Corrosion (3 page)

Time passed in a dream sequence. Everything was out of order and mixed up. I saw trucks materialize through the dust and flames. And then a soldier with a gas mask. His head was jerking all over the place in a strobe light. He disappeared and the flames got stronger, hotter. Then he reappeared and I saw him crawling into the Humvee, sticking out his hand. I guess he saved me. I never saw him again.

Next thing I knew, I was lying on the dirt and my whole body was burning and throbbing and I tried to cry but I couldn’t. I reached for my face and it was all swollen on one side, and when I touched it, my middle finger went deep into my temple. Everything started getting blurry. I closed my eyes.

I heard voices loud and panicked and incoherent. They thought I was a goner. I wanted to open my eyes, wanted to say something, but I had no control.

The world ended for a time. The next thing I remember is being in a chopper, flying over the burning desert, and I wasn’t sure if I was dead or not and I prayed to God that I was. And then I drifted away again and I don’t remember anything else until I got to the hospital…

I stopped talking and looked over at Lilith. Her shoulders were trembling and her eyes were moist. She touched my cheek with what might have been tenderness.

I guess I’d told the story well.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning, I got my car towed. The day was cold and windy, the sun a dull flash in a gun-metal sky. The shop was nothing but a little brick building with the words
Auto Repair
written in big block letters. It was squeezed between a dilapidated food market called Charlie’s and a derelict church, its bell rusted into a permanent slant.

In the front lot there were all sorts of oddities: a rotted canoe, a covered wagon, an open coffin. There were hubcaps and unicycles and antique gas pumps. There were mangled jalopies and rusted car parts. A young guy with slicked-back rockabilly hair sat on a metal bench in front of the office. His face and hands and overalls were covered in filth; he looked like a Vaudeville performer in black face. He was smoking a short stogie and drinking a Squirt. He didn’t seem happy to see me.

Having some problems? he said. He had a smiling skull ring on his middle finger and dried spittle in the corner of his mouth.

It’s an old Chevy C30, I said. Never had a problem before. And now it just stopped driving. Let me down big-time. Think you can fix it?

He flashed a tobacco-stained smile. Gimme a tool set and I could fix Venus de Milo. If this here truck can be fixed, I’m the one who can do it. Good thing you didn’t take her to Paul’s. He wouldn’t know the difference between a V8 engine and V8 drink. He’s ruptured more piston seals than I’ve screwed horny housewives.

Is that a lot?

Hell yeah, that’s a lot!

He farmer-blew some snot onto the ground before getting into the truck. With the door flung open, he turned the ignition a couple of times and shook his head. Then he got out and looked under the hood and spat. When was the last time you had this thing worked on? he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. Been a while, I said. It’s not my car. The car belongs to a friend. He lent it to me.

Ain’t a drop of oil left, that’s one problem. But it ain’t your only. Have a seat in that there office, and I’ll take a look, give you an estimate. I’m fair, too, not like Paul. He’d overcharge a goddamn beggar, yes he would.

For the next hour or more, I sat inside the dingy little store reading
Motor Trend
and
Playboy
and drinking cold coffee while Hal took apart the pickup piece by piece. I could hear him cursing and complaining and mumbling under his breath. Finally, the glass door slammed open and Hal entered, wiping perspiration from his forehead with a rag. His lips were tugged into a frown, his eyes darting all over the place.

She can’t be fixed, Hal said, his bedside manner lacking.

What do you mean she can’t be fixed?

I mean, the old girl is ready for the junkyard. She ain’t got another mile in her. You got a hole in the cylinder. The piston rings are completely worn down. The crankshaft ain’t turning. And that’s just for starters.

I thought you said you could fix any vehicle.

That ain’t what I said. I said I could fix her,
if
she could be fixed. This one can’t be fixed. I’d have to replace the engine completely. Ain’t worth your time or trouble. You’d be better served junking this one and buying another. There’s a few used-car lots down on North Main.

I’m not interested in another truck, I said. This is a good truck. I drove it all the way across the country. She hasn’t failed me yet. She can be fixed. I know she can be fixed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an oversized pinch of leaf tobacco and stuck it into his mouth. He spat on the floor and said: Like I said, I’d have to replace the engine. It would cost you a lot of money.

How much?

A new complete engine would cost you two grand at least. A salvage yard one might cost up to a grand. Add another five hundred for the work. You could buy a brand-new used truck for not much more than that.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and kicked at the dirt. I thought things over for a few moments. Put in a salvage yard engine, I said. Be sure it’s a good one. I need to make it up to the Mountain. There’s somebody waiting for me.

Whatever you say, boss. It’s your money.

How soon can you have it done?

Gimme four, five days, top, he said. Got a number where I can call you?

I shook my head. I’ll just come back in five days, I said. It’s a good truck.

And I started walking.

* * *

I made my way back to town, along dirt roads lined with rotted mailboxes and sad-luck houses. The wind blew through the skeleton trees and everything smelled like a feedlot. My hands were buried in my pockets. I was thinking ugly thoughts. You know the kind. Death and destruction. I walked past rusted metal barrels and mounds of used tires and rows of dying alfalfa, but no humans. The sky was the color of bone. Down about a quarter of a mile, I came upon a cemetery that hadn’t been cared for in years. Dignity denied in both life and death.

In the middle of town, on top of Jagged Hill, stood The Church of Sacred Blood, a white-spire structure with a mural of Christ surrounded by drunken angels, the wooden cross weary, hanging on for dear life. A preacher’s voice echoed across the plains:
And you have heard it said that as you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you shall fear no evil, for he is with you; his rod and staff comforts you. But I say to you: Be afraid. Because the Lord does not want any whores and bastards. The Lord does not want any thieves and beggars. The Lord desires the righteous. And how many of you are righteous? Well? How many? Hell awaits you. Yes, my friends, hell surely awaits unless some changes are made. For you are nothing but maggots and cockroaches, a blight in the Lord’s eye. And there is time for conversion, for restoration, but time is running thin…

I made my way along a broken path until I came to my hotel, all marked by sorry dilapidation and decay. Breathing heavily, I leaned against the brick wall and yanked out a cigarette. I sucked in the smoke slow and tender and spat it out fast and mean.

And that’s when I saw the stranger.

He was a block ahead, wearing the same tattered suit as before. His face was in the shadows, but I could tell it was him. The wind was blowing, and a few specks of snow were swirling above, never seeming to land. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and started walking down the splintered pavement, past a slumbering Mexican clutching a bottle of Sauza, past an elderly woman walking her vacuum cleaner, past a mangy calico cat gnawing on a piece of rotting flesh. The stranger must have seen me too: he started walking, following after me.

My slow gait changing to a gallop, I made my way down the street and then ducked into an alleyway. There were broken bottles and bloodied underwear and seagulls lost from the landfill. There was a wild-looking old woman with splayed gray hair and a whale skin jacket, trying to light a fire in a trash can. When she saw me, she charged toward me and started pounding open-fisted on my back. She was shouting about satellites and wiretaps and port-a-potties. She smelled like mothballs and soda fizz. I pushed away from her and spun into the service entrance of one of the dilapidated buildings. The door shut behind me, and everything was dark. It took me several moments before my eyes adjusted. There were dozens of empty plastic crates. There was also a darkened staircase. I walked up the staircase slowly, the wooden steps moaning beneath my feet.

At the top of the steps was a metal door, dull light shining from beneath it. I turned the handle and pushed open the door. I walked into a strange room with strange shadows and strange people. It took me a while to recognize that they were mannequins and I was inside some sort of a defunct clothing store…

I just stood there for a while. Everything was quiet. I looked around the room. There were dozens of boxes stuffed messily with clothes. Blow-out signs on the wall. Somebody had been in a hurry to leave the business behind. There was a cash register on the counter, open and empty. I squatted down on the floor, breathing heavily. Outside I could hear the crazy woman singing a strange gypsy tune:

Oh child, oh child,

Where have you gone?

You done gone missing

Two dolls left on the lawn

I sat in that clothing store for a long time. The stranger never found me. When I finally left, the sky was black and the moon was missing.

CHAPTER 4

Over the next several days, I saw a lot of Lilith. We always met in the Hotel Paisano and she was never all that discrete. She came in through the front door and left the same way, and the townspeople whispered behind their hands. I asked wasn’t she worried about her husband finding out but she just acted tough. Serve that bastard right, she said. How many whores has he screwed?

During these times we talked some, but I got to know Lilith less than you might think. I couldn’t quite figure her out. Sometimes she could be soft and motherly, stroking my forehead and telling me that everything would be okay; other times she’d seem hard and cruel, making acerbic comments about my service, my intelligence. Then when she’d see the anger in my eyes, she’d apologize and shift back to sweetness.

Not only that, but her appearance was always changing, too. One day she’d wear a tight leather miniskirt reaching halfway down her thigh, the next a white dress covering her ankles, arms, and neck. She dyed her hair from red to platinum blonde, and even changed the color of her eyes—from brown to Jolly Rancher blue.

One thing she was consistent about was her feelings for her husband. Fear and loathing. She’d only married him because she’d got pregnant and was scared. She’d lost the baby and kept the monster. He could be charming, but not all that often. She showed me the bruises and the cigar burns. Told me about when he’d broken her jaw, when he’d given her a black eye.

I was beginning to think their marriage wouldn’t last.

* * *

This one morning Lilith was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet. I was lying in bed, running my finger along my facial scars, watching her intently in the mirror. Her red knees were touching, her panties around her ankles, and a wounded cigarette was hanging from her lips. She rose to her feet, wiped herself off, and flushed the toilet. Hunching over, she inserted a tampon with one hand, the cigarette now burning in the other. She returned to the bedroom and slumped down in a chair. She was too skinny. I’d never seen her eat.

Oh, Joseph, she said. I’m so fucking tired of being afraid. It’s wearing me down. It gets so I can’t ever sleep and my stomach is always aching.

You worrying about Nick?

She nodded her head. You have no idea what it’s like, living in fear all the time.

I have some sense.

He makes my skin crawl. You just have no fucking idea.

Couldn’t you just divorce him? I said.

Lilith scowled and glared at me. Her bleached hair was a mess and her eyes were bloodshot. She took a long drag from her cigarette and let the smoke trickle out of her nostrils. Divorce him, huh?

Well, sure.

He’d kill me if I ever left him, she said.

What are you talking about?

That’s what he told me. Said he’d slit my throat and dump me in the landfill.

He talks tough, I said. A lot of guys talk tough.

I believe him, she said.

I shook my head. He doesn’t have it in him. I know his type. He’s a bully, but he’s not a killer. It takes courage to kill.

She sucked a burning house full of smoke into her lungs and blew it out of a Billy Idol mouth. Then her face softened and her lips curled into a smile. Without saying a word, she rose from the chair and walked slowly, seductively to the bed. She sat down next to me and started stroking my chest, her left breast pressing against my skin, and for a moment I decided that I would place my fate in her sloppily manicured hands.