The Schwa Was Here

19 The Schwa Gets Radiation Therapy in a Room That Doesn't Smell Too Good No Matter How Much It's Disinfected

When he saw me approaching with Lexie, half an hour I iJ after I had left him in the road, I saw his shoulders sag.

"Why did you have to bring her here?" he said with nasty ac­cusation in his eyes. "I don't feel bad enough about this al­ready? You had to tell her, too?"

"All I told her is that you're sitting here like an idiot in the middle of road construction."

"I don't like being talked about in the third person," said Lexie.

"You chose him," he grumbled at her, "so why don't you both just go."

"Calvin Schwa, I am so sick of you feeling sorry for yourself," Lexie said. "Stand up."

"I'm comfortable where I am." "I said, 'STAND UP!"'

Lexie had a pretty commanding voice. It made him leap to his feet. I jumped, too.

"We've got a car waiting," I told him. "You're coming with us, and we're not taking no for an answer."

"What am I going to do when I get home?" he asked. "What do I tell my father about the money? Can't I just stay here, close my eyes, and disappear?"

"You can't because you won't," I said. "You won't disappear, I mean. I don't know what kind of cosmic weirdness the Schwa Effect is, but it can't be terminal."

"Prove it."

"If you want proof, you have to come with us."

Lexie turned her head slightly, angling an ear to me, as if she could catch my meaning if she could hear me better. What proof are you talking about? her body language asked me. I didn't answer her with my voice or body, so she turned her at­tention back to the Schwa. Reaching toward the sound of his voice, she gently touched his face. He pulled away.

"Don't touch me if you don't mean it."

A look of hurt, maybe even insult, fell across Lexie's face. "I always mean it when I touch. It just may not mean what you think it does." She reached forward again, touching him, and this time the Schwa allowed it. Cupping his face in both of her hands, she moved her thumbs across his cold, red cheeks. It was her way of looking him in the eye.

"Antsy is not your only friend. And you have never once slipped my mind."

I could see the Schwa trying to blink away tears. I don't know exactly what he felt at that moment, but I did know that he was done with sitting in the road, feeling sorry for himself.

"Come on, Calvin," I said. "There's someplace we need to go."

"Where?"

I took a deep breath. It was time he had his own dose of trauma therapy.

"We're paying a visit to the Night Butcher."

***

"I'm not getting out of the car," he told me when we pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Waldbaum's supermarket.

"If you don't get out, you'll never know what happened."

"Well, I'm getting out," said Lexie, irritated that I had kept what little I knew from her. "Even if you don't want to hear, Calvin, I do."

In the end, he got out with us, and the three of us walked to the supermarket with the grave determination of my mother on double-coupon day.

We passed the checkers, who were complaining about the stock boys; we passed the stock boys, who were making jokes about the checkers; and we pushed our way into the room be­hind the meat counter without anyone noticing or caring that we were there.

Gunther was blasting the meat-cutting room with a steam hose to disinfect the stainless-steel instruments. It was a fright­ening noise to walk in on. A screeching hiss filled the air, which was stifling and humid. When he saw us, he stopped. He didn't yell at me this time, or make accusations. He didn't demand that we leave. He just studied us for a moment, the hose now silent in his hand.

"This is him, then? The friend?"

"This is him," I answered.

"His name is Calvin," Lexie added.

Gunther took a look at Lexie, opened his mouth as if to ask something stupid like, "This one is blind?," but thought better of it. He put down his hose and pulled up a few chairs, the chair legs squeaking on the sweating tile floor. We all sat in si­lence, which was somehow worse than the awful hiss.

"You have to understand it was none of my business," Gunther began. "None of my business at all. This is why I don't speak sooner. Other people, they talk, talk, talk until words mean noth­ing. There is no truth." He pointed to his chest. "I keep truth here. Not in other people's ears. So you know what I say is true."

The Schwa hung on his every word, clutching the edge of his chair just like Crawley did in the helicopter. Gunther didn't speak again for a while. Maybe he wanted us to drag it out of him. Maybe he thought it was a game of twenty questions.

"Tell me what happened to my mother," the Schwa said. It turns out all Gunther was waiting for was the proper invita­tion—and although he claimed that his memory wasn't what it used to be, it didn't stop him from remembering things with the detail of a police report.