Purgatorium

by J. H. Carnathan

  “No!” she sobs. “I would never! I was only trying—”

  “You were letting your demons make a fool of you and now you’re trying to make a fool out of us,” he says. “But because I like ya, Ronda, I’m going to give you a second chance.”

  Raphael pulls her arm down further, forcing her onto her knees. He grabs her neck and pushes her head down onto the table, her face toward me, and Raphael’s pistol still at her temple pressing down. I push the bullet in and stick the ramrod back in.

  “Now, tell me the reason you’re here!” Raphael growls at her.

  “He is my friend,” the waitress whispers. “He took care of me. He believed heaven would accept me.”

  “Home wreckers don’t go to heaven!” he roars. “You are a liar, Ronda. You came here to take my boy’s home away from him. Why you want to be a dude instead of a woman is your problem. Maybe your demons turned you gay. Who knows?! But Ronda sweetie, you know… deep, deep, deep, deep down inside that hollow icicle abyss you call a soul lies an undeniable truth: you are going to hell. Because cheaters always be cheating. Isn’t that right?” He looks to me as I stop to remember where I heard that before. “ 5…4…3…2…1! Time’s up, Ronda.”

  I finish reloading and with my hand shaking, pull the pistol up pointing it at Raphael. Raphael releases the hammer on his pistol, holding it up for a second, and then carefully lays it down on the table.

  “I didn’t even load it! Good one, right?”

  The waitress and I both breathe a sigh of relief. Raphael lets go of her head, and she quickly pushes herself away from the table and stands up. Raphael keeps laughing for a few moments and then stops.

  Feeling reassured, I lay my pistol down on the table and close my eyes. When I open them again, Raphael has grabbed my gun and liftsit up to the waitress’ face, shooting her in the cheek. She drops to her knees and falls onto her side convulsing on the floor.

  Shocked and angered, I jump up, knocking his chair over and looking down in horror at the waitress’ shaking body.

  Raphael puts my pistol back on the table. “Look at Ronda, squirming like a fish. That’s adorable.” He chuckles.

  I aim my pistol at Raphael but remember that it needs to be reloaded. Raphael trembles for a moment. I am surprised at this apparent show of fear. But he quickly puffs up his chest and defiantly tilts his head back a little.

  “You think you are a saint?” he says to me. “You don’t know WHO you are! You could be a serial killer for all you know! Or a wealthy drug lord! Did you ever think to yourself that maybe, just maybe, your real life wasn’t all that special? Maybe somewhere deep down inside you know this. Maybe you’re too afraid to even find out. So if you can’t even make a decision for yourself, you can at least make one for her. I mean, you two would make a happy, soulless couple. But before you make that decision, how about you make this one first. Shoot me! Load the gun and shoot me. Go on then! I’ll make it easier for you.”

  40 Minutes

  I let the gun drop down to my side, knowing it’s not loaded and that Raphael must know this too. I feel cold.

  “Ronda,” Raphael says, laughing, “you wouldn’t happen to have a light on ya, would ya?”

  She lies there...dead.

  “Oh, right!” Raphael laughs, lifts up his favorite matchbook, rips out a match, strikes it, and lights another cigarette. He inhales, stands up, and walks out, singing... “Beat it. Beat it. No one wants to be defeated.”

  I look over at the bar and see the silver cloche. The hourglass in its reflection looks to have flipped over already. I quickly turn and run away toward the stairs.

  I race out the door, across the street, down the stairway, through the subway, and jump onto the train. I look at the window, reflecting the hourglass, and see I am back on track.

  I sit beside the subway car window, darkness streaming by behind me. The door between the cars slides open. Raphael walks through, down the aisle, and sits beside me.

  “Ha ha! My brotha! Sad to say but to really get through to people in this day and age it takes a pistol to their skull. That’s the way things go in this godforsaken world.” He sighs, leans back, and once again, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts one his mouth. Taking another match from the same matchbook, he strikes it and lights the cigarette. He coughs like something is stuck in his throat. Turning to me, he continues to cough in my face, as if he finds this funny.

  I stand up and quickly push him to the floor. I am done with him. I get my fists ready as Raphael tries to laugh but coughs instead.

  You are not fooling me. I start kicking him, not letting him up. “Is that all you got!” he screams.

  I hear music from outside the subway car getting louder. I stare at the window and see the hourglass in its reflection.

  It must be 42:02, I think.

  Raphael gets up and starts dancing. I look at him, confused at what he is doing. Suddenly, Raphael flicks his cigarette into my face, blinding me.

  “Heads up!” Raphael shouts. I am still trying to clear the ashes from my eyes. I can finally see Raphael swinging my hatchet and slicing my head clean off my neck. An electric blue light shines from out of my neck line.

  “Oh! See if you can bring me back a pack of cigs,” says Raphael.

  I feel my head making its way to the ground as everything around me breaks into puzzle pieces and my vision is enveloped in a blinding white flash.

  THE PARK

  The northern lights dance across the clear night sky, bringing life to the park. The trees sway lightly in the breeze, vibrant with twinkling icicles and strands of white Christmas bulbs. Despite the winter chill, hundreds of hearty souls stand chatting with each other in a line leading past a brightly lit glass pavilion. Inside the pavilion is a grand dining room full of set tables and Christmas decorations. About 100 yards to the left of the pavilion is a stage with hundreds of seats set up in front of it.

  I walk into the pavilion. I brush the lapel of my cheap tuxedo, making sure everything is absolutely perfect. I look up at the clock. I am late. People are talking to each other and the tables are full of dirty dishes being cleared by the staff. Waiters and waitresses walk through the crowd, both inside and outside, offering glasses of champagne.

  I walk back to the door leading outside and step out under the night sky. I scan the crowd near the stage. The seats are full, except for a few near the back. They are shouting, “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!! One more song!! One more song!” My heart racing, I continue looking. Just then, Madi steps out onto the grand, white stage, the spotlight illuminating her.

  The audience waits as the music begins to play. She looks out over the crowd and then opens her mouth.

  “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Yuletide carols being sung by a choir and folks dressed up like Eskimos.” The crowd cheers and whistles. The orchestra starts playing.

  That’s it Madi, you are doing it, I think. I walk along the rear row of the crowd, but keep my eyes up on the stage, watching Madi’s every movement, every expression, and feeling moved by her voice.

  As I reach an empty seat near the left side, another man, standing near the open seat and wearing a very expensive-looking coat, scarf, and fedora while holding a champagne glass, watches me walk toward him.

  “Great girl you got there,” he says.

  I stop in my tracks, surprised to hear someone talking to me. I look up at the stranger and am shocked to see that he looks exactly like Gabriel, but somehow different, not Gabriel.

  “Thanks,” I say, still unsure who the man is and suspicious of his motives.

  “It’s good she finally got over that pesky stage fright,” the man continues. “Outside of church, that is.”

  I turn to look back at Madi and feel transfixed again. I nod. “Yes. Very good thing.”

  “I hear you had something to do with that?”


  “I signed her up for this gig,” I say, smiling, “to tell you the truth.”

  “Please do.”

  “Actually, she hasn’t really spoken to me in the week since I told her about it.” I look at the man quickly and see his face now has a taciturn, but sympathetic expression. I look back at Madi. “Worth it though.”

  The man takes a sip from his champagne glass and turns his back to the stage. “I am very sorry,” the man says. “It is quite rude of me to approach you without introducing myself properly.”

  “No problem,” I reply, though I am still not sure what to make of the man.

  “I am Madi’s childhood friend, Peter,” he says, offering a hand. “I always told her that her voice needed to be heard.” I shake Peter’s hand. I never heard her mention a friend named Peter before, though I am relieved to know his relationship to her now. “She has truly been blessed,” he continues.

  “Yes, she has,” I respond back.

  “You know, I tried to sign her? You know how stubborn she is, though.”

  I smile, looking back and forth, attention divided between Peter and the stage. “She never talked about me?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I say. “She never has.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. My parents moved away and we lost touch when we were kids. And we’ve been in contact only occasionally since then.”

  “That’s too bad,” I reply.

  “So, what, may I ask, do you do?”

  “Sales,” I reply, dryly.

  “Salary with commission I hope,” Peter laughs. “Times are tough. The profession of sales is not what it used to be.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” I say. “I have also been working on a novel.”

  I look over and see Peter’s eyebrow arch with curiosity. “Oh yeah, for how long?”

  “Five years,” I answer, slightly ashamed. “Give or take a few months.”

  Peter smiles wryly, sipping his drink. “Well, you know what they say, right?” He reaches into his inner jacket pocket. “Rome was not built in a day. Here’s my card.” I take the card, nodding agreeably with the stranger. “If you are serious about writing, give me a call. I can contact a friend of mine who will steer you in the right direction.”

  I smile. “Thank you!” I put the card in my pocket without looking at it. We both look back up at Madi.

  “She is a star and doesn’t even know it,” Peter says.

  Madi sings, “Although it’s been said, many times, many ways…” drawing out the last word.

  “There has always been something holding her back though,” Peter continues.

  I nod, uncomfortable with Peter’s apparently intimate familiarity with Madi. “Oh yeah?”

  “Did she tell you the story of her past?”

  I look at Peter, taken back by his forwardness. Nevertheless, the stranger’s knowledge of Madi is somehow disarming. “That kind of trauma is something that is never easy to get rid of,” I find myself replying.

  “Good to hear you’re a decent man,” Peter says. “Once she finally moves past it all, maybe then she will finally give serious thought to going on tour.”

  “Tour?”

  “Yes, I’m a record company executive.” Peter replies. “Madi’s mother told me she was singing tonight. I came to see if she still has that special something.”

  Peter holds up his hand, looking past me. I look to where he is waving and a waitress walks across to where we are, carrying a tray of full champagne glasses. “Indeed, she still does.” The waitress arrives and Peter takes another glass, putting his empty one onto the tray.

  The crowd has started clapping and cheering as the orchestra plays the last few notes of the song. Peter turns to the stage and shouts, “Bravo!”

  While the man is looking up at the stage, I reach inside my pocket, take out Peter’s card, and read the name.

  Peter J. Cameron

  I begin to feel jealous of the man’s success. This man could actually do something for Madi, I reflect, enviously.

  “Nice ring to it, right? Better, no?” Peter says, looking up at the stage. “Moving to Los Angeles changes not only your way of thinking but your name as well.”

  I am puzzled by Peter’s statement about changing his name, but embarrassed that Peter’s seen me checking his card, and maybe even has surmised that I feel inferior. I nod, sliding the card back into my pocket. “I guess so.”

  “A whole new frame of mind.”

  Looking up on stage, thinking about Madi’s future and feeling threatened by Peter, I suddenly blurt out, “She won’t do it!”

  Peter looks at me, surprised. “What makes you so sure?

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Leaving to go on tour? Four months at a time? Not up her alley.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind,” Peter says, lustfully looking up at Madi, and then looking back at me. “I came here to give my best. Anything else Madi is interested in is up to her.”

  I reach my hand out toward Peter, feeling uncomfortable at Peter’s apparent attraction to Madi, and insignificance in Peter’s presence. I want to end this conversation as soon as possible. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Cameron,” I say to Peter.

  “Likewise, and call me Peter, please,” he says to me. “You’re very lucky. What was your name again?”

  “I am sorry, did I not give it? I am bad at that. My name is…” I start to reply, but he is interrupted by Peter’s phone ringing.

  “Gotta take this, my man. Tell her I send my love.” Peter puts the phone to his ear and starts talking, turning his back to me and walking back toward the pavilion. Probably something important, something that involves a lot of money, I think enviously as I sigh.

  I sit down in the empty seat next to me and slump over. I look back and see Peter getting into his car. I think to myself, Is that a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am? The Knight Rider car, really? He would be that rich.

  The crowd has mostly vacated their seats, moving forward to try to get closer to the stage to see Madi who, having finished her last song, has climbed down into the crowd to talk to admirers.

  Feeling dejected, I watch her from my seat. After a few minutes of quickly ending conversations and pushing through the crowd, Madi spots me sitting alone, looking out into the park. This park and this bench are the same in the other world, I think in the back of my mind. I look at the Ferris wheel, with all the happy young couples getting into it. How little do they know, I think. In the corner of my eye I spot a dead tree in the center of the park.

  “I did it!” she shrieks happily. “I did it!!” I look up, trying to force a congratulatory smile, but my affect is flat. I am overcome by my feelings of dejection and envy of Peter.

  I hear whispering, “Madi is better than you. You’ll never be worthy of her.” I try to shake off the voices. I close my eyes, shutting them tightly.

  Madi looks around behind us, reaches into her jacket, and takes out a silver flask. She unscrews the top, takes a quick swig, and hands it to me. “I think my lucky flask did the trick! Don’t you? Let’s get drunk and ride the Ferris wheel! What you say?”

  She laughs uncomfortably, seeing I am not responding to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter, still despondent. “Let’s go up. Though I will skip the drinking part. She takes my hand and we walk to the ride. I see Madi holding something in her hand as if she were trying to hide it from me. When we arrive, the line has grown dead. We get inside and the wheel begins to move us up.

  “It looks like you need an early Christmas present,” she says, revealing the small, wrapped gift box. “I tried to surprise you! I picked this up today. So…Surprise!”

  “Madi, I…”

  “I can’t wait five more days!” she says, thrusting the box into my waiting hands. “I’m way too excited!”

  Witho
ut looking at her, I take the gift box and put it down beside me on my lap. We make it to the top and the ride stops. I look up at the tree across the park again.

  “You know the story behind that tree?” I say. Madi looks in the direction that I am looking. “It has been there for a very, very long time, you see. The tree that never produces life, they say. Like most dead trees, they wither and decay, but not this one. It just stays, looking dead, never withering or decaying. It won’t die. It has been struck by lightning 15 times, set fire to 12 times, and people have tried to cut it down 21 times. This tree, this evil tree, no matter how hard or in what way God tries to destroy it, it just won’t be destroyed.”

  I look up at Madi’s expression. It’s almost as if the story has now spooked her. I gaze back at the tree and continue.

  “The story goes back a long time. It’s a story about a young boy and girl. They were just kids, but they were in love. They came across the tree one day. The boy presents the girl with a ring he made in school. The girl tells him that her parents are moving away. The boy confesses his love. The girl cries. She accidentally knocks the ring out of his hand. Now, if you look closely, you can see that tree has an almost wonderland-like hole right in the center of it. And guess where that ring lands? Now, the girl is a brave young thing. Thinking that it is her fault, she runs and hops on in the hole. The boy just stands there, frightened to go in. Seconds pass and he hears her scream. The boy is terrified and frozen. He hears a strange sound. Though he can still hear her screaming, she now sounds like she’s very far away. He listens until he can’t hear her anymore. You see, inside that hole is a cave. It goes down mile after mile into complete, utter darkness. No one really knows how far you have to go before you hit the bottom. Some say it’s the doorway to hell. Some say it’s a place where dreams go to die. The boy still just stands there. He stands there for two days straight as if in shock. What do you think that boy was thinking?”