Authors: Jon Bassoff
I rose from my seat and walked unhurriedly across the bar. The old man didn’t pay any attention to me, just kept twisting her arm tighter and tighter. I could feel the blood running in my veins.
Let go of her, I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
He looked up. Seeing my melted face distracted him, and he loosened his grip on the girl’s arm. She managed to twist away for a moment, but he recovered and shoved her against the wall. I grabbed the bottle of beer from the counter, came up from behind, and slammed it on the back of his head. He wobbled around for a few moments before his legs gave way and he fell to the hardwood floor.
For a good long while he didn’t do anything but moan and groan. Then he started moving, pulling himself across the floor, but there was no real conviction to his movements. Every time he tried getting up I gave him a good hard kick to the stomach or the face. I wanted him to know a few things. His girl was pleading for me to stop but I knew she didn’t mean it, that it was all for show. By the time I got through with him, he was curled up in a ball, coughing up blood, his face a pulpy mess.
I went back to my table, drank down the last swallow of my beer, and slung my bag over my shoulder. Everybody was watching me. I walked slowly toward the front of the bar, graveyard boots echoing on the cement. I stepped over the man and nodded at the bartender. The Paisano, right? I said.
Yes, sir. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they’ll treat you real good, yes they will.
I nodded my head at the girl and pushed open the door.
Wait! I heard her say. I turned around. She flashed a crooked grin, dark eyes filled with adulation. Who are you? What’s your name?
My name’s Joseph Downs, I said, and I served my country proudly.
CHAPTER 2
I wandered around for a while, the wind kicking up dirt, until I came to a little worn-out brick building with
The Paisano
painted on the side. I walked up the crumbling steps and pulled open the door. Inside, everything smelled like rotted wood and formaldehyde. An elk’s head hung from the far wall. A baby grand stood in the corner of the room, unplayable. Behind the counter was a dwarf of a woman wearing a floral dress and sporting a rowdy blue bouffant. She had pasty white skin, cherub cheeks, and a turkey wattle. She put away the flask she’d been sipping from and stuck it beneath the counter. Then she looked up at me and smiled through gritted teeth, revulsion concealed. How can I help you, mister? she said.
I want a room.
Just a room? Or will there be something else? She said this with no playfulness.
Only a room.
Okay, she said. I can get you a room. She reached behind the counter and grabbed a key.
I followed her up a narrow flight of stairs, the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling creating menacing shadows.
The second floor was in bad shape. Paint peeling from the ceiling, curling up on itself, lights flickering, walls covered with graffiti, gibberish all. From inside one of the rooms, I could hear somebody moaning. Against one wall there was a wooden bench, and sitting on the bench was a young woman wearing red boots and a red wig and a badly tattered wedding dress. A cigarette dangled from a lipstick-smeared mouth. She winked at me and I looked away. Ugly face, she said. Don’t bother me none. I’ll suck your cock.
You keep that pie-hole shut, the hotel owner said. Now git on back to your room. C’mon, git!
The girl rolled her eyes and rose to her feet. She rearranged her underwear and slunk on down the hallway. With a smile or a sneer, she opened a door and disappeared to the dull gray light of a T.V. show.
Don’t mind her, the blue-haired woman said. With a violent jerk she pulled open a jammed room door and handed me the key. Well, I sure do hope you enjoy your stay, she said. She studied my corroded features for a moment, her amblyopic eye drifting toward her skull. And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.
I won’t need anything, I said.
* * *
The room was what you might expect. Grime-scrubbed walls. A sloppily made bed. An old Kelvinator refrigerator with the kickplate ajar. A filthy window overlooking a filthy town.
I sat down on the bed and removed my jacket and my boots. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a can of George W. Helme snuff, a bottle of plum brandy, an army-issued bayonet, and my worn leather King James Bible, the pages starting to yellow.
I snorted some tobacco, took a long pull of burnt wine, and opened the Bible:
And Gideon said unto him, Oh my Lord, if the LORD be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all his miracles which our fathers told us of, saying, Did not the LORD bring us up from Egypt? but now the LORD hath forsaken us, and delivered us into the hands of the Midianites…
The power of the passage moved me, and I collapsed on the bed, eyes squeezed tight. I was beginning to think that there wasn’t a single righteous person in the world. I was beginning to think that everybody had secrets, terrible secrets.
* * *
That night I lay in my bed, bonnell coils jabbing my skin, and stared at the mildewed ceiling. There was a long, jagged crack. I watched it grow. Water dripped from the crack into a rusted pot. Drip, drip, drip. Chinese water torture. Through narrow slits, I gazed out the window. The moon was the color of jaundiced skin.
I couldn’t sleep at all. The mice and rats had taken over the house. I could hear them scurrying along the wooden floors, climbing up the walls, gnawing at the furniture. And then I heard something else. The faint echo of footsteps on the pavement down below. I crawled out of bed and stared out the window. A man walked slowly down the street, just out of the glow of the streetlight. He wore a tattered suit, a blue tie hanging around his neck like a noose. He had iron-gray hair, badly disheveled, a skeletal frame, and a haunted, emaciated face. When he saw my silhouette in the window, he froze and stared right at me. I shivered involuntarily. A lunatic smile spread slowly across his face. I took a couple of steps backward, my breath trapped in my windpipe…
* * *
An hour or more passed. I sat in the bed clutching my knife. Every so often I’d take a peek outside. He hadn’t moved; he just stood there, waiting. The wind was blowing, the rain was falling, and a screen door was slamming open and shut.
* * *
12:05 A.M., and I heard a knocking on the door. Three short knocks. I gripped my bayonet tightly. I walked slowly across the room, sinews full of dread. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Dull light spread across the hardwood floor, and I shielded my eyes with my hand. But it wasn’t the stranger. It was the redhead from the bar, her face all blurry, a rain-soaked windshield.
I know it’s late, she said in a little girl’s voice.
I wasn’t sleeping.
Can I come inside?
I’m not gonna stop you.
She smiled that crooked smile and stepped into the room, the door slamming shut behind her. She wore a red Nancy Drew raincoat tied tightly at the waist. I was wearing boxers with bears on them and an A-frame undershirt. She looked me up and down. You’re well-built, she said. I don’t mind the face. I’ve seen worse.
Maybe, I said. Do you want something to drink? I have plum brandy. Don’t have any glasses, though.
Well, that would be just fine, she said. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?
No, ma’am.
She wasn’t wearing much underneath. Just a futuristic-looking little silver dress and the same red boots as before. I handed her the bottle of brandy and she took a nice long swig, watching me from the corner of her eyes. She was a drunk, a bad girl, but she reminded me of somebody from long ago…
I wanted to thank you, she said, for how you helped me this afternoon. Most men would have walked away.
I shrugged my shoulders. The way I was raised, a fellow’s not supposed to lay a hand on a woman. And if he does, you’re supposed to do something about it. Who was he?
She took another swig, this one longer than the first, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. My husband, she said.
I nodded. And you gonna stay with him?
Probably.
I said: A guy hits you once, he’ll hit you twice.
Oh, he’s hit me more than twice, believe me. You didn’t see anything today. She stared at me for a long moment, then pulled up her sleeve and showed me the remnants of a couple of cigar burns.
I clenched my jaw and shook my head. You ought to leave him, I said.
It’s not so simple.
Sure it is. You pack up your bags. And you leave. Simple.
She didn’t say anything for a while. Then: This brandy sure is good. I’ve never had brandy before.
Yeah. I like it okay.
For the next hour or so we drank the brandy and smoked cigarettes. I’d stopped thinking about the stranger, stopped thinking about the Mountain. Off in the distance calliope music was playing. The girl touched my leg with her hand. Her skin was soft, her fingernails filthy. She licked the corner of her mouth, said, And Joseph? Do you think I’m pretty, just a little?
Yes, I lied. I think you’re very pretty.
Well, then?
She moved closer on the bed. Her face was in soft focus. Pimpled skin. Bloodshot eyes. Lovely, no. But I was in love. It happens too easily for me.
She placed her hand on mine and moved it beneath her dress. The calliope music got louder. I was feeling good and anxious. There were some things I wanted to do. I wanted to howl at the moon, I wanted to knock her around. But I was paralyzed. She leaned in close. I could smell the layers of perfume and sweat and burnt wine. Her mouth smiled against my skin.
I pulled her toward me. A dog barked spastically. I placed my hand between her thighs. She moaned. A familiar revulsion spread through my veins. I felt like I was going to be sick. Maybe we shouldn’t do this, I said. Maybe it isn’t right.
She grinned, baring her fangs. For how long have you been concerned about right and wrong?
I thought that one over for a moment. Then I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. With a quick jerk, I shoved her against the wall. She gasped, but the smile never left her face. I studied her eyes. I could’ve found the truth, maybe, but I didn’t want to. Instead, I reached back and slapped her across the face, got her attention. Then I kissed her hard, biting down on her lower lip until it bled.
* * *
There’s not much more to tell. She let me do some things. I couldn’t stop myself. When we were done, she told me we might fall in love.
I don’t even know your name, I said.
Lilith, she said. Created from clay…
After that we lay in bed for a while without talking. Outside, the wind kicked a tin can down the sidewalk and I felt good and empty. I squeezed my eyes shut and fell asleep. I dreamed that old familiar dream: a murder of crows, circling over a mining shack, cawing in excitement, and me being pinned down by faceless demons…
When I woke, the sun was rising and the sky was a bloody mess. My body was drenched with ethanol sweat. I sat up, head aching but good. Lilith was lying on her side, head propped up on the palm of her hand. A sly grin on her face.
So? Did you have fun, Joseph?
Well, sure.
Just so you know, I don’t usually do this kind of thing.
No. I’m sure you don’t.
I’m not that kind of a girl. Not usually.
She lit a cigarette and sucked down the smoke, eyes unblinking. And then the question. Unspoken usually. Not with Lilith. No transition even. Your face, Joseph. The scars. What happened? I know I shouldn’t ask, but…
I met her gaze for a moment and then shook my head. It’s okay, I said. I reached across her body and grabbed the package of cigarettes. I stuck one in my mouth but didn’t light it. It bounced up and down as I spoke. I told her the story. I knew the story well.
I was in the Marine Corps, I said. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Stationed in Mosul. Bank of the Tigris. Home of Jonah. Home of Nahum. To me it was hell on Earth. I hadn’t been there long, not more than two months. I was with my unit and we were driving in a Humvee. We were trying to secure the area or hunt for insurgents or build a nation. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, we were driving down this dirt road and it was pitch black, and our lights were off. We were wearing night vision goggles, so we could see. We came to this tiny bridge over a canal. Nobody was worried, soldiers were joking around, talking about whores they’d screwed and towelheads they’d killed. We drove across the bridge and suddenly I got this bad feeling. I don’t know why, can’t explain it. It wasn’t a moment later when we hit the tripwire. They got us but good. My eardrums exploded and the world went up in flames.
The Humvee finally came to a stop. I could tell I was torn up pretty good but I didn’t feel any pain. Flames were everywhere. Then I heard my squad leader screaming: I think I lost my leg! Oh, Jesus, I think I lost my leg! And my best friend Dan was in the front passenger seat where the bomb went off and he was screaming: Where’s help? Where the fuck is help? And then everything went quiet.