Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

I couldn’t spit out my secret any easier than she could cough up her tumor.

At the hospital she pretended to wake me, and I pretended to be groggy, mostly blinking my eyes and acting out yawns. One unintended outcome was that we’d no doubt have to hold a funeral, and my parents would have to come. They’d have to collect me and take me away with them, and that rescue seemed almost worth killing someone for. We walked, me and my nana holding hands, up a hospital sidewalk and into bright light behind sliding glass doors. The linoleum floor was waxed so shiny it seemed as bright as the fluorescent ceiling, and the waiting room seemed sandwiched between these two forms of light. There, she left me to sit with the magazines, in a hard-plastic chair that would’ve been avocado-chic in Oslo but in upstate read as just plain shabby. Among the magazines were three old issues of Cat Fancy with me cuddling my kitten, Tigerstripe, on the cover. Poor Tigerstripe. Beginning with People, Vogue , and Time , I began to leaf through every copy in search of scenes from my other life. My real life.

Suddenly, I worried my papadaddy might be alive in a bed nearby, tubed to a saggy, hanging-down bag of secondhand blood, laughing and eating Jell-O as he told the nursing staff how his roly-poly, spoiled-rotten grandbaby had tried to hack off his wiener when all he’d been doing was playing her a practical joke. Then I heard a police officer walk past saying the words “hate crime” to a doctor, and I guessed I was in the clear.

Within my earshot the officer said how my grandpa’s wallet, watch, and wedding ring were missing, and I fumed that someone would rob an old man lying dead on a toilet floor. It’s true I’d killed him. That goes without saying. But I was his Baby Bean Sprout. That made it different. From their talk it was clear the police didn’t have anything right. It irked me to let their theories stay so totally wrong, but there was no pressing reason my nana had to be a widow and know she’d outlived a sex pervert.

No one said anything about finding my dropped euros and rubles soaked in blood, or about finding my busted eyeglasses or the dagger of shattered glass from the tea jar. The policeman said, “Insane thrill killer.”

The doctor said, “Ritual mutilation.” Suggesting space aliens, I hoped.

The policeman let slip with, “Satanic cult.”

All along I thought they were bad-mouthing my Papadaddy Ben, but then I realized they meant me. At best they were referring to some crazed, at-large killer, but that was still me, sitting here in my bunny slippers and fur coat. Just by being a dead body with no wallet or blood, his wiener half torn off, that made my grandpa the innocent injured party. It didn’t seem fair. Yes, it hurt to have authority figures call me a “sadistic bastard,” but if I tried to defend myself I’d wind up in the electric chair, and that wasn’t going to improve the situation for my nana. Or help my already unruly, flyaway hair.

Gentle Tweeter,

It was at papadaddy’s funeral that I noticed my nana started to cough in a new, more intrusive way. Among infants, one might cry, but another will cough to attract loving attention. Other babies will drink vodka and gobble down illicit drugs. Other babies will date abusive men. Or overeat. Even negative attention beats ending up some Baltic orphan ignored in a crib, warehoused in a forgotten ward filled with castoff urchins. Coughing through Papadaddy Ben’s funeral, coughing and hacking at the graveside, this was my nana’s bid for sympathy. I never dreamed she’d escalate her emotional neediness all the way to cancer.

Despite my pleadings, my parents didn’t come upstate for the memorial service. They contracted for a video crew with a satellite truck that narrowcast the event in real time to their home in Tenerife. The paparazzi, however, flocked to attend. The New York Post ran the headline “Dad of Star Found Dead in Toilet Torture.”

In lieu of flowers or sympathy cards, my mother sent my nana and me lavish gift baskets of Xanax.

Each time the telephone rang I expected the police to call me in for death by lethal injection. For the funeral, I wore a black Gucci veil over black Foster Grants. I wore a stroller-length vintage Blackglama junior mink and black gloves, just in case some crafty sleuth would attempt to acquire my fingerprints from the communion rail. To answer CanuckAIDSemily, little Emily, the actual church was a rustic clapboard structure where a dead body did not seem out of place, juxtaposed as it was with paper plates of peanut-butter cookies. The congregants seemed genuinely distressed by Papadaddy’s tragic demise, and they displayed their aboriginal upstate empathy by presenting me with a gift: a book. Unlike the Beagle book or the Call of the Wild book, this tome was freshly printed, a new title, bound in handsome almost-leather. It seemed to be this summer’s beach read, for everyone present also carried a copy. Here was the moment’s mega–best seller, the Angela’s Ashes or Da Vinci Code du jour. A quick perusal suggested a postmodern work told from multiple viewpoints—very Kurosawa in structure—plot-driven, a sword-and-sandal epic filled with magic and dragons, sex and violence. I accepted it, their rustic offering of condolence, as graciously as my mother would an Oscar.

Printed in gold leaf along the spine was the title: The Bible .

As fanciful as anything penned by Tolkien or Anne Rice, this new tome presented an elaborate yarn about creation. In my heart, it would easily displace the Beagle book, with Mr. Darwin’s somewhat didactic nineteenth-century flavor. His saga depicted existence as a one-shot endeavor, a desperate struggle to endure and procreate. It’s no comfort when confronted by death to be assured that you’re merely some flawed variation of life reaching the end of its evolutionary blind alley. Whereas the Beagle book depicted a narrative of death after death, endless adaptation and failure—all history literally glued together with sperm and blood—the Bible book promised a happy life everlasting.

Survival of the fittest versus survival of the nicest .

Which author, Gentle Tweeter, would you choose to read at bedtime?

This homespun church even held a weekly book club to discuss their newest literary sensation. To present the book, these simple upstate denizens coaxed forward a young boy child. As I was leaving the church with my nana, this darling towhead stumbled forth from their patchwork ranks. In both hands before him he carried this Bible book, and to my world-weary, eleven-year-old eyes he appeared an earnest sort, clad in his freshly laundered rags, a minor player destined to milk cows and sire similar agrarian laborers and ultimately die in not-undeserved obscurity, the probable victim of some future combine mishap. He, a rural David Copperfield, and I, a glamorous globetrotting fashion plate, we appeared to both be the same tender age. Some brutish farmwife pushed him toward me with her calloused hand, saying, “Give it to the poor girly, Festus.”

That was his name, Festus. He placed the book in my black-gloved palms.

While I was not immediately smitten, Festus did pique my romantic curiosity. A spark, most likely statically electric in nature, jumped between his person and mine, so strong that I felt the tiny shock through my elegant hand-wear. I accepted his gift with a simple nod and a murmur of gratitude. Feigning emotional distress, I pretended to collapse against him, and his sturdy farm urchin’s arms caught my fall. In our clinch, Festus’s prepubescent hands seized me bodily; only the Bible book lay between the full contact of our sensitive groin areas.