The Nicotine Chronicles Page 4

  All four others were looking at him.

  “That was good,” said Too Small.

  “We’re not quite there yet,” said Too Large.

  “Who’s out in the kitchen?” said Dormer.

  “Nobody yet,” said Too Large.

  “Is that your cigarette, Mr. Dormer?” asked Too Small, suddenly unsure. He pointed at the crushed cigarette on the floor.

  “I don’t know,” said Dormer, now unsure as well.

  “You’d better take another,” said Too Small. He withdrew one from his pocket and handed it to him. “Light?”

  Dormer leaned forward to accept the light.

  “You’ll notice that you gained entry quite easily,” said Too Large.

  “As you get used to the house, these things won’t seem quite so strange,” said Too Small.

  “It feels like home already,” said Mrs. Dormer. She looked at Charlie. “Doesn’t it?”

  The boy nodded, remembering to put a noncommittal smile on his face. Dormer looked at him with a sensation of surprise. For an instant, he appeared preternaturally mature, almost a man. Then the sensation faded.

  “You’d never know you’d just moved in,” said Too Small. “Most people, even if they unpack quickly, they still have boxes here and there, pictures they haven’t hung. But it looks like you’ve been here for years.”

  “It feels like we’ve been here for years,” said Dormer.

  “It feels like we’ve been here forever,” said Mrs. Dormer.

  Too Large and Too Small simultaneously broke out into a short burst of laughter, then stopped. “It doesn’t take long at all, if it’s the right place for you.”

  “Where’s that music coming from?” Dormer asked.

  “I don’t hear any music, honey,” said Mrs. Dormer.

  “Me either, Dad,” said Charlie. But his face was mocking.

  “Is it your music?” Dormer asked the two men. “Are you playing music somehow?”

  “I think I hear something,” said Too Small, solicitously. “Is it a sort of soft, rhythmic clicking?”

  “No, it is not a soft, rhythmic clicking. It’s right there, plain as day. You can’t hear that?”

  Dormer felt a kind of sharp, needling irritability. He drew on the cigarette, then took it out of his mouth and stared at it furiously. “There’s something wrong with this cigarette,” he said. “It won’t draw properly.”

  “Well, what do you care?” asked Too Large. “You don’t smoke.”

  “There’s something wrong with it,” Dormer said again,

  “That isn’t it,” said Too Small. “The cigarette is fine.”

  “No,” said Dormer, holding the cigarette up. “It isn’t.”

  “Well, have another,” said Too Small. He reached into his pocket, fumbled a little, then withdrew the pack. “Uh-oh,” he said. He crumpled the pack in his hand. Dormer felt a sinking sensation. “I’m out.”

  “Me too,” said Too Large.

  “I saw you put one away,” said Dormer.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A little while ago, on the doorstep. You took one out and then put it away.”

  “That may be, but I must have smoked it since then.”

  “You didn’t. You haven’t.”

  “Well, you did leave us for a while.”

  “Oh, stop holding out on him, will you?” said Too Small.

  “Well, what do you know?” said Too Large. “It was in my other shirt pocket.”

  Dormer hadn’t noticed, but Too Large’s short-sleeve dress shirt unusually had two pockets, one on either side of his chest. Both seemed to be monogrammed. Dormer took the proffered cigarette and a light.

  “Well, if we’re all going to smoke . . .” said Too Small. He took a full pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and opened it. He passed cigarettes to Too Large, Mrs. Dormer, and Charlie, who expertly tapped the end of his cigarette on his knuckle and inserted it into his mouth. Too Large provided lights.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Dormer. “That’s heavenly.” She raised her chin and exhaled a conical jet of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Isn’t it? How about you, young fella?” Too Small balled his hand into a fist and gave Charlie a friendly sock on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, great.”

  Again, Dormer noticed that his son seemed to have matured—he looked like a grown man, a strange man. The music grew louder.

  “I think,” said Too Small, “that when we’re done with our cigarettes, we should proceed. Young man, are you clear on what we’re doing?”

  “I think so,” said Charlie. He needed a shave.

  “You should shave once in a while,” Dormer said pedantically. “You look like a bum.”

  “So uptight,” said the boy. He turned to Mrs. Dormer. “See, this is what I’ve been telling you. What are you doing with this guy?”

  “Please,” said Mrs. Dormer nervously, “not now.”

  “This guy?” said Dormer.

  “It’s a phase they go through,” said Too Small. “Disrespect, insolence. They grow out of it, but before they do . . .” He shook his head and whistled. “Well, all I can say is, my own parents were saints. Saints!”

  “Let’s move on,” said Too Large.

  “Naturally,” said Too Small. “Big guy, are you ready to perform your role?”

  “I guess,” said Charlie.

  “Excellent.”

  “I’m still not entirely comfortable with this,” said Mrs. Dormer. “Why does he have to be . . . be a body?”

  “It’s really no more than a role,” said Too Small.

  “Fundamentally meaningless,” said Too Large.

  “This cigarette is defective too,” said Dormer, suddenly.

  “What are the odds?” said Too Small.

  “You can have another one in a bit, but I think we may have to do some more backtracking,” said Too Large.

  Too Small took a furtive look at his wristwatch. Dormer also noticed that someone could be heard moving around in the kitchen again, and that the music had stopped. He dropped the useless cigarette and ground it under his shoe.

  “Now,” Too Small was saying, “Mr. Dormer, please go upstairs and descend by the back staircase into the kitchen.”

  “Back staircase?” said Dormer.

  “Please,” said Too Small. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’ll get this done.”

  Dormer turned to go back the way he’d come.

  “I’m afraid you can’t go that way now,” said Too Large.

  Dormer returned to the first staircase and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He passed his own bedroom, the bathroom, and Charlie’s bedroom, pausing for a moment to peer inside. In the dimness, he couldn’t quite make out the room’s contents, but they didn’t look familiar. He moved down the hallway and opened the door to what he had always understood to be a large linen closet. There he found a steep, narrow, ninety-degree, winding staircase. It creaked when he stepped onto it. The painted handrail had been worn smooth and bare. He descended to the first floor and pushed open the door. There was his wife, bustling from the range to the countertop. She wore an apron.

  “They have you in here now?”

  “Who, the powers that be?” She laughed and came over to kiss him skillfully on the cheek. “If anyone’s expecting to eat, where else would I be?”

  “I don’t think I have time to eat,” said Dormer.

  “Always rushing. Sure you don’t have the time?” She presented him with a plate of donuts: powdered sugar, cinnamon, and glazed.

  “Donuts?” he said. He reached for one.

  “Well, just this once. I know how snacky you’ve been since you quit.” She patted his belly. “Besides, Chuck’s going to be here working on the staircase this morning.”

  With his mouth full, Dormer asked, “Since when have we started calling him Chuck?”

  The kitchen door opened behind him and Charlie entered from outside, carrying a toolbox. He had a full beard, had b
roadened in the shoulders. The sinews in his arms rippled as he set the toolbox on the counter. “I’ve always been Chuck,” he said. “Ever since I was a little boy.”

  “Well, you’re not a little boy anymore,” said Mrs. Dormer. There was something about her tone Dormer didn’t like. She extended the plate toward Chuck.

  “Oh, no thanks. Maybe later.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one out. “Care for one?” He held out the pack to Mr. and Mrs. Dormer. Mrs. Dormer took one.

  “Mr. Dormer gave it up,” she said, leaning toward Chuck as he lit her cigarette.

  “For Lent?” asked Chuck. They laughed unpleasantly for a moment.

  “Oh,” said Dormer, “what the hell. I’ll have one.”

  “No, you will not,” said Mrs. Dormer. “Doctor’s orders.” She plucked the cigarette from between Chuck’s lips and brought it over to the sink, where she ran it and her own under cold tap water. “We’ll wait until he’s gone. Now,” she said to Dormer, “go forth. Hunt! Gather! Bring home the bacon!” She kissed him again on the cheek and then turned him around, her hands on his shoulders, and gave him a little push.

  Dormer left through the kitchen door. He walked up the driveway toward the front of the house. That was very peculiar, he thought. He rounded the corner of the house and mounted the front steps. One of the steps was loose. He was sure he’d fixed it shortly after moving in. Too Small and Too Large were waiting for him.

  “That was superb,” said Too Small.

  “I have some questions,” said Dormer.

  “We’re at your disposal,” said Too Large.

  “Got a cigarette?”

  “That’s not much of a question.” Too Small withdrew a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and handed it to Dormer. Too Large supplied the light.

  “That was very strange,” said Dormer.

  “Look,” said Too Large. “We hear that all the time, asking people like you to do things like this.”

  “Some people do a terrible job,” said Too Small.

  “And you’re not one of them. None of you is.”

  “Are. None of you are,” said Too Small.

  “I’m pretty certain it’s singular,” said Too Large.

  “We won’t argue.”

  “I’m pretty certain Mr. Dormer gets my drift,” said Too Large.

  “Something’s happened to Chuck,” said Dormer.

  “Chuck’s fine. Chuck’s normal,” said Too Small.

  “Just regular Chuck,” said Too Large.

  “What’s the matter with my son?” insisted Dormer.

  “Son?” said Too Large.

  Dormer felt . . . a tightness. Tension. Frustration. Irritability. Tremendous fatigue. An inability to focus. A sense of anxiety. A headache. An enormous desire for another donut. And something was wrong with his cigarette, again. He threw it down. Too Large began to whistle “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.”

  “Do you hear music?” asked Dormer.

  “Well,” said Too Small, “he is whistling.”

  “Not that music. Real music.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Too Large.

  “Is it,” said Too Small, “a kind of resonant clanging, like a small gong gently and repeatedly being struck?”

  “No,” said Dormer. “It isn’t like that. Do you have another cigarette?”

  “All out.”

  “Me too.”

  “But I saw you open a pack.”

  “But then you left us for a while.”

  “I need a cigarette.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Too Small. “Go inside and get one from your wife.”

  “Good idea,” said Dormer. He moved to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. “She never locks the door during the daytime,” he said.

  “Apparently she does,” said Too Large.

  “Kitchen door,” said Too Small. He jerked his thumb toward the rear of the house.

  * * *

  Dormer trudged down the driveway. A pickup truck he hadn’t noticed before was parked at its end. A sign painted on the door said, simply, CHUCK’S. He tried the kitchen door and discovered that it, too, was locked. He rattled the door, then pounded on it. “Let me in,” he called. The music was booming; he was surprised none of the neighbors had appeared to complain. Possibly she couldn’t hear him over it. He hadn’t realized that his wife liked to listen to this kind of music. It aroused odd, licentious feelings. It was embarrassing. He went back up the driveway and rounded the corner of the house. Too Small and Too Large were gone. He climbed the steps again—the step he’d fixed was still broken, and another was missing its tread, the dirt and weeds beneath visible behind the riser. The front door was still locked.

  He came back down the steps slowly, hearing his heart pounding in his ears. He really needed a cigarette. Here and there, amid the weeds and overgrown patches of grass in the unkempt yard fronting the unpainted house, were rocks. Bending over, he weighed a few in his hand before he found one, a large and heavy stone that he could grip firmly. He carried it down the driveway. Without hesitating, he used it to smash one of the glass panes of the kitchen door. He reached in to unlock it and let himself in.

  Inside, the music was deafening. He didn’t bother calling out. Was he just coming home from work? He couldn’t remember, but the light didn’t seem right. He scanned the kitchen surfaces for cigarettes. He reached on top of the refrigerator and felt around—he knew that she kept a pack up there, for when she was cooking. Nothing. All there was were two butts in an ashtray, one with lipstick and one without. Why had he ever agreed to quit? At the very least, she should have quit when he did. But then, what did she do with him anymore? Bitch. It wasn’t fair. He could smell the smoke. Still holding the stone in his hand, he left the kitchen, passed through the dining room, and entered the short passageway that led to the living room, where the music seemed to be coming from. He entered the living room and saw his son kneeling on the sofa, his back to Dormer, wearing a pair of headphones.

  But they were not headphones. They were his wife’s hands, clamped to either side of Chuck’s head, which was buried between her thighs. She opened her eyes and, suddenly aware of him, snapped her head forward. Without taking her eyes from him, she pushed Chuck’s head away. Dormer could see her mouth calmly form the word Stop. She was naked, and she was oiled, and they had very deliberately spread one of the new bath towels across the cushions of the sofa. It reminded Dormer of a pornographic film that he thought of now and then. Chuck lazily turned to face him, placing one foot on the floor and wiping his beard, obscenely. He smiled noncommittally, and said something that Dormer couldn’t hear over the music. Dormer stepped forward, raising the stone as Chuck pushed himself up and bringing it down on Chuck’s head before he was fully upright. He then looked at his wife, registered that she had seized the fauchard from where it hung over the mantel and was holding it in both hands. Dormer walked, stumbled, backward into the short passageway, unable to recall why he’d been in the living room. He straightened the framed poster, his hands disturbingly leaving some sort of dark stain on the wall; unable to make it out, he thought, not for the first time, that they really needed some light in the passageway.

  Then, smiling with satisfaction, fresh from a recent phone conversation with the woman from the local newspaper, who so admired what they’d done with the house since acquiring it that she’d called to ask if they’d be averse to her and a photographer coming out to take some pictures and do a brief interview for her monthly column, “New Neighbors.” Whistling, he was headed toward the stairs to go and tell his wife the good news when the doorbell rang. So soon? He reached for the doorknob. They were smoking when Dormer opened the door, two unexpected strangers standing expectantly on the step, both with cigarettes fuming in their hands.

  Deathbed Vigil

  by Jonathan Ames

  1.

  The nursing home called at seven a.m., waking him. They said she had a few hours. It had happened fast, duri
ng the night. A stroke. She was going quick.

  He told them, “Tell her Sol’s coming. Whisper it in her ear.”

  He was assured this would be done, and he hung up and put his cell phone back down on the bedside table. He sat up in bed and looked around the room. Sunlight seeped in around the edges of the brown curtains, and he didn’t know where he was. It looked like a shabby motel room. And smelled like one. Dead cigarette smoke. Which he hated. Which disgusted him.

  A panic began to well in his chest. He saw his large suitcase against the wall. Where the hell am I? Then it came to him all at once: Los Angeles.

  Then he got out of bed. All he knew was that he had to get across the country before she died. What he didn’t know then, of course, was that three others would die. Two by his hand.

  2.

  He used the motel room phone and called the front desk. He told them to order a taxi to take him to the airport, to LAX. Then he showered quickly, had a motel-room coffee, and went out to the cab.

  He didn’t bring his bag. It was too big, and he felt the need for speed, to be able to move quickly and lightly, to just get to her, and anyway, he’d paid for the motel room for two weeks, in advance. And he needed to come back. And he wouldn’t be gone long. Maybe a day. They said she only had a few hours.

  So he left his bag in the room and just took his wallet and his phone, but forgot his charger.

  The traffic was thick. The motel was in North Hollywood; LAX was twenty miles away. Rush hour starts early in Los Angeles.

  He was wearing his work clothes—a blazer, white button-down shirt, gray slacks, and thick-soled black shoes. It was late September. His blazer would be warm enough in New Jersey.

  The taxi got him to LAX by eight thirty. Sol wasn’t good with phones and online things, and so he had the cabbie drop him off at the first terminal, went to the first airline counter he saw, American, and was able to get a ticket—a window seat—on a noon flight, which would have him to Newark by nine p.m.

  He killed a few hours in an airport restaurant, drinking bad coffee and reading the paper, but not really reading it, and then he got on the plane, and the whole flight he prayed that his GreatAunt Lina, his only family, would hold on until he got there. He simply couldn’t bear the idea of her dying alone. She had made it to almost 102. This couldn’t be her reward, her end—to die alone in a nursing home bed.