Elvissey (14 page)

"I didn't mean to pry, ma'am," she said. "Some a my friends were just wonderin' if you was an albino, they wanted
to meet you if you were."

"No, that's all right." She departed. We ate what she'd
brought us; I was as grateful that what I ate had no discernible taste. Halfway through my sandwich I noticed John's
stare drift past me. "What's seen?" I asked.

"Sporting," he said. "That way. Boys being boys."

Another waitress was attending to two oversized men in
their thirties. While she tried to take their order they reached
beneath her skirt, clutching at her legs; it astonished me that
she neither ran away, nor hit them. The heavier man
laughed as she shoved his hand from her knee. As she leaned
forward to do so the other man grabbed her bottom, squeezing it until she cried; then he splashed coffee onto her legs.

"Unsensed harassment," said John, placing his spoon on
the table. "Where's the militia?"

It tore me to see such abuse; yet I lifted my hand, to
forestall my husband's actions. "Ignore, John. We can't interact."

However, interaction had already occurred. "What're you
staring at?" one of the men shouted across to my husband.

"You," John said in a voice as loud, setting aside his
cutlery and standing up.

"That's it," I said, rising. "Come on, John-"

"Why don't you come over here, tell me what's eatin' you,
boy?" the man said, hauling himself from his booth; I interposed myself between them so that neither could see the
other's expression. "You got a problem?"

"No problem at all," I said, returning my attentions toward John. "We're leaving. Now. Come on-"

"I didn't ask you, missy," he said. "Boy, you got some
problem you need to talk to us about?"

"Talking's nonessentialled to gynoterrorists," John said,
his stance unwavering as I tried pushing him along; he
flatfooted, and held his place.

"What the hell'd you say-?"

"Goodbye," I said to the man, and anyone else who cared
to give ear. "We're leaving." Most of those in the restaurant
were staring, and some laughed. "Police'll interact, John," I
said, whispering to him. "Move."

My husband stared at the man a moment longer; then
turned toward the exit. The man spoke again, coming toward us.

"Got anything to show for yourself, boy?"

John's rage so overwhelmed that, as I took his arm, I felt
his quivers rippling through his suit; it incomprehensibled
to me why he evidenced no oncoming sickness, why his
medication seemed not to hinder his thoughts of violence.
"Ignore him, John." The man followed us into the hall,
closing in. His fat didn't move when he walked.

"Your wife's the one protects you after you start trouble?"
the man said. "You queer or somethin'? Answer me, y'igno-
rant?"

"Don't answer," I said. "Ignore, John, please-"

"Whatcha do if somebody did somethin' to her? Huh?
Whatcha do then-?"

John circled to confront, and only my stare appeared to
hold him back; gentling my motions, I guided my husband
toward the exit, hoping that the man would not be foolish
enough to lunge. As we exited, he remained inside, shouting
after us until everyone stared.

"Faggot," the man shouted. "Chickenshit."

My husband silenced while we crossed the steaming asphalt, averting his glance to prevent my reading his eyes. His
face purpled; he shook bodywide, and his touch was so hot
as the lot beneath our feet. Upon reaching our car he unlocked my door; walked around to the driverside. I waited for
him to board before seating myself. Wordlessly, he slammed
his fist onto our car's roof, cratering the metal, flaking the
paint. His face's color disappeared at once, reappearing in
his hand; I statued, having seen him so edge but once or
twice before. He climbed into the car and pressed the igni tion. After I got in we drove away from Dixieland, continuing south.

Between bouts of slumber I read; by late afternoon we'd
traveled so far as western Virginia, and I'd reached the late
nineteenth century.

Nor were the slaves unhappy in their cabins;
there were shade trees nearby, and vegetable gardens, and chickens in the coop. The slaves sang
when they worked because they were happy with
their simple life.

1-9 branched away from 1-3 outside of Richmond, tearing
across Virginia through Tennessee toward Memphis in an
unvarying straightaway, indifferent to natural barrier. As the
Appalachians horizoned I saw that the road shot through
their worn folds as if they'd not been there. As we passed
through the cuts it evidenced that hills and knobs had been
scooped from the earth in preparation for the interstate; our
car's geiger counter noted lowlevel radiation as we drove
through the widest gouges. The mountain ranges remaining
were stripped of soil and flora, and resembled the photos of
Mars.

"We should overnight soon," I said, laying my book aside.
"We've gone sleepless at least a day and a half."

"Next exit, then," he said; he'd talked little since leaving
Dixieland, stirring at moments only to retrieve a piece of
dried fruit, or to ask me how I felt. By his demeanor I
understood that he wasn't mooded to talk of what had happened, of why his anger had so risen without being thwarted.
We exited as we crossed Tennessee's border, coming down
onto a twisting two-lane, its surface blackened by mud
washed down from the hills. Unpainted houses stood alone
in roadside depressions, or beside stagnant ponds, suggest ing that the area was yet inhabited. Not long after sunset we
drove through a small town. One or two people walked its
main street, windowshopping shuttered stores.

"Isn't it Saturday here?" John asked. "All appears
plagued. The natives'd restless tonight, I'd think."

We found the population when the street became road
again, outside of town. Dozens of rusting cars and minitrucks were parked near several square, windowless concrete
bunkers. Through their open doors streamed the townsfolk;
circles were drawn over most of the entranceways. Some
distance from the others was a rambling shed; on its roadfac-
ing side, a crude painting of a rattlesnake entwining its coils
around a cross.

"Keep driving," I said. "All're busy here." Downroad, far
from those crowded boxes, an assemblage of frame cabanas
encircled a gravel lot; above the gateway were neon letters
spelling TO RISTS.

"That's us," said John, and we drove in. Lightning's reflections flared the dark above the farthest hills. As we
walked toward the office we saw another sign, one that read
White Only. A woman with a barrel's proportions stood behind the counter inside; an unseen TV echoed racket wallround.

"Stayin' overnight, folks?" she asked; we nodded. "Glad to
have you all visit us. Hope you have a pleasant stay." Her
voice sharpened as she opened the guestbook. "Cash up
front and proof of marriage." Our U.S. driver's licenses
impressed her enough; she handed John a key after we'd
paid. He stared at it long enough that I elbowed him, trying
to distract. "What're you New Yorkers doing down this way?"
she asked. "You coal people?"

"Vacationing," I said. John crossed the room, walking up
to a Coca-Cola machine, a tall red-blood box. Slotting coins,
he opened its windowed door and withdrew two bottles.

"Sounds nice," she said. "Goin' far?"

"Memphis, Tennessee," I said. "We're wondering how
much more of a row we have to hoe."

She blinked her eyes, as if they stung. "Take the Moses
Road when you leave in the morning, you'll get there by
afternoon. Checkout time's nine-thirty. Say, mister, the
opener's on the front of the door-"

"Accomplished," John said, thumbing off each cap.

"Well," she said, "have a good night, then." She backed
away from the counter as she moved into another room,
eyeing us all the while; we exited into rain. John's leg prevented him from running so swiftly as me to our cabin, but
the clouds hadn't yet burst and we weren't soaked through.
The place was no larger than our bedroom; contained but a
concave bed, dusty table and lamp. The bathroom was no
less lavish. As I toileted I rubbed myself with the thin towel
provided; no sooner was I dry than my parchment skin wetted anew. The harsh light illuminated my veins so well that
I didn't have to search for them as I performed my medi-
check. As I watched the strip go pink, assuring a negative
response, I listened to rain brush its beat against the roof.
The downpour intensed while John bathroomed himself,
and I lay listening to it until he emerged, and we faced each
other stripped.

"It's honeymoon two, Iz," John said, evidencing desire,
looking lovely; but my stomach ached, my head throbbed,
and the memory of pain from our last encounter overcame
my libido. The floor groaned beneath my steps as I walked
over to where he stood; I reached up and brushed his damp
hair from his brow.

"Let's lie for now, John. We'll play at morningside if
able."

He nodded; stroked his chest as we bedded ourselves atop
the sheets. A red and blue vine enscrolled his torso's Y-scar,
his sole tattoo serving to disguise the Krylar's insertion-line.
Gravity rolled us toward one another, pressing us together in
the depths of the bed. He held out his palm that I could see his evening's dose, the standard baby blue and one of Leverett's white triangles.

"Medicheck's AO?" I asked, watching as he swallowed his
pills dry.

"AO. Yours?"

"No infectives," I said. "Headwobbly, all the same. Sto-
machturned. I'm dragging axles waltz-timed."

Lightning lit our room with blue flashes as the rain increased and thunder upvolumed. I petted his elbow's inner
curve, touching the lumps left where his bones had reknitted. "Regooding doesn't become me," John said. "All efforts to change my ways within unavail. Appletrees don't
grow oranges, Iz. Are they blinded to that?"

"Not all of them, surely," I said, suspecting that they were.
"The man at Dixieland. What happened?"

"I keened to ex him, Iz."

"Obvioused," I said. "You should have sickened unto
death, as prescribed," I said. "You didn't. Why?"

"Unknown," he said. "I'm medicating, you watched-"

"Thank you for showing."

"I knew you worried," he said. "It's beyond me, Iz. Tolerance levels overrode, possibly. Mayhap the rite of passage
affects the innards somehow. Psychovirals in the air. I don't
know but-"

"But what?"

"It's matterless, Iz, I'm regretting nothing, not even the
interplay. This world's rewired me." He smiled without my
having to cue; I couldn't remember the last time that had
happened. "I'm alive."

"Understood. It's good, John. Ear-play your reactions, all
the same," I said. "You've calmed now?"

"As a morning lake," he said. "But wide-eyed. I'll not
sleep tonight, I can tell."

"It frightens me to see you so upset," I said. "When that
other face turns toward me, I know it's not your own."

"It is."

He stroked my neck so tenderly that I lay almost unmindful of the ease with which he could have broken it. "Sleepa-
way, then," I said. Telling myself that for the nonce I was
satisfied with our lot, I listened to the rain. Beneath its
rhythm I noted an unrecognizable cacophony, previously
unheard. "What's that?"

"It's an outward sound," John said. "It's loudening. Listen." The gray sheet stuck to me as I got up. Peering out the
room's window into the woods behind the motel I saw-far
from the road, but close to our cabin-another of those
concrete blockhouses, this one scarred by neither mark nor
sign. A full house seemed in attendance within.

"Some ceremony, you think?" John asked, staring
through the trees, seeing no more than I could. We heard
exhilarating screams and tambourine's rattle rising above
the raindrone, against a three-quarter-time stomp; those
inside began chanting, their phrases sounding as Kana-lea,
kana-lea, kana-lea. After a minute the chant ceased, and all
silenced; then, the congregants began singing an a capella
hymn.

"Is it religious?" John asked. "A ritual?"

"A southernism, mayhap."

The worshipers boomed forth as they undertook the
chorus, their voices lifting is if overjoyed.