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  What to choose?

  He’d promised Jimmy Ray that he’d sharpen them. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “It will give me a sense of purpose.”

  And it does. Choosing the right “Tool of Salvation,” as he likes to think about it, is as important as the act itself. Each tool has a different effect. The machete is heroic and can be wielded like a samurai—which is fun, but a little overdone these days. The bowie is a classic—just a swift upward movement under the rib cage and twist. The straightedge takes some planning; a little sedative is needed to put the victim out so there’s no struggle, but it says so much more than other methods.

  Life dripping away. Death easing in. Very Blake. Very poetic.

  So it’s very difficult to choose. Poisons have their place, but they tend to panic the victim, which can be unsightly. He’s always wanted to try a bow and arrow. For someone like Jimmy Ray that might be a nice touch. Very mythical, he thinks. The archer is a classic. Romantic, but not maudlin.

  Outside, the sun is just rising over the key lime house. There is a chorus of wild parakeets squalling. And, of course, the tumultuous sound of poultry sex. Jesus picks up the knives, one by one, and sharpens each on the whetstone. Tests them on his hand, or forehead, or forearm—tiny slice after tiny slice. He wants to make sure they’re perfect. He likes the cold blade against his skin.

  When he gets to the machete, he holds it close to his neck for a moment, runs it along the edge of his thin beard. Bristles bend underneath the weight of the blade. He imagines what it would be like to let the knife slip.

  Can’t be worse than being stuck inside of Jesus, he thinks. But then he thinks of Jimmy Ray and the mess. Where are my manners? But he doesn’t move the machete. He just sits there with it pressed up against his neck, feels it jump in his hand and counts the beat of his heart like a runner doing laps.

  It’s then that Dagmar—honey hair deflated, eyes red and swollen—opens the back door without knocking.

  “What are you doing?”

  To say she is alarmed is an understatement.

  Jesus pulls Jimmy Ray’s Luger from his pants. Waves it around.

  “Waiting for oatmeal.”

  At the sight of a gun waving through the air like a prom queen Dagmar panics. All she can think of is Jimmy Ray. Why did I leave this maniac with Jimmy Ray?

  “What have you done with him?” She lunges for the gun. The kitchen chair falls over backward taking Jesus with it. And Dagmar, too. The machete tumbles to the ground, barely misses her foot.

  Jimmy Ray comes out of his bedroom to see what the ruckus is all about. Dressed in his purple silk dressing gown, smelling of violet tonic, his hair marcel-waved, he looks like a deposed king. “My, my sis,” he says sweetly. “No need to get excited. There’s enough oatmeal for everybody.”

  “The gun—” she says.

  “Isn’t loaded.”

  “Oh.”

  She rolls off Jesus and lies on the floor. Stares at the ceiling. Feels more than a little stupid.

  “There’s no need for such a fuss,” Jesus says and pulls himself up to his feet. He brushes off his pants and thinks, I just hate it when they make a fuss.

  “You got to excuse my Dagmar,” Jimmy Ray tells Jesus. “She is fierce. And a little presumptuous.” Jimmy Ray clucks at Dagmar; his eyebrow is raised. Then he leans over slowly, painfully, and extends a hand to help her up. “How many times have I told you not to play on the floor?” he says, teasing. “Don’t make me ground you.”

  Dagmar can see from the look on his face that nobody’s told Jimmy Ray about Leon. She’d assumed he knew—Trot, or Bender, or the scanners—but it’s clear he doesn’t. Why didn’t I call? It’s then she realizes the room is quiet. The scanners are silent. The lights are out. The blue flame on the gas stove hisses. Power must be out, she thinks. Doesn’t take his hand.

  Jimmy Ray looks concerned. “You okay, sis?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, shaky. She sits up. Doesn’t sound fine at all. She hugs her knees and looks into Jimmy Ray’s yellowed eyes. They are watery, weak, worn away by having seen too much of this world. She reaches out and catches his wrist, feels his pulse beating. Misses him already.

  “Last night. Leon—” she says.

  “The fire?”

  She nods.

  Jimmy Ray sits down hard on the kitchen chair. Overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to feel. He’s known plenty of men like Leon in New Orleans—good-looking, but not too smart. “The worst combination of man put on this earth,” he tried to tell Dagmar, but she wouldn’t listen. So he tried to be all right with Leon, tried to make his peace. But then Cal died. Jimmy Ray called Cal “The Sun Child” and was teaching him to riff, telling him stories about Professor Longhair and the boys. And it was Leon’s fault. Damn Leon.

  The anger rises up in him, again—even though it is not Buddha’s way. Just human, he tells himself. Still, the anger makes him feel shamed.

  Dagmar puts her head on his lap and starts to cry. Heavy heart, he thinks, and runs a hand through her apricot hair. My little girl has a heavy heart.

  “Sugar, let me make you some french toast,” he says gently. “I’ll even cut it into little hearts like you used to like when you were a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “You are always my baby girl,” he says, and there is something different in the way he says the word baby. Not a southernism, but the truth. My baby. My daughter. My child.

  And she hears it.

  The two sit for a moment in the soft light of the kitchen breathing each other’s breaths. Jimmy Ray with his old man watered-down eyes. Dagmar with her Egyptian queen gaze.

  “You my baby,” he whispers. Tears fill his eyes.

  Dagmar nods, overwhelmed. Kisses his leathered hand. “Father,” she thinks. “Dad,” “Pop,” “Papa”—but only “Jimmy Ray” still feels right.

  “French toast would be good,” she says.

  “Anything for you, sis.”

  And that makes her cry again. She reaches into the pocket of her jeans, pulls out a Kleenex. Blows her nose.

  Honks like a Canada goose.

  “That’s not from my side of the family,” Jimmy Ray laughs.

  Jesus is sniffling, too. He blows his nose on the dishtowel. With Leon out of the way, he can do Jimmy Ray up right, give him the kind of death that only a friend can give—a death that says you care. Surprisingly, Jesus feels a deep sense of caring for the old man. Never felt that way before.

  I’m going to give you the Hallmark Card of Death, he thinks, and is completely choked up over the sentiment. Tears run down his cheeks.

  “You going soft on me?” Jimmy Ray asks, wipes a tear away from his own face.

  Jesus shakes his head. “Tears of joy,” he says. “I just remembered I love french toast.”

  Chapter 19

  It’s still unclear who opened the window in Leon’s room. The nurses claimed the cleaning staff did. The cleaning staff claimed it was the nurses. What is clear, however, was that the window was only open a crack. But then that’s really all that was needed. Honeybees are such tiny things. They don’t take up much space.

  And so the queen bee slipped through the open window, and the others followed. This, in itself, is not uncommon. When colony populations are too high, the queen always moves part of the group to a new harborage. During these swarms they occasionally work their way into buildings; burrow into walls, chew their way through drywall.

  They don’t usually swarm onto patients, however.

  The slurry of tapioca that had dried in Leon’s hair drew them in. The bees were hungry, focused, and looking for a place to build a hive. Leon was in a drug-induced coma. It was a perfect match.

  And so the walls of Leon’s hospital room now hum like a hundred high-voltage wires.

  You never want to disturb bees building a hive—that’s the first thing Nurse Becker learned about bees in Camp Fire Girls back when she was a girl in South Miami. So she cl
oses the patient’s door slowly. Runs.

  Underneath the swarm, Leon’s body vibrates like a tuning fork. He’s dreaming that he’s a Las Vegas marquee. Dang cool, he thinks. I hum. Wayne Newton is headlining.

  It’s been four hours since Leon was airlifted to the hospital. He’s already out of ICU because there’s just no room—holidays and all—and besides, he’s just another Jesus guy without insurance, or ID, or anything. Just a man in a blanket. His brain has stopped swelling, but he’s still listed in critical condition because he’s running a temperature of 102 degrees. Nobody can seem to bring it down. There’s talk he may have some sort of virus, but the results from blood tests are still at the lab. The doctors avoid his room. It’s tough to know what to do with a John Doe named Jesus.

  Now there are bees involved.

  The bees are swarming through his hair, down his neck, his hands, his arms, and legs. They fill the room like a storm cloud, turn day into night. Leon is nearly completely covered. Only his face, pale as a paper plate, shows through the tangle.

  The queen with her five eyes watches Leon closely. The guard bees circle them, snap and buzz. The scouts lay down a thin layer of wax on top of Leon’s thin cotton blanket and in the crook of his right arm. The room has a south-facing exposure. It is warm and bright. The bees like that. They quickly lay down layer after layer of wax, weaving a honeycomb as they go. The topaz walls smell like rose petals.

  This would all be perfectly natural if Leon were a stump.

  As the bees build their hive, their cool bodies and the hundreds of wings chill the air, the honey, and Leon, too.

  His temperature is now 99.6. And falling.

  “All right,” Nurse Becker says. She’s gathered the staff together in the hallway. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” She’s flushed and sweating. There’s no time to waste. She tosses bath towels to the nurses and aides.

  “Hold these over your head and duck when I run by.”

  Nurse Becker is a large woman, all thunder and authority. “Everybody ready?” she shouts. Nobody is, but they nod anyway.

  Down the length of the hall, nurses with towels on their heads hold patients’ doors shut. Bill, the security guard, holds the emergency exit open. Bill’s a small man and, if it wasn’t for the gun, is the kind of man who is easily overlooked. Nurse Becker always makes the effort to be kind to him, to take a moment and talk. She knows what it’s like to be outsized, odd, and alone. Instead of a towel, he’s wearing a blanket with holes cut out for his eyes. He looks like a Halloween ghost. She doesn’t even think to laugh.

  “On the count of three,” she shouts.

  “Ready?” he shouts back.

  “Ready!” she says.

  Carefully, slowly, Nurse Becker eases open the door to Leon’s room. Accidentally, the door locks in place with a loud clank. The sound makes her jump. The room is angry with bees. This better work, she thinks. Tears fill her eyes. Her legs are shaking.

  Quickly, she pops open the lid on the orange blossom honey, which she usually has with her tea. The jar is new. The honey smells of summer, its thick heat.

  The second thing Nurse Becker learned about bees in Camp Fire Girls is that when they swarm like this it means they’re hungry. And when they’re hungry they want honey.

  The swarm turns. The hum grows louder; you can hear it all the way down the hospital corridor.

  “Run,” Bill screams.

  But Nurse Becker can’t. For a moment she’s riveted by fear, by the overwhelming sight of hundreds of bees.

  “Run, damn it!”

  Leon’s temperature is now 98.6. Normal. The coma is lifting. He opens his eyes, but the rest of his body is still unresponsive. Bees cover him. His brain waves ripple like pond water, so he isn’t afraid. He knows he should be, but he isn’t. He thinks of his new poker buddy Jesus, and how it is said that the animals bow down before him—even the lions and bears.

  Nothing will hurt me, Leon thinks. I got me pals in high places. So he listens calmly to the song of the swarming, the rhythm in the hum. One note after another builds toward some sort of gospel crescendo.

  They’re singing for me, he thinks, and is amazed that the size and shape of angels change from one minute to the next.

  I could really use a pancake right now. With butter pecan syrup.

  Meanwhile, a handful of guard bees spin off and surround Nurse Becker.

  Keep still, she tells herself. Very still.

  It takes every ounce of her strength to stand perfectly still—not to breathe, not to cry. She keeps her eyes focused on the open jar. Doesn’t look at the angry swarm of bees circling around her.

  If the queen doesn’t move, Nurse Becker knows that the swarm won’t budge, and may eventually attack. But as soon as she thinks this it happens. The queen finally dives into the open jar. The tiny bee quivers above the honey, then shoots straight up and spins from side to side in a perfect figure eight.

  The Waggle Dance.

  It’s been so long since Nurse Becker has even thought of the waggle dance, a silly name for such an important event, that it almost makes her smile. Keep still, she thinks. The waggle dance is the universal sign that there’s honey, and it’s good honey, and the workers should stop what they’re doing and follow the dancing bee to the source.

  The queen flutters her iridescent wings. The delicate dance begins.

  How beautiful, Nurse Becker thinks. How amazing these creatures are. She is mesmerized. The guard bees join in. Golden and quick, they swoop and spin around the tiny queen. It is all so elegant. Each movement has such ease that Nurse Becker wonders what it would be like to be so graceful, not to lumber through life.

  Then, suddenly the rest of the swarm—waves and waves of hungry bees—scream toward her.

  “Get the hell out of there!” Bill shouts. “What are you waiting for?”

  His voice slaps Nurse Becker back into the moment.

  “Duck,” she shouts and runs as fast as she can down the hall. The bees are faster. They begin to overtake her, cover her with a cloud of dust and hum.

  The third thing Nurse Becker learned about honeybees is that they can fly faster than you can run, but she just couldn’t let a patient die. Especially one who thinks he’s Jesus.

  “You never know,” she’d told Bill. “They can’t all be whack jobs.”

  Nurse Becker is quickly becoming overcome.

  “Toss the jar,” Bill screams. “Just toss it outside the door.”

  Bees are stinging Nurse Becker’s face and eyes. With all the strength she can muster, she throws the jar of honey out the Emergency Exit door. The bees follow the jar. Swarm over it. Bill slams the door. Nurse Becker’s deflates into a heap. Her face is swollen. Her eyes are shut. She can hardly breathe.

  “Where’s that damn adrenaline?” Bill is shouting.

  “I certainly hope Jesus appreciates this,” she whispers.

  Bill takes her hand gently. Kneels beside her like Casper in prayer.

  Chapter 20

  Underneath Dagmar’s apartment, in The Dream Café, the music kicks into high gear, shakes the floorboards. It’s Sunday. Noon. First show. The first show is always the cheerleader routine, a real crowd pleaser. Izzy and Cocoa cartwheel onto the dance floor.

  “Are you ready for teen spirit?” Izzy shouts. Her white cheerleading skirt is high around her head. Her G-string is red. Red and white are the school colors of Dagmar’s old school, St. Jude’s.

  “Ready now!” Cocoa replies. “Let’s play! Okay?”

  The crowd shouts, “Okay!” A few hoot.

  Izzy and Cocoa are perfect. Surly and spankable. Twins. Ice blond. About a year ago, Dagmar “discovered” them at the Waffle House down the road. They were working double shifts to save up for breast reduction surgery. Izzy was the cook. Cocoa, a reluctant waitress.

  It was 3 A.M. and Dagmar was having a very late dinner of pecan waffles and country ham when some drunk loaded the jukebox with a roll of quarters. And that’s bad enough a
t 3 A.M., but then he did the unthinkable—he punched the entire left side of buttons. Button after button, the drunk selected every song on the Waffle House play list—all fourteen of them. He punched them once, and then a second time, and then again, until all his quarters were gone.

  “That’s for you, Cocoa,” he shouted. “So you never forget me.”

  Then he stumbled out the door.

  Izzy spit, and the Waffle House rhapsody, the bane of all employees, began.

  The “rhapsody” is an occupational hazard visited upon all who work for the yellow and white. Every Waffle House has one. It’s a smattering of songs written for and about the hash joint. It’s corporate policy. Fourteen little jukebox placards, yellow as yolks, must always be on the left-hand side of the jukebox. They’re hits never heard on any radio. The styles range from jazz to rock and roll to novelty songs with bad rhymes and insidious hooks. The songs on the list change frequently, but some standards remain like “844,739 Ways to Eat a Hamburger at Waffle House” by Billy Dee Cox, and the rocking “Waffle Doo Wop,” by Eddie Middleton.

  They drive the staff slowly insane. Customers play them at great risk.

  Three songs in, Izzy jumped across the counter, case cutter in hand, just as “Why Would You Eat Grits Anyplace Else?” by Mary Welch Rogers hit the platter. The rousing homage was a college cheer, a fight song. It was deafening.

  “Gimme a ‘G’!” Mary Ann and her cheerleading backup singers shouted.

  “G!” Izzy and Cocoa shouted back. Then Izzy cut the jukebox plug with the case cutter, and Cocoa tossed all fourteen of the Waffle House hits out the front door like Frisbees.

  The rest is Adult Entertainment History.

  Now, as Izzy and Cocoa cheer on the crowd beneath them, Trot and Dagmar pretend not to notice. Trot sits like a giant on Dagmar’s soft floral print couch; his knees are nearly up around his ears. His hands are sweaty, folded. Looks like he’s in detention. It’s his day off, but he’s been up early investigating the explosion. Something about it nags him. The timing seems odd, too odd. A quarter of a million dollar rig shows up on Christmas Day at Leon’s and then he’s burned up in a fire?