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CHAPTER 4

The Soy Sauce

TWO HOURS LATER I pulled e The now-cold bratwurst sat on the dash, little smears of mustard on the windshield where the sloppy wax paper contacted it I put it to reeted with a burst of static, but then John’s voice came in, fainter than before

"Dave?"

"Yeah"

"What, did you drive under a bridge just now?"

"No We’re at the trailer park Finally Which one is Robert’s?"

Static again Then: "It’s wearing off Don’t talk, just listen Go inside and--"

Static

"--and as long as you absolutely remember not to do that, you’ll be fine Good luck"

"What? John, I didn’t catch the--"

Dead The voice was gone, the static was gone It was just a sausage again I resigned myself to the hope that whatever I had to do next would be apparent from a look at Robert’s place

His trailer was one of only two that had yellow police tape over the porch and door, and the other one looked like it had been abandoned rass across the lot and walked toward Robert’s abode Nobody was there, or at least nobody who came in a car I knocked for souts I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me, since I should have known they wouldn’t just let the entrails collect flies for twelve hours Still, I recognized the room from the photos the cop showed me, the scene of Robert’s wet explosion The carpet was still a few shades off froinal color and the walls were forever stained a faded reddish-brown And there was a sanic Mildew and rotten milk and shit

The walls were stripped bare, no family photos or framed landscapes from Wal-Mart or movie posters Did the cops do that? No television A sofa, a chair pocked with cigarette burns Was he living here, or squatting?

I glanced into the open kitchenette at one end of the trailer, then turned and walked down a short hallway to the other end I pushed through a closed door leading to what had to be a bedroo out over a snow-dusted field, a range ofviolet sky from the horizon Not a picture, that’s not how it struck me It was like that end of the trailer had been chainsawed off to reveal the outdoors, only if that had really happened I would’ve only seen the neighbor’s rusty trailer and an abandoned Olds the weeds What I saw instead took my breath away

I stepped backward into the hallway, dizzy, disoriented, afraid I would be sucked in so at

It was a painting A floor-to-walls-to-ceiling mural He had painted the walls, the trilass in theHe painted over the curtains, painted the carpet, painted the sheets and wrinkled comforter on the unmade bed so that, when viewed froraphic There was a half-full water glass on the nightstand, and a sprout of ice-coated weeds painted on the wall continued on the nightstand and onto the glass There was a little crack in the glass and the artist incorporated it into the painting, the fracture becoht off an ice-covered leaf

The effect was too ut like the first time I saw a skyscraper when I was a kid Picasso could not have done this, not if he had a lifetime to devote to it Step on that carpet and disturb the texture, or brush against the comforter and the effect would be ruined

Whoa Justwhoa

I don’t kno long I stood there, absorbing it, overwhelmed by the details

There’s a deer, complete with little hoofprints in the snow A happy little cabin, the family in the yard