The Devil in Silver

by Victor LaValle

Now this guy was big but let’s put it in perspective. He wasn’t Greek mythology–sized; wasn’t tossing boulders at passing ships. He wasn’t even Green Mile–sized; one of those human-giant types. He stood six foot three and weighed two hundred seventy-one pounds, and if that doesn’t sound big to you, then you must be a professional wrestler. The dude was big but still recognizably human. Beatable. Three smaller men, like these cops, could take him down together. Just to get that straight.

A few of them managed a New York smile, which is to say a tight-lipped half-frown.

Dr. Anand—like the big man, like most of the people in this room—had been raised in Queens, New York. The most ethnically diverse region not just in the United States, but on the entire planet; a distinction it’s held for more than four decades. In Queens, you will find Korean kids who sound like black kids. Italians who sound like Puerto Ricans. Puerto Ricans who sound like Italians. Third-generation Irish who sound like old Jews. That’s Queens. Not a melting pot, not even a tossed salad, but an all-you-can-eat, mix-and-match buffet.

The big man felt foolish. What was he really doing here? Giving a little shit to an orderly? Confusing a doctor? But to what end? He couldn’t think past the anger caught in his throat. In other places, his taste for pointless conflict made him seem a bit wild, lippy, a guy who wouldn’t back down. He liked that. But that’s not how they’d see it in a psychiatric unit. These people at New Hyde were evaluating him. He had to remember that.

So why decorate the walls with someone else’s dream of peace? Maybe they were just feeding that most natural human appetite, the hunger for somewhere else. A yearning Pepper could relate to just then.

Something in Josephine wanted to argue the point—Say my name, say my name!—but realized Dr. Barger was one of a dwindling population: old mutts who were never trained to find others terribly worthwhile. Have an hour’s conversation and these men might be charming, funny, captivating, and kind. But they wouldn’t ask you a single question about yourself. Not one. They simply wouldn’t be interested. They were never trained to be curious about others, and they sure weren’t going to start now.

Pepper looked out the window, at the moon. He would’ve prayed to it, if he thought that would help.

She yearned to be seen but felt awkward each time it happened.

The ugly truth was that these patients weren’t here to be cured. There were no cures for them. They had illnesses that had to be managed, by them and by those who treated them. They were like ships that would never find a shore. The most you could do was bring them supplies; the most they could do was get used to the rocking, the unpredictability, of the vast, impenetrable ocean below them.

This wasn’t about an infraction, but dictating a philosophy of life: certain types of people must be overseen.

The staff were trying to stave off more than just hard work. A psychiatric patient without meds was like having a cyclone in your living room. That’s the fear, anyway. On the meds that same patient becomes a passing breeze. You can’t really blame the staff if they want to avoid storms. But what does the weather want?

Maybe nobody ever saw themselves completely objectively. Every self-image needs a flattering mirror or two.

“And I would think that if anyone should be able to feel a little sympathy for a person with troubles,” Dorry added, “it’s people like us.” Loochie said, “People like you, maybe. People like me? We don’t shake hands with monsters.”

Vanity? Of course. But that’s okay. No one here was a martyr or a saint.

Maybe she could see something in him that even he couldn’t right now. She believed in him. Who doesn’t hope for something like that, at least once?

The jury’s verdict (at best) might’ve been: We really feel terrible for these people. (And here’s the hard part, they really would.) We feel terrible, but we have doubts. We doubt the world works this way, because it has never worked this way against us.

Her eyes were also black and, somehow, remote. They were like closed shutters. But he could see, even through those slats, her lights were on.

He knew that seduction was 96 percent preparation. (The other 4 percent was brushing your teeth.)

When they were almost done a terrific scream came down the hall. Terrific meaning intense. Terrific meaning awesome and astounding. Terrific meaning causing great fear.

To compare a woman’s butt with anything man-made is to denigrate the first and elevate the second.

Sometimes the world is broken and sometimes it works too well.

Utterly selfish and magnificently selfless, all one or all the other, depending on the day.

Hard times make people scared. And scared people see monsters everywhere.”

“One day the truth came to me. A wise man once said that every system is designed to give you the results you actually get. If you understand that, you’ll see that this system is working.” “For some people,” Pepper said. Dr. Anand shook his head emphatically. “No. Wrong. The system is working exactly right for those it was intended for. That’s why it hasn’t been fixed. Because it isn’t broken! “Can you imagine anything more terrible? Doesn’t it hurt? I love being an American and I know it hurts me.

“That’s the funny thing,” she said. “Men always want to die for something. For someone. I can see the appeal. You do it once and it’s done. No more worrying, not knowing, about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I know you all think it sounds brave, but I’ll tell you something even braver. To struggle and fight for the ones you love today. And then do it all over again the next day. Every day. For your whole life. It’s not as romantic, I admit. But it takes a lot of courage to live for someone, too.”

“Once Lucretia asked me why I didn’t just let her die. Can you imagine it? She was fourteen years old. ‘Why don’t you just let me die?’ I told her that my life without her wasn’t worth living. As long as she lives, I live. Those words are written on every good mother’s heart.”

Pepper assessed this guy. He was short-ish and fat-ish and wore thick glasses in stylish frames. His hairline was receding and he already had a fair amount of ear hair. And yet this guy was obviously so pleased with himself. Pepper always marveled at this kind of man. Who calculated his value based on some mystery math. Simple addition would assess this man a dud but Louis was using calculus plus.

Pepper remembered a quote he’d read once, it was attributed to James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica. Hetfield was asked the difference between himself and Sting. (Why that comparison? Who can say?) Hetfield said the difference between him and Sting was that he read a lot of books, too, but he didn’t need you to know that.

“Do you know what people would say, in these mining towns, when they saw one of these miners falling apart? Walking through town muttering and swinging at phantoms? They said the Devil in Silver got them. It became shorthand. Like someone might say, ‘What happened to Mike?’ And the answer was always the same. ‘The Devil in Silver got him.’ ”

“I’m saying they were dying,” Louis said. “They definitely weren’t making that up. But it wasn’t a monster that was killing them. It was the mine.”

Instead, they spent the last half hour of visiting playing Raven Symoné’s game. If it never became fun, it did pass the time. (Pepper also learned that someone liked liked him, which is always nice to hear.)

“How old is that fear we all been feeling?” he asked. “Sometimes I think I’ve been afraid my whole life. Like I got born with it and didn’t realize it was with me all along.”

I will decay, Pepper thought touching the abandoned machine. I will be buried. I will be forgotten. What was my life worth?

He’d felt pride in his daring, but could share the story, and the cereal, with no one. That’s when he came to realize that it can be honorable to stand alone, arguing for a righteous cause. But sometimes “taking a stance” becomes confused with “just being an asshole.”

Then Loochie thought about that rat. Like rats fleeing from a sinking ship. That’s the cliché, right? But the point of the line, really, is this: Life wants to live.

He hoped to reflect the world’s own glory, with love. An artistic impulse, but one not exclusive to artists. For instance, Coffee. For instance, Dorry. And now, Pepper. The aspiration is so rarely rewarded, or even understood, that most people don’t even try. But wherever it’s found, whenever it’s displayed, it’s an act of genius.