White Noise (6 page)

He was almost whispering now and I tried to get up closer without ramming my cart into Babette’s. I wanted to hear everything.

“Supermarkets this large and clean and modern are a revelation to me. I spent my life in small steamy delicatessens with slanted display cabinets full of trays that hold soft wet lumpy matter in pale colors. High enough cabinets so you had to stand on tiptoes to give your order. Shouts, accents. In cities no one notices specific dying. Dying is a quality of the air. It’s everywhere and nowhere. Men shout as they die, to be noticed, remembered for a second or two. To die in an apartment instead of a house can depress the soul, I would imagine, for several lives to come. In a town there are houses, plants in bay windows. People notice dying better. The dead have faces, automobiles. If you don’t know a name, you know a street name, a dog’s name. ‘He drove an orange Mazda.’ You know a couple of useless things about a person that become major facts of identification and cosmic placement when he dies suddenly, after a short illness, in his own bed, with a comforter and matching pillows, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, feverish, a little congested in the sinuses and chest, thinking about his dry cleaning.”

Babette said, “Where is Wilder?” and turned to stare at me in a way that suggested ten minutes had passed since she’d last seen him. Other looks, less pensive and less guilty, indicated greater time spans, deeper seas of inattention. Like:
“I didn’t know whales were mammals.”
The greater the time span, the blanker the look, the more dangerous the situation. It was as if guilt were a luxury she allowed herself only when the danger was minimal.

“How could he get out of the cart without my noticing?”

The three adults each stood at the head of an aisle and peered into the traffic of carts and gliding bodies. Then we did three more aisles, heads set forward, weaving slightly as we changed our sightlines. I kept seeing colored spots off to the right but when I turned there was nothing there. I’d been seeing colored spots for years but never so many, so gaily animated. Murray saw Wilder in another woman’s cart. The woman waved at Babette and headed toward us. She lived on our
street with a teenage daughter and an Asian baby, Chun Duc. Everyone referred to the baby by name, almost in a tone of proud proprietorship, but no one knew who Chun belonged to or where he or she had come from.

“Kleenex Softique, Kleenex Softique.”

Steffie was holding my hand in a way I’d come to realize, over a period of time, was not meant to be gently possessive, as I’d thought at first, but reassuring. I was a little astonished. A firm grip that would help me restore confidence in myself, keep me from becoming resigned to whatever melancholy moods she thought she detected hovering about my person.

Before Murray went to the express line he invited us to dinner, a week from Saturday.

“You don’t have to let me know till the last minute.”

“We’ll be there,” Babette said.

“I’m not preparing anything major, so just call beforehand and tell me if something else came up. You don’t even have to call. If you don’t show up, I’ll know that something came up and you couldn’t let me know.”

“Murray, we’ll be there.”

“Bring the kids.”

“No.”

“Great. But if you decide to bring them, no problem. I don’t want you to feel I’m holding you to something. Don’t feel you’ve made an ironclad commitment. You’ll show up or you won’t. I have to eat anyway, so there’s no major catastrophe if something comes up and you have to cancel. I just want you to know I’ll be there if you decide to drop by, with or without kids. We have till next May or June to do this thing so there’s no special mystique about a week from Saturday.”

“Are you coming back next semester?” I said.

“They want me to teach a course in the cinema of car crashes.”

“Do it.”

“I will.”

I rubbed against Babette in the checkout line. She backed into me and I reached around her and put my hands on her breasts. She rotated her hips and I nuzzled her hair and murmured, “Dirty blond.” People wrote checks, tall boys bagged the merchandise. Not everyone spoke English at the cash terminals, or near the fruit bins and frozen foods, or out among the cars in the lot. More and more I heard languages I could not identify much less understand, although the tall boys were American-born and the checkout women as well, short, fattish in blue tunics, wearing stretch slacks and tiny white espadrilles. I tried to fit my hands into Babette’s skirt, over her belly, as the slowly moving line edged toward the last purchase point, the breath mints and nasal inhalers.

It was out in the parking lot that we heard the first of the rumors about a man dying during the inspection of the grade school, one of the masked and Mylex-suited men, heavy-booted and bulky. Collapsed and died, went the story that was going around, in a classroom on the second floor.

10

T
UITION AT THE COLLEGE-ON-THE-HILL is fourteen thousand dollars, Sunday brunch included. I sense there is a connection between this powerful number and the way the students arrange themselves physically in the reading areas of the library. They sit on broad cushioned seats in various kinds of ungainly posture, clearly calculated to be the identifying signs of some kinship group or secret organization. They are fetal, splayed, knock-kneed, arched, square-knotted, sometimes almost upside-down. The positions are so studied they amount to a classical mime. There is an element of over-refinement and inbreeding. Sometimes I feel I’ve wandered into a Far Eastern dream, too remote to be interpreted. But it is only the language of economic class they are speaking, in one of its allowable outward forms, like the convocation of station wagons at the start of the year.

Denise watched her mother pull the little cellophane ribbon on a bonus pack of sixteen individually wrapped units of chewing gum. Her eyes narrowed as she turned back to the address books on the kitchen table before her. The eleven-year-old face was an expert mask of restrained exasperation.

She waited a long moment, then said evenly, “That stuff causes cancer in laboratory animals in case you didn’t know.”

“You wanted me to chew sugarless gum, Denise. It was your idea.”

“There was no warning on the pack then. They put a warning, which I would have a hard time believing you didn’t see.”

She was transcribing names and phone numbers from an old book to a new one. There were no addresses. Her friends had phone numbers only, a race of people with a seven-bit analog consciousness.

“I’m happy to do it either way,” Babette said. “It’s totally up to you. Either I chew gum with sugar and artificial coloring or I chew sugarless and colorless gum that’s harmful to rats.”

Steffie got off the phone. “Don’t chew at all,” she said. “Did you ever think of that?”

Babette was breaking eggs into a wooden salad bowl. She gave me a look that wondered how the girl could talk on the phone and listen to us at the same time. I wanted to say because she finds us interesting.

Babette said to the girls, “Look, either I chew gum or I smoke. If you want me to start smoking again, take away my chewing gum and my Mentho-Lyptus.”

“Why do you have to do one or the other?” Steffie said. “Why not do neither one?”

“Why not do both?” Denise said, the face carefully emptying itself of expression. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? We all get to do what we want, don’t we? Except if we want to go to school tomorrow we can’t because they’re fumigating the place or whatever.”

The phone rang; Steffie grabbed it.

“I’m not a criminal,” Babette said. “All I want to do is chew a pathetic little tasteless chunk of gum now and then.”

“Well it’s not that simple,” Denise said.

“It’s not a crime either. I chew about two of those little chunks a day.”

“Well you can’t anymore.”

“Well I can, Denise. I want to. Chewing happens to relax me. You’re making a fuss over nothing.”

Steffie managed to get our attention by the sheer pleading force of the look on her face. Her hand was over the mouthpiece of the phone. She did not speak but only formed the words.

“Parents or children?” Babette said.

My daughter shrugged.

“We don’t want them,” Babette said.

“Keep them out,” Denise said.

“Say anything you want.”

“Just keep them out of here.”

“They’re boring.”

“Tell them to stay home.”

Steffie retreated with the phone, appearing to shield it with her body, her eyes full of fear and excitement.

“A little gum can’t possibly hurt,” Babette said.

“I guess you’re right. Never mind. Just a warning on the pack.”

Steffie hung up. “Just hazardous to your health,” she said.

“Just rats,” Denise said. “I guess you’re right. Never mind.”

“Maybe she thinks they died in their sleep.”

“Just useless rodents, so what’s the difference?”

“What’s the difference, what’s the fuss?” Steffie said.

“Plus I’d like to believe she chews only two pieces a day, the way she forgets things.”

“What do I forget?” Babette said.

“It’s all right,” Denise said. “Never mind.”

“What do I forget?”

“Go ahead and chew. Never mind the warning. I don’t care.”

I scooped Wilder off a chair and gave him a noisy kiss on the ear and he shrank away in delight. Then I put him on the counter and went upstairs to find Heinrich. He was in his room studying the deployment of plastic chessmen.

“Still playing with the fellow in prison? How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I think I got him cornered.”

“What do you know about this fellow? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Like who did he kill? That’s the big thing today. Concern for the victim.”

“You’ve been playing chess with the man for months. What do you know about him except that he’s in jail for life, for murder? Is he young, old, black, white? Do you communicate at all except for chess moves?”

“We send notes sometimes.”

“Who did he kill?”

“He was under pressure.”

“And what happened?”

“It kept building and building.”

“So he went out and shot someone. Who did he shoot?”

“Some people in Iron City.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“Five people.”

“Not counting the state trooper, which was later.”

“Six people. Did he care for his weapons obsessively? Did he have an arsenal stashed in his shabby little room off a six-story concrete car park?”

“Some handguns and a bolt-action rifle with a scope.”

“A telescopic sight. Did he fire from a highway overpass, a rented room? Did he walk into a bar, a washette, his former place of employment and start firing indiscriminately? People scattering, taking cover under tables. People out on the street thinking they heard firecrackers. ‘I was just waiting for the bus when I heard this little popping noise like firecrackers going off.’ ”

“He went up to a roof.”

“A rooftop sniper. Did he write in his diary before he went up to the roof? Did he make tapes of his voice, go to the movies, read books about other mass murderers to refresh his memory?”

“Made tapes.”

“Made tapes. What did he do with them?”

“Sent them to people he loved, asking for forgiveness.”

“ ‘I can’t help myself, folks.’ Were the victims total strangers? Was it a grudge killing? Did he get fired from his job? Had he been hearing voices?”

“Total strangers.”

“Had he been hearing voices?”

“On TV.”

“Talking just to him? Singling him out?”

“Telling him to go down in history. He was twenty-seven, out of work, divorced, with his car up on blocks. Time was running out on him.”

“Insistent pressuring voices. How did he deal with the media? Give lots of interviews, write letters to the editor of the local paper, try to make a book deal?”

“There is no media in Iron City. He didn’t think of that till it was too late. He says if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t do it as an ordinary murder, he would do it as an assassination.”

“He would select more carefully, kill one famous person, get noticed, make it stick.”

“He now knows he won’t go down in history.”

“Neither will I.”

“But you’ve got Hitler.”

“Yes, I have, haven’t 1?”

“What’s Tommy Roy Foster got?”

“All right, he’s told you all these things in the letters he sends. What do you say when you respond?”

“I’m losing my hair.”

I looked at him. He wore a warmup suit, a towel around his neck, sweatbands on both wrists.

“You know what your mother would say about this chess by mail relationship.”

“I know what you would say. You’re saying it.”

“How is your mother? Hear from her lately?”

“She wants me to go out to the ashram this summer.”

“Do you want to go?”

“Who knows what I want to do? Who knows what anyone wants to do? How can you be sure about something like that? Isn’t it all a question of brain chemistry, signals going back and forth, electrical energy in the cortex? How do you know whether something is really what you want to do or just some kind of nerve impulse in the brain? Some minor little activity takes place somewhere in this unimportant place in one of the brain hemispheres and suddenly I want to go to Montana or I don’t want to go to Montana. How do I know I really want to go and it isn’t just some neurons firing or something? Maybe it’s just an accidental flash in the medulla and suddenly there I am in Montana and I find out I really didn’t want to go there in the first place. I can’t control what happens in my brain, so how can I be sure what I want to do ten seconds from now, much less Montana next summer? It’s all this activity in the brain and you don’t know what’s you as a person and what’s some neuron that just happens to fire or just happens to misfire. Isn’t that why Tommy Roy killed those people?”