Box Nine

Chapter Eighteen

I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked … This can’t be necessary. I’ve done everything— … No. I’m begging you— … No. Then it’s best left to me.”

Cortez brings the cordless phone down from his mouth to his chest and holds it there for a moment, his eyes closed, his hands trembling. Then he moves the phone away from his body, looks down into the small cradle of illuminated rubber buttons. He pushes on the Open Speaker switch and sets the phone gently down on the fireplace mantel, mouth-grid faced up toward the library ceiling.

He walks over to the black steamer trunk, the only thing left resembling furniture in the whole room. He grabs a leather handle and eases the trunk down until its rests horizontally on the floor. Then he drags it to the center of the room.

There’s a shave-and-a-haircut knock on the library’s double doors. He takes a breath and yells, “Come in, Max.”

The door opens slowly and Max, looking smaller than usual in his green camouflage army clothes, enters with a single step, then stays put.

They stare at each other until Cortez says, “Is it what you expected?”

“It’s a little … empty.”

Cortez smiles. “I don’t like to be crowded. You know that.”

“Yeah, but a chair. A table, maybe.”

“Creature comforts.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t we creatures?”

Cortez laughs. “Right again, Max.”

“I never got what the big thing was with this room. Nobody could go in this one room.”

Cortez hand-motions him to come closer and says, “Well, Max, there always has to be one exception to any freedom. Like the apple in the garden.”

“You know, I only get about half of what you say.”

“I think you’re doing better than Mingo and Jimmy.”

“Big challenge.”

Cortez nods, clears his throat, looks down to the floor.

“So why’d you want me up here now?” Max asks.

Cortez lets out a heavy sigh. He sinks down to sit on the steamer trunk as if it were a bench and he slaps the top of the trunk to indicate that Max should do the same.

“I’ve been giving some thought to your future, Max.”

“My future?”

“I’ve been considering the best avenues for you.”

“Avenues, yeah.”

“I’m very upset with myself, Max. I honestly think I’ve been quite lax in regard to your education.”

“You mean like school?”

“I mean, like, the development of your mind, the forging of a sturdy personal aesthetic.”

“Aesth—”

“We can’t let our origins limit us, Max. We can’t become content with our situations. That leads to decay. Try to remember this always.”

“Was there some errand you needed run? Something from the store?”

“You’ve done very well around the hotel over the past few years, Max. You performed your duties, done all that was asked of you.”

“I don’t do all that much.”

“And in return, I’ve slighted you. But you must know it was never an intentional slight. A man gets involved in business, Max. In the planning, the telescoping, the contingencies. The day-to-day pressures mount. A man begins to forsake the truly important goals. It happens to most men, I think. I had hoped to hold myself to a higher standard.”

“You know, I think Mingo could really use a hand down in the kitchen …”

“Here you are now, already in the midst of adolescence. There’s so much I should have showed you already. I’m sure I’d be appalled with myself if I knew the depth of your ignorance.”

“Jees, don’t be so hard on yourself, Mr. C—”

“Just now, for instance, my reference to the Eden story. Right over your head. A primal metaphor like that. But of course, how could you have known it? Spontaneous generation in the brain? It has to be passed down. The oral tradition, Max.”

“Oral tradition, sure.”

“There are so many stories I could have told you by now.”

Cortez rises off the trunk, but holds out a hand to indicate that Max should stay seated.

“So many nights, up in my balcony at Club 62 with my bullhorn and spotlight. And I could have been with you, Max, lights out, seated in a rocker next to your bed, yes? I could have told you stories until you fell off to sleep.”

“I was with you in the balcony a lot, boss—”

“And the funny thing is, it would have proved even better training, I think. I truly believe that.” Cortez starts to walk a small circle around the steamer. “Better even than observing my actions firsthand. We could have sculpted the imagination. Taught you to think in terms of legend and myth. Larger than life. Wouldn’t you have liked that, Max?”

Max hesitates, then mumbles, “Yeah, I guess,” and Cortez reaches from behind him, places his hand on the boy’s forehead, and pushes him slowly down until he’s reclined on top of the trunk.

“It could have been just like this, Max. You’re not quite ready for sleep. I’m tired from an endless day, but regenerating, finding a second wind in what’s to come. Close your eyes, Max.”

Max looks up at Cortez, visibly uncomfortable, but not knowing what to do. He closes his eyes. His legs hang over the end of the trunk. Cortez continues his circle.

“I could have transferred all the classics to you, Max. Chronicles of war. Stories of gods and monsters and long ocean journeys. We could have learned together. Just a voice in a dark room. A father’s voice. Comforting. Protecting. Full of hidden knowledge and ancient stories. Homer, Max. Hesiod. Terence. Virgil. Ovid. All the names, Max. And the Bible. All the stories. We could’ve worked our way through. From ‘In the beginning’ to the last ‘Amen’ of Revelation.”

Cortez talks and walks another circle, comes to rest at Max’s head. The boy’s eyelids are fluttering. He wants to open the eyes, but he doesn’t dare. Cortez squats down, puts a hand on Max’s forehead, lowers his voice.

“I could’ve taken you from the six days of creation to the visions of John. But there’s a price for everything, son. And some opportunities only come our way once. A single chance.”

Cortez reaches inside his jacket and pulls from an inner breast pocket a long, pearl-handled dagger. An antique. Handmade. A gift from people whose faces he’s never seen. He grabs the handle tight in his hand, raises it above his head, squeezes it as he leans down and kisses Max on the forehead.

The boy’s eyes come open, shocked and wide. They stare at each other for an aching, impossible second.

And then Cortez brings the dagger down. Plunges it into the steamer trunk all the way down to the handle. He pushes Max up to a standing position and yells, “Get out!”

The boy runs, stumbling, out of the library. Cortez stands up and runs to the fireplace, grabs the phone from the mantel, holds it up to his mouth, and yells into the receiver, “Two words. Fuck you,” then heaves the phone like a speedball, the length of the room, until it smashes against a wall in an explosion of black plastic and colored wires.

He takes the dagger from his pocket and places it on the mantel, then puts a hand on either side of it to steady himself. He takes a few deep breaths, swallows, and says aloud, “I’m a dead man.”