The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [30]
“I can’t,” I admit. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
He nods, doesn’t seem to need any further explanation. His clear blue eyes remind me of someone, but I’m not sure who. “Well,” he says, licking his cigarette closed and lighting it with a wooden match. “You sure got those ticket sales booming, eh?” He shakes his head. “Got the new ministers over there thinkin’ they’ve been in the wrong business all these years—whoo-ee.” The telephone rings an old-fashioned ring. He picks up the corded receiver.
“Yep?…Naw…Yeah, she was through here ’bout an hour ago, but she didn’t linger. Said she was headin’ out to Stockton…Uh-huh…Sure…No trouble.”
He replaces the receiver, winks at me. “Stockton. That’ll throw ’em.”
A blue wave of exhaustion crests over me.
“But listen, kid, don’t you worry a damn ’bout all those people. They’ll be on to somethin’ else by next week—ferget all aboutcha.’ Til then you can hide out here if ya like, do whatcha want. Guest room’s thataway.” He points toward the hall.
“Thanks,” I say. The bourbon is sloshing around in my head, disinfecting things. “I wouldn’t mind a nap.”
In the single guest bed, I dream of lightless tunnels. I’m pulling a red wagon full of peaches down a long highway at night. It’s raining. An elephant lumbers along up ahead. On either side of the road, human hearts hang like fruit from trees, weighing down orchards. Then a bright room. Magdelena. The reporter is beating her with a heavy broomstick, trying to kill her. “What are you doing?” But Magdelena is already dead. Judy covers her with a sheet, turns to me, and says, “You’re an accomplice now.” I’m confused, but when the reporter leaves and Magdelena turns and moans under the sheet, I panic. I want her dead, too. Where’s the broomstick?
When I open my eyes it’s dark. What motel is this?
I creep down the soft carpeted hallway toward the flickering light of a television screen.
The old minister sits on a wine-colored couch watching the news, a plate of green beans and meat loaf in his lap. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I sit down next to him.
Onscreen, a blindfolded hostage dressed in orange pleads for his life. Young men in white, eyes ablaze with the horror of survival, rush bloodied bodies on stretchers through dusty streets. Women in black chase them, weeping and reaching, their faces half covered. A wrecked car. A maimed child. A burned-out building. The newscaster wears her serious face, a lavender blouse. Sound bites of terror. Another explosion, this one in retaliation for that one. More faces flash across the screen, and it’s hard to tell the difference between the terrorists and the terrorized. What I wouldn’t give some nights to peek behind the veil, look into the face of God, ask him what it’s all about. Mythology? The end times becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy? There’s a hard-hearted rage in people, God. What’s that all about?
The phone rings its old-fashioned ring, and the old minister mutes the television with a click of the remote.
“Yep.” He looks at me as if for a cue, but I offer nothing…He clears his throat. “Nope. No word from her…” He bites his lip, nods. “Is that right?” His voice is a low rasp. “Anybody hurt?…Well thank God for that.” He shakes his head…“Damn fools…Yep…Sure…’Night.”
He sighs as he sets down the receiver. “You got any money, kid?”
“A little. What’s up?”
“News ain’t good.”
I could’ve told him that much.
“Some fool’s been callin’ in damn crazy threats, and now they found a pipe bomb rigged under yer car. Cops’re takin’ this pretty damn serious.” He looks up at the ceiling, then back at the TV, switches the thing off.
My lunch feels like dead weight in my belly. I close my eyes, but all I can see are those hands. The sweat. Magdelena’s bloodied body in my dream. Seven years closing in on itself. My life. My fellow travelers. Where are they tonight? I think of Barbaro’s lanky body as he ran down the beach in his pink Speedos. Of Manny, my fat-headed