Aleksandar Hemon - The Making of Zombie Wars

“I was trying to help.”

“Did you or did you not?”

“He did,” Alma said, and Ana, tears streaming down her cheeks, swung from the sofa to backhand Alma’s biceps. There was going to be a bruise there.

“He’s an extremely dangerous man,” Joshua said.

“Well, shall we call the police, then?” Kimmy said.

“No police!” Ana yelped.

“The police would deport us,” Alma said, holding her biceps. She had an Abercrombie and Fitch shirt, her hair gelled into a cool misshape. You could tell high school boys followed her around like lemmings.

“No worries. I’m not going to be the one to call the police,” Kimmy said. “You are now Teacher Josh’s responsibility. He can now feed and fuck whoever he wants. Except for me. I’m out.”

Uninterested in the drama, what with all the pain murdered inside him, Stagger kept operating on the fringes: now he was reading postcards and notes on the fridge, including the smiley-sun Post-it Kimmy had left for Joshua. Stagger struggled to open the fridge with the hand in the cast, eschewing for some reason doing it with his left one.

“Actually, you know what? You, Teacher Josh, are out,” Kimmy said. “Yes. Get out.”

It was utterly amazing to Joshua that he was still standing and speaking, while his true and only self curled up on the filthy floor of his being to writhe like a fetus in a frying pan. The little man at the desk noted that down as well. Also, the beckoning hook above the table.

“Out!” Kimmy said.

Stagger finally succeeded in opening the fridge and clasping a bottle of beer. He was as indifferent as the vase and the flowers and the Lord.

“Do you have a bottle opener somewhere?” Stagger shouted from the kitchen.

* * *

Were this taking place in a movie, here would be a nice cut: all of them winced simultaneously as Kimiko ferociously slammed the door behind them. “This is crazy,” Stagger said, the beer bottle between his hands. He attempted to bite off the cap, but Alma took it from him and opened it with a cigarette lighter she magically pulled out of her pocket. Stagger high-fived her, impressed. They bonded in disengagement, in their absence from the moment.

“I’m sorry,” Ana said. There were many questions Joshua could have thought of asking her: Why in the world did you come to Kimiko’s? Did you not understand that consensual sex is a completed transaction? Why didn’t you mind your own business, stay away from mine? In this country everyone is constitutionally required to mind their own goddamn business. The way we do business here is mind our own. Otherwise, the social contract is as good as toilet paper.

“It’s okay,” he said, disingenuously.

CUT TO: A fortress-sized SUV rolling into the frame.

It parked right in front of the house and Rachel and Janet emerged from it. Mom stopped in her tracks to stare at her son, unable to parse the foreign presences around him. Janet opened the trunk to get out a large pie, but before she closed it, she noticed Joshua and the incongruous others: half-naked Stagger with one hand in a cast and a beer in the other; a woman with smeared mascara; an Abercrombie-and-Fitched teenager.

“Rhubarb,” Janet proclaimed, pie in hand.

All stood motionless, contemplating the rhubarb pie. When I find myself flummoxed and bound by death’s ties, and the agonies of the abyss something something, when I am wound up in misery and grief, please, Lord, let my ass slip free without serious repercussions.

“Are we not supposed to have dinner tonight with Kimiko and you?” Janet asked. “Did you not invite us? It was tonight, right, Rachel?”

“Tonight,” Mom confirmed.

“Fuck me,” Joshua said.

“Joshua!” Mom said.

“Where is your duffel bag?” Stagger asked.

“Please explain,” Janet said.

Joshua trawled his mind for something to say, something that would allow him to avoid explaining, but nothing came up.

“Now is not a good time,” he said.

“Now is the only time,” Janet insisted.

“You left your duffel bag back there, Jonjo,” Stagger said.

“We should probably get out of here,” Joshua suggested.

“What duffel bag?” Janet asked. “Who are these people? Why don’t I know what’s going on? I don’t like this one bit.”

They all packed into the car but went nowhere, sitting in silence until the windows fogged up. Janet started the car and the heat, and turned to face Joshua and Ana in the backseat. The Abasement of Joshua Levin , by Yahweh Asshole.

“Okay, Jackie,” Janet said. Mom was facing him too. “What’s up?”

“Jan…” Joshua whimpered. Why was it so hard to speak? Stagger was in the far backseat with Alma, who was eating the pie with her fingers, feeding some to him. She must be high, Joshua reckoned. That must be the bond.

“Don’t Jan me! Talk!”

And he talked, necessarily omitting certain salacious details. But he let the story come out of him as it was, relating in spurts and umm s its confusion and twists and the absence of a comprehensible narrative arc. He did own up to the fact that Ana’s husband — as well as Kimmy — was justified in being severely pissed. “Acts were committed,” he admitted. “Feelings were hurt.” His honesty made him want to vomit. If he lived through this, he would never stop lying. He rolled the window down, then rolled it up. Rolled it down, rolled it up. Down, up. Seven times up, eight times down.

“You haven’t been my little brother since you were my little brother, Jackie, but it seems to me you’re fucking it up big time here,” Janet said.

“Janet! Language!” Mom said. She used to have a swear jar: Janet and Joshua had had to put in a quarter each time they’d uttered a curse word. They’d never found out how she spent it. The heyday of Janet’s teenagehood would’ve paid for a vacation in France.

“Shut the fuck up, Rachel!”

Mom rolled her eyes at the language. It was her default gesture of helplessness — she rolled her eyes through her marriage and divorce; she’d probably roll them at the Messiah.

“Listen, Janet—” Joshua interjected.

“No, you listen, Joshua. I know what I said about Ms. Mitsubishi—”

“Matsushita,” Joshua said.

“Okay, Matsushita. The point is: she’s good for you. She’s a serious person.”

It had never been clear to Joshua why Janet disliked Kimmy. He used to think they’d get along splendidly, being professional successful women and all, but something had gone very wrong at some point, which point Joshua had entirely missed.

“This is a great pie, ma’am,” Stagger said from the back.

“Thank you,” Janet said, not bothering to look at him. Ana was looking out at Magnolia: the barely budding brown trees, the somber tendrils of April grass, Kimmy’s orderly porch. Stagger and Alma kept eating the pie, as if it were a wedding cake.

“It is not his fault—” Ana said.

“Please stay out of this,” Janet said.

“We had passion,” Ana said.

“Passion?” Janet scoffed. “Passion is a fragrance brand.”

“What’s done cannot be undone,” Joshua said.

“Yes it can!” Janet shouted. “It can be undone. Everything can be undone. Go back in there and fall on your knees and undo it. Tell her that this woman”—she pointed at Ana—“drugged you and raped you. Tell her it wasn’t you who did it. Tell her you’ll never do it again. Show some leadership. Un-fucking-do it!”

“The cat is dead,” Stagger said, his mouth full of rhubarb pie.

“Excuse me?” Janet said.

“The cat is dead,” Stagger repeated, having swallowed.

“What cat?”

“Kimiko’s cat. It’s in the duffel bag. Which is in the house,” Stagger said. “I reckon the cat is a huge problem for Jonjo. In this particular situation.”