David Means: Hystopia

Rake had begun sharpening all the blades in the house one day in early August, starting with the ax, using a file and whetstone, buffing it to a shine before starting on his knife collection — switchblades, his deer-gutting knives, his swords, taking them to the kitchen window to check them in the sunlight, dabbing water and running a cloth along the edge. All action a manifestation of some end point, Hank thought, watching. He went out to find Meg, who was in the yard, chained to a post near the shed.

“It’s time, tonight,” he whispered. “He’s totally charged. He’s on edge enough to believe it when I get Haze to say what he has to say. Rake’ll hear what he wants to hear and not what’s being said. He’s so high, so angry that he’ll twist anything that he hears into a provocation, and we’ll provide that provocation in the form of a name, and then if I’m right, if we’re lucky, we’ve found the right connection, and all we have to do — I should say all I’ll have to do, because what you have to do is just follow my lead — is to channel that anger into the direction of a duel, which, given how many times I’ve already planted the idea, he should go for — if we’re lucky.”

Hank went back to the kitchen, where Rake lifted a sword, ran his fingers along the edge, and pointed it at him.

So you’re saying this is about my honor?

I’m saying it’s about honor, hell yes. There’s a way to kill Haze with honor and then burn his body and make it hard to identify, put it somewhere agents will find it. They’ll think it’s you and not you. Both at the same time? You’ll tap their ineptitude, the fact that the cops, who’ll find the body for sure if we put it near the bridge, will send their liaison down there with the news, with snapshots and all that, and they’ll open your case even wider and send some agents up looking, he said. Get it, man, they’ll speculate that you’re fucking with them but they’ll wonder, too, and you know, I mean, I’ve been telling you that Haze has been back-talking you. Just look at his face and tell me he isn’t thinking things he can’t say aloud, the dumb shit, and like every other sidekick you’ve ever had, with me as the exception, he’s figuring a way to disappoint you. And he’s been talking. He’s been speaking the unspeakable.

Keep it vague enough to let him fill in the blanks, Hank thought. He took the sword and went across the yard and with wide, dramatic swings began shredding the sheets while MomMom, standing to one side, for the first time that summer somehow seeming to understand the nature of the situation, stayed quiet and watched.

* * *

Say it to him, Haze. Say what’s on your mind. Say what you said to me in the yard. Say Billy-T betrayed Rake, Hank said at the kitchen table that night. That’s what you said to me this afternoon, isn’t it? That’s what you said?

Said what? Haze said. He was stoked up on a concoction of Rake’s, his eyes were dilated into dark seeds of black, his face was pale and glossy with sweat. His voice was fluty, perplexed, full of fear.

Hank whispered to Haze. Say what you said to me the other day about the man named Billy-T.

Haze shifted his fingers on his fork and spoon.

Say what? he said.

Say what you said. Say Billy-T, Hank said.

Say Billy-T, Haze said. He spoke loudly and urgently and he looked at Rake and then back at Hank and then at Rake, who tensed up tight.

Billy-T, Haze said. That’s what you want me to say?

There were vast forests waiting, Hank assured himself, trying to stay in character, to remain completely still, drilling the kid with his eyes, ignoring Rake, who was starting to lift himself from the table.

No, I said say it to Rake, right here, right now. Tell to him what you told me. Say it to Rake. Billy-T betrayed you.

Say to Rake Billy-T betrayed you.

No. Billy-T betrayed you.

Billy-T betrayed you, Haze said to Rake. The words sounded flat and solid and sure. Rake turned and seemed to listen for the first time. He made one swing with his head, as if to clear water from his ears, and tossed his hair back. He cut loose, suddenly becoming all bulging muscles and speed as he sprang up and grabbed Haze by the neck, squeezing hard, producing the knife in a sweeping glint, and held the blade to the nape of Haze’s neck, pressing it hard.

Kill him the right way, in a duel, and you’ll get a payoff, Hank said, and you’ll get two birds for one stone because you’ll be able to settle the score in an honorable way and send a message. But a knife isn’t the right way.

What’s to say I can’t just cut his throat or shoot him right now and then send them the body? What’s to say there’s any difference one way or another? Rake said.

He challenged you to a duel, Hank said. You didn’t hear him because you didn’t want to, but he said that, too. He said he’s gonna challenge you to a duel in honor of Billy-T.

You say that? Rake said. You challenge me to a duel?

I guess so, Haze said.

* * *

(“I’m saying I played it right but wasn’t sure at the time I was playing it right, if you know what I mean, because I never knew what was going on in his head, I had to guess at it, of course, but you could sense it if you payed close attention to the way he blinked — the more he blinked, the more confused he was — and he was blinking like crazy while he held the knife to the kid’s throat, so I knew he wasn’t sure, wasn’t ready to kill yet, and I went over the whole deal again, saying we’d tag the body and put it for the Corps to find, but first we’d have a duel, tapping that rumor. But the clincher, I think, was probably the fact that it was Saturday and I told him we’d have the duel the next day. I talked that up, big time, because I knew he’d appreciate the fact that duels were never supposed to take place on a Sunday. It would be a test of God, I told Rake. I said if there is a God then we’ll find out for sure because if there was one he’d be in a rage about dueling on a Sunday, and if there wasn’t one we’d know for sure because we’d get no reaction, so to speak, and he looked up at me at that point, man, and I saw that he’d lifted the blade from Haze’s neck, and he smiled at me and I knew that we had him, that he was pondering it the way he did. His eyes stopped blinking, you see, and then the plan was in motion and one thing led to another. On the other hand, I get it. I mean I get that it seems preposterous that a psycho like Rake would suddenly give a shit about honor. But I had it figured right — and believe me, it was a guess more than anything — that when he heard the name, the precise name, he’d lock back into the old story, the Nam story; all that terror was coming out of something, a precise story — I mean, you should get that, you had it in there and when you heard the name you freaked, too, started to feel the trauma. Rake was cold-blooded in Nam, so it was a matter of getting his blood cold again. Rage is hot-blooded, is what I figure, but sorrow is cold, and honor is a cold word, if you see what I mean.”)

(“Sunday at noon. A cooler day, the air clear, the sun straight up. High noon was his idea. I had an empty clip up my sleeve and swapped it out after they both made an inspection.”)

(“No, I’m telling you, I’m telling the truth, man. So it doesn’t fit the story line, write it in your report any way you want if you still want to write a report. Some things don’t hold up to examination, to the scrutiny of logic; it was out of character only as far as his character was rootless until he heard that name, Billy-T — and maybe he was playing us, man, maybe it was a game he was playing, I don’t know, but I do know that what happened, happened. We’re not killers. He’s the killer.”)