-I think that"s something only Gregory would know.
-Because he"s the only one who knows them well enough.
-There"s that too.
-Okay, you"re holding something back.
-Gregory"s an enlightened person. He has... certain insights.
-Insights.
-He"s connected to higher energies than you and me. He gets messages. Important messages. Save-the-planet kind of important.
-Gregory has information that can save the planet.
-I believe that to be possible.
-You believe anything to be possible. You"re a believer. Your name should be Believee, The Boy Who Believes.
-I"m credulous, it"s true. I don"t think that"s necessarily bad.
-Of course you don"t. Believee. Note that down somewhere for a T-shirt idea. We need more T-shirt ideas. The Boy Who Believes.
-He"s got these wedding photos he carries around, and then some current photos, and he makes you look at both sets, and he won"t let up until you agree that the woman in the current photos is clearly a duplicate. And really, by the time you"re done looking, it seems somehow... plausible.
-What"s the thinking behind this?
-What do you mean?
-Well, why would someone replace his family with imposters?
-I think he thinks it"s to distract him from his mission.
-I thought his mission was to drive the getaway car for us.
-Not that mission.
-Although I"m starting to think we could find a better candidate.
-He"s an excellent driver.
-Are you trying to be funny?
-I don"t think so.
-Okay. Well, the world is full of excellent drivers. Some of these might not even be entirely insane. How about let"s say we look for one of those.
-I"d like to give Gregory a chance.
-We gave Gregory a chance. And from what you"ve told me, I really don"t think it"d be fair to distract him any further from his save-the-planet mission. Or his find-his-real-family mission. Either of those two are more important than helping us rob a check-cashing place.
-This will not make Gregory happy.
-I don"t mean to seem callous, but I think Gregory"s got bigger problems. I think he"s got a long way to go in the direction of happiness before he can even call himself depressed. My mom always told me that you can"t depend on someone else for your own happiness. We"d be doing him a favor, Billy. And more importantly, we"d be doing us a favor. We don"t do enough favors for us, in my opinion.
-Maybe you"re right.
-You understand this isn"t really about Gregory.
-I guess.
-I"m sure Gregory is a great guy.
-Yes.
-He runs a nice bar, even if it"s a little too clean.
-He does! Plus he"s figured out a way to construct a supercomputer using enormous crystals.
-Of course he has.
-More like a spiritual computer, but still based on science. Something to do with a quantum mechanic.
-You mean quantum mechanics?
-He made it sound like there was only one.
-You should really be talking to Marcus about all this.
-Oh, sure. He"d just dismiss me as a crackpot.
-I doubt he"d actually use the word "crackpot." That"s not a word you hear very often in conversation.
-Well, whatever word you use to dismiss someone with a possibly insanely great idea but which you don"t believe is insanely great, but maybe only insane... that"s the word he would use. You know I"m right.
-Anyway-and I would never demean you by calling you a crackpot, by the way, whatever else you want to say about me I offer equal time to all points of view-quantum mechanics is probably not going to help us in this particular situation.
-Okay.
-I might know a man who can drive the getaway car.
-Who is it?
-Some guy I met at a party a few weeks ago.
-Who is it?
-A guy who"s proved himself extremely helpful to me in many ways, most of which would be tedious to iterate now. He seems okay. He"s not worried about his family being replaced with sinister doubles. He doesn"t collect crystals. He knows how to drive. He even has a car. And... I get the impression he wouldn"t mind partic.i.p.ating in some well-paid criminal activity.
-What"s his name?
-That reminds me of a joke. Two would-be Islamic terrorists crash a flaming jeep full of gas canisters into an airport in Scotland. Due to a combination of incompetence and luck, the canisters fail to fully ignite. One of the blokes gets oot the jeep, on fire, and starts throwing punches at the cops.
-How is that a joke? Didn"t it actually happen?
-That part"s not the joke. You"re too impatient. Anyway, they found out the names of the fellows what done it.
-Weren"t they actually doctors or something?
-Stop. Just stop. Forget what may or may not have happened in what you like to call "real life."
-Okay. Sorry. Go on.
-You"ve made it almost impossible.
-I"m ...
-I said almost. Stop talking. Okay, so, they found out the names of them as what done the job: Sinjdin Majeep and Maheed Zaroastin.
-That"s weird you would say "them as what done the job." That"s not American phrasing.
-Of course it"s not. I"m setting up a Scottish joke. A joke that only people who are familiar with British phrasing would find funny, and even then many would find in poor taste at best, completely irresponsible, racist, and unfunny at worst.
-Okay, so when"s the joke?
-I did the joke.
-I don"t get it.
-Sinjdin Majeep and Maheed Zaroastin.
-Means nothing to me.
-Okay. Good.
-You"re not going to explain it?
-No, I"m not, Billy. Life is already too long as it is. I don"t want to make it any longer.
-Name of the driver.
-I said I wasn"t going to ...
-No, not in the joke. The man you met at the party.
-Oh. Right. His name is Sven.
25. THE TRUTH ABOUT VIOLET, AS RELUCTANTLY DISCLOSED BY THE NOT ENTIRELY OMNISCIENT BUT VERY RELIABLE NARRATOR, STEPPING OUT OF THE FRAME OF THE STORY FOR AN INSTANT.
In India, women of a certain caste whose husbands die are forced to remain in mourning for the rest of their lives. They"re no longer allowed to wear makeup or jewelry. They"re made to shave their heads and wear only white. Their shadows are considered bad luck. Eventually, many of them end up in a particular city-whose name I forget since having read the CNN article-where they can at least congregate and take comfort from their own accursed kind. This place is called the City of Widows.
Violet is a widow. True, she killed her husband, but it was an accident, and though she did not love him she was sorry for having caused his death. Most of her actions in the five years since can be seen as a kind of American version of the City of Widows. Call it the City of Windows: Violet became a flagrant and habitual exhibitionist, a willing slave to the erotic whimsies of the Nation of Men, not because she enjoyed it, but because she decided-whether consciously or subconsciously is not the issue-that if she were not to be paired with one man only she would be paired with all men generally. She decided that she would, in the words of one of her favorite pop songs, f.u.c.k the pain away.
You can"t f.u.c.k the pain away, of course. Like all successful pop songs, the central conceit is a beautiful lie. But you can try, and Violet tried. She had been married for five years, and unmarried now for the same, but in her mind still married, still unable to sleep in a shared bed unshared. Five years of practice had unprepared Violet for solitude.
Her old apartment too, impossible. Every inch imprinted with the presence of the dead man, corners of rooms and even cobwebs brushed with faint breath. It can all go to h.e.l.l. The plants can die from neglect, now. Framed photos smothered under dust. Now. What energy"s left she summoned to wake, and walk, and f.u.c.k. All else is definition of useless. Sc.r.a.pe remains of food into crammed trashcan, pile dish onto pile of dishes in sink. She used to be tidy. Now she"s only ever tired. Any help sleep provides removed by the reeling void of waking up alone, without light or heat or right, in darkness made still darker by indifferent empty s.p.a.ce. The void, of course, merely Violet"s stomach grumbling from hunger. Empty is as empty does.
Shame. What you feel when you"re not afraid. Rare"s the peace that preempts either, rarer still the feathery tickle of contentment (that is to say happiness, Violet, don"t be shy, a thing does not disappear from earth just because it disappears from your own little life). We ought to be better learned of the selfishness of gentlemen: the oblique glances, the question-mark eyebrows, appet.i.tes to sate, egos to salve: enervation itself.
The last thing dies in a woman is hope. Even unreasonable fancy, in place of hope. One jar in the back of the malodorous fridge, never opened. A token but of what. Symbolic but of what. The jar labeled Jam, the label handlettered, unspecified as to flavor or provenance or date of purchase. As long as she can remember, that jar has sat. Absorbed the pa.s.sing of time as a process of refilling. Violet likes to think that sealed in the jar are the years. Time itself, gone bad.
26. BILLY, STRANDED ON A HILL-SIDE BY GUY, HAS AN UNFORTUNATE ENCOUNTER, LESS THAN AN HOUR AFTER THE KOREAN CHECK-CASHING FIASCO.
Billy stood for a few moments staring in disbelief at the top of the hillside where Guy had just gotten into his stolen Mini Cooper and sped off at an unsafe speed up the treacherous curves of Larkin Heights.
-Well, that"s just fine, he said to no one. -That"s just f.u.c.king fine.
He began scooping up the scattered bills Guy had flung w.i.l.l.y-nilly into the brush. A small shower of rocks fell from an outcropping directly above Billy, hitting him on the head.
-Ow! he exclaimed, peering to the heavens. -Haven"t you done enough for one day?
Which is when he saw the mountain lion, standing on the outcropping not ten feet above, eyeing him with more than casual interest, and growling ominously.
-I guess not, murmured Billy.
The mountain lion crouched, then jumped, and landed directly on top of Billy. Snarls from the animal and high-pitched yelps from Billy ensued, along with a fair amount of desperate flailing of limbs.
At that moment, higher on the hill, a pair of backpackers paused in their climb to stare at the commotion below. One of them whipped out a camcorder.
-Shouldn"t we, you know, try to help? asked the nonfilming hiker.
-After I get this. We can throw rocks at him, scare him away. Looks like he"s just toying with the guy anyway.