کتاب 07-12

12

He got up to stir the fire and came back holding the longbow that had sat in the corner all winter long. He stretched out on his cot, holding the bow as if it were a guitar and thwanging its one atonal string.

“Do you think Keith Richards is still alive?” he asked.

“Sure. Nothing can kill him. He’ll outlast us all.”

“Beatles or Stones?” he asked.

She sang the opening lines of “Love Me Do.”

“Is that a vote for the Beatles?”

“Of course I pick the Beatles. It’s a stupid question. It’s like asking what you like better: silk or pubic hair?”

“Ah, that’s disappointing.”

“Of course you’d pick the Stones. Anyone who’d walk around pretending he’s a fireman when he isn’t—”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Men who love the Stones are fixated on cock. I’m sorry, but that’s the only word. And a firehose is a symbolic fantasy cock. It’s pathetic. Male Stones fans are frozen at eighteen months old, just discovering the thrill of yanking on the rubber band of their own phallus. Female Stones fans are even worse. Mick Jagger has a weird gross mouth that makes him look like a cod, and this turns them on. They’re sexually aroused by fish-men. They’re deviants.”

“So what are Beatles fans fixated on? The glory of pussy?”

“Exactly. Strawberry Fields is not just a place in Liverpool, Mr. Rookwood.” She held out her hand. “Give me that. Every time you twang the cable you’re putting unnecessary torque on the cams.”

“You talk like an auto mechanic when you’re drunk. Did you know that?”

“I’m not drunk. You’re drunk. I’m a former archery instructor. Now give it.”

He gave her the bow. She stood it upright, ran her fingers down the slick of the cable.

“An archery instructor?”

“When I was in high school. For the town rec department.”

“What inspired you? Jennifer Lawrence? Did you have Catsass Everdame fantasies? Jennifer Lawrence was a corker. I hope she didn’t burn to death.”

“No, this was pre–Hunger Games. I went on this whole Robin Hood jag when I was nine years old. I started saying thy and thou and when my parents asked me to do a chore I’d drop to one knee and bow. At the peak of my obsession I wore a Robin Hood costume to school.”

“For Halloween?”

“No. Just because I liked the way it made me feel.”

“Oh God. And your parents let you? I didn’t know you were neglected as a child. That gives me a sad feeling in my”—he paused, to try and figure out where his sad feelings were located—“emotions.”

“My parents are sturdy, practical people who own several ratlike dogs. They were very good to me and I miss them very much.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I don’t think they’re dead. But they are in Florida.”

“The first stage of decline.” He nodded sadly. “I suppose they dress their dogs in sweaters.”

“Sometimes, if it’s cold. But how did you know?”

“They let you cavort about in public wearing a Robin Hood outfit, to what I can only assume was a deluge of cruel taunts from your peers. It’s easy enough to guess how they’ll treat their pets.”

“Oh, no. They didn’t know about my Robin Hood outfit. I had it in my backpack and changed into it in the bathroom at school. But you’re right about the taunts. That was a dark day for Harper Frances Willowes.”

“Frances! Lovely. May I call you Frannie?”

“No. You may call me Harper.” She rested her chin on the top of the bow. “My dad got me my first bow for Christmas, when I was ten. But he took it away before New Year’s.”

“Did you shoot someone?”

“He caught me soaking arrows in lighter fluid. I just really, really wanted to shoot a flaming arrow at something. It didn’t matter what. Still do. I feel like that would complete me: to see a burning arrow go thwock into something and set it afire. I suppose it’s how men feel when they imagine sinking balls-deep into the perfect piece of ass. I just want one sexy little thwock.”

John choked on another mouthful of banana rum. She had to pound him between the shoulders to get him breathing again.

“I am certain you are drunk,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I’ve limited myself to a very responsible two cups of banana-flavored dog vomit. I’m pregnant.”

He gasped, began to cough once more.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go shoot flaming arrows. Want to? The fresh air will do you good. You need to get out of this hole more often.”

He gave her a look through watering eyes. “What are we going to shoot?”

“The moon.”

“Ah,” he said. “A nice fat target. Do I get to shoot, too?”

“Sure,” she said, and pushed back her chair. “I’ll get the arrows. All you have to do is bring the fire.”