Odd Interlude 2 (Odd Thomas 4.2)

These past five years have given me some bad attitudes, let me tell you, and if there’s one that’s probably going to wreck my whole life once Hiskott is dead and I’m free, it’s that I can’t tolerate being told what to do, even little things. I just can’t put up with it. I really can’t. Even if my mom or dad, when they tell me to do something, just tell me instead of explaining why or asking, I go off. It makes me all nuts, even though Mom and Dad only want what’s best for me. I have to do everything Hiskott tells me to do, what he makes me do, even the thing with Maxy and all. It’s just too freaking much. What I’m saying is, maybe I’ll never be able to hold a job with a boss telling me what to do, because I’ll want to punch him or hit him over the head with a skillet, I don’t know what. Just being told that I will tell this guy about Hiskott again steams me, because I wasn’t born to live on my knees saying “Yes, sir” and “Please, sir” all day long. I just can’t bear it. I really can’t.

“ ‘Discrepancies’ meaning ‘lies’?” I ask. “Listen to me, butthead, I don’t lie. I’m a mess, if you have to know, I’m a train wreck, but I don’t lie, so you can just shut up, you can just stuff it where the sun don’t shine.”

I’m shaking. Head to foot. I can’t help shaking. It’s not fear. It’s not rage, either, or not only rage. It’s also frustration and a sense of injustice and violation. I’m sick of it. And if he says the wrong thing, I’ll start smashing everything in this room that I can smash until he finally has to come out here and show himself so I can try to smash him, too, the sonofabitch.

Sometimes, when I feel this way, night or day, I go down to the beach and take off most of my clothes and leave them where they can be found, above the tideline. I swim out into waves where the sun is broken into a billion bright pieces that look sharp enough to cut me. Or other times, by effort and the effect of the outgoing tide, I make my way into the midnight ocean where I become pleasantly disoriented, and the moon seems to be under the sea like a great albino creature on the hunt, and the stars are not overhead anymore, but instead they are the lights of an unknown settlement on a far shore where no one in this world lives. I swim and swim until my calves ache and my arms feel like iron and my heart seems as if it’ll burst, because if the sea decides it loves me and takes me down to its bed, and if it later washes me back to the beach and leaves me on the sand like a tangled mass of kelp and Sargassum, the cruel man who rules us will have no reason to punish the others for my escape because it won’t be an escape with any consequences for him.

The thing is, I always return to shore, weak and trembling, and I dress and I walk home. I don’t understand how it can always turn out that way. Sometimes it’s love for my family that brings me back, sometimes fear for them, and sometimes it’s love of this beautiful and amazing world. But sometimes I don’t know what brings me back. It’s not Hiskott, because I would remember the invasion. It’s a true mystery. Because I sink and stay sunk, I really do. I drink the sea, inhale it, and can’t find the surface. I pass out. And yet I wake up on the beach and I’m not drowned.

After another silence, my unseen interrogator says, “By ‘discrepancies’ I meant inconsistencies of memory. I know you are not lying, Jolie Ann Harmony. My multiphase polygraph detects neither the vocal patterns of deceit nor the pheromones associated with lying.”

Gradually my shaking subsides. It always does. I mean, I have my moments, but I’m not flat-out psycho or anything.

He says, “I ask about Norris Hiskott only because I need to make a decision regarding him.”

I remind myself that I’m trying to learn something about Hiskott from this guy, just as he’s trying to learn something from me. “What decision?”

“That is classified information. Can you tell me exactly where Norris Hiskott might be in Harmony Corner?”

Although my anger is subsiding, I’ve still got some attitude, so I say, “That is classified information. Another reason I don’t like you is you have no social skills.”

He broods about that while I examine the interesting console, which, I’ve got to tell you, appears complicated enough to control the entire planet’s weather.

Then he says, “You are correct. I have no social skills.”

“Well, at least you can admit shortcomings.”

He’s silent for maybe half a minute, and though I throw switches and push some buttons on the console, the stupid thing remains dark and silent, so I probably haven’t destroyed Topeka with a tornado.

“Can you?” he asks.

“Can I what?

“Can you admit shortcomings?”

“My neck’s too long.”

“Your neck is too long for what?”

“For a neck. If you must know, I don’t much like my ears, either.”

“What is wrong with your ears?”

“Everything.”

“Can you hear with your ears?”

“Well, I don’t hear with my feet.”

Again he’s silent. Silence is his frequent refuge, but it’s seldom ever mine.

No cameras are obvious, but I’m sure he can see me. To test him, using a finger, I bore into my nostrils with a way-disgusting, almost erotic pleasure. If I could find something in there, I would really gross him out, but unfortunately there’s no mother lode.

He says, “Your ears and neck are not shortcomings as long as they function properly. However, I have identified a shortcoming regarding your social skills.”

“If you mean I mine for boogers, that’s just part of my ethnic heritage. You can’t criticize someone’s ethnic heritage.”

“What are boogers?”

I stop excavating my nose and try to wither him with a sigh that implies he’s tedious. “Everyone knows what boogers are. Kings and presidents and movie stars know what boogers are.”

“I am not a king, a president, or a movie star. The shortcoming in your social skills that I have identified is this: Jolie Ann Harmony, you are sarcastic. You are a wise-ass child.”

“That’s not a sh

ortcoming. That’s a defense mechanism.”

“A defense mechanism against whom?”

“Against everyone.”

“Defense implies conflict, war. Do you mean to say that you are at war with everyone?”

“Not everyone. Not everyone all the time. But you just never know about people, do you? Especially strange people like you.”

“I must make two points.”

“If you must.”

“First, I am not strange. A strange thing is one difficult to explain, but I am easily explained. A strange thing is something that was previously unknown in either fact or cause, but I am well known to many.”

“You aren’t known to me. What’s your second point?”

“I am not people. I am not a person. Therefore, you are not at war with me and need not resort to wise-ass sarcasm. I am not human.”

SIXTEEN

I don’t like spectacles other than the most gentle displays of nature, such as color-splashed sunsets, and the more frivolous works of humanity, like fireworks. Otherwise spectacle is always twined with damage and nearly always with loss, the former partial and perhaps repairable, but the latter absolute and beyond recovery. We’ve lost so much in this world that every new loss, whether large or small, seems to be a potentially breaking weight on the already swayed back of civilization.

Nevertheless, I’m riveted by the massive truck, a ProStar+, shuddering across the brink of the first slope, angling down so sharply that for a moment it appears about to tip forward, stand on end, and slam onto its back. But quickly it rights itself and rushes seaward as though an eighteen-wheeler cruising overland, breaking a trail through the tall wild grass, is as natural as a white-tailed deer making the same journey.

The truck ceases to seem appropriate to the landscape when it meets a formation of rock that, like the beetled brow of some ancient ruined temple, serves as a ramp, offering the vehicle to heaven. The big rig is airborne, but not for long. Pigs don’t fly, and neither does an eighteen-wheeler carrying perhaps sixty thousand pounds of frozen poultry. Canting in flight, it crashes down onto its starboard side with such impact that you might think the first peal of thunder has just announced the storm of Armageddon, and even in the parking lot, I feel the earth shudder underfoot. As the windshield shatters, the vertical exhaust tears loose with a sound like the angry shriek of something in a Jurassic swamp, and the refrigeration unit bursts, white clouds of evaporating coolant billowing. Less rigid and less impervious than it appeared in better times, the metal skin of the trailer’s sidewalls bulges and ripples as several thousand ice-hard turkeys prove to fly no better than their warm and living brethren. The entire rig bounces, the tractor higher than the trailer, and they decouple, rolling in different directions. Casting off a fender like a failed pauldron of body armor, the tractor comes to rest first, on its side, against an ancient Monterey cypress that stands as a lone sentinel in that portion of Harmony Corner. Before it loses momentum, the trailer tumbles into a swale and halfway up the next slope, where its skin splits and its rear doors buckle open, and choice frozen turkeys tumble forth from several openings, spilling across the grassy hillside as if from a cornucopia.