Ecstatic

by Victor La Valle

  It gave Nabisase some time to shake before Merril went down the girl’s throat with compassion. Grandma could be heard in her bedroom, but her actions sounded like small ones. I doubt she wanted to hop out here and talk.

  Nabisase said, – I remember when the church helped Ms. Petit find a place to live when she wanted to take her kids and leave her husband.

  Devona nodded.

  Merril tapped the tabletop firmly. – People know who you are now. I bet it’s them who would feel lucky to have a TV star staying in their places. They’d tell all their friends!

  Nabisase laughed along as well.

  – We want to help, Merril said.

  Merril put on her glasses when they were reading Scripture; even Devona clowned less. I crouched on the other side of the door. Nabisase said, – I know a lot of people say this, but if I only ever got to ask Selwyn one question I would want to know why he made some of the people in my family get so sick.

  – Is that the only question you’ve got for Him? Merril asked. If that’s true then, baby-girl, you’re lucky.

  It was the only time I saw Merril get angry; it revealed her to me if not my sister. A woman in her fifties coming to aid a pretty teenage girl who, by some luck, had been featured on a national television show. A little wackiness in one’s family probably didn’t seem like much pain.

  Merril said, – We learn to read the whole Bible, not just the parts that make us feel good.

  – Selwyn had brothers, Nabisase said.

  – Mark tells us so, Merril agreed.

  – I was scared when I read that because I never thought of it before.

  Merril said, – Maybe you heard of the Bible, but never really learned it.

  – It’s easier that way, my sister said.

  –That’s why so many people only come in on holidays.

  – I don’t want to be one of those. Nabisase had both hands open, faced down on the table. I want Jesus’ protection.

  Even now Devona was impatient and turned from their Bible to ask what is this? – A map of Uganda as a dinner mat, my sister explained.

  And this?

  – Look at it, Nabisase said.

  Devona opened my book and read:

  –Gather.

  Wishing to return a long dead mystic to life Jimmy Larson begins raiding the local morgue because he’s learned of a scientific process by which a fresh cerebral cortex can be siphoned of its vitality, which becomes a purple paste. Enough of it, when injected into a corpse, can bring back the dead.

  Devona said, – What the fuck?

  – Devona!

  – I’m sorry Merril, but that’s just odd.

  Devona looked at a few other pages. – Killing Is My Business? I watch scary movies with both my boys and I never heard of these.

  Merril slammed the book’s cover closed so hard that I winced. – Can we get back to the important business? There’s only one thing on this table that matters to me.

  Devona said, – Okay Merril, don’t act high post. You almost broke my finger.

  Merril said, –There’s a lot to learn, Nabisase. You should read the Word for moral guidance. It’s the power of Jesus. But you’ll see that when we read about Abraham of Ur. How he traveled to Canaan and in Egypt. You’ll find out that this isn’t just about one man, it’s the development of a whole people. Their arms eventually stretched so wide that they found you and I. Today. Right here. They hold us close to their bosom. The book becomes a record of ourselves.

  38

  Wish that Ishkabibble had been my best friend when he quoted me the cost of publishing two hundred and ninety-nine more copies of my encyclopedia. Or that he’d named this price before sitting me down that day in Brookville Park with the formalized pages in my hands. Before my Thermite gladness. Previous to letting me walk around owning it for two days. In advance of my loving it.

  – Five thousand dollars is the sweetheart price, he insisted on the phone.

  It was November 26th and Nabisase had gone with Merril and Devona. Not permanently, just for Sunday morning service. They left the night before and came back at 8:00 AM. Then left again, together, at noon.

  Have you ever held your own book? I’d like to pretend it’s nothing, but I’m not in a self-deprecating mood.

  – You’ve printed all three hundred copies already? As I asked I poured Grandma’s tea, then brought it to the living room couch.

  – And trust you to repay a bill that big? You pay, Anthony, and I print.

  – How do I know you won’t just make a few thousand copies of it first and get rich off of my work? Maybe you could sign an affidavit that you won’t cheat me.

  – Do me a solid and get your book. Now read one to me.

  –Homunculus, I began. 1987. An unnamed fishing town in Maine is preyed upon by a presence that has impregnated its women. The wives speak of waking on different mornings to find a tiny man in bed with them. Climbing inside them. There is no pain. The fiend appears once to each woman and never again. The children they bear are malformed, give off noxious odors, and they mature rapidly. After a month they’re as big as toddlers. The men of the town are horrified; they shun these mutant children. Even the mothers are ambivalent at first. Until they realize that these children can’t be hurt. Completely indestructible. Faced with such an idea the mothers rejoice. Men leave town in disgust. The women age, and though they pass away they are glad; their babies will never feel pain. The film ends displaying an entire town of monsters intermarrying, persevering. Victorious. A horror movie with a happy ending. It’s my favorite film.

  Ishkabibble was on the line, but quiet besides breathing.

  – I don’t see your point, I said.

  – Forget it. Look. I’m not giving you any affidavit because I don’t even want to waste money on a notary public until I see cash from you.

  – But I’m your boy!

  –That’s the only reason I didn’t charge you for the copy in your hand.

  – I don’t have five thousand, but what if I take orders? Then you could see how many people want to buy it.

  – Get money, not names on a sheet.

  – How much would you charge?

  – Don’t ask for any hundred dollars, that’s a bet. Ten would be cheap enough.

  –Three hundred books at ten each is only three thousand.

  – You come up with that much and I’ll let you pay me the rest slowly.

  –That’s very generous. Must mean you don’t think I can sell fifty.

  –The possibility did come to mind.

  – Want to buy a book? I asked him.

  – Why would I?

  – Since we’re friends.

  – No. Come up with a convincing pitch.

  – Buy one because ten dollars doesn’t mean much to a successful man like you.

  – Poor people always think about how much they don’t have. Everyone else thinks of how much they want to keep.

  –To support a great artistic endeavor?

  – Don’t sell your aspirations to me.

  – Encourage local talent?

  – Forget about what you think you are and think of what other people see.

  – You should buy a copy to get the neighborhood kookaburra off your stoop.

  Ishkabibble chuckled. –Next time I see you I owe you a dime.

  A neighborhood can seem like a nation when selling door to door; the enterprise is most fruitful when there’s something sad to sell. Americans yield for tragedy, not altruism.

  The hardest work, what got me into many living rooms, had already been done by people like Candan, Mr. and Mrs. Blankets, my own mother probably. Folks knew of unfortunate Anthony, that my brain wasn’t worth a wheel of cheese. I had $90 after nine homes. A few thousand places were left. My confidence multiplied. Shame withers beside success.

  So many people were at home; it was late afternoon on a Sunday with little else to do but welcome a guest.

  I rang the doorbell of Mr. Goreen, who worked as a
piano teacher out of his home.

  He was mildly suspicious so he looked at every page before giving me his money. I let him watch as I wrote his title, address and dollar amount on the last few blank pages of my book.

  – Your cursive is so neat, he said. Do you want some water? I can make a sandwich.

  To get five thousand dollars only five hundred people had to fund me. I had a thousand bucks after only one hundred and eighty minutes. The only uncharitable homes were those where the owners had been out. My neighbors were kind. Many families fed me; a slice of banana bread at least.

  The more money I took the less I looked at folks directly, but my embarrassment only made them more generous. They tried, in small ways, to take care of me.

  A diplomat finds himself at the doorstep of important people as he travels through any country. Eventually, even the President must be met.

  He asked, – How many other people gave you money?

  – Everyone.

  – I guess I’d be the first to say no then?

  – Are you going to say no?

  He was holding the book so now he actually looked at it. – You telling me so many people like these freaky-deak movies? How am I even going to rent them? I know I never seen any of these at Blockbuster.

  – It’s like owning a book about Madagascar. You’ll probably never go, but you can get an idea of what the place is like.

  – How much?

  –Ten dollars.

  – You want it right now?

  – Yes I do.

  He went into the house and almost as quickly he returned. – Come back in a little bit, he said. I’ve got to see if I can borrow.

  – Forget it Mr. Jerome. I’ll put you down and you pay me later.

  – You come back in half an hour and just hush.

  I went on until I reached the homes that abutted Kennedy Airport. It was so loud out there that I yelled my introductions. Even the bald man with a beard, in the house without window guards, slid me money. By 7:00 PM I had fifteen hundred dollars and sore knees. With a car I could have done three times as many places.

  I gave the President sixty minutes to rub together the money, but he hadn’t been able. When I rang the bell it was Mrs. Jerome, the President’s Wife, a beautiful fat woman with a Manhattan phone book balanced on one hand. The President came out when she called him; she patted her husband’s stomach before going back down the hall.

  – I can’t buy none, he said. I’m having trouble getting the money. I told Candan what you were selling, but he’s not interested.

  – I’ll write you down as paid, Mr. Jerome. It’s fine.

  He looked at the doorknob. – Candan won’t even listen to me.

  No one in Rosedale seemed more my twin than the President; robust once, but surrendering to a power that hemmed him in. There was no time for comradery because that red Doberman cantered from the back then growled behind the President until the old man went back in. After he’d gone off the dog sat on its haunches at the doorway and stared at me.

  I stuck my tongue out at the dog. It didn’t recognize the gesture. I pulled $1500 out of my back pocket, one hundred and twenty bills, ten and twenties, all of them. I flapped them around and Viper tilted its head up at the motion.

  I went to the next yard having forgotten it was mine. In the kitchen Grandma was unpacking a suitcase while Nabisase was packing another.

  – Ledric’s coming, Nabisase said.

  – You’re letting him move here?! I asked Grandma. I slammed my book down on the kitchen table. As soon as I did I picked it up to make sure it was fine.

  Grandma pulled pairs of Nabisase’s very small panties out of a white suitcase.

  – He’s coming to take me to my friend Devona’s. Grandma stop!

  My grandmother was sitting in a chair, bent forward. She sat up and touched the wood cabinets behind her. – Will I be left here alone?

  – I’m still around, Grandma.

  She looked at me and said, – Yes.

  Grandma moved to a smaller tan suitcase, pulling out pairs of folded jeans. As she did that Nabisase refolded her panties.

  – Is it money? I asked. Is that why you’re going?

  I took my earnings from my pocket and put them on the table.

  – I don’t want to be bribed.

  – You won’t take money, but you will suck dick. Tell that to your church friends.

  Nabisase stopped packing. Lights were on in the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the bedrooms.– It would be better if you were just dead for a while, she said.

  Grandma didn’t get up, she pulled her chair a few feet across the white-tile kitchen floor. It was a way to get around without having to get up. To the table. To my money.

  – Did you steal this? she asked.

  – What do you think I am?

  –Then where did you get so much?

  – Mr. During. 143–44 227th Street. Ten dollars.

  Nabisase held my encyclopedia.

  – Give it.

  – Mrs. Binni. 145–46 229th Street. Twenty dollars. All these people gave you?

  –They paid me.

  – For what? Grandma asked.

  Nabisase shook my book while holding the spine waiting for the valuable item to fall loose. Dissatisfied, she threw it in the air, over my head. It landed on the floor with such a thump that I didn’t know what to do. I’d been excited when I walked in, and I still was, but I became so angry, too.

  – For that! I screamed, pointing at the wounded encyclopedia. For me.

  My grandmother threw my money at me and it separated in the air. A shocking soft explosion. The spine of my book was broken. My sister’s clothes were untidy on the floor.

  Grandma picked up my hardcover and brought it to her nose.

  She stood up and gave the pages a glance.

  Grandma held it open with two hands and asked, sincerely, – For such nonsense?

  So I hit her.

  39

  Ever seen a man smack a woman? Most of the time it’s anti-climactic.

  I punched my grandmother, but didn’t knock her down.

  It was a glancing blow, more on the shoulder than chin; I didn’t aim correctly. She fell sideways, but not to the floor. Grandma leaned against the fridge.

  My sister drove her forearm into my back as though it was my weight she hated, not me. Then she kicked me in the shin, so I was relieved of that idea. Grandma sat on the closest chair, reached under the kitchen table, got a boot and threw it at me. Then Nabisase, ever the showstopper, swept cups and bottles from the kitchen table. The glass didn’t break, but landed softly in her scattered clothes.

  I turned around and hit her too. With a bit more shoulder in the delivery.

  My sister’s nose opened.

  Blood went down into her teeth.

  Grandma stood, swung a broom against my back and fell into her seat again. When the broom handle broke she moved to a cheap thin flashlight, bashing that against my knees.

  Nabisase hit me with the broken end of that broom handle; it popped against my shoulder, went from eight inches to four. She hit me with it again then jabbed the wood into my cheek. We tussled and Grandma stayed in the kitchen. Nabisase and I went to the living room.

  Over by the TV Nabisase threw a ruler at my head. D-cell batteries. Celery sticks.

  As Grandma hurled pretzel rods I put up my hands, screamed, – I get the point!

  Nabisase picked up a pair of scissors which are deadly even when folks are calm so I used my best defense and fell on her. She was fast enough to turn and start running, but I caught her under my breaker, if not my wave. Nabisase fell forward, onto her stomach and let out a sound closer to a burp than a scream.

  Then a siren rounded the corner, three cop cars a moment later.

  I ran to the window. Grandma had wobbled into the living room, but she didn’t have a phone in her hand.

  – You have a panic button in the kitchen?! I yelled.

  Then the ambul
ance, slowest of all emergency vehicles, parked in front of my home.

  I ran past Grandma as she struggled toward my sister, grabbed my book off the floor, by the fridge. I imagined Mom calling the New York Police from a duplex in Virginia. Reaching us, protecting us, even now.

  The four cars had stopped in the road, but still made noise. Their lights moved across an already gathering crowd.

  My sister was on her belly and Grandma was on her knees and my neighbors emptied from their homes into the street. I could see them through the front window. I wanted to explain my situation before I was arrested. I opened my front door. The police stepped out of their squad cars. Three began crowd control, one spoke to the EMTs.

  The last two touched their guns as they entered the President’s yard.

  The paramedics followed, inside the President’s house with a gurney. From 144th Avenue to 145th folks had gathered on 229th Street and it wasn’t my fault.

  The police brought the President out. I’m glad to say he wasn’t handcuffed.

  – Mr. Jerome! the crowd yelled.

  – Mr. Jerome, what happened?!

  Ledric arrived, but couldn’t drive his Rent-A-Wreck car onto 229th Street because it was full of people. It better have been a rented car, if he owned one I’d be upset. Since I was on my steps I saw him leave the gray-green car on the next block and walk to my home. He wasn’t wearing the white hospital dress now.

  Instead he’d had a haircut and wore a sleek, large leather coat. He’d finally washed his face, no more oily sheen. His ash-colored slacks still showed their creases. Ledric Mayo was styling.

  He entered my yard, but stayed on the bottom step. I didn’t move from the top.

  Ledric looked at the police, the President and back at me. – When I saw those cops I thought I knew who was in trouble.

  – You’re the one that brought problems into my home.

  He climbed nearer, but not right up to me. – I told her to be nicer to your ass, Anthony.

  – You can’t mess around with a thirteen year old. I’ll call these cops on you myself.

  He seemed afraid to walk past me, but he finally did it. – Not all families should stay together, he said.

  Then he went into my home.

  I went down the six front steps until I was with the crowd.