Freezer Burn

  Bill opened his eyes and gazed down at the glass. It was frosted. He slowly lifted the hair dryer between his legs and struck the button. The dryer roared and gave a burst of hot air, heated the glass, and caused the frost to dissipate.

  When he stared down at the Ice Man—appearing suddenly as if rising out of a block of ice—Bill experienced a sensation of dropping inside the freezer and entering into the Ice Man and looking up and out of his eyes. Above him was the water-beaded glass, and through it he could see his face looking down with hollow eyes and through his empty sockets he could see his empty universe. No stars. No moon. No form. Just void.

  It was such a disconcerting feeling Bill had to close his eyes so that he could neither see what he saw or what he thought he saw. He wondered what was going on inside him.

  Until Frost, Bill had felt there was just him as he was. There were no sides to it. Good and Bad weren’t real to him. They were words. Now he felt he had seen some light and had liked it. Frost had shone the light on him. Frost had believed in him. And now he had a friend, Conrad, and the light was brighter yet.

  Then along came Gidget, dragging shadow, looking like, tasting like, some calorie-filled confection, and he had tasted her, and he had felt as Adam must have felt when he bit into the apple. Light going out. Dirt giving way beneath his feet, grabbing at roots and vines that wouldn’t hold.

  Bill took a deep breath. He told himself he had to hang on, had to poke his shoes into the dirt and make toeholds. Had to climb up and out and into the light. Had to not do this thing Gidget wanted. Had to stay out of that ditch Conrad warned him about. Only Conrad was wrong, it wasn’t a ditch. It was a crevasse.

  The hair dryer droned on. Bill tried to find a spot for himself behind the sound, some place to hide, but he couldn’t. His misery was larger and louder than sound. He opened his eyes again and looked at the Ice Man.

  All you got to do is not do it, he thought.

  All you got to do is leave it be.

  You haven’t got the wrench, weren’t able to get it, so you can’t do it anyway, so you don’t have to do a thing.

  You don’t have to touch that woman again. Nothing makes you do it but yourself, and you are the captain of yourself.

  Let it pass and you’ll be okay.

  There was a knock on the door. Bill jerked, the dryer came unplugged. The burst of heat went away and the dryer fell limp in his hand.

  The night air was cool because of the river. The air tasted like the river and the damp East Texas soil. It was a fresh sweet smell that he imagined was not too unlike that of being born.

  On the steps of his trailer he saw the wrench. He looked toward the motor home. There went Gidget, moving fast, her buttocks working underneath her cotton dress as if one were wrestling with the other. She went inside the motor home and quietly closed the door without so much as looking back.

  Bill stared at the wrench for a full minute. Then he bent over and picked it up. It was heavy. Gidget’s smell was on it. He was the captain, but his ship was on the reef.

  Twenty-seven

  He had the wrench in his belt as he started his climb. He went up carefully. There was a nightsweat dampness on the metal and it was hard to get a hand or foothold, and the fresh paint had dried smooth and that made it even harder.

  The sky had cleared. As he climbed, he nearly lost himself in the stars above. They were thick and beautiful. There was a crescent moon. It was like a single cat eye, partially open, waiting for a mouse. Crickets chirped and great frogs sang bass out on the river. The pines seemed to have gathered the moon’s light like a mist and they had the appearance of narrow pyramids stacked close together.

  Twice the wrench in his belt clanged against the metal, and he looked over his shoulder, but saw no one. As he reached the uppermost bucket he heard a sound below. Looking down, he saw it was one of the pinheads and Double Buckwheat. They had come out of nowhere.

  Bill stood still, one foot about to step into the bucket. He saw the pinhead was the one they called Peter. He could tell because Peter had a brilliant pink head with a ring of hair on it like a dirty bird’s nest. Pete and Double Buckwheat were talking. Pete was sayin’, “No. Uh uh,” which was about a third of his vocabulary.

  “Then it’s you,” said one of the Buckwheats. “Us first, then you.”

  “Uh uh. No.”

  “We trade,” said the other Buckwheat.

  “No.”

  “Two heads better than one.”

  Pete paused at this. He paused for a long time. Double Buckwheat handed him what looked like a wrapped candy bar. Pete might have said something, Bill couldn’t be sure. Pete turned and went between two trailers and a moment later Double Buckwheat followed. Bill eased into the bucket, crouched down and peeked over the edge.

  He watched Double Buckwheat and Pete move like ghosts through the night, one pale with a head you could toss rings on, the other a double-headed black ghost. They disappeared into a copse of woods near the river.

  Bill decided they were far enough away, and he had to go on and do it, because somehow he didn’t know how not to do it. Watching Gidget’s buttocks pound one another had battered down his resistance. Those buttocks banged like cannons in his brain.

  He took the wrench from his belt and felt around for the bolts. When he found one, he took a deep breath and sat still until his eyes adjusted to the interior of the bucket. Then he took the wrench and turned the nut on the bolt until it could be plucked off with the fingers. With that one done, he slid over and unfastened another. The bucket creaked a little.

  Bill thought, now how do I do this and get out of this goddamn bucket without it tipping me? But he kept at it until three bolts were loose. He eased himself to the side and climbed out carefully, leaned over and unfastened the last few bolts so that the nuts, like the others, were hardly on the bolts. A breeze could blow them off. Frost, not knowing they were loose, moving around in there, trying to work, was going to drop.

  Bill looked down and saw the fall was a formidable one. If Frost hit the ground he might live, but if he tumbled and dove on his head, or maybe landed hard on his heels or back, he was going to be either dead or severely fucked up. Maybe that was what would happen. He would be paralyzed, but alive, then Gidget would have him to nurse. That would be fitting. But no, that wouldn’t do either. One way or another, Gidget would get him. And realizing that, knowing that it was inevitable no matter what he did, Bill slipped the wrench in his belt and climbed down.

  He went between trailers and on out to the river’s edge trying to find a place that looked deep so he could toss the wrench, and as he walked through a patch of pecan trees, he heard a Double Buckwheat head say, “Yes sir, that’s what we need.”

  Bill dropped to his stomach, lay still and listened. Shit, he had stupidly forgotten about Pete and Double Buckwheat. They had come out of the copse of trees while he was busy and had moved over to stand beneath the handful of old pecan trees on the edge of the river. There was so much on his mind he hadn’t remembered they were out here. He had been thinking of throwing the wrench away, and had come all the way out here to do it. He would have been better off tossing it in the river near his trailer. Of all the stupid goddamn things to do. Now here were two, or rather three, witnesses who could say they saw him wandering around at night.

  Bill lay there and listened to the river, then behind the noise of the water he heard a sound like a baby sucking air from an empty bottle. Bill crawled forward on the damp ground until he could see Double Buckwheat between two pecan trees. Pete was on his knees in front of him. Pete was sucking Double Buckwheat’s dick like it was a straw and there was an apple he wanted on the other side and didn’t know it wouldn’t come through.

  So, that’s what the parley and candy bar had been about. Double Buckwheat had been working on the pinhead to blow him . . . Them. Jesus. Did Double Buckwheat have one dick or two?

  Bill strained his eyes for a look. One.

  After a moment Double
Buckwheat jerked, and Pete pulled his head back. Double Buckwheat’s black dick flopped up and out and spewed like a little hose full of mayonnaise. Some of what was in Double Buckwheat sprayed Pete and the ground.

  “Tastes bad,” Pete said.

  “Oh,” Double Buckwheat said, and put out a hand and held himself up with a pecan tree. “Oh.”

  Pete stood up and unfastened his pants. “Now me.”

  “Nope,” Double Buckwheat said.

  “You said would.”

  “Nope.”

  Pete just stood there, his pathetic little pink pecker sticking out like an insect proboscis. “Said would.”

  “Won’t.”

  Double Buckwheat fastened his pants.

  Pete tried a backup position. “Pull it?”

  Double Buckwheat hauled off and hit Pete a hard one on the side of the jaw with his fist. Pete hit the ground, rolled on his back, his pink pecker lolling limply to one side.

  Double Buckwheat, grinning and happy, went away from there and left Pete unconscious. Double Buckwheat walked right by where Bill lay and didn’t see him. When he passed, Bill turned and saw the twins heading into camp. He looked back at Pete, still lying quietly.

  Bill wondered if this happened on a regular basis. It wasn’t like Pete was going to learn from his mistakes. Bill eased up and went between the pecans and pulled the wrench from his belt and tossed it far out into the river. It made a splash and was gone, probably tumbling along the bottom, burying up in river mud, something for a big catfish to ponder.

  When Bill turned, he saw that Pete was on his feet, holding his jaw with the side of his hand. His pecker was still out of his pants. Bill looked at him.

  “Blow me?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Pull me?”

  “No.”

  “Dang.”

  Bill thought that the thing to do now was kill Pete. Pete probably wouldn’t remember he had been out here, but if he killed him, threw his body in the river, he wouldn’t have that worry. Except there would be a dead body to fish out and it would obviously be murder. He could make it look like an accident, not murder. Maybe Double Buckwheat could end up taking the rap. He might be able to work that. Damn, you had a Siamese twin up for murder, were they both guilty? Could one rat on the other? Could you kill one and let the other live, saw off a head, have the other go around with one head and a cauterized stump?

  Pete looked at Bill as if he had never seen him before, which was the way he looked at him every time he saw him, or anybody. For Pete, all days were new days. A nap was like a rebirth.

  Bill, without saying a word, turned and walked back to camp. When he looked back, Pete was following. Bill went between two trailers, cut left, and went back to the Ice Man’s trailer and stood for a moment on the steps. He could smell the river strong now, and it was unlike before. It was not the fresh clean smell of being born, but instead the old smell of dirt and decay.

  Bill heard Pete tromping around the trailer in his direction. He slipped inside and locked the door. He listened with his ear to the door. He heard Pete come up on the steps and pull the handle. The handle popped back into place out of Pete’s hand. He heard Pete say: “Blow me. You blow me, I blow you. Turns.”

  Bill took a deep breath and let it out as quietly as possible. He heard the steps creak and thought he heard Pete moving away. He went to the window beside the Ice Man’s freezer, eased back the curtain and peeked out. Pete was staring back at the window over his shoulder. Bill was certain Pete saw him. Bill let the curtain drop slowly. He went over to the bed, kicked off his socks and shoes, lay down and looked at the ceiling. A few minutes later he got up and turned off the light and looked out the window and saw that Pete had turned and was facing the window, watching. It was as if Pete had forgotten who he had made his blow job deal with.

  Bill dropped the curtain, lay back down and looked at the ceiling some more.

  I should have killed Pete, he thought. I could have killed him and maybe somehow fixed it so Double Buckwheat took the rap. I thought of that and I didn’t do it. I think of things I should do and don’t do, and things I shouldn’t do, and those I do. It’s the way I am. I wouldn’t know a good choice if it bit me in the ass and hung on.

  He got up and turned on the light and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His shirt was filthy where he had been crawling on the damp ground. And so was the front of his pants. He took his shirt and pants off and, wearing his underwear, he hauled them into the shower with him. He scrubbed his clothes with the bar of soap and scrubbed himself. He squeezed water out of his clothes and hung them up to dry on the shower curtain. He peeled off the wet underwear and twisted water out of them and hung them up as well. He dried off and went over to the window and looked out. Pete was still there, looking expectant. Bill went back to bed and lay there naked.

  I need to go out there now, before daylight, and make Pete think I’m going to blow him, and take him down to the river and toss him in and let him drown.

  No. I’ve done too much already. What I ought to do is get up there on the whirligig and screw those bolts back on with my fingers so they’re tight enough to hold, that’s what I ought to do. So far I haven’t killed anyone. I’ve made some fuck-ups, but Chaplin killed that guy at the firecracker stand, and Mama died and I didn’t report it, and the cop chased Fat Boy and me into the swamp and Fat Boy died of snake bites, then the deputy killed himself by accident, but I haven’t killed anyone. No one.

  Not yet.

  I could stop all of this if I just go up there and fasten those bolts. Christ, I ought not to have loosened them in the first place. I should have stayed inside. I shouldn’t have answered the door. I shouldn’t have picked up that wrench, and I sure shouldn’t have climbed up there to loosen those bolts. I shouldn’t ever have laid down with that devil woman. I got time to correct things. I can go out there in a bit and climb up again and fasten those bolts with my fingers. I can do that. And I will.

  So what? You don’t help her, she’ll get him anyway. It might not be the day coming, but it’ll be some tomorrow soon.

  Sure, that’s right. But it won’t be me doing it. I could even tell Frost. I could warn him. I could do all kinds of things and it wouldn’t happen at all. I don’t need her. I don’t need anything she’s got. But then I like what she’s got. She’s got plenty. She’s got whatever it is, and she’s got plenty of it, whatever it is.

  The thing I ought to do is forget what she’s got and go out there right now and tighten those bolts. That’s right. Yeah, the bolts. I’ll do that. The bolts . . . The bolts . . .

  When Bill awoke it was to a scream and a clatter.

  Twenty-eight

  The fresh morning was bright and a little warm when Bill charged out of the Ice Man’s trailer after having jerked on his pants and shoes. Glancing up at the whirligig, he saw the bucket had dipped down and it swung back and forth like a steam shovel scoop and little pops of fresh green paint were falling down from it like a slow radioactive rain.

  Bill had never heard of Icarus, but the way Conrad lay, his neck bent, his back twisted in an even deeper U, his hind legs up in the air and drooping, balancing as if he were trying to do a trick by standing on his neck with his feet in the air, he had crashed in a way Icarus might have crashed after his wings melted from the heat of the sun.

  Two gallons of bright green paint had exploded like a giant avocado all over the ground and Conrad. It had splattered onto the Ice Man’s trailer, splotching the side of it as if someone had chewed and spat out great wads of spinach. Some of the paint had spattered across the image of the Ice Man and had beaded up into fast-drying balls that looked like uncut emeralds.

  A paintbrush, wet with paint, had flown onto the window of the Ice Man’s trailer and had stuck there as if it were an exotic bird that had smashed into it. One of Conrad’s shoes was lying upright in a puddle of paint.

  Already there were others gathering. Pete, who Bill thought may have waited t
here all night for a blow job, and now, screaming, U.S. Grant, and a midget named Spike, spinning about on one leg uttering obscenities. Others were appearing: Double Buckwheat, pumpkin heads, some greasers, and finally Frost.

  Frost and Bill moved toward Conrad at the same time. They arrived at his side at the same time. Conrad’s head was turned and he lay with one side of his face in the dirt and the eye they could see was popped out of place on the tendons. It lay on his cheek as if trying to crawl off. There was green paint running down his long nose and over his top lip, gathering in the crease where his mouth was open, bathing a handful of teeth scattered inside his mouth. Another two or three teeth lay in a puddle of paint around his head. There was more green paint than blood, but there was blood too. Conrad was breathing in a rattling sort of way, like something fragile had been crunched inside of cellophane and was continually being unwrapped or danced upon.

  Bill got down on his hands and knees and looked at the eyeball that was out of the socket so Conrad could see him. Above, the eyelash winked as if it still housed its charge.

  “Fugged ub,” Conrad said, spitting out teeth and paint.

  “Oh shit, Conrad,” Bill said.

  “It’ll be all right, Conrad,” Frost said.

  “Nuwont,” Conrad said.

  “God, Conrad,” Bill said. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Uhtradta grubuhrailn. Dudnt mageid.”

  “Sure,” Bill said.

  “Uhtradto thunk rubba.”

  I bet, thought Bill.

  Frost gently picked up the eyeball by the tendon and turned the eye so it could see him. “I’m sorry, Conrad.”

  “Yeg, bud dun’elp nun.”

  Frost lay the eyeball gently on Conrad’s cheek. He turned and yelled at the spinning midget. “Call someone. Get my cell phone. Tell Gidget. Call someone. 911!”

  “Uh feeg lig shid.”

  Conrad coughed a little, passed some gas in a hissing manner, and quit breathing.