You Can Never Spit It All Out

by Moore, Ralph Robert

"Why did he want you to meet Pedro?"

  "To get pregnant."

  "You're pregnant?"

  "Yeah."

  "With this Pedro's child?"

  She shook her head, smiling. "Pedro was the vehicle. I'm pregnant with God's child. With the new Messiah."

  Professor Kearns looked sad. "You're kidding, right?"

  "No. I have the Son of God inside me."

  He went into his own head for a moment, while she watched his eyes. Finally he said, "Isn't it enough you've created this incredible machine? Do you also have to be carrying the Son of God?"

  "I don't want to patent this invention. That would mean building this huge corporation, hiring top executives, performing even more tests. I want to sell it outright, to one of the energy companies. So I get my money as soon as possible. Can you do that?"

  "You'd be giving up a fortune."

  "Pedro said you were honest, and had the right contacts. Can you do what I want?"

  He looked flabbergasted.

  "Ten percent of the sale price going to you?"

  Through Professor Kearns, Maggie sold all rights to the rolling platform to a consortium of energy companies created for the purpose of the sale, for five hundred million dollars.

  She could have gotten an even higher price, but one stipulation of the sale was that she be allowed to keep the original platform she built, even though she was forbidden by the terms of the sale to let anyone else ever examine it closely, or attempt to duplicate it.

  Once the funds were transferred to the accounts Professor Kearns had set up, she attended Professor Kearns' early retirement party, shook his hand, while his sour-faced colleagues looked on, then the next morning took off again on her platform, traveling north along the east bank of the Mississippi.

  On her third day of traveling, she came to a wide, green valley.

  She slept in the valley, under the stars, for three nights, rolling her platform around during the day through the valley to inspect its rivers, dales, forests.

  On the fourth day, she rode on the platform to the nearest town, Desham, a few miles below the north rim of the valley, found a real estate office, got a local real estate agent so spellbound, forehead creeping upwards, he forgot to answer his ringing phone.

  Two weeks later, she owned all nineteen thousand acres of the valley.

  There were men in Desham, she noticed, who were out of work. One of them, a tall, obviously homeless man with a cataract in his left eye, was sitting at a bus stop bench, eating the meat patty from a hamburger, tearing up both halves of the bun itself, distributing the scraps of bun with underhand tosses to the pigeons marching in circles on the sidewalk by his shoes.

  She sat down next to him.

  His good eye regarded her.

  She smiled. "Do you mind if I sit by you?"

  His face was red-cheeked, veins on his nose. "No, not at all."

  "You like feeding the pigeons, huh?"

  He looked straight ahead, shy, holding what was left of the top bun in his lap. "I do."

  "That means less food for you, though."

  "I get the hamburger free from the restaurant." He nodded at the east corner of the intersection. She looked where he nodded. Modest restaurant, Southern Kitchen above the door, pink and white ruffled curtains at each window. "They let me wash up in their men's room. It works out."

  "Do you know carpentry?"

  "No, miss."

  "Plumbing?"

  "Can't say I do."

  "Probably not an electrician?"

  "Wouldn't be right for me to claim I was."

  "What was your profession?"

  He lowered his head. "Used to be an auditor, but that was long ago."

  She put her hand on his shoulder. "You don't know carpentry, plumbing, or electricity, but do you know men?"

  He swiveled his good blue eye towards her, lower lip curling. "That I do, miss. In all their glory and shame."

  "What's your name?"

  "Randall."

  "Randall, how would you like a job?"

  He tossed the rest of the bun scraps at the percolating heads of the pigeons. "Doing what?"

  "Selecting men for me, good, honest men willing to do a decent day's work for a decent day's pay."

  She stood on her platform, behind her a stand of pale green weeping willows stretched along the banks of a blue lake in her valley. She raised her chin, to project her voice out over the heads of the fifty or so men and women Randall had gathered.

  "Help me build my home, two stories high, here by this lake, and I'll pay you good money, and after my home is up, I'll supply you with enough lumber and other materials to build your own home, in my valley."

  Within weeks, the foundation for her home had been poured, blonde wood frames going up.

  Each day, she'd feed the men with burritos, scrambled eggs, baked potatoes.

  By the second month, her home was complete, despite days lost to rain, and eighteen more houses were started, each with a decent plot of land.

  She'd wander around her valley each day, her pregnancy showing, surrounded by the sounds of hammers banging, electric saws starting up. One area of the valley was designated as the town, volunteers helping construct a grocery distribution center, school, small hospital, church.

  Each Sunday she'd preach in the church. Each sermon, more poor people would show up from the outlying areas, men and women by themselves, or with their spouses and families, having heard about the valley where one could build a home of one's own, with help, on a good-sized piece of land, for free. When she'd step away from her lectern at the end of each sermon, she'd greet these newcomers, decent, honest, hard-faced folk who couldn't believe the stories they'd heard about free land, free homes, was true.

  By the time she was ready to give birth, there were forty-seven completed homes in her valley, another hundred and six in the process of being built. Seven large farms within walking distance of the town produced enough vegetables, fruit, grain, dairy and meat for all the townspeople. Two dentists and three doctors, one retired, had moved to the town, offering their services for free.

  She gave birth to her baby on the second floor of the newly-finished hospital. It was a boy. After she finally squeezed him out of her, her body covered in sweat, she raised her wet face. "Is there a halo? Is there a halo?"

  There wasn't.

  The town grew over the years. She named her son Ben, named the town Ben Town.

  Ben was well-liked by the town residents. He'd sit with the men in the shops, listening to them talk, men who before had been destitute, wandering sidewalks, hopeless, but now back to who they had been, reconnected with their past memories, fear gone from their eyes, swapping lazy, humorous stories.

  Because the town was so safe, there were very few things Maggie had to warn Ben about. There were no cars in town―everyone walked where they wanted to go―so she didn't have to warn him about looking both ways before crossing the street. Likewise, everyone in town knew each other, so she didn't have to tell him about not talking to strangers. The only thing she really had to advise him on was to not look directly at the sun, because if he did, he'd go blind.

  "What is the sun, mama?"

  "The sun is a star. The Universe is filled with stars, and the sun is our star. No matter how huge you might imagine the sun to be, even if you tried to think about it all afternoon, the sun is much, much larger than you can ever imagine."

  He smiled up at her. "I have a sun in my head."

  She reared back. "Really? Really, Ben?"

  In Ben's ninth year, the town held its annual Fall Festival. Maggie put on the white gown she had sewn for the event, brushing her black and gray hair. She found Ben out in the barn, pigs milling behind him, Ben looking up at her rolling platform, placed on its side against one of the barn walls, a bit beat-up, gray cobwebs sagging across the black iron gears and pulleys she had constructed so long ago. The energy consortium never released her machine. To them, a machine that provides you with lifel
ong energy for a one-time purchase of one hundred dollars wasn't as valuable as a world where people pay money every day for energy.

  Maggie and Ben walked hand in hand up the middle of the town's main street, to the fair grounds.

  Although the fair usually featured apples, this year, because of global warming, the apples weren't ready yet, most of them still green on the tree, waiting for the traditional autumn frost to ripen to red, turn sweet.

  In a season of green apples, though, there are always a few that do, only God knows why, complete the transformation to red.

  Ben gathered nine of these red apples, pulling them off their black branches, putting them in a hand-woven basket.

  "Who wants red apples?" he asked the gathered crowd.

  Hands went up.

  He reached his small fingers into the basket, lifting out a red apple, passing it to each outstretched hand.

  Maggie, standing beside Professor Kearns, here on a visit with his wife, watched as the men and women of the community went up the trail to receive their red apple, each head bowing as the weight went into the outstretched hand.

  She turned to the Professor. "He's already passed out more than nine red apples."

  "Maybe some of them didn't take an apple."

  "They all have. Look at the hands of the ones walking down the slope. Count the number of hands with apples."

  He did.

  "Granted, there's more than nine. But maybe some of them had apples already. Does he have to be the new 'Son of God', Maggie? Is that the only way you can be happy?"

  She shook her pretty, black-eyebrowed face, tired and worn. "It means God killed my first son, and my husband, to set in motion the chain of events that would lead to the birth of His son. 'Happy'? Is that the word you used?" She turned away from him, red-eyed, hugging herself.

  Kearns didn't know what to say.

  He went back to counting the apples.

  He stopped after one hundred.

  This is ridiculous.

  He went back to counting the apples.

  Counting, counting.

  He stopped after one thousand.

  DROWN TOWN

  At the bottom of the valley she drove through the business district, eyeglasses turning left, right, taking in the small shops, the sidewalk cafes. Two story library at the end of one block, American flag flying atop a white pole. Small school across the street, kids running in circles, screaming.

  Just past the business district, the trees took over. Older homes buried behind the branches. A stray white dog, nosing in a red and yellow flower bed, tail wagging.

  A fork up ahead in the road. Small wooden sign pointing to the left for the Federal Correctional Institute At Longmire.

  Such a modest road. Rain puddles under the canopy of leaves.

  Half a mile passing silent tree trunks, on the right, a dirt pull-off, fifteen foot chain link fence.

  Guard booth to the side of the locked gate. Door swinging out, the clockwise curve of its shadow across the dirt distorting its height. Fat man in uniform and cap, gun at his waist, holding a clipboard.

  As he approached her side of the car he raised his right fist, revolving it in the still air.

  She rolled down her driver's side window.

  He got his face up close to the opened space, so that she moved her head back.

  Quick smile. "Morning. How are you today?"

  She held onto the steering wheel. "Okay. A little nervous. It's my first day."

  But he wasn't paying attention to her. Craning his head, looking at the back seat, the floorboards in the front seat.

  "You are?"

  "Joan Wick."

  "Driver's license please?"

  Purse pulled onto her lap, she unzipped the top, hands shaking. Reached inside, lifted out her big red wallet. Found the license, passed it out to his waiting fingers.

  Watched as he read it. Wasn't much else to do.

  Window rolled down, she could feel the outside air. Going to be a warm day.

  Her tentative smile. "Is there a place in town you could recommend for lunch? Somewhere cheap? I'm a college student."

  He handed back the license. "I eat inside. It's free." Raised a forefinger. "For the guards."

  "Okay. Well, I'll ask about that."

  "What's in that satchel?"

  She swung her head to the right, at the satchel on her passenger seat. "It's a therapy prop. Do you need to―"

  "Show it to me." Right hand held in mid-air, fingers greedy.

  The small lot past the chain link fence was empty, black oil stains between the yellow lines. It wasn't a visitors day.

  She parked in front of the stone building's double doors.

  Inside, chain link fence had been stretched across the middle of the high-ceilinged lobby, blocking entry to the rear. The incongruity of a chain link fence inside a building was unsettling. Windows high up on the walls on both sides, letting in slants of sunlight, reminded Joan of being in a church.

  A short, squat woman waved her over to the gate.

  Joan smiled at her.

  The guard didn't smile back. "Take off your shoes, put them, your purse, and that satchel on the conveyer belt."

  Joan did what she was told.

  "Raise your arms up from your sides until your hands are over your head."

  The guard ran a wand up and over Joan's body, down the other side.

  Hovered the wand in front of her crotch, at her buttocks.

  Joan, arms up, blinking to herself.

  The guard jerked her head at Joan. "You're going to regret dressing so provocatively."

  "This is provocative?" She was wearing a long-sleeved blouse, a skirt that ended at her knees.

  "They didn't tell you? Wear a loose-fitting sweater and over-sized trousers from now on. Nothing that shows your shape. And put your hair up in a bun. No lipstick or mascara. That's asking for trouble. You ask for trouble, you're going to get it. You want a Kleenex to wipe off your lipstick?"

  "I'll leave it on."

  Look of contempt. "Fine." Gestured with her wand for Joan to pass through the gate.

  On the other side, a male guard, one of two, handed her the purse and satchel. Pointed to a chair where she could sit and put on her high heels.

  The second guard, taller than her, carrying a riot gun, led her to the back of the lobby. Passed her off to a new guard, young African-American guy, who escorted her to the elevators at the back.

  When Joan stood in front of the elevator doors, he shook his head. "We're using the stairs."

  "Okay. I could use some exercise."

  He held the metal stairwell door open for her. "That's not it." Maybe he felt that was too abrupt. "My name's Joel." Held out his hand.

  Inside the stairwell, he started her down the steps, walking ahead of her, looking over his shoulder to make sure she followed. "This used to be an institute for the mentally deranged. The worse cases, they'd keep them down in the basement, in case they got loose. The elevator doesn't go below ground. It only goes to the upper floors. So the attendants only had to worry about guarding one way out."

  She stepped down carefully in her high heels, holding onto the metal rail. "I didn't know that." At least he was engaging her in conversation.

  They reached the landing, but there was no door, just green-painted cement block wall. Joel circled the landing, starting down the next set of stairs.

  "How deep is the basement?"

  "Actually, we're passing below the first level basement, to the second level basement. The only way to get to the first level basement is to go to the second level basement, walk down its length to the rear, then go up a flight of stairs at the rear. Another security precaution."

  "When was this place built?" Trying to find a friend in this huge, cold building.

  "Nineteen-twenties. It was vacant a couple of decades. After they closed the asylum. The town of Longmire tried to turn it into a tourist attraction, kind of like Alcatraz, but turns out not enough peo
ple wanted to visit a mental institution. The federal government bought it two years ago. Converted it into a prison to handle some of their overflow. Glad they did, because that's how I got this job."

  They reached the bottom landing. No more stairs going lower. She could feel the weight of all those stone floors above her, pressing down.

  He hesitated at the stairwell's metal door. Looked embarrassed. "Just saying, if you're going to come out here regularly, maybe next time you might want to consider dressing a little more plainly. Most women psychiatrists who come out here wear slacks. Just saying."

  She nodded, unhappy. "Okay. Thanks."

  "When I open this door, it's gonna be noisy. There's a cage on the other side of the door, and that's where the guards down here stay, for protection. Beyond that cage is the corridor. You got jail cells on either side. They keep the most violent criminals down here, for security reasons. One man to a cell, because they don't get along with each other. At all. That'd be like putting a bear in the same cage with a tiger. Any time someone walks that corridor, the noise volume goes up. When we walk that corridor today? There's gonna be a lot of noise. Number one, because you're a woman. Number two, because of the way you're dressed. You just keep staring straight ahead. Try not to listen to whatever the men in the cells are saying to you, or about you. If any of them see they're getting a reaction out of you, they're just gonna dig in deeper." His brown eyes, staring at her. "Thing is? The convicts? They like to hurt people. It makes them feel better. That's why they're locked up down here. They can't hurt people physically anymore, so they try to hurt them with words. Words are all they got left. Now, you may think that words are just words, but words can do a lot of damage. A lot of damage. And they get a lot of practice, on each other. If you let them get in your ear, they've won, and they'll drag you down into their world. Don't let them do that."

  She nodded. "Understood."

  Black hand on the doorknob. Wedding ring. "Is this more than you bargained for? Because I don't have to open this door. We can go back up the stairs, and there's no shame in that."

  "I have to do this. It's part of my graduate work for my mental health counseling certification. If I don't, my professor won't recommend me to the board."