At the End of the Road

by Grant Jerkins

  “Ain’t trying to trick nobody, Patrick. Just saying, he ain’t but a little kid. You don’t need that long knife to hold no little kid. I ain’t trying to stop you. You can take him.”

  “You’re goddamn right I—”

  The popping sound, the little mini-explosion, came from the back of the cave. They all looked and Wade was standing there with a candle in one hand and a spoke gun in the other. Then Patrick was screaming. There was a tiny hole punched in his right cheek. No blood, just a little black hole from the BB or pebble or whatever Wade had packed into the spoke gun. Patrick let go of Kyle and dropped the machete, both of his hands going to his face, covering it. Then they saw that the blood did begin to flow, trickling from under his palms. Patrick made a chewing motion with his mouth, then spit something onto the ground. It was a BB.

  Jason had already grabbed an armload of the bloodweed javelins. He broke one in half and rubbed the milky crimson sap under his eye like Indian war paint. Then he started throwing them, sending them out like fighter planes. One pierced Scotty’s chest, a bloom of blood unfurling on his Judas Priest T-shirt. Joel was already gone. Patrick was right behind him, running, hand covering his cheek. Scotty paused long enough to break the bloodweed across his knee and shoot them the bird, then turned and kept running.

  Kyle was dazed. Not because of what had happened, but because his brothers had defended him.

  AFTER INSPECTING THE ROAD AND FIND-

  ing no trace of the injured woman or her overturned car, Kyle pedaled back to the house, still careful of his Sunday clothes.

  Nobody liked going to church. It was Mama mostly who made them do it, and she seemed to like it least of all. It was hard on her to get all of the kids up and cleaned and dressed and fed. And on top of that, get a pork roast in the oven so it could cook slow and be ready when they got back home. Daddy never helped her; he just stayed down in the basement a lot, working on projects Kyle never saw the fruits of.

  All the boys hated the clothes they had to wear. The shiny black shoes were stiff and pinched your feet. The button-down shirts were scratchy against their skin, and the polyester suit jackets smothered them. And the knotted ties (Kyle’s was a clip-on) choked them so that it seemed like drawing a breath was a struggle and their heads felt hot and puffy from the circulation being slowed down. It was awful.

  They would all line up and file into Daddy’s car, Mama standing there like an attendant, wetting her thumb with spit to rub off any grease or dirt they had managed to get on their faces since getting dressed. Nobody ever spoke in the car on the ride to church. Kyle guessed they were all too busy trying to draw a breath and unpinch their toes.

  Sunday School was first—even for Mama and Daddy. The kids were split up based on their age and there was a men’s group and a women’s group for the parents. Sunday School wasn’t too bad. The teacher would let them cut up some, and she told them some of the more interesting stories from the Bible—like Noah and the great flood, how Jesus rose zombie-like from the dead, and stuff about lepers whose noses and arms would just rot off and people killing each other with rocks. Just the good stuff.

  The church service was another matter. It never lasted less than two hours. Two hours was two weeks in kid-time. The congregation would sort of wander in like dazed disaster victims while an old lady played spooky music on the organ. The organ lady had white hair done up in a perm and a henna rinse that made it look white and purple at the same time. The Edwardses would all sit together on one of the long wooden pews. The pews seemed to have been built of the hardest wood available, and constructed so that no matter how you fidgeted, you couldn’t find a comfortable spot. And fidget Kyle did, because there was nothing else he could do. He had to sit there for two hours in clothes that poked and grabbed and scratched him, perched on a bench that tormented his backside, and listen to Preacher Seevers yell and scream and sometimes even speak in tongues.

  It was funny, because Preacher Seevers always started his sermons in the most reasonable and calm tone of voice. He would talk to them like they were all sitting down to supper and he was just telling them a story to pass the time. The story always seemed to be about a man who had gotten off on the wrong path. Sometimes he was a man who struggled to do good, but made a bad decision. Usually, it was TEMPTATION that had caused the man to take a drink, or lay out from church. Or steal money, or lust after his friend’s wife. TEMPTATION could cause a man to do any number of vile and evil things. And God always—always—punished those who gave in to TEMPTATION.

  By the time Preacher Seevers got to whatever it was that was tempting the man, that was when his voice took on a tone of urgency. That was when a light sheen of sweat would gloss his forehead and his gestures at the podium would become broader and more animated. By the time the man in the story was wallowing in whatever sin TEMPTATION had led him into, Preacher Seevers would be screaming at them, the calm friendly man who had started the sermon was long gone, and in a voice of full-fledged rage, Preacher Seevers told them just exactly how hot the fires of hell would be, how that fire would first blister and then char their flesh, and how it would burn for an eternity.

  The sweat would pour down his face and he would try to stem the flow with his white handkerchief, but it was a losing battle. Engorged veins coursed along his temples, pulsating and standing out in purplish stark contrast to his red, apoplectic face. And spittle would fly from his mouth as he screamed his warnings of damnation at them. Kyle remembered one time when a long cord of saliva flew from the man’s mouth, caught on his pointy chin, and then hung from his chin to the tight knot of his tie, and wavered there for a good thirty minutes, just swaying and dangling with his bobbing head, and Kyle just wished like hell that he would wipe it off, but he never did. Finally, it detached from his chin and tumbled down his tie like a Slinky.

  About once every month or so, Preacher Seevers would speak in tongues. This was pretty scary. It completely unnerved Kyle, so God only knew how it must have affected a little kid like Grace. The sermon would follow the usual pattern: friendly banter, gradually growing sterner, the appearance of TEMPTATION, leading into yelling and bulging veins and flying slobber. Kyle could usually tell when the man was going to take it all the way and speak in tongues. It had something to do with the slobber. There was less of it.

  Instead of flying around in great long ropes, the slobber would gather at the corners of Preacher Seevers mouth in tight, hard, little white pellets. That was the telltale sign. Then all the red in his face would sort of drain to a spot high up on his forehead, and his eyes would roll up in his head. His words would get real quiet, and Kyle could tell he had gone into a kind of trance, and Preacher Seevers wasn’t really there anymore. He would start talking in a kind of mumble, but real fast. Kyle couldn’t understand it. And the way the man’s eyes were set back in his head, all you could see was an opaque milky white. It didn’t last but about thirty seconds, then he would fall down to his knees and come back to himself. That usually ended the sermon, because Kyle could tell he was real tired after all that. It took something out of him.

  Sometimes the sermon would end with witnessing. Preacher Seevers would whip everybody into a frenzy and he would call for witnesses. If you felt the Holy Spirit in you, if the Holy Spirit had entered you and taken you over, you were supposed to walk to the front of the church and Preacher Seevers would anoint your head with oil. The preacher would call to the congregation, “Come on up, if you feel it. If you feel The Lord in your heart! Do you feel Him? Has He entered you? Then rejoice! I feel Him. He’s here with us right now. Is He in you? If He’s in you, then come forward. Witness for The Lord. Witness for The Lord!”

  And folks would start drifting up. To Kyle, they looked like they were in some kind of trance, like they had been charmed. They kind of lumbered real slow to the front, like they were wading through waist-high water. They held their arms and legs stiff, and looked off into the distance, their eyes out of focus like robots or zombies. He reckoned The Lor
d really had entered them and taken them over. When they got to the front, Preacher Seevers would dunk his thumb in a little metal pot of oil, and smear their foreheads, vicious like. And when he did that, they would fall to their knees, and after a minute they would get back up and walk back to their seats, like they were normal people again.

  Neither Mama nor Daddy ever got up and witnessed. Kyle wanted to know what those people were feeling that would make them act like that. It was like they were not themselves, but that another force had taken over their bodies and made them walk to the front. It looked to him like they had no choice in the matter. Even though he was scared, sometimes Kyle wished The Lord would enter him and make his body walk to the front and get anointed, but He never did. Sometimes Kyle thought about just pretending like he had been taken over, but he never got up enough nerve to do that either.

  His favorite part of church, the only part that he truly enjoyed, was the baptism ceremonies. There was a baptism chamber built into the wall up behind the pulpit, and it was hidden behind long curtains. It would be real quiet in the church except for the purple-haired lady playing that spook-show organ music real low. Kyle guessed someone signaled her somehow, and right after the low organ chords stopped, the curtains hiding the baptism chamber would sweep open, and there Preacher Seevers would be, wearing a purple robe and standing waist-deep in clear water. The bottom half of the retaining wall was plate glass, so you could see him standing in the water. It was just like looking at an aquarium built into a wall. After a minute, the organ music would start back up real low and the first person would step down the tile steps and wade over to Preacher Seevers. They would always be wearing a purple robe too.

  “Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein ye stand; By which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory what I preached unto you, unless ye have believed in vain. For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures. Do you accept Jesus Christ into your heart as the Son of God, and as your own personal savior?”

  “I do.”

  Lots of times Preacher Seevers would pinch the person’s nose shut for them, then kind of cradle the back of their head, and dunk them in the water good and deep. It looked like a lot of fun to Kyle, and he wanted very much to be baptized. He never was though. His Mama and Daddy were divorced before he was old enough to say that Jesus Christ was his personal savior and really believe it in his heart.

  AFTER CHURCH, THE EDWARDS FAMILY

  went home for a Sunday supper that served as lunch and dinner. For some reason, food never did taste right on Sundays. It never tasted as good as it did the other days of the week. Even when they had leftovers the next day—the exact same food seemed to have more flavor. On Sundays, it tasted flat. Maybe it was because Mama wouldn’t let them change clothes until after they ate. That Sunday in July, the day after Kyle made the woman wreck her car, Mama had made a pork roast, some greens, creamed corn with fried okra, corn bread, and banana pudding for dessert.

  They were all sitting at the redwood picnic table (it was actually plywood painted to look like redwood) eating their supper. Mama put a vinyl tablecloth over it on Sundays. There was a knock at the front door, and Daddy looked at Mama. Mama got up to go see who it was. All the children turned to watch—they could see the front door from the kitchen eating area.

  They all saw that it was a colored lady in a policeman’s uniform. Mama talked to her for a minute but didn’t let her inside. Kyle knew exactly what the woman wanted. She was coming for him, and in a minute his mama would open the door wide and turn and point back at Kyle and say, “That’s him right there. He’s the one you want. He killed that woman.”

  But Mama didn’t let the woman in. Kyle saw her looking past Mama, looking at all of them sitting there eating. The woman’s eyes caught Kyle’s eyes, and he looked away immediately. But it wasn’t fast enough. In that split second when their eyes met, it felt to Kyle like they communicated with each other. It felt like he could hear her voice in his head, and her voice said, “You did it. I know you’re the one who did it. I can see right through you.” And Kyle felt like she could hear his voice in her head, and his voice said to her, “Yes, ma’am, it was me. I did it. I killed that woman. It was me. And I know you have to take me away, and I understand. I don’t hold it against you.”

  The police lady handed Mama a picture. Kyle couldn’t see the picture, but he didn’t need to. Mama studied it for a minute, then handed it back and shook her head. Then the woman asked Mama another question. Mama turned back to all of them and said, “Boyd, do you ever remember anybody getting in a wreck up on the road?”

  Daddy didn’t look up from his dinner, just shook his head.

  Mama closed the door and sat back down. Daddy raised his eyebrows at her. “They’re looking for a girl went missing. Lived right up yonder off of Lee Road. Right pretty girl too.”

  Daddy got up from the table and went to the front window. He parted the curtain a little bit and watched the police lady leave.

  NOW SHE TRULY WAS THE RETICULATED

  woman.

  Her mind hadn’t cracked, but rather it had expanded into a fibrous network that had to be traversed slowly—lest she fell from the safety of her brain’s webbing into one of the empty spaces. She knew that if she fell, fell in her mind, all would be lost. She would be lost. So when she did dare to think coherent thoughts, she was careful to keep her balance while on the relative safety of the interconnected strands of sanity, and not peer into the empty places where the webbing dropped away.

  The empty places of her reticulated mind were dark. They held memories. Memories of what the monster had done to her. If she looked, she would remember. And she would slip inside, never to return.

  Today, she was allowing herself a certain level of conscious thought. And by “today” she meant period of wakefulness. In the course of twenty-four hours, she would experience multiple episodes of wakefulness that she considered days—although she had been here only two actual days. So today, during this segment, she was allowing her mind a level of clarity that she typically deemed too dangerous to allow herself to experience.

  The problem with clarity and coherent thought was that they made it impossible to ignore the pain in her body. She had been operating at about 50 percent coherency, and that level allowed her to peer from her eyes like someone squinting through a peephole in a door—the door protecting the person from whatever might be on the other side. But today, this period of wakefulness, the reticulated woman allowed herself to operate at about 80 percent coherency. This would allow her to not only inspect her surroundings, but to draw implications. The problem, the drawback of conducting herself at this level, was that the pain in her body could no longer be blocked out. It wasn’t that the pain was not endurable, but that because of the nature of it, because of the series of memories it might unleash, the pain might push her off the webbing and back into one of the dark chasms.

  Her woman parts. A steady, deep throb. And the crusty, itchy sensation of dried blood. And her throat. The constant burning. The intense fire that churned there. If these things were felt, then her mind could not help but to reflect back on the cause of these injuries. And the cause was there for her to examine if she so chose, but the memory of it was stored outside of the safe network of rational thought, in the empty spaces between. Where the monster lived.

  It was dark up here. She only sensed “up.” She had no empirical knowledge to base that on, but, nonetheless, she felt that she was “up here.” And now, with this level of clarity she was allowing herself, she had an insight. When the monster came, it came from below. Sound. The sound of it approaching told her this. She had made an inference, and that was a higher brain function. And with that, her brain grew less fragmented. A small segment of the web fused together, and her
brain grew a tiny bit more complete, more whole.

  A chain was cuffed to her left ankle. The chain was anchored to a smooth metal pole. She thought of the pole as home. And a few feet out from the pole, two metal bowls were bolted to the wood floor. Immovable. She lapped food and water from them. There was nothing else in her world, only darkness, so the one object in the center of that would quite naturally become her base, her home.

  Today, she ventured out from the pole. Explored. Tentatively at first, careful to feel and sense with her still damaged fingertips for danger. But nothing was there. She extended herself from the pole as far as the chain would allow. She completed a 360-degree circuit, but nothing was there, so she retreated back to her pole. Then she crawled forward again. She lay on her belly (mindful of the sharp uptake in the internal throbbing when she exerted herself this way). From this supine position, she reached out, but still felt only nothingness. She stretched her body outward, every joint and sinew extending to its limits, the shackle biting thoughtlessly into her ankle, and her straining fingers felt something. She felt a surface of some kind. A wall? She decided to call it a wall. It was cool and slick. Her outstretched fingers could just glance it. She had no fingernails, and her fingertips were exceptionally painful from whatever had happened to them, exquisitely sensitive. If she surged forward, she could gain perhaps an eighth of an inch to her reach. When she did this, the wall made a sound. A tiny crinkle sound. Like plastic. If she had her fingernails, she would be able to feel and sense so much more.

  After careful exploration, she discovered three such places where she could touch the wall. In the last of these places, there was something different about the wall. She could feel a flaw. A vertical edge. A seam. Yes, a seam. All of the stretching had loosened her body somewhat, and where she had at first been able to only feel the wall in scratching glances of her fingertips, she could now maintain light contact with the very tips of her nailless, sensitive fingers. So she rested her finger at the seam. It made a light scratching sound when she flicked it. And there was a sensation that the seam lifted a bit when she did this. She felt certain that when (or if) her fingernails grew back or the pain receded, she could begin to pry the seam apart.