The Calling

by Robert Swartwood

  There was a question then that came to mind, but one I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask. The real clincher in Job 42 for me was my grandfather’s mention of Samael, the angel Joey said had taken and tried to kill him.

  “Moses,” I said, as we stopped at a traffic light.

  “Hmm?”

  “What about Samael? How ... how do we stop him?”

  The light turned green. Traffic pulled ahead. Beside me, Moses was silent. I glanced over at him to make sure he was still with me. The box still rested in his lap, but his eyes were no longer downcast. Instead he was staring out his window, and when he spoke, his voice was small and soft.

  “I have no idea.”

  • • •

  SARAH SAT IN the same lawn chair outside my trailer she’d been sitting in the day we went on our picnic—only this time there wasn’t a cooler between her Keds.

  I said, “Hey,” surprised to see her.

  “Hi.” She managed a smile and stood up slowly. I almost stepped forward to help her but knew she’d get angry, so I stayed put. Then, once she was standing, she glanced down the drive toward the Rec House. “I thought you said you were going back home.”

  “I thought I was.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything, seemed to avoid my eyes. “Mind taking a walk?”

  We walked in the field behind the trailer park, the one with the deserted picnic tables and pair of volleyball poles. Neither of us spoke but only seemed to enjoy the nice day and soft breeze. Finally Sarah stopped and sat at a table that didn’t look like it had been a complete target for birds. I lowered myself on the other side.

  “If it’s all right with you,” she said, “I want to start over.”

  I just nodded.

  The smile on her face only lasted a few seconds. Then she tilted her head and frowned at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her about Joey and Moses and what my grandfather wrote. I wanted to tell her the real reason I was helping Moses. Not because of the thirty-four lives or whatever Samael had planned, but because my own life was in danger and I was scared and wanted to live. It was selfish, but I was a selfish person. Probably even more so than I had been before my parents died, even though I tried fooling myself that I’d changed. I wasn’t like Joey or Moses. I couldn’t just put my life on the line for other people, especially strangers.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just been a weird week.”

  She nodded, her blue eyes questioning, and I wondered just how much she believed. Then she surprised me by asking, “Can you tell me about your girlfriend?”

  I hesitated. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just anything, I guess.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was her way of making conversation, but if so I didn’t mind. Even if she considered herself trailer trash, I didn’t. I still saw her as the girl I’d met in the Rec House, the one reading Herman Melville just for fun. Her favorite movie Pretty Woman, her favorite actress Julia Roberts, the most recent CD in her player one of Coldplay’s. The girl who couldn’t decide between mango strawberry and watermelon cherry as her favorite bubblegum flavor.

  “There really isn’t much to tell. Her name was Melanie. We dated off and on for two years. And then ... she got pregnant.”

  “She didn’t want the baby?”

  I actually had to think about it for a moment. “I never really asked her. I just knew I didn’t want to be a father. I mean, I’m eighteen years old. I was planning on going to college in the fall. We both were. We just ... we couldn’t be parents.”

  A part of me thought I should feel uncomfortable talking about Mel like this, but for some reason I didn’t. Maybe I was just relieved to get everything out in the open. I hadn’t told anyone what happened between us until today.

  We were both silent for the longest time. Then finally she took a deep breath and began speaking in a soft whisper.

  “His name was Justin. I never found out where he lives, and even if he told me I’m not sure I could believe him anyway. He usually passed through here and spent a few nights in his van twice a year. I remember looking at his license plate one year and seeing it was from Maryland, then the next year—I swear to God—New Jersey. My dad even gave him a special rate for it. He seemed nice enough and respectful and would even help out when it was needed.

  “He was twenty-five, which isn’t too old, but I’m only sixteen and ... well, he was always nice to me. That’s really the thing. He was always nice. He always made me feel special, even the few times I saw him. He’d been coming almost every summer for about five years, I think. Anyway, I never really had a boyfriend, and he was just so handsome and things had been so crappy ever since my mom died that I ... I needed someone. And he was there. Every night I would come over and see him and we’d just talk and sometimes smoke pot and then ... then one night we started fooling around and one thing led to another.”

  “Did he rape you?” The words left my mouth before I even had a chance to stop them.

  She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. I mean, I guess it could be considered statutory rape, but I ... I wanted him to. I wanted to feel even more special and he did that for me.”

  I asked her if she knew where he was now.

  “I don’t know. I never did find out where he comes from or what he does. Heck, he’s probably married with kids or something, and was trying to get into my pants from the beginning. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Does he know?”

  “He left the day after it happened, and two weeks after that I found out I was pregnant. He hasn’t been back since and I don’t think he will any time soon.”

  “Your dad doesn’t know it was him, does he.”

  She shook her head again, this time very slowly. Her eyes were now focused on the line of trees. “He flipped out at first, which I guess was what I expected. But he’s managed to come to terms with it. Even John has. For some reason they just don’t get along anymore, they’re constantly fighting, but when it comes to me and this baby they actually cool down. It’s almost like this baby keeps them civil.”

  A question came to my lips but I forced it away. It was a question I couldn’t ask, one I would never ask.

  And so we sat there on the picnic table, staring across at each other, neither of us saying a word but communicating just the same. I told her with my eyes that I didn’t judge her and with her eyes she told me she didn’t judge me, and as trite as it sounds, I knew at that moment we would be friends forever.

  • • •

  I’D TOLD JOHN Porter yesterday I couldn’t go with him and his friends to crash that pre-graduation party, that it was cool of him to offer but thanks anyway. Then, for some reason, I mentioned it to Moses and got the surprise of my life when he said I should go.

  “Are you sure?” I’d stopped over at his RV after my grandmother made dinner. It was almost seven o’clock. “I mean, wouldn’t that be a bad idea?”

  “Not at all. Right now we have no leads anyhow. Besides, the interaction will be good. You’ll get a sense of who these kids are, and maybe even get an idea of what will happen. Who knows, you might even get another feeling.”

  The prospect didn’t thrill me but I realized he had a point, so about two hours later I crossed Half Creek Road and found John and four of his friends in the garage. They had started the party early, as they sat listening to Jane’s Addiction and passing around a joint. John noticed me first, said, “Chris, I thought you said you couldn’t make it,” and offered me a hit.

  John made quick introductions. There was Rich, a tall kid wearing a Yankee’s baseball cap, his ear stuck to a cell phone; Chad, who was really tanned and had spots of acne on his face; Sean, whose long brown hair he kept in a ponytail; and Tyler, the shortest of them all, who stood about five feet five inches but made up for it by obviously lifting weights every minute he could,
as his biceps looked bigger than my own thighs. All of them except Sean wore faded jeans and T-shirts. Sean had on a pair of frayed khaki shorts.

  “And this,” John said, motioning to the car parked in the middle of the garage, “is my baby. Found her in the junkyard three years ago when she was just a pile of shit, but look at her now.”

  “She still is a pile of shit,” Sean muttered. John made a face and gave him the finger, before leaning down to the car’s hood and cooing, “Don’t listen to him, honey, he’s just jealous.” Everyone sniggered.

  I’d already noticed the Firebird while walking past the garage, but I’d never gotten a close look until now. Under the lights I saw just how much work John had put into it. The dark cherry finish made it look as if it had just gotten off the assembly line. In my mind I saw him working nights and weekends, finding used parts, ordering new ones, spending a few hours here, a few hours there, until all the time and effort paid off into one beauty of a car.

  “Wanna hear about it?” John asked me, a bright grin on his face (which was probably more from the weed), and Tyler muttered, “Aw shit, not again.” John spun around, both middle fingers blazing, and said, “Shut your traps, motherfuckers.” Then he turned back to me and placed his hand gently on the hood, grinning again.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Her name’s Bambi. She’s a ’76 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Her engine’s a 455 with a V-8 I managed to take from a beat-up Bonneville. Four-speed manual, with a two hundred horsepower at thirty-five hundred RPMs. Original vinyl bucket seats, and this baby right here—”

  He began to caress the shake-hood scoop, started to say something else, when Chad interrupted him.

  “Blah, blah, blah,” he said, rolling his eyes. He pulled out a can of Old Milwaukee and popped the top. “You don’t even know if this bitch is gonna run.”

  John stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t even know why I’m friends with you fuckers.” When Tyler said it was because of the good hash, he said, “Oh yeah, that’s right. But who’s up for it, huh? Who wants to do the first three-way with me and Bambi?”

  There didn’t look to be any volunteers. Chad handed me a can of beer. Everyone was silent for a few moments, before first Sean started laughing, then Chad, then the rest. Even I did, though I wasn’t quite sure what was so funny.

  “Fuck you all,” John muttered, then glanced at me. “Chris, you wanna ride shotgun?”

  “Sure,” I said, grinning for no apparent reason, and downed my beer.

  Minutes later we’d all split up. Tyler, Rich, and Sean piled into Chad’s Jeep outside. I got into Bambi the Firebird’s passenger seat. The seats were indeed vinyl, though I couldn’t imagine them being originals. Then John got in, hesitated before putting in the key. He glanced at me, said, “Here goes everything,” and started the engine. It roared to life.

  John nodded, a wide smile on his face. I noticed one of his lower teeth was chipped. He put the car in gear, revved the engine once more, and said, “Hope you’re ready, dude. It’s gonna be one wild night.”

  Chapter 22

  The party was at this house in Breesport, about fifteen minutes away, this overlarge two-story house that sat on a hill overlooking the road. John said it belonged to this girl Denise Rowe, whose parents were away and wouldn’t be back until Saturday.

  Cars were lined up on both sides of the extended driveway, some parked awkwardly on the lawn itself. John parked beside Chad’s Jeep and got out of the car. He immediately started to say something to his four friends when he noticed what had grabbed their attention. A black utility van was parked on the other side of the driveway. Rich said, “Is that—” and Sean nodded his head, answered, “I think so.” Then John, walking up beside them, muttered, “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  At that moment explosive laughter came from just in front of the house, and someone shouted, “You’re all fucking assholes!” Seconds later two kids were headed up the drive toward us. John and his friends moved away from the black van. One of the kids was soaking wet, his hair dripping.

  “Howdy, faggots,” Chad said. He raised his can of beer in a salute and the one—they were both dressed in black—muttered, “Fuck you, you piece of shit.” Chad, smiling, glanced back at us. He winked and said, “Clever.”

  The van’s doors slammed shut, the engine coughed to life, and then we were all bathed in the red glow of taillights. When the van backed up, the kid in the passenger seat gave us the finger. Chad raised his beer again, sounded like he was about to say something else, but then the driver attempted to peel out onto the road.

  “That was weird,” Rich said after a moment. “What the hell were they doing here?”

  John shrugged, lighting himself a cigarette. “Who the fuck cares. They should know better anyway.”

  We turned then, the tense moment or two passing, and started down the driveway. It seemed those kids and the van were forgotten at once, as spirits again were high. Rich started telling a Polish joke he said he read online, and as he talked, I asked Sean what that was all about. When he shrugged, saying it was nothing, I asked him about Denise Rowe.

  “Denise? Oh, she’s just one of the many stuck-up bitches in our class. Really, none of us were invited to this little shindig of hers, but fuck it. Look at all these cars here already and tell me anybody’s gonna give a shit.”

  The night was cool and cloudy, and the music and talking and laughter coming from both inside the house and around back increased as we neared. There were even some kids out front, standing around with blue plastic cups in their hands. One of them, I realized, was responsible for drenching that one kid in black.

  “I hope she has a fucking good table for beer-pong,” Chad mumbled. He and Rich both carried twelve packs of Old Milwaukee. Rich, having just finished his lame joke, already had one open. Chad lit a cigarette.

  I counted about thirty-some cars and trucks parked everywhere.

  “Anyone see Jeremy’s Eclipse yet?” Sean asked, and everyone except me started laughing. Sean noticed I was left out of the joke and said, “We pulled one major-ass prank today.”

  “Hell yeah,” Chad said. “There’s this guy we’ve gone to school with for like ever. He’s a real prick. We all used to be cool but then he got in with the jock crowd and became a real toolbag, and he always acts like he’s about to kick our asses for no fucking reason or anything, just because he thinks he’s hot shit. So anyway, I came up with this idea—”

  “Bullshit you came up with the idea,” Tyler said.

  Chad gave him the finger. “Okay, we all had this idea to do something real badass, you know? And we had this vanity plate made up, cost like fifty bucks or something, but fuck was it worth it.”

  We were almost to the house now. The kids standing out front were passing what at first looked like a cigarette around. Then, seconds later, the breeze picked up and the scent of marijuana drifted our way. The group stopped their conversation; they were now staring at us. I realized John and the rest of his friends were staring back, and, thinking of those two kids who were obviously denied, wondered just how welcome here we really were.

  I asked what the vanity plate said, which seemed to break the stares. Tyler grinned and said, “Get this. We made it so it spelled I-L-U-V-C-zero-C-K. Fuck, it was classic. We put it on this morning first period and he fucking didn’t even realize it when he left after school. The bastard’s probably been driving around with the thing all day!”

  We stepped up onto the porch then, heading for the front door, when one of the guys on the lawn said, “Hey, it’s a five dollar cover.”

  “So’s the rate to fuck your mother,” Sean said, giving them the finger, and laughing, we entered the party.

  • • •

  SO MAYBE WE weren’t invited, but that didn’t really seem to matter once we were inside. A few glares were directed our way but nothing to make me worry that we’d get in a fight anytime soon, and eventually everyone started splitting off, goi
ng their separate ways. Chad asked me if I played beer-pong, and when I told him yes he grinned and said, “Good. You’re my partner then.”

  We found the basement stairs and headed down. Here there was a widescreen TV, billiard and ping-pong tables. Beer cans already littered the table, as people were lined up throwing the plastic ball back and forth at the cups set up in a triangle. It looked as if three guys were playing the drinking version of Cutthroat, where with every shot they missed, they had to take a drink. A dozen or so others were on the couches talking and watching really nothing on the screen, as someone with a short attention span had control of the remote and kept switching the channel every few seconds.

  “If you see anything you like, you tell me,” Chad said, indicating three blondes wearing midriffs and short skirts. They stood by the wall watching the beer-pong game. Each of them held a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

  “You know them?”

  “Well, I know of them. But really, they’re all just snotty bitches. Almost everyone here ranks in the top of the class, or their parents have a lot of money, so that makes them popular. Or maybe they’re jocks. You know how it is, just fucking bullshit. But hey, I wouldn’t mind banging a snotty bitch any day, you know what I mean?”

  We walked up to the ping-pong table and Chad cleared his throat dramatically.

  “All right, you lazy fuckers,” he said, “who’s ready to get their asses kicked?”

  • • •

  BOTH CHAD AND I had won three games straight and were working on our fourth playing two of the snotty blonde bitches—their names were Traci and Kelly, though they actually didn’t seem too stuck-up, and Kelly kept flirting with me—when I got the feeling.

  By this time someone had come downstairs and made an announcement for everyone to shut the fuck up. When all was pretty much quiet (even the TV, still crawling through channels, got muted), he introduced a kid named Melvin Dumstorf, who he claimed was the best goddamned white freestyle rapper in Chemung County. “Come on, Melvin!” he shouted. “Show us your shit!” A beat was put on the stereo, and while at first Melvin didn’t look like he was going to do anything—he was a small kid, in jeans and a bright green polo-shirt, the collar up, his blond hair curly and his face now red—he started into something at once. It was kind of hard to keep up at first, but that was probably because I’d had at least six beers and three hits off the joint. Still, the kid sounded too well rehearsed, which I mentioned to Chad, who immediately began chanting, “Re-hearsed! Re-hearsed! Re-hearsed!” to which others started calling out random words, anything from vagina to banana, from vending machine to canoe, and Melvin Dumstorf actually managed to keep up, his lines witty and oftentimes hilarious. But then, after about five minutes of the same irritating beat, the kid’s rapping became annoying and the same kid that had announced him before said, “All right, Melvin, now show us your ninja skills!”