PART SIX. Spring 1999
Ordnance
NASH FOUND Henry by the Incendiary Devices section of the Tactics bookshelf. He stood there until Henry looked up. Nash pulled Henry’s hand away until he could see the pamphlet Henry was reading. It was an ecoterrorist broadside titled “Using Explosives to Eliminate and Discourage Outdoor Advertising.” Nash grabbed it out of his hand.
“Can I have a word?”
“Of course,” Henry said. He followed Nash toward the back office, which was really just a large closet filled with books, invoices and catalogs. Henry sat on the only chair, and Nash leaned on the desk.
“I’ll get right to it. I don’t think climbing buildings in the middle of the night is such a great idea, you know?”
“Neither do I,” Henry said.
Nash smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “I know you’ve been destroying those billboards.”
“But those boards are ads for Nepenthex, which is made by Pherotek—”
“Yeah, I know. I figured that out, finally. They are part of Allegecom, which is the same company that put dioxin in everything from PVC pipes to Agent Orange.”
“That put dioxin in Agent Orange and kept it in for years even when they knew it affected humans. Even when they could have made it without dioxin, like Agent Blue. And these bastards also made various incendiary munitions, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Naturally. A lot of companies made munitions.”
“Antipersonnel ordnance—”
“Yep. Designed to destroy humans and keep property intact. Check.”
“But these guys”—Henry’s voice got quite loud at this point—“they make the antidepressant that was prescribed for me specifically for the depression I have due to dioxin and combat trauma. It was actually designed to treat combat stress trauma, which they caused in the first place.”
Nash laughed, shaking his head.
“That would be very ironic, Henry, except for one thing: you were never exposed to Agent Orange or combat of any kind. Furthermore, and perhaps what’s even more important, no one knows why you are tearing down billboards. It is an illegible act. It changes nothing. And whatever else you are contemplating—”
“That corporate entity and its billboards are morally bankrupt,” Henry said. “That billboard is pornographic and offends decency.”
There was a knock. Sissy called from outside the door.
“Nash? There is no one watching the store.”
“Where’s Roland?”
“He’s gone.”
“I’ll be right out. Christ.” Nash put his hand on Henry’s arm. “I’m not unsympathetic, you know. I’ve no problem with property destruction per se. There is nothing sacred about property, particularly this sort. And although I think it would be nice, I also don’t think the gesture has to mean anything to anyone but you, or that it has to change anything for it to be worth doing.”
“You noticed, though, didn’t you? And they noticed. They had to replace their ad, didn’t they? Twice now.” Henry smiled.
“But it is dangerous,” Nash said. “And not just because you are an old, sick guy who shouldn’t be rappelling down buildings in the middle of the night. There is the possibility that destroying something changes you in unexpected ways. It’s channeling your worst dark self. It can inspire a wanton side, it can thrill and titillate. How can I put this? I think it’s cruddy for the soul. I think it makes you into a dick.”
Nash moved to the door. Henry put out his arm and stopped him.
“But I feel better. It makes the symptoms abate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was exposed, in effect, or I am exposed, by whatever means. And I do take their pills. It is my irony and my insult. And when I destroy their signs — with a fierce but just heart, I swear — I feel better. I can actually have peaceful sleep.”
“Just don’t get carried away,” Nash said. “You’ve made your point.”
“It’s about my dignity.”
“Gotcha.”
“I feel restored by it.”
“But maybe…” Nash spoke while leaving the room. Henry followed him.
“Maybe what?” Henry said.
“Maybe it is the night ops on the billboard. Maybe you are right. Or maybe it’s their antidepressant that is making you feel better. Maybe it’s the Nepenthex.”
Jason’s Journal
HER WHOLE life has become suspect. Not just the fact that she admitted to being in California dive bars with dissipated rock stars. Or her evasions about her life pre-1980s. No relatives, no friends, no mention of anything. But that’s not all — there are other issues once you start thinking on it. Once you have it in your head that someone close to you is hiding something, everything is suspect.
For example:
Last night she said something that struck me as odd. She and I were watching the news together. I got bored and went to my room. I scratched out a school essay in about thirty minutes. It’s all so easy, it is just a joke. Then I went online to the Cabin Essence site, which is where I find my bootlegs. I was deep in conversation with a guy in Alabama who posted a bunch of stuff about a tape of the complete “Good Vibrations” sessions (which seems to me a song of such oddness and complexity that I could spend months parsing it and unpacking it) when I heard a knock at the door. I knew it was my mother, and I shouted at her but she couldn’t hear me because I was playing the music loud. I lowered it and hollered “What?” in an exasperated tone. She didn’t answer but knocked again. I got up and opened the door. She stood there with a pale, slight smile, clutching her sweater sleeves, which are always too long so she plays with them, half-burying her hands in them. It occurs to me she does this deliberately to emphasize how petite, how tiny, how frail she is. As if she can’t buy sweaters in the proper size.
“Yeah?” I said with exaggerated inflection. I did not want to encourage her.
“Jason.”
“What is it, Mom? I’m doing a paper for class.” She nodded and then looked around my room a bit. She doesn’t get to come in very often. I keep it clean, and she stays out, at least I think she does. I turned the music way down. I didn’t want to spark any recovered memories about her glorious old days hanging out with Dennis Wilson.
“What is it about?”
“What?”
“Your paper for class.”
I shrugged. I didn’t know where this was going. I don’t have much patience for her these days. I want her to stay out of my way, ask no questions. She doesn’t understand that this is just the way it goes for mothers and sons in these years. It’s not her, it is just the not-her of her that I want, I want nothing from her except for her not to ask me things or stand in my doorway with a pale, sad look on her face, clutching at her sweater sleeves.
“Don’t you have a class tonight?” I said. She teaches her adult cooking classes. She tutors illiterate adults. She mentors underprivileged children. It is not like she has nothing to do but talk to me. She nodded.
“I made you some dinner, it’s in the fridge.” She just stood there. I gave up.
“It’s about Alger Hiss, HUAC, that stuff.”
“That’s great,” she said. “That’s very interesting.”
Oh, Christ, I shouldn’t have said anything, but she wanted something, and I just didn’t have the heart to say nothing. Now she was going to want more.
“So what do you think?” she said.
“About what?” I asked.
“Did he do it?”
“Did Hiss do it?” I said.
She nodded.
“Of course Hiss did it. No one disputes that anymore.”
“It’s generally known, you’re saying.”