The n-Body Problem

“Ha! How’s it going, phal? I almost forgot that was you in there. Listen uph. I want to try something. Next time, we phring the Oracle out and we phass it around.”

Y’s head is deep in his hands, elbows on the lower scoop of the wheel. There are white strands of hair bending up from the crown. He is several ages as far I can tell.

“It’ll calm them. Give them something to be careful with. I want an orderly burn. We made no fucking money in Pheeton and we might even get phulled in.”

Y starts the truck. Y knows why Beeton failed.

“Beeton was crazy before they met us. Pond Head’ll be better. Smaller. More churches.”

Dixon slaps Y on the shoulder.

“That’s right, son. Phond Head. But not too soon. Let’s phe missed for a while. Let ’em wonder if we’re real for a while.”

We don’t turn south to Bond Head. We head up towards the 9^th. We’re looking for trees or a house. I’m surprised to see cars on the road. Not many, but some. They look normal, timeless. Some lone drivers. Male mostly. One car full of a family. I try to read faces but they blow past too quickly. Cars and trucks at farmhouses. Cattle. It’s as if nothing happened. Could be the way this part of the country lives. Nothing is supposed to happen here. You can see too far. A small fishing boat for sale. The trailer tires flat. The posted price on swollen cardboard. If terrible things were approaching they would be seen hours before they arrived.

The truck slows and we pull up a dirt driveway. We lurch along its length and stop under a willow beside a massive red brick farmhouse. We sit in silence. The house is still. Thin pale leaves drift down and attach to blood clots under the wipers. Dixon shoves Y’s shoulder. Y shoots a look then opens the door. He walks cautiously around the front of the house. Dixon rolls his window down.

“Go knock.”

Y is tense. He takes the steps, counting.

“Knock!”

Y knocks and waits. Again.

“Ophen the door! Yell for ’em.”

Y doesn’t look back. He slowly draws the screen open, then the inner door. We hear his voice but not what he is saying. Y steps back out and waves. Clear.

“Okay. Well. This is a nice place.”

Dixon isn’t getting out just yet.

“Maybe we should retire here.”

A Rottweiler, moving like a barrel down a sluice, bursts through a hole in the backyard fence. It doesn’t bark until it sees Y, then it makes a killing noise. Y stops in mid-step.

“You gotta kill that!”

“Help!”

Y runs for the truck. The door locks, clunk.

“Kill the damn dog!”

“What?”

Y reaches the car with the dog. It springs up and grabs Y by the jaw, dragging him down.

Dixon roots through the glove box and finds a road flare. He opens the driver’s window and drops it.

“Shove this down its throat!”

Dixon rolls the window back up and waits. We hear the intense hiss of the flare igniting and then the dog cry out. Dixon waits, then rolls down the window.

“You there?”

The dog appears around the front of the truck. It doesn’t appear to be wounded but it ain’t a killer no more either. Not for now. It slinks back through the torn fence.

Dixon opens the door.

“Okay. Okay. Good job. I’m sorry. We got a doctor.”

The farmhouse smells of cows. The floors curve and the walls bow. Discoloured shapes on the ceiling form a map of the world. If you stare long enough you can see places you want to go. The doctor takes Y upstairs. He’s going to be okay. Some punctures on his scalp. A burn up his arm from the flare.

Dixon sets me up on the table as he goes through a pail he found inside the front door.

“This is the house of Phauline Hartenpherger. Lived alone. Oh. Wait. No. One kid at least. Goes to, went to, Byng Elementary school. This interest you at all?”

I say nothing. I pretend not to notice. I am still a prisoner.

Dixon opens, reads, and drops papers to the floor.

“Child support. Good for you, Pheter Harten-pherger. I got married, you know.”

Dixon is sharing. He’s proud.

“Yes, sir. After Indonesia. Her name was Phie. Like a phizza. We lived in Meaford. I had a daughter, too. Her name was Lo.”

Dixon is reading a phone bill. I wonder if you can see changes in a phone bill. Patterns. Times. Frequency of calls to the same number. Did the Hartenbergers make plans, then leave? Did they flee to the city? Did they hang themselves? Maybe they’re out back. Cold black bones on the clothesline.

“You wanna know what haphened to them? Got caught in the first raphe wave. Died.”

Dixon drops the phone bill. He straightens the pages and returns them to the envelope.

“I dropphed ’em in a well.”

Dixon reads signs on the wall. Happy Home. Live. Love. Laugh.

“You know what I love to do? Hmmm? I love a pheaceful launch. I like to sphend time with them phefore they go. Get a little carried away, sure, phut…”