Black Mad Wheel. Josh Malerman
her lips.
“I’ll see you in two weeks,” he says.
Marla salutes him. And Philip leaves her apartment.
Below, on the street, Philip tries to shake the feeling, the fear. Everywhere he looks, Detroit seems an exaggeration of itself. The man sweeping the sidewalk outside Bankman’s Diner is dressed so right for the part that he almost looks staged. The awning for Adele’s Hair and Beauty practically shines. In fact, looking around, it’s as if the whole city is a set, a movie being filmed, everything in its place. Even the orange-painted bricks that make up the front wall of Perry Drugs, the place the Danes shot the cover for their 45 “Be Here,” look perfectly, symmetrically stacked.
Philip feels like he’s seeing it all for the first time. Through other eyes. Eyes watching that movie, maybe. And the effect the filmmakers are going for is …
This is a great city. Don’t leave.
Christ, even the sky looks painted.
He makes a right on Elizabeth and sees his three bandmates standing outside the studio door.
Their bags rest at their feet.
For a moment, Philip wonders if they’ve seen him, too. And if they haven’t, could he duck around the corner, slink into a shadow, think about it a little longer?
Ross waves.
Philip waves back.
He’s stepping off the Path. He can feel the tug of someone else’s rope, mystery dirt beneath his boots.
“Fellas,” Philip says, arriving. “Looks like we’re going to Africa.”
Ross smiles.
“I’ve already got a theory on what’s making the sound. I think it could be a combination of—”
Philip raises a finger.
“Hang on. Let’s call Mull first. Tell him we’re in.”
Philip opens the studio door and takes the carpeted stairs two at a time. Passing through the lounge, he spots the same books that have been lying on the coffee table for months. The kitchen smells like coffee and booze. He experiences an alien combination of feelings: nostalgia for a place he hasn’t left yet, and claustrophobia, too … as if the walls of the studio get narrower the deeper he goes into it.
By the time he reaches the control room, he feels a little dizzy with it. As if the sound he is agreeing to go hunting for remains, lingers in the room.
He picks up the phone, planning to call Secretary Mull.
But Philip calls home first.
When his mom answers, he feels that fear again. That movie set feeling, too. As if the phone is a piece of plastic and the woman speaking is an actress. The alternative, Philip thinks, explaining to her what he’s about to do, is too unreal to accept.
This is a great city. Don’t leave.
“Well, if you think it’s the right thing to, Philip, then nobody’s going to stop you. You always do what you feel you should.”
“Mom,” he says, looking through the control room glass, into the live room, where he imagines he heard a sound, the furthest phantom wisp of a chord. “Thank you.”
Are you afraid of flying, Philip?”
“No.”
“Heights?”
“No.”
“Spiders?”
“No.”
“Spiders?”
“You asked me that.”
“Spiders?”
“No.”
“Snakes?”
“No.”
“You would handle a snake if I asked you to?”
Philip pauses. One of the twin tape recorders is rolling behind Dr. Szands. The identical machines, Revere T-700Ds, were the first thing that caught his eye when he was wheeled into this room. Dr. Szands, sitting, cross-legged, like a disappointed father, was second.
“Not in the condition I’m in right now I wouldn’t.”
Szands rings a bell on the table beside him. Philip knows that the sound of the bell will show up as a spike on the VU meter. It’s the doctor’s way of telling the tape that something of note was said.
“Cats?”
“No.”
“Small spaces?”
Philip thinks of a red piano. But doesn’t mention it.
“No.”
“Death?”
Philip pauses again. The Revere T-700D wasn’t made for recording music. But it’s ideal for interrogations.
“Yes.”
Szands rings the bell.
The meters spike.
“Women?”
“No.”
“Speeding in a car?”
“Sometimes.”
One word answers. Just as Szands asked for.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Philip?”
Philip closes his eyes. The reels are rolling and he thinks of Private Greer’s theories in the desert. Greer’s Wheel, they came to call it.
The sound of history spinning.
“Yes.”
The bell.
“Have you seen a ghost, Philip?”
“Yes.”
The bell.
“Where was the sound located, Philip?”
“I don’t know.” No hesitation. But he does know. And he could direct Dr. Szands to it himself. Almost.
“Are you afraid of needles, Philip?”
“No.”
“Large crowds?”
“No.”
“Loud sounds?”
“No.”
“How about this sound?”
Szands reaches to the second T-700D and presses play. Before he even hears it, Philip starts to feel sick.
“Turn it off.”
The bell.
“Does this sound scare you?”
“Turn it off, doctor.”
The bell.
“Where was the sound located, Philip?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you believe in ghosts?”
“Turn it off!”
Szands turns it off. Philip looks to see if the doctor got sick from it. But Szands, his upper half in shadows, his arms and legs emerging from what looks like solid tar, isn’t giving anything away.
“Why do you believe in ghosts, Philip?”
“Because I saw one, dammit.”
The bell.
“Where?”