The Nix(46)

Samuel rummaged through his backpack and produced the cassette. It was shiny, still wrapped in tight plastic. It struck him now that it was such a small thing—about the size and weight of a deck of playing cards. Too small, he thought, to be as meaningful as he needed it to be. He was seized with panic about this, and so he handed it to her quickly, jammed it at her fast and hard, so he wouldn’t chicken out. “Here’s this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s for you.”

She took the cassette in her hand.

“It’s from the mall,” he said.

In the daydreams he’d been having, Bethany would, at this moment, smile brightly and wrap her arms around him and express her disbelief and wonderment that he’d chosen such an exactly perfect gift, how he must understand her on a deep level and really get what’s going on in her head and have a similarly interesting and artistically fulfilling inner life himself. But the expression now forming on Bethany’s face was not that. The creases around her eyes and on her forehead—it was like how people squint when they’re trying to understand someone with a thick and frustrating accent.

“Do you know what this is?” she said.

“It’s really modern stuff,” he said, repeating the cashier at the mall. “It’s really out there.”

“I can’t believe they made a recording of this,” she said.

“They made ten recordings!” he said. “It’s the same piece recorded ten times.”

Bethany started laughing now. And it was a laugh that made him understand that, for reasons he was not aware of, he was an idiot. There was an essential bit of information he was missing.

“What’s so funny?” he said.

“This piece,” she said, “it’s sort of a joke.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s all, well, it’s all silence,” she said. “The entire thing is just…silence.”

He stared at her, not really comprehending this.

“There are no notes in the score,” she said. “It was actually performed once. The pianist sat at the piano and did nothing.”

“How could he do nothing?”

“He just sat there counting the beats. And then he was done. That was the piece. I can’t believe they made a recording.”

“Ten recordings.”

“It was sort of a put-on. It’s very famous.”

“So this whole cassette,” he said, “is blank?”

“I guess that’s part of the joke.”

“Shit.”

“No, it’s great,” she said, clutching the tape against her chest. “Thank you. Really. It’s quite thoughtful.”

Quite thoughtful. Samuel kept thinking about the way she said this, long after she’d left and he’d turned out the lights and covered his whole body and head with blankets and curled up and lightly cried. How quickly his daydreams had given way to this merciless reality. He thought bitterly about his expectations for the night, and how everything had gone so very wrong. Bishop didn’t want him here. Bethany was indifferent. The gift was a failure. This was the price of hope, he realized, this shattering disappointment.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because he woke up hours later, under the covers, curled, hot and sweaty, in the darkness, as Bishop shook him and said, “Wake up. Let’s go.”

Samuel followed him groggily. Bishop told him to put on his shoes, told him to climb out the first-floor TV-room window. Samuel did all this in a half-awake stupor.

“Follow me,” Bishop said when they were outside, and they walked up Via Veneto’s gentle slope in the total darkness and silence of the night. It must have been two in the morning. Maybe three. Samuel wasn’t sure. There was such an odd stillness at this time—no sound, no wind, there was barely even weather. The only noises were the occasional click of a sprinkler head turning on, and the low groan of the headmaster’s hot tub. Automated, mechanical noises. Bishop walked with purpose, maybe even arrogance. This was a different walk than when they played war games in the woods, and Bishop hid behind trees and dove between bushes. Now he walked in plain view, right down the middle of the road.

“You’ll need these,” he said, and handed Samuel a pair of blue plastic gloves, the kind people use for gardening. The fit was loose—they must have been Bishop’s mother’s. The gloves came up to Samuel’s elbows, and each finger had an inch or so of floating empty space.

“Over here,” Bishop said, and he led them to a spot near the headmaster’s house where the lush, thick lawn met the wild forest. There stood a metal post, about as tall as the boys themselves, on top of which was a block of white salt, its surface smooth and spotted with brown specks. On top of the salt block was a copper disk. Bishop reached for the disk and pulled at it, trying to twist it off.

“Help me with this,” he said, and they yanked at the cap until it finally budged. Up close like this, breathing hard, Samuel could smell the feral animal scent coming from the contraption, but also something else, something like sulfur, that rotten-egg smell, coming from the salt itself. At this range, he could read the sign affixed halfway up the post: DANGER. POISON. KEEP AWAY.

“This is what kills the deer, isn’t it?” Samuel said.