The buyer extends his right, then his left hand.
Please, come in, he says.
I glance back, step inside. The sun is bright and at first the objects on the walls are blacked out behind a spread of purple. I follow him to a small, square table at the center of the store. My vision clears, and I see weapons mounted like works of art with plates underneath telling where they’re from and how much they cost. There’s one that looks like the top of a child-sized pitchfork, the prongs close together, the silver pure and polished ; there’s a sword sheathed in a hard-leather case, pennons dangling from the handle, jewels covering the stitching; there’s a musket from the Civil War or earlier, its mouth spread open like a trumpet, its trigger curled and long like a half-bent finger.
You know, he says, sitting, I’ve never thought of the prosthetic as a weapon, but it would serve.
He leans across, runs a finger along the slight curve of my hook, makes a sound like purring. He’s dressed in a black sack suit, his tie tugged loose at the collar, the underflap tucked into his breast pocket. His face is jowly, his skin mottled. He’s slapped himself up and down with cologne, but his clothes stink of dope.
May I see it? he asks.
I start lifting the vials from my pockets.
No, no, he says, pointing at my hook.
The stump?
Stump is a vulgar word.
Why do you want to see it?
For the same reason I collect rare weapons, he says. They are objects of beauty and elegance, yet their purpose is to inflict trauma on the body. Shouldn’t that trauma also be beautiful, elegant?
I don’t have much time, I say.
A quick look.
I tug my stump from the hollow, set the hook on the table. I start to peel the stub sock free, but he holds up a hand.
Please, he says, reaching across. He works his index fingers under the soft-cotton gauze on either side of my forearm, inches the sock forward, inspects each bit of unveiled skin.
Shoddy, he says, clucking his tongue. A saw, was it?
A drawknife.
Serrated?
Yes.
He runs his thumb over the rucked skin, taps the cauliflower nub.
Neuroma, he says. A nerve ending that was not properly severed. Does it press against the prosthetic?
Yes.
It must cause you some discomfort. Who did this to you?
It doesn’t matter.
Not a surgeon?
No.
I wouldn’t think so.
He smiles. Well, he says, now for business.
I pull on the sock, the prosthetic, set the vials on the table and name the price.
I need a taste first, he says. I need to know that what I’m buying and what I ordered are the same.
They’re the same, I say.
I must be sure.
He takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket, drapes it over his index finger, picks up a vial with two notches carved into the stopper. He touches the liquid to the fabric, holds his finger to the gum just above his front tooth. It won’t take long for him to know—the spot he’s touched will turn warm, start to burn. The farther the burning spreads, the stronger the product. I wait. His jaws knot up, then fall open.
It’s been better, he says. But, yes, this will do. He gathers up the vials with one hand, reaches into his pocket with the other.
I trust you’ll find your own way out, he says.
I leave him with his head hanging limp, saliva purling out the corners of his mouth.
A pain in my gut stops me from going on. I buckle in the wings, lie on my side. People are murmuring around me. I hear soft applause coming from the crowd. I’m lifted to my feet, guided to a couch in a back room. The manager sets a bucket on the floor in front of me. I wait, but no doctor shows. The cushions under me turn damp with sweat.
I focus my eyes on the cracks in the ceiling, stare them down until they stop squirming. After a while, my stomach settles, my skin cools. I decide I’ll stay where I am until someone comes for me.
The someone who comes is Jonson, still spotted with the powder he wears onstage. He looks around the room. I look with him. The walls curve up into the ceiling like the back side of a cave. The wood floors are unsanded, unvarnished. Besides the couch I’m sitting on there’s a pile of kindling, a lidless garbage can filled with towels, an assortment of tools lying loose on a wood bench. Pictures of dime-store performers stand upside down and sideways against two of the four walls.
This would work nice, Jonson says, sitting next to me. Ever wonder why you can’t just find yourself a little room like this?
No, I say.
Sure you do, he says. A man wants to be left alone or he don’t want nothing.
Then why are you here?
He smiles. Came to see how you’re doing.
I’ll live.
But for how long?
I stop myself from asking what he means. He pats my knee, stands.
I bet you was scared with all those weapons on the walls, he says.
I keep my face calm.
Why not tell me what you want? I ask.
That’s a good question, he says. Someone’s paying me. It’s up to you to figure out who. I will tell you this—warning you ain’t in my job description. I’m looking out for you, Swain.
He pauses in the doorway, switches off the light.
Might be you think better in the dark, he says.
It’s late when I get to the hotel. The bed posts are covered with thick clots of dust, the wall opposite my bed is paneled with mirrors. I cross the room, open the window, pull the curtain shut. The remaining vials are spread over my blanket. All but a few are double-notched, with more than a week before I reach the new supply. I kneel in front of the mattress, pick up a single-notched vial, roll it back and forth in my palm. Small shards of silver disperse into the blue, then regroup.
I slide my travel bag out from under the bed, untie the drawstring, push aside my socks, my underclothes, a tennis ball, a small book of newspaper clippings dating to my first days onstage. There are Canadian coins and bits of pocket lint resting on the bottom. I find a double-sided cotton swab—one side dirty, one side clean—rest it on my thigh, thumb the stopper from the vial. I stand the vial in front of me, work the clean tip through its open mouth. I hold the colored cotton under my tongue. The burn gives way to a rush of saliva.
Lying on my back, I feel a humming so slight I doubt it’s real. I squeeze my eyes shut, trace the liquid’s path to my brain, trying to push it deeper. My elbows and knees spasm, go rigid. Then nothing.