Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets

by Steve Wetherell

  “I’m so sorry.” Dr. Anderson said. “If I were you, I’d come to grips with it and start making the final preparations. Say what needs to be said. Your wife is going to die.”

  ++++++

  I didn’t believe Dr. Anderson. Not completely. When you haven’t even broken a bone in your whole life, it’s hard to understand your wife is going to die when she was at the pinnacle of health just weeks earlier. I guess part of me wanted to just wake up from this nightmare, Felicia by my side and have her tell me it was all going to be okay.

  But it wasn’t.

  During the final few weeks of her life, I had a routine. I’d get up and clean the house, make breakfast, and get Felicia’s dialysis machine ready. After she woke up, we’d hook her up. It was draining, but within a few hours, it was the high point of the day. After that, I just did everything I could.

  After a few days, Felicia knew.

  “Greg?”

  “Mmm?” I replied, still half asleep. I pulled my cell phone out and saw the time. 3:12 a.m. “What do you need, honey?”

  “I’m going to die.”

  If I wasn’t awake yet, that cleared my head quickly. I hadn’t talked to her about what Dr. Anderson had shared with me before we left the hospital. I didn’t want to worry her, but she knew. It was her body, after all.

  I turned over and found her gaze burrowing into me. Already I felt tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I couldn’t help it; I nodded.

  “You knew.”

  Not a question. Not an accusation. No anger. Just a statement.

  “I did. Dr. Anderson said he didn’t know what was wrong. They knew about the kidneys, but they really couldn’t figure out why it was happening. What is really going on...” I reached out and pulled her close to me. “I’m so sorry. I wish…”

  “It’s okay. I’ve laid awake the last few nights thinking about it. I guess I’ve gone through most of the stages of grief as this point. I’ve had a good life. My childhood wasn’t bad, my parents were pretty great, and I’ve been to Disney World,” she said, pulling back to show me a small smile. I squeezed her shoulders, and she added, “…and of course I had a freaking awesome husband.”

  “And you’re an amazing wife,” I said. “I can’t believe I was lucky enough to find you. All this time, and you still take care of me. Even this morning, I walked into the bathroom to find you unplugged my razor. Every time I use it, I leave it plugged in, and when I go back in later, you’ve unplugged it. It was such a small thing, but all this time, I’ve known you loved me just by that little gesture.”

  Felicia pulled back from me again and gave me a strange look.

  “Greg, what are you talking about?”

  ++++++

  Felicia passed away three days later. It was quiet; she went in her sleep. The dialysis just couldn’t keep up with her blood. When the end finally came, she was at peace.

  But I wasn’t.

  I wanted to believe she was somehow delirious when she didn’t know about the razor. I hoped beyond reason she was just tired and her brain wasn’t firing right because her body was in the process of shutting down. I wished…

  But ultimately, the truth was staring me in the face. For seven years we’d lived in this apartment and for seven years I’d allowed someone else to unplug my razor in the bathroom. I thought that someone was Felicia, but ultimately it wasn’t.

  The day after Felicia’s funeral I walked into the bathroom. It was remarkably clean; Felicia’s mother had stopped by a few days earlier and made it sparkle. I didn’t touch anything except for the cord to my electric razor. I looked at it – there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about it, so I slowly pushed it into the wall outlet.

  I couldn’t bear to stay in the apartment, so I walked out, locking the door behind me. I just walked around the city. I put one foot in front of the other for hours. I didn’t really know how far I walked; all I know is that the sky was threatening complete darkness by the time I returned.

  The bathroom wasn’t near the front door, but I froze at the threshold to the apartment.

  I wasn’t ready. I wanted to run away, but just like I did when I tried to wear a groove into the city’s sidewalks, I simply put one foot in front of another and walked to the bathroom. Reaching around the door frame, I flipped on the light switch. As soon as the light filled the room, I saw two things that made my heart stop.

  The electric razor was unplugged.

  And on the mirror, a message written in my dead wife’s lipstick: “Now we can be together.”

  Continue reading or return to table of contents.

  Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen

  Brian L. Braden

  Recent Calls, Unknown Caller, DALLAS TX 9:52 p.m. 14 Dec 2016. 47 seconds

  The number you are calling is not answering. At the tone, leave a message or dial one for more options.

  BEEP.

  (background voices and noise) “What da HELL is up, bro! Mike. Mikey. Mii-keeey! MY-KAY! Its Todd, man. Can you believe it, I’m in town. Lets get together, throw down, and you know, old times, and shit.

  (pause) “So…how’s everything going? You still got that job down at the base? Yo, speaking of that, like no kidding, Tommy Lee Jones, like no shit, Men-in-Black-Tommy, came by the apartment a few months back, you know, (sniffs) when I was still on probo. He flashed a badge, asked a lot of questions ‘bout you. Said something about a security clearance. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him shit. I think he got my name from Kaylee. I bet that bitch told him some bullshit. Don’t worry, I straightened his ass out. Mike Cleggitt, kick-ass patriot, that’s what I told him!(sniff) I set you up pretty man, real pretty. So, hey, how about returning the favor?

  “Huh, what? (Muffled noises, voice slightly farther away) Fuck off! Find another goddamn payphone, asshole.

  (voice loud again) “My old lady kicked me out again. Can you believe that shit? (laughs) I dunno what’s wrong with the bitch. I treat her good, real good. Who needs her bullshit anyway, right?

  (pause) So, hey dude, I’m downtown at the bus station, and could really use a place to crash for a few nights. I was wondering if you could swing by and pick me up. I know I owe you a lot of money, but I’m sort a hurting (cough) and… (pause).

  “I promise this time I’m clean. I just need a place to lay low for a while.

  “Jesus, Mikey, (voice cracks) I don’t know who else to call. You’re the only one I got. You’re my best…

  BEEP.

  ***

  The dying odors of summer, hot asphalt and greasy onion rings, dominated the West Flatte Dairy Queen parking lot. August of 1997 hadn’t received word his tenure had expired, and football season begged September to grace the Texas Hill Country with her cleansing north wind.

  Mike felt the seasons of his life changing, even if the world around him seemed forever the same. The applause from this afternoon’s student assembly still rang in his ears, the brilliant camera flash, the sensation of the principle’s firm handshake.

  Small town boy makes good, the paper said. Michael Cleggitt, rancher’s son and West Flatte native, population 1,298, had just won the prestigious Dr. Edward Teller Scholarship for Engineering and Physics. One of only two high school kids in the whole United States, Principle Tomlin had said.

  In Texas, however, such academic accolades were respected, but still didn’t catapult one to the level of hero, like Jimbo McCullen, the local 2-and-2 high school quarterback.

  This event did, however, stand ready to launch the quiet, small town boy to a new life far beyond these dusty West Texas hills. The once impossible now lay within his reach.

  Tonight, the previously unattainable also stood before him dressed in a blue and white cheerleader uniform.

  “Todd Toobin is a dick!”

  Pop! Kaylee’s nimble tongue dutifully scampered forth, collected the deflated bag, and returned it to its place between her smacking gums, all without missing a syllable of rapid fire Texas twang. “Did ya hear me, Mikey
? He’s a dick. D-I-C-K!”

  She craned up on her tip toes and knocked on his forehead. “Hell-lo? Hey, boy, ‘R you in there? Mr. MIT smart guy, I’m talking to you.”

  The shock of the word “dick” emerging from Kaylee’s pretty little mouth, simultaneously surprised and excited Mike.

  It also pissed him off. “I heard you,” he stammered. “I think you’re being unfair.”

  Blonde ponytail bouncing, hands on hips, Kaylee’s smacking halted as she struck an indignant pose. “It’s my party. You’re invited, he’s not. What’s not fair about that?”

  “Your order is up.” The moon faced old lady poked her head out of the ORDER HERE window, pushing the grease stained paper bag toward Mike. She didn’t immediately withdraw, pretending to chip away at a piece of peeling formica while eavesdropping on the couple.

  “Sorry, Kaylee, but if Todd can’t go, neither can I.”

  “You’re going to skip my party to go hang out with Todd Toobin. Seriously? And do what, find some freshmen who think you’re cool, and play D&D in Todd’s trailer?”

  “He’s my best friend,” Mike stuttered. “He used to be your friend.”

  “Mikey, we were all friends in the fourth grade, and Todd was a jerk then, too. Me and everyone else figured that out, grew up and moved on.” She smirked. “‘Cept you, of course.”

  Mike shrugged and looked around the parking lot. “Yeah, he’s a jerk now and then, but he’s always there for me.”

  Unlike some people, he wanted to add.

  “Was he there for you when he drove off at the Piggly Wiggly the minute Sheriff Dodson strolled in, leaving you holding a fake ID and a six pack?”

  “I’m not the first kid in Flatte County busted trying to buy beer with a fake ID,” Mike replied too quickly, too defensively. “Dodson gave me a warning. Dad whupped my ass. No big deal.”

  “Todd taped gay porn all over the football team’s locker room.”

  Mike cracked an involuntary smile, thinking how Todd had put a picture of Jimbo’s head over a male dancer’s nude, oiled body. “Yeah, but that was funny.”

  “It wasn't funny! Neither was the bomb threat last year to get out of exams. No one could prove it, but we all know who did it.”

  She crossed her arms, face darkening and speaking in a hushed whisper. “He laced Mrs. Reddin’s coffee with LSD.” Her words, full of truth, stung.

  “No one can prove that.” The words stumbled out, along with the shame of actually muttering them.

  Mike couldn’t look at her. Kaylee didn’t relent, craning around and forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Oh. My. God, Mikey! She almost died.”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “Because you’re his only friend. Because he’s a first rate asshole. And he ain’t changed, not a lick. Why can’t you see that? My God, where do you get this overdeveloped sense of loyalty? We graduate in nine months and we’re all off to Angelo State, and you’ve got a scholarship to MIT. No one in this shithole has ever done that. Todd…” she tapped her foot, “Todd will be lucky to land a job at the 7/11. He’s not going anywhere, you are. Don’t spend your senior year tied to that loser.”

  Kaylee slid close, eyes searching his in a way they’d never searched before, the way no girl’s ever had. Her hand lightly touched his, accompanied by a smile hinting at unfolding possibilities. Perhaps Kaylee saw him differently now, in a way he didn’t, or couldn’t yet see himself. Maybe the long gulf of teenage ostracism, that dark chasm between innocent grade school friendships and adult relationships, had finally come to an end.

  “We’re all so proud of you. I haven’t been the best friend to you over the last few years. I’d like that to change.

  “But like my momma says, you can’t change the past. And there ain’t no way in hell you can change Todd Toobin. You got to get living in the here and now.”

  Profanity-laced shouts from across the parking lot broke the spell and drew Mike’s attention, just in time to see Todd leap from the passenger door of Mike’s old Ford truck. Like a Goth scarecrow, Todd strutted across the cracked asphalt, middle fingers waving in the air as if he were conducting an orchestra playing Fuck You Symphony No. 5.

  The football players rose from the picnic table. They slowly drew away from their chicken strip baskets and cheeseburgers; a pride of young male lions, interrupted during feeding by an obnoxious hyena. Jimbo, the quarterback and alpha-male, led the way. Thick necked and steady eyed, the Homecoming King slowly advanced on Todd. A chorus of “Whup his ass, Jimbo!” rose from the kids now pouring out of the Dairy Queen to watch the impending fight.

  Impending slaughter, Mike thought. “Shit.”

  No one cheered for Todd, but no one ever cheered for Todd.

  Varsity jacket and clean button-up, squared up against torn flannel and dirty Megadeth t-shirt. John Deere hat faced black beaner. Unlaced combat boots went toe-to-toe against cowboy boots. Testosterone-swollen brawn stood against pasty gangle.

  Kaylee blew a giant bubble, and let it pop. “Problem solved, hon, ‘cause Todd’s gunna be dead in about two minutes.”

  Todd didn’t stand a chance against the West Flatte offensive line, but Mike knew Todd didn’t care. Todd never cared. Watching Todd should have irritated Mike, but instead he felt pity.

  Mike began to walk across the parking lot, but Kaylee grasped his hand. “You can’t save him forever.”

  Mike walked the line between adolescent hope and grim calculation. Calculation - that terrible, nagging gift that opened doors, forever shut others, and left Mike no place to hide from himself. Before she died, Momma told him Almighty God gifted him with a brilliant mind to shine the light of knowledge on mankind’s darkness. Perhaps, but Mike would have traded a few rays of shining light for a chance to get laid.

  In Flatte County, his brilliant mind got him shunned by most except his teachers, and never found him a higher class of friend then Todd Toobin. The cold spotlight of calculation also said Kaylee was using him, just as she had done countless times before. Mike wanted to turn off the spotlight, and embrace the blissful darkness of self-delusion.

  “Does Jimbo know you didn’t invite him?” he asked without looking at her.

  “I didn’t invite him,” she said, voice rising toward the end, signaling another of her famous half-truths.

  Across the parking lot, Jimbo lunged. Todd dodged. Jimbo missed. Todd laughed and danced away, middle fingers raised even higher as he taunted the beast again.

  “Is Jimbo gunna be there tonight?” Mike pressed.

  “You don’t worry yourself about Jimbo.” A tinge of poorly disguised irritation polluted her voice, but she quickly covered it with a tone as sweet as Texas iced tea. “Daddy’s making a bonfire and roasting a pig. He’s even going to buy us beer just as long as no one drives home. The boys are crashing in the ranch house. A sleepover.” He turned in time to see Kaylee flash a woman’s smolder. “It’ll be fun.”

  Mike tore his eyes away just as Jimbo swung again. Todd went down hard to the mob’s cheers.

  Jimbo’s raging snarl suddenly frightened Mike.

  “I’ll let you know about tonight.” Mike yanked away and jogged across the parking lot.

  Todd had just begun to pull himself up on all fours when Jimbo buried his pointed boot into his stomach, sending Todd sprawling on his back.

  “Cut it out, you son of a bitch!” Mike dropped the bag, spilling onion rings onto the asphalt, and broke into a full run. The rest of Flatte County’s offensive line shuffled forward, forming a wall between Mike and the ongoing beating.

  A siren barked once, accompanied by a short burst of flashing blue lights. Mike leapt out of the way before the cruiser crushed his toes.

  The embodiment of Flatte County law put on his cowboy hat and slid out of the cruiser, quickly followed by an enormous belly.

  “Step back, Mikey,” Sheriff Dodson barked and strolled around the car, pointing his baton toward the quickly dissipating line of football players. “Y�
��all get your asses out of my way.”

  The sheriff pushed thick black frames up his nose, and then rested his thumbs in his gun belt. “Todd Toobin, why am I not surprised. Get your sorry ass up off the ground.”

  He turned to Jimbo, tone softening, “You gunna tell me what this is all about?”

  Jimbo shrugged, nodding to Todd. “He started it.”

  Wiping blood from his nose, Todd finally stood. “Fascist.”

  “Dick!” Jimbo lunged forward until the sheriff’s baton blocked the way.

  “Jimbo, you going to make any more trouble tonight? I’d hate to see you benched the rest of the season.”

  “No sir.”

  “Todd, I’ve seen enough of you today. Get out of here, or I’m going to lock you up and figure out a charge later.”

  Todd opened his mouth to say something, but caught Mike’s frantic hand-across-the-throat gesture behind the sheriff’s back. With eyes screaming defiance, he slinked backwards toward Mike’s truck.

  Jimbo strolled by, bumping hard against Mike’s shoulder as he passed. “Next time, I’ll kick his ass and yours. And stay the hell away from Kaylee.”

  “Mikey, get over here.” Dodson sheathed his baton and leaned against the car, the buttons over his ample midriff strained. Arms crossed, he leveled his hardest glare upon Mike.

  Mike shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at the cracks around his feet. Then he noticed the tipped food bag still resting on the ground, onion rings spread over the black top.

  “I saw your daddy today down at the co-op,” Dodson said casually. “He told me all about your scholarship. Whole town’s mighty proud of you.”

  “Yessir.” Mike scooped up the bag and peaked in.

  “Did you know I was at the high school today?”

  “No sir.” Hot dog, ketchup, and one of the two bags of onion rings were still intact. Mike’s stomach growled.

  “Are you listening to me?” The Sheriff’s voice switched from paternal to cop.