“Not sure if I follow,” said Jake sounding a bit apologetic.
“Hmm—” Johnathan searched for an example. His eyes brightened, “You ever watch this show on Showtime called Dexter?”
“I don’t watch much TV.”
“Okay, well…it’s a show about this serial killer that works for the Miami Police Department in Florida.”
“Your experience talking with vets is akin to a fictionalized serial killer?”
“No. Shut up a sec will ya, I’m trying to explain something here,” Johnathan said frowning.
“Sorry.”
“Okay…anyways, in the show there was this episode where he, Dexter, is forced into joining this AA group.”
“Prophetic?”
“Kiss my ass, you going to let me explain this or not?”
“My apologies.”
Johnathan took another sip from his drink. Putting the glass down, he noticed Jake smiling at him. “Jackass, anyways, so yeah, Dexter goes up in front of these drunks and druggies and talks about what he calls his Dark Passenger, which is basically his serial-killing alter ego.”
“Okay.”
“And these drunks think he’s talking about his addiction to booze, but really he’s talking about his addiction to kill. It’s a great scene, probably my favorite from the entire series.” Johnathan took another drink. “But anyway,” he continued, exhaling, “so he’s talking about his Dark Passenger and how he knows he’s got this darkness in him, but he hides it and never talks about it, but it’s always there with him. The darkness lies to him, makes him think no one could ever love him. But then he goes on and says that he gets these glimpses, moments when he feels he can connect with people, like a mask slipping away.”
“Okay.”
“Well, that’s how it felt when I was talking with those vets in Washington. They could see my darkness, and I could see theirs, like we were at some masquerade or some terrible unmasking or something.”
“That’s deep.” Jake nodded his head slowly, looking into his beer bottle as if in some existential thought.
“Kiss my—”
“No,” Jake interrupted, “I’m serious. Is that what’s bothering you about your trip? Feeling…exposed?”
Johnathan shrugged, killing his Miller Lite. The waitress materialized as soon as he’d set it back on the table.
“Can I get you another?” she asked, collecting the now empty bottle.
“Please,” said Johnathan, suppressing a belch.
As soon as the waitress smiled and disappeared to the bar, Johnathan cut loose. Jake held his breath, making a funny face and waving the air with his hand. The jukebox ended with some song by Metallica and then started up on “The Man Who Sold the World” by Nirvana. Through the speakers sang the smooth acoustic, if not grizzled, voice of Kurt Cobain, talking about speaking into this man’s eyes, this man who said he was his friend and thought he died alone, a long, long time ago. Silence fell between them again, both nursing their drinks as they listened to the song play out. The waitress returned with Johnathan’s beer, smiled again, and then disappeared to tend to another table. Kurt was still going on about how he never lost control, even when he was face to face with the man who sold the world.
“So,” Johnathan started.
“So,” Jake returned.
“How’s church these days?” Johnathan asked.
Jake looked seemingly embarrassed, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked anything about his job or his career or whatever this priesthood, minister, thing was. Or maybe it’s because of where they were and what he’d been doing here last night, searching for whatever satisfying vice that supposedly Padres were not allowed, unless married.
“Good, I guess,” Jake said, looking into the neck of his Coors. He pulled out a pack of Camels from his jeans pocket and set them on the table, hoping perhaps to instigate a hasty departure for the patio.
“Jeez, you smoke too?” Johnathan said laughing. “No judgment, man. It’s just kind of funny. Remember that time we got a pack of unfiltereds from that bowling alley across Bobby’s neighborhood? What was its name?” He scratched his head.
“Palace Lanes?”
“Yeah—that’s the one! Had the pull-tab style vending machine. We were so scared about getting busted by the owner we tossed our quarters in and ran, didn’t even care which kind of smokes we got.” Johnathan smiled warmly. His scotch was half gone.
“I remember hating those smokes.”
“Yes, yes we did. And I’ll never understand to this day why they had that vending machine set up next to the arcade. It was as if they wanted kids to buy ‘em.”
Silence returned as the childhood memory faded in the low roar of conversations going on around them. Jake gazed at his pack of Camels as if they’d move by kinesis. Johnathan pondered his glass, looking at the brown contents, or perhaps beyond it, on some distant thought light years from Hoister’s. The waitress had returned, inquiring about refills. Jake was good. And surprisingly, Johnathan was too. If I cut off now, I should be sober enough by the time I get home, he thought, the image of Karen and her disapproving albeit worried face came to mind, making his stomach knot and his heart set to lead.
“Okay man—” Johnathan started, looking directly at Jake. “Are we going to talk about what we came here to talk about or are we just going to call it a night?”
Jake exhaled deeply. He picked up his smokes and returned them to his pocket. He looked to the bar. A strange look of relief darkened his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Maybe it was nothing more than a hallucination. Maybe I dreamt the whole damn thing. I was in a bad place yesterday…The more I think about it, the more I think this whole thing is nuts. The dead do not come back, it’s just not possible.”
Kurt was still wailing, finishing up his chorus before the cello started in, singing about how he must have died alone, a long, long time ago,. Johnathan was watching Jake. Gazing at his old childhood friend as the color on his face turned white. The no-nonsense teenager he remembered now sat before him in some hole-in-the-wall bar talking about ghosts and unimaginable things. It was all so bizarre. An irregularity that weighed on his own thoughts of his own hallucination, if that is what it was.
“But I swear to God, Johnny-Boy, it felt like he was there in St. Hubert’s, with me in the sanctuary. Renfield, alive; not alive. I don’t know…but he spoke to me, and somehow I remembered his voice. He hadn’t said much at Ferrin-Huggins, he mostly whimpered—shock I guess, realizing he was going to die. But I remember his voice, regardless. And at St. Hubert’s it was the same. A raspy horrible voice.” Jake shuddered, killing his Coors in one final swig.
“Jesus—” Johnathan started. He suddenly wished he’d ordered that other drink when the waitress came by. “Look…” he glanced at Jake and quickly back to the table. “I’ve…seen something too,” he finally sputtered out, licking his lips.
“What?” Jake’s eyes were wide with anticipation, or perhaps it was relief…relief he was not the only one in need of visiting the wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
Silence.
“Come on, Johnathan. What did you see?” Jake was on the edge of his seat.
“I don’t know what’s going on or even if it was real or what or maybe it’s because of the booze or the pills or both or maybe I took some brain damage from that RPG that took my leg, I don’t know…I just don’t know.” Johnathan was shaking. He tucked his hands under the table.
“What did you see, tell me!” Jake yelled in a hushed whisper.
“It wasn’t even real.”
“I don’t care, what did you see?”
“Ricky, damn it. I’ve been seeing Ricky,” Johnathan croaked, his throat dry as sand despite the continuous nervous sips.
“What? Where? When?”
“At the airport, before I took off for Washington. Lucky they didn’t take my ass to the ER or security or something. Blacked out, right there on the goddamn terminal,
waiting for my flight. I’d gotten a cup of coffee, had taken some—meds to help clear my head, some jerk at security was yapping my ear off about ignorant bullshit and…that must have been it; it was the Paxils that did me in, must have had an allergic reaction or side effect or something.” Johnathan reached for his cane, propped against one of the empty chairs, and held it between his legs. “Must have been it, must have.”
But then how do you explain Jake and his hallucinations? How do you explain that?
I don’t know.
“Well…what did he…? Did he say anything?” Jake stuttered.
Johnathan cupped a hand over his eyes, wiping the beads of sweat that had started to bud around his forehead. “He was as you had described your vision, Renfield right? He was…” he swallowed “…messed up, as he was when he died. Nearly all burnt up and rotting. But still somehow whole, breathing almost. But if he was real, you’d think he’d be worse off, right? I mean, it’s been almost a year now. His eyes were there, intact. He looked the same as the day he died, man. Not that the dead getting up and walking around is possible, right? Jesus, listen to me, I thought we came here to talk about your problems.”
Jake pulled his chair closer, leaning towards Johnathan. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking. “Did he say anything? Did Ricky say anything to you?”
Johnathan swallowed. “I think he was trying to warn me about something, something to do with Mags,” he said, the fear in his eyes unmistakable.
“What about Mags?”
“Something to do with some house…I don’t know, like I said, I was probably tripping on those Green Bastard Paxils. Or maybe I took some of the White Devil Zyprexas by mistake. I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Johnathan looked away, searching for the waitress. Fuck it, I’m ordering another damn drink.
“Anything else?” Jake probed earnestly.
“No.” Johnathan spotted the waitress and signaled for her to bring something strong. He looked back to the table. “Wait, yes. There was something else. A name, I think. Sounded like gibberish, but maybe…”
“What was it?”
“Nashirimah…?”
“Nashirimah?”
“I think so.”
“Sounds native, right?”
“How would I know?”
“You were studying history, right? Before you and Ricky went to basic?” Jake was reaching, taping the table with his fingers.
“Dude—how long ago was that! And besides, just because I studied history doesn’t mean I can spot Native American language when I hear it.”
“Sorry—but it does sound Native, right?”
“Sure.”
“Nashirimah…” Jake whispered, staring at the table. His gaze gave no delusion that he was pondering the word spoken by Johnathan, what it meant, and perhaps not only that, but the warning about Mags, about some house. The waitress appeared and sat Johnathan’s scotch in front of him, who took it anxiously and drank.
What does this mean? Is this real? No—no, this is too messed up, Johnathan thought. He looked at Jake, “And yours?” he asked, exhaling the burning sip from his drink.
“My what?”
“Your ghost, hallucination, whatever, what did your dead person tell you?”
“Renfield? Oh—it was more personal. He was…he told me to leave the church—said I wasn’t cut out to be a minister. To give up. Resign. Told me he was the sign I’d been praying for. God help me if he was right. God help me…and so, I ran. I ran away. I didn’t look back, haven’t called the church or anything, I just ran. I was supposed to have service this morning, but I didn’t go. I couldn’t, not after…”
“Jesus, Jake…”
“I know…”
Silence, as terrible and frightening as that sounded, fell over the table again. Even the noise from the crowd around them seemed muted. Kurt was gone. There were no more songs. No more clanks of pool balls. No more drunken bravado. No more sleazy deals made at the bar. No more promises of midnight rendezvous. Just them and their labored breathing between drinks, and the cold madness slipping in between them.
“What do you think all this means?” asked Jake, too terrified to look at his friend.
Johnathan looked at Jake and then at his drink. “I think it means we’d better go have that smoke.” Denial is a powerful thing, he thought.
Jake smiled and stood, stretching his legs as he did. Johnathan balanced against his cane. Outside, they each lit a Camel and took deep, languished breaths of yellow smog, exhaling clouds that lingered above their heads.
“You know,” Jake started after a few minutes, “I don’t think they’ll allow smoking in mental wards, or none of the VA hospitals I’ve visited.”
Johnathan took a toke. “Yup—better smoke as much as we can before they lock us up.”
Jake chuckled heartedly.
Johnathan attempted but faltered. His gaze drifted to his unsteady hand.
“Dude?” he prodded.
“Yes?” said Jake, finishing his last toke, rubbing the butt against the patio picnic table.
“You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Whataburger?”
“Read my mind.”
CHAPTER 19
THE HOUSE
Augustus
1879
The fall of 1879 had been more pleasurable than Augustus had hoped for. To be fair, he thought he was just purchasing a piece of land. It would have taken him months to build a home. And in the end he would have ended up with nothing more than a shack no larger than the dead home he fled in Houston. But instead of just land, he’d found a home already constructed and furnished. He needed only himself and logs for the fire. It was a blessing, and though he didn’t believe much in miracles, the house certainly tested his faith, or lack thereof.
What Augustus saved in lumber and construction material he used to purchase three heifers, four chickens and one roaster, five swine, and two horses. His own stallion he reserved for travels to town, the other two were meant to pull the plow, tending to the large rows of wheat stalks that fell on his land. Augustus also purchased enough wood to build a modest wagon for hauling necessities to and from town and for the eventual haul of hay after the harvest in Jotham. For this, he purchased a scythe, keeping the long curved blade sharp and stored in the barn. He even bought a dog to keep him company, but the bitch ran off the very day he brought her home. Regardless, what had started out as a desire for a solitary shack to get drunk on moonshine turned into a rather decent farm for living. This continuation of life was certainly something Augustus had not planned.
The house held even more surprises. Though, in the back of his mind, Augustus was sure whoever had built the house would come walking through the door, demanding to know who was trespassing on their property. Surely, something was amiss with the deed. There had been some mistake. But no. No one ever showed. And as winter approached and the holidays drew near, the constant thought that ate away behind his eyes faded. By December, Augustus had built himself a distillery; nothing massive, just enough to keep himself and perhaps a few guests, if he had any, merry and warm-hearted. In the evenings, when his chores on the farm had been done, he’d venture through the house, exploring each and every room. There were five bedrooms in total, each furnished with furniture that had been draped in white shrouds. Whoever had lived here before intended to preserve the rooms, of that he was sure. The rugs were elaborate, made of silk and wool, oriental in design. The dressers and vanities and bed frames were hand carved, made of dark rosewood and oak. Brass chamber pots sat beside each bed. The paintings were works by artists unknown to Augustus. The only painting he had ever seen was a family portrait his father, Timothy, had sprung for when he and Bedford were just boys. The very painting Augustus salvaged from his mother’s mad ravings near the end of her life. He had it stored by a friend who recently had it shipped to Jotham. Augustus was set to pick it up the next day from the county clerk’s office. He had the perfect spot already sele
cted for it down in the study. By memory, he recalled the image of the painting. His father’s tall, thin frame and short tempest hair, his mother beside him, younger, happier; Bedford and himself looking grave wearing dresses with a petticoat underneath. He remembered the image of the painting well, but for the life of him could not remember when the painting had been done.
Bedford could have been no older than ten. Perhaps I was twelve at the time, Augustus thought. Father must have had the painting made before we moved to northern Houston, when he started working with the Cotton Auxiliary. Before the recession. Before he got sick.
Downstairs was just as elaborate as the second floor. The living room was rather expansive with a looming gothic fireplace that stretched up toward the vaulted ceiling. Small trinkets lined the mantel. There were a few wooden Nutcrackers with red painted jackets and white beards. The name Steinbach carved on the base of each one. Two ebony wood elephants faced each other on one end and on the other a large, obese jolly-looking monk sculpted from some kind of stucco. On the wall beside the fireplace, an eccentric cuckoo clock shaped with wild blackwood, carved leafs, vines, and branches. At the center, a circular face with roman numerals. When it chimed, the hatch beneath the clock face would open and a red robin would appear, sing, and then disappear back inside the mechanism.
There were other paintings downstairs as well, some of scenery, others of people, supposed previous owners perhaps, or maybe someone local in Jotham or of authority. The furniture was plush and inviting. The couch was warm and comforting, the chairs sturdy and good for enjoying the fire. Everything was exceptional, except for a precarious, sinister, looking armchair, which Augustus, for reasons even unbeknownst to him, carted off to town one evening and sold to a man, some Baron supposedly, who had come to Texas on a hunting expedition and was traveling back to Lithuania within the month.
There was a study beside the living room, its walls lined with bookshelves and filled with books on subjects Augustus had little desire to read. There were a few he considered taking down, perhaps on cold winter nights. Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or Dickens’ Great Expectations. There was one he’d picked up one night, curious by its title, Frankenstein, written by Mary Shelley. He had made it farther through that one than Anna Karenina, which he found utterly boring. Drama and tales of monsters were not conducive to his sensibilities. Augustus enjoyed adventure, and rarely strayed.
Dwelling Page 18