White Noise - Don Delillo [18]
The Stovers want to come over.
“Parents or children?” Babette said.
My daughter shrugged.
“We don’t want them,” Babette said.
“Keep them out,” Denise said.
What do I say?
“Say anything you want.”
“Just keep them out of here.”
“They’re boring.”
“Tell them to stay home.”
Steffie retreated with the phone, appearing to shield it with her body, her eyes full of fear and excitement.
“A little gum can’t possibly hurt,” Babette said.
“I guess you’re right. Never mind. Just a warning on the pack.”
Steffie hung up. “Just hazardous to your health,” she said.
“Just rats,” Denise said. “I guess you’re right. Never mind.”
“Maybe she thinks they died in their sleep.”
“Just useless rodents, so what’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference, what’s the fuss?” Steffie said.
“Plus I’d like to believe she chews only two pieces a day, the way she forgets things.”
“What do I forget?” Babette said.
“It’s all right,” Denise said. “Never mind.”
“What do I forget?”
“Go ahead and chew. Never mind the warning. I don’t care.”
I scooped Wilder off a chair and gave him a noisy kiss on the ear and he shrank away in delight. Then I put him on the counter and went upstairs to find Heinrich. He was in his room studying the deployment of plastic chessmen.
“Still playing with the fellow in prison? How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I think I got him cornered.”
“What do you know about this fellow? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Like who did he kill? That’s the big thing today. Concern for the victim.”
“You’ve been playing chess with the man for months. What do you know about him except that he’s in jail for life, for murder? Is he young, old, black, white? Do you communicate at all except for chess moves?”
“We send notes sometimes.”
“Who did he kill?”
“He was under pressure.”
“And what happened?”
“It kept building and building.”
“So he went out and shot someone. Who did he shoot?”
“Some people in Iron City.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Five people.”
“Not counting the state trooper, which was later.”
“Six people. Did he care for his weapons obsessively? Did he have an arsenal stashed in his shabby little room off a six-story concrete car park?”
“Some handguns and a bolt-action rifle with a scope.”
“A telescopic sight. Did he fire from a highway overpass, a rented room? Did he walk into a bar, a washette, his former place of employment and start firing indiscriminately? People scattering, taking cover under tables. People out on the street thinking they heard firecrackers. ‘I was just waiting for the bus when I heard this little popping noise like firecrackers going off.’ ”
“He went up to a roof.”
“A rooftop sniper. Did he write in his diary before he went up to the roof? Did he make tapes of his voice, go to the movies, read books about other mass murderers to refresh his memory?”
“Made tapes.”
“Made tapes. What did he do with them?”
“Sent them to people he loved, asking for forgiveness.”
“ ‘I can’t help myself, folks.’ Were the victims total strangers? Was it a grudge killing? Did he get fired from his job? Had he been hearing voices?”
“Total strangers.”
“Had he been hearing voices?”
“On TV.”
“Talking just to him? Singling him out?”
“Telling him to go down in history. He was twenty-seven, out of work, divorced, with his car up on blocks. Time was running out on him.”
“Insistent pressuring voices. How did he deal with the media? Give lots of interviews, write letters to the editor of the local paper, try to make a book deal?”
“There is no media in Iron City. He didn’t think of that till it was too late. He says if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t do it as an ordinary murder, he would do it as an assassination.”
“He would select more carefully, kill one famous person, get noticed, make it stick.”
“He now knows he won’t go down in history.”
“Neither will I.”
“But you’ve got Hitler.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t 1?”
“What’s Tommy Roy Foster got?”
“All right, he’s told you all these things in the letters he sends. What do you say when you respond?”
“I