Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  We patiently wait while the photographer gets ready for the shot.

  Luke watches him fiddle with the camera, and I can tell he is thinking about something. Then, without warning, out it comes. “Do you ever take pictures of dead bodies with that camera?”

  The shutter clicks, the flashbulb explodes inside my brain, and reality drives home not in a royal coach, but more like a sledgehammered wedge of tempered steel driving into petrified oak. I split in half. Dry me, stack me, burn me, and scatter my ashes to the wind. I’m still a murderer!

  The picture the Sergeant takes shows a boy who by all appearances looks well-balanced and happy. A picture is worth a thousand words? I doubt anyone will ever look at that picture and say anything other than “cute kids” and “nice car.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have, Luke.”

  It sounds like an accusation to me. Luke is on another planet. He seems to make no connection between Lyle, Mr. Policeman taking pictures of dead bodies, and our real-life horror show at Three Ponds. I must look whiter than Queenie as I stare of into space, my short-lived hold on happiness suddenly frozen, repressed by living, breathing fear.

  The Sergeant looks me in the eye. “What’s the matter, Wade? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  In my mind his words are marinated with innuendo. Do they handcuff ten-year-old boys? “I guess I ate too many horsecakes.”

  Luke looks at me funny. “Horsecakes?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later, Luke.”

  The phone rings inside the house. “I’ll get it!” Luke bounds toward the house. “It’s probably Lucinda calling to see if you showed up. She was in a snit about going to work and leaving me at home alone.”

  The Sergeant puts the camera back in the trunk. “Well, Wade, it’s been quite an experience. But I better say so long for now.”

  I am flooded with adrenaline. I don’t want him to go. I want him to come into the house, sit on the sofa, and hear my confession. But I can’t speak. I am scared to death, afraid that he won’t like me anymore, fearful that the government will ship me off to Sing Sing or Alcatraz. Or worse yet, to the bottom of a pond filled with the syrupy green blood of a million Martians where I’ll live forever, breathing in goop through gaping gills like a giant carp.

  He starts up Queenie.

  Inside my mind I am screaming, PLEASE WAIT!

  Luke yells from the front door. “Wade, it’s Lucinda! She wants to talk to you!”

  I glance at Luke and nod.

  The Sergeant rolls down his window and motions me over to the car. I rock closer on numb stilts. He holds out his hand to give me something. I present my open palm and look for a sign of forgiveness in those all-knowing eyes.

  Holding his closed hand over mine, he speaks in a foreboding tone. “Have you boys ever been to Mississippi?” He lets something drop into my hand.

  I shake my head.

  He stares at me for a moment and then eases Queenie out slowly and pulls away from the curb. I see his eyes in the rearview mirror. I glance down at my outstretched hand, and there to my horror is a shiny silver ball bearing, the one from the second s in Mississippi, the gouged-out eye of the Cyclops.

  I want to throw it all the way to Barstow, but it won’t let me. In a stupor, I put it in my pocket and watch Queenie make her stately descent down the hill of Ruby Place. The Sergeant raises an arm out the open window. Powerless to do otherwise, I raise an arm in return. And then he is gone.

  “Wade! You better get the phone. She’s madder than a hornet.”

  I go into the house and pick up the receiver. “Hello…Yes…I’m sorry…Okay…I promise…Bye.” I hang up the telephone and walk like a zombie toward the bedroom.

  Mac, sitting exactly where I had ordered him to stay so many hours before, wags his tail. “Come,” I whisper.

  I lie down on my bed, and he jumps up next to me and plops his head on the pillow. “You are Toto and I am Dorothy.”

  He licks my cheek.

  “There’s no place like home with you, Mac.”

  No longer in control of my dreams, deathly afraid that the dead man Cyclops is waiting for me, I close my eyes and repeat the words over and over inside my head.

  Never look back, Wade.

  Never look back, Wade.

  Never look back, Wade.

  I am still a murderer, but it seems my meeting with Rodney has some lasting benefit. Because for the next twelve hours, Doris and Jesus help me and Rodney peel, cook, and mash four bushels of potatoes. I wish I would never wake up.

  he Grim Reaper’s scythe had come close enough to shave me, if I had any whiskers, that is. The bridge was a tool of my guilt, luring me to the brink of eternal damnation. Inexplicable forces intervened, and all I know for sure is that I want no more of that business. I had gone way beyond harmless contemplation. Indeed, I had readied myself, the dagger of mortality poised, all nets of rationality removed, nothing in the way save the final impulse—only to be pulled back from the edge of darkness because of some larger plan to which I am not privy, nor remotely equipped to understand. I have to face my demons squarely. Unfortunately, knowing and doing are not the same thing. I find progress wherever and whenever I can. Most important, I pledge I will never ever think about killing myself again.

  Yesterday John Fitzgerald Kennedy was elected the 35th president of the United States. If I had been old enough to vote, I would have voted for Richard Milhous Nixon because Election Day was marked with a brief appearance by our dad.

  Me and Luke came home from Billy Goat Hill, and there was Earl’s sandblasted, sun-bleached car parked out front. We could hear the shouting from the front yard, so we stayed out on the porch and overheard the whole thing. Lucinda was crying, and Earl swore out loud that he’d sooner vote for Nixon than pay another dime in child support. Earl stormed out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him. He took one look at us and never even said hello. As much as his indifference stung, I mostly felt sorry for him. He looked terrible —tired, unshaven, sweaty, and reeking of alcohol—and it is to be the last image I have of my father.

  Everything is turned upside down and backwards. I’ve lost my perspective; I can’t find my compass. I feel so abandoned that had I been a ten-year-old boy living in early Nazi Germany, my bitter and vulnerable state of mind might have made me an easy recruit for the Hitler Youth. Thankfully, I was born in another decade near the Arroyo Seco, not the Danube, Elbe, or the Rhine.

  I manage to shore up my collapsing world in large part by frequent visits with Rodney Bernanos. Lucinda lets me take the bus alone to see him, though she has not yet allowed Luke to join me. She thinks together we are more likely to get lost or into trouble. She won’t let Luke stay home by himself either, which limits me to visiting Rodney only when she is available to stay with Luke, which is not as often as I’d like.

  There is no school today, and Lucinda is home cleaning. Remarkably, she offers to drive me to see Rodney if I’ll take the bus home. I am excited as she drops me off at Rodney’s restaurant but feel sorry for Luke, who is sulking in the backseat and doesn’t even want my front seat position when I get out of the car. Lucinda is still too overprotective when it comes to Luke, him being her youngest now.

  Passing a stack of vegetable crates near the rear door, I enter the Den through the same dark hallway as before. I find Rodney in the kitchen as usual. Rocky greets me with a purring rub against my pant leg.

  “When do I get to meet your brother?” is the first thing Rodney says.

  “I don’t know. My mom still won’t let him come.”

  “Well, one of these days, maybe.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Want to earn some pocket change today?”

  “Sure.”

  “My produce man just left a delivery out back. I missed him by five minutes, or he would have brought everything in the kitchen like he usually does. Will you bring the crates in for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hefting three flats
of tomatoes, six crates of lettuce, two bags of onions, six sacks of potatoes, and an assortment of cartons containing carrots, cabbage, radishes, and a few unidentifiable leafy items will earn me fifty cents and a cold soda.

  When I finish, I sit in the kitchen and note that Rodney is listening to a preacher on the radio while he works. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Billy Graham. He’s an evangelist.”

  “What’s an evangelist?”

  “A preacher who preaches the gospel. Billy Graham travels all over the world preaching the gospel.”

  “Oh—what does the gospel mean?”

  Rodney looks at me and smiles. He’s been stirring something in a big ceramic bowl. He stops stirring, puts the bowl on the counter, and sits himself down next to me. “The gospel means… the Good News, as told in the Bible in the New Testament books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”

  “Matthew—how about that. That was my baby brother’s name. And Luke gets his name from the Bible, too.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Who was Matthew?”

  “Matthew lived in the time of Jesus. Of all things, he was a tax collector. He became a follower of Jesus.”

  “My baby brother was named after a tax collector?”

  Cackle! “You could say that. And Luke was a physician, a doctor.”

  “Sheesh! Luke Parker is named after a doctor in the Bible. That’s a good one.”

  “The thing is, Matthew and Luke, as well as Mark and John, wrote down some stuff that’s very important to know, Wade. Together, they tell us the story of Jesus Christ, and that’s what evangelists like Billy Graham talk about.”

  “And he even gets to be on the radio in Los Angeles? Do you think Billy Graham will ever come here?”

  “He’s been here. I went to hear him once. And I’m sure he’ll come to California again sometime.”

  “Really? Maybe someday I’ll get to see him.”

  “I hope you do.”

  For the better part of an hour, I listen to Billy Graham talk about how God so loved the world He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life. Rodney smiles and watches me listen with rapt attention to the radio, while he continues with his routine preparations for the afternoon restaurant opening. The telephone rings a few times, though he ignores it, making me feel like my visit, and Billy Graham’s message, is what is most important to him.

  The radio program ends. “Well, thanks for the soda and the fifty cents, Rodney. I guess I better be heading home now.”

  “You’re welcome. Leaving so soon?”

  “Yeah.” I chuckle. “Doctor Luke is waiting for me, and my mom probably wants to go to work.”

  “Work is what I have plenty of, too. Almost time to open up for the early dinner crowd. It was good to see you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  Rodney gives me a hug at the door. “Take care, Wade.”

  “I will.” I turn to go, but a feeling deep in my heart stops me. I look back at Rodney, and he smiles. “I love you, Rodney.”

  “I love you, too.” He hugs me again.

  As I walk to the bus stop, I feel warm and good about my visit. There sure is something different and special about Rodney, something I am drawn to. Exactly what it is I cannot say. I just know I am comfortable in his presence and better for having spent time with him.

  The peaceful mood stays with me while I wait for the bus. But oh, how quickly things can change. On the ride home, I see someone I had hoped to never see again. We are moving down Figueroa Street at a fairly fast clip, but there’s no mistaking the vision that steals my peace.

  I shiver as Lieutenant Shunkman roughs up a man already restrained by handcuffs. The man in handcuffs fearfully glances toward the passing bus and seems to make eye contact with me. In that fleeting moment, I see the man cry out when Lieutenant Shunkman slams his knee into the man’s back. The man drops to the pavement, and Shunkman looks up, grinning like a madman.

  “Oh my gosh! Did you see that?” the woman sitting in front of me blurts.

  My stomach hurts, and I turn in my seat and stare straight ahead.

  When I get home, I try to shake the image of Shunkman. Should I tell the Sergeant what I saw? He is around some, also making me feel special—though he remains a mystery in many respects. The mystery overreaches him, at times spilling over into his relationship with Rodney. I sense something isn’t quite right between them, and I worry that it might have something to do with me. Maybe telling them what I saw will make things worse.

  They’re both looking out for me, protecting me, I repeatedly reassure myself. I need to believe in them. I have to.

  Today is one of those rare days of smog-free splendor that almost justifies living in Los Angeles the rest of the year. Rodney has invited Luke and me over to play with Kirk, the spotted son of Mac and Antoinette. Kirk is named after Rodney’s favorite actor. Believe it or not, Luke finally has Lucinda’s permission to make the trip. It is Saturday, but she is working as usual and cannot give us a ride.

  The lumbering but lovable trolley cars of Los Angeles have gone the way of the dinosaur, driven to extinction by a conspiratorial tire-and-rubber company. I retain a vague but fond image of the old Red Cars. But the free-wheeling, fume-belching, rubber-tired buses that now scurry over the landscape like fleas on a mongrel suit me just fine. The buses give me range and mobility at an age when the system works against you, and I take full advantage.

  I know the routes of northeast Los Angeles better than some of the bus drivers, and getting to Rodney’s house in Glendale is almost as easy as walking to Suicide Bridge.

  We arrive just before noon, laughing and hamming it up as we approach Rodney’s newly repainted house. Coming up the front walk, I glance through a large undraped window and see all the way through the interior of the house to an open back door and a sundrenched yard beyond.

  I spot Rodney in the backyard. Something is wrong. I stop halfway up the walk, confused and unsure of what we might be interrupting. Luke collides with me, and I momentarily lose the bright, sunshiny image of Rodney. I could swear I just saw his arm lash out as one would do to slap someone in the face. Worse yet, I think I saw a figure retreating from Rodney, only a blur of motion, but enough to associate with the unmistakable outline of the Sergeant.

  What is happening?

  This is Luke’s first introduction to Rodney, and he’s very excited. On the bus ride over, I repeated all of my favorite Rodney stories for Luke, psyching myself up as well in the process. All of that is gone now—replaced by uncertainty. If I saw what I think I saw, how can it be so? I look again and see Rodney standing alone, staring at some unknown corner of his yard, his back to me now.

  What did I see?

  “Come on,” Luke says. “What’s the matter?”

  “Wait just a second.”

  I spread my arms wide to hold him back while I try to gather my wits.

  What in the heck did I see?

  I allow Luke to move ahead to the porch. He looks at me with a question, I nod, and he rings the doorbell.

  A puppy barks, followed immediately by Rodney’s trademark cackle—and I am tremendously relieved. Disavowing any need to know, I willingly let go of my fears and wait with a heart full of joy as the nicest, funniest friend I have ever known hobbles to let us in. What a great day this is going to be after all!

  A moment later the door opens. “Hi, guys!” Cackle!

  “Hi, Rodney—this is my little brother, Luke.”

  Rodney looks at Luke. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut strangely. He clutches his chest and bends his knees with a jerky motion as though he’s been clipped from behind by an unsportsmanlike tackler.

  Luke stares at him, not sure what to make of this odd behavior. I am taken aback as well. Rodney hasn’t yet unlatched the screen door, and it stands between us like a barrier separating inmate from visitor. In stunned disbelief, I watch as he drops
to the floor. His body goes rigid against the screen door as he paws at his chest and neck, fighting to breathe.

  A moment of futility passes during which I hope and pray that he is just kidding with us. Rodney loves to mess with me, but never anything like this. Perhaps he’s playing an outrageous prank—goofing around and pretending that the first sight of Luke causes him to have a heart attack or something? But this isn’t a joke. He is in serious trouble, awful pain, and there is nothing I can do except linger at a standstill, ambushed.

  “Get my neighbor next door!” Rodney gasps.

  I scream at Luke to run next door, and he takes off like a shot.

  “Rodney, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “Wade!” he calls out to me from some distant dimension, his eyes rolling around as though disconnected from their sockets.

  My throat constricts in sympathy with his tortured breathing. I wheeze, “Yes, Rodney?”

  I kneel down as close to him as I can get, my face and hands pressed hard against the metal screen as I try in vain to reach to him, to touch him. Tears flood down and off my face, pelting the newly painted threshold I want desperately to cross.

  His whole body trembles as he struggles to speak, and for one brief moment he focuses on me, his pained eyes conveying how sorry he is. “Remember, Wade, Jesus is the best friend you can ever have. He loves you very much. Only Jesus can set you free.” Then his eyes roll up, leaving white blanks between fluttering lids.

  From inches away, I watch him let go, the terrible pain softening, the tenseness in his body slackening, his face drifting to an expressionless, nonexistent state. Last, his arms fall away from his chest, and one final breath hisses slowly over his lips as he peacefully settles on his side.

  It happens that fast.

  Seized by panic, unable to move, my mouth opening and closing with convulsions of silent screams, I look on in horror as Kirk whimpers and nudges Rodney’s limp hand. At some point before Luke comes back with the neighbor, my mind halts, shutting off like a burned-out lamp.

  I feel myself rocking back and forth to an inner, pulsing, pounding rhythm as Rodney’s words repeat in my mind like an insistent echo. “Remember, Wade, Jesus is the best friend you can ever have. He loves you very much. Only Jesus can set you free.”