by Ray Garton
"Yeah," Nick Frazier said, a step behind her, "but you'd have to stop shaving your legs again."
"Fuck off and die, Nick!" she snapped.
They had been fighting all week, and Jeff figured they would break up before school started on Tuesday.
"Where's Mallory and Tina?" Jeff asked.
Brad jerked his head back toward the theater, tossing his red curls, and said, "Bathroom."
The sidewalk became congested as the theater emptied, and the Bible-carrying man in the suit stepped forward. Still smiling, he gently touched his fingertips to the perfectly straight part in his hair and said loudly, "Friends, just as this long and miserable summer is coming to an end, so is the long and miserable existence of this sin-sick planet. Every headline and every newscast is a road sign, and our journey is almost over. Our Lord Jesus Christ is preparing for His return, and He wants all of us to be ready, friends, all of us."
A boy in bermuda shorts and a torn T-shirt shouted over his shoulder as he walked away from the theater, "I'm not your fucking friend!"
Jeff glanced at the preacher; the man blinked as perspiration trickled down his forehead, but his smile did not waver.
"My name is Reverend James Bainbridge," he went on, holding up his Bible, "and these young people are the Calvary Youth. They have been set free by the Truth, friends—free of the addiction to drugs, free of the deceptive promise of sex and the seductive beat of rock and roll. They've brought that Truth to you tonight."
He nodded without turning from the crowd, and, in unison, the Calvary Youth stripped the rubber bands from their stacks and began passing out the pamphlets. Most of the crowd ignored them.
A small hand came to rest on Jeff's shoulder, and he turned to Mallory. "I think I'd like to go home now, Jeff," she said quietly, the glaring light from above softened as it was reflected in her golden hair.
"Why don't you come down to Tiny's with us for a bite to eat?" he said. "You haven't eaten anything all day."
"I don't think so." She had a tight look around her brown eyes, as if there were a pebble in her shoe or something. That look always made Jeff want to take her hand.
"C'mon, just for a while. Then, if you want to go, I'll take you home."
She shrugged indifferently.
Tina Shephard came out behind Mallory and went to Brad's side, snaking a thin arm around his waist.
"We going to Tiny's?" she asked.
"Yeah," Jeff said, putting his hand on the back of Mallory's neck and squeezing encouragingly.
"… don't have much time," Reverend Bainbridge said, his voice fuller than before, the Bible held high over his head. "The Bible says He will come like a thief in the night, and our world is now in its darkest night! Just look around you, friends, and what do you see?"
"Nocturnal emissionaries!" Someone laughed.
Brad took Tina's hand, and they led the way down the walk to Tiny Naylor's. Bobbi and Nick walked with a couple feet of cold space between them.
"I really don't want to stay very long," Mallory said. "If you want, I can walk home."
"No, I'll take you." Jeff had to slow his pace so he wouldn't leave her behind. "I just thought if d be better than hanging around the apartment."
"… bled on the cross for our sins…" Reverend Bain-bridge droned on, his voice fading behind them.
"Yeah," Mallory smiled up at Jeff. "I guess so."
She stopped.
Her smile fell away.
Jeff stood beside her, frowning, although he wasn't sure why. He looked ahead at the others; they had stopped, too, and were looking around.
Despite the sounds of the traffic, the boulevard suddenly seemed quiet, and everything around him seemed to slow to a liquidy, dreamlike crawl. There was a low, almost imperceptible buzz in Jeff's head, as if the roots of his crooked teeth were vibrating. The skin on his back tingled as a gentle balmy breeze began to blow, and when Jeff looked back at the Calvary Youth, he saw them standing oddly still as the pamphlets slipped from their soap-scrubbed hands and skittered down the sidewalk.
The stragglers still coming from the theater slowed and looked around at the dazed teenagers.
Reverend Bainbridge paused, lowering his Bible hand, and then raised it again, speaking even louder than before, trying to regain what little attention he'd had.
"There will come a time of trouble as no man has known before, my friends, and that time has already started," he said. "The clock is ticking and… and…" He leaned toward one of the young women who had dropped her pamphlets and was slowly turning her eyes upward. "Pick them up!" he hissed.
She did not respond.
Mallory tilted her head back.
So did Nick and Bobbi, Tina and Brad.
And the Calvary Youth.
Jeff looked up past the lights and the buildings to the dark and cloudy sky and saw nothing.
There was a break in the clouds, a narrow, crooked opening, like a crack in a giant plaster ceiling. Something flickered. Jeff couldn't tell if the flickering was in the clouds or somewhere deep inside his head, way behind his eyes.
He squinted, shaking his head.
A plane, maybe? he thought. The Burbank Airport was nearby, and planes flew over all the time, their lights blinking.
A shriek came from the group of young Christians, and a girl squealed, "It's near! It's coming! The end is coming!"
Lightning, he thought, craning his head forward. But when he closed his eyes for a moment, the flickering seemed to continue.
"The Holy Spirit is here, my friends!" Reverend Bainbridge shouted. "These young people have been moved by the Holy Spirit to come to you tonight—"
Eyes open again, Jeff thought, It probably is lightning, and it's finally going to rain, and I wish that guy would shut up!
"—not by personal gain, not by pride—"
Maybe the rain will make Mallory feel better, and then maybe, then maybe this guy would shut the fuck up because—
"—or a need for recognition, but by the soft murmurs of the voice of God Himself!"
—because there is no God; if there was a God, there wouldn't be any heat waves, and—
"They are here because they live in fear for the souls of their friends, their families, and the souls of each and every one of you!"
The voice faded a bit and, in the edges of his vision as he looked upward, Jeff thought he noticed a dimming in the lights of the boulevard—
Maybe… maybe it's a helicopter or—
—and a cold hand slid into his brain and began to rummage around.
—or assholes like my father, there wouldn 't be any of those if there was a God, and there wouldn't be any slutty sisters, no slutty sisters with revolving doors between their—
Jeff's head jerked back suddenly as if dodging a swinging fist. His eyes stretched open wide, still on the sky but seeing, for a heartbeat, his sister's warm smile. Guilt sliced through his chest like a just-sharpened razor.
Then it was gone.
The clouds were dark.
A car horn honked as the traffic slowed for another red light.
Jeff turned to see the Calvary Youth slowly moving about, picking up their scattered literature; one of the girls was on her knees, bent forward, her hands clasped before her face, rocking back and forth as she mumbled frantically into her hands. One of the pamphlets whispered over the cement and came to rest at Jeff's feet as the breeze gently backed off.
"… Spirit is speaking to you through these young people, my friends," Bainbridge was saying, pointing to the girl with his Bible, "for a little child shall lead them, and if you ignore the Word…"
Jeff looked at Mallory; she was still staring at the sky. Her mouth was open and her brow was creased, but it was more a look of wonder than a troubled frown.
She whispered, "Did… you… see something?"
Jeff looked up again. Nothing but clouds and darkness. A knot had tied itself in his stomach, and a dull ache was coming up in his head, like mud from the bottom of a stir
red-up pond. His hands were trembling, and he wasn't sure why.
The others were moving haltingly toward Tiny Naylor's; they took a few steps, stopped, looked up; Brad shook his head, Tina folded her arms across her breasts, Bobbi grumbled something, and they moved on.
"No," Jeff said, his mouth dry. "I didn't see anything. Come on." He took her elbow and led her toward the restaurant.
He suddenly felt as if he had lied to his sister. But he hadn't; there had been nothing to see. Nothing.
And although it was a hot, damp night, he suddenly felt a chill….
Three
A few minutes before Jeff Carr walked out of the Studio City Theater, his mother, Erin, was holding the head of a fat man between her hands, pressing her thumbs down hard on his eyes. His smiling mouth opened and closed when she tugged the string she'd threaded through the small hole in the top of his skull.
The arms of his headless body dangled limply as she lifted it from the table and attached the head. Pushing her chair back, Erin stood and lifted the T-shaped handle to which the little man's strings were attached. She carried him to the full-length mirror on the broom closet door and lowered him until his feet touched the floor. Manipulating the strings with her fingertips, Erin made his arms move up and down, then close together in an embrace; smiling, she put him through a gentlemanly bow, a little of the old soft shoe, a belly-jiggling laugh—and his left eye popped off.
"Shit!"
Bending down, Erin plucked the staring eye from the carpet with thumb and forefinger and returned to the kitchen table with a sigh.
She had been working on Mr. Spiropolous for days, and he had to be ready by noon tomorrow. First his jaw had been loose, then his head wouldn't nod. Next his belly didn't jiggle properly—now the eyes were popping off.
Fine, she thought, so I'll be up awhile longer.
She probably couldn't sleep anyway, hot as it was. Her temples were damp with perspiration, and her salmon-pink top, though light and sleeveless, was spotted here and there. She could only afford to run the air conditioner during the day, when the heat was at its worst. At night she opened the doors and windows and hoped for a breeze; mostly she got flies.
Erin poured herself a glass of ice water and took it out on the patio.
It wasn't a patio, really, just a small rectangular space, a folding chair, a waist-high wooden railing with a window box on it. But it was all the patio she needed.
She touched the cold water glass to her forehead and rolled it back and forth. It left beads of cool moisture on her skin; she didn't wipe them off. Leaning back on the rail, she looked through the sliding screen door at the round and lifeless form of Mr. Spiropolous and smiled a little, pleased with the little man, even though he wasn't holding together just yet.
Erin had been holding three jobs for almost two years; one of them paid better than making puppets, but neither of them made her feel as good as she felt when a puppet was finished and she had transformed an assortment of cloth and screws and hinges and a few pieces of wood into a little person. Some were better than others, but they all gave her a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that she didn't get from her other jobs. She would gladly devote all of her time to making puppets and drop the other work, but two kids, rent, utilities, and a dozen other expenses kept her from it.
When Ronald left, he had taken not only the television set, the VCR, and the car, but also the only income Erin, Jeff, and Mallory had. The three of them had moved into this smaller apartment in North Hollywood, and Erin had immediately taken an old friend, Kyla Reilly, up on a long-standing offer.
When Mallory was a baby, Erin had made a few dolls. Erin's friend Kyla saw them one day and had gasped enthusiastically.
"Erin! These are beautiful! I didn't know you did this. These are gorgeous! You should make puppets for the theater! We could pay you. Not much, but we could pay you something."
At that time, Kyla had been working nights as a stripper at the Playland Bar in Van Nuys. During the day, she and a couple friends ran the Holiday Puppet Theater. Parents hired them to perform at their children's birthday parties and at Halloween and Christmas parties. Kyla started the business with a great deal of doubt, but it had been more successful than she'd expected. Despite the growth of the Holiday Puppet Theater, Erin continued to turn down Kyla's offers.
When Ronald left, Erin not only started making puppets for Kyla but took a job as a stripper at the Playland. Not long after that, Kyla gave up stripping in order to satisfy the growing demand for the Holiday Puppet Theater throughout the Valley and Los Angeles and even rented a small building in which to give regular afternoon performances during the summer.
The pay for Erin's puppets was minimal, to say the least, so she was still working nights at the Playland. She wasn't crazy about it, but if the men who gathered there were willing to give her ridiculously large tips for getting on stage and taking her shirt off, she wasn't going to deprive them of whatever fun they managed to derive from grabbing their crotches and making loud zoo noises.
She worked seven-hour shifts four nights a week, and so far she had managed to keep it from Jeff and Mallory. They thought she was waiting cocktails. Although Erin did spend half her time at the bar waitressing, she was uncomfortable with the untruth. She didn't like keeping things from them, but she'd like it less if they knew she was stripping.
Jeff would… well, Erin wasn't sure what Jeff would do. He was a sensitive boy. No—young man. Jeff had passed up boy some time ago. His initial reaction would probably not be strong, but she suspected that something—maybe something within Jeff, maybe something between them, maybe both—would change. She didn't want that. Jeff was much too important to her; she needed him too much.
Mallory, on the other hand…
Oh, wouldn't Mallory be tickled pink to find out, Erin thought, wincing at the bitterness of the words as they were spoken in her mind.
No. She wouldn't do that, wouldn't be that way. It was true, Mallory would be pleased because it would, in Mallory's eyes, confirm everything she thought of Erin. But Erin didn't want to handle it with bitterness. She was biding her time, knowing that, once Mallory had grown a bit and was able to see things from a different angle—like how some husbands don't just leave their wives, they leave their kids, their whole lives behind, not because the little woman burns the roast or doesn't particularly enjoy performing fellatio, but simply because they want to leave, goddammit!—once that happened, things would change between them.
She hoped for that, anyway.
Erin finished the ice water and stretched her arms and legs, twisting around till her spine cracked like distant gunshots. She hadn't gone for her regular swim in a couple days, and she was getting stiff.
Tomorrow, she thought, looking up at the rainless clouds. I'll go for a swim tomorrow, right after delivering the puppets.
At thirty-seven, she was in good shape; not too tall, but very trim, with a minimum of noticeable lines on her face and, so far, no sign of gray in her long auburn hair. She had no trouble with aging, but the management of the Playland Bar did. It wasn't the most respected of jobs, but it paid very well, thank you, and it was better than nothing, which was what she was afraid she'd have otherwise. She hadn't finished school, had no skills, and couldn't afford the time it would take to go back to school and learn to do something.
When her mother called from Michigan twice every week, she always asked Erin, "So, are you still making those dolls?"
"Puppets, Mom. Marionettes. Little people with strings?"
"I know what they are, I just don't understand how anyone can possibly support two teenagers by—"
"Mom. Please. We're okay. Really. We're o… kay."
It made her feel good to say that and mean it. They were okay. They weren't great, things got tough sometimes, but they really were okay.
As she went back into the apartment Erin thought, But we would be a lot better if things were different with Mallory….
She went into
the living room, turned on the radio, and found a station that was playing something old and easy. Humming along with the music, she was about to return to Mr. Spiropolous's eyes when the phone rang.
Erin looked at the clock on the stereo; it was after eleven. She'd forgotten she was on call tonight.
Job number three.
"Hello?"
"Bunny?"
"Yes."
"Pen and paper?"
"Mm-hm."
"George would like you to call him back at eight-one-eight, seven-five-nine, sixty-one, sixty-one."
"Okay. What's he want?"
"The standard."
Erin had heard about Fantasy Line Phone Sex from Jess, her boss at Playland. She'd needed extra money to buy Mallory some new clothes and supplies for school. Jeff had a job at a bookstore in Sherman Oaks and pretty much took care of himself, God bless him.
She'd taken the job only two weeks ago and had no intention of keeping it much longer. It was a good way to make some quick cash, though. She was on call from twelve to four three nights a week and got fifteen dollars for each twenty-minute call. Not bad, especially considering most of them took much less than twenty minutes.
Erin carried the phone from its stand by the kitchen door to her bedroom. She closed the door in case the kids came home, sat on her bed, and dialed George's number.
"Hello?" It was a young male voice.
"Hello, is this George?"
"Yeah."
"Hi, George. This is Bunny. How are you?"
"I'm, oh, I'm fine." Very young. Probably underage. "So, your name is Bunny, huh?"
Erin heard a chorus of stifled laughs; someone hissed, "Bunny?" She knew immediately. It was a bunch of high school kids having a little fun. Probably charging it to Dad's credit card. And, Erin liked to imagine, after Dad sees the bill, he and Mom have a little talk with Junior and ask how dare he call such filthy numbers on their phone, and Junior smiles and says, "I didn't think you 'd mind, Dad, I found the number in your wallet."
"That's right, George," she said, smiling at her little scenario. "What are you up to tonight, hmm?"