by Unknown
The lieutenant’s face closed at the last question, and Johnston understood something he hadn’t wanted to believe.
“We were an excuse,” he whispered. “A gods-be-damned official excuse!” He stared at the soldier, daring him to deny it.
“Captain said we would be shutting down the revolts for good, cut the head off the snake, you know?” The man stopped, self-conscious, then tried again. “You saw what they did! No one des—”
“Was he…” Johnston began, but had to cough to clear the bile in his throat. He nodded toward Palmer, said, “Was he the head of the snake? Was it worth it?”
The soldier met his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing what should and shouldn’t be said. “I don’t know. It’s just orders, Commander. Does it matter if he was or wasn’t?”
No, thought Johnston. Not anymore. Not anymore.
Illustration by Pierre Smit
‘Double Back’
DOUBLE BACK
BY CLINT SMITH
1
Deacon Stilwell stood in his dark apartment, staring out the window, trying to ignore the figure standing in the shadows behind him. He was clutching a glass of whiskey but hadn’t taken a drink for several minutes, hadn’t moved for several minutes. He was waiting for the thing behind him to speak. For a short time he attempted to calm the rapid rhythm of his heart, which drummed uncomfortably in his ears and throat, by focusing on what he saw outside: the unique, cobalt-gray hue of Chicago light pollution; slanting sheets of snow dusting the sidewalk and street below; in the windows of several apartments, nearby and in the distance, he noted twinkling Christmas trees. The exercise was futile and didn’t last long.
“Hello, Deacon,” it said. It was a monotone sound, issuing from a congested-wheezy windpipe. “Merry Christmas.”
Earlier that evening, on his way home from the University, Deacon had taken a three-block detour to a familiar, nondescript liquor store - a darkly Pavlovian digression which had, in recent months, increased in frequency. But, as habitually consistent as this had become, Deacon’s reasons for these cyclic trips had grown evermore inventive. Deacon Stilwell would stitch together a varied list of conditions that compelled him to drink. Lately it would start this way: he’d be on a bus downtown, sitting on a sticky seat with his face tilted over a book, trying to dismiss inane, one-sided cell phone conversations; or standing in a crowded L-train car, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with clusters of commuters, listening to the conversations of vulgar people and watching vicious arguments unfold before him.
And when these mental vignettes proved inadequate, Deacon would turn on himself, ruminating over his own personal misfortunes. He found solace in calculating his existential injuries – in sliding the black beads of self-pity along his internal abacus. How can a man of consciousness have respect for himself? He would repeat the phrase while inwardly sneering at people. He’d read it once, somewhere. It was by a Russian writer – Tolstoy or Dostoevsky or Turgenev. He’d always gotten them mixed up.
Deacon considered himself both a man, and a man of consciousness; more so now he’d been living on his own for a year in the city. He was a young man, whose intense eyes and coarse disposition contradicted his boyish, delicately vulpine features. He attempted to carry himself with the indifferent swiftness of a metropolitan, but merely succeeded in appearing self-conscious. Inside, he’d developed nasty suspicions about the commonplace: every sidelong glance on the subway was accusatory, every crosswalk collision intentional.
That was how things always started. That’s how things had started earlier this evening.
He’d entered his apartment, stomping off snow and yanking off his knit cap, uncovering disheveled, unevenly cropped hair; he’d slipped out of his coat, dropped it on the floor, and - cradling a wrinkled brown bag - had walked to the kitchen, turning on the small light above the stove and retrieving a tumbler from the cabinet. He’d proceeded into the living room, not bothering to turn on any lamps or lights, and had pulled up the blinds, the darkness softened by weak light: a pale orange phosphorescence cast up by sodium-vapor streetlights lining the sidewalk below.
Deacon had pulled the bottle from its paper husk and filled his glass with amber liquid. He’d drunk slowly, steadily, for several minutes, before his nerves had begun to untangle. The phone had started ringing. Deacon had answered to hear the voice of his younger brother, Paul. Of course, he’d thought, it was Paul. It was always Paul.
As with most of their conversations, it had started with Deacon asking his brother the same rote set of questions: about the weather, about Paul’s surgical residency with the hospital, and so on. And as with most of their conversations, it had begun to unravel when Deacon began reciting a litany of excuses about why he couldn’t come home, why he couldn’t come see their mother. At one point, Paul had asked Deacon about his health, his mind.
“Have you been drinking again?”Paul had asked.
“No,” Deacon had lied.
Deacon had briefly wondered whether Paul asked those kinds of questions because he was training to be a doctor, or if it was the other way around.
The dialogue had deteriorated altogether when Deacon had noticed something in the reflection if the window, something standing behind him – the silhouette of a figure, backlit by the meager light from the kitchen. He had stopped mid-sentence. Paul, likely taking Deacon’s lengthy silence as indignation, had hung up.
Deacon’s lips had grown numb. His heart had pulsed erratically, and it’d taken him several seconds to lower the dead receiver from his ear and return it to its cradle.
He had listened to the figure’s breathing: a lacerated, slashed-cord rattle. Despite the savage quality of the sounds, the figure had remained unnaturally still. It had simply stood there - a mannequin propped up in a poorly-lit living room. After a while, it had spoken. “Hello, Deacon. Merry Christmas.”
Now Deacon heard it make another noise, a cough or a laugh or something, before continuing: “I would ask what’s new but it appears the answer is very little,” it said. “You know, our previous encounter ended so unfortunately; I wanted it to be our last, didn’t you?”
Deacon remained silent.
“Are you still smoking cigarettes?” the thing asked.
“No.” Deacon cleared his throat, trying to sound more formidable. “I quit a long time ago, years ago.”
“Well,” it croaked, “that speaks volumes about your self-control. How are your studies at the University?”
Deacon remained silent.
“Come now,” it proceeded, “the two of us should talk. I’d like to see your face.”The thing lurched forward with jerky, stilted baby steps, as if its limbs were being clumsily tugged by unseen wires. It made damp sounds as it moved across the darkened living room toward Deacon.
“Stop,” Deacon said. “Please, stop.”
It did. A few seconds passed before it spoke again. “What has been tormenting you?”
Deacon said nothing.
“Would it help if I turned on the light, Deacon?”
“No,” he hissed, pivoting slightly, almost turning around. In the stagnant orange light, he caught glimpse of it, of pale skin, a baby-blue flannel mottled with dark stains. He swiveled back toward the window.
“Fair enough,” the thing said. “So tell me, Deacon - do you know why your brother called tonight?”
“No,” he said, before correcting himself. “Yes. To taunt me, to make me feel ashamed. To talk to me like a dog, or like one of his patients.”
“I’m afraid your perception is addled, boy. But this is a symptom of your condition, is it not? After a stretch of silence the thing continued. “As for consciousness, you are pitifully unaware of this: you are a mediocre poet and a myopic artist, proficient only at sketching self-serving metaphors - at observing relationships - which foster disdain and keep the black dog of culpability at bay. You know, of all the things for which you occlude yourself, I’d submit that you do understand why Paul called. And I’m
certain you understand why I’m here.”
Deacon swallowed and moved his lips, trying to summon some moisture in his mouth. “Sure.”
“We both know that articulation was never your strong suit. Do you need some help, son?”
Deacon snorted at that, lifted the glass of whiskey and swallowed what remained in it. He winced against the pungent sting; when he opened his eyes, he was unsurprised to see that the thing’s reflection had moved closer - that it had moved closer. In the window’s reflection, by the pale orange light, Deacon could discern black strands of hair hanging from a narrow, elongated head – a dolichocephalic skull, Paul might say. It had milky-moist eyes, as if cataract-covered, set in bruised sockets. The thing’s skin was pale, fish-belly white, and stood out in stark contrast against the shadows and darkness behind it. The flannel shirt was covered with black streaks and splotches.
“Why did Paul call tonight?”
Deacon answered after uncleaving his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “He asked when I was coming home.”
“Yes, he did,” the thing croaked. “But there is more.” Somewhere down on the street, a car alarm began wailing. “What did he say about your mother?”
Deacon lifted the bottle from the sill and poured himself another drink. “He said she wasn’t doing well - that he was having a hard time taking care of her. He said nobody blamed me, but he always says that.”
“Do you believe him, your little brother?”
Deacon took a deep breath. His head swirled from the whiskey. “No.”
“You lied to him tonight.”
Deacon said nothing. He pressed his index finger against the cold window, and watched a foggy corona slowly blossom around his fingertip.
“You lied to yourself tonight,” the thing began again. “And you are lying now.”
Deacon raised his chin, dropping his finger from the window. The hazy halo faded. “You don’t understand the things that I see.” He paused, his words echoing uncomfortably. “The things I see about people.” He gestured toward the window, out at the city. “These goddamn people treat each other like animals.”
“The best definition of man,” the thing said, “is a being that goes on two legs and is ungrateful. Would you agree with that?”
Deacon hesitated, frowning slightly. Unconsciously, he brought a finger to his teeth, gnawing on the nail for a moment before dropping his hand and shrugging. “Maybe.”
The thing calmly rested its hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “You still answer questions like a child. Does it sound familiar?”
“No.”
“Those are the words of one of your beloved writers, Dostoevsky - one of the many authors you often quote but to whom you rarely devote study. You murmur their phrases, from time to time, when they suit your mood. But do you know exactly the context within which you’re employing these convenient little epigrams?” Silence hung for several seconds. “Deacon, you have been misusing your mother’s money. You were wrong to convince her to allow you to come here. Your brother is correct: you have no business at the University. You have no business here in this city.”
To hell with this fucking thing. Deacon bit his lip, began to turn and froze.
He angled his gaze to the pale hand, which still gently held him in place. It was covered with black streaks. The fingers were out of proportion, several inches too long. Its nails were filthy and appeared to have been crudely chewed. “Let’s put on some Christmas music.”
“No,” Deacon whispered.
“We’re almost there, Deacon. But you need to gather your faculties. Let’s think about the day we first made each other’s acquaintance, yes?”
Deacon said nothing, closed his eyes and shivered.
2
Deacon Stilwell raised his fingers, bending down the brittle mini blinds, and stared out a window overlooking a pothole-eaten parking lot. It was early on a Saturday morning in late August. It would be humid and overcast; but the sun, still hunched along the horizon, painted pastel scarves - peach and mauve - against gray, low-lying clouds. He panned down to the dusty windowsill, where bluebottle flies lay dried-up and dead, their eyelash-thin legs turned upward, as if they’d appealed for something in the throes of their tiny deaths.
Withdrawing his fingers from between the blinds, Deacon dug into his pocket, retrieved a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. And just as he inserted a cigarette between his lips, he was startled by a voice.
“We only allow smoking outside on the veranda,” a woman said, not unpleasantly. She was carrying a Styrofoam cup, clipboard, and a thick stack of almond-colored file folders. “Besides, we’re going to get started here in a few minutes.” She wore brilliantly white tennis shoes, which exaggerated each dutiful step as she buzzed around the small meeting room.
Deacon immediately poked the cigarette back into the pack, and the pack back into his pocket.
The white-sneaker woman - whom Deacon recognized from his previous visits as the program coordinator - was now arranging folding chairs into a large circle. He thought the fluorescently-ill light and muted colors made the room feel more institutional, more nauseating.
People get sicker here, it occurred to him suddenly. The haphazard botanical pattern on the carpet looked like a garden designed by a disturbed person.
Feeling useless, Deacon asked, “Do you need some help?”
“Yes.” The woman smiled but continued working. “That’d be nice.”
Deacon pulled a couple of beige chairs from the wall. They worked quietly. When the circle was complete, the woman exhaled and glanced around approvingly.
“Okay,” she said, retrieving her Styrofoam cup. “There’s coffee and refreshments across the hall. Help yourself before the meeting.” She didn’t wait for Deacon to respond as she walked out of the room. He sat down in a folding chair and fiddled with his lighter.
Nearly every chair in the circle was occupied.
Nearly every rehab program, at one point or another, utilizes a similar therapy exercise where group members in out-patient therapy - whether they’re drug addicts, alcoholics or both, or whether they’re there voluntarily or by court order - spend hours dwelling on and describing the circumstances that brought them here. Very little time is devoted to exploring what will happen next.
The stories were, of course, varied - diverse, one counselor had said brightly - but each tale was similar in that it related a cycle of pain and gratification, usually at the expense of others, and was narrated by an unreliable speaker. Deacon recognized some of the members from previous sessions, but most were new. He sat upright, arms folded, and listened to the stories of the people forming this sad wreath. He was easily the youngest person there.
He listened to Tom, a high school swimming coach. “My son,” the big gray man said, “told me if I didn’t quit drinking he’d move in with his mother.” Tom’s wife had apparently left him several months ago. She now lived in a different state with a different man.
He listened to HIV-positive Kenny, whose nickname was Fancy, discuss crack. Kenny was at the clinic on a judge’s sayso. He spoke frankly and eloquently about his affection for the drug, and delineated ratios and reactions between cocaine and baking soda with the precision of a chemist.
He listened to a booze-weepy widow named Gloria, who dabbed incessantly at her heavily-mascaraed eyes. She cried about everyone else’s story as much as she did about her own.
These stories - these people, Deacon thought, couldn’t be more different from me. The rotation eventually made its way around to the young man.
“Please,” the program coordinator said. “It’s your turn to share.”
Deacon told his story: a vague patchwork of half-truths intended to evoke sympathy. He talked a little about his parents’ divorce, about his younger brother Paul moving away to pursue a medical degree. “I got into trouble a while ago,” he said when he sensed the people around him were growing disinterested in his bullshit. “There was an accident. My family suggested I
come here, that I complete this program.”
“Do you think you need to be here, Deacon?” asked the woman with the white sneakers.
Deacon frowned, refolded his arms and scanned the room. “Drinking, for me, is … recreational. I admit, it’s bad to medicate yourself; but I think if I had my own place- ”
Why don’t you talk about your mother?
Deacon’s eyes widened and his upper body stiffened. “What?”He scowled when no one responded. “Who said that?”
I did. Deacon saw, sitting directly opposite him, an ill-looking young man who presented a small, mocking smile when Deacon leveled his gaze at him. Your mother is nearly a cripple, now. Why is she that way?
Deacon blinked a few times and leaned forward, trying to reign in focus, preparing to mentally square off with this asshole.
The sickly, ashen young man lowered his hand and sat perfectly still. He had slick, black hair, parted on one side. Bangs clung together in clumpy strands and hung over his brow. His skull was an odd shape. His skin was pale. White, like a cadaver, Deacon thought, readying himself for some sort of hateful exchange. The guy was wearing a baby-blue flannel; an ink pen stuck out of the breast pocket of his shirt; his long thin fingers clutched knobby kneecaps. Deacon inhaled, started to say something, but was cut off.
Why does your mother spend most of her time in a wheelchair, Deacon?
Deacon’s heart wound up; but his anger was slowly replaced with fear. He realized that the person speaking to him was growing perceptibly paler, second by second. And that he was not a young man at all, or a teenager; and he was not older. He was, somehow, no age at all.
Tell us a story, Deacon. Be honest with us.
Deacon’s chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing. “This…” he managed, “is a fucking waste of time.”
Some people in the circle glared or frowned. A few slid forward in their chairs.
The pale person, the sick thing across from Deacon, gave up a chuckle that quickly turned into a harsh, muddy-sounding cough. Deacon watched him, it, regain some composure before smiling again - a botched incision framing two rows of uneven teeth, which, to Deacon, resembled jagged shards of tea-stained porcelain.