by Clint Smith
He listened to Tom, a high school swimming coach. “My son,” the big gray man said, “told me if I didn’t quit drinking that he’d move in with his mother.” Tom’s wife, apparently, had left him several months before. She now lived in a different state with a different man.
He listened to Kenny, whose nickname was Fancy, discuss crack. Kenny was HIV-positive and at the clinic because a judge said so. He spoke frankly and eloquently about his affection for the drug, and delineated ratios and reactions between cocaine and baking soda with the precision of a chemist.
He listened to a booze-weepy widow named Gloria, who dabbed incessantly at her heavily mascara-lined eyes. She cried about everyone else’s story as much as she did her own.
These stories—these people, Deacon thought, couldn’t be more different from me. The rotation eventually made its way around to the young man.
“Please,” the program coordinator said. “It’s your turn to share.”
Deacon told his story—a vague patchwork of half-truths intended to evoke sympathy. He talked a little about his parents’ divorce, about his younger brother Paul moving away to pursue medical school. “I got into trouble a while ago,” he said when he sensed the people around him were growing uninterested in his bullshit. “There was an accident. My family suggested I come here, that I complete this program.”
“Do you think you need to be here, Deacon?” asked the woman with the white sneakers.
Deacon frowned, refolded his arms and scanned the room. “Drinking, for me, is . . . recreational. I admit, it’s bad to medicate yourself; but I think if I had my own place—”
Why don’t you talk about your mother?
Deacon’s eyes widened and his upper body stiffened. “What?” He began to scowl after no one responded. “Who said that?”
I did. Deacon saw, sitting directly opposite him, an ill-looking young man who presented a small mocking smile when Deacon leveled his gaze at him. Your mother is nearly a cripple, now. Why is she that way?
Deacon blinked a few times and leaned forward, trying to rein in focus, preparing to mentally square-off with this asshole.
After the sickly ashen young man lowered his hand he sat perfectly still. He had slick black hair, parted on one side. Bangs clung together in clumpy strands and hung over his brow. His skull was shaped funny. His skin was pale—white like a cadaver, Deacon thought, readying himself for some sort of hateful exchange. The guy was wearing a baby-blue flannel, an ink pen stuck out of the breast pocket of his shirt; his long thin fingers clutched his knobby kneecaps. Deacon inhaled, as if to say something, but was cut off.
Why does your mother spend most of her time in a wheel chair, Deacon?
Deacon’s heart wound up, but his anger was slowly replaced with fear. He realized that the person speaking to him was growing perceptibly paler, second by second. And that he was not a young man at all, nor a teenager; and he was not older. He was, somehow, no age.
Tell us a story, Deacon. Be honest with us.
Deacon’s chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing. “This . . .” he managed, “is a fucking waste of time.”
Some people in the circle glared or frowned. A few slid forward in their chairs.
The pale person, the sick thing, across from Deacon gave up a chuckle that quickly turned into a harsh, muddy sounding cough. Deacon watched him, it, regain some composure before smiling again—a botched incision framing two rows of uneven teeth, which, to Deacon, resembled jagged shards of tea-stained porcelain.
I assumed you’d do this. So allow me to tell a little story, yes?
Shifting in his chair, Deacon remained silent.
This is the story of Boy X. Boy X grew up in a small town not far from here. He grew up with his mother and father and little brother. Family X was happy for many years—there were vacations, snow days with snowmen, birthday parties, and Santa arrived each Christmas—but something happened when Boy X was a teenager. The father wanted to live with a stranger, another woman. Does any of this sound familiar? The mother and father, after months of Pyrrhic fighting, separated. On the day their father was packing suitcases, Boy X watched his little brother, crying, rush down the hall and grab hold of his father. ‘Why do you have to leave us?’ the little boy asked, again, and again. The father had said that he loved his sons, that he would always love his boys, but he had to make a hard decision that was impossible to explain.
A divorce followed shortly after. Boy X, unable to cope with the deterioration of his family, of what he’d come to know as normality, began drinking as anesthetization. Should I stop there?
Deacon wanted to say something ugly. But just then he caught sight of the pen sticking out of the thing’s breast pocket. The pen started bleeding, pooling along the pockets stitching. Black ink bloomed and spread down his shirt like tendrils of black ivy.
Boy X’s alcohol consumption grew increasingly excessive. Boy X’s little brother tried to warn him—tried to, as much as one can as a little boy, help his big brother.
But here’s what everyone really needs to know: One Saturday night in June—shortly after his high school graduation—Boy X acquired a bottle of whiskey, got into his car, and tore off into the country. Boy X lost control, ripping through a fence and slamming sideways into a tree. When police and paramedics arrived they found a barely lucid teenager behind the wheel, covered in broken glass, and an empty bottle on the floorboard.
Because Boy X was so young—and because he’d spent the entire weekend in the county jail—the judge ruled that the young man receive five years probation, a suspended license, and that he stay on, as he said it, the straight and narrow. Vowing to keep Boy X on that straight and narrow path, his mother, whom he still lived with, was resolute in keeping her son in school; she enrolled him in a local college, but because his license was suspended, she’d personally see to it that he go to class.
The ink was still spreading. Deacon was no longer listening, just watching the black liquid spill across the flannel material. Its skin continued to grow paler and was now nearly translucent—dark purple veins were visible under its diaphanous flesh. Deacon’s gaze panned up, to the thing’s livid face. Its nose began to bleed.
Boy X continued to drink, discovering that it wasn’t difficult to conceal from his mother. She was, in her way, doing the best she could. She made a sincere effort in making sure that Boy X successfully complete a semester of school. One morning in early December, Boy X’s mother came into his bedroom to wake him for class. He’d been out drinking the night before; he smelled of smoke and the acrid odor of alcohol. His mother, clearly hurt by her son’s irresponsibility, dragged him out of bed, began tossing clothes at him and demanded he gather his books and get into the car. Boy X stumbled into the driveway, into his mother’s automobile. She drove toward the city. Boy X, still vaguely intoxicated, said outrageously malicious things to her. She wept, begging to know where she’d gone so wrong. Christmas music was playing faintly on the radio as Boy X continued to raise his voice, excoriating his mother, blaming her.
It was the dump truck’s fault, of course; and his mother hadn’t even seen it coming. The truck slammed into the car, on the driver’s side. Both Boy X and his mother were taken to the hospital. And while Boy X would be treated for a concussion and superficial wounds, his mother would never be quite the same. The nerve roots of her spine had been severely damaged—she would suffer, indefinitely, from Cauda Equina syndrome, the doctors said; and if she weren’t completely crippled she would regain limited use of her legs slowly, painfully. She’d need assistance and therapy for the rest of her life. And the only thing she’d asked for after leaving the hospital—after the surgeries, after the beginnings of her comfortless recovery—was that Boy X get some help. But let’s not forget what’s important: that Boy X got his point across on that bleak December morning on the way to school. Do you like my tidy little story? Am I forgetting anything?
Frozen, choking back tears, Deacon stared at the thing�
�its upper lip was covered with blood, which continued to trickle from its nose, drip down its chin, and soak into the front of its shirt—and took a deep breath. Deacon watched its smile contort into an insane rictus grin.
“It wasn’t like that,” Deacon whispered through clenched teeth. His eyes looked watery, feverish. “You tell lies.”
“Deacon,” the program coordinator finally said, lifting the clipboard, recrossing her legs and affecting an expression of deep thought. “It takes a lot of courage, and a lot of trust, for people to share their thoughts and feelings inside the circle . . .”
Oh, what is she jabbering on about? She should have her mouth sewn up . . . just as the doctors sewed up your mother.
Deacon sprang from his chair and lunged across the circle. Tom, the swim coach, was the first to grab him, followed by several others who pulled him to the floor. Deacon, his vision tear-blurred, strained to catch sight of the thing across the circle. The chair was, of course, empty. Deacon started cursing, screaming for everyone to leave him alone.
3
The thing still had its hand on Deacon’s shoulder when he opened his eyes. The snow was still falling. The car alarm had stopped. He looked down at his glass, the amber whiskey, and the half-drunk bottle sitting on the sill.
“Why did Paul call tonight?” the thing asked.
Deacon thought about taking a drink and paused. His throat constricted slowly. He winced, choking back a surge that threatened to rack his body with waves of tears. Leaning forward, Deacon pressed his forehead against the frosted window. The cold calmed him, sobered his senses a little. The thing, whose grip had before been almost tender, now tightened on Deacon’s shoulder. “Speak, Deacon.”
He stared at the snow—at the random descent of white flecks sailing across streetlights and tree limbs and layering the ground. Like leaves, he thought, like autumn. Deacon thought about the sound of leaves chattering across the pavement at twilight. He remembered one Halloween, when he was eight years old, he’d convinced his father to take him to a haunted house—a cheap, small-town thing. Paul, mimicking his older brother’s excitement, wanted to be included too. Citing the boys’ age and delicate impressionability, Deacon’s mother had been reluctant. It’ll be harmless, his father said, wrapping an arm around his wife and kissing her on the cheek. It’ll be a guy thing.
The Stilwell family arrived at sunset. Deacon’s mother, still objecting, said she’d wait outside. As the line wound toward the entrance, Deacon listened to the screaming, the torture chamber noises, and concocted all sorts of horrors that might be in store. From time to time he’d glanced down behind him, at Paul—his small solemn face obscured by tall shadows.
They were several yards from the entrance when Deacon’s father laid a large hand on his shoulder and leaned over. “Don’t be afraid,” he’d whispered, “they can’t hurt you. No one’s allowed to touch you in there. It’s all just make-believe—just for fun, okay?” Deacon nodded. A few seconds before they stepped through the entrance, his dad said, “Watch after your brother.” Deacon peered down, held out his hand, and Paul took hold.
The cloying atmosphere inside—the lurching strobe lights; the sour smell of sweat and latex; disguised people looming over him, breathing heavily under their masks—had been too much, and Deacon kept his head down until it was all over. Eventually they exited through a thick black curtain, stepping into cool evening air. Deacon quickly spotted his mother, who’d been waiting on the leaf-littered sidewalk next to the parking lot. Her expression, as she approached, became pained, sympathetic. He followed his mother’s gaze down to Paul, who continued to grip Deacon’s hand while wiping away tears from his small, swollen face. Deacon had been too disoriented to notice. Shaking his head, Deacon’s father had immediately, and repeatedly, apologized to his sons and to their mother. I didn’t know it’d be that bad, he’d said. I’m sorry, boys. Deacon wanted to put some distance between himself and the awful noise that continued to spill from the building—noise that had seemed to grow louder, more discordant. He’d turned and started toward the parking lot, trying to yank free from his little brother, whose tiny hand clasped tighter.
The thing loosened its grip on Deacon’s shoulder.
Deacon, head pressed against the window, nodded.
“Speak, Deacon.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The thing, again, coughed or laughed, making a phlegm-ragged sound. “Do you know what to do?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Besides,” the thing said, its hand slipping off Deacon’s shoulder, “you would have been a piss-poor poet anyway.”
Deacon straightened up, grabbed the half-empty bottle, and whirled around. He caught an inky glimpse of something writhing, blending with the shadows, as he heaved the bottle across the darkened room. Glass shattered against the living room wall. Deacon reeled forward and fell, smashing through the coffee table. The orange-tinted ceiling swirled above him, and the smell of whiskey—which was trickling down the wall, bleeding into the carpet—permeated the tiny room. He got to his feet and scrambled for the hallway. His coat, still damp, was crumpled on the floor near the door. Tugging on his cap and yanking up his collar, Deacon half fell, half staggered down the stairwell. Soon he was outside, his frantic breathing visible in foggy bursts that trailed behind him as he weaved along the sidewalk—doubling back over a path he’d trampled only hours earlier. His footprints long erased by a sylphic blanket of unceasing snow.
Deacon walked for blocks, to the L station. He walked unevenly, pushing through the turnstiles, stomping up the fenced-in stairs. He made his way to the wood-planked platform, to the edge overlooking the black railway tracks. A silver train, its headlights twinkling through slanting snow, came to a stop in front of Deacon. The doors slid open and he stepped in. Deacon dozed as the train swayed, traveling south, toward downtown.
Deacon exited the train at a subway station, emerging on a street just west of the city. Walking a little steadier, he squinted against the snow and leaned into the wind, intent on the small hazy canopy of light a few hundred yards away.
Deacon, shaking snow from his coat, stepped into a run-down bus station. Long fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he approached the ticket counter.
Behind the smoke-smeared sheet of Plexiglas, a black-haired attendant, dressed in a blue shirt and red necktie, swiveled away from his computer and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, please,” Deacon said between sniffles. His cheeks were pink. “I want to go home.”
The attendant furrowed his brow and smirked, not unkindly. “Sure. Where’s home?”
Deacon swallowed. It was warm inside the bus station. “New Bethel.”
The attendant nodded once and typed something into the computer. “Closest I can get you is Indianapolis tomorrow morning.”
Deacon tugged off his knit hat. “Yes, thank you. I’ll wait.” He shuffled toward a bench and sank onto the seat. A short time later he was lying on his side, sleeping—knees tucked up, hands folded under his head. Christmas music droned through static-lashed speakers.
The Tell-Tale Offal
If you’re reading this then I’ll consider you a friend. My name is Wallace Crenshaw, and since you’re a friend, you can call me Wally. So, friend, my first confession: Owing to my craft, I have butchered and dismembered more animals than I can (or care to) count. Yet, with the exception of dropping a languidly struggling lobster into a stockpot of boiling water, and aside from the cookery and consumption, I’ve never taken honest responsibility for the food I’m utilizing. I’ve never undertaken accountability for killing. At best, I’ve been a middleman; at worst, an accomplice.
I could say this all started with fungicides, with cattle infected with some sort of unclassified virus or bacteria. (Lately I’ve been reading about contaminated cattle feed, virulent strains of E. coli outbreaks making people sick, killing them.) I could say this started with Lacey Raymond (who I’ll get to in a minute). But in truth
, this all started with Joe Moss.
I met Joe Moss about eight years ago when I was a line cook at Cobblestone Creek Country Club. I was twenty-six years old, just a bit older than Moss (because of the boot-camp parlance in the kitchen, most of us simply refer to grunts by their last names).
Unlike me, Moss was a product of formal education, part of a new breed of culinary youngbloods who’d grown up watching “celebrity chefs” on TV.
Moss looked as if he were destined for celebritydom. He was a good-looking kid: tall, dark red hair, and a scattering of sandy freckles across his nose; a quick, cocksure smile. His sinewy, well-muscled forearms and rangy physique suggested some sort of athleticism, as if he’d run track a few years before in high school. You’ve heard the phrase never trust a skinny cook. It’s apt here, but not for the reason you might think.
And while Moss began his informal apprenticeship with predictable youthful ambition and delusions of grandeur (I’d been there myself at his age), he also, I’m reticent to admit, swiftly began making his bones and earning our respect.
But even college boys make mistakes.
One day while we were prepping between lunch and dinner shifts, Moss casually said, “So, Wally, how long’ve you been working here?”
I’d been hesitant about disclosing too much about my personal life to a rookie, but the kid was disarming. “About six years.” Moss raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head, not glancing up from his cutting board. We had a scratched-to-hell Anthrax CD playing on the beaten-to-hell stereo. “Why?”
Moss shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve been here a while, you obviously know your stuff. I’m only curious why you’re still here on the line.”
Translation: “I’m only curious why you’re still just a cook.” Let’s get one thing straight: I liked being just a cook okay, friend? Cooks have always been a marginalized, blue-collar class. It wasn’t until television started “gourmeting” our culture that pop-poseurs like Bobby Flay and Rachel Ray began elevating cooking from a proletarian utility to a bourgeois novelty. By and large cooks never make it out of the trenches. I wanted to tell him that I liked it in the trenches. It kept me close to the heart of my craft.