Dead and Alive

at every cliff’s edge, he could not take the final step. So in those long nights when he kept company with the dead, he argued with himself to embrace the necessity for self-destruction.

The proscription against suicide had not come from Victor.

In his earliest strivings for godhood, that vainglorious beast wasn’t able to program his first creation as well as he programmed those he brewed up these days. Victor had planted a device in Deucalion’s skull, which had cratered half the giant’s face when he tried to strike his maker. But Victor had not in those days been able to forbid suicide.

After years marked by a frustrated death wish as much as by rage, Deucalion had arrived at a humbling realization. The edict that so effectively stayed his hand from destroying himself came from a more powerful and infinitely more mysterious source than Victor. He was denied felo-de-se because he had a purpose in life, even if he could not — at that time — recognize what it might be, a vital mission that he must fulfill before final peace would be granted him.

Two hundred years had at last brought him to Louisiana, to this reeking wasteyard that was a trash dump and a graveyard. The pending storm would be not merely one of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, but also one of justice, judgment, execution, and damnation.

To his left, far out in the west pit, flames flickered. A dozen small fires moved one behind the other, as if they were torches held by people in a procession.

CHAPTER 42

Erika stood over the body of Christine for a minute, trying to understand why Victor had shot her to death.

Although Christine seemed to have become convinced that she was someone other than herself, she had not been threatening. Quite the opposite: She had been confused and distraught, and in spite of her contention that she was not “as fragile a spirit” as she might look, she had the air of a shy, uncertain girl not yet a woman.

Yet Victor shot her four times in her two hearts. And kicked her head twice, after she was dead.

Instead of wrapping the body for whoever would collect it and at once cleaning up the blood as instructed, Christine surprised herself by returning to the troll’s quarters in the north wing. She knocked softly and said sotto voce, “It’s me, Erika,” because she didn’t want to disturb the little guy if he was sitting in a corner, sucking on his toes, his mind having gone away to the red place to rest.

With a discretion that matched hers, he said, “Come in,” just loud enough for her to hear him when she pressed her ear to the door.

In the living room, she found him sitting on the floor in front of the dark fireplace, as if flames warmed the hearth.

Sitting beside him, she said, “Did you hear the gunshots?”

“No. Jocko heard nothing.”

“I thought you must have heard them and might be frightened.”

“No. And Jocko wasn’t juggling apples, either. Not Jocko. Not here in his rooms.”

“Apples? I didn’t bring you apples.”

“You are very kind to Jocko.”

“Would you like some apples?”

“Three oranges would be better.”

“I’ll bring you some oranges later. Is there anything else you would like?”

Although the troll’s unfortunate face could produce many expressions that might cause cardiac arrest in an entire pack of attacking wolves, Erika found him cute, if not most of the time, at least occasionally cute, like now.

Somehow his separately terrifying features conspired to come together in a sweet, yearning expression. His enormous yellow eyes sparkled with delight when he considered what else he might like in addition to the oranges.

He said, “Oh, there is a thing, a special thing, that I would like, but it’s too much. Jocko doesn’t deserve it.”

“If I’m able to get it for you,” she said, “I will. So what is this special thing?”

“No, no. What Jocko deserves is his nostrils pulled back to his eyebrows. Jocko deserves to hit himself hard in the face, to spit on his own feet, to stick his head in a toilet and flush and flush and flush, to tie a ten-pound sledgehammer to his tongue and throw the hammer over a bridge railing, that’s what Jocko deserves.”

“Nonsense,” said Erika. “You have some peculiar ideas, little friend. You don’t deserve such treatment any more than you would like the taste of soap.”

“I know better now about the soap,” he assured her.

“Good. And I’m going to teach you some self-esteem, too.”

“What is self-esteem?”

“To like yourself. I’m going to teach you to like yourself.”

“Jocko tolerates Jocko. Jocko doesn’t like Jocko.”

“That’s very sad.”

“Jocko doesn’t trust Jocko.”

“Why wouldn’t you trust yourself?”

Pondering her question, the troll smacked the flaps of his mouth for a moment and then said, “Let’s say Jocko wanted a knife.”

“For what?”

“Let’s say … for paring his toenails.”

“I can get you clippers for that.”

“But let’s just say. Let’s just say Jocko wanted a knife to pare his toenails, and let’s say it was really urgent. The toenails — see, they had to be pared right away, right away, or all hope was lost. So let’s say Jocko hurried to someplace like a kitchen to get the knife. What happens then is what always happens. Let’s say Jocko gets to the kitchen, and sees some … bananas, yes, that’s what he sees, a platter of bananas. Are you with Jocko so far?”

“Yes, I am,” she said.

His conversation was not always easy to follow, and sometimes it made no sense at all, but Erika could tell that this mattered to Jocko a great deal. She wanted to understand. She wanted to be there for him, her secret friend.

“So,” he continued, “Jocko goes all the way to the kitchen. It’s a long way because this house is so big … this imaginary house we’re talking about somewhere, like maybe San Francisco, a big house. Jocko needs to pare his toenails right away. If he doesn’t, all is lost! But Jocko sees bananas. The next thing Jocko knows, Jocko is juggling bananas, capering around the kitchen in San Francisco. Capering or cartwheeling, or pirouetting, or some stupid, stupid, stupid thing. Jocko forgets about the knife until it’s too late to trim toenails, too late, the toenails are gone, Jocko has screwed up again, it’s all over, it’s the end of EVERYTHING!”

Erika patted his warty shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s okay.”

“Do you see what Jocko means?”

“Yes, I do,” she lied. “But I’d like to think about what you’ve said for a while, a day or so, maybe a week, before I respond.”

Jocko nodded. “That’s fair. It was a lot for Jocko to dump on you. You’re a good listener.”

“Now,” she said, “let’s go back to the one special thing you would like but don’t think you deserve.”

That sweet, yearning expression returned to his face, and none too soon. His huge yellow eyes sparkled with excitement as he said, “Oh, oh goodness, oh, how Jocko would like a funny hat!”

“What kind of funny hat?”

“Any kind. Just so it’s very funny.”

“I won’t be able to find a funny hat tonight.”