"Yes," George Mills said. "Yes!"
Messenger, enhanced, was sitting in Mills"s living room weeping when George came in.
"Hey," George Mills said, "hey now. Hey don"t."
Cornell looked up, surprised. He wiped his eyes with his fingers, licked them. "You know that"s delicious?" he said.
"I know," Mills said.
"You lick your tears, George?"
"I chew my nails. I nibble the hair on my arms."
"Really?"
"Millses have always had pica." (Because he was interested now. Because Messenger had him. As he"d had Louise the first time he opened his mouth. And whatever might become of his own battered case, he was interested in theirs. Enough to talk, to tell him of his.) "In me under control, arrested, marked down. But, you know, still there. I still have a piece of this sweet tooth in my mouth."
"This sweet tooth, George?"
"A loose appet.i.te sort of."
"Clay? You eat chalk?"
"The flavor"s okay. I don"t care for the texture."
"You"re a connoisseur."
"Certain flowers, the stems on fruit. Newsprint. Erasers."
"I chewed erasers," Cornell said.
"No no, from the blackboards. I"d lick dust from their fur."
"Better than a connoisseur. You"re a gourmet."
"I sucked on stones. When I could get it I put sand in my mouth."
"When you could get it?"
"You know, still wet. After the tide had gone out. A sand bouillabaisse. When I was a kid. Most all of this when I was a kid. Not now not so much."
"You don"t do this stuff now?"
"I watch what I eat. Sometimes I binge. You know, fall off the wagon."
"You"re not kidding me now?"
"No. I"m not kidding."
"Well, what do you eat?"
"I eat cigarette ash. I like to get the juice out of cotton."
"Are you kidding me, George?"
"No," he said, "I already said. Not now not so much."
"A meat-and-potatoes man," Messenger said.
"Only the gristle, only the peels."
Messenger watched him through his still red, still puffy eyes.
"Rust," George said wistfully, "I used to like the taste of rust. And rotten, discolored wood from trees fallen in forests."
"That"s good?"
"Brown water in puddles. Autumn leaves like a breakfast cereal. Sweat like a summer drink."
"Insects? Dead birds?"
George Mills made a face. "No, of course not," he said. "Things only declined from the ordinary sweets and seasonings, things gone off, the collapsed cheeses, sour as laundry."
"You"re pulling my leg," Messenger said.
"This is how I used to be. It"s mostly all changed. I like stale bread. I don"t really mind it when the milk turns, the b.u.t.ter. A hint of the rancid like a touch of hors d"uvre." And then, already missing his own old straight man"s circ.u.mstances, "You were crying."
"Me?" Messenger said, his nose and eyes still a little swollen. "h.e.l.l no."
"You were. You were crying."
"I was making lunch."
"Is it Harve?" George Mills asked. "Were you crying about Harve?"
"Harve"s my kid," Messenger said. "I don"t talk about my kid."
"All right," George Mills said.
"Fourteen his last birthday," Messenger said.
"Yes," George Mills said, and sat back.
"He doesn"t get the point of knock-knock jokes."
"No," George Mills said, and felt stirrings of appet.i.te, his pica curiosity making soft growls in his head.
"I"m no woodsman," he said. "I can"t tie a fly, I don"t know my bait."
"No," George Mills said.
"I can"t build a fire or a.s.semble a toy. I haven"t much, you know, lore. I was never much good at the father-son sports. We don"t go out camping. I don"t take him to circuses or watch the parades. We don"t tan shirtless in bleachers or root for the teams. He doesn"t sip from my beer. I can"t name the stars, I don"t show him the sky. We didn"t play catch. I never taught him to ride. We didn"t do float trips or go to the zoo.
"I like to wrestle, show him the Dutch rub, Indian burns, but the kid thinks I"m angry. His eyes fill with tears.
"I don"t, you know, I don"t set an example. I don"t teach him, well, morals. Whatever it is they say has to start in the home-respect, I don"t know, good manners, how you have to appreciate the value of a dollar, that sort of thing-never started in ours."
Uncle Joe, Mills thought, he means Uncle Joe.
"Fourteen years old and he doesn"t get the point of d.a.m.ned knock-knock jokes!
"I thought we"d go on a trip. This was a couple of years ago. I thought I"d take him on a trip. Just the two of us. We"d just load up the old bus ... I mean the car, we"d drive in the car. We"d stay in motels. We"d order from room service. I had to promise we"d stay in a place with a Holidome."
Mills looked at him.
"You know. One of those places, they"re enclosed, like a penny arcade. It has a swimming pool, it has a whirlpool and sauna, it has indoor-outdoor carpeting, it has swings and seesaws, computer games."
Mills nodded.
"I had to promise. Otherwise he wouldn"t come. I had to promise to give him money for the machines. I had to promise he could choose what we"d watch on TV.
"We wouldn"t wait for a weekend. We"d make it special, go during school.
"I woke him at six. "We"ll catch breakfast on the highway," I told him. He was very cranky. He went to sleep in the back.
" "Harve," I said, "we"re crossing the river, you"re missing the sunrise. Wake up, sleepyhead."
" "Why"d you wake me? I"m nauseous, I may have to throw up."
" "Anything you want, scout," I told him in the restaurant when the waitress came over. "What do you want?"
"He was angry as h.e.l.l. He can"t read a menu. His mother says, "You want a hamburger, Harve? You want french fries and c.o.ke, son?" Me, I don"t do that. I want him to sound it out. He gets so impatient.
" "What"ll it be?" the waitress said, and I gave her my order. "What"ll it be?" she said to the boy.
" "Can you come back? I"m not ready." He glared at me.
" "Anything you want, Harve. What do you want?"
"When she brought me my breakfast she turned to the kid. "Have you made up your mind yet?" and stood poised with her pad.
" "Yeah, I"m not hungry. I can"t eat a thing."
"When I paid at the counter he pointed to candy, he pointed to gum.
" "Why don"t you come up in front, Harve? Why don"t you put that airplane down and sit here with Dad? G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Harve, I"m not your chauffeur." But we drove on in silence, the both of us sore.
"We"d gone a hundred miles maybe, Harve back there sulking, me sulking in front. He"d make sound-effect noises. With his planes, with his cars. A mimic of engines, impressions of speed. He"d imitate crashes, do disasters, explosions, ships lost at sea.
" "Knock knock," I said when we"d driven another hour. "Knock knock, Harve."
"And stopped for lunch. Harve not glaring at me over his menu this time, Harve equable, placid, almost benign. Don"t I know that kid? Because I"d figured it out in the car, knew what he"d do, knew he"d figured it out too-don"t I know him? don"t I?-knew it wasn"t even me he was mad at anymore. No, angry at himself for not thinking of it at breakfast. So I knew knew what he"d do. When the waitress came over I was ready for him. what he"d do. When the waitress came over I was ready for him.
" "Have you decided?"
" "Well, no," I said, "actually I haven"t. Why don"t you ask the boy?"
"And, triumphant, looked at him, saw the smile leave his face. No, not leave it, but hanging there crooked, like make-up mismanaged, like cosmetics deranged. But I had to hand it to him. I did. I had to take off my hat. I could have kissed him.
" "Two eggs," he said slowly, remembering, getting it perfect, "scrambled. Orange juice. Toast. Coffee," he said.
" "Wouldn"t you rather have milk, Harve?"
" "Sure." He grinned. "Milk."
" "Sounds good," I told her. "Bring me the same."
"We stopped off for ice cream, stopped off for c.o.ke. When we filled up in Kentucky I gave Harve three bucks. He offered me candy when he came out with the bag. I told him, "No thanks, Harve." You know what kids eat. c.r.a.p from the s.p.a.ce age--sugar fuels, fizz. Candy with noises, a licorice that whistles, a licorice that whips. Panes of sugar so brittle like cracked gla.s.s in your mouth. Pop drops and doodads, candy like toys. "Your mother would kill me, she saw what you got." I made him promise to save some, not to fill himself up.
"He was sitting up front now. More like it, you know? We got into Nashville just after five.
" "This is Nashville," I told him, "where they make all the country-and-western records. Nashville is famous."
" "Sure," Harve said, "Motown."
" "No, Motown"s in Michigan, Motown"s Detroit."
" "Where they got all the n.i.g.g.e.rs."
" "Christ, where do you get that stuff? Your mother doesn"t talk like that, I certainly don"t. Black people are just like everybody else."
" "They"re poor," Harve said.
" "Yes," I said, "many of them, many of them are."
" "Chicken George, Kunte Kinte. Slavery"s bad."
" "That"s right, Harve."
" "That"s why they kill us. That"s why they steal. That"s why they set fires and rape old white ladies and take our bicycles. That"s why they"re lazy and cheat on welfare."
" "Harve, that"s bulls.h.i.t. You"re a bigot, you know that?"
"We were downtown now, stopped at a light. Some people were waiting on line for a bus.