Charlie Huston - Half the Blood of Brooklyn

He points at my knee.

– Any better?

I give it a poke with my index finger and the pain jumps up my spine.

– Feels like a hot-water bottle stuffed full of broken seashells.

His eyebrows rise.

– Oddly, I have no idea what that would feel like. May I?

I shrug.

– It’s your place.

He pokes my knee. I flinch. He smiles.

– You know, I think you’re right. A hot-water bottle full of broken seashells. You’re showing a touch of the poet this morning, Simon.

– Want me to stick a finger in the hole in my neck and come up with a nice simile for that sensation?

– No, no. I’ve had my hands in plenty of open wounds. I know well enough what they feel like. But let’s take a look in any case.

He picks up the candle and holds it close to the crusted bullet hole. He hums and taps the side of my head and I tilt it away from the wound and the scabs crack and ooze.

– Well, I won’t say I envy you, but it will heal.

He points at the knee.

– This could be more of a problem. The bone will knit, but it won’t reform itself. You’ll have a nasty limp.

I look at the swollen purple mass.

– Care to take a crack at it?

He sets the candle down and places his hands on the knee and probes it, and waves of pain and nausea roll over me and he digs his fingers in and shoves and presses, and chips and flakes of bone scrape and snap into a new arrangement and he takes his hands away.

– Not as designed, I’m sure, but a little better. Maybe.

We sit.

Around us the Enclave are moving about. The blood is being passed up and down a seated line of them. Some taking a slight drink, others fasting. A few push big brooms across the floor. I pick up my crumpled cup and toss it into the heap of dust one of them is moving down the length of the warehouse. A couple of them descend the steps from the loft that runs the back of the building.

Somewhere up there, that’s where they took Evie.

– So how about it, Daniel?

He’s picking at an old spot of dry paint on the concrete floor.

– Hm?

I dig a finger into the wound on my neck. Feel it hurt me.

– How about we go take a look at my girl?

He drops his head far back and stares up into the darkness above us.

– There are skylights up there. We painted them black, of course. But we never covered them over. It was discussed. Common sense suggested we should lay some sheets of plywood over them. Tarps at the very least. But someone, it may have been me, argued against it. Our home is so ordered. Disciplined. By necessity. We starve ourselves to the edge of reason. Beyond. Without structure, rigidity of manner, it would devolve to chaos and bloodshed here. Very quickly. But it’s not natural. Proper, yes. But not natural. An element of the random, danger, no matter how remote, seemed like a nice touch.

He rises, still looking up.

– So every once in a while, a bird dies in midflight. An owl, of all things, once shattered two panes and landed at my feet just a few yards from this spot. Snow and ice built up another time and brought down an entire skylight. A bullet someone had fired into the air. The wind. A flaw in the glass suddenly exposed. All these have happened. Each time we’ve repaired or replaced the broken glass, painted it black, and left it uncovered. Each time it causes great excitement. Most every other physical aspect of our lives being all but utterly predictable.

He looks at me.

– And you know, not once, never, have any of the accidents occurred by the light of day.

He looks up again.

– I don’t know what that means. But I find it a bit of a disappointment.

He bends at the waist and puts a hand alongside his mouth and whispers.

– There have been more than a few Enclave over the years who I would have given my eyeteeth to see hit with a sudden blast of sunlight.

He straightens and looks around at the white figures bustling about.

– Prigs most of them. Unseasoned. So little sense of proportion. That’s one of the dangers of the cloistered life. An expansive sense of the universe, sure, but try having a conversation about art or music or a woman’s legs and they have nothing to contribute at all. You’ve been around. You’ve seen a thing or two.

A strand of tendon in his neck starts to jump and he claps a hand over it.

– Hm. Yes. Seen. Things.

He takes the hand away. The tendon is still.

– Do you remember, do you remember the Wraith, Simon?

I look elsewhere.

– I was out of my skull, man. I don’t know what I remember.

– Don’t lie. It’s beneath you.

I almost laugh at that one.

He does laugh.

– Alright, yes, lying is far from beneath you. Little is beneath you except the floor. I surrender. But. The Wraith. Something for you to think about. It came from somewhere.

– If you say so.

– I do. It came from somewhere. I know. We asked it here. From somewhere else. But, Simon, that doesn’t mean I know what it is. I do have a theory.

I get my good leg under me and lever myself to my feet.

– Daniel.

– Yes? What?

– You’re acting kind of weird. I mean, even for you. Are you OK?

He spreads his arms wide, lets them drop to his sides.

– Simon, if only I had the time to answer a question like that.

– Well, if you’re done spacing out here, how about we go look at Evie?

An Enclave comes near, hovers just off Daniel’s shoulder.

Daniel looks at him, holds up a finger. The Enclave stays there. Daniel brushes at him with the finger. The Enclave takes a step back, but doesn’t leave.

Daniel nods, looks at me.

– I’m sorry, you asked what?

– Evie. My girl, Daniel. I need to know.

He raises a hand.

– Right, yes. The girl. You want to know who she is.

– No, I know who she is, man, I want to-

He lays a hand on my chest. It burns.

– Simon, you want to know who she is. Not her name. Not where she was born. Not what her parents do or where she went to school or if she ever wore braces. You want to know who she is. What she is.

He raises his hand and cups my chin, the heat from his skin is intolerable.

– You want to know if she’s like you.

The Enclave shuffles his feet.

Daniel moves his hand to my cheek.

– What will you do, Simon? What the hell will you do?

I swallow some spit and the muscles contracting in my neck pull at the wound.

– I. If she. I’ll, I’ll save her, Daniel. She’s dying and I want to. So.

He drops his hand.

– That’s not what I meant.

The Enclave moves closer again and Daniel nods. He tugs my sleeve.

– Come on, I’ll help you.

He moves next to me and I put a hand on his shoulder and we walk.

– Thank you for coming by and telling me what you’ve been up to, Simon. Your stories always serve as a reminder. Of how pitifully banal most of the world’s concerns are. And how hilarious the contortions most people go through to make themselves believe any of it matters.

– Sure. My pleasure.

More Enclave are coming near, clustering, walking behind and around us.

The door is in front of us.

We stop.

I take my hand from Daniel’s shoulder.

– Daniel, I’m not leaving, man. I’m not going anywhere until you look at Evie and tell me.

He takes a step toward the door, places a hand on it, runs his fingers across the even white paint that covers the steel.

– You, you are well seasoned. You I could talk to about a woman’s leg. But I wish you had some little of the other, a concern for things larger than yourself. It would have made our conversations more fruitful. You might have learned something. You might have. Well. Who cares, really? Not you. Not even me. Not anymore.