Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet

by Joanne Proulx

  Ms. Banks pressed a lucky hand to her chest. “You scared me to death,” she said, all flustered. “Are you okay?”

  I flipped her a rigid thumb, indicating I hadn’t been seriously injured. She bent down to retrieve the books and I could see this lacy thong underwear peeking out the back of her jeans as she crawled around, so it probably goes without saying that I just sat there, enjoying the show.

  “Thanks for the help,” she said once she was stacked back up. She was looking fairly annoyed as she tossed her head toward the open area in the center of the room. “There are tables available.” Her blonde ponytail bounced enticingly, but I didn’t move. “Look, can I get you something?” She sounded very irritated.

  “Like what?” I dared to raise an emboldened eyebrow at her, all suggestive and shit. (I know, I know. Don’t even talk to me. It was the meds, man.)

  “Like a book. This is a library.” Snit for snat.

  “I’m fine.” The syllables slid slowly from my mouth.

  Ms. Banks settled her load of literature onto a nearby shelf, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned up against the book stack. “Is that right?”

  I could see she was trying to get a look inside my hood, trying to check out my eyes, tightening up my Trazon looseness in the process. “Yep, that’s right.” I concentrated this time, spat the words right out. I figured she’d get the hint and take off, but she didn’t.

  “Find something to read,” she said firmly. By this time it was evident neither of us was in a flirting sort of mood, so I told her I’d prefer to be left the fuck alone as I wasn’t bothering anybody. She pulled her shoulders back and put her hands on her hips, and although she looked even better with her tits sticking out like that, I knew she was completely pissed.

  “Get out.”

  “Oh, for Christ sake.” I started to get up, but it took, like, way too much effort, so I plopped back down and cranked my lowwattage charm up to one. “Listen, I’m sorry … really. I was rude. Sorry. But I need to hang out here for a while, okay? I’m going through a bit of shit right now.”

  “Are you really? Well, you know what they say—God will not look you over for medals or diplomas, but for scars. That’s Elbert Hubbard, an American essayist, if you’re interested.”

  I pulled up the cuff of my shirt and displayed the quarter-sized disk of raised flesh decorating the inside of my wrist. The neat stitches ringing it transformed what would have been an otherwise ugly lump into a shiny little sunshine of a scar.

  “Got one,” I said, giving her what I hoped was a winning smile. And then, to impress her, I rotated my arm so she could see the identical twin on the other side. “Impaled myself on a fence spike.”

  “Ouch.” Her face pulled into a golden grimace.

  “If you think that’s bad, you should have seen the fence.”

  She sort of laughed at that.

  “Listen, if I pretend to read something, can I stay?”

  “No. Either find something to read, and I mean really read, or leave.” She took a deep breath. I tried not to notice her breasts heaving beneath her blouse, really I did. “Now, because I’m in a hospitable mood and you’ve got that scar, I’ll start again. What do you like to read?” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the I’mabout-to-change-your-life edge of excitement in her voice that proved, despite being a hottie, she’d picked the right line of work.

  “I dig music.”

  “Music?”

  “Yeah, alt-rock, rock.”

  “Well, this isn’t MTV, but let me think.” She headed into the stacks, jingling her ear with her finger, tuning in her internal Dewey decimal system, another sign she was a born librarian. She was back in a flash with a book and a smile. “Here you go. Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana. I had to look up the author. I haven’t read it. My husband said it wasn’t well written but it was interesting. You’ll have to be careful, the binding’s weak.”

  She handed me the book. Three scungy, long-haired freaks glowered at me. I liked it already.

  “I assume you’ve heard of Nirvana?” Ms. Banks asked. “Kurt Cobain? Dave Grohl? I forget the bass player’s name, but he’s really tall.”

  “Krist Novosic. Or Novoslick. Or Novoselic.” I sounded like I was on Novo-something, trying to get my mouth around the name, but it didn’t matter. Ms. Banks knew I was a bit wasted and it was apparent she was prepared to tolerate it, especially since she’d booked me up.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Krist Novoselic. Well, enjoy.” She picked up her pile of books, was halfway up the aisle when she turned and came back. “You know, I was devastated when Kurt died. I’d had such hope for the music, such faith in him, you know? But when you mess around with heroin, well, you know. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Or in this case, the gun. If you’re smart,” she said, looking me head-on, “you’ll stick to something a little tamer. Anyway, at least Dave Grohl has moved on.”

  “Foo Fighters rule.” I gave her the extended forefinger, pinkie rocker salute.

  “You got it.” She offered up a nice, if somewhat charitable, smile. “You’re not a library regular. Care to remind me of your name?”

  I pulled off my hood and let her have it. “Luke. Luke Hunter.” I tried not to flinch.

  She raised both eyebrows and went into a bit of an extended nodding session. “Right. I know your mom. From Friends of Lake Erie.”

  “Yeah? My mom loves Lake Erie. All the Great Lakes, really.” At least the Trazon hadn’t impeded my ability to be a complete moron.

  Ms. Banks let me off easy, however. “Yeah, me too. Anyway, don’t forget to sign the book out before you leave.”

  “No problem. Uhmm … sorry about being rude, before.”

  “Sure. As you said, you’re going through some shit. It was nice meeting you, Luke. Say hi to your mom for me, okay?”

  I told her I would. Then the lovely Ms. Banks took her luscious self up the stacks and I opened the book.

  SIX

  The phone was ringing when I got home from school. This wasn’t surprising. Since becoming Stokum’s hottest freak-show attraction, it had been going pretty much nonstop. My parents handled most of my new fans. Apparently, I didn’t have an overabundance of concerned friends, but some Michigan media, along with a few psychic hotline types, were interested in hearing from The Prophet. Shit, there’d been calls from as far away as, well, Minneapolis. Regardless of point of origin, everyone got the same no-comment comment, before being asked politely to bugger off. I don’t know why we didn’t just unplug the phone. I guess we were all secretly waiting for some super-important call to straighten things out. Or maybe that was just me. My parents probably wanted to be sure they could get in touch when they were at work, and seeing how my dad was too cheap to spring for an answering machine, the phone just kept wailing.

  I grabbed a snack and, ignoring the latest caller, went to the living room to watch some videos. That worked for a while, the jerk on the other end finally hung up, but the ringing started up five minutes later and again five minutes after that. Normally the Trazon got me through these annoying moments pretty easily, but for one reason or another—it might have been the chat in the stacks with Ms. Banks—I’d skipped my after-school meds. So I was a tad straighter than I’d been the last couple days, and the ringing sounded a tad louder, a tad more persistent and, yes, maybe even a tad friendlier than usual. Finally I grabbed the phone off the front hall table and carried it as far as the cord would permit, which left me at the entrance to the living room. I muted the White Stripes, which hurt (“Hotel Yorba” video), and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, I’d like to speak with Luke Hunter.” I recognized the big voice right off.

  “This is he.”

  “Hello, Luke. This is Pastor Ted Bradley, from New Life in Christ Church. I’m a good friend of the Millers. I knew Stan very well.”

  He paused, waiting for me to make things easy for him, but I wasn’t in a particularly cooperative mood. I concentrate
d on Meg and Jack, jumping around the hotel room, silently banging the drum.

  “Did your parents mention I’d spoken with them after the service?”

  “Nope.” I slid down the wall, settled myself on the thick green carpet, kept my eyes on the screen.

  “Ahh … well, I did. I was hoping they’d pass along my message. I wanted you to know that we, all the parishioners, are confident that Stan is in good hands, so to speak. He had accepted Jesus as his savior some years back, and although he hadn’t been attending church regularly for a good while, we firmly believe he remained committed to Christ. I thought you might want to know this. Thought it might make things a little easier for you.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I mumbled something about Stan being a good guy and Ted seconded the motion and we seemed to be getting along nicely, before he turned his attention to yours truly.

  “Now, Luke, how are you doing?” he asked, sounding all concerned.

  “Fine.” Looking for a bit of distraction, I started testing out the elasticity of the phone cord, seeing how many times I could loop it around my neck. I held the receiver a couple inches from my ear, so the springy plastic cord could slip smoothly around the back of my head and down onto my throat, but the Pastor was still coming in loud and clear.

  “This can’t have been easy for you.”

  “I’m fine.” I kept looping.

  “I thought you might like to come down to the church so we could talk about what’s happened.”

  “I don’t think so.” The cord had done seven loops. I tried for an eighth.

  “So … you’re sure you’re fine?”

  “Positive.” By this time I was kneeling and I’d sort of tipped forward, and my head was at a horrible angle. The receiver was jammed into my cheek and the rest of the phone was dangling off my neck and the whole elasticity experiment was beginning to feel a little stupid and tight.

  “Well, eventually you’ll need someone spiritual to talk to. I have no doubt about that. Are you currently affiliated with any Christian organization?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I gasped.

  “As I thought.” He puffed a big sigh into my ear. “Well, I want you to know I’m here for you in that capacity. I believe I can help. I’m worried about you, Luke.”

  He had reason to worry. The cord had twisted itself into a bit of a knot, and for a second or two I actually panicked, thinking it might be irreparably tangled. I imagined myself choking to death and leaving everyone thinking I’d killed myself over a phone call from the Pastor, which would have been a really sorry way to go. I finally had to drop the receiver and claw the goddamn cord off my neck. I’m not sure what I missed, but Ted was still going strong when we reconnected.

  “… a real gift. I am hoping you’ll reconsider.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks. Listen, I’ve gotta go.” I massaged my neck, trying to get the blood flowing back to my brain.

  “All right, then. But if you change your mind, please feel free to call me. Can I leave my number?”

  “Don’t have a pen.”

  “Right.” Another sigh. “Well, I hope you’ll drop by sometime. When you’re ready to talk. You know where to find us.”

  “Sure,” I said, being completely agreeable because I figured he was ready to pack it in. He wasn’t. He was one of those people who really liked to have the last word.

  “One final thing. Luke, I want you to know that I think you are a very unique person. I know you might not believe it right now, but you are. What’s happened to you is very special. I want—”

  I didn’t wait for the Pastor’s blessing to hang up. I hit the volume on the TV. The White Stripes had already checked out.

  Standing in front of the hall mirror, I admired the welts on my neck. I kept my eyes on the narrow tracks ringing my throat so it was easier to pretend the call hadn’t pried me open a bit, that it hadn’t made me think. I trailed my finger along first one thin red groove, then the next, attempting to hold off the why-me’s and the holy-shit-how’s and the what-the-fuck’s-going-on’s rattling around my brain. It was trying, I mean really trying, ignoring all the questions I had no answers for. And I started to get pissed—at Ted for thinking he could just call up and shove me into such dangerous territory, at myself for dropping the Trazon barrier low enough that this shit could get to me. Yeah, I was definitely headed for some serious anger—the only emotion I was really any good at— but I short-circuited the surge with a fistful of pills and some screaming videos.

  My favorite of the set was definitely Papa Roach. He was mad, madder than me, he was raging, and every chick in the video, well, they looked just like my flickering suicide girl. I mean, I could see that’s where she’d come from, that “Last Resort” girl with her dead eyes and her pale face and her smileless lips. I’d ripped her off from Papa then let my imagination hand her a razor blade so she could finish what he’d started. It wasn’t even a stretch; I mean, I’d seen the video a hundred times, and if you listened to the lyrics, she’d been contemplating suicide anyway, right? And the black symphony in the doctor’s office? I figured it was like Cramp said, inspired by pain.

  Funny how, along with the drugs, that settled me down so by the time my parents arrived I was feeling pretty okay, although they were looking fairly distressed. They turned down the television, went upstairs and changed out of their good, dark clothes, then crashed beside me on the couch. According to them, there hadn’t been a whole pile of people at Mr. Bernoffski’s funeral. A few relatives, the Connellys from next door, a couple old guys from the plumbing place where the corpse used to work. Apparently, Mrs. Bernoffski was barely standing by the time they pulled up to the gravesite.

  My mom was just about to get up to pour drinks for herself and my dad when she noticed the marks on my neck. Usually I’m a good liar, can make up extraordinarily impressive shit when put on the spot, but right then I couldn’t think of anything remotely feasible to explain the welts.

  “I wrapped the phone cord around my neck,” I said, picking at a loose thread on my jeans.

  I could feel my father receding into the ugly floral cushions beside me as my mom pushed herself forward to perch on the edge of the sofa. Resting her elbows firmly on her thighs, she twisted round and stared at me in this incredulous manner. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and her face was very pale. “And why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to see how many times it would go around.”

  She leaned forward a little more and exchanged a long raisedeyebrow look with my dad.

  “Listen, it was just this completely retarded thing I did.”

  “I’d say.”

  My father tried to bail me out. “Mary, Luke has been doing stupid things like that all his life.”

  My mom, looking seriously skeptical and fed up, pushed herself off the couch and started for the kitchen. On her way out, she paused, nailed me with some real killer eye contact, and said that personally she’d had enough of funerals for a while and was thinking about pouring herself a double.

  I RAN OUT of Trazon on Sunday about three o’clock. I was pretty cool about it until the effects of the last dose actually wore off. By seven P.M., I was all geared up, bouncing around my room, trying to avoid contact with any heavy, haunting thoughts. With the prescription drugs finished, I figured a course of alternative therapy might be in order, so I rooted around until I found an old bag of weed stashed in a running shoe at the back of my closet. I went through the usual drill: rolled a joint, cranked up the Offspring, opened the window, shoved a towel into the crack at the bottom of the door to avoid smoke seepage, crashed on the bed and sparked up. Almost right away I could feel my body sink just that much further into the mattress and a smile slap itself across my face, thick as cold paint. I lay there for a while, completely relaxed, listening to tunes, feeling groovy. A couple scary images tumbled through my brain, but they were just loose background stuff barely resonating behind the throb of the music and the steady lick of cool ai
r caressing my skin.

  What with all the licking and throbbing, it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d just puffed myself into a state of hypersensitivity, which I knew was not a good place for me to be. Soon the easy vibe tightened down. The padded edges turned hard. And surprise, surprise, death crept in close. So close, I could feel suicide girl hiding under my bed, and Stan crouching in the corner beside my desk, blood puddling at his feet. My ears filled with a vacuous roar, my eyes locked onto a square of ceiling above my bed, but still I knew Mr. Bernoffski was in the closet and Mexican Mick was leaning against the door, watching the whole scene, an amused smile plastered on his face. And pretty soon I was positive it was going to happen again, that we were all just waiting for somebody else to show up dying, my mom or dad, say, or maybe another kid from school, someone close, someone within arm’s reach I wouldn’t be able to save.

  But no one died. No one even flickered. What happened was the weed wore off. The CD ended. And I was left alone, very alone, in my very quiet room.

  SEVEN

  When my dad dropped me at school on Monday, I gave him a wave, waited until he turned out of the driveway, then took off. I wasn’t too groggy or sick to head into school or anything like that. It was just that I had shit to do.

  I hopped on my board, pulled my hoodie up against the raw morning and, avoiding the bloodstained sidewalk in front of the 7-Eleven, I headed downtown. Like most things in Stokum, it wasn’t far. It only took me about five minutes to make my way out of my ugly little oatmeal subdivision. Once liberated, I hit Water Street and from there it was a straight trajectory to the fibrillating heart of town.

  The houses on Water were nice. Big old redbrick jobbies, with wraparound front porches and stained glass windows, set way back from the road. Even this late in the year, the lawns were still a fresh-looking green and flowers hung on in the gardens. I figured Dr. Cramp and his sweet-looking wife probably rolled around in one of those places, probably had Sunday barbecues with the neighbors, all of them stupid enough to live in Stokum despite their big bank accounts. I knew for a fact that Mr. Kite, the main man at Kalbro, lived in the choicest house on the street. He’d invited his managers and their families over for a party this one time and my dad, being the supply chain guy, said we had to go.