(Yeah, but at least now you can’t bullshit yourself into thinking it happened any other way. Good-bye to all the happy pills the doctors have given to you.)
You waiting for me to thank you?
(Like the hero always says at the end of the movie, My Work Here is Done. Doesn’t mean shit to me whether you thank me or not.)
Pulling myself up into something like a standing position once again, I cleaned the blood and disinfected the wound as best I could, applied the gauze pads, put the splints in place with some of the medical tape, then tightly wrapped my hand in the elastic bandage; I was able to move only my thumb and index finger without much pain, the rest of my hand was swollen and useless. I looked down at the Mossberg. I had seven shots left in it and a full clip in the pistol. Sixteen shots altogether. Assuming that I was able to retrieve the shotgun if I dropped it again.
I bent my right thumb and index finger several times to make sure they were still working. Satisfied they weren’t going to lock up on me, I sat down on the closed toilet lid and balanced the Mossberg on my lap. I slipped my right index finger over the trigger and situated my thumb in the proper position on the handle-grip; my other three fingers I arranged as best I could, making sure that the right side of my middle finger was parallel to the underside of the trigger-guard, then I used half the roll of duct tape to bind my hand to the shotgun. No way was this going to come out of my hand or be taken away from me.
That done, I tore one of the remaining gauze pads in two and wadded up the halves to use as ear plugs-if I had to fire again, I wanted some protection against the noise.
After that, I opened the cabinet over the sink where my storage habits are a little more traditional; cough syrup, aspirin, throat lozenges, and… where was it?
There.
The same accident that had necessitated the finger splints last year had also brought with it a prescription for painkillers, most of which I still had left. God bless codeine.
I popped the lid off the plastic bottle and tossed two of the tablets into my mouth, then twisted down so I could drink some water from the tap. All better now (or telling myself I was, anyway), I put the bottle in my pants pocket, ran my good hand through my hair, and looked at my reflection in the mirror. If I saw this fellow on the street, I’d cross to the other side and run like hell.
I turned away and started toward the front of the house.
There was something going on there that Bowler wanted me to see.
The mist was pressing against the remaining windows. I wondered how much longer it would be content to do that before deciding to just smash through the glass-and if I doubted it had the ability to change into something solid, I had only to look at the wreckage of my right hand.
I opened the front door and leveled the shotgun.
About nine of them stood scattered around the front yard, arms folded across their chests, bowlers perfectly straight, goggles shooting out thin red beams that in places formed “X”s when they crisscrossed with those from another Bowler’s. Something about their stances suggested they were waiting for something important to happen.
On the periphery of the thrumming in my ears I began to hear… music. Muffled at first, until someone turned up the volume and the bass began to register in my bones; then a harsh, nasal voice began singing words, something about soldiers, tin soldiers, yes: tin soldiers and Nixon Ohio.
Someone was playing Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s “Ohio.”
Three Bowlers who’d been standing beyond my field of vision emerged from the mist and started toward the porch. Their movements were deliberate and exact; dancers executing a carefully choreographed ballet routine. One of them wore an absurd wig of long, straight blonde hair beneath his hat. Another carried a boom-box from which the song was blaring. I leveled the Mossberg and took a step forward, taking care to make sure the screen door didn’t close behind me.
The first Bowler held up a white placard like those used in old vaudeville acts; written on it were the words: THE DOUBLE-DUBYA PLAYERS PRESENT. Then he backed away, bowing his head and parting his arms, taking the boom-box from the second one’s hand.
The second one, using overblown, melodramatic gestures, clutched at his chest and dropped to his knees, then fell face-first against the ground. The third Bowler went down on one knee, arms parted at his sides like a Celebrant blessing the Hosts at Mass; the long straight hair of his wig caught on a breeze I couldn’t feel and blew slightly to the right.
The others began to applaud, but then Magritte-Man came stomping forward like a petulant child, wildly waving his hands in the air, silencing them. He grabbed the two performers and wordlessly moved them into different positions.
That’s not exactly correct. He moved them back into the same positions, only this time facing away from me, frozen in tableau except for the hair of the wig, which now blew to my left.
I couldn’t move.
They’d recreated the Kent State scene almost perfectly. After all, this was the angle from which I’d seen it. From behind.
The song reached its final chorus as Magritte-Man stepped back, examined his players, then threw his arms in the air and bobbed his head with great enthusiasm. The Bowlers already scattered throughout the yard broke into loud and enthusiastic applause, a few even placing fingers in their mouths to whistle.
As “Ohio” ended, Magritte-Man tapped his players on their shoulders and the three of them joined hands to take a bow; first for the overjoyed audience in the yard, then, turning around and clasping hands again, for me.
Behind them, the mist swirled and churned, forming the faces of countless animals; dogs, cats, horses, pigs, cows, swans, bears, and more. Some of them were of species so foreign or exotic they could be seen only in zoos or the pages of National Geographic.
Each of these mist-animals cried out in their own primal language, as if to echo the sentiments of the audience and express their pleasure with this evening’s entertainment. The players turned and bowed to the spectators once again. The applause swelled, heads nodded in admiration, red beams danced and bounced through the glowing silver gloom.
As the applause began to die down, Magritte-Man turned to face me, holding another white placard. He smiled, then pulled the placard away to reveal yet another underneath, only where the previous one had been blank, this one had a word written in large black letters:
RING
He tossed it aside to reveal the next:
ANY
Then the next:
BELLS?
“How did you know?” I shouted, my voice creating heavy ripples of gummy pain inside my skull. “How the fuck could you know? It’s been thirty goddamn years since-”
He tossed aside the BELLS? placard to unveil a new one, then another, then another and another, until he’d said what he wanted to say:
YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHO TOLD US ABOUT IT
I was shaking so violently I thought my internal organs were going to drop out through the legs of my pants. “No riddles- who told you? ”
Another card:
GUESS.
But I didn’t have to. I’d known the answer since WELL.
I moved forward another step. The Mossberg felt like it had fused to my hand, flesh and steel becoming the organic tissue of a new limb.
“Tell me,” I said to him. “I want you to say it. I want to hear your voice, if you’ve got one. If it’s going to be like this, I want for us to have spoken once as civilized men.” I aimed directly at his chest. “So you tell me what-”
He pointed at the Mossberg, then waved his other hand to draw the Bowlers’ attention, as well; as he did
