Dwelling

by Thomas S. Flowers

“Come on man,” Jake huffed against the empty metallic silence. There was some clicking and then an animatronic voice picked up the line and confirmed the number he was attempting to dial has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet.

  Jake hung up.

  Fumed.

  Damn! He peered out the yellow hard plastic blinds of some slum dog motel he’d set up in for the night over on El Camino and Nassau Bay. A great looming neon Motel 8 sign stood erect on a large steel pillar. He had originally intended to get laid. To find some pretty gal at one of the many fine establishments he frequented along the Bay at night. Or, at least the ones where he believed he’d never bump into one of his parishioners. Not like last time with…oh what’s her name? But plans had changed. Renfield had followed into town and chased him away from his church. But the dead don’t walk, do they?

  Jake caught a glimmer in the corner of his eye. He jumped back, carefully looking out the window. A woman, dressed in a skin-tight, red dress, pulled around her voluptuous thighs, and dark ruby lipstick and more makeup than was probably necessary, walked by. In tow, she led some John, a fellow wearing tan Khaki pants and a nice sky blue button up. His hair was neatly combed and parted to the side. Jake spotted the gold ring on his left hand instantly. He smiled. Sinner. And licked his lips, watching them retreat into the room next door. There were some muffled voices making some kind of brief exchange of payment, of that Jake was pretty sure and a part of him wished he could join in on the fun. The part of himself that desired solace, restitution, fulfillment, purpose, something—anything than the dead silence where God used to speak to him, guide him.

  He looked at the motel phone.

  Nothing. No callback.

  Shit.

  Outside, the streetlamp near the crest of the Nasa Bypass began to flicker and dim. The soft dirty beam strobed as if by heartbeat. Is he back? Is IT back, Jake wondered, eyes darting and searching the desolate underpass. Cars roared like a herd of lions on the bridge above, but underneath, nothing stirred, nothing but the blinking, strobe-flickering light. He watched the shadows, praying it was nothing more than some bum looking for somewhere dry to sleep, while half expecting Renfield’s shambling corpse to come out from the murky depths. Renfield and his ruined body crudely sewn back together, guts trailing behind him, his ACU marked with shrapnel and mud.

  Jake fought trembling hands as he dialed Johnathan’s number again. The phone rang for another round of eternity. Come on, man. Come on! More clicking. Jake was about to hang up when Johnathan’s grizzled voice sounded on the other end.

  “The world better be coming to an end, or I swear to God,” grumbled Johnathan sounding half asleep, or drunk.

  For a moment Jake was at a loss for words. It had been some time since he and Johnathan spoke. The last was when he’d visited Johnathan when he first got back from Germany. He was still adjusting to…his leg, and by the sound of his drunken voice now, perhaps he was still adjusting. Should I even bother him with my problems? I’m supposed to be a minister, for Christ’s sake!

  “You got three seconds,” Johnathan said, a little sluggish.

  “Johnathan, its Jake.”

  “Jake? Jake Williams?”

  “Yeah, man, Jake.”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Johnathan?”

  There was some rustling over the phone. Something like bed sheets being flung.

  “How the hell are you, man? Jeez, how long has it been?” said Johnathan, chipper as a skunk.

  “Good, I guess. And you?” inquired Jake, avoiding.

  “Well, to be honest, Padre, not very good, not at all. Kinda feel like run over shit stuck up here in Washington, forced to share my story to a bunch of folks who probably don’t need to hear it. The veterans weren’t too bad, I guess, but these fucking civilians…Have you ever talked with civilians about, you know, the war?” asked Johnathan.

  “Umm…”

  “Course you have, Padre. You probably talk all the time, am I right? But you probably talk about the quality of food at the DFAC and the best coffee shops or places to buy bootlegged DVDs from Mr. Haji over on Victory. You’ve been on Victory, right?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Victory. POG city, man. No offence, Padre. Lots of places to spend your money, sure enough. Lots of big bellied fobbits, too.” Johnathan started laughing on the other end, cruel and cold.

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that,” said Jake, soft but sharp.

  “What? Fobbit? POG?”

  “No. Padre. I wish you’d stop calling me Padre. It’s not really how the Presbyterian Church works.”

  “Sure it is,” Johnathan shot back.

  “How would you know? When’s the last time you were at church? And besides, it sounds creepy coming from a friend.”

  Silence.

  “So, care to tell me why you’re calling at two in the morning?” Johnathan finally asked.

  Jake cleared his throat, peeked out the window again. Checking under the bypass bridge, he found only shadow.

  “I’m sorry, Johnathan, I really am. I know I shouldn’t have called so late, especially since we haven’t really talked in a while. But, I don’t know who else to call. I don’t have anyone I can talk to about…this.” Jake did his best to mask the panic in his voice, but every time his gaze wandered out the window, the more he feared he’d see Renfield staring back at him with his milky eyes and yellow-green skin and shredded uniform. He could smell him, now, in the back of his mind, the awful stench of wet spoiled meat.

  “About what, Jake? You’re giving me nothing here.”

  “I’ve got a problem.”

  “Call a crisis hotline.”

  “Come on, man. Isn’t that what you do with the Wounded Warrior Project? You help people, right?”

  “Are you a Wounded Warrior?”

  Silence.

  “And besides, Padre, talking about problems isn’t exactly in my job description with the WWP. Sounds like something in your neck of the woods, right? Can’t you phone another priest or something?”

  “No. And you did it again. You know I don’t like to be called Padre, especially by one of my supposed friends.”

  “Well, I don’t like getting calls at two in the morning, even by old friends.”

  “You’re a real class act, man. A true hero. Thanks!” Jake could do nothing to mask the defeat in his voice.

  “Jeez-oh-Pete, Jake. You’ve always been so damn sensitive. All right…all right. What is it? Tell me what your problem is.”

  Silence. Jake had the floor. His chance to talk with someone, a friend, regardless how distant they’d become. Someone to listen to his…problem, someone to give him direction because surly wasn’t, not anymore. And now he didn’t have the foggiest how he was going to explain everything. From when it all started, getting his honorable discharge, finishing his vocation, becoming a minister in the Presbyterian order…where? But still…feeling empty inside. God had filled the void for so long. Jake felt lost without that burning stuff the old parishioners like to call grace. So Jake filled it with vice, sex particularly. And that too felt good, for a time. But as all things come to an end and then you’re left with the inevitable nothingness, the shell of the person you once were, the person to which nothing pleases, nothing satisfies. However, as a good minster would, or as Johnathan amply put, Padre, he faked it, while never making it. And then the unimaginable happened. A ghost found him prostrate in prayer. His ghost, Private Renfield, the dead child soldier from Camp Ferrin-Huggins. The maimed and ruined son of some mother Jake never took the time to write. Never gave condolence. Just flimsy Last Rites in the mud and blood drenched field. He held Renfield’s hand as it trembled, waning life. He continued to hold after the boy’s death until his arm fell limp. He held on until he was forced away. Medics, taking Renfield’s mangled corpse; taking Jake. “Shock,” they had told him. He had been in shock. But when he finally snapped to, it didn’t feel like shock. It felt like something was missing. Something import
ant that had always been there. Faith. Plain and simple, yet seemingly unattainable, faith. It was gone. Or at the very least, mortally wounded. And now ghosts haunting him, as all good specters do. How can I tell Johnathan all this? What can I say?

  “You know. I wasn’t stationed on Camp Victory,” said Jake.

  “Oh. I thought that’s what—” started Johnathan.

  “—No. I was on Camp Ferrin-Huggins. It was called Camp Falcon before that, I think. I always thought the name was strange. Not warlike, it wasn’t a war name like some of the others. Babylon, Arrow, Apache, Anaconda, Balad, Blackjack, Bushwaker, Iron Horse, Liberty, Patriot, Shield, Renegade, Raider, those were good names, hell, even Camp Victory sounded more war like than Ferrin-Huggins.”

  “Where’s this going, Jake?” asked Johnathan. The drunken slur had evaporated. In his voice Jake could sense strength as well as comfort, or at least as much as one can get from another hardened soldier so early in the morning.

  “Something—happened—during my deployment. I’m not saying I’ve had it worse than others. I didn’t have it worse than…you. But…I saw someone get killed over there, another soldier. He was so young, Johnathan. But I guess we all were. Age takes on a different meaning when you’re in. Anyways, I never went on mission, unless it was on a convoy to Victory. Loved to go on those trips out the wire. Second stop was always the Burger King trailer for a round of Whoppers. Well, Ferrin-Huggins was no picnic, and took its share of mortars. On one occasion, I was leaving chow and the in-coming alarm starting blaring. I made it to the bunker before it started raining. But there was a soldier who didn’t. Well…I gave him his Last Rites, right there, on the field. And…”

  “So, what? Are you having nightmares now? Are you—” Johnathan started.

  “—just shut up a minute, will ya? Listen. That soldier died in front of me. I swear to God he did. No way he could have survived,” Jake interrupted. The panic returned. He kept his eyes on the road, between the blinds, under the bypass. Searching. Waiting. Next door, cheap mattress springs started to whine in violent thrusts.

  “Oh yeah, baby…hmm. You fuck so good. Your dick is so big,” the woman moaned loudly through the wall, masking partially the man’s strenuous grunts.

  She sounds Vietnamese, Jake thought.

  “Okay…he died. It sucks man, I know, trust me, I know, but—” Johnathan said, confused and mocking patience.

  “He was dead,” Jake corrected.

  Silence.

  “Was?”

  “I saw him, Johnathan. I know it sounds nuts. But I saw that dead soldier at St. Hubert’s, where I preach. He was…it doesn’t matter. What I want to know is if I’ve gone over the edge. Am I going Looney Tunes, or what?” Jake pleaded.

  Silence on the line. The only sounds were coming from next door. The bedsprings dancing the cuckolds jig. Blessed fornication. Lascivious boot knocking. Redeeming lewd and lustful whoopie. Oh, the heart wants what the heart wants, ain’t that true, Jake, ain’t that true? Renfield spoke from somewhere in his head.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Jake asked, cried.

  More moans next door. The final thrusts of wood against the wall accompanied by the shrill cry of a fake orgasm, or maybe it was real, it’s not quite easy to tell sometimes. “Oh baby, oh baby. You’re so big in my tight pussy. I’ve been bad, oh baby, I’ve been so bad,” the woman screamed, followed by the stuttered grunt of her John. Jake looked down at the Gideon’s bible sitting fat on the bedside table. Jesus, please…God, I can go for a lay right now. Just send me a blessed virgin and I’ll never ask for a thing again.

  “Johnathan, are you still there?” Jake asked again, blocking out his thoughts and the heated sounds next door.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “You’ve seen—ghosts?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I all know is that I’ve seen that dead soldier, Johnathan, I’ve seen that poor kid, but he’s not so innocent or young anymore. He’s pissed about…I don’t know, dying, I guess,” Jake pleaded.

  “And it wasn’t Ricky?” Johnathan asked, stoic, unnerving.

  Jake was taken aback. “Ricky? Why would it have been Ricky? No. It was Renfield. The Private who got hit by the mortar. Why did you ask if it was Ricky?”

  “What else happened?” asked Johnathan, ignoring Jake’s question.

  “I…don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Listen, he was…I don’t know, teasing me, I guess. He was angry, pissed even, like I said.” Irritation snuck into Jake’s voice.

  “Teasing you?”

  “About being a minister. I’ve been having…doubt,” Jake confessed, uneasily.

  “Doubt about, what? God?” prodded Johnathan.

  “Look man, I don’t really want to get into that right now. I called because I’ve been seeing a dead man walking around my church and…”

  “And?”

  “And a bar, this place called Hoister’s. I saw him there. I was sitting at the bar, having a drink. Minding my own business (hunting for an easy lay) and there he was, sitting on the other end. Still dead. Undead. Rotting. And he toasted a drink toward me and smiled this green toothed smile,” Jake said, falling back into the memory of today. Next door, the woman and man departed, first the man, walking briskly by his window, tucking back in his neat and trim button up, and then the woman followed behind, walking bow legged. Jake thought about tapping on the window, flashing a couple of twenty-dollar bills, but decided against it. Had enough excitement for one night, don’t you think, Padre?

  “Did Renfield say anything?” Johnathan asked, chillingly undisturbed.

  “Like what?” Jakes responded, confused.

  “Renfield, your ghost. Whatever. Did It say anything else to you? Did It mention anything about a house or…Mags?”

  “Mags? You’re scaring me a little here, man. What—what house? What about Mags?”

  Silence.

  “Johnathan, come on, man.”

  “I don’t know—maybe it’s nothing or maybe…” Johnathan hesitated, caught in a thought. “Look. I’m still in Washington, but I’m flying back tomorrow afternoon. Can you meet me then?”

  “Sure, I guess, but—”

  “We’ll talk more about everything tomorrow. I need some sleep.”

  Silence fell between them again. The only sounds came from the crackle of having a long distance call and the passing of cars over the bypass bridge. Jake looked out the window again and watched the underpass with suspicion. He found only shadow there, deep and black and merciless. His own thoughts again began to swirl, thoughts of ghouls and dead men coming back from the grave. Ghosts of dead soldiers seeking vengeance like in some B-rated horror flick, or like in that one movie Ricky had mentioned before he…died. In his last letter he sent to me, he mentioned this movie…what was it called? Deathdream, I think. Over the phone, Jake could hear something being poured into a glass on the other end. A muffled swig and a hiss. Pour one for me too, buddy.

  “What the hell is going on, Johnny-Boy? Can this be real? Dead soldiers coming back from the grave? Or have we gone completely bonkers? Must be, right? The dead don’t come back. That would defeat the purpose of death, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But—”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  The phone clicked. Jake listened to dead air for a moment until the dial tone picked back up. He watched the underpass. Someone far away was laughing.

  CHAPTER 17

  DUKE’S DEAD

  Maggie

  Moxie whined the entire drive south from Hood. The temperamental-stomached Shih Tzu had ralphed twice before even reaching Round Rock. Now the dog lay whimpering wrapped in a towel in the passenger seat. Maggie wasn’t feeling too hot, either. But the questionable growls coming from her gut weren’t from the drive, but from an overwhelming surge of anxiety filling her head with all sorts of uncertainty. Moving on…leaving woe
s behind. The big change. Or so those two-dollar twenty-something-year-old therapists liked to call it back at Hood. Packing up her home, or what remained of it, was harder than she had anticipated. Memories and wounds opened and reopened spilling out all the sadness and anger and regret and utter loneliness. Seeing all of Ricky’s things in boxes felt—surreal. Not euphoric or cathartic as she had hoped. Numb would probably be the best word to describe how she felt now. Numb and perhaps maybe even a little pissed.

  And now she was on her way south, to Jotham, to finalize a new start. If it was up to her, Maggie wouldn’t have even come down for an open house. If it was up to her, she would have bought the damn place over the phone, no middle man, no muss, no fuss, and no bullshit. When she called Butters & Sons after they got off the phone the first time, when she had hung up on base housing and arranged movers, she asked then if they’d be willing to start the paperwork. They had agreed, but old Duke insisted she see the place first. He didn’t want the lass, as he called her, to jump into the pool without looking. She didn’t understand his reference, yet she agreed nonetheless. She would do the walk-through, the open house, the dog and pony show, and then they’d make a little trip to town and sign some papers, clear some checks, and hopefully hand over some keys. Maggie had little doubt the house would be hers before sundown. Call it intuition. Or, call it a big dead-husband check in the bank just aching to be cashed. And, from what she could gather from her internet research, the house had been on the market for some time. Duke would obviously want to sell it to whomever would be willing to buy. Still…there were formalities to jump through. Yes, quaint and annoying formalities.

  As Maggie pulled down Main Street, past a maroon colored sign that said ‘Meat Market,’ hanging a left on Route 77, abandoning the small, quaint town for the wilderness, her mind wandered back to the faint glimmer of the last time she had seen the house. Summer of 1995, the summer of TLC and Waterfalls and Coolio’s Gangsta’s Paradise and Michelle Pfeiffer and Soul Asylum, the summer the boys played Mortal Kombat until their fingers bled, and they’d all gone to see Braveheart and Apollo 13, and even snuck in to watch Se7en and, not forgetting Ricky’s personal favorite, Batman Forever at least a dozen times. It was odd—to have forgotten the house when so much else from that summer remained. The same summer she somehow conned her parents into letting her friends tag along on their annual family trip to Papa’s and Memaw’s house in Giddings. How did I pull that off? To convince them to bring four boys, adolescent boys at that? But for the life of her, she could not recall.