White Noise - Don Delillo [108]
“No, you didn’t. Where?”
“I put it in the garbage compactor.”
“I don’t believe you. When was this?”
“About a week ago. I thought Baba might sneak through my room and find it. So I decided to just get it over with. Nobody wanted to tell me what it was, did they? So I threw it in with all the cans and bottles and other junk. Then I compacted it.”
“Like a used car.”
“Nobody would tell me. That’s all they had to do. I was right here all the time.”
“It’s all right. Don’t worry. You did me a favor.”
“About eight words was all they needed to say.”
“I’m better off without it.”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time they tricked me.”
“You’re still my friend,” I said.
I kissed her on the head and went to the door. I realized I was extremely hungry. I went downstairs to find something to eat. The kitchen light was on. Vernon was sitting at the table, fully dressed, smoking and coughing. The ash on his cigarette was an inch long, beginning to lean. It was a habit of his, letting the ash dangle. Babette thought he did it to induce feelings of suspense and anxiety in others. It was part of the reckless weather in which he moved.
“Just the man I want to see.”
“Vern, it’s the middle of the night. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Let’s go out to the car,” he said.
“Are you serious?”
“What we have here is a situation we ought to conduct in private. This house is full of women. Or am I wrong?”
“We’re alone here. What is it you want to talk about?”
“They listen in their sleep,” he said.
We went out the back door to keep from waking Heinrich. I followed him along the pathway at the side of the house and down the steps to the driveway. His little car sat in the dark. He got behind the wheel and I slid in next to him, gathering up my bathrobe and feeling trapped in the limited space. The car held a smell like some dangerous vapor in the depths of a body-and-fender shop, a mixture of exhausted metal, flammable rags and scorched rubber. The upholstery was torn. In the glow of a streetlamp I saw wires dangling from the dash and the overhead fixture.
“I want you to have this, Jack.”
“Have what?”
“I’ve had it for years. Now I want you to have it. Who knows if I’ll ever see you folks again? What the hell. Who cares. Big deal.”
“You’re giving me the car? I don’t want the car. It’s a terrible car.”
“In your whole life as a man in today’s world, have you ever owned a firearm?”
“No,” I said.
“I figured. I said to myself here’s the last man in America who doesn’t own the means to defend himself.”
He reached into a hole in the rear seat, coming out with a small dark object. He held it in the palm of his right hand.
“Take it, Jack.”
“What is it?”
“Heft it around. Get the feel. It’s loaded.”
He passed it to me. Stupidly I said again, “What is it?” There was something unreal about the experience of holding a gun. I kept staring at it, wondering what Vernon’s motive might be. Was he Death’s dark messenger after all? A loaded weapon. How quickly it worked a change in me, numbing my hand even as I sat staring at the thing, not wishing to give it a name. Did Vernon mean to provoke thought, provide my life with a fresh design, a scheme, a shapeliness? I wanted to give it back.
“It’s a little bitty thing but it shoots real bullets, which is all a man in your position can rightly ask of a firearm. Don’t worry, Jack. It can’t be traced.”
“Why would anyone want to trace it?”
“I feel like if you give someone a loaded gun, you ought to supply the particulars. This here is a .25-caliber Zumwalt automatic. German-made. It doesn’t have the stopping power of a heavy-barreled weapon but you’re not going out there to face down a rhino, are you?”
“That’s the point. What am I going out there to face down? Why do I need this thing?”
“Don’t call it a thing. Respect it, Jack. It’s a well-designed weapon. Practical, lightweight, easy to conceal. Get to know your handgun. It’s only a question of time as to when you’ll want to use it.”
“When will I want to use it?”
“Do we live on the same planet? What century is this? Look how easy I got into your