“Uh feeg lig shid.”
Conrad coughed a little, passed some gas in a hissing manner, and quit breathing.
“I was going to climb up there,” Frost said. “I was going up there this morning. It was supposed to be me.”
U.S. Grant, who had not spoken, but had stopped screaming, eased up slowly, fell to her knees next to Conrad. She took hold of him and lowered him so that he could lie on his side without his feet sticking up in the air. His extended eyeball became bathed in green paint, and now blood ran out from him in gluts and blended with it.
“He was going to surprise you two,” U.S. Grant said. “He heard Bill say there was painting to do yet. A bucket left. He got the paint out of the car. He couldn’t sleep because he wanted to surprise you.”
“Jesus,” Bill said.
“He climbed up there when daylight came. I was fixing him breakfast. He was going to finish and eat breakfast. I heard the bucket shift, and… He was going to finish up and eat breakfast.”
“It’s my fault,” Bill said.
“No,” Frost said, tears running down his cheeks. “It’s my fault.”
“That’s right,” U.S. Grant said. “Your fault. You had to have that rattletrap. No one but Phil knew how to really fasten it together. You had to have it though. And you had to have it painted right away. You always have to have things right away. He always wanted to please you, Frost. Always. We always want to please you, but you’re not so smart. You fucked up. You and your goddamn idea.”
“I know,” Frost said. He reached out his hand and ran it through Conrad’s paint-caked smattering of hair.
A blackness went over Bill. He got up and stumbled, fell down, got up, stumbled again.
As he groped his way toward his trailer, Gidget came out of the motor home. She had stopped to comb her hair and put on lipstick. She was wearing a pair of simple blue pajamas and a pajama top with a bright bird of paradise embroidered on the left side above her heart. She wore little blue house shoes with round blue cotton balls on the toes. She looked out at Frost and Conrad and U.S. Grant, then she looked at Bill, but she looked his way for only a moment, then she sighed deep, swallowed, took a deep breath, and went running out to Frost, screaming, screaming, as if it was she who had fallen.
Twenty-nine
US. Grant carried Conrad to her trailer and wiped him clean with paint thinner and paper towels, got his eye back inside its socket with the aid of tweezers and a couple of cotton balls and strip of Scotch tape.
It looked better than the other eye, which had met the ground and was like a grape stepped on by a size twelve. She cut a strip from her dress and made a string and patch from it, and after she cleaned him off good and dressed him in his red overalls, she tied the patch over the mashed eye and combed his wad of hair. She put both his shoes on him, then she wrapped him in a quilt.
Frost and one of the pumpkin heads carried the body from her trailer to the Pickled Punk trailer and placed him behind the Pickled Punks, on the floor pallet, next to a deck of cards, under the wrinkled picture of Jesus in pain.
Frost called the police then.
Inside the Ice Man’s trailer Bill took the little stack of Westerns Conrad had given him and piled them neatly and arranged them by his bed in rows, then he restacked them on top of the Ice Man’s freezer and sat on the bed and looked at them and tried to remember what each of them was about. He sat there until tears came, and then he shook his head and rolled onto the bed and cried and fell asleep to hide from the pain.
The police came out in a while, and they asked everyone out of their trailers and got stories from everyone, and they took names, and Bill gave a false last name that no one had heard before and had no reason to doubt. Down deep he wanted to give his real name and hope it meant something. He wanted to be taken away and punished.
The cops didn’t seem to think there were any signs of foul play, even if the body had been cleaned up, and Pete didn’t tell how he sucked a pecker and had seen Bill down by the river. Most likely he had already forgotten it. They only asked Pete a couple of questions, then decided it was a little like interviewing a turnip.
The police went away and Bill went back to his trailer wearing his guilt like a second skin. He was there fifteen minutes when he heard something outside. He pulled on his pants and went out barefooted. Frost was on a little step stool and he had a bucket of soap and water. There was a can of paint thinner on the ground. He was cleaning the paint off the trailer with a brush and a rag.
“Leave it alone!” Bill said. “Leave it alone!”
“Whoa, Bill, it’s okay.”
“Ain’t nothing okay. Conrad’s dead!”
“I know how you feel.”
“You don’t know shit. He ain’t dead more than a few hours and you’re cleaning the trailer.”
“It has to be cleaned, Bill. We don’t want Conrad’s legacy to be green paint on the trailer and a brush stuck to the window. I’d rather not be reminded.”
“Well, I want to be reminded. I want out of this whole thing. I’m sick of being in this trailer. I’m sick of the Ice Man. I’m sick of you. I’m sick of this goddamn carnival. You don’t give a shit he’s dead.”
Bill went inside the trailer and slammed the door. A moment later Frost came inside and took a chair and sat with his hands in his lap, watching Bill lie in bed snuggling a pillow.
“Conrad meant a lot to me.”
“Yeah. Tell me you raised him from a pup.”
“You forget, Bill, when you first came here, you thought these people were retards, niggers, just freaks. It was I who told you different. I put you in this trailer for a purpose. I wanted you to be with the Ice Man.”
“Well, I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like how he makes you feel. Do you ever wonder why he makes you feel that way?”
“He don’t make me feel any kind of way.”
“Sometimes I think he’s some kind of messenger for us all. That whatever each of us wants to see, we see it in him.”
“That’s silly.”
“Could be. That little story I tell to the people who come to see him. I have to tell it that way, but it’s not the truth.”
Bill grew attentive in spite of himself.
“Do you know who Constantine was?”
Bill shook his head.
“A Roman emperor. He explored Jerusalem looking for holy locations where Christ had been. Where he had been crucified, where he had been buried. He claimed that the body lay in a church there. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Many believe it is still there, hidden away somewhere. Others believe it was never there. Some believe Constantine had it removed. He feared if anyone knew where it was, they might try to take it. Like the ark of the covenant, the body of Christ would have powers. Or at least people would think it did.”
Bill slowly swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward.
“It is thought that the body was preserved with methods we no longer know. The body was hidden for fear it would be stolen, desecrated. Things changed in the Middle East. One upheaval after another. The body disappeared, or so some esoteric scholars claim. It is thought to have somehow found its way out of Jerusalem and to the United States. Was owned by an eccentric millionaire who also had the diary of the true Jack the Ripper, the severed dried head of John the Baptist, and Rasputin’s penis, though his daughter disputes this and says she has it. And she certainly has something. It looks like a blackened banana. Anyway, that’s not the point. A lot of money changed hands, it’s said, and this millionaire bought the body of Christ. In time, the millionaire died, and somehow, perhaps one of his relatives, bitter for some reason, a nonbeliever, whatever, sold it to the carnival. This made it no less sacred. It allowed the Savior to be exposed to many people. I bought that exhibit and was told this story by the
