The priest nodded agreeably but his smile looked contrived. Sounds to me, he said, like a revival meeting. Was there any speaking in tongues?
She cured a woman of warts, said Tom. And she helped her get off cigarettes.
Worth considering, the priest replied. The warts and cigarettes both.
I didn’t hear about this, said Meriwether. I mean cigarettes, that’s one thing, a person can decide they’re going to stop smoking, but warts—do they just go away like that?
They do, said the priest. Spontaneously. Warts are a viral phenomenon, so immunity can rapidly develop. Not to mention the psychosomatic, the salutary effect of belief.
Neither prison guard answered. What in God’s name was the priest trying to say? Tom asked himself. Established medical fact, said the priest. It helps to believe in one’s treatment, one’s medicine. It helps to be convinced of a therapeutic effect inherent in some pill or other. Even if it’s merely a placebo, a fake, with no bona fide benefit.
Hey, if it works, agreed Meriwether.
We can all celebrate good outcomes, said the priest. There’s nothing wrong with good results—as long as the means that yield them aren’t evil—though we can’t extrapolate backward from good results to validate a particular Marian apparition. On the other hand, bad results would surely be cause for the church’s definitive invalidation of a seer. Ill effects would not arise from a genuine manifestation of Mary. And so far, regarding the thwarted warts—not to mention the snuffed-out cigarettes—so far, so excellent, no cause I can see to denounce our local visionary. Though these particular positive outcomes still don’t mean anything.
We’ll let you go, said Meriwether.
And I you, replied the priest.
He tipped an invisible hat in their direction and, it seemed to Tom, fled. There was a long vent at the back of his overcoat, and when the priest turned toward them, one hand on the gate as the tower guard buzzed it open, a gust of wind made it flare. Come see me sometime, he called back to Tom. We ought to talk more often.
About what?
About… matters.
I don’t get much out of talking, Father.
Through me you can talk to the Lord, said the priest. Come see me, Tom.
Then he was gone. Meriwether made a show of scratching his forehead. Bizarre, he said. Real strange guy. When I was growing up our pastor was… I don’t know. You couldn’t even speak to him.
What religion?
Lutheran.
This priest is new, Tom said.
You like him?
I don’t know.
He’s a liberal.
I see that.
He’s probably for fags getting married and all. Or probably he’s a fag himself.
Maybe.
How is it priests are so far left?
That’s something I don’t claim to get.
You’d think it’d be the opposite.
I don’t know what goes on inside his mind.
He’s thinking, said Meriwether, about guys I’ll bet. About fondling altar boys.
Town was a zoo. Cars everywhere. The parking lot at Gip’s was full for the first time Tom could remember. There were even lines to get gas at the minimart for the first time since OPEC. The Sportsman’s Motel had no vacancies, and neither did the North Fork Motel. The parking lot at MarketTime was full and cars had spilled over into the Assembly of God lot, which was full as well. It was not even nine but the drugstore was open for business as were the auto parts store, the Dew Drop Inn—until today serving only lunch and dinner—and the hardware store, its front window filled with a banner reading SALE! Tom decided against going to MarketTime. He waited his turn at the four-way stop, rolled down his window, leaned out, and called to Jon Hicks, who was walking in the gutter, It’s like the Alaska Gold Rush Jon you better put your hat out.
Up yours Cross.
Where you going?
To hell—same as you.
You need a ride?
How’s your son?
Still paralyzed.
When you coming by the Vagabond with us?
Get your hat out right now.
The parking lot at the Tired Traveler’s Guesthouse was no better than the rest. There was still the trailer from the Greater Catholic Merchandise Outlet and the car with the DON’T TAILGATE—GOD IS WATCHING bumper sticker, plates from California, Arizona, Colorado, and Nebraska, a man in rubber rain gear checking his motor oil, another man loading up suitcases, a woman with a poodle on a retractable leash, an old woman sitting in an idling car who made brief frightened eye contact with Tom before looking the other way. Tom had lost his parking space. He drove in between two trees, killed the engine, and walked toward his cabin still wearing his guard garb, pausing to light a cigarette so he might have reason to ogle Jabari with her hair bundled up beneath a paisley scarf and her wide South Asian derriere sheathed in baggy red sweatpants. Making her sad lonely cleaning rounds. Did anybody else in the world wear red sweatpants? Scarlet jodhpurs—gay Englishmen on polo ponies. She had on cheap gaudy running shoes, too. He could see brown skin above her thin white socks, between the socks and the bunched anklets of her sweats. Not that she meant to show anything; her clothes were dedicated to concealing her figure. She was pushing the clean-up cart across the gravel like a Bengali peanut vendor. He imagined her drowning in Bangladesh, squatting on a rooftop over murky floodwater, doe-eyed victim of another famine, sunken ferry, overturned bus, CNN train wreck, malaria. Good morning, he said, it’s still raining.
The most fleeting eye contact of all time—made the old woman in the idling car seem brazen by comparison. So Jabari could claim to have acknowledged him and yet not acknowledge him. Why? Who was she? She turned the key in Cabin Eleven. Were they Muslims or Hindus? He didn’t know for sure. He didn’t even know their real names. What had Pin said about the Ganges? They might be Sikhs or something else. Or those people who swept the road before their feet so as to not end the lives of insects. Her ass was indeed a wide brown sailor’s chart of spicy India. And the red sweatpants were ridiculous, clown’s clothing, but she seemed so ignorant of their absurdity that her ignorance was ultimately alluring. She probably wore matronly underclothing, navel-high briefs and grandmotherly bras. The image of Jabari stripped to her underwear presented itself to Tom’s mind.
He stood in the doorway of Cabin Eleven, leaning casually against the jamb in an attitude of sexual aggression. She was already plugging in the vacuum cleaner. Busy around here, he said.
Very much.
Wouldn’t it be nice to slow down and relax?
Very busy.
So what needs fixing?
My husband in the office will answer this question.
He loved that lilting birdlike trill, her low throaty soprano. Also the stink of curry in her clothes—or maybe it was saffron and sweat. But can’t you think of something I can fix? he asked. Something you know needs fixing?
Jabari wouldn’t look at him. My husband will say, she answered.
But what about you? Tom asked. You must notice things as you go from room to room. Things you see with your own eyes.
If you will please now speak to my husband, sir.
But—
He is in the office. Speak to him. There was a new pressure in her voice suddenly, a female householder, upper caste, claiming authority in a tone she’d used in wherever, maybe the Punjab.
Okay, said Tom. I’ll talk to him. But in the meantime think what you might need fixed and holler—I’ll fix it for you.
In his cabin Tom sprawled wide on the bed and watched the television. Or rather changed the channels restlessly, stopping only to consider an attractive woman or to wait for something violent to unfurl. No sports. He didn’t really care about games. That was an act, something communal. Tom napped with the heat on as high as it would go. It was not really sleep although in this state he noted that time seemed to pass more quickly. He looked at the clock and when he looked at it again it was significantly later th
an he would have projected, so in some form he must have slept. But it didn’t feel to Tom like sleep exactly. Did he ever really sleep? In the way he used to? His limbs felt dead but his mind stayed active. He thought of his son: his mind alive but his body… dead weight. Tom hadn’t seen him since before the restraining order, but he guessed Junior still watched television constantly. Not hard to guess—what else could he do? Junior had his own remote controller, a special remote with very large buttons that Eleanor had gotten from a catalog for invalids, there seemed to be a catalog for everything these days and Eleanor had them all. Junior could work it with remarkable speed for someone who was paralyzed, a plastic rod seized between his teeth, he viewed each image for a fraction of a second, the satellite dish—forty dollars a month—could hardly keep up with his dental dexterity, it gave him fifty or sixty options, the boy would cycle through them twice before pausing for a respite. It was irritating but who was going to stop him? Who had the heart to halt this routine? It wasn’t possible to spoil Junior. Whatever he wanted he ought to have, including his own big Compaq computer, compliments of the Cross Family Committee. Somebody’s retired desktop, charity, Tom’s needs were other people’s tax write-offs now. Pulled up close on a swiveling tray, outfitted with something called a Sip ’n Puff in lieu of your normal mouse. If the TV wasn’t on, the computer was, sometimes the two were on together, Eleanor had put in a second line, it was almost thirty-three dollars a month, it didn’t cost them any more than that because Junior had free Internet service, somehow or other he’d figured that out, how to get something for nothing. What else could he do, lying there? Tom had looked over Junior’s shoulder at the endlessly shifting monitor screen, Virtual Paraplegia, Quadriplegic Bulletin Board, Spinal Cord Injury Information Network, Miami Project to Cure Paralysis, Junior sipping chat-room messages or puffing them into the ether. Have worse pressure sores with this new wheelchair, need info on cushions that actually might work, regarding assistive devices for gait I can only say they’re a mixed blessing, really, you fall you’re in for more injury, it doesn’t feel like walking anyway, maybe a little once in a while just for the change of pace. Or: This morning I went to a pool for therapy; the transfer was really dangerous on the wet floor, does anyone have a good design for a really effective brake? Arnie B., Charlottesville. This sort of thing made Tom depressed. Quadriplegic computer nerds. Invisible paralyzed strangers sharing tips. Static ghosts in rooms across the world. Ephemeral presences exchanging ephemera. Net surfing, Web sites, chat rooms.
Midmorning he went to see Pin in his office. The small television was on, as always—a cable news program airing a feature on two Seattle lesbian performance artists who were opening a coffee shop. There was that curious smell of something Indian, Pin’s pomade, rank sweet sweat, carpet shampoo, cardamom. I am very glad you are here, said Pin. I am very glad to see you, Mr. Cross. I am wanting to speak to you.
There’s probably a few things to do, said Tom, with all these people around.
Pin was perched on his stool, ensconced—a caged bird clutching a dowel. I am very happy to have customers, he said. Very very happy for business.
Anyone would be, I guess.
So I am happy for the Virgin Mary. That she has decided to come and bring so many customers to stay at my motel.
A gold mine, said Tom. Except—they break things. And tax the septic system.
Pin tangled his thin caramel arms in front of him so as to lean on the back of one wrist. I do not understand, he said. Gold a mine?
Gold mine.
Is that somebody?
A mine. Where you dig gold. Where you dig gold out of the ground.
We are not digging gold.
It’s a saying—you know. It means with the Virgin Mary here this motel is like a gold mine.
Pin rubbed behind one ear with the flat of his little finger. An unsanitary public gesture, thought Tom. But apparently that’s how they did things in India. How I wish, said Pin, that yes, for a gold mine. But I possess seventeen cabins.
He didn’t get it. A figure of speech. Well maybe you can build some more soon, said Tom. With all the money coming in.
Pin raised an eyebrow. Yes, he said. In the future more cabins will help my business. But for now I am having seventeen.
Tom began to grasp what was coming, but only with raw disbelief. More cabins, more maintenance, he said.
Yes more maintenance always, said Pin. But right now I must rent sixteen cabins. Because you are living in one, Mr. Cross. You are in Cabin Seventeen.
Seventeen minus one is sixteen—right. So that’s sixteen still needing maintenance.
Pin untangled his arms slowly and began to straighten up the things on the counter—his stack of business cards, his check-in slips, his motel postcards, his pen. Every day, he said, the followers of the Virgin Mary are asking me do I rent a room even when they can see from the road my No Vacancy sign.
What a nuisance. Can’t they read?
I must wish to have more cabins, Mr. Cross.
Why don’t you just stop beating around the bush?
I am not beating.
You’re playing games. You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t know English. You all speak English in India. It’s one of your national languages.
Pin now folded his hands in front of him. A clerk or bureaucrat at his desk, protected. Please do not be angry, he said. Please let us be peaceful.
Tom drummed his fingers against the counter. It is every day each room single bed forty-nine dollars, said Pin. In one week three hundred fifty dollars. In one month one thousand four hundred dollars. So you can see—very difficult.
A plumber’s forty an hour, answered Tom. A gardener is fifteen or twenty dollars. I already give you one-sixty a month. I don’t think you’re really behind.
So I must increase your rent payment every week to two hundred and fifty dollars.
Tom felt himself clench inwardly. Jesus, he said. Jesus Christ. In this country we’ve got a name for that. It’s god damn highway robbery.
Please do not be angry, Mr. Cross. I am very much sorry. No angry.
Jesus, man. You’re ripping me off.
Nobody is ripping off, Mr. Cross.
Tom picked up the stack of business cards. Tired Traveler’s Guesthouse, he read. I liked it better as the R&M. I understood those people.
Pin said nothing. He looked cowed but defiant at some obscure level. Somebody who knew the rules, if nothing else. Somebody counting on the rules. Be that as it may, his chin now trembled. Tom tapped the business cards against the counter. Fuck you Pin, he said.
Please you must not say bad things, Mr. Cross.
This is the bottom, Tom said. You people… you come in here. Treat me like this. In my own home town. Screw me over. Try to jew me. It doesn’t get any lower.
He threw the stack of business cards at Pin’s fax machine. They hit the wall with a slap and scattered. Pin picked up the telephone receiver. I am calling a policeman, he announced.
Go right ahead, Tom said. You don’t know anyone in this town.
He pushed through the door and went to his cabin, where he sat on the bed for a few minutes first, then at the table smoking calmly until Nelson showed up in a cruiser. Tom watched with a calculated distance. Nelson got out and adjusted his shirttail, pulled at his belt, and ran a hand through his hair, eliciting in Tom an immense disdain and the memory of wrestling Nelson in high school, of dislocating his shoulder junior year, the expression of pain on Nelson’s face, he hadn’t handled pain with dignity, he’d let himself look pathetic when injured, and so be it, thought Tom. It was not a bad thing to have at hand. Nelson locked the door to his cruiser, no doubt according to some protocol, the 12-gauge shotgun was still inside, and went confidently into Pin’s office. Tom smoked with giddy patience. Lit the next from the butt of the last. Enjoying the veil of inevitability that lay over everything now. Finally Nelson crossed the parking lot, swaggering, and knocked on Tom’s cabin door. Open, call
ed Tom, it all felt foreordained, and Nelson came in without caution. Throwing business cards—Nelson sniggered. What is it with this little brown greaseball? I got better things to do.
Like what?
You know you don’t even have to ask. I was just heading out to the campground.
Sit down if you want.
I gotta get out there.
There’s a chair if you want it.
For a minute, said Nelson. Then back to Ms. Mushroom and her fans.
He looked more tired than usual—his eyelids were gray and swollen. His cheeks had a jaundiced, sallow cast, the plastic complexion of a corpse, a cadaver. And he was carrying more weight than ever before, fat everywhere, Nelson was swelling, his gut, thighs, face. The brunt of cop jokes—donuts, maple bars. I never met this guy, he told Tom.
From India.
I figured that.
That little Hindu raised my rent a million dollars suddenly. Now that he’s got all these people coming in the guy turns on me.
Your place looks like a gun shop, Tom.
I helped him out a million times. Tried to get him straightened out. Went out of my way for him.
What’s that over there?
It’s a forty-four-caliber black-powder revolver. Take a look if you want.
Nelson didn’t, waved Tom off. My brother had one but in stainless steel, he said. Except with a nice brass trigger guard. Which he got in Texas when he went down bass fishing.
That greaseball wants me out of here.
Well what do you expect?
I don’t learn I guess.
This Korean’s got the laundromat. Same deal. Slant-eyed money-grubber.
Well forget it now, Tom answered.
Nelson nodded sympathetically and set his elbows against his knees—locker room tête-à-tête, halftime. The easy thing—don’t throw his business cards. It makes me have to do something, okay? It makes me have to react.
Fuck you.
It puts me in a bind. He’s scared of you. I’m supposed to be reaming you out right now. Kicking you out. Restraining order. The guy feels like you’re dangerous, Tom. He doesn’t want you around.