And it is night.
Night without stars.
Andrew runs.
The dream changes so he finds himself in a nest.
Or perhaps a bed of dry hay?
Something woolly nuzzles his arm aside, chewing.
He pushes at its head to get it away from him, but it baas explosively, showing him its black tongue.
A sheep.
Where the fuck am I?
A crude wooden roof stands above him.
No walls.
A stable?
The sun is setting, or perhaps rising, casting a dim violet light. A pitchfork stands up from the ground, backlit, tines up, two of those tines spearing an oblong, head-shaped something, also backlit.
Oh, it is a head
It hawks and spits, then speaks.
“Our little baby is awake now, yes?”
Husky laughter comes from near the water trough, against which the idiot brother sits, Andrew’s backpack spilled out near him. He unrolls a pair of faded blue jeans and marvels at them, a lit cigarette in his mouth.
Wait until he finds the Playboys
He shouldn’t smoke
Why, because he’s retarded?
Special, we say special now because it’s nicer
“Don’t burn a hole in those, Vanka—we can sell them to a party member for a lot of money,” the head says from its perch. “So, little baby, you like Jesus, yes?”
Andrew says nothing.
“You like him so much we put you in a manger.”
The sheep baas again, as if prompted.
He looks into the field, where the headless body jerkily brushes down a plow horse, who stands placidly, swishing its tail against flies. Clearly headless bodies groom horses all the time in this hellish fairy-tale Russia.
Maybe I am in hell?
I ran into something hard in the dark.
A fence?
A plow?
Maybe I died?
“What, you have nothing to say?”
Andrew just blinks.
The head hawks and spits again, excusing itself.
A dream that’s all just a dream
But I thought that when it happened
And it was real
“Even in a dream, one must be polite. But no. You are badly raised in America. Even if you did speak, all I would hear would be the sound of America coming from your mouth. Do you know this sound?”
Andrew says nothing.
“Would you like to hear this sound? The sound of America?”
Andrew shakes his head weakly, causing his head and neck to hurt.
“At last! The baby has an opinion! Well, here is the devil, baby, you will hear anyway.”
The head growls then, showing the crooked teeth below that thick mustache. The growl grows into the sound of an engine starting up. A helicopter engine. It opens its mouth as the rotors of the unseen helicopter spin more rapidly, then, as the rotors chop and roar at flight velocity, it opens its mouth impossibly wide and blows a jet of wind, hot and stinking of gasoline, blowing the straw in the stables about furiously, frightening the sheep away and scattering a trio of hens. The idiot brother shields his cigarette with his cupped hands, but it blows away anyway, and he cries.
The head shuts its mouth now, cutting off the roaring wind.
“It’s all right, Ivan. America is gone now, and it is time for hot towels.”
“Hot towels? I like hot towels.”
“I know. Hot towels feel nice.”
Now the boy comes from behind Andrew
Neck hurts too much to turn and see where he came from
somehow carrying a bucket, towels, a lit oil lamp, and a shaving box. The boy has his leg back on
?
but limps slightly as he sloshes the steaming bucket along.
His big brother fetches himself a stool and sits, chin poked forward, loosening his collar. The boy packs a steaming towel around the simple man’s neck and he coos.
The headless body now comes, washes the horse sweat from its hands in the soapy water, unwraps the towel, and then soaps and shaves Ivan’s face, gently slapping a cheek when it wants him to pucker and tighten.
It wields the straight razor expertly.
Andrew shudders.
If they were going to hurt me, they would have done it already
Says who?
“Hurt you?” the head says from its tines, squinting with concentration at the remote-control shaving job its body undertakes. “More light!” it barks, and the boy winds the tiny knob that adjusts the length of the wick, leaning the lamp closer.
“Now you’re in my way.”
The boy steps to one side.
“Good. Stay there.”
It hawks and spits a black clot and then addresses Andrew again.
“Hurt you? Why would we hurt you when you do such a good job hurting yourself? You should see the goose egg on your head. No, we want you well. We have many accidents here. Farmwork is perilous—but what would you know about it with your supermarkets and whores and ghettos? We want you safe and sound so you can heal us, little Jesus. See how you helped Lyosha?”
I want to wake up
“Wake up, then!”
I want to go home
“Who is stopping you? Go!” the head says, looking at Andrew now. The body has turned his way as well, and gestures with the razor as if to indicate the road Andrew is welcome to walk.
With some effort, Andrew swivels his hips over the lip of the manger, but something is wrong, something more than his throbbing head and ground-glass-packed neck.
He tries to stand but collapses to the ground, knocking his chin and biting his tongue. A startled rooster flaps its wings halfheartedly and continues to strut.
Of course he has fallen.
He has only one leg.
Andrew wakes up.
Adjusts the sweat-dampened pillow beneath him.
In the distance, a train.
63
“Ichabod.”
Nothing.
“Ichabod, I command you to appear to me.”
Nothing.
If it isn’t listening, it isn’t disobeying.
He’ll have to formally invoke it or go see it.
The idea of going to see it in its cave makes him shudder.
Its cave by the train tracks.
And formal invocation is a pain in the ass.
He looks at the antique clock on his nightstand.
One ten A.M.
Just after midnight in New Orleans.
He has a debt to pay.
He appears in the restroom of a fine-dining restaurant off Chartres, one he knows keeps late weekend hours. Knows also that it won’t be so busy he’s likely to have company in a private stall. He gets lucky, appears in front of the sinks, sees himself in the mirror.
Looking older.
Looking fortyish, not thirty-five.
Hair still black, skin tight, but there’s something.
Still beats looking fifty-three… what would that look like?
Before his eyes, his hair goes mostly white, loses its luster; deep lines bracket his mouth, his eyes get crow’s feet.
Not ready for that. Not yet. Go back.
He concentrates, believes himself younger.
Gets younger, thirty-five again.