Point Hollow

by Rio Youers

With this nostalgia came a dim pulse of disquiet. Matthew found his gaze drawn, again, to the mountain. It ached in the burned light, one of earth’s rheumatic joints, and Matthew fought to look away, down at his feet, and then back at Bobby, who was still just a child.

  Chapter Eight

  Oliver was with Tina Quinn when the mountain roared again. She had called earlier that afternoon. “Get your skinny ass out here right now and fuck me—FUCK ME.” He had planned to take his MacBook onto the deck and finish a project for a customer in California, maybe sink a few mojitos while The Grooveyard played on iTunes radio. This plan was scratched before Tina uttered another sigh. His dick suggested that work (even work with mojitos and jazz) was a crazy idea, and that they’d have more fun partying with Tina. The rest of Oliver concurred, and by the time he arrived she had already gotten off twice—first with her fingers and again with the bedpost.

  “You’re some piece of work,” he had said, unbuckling his belt, figuring he’d get her to tan his ass with it before the day was done.

  She’d called him a dirty motherfucker and grabbed a box of Oreo cookies from a nightstand cluttered with all manner of erotica, and he’d dropped his slick on a half dozen of them (always good to get that first load out of the system) and watched as she chowed down. He went to work on her then, and she on him, and for the next three (four?) hours everything was peaches. It all changed, though, and in a big way. He was wearing a latex zipper hood and chastity cock cage when Abraham’s Faith boomed at him. He staggered across Tina’s bedroom-cum-dungeon, his skin prickling, his soul turning cold. “Whafuckat?” he mumbled from behind the hood’s zipper, even though he knew. His head snapped blindly left and right and Tina cackled and hoss-whipped his bare ass. The mountain roared again and he screamed, flailing his arms. This only encouraged Tina, and she worked the whip hard, drawing blood, until Oliver dropped to his knees and begged her to stop.

  “Safe word,” she snapped.

  Oliver unzipped the hood, tore it from his head, and threw it at Tina. “Fucking dumbass skeeze,” he said, and Tina was surprised to see tears in his eyes. He pointed at the cock cage. “Get this fucking thing off me.”

  The mountain didn’t stop. It thundered at him as he drove home, vibrating through the plates of his skull. He jerked the wheel and the car zigzagged, mounting the sidewalk on Jefferson Avenue with a little flurry of sparks.

  Not again, he thought, cranking the wheel left and bumping back onto the road. I can’t do this anymore. Leave me alone.

  It boomed. He glimpsed an image of a man wrapped in black flames.

  LEAVE ME ALONE!

  But Abraham’s Faith had other ideas and it clamoured as furiously as he had ever known. He wiped tears from his eyes and screamed at it, a torrent of blasphemy. Anybody watching would swear that Oliver had boarded the crazy train, but nobody was watching. He was alone, and always had been. Six and a half billion people on God’s green earth and he was isolated from every last one of them.

  The Corvette’s headlights cut the darkness as he raced along Tall Pine Way—touching eighty, the engine howling—less than a mile from home. Another head-shattering slam from the mountain and Oliver took his hands from the wheel to cover his ears. The car veered into the oncoming lane and would have kept veering until it slammed into the trees, and for just a heartbeat Oliver considered letting it happen. He imagined the Corvette striking the bole of a pine, the headlights blowing out, the hood crumpling, and himself—having neglected, in his haste, to buckle up—meeting the steering wheel face first, caving in the front of his skull before slamming, raggedy-doll, through the windshield. There wouldn’t be anything left of him but a torn bag of skin with some loose pieces inside. No more of this, he thought. No more mountain. Then—in the split second way such thoughts work—he saw himself not dead but wheelchair-bound, maybe cabbaged, listening to the mountain for the rest of his miserable days. He yanked the wheel and the car squealed into the right lane, laying twin arcs of rubber on the hardtop. The trees shook, even the stars shook, and Oliver wept and cussed, so sure that the world was breaking.

  He fishtailed onto the unpaved road leading to his house. Sanctuary Road, he called it—a half-mile cat scratch among the trees. Dust ribboned from the tires as he sped toward the comforting glow of the one light he’d left burning. He ripped into his driveway and stomped on the brakes—had the door open before he’d even shut off the ignition.

  “What?” he screamed. Abraham’s Faith was drowned in darkness but he looked toward it anyway, sensing its unholy pressure. “I fed you, dammit. I’ve earned my keep.”

  Boom, and those black-fire hands grabbed his soul.

  “I can’t keep doing this.”

  In his house, he screamed from room to room, making chaos, toppling tables and chairs, throwing plates and pans, books and clothes. He unplugged the coffeemaker and hurled it across the kitchen. It hit the wall and separated in clunky pieces, except for the pot, which exploded, glass everywhere. He pulled open the fridge doors and spilled everything from the shelves. It broke and splashed, and Oliver screeched, hunching his shoulders every time the mountain retaliated. Struggling to breathe—to even think—he staggered onto the rear deck and dropped to his knees. Tears flashed down his face. He curled into a ball and the world trembled.

  “Please . . . please stop.”

  His soul was wrapped in flames. The mountain was furious.

  “Why me?” Oliver twisted his hands into fists. “What do you want from me?”

  Another angry peal of thunder. Oliver imagined a child with water glistening on his thin chest, and more water trickling through the cracks of his fingers. He pushed the image away with a broken sound, his body shivering on the deck. Tears ran into his mouth, a taste that reminded him of childhood. The mountain’s anger rolled into the distance and for a long time there was silence.

  Oliver didn’t move. One hour became two, and then three. He lay on the deck like a stone, afraid even to breathe lest the sound of his lungs wake the mountain. He drifted across the rim of the earth and reached for other planets. They dissolved when he touched them. He was naked and clean and painless. His mind was a perfect circle. Eventually he dared to move, shifting his body. It scraped across the wooden deck with a sound like a wave across shells. His muscles groaned like old piano strings. He flexed his toes and heard tiny bones pop.

  Nothing from the mountain.

  It was the dead of night—the clear of night, as Oliver called it, because he felt the earth, like everything else, was at its purest while sleeping. Perfection, without distraction. He sat up slowly, and with caution, held in a puddle of light thrown from the house. A curved moon rode high and Point Hollow shimmered low, but otherwise the world was a black sheet. He stood, shoulders sagged and scared, and turned child’s eyes to the east. It was there, in the darkness, his Father and his God. Oliver chewed his lower lip until it hurt. He waited and prayed.

  Silence.

  Let me go, he thought.

  But Abraham’s Faith would not; like any god, it demanded of him. Oliver had taken only three steps toward the house when it boomed again. The most terrific crash by far. Were the trees uprooted and sent tumbling across the mountain? Had the other mountains crumbled to ash? Had the moon shattered, punched from the sky as if Child-God had thrown a stone at its pale glass face? Oliver had no idea. He swept rain-like through his house, into the master bedroom. NO MORE, NO FUCKING MORE. The armoire. Bottom drawer. I’M NOT DOING THIS ANY MORE. Under the skin flicks and magazines. THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE END. A Plano pistol case. Hands trembling, slick with sweat. Oliver flipped it open and pulled out the pistol. FIND SOMEONE ELSE IT’S OVER FOR ME. A Colt .45. He thumbed off the safety. IT’S ALL OVER NOW. He put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  ———

  Sheriff Tansy had called the day before, inviting Oliver to Gray’s backyard for some suds and a barbecue. “Doe fresh
off the blacktop,” he’d said, as if this would appeal to Oliver. “She’s all bled-out and ready for the rub.” Oliver had forced a smile (even over the phone it was important to maintain appearances) and declined.

  “I got work coming out the wazoo,” he said, which was true. What he failed to add was that the thought of hanging with the sheriff and his assclown buddies—and so soon after the last time—made him want to shit blood.

  “I think you can afford one night off,” Tansy said. Judging from the slur in his voice he’d already been at the suds. “It’s Friday night, by Christ.”

  “True, but I had last night off. I took your money, remember?” He beamed across the line. “Sink a few for me, old friend. I’ll try to make the next one.”

  “Well, if you finish early . . .”

  “Sure.” And Oliver was about to hang up when he heard the sheriff’s diminutive voice cheep from the earpiece:

  “Oh shit, hold up, I meant to tell you—”

  He was so close to hanging up, anyway. Fuck the sheriff and whatever he had to say. But something—perhaps the thin thread of urgency in his voice—made Oliver lift the phone back to his ear.

  “—still there?”

  “Still here.”

  “Good. I’m not sure if you’re all that interested, anyhoo,” the sheriff started, “but the meat tonight is courtesy of an old Point Hollow boy. One of those that flew the coop. He hit the deer earlier today while driving back into town. Yours truly was called to help him out.”

  Oliver wasn’t particularly interested. Still, he said. “Yeah? Who?”

  “Little goddamn pantywaist. I thought for sure he was going to piss his britches.”

  “Who?”

  “Matthew Bridge. You remember that kid got lost in the woods?”

  Oliver sat down hard and it was good fortune that the couch was behind him, otherwise he would have spilled to the floor. He felt his lower body filling with cold water and the room took a lazy spin. His mind drifted away. He saw Matthew’s terrified face hanging in the darkness, illuminated by the flashlight, while small skeletons toppled with dry-stick sounds and bones crunched underfoot.

  “Oliver? You still with me?”

  “Still with you, Sheriff.” But he wasn’t. Not really. He was inside Abraham’s Faith with Matthew, chasing him through the darkness.

  “You went awful quiet there.”

  “Just trying to put a face to the name.” His voice was as cool as dew, which hardly seemed possible given that everything inside him was clenched tight. The cold water had reached chest-level and his heart rattled, shriveled to a small stone.

  The sheriff said something else but Oliver didn’t catch it. He was lost in thought:

  He remembered. That’s why he’s back. Maybe he’s already led Sheriff Tansy to Abraham’s Faith, taken him inside and shown him everything. That’s why he’s calling me now. The son of a bitch isn’t inviting me to a barbecue at all; he’s testing me, feeding me rope to see if I’ll hang myself. I bet Matthew is with him now—the two of them together, looking to bring me down.

  Still dew-drop cool, Oliver said, “I remember Matthew. What brings him to town?”

  “Hell if I know,” the sheriff replied. “He said something about wanting to get out of the city for a few days. I think that’s what he said, at least. He’s probably just here to see how much the place has changed.”

  “Hasn’t changed much,” Oliver said.

  “Just the way we like it,” Tansy said.

  Oliver felt the cold water ebb. He could tell from the sheriff’s dumbass tone that he didn’t know anything. He relaxed his grip on the handset and breathed again, but was still far from comfortable. Matthew—back in town after twenty-some years—was the only person who had seen Oliver’s dark side. Maybe he didn’t remember. Maybe he was here simply to see how much his hometown had changed. But even so, Oliver felt decidedly vulnerable.

  He had a stack of questions piled up for the sheriff and was burning to ask them, but he thought it best to keep them to himself. He had come a long way in this town—in this life—by simply smiling and being cool, and he intended to continue the trend. No sense in asking too many questions, rousing suspicion.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Oliver said through the biggest smile he could muster. “We don’t want him getting lost in the woods again.”

  He hung up, then tried to work but couldn’t. So he ended up going to Gray’s backyard anyway, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. He wore a big ol’ shit-eating grin and drank beer and ate roadkill. Just one of the boys. He kept expecting Sheriff Tansy to approach him on the quiet and say, Matthew Bridge told me something very interesting, Oliver. I think we need to have a serious talk. Or worse: I know what you did, you son of a bitch. I found the bodies—all of them—and I’m going to make damn sure you pay. This didn’t happen, of course. It was just another night with the assclowns, and by the time Oliver got home all the cold water had trickled from his body. He didn’t feel quite as vulnerable anymore. In fact, he felt pretty good.

  Untouchable.

  ———

  Click.

  Oliver had closed his eyes prior to pulling the trigger, but he opened them again now, his eyebrows knitted in a V of confusion that would have been comical if not for the .45 in his mouth. The unloaded .45. His eyes rolled around the master bedroom, as if to confirm that he was still alive—still here—while his ears analyzed the click and determined that it was indeed the sound of a firing pin dropping on an empty chamber.

  “Hun uffa biff,” he said, which is of course how you would say son of a bitch with a gun in your mouth.

  He removed the gun. It left a coppery trail of grease on his tongue. He tossed it onto the bed, and then sagged to the floor. Abraham’s Faith grumbled at him like a mean father in a neighbouring room. It thumped on the wall. Oliver rolled his eyes and tried to ignore it.

  But couldn’t.

  His throat burned with all the tears he had swallowed.

  ———

  August 1, 2010.

  So much for silence. The light of a new morning—a new month—suggests hope, but I am not fooled. Abraham’s Faith commands. I serve. It has always been this way.

  I can still hear the children screaming in the darkness.

  Who will be next, I wonder.

  ———

  Some people use crystals to heal mind and spirit. Some will hop into sweat lodges or practise yoga, while others partake in asceticism or prayer. Whatever the device, all seek to purify the soul, to cleanse and attain guidance. Oliver’s ritual was different, but no less effective—arguably more effective, in fact. What better way to purify than to become purity itself? Better yet, to do so in God’s purest acre, away from people, from the stain of society and technology’s deathless drone. Naked, he could stand among the trees and feel the breeze stir his glittering leaves. He could float in the lake and become a ripple. He could be a stone or a rock, or even a flower, unfolding in the sunlight. He had healing on his doorstep. It rolled for miles. He could fall into purity like a drop of rain into the ocean, and exist there—as a stone; ripple; tree—for as long as he needed to.

  He cleaned his house thoroughly (getting the simple stuff in order was step one on the road to spiritual enlightenment; it was hard to find the Greater Meaning with a sink full of dirty dishes), moving from room to room, righting everything he’d wronged. He swept up all the broken glass and the debris scattered from the refrigerator, and then scrubbed the floors, the work surfaces—anything that could be scrubbed. He cleaned the blinds, vacuumed the couch, and plumped the cushions. He also removed anything from the refrigerator that could spoil in the time he’d be gone. The windows were washed, inside and out. He stripped naked, washed and dried the dirty laundry, and while it tumbled in the machines, he—still naked as a jaybird—dusted, scrubbed the bathro
oms, and washed the cars. He folded the clean laundry, put it away, and then took care of the final details: an out-of-office e-mail reply for the business, and the audiobook version for voicemail. He switched off his iPhone, took one last look around, and was ready.

  It was early afternoon by the time he set out, cutting through his back garden and across the land, walking with his shoulders square and his head high, like a buck-ass naked version of Caine from Kung Fu. Abraham’s Faith boomed steadily at him, like a whip across his shoulders. Oliver didn’t flinch. Nor did he weep. In the spring that he had crossed with Matthew in 1984—and many times since, sometimes carrying a small child—he lay down and let the natural water cleanse his filthy skin. It coursed over his recumbent body, cold and fresh, into his open eyes. Only his mouth emerged, occasionally, for air. Time passed. Oliver watched the sun—a quivering yellow orb from his perspective—drift westward. The sound of the spring filled his mind with wind chimes, tinkling excitedly when the mountain roared. Small fish suckled on the nutrients in his body hair.

  He crawled, aching and hardened, from the water at a time that didn’t matter. The sun had painted a flame across one edge of the world and the sound he thought to be birdsong turned out to be his mind, ringing with measured clarity, like a perfect bell. He stepped into the forest and sang with the trees, casting his pheromones, swaying as the breeze lifted his branches. He had no recollection of falling asleep, but awoke in a bed of ferns, a ribbon snake coiled around his arm and a cardinal on his thigh. He had no interest in the snake, but the cardinal was spectacular. He reached for it, hoping it would hop onto his finger. Its tiny black eyes regarded him curiously for a moment, then it flew away, red feathers burning.

  New light. Oliver drank from the spring and sucked algae from pebbles. He went back into the forest and foraged among the fallen needles for roots and seeds. The mountain boomed and he let it, but knew—with a shim of human intuition—that he had to face it. As the sun climbed he made his way east. Rivers and lakes flickered in the distance but he didn’t look at them—didn’t want to see the specks of boats, or imagine the people inside them with their dirty lives.