Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

Festus, holding me an instant, whispered, “The Good Book will sustain you, Miss Madison.”

And, yes, Gentle Tweeter, Festus was an uncouth primitive, fragrant with the poultry manure lodged beneath his fingernails, but he did use the word sustain .

Ye gods. I was thrilled. “ Au revoir ,” I breathlessly bade my hardy swain. “Until we meet in…” I covertly checked the book’s title. “… in ‘Bible’ study.”

His ardent child’s lips whispered, “Fierce wristwatch…”

And from that moment forward I was putty in the young farm laborer’s hands. My fertile mind immediately began to spin romantic scenarios set in his world of subsistence agriculture. Together, we would scratch our daily bread from the hardscrabble upstate landscape, and our love would be the unvarnished stuff of a Robert Frost poem.

For comfort after the funeral, Nana Minnie had baked apple tarts and Bundt cake with lemon drizzle and apricot flan. Spiced crumb cake, maple bars, cherry grunt, peach cobbler, pear Betty, raisin slump, coconut crisp, walnut pandowdy, cinnamon buckle, plum trifle, and hazelnut fool. She built pyramids of pecan sandies on plates. Platters of gingersnaps and shortbreads. Busy frosting cupcakes and glazing doughnuts, she wasn’t much more of a widow than she’d been before. You never know the complicated deals two people negotiate in order to stay married beyond the first ten minutes. It could be she knew about Papadaddy’s traffic island antics. For my part I found the Jack London book on the parlor shelf and carried it back to my bedroom with a plate of cupcakes and read it, waiting for the chimpanzee embryos. By the middle of the novel I decided that what two people don’t say to each other forges a stronger bond than honesty.

Nana’s strawberry cupcakes were bribing me not to tell the truth. It might be the cupcakes were punishment for my lies. On my nana’s farm you could see only as far away as the next tree. That made it hard to think of the future. Any future.

Not the day of my papadaddy’s funeral, not the day after, not even the day after that , but a week after the funeral I was still eating. My Nana Minnie broke eggs, poured milk from a paper carton, knifed a yellow square of butter off a plate she took from the refrigerator. She sprinkled flour. Coughed. Spooned sugar. Coughed. Showing me all of the terrible things that go into making food: vegetable oil, yeast, vanilla extract, she dialed the oven temperature and ladled foamy batter into muffin tins, coughing the words, “When your mama was your age she was always bringing home head lice….”

Nana Minnie told her life backward while she cooked, reciting details like ingredients. Like how my mother used to wet her bed. How one time my mom ate cat poop and Nana pulled a tapeworm as long as a spaghetti out of her bottom. Even that image didn’t stop my eating.

She went on—at length—about how my mother had bought a lottery ticket and won the fortune that was to be her grubstake as an aspiring movie actor.

At night, the Beagle book stuffed between my mattress and box spring made sleep impossible. I’d lie awake with the book’s lump lodged in my spine, certain the local district attorney would knock at my bedroom door to serve a search warrant. The investigators would grill me under a bare lightbulb, insisting they’d found several words printed in reverse on my papadaddy’s dead wiener, printed backward in mirror writing. It was obvious those words had rubbed off or been transferred from the murder weapon. Those words were the fingerprints they needed to convict a suspect. The reverse words included Wollaston, wigwam, guanaco, Goeree, Fuegians, scurvy , and, most damning of all, Beagle . A team of police goons would toss the bedroom and discover the stashed book.

In the rare event I drifted off, my dead Papadaddy Ben would roll a hot-dog vendor’s pushcart into the room and serve me boiled kielbasas smothered in sauerkraut and blood. Or a plate of steaming cat poop tapeworms smothered in marinara sauce.

As bad as any nightmare, one day my nana was sorting dirty laundry and came into the kitchen carrying something blue. I was seated at the kitchen table eating a cheesecake. Not a slice of cheesecake—I was paddling with a fork, halfway across an ocean of cheesecake, not tasting a bite, I was cramming it down so fast. Open on the kitchen table was the Bible book. I stopped reading and chewing, midswallow, when I saw my blue chambray shirt wadded in her hands, and I worked hard not to gag.

Not that I actually chewed my food. The way I ate, it was more like the reverse of vomiting.

Poised in my face, as close as the next hovering forkful of cheesecake, were the mysterious dried sputum spatters. Her face bland and guileless, my nana asked, “Raindrop?” She coughed the words, “Can you remember what’s this mess so I know how to pretreat it?”

First, I wasn’t sure I actually knew. Second, I was sure she wouldn’t want to know. Edging my tasty cheesecake away from the moldy, yellowing blotches, I said, “Dijon mustard.”

To my horror, Nana lifted the crumpled fabric near her face, peering close. She scratched at a crusted patch with her fingernail, saying, “It don’t smell nothing like mustard….” The scratched spot sprinkled down specks like powdered dust. Specks landed on my fork. On my unfinished pan of cheesecake. Nana Minnie brought the besmirched shirt closer to her face and reached toward it with the tentative point of her tongue.

“It’s not mustard!” I shouted. My fork clattered to the kitchen floor. I stood so quickly my chrome chair teetered and fell over behind me. The crash brought my nana’s full attention to my face. I said, calmly now, “It’s not mustard.”

She stared, her tongue pulled safely back inside her mouth.

“It’s sneeze,” I said.

She asked, “Sneeze?”

I’d needed to cover a sneeze, I explained. No tissues were at hand, so I’d been forced to use my shirt.

My nana’s shocked, round eyes surveyed the sizable Galápagos archipelago of stiff deposits. “This is all your boogers?” she asked, as if I were the person about to die of some gruesome cigarette-induced chest condition.

I shrugged. I’d stopped caring. As long as I didn’t hurt her, I would let her think I was a dirty, disgusting animal. I was eleven years old and bloating like a blue-ribbon sow.

As if on cue she coughed, and coughed and kept on coughing, embarrassed and hiding her red face behind the knot of blue shirt still in her hands. Coughs that rattled like Papadaddy Ben hawking the tobacco spit from far down in his throat. The veins stood out in her neck like Darwin’s maps of major river systems. These were coughs so bad she couldn’t stop even when we both saw the bright red she was coughing all over the already-there dried sputum stains.

Between wiener juice and lung blood, I’d say that chambray shirt was a goner.

What I learned is, it’s never too late to save anybody. And it’s always too late. And what are the chances you’ll make any difference? And instead of declaring to my nana that her grandbaby was a liar and that her husband was an inverted sexual pervert and that her own movie-star daughter didn’t like her very much, instead I told her she made the best peanut-butter cheesecake in the whole wide world. And I held my empty plate up to her and begged for yet another helping.

Gentle Tweeter,

Late at night, in my upstate bed, I once again became the naturalist. Settling into sleep I sucked a sugary sweetness from under my fingernails, and stared up into the darkness where I knew the ceiling to be. And I listened. I listened and counted. I could always tell where my nana was—the kitchen, the parlor, her bedroom—by the sound of her coughing, like the regular call of a bird, but a sound both reassuring and terrible. That coughing. Those coughs. Simultaneously, they served as proof she was still alive, but that she wouldn’t be forever. Nights I learned to cling to the sound of each cough, each volley of hacking and wheezing, and to find comfort in the noise. Despite the hard lump of the Beagle book stabbing me in the back, I could eventually fall asleep with the Bible book open against my heart.