The Calling

by Robert Swartwood

  He prayed about it, and after a few weeks he received a vision of his own. He saw the angels of Heaven in all their glory before the Fall. Each held a different responsibility or role in God’s plan. But when Satan and his minions fell, those angels with their appointed tasks fell too.

  “You see, Satan’s always wanted to match wits with God. And since God is the Maker and Breaker of men, Satan thinks he’s up to the challenge too. He tries to take it upon himself to decide when certain people should die and not let their lives run the course God intended. He uses his own angels, I believe, demons that corrupt humanity’s life stream so that they die before their appointed time. I think every time Joey had a vision God had foreseen that the demons would do this and put us in charge of stopping them. It sounds crazy—like I said, a lot of what you needed to hear would sound crazy—but there’s no other way to explain it. And even though sometimes the demons think they’ve succeeded, they’ve also failed.”

  “Failed?” I said, though my voice wasn’t at its normal level. As he was speaking, Moses’s voice had lowered and lowered until he was using a near-whisper, and for this reason alone I had begun to whisper too. “What do you mean by failed?”

  “Just look at Columbine. Despite the fact that fifteen people died, that tragedy brought more people to God than you can imagine. Most of those kids died because of their faith. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold walked right up to them and asked them if they believed in God. Those kids could have easily lied, they could have just shaken their heads no and denied Him. But they didn’t. They believed in something and wanted to stand up for it. And because of that they were killed.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s sad really, how tragedy will bring people together. Just look at what happened on September 11th. Joey and I were called to a small town in New Mexico the week before. I didn’t understand why until after those planes crashed. The entire town was shocked and saddened, and that Sunday when I spoke the church had its largest turnout ever.”

  His eyes met mine again. When he spoke, his voice was no longer a whisper. It had gone back to its normal confident tone, the one he used when speaking in front of countless strangers at church. It was the voice he used when trying to sell God. Now he was using it to sell something else.

  “By now I’m sure you’re asking yourself what all this has to do with Bridgton, New York. Whether you believe in God or not, you have to accept the fact that things happen for a reason. Joey and I were called here because thirty-four people are supposed to die. But the vision Joey received this time wasn’t like the others. Something about this one was different, though he wouldn’t tell me exactly how, even when I begged him to. All I know is that we were meant to come here to stop something terrible from happening.”

  He glanced back down at his glass.

  “And that we’d meet somebody who was to help us.”

  Shifting his eyes back up to meet mine.

  “Christopher, that somebody is you.”

  • • •

  FOR THE LONGEST time I didn’t speak. I just sat there, staring down at my glass. Finally I cleared my throat and looked back up at Moses.

  “You knew Joey was going to die, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “He said it was what needed to be done. I almost considered not coming here. I thought about driving as far south as possible and never looking back. I’d already lost my wife and I wasn’t about to lose my son. But I knew if I did I wouldn’t only be failing God, I’d be failing Joey, too. He knew it was his time and he wasn’t afraid. He was ready.”

  “You can’t ask me to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Just ... this. It’s crazy.”

  “You have every right to doubt me. It’s completely your choice, just like it was Joey’s and mine.”

  “I’m not even sure what you’re asking me to do.”

  “Neither do I. What did Joey tell you?”

  I thought for a moment, deciding what I should say, when I remembered something.

  “Joey said he knew who killed my parents. Do you know?”

  Moses shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

  I stared into his eyes, deciding whether or not I believed him. Finally I nodded. “All right. So these thirty-four people, when are they supposed to die?”

  “I don’t know. Joey didn’t know either. He was only ever given a location and an initial number, and we had to figure the rest out on our own.”

  “But this angel that took Joey. Who or what is Samael?”

  “I’m not quite sure. But if he tried to kill Joey, then it’s safe to assume he’s one of the fallen.”

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  Moses shook his head again.

  I thought for a few seconds, the past hour catching up with me. Everything was happening so fast and was too much to comprehend all at once. The rational part of my mind told me to leave, to just get the hell out, but the irrational part—the part that had been with Joey and looked into his knowing eyes, saw him in his deathbed and heard the words he spoke; the part that had talked me into going to see James Young to confirm that it was a demon that had tried killing me—knew better.

  Moses asked, “Did Joey say he interacted at all with the angel?”

  “He said that Samael gave him a choice. To pick one of the thirty-four to die and save the rest. But Joey refused. He told me he believed they could all be saved.”

  Moses said nothing and only nodded.

  “Joey told me”—I swallowed—“that you had a present for me.”

  At first Moses looked like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then his eyes lit up, he said, “Oh, that’s right,” and pushed himself out of his chair. He disappeared into the back bedroom and returned with a small package.

  “Joey always used comics,” he said. “He didn’t believe in wrapping paper.”

  The box had been wrapped in what looked like the Sunday Comics. Colored panels surrounded it. Dennis the Menace peeked out at me.

  I tore it open, found that it was a shoebox, some brand I’d never heard of before. I opened it, moved the lid aside to find the inside filled with balled up pieces of newspaper. I reached in, felt what was beneath, and immediately pulled my hand back out.

  I said, “I’m not taking that,” putting the box on the coffee table between us.

  Moses leaned forward and reached inside, extracted the nine-inch butcher knife. The stainless steel blade gleamed in the light.

  “I’m not taking that,” I repeated, shaking my head as I stared at the knife.

  Moses set it down on the table. “At this point, I don’t think you have a choice.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know. Did my son say why you should have this?”

  “Just to use it when it was time.”

  Moses placed the knife down beside the box. “Before you mentioned that my boy said you should speak to me first. What else did he say?”

  “He told me to stop Jack Murphy.” Still staring at the knife, now thinking about my parents. “So then I would believe.”

  “Who’s Jack Murphy?”

  “A close friend of my family’s.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He said I should read Job 42.”

  “Job 42?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hear him wrong?”

  “No. Why?”

  Moses stared at me a moment longer, then got up and thumbed through a few of the books on that shelf above the couch. He came away with a Bible—which just happened to be leaning against The Man with No Name Trilogy—and began to flip through the pages. He did this for a few seconds before stopping and handing it to me.

  He said, “Job only has forty-one chapters.”

  I stared down at the text and saw he was right. At first I didn’t understand, but then suddenly it clicked.

  Of course Job only had forty-one chapters. Job 42 didn’t exist.

 
At least not in this Bible.

  Chapter 18

  I wrote my grandmother a note saying I’d gone to Lanton to pick something up and would be back later tonight, that she shouldn’t worry. I considered signing my name, but in the end left it as it was.

  I knew there’d be questions when I returned. Not just from my grandmother, but from my uncle and maybe even Sheriff Douglas. All wanting to know what was so important for me to drive four hours both ways by myself—and without telling anyone where I was going, either. I had no clue what I would tell them but figured I had the time to come up with something on the trip.

  It was six-thirty in the morning. The sun had begun to rise an hour ago. Dew coated the grass and reflected some of the early light. In the trees all around The Hill, it seemed nearly every bird in New York was either chirping or squawking good morning to each other.

  I started my car and then walked up the drive to my grandmother’s. I hoped she wasn’t yet awake and was glad to see the trailer dark and quiet. I pinched the note on the screen door and made sure it stuck.

  Heading back to my car, I glanced over at Moses Cunningham’s RV. I wondered what the man was doing. Was he sleeping? If he was, were his dreams filled with angels and demons, or something more pleasant, like times spent with his wife and son?

  In truth I wanted nothing to do with the man. His story was crazy enough, but the scary thing about it was that I’d actually begun to believe him. Too many things were starting to add up, too many pieces of an ever-growing puzzle beginning to take shape.

  Both Joey and his father believed I was somehow going to help them. Last night I decided I would. Joey told me to read Job 42, a chapter my grandfather placed in his own version of the Bible, and I assumed whatever was written there would help. My only concern now was getting the Bible and bringing it back to Moses, so it would be out of my hands.

  Besides, I was curious to see what the man who had once tried to kill me had to say.

  • • •

  EXCEPT FOR SOME construction near Hazleton, the traffic was light and I made it back without trouble. By then it was almost eleven o’clock and Lanton looked no different than it had when I left it four days before. Even the gas prices at the Sheetz hadn’t gone up a penny or more.

  When I pulled into the driveway I just sat there. I stared up at the house—that yellow and black crime scene tape was still strung around the property—and remembered what I’d found in my parents’ room almost two weeks ago. The blood, their lifeless bodies, the buzzing of the alarm clock ... and then the cross that had been marked on my door.

  I was being foolish. Scared of ghosts that couldn’t hurt me, and yet despite the fact I knew it was all in my head, I didn’t want to go inside. I thought about what waited in there and how Moses needed it for whatever mission God had sent him and Joey on, and I considered forgetting the entire thing. There was nothing keeping me from not returning to Bridgton. Dean was going to bring me back home anyway—both he and Sheriff Douglas had thought it would be best—but that never happened.

  Instead they’d found Joey, and now the kid was dead and for some strange reason I felt as if I owed him something.

  I wasted no time when I got inside. I noticed there were five messages on the answering machine. I didn’t want to bother with them and left the light blinking. It would be another distraction, and right now all I had to worry about was getting the Bible so I could head back to Bridgton.

  I walked into the living room and immediately spotted the Bible. It was still on the couch, right where I’d left it. I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide whether the book had somehow changed in appearance.

  With caution I stepped forward and then sat on the couch, continued staring at the Bible. I didn’t want to read it. Just like the day Darren Bannister had dropped it off, I didn’t want to know what was inside the package. But still I’d opened it.

  “Quit wasting time,” I said. I grabbed the book, opened it, and reread the inscription on the first page.

  Christopher, this is the fruit of my labor. I am sorry for what happened. Hopefully someday you will understand. Read Job 42 for guidance. Your life depends upon it. I love you.

  I thumbed slowly through the pages, amazed at the care he’d taken in rewriting the entire Old Testament by hand. I wondered briefly which version he copied it from, if he kept everything the same, or if maybe he omitted certain scenes and added dialogue. Finally I came to the Book of Job and began thumbing even slower.

  Before I knew it I had found Job 42. I read the first line.

  Christopher, if you are reading this, something bad has happened to either one of your parents, if not both.

  Before I could read another word, the book fell from my hands. It hit one of the couch cushions and bounced off, landed on the floor with its spine sticking up. I noticed one of the pages was sticking out farther than it should have been. Somehow it had ripped during the fall. Then I noticed my hands, which were still held out before me. They were shaking.

  I wanted to pick the book back up and read what else was written, while at the same time I wanted to burn it. Whatever it was, it played some role in something I did not yet want to accept, and reading it now would somehow signal my acceptance. And while I didn’t want that, I also didn’t want to not know either.

  I stared at the book for another couple of seconds, unsure of what I was waiting for. Finally I reached down to pick it up. Just as my fingers touched the cover, there was a loud knock at the door. I grabbed the book, snatched it to my chest, and turned just as Steve Carpenter entered the living room. He wore his gray uniform, his silver badge not so shiny now that he was inside. His face was red, his eyes now looking almost like they had two weeks ago, when he first believed I’d murdered my parents.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Steve.”

  “Your uncle called me an hour ago. Said you were coming back here by yourself to pick something up. I told him that couldn’t be true, that you weren’t stupid enough to do something like that, especially after the mess that just happened in Bridgton. But I told my men to keep an eye out for you anyway, and five minutes ago Fred Walker gives me a call and tells me he saw you driving down Norfolk Road. So I’ll ask you again. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Just like Dean said. I needed to pick something up.”

  “What—that book?”

  “I figured I could use some relaxing summer reading.”

  “Goddamn it, Chris,” he said, his voice now a growl, “what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  I decided it best not to answer that, and instead asked if he’d had any luck finding my parents’ killer.

  This caused the look of malice to disappear from his eyes. They shifted from mine for just an instant before returning. He shook his head. “No, we haven’t come up with anything yet.”

  I nodded, the news not surprising me at all. For a moment I thought about mentioning how there was a boy who’d claimed he knew who killed my parents but refused to tell me, no matter how much I begged him. How instead he had whispered he could only tell me three things. Thinking this now, I glanced down at the Bible in my hands. Reading Job 42 was step three in Joey’s instructions. I’d already completed the first step and figured what the hell.

  I asked Steve if he knew where Jack Murphy was right now.

  “Jack Murphy?” He frowned, looked almost suspicious. “Why do you ask that?”

  I opened my mouth but said nothing, my well of bullshit having suddenly run dry. It isn’t easy keeping your lies straight when you’ve got so many, but I doubted telling Steve the truth would do much good now anyway. How would I even begin to explain about Joey and his father?

  “I just really need to speak with him. It’s important.”

  He looked uneasy but said, “He’s probably at home. I’ll call him for you if you’d like.”

  I started to say yes to this but then shook my head. “No, it
’s probably best you don’t. It ah ... it’s kind of complicated.” Looking around the room, trying to find the best way out, I realized there wasn’t one and said, “But hey, why don’t you drive me out there? Maybe I can explain on the way.”

  He gave me another questioning look before he said, “All right then, Chris. As long as I can keep an eye on you. My car’s outside.”

  • • •

  JACK MURPHY WORKED as a diary farmer. You wouldn’t think it if you saw him. He was thin and wore glasses and looked more like a teacher, which he actually was. He’d taught math for eight years before finding a farm for sale and deciding to buy it. He’d been running it ever since.

  The day before my parents’ funeral, while his wife Karen got things prepared inside my house for the wake, he stopped by to talk to me. We went out back, behind the garage, where he lit a cigarette. “The wife would kill me if she knew I was still smoking these,” he said, then offered me one. I declined and waited, wondering what all this was about. Jack took a long drag, then another, before sighing. “You might not believe this, but when you were dating Melanie I thought of you as a son. Hell, I still do. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, and to be honest, I’m not sure I want to know. That’s your business. But ... shit, I don’t know just how to say this. If there’s anything you ever need, anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask. Got it?”

  I hadn’t known what to say and only nodded. I just stood there, thinking about everything I had done with his daughter, everything I had done to his daughter, and here he was now, trying to be my friend. He was a good man, this Jack Murphy, who I had at one time actually believed would someday become my father-in-law. But after everything that had happened, after how badly it ended between me and Mel, I made the decision that I would never ask for his help. That I wasn’t worthy of it, that I didn’t deserve it at all. I promised myself I would never ask him for anything, not even an opinion, not even a sip of water if I was dying of thirst.