"I'm sorry, DaShawn. You have to understand that I'm an asshole."
"I do understand."
I started to thank the man for such rare comprehension.
"Shhh. I want to show you something."
DaShawn led me out of the pasture and through some brush. We hiked our way up the hill trail through a steep rise of spruce.
"What are you doing?" I said.
"I told you, I want to show you something."
A burning scent was coming off the mountain, rich and dry, full of campfire cheer. We strayed off the trail and hacked our way up to a great forked elder. There in a clear was a tiny cottage built of thatch and brick. Smoke rifled out the tin flue.
"Ye Olde Mothering Hut," said DaShawn.
"I wonder who's in there," I said.
"Heinrich's in there. And somebody. We never know who it is until it's all over. That way there's no shame."
Now shrieks carried over the clear.
"Damn," I said.
"The Iroquois," said DaShawn, "in fact many of the eastern tribes, not to mention the plains tribes, prided themselves on their ability to bear torture. If you got captured by an enemy, you were already dead and disgraced. Your only recourse was to maintain dignity during the ordeal."
"Stoic."
"Not stoic. They'd go bananas. You motherfucking bear-fucker, your tribe is rabbit shit. Something to say while you're being flensed alive."
"Was this passed down in family lore, DaShawn?"
"I researched it for my thesis. My family passed down a fondness for Ring-Dings."
"We had Devil Dogs," I said.
"Those are good, too."
A man stooped out of the hut. Bits of ash hung in the air about him. He was naked, smeared with soot and blood. A piece of metal poked out of his hand.
We saw a flash, heard a boom, felt something thud into the elder.
Tonight, after pears in syrup, Heinrich stood for a word. He'd showered, looked rested, his wet hair combed back into an impromptu pompadour. There were still a few streaks of ash on his hands, a little scallop of dried blood on his ear.
"People, I have an announcement to make. It concerns our very own Bobby Trubate. Today was an extra-special day for him. You know of what I speak. It's uncertain if we'll ever see him again, but suffice it to say he has finally tasted truth. Trubate. Perhaps name is destiny, after all."
"You hear that, Spanky?" Parish whispered into my ear.
I nodded, spooned up some pear.
Back at the cabin Old Gold was stuffing Bobby's clothes into a duffel bag.
"Did he go home?"
"I don't know," said Old Gold.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. I guess he was no match for mothering fire."
"He's a good guy."
"Avram, has it ever occurred to you that a lot of this stuff might be figurative? That really the idea of life is just to get along as best we can under the circumstances?"
"Oh, you mean like Nazi Germany?"
"Don't pull that Nazi shit with me. I'm a Jew, too."
"Who said I was a Jew?"
"I read it in your story in the Tenets."
"Maybe I just meant that figurative."
Old Gold left and I lay in my cot for a while. My classical kindergarten education had trained me to always take a few moments before sleep to review my day, ruminate on any schoolyard atrocities the banality of evil or banality may have glossed. Pigtail tuggings. Marble-maimings. Bastard shot at me, was all I could think. My day, for the most part. There was a knock at the door and Heinrich capered in all soft-shoe, twirled a phantom baton.
"Cabin visit."
"Are you going to tuck me in?"
"I could, but then you'd just get up again to proceed with your wheelchair assignations."
"No secrets around here, huh?"
"Renee," said Heinrich. "Poor kid came here thinking about miracles. Just like you. People get crazy ideas. Even smart people like Renee. They think they're going to overcome their personal tragedies. They employ the phrase 'personal tragedy.' But I have deep feeling for Renee, I do. Marooned colonies of feeling, even."
"No respect for Velcro, either."
"Privacy's a dead end, Steve. What's the saying? Last refuge of scumbags?"
"Do you read everyone's items?"
"I paid for the pen, man. And the paper. So, how did you like being shot at today?"
"Is that what that was?"
"Toughie. How's your mysterious rot going?"
"I'm not sure."
"That's a good sign."
"The symptoms come and go."
"As they will."
"It's not all in my head."
"Hey, if it's in your head it's in you."
"I'll try to remember that," I said. "Or my head will. What were you doing to Trubate in the mothering hut?"
"Midwifery."
"What happened?"
"You were there."
"Is he dead?"
"Why would he be dead?"
"Because his things were still here. Because I heard those screams. Because you-"
"Careful now. I what?"
"I don't know."
"No, you don't, do you? You're deducing again."
"I want to leave here."
"And go where?"
"Home."
"Where would that be?"
"Shit," I said, "you tell me."
I threw a fit. I decided to throw a fit. It was a technique I'd honed at the agency. Sometimes, uncertain times, it proved judicious to appear unhinged. A timely spaz bespoke passion, salary-worth. Mine were maybe tantamount to office culture, too, like the late-night car service or the Monday massage. Don't pitch a Steve, people would admonish, except they said something else because as I may have mentioned, my name isn't Steve. Now I careened around the cabin looking for props. Swipes and kicks were a crucial part of the show. I started for the Coleman, dreaming of a drywood blaze. Heinrich stuck his foot out. There was time to clear it but I tripped anyway. The finish is the hardest part of the fit. That foot was a gift.
"Calm yourself," said Heinrich.
"Thank you," I said.
"Are you calm?"
"Extremely fucking calm."
Heinrich put his hand out.
"Listen," he said. "This is your home. You have to accept that fact. Acceptance is the key to everything. I need you to be the hero of your own life, Steve. Also, I need your help."
"My help."
"Work for me, son. Don't be embarrassed. The dependence of a great man upon a greater is a subjection that lower men cannot easily comprehend."
"Who said that?"
"Halifax."
"I wouldn't know him."
"I read his maxims on the can. The cheese spread has real possibilities. We need some snap. We need some pop. Soft cheese for a soft touch."
"Now you're quoting me quoting myself."
"Too heavy for me," said Heinrich. "The levels, the levels. But I know you'll do us proud. One more thing. Don't ever sneak up on me at the hut again. I'll put one in your neck. Now, let me see your eyes. That's what I thought."
"What?"
"More dimness. Less flickering."
The ant trundling a piece of thread across my windowsill had a brain punier than the blackhead I was teasing out of my nose with opposed thumbnails, but he must dream, mustn't he? Of what? Love? Work? Popcorn skins? Bolts of lint? Maze rats dreamed of mazes, according to the latest studies. Maze rat scientists dreamed of rats. I was dreaming of cheese.
I scoured my corporate memory for all those phrases we used to bat around in lieu of competence. Brand leverage, brand agility, viral replication of the core brand identity. How about isotopic marketing? Meme buzz? Meme juice? Brand spill? The older types, the so-called salesmen, they'd laugh at us, go on about how there was no difference between hawking a webcasting network and an oatmeal cookie. Then they'd beg us for cocaine. Me, I was never much of a salesman. Sometimes, in my cups, or in a moment of weak arrogance, I called myself a court poet in the multinational kingdom. Better days I'd just call myself a hack and get on with the work.