John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

“Kit, like, slow it down. Okay? I can’t—”

“My guess is Seconal, reds. I mean, they wanted him half-asleep down there.”

“Who, Kit? Who’d they want asleep?”

“Rebes, Z, Carlos, Junior, Rebes. Do you remember the first issue or not ?”

No answer. His shout was so loud amid the mail-order furnishings, for a moment Kit believed he’d regained his normal voice. He’d talked his way back to strength. But then Zia echoed his echo: she repeated the name.

“Junior Rebes.” She touched her head rag.

That was all it took. Two words, and Kit’s throat clogged again. He felt as if he’d become the upside-down figure in the kitchen’s security mirror. Distorted, bloated, leaking, sick.

“Kit,” Zia went on finally, “wasn’t Rebes the one who was killed?”

Kit touched his neck.

“And he was the same guy as in the first issue, too? The one in the closet?”

“We talked, Z, Junior and me, we talked. I saw his cell. His graffiti.”

“Whew. They locked him in a closet and fed him drugs.”

Zia went for her drink, clumsy with a flour-speckled hand. Kit followed suit. His plan was looking worse by the minute — he’d struck a nerve he’d never intended to.

“Jesus,” she was saying. “Kit, this is some story. This is major.”

Once more Kit strangled the container in his pocket. “The drugs, ah. That’s not the story, Z. The drugs are just, ah, incidental.”

“Oh come on.”

“I mean it, Zia. This story, this is only going to start with Junior. After that, we’re going to bring it all back to sea level.”

She started looking more like the woman he knew. Smirky, with hidden blades. “Back to sea level.”

“Zia, this story, we’re going to bring it right back to wherever people make up their minds. Wherever they make up their whole lives . In the bedroom, on the telephone, wherever. This story goes right there.”

“Kit, you don’t have to sell me. You’re the editor.”

“Aw, Z.” Though he still couldn’t let go of his pills, this kind of talk did feel better. “Look, just think about my getting into Monsod to begin with. Think about why they even let me in there.”

She exhaled dramatically. “I was wondering. Was it, was it maybe that aide you met? The Croftall guy?”

“Croftall, exactly. It was Croftall who told the BBC to take me along. And I’ll tell you, Z, I believe I know why. Look at this hard, there’s no question why. Croftall thought that with me in there he could put on some kind of a show.”

“Well, that’s a classic, isn’t it? CYA.”

“CYA, exactly. Everybody wants to cover their ass.”

Zia too, Kit figured, was feeling better. She liked this kind of bashing away as much as he did. Nonetheless the thought of how far the Monsod story might reach silenced him all of a sudden. It called Bette to mind. Bette — she loved to think. She’d have no trouble figuring out that this story might even reach her family. Cousin Cal wasn’t the only Steyes with connections to the State House.

Zia went on. “Dirty stuff like this, I mean, isn’t it always something like CYA?”

The bad guys might well include some of Bette’s people.

“The motive’s always like, the same old grubby little handful. It’s greed, maybe. Or it’s fear.”

And there was Bette’s broken look. Tatterdemalion.

“Or it’s hubris, ” Zia said, “that’s a classic.”

Kit was blinking, one hand around his pills and the other clinging to his scotch. What was he doing here, free associating? What was this, flashing on himself in a funhouse mirror, himself and his wife? He could trust something about how he felt here, talking shop. But there remained, also, something utterly wrong, a wrong built into the whole idea of coming out to the Sons of Columbus. That touch downstairs in the kitchen, that woman’s touch — it had disrupted his entire long day, it had toppled the supports that held him upright. What was he doing here?

“Listen Zia,” he began. “Listen, let me tell you what I found out in the Law Library.”

But he couldn’t stop blinking. His ears filled with the moan again, and he couldn’t catch Zia’s response (she was surprised, he heard that much: Kit, you went to the library? ). He was crying again. He was crying full-throated, sobbing, keening, right there in front of the woman. At first he couldn’t even cover his face. It was hard to let go of his pills and his liquor.

Ayy:This next issue, it’s going to be a monster. It’s going to be Godzilla. Cue:( massages inside of elbow ) Ayy:This next one, you’ll see what the Man’s made of. Cue:( goes on massaging )

*

Kit toured his emotions like a man walking a polluted beach. Odd bits crackled and stuck underfoot. Here he stumbled onto a black remorse over his insanity at coming out to see Zia at all; there he found a gooey relief over sharing some part of his grief at least. Here was the doubt, the worm. One moment the thing wriggled on the sand, the next it shivered on his back. There lay a pipe-fitting from Mirinex, bleached by saltwater, with a trapped dead fish inside.

Plus the grimy internal shoreline (something like along the boardwalk in Revere) turned up flotsam and jetsam Kit couldn’t recognize. He knew his imaginary double-issue when he saw it, Sea Level #2 & 3. He knew those grimy folds of protecting himself — of avoiding Bette and anyone else who truly mattered. But by now he glimpsed other garbage stuck to the pages, clots and strands he couldn’t identify. Mystery sickness.

At least he knew better than to try and talk about it, this illegible scrawl at water’s edge. When Kit spoke up now, he stuck to the basics. He apologized. He said, I’m in bad shape, Z., bad shape , and enjoyed another wash of relief at getting it off his chest. But mostly he opened his mouth only to get another chew of the dinner she’d brought for him, the bread and tomato sauce. The stuff clung to his gums and had him groaning in thanks. You’re too good, Zia .

“I am being a nice girl,” she said, “aren’t I?”

Head bent, she fished out another Marlboro. When her face came up again, there she was, first time tonight — the punk Z. The wicked daughter.

“But well,” she went on, “I guess I should fess up. Under the circumstances, I mean. I should tell you.”

Kit, waiting, sampled the coffee. Neapolitan, Zia had called it. Packed a jolt, especially with what tasted like a soupspoon of sugar.

“Kit, I’ve been a nice girl for a reason. I’ve had like, an ulterior motive. I’ve been softening you up.”

So there was more junk dumped on Kit’s beach. Ugly stuff, brackish. Jealousy. This afternoon, thanks to Kit’s friend Rachel, Zia had gotten a call from Esquire .

“They want to reprint the Humans piece. Esquire , Kit!”

Zia’s grin had softened again.

“I mean, Kit, I have to say … I realize this isn’t fair of me laying this on you now. After what you’ve been through.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy. Congratulations, Z.”

“Yeah well like, that’s just it. My news, it’s just career news.”

“So? More power to you, Zia. I mean it. Congratulations.”

The words came more easily than he’d have expected. His talk tasted, in fact, of honest gladness. What Kit said didn’t sweep away the jealousy, no— This is the drug , Junior had reminded him, grabbing his own jealous crotch — but it showed Kit that even tonight, he turned naturally to better responses. Even now he remained a believer. “Zia, I came out here, didn’t I? I came here under my own steam. So what else are you going to tell me?”