Denis Johnson - Already Dead - A California Gothic

Completely off balance, coughing with such force he thought the veins in his eyes would burst, he dropped the cup and felt around with both hands for something to support him.

That Nelson and Melissa should have left his house together didn’t surprise Wilhelm Frankheimer. Years back humans had ceased to astonish. He’d had his lights cut off before too.

A couple of cables and twelve volts and a will to find joy in auster-Already Dead / 299

ity, that’s all he needed. Lanterns worked but tended to make a closed room smell like the interstate. He believed he’d seen an auto battery in the shed, but tossing the place proved this recollection to be another phony. In the study he dressed in jeans and a sport shirt and before getting to the buttons suddenly remembered exactly where the battery was and went out to get it; it wasn’t there.

When he got back to his living room, Carl Van Ness was sitting around in a most disturbing way.

Frank went to the window, drew aside the curtains. The Volvo was parked in the drive. “You must’ve coasted in,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

Van Ness looked just as he had six weeks ago — even twenty years ago, when he’d first succeeded in cultivating his spectacular mustache.

“I’m real,” he said.

Frank considered the assertion, patting himself down for a cigarette.

“Believe what you want,” he said.

“If anybody asks, I’m not here.”

“Are those the same specs you were wearing the day we met?”

“You recognize me now.” Rather as if testing it for the shakes Van Ness extended his left arm to full length. He meant to indicate three packs of Camels stacked on the mantel. “Matches are in the wood box.”

“Did you know I was out back?”

“I thought you might be incapacitated. Like in need of help. So I came in.”

“I hate to take these. All your gifts are tainted.”

“No,” Van insisted, and Frank was surprised to hear the pain in his voice. “Not my gifts to you.”

Frank opened a pack by tearing away its entire top. “I might just smoke ’em all up at once. I was running low.”

“Some days,” Van suggested, “you just don’t want to quit.”

“Carl. What brings you around?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Frank straightened himself and opened his arms slightly, the better to be seen.

“No. I wanted you to see me. To look at me on this day of all days.

Do I look different?”

“You have no idea,” Frank said.

300 / Denis Johnson

“Do I?”

“I know you. You are the one in possession of Carl Van Ness.” His visitor sat back as if quite bored.

Frank said, “What have you done?”

His visitor scooted forward in his chair and reached amongst the kindling and tossed a book of matches onto the hearth. “This and that.” Frank sat on the hearth and leaned forward, animated now. “It’s so amazing that you could be connected to me by this energy, and yet your actions don’t touch me. The truth of karma is so devastating, man.

Your karma is so totally your own.”

“Buddy?”

Frank took out a cigarette. “Yeah.”

“Get a brain.”

Frank lit up.

“You’ve lost yours. Take out an ad.”

Frank took several drags off his cigarette, nodding his head and puffing away and also tapping his foot. “Yeah?”

“I’m afraid so. You recollect taking any chemicals?”

“There’s a percentage of pure sanity, whether or not I’m clean and sober.”

“No. No sanity for you. None.”

“Don’t go away mad,” Frank said as Van let himself out the door.

But immediately Van came back inside again, purple in his face and breathing hard as if he’d been gone a long time, running. “What did you think we were playing with?” he said.

“I don’t believe I want you here, in the presence of no witnesses,” Frank said.

“Did you think we were just thinking? Thinking forbidden thoughts?

Imagining heresies? Pretending to recognize moral systems as instruments of oppression and control?”

“No, man.”

“‘No, man.’ No. There’s no thinking. There’s movement, or there’s death. You were dying, I was moving.”

“Happily, I’m twice your size and strength…” Frank wished to be viewed now as unimpressed. But to his own ears he sounded frightened.

“I’m told you hang out with a woman named Melissa.”

“What of it?”

Already Dead / 301

“I’m looking for Nelson Fairchild.”

“And he’s looking for you. Little old Melissa took him up where his brother’s just been killed. Took him to get his wheels so he could track you down because he thinks you did the murder. They left here a half hour ago.”

“Where is he looking?”

“Try the water, that’s where I told him you’d be. I’d say try the water nearest the alcohol. The Gualala Hotel, the Cove Restaurant and all that.”

“The Cove is closed.”

“Well, start at the hotel and hit the joints near the water and cruise the Arena Pier, and don’t ever come back onto this property or you’ll poison it with your ridiculously lowdown evil shit.”

“You’re terrified. I’m so ashamed for you.”

“You are a demon.”

“We were friends.”

“You are a demon. We were never friends.”

As the Volvo’s sounds receded, in which direction Frank couldn’t have judged, Frank himself left the house for the shed because there was something he’d noticed there and yet had overlooked.

The lines of the shed and the house blurred in the refracting moisture, the usual flossy graduating mist, but coming from the south this afternoon rather than up from the shore. He paused at the dirty threshold.

Across the low room, in the shadows on a shelf: a rayon scarf folded over into thirds, as he recalled, and then sixths. He moved toward it in a dust-diffused, cinnamon light. Opened its portfolios and laid it on the shelf before him. There it was. Like a photograph. Disowned and beautiful.

As soon as he’d put it about his neck he recognized the depth of his error. The despair poured down through its touch and filled his throat, his chest.

What was coming was a voice, a word: his name. Building with the dark of the ocean’s evening.

Frank .

Frank left the shed, violated what was perhaps once a hedge partitioning his and his neighbors’ yards, and stood still beside their pine-log home, but heard nothing. He crossed to the rear entry and looked 302 / Denis Johnson

in through the screen to find a patio made into a hospital room, and in it his next-door neighbor, a long-bodied old woman in bed watching TV with a drip in her arm and many things in front of her on a bed tray.

Water glass, medicines. Sewing stuff.

“Well!” Frank said. “Good afternoon!” A shadow on the sliding screen door.

“Is somebody—” She broke off in order to take in air. “Who’s there?”

“Just me, out for a stroll. How are you doing this afternoon?”

“ You’re not Hank.”

“Almost. I’m Frank.”

“Oh! Frank. I almost didn’t recognize you. How are you, Frank?”

“Just wonderful.”

“Me too. Did you come to hear about my mastectomy?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. There wasn’t one.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too. We’re a little too far gone for surgery.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Good news, bad news,” Frank said.

“ Oh yeah.” She took two breaths. “That’s about the size of it, isn’t it?”

“Are you taking real good care of yourself?”

“Hank’s taking care of me.”

“Is that your husband?”

“No, he’s a nurse, he’s not my husband.” She breathed. “My husband’s a fool.” She breathed. “He’s gambling in Las Vegas.” She breathed. “I’m sorry — Lake Tahoe.” She breathed. “He’s gambling in five-day streaks.” She breathed. “Then he sleeps. Probably upside down.” She breathed. “In a trash can. Hank takes care of me.” Much to his fascination, she kept breathing.