Mark Doten - The Infernal

I wash my hands. I fold the knife and put it under the sink, under some rags. I hunt around for the baby monitor and I find it somewhere: I mean, it’s in my hands.

I sit with it at my desk, and I drink from a bottle that’s at my desk.

There’s something happening I can’t quite follow. For a long time there’s movement and noise, then that’s all over. Then the screen is dark and cracked.

I go upstairs.

I go up to my son.

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I stare down at his blankets, the mess there. I unhook my leg and reach for the knife in my pocket.

I want to scrape some off and give it to him — in his mouth. I want the aluminum of the leg in my son’s mouth. But the knife’s not in my pocket. And it’s late — so late there’s some sort of light touching the way-out-yonder.

There’s always a hope for something else. I believe there’s always hope — I really believe it. I stand there and watch, the horizon the color of cold dull steel — but there’s a dusting of baby blue.

So see what I mean by hope?

My wife would have had me push his bed into our bedroom. It’s not something I can do alone — not with my leg off. But there’s room enough in my son’s bed — room for my son and the leg and for me, too. I pull back the covers and turn him on his side and lay the leg behind him, and crawl under the covers behind the leg and Charlie and reach over and press the palm of my hand to Charlie’s chest, my hand that’s almost as big as his chest, aluminum leg held between the brown skin of his back and the white skin of my front — leg glinting, baby blue. And my body, it’s just so hot, and the leg is cold, and my son’s somewhere … he’s in between. I’ve left the TV on, Jurassic Park III whirling somewhere below me — sure, I can hear it — but it doesn’t matter, I say it doesn’t matter, and like that I’m asleep.

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I told Donny there were things to do now

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told him in my quarters as he helped me try boots.

Things to do, let’s make a list …

Things in the Green Zone need doing, but first, boots …

Gather them all, Sunnis, Shi’as, Kurds, get them all around a conference table, I’m thinking walnut and brushed steel, I told Donny …

Get all the documents at the table and just get everyone looking, double down on this, strike that, keep Jay out of it, he’ll just fuck it up, it’s not a porta-potty, it’s walnut and steel …

33a, now that’s going to be a sticking point …

It’s easy, just a question of one page at a time, this clause, then the next, and before you know it the sun’s down, 33a is way back behind you …

Inspirational quotes, try and get a set of those …

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Maybe a sing-along or a you know a carol or something, there’s something we could think about …

My feet are small, but not that small, Donny …

You’ve been stuffing these boots with magazines, as per my instructions , but there’s too much stuffing, ouch , that smarts …

Meanwhile Donny unpacked my jam jars …

I plucked wads of magazines from the boots, what a mess, soon no way you’d know which boots we’d tried and which we hadn’t, Donny unpacking my jam jars, wads unwadding everywhere in the Iraqi heat, magazine pages blossomed all around, I grabbed a boot and hurled it at Donny …

He set up five jam jars, working his way in, first, fifth, second, fourth, third …

In my hand was a magazine wad, I wanted to hurl it at Donny, but then it unwadded, I’d plucked it and now I was holding a fully unwadded page …

Boys’ Life , that’s what it was, it unwadded and flattened itself in my hand, an old yellowed page, How to Prepare and Mount a Fish Head on a Wooden Plaque …

It’s Boys’ Life magazine, right here in this boot, you’ve been stuffing my boots with Boys’ Life , I told Donny Rumsfeld as he sat down next to me on the beM0 GJTW0 K1CPLSB O, O POFJ45 VQ005ZR RL KEHFHLAL1KV VMET

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And not just any Boys’ Life , but a Boys’ Life from my childhood …

Fish taxidermy, or I mean fish-head taxidermy, how about that, a bucket of turpentine, some lacquer, tack the heads to the plaque, gills flaring out …

Meanwhile Donny was telling me that he remembered it too, this Boys’ Life fish-head phase …

Meanwhile I told Donny I was so proud of my fish heads, not one head but five heads mounted on five wooden plaques, whenever I brought friends into my bedroom I’d touch all five fish heads on the snout , six inches between the heads …

Meanwhile Donny was laughing because when he came in his own room he’d touch his fish, each one on the snout , first head, then fifth head, second, fourth, third, always that order, always on the snout, always first thing on walking in he’d touch them on the snout …

Meanwhile I was saying same here , five fish heads, one five two four three, I forced other boys, same ritual, demanded they internalize my ritual so whenever any boys entered my bedroom the fish heads would get touched by each boy like that, working in …

Meanwhile Donny was saying how he’d been one of those boys, he’d been so impressed with the fish heads in my room that he’d made his own fish heads, stole my Boys’ Life , clipped the article, he carried it to this day in his wallet, and he took out his wallet and showed me …

I snapped up a jam jar, it dropped from my hand …

Donny was one of my friends, my very best childhood friends, whenever I’d needed a getaway from my parents and Condi, in those California vineyards Donny Rumsfeld had been my getaway, I was here in the Green Zone with my childhood friend and it made me so glad and I just reached out and patted him on the snout …

Meanwhile Donny was saying how we had to hit the river , we’d need to hit the Tigris with rod and reel , catch five fish, then treat the heads, turpentine, shellac, thumbtack the gills flaring out, we’d hang them here, or better, in the conference room, fish heads might really lubricate things …

Cheney’s office, from the first moment, I said to myself, Donny Rumsfeld! I kept saying it in my head, then I tapped him on the snout and said it right out loud, Donny Rumsfeld! Donny Rumsfeld! but I never realized that this was the Donny Rumsfeld, my childhood friend …

I’d forgotten Donny Rumsfeld, the things we used to do together, he and his family lived one vineyard over, he came from a broken home, it was never his vineyard we hung out in, his father’d forbidden it, they moved into the house next door, the vines were neglected and in short order they’d gone to scrub, always it was Mom and Dad’s vineyard we hung out in, Donny Rumsfeld and I would sit QMQG #V9# OW DZDIGZFBNKC2BZSTA=PCZWT0RO AC6 0LF7ST0

Each morning the old black Packard, Donny in the rear, ancient driver in front, uniform and cap, Donny leaning forward, listening to every word out of the driver’s mouth …