
CALAMITY
By J.T. Warren
Published by J.T. Warren
http://www.authorjtwarren.blogspot.com
Copyright 2011 J.T. Warren
Cover Design by Karla Herrera
This book is for people who always see the dark side and like the view.
Special thanks as always to my first readers and editors: LeeAnn Doherty, Scott Nicholson, Karla Herrera, and, of course, my lovely wife. Thanks is also due to Karla for her excellent cover design.
Five minutes of passing time between classes wasn't much but sometimes it felt like a lifetime. Tyler Williams was exchanging books at his locker and grabbing the bag lunch Dad had made for him when Paul flopped his back against the lockers next to him. "When were you going to tell me?"
"Tell you what?" Tyler asked.
Paul laughed in the mocking way that said he knew Tyler was being a dick. "Didn't even tell your best friend." He shook his head. "I mean, I should have known first. I'm just so proud of you." Paul pretended to wipe away tears.
"It's no big deal," Tyler said. "It's just a date."
"It's the day you finally grew some balls. Congrats, man. I knew it would happen." He slapped Tyler on the back. "Next thing you know you'll be updating your status to 'in a relationship.'"
"It's just a date."
"It's proof you're not a homo."
"Real funny."
"You mean, you are a homo?" Before Tyler could stop him, Paul was shouting in singsong fashion at the passing kids, "Tyler's a homo! Tyler's a homo!"
Someone yelled, "Right on, faggot!" and someone else said, "You're the fag, you retard."
Most of the kids crammed into the hallway of Stone Creek High School offered a brief, contemptuous glance and continued on their way.
"Where you taking her?"
"Movie and dinner."
"Then what?"
"Then what, what?"
"You just going to ask if she'll wrap that snaggletooth around your cock or you got something more creative planned?"
"I'll be fine."
"Yeah. You wouldn't even have the date if not for me."
Two days ago, Paul had told him that Rebecca had said that Sasha thought he was kind of cute and that she would answer a call from him if he happened to find her number, which Rebecca passed to Paul in a note folded fifteen times, like some secret message from an underground cult. Paul ragged him for three hours until he said that if Tyler didn't man up for once in his life, he was bound to be a homosexual, if, that was, he wasn't one already. If Tyler didn't make the call, Paul said he'd spread the word that Tyler's mother had found gay porn on his laptop.
That was all the motivation he needed. His fears of rejection, which kept him pacing frantically back and forth in his bedroom and which spurred him into a vicious tirade of self-critique, proved a waste of time. Sasha giggled and said yes. Now, he was mere hours from the date and unable to think of anything else. Mr. Gerard had called on him twice in math and both times Tyler had been thinking about how he was going to make that first move on Sasha. He had even started a list in the margin of his notebook of possible tactics. Bluntly asking if she'd suck his dick was not one of the possibilities.
"I owe you everything," Tyler said in grand, kowtowing style. "Happy?" He slammed his locker shut and started toward the cafeteria. Paul, who didn't have lunch until the following period, followed right along.
"What you owe me," Paul said, "is a date with Delaney."
"I'm about to eat. You want me to vomit?"
"Your sister is hot. You have to admit it."
"I can't even respond to that."
"Yeah, because you know I'm right."
Up ahead, kids were shouting or grunting back and forth to each other like gorillas in the mountains. A group of girls in short skirts and high heels gossiped rapidly back and forth. Passing them, Tyler caught the words, "such a bitch" and "whore better back off." The sounds of talking and yelling echoed everywhere. To the left, a little freshman was on his knees in front of his locker trying to get the combination right for the hundredth time. Any moment now, the tears would start. Tyler thought of his little brother Brendan and felt sorry for this kid but it wasn't his job to help him. That's why there were teachers, although he didn't see any in the halls.
"Besides," Paul said. "I think she likes me."
"Don't you have history class?"
"Mr. B. doesn't care if I'm late."
Two football players, dressed in their home jerseys even though the season had ended months ago, were play fighting up ahead outside a computer lab. The flowing traffic gave them a wide birth, which slowed Tyler's steps to a crawl.
"This place is fucked," Tyler said.
"Just like you're going to be tonight, right?" Paul asked.
"Right."
"C'mon, man. She said yes. She's a little weird or whatever, but she said yes." Paul leaned close. "A girl like that is aching for it. I'm surprised one of the jocks hasn't hit it yet. She's ready to fall off the vine. You only have to reach for it."
Tyler had been with girls before but never advanced past the boundary of the jeans. He didn't want to seem like some desperate pervert but Paul was right: Sasha was exactly the type of girl who went around secretly hoping some guy would just whip it out for her.
Before the date, Tyler would be back on the Internet surfing for dating tips. Just undoing her bra strap posed its own challenge. He'd spent enough time staring at her breasts in English that they were burned into his brain. He often thought about going up to her in class and ripping open her shirt and launching his mouth at those breasts.
A hot rush flushed through him.
"You just have to man up," Paul said. "Then you can stick it in her."
"Real classy."
"Then put in the good word for me with Delaney so I can stick--"
"Jesus, enough."
Paul paused. "All you have to do is lay the foundation for me."
"No."
Paul adopted one of his over-the-top, dramatic personas. "I see how it is. I see how you do me. Fine. Whatever. But I hope Sasha pulls some weirdo shit on you and you wake up with your cock in a jar."
"That's great. See ya."
"Whateva, nigga. Peace." He made some kind of gang gesture over his head, something he probably saw in a movie, and headed back the way they had walked.
Paul was always good for a laugh but Tyler was too busy waging an internal battle between anxiety and lust to care what he wanted. Tyler had a genuine chance to get some serious action tonight so long as he didn't turn into a cowardly douche.
In the cafeteria, Tyler sat with this kid Aaron Vandershant who was sometimes funny and often a dick. If he knew about Tyler's date with Sasha, Aaron would unload a barrage of vile-soaked insults at Tyler's choice of girl. Aaron had never been seen even talking to a girl one-on-one, so Tyler didn't much care what Aaron said. Besides, the kid could be quite amusing.
"I'm in Mrs. Pulk's class," Aaron says before Tyler even opens his brown bag. "She's doing her usual lecture shit and the class is real quiet. Bunch of zombies in there, man, I tell you. Anyway, she's talking about some constellation or some shit and then she stops, like freezes, bends over like she's about to fall and grabs the desk in front of her--Kyle Prescott is sitting there like somebody strung or out or something--and she unloads this ass cheek-shaking fart that sounds like a damn grenade going off. I was so stunned I couldn't say anything. And then you know what she does? Mrs. Pulk straightens up, looks at us, and says, 'Bet you can't beat that.' I fucking lost it, man. Almost fell out of my seat."
"She didn't say that."
"Fuck yeah, she did. That bitch is crazy."
"That is crazy." Tyler actually thought it was kind of great that a teacher, especially an old one like Mrs. Pulk, could be so cool about farting.
"Kyle woke up, started choking, said, 'Damn, what's that stink?' And I yell out, "Look out, she had tacos for lunch!' That did it--class erupted and Mrs. Pulk had to stand there and take it."
Delaney and her friends Shannon and Randi joined the table. Usually, the conversations never overlapped or intersected but Tyler didn't detest his sister the way a lot of boys detested theirs. He never ignored her or pretended they weren't related. She was a year younger, a bit of a nerd and like to dress up real girly though not trashy like most high school girls. She only owned one pair of high heels and those she wore for her band concerts. They had been really close when they were young, playing all the time, and though he mostly made fun of her now, it was always out of brotherly devotion. She was a cool girl and he liked hanging with her, but that didn't mean he wanted Paul shoving his tongue down her throat. Or anything else, for that matter.
"What's up, bro? Dad make you his special PB&J?"
"Haven't looked yet. Aaron was regaling me with a story of Mrs. Pulk, the amazing farting teacher."
Delaney frowned. "I love Mrs. Pulk. She farted in class?"
Aaron found a break in his laughter to make an explosion gesture with his hands and shout, "Kaboom!"
Delaney smiled. "That's horrible. Stop laughing."
"It was like D-Day!" Aaron yelled. His face had darkened to deep red.
After saying something to Shannon and Randi, Delaney turned back to Tyler and asked about his big date.
"Who told you?"
"Everybody knows, big brother." She shook her head. "You sure can pick them."
Aaron quieted his screeches of laughter. "Date? Who you banging, Tyler?"
"I'm not banging any--"
"Sasha Karras," Delaney said.
Aaron's eyes went huge. "That weirdo bitch? You're kidding me? Her mother's a witch or something."
"She's not a witch."
Sasha's mother worked the Key Club Fright Fest every Halloween, always dressed up in a black gown with heavy, black makeup. She read fortunes from a stack of tarot cards. Kids said she sacrificed stray cats to her evil witch god.
"Crazy bitch collected Sasha's period blood to use in her ceremonies."
"Ew," Shannon said but she was smiling.
"You made that up."
Aaron shrugged. Even if he had made it up that didn't mean it wasn't true. Such was the world of high school logic.
"Don't do it," Aaron said. "You'll be tainted."
Tyler turned to Delaney. "Thanks, sis."
"No problem, bro. Just don't embarrass the family. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Yeah, right. Tough to keep that nerd persona untarnished."
Her face crumpled a bit but she fought it off. "Just don't forget to wear a condom."
"Yeah," Aaron said, all serious. "You don't want to have a kid with that bitch."
"Shut up," Tyler said. He finally opened his lunch and found a Hot Pocket in its plastic wrapper. How the hell was he going to microwave it? Thanks, Dad.
Chloe wanted her damn pills. She could scream for them, shout at the top of her lungs until her throat cracked and her energy vanished. She could beg for them, cry for them, but Anthony wasn't going to give them to her. Dr. Carroll had prescribed them, so, sure, legally she could take them, but that didn't mean she should take them.
"Please!" Her plea rolled down the hallway from the bedroom where she kept a constant vigil in bed.
If she really wanted her little coma-inducing pills, she could get out of bed and get them herself. But she wouldn't, of course, not until her withdrawal became too painful to endure. But he wouldn't let it go that far. She would wear him down and he would obediently fetch whichever colored pill she wanted.
"I need them." Her voice was an anger-tinged cry, the sound of an animal stuck in a trap.
He wasn't doing anything, just standing in the kitchen, cleaning the counter, drinking some coffee, but he wanted to tell her to get the fuck out of the bed this instant, stop being so damn pathetic, take a shower, get some clean clothes on, go outside and stop bothering him.
"I deserve them," she yelled. Her voice rasped like it was on the verge of collapse.
Dr. Carroll said the pills would take the edge off, but they had done a whole hell of a lot more than that---they had anesthetized her from life. Dr. Carroll was a good man, a good psychiatrist based on the recommendations of a few people from work, but he was awfully quick to prescribe drugs. Anthony hadn't wanted his son Brendan on any Ritalin or similar Help-You-Focus drug, but the proof was, as they say, in the pudding. Brendan's grades had improved. So, after that day last month when he discovered the pain so many other parents have suffered and yet still thought his own pain far worse, he turned to Dr. Carroll for help. He and Chloe attended sessions together but, ultimately, Chloe had gotten the script she wanted and found the peace she sought. If you slept all the time, maybe the pain would stay away. Anthony suffered more pain in his dreams where he relived the tragic day over and over or, and this was sometimes worse, dreamt the baby was still alive and then awoke to discover the truth. But Chloe didn't suffer nightmares; her pills were a forcefield against them. Against everything else, too.
"Why don't you care about me?" Her words gargled on her self-pity.
Anthony sipped his coffee and squeezed the dish towel in his hand. If he punched her in the face, he could knock her out without pills and the towel might cushion the hit so he wouldn't break her cheekbone.
That thought lingered for several seconds before Anthony's revulsion pushed it far away, forced him to set down his coffee, and urged his legs down the hallway to the bedroom.
The room was dark, the shades drawn. The day's sunlight was forced into the corners where swirls of dust danced in the air. The room stank of old sweat and persistent halitosis. Both were side effects of the pills.
Chloe was beneath the comforter. Her withered body was hardly a lump among the folds. In the dark, her face was a talking shadow, like something from one of his nightmares.
"I've been calling for you."
"I know."
"Get me my pills."
He stopped halfway to the master bath. "You should get out of bed."
"I'm tired."
"A shower will make you feel good."
"My pills."
"I'll make you some breakfast. The kids are at school. We can talk."
She paused, thinking. Her lips made a wet smacking sound. "Talk about what?"
"About helping you."
"Helping me? Helping me? How the hell are you going to help me?"
"I want you to get better."
"Then get me my pills."
"You sound like a monster. Like some dying witch."
"Fuck you," she said in a casual way.
He went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. The bottles stared back.
"That's what you want, isn't it?" she asked. "You just want to fuck me. Well, go ahead. Give me my pills and fuck me all you want."
Chills rolled over his skin. He kept his tone steady, loving. "I just want you to get better. I want you to get back to life."
"What about the life that was taken out of me and then from me?" She was on the cusp of tears, as she had been the past month.
"You have to find a way to carry on. We still have three beautiful children. We have to do what is best for them."
"You just want me to forget!" she screamed. "Forget about my baby? Forget like you forgot. You don't give a flying fuck about our dead child but I'm not that goddamn heartless! I need to grieve! I need my pills!"
Anthony's fingers tightened around a large white bottle.
"You hear me!" she yelled again. "Or don't you give a shit?"
He turned out of the bathroom, threw the bottle of pills at her head--she caught them with an exasperated ooofff sound, and left the bedroom. He slammed the door for good measure.
What the hell was he going to do? He had to keep his family together. He had to find a way to bring back the old days, the happy days, the days before the baby died.
He went back to the kitchen but his coffee had turned cold.
Brendan's teacher wanted to speak with him. While the playground monitor escorted the rest of the class outside in a single-file line, Brendan approached Miss Tuyol.
She was a young teacher, the youngest in the building, and some of the boys thought she was hot but Brendan didn't think of her as being hot or not. Actually, he never really thought about any of his teachers.
She was sitting behind her desk, which was organized with colored folders and boxes and decorated with fake apples and little plaques that said things like "World's Greatest Teacher" and "Teachers Light the Way to Tomorrow." She was wearing a bright purple sweater with a picture of the Easter Bunny on it.
"Hello Brendan," she said.
"Hi."
"How do you feel today?"
"Good."
"Any trouble focusing today?"
"No."
"You seemed a little lost when we were reviewing the states."
"Sorry."
He had been more than simply lost. He'd been off in another world completely. The pills were supposed to help with that. The pills did help him focus but not always on what he was supposed to be doing.
Dr. Carroll had put Brendan on the pill, what Brendan called his Pillie Billy, in October after a horrible progress report and a teacher-parent conference in which Miss Tuyol made it sound like Brendan had some really serious problems, aside from poor factoring in math and weak memorization skills in history. Next year he'd be in seventh grade, so if he didn't get his act together (whatever that meant), he'd end up in a far worse situation than he was in now. On the up side, Miss Tuyol complimented Brendan's creativity and language skills. She said he was a very creative boy. The only reason he had done well in English was because he enjoyed reading and writing stories. He wrote his stories, mostly short things with lots of violence, in a black and white composition book. He wrote the stories during recess or at home in his room. He had left the book at home today but that was okay because he had a different one with him, a really special one.
"No headaches?" Miss Toyul asked.
He shook his head.
He hadn't told anyone that even before the end of the summer, his head had started to hurt every time he spent longer than a few minutes reading and he'd find himself inexplicably pulled away from the page by an annoying fly or the tree blowing outside his window or even random thoughts in his own mind. Pillie Billy had cured that, sort of. Every once in a while his head hurt but it wasn't always unpleasant.
"Your story," she said and picked up the two-page short story he had typed on Dad's computer. "Do you have a goldfish?"
"No," he said. The story was entitled "The Dead Goldfish." It was a bout this kid who thought his goldfish was possessed by a demon and he kills the fish by crushing it beneath his bare feet. Brendan described, as best he could, the jelly insides of the fish filling the gaps between the boy's toes. He compared it to snot.
"You didn't kill your pet fish, did you?" Miss Tuyol asked.
"We had a dog once but it got old and couldn't walk so we had to put it down."
Miss Tuyol looked like she had something really serious to say. "You've never hurt any animals before, have you?"
He thought of how much fun it was to pull Lizzy's tail. Lizzy was Delaney's cat. The cat didn't like it but pulling its tail didn't really hurt it, not much anyway. Besides, he liked Lizzy and didn't want to see her suffer.
"Your story is very descriptive."
"Thanks."
"Gory."
"Thanks."
"That's not always a good thing."
"It's not?"
"Next time, why don't you try writing about something more pleasant?"
"Okay." Brendan stared at his sneakers.
"What book do you have today?" she asked.
Brendan held up the large, hard-bound book. It was titled Finding God: A History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man's Destiny. It was over three hundred pages with very few pictures and more than twenty chapters. Dad would have called it "heavy reading," but Brendan never showed his dad, keeping the book hidden under his bed. Dr. Carroll had given it to him, said the book was just for Brendan, something to help him focus better and tap into his natural talents, whatever they might be. Brendan didn't understand what Dr. Carroll meant, but he didn't ask questions either. The doc wanted to help, he gave Brendan a book, so Brendan took it, read some of it, and kept it a secret. He was very good at keeping secrets. He had it with him today, however, because he had big plans for tomorrow.
"That looks interesting," Miss Tuyol said as if he were showing her that dead goldfish.
"It's just some boring history stuff," he said with a shrug.
Miss Tuyol smiled. "Okay. Get your coat and I'll bring you outside."
On the playground, Brendan sat in a swing and opened the book. He turned to Chapter Two. It was entitled "Animal and Human: Sacrifices to Win Divine Favor."
While kids ran screaming all around him, Brendan read very carefully, as if trying to memorize every word.
"It is difficult to accept death in this society because it is unfamiliar. In spite of the fact that it happens all the time, we never see it."
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
When Sasha returned from the bathroom, Tyler wondered for the hundredth time what her breasts would look like once he got her shirt off. Her T-shirt hugged her breasts--young, healthy, and firm--just enough, yet the shirt was not so tight as to remove all mystery. Tyler had spent enough time admiring those breasts in quick glances at school and more than enough time tonight peeking glances at them while he ate his cheeseburger and she picked at a salad. He had spent even more than enough time in bed at night thinking of those breasts---these breasts right in front of him across the table---and how they would feel in his hands or taste in his mouth. Imagining was one thing, but to actually touch them skin-to-skin would be like opening a Christmas present and discovering it was exactly what he wanted.
And only one thing could be better, but he knew not to let his fantasies get out of reach. There was little chance he'd get past the threshold of her jeans and into her panties where the real thing that girls had and boys wanted dwelled like a treasure waiting to be excavated. The thing he had been waiting all of his seventeen years to unearth.
"Well?"
She had asked him something and he couldn't think of what it was. Shit. She was assessing him, evaluating if he was good make-out material and missing her questions would not bode well for him when she made the final determination. He had been admiring those breasts again, of course. He knew only the vaguest details of the private lives of girls, but he had Googled bra sizes and determined that Sasha was in the C-range. Each breast was probably a handful once unleashed from the confines of the shirt and bra. But, of course, that brought up the tricky situation of bra straps and undoing them. He had Googled that, too, and found a site that instructed in step-by-step format how to unhook a bra strap---and with only one hand.
"You seem weird," she said. Her half-eaten chicken Caesar salad sat before her, oh, so ever close to those breasts.
He fumbled a response that could have passed for the mumblings of a retarded person. She smiled at him, one jagged tooth protruding over the others in the upper corner of her mouth, her black hair hanging straight behind her like a curtain. At school she wore her hair up like all the other girls. Different hair presentation meant something, at least according to websites Tyler had read. It could mean the girl thought he was special enough to do something different; it could mean the girl was hoping for a special evening; or it could mean jack special shit.
"Sorry," he said.
"For . . . ?"
Retarded mumblings again. Every time he tried to respond, his eyes ventured down to those breasts and an alarm went off in his brain: LOOK AT HER FACE, AT HER FACE! But that shouting command only fumbled up his words even more.
"How's your cheeseburger?" she asked.
"Good," he said without the slightest mumble.
She glanced around; her smile faded. Cheerful Charlie's Diner was fairly well-packed with the late-evening crowd. The diner was a 1950s throwback with plush red seats and booths, vintage signs (a Coca Cola advertisement featuring a green-haired elf-type person with huge, hungry eyes and a Coke bottle top for a hat always gave Tyler the creeps every time he ate here), and a giant juke-box that didn't play music but lit up and flashed sometimes like a strobe light. The oldies music came from ceiling speakers. Tyler didn't know any of the songs and, it seemed, neither did Sasha.
There was no diner in Stone Creek, but Charlie's was only a few miles out on Route 51. The place was open 24 hours and Charlie, the Charlie of the restaurant's name, was a round-bellied guy who often played Santa at the Newburgh Mall in December, and who didn't harass teenagers the way the staff and owners at many restaurants did, especially after dark.
This place was a typical stop for kids from school. Tyler thought he recognized some kids in the back, but they were too busy shooting spitballs at each other to offer Tyler a frontal view. Tyler had known that other kids might be here, of course, and had weighed the potential awkwardness of some kids mocking him with the comfort Sasha might feel at going to a familiar place. He hadn't read that advice on any website; he had reasoned that one out himself. The websites had suggested fancy dining; fine dining, they called it. Fine dinning, they asserted, was the easiest way to get a woman's clothes off. Aside from getting her drunk or drugging her, of course.
So," she said when her gaze returned to the table. "That movie kind of sucked."
Tyler had taken her to a movie first in hopes that he could build his courage during the flick and then really put on the moves over dinner. The movie was a stupid horror flick about a girl trapped in a basement with a monster that resembled a toad. Tyler enjoyed when the girl stripped to her underwear before getting inside a sleeping bag with her equally hot, and equally near-naked, friend: did girls really do stuff like that? Sasha watched the movie with her body leaned away from him for most of the film, and didn't want any popcorn, which left Tyler eating an entire bucket. The butter he had plopped on top of the popcorn had tasted so good but now, as it mingled with the ground beef from his burger, he felt the weight of it like a brick sinking into his bowels.
When the toad-thing leaped out of the basement's darkest corner with its huge mouth full of teeth and its scream echoing in the theater like an explosion, Sasha jumped in her seat and grabbed his arm. When the monster bit off the girl's foot (gallons of blood squirting all over the girl and the monster), Sasha screamed and squeezed his arm, a genuine squeeze. Tyler smiled and stole another glance at those breasts.
"Yeah," he said. What could he say? You ever strip to your underwear and climb into a sleeping bag with another girl?
Sasha's cellphone was out and she was texting. She yawned. Though her salad was mostly uneaten, Sasha was obviously done with dinner and if he didn't say something clever or somehow get her interested in him again this date was over.
She snapped her phone shut and stared straight at him as if she hadn't noticed him before. Her breasts---LOOK AT HER FACE!---jiggled when she placed her elbows on the table on either side of her salad and rested her chin on her folded hands. This pushed her breasts together and made them even larger.
"I don't have to be home for an hour," she said.
"Oh."
She smiled and her snaggletooth incisor seemed larger than before. Someone who has such a physical imperfection, even a slight one, is good at concealing it. Paul hid his braces for three years in middle school by never fully smiling at anyone. Tyler had been one of the only people who knew for sure that Paul had braces. That meant Sasha was smiling larger now, which was good. Or it meant her tooth was growing.
The waitress, dressed in a blue apron with a cartoon fat man over her chest, one pudgy thumb up, asked if she could take their plates and they both nodded. Plates in hand, the waitress inquired about dessert. Sasha asked for the check.
She turned back to Tyler. "I'm glad you asked me out."
"Me too," he said.
"You're a sweet guy."
A sweet guy who has masturbated to thoughts of you for almost nine months, he thought and immediately scolded himself for being so perverted. If she sensed his longing, his desperation, she'd end the date right now.
The websites stressed that women wanted "action" as much as men did, but women were always turned off by desperation. If a guy wants a woman too badly, the woman will often turn him down. Women want to know there's interest, but they also want a challenge. A website also recommended jerking off before the date to help calm anxiety. Tyler found his favorite porn site and started but his father kept walking back and forth outside his room so he stopped. If Sasha went down on him, if that was even a possibility, it wouldn't take long to finish.
"There's a place near my house where we can hang for a bit, if you want. Then you can drop me off."
Tyler nodded because he couldn't swallow the lump in his throat to speak. He paid the bill, left five bucks on the table, and let Sasha give him directions to their next stop.
Sasha lived in a mobile home that had been converted into a somewhat normal-looking two-story house with a concrete front porch and an extension off the back, which served as a game room and her mother's bedroom. Two large perfectly pruned bushes stood guard on either side of the porch. A light was on upstairs and another, a red one, flickered in a downstairs window, probably from a TV.
"Nice," Tyler said and hoped he didn't sound surprised or sarcastic.
"Nice bushes, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind."
The house was one among hundreds in the Hidden Hills community, a name contradicting the numerous hills and valleys that comprised the individual properties of the mobile homes. The kids at school called this place Trailer Trash Town, the homes Trashy Trailers. Even the students who lived here, and there were more Tyler suspected than those who admitted it, used the term. Better to acknowledge the shitty choices your parents made than to delude yourself into thinking you were normal.
"Keep going," Sasha said. "I don't want my mother to see us."
They drove down a steep slope that curved to the right so suddenly that Tyler almost crashed into a pickup truck parked in the road. He narrowly missed an oncoming jeep and then rode his brakes the rest of the way down the hill, which reminded him of water swirling down a funnel. The mobile homes (trashy trailers) were set at odd angles to one another and ensconced into hillsides like pieces of litter in clumps of mud. Some of them hadn't seen a moment of handyman attention in decades while others could have passed for pleasing, though small, additions to the community his parents had chosen: Sky View Estates. It was a gated community where Mexicans cleaned the streets weekly and repainted the homes every other year.
Sasha directed Tyler to a small, empty gravel parking lot overlooking a lake. A sagging, rusted fence boarded two sides of the lot. Tyler pulled to the edge, facing the lake. On the other side of the dark water, the lights of more mobile homes glowed like tiny eyes on the hulking humps of hills. Those hills comprised a giant beast, a malicious creature forever guarding the still waters of a man-made lake--like in that Lovecraft story Mr. Stein had read to them. Tyler wished he could cover his windshield.
"Beautiful," Sasha said. She undid her seatbelt. Was that an invitation to make a move?
"Sure," Tyler said after a moment. He turned to her, barely aware that he was making a move; something inside him had seized the controls and wasn't going to let him delay any longer. "But not as beautiful as you."
She smiled for a moment and then burst out laughing.
Tyler turned back to the hundred-eyed monster. What did its laughter sound like?
"I'm sorry," Sasha said through dwindling chuckles. "You don't have to try so hard. I'm the one who brought us here, after all."
"Sorry," he said, though unsure why.
"What about some music?" she asked.
Tyler turned the car battery on and the receiver started with the last song that had been playing on his iPod: "Stay Don't Go" by Spoon. She hadn't made any comments about his music during the drive and she didn't now. Did she hate it? Did it matter?
"So?" she asked.
"So?"
She smiled again and moved toward him as if gliding like a ghost. Without barely any time for his brain to register what was happening, Tyler moved toward her, closed his eyes, and met her lips halfway across the car. The kiss lasted only a few seconds but it was long enough for Tyler to taste the Caesar dressing from her salad. She broke the kiss and sat back in her seat. Tyler stayed for a moment in a slant, his seatbelt stretching across his chest.
"Why do you like me?" she asked.
Tyler sat back, unfastened his belt. Though a smile still lingered on her lips, Sasha had turned more introspective all of a sudden as if the kiss had pried something lose in her mind. How was he supposed to answer this question? What did she want to hear?
The song changed to "Paper Tiger." Tyler said, "What do you mean?"
"It's not a hard question."
"You're . . . really cool and pretty and . . . I don't know."
"It's just that you've barely ever said anything to me. Did you think I'd be easy or something?"
In the faint glow from the radio receiver, Sasha's eyes glimmered green and small shadows accentuated her pointy nose and the curve of her upper lip hiding that snaggletooth. Her pale skin absorbed the light and gave her a faint seasick aura.
"I just . . . like you."
"You've been with many girls?"
Tyler shook his head. Her breasts were ready to break through her shirt. His hand twitched. Just a touch, a caress, a suck.
"I know what people say about me," she said. "About my mother."
"I haven't heard." He thought of Aaron's period-blood rumor.
Tyler had only had one girlfriend prior, and that had been three years ago at science camp. He had experienced his first French kiss but nothing else. He didn't think he was unattractive or weird or anything. He just never handled himself around girls the way he wanted. Paul had known this is what he needed. Tyler knew it, too. And now she was getting all serious.
"I don't care what people say," she said. "I don't. People are assholes."
"They are," he said.
The song changed to "Back to the Life," opening with a maniacal laugh. Her eyes went to the receiver, on which the song title was spelled out, and Tyler's eyes went to her breasts. The heavy beat of the song unleashed something inside him, something like instinct, and he moved in for the kill.
Their lips met again, softly at first and then he pressed harder and his tongue found its way into her mouth where it slipped over and around her tongue like two slugs mating. Her snaggletooth pressed against his teeth like a popcorn kernel, but the discomfort only spurred him on. His hands groped at her back, found the edge of her shirt and pulled it up all the way to her chin. Then his hands were on her breasts, caressing them, squeezing them. Something red and hot burned inside him and grew hotter and hotter. He went for her bra strap with both hands, just to be sure, and unclasped it almost immediately. The excitement at this accomplishment pushed his tongue more forcefully against hers and he lifted her and shifted so that her head lay against the door and her legs tangled with his around the shifter.
He tore her bra off and finally broke the kiss. She gasped for air as if she had been under water. Her breasts were even larger than he had hoped. He grabbed one and began sucking forcefully on the other. Still, the red hotness burned, throbbed, screamed inside him. This is what he had wanted for so long, so fucking long, oh how fucking wonderful. Her hands grabbed at his hair and tugged playfully. He shook them off and sucked even harder on her breast until her moan morphed into a cry of pain. He pulled off of her breast, tugging at her nipple, and stared at her for a moment. The shadows had shifted on her face and now made her appear younger, smaller. She started to speak, and Tyler suffocated her words with his mouth.
Women love being dominated, a website declared.
His hands found the edge of her jeans and tore open the fly. The hot redness burned hotter and hotter and hotter, screaming for him to keep going. This was going to be wonderful, so fucking wonderful. He slipped one hand behind her and shifted his weight to that arm while his other hand jumped onto her crotch. Her panties stuck to her groin in a patch of moisture: she wanted this just as much as he. This was too wonderful to believe. He found the seat lever and yanked it almost hard enough to snap it while he picked her up again and flopped her down on the seat, forcing it backwards, nearly flat. The part of him that would have stalled the engine of his passion had fallen off somewhere and now stood back, shocked and delighted.
Another deep-probing kiss later, Tyler pulled off her jeans and let his fingers explore her most sensitive of areas. She moaned and repeated his name again and again but he barely heard that over the monstrous pounding of the screaming red inside him. It could have been an alarm shouting FIRE! FIRE! but it only pushed him farther. He undid his own fly and pushed his pants and boxers past his knees and wriggled them to his ankles. Her moans grew louder and her hands grabbed more roughly at his hair and arms. He drove his tongue against hers once more, her snaggletooth crushing his gums, and then he went for everything in one quick gesture--he pulled her panties to the side and slipped the head of his penis into her where her muscles stopped it and her fingers clawed more desperately at him and then he shoved all of himself into her as he released a powerful grunt of pleasure. The hot redness hollered louder and louder still until his entire body burned with the screaming lust. And when he released that hot redness inside her, Tyler finally noticed the tears on her cheeks, green in the light, and heard her begging, "No, stop, no, stop, Tyler, stop, stopstopstoppleasestop!"
He slumped back into the driver's seat without bringing up his pants. Sasha curled into a fetal position on the passenger seat and sobbed. Across the lake, a giant monster watched it all through a hundred glowing eyes.
The knock at the front door pulled Anthony's attention from the eggs quickly cooking in the pan in front of him. Brendan was already up and watching a cartoon about two bunnies dressed as Mexican lawmen (complete with bandoliers) hunting for a third, presumably evil, bunny that had stolen a supply of carrots. The animation in the show shuttered like the light from a strobe and the show jumped from scene-to-scene at such a frenetic pace that the few times Anthony tried to watch the show with his twelve-year old, he always left the room before his burgeoning headache evolved into a migraine. And yet, Brendan could watch hours of similar-style animation without the slightest apparent damage. Except, of course, for the ADD, which, as good parents, he and Chloe tried to keep under control with the little white pills Dr. Carroll prescribed. Those pills were best taken with food and Brendan's favorite Saturday morning meal was scrambled eggs and bacon, eggs cooked in the bacon fat.
The knock came again. Whoever it was standing outside on the front porch, their knock suggested neither aggression nor impatience; it was a simple declaration of presence. Even so, Anthony didn't want to leave whoever it was stranded outside when that person could clearly hear the cartoon bunnies galloping after the evil bunny and shouting, Badges? We don't need no stinkin badges in a mockery of a Mexican accent.
He thought of telling Brendan to answer the door but that was an invitation for trouble, something newspapers would tout in giant headlines after some escaped sex offender made off with Brendan after the innocent boy answered the door. FATHER TOLD BOY TO ANSWER DOOR. Father claims he was too busy "cooking eggs" to see who the stranger was himself. Now, the father is on a hot-plate of his own as accusations of bad parenting and suspicions of the father's complicit role in the scenario play out across the country. Did Anthony Williams not only know his son's kidnapper but actually broker the deal as a way to pay his mounting drug debts to a secret Mexican cartel? While the father denies ever suffering any kind of drug addiction, his wife, Chloe, 39, admits that Anthony was a heavy pot smoker in college and that behavior might have served as a gateway to more dangerous drugs and a secret addiction he hid from his entire family.
Would Chloe sell him out that quickly? A mother's love was stalwart. For the drug angle to work, though, the newspapers would have to believe that a man who never takes anything stronger than aspirin could somehow get wrapped up in the underworld dealings of Mexican drug trafficking, and all from his humble home in Sky View Estates in Orange County, New York. If anyone was going to go under the microscope of drug use it would be Chloe. Her pills were best taken with food as well. She preferred her eggs sunny side down. How appropriate.
He pushed the scrambled eggs onto a plate and dropped three pieces of bacon next to them. He set the plate on the kitchen table and, as he passed through the family room, told Brendan to get his breakfast while the bacon fat was still hot and tasty.
Anthony opened the front door. A tall man in a black suit had his hand raised to knock again. He slowly brought it down to cup the Bible held in his other hand. His suit was freshly pressed and tailored perfectly to his thin frame. Another man, shorter, though bulkier, like a lineman, also dressed in a black suit, also well-tailored, stood next to the first. This man's suit was clean, but wrinkles weaved over the pants and jacket like varicose veins. Nearly identical smiles emerged on their faces like the multi-toothed grins of sharks breaking the water's surface to snatch unsuspecting birds.
"Good morning," the tall man said. His black hair was parted on the right side and gelled against his scalp; the color matched his suit. "How are you today?"
The shorter man's hair was also parted on the right side but he had used less gel and several strands of hair were blowing around on top of his head. Neither of the men's smiles wavered. Sharks approaching for the kill.
"I'm making breakfast, actually," Anthony said. "For the family."
Both men nodded in sync. They were either robots or they had done this routine a million times and knew the proper responses intuitively.
"We won't take but a minute of your time," the first man said. "We're here about an exciting opportunity."
Anthony offered a sarcastic grin. "We already have a vacuum."
"This is an opportunity to discover your lord and savior," the second man said and held out a folded pamphlet showcasing a picture of Jesus on the cross with the crown of thorns digging into his skin and blood trickling down His temple.
Anthony should have known. Easter was only a week away, which meant it was prime time for Jehovah's Witnesses to spread the Good News. He held up his hand and shook his head. The shorter man looked strong enough to break Anthony's arm in one quick move, if he wanted. Did Jehovahs get angry?
"May we leave you with some reading material?" the first man asked.
Reading material. What a clever way to disguise the blatant flier full of Jesus-touting rhetoric. Was Brendan eating his breakfast yet or still watching his Attention Deficit Disorder-inducing cartoon? Delaney would be up soon---she had her SAT prep course this morning---and Brendan had his bowling league and Tyler would be rising from the dead soon, too. Would Tyler mention his date last night and if not was it uncool to ask him about it?
"I appreciate you guys have to do this and all," Anthony said, "but we're not interested in being witnesses to Jehovah. Thanks anyway."
The second man did not lower the pamphlet and the first man's smile did not waver. His dark stare betrayed that smile, though. Something lingered in those eyes that was not wholesome. Maybe the guy was pissed at him for not taking the damned flier, but it could be something else, something stronger than anger.
"We're not Witnesses," the first man said. "We're from the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered. We're not here to spout the old diatribe but to invoke the New Order. Jesus Christ is your savior and His empowerment can empower you."
"Can He make breakfast for my family?" Anthony immediately regretted being such a smart ass.
The first man's smile actually widened, showing off even more of his large, white teeth. Now Anthony knew what that emotion was stirring in those dark eyes---not anger, but malevolence. That sounded extreme, yes, but Anthony was so sure that something was off about the first guy, probably both guys, that he thought again of sensationalist newspaper headlines. CRAZED JESUS FREAKS SLAUGHTER FATHER, MOTHER; KIDNAP KIDS. Whether the recent brutal slaying of a family in a gated community in Stone Creek, New York, was the work of a non-recognized sect of Christianity or if the Jesus-themed pamphlets left in the piles of the victims' blood was a decoy for the growing Mexican sex trade is impossible to tell. Police are as shocked as the neighbors of the family, though one neighbor remarked that she had seen two men in suits walking the neighborhood and was immediately alarmed. "I wasn't going to open the door for them," she said. "This is a gated community, so how did they even get past the guard? There was just something not right about the two of them. The father should have known."
"I'm not interested," Anthony said with more firmness. The radical newspaper headlines running in his head were ridiculous, of course, but that didn't mean he shouldn't be cautious. The world was full of horrible people who did horrible things and you never knew when one of those people would step into your life.
"Please, sir," the first man said. His long fingers flexed wide and then squeezed the Bible he was holding over his crotch. Now, there was a great example of symbolism for the book Anthony was currently editing at Prentice Hall: Reading Like a Scholar: Finding the Deeper Meaning in Everything.
The second man stepped forward and the pamphlet grazed Anthony's chest. Had it been a knife, Anthony would be on the ground screaming. Jesus' upside down eyes gazed up at him in a tortured expression of anguish.
"You will need this," the second man said. "Trust me."
Unlike the first man's dark, sinister eyes, this man's were light blue, yet something stirred in them as well. It wasn't malevolence, but perhaps something not far off. Anthony wanted to trust him, despite the part of his brain warning that the first man might slide a butcher knife out from his large Bible and begin the slaughter. Perhaps the second man was better at hiding ulterior motives. Experienced sex traffickers were excellent actors, or so Anthony assumed.
The stocky man's sincerity combined with the tall man's latent wickedness and Anthony's own concern for his family, the rest of whom might be rising now and hoping to find the Saturday Breakfast Ritual intact, kept Anthony's mouth shut and made him grab the flier. A clump of egg dropped off the spatula he had been holding and rolled across Jesus' face.
The men nodded in sync and turned away.
"Who're they?" Delaney stood next to him in shorts and a T-shirt with a giant heart on it. She had come down the steps so quietly to stand next to him that Anthony twitched in surprise. "Don't have a heart attack, old man. Mom would be upset." She patted his back and laughed. The sound was high and light and wonderful.
He smirked at her. "Only Mom would be upset, huh?"
"Well," Delaney said, "she's the only one who really likes your eggs anyway."
He grabbed her in a loose headlock and she immediately started to giggle the way she used to when she was a kid and he'd chase her around the house pretending to be a monster. "Nobody likes my eggs, you say?" he said in an exaggerated baritone.
"That voice is sooo dumb, Dad."
He found the ticklish spot under her arm and she squirmed her way out of his grip in a cackle of laughter. "I have to get ready for SAT prep," she said. "Where's my breakfast?"
"Coming right up, your majesty," he said and started to close the door.
He stopped. The broad-shouldered man, with the loose wisps of hair and the wrinkle veins in his suit stood at the bottom of the front porch steps, watching him with those blue eyes. Something about those eyes, something in that expression.
"Can I help you?" Anthony tried to sound annoyed but his voice cracked with concern.
"Your daughter," the man said and smiled large again. A shark smile. "She's very pretty."
Then he turned and walked down the driveway, following after the tall guy who was already down the road, nearly out of sight.
Uneven. The man had an uneven expression in his eyes. Now, there was a quote for a newspaper article.
Brendan awoke before seven, turned off his alarm clock five minutes before it would buzz to life, and began the ritual. He made his bed first, pulling the sheets tight and folding the corners snug under the mattress. Then he showered. He had only started showering two years ago and only did it three or four times weekly and usually only at his mother's insistence and always at night before bed. There was never anytime in the mornings before school for Brendan to shower with Tyler and Delaney fighting over use of the bathroom, not that Brendan wanted to, anyway. Showering was annoying. He didn't miss baths (they were too childish), but he didn't care for showers. It was like standing in a downpour. Sometimes his mother had to tell him to get back in the shower because he had forgotten to shampoo his hair or clean the dirt out from under his nails. Sometimes he just stood in the shower and counted the seconds until he knew five minutes had passed: the required minimum number of seconds (300) his mother deemed necessary for a shower to be truly effective. Adults, as well as his teenage siblings, seemed to enjoy showering. Brendan didn't understand. Maybe they enjoyed standing naked in the rain.
Mom's insistence about his bathing habits had stopped. She no longer ushered him into the bathroom to shower during Jeopardy! or checked if his hair was clean after he finished. She no longer did much at all. Dad had said that Mom needed a lot of rest and understanding and that everyone would have to do a lot more around the house. In school, he had learned that thousands of African babies died every day from all kinds of diseases, even dehydration. Though Brendan hadn't wanted another sibling anyway, he was sad when the baby died, mostly because of Mom's reaction and the way Dad, Tyler, and Delaney had walked around the house like zombies.
The gods demanded a sacrifice.
Dad wasn't as good as Mom about forcing Brendan to shower and then checking on the shower's effectiveness, but he tried his best. He made sure Brendan was up on school days in time for a bowl of cereal and maybe a few minutes of cartoons before handing him some money for lunch and telling him to have a good day. He always reminded Tyler to drive him and Delaney to school, but the second half of his senior year gave Tyler something called Late Arrival, which meant he didn't have to get up until after his brother and sister were both on the school bus. Delaney always wanted Brendan to sit next to him on the bus, but he never wanted to. All she ever did was complain to her friends, through text-messages, how unfair it was that she was sixteen and didn't have a car. Dad said she was smart, but Brendan didn't see it.
But those were weekdays; today was Saturday and Saturday was a unique day that had to be observed correctly. When the original calendar was created, Saturday was deemed a magic day--the Romans used it as the first day of the week, meaning it was symbolic of Creation Day. Most sacrifices to the gods (offerings of animals), which were meant to win the favor of the gods, were performed on Saturday. A holy day. A day to be respected and acknowledged. Or else suffer the consequences. He knew this was true because he had read it.
Dr. Carroll had given him the book (along with little white pills meant to help him "focus") back in October. The book was titled Finding God: a History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man's Destiny.
Even on Saturday, however, showering was annoying, yet Brendan spent an extra long time, nearly fifteen minutes, during his Saturday showers to get his hair really clean and his nails dirt-free. He even scrubbed behind his ears, though he wasn't sure how dirt could settle there in the first place. He rubbed soap over his face and furiously sanded it into his skin because Delaney had told him that twelve-years-old was the age when blackheads started forming, especially on the nose. He had asked her what blackheads were and she said they were like zits only they created craters in the skin and got filled with dirt, which got infected and could even rot skin enough for it to fall off. He figured she was lying, at least stretching the truth, but that didn't stop him from soaping up his face and scrubbing until his flesh burned.
After the shower came the clothes. He set them aside last night under his bed wrapped in a plastic shopping bag he had taken from the kitchen pantry. The clothes were clean and neatly folded and he had to make sure that none of the dust under the bed tainted them. The Romans had been very careful to always wear clean clothes (or togas) on Saturday because the gods found soiled garments displeasing. It was important not to anger the gods, the writer of the book (Jack Carter) had warned. When gods were offended and then got angry, horrible things happened. The baby's death had been a horrible thing, at least for Mom and Dad, but maybe they had done something to anger the gods, and in response the gods had taken a sacrifice.
Brendan knew death was a terrible thing, but he also knew it was part of life. He had learned that three years ago when the family dog Dasher had gotten sick and couldn't walk anymore. They had taken him to the vet where the doctor injected the dog with something that made him sleep forever. Delaney cried. Brendan asked why Dasher had to die, couldn't the doctor help him? Mom explained that all things died and it was okay to be sad but it was a natural part of life and we should be happy for all the memories we have of Dasher.
By the time the baby died, Brendan had read maybe 100 pages of the book. After the death, after the funeral with the tiny coffin, Brendan read the next fifty pages or so in a two-night sprint. The Romans believed in immortals. They knew that some people lived forever, if that person pleased the gods. A family that didn't show the proper respect to the gods could be punished and punished repeatedly. And severely. None of his family had observed the sanctity of Saturday. Everyone slept late and then went off to do their own thing. Tyler drove somewhere, Delaney texted friends, his parents watched TV and cleaned the house, and even he went bowling in the youth league and then played arcade games with his friends. They enjoyed themselves because they thought it was the weekend, but they were wrong and the gods had made them suffer. Dasher had been a warning so many years ago. The baby was punishment. Brendan hadn't wanted a little brother, but he also didn't want his mother sleeping all day and staring into space like her brain was turned off when she occasionally managed to get up.
In light of the baby's death, Brendan rose early on Saturdays, showered, put on clean clothes, and planned the sacrifices. Chapter two of Finding God was about sacrifices and was mostly boring, ironically enough--a lot of scholarly-sounding gibberish like from his history book or science text, but a few passages had been particularly intriguing. Brendan used a yellow highlighter to mark them and then stuck Post-It notes on those pages so he could turn to them immediately whenever he needed. He had been reading them over yesterday on the playground.
The passage on page 34 read: In order to appease the gods in times of hardship or win their support in times of ambiguity or simply maintain their blessings in times of prosperity, the Romans (and, presumably, the Greeks before them and the Mayans and Aztecs before them and the authentic primitives before them) staged often elaborate animal and--horrifying though it may be to us today--human sacrifices. These were conducted on ornate altars with priests and priestesses bedecked in glamourous gowns speckled with gold conducting these official rites from ancient texts, most of which are (sad to say) long lost through the chaos of time.
However, there is some record of how such sacrifices might have been carried out. After the traditional prayers and invocations of the gods, the animal (or human) was held down upon the stone altar (pictures depicting several people restraining another man--the sacrificed--on the altar are well-documented throughout many of these early "civilized" cultures) and the priest or, much more frequently, the priestess raised the chosen talisman in one hand and the Holy Blade in the other. A precise slice across the neck ended the life of the animal or human.\* The blood was collected in a ritual bowl and then sanctified. The corpse was then eviscerated and the major organs removed. The priest or priestess then began the very important, and bizarre, practice of Haruspicy. This method of diving the future by examining the entrails of the dead will not be discussed here, but it should be noted that these ancient cultures believed this practice to be an authentic viewing portal into the future and the whim of the gods.
At the bottom of the page, the astrex from earlier was answered:
\*Human sacrifices, as legend holds, often involved heart extraction, which will be discussed later on page 45.
Page 45 read:
The ancient practice of human-heart removal as a means of sacrifice to the gods is a legend of mythic proportions, but is not without its supporting evidence. Human sacrifices were not common, nor uncommon--they were reserved for only the most reverential of ceremonies, or the most dire. Almost without fail, a human was sacrificed when either plagues, famines, or wars besieged a society. When things were their gloomiest and most desperate, the Greeks and the Romans offered up one of their own to try to turn the tide of despair.
The chosen one, often a volunteer soldier willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to help his people and, ostensibly, earn a one-way ticket to Elysium, the blessed place for the honored dead, laid upon the altar and was held in place by other warriors and, much like the animal sacrifices described earlier, the priest or priestess invoked the gods and bestowed the final blessing rites. Using most likely talons (or metal spikes fastened to his/her fingers), the priest or priestess then pierced through the chest cavity and the breast plate to seize the heart. Once removed, the heart became the new consecrated talisman for future ceremonies.
The practice of human sacrifice is not purely confined to the ancient societies; even the Bible details various such ceremonies. The most famous is, of course, of Abraham and his son Isaac, whom God demanded be scarified as proof . . .
Brendan didn't care about Abraham and Isaac--he cared about what he could do to protect his family from further punishments. Brendan wouldn't--couldn't--sacrifice an animal on some altar, or even the coffee table. He could certainly never remove a beating heart from someone's chest, never mind that to perform it accurately, he'd need several helpers. He wasn't a murderer: he only wanted to get the gods back on his side. So, he had to find alternatives.
He wrote them inside a marble composition book, like the one Miss Tuyol made him have for grammar exercises. He created the list while watching Saturday morning cartoons, so Dad wouldn't get suspicious and ask him what he was doing. Dad probably thought he was writing some story about Bobo and BooBoo Bunny, who always had the bad luck to get their carrot supply stolen. The cartoon was mildly funny, similar to SpongeBob, but Brendan only watched parts of it, usually the segments where the bunnies found the carrot thief and concocted some way to punish him. The punishments were things that would kill someone in real life, though they only left the carrot thief dazed and apologetic.
Brendan hadn't performed any of the sacrifices he'd written down (and always worried by Saturday's sundown that he had angered the gods even further because he was too chicken to do what they wanted), but he felt things were getting better. Mom still slept most of the day and had that empty expression on her face when she did get up, but Dad had resumed making breakfast for everyone on Saturday and that was at least some recognition of the day's importance. And nothing bad had happened to anyone in the family since Brendan had dedicated himself to their protection.
That, however, changed last night.
Brendan woke when Tyler came home from his date with some girl who Delaney said was a weirdo. Instead of going right to bed, Tyler called his friend Paul and told him something horrible had happened. Brendan had discovered a while ago that when Tyler wanted privacy on his cell phone and didn't want to go outside and sit in his car to get it, he would sit in his closet instead. He must have figured that it was the safest way to prevent Mom and Dad from hearing through his bedroom door or Delaney from nosing in his business from her room which bordered the opposite wall. He probably assumed that Brendan was too busy playing with action figures to care about his big brother's private conversations. Brendan did care. He had to--or else how would he know if the gods were pleased or not?
Their closets shared a wall and if Brendan sat in his, carefully balancing himself on top of a pile of stuffed animals, while Tyler sat in his, Brendan could hear every word. Brendan listened last night and knew that the gods had had enough of him stalling for courage. They were threatening to ruin Tyler's life (his brother had fucked up really bad with that weird bitch and now he could be totally fucked) and the only way Brendan could help him would be to man up and finally give the gods the sacrifice they wanted.
While Dad cooked eggs in the kitchen and Bobo and Booboo donned Mexican hats and pursued the weekly carrot thief, Brendan reviewed his list of sacrifices.
1---kick person down stairs
2---push person off roof
3---set person's hair on fire
4---burn person's house down
5---drown person
6---make person choke on carrots (ha!)
7---bury person alive
And the list went on and on for almost two pages until
45---run person over with car
Of his list, Brendan could cross off over half the options because there was no way he could steal a car, or drive one, or overpower someone enough to drown them or make them choke and he certainly couldn't bury anyone alive. The rest of the options were possible, but not without their challenges. Number 33, for instance, required him to suffocate a person. That could be done if the person was tied up, but that required Brendan to come up with a way to strap someone down first without them fighting back.
The solution was easy, of course. Their cat, Lizzy, who Dad called Lizzy Borden for some reason, would be easy to sacrifice. He could tie her up and suffocate her or drown her in the sink or even put her on the train tracks that ran behind the elementary school--hell, he could even try to remove her beating heart--but killing the cat would be pointless. His goal was to protect his family. Certainly Tyler's life was more important than Lizzy's, but Brendan considered the cat a good member of the family who always offered love and affection without complaint and never meowed in the middle of the night to be fed like his friend Kyle's cat did. Brendan could snatch a cat from the neighborhood but the community rules prevented any pets from roaming freely or being left outside unattended, so a cat would have to escape for Brendan to get his hands on one. Catching a cat that didn't want to be caught wouldn't be an easy task. Besides, the gods wanted human sacrifices. As the book said, in really bad times when things were their most horrible, only a human sacrifice would work.
The easiest of the sacrifices---kick person down stairs---also offered the other crucial ingredient Brendan needed: anonymity. Performing a sacrifice for the gods only to be caught and punished defeated the purpose. He needed to be able to get away with it without any connection to him or anyone in his family. He could kick someone down the stairs at school and run away but there was always a chance that another kid or a teacher would spot him. Falling down stairs didn't mean death, either. He'd need a place with a lot of stairs and he couldn't think of anywhere.
Someone was knocking at the front door. Brendan didn't move from his spot on the floor in front of the TV, legs crossed, composition book resting on his calves. Dad wouldn't ask him to get the door; it could be a stranger, after all. Dad was protective that way, which was nice. Brendan needed to choose a method. It had to be done today. If he waited another week, Tyler's problem might be even worse, perhaps deadly.
Dad hurried through the family room saying, "Breakfast is ready---get it while the bacon fat is still hot and tasty" and answered the front door. On the TV, Bobo and Booboo had put down their rifles for large knives, which they used to dice up carrots while they interrogated the now captured thief.
Brendan added to his list: 46---stab person
Should have thought of that a while ago.
He closed the composition book and went into the kitchen. On the front porch, Dad was talking to people he didn't know, probably salesmen. Depending on Dad's mood, the conversation could last a few minutes. Waves of heat bloomed from the pile of scrambled eggs, which were spotted brown from the bacon fat, just the way Brendan liked them. His stomach grumbled. His little white pill, what he called, "Pillie Billy," waited for him on top of an upside down paper cup. That was Dad's way to remind Brendan to not only take Pillie Billy but to take it with several large gulps of orange juice. Brendan grabbed the pill and swallowed it with only his saliva. He'd drink the orange juice later, in front of Dad.
The Romans would have called Pillie Billy "a talisman."
He slowly removed a large carving knife from the block holding several of them. He held it up before his face and smiled at his distorted reflection in the blade. Mom and Dad had used this same blade hundreds, maybe thousands, of times to cut up vegetables or slice meat, especially on Thanksgiving, but it had never seemed so large before. The blade could stab right through someone's face from under the jaw all the way through the top of the head. This image bothered him but he couldn't shake it. A stab like that would be fatal, no doubt, but would someone die instantly from such an injury or would they bleed for a while? Blood was messy and could be used to catch him, at least according to CSI.
Brendan touched the point of the blade with his thumb. The dimple of his thumb print indented with the fine point of the knife but the blade did not break skin. Even so, the tip was very, very sharp. It would only take a bit more pressure for the skin to break and the blood to flow. Just a bit more pressure . . .
"Ow." His thumb added the extra ounce of pressure and the tip of the blade pierced flesh. He hadn't realized what his thumb was up to; he had been drifting with his thoughts. Pillie Billy hadn't started working yet.
Delaney was laughing at the front door. He hadn't heard her get up. Had she walked past him? Had she seen him with the knife? She might tell Dad and he'd be concerned and Brendan would have to concoct some lie (maybe one of his short stories) because Dad wouldn't understand the pact Brendan had made with the gods or why it was so important to make The Saturday Sacrifice. Maybe one day he could know but not yet. As long as Dad kept making breakfast, he was doing his part to honor the day. The really horrible stuff was left for Brendan to do.
He returned the knife to its slot among the other knives. He wrapped a napkin around his thumb and tucked it beneath his other fingers. When Dad and Delaney came in, Brendan was sitting at the table with a cup full of orange juice, eating his breakfast. They smiled at him and he smiled back---a perfect Saturday ritual.
He had not slept well. Sasha had wanted it. She hadn't fought him. She could have stopped him, if she had really tried. He told that to Paul last night after he got home, hiding inside his closet and talking soft so his folks or his sister wouldn't overhear him. Brendan was twelve, so even if he did hear he wouldn't have the faintest idea what was going on. Tyler had almost driven over to Paul's house but such a late visit would set off alarms (FIRE! FIRE!) to the parents and things would topple from there. Dad had been asleep on the couch while some infomercial blabbered on about the latest gadget designed to make life easier. Eventually, Dad would wake, see that Tyler's car was in the driveway, and then make his way to the bedroom. Not that Mom cared; she had probably been well in the tank before nightfall. She took several pills a day and those pills were no joke. He had stolen two a while back and he and Paul had watched a Jersey Shore marathon for eight hours in a dreamy daze and then fallen into a fourteen hour stretch of sleep. One pill had nearly killed twenty-four hours.
"I fucked up real bad with that weird bitch," he told Paul last night. "I mean, she wanted it, you know, but after . . . she kept saying, 'no, no, no.' I could be really fucked."
"Oh, shit," Paul almost screamed. "You boned her? You fucked that weird snaggletooth slut?"
Tyler waited for the laughter and cheers to die before repeating the last part of the scene where Miss Snaggletooth curled into a ball and sobbed that she had begged him to stop. The bitch had even used the word rape. I told you to stop, she said. I said no, no, no, no, and you . . . you kept going. You raped me. Her tears had been endless.
"Oh, shit," Paul said, much quieter this time. It was a tone of complete shock and you're-totally-fucking-screwed-now despair.
"What should I do?"
Paul was silent.
"I mean, she's going to tell, right? She's probably telling her mother right now. She'll call the cops and . . . aw, fuck." Tears gathered in his eyes.
"She won't call the cops, that weirdo bitch is as crazy as her snaggletooth daughter. She does spells and shit. Like a witch. She'll probably curse you so your balls rot off or something."
"Be serious."
"I am. You've seen her at those gay Fright Fest things. She really believes that shit. She isn't putting on a costume and having fun. She's, like, worshiping her gods or whatever. Seriously, watch your balls. Wash them carefully in the shower, just in case."
"Fuck you."
"I'm only trying to cheer you up, Jesus."
"What if she calls the cops?"
Paul grunted. "Tell her what you told me. She didn't resist. She let you take her pants off. You fucking fingered her, for God's sake. She didn't say stop when you pulled your pants off, right?"
"Right," Tyler said, but he wasn't sure when Sash started saying no. He hadn't heard her until it was over.
"I mean, you're not some rapist or something. But . . ."
"What?"
"It's a 'He Said/She Said' thing, you know? And they always side with the bitches. It's fucked up."
He wanted to vomit, have diarrhea, and pass out all at once. How could he have been so stupid? He only wanted to suck her breasts and maybe get a hand job. Why had he gone so damn nuts all of a sudden? He had raped her, he could admit that to himself at least, but he hadn't meant it. Did intention even matter in cases like this? Were the bitches always right?
"I don't know what I'm gonna do."
"Take a couple of your mom's pills and forget about it. At least until morning."
"I take a couple of those pills I won't be awake for school on Monday."
"Even better. She'll probably spread the story around first period and everyone will know by lunch."
He hadn't thought of that. Sasha wasn't the prettiest girl in school and was even a little odd, but a story of rape, especially involving such a nondescript kid like Tyler, would earn her every girl's ear. Hell, she'd probably be Miss Popular for the day. Then he'd be in Guidance and then The Office and then the School Resource Officer would get involved. And then he'd be really fucked.
"Don't worry," Paul said without enthusiasm. "People won't listen to her. In fact, she'll probably keep her snaggletooth mouth shut. If, that is, she knows what's good for her."
"What does that mean?"
"You have friends."
"Like tough guys? You gonna bully some girl into lying about being raped?"
"Jesus, man, don't say she was raped. She wasn't. Get that through your head now. You did nothing wrong. Bitch was eager, you said she was wet, and she wanted it, but after she had second thoughts. That's a ticket on the Too Fucking Bad Train. Don't worry."
"Okay."
"Besides, you wore a rubber, right?"
I'm really fucked.
Tyler had lied about the condom and Paul had reassured him that there was nothing to worry about. After the conversation, Tyler laid in bed and ran through the whole event again and again. He found himself getting hard seeing Sasha's breasts flop out of her bra and feeling her wetness, but he scolded himself, and flushed those thoughts away with images of burly men gang-raping him in a prison shower.
He managed only two hours of sleep and awoke Saturday morning with burning eyes and a pounding headache. It was a hangover of the worst kind: the guilty conscience kind. And only when he started pacing his room did the full weight of the situation crash on him. Not only had he raped her, he had ejaculated inside her. Not only could she have him arrested for rape, she might be pregnant with his baby.
Yet somehow that wasn't even the most disturbing part of all this. That part was something he hadn't even told Paul. He could accept that he had been overcome with lust, with a passion so strong it blotted out his rational mind, he could accept that he had fucked up and might have to pay some serious consequences, but those were all solid things, concrete facts, or at least things accepted as somewhere in the range of normal or Happens From Time to Time. This other thing, though, was something beyond the logical, concrete world, and it scared the shit out of him.
For what seemed like a long time, he had sat in the car, pants around his ankles, while Sasha cried in a fetal position on the passenger seat, and stared at the lights of all the houses on the hill across the lake. His limp dick started to make him nauseated and he yanked his pants up. It could have been ten minutes or even closer to a half hour before Sasha pulled her clothes back on.
"I told you to stop," she whispered.
Tyler stole several glances at her thighs and butt as she pulled on her jeans. Was she still wet? He started to get hard again. That arousal collapsed quickly, however, when she repeated how she had asked him to stop and then begged, her eyes swollen red with tears, why, for the love of God didn't he stop when she was screaming for him to?
He started to respond and couldn't. He didn't know the answer. Was he a bad person? He didn't believe so, but he had done a bad thing. What did that mean? Yet, hadn't she wanted him? That's how it seemed. Why couldn't she appreciate this from his standpoint? They had shared a fucking awesome moment and now she wanted to ruin it all because she had been scared or something.
"You heard me and didn't care," she said in that same small voice. It was the voice of a beaten child. "You just wanted to blow your load and . . . and . . ." Sobs choked out her words. Through her tears, he caught the most frightening possibility of all: "What if I'm, you know, pregnant?" She said the word pregnant like it was some incurable disease, like it was cancer.
"You're not." It was the first thing he had been able to say.
She shook her head. "I can't believe you did this to me."
Part of him knew he should keep quiet and not say anything but another part of him, the part that stole those glances at her bare thighs perhaps, ushered out the words. "You can't just blame me. You didn't complain when I took off your pants or when I . . ."
"What? Jammed your fingers inside me?"
He flexed his hands and clenched the steering wheel.
"That doesn't mean I wanted you to . . . fuck me."
She made the whole thing sound so dirty and wrong. Tyler needed to shower.
After a minute or so of silence, she told him to drive her back home unless, that was, he wanted her to walk home or maybe wanted to rape her again. He could have punched her.
"I didn't rape you."
"Then who did? Not you? Fine. Your fucking dick? You want to blame it all on your manhood? Is that how much of a pussy faggot you are?"
Tyler blinked. He needed to say something to appease her and fast. "I'm sorry?" He said it like a question.
She laughed sarcastically. "Just take me home before I run to somebody's house and tell them Tyler Williams just raped me."
He didn't say anything else. Trying to calm her wouldn't work. She had already decided what happened, already judged him, found him guilty, and was now determining sentence. If he pushed her, she really would run to somebody's house (trashy trailer) and start squawking about date rape. Or even assault rape.
He drove back up the twisty roads, maneuvering between more parked cars than earlier and noticed how many of the mobile homes were set askew from each other like teeth in a malformed mouth. Several people were outside smoking cigarettes and each person watched him drive past as if he were a possible threat to their smoking break. Driving up the hill that corkscrewed was like trying to leave Hell; every time he thought he had reached the summit, the road curved again and continued upward. He grew dizzy.
He stopped outside her house, put the car in park, turned to her. "Sasha . . ."
She took a deep breath.
"Sasha, I---"
She spun toward him, hair wiping around her face. "You raped me. You. Raped. Me. You don't get to say anything. Not one fucking thing. If you mention anything to anyone, I will tell the whole world. But don't think I won't tell everyone anyway. You know why? Because you raped me. I decide what happens now. If I go inside and decide to call the police, too bad. If I tell everyone I know and your reputation is ruined, too bad. You got that? You can't say shit. Okay?" Spittle had gathered at the corners of her mouth and now a long strip of phlegm hung from her lower lip like drool from the mouth of a pit bull.
He didn't say anything. What could he say?
She swung open her door and jumped out. But as she did, and just before she slammed the door hard enough to rock the car, she said something that Tyler barely caught. It sounded like, Mother is not going to be pleased. Then she was running across her front lawn and sprinting up the stone steps like something was chasing her. A moment later, a light came on in an upstairs room.
Mother is not going to be pleased. Who called their mom "mother" anyway? And what did that mean, not going to be pleased? It was her phrasing that gnawed at his brain. He wouldn't have thought anything of it if she muttered that her mom was going to totally flip her shit or be totally fucking pissed, but saying she was not going to be pleased seemed more menacing somehow. It reminded Tyler of cold-blooded psychopaths who calmly told their kidnapped victims that they had brought all this on themselves before slicing their throats. Rational people got pissed. Psychos calmly placed blame and started killing.
Tyler started to drive away and stopped. Someone was staring out from the bottom window near the porch. A red light flickered behind the figure, casting the person's face in complete shadow. It had to be Sasha's mother. The longer he stared, Tyler was better able to make out long hair that sat in a clump on top of her head and fell unevenly to border her face. As he strained to see, Tyler convinced himself that the woman was staring straight at him with large eyes, which glowed red each time the light flickered in the room. Could she see him sitting in his car? Did she know what had happened, or at least suspected what had happened? Was her mouth open? Was it opening and closing as if she were saying something? But what and to whom? Maybe he was imagining all of this.
Mother is not going to be pleased.
Tyler drove away from that house and out of Hidden Hills Trailer Trash Town as quickly as he could without inviting cops or a car accident.
The silhouetted image of a woman--definitely her mother--kept him awake most of the night. Every time sleep took him away, the woman's large, red eyes pulsing in the dark ushered him back to consciousness. Also in those dreams (more like quick, horrific flashes) the woman's mouth was moving in silent prayer. But not prayer, no. She was mouthing the words to a curse.
\*
With a horrendous headache and burning eyes, Tyler shuffled into the bathroom, washed his face, and joined the family for the weekly Saturday morning breakfast ritual Dad had restarted after the baby died.
With little variation, these breakfasts always consisted of eggs (made any way you wanted, though Dad was really only good at making scrambled eggs and merely proficient at the rest), bacon, toast, coffee and orange juice. The breakfasts were pleasant times, although Tyler almost always slept through most of them and grabbed his eggs while Delaney was running off somewhere and Brendan was heading to his bowling league and Dad, of course, was in the bedroom trying to motivate Mom out of hibernation.
The aroma of coffee grabbed him immediately and his whole body perked up. He headed right for the coffee maker, hoping the rest of the family would reserve comment on his early arrival until at least after he had enough coffee to settle his stomach and sooth his stinging eyes. He managed a long, delicious gulp before Delaney spoke up.
"You look like crap," she said.
He shrugged. "I must take after my little sister."
"Ha. Ha," Delaney said in exaggerated fashion. She was sitting in her usual spot next to Dad, Brendan across from her. The lone seat across from Dad waited with an empty plate for him. When Mom used to eat with them, before the shit with the baby, Tyler would squeeze next to Brendan and give Mom the seat opposite Dad. He couldn't remember the last time he saw the extra chair at the kitchen table.
"Surprised you're up," Dad said and took a bite of toast.
"Yeah, well, I am."
"I see you are your usual charming self," Dad said.
Tyler sat at the empty plate and took another long drink of coffee. It tasted particularly good this morning, and he began to feel better. Today was a new day after all, and maybe everything would turn out alright. He knew things weren't so easily fixed (just look at Mom, if, that was, you dared to enter her bedroom and see what she had become), but it felt good, no, wonderful, to at least pretend everything was going to work out. The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen bay window had pushed the dark thoughts away. Sunlight was good at that.
"How was your date?" Delaney asked in a mocking voice but with eyes that betrayed her real interest.
"Fine," he said and kept drinking his coffee.
"Ohhh," she crooned, "it must have been magical."
"Yeah, whatever."
"You know she's like, weird, right?"
You raped me. You did it!
He shrugged again. It was the perfect response to just about every question.
"The girls at school think she's like messed up in the head. I mean, she lives in that trailer trash place and---"
"Anyway," Dad cut in, "how do you want your eggs?"
Another shrug later and Dad was making the scrambled eggs he did best.
"You know what I mean, though, right?" Delaney asked.
"Yeah. Let me worry about it."
Mouth opening and closing with muted words as eyes burned red in flickering light. Just a dream.
"I'm just saying . . ."
But that ended that string of the conversation. She wasn't trying to be a pest; she was actually trying to warn her older brother, to help keep him protected from some of the crazy bitches out there. She was almost sixteen and, at least according to Dad (who still proudly declared to friends and strangers alike how Delaney skipped second grade) really smart, book-smart anyway. They had had their fights and bitter moments and he had enjoyed torturing her every so often by sometimes swapping her shampoo with olive oil or, on one occasion, mayonnaise. She got her revenge for the mayonnaise: she dropped a pair of red socks into a load of his whites and all his underwear and socks came out pink. He had thrown out a whole bunch of clothes that day and made Mom buy him new stuff. He had been so pissed at Delaney for that, but that was how things went between brother and sister. Besides, she was pretty cool, even for a girl. She liked good music, like Spoon and even old ones like The Clash, and she read Stephen King novels, which immediately made her a cooler girl than eighty percent of them out there. Still, she was his sister, and as a result . . .
"You're not going out like that, are you?" he asked her.
"What?"
"With your hair like that and your face."
Concern flashed in her eyes and she started grooming herself with her hands without seeing what she was doing, and then anger conquered concern. "Shut up."
He shrugged. "I just don't want my baby sister going out in public looking like, well, like you. It would be embarrassing for the family."
"Fuck you."
"Delaney," Dad said immediately. "Please."
She leaned across the table and whispered, "At least I don't like boys with snaggleteeth."
Sasha's snaggletooth hadn't bothered him, not even when he was on top of her and pressing his lips against hers as hard as he thrusted inside her. This morning, his own lips were a bit sore. As well as the thing in his pants that had gotten him into this mess.
When he didn't respond, Delaney's face softened. "I'm just joking. You can barely notice it."
"Forget it," he said.
"It's only noticeable when she talks." He couldn't help but laugh with her; she had a great laugh, the contagious type. Though he'd never tell her, he loved her for being able to make him laugh, especially this morning.
The eggs were off the pan and steaming on his plate. He had thought he was hungry but the sight of the yellow clumps and the sulfur smell wafting off them almost made him gag. He drank more coffee and pushed his chair back a foot.
"Stop pestering your brother," Dad said. "He's not used to being up before noon."
If Tyler didn't redirect the conversation, this would soon evolve, or devolve, into a two-front onslaught against him. They were only teasing, of course, not trying to be mean, but he knew what would happen if they kept prying at him. He'd snap, say something he'd regret (like the truth) and lock himself in his room where the only thing waiting for him was an endless mental movie of what had happened last night---you raped me.
"Do I look ugly today?" Delaney asked Dad. While that was a perfect set up for Tyler to throw in a quip---no more than usual, sis---he resisted because that would only encourage a return attack from her. Or because you're done with childish things. You've been with a woman--you're now a man.
Then why did he want to vomit?
Dad smiled at her, touched her hair, shook his head. "You got your mother's wispy hair, like straw. And my deep eyes, like canyons. In fact, go like this"---he held out his arms from his sides---"you would make quite the scarecrow."
She frowned at him. "Har. De. Har."
He held up several strands of her hair in a goofy Mohawk. "Don't you think your sister's face would scare the birds away, Brendan?"
But Brendan wasn't listening. He had that composition book he always carried around with him open on his lap.
"He thinks you're so frightening he can't even look at you," Dad said. He was on quite the roll this morning. Maybe Mom was feeling better. Or maybe he had accepted how she was dealing with things. Either way, it was nice to have life in the house again.
"Stop it," Delaney said and swatted Dad's hand away.
Brendan still did not look up. His eyes were narrow slits and his eyebrows pushed almost together in concentration.
Tyler touched him on the shoulder and the response was as if Tyler had zapped him with a stun gun: a tremor raced through Brendan's body and his head snapped up and to the side, eyes suddenly huge, skin taunt. Tyler jumped and let him go. Maybe there had been electricity in the exchange.
"You alright, son?" Dad asked. Whenever he added son or daughter to a question it meant he was genuinely concerned.
Recognition registered on Brendan's face and he relaxed, then smiled almost convincingly. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine. Sorry."
"You sure you're okay?"
He nodded.
"You take Pillie Billy?"
"That name is so stupid," Delaney said.
Brendan nodded again.
An uneasy silence settled in the room. The scrape of Delaney's fork across her plate made Tyler twitch and even the smell of the coffee, so wonderful and life-giving at first, had adopted a sour stench, which turned his stomach.
"And no," Brendan said, to which everyone responded with sudden concern---did he mean everything wasn't alright? Was he sick? Had he overheard Tyler on the phone last night? Was he writing out everything Tyler said in that composition book? Was he going to tell everyone right now what Tyler had done? "I don't think Delaney's scary enough to frighten the birds. Maybe a squirrel or two, though."
The tension snapped with a huge laugh from Dad that was out of proportion to Brendan's joke. Still, it felt good to laugh again and Tyler joined in. Delaney did too until she felt the laughter had gone on too long and then she got up from the table. She was wearing her comfies: gym shorts and a T-shirt with a heart on it.
"But vit that outfit," Dad said in a Count Dracula voice, "vatch out birds, cats, dogs, maybe even small children." He held up his hands in a mock-vampire attack gesture straight out of those old black and white horror movies. "You even make Dracula recoil vit terror."
"Really funny," Delaney said in her most un-amused voice. "I need to get ready and then I need the car to get to SAT prep."
Still in the Dracula voice, Dad said, "First you can take your brother to bowling."
"Enough with the voice, Dad."
"Vhat? This is how I talk."
"No wonder Mom won't come out of her room."
Though Dad continued to hold the vampire posture, arms up, hands arched as if to attack, his face lost the Dracula impersonation and no one laughed. Delaney glanced around, mostly at the floor, and when her eyes found Tyler's she quickly looked away. "Anyway," she said.
"Okay," Dad said without the accent. Delaney left.
"I'll take him to bowling," Tyler said after a moment.
Guilt weighed on Dad's face. "You don't have to, I can do it if your sister is running late."
"No big deal," Tyler said. "I'll take him."
Dad nodded, and started washing the pan he used for the eggs.
"When does bowling start?" Tyler asked Brendan, but the kid had turned back to his composition book. What the hell was he writing?
One way or the other, Tyler was going to find out.
Anthony had almost forgotten about the guys in the suits and their First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, but after he cleaned the frying pan and started to load the dishwasher with the kids' plates, which they left on the table, he found the flier the men had given him.
The cover was of a painting of Jesus on the cross with blood trickling from all his wounds and his rheumy eyes heavy with the misery man had inflicted upon him. Inside the pamphlet, which was about the size of a mass market paperback, a picture of a gathering of well-dressed men (suits) and women (modest-colored blouses and knee-length skirts) splayed across the bottom of the page. A man stood at a podium before a microphone, Bible open in his hands. A preacher, presumably. The spectators appeared rapt and every ethnicity seemed to be represented. Even an Indian woman with the red dot on her forehead. In large block letters at the top of the page it read: JESUS WANTS YOU TO BE EMPOWERED.
And beneath that: In today's day and age when every organized religion is claiming the rightful path, it can be confusing to know which direction is correct. In fact, it can be disheartening. It can be easy to lose faith. But Jesus doesn't care if you follow this faith or that faith; Jesus wants you to be empowered, to feel His grace and bask in His glory. He scarified Himself for all humanity as proof of heavenly empowerment. With Jesus as our teacher, we can learn how to tackle our problems and choose the right path to glory. And, most importantly, we can be empowered with God's love. No matter the pain from which you suffer, the difficulties against which you struggle, Jesus wants to help. At The First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, we seek the fulfillment of God's will through an honest acceptance of our faults and a faithful inquiry into the magical workings of Jesus.
Anthony smirked. Similar in tone to all those Watch Tower pamphlets the Jehovah's handed out, this flier claimed to know Jesus' will (while debunking other religions) and cleverly assured the reader that God's way was the way of enlightenment and that you too could enjoy it. It was so smart how these organizations preyed on the weak. The two men had no idea if Anthony was experiencing troubles---"you will need this," he had said---but if a depressed alcoholic happened to read this pamphlet in a particularly self-deprecating moment, he or she might experience a moment of clarity about the choices made and decide that this was God's intervention. It must be a sign. Three months later, the alcoholic would be sober (though drunk on another kind of drug altogether), dressed well, and handing out similar pamphlets to strangers.
"The Jesus drug," Anthony mumbled.
The facing page, onto which the well-dressed people spilled, a formal invitation welcomed him to "an important event to discuss the ten steps to Jesus' empowerment" and a "demonstration of His wonder" on the Thursday before Easter, mere days away. The ten steps would, no doubt, be the Ten Commandments, but all bets were off for the demonstration of His wonder. Perhaps they would turn water into wine. The way the smile on the tall guy with the dark eyes never wavered suggested something a bit more ominous. A blood sacrifice, perhaps.
"Your daughter," the stocky guy had said, "she's very pretty."
The back of the pamphlet read: "Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you. The image of a cross, without the suffering, bleeding Jesus, was watermarked behind the text. Anthony turned back to the vivid cover. That was another thing about these Jesus nuts---they paraded around the image of a bleeding savior because they hoped it would reduce people to tears and out of their guilt and pity, they would turn to God, however each religion chose to portray Him, and thus increase the size of that church's congregation. A grease stain from the egg that fell off the spatula had smeared Jesus' face. It made His eyes even more swollen.
"Hey, Dad." It was Delaney, showered and dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, hair pulled behind her head.
Though she had startled him from his reverie, he tried to hide the surprise. As a father of three (almost four but, alas, not to be), Anthony was always subject to a surprise appearance from one of the kids. With Chloe in bed more than anywhere else and the bedroom off limits to the kids, better for Chloe to get her rest and hopefully recover, Anthony was the go-to parent for everything. Sometimes the kids could sneak up on him so well that his heart would nearly explode when they spoke. Brendan was particularly good at that, though it always seemed unintentional when he did it. Not so with the others.
"Can I help you?" he asked, dishtowel draped over one forearm, waiter-style.
"Can I take Mom's car?"
"You'd have to get gas." This was not true, but he had his reasons.
"Then can I have some money?"
He smiled. "What is wrong with my car?"
She sighed, overemphasizing how annoying this conversation was getting for her. "The car is old and smells bad and it has all those stupid bumper stickers."
"It's not that old." It was, now that he thought of it, almost ten years old. How had it gotten so old so quickly? One day he'd be asking that same question looking in the mirror. "And it doesn't smell. I took it to the car wash last week and they do the inside, too."
"Well, whatever, those bumper stickers are just . . . lame."
He had gone through a phase where he bought several because he thought they were hilarious. After the fiftieth time reading NEVER BELIEVE IN GENERALIZATIONS or EVERYBODY DOES BETTER WHEN EVERYBODY DOES BETTER and TIME FLIES LIKE AN ARROW, FRUIT FLIES LIKE A BANANA, the phrases he once thought so clever he just had to buy them and seal them to his bumper sounded forced and ridiculous. Still, they offered the occasional laugh, and the one from work, made by Joey the goofy art ad guy as a gift for the department heads at the company's annual picnic last year still made Anthony smile: READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.
"My bumper graffiti is not lame."
"Graffiti?" She rolled her eyes.
"You'll be less likely to get pulled over than you would in Mom's car."
"Yeah, cause your car can't go over sixty."
"And why would you need to?"
She sighed again.
"Think of all the fun you and Angela will have making fun of my stickers."
"You mean your graffiti?" Her smile that could break his heart a million times did it again. He almost let up, allowed her to take the car, but he couldn't. It might be dangerous. Later, he'd appreciate the irony of that thought.
"And that stupid oldies CD is stuck in your car. There's only, like, ten songs and they're all lame."
"Be fair," he said. "You like some of those lame songs." He started to hum "Sleep Walk," a tune he and Delaney had mock-danced to in his car several times. She said the song sounded like it was drowning.
"You should get an iPod hook-up like Tyler."
"I like my oldies."
"You could like more than just ten songs with an iPod." That smile again.
"The keys--to my car--are by the couch."
She told him thanks, pecked him on the cheek, grabbed the keys from the table in the living room and was out the door before Anthony could tell her to drive safely. There was no reason he couldn't let her take Chloe's car except that it was too fast and even with the dual airbags and all the other safety features, the car wouldn't save her if she hit a wall going ninety miles per hour. If she tried to push his Honda that fast, the steering wheel would shake so hard she'd hurt her hands. She could handle the embarrassing bumper stickers, which she was only teasing him about anyway. Or so he believed.
There were other reasons he didn't want her taking Chloe's car, reasons why even he didn't want to take it, why it sat in the garage, gathering dust. Delaney knew it and so she didn't press the issue. He loved her for that.
Colleagues at work told him all sort of horror stories about teenage daughters. Mary Ellen, the head of accounting, told him how she caught her sixteen-year-old daughter having sex in the house and when she found them, her daughter told her to mind her fucking business. Anthony was immensely grateful Delaney was nothing like that. She could lose her patience, just like Tyler and Brendan, but she was never mean and was always a good sport about being the brunt of so many jokes.
He felt bad about this morning. He and Tyler had ganged up on her and she had been okay with it until they, predictably, had taken it too far, and she had resorted to a comment about Chloe. He almost expected her to apologize for that remark just now, but she didn't need to and she knew that. No harm done. Especially since she had been right, at least partially. He had not been very persuasive motivating Chloe out of her bed, out of her stupor, hell, out of her depression. He had pretty much let her be and gone on being Dad.
He finished cleaning up breakfast and made Chloe her usual two slices of rye toast. While buttering them, he heard Tyler call out that he was taking Brendan to bowling and then the door sucked shut and silence settled inside the house. He felt bad about Brendan's bowling, too; Anthony hadn't been to any of the Saturday games since before the incident. The people there understood, of course, and one of the families was always kind enough to drive him back. At least today Tyler and Brendan could experience some brotherly bonding.
Anthony couldn't worry about Delaney's SAT prep or Brendan's bowling. He had more pressing problems waiting for him upstairs, down the hall in the bedroom whose door had seemed perpetually shut for weeks.
The bedroom door squeaked just enough to make Anthony pause but not enough, not even close to enough, to stir Chloe from her slumber. In this room, their room, darkness reigned perpetually. The curtains had been pulled over the windows and Chloe had draped bathroom towels over them to completely obscure the sun. The first time she had done that, Anthony had told her she needed to seek help, that she was letting her good sense slip away. In response, Chloe pulled up her shirt and thrust the cesarean scar, still fresh and swollen, toward him. "And what about me? What about the life that was taken out of me and then from me? What the fuck about that?" He had not mentioned the towels again.
The air was stale and dead. Motes of dust swam in spirals as he moved through the room to the bed. Whenever Chloe managed to will herself out of bed, to shower or eat, Anthony had used those precious minutes to tear down the towels, part the curtains, and open the windows. He hadn't aired the room for almost four days now, and in those four days, Chloe had only showered once. He had been hopeful when he discovered her out of bed, but once she came out of the bathroom, she crawled right back into bed and went to sleep almost immediately. He couldn't remember the last time the sheets had been cleaned.
He set the toast on the nightstand and placed a hand on her hip. She squirmed beneath the sheet and curled into even more of a fetal position.
He rubbed her thigh and spoke in a quiet, soothing voice, like cooing to a baby---oh, the irony. "Hey, babe. I brought your toast. You need to eat. You've lost more weight. I can tell. You should take a shower, so I can wash these sheets, air out the room. What do you think?"
She mumbled something, which was a good sign. She wasn't fully in the depths of sleep then. Anthony had discovered that while it might appear she was constantly sleeping, she actually had a few modes that varied in levels of out-of-itness. When under the heavy hand of her magic pills (her own Pillie Billy), she was completely out of it, practically comatose. When falling into or coming back out of that state, she could respond in small grunts and mumblings, and the occasional full, though sometimes incoherent, sentence. When the pill wore off and she waited too long before taking another, she became restless and irritable.
He knew he should break her of her addiction, but he didn't want to face the beast that would rise from the bed once her Pillie Billys were gone. He had to talk to Dr. Carroll, he knew, but he kept putting it off. What could he say but Chloe is addicted to those pills you gave her and if you don't cut her off she's going to sleep away the rest of her life? He'd call later today. Sure, sure he would.
"You want to eat some toast?" he asked.
She squirmed under the sheet, grumbled something. She was headed into comatose country.
"Come on, honey, just a few bites."
She rolled over so suddenly that Anthony's hand was almost trapped beneath her thighs, which had shrunk into small pieces of driftwood. Face half-buried in the pillow, eyes closed, she said, "Not now, no."
With that, Anthony was back to that day last month when Chloe's screams broke through the entire house and Tyler ran out of his bedroom to find out what happened, who had gotten hurt, and Anthony had already known before he made it upstairs---the heavy stone in his gut told him so---that something terrible had happened to the baby. He took the stairs two at a time and didn't trip, though he almost wished he had. If he had fallen, broken an ankle or something, the rest of the day would have played out much more directly. They would have waited for the ambulance that Tyler called instead of grabbing their newborn (face bulging dark blue) and speeding down Route 84 in Chloe's car to the hospital. The paramedics, who arrived three minutes after he had sped out of their driveway, would have been there to administer CPR or some type of aid instead of Anthony pushing the car to ninety-five miles per hour while Chloe screamed for him to go faster for Christ's sake go faster he's turning purple he's fucking dying Anthony don't you hear what I'm saying our child is dying and you're behind a fucking truck. And the paramedics might not have saved the child, but they would have been there at least to help shield him and Chloe from the horror they glimpsed when he passed a truck on the left side shoulder, the car's tires lost their grip, and the car tumbled off the side and into the median ditch, the slope steep enough to flip the car once and Chloe screamed as the baby slipped from her grip and hit the ceiling only to crash back into her lap when the car landed right side up. The paramedics would have placed a sheet over the baby but instead he and Chloe stared down at their newborn's dark purple face and the blood gushing from his right eye socket, Chloe repeating again and again like a secret spell: "Not now, no, not now, no, not now, no." There had been a pulse even then after the accident, but by the time the trooper arrived, the pulse had vanished. Then Chloe tried to run into traffic.
"The kids miss you," he said and hoped she wouldn't turn away, thinking of the one kid who would never miss her, the child they had not even bestowed a name upon because they couldn't agree. She had wanted Clayton; he, Michael.
He started to get up and maybe try to motivate himself to make that call finally to Dr. Carroll when she spoke again. "You're a good man," she said. "A good father. I mean that."
"And you're a good mother, don't forget that."
"You're raising them now."
"Why don't you have some toast?"
Her eyes slowly opened. Even with only the light streaking faintly in from the hallway, Anthony could see the swollen redness of her face. Perhaps nightmares did visit her in that drug-induced sleep.
"I can make you some tea, if you want."
She touched his arm, her first gesture of affection, of even a connection, in several days. "I'm so sorry, Anthony. So very sorry."
Her tears were quick and full. He took her in his arms and let her cry against him. She had cried this way when he finally tackled her at the edge of the median before an SUV would have taken off her head. She tried to punch him and kick him, but he clenched her so tightly that all she could do was cry. Eventually, the trooper drove them to the hospital where they sat with their little baby in a cold room for several hours before a nurse told them the room was needed and that, oh yes, she was sorry, so very sorry for their loss.
"Why don't we go somewhere?" he asked.
"What?"
"Delaney's at SAT prep, Tyler took Brendan to bowling, so we can do whatever we want."
She laughed, not quite a real laugh, but still it was something other than crying or sleeping and it stirred something for a moment in his heart. "Like the old days," she said. "Before any kids at all."
He smiled. "We can go to that old flea market where we made love in the back of your father's Pontiac while Mexicans were selling rotten fruit right outside. Remember how the fat one knocked on the window and said, 'Hay la fruta verdadera'?" His Spanish accent was terrible, but Chloe laughed again, this one more genuine, finding it more amusing than Delaney had found his Dracula voice. "I had no idea what that man said to us, but I remember him saying it again and again."
"That's because you didn't want to stop," she said with the faintest flirtation.
He rubbed her thigh. "That's what you do to me, baby. Even with fat, fruit-selling Mexicans watching, I can't help myself."
"I think you were showing off."
"Me?"
"You knew what he was saying."
He chuckled. "I did not. Not until later."
"Yeah, once we got out and he said, 'fruta de la vagina.' I think then it was pretty obvious."
"If we had been on that table between the avocados and the little bananas, I think he would have had more customers."
"Oh, really, Mister Funny Guy?"
"Nothing sells quite so well as vagina fruit." He squirreled his hand toward her crotch so quickly that she screamed in surprise and batted it away. Then he was on top of her and her arms were around him and laughter filled the bedroom for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Where do you want to go?" she asked. "Back to the flea market?"
"Heck, we can just go have lunch at Casa de Mexico and go at it on the table." The laughter started again. "I'll even pay the guy with the guitar to serenade us."
He kissed her and though her lips were dry and her breath stale, it felt wonderful. Happiness wafted in her eyes. She stretched her arms to her side, arching her back in that familiar way, and he wanted her. Even now, even as she was almost emaciated and unshowered, he wanted her--his wife, his love.
Lizzy, their cat who would sleep in here all day too if Anthony didn't force her out when he got up in the mornings, always stretched after a long nap, a signal she was ready to get some food and maybe sniff out the litter, but people in states of deep rest didn't always stretch to awake the muscles for activity. Sometimes, the stretch was merely to stave off atrophy. Chloe might end up in a wheelchair one day if she stopped using her legs. That might be farfetched, but so was a baby's death, at least in the heart where authentic truth lived.
Chloe's arms curled back into her body, hands joining beneath his chest, and her eyelids settled closed again. The part of him that could have slapped her for giving up on life so easily did not flare up. Instead, he admired how peaceful Chloe looked, how sweet and gentle. Maybe the bad time would finally end. Maybe the darkness had lifted.
He settled next to her and was soon asleep. At some point, Lizzy crawled out from some hidden spot and curled between them. Lizzy Borden, he thought.
The phone rang and Anthony assumed it was Stephanie, Chloe's sister, who always called Saturday afternoons to check up on everything. Those conversations recently lasted only the few minutes it took for Anthony to tell Stephanie how many hours Chloe had logged in sleep this week. He should have realized it was too early for Stephanie's call. He should have realized that everything was going so well this morning that something had to go wrong. He wouldn't be able to think about it until a few days later, and then only after he washed the blood off his knuckles, but he should have known that darkness was going to descend again. Not that it would have made any difference had he recognized the sound of death in the phone's ring.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Williams?" the gruff voice asked.
"Who is this?"
"I'm Sergeant Fratto. There's been an accident."
The idea came so suddenly and right out of nowhere that Brendan believed the gods had given it to him. Probably had been the gods' intervention since he'd be doing it for them. Brendan opened his composition book on his lap and added to his list: 47---drop bowling ball onto car.
"What are you writing?" Tyler asked.
Brendan shut the book. "Nothing."
The road to the bowling alley took them past a seemingly endless row of houses bordering the street. Each house had a well-cared-for lawn and no campers or even kids' toys cluttered the driveways. There were only four styles of homes, and four colors to match, and they repeated over and over, styles alternating from one side of the street to the other. Did people ever forget which house was theirs and try to enter one only to discover they were attempting to break into their neighbor's home? It probably happened more often than people cared to acknowledge. Brendan had seen it happen in his neighborhood where most homes were one-car garage condos that were symmetrically stuck to another one-car garage condo. Their house was the two-car exception; nor did their house border their neighbors' or resemble it symmetrically or otherwise. Kids at school said he lived in Rich Boyville. It was meant as an insult, like most things kids said, but Brendan liked the name. It actually sounded like someplace he'd like to live, a place where maybe life was rich and happy. A place the gods blessed.
"You dress like that for bowling?"
Brendan wanted his brother to shut up; he had some planning to do if he was going to carry out the sacrifice without anyone knowing. "What do you mean?"
"You look like you're going to school. Catholic school."
And you look like you're going to smoke pot, Brendan wanted to say. Tyler's jeans were dirty, stained in some places, and deep-creased wrinkles patterned his shirt like the face of an old person. "We're supposed to dress appropriately. It's league rules."
Tyler snorted. "It's a youth league for twelve-year olds, not some PBA thing."
Even if Brendan tried to explain the real meaning behind the clothes, he knew that Tyler would say it was stupid and that he should stop wasting his time on fantasies. It was better to let Tyler rag on him a bit for the clothes than to actually try to explain why Brendan had made sure his pants were clean, his shirt unwrinkled.
After a few minutes (still no break in the house pattern), Tyler sighed loudly. "So, how long's this thing last, anyway?"
"About two hours," Brendan said, "but you don't need to stay. Mrs. Capra will drive me home. And if not her, then Mr. Coyle. He's always there. His son is really good. 185."
"What?"
"His bowling average."
"No, I was thinking I'd stay, watch you bowl."
"You don't need to."
"Dad doesn't stay?"
"He used to."
After a pause, Tyler said, "They got food there, right?"
"Yeah."
"So, I'll get us some hot dogs and French fries and I'll watch you bowl."
If Tyler stayed, it would be even harder to do what must be done. "You probably want to see Paul or something. I'll be fine."
"Paul?" A tremor of concern peppered his words. "Why would I want to talk to Paul?"
. . . fucked up real bad with that weird bitch . . .
"I just figured he was your friend. That's all."
Tyler relaxed. "He is, but you're my little brother. That's more important."
Brendan loved Tyler; there was no question that Tyler had been a good big brother, especially when Brendan had been younger. Tyler taught him how to ride a bike with no training wheels, how to throw a baseball like the professionals instead of like girls, and how to manipulate Mom and Dad so that he could always get what he wanted. That play-one-against-the-other strategy stopped working since Mom no longer came out of her room, but it had still been a hell of a trick and though Tyler used it more, Brendan had used the tactic a few times, the most memorable when he got out of going to church last Easter. He had stayed home eating chocolate while Mom, Dad, and Delaney went to church. Tyler had slept right through until they returned. The sleeping strategy worked best for Tyler, as it did now for Mom.
Tyler never hurt Brendan or was really mean to him. He wrestled with him sometimes and always won, but he never left any marks or permanent damage. The only thing Brendan didn't enjoy was the tickling wars in which Tyler took on both him and Delaney and always stood victorious over their shuddering bodies, tears streaming from their eyes. Tickling could be ruthlessly painful but it was always sort of fun. He had even started talking about girls with him. They're all crazy, he told him, always remember that and you'll be okay.
That Tyler wanted to watch him bowl was cool. It was fun when Dad would watch him bowl and cheer him and his team on and tell him it was okay when he missed an easy spare or dropped the final frame and cost the team a win. Without Dad watching, bowling had become more like a chore. The other parents cheered him on, especially Mr. Coyle, but the fun had seeped away little by little, almost frame by frame, so that now, almost a month since the baby died, the sport of bowling had become no more entertaining than long division problems in math class.
With Tyler watching him, perhaps some of the fun might seep its way back into the games. Three games with an actual family member cheering him on would be a treat. Even if Tyler made fun of him for gutter balls or looking silly on the approach (he had adopted the leg kick common to the professionals and even the kids on his own team ragged on him for it), it would still be cool to have him watch. But that would make it even harder still to do what the gods wanted and offer the sacrifice they demanded. It was tempting to put off the sacrifice, tell the gods they could wait, but after Tyler's problem (fucked up real bad) last night, Brendan knew the gods were growing impatient. If he didn't do it today, the situation would get worse and before next Saturday it might be too late. Tyler could end up in jail . . . or dead.
"You really don't have to," Brendan said. "In fact, it might make me nervous. Today's the first round of qualifying, so we need to do well or we won't make it to the playoffs." The first round of qualifying wasn't until after Easter but Tyler wouldn't know. That was the number one rule from Tyler's own How to Fool the Parents Handbook: be sure the lie is believable.
"Pretty serious stuff, huh?"
Tyler kept glancing at him, but it wasn't just at him; there was something else, and it held his focus a few seconds too long. "You're going to miss the turn."
Tyler made the turn with only the faintest complaint from the tires. The bowling alley was at the end of this road (more trees than houses on this one) set between Fillipe's Pizza and Jan's We Do Nails Salon. Mom used to go there.
"How's school?" Tyler asked.
"Fine. How about you?"
Tyler laughed. "Fine, too, I guess." He turned into the bowling alley parking lot. The lot was over half full; most of the kids and their parents were already here. "You must do well in English."
"Why's that?"
"That book." He gestured to the composition book. "You're always writing in it."
Brendan had known something was up and now he was starting to figure it out. "I guess," he said. "It's nothing really."
Tyler parked the car between a minivan and shiny SUV. "You write down stuff that happens, like in real life?"
He wanted to know if Brendan had overhead him last night. He was afraid his little brother had been a eavesdropping and had written down the conversation. Tyler tried to use the same manipulation tactics he used on their parents against his little brother. Brendan almost felt betrayed. Well, it was okay. Brendan was going to do something to make everything better, and then Tyler could forget about (weird bitch) his date last night and (fucked up real bad) whatever had happened.
"No," Brendan said, "just made up stories. Fictional stuff."
Tyler nodded, appraised him. This was the moment of truth. Stay or go. "Sounds good. Maybe I can read some of it while you bowl?"
Damn. "I have to start my practice throws." Brendan got out of the car.
\*
All the parents made a big fuss over Tyler. Mrs. Capra asked repeatedly if their mom was alright and to have her call anytime she wanted, day or night. Mr. Coyle slapped Tyler on the back and gave him a man hug. "How's the old man holding up? I miss our Saturday morning beers together." His full-bellied laugh made everyone smile.
While Tyler handled the parents, Brendan went through his warm up routine and started throwing a few practice balls. Two of his three teammates had arrived--Dave and Nick, but that was okay: he had a plan.
He couldn't take the composition book with him without appearing like he was up to something, but he had learned enough about misdirection from Tyler to know what to do. While Dave and Nick donned their shoes and started their practice throws, Brendan turned to a page well away from his sacrifice list, a page marked CHAPTER SEVEN: The Discovery, and scribbled above it, Tyler's Problem. He folded the page diagonally to make a triangle and closed the book without really flattening the page. He placed the book in his bowling bag. When Tyler finally got his hands on the book, he would turn right to that folded page and, hopefully, start reading. The temptation would be too great for him to resist. Instead of discovering his little brother had overheard the conversation from last night, Tyler would read about a mysterious detective named Bo Blast who was, by Chapter Seven, in hot pursuit of a killer known only as The Darkman.
Neither Nick or Dave made any comment about the two gutter balls Brendan threw, though Cody, arriving late as usual, flashed him a look which was as loud as saying, Jeez, if you bowl like that, I guess it's going to be a long afternoon. In response, Brendan said to himself, It will be a long afternoon, alright, but not for me or any of us. He threw another practice shot, the ball knocked off the six and ten pins, and he told his teammates he was going to get his ball cleaned before the match started. They nodded, perhaps hoping a little ball-cleaning would work or perhaps wondering how a simple cycle through the ball cleaner was going to fix his shitty throws. He slipped his blue and yellow-orange ball ("Brendan" carved into the ball above the finger holes and filled with green chalk) into its carrying sling.
Tyler stopped him with a simple hand on his shoulder. Though he wanted to run, Brendan willed his feet to freeze and his body to remain relaxed and as inconspicuous as possible. His shirt was starting to stick to his back with sweat but surely no one would notice that.
"Where you going?" Tyler asked. Mr. Coyle was looking on, huge smile still painted across his face.
"Just to clean my ball before the match starts. It's not hooking right."
Tyler squinted as if trying to see Brendan through a haze. What was he thinking? Could he feel Brendan's sweat through his shirt? What if he asked to tag along, see how a bowling ball was cleaned, or some stupid thing like that?
"Whatever," he said.
"You want to get us some fries or something?" Brendan asked. It was a possible risk since they had just eaten only a short while ago, but if Tyler agreed it would buy Brendan some extra time, which could prove crucial. The old guy who worked the concessions stand also worked the bar, which lay on the other side of the wall displaying the menu. He smelled of beer and cigarettes and moved so slowly that were he not old, people would be hollering for him to hurry up before all the kids were done bowling.
"Sure," Tyler said. "Curly or regular?"
Brendan smiled. Either Tyler was in an especially good mood or he was trying too hard. It didn't matter; Brendan knew who had the upper hand. "They only have one type of fries."
Tyler nodded and turned back to Mr. Coyle, who immediately launched into a discussion of cars. Tyler couldn't care about sports cars or souped-up engines, but it didn't seem like Mr. Coyle cared. Sometimes adults just wanted a youthful ear to hear them out. It was probably because they were so afraid of dying that they wanted to feel like they were still young, still in the game.
Adults could be ridiculous like that. Dad wasn't that way, at least not in public or in front of his kids. Maybe he liked getting older, or maybe he wasn't afraid of dying. Brendan could be afraid for him; that was fine. Michael Mance, a kid in his grade, had a father who was dying of cancer. Their teacher had made them write Get Well Soon and Thinking of You cards for him one day when Mike was absent. Brendan did it and honestly hoped Michael's father would get better, but he knew cards made out of construction paper weren't going to help. If anything, they would just make Mike feel embarrassed and stupid or even angry at his father for making him endure the pity of his peers.
In cartoons, Death was always portrayed as a guy in a black cloak who carried a thing called a "scythe" (he had asked his father what it was and Dad launched into a dull discussion of farm tools) and whomever he touched died. Brendan would keep Death at bay. Death had slipped past him into their house and into the baby's room, but Brendan had been ever-watchful since and would continue to be. Dad might not be worried about his own death, but Brendan needed to protect everyone. It was what he could do for the family. And for the gods, too, of course.
The ball cleaner was a clunky machine that probably did nothing more than splash the ball around in a little bit of water, but it took at least a few minutes to do that splashing and it was stationed near the Men's Room, which was right next to a rack holding league balls that anyone could use and that was perfect.
Brendan opened the door of the ball cleaner---Cleans Your Ball in Just Minutes!---placed his bowling ball in the pocket for it and shut the chute-like door. He put in the two dollars' worth of quarters and waited for the machine to rumble to life. After a few seconds in which it seemed Brendan had been pick-pocketed by an inanimate object, the ball cleaner, Removes Wax, Dirt, and Grime, emitted a heavy clunking sound and began to vibrate.
He wasted no time choosing a ball from the league rack. Unlike the rack near the front of the alley where the latest league news was posted on a bulletin board, only posters advertising various types of bowling balls (urethane, reactive, particle) filled the wall space above this rack and no one was nearby trying to get a closer look at them.
He choose a large black one riddled with scratches and chips. The thing might not even roll correctly. That no longer mattered; its rolling days were officially over. He slipped his carrying sling over the ball and assessed the weight. He had chosen it for one reason and one reason only: it was sixteen pounds, the heaviest size available from the racks. It was four pounds heavier than his own and the strain in his shoulder reminded him of that immediately. By the time he made it to the place, his arm would be killing him, but it had to be a sixteen-pound ball. It was the surest bet for a successful sacrifice.
His own ball was still in the midst of cleaning and Tyler was still being a good sport for Mr. Coyle. Only a few people were bowling down at this end of the alley and no one was near the side EXIT door.
Brendan slipped out and began to run once he hit the parking lot.
\*
Not only did his arms pain him---both of them throbbing from the shoulder down---his back ached in flashes of hot anguish and his legs crammed every few feet in protest. By the time he left the parking lot and made it back to the main road, he had to stop running. He wanted to put down the ball and rest but he couldn't. His bowling ball was probably done with its cycle in the cleaning machine and it would soon be time to start league play.
He turned down a side road, which led to an on-ramp for Route 17. He had guessed it would take him fifteen minutes all told, but he was fast approaching ten minutes by the time he saw the on-ramp. His shirt was now completely stuck to him with sweat. The ball kept smacking him in the leg as he ran and he knew there was going to be a big bruise their tomorrow, something else he'd have to hide. It wouldn't matter, though, not once the sacrifice had been made and the gods satisfied.
Finally, Brendan came to the place he had thought of during the drive with Tyler. Just past the on-ramp to the highway, another road crossed right over the highway on an overpass, which then led down toward some town where the whole family had gone pumpkin-picking last October. It was a small foot-bridge over a stream set between two houses on that repeating-pattern house road. Had they never gone pumpkin-picking, Brendan would never have known this road existed or the ideally placed overpass.
A few cars passed him on this road, all headed for Route 17, but none had even slowed to evaluate him. Adults were even scared of twelve year olds. Perhaps they had a right to be, at least this morning, anyway. A sacrifice demanded a kill. Brendan didn't relish that idea but he wasn't repulsed by it either. It had to be done; that was it. To protect his family, to keep away Death, Brendan had to invite Death into someone else's home.
He made it onto the overpass and checked his watch: almost twenty minutes had passed. People would be looking for him soon. Maybe they were already. There was no time to delay or really think about what he was doing. He had to do this and then run back and, with a lot of luck, Tyler would still be in line waiting for the old guy to fry some potato sticks. His teammates would ask where he had been and he'd say he'd had diarrhea. That was always a good excuse because it immediately got you off the hook and no one ever sought any more information. Except for mothers.
He waited for a car to pass; this one slowed but not so much as to make Brendan abort his mission. Maybe the driver was marveling at the foot bridge, hadn't noticed it before, perhaps, or maybe was registering a kid with a bowling ball standing over a highway. Curious, isn't it? As long as whoever it was didn't read the paper tomorrow, everything would be fine. No matter, the gods would protect Brendan and everyone he loved.
Reinforced chicken wire sealed up the gaps between the steel bars running across the bridge but they stopped at the highest bar, which was at Brendan's shoulders. Brendan stood just left of the middle of the bridge going with traffic on the second bar, his toes straining to hold him in place, and removed the ball from the sling. Cars whizzed past beneath him. They traveled so quickly that the branches on the trees bordering the highway swayed with the traffic current. Some cars must be traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour. Timing would have to be exact, or at least as exact as he could get it. Behind him, a tan car in the right lane approached at a more rational speed. Unfortunately, it would be a cautious driver who was going to surrender his life this morning.
He held the bowling ball out in front of him with both hands. His arms began to tremble but he ground his teeth through the pain. This had to be done; there was no way around it. This one simple, yet horrendous, act would spare his family further misery. It might be murder, it might be wrong, but he had to do it if he wanted to keep his family safe and alive. This had better be what the gods wanted. The book said sometimes devils paraded as gods to make people do stupid things, even hurt the ones they loved.
It was too late to worry about that now.
To conduct a proper sacrifice, Brendan had to invoke the attention of the gods. The book relayed in specific details the entire Official Sacrificial Invocation and Ceremony. Brendan copied it down in his composition book, word for word, reread it numerous times; he knew what had to be said, but the time was so suddenly upon him that the car he had chosen--tan, old--would be past him in seconds. He couldn't delay; he had to seize this moment now.
"For you, almighty gods, I make this offer. Protect my family from harm. May this be your will."
He had forgotten the talisman--the sacred tool meant to really sanctify this moment. Hell, he hadn't even thought of a talisman. What if this didn't work? Before Brendan could reconsider, even delay for one more second, the tan car was at the bridge and he released the ball. "Help," Brendan said. Maybe that would be enough.
At first there was nothing, only the sound of speeding cars, and Brendan thought the ball had missed the target completely, but then the crash splashed upward toward him with a terrific eruption of glass. He had hit the windshield---he couldn't have hoped for better placement--a veritable strike. Tires screeched but not from the hit car. It kept going past the underpass, swerved onto the shoulder where the tires howled over the line of concrete indents, and then crashed headfirst into a large maple tree. A lot more tires screeched and a heavy stink of burned rubber wafted up to Brendan.
He didn't really notice the smell, however, because something had caught his eye. It was the array of bumper stickers on the back of the car. They were blurry at this distance, but Brendan didn't need binoculars to recognize them. One read TIME FLIES LIKE AN ARROW, FRUIT FLIES LIKE A BANANA and another exclaimed, READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.
"We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love."
Sigmund Freud
When his cell phone rang, Tyler was so happy to get a break from Mr. Coyle's babbling about hot rods and Mustangs that he fumbled the phone and nearly dropped it out of his hands. It would be Paul, checking in on whether his buddy had been arrested for rape yet, but it wasn't, and once he flipped open the phone and answered, Tyler immediately wished he had checked the screen first to see who it was.
"Tyler?" Sasha sounded calm, almost removed from emotion, if that made any sense.
"Yeah?"
"We need to talk."
Tyler moved away from Mr. Coyle, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, Don't mind me, I know how crazy women can be. Tyler moved toward the entrance doors. People entering would be less likely to stop and eavesdrop than the parents milling around by the lanes, waiting for their kids to start bowling.
"About last night," she said as if Tyler had asked the stupidest of questions.
"What about it?" He should be apologetic and concerned and tell her over and over that he had thought she wanted it and oh God he was so sorry this happened. But he couldn't contain the contempt. This bitch was going to ruin his life---you raped me---and there was nothing he could do.
"Please don't be angry," she said.
He snickered. She knew she had wrongly accused him. Now she wanted to formally apologize. She had realized the error of her ways and just wanted to set everything right. Hell, maybe she'd want another date. Paul had said that once the cherry was popped the bitches just went crazy for cock. Brendan thought of her breasts and smiled.
"I was just . . . surprised. You know?"
"I thought you wanted it." An elderly woman glanced at him and Tyler faced the wall.
"You're a nice guy and everything, but . . ."
"What?" He couldn't soften his curtness. Why was he so angry? She was practically throwing herself at his feet, begging for mercy.
"I was really messed up last night. I wasn't going to call you, even talk to you again. I wanted you to die."
Did she believe he had slept soundly? He had barely managed a few hours of rest in-between moments of powerful alertness when he relived the moment in the car again and again. He punched his pillow and then used it to stifle his screams. He had taken her virginity (she had wanted it), but she could take his manhood.
"But you are a good guy, or so I thought."
It was a set up for an apology. He let it hang there in cellphone dead air.
"I know that you were, well, overcome. It happens to guys. That's what Niki said. She wasn't making excuses, just helping me reason this out."
"Yeah," he barely said. League play began and Tyler covered his exposed ear.
"I was really upset, Tyler. You understand that, right?" A distinct accusatory sharpness accented the question.
She hadn't objected when he removed her clothes, hadn't protested when he slipped a finger inside her---what the hell was he supposed to conclude? If she was going to apologize she better do it really soon or Tyler's phone was going to end up in tiny pieces on the floor. Why were women so damn nuts? Couldn't she see things from his perspective?
"Tyler?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to cause any trouble."
He wanted to scream, Then say it was all your fault, that you misled me, or admit that you fucking wanted it! Instead, he said, "Okay."
"You understand why I'm upset?" She reminded him of the blonde guidance counselor who spoke to every kid like he or she were five years old.
"Yeah." Once he said that he realized he did understand why she had been upset. Lust had captured his mind for a few minutes and he hadn't been himself in that car, but he hadn't asked her if she wanted him or if he could do it. He had gone ahead and did it and it had felt wonderful, so fucking amazing, but if she had been screaming and crying for him to stop while he thrust away madly inside her then he was to blame, at least somewhat. He could admit that, but only because she had called him out of contrition. Had she attacked him, he would have attacked back.
"I would like to see you again."
Despite what Tyler believed the proper way to react, Tyler's body warmed and grew excited. Even the fear of a rape charge couldn't control the male organ. It might even encourage it, though that was a terrible thing to suggest. "Me too," he said.
"Can you come over?"
"Now?"
"Yeah."
She not only wanted to apologize, she wanted to have sex again, to really show how sorry she was for her behavior. Paul was right: the bitch wanted cock. "I'm at my brother's bowling practice right now and---"
"Can someone else take him home? I really want to see you now," she said. Her voice begged, I'm dying for you to fuck me right now and this time I want you to really pound me.
Tyler spotted Mr. Coyle, who had begun to cheer on his son's team. Where was Brendan? "I can probably work something out, yeah."
"So, I'll see you soon?"
His smile came out of his voice: "You can count on it."
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and went to Brendan's lane. He wasn't there. Mr. Coyle was clapping. "Pick up that spare, it's an easy one." Yes, it is, Tyler thought and turned to Mr. Coyle. But then he turned right back. Brendan's black and white marble composition book was sticking out of his bowling bag; it was practically crying out for someone to grab it and leaf through the pages.
He had an obligation to read whatever Brendan might have recorded from the conversation with Paul last night because now Sasha was going back on what she said and actually asking him to have her again. She hadn't literally said that, of course, but he could tell. Paul had said that women became horn dogs once they got their first taste. If Brendan had written something about Tyler acting inappropriately or even a direct accusation of rape (Brendan was only twelve but he was damn perceptive), Tyler had to dispose of the evidence because it could damage both his and Sasha's reputations. After today, they might even be boyfriend and girlfriend.
He grabbed the composition book, tucked it under his arm, and turned to Mr. Coyle. His son missed the spare but Mr. Coyle still clapped for him, telling him he'd get em all on the next frame. "I don't know where my brother is, but---"
"Bathroom, probably," Mr. Coyle said. "It's only bowling but these kids take it so seriously. It's like life and death. He's probably nervous. The kids can be hard on each other. I try to tell em it's just a game but, hey, they're kids."
"Yeah, but---"
Mr. Coyle leaned toward him, lowered his voice. "Some of the parents are nuts, too. They scream and curse. You'd think they had money riding on it." He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe they do."
This time, Tyler blurted out his question and Mr. Coyle smiled large. "Awfully early for a hot date, isn't it?" Instead of waiting for a response, Mr. Coyle slapped him on the back. "I know how it is. Women expect all kinds of things. Go ahead. I'll take Brendan home. Tell the old man to give me a call. I miss our chats." Then he started laughing as if he had said something hilarious.
Tyler nodded and left, almost running out the door.
\*
On the way, Tyler called Paul.
"You must've gone deep. Struck oil."
"You think that's what it is?"
"Must be. It hasn't even been twelve hours since you had her."
An ambulance sped past him in the other direction, lights flashing and siren blaring. Whenever that happened, Tyler always wondered for a moment or two what had happened to the person in need. Was it a heart attack? Was it something more gruesome? Would there be puddles of blood for the paramedics to walk through? Then the ambulance was gone and forgotten. Later he'd think back on that ambulance and hear its warbling siren so loudly he'd get nauseated.
"So, this is good."
"You sound nervous. Afraid you can't hit the same spot?" Paul's laughter made Tyler smile at first and then it began to grate on his nerves.
"What if her mom is there?"
"Let her watch."
He had to wait almost a minute for Paul to get his laughter under control. "Seriously."
"She's probably at one of her witch meetings or reading somebody's future. Tarot cards and shit. If she is there, wedge a chair under the doorknob. You don't want a surprise interruption. Witch or not, no mother wants to see her daughter violated."
"I'm not violating her."
"That's right," Paul said, "you're pummeling her."
"What if it's a trap?"
"A trap? She gets her hand on your cock and then, BAM!, down comes the knife and you're standing there watching yourself bleed out while she adds your dick to her collection."
Tyler hadn't been thinking of that exactly, though the images lingered longer than he wanted them to. "What if she wants to record me confessing or something?"
"You're on your way to get laid, Tyler. Stop being such a freak. She may be weird, but she's not going to trick you into confessing or chop off your dick and store it in a jar."
"You're right."
Another ambulance shot past him. Must be a massacre.
"Then again," Paul said. "You never know."
"What?"
"You might want to check her basement first or the kitchen cabinets or her closet. I'd look for a barrel of formaldehyde. That's a dead giveaway she's a cock collector. Then you better run."
"Shut up."
"What if her mother wants to, like, have you perform on some witchcraft altar? That could be freaky, man, though interesting."
"Yeah, right."
"And watch out for the snaggletooth. If she tells you to close your eyes, make sure your hands are around her throat. Just in case."
"Jesus, Paul. What is wrong with you?"
"Hey, I'm not the rapist."
"I'm not a rapist."
"As long as the bitches like it. And don't forget the rubbers."
"Shit."
Paul was able to stop his laughter before it got out of control. "Better hit up the store. You do not need a pregnant weirdo snaggletooth bitch on your hands."
"Oh, fuck. That's it."
"What?"
"She's pregnant."
She was trying to be nice to him, even lure him to her house with the promise of sex, so she could tell him that the take-home pregnancy test had been positive and that he had to prepare for parenthood. He eased his foot off the gas pedal.
"I didn't wear one. Last night."
Silence.
"What should I do?"
"Pray."
"I'm serious."
"How could you not remember a condom?"
"I didn't think we'd get that far. I didn't even have one. I don't own any. I wasn't thinking. My mind had been"---FIRE! FIRE!---"blocked or something. I didn't realize what I was doing."
"What, you thought you were fishing?"
"I know I fucked up, but . . . fuck! What am I supposed to do?"
"If she is, you know, pregnant, push her down the stairs."
"What?"
"It'll make her miscarriage."
"If she is pregnant," Tyler said, "the thing's only the size of a few cells."
"Better to take care of it now than when it's a few billion cells, you know?"
Would she want money for an abortion? If so, how was he supposed to get it? He only had a few hundred dollars in his joint checking account with his folks and that was supposed to be spending cash for college. He'd have to ask for the money and that would be quite the conversation. Dad had never hit him and rarely screamed but how else was a father supposed to respond? Then again, a father would understand better than a mother and might even hand over the cash, knowing it was the right thing to do.
"Just play it cool," Paul said. "Don't flip out or give her any reason to call the cops and start all the paternity nonsense. As it is, everybody in school is probably going to find out. She may be a weird bitch, but she still has friends and word gets around. You need to keep this under wraps. Be suave, be debonair, be smooth Tyler Williams."
"Smooth? That my new nickname?"
"If you don't handle this, you're new nickname's going to be daddy."
\*
He drove the rest of the way to Sasha's house in a blur of nonsensical thoughts. At one point, he turned his iPod so loud that the car shook with the vibrations just to try to blank out his brain. It didn't work; his mind just started screaming and that made all the thoughts far worse.
She was tricking him, no doubt about that. She either wanted to have him arrested---no police car to be seen, thank God---or she wanted him to know he was a father. He tried to recall Bio--could a woman know so soon? If prison awaited him, he'd take it like a man and then cry late at night. If it was parenthood, he'd do whatever he had to, short of pushing her down the stairs, to convince her that abortion was the only sensible choice. But if she said surprise you're a father and here's Officer So and So to arrest you for raping me, Tyler was out of ideas, though he imagined he wouldn't wait to start crying.
He parked in the street and walked up the driveway. A few dogs were barking nearby, their barks echoing off the hills and reverberating toward the lake. Two bushes that had been carefully pruned into identical round shapes boarded the front steps. "Nice bushes, right?" Sasha had said. Meaning what?
From her front steps, only the far corner of the lake was visible. Too many houses and hills blocked the view. Was the calm blue water he could see from here the same dark water that had rippled behind him when he---you raped me---had sex with Sasha? In all the burning lights of the thousand-eyed monster, had any one of those lights seen something? If someone had, he or she would have thought it was just two young lovers getting frisky, not---
But that's all it had been. Don't let her get in your head and convince you of something that didn't happen. Women are nuts, remember. You even told Brendan that. Don't forget your own warning. A bitch could beg for a good fuck and then turn around and point the finger with tears in her eyes and cry, "Rapist!" You have to be conscious of these things and don't let them trap you.
Those thoughts sounded like Paul, and Tyler was glad that at least Paul's sentiment had followed him here. Once he entered this house, he would need all the support he could get.
Sasha answered on the first knock. She was freshly showered, her wet hair hanging loose around her face, which was make-up free and healthy pink. Was that the pregnant glow he had heard about? She wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that made it impossible to admire her breasts. She invited him in and until she smiled he had completely forgotten her snaggletooth.
He had expected swollen red eyes and ratty hair and twitchy fingers, but instead Sasha was calm and happy. Refreshed. Was that because she was pregnant and happy or because she was happy that the police were on their way with cuffs that had his name on them?
"Hi," was all Tyler managed to say.
Her house was something right out of a Make the Best of Your Trailer Park Life book. The outside had been well landscaped and the house gave off a healthier aura than many of the other mobile homes scattered over the hills. This one had, at one time, been a mobile home but it was now anchored solidly to the earth and the illusion of home living truly perfected. The walls resembled those in his own house, though smaller, but suggesting strength and professional polish. Pictures decorated these walls and clean carpet lined the floors. Only the faintest sense of claustrophobia or maybe an actual smell (something sour, almost rancid) suggested that this home was not all it appeared to be.
A few steps led up off a tiny foyer to the main living area where a gigantic television dominated the living/dining room. The TV was so close to the dining room table that during Thanksgiving meals someone probably had to sit on the television. A few more stairs descended from the foyer where an abundance of coats dangled from hooks to a smaller basement-like area. Red light flickered down there and something else, a sound, like a dying whisper, floated on the air like the vanishing wisps of cigarette smoke.
He started to peer down there and Sasha grabbed his arm. "My room is up here."
She pulled him up the few steps but before he took those steps, he managed to duck down just enough to see into the downstairs. The angle was steep and since he was in mid-stride his angle was askew like the way little kids sometimes take pictures with the camera turned practically sideways. Red tea light candles had been set atop a long table covered with a white sheet at the far side of the room. To the right of the table, nearly out of sight, stood someone in all black, back to him, head bowed. The whispering was louder suddenly and he caught a few words---it sounded like sack rice and luff chide---and then he was upstairs and headed down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom.
Sack rice. Sacrifice? Maybe. If her mother was downstairs casting some witchery, sacrifice would be one of the most common words. But luff chide? What the hell was that?
"Is your mother home?"
She pulled him into a bedroom saturated in pink--comforter, pillows, curtains. How very unwitchy of her. She pushed the door closed but it didn't shut all the way, leaving a sliver of space between door and frame.
"No. She went out."
Then who was downstairs? "You sounded like you were in a hurry," he said. "On the phone."
She smiled; her snaggletooth protruded out from beneath her lip like a venomous bug sliding out of its dirt hole. "Sorry. I just really wanted to see you again before . . . things got out of hand."
"What do you mean?"
She laced her hands together in an awkward way and her fingers began to fight each other. Her eyes drifted from his for a moment and then zeroed in on him again. "Nothing. Never mind."
"So, we're okay then?"
The fingers on her right hand had overtaken those on her left and her knuckles had gone white from the pressure. What was going on in her head? Where was the trap? Was she waiting for the police?
"I didn't want to wait until Monday at school. You know . . . "
"Did you tell anyone about last night?"
Her hands broke apart as if the left hand had discovered a secret weapon to protect itself and then her fingers found the edge of her sweatshirt; in one quick movement she pulled her sweatshirt off over her head and tossed in on the floor. Her breasts were popping out of a bra that was a size too small. There was only one way to interpret this gesture, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Her eyes didn't say, take me or let's fuck; they said, I'm lost and I don't know what I'm doing.
Tyler opened his mouth expecting something to come out but nothing did and he simply stood there, mouth agape, Sasha's breasts a foot away. Her fingers resumed their war. She tilted her head slightly and smiled, not too large and risk showing off that snaggletooth, but just enough to push away the caution holding him in place. Her eyes might be confused, but her smile said, Come and get it.
He leaned in for a kiss and her hands grabbed the back of his head. She buried her face against his so hard that their teeth mashed together and pain shivered through his face. She didn't pull back; she actually pushed harder and forced her tongue into his mouth. Instead of fighting with each other, her fingers twirled in his hair and burrowed into his scalp.
She's mauling me, he thought, like a bear. That didn't stop him, however, from unsnapping her bra and slipping it off her without breaking the embrace. In two short days, he had become quite the suave player. He should have asked her out back in September. He could have been having sex for months already.
He kissed her aggressively, grabbed her ass and squeezed it hard. When she finally broke the kiss and started sucking on his neck, she said through hoarse gasps, "Bed . . . bed." He pushed her toward the pink-covered bed, their feet tangled together, and they collapsed onto the bed, he on top. She moaned when she bounced on the bed like he was fucking her already. Her fingernails scraped at his scalp and her teeth gnawed at his ear.
The heat was pulsing inside him again, throbbing and screaming FIRE! FIRE! and he had to have her. He tore at the top of her jeans and ripped them open and tugged them down off her hips. The heat burned inside him. There was only one way to quench the heat and that was with hers. One hand found its way into her crotch. Too many thoughts moving too quickly beneath the hollering FIRE! tried to rush into his forebrain---this is fucking amazing, holy shit, this is ridiculously great, Paul will never believe this, but it could be a trap, it could still be something bad, something sinister; bullshit, she's begging for it, this time she really wants it.
"Is this what you want?" she whispered into his ear. Her hot breath threw more logs on the raging flames.
"Yesyesyes," he said all as one word.
"Do you love me?"
Paul had once said, during one of his many elaborate "dictations" (as he called them) on women, that when women are completely overcome with passion, they can think of nothing else. Men always take the blame for being perverts and constantly thinking with their dicks, but once a woman is in the mood she is a completely illogical beast that cannot be stopped. That may sound great (it did) but there was a small problem. Over the millions of years of evolution, Paul said, women have developed a last resort safeguard to protect them from sex that may later seem like a bad idea. This final stop-all is the dreaded love question. This isn't, Do I love him?, no. When a woman's panties are sopping wet, she doesn't care about her own feelings; she's committed. But she does care about the man's. She wants to know not just that she is wanted and desired---she wants to know she is loved.
Paul warned that no other question throughout all time could so shatter a man's chances of getting laid as the Do you love me question. How a man handled that determined everything. If the man hesitated or replaced it with another I want you so bad, the woman would know immediately that the guy was using her like he uses a porno site and, for most women, the brakes would hit the floor and the final barrier would never be breached.
Tyler had known the question would come eventually, but a second date seemed really soon. Who knew if love existed on a second date? For that matter, what was love anyway? Hadn't Hallmark invented it?
The heat started to recede. The other thoughts, those buried ones, jumped forward, but no longer did they offer doubt; now it was ridicule. What the fuck are you doing? Tell her you love her and get on with it. It might be too late already, you asshole. You could be fucking her already. Just say it, whisper it.
Someone was behind him. There was no reason why he should know that but he did and with absolute certainty. Someone was watching them from the doorway. He started to pull up, but she held him, nails biting his scalp.
"Say you love me," she begged in his ear. "Please."
"Someone's in here."
He yanked more aggressively and her nails pierced his scalp.
"Say it. Please, Tyler. Please!"
He felt blood in his hair. What the fuck was this crazy bitch doing? He thought of the candles downstairs, her mother's face in the window last night, mouth opening and closing slowly, deliberately (just a dream). He thought of penises in jars of formaldehyde, their skin flaking off over years and years.
"I don't love you."
He jumped up and free of her. She cried out in surprise, "No!," and it was so pathetic, so desperate--he had been a complete idiot to think she was even slightly attractive.
Someone was whispering behind him. He spun around. Sasha's mother stood a foot away. Her matted black hair dangled around her face like torn window curtains. Heavy black and purple blotches smudged her face like severe bruising. The whiteness of her teeth made them appear fake, like she could slip them out of her mouth. Her lips moved slowly, forming words and complete phrases in a barely audible voice.
She raised one hand, black robe falling off her slender arm that was mottled with bruises. She held a small tube. She whispered something and he caught most of it: sac rice bloods the luff chide use crate. He leaned toward her, unable to fight the need to know what she was saying. She shook the tube and warm liquid splashed across his face, in his mouth, up his nose, and into the corner of his eye.
For a moment, Tyler stood there as Sasha's mother kept whispering something he couldn't quite hear and then his left eye started to burn. He pawed at the eye frantically, rubbing to wipe out the liquid, but the burn intensified. He closed his eye and covered it with one palm, pushing against it because the pain from that helped mask the pain of the stinging fluid.
"What the fuck was that?"
From behind him, Sasha begged on the verge of tears, "Please, Tyler. Please don't freak out. Please."
He spun on her. She shrank back against the bed, breasts flopping. "Stay away from me, you weird bitch."
He turned back and Sasha's mother was nose to nose with him. "Sac rice bloods," she whispered. Her lips pulled back and her teeth were no longer white: streaks of blood melted off them and dribbled onto her chin.
Sasha was still crying for him to not freak out, not run away, for him to stay and listen pleasepleaseplease, but Tyler was already in the hall and moving fast. He skidded down the few steps to the foyer, almost lost his balance. Once outside, he could breathe again, though he didn't pause for a breath of air until he was in his car speeding over the windy roads with one hand planted against his burning eye.
Not a tube of something---a vial of blood. And probably diseased blood. Maybe the kids at school were right and it was Sasha's menstrual blood. The crazy bitch had a genuine fucking witch for a mother and he had been fooled just as he feared. The scene had happened so quickly that he couldn't make any sense of it. He had to wash the blood out of his eye before it did any permanent damage. It has already, the Paul-like voice said. She threw it in your eye because it would have a chance of getting in your blood stream and once that happens you're fucked completely. You should have been more careful.
Was that true? Could blood in the eye lead to infection? What if the blood was from an AIDS patient or something insane like an Ebola victim? He could be dead in a few hours. That fucking bitch. She wanted her revenge---you raped me---and he had fallen for it. He'd get her back. Unless, of course, he died first.
He couldn't go home--Dad was having some alone time with Mom, likely watching her sleep--and he didn't want to explain what happened to his eye or why he left Brendan at the bowling alley anyway. He could drive to the hospital but he was too frantic for anyone to give him the time of day, never mind medical treatment. He was probably overreacting. It was just a little blood. Right? He headed to Paul's house, which wasn't very far. Paul would help him figure this out.
As things went, he ended up at a hospital anyway.
Grief is a pit. You are dropped into it and then it's up to you which way you go. You can struggle out of the pit, occasionally slipping on the muddy sides, or you can get on all fours and keep digging that sucker deeper until your fingernails break and your blisters bleed. Trying to crawl out is noble, good and respectful; digging deeper, however, is honest.
Anthony had crawled out before, but now there was no way. He couldn't do it. What he could do was dig and dig he had for the past several days since Saturday when the Sergeant told him there had been an accident and Anthony sped to the hospital and was asked to identify the remains of his only daughter.
Her ravaged face hadn't made him ill, but it had made him cry with torrential power. He had never experienced such tears before, tears that wracked the whole body and left him unable to move. On his knees before her corpse, Anthony wept and wept until a psychologist at the hospital brought him to her office. She spoke to him for over an hour, but he didn't hear anything she said. He heard only his own screaming mind as it replayed for him over and over Delaney's mutilated face. The clumps of blood in her hair reminded him of dried jelly or red tar.
The funeral director insisted on a closed casket, but through tears that never wanted to stop, Anthony handed the man an 8x10 school photograph, picture wobbling, and told the director he wanted him to make his daughter beautiful again. After admiring the picture (Delaney with a full-face smile as if she was about to burst out laughing, set before a holographic-like background of swirling reds and blues), the man's thin eyebrows joining over his nose, he finally told Anthony that his employees were master craftsmen and would do their best, though he could promise no miracles. Anthony laughed out loud at that. Miracles? "There's no such thing," he said.
The director's craftsmen had done a respectable job but there had been no miracles created between last Saturday and today. The artisan had reconstructed Delaney's face. With what resembled clay, the person whose job it was to rebuild the dead gave Delaney the flesh that had been torn from her face, and replaced her wonderful, warm smile with a pale imitation that almost made her look upset, perhaps flustered, or even downright crazy. Based on the reactions of the mourners during the first showing at the wake, the funeral director had been right about the closed casket.
Upon his first viewing, Anthony wept not from pain but joy. Whoever had done the work had practically brought his daughter back to life. But then the skin turned to clay and the smile collapsed into a near frown. Chloe, doped-up and near to passing out at any point, chuckled. It was the type of laugh a drunk utters after one too many drinks when the bartender suggests maybe driving home is a bad idea. Better yet, it was the kind of offhanded laugh someone offered to a particularly unfunny joke. You think that's my daughter, her chuckle said, well, you must be on crack then.
Chloe turned away from her only daughter and collapsed into one of the cushioned armchairs the funeral director had put out for each of the surviving family members. Her sister Stephanie went to her side and cooed empty assurances that everything would be okay, everything would work out, everything happened for a reason.
Only Delaney's hair was the same as when she lived. Someone had spent a while cleaning and styling her hair to resemble the do she had in her school photo. That hair style had cost almost ninety dollars, but it had made her smile so large because she had been so damn pretty. Now, however, the hairstyle looked overdone, as if she had gotten too primped up for her own funeral.
Even now, as the second showing began and people entered the room of chairs and depressing recorded organ music, Stephanie was sitting next to Chloe, rubbing her hand and repeating the mantra: Everything will be okay. Everything happens for a reason.
Had he any energy, Anthony would have spun on her and shouted that her little empty phrases amounted to nothing but self-assuring bullshit. Nothing happened for a reason. God had no plan. What god, after all, would kill a wonderful young woman like Delaney? What god would deem it acceptable for someone to drop a bowling ball onto her car and have her entire face crushed? Everything would not be okay, not tomorrow, not next week, not fucking ever.
People didn't talk at wakes; they whispered. For the first viewing, Anthony had stood at the doorway to greet whoever might show up, but that had grown quickly tiring. It wasn't the standing or even the incessant hugging and responses of thanks for coming that tired him out, but it was the realization that after he hugged and thanked these people they were going to step up to Delaney's open casket, maybe use the kneeler, and offer some silent words or prayers. Every person who entered was going to get a chance to be witness to the corpse that used to be a fun-loving, beautiful teenage girl. Anthony felt the emotions of each person as he or she passed from him to the casket and the weight of those emotions finally sent him to one of the cushioned armchairs, which placed him front row center for the show in which the main character simply lay still, not breathing, dead.
This time around, Anthony would greet the people after they offered that mental prayer or grace as they proceeded toward the back of the room to sit in folding chairs and wait to see if this would be one of those wakes where a priest said a prayer and gave a brief eulogy. Anthony had told Reverend Slade not to say anything at the wake, told him, in fact, not to come. There would be enough religious ceremony to satisfy God on Thursday morning when Delaney's casket rolled down the aisle Chloe had walked down once as an unmarried woman and then back out again, her arm wrapped around his.
Tyler, who cried long and hard during the first viewing, sat next to him. He leaned into Anthony's ear. "You mind if I go outside for a little while?" He tugged on his tie, unable to breathe, perhaps.
Anthony nodded. He was watching a plump woman in black pants and black blazer use the edge of the coffin as support to stand up from the kneeler. What would happen if her weight was too much and the coffin tipped off its stand? How would people react? Chloe might not even notice.
Finally up, and without overturning the coffin, the plump woman turned to face Anthony. It was Molly Feingold from Human Resources. Red splotches tinged her cheeks, whether from badly applied makeup or from the physical excursion needed to stand was unclear. She smiled one of those half smiles that were meant to convey happiness at seeing one person while simultaneously acknowledging that something really terrible had recently happened to that same person. Some people were masters at this expression; Molly Feingold was not.
She started in with the standard sorry for your loss, it's just so tragic and horrible and I'm sorry rigmarole, to which he nodded slowly, taking her chubby, cold hand and thanking her, and then she started talking about work and how busy it has been what with the bad economy and everything and how bad she felt for some people who were barely scraping by, how hard it must be. He nodded almost continuously like one of those bobble heads some people kept on their desk at work. Anthony was the Grieving Parent Bobble Head: It keeps bobbing through all your pointless gestures of sympathy, just like a real grieving parent would.
After she walked past him, Anthony noticed that both Tyler and Brendan were gone. Tyler had probably taken his brother outside with him for some air. That was a good idea. He ought to have Stephanie drag Chloe outside, if, that was, she could carry her. Chloe had fallen asleep almost immediately after sitting down. No chuckles this time, just an occasional snore.
The air in here had turned stale since the first showing three hours ago. It tasted like dry cereal. If there were windows, it was hard to tell because of the dark-colored drapes hanging everywhere on the walls. There might be no ventilation in here at all. It didn't matter, anyway, right, because the only person staying in the room for a long time was already dead. Maybe the air wasn't stale; maybe it was the odor of Delaney's body infiltrating the air. Even embalmed and degutted or whatever the hell was done to dead people, there would still have to be some kind of aroma. There was no way to get rid of all traces. Her molded face might be disintegrated in minute pieces, floating off her face. Everyone could be breathing her in without realizing.
A bald guy Anthony recognized but couldn't name was squeezing his shoulder and expressing just how terribly sorry he was. Anthony returned to his bobble head ways and offered the stock thank you so much for coming response.
"How're those boys holding up?" the man asked. His pinstripe suit was a bit loose in the chest as though he had lost weight. Then Anthony had it---he was Greg Champ, who everyone called The Champ at work. He worked in Legal and was battling colon cancer.
"They're okay," Anthony said. "Tyler's been taking it pretty hard and Brendan, well, I don't think he's even grieved yet. How are you?"
Greg shrugged. "Still here."
Greg's response was probably so automatic when anyone inquired about his cancer and those horrible treatments he had to endure that his brain forgot to stop the words before they left his mouth. His face went slack. "I'm so sorry, Anthony."
But Anthony had shut him out. He was thinking about Brendan. While Tyler had shed tears over his lost sister, Brendan had simply sat through the entire first viewing with a blanched face and dry eyes. He didn't have his composition book with him. He should have been writing, spilling his inner pain onto the safe pages inside a notebook if he was too afraid or unsure of himself to share those worries with his dad. Instead, Brendan just sat still, watching his sister's dead body as if it might at any moment come to life. Now that would be a miracle, Lazarus and all that.
The boy was in shock, of course. And understandably so. He was only twelve and while he knew what death was, he had never known it to touch so deeply. After the baby's death, Anthony had tried very hard to shield the kids from it. There had been a wake, in this same funeral home, perhaps this same room, though he couldn't remember, and a brief ceremony at the burial. Few people attended, but they hadn't expected many anyway. An infant's death, while tragic, wasn't like the death of a sixteen-year-old. Dr. Carroll had recommended the service and the burial; closure, it was called. It had worked for the kids and mostly for Anthony, too. Chloe was a different story, of course.
Brendan hadn't cried for the baby, either, though he barely knew his youngest sibling. He had grown more focused and quieter. His grades had improved and he no longer forgot to put away his clothes or toys or put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He matured. He might be a more serious pre-teen than average but that wasn't a big deal. Was it? Everyone lost his or her innocence eventually. For some it came late, for others, early. Anthony lost his own father when he was nineteen and that had helped him focus on his collegiate studies and propel himself into the book-publishing world. It was the same with Brendan, that's all---death was the catalyst that forced him to acknowledge his own mortality. You had to cut hay while the sun shined, after all, because it would be dark before you knew it.
Delaney's death would only make Brendan even more introverted. The poor boy would throw himself into his studies as Anthony had done in college. He'd turn out alright as long as Anthony kept checking on him. Though maybe not. Assuming Brendan would be fine could be a grievous mistake. It was always the quiet kids, those harboring all their emotions, who eventually shot up their schools. That was an overreaction, obviously, but Anthony didn't want to turn to CNN one morning and see his son's school photo on the screen next to the words ALLEGED SHOOTER.
As it was, CNN was running on-going updates about the BOWLING BALL DEATH. It had been the top story for most news programs and cover page material for the local newspapers. The New York Times gave it top billing on the Local News page. All the reports, all the articles, they all said the same thing: Delaney Williams had been killed from a bowling ball dropped off an overpass. The police had no leads. Not for lack of trying. They had questioned Anthony and the boys, tried to question Chloe, and had, according to those reports, questioned everyone at the bowling alley. No one had seen a thing. "Something will turn up," Sergeant Fratto said. "Someone was driving by, saw something. It's only a matter of time before that person puts it together. Don't give up."
Don't give up. Ha.
Greg was gone and someone else, one of Chloe's friends, was offering her condolences. She wore a black and white cocktail dress that stopped well above her knees. If not for the overcoat that hung near her calves, she would have appeared to have wandered into the wrong place. She must be one of Chloe's single friends. A wake was a good enough place to pick up men as any other, maybe better: she could cry and some guy could console her and that consoling could lead to a bedroom somewhere.
He was retreating back in his own mind while still processing the continuous line of mourners when a tall man in a black suit with a Bible held in both hands stepped in front of him. He had blue eyes and sharp features and his hair was slicked back, matted heavy with gel.
Then Anthony's mind was lucid again, or as clear as it could be following a few days of endless crying, sleeping pills, and funeral planning. "What do you want?"
"I am very, very sorry for your loss," the man said.
"Thanks." He hoped his eyes conveyed his insincerity. What other reason could this man be here if not to use Delaney's death as an opportunity to add more people to his flock of Jesus freaks? He had probably spotted the obituary in the paper and---
The other guy, the short, stocky one with the loose hairs waving on his head and the He-Man shoulders: he had seen Delaney, even said, She's very pretty. At the advice of the funeral director, Anthony had the newspaper insert a headshot of Delaney next to her obituary. Pure coincidence, God's intervention according to them, had led these assholes here.
"Where's your partner, the one with the wrinkled suit?"
"He's not here, Anthony."
"Don't say my name."
The man squatted in front of him. Anthony could kick him in the crotch with almost no effort. The dread Anthony had first discovered when staring into this man's eyes did not return; instead, anger began to stir inside him. There was something off about this man, perhaps even something dangerous, but Anthony didn't care. He was crashing Delaney's wake.
"God sometimes speaks to me."
What more proof was needed of the man's instability: the really dangerous freaks always claimed a direct link with the man in the clouds.
"He led me to your house. You live in a gated community and the guards would never let us in but last Saturday morning when we drove past on our way to a more accessible development, the gate was open and the guard was gone. It was a sign. We parked in the street and walked your community. We walked right to your house. God led us there."
"You expect me to believe that?"
The man shook his head. His blue eyes were almost impossibly clear. "I don't expect you to believe anything, not yet. Your mind is too cluttered with grief."
"Cluttered?" Anthony's voice peaked to an unacceptable octave for a viewing and several heads turned. "My daughter is dead."
"God led me to you for a reason. This is the reason. You need Him."
Anthony laughed; he couldn't help it. "That's how He works, right? He punishes you, takes your kid away, and then says, come to me. I'll make it all better. He's a con artist."
The man's face did not waver. "'Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.' Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you."
That sounded so familiar and then Anthony remembered. "Got those pamphlets memorized, I see."
"It's the truth. I knew you would need His help because He led me to you. That's all I can do. I am His messenger."
Anthony leaned forward, their faces only inches apart. "Message delivered. Now get the fuck out of here before this gets ugly."
"You have so much hate. He can help you. Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday. It is the day Jesus broke bread for the final time. It is the Last Supper. It could have been a time of despair, but it wasn't, because Jesus knew He would rise again. He was empowered, and you can be empowered, too. You just have to give it a chance. You don't have to believe, Anthony, you only have to be willing to believe. Tomorrow night. We want you to join us."
Somehow the man's words calmed Anthony's anger. While the man spoke and those blue eyes stayed focused on Anthony, the aggression that had been boiling up receded, leaving his limbs rubbery. If Jesus had existed and the Last Supper really happened, it would be perfectly apropos to join in the commemoration because Anthony was at his own last supper. When Delaney was put in the ground tomorrow, with her would be buried Anthony's hope. The ultimate loss of innocence. Could a bunch of Bible worshippers actually give him back that hope?
"We only want to help," the man said. "He wants to help you, Anthony."
"I told you not to say my name," Anthony said. He could have easily thrown his arms around this man and wept when only a moment ago he was preparing to fight him. He was trying to be tough, but he only wanted comfort. Dr. Carroll had warned about the emotional roller coaster that followed death, especially that of a child.
"Just think about it and search your heart. Bring your family if you want or come alone. God will help you. He will empower you. Your family is not destroyed. You have a lovely wife and two wonderful sons."
"What about my sons?"
"I read of them in the obituary."
"You saw them. Outside." The ire flushed through him again.
"They're good boys." The man's smile betrayed something from his eyes. That smile revealed true intent, harm even.
"Anthony," Stephanie said with alarm in her voice, "is everything okay? Who is this man?"
"Where's your partner?"
"I told you, he's not---"
"You son of a bitch," Anthony said so evenly and with gravity that Stephanie backed away and even Mr. Blue Eyes blinked. The man's partner, the short stocky guy with the wrinkled suit and the uneven gaze in his eyes, entered the viewing room, his arm draped over Brendan's shoulders. A small smile teased at Brendan's lips.
That's what broke the camel's back, of course---that smile.
Anthony stood and while the squatting man was trying to explain that everything was okay and that there was no reason to be upset, he shoved the man and stormed right for the stocky guy. The guy was shorter than Anthony but a good thirty pounds heavier. He probably played football in high school whereas Anthony had played tennis. Even so, getting the drop on somebody always offered the advantage.
Someone screamed, more of a startled gasp than a scream but it was enough to turn the stocky guy's attention away from Brendan and toward Anthony. Had that woman not uttered anything, Anthony would have gotten the full advantage of a surprise attack, but as it was he knocked the man off his feet and into the wall. His head bounced off the wall, narrowly missing the white legs of an elderly woman who was next in line for the kneeler. She jumped out of the way and tripped on someone else. She crashed to the floor amid many startled shouts as Anthony grabbed the stocky guy's black tie.
This guy had been alone with his son saying who-only-knew-what nonsense. Maybe just Bible shit but maybe something worse. The hit against the wall had glazed the man's eyes but behind that dazed expression pulsed something not right, something uneven, as he had originally labeled it. This guy had watched him surreptitiously while Delaney joked about no one liking his breakfast. This man had smiled real big, the grin of someone who reads the newspaper to count how many sinners were killed in a day's daily murders, and said, Your daughter. She's real pretty.
"What were you doing with my son? You cocksucker! What did you do to my daughter? What the fuck did you do to my Delaney?!"
The screams pushed everyone back but not for long. Anthony's fists pummeled the man's face over and over until blood streaked his eyes and mouth and Anthony wasn't sure if the blood was from the guy's face or his own knuckles scraping the wall after each hit. Screaming near gibberish, Anthony wouldn't relent until two people grabbed him by the arms, pulled him off the Bible-thumper and pinned him to the floor.
It was an hour later when, after washing the blood from his knuckles (they were undamaged though swollen and throbbing), Anthony looked for Brendan and couldn't find him. He couldn't find Tyler, either. And no one had noticed them leave. Least of all Chloe, whose drug stupor had kept her immune to her husband's outburst.
Usually, images and thoughts flooded his brain and the only way he could hone in on something was to start writing. He had explained this problem, at least in part, to Dr. Carroll in October: "All these images crowd my head, each fighting for attention . . . and they're all about bad stuff--like death." Dr. Carroll nodded, told Brendan his thoughts were perfectly normal and natural, and then gave him Pilly Billie, which helped, but it had really only shone him the way to engage with his thoughts, not how to manage them.
Pilly Billie opened the paper (he wasn't sure what he meant by that but it was the only way to explain how, after swallowing his daily pill, the disparate thoughts drifted to the margins of his mind and he could focus clearly and precisely on one thing). Once he put pen to paper, it seemed Pilly Billie was unnecessary--writing was its own kind of drug. The pill gave him access to his imagination, but the writing (Detective Bo Blast and his endless quest for The Darkman) kept him focused and, though he'd hate to admit it at times like these, happy even when the world was going to shit. He might even be able to do without the pill, but it was unlikely Dr. Carroll would have him stop: the doc was big on pills; he had been keeping Mom drugged up for a month now.
Watching Delaney's dead body in a coffin had pushed away all of Brendan's thoughts--well, almost all of them. It was a protective measure, no doubt, and stronger than even two Pilly Billies. To let all those thoughts (You Killed Her! You Killed Your Own Sister!) have free reign would be suicide. There was no way to rationalize what had happened anyway. Brendan dropped the bowling ball and Delaney went in a casket.
Only one thought made it through the filter: Why had the gods done this to me? He had done what they wanted and in return they took away a piece of what he had been trying to protect. In school, he had read about Greek mythology and had even created a family tree. People believed in these gods for hundreds of years and some people, if his teacher, Mr. Nicholson, was to be believed, still believed in them. They were the precursors to the modern, single God. Mr. Nicholson had presented mythology like an amusing anecdote in mankind's history. Many people believed the stories, he told them, but certainly not everyone, especially not the educated class. That was a cop-out. Mr. Nicholson hadn't read the book Brendan kept under his bed. Brendan thought about bringing it in to show him; they could discuss the real meaning of mythology, the real practices these "educated" people performed. Why was the idea of numerous gods so unbelievable but the notion of a single, all-powerful deity completely plausible? Didn't it make more sense that many gods conspired to create the world the way it was? Such talk would probably send him to Guidance or, heck, even in The School Psychologist's Office.
Brendan believed in many gods (even if he knew it meant others would recommend counseling) and belief was the magic ingredient that opened you up to blessings from on high. The gods demanded obedience and sacrifice, and Brendan gave them both, but still they had taken Delaney. Perhaps some kind of cruel joke. Were the gods, even now, laughing somewhere above him in the sky? Mr. Nicholson referred to the gods as "capricious," which meant they were constantly changing their minds, bestowing favor on one person and then removing it without cause to place it upon another. Had that been what happened? The gods simply changed their minds and---oops---Brendan killed his own sister? Was there no fairness? No sense of obligation from the gods to a dutiful servant?
When Brendan read the following passage from Finding God: a History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man's Destiny, he almost brought the book to Mr. Nicholson and risked a trip to Guidance or The School Psychologist:
All rudimentary religions are founded on the cornerstone of polytheism, the belief in numerous gods. Whether this be from the Aztecs through the Romans or even the Native Americans (and their belief of spirits in all things--pantheism), the existence in multiple gods, each ruling a separate sector of the natural world and, presumably, the world beyond, is irrefutable as a belief common in early civilizations. To Man, it only made sense that multiple gods held dominion over the world--there was just too much for one god alone.
Brendan didn't show that passage to anyone, but the top of that page was folded and the passage underlined and placed in crooked brackets, so he could access it the moment he needed support for his beliefs.
He still had a lot left to read. He ought to do that; maybe there was an answer in there somewhere.
Mom was asleep on one of the puffy chairs and Dad in the other was shaking everybody's hand and thanking them for coming. People offered Brendan and Tyler a nod or two and a mouthed, I'm so sorry, but no one really spoke to either of them. They were the living counterparts to the body in the coffin and as such were like rare artifacts that should be left undisturbed for fear of shattering. Brendan saw the fear in the eyes of the mourners when they glanced his way; they were too scared to say anything because saying the wrong thing might make Brendan or both he and Tyler erupt into an uncomfortable display of grief. People cried at funerals, sure, but men, even boys, were supposed to keep those emotions under control. Tyler had cried during the first showing but Brendan hadn't felt the urge. He was too confused to give in to the rising tide of pain. He had to figure this out first.
It was a complex math problem. He'd need time to unravel this mess. Grief and guilt would hinder him, like chains. He needed freedom from emotions to find an answer to his sister's death. He needed to focus. He had taken Pilly Billie, but that was hours ago, and Pilly started to wear off usually after lunch and by this time was almost nonexistent. If he could write, that might help, but Tyler had his composition book and Dad would probably say it was rude or something, writing at his sister's wake.
Tyler leaned close to him. "You want to hop outside for a bit?"
Brendan nodded. Tyler said something to Dad and then tugged at the sleeve of Brendan's suit and Brendan followed him through the people gathered outside the Death Room (Dad said it was actually called the Viewing Room, but Death Room sounded more appropriate), and finally outside onto a wooden porch that wrapped around the funeral home. The house was old and the paint was peeling in places on the railing. It was the type of house that creaked no matter where you stepped. Did the funeral people live here, hidden away upstairs somewhere?
Brendan followed his brother to the corner of the porch looking over the parking lot. Almost every spot was filled. Tyler gripped the railing with both hands and leaned back to stare at his shoes. He was going to say something about Brendan's composition book. Brendan knew when he returned to the bowling alley (after You Killed Your Sister!) that Tyler had taken it, fallen for the bait. Had he realized it was a trick? Did he think Brendan was hiding something?
"This is so fucked," Tyler said. The words ached with the pain he had displayed during the first viewing. Not only was Delaney dead, Mom in a drug-coma, Dad depressed, but Tyler was overwhelmed with grief, too. Brendan had wanted to protect his family, and look what happened.
"I'm sorry."
Tyler glanced at him from under his arm. "For what?"
Brendan shrugged. He couldn't confess. That was insane. He'd end up in jail or at least in some psychiatric center. Dr. Carroll would probably keep him loaded with all kinds of drugs, maybe even operate on his brain. A lobotomy, it was called. He'd never be able to tell anyone and certainly no one in his family. They'd never forgive him, regardless of Brendan's good intentions.
The cops had tried to get the truth but Brendan said he never left the bowling alley and that satisfied them. Why would he leave? Why would he want to drop a bowling ball off an overpass? Brendan cried for Delaney and the cops told him to relax. That was it. Detective Bo Blast would not have been so easily fooled.
"It's not your fault," Tyler said. "You know that, right?"
"I guess." It was the gods'.
Tyler paused, thinking. "I just can't believe she's gone. And I spent the morning making fun of her at breakfast. They say you should never say anything you don't mean because people could die at any second and you'd be left with the guilt of what you last said. It's nobody's fault but we still feel guilty. Least I do."
Though sincere, Brendan sensed that this was the setup for something. His brother was the one, after all, who taught him all he knew about tricking people. Duplicity was the vocabulary word for it.
"Who would do this? Drop a fucking bowling ball onto the highway. You'd have to be crazy, right?"
"Right."
"And isn't that really just fucked. The bowling ball, I mean?"
Tyler waited but Brendan had no response. Was this the duplicitous moment? Better to remain silent, just in case.
"Fuck, Brendan. You were bowling and I left you there and at the same time some wacko got it in his head to drop a bowling ball off a bridge not two miles away. That's what I mean. Makes you wonder."
"Yeah." That sounded noncommittal enough.
Tyler was shaking his head. "The ball was probably from that alley. I bet it is. The police figure that out and I won't be surprised. The sicko might even have been there at the same time, could have walked right past us. That can't just be a coincidence. Right?"
Would the police really track the ball back to the alley? Could they get fingerprints off of it? Brendan had been smart enough not to use his own ball but he had forgotten to wear gloves or use the sling. They would have confronted him. They wouldn't wait on information like that. Would they?
"I don't know."
Tyler let go of the railing and knelt in front of him. "You're only twelve, but you're smart, so stay with me on this, okay? You know what I'm saying, I see it in your eyes. Don't be afraid. Shit is going down, that's all. This is not your fault. It's mine."
Was this a trick to pry out a confession? "What do you mean?"
"I did something I shouldn't have and this . . . bitch is trying to punish me or something. I didn't really do anything that bad, either. She's just crazy. Not really her, anyway, but her mother. Crazy psycho."
Brendan had not been prepared for a reverse confession and he almost blurted out how he had overheard the cell phone conversation Friday night. He wanted his brother to know that no matter what happened or didn't (fucked up real bad with that weird bitch), he would stand beside Tyler and do whatever he could to help. Tyler would laugh, of course--the notion of a twelve year old doing anything really helpful was hilarious--but Brendan could explain about the gods and . . . but that would lead back to Delaney and the bowling ball.
"I can't tell Dad," Tyler said. "He might have a heart attack or something, surprised he hasn't already. He's so stressed you can see it in his face, way he keeps grinding his teeth. Probably doesn't realize it. I tell him and that'll be it. We'll be back here for yet another fucking funeral show. I just can't believe she's gone. And it's my fault."
Tears gathered in his eyes. What had his brother done? It was probably something to do with drugs or alcohol or maybe vandalism. He cut some (weird bitch) lady's tires and now she was out for revenge. Tyler thought this woman was somehow responsible for Delaney's death. If Brendan didn't set him straight, didn't confess, Tyler was bound to do more stupid things. Right?
What if this was all part of the gods' will?
"It's just something that happened," Brendan said and enjoyed how adult that sounded.
"Yeah." Tyler wiped his eyes. A green two-door car bumped over the sidewalk into the parking lot. "Shit." The car parked at a strange angle behind two other cars and Tyler's friend Paul stepped out of the driver's side. He was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. He hadn't come for the wake. "I'll be right back. Stay here."
Tyler went down the porch steps, jumped over hedges lining the walkway, and joined Paul. After a few moments, Tyler threw up his hands and then linked them on his head like he was being arrested. While Paul spoke, Tyler paced back and forth. While walking, Tyler faced Brendan for just a moment but it was long enough to read the expletive slipping from his mouth.
Brendan went down the stairs, past people who were talking about what a tragedy this was, how horrible it was that such things happened, and headed for the parking lot. He was about to cut through the bushes when a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. The guy owning that hand was short but wide and wearing a black suit with wrinkles like veins running all over it. He could have been wearing shoulder pads, really large shoulder pads.
The man smiled large, almost comically so. "You're Brendan."
"Yeah?"
The guy must have put a gallon of gel in his hair and yet several strands of hair squirmed off his head like worms. His teeth were impossibly white; he must use those white-strips they advertise on television. Maybe he was wearing some now. "I'm very sorry for your loss. Your sister was very pretty."
"Okay." The guy hadn't removed his hand and Brendan tried to throw mental clues to the people walking past them that this guy might be a creeper. No one even glanced at them. Too busy talking about what a tragedy this was.
"You must be upset," the man said.
Brendan glanced over his shoulder. Tyler was getting into Paul's car. A moment later, they sped out of the parking lot, barely missing a head-on crash with a lady in a blue Town Car. So much for discovering what Tyler had done. Fucked up real bad could mean any number of things. "I should go back inside," Brendan said as calmly and evenly as he could. He couldn't let on that this guy and his super-wide smile with bright white teeth was making Brendan's pulse race.
"It is a horrible thing, but out of this can come something wonderful. Don't let this tragedy destroy how you see the world, how you see God." He squeezed Brendan's shoulder. In his other hand, the man held a Bible. At least a Bible preacher was better than a kidnapper.
"I don't see God anyway," Brendan said. "I don't see any of the gods."
The man's smile wavered for just a moment. "Gods?"
"Yeah, like Zeus and those guys."
"You believe that?"
"Why not?" Brendan felt smug talking this way to an adult. The man was a Bible thumper (Dad's phrase), anyway, so it didn't matter how Brendan treated him. The Williams family was not buying any Bibles or the God that came with the order.
The man knelt on one knee. He was shorter than Brendan now, but his shoulders and chest loomed large like the front of a big pick-up truck, the kind with a steel grille. "Do you know The Commandments?"
"Don't kill, steal, or curse at your parents."
Brendan had intended this as a laugh but the man showed no appreciation for his flippantness. "You're forgetting the First Commandment: Thou shall have no other gods before me."
"You ever think that maybe there are tons of gods but they're all part of one bigger god? Like all the gumballs in a gumball machine are individual gods but the machine is a single god made up of the others." He was paraphrasing the book and it sounded beyond adult; it was brilliant. He wished someone had recorded it because he was already forgetting what he said.
"You're a bright boy. That is quite an interesting idea and I must admit I've never thought about it that way before. But God is not one gumball or many in a machine; He is the all-powerful, the empowered. He can make magic. Do you believe in magic?"
"You mean like changing water to wine?" He had seen that in one of those religious cartoons sometimes played on PBS.
"I mean like awakening the soul. You know how depressed you feel right now, how hurt, like the pain is buried inside your heart? God can release that pain. He can free it from you. I know because He freed me from my pain."
"My sister died. People die. That's what happens." Something hurt inside him as he said those words.
"Do you know the story of Jesus and Lazarus? In it, Jesus brings back to life a man who has been dead for several days. Jesus simply says, 'Lazarus, Come Forth' and the man does."
What was the point of wasting so much time on Brendan when Dad was right inside? What did this guy want? Brendan knew how to get rid of him, or at least annoy him. "Then why can't Jesus bring my sister back to life?"
"He can."
That made Brendan pause.
"How?"
"If you believe in Him, even after you die, you will live forever."
"In the clouds? Floating around and whatever?"
The smile wavered again, but just for a second, and his right eye blinked. Was that a signal or a twitch?
"Did your sister believe?"
"In cloud-floating?"
The man took his hand from Brendan's shoulder, finally, and gripped his Bible with both hands. The hand still felt like it was there on his shoulder, pressing down with invisible weight.
"Do you know the story of Abraham and his son Isaac? God told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, Abraham's only son, to Him as a sign of complete devotion. Abraham and Isaac went to the place God had commanded and gathered sticks to create a fire. While doing this, Isaac asked his father where the lamb was that God wanted scarified. Abraham told him that God would provide a lamb. Can you imagine the terror Isaac must have felt when Abraham tied him up and laid him upon the pile of sticks? Of course, when Abraham raised the knife over his son, an angel appeared and told him to stop, that God was pleased by his sign of devotion.
"Or the story of Job? Job was a devout believer and one day Satan told God that Job was only a believer because his life was so good. God gave the devil permission to ruin Job's life. Job's sons are killed, his farmland destroyed, his cattle slaughtered. His body is infected with oozing boils and excruciating illnesses. And through all this pain, Job contends that we can not accept the good things from God and refuse the bad. He refuses to turn his back on God and in return God ultimately empowers him with an even more blessed life than he had known. People say this story shows why we must be obedient to God, do what he says. But that's not the real reason. Think about these two stories. What do you think the point is?"
Brendan had forgotten how creepy this guy seemed or how his large hand had felt like it was crushing his shoulder. The story of Abraham and Isaac grabbed him and he imagined how scared the kid must have been when his father tied him up and prepared to kill him. He imagined what Job must have felt when everything he valued died and his body became a breeding ground for all sorts of horrible diseases. Brendan hated having a cold, never mind boils spewing puss all over his body. Yet, in those stories, Brendan also found a common link, like a jigsaw puzzle piece that fit in two puzzles.
"God can do whatever He wants," Brendan said.
The man's gray eyes softened. "You are a perceptive boy. And very special, no doubt." The eyes hardened again, like a coating hiding something on the inside. "God can do whatever He wants, and His will is often unfair."
Capricious, Brendan thought.
"He may demand a sacrifice and then rescind it or He may take and take whatever He wants before ever giving something back. He may never give anything back. He can be cruel, unjust. He took your sister. That was cruel, perhaps unfair. But perhaps she was a sacrifice God demanded. Do you think it's possible that God has a plan so complex that we can never possibly understand it?"
The bowling ball slipping from his hands, the shattering windshield, the car smashing the tree, the bumper stickers on the back: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.
"God takes," the man continued, "but He does give. You just have to ready your heart to receive. There is much more to tell you about His power and the great works of Jesus Christ the Empowered, of course. But there is no point unless you think there is a possibility that your sister did not die in vain, that there was a reason for her death, for her sacrifice. Do you believe in that possibility?"
He didn't need a moment to answer: "Absolutely."
The man stood, draped an arm over Brendan's shoulders.
A few minutes later, the man was on the floor near Delaney's coffin, blood slicking across his face as Brendan's father punched him again and again until two people dragged him off.
They were in Paul's car, speeding away from the funeral home when Paul finally told him what had been going on at school all week.
"She's one psycho bitch."
"What happened?"
"I thought you were nuts, saying that shit about her mother, the blood and whatever, but you must be telling the truth."
Was Sasha walking around school in all black waving a bottle of blood and shouting how her mother had cursed Tyler Williams for raping her in his car Friday night? Maybe she posted the newspaper article about Delaney's death on the bulletin board next to the announcements about track practice and the PTO Bake Off and scribbled on it that her death was only the beginning. More blood would spill until Tyler admitted what he did and begged forgiveness. Then she'd sever his penis and store it in a jar in her basement where she and her mother worshipped their evil gods.
"What is it? What is she doing?"
Paul laughed, turned to him. "She says you two are in love."
"What?" He actually meant to say, What are you fucking joking because you better be, but the shock limited Tyler to one-syllable exclamation.
"Yeah, man. She's been walking around all week saying you and her are true love and shit. She's got a heart up in her locker with your picture on it from last year's yearbook. At least that's what the girls been saying. She's whacked out. She walks around with a stupid smile on her face and, ha ha, she's already talking about prom. You guys are getting a stretch limo, I hear."
"Bullshit. This is a joke, right? Trying to lighten my mood?"
"I wish I was. She's nuts. She told Patti Holt that you practically proposed to her on Friday and she just couldn't resist how sweet you were."
"Did she say we . . . you know."
"Fucked? Not exactly, but people are putting things together. You're not there to defend yourself, so the rumor mill churns and churns. By next week, everyone will think you two got married in Vegas or something."
"What is up with her?" He was staring out the window, vaguely aware that Paul was driving toward Sky View Estates. "You taking me home?"
"Your father got beers?"
"Maybe. Why?"
Paul laughed again. "You think he'll notice we take a few?"
Tyler said he doubted it considering how out of it his dad was, but they couldn't drink them all and get drunk; he had to go back to the funeral home before the viewing ended. There was some kind of coffin-closing ceremony or something.
"Of course."
At the gate, Tyler nodded to Michael the weekday guard and he pressed a button to open the gate. Did Michael know about Delaney? Did he even care? The community was as empty and lifeless as usual. Some of their neighbors were at the funeral home but most of these people were strangers. Even if they read the obituary page, they probably didn't realize the dead girl used to live among them.
Paul downed half of one Sam Adams in a single gulp. Tyler sipped his beer, which tasted bitter like it had been sitting past its freshness date. He didn't care too much for beer; it reminded him of fat guys who ate pork rinds. Whenever he and Paul wanted to get really trashed, they hit up Value Liquor, where the ninety-year-old woman who owned the place never checked ID and they could buy a bottle of Wild Turkey Rare Breed and then slip off into the woods and finish it between the two of them. Dad probably knew of these occasional drink trips to the woods, he'd have to be stupid not to smell the whiskey burning off Tyler's tongue, but he never said anything.
"Everybody is asking me what you have to say," Paul said and belched.
"What do you mean? She's nuts. We're not in love, we're not going out, we're not anything. We fucked but that's it. A one-time thing. That's all. Better not even spread that around, though. Just say I took her on a date but she weirded me out and we never did anything and now she's out of her skull."
"Nobody is going to rag on you for fucking her. She's alright. Except for that snaggletooth. I'll tell them you duct-taped her mouth shut just to be safe, didn't want to get mauled."
"What does she think is going to happen?" Tyler was thinking aloud. "I'll come back and say, 'yeah, we're together'? She think it's going to be beautiful with roses and shit. And prom? What the fuck is wrong with her?"
"You sure can pick 'em."
"You told me to go for it."
"Yeah, but not to make her fall in love with you."
Tyler sipped his beer, smiled. "What can I say? I'm just that good."
"Yeah, right. More like that desperate."
Tyler touched his face where the blood had splattered. . . . sack rice . . . luff chide . . . "It could be worse. She could be spouting all that rape shit. That'd be worse. Right?"
Paul hesitated, downed his beer to the last drop. "There's something else."
"Ah, fuck, what?"
"Well, this isn't coming from her mouth to my ears. This is one of those round about things. This girl said that this girl heard such and such and so on. Okay? This isn't necessarily anything, so don't freak. Could be rumors, probably all it is."
The beer tasted metallic and sloshed in his stomach like oil on ocean waves. "What?"
Paul admired his empty beer bottle. "She says she's pregnant."
Tyler almost dropped the beer bottle but part of him had known this was where it was going and he squeezed the bottle instead. Lightheadedness threatened to crumple him to the floor and little black dots even peppered his vision but he ground his teeth and breathed in forcefully as if preparing to lift something heavy. He held the air in his lungs, focused on it.
"This is seriously fucked. If she's---"
He exhaled the air with the vocal force of an orgasm (like the one that impregnated the weirdo bitch). "I have to talk to her. Now."
"Whoa." Paul put down the empty bottle and held up his hands. "You have to think rationally. Thinking fast and acting stupid got you in this mess. We go over there and then what? She's all happy and everything you came to see her and shows you her sonogram?"
"She had a sonogram?"
"Fuck, what do I know? This is all shit I heard. It might be a lie."
. . . sack rice . . . luff chide . . . Sacrifice and . . . luff chide?
"No, it's not."
"The odds of her getting pregnant, I mean it was your first time. Jesus. Of all the fucked-up luck. Is it even possible for her to know so soon?"
"You remember anything about Bio? I don't."
. . . luff chide . . .
"I told you about her mother, how she slipped into the room whispering something and then splashed that blood on me. I told you I couldn't make out what she had said, but I know now. She said sacrifice and love child."
"Love child? That sounds like a hippie thing."
"No, it sounds like a fucking curse."
"She's not a real witch. Just some psycho."
"I didn't tell you everything." Tyler filled him in about the rest of the events on Friday night. He explained how angry Sasha had been, how she threatened to call the police and tell everyone at school that he raped her. But how, upon exiting the car, she had mumbled, "Mother is not going to be pleased." Who said things like that? And, finally, he told Paul about the figure in the window that night whose mouth had been opening closing in silent words. Maybe that hadn't happened (just a dream), but he saw it so well in his mind that he couldn't deny it. Each time Tyler said something as if it was a piece of evidence in a trial, Paul said, "Yeah, but . . . ," and couldn't finish his retort. Tyler replayed the experience in Sasha's bedroom on Saturday, how she had been both come-hither like and also reserved, like she had a split personality.
"She cursed me and you don't have to believe it but it's true."
"There's no such thing as witches and curses. That stuff is for horror movies and stupid kid stories."
"Well, maybe it is, mostly, but maybe also there's a chance that all that hocus pocus shit does work and, under the right circumstances, can work. She cursed me for what I did."
"Fucking her?"
"Raping her!" His head started swimming again and he had to sit down. He inhaled and exhaled deeply several times. "I did. I raped her. Doesn't matter if I didn't hear her say no. She said it and I kept going. I'm guilty."
"Bullshit."
"Her mother knew something was wrong because of how Sasha looked getting out of my car, crying and shit. She cursed me."
"With a baby?"
"Sacrifice love child. I didn't catch it all. She probably said something like sacrifice this man because he wronged my love child. The love child is Sasha. The sacrifice is me." He stabbed his chest with his beer bottle and some splashed out of the top and spilled on the floor.
"Relax. Your dick didn't fall off, did it?"
"She's not doing stuff to me," Tyler said. "She's doing it to my family."
After a moment, Paul's eyes went wide. "You think she killed Delaney?"
"I don't know." He gulped the rest of his beer in increasingly bitter swallows. "But I have to find out."
\*
Paul assured Tyler he was fine to drive (Tyler didn't really care; he just asked repeatedly to try to calm himself) and belched three nasty beer burps in the car as proof that he had digested the Sam Adams.
"If it's a curse, why is Sasha parading around school about how you two are so much in love?"
Tyler hadn't found a satisfying answer to that yet except the obvious one that she was nuts. "If she's really pregnant then she's trying to trick herself into believing some kind of fairy tale scenario."
"Do you think she knows what her mother is doing?"
Sasha had cried for him to wait and not run away after the incident with her mother; she had wanted to explain. Or so it seemed. She might have only wanted him to stay longer so her mother could administer more spells. "She must."
"But if she is pregnant why would she want her child's future aunt to die?"
Tyler hadn't thought that far ahead. "I can see why you're in advanced math. This must be like some 'If Then' statement to you."
"Logically, it doesn't make any sense."
"She's fucked in the head. You said so. Her mother's a witch, there's no telling how she'll respond to anything."
Paul drove onto the road leading into the hilly lands of Hidden Hills Community. "Good old Trailer Trash Town," Paul said. "Always the sign of a good girlfriend."
"Fuck you."
"Just as long as you don't rape me."
Tyler wasn't in the mood to laugh. He had to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn't be abrasive or she'd back off and he couldn't try to trick her (pretend he loved her) because he'd probably get himself in more trouble, end up with more blood on him.
"Want to show me where your love child was conceived?"
Tyler started to tell him to shut up again and stopped. Love child. Had Sasha's mother been referring to the baby now inside of Sasha? How could she have known so quickly? Or had she cast a spell for a baby to appear? That sounded crazy and really unlikely, but still . . . It didn't matter, though, the sacrifice part made sense. Delaney had been sacrificed as punishment. His dead sister was proof that something really fucked up was going on.
"You think witchcraft is even possible? Like casting spells?" Tyler asked.
"You got me driving out here and it better not be to show off your pregnant girlfriend."
"But you don't, right? Believe?"
"In witches on broomsticks and magic potions? As you said, I'm in advanced classes, not one of those morons in the tech program. Ask one of those kids and they'll probably whip out a voodoo doll or something."
"You think Delaney's just a coincidence? I was at the bowling alley for God's sake. Someone was there and took a ball and killed my sister."
"How would they even know when she was going to cross under that bridge?"
"She's been going to SAT Prep for weeks. Someone could have been clocking her."
"Your brother's on Ritalin or some shit, yeah?"
"So?"
"Take some. You're getting all paranoid. If someone had been following her, writing down at what time she did what then how could that even relate to some evil curse a psycho bitch conjured? It doesn't make sense. You need to take this slow. We shouldn't have come here. You're bound to do something stupid."
"Careful around this curve. It's coming up. There it is."
He stopped the car at the foot of their grass yard, almost exactly where Tyler had been when Sasha's mother watched from the downstairs window.
"Not exactly the boogeyman's house."
No lights were on upstairs and a red light was flickering again in the same downstairs window, which did create a certain spookiness, but the bright white porch light was on and it nearly washed out the red flashes. Just another house among hundreds, maybe thousands. How many other people in this neighborhood believed in witchcraft and even practiced it? Did Sasha's mother participate in a coven?
"Her light's not on."
"She's probably slaughtering the family cat in the basement."
"Not funny."
"Are you going to wait all night?"
"You said this was stupid and I'd do something rash."
"No, I said you are acting rash and bound to do something stupid."
"But you want me to go anyway?"
"No point in doing something stupid if no one is around to watch."
"Thanks." Tyler got out of the car.
He stood in the dark with the red light beckoning to him from the downstairs window in Morse Code fashion. What was the translation? Welcome back. Are you scared? Do you want to run away? Don't you dare. You think your sister's death was bad, just wait to see how bad this can get. Turn away now and you'll see just how ugly this can be. You've been chosen and now you've got to embrace it.
The bright light above the porch had no secret voice attached. Tyler walked toward it and tried not to glance at that red window, which he did every other step. He had to get his thoughts straight. He couldn't start fumbling with his words the way he had feared he would with Sasha's bra. He had to be cool and focused with just the right amount of conviction. He had to make her fear him but not so much so that she was genuinely frightened. She'd probably ask Mommy to conjure another spell.
He waited at the front door for several seconds before knocking. The last time he had been here he hadn't known what to expect and ended up with blood on his face. This time, he still didn't know, but he wasn't about to be taken by surprise.
After the next knock, the door swung wide so suddenly that Tyler stepped back to the edge of the top step and had to waggle his arms like a cartoon character to prevent falling backwards. Sasha's mother stood in the doorway, bathed in black. The red light from the downstairs flickered over the side of her face. Her long hair was as it had been on Saturday: dangling in clumps around her face. Darkness masked her eyes, though her nose jutted from the shadows like a thick worm protruding from the soil. The porch light was angled toward Tyler like a spotlight, distorting Sasha's mother even more.
Tyler cleared his throat in dramatic fashion, hoping that would break the tension and give him more confidence, but instead it only made him realize just how unwise this decision had been. He should have listened to Paul. What could he say? I need to talk to your psycho daughter. And oh, by the way, what was with that blood you threw in my face? Better yet: I know you cursed me, so take it off before I have to get nasty with you, ma'am.
"Is Sasha here?" he asked.
A low moan dropped from the woman like smoke rolling off a fire.
"Excuse me?"
The moan morphed to a growl that stretched out and out. She was preparing to cast another spell. He squinted at her sides but the darkness hid her hands, hid in fact most of her body, like she was merely floating in the doorway and her body was somewhere else. Downstairs, perhaps, stuck in a trance before some evil altar. She was in the middle of some kind of out-of-body experience. She could kill him and wake up to find his body on her front porch with no memory of what had happened. Some evil spirit was using her now, manipulating her to do its will.
"I need to go," he said and started down the porch steps.
"You must accept your fate," she said in a voice full of dirt.
He stopped at the bottom step, turned to her. Even more than before, she now appeared to float in the doorway. When she spoke, the red light reflected off her teeth to fill her mouth with blood.
"You did what you shouldn't have and now you must accept it or your life will not be harmonious. You will forever be unbalanced until you embrace what you have done and how you must deal with it."
Tomorrow in the sunlight or even minutes from now in Paul's car speeding away from here, this would seem ridiculous. He would laugh about Sasha's crazy mother who walked around in black robes and spoke like she was a villain in some fantasy movie. Witchcraft was a bunch of bullshit, anyway. He'd be able to tell himself that later, but right now his mind wouldn't listen. The dark had thickened and pushed in, even dimming the porch light. He had made Paul drive over here because he was convinced that this woman was somehow responsible for what happened to Delaney and now he was completely convinced. This woman might be fucked in the head, but that didn't mean she wasn't a genuine witch.
"Why did you kill my sister?"
A pause. "It has been cast. The universe will conspire for it to work."
"What? You cursed me?"
She laughed in a low, grumbling way that made Tyler's skin prickle.
"Why? Tell me why?"
The laugh grew louder.
"I didn't do anything to Sasha. She"---you raped me---"wanted it. This is not my fault."
"Fault doesn't matter now," she said. "It's too late to change anything. It has been cast."
"Uncast it, then! Take it back. Stop all this shit or you will be sorry."
No response. He had sounded far more dangerous than he felt.
"There is only one way," she said. "You must come inside."
"So you can throw more blood in my face?"
"Perhaps." Then she was gone and the doorway was empty.
He turned to Paul who had stepped out of his car and was leaning his arms on the top, head resting in his joined hands. He was having a great time watching, no doubt. Tyler gestured toward the open door. Paul shrugged and then held out one hand, palm open like a gentleman allowing a lady to cut into a line. Some help he was.
Someone had come out on the front porch of the neighbor's house, which was partially obstructed with trees that hadn't started blossoming yet. The person lit a cigarette and sat down. He had come out to watch the show and missed out. Tyler waited for a word or two from this person, a warning or something (don't you dare go in there, boy, that lady's crazy as a rabid bat), but the guy just smoked quietly. Typical night in Trailer Trash Town.
Paul waved at Tyler with his cell phone open in his hand. The small blue light from the screen was a smeared flame on the canvass of the night. Tyler touched the cell phone in his pocket, already on vibrate because of the wake, and nodded. That calmed him some. A phone was a rational thing, a logical product of a sane world. It might also be a lifeline if things turned ugly.
He went back up the steps, stopped outside the open doorway. He had been in this house in the middle of the day only a few days ago. The house was completely bland and average, at least upstairs, but now the darkness swirled and distorted the structure of the house the way fog can distort roads in the morning.
Witchcraft or bullshit, he had to go inside because he owed it to Delaney. If her death had been because of his action, then he had to right the wrong. Or punish the avenger.
He entered the house and turned toward the descending stairs where the flickering red light called to him in a secret language.
\*
This could be a trick, of course. The woman might be duping him, trying to get him into her lair so she could cast another spell or throw more blood on him or maybe cut off his dick and stick it in a jar. He took out his cell phone and opened it before him to use as a flashlight. The blue light did nothing to fight against the red pulsing from somewhere downstairs, but it comforted him. He gripped the phone a bit too tightly and clung to that blue light like it was a magic force field that would protect him. When he reached the bottom of the steps, the blue light dimmed as it was programmed to do after several seconds of non-use.
The red lights were candles flickering in a smaller version of the candle holders Catholics prayed before in church, the votive candles in small glass holders before a cross on the wall. Instead of a cross on the wall, a large picture of a naked woman was set against the far wall above the candles. The woman appeared to be floating, or flying, as bolts of lightning shot upward toward her and across her body. Three long white candles were set beneath the picture at equal distances from each other and their light reflected off the pale body of the naked woman. White flowers that looked red in the light (bleeding flowers) were set at either end of the altar, which was probably a long card table with a black sheet over it. On the sheet, a star had been painted. Had she purchased that or created it herself? Maybe she made the star using White-Out. That was an even more disturbing image than buying them off some witchcraft website. A woman crazy enough to make all this shit on her own could be the perfect person to actually figure out how to cast spells.
Sasha's mother had walked to the far corner of the room, which was empty save for the altar. Black curtains hung from the walls and even from the front window, though those were parted as if she knew he would be coming and she wanted him to watch.
He approached the altar and lowered his cell phone, but kept it open in his hand. Two metal bowls were also on top of the altar, one empty the other holding liquid that might be blood. He couldn't be sure in this light. Next to the possibly blood-filled bowl lay a white-handled knife with a long blade that had been shined to a terrific gloss.
The front door swung shut.
"Is Sasha here?"
The woman groaned as she had before, stretching it out into an impossibly long syllable. The phone in his hand vibrated. A text from Paul: U OK? Tyler wasn't sure. No one was coming down the stairs. Maybe the wind had blown the door shut. Yeah, right, wind on a windless night blowing from inside a house out.
"Are we alone?"
But the woman was lost in her perpetual groan that sounded hollow like someone screaming underwater. She moved to the altar in smooth steps that made her appear to float. She stopped before the altar and sank to both knees.
More vibration and another message: ???
He responded: wait.
"I want you to remove whatever curse you put on me."
The groan peeked and faded away like a howling wind that moved on to other places. "You do not believe," she said.
"You cursed me."
"You can not see what is really going on. You are lost in your fears."
"You said there was only one way to end this."
She nodded, faced him. The red candlelight bathed over her and deepened the smattering of dark blemishes painting her face. It could be ceremonial make up or maybe she beat herself as a sign of submission before her gods. "There is only one way, but you are not ready."
"What is it?"
"Marisa," she called, "come."
Someone was behind him so quickly that Tyler almost screamed. He backed away, hit the wall. Someone with a black blanket covering him or her like a little kid using a sheet to play ghost had appeared out of nowhere. Had this person been down here the whole time? No, of course not. That was crazy. Whoever this was had been upstairs, hiding. He or she shut the door and waited for the cue.
The black blanket was a knitted thing with thousands of small holes, which made it easy for the person to see to walk around. The feet were bare, white blots on a black lake. As the person neared the altar, the spaces in the blanket filled with stark whiteness. Before he could realize what he was seeing, the person knelt behind Sasha's mother, who stood and turned to face her, and then lay down. The black blanket pulled up high on the feminine legs, stopping just above the knees.
Sasha's mother held one of the bowls before her, dipped one hand in it, and then sprinkled the liquid over the person on the floor. While she did this, she recited something that sounded more like guttural noises, yips and grunts, than actual words.
The person on the floor spread her legs and arms to resemble an asterisk. The blanket pulled up even higher. The legs were completely bare. Was she even wearing underwear? In spite of the gooseflesh speckling his body, Tyler grew aroused.
Sasha's mother turned to him, bowl in hand. "This is the only way. You must erect a proper altar. Only then can the spell be changed."
The phone was vibrating again.
Sasha's mother bent down and pulled the blanket back, revealing her naked daughter. Sasha's body was impossibly white, now splashed with red gashes from the candles. Her large breasts hung to either side of her chest. Her hair lay splayed out from her head and her face was completely expressionless. Is that how she had looked last Friday? You raped me.
"You must be with her again," her mother said. "It is the only way."
Sasha's naked body had intensified his lustful reaction but her empty face and her mother's mottled face cooled the blood in his veins.
"I will purify you and then you will purify each other." She held out the bowl.
He couldn't step away from the wall.
"This is what you want, yes? You want it to end?"
"What did you do?"
She held the bowl over Sasha. "I did what any mother would. I protected my daughter." She overturned the bowl and the liquid splashed over Sasha's midsection, trailing down into her crotch. She made no response, as if in a trance. "This is the most powerful of all spells. You cannot fight it. The only way is to embrace it."
"What do you want from me?"
"To make my daughter happy."
"No," he said almost too quietly to hear.
She turned back to the altar. "That is too bad." She turned back around with the knife in her hand. "There is no turning back now. The altar has been consecrated and must be purified. There are only two ways. If you refuse, I must use this." She raised the knife, blade gleaming in the light as if already covered in blood.
"You're fucking crazy."
She wasn't really going to kill her daughter, was she? That made no sense, not if she wanted to protect her. But he couldn't have sex with Sasha, her mother standing over them with a fucking knife. He had been aroused before but now his dick had retreated almost inside of him. The vibrations in his pocket made him more anxious. Sasha's mother dropped to her knees next to her daughter. She held the knife in both hands now and raised it over her naked daughter.
"Only you can stop this."
He ran up the stairs so quickly he tripped on the top step and spilled into the foyer. Then he was up and prying at the door, which wouldn't open. Locked. Sasha had locked it in her trance state. She had no idea what her mother was doing. From downstairs, the low groan came again only louder this time. It echoed in the house like an earthquake. Tyler found the deadbolt, flipped it back, and was scrambling down the porch steps and the front lawn so quickly he didn't see Paul coming up the lawn and crashed right into him. They tumbled down the sloping lawn and stopped near the car.
"What the fuck man?" Paul said. "What happened? I was about to bust in there."
"This is fucked beyond fucked. We need to leave, now."
"What is it?"
"Now!" Paul got in the car.
The neighbor was still on the porch, the red light of the burning cigarette floating in the dark. Racing over the hills and maneuvering through the parked cars, Paul asked what had happened. Tyler couldn't tell him yet; it was too confusing. Had it all really happened? Had Sasha been naked before some witch altar? Had her mother really expected him to fuck her right there? Was she really going to hurt Sasha? He should call the police, at the very least.
"Go to the funeral home," Tyler said.
"I thought you were in trouble. Jesus."
"Still am."
When they got back to the funeral home, everyone had left and Dad was still upset. But not about Delaney.
Brendan had been kidnapped.
Stephanie had taken Chloe home after the incident. Anthony wanted to apologize to his sons, especially Brendan, who had seen the whole thing, but he couldn't find them. Neither of the funeral directors knew where he was, either. He figured Brendan was hiding somewhere, scared after his dad's violence. When he realized Tyler was gone, too, he relaxed. Tyler had taken his little brother home; that's all. At least someone was acting rationally around here. He didn't start to worry until Tyler showed up alone.
He was kneeling before Delaney's coffin, hands clasped in prayer but no prayer actually filling his head when Tyler ran into the room. Anthony had been thinking what a complete fuck-up he was, how he had managed to destroy everything in his life that was perfect. But that was bullshit. He hadn't destroyed anything. He and Chloe had loved each other more than anything when they agreed to make their arrangement legal and they swarmed their kids with love; they were the best parents they knew how to be. It was bad luck. Nothing but bad fucking luck. It was like a giant, evil troll had stepped into their lives and taken their infant son. But instead of moving on, the troll was still hungry and took Delaney, too. There was nothing either he or Chloe could have done. It was the Bad Luck Troll. When he comes for a visit, sometimes he stays for a long, long time.
"Dad?"
When Anthony turned with blurred vision to see Tyler in the doorway where so many people had tromped through during the day, he thought, Is the troll still hungry, even now?
"Where's Brendan?"
"What do you mean?"
That's when worry morphed into panic, and Anthony was up, moving towards his son as rapidly as a running back hits the defensive line. He grabbed Tyler's shoulders. "You took him home. You left here with him because of what I did. Right? He's in his bedroom right now playing with his action figures or writing in his damn composition book."
"I left with Paul. I just got back."
"Paul? What the fuck for?"
Tyler was shrinking away from his dad, genuine fear in his eyes. "I had to get away."
"You left your brother here?"
"He's almost thirteen. What happened?"
"He's gone!" Anthony shouted. "Someone took him." He pushed his son away, and Tyler nearly toppled to the floor. Anthony fell instead, collapsing again to his knees, hanging his head.
"Kidnapped?" Tyler said it so softly that the word was almost lost itself.
"I thought he was with you. Ah, shit. Get the funeral director. Call the police. Ah, fuck."
The police arrived within ten minutes but it seemed like an hour or longer. Anthony stayed on his knees in the doorway of the viewing room. Tyler kept his distance and the funeral directors never appeared. Maybe they had grabbed Brendan and were stowing him away upstairs in one of the tiny rooms that filled this Victorian house. Or worse yet, they had taken Brendan downstairs where the bodies were embalmed. They had put him on one of those shiny metal tables, tied him down, tilted the table, and sliced his throat so his blood would drain into a funnel where they could collect it in gallon jugs and look at it later.
Two cops, one with reflective sunglasses and black hair, the other with a chubby face and his hand stuck to his gun, asked questions as if this was the millionth time today a child had vanished.
"When was the last time you saw your son?" the chubby one asked.
The last time. He didn't mean it to sound so final, but that's what it was and could be: the last time. Last time alive, anyway. Anthony was shaking his head. "A few hours ago."
"And you only just called us now?" the cop with the sunglasses on said. His name tag read: Joseph Toller.
"I thought he was with my other son."
"I left with my friend," Tyler said from the other room. "I had been talking to him and then I left."
"Talking about what?"
"Nothing. Just stuff. Our sister, you know."
Toller nodded. The chubby cop was staring at Delaney, fingers adjusting their grip on his gun in case the corpse suddenly stood up. Anthony hadn't caught his name tag. Were they even real names? Anthony had read somewhere that cops never carried their real badges for fear of losing them, so maybe they wore fake names, too.
"Back in the old days, this wouldn't be much cause for alarm," Toller said, "we'd tell you to contact friends, relatives, whoever, and wait through the night. Kid probably got spooked by his dead sis and ran somewhere to hide. He'll come back. But nowadays, we do things differently."
"What do you mean?"
"Amber Alert, you heard of it?"
"You think he was kidnapped?" Anthony's reflection was distorted in the man's shades. Why was he wearing sunglasses inside? Hell, why was he wearing them outside in the dark?
"Do you think he was?"
"I don't know, I just need to find him."
"What was the last thing you said to him?"
Anthony had been punching that Jesus freak and screaming, What did you do to my daughter? What the fuck did you do to my Delaney? "I freaked out."
Toller raised his eyebrows and Chubby Cop turned toward Anthony. His name was, if tags were to be trusted, Craig Fineman. If Anthony suddenly jumped up, Fineman would probably put two in his chest before he realized what he had done. That might not be a bad way to go, if he could get Tyler to leave first.
"I overreacted."
"You hit him?" Toller asked.
"No, God no."
"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for your swollen knuckles. Punching walls? Frustration, perhaps?" Toller had a crewcut of short white hair; perhaps he had kids, even grandkids.
Yet, Anthony's dead daughter lay only a few feet away and Toller was being a prick. "No, I hit someone, this guy . . ."
. . . walked in with his arm around my son and I freaked out. He's a dangerous guy, trust me. He came to my house Saturday and he told me my daughter was pretty and now she's dead and his eyes were wrong, uneven or something, don't you see what I'm saying---that Jesus worshipper STOLE MY SON!
"This guy what?" Toller was waiting.
"I know where he is."
Fineman backed up a step, expecting a trap, perhaps. Toller leaned in, unafraid. "Oh?"
He told them as calmly as he could about the two nameless Jesus Empowerment guys who had come to his door on Saturday, how bizarre they had been. He explained how the one guy had insisted that Anthony would need the pamphlet, almost as though he knew something was going to happen. He explained the way the other one, the short stocky one, had looked, how something seemed off about him, the loose hairs, the wrinkled suit. He didn't tell them about the eyes, maybe because he couldn't see Toller's eyes and Fineman's were squinty like those of a hog, but mostly because, though he hated to admit it, he was starting to sound hysterical.
"Never heard of them," Toller said. Fineman shook his head. "You say you have a flier from them?"
"At my house."
"Perhaps we should go get it."
"Why would they take him? What do they want with my son?"
"They probably didn't take him, Mr. Williams. But we should check it out. Though I'm sure it's some type of non-threatening entity. Bunch of disenfranchised Catholics. Probably find them in a basement eating donut holes and drinking instant coffee." Toller laughed. Anthony wanted to see his eyes so badly that he almost asked Toller to remove them and then he stopped himself. He had done more than enough to appear crazy for one night.
"And if they don't have him?"
"You have a picture of your son? We'll Amber Alert it right now. Someone will spot him. Have him back to you in an hour, maybe sooner."
Anthony fished out a school photo of Brendan from his wallet and handed it over. Toller appraised it for a moment, said nothing, handed it to Fineman. A few minutes later, Tyler was driving his father back home while Toller and Fineman followed in their cruiser.
"You didn't see anything?" Anthony asked his son.
"No, Dad. I left with Paul. I didn't see anything."
"Where did you go?"
"Just driving around. Clearing my head."
"That my beer on your breath?"
"Sorry."
"Fuck it."
When they arrived at the house, Stephanie stood on the porch, waving her cell phone. Anthony hadn't even turned his on. Something had happened. Chloe overdosed. The ambulance was on the way.
Anthony jumped out of the car before the car came to a complete stop and Anthony fell to his knees. He wouldn't notice the torn holes in the pants until later after his knees stopped bleeding. He almost tackled Stephanie on the porch.
"It's Brendan," she said, eyes heavy. "He's back."
"What? Where?"
Anthony pushed past her into the house and, sure enough, there was his youngest son standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glass of milk in hand. He raised it as if in a toast. "Hi, Dad."
Rage, pure and red-hot, flared through him so immediately that he could have torn his son's head clean off and kept beating the corpse until it was tenderized, but a wave of relief washed away the rage and he went to his son, took him his arms, and hugged him as if the boy had returned from the dead. In a way, he had. Milk spilled over Anthony's back and splattered on the floor.
"Where were you?" he asked after he broke the hug.
"I'm okay." Brendan stared at the half-empty glass as if the milk had disappeared magically.
"But where were you?"
His son stared him dead-on. "I was in the woods. I ran away. I'm sorry." The boy's eyes watered and Anthony couldn't stop himself from hugging him again and even more fiercely. It was okay, he told him over and over. Brendan had gotten scared at his father's freak out, simple explanation with no harm done. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. Anthony felt a crazed laugh threatening in his throat: how many times had he heard or said that everything was going to be okay?
"Cancel the Amber Alert," Toller said from the front door. "Kid wasn't nabbed. Everything's A-Okay."
If Shakespeare was right and all that is past is prologue, then everything was not going to be okay, not even close.
\*
Sometime later when the boys were in their rooms, maybe sleeping but probably not, and Stephanie had collapsed next to Chloe in his bedroom, Anthony found the flier from the Jesus freaks. It was on the kitchen table where it had been since Saturday.
Jesus Wants you to be Empowered.
Ha. The picture of Jesus on the cross did little to inspire empowerment. How could crucifixion bring empowerment? Had Jesus wondered the same thing when the thick nails went through his wrists and feet? Had he even felt the thorns piercing his scalp? Had he believed in empowerment at that moment? Hadn't he rebelled against God at that last instant? He asked why God had forsaken him. That wasn't empowerment; that was abandonment.
The First Church of Jesus Christ the Abandoned.
Were the well-dressed worshippers in the inside picture real parishioners or actors? Maybe they had been taken from other pictures online and assembled and the Bibles had been skillfully cut and pasted into their hands. It was easier to believe that than to accept this diversified congregation of people who believed that the crucified Jesus really had experienced empowerment and wanted to pass that feeling on to others.
No matter the pain from which you suffer, the difficulties against which you struggle, Jesus wants to help. At The First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, we seek the fulfillment of God's will through an honest acceptance of our faults and a faithful inquiry into the magical workings of Jesus.
The wording was clever, persuasive. Had he been the editor charged with proofing this document he would have applauded the rhetoric. He ought to find out who had written it and offer him or her some work writing copy for college textbooks. With such persuasive skill at work, they might actually sell a few books. Anthony would have only objected to the pained Jesus-on-the-cross picture. Wouldn't it be better to have a redeemed, empowered Jesus, perhaps floating over his worshippers with an angelic glow about him?
"Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.
Anthony knew something now of burdens. He could write his own biblical book---The Gospel of Misery. For then Anthony beheld the mighty power of Misery, an angel of pain, as it fell upon him and crushed his soul, whittled away his will to live. Then he knew the mighty power that was and is and ever shall be Misery and it punished him with impunity. Anthony knew he should have repented but it was too late. In the late hour of the day, Anthony beheld the dead, or the soon to die, and wept for he had doubted the power.
It probably wouldn't catch on in churches, but he bet the people would understand it, accept it, even. They would know it because they lived it. No one lived as The Empowered; everyone, however, knew life as a victim of Misery. Jesus promised rest, but could He actually deliver?
Chloe had been resting for weeks, nearly a month, and now she would keep resting, maybe forever. Is that the rest Jesus offered? When Chloe slept, she was not free from the demons prying at her mind. Even when heavily drugged, her eyes still twitched and rolled beneath their lids. When she woke, she never spoke of what happened behind closed eyelids, and Anthony was glad for that. He didn't need any more nastiness crowding his mind. He had enough to last a lifetime.
He wasn't going to sleep tonight. He would find no rest. He went to the garage and stood in the dark for several minutes as his eyes adjusted before he flicked on the light. He had hoped to see something. When the eyes were adjusting to sudden darkness or vice versa, sometimes the unusual appeared. It was like catching a glimpse of another world, just for a second. He didn't see anything and that seemed more cruel than it probably should have been. He only wanted reassurance. He wanted to know his daughter was okay; wherever she was, he needed to know she was safe.
Chloe's red Subaru was in the second spot where it had been since that trip on Route 84 that tipped it over. He had driven it only a few times, sort of as an experiment, and found it too difficult to use. There was nothing wrong with it mechanically speaking. The tow truck driver had even marveled how the car suffered such little damage. The repair shop fixed a few dents and gave the car a tune-up and assured him it would run almost like new. And it had.
His baby had died (eye socket gushing blood) and the fucking car had survived with a few dents. In fact, the strange knocking sound the car sometimes made on left turns had vanished. Anthony buried one child but the car in which that baby died kept living. That was Gospel again: for Anthony marveled then at the awesomeness of Misery's works. "The irony and the cruelty," Anthony cried.
The few times he drove the car, he couldn't handle it. The first trip to the local grocery store had ended badly on the side of the road. During the drive, the red-and-purple stain in the passenger seat (gushing blood) had grown bigger and bigger until it soaked the entire seat. Anthony vomited his breakfast into a ditch. The next few rides brought nausea as well but he hadn't vomited. Instead, he cried so hard he had to pull over because he couldn't see the road. It wasn't the seat those times; it was the baby's crying. It filled the car, its wail echoing throughout and even drowning out the radio music blaring from the speakers.
But the baby hadn't been crying. He had been too blue---almost purple---and couldn't make a sound. He hadn't uttered a single noise from the moment they found him in the crib until the paramedics eased him out of Chloe's grasp. When the first paramedic, a woman with her brown hair in a bun, took the baby and wrapped it in a cloth, the baby had cried, a single, desperate note that hung in the air and then vanished on the wind. Chloe hadn't heard it and Anthony made no mention of it. The paramedic glanced at him and then turned away. Anthony imagined that cry, must have.
The crying in the car was that single sound over and over, dragged out, exaggerated and amplified. It pounded and reverberated. Anthony screamed against it, sobbing, and almost crashed into an elderly lady stopped at a Yield sign. Anthony pulled over and cried near somebody's bushes. He eventually called Tyler and had him come drive the car home while Anthony drove his son's. Tyler told him to see Dr. Carroll. Anthony didn't want the kind of relief Dr. Carroll and his prescription pad offered. There was no crying in Tyler's car--that was relief enough.
He wasn't going to get back into that car, hopefully ever again. It was his car he had come down here to see, visit with. It sat on two flat tires in the first car port. The windshield was completely destroyed, the crumbled pieces of glass still on the front seats and in the foot wells. The front bumper and hood was crumpled in where the car had hit a tree. The engine had given up upon impact, the mechanic said. The car was totaled, of course. But Anthony refused to let it be demolished. He paid to have it brought back here. The tow truck driver, different one from the Route 84 scene, at least---didn't ask any questions, though his face said he was mystified as all shit. Good, let him be confused. Tyler asked about the car. "My daughter died in it," was all Anthony said and that was all it took. No more questions.
He walked around the back of the car. The back end was unscathed. Even his bumper stickers---NEVER BELIEVE IN GENERALIZATIONS; EVERYBODY DOES BETTER WHEN EVERYBODY DOES BETTER---remained. They hadn't even really started to peel. Delaney had taken a bowling ball to the face going sixty miles per hour and the glue on the bumper stickers hadn't given up an ounce of strength. She hated those bumper stickers, especially, READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.
He knelt before the bumper. An array of scrapes and minor dents where paint had started peeling speckled it; the bumper was the bruised face of one of those ultimate fighters after a match. He caressed those bumper stickers that Delaney had ridiculed. She was mortified, or at least pretended to be, to have to use his car. He was going to give her this car soon, but he knew he'd have to peel off the damn stickers. They're just so . . . uhg, she said more than a few times when he pried her about what was so bad about his bumper graffiti.
The top corner of READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY was hanging loosely and Anthony grabbed it with his thumb and middle finger. He yanked on it but the tiny piece slipped from his grip. If he had taken these things off sooner, had given her the car all freshly cleaned, tuned-up, and smelling sweet, maybe things would have turned out differently. That was ridiculous, of course. How could the simple removal of stickers so substantially alter the events of the universe? They couldn't. But what about the butterfly effect thing? Tiny wings in one place create a hurricane millions of miles away. Removing a few stupid bumper stickers could have delayed Delaney just long enough on her way to pick up her friend after stopping at Starbucks for a Tall Skinny Latte (it had been found in the car); she might have knelt before the bumper as he was doing now, even run her finger across the clean bumper and smiled, knowing how badly Dad wanted her to be happy. Instead, she took no note of the stickers coming out of the coffee shop, hopped in the car, and sped off to her death.
He grabbed the corner and tried again. The sticker wouldn't budge. It might as well be painted on. He changed hands, changed back again, braced his free hand against the bumper for leverage, and pulled and pulled but it kept slipping and he had to keep starting over. He cursed, punched the bumper, and cursed again at the pain flaring in his knuckles. He sat back, breathing deeply, fighting off the tears.
He might have stayed that way all night, but the memory of those horrible infant cries in the other car got him moving.
He hadn't let Delaney take Chloe's car because he didn't want her to be able to drive too fast. What would happen if she heard the baby crying when she was driving eighty miles per hour? She might lose control of the vehicle and plow into a tree or something.
He chuckled; he sounded like a lunatic.
The driver's door had suffered a rippling dent (the insurance agent had used that term), so the plastic was warped in and out in a rolling ocean wave. The glass in this door had shattered as well. That had happened when the force of the bowling ball crushed her face against the headrest and then knocked what remained of her head into the driver's window. She had died instantly, or so people told him. There was enough blood across the front seats to suggest that at least her heart kept pumping for a little while even after she lost her face.
The door opened with a metallic screech. Pebbles of breakaway glass littered the front seats, the gear shifter and the foot wells. He didn't even consider wiping off the seat before he sat behind the wheel, which had been removed because it had collapsed onto Delaney's lap, effectively shattering her pelvis. The airbag had deployed, the insurance agent told him, but only after she hit the tree.
The newspaper article from the day after her accident lay on the passenger seat. He had placed it there without thinking much about it, except that he had to get it out of the house but couldn't throw it in the trash. TEEN DIES IN HORRIFIC HIGHWAY INCIDENT. A picture of the car mashed against the tree with a smaller inset picture of a state trooper holding the bowling ball overlapping in the corner was set in the middle of the page with the text running around it. He hadn't read the article and didn't intent to. He knew all he needed to know---his daughter was dead. He hadn't written her obituary, either, for the same reason--it wouldn't bring her back. The funeral home pieced one together; it read like an excerpt from a scholarly article. Delaney would have hated it.
The faintest aroma of vanilla and peaches, Delaney's body lotion, drifted around the heavy stink of blood and sweat. One of her hair clips lay in the passenger foot well. He picked it up and admired it like he might some ancient artifact from a mysterious time past.
He caressed the keys, a metal DW insignia hung from the key ring along with a pink rabbit's foot. And the irony gets thicker, still. He inserted the key in the ignition and turned. No response, of course. He tried the radio but the battery was dead, probably even gone. He didn't know what the rescue workers and the police had done to the car. He didn't ask. Had she been listening to her pop music on K104? Had she even been singing along, swaying her shoulders, tapping the beat on the steering wheel, when the ball met her face? Had she at least been smiling? Please God he hoped for that much. Let her have died while happy. That wasn't much consolation, but it was better than the alternative. He couldn't think of her seeing the ball for even a fraction of a second and mustering a panicked, horrified scream before dying. That wasn't fair.
And Anthony discovered, lo and behold, that God was not fair, for he had sent his angel Misery down to reap from him all that God had bestowed. The reaping was mighty and wrathful. Anthony stood before the emptiness of the world and wept because God is great.
He still held the flier for the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered. Weepy, pained Jesus stared at him as if daring him to compare their suffering. I endured more physical torment than you can possibly imagine, Jesus said, so don't start bitching to me.
Exactly, Anthony thought. Physical pain.
A shiver trickled up his back. It chilled his spine. He shook his arms to get rid of it, but the chill persisted. The hairs on the back of his neck, and all the way down his back for that matter, came alive. This horripilation was from an invisible, frozen electrical current. His mother had told him when he was a little boy that sudden bouts of unexplained coldness and the resulting gooseflesh was from a ghost walking through you. Ghosts could go wherever they wanted, even walk through people. Sometimes, she said, they wanted to walk through you for a reason. He asked what that was, and she told him with a shocked look: To communicate.
The cold chill remained like he had stepped unprotected into the burst of a winter wind. His teeth might even start chattering. With no one around, Anthony knew he could do what no rational person would. He could do it and never speak of it, ignore it outright as the silly delusions that strike all of us in the nighttime.
"Delaney?" he whispered.
The radio came on. The music rocked through the car like a shotgun blast. Instead of her pop station, it was the oldies disk stuck in the player. He wasn't old enough to have known the oldies, but his parents used to sing to them all the time and so listening to the music was a way to keep them singing.
The song was "Sleepwalk" by Santo & Johnny. Instrumentals used to be very popular at one time in America's musical history and "Sleepwalk" had been one of the bigger hits in that category. It was a soothing melody that lovers could admire the stars to (and then make out to), or slow dance to, or simply appreciate in the serenity of a dying day as the sun's light faded to dark.
Delaney and he used to dance (he trying to dance, she mocking his moves) to this tune in particular. She said all the songs on the CD were lame, but she always tolerated them whenever he offered to put on the radio. "You wouldn't like my music," she told him. "It's too cool for you." Then they'd laugh--always they'd laugh.
The song faded out and the radio died with it. The next song ("You Belong to Me") didn't come on, neither did that static that often interrupted his listening--broken speakers. Only the song and then nothing. The light from the radio's face faded to a glimmer and passed away.
That was for you, Dad.
He would never be sure if he heard Delaney say those words or if he had conjured them himself, but those five words came to him in the post-song quiet and he sobbed. The tears poured out with greater ferocity than they had at the wake or would tomorrow at the funeral. He cried and cried until all the pain had been purged and he was completely numb. He grieved for Delaney, for his family, but mostly for himself.
Sometime later, Anthony got out of the car, headed back inside and stopped. He went back to the car, stood before the destroyed hood. He was challenging faith, whatever of that he even had anymore, but he couldn't simply walk away. He wished he could go inside, drink a beer and pass out on the couch and always remember his moment in the car with Delaney playing him some song she called lame. That was for you, Dad.
Not fully aware of what he was thinking, Anthony mused, What we want, what we in our deepest hearts truly desire to be true, is not what we seek to discover. We always hunt for the scientific explanation, the true answer that will shine with the stark light of a hot summer sun and confirm for us our cynicism. We ignore our innate belief in the enigmatic; we may want the inscrutable to be true but we do all we can to debunk it, rationalize it, and explain it away. That which cannot be explained is not worth our time, yet these anomalies are glimpses into the atavistic heart of primal man, who knew no difference between ghosts and memories, miracles and thunderstorms.
Anthony opened the hood and stared into the darker corners of our vision where truth is not reality. When it comes to matters of the heart, there is no reality.
The car battery, as he suspected, was gone. The two battery cables hung loose and wide like the yearning arms of a forgotten child.
Two guys Brendan didn't know had dragged his father to the bathroom. Dad had freaked out on the guy in the wrinkled suit who had walked in with his arm over Brendan's shoulders, practically mutilated the man's face. Dad had never been violent before, not even an occasional spanking. Tyler never mentioned any well of hidden rage, either, so when Dad started pummeling the guy in the face, Brendan stood back, frozen. Someone pushed him out of the way, saying something about it not being appropriate for him to see Anthony this way. But that concern faded quickly once the bathroom door shut, and the men were safely tucked away in the bathroom. Dad's screams (rage or pain?) vibrated from inside the bathroom and conjured images in Brendan's mind of ravaged bodies in a subway tunnel.
An older lady with enough eye shadow to give her huge, hollow orbs for eyes asked him if he was alright and he assured her, whoever she was, that he would be fine, that he just wanted some time with his sister. Mentioning Delaney gave the woman pause; she nodded, said yes of course, and turned away. Instead of going to Delaney, Brendan went to the bleeding guy on the floor, who everybody was ignoring except another guy in an identical suit, but with far fewer wrinkles. This second guy was taller and slimmer, his hair perfectly gelled.
"Are you okay?" Brendan asked.
The stocky guy smiled a crescent of blood. "I'll be fine." He sucked away the blood as it started to dribble down his chin.
The tall one was wiping away the blood from a small gash on the guy's cheek. "He doesn't need stitches or anything," the man said. "He'll be just fine. Your old man's got a good arm, but he mostly took him by surprise."
"Why did he hit you?"
"Sometimes God likes to test us," the injured man said.
The tall one introduced themselves as Dwayne the bleeding one on the floor and Ellis his reluctant helper in this unfortunate turn of events. Dwayne said that if he was so reluctant he could stop wiping his face like he was some baby. Ellis told him that we were all babies in God's eyes and Dwayne said that God should be the one wiping his chin then.
They were friends, maybe close colleagues, perhaps even lovers. Brendan had never met out-and-out homosexuals before. Ellis would be the effeminate one. Dwayne was too bulky to play any role other than husband. Either way, the bickering between them made Brendan smile and he forgot for a moment his dad's wails echoing in the bathroom and all the people milling around no longer discussing the tragedy of a bowling ball and a car but of a middle aged man under incredible stress. He was bound to break at some point, they reasoned.
Dwayne was up, hunched and touching his face like it might fall off. Ellis gave him the bloody handkerchief he had been using and told him to apply pressure to the gash. Dwayne tried and recoiled at the pain.
"Let's go outside before these people start asking any questions," Ellis said.
Dwayne nodded and they started out, the crowds parting wide for them. Brendan waited a moment and followed. He trailed them at a ten-foot distance to the parking lot where Ellis helped Dwayne into a large black car with white-wall tires. He shut the passenger door and turned to Brendan.
"I am very sorry about your sister, young man. God is a wonderful giver, but he is the cruelest taker."
"Thanks." Who were these guys? Why had they come here? "Do you know my father?"
Ellis thought about that. "In a way. We were summoned to him."
"What do you mean?"
"God wanted us to intervene. So, we did."
"That's why my dad kicked his ass?"
Ellis squatted. "We saw your father last Saturday morning, a mere few hours before your sister died. Is that a coincidence?"
Brendan shrugged. How would he know? These guys had nothing to do with Delaney's death, with that damn bowling ball.
"There are no coincidences. There is only God's plan."
"You're preachers?"
He smiled. His many teeth comprised the mouth of a shark. Yet, Brendan was not scared. He was intrigued. Something about these men . . .
"Do you go to church?" Ellis asked. "Maybe with your father."
"No. We go on Christmas Eve. That's it. Catholic, I think."
"Sounds like you've lost your way."
"I thought I knew what I was doing," Brendan said, slipping into his memory of last Saturday. "I thought that things would work out, that it was what needed to be done."
"What do you mean?"
"The gods demanded a sacrifice."
"Gods?"
He should be cautious; he could offend them, might have already. Dad beat Dwayne until he bleed and now Brendan could put the icing on that cake with his mythological gods who wanted Brendan to kill someone in order to protect his family. That hadn't worked out, of course. All that capriciousness again.
"I guess I'm just really confused."
Ellis was nodding. "I marvel at your sincerity. You're a special boy."
"That's what your buddy said."
"We're from a church nearby. Do you want to see it?"
"Now?"
Alarms went off and Brendan's brain switched into CODE RED CODE RED KIDNAPPER ALERT RUN AWAY RUN AWAY. Since kindergarten, he had been taught to flee from suspicious strangers, to run like all hell if someone offered him a ride. In fifth grade, the DARE cop showed them a video from an actual sting operation in which a stranger abducted two kids off the street once he lured them to within an arm's reach of the car. Brendan had suffered nightmares for weeks. The cop warned that "anybody" could be a kidnapper, even if the person "looks nice." He hadn't said anything about priests.
"It won't take long," Ellis said.
"To a church?"
"You might find what you're seeking."
"Like what?"
"Answers."
\*
Brendan's science teacher, Mr. Cantor, once explained in class how quickly a fire can consume a house; his own house had fallen victim to a garbage can full of smoldering ashes from the fireplace. "Fire rages rapidly," Mr. Cantor said, "gobbling all the oxygen it can which, in turn, fuels the fire, making it larger and hotter." In such moments, when people are forced to bear witness to awe-inspiring horror, many panic. That was why fire drills existed--if people practice enough for a horrible event then, hopefully, they would respond automatically when the real thing happens. However, sometimes people lose control. Sometimes they respond like animals.
"Animals," Mr. Cantor said, "are excellent survivors, but they suffer fear just like us, and in a brutal fire, very often the animal tries to hide instead of flee. My cat hid behind the downstairs sofa when the fire erupted. I tried to find him and couldn't. He died because he panicked, because he had no idea how to handle the fear."
That memory of Mr. Cantor and his poor, dead cat came to Brendan as he listened to his father's wails reverberate out of the funeral home and more and more people exited the building as if the wails were smoke; these people assembled on the wrap-around porch in small clusters. Dad's eruption was the fire and Brendan was the cat. He needed to flee, not to hide.
"I don't know," Brendan said.
"It's okay, son," Ellis said. "God can wait a lifetime for you. But you need to ask yourself if you can wait a lifetime for Him."
\*
Brendan got in the car behind the driver's seat. He hoped someone would notice this so that just in case these guys tied him up and left him for dead somewhere a witness could assist the police, but no one else was outside. They were all waiting for the fire to burn out.
They drove out of town toward the City of Newburgh. Brendan had been over here a few times when Mom and Dad took him to a restaurant on the Hudson River and he enjoyed his first taste of lobster. The river seemed more like an ocean, a dark one hiding all kinds of underwater creatures. Dad offered to rent a row boat and take him out; Brendan feigned illness and the excursion was delayed indefinitely.
Dwayne flipped down his visor and examined his face in the vanity mirror. He removed the handkerchief long enough for blood to resume flowing before reapplying pressure. "Son of a bitch, that hurts."
Ellis tapped him on the knee and Dwayne's eyes found Brendan's in the mirror. He murmured an apology. "Your father caught me off guard, it's no big deal."
"What did you mean when you said God likes to test us?" Brendan asked.
Dwayne started to answer, stopped, flipped the visor back up.
"That is a loaded question to start with," Ellis said. "It might be better first if you explained what you mean by the gods demanding a sacrifice."
They drove down Broadway, which in no way resembled the bright lights and upbeat tempo of its New York City counterpart. In Newburgh, Broadway was wide and low with dying shops and wandering pedestrians. This was the place where people went to buy drugs at night or pick up hookers. During the day, people used the Laundromat and browsed the Thrift Shop. The locals ate the pizza and sandwiches at the places that sold cigarettes and potato chips on the same shelf. The visitors, like Brendan and his family, either dined at the upscale places that were hidden in this area like diamonds in coal or went down to the river where white college kids drank until they vomited on their shoes.
These guys could probably sell Brendan on the street or even exchange him for heroin or something. His father always made sure the car doors were locked on their trips out here. Why did he get in this car?
"Your church is on this street?"
"Newburgh was once the Crown Jewel of the Hudson Valley. Did you know that?"
"What happened?"
"Lots of things. Economic downturn, substance abuse. Mostly, a loss of faith."
"In God?"
"In humanity."
Brendan shouldn't be here. He only wanted to get away from his dad, but now he could end up strapped to a bed in a dirty storage room where perverts took turns doing things to him. He tried the door handle--locked. The car smelled of body odor and farts. Brendan gagged.
Their church was a sagging building wedged between Paul's Pawn Shop and Nailed Nails Beauty Salon. The glass front had been filled with two giant images of Jesus suffering on the cross. Beneath that it read: HE DIED FOR YOUR SINS. LET HIM EMPOWER YOU. SERVICES THURSDAY -- SATURDAY 7PM, SUNDAY 10 AM.
They parked and both Ellis and Dwayne got out. Brendan's door still wouldn't open. "Whoa," Ellis said, opening the door for him, "it's a safety lock. Relax." Then Brendan was out of the car, free, and running down the double-wide sidewalk, the cool air refreshing his face, cleansing his lungs. There had to be a cop around here somewhere, had to be. This was a dangerous area--cops would be patrolling. People jumped out of his way; someone called him "a little fag" and another person laughed, saying, "that's it--run, white boy, run!"
Brendan passed store fronts so rapidly that the glow from the inside lights created a streaking haze like something from a dream. Dwayne and Ellis were running after him, maybe yelling for someone to grab that kid, grab him and you can have a free taste. The block ended and Brendan turned left, spinning his head back down the sidewalk to check if Dwayne and Ellis were, in fact, doing what he feared, and Brendan crashed into something hard, maybe a wall, and tumbled backwards onto the concrete.
A large black man with an enormous belly stood over him like a beast over injured prey. "Better watch where you going," the man said. His puffy jacket lent him even more girth; he might have anything hidden under that coat--knife, gun, rope, duct-tape.
Brendan was back in school but not in Mr. Cantor's class listening to a stupid story about a scared cat ( a story that would, years later, get him into this mess), but to the directions from the DARE cop about how to escape a kidnapper. "If someone is trying to grab you or hurt you, don't play fair. All bets are off. Kick them in their groin. Grab their hair. Bite them. And, above all, make as much noise as possible.
The man started to say something else, to move closer, too, and Brendan released a howl with every once of air and shred of energy he mustered. It might have been the death-cry of a stabbing victim or the hysterical scream of Dad in the funeral home.
The man glanced around, but didn't run. He wasn't afraid. He knew he would be okay. He could do whatever he wanted to this white boy because nobody around here wanted the police showing up, asking questions.
The man reached for Brendan with a huge, monstrous hand, like comically inflated one, only made from stone. Brendan screamed harder, throat burning, and readied himself to play as dirty as he had to. This man's balls were probably the size of baseballs, so it shouldn't be tough to hit and even crush.
The hand came closer (the hand of God) and Brendan wished with all his might that he had brought some kind of weapon: a knife, a pen, shard of broken glass. He raised his feet and fisted his hands, resembling a wailing child.
"What are you doing?" This question broke through Brendan's screams and the mighty hand withdrew. Dwayne stood behind Brendan, dress shoes inches away.
"Helping this kid," the big guy said.
"He's with me," Dwayne said.
"Then you deal with him."
"That any way to talk to a man of God?"
The big guy shook his head. "You a false prophet."
Brendan blinked and Dwayne was in the big guy's face, nose to nose. "I'll drop your big black ass right here, right now. You know why? Cause God's in my heart and He guides my punches."
"Get the fuck out my face," the big guy said, yet he was backing up and then, miraculously, walking down the sidewalk. He disappeared into the night and Dwayne turned to Brendan.
"I know you're scared," he said. "I'll drive you right back to the funeral home. Ellis and I are not going to hurt you. We are men of God."
When Dwayne held out his hand (God's in my heart and He guides my punches), Brendan accepted the help.
Ellis was standing outside the church. "Are we going in or going home?" he asked.
Neither Brendan nor Dwayne said anything, so Ellis unlatched the combination lock. Just because Dwayne had helped him, didn't mean Brendan should trust these men, but he couldn't run away again. There had to be another way. The metal grate that slid down over the glass front rattled when Brendan passed beneath it.
The place stank of flowers. He didn't see any flowers, however. Past the entrance, the place opened up into a large structure that could serve any number of functions from pizza joint to modest theater. Rectangular card tables with metal folding chairs were arranged throughout the room like a cafeteria. On each table stacks of fliers appeared to be grouped in some kind of order. Religious posters, most depicting Jesus either on the cross, ascending to heaven, or offering a chalice of wine, decorated the walls. Fluorescent lights gave the room an unhealthy, almost alien glow. At a far table on the right, three people (two women, one man) all dressed in some sort of black suit, were folding fliers and building individual stacks.
"This is your church?" Brendan asked.
"Not quite," Ellis said.
The three people folding fliers turned and one woman jumped to her feet and trotted toward them. Her ensemble did not hide her large, bouncing breasts. When she drew closer, she stopped, covered her mouth, and then ran the rest of the way to Dwayne. "What happened? Are you in pain? This is terrible."
Dwayne waved her off. "Just one of God's trials."
She put her arms around him without clutching and guided him to a chair. "Let me help you." She touched his hand and he lowered the handkerchief. She didn't say anything for a moment, composing herself. "I'll have to stitch it some. It shouldn't hurt much."
"So much for my pretty face, eh?"
She smiled. "It was never that pretty to begin with."
Then he had her on his lap and was planting a large, powerful kiss on her. Brendan hadn't been to many churches but so far this one wasn't following the usual protocol. The woman laughed, batted him away playfully and then told him to sit tight while she gathered supplies. She went into a room on the left that might be a bathroom.
"She's wonderful," Dwayne said to no one in particular. "Only wish I'd met her first."
Brendan opened his mouth to ask what he meant and Ellis said, "Let's go into the Empowerment Temple, Brendan."
"The what?"
His smile betrayed neither jocularity nor sincerity; with one hand on Brendan's shoulder, Ellis led him through the room past all the tables and the only other two people there. Two large wooden doors stood closed at the end of the room. The smell of fresh flowers plumed from the other side of the doors like a smoke cloud pushing into a room. That smell was the odor of Delaney's viewing room. Flowers crowded around her coffin in such potent colors that they seemed to taunt her with their vibrancy. He shouldn't be here; he should be with Delaney. But what if whatever was behind these doors offered a more genuine path to safety than he had previously found? What if there really was only one true powerful God? That was worth a few more minutes, at least.
"This is your church, through here?"
"It isn't much," Ellis said, "but this is where we find God."
He pushed where the doors joined. They swung open as if floating. They were thick doors, padded with insulation. The aroma of flowers rolled out, momentarily suffocating all other senses. This room was half the size of the first room and instead of florescent ceiling lights, candles provided the only illumination. There might have been hundreds of them, set up on small tables, in specially designed racks, arranged in some type of pattern across the floor or, apparently, placed haphazardly to provide additional light where the kneeling people needed it. There were no chairs, only small rugs on which the fifteen or so people in the room knelt. The only sound was the faint hungry crackle of all the flames.
On the far wall hung a full-sized, three-dimensional Jesus on the cross. It was so life-like that for a moment Brendan thought it was a person standing up, arms wide as if welcoming everyone in a big hug. In fact, this Jesus was larger than life. Brendan walked into the Empowerment Temple, Ellis shutting the doors behind him to block the fluorescent light, and Jesus grew bigger. The statue (stone or wood?) was taller than Ellis, which meant the sculpture was at least six-feet tall, maybe closer to seven. Because of Jesus' stage of emaciation, the figure was barely as wide as Brendan but the detail attended to the face, especially those pained eyes, bespoke not only talent but something less concrete than that, something otherworldly. This was a god you could speak to, not simply a symbol or some imaginary figment in the clouds. This was a god who understood pain. No wonder so many people were in here; they knew that if they asked hard enough and for long enough, this god, this Jesus, would answer. It had to, it was so damn real.
"Wow," was all Brendan could say.
Ellis chuckled. He spoke in a quiet voice, yet everyone in the room probably heard him. "This is where we find God, but it is also where God finds us."
"You just pray in here?" He hadn't meant to sound so baffled, almost suspicious, but he was confused. If all these people had to do was kneel and pray to the giant Jesus then what the hell were all those other people doing going to church services every week and sitting through dull sermons? Most of Brendan's friends at school were forced to attend church and all said it was hell.
"It's more than prayer. It is a connection with something beyond rationalization. It's a sound-proof room, so we can spend hours in here with no distractions."
Jesus twitched his head. Trick of the light.
"We perform all sorts of services in here, but the most important one is this: simple prayer. How can we grow empowered if we do not ask God what we want? We must declare firmly what we want and only then will the path be revealed. He will show us the way when each of us is ready."
Brendan was nodding, but he wasn't entirely following what Ellis said. The people in this room were so still and silent that they might be dead. They were so far lost in their own prayers they didn't even realize other people had entered. They were in trances. No, they were hypnotized by God. Perhaps they were communicating with Him.
"I know what I want from God."
Ellis knelt next to him, hand on Brendan's shoulder. The "stranger danger" fears had slipped away and now the man's touch felt warm and comforting. "Are you sure you believe in God, as in one god?"
Whatever works, Brendan thought. "I've been confused, but now I . . . see." Jesus' head moved again.
Ellis smiled. "You really are special, Brendan. I'm so happy you're here."
"I want God to protect my family. That's it. He'll do that, right?"
"Have you heard of Ezekiel?"
"Was he a disciple?"
"He was a priest and a prophet. He was exiled, pushed out of his homeland, much like the Jews. Exile is a terrible thing; it is a torturous period of loneliness that may never end. But only in exile can anyone truly find God and then find their way out of exile. You see, Brendan, everyone is in exile in one form or another. You are here while your family grieves over your sister. Each of you is in exile. You are in exile. Why?"
"I want to protect my family. That's all I want." And I fucked it all up, he wanted to add, but cursing in a church would be pretty bad.
"You are here because you are on the wrong path. You are not empowered, but God can help you. Ezekiel declared that everyone will be judged individually. Your actions, your salvation, does not, cannot, save others. They must seek to be saved themselves. More so, they must seek empowerment."
"So, there's no point? If God can't help my family then why should I turn to Him?"
"Ezekiel also said that exile is a time to start over, to renew faith, to discover faith. It is not a time to lose hope. Today is Passover, Brendan. It is a Jewish holiday, but more than that, it is an example of how God can empower if only we believe. Ezekiel said that even in exile it is vital to not ignore God. You must recognize Passover; you must heed the Commandments. You must still practice."
"This is a Jewish place?"
"No, Brendan. This is a place of God. There are no sects here, only believers."
He needed to tell this man, this priest, what he had done. The words bubbled up from the place where he had buried them and he knew he would not be able to keep back the flood of truth. He didn't want the other people in the room to hear but the giant Jesus with the eyes that could almost blink and the head that twitched every time Brendan turned to Ellis assured him that he could speak the truth here. He might never be able to tell his family (how could he?), but he could say it here. Besides, God already knew the truth. He wanted to see if Brendan knew it, too.
"There were many prophets," Ellis said. "Isaiah was the first to prominently declare monotheism as the only true path. Though it is God's first Commandment to Moses, many people still worshipped many gods. These people had not been empowered. You see, Brendan, God didn't say he was the only god; he said he was the God---the only one that mattered."
"You mean there are others?"
"Of course, and people create new ones for themselves all the time, sometimes out of greed and want and sometimes out of hope and peace. Yet, these gods are nothing but extensions of our limitations. We can worship these other gods but we will only experience the pain of failure and even misery. Isaiah said that this god, the God, is the god of the past, the present, and the future. This god is mightier than all others and this god wants peace. You want peace, don't you?"
Brendan nodded, unable to open his mouth, knowing his story would spill out.
Ellis touched Brendan's cheek. "It's okay, son. You're here. You're in The Temple and it's time to seek God's forgiveness and understanding. He will show you the path, if you are willing to search for it. He will protect your family, but before He can do that, you must enter into Him fully and without reservations."
"There's something I have to tell you."
"Not me," Ellis said, "Him." He pointed to the giant Jesus who blinked.
\*
Brendan relayed the entire story and was stunned by his inability to hide even the smallest details. He hadn't cried when he realized it was dad's car he had hit; he'd been too horrified to do anything but run. That wasn't completely true: he hadn't cried or screamed or done anything but run back to the bowling ally because he knew he had crossed a moral line. It was the line that, once crossed, changed, inherently changed, who he was as a person. All the rest of his life would come to be known as THE TIME AFTER THE INCIDENT. When Brendan crossed that line, the only way to survive was to shut it out. If he faced what he had done, he might as well have jumped off the bridge with the bowling ball. He thought he had been prepared for the ultimate result of his actions, of someone (a stranger, goddammit, a stranger) dying, but when he saw those bumper stickers on Dad's car he knew he'd seriously fucked up, that the gods had seriously fucked with him. Either confess and die or bury it and endure. There was no time to cry. Crying was the gateway to confession, which was the path to suicide.
Now, however, he could cry and he did. It was okay to do so here, in this temple before the Giant Jesus and Ellis the Priest. He let it all out, or so he hoped, sobbing and moaning with pain that wracked his body. If the other praying people in the room noticed, Brendan didn't know and didn't care. This crying, this purging, felt so good. It was like jumping into a freezing pool on a scorching summer day. First there was shock and then relief.
Ellis placed a hand on Brendan's heaving back and rubbed slowly in circles. This touching was wrong---Ellis was a stranger (danger!)---but it helped soothe Brendan's tears. He knew the stories about priests who molested altar boys, but wasn't that just in the Catholic Church, all those unmarried men seeking sexual pleasure? He wanted to ask Ellis if he was married, but that would ruin this moment which, at least to spectators, would appear to be a soul-wrenching exchange between sinner and priest. What was it really? Just a chance for Brendan to get some very heavy shit off his mind before it cracked.
So, Brendan told Ellis everything. He started with his ideas about the gods which, he admitted, now seemed silly before this Giant Jesus. He talked about his baby brother who died before he even reached a week old, some type of sudden infant death thing, was all his parents had said. He talked about his mother. How he worried about his father. How his brother had done something stupid and Brendan was afraid things were only going to get worse. And then, he yanked the final ton of weight off his brain and confessed to killing Delaney.
Ellis took it all in without a trace of surprise. His face spoke of empathy and pity, not shock and ridicule. How could he not think what Brendan did to Delaney was unspeakably horrible? While waiting for Ellis's response, Brendan began to worry that the other people in this room were not deep in prayer, but were spies with hidden recording devices. They had caught everything he said and now they were going to run to the police and the cops would run to Dad and Brendan would be in prison by morning, maybe sooner.
"You have paid a terrible price," Ellis said. "Yet, there is hope. With God, there is always hope."
"What should I do?"
"First, we will pray and then I will take you home."
"Pray for what?"
"For the path, of course."
Ellis faced the Giant Jesus on both knees and Brendan followed likewise. Some tears still trickled from his eyes, but he felt so much better than he had only minutes earlier. He felt he could return to the wake and look Delaney in her dead face and tell her he was sorry and not feel like some psychotic kid in need of therapy. He had been misguided, he saw that now, but Ellis would show him the way. Ellis would open the true path and Brendan would finally be able to keep his family safe.
Brendan waited for Ellis to say something, but he simply kept his eyes shut, hands folded together before him, head tilted toward the flickering Giant Jesus, who twitched again. It's like he's trying to break free from the cross and come down. If he did, wouldn't he be slightly upset about being nailed to a cross in the first place? How could God be so kind and forgiving after what Man did to Him?
These thoughts trailed after Brendan while he dove deeper and deeper into the darkness of his own mind where he assumed prayer occurred. He was quite good at finding this place; it was where he went when he took Pilly Billie, where he imagined the stories in his composition book and where he went when he invoked instruction from the gods.
Almost as an afterthought, Brendan wondered again about the potent flower aroma. He hadn't seen any flowers. Were they being kept someplace, perhaps for some type of ritual? No, he knew where the smell was coming from. Mom used to buy Yankee Candles, which burned different smells for different holidays--Christmas Wreath, Candied Apples, Jellybeans. Some were foul. Some smelled of fresh flowers. Like this smell. It disturbed him that a temple of God would have scented candles. When you closed your eyes, you'd think the place was full of flowers. When you opened your eyes, there was only flicking flames. It was like they were playing make believe.
Then Brendan was deep in prayer, begging for a way to keep his family safe.
He had to stop thinking about Sasha (naked, legs spread) and her deranged mother (sac rice luff chide). It had been stupid going over there. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn't been thinking. Simple as that. But no, that wasn't true. He had been thinking and now he had to accept that his thinking had been wrong, hell, totally off the mark. Before he could do that, however, he would have to admit what those reasons, no matter how stupid, were.
He had expected a simple face-to-face with Sasha and her mother and hoped that such an interaction would put all the messiness away, like shoving dirty clothes under the bed. He would say his peace, they would protest a bit but ultimately realize he was right, and then he'd walk away, leaving Sasha with her fucked-up mother. That hadn't happened, of course. Instead, he had walked into another world, an insane one where mothers offered up their daughters on homemade witchcraft altars and chanted morbid tones while their naked offspring waited spread-eagle for someone to penetrate them.
He hated to admit that such a situation seemed enticing, even erotic, while sitting here in his bedroom, elbows on his thighs, hands juggling his cellphone back and forth like a game of hot potato, but being front and center for the actual event hadn't been arousing in the least--it had been horrifying. Thinking on it now, Tyler wanted to vomit. Small tremors of cold raced through his body every few minutes and he shook off each one like an un-welcomed touch.
What had he been thinking?
It was time to be honest, now if ever, and especially with himself. He couldn't sit here in his silent room and try to rationalize his way out of his own thoughts. The problem wasn't that he hadn't been thinking or that what he had been thinking was idiotic. No, the problem was that the motivation driving his thinking had proved unbelievably and horrifyingly correct. He couldn't deny it. With a sister in a coffin waiting for burial, a mother in a pill-induced coma, and a father sitting in the car in which his daughter had died (Dad didn't think anyone knew why he had had his car towed back to the house but Dad was fooling himself more than anybody; he was in the garage right now, probably sobbing in the front seat where Delaney's blood still looked fresh), Tyler couldn't turn away from the truth. To do so now, after all the damage that had been ravaged would be like trying to drink a glass of water while underwater. He either acknowledged what was going on or he drowned in his own madness of denial.
Ultimately, it was simple: he believed Sasha's mother had cursed his family because Sasha believed Tyler had raped her. Now, now, he might as well be totally honest--no one was listening but himself, after all. He had raped Sasha, even if he hadn't realized it until after it was over. No matter the intent, he was guilty and she had seen fit to punish him. She seduced him at her house into a trap and then he stupidly believed he could reason his way out of the mess. You can't reason with a witch; you can't make sense out of something insensible. How could witchcraft even exist? What sense was in that? Why would she kill Delaney instead of make his balls rot off or something? Why was she punishing his whole family when only he was to blame?
The answer was obvious enough: because she's either totally crazy (crazy in love) or completely evil.
Yet, he had hoped he was wrong. That was the real reason he had made Paul drive him to Trailer Trash Town. He had believed that it was all some crazy string of coincidences. Sasha's mother wasn't a witch (that was preposterous), and while Sasha might be upset (maybe even a bit delusional herself about what happened), no one had cursed his family. He had gone there not to end a curse or reason with a witch; he had gone there to reassure himself that the world was still a rational place.
Instead, he dropped into a black ocean of madness and had now slipped beneath the surface where he could no longer tell which way was up. Sasha's mother was a real witch, an honest-to-God, broomstick-riding, spell-casting, malevolent witch. She had wanted Tyler to fuck Sasha in front of her while she cast yet another spell. Perhaps she meant to convert him to witchcraft. She had cursed him and that curse had made somebody drop a bowling ball off a bridge and into Delaney's face.
Brendan's composition book lay on the bed next to him. Tyler picked it up, flipped to the page that had been folded over, conveniently enough. It read in a scribble across the top: Tyler's Problem. Beneath that it read:
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Discovery. The Darkman is around here somewhere, thought Bo Blast. He had tracked the mad killer to an abandoned warehouse where tennis shoes used to be made.
And on and on it went about some detective named Bo Blast and a killer named The Darkman who apparently killed people only in the dark. The chapter was nine pages front and back and Tyler read over them twice and even skimmed the next chapter (Chapter Seven concluded with the Darkman pointing a gun directly at Bo Blast's chest and though he wouldn't admit it openly, Tyler wanted to find out what happened next) before assuring himself that Brendan hadn't overhead anything about Tyler's situation. But then why did he write Tyler's Problem across the top of the page? A few suspicions lurked at the corners of his mind, but he wanted to talk to Brendan before making any accusations.
How the conversation with his brother went would determine what happened next and how much deeper into the black water Tyler sank.
\*
Tyler knocked once on Brendan's door and opened it without waiting for a reply. Brendan was kneeling next to his bed, elbows on the bed, hands folded in prayer, forehead resting against his hands. Their family was not inclined to say blessings before meals (not even on holidays) or offer prayers to God, so Tyler stopped mid-step and gaped at his brother as though he had discovered him naked humping one of his stuffed animals.
Should he say something? Had Brendan found God when no one was looking? No, that was unlikely. Brendan was a young kid and sometimes when the world went to shit, young kids turned to the man in the clouds. Hell, old people turned to that same floating overseer as well. Maybe they were on to something.
Was it rude to interrupt? How did you know if someone was deep in prayer or merely browsing through their thoughts like scrolling through a webpage of products?
"Brendan?" The name came out in a croaked whisper. When Brendan turned to him, Tyler realized he was holding the composition book and he held it up like a prize. "Guess what I found?"
Brendan appreciated him for a moment, stood. "Do you believe in God?"
"That's quite a question, isn't it?"
"You've never thought about it?"
"Yeah, I have. Don't have any answers though."
"Do you think He has a plan?"
"You mean like, everything happening for a reason?"
Brendan nodded.
"I guess we can hope. Delaney took a bowling ball to the head; how can that be part of some god's plan?"
Brendan looked away. Tyler was being too harsh on the kid. He was only twelve. The soul-searching, religion-questioning phase of his life was just starting. Tyler had to be supportive, even if he thought it was all a bunch of bullshit.
"Where'd you run off to today?" Tyler asked.
"Nowhere," Brendan said, "just wanted to get away."
"I understand." He held out the composition book. "I read some of it. Really cool."
Brendan's eyes brightened. "Really?"
"Yeah, that Darkman guy is really something."
"I don't know. It's just a story."
An awkward pause grated on Tyler's nerves until he finally told himself fuck it, and dove for the truth. "I noticed you wrote Tyler's Problem before Chapter Seven."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Sorry."
"What do you mean? Chapter Seven was about hunting a killer in a warehouse. It has nothing to do with me, right?"
Brendan glanced at his hands, which were still locked in prayer. "I know something bad happened and you're involved. I know because I heard your conversation with Paul Friday night. I thought if I wrote that in the book you'd get curious and eventually tell me what was going on."
The answer was so perfectly composed, so logically-reasoned that it had to be a lie, yet it rang with such honesty that Tyler couldn't refuse its authenticity. "You're pretty cool, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"You looking out for me and stuff? You're my little brother, you know."
"After the baby died, everything changed, you know. Things turned dark, like the sky before a storm. I figure we're still in the storm and I'm trying to make the skies clear again. I hope what is going on with you isn't another thundercloud moving in."
For a moment, Tyler couldn't respond. Brendan was twelve and yet spoke with maturity far beyond his age. Hell, beyond Tyler's age. He was like one of those prodigies. Or an idiot savant, one with acute emotional insight. "Don't get weirded out or anything," Tyler said, "but I love you. You're my brother and now, well, we're all that's left. For the briefest of moments, we had two siblings. But they're gone now--it's just us. That's fucked up, but we have to stick together if we want to survive, right?"
Brendan nodded, glanced around. "So, what happened? What kind of trouble are you in?"
Tyler wouldn't have expected the truth to pour out so easily, but it did, like water from a garden hose. He told his little brother about Sasha, about their date that ended with her accusation--you raped me--and carried the story right through to the Delaney spread-eagle conclusion. He hesitated before relaying the sex stuff but decided that the story wouldn't hold as much, if any, meaning if he omitted it. Brendan was mature for his age and even if he really didn't understand what sex was, he wasn't too young to learn that it was something that could strangle you into a tangled web of madness. Talk about coming of age.
When Tyler finished, Brendan's face contorted as if he had eaten something sour. He sucked on his teeth for a moment and scratched his head. He reminded Tyler of Mr. Agles, an aging math teacher who was always stumped by particularly complex equations. My brother is a forty-year-old in a twelve-year-old's body, he thought with no sense of humor or irony. It was just a fact. Brendan the freak.
"You think they're real witches?"
That depended, but Tyler erred on the side of well, this is one fucked up situation and it's probably more fucked up than I can even reason. "Her mother, definitely. Sasha, I don't know."
Brendan caressed his chin as if he had a beard. "I'm glad you told me."
"You sound like a guidance counselor."
"It's not your fault."
"Oh, really?"
"There's things going on that are bigger than you, bigger than both of us."
"What?"
"Do you want to know where I went this afternoon?"
"Outer space?"
"To a church in Newburgh."
"What? With who?"
"One was named Ellis, the other Dwayne. They were from the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered."
"You're shitting me."
"I've been confused, but I've learned something important."
"Wait, wait--who were these two guys, Ellis and Dwayne? Where did you meet them?"
"They found me, brought me to their church."
"They kidnapped you?"
"Dad punched Dwayne in the face. I think he knew him."
Who was Dwayne? Ellis? Was this just another product of his brother's hyper-imagination? If Dad knew the guys then how come he had no idea where Brendan had been? Something was going on that didn't quite make sense. Of course, that was beyond doubt, but this only confirmed that Sasha's mother had done something. Witchcraft or not. Supernatural powers or superstitious bullshit, that woman had cursed his family.
"What happened at the church?"
"I saw God."
Tyler couldn't respond. His twelve-year-old brother just said he had seen God, what could he say?
Brendan glanced off somewhere. When he spoke, it was more to himself than to Tyler. "They could help. They would help. God would want them to."
"Brendan, what are you talking about?"
Still in his world. "They could solve this problem quickly, easily. Even if this woman is a witch, she's no match for God and Dwyane and Ellis are God's messengers."
He grabbed Brendan by the shoulders, shook him. "Stop it." Brendan focused on him again. "You're talking crazy. I don't need anyone's help. Certainly not a pair of religious fanatics."
"But you do," he said. "You really do."
"What happened at that church?"
Brendan hesitated. "I had started to doubt it, but this is not a time for doubt. Ellis was right. With God, there is always hope."
"You sound like one of those freaks who ends up drinking poisoned kool-aid."
"This is a sign. Your trouble with the witches. It's proof that I was going in the wrong direction. The path is clear. We can bring everything back to normal."
"Slow down, little brother. I know you're upset about Delaney and maybe I shouldn't have told you my problems, but you can't start talking like some zealot."
"I'm not crazy."
Tyler started to speak and stopped. Saying anything more could only reap more harm. Brendan was obviously fucked up, really damaged after all that had happened. He had been coping with a drug-addled mother by writing his stories about Bo Blast and the evil Darkman, and he had seemed so damn mature even after Delaney's death that Tyler hadn't thought twice about heaping his own problems onto the poor kid. Now, all this religious shit had come unstuck in his brain and he had morphed into a little disciple of religious fanaticism. What about Dwyane and Ellis? Were they even real? Such an imaginative kid could easily conjure a few life-like invisible friends to help him through his problems. Maybe he had watched a few hours of Bible-TV and the ramblings of some hopped-up preacher had seeped into his psyche. Tyler had to proceed cautiously.
"Brendan, listen to me. This is not your problem. None of it is. It isn't your fault that Mom is messed up. It isn't your fault that Delaney died. And it isn't your fault that Sasha and her mother are insane. Don't take on all these problems. You're just a kid. You need to play video games and ride your bike. You need to continue this story of yours. It's really cool." He held out the composition book. "I'm sorry I told you anything but not because you're my brother but because this is my problem. It'll take care of it. Okay?"
Brendan took the composition book as gently as a cat lifting a kitten in its mouth. "You don't want to hear about God? About how He can help you?"
Even though he didn't believe it, Tyler told Brendan what he thought the kid would want to hear. "There's no curse. Witches don't exist. I'm just paranoid and frightened. Some people are weird and do weird things. I made a bad mistake and these people just want to scare me a little. That's all. Don't worry about it." Tyler almost managed to convince himself.
Brendan flipped through his composition book without reading any of the pages. "I'm glad you liked my story. I think I will finish it."
"Good." He smiled honestly as cool relief washed over his scorching worry and anxiety.
Brendan turned to his desk, paused. "I love you, too."
Tyler stood there a few more minutes as his little brother plopped himself in the swivel office chair Dad purchased for him last summer when he discovered how much time the kid spent writing at his desk. Brendan's words hit something inside Tyler with a pulverizing force. He could cry if he let himself, but crying wouldn't solve anything. He'd cry later. He only hoped it would be from relief.
Ten minutes later, back in his room with his thoughts, Tyler answered his cellphone assuming it was Paul and got the biggest surprise of the night.
\*
"Hi, Tyler," Sasha said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Of all the responses Tyler could have said, he managed the most ridiculous: "You're alive?"
She laughed, but only for a moment and it sounded flat, almost dead. "There's a lot I need to explain. Can I?"
"I don't know. Are you willing to tell the truth?"
"I never meant to hurt you, Tyler. I really like you."
"That's why you said I raped you? Why you're going around school telling everyone we're in love."
"I am not. I told Stephanie that I really like you, that's all."
"And yet I raped you?"
She sighed; it sounded like a gust of wind in the phone. "I was confused, that's all. I wasn't ready."
"You never stopped me." He was the abusive husband blaming the submissive wife for every bruise.
"Don't yell at me."
"I'm not yelling." He stopped, took a breath. "I'm just pissed. You can appreciate that, can't you?"
"Yes, but you need to appreciate what I went through, too. I really like you, Tyler, and when you asked me out I was so excited. I spent, like, six hours picking out an outfit, and when you showed so much interest . . . you were so eager and it felt so good that I didn't want to stop you. I just didn't think you were going to do what you did, that's all. I was really confused. I'm not anymore."
"That last time I saw you, you were naked on your floor with your mother chanting over you."
"I know, I know, but . . ."
"But?"
"My mother isn't right."
"No shit."
"I mean, she's a wonderful mother. She's taken great care of me, but after my father was killed, she kind of came unhinged. You know?"
Unhinged. What a perfect word to describe a modern-day witch. "Wait," he said. "Your father was killed?"
She paused and if he could see her, Tyler knew she was probably staring off into space the way Brendan had moments ago. Was she formulating a lie or contemplating the structure of her truth, though weren't those two things pretty much the same?
"It was traumatic," she said. "I don't want to go into all the details because they're not important."
He doubted that but said nothing. It was one of those things you held onto for later when you were trying to piece together a puzzle.
"My mother just hasn't been the same since he died. She blamed herself, I think. I guess most people do."
Pill-popping, comatose Mom. "Yeah," Tyler said.
"She got weird. That's the only way to explain it. She spent hours on-line looking at these sites about witchcraft and voodoo and ancient African curses and who knows what else. One day, I scrolled through her Internet history and found a site about raising the dead."
Tyler almost asked for the URL. Raising the dead could come in really handy right about now.
"Then she was going to meetings with other people who believed, that's what she said--they believed. I told her she was nuts more than a million times but . . . I had to stop."
"Why?"
"We had an argument one night last year about all her meetings and her Internet searches. She created that altar in our downstairs. You saw it. I flipped out. Said she was out of her fucking mind and that I'd wish she'd of died instead of Dad."
"Oh."
"Yeah. So, she sliced her wrists."
"Jesus."
"Not too deep, but deep enough. Took me a few days to get the blood out of the carpet. I destroyed her altar, kicked it into pieces. She was in the hospital for three weeks. They did a psych evaluation."
"And?"
"My mother may be crazy but she can play sane with the best of them. She answered their questions, admitted to some stress and some depression from my dad's death, and calmed everybody's fears. I even started to believe she was better. Until she came back home and reconstructed the altar. She apologized for what happened and then went on with her ceremonies or whatever."
"Why didn't you tell anyone? A guidance counselor. Somebody."
"So I could be alone? Go into foster care? When I'm eighteen and can be on my own, I will tell someone, I'll get her some help. But right now, I need to just ride it out."
"My mother has a doctor. He gives her a lot of pills. She's asleep most of the day, but she's not worshipping any evil gods or anything."
"Neither is mine. She's just confused, like everybody."
"I'm just saying . . ."
"I'm not drugging my mother."
"What if she slices her wrists again?"
"She won't."
"Why not?"
"Because she thinks I believe the witchcraft stuff, too."
"You willingly got naked and . . . laid before me?"
Another pause. When she spoke again she was defensive. "I'm not proud of it, Tyler, but I did what I had to, to make my mother think she was helping."
"You tricked me into coming to your house so she could throw blood on me? Does that sound like help?"
"She got the blood from a farmer. It's not poisonous or anything."
"You're just going to make excuses for her?"
"She's my mother!"
Tyler let the vibrating cords of her shout dissipate. Though he felt more awake than he had only a few minutes ago, his eyes were beginning to cash it in for the night. Beneath him, in the garage, the faint strains of music tickled at the floor like the slight vibrations bugs make on a puddle of water. What was Dad doing?
"Look," he said, "what do you want from me?"
"To understand, to not hate me, to not be scared."
"Scared? Your mother throws blood in my face, raises a knife over your naked body and you don't want me to be scared?"
"It's all for show."
"I don't want to be involved in any more of this show, okay?"
"My mother is not a real witch. She thinks she is and she thinks she can help, that's all. What's so wrong about that?"
He laughed, unable to find the words to explain why it was so wrong.
"My mother is harmless."
"Slicing her wrists is harmless?"
"She did that to herself. It only happened once."
"What a relief."
"Please don't be like this."
"Like what, a rational fucking person?"
"I know I should have told you this sooner but I started to, I don't know, believe what my mother was doing might actually work."
"You're a witch, too?"
"No, but . . . She believes so strongly and it started to give me hope, you know? I went along with it and . . . here we are."
"Yeah, here we are--nowhere."
"Tyler, please."
He saw himself throwing the cellphone across the room, saw it shatter into a million pieces. If all this witchcraft stuff was for show, like make-believe, then there never was any curse, and Delaney's death was just some freak accident. That idea only fueled his anger.
"Don't please me, Sasha. I'm the victim here, okay. Maybe you're mother is crazy and she's doing all that witchcraft shit because she's delusional but maybe there's something to it, too. You just said you started to believe it. My sister is dead. The day after you claimed I raped you, my sister is killed. Maybe that's coincidence and maybe it's not. I don't know what to think, but I'll tell you this: if your mother put a curse on me and my family in some pathetic attempt to punish me or help you win me back, she better take it off now or there will be some really bad shit going down. You understand?"
She said nothing.
"Go ahead, play dumb. I don't ever want to see you again. Stop spreading lies about us at school. I don't like you. I don't want anything to do with you. Fuck it, I hate you. You got that? Now, go tell your psycho-bitch of a mother that if she managed, somehow managed, to actually cast a spell against me, she better reverse it now."
He expected tears and pleading but got only silence. Until, that was, she opened her mouth and ruined everything.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
Anthony barely paid attention to the words the priest offered or the hymns the congregation sang or the string of sobbing teenage girls who spoke fondly of Delaney and then kissed her coffin. He wasn't in shock the way most of the mourners believed when they saw him sitting frozen in the front pew, his unconscious wife next to him sleeping against her sister's neck. Anthony was in the middle of a vast emptiness and a million miles before him sparkled the glimmer of a sunrise. That glimmer was hope.
The flier from the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered was tucked into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He had read it over more times than was probably healthy (though health issues ceased to matter much at all these days) and had even Mapquested the address. The church was right where he figured it would be on Broadway in Newburgh, though he still couldn't believe it. He had not, up until last Saturday, heard of any Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered and he a found it difficult to accept that an organization open enough to knock on doors seeking parishioners could exist so surreptitiously. Still, there was the address, confirmed by the trustworthy people of wherever who ran MapQuest.
A rundown building, no doubt. Even so, he was still going to check it out. He had to. After the incident in his car (That was for you Dad), he needed to know if he was losing his mind, as likely a possibility as any, or had actually experienced a genuine otherworldly encounter. He could accept the former, but he wanted to believe the latter. Insanity might eventually bring comfort, yet only a true religious experience could offer succor for his ailing heart.
Throughout the service, Anthony reached inside his jacket and touched the flier as if it were a talisman that might ease his grief or even transport him far from this place where people cried over his dead daughter. This was not where he wanted to be--no parent would ever want to be in this place, either. He needed to be in a place that offered answers and hope, hope most of all. Without hope, what was the point of continuing? Not to put too fine a point on it, he could die this minute and everything would be fine. Tyler would look after Brendan; Stephanie, her sister. There was a Twilight Zone episode about a librarian who had become obsolete, and a futuristic ruling council declared it over and over again: Obsolete! Obsolete! That image had stuck with him perhaps for this very moment.
When it was time for him to speak, Anthony walked slowly to Delaney's coffin, over which her friends had draped a makeshift mural of photos of her taped to a sheet with their yearbook style comments interspersed--We miss you! Goodbye and good luck. We love you. What the hell did she need with good-luck wishes now?
He caressed the only part of the wood top still showing as he might the head of a kitten. Scattered sniffles echoed in the church. Someone in the back coughed. Programs (The Final Rites of One of God's Children) crumpled. Someone else dropped a hymnal; the vibrating thwap was like a shouted curse, and someone else, probably an old lady, gasped.
No one would care if he didn't say anything; he knew that. This was a tender, private moment between father and dead daughter that hundreds of people could witness. They might understand his complete silence, but people always wanted a show. Some words, any words, would do. They just wanted an excuse to open another tissue.
He wouldn't say goodbye, no; that was too much. He had read a poem in college that was, according to his professor, very popular at funerals, in which the speaker espoused that the newly departed is not gone, no, he or she is merely away. He wished he had found that poem; that would have assured not a dry eye in the house. People would have remarked about the beautiful poem afterward, even asked for copies.
He could scream Obsolete! at the top of his lungs--that would throw the crowd for a loop. This was all bullshit, just a way to distract from the horrible fact that his hand was on his daughter's coffin. It didn't matter what anyone crammed in the pews in their dress clothes thought. Delaney was his daughter goddammit. Fuck them if they thought he wasn't giving the proper showmanship required for a funeral. Fuck them for even being here. Delaney wasn't their daughter; she was his, mine, you stupid sons of bitches and if I want to stand silent like this for hours I'll do it because this is my loss and the rest of you can shove it up your asses for all I care.
He reached into his pocket, withdrew the flier, and pressed it against the top of the coffin. Jesus' mournful face widened as he flattened the paper with both hands. Jesus' eyes seemed to spill out of the paper. He must have been in such pain while he dangled on that cross waiting to die. Endured so much misery. And he did it all for us, if the Bible, and all the preachers out there, are to be believed. Why, though? To show how such misery can be endured? That was pathetic. People have suffered far worse fates than the Savior. He got to die and go back to His father, and where was Delaney? Was she headed up to Him as well? He wasn't her father--that was Anthony, so fuck God, too, for taking his darling baby girl--damn God to hell.
He laughed. He couldn't help it. The chuckle just came out and echoed through the church like the last cry of a dying animal. The old woman didn't gasp; perhaps she had fainted. That thought almost brought out another chuckle, almost ushered out a complete slew of cackles, in fact, but he held it in check, squeezing his open hands on the coffin.
Jesus hadn't suffered his fate as proof of misery; he had endured as evidence of hope. Of empowerment. Without turning the pamphlet over, Anthony recalled the writing on the back: "Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.
I have a burden. Boy, do I. And if you can't help me, fuck, I might just take some pills and join my wife in her perpetual coma.
He didn't say that, of course. A laugh was one thing, an actual expletive and a surrender to pain on top of that would be equivalent to burning the place down. Instead, he folded the flier, tucked it back into his jacket pocket, and appreciated the audience for a moment. For that is what they were: spectators to grief.
"I loved her so much," he said and sat down.
The priest waited almost five minutes for the multitude of sobbing to ebb before continuing. Anthony had given them what they wanted. Now, he had to get what he wanted.
\*
The church hosted a luncheon following the burial, but Anthony slipped out a back exit near the restrooms where a giant sign proclaimed: God heals the sick, but you should still wash your hands. He got in Tyler's car and headed to Newburgh. His kids would take care of each other. His wife was a lost cause, anyway--Obsolete! He had to find a reason to keep going or he had to accept that there was no reason and jump off the cliff into the abyss.
He found the church between a pawn shop and a beauty salon. Some church. It was a glass-front store like the other buildings around it. Only the two giant images of Jesus plastered in the windows marked it as some kind of religious place. Otherwise, it might have been a closed-down pizza joint or a Checks Cashed Here liquor store.
Anthony parked between an aging Oldsmobile with flecks of rust like freckles across its hood and a shiny SUV with rims so large the tire was only an inch or so thick. On Broadway in Newburgh, it took all kinds. He left Tyler's car unlocked, keys in the ignition. He wasn't trying to be stupid; he was, rather, testing a very loose philosophy he had constructed on the drive over here.
The philosophy went something like this: If God wanted Anthony here, wanted actually to impart to him some mystical truth that he had begun to glimpse last night sitting in his mangled car, then it wouldn't matter what Anthony did with Tyler's car. He could double park it or even stop it in the middle of an intersection and it would still be there when Anthony got out. He almost tested this completely but decided that leaving the car in the middle of the road wouldn't be a test of philosophy but a sign of insanity. So, he left the keys in the car; someone merely had to hop in and give the key a turn and they'd be the proud owner of a car a seventeen-year-old boy probably got to second or third base in a few times. If that happened, then fuck God. Simple as that.
Not exactly something for the Sunday sermon.
He knocked on the glass door.
A guy in a tattered sports coat with a scraggly beard shuffled past him mumbling about those damn Jesus freaks eating all his ketchup. Anthony was trying to read something more into that when the door propped open and a woman with short, brown hair and large breasts that a low-cropped shirt barely controlled answered the door. She smiled but said nothing.
Anthony fumbled with words. He sounded less intelligible than the guy mumbling about ketchup. If God really wanted him here, He wasn't helping Anthony figure out what to do. Anthony removed the flier from his pocket and held it up.
"Our public service isn't until Sunday."
Anthony fumbled with words again (ketchup, ketchup, Obsolete!) until he finally squeezed out a one-syllable response: "No."
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, there was a man and he told me . . ."
"Told you what, sir?"
What had that guy said before his stocky partner walked in with his arm draped over Brendan's shoulders and all shit broke loose? "Supper," Anthony blurted. "Last Supper."
The woman's forehead furrowed. A man from deeper inside the place asked if she was alright, who was there.
"Sir, you'll have to come back Sunday, please." The man inside said something about the damn gate's supposed to be down.
The fumbling, stammering thoughts congealed and the one-time English scholarship winner regained his functionality with language. "No, you have to let me in now. Something very significant happened to me last night and I need to know if it was God's doing or if I'm losing my mind."
"Uh . . ."
"Please, lady, just let me in. The guy came to my daughter's wake yesterday and invited me here. I even . . . beat up his partner a little."
"Oh."
"Shelly, what is the issue?" The door swung wider and the short, stocky guy who had taken a hell of a beating from an skinny book editor peered out from behind a face swollen in red patches. A band-aid was stuck to his cheek, some dried blood gathered just beneath it like a zit.
\*
Anthony expected a revenge punch, even an all-out got-you-back pummeling, and he was willing to take that beating if it eventually led to some form of deeper understanding about what was going on in his life, but the guy introduced himself as Dwayne and invited Anthony inside.
Instead of resembling a church, the room opened up to a large hall in which rows of folding tables with folding chairs pushed in neatly around them made the place look like the setting for a spaghetti dinner benefit. Maybe that's just what they use it for. That's how they lure in the masses.
No free dinners were needed to get Anthony here. But this was not what he had anticipated and he couldn't hide his disappointment.
"Not what you expected, huh?" Dwayne said with a smile. When he grinned, the places where Anthony had really done some damage on his face stood out as white spots on sunburned skin. Anthony had to look away. Shelly, the woman who had answered the door, stood beside Dwayne, arm looped inside of his.
"I'm . . . sorry for what I did. I freaked out and acted like some crazed maniac. I'm sorry."
Dwayne was already shaking his head before Anthony finished apologizing. "It's fine. I understand. You've had a rough go of it."
"Still . . ."
"No worries. God puts each us through trials. Taking your beating was one of mine, that's all."
Anthony marveled at the simplicity of his response. "You believe that?"
"Of course."
Anthony waited for more, but Dwayne apparently had nothing else to add. He stood before him, face swollen in patches, waiting for Anthony to make the next move. For a moment, Anthony thought of punching him again, another test of philosophy. If God really, really wanted Anthony to be here right now, this broad-shouldered guy would drop to the ground and suffer another barrage of hits.
Instead of testing his theory, Anthony smiled, nodded, and asked where the other guy was, the one Dwayne had been traveling Anthony's neighborhood with.
"We weren't just walking around your development."
"What do you mean?"
"We went right for your house."
"Why?"
Dwayne shrugged. "You'll have to ask Ellis."
"Ellis? He's the other guy? Where is he?"
"Praying," Dwayne said and pointed toward the back. "Go ahead. God's back there, too."
Anthony wasn't sure if that was an attempt at humor or not and when neither Dwayne nor Shelly laughed, Anthony thanked them and headed to the back toward a pair of nondescript doors. No one stood watch outside the doors, but a pair of men in matching grey suits sitting at one of the folding tables watched him walk past without saying anything. Their silent stare unnerved him enough to slow his step. What was behind those doors? He might open the doors and find an empty room or an exit but he might also find people chained to the walls and severed body parts rotting before them on dinner plates. Jesus, where had that come from? He massaged his head as though that would ease away the dark thoughts.
A small plaque at eye-level on the doors labeled it The Empowerment Temple. No points for title, there. The editor in him wanted to find the clever guy who thought up that name and ask him if he wanted people to actually believe in his religion or if the whole place was really some New Age massage parlor.
He assumed he should knock--it was only polite--but he elected to put his God wants me here philosophy to work. He pushed open both doors with enough force to knock over anyone who might be standing on the other side.
An enormous Jesus Christ glared back from the far wall of a candlelit room and Anthony almost screamed.
\*
Anthony walked several feet into this dim room as if in a trance. Like he's drawing me in. The Jesus was only a statue, a large statue, and incredibly life-like, but not some real guy in a terry cloth acting out some empowerment ritual. The large, sorrowful eyes were the exact ones from the flier. This was their mascot Jesus and it was obvious why it should be kept back here: the thing was so absorbing that were it in the other room nothing would ever get accomplished. People would stare at it, at HIM, all day. This wasn't just a statue; this was something profound, a gateway, perhaps, to God's listening room. This is God's listening room, he told himself and then someone touched his shoulder.
Anthony slapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the scream. Other people were in this room. They were kneeling on small rugs in between tons and tons of candles. They each appeared deep in prayer; his shout hadn't disturbed even one of them. A melange of flower aromas pulsed in the room amid the scattered flickering candles. But where were the flowers?
"I'm glad you've come," the tall man with the blue eyes said. He had shed his black door-to-door suit for a more casual grey polo and dark trousers.
"You're Ellis."
He smiled in a way that calmed Anthony. It was a smile you wanted your doctor to have before he relayed the results of your latest blood tests. "I'm so glad you came."
Anthony could only nod. The giant Jesus pulled his attention again. Had the figure just turned his head? Must be the candlelight.
"There are no hard feelings about what happened yesterday," Ellis said. "In fact, I feel it necessary to apologize to you. We handled it in a very haphazard manner."
Anthony wanted to be pissed. He wanted to tell this guy to shove it up his ass and see if he shit out a more reasonable excuse, but he couldn't. Something, Ellis's smile perhaps, kept the anger at bay. Not Ellis's smile--it's the giant Jesus that's doing it.
"You've come to pray?"
This was what he was waiting for, why he had skipped out on the free cold cuts and potato salad at the church. This was why he had been carrying the flier in his jacket pocket all day. What he wanted--assurance that his encounter (That's for you, Dad) was a genuine message from the next world--seemed so ridiculous here in this place of flickering candles and silently praying believers. These people didn't demand authenticity for their faith; they simply fell to their knees before this giant statue and searched their souls.
When he was only nine years old, Anthony begged his parents for a top of the line Schwinn Bicycle. He cried for one, promised to do anything for one. He wrote Schwinn Bike forty times on a piece of paper and handed it to his mother as his Christmas list. She frowned. On Christmas morning, there had been no bike under the tree, no bike in the garage, no bike in the driveway--no bike anywhere. After he opened his presents, things he could no longer remember because of the weight of his disappointment, his parents told him they had a surprise for him. He knew it would be the bike. They got in the family station wagon and drove to what Anthony was sure would be the National Schwinn Factory or some equally marvelous place, but it turned out to be a soup kitchen in a particularly rundown section of Middletown, N.Y. He helped his parents serve turkey dinner to people who had gotten no presents that morning, had no tree under which to find any presents, and in some cases no house even in which to display a tree. His parents never asked him if he learned anything that day but maybe that was because they could tell he had. He forgot all about his Schwinn bike but he never forgot the smiles of gratitude on the people as they held out their plates for stuffing and gravy.
Anthony was nine years old again in that soup kitchen, only the people weren't getting food for their stomachs, they were getting it for their souls and Anthony was still hoping for his Schwinn bike.
"It's okay," Ellis said finally. "It's not like learning to swim. You can just jump in."
"I'm sorry," Anthony said without knowing why.
Ellis squeezed his shoulder. "You'd be amazed how many people say that, but it's not to me you want to address your penitence." He tilted his head to the giant Jesus.
Anthony glanced and glanced away. Had it moved again, blinked this time?
"Today is Maundy Thursday. It's in remembrance of the Last Supper, when Jesus, as a man, last broke bread with his disciples and imparted in them the foundation of his spiritual doctrine. It is a special occasion and that's why I invited you here."
"But the woman, Shelly, said this place wasn't open to the public until Sunday."
"It's not, though our signs say otherwise. We're . . . selective. We have to be--it's how He wants it."
Did he mean God or the statue?
"Why me?"
Ellis took a breath. "You made it this far, Anthony, so I don't hesitate to tell you that you are very special. We came looking for you last Saturday, specifically."
"Dwayne said something about that. I don't get it. You picked me out of the phone book or something?" Or they were watching Delaney. Remember what Dwayne said: You're daughter, she's very pretty.
Ellis shook his head, chuckled. "You're very tense. There is no reason to be so. You will have to take a few things on faith, or at least suspend your disbelief if you want me to explain."
That's for you, Dad.
"Go ahead."
"When I was a young boy, I used to wander off. That's how my mother put it, though I'm sure my little wanderings nearly gave her a coronary. I would walk into the woods or down the street or off through a parking lot. She scolded me several times but it never deterred me. My father once grounded me for three months straight--I was twelve at the time--and I never tried to escape my room, but once I was let out again, off I would wander. It wasn't because I wanted to defy my parents, God rest their souls, but because I had to go--something was calling me and I had to find it."
"What was it?"
Ellis smiled. "God, of course, though that's really the simplest answer. I'm not sure what, or who, was calling me. It wasn't as though I heard something, don't misunderstand me. Something was calling for me, but I didn't hear it--I sensed it."
"And whatever it was wanted you to walk off so your parents couldn't find you?"
"Whatever the power is, I don't think it cares who I may leave behind. It only wants me to go toward something, typically someone. I wandered off once when I was about seven. I walked off our front lawn and headed through the neighborhood with only the vaguest idea of where I was headed. I passed several people, I remember not one of them said anything to me, and I grew frightened. But I kept walking because whatever was calling for me had gotten stronger. I was close, though I had no idea why I believed that.
"I came upon this house with green shutters, I remember that detail quite clearly. There was a car parked in the driveway, the driver's door open. An elderly man with thin wisps of hair covering his scalp dangled out of the car, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him from falling headfirst onto the concrete.
"I walked right up to this man and tried to say hello but his eyes were closed, his body slack as if he had fallen asleep while getting out of his car. I touched him on the forehead, right above an incredibly bushy eyebrow. His skin was hot from the sun beating on him. He was going to get sunburned. Without any idea why, I said, 'You're not finished, not yet.' Then a car screeched to a halt in the road and my mother was screaming for me to get in her car right now."
Ellis paused, made sure Anthony was still with him. "When I turned back, the old man's eyes were open and he whispered one word: 'help.' My mother never told me anything more about that man but I overheard her and my father talking about it that night. The guy had suffered a stroke and had I not found him, he'd be dead."
There was promise in that anecdote, no doubt, but Anthony couldn't let go of the part of his mind that argued the whole thing was spurious, a mere coincidence.
"Sometimes," Ellis said, "when I'm in crowded places, I sense that calling for me again and I wander until I find where I'm supposed to go. I once stopped a wife from beating her child, a young man from breaking up with his sweetheart, and several people from committing suicide."
"In public?"
"They were people who intended to go home that very night and kill themselves until I found them. I realize this sounds very coincidental, convenient even. But you can talk to many of those people if you want. Several of them are part of this ministry."
You're a predator, preying on the weak and brainwashing them into your empowerment ways.
The giant Jesus moved again, just a twitch, but enough to give Anthony a jump.
"I'm telling you this because last Saturday when Dwayne and I knocked on your door, I had that calling again. It led me to you. There is a reason."
"What?"
Ellis shook his head but didn't lose the smile. "I don't have all the answers, Anthony. Only He can help you with those." He stepped aside and made a slight upsweeping gesture toward the giant, crucified Jesus. "Your daughter was taken from you, but now you are here. Whether it was to stop you from doing something or simply help you get through your pain, I am happy that my calling led me to you."
"You knew I'd come back?"
"The man you assailed yesterday, Dwayne, was once a repeat wife abuser. He had been arrested five times for domestic disturbances. He broke his wife's nose twice. Her arm three times. She never pressed charges, however. He'd go to jail for a few days, sleep off his drunkenness, and return home.
"She got pregnant, hoped having the baby would somehow cure Dwayne of his problem. We think that way a lot, as people, that additions (more kids, more money, whatever) will help eradicate the bad habits, the ill inclinations, the darkness that hovers around some people. But there is only one thing that can heal people.
"This was five years ago. I was a parishioner in a little church that wanted to make big changes. I had brought in half of the congregation just from my little wanderings. Some people called me a prophet, but I'm just a man, following whatever mystical power it is that guides me. I went wandering one cold Saturday in February. It was already past nightfall and I really didn't want to go on one of my jaunts, but I went. I can't tell you how thankful I am that I did.
"I eventually came to a house echoing with screams and the clattering of thrown objects. The houses next door were dark. The people inside had heard this little violent drama enough times and were content to ignore it. I walked right up to that house, found the door unlocked, and walked inside.
"Dwayne has repented for this more times than needs counting, so please don't mention it to him. I found him standing over his pregnant wife, at least five months at that point, I believe, dining room chair over his head to use as a bludgeon. His wife clutched her midsection and rolled onto her side to protect the baby.
"Dwayne looked at me, I remember how cold his eyes were, how dead, and asked me what the fuck I wanted. I told him he had to put the chair down and come with me. He asked why, were the cops coming? I told him he needed to come with me because he had important things to do in this world and one day he would be thankful that a child lived somewhere with his DNA."
This had to be a ruse, right? Anthony didn't want it to be, however; he wanted Ellis's story to be true, to be, as it were, Gospel.
"He put the chair down and walked away with you?"
"He cursed at me a few more times but, eventually, yes, he walked away with me."
"Why?"
Ellis shrugged. "Why are you here?"
Anthony thought for a moment. There was something unsettling here, something threatening that lingered just beneath the normalcy. Like a predator hiding in the fog. He sensed that danger but he couldn't say why or even what the danger was. It was something about what Ellis said. The stories had come out naturally, perfectly, and it was impossible not to be moved, but maybe that was what was so disturbing--the perfectness of his tale. Like it's been delivered a million times. Maybe, but there was still something more . . .
Anthony took out the flier again and held it up to Ellis, the flier shaking. He read from the back: "Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Tears burned in his eyes. Simply reading the words of Jesus had brought those tears and he was completely caught off guard. "I want rest."
Ellis squeezed his shoulder again, harder. "Tonight is the Last Supper, Anthony. At the Last Supper, Jesus said to His disciples, 'Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in me. In my father's house are many rooms. I am going to prepare a place for you.'"
The tears flowed unabated now. Still, none of the other people praying turned to look. Maybe they're fake, just statues like the giant Jesus. The Jesus twitched his head as if to contradict the thought.
"Pray with me and let us find the place He has prepared for you."
\*
Anthony hadn't prayed, honestly, truly prayed, in many, many years. He did so now with a ferventness that shocked him. Tears kept slipping from his eyes. He clutched his hands together and pressed his forehead against them. At times he gritted his teeth; at other moments his tongue dangled loose and he sobbed low and quietly. He thought of only one thing while he prayed: Delaney's face. He focused on that, held it so tightly that it would never slip from his grasp. He thought of her beautiful face and begged God for rest.
At some point, Anthony couldn't tell when because time had ceased to be relevant anymore, Ellis started talking to him in soft tones that slipped around Anthony's sobs and eased their way into his thoughts.
"When we pray," Ellis said, "we are not begging for an answer. We are not pleading for salvation. We are opening ourselves up and hoping that the eternal light of God fills our void. Prayer is a time of soul-searching. Don't look to heaven; look inside yourself.
"You are carrying a heavy burden and it's time to let it go. Jesus suffered on his cross so you wouldn't have to suffer on any. He will take the pain away; he will carry it for you. Do you want that, Anthony? Do you want the pain to go away?"
Anthony was wandering in his own thoughts again: When we are strong and confident we can never imagine being weak and vulnerable, never imagine professing such weakness in ernest. My daughter is dead, my wife a lost soul, a corpse practically with whom I share a mattress. The pain is immense, overwhelming, crippling. Whether emotional or physical I can't tell. There is no longer any difference.
"Yes," he said. "I want it to go away."
"Good. Now, you must re-imagine your life in Christ's eyes. You must honestly evaluate every aspect of your life and every person in it. You must accept a higher standard for all. This will not be easy, but in exchange for your promise to do better, to live better, God will carry your burden and He will do it gladly."
What did that mean, though? Did he have to give up potato chips and American Idol? Did he have to stock his house full of Bibles and learn the Gospels by rote? Did he have to attend church nightly? Would Ellis ask for the deed to his house, a simple sign of good faith, in return for the promise that his concerns would go into God's In-Box?
Though he knew he couldn't afford such pessimism now, he couldn't stop it. The restlessness of his mind. All he wanted was some peace, some fucking peace, why was that so hard?
That's for you, Dad.
"You must free yourself from all the bonds that tie you to your worldly suffering. If you want your family to come with you, you must free them as well."
This was not what Tyler and Brendan needed right now. They deserved a father who was a stoic rock, a figure of unquestionable fortitude upon which they could hang their sorrows. They didn't need a father who wanted to turn their lives even further upside down. Still . . .
"People will tell you to turn to the Bible, to seek God's word, but I will tell you the truth. It is so simple, so revolutionary, that others in my position would never dream of sharing it. You don't need the Bible. You don't need organized faith. You don't need this temple. These are all crutches. All you need you already have because God gave it to you. You need only your head and your heart. If you are willing to accept that there is something out there, something that wants to help you, you can have the peace of the angels."
Ellis's open refutation of organized religion gave him more validity and, ironically, encouraged Anthony to want to return to this empowerment Temple. He knew it was all rhetoric, all cleverly phrased persuasion designed to suck him into their flock. Anthony was exactly the type (previously confident man torn to shreds by the death of a loved one) that people like Ellis loved to encounter and seduce. Anthony knew this and yet he could not shut out Ellis's words because they rang with the clarity of truth. Or at least the tones of what ought to be truth. He wanted to deny this man and even blame him for Delaney's death, but he couldn't. He recalled a Talking Heads song whose refrain was "stop making sense, making sense." No other words could so perfectly capture his feelings.
"I can help you," Ellis said.
Stop.
"Don't you want to be free of your burden?"
Making.
"Let Jesus heal your soul and empower you."
Sense.
"What should I do?" he asked.
Ellis told him. While he listened, Anthony was vaguely aware that after he left this temple he was never going to be the same again.
Brendan had agreed that Tyler could handle his problems by himself, but Brendan knew better. His brother had gotten himself stuck too deep in a pit of quicksand to crawl his own way out. He needed someone to throw him a rope. Whether Tyler liked it or not, Brendan was going to throw that rope.
He removed a business card from his pocket. On one side was a picture of Jesus' face only with a gold crown rather than one of thorns topping his head. Beside the face the card read: The First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered. Beneath that was the address and phone number and beneath that was the simple offer that Jesus Can Empower You. Brendan knew, now finally after wasting so much time and energy on those silly Greek Gods (the book, Finding God: a History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man's Destiny, was safely tucked deep under Brendan's bed) that Jesus was the right path. But he couldn't simply pray to Jesus and hope that Tyler's problem was somehow miraculously solved. That wasn't how it worked.
"There's an old adage," Ellis had told him, "that says, God helps those who help themselves. This is true. We can seek answers and change through prayer but only action will bring us closer to God and toward His empowering ways. If we want to be free of worry and know the glory of God, we need to not fear what needs to be done; we need to embrace each other on the journey toward salvation."
Ellis told him that if he ever needed anything, anything, Brendan could call them or stop by. He gave Brendan the business card. Brendan nodded and then Ellis told him what to tell his father when he asked where Brendan had been for three hours. Dwayne then drove him home, stopping a little ways before the guarded entrance to SkyView Estates. Dwayne asked for the business card back, flipped it over, and scribbled something. He handed it back and said, "That's my cell. Don't bother calling the Temple; they'll give you the stock rigamarole. You need something, call me."
"Thanks."
"You know why I'm giving you that number?"
Brendan shrugged. "You're nice?"
Dwayne laughed. "That's rich. You oughta tell my ex that. No, I'm giving it to you because I understand you, better even than Ellis understands you."
"What do you mean?"
After a long pause, Dwayne said, "Don't think too much about what you did. There's no point in drowning in mistakes. But you need to accept that you did what you did because you thought it was the right thing. That should help it sit right in your conscience."
Now, only a day later, Brendan turned the card over and stared at Dwayne's cell phone number. Beneath it, he had scribbled, You're special.
That phrase should have unnerved him coming from a stranger. It was something molesters said before they turned off the lights and whispered, "Shhh." It was what a kidnapper said before he peeled off a strip of duct tape. Brendan didn't feel that way about Dwayne because he wasn't a stranger anymore. Brendan had shared with him and Ellis what he did to Delaney. He confessed and these men did not judge him. They embraced him. Dad would never react that way. How could he? Or Tyler? If they knew, they would see Brendan as a beast or a deranged madman. They might even turn him over to the police or the psychiatric wing of some hospital.
He trusted Dwyane and Ellis. If he needed help, they would be there for him. Well, he needed help now. Brendan picked up the phone. All he wanted was for his family to be safe and happy. How had such a simple, pure wish degenerated into a mangled mess? How could such pure wishes bring about such destruction? What was the point? Why did God let it happen?
God helps those who help themselves.
He dialed Dwayne's number and waited.
\*
Brendan told Dwayne everything Tyler had said. Dwayne asked one question and Brendan's inability to answer it is what led him back to Tyler's room a few minutes before midnight. Light shone from beneath the door. Brendan knocked.
Tyler opened the door. He wore black jeans and a black sweatshirt. He was only missing a ski mask if he wanted to commit robbery. Maybe he really was inspired by the Darkman.
"What are you doing up?" Tyler asked.
"I have an idea."
"Go to bed."
"Please, Tyler. Let me in."
Tyler glanced down the hall like it might be suspicious if anyone saw Brendan enter Tyler's room. He stepped aside and Brendan entered. Tyler shut the door, walked to the window. His hands flexed open and closed repeatedly. He parted the blinds and peered outside. "What's your idea?"
"I know you don't want me help, but . . . I think you should at least listen to me."
Tyler checked his watch. "I'm listening."
"Are you waiting for someone?"
The blinds snapped into place and Tyler spun around. His eyes darted from Brendan to the door and back again. "I told you too much. I'm sorry for that. I never should have. Your twelve, for God's sake, you don't even know the cock-trapping ways of women. You will one day. Be aware. Be really fucking aware."
Brendan took a step backwards. He couldn't help it. Tyler hadn't been angry earlier when he explained what happened, but now rage pulsed in his wide eyes and throbbed in his clenched jaw.
I told you about those people, the religious guys."
"Nut jobs."
"The one guy, Dwayne, thinks he can help."
"Totally fucking absurd," he mumbled. "Ridiculous."
"Are you okay?"
Tyler blinked and seemed to see Brendan for the first time. "What's the idea?"
"These guys know how to help people. They know how to solve problems."
"The cure for my problem is not something you want to know."
Brendan swallowed. Something else had happened since their first discussion. Tyler had called the girl, tried to solve the problem and it had backfired. There was no time to dillydally, as his teacher last year used to say. "Who is she?"
"What?"
"The girl, the one says you raped her."
"Fucking slut."
"What's her name?"
He checked his watch again. "Goddamn bitch."
"She lives in Trailer Trash Town, right?"
He stopped, glared at Brendan. "You need to go to bed. Now."
Brendan started to back up out of the room. Tyler approached him quickly like a predator leaping at its prey. His arms grabbed Brendan's shoulders. "Go to bed and don't say anything to Dad. You got that? Not one fucking word."
Fear blanked out Brendan's mind and he thought he was going to pass out or have a heart attack or something. What had gotten into him? Tyler shook him and somehow Brendan managed to shake his head up and down. Then he was shoved out into the hall and Tyler's door shut in his face.
Brendan stood between two doors. Behind one was his suddenly crazed brother; behind the other was his comatose mother and his aunt. Dad had vanished after the funeral and when he came back he was different, crazy. He had gone into his bedroom and a huge fight erupted with Mom. Things were thrown. Aunt Steph said it was going to be okay, but she kept crying and staring at the tissue in her hand. Dad left eventually, vanished somewhere in Mom's car. That was a few hours ago. The family was falling apart. Soon there'd be nothing left.
\*
When the headlights of Paul's car splashed across the front of the house, Brendan narrowed the gap between the blinds through which he was peering. He could barely make out Tyler's figure as he bounded down the front steps and slid across the front lawn. Brendan couldn't see his face--maybe Tyler had put on a ski mask. A few moments after Paul arrived, he was gone again with Tyler aboard.
Brendan wasted no time returning to Tyler's room. He quietly shut the door behind him and tiptoed across the room, though he was sure Mom was asleep for the night and Aunt Steph probably was, too.
Tyler had taken his cellphone with him, of course, but Tyler's laptop lay on his bed. He hadn't shut it down or put it to sleep for the night. He'd been too distracted bashing women to concern himself with the proper care of his computer, not that he was especially good with it on normal days.
Brendan clicked the Safari icon and hoped he could get really lucky for a change. When the Apple homepage opened up, Brendan typed in the address for Hotmail. He crossed his fingers and stifled a cheer when the page opened into Tyler's private e-mail account. Tyler assumed no one would touch his computer and he was right, and lucky for him, his trusting ways might be the key to saving him from the mess he was in. And probably making worse right now.
There were several folders that might contain what Brendan needed. They had different names: Kelly, Kristen, Allie, Shelby, Steve, Paul, and then topics: Bio, Eng, Work, and something called Free Range. He clicked on the folder for Allie (might as well start alphabetically). All the e-mails were from Paul. In the most recent, Paul wrote, "Let that bitch go. She's a ho. Ha. Allie's hot. I got pot. Need a blow. Fuck that ho."
The next folder--Kelly--actually had an e-mail from Starstruck489@gmail; it read, "Tyler, you're a great guy, but we really wouldn't be a great couple. We're different. See you in school. Hugs!" The other four e-mails in the folder were from Paul. Brendan didn't need any more of his clever rhymes.
Brendan moved the arrow to the next folder, but then he saw a more promising folder labeled, PSYCHO. The first was from Paul. He had written simply: "You're fucked. Just joking. We'll fix this."
Farther down the line of e-mails, including ones Tyler had apparently written to himself, was a message from SKarras17@newmail. Sasha had written: "Going to a movie is fine with me. It'll be fun just to go out, you know?" Then she rambled on for a few paragraphs about how unfair their math teacher ("Mr. Sux," she called him) was and how his mustache made him look like "a creeper." It was signed, "See you soon, Sasha."
There were no other e-mails from SKarras17. In an e-mail from Tyler to himself (entitled, Get the Date), Tyler wrote: "Hey, Sasha. I was just wondering if you thought we could go out some time." Several lines beneath that, he wrote, "Too lame? More forceful? Seductive? WTF bitches want?"
He felt bad for his brother. He was barely scraping out a social existence and his effort at dating had turned into a rape charge from a psycho.
Brendan chuckled, just once; he couldn't help it. Maybe he'd take his brother's advice and stay away from those cock-trappers.
Regardless, he had what he needed. Now, it was time to call Dwayne again.
\*
"Karras?" Dwayne asked. "You're sure the girl is Sasha Karras?"
For a moment, Brendan thought he had done something wrong, but his logic was sound: the e-mail was signed "Sasha" and the address was SKarras17. This wasn't rocket science.
"Yeah, I think so," Brendan said.
"That's incredible."
"Why?"
"Because He really does work in mysterious ways."
"Who?"
"God."
"Anger cannot be dishonest."
Marcus Aurelius
"There's a baseball bat in the back," Paul said, "and a crowbar."
Tyler took off the ski mask; it had seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago but now he felt ridiculous dressed in all black. Paul was wearing his usual: jeans and a blue Carhartt jacket. Paul's father worked outside a lot and always dressed in clothes with the name Dickie's or Carhartt. Paul wore this jacket religiously, even when it was a bit too warm like tonight. He sped out of SkyView Estates so quickly he almost nicked his car on the automated gate.
"A crowbar? We can't actually . . . do anything, you know."
"Relax," Paul said in a we're-just-fucking-around-so-stop-being-a-fag way. "We're not going to do anything permanent."
"What's that mean?"
They were speeding along one of the main roads in town. Paul didn't even have his unrestricted license yet; he wasn't allowed to drive after nine. "Slow down, we don't want to get pulled over."
Paul laughed. "You are way to tense for this."
"I don't want to get arrested."
"You called me, remember?"
"Yeah. I needed help, not a rap sheet."
Another burst of laughter. Did he smell of alcohol?
"Were you drinking?"
Paul shook his head as if that was the most ridiculous idea. "I snuck a few of my dad's beers. He won't even notice. There's a couple in the back if you want."
"Jesus." If they did get pulled over--he was still speeding--they'd definitely get arrested. "Maybe this was a stupid idea."
"No, no," he said and car swerved a bit, not too much but enough to make Tyler grab the handle on the door. "This is the perfect idea. That crazy bitch will have no idea what's coming. Don't worry about the crowbar and the bat, they're just for show. We're going to scare her so bad that she changes her mind."
"Scare her into having an abortion?"
"A procedure's what they call it. You sounded pumped on the phone."
That had only been a brief time ago but it felt farther away than that. In the interim, Tyler had threatened Brendan, probably scared the kid so badly he wouldn't sleep for days. Sasha had caused this, created him into this unstable beast that had forgotten who he was.
Tyler had wanted to tell Brendan about tonight but he had already told the kid too much. He probably would tell Dad, if he could find him, and then the truth would finally spill out. There was likely no way to avoid that. Yet, if there was something he could do, he had to at least try. Dad was languishing in misery (he'd looked like a zombie during the funeral) and throwing this Sasha shit on top of him--by the way Dad, I raped a girl from school and now she's pregnant--would kill him. One way or the other, Tyler was sure the news would lead to another funeral in the near future. Maybe even one of those FATHER SLAUGHTERS WHOLE FAMILY WHILE THEY SLEEP killings.
Paul was right: they had to do something, try anyway. As long as the crowbar and baseball bat were only props in an elaborate play meant to scare Sasha and not bludgeons or weapons of vandalism, Tyler would go along with this. But if Paul decided to run up to Sasha's house and smash her windows, Tyler was out. At least he hoped so.
"No violence, right?" Tyler asked.
"Don't puss out, man. This is something we have to do. This is like Gospel or something."
"What does that mean?"
He laughed. "I don't know, shut up and think of something we can do."
\*
By the time Paul stopped the car in front of Sasha's house, Tyler still hadn't thought of anything. This felt too much like the last visit. Only this time they had weapons.
The house was dark. Most of the neighborhood was dark and Sasha's neighbor was apparently asleep too, which was a relief. The guy who had been standing on his porch watching all the excitement last time might recognize them, even call the police. Paul dismissed his worries.
Now, Paul sorted through the scattered items in his backseat. "I think I have a golf club in here, too, if you'd rather use that."
It was pointless asking why a golf club might be in the back of Paul's car. An entire golf bag replete with a full set of irons might be buried back there beneath soiled clothing, school books, and crushed Dunkin Donut cups. "I threw the bat and crowbar on top so we wouldn't have to waste time, but if you'd rather have the golf club . . ."
"No, no."
"Okay, bat it is." He handed it to Tyler. "Crowbar's mine." Tyler sat back in the driver's seat and appreciated the thick piece of steel like it was a hand-made sword. "My dad calls this The Persuader."
Paul's father was a carpenter with a penchant for crude jokes. Tyler liked him immensely. It was easy to see why he would call the crowbar a "persuader." If Tyler saw someone coming at him with that thing he'd do whatever the guy wanted.
Tyler expected a light to come on in Sasha's house. At any moment one of the windows would fill with light and a shadowed form would fill the frame. He waited and no lights came on.
"What're we waiting for?" Paul asked.
"Nothing. What exactly are we going to do?"
"Make some noise and leave a calling card."
Tyler waited for an explanation.
Paul pulled a can of spray paint from the space between the door and his seat. He shook it. "You're better with words than me, what do you want to write?"
"Kill the baby?" Tyler said in half-bewilderment. What were they doing here in the middle of the night?
Paul smiled. "That's not bad, but let me spice it up a bit. I was thinking something like We're not fucking around, bitch--kill the baby or we'll be back. Real Call of Duty type shit."
"You're going to write all that out? Where?"
Paul thought for a moment. "You are fagging out."
"No, I'm--"
"Who gives a shit where we write it? Do you want to end this shit or what? The bitch is a psycho and her mother's a card-carrying witch, you said so yourself."
"Sasha said it was all a misunderstanding, some elaborate thing her mother does. She's not right in the head."
"No shit." Paul smacked the crowbar (persuader) against an open palm with a dull thwap. "Do you want to be a father or not?"
"No."
"Then let's party."
Before Tyler could offer any more delays, Paul was outside and running up the front lawn. He started screaming almost immediately. It sounded more like the shouts of an angry child than a barbaric war cry.
Tyler got out of the car as well, bat in both hands, unsure what to do with it. Paul smacked the crowbar against the wood railing on the front steps. The structure vibrated. Paul hit it again and wood crackled with a deafening splinter. Another hit sent the railing tumbling over into one of the well-groomed bushes on either side of the stairs.
Tyler ran to him, grabbed his arm. "You said no violence."
"No." He smiled. "You said no violence." He crashed the heavy steel bar onto the fallen railing and a piece fractured almost in half. "Shit's rotten anyway."
"Enough."
Paul laughed. He shook the spray-paint bottle like he was getting ready to throw it as a bomb. "We haven't left our mark yet." He started spraying a message on the steps. It was impossible to see what he was writing in the dark, but Paul apparently thought it was amusing enough to keep giggling like someone whose brain has just split.
A faint flickering red light floated out from the downstairs window. Had that light been on the whole time? It was the candles on the witchcraft altar.
Tyler grabbed Paul's arm again, hard. "I don't think she's sleeping."
"What?" He glanced at the house. "The psycho's watching us?"
"No," Tyler said, "her mother."
\*
Tyler and Paul froze. Somewhere a dog barked and car screeched to a halt. These sounds echoed to them from the other side of the lake, but no sounds emanated from the house. Maybe Sasha's mother had left a few candles burning as some sort of witchcraft custom. She might be far off in dreamland right now while he and Paul were imitating mannequins in her front yard.
"What should we do?" Paul grunted in throaty gurgles.
"You brought us out here."
"You wanted to come here."
"You broke the railing."
Paul hesitated, shrugged. "We might as well finish." He shook the spray paint bottle and resumed his threatening, almost illegible, note. After a few letters, he stopped. "You going to do anything productive?"
Tyler glanced at the house, then off to the street and then back to Paul. He still held the bat in both hands.
"Bust the bitch's car." Paul pointed toward the driveway.
There was no garage, so any cars would have to be parked in the driveway, which was barely large enough for two vehicles. The only car parked there was Sasha's Oldsmobile that was rusting in so many spots it looked like it had leprosy. Tyler turned back to Paul to ask if he really expected Tyler to do something to Sasha's car but Paul had returned to his spray-painted note and was laughing at his own wittiness.
Tyler walked toward the car. He could just dent the door a little bit. That would get the message across (in case she didn't notice her destroyed railing or the paint on her front steps) and not be too damaging.
But you need to be damaging, a voice told him. This girl thinks you raped her and now she's pregnant. She's trying to frame you. She wants to force you to love her. She's lost her mind and she doesn't care how much pain she causes you. She doesn't care that Delaney is dead. Even if her mother didn't cast some spell, Sasha is still out of her mind. She's been going around school telling everyone you two are practically married. If you don't get her to back off now, you will never be rid of her. SEND THE BITCH A MESSAGE!
Tyler's hands had slipped down to the bottom of the bat and he held it out at his side like he was expecting a baseball to come flying out of the dark. He approached the car with sure-footed steps and nodded with every indictment from his mind. Sasha was crazy. She did need to be stopped. She was fucking up his life. She was a dangerous cunt-trap who needed to be stopped.
He brought the bat back and swung it forward so quickly he barely realized he was doing it. The meat of the bat bounced off the front fender, leaving only a minor dent. That's nothing, the voice said. She won't even notice that. Send a REAL message!
He brought the bat back again and swung forward with all his force. Halfway through the swing a different voice asked him what the hell he was doing and he screamed not out of rage but out of fear. He had lost control so easily.
Like when you raped her.
The bat crashed into and then through the windshield. The glass crumpled and shattered simultaneously. Tiny pieces of glass exploded in all directions. The bat bounced off the dashboard and Tyler stumbled backward. He dropped the bat and watched it roll under the car. What was he doing? What the fuck had he done? Nausea flooded his stomach and all his muscles cramped together as if on cue. He hunched over, grabbed his knees, sucked at the cold night air.
Paul stopped spray painting. "Nice hit, man. Didn't think you had it in you."
"We have to leave," Tyler said through gasps.
"No shit."
The light above the front door blared on and then the door swung wide. Instead of a long-haired witch dressed in black, Sasha stepped onto the porch dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. The shirt made her breasts look almost as big as he remembered.
What Paul had sprayed on the steps resembled the crayon doodles of a child. If there was a message in his painting (was that an "f" and maybe a "u"?) it had been completely lost somewhere between Paul's brain and his hand.
"Tyler?" Sasha sounded small, like a child.
Neither Tyler nor Paul said anything. They resumed their mannequin postures.
"What's going on?"
"We . . ." Tyler started and could say no more.
Her eyes expanded. "My car? What did you do?"
Paul stepped forward, jumped onto the bottom step, thrust the can at her, and yelled: "Fuck you, bitch," and then sprayed black paint on her face.
The No! wasn't even out of Tyler's mouth before the paint hit her. She rocked back as if struck with something, tripped on the entryway ledge, and fell.
Paul stood in place for a moment, and then leaped off the step and scrambled toward his car. He screamed for Tyler to follow him, to come on and get in before the cops showed up but Tyler couldn't move. Sasha wasn't screaming--she was writhing on the floor and sobbing. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. At least she'll get the message.
Paul's car rumbled to life and he screamed out the window for Tyler to come the fuck on already. Tyler shook himself out of his empathetic trance and ran to the car.
"It's not my fault!" Sasha cried. "Not my fault!"
Tyler hopped in the car but didn't shut the door. "Wait. We can't just leave."
Paul laughed. "Right. We can drive straight to the police station."
"You shouldn't have sprayed her."
"She's lucky I didn't use the persuader. Shut the fucking door."
Sasha's pained scream grabbed Tyler with cold, invisible hands and squeezed his stomach. He stepped out of the car, shut the door. "I can't leave her like this."
"You're as nuts as she is." Then Paul's car jolted forward and he peeled out, howling down the hill deeper into Trailer Trash Town. Only the two black skid marks from his tires remained.
Slowly, Tyler walked back up Sasha's lawn. She was still laying in the open doorway, sobs pouring out of her. Her legs rolled back and forth with her sobs as if the physical expression of her pain was something experienced throughout her entire body.
I did this.
I caused this.
She deserved it, that other voice offered. Now you can make your move and get this bitch to do what's right.
He walked up the steps. "Sasha, I'm--"
She sprang up, on all fours, screamed, and frantically tried crab-walking backward. In the light over the entrance, the black paint resembled a giant smudge like she had rubbed her face against a car engine. Her eyes twitched frantically: some of the paint had seeped into them. Would that blind her?
He approached her quickly, knelt beside her. "Sasha, relax, please."
She stopped trying to back up, afraid perhaps she'd misjudge her direction and spill down the stairs. She shrunk away from him but her rushing tears prevented another scream. She gagged on a wad of phlegm and then cried even harder.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I freaked out, that's all, and Paul, he's nuts, this was . . . ah, shit, your face. I'm so sorry."
"None of this is my fault." She buried her face in the crook of her arm.
He wanted to touch her but he was afraid she might scream or try to get away. "Let me help you to the bathroom. Let me help you get cleaned up."
Her sobbing eased. "Why?"
"Because I deserve to be arrested," he said.
She thought about that for a moment. "It's upstairs on the right."
Carefully, Tyler helped Sasha stand and allowed her to use him as a crutch as she took the stairs one step at a time like an old woman. Even if he did end up arrested, this was the right thing to do. Stupid maybe, but the right thing nonetheless.
He sat her on the toilet and wet a hand towel in the tub. He dumped some body wash onto the towel and started to clean the paint from her face. She let him do it for a moment and then she took the towel and started scrubbing vigorously at her eyes. She scrubbed and wept and Tyler felt so small, pathetic and helpless that he didn't notice Sasha's mother was standing in the doorway until she spoke.
"I was afraid this might happen," the woman said. "We must perform the love child rites immediately."
Anthony left the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered with a startlingly clear image of what he had to do. It wouldn't be pretty; but it was what God expected. Tyler's car (keys in the ignition) was waiting. He drove home and went immediately to his wife.
He flicked on the overhead fan light in the bedroom. Chloe lay in a shriveled lump under the sheets while her sister Stephanie was sprawled out, fully clothed, next to Chloe on the comforter.
"Wake up," he said.
Chloe was so heavily drugged that there was no chance she would simply wake up, but Stephanie came out of her doze with an awkward spasm. She sat up, squinted against the light. "Anthony? What time is it?"
"I need to talk to my wife," he said.
She hesitated at his tone. "She's . . . asleep."
"No, Stephanie, she's not. She's fucking drugged."
The f-bomb was a cold splash of water on her face. After a moment, Stephanie's mouth slowly closed and then she was fumbling for words but managing only to produce nonsensical burps of vowel sounds.
Anthony moved toward her so quickly and with, no doubt, a slightly crazed expression on his face, that Stephanie scrambled off the bed, smacked the nightstand, and stumbled into the wall. She raised her hands slightly, either in a gesture meant to calm him or to protect herself.
"I need to talk to my wife," he said again.
"She's not well, Anthony, you know that. You're only going to upset her."
"Ha!" he said so loudly it echoed around the room. "I doubt anything could upset her, not in this condition."
"She's almost due for her nighttime pills."
Stephanie tried to slide across the wall to go around him, but he seized her arm.
"No more pills."
"But Dr. Carroll."
"And no more Dr. Carroll, either."
She started to respond, rethought her approach. "What's gotten into you?"
The question was a tranquilizer of its own. His grip loosened on her arm and then his hand dropped free. The pressure that had gathered near his temples eased. His jaw relaxed and he realized he had been clenching it. What had gotten into him? That was easy to answer, though not likely easy for his sister-in-law to accept. She had her loyalty and no matter what he said right now, she would continue to opine how Chloe needed her pills, how devastated she was, how not just her heart had been broken but her soul as well. She was, as Ellis phrased it, "another obstacle to empowerment."
And you know what we do obstacles, don't you? Ellis had asked.
Find a way around them?
Ellis smiled. That doesn't sound very empowering. No, when we cross an obstacle, we break right through it.
"I'm sorry," Anthony said. It was always the best response to a woman no matter the situation. "I've been really stressed. Everything seems like it's spiraling out of control. Like I'm going crazy."
She resisted her empathetic side for a moment, perhaps afraid this was some kind of set-up, and then touched his cheek. "You poor man. You've been carrying this burden all by yourself."
Burden. Was that a coincidence or God's intrusion? Was there a difference?
Her hand was soft. He hadn't shaved in days. He'd completely forgotten about shaving until just now. Hopefully, Delaney wasn't insulted.
"I've been so concerned about Chloe that I haven't tried to help you. I'm sorry, Anthony. I truly am."
Tears threatened for a moment; he forced them back. Stephanie could be annoying (sometimes talking his ear off for an hour or more when Chloe wasn't around to take the phone), but she was a good sister to his wife, a good aunt to his kids. "I really just need some time alone with her, okay?"
Her eyes searched his. "Of course. You're sure you're okay?"
Stephanie knew damn well he wasn't okay, not even slightly close to okay, but it was one of those things people asked. He nodded. He was fine, please, he just needed a few minutes with his wife.
He shut the door behind her, locked it, scanned the room, and dragged his chest of drawers from the opposite wall to the bedroom door. He stopped, appraised his work. He hadn't even broken a sweat. This is what God wanted. It might not feel like God's way, might seem even contrary to His path, but that was okay. God's work is messy, Ellis said. And sometimes, very painful.
He went to her, sat on the edge of the bed. She squirmed at the vibrations. Her eyes were moving back and forth beneath her lids. He touched the side of her face, brushed her hair back behind her ear. She stirred but did not step out from the comfort of her drug-addled slumber. In one gesture, he grabbed the edge of the comforter and flung it down off of her shoulders, exposing her body all the way to her knees.
She wore a pink T-shirt and a pair of blue gym shorts. Curled with her knees near her chest, she was a fetal corpse left to rot on a tray. Since the baby's death, Chloe had lost at least thirty pounds. He traced his hand over her skinny leg, across her skeletal hips, and hooked a finger under her shirt and dragged it up to her breasts that had once overflowed a C-cup but were barely A-cup material now. Her ribs pushed out from her skin like the bony fingers of some alien gestating inside her. Yet, the worst was her face, which almost resembled its old self when it was pressed against the pillow. When he took her chin and raised her head, her skin tightened over her cheek bones like plastic wrap sealing over a chicken leg bone.
This would be painful, but it had to be done. "Fruta de la vagina," he whispered. It was funny how something so ridiculous as having sex in an old Pontiac while some guy was selling bad fruit outside could bury itself so deeply in your heart. He and Chloe would relive that moment again and again for the rest of their lives and every time they would laugh and rekindle, at least for a moment, a lost piece of their love. That sounded true, and he wanted it to be, but he was just fooling himself.
The call from Sergeant Fratto had ruined their last attempt at reminiscing on Saturday. He shouldn't have answered that call; he should have just let it ring and kept sleeping, Chloe curled against him, the memory of their recent laughter fresh in the room. Maybe the phone would have stopped ringing and Delaney wouldn't be dead.
Now, who's fooling himself?
"Honey," he said. "Wake up. We need to talk. Please."
She grumbled something, rolled on her back and then onto her other side facing away from him. Her butt had shriveled into a boney angle.
He nudged her. She mumbled something that was probably go away. He grabbed her shoulder, pulled her toward him so she was on her back again, and shook her. He shook her until her eyes opened like the lethargic blooming of a flower. Instead of blue carnations, her eyes were gray marbles cracked with bloody veins.
"You want your Pilly Billies?" he asked.
Her tongue slithered from her mouth and traced a thin line of saliva across dry lips. "Where's Stephanie?"
"Taking a break. Having a smoke."
"What?" She was still in the throes of her slumber and spoke as if she might collapse back into sleep. "She doesn't smoke."
"Well. Whatever. You want your precious little Pilly Billies?"
A smile rose on her face and faded. "That's Brendan's. For sillies."
For sillies. She hadn't said that in years. That used to be what they said anytime either one of them did something unintentionally ridiculous or stupid and the other merely stared in disbelief. He'd put the milk in the pantry and the cereal box in the fridge without realizing and then her stare would clue him in. "For sillies," he'd say and they'd start cracking up.
Was old Chloe, the woman he had fallen in love with, straining to be free? Were the drugs helping or hurting?
Ellis had the unequivocal answer to that one: All addictions impede our ability to experience empowerment.
"I'll get you your pills," he said, "but first I want you to listen to me."
She chuckled to herself. "For sillies."
"No, not for sillies anymore." He hesitated. He had either to take the step forward and suffer the pain or retreat and try again later. "I've been somewhere tonight. Seen some things that have really helped."
"Dr. Pilly Billie."
"No. God."
She considered this, as best she could in her state, and then burst out laughing.
He knew this was going to be difficult, knew his anger was liable to come back in full gale-force wind strength, but he hadn't expected it would get so difficult so quickly. "Stop it," he said.
Her laughter rolled out of her like the maniacal hiccuping laughs of a clown. In between bursts of laughter, she repeated, " . . . saw God . . . oh, Jesus . . . good one, Anthony . . ." He could have taken the laughter (she was drugged, after all), but it was those stupid little editorializing comments that gnawed at him with the speed and veracity of piranhas.
"Shut up!" He punched the headboard and it vibrated against the wall.
Her laughter died quickly and she stared at him with wide, red-stained eyes. The dark crescents beneath her eyes made it seem like she hadn't slept for days. Oh, the irony. She could play a zombie in one of those Living Dead movies without any makeup. If she wanted to be dead so badly, why didn't she just overdose on her precious little pills? That would solve everything.
A new voice, one that hadn't spoken in months, struggled to break through the angry chatter burning his brain. You don't mean that, the voice said. This is the woman in front of whom you got naked and performed jumping jacks because she wanted to watch your "little soldier" jump, too. This is the woman who, on your wedding day during your first dance, whispered in your ear that she now knew what heaven was like. This is the woman with whom you had four children. This is the woman you love.
The voice stayed his next move for a moment but only a moment. That voice could tweak his heart whenever it wished, but sometimes it said the wrong things. It never should have mentioned the children. Four born, only two left. The woman he loved had died with those children, and this drug-addicted slop was all that remained.
He leaned toward her face. She backed up but only slightly. He wouldn't hit her; he had never done anything physically abusive before, not even punched a wall. (Times are changing.) "I did see God, Chloe, and I don't care if you believe me or not, but the one thing you will not do is laugh at me. Understand?"
She nodded.
"We've suffered more in the last few months than most people do their entire lives. But that is no excuse for destroying yourself. Whether it's God or just Common Sense, you need to stop taking your damned little pills. You need to get yourself together and go back to being the mother and wife you were once. You need to get out of this bed and start living again."
He was keeping his anger in check. Barely. Ellis had warned him against being too blunt with the message. Anthony needed to persuade her of her own volition, not scare her into submission. She was already scared and frightened people couldn't be empowered. He gripped the edge of the mattress while he spoke and was now squeezing it so hard that his hands were cramping. She wasn't ignoring him, as he figured she would, or mocking him with her famous rolling eyes, as she was fond of employing; she was staring back at him blankly, a deer caught in headlights, too dumb to know what to do.
"I should take you to a rehab," he said. "I should but I won't so long as you agree to my terms. First: you will be weaned off your pills over the next twenty-four hours. Second: you will get up at a reasonable time in the morning, shower, dress, and go about the daily business of living. Third: you will be a mother to Brendan and Tyler again. Brendan, especially, needs both of his parents now, needs them strong and clear-headed. Fourth: you will get up right now, shower, and have something to eat. I will tell all of this to Stephanie or she can watch me drag you to a rehab. What'll it be?"
She opened her mouth and clucked. He couldn't tell if the tongue flick was a turrets-like side effect of her cocktail of drugs or an insulting verbal middle-finger. He waited for her to say something. Her eyes rolled from his to the door where the dresser was blocking an escape route. When her eyes lolled back to his, her expression had changed. The blank stare had given way to something harder, meaner.
"I hope you hurt your back moving the dresser."
"Chloe, please--"
"I want my fucking pills."
"No."
"Fuck you. I gave birth to those kids. I am allowed to do this. I am suffering more than you could ever imagine. You're so full of shit you can't even tell. I don't give a shit if you did see God. Who cares? You see Him again, tell Him I said, 'Fuck off!' You can take all your pathetic self-help shit and shove it. Now, get me my pills or I'll get them myself."
For a moment, Anthony was as dumb-struck as Chloe must have been only minutes ago. Then all her words and, more importantly, her tone, kicked him into action.
He slapped her across the face. Her head whipped to the side with such a quick jerk that he thought he might have snapped her neck. He expected that old voice to come back but it didn't. It might never speak again.
She turned back to him and her red eyes were overflowing with raging blood, the white parts almost completely gone. The slap had burst more capillaries in her eyes. "Get the fuck out of my way." She shoved him hard, one hand against his face, the other on his chest. The hit surprised him and he slipped off the edge of the bed, slumped to the floor. She scrambled off the bed and tried to climb over him. He grabbed her ankle and she lost her balance and crashed to the floor at the entrance to the bathroom. Her head bounced off the wood saddle bridging the carpet of the bedroom with the tile of the bathroom.
Anthony got to his knees quickly to brace himself for a return attack. He was conscious to turn his lower half away from her feet, but she did not get up; she stayed on the floor and cried. She grabbed either side of her head and sobbed in large, heaving belts. Words squeezed in among her cries but he couldn't decipher them. He used to be able to understand her to the point of interpreting her grunts. No longer. She was someone else now, a parasite living in his bed.
He stepped over her and into the bathroom. Her pills were in the medicine cabinet and she had many bottles but he wasn't prepared for just how many. Brown plastic bottles with white safety caps and white labels explaining how often the enclosed pills should be taken occupied the full length of the top two shelves. The bottles varied in size, some tall and thin, others short and wide. They had alien names: Effexor, Desyrel, Celexa, Parnate, Nardil, Tofranil, Elavil, Pamelor. We are the Desyrels from the planet Pamelor here to spread the good word of our god Nardil.
"You want your pills, your fucking drugs?" He grabbed a bottle--Sinequan--ripped the cap off, and threw the pills at her. They bounced off her body and onto the carpet. He grabbed another bottle, opened it. "What about these?" Large, green horse pills ricocheted off her face, rolled back toward him on the tile. "Still don't like those? Try them all!" With both hands, he grabbed as many bottles as he could and in one sweeping gesture flung them down on his wife.
She sobbed harder and louder, though her cries had grown weak. Someone was knocking at the bedroom door, frantically knocking. Stephanie. "What's going on? Anthony, please open the door. I'll call the cops!"
"Go ahead!" he shouted. "They can drag my wife to rehab."
He turned back to the medicine cabinet. Of the remaining bottles, one caught his eye because its name wasn't some foreign alien-sounding title; this one was a household word throughout America. He seized the bottle, opened it.
"THIS is what you want, right? This is your Pilly-Billie. This is your crutch. This is your goddamn escape." He stepped to her and tipped the bottle of Percocet upside down. A handful of oblong, yellow pills fell into her hair, rolled on the tile. Through her sobbing, she grabbed one of the pills and shoved it in your mouth with the speed of a frog snatching a fly mid-air. Each pill was 650mg. It wouldn't take many to finish her off.
He bent toward her. "God loves you, but you make me sick."
He stepped over her and went to the door where Stephanie was pounding more furiously and really insisting she was going to call the police. He moved the dresser with ease and swung open the door. Stephanie almost collapsed into him.
"What did you do?"
"Just gave her her medicine."
Then Stephanie was in the bathroom crying over her sister and Anthony was on his way to the garage.
Brendan barely slept Thursday night. Dad hadn't come home. Tyler had done something terrible with Paul. Mostly, though, Brendan was too anxious to find out why Dwayne had been so shocked when Brendan told him the girl's name. Sasha Karras. Dwayne said he couldn't tell him over the phone, that he would be by the following day, Friday; Brendan had to wait for his signal. So, Brendan went through his usual morning routine, no longer concerned with pleasing the gods but eager to please Dwayne. Greasy hair and sweaty clothes would not do. Ellis and Dwayne would be in their suits, so Brendan had to look the role as well.
He was sitting alone at the kitchen table waiting for the signal when Dr. Carroll arrived. The earliest glimmer of morning sun flickered between the vertical blinds in front of the door leading to the deck. There was no bacon and eggs (cooked in grease) breakfast today--cereal as usual for a school day. There was no school today, anyway, not that Brendan would be going if there was. And no Pilly Billie, either, though he knew where the bottle was.
Tyler was asleep--he had come home quite late, returning in Paul's car and gone straight to bed with no more phone calls. He hadn't been wearing shoes or a shirt. Stephanie was with Mom in his parents' bedroom. There had been lots of crying last night, screaming too. Dad had done most of the screaming before he drove off in Mom's car somewhere. Maybe God had a plan for him, too. Hopefully, God was keeping him safe.
Brendan slowly stirred his spoon through the milk and remaining pieces of Captain Crunch, which had started to disintegrate like tiny corpses in a muddy pool. When the doorbell chimed, Brendan almost fell out of his chair. It wasn't the pre-determined signal but maybe Dwayne had changed his mind. He ran down the steps and swung open the door.
"Hello, son."
Dr. Carroll was shorter than Dad and thinner. His face drooped forward as if made of melting play-dough; his white-and-black speckled beard did nothing to conceal his falling chin, which might eventually meld with his neck. The hair on his head was a spray-painted black mop. Large glasses framed his eyes in black plastic squares. Brendan had only seen him a handful of times, but every time Dr. Carroll wore the same thing: brown khakis that puffed out under his waist like clown pants and a dark blue dress shirt with a blue and pink flower print tie that dangled past his belt buckle.
Brendan nodded but said nothing. Dr. Carroll smiled, revealing slightly yellowed but perfectly aligned tiny teeth that ended in almost-points as if he'd filed them. Piranha Teeth. It was as if at any moment, Dr. Carroll might morph into a man-eating centipede and bite Brendan's head off.
"Your aunt called me," he said in a nasally voice. It was the voice nerds used in the movies. "May I speak with her?"
"I guess," Brendan said and stepped back to let Dr. Carroll in.
He entered, touched Brendan's shoulder. Brendan forced himself to not shrink away. "How are you, son? This has been a traumatic time. Do you feel down?"
The man's eyes twitched when he spoke. Perhaps it was the centipede fighting to come out. Brendan shook his head, said he was fine thank you.
"If you ever need anything, someone to talk to, don't hesitate. You don't need to be tough in times likes these. You need to grieve. It's a natural process. You must let your guard down. I know that can be scary, but I can help you through it. I have things that can help."
"Drugs?"
Dr. Carroll pushed his glasses up his nose. "How's your mother?"
He shrugged. "I don't see her much."
"And your father?"
"You should ask him."
Dr. Carroll nodded, flashed those teeth which had gotten pointier still, and made his way up the stairs in squeaky shoes. He was soon down the hall and knocking on Brendan's parents' door. A moment later, the door opened and shut and Aunt Steph said, "Oh, thank God."
What was Dr. Carroll going to do? It was probably messy whatever it was and Brendan had no time right now for more messiness. One cleanup job at a time.
He returned to the kitchen.
What would Dwayne say once he finally gave the signal? What was the plan going to be? No matter what it was, Brendan would help Dwayne any way he could. He had to protect his brother, had to keep him safe. If something horrible happened to Tyler too then there would be no purpose to anything anymore. Brendan would best serve the world by checking out of it. But that's not what God had in mind. Dwayne and Ellis had told him how special he was, how God had touched him, marked him for unique accomplishments. This would be the first of many wonderful experiences in the name of God.
No matter what.
"What're you doing?" Tyler stood in the kitchen doorway. He wore jeans and a brown T-shirt. His hair stood up along the side of his head as if that part of his scalp had been electrified.
"Nothing."
"Who's here?"
"Dr. Carroll."
"Really?" Something like a cloud past over Tyler's face.
"Helping Mom, I guess."
Tyler was gazing off into the corner of the kitchen. He was thinking something over. "You came home late."
The cloud past abruptly. "You were waiting for me?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Spying on me?"
"What happened with that girl?"
Tyler glanced down the hallway and then turned back and spoke to Brendan in a whisper, leaning his body toward him. "I never should have told you anything. I know you really want to help but you can't. You need to let me handle it, okay?"
"What if I can help?"
"Brendan, I love you, I do, but you're too young for this shit."
"I know her name is Sasha Karras."
Tyler clenched his jaw for a moment. He knelt before Brendan and grabbed the chair by both arms. There was something on his hand, something written. "Did you go through my stuff to find that out?"
"I can help," he said. "I know you don't believe me, but I have ways."
"This isn't one of your stories. This is some truly demented shit. You need to stay back, for your own good. Okay?"
Brendan nodded. Tyler would never be convinced, maybe not even after he and Dwayne took care of the problem entirely. That was fine. Brendan didn't need credit; he just wanted his brother to know that he cared about him.
"What happened to your hand?"
It wasn't writing on Tyler's hand; it was a symbol.
Tyler glanced at his hand and pulled it off the chair. He buried it in the pocket of his jeans with a grimace. "Nothing. Never mind." He stood. "Stop trying to help me. You got that?"
"Yes."
Tyler went back down the hall. Brendan wouldn't try to convince his brother again. It was too late for that. Tyler was too caught up in something bad to realize he needed help.
When the phone rang, Brendan jumped out of his chair and almost tripped.
"Are you alone?" Dwayne asked.
"Yes."
"I'll be around this evening to pick you up. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because God wants me to be."
"Good boy. Did you tell anyone?"
"No."
"Just after sunset, okay?"
"Yes."
"God speed, my special boy."
The conversation had happened so quickly that Brendan was barely aware it had happened at all. He had answered Dwayne's questions so quickly, so easily, so naturally; it was almost frightening. This was what God wanted.
He went to his room. His mother was crying again. No doctor could help her. Only God. But that would come in time. One mess at a time, after all.
First, Brendan had to deal with Sasha Karras and the arrowhead symbol branded into Tyler's hand.
It was the morally right thing to help Sasha to the bathroom and try to help her remove the blotch of spray paint from her face, but with Sasha's mother glowering over them, long, scraggly hair dangling past her face like the tentacles of a squid, Tyler rethought his responsibility.
"Mom, no," Sasha said. She was sitting on the toilet, wet towel pressed to her face.
"Things will only get worse. The ritual sacrifice of the love child must be made."
. . . sac rice luff chide . . .
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"How can you say that?" The harsh light in the bathroom revealed deep creases in the woman's face as if her skin was a wrinkled paper napkin. "I am your mother. You owe me all you have. And all I have is because of the great Earth Goddess."
Violent sobs wracked Sasha's body. She screamed from behind the towel. "Stop this! Stop this shit! It's all bullshit and you know it!"
Instead of screaming back, Sasha's mother straightened up; her nose stuck out from the vail of hair like a slug. Her voice adopted a deep, heavy tone that sent chills through Tyler's body: "It is time that you sacrifice your blood for the love child you have created. If you do not, you will continue to endure the harshest of experiences. I know you are in pain, my sweetheart, but this must be done, and both of you must agree."
Tyler could run straight at the woman and push her to the side and then be out the front door in a few seconds. If she proved stronger than he expected, there could be problems. But indecision was no improvement.
Sasha's sobs calmed; her anger faded. "Alright, Mom, fine. But Tyler doesn't need to stay, this isn't his problem."
"The Earth Goddess demands both parents be present for the ritual. Only one and the ceremony may not work. Both life forces are necessary."
Sasha peeked at Tyler from behind her towel. "I'm sorry."
"Do not apologize," her mother said. "I was the spell caster. I created the love that stirred between the two of you last week and only I can make sure the love child you have created will be protected."
"You did curse me." The words were out of Tyler's mouth before he could stop them.
The woman laughed a single, hearty note that echoed around the bathroom. "There are no curses, only spells."
"You think you're a real witch?"
Sasha grabbed his arm. "Please."
Sasha's mother ignored the comments. "And no spell can really work unless the foundation for the spell already exists. My daughter loved you and so I cast a love spell to help her woo you, but that spell would never have worked if you had no love in your heart for her."
Not love, lust. He didn't want her heart--he wanted her big breasts, her firm legs, her warm middle. Christ, was she actually pregnant? He needed to get rid of Sasha's crazy mother so he could address the real issue.
Drag her out with you and kick her down the stairs.
"I have to go," he said and hoped such simplicity would work.
Sasha gripped his arm more tightly. "Please," she said again.
The black spray paint had faded to resemble a massive bruise in the middle of her face. "Sorry," he said and shook off her arm.
"It is time." Sasha's mother removed a large carving knife that had been hidden somewhere in her dark layers.
\*
She told them to strip naked. Sasha took off her shirt and unfastened her bra, breasts dropping loose, and started to undo her pants without objection. She had suffered this humiliation before. If the kids at school knew, Sasha would be the eternal joke from now through fifty years of reunions.
When her breasts came free, Tyler felt a moment of desire but it vanished almost immediately. There was nothing sexy about the way she undressed. It was too mechanical, like an abused child dropping pants to take the nightly punishment. If the school knew, Sasha would be put in a foster home and her mother in a jail, or an asylum. Maybe that wasn't so bad.
"I'm not doing anything," Tyler said.
Sasha looked at him with broken eyes that begged for his cooperation. Don't leave me alone, please.
Her mother pointed the blade of the knife at him. He didn't let his mind reason his way out of this. He started to undress. This was, at least partially, all his fault. He had done something he shouldn't have and now this was his punishment. He hesitated when he got down to his boxers but Sasha wasn't gazing expectantly, so he pulled them off too. An inner cold sprouted bumps across his exposed flesh. His balls had knotted themselves as close to his body as possible and his penis stuck out like a plump finger.
"Place all the clothes in the tub and turn on the hot water. We must let them soak."
Sasha did what her mother said and Tyler watched in panic as water drenched his clothes and his jeans began to float as the tub filled with steaming water.
"I'm so sorry," Sasha whispered to him as she turned from the tub.
"Face each other."
They did. He tried to keep his eyes on hers but they drifted to her breasts before he realized it and when he snapped his focus back up to her face her expression was so weak and pathetic that he wanted to hit himself for being so inappropriate at this moment.
Inappropriate? his mind squealed. What's inappropriate is her mother forcing you to stand naked in the bathroom while she holds you hostage with a giant knife.
"Raise your hands palms out to each other and join hands but do not clasp to each other. There must be a connection but it must not be one of force or born out of fear, desperation, or panic."
Her hot and sweaty palms felt good against his hands which felt like they had been dipped in an ice bath.
"Kiss," her mother said. "Do not do anything but touch lips to lips. There is no lust here, not now--not yet. This is the joining of life forces already merged in an act of creation."
Her lips were as warm as her hands and for a few moments he was somewhere else. He was with her, yes, but not naked standing in a bathroom in front of her mother; they were off somewhere dark and private where they could kiss and bask in that warmth without fear of what would happen next.
Sasha broke the kiss and Tyler expected Sasha's mother to command them to kiss again because their life forces weren't yet joined or something, but instead the woman stood in the bathroom doorway using a lighter to heat the tip of the knife. She was lost in the small flame flickering around the metal tip. If ever there was a time to run . . .
"What is she doing?" Tyler whispered.
". . . I don't know."
"But she's done this before?"
"No."
"I can get past her."
"No." She turned to him. "Don't leave. Please."
She's as crazy as her mother, that voice insisted. Now they're going to cut off your dick and cauterize the wound. They'll keep your cock in a jar and use it in their witch rituals. Maybe they'll even name it. "Bring forth Little Ty," they'll say with a giggle.
"Are you really pregnant?
"I'm sorry."
Her mother snapped from her trance and approached them. "On your knees, hands still together."
They got to their knees. The tile was cold, though the air had turned warm and humid.
"Kiss again, and this time don't stop until I tell you."
Beads of condensation ran down the wall over the tub like blood.
He shut his eyes and they kissed again. The rushing water in the tub might have been a secret waterfall in a cave somewhere, something they could share while they embraced.
The woman grabbed his wrist. Fiery pain melted into his hand and he screeched in Sasha's face. Her mother kept a firm grip on his wrist while she pressed the glowing tip of the blade against Tyler's hand. She uttered some phrase over and over again but Tyler couldn't decipher it from the scorching pain burning through his flesh.
Sasha grabbed him around the neck, forced him to look at her. "Don't move," she said, "it'll be easier if you don't."
For a fraction of a second this seemed like a good idea. Do what Sasha says, let her mother finish the ceremony, and then run home. But the pain shattered that logic and he pulled from both Sasha's and her mother's grips, and fell back against the tub full of steaming water.
"Get away from me!" he screamed, his voice strained and confused. "You're crazy, both of you!"
The back of his hand was bright red where the metal had branded his skin. It was an arrowhead glowing faint orange. The damaged skin was starting to bubble, rising above the rest like some relief map.
Sasha tried to comfort him, but he pushed her back and she tumbled into the front of the toilet.
"We are not finished," her mother said in that deep, dead voice. "You must both be marked." The flame flickered beneath the blade again.
The pain in his hand kept intensifying, burning louder and louder throughout his body like a screaming madman let loose in his brain. The flesh puffed like cooking dough and bubbled like melting cheese. If he touched the injury, his skin would rip, maybe even expose the bone.
Sasha held out her hand to her mother, who took it and brought the tip of the knife to her hand. Sasha's whole body rocked with the initial touch of burning metal against skin, yet she did not pry her hand away. She gritted her teeth and cried profusely but said nothing while her mother repeated the magical phrase again and again. This time, Tyler picked up the words.
"Great Goddess of Earth, seal the bonds of these lovers."
Tyler's nakedness dawned on him like a hard slap. What the hell had he let them do? His jeans were floating on top of the rising tub water like a deflated life raft. He grabbed them out of the tub and tried to get them on, but he slipped twice on the floor, barely keeping his balance, and had to untangle the bottom of one of the legs before his foot would go through; he got them on and the saturated warmth helped calm him, if only momentarily.
"You can't leave," Sasha's mother said. She let her daughter's mangled hand drop. Sasha curled against the toilet, crying. "You must both stay here for three days. It is the command of the Earth Goddess."
The bathroom doorway was clear.
"Fuck you," he said and ran for the door.
His feet slipped and she stepped in front of him, knife before her but upward instead of out like a sword. He grabbed for her wrist as she tried to claw at him, managed to seize her puffy flesh, and used the momentum of his sprint to spin her. He released her after only a second but she snagged his arm long enough to tumble him into the counter. He grabbed the sink and used the leverage to kick the crazy bitch backwards. His foot hit her knee and she howled, and then fell backwards into the tub water with a whale splash. He didn't see that, only heard it, because he was already going down the stairs and a second later was out the front door.
\*
Her neighbor was out on his porch again. As before, the man was sitting in a folding chair, smoking a cigarette. The trees obscured him enough to make him more of a shadow than a man, but there was something about how he did not react to Tyler's sudden bursting out onto the porch in only a pair of soaking jeans that made Tyler pause. Was this simply a typical night in Trailer Trash Town? Had he seen this before? Better and cheaper than a movie and you can smoke, too?
The man puffed his cigarette. What did he know? What secrets might this stranger keep in the dark recesses of his mind?
Tyler pulled his cellphone from his pocket and knew before flipping it open that it wouldn't work. He'd had friends who had fallen--or been thrown into--pools with their cellphone on them and the phones had never worked again. Some people claimed cellphones could be dried out with a blow dryer but that was no help now.
The phone wouldn't even turn on.
From inside the house, agonized wails echoed like the cries of a tortured ghost trying to break free. Was that Sasha or her mother? Maybe both.
Tyler hurried down the steps, down the driveway, and headed toward the neighbor. The tree line continued all the way down the driveway, so he had to walk into the street and then turn up the neighbor's driveway. Small pebbles dug into his feet and a few managed to rip his skin. He ignored the pain (the pulsing in his hand screamed for his full attention) and headed up the driveway toward the smoking neighbor.
The man was sitting in the chair one leg folded over the other, back arched: the ideal position for relaxing on a cool night. The only light came from an upstairs window in an empty house. The light offered just enough for Tyler to make his way up the driveway but darkness masked the man's face.
"Hello," Tyler said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but--"
The man stood, sucked on his cigarette, and then flicked it onto his patch of front lawn.
"Can I use your phone?"
The man turned and entered his house. The door shut behind him and, Tyler was sure, the deadbolt slid into place. Tyler stopped. The cool night was beginning to take its first licks on Tyler's exposed skin. He wished he had Paul's Carhart. He crossed his arms over his chest and almost wanted to cry, but anger stymied any tears. This wasn't his fault. Sure, he had fucked up, but was this his just punishment?
You could always go to jail, his mind offered.
He didn't really believe it but he told himself that jail might be preferable. At the very least he wouldn't have to worry about Sasha's pregnancy. Christ, what the hell was going to happen when she started showing? Everyone at school would know. He couldn't be a father. Hell, what would Dad even say about it? In his current state, Dad probably wouldn't even notice. Tyler couldn't care for a kid. Sasha couldn't and her mother definitely couldn't.
That left only one option, of course.
If he really wanted to go to jail, he could walk right back into that house, grab the knife, and take care of the problem. That almost sounded possible, though sickening and very, very far from plausible. He couldn't do anything like that. Wouldn't want to.
Still . . .
Movement, or maybe it was some noise, pulled his attention to the only lit room in the neighbor's house. The man was in that room, standing at the window. Completely back lit, he was only the dark shadow of a man. He was watching Tyler. Had he called the cops? Was he afraid the crazy witch lady was going to come outside too? Who was this guy?
Tyler started to walk toward the man's front door--what was another confrontation on a night filled with madness?--but a car was speeding down the road, its howling engine echoing like a hungry beast in the woods. Tyler turned toward the road and waited, hoping.
Perhaps he had felt guilty or maybe he wanted to do some more vandalizing, but Paul had returned. His car skidded to a stop at the bottom of Sasha's driveway. Paul was out of the car by the time Tyler ran into the street. Paul had an open beer bottle in one hand.
"Fuck happened to you?"
"Get in," Tyler said. "I'm driving."
Anthony stepped into the garage, shut the door against the echo of Chloe's gargled, drug-saturated cries, and went to his mangled car. He touched the hood, ran his hand along the roof. He didn't really see the destroyed windshield or the places where the frame had crumpled.
Delaney had died in this car and he had kept it as some kind of demented memorabilia. It could go in the Museum of Grief: and next on our tour of Where They Died, we have a totaled 2001 Audi S4 in which a beautiful young woman took a bowling ball to the face when it was dropped off a highway overpass. Notice how not only is the windshield destroyed but the front is as well; the poor girl drove into a tree after the ball mangled into her skull. Anthony could hear the oohhing and ahhing of the fascinated observers.
He stared at the radio and its dead face stared back. Had it even played that instrumental yesterday night or was that all in his head? That's for you, Dad. Had he truly encountered God or was he so wracked with grief that he imagined the whole encounter? He needed help--he knew that--and turning to Ellis and his Giant Jesus offered hope, but did that mean it actually would help? Had he just referred to what happened (or maybe didn't) last night as an encounter?
Tears threatened. "I miss you so much," he whispered.
Why?
That was the eternal question of course. Why did this happen? Why to Delaney? Why were any of us even here if it all boiled down to misery and death? Why? Why? WHY?
He smacked the top of the car but with barely any force; his muscles had lost their strength. He could slump to the floor and fall asleep. Stay down here for days, maybe let himself waste away to nothing.
"I didn't imagine it."
Chloe's car waited in the adjacent spot. It was practically new, had still smelled new when he drove it off the highway as their baby died. He should have let Delaney take it. Maybe she wouldn't be dead now. A simple change of events so slight as taking a different car might have altered everything. But he hadn't wanted her to take it because of the cries.
"I didn't imagine it," he said again.
The keys were in the car. Anthony got in Chloe's car and hit the road.
\*
His heart was racing by the time he took the on-ramp for the highway. The radio was off and all the windows were up. The road swooshed by beneath him, tires humming. He hit the gas hard and the car, eager after so long being dormant, revved high and easy and for a few moments Anthony felt he was flying.
That feeling fled once he crested that certain hill and memory flooded back to those last few seconds when he lost control of the car and the baby's cries mixed with Chloe's screams and the Williams family plummeted into The Dark Times.
He squeezed the steering wheel as hard as he could and screamed as the car descended the hill. He wanted to hit the break, put the car in reverse and drive at 100 miles per hour into oncoming traffic. He wanted anything except to continue down this hill. He had avoided this section of the highway for months and this return was as traumatic as a woman revisiting the scene of her rape.
His foot stayed pressed to the gas and the car sped down the hill faster and faster while he screamed louder and louder. Then, at the right moment, he slammed the brakes and turned hard onto the shoulder. This time, with no dying baby or screaming wife in the car, the vehicle did not flip over and tumble down the median slope. The car skidded to a stop on the shoulder and other cars continued whizzing past without any second thoughts about what Anthony was doing.
He sobbed against the steering wheel. Each sob was a new stab into an old wound and gushed out fresh blood. This is where it had all started. This was the scene of the crime. This was where the fickle finger of fate not only pointed down at them but squished them beneath its unforgiving nail. Now, you're mine. This was the inciting incident of the miserable play that had become their lives. Act One: Baby Dies. Act One Cliffhanger: Daughter dies. Act Two: grief destroys family, father seeks God's help.
How would it all end?
Deus Ex Machina?
The crying was very faint, a whisper on the wind from the passing cars. Yet that was enough to stifle his cries and make him scan the car wildly as if hunting out a wild animal that had snuck in. The cries faded and almost drifted off into nowhere but Anthony begged for them to remain--"don't go, not yet"--and the cries came on louder. The distinct wails of an infant in pain pierced his mind and his heart.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so fucking sorry."
But he could not ask why. He could only express regret and pain. To ask why was to risk suffering the worst response: nothing. He could cry here while his dead infant child cried to him from some dark corner of the world (or your mind) but he could not tempt God to reveal that the Ultimate Truth was that there was no truth.
Nothing happens for a reason. Things happen simply because they can.
A giant tractor trailer trundled past, rocking the car with the force of a hurricane blast. This ended Anthony's reverie and also his dead child's cries. Maybe they would never return again, but Anthony knew better. That crying voice would always be right here waiting for him and if he ever wanted to bask in more self-pity he could come here any time and weep.
He took out his cellphone and called Ellis without realizing he was doing it until Ellis answered.
"You went back, of course," Ellis said.
"Not for Delaney. For my lost baby, a child who never had a name while he was living. Don't you think that's horrible? Chloe and I couldn't agree. She wanted Clayton, I preferred Michael. My choice was a bit generic, I know, but it's a popular name for a reason. After the baby died we didn't mention names again. There's a tombstone that says, 'Here lies Baby Williams. He tasted life briefly.' Don't you think that's horrible?"
"Have you prayed?"
"How can I?"
"You are not lost. You know God. He knows you too. He wants you to be empowered. Just because you can't kneel before Him this moment and look into His face does not mean you can't know His love. You have chosen the right path--it is time to be strong."
Ellis's voice strong and reassuring, yet Anthony couldn't dismiss this moment. He had heard his child crying. Didn't that mean something? Wasn't that God intervening? He should tell Ellis, try to explain, but that was pointless. Ellis believed Anthony was well on his way to empowerment. Explaining what happened would disappoint Ellis, postpone the coming ascension.
Jesus rose, Ellis had told him, and you can rise too.
"What happened with your wife?"
"She . . . resisted."
"That is to be expected. Your children?"
"I haven't said anything."
"It is not up to you to pace yourself, to only act when you feel prepared. Remember that Jesus knew what was going to happen. He knew he would be betrayed. He knew he would suffer for a whole day on that cross. He knew all that pain was coming and he accepted it and endured it because he knew what waited for him beyond the misery. Look beyond the pain and misery. Salvation is waiting for you."
"Didn't Jesus cry to God on the cross? Didn't he ask why he had been forsaken?"
"In the Book of John, Jesus embraces his role and before dying on the cross, says, 'It is finished.' Let your suffering be over, Anthony. Let God take you in His arms and soothe your pain. It is time to say, 'It is finished.' "
Anthony didn't know if that was true or not what Jesus said but he hoped it was. Those three words strung together made one of the sweetest sounding phrases he could ever imagine. It is finished. Oh, how desperately he wanted all of this to be finished. The pain. The pity. The anger. The helplessness.
"What should I do?"
"Go home," Ellis said. "Go to your family and rescue them."
Anthony started to say something and then Ellis told him to keep God in his heart and hung up.
Anthony got back on the highway. He drove until he needed gas and then he pulled off, found a gas station, filled up, and kept driving. His mind was a blank page but all the words screaming to mark the page pushed and prodded from the other side. When those words finally broke through and he realized he did have to go home, he did have to rescue his family, he was an hour outside of Philadelphia. He parked at a rest stop and slept until dawn.
In the morning, everything was clearer.
Brendan was in his room adding a chapter to his tale of the Darkman (Detective Bo Blast had faced off with the Darkman in the corner of an alley only to have the villain escape in a delivery truck the driver had left idling behind a deli) when Tyler burst into his room and said he needed Brendan's help.
"I thought you didn't want it." They had spoken in the kitchen nearly an hour ago.
"A small favor."
"What happened to your hand? Sasha do that?"
Tyler hid his hand in his jeans again. "You have some imagination, know that?"
"Just like a puzzle." That was Bo Blast's catch-phrase. A gorgeous blonde would say how impressed she was that he'd solved the case and he'd smile and say, "Just like a puzzle."
"Who? What?"
"Never mind."
"I need you to distract Dr. Carroll."
"Why?" The doc was still in with Mom and Aunt Stephanie. Mom's crying had died off but the vibrations of voices murmured through the wall. Brendan had tried to decode it early and gave up. It was easier to write more of his story than strain to make out words through a wall.
"Knock on the door, get him to come out and talk for a minute. Tell him you've been having headaches or something, something requires medicine. He'll bring that black bag with him. Then you've got to do some real imaginative work."
"What?"
"Get sick."
"As in . . . ?"
"Vomit."
"I can't make myself vomit."
"You won't have to. Just say you've been having stomach pains too and then have one, a pain so bad you have to run to the bathroom. The good doc will follow you in, leaving his bag behind."
"If you want any drugs, he'll write you a prescription."
"No time. I need them now."
"Why don't you take Mom's? She's got a ton and she won't notice."
"I need something strong, real strong."
Brendan didn't bother to ask how he knew Dr. Carroll carried anything real strong with him because they had both seen the doc open that black bag a few months ago and remove a slew of prescription bottles, placing them in a line up on the kitchen table in front of Dad. The doc gave Dad the choice of whatever "line of treatment" he felt comfortable with Mom following. Dad took Dr. Carroll's recommendation and ever since Mom had been like the barely walking dead. There was strong stuff in that black bag, one prescription so potent that Dad smirked at the bottle and asked if Dr. Carroll wanted to help her or kill her.
Brendan asked if the latter was Tyler's intention as well.
Something passed over Tyler's face again, not quite the cloud as before but something similar, something suggesting Brendan was right. "I'm not going to kill her. I'm trying to help her."
It was pointless to once again offer his own services (and Dwayne's), so Brendan didn't say anything. He would do what Tyler wanted because Tyler was his brother and because Brendan needed him to think everything was on the up and up, that Brendan wasn't hiding anything. Dwayne said this mission required secrecy. Brendan had tried to offer his help openly to Tyler because he knew that though Dwayne said the mission was "hush-hush," he would applaud Tyler's conversion to accept help because that would bring him one step closer to accepting God.
"You'll do it?" Tyler asked.
Brendan said he would as long as he didn't have to pretend to vomit in the bathroom for very long. There was something weird about Dr. Carroll and Brendan didn't like the idea of having him so close in such a confined space.
"Yeah," Tyler said, "he is sort of a creeper."
\*
The plan worked much better than expected and the doc ended up much creepier than feared.
\*
Brendan knocked on the door, waited for Dr. Carroll to open it--he didn't, Aunt Stephanie did--and asked if he could talk to the doc. Aunt Steph (that nickname made her sound like a teenager) said the doctor was busy helping mommy. Brendan went all-in, saying he felt sick and might have to throw up. Aunt Steph, never a mother herself, backed off immediately and called the doc away from the crying woman on the bed. That's my Mom, Brendan thought with a strange sort of detachment. Not that that means much anymore.
Brendan got the doc into his bedroom, started telling him about these headaches he'd been having and, while he was saying this, a headache started to take root in his head. Dr. Carroll placed a thin hand on Brendan's shoulder; it was the hand of someone who didn't go out much, just stayed in a basement away from the sun. Like a vampire.
"I can give you something for the pain," he said in that nasally voice. "Would you like that?"
Tyler stood in the doorway playing The Concerned Brother. He offered a slight nod of encouragement.
"My stomach is sick, too."
The doc bent down, more eye level with Brendan. The black in his beard might have been pieces of dirt. Brendan imagined the doctor on all fours crawling around in a garden somewhere eating weeds. The image was not funny; it left Brendan cold and actually sort of ill.
"I have to . . . have to go," Brendan said, rushing the last few words to really sell the urgency.
He ran to the bathroom and the doctor followed. Brendan lifted the toilet lid and seat and stood hunched over the bowl. Dr. Carroll gently shut the bathroom door and then stood before it, appreciating Brendan. Goosebumps sprouted along Brendan's arms. He felt naked, trapped. He was only a few feet away from Tyler and Aunt Steph but here in the bathroom, Brendan might as well have been in a different house entirely. The good doc could do whatever he wanted.
"It helps if you get on your knees," Dr. Carroll said. "It's safer that way."
Brendan did, bowing before the toilet, and stared into the water, which actually started to make him feel sick, as though being in this position was a trick to induce vomiting.
The doc approached him with soft footsteps. "Regurgitation can be troublesome for many people. It is preceded by a racing heartbeat, extreme nausea, of course, and fear. The actual vomiting can be painful, especially if the sick one is dehydrated. But once it is over, most people invariably feel much better. Throwing up is a defense mechanism, designed by God to protect our bodies. There's no reason to be afraid."
Brendan turned back to the water and then the doc's hand was on his shoulder. "I'll be right here next to you. Then, after you're done, I'll give you something for your headaches and you can sleep a while."
How long is a while? Brendan thought of Mom.
Tyler should have gotten whatever he was after from the doc's bag at this point. Now all Brendan had to do was pretend the discomfort had passed and they could get out of this bathroom, but his body started to shake. The cold tile got into his legs and the subsequent chill rippled throughout his body like an electric current. He willed his body to stop shaking and that only made it worse. He grabbed the sides of the toilet bowl to stop the trembling but the bowl was cold too.
"It's alright, son," Dr. Carroll said. He got to one knee, very close to Brendan and then slipped his hand from Brendan's near shoulder to his other, in effect hugging him. "Don't fight it."
"I'm okay." Brendan's voice betrayed him.
"There's something I learned many years ago, something that has helped me through tough times."
Brendan expected the typical adult rigamarole about enduring pain and maturing, but what he got was something so unexpected that he nearly made himself vomit just to end the awkwardness.
"The first year of medical school is tough, as you can probably imagine. There's a lot of books to read and notes to take but that isn't all of it. You see, the first semester of medical school is when the college tries to weed out the weak from the strong, to sort out who should really be there and who should go do something else.
"The first class you take is gross anatomy. That means it's about all the parts of the human body. There's fancy textbooks and large diagrams and pictures, all in wonderfully detailed color, but you can't learn what you are truly made of from pictures in books. So, you go to anatomy lab, which is really an on-campus morgue. In fact, we medical students called it Cadaver City.
"Over the course of a semester, you dissect an entire human. You learn where the organs are, how the different parts of the body are connected. You learn more this way than you ever could through books. Besides, a doctor has to be made of sterner stuff; he has to not get sick at sea, which I'm sure you can appreciate right now."
Is he trying to make me ill?
"These cadaver labs are run by the professors and the labs are taken very seriously. But the labs stay open late so the students can do additional work, improve their skills. People would normally go to these after-hours sessions in groups or pairs but not me. I preferred to be alone with the bodies. I liked the quiet. I liked the serenity.
"People spend much, if not all, of their lives complaining or weeping or cursing or just being loud and unpleasant. When we die, however, we are completely silent--inert. Our bodies are utterly vulnerable to the elements and to human hands, of course.
"It was during that first semester that I discovered not only did I enjoy being in Cadaver City with all those half-dissected corpses, but that I could find complete peace with them. I used to lay next to them on the dissection table. I would hold their hand, if it hadn't been dissected yet. Sometimes I'd pet their hair, like you would a cat."
The doc ran a hand from the top of Brendan's head slowly down to his neck, where his fingers lightly tapped like a spider inspecting a new area.
"It's standard that they keep the faces of the donated bodies covered for much of the semester. It's easy to cut open arms, legs, stomachs, but most people find it particularly challenging to cut the face. It's usually the last thing you do."
Genuine nausea had gathered in Brendan's gut and now he gripped the sides of the toilet harder and needed to vomit. That would stop this horrible story from this horrible man.
"In my solitary sessions, I would uncover all the faces. I liked seeing the peacefulness that Death had left there. Sometimes, I would strip naked and stand before those bodies like an equal member, only living of course. I'd lay down naked with those bodies and then I'd start cutting up their faces.
"I cried for many of them as I did it, but it got easier and easier as I went along. Stripping the skin back, revealing layer and layer of fine muscle. The human face is extremely complicated. I'd work sometimes all night and only get half a face finished. But each slice of my scalpel and every new layer of discovery was an epiphany. I wasn't merely discovering human anatomy, I was discovering God."
What would Ellis and Dwayne say about that? How did the psycho doc's medical school behavior fit into God's Grand Plan?
He sounds empowered.
And totally fucking nuts.
Dr. Carroll squeezed him with both hands, shoulder and neck. His beard prickled Brendan's neck like pieces of dry hay. "I learned, son, that in the darkest corners of our minds there is a gateway to the illumination of the soul." He let that piece of wisdom sit for a moment. His breath stuck to Brendan's skin like slime. "Let that give you comfort if nothing else."
He had to vomit, had to force out whatever was in his stomach, if anything, because he had to get out of this situation, get this weird fucker off of him and get the hell out of the house if that's what it took.
The doc was almost on top of him, practically humping him. What if he was getting turned on? The doc's crotch was right by Brendan's ass; the doc could slip a hand down to Brendan's belt buckle and then slide his pants right off. Bile came into his throat.
"Let me comfort you," the doc whispered. "You're a very special boy."
Brendan couldn't stop the tremors shaking his body. He gripped the edge of the bowl harder and imagined chunks of orange and red vomit floating before him.
"You remember when I gave you that myth book? Remember what I told you?"
It had been something about being strange and being a Greek or something.
"I told you not to worry about being weird. The Greeks would have thought you special, a gift--they would have made you a priest, a keeper of the peace between man and God. You are very special, indeed. Don't be afraid."
He saw maggots squirming in the chunks. Yet vomit did not usher up from his stomach. "That book is stupid," Brendan said.
"Did you finish it?"
"I don't need to."
The doc's hand gripped Brendan's neck more tightly and then relaxed, his fingers sliding over the skin like worms. "That's my boy," he said.
Three thunderous knocks sent Dr. Carroll to his feet and quickly to the door. He wasn't going to let Tyler in, no, he meant to lock the door and stay in here until Brendan finally spewed his guts or until the doc had his way with Brendan's "dark hole," as his friends called it. Tyler, however, had come to save the day; he burst into the bathroom and caught the doc mid-stride, arm extended toward the knob with a lost expression on his face as if he had forgotten where he was.
"My mom needs you," Tyler said.
After a moment of indecision, Dr. Carroll told Brendan he'd be back to check on him and then went off to Mom's bedroom.
"Sorry that took so long," Tyler said. "But it's done. You alright? You're pale."
Brendan couldn't answer him. Was he alright? How could such an easy question be so hard to answer?
"You really sick?"
"I don't know."
They stayed like that for almost a minute before the grinding wine of the automatic garage door vibrated beneath them. Dad was finally home.
Tyler was on the phone (it was Delaney's cell, all pink with shiny rhinestones that formed a "D" on the front) with Paul--hung over now, nursing "a bitch of a head throb"--when Dr. Carroll's black Town Car pulled into the driveway. The short man got out of his car, that same stupid tie with pink flowers on it dangling beneath a drooping face.
"Christ, now the family doc is here."
"You're living in a fucked-up world these days, my friend," Paul said.
The branded arrowhead on his hand had started to throb a few hours ago and hadn't let up. "No shit."
"You running out of options."
"Yeah."
"I mean, what the fuck were you thinking last night? We were trying to send a message and you go all hero on me."
"Stupid, I know." He had taken two Tylenol but it wasn't helping with the pain.
"There are other bitches, better bitches, you can go after, fuck, and then drop if you want, ones without psycho witches for mothers. The first time, I mean, I can understand but why go back? Why?"
"You going to keep telling me what a fuck up I am or are you going to give me some advice?"
Paul snorted. "Advice? We tried that, wreck the bitch's place--you fucked that up."
"I don't know. If she's really pregnant . . ."
"You're fucked."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure."
Tyler laughed because it was better than getting more and more anxious or pissed off or even start crying. How had all of this happened? A week ago things had been, if not normal, then at least palatable, but since then he had raped and impregnated a girl who had a witch for a mother, Delaney had been killed, and Mom and Dad had checked out. And Brendan had been talking strange, too, since some religious freaks brainwashed him or something, so who knew where that would lead.
Back to the funeral home.
Paul started eating something, possibly cereal from the crunching sound. "You know what you should do," he said.
"No, I don't."
Paul made him wait. Even with a hangover, Paul still appreciated a good dramatic pause. His idea better not be to burn Sasha's house down, though with Paul that was always a possibility. An honors student, a jokester, and sometimes a violent guy, Paul had once lit a book of matches on fire in the cafeteria because Ed Greene said he didn't have the balls. Paul got one day out of school--everyone else got a two-hour fire drill.
"You should get that ol' family doc to give you some meds to help remedy your situation."
Tyler was struck silent by the simplicity and, yes, the brilliance of this idea.
"You could get some really potent shit, get Sasha to help you drug her mom, make her think it's just to get the crone to shut up for a while and then before she even realizes her mother is in some deep shit, she's fucked, too. Ground up some painkillers or something, drop it in some champagne and you can toast to the end of your problems."
Paul was half joking, of course, though in his case it would be better to say he was partly joking. A half was too much credit.
"I'm not going to kill them," Tyler said and thought: but it would be simpler.
"Fine, fine, let's do it your way and talk to them. Yes, we'll have some chitchat with the girl you raped and her mother, the self-proclaimed Wicked Witch of Trailer Trash Town."
"I think this calls for a little from Plan A and a little from Plan B."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm not going to kill anyone, sorry to disappoint, but I may need your help regardless."
Paul snorted down more cereal. "Whatever you need, you know that. But make it later because my head is fucking killing me."
"No problem," Tyler said. "Keep your cell close."
\*
When Dr. Carroll shut the bathroom door behind him, Tyler went straight for the doctor's black bag, which he had left on Brendan's bed. It was an old-fashioned doctor's bag, the type with the clasp on the top and the two sides that parted like the mouth of a large fish. Inside the bag were several fabric dividers stitched into the lining. Prescription bottles filled these pouches. Along the bottom of the bag, more dividers, these made of sturdy cardboard, sectioned off six squares. The contents varied from more bottles of pills to a prescription pad to rolled-up gauze to a thermometer to a blood pressure gauge to a stethoscope that had been wrapped around itself and stuffed into one of the squares and now protruded from it like a black flower blooming in a dark cave.
Though there was almost no chance of anyone catching him, Tyler began to sweat. What if Aunt Stephanie decided to check on Brendan or wanted to call the doctor back to Mom's side? What if he grew so engrossed in gleaning through the doctor's bag that he didn't hear Dr. Carroll walk up from behind him and . . . what? Didn't doctors carry syringes? Tyler didn't see any in the bag; perhaps the good doc kept those on his person. He'd sneak up behind Tyler and shoot him up with some sedative right in the neck where the blood rushing to his brain would take the medicine right up and he'd be right out before hitting the bed.
He pulled bottles out one by one, read them, and placed them back. He did this with several bottles before realizing that he had no idea, and would have no idea regardless how many he scanned, what most of these medicines did. Dr. Carroll wasn't some cancer doctor or plastic surgeon or eye, nose, and throat specialist. Dr. Carroll's specialty was in eradicating pain through as many painkillers as were necessary.
Paul had tried many times to convince Tyler to steal from his mother's stash. Kids at school would pay good bucks for some Xanax ("Xanny Bars," Paul called them) or anything she might have that was stronger. What could be stronger? Dr. Carroll may be weird but he was a doctor; he wasn't going to give a patient heroin.
The bottles of pills displayed foreign names that revealed nothing about them: Pamelor, Sinequan, Vivactil, Remeron, Ludiomil. After the initial confusion of what to do with all these bottles, Tyler began removing two or three (sometimes four, even five) pills from every plastic container he examined. He shoved these pills in his pocket. Some were dry pills that would melt on your tongue; others were capsules that disintegrated in your stomach. No matter what they were, each one could be broken down to a powdery substance and used.
He'd mix them all together, make some horrendous cocktail of barbiturates. As long as they couldn't be tasted, this would work and with enough of Tyler's Powdery Mixture, the drugs would take effect fast and last longer than Tyler needed.
Aunt Stephanie was cooing to Mom in the adjacent room. It reminded Tyler of how everyone used to talk to Brendan when he was a baby. That's what this stuff does to you, he thought, turns you back into an infant.
He worked as fast as he could without spilling any pills. He fell into a pattern the way people working at assembly lines probably did: remove bottle, Elavil, open, dump two to five pills in hand, drop pills in pocket, close bottle, return to compartment in black bag. This approach continued for several seconds before he finally found a drug name he recognized: Codeine.
Ed Greene (the same kid who dared Paul to lit some matches over a pile of school chili) had broken his hip during an ill-advised snowboarding ramp jump over Christmas break and when he returned to school on crutches, he started selling pills of Codeine he had stashed away. He sold those for twenty bucks a pill. Paul purchased a few and one Friday he and Tyler took the pills while playing PS3--they awoke nine hours later completely confused by the paused Madden 2010 football game on the TV. Tyler now held a bottle full. He dumped a handful into his palm, thought better of it and returned a few to the bottle, dumped the rest in his pocket, which was starting to bulge from its contents.
He wasn't sure how long he had been doing this--a few minutes or closer to ten? It was time to stop; he had more than enough pills to do what he wanted. Still . . . There were so many damn bottles in this bag. Each compartment gave way to a new one, which held more possibly dangerous, possibly addictive, definitely strong pain killers. He knew he should stop, Brendan was going to have to really vomit to sell this whole plan if it continued any longer, but Tyler had to see the next bottle and the next and--
The Holy Grail of pills: OxyContin. This was the stuff doctors found in the veins of dead celebrities. This was stuff that could sell for fifty bucks a pill in school. This was stuff that could seriously get you high, or totally plastered if you swallowed some with a few beers. This was all he had needed to begin with.
"Thank you, Doc." He took a slew of these pills, probably too many, but he felt no remorse. If he didn't take them, they'd just go to his mother or someone else's mother who preferred to sleep all day than have to face whatever terrible loss she had suffered. Tyler was saving someone from themselves. And also saving himself.
\*
Dr. Carroll gave his bag a second glance (or was Tyler imagining that?) before picking it up and returning to Tyler's parents' bedroom. Could the doc feel the bag had gotten lighter? He carried that bag everywhere with him so he probably knew its weight and feel like he knew his own body. If he got curious and started opening bottles, he was bound to notice. After that it wouldn't take long to figure out what happened. Hell, he could be in the bedroom right now searching for just the right pills to keep Mom in her perpetual stupor. This bottle seems a bit light. Then he'd notice another one that wasn't as full as it should be. And another.
Brendan's face had paled considerably. Now he really could pass for ill. "You really sick?" Tyler asked.
"I don't know," Brendan said.
Tyler started to ask what the hell that meant when the garage door beneath them opened for Mom's car. Dad was home finally and his timing couldn't be better.
The moment he saw Dr. Carroll's black Town Car, Anthony smiled. He was pissed, oh, yes, furious beyond belief. If Chloe thought yesterday's pill-throwing foolery was bad, she could just wait to see what was about to happen. But it was okay. Though anger surged through him and he clutched the steering wheel hard enough to make his hands cramp, Anthony was okay with it. This was supposed to happen. Ellis was right. Anthony had returned home to save his family and he meant to do exactly that.
He sat in the car, parked in the garage, and waited. Dr. Carroll had parked outside the other garage door; he knew the car parked there wouldn't be leaving any time soon. Anthony flexed his hands on the wheel, stretching his fingers. He couldn't recall telling the doctor that he'd brought the mangled car back, so perhaps it was just a coincidence that Dr. Carroll parked there.
There are no coincidences, only God's work in action.
A small part of Anthony still didn't completely buy this God stuff. That small part used to be bigger, much bigger, but now it was only a tiny section, something easily crammed under a bed or tucked in a closet corner. He didn't need to hear anything that voice, one he used to call the Logical Voice, had to say about the current situations or the motives pushing Anthony to go upstairs and rescue his family, by force in all likelihood. He'd keep that voice under the bed, locked in the closet.
But the voice was loud and when it screamed, Anthony heard it.
He started for the door to the house and stopped, returned to Chloe's car, opened the trunk and, after some fumbling, retrieved the tire iron stored back there with the donut. Now, tire iron held in one hand down at his side, Anthony entered his house prepared to prove that no drug-pushing doc was going to destroy his family.
He paused at the top of the stairs. The kitchen was empty. Tyler and Brendan stood in the open doorway to Brendan's room. They shared identical expressions of anxiety and surprise. Anthony and Chloe's door, of course, was shut. The good doc was in there administering his brand of medicine--guaranteed to take the pain away and ruin your life.
He should say something to his sons. They were probably worried--he had been gone all night--but Anthony couldn't think of anything to say that would sound fatherly and simultaneously calm their fears and prevent further inquiries. He never would have thought years ago that he wouldn't want to acknowledge his children's presence, not want to answer any of their questions. He always believed he was a good dad, but this wasn't a moment that the Dad of the Year Award committee would review. He'd been given a reprieve, an advance get-out-of-jail card for what he was about to do. God wanted him to do this because God wanted his disciples to be empowered, not live as prey for drug-pushing predators.
He walked down the hall, nodded to his boys, and swung wide the door to his bedroom.
\*
Another small internal voice, this one more bluntly referred to as the Don't Be Stupid Voice, tried in vain to stop him, to stymie his words and stay his hand but that voice ended up crying in the corner of the closet, the Logical Voice shaking its head in disgust. This was the second time in a matter of days Anthony had stained his knuckles with blood.
The events happened so quickly, the violence arising rapidly and then dying off just as suddenly, that it was difficult to piece the events into logical order. Anthony might never be sure what happened, though he knew where responsibility lay. It was firmly in his two hands, shaking and cramping, while he sat against the far bedroom wall and stared at the blood soaking into the bed sheets. What the hell had he done?
\*
Dr. Carroll was sitting on the side of the bed. He was caressing Chloe's pale cheek with one hand and searching through his black doctor's bag with the other. Chloe was murmuring, maybe sleeping. Stephanie was asleep, or knocked out from sedatives, next to her.
Anthony slammed the door shut behind him. "Get offa her!"
Dr. Carroll looked up and started. Hadn't expected the King of the Castle to come barging in. Did he see the tire iron?
"Anthony, I'm . . . surprised you're here."
He took several steps into the bedroom. "No more drugs, doc. Take all your fucking pills and get out of here. Now!"
Dr. Carroll smiled, actually smiled. "You could use some yourself." He fumbled around inside his bag, removed a plastic container, held it out. "Here, these will calm you considerably."
"I'm not trading my soul for sleep."
"You're overreacting."
"Get away from my wife."
Stephanie squirmed in her sleep. She'd always had an addictive personality: she once had quite a gambling problem, which successfully destroyed her marriage, but it had taken a doctor to get her hooked on drugs. Maybe she wanted to be just like her sis. Chloe continued mumbling, eyelids flickering as they did when she suffered the nightmares.
Dr. Carroll dropped the bottle back in his bag, closed it, clasped it. "I'm only trying to help. Your family is in pieces."
Pieces. Like those the state troopers found of Delaney's face. A piece of her cheek bone had skidded across the road into a ditch. Pieces of skin dangled off it.
"Leave. Now!"
"You're having a nervous breakdown, Anthony," Dr. Carroll said calmly.
He raised the tire iron. "No, I'm seeing everything clearly." That damn Logical Voice screamed in disagreement: The doc is right! You're losing your mind, going off the bend! You need help!
"Your family has suffered tremendously in only a matter of weeks. Your reaction is perfectly understandable."
That Talking Heads lyric again: Stop making sense, making sense.
"You don't know anything I've suffered."
Chloe's whole body spasmed as if she were fighting off a beast in her dreams, her arms gesticulating weak punches in the air. One of her hands fell onto the doctor's leg, close to his crotch. That probably made Dr. Carroll very happy, this drugged-up woman practically groping him in her sleep. Maybe he'd already groped her. Maybe he'd done worse.
"Your wife cannot be simply removed from these drugs. I have prescribed a delicate balance for her treatment and you can't just stop it without consequences."
"You haven't treated her, you've created a junkie."
"Anthony, please. She was severely depressed, suicidal."
"Why do you carry so much damn medicine with you? Doctor's don't do that--they write prescriptions."
"I carry what I need."
Anthony stepped closer. "No pharmacist would fill all the prescriptions you'd have to give her. Where do you even get your medicine? Are you even a real doctor?"
Where had Anthony first heard of Dr. Carroll? Someone at work had mentioned him, a few others joining in to agree that Dr. Carroll was a good psychiatrist. Gives you what you want, someone remarked. What you want. Not what you need, but what you want. Anthony hadn't cared about the distinction last year when Brendan was failing several subjects or when the baby died and Chloe started talking to the empty place setting at the dinner table.
"You get some sick jollies from drugging people?" Anthony asked, stepping closer, tire iron at hip level.
Dr. Carroll took a deep breath. "You aren't going to attack me, Anthony, so why don't you put that down?"
"Were you happy when my daughter died? Did you find yourself elated because you knew Chloe'd need more drugs? Were you secretly smiling at her funeral?" He stepped closer, just a few feet away.
"Anthony, you need to put that down and let me give you something to help you rest." For the first time, Dr. Carroll's voice adopted a nervous tweak, an anxious tremor.
Chloe stirred again, her whole body enacting in slow motion some form of hand-to-hand combat.
"You see my eyes, doc?"
He didn't respond, just stared. Doc's hands were on his bag, probably thought he could use it as a weapon.
"These eyes. What do you see?"
"Anthony, you need to--"
"You see my pain, my misery, my fucking anguish?! Do you see that doctor? DO YOU?!"
"Yes, yes," he said quickly, his high-pitched voice that of a scared child.
"You think these eyes give a shit about anything you have to say?"
"No, but--"
"I want my wife back. I want my daughter back. I want my damned baby back! Can you do that? Can any of your fucking pills do that?!"
"No."
The Giant Jesus was watching over him, his drooping eyes staring down as Anthony asserted himself and sought the empowerment of God. This was what He wanted. This was what had to happen.
The Logical Voice hollered and begged and pleaded but its voice was scratched and strained and resembled the mumbling nonsense emanating from his wife.
Anthony raised the tire iron over his head.
Dr. Carroll let go of the doctor's bag and tried to back up, pawing at the sheets. He hit the headboard but still tried to push himself away, hoping the wall would vanish and he'd tumble outside onto the grass. One of his hands landed on Chloe's stomach. She grunted. The doctor didn't notice. Anthony stepped closer, striking distance. The doc's hand clamped down on Chloe's breast and she shrieked in her sleep, swatting at his arm.
Anthony swung.
The thwank of metal against bone and then the hollow clank of bone against the headboard.
\*
Sometime later, Anthony tried to wash off the blood that had splattered on his hand but the soap did nothing and he managed to stain two washcloths. Neither Chloe or Stephanie had awoke. The good doc had given them something heavy indeed. The poor doc had gotten some medicine of his own, unfortunately, and was not going to wake. Ever.
What have I done?
\*
Slowly, the realization that he had killed a man began to take root. Even so, it wasn't yet something tangible, something that made sense; it was only something that had happened and now had to be handled.
Dr. Carroll's body lay in a clump next to the bed. One of the smacks from the crowbar had knocked him off the bed and ripped open his face. It had been that first hit, however, that had done most of the damage. That full-swing collision had cracked something and sprayed blood across the bed linens.
He couldn't grieve over this body, couldn't grieve over his own loss of humanity--he simply had to get everything cleaned up before Chloe or Stephanie drifted out of their slumbers.
He'd grieve later, he told himself. Probably in prison. The Logical Voice chiming in there.
Anthony grabbed the three body towels from the bathroom. He was wrapping them around Dr. Carroll's face and was thinking how he had to change the bed sheets too when he thought of his sons. They were still in the house. The boys had grown accustomed to an irregular life these past few weeks, might not have even thought twice about the shouting match or even the sounds of violence. Still, they might be worried. He had to talk to them, figure out a way to get the body past them.
"Dad?"
Brendan stood in the open doorway, hand still on the knob. His mouth hung open a bit but he did not appear as shocked as he should have been. Because he's in shock.
There were many ways to handle this. There were all types of avenues of explanations Anthony could attempt--he could even just tell his son to get the hell back in his room and not come out. This was Adult Business, after all. But Anthony couldn't do that. All he could do was slump back against the bed, the fresh blood almost touching him, and resign himself to guilt.
"I . . . did something horrible," he said. "Can you call the police? I don't have the energy."
When Brendan didn't respond for several seconds, Anthony turned to him, expecting tears or the dawning realization of what horror had transpired. Instead, Brendan had entered several feet into the room. His mouth had closed, his facial features tightened.
"No," he said. "I won't call the police."
"Daddy did something . . . terrible and . . ."
"Don't worry, Dad. There's someone we can call."
Tucked among the pages of Brendan's tale of Detective Bo Blast and the Darkman was the list of various ways to sacrifice someone to the gods. The book had described the ancient ritual in detail, but heart-removal had been out of Brendan's capability. Brendan had been capable of murder, however. Like son, like father.
Before his revelation last Saturday (Number 47--drop bowling ball onto car), Brendan had crafted a diverse list that included: number 4--burn person's house down; number 7--bury person alive; number 32--kick person off ladder; and number 39--beat person with hammer.
Standing in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, Brendan thought that's what Dad had done: beat Dr. Carroll to death with a hammer. He didn't notice the tire iron with pieces of skin and hair stuck to it in bloody patches until he walked closer and assured Dad that everything would be alright.
Dad looked at him with eyes so filled with pain and confusion that Brendan nearly started crying. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was for his family to be happy. That went for both Dad and him. Dad was a good man who had been pushed too far. Brendan was a strange boy (he had accepted that long ago) but he cared about nothing so much as he did his family. In that way, he and dad were almost identical. Dad would do anything to make everything right. But Brendan knew how to do that.
"What do you mean, someone else?" Dad asked.
Brendan removed the business card from his pocket, where he always kept it since Dwayne had scribbled his cell number on it and said that if he needed anything, anything, to call. Brendan had already called once about Sasha Karras and Dwayne would be around in a few hours to explain how she was to be handled, but this situation needed to be handled now. What if Mom or Aunt Steph woke up? What if Dr. Carroll's body started to rot? Would it begin decomposition that soon? How would they get the blood stains out of the carpet?
Dad took the business card from him and stared at it silently for a while before he said, "Holy shit."
\*
Dad made the call while Brendan sat near Dr. Carroll's body and wondered if the creepy bastard had had any sense of his imminent demise. Had he known he would be dead in only a few minutes when he explained to Brendan how he used to lay with naked, half-dissected corpses? Had he any sense at all when he entered the Williams' residence that he wouldn't be walking back out?
Brendan hoped he had known it or at least sensed something threatening waiting for him. He hoped that this man who had given him pills to help him focus better in school last September (pills Brendan hadn't taken in over a week; Pillie Billy wasn't necessary anymore--he was an undistracted, guided missile of purpose), that this man who had turned his mom into a barely-living mass of withering tissue had known, even if for only a moment or two, that his death was upon him. Maybe he had even seen Death, black-cloaked and scythe-carrying, standing in the corner of the bedroom before Dad caved his face in with a piece of metal. Hopefully, Dr. Carroll knew it was coming and hopefully it hurt like hell.
The back of Dr. Carroll's head where the tire iron had caved in a chunk of his skull looked like it hurt a lot. He probably hadn't felt it, though. The man was dead before he knew it. Brendan turned Dr. Carroll's head so it was resting against the side of the bed, face toward him. Half of one cheek had been torn off, exposing the gums and teeth beneath. A few of the teeth had been fractured and split into jagged fangs. Dark purple and brown bruises surrounded the eye on this side. Had he not died, the bruises would have spread farther, puffed up like batter cooking in an oven. His jaw was out of its sockets. Brendan touched his chin and tried to close the man's mouth but bones ground against bones and refused to move. At least that must have hurt. At least that much.
Brendan wanted to revel in this feeling but he immediately thought of Delaney. Had she sensed her end coming? Had she suffered pain? If she had, of course, it had been all Brendan's fault. He didn't want to think about it but he couldn't shut off the thoughts. No matter how hard he squeezed the knob, the memories of what he had done continued to seep out one drip at a time, like fluid from that guided missile.
Both he and Dad were killers now. Yet, Brendan could never share what he had done. The pain would be too immense. It would be unfair, too, burdening Dad with the knowledge that his youngest child had killed his only daughter. Brendan would be put in an asylum somewhere in a room with padded walls and doctors would visit him every now and again to give him his Pilly Billies. Dr. Carroll would have the last laugh then.
Dad returned from the kitchen, mobile phone at his side. He looked at Brendan for a while before speaking.
"There's a lot you haven't told me," he said.
Had Dwayne revealed the truth about Delaney? "Yes," was all Brendan could say.
"Those men, Dwayne and Ellis, you think they are safe, trustworthy?" Dad approached him, sat on the edge of the bed away from the heavy splotch of blood and the two sleeping women.
Brendan swallowed. "I believe they are."
Dad thought for a moment. "I guess I do, too. I kind of have to."
"You punched Dwayne at Delaney's . . ."
Dad opened and closed his right hand.
"Why did you do that?"
"We've never gone to church much. I wasn't raised in a religious family and neither was your mother, but I didn't think we'd be punished for it. I never suspected God was so cruel, so heartless, so evil."
"He's not evil, Dad."
"He took Delaney. He took my baby. He destroyed my wife. He made me do that." He pointed at Dr. Carroll's body.
"Yes, I know," Brendan said. Dad turned to him again, blinking. "He did all those things, it's true, but it's not to punish you."
A small chuckle slipped out. "Oh, really?"
"God has a plan for everyone and each path is different and equally impossible to explain."
Dad laughed. "You could take that act on the road. I'm sure Ellis and Dwayne would love to have you as part of their entourage. Maybe you'd even be better off. Get away from this family, from whatever curse has befallen it."
"No curse, Dad. It only seems that way. God's light is there. It will shine upon you if you want it to."
"It's that simple?"
Brendan should have felt ridiculous, stupid, out of his element, but he was calm and precise; he knew exactly what to say because some other force was guiding him; God had His hand in this, no doubt. God's plan for the Williams Family seemed like the scribbles of a madman, yet Brendan could trust that beneath the meaninglessness lay profound purpose. He was on the right path and he was only a turn in the trail away from enlightenment and, ultimately, empowerment.
"It is that simple, trust me," he said.
After a moment, Dad responded in a resigned tone: "I guess we'll find out. Ellis and Dwayne will be here within the hour."
Brendan was too excited to hide his smile.
Tyler didn't wait long after Dad slammed the bedroom door to call Paul and tell him to get the fuck over here now. It wasn't the fear of the possible violence that might occur (if Dad managed to get tough for once, the doctor deserved whatever beating he got), it was the pills in his pocket. They were burning a hole in there.
Paul had been in his car, "Just tooling around," he said though that meant his Mom had sent him out to do errands, and so he was at Tyler's in only a few minutes.
Tyler left the house just as Dad sounded like he was gearing up for a fight.
"What's the new plan?"
"Go back to your house. Your parents there?"
"Mom is, sent me out to get bread and milk or something, so we have to stop at the store first, but Dad's off with his buddies."
"We need some privacy."
"Before we have to start saying 'No Homo,' how bout you tell me this new plan that's got you wired?"
Tyler relayed the plan to Paul, explaining how it would go down and why he believed it would work. Paul listened as he drove to Stop&Shop and asked questions while they walked around the store and then nodded his head in agreement while they stood in line at the cashier.
"It's a good idea," he said, "no doubt about it. Sick, though."
"No sicker than your idea."
"My plan would have worked if you hadn't turned all pussy."
A short woman hunched over a nearly empty cart with bifocals slipping down her nose coughed in line behind them. Tyler had been so caught up in explaining his plan he had forgotten where they were. Paul, however, didn't care. If the old woman was offended she could turn off her hearing aid.
"It's true," Paul went on. "But your plan has some real potential. I never would have guessed you had it in you."
"Desperate times, right?"
Paul nodded, exchanged empty chitchat with a pimple-faced girl working the register, 'Brunelle,' her name tag read, paid the bill, and let Tyler carry the bag of bread, milk, cheese, and eggs. He also carried a smaller bag holding two items he had purchased himself. Back in the car, Paul asked, "You have all those pills on you?"
Tyler removed a handful of multicolored and various-sized pills from his pocket. He held them out like a secret treasure.
"Shit," Paul said. "There's oxycontin in there?"
"I don't remember what it looks like, but yeah."
\*
In Paul's basement (his mother upstairs occupied with making cookies or a cake or something for Easter), Tyler laid out the pills on a card table and sent Tyler hunting for the tools he needed.
He lined up the pills in rows. By the time he had fished all of them out of his pocket, pieces of lint clinging to the last few, he had formed four rows of twelve pills--forty-eight in all. That was a lot. Christ, he had been overzealous in his excavation of Dr. Carroll's bag. the idea had just been so good and come on so strongly that he hadn't stopped to think that he didn't need too many pills, this many, to make it work, certainly not forty-eight. However, since he had this many, his plan could grow more detailed, more intricate, more solid.
Paul returned with a small plastic container meant for leftover vegetables or applesauce, a small white marble mortar and pedestal intended for grinding spices. He set these next to the rows of pills.
"Damn, man," he whispered.
"Your mom ask why you wanted that stuff?"
"No, she just wanted me to get some baking sheets out from under the stove. When she's baking, she's off in another world."
"Good for us."
"You're not going to use all of those, right?"
"No," Tyler said, "but they will be used."
"We sort these things out and we can make some money, just selling them at school."
"Fuck that. I don't need to press my luck. I need to solve my problem."
"Yeah," Paul said with a note of resignation.
The first few pills Tyler picked up were plastic caps, which came apart easily. He emptied the powdery contents into the mortar. After that, he picked out many of the solid pills from the lines and dropped them onto the powder. He used the pedestal to grind the pills into dust, mixing all the contents together.
"This is hardcore shit. Cops come busting in here and we'd be fucked."
"We're not dealers. We're trying to save my ass."
Tyler kept working, adding more pills, crushing their contents, until Paul asked if he was sure Sasha was pregnant.
"Who knows? She's crazy, right?"
"No shit. She could be lying, though, trying to hook you in."
"Does it make a difference? If this goes right, she and her mother won't be a problem anymore--baby or not."
"You could be a father," Paul said with awe, "and look what it's done to you."
Tyler appreciated the contents of the mortar; he had filled it almost an inch deep. Paul was just being a smart ass but he was right: in a week's time, he had deteriorated into a thief and drug-pusher who was about to cross all kinds of moral boundaries. One hell of a week, he thought.
"I'm not a father."
"Not for long if you are."
After Paul ground a few more pills into the mix, he dumped the contents into the plastic container. Then he returned to the diminishing lines of pills and started grinding again. After he finished this time, using far fewer pills, there were only eighteen pills remaining. He wasn't sure what they were or which ones he had already used. In the end, it wouldn't really matter.
"Now what?" Paul asked.
Tyler took out Delaney's cellphone. "I make the call."
The guard working the main gate called the house. The ring of the phone, still in Anthony's hand, startled him out of a reverie in which he and Chloe were happy. He wasn't sure what they were doing in this daydream, only that they were smiling and laughing. It felt like fantasy: there might have been knights and dragons and wizards, too.
The guard said that two men had arrived and were requesting entrance to visit him. Anthony told the guard to let them in and then went outside. He left Brendan in the bedroom with his drugged mother and aunt, and the corpse, of course. That had the making for one of those exploitative headlines: FATHER SLAYS FAMILY DOC, MAKES SON GUARD BODY.
A black Lincoln stopped in front of Anthony's driveway. A large black van with the emblem of a cross on the side parked behind it. The cross appeared to float above a black nothingness. It was like that Dali painting of Christ on the cross where the savior hovered above Hell.
Ellis and Dwayne, both wearing their Sunday Best, got out of the Lincoln. Whoever was in the van remained there, the engine idling. Anthony saw part of a large arm and a section of a barrel chest. Even preacher men needed a security detail.
Not security, the Logical Voice interrupted, it's the clean up crew.
"We're so glad you called," Ellis said. He took Anthony's hand in a friendly shake and then held it while he continued talking. Anthony wanted to pull his hand away but there was something reassuring about holding this man's hand. Comfort could be found in his smile. "I know this seems like a horrible tragedy, just one more black mark against you in a long list of horrible events, but it's not. We're here to show you that what happened, whatever you had to do, is the first great step toward your empowerment in God's eyes."
"Sounds like a cover up," Anthony said.
"If there is justice to be paid it will be--God will see to that--but it is only your guilty conscience that insists this is a negative event."
The thwank of metal against bone . . .
The hollow clank of bone against the headboard . . .
"I'm not sure you understand."
"We do, Anthony," Ellis said. "We really do. You see, if you were truly guilty, you wouldn't have called us, or at least we wouldn't be receptive. You would have tried to hide the mess yourself. Or you might have even confessed."
Which is what I should do. It hadn't dawned on him completely yet that he had indeed killed a man, but Anthony was starting to sense the grave seriousness of the shit that happened in his bedroom. If he ever fully realized what had happened (This is called shock, the Logical Voice said), he might use the tire iron on his own head or take a handful of Chloe's pills and curl up with her. That might not be so bad. When the police finally discovered the bodies, they might even think it sweet: a lover's suicide, practically a modern-day Romeo and Juliet.
"We will handle the mess," Ellis said with a slight nod to the waiting van. "I will handle the more serious mess."
"Which is?"
"Your soul."
Ellis squeezed Anthony's hand and leaned toward him, eyes wide. The knot of his black tie was askew and for some reason it kept pulling Anthony's focus. He wanted to reach out and fix it, straighten the tie and--ta da!--the world would be right again.
"Focus, Anthony. This is no time for diversions. We have serious soul-excavating to do."
"That sounds painful," Anthony said in barely a whisper. Why was the stupid tie pulling his attention? He's not who he says he is. The thought was clear and came without argument. It could have come from the Logical Voice or the This is Dangerous Voice, but instead it simply bubbled out of his subconscious as a pure Anthony Williams thought.
"Let's go to my car. While the team works, so shall we."
Anthony shook off his thoughts. Suspicion was a great thing to have if it benefited you; this time, suspicion would only lead Anthony to a stiff mattress in a cold prison cell. "My son is up there. . . . I left him alone."
"Dwayne will take care of your son. He's a very special boy, that Brendan. Of course you know that, don't you?"
He did (didn't all parents believe their kids were special, at least in some way?), but the real question was why Ellis did. You will need this, Ellis had said last week when he held out the Jesus flyer, trust me.
\*
In the car, the seats smelling of old leather oil, Anthony went on the offensive. "You made my son lie to me. Why?"
"You can't jump into the deep end of the pool without learning to tread water in the shallow end first."
"What is that, some kind of empty cliche?"
"You can't know everything before you're ready. If you are allowed to know everything, there is too high a risk you will turn back, afraid, unwilling to go where you must."
"That sounds exactly like why I should know."
Behind them, two people dressed in identical black suits to the ones Ellis and Dwayne wore jumped out of the back of the van. They each carried a duffel bag big enough to conceal a large dog. Or body parts. They hurried up the driveway to the front steps and let themselves into Anthony's home. He should be in there supervising. What was Brendan doing? Watching?
The big guy in the van's driver's seat remained.
"Brendan has undergone a traumatic religious awakening. His conversion is one of the most wrenching and powerful I've ever seen. I can't tell you more except that before you punched my partner, we were talking with your son and were left completely awestruck. That boy understands. Perhaps it is the purity of youth. You will forever be clouded with doubts, but not Brendan. He is very special."
A middle-aged woman in spandex pants and a blue hooded sweatshirt power-walked toward them, arms snapping up and down at her sides, head rigid and focused forward. Wires from earbuds stretched from her ears to the iPod on her belt. Anthony should know this woman, she was his neighbor, but he had never seen her before. Would she notice the black van with the giant floating cross painted on it? And if she did, would she care?
"I thought you wanted to discuss my soul, not my son's."
The woman passed without a glance. New Jesus Clan in the neighborhood? None of her business.
"Do you know what today is?"
"Is this a trick?"
"It's Good Friday. The day Jesus was nailed to the cross. He had to carry his own cross; he was beaten, whipped, tortured, humiliated. He bore this brunt with a heavy heart but a steady back and solid feet. He may have fallen on his way to the delight of hecklers, but he always got back up again. He marched to Golgotha, the place of the skull, and was nailed to the cross. You have heard this?"
"Yes. And I'm sorry it happened but--"
"Do not weep for him. He was crucified for us, Anthony. We should rejoice. On that cross, he agonized with the final dying breaths of life. It is believed he was nailed to the cross at noon and was dead at three. Do you know what he said before he died?"
"Of course. He said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me?'"
"No," Ellis said. "He said, 'It is finished.' Do you know why that's important?"
Anthony kept quiet.
"Jesus knew what was going to happen. He knew of Judas's betrayal; he knew of Pilate's washing of his hands; he knew of the torture; he knew of his death. He knew of all of this long before it ever happened. He was an emissary from God; his mission was to show man the path to empowerment."
"His death did that?"
"When he died, an earthquake rumbled throughout the land, tumbling buildings, cracking open tombs. That was the sign."
"That Man fucked up again? First Eve in the Garden and now a pack of bloodthirsty Jews?"
"No. It was the sign that man could finally find the righteous path and harness the unequal might of God's empowerment. Jesus was sent to show us the way and he did, if we are willing to look and not fear the suffering that may come along the journey."
"What do you want me to do?" Anthony wanted to fall asleep or die or something.
"Today is a holy day. The power is out there waiting. Do you see the time?"
Ellis gestured to the digital car clock: 3:00.
"Good timing," Anthony said, hoping it would be much more flippant than it came out.
"There are no coincidences, Anthony, only curious things we can't explain along the path God has set for us, if we choose to take it."
One of the men exited Anthony's house. He rolled the duffel bag on its tiny wheels down the driveway. The bag was stretched so tightly that one of the side zippers hadn't made it all the way shut. A piece of bloody sheet stuck out like a mottled ghost-white tongue.
"There's something you need to do," Ellis said.
"Get new sheets?"
"Kill your wife."
The bruise on the doc's face was still spreading. Brendan wondered how far it would go before all the internal workings of the body realized the main system had crashed. He didn't waste time wondering if this man's death was part of God's plan or not; Brendan believed with all of himself that it was and that left no room for doubt.
"Didn't expect to see you until later." The voice was Dwayne's; he was standing in the bedroom doorway. He was wearing his funeral suit and his hair was plastered with gel.
Brendan had an urge to run to the man, hug him. He wasn't sure why but there was something about him, perhaps his larger size in comparison to Dad's that suggested more manliness and that, ironically, made Brendan want to be even closer to him. Those broad shoulders and wide arms could protect him better than Dad's thin frame and spindly arms. The world was a dangerous place; it would be nice to have a strong protector.
He was protecting you--he killed Dr. Carroll for you.
Or had that been God acting through Dad?
Dwayne stood in an immaculate suit with no wrinkles ruining the smoothness of his look and no hairs out of place on his head. Dwayne was a symbol of God's perfection, of the Master Plan, of the Path to Empowerment.
"It's all happening, isn't it?" Brendan asked.
Dwayne smiled. "It certainly is."
\*
They stood off to the side while two men, also in black suits with the addition of latex gloves, stripped Dr. Carroll to his white boxers and stuffed his clothes in a duffel bag. The men then placed Mom and Aunt Steph on the carpet, removed all the bed sheets and squeezed the sheets into the same duffel bag. Aunt Steph mumbled something in her sleep but Mom didn't stir.
One man sprayed something on a large, pink splotch on the mattress where the blood had seeped through the sheets. He scrubbed at the stain with a hard-bristled brush until the pink was almost gone. From another duffel bag came a set of fresh bed linens, cream colored. The bed was made in a few seconds.
"They're fast," Brendan said.
"Necessity of the job," Dwayne said. "Let's go to the kitchen. To talk."
Glancing into the family room and the big, blank TV in there before entering the kitchen, Brendan thought about Bobo and BooBoo Bunny. The show seemed so impossibly silly right now, something meant for five-year-olds. He'd probably never watch that show again, nor any cartoon. For a moment he felt something he could have labeled sadness but it fled too quickly to really register. There were more important things to worry about.
They sat at the table where, up until a week ago, the family (minus Mom, of course) had enjoyed the weekly ritual of bacon and eggs.
"These are dark times," Dwayne said. He sat with his big arms on the table and stared at the wall ahead, a painting set in the middle of the wall: a little kid sitting at the counter in some diner with a bulky cop next to him and the cook or waiter leaning over the counter from the opposite side. The painting was one of Mom's favorites. It always seemed a bit creepy to Brendan. The way the cook, dressed all in white, was staring at the little kid, cigarette in the corner of his mouth; Brendan could picture the next frame--the kid strapped to a chair, tears gushing from his eyes, screams of pain echoing out of him. The cop might even be watching from the shadows. Like the Darkman.
"It is difficult sometimes to see God's hands in everything. There is so much pain in the world that it makes you wonder."
"What?"
"Does He even exist?"
Was this some kind of test? "God?"
Dwayne smiled, turned to him. "They say the purest believers are always children."
He was leaning toward Brendan just the way the cop in the painting was leaning toward that boy. In fact, the two had the same broad back and wide nose, same short, neat haircuts. Was Ellis the other guy then, the one with the strange smile?
"I found God many years ago," Dwayne said. "I was lost, so lost that it is even a wonder I was able to find my way. I was a bad person, did some horrible things. All because I hated myself so much. I abused my wife. Beat her viciously many, many times."
Brendan couldn't say anything. What was Dwayne's point?
"Ellis saved me. He walked right into my house one night while I was throwing my wife around and he stopped me. I had a kitchen chair, like one of these, held over my head. I was going to crush her with it, her and our unborn baby.
"Ellis told me that God had other plans for me. I told him to go fuck himself. And you know what he did? He walked right up to me, put his hands on my arm and said, 'God loves you so much that even if you kill this woman, He will still accept you with open arms.' That just took out all the aggression. I went limp, dropped the chair, almost collapsed. Ellis told me that one day I'd be glad that a child existed somewhere with my DNA."
Dwayne's eyes drifted back to the painting. "I knew he was right. So, I went with him and that's been how it is ever since. Ellis took me to God and now I am His servant. It took something so horrible and dark to get me to see where I needed to go. It wasn't easy, don't mistake that. It was the most painful thing I've ever endured. Taking your father's beating was a slap on the wrist in comparison to the self-flagellation of my soul. Finding God is not rainbows and lollipops--it's anguish and brutality."
Brendan swallowed something hard, steeled himself. "I am ready. I want to serve God."
Dwayne nodded slowly. "I've done some terrible things since Ellis found me. But I've done them all in God's name. Can you understand that?"
The bowling ball slipping from his fingers . . . "Yes," he said.
A smile crept up at the corners of his mouth. "You are such a special boy. I've told you all this not to scare you, but to reassure you. I learned, son, that in the darkest corners of our minds there is a gateway to the illumination of the soul. Don't fear the darkness; it can lead you to wonderful places."
Something in Brendan's mind popped. His brain flooded with the screaming, warning sirens of coursing blood. He should run, get to Dad, and they should both run and never look back. Something wrong was happening here, something possibly very, terribly wrong. Blaring in his mind--Trouble! Danger!--but the specifics of the message were unclear. What had triggered the panic? He sensed the answer but it was blocked, hidden behind a foggy veil. Then, from somewhere--a dark corner, perhaps--the veil lifted and the answer came.
"That's exactly what Dr. Carroll said to me," Brendan said very slowly as if expecting his words to cause an explosion. "About the darkest corners of our minds."
Nodding again, Ellis said, "The doc is fond of that saying. I think it's originally Ellis's, though. Dr. Carroll was a troubled man, but not without his usefulness."
Dwayne paused. Seconds passed slowly.
"If you are ready and sure," Dwayne said, "there is much I have to share with you. It starts with Dr. Carroll and it ends with Debra Karras."
As Dwayne spoke, Brendan could hardly believe his ears. God really did work in mysterious ways.
Sasha was more receptive than Tyler dared hope. Of course, he concealed his real motivation, but as long as he got into her house, the rest would take care of itself. Paul drove him to Trailer Trash Town. Tyler told Paul to be ready for his text message, which would signal his part in this plan, and then Tyler took his grocery bag of supplies and walked up Sasha's driveway, past her mangled car, and onto her vandalized front steps.
She opened the door before he could knock. She had managed to scrub off much, though not all, of the spray paint. Black blotches speckled her face like cancerous freckles. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and dark with moisture. Her hands were hidden in the sleeves of the sweatshirt.
"I don't know what to say . . ." That wasn't true, of course; he had thought for a while about what to say and decided that saying he didn't know what to say was, in fact, the best thing to say.
"Let's go for a drive," she said.
\*
They returned to the scene of the crime. The sun was still a few hours off from its dive behind the mountain across the lake on which houses sprouted like warts. The giant monster was sleeping now, waiting for nightfall before it would awake and open all of its hundreds of glowing eyes. It had seen what happened here last week. With all those eyes, it had bore witness to a crime that had, in turn, led to events that brought him right back to this gravel pull-off area by the lake. Life sometimes had a cyclical quality to it. Maybe it was karma or Fate, but it didn't matter. He was here again and again he was staring at her breasts. The sweatshirt was loose, which gave little indication of her figure, but the way she slumped back in the driver's seat pulled the sweatshirt just snug enough to reveal some of her feminine figure.
Tyler kicked the bag he had brought and glass bottles clattered against each other. Sasha glanced toward his feet but said nothing. She was waiting for him to make the first move. He wanted to yell at her and call her a crazy cunt-trap of a bitch, but he had to stay calm. The success of his plan depended on it.
Most of her windshield had been destroyed with one swing of a bat in Tyler's hands. Small pieces of the breakaway glass lay between the seats in the cup holder or in the footwells, but Sasha had cleared away most of the debris. A few jagged pieces like shark teeth jutted up from the bottom of the windshield frame. He could reach out and impale his hand on one of them. Or Sasha's throat.
"I'm sorry about your sister. Everyone says she was really cool."
"Thanks."
Sasha pulled her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pushed her arms between her legs. She tucked her face into the crook of one boney shoulder. "This has been such a fucked-up week."
"I know."
"How's your hand?"
Tyler hadn't forgotten the seared arrowhead imprint on his hand but he had pushed it to the back of his mind. He appreciated it anew and it began to throb with a dull, hot heat. "I'll be okay." He should apologize for her face but he couldn't push himself over that cliff. Paul had gone way overboard but still, this whole mess could be traced back to Sasha.
Or her breasts.
Or your dick.
"My mother's gone really nuts this time. She's . . . scary."
"You're not safe."
Her wide eyes peered over her shoulder at him like the eyes of a fawn into the barrel of a shotgun. "It's not her fault."
"You don't have to put up with her. She sliced her wrists once, what if she does it again? Tries to cut you?"
She said nothing, only stared with those owl eyes.
"I told you about my mother, how she's drugged all the time. It's not the best thing for her but it keeps her from crying all the time, talking to nothing, or hitting herself, like she did after the baby died. She may be drugged up but she is alive and safe."
"I'm sorry."
"You can do the same for your mother."
"I'm not drugging her."
"She's already drugged with that witchcraft shit."
After a pause, Sasha asked if he no longer believed a curse had been cast on his family.
He shook his head. Part of him did believe that Sasha's mother had, whether intentionally or simply by lucky accident, cast some dark spell on him and his family for raping her daughter. Could Delaney simply be a coincidence? The other part of him knew that it probably was a chance event and that the timing of his sister's death was an anomaly. Witches didn't exist and evil spells were for horror movies.
"My mother's just trying to find a way to be happy."
"By torturing her daughter?"
"She's protecting me. At least she thinks she is."
Tyler waited a moment and asked the question he had wanted to several days ago: "What happened to your father?"
The proper response to the command to kill your wife was probably something like "What?!," some visceral response oozing with incredulity. Perhaps even a punch to the guy's face who said it, something besides the silence Anthony offered Ellis. He stared so long that Ellis asked if Anthony had heard him.
"Maybe I didn't," he said. His ears could be playing tricks on him. The stress after killing someone could probably do that to you.
"I'm not being flippant when I say it, either," Ellis said. His hands traced the steering wheel, one after the other. "Killing your wife is no easy task, but God does not ask of us anything He knows we cannot handle. The only question is will you answer His call?"
Anthony stumbled for words. "The only question is why. Why do you want me to do this? Why should I? Why does she deserve that?"
"You might as well ask God why we exist? Why is there cruelty in the world? Why do bad things happen to good people?"
Anthony tried to regain a mental grip. "You're comparing existential questions that have plagued philosophers since time began with killing my wife. That's a ridiculous comparison."
"It's not. You just have to look at it the right way."
"You say, 'Kill your wife,' and I shouldn't ask questions?"
Ellis thought for a moment. "I'm beginning to question your commitment to His will."
"How do I know it really is what God wants? You have a direct line to Him, is that it?"
"Calm down."
"Calm down? You tell me to kill the woman I love and I should be calm about it?" He balled his hands into fists. They ached with the low groan of a gator scoping out prey.
"Anger isn't going to help anything."
"God doesn't want this. I refuse to believe that."
"Then we're done."
"I can't believe I was ever taken in by you. All your Jesus shit is just a front. You like manipulating people, deceiving them. You're a monster." He knocked open the passenger door, started to get out, paused. "Stay away from my son. You can't have him."
"We already do," Ellis said with the faintest hint of victory.
"He's in my house right now and if you or your partner try to keep me from my child, you will be very sorry."
"You'll fight off the men in the van behind us, too?"
The large guy in the driver's seat was tapping his fingers on the wheel to an unheard beat.
"You're threatening me?"
"It can be tough to accept what God has for us. It is easier, safer, to turn away, but when you turn from His glory, you end up in eternal darkness."
"Stop spouting your shit."
"Tell me now that there isn't a part of you that wants to kill your wife. You've wanted to for a while. She's practically dead anyway. Sleeps all day. Drugged to the gills. She's no longer the woman you love. She's a hindrance to your ascension."
Anthony wanted to tell Ellis that he could shove his psychological Jesus games up his ass, but there was part of him that wanted to kill his wife, part of him that prayed quietly every time she took more of her pills that this time she would slip into her coma and never come out, part of him that imagined how easily he could suffocate her with a pillow. He would never admit that, of course, but it was true and its veracity would forever mark his soul. Given the right circumstance, maybe he would kill his wife. Not now, no, never. He was done with all this shit. The clouds had parted. He'd stopped digging that pit of grief deeper--it was time to climb out. It was time to take back his family. If they tried to stop him, beat him, threatened him, he'd just run to the police. Even if they abducted Brendan, the police wouldn't take long to find him. "Stay away from me and my family." The words rang with the certainty of a father's commitment to do whatever was necessary to protect his family.
Ellis did not miss a beat. "I can just as easily have those men place Dr. Carroll back in your bedroom and you can discuss his death with the police. Dwayne and I, the whole Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, none of it would be relevant. You hated Dr. Carroll for keeping your wife drugged up all the time, maybe even suspected him of having his way with her. It's a very open and shut case."
This threat gave Anthony only a moment's pause. He had killed Dr. Carroll and he would have to face the consequences. He could claim temporary insanity, which was probably true anyway.
"So be it. I deserve to be punished for what I did."
Ellis nodded, perhaps in appreciation of this statement, like a chess player admiring the bold move of his opponent. "That's very noble of you and fine with me. You go to jail, Brendan goes with us."
Anthony settled slowly back into the car seat. He stopped climbing: the hole was too deep. Streaks of sunlight slashed across Ellis's face like prison bars.
"If I kill my wife?"
"You and Brendan and Tyler will be perfectly content and happy and, most importantly, helping us on our mission from God."
The lines of sun on his face were not bars but gashes in a facade, exposing the sinister creature beneath. Anthony saw that creature now but was helpless to fight it or run from it.
Dwayne spoke quickly but with the determined beat of a storyteller who wished to give each part of his tale the attention it deserved. Brendan sat enraptured while Dwayne told him about Dr. Carroll and how, one day several years ago, Dwayne killed Sasha Karras's father.
"Ellis had told me that one day I would be glad to know that someone with my DNA was walking around. That, more than anything else, stopped me from beating my wife and turned me to God. He was right. I wanted to have a child, a son, someone I could love unconditionally without all the bullshit that goes with marriages and Hallmark love.
"I walked out the door of my own house with Ellis and didn't look back. Ellis saved me. I will be grateful for that until I die. I owe him everything. Without him, I'd be in jail right now. I don't know how he found me, if God really led him to me or not, but I don't really care. He brought me into the glory.
"Last fall, I contacted my wife. She wasn't hard to find, hadn't even moved. She's divorced me, found some way to get it done because she claimed I 'abandoned her.' Really, I saved her--her life, anyway.
"I asked about our child, of course. I wasn't going to assume any right to the kid, wasn't even going to ask for any pictures. When God says it's time, then it's time. Instead, she told me the child was never born. After I walked out the door, she had a miscarriage. Couldn't even reach the phone to call 9-1-1. My child, my son, slipped out of her and died on the kitchen floor while I was in a car with Ellis driving off to my calling.
"I beat her so viciously that I killed my son."
Brendan thought of the woman hanging off Dwayne's arm at the church. "You could have another."
Dwayne was in another world, his voice drifting. "I spent all those years dreaming about a son I never even had. A son I walked away from to save. And by walking away, I killed him. You have any idea what that does to your mind?"
Was it any easier to kill a sister?
"He'd be almost thirteen now." Dwayne's eyes came out of the fog and landed on Brendan. They were piercing searchlights that left Brendan feeling naked.
"My woman now is wonderful. She's helped me a great deal. She helped me see the bright side after I spoke to my wife. But we can't have kids. She had uterine cancer when she was twenty, had a hysterectomy. She can't ever get pregnant. God has His ways, that's for sure."
"What was the bright side?" Brendan asked.
"Well, you, of course."
That didn't make any sense. Dwayne said he had spoken to his wife last fall. He hadn't even met Brendan until a day ago. This was one of those convenient lies adults concocted to create a sense of believability without exposing some nasty truth. Brendan had gotten good at constructing those lies, too.
"I see you don't believe that, sounds like so much mushy, feel-good crap, right? I told you this started with Dr. Carroll and that's where you come in."
Brendan listened to the rest of Dwayne's story without speaking. His hands grew hot and his throat dry, but he didn't get any water. He wanted to stay perfectly still while Dwayne unveiled a truth that made him queasy.
"Ellis introduced me to Dr. Carroll, said he could help me. Doc wanted to give me a whole cocktail of meds, things to take the edge off and such. I told him I didn't want to become some vegetable. I needed to stay strong and focused to do God's will.
"He convinced me that without a little something I would end up being no help at all. He was afraid I was going to slip into depression and so, I agreed to take these little, yellow pills. It's funny to think how obstinate I was about taking those things because once I started I felt so much better. Things became clearer. My pain about my son faded. That pain can never completely vanish, of course, but the pills did wonders.
"Dr. Carroll is--was--a believer. He and Ellis had met up a long time ago at one of Ellis's old churches and together they spearheaded a new approach to Christianity, a whole new mentality to summon people into His flock.
"They turned, as Jesus did, to those who needed the most help. Dr. Carroll had been running a very successful practice for years and when he dedicated his life to carrying out God's will, his practice grew exponentially. People suffering all forms of emotional trauma sought him out and he helped them first with the magic pills he carries and second by opening wide the gates to His Holy Empire. Dr. Carroll found the people and Ellis helped them find God.
"The two of them are responsible for saving hundreds of souls. They helped empower people who were on the cusp of complete despair. And in return, those people gave back to the church and that is why it is so strong today. We have over three hundred parishioners who are, as we speak, carrying out His will.
"Dr. Carroll led us to you. We have many young worshippers, but the doc convinced us that you were something special. Instead of intervening, however, Ellis believed we should wait for God's intervention. The doc kept tabs on you and we went about our business of saving souls."
Brendan thought of the myth book--had it been some sort of test? Why not give him the Bible?
"After your infant brother died, we knew your time would be soon. We came here last week because we knew your mother was getting worse, more and more dependent on drugs. She needed to be saved. To do that, however, we needed to first save your father.
"He didn't want to hear anything from us. At first, almost everyone is resistant. Ellis told your father he would need our help and, as it has turned out, Ellis was right. He told me that God had only started working through your family, that the real miracles were yet to happen.
"Dr. Carroll spoke of your wondrous potential. He said you were going to be something remarkable--all you needed was a little guidance. As with most children who are not reared correctly, you were confused, trying to find meaning but lost in a tangle of barbaric ideas.
"You only wanted to protect your family, I know. God has worked through you, made you suffer like Job, because He has great things in mind for you. You see, we thought the death of your infant brother was the sign from God, but that was only the beginning. It was your sister's death that has led us to this moment.
"You confessed your part in her death and for that we are forever grateful. You will carry that pain in your heart always, but we will help you manage it, funnel it, and direct it into the positive works He demands from us."
Dwayne cracked his knuckles, one by one, as he spoke.
"Jacob Karras came to Dr. Carroll concerned about his wife. She was always weird, he said, but she was getting worse. She had an unnatural interest in the black arts--witchcraft. Dr. Carroll tried to help but she wouldn't budge.
"Sometimes drastic measures need to be taken. The doc gave Jacob what he needed to help his wife. There are unfortunate turns of events, things that cannot be explained logically or sanely because we are not privy to God's reasons.
"The drugs Jacob slipped his wife nearly killed her. She suffered a mild stroke, fell into a coma. Ellis and I assumed this was our moment to act, to help save the Karras family. We couldn't have been more wrong."
The moment Sasha said "Jesus Men," Tyler felt the invisible weight of something still concealed begin to crush him.
"They wore suits and spoke about Jesus empowering you or some stupid shit. Whatever. I was going to tell them to try some other house, we weren't the religious type, but my father came storming out of the house, started screaming at them.
"He told them to go away and stay the hell away for good if they were smart. My father wasn't the type to get so pissed so easily, but there were other things . . ."
"What?" Tyler asked.
"I told you my mom went nuts after my father died, but that's not all of it. She was a little nuts to begin with. She almost died."
Sasha's mother had had a stroke, fallen to a coma, and almost passed away. This psychiatrist her father knew tried to help but her father kicked him off the front steps, too.
"What was his name, the doctor?"
"Carroll something."
"No." That invisible weight grew heavier. "Dr. Carroll?"
She blinked. "Maybe, I don't know."
"What'd he look like?"
"I never met him," she said. "Why?"
Tyler almost confessed to everything but stopped himself. There was a coincidence here too large to ignore, but it had no effect on the current problem. He still had to stick to the plan and he could sort out the oddities later. "Just asking," he said. "So, your father?"
"The night after the Jesus Men left, they called the house. My father screamed at them again, and threatened to expose who they were. Said he would go to the papers, the TV, anyone who would listen. He told them the police would be coming their way soon.
"He slammed the phone so hard it fell off the wall. We still haven't put it back up." She wiped her face with one sleeve. It was a preemptive swipe at any tears preparing to fall. "The next morning he was dead."
"Wait--how?"
Her voice choked with pain. "I found him at the bottom of the driveway. He had been shot twice, once in the chest, once in the head. I remember falling to the ground and screaming, screaming for hours until the neighbor came over. I'm sure it wasn't hours, but it felt like it, you know?"
"When did all this happen?"
"I was twelve."
"Jesus. I'm really sorry, Sasha, I didn't know."
"I told you it wasn't important. My mother survived her stroke but she just came unhinged after that."
That word again: unhinged.
"She started with all the witch crap and I went along with it. I tried to keep it from the kids at school, but you can never keep everything quiet. No one knows my dad was shot in my driveway. Even the guidance counselors think it was a heart attack. I was never asked to talk about it, so I never corrected them. They seemed pretty sure of their information.
"My mom's not a bad person. She's been through a lot, so I can't be too critical, you know?"
"She needs help," Tyler said. He was amazed he could move forward with his plan after her soul-purging. This last week had been one self-discovery after another.
"I'm not forcing her to take drugs."
Tyler took a long, slow breath. He really had to sell this line. "I care about you, Sasha, I do. I don't want anything to happen to you. I . . . want you to be safe."
"You mean that?" She lifted her head like a deer checking to see if the path was clear.
"Of course. I know things have been fucked up lately, but I want to make everything better."
"Do you love me?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Yes, and that's why we need to do something about your mother."
"What?"
He reached into the bag at his feet and removed the bottle of Snapple.
There's no reason to think that the human mind can't withstand the most horrible emotional extremes. People endure travesties of unthinkable proportions. War. Death. Torture. Misery. Things that singe into the subconscious and burn there forever.
Anthony had suffered much already in his life, but what lay ahead was something he couldn't quite fathom.
"How?"
"However you wish," Ellis said.
"And then what, after it's done?"
"Call us and we'll take care of everything."
"Do what you're doing now?" Anthony couldn't believe he was actually fielding these questions like he intended to go through with it. He wasn't going to kill his wife. He kept repeating that over and over in his mind: I'm not killing my wife.
The Logical Voice should have backed him up, but instead that voice very calmly offered a logical perspective he didn't want to hear. If you don't kill her, these people will take Brendan. You have to do what they want or they will destroy your family.
Wouldn't killing his wife be destroying his family anyway?
She's barely been conscious for more than a month.
That didn't mean she should die.
Ellis and his crew will cover everything up; they'll be no proof, no worries.
"I need to know why."
"Because I said so."
"Why do you want her dead? Does she know something?"
Ellis laughed. "There's no conspiracy, Anthony. There is simply God's will and you are charged with carrying out that will."
"Bullshit," he said softly. Most of his anger had melted like ice defrosting off a slab of meat. He had no protection anymore. He was utterly vulnerable.
"If you don't believe, you'll never ascend to the incredible heights He has to offer. That will be your loss. However, do not let your fears and doubts stymie Brendan's chance for empowerment. Your son is far too special. We care about him very much and if you do as well, go inside and kill your wife. We'll even wait right here until it's done and then we'll handle the remains."
That last phrase sent chills through him. Handle the remains. Would they chop her up and burn her in a campfire? He couldn't kill her. Wouldn't kill her.
What choice is there?
"No," he said. "Don't stay. It'll be too suspicious if you hang around any longer. Leave and I'll call you."
"Take as much time as you need," Ellis said. "Doing God's work can be very torturous for the soul."
Anthony gritted his teeth, stared straight at Ellis--his eyes masked all the vileness lurking there. "Thank you," Anthony said and got out of the car.
Ellis drove off after another moment and the van followed. The big guy driving didn't even glance Anthony's way. He doesn't have to, The Logical Voice said, they know you're scared and you should be.
Anthony ran up his driveway and lunged inside his house. He sprinted upstairs, down the hall. The boys' bedrooms were empty. In his bedroom, Chloe lay tucked beneath fresh cream-colored sheets and her sister Stephanie lay next to her on top of the comforter.
He ran back down the hall. Kitchen, dining room, family room: all empty. No, no, no.
"Brendan!" he screamed. His voice echoed through the silent house.
Having an adult trust him so completely that the adult didn't hesitate to relay the real truth of the situation made Brendan feel close to Dwayne in a way he had never felt toward Dad. He loved Dad, of course, but Dwayne offered something else, something intriguing: entry into the adult world where the nasty truths were not sugar-coated or wrapped in lies.
"I shot Jacob Karras once in the chest and once in the head. I had been waiting in my car for hours for him to come outside. When he finally came out to get the paper, I pulled up and did what had to be done. Killing Jacob Karras is only one difficult thing I've had to do in His name, but it is something that still pains me. I don't want you to think that killing another person, regardless of the reasons, is a joyful experience. It is, in fact, a glimpse into hell."
Brendan saw the back of Dad's car with the stupid bumper stickers as people stopped their cars on the highway and ran to the crashed vehicle to see what happened. Before any of those spectators could connect the bowling ball with the overpass, Brendan had left. He hadn't seen the damage he had wrought on his sister, but he could imagine well enough how her face had been mangled, all her teeth shattered, her nose mushed into her face.
"We left the body because we felt it was the only way to push Mrs. Karras and her daughter into His order. There is no greater motivator for people to turn to God than loss. Dr. Carroll continued to treat Mrs. Karras, though he may have done more damage than good.
"Ellis and I tried to persuade them to come to our church but she screamed at us until we left. She called us devils and demons and said she would cast a spell to protect her home from us.
"We tried and failed. The Karras family fell off our radar. Until, that is, you called me with Tyler's problem. Do you see how mysterious His ways really are? God has worked to bring me back to the same place where I killed a man because thy will must be done.
"I killed a man to protect my family: Ellis and the church. We must be willing to do horrible things for the greater good. Can you appreciate that?"
Brendan nodded.
"God's will is not to be questioned. What seems like madness to us is His divine way. To question is to fall from His grace. We must remain empowered and be ready to do his will. Are you ready, Brendan?"
He didn't have to think twice: "Yes." He would do whatever he had to to protect Tyler. He had brought more grief to his family because he had been lost, but now he was found, and saved.
Ellis's voice drifted again, off in his own world. "Sasha Karras."
"Are you going to kill her?"
"No," Dwayne said and laid the weight of his eyes on Brendan. "You are."
"Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."
Jesus
Tyler sealed his fate (as well as Sasha's and her mother's) with a kiss. Sasha's lips were dry and her breath smelled of rotting leaves, but he kept himself composed. He hadn't come this far to ruin things now.
Back at Sasha's house, they sat on her bed and said little. He rolled the Snapple bottle between his hands. He told her he had ground up Tylenol PM, that her mother would be fine and when the police arrived, she would be taken to a hospital for evaluation. Then they'd assess Sasha and give her whatever medical needs necessary.
"You're trying to get rid of me," she said. "I'll get put in a foster home or something."
"You're almost eighteen. You can do what you want. I'm not trying to get rid of you. I love you. I want you to be safe. And our baby."
Sasha wrapped her arms around her midsection. The sweatshirt sleeves hung loosely behind her so it appeared she wore a straight jacket.
You might be wearing one soon, he thought.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. "Why?" she asked finally.
"Why what?"
"Why do you love me?"
It wasn't simply enough to say he loved her, he had to offer some believable reason for him to have such emotion. She doubted him, but she didn't want to.
"This last week has been the most fucked-up one of my life," he said. "For the longest time I didn't know what to think about what happened in the car by the lake. I was afraid I was changing into someone I didn't know, someone who scared me.
"But that's not what happened. No. What happened was when we were together my true passion for you overflowed out of me with so much force that I couldn't stop it. I pushed you too far, and I am sorry, but that moment made me realize that I love you."
"You just wanted to have sex," she said softly.
"You believe in soul mates?" Her eyes said she did. "I've always been drawn to you but never had the courage to do anything about it until last week. And once we were together, I discovered that we are destined to stay together. We are soul mates and that is something that cannot be denied."
"You mean that?"
"Of course."
"You don't want me to get an abortion?"
He had not anticipated this question. How could he? He couldn't even believe how convincing he had been delivering those lines about soul mates. He had tapped into some well of feminine knowledge that had turned him from an awkward teenager into a suave romancer. She was in the palm of his hand now.
All he had to say was Yes, I think it's for the best if you get an abortion. He could sugar-coat it better than that, too. We are meant to be together and I want nothing more than to have children with you but we shouldn't rush into it. We should love each other fully first before bringing in a child.
That wouldn't work. She'd see right through it. Confessing that he really wanted her to terminate the pregnancy would crumble the entire tower of lies he had constructed.
"I want us to do what is right for us. There's a reason you're pregnant. There's a reason we're together. There's a reason why we need to act now to help your mother. The reason might be destiny, it might be love, it might be God."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're sure you love me?"
He placed the Snapple down and hugged her. She rested her head on his shoulder.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Me too," he confessed.
\*
Tyler had been ready to march right up to Sasha's mother and offer her the beverage as some sort of peace-offering. Sasha said that wouldn't work and took the bottle. If they wanted this plan to work, they had to play by her mother's rules.
"Which means?" Tyler asked.
"Take off your clothes," she said. "I'll be right back."
He stripped to his boxers, laying each piece of clothing carefully on the bed in case he had to get dressed rapidly. What happened to his other clothes? Were they still soaking in the tub? Little pictures of monkeys speckled his boxers; Mom had bought them for him for Christmas. He told her that no girl would want to see monkeys on a guy's boxers. She had laughed and said he didn't know much about girls.
Sasha returned with a chalice in one hand and a carving knife in the other.
"Nice boxers," she said.
"What's with the knife?"
"Trust me?"
He paused just long enough to reveal the truth. "Sure."
She placed the chalice and knife on the nightstand next to the bed. He could snatch up the knife and bury it in her back. That thought bothered him. He might be doing something immoral right now, even sinister, but he would never, could never, be so malicious and evil. If this plan failed, he'd have to accept fatherhood and hope Dad understood that sometimes people fucked up. Sometimes they fucked up real bad.
From her closet, Sasha removed two black robes. She tossed one to him and told him to put it on. The robe was actually a cloak with a hood. While he slipped it on, Sasha took off her sweatshirt and jeans. She stood before him in bra and panties.
Despite the fresh bruises swelling across her midriff and legs, despite the tiny bugs of spray-paint on her face or the dark shadows beneath her eyes, Tyler wanted her. The way she stood, so frail, the way her eyes widened, so innocent and exposed, sent a fresh rush of warm blood through him and he grew hard.
She unclasped her bra and her breasts flopped out. They were so large and so perfectly designed that he wanted to take each one in his mouth right now and then throw her on the bed and enter her once more, reveling in her warmth.
"Sasha, I . . ."
She slid off her panties, tossed them in the corner. Her small patch of pubic hair was the final reveal and he could barely control himself. There was no fear freezing him like the last time, only hot lust beginning to boil.
She noticed his excitement and smiled. She slipped her own black cloak on in one easy move and then approached him. "Do you want me?" she asked. Her hands touched his chest and then slipped down to his stomach. Her fingers teased the corners of his groin.
"Yes," he whispered. In one instant, she had gone from weak and afraid to confident and in complete control. She knew that the one true way to control a man was to do it through sex.
"You're still wearing your boxers," she said.
\*
This time when they made love, she moaned with every inward thrust and tore at his back with sharp fingernails. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she begged for him to go deeper and deeper. When he said he was going to come, she wrapped her legs around his waist and whispered in his ear: "Come inside me, baby. Please."
Afterward, he fell asleep against her, almost unable to believe how much his luck had changed.
Anthony sat in the kitchen and waited. He wasn't waiting for anything in particular, he was just waiting. It was easier than actually getting up and walking down the hall and staring at Chloe.
He almost got up once to call the police. Brendan was missing, after all, and he knew exactly where to find him, but he couldn't push himself to make the call. Ellis and his people would expose the truth about Dr. Carroll and Anthony would be in cuffs before morning. He'd be no help to his boys then.
The dying red and orange rays of the sun bathed the inside of the kitchen. He had once found this nightly display to be calming. He and Chloe had joked many times that they didn't need to go to some tropical paradise for romantic evenings beneath gorgeous skies; they had only to get take-out and dine at the kitchen table.
Those memories of eating at this table, slurping up chinese food and pene ala vodka from Styrofoam containers should have made him laugh. They'd buy the cheapest red wine they could find and drink it right from the bottle. They'd eat the foul food and try not to gag on the acidic wine and then they'd make love, sometimes right on the kitchen floor. Those times had all been before the kids, of course. Parenthood pretty much ended their romantic excursions in the kitchen. Instead of laughing, he almost started to cry.
Now, the final glimmers of the sun painted the room in dark red hues that reminded Anthony of Dr. Carroll's blood staining the bed sheets. How had Anthony gone from making love to his wife next to this very table to sitting here contemplating her murder?
It seemed preposterous, completely insane, and yet here he was.
There were only two options. He could smother her with a pillow, something they used to joke about during long nights where they'd lay in bed and talk for hours. She hated when he shoved a pillow over her face, said she was afraid even though she knew he'd never hurt her.
Using a pillow would work, considering her drugged state, but he hated the idea of doing it knowing it was something she genuinely feared. Perhaps in some other world, Chloe would understand that he had been put in an impossible situation and that her death was necessary to save Brendan and Tyler. Even if such a place did exist, killing Chloe by a means she actually feared was mean and cruel.
The other option made more sense anyway and required of Anthony almost nothing. All he needed to kill his wife waited for him in the master bathroom. Good old Dr. Carroll had left him more than enough meds for the task.
Maybe that was the whole idea from the beginning.
He could grind up the pills and pour them down her throat. She'd never even wake up.
And, after the pills took her away, if he couldn't stand what he'd done, there were plenty of pills to take care of him, too.
But that defeats the whole point, the Logical Voice said. Then Brendan will be theirs for good. If that's what's going to happen, you might as well stop wasting time and get on with it.
As usual, the Logical Voice was right.
He stood, walked down the hall, stopped at the open bedroom door. Chloe and her sister lay as completely asleep as they had been a few hours ago.
Stop wasting time and get on with it.
He approached the bed.
Chloe was curled in a fetal position beneath the sheets. Her face had, for the moment at least, regained some of its lost firmness, its youth. Here lay the woman he had pledged his life to. The woman he vowed to honor and cherish. The woman for whom he had once stood up in the middle of a crowded New York City restaurant and exclaimed, I love you, Chloe Belmont, and I want you to be my wife. People applauded. Chloe cried when he slipped the ring on her finger.
He caressed the side of her face. A slight tremor of life shook her body. It was like the tremors that shook her body when she orgasmed.
He kissed her forehead. "I love you, Chloe Williams, and I always will."
\*
Ellis's cleaning crew had taken everything with them, including the blood-stained tire iron. That, however, was not a problem. Before he got in Chloe's car, he took the Craftsman Rip-Claw Hammer from his tool box. Ellis wouldn't know what hit him.
The Giant Jesus twitched on the wall. The smell of flowers filled the room, but Brendan knew it was from the candles and wondered if there was something more significant to that. Did the use of scented candles in place of real flowers signify some coverup? What would Bo Blast think if he were here on his knees before a giant crucified Jesus with people all around praying for a successful night in which God's work was to be done? Would Bo find the candles odd?
Ellis was on Brendan's right and Dwayne on his left. They had been in this position for several minutes, heads bowed, hands folded before them, the flickering flames of the candles the only sound.
Other people had been in here, enraptured in prayer, when Dwayne opened the door and told him it was time to ask for God's blessing and then fully embrace what lay ahead. "You must do it with no hesitation," Dwayne said.
For my family, Brendan told himself.
The room grew warmer and exhaustion pushed down Brendan's eyelids. He fought to keep his eyes open but the lids got heavier and heavier like industrial garage doors. Sleep gripped his body and he spasmed suddenly out of it.
The Giant Jesus' head had rolled from one side to the other. Jesus had been staring down to his right, eyes seeking mercy from the spectators. Now, the head was tilted to the crook of his left shoulder and those looming hollows focused directly on Brendan.
He could have screamed, almost did, but it had to be an illusion. He was remembering the statue incorrectly, that's all. Exhaustion and anxiety were screwing with his head, making him see things.
Unless it's God making you see those things.
This thought deserved refutation, but he had none to offer. God, he thought with awe.
When Ellis spoke, his voice startled Brendan, shooting a cold shiver through him. "Lord God, whose we are and whom we serve," he said, "help us glorify you this day, in all the thoughts of our hearts, in all the works of our hands, as becomes those who are your servants, through Jesus Christ our Lord."
"Amen," Dwayne said and several people in the room echoed the sentiment.
Without looking at Brendan, Ellis said, "Now, repeat after me: Lord Jesus, in whom I seek empowerment, I give you my hands to do your work."
Brendan repeated the line.
"I give you my feet to go your way. I give you my tongue to speak your words."
As Brendan repeated what Ellis said, an invisible weight settled on his shoulders. These were not simply words; this was a statement of commitment, a devotion to something much larger and greater than anyone could comprehend.
"I give you my mind that you may think in me. I give you my spirit that you may pray in me."
This was something priests said before they earned the right to administer communion. This was what warriors recited before they took the field with battle axe or machine gun.
"I give you my whole self without doubt."
This was permanent. This was forever.
"Amen."
Jesus blinked. His head moved, but perhaps it had never moved at all. Not an illusion; that was a sign that the pledge had been heard and acknowledged. Brendan was devoted to God now, and God would show him the path to empowerment. Almost a minute passed before anyone spoke.
"Are you ready?" Dwayne asked.
Though he didn't know what to say, Brendan said simply, "I am." Those two words had come from somewhere deep inside him, a place God had touched.
"Do you want God to save you?" Ellis asked.
"My family," Brendan said. "Mom, Dad, Tyler."
"But not you?"
He wanted everything to be like it used to be. That could never be. Delaney was dead. "I want them to be happy, with or without me."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Remarkable."
Ellis had a familiar expression painted on his face, one Dad had given him many times. Pride.
"Dwayne will tell you what you need to do. Don't be afraid. You are one of God's disciples now. The way may be dark at times, but in the darkness there is a gateway to the illumination of the soul. It can lead you to wonderful places."
Brendan wanted to tell him he had heard that before but he kept his mouth shut. This was a serious moment, a solemn one in which he was pledging his loyalty to a cause impossible to fully comprehend.
"The time is now," Ellis said. "Are you ready?"
"I am."
\*
A few minutes later, Dwayne was explaining how to burn a house down.
"It's time."
Sasha's voice brought him out of the darkness of sleep. It took him a moment to recall where he was and realize he had to keep the charade going because his plan had not yet hit the crucial part. He had heard a phone ring. Had that been in his dreams? He had to grab the cell. Paul was waiting.
Sasha was wearing her cloak again, standing next to the bed. Chalice in one hand, knife in the other, she smiled. Shadows danced on her face from a lit candle on the nightstand.
"You've been out for over an hour."
He sat up quickly. The sun had set a while ago, darkness only waiting outside her bedroom window. Paul was waiting for the signal; the cellphone was in his jeans pocket. Where were his jeans?
"My clothes?"
She picked up the black cloak draped on the bed. "You need to wear this or my mom will know something's up."
"You didn't throw my jeans in the tub, did you? My sister's cell was in there."
"Don't worry," she said. "Your clothes are fine."
He nodded, started to bunch up the cloak to slide over his head. After the deed was done, he could hunt for his clothes. It wouldn't be good if the police searched the house and found two sets of his clothes. He'd have a lot of difficult questions to answer.
She held out a clear glass with brownish liquid in it. Something fizzed in the water, forming a white cloud. "Here," she said.
"What is it?"
"Aspirin," she said. "My mother always grinds it up and puts it in apple juice for me. It's silly, I know, but it was the only way she could get me to take pills when I was a little kid."
He shook his head. "I'm okay."
She smiled. "It's just pain medication. You'll thank me later."
What was she going to do? Why did he need pain medicine?
She tiled her head, smiled with just one corner of her mouth. "For me. Please."
He drank half the glass and set it down. Beneath the apple taste lingered a bitter flavor that stung his throat. What little kid would drink that?
"Now what?"
"It's time," she said.
"How are you going to do it?"
Sasha raised the chalice like a priest about to bless the wine. "It's all in the presentation."
\*
Sasha's mother was downstairs, kneeling before her homemade altar. The red candles on the table gave the room a sickly glow that made the walls appear swollen. Tyler stopped at the bottom of the stairs, right behind Sasha.
"She's deep in prayer," Sasha whispered. "Don't do anything sudden, she'll go nuts."
What constituted "nuts"? This was a woman who had threatened him with a knife, forced him to get naked, burned him with a hot blade. He didn't see a knife on her altar, so she might have it under her own cloak. If she wielded a blade, Tyler could try to push Sasha into the blade and run. He could call the police and that would take care of everything. It would actually be much more convenient if it went down that way, though a cramp of nausea twisted in his stomach at the notion.
On tiptoes, Sasha approached her mother. Tyler stayed several feet behind her. The time between her steps grew longer and longer the closer she got. Sasha's mother did not detect them. She sat slumped forward on her knees, head to her chest, her back rising and falling with slow, easy breaths.
Tyler froze with the next step. He heard something, faint, like a whisper only not decipherable. Sasha kept walking; she was only a few feet from her mother. The sound was a steady hum barely detectable. If Sasha heard it, she thought nothing of it. The hum was really smaller vibrations strung together. Those vibrations were words and they comprised a chant.
Or a curse.
"Sasha, wait," Tyler said in a loud whisper.
She turned toward him, started to make an "it's okay" gesture when her mother's head sprung up and back. Her long, black hair whipped over her head and slapped her back with the hard thwap of a punch. The hum that was a nearly silent chant erupted from the woman's mouth like a fire alarm. The words made no sense and might have been random consonant grunts, but whatever they were they bounced off the walls and reverberated in Tyler's ears.
. . . sac rice luff chide . . .
He had retreated several steps toward the stairs and the safety of the front door beyond, but Sasha hadn't moved, only covered her ears. She should use the blade to silence her mother once and for all. One swipe across the throat.
Her mother's nonsensical cry faded quickly. She dropped her head, hair settling around her shoulders, and turned to face her daughter. Sasha lowered her hands, chalice in one, knife in the other. Their movements seemed lethargic, as if in slow-motion.
"This is the moment," her mother said. Her throat sounded like it was full of rocks.
"Yes, mother," Sasha said. She held out the cup. "We wish to offer our blood as a sacrifice for the love child we have created."
Sasha's mother bowed her head to the cup and then gently took it in both hands. "The Earth Goddess will be pleased."
Sasha motioned for Tyler to join her. He did, slowly. His previous rush of excitement and sexual energy had fizzled into cold skin and a shriveled dick upon his shrunken scrotum. His legs were heavy, his head light.
When he stopped next to her, she raised her left hand before her and brought the blade of the knife toward her palm. He wanted to tell her to stop but he was too fascinated, or shocked, to say anything. He couldn't believe this was really happening. Who was this girl?
Her mother moved the cup beneath Sasha's left hand. The blade sliced into Sasha's palm. She clenched her jaw against the pain and ran the full length of the blade across her hand. She tilted her hand sideways and blood began to drip off her skin and into the chalice. Each drop plopped into the cup.
"This offering I make to you, oh, mighty Earth Goddess," Sasha said. "This is my blood, so that you might bless me and my child."
The blood-drip became a steady stream. Sasha made a fist, stifling the flow. Then she wrapped her injured hand in her cloak and turned her large eyes on Tyler.
His hands were clenched together at his groin. His head grew lighter and lighter and he feared he might pass out. Keep it together. Her eyes softened, pleaded with him. This was the only way, they said. Just a little cut, some blood, and it'll all be over.
He pried his scarred hand loose and held it out. With her free hand, Sasha's mother seized his wrist. He pulled back but her grip, and all the weight behind that grip, held him in place. He made a fist, but his fingers didn't curl completely into his hand. His muscles had gone loose. What was going on?
"You must make an equal offering," Sasha's mother said. "If not, you will suffer irrevocable trauma."
What did that mean? Hadn't he already endured enough pain? He tried to pull free again but he couldn't do it unless he used his other hand to pry off her fingers. Or punch her in the face.
Sasha stepped right next to him. Her breasts pushed through the cloak and pressed against him. Her eyes had softened considerably. They were the eyes of a waiting lover, a young woman who wanted only to please her man. She took his hand gently and her mother let go. She brought it to her neck and then slowly dragged it over her breast. His hand opened; her nipple teased his palm. His crotch relaxed. He squeezed her breast gently. She moaned so slightly and delicately that he wanted to pounce on her and get her to make that innocent yet sexually loaded noise again and again.
The flickering light reflected off her snaggletooth--like a sabertooth tiger in the moonlight.
Sasha pulled his hand away and sliced open his palm so quickly that he didn't fully register what had happened until his blood was joining Sasha's in the chalice.
He back-pedaled rapidly, pulling free of Sasha's grip. He stumbled and fell. He broke his fall with his hands and his freshly re-injured hand throbbed with hot pain. She had cut a mouth out of his palm. The skin curled back from the wound and bright red blood sluiced out. It was a gushing vagina or the mouth of a Satanic priest after eating of the animal sacrifice.
Sasha's mother swirled the cup in front of her. "Now the blood is joined, now the sacrifice can be made. This I do for the blessing of the love child you have created."
She brought the chalice to her mouth and took one long gulp.
He expected her to fall over immediately. All the drugs he had ground up in the Snapple were enough to knock out an elephant. That was wishful thinking, of course. The medicine needed to be absorbed into the blood stream; it would take a few minutes.
A few minutes. His head was ready to pop off his shoulders and float away. His muscles could barely keep him propped off the floor. The damn apple juice and the aspirin. She had drugged him. Her mother probably had a small pharmacy of her own.
Or witchcraft potions.
Sasha's mother nodded to her daughter and then turned to the altar. She set the cup on the table and slowly got to her knees like an old woman. She was deceptive--slow and heavy one moment, fast and strong the next.
"Now, dear lover," Sasha said, "It's time for the real sacrifice."
She came at him with the knife before her, blade wet with his blood.
Anthony double-parked outside of the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered. The cops were too busy with drug dealers and gang violence to care about an illegally parked vehicle on Broadway. Newburgh could be a scary place at night, and particularly bad for a white guy who happened to get lost in the wrong area. This is what God wants.
Anthony got out of the car with the rip-claw hammer. It's black leather grip clung to his skin and its 20oz weight felt good--solid and powerful. The straight claw on the back was ideal for reaching into tight spaces or driving into people's skulls.
Only if necessary.
The closed beauty shop next door--Nailed Nails--held a new irony that made Anthony laugh. It sounded like the cackle of someone who wasn't all there.
Light emanated from behind two large posters of Jesus on the cross bordering the door in the giant glass windows. The glass door had been blacked out. Anthony knocked. The metal grate rattled above him with each knock. These people were awfully trusting to stay open after sunset.
A police siren's warble echoed from somewhere.
The door opened slightly. A woman with curly brown hair and heavy eyeliner peered out from the crack.
"Yes?" she said.
He hadn't known what he was going to say to gain entrance--figured he might just hold up the hammer and tell whoever opened the door to back off--but words came to him suddenly and with total clarity.
"In today's day and age when every organized religion is claiming the rightful path, it can be confusing to know which direction is correct. In fact, it can be disheartening. It can be easy to lose faith."
The woman's brow scrunched. "Excuse me?"
"But Jesus doesn't care if you follow this faith or that faith," Anthony continued. "Jesus wants you to be empowered, to feel His grace and bask in His glory. He scarified Himself for all humanity as proof of heavenly empowerment."
The woman turned behind her, called for help.
"With Jesus as our teacher, we can learn how to tackle our problems and choose the right path to glory. And, most importantly, we can be empowered with God's love. No matter the pain from which you suffer . . ."
The woman turned back to him, realization dawning. "You're Mr. Williams, aren't you?"
Anthony didn't let this stop him. The words were flowing from somewhere in his brain where the flier Ellis and Dwayne had given him so long ago permanently lived. " . . . the difficulties against which you struggle . . ."
"Ellis!" she called again, more frantically.
". . . Jesus wants to help. At The First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, we seek the fulfillment of God's will through an honest acceptance of our faults and a faithful inquiry into the magical workings of Jesus." He waited for her to say something but she simply stared, wide-eyed and shit-scared. She had no idea what "scared" meant. Not yet. "Are you ready for the magical workings of Jesus?"
Anthony raised the hammer.
She screamed, more of a startled shout than a scream of fear, but it was enough to take this moment to Step Two. He shoved hard against the door and the woman fell back, stepping several feet before her legs tangled and she smacked the tile floor on her hip. She started to yell for Ellis again but there wasn't any need. Ellis stood in the middle of the room.
"Anthony," he said, "I was expecting a call."
He had taken off his suit jacket but still wore the black pants, white dress shirt, and black tie, though he had loosened the knot and undone the top button. His hair was poofed as if he had run his hand through it several times. The king without his diadem, Anthony thought, thinking of some Emily Dickinson poem he'd read years ago.
Anthony walked toward him in slow, deliberate steps. He patted the head of the hammer in his palm with each step. Three or four other people stood against the walls, eyes wide, mouths agape. The other worshippers were probably in The Temple, bowing before a giant fake god. Anthony would love to barge into that room and smash the Giant Jesus to pieces. It would feel so wonderful to destroy that thing. That statue could have been his salvation; instead, it dragged him deeper into Hell. The hammer grew lighter. This is what the Devil wants.
"I was going to call," Anthony said in an equally slow and methodical voice, "but it suddenly occurred to me that you had single-handedly destroyed my life."
Ellis was shaking his head. "No, no, no. We have done nothing but try to help you. God is mysterious and His ways cannot be questioned. We only sought to help you, empower you."
Anthony held up the hammer. "I'm empowered now."
Ellis started to back up. "What are you going to do? Kill me? Beat me to death? You'll never get away with it."
Anthony paused. "Why would I want to get away with it? I've already killed a man today, what does it matter if I kill another?"
None of the people against the walls moved. So much for empowerment. Ellis began to back-pedal quickly, heading for The Temple.
"I told you what you had to do. You can still have a beautiful life with Brendan."
"Don't you dare say his name!" Anthony launched into a sprint and collided into Ellis before the man could even turn to run.
They crashed onto the floor. Ellis's hands groped Anthony's face and arms in spastic bursts, rapidly moving from one part of his body to another in search of the best angle of attack. He shouted for help but the people along the walls remained still, fixated. If anyone was in The Temple, they'd be out any second. Anthony was enjoying this, watching Ellis writhe beneath him. Ellis's hand found Anthony's throat and squeezed. Ellis gritted his teeth, air pushing from his nose like he were a bull and stared Anthony dead-on with eyes that dared him to do something.
Anthony brought the hammer down into the floor an inch from Ellis's head. The reverberations of the hit spiraled up Anthony's arm as pieces of tile pelted his face. Ellis's hand relaxed.
"Next time," Anthony said, "it's your skull."
Ellis dropped his hand. The woman who had opened the door gasped a desperate "No!"
"What do you want?"
Anthony smiled. Have I gone crazy? "Where's my son?"
Dwayne drove them to Trailer Trash Town where Sasha Karras lived. Instead of the big black car in which they had taken Brendan during Delaney's wake, they were in a grey two-door hatchback. "Easier for people to miss," Dwayne had said. The car smelled of cigarette smoke and ash speckled the dashboard. They parked before Sasha's neighbor's driveway. The neighbor's house was dark except for one light in an upstairs window. Sasha's house was similarly dark, save for a flickering red light in the downstairs windows.
Dwayne used his cellphone to make a call. He waited through several rings and then said, "Yes, I'm calling from Information Securities. Is the head of the house available?" A second later, he closed the phone, dropped it in his pocket, smiled.
"That's the basement," Dwayne said, pointing. "That's the key to this whole thing, and the front door, of course. There's a sliding glass door in the basement that leads to the outside. There's no sure way to blockade that door, so you need to be sure that the most gas gets pooled there."
Brendan nodded. Dwayne had given him work gloves that Velcroed on but the pair was too big and so he kept peeling the Velcro strips open and trying to make them tighter. The ends of the straps dangled from his wrists like extra fingers.
"The front door is the same thing. Don't worry, the logs will make it much easier. Once the two exits are taken care of, they might try to get out a window. That's when you have to be ready. I know you'd rather not have to do it, but it may be necessary."
Brendan's clothes felt too big. The car seat was two sizes too large; he felt like a little kid trying to play grow-up. He didn't want to do what Dwayne was now suggesting. He was okay with the first part, with the logs and the fire, but he didn't want to stand guard at the windows. Couldn't do it.
From the glove compartment, Dwayne removed a small, black gun. "This doesn't look like much but it'll do the job. One shot and they'll retreat back into the house. All you have to do is pull the trigger."
He held it out butt first to Brendan.
Like dropping a bowling ball, he thought.
The gun was heavy in his hands. Could he really shoot someone? Would he have to? He was willing to be part of this to protect his brother, help unite his family again, but shooting someone was an impossible task like swimming across the ocean without stopping. Did he have the courage to do this?
"They might just freak out and breathe in so much smoke that you don't have to do anything, but you have to be ready," Dwayne said. "This is a test, you understand?"
Brendan waited. A test?
"If you are truly dedicated to serving God, you won't hesitate to pull the trigger. If you fail to do this, you will lose God's favor and your path will forever be altered. God wants this family to pay the ultimate price. He wants you to be his messenger."
Executioner.
Brendan swallowed something hard in his throat. "When?"
"Now."
Tyler thought of how he and Paul had joked that Sasha kept a collection of severed penises in jars in her basement. That had seemed so ridiculous and yet here he was drugged and there she was coming at him with a knife.
He tried to stand and couldn't. His legs had turned to rubber. His arms still worked enough to drag himself backward, but his hands slipped repeatedly on the carpet and he made it only a foot or so before Sasha was squatting in front of him.
The innocent expression had gone from her eyes. Something dark had taken its place. When she smiled this time it was a smile full of power and vehemence. "I know you don't really love me," she said. "Don't bother saying you do."
"But . . ." He had nothing else to say.
"I liked you but you took advantage. You raped me."
"No, no."
She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. Yes, you did, Tyler. You had to get some action for your little pecker and you ignored my screaming, my cries. I begged you to stop and you refused."
"I'm . . ."
"Sorry?" she finished. She shook her head. "No, you're not. You wanted me to drug my mother so she'd get arrested and I'd get put in a foster home. You wanted to get rid of me because you had only wanted to fuck me, not make love with me, not have a baby."
Tyler was going to drug Sasha, too, and then call Paul and have him show up as a witness so when the police arrived--
Paul. He was waiting for Tyler's call.
Tyler's arms turned to rubber as well and he could no longer hold himself up; he slipped slowly flat onto his back. Sasha moved closer, stared down at him. Her hair hung past her face and for a moment she resembled her crazy bitch of a mother.
"I must confess, Tyler," she said. "I was never pregnant. I just didn't want you ignoring me. I wanted you to face what you did to me and, maybe, find a way to love me."
The sedative was numbing his face and mouth but he managed to squeeze out one word: "Bitch."
She sighed, pressed a hand to his face. It was her injured one and was still warm with blood. "It's okay. You see, I'm ovulating now. Mom says that the Earth Goddess wants me to be filled with life. In two weeks, if I don't get my period, I'll know it worked. We will have created a love child."
Tyler's eyelids started to droop. He desperately needed to keep them open. He willed them to stay up. He had to see what was happening. He had to fully register the insanity of this psycho. She had completely tricked him with her innocent, crying victim routine. Paul was right; he should have threatened her life when he had the chance, maybe even bashed her head in with the baseball bat.
"Mom's a little nuts, I know, but she means well. I don't know if the Earth Goddess cares or not or if any of her spells actually worked, but here you are, so she must be on to something."
The bitch had cursed him.
Sasha turned the knife before him. A drop of blood ran down the blade and dropped onto his chin. He barely felt it. "I gave you a powerful dose, so you shouldn't feel a thing."
Feel? What was she going to do? Ah, shit, she should just kill him and be done with it. Don't cut off my dick, please, not my dick.
She smiled as if she had heard his hysterical thought. "I'm not going to cut it off, so don't worry. What would be the sense in that? If I'm not pregnant yet, I'll still need you and your prick. But I do need some insurance."
What did that mean?
"You'll be okay," she said. "I've been reading up on the Internet. I know right where to cut and we'll stop the bleeding really fast."
Her mother stepped next to her. She held her knife in one hand and a candle in the other. The blade was turning yellow.
"It's called cauterizing the wound. It'll hurt later, but right now you won't feel a thing. I promise."
She kissed him on the lips but he felt only the faintest warmth of her mouth. Her breath smelled of rotting garbage. If his muscles could still gag, he would have started vomiting.
She disappeared out of view. Her mother smiled at him with a mouth full of large, crooked teeth. "This is not a curse, but a blessing."
Then his eyelids lost their dying strength and he was gone in a world of black.
He made Ellis drive Chloe's car.
"What happened to all your followers?" Anthony asked. "No one came to save you."
"The Temple is sound-proof. Doesn't matter. They all know by now. I'm not worried."
"Because they're coming to save you?"
"No," Ellis said, "because God has a plan."
Ellis drove them to the Hidden Hills Trailer Park. It was a community of winding roads through curving hills with low-income housing. Anthony had paid good money to raise a family in a gated community that promised serenity through security. Oh, the irony.
"If you're driving me somewhere else, somewhere where my boy isn't, I will bury this hammer in your head, you got that?"
Ellis nodded. "I don't believe in subterfuge."
Anthony laughed. "That's a good one."
"You have a chance to be saved, Anthony. You're walking away from it and that saddens me."
Anthony brought the hammer to Ellis's temple, just barely touching. "Is that making you sad or is it the thought of your brains splattered on the window?"
"Do you know what Jesus said to his doubters?"
"Good luck?"
"He told them that he would have mercy on them as he tried to snatch them out of the fires of Hell. I, too, will have mercy on you while I try to save your soul."
"I don't want to save my soul," Anthony said, "I want to save my son."
"Don't worry about him. He's already been saved."
\*
Ellis drove slowly around parked cars and down sudden steep slopes. Anthony had to tell him to hurry up, stop wasting time before he buried the claw end of the hammer into Ellis's leg. That encouraged him to speed up.
He slowed down and stopped behind a small hatchback. A large guy in the driver's seat noticed them in the rearview mirror and almost jumped out of his seat. The driver's door was open a moment later and Dwayne was standing there, a surprised, though not worried, expression on his face.
"Where's my son?" Anthony hissed.
Ellis looked at him. "Doing God's work."
Anthony got out of the car and went right for Dwayne, who held up his hands in innocence. "What did you do with my son?" His shouts bounced off the surrounding hills.
"Keep your voice down, Anthony," Dwayne said. "Someone is going to call the cops and you don't want that."
"No, you don't want that. Bring on the cops." Anthony stepped within a few feet of Dwayne. The man outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds, but he was no match for a hammer to the skull.
"If that happens, you'll lose your son."
"Where is he?!" Anthony brandished the hammer above his head like a bludgeon.
"Dad?"
Brendan had come around the corner of a line of bushes. He was wearing work gloves and carrying a can of gasoline. His face was wet and smeared with black splotches. A strange expression floated on his face.
"What are you doing?"
Brendan looked from Anthony to Dwayne. "I was going to stay, to guard, but I heard the screaming and . . ."
"What are you doing?" Anthony said, anger breaking.
Tears gathered in Brendan's eyes and Anthony fought the urge to drop the hammer and take his little boy in his arms. He had to stay strong right now while Ellis and Dwayne were around. There would be plenty of time for hugs later.
"I'm only trying to help," Brendan said in a slow, fragile voice.
"Help? Who?"
"Tyler."
Anthony stopped. What did that mean? "Help Tyler how?"
Brendan stumbled for an answer.
Behind him, large flames licked up the front of a house. They had completely engulfed the front door and thick, black smoke was spiraling above the house and into the sky.
"Oh, my God," Anthony whispered.
He heard Dad's scream and came running. He felt like he hadn't seen Dad in days, maybe longer. Dad had become a stranger to Brendan, someone for whom Brendan would do anything and yet someone who he no longer really knew.
Before turning the corner of the Karras's driveway, Brendan slowed. He had wanted to see him, hug him, and beg for his understanding but that urge died. Dad wouldn't understand why Brendan had placed starter logs doused in gasoline before the main escape points of the Karras's house. He would never forgive Brendan for Delaney's death if he ever discovered what really happened. Dad was more likely to have him arrested or committed to some crazy-people hospital than take him in his arms.
Horror and desperation drew across Dad's face and gritted in his voice. Brendan wished he had stayed where he was. The weight of the gun sagged the pocket of his coat. He hadn't touched it since Dwayne entrusted him with it, and now he knew why he had really run toward Dad's voice. He hadn't wanted to shoot anyone.
"I'm only trying to help," Brendan said. He felt like he might start crying. Dwayne was staring at him with equal parts rage and frustration. How was he supposed to please anyone?
"Help? Who?"
"Tyler."
Dad's face went blank. "Help Tyler how?"
The starter logs Brendan had placed on the Karras front porch burst with an explosion of heat. Giants flames ate at the front door and the smoke quickly engulfed most of the house's front. Smoke also billowed from behind the house where the other starter logs ignited.
"Oh, my God." Dad walked toward him in slow, dead steps. He spoke in a shocked whisper. "What did you do? My God, son, what did you do?"
"I had to, Dad. Tyler needed my help."
"Help? Help how?" A hammer dangled in one hand.
Ellis spoke up from behind them. "Brendan is God's disciple now. He was not afraid to do what was necessary to protect his family. He is the embodiment of all that the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered stand for."
Dad was shaking his head. "You didn't. Please say you didn't do this."
Brendan couldn't say anything. God wanted him to do this. There was no rational way to explain what was inherently irrational. Dad might never understand it and Tyler might even be angry, but at least Tyler would be grateful. It might take a while, but he would be grateful.
"You have a choice now, Anthony," Ellis said. "Come with us and we will keep you protected. Turn against us, and you will pay with all you have."
Dad rested his hand on Brendan's shoulder. "Go away," he said with little energy. "Leave me and my son alone."
"We can't do that."
Ellis nodded to Dwayne, who moved toward them. Dad raised the hammer. "Back off or I swear I will kill you."
Dwayne paused, glanced at Ellis.
"Don't be stupid," Ellis said to Dad. "You can stay here if that's what you really want, but Brendan comes with us."
Dad's lips pulled back from his teeth like a dog about to attack. "You will never take my son."
Ellis started to respond but a car pulling up alongside him killed his words. All heads turned as the car slowed, slowed, stopped. At first Brendan thought it was more of Ellis's people. If that were true, Dad would have to run. There'd be no way he could fight off more than two. Brendan would have to sacrifice himself to save his father. He knew right now and with complete certainty that he would do just that.
But the car belonged to Paul, Tyler's friend. He sat in his car, glancing at everyone, dumbfounded. He slowly got out of the car. "Mr. Williams?"
Dad took a moment to respond. "What are you doing here, Paul?"
He shook his head as if this scene were not comprehending. "What are you doing here?"
"Call the police, Paul," Dad said. "Call them now."
Paul's eyes set on the fire, which was now raging across most of the front of the house. Sasha and her mother might have escaped through a window; this fire could be for nothing.
At least I did it, Brendan thought. I proved I was strong.
"Oh, shit!" Paul yelled. He ran straight past Dwayne toward Dad. He meant to push past him but Dad grabbed him by the shoulders. The hammer clattered on the street.
"What?" Dad said. "What is it? What's so important about that house?"
For a moment, the words could not escape Paul's mouth. "Tyler! He's in there!"
Then they were both running toward the burning house and Brendan was alone with Ellis and Dwayne.
Darkness. Yet, sounds very clearly, and voices.
"Be sure to make a clean cut," Sasha's mother said. "The sacrifice must be clean."
"They're so hard," Sasha said. "What if I damage the other one?"
She was going to cut off one of his testicles. Oh, Jesus Christ shit fuck shit fuck no. Tyler tried to will himself out of his paralysis. He had to move, to get away from these psychotic women before they cut him and--
Help! he screamed in his mind. Please help me for the love of God!
"Do it now," her mother said. "Before you lose your nerve."
"He's not a bad guy."
"He's a man and all he wants is your cunt. He doesn't respect your power to make life. If your child is to be blessed, you must make the sacrifice."
"My hand's shaking."
Silence for several moments with the faint sound of crinkling paper coming from somewhere distant. Was she touching his testicles, choosing which one to remove? Was she cutting into him now? Was his blood soaking the carpet?
"What's that noise?" Sasha asked.
"It's nothing, just--"
A loud bang almost like an explosion but not quite as forceful came from the left. Both women shrieked. The crinkling sound from before was now louder, much louder. The sound of fire. What was going on?
"It's a sign?" Sasha's mother said.
"Mom, we have to get out--"
Another burst, this from the opposite side of the house, maybe at the front door, echoed through the house. This bang was bigger, more like an actual explosion. They were under attack. Maybe he was hallucinating--a side effect of the drugs. Maybe my testicle is in a pool of blood on the carpet.
Sasha and her mother spoke rapidly, on the verge of panic.
"It's the Earth Goddess."
"It's fucking fire, Mom! It's not a goddamn sign!"
"We must pray."
"We have to get out of here!"
"The whole house is burning. We must pray."
"The window!"
There was a clashing and clattering of objects and Sasha's desperate heaving breaths. Her mother had said the whole house was burning. Was that true? He felt the heat. Or was that a trick of his mind?
Sasha's voice farther away: "It's stuck!"
Her mother, closer, right next to him: "We ask you oh merciful and wise Goddess of the Earth to show us the way in this our hour of need."
Glass shattered and Sasha yelled again. It was a cry of pain. She had cut herself trying to escape. "Help me, Mom!"
"We acknowledge your power and commend your brilliance. You have lit the fires that now burn at my doors. You are coming. We await you eagerly."
"Get up!" Sasha screamed. More crashing objects, the floor vibrating with the clatter. She had knocked over the altar. "I said," Sasha said now right on top of Tyler, "GET UP!!"
Sasha's mother released a barbaric howl that was supposed to sound like a prayer but which reverberated around the room like the dying screech of a slaughtered animal.
The scream ended with the sudden swap of a hard smack. Then the two women were grunting and cursing and yelling and rolling on the floor in a brawl. Meanwhile, the house was burning down, and Tyler's dick was out in the open.
The knife. If he could grab it.
Wake up, he told himself. Open your damn eyes.
Another sound, possibly at the window. "Oh, Jesus, Tyler!"
Dad. How the hell did he know where Tyler was? What difference did it make? He tried to scream and couldn't. The heat pushed closer. Soon, the room would be boiling.
"I'm coming," Dad yelled from the window. The sound of the fire eating the outside of the house was almost deafening.
Hurry, Tyler tried to say. Please hurry.
Sasha and her mother continued their battle next to him, unaware perhaps of Tyler's dad's arrival. Sasha's mother released a deep gut-sound like she were about to vomit or had been hit hard in the stomach.
Barely audible, Sasha whispered, "I'm sorry, Mom, but you've lost your fucking mind."
Speak for yourself, Tyler thought and then realized: she just killed her mother.
A moment later, she was screaming for Mr. Williams to help her, please help her. Tyler summoned all his power and felt his mouth open and unleashed a deep, panicked cry that was so loud it knocked his eyelids open.
God must hate me, Anthony thought. Why would He do this to him? Why had He taken Anthony's baby, his Delaney, poisoned his Chloe, let him kill Dr. Carroll, helped maniacs brainwash his son, and now try to burn his Tyler to death? What kind of a god did that?
A cruel one.
And lo, did Misery, the god of all, lay waste to everything Anthony loved, for Misery is a mean and angry god, and cares not for justice and peace, but for pain and ruin.
Tyler lay half-naked on the floor of this house, dead. He's not dead, he can't be. He wore a black robe of some kind, but it had been pulled up to reveal his crotch. Next to him, a large woman and a younger, smaller woman were clawing at each other's faces, screaming.
Anthony knocked away pieces of jagged glass remaining in the window frame. One of the pieces sliced into his knuckles but he barely felt it. "I'm coming!" he shouted to his son.
He started to climb through the window but it was more narrow than he thought. If he went any further, he'd get stuck at the shoulders. He might be able to force his way through, but then how was he going to escape? He backed out of the window.
The large woman grunted loudly and then fell back flat on the carpet next to Tyler. The younger one leaned over her for a moment and then turned around. It was a teenage girl, her hair a mess, her face streaked with dirt and blood. "Mr. Williams," she cried, "Please help me, please!"
He had never seen this girl before. How did she know who he was? Was she Tyler's girlfriend? Why was she wearing a black robe, too?
The handle of a knife stuck out from the larger woman's gut. This girl had just stabbed someone. Not someone--her mother.
The girl ran toward the window, her face bent at weird angles and her teeth like arrowheads. Anthony stumbled backward into Paul.
"The police?"
Paul snapped his cellphone shut. "Yeah. Where's Ty?"
The girl was at the window, which was set up high on the downstairs wall, so she could only get her forearms across the ledge without help. "Mr. Williams, save me. I'm pregnant with your grandchild!"
"Who the fuck is this girl?" Anthony asked.
The girl's hands flayed for something, someone, to grab. "She's fucking nuts," Paul said.
Tyler screamed, loud and forceful. The shock of his sudden scream froze everything, though only for a second. He was alive. Tyler was alive.
Anthony reached down, grabbed one of the girl's arms and told her to push. After a moment, Paul grabbed the other arm and together they pulled her out through the window and onto the grass. She was breathing frantically and mumbling words Anthony couldn't understand.
"You have to get my son," Anthony told Paul. "I can't fit through the window."
Paul didn't hesitate; he dropped to his knees and dove headfirst through the open window frame and crashed to the floor. Anthony waited with both hands stuck through the window while Paul ran to Tyler, tried to slap him completely awake.
But he'd just screamed. He was just awake. Why the hell wasn't he awake now? What was happening to his poor boy?
Paul wedged one arm under Tyler's shoulders and the other under his knees. He stood on unbalanced legs and walked with heavy, slow steps toward the window. He squinted his eyes and clenched his jaw against the pain.
"Come on," Anthony spurred him on. "A few more feet."
The sliding glass door shattered.
Paul stumbled, drop to one knee, and Tyler spilled out of his arms onto the floor. They were only a few feet away. If only Anthony could wedge through the window.
From somewhere behind Anthony another loud bang ricocheted, but Anthony recognized this one immediately. A gunshot. Ellis and Dwayne had killed Brendan.
Paul had Tyler in his arms again, lifting just beneath the shoulders this time and letting his legs drag across the floor.
A police siren floated in the distance.
Tyler's arms flapped against the wall. Paul raised him higher with a grunt and Anthony grabbed both arms. With Paul pushing, Anthony dragged Tyler out through the window to rest flat on the ground. His head lolled from side to side.
Don't be dead, he begged, please don't be dead!
He only had to help Paul for a moment before the kid was able to climb out on his own. The heat from the two fires was spreading around the house like the arms of the Devil.
Or the arms of Misery.
Anthony dragged Tyler away from the house to the line of trees separating the property from the neighbors'. The heat was still strong but tolerable. The peak of the fires had crested the top of the house. Within minutes, the whole place would be destroyed.
The girl pounced on Tyler and hugged him close. Her large eyes warned he and Paul to stay away; they were the eyes of a raccoon protecting her young. "My baby," she said, "my baby, my baby."
And my Brendan did this, Anthony thought and then immediately he was running back toward the cars thinking, the gunshot, the fucking gunshot.
The hatchback was gone. Ellis was on the ground with a bullet in his neck and blood pooled all around his head. Another man lay on the ground, half his head smashed to pieces from the Craftsman hammer that lay next to him covered in blood.
Dwayne and Brendan were gone.
"We should leave now," Ellis said.
Dad and Paul had run off to the burning house and Brendan was left as a frozen statue. He said Tyler was in the house. That couldn't be. God wouldn't do this to him. Delaney he could understand; that was God's warning for worshipping false deities, but Brendan had completely devoted himself to God's cause. God could not have his brother. No, no, no!
Brendan almost ran for the house, but Dwayne's hand gripped his shoulder. "Tyler will be fine," he said. "Your father will save him. But this means that the mission has failed."
"You knew Tyler was in there?"
The faintest trace of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. "Of course not. These are not things for us to answer. Leave these things to God. We can only do our part."
"But you said that everything would be good again, that this would bring my family back together."
"Enough crying," Ellis snapped. "We have to get out of here now. Someone probably called the police already."
He turned back to his car and stopped. A man in jeans and a ratty T-shirt stood at the bottom of the driveway, gun in hand, lit cigarette in mouth. "That's right," the man said. "I did."
Ellis tried to assess the man quickly. He put his hands up. "That's good, then. We don't have our cellphones or we would have--"
"Shut up," the man said. His hair was a ruffled mess and deep-wrinkled creases marked his face. "You're not going anywhere. You're behind whatever is happening next door and you're all going to jail."
Dwayne's hand brushed Brendan's arm. His fingers gestured to the hammer Dad had dropped. It was a foot away.
The man stepped off his driveway, close to Ellis, turned toward Dwayne. "I saw you murder Cody Karras. I gave the police a full description but here you are. I've been waiting. I knew you'd come back to kill the crazy mother, too."
A police siren cried nearby.
"I don't know who you think we are," Ellis said, stepped forward.
"I never killed nobody!" Dwayne yelled.
The man turned full on to Dwayne, gun poised. Ellis charged and crashed into the man; they tumbled to the street. Dwayne pushed Brendan aside, snatched up the hammer. He ran toward the scuffle and arrived as a gunshot exploded. Dwayne paused for a second and then came down with the hammer again and again. And again.
Brendan slowly approached. Ellis lay on his back, rolling side to side, hands clenched against his throat and blood spurting out between his fingers. His eyes darted all around, registering nothing, or maybe everything.
Dwayne stood, admired his work, dropped the hammer. He had smashed in the side of the neighbor's face. Only one eye remained and half of his jaw. The blood and brain matter had splattered across his driveway.
Dwayne went to Ellis, knelt next to him. "You saved me and I wish I could do the same for you, but God has other plans." He grabbed Ellis's hands and pulled them off his throat. A fountain of blood spurted out. A moment later, Dwayne released Ellis's hands and they dropped to the street. He stood and stared at Brendan.
Would he kill him now, too? Was this what God had been planning all along? What kind of fucked-up ending was this?
"Get in the car," he said. "We've got to get away."
"But my father, my brother."
"Get in the car or I'll walk over there and kill them both right now."
"No," Brendan said. "Leave us alone." He tried to sound strong but he wanted to cry.
Dwayne smiled, even released a small chuckle. He bent over, picked up the hammer; when he turned back, Brendan had the gun in both hands, barrel poised on Dwayne.
For a moment, Dwayne said nothing. The police were nearly here. "Your hands are shaking."
He stepped toward Brendan.
"Put down the hammer."
Dwayne let it clatter to the street, stepped forward again.
"Why did God let this happen?"
Dwayne shook his head. "Why would you ruin everything now? God has a plan and we might not like it, but we must do His will."
Another step.
Brendan's index fingers rested on the trigger.
"Fuck His will. Fuck God!"
Another laugh, an adult amused at a silly child. "You still haven't put it all together, have you?" Another step, just over an arm's reach away. "Dr. Carroll. That stupid book he gave you. You were chosen. Selected. God wants this for you. This is your path."
"Don't move."
"Give me the gun, son," Dwayne said. "There's a whole new life for you. We only have to search for it and God will guide us."
"No."
Dwayne took another step. Brendan clenched his jaw, tried to close his ears, narrowed his eyes. Was this what God wanted? Was God even involved at all? Was there any plan, any fucking plan at all? Tears muddled his vision. "No," he said again, almost a whisper.
"God will deliver you as he does all his disciples."
Dwayne's hand reached out, cutting through the air in slow motion. What would Bo Blast do? What would Dad do? Why had he killed Delaney? Why?
Dwayne's hand cupped the gun and Brendan released.
\*
Dwayne drove them quickly away from the burning house and bloody bodies. Two cop cars sped past them. Brendan thought again of Bo Blast and his endless search for the dark villain. He wouldn't have to look any further. Brendan had found the Darkman right here.
On Christmas Eve, Tyler was in the delivery room holding Sasha Karras's hand as she endured a particularly painful birthing. Large beads of sweat speckled her forehead and her cheeks turned white from grinding her jaw. She squeezed his hand as hard as she could and breathed heavily through clenched teeth with spit rolling down her chin.
He was only doing this because Dad said it was the right thing to do. He wasn't going to be Sasha's lover or this baby's father, but he had an obligation to be here for the product of his making. Dad wanted him to adopt the child, but Tyler talked him out of that, thank God. Tyler would never survive that. He couldn't take care of a baby. Dad certainly wasn't in any condition to do so, either.
And definitely not Mom.
When the child was born and first placed in Sasha's arms, a strange wave of heat filled Tyler's body and he wondered what it would be like to take responsibility for this baby, to raise him as a son. She asked if he wanted to hold the baby but Tyler declined. Holding the kid would be too much.
Later, in a hospital room of her own, baby still in her arms, Sasha cooed to the newborn and smiled when he gurgled back. "He's beautiful," she said.
"Yes," Tyler agreed.
"I"m going to name him Brendan."
When Tyler left, he sat in his car in the parking lot until his nerves settled. She wasn't going to name the baby Brendan, or anything for that matter. The baby was immediately going up for adoption. The paperwork had already been taken care of, but Sasha had forgotten all about it.
She'd forgotten about a lot of things, though the doctors and the police never fully believed her. She needed a lot of treatment, they said. She was seriously deranged and possibly violent. Tyler thought of her smile when the baby reached for her with its chubby arm and then he thought of the restraint straps dangling from her bed and the swollen bruise in the crook of her elbow where the staff had to constantly inject her with sedative. He thought of Sasha's mother and spells and curses. He thought about all of this and wondered if it meant anything.
Anthony had gotten rid of the pills. All the pills. The house now held only one bottle of vitamins and he didn't even take them. When he suffered headaches, he suffered through them. What was a headache in the grand scheme of things?
Still, Chloe managed to find something, always something. The last time she was released, she drank two bottles of Listerine and stabbed herself in the thigh with a butter knife. He thought that was going to be it for her, but the paramedics arrived and shoved a big tube down her throat, pumped out all the fluid and stopped the gushing wound in her leg.
Now the house was bare. No alcohol. No drugs. No sharp objects. There was nothing she could use to hurt herself, to try to return to her comatose splendor. She would try, Anthony knew that. She'd get creative and maybe even manage to kill herself.
She had been in rehab three times since Easter and even a short stay at the Psychiatric Center. The doctors told him it was his decision. So, he took her back and straight to the bed she went. She refused to eat anything but a piece of bread or two every other day and an occasional sip of water.
He spent most days in bed with her, petting her hair and talking about the time Before Everything Went to Hell. They had once been a happy family, one full of love and noise. Now the house was quiet and cold.
He tried to stay away from the bad memories. When the dark images tried to invade his mind, he pushed them away, mostly. Every now and again, however, they'd grab hold and trap him.
"I hope he's okay," Anthony said to her. She had fallen into a restless sleep. Her eyelids twitched as did her arms and legs. She woke with a gasp, grabbed the pillow so hard her knuckles threatened to break through the skin. He petted her. She bit the pillow and screamed until her face turned red and she passed out.
"I hope he's at least happy and safe. That's all I want for him. Safety and happiness."
That wasn't completely true, of course; what he wanted was to find Dwayne and use pliers to rip out every one of his teeth and then slice off his eyelids and piss on his face and then slowly cut open his chest from neck to crotch until his guts spilled out and he finally died. That's what he really wanted.
The police had searched the First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, taken numerous testimonies, but it added up to nothing. They never even found Dr. Carroll, though Anthony never mentioned him, either.
The world rarely gave you what you wanted and when it did, it was quick to snatch it away. The world was a cruel place filled with cruel people. Most nights, Anthony figured it would be better if everyone just died. Then he would think of his son and hope Brendan was laughing somewhere.
The hope of his son laughing, more than any other thing, kept him alive. Once he let that go, he'd let everything else go, too. Brendan had vanished on Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified. Easter had brought no ascension.
Christmas eve, Anthony lay in bed next to Chloe and hoped that when he got up in the morning, he'd discover Brendan asleep in his bedroom. If God really existed, if there was any truth to any of that Bible shit at all, Brendan would be there in the morning.
Anthony dreamed of Brendan's laughter and woke up crying in the dark.
The Christmas Eve Mass had been lit completely with candles. It reminded Brendan of The Empowerment Temple. This new church had its own Jesus on the Cross behind the altar but this one wore regal gowns and a golden crown and stared out at the parishioners with hopeful eyes. Brendan would see the Giant Jesus with its huge, sorrowful eyes and soiled rags whenever he went to bed. In the darkness, it would be there, waiting for him.
Dwayne held Brendan's hand as they exited the church into a chilly night. They were staying in a house with four other people, all members of the old Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered. The one woman was pregnant with Dwayne's child. Brendan wondered what would happen after the child was born. Would Dwayne still talk to him? Would he still love him?
"You seem sad," Dwayne said when they were in the car.
"I never knew God would want so much from me."
Dwayne was nodding.
"I lost my entire family." Tyler and Dad seemed like distant relatives now and would eventually drift into small memories that were so faded they couldn't be recalled. He wondered every so often if they missed him. Did they even spend time searching for him? "I've done everything God asked."
"You have."
"So why does He keep taking from me?"
Dwayne took a moment to respond. "God brought you to me. God has given us a new life here in this town. God wants us to do good. He has a plan for us. We will start a new church, regroup, and continue to do His will. You may feel like He is taking from you, but if you really look at it, you will see that when He takes, He gives back tenfold."
Lying on an air mattress in a spare bedroom that night, Brendan thought of Dwayne's words. God had not given him anything tenfold. God had only taken and taken. This was not a new home; this was banishment from his real home. These people were not his new family; they were impostors. God was a thief who would eventually take all Brendan had.
Dwayne crept into the room much later. Brendan pretended to be asleep, as he always did when Dwayne made these night trips. He sat next to Brendan's bed and breathed slowly. The rhythm of his breathing almost lulled Brendan to sleep.
"You're such a special boy," Dwayne said. "It's so amazing how God has blessed you."
Brendan pushed his face into the pillow to stop his tears. He had accepted God's way, but he had never expected it would be so painful.
THE END
Thank you for reading,
J.T. Warren
J.T. Warren born on Halloween, a few months after his mother saw Jaws at the movies. His affinity for horror can be traced to an early age when he built a coffin out of cardboard and pretended to be a corpse, much to the concern of his parents. He can still be found in a coffin on Halloween when he gets into the spirit of the season. He is a public school teacher and has successfully lured thousands of students into literary waters through works of horror. He hopes his writing will further encourage people to discover the wonder (and dread) found in the written word.
Connect with J.T. Warren through his website, on Facebook, on his blog, or on Twitter to learn more about him and find out when his next books are available.
www.authorjtwarren.blogspot.com.
Other titles from J.T. Warren:
Hudson House
Blood Mountain
Violent Glimpses: Five Dark Plays
If you enjoyed Calamity, continue reading for a sample of Blood Mountain by J.T. Warren.
BLOOD MOUNTAIN
By J.T. Warren
ONE
Victor Dolor went to the diner because two months ago a man killed five people there. The man was Hugo Herrera. He was forty-one, divorced, recently unemployed from a downsized-factory job, and had finally been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder from something that happened when he was a child. Victor scanned several online articles for more specifics about the childhood trauma but found nothing.
In response to Hugo's most recent therapy session with some high-priced psychologist, Hugo wrote a letter to The New York Times that said he was "sick of all the fucking shit and finally going to do something about all the worthless shits in the world." The Times did not print the letter. Two days after he mailed it, Hugo took his hunting rifle into the Alexis Diner just outside of Stone Creek, New York, and murdered five people.
It was a sign.
There had been many signs recently but the Hugo Herrera murders was the most significant. Everything was changing. The period of acquiescent apathy was over. The time of now was the dawning of the age of the great cleansing when humanity would rid itself of the living detritus, shed the human excrement clogging the world, and give birth to a new golden age of empowered living.
Victor had been chosen. He was a cleanser. Hugo had been a cleanser. Unlike Hugo, however, Victor was not about to kill in one grotesque orgy and then blow his own face off. Victor would help cleanse humanity but he would do it so he too could one day enjoy the fruits of his labor. The next world would be his.
He had also gone to the diner for the girl.
She was in a booth with her father off to the left. Victor did not let his glance linger over her smooth flesh or soft red hair. She did not look up.
Victor sat at the counter on a plush red stool. A young Mexican boy slid a place setting in front of him and produced a glass of ice water. Victor stared at it. In the journey to preserve the status quo, to stave off the inevitable shifting landscape of the cosmos and humanity, the powers that be kept the water supply bloated with mind-numbing drugs. People who drank from this endless reservoir of placation would be blind to the ensuing changes. They would be ignorant of all the signs the universe offered. The warnings.
Condensation trickled down the side of the glass like tears. Or clear-colored blood.
The swinging door to the kitchen opened and a middle-age woman in a black and turquoise uniform smiled at him. Deep wrinkles creased her face like the cracks in dried mud.
"Morning," she said to Victor. "Coffee?"
He smiled right back, nodded.
When she set down the glass he asked her about Hugo Herrera. He expected her face to pale rapidly, her meaty hands to grab at the counter and her throat to make some kind of choking, gasping noise that was really a cry for help. Instead, she shrugged and said she hadn't been working that day, but it was a horrible, horrible tragedy.
Victor slowly turned his coffee cup in a circle. It made the faintest scraping noise against the counter, almost like the sounds the mice in his basement made at night. "Any idea why he did it?" Victor sounded so calm, so damn normal, so average-Joe.
The waitress paused. "Everyone has a breaking point, I guess. Sounds to me like he just snapped. Or he was crazy."
"No doubt," Victor said. The aroma of fried sausage swarmed around him like poison gas. "But why here? Was he a regular?"
"I never heard of him until that day when Arlon, my boss, called and said some wackjob shot up the place. Killed five people, one of them was a waitress."
"You know her?"
"Sabrina? She was a new girl. Just out of high school, looking to save up for community college. She was a pretty thing. Such a shame."
Victor glanced around, merely for show. The diner was fairly busy this Saturday morning. People were engaged in conversations in the booths while scraping their forks across plates that must have been used a billion times. The only other patron at the counter, however, was an old man in a big, heavy coat. He was at the far end, a cup of coffee before him and a newspaper.
"Place seems to have bounced right back," Victor said. "Like it did after the last time."
The waitress nodded. "I didn't know what to expect. Thought I'd be out of a job. But Arlon reopened after three days, when the cops were done, of course, and people came back. Helps to be the only diner in a twenty-mile radius."
"I'm sure." Victor had lived in Stone Creek his whole life. The little town was squished on the corner of Orange County, New York, at the foot of Blood Mountain. The mountain was the second highest peak in the region next to Schunemunk Mountain, which, at almost seventeen-hundred-feet high, always got all the attention. Blood Mountain, however, had that killer name and the beauty that went with it.
"What did you mean, the last time?" the waitress asked.
"Some places are marked," he said.
"Marked?"
"Cursed, I guess you'd say, but it's more than that."
"Uh-huh," she said. "What can I get you?"
"The coffee is fine for now, thanks."
"You just let me know." She winked.
Victor smiled back. What would she look like beneath his hunting knife? Would she still wink at him when he pushed it slowly into that soft spot at the base of her throat where her skin had started to sag?
She walked down to the old guy at the end of the counter and then made her way to the front of the diner where the rest of her customers waited in booths. Victor spun slowly on the stool as if he were maneuvering to get up, maybe head to the bathroom.
The girl and her father had only coffee and water so far. But they would soon be eating quite a large breakfast. They wanted to have enough energy to make it to a late lunch if not dinner. They would have eggs and bacon and pancakes and toast and hash browns. They would eat up because they thought it would help them.
He would watch them eat for a little while. Watch the way the girl, not a girl but a young woman, chewed her food. The way her jaw moved. The way her lips pursed open just slightly like offering some secret kiss.
He would watch and then he would go back to his car and eat the tuna fish sandwich waiting there.
He would leave five dollars on the counter and a full cup of coffee.
TWO
Mercy Higgins did not want to climb some ugly mountain with her father when she could be at home reading a book or working on one of her short stories. Could be at the bookstore helping Pete clean out the fiction section for the new coffee bar he was installing.
Dad needed this, however, and that would have to suffice.
The book someone had given him at work--Daddy/Daughter Bonding: Activities to strengthen a Father's Connection with his Daughter--waited before him like it was his meal. Several skinny Post-Its stuck out from the pages.
"I know you don't want to do this," Dad said. She started to protest but he continued. "I know this may not be what you want to do on a Saturday, but I think it'll be good for us. Get some fresh air. Some distance from the world. You might actually have fun."
They had never been camping. Dad never showed any interest and she certainly had no desire to sleep in a tent on the ground. Not to mention the hiking. They weren't prissy people; they just liked their quiet time at home. It was warm there, especially in the reading room where Dad kept the fireplace going through the winter and the walls of books sheltered her like giant arms.
Mom had loved that room, too.
"It's fine, Dad," she said. "I'm looking forward to it." She held his gaze long enough for him to believe it, or at least add it to the tomb of self-denial he was perpetually building.
"It's supposed to be beautiful tonight. Maybe a little chilly but we've got the thermal sleeping bags and the arctic tent. The portable grill, too. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a fire going." He laughed in that way that always made him sound vulnerable. It was something she liked about her dad, something she'd liked about Joel at school, too. So many men came across as cocky know-it-alls; it was refreshing to find a few who could be self-deprecating.
"I know, Dad."
"I bought the best stuff. It's not like we're heading out unprepared."
"I know."
"It's going to be fun. Trust me."
About a month before she died, Mom told Mercy all the things she loved about her husband. She said them slowly, breathing shallowly between words. When Mom started on the physical traits, Mercy had steeled herself against the expectation of graphic sexual references because sometimes in those last days Mom had forgotten what she was saying, gotten really vulgar. Instead, Mom said it was Dad's smile that always moved her heart. So sweet and inviting. And those dimples.
Dad's smile now was no less sweet but carried a weight of desperation. The beard he'd grown had covered his dimples and his face had thinned.
"You're really sweet, Dad."
"No pity on your old man. This is for us."
When the waitress took their order, they both asked for more food than they had intended, like they knew they would need it.
Beyond the parking lot outside the window was Route 51, which led straight across the county to New Jersey in the west and onward to New York City in the east, and on the other side of the road, almost close enough to touch, waited the foot of Blood Mountain. Clouds obscured the peak like it was something secretive. Or dangerous.
THREE
Victor did use the bathroom before he left the diner. It was a cramped, two-person room with one stall and a urinal. When he relieved himself, Victor admired his penis. He stretched it out. From what he found on the Internet, it was above-average in length. When he had paid a woman to suck him off, she made no comment about his size. He almost asked but he didn't want her to look at him with that skeletal face and gap-tooth smirk.
"Soon enough," he murmured to it.
He put himself carefully away in his pants before he could get excited and washed his hands at the sink. Too many images crowded his mind. So many ways he could manipulate the female body. So many positions. He had to keep those images in check. If he let his excitement get control, he would lose the upper hand. He had planned this for far too long to let it get away because he was desperate for a woman's touch.
After the cleansing, there would be plenty of women for men like him. Plenty of touching.
Mercy Higgins could be saved. It would be her choice.
Victor almost missed the writing on the mirror. He started to turn away, shaking his hands dry, and wondering if using their water had been such a good idea; it might permeate his skin, infect him.
In the lower right corner, scratched into the mirror's surface, it said: Cleanse the World.
Victor traced the three words with his finger. The indentations they made in the mirror were like slices in skin, knife tracks about to spout blood.
It didn't matter who put it there, Hugo or someone before him. It was another sign.
Victor left the bathroom. His smile must have looked so peculiar.
FOUR
While Mercy and her father gobbled eggs and pancakes and toast, the teens in the booth across from them discussed the recent shooting in which a crazy guy named Hugo killed five people in this very diner.
"Fucking guy came in with a shotgun or some shit and bam! bam! bam!" The teenage boy in the skinny jeans and body-tight hoodie made a child-like gun gesture with his thumb and forefinger.
His equally tight-dressed friend laughed like the kid was talking about some movie.
The first kid glanced around, like scoping out the place. "Can you imagine? Must of been sick to see it go down. Blood hitting the walls and shit."
"You're sick, man," his friend said.
The first boy glanced at Mercy and her father. His gaze lingered briefly. What was he seeing in his head? Was he imagining fucking her in some degrading way? "Can't be prude about it," he said to his friend. "Most people live in a bubble."
That's what Joel had said: Mercy, you live in a bubble. And he'd told her to use fabric softener. Such a weird thing to say. You're clothes always smell stale. So, she'd used dryer sheets and went around in a cloud of lemon. Then he'd told her she had clammy hands and that he'd found someone else. She tried to elicit a smile from him but he stared at her like she was some beggar on the street.
In a way she had been. She'd begged to have sex with him, told him she was a virgin and that she really wanted him, even though she wasn't sure that was the case but she was almost out of college and nobody graduated college still a virgin. Only losers. Then he said her hands were clammy and he'd met someone else.
"Can you imagine how fucked up it must have been?" the first boy asked.
"I'm glad I wasn't here," his friend said.
"Fuck that. I would have taken that guy down. Would have shot him between his eyes. Watch the blood splatter. Been a hero."
Mercy's eyes started to water. A minute ago she had been fine. Her only feeling was one of slight dread about hiking up a mountain on a chilly spring day and then having to sleep on the ground at some campsite. Then those two boys started talking about the killing and she was remembering Joel for some reason and how he said she smelled stale and had clammy hands and wouldn't have sex with her and then she had graduated a virgin. Now, she was crying. Sometimes she hated being a woman.
Her father put down his fork and touched her arm. "Honey, what's wrong?"
She took several napkins out of the dispenser on the table and dried her eyes. When she looked at her father, he had that sweet face he always got when things didn't turn out right for her. When she'd fallen off her bike as a little kid. When her violin audition for Juilliard fell through and she studied literature at the State University in Pleasantville instead. When Mom died.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"You have nothing to be sorry about. This is my fault. I shouldn't have pushed this whole camping thing on you. I just thought it would be fun. Thought we could have some time to bond."
Tears began to reemerge. "It's not that. I want to go camping. It's just . . . Just . . ." She paused, breathed deeply. "I have to use the bathroom."
When she slid out of the booth, the first boy said, "You think the guy wanted to have sex with any of the bodies? Shoot his load and then shoot his head off."
If Mercy were a different sort of woman, she would tell them to stop being such stupid pricks and grow up and then she'd throw a cup of coffee on each of them.
She started to get her tears under control. A skinny guy with several-day's worth of stubble on his face was staring at her. He was walking past the counter while she was on the opposite side of a dividing row of booths. He wore jeans and a black jacket. He was cute, too, aside from an undernourished face.
She knew him from somewhere.
Their eyes met and the man looked away. A moment later he was at the front door and Mercy was in the bathroom.
She knew him. She had spoken with him.
FIVE
Victor held the girl's gaze for no more than a second or two. He would have loved to stare at her for hours. Loved to hold her close and stare into her eyes, caress the fragility of her soul.
There would be time for that later. If she caught on too soon, there was a risk the whole thing might collapse. He had pressed his luck, no doubt about that, and if he pressed it any further he would be, as his father used to say, S.O.L.
No dinner tonight, son. Sorry.
But I'm hungry.
S.O.L.
Shit out of luck.
Victor's father hadn't been a bad man or even a bad father. He was the kind of father who never understood what fatherhood was really about. He saw Victor as a roommate, maybe even an acquaintance. He didn't belief in tender consolation. Life dealt you a bad hand? Well, looks like you're S.O.L.
Victor didn't want to be S.O.L. Luck had been with him for a while now. It would continue to be with him. He only had to trust the greater powers manipulating his future.
He turned from the girl's soft white skin and innocent blue eyes. They would be his in time. Then he could chew on that flesh and suck those eyes right from her skull if he wanted. Maybe she'd even like that, get off on it. Her body would convulse in a spasmodic orgasm as her eye slid past his lips and onto his tongue.
He walked quickly outside to his car. The friction of his jeans only encouraged his arousal. His underwear, always a size too small on purpose, was doing little to stymie the growing bulge.
He had parked at the far end of the parking lot. His car was a beater from the late eighties he had bought for one-hundred dollars. It had two-hundred-eighty thousand miles. The steering wheel shook violently at speeds over forty and the exhaust stank of rotting eggs. But it was all he needed.
There were no cars near his.
He dropped into the drivers' seat. It groaned like it might finally give out. He yanked down his jeans and took his cell phone from his jacket. He caressed himself faster and faster as he scrolled through the fifty pictures he had taken of Mercy Higgins.
He managed to get the box of tissues out of the glove compartment in time.
SIX
Mercy almost started crying harder when she thought how much easier it would be to explain everything to Mom. Women understood how messed up they were. They knew their bodies were uncontrollable vessels of perpetually battling hormones. A woman could be giddy with happiness one minute and completely devastated at the crippling power of some perceived fear the next. She could not explain everything to Dad. She couldn't tell him how she felt about Mom, about her desperation to have sex with Joel, her overwhelming feeling of failure about her music and her fear that her life was a pointless string of disappointments. Mom would have understood, let her voice her shopping list of worries and then shared a secret smoke with her and told her that life for a woman was much harder than a man could ever realize. Dad would blame himself because he was sensitive and then she'd feel even worse.
She almost surrendered. She almost told Dad that she wasn't feeling well and that she'd rather just go home and curl up in bed with a book. Spend tomorrow at the bookstore helping Pete.
The bookstore. Where she had seen that guy.
Since high school, Mercy worked a few days a week at a local bookstore called Rune Books. Pete Harwinski started the place in the eighties and managed to keep it profitable through all the publishing scares. He created an online presence to make his place known for the people who prided themselves on shopping only at privately owned shops. He'd recently added free Wi-Fi and was building a coffee bar with a few plush chairs for costumers who didn't want to buy books but liked scrolling the Internet in such ambiance. Since graduating, Mercy worked there six days a week. She'd probably end up serving coffee by the end of next week. Not very impressive for someone with a Bachelor's in Literary Theory with a minor in English Literature.
The store was never very busy except around Christmas, but Pete made enough to keep the business going and pay Mercy twelve dollars an hour. She lived at home and didn't really care about the money. She worked there because Pete was such a nice guy, a second father, really, and because she'd always loved books. She could sit in the store, breathing in the sweet intermingling aromas of new and old books and read all day long.
The small size of the store and the way the towering shelves of books obscured what dim lighting there was always intimidated newcomers. Most newbies wanted the latest bestseller from whoever, but some were on a mission to get a rare hardback copy of some novel published in the sixties or seventies.
Maybe two-dozen regulars frequented the store every few days or so on what seemed like a rotating schedule. Most were nice, some weird. She knew all their names, too, all except for the guy she had just seen in the diner. She should have recognized him immediately. He usually came into the store every three or four days an hour or so before closing. He never returned her hellos. He went right to the far end of the store, opposite the cashier counter. He never seemed to find anything to buy. Pete called him "the perpetual browser."
Mercy was reorganizing a shelf of horror paperbacks from the eighties with their flashy covers of gory monsters and blood-soaked landscapes when he caught the man peering around the corner of the bookcase at her. She asked if she could help him. His eyes did some kind of weird jiggle or something and he said no. A moment later, he was running out of the store like he had forgotten some urgent appointment.
That had been a month ago. Since then, he had been in the store but always like a ghost, hidden from view, only felt as some kind of different presence. Not threatening, exactly, but certainly strange.
He probably wanted to ask her out.
Perish the thought.
SEVEN
Victor cleaned himself up and stuffed the towel back into the glove compartment. Free of that stuff, his body was calm, his mind focused. When he didn't relieve himself for a while, he could get a little crazy. He accepted that. The pleasure he gave himself was part of his maintenance, like brushing his teeth or bathing.
With a clear mind, he could see the situation better. See the pitfalls. The danger. He had been stupid to enter the diner. Stupider still to stare at the girl and, stupidest of all, to make eye contact. It wouldn't take long for her to place who he was. Not that she knew anything about him, but he hadn't exactly been as covert as the situation required.
The girl might get freaked, call off the camping expedition. She'd told her friend over the phone that her father thought the night on the mountain would be some kind of bonding thing but she would much rather see a therapist together. The girl had laughed at something her friend said before saying that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, maybe they would run into a cute hiker.
Victor had been near the back of the bookstore where she worked, on his knees, pretending to scan the bindings of old hardcover books. The girl's voice echoed through the store and teased him with its sensuality like those mythological creatures and their songs that lured sailers to their death.
The girl was no beast. She was an innocent, perhaps marked for death as the old world gave way to the New Time, but he would give her a chance to save herself. At least for a while.
It was the how of this situation he had never fully calculated. He couldn't simply speak to her. She would see the truth of his nature, discover he was a cleanser, and rebuke him. Then he would have to kill her.
For now, he would stay out of the way. Trail them up the mountain. Hide in the distance. Wait for his opportunity.
Like when the rats came out. He could spend hours waiting in the dark of his basement. His hearing would get fuzzy and then adjust to the silence. His eyes would find the outline of the furniture and then gradually reveal their hidden dimensions. If he waited long enough, his senses grew super keen.
Then the rats had no chance.
Sometimes he killed them outright. Other times he amputated their legs and then gradually sliced open their bellies to see how long they would keep fighting to live.
The struggle could last for some time.
He would trust in his patience, in his senses, in his self-control. In the power the universe had given him.
That was easy to do when his mind wasn't flooded with images of the girl on her knees before him, mouth wide. In those fantasies, her eyes were black holes that cried tears of blood.
Like the tears the trees cried on the mountain.
The girl and her father were at a table in one of the windows. The glare from the sun painted the girl in a holy aura like a giant halo.
Two teenage boys were smoking on the opposite side of the front stairs. They were laughing about something.
Victor got out of the car and opened his trunk. He checked his supplies. He hoped the rifle would not be necessary. He had never fired one. It was the same kind Hugo Herrera had used. He must have been quick, reloading and firing to kill five people without anyone stopping him.
Too quick to almost be unbelievable. Why didn't anyone try to stop him?
Because in those final minutes, everyone in that diner knew the bell of a special hour had rung. People spend lifetimes looking forward to things but when destiny catches up with them they are helpless.
We are all helpless before the Great Plan.
Victor caressed his backpack. The hunting knives were in there. Set of seven. Each sharpened and polished. Sometimes he stared at his reflection in those blades and imagined blood traversing the grooves like open veins.
He grinned.
BLOOD MOUNTAIN is available as an ebook.
For a sample of J.T. Warren's haunted house novel, HUDSON HOUSE, keep reading . . .
HUDSON HOUSE
by J.T. Warren
PART ONE---1984
The boys stood together at the end of the gravel driveway with their jackets flapping in the October breeze and the sun setting behind them. Tommy Pomeroy snorted and spat a clump of yellow phlegm onto a patch of crab grass. Eric Hunter and Ed Forlure turned from the looming house, glanced at the spit. They didn't say anything---the spit summed it all up.
Eric stepped forward, actually onto the driveway. Tommy snorted behind him and spat again. Eric knew what that meant: Hurry up.
Brushstrokes of sunlight painted the front of the house in orange and red; a crimson blade streaked across the second floor windows like a bleeding gash. Those windows were the house's dead eyes and the porch its rancid mouth, the four pillars its rotting teeth. To go up the front steps onto the porch was to walk onto its tongue and smell its moldy wood breath, to enter the front door . . .
"Are you fagging out?" Tommy asked.
Eric's mother said Tommy was a smooth-talker, but sometimes Tommy's voice made Eric cringe; it was like when his brother Steve called him "a little shit." Eric shook his head.
"Then go," Tommy said.
His feet did not want to. If the house were a monster then the two third-floor windows that protruded from the roof were extra eyes that grew from the house's forehead like tumors. Sometimes things moved in those windows. Sometimes things swayed back and forth.
A girl had hanged herself up there. She used a few of her father's neckties twirled together, wrapped one end around a roof support beam and the other around her neck. Her father didn't even know it happened until late that night when the knot broke and her body dropped to the floor. People said she did it because the house made her do it.
Eric took another step toward the house and Tommy applauded. "This is really exciting, Eric," he said. "Great show, buddy."
Eric bit his lip and continued walking. He heard his mother's warning: Stay away from Hudson House, Eric. Don't go near it. It isn't safe.
A sheet of wood covered the first-floor window as did sheets for the second-floor windows and, presumably, the ones on the side and in back---but not the windows on the third floor, the ones that stretched out of the roof like frog's eyes. The gravel driveway petered out into the overgrown lawn. From the driveway, a slate walkway led out into the yard and then turned at a right angle toward the porch steps. The other houses in the neighborhood were not like this; most houses had garages behind them or attached, and if there was a walkway to the porch, it started at the sidewalk.
Eric paused at the edge of the slate path. Evergreen trees lined both sides of the property continuing behind the house, completely blocking the neighbors. A maple tree towered in the front yard like a giant sentry. Its gnarly arms swayed and orange leaves wafted down.
A serial killer had lived here. Hox Grent. Years ago, he terrorized the neighborhood, stealing kids, dragging them back here and slaughtering them. Most of the bodies were never found, only occasional pieces.
Eric stepped onto the slate walkway. Blades of grass stuck out of jagged cracks like the fingers of people buried alive who had managed to break the surface before choking to death on dirt. Somewhere a dog barked; it sounded like a warning.
"Wait."
Eric had been holding his breath and now released it. Ed ran up the driveway and stopped next to him. He held out a flashlight. "Here."
"I don't want to do this," Eric said.
For a moment it seemed that Ed might respond, perhaps offer some encouraging words or even tell him not to go through with it. Instead, Ed nudged him with the flashlight until Eric took it and then Ed ran back to the sidewalk. Eric hadn't brought his own flashlight because part of him hadn't accepted he'd be in this position; the other part of him knew that a flashlight wouldn't protect him anyhow. Despite that, the weight of the two D-batteries inside the plastic casing reassured him. He turned it on.
"Any day," Tommy said.
The front steps sagged in the middle like they were made out of cardboard and the color ranged from white on the edges of the steps to dry, peeling tan in the middle where thousands of footfalls had fallen before him. And of those people, how many had stepped here for the last time? How many times had Hox Grent's feet scuffed these steps?
Strong wind beat around the house and made it groan in a million places like the joints in an old man's body. Perhaps the house was waking up. Maybe the girl was upstairs, too, swinging. Maybe she'd come down and say hello.
Eric's skin prickled with freezing gooseflesh. He stopped at the foot of the steps. The house had probably been white or tan but it now radiated in splashes of red, yellow, and orange. The colors swirled across the wood like drops of paint in a bowl of water. Heavy gashes in the screen door made it sag like a limp body about to fall over dead. Someone had spray painted an upside-down star on the storm door behind the screen. Why were the windows boarded and not the door?
It won't be open. There's no way it'll be open. And then we can all go home. He'd sleep with his Ghostbusters nightlight on---he would not tell that to Tommy.
"If you don't get in the house before dark, it doesn't count," Tommy yelled.
He was making this up as they went along. In any trio of friends, there's always a leader and theirs was Tommy. He was probably hoping for a really good laugh, one that would make him fall down with cramps in his sides and tears bursting from his eyes. For that to happen, someone usually had to get hurt. Eric would have to play his part for Tommy's amusement and then they could get back to playing with action figures.
"This isn't so bad," Eric whispered.
The first step squeaked beneath his foot. Shadows from the fractured spindles in the porch railing stretched up the house like mangled fangs.
The moan of the next step screamed for Eric to run back to the sidewalk and beg Tommy not to do this to him. Tommy would only send him back to the house and up the steps again.
Eric took the next two steps rapidly and stood on the porch with the backs of his sneakers hanging off. If he fell backwards, he'd descend into endless darkness. He would fall forever or maybe into hell.
He shivered, rubbed the sleeves of his jacket. He immediately felt stupid. It wasn't the middle of January. He was being a baby about this. He just had to enter the house, grab something, and leave. Yes, it was stupid, pointless even, but that didn't mean he shouldn't have the guts to do it.
He stepped toward the door. A fist-sized hole lay between him and the door like someone had dropped a heavy rock through the wood. Or something had tried to break free from beneath. Inside the hole, light glinted off the cat-shaped eye of a troll.
He stumbled back a few steps to the edge of the porch again---fall off into the darkness---and stopped. There hadn't been a troll or anything else demonic. He had caught the reflection of a beer can left by a teenager; that was all.
The flashlight beam focused on the curved metal handle of the screen door and Eric went to it. He was mindful to spread his legs wide over the hole without looking at it. Then he was at the door and all out of space.
The screen door handle froze his fingers. The door opened with a squeal. Eric's heart thudded into his throat and his hands numbed; undigested hotdog from lunch roiled in his stomach. He wanted to vomit and cry and run away and never look at this house again but he knew he couldn't do that---running away would label him a coward forever and, even worse, he'd have to admit it was true.
The screen door bounced off his shoulder when he reached for the knob of the storm door. The spray-painted star (a "pentagram," it was called) grew larger, stretching across the door in all directions to become a mammoth star, the upside-down legs now gnarled horns. A face emerged inside the star. Eyes blinked open. Eric closed his own. Just my imagination. He opened his eyes---the image was a spray-painted star once more.
He grabbed the doorknob and turned---be locked, please be locked---and the bolt slipped easily back into the door. He instructed his arm to push forward but it refused. He had gone this far and yet his body wouldn't allow him to go the next few steps needed to prove his bravery.
"Sun's almost gone," Tommy yelled.
The quicker he did this, the quicker he could be back in his room, away from this house. He willed his arm forward again and this time the muscles cooperated to nudge the door open a sliver with a sucking ooofff sound---the sound of a sealed coffin breaking wide. Stale air teased his nostrils; it reminded Eric of the way the boxes of Christmas supplies smelled every year when his father brought them down from the attic.
When the door opened all the way with a faint rusted squeak, red sunlight broke through the opening and turned the floating motes of dust into levitating drops of blood.
Eric gripped the flashlight with both hands and scanned for something to grab; anything would do, anything to appease Tommy. To his right, just past a boarded window, a staircase ascended half a dozen steps to a landing and more stairs continued upward at a right angle. He would never go upstairs. No matter what Tommy might call him or how he might threaten him, Eric wasn't going to search the second floor---that was one floor closer to the dead girl.
Just find something and grab it.
Straight ahead, a narrow hallway ended at a shut door that led, presumably, into a room, maybe the kitchen. To his left lay a large empty room which Eric could only partially see because of the jutting wall. The stale smell floated all around him like invisible mold.
Somewhere something creaked like a really large finger cracking its knuckle. Nowhere did Eric see anything he could grab as proof of his visit to Hudson House.
The floor moaned beneath Eric's next step and he paused. He glanced at the stairs and then up, to the ceiling. Was she swinging up there now or lying on the floor? The hair on the back of his neck stood up as a cold chill coursed over his body.
Eric turned his back on the stairs and entered the large room. He immediately knew something was behind him; it had jumped toward him the moment he moved. Right now it stood in the crimson sunlight, hulking over him with blood-soaked arms from wrists that never stopped bleeding, a makeshift noose of ties slung around its neck.
Eric swung the flashlight behind him. The thing had moved back into the shadows where his light could not reach.
A pair of boarded windows divided the far wall of the room. Flakes of paint had peeled off of the wall in large strips like claw marks. Eric imagined the girl in a panic ripping at the wall, tearing at it until her fingertips bled, desperate to scrape her way out of the house that had become her eternal residence. Those same mutilated fingers could seize his neck and break his spine the way the noose of ties had broken hers.
Another boarded window---the front window---was to Eric's left and a large opening into another boxy room was to the right. Three more windows sectioned the walls in that room in a mirror image of this one. Eric had expected old, moldy furniture with decades of spider webs sagging across them. He had at least imagined there would be beer cans and fast food wrappers from teenagers strewn across the place, but he found three completely empty rooms. The musty smell faded and intensified in waves.
The floor moaned with each step and Eric paused after every cry. He kept the flashlight steady while squeezing his other hand into a painfully tight fist that started to numb.
He stopped in the middle of the room and carefully scanned the floor as far into the next room as he could. Bare floors in bare rooms in a bare house. Should he keep searching? He faced the next room. The sunlight was fading rapidly from the front door like a retreating dream.
He could leave the house now, run out slamming the door before the thing leaped onto his back and dragged him even deeper inside. He'd tell Tommy that he searched and scoured but couldn't find anything to grab but that didn't matter since he and Ed had seen him enter the house. Tommy would smile that stupid, proud grin and call Eric a fag.
He passed through the archway between the rooms to the back of the house. The sunlight did not reach this far---maybe it had vanished for the night. To escape, he would have to run back through the last room, turn into the foyer, go out the front door and down the porch steps. And do it with a plastic flashlight.
The floor in this room groaned more loudly and the wood felt softer, weaker. His feet told his brain that the floor had thinned out here like ice and that he needed to tread lightly or he might fall through into the basement. The monster waited down there. The thing of hair and teeth.
That's where Hox took his victims. He tortured them in the basement and then fed them to some hideous beast. Some kids said there was no beast, just some starved dogs, but it amounted to the same: whomever Hox took was never seen again.
With the next step, the floor dipped. He stopped, waited for the wood to splinter and break. Every second he remained in place increased the odds that the floor wouldn't hold but the fear of taking another step, onto an even thinner patch, kept him still.
A closed door stood to his right. He turned toward it, started to take a step, paused. The floor whined. He would walk to the door, push it and see what happened. If something did happen, he'd bolt out of the house as quickly as he could. If the opening of the door showed him merely another barren room, Eric would examine it. Then he'd find his way out. He would not look upstairs---homo coward forever or not, he was not going to climb those steps.
He reached toward the door and did not like how his hand shook and blurred in the light. The wood was moist. He pushed on it and his fingers sank into the door like they would into dough or soggy cardboard. His fingers sank deeper. It's got me. The door would suck him in, absorb him, and keep him forever.
The door pushed into the next room and his fingers slipped on the surface with a wet squeak. Streaks of blood stretched back from his fingers across the door. The tips had been torn open, the nails ripped out. Blood poured over his hand and splattered on the floor between his feet.
He started to scream but silenced it after only a brief yelp; his fingers had returned to normal. His mind playing tricks on him. Or something else playing tricks.
Eric swallowed; his throat felt incredibly dry like he had swallowed a handful of dirt. A slight push swung the door a few inches forward before it swung back just past the door frame and then settled in place. If he kicked the door hard, it would swing wide into the other room and then swing back just as wide into this room. At least that promised easy escape.
He pushed the door open slowly until the hinge stopped yawning and the door could go no further.
Two boarded windows hung above a sink set in the middle of the kitchen counter. In front of the sink stood a woman with long, brown hair, her back to Eric.

