How do you talk mojo & say all that? Impossible. I will never be able to tell my story.
I explain to Nick that I can’t tell him anything, not even if I talk mojo.
What the fuck? he says. I’m here to help. What the flying fuck?
Double negatives are long & awkward. It’s not math, you can’t negate what you’ve already (-) & get a (+). It doesn’t work that way. What you’ve broken apart can’t become whole again.
Nonformula: (-) ± (-) ≠ (+).
Remember this. Always remember.
We are held in place by gravitational forces
Then the Life Crusaders blow our place up.
It begins that afternoon, when Mother and I come back from the supermarket. As we unload the bags from the trunk, a car speeds by, and somebody hurls a couple of beer bottles straight at us. One grazes my shoulder, and smashes against the hood of the trunk. The other hits Mother on the forehead. She reels, puts one foot back to steady herself. The car has already sped away, someone poking a dirty finger at us.
I help Mother in and as soon as I sit her down I notice the blood dripping down the gash on her forehead.
“Fuck, Mother, I’m calling the cops.”
“Don’t.” She walks into the clinic and comes out minutes later with her wound sealed with a thick wad of gauze, a small bright spot of red the only sign of her ordeal.
“I’ll take you to hospital.”
“No need.”
“What did you do?”
“I’m not letting them hurt me.”
I lift the gauze a little. The stitches she’s done are fine and tight. “You could have asked me to help you.”
“No need.” She unloads the bags and starts putting the groceries in the fridge. Then she falters, stands dazed for a few seconds. I rush to her and catch her just before she hits the ground.
* * *
“How long was I out?”
“Two hours.” The steaming bowl of soup by her bed is starting to form an ugly crust of grease. “Bad soup. We should have gotten the other brand.”
She gets up. “I feel fine.” She walks out of the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Tea. Want some?”
I follow her to the kitchen. She’s scrounging around for the pot. I pull it out from under the sink. “Mother, we have to do something.”
“You show them you’re scared, that only makes them stronger.”
“I am scared. And they are strong. People who think they have the full support of God, any god, think they’ve invincible. They will do anything and not even think twice about it.”
“They should read Freud.”
I keep staring at her.
“You know, Civilization and Its Discontents. Religion is an infantile neurosis—”
“I know, Mother.”
“I feel sorry for them. Stupid people are helpless creatures. They live all their lives stupid, and they die stupid. What a waste. Of life. Of all the possibilities of life. I feel very, very sorry for them.”
“Well, they don’t feel sorry for you.”
“That’s Christian love for you.”
“I wish it would stop.”
“What?”
“This. Everything they’re doing.”
“Try telling them that. Try telling that to their stupid god, or their stupid church.”
“I don’t see why we have to keep doing what we’re doing.”
“Don’t give me that again, Jordan. You know why we’re doing what we’re doing.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Because those girls need us.”
“Because you don’t want to stop.”
“Why don’t I want to stop?”
“Frank.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“You have enough to retire on.”
“No.”
“I hate living like this.”
The kettle is whistling. Neither of us pays attention. She is holding the tea bags in her hand. She has crushed them in her fist.
“I hate living like this,” I say again.
“You want me to surrender.”
“I wish something would happen that would make you want to stop.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“I want you to realize that you can stop. No more of this. No more of Frank. Time to move on, Mother. It’s time.”
“You don’t tell me what to do.” Her hands are shaking. “You don’t know what I want.”
* * *
I’m wide awake, unable to sleep from the heat of the humid summer night. Mother comes in my room.
“There’s a noise downstairs.” She hasn’t spoken anything else to me all night.
“I’ll go down and look.” I put a shirt on.
“Don’t bother. I think I left the exhaust fans on.” She walks out.
“Mother, I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“What I said earlier.”
“I don’t remember what you said.”
“Okay. You sure you don’t want me to go check?”
She is heading down when a flash of light bursts from the stairs. It seems to last for a long time, although it takes no more than a few seconds. It blazes up toward her from below, so that all I see, for what seems like a motionless eternity, is the skeletal silhouette of her body against her nightdress, an X-ray of her in the reddish glow. Then there’s a quick pop, like a bottle uncorked. A thunderous explosion shakes the apartment and jolts me out of bed. A searing heat rips through my room. I shout to her, but all I hear is the clangor of the fire alarm as the sprinklers turn on. The water hisses as it hits the crackling flames.
I find her sprawled on the stairs. She’s cut up and bleeding in many places. I carry her out a fire exit in the back. She’s staring at me, her mouth moving without words, her eyes wide with shock and gratefulness and relief.
* * *
How to build a pipe bomb. Take a steel pipe, stuff it with gunpowder,