T. Boyle - Budding Prospects

“Monday. Noon.”

“You know that,” I said. He was giving us two days. “You of all people …”

Jones turned to me with a look of malice that made me want to wring my hands, tear out my hair and out-howl the damned in the lake of fire. “Ask Vogelsang,” he said, and the name sounded natural on his lips, the thought sensible and apposite, until I realized that this was Jones speaking, a stranger, someone who couldn’t possibly have known who was behind us … unless —picture mountains toppling into the sea, great slabs of granite shearing off and hammering the pitching waters, and you’ll have an idea of how this insight was to hit me— unless Vogelsang had been lying to us all along, unless Jones had been his man. Dowst must have had the same thought. Slap. Crash. Thud. His mouth gaped and his hands fluttered at his sides as if he’d gone into neuromuscular collapse.

The door was open. Jones was framed in the glare from the dead yellow field and the dead yellow hills beyond. His expression was gloating, triumphant — he could have been a grand master maneuvering his bitterest rival into checkmate. I watched in a daze as he lifted his index finger in hip valediction. “Ciao,” he said, and the door pulled shut.

I was sunk uneasily in the easy chair, simultaneously studying Vogelsang’s back, tapping my foot to a manic nine/eight beat and devouring corn chips with a compulsion that verged on frenzy. Something was about to happen, something final and irrevocable, but I didn’t know what. Vogelsang’s back (the dapple of brown and green in the jumpsuit, the undershirt of muscle rippling and contracting as he gestured with his hands and upper body, the hard black excrescence of the.44 at his side) was the center in a storm of uncertainty, a cipher, something to hold on to. I studied it as the setting sun smeared the windows with blood.

Vogelsang was talking, talking nonstop, and we were in the midst of a crisis. The crisis. The crisis of crises. At long last, after all the scarifying feints and shuffles, after all the alarms in the night, our troubles had erupted and the hour of our sorrow was at hand. Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen; howl, O ye vinedressers, for the wheat and for the barley; because the harvest of the field is perished.

Oh, yes.

All the principals were gathered, Dowst in his kerchief and I in my cap, Gesh, Phil, Aorta. Dowst was sitting across from Vogelsang at the kitchen table, an expression of censure and distaste ironed into his stern Yankee features. Aorta hunched beside Vogelsang in an imitation-leopardskin jacket, examining her nails with a bowed head, and — this got my heart pounding — looking scared. Propped up against the stove, his face a mask of rage — curled lip, Tatar cheekbones, bristling beard — Gesh could have been an advance man for Genghis Khan. His eyes were lidded with exhaustion and the torpor of methaqualone abuse, and the sleeves of his shirt had been cut away to reveal the cables in his arms. Phil was gone, a mere ghost of himself, stretched out on the couch behind me like a narcoleptic. He and Gesh had rolled into Tahoe at about the time I’d stepped into Petra’s shop, and they’d worked diligently at obliterating all thought of the summer camp until Dowst’s hysterical summons reached them at three-thirty the following morning. Then they climbed back into the pickup and watched the broken yellow line eat up the road.

My hand went to the bag of chips, then to my mouth, then back to the bag: hand, bag, mouth, hand, bag, mouth. Phil’s snores were like stones dropped on a polished surface. Vogelsang’s voice rattled on. Immanent, inescapable, like beat of blood and thump of heart, the little creatures of house and wood saturated the auditory spectrum with clicks, rattles, hisses and grunts. Twenty-four hours had passed since I’d walked into the house and found Jones on the couch.

“All I know about Jones is what Strozier told me. He must have been guerrilla farming up here — Strozier didn’t even know it himself till he came up from the city one day and saw the garbage the idiot left behind.” Psssst, psssst. Vogelsang freshened his breath. “If Jones named me he probably looked up the deed to the property and took an educated guess.”

My hand paused at the bag’s aperture, my foot stopped drumming. I’d created half this crisis — Savoy was all my own doing — and I didn’t have a right even to open my mouth at this point. But I surprised myself. “Vogelsang,” I said. “You’re lying.”

At first, the secret of Savoy had clung to me like a mussel to a rock, tenacious, immovable, held fast despite the crash of the waves and the suck of the tide. Reeling from the confrontation with Jones and the gallery of horrors to which I’d been subjected at Shirelle’s, I was too deep in shock even to think about my weakness, treachery and guilt, let alone confess them. For a while I even toyed with the idea of keeping the whole thing to myself. Forever. If we were busted, the fink-of-choice was Jones. Savoy? Never heard of her. I sank low in that moment, as low as I’ve ever sunk, but my better self won out. There was a moral imperative here: I was a sentry and the barbarians were creeping up on us, dirks clenched between their teeth and blood in their eyes, and it was up to me to sound the alarm. I’d already left the gate open. Could I stand by and see my mates butchered in their bunks?

Still, confession hadn’t come easy. Just after Jones had made his exit, Dowst and I had dodged frantically round the room for half an hour or so, ritually weeping, wailing and gnashing our teeth, before it occurred to Dowst that he should ( a ) remove himself as quickly as possible from the scene of the crime, and ( b ) use the phoning of the absent partners as a pretext for that removal. He was gone for hours. The night revolved round my guilt. The house was dark, and I lay in my bed like a sacrificial victim on the block, the jetliners at thirty thousand feet screaming in my ears, each rustle of leaf or sigh of branch the dread footfall of the high priest. And then, at the stroke of some dark, forlorn hour, there came the closing rumble of a vehicle making its way up the hill. Dowst? Jerpbak? G. P. Turner and a mob of vigilantes? I didn’t wait to find out. My legs exploded beneath me and I was out the door in a bound, across the field and into the woods by the time Dowst’s headlights illuminated the trees at the far end of the front lot. It was four a.m. I hadn’t slept an instant. I huddled there in the crushed leaves, spiderwebs and squirrel shit, crying out for absolution, ready to crawl on my hands and knees up the thousand steps of the temple, ready to bare my soul and take my pricks and kicks.

I told Dowst. (I don’t remember how I broached the subject. Lamely, I’m sure. “Uh, Boyd, uh, guess what? You want to hear something funny?”) Then, when they arrived at noon — burned out, hung over, and terminally wired — I told Phil and Gesh. Finally, when Vogelsang pulled in at five in the afternoon, I choked back my swollen tongue, hung my head and told him, too. He listened stoically, lines ironed into his cheeks. “I’m disappointed in you,” he said when I’d finished. His tone of voice was a marvel — distant, superior, lugubrious and sarcastic to the point of flagellation — a tone precisely calculated to induce writhings of guilt in its auditor. “First the thing with the CHP, and now this. You’re out of control, Felix.” He was the crestfallen coach and I the star player caught with a bag of Dexamyls in his locker. “I thought you were the rock of this project, someone I could trust. That’s why Boyd and I came to you first.” Dowst was irate. He insisted that I forfeit my share and get off the property posthaste. Gesh raged, Phil clucked his tongue. I was stupid, they said, a fool. Pussy-crazed. I’d let them down. I was a first-class schmuck, an airhead, an oaf and a poltroon. They said all of this and more, my co-sufferers and fellow peons (every time I glanced at Gesh he came up with a new insult), but they stood by me.