Moth

of time.”

She was silent a moment, then said, “I’d like that too, Lew.”

“Good. I guess I’d better try to get some sleep now.”

“Take care.”

I hung up and watched my neighbors pull the Tempo back into its slot, get out together and go back into their room.

An hour later I got up and, sitting naked on the side of the bed, improvising abbreviations in my rush to get it all down, scribbled ten pages of notes.

In a featureless gray room with light slanting in through windows set high in the wall a man says goodbye to a group of men we slowly realize are his fellow prisoners, the community he’s lived among for almost ten years. He is being released because another man has confessed to the murder for which he was convicted, and which he in fact committed. He distributes his few possessions: half a carton of cigarettes, a transistor radio, a badly pilled cardigan. No one says much of anything. He turns and walks to the door, where a guard joins him to escort him out. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do,” Bad Billy says behind him, but he can’t imagine anything Bad Billy would not do-or hasn’t done, for that matter. He will go out into the world and find that he is absolutely alone and hopelessly unsuited for the narrow life available to him. And so he will invent a life, a thing that makes a virtue of his apartness, cobbled together from routine, false memories, old movies, half-read books. Until one day a woman will come suddenly, unexpectedly (“like a nail into cork”) into his life’s ellipsis to disrupt it; and, as he struggles up out of his aloneness, as he fights against his own instincts and the circumstances of his life just to make this single human connection, his careful, wrought life collapses. When he steps out into sunlight now, it blinds him.

Those ten pages, virtually word for word as I scribbled them in the motel room that night, became the first chapter, and the very heart, of Mole, a book unlike anything else I had written, purely fiction in that every character, every scene was invented, purely true in that it is in purest form the story of all our lives.

Chapter Nineteen

The desk clerk and I obviously were not destined to become close friends. He wasn’t accustomed to taking messages for guests and didn’t like it much, and as I came in from the hospital the next morning, he motioned at me through the front glass (a hand held high, opening and closing twice, as though waving good-bye to himself) then wordlessly shoved a couple of slips of paper over to me.

Of course, one had to take into account that he seemed to work around the clock-whenever my erratic va et vient took me by the office, day or night, I’d look in and see him here-which is enough to make even one of Rilke’s angels growl.

Teresa had called to let me know that, minutes after I left the unit that morning, someone had tried to reach me. I flipped over to the second slip of paper, which just read Camaro, then back to the first. Said you might want to check out a house in Moon Point. No direct connection that he knows, but things happen there. Hope this makes sense to you, Lew. And an address, of sorts.

They grow their boys tough out there by the catfish channels, I want you to know, and they ain’t about to bend over for no big-city dude in a coat and tie.

I always forget how very much alike rural and inner-city attitudes are.

Asking at the motel office, a gas station nearby, another on the highway and, finally, a postman I drove by a couple of times on a dirt road six or eight miles outside Clarksville, I found the house, a two-story frame, white many years ago. A jeep and a ‘55 Chevy rusted away on blocks in the front yard. There were some appliances, including a vintage avocado refrigerator, sitting at precarious angles at the side of the house. A tractor covered in vines at the back. Two Mustangs and a BMW in the circular front drive.

I knocked at the door and politely inquired after Alouette to the young man in the beige silk suit and black T- shirt who eventually answered. A relative, I told him.

“Ain’t here,” he said after a moment.

“Thank you. But allow me to make an assumption, possibly unwarranted, from that. To wit: that she has, at some unspecified point in the past, been here, though she is not presently.”

“Say what?”

Another youngish man, unseen, joined him at the door: “What’s up, Clutch?”

“Nigger looking for his squeeze.”

“Yeah? He think we run some kind of dating service here? Tell him to get missing.”

“You heard the man,” Silky said.

“What man? All I heard’s your boy hiding back there behind the door.”

Silky sighed, and said door flew open. I have to tell you he was one ugly black man. Someone had been really creative with a knife or razor down both sides of his face and in one long jagged pull across his neck. The nose had spent as much time taped as not. He would have struck terror in all hearts, save for his stature: he was well under five feet tall. His body looked to be normal size, but everything else seemed oddly foreshortened. Neck, arms, legs, fingers. Temper.

“I got your assumption, motherfucker. Right here.”

“Excuse me,” I said, looking straight ahead, “I hear something, but I don’t see anyone.”

Which was how I got the shit beat out of me again. Or how it started, anyway. I’d never make it as a standup comic, I guess.

The first guy went low, tumbling me over, as his dwarfish buddy scrambled up my back like a chimp and started hammering temples and kicking kidneys with considerable fervor. The taller one was trying valiantly to get a knee into my groin. I reached down and grabbed his nuts, crushing them together in my fist, bringing him up off the floor like an epileptic.

At the same time, holding on, I reached out and snagged in my left hand a thick wedge of wood used in warmer days to hold the door ajar. Slammed it hard into the dwarf’s mouth, as teeth caught at it and sinews, possibly the mandible, gave. Lodged it there.

I had a dim, peripheral perception of others standing just inside the door, watching.

I got up onto my knees. Blood ran down my face. I tossed my head to clear it out of my eyes. My lower back throbbed with pain and for days, whenever I peed, the water in the bowl went red.

“Where’s Alouette?”

“Man, if we knew, we’d tell you.”

This was from the tall guy, kind of grunting it out, hugging his nuts with both hands.

“Go on.”

“She be here a coupla times. Been a while.”

“How long?”

No response. I set the heel of my hand against the wedge and drove it in deeper. This time the mandible gave for sure.

“Jesus, man,” Silky said. “I don’t know. A week, maybe two.”

“Mrff, gdfftm, lfft,” the dwarf said. Blood bubbled up out of his nose when he breathed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Silky said.

Probably not.

I stopped off at the Clarksville Regional ER for stitches and X rays. Nothing was broken, but everything hurt like hell. What else was new? I declined Tylenol 3, went back to my room, swallowed half a handful of aspirin and poured three fingers of scotch into the plastic cup. Watched part of a movie about child abuse. Poured another drink. Fell asleep there in the chair.

Then someone was pounding at my door.

I opened it. Sergeant Travis had two quart-size Styrofoam containers of coffee balanced piggyback in one hand, a paper bag of doughnuts in the other.

“Thought you might could use this.”

He held out the cups so I could take one and came on in. Put the bag on the dresser. The TV was still on and