puking start?”
“It’s not a disease in that sense. It’s more a process.”
Lightning flared again. Beautiful. And too brief to do any damage to
me.
“Process,” Bobby mused.
“You’re not actually sick. just . . . changed.”
Sliding the pizzas into the oven to reheat them, Sasha said, “So who
owned the shirt before You did?”
Bobby said, “Back in the fifties? Who knows?”
“Were dinosaurs alive then?” I wondered.
“Not many,” Bobby said.
Sasha said, “What’s it made of?”
“Rayon.”
“Looks in perfect condition.”
“You don’t abuse a shirt like this,” Bobby said solemnly, “You treasure
it.”
At the refrigerator, I plucked out bottles of Corona for every one but
Orson. Because of his body weight, the mutt can usually handle one
beer without getting sloppy, but this night he needed to keep a totally
clear head. The rest of us actually needed the brew;
calming our nerves a little would increase our effectiveness.
As I stood beside the sink, popping the caps off the beers, lightning
tore at the sky again, unsuccessfully trying to rip rain in out of the
clouds, and in the flash I saw three hunched figures racing from one
dune to another.
“They’re here,” I said, bringing the beers to the table.
“They always need a while to get up their nerve,” Bobby said.
“I hope they give us time for dinner.”
“I’m starved,” Sasha agreed.
“Okay, so what’re the basic symptoms of this not-disease, this
process?”
Bobby asked. “Do we end up looking like we have gnarly oak fungus?”
“Some may degenerate psychologically like Stevenson,” I said.
“Some may change physically, too, minor ways. Maybe in major ways, for
all I know. But it sounds as if each case is different. Maybe some
people aren’t affected, or not so You’d notice, and then others really
change.”
As Sasha fingered the sleeve of Bobby’s shirt, admiring it, he said,
“The pattern’s a Eugene Savage mural called Island Feast.
“The buttons are fully stylin’,” she said, in the mood now.
“Totally stylin’,” Bobby agreed, rubbing his thumb over one of the
yellow-brown, striated buttons, smiling with the pride of a passionate
collector and with pleasure at the sensuous texture.
“Polished coconut shell.”
Sasha got a stack of paper napkins from a drawer and brought them to
the table.
The air was thick and damp. You could feel the skin of the storm
swelling like a balloon. It would burst soon.
After taking a swallow of the icy Corona, I said to Bobby, “Okay, bro,
before I tell You the rest of it, Orson has a little demonstration for
You.”
“I’ve got all the Tupperware I need.”
I called Orson to my side. “There are some throw pillows on the
living-room sofas. One was a gift from me to Bobby. Would You go get
it for him, please?”
Orson padded out of the room.
“What’s going on?” Bobby wondered.
Sitting down with her beer, Sasha grinned and said, “Just wait.” Her
.38
Chiefs Special was on the table. She unfolded a paper napkin and
covered the weapon with it. “Just wait.”
Every year, Bobby and I exchange gifts at Christmas. One gift each.
Because we both have everything we need, value and usefulness are not
criteria when we shop. The idea is to give the tackiest items that can
be found for sale. This has been a hallowed tradition since we were
twelve. In Bobby’s bedroom are shelves on which he keeps the
collection of tasteless gifts that I’ve given to him; the only one he
finds insufficiently tacky to warrant space on those shelves is the
pillow.
Orson returned to the kitchen with this inadequately tacky item in his
mouth, and Bobby accepted it, trying to look unimpressed with the dog’s
feat.
The twelve-by-eight-inch pillow featured a needlepoint sampier on the
front. It was among items that had been manufactured byand sold to
raise funds for-a popular television evangelist.
Inside an elaborate border were eight words in scrollwork stitching:
JESUS EATS SINNERS AND SPITS OUT SAVED SOULS.
“You didn’t find this tacky?” Sasha asked disbelievingly.
“Tacky, yes,” Bobby said, strapping the loaded ammo belt around his
waist without getting up from his chair. “But not tacky enough.”