Another Perfect Catastrophe (19 page)

They walked over to the Impala. Lisk dug the block, tape, and broom from the front seat. “Hate to tell you, but our little Shawna is right on, daddy,” he said. “It just ain't love unless it takes up
residence
. You know?”

“I guess I don't know. I guess that's my problem.”

“That's the
why
of our baby, man. You should know this by now, too. Refocusing, okay? You think a long, hard while about crib death, and see if that don't put a fine point on your familial love.”

Weimer watched as Lisk levered the broom through the steering wheel and wedged it against the windshield, handle sticking out the window. He strapped everything in place with duct tape—the broom, the window, the steering wheel.

“Duct tape is our most constant friend,” Lisk said.

“You mind telling me what the hell you're doing? What are we hunting out here anyway? Scorpions? Snakes?”

“Impalas,” Lisk said. “We're hunting Chevrolets today, bro.”

“What
—” As he watched Lisk prop the cinder block against the gas pedal of the car, he understood. The Impala pointed straight out into the salt flats, miles of which lay behind the house like baked snow, like the landscape of a distant planet. Before Weimer could say another word, Lisk leaned in and started the car, the engine rumbling the ground beneath them, then stepped back. He reached quickly through the window again and punched the shifter into drive. The car shot away from them, fishtailed, veered off a little to the left before rocketing out into all that flat and white. The engine wound to a high whine, a burning blue haze left behind, stinging his nostrils.

“You have completely lost your mind,” Weimer said, his voice unsteady, hangover finally finding him.

In response, Lisk pulled the pistol from his belt, took slow aim, and fired, shattering the car's back windshield. “It's wounded,” he said. “All we have to do is track it and kill it.” He unwrapped a piece of gum and stuck it in his mouth.

Weimer followed Lisk to the Bronco, and they took off after it, Maysoon sitting on the back porch reading the paper. She gave them a distracted wave. By now the Impala was only a faint, Day-Glo smudge against the expanse of white, like a balloon disappearing into the sky. They roared off after it, Lisk grinding through gears, pushing the Bronco up to eighty-five. Weimer started to tremble, his stomach churning. The wind and sand tore at their faces, the engine a loud hum, Weimer squinting, hands gripping the rattling doorframe. Lisk reached across the backseat and handed Weimer the nickel-plated shotgun.

“You've used one before,” he shouted, leaning toward Weimer, his words blunted by the wind. “Hard to miss.” He gave Weimer a thumbs-up and smiled, his lips caked and dry. They were gaining on the Impala, which raced on blindly, two plumes of white trailing it. Weimer could think only of all the highways he'd crossed driving up, all those families in vans, of the lawyers in Volvos Lisk had mentioned, of some lone house, like Lisk's own, stuck out here on the rim of nothing.

“Go ahead and fire it once, get used to it,” Lisk said, leaning toward him. When Weimer hesitated, Lisk used his free hand to hoist the gun to Weimer's shoulder. “Go on. Fire the damn thing. Mazel tov.”

Weimer sighted down the shining barrel, but what was the point of aiming? He was only firing into the emptiness, shooting at nothing. He pumped, pulled the trigger, and watched the salt explode in a long white feather as his shoulder throbbed with recoil. Lisk whooped and slapped his knee, fired the pistol twice into the air. They rode without speaking as Weimer tried to calculate just how far they'd gone.

“Hey, listen,” Lisk shouted, lifting his voice over the wind. “This whole Shawna thing, you need to
listen
to her.” He spoke as if they were sitting around the table on the deck drinking beer. “It's like your
job
, man—”

“Don't start,” Weimer said. “‘Macrocosm, triviality.' You made your point fifteen years ago.” He spat the salty grit from his tongue.

“You want the truth, bro?” He leaned down farther, out of the wind. “You didn't opt for triviality, you opted for smallness.”

This was the second critique of his personality in less than six hours, and Weimer felt impatient with it. “Same thing,” he shouted.

“Yeah, like ‘Spain' and ‘nipple' are the same thing.” Lisk shook his head. “Hold the wheel.” He let go of the steering wheel, and Weimer had no choice but to grab it. Lisk leaned up over the windshield and fired three rounds at the Impala. He sat down heavily, stomped the gas pedal. “Shit, we aren't even close.”

But they were closer. Weimer could just make out his own swirly paint lines down the side of the car, the
OK
he'd crossed out on the rear fender. The blazing orange and green of the car, the yellow-white streaks of sun flashing off the windows, all of it looked lunatic out there in the white flats. A mirage, some tight-wound dream.

“Listen, Andy,” Lisk said, slowing to make himself heard. “You were afraid of the big job—competition, keeping up—so you took the small job. Same deal, you're afraid of the big family dotted line where you sign it all away in piss and blood and money, so what? You go find yourself a little piece on the side.”

A piece on the side
, Weimer thought, remembering his earlier efforts to name his transgression. He shook his head, eyes full of grit. “And that was careful and safe?” His eyes burned.

“Hell, yes.” Lisk turned the wheel hard to come up on the Impala at an angle. “You'd have a little fun, Shawna would get a little mad, then you'd say a little apology.”

Weimer winced at the near truth of this. What he'd
really
thought was that over time—before Christmas, he'd imagined—the whole thing would evaporate, and Shawna would never know.

“Am I right?” Lisk said.

He nodded. “Something like that.”

“But it goes the other way, and our little Shawna pulls a Godzilla on you, right? Or was it a Harpo Marx? It's always one or the other.”

He didn't answer but sat thinking, absently fingering the gun barrel and rubbing his eyes. Lisk whipped hard right, downshifted, and punched the gas, leaning forward in his seat. When Weimer looked up, they were next to the Impala, right alongside it at ninety miles per hour. The air was burned oil, heat off a griddle. Lisk let out a whoop and edged closer, the Impala an orange-and-green vibration. Weimer put his hand out to catch the powder spewing up. The big
I
he'd painted on the trunk shone garishly in the sun. Lisk swerved closer still, so that Weimer could have reached out his shaking fingers and run them along the dried drips of paint. His breathing came quick in the shallow of his lungs. They would crash, twist end over end with the Impala, and no one would find them out here, ever. Then Lisk backed off far enough to raise his pistol, hold it out across Weimer, and shatter the side window. Bits of glass rattled inside the car, and Lisk fired again, putting a gaping hole through the door. Weimer thought about dying out in the desert, dying so stupidly, trying to hunt a car.

And he thought about going home. About what Shawna had said: Park the car, lock the door, kiss Annie. And then—what? The years ahead loomed as blank white and featureless as the desert salt around him. He thought of that night on the water tower, the whole frail world, for once, under him, within his view, his legs and hands shaking as he took it all in, the stars and clouds, the grid of light, Shawna down there somewhere, that dark tube of their grief still closed all around them…. He shut his eyes, felt the spray can in his hand, the sway of the tower, the wind pushing a part into his hair…felt something else he could almost see, that was almost in his vision.

Then Lisk downshifted, pressed the gas, and slipped in front of the Impala. If they stopped suddenly—a blowout, a dead engine—the other car would push right over them, plow them into the salt. Lisk looked backward through the open top of the Bronco, raised his pistol, and took out the windshield, shattering it.

“Here I'm hogging the fun,” Lisk shouted. “You, bro. Gas tank or radiator, your choice. Either one will bring her down.”

Weimer shook his head. “If I shoot the gas tank,” he shouted, “the whole thing will explode and us with it.”

Lisk laughed. “Man, too many fucking movies. Take out the tank, the car
stops
. No fuel, dude. So what'll it be?”

Weimer just wanted this over with. “The tank, I guess,” he said. He pumped the shotgun. Lisk slowed, swerved, and came up behind the Impala again. Weimer leaned out into the wind and raised the gun to his shoulder, aiming this time, sighting straight down to where the license plate should have been.

“Go on, man, take her out,” Lisk said.

Weimer held as steady as he could in the shaking truck and let his finger brush the trigger, but did not fire. He tried for a moment to imagine what the life of the Impala had been, how it was once a real car with a real family riding in its seats, carrying some man off to work in the morning, his briefcase on the floorboard beside him, or some woman to pick up her children after band practice, way back in 1973 when the car, those imagined lives, were still shiny and new. He could see them piled in together, kids spotting out-of-state license plates or arguing over the radio dial, the mother handing around peanut butter sandwiches, the father stopping at toll booths, and he felt a momentary shame at what they'd made the car into, a garish, graffitied, hunted wreck, broken under the hot gape of the desert sun. But, at the same time, the car looked so random and colorful, so determined as it raced toward nothing but its own end, that it seemed to him then a beautiful thing—so stark and sad and absolute in its demise that while Lisk whooped and hollered beside him and the sun and a million planets shone down on him, when Weimer finally did pull the trigger, the only thing he could feel was a small and insignificant grief.

SaintJimmy tell me
they name the river for him, tell me he own the river, tell me he let everybody travel his water. Shopping cart squeak when my thumbs touch it, one wheel bad. Cart full up of rust and fish scales. Saint Jimmy lean way out to breathe blue smoke, boats stirring his river. Saint Jimmy say, Breathe that good air. Water mend itself when they pass. Electric cables move in the wind, throw off sparks everywhere. Big iron building cough up more boats, bridge split to let them go. Croakers haul up on the wire and I throw them in the cart, flapping blood. A hundred suns burn gray and yellow from a glass wall, tall building color of bad pennies and shrimp. People there wearing Easter clothes, swimming river smells. Night wind like bobcats, cables snap blue and green around the sky, drop fire in the river, drop fire off our pier. Fire everywhere. Saint Jimmy wear his hat the way God want him to, cough and the cable fire running through him hard, lead his breathing to ruin. River turns black ribbon leaking moon, making up cold, moaning and groaning. Saint Jimmy say, There ain't no fire, that's in your head. He say, Be quiet and lay down and go to sleep.

Oil smell fill up our mouth. Saint Jimmy say he big hungry, he gas-tank hungry, throwing K-l on the Sterno cans, hauling up croakers on the wire. Cut them up on my knife, let them die in the fire. Save the insides, always save the insides. Sheet boats dance around pretty and sleepy. Lean out to grab one and Saint Jimmy say, Fool, say, Sit down here and eat. Saint Jimmy stuff news in my sleeves, say, You smell worse than this fish. Big bridge split open and stop all the trucks. Saint Jimmy say, That's everything like a woman. Bridge make a noise and let the trucks go through. Saint Jimmy say, She all done now, she don't wait for me. He laugh and show his teeth. He say, Don't you got no sense a humor? Flannel men carry out poles, pull fish out of Saint Jimmy's river. He say he let them, say, Don't you get no ideas, you leave them folks alone. Saint Jimmy cough out cable fire, it hurting him bad. Wind take cold from the river and give it to us, make the electric cables slap on their crosses. Crosses up to the sky everywhere. Fire. Hum grow like a weed. Men hand us a dollar and smokes. All clean faces. Saint Jimmy say, I give you a dollar for more smokes. They laugh with all their teeth. Saint Jimmy say, Don't mind him, say, He schizo, say, He ain't got no sense a humor, either. Say, If I had another dollar I might buy him one. I tell them this Saint Jimmy's river, they say, That's right, friend. Saint Jimmy give me his bad eye, say, Don't think what you thinking, say, They might put you back where you come from. Cables hit like fish, the sun eat up their fire. Saint Jimmy got his breathing led to ruin. Make me want to cry.

When the men leave the sun move around. Water settle out smooth and change color, no sheet boats, no dancing. Blue smoke boats run home unzipping the river. Saint Jimmy lean out to breathe, say, Put a fire on. Sun break up like oil, settle on the bad penny building. Saint Jimmy wave up at the lights, at shadow people, say, Don't stand there like a statue. Say, Me and you hook baiters and masturbators. Say, When you ever going to laugh? Fire going, haul up croakers on a wire. Saint Jimmy raise a bottle in a net, say, You stop that noise. Swallow bones and fish. Bad penny building eat up a hundred suns for dinner, wind move the cables on their crosses, drop fire off our pier. Saint Jimmy say, They use too much steel, everything a waste. Bridge quiet and black, river leaking sky. Saint Jimmy say, Go to sleep, then a man walk out, dressed in the river. He kick Saint Jimmy, touching him hard all over. Saint Jimmy buried in his arms, say, Don't have nothing. River water whisper my ear. Man put his foot in Saint Jimmy's neck. Knife find my hand, slice croakers in the fire. Saint Jimmy's teeth scrape cement, mouth all in blood. Oil blood. Man bend down, say, Tempt me, say, Nobody in this world miss you. Saint Jimmy's eyes burning, lungs breathing out cable fire. Wind go hide, crosses bless the river. Saint Jimmy say, Yessir, you right on everything. Knife own my arm and haul me up, shad gone steel and swimming. Man say, Who's your dummy friend? Saint Jimmy swivel his bad eye at me, say, Don't do nothing but sit back down. Knife on my leg, man's breath in clouds. Could slice him up in the fire. Clouds put a sweat on me. Saint Jimmy say, Not what you thinking. Man grab the bottle and move his foot, Saint Jimmy fill up, teeth dripping. Man walk away where he came. Wind done hiding, push blue fire off the cables. Knife made of sugar now. Wire cart full of cold, rust dropping, bad wheel. Saint Jimmy say, Where you going, sit your ass down. Say, That man like a little fly, land on shit once, then gone. I tell I had him good. Saint Jimmy say, Throw that meanness in the river, say, They put you back where you come from. I tell that man just like a blind-eye fish, we should throw back to the river. Saint Jimmy laugh blood, say, I get to keep my dollar.