Going Bovine

  “I … um, I don’t have any paper,” I say.

  She leans in. Her whisper warms my ear. “Pocket.”

  “Huh?”

  She hops over a twig, balances on one foot. “That thing at the back of your pants.”

  I reach into my back jeans pocket and find Junior Webster’s cryptic note to me: to live.

  “Pen?” I say.

  She hops to the other foot. “I don’t do pens. You’ve got one in your jacket. It’s leaking.”

  A large inky splotch stains the left side of my Windbreaker. Annoyed, I wipe the pen off and sit on the only dry patch of ground. For the longest time, I listen to the soft percussion of the rain while trying to word my wish airtight. None of that “I want to be famous and instead I get a guy on the beach” crap for me.

  “How ya doin’?” Dulcie asks. She’s stretched out on a branch Cheshire-cat style.

  “Do you mind? I’m thinking. This is for the big money.”

  She spreads her hands in a no harm, no foul gesture. “Don’t let me rush genius.”

  Finally, I write down the only thing I can think of and stick it on a branch. My wish disappears into the tree, and a baby leaf pokes out. In the veined paper, I can see the words struggling to be born.

  Dulcie hops down. “What did you wish for?”

  “Use your X-ray heat vision super angel powers to find out.”

  “Just a messenger, remember?” Dulcie winks. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll come true.”

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “Sort of.”

  Suddenly, she reaches her arms around my neck and just as quickly, she jumps back. I feel the empty space between us like an extra person.

  “Got it!” she says, waving something in her hand. It’s a really old one. A last plea to the universe from some weary traveler passing through Hope on the road to wherever he’s going.

  “Ah,” she says, smiling. “Now, this is brilliant.”

  She opens her palm, exposing the heart of some anonymous desire to me.

  It reads only, I wish …

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In Which I Pick Up a Necessary Part

  I don’t know how long I sit with Dulcie. Time seems elastic there under the Wishing Tree. We play charades, which are an exercise in the completely indecipherable and unintentionally hilarious. Mostly, Dulcie hops and twirls and makes wide-eyed faces that, I learn, could stand for anything from Bolshevik Revolution to aurora borealis. My body feels loose and light from laughing. A few feet away, Dulcie totters around like a cat with something on its tail.

  “Alcoholic ballerina!” I shout, and she rolls her eyes. “Blowfish in a death spiral! The reason the dinosaurs are extinct!”

  She stops, hands on her hips, and blows a lock of hair from her forehead. “Falling star!”

  “Wow. You officially suck at this game. I just pwned an angel at charades. Go, me.”

  Two of the paper leaves drop to the ground. The ends curl up and decompose.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  Dulcie plops down next to me. “Those wishes have been granted. Sort of.”

  There’s something that’s been nagging at me for the past hundred miles or so.

  “Dulcie …,” I start. “What happens once I find Dr. X and he cures me and the wormhole is closed?”

  Her eyes are closed, her head back. “The world is saved, and you are cured. Huzzah!”

  “Yeah, I know. But, like, what happens to you? Do you stay here or go back to wherever it is you’re from? Will I ever see you again?”

  She jumps up suddenly. “Hey, wanna see me pretend to be an ice sculpture? I’m really good at it. Watch this.” She stands perfectly still, hands pressed together, her left foot balanced against the inside of her right knee. “You kinda have to imagine the caviar in small bowls around my feet.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “No,” she says, dropping the pose. “I’m avoiding the answer.”

  “I just wanted to know what’s next,” I say.

  “You people slay me,” she says with a laugh, and there’s an edge to it. “Always worrying, ‘What will happen? What’s next?’ Always everywhere but where you actually are. You just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Here. Now. This.” She gestures wide, turns around. “This is it, cowboy. The whole ride. Pay attention.”

  “Thanks for enlightening me with your advanced angel wisdom,” I snipe.

  “Whatever’s needed,” she says, without a trace of sarcasm.

  The rain picks up again. In the blink of an eye, Dulcie’s stretched out on a branch above me, shielding me from the damp with a wing.

  “Nice umbrella,” I say.

  “Like I said, whatever’s needed.”

  My dreams kaleidoscope in and out of each other. I’m lying in my hospital bed, listening to the whirr of a respirator, Glory marking something on my chart. I’m in that house by the sea, listening to the tide come in, while the old lady arranges her lilies in a vase. Back to the hospital room, Mom and Dad reading, the TV on, forgotten, Parker Day hosting a game show. The old lady’s house, a closed door. “Want to see inside?” she asks, her hand on the tarnished knob. I shake my head. She smiles, takes her hand away. “Some other time.”

  I’m with Dulcie. I can’t hear what I’ve said, but she laughs. She’s beautiful.

  Something goes wrong. The Wizard of Reckoning grabs hold. Dulcie’s arms reach out for mine, but I can’t get to her. A dark hole opens in the sky, and they’re pulled inside.

  The fire giants lay waste to everything in their paths, and when everything’s gone, they open their jagged mouths wide, one last time, and blow, engulfing me in flame.

  When I wake, the woods are calm and quiet, sweet with pine. Dulcie’s gone. A feather rests on my thigh. Nothing’s written on it. It’s blank and fresh as new snow. I bring it to my nose and breathe in her scent.

  * * *

  The rain has stopped by the time I get back to the Caddy where Gonzo and Balder are still crashed out and snoring away. The old man calls to me from his rocking chair on the front porch. “Got yo’ car workin’ fine now. Jes’ needed a lil rest.”

  “Thank you. Um, how much …”

  “Nevah mind that, young fella. I got som’m you need. Step on in heah.”

  He hobbles into the shop and the chair goes on rocking. There’s nothing to do but follow him. If this shop has anything that anyone from the last century needs, I will be shocked. A layer of dust an inch thick covers every surface. The walls are filled with mismatched bins and worn storage drawers. Above each one are plates that say NEW or USED or, more mysteriously, NECESSARY. The old man shuffles along, peering at the titles, searching for something. Occasionally, he makes little sounds under his breath—“hmmm” or “uh-uh” and once an exasperated “Now, that ain’t it.”

  The sun’s starting to come out. Shafts of light break through the windows and into the dark aisle, sending the dust particles swirling. They’re sort of beautiful illuminated like that. In the light, they seem like they’re rising, coming together to form their own tiny Milky Way. The dust moves like it has a purpose, somewhere it wants to go.

  “Heah we are,” the old man says. He’s standing in front of a bank of card-catalog-sized drawers with tiny knobs. The sign above them says NECESSARY. He lets his gnarled fingers drift from drawer to drawer until finally he finds the one he wants.

  “Umm-hmm. Ummm-hmmm,” he mutters, opening the drawer and peering in. He pulls out a long, slightly rusty screw. “Things have a way of turnin’ up when you need ’em,” he says in that long, slow drawl of his. He hobbles over to the counter, where he grabs a rag and works some grease onto the screw’s threads. “You evah hear of a magic screw?”

  I cough back a laugh. “No. No, sir.”

  “Weeelll, you lookin’ at one. This lil thing got the power to change a life.” He holds the screw up to the light to inspect it. “Jes’ ab
out right.”

  The thing looks like a tetanus infection waiting to happen. It sure as hell doesn’t look magical.

  “Hol’ out yeh hand, boy,” he says.

  Oh fuck me, how did I get into this mess? Am I going to end up bleeding on an ER gurney while sympathetic nurses shake their heads and cluck, “Oh yeah, Pops the Impaler. We all know about him”? Is he one of those sick guys with a basement full of crawl spaces and human organs in pickle jars?

  “I said, hol’ out yeh hand.” Pops stares at me through his bottle-thick glasses. The lenses make his eyes huge, like some prehistoric insect.

  “Why?”

  “If yeh don’t put yo’ hand out, you ain’t gonna find out, now, is yeh?” He doesn’t sound angry or impatient, just matter-of-fact, like it’s the simplest choice in the world: you either go for it or you don’t.

  Slowly, I put out my hand, palm up.

  “Now close yeh eyes,” he drawls.

  My hand snaps back by my side. “Close my eyes? Why?”

  “Don’t work les’ you close ’em. Jes’ the way it is.”

  Right. It would make it a whole lot easier for you to drive that screw through my head if I were to close my eyes, too. My feet start their backward walk. “This was really nice of you, but I should probably take off. …”

  Pops shakes his head. “Son, if you cain’t put a little faith in people, how you evah gon’ git where you goin’?”

  “Look, no offense, mister, but I don’t know you. …”

  “Yeah, no shit, boy. ’N I don’t know you.” He gives the screw one more rub with the rag. “That’s why they call it trust. Now, you in or you out?”

  I should just take off, get back in the car and get on the road instead of arguing with some old geezer in a broken-down hardware store about the nature of trust. But then I think of the feather emblem on the exit marker. I walk back, put out my hand again, and close my eyes, and Pops places the screw gently in my upturned palm. He covers my hand with his. His skin is leathery and warm. He’s mumbling something, I can’t tell what. The mumbling stops.

  “This is a necessary part of your destiny. It’s in your hands now. Use it well, son. You kin open yo’ eyes.”

  I do as he says. The old man’s gone and there’s an old screw in my hand. It doesn’t shine or sparkle or do funny tricks. I don’t understand how it could be a necessary part of anything, except maybe a future bookshelf or CD rack.

  Signs. Random coincidences. Trust.

  I put the screw in my pocket and head out to the car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Which Treats of What Happens When There Is a Bounty on Our Heads and We Visit Putopia

  I don’t tell Gonzo and Balder about the Wishing Tree or the weird hardware store and the magic screw that’s a “necessary part” of my destiny somehow. I don’t want them to think I’m unraveling fast. I’d rather just freak out about that possibility solo.

  Plus, my E-ticket’s losing health power. Adventureland and Frontierland are gone, and the third line, Liberty Square, is fading fast. If we don’t find Dr. X soon, I’m toast.

  Near the outskirts of Florida, we stop to get gas. The Caddy eats a lot of it, probably getting about fifteen miles to the gallon. Efficient it is not. The guy inside rings me up. A TV above his head is fixed on an all-news channel. They’re showing that WANTED flyer with the high school pictures of Gonzo and me. My legs go a little wobbly as they cut to a shot of the Church of Everlasting Satisfaction and Snack ’N’ Bowl. Daniel’s and Ruth’s faces fill the screen. Daniel’s not in mellow, don’t-hurt-your-happiness mode, I can tell that much. He’s practically snarling. The newscaster puts the mike in his face, and Daniel doesn’t waste a minute.

  “These guys are definitely armed and dangerous and on some kind of mission of total anarchy!” Daniel growls.

  “They broke our smoothie machine!” Ruth interjects.

  “They came in here with the full intention of disrupting our way of life, and of sowing the seeds of dissent and dissatisfaction in our community.”

  The camera goes to a wide shot of the parking lot, where a mob of kids pumps their fists. They hold signs saying, NO MORE VANILLA! SHAKESPEARE, NOT SMOOTHIES! and IDEAS DON’T HURT PEOPLE, PEOPLE WITHOUT IDEAS DO!

  The newscaster nods grimly and tries to do his wrap-up, but Daniel grabs the mike. His pissed-off face fills the screen. “Lock them up, man. Throw away the key.”

  There’s a quick sound bite from the mall security guard standing in front of the scorched hole that was the Konstant Kettle. “They pretended they was wrestlers—that’s how they distracted us while they set the bombs. …” His wife squeezes his arm. “Them people are terrorists. They got absolutely no regard for human life and property and rules. No regard.”

  Next, the camera swings back to the TV news studio and a logo for the United Snow Globe Wholesalers along with their 1-800 number. The anchorman reads a statement: “Terrorism will not be tolerated. That’s why your friends at United Snow Globe Wholesalers are offering a bounty of ten thousand dollars for the capture of these threats to our security and happiness.”

  “That it? Just the gas?” the guy behind the register asks, making me jump.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, grabbing my change and running for the Caddy.

  “What’s the matter?” Gonzo asks when I throw the car into gear and peel out.

  “Just the entire fucking world is looking for us, that’s all,” I say, glancing at the rearview mirror. “That little asshole Daniel is over his peace, love, and smoothie crap. He wants a piece of our butts and he’s taking it to the media.”

  “Didn’t I tell you he was a craptard?” Gonzo says, vindicated at last.

  “We’ve got other stuff to worry about. There’s a reward for our capture as wanted terrorists. Our pictures are all over the news with a hotline number to call.”

  “Shit,” Gonzo says.

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  There is silence from the backseat and then I hear the smile in Balder’s deep voice. “Cool.”

  We decide to stay off the highways and stick to the back roads. There’s no such thing as a GPS in the Rocinante, so we’ve pretty much been navigating by a ten-year-old map in the glove compartment, which is sort of like trying to make your way by a What’s My Future™ fortune-telling ball: Should we take this road? I’ve got such a headache. Ask me later.

  The road bumps along past tall marsh grass, rusted signs, ancient churches with the windows broken out and the kudzu taking over, railroad tracks, old barns, and a couple of empty fields where a horse or two stand around looking bored. It just keeps going until I don’t have any idea where we are anymore. Under my breath, I call Dulcie’s name like a prayer. Come on, Dulcie, I say. Throw us a bone. A few seconds later, the Caddy jerks and twitches to a stop.

  “What just happened?” Gonzo asks.

  “I don’t know.” I turn every switch and knob. The gas gauge is stuck at half a tank. I give it a thump with my finger and it falls to E.

  “Dammit!”

  “What?” Gonzo sounds panicked.

  “We’re out of gas.”

  “You’re Shithenging me.”

  “I Shithenge you not.”

  “Enough riding. Time for the hunt.” Balder’s changed back into his Viking gear and is out of the car and making his way down the road before I can stop him.

  “What the hell?” Gonzo asks.

  I head after Balder. Gonzo yells from the passenger side, “Shouldn’t we call Friendly Tow or something, dude? Get some roadside assistance?”

  “Sure,” I shout back. “Just tell them the wanted terrorists with the ten-thousand-dollar bounty on their heads need gas and maybe a lift to town.”

  “We’ve been walking for a good half hour and seen a big fat nothing to help us out,” Gonzo gasps. “Plus, I’ve got a mammoth blister on my heel. Blisters can get infected, you know. You can die from that shit.”

  “Just keep looking for a gas station,” I
say.

  “I’m just saying, I don’t want to die from an infected blister. That would be such a lame way to go.”

  About half a mile down, the road forks. I wipe the sweat from my brow, cup a hand over my eyes to block the glare.

  “Which way? Anybody?”

  Balder consults his runes. “Left.”

  “Fine. We go left,” I say.

  “You sure?” Gonzo asks.

  “No,” I answer. “I’m not sure of anything. So one road’s as good as another.”

  Left we go over a path that’s little more than packed dirt winding up a hill. Finally, we reach the top.

  “Whoa,” Gonzo says.

  Down the hill is a field of mustard-colored wheat like brushstrokes in a painting.

  Everywhere I look, there are wind turbines whirling against the clean blue of the sky like alien birds ready for takeoff, or takeover, whichever comes first. Smack-dab in the center are an old farmhouse, a barn, and what looks like a futuristic gas station.

  Balder drops to one knee in prayerful thanks. “The Norn have favored us.”

  “Great. Let’s see if they’ll give us some gas.”

  Gonzo grabs my arm. “Are you out of your mind? Dude, didn’t you see Chainsaw Motel?”

  “If I say no does that mean you’ll shut up?”

  “Chainsaw Motel, quick plot summary,” Gonzo continues. “Spring break camping trip, ‘Oh, man, the truck’s out of gas! Bummer! Hey, look—there’s a creepy old bed-and-breakfast with a gas pump.’ Crunch, crunch through woods to isolated, gnarly house. ‘Knock, knock—hey, there’s nobody home—oh, what’s this weird chair made out of? Hey, it’s made out of human skin! Rrrrrnnnnnnnnn! Oh my God, he’s got a chain saw—Aaaahhhhhh! Rrrrrnnnnnnn! Gratuitous blood spray. Dismemberment. Death. Freezers of college-kid limbs. More screaming. And one lone, blood-spattered, forever-scarred survivor, who will spend the rest of her miserable life in psychiatric care. Roll credits.” Gonzo folds his arms over his chest.

  “Wow. Maybe they have that on disc. We’ll ask them.”

  I march toward the house, down a soft slope of clover and weeds. Gonzo darts in front of me, running serpentine style.