Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  The scene churns in my mind, like I’m flipping through photographs from a homicide file. Cardboard shifting, gaping mouth, horror-filled eyes, and the shiny ball bearing staring, staring, glaring out at me like an angry silver bumblebee wedged deep in a bloody hole in a cadaverous telephone pole.

  And there is the nightmare that won’t quit. It’s always the same. I dive into the pond to save Luke, and a chrome-eyed Cyclops wearing Luke’s Dodgers cap grabs my feet and pulls me down to the bottom. I try to swim but can’t because somehow my tennis shoes are stuck onto my hands with the laces tied together like handcuffs. At the end, I’m drowning alongside Luke’s lifeless body with Mac swimming in circles around us underwater. He’s barking furiously, but what I hear sounds like he’s screaming, GET THE STICK, MURDERER! I cry out for help, and billowing streams of mockingbird feathers flow from my mouth. I awake drenched and shivering.

  The darkness has conquered and occupied my dreams; the invisible foe nearly has me beat, and unless there is a beautiful sky in the middle of this storm, I don’t think I can take any more.

  It takes me almost thirty minutes to decide not to write a note. After watching him sleep for a while, I leave Luke snoring peacefully. I order Mac to stay with him before easing myself out into the moonless night. I look back through the open window one last time and silently grant Luke full dominion over the room and our meager treasures. Mac whimpers when at length I quietly slide the window shut. He senses the dark sadness in me and is driven by an instinctive need to protect me. He is angry that I won’t let him come, but I can’t let him interfere.

  My sandaled feet get soaked as I cross the wet grass—I left my brand-new tennis shoes, half of Lucinda’s sacrifice, behind for Luke to grow into.

  It is so dark, but I have made my decision. Yet as I stand on the sidewalk looking back at the house, I can’t help wishing that Luke and I were sneaking out once again to bask in the nocturnal beatitude of Billy Goat Hill. We had some good times, Luke and I. One last glance toward the bedroom nearly stops me cold. Mac is framed in the window, his big brown eyes pained, desperate. Fearing he may break the glass, I sternly motion for him to get back from the window. He stares for a long moment and then dejectedly complies.

  Walking down the hill of Ruby Place, I feel more alone than I ever have before, like the last boy on earth. At Mrs. Roberson’s fence, Molly barks once, and it occurs to me I will never hear that sound again. The dead man’s face whips through my mind, telling me he is already there where dogs don’t bark.

  I cross Figueroa to the east side of the street and begin my trudge north. Like a captured soldier prodded along by an abusive captor, I lean forward at a disconsolate angle and march. Wretched, forlorn—I mark a steady pace toward my self-imposed fate.

  At some point along the way, I look up and catch myself longing for that sparkling miracle, the beautiful tangerine sun that delivered Luke back to me at Three Ponds. No such luck. Not even one last shooting star to light my deserted path. It doesn’t matter. There is no need for beacons, benchmarks, or moonlit maps. I know the way to Suicide Bridge.

  The ebony sky seals my loneliness within me.

  At each cross street, I call out its name from memory-Myosotis, Roy, Springvale, Saint Albans, Delphi, Oak Crest Way, La Prada, Hillandale, Burwood, Strickland, Poppy Peak, Annan Way, Tipton Way, Crestwood Way, Buena Vista Terrace, Glen Arbor, Rockdale, Yosemite Drive, Lanark, La Loma Road and at last, Colorado Boulevard.

  Eagle Rock looms in the darkness above me as I push on up the hill toward the bridge.

  I sit on the curb in front of Henry’s Rite Spot and catch my breath. A faint light shimmers inside the front window and a good memory steals a moment. I think about Henry’s quart-size strawberry shakes—the best. Earl used to treat us to those shakes once in a while, back in the good old days when he and Lucinda got along. My brain cruelly teases me with the taste and scent of strawberries.

  Earl had his good points. I have missed him something fierce, but I never let on. I didn’t want to make things worse for Luke. No sense crying over spilt milk shakes anyway. I stand up and resume my lonely march.

  The lights on the bridge snap into my field of vision, warm and welcoming like faithful candles in a window. As bright and disarming as Miss Cherry’s lovely smile but dangerously insincere, the lights are a clever disguise obscuring a grotesque monster. The bridge is a huge dolmen tomb for an exquisite covey of wayward souls. Now the youngest to take the solemn oath, I am seduced by its arches whose promise to quell my anguish and despair brings hope and comfort to the ultimate capricious act. I hear the bridge whispering my name, and I am not afraid.

  I accept the unholy invitation and plod out to the middle of the span, sure that there is nothing left to do but wait for the sun to appear as my witness. I have arrived early. Waiting for the box office to open has always been painful, and here I am the first one in line again. I lean against the railing and try to will the dead man out of my mind. I don’t want him to jump with me. This is private and personal, and I don’t even know his name.

  All of this flits around in the last part of my brain not yet petrified by ravenous guilt as I look down at the unforgiving concrete channel glistening in the dawn two hundred feet below. I understand how the bridge earned its name. Now I know how the dozens of tormented souls that have gone before me felt just before they solved their problems.

  Suicide Bridge plays the part well, its hideous architecture perfect for a classic Gothic horror movie. Constructed of two Model-T width lanes of aged, discolored concrete, the bridge looms high above a threatening gorge. It is not a cheery place, but quite suitable for those in a beaten and hopeless state of mind.

  A short way up the draw is a venue famous for some of the most jubilant celebrations of modern times, the Rose Bowl. From where I’m standing, I can just make out the top of its magnificent oval protruding out of the daybreak mist. The vision reminds me of when Earl took me with him to the ‘55 Rose Bowl game. I was going on five at the time…

  Two minutes into the third quarter I announce that I have to go to the bathroom. Earl is already drunk, and it angers him that I hadn’t gone to the restroom during halftime. Not wanting to miss any of the action, he sends me off to find the facilities by myself.

  I get lost in the crowd. At first I am frightened, but after a few minutes of aimless wandering, I merge into an adventure. I circle the stadium two, maybe three times, for the most part enjoying the crowded festivities. The football game is nearly over when I finally spot Earl and sit back down on the bench next to him. He barely glances at me, unaware that I’ve been absent for nearly an hour. How can someone who looks so much like me not care about me?

  The bridge seems to understand.

  The majestic vision of the Rose Bowl evaporates when the dead man’s face flashes into my consciousness, a pasty-gray contorted version of Ricky Ricardo’s face. He just sits there leaning against the rock at Three Ponds, staring at me. My mind bumps down a staircase of questions:

  Who are you?

  Did you have a wife?

  Did you have any children?

  Did you ever take them to the Rose Bowl?

  What were you doing there under that piece of cardboard?

  Why were you so well dressed in a sharkskin suit and expensive shoes?

  Questions, questions, questions, but for me there never seem to be any answers.

  Wincing pain throbs behind my temples, like it does when you eat freezing-cold ice cream too fast. I can’t get the dead man out of my mind. He’s been tormenting me nonstop since Carl, right on time, fired up his Chevy and headed off to bake and wrap his daily quota of twenty thousand loaves.

  Minutes tick away. Nobody gets in line behind me. The bridge lights shut off, changing shifts with the first glow of daybreak. Distant sounds of awakening commerce signal the end of the city’s slumber. Soon I will not be alone. I look down again and watch while a morning mist crawls out from the rocks and drapes the channel with fr
esh-smelling linen custom-made for my weary bones. It won’t hurt—I’ll just jump into bed, pull up the covers, and go to sleep.

  I think of Mac, and a tear rolls down and falls away from the tip of my nose. I watch it plummet and prepare to follow. My wounded mind closes in on itself, incapable of distinguishing anything except the final critical task, and one last selfless thought. My lips tremble over the words. “I’m sorry, Luke.”

  Overriding the oppressive sorrow, I begin to form the intent, the mental instructions.

  It is time.

  The muscles in my right leg respond…lift up over…the rail. Please forgive me, God.

  So deep am I mired in my gloom, I do not hear the car that has come across the bridge and stopped not ten feet away from where I stand.

  A man’s voice booms loud over the drone of the motor, startling me out of my trance. “Hey, kid! You’re out and about kind of early, aren’t you?”

  My leg slumps back down on the deck. I turn around and see an unfamiliar car. A big car, bright-white and full of energy, like an ivory stallion out on a morning run. Embarrassed that my face is a picture of pain and sorrow, I sit on the curb and put my head in my hands. I am ready to kill myself, but I am not ready to cry in front of a stranger.

  The driver leans across the front seat to the open passenger window. “What’s the matter, kid? You got problems?”

  I nod without showing my face, like a silly toddler playing a game of peek-a-boo. The man turns off the motor and gets out of the car. I steal a look and quickly wipe my eyes.

  It’s him! He’s in his uniform, which looks out of place and strange in contrast with the civilian vehicle. I note the familiar spitshined, black knee boots as he approaches from around the back of the car.

  It has been a year and a half, but when he sees my face, he recognizes me right away. “Wade Parker? Kind of far from home, aren’t you?”

  I nod again. It is so good to hear his voice again. It warms me a little. “What are you doing way over here, sir?”

  “I’m on my way home. I used to live in Highland Park, but I live in South Pasadena now—not very far from here. I’ve got a little place off Fair Oaks.”

  “Oh. I thought you had to live in Los Angeles.”

  “That used to be the rule, but not anymore. Say, you’re not related to Chief Parker are you?”

  “No, I’m not an Indian.” I do not intend to make a joke. It just comes out that way. I chuckle sarcastically to myself, my emotions splitting wider than the Grand Canyon. Perplexed at first, he gets it and smiles.

  A car starts across the bridge in the same lane that the Sergeant stopped his car. The big white stallion will have to gallop on or let the car go around.

  He opens the passenger door. “Come on, get in.”

  I hesitate for a moment and then do as he orders. He slams the car door, hurries around the hood, and jumps in behind the wheel. Gunning the engine, he puts the stallion in gear and the rear hoofs yelp. “She’s got great traction.”

  As if I know what that means.

  We cross into Pasadena, and I look out the rear window at the bridge. My solution has been stolen away from me. I’m not worth spit.

  He makes a few turns, and a blurry five minutes later swings the big white car around to the back of a restaurant called the Den.

  He cuts the engine and sets the brake. “I just brought her home yesterday.”

  “What? Oh, you mean the car.”

  He grins proudly. “She’s a 1956 Buick Special—far from new, but just barely broken in. I got her for a pretty good price from a White Rock beverage salesman over in Highland Park.” He’s still grinning. “Like her?”

  “I’ve never been in a car this big before.”

  He strokes the steering wheel. “I haven’t picked out a name for her yet.” He looks at me, inviting a suggestion. I shrug.

  “I know. I can’t think of anything either.” He rolls up his window and motions for me to do the same. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast.”

  I move slowly. My stomach isn’t interested in food. My mind is still back on Suicide Bridge.

  We enter the building through a rear service door and tramp down a dim hallway that smells of animal fat and stale produce. I slog along behind him like a mindless drone. A couple of turns later, we emerge through swinging doors into a cramped but clean, well-ordered, brightly lit kitchen. My eyes narrow to adjust to the light.

  An elderly baldheaded man no more than an inch taller than me, and thin as can be except for a bowling ball shaped gut, stands at a stainless steel sink full of bobbing potatoes. His back is to us and he turns abruptly, startled by unexpected visitors. I immediately notice an array of tattoos on the man’s wet forearms. It’s impossible, even in my spiritless mood, to look at this little man and not smile.

  “Well, praise God! How are you doing, Lyle?” The little man cackles. He flashes a smile that is way too big for his elfish face and quickly wipes his hands on an apron tied snugly below his round belly.

  I watch with fascination as the tattoos on his forearm appear to move when he reaches to shake hands with the Sergeant. I look closer and recognize the tattoos are all of Jesus, the same on his other arm. I see Jesus by the seashore, Jesus standing near a well with a woman, Jesus standing before a crowd of people, and Jesus on the cross.

  “I couldn’t be better, Rodney. How are you?”

  “It doesn’t do any good to complain. Praise the Lord anyway—that’s my motto.” He cackles again.

  I am still very distraught, but I can’t keep from smiling. This little man isn’t a dwarf, but his high-pitched laugh and spunky disposition remind me of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz, my favorite movie.

  The little man turns his grin on me. “And who might this young colt be?”

  He hobbles over and thrusts Jesus at me. His eccentric gait suggests the presence of an invisible barrel between his legs, his knees splayed three times farther apart than his ankles. To say he is bowlegged would be an understatement.

  I shake his hand. “My name is Wade Parker, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Rodney Bernanos. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. Just call me Rodney, if you please. You’re nearly as tall as me so you can save the sir for teachers, preachers, and jail keepers.”

  “Huh?”

  He clips short another cackle when a gray cat leaps from some unknown springboard and lands gracefully on his right shoulder, where it proceeds to sit perfect as a parrot on a perch.

  Intrigued by the man and the cat, I watch them both as a trace of an impression tickles my consciousness. Bernanos? Why does that name sound familiar?

  Rodney reaches up as natural as can be and commences scratching the cat behind its ears, as if the cat had been there all along. This motion stands the tattoo of Jesus on the cross in an upright position and makes the cross appear to move as though swaying with the wind. My stare is flagrant.

  “Like my tattoos, do you?” A warm acknowledgement twinkles in the little man’s eyes.

  I stammer, unsure if my curiosity is impolite or rude. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be sorry, son. It’s a good thing to want to look at Jesus. Jesus changes lives, you know. I used to have naked lady tattoos on my arms. When Jesus came to live in my heart, everything changed. So it was off with the naked ladies and on with my Lord and Savior.”

  “Really?” Is he pulling my leg? I glance at the Sergeant and then look a little closer at the tattoos.

  In Rodney’s eyes I see truth and sincerity. Something about this strange little man makes me feel good, makes me feel like I belong, even if I do outweigh him. I think of Miss Cherry that night on Billy Goat Hill. Her special warmth and caring made me feel the same way. Drawing upon a new ripple of confidence, I continue my inspection of Rodney’s unusual artwork. “Why did you have naked ladies on your arms?”

  Rodney cackles with delight and holds up both arms, inviting an even closer look. “It was one lady, actually—my devoted w
ife, Doris. God rest her soul. It was during World War One, and I was a young freedom fighter in France who desperately missed his equally young wife. A Parisian tattoo artist worked from photographs and the vivid visions in my head. The tattoos of my beloved Doris helped keep me alive during the worst of it. You might say Doris stood at the door of death with old Rodney several times.”

  “Wow!”

  He cackles again. “We were quite a couple, inseparable, and crazy about each other. Oh, how we loved to dance.” He frees a mirthful snicker, and his eyebrows wiggle in remembrance of young romance.

  As though spying baby birds in a nest, the cat perched on Rodney’s shoulder furtively watches his eyebrows for additional movement. Its mouth twitching, the cat is clearly ready to pounce. I glance again at Sergeant Cavendish. He notices the cat’s intentions, too, and his face blooms in a mixed bouquet of smile and grin.

  “You wouldn’t believe my one and only Doris. What a wonderful woman she was. But, Lord of all that is sacred…” He shakes his head sharply. “Sometimes that woman would push me harder than a starving jockey on a three-legged nag.”

  Jockey? Rodney Bernanos? Earl always used to talk about betting the ponies. He mentioned the name Bernanos before. Well I’ll be, this funny little man used to be a jockey.

  “But, I have to be honest with you. I do miss Doris something fierce.” He holds his arms out in front of him and gives them a wistful look. His animated face slackens. “You understand about covering her up, don’t you? You see, she’s with Jesus now.”

  “I think so.”

  Then he jumps on a fresh horse faster than a Pony Express rider running behind schedule. “But by golly, you could seal that mighty mouth of hers in a burl wood box, bury it with the pharaohs, and I’d still be able to hear her screech when she called me.”

  I step back, a little shocked. “Screech?”

  “Oh, could she screech. She never appreciated her likeness on my arms, no sir, not one bit. She died not long after the war. To be honest with you, Wade—and Lyle knows all about this—I didn’t want to go on living without my Doris. For a lot of years after she passed, I was lost and eaten up inside with sadness and loneliness. Then one day God worked a miracle in my life. He took away my hopelessness. And not long after that, I decided to cover up Doris with Jesus.”