Calamity

by J. T. Warren

  He choose a large black one riddled with scratches and chips. The thing might not even roll correctly. That no longer mattered; its rolling days were officially over. He slipped his carrying sling over the ball and assessed the weight. He had chosen it for one reason and one reason only: it was sixteen pounds, the heaviest size available from the racks. It was four pounds heavier than his own and the strain in his shoulder reminded him of that immediately. By the time he made it to the place, his arm would be killing him, but it had to be a sixteen-pound ball. It was the surest bet for a successful sacrifice.

  His own ball was still in the midst of cleaning and Tyler was still being a good sport for Mr. Coyle. Only a few people were bowling down at this end of the alley and no one was near the side EXIT door.

  Brendan slipped out and began to run once he hit the parking lot.

  * * *

  Not only did his arms pain him—both of them throbbing from the shoulder down—his back ached in flashes of hot anguish and his legs crammed every few feet in protest. By the time he left the parking lot and made it back to the main road, he had to stop running. He wanted to put down the ball and rest but he couldn’t. His bowling ball was probably done with its cycle in the cleaning machine and it would soon be time to start league play.

  He turned down a side road, which led to an on-ramp for Route 17. He had guessed it would take him fifteen minutes all told, but he was fast approaching ten minutes by the time he saw the on-ramp. His shirt was now completely stuck to him with sweat. The ball kept smacking him in the leg as he ran and he knew there was going to be a big bruise their tomorrow, something else he’d have to hide. It wouldn’t matter, though, not once the sacrifice had been made and the gods satisfied.

  Finally, Brendan came to the place he had thought of during the drive with Tyler. Just past the on-ramp to the highway, another road crossed right over the highway on an overpass, which then led down toward some town where the whole family had gone pumpkin-picking last October. It was a small foot-bridge over a stream set between two houses on that repeating-pattern house road. Had they never gone pumpkin-picking, Brendan would never have known this road existed or the ideally placed overpass.

  A few cars passed him on this road, all headed for Route 17, but none had even slowed to evaluate him. Adults were even scared of twelve year olds. Perhaps they had a right to be, at least this morning, anyway. A sacrifice demanded a kill. Brendan didn’t relish that idea but he wasn’t repulsed by it either. It had to be done; that was it. To protect his family, to keep away Death, Brendan had to invite Death into someone else’s home.

  He made it onto the overpass and checked his watch: almost twenty minutes had passed. People would be looking for him soon. Maybe they were already. There was no time to delay or really think about what he was doing. He had to do this and then run back and, with a lot of luck, Tyler would still be in line waiting for the old guy to fry some potato sticks. His teammates would ask where he had been and he’d say he’d had diarrhea. That was always a good excuse because it immediately got you off the hook and no one ever sought any more information. Except for mothers.

  He waited for a car to pass; this one slowed but not so much as to make Brendan abort his mission. Maybe the driver was marveling at the foot bridge, hadn’t noticed it before, perhaps, or maybe was registering a kid with a bowling ball standing over a highway. Curious, isn’t it? As long as whoever it was didn’t read the paper tomorrow, everything would be fine. No matter, the gods would protect Brendan and everyone he loved.

  Reinforced chicken wire sealed up the gaps between the steel bars running across the bridge but they stopped at the highest bar, which was at Brendan’s shoulders. Brendan stood just left of the middle of the bridge going with traffic on the second bar, his toes straining to hold him in place, and removed the ball from the sling. Cars whizzed past beneath him. They traveled so quickly that the branches on the trees bordering the highway swayed with the traffic current. Some cars must be traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour. Timing would have to be exact, or at least as exact as he could get it. Behind him, a tan car in the right lane approached at a more rational speed. Unfortunately, it would be a cautious driver who was going to surrender his life this morning.

  He held the bowling ball out in front of him with both hands. His arms began to tremble but he ground his teeth through the pain. This had to be done; there was no way around it. This one simple, yet horrendous, act would spare his family further misery. It might be murder, it might be wrong, but he had to do it if he wanted to keep his family safe and alive. This had better be what the gods wanted. The book said sometimes devils paraded as gods to make people do stupid things, even hurt the ones they loved.

  It was too late to worry about that now.

  To conduct a proper sacrifice, Brendan had to invoke the attention of the gods. The book relayed in specific details the entire Official Sacrificial Invocation and Ceremony. Brendan copied it down in his composition book, word for word, reread it numerous times; he knew what had to be said, but the time was so suddenly upon him that the car he had chosen—tan, old—would be past him in seconds. He couldn’t delay; he had to seize this moment now.

  “For you, almighty gods, I make this offer. Protect my family from harm. May this be your will.”

  He had forgotten the talisman—the sacred tool meant to really sanctify this moment. Hell, he hadn’t even thought of a talisman. What if this didn’t work? Before Brendan could reconsider, even delay for one more second, the tan car was at the bridge and he released the ball. “Help,” Brendan said. Maybe that would be enough.

  At first there was nothing, only the sound of speeding cars, and Brendan thought the ball had missed the target completely, but then the crash splashed upward toward him with a terrific eruption of glass. He had hit the windshield—he couldn’t have hoped for better placement—a veritable strike. Tires screeched but not from the hit car. It kept going past the underpass, swerved onto the shoulder where the tires howled over the line of concrete indents, and then crashed head-first into a large maple tree. A lot more tires screeched and a heavy stink of burned rubber wafted up to Brendan.

  He didn’t really notice the smell, however, because something had caught his eye. It was the array of bumper stickers on the back of the car. They were blurry at this distance, but Brendan didn’t need binoculars to recognize them. One read TIME FLIES LIKE AN ARROW, FRUIT FLIES LIKE A BANANA and another exclaimed, READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.

  PART TWO

  “We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love.”

  Sigmund Freud

  1

  When his cell phone rang, Tyler was so happy to get a break from Mr. Coyle’s babbling about hot rods and Mustangs that he fumbled the phone and nearly dropped it out of his hands. It would be Paul, checking in on whether his buddy had been arrested for rape yet, but it wasn’t, and once he flipped open the phone and answered, Tyler immediately wished he had checked the screen first to see who it was.

  “Tyler?” Sasha sounded calm, almost removed from emotion, if that made any sense.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Tyler moved away from Mr. Coyle, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, Don’t mind me, I know how crazy women can be. Tyler moved toward the entrance doors. People entering would be less likely to stop and eavesdrop than the parents milling around by the lanes, waiting for their kids to start bowling.

  “About last night,” she said as if Tyler had asked the stupidest of questions.

  “What about it?” He should be apologetic and concerned and tell her over and over that he had thought she wanted it and oh God he was so sorry this happened. But he couldn’t contain the contempt. This bitch was going to ruin his life—you raped me—and there was nothing he could do.

  “Please don’t be angry,” she said.

  He snickered. She knew she had wrongly accused him. Now she wanted to formally apologize. She had realized th
e error of her ways and just wanted to set everything right. Hell, maybe she’d want another date. Paul had said that once the cherry was popped the bitches just went crazy for cock. Brendan thought of her breasts and smiled.

  “I was just … surprised. You know?”

  “I thought you wanted it.” An elderly woman glanced at him and Tyler faced the wall.

  “You’re a nice guy and everything, but …”

  “What?” He couldn’t soften his curtness. Why was he so angry? She was practically throwing herself at his feet, begging for mercy.

  “I was really messed up last night. I wasn’t going to call you, even talk to you again. I wanted you to die.”

  Did she believe he had slept soundly? He had barely managed a few hours of rest in- between moments of powerful alertness when he relived the moment in the car again and again. He punched his pillow and then used it to stifle his screams. He had taken her virginity (she had wanted it), but she could take his manhood.

  “But you are a good guy, or so I thought.”

  It was a set up for an apology. He let it hang there in cell-phone dead air.

  “I know that you were, well, overcome. It happens to guys. That’s what Niki said. She wasn’t making excuses, just helping me reason this out.”

  “Yeah,” he barely said. League play began and Tyler covered his exposed ear.

  “I was really upset, Tyler. You understand that, right?” A distinct accusatory sharpness accented the question.

  She hadn’t objected when he removed her clothes, hadn’t protested when he slipped a finger inside her—what the hell was he supposed to conclude? If she was going to apologize she better do it really soon or Tyler’s phone was going to end up in tiny pieces on the floor. Why were women so damn nuts? Couldn’t she see things from his perspective?

  “Tyler?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  He wanted to scream, Then say it was all your fault, that you misled me, or admit that you fucking wanted it! Instead, he said, “Okay.”

  “You understand why I’m upset?” She reminded him of the blonde guidance counselor who spoke to every kid like he or she were five years old.

  “Yeah.” Once he said that he realized he did understand why she had been upset. Lust had captured his mind for a few minutes and he hadn’t been himself in that car, but he hadn’t asked her if she wanted him or if he could do it. He had gone ahead and did it and it had felt wonderful, so fucking amazing, but if she had been screaming and crying for him to stop while he thrust away madly inside her then he was to blame, at least somewhat. He could admit that, but only because she had called him out of contrition. Had she attacked him, he would have attacked back.

  “I would like to see you again.”

  Despite what Tyler believed the proper way to react, Tyler’s body warmed and grew excited. Even the fear of a rape charge couldn’t control the male organ. It might even encourage it, though that was a terrible thing to suggest. “Me too,” he said.

  “Can you come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  She not only wanted to apologize, she wanted to have sex again, to really show how sorry she was for her behavior. Paul was right: the bitch wanted cock. “I’m at my brother’s bowling practice right now and—”

  “Can someone else take him home? I really want to see you now,” she said. Her voice begged, I’m dying for you to fuck me right now and this time I want you to really pound me.

  Tyler spotted Mr. Coyle, who had begun to cheer on his son’s team. Where was Brendan? “I can probably work something out, yeah.”

  “So, I’ll see you soon?”

  His smile came out of his voice: “You can count on it.”

  He slipped the phone back in his pocket and went to Brendan’s lane. He wasn’t there. Mr. Coyle was clapping. “Pick up that spare, it’s an easy one.” Yes, it is, Tyler thought and turned to Mr. Coyle. But then he turned right back. Brendan’s black and white marble composition book was sticking out of his bowling bag; it was practically crying out for someone to grab it and leaf through the pages.

  He had an obligation to read whatever Brendan might have recorded from the conversation with Paul last night because now Sasha was going back on what she said and actually asking him to have her again. She hadn’t literally said that, of course, but he could tell. Paul had said that women became horn dogs once they got their first taste. If Brendan had written something about Tyler acting inappropriately or even a direct accusation of rape (Brendan was only twelve but he was damn perceptive), Tyler had to dispose of the evidence because it could damage both his and Sasha’s reputations. After today, they might even be boyfriend and girlfriend.

  He grabbed the composition book, tucked it under his arm, and turned to Mr. Coyle. His son missed the spare but Mr. Coyle still clapped for him, telling him he’d get em all on the next frame. “I don’t know where my brother is, but—”

  “Bathroom, probably,” Mr. Coyle said. “It’s only bowling but these kids take it so seriously. It’s like life and death. He’s probably nervous. The kids can be hard on each other. I try to tell em it’s just a game but, hey, they’re kids.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Mr. Coyle leaned toward him, lowered his voice. “Some of the parents are nuts, too. They scream and curse. You’d think they had money riding on it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe they do.”

  This time, Tyler blurted out his question and Mr. Coyle smiled large. “Awfully early for a hot date, isn’t it?” Instead of waiting for a response, Mr. Coyle slapped him on the back. “I know how it is. Women expect all kinds of things. Go ahead. I’ll take Brendan home. Tell the old man to give me a call. I miss our chats.” Then he started laughing as if he had said something hilarious.

  Tyler nodded and left, almost running out the door.

  * * *

  On the way, Tyler called Paul.

  “You must’ve gone deep. Struck oil.”

  “You think that’s what it is?”

  “Must be. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since you had her.”

  An ambulance sped past him in the other direction, lights flashing and siren blaring. Whenever that happened, Tyler always wondered for a moment or two what had happened to the person in need. Was it a heart attack? Was it something more gruesome? Would there be puddles of blood for the paramedics to walk through? Then the ambulance was gone and forgotten. Later he’d think back on that ambulance and hear its warbling siren so loudly he’d get nauseated.

  “So, this is good.”

  “You sound nervous. Afraid you can’t hit the same spot?” Paul’s laughter made Tyler smile at first and then it began to grate on his nerves.

  “What if her mom is there?”

  “Let her watch.”

  He had to wait almost a minute for Paul to get his laughter under control. “Seriously.”

  “She’s probably at one of her witch meetings or reading somebody’s future. Tarot cards and shit. If she is there, wedge a chair under the doorknob. You don’t want a surprise interruption. Witch or not, no mother wants to see her daughter violated.”

  “I’m not violating her.”

  “That’s right,” Paul said, “you’re pummeling her.”

  “What if it’s a trap?”

  “A trap? She gets her hand on your cock and then, BAM!, down comes the knife and you’re standing there watching yourself bleed out while she adds your dick to her collection.”

  Tyler hadn’t been thinking of that exactly, though the images lingered longer than he wanted them to. “What if she wants to record me confessing or something?”

  “You’re on your way to get laid, Tyler. Stop being such a freak. She may be weird, but she’s not going to trick you into confessing or chop off your dick and store it in a jar.”

  “You’re right.”

  Another ambulance shot past him. Must be a massacre.

  “Then again,” Paul
said. “You never know.”

  “What?”

  “You might want to check her basement first or the kitchen cabinets or her closet. I’d look for a barrel of formaldehyde. That’s a dead giveaway she’s a cock collector. Then you better run.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What if her mother wants to, like, have you perform on some witchcraft altar? That could be freaky, man, though interesting.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And watch out for the snaggletooth. If she tells you to close your eyes, make sure your hands are around her throat. Just in case.”

  “Jesus, Paul. What is wrong with you?”

  “Hey, I’m not the rapist.”

  “I’m not a rapist.”

  “As long as the bitches like it. And don’t forget the rubbers.”

  “Shit.”

  Paul was able to stop his laughter before it got out of control. “Better hit up the store. You do not need a pregnant weirdo snaggletooth bitch on your hands.”

  “Oh, fuck. That’s it.”

  “What?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  She was trying to be nice to him, even lure him to her house with the promise of sex, so she could tell him that the take-home pregnancy test had been positive and that he had to prepare for parenthood. He eased his foot off the gas pedal.

  “I didn’t wear one. Last night.”

  Silence.

  “What should I do?”

  “Pray.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “How could you not remember a condom?”

  “I didn’t think we’d get that far. I didn’t even have one. I don’t own any. I wasn’t thinking. My mind had been”—FIRE! FIRE!—“blocked or something. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

  “What, you thought you were fishing?”

  “I know I fucked up, but … fuck! What am I supposed to do?”

  “If she is, you know, pregnant, push her down the stairs.”