The Town

by Bentley Little

  He looked up from his magazine. “To a different house?”

  “Back to California.”

  She saw his face harden, saw the stubbornness settle over his features, and her own anger rose in reaction. “It’s not working out here,” she told him. “We tried it, we all followed your dream, but it’s turned into a nightmare.”

  “Still afraid of our haunted house, huh?” He looked like he was sneering.

  “Our son was arrested, our friend is dead, there’s been a string of murders that somehow we’re supposed to be responsible for!” She glared at him. “This fucking town is practically ready to lynch us, and you’re obliviously going on like nothing’s happened! Well, something has, and it’s affected our ability to live here, and it’s time we left!”

  He looked at her levelly, and he put on his calm, rational, explaining voice, the voice he used when he was going over something with one of the kids or when they were in the middle of an argument and he really wanted to get her goat.

  Once again, it worked perfectly.

  “I have put a lot of money into this house and into the café, and we will not be getting another lottery check until next summer,” he said. “We—”

  “We can get jobs!” she interrupted him. “And in case you haven’t noticed, your precious stage collapsed! It killed Deanna and three other people and—”

  “Paul has insurance,” he said calmly.

  “Stop that!” she told him. “Stop playing these fucking games and talk to me like an adult. We’re not competing to see who wins this argument here. I’m telling you that we are going to sell this house and move.”

  “And I’m telling you we’re not.”

  “Well, the kids and I are. Your mother too, probably. We’re getting out of here. We’re moving back to California—”

  “No, we’re not.” His smile stopped her. There was something strained and artificial about it that frightened her. She was reminded suddenly of an old friend from college, Teri Yu, who, for a brief period of time, had been involved in an abusive relationship. Her boyfriend, Todd something or other, had hit her and beaten her, but Teri always gave the usual unprovable excuses that she’d tripped and fallen, hit her head on a piece of furniture or twisted her arm on the stairs. One evening, however, they’d double-dated, gone to a Jethro Tull concert at the Forum, and in the parking lot afterward, Teri and Todd had gotten into some kind of argument. Todd had slapped her, and he would have done more had not Julia stepped between them and faced him down. His expression at that moment had been terrifying: he was smiling, yet filled with anger, filled with hate.

  And he’d looked, at that precise second, exactly like this.

  She stared at Gregory. He stared back. She knew they’d been drifting apart, but the thought came to her that they did not know each other at all. She had no idea who this man was anymore, and that frightened her more than she could say.

  Then the expression was gone from his face, and her feeling with it, and Gregory just seemed to deflate. The stubbornness was gone, the anger, the hatred, and she saw the fear beneath his bluster, the confusion and vulnerability behind his macho mask.

  She saw her husband again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” There were tears pooling in his eyes, and for the first time she saw how hard all this had been on him. He was stressed out too, and instinctively she reached over to him, put her arms around him, hugged him. They’d drifted so far apart that they’d been unable to read each other’s moods. Maybe that was at the root of their problem—lack of communication. They were both the same people they’d always been, neither of them had changed, and she thought that maybe their recent adversarial relationship had arisen from the strangeness of circumstance rather than any true differences between them.

  “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

  “I know,” she told him.

  “I’ve failed all of you. I didn’t want to—”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Shhhhh. It’s all right.” She held him, felt the familiar contours of his body beneath her fingers, the ridges of his collarbone, the muscles in his back, and for the first time in a long while, she felt close to him, truly close to him. They were going to see this through, she thought, they were going to make it, they were going to survive.

  “I love you,” she told him.

  “And you were going to leave me?”

  “I couldn’t leave you.”

  “Then give it one more chance,” he said. “A month. And if things haven’t changed, things haven’t improved, we’ll sell the house and move somewhere else. Back to Downey . . . wherever you want.”

  She wanted to argue, knew that she should stick to her guns. This wasn’t a problem between them, it was something else, something bigger, and the need to leave seemed imperative. It made no logical sense, but she felt as though the chance to move was a rare window of opportunity that was being offered them, a window that soon would close, and close forever.

  But he was asking her, begging her, pleading with her, and she owed him at least that much. It had been his dream to come here, it meant a lot to him, and it was only for a month. Besides . . . maybe she was overreacting, letting her emotions dictate her thoughts.

  “I swear. One thing more and we’re out of here. Packed and gone. McGuane in our rearview mirror.”

  There was something about his voice that rang false to her, and she had the sudden desire, the sudden need, to look at his face and see if the deception she thought she heard was really there, but he was still hugging her, holding her tight, his head on her shoulder, her head on his, and she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “All right,” she said. “Okay. One month.”

  2

  The café was closed, as it had been for the past three days, but Paul’s car was parked in the alley, and Gregory used his own key to unlock the front door. He walked inside. “Paul?”

  There was no response. He shut the door behind him, looked around. Nothing had been touched since that night. Yellow police ribbon still circled the mangled mess of lights and rigging that littered the better part of the room. Even from here, Gregory could see dried bloodstains on the floor and on the smashed tables and chairs.

  He had not spoken to Paul since the funeral, and then it had been merely a generic “I’m sorry,” that echoed the words of the people in line in front of him. He felt bad that he had not called, had not made more of an effort to be there for his friend. He’d sent a condolence card, but that was even more impersonal, and he knew he should have talked to Paul, but the truth was that he did not feel close enough to him to do that. Sure, they’d been hanging together for the past few months, but before that it had been nearly twenty years since he’d seen him, and Paul had to have friends who were closer to him than Gregory, had to have formed relationships with other people in the intervening years.

  Gregory felt strange being here alone like this. He should’ve called Odd first, brought him along. He had no idea what to say or do, but he’d already committed to this course of action, and again he called out, “Paul?”

  There was noise in the back.

  “It’s Gregory!”

  Paul emerged from the office area, looking bad. He obviously hadn’t shaved since the funeral, and although he had changed out of his suit, his clothes were wrinkled, dirty, and disheveled. “What are you doing here?”

  Gregory shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I just . . . I came to find out how you were doing, see if you need any help with anything.”

  “How I’m doing? How I’m doing?” Paul strode across the floor toward him, fists clenched. “How the fuck do you think I’m doing? My wife is dead.”

  Gregory licked his lips. “I thought you might need some help with the cleanup—”

  “Cleanup? What am I supposed to clean up? This place is history. After the victims finish suing my ass, I’ll be lucky to own the fucking clothes on my back.” He shoved a finger in Gregory’s chest. “I never w
ould’ve done any of this if you hadn’t bullied me into it!”

  “Bullied you?”

  “You think I wanted to have concerts in my café? I never even thought of that before!”

  Gregory felt himself being drawn into the argument. “You were complaining that you were barely making enough money to survive. I was just trying to help you out.”

  “You were on an ego trip. You were bored and rich and looking for something to do, and you thought you’d come and lord it over the people you used to know. And now Deanna is dead because of it.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “You never liked her anyway, did you? Are you happy now? Got what you wanted?”

  Gregory held up his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I just came by to see how you were. If you don’t want me here . . .”

  “A little late for that, isn’t it? I never wanted you here at all. And if I’d listened to what that little voice was telling me, my wife would be alive.”

  Gregory felt his anger building. “It’s not my fault. The rigging collapsed. It was an accident.”

  “Accidents don’t just happen.”

  “Of course they happen.”

  “There’s always a cause.”

  “And that’s me?”

  “If the shoe fits . . .”

  “Look, I don’t want to fight. I know what you’re going through—”

  “You have no idea what I’m going through!”

  Gregory backed up. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I’m here if you need me. Give me a call if you want. But I think it’s better if I leave you alone right now.”

  “You’re here if I need you? Where were you when I needed you to make sure your lights and sound system were safe enough not to kill people, huh? If you hadn’t been too fucking cheap to get a professional to put it in, this never would’ve happened!”

  “You’re the one who wanted Odd to handle it!”

  “And he failed! You and Odd are the ones who fucked up here. You killed my wife and Irma Slater and Houston Smith and Linette Daniels and I’m going to sue your ass for everything you’ve got, you cocksucking little milk-drinking faggot!”

  Gregory pushed him.

  They hadn’t had a physical altercation since they were little, since junior high, when Paul had gotten blamed after Gregory keyed the gym teacher’s car, but they got into it now, escalating instantly from shoving to punching. They were both horrendously out of shape, but anger and adrenaline made up for lack of fitness and expertise, and the fight was vicious. There was no one else around; neither of them was concerned with maintaining a manly facade, and they kicked and punched and pulled and grabbed in animalistic fury.

  Paul yanked Gregory’s hair, pulled him forward, then punched him in the stomach, knocking him down, and though he could barely breathe, Gregory rolled out of the way before he ended up with a hard kick in the midsection. He staggered to his feet, faced Paul, and though he didn’t want to think it, the thought arrived unbidden: I wish I had my gun.

  Paul came at him again, and Gregory kicked out, the toe of his shoe connecting with his friend’s gonads, and Paul fell to the floor, clutching his crotch, curling in on himself, whining in a high, doglike squeal.

  A rectangle of light appeared, approached, and then overtook the two of them, and Gregory turned to see Wynona opening the door. “What is going on here?” she said, looking around.

  Paul moaned, and Gregory stared at her dumbly.

  The teenager walked in, walked past him, and crouched down next to Paul. She looked up at Gregory disgustedly. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  He backed toward the open door, letting his fists fall open.

  “You killed his wife, now you want to kill him too?”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Gregory said. His voice sounded slurred, dumb, confused.

  “Just get out of here,” Wynona told him, helping Paul to his feet.

  He looked at the two of them, then turned and hurried out of the café.

  You want to kill him too?

  He had wanted to kill him, Gregory thought. If he had had his gun, he would have.

  And as he got into the van and drove away, he realized that he didn’t feel ashamed about that at all.

  Seventeen

  1

  “Look!”

  Tompall looked.

  It was Jesus.

  The picture was grainy and smudged, like a textbook photo of the shroud of Turin, the features of the face hinted at more by what was not clear than by what was. He picked up the sheet of paper, looked at the one beneath it.

  Same thing.

  Ditto for the one beneath that.

  And the one beneath that and the one beneath that . . .

  All of the copies made on the machine were imprinted with the countenance of Christ.

  “This is a joke, right?” Tompall turned toward his assistant.

  Johnny shook his head, his eyes wide.

  “Well, what did you do?”

  “Nothing!” Johnny’s voice was high and nervous. “I just copied these articles for Mrs. Kness. She wanted twenty copies of each, one for each student in her class, and I put them through, had them collated . . . and this is what came out.” He handed Tompall the originals, and Tompall sorted through the articles.

  Nothing out of the ordinary here.

  He opened the copier, checked the camera, checked the glass, even checked the ink and toner, though that could not possibly have a bearing on what had happened.

  Finally, he made a copy himself.

  Instead of a reproduced article on sea turtles, the photocopy showed the picture of Jesus.

  He replaced the paper in both trays, made several copies, varied the reproduction size, but the result was always the same.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, and the exhalation was not one of identification or recognition.

  “What should we do?” Johnny asked.

  “Try doing these on the other machine. And get me something else to copy. We’ll see if it’s the articles or the machine.”

  It was both.

  No matter who copied what, or which machine they used, the result was always the same.

  Tompall was sweating, not only afraid but frustrated. He didn’t know if this was a miracle or a haunting. He didn’t really care. He just wished it had happened to someone else. He had orders to complete here. The town hall’s new budget book by Friday. Ab Reese’s pharmacy calendars by Monday. Not to mention all the piddly-ass little photocopies that they were given each day—wills and tax forms, letters and checks.

  “You think Christ’s trying to tell us something?” Johnny asked.

  Tompall looked at him. “Just shut the fuck up.” He unplungged both machines, plugged them in again, used Windex to wipe the glass, then, as an experiment, took one of the first Jesus pictures and tried to make a copy of it.

  This time, the result was a little bit different.

  He and Johnny stared at the legal-sized paper. In this one, Jesus was smiling, and there was a little cartoon speech bubble, like the ones in comic books, coming out from his mouth.

  “The Molokans killed me!” Jesus was saying.

  Johnny read the words. “You think that’s true?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  Tompall shook his head slowly, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a paper towel. “Who knows anymore?” he said, staring at the image. “Who the hell knows?”

  “You think we should tell someone?”

  “Not yet,” he said, and he took the picture with the cartoon bubble, placed it on the glass, and hit the Copy button on the machine.

  2

  “Adam?”

  Babunya’s voice sounded tired, and he looked up from his comic book to see her standing in his doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.”

  “You are very quiet.” She walked into his room, looking around at the mess. It was the first time she’d come in here since they’d
moved into the house, and he wondered what the reason was for her visit now.

  “How are you?”

  He looked at his grandmother and realized that he’d been avoiding her. He’d always been close to her, and they’d talked a lot when they’d first moved here, but in the weeks and months since, he’d made an effort to stay away from her, although it was not something he had even recognized until now.

  The banya.

  It was the banya that had come between them. He hadn’t liked lying about going there, and it had been easier just staying away from her. Even after he had stopped sneaking over to the bathhouse, he’d found himself avoiding his grandmother.

  Why? he wondered.

  He could not really say.

  She had obviously noticed, and he assumed that she was now attempting to cross that breach, to break down that wall. He wanted to be able to meet her halfway, to be as close to her as he had been before, but he felt himself stiffen as she approached. Part of him wanted her out of his room, wanted to guard the secrecy he’d been cultivating.

  Why? he wondered again.

  Once more he did not know.

  “I’m fine,” he said rather formally, in answer to her question.

  She walked over, smiling, intending to sit down next to him, but she stopped just before reaching the bed, focusing on something to the left of him, on the floor. Frowning, she reached down, picked up Sasha’s panties from the space beneath the box springs where he’d shoved them.

  She looked at him evenly, and he wanted to protest that he didn’t know what they were, didn’t know how they’d gotten here, but he found himself turning away under her strong gaze, and though he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out.

  She slipped the panties in the pocket of her housecoat and sat down next to him.

  “Is not your fault,” Babunya said softly, putting an arm around his shoulder. “You good boy. I know that. You always good boy. You were born with happy face. The first time I saw you, in the hospital, I saw you had happy face. Sasha and Teo, they don’t have happy face like you. I know this not your fault.”