Dead and Alive

CHAPTER 42

Erika stood over the body of Christine for a minute, trying to understand why Victor had shot her to death.

Although Christine seemed to have become convinced that she was someone other than herself, she had not been threatening. Quite the opposite: She had been confused and distraught, and in spite of her contention that she was not “as fragile a spirit” as she might look, she had the air of a shy, uncertain girl not yet a woman.

Yet Victor shot her four times in her two hearts. And kicked her head twice, after she was dead.

Instead of wrapping the body for whoever would collect it and at once cleaning up the blood as instructed, Christine surprised herself by returning to the troll’s quarters in the north wing. She knocked softly and said sotto voce, “It’s me, Erika,” because she didn’t want to disturb the little guy if he was sitting in a corner, sucking on his toes, his mind having gone away to the red place to rest.

With a discretion that matched hers, he said, “Come in,” just loud enough for her to hear him when she pressed her ear to the door.

In the living room, she found him sitting on the floor in front of the dark fireplace, as if flames warmed the hearth.

Sitting beside him, she said, “Did you hear the gunshots?”

“No. Jocko heard nothing.”

“I thought you must have heard them and might be frightened.”

“No. And Jocko wasn’t juggling apples, either. Not Jocko. Not here in his rooms.”

“Apples? I didn’t bring you apples.”

“You are very kind to Jocko.”

“Would you like some apples?”

“Three oranges would be better.”

“I’ll bring you some oranges later. Is there anything else you would like?”

Although the troll’s unfortunate face could produce many expressions that might cause cardiac arrest in an entire pack of attacking wolves, Erika found him cute, if not most of the time, at least occasionally cute, like now.

Somehow his separately terrifying features conspired to come together in a sweet, yearning expression. His enormous yellow eyes sparkled with delight when he considered what else he might like in addition to the oranges.

He said, “Oh, there is a thing, a special thing, that I would like, but it’s too much. Jocko doesn’t deserve it.”

“If I’m able to get it for you,” she said, “I will. So what is this special thing?”

“No, no. What Jocko deserves is his nostrils pulled back to his eyebrows. Jocko deserves to hit himself hard in the face, to spit on his own feet, to stick his head in a toilet and flush and flush and flush, to tie a ten-pound sledgehammer to his tongue and throw the hammer over a bridge railing, that’s what Jocko deserves.”

“Nonsense,” said Erika. “You have some peculiar ideas, little friend. You don’t deserve such treatment any more than you would like the taste of soap.”

“I know better now about the soap,” he assured her.

“Good. And I’m going to teach you some self-esteem, too.”

“What is self-esteem?”

“To like yourself. I’m going to teach you to like yourself.”

“Jocko tolerates Jocko. Jocko doesn’t like Jocko.”

“That’s very sad.”

“Jocko doesn’t trust Jocko.”

“Why wouldn’t you trust yourself?”

Pondering her question, the troll smacked the flaps of his mouth for a moment and then said, “Let’s say Jocko wanted a knife.”

“For what?”

“Let’s say … for paring his toenails.”

“I can get you clippers for that.”

“But let’s just say. Let’s just say Jocko wanted a knife to pare his toenails, and let’s say it was really urgent. The toenails — see, they had to be pared right away, right away, or all hope was lost. So let’s say Jocko hurried to someplace like a kitchen to get the knife. What happens then is what always happens. Let’s say Jocko gets to the kitchen, and sees some … bananas, yes, that’s what he sees, a platter of bananas. Are you with Jocko so far?”

“Yes, I am,” she said.

His conversation was not always easy to follow, and sometimes it made no sense at all, but Erika could tell that this mattered to Jocko a great deal. She wanted to understand. She wanted to be there for him, her secret friend.

“So,” he continued, “Jocko goes all the way to the kitchen. It’s a long way because this house is so big … this imaginary house we’re talking about somewhere, like maybe San Francisco, a big house. Jocko needs to pare his toenails right away. If he doesn’t, all is lost! But Jocko sees bananas. The next thing Jocko knows, Jocko is juggling bananas, capering around the kitchen in San Francisco. Capering or cartwheeling, or pirouetting, or some stupid, stupid, stupid thing. Jocko forgets about the knife until it’s too late to trim toenails, too late, the toenails are gone, Jocko has screwed up again, it’s all over, it’s the end of EVERYTHING!”

Erika patted his warty shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s okay.”

“Do you see what Jocko means?”

“Yes, I do,” she lied. “But I’d like to think about what you’ve said for a while, a day or so, maybe a week, before I respond.”

Jocko nodded. “That’s fair. It was a lot for Jocko to dump on you. You’re a good listener.”

“Now,” she said, “let’s go back to the one special thing you would like but don’t think you deserve.”

That sweet, yearning expression returned to his face, and none too soon. His huge yellow eyes sparkled with excitement as he said, “Oh, oh goodness, oh, how Jocko would like a funny hat!”

“What kind of funny hat?”

“Any kind. Just so it’s very funny.”

“I won’t be able to find a funny hat tonight.”

He shrugged. “Whenever. If ever. Jocko — he doesn’t deserve it anyway.”

“Yes, you’ve said. But I promise I will have a funny hat for you within a day or two.”

Regardless of what difficulty Erika might have finding a very funny hat, she was rewarded in advance for her trouble when she saw his delight, his tears of gratitude.

“You are such a kind lady. Jocko would kiss your hand, except he doesn’t want to disgust you.”

“You’re my friend,” she said, and extended her right hand.

The loose flaps around his mouth and the brief touch of his sticky teeth were even more repellent than she expected, but Erika smiled and said, “You’re welcome, dear friend. Now there’s something I hope you can do for me.”

“Jocko will read a book to you,” Jocko said, “two books at once, and one upside down!”

“Later, you can read to me. First, I need your opinion about something.”

The troll grabbed his feet with his hands and rocked back and forth on the floor. “Jocko doesn’t know about a whole lot besides storm drains, rats, and bugs, but he can try.”

“You’re Jonathan Harker, or were Harker, whatever. So you know the New Race has little emotional life. When they do have emotional reactions, they’re limited to envy, anger, and hatred, only emotions that turn back on themselves and can’t lead to hope, because he says hope leads to a desire for freedom, to disobedience and rebellion.”

“Jocko is different now. Jocko feels big good things with great exuberance.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Anyway, I don’t have the knowledge or the breadth of vision to understand fully why a genius like Victor would create his New Race this way. Only I, his wife, am different. He allows me humility and shame … which in a strange way lead to hope, and hope to tenderness.”

Feet in his hands, rocking, his head turned toward her, the troll said, “You are the first ever, Old Race or New, to be kind to Jocko,” and again tears spilled down his cheeks.

“I hope for many things,” Erika said. “I hope to become a better wife day by day. I hope to see approval in Victor’s eyes. If in time I become a very good wife and no longer deserve beatings, if in time he comes to cherish me, I will ask him to allow others of the New Race to have hope as I do. I will ask Victor to give my people gentler lives than they have now.”

The troll stopped rocking. “Don’t ask Victor anytime soon.”

“No. First I’ve got to be a better wife. I must learn to serve him to perfection. But I’ve been thinking maybe I could be Queen Esther to his King Ahasuerus.”

“Remember,” he said, “Jocko is ignorant. An ignorant screwup.”

“They’re figures in the Bible, which I’ve never read. Esther was the daughter of Mordecai. She persuaded King Ahasuerus, her husband, to spare her people, the Jews, from annihilation at the hands of Haman, a prince of the king’s realm.”

“Don’t ask Victor anytime soon,” the troll repeated. “That is Jocko’s opinion. That is Jocko’s very strongly held opinion.”

In her mind’s eye, Erika saw Christine lying on the floor of the master-suite vestibule, shot four times through her two hearts.

“That isn’t what I want your opinion about,” she said, getting to her feet. “Come with me to the library. There’s something strange I need to show you.”

The troll hesitated. “I who am came out of he who was only a few days ago, but I who am Jocko have had enough strange for as long as I live.”

She held out a hand to him. “You are my only friend in the world. I have no one else to whom I can turn.”

Jocko sprang off the floor and stood en pointe, as if about to pirouette, but still hesitated. “Jocko must be discreet. Jocko is a secret friend.”

“Victor has gone to the Hands of Mercy. The staff is at the back of the estate, in their dormitory. We have the house to ourselves.”

After a moment, he came down from his toes, slipped his hand in hers. “It’s gonna be a very, very funny hat, isn’t it?”

“Very, very funny,” she promised.

“With some little bells on it?”

“If I find a funny hat without bells, I’ll sew as many on it as you want.”