The Convulsion Factory

pleases him. Or soothes his torments, if he has any left.”

She played for Nihil, in his dilapidated palace. Nihil in the springs, his mortal coils.

I took it as a matter of course now that the body might be in a slightly different position from one visit to the next; come to expect it, even, Nihil trying to bring us signs and wonders. Not that there was any point to them, ultimately, because Nihil was after all a god about nothing.

“He can hear it, if he wants to,” she said. “That’s the key to this all, I think. His ears were so sensitive maybe death just couldn’t have them. If he was here right now? He could listen to rush hour, and pick out sounds from it like threads in a sweater.”

“Yeah, it’s starting to make sense to me,” I said. “If dead saints could hear prayers, I don’t see why he can’t still hear the things he was most attuned to.”

Mae smiled, that wide lovely mouth going wider. “Like the day in that scrapyard, when the three of us found that big industrial boiler and made a drum out of it? Wasn’t that great?”

We laughed while miming the clumsy, brutal swings we’d taken at the thing with our two-handed cudgels, although I continued to keep to myself what Jamey and I had found inside that she’d never known about, and then Mae reached into the violin case for a soft cloth to wipe her instrument down.

“You know what I like about you and Rachel?” she said. “You never make me practice. You let me find my own pace.”

“Well…” I was demurring, because Rachel and I had talked about such things, and it was embarrassing to me to hear that we’d done something right. “We didn’t feel like imposing someone else’s standards of ambition on you.”

“Jamey, he was always after me to practice more, said how was I going to get anywhere without practicing.”

“Was this before or after he’d shoot up?”

“That Jamey,” she said, not unkindly, “always big on theory, he just couldn’t quite pull the rest of it together. Would’ve made somebody a decent manager, though, maybe.”

I said he might’ve at that, and watched as Mae set the violin in its case, and maybe it was the line of her jaw or the fall of her hair or the birdlike bones of her hand, but for a moment I was overcome with a sense of Mae’s fragility, hearing the collision of insanities and rush hour, and imagining all the things that could happen to her down there. Rape and murder and intimate arson. It was too much. Or just plain disappearance, like Andre now, his turn come around, because none of us had heard from him for days, and when for a moment I wondered what it would feel like to fling myself off the roof, I thought I might’ve understood some of the things that had guided that final needle into Jamey’s vein. You can’t protect anyone, really.

Which must be why prayers are needed.

Lately I’d lie awake each night, unable to sleep from the worry of it all, feeling our mingled heat under the covers, Mae between Rachel and me. I’d listen to their breathing, wondering how I’d react if one of them were to stop, or if someone with weapons and cruel intent came through a window or broke the door down, and I’d never tasted all these worries before, didn’t know where they were coming from or why, but by god there they were.

Unable to keep it all inside any longer, one night I crept out of bed and went to the western window in the kitchen to pray, Nihil, keep them safe, but felt no true connection, that it would take more than that to convince him to listen, and I didn’t have the advantage of a violin, or an anvil to drop on a car, a noise that Nihil might’ve liked in his earlier incarnation.

I drove away before anything could happen to them, out to the slaughterhouse, the woods and walls cold around me, until I stood in his chamber looking upon him. His arms were no longer over his shoulders, but lower now, woven into the springs with one thrust forward, fingers clawed as if demanding his due. I trained the flashlight over him, all bones and skinny cock, and when I dropped to my knees I left the light on his face, like an illumination from some medieval painting that Nathan might’ve once admired.

“Nihil,” I whispered, and in that stillness my whisper seemed to roar. “You knew them once, like you knew me, so help me keep them safe, help me protect them, because I need them so much…”

I kept praying, for minutes maybe, and didn’t stop until I saw a flicker behind Nihil’s dead lids, like the languid back and forth rolling of a dreamer’s eyes.

Turn out … the light, I thought I heard, even though no one’s lips had moved, can’t bear the light…

After a moment I obeyed, kneeling before him in darkness that the filtered moonlight from above could barely touch. From around me came the murmur of a relieved sigh, then soon, the erratic creaking of rusty bedsprings.

*

It was Jamey who, between opiate nods, made me consider the vitality of the ear in ways I might never have otherwise. Hearing is the first of our senses to connect us with the world, the only one to bridge that gulf before we’re born. In our envelopes of fluid and meat we see nothing, taste nothing, smell nothing, with nothing of the outer world to touch. But we can hear it.

The sounds of the world awaiting us have already imprinted us by the time we’re expelled into their sources, and even then we’ve spent months attuned to the body we’re grafted to, the rushing of blood and bubbling of gasses, the circadian flow of meals through the System. Although on a smaller scale it’s not so different from the music of we who traverse the sphere of the world, shuffling through a city’s bowels with no greater concept of our ends than a crust of bread or chunk of cheese.

So, if we’re prenatally imprinted by the world around us — and matter and energy being the same — who’s to say it can’t shape us somehow? That the neverending urban clatter and crash can’t become as familiar to some as a father’s voice; more, even?

Linking ideas like this was what gave Jamey and Nathan their most fertile common ground, like a pair of alchemists who realize they have the same formula written in different equations, and it was Nathan who provided the offhand historical footnote that may have explained the process of Jamey into Nihil:

The Catholic Mass, of all things.

*

So I spent a few days coming to terms with the fact that a friend of mine, clearly dead if unspoiled, had undergone this reawakening of sorts, and if at first I’d been intrigued and vaguely entertained by the notion, now I wasn’t so sure.

Used to, I’d taken solace in the belief that once I was dead, that’d be it, a total snuffage of my flickering spark, but Nihil had ruined everything. I’d heard the body squirm in its springs, heard it sigh and complain about the light, and coming back like that seemed the worst thing I could imagine. Jamey had only wanted to be dead — was nothing sacred? — and me, I’d spent too much time thinking about all the things I never wanted to be, with anything eternal strictly bottom of the list.

I couldn’t bear to burden Rachel and Mae with this, because Rachel was so happy that the other half of her sexuality was now out of its shell, and Mae saying how wonderfully relaxed things were with us as compared to her family in Los Angeles, all that tradition and old world servitude and everyone’s expectations of her being a world- class soloist if only she’d strive harder, and how everyone out there dumped on Koreans, even in the Asian community, especially the Japanese, because it’s just not life if you can’t lord it over someone. I hated to spoil their honeymoon.

Nathan. Nathan would help me through this crisis.

“Why are you telling me this?” was the first thing he said to me. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“But…” I said, and watched him scowl, something I’d never seen him do, not at me. “You were the one with the theories about this. If it hadn’t been for you, all I’d’ve thought was he’d been in a coma all this time.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Nathan was shaking his head, the two of us squared off in some bureaucratic line downtown where I’d confronted him, wasting another day outpaced by snails. “Don’t you get it, I was just basically bullshitting when I said that about his eyes, I didn’t expect you to take me seriously.”

“You didn’t see them blink?”