, there was a lot to do. I went to the senior class meetings, but didn’t say anything. They decided for our “Act of Humanity” (required of every senior class), we would have a blood drive. For the senior trip, we decided to keep it cheap as pretty much everyone’s parents were broke. A day trip to Bash Lake. “Sounds stale,” said Bryce, “but if we bring enough alcohol and weed it’ll be OK.” Mrs. Cloder, our faculty advisor, aimed at him, said, “Arrivederci, Baby,” and gave him two Saturday detentions. The other event that overshadowed all the others, though, was the upcoming prom. My mother helped me make my dress. She was awesome on the sewing machine. It was turquoise satin, short sleeve, mid-length. I told my parents I had no date, but was just going solo. Constance and I had made plans. We knew from all the weeks of mandatory Sunday mass, the pastor actually spitting he was so worked up over what he called “unnatural love,” that we couldn’t go as a couple. She cared more than I did. I just tried to forget about it.

When the good weather of spring hit, people got giddy and tense. There were accidents. In homeroom one bright morning, Darcy dropped her bag on her desk, and the derringer inside went off and took out Ralph Babb’s right eye. He lived, but when he came back to school his head was kind of caved in and he had a bad fake eye that looked like a kid drew it. It only stared straight ahead. Another was when Mr. Hallibet got angry because everybody’d gotten into the habit of challenging his current events lectures after seeing Constance in action. He yelled for us all to shut up and accidently squeezed off a round. Luckily for us the gun was pointed at the ceiling. Mr. Gosh, though, who was sitting in the room a floor above, directly over Hallibet, had to have buckshot taken out of his ass. When he returned to school from a week off, he sweated more than ever.

Mixed in with the usual spring fever, there was all kinds of drama over who was going to the prom with who. Fist fights, girl fights, plenty of drawn guns but not for comedy. I noticed that the King of Vermont was getting wackier the more people refused to notice him. When I left my sixth-period class to use the bathroom, I saw him out on the soccer field from the upstairs hallway window. He turned the stun gun on himself and shot the two darts with wires into his own chest. It knocked him down fast, and he was twitching on the ground. I went and took a piss. When I passed the window again, he was gone. He’d started bringing alcohol to school, and at lunch, where again we were back by the woods hanging out, he’d drink a Red Bull and a half pint of vodka.