Solves your problems. What could we have done with the guy anyway? Let him go? No. Squeeze a trigger and the problem goes away.
Mortimer considered his brief interrogation of the Red Stripe. Somewhere a ghostly, mysterious leader pulled the strings of a reluctant army. This too must be part of the natural order. It was too much to hope that the world might be left to heal on its own. Society had always been defined by its antagonists. The Greeks fought the Romans and the Romans battled the barbarians. Now the desperate and bedraggled refugees of a broken civilization had the Red Stripes to deal with. It depressed Mortimer to think that conflict was the natural state of the universe. It all started with a Big Bang, and it would just bang and bang and bang until it banged itself out.
No wonder Nietzsche said people would need to invent God if He didn’t exist.
Stupid Kraut.
Who decided to invent Nietzsche?
One of Anne’s books. She had so many egghead books, wanted to go to the University of Memphis to study philosophy, but Mortimer had talked her out of it. He had talked her out of so much. Talked her out of living. Oh, God. No wonder she’d left him.
Nine years to figure that out.
Jesus.
That night they made camp in the middle of Interstate 75, the husks of old cars on three sides of them providing shelter from the wind. Over a modest campfire, Bill fried the last of the suspicious sausages Sheila had liberated from the Joey’s pantry.
“I should have asked him if anyone else made it out,” Sheila said.
Mortimer looked up. He’d been nodding off. “What?”
“The Red Stripe. Whatshisname.”
“Paul,” Bill said.
“I should have asked Paul if any of the other girls made it out. I tried to find them before we left, but I guess they were with clients. I hope they’re okay.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” Mortimer didn’t believe it for a second.
“Sure.”
For a moment, she seemed to want to say more, but maybe she didn’t know how. She rolled over and went to sleep. After a while a sound like soft crying came from her side of the campfire, but it was difficult to tell over the howl of wind through the busted-out car windows.
They next morning they started walking again, every muscle in Mortimer’s body groaning from sleeping on the ground.
By midday he spotted the remains of Chattanooga’s insignificant skyline, humping up from the horizon like the yellowed bones of some long-lost skeleton rising from the dead.
XXVIII
Sheila told Mortimer this: The Chattanooga Joey Armageddon’s (the Joey Armageddon’s, the first, the prototype, the home office) was at the top of Lookout Mountain.
This is what Mortimer knew about Lookout Mountain:
When he was ten years old, his father had taken him. There was a legitimate Civil War memorial at the top, a historical landmark, flags, cannons, etc. Additionally there were a few cheesy tourist destinations in the area. Ruby Falls, a long cave with an underground waterfall at the end. The proprietors shone a red spotlight on the rushing water to give it the “ruby” effect. At certain times of the year, the underground river that fed the falls slowed to a sad trickle. But nobody wanted to go to a tourist attraction called Ruby Trickle. Another place: Rock City was a collection of unique rock formations connected by flimsy bridges and walkways. Ceramic gnomes had been placed strategically to heighten the cheese factor. To a ten-year-old Mortimer it had all seemed like a magical land of wonder and enchantment.
As an adult, these wonders were much less wondrous. One Labor Day weekend, a year after his wedding, Mortimer had taken Anne to see the sights. He’d talked her out of attending a Shakespeare festival.
Anne had not been amused. It was a blisteringly hot day, and she was dirty and sweat-stained by the time they’d finished touring Rock City. Even Mortimer wondered why he’d thought the trip would be a good idea. Looking around he’d seen only families. Moms and dads with two or three kids on the loose. The realization had hit him palpably in the gut that a hot summer day among ceramic gnomes might not have been his father’s idea of a good time. The things parents did for their kids.
Not knowing what else to do, Mortimer had pressed on, taking Anne to Ruby Falls. At least the caves would be cooler. The gift shops were filled with the bright debris of future spring cleanings.
At the end of Anne and Mortimer’s long cave tour, the music swelled, and suddenly, in the total darkness, the red spotlight had blazed forth to illuminate a pathetic trickle of water. A recorded voice boomed Behold Ruby Falls!
In the indifferent silence that followed, while the bored tour group shuffled and looked over their shoulders for the exit, Anne suddenly burst out laughing. It had all been so ridiculous, the big buildup, all for a little dribble into a puddle. Mortimer had started laughing too, and kitsch value had saved the weekend, at least a little. They adjourned to a Mexican cafe and got slightly drunk on watery margaritas. They’d had fun, but Mortimer had always been aware that in some important way, on some important level, he and Anne weren’t fully connected. Perhaps she would have thought the same about him if they’d ended up at the Shakespeare festival.
One last memory struck Mortimer with wry amusement.
