Elizabeth Hand - Generation Loss

“That’s what I said.”

I looked to see if this was a joke, but his face had already shut down. From the kitchen Ray’s voice rumbled on into the telephone.

“Did you know her?” I asked Robert.

“Yeah. We hung out. She gave me CDs to rip.”

He stopped as Ray came back into the room and announced, “That was John Stone. He wants to talk to you guys—not you, Robert, I told him you were here. You have an alibi, though he said he might need to talk to you if she doesn’t show up. But you—”

Ray pointed, first at Gryffin, then me. “And especially you —”

He sank back into his chair. “He wants to question you.”

“Me?” I felt a small hot flare inside my skull, the Adderall’s opening salvo. “What the fuck does he want to talk to me for?”

Ray began to sing, “‘ Sheriff John Stone, why don’t you leave me alone…? ’”

“This guy’s the sheriff?”

“Hey, Cass,” said Gryffin. “Relax. John’s a good guy, he won’t give you a hard time. What’d he say, Ray?”

“He said they were starting to question people. Her father filed a missing persons thing a few hours ago, and now they have to follow up on it. Even though John told me in great detail how Little Missy’s probably headed off to Lubec or Bangor or someplace with a boyfriend no one knows about, which personally I also think is probably the case, but John has to do his job.

“But he doesn’t have to do it tonight,” he added and laughed again. “’Cause he don’t want to come over here from Collinstown unless somebody has something of interest to tell him. Which I said I’d ask. So, do any of you have something of interest to tell him?”

Gryffin shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

“I already told him I was IMing with her last night,” said Robert.

All faces turned to me. The red flare inside my head mushroomed into something white and hot. “Not without a fucking attorney.”

Ray slapped his thigh. “That’s the spirit! Stick it to the man!”

“Shut up, Ray.” Gryffin looked annoyed. “You’re overreacting, Cass. If you don’t have anything to tell him, just say that tomorrow. You don’t need to get paranoid; no one’s accusing you of anything. Anyway, I saw you at the Good Tern.”

I could see Robert watching me with those blank cold eyes. A song went through my head: I was just gonna hit him, but I’m gonna kill him now .

“I gotta go,” I said, and stood.

“Yeah,” said Gryffin. “We better get back.”

As I passed the couch, I looked down and saw several CDs scattered across the cushions. Green Day, Mosque; and something else.

I held the CD toward Robert. “This yours?”

“Nope. Kenzie’s. I told you, she gives me stuff to download.”

“Huh.” I looked at it again: Television, Marquee Moon. “She has good taste.”

Robert shrugged. “She likes that old shit.”

I tossed it back onto the couch and followed Ray and Gryffin to the door.

“Well, very nice to meetcha, Cass. Maybe I’ll get hold of your book.” He embraced Gryffin. “You be back tomorrow?

“I doubt it. Got to get back to Chicago.”

Robert stayed where he was. When I looked across the room, I saw him nodding, earbud cords dangling from his ears, his eyes fixed on me. I stared back at him, then turned and followed Gryffin into the night.

We walked back most of the way without talking. We were both pretty loaded; it took most of our energy just to keep our footing in the icy mist. I had a nice shiny feeling from the Adderall, and after a few minutes I popped a second to boost it.

But something kept gnawing at the glow: the memory of Mackenzie Libby’s white face in the headlights.

She was looking for you. She said you were going to give her a ride .

Wishful thinking, but why not? I was probably the first person she’d ever seen who might have heard of Marquee Moon . I thought of Patti Smith’s “Piss Factory,” sixteen and time to pay off . Leave home, sleep in the gutter, find yourself a city to live in.

I should have picked her up. Though then, of course, the locals would be coming after me with pitchforks.

“Be careful,” Gryffin warned as the path narrowed. “It’s slippery—”

I felt impervious to anything short of a bullet to the head. When we came to the final stretch leading to the house I began to run. I tripped and fell, hard.

“Hey.” Gryffin hurried to my side. “I said be careful! Are you okay?”

He crouched beside me. I pushed him away, but he grabbed my hand and trained the flashlight on it.

“Jesus,” he said. “Doesn’t that—”

“Hurt? Yes.” My palm was slick with blood. “Shit.”

I staggered to my feet, got the Jack Daniel’s and took a swig. Gryffin watched me with a kind of intrigued disgust. I laughed.

“What?” he demanded.

I couldn’t speak, just kept laughing as I wiped my bloodied hand on my jeans. Gryffin turned and walked on. I ran after him, an amphetamine surge knuckling behind my eyeballs so that the darkness splintered into sparks.

“Aw, don’t go away mad,” I yelled, but he ignored me.

“I’m going to bed,” Gryffin said when we got inside. He hung up his jacket and started for the kitchen. “You and my mother can sit up doing Jell-O shots if you want.”

“Wait,” I said.

I leaned forward, grabbed his chin and kissed him. He didn’t pull away. His cheek was unshaven, his mouth tasted of Calvados. I let my hand trail down his neck, my fingers resting for a moment in the hollow beneath his windpipe. I felt his pulse, then drew my mouth down to his throat and kissed it.

“Gryffin,” I whispered. “What kind of a name is Gryffin ?”

He pulled away and left the room. When he was gone I started laughing uncontrollably.

The Adderall had kicked into high gear. I love speed, that black light you see alone at three am, when bottles shimmer like cut glass and everything reminds you of a song you once loved. This is when everything comes into focus for me, when what’s inside my head and what’s outside of it become the same thing.

What can I say? Bleak is beautiful. I stared at my reflection in a darkened window, pressed my palm against the cold glass. I thought of my camera in the spare room.

The house was dead still, the woodstove barely warm. Two deerhounds lay on the couch but didn’t stir when I walked past. Aphrodite was still conspicuous by her absence, though she’d left the radio on, a DJ whose voice droned into John Coltrane. I turned it off, found an empty film canister and dropped my stolen pills into it, and went upstairs.

The door to Gryffin’s room was closed. Mine was open. I went in and sat on my bed for a few minutes, my legs twitching. To blunt the speed, I drank some more Jack Daniel’s. The bottle was almost empty, so I killed it. I picked up my camera and checked the flash.

It was dead, and I hadn’t brought a spare battery—I couldn’t think of the last time I’d needed one. I thought of a recent argument I’d had with Phil.

“Get a digital camera, Cass. Anyone can take a great picture with one of those. Even you.”

“Screw that,” I’d said. “It’s too easy. It’s degraded art—no authenticity.”

“Oh, right.” He looked disgusted. “The last word on Degraded Art, from Ms. Authenticity 1976. You know what your problem is? You’re a goddam dinosaur, Cass. You’re fighting a culture war that ended thirty years ago. And you know what? Your side fucking lost.”

I started, hearing a voice in the spare room. I’d been talking to myself. It happens. I made the mistake once of mentioning it to Phil. He suggested I try Ecstasy.