by Unknown
Alan fell back on the bed at the sound of the dry click of plastic on plastic. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, writing the obituary of Alan Ashley, author. He took his own life in the Plaza Hotel in New York. He didn’t even write a final note.
After an hour of lying on the bed with the growth throbbing, Alan sat up. The toy gun was still in his hand. He remembered playing cops and robbers with it as a boy. Until he couldn’t anymore. Until he’d been harassed for his need to act things out.
The actor, the voice said. One last time.
It was a party in L.A. Alan Ashley, who began acting in his teens and had become a screenwriter, producer, and director, wasn’t usually found on the party scene. But a mid-morning party couldn’t lead to trouble, could it? This was L.A., though. He was with the cream of the crop—this year’s Brat Pack, last year’s Brat Pack, fuck, the original Brat Pack. In the kitchen, Alan Ashley, who’d won awards for being a good role model to kids by not doing drugs or even drinking, decided to give in a little. He tried a drink. Then he snorted some coke. He loved it. By the end of Saturday he was on a binge. Everyone told him to slow down. You’re gonna end up like John Belushi, they told him. Or River Pheonix or Chris Farley or Janis Joplin or …
But he didn’t stop. He stayed up Saturday night doing lines and drinking and staying in the cloud that seemed to come from the growth on his face. It still ached and throbbed. He paid it no mind. In the early morning hours of Sunday, Alan Ashley, famed actor, died of a drug overdose. His agent found him in his Malibu home.
Alan Ashley, who’d been born, raised, and lived in Harden, Massachusetts, sat on his couch and stared at the blank TV. On the TV tray in front of him was the paper plate he’d used to snort the Coffee Mate, a rolled-up one-dollar bill lying near it. Empty Diet Pepsi cans littered the apartment. The walls were bare. No artwork, no photographs, nothing. Books, videos, and DVDs lined shelves or were stacked around the place. His clothes lay strewn about. The apartment cost nine hundred dollars a month. He had trouble paying it. His freezer in the kitchen consisted mainly of frozen entrees. The refrigerator was almost empty except for milk and soda. He owned only a few dishes, hand-me-downs from his parents. The semen stains in his sheets were not from the different women he met on book signings or press junkets, not actresses or fans, but from himself, by himself.
Alan Ashley, a marketing guy for a firm in Harden. He went to work daily, sat in front of the computer or on the phone analyzing sales and marketing, not really important, not making waves. Usually his coworkers nodded to him, aware of his existence but unaware of him, the person. Gina being the only one because she’d had the cubicle near his. Now they were aware of him, but for what? For talking to himself. For living in fantasies.
Alan Ashley looked at his hands. What good were they? What had he ever done with them? Type reports for things he couldn’t care less about. Jerk off. Pick his nose. Wipe his ass. Eat. But what had they done.
The side of his face ached. He touched it. The indentations on the growing bump were more defined. What the hell was this?
It’s me, the voice said.
At that moment, pain exploded from the large growth and Alan cried out. He slid off the couch, onto his knees, and wept.
“That’s right,” the voice said. “Let it out.”
Alan stopped. The pain was still there, still ravaging, but he forgot about it. The voice hadn’t sounded internal. It sounded like it was in the same room.
“You wanted me,” the voice said. “And I’ve come.”
Alan used the couch and the wobbly TV tray to stand. He stumbled, almost fell, but finally stood. His legs quivered and he didn’t know if he could walk, but knew he had to. He had to get to the mirror. He made his way down the small hallway to the bathroom and flicked the switch. That explosion of pain had been the growth opening up. Two new eyes looked at him. A new nose breathed and a new mouth smiled. “You created me,” the face said. “You wanted me long enough and then you try to destroy me. That’s fine. I’ll just do what you never could because you were too weak.”
Alan screamed while the face that had grown beside his laughed. When the screams died, Alan realized he couldn’t feel his body. That sensation of zero-g had returned. Only now, when he tried to raise his hand to touch the growth, it wouldn’t move. When he wanted to run from the bathroom, his feet wouldn’t respond.
Alan watched as Sunday became Monday and he quit his job, telling Roland to take his reports and cram them. He watched as he told Gina that she was a lying, backstabbing cunt and should go home and take the bottle of valiums the same way her mom did. He watched, though through a fog, as Tuesday came and he packed a few books, videos, DVDs, and CDs with his clothes. As he took the money out of the bank. As he got in his car and began driving.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, heading west, Alan saw himself as a growth that was fading on a face. This face knew what it wanted, knew what it would do. Alan watched as the hand that had once been his came up and its fingernail dug into him. He was aware of being pulled off, pain tearing through him, until everything went black.
The Goat
WHITT POND
Whitt Pond is a man of faith. He believed we would publish this story when we told him how much we liked it seven years ago. That you’re reading it now is proof that he was not only right but his story has withstood the test of time.
“C’mon, Scotty,” Josh urged, fighting the steering wheel as the battered pickup bounced along the ungraded North Texas back road. “We’re gonna be there in a few minutes. Say it now.”
Across the seat, a small skinny boy with straw-colored hair stared unhappily at the floor.
“I can’t,” he mumbled. “Try harder!”
No reply came. Josh glanced over at his younger brother. With eyes closed in silent concentration, Scotty was doing “touches”, his right hand executing the familiar pattern over and over again. Thumb touch little finger, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, little finger again. As the repetitions increased, he opened his mouth in soundless pain.
“I … I can’t!” Scotty cried finally. “I just can’t!”
Josh looked away, but the view did nothing to improve his mood. The drought was everywhere. In the churning clouds of hot red-brown dust obscuring his rear view. In the sun-tortured fields with their endless rows of useless, shriveled peanut stubble. And in the solitary weathered houses that now lay empty and neglected.
“Why can’t you, dammit?”
“I don’t know,” Scotty said in a subdued voice, staring down at his lap as he continued his repetitions. “I just can’t, that’s all.” The rest of the trip was spent in silence.
The bouncing suddenly ceased as the truck pulled from the dirt road onto the highway into Morgan. A small official sign from better times stated the population to be 1,258. The real number was much lower now. Nobody wanted to know how much.
Further down the highway, a large and long-faded billboard paid tribute to the town’s sole moment of glory, a single-A state football championship of twenty years earlier, never to be repeated.
As the truck slowed for the single traffic light, the hard times in Morgan were immediately evident. The peanut mill that had once provided the majority of jobs now stood like a gray metal mausoleum. Half the stores on the town’s main street were boarded up, and the half that remained shimmered with defeat.
The handful of townfolk out on the sidewalk paused to stare at the pickup as it rolled by. Scotty slumped further down in his seat to get out of sight. Josh kept his eyes forward, avoiding the hard, angry faces that turned their way.
The Morgan Baptist Church parking lot was almost empty when they arrived. Scotty bit his lip and stared at the walkway leading to the entrance. “C’mon,” Josh coaxed gently, “it probably won’t be that bad.” He wondered if the words sounded as phony as they felt.
Pastor Roberts was waiting on the church steps, his hands clasped one atop the other over his belt buckle, the way all preachers se
emed to stand when they were being preachers. Three other people were with him, the bright sun bleaching away any sympathy Josh had hoped to find in their hard-lined faces. One of them was his mother.
Josh’s stomach tightened at the way she seemed to shrink into herself, physically withdrawing from “this evil world” that she so often railed against. Her bouts of depression had become more frequent and more consuming. This one was the worst.
“Mom, are you sure.…” he began, but her piercing look stopped him cold. Further words would only bring on the screaming and the fist-shaking. For the hundredth time in the last two years, Josh wished his father was still alive.
“Well, boys,” the Pastor said, “why don’t we go inside where it’s cooler?” He gestured to where the church doors stood open but made no move toward them. Nor did any of the others. They were watching, Josh knew, and waiting.
“Uh, Scotty,” Josh said as casually as he could manage, “you forgot to roll up your window. You go do that and then join the rest of us inside.”
The small boy’s face flashed from puzzlement to surprised relief and he started to run back to the parking lot. But his mother grabbed him before he had gone two steps.
“You’ll do what Pastor Roberts says, do you hear me?” his mother hissed, slapping her younger son across the ear as she spun him back towards the doorway.
“Calm yourself, Sister.” The pastor guided the shaking woman away with one hand but kept the other firmly on Scotty’s shoulder. He then glanced at Josh knowingly. “I think the window can wait until our business here is concluded. Scotty, why don’t you go in first?”
Please, God, Josh prayed silently, please let my brother get through Your doors the normal way. Just this once? Please?
Gingerly rubbing his ear, Scotty stepped up and stood so that the toes of his sneakers barely touched the bottom of the doorway at exact right angles to the frame. Then he hopped through, landing with both heels touching the inside of the frame. He looked nervously down to see if his feet were still at right angles. After staring for a moment, he hopped back through the doorway and began again.
Josh’s heart sank at the dark looks gathering on the adults’ faces. It had taken Scotty half an hour to get out of the house this morning. The pressure he was now under could only make it worse.
Finally, on the eighth attempt, Scotty seemed satisfied that he had “done it right”, the only explanation he was ever able to give for his strange behavior. Josh quickly followed and found him staring at the floor, trying not to look at any of the framed scriptures hanging on the wall.
The ordeal was repeated at the doors into the auditorium. But before Scotty could manage to get through, his mother grabbed him and pulled him inside.
“No!” Scotty struggled wild-eyed to get back to the doors he had passed through wrong. “Lemme go! Lemme go!”
“You see what he’s like?” his mother cried as she dragged Scotty all the way up the aisle. “I can’t take any more of this!” She slapped Scotty again, then kept on slapping him as he cried and struggled all the harder. Josh rushed up and pulled her away.
“Mom, stop it. You’re hurting him.”
“It’s not him. It’s that devil that’s in him.” She looked over to where the two church deacons were holding Scotty between them. He was crying but no longer resisting. “We’ve got to get that devil out of him.” She stared back at Josh, her grey eyes uncomprehending. “Can’t you understand that?”
Josh wanted to say something but before he could find the words Pastor Roberts came up.
“I’m sure Josh understands that, Sister.” The preacher led them to a front pew. “You remember Mark, don’t you Josh?”
“Yes, Pastor. Mark, chapter one, verses 23 through 27. The man in the synagogue with the unclean spirit.”
“And?”
“Mark, chapter five, verses 2 through 19. The man with the legion of unclean spirits that were released into the swine.”
“And you believe your Bible, don’t you Josh?”
“Yes, Pastor.”
“There, you see, Sister?” The Pastor smiled with approval, and his mother seemed comforted. “Josh knows what is right and what is not. Now as for Scotty here …”
Pastor Roberts held up a book. Scotty’s Bible. Josh wondered how he had gotten ahold of it. Scotty looked down at the floor. The Pastor opened the book and began flipping through it.
“There seem to be a lot of words blacked out here, Scotty. Would you know anything about that?”
Scotty shrugged, refusing to look up.
“From the looks of it,” the Pastor continued, “it’s really just one word that’s been blacked out, isn’t it?”
Closing the book, the Pastor resumed his clasped-hands stance. “Say the word, Scotty. Your mother here needs to hear you say it. We all need to hear you say it. Say ‘Jesus’.”
Scotty flinched and did a quick touch series. Josh hoped the others didn’t see it.
“I can’t.” Scotty’s whisper seemed to bounce off the walls.
Reaching down, the Pastor lifted Scotty’s face up and clasped it in both hands.
“Yes, you can. Say it with me now.” Lifting his own face heavenward, the Pastor closed his eyes and began speaking in sermon cadence. “Praise Jesus.”
“Praise …” Scotty’s mouth stayed open but nothing else came out. “Everyone,” the Pastor commanded without looking, “help our Brother Scotty in his hour of need. Praise Jesus.”
A chorus of “Praise Jesus” went up. Josh thought his own voice sounded hollow. He couldn’t hear Scotty’s.
“Praise Jesus!” the Pastor shouted, as if he were speaking to an entire congregation.
Please, Jesus, Josh prayed even as he voiced the response, help my brother. Help him say Your name.
Tears were streaming down Scotty’s upturned face and his fingers danced their ritual dance. When the Pastor looked down again, he grabbed the boy’s hands in his own, stopping the motion.
“Brother Scotty! Jesus needs to hear you say His name. He needs to hear it now. Praise Jesus!”
“Prai … prai …” Scotty stammered. Suddenly he tried to twist away, but the Pastor held him fast. Then he threw up.
The smell was sharp and sour and it tugged at Josh’s stomach. One of the deacons went for a mop and a bucket. The Pastor was staring at Scotty in astonishment, and even a little fear. Josh wondered about that. He had never seen the Pastor, or any other preacher for that matter, afraid of anything. Taking out his handkerchief, he began cleaning Scotty’s face.
“You okay?” he asked in a low voice. Scotty coughed, trying to answer.
“I tried, Josh. I really did.”
“I know you did, Scotty.”
“Josh …” It was scarcely a whisper. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry. It’s gonna be okay.” Josh looked up at the faces around them, again seeing the fear in their eyes. “You’ll see,” he said, to Scotty, to the others, and to himself. “It’s gonna be okay.”
The Pastor kept Scotty at the church for an all night prayer vigil and sent Josh home. Josh’s mother went back to the neighbor’s house, where she had been staying for the last three days. Wheezer, a black-and-white dog of unplanned parentage, kept him company. Josh fed Wheezer and then fixed his own dinner. Later, he lay in bed, thinking about his father. After a long while, he finally fell asleep.
Deacon Evans called the next day and told Josh to bring some fresh clothes for Scotty. He sounded tired and distracted.
“How’s Scotty doing?” Josh asked.
“Well, it’s been a powerful struggle, and it ain’t over yet,” Evans admitted. Josh could hear him scratching the stubble on his chin. “But don’t you worry none. Ever’one in Morgan’s prayin’ that the Lord’ll guide Pastor Roberts’ hand in this matter.”
When Josh arrived, Deacon Evans was in the back of the church, sitting outside the room where the choir robes were kept. His suit was rumpled and his tie hung loosely around his nec
k. He nodded at the door but did not follow Josh in.
Scotty was asleep, lying across a couple of folding chairs. When Josh touched him on the shoulder, he awoke with a start, almost falling off the chairs.
“Hey, s’okay,” Josh said quickly. “It’s just me.”
Scotty blinked a couple of times, confused. He looked tired, his face drawn and pale.
“Oh,” he finally said, rubbing his eyes. “Is it over? Can I go home now?”
“I don’t think so,” Josh said, remembering Deacon Evans outside the door. He looked around the room. The windowless walls were bare of any adornment, other than a rack of choir robes pushed up against one wall. “Have you been here all night?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“What have they been doing?”
Scotty pulled his knees up to his chin, his feet resting on the edge of the chair.
“Well, they pray a lot, asking God to get this devil out of me. And, and …” Scotty bit his lip, thinking.
“And what?”
“They keep asking me my name all the time. I kept telling them ‘Scotty’, but they just got mad. So I quit telling them that. But I don’t know what else to tell them.”
“Anything else?” Josh took the clothes out of the paper bag and laid them on one of the chairs.
Flexing his heels, Scotty rocked back and forth on the chair. He stared at the floor for a long time before answering.
“Yeah, they … they made me take my clothes off once. They said they were looking for devil’s marks. The only thing they found was that spot on my arm, where the skin’s a different color. They argued about that a lot.”
Josh glanced back at the closed door.
“Scotty,” he asked quietly, “why did you mark through all the …” He hesitated, then continued. “… the ‘Jesus’s in your Bible?”
The finger ritual was still there, but slower this time.
“I don’t know. It’s just that every time I see it, or hear it, I just feel like … like somethin’ bad’s gonna happen. Somethin’ real bad.”