Coven

Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.

The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. “I knew he was serious about her,” Wade said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”

“Bad isn’t the word. Jerv’s a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself.”

“Too many things,” Wade concluded. “I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway.”

“You just never liked her ’cause she’s the only girl on campus who never made a play for you.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m the sharpest looking dude in the state doesn’t mean I’m conceited.”

Tom laughed out loud.

After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.

“Jervis, I didn’t mean to shake you up,” Wade apologized.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jervis sat down. “You guys are right. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me.”

“Now you’re talking,” Tom said.

Wade pointed to the bowl. “Eat your gumbo. It’s good for you.”

Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: “She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they’d been friends for a while, about how caring and ‘sweet’ he was, and all of a sudden she didn’t love me anymore. She’d stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn’t realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore. And the last line”—Jervis gulped—“the last line of the letter was ‘Have a nice life.’”

“Serious bummer,” Tom commented.

“Oh, man,” Wade said. “That really sucks.”

Jervis continued, as if speaking from the grave. “I made mistakes, sure. I’m not perfect. But true love is supposed to make up for man’s imperfections. Love, real love, is supposed to be enough.”

Ordinarily Wade wouldn’t have been too concerned; this was just more of Jervis’ rhetoric. But although the words were the same, the spirit in which they’d been spoken was entirely different. The spirit was finality—total loss. This was not just another girl dumps boy story. This was dissolution of self.

But Jervis slapped his hands down as if to prove he’d roused himself. “Anyway, enough of my moaning and groaning,” he asserted. “There’s nothing worse than a sad sack feeling sorry for himself. Things just got out of hand for a few weeks. But I’m okay now, really.”

“You sure about that?” Wade questioned.

“Positive. Time to get back to my life.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tom said.

But Wade felt sad; he could see through this. Jervis’ smile was as false as one carved in clay. Despite the smile, there was nothing left for him but his loss. Wade could see it in an instant: Jervis was never going to get over this, no matter how happy he tried to act.

««—»»

• A student named Nina McCulloch lay awake. Above the bed hung a crucifix. Nina believed fervently in God, and she believed that Jesus had died for her sins. In the next room, through the wall, she could hear her roommate, Elizabeth, who clearly didn’t believe in God. Elizabeth had invited friends over to do drugs. They did drugs most every night, and this bothered Nina. Drugs were a manifestation of Satan, and people who did them became incarnates of the devil. Nina found that she could not easily sleep when all that separated her from the Lord of Darkness was one mere dorm wall. All night long Elizabeth and her friends inhaled the satanic white powder while Nina tossed and turned and prayed in snatches for God to protect her from evil.

• A man named Czanek waited in the vacant parking lot. Eventually his client pulled up in a silver Rolls Royce. The headlights flashed. Hokey, Czanek thought. He got into the Rolls. “Good evening,” the client said. “Has the matter returned to normal?” “No,” Czanek said. “Same guy, same moves, and I keep picking up weird stuff on the bugs. They keep mentioning trances.” “Trances?” “Trances. I can’t figure it.” “Keep on it,” the client said. Czanek handed him the manila folder, which contained pictures. The client thumbed through them and remarked: “Amusing.” Why would a guy want to keep seeing pictures of his wife fucking another man? But, hey, it was his money. The client passed him an envelope full of ten hundred dollar bills. “Next week,” the client said. “Yes, sir,” Czanek replied, “and don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. If they try to make a move on you, I’ll know. I’ll protect you.” “Do you really think that’s what’s happening? The insurance, the inheritance?” “Could be,” Czanek said. Suddenly the client was hugging him, sobbing. “Protect me! I’m afraid!” This was embarrassing. Czanek tried to console the old man: “Don’t worry, if that fat scumbag tries to move on you, I’ll blow his shit away from a thousand yards.” “Would you really do that? For me?” Of course he would. What, kiss all this money goodbye? “I’ll protect you,” Czanek repeated, and patted the client’s shoulder. He went back to his own car. The Rolls drove off. The client’s name was Saltenstall.

• A cop named Porker sat at the booking desk, eating a box of cream filled doughnuts. Another cop named Peerce sat at the super’s desk, flipping the cylinder of his Ruger Blackhawk and musing over a glossy mag called Cum Shot Revue. Another cop named White sat in the back office. The door was locked. He was counting this month’s grease. Still another cop named Lydia Prentiss sat alone in her bed, wondering where her life had gone.

• A student named Lois Hartley sat on her boyfriend’s couch. The boy was named Zyro, and he was typing his latest manuscript, “Billy Bud 1991,” which he claimed was about “man’s inhumanity to man, a psychical allegory depicting the suppression of spiritual freedom through capitalistic coercion.” It was also about “the resulting self parasitism of corporate tyranny.” To the publishers, though, it was about bullshit. Lois watched Night of the Living Dead on cable. “It’s about zombies,” she said. “It’s not about zombies!” Zyro yelled back. “It’s about the hunted within the sanctuary of the hunter! It’s about the cyclic futility of the black race trapped in a white supremist world! It’s not about zombies!” Lois Hartley sighed. It’s about zombies, you asshole.

• Two more students named Stella and Liddy were playing Strip Twister with a third student named David Willet. They played lots of games together. Others were Grease the Cucumber, Eat it Off, and Human Sandwich. David Willet’s nickname was “Do Horse,” which he’d earned the first time he took his clothes off in the locker room.

• A handsome young man named Wilhelm exclaimed, “Gott! Was ist dies scheiss?” The TV picture had winked out. “Willy, what’s wrong?” his new American girlfriend, Sarah, asked. “Your Americana television ist piece of scheiss.” “It’s Japanese,” Sarah scolded. “Das right, you Americana do not even support your own economy.” Sarah’s cat, Frid, purred from atop the refrigerator. “Forget about the TV,” Sarah cooed. She dropped her robe and was nude beneath.

• A man named Sladder drove hurriedly toward the campus power station. “Dag power failures,” he muttered. “Blam it!” But suddenly a headache developed. It was so intense he had to pull over and stop.

• Nina McCulloch’s roommate and friends were still in the next room doing drugs and ministering to Satan, the Great Deceiver. Please forgive them, God, Nina prayed. “They’re coming to get you, Barbara,” she heard from the TV. They’re coming to get you Nina, she thought sleepily. She dreamed of something huge falling—Satan. But the closer it got, the smaller it became.