by Troy McCombs
John reached down for another go. He didn't even make physical contact with him before Ben said, very calmly, "John. John, it's okay. I'm not going to get this illness removed from my body. You're not going to do something that's not supposed to be in the cards. I want this."
John knelt back down. He looked surprised. "Your death isn't in the cards. And you don't want this. I know you're thick-headed, but if you just—"
Ben stopped him. "You can't fix everything. You should know that by now, you more than anybody. I was meant to die of cancer just as you were meant to be psychic. I don't know if you know this, but I knew I had cancer for a while. I could have probably gotten cured, but I never wanted to be here. Don't you get that? I do not belong here. I'm a peg that doesn't fit in the board. It's a mistake, my coming into the world."
John flashed back to little Sarah Pouster dangling from a rope, the horrible I'm a Freak sign tucked into her collar.
Now, Ben was pulling the same heartbreaking stunt. How could John live with himself watching his best friend basically taking his own life without doing anything to intervene? Especially when he had the power to help him, save his life—the most precious thing in any dimension.
"Ben—" John went to protest.
Ben held up a hand. Smiled. "I'm okay with it, my friend. This is what I choose. This is my choice, not yours. I know you care about me. I know you want to pluck the cancer from my lungs. But dying is a part of life."
Rollings teared up. "No! Not when it can be fixed. That's crazy talk!"
"Crazy, John, is holding onto things we eventually lose later, no matter what. Crazy is blaming yourself for things you didn't mean to do or had no intention of doing. I intend to die. You intend to stop me. But this is my body, my lungs, my life."
"You're fuckin' crazy! You want to kill yourself. This is no different than slitting your wrists. Ben, please, I swear to you—"
"Come on, I'm no scholar. I'm no rocket scientist. I'm no preacher."
"You're Ben Krambers! The best friend I've ever had. How would you feel if I was in your shoes?"
"How'd you feel if you woke up every day and regretted it? You hated yourself, your whole world, and didn't have a reason why?"
"Then you can get psychological help. But don't take the easy way out, Ben. Don't throw in the towel because you're depressed."
"I'm not anymore. Strangely, it seemed like the worse my cancer got, the better I felt emotionally. Spiritually. I felt so close to God when I first coughed up blood, like he was telling me 'I'm here, I do exist'. I prayed to God my whole life, John. I know you don't know that, but I did. And do you know what I asked him every time?"
John shook his head, held his friend's hand.
"I asked him to end the pain. To stop me from hurting. He's doing that now. I can see everything so clearly."
"Please, I beg you, man, just come with me to the Mayberry House. Please. I swear that we—"
"Not we, John. You. This is about you, not me. And instead of swearing on your mother's soul, how about you swear this one thing to me before I die..." Ben sat up and coughed horribly. Blood shot from his mouth. Despite the physical pain he was in, the smile never left his face.
"What is it?" John wiped away tears from his eyes.
"Swear to me that from today and 'till the end of your life, you will stop doing this—" Ben grabbed both of John's hands and clutched them very tightly. His fragile body twitched, jerked, then regained composure. His breathing was now shallow; his stomach heaved, stopped, contracted, heaved, and stopped. He was in the process of dying.
Still, Ben finished. "And start doing a lot more of this—" He suddenly let go of John's hands, fell back against the pillow, his stomach neither heaving nor contracting. His body went limp. Lifeless. Ben was gone. John wanted to wake him up, drag him to D'kourikai, and throw away the Wolfs bane in order to save him. It would never happen. It was simply too late.
He looked down at the young man he'd spent so much time with, recalling every experience he'd shared with him. He remembered throwing water balloons at him, hitting on girls with him, kayaking at Tappan Lake with him. He saw Ben smiling in the forefront of his mind and the way he used to sometimes snort when he laughed. Now his body had no remaining soul in it, just a shell without any goods. He would never get to eat his favorite meal again or meet a nice woman and get married. He didn't just die; he died prematurely, barely over twenty-eight. He had left no legacy, and had never gotten the chance to begin one. He never would.
His eyes were still open, looking skyward, his mouth partly open, a small grin still visible. John could not look away. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Sorrow was eating him from the inside. He wanted to wake Ben and tell him that everything would be okay by morning. But Ben was already on his way into God's selfish hands.
Slowly, effortlessly, a smile manifested on John's face as he thought about his friend's last words, his final piece of advice to a hopeless psychic. You have to learn how to let go was his message, a bit of wisdom that didn’t pertain to Rollings. The thought of the small sentence hurt him worse...
…And began to heal the scarred tissue of his heart. His smile expanded. The tears fell faster, more persistently. Snot ran from his nose. His cries turned into wails, but the pain turned into relief.
"I hear you, Ben, wherever you are. I know what you're saying, and you're right. I have a really hard time moving on. It's never been in my nature. I always thought that by my being a psychic, I could mend the world. But I'm not Jesus or Buddha or Gandhi. Maybe that's been my downfall all along. I have to do the best with what I've got. And if it doesn't work, I should not look back at my mistakes. I can't win 'em all."
Letting out a long sigh, John wiped away his last remaining tears and covered Ben with the blanket. Afterward, he walked to the door and stopped, wanting to look back. He did so one last time. "I'll just say I'll see you later, my friend. Be in peace in heaven."
With that, he left the room.
He phoned the coroner of his friend's passing as soon as he got downstairs, then relaxed on the sofa, staring blindly at the TV. No negative thoughts wrecked his mind. He actually felt at peace with himself.
Chapter 15
They arrived five minutes later. An ambulance and police cruiser pulled up to the curb right outside. John met two stout, lightly-dressed gentlemen at the door, who were equipped with a stretcher.
"He's upstairs. Straight at the end of the hall."
They rushed past him, anxious to get the job done pronto. The cop, a sloppily overweight behemoth whose buttoned-shirt looked like it was going to burst, approached afterward. John stepped onto the porch to answer his questions.
Inquisitive neighbors looked out their windows or doors to see what was going on. Flashing police cruiser lights and the rumbling sound of the ambulance's diesel were drawing much unwanted attention.
"He died of cancer. I don't know how long he's had it. He didn't really tell me."
"Do you know the time of his departure, Mr. Rollings?" The officer's breath reeked of coffee.
John looked at his friend's cell phone. "Must've been shy of twenty minutes. I'd say around 6:47."
"Okay." The officer wrote something down on a notepad. "Thank you. Oh, here they come now." He looked over John's shoulder. John looked back and moved aside to give the two EMTs space as they carried Ben's body through the living room and out the door, toward the ambulance.
"Do you need any more info?" John asked the cop.
"No, I think that will be all. Sorry for your loss." The cop offered him a grievous smile and walked back to his cruiser.
John watched the two coroners lift the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The body beneath the sheet shifted with the rocky motion. This was farewell, a disconnection between friends. But, perhaps, from Rollings' standpoint, maybe this was a new way of looking at the complexities of human life.
***
Later that night, two towns away, Jennifer sat on her living room co
uch, her eyes were burning, dry and strained. She looked through different versions of dictionaries and thesauruses, searching for the long word that began with the letter S. She had been looking ever since she had arrived home after dropping John off seven hours ago. Her head felt heavy, drained of focus and unable to evaluate any more information. The words in the books became fuzzy, jumbled incoherently together. The English language was looking more like a foreign language. Jennifer had the notion for some time to throw the books across the room and go to bed. Study tomorrow when she was refreshed. But she refused to give up. She only had what? Forty more pages to skim through?
God, kill me now.
She glanced up at the clock hanging over the mantel. 3:12 A.M. She never stayed up this late—not since she was a child at a slumber party.
She made the decision to call it a night after two more pages in Webster's Dictionary. Her tired hands wanted to drop the fat text. Her body wanted to fall back into the cushions of the living room couch.
Forcing consciousness, she hammered forward. She had seen about every word in the English language starting with that single solitary letter, analyzed every meaning for a connection with individuality, and even had some choice possibilities written down.
She finished those last two pages, slid the books across the coffee table, and lay back on the sofa, drifting into the abyss of sleep almost instantly. She was too tired to go, to bed or to reach to turn off the lamp.
It ate at her, screamed into her ear to keep hunting. She felt close to the word, as if she'd just passed it by. Ignoring it, she rolled over on her side and wedged her face into a cushion. Something in her head kept saying one more page, one more page.
Her heart began to slow, and the real world started to recede away into nothingness.
I'm soooo tired.
One more page!!!
Sighing, Jennifer rolled around, reached for the closest thesaurus, and turned it to page 456. The first word was twelve letters long, started with an S, endorsed the relationship between one person, one goal, and almost eliminated the tiredness from her whole body. She knew she had found the right one. No doubt.
"I got it!" Her eyes widened and she looked up, enthusiastic. She could not wait to tell John tomorrow, but first, now, sleep was calling her name again. Her brain shut off seconds later.
***
John woke up the following morning, confused. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here. He was not lying on Ben's gross couch or in his own torched bed. He remembered very little about last night, save his tremendous loss.
Charlie Steera's gravelly male voice surprised him. "Hey, John, I just made some toast and eggs, if you want some. Get it while it's hot." He was standing in the doorway of the room, dressed in a blue, furry robe.
This room, a bedroom, was unfamiliar, spacious, clean, and felt somehow neglected, as if it had not been used in some time. The cream-colored walls supported framed photos of Charlie, his wife, and his family. A parted closet revealed some clothes hanging inside: all women’s clothes.
Rollings remembered. He had called the Sheriff after the coroner and officer had left, seeking out another place to stay. Temporarily, of course.
"Like I said last night, make yourself at home. You can stay as long as you like. I just gotta warn you though; I am a little eccentric as a roommate." He smiled and walked away, whistling.
For the first time in a while, John laid back and thought about his financial situation. He only had what little cash Ben had given him days ago. Fifty George Washingtons at most. His gift as a psychic was not looking good. It either didn't pay well enough or didn't pay at all. Steera had never mentioned a thing during this entire fiasco about money, which he needed to get back on his feet. All the Mayberry House was doing was killing him slowly, bleeding energy from every part of his being. Also, for how phenomenal this case was, neither it, nor he, was getting media coverage out of it. Media had not been there for days. The government would not allow them access. It seemed like they were just using him as their scout, anyway, to do the dirty work for them.
I have to say something to Steera, he told himself.
He got up, stretched, yawned, moseyed on out of the bedroom, and entered the living room.
It was spotless, in immaculate condition—much the opposite of Ben's house. The only odor here was that of bleach and lemon pledge. The magazines lying on the stand were stacked from biggest to smallest, neatly placed atop of each other, none slightly askew. The milky-white carpet had not one stain on it and had recently been vacuumed, as John could tell by the small tire marks. Every piece of furniture gleamed with a generous coating of Pledge. Nothing was out of place. All was in working order, the way a home was should be.
John walked past a couch, a TV, and then entered the also well-kept kitchen. The tile floors were still wet from a recent mop, and gleaming. Crisp beams of sunshine blazed in through a window above the sink, making everything metal—the silverware, the table legs, the cabinet knobs, the sink itself—sparkle. But it didn't last. Like usual, some looming, dark-gray clouds covered the sun. Dreariness was in today's forecast. Again.
Charlie was sitting at the table, eating eggs and reading an ad in the morning paper. He pointed to the stove, where plates were stacked with a variety of breakfast foods. "Help yourself."
John did. He put an egg, a piece of toast, and a piece of sausage on a nearby plate, and sat down with his acquaintance. There was already a fork on the table.
"Thanks, Charlie, I really appreciate this." John dug right in.
"Yeah. I don't get company very often. It's nice to have a familiar face stop by every so often."
John thought about the bed and the room he'd been sleeping in.
Did I see a dress in that closet?
"Oh, no. Was that Mary's room I was sleeping in? I'm sorry if I—"
Charlie held up a hand. "No, it's okay. I wasn't going to deny you access to shelter, and I figured you might be low on money, too. I can throw a few bucks your way."
"No, you don't have to. Really, I—"
"Shhh. It would be my pleasure. At least 'till you get back on your feet again."
John swallowed a wad of egg. "About that. Are we getting anything out of it? Since the government's now involved? I don't want to be doing this without some reward, y'know?"
Charlie folded the paper neatly and set it down. "We will. In time. More, if we solve the mystery and destroy that terrible house. I hate it. It needs to be blown up or something. No, you'll get your compensation, some from the state and some from private funding. Some of the families of the victims who've either had someone die there or seriously maimed are putting up their own rewards to whoever finds a way to empty the clearing of that house. Everyone in Bellsville wants it gone. It's a bad local omen.
"John, do you think it is possible? To destroy it? And whatever's in it?"
John looked him in the eyes. He did not really want to answer. He still didn't know, himself. "I will give it my heart and soul trying to. I may lose both in the process."
Charlie took a last sip of coffee, exhaled loudly, and stood, reaching for his keys on the counter. "Well, I gotta go and run a couple of errands. Do you need anything while I'm out? From the grocery?"
"Do you have any orange juice?"
Steera pointed to the fridge. Nodded.
"Then I guess no, I don't." John finished off his breakfast.
"The bathroom is down this hall on the left. Towels and rags under the sink, in case you want to shower."
"Hey, are you going to be around Pokin's while you're out?"
"Yeah, I gotta pay a bill at the City Hall. It's close. Why? You need some clothes or something?"
"If you front me some money, yeah, I would like to get a couple outfits. I've been wearing these scraggly clothes for, like, a year now."
"Grab your coat, or whatever, and we'll go. I'll warm up the car. I'll be out there waiting." Steera left the room, then the house.
John set
his dirty dishes in the sink. Afterward, he went back to his suite and put on his coat. Before he left, he reached into both his pockets and felt for two things: the Wolfs bane and Ben's cell phone. Only the former remained. He pulled it from its cavern and examined it, just to make sure it was still vital and alive. The petals looked as bright as they had the other day. But he knew he would need to get more from Jennifer soon, just to be safe. If he wanted a chance to fend off D'kourikai during his ordinary life, there was nothing he needed more than this sacred, life-saving vegetation.
The phone, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. He looked on every stand and dresser in the room but saw no sign of it. Had he forgotten it at Ben's? Had Charlie put it somewhere safe?
It didn't matter for the time being. He'd find it later. He wanted to escape the harsh reality of the world, the Mayberry House, and D'kourikai by doing something a little simpler and enjoyable: shopping.
***
He jumped into Steera's warm, comfortable SUV a moment later. He buckled up, slipped on a Beanie, and held his hands in front of the heater. Charlie looked over at him, his fat hands at ten and two.
"Is Pokin's the only place you need to go?”
"Do you happen to know where my cell phone is? Did you see me bring it with me when you picked me up last night? Or see me put it somewhere?"
"No, I don't recall. You can use mine, if you'd like."
John shook his head. "I don't need to call Jennifer right now, but I will need to get a hold of her soon. I need to get more Wolfs bane."
Charlie gave him a funny look. "Wolfs—? What the hell is that?"
"It's a small flower. It's what keeps It from tracking me. The one I have won't last me too much longer."
"We'll stop tomorrow. It's kinda bad out today to go all the way into Bellsville. Look at all the snow that's come down during the night."
John looked out through the windshield. The roads were slushy, and the curbs, sidewalks and residential yards covered with the white stuff. There was at least four inches in the shallow spots and about seven inches where it had accumalated.