He never suffers from nightmares. This is because, in his daily life, he confronts the sources of his tensions and deals with them. He is never dragged down by guilt. He is not judgmental of others and is never affected by what they think of him. He knows that if something he wishes to do feels right, then it is right. He always looks out for number one, because to be a successful human being, he must first like himself. Consequently, he always goes to his bed with a clear mind and an untroubled heart.
Now, within seconds of resting his head on his pillow, Mr. Vess is asleep. From time to time his legs cycle beneath the covers, as if he is chasing something.
Once, in his sleep, he says, “Father,” almost reverentially, and the word hangs like a bubble on the air—which is odd, because when Edgler Vess was nine years old, he burned his father to death.
*
Chains rattling, Chyna leaned down and picked up the spare cushion from the floor beside her chair. She put it on the table, slumped forward, and rested her head on it.
According to the kitchen clock, it was a quarter till twelve. She had been awake well over twenty-four hours, except when she had dozed in the motor home and when she had sat here unconscious after Vess clubbed her.
Although exhausted, and numb with despair, she did not expect to be able to sleep. But she hoped that by keeping her eyes closed and letting her thoughts drift to more pleasant times, she might be able to take her mind off her mild but gradually increasing urge to pee and off the pain in her neck and trigger finger.
She was walking in a wind full of torn red blossoms, curiously unafraid of the darkness and of the lightning that sometimes split it, when she was awakened not by thunder but by the sound of scissors clipping through paper.
She lifted her head from the pillow and sat up straight. The fluorescent light stung her eyes.
Edgler Vess was standing at the sink, cutting open a large bag of potato chips.
He said, “Ah, you’re awake, you sleepyhead.”
Chyna looked at the clock. Twenty minutes till five.
He said, “I thought it might take a brass band to bring you around.”
She had been asleep almost five hours. Her eyes were grainy. Her mouth was sour. She could smell her body odor, and she felt greasy.
She had not wet herself in her sleep, and she was briefly lifted by an absurd sense of triumph that she had not yet been reduced to that lower level of humiliation. Then she realized how pathetic she was, priding herself on her continence, and her internal grayness darkened by a degree or two.
Vess was wearing black boots, khaki slacks, a black belt, and a white T-shirt.
His arms were muscular, enormous. She would never be able to struggle successfully against those arms.
He brought a plate to the table. He had made a sandwich for her. “Ham and cheese with mustard.”
A ruffle of lettuce showed at the edges of the bread. He had placed two dill pickle spears beside the sandwich.
As Vess put the bag of potato chips on the table, Chyna said, “I don’t want it.”
“You have to eat,” he said.
She looked out the window at the deep yard in late-afternoon light.
“If you don’t eat,” he said, “I’ll eventually have to force-feed you.” He picked up the bottle of aspirin and shook it to get her attention. “Tasty?”
“I didn’t take any,” she said.
“Ah, then you’re learning to enjoy your pain.”
He seemed to win either way.
He took away the aspirin and returned with a glass of water. Smiling, he said, “You’ve got to keep those kidneys functioning or they’ll atrophy.”
As Vess cleaned the counter where he’d made the sandwich, Chyna said, “Were you abused as a child?” and hated herself for asking the question, for still trying to understand.
Vess laughed and shook his head. “This isn’t a textbook, Chyna. This is real life.”
“Were you?”
“No. My father was a Chicago accountant. My mom sold women’s wear at a department store. They loved me. Bought me too many toys, more than I could use, especially since I preferred playing with… other things.”