The Royal Livingstone

you

Bill Livingstone. The guy at the rental place said it takes most folks about a week to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road. I'd been going for about three hours when the sun started rising over the peak of the mountain and we were steadily climbing between two boulder piles the road cut through. Cracked the last latte in a can. tossed the bag back on the floor behind the seat. I like to anchor little rewards like that whenever I'm trying to stay awake on a long drive.

Stop to pee when you've done 50 miles or gone an hour, whichever comes last. Coffee when you make it to sunrise. How do they keep the milk good in a can, I asked. Moe yawned in the passenger seat. The same way they keep it any other way. I don't know. Something about a Louis, I said. The Sun King. Her feet on the dash, toes stretching.

"'Sun something,' I said, stupidly patting my pockets and the center console. I knew my sunglasses were in my suitcase in the trunk. "'You need sunglasses?' asked Mo, and she put hers on my head. They were heart-shaped and she stood up on her knees in the seat to do it. Pasteurization doesn't preserve the milk and makes it safe to drink.

there was a car overtaking us on the left and when i looked over the old man driving it was staring straight at me unmistakably didn't even glance up at the road ahead of him every last one of the motherfuckers i said Mo asked what I was on about. She hated it when I shouted. Every goddamn car we passed, they're looking at me. I mean, staring at me. What the hell is going on? You're probably just driving weird, she said.

But there was no way I was driving that weird. The lunch crowd was clearing out and we hadn't slept in nearly 20 hours when we pulled up to the hotel. We were already in our nicest outfits. There were zebras and flamingos loitering around on the lawn. I gave it to the valet and Mo ran off looking to pet one of the poor animals. Are you hungry? I asked her. Not exactly. Not yet.

Want to walk around first? We walked around the ground and watched the staff moving about, taking cigarette breaks. The royal family stay here whenever they're in country, said Mo. How do you know that? I asked. She didn't answer. We circled back around to the restaurant and approached the hostess and told her that we had a reservation for room 119.

She checked her reservations and frowned and glanced at us and bit her lip and checked again. I'm sorry, she said, Mr. Ironwood. I don't see anything here, but I'd be glad to accommodate. Is it only you and, uh... My wife, I said. We're on our honeymoon. She smiled. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Ironwood. Please, follow me.

The place was mostly empty, a few fans spinning slowly overhead, a couple waiters chatting quietly in the corner. She let us pass the bar to a deck out back overlooking the river. Do you feel like a princess yet? I asked Mo. She looked out over the gradual, steady flow of the water, gray like shining concrete. There was a hippopotamus on the far shore. Only the eyes and nostrils were visible. I do, she said.

and smiled at me, squinting from how bright the sun was coming off the river. I ordered an old-fashioned and she ordered a martini. Not a margarita? I asked. She rolled her eyes. I heard something hit the water and caught the last glimpse of a crocodile sliding off the shore some 30 yards up the near bank. Little white and brown bubbles floating downstream.

To the left, a little farther downstream still, past the last-second buildup of little mid-river island formations. The clouds of rising mist, the relentless pounding of water heavier than bricks. Victoria Falls. The mosey Oatunya. Smoke that thunders. Our drinks came and I ordered a ribeye and she ordered a salad with apricots. Slowly.

people started to filter in here and there. One guy pacing at the far end of the deck, now talking on the phone, nervously grasping at his hair, now looking at stocks on his phone. He's wearing a Panama hat, and I can see the veins on his neck from where I'm sitting. A little family a few tables over. We nod, smile politely. The sunset seems to last for hours.

A wildebeest comes to the far shore to drink, then leaves. Back across the little lawn that separates the hotel from the river, I can hear chatter, silverware. They've turned on the lights for the evening. Champagne sunset over the falls. At some point, the waiter came by and lit the candles on the table. I'm on my second hold of fashion. Need to finish it so I can order another when he comes back. At some point, this place started to fill up.

The first faint hints of stars were beginning to appear overhead where the sky was plumb and a ghost of a moon, like a memory of the moon, was wading over the treetops across the river. The land of the dead across the river.

We finished our dinners and ordered dessert and a fourth Old Fashioned and Mo a second martini, which was a lot for her. What made the first human, human? asked Mo. Hmm, is the continent getting to you, dear? That got a good laugh in the car. A real one. Now it drew rolled eyes, a poorly hidden glance at the tables around us.

But she couldn't hide the smile either. And maybe she didn't want to, but that was still real too. The thundering kept on as if the whole world around it had not been transformed by darkness. How do we decide he's us, they're not us? It's this, right? This voice, this one, and the one talking inside your head. Language. Because that's what separates us from animals, right? We're the only ones who've got that, we can assume. Kind of arrogant, don't you think? Okay, but seriously, did it just...

She snapped her fingers. Flip on one day? Bang? Like a light? The voice? Is it a part of us? Is there such a thing as a human without the language? Is a human something special apart from just being a homo sapien? Do you think we'd put Neanderthals in zoos if they were still around? And feed them three meals a day just to sit there gnawing on some bamboo? You make a good point. Factories, then. Their small hands would be perfect.

So teach a gorilla sign language, and he becomes a man. The desserts came, and I noticed a man up front speaking to the hostess, and they were both glancing in our direction, and both of them had a look on their face. Before I could even mention anything to Mo, the man was halfway to our table. I finished my old-fashioned in case the waiter came back. When I looked up, he was smiling at me.

rocking on the balls of his feet with both hands in his pockets. His smile was a little too wide. It made me uneasy, a little too practiced. You must be the Ironwoods. I could feel Mo looking at me, out of the corner of my eye, like a bee sting rash on my cheek down the side of my neck. I couldn't look, but I was already starting to look like I couldn't look, which was just as bad, maybe worse.

So when I looked at her, I fixed a deflating smile to puncture the tension I could feel rising to my ears. What can we do for you? He grabbed a chair. Mind if I join you? I do apologize for interrupting your evening like this, and it'll only be a minute of your time, I promise. I looked to the staff for help. There were three gathered by the register, leering like vultures in vests. Sir, my wife and I are trying to have dinner. I understand. He scooted his chair in closer.

I wished that I had about two fewer old fashions sloshing around in my stomach than I did. The situation suddenly felt beyond my faculties. I fixed my jaw in a stoic facade and tried not to let my eyes drift. You must be Maureen, he said. Mo froze. I could see it on her face. She was looking around like she thought maybe he told the hostess it was our honeymoon, like a quartet of Zambian waiters were about to come over clapping and singing with a lit fucking cupcake. He pulled something...

a shocking shade of blue out of his pocket. It took me a good second to recognize it out of context. A pair of Moe's underwear. These were delivered to the room. I think it might have clicked for Moe a little before it did for me. I hadn't told the valet to take our luggage. I must have some long-lost cousins, he said, extending his hand. Mr. Ironwood.

Grinning bastard. Cheeky motherfucker. I shook his hand. Autopilot. There's been some mistake. Buying time. Already losing because I'm not reacting. I'm thinking of how to react. He sees it, grins wider. Something wrong with him. Lips shouldn't go that wide. Teeth go on forever. Don't worry, pal, he says. I'm not mad. I see what you're doing.

I admire the audacity, so long as you weren't planning on charging it all to the room, too. Of course I was. No, of course not, sir, I said. I can't believe I said sir. Nothing like that. It's just impossible to get a table here if you're not staying at the hotel. And, well, my wife and I here are on our honeymoon. Oh, congratulations, he said. She was glaring at me. I could feel it. Thank you. And be that as it may, the rooms here are a little out of our reach, out of our budget. He nodded.

So where are you staying? We found a little motel back in town. For your honeymoon? He looked at me like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke. No, that won't do. Hell, charge the meal. Mazel tov. He flagged down the waiter and ordered something for himself and another round for the table. You know what I'd like to do? You two have the room for the night, as a wedding gift. Mo asked if he was sure. Something about it hit my ear wrong. Absolutely, yes, yes.

I'm leaving on a hunting trip early tomorrow, which means I should get a good night's rest, which means I'll be at the bar till close. I'll bunk with my wife in her room. She can stand me for one night. He laughed and we felt obligated to laugh with him. And then the drinks arrived and he toasted us. To new beginnings and long life. We drank, and it was quiet a moment, and he said, So long as you agree to name the child you conceive after the Ironwood family.

It seemed like a remark that would have been addressed to both of us, but he was looking right at me and only me with that wide grin and unblinking eyes, like he expected an answer. I'm only joking with you, he said, and patted me on the arm. His hands felt extraordinarily heavy. His food arrived, one of the largest steaks I have ever seen.

and from then on he devoted all of his attention to the deft movements of his fork and knife for at least the next fifteen minutes until the last bites had been properly savored, devoured, and contemplated.

The moon was high in the sky now, and the grinding calls of the hippos could be heard across the river. The thundering falls never stopped. I'm sorry for staring, he told me. It's the craziest thing, but you look exactly like a young Frank Alonzo. I asked him who Frank Alonzo was, and he laughed, dabbed at his lips with his napkin.

I suppose he's probably a bit before York time. Frank Alonzo was a ball player for the Giants. The New York Giants, that is. One of the best ever lace-up cleats. Mays, Williams, Cobb, Gehrig. I'm telling you, Frank had the cleanest swing I've ever seen in my life. Watching him hit baseballs was like going to a museum and looking at a beautiful piece of art. I told him that I'd never even heard of him.

That's right, you wouldn't have. He only played one full season. I was nine years old. It was immaculate. His rookie year. He's playing against the best of the best and he's out there making it look effortless. He looked like he didn't even belong to the same species as the rest of the guys on the field. And then what? said Mo. He became solemn, all pursed lips, bent into something almost like a smile, all masked pain and bursting empathy.

and turned to Mo with a look of resignation, like a parent explaining to a child about their pet who has gone to live on the farm with Grandma and Grandpa. He's the talk of the town, all off-season, of course. You can't go a block without hearing someone mention Frank Alonzo's name, seeing some kid playing pickup in the street and mime the way he would stand at the plate. And then, the night before opening day, Frank has a dream.

and his life will never be the same again. A dream? she asked. All he would ever say about it was that he dreamt his entire body was made of glass. His bones, his organs. And when he woke, the dream ended, but that part stuck. He became utterly convinced that he was made of glass. To the point that he wouldn't even leave his bedroom.

The team sent people to fetch him, and eventually the manager himself came down and talked to his fiancé and tried to coax him out of the room, but the kid would not budge. He was sure that if he went on that field and got hit with a baseball, he'd shatter into a million pieces. They tried every kind of therapy they could think on him, experimented with plenty of drugs.

It really wore on him. He acted and spoke perfectly rationally in every other context about every other subject, but he was absolutely unshakable on the one front which really mattered. If he was hit by a pitch... or had a ground ball take a funny hop on him, or tripped while rounding a base, or even so much as bumped the catcher walking to the plate, his body would break, would be destroyed in an eruption of unimaginable pain.

So what happened? asked Mo. He shrugged and let out a long breath and looked around as if suddenly disinterested. He never played another game.

The crowd had thinned a bit, and the dinner boisterousness was gone, and the intimacy of the deeper evening hours had settled over everyone's conversations. It's lovely here, isn't it? he said. You picked the right hotel to crash, and the right time. The falls are still pretty dry. In six weeks, they'll close this deck. You'd need an umbrella just to stand out here.

He folded his napkin and pushed back from the table. What a night, he said. There was a grand piano standing open on the far side of the deck. He smiled obscenely at the waitstaff he passed, and as he was settling onto the bench, he said, loud enough to command the attention of the entire deck, I'd like to dedicate this song, this evening, to my new friends.

The newlyweds. A few applauded, most seemed unsure of what exactly was happening and how they were supposed to respond. He sang it had to be you and played passively. The carpets were sink and plush and seemed to absorb not only our footsteps but all sounds in the corridor. At the door, big, like for a race of giants, oak, gold handle, Mr. Ironwood...

handed me the key. Have a wonderful evening, he said. We thanked him and he set off down the hall, continuing on, going away from the way we'd come. Long, long haul. If we'd stayed out to watch, I bet it would have taken him upwards of two minutes just to reach the end of it, if that's where he was going. We never found out. The door closed heavy and definitively behind us.

It was easily the nicest hotel room I'd ever stayed in. Four-poster bed. The shower was unlike anything I'd ever seen. There was a gargoyle squatting just outside the window. The detail of the carving was mesmerizing. We were both too exhausted to spend much time enjoying the room and too drunk to feel much more than a passing sense of guilt about it.

Both of us laying in bed atop the comforter, I asked, Did he ask us to name our child after the Ironwoods, if we conceive him tonight? Moe didn't open her eyes. He did. I was asleep within half an hour of setting foot in the room. Passed out might be more accurate. The lights were still on when I woke up. Mo was snoring next to me and the clock said three.

Morning or afternoon? The TV was on, quiet drone of lobby jazz playing a slideshow about the hotel itself, the amenities, the room service. the various restaurants and popular destinations in the area. I don't recall ever turning it on. I realized why I was awake. Loud noise in the hall, ugly noise, mechanical grinding. set my teeth on edge. I opened the door and expected to see a dozen other drowsy heads poking out into the hallway, but there wasn't one. It was as empty as when we'd come up.

I ventured out a little ways and discovered a malfunctioning ice machine. A mountain of ice growing faster than it could melt, and it was melting pretty fast. Little slides tumbled down the side. Across the hall, scent skittering down the stairs. Elevator. Ice machine. ATM. Lobby. Bar. Pool? I must have been real drunk not to have noticed a pool on the way in. I remembered then about the drinking. It explained the off-center feeling, the nagging little headache. A last half-formed cube.

clattered out of that awful wretched fucking chute, and clinked its way all the way down the mountain, and the thing went dry, and the motor screeching, and the sound somehow more horrible and twice as loud. And still, none of the staff came. None of the guests opened their doors. I checked out the elevator controls and saw a P button near the bottom that could have been parking or could have been pool.

I thought about going back for my swim trunks, but the doors started to close and I left them and rode down to pee. It was an old elevator and slow, but even still, the ride seemed to go on. longer than you would have thought possible looking at the building from the outside. I had no hope of remembering what floor our room was on.

which would become a problem in the future. I was just realizing a moment after it became too late to do anything about it. But the hotel couldn't have been more than five or six stories tall at most. Was I still drunk? I never had confirmed if it was three in the afternoon or the morning. The curtains in the room were drawn and there weren't any windows in the hall. I was curiously well-rested, light-footed almost.

for only a couple hours of sleep, especially after the day we'd had, but my mind had that distinct, half-sober sharpness to it. My limbs had that cocky second wind sense of adventure that I associate with quick drunken naps to sleep off that last drink that put you too far. There was none of that deep reset feeling of a 15-hour snooze, that feeling of rising up from somewhere much deeper down below the mattress.

The elevator stopped. I figured that it must have taken me to a basement level. Double basements? Is that a thing? Are water tables higher near rivers? I waited for the door to open. and waited, and waited. I wasn't wearing a watch, but at least a full minute must have passed. But the door did open, and here indeed was the pool, a lurid turquoise.

ringed by alternating busts and white-roaming columns. And there was an old, old man in the pool. His back turned to me, swimming slow, deliberate laps. if he had heard my entrance he made no acknowledgment it was an exceedingly large pool plenty big for two in fact my eyes may have been deceiving me again but it seemed to take up almost the entire footprint of the hotel. But the prospect of swimming in it was a lot less appealing than the fantasy had been five minutes earlier.

Besides, I didn't have my trunks. I got back in the elevator. The doors closed just as the old man finished his lap, just as he turned to face. I visited two wrong floors before finding the room. The lights had been turned off. The bed was empty. A little glow beneath the bathroom door. I climbed into bed. There was a storm passing by in the near distance, or maybe it had passed through while I was away. Tepid rain and gusts at the window, the occasional burbling of thunder. The toilet flushed.

The tap ran and stopped. The ever-present roar of the falls, white noise, falling water pummeling the earth like artillery shells. Silent lightning flashed twice around the drapes. a seven-second interval. Was it coming or going? Fourth of July, every summer, growing up, we went to my grandparents' farm, and you could see storms coming for miles, three hours ahead of time.

All of us would sit out on the lawn watching it, doing whatever we were doing, grilling, gardening, playing basketball in the driveway, this or that. just glancing at it till it came closer and people's attention sort of drifted away from whatever we were doing more often and a lot of times

If it was a bad one, people would come out of the house to watch, till everyone was out on the lawn, watching the storm come. First it was just darkness, but then you could start to see the detail, and it almost looked like an old film strip.

projected on the sky it didn't seem like it could be real till the second that it became real because it would really sweep in and bear down on you all at once like it was playing a game with us like it saw us and sped up because it knew we were about to turn tail and run for the garage, which was really more like a big sheet metal barn. Us laughing and howling, seeing who could hold out the longest. Had I really found a pool in the basement?

My head settled into the pillow, and already it had begun to seem like a dream, like something that feels altogether real in the moment, and is only revealed in hindsight never to have made any sense from the beginning. The door...

To the bathroom opened, the light flicked off. Someone slithered under the covers next to me. Her feet were freezing. She curled up against me and whispered near my ear, all warm, wet breath on my neck. Let's play Who Goes There. What? Who Goes There? Come on, it'll be fun. Who Goes Where? You never played it as a kid? No. Who goes there? Me and my cousins used to play at sleepovers all the time. Man, if they could see this place, they'd lose it. It's perfect. Perfect how?

Look how many places there are to hide. The wardrobe, the armchair, the mirror. There's a whole sitting room. The bathroom has an anti-bathroom, for Christ's sake. I counted four closets, two coat, two linen. What is who goes there? First, you turn off all the lights. Done. Then, one person lies in bed, and you tie their wrists and ankles to the frame. I can't tell you that until I tie you up. Then how will I know if I want to play? You just have to trust me.

She ran her fingers up through my hair, brushed her nails against my neck and gently led me out of the bed by the collar of my shirt. She started to spin me around with her hands on my shoulders. Slow at first, I had no idea what she was doing. But I picked up speed and lost control. Started teetering and catching myself, waving my arms, and she spun me faster and faster. I stumbled into the footboard and spilled out over onto the bed.

All I could do was hold on and try to find some point of stability to focus on long enough to stave off puking. Moe flipped me over and began tying me down with whatever was on hand. A couple of scarves. I couldn't tell what she used on my feet. She cinched the knot tight enough to hurt, then hopped off the bed. For God's sake, Mo, it's almost four in the morning. Close your eyes.

and count to five. I'll hide. And you'll try to guess where I am. But you have to say, who goes there? Like this. Who goes there? under the bed. If I get it right, then you win. And if I'm wrong, then you close your eyes again and I'll move hiding spots. I can't hide in the same place twice, and every time I move, I have to move closer to you. You get three guesses. And then what?

I heard her suck in air through her teeth. She ran her fingernail down my stomach. Oh, stab you in the guts! She leapt on top of me. Slick your belly like a fish and watch your intestines fall into a pile on the floor. There was something cold on my skin. I didn't know what it was or where did it come from. Stop, stop. I tried to shake her off.

Easy. It's only a game. Stop. What was that? What was what? Do you have a knife? Where on earth would I have gotten a knife? Something had gotten into me for a moment. like a chill that makes your whole body shake, but of the soul, a jungle fear. I calmed down, one breath at a time. Close your eyes, she said, and it was gone. I counted to five, as she'd instructed. By the end of it, I could barely stand to raise my own voice above a whisper. The atmosphere in the room was completely dead.

I was hearing new details in the movements of my tongue and the way it pushed saliva around as I spoke. The curtains were heavy, as if the intent were to smother the light. But with a flash of the lightning, I noticed that one set were now open. The gargoyle was looking back over his shoulder at me, leering, really. There was no sign of Mo, but... I certainly wasn't alone. I called out and got no answer. Are you... behind the curtains? I kept my eye on the pair, which were still pulled shut.

where they met the floor. Incorrect. Her voice came from somewhere in the bathroom. And you didn't say, who goes there? Echoing like she was in the shower. Technically, that should be an automatic loss. But I'll give you one mulligan. Now... Close your eyes, my love. The hinges creaked on the armoire. With my eyes shut, it sounded as if it were six inches from my ear. I opened them.

It was impossible to tell in the dark, but I thought the door on the armoire was open. But then she had tricked me with the curtains. Of course, one step ahead. She wouldn't expect me to fall for the same move twice in a row, so maybe she'd really climbed in the armor this time, expecting me to second-guess myself. A cold shock ran down my back.

And a roll of thunder shook in the distance, and I realized I was genuinely scared. I didn't want to get this wrong. I didn't want her coming any closer. I stared into the blackness at the center of the wardrobe, trying to will my pupils wider. I thought, Rorschach face? Was she grinning? You're in the wardrobe. I said. I mean, who goes there in the wardrobe? The visage melted. Wrong. Her voice much closer than I'd expected.

She was crouching behind the corner chair beside the bed, clearly visible even in the dark, peering at me over the winged back. Some sort of switch. flipped in my head and suddenly I could no longer bear to be tied up. Every limb, every passing second was intolerable. One last chance, she said. I didn't even close my eyes, but when I looked back, she was gone. Then I remembered her example. Who goes there, under the bed? Where else could be closer? My mouth was incredibly dry.

My heart was going faster and faster, and no amount of breath focus was going to bring it to heal. I had to be out of the straps. But pulling only reminded me how tight they were, how little movement I had. It started to come out of me in low little animal grunts. I was getting worried, which only made me more worried that there was no upper limit my heart could hit.

It would just shake itself loose, like fucking up drilling drywall. It'd make the same sound, too. I was starting to sweat. More thunder. Farther now, but clearer. Crisper. The window was open. It was faint, but I was sure I felt a cool breath of mist on the night breeze that eased in. Wisps of vapor mingling in the moonlight. I thought of that cold feeling on my skin.

slit your belly like a fish. I scanned the room to the extent that I could. All of the shapes and shadows were where they should have been. Had she jumped out of the window? There was a moment, a space of 30 seconds maybe, in which I could not get the image out of my mind, and during which I became convinced that the cognitive processes of my brain could and would have an effect on the real world, that if I could not stop thinking about her, face down, un-

moving or twitching, limbs splayed at grisly angles, then that reality would set in as if there had never been any other. How could she do that? Why? With each passing moment, I sank deeper into this new world. Each new emotion, each question added another brick, and the walls grew higher and solidified.

Each time I blinked, there was even less of the old world left to hold on to, to try to go back to. But all of a sudden, I was out of my head, and back in the world with two feet. The real world.

Mo was on the floor at the foot of the bed. I could hear her crying. Eventually, she untied me and I held her. She didn't or couldn't say anything, and I didn't ask, and we just sat there like that for a long time, with her head in my lap. At some point she stopped crying, and sometime before dawn, we both fell asleep.

It was late morning when I woke up. Mo was nearly always awake before me, but I could tell by her breathing she was still asleep, and I laid still where I was so as not to wake her. I could hear the thunder of the falls off in the distance, but the window was closed. I watched the little slivers of daylight slowly move across the ceiling and listened to my watch ticking on the bedside table, and it was as if the room were sealed against time itself, like a tomb.

I guessed that I laid there for two hours. I never did check the clock. We passed the ice machine on our way to the elevator, and the carpet was dry. There was not an ice cube in sight. We passed Mr. Ironwood in the lobby on our way out. He was seated in a large leather armchair and rumpled safari clothes, shirt unbuttoned three-quarters of the way to his navel, a tender red triangle ending at the second button.

glistening forehead, face a shade bronzer, looking both filled and drained by the sun. Drink in hand. He smiled when he saw us coming from the elevator, that wide, unnatural smile. The newlyweds. Back already, I said. My boy, it's nearly two in the afternoon. So it was. His expression told me I did not need to apologize. Still, he held his gaze, and I had to look away, his smile so practiced and rigid and demanding, but I did not know what was being asked of me. So, I said.

Did you kill anything? His grin grew somehow even wider, and his gaze did not break. Did I ever.