Absolute Zero

. .

Sometimes there was more than nothing.

Glimpses.

Damaged snapshots from a burned family album. All alone in the dark theater of his head, he became a child again, waiting for the show to start.

I remember. .

And suddenly he was there with his first memory. .

Mom.

She was strongly made, a dark-haired farm girl with large hands, on a rubber pad on red linoleum, scrubbing, down on her knees with a can of Babbo and a pail at her side. She’d put out the front page of the Detroit News to keep Hank off the wet floor, and the grainy picture on the newsprint was gritty black and white and showed soldiers raising a flag above a scrub of brush.

She was first-generation American, with cousins fighting for Hitler and a husband in the Pacific killing Japs. He remembered the cool, sticky scent of lipstick, powdery cosmetics on soft leather, and the smell of Chesterfields in her purse. The war was everywhere. Like fat, black victory germs, the endless factory smoke sprinkled down on the snowbanks.

At play in the summer backyard, among tomato plants that grew up in humid green waves down in the hot tickling dirt, under the leaves, in the emerald-filtered light, he dug holes for his toy soldiers. Tiny khaki vinyl men. Dappled shadows.

Like the island jungles on the other side of the world where his dad. .

First song. An old scratchy 78.

“Feudin’, Fussin’, and a Fighting” by Dorothy Shay.

The song played on the night his dad came home from the Pacific. Dad was hugs and tumbling on the floor, a smell of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. Whiskers.

Two years later they were both gone, instantly, in a head-on crash. Mom’s sister raised him after that. Holy Roller Church four times a week to keep him out of trouble.

Sister Wolf at the young people’s meeting on Friday night would work her pimply congregation with guilt and shame, and then close the sale with cold-war terror. The bombers, she would say, have left Russia and are coming to drop their atom bombs. You better give your soul to Jesus tonight. And during the altar call he learned to go forward in the second wave, so the preachers were busy laying hands on the first rush and he’d slink on his knees right through the thrashing of the Holy Ghost and creep out the back door of the basement auditorium and sneak a cigarette in the alley.

First bike. Schwinn. Red. With fat, treaded tires pebbles got stuck in and clicked on the sidewalk.

First woman. Halloween night, 1960, his freshman year at Wayne State in Detroit. She was older, a high-breasted Canadian graduate student down from Toronto for a party, impressed enough with his persistence to take on his sexual education. Set the bar real high for all the slow American girls to follow.

. .

The first man he killed. .

. .

But then he heard the words. .

“So here’s the thing,” Jolene thought out loud as she ran the suction wand over Hank’s gums and around his tongue. “Whatever I did before, I haven’t done any of it since I’ve been sober.

“Remember what you said about drunks being lucky because they can reinvent themselves? How they can lump all the bad stuff they did together and flush it down the past. What I’m shooting for here is to see you through this thing to make my amends. The problem is goddamn Earl doesn’t seem to get it.”

She fluffed the pillows behind his neck. “Earl doesn’t think people can change. For sure not me. He’s sort of the original antipersonal growth hormone in that regard.” She fingered his chin and touched his cheek. “And you. I think you’re due for a shave.”

She left and returned with a plastic razor, shaving cream, a bowl of hot water, and a towel. As her hand glided the razor over the familiar contours of Hank’s face, her eyes wandered the room, remembering how they’d worked together, Sheetrocking and taping the walls, building the bookcases, both of them in T-shirts and jeans spotted with paint, eating ham and cheese on rye, drinking Cokes.

They both tried to quit smoking the first time in this room, after they’d fooled around on the floor amid piles of books.

All those books. Had he really read them?

Could she someday? Before she met Hank the most she’d read at one sitting was People magazine.

“We had a pretty good time for a while,” she said, carefully wiping the lather from his face and neck. She clicked her teeth and hunched her shoulders. The house surrounded her like an expensive train wreck.

Her train wreck, goddammit.

She patted Hank on the cheek and walked over to the books Earl had tipped to the floor. She stooped, collected them, and methodically put them back on the shelves. That was Earl for you. He threw tantrums. He could be a violent child.

Then, after the temper subsided, he would be sweet. But he never apologized for the tantrums. The good and the bad alternated. There was no-Hank’s word-synthesis. No learning from experience.

Like she was trying to do.

Jolene felt the amputated craving for a cigarette. She shoved her hands in her pockets.

She and Earl had been born on the same day, the same hour, in the same hospital in Minneapolis. They had the same astrological pedigree. Mars conjunct Pluto. Biker stars, Earl called it. Deep, powerful urges for both good and evil. They were biker’s stars because Earl said the Hell’s Angel’s credo meant you had to know the difference between good and evil.

And choose the evil.

She knew all this because they’d had their charts done by Lana Pieri who lived down the block when they were high school sophomores in Robbinsdale. “This is some heavy shit,” Lana said. “You guys could go either way.”

“Or both ways at once,” Earl said, grinning.

There was this part of AA where you admit to God and one other person the exact nature of your wrongs, and she had told Hank how she’d had a part in killing a man once during her wild phase.

She knew about the jokes that Allen and Milt told about her and Earl being Bonnie and Clyde. Well, Allen and Milt were pretty perceptive guys. Because that freezing night outside of Bismarck, North Dakota, at that isolated convenience store with the one sorry gas pump out in front, that’s exactly who they were. Driving straight through from Minneapolis on no sleep and no food, a nickel bag of grass, two six-packs of Blatz, Earl’s guitar, an amp, and one suitcase.

They were hungry and broke, working mean drunk-dares back and forth inside a stolen ’89 Camaro. And it was so cold it made you crazy. Colder than Minnesota, if that was possible.

This time she was going in with the gun because she just wanted to get warm. So Earl handed her the gun he’d stolen from his uncle, a Colt.45 automatic, a big military keepsake that weighed as much as her mom’s klunky old handheld electric mixer.

So she went in and the guy behind the counter licked his lips and hitched his cowboy belt buckle up under his round cowboy beer belly and grinned at her like she was Sheena of the Prairie or something, for sure the best thing he ever saw come swinging into his graveyard shift. And she didn’t really enjoy the frog-eyed, dry-swallow gulp of sheer animal fear the big pistol produced on his startled face. And she understood exactly the problem with guns when instead of handing over the money from the till he reached right through his first fear and under the counter for a gun of his own.

The thing about guns was, if you took one of them out and pointed it at a person you better be ready to use it.