Same, said Clyda.
Then, gradually, we learned, said William. We became, with time, nominally more able to endure listening to one another.
And now we hardly mind it at all, said Clyda.
Although, always best to be brisk, said William.
Keep things snappy, said Clyda.
Brevity much preferred, said William.
Get through your deal as fast as you can, said Clyda. So as not to bore William.
So as not to bore Clyda, said William.
(Good God.
Were theyrecruitingme?Auditioningme?)
The end is hard, William said.
Hard for everyone, said Clyda.
Hard for you too, ma’am, no doubt? William said, with a prompting nod.
Well, no, actually.
The end had not been hard for me at all.
—
For me, it had just been: sliding into the car, thinking about where to buy the roast (Humbolt’s? O’Malia?), then about autumn (did the cold weather cause the leaves to turn or did something chemical happen inside the trees at the same time every year?), putting the key in the ignition, turning the key, and then—
No pain, no fear, just a feeling of disinterested interest as I found myself propelled up through the roof, “I” going off in one direction and what was left of “Jill ‘Doll’ Blaine” going off in, well, several others.
Then, as if flung by an invisible hand, “I” kept going, across town, tracking Tremaine Avenue, cutting across Elman Park, being guided, it felt, to some specific place, and soon I was nearly there, and found myself zipping through the gray picket fence of a unkempt yard, making a beeline for a grim-looking fellow who sat at a metal table nervously smoking, and then I passed directly into him, coming, in this way, to know rather too much about him.
Over me washed a feeling that no onegotme, no onelikedme, I could always tell from the first minute I met someone, by that snot-assed look on his or her face, like, Ugh, no no no, get away from me, dirtbag, pronto.
And that starts to eat at a guy.
You think I’m shit? Okay, you got it, I’m shit.
Watch your wallet, watch your back, watch your house, fuckhead.
Like that.
People werestupid,you could mess with them soeasy.Theyleft their doors open, kept their keys under the mat, loaned you their car, told you around what time the security guard generally dozed off, believed it when you said that your mom recently died, your grandpa had dementia, you yourself had a fast-growing melanoma and used to be in the CIA and still knew some pretty badass hombres over there.
Felt: Best hop up and get rid of the incriminating mess in the basement (auto manuals, tin snips, a plastic bin with a red label readingExplosives), plus that extra lump of C-4 in the shed which, no worries, I had a plan, which was what those burlap bags tucked under the back steps were all about. (Mastermind!)
Felt: At peace or something like it for the first time in—well, ever. I’d done it. Had made a plan and seen it through. Unlike my plan to bring a live kangaroo to the U.S. and make it box a bobcat. Or my plan to have a restaurant that served only scrambled eggs.
I’d set out to blow up that pockmarked little shit of a cop who’d put me away once before and meant to do it again, and now that jagweed was—guess what?—blown up.
Check that shit off the list.
—
