Calamity

by J. T. Warren

  He leaned toward her face. She backed up but only slightly. He wouldn’t hit her; he had never done anything physically abusive before, not even punched a wall. (Times are changing.) “I did see God, Chloe, and I don’t care if you believe me or not, but the one thing you will not do is laugh at me. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “We’ve suffered more in the last few months than most people do their entire lives. But that is no excuse for destroying yourself. Whether it’s God or just Common Sense, you need to stop taking your damned little pills. You need to get yourself together and go back to being the mother and wife you were once. You need to get out of this bed and start living again.”

  He was keeping his anger in check. Barely. Ellis had warned him against being too blunt with the message. Anthony needed to persuade her of her own volition, not scare her into submission. She was already scared and frightened people couldn’t be empowered. He gripped the edge of the mattress while he spoke and was now squeezing it so hard that his hands were cramping. She wasn’t ignoring him, as he figured she would, or mocking him with her famous rolling eyes, as she was fond of employing; she was staring back at him blankly, a deer caught in headlights, too dumb to know what to do.

  “I should take you to a rehab,” he said. “I should but I won’t so long as you agree to my terms. First: you will be weaned off your pills over the next twenty-four hours. Second: you will get up at a reasonable time in the morning, shower, dress, and go about the daily business of living. Third: you will be a mother to Brendan and Tyler again. Brendan, especially, needs both of his parents now, needs them strong and clear-headed. Fourth: you will get up right now, shower, and have something to eat. I will tell all of this to Stephanie or she can watch me drag you to a rehab. What’ll it be?”

  She opened her mouth and clucked. He couldn’t tell if the tongue flick was a turrets-like side effect of her cocktail of drugs or an insulting verbal middle-finger. He waited for her to say something. Her eyes rolled from his to the door where the dresser was blocking an escape route. When her eyes lolled back to his, her expression had changed. The blank stare had given way to something harder, meaner.

  “I hope you hurt your back moving the dresser.”

  “Chloe, please—”

  “I want my fucking pills.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck you. I gave birth to those kids. I am allowed to do this. I am suffering more than you could ever imagine. You’re so full of shit you can’t even tell. I don’t give a shit if you did see God. Who cares? You see Him again, tell Him I said, ‘Fuck off!’ You can take all your pathetic self-help shit and shove it. Now, get me my pills or I’ll get them myself.”

  For a moment, Anthony was as dumb-struck as Chloe must have been only minutes ago. Then all her words and, more importantly, her tone, kicked him into action.

  He slapped her across the face. Her head whipped to the side with such a quick jerk that he thought he might have snapped her neck. He expected that old voice to come back but it didn’t. It might never speak again.

  She turned back to him and her red eyes were overflowing with raging blood, the white parts almost completely gone. The slap had burst more capillaries in her eyes. “Get the fuck out of my way.” She shoved him hard, one hand against his face, the other on his chest. The hit surprised him and he slipped off the edge of the bed, slumped to the floor. She scrambled off the bed and tried to climb over him. He grabbed her ankle and she lost her balance and crashed to the floor at the entrance to the bathroom. Her head bounced off the wood saddle bridging the carpet of the bedroom with the tile of the bathroom.

  Anthony got to his knees quickly to brace himself for a return attack. He was conscious to turn his lower half away from her feet, but she did not get up; she stayed on the floor and cried. She grabbed either side of her head and sobbed in large, heaving belts. Words squeezed in among her cries but he couldn’t decipher them. He used to be able to understand her to the point of interpreting her grunts. No longer. She was someone else now, a parasite living in his bed.

  He stepped over her and into the bathroom. Her pills were in the medicine cabinet and she had many bottles but he wasn’t prepared for just how many. Brown plastic bottles with white safety caps and white labels explaining how often the enclosed pills should be taken occupied the full length of the top two shelves. The bottles varied in size, some tall and thin, others short and wide. They had alien names: Effexor, Desyrel, Celexa, Parnate, Nardil, Tofranil, Elavil, Pamelor. We are the Desyrels from the planet Pamelor here to spread the good word of our god Nardil.

  “You want your pills, your fucking drugs?” He grabbed a bottle—Sinequan—ripped the cap off, and threw the pills at her. They bounced off her body and onto the carpet. He grabbed another bottle, opened it. “What about these?” Large, green horse pills ricocheted off her face, rolled back toward him on the tile. “Still don’t like those? Try them all!” With both hands, he grabbed as many bottles as he could and in one sweeping gesture flung them down on his wife.

  She sobbed harder and louder, though her cries had grown weak. Someone was knocking at the bedroom door, frantically knocking. Stephanie. “What’s going on? Anthony, please open the door. I’ll call the cops!”

  “Go ahead!” he shouted. “They can drag my wife to rehab.”

  He turned back to the medicine cabinet. Of the remaining bottles, one caught his eye because its name wasn’t some foreign alien-sounding title; this one was a household word throughout America. He seized the bottle, opened it.

  “THIS is what you want, right? This is your Pilly-Billie. This is your crutch. This is your goddamn escape.” He stepped to her and tipped the bottle of Percocet upside down. A handful of oblong, yellow pills fell into her hair, rolled on the tile. Through her sobbing, she grabbed one of the pills and shoved it in your mouth with the speed of a frog snatching a fly mid-air. Each pill was 650mg. It wouldn’t take many to finish her off.

  He bent toward her. “God loves you, but you make me sick.”

  He stepped over her and went to the door where Stephanie was pounding more furiously and really insisting she was going to call the police. He moved the dresser with ease and swung open the door. Stephanie almost collapsed into him.

  “What did you do?”

  “Just gave her her medicine.”

  Then Stephanie was in the bathroom crying over her sister and Anthony was on his way to the garage.

  3

  Brendan barely slept Thursday night. Dad hadn’t come home. Tyler had done something terrible with Paul. Mostly, though, Brendan was too anxious to find out why Dwayne had been so shocked when Brendan told him the girl’s name. Sasha Karras. Dwayne said he couldn’t tell him over the phone, that he would be by the following day, Friday; Brendan had to wait for his signal. So, Brendan went through his usual morning routine, no longer concerned with pleasing the gods but eager to please Dwayne. Greasy hair and sweaty clothes would not do. Ellis and Dwayne would be in their suits, so Brendan had to look the role as well.

  He was sitting alone at the kitchen table waiting for the signal when Dr. Carroll arrived. The earliest glimmer of morning sun flickered between the vertical blinds in front of the door leading to the deck. There was no bacon and eggs (cooked in grease) breakfast today—cereal as usual for a school day. There was no school today, anyway, not that Brendan would be going if there was. And no Pilly Billie, either, though he knew where the bottle was.

  Tyler was asleep—he had come home quite late, returning in Paul’s car and gone straight to bed with no more phone calls. He hadn’t been wearing shoes or a shirt. Stephanie was with Mom in his parents’ bedroom. There had been lots of crying last night, screaming too. Dad had done most of the screaming before he drove off in Mom’s car somewhere. Maybe God had a plan for him, too. Hopefully, God was keeping him safe.

  Brendan slowly stirred his spoon through the milk and remaining pieces of Captain Crunch, which had started to disintegrate like tiny corpses in a muddy
pool. When the doorbell chimed, Brendan almost fell out of his chair. It wasn’t the pre-determined signal but maybe Dwayne had changed his mind. He ran down the steps and swung open the door.

  “Hello, son.”

  Dr. Carroll was shorter than Dad and thinner. His face drooped forward as if made of melting play-dough; his white-and-black speckled beard did nothing to conceal his falling chin, which might eventually meld with his neck. The hair on his head was a spray-painted black mop. Large glasses framed his eyes in black plastic squares. Brendan had only seen him a handful of times, but every time Dr. Carroll wore the same thing: brown khakis that puffed out under his waist like clown pants and a dark blue dress shirt with a blue and pink flower print tie that dangled past his belt buckle.

  Brendan nodded but said nothing. Dr. Carroll smiled, revealing slightly yellowed but perfectly aligned tiny teeth that ended in almost-points as if he’d filed them. Piranha Teeth. It was as if at any moment, Dr. Carroll might morph into a man-eating centipede and bite Brendan’s head off.

  “Your aunt called me,” he said in a nasally voice. It was the voice nerds used in the movies. “May I speak with her?”

  “I guess,” Brendan said and stepped back to let Dr. Carroll in.

  He entered, touched Brendan’s shoulder. Brendan forced himself to not shrink away. “How are you, son? This has been a traumatic time. Do you feel down?”

  The man’s eyes twitched when he spoke. Perhaps it was the centipede fighting to come out. Brendan shook his head, said he was fine thank you.

  “If you ever need anything, someone to talk to, don’t hesitate. You don’t need to be tough in times likes these. You need to grieve. It’s a natural process. You must let your guard down. I know that can be scary, but I can help you through it. I have things that can help.”

  “Drugs?”

  Dr. Carroll pushed his glasses up his nose. “How’s your mother?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see her much.”

  “And your father?”

  “You should ask him.”

  Dr. Carroll nodded, flashed those teeth which had gotten pointier still, and made his way up the stairs in squeaky shoes. He was soon down the hall and knocking on Brendan’s parents’ door. A moment later, the door opened and shut and Aunt Steph said, “Oh, thank God.”

  What was Dr. Carroll going to do? It was probably messy whatever it was and Brendan had no time right now for more messiness. One cleanup job at a time.

  He returned to the kitchen.

  What would Dwayne say once he finally gave the signal? What was the plan going to be? No matter what it was, Brendan would help Dwayne any way he could. He had to protect his brother, had to keep him safe. If something horrible happened to Tyler too then there would be no purpose to anything anymore. Brendan would best serve the world by checking out of it. But that’s not what God had in mind. Dwayne and Ellis had told him how special he was, how God had touched him, marked him for unique accomplishments. This would be the first of many wonderful experiences in the name of God.

  No matter what.

  “What’re you doing?” Tyler stood in the kitchen doorway. He wore jeans and a brown T-shirt. His hair stood up along the side of his head as if that part of his scalp had been electrified.

  “Nothing.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Dr. Carroll.”

  “Really?” Something like a cloud past over Tyler’s face.

  “Helping Mom, I guess.”

  Tyler was gazing off into the corner of the kitchen. He was thinking something over. “You came home late.”

  The cloud past abruptly. “You were waiting for me?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Spying on me?”

  “What happened with that girl?”

  Tyler glanced down the hallway and then turned back and spoke to Brendan in a whisper, leaning his body toward him. “I never should have told you anything. I know you really want to help but you can’t. You need to let me handle it, okay?”

  “What if I can help?”

  “Brendan, I love you, I do, but you’re too young for this shit.”

  “I know her name is Sasha Karras.”

  Tyler clenched his jaw for a moment. He knelt before Brendan and grabbed the chair by both arms. There was something on his hand, something written. “Did you go through my stuff to find that out?”

  “I can help,” he said. “I know you don’t believe me, but I have ways.”

  “This isn’t one of your stories. This is some truly demented shit. You need to stay back, for your own good. Okay?”

  Brendan nodded. Tyler would never be convinced, maybe not even after he and Dwayne took care of the problem entirely. That was fine. Brendan didn’t need credit; he just wanted his brother to know that he cared about him.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  It wasn’t writing on Tyler’s hand; it was a symbol.

  Tyler glanced at his hand and pulled it off the chair. He buried it in the pocket of his jeans with a grimace. “Nothing. Never mind.” He stood. “Stop trying to help me. You got that?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyler went back down the hall. Brendan wouldn’t try to convince his brother again. It was too late for that. Tyler was too caught up in something bad to realize he needed help.

  When the phone rang, Brendan jumped out of his chair and almost tripped.

  “Are you alone?” Dwayne asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be around this evening to pick you up. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because God wants me to be.”

  “Good boy. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Just after sunset, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “God speed, my special boy.”

  The conversation had happened so quickly that Brendan was barely aware it had happened at all. He had answered Dwayne’s questions so quickly, so easily, so naturally; it was almost frightening. This was what God wanted.

  He went to his room. His mother was crying again. No doctor could help her. Only God. But that would come in time. One mess at a time, after all.

  First, Brendan had to deal with Sasha Karras and the arrowhead symbol branded into Tyler’s hand.

  4

  It was the morally right thing to help Sasha to the bathroom and try to help her remove the blotch of spray paint from her face, but with Sasha’s mother glowering over them, long, scraggly hair dangling past her face like the tentacles of a squid, Tyler rethought his responsibility.

  “Mom, no,” Sasha said. She was sitting on the toilet, wet towel pressed to her face.

  “Things will only get worse. The ritual sacrifice of the love child must be made.”

  … sac rice luff chide …

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How can you say that?” The harsh light in the bathroom revealed deep creases in the woman’s face as if her skin was a wrinkled paper napkin. “I am your mother. You owe me all you have. And all I have is because of the great Earth Goddess.”

  Violent sobs wracked Sasha’s body. She screamed from behind the towel. “Stop this! Stop this shit! It’s all bullshit and you know it!”

  Instead of screaming back, Sasha’s mother straightened up; her nose stuck out from the vail of hair like a slug. Her voice adopted a deep, heavy tone that sent chills through Tyler’s body: “It is time that you sacrifice your blood for the love child you have created. If you do not, you will continue to endure the harshest of experiences. I know you are in pain, my sweetheart, but this must be done, and both of you must agree.”

  Tyler could run straight at the woman and push her to the side and then be out the front door in a few seconds. If she proved stronger than he expected, there could be problems. But indecision was no improvement.

  Sasha’s sobs calmed; her anger faded. “Alright, Mom, fine. But Tyler doesn’t need to stay, this isn’t
his problem.”

  “The Earth Goddess demands both parents be present for the ritual. Only one and the ceremony may not work. Both life forces are necessary.”

  Sasha peeked at Tyler from behind her towel. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not apologize,” her mother said. “I was the spell caster. I created the love that stirred between the two of you last week and only I can make sure the love child you have created will be protected.”

  “You did curse me.” The words were out of Tyler’s mouth before he could stop them.

  The woman laughed a single, hearty note that echoed around the bathroom. “There are no curses, only spells.”

  “You think you’re a real witch?”

  Sasha grabbed his arm. “Please.”

  Sasha’s mother ignored the comments. “And no spell can really work unless the foundation for the spell already exists. My daughter loved you and so I cast a love spell to help her woo you, but that spell would never have worked if you had no love in your heart for her.”

  Not love, lust. He didn’t want her heart—he wanted her big breasts, her firm legs, her warm middle. Christ, was she actually pregnant? He needed to get rid of Sasha’s crazy mother so he could address the real issue.

  Drag her out with you and kick her down the stairs.

  “I have to go,” he said and hoped such simplicity would work.

  Sasha gripped his arm more tightly. “Please,” she said again.

  The black spray paint had faded to resemble a massive bruise in the middle of her face. “Sorry,” he said and shook off her arm.

  “It is time.” Sasha’s mother removed a large carving knife that had been hidden somewhere in her dark layers.

  * * *

  She told them to strip naked. Sasha took off her shirt and unfastened her bra, breasts dropping loose, and started to undo her pants without objection. She had suffered this humiliation before. If the kids at school knew, Sasha would be the eternal joke from now through fifty years of reunions.

  When her breasts came free, Tyler felt a moment of desire but it vanished almost immediately. There was nothing sexy about the way she undressed. It was too mechanical, like an abused child dropping pants to take the nightly punishment. If the school knew, Sasha would be put in a foster home and her mother in a jail, or an asylum. Maybe that wasn’t so bad.