Bobby didn't know her at first. She was wounded, like him. The first
thirty to arrive all got wounds. Tom Savini put them on himself.
Her face was a silvery blue, her eyes sunken into darkened
hollows, and where her right ear had been was a ragged-edged hole, a
gaping place that revealed a lump of wet red bone. They sat a yard apart
on the stone wall around the fountain, which was switched off. She had
her pages balanced on one knee—three pages in all, stapled together—and
was looking them over, frowning with concentration. Bobby had read his
while he was waiting in line to go into makeup.
Her jeans reminded him of Harriet Rutherford. There were patches
all over them, patches that looked as if they had been made out of
kerchiefs; squares of red and dark blue, with paisley patterns printed
on them. Harriet was always wearing jeans like that. Patches sewn into
the butt of a girl's Levi's still turned Bobby on.
His gaze followed the bend of her legs down to where her blue
jeans flared at the ankle, then on to her bare feet. She had kicked her
sandals off, and was twisting the toes of one foot into the toes of the
other. When he saw this he felt his heart lunge with a kind of
painful-sweet shock.
«Harriet?» he said. «Is that little Harriet Rutherford who I used to write love poems to?»
She peered at him sideways, over her shoulder. She didn't need to
answer, he knew it was her. She stared for a long, measuring time, and
then her eyes opened a little wider. They were a vivid, very undead
green, and for an instant he saw them brighten with recognition and
unmistakable excitement. But she turned her head away, went back to
perusing her pages.
«No one ever wrote me love poems in high school,» she said. «I'd remember. I would've died of happiness.»
«In detention. Remember we got two weeks after the cooking show
skit? You had a cucumber carved like a dick. You said it needed to stew
for an hour and stuck it in your pants. It was the finest moment in the
history of the Die Laughing Comedy Collective.»
«No. I have a good memory and I don't recall this comedy troupe.»
She looked back down at the pages balanced on her knee. «Do you remember
any details about these supposed poems?»
«How do you mean?»
«A line. Maybe if you could remember something about one of these
poems—one line of heart-rending verse—it would all come flooding back to
me.»
He didn't know if he could at first; stared at her blankly, his
tongue pressed to his lower lip, trying to call something back and his
mind stubbornly blank.
Then he opened his mouth and began to speak, remembering as he went along: «I love to watch you in the shower, I hope that's not obscene. »
»But when I see you soap your boobs, I get sticky in my jeans! » Harriet cried, turning her body towards him. «Bobby Conroy, goddamn , come here and hug me without screwing up my makeup.»
He leaned into her and put his arms around her narrow back. He
shut his eyes and squeezed, feeling absurdly happy, maybe the happiest
he had felt since moving back in with his parents. He had not spent a
day in Monroeville when he didn't think about seeing her. He was
depressed, he daydreamed about her, stories that began with exactly this
moment—or not exactly this moment, he had not imagined them both made-up like partially decomposed corpses, but close enough.
When he woke every morning, in his bedroom over his parents'
garage, he felt flat and listless. He'd lie on his lumpy mattress and
stare at the skylights overhead. The skylights were milky with dust, and
through them every sky appeared the same, a bland, formless white.
Nothing in him wanted to get up. What made it worse was he still
remembered what it felt like to wake in that same bed with a teenager's
sense of his own limitless possibilities, to wake charged with
enthusiasm for the day. If he daydreamed about meeting Harriet again,
and falling into their old friendship—and if these early morning
daydreams sometimes turned explicitly sexual, if he remembered being
with her in her father's shed, her back on the stained cement, her
too-skinny legs pulled open, her socks still on—then at least it was
something to stir his blood a little, get him going. All his other
daydreams had thorns on them. Handling them always threatened a sudden
sharp prick of pain.
They were still holding each other when a boy spoke, close by. «Mom, who are you hugging?»
Bobby Conroy opened his eyes, shifted his gaze to the right. A
little blue-faced dead boy with limp black hair was staring at them. He
wore a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled up.
Harriet's grip on Bobby relaxed. Then, slowly, her arms slid away.
Bobby regarded the boy for an instant longer—the kid was no older than
six—and then dropped to Harriet's hand, the wedding band on her ring
finger.
Bobby looked back at the kid, forced a smile. Bobby had been to
more than seven hundred auditions during his years in New York City, and
he had a whole catalog of phony smiles.
«Hey chumley,» Bobby said. «I'm Bobby Conroy. Your mom and me are old buddies from way back when Mastodons walked the earth.»
«Bobby is my name too,» the boy said. «Do you know a lot about dinosaurs? I'm a big dinosaur guy myself.»
Bobby felt a sick pang that seemed to go right through the middle
of him. He glanced at her face—didn't want to, couldn't help himself—and
found Harriet watching him. Her smile was anxious and compressed.
«My husband picked it,» she said. She was, for some reason, patting his leg. «After a Yankee. He's from Albany originally.»
«I know about Mastodons,» Bobby said to the boy, surprised to find
his voice sounded just the same as it ever did. «Big hairy elephants
the size of school buses. They once roamed the entire Pennsylvanian
plateau, and left mountainous Mastodon poops everywhere, one of which
later became Pittsburgh.»
The kid grinned, and threw a quick glance at his mother, perhaps
to appraise what she made of this off-hand reference to poop. She smiled
indulgently.
Bobby saw the kid's hand and recoiled. «Ugh! Wow, that's the best wound I've seen all day. What is that, a fake hand?»
Three fingers were missing from the boy's left hand. Bobby grabbed
it and yanked on it, expecting it to come off. But it was warm and
fleshy under the blue makeup, and the kid pulled it out of Bobby's grip.
«No,» he said. «It's just my hand. That's the way it is.»
Bobby blushed so intensely his ears stung, and was grateful for his makeup. Harriet touched Bobby's wrist.
«He really doesn't have those fingers,» she said.
Bobby looked at her, struggling to frame an apology. Her smile was
a little fretful now, but she wasn't visibly angry with him, and the
hand on his arm was a good sign.
«I stuck them into the table-saw but I don't remember because I was so little,» the boy explained.
«Dean is in lumber,» Harriet said.
«Is Dean staggering around here somewhere?» Bobby asked, craning
his head and making a show of looking around, although of course he had
no idea what Harriet's Dean might look like. Both floors of the atrium
at the center of the mall were crowded with other people like them,
made-up to look like the recent dead. They sat together on benches, or
stood together in groups, chatting, laughing at each other's wounds, or
looking over the mimeographed pages they had been given of the
screenplay. The mall was closed—steel gates pulled down in front of the
entrances to the stores—no one in the place but the film crew and the
undead.
«No, he dropped us off and went in to work.»
«On a Sunday?»
«He owns his own yard.»
It was as good a set-up for a punch line as he had ever heard, and
he paused, searching for just the right one . . . and then it came to
him that making wisecracks about Dean's choice of work to Dean's wife in
front of Dean's five-year-old might be ill-advised, and never mind that
he and Harriet had once been best friends and the royal couple of the
Die Laughing Comedy Collective their senior year in high school. Bobby
said, «He does? Good for him.»
«I like the big gross tear in your face,» the little kid said,
pointing at Bobby's brow. Bobby had a nasty scalp wound, the skin laid
open to the lumpy bone. «Didn't you think the guy who made us into dead
people was cool?»
Bobby had actually been a little creeped out by Tom Savini, who
kept referring to an open book of autopsy photographs while applying
Bobby's makeup. The people in those pictures, with their maimed flesh
and slack unhappy faces, were really dead, not getting up later to have a
cup of coffee at the craft services table. Savini studied their wounds
with a quiet appreciation, the same as any painter surveying the subject
of his art.
But Bobby could see what the kid meant about how he was cool. With
his black leather jacket, motorcycle boots, black beard, and memorable
eyebrows—thick black eyebrows that arched sharply upward, like Dr. Spock
or Bela Lugosi—he looked like a death metal rock god.
Someone was clapping their hands. Bobby glanced around. The
director, George Romero, stood close to the bottom of the escalators, a
bearish man well over six feet tall, with a thick brown beard. Bobby had
noticed that many of the men working on the crew had beards. A lot of
them had shoulder length hair too, and wore army-navy castoffs and
motorcycle boots like Savini, so that they resembled a band of
counterculture revolutionaries.
Bobby and Harriet and little Bob gathered with the other extras to
hear what Romero had to say. He had a booming confident voice and when
he grinned his cheeks dimpled, visible in spite of the beard. He asked
if anyone present knew anything about making movies. A few people, Bobby
included, raised their hands. Romero said thank God someone in this
place does, and everyone laughed. He said he wanted to welcome them all
to the world of big-budget Hollywood film-making, and everyone laughed
at that too, because George Romero only made pictures in Pennsylvania,
and everyone knew Dawn of the Dead was lower than low budget,
it was a half-step above no-budget. He said he was grateful to them all
for coming out today, and that for ten hours of grueling work, which
would test them body and soul, they would be paid in cash , a
sum so colossal he dare not say the number aloud, he could only show it.
He held aloft a dollar bill, and there was more laughter. Then Tom
Savini, up on the second floor, leaned over the railing, and shouted,
«Don't laugh, that's more than most of us are getting paid to work on
this turkey.»
«Lots of people are in this film as a labor of love,» George
Romero said. «Tom is in it because he likes squirting pus on people.»
Some in the crowd moaned. «Fake pus! Fake pus!» Romero cried.
«You hope it was fake pus,» Savini intoned from somewhere above, but he was already moving away from the railing, out of sight.
More laughter. Bobby knew a thing or two about comic patter, and
had a suspicion that this bit of the speech was rehearsed, and had been
issued just this way, more than once.
Romero talked for a while about the plot. The recently dead were
coming back to life; they liked to eat people; in the face of the crisis
the government had collapsed; four young heroes had sought shelter in
this mall. Bobby's attention wandered, and he found himself looking down
at the other Bobby, at Harriet's boy. Little Bob had a long, solemn
face, dark chocolate eyes and lots of thick black hair, limp and
disheveled. In fact, the kid bore a passing resemblance to Bobby
himself, who also had brown eyes, a slim face, and a thick untidy mass
of black hair on his head.
Bobby wondered if Dean looked like him. The thought made his blood
race strangely. What if Dean dropped in to see how Harriet and little
Bobby were doing, and the man turned out to be his exact twin? The
thought was so alarming it made him feel briefly weak—but then he
remembered he was made-up like a corpse, blue-face, scalp wound. Even if
they looked exactly alike they wouldn't look anything alike.
Romero delivered some final instructions on how to walk like a
zombie—he demonstrated by allowing his eyes to roll back in his head and
his face to go slack—and then promised they'd be ready to roll on the
first shot in a few minutes.
Harriet pivoted on her heel, turned to face him, her fist on her
hip, eyelids fluttering theatrically. He turned at the same time, and
they almost bumped into each other. She opened her mouth to speak but
nothing came out. They were standing too close to each other, and the
unexpected physical proximity seemed to throw her. He didn't know what
to say either, all thought suddenly wiped from his mind. She laughed,
and shook her head, a reaction that struck him as artificial, an
expression of anxiety, not happiness.
«Let's set, pardner,» she said. He remembered that when a skit
wasn't going well, and she got rattled, she sometimes slipped into a big
drawling John Wayne impersonation on stage, a nervous habit he had
hated then and that he found, in this moment, endearing.
«Are we going to have something to do soon?» little Bob asked.
«Soon,» she said. «Why don't you practice being a zombie? Go on, lurch around for a while.»
Bobby and Harriet sat down at the edge of the fountain again. Her
hands were small, bony fists on her thighs. She stared into her lap, her
eyes blank, gaze directed inward. She was digging the toes of one bare
foot into the toes of the other again.
He spoke. One of them had to say something.
«I can't believe you're married and you have a kid!» he said, in
the same tone of happy astonishment he reserved for friends who had just
told him they had been cast in a part he himself had auditioned for. «I
love this kid you're dragging around with you. He's so cute. But then,
who can resist a little kid who looks half-rotted?»
She seemed to come back from wherever she had been, smiled at him—almost shyly.
He went on, «And you better be ready to tell me everything about this Dean guy.»
«He's coming by later. He's going to take us out to lunch. You should come.»
«That could be fun!» Bobby cried, and made a mental note to take his enthusiasm down a notch.
«He can be really shy the first time he meets someone, so don't expect too much.»
Bobby waved a hand in the air: pish-posh . «It's going to be great. We'll have lots to talk about. I've always been fascinated with lumber yards and—plywood.»
This was taking a chance, joshing her about the husband he didn't know. But she smirked and said:
«Everything you ever wanted to know about two-by-fours but were afraid to ask.»
And for a moment they were both smiling, a little foolishly, knees
almost touching. They had never really figured out how to talk to each
other. They were always half-on-stage, trying to use whatever the other
person said to set up the next punch-line. That much, anyway, hadn't
changed.
«God I can't believe running into you here,» she said. «I've wondered about you. I've thought about you a lot.»
«You have?»
«I figured you'd be famous by now,» she said.
«Hey, that makes two of us,» Bobby said, and winked. Immediately
he wished he could take the wink back. It was fake and he didn't want to
be fake with her. He hurried on, answering a question she hadn't asked.
«I'm settling in. Been back for three months. I'm staying with my
parents for a while, kind of readapting to Monroeville.»
She nodded, still regarding him steadily, with a seriousness that made him uncomfortable. «How's it going?»
«I'm making a life,» Bobby lied.
In between set-ups, Bobby and Harriet and little Bob told stories about how they had died.
«I was a comedian in New York City,» Bobby said, fingering his scalp wound. «Something tragic happened when I went on stage.»
«Yeah,» Harriet said. «Your act.»
«Something that had never happened before.»
«What, people laughed?»
«I was my usual brilliant self. People were rolling on the floor.»
«Convulsions of agony.»
«And then as I was taking my final bow—a terrible accident. A
stagehand up in the rafters dropped a forty pound sandbag right on my
head. But at least I died to the sound of applause.»
«They were applauding the stagehand,» Harriet said.
The little boy looked seriously up into Bobby's face, and took his
hand. «I'm sorry you got hit in the head.» His lips grazed Bobby's
knuckles with a dry kiss.
Bobby stared down at him. His hand tingled where little Bob's mouth had touched it.
«He's always been the kissiest, huggiest kid you ever met,»
Harriet said. «He's got all this pent-up affection. At the slightest
sign of weakness he's ready to slobber on you.» As she said this she
ruffled little Bobby's hair. «What killed you, squirt?»
He held up his hand, waggled his stumps. «My fingers got cut off on Dad's table-saw and I bled to death.»
Harriet went on smiling but her eyes seemed to film over slightly.
She fished around in her pocket and found a quarter. «Go get a gumball,
bud.»
He snatched it and ran.
«People must think we're the most careless parents,» she said,
staring expressionlessly after her son. «But it was no one's fault about
his fingers.»
«I'm sure.»
«The table saw was unplugged and he wasn't even two. He never
plugged anything in before. We didn't know he knew how. Dean was right
there with him. It just happened so fast. Do you know how many things
had to go wrong, all at the same time for that to happen? Dean thinks
the sound of the saw coming on scared him and he reached up to try and
shut it off. He thought he'd be in trouble.» She was briefly silent,
watching her son work the gumball machine, then said, «I always thought
about my kid—this is the one part of my life I'm going to get right. No
indiscriminate fuck-ups about this. I was planning how when he was
fifteen he'd make love to the most beautiful girl in school. How'd he be
able to play five instruments and he'd blow everyone away with all his
talent. How'd he be the funny kid who seems to know everyone.» She
paused again, and then added, «He'll be the funny kid now. The funny kid
always has something wrong with him. That's why he's funny—to shift
people's attention to something else.»
In the silence that followed this statement, Bobby had several thoughts in rapid succession. The first was that he had been the funny kid when he was in school; did Harriet think there had been something wrong with him he had been covering for? Then he remembered they were both the funny kids, and thought: what was wrong with us?
It had to be something, otherwise they'd be together now and the
boy at the gumball machine would be theirs. The thought which crossed
his mind next was that, if little Bobby was their little Bobby,
he'd still have ten fingers. He felt a seething dislike of Dean the
lumber man, an ignorant squarehead whose idea of spending together-time
with his kid probably meant taking him to the fair to watch a
truck-pull.
An assistant director started clapping her hands and hollering
down for the undead to get into their positions. Little Bob trotted back
to them.
«Mom,» he said, the gumball in his cheek. «You didn't say how you died.» He was looking at her torn-off ear.
«I know,» Bobby said. «She ran into this old friend at the mall and they got talking. You know, and I mean they really got talking. Hours
of blab. Finally her old friend said, hey, I don't want to chew your
ear off here. And your mom said, aw, don't worry about it . . .»
«A great man once said, lend me your ears,» Harriet said. She
smacked the palm of her hand hard against her forehead. «Why did I
listen to him?»
Except for the dark hair, Dean didn't look anything like him. Dean was short
. Bobby wasn't prepared for how short. He was shorter than Harriet, who
was herself not much over five and a half feet tall. When they kissed,
Dean had to stretch his neck. He was compact, and solidly built, broad
at the shoulders, deep through the chest, narrow at the hips. He wore
thick glasses with gray plastic frames, the eyes behind them the color
of unpolished pewter. They were shy eyes—his gaze met Bobby's when
Harriet introduced them, darted away, returned and darted away again—not
to mention old; at the corners of them the skin was creased in a web of
finely etched laugh lines. He was older than Harriet, maybe by as much
as ten years.
They had only just been introduced when Dean cried suddenly, «Oh you're that Bobby! You're funny Bobby. You know we almost didn't name our kid
Bobby because of you. I've had it drilled into me, if I ever run into
you, I'm supposed to reassure you that naming him Bobby was my idea.
Cause of Bobby Murcer. Ever since I was old enough to imagine having
kids of my own I always thought—«
«I'm funny!» Harriet's son interrupted.
Dean caught him under the armpits and lofted him into the air. «You sure are!»
Bobby wasn't positive he wanted to have lunch with them, but
Harriet looped her arm through his and marched him toward the doors out
to the parking lot, and her shoulder—warm and bare—was leaning against
his, so there was really no choice.
Bobby didn't notice the other people in the diner staring at them,
and forgot they were in makeup until the waitress approached. She was
hardly out of her teens, with a head of frizzy yellow hair that bounced
as she walked.
«We're dead,» little Bobby announced.
«Gotcha,» the girl said, nodding and pointing her ball-point pen
at them. «I'm guessing you either all work on the horror movie, or you
already tried the special, which is it?»
Dean laughed, dry, bawling laughter. Dean was as easy a laugh as
Bobby had ever met. Dean laughed at almost everything Harriet said, and
most of what Bobby himself said. Sometimes he laughed so hard, the
people at the next table started in alarm. Once he had control of
himself, he would apologize with unmistakable earnestness, his face
flushed a delicate shade of rose, eyes gleaming and wet. That was when
Bobby began to see at least one possible answer to the question that had
been on his mind ever since learning she was married to Dean
who-owned-his-own-lumber-yard: why him? Well—he was a willing audience, there was that.
«So I thought you were acting in New York City,» Dean said, at last. «What brings you back?»
«Failure,» Bobby said.
«Oh—I'm sorry to hear that. What are you up to now? Are you doing some comedy locally?»
«You could say that. Only around here they call it substitute teaching.»
«Oh! You're teaching! How do you like it?»
«It's great. I always planned to work either in film or television
or junior high. That I should finally make it so big subbing eighth
grade gym—it's a dream come true.»
Dean laughed, and chunks of pulverized chicken-fried steak flew out of his mouth.
«I'm sorry. This is awful,» he said. «Food everywhere. You must think I'm a total pig.»
«No, it's okay. Can I have the waitress bring you something? A glass of water? A trough?»
Dean bent so his forehead was almost touching his plate, his laughter wheezy, asthmatic. «Stop. Really.»
Bobby stopped, but not because Dean said. For the first time he
had noticed Harriet's knee was knocking his under the table. He wondered
if this was intentional, and the first chance he got he leaned back and
looked. No, not intentional. She had kicked her sandals off and was
digging the toes of one foot into the other, so fiercely that sometimes
her right knee swung out and banged his.
«Wow, I would've loved to have a teacher like you. Someone who can make kids laugh.» Dean said.
Bobby chewed and chewed, but couldn't tell what he was eating. It didn't have any taste.
Dean let out a shaky sigh, wiped the corners of his eyes again.
«Of course, I'm not funny. I can't even remember knock-knock jokes. I'm
not good for much else except working. And Harriet is so funny.
Sometimes she puts on shows for Bobby and me, with these dirty socks on
her hands, we get laughing so hard we can't breathe. She calls it the
trailer park muppet show. Sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon.» He started
laughing and thumping the table again. Harriet stared intently into her
lap. Dean said, «I'd love to see her do that on Carson. This is—what do
you call them, routines?—this could be a classic routine.»
«Sure sounds it.» Bobby said. «I'm surprised Ed McMahon hasn't already called to see if she's available.»
When Dean dropped them back at the mall and left for the lumber
yard, the mood was different. Harriet seemed distant, it was hard to
draw her into any kind of conversation—not that Bobby felt like trying
very hard. He was suddenly irritable. All the fun seemed to have gone
out of playing a dead person for the day. It was mostly waiting—waiting
for the gaffers to get the lights just so, for Tom Savini to touch up a
wound that was starting to look a little too much like Latex, not enough
like ragged flesh—and Bobby was sick of it. The sight of other people
having a good time annoyed him. Several zombies stood in a group,
playing hacky-sack with a quivering red spleen, and laughing. It made a
juicy splat every time it hit the floor. Bobby wanted to snarl at them
for being so merry. Hadn't any of them heard of method acting,
Stanislavsky? They should all be sitting apart from one another, moaning
unhappily and fondling giblets. He heard himself moan aloud,
an angry frustrated sound, and little Bobby asked what was wrong. He
said he was just practicing. Little Bob went to watch the hacky-sack
game.
Harriet said, without looking at him, «That was a good lunch, wasn't it?»
»Sen -sational,» Bobby said, thinking better be careful
. He was restless, charged with an energy he didn't know how to
displace. «I feel like I really hit it off with Dean. He reminds me of
my grandfather. I had this great grandfather who could wiggle his ears
and who thought my name was Evan. He'd give me a quarter to stack wood
for him, fifty cents if I'd do it with my shirt off. Say, how old is Dean?»
They had been walking together. Now Harriet stiffened, stopped.
Her head swiveled in his direction, but her hair was in front of her
eyes, making it hard to read the expression in them. «He's nine years
older than me. So what?»
«So nothing. I'm just glad you're happy.»
«I am happy,» Harriet said, her voice a half-octave too high.
«Did he get down on one knee when he proposed?»
Harriet nodded, her mouth crimped, suspicious.
«Did you have to help him up afterwards?» Bobby asked. His own voice was sounding a little off-key, too, and he thought stop now
. It was like a cartoon, he saw Wile E. Coyote strapped to the front of
a steam engine, jamming his feet down on the rails to try to brake the
train, smoke boiling up from his heels, feet swelling, glowing red.
«Oh you prick,» she said.
«I'm sorry!» he grinned, holding his hands palms-up in front of
him. «Kidding, kidding. Funny Bobby, you know. I can't help myself.» She
hesitated—had been about to turn away—not sure whether she should
believe him or not. Bobby wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. «So
we know what you do to make Dean laugh. What's he do to make you laugh?
Oh that's right, he isn't funny . Well what's he do to make your heart race? Besides kiss you with his dentures out?»
«Leave me alone, Bobby,» she said. She turned away, but he came around to get back in front of her, keep her from walking off.
«No.»
«Stop.»
«Can't,» he said, and suddenly he understood he was angry with
her. «If he isn't funny he must be something. I need to know what.»
»Patient ,» she said.
«Patient,» Bobby repeated. It stunned him—that this could be her answer.
«With me.»
«With you,» he said.
«With Robert.»
«Patient,» Bobby said. Then he couldn't say anything more for a
moment because he was out-of-breath. He felt suddenly that his makeup
was itching on his face. He wished that when he started to press she had
just walked away from him, or told him to fuck off, or hit him even,
wished she had responded with anything but patient . He
swallowed. «That's not good enough.» Knowing he couldn't stop now, the
train was going into the canyon, Wile E. Coyote's eyes bugging three
feet out of his head in terror. «I wanted to meet whoever you were with
and feel sick with jealousy, but instead I just feel sick. I wanted you
to fall in love with someone good-looking and creative and brilliant, a
novelist, a playwright, someone with a sense of humor and a
fourteen-inch dong. Not a guy with a buzz cut and a lumber yard, who
thinks erotic massage involves a tube of Ben Gay.»
She smeared at the tears dribbling down her face with the backs of
her hands. «I knew you'd hate him, but I didn't think you'd be mean.»
«It's not that I hate him. What's to hate? He's not doing anything
any other guy in his position wouldn't do. If I was two feet tall and
geriatric, I'd leap at the chance to have a piece of ass like
you. You bet he's patient. He better be. He ought to be down on his
fucking knees every night, bathing your feet in sacramental oils, that
you'd give him the time of day.»
«You had your chance,» she said. She was struggling not to let her
crying slip out of control. The muscles in her face quivered with the
effort, pulling her expression into a grimace.
«It's not about what chances I had. It's about what chances you had.»
This time when she pivoted away from him, he let her go. She put
her hands over her face. Her shoulders were jerking and she was making
choked little sounds as she went. He watched her walk to the wall around
the fountain where they had met earlier in the day. Then he remembered
the boy and turned to look, his heart drumming hard, wondering what
little Bobby might've seen or heard. But the kid was running down the
broad concourse, kicking the spleen in front of him, which had now
collected a mass of dust bunnies around it. Two other dead children were
trying to kick it away from him.
Bobby watched them play for a while. A pass went wide, and the
spleen skidded past him. He put a foot on it to stop it. It flexed
unpleasantly beneath the sole of his shoe. The boys stopped three yards
off, stood there breathing hard, awaiting him. He scooped it up.
«Go out,» he said, and lobbed it to little Bobby, who made a
basket catch and hauled away with his head down and the other kids in
pursuit.
When he turned to peek at Harriet he saw her watching him, her
palms pressed hard against her knees. He waited for her to look away,
but she didn't, and finally he took her steady gaze as an invitation to
approach.
He crossed to the fountain, sat down beside her. He was still working out how to begin his apology, when she spoke.
«I wrote you. You stopped writing back,» she said. Her bare feet were wrestling with each other again.
«I hate how overbearing your right foot is,» he said. «Why can't
it give the left foot a little space?» But she wasn't listening to him.
«It didn't matter,» she said. Her voice was congested and hoarse.
The makeup was oil-based, and in spite of her tears, hadn't streaked. «I
wasn't mad. I knew we couldn't have a relationship, just seeing each
other when you came home for Christmas.» She swallowed thickly. «I
really thought someone would put you in their sitcom. Every time I
thought about that—about seeing you on TV, and hearing people laugh when
you said things—I'd get this big stupid smile on my face. I could float
through a whole afternoon thinking about it. I don't understand what in
the world could've made you come back to Monroeville.»
But he had already said what in the world drew him back to his
parents and his bedroom over the garage. Dean had asked in the diner,
and Bobby had answered him truthfully.
One Thursday night, only last spring, he had gone on early in a
club in the Village. He did his twenty minutes, earned a steady
if-not-precisely-overwhelming murmur of laughter, and a spatter of
applause when he came off. He found a place at the bar to hear some of
the other acts. He was just about to slide off his stool and go home
when Robin Williams leaped on stage. He was in town for SNL, cruising
the clubs, testing material. Bobby quickly shifted his weight back onto
his stool and sat listening, his pulse thudding heavily in his throat.
He couldn't explain to Harriet the import of what he had seen
then. Bobby saw a man clutching the edge of a table with one hand, his
date's thigh with the other, grabbing both so hard his knuckles were
drained of all color. He was bent over with tears dripping off his face,
and his laughter was high and shrill and convulsive, more animal than
human, the sound of a dingo or something. He was shaking his head from
side to side and waving a hand in the air, stop, please, don't do this to me . It was hilarity to the point of distress.
Robin Williams saw the desperate man, broke away from a discourse on jerking off, pointed at him and shouted, «You! Yes, you
, frantic hyena-man! You get a free pass to every show I do for the
rest of my motherfucking life!» And then there was a sound rising in the
crowd, more than laughter or applause, although it included both. It
was a low, thunderous rumble of uncontained delight, a sound so immense
it was felt as much as heard, a thing that caused the bones in Bobby's
chest to hum.
Bobby himself didn't laugh once, and when he left his stomach was
churning. His feet fell strangely, heavily against the sidewalk, and for
some time he did not know his way home. When at last he was in his
apartment, he sat on the edge of his bed, his suspenders pulled off, and
his shirt unbuttoned, and for the first time felt things were hopeless.
He saw something flash in Harriet's hand. She was jiggling some quarters.
«Going to call someone?» he asked.
«Dean,» she said. «For a ride.»
«Don't.»
«I'm not staying. I can't stay.»
He watched her tormented feet, toes struggling together, and
finally nodded. They stood at the same time. They were, once again,
standing uncomfortably close.
«See you then,» she said.
«See you,» he said. He wanted to reach for her hand, but didn't, wanted to say something, but couldn't think what.
«Are there a couple people around here who want to volunteer to
get shot?» George Romero asked, from less than three feet away. «It's a
guaranteed close-up in the finished film.»
Bobby and Harriet put their hands up at the same time.
«Me,» Bobby said.
«Me,» said Harriet, stepping on Bobby's foot as she moved forward to get George Romero's attention. «Me!»
«It's going to be a great picture, Mr. Romero,» Bobby said. They
were standing shoulder to shoulder, making small talk, waiting for
Savini to finish wiring Harriet with her squib—a condom partially filled
with cane syrup and food coloring that would explode to look like a
bullet hit. Bobby was already wired . . . in more than one sense of the
word. «Someday everyone in Pittsburgh is going to claim they walked dead
in this movie.»
«You kiss ass like a pro,» Romero said. «Do you have a show-biz background?»
«Six years off-Broadway,» Bobby said. «Plus I played most of the comedy clubs.»
«Ah, but now you're back in greater Pittsburgh. Good career move, kid. Stick around here, you'll be a star in no time.»
Harriet skipped over to Bobby, her hair flouncing. «I'm going to get my tit blown off!»
«Magnificent,» Bobby said. «People just have to keep on going,
because you never know when something wonderful is going to happen.»
George Romero led them to their marks, and walked them through
what he wanted from them. Lights pointed into silver spangly umbrellas,
casting an even white glow, and a dry heat, over a ten-foot stretch of
floor. A lumpy striped mattress rested on the tiles, just to one side of
a square pillar.
Harriet would get hit first, in the chest. She was supposed to
jerk back, then keep coming forward, showing as little reaction to the
shot as she could muster. Bobby would take the next bullet in the head
and it would bring him down. The squib was hidden under one Latex fold
of his scalp wound. The wires that would cause the Trojan to explode
were threaded through his hair.
«You can slump first, and slide down and to the side,» George
Romero said. «Drop to one knee if you want, and then spill yourself out
of the frame. If you're feeling a bit more acrobatic you can fall
straight back, just be sure you hit the mattress. No one needs to get
hurt.»
It was just Bobby and Harriet in the shot, which would picture
them from the waist up. The other extras lined the walls of the shopping
mall corridor, watching them. Their stares, their steady murmuring,
induced in Bobby a pleasurable burst of adrenaline. Tom Savini knelt on
the floor, just outside the framed shot, with a hand-held metal box in
hand, wires snaking across the floor toward Bobby and Harriet. Little
Bob sat next to him, his hands cupped under his chin, squeezing the
spleen, his eyes shiny with anticipation. Savini had told little Bob all
about what was going to happen, preparing the kid for the sight of
blood bursting from his mother's chest, but little Bob wasn't worried.
«I've been seeing gross stuff all day. It isn't scary. I like it.»
Savini was letting him keep the spleen as a souvenir.
«Roll,» Romero said. Bobby twitched—what, they were rolling?
Already? He only just gave them their marks! Christ, Romero was still
standing in front of the camera!—and for an instant Bobby grabbed
Harriet's hand. She squeezed his fingers, let go. Romero eased himself
out of the shot. «Action.»
Bobby rolled his eyes back in his head, rolled them back so far he
couldn't see where he was going. He let his face hang slack. He took a
plodding step forward.
«Shoot the girl,» Romero said.
Bobby didn't see her squib go off, because he was a step ahead of
her. But he heard it, a loud, ringing crack that echoed; and he smelled
it, a sudden pungent whiff of gunpowder. Harriet grunted softly.
«Annnd,» Romero said. «Now the other one.»
It was like a gunshot going off next to his head. The bang of the
blasting cap was so loud, it immediately deafened his eardrums. He
snapped backward, spinning on his heel. His shoulder slammed into
something just behind him, he didn't see what. He caught a blurred
glimpse of the square pillar next to the mattress, and in that instant
was seized with a jolt of inspiration. He smashed his forehead into it
on his way down, and as he reeled away, saw he had left a crimson flower
on the white plaster.
He hit the mattress, the cushion springy enough to provide a
little bounce. He blinked. His eyes were watering, creating a visual
distortion, a subtle warping of things. The air above him was filled
with blue smoke. The center of his head stung. His face was splattered
with cool, sticky fluid. As the ringing in his ears faded, he
simultaneously became aware of two things. The first was the sound, a
low, subterranean bellow, a distant, steady rumble of applause. The
sound filled him like breath. George Romero was moving toward them, also
clapping, smiling in that way that made dimples in his beard. The
second thing he noticed was Harriet curled against him, her hand on his
chest.
«Did I knock you down?» he asked.
«'Fraid so,» she said.
«I knew it was only a matter of time before I got you in bed with me,» he said.
Harried smiled, an easy contented smile like he hadn't seen at any
other time, the whole day. Her blood-drenched bosom rose and fell
against his side.
Little Bob ran to the edge of the mattress and leaped onto it with
them. Harriet got an arm underneath him, scooped him up, and rolled him
into the narrow space between her and Bobby. Little Bob grinned and put
his thumb in his mouth. His face was close to the boy's head, and
suddenly he was aware of the smell of little Bob's shampoo, a
melon-flavored scent.
Harriet watched him steadily across her son, still with that same
smile on her face. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, the banks of
skylights, the crisp, blue sky beyond. Nothing in him wanted to get up,
wanted to move past the next few moments. He wondered what Harriet did
with herself when Dean was at work and little Bobby was at school.
Tomorrow was a Monday; he didn't know if he would be teaching or free.
He hoped free. The work week stretched ahead of him, empty of
responsibilities or concerns, limitless in its possibilities. The three
of them, Bobby, and the boy, and Harriet, lay on the mattress, their
bodies pressed close together and there was no movement but for their
breathing.
George Romero turned back to them, shaking his head. «That was
great, when you hit the pillar, and you left that big streak of gore. We
should do it again, just the same way. This time you could leave some
brains behind. What do you two kids say? Either one of you feel like a
do-over?»
«Me,» Bobby said.
«Me,» said Harriet. «Me.»
«Yes please,» said little Bobby, around the thumb in his mouth.
«I guess it's unanimous,» Bobby said. «Everyone wants a do-over.»
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