Quietly, "It's your show," another calculation and I knew that, too.
"Go if you want to," I said. "Just leave me alone/'
A venomous smile, I was balking her again. "You might be surprised," she said, even more quietly. "You might be sorry, too."
I closed my eyes. "I'm already sorry."
"Tell me about it," and gone, not even bothering to close the door behind her. The thrumming I had heard before, thought it the underpinning of her voice, some fault of my hearing, showed itself to be neither; Funhole music; of course. Of course. Lassie come home. I put my hands to my head, fingers in my ears like a stubborn child, looked up to see Doris bent, hand aborted in a gesture, peering into my face. I took my fingers away from my ears, the better to listen to what I didn't want to hear.
"Are you going to let them do this?"
"I'm not letting anyone do anything," I said, very very tired. "I'm just staying the hell out of the way," and then cold air and Randy, through the open door.
"Funny customers," he said at once, getting himself a beer and one for me, at least you could always trust Randy to do the right thing. Ignoring Doris, who joined the worried cluster of Ashlee and Dave, he sat beside me, saying again as he handed me the beer, "Funny customers. Shrike's bunch, you know, they're big-time fuck-ups, I don't know if you want them anywhere near that room."
"I don't see any way of stopping them."
"I'll see what I can do," abrupt and out the door, my trusty right-hand man. Good thing for him he wasn't. I put my right hand to my head and sure enough, the thrum echoed there as well, remote speaker, broadcasting live. As live as it gets. Above that sound I could hear noises from downstairs, noises too from above, neighbors. Bitching. But not at each other. I caught the words "punker assholes" and thought, Uh-oh.
Doris asked, "Should we go, too?" and at a loss I shrugged, my usual cheap response to any situation. They took counsel together and with an over-the-shoulder glance, the three of them weirdly like swivel-necked dimestore toys, left. And left the door open.
Hallway cold and I pulled the blanket up around my neck, cementing the seal with the glue from my hand, and closed my eyes. A calmness I had not felt for days, weeks, drifted warmly over me; I felt almost good. Must be the solitude, certainly a rare commodity these days. The thrum became a lullaby, God knew I needed rest. Not just sleep but rest, a breathing space, a place in which to forget. From upstairs I heard a shout, again, but this time I felt no warning pinch, felt nothing too, at some garbled groan from below. They said it didn't work without me? Very well, I was doing my part, I was doing nothing. The role I was born to play. More yells, and in the ringing echo of their wake I felt myself slipping off to sleep, what a lovely pleasant thing to happen, what a fine idea. Warm, under the covers, and my hand smelled so
good.
Good enough, in fact, to eat.
"Nicholas!"
Fuck.
"What is it?" opening one cross eye, how had I gone so deep so fast? Exhausted, that's what it was, and always somebody to wake me when I wanted it least. In this case Doris, bug-eyed, hands a mile a minute, "Hurry!"
"What?"
"They're all yelling, Randy and Malcolm are pushing each other, Malcolm's got that mask nailed up and everybody's going
weird,
they—"
"I don't care if they kill each other," which at that moment was absolutely true, all I wanted was the benediction of unconsciousness through the good offices of sleep, it did not occur to me to wonder why I was so easily able to sleep at a moment when I should have been scared shitless. Yes, a small part of my brain said, professor-bright and pointer in hand, why is that? And that was what frightened me, finally, scared me awake and Doris taking instant advantage of my renewed consciousness grabbed my arm to haul me upright, it must have been like dragging a dead man, a big wobbly sack.
Out the door and from the stairwell I could hear it, Randy yelling, "Let
go
of me, motherfucker!" and Malcolm's screech: "Don't
touch
it! Don't
touch
it!" and Doris in desperation at my inadequate speed pushed me, hands in the back and I stumbled, I wasn't going fast enough, I almost fell.
Hands on the newel post, swinging around like a child does in play, an actor in a movie and I saw a babble of motion, heard a sonorous tone that seemed to be emanating from somewhere close by the storage-room door, where Randy tussled now with Mr. Bed, another of Nakota's goons pushing Malcolm who was yelping like a pig and somebody's
head
above the door. Hey, I thought, that's my head.
Plaster white and blind-eyed, frozen face not in peace but in ice, the coldest place of all. The mask.
From which the sound issued. Twin to the sound of my hand. Twin to the sound of the Funhole, so loud it seemed from behind the door and a pull like gravity, I pushed without effort through the crowd, Malcolm's yell directly in my ear, Nakota at my elbow, the others lost in swirling babble, the Brownian motion of a hopelessly unchoreographed fistfight, what the fuck were they fighting about anyway and someone, some guy I didn't recognize, the upstairs neighbor presumably, wild-eyed and bellowing "What the hell is going on!" with such enraged and poignant confusion that at another time I might have felt sorry enough to explain.
But not now. Nakota hanging on me like the leech she was, I could feel the pant of her excited breath, and again without effort I pushed her away, shook her off, pushed in the door and a great vast scream of heat, like throwing open the door to a blast furnace, like Shadrach in the fire I advanced, careless, welcome, I could dance like Vulcan in a cindering flame, I could dance with Randy's sculptures and one advanced upon me now, its metal limbs flung wide in fractured greeting, where had I been for so long? The leak of my hand gleamed, I understood the motif of silver now. Pressing my hand to the melting metal, a hissing sizzle like the boil of steam, but this steam was molten, this steam was
iron.
Fusing me to the metal. Pulling me like a magnet to the Funhole where the heat burned so delirious that I thought it would burn me alive, the ancient suns rising about me like a mantle, my arms reaching to embrace the fire as they embraced the sculpture's living metal and through the burn an echo, the bubbling thrum, thrice loud: the mask. My hand. The Funhole.
Me, myself, and I.
And I giggled at the joke, so
warm,
my sweat like metal and my pupils scorched wide and at once the sculpture's grasp fell from me, and sorry, I turned to see figures, bodies, walking toward me, weak silhouettes against the pallor of the hallway, and I said, "Who goes there?" and in the speaking saw at once the unmistakable scarecrow tilt: Nakota.
With three, four others, and maybe Randy back behind, it was hard to see. I thought I heard myself say, "Stay out!" though I didn't feel the words in my throat, of course it was so hot in there it was hard to feel anything but. I waited until Nakota was very close indeed before I pushed my face to where it seemed hers was, through the shimmer, through the sweat, and said as loudly as I could, "Get the fuck out of here, and take them with you."
Though of course she didn't listen, maybe even couldn't hear me through the howl of the heat; whatever, she pressed on, pushed forward, pushed in miscalculated impatience against me.
And for her trouble got a burn. Hissing back just like a cat, a snake, holding her forearm away from her body and as two backed from the fray another body passing hers, oh here's a real brave dickhead, here's a real toothsome treat. That one I saw with warm amazement was trying to get around me, was actually trying for the Funhole itself, and I said, "Oh no you don't" and I grabbed, I burned, I didn't really want to but truth be told I didn't care, really, and really it was something to see my hand sink into his skin, into meat, like a brand, a mark forever, he screamed—I heard it clearly, even through the ever-building thrum, the sound of a monstrous engine running hot—and Nakota chose that moment for her end-around. Sneaky bitch. Backhand, didn't think I had it in me, did you? Did you? And more, a bigger crowd crowding in the doorway, my vision snapping finally clear through the heat shimmer and I saw them all, too many, I could hear Randy yelling and I yelled back, he didn't hear me so I did it again, "GET THEM OUT OF HERE!" and the neighbor guy and one of my, one of the Dingbats running presumably for cover, and in the room the marked man, Mr. Barbecue between the other two who had come in with Nakota but it seemed were more than ready to leave without her. Shitheels. "Take her with you," I said, and it was somewhat comical to see them drop their buddy in her favor, I had to laugh. I had to. And them gone, and the door thankfully closed. And me all alone.
With the heat. And the burn.
And the cold inevitable of the morning after.
On my back in the breathing silence, Cinderella, ha-ha, after the ball, my right hand scorched a porky pink and all of me sore with the ache of extreme muscular exertion, I had done some work last night, yes. Dancing with the sculptures. Burning people. Hurting people. Proud of yourself?
But what else—turning, groaning, to find my pisspot, seeing on the floor the charcoal skidmarks, the whole room stank of burning— what else could I have done? I had to stop them. I couldn't let them go down the Funhole, no matter what. What else could I have done?
Well, said my brain. For starts you could have stayed upstairs. Since it won't work without you.
Oh what a trick. And see how easily I had fallen for it, stumbled into it like a practiced buffoon. B'rer Funhole; no wonder it wanted me in charge. Please don't stay behind, you'll miss the fun, and after all you're the main event! Lured to sleep and then let to wake, Doris bearing the backhand tidings meant to get me down there so the show could really start. Put up the mask, Malcolm, nail it up for everyone to see, make a big production of it, let's get the neighbors in on this. Stir the pot, Nakota, mix it up with all your mysticism and that special selfishness that can barely recognize the existence of others, let alone their safety; stir it up good and bubbly, and don't forget to add your goons. Try to help, Randy, what can't be helped. And you, Doris, you get the supporting role, you get to animate the human corpse, you get to play Funhole messenger.
And in the end, the eternal Why me, but after all why ask. No answer, and maybe I wouldn't have understood one if I got it, maybe I didn't have the necessary smarts, maybe they'd been sizzled out of me the night before in the dreadful burning flash of what almost happened, and bad enough what had: Nakota hurt again, her stupid sidekick too (how bad?), and the neighbor, maybe more, seeing, what would he tell of what he'd watched, who would he tell? One big enormous botch, even orchestrated it could not possibly have been handled more clumsily, what next, a news crew? Live from the Funhole? Even now there was no guessing how bad things really were, or how much worse they might become. All I could do now was try to repair the damage, if possible, with what little I had. Or was.
What I did have, though, what I did understand, was responsibility. Yes, of course, it was the naughty Funhole back of everything, but who got the blame: the box? Or Pandora?
Fumbling at the door, out into the hall after a careful peek, no one there. Punishing cold. My feet were bare, I didn't remember taking off my shoes. The mask stared down at me in pale indifference, and I felt insulted, somehow, being mocked by my own face; I reached to tear it down but my arms were too short, my need for haste too great. It was a good likeness, as they say, and with its eyes closed it achieved a sort of blank serenity: a sorry peace, but then again that was more or less me; in the end he had done a good job. Malcolm's major work: my face. That ought to piss him off.
If I hurried, I thought, washing up in the empty flat, water sluicing down my aching arms, ignoring the ugly whiff of burn that lingered there as well, if I was quick, if it wasn't snowing—it was—well still I should be able to get back before anyone else; it was still early, not even ten. Pandora could not correct her original error, but I bet she didn't go around opening boxes anymore. Or leaving them loose for others to open with curious fingers more ignorant than hers.
So. It was a good lock. Expensive. Not a combination lock, I could just imagine myself trying to remember three numbers—in order—in a crisis, but a padlock, the kind they show being shot with a gun and still it doesn't open. Nakota didn't have a gun but she knew where to get one, and I had to be sure.
The salesperson thought I was weird, counting out quarters with my bandaged hand and my two-dollar limp, but since this was not a new experience I gave her my looniest grin.
"It's for my cage," I told her.
She was studiously smiling, her face pointed away from my face. "I hope it works," she said.
Bag in hand, left hand, my right held beside my body like some useless club and it certainly was. Thinking as I slogged through the parking lot, Well, this is kind of a bitch since Vanese was both the only one I could trust and the one most likely to oppose me, but I had to try. Driving slowly, maybe the last snow of the year, clogging the streets and re-eroding the dubious skills of drivers who'd had a week of dry weather to forget. Crazy or not, at least I could always drive.
Vanese answered the door and lost whatever smile she might have conjured; still she didn't look technically pissed. "Come in, I suppose," she said, and that made me smile.