by Clive Barker
The garden slowly grew.
And the girl—I can’t forget the girl. The most stunning blonde I’d ever held in my arms, part of my church group, delicate and pale, and as mean as they came. She knew the power she held over young men, and she wielded it like a sword. I did anything she asked—writing her paper for English class, driving her to the mall, giving her money for a movie or clothes, never asking for much in return. She’d laugh as she walked away, but I was oblivious. All I needed was her pressed up against me, a wash of flowery perfume, her lips glossy on mine, her soft wet tongue sliding inside my mouth as her hand rested on the bulge in my jeans, her blue eyes sparkling as she pulled away. I was hypnotized. Which is why I didn’t see them, the others, the phone chirping, constantly distracted, as she kept things relatively chaste between us, while spending nights with other young men. All it took was one party, an event she didn’t tell me about, walking around the house with a beer in my hand, searching for her, excited, only to head out onto the back porch, her mouth on his, tongues intertwined, his meaty paws all over her ass, my heart in my throat.
The weeds and flowers commingled, until they slowly became one.
It seems petty now, looking back, the ways I boiled over, the ways I was betrayed. Screws slowly turned into one wheel after another, until the car blew a tire, my father in the hospital—a broken arm and two black eyes, as I stood beside his bed while he slept, shadows in the corner of the room. Funny how a baseball player always seems to carry a bat, one in the trunk, for a quick round at the batting cage, nothing more, of course. I guess that pitcher shouldn’t have been trying to buy weed in a sketchy part of town, right? High as a kite, leaning against his shit-brown Nova, a quick rap to the back of the skull, my swing improved, busted kneecap, and his hands now useless for holding much of anything, let alone a baseball, trying to work his curve or slider. Spirits danced in the pooling blood. And the girl—I should have left her alone, I know, but her pretty mouth just set me afire. She liked her drink—it was easy to drop a little something extra in her cup, and later, to undress her so gently, leaving her in the bedroom of that frat house, so perfect in every way. I never touched her, and neither did the other boys. We didn’t have to. The rumors were enough. Gibbering words haunted the hallways of our school, ruining her for anyone else.
Up in a corner of my garage there was a bundle of twigs wrapped around a dead mouse—a dull red ribbon and metal wire wringing the wad of hair and fur, holding it tight. At the ball field, up under the dugout, was a wasp’s nest, filled with birdseed and glass shards, a beetle at the center, a singular red hourglass painted on its back. Tucked into my wallet, behind a bent and faded picture of the girl, was a piece of yellowing paper, covered in hieroglyphics, a tree of life in dried blood at the center, my name etched into it with a razor blade. I brought this all to me, but I never saw it coming.
***
Being a cop meant I could channel my rage into official business, and I was good at it, for a very long time. And then I took one shot too many, the kid blending into the darkness, his hands full of something, pointing my way, a gun fired, and then we fired back. In those moments I was never a father, forgetting the face of my son. It was all a mistake, the kid never held anything but his cell phone, his hands out the window showing surrender, the pop in the night merely firecrackers down the street, my partner and I flying high on cocaine, eager to dispense justice, when none was needed—our offerings hollow and filled with hate. It was over before it began, both of us on the street, and I would have been bitter if it hadn’t been a long time coming. It was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back—running heads into the door frame of our cruiser, planting drugs on people we didn’t like, broken taillights, speeding tickets, young women frisked and violated in so many different ways, backroom deals over packets of white powder, promises made, seething eyes set back into black skulls, curled lips made of brown skin, the glimmer of a badge, the feeling of immortality, and none of it was anything good. I turned a blind eye to pyramids of broken sticks, smoldering leaves and smoking sage, barbed wire and antlers fused to skulls, flesh turned to sinew, bone to dust—evil incarnate, the deeds I’d done manifesting, coming home to roost.
***
How quickly I fell, the lies I told to cover up my losses, growing bolder and broader every day.
I had a new job now, fixing the problems of whoever would come to my new office. I’d taken over a crack house down the block from where I used to live, the doors boarded over, the windows too, squatting on the property because the daylight offered me no solutions. I’d sit in the living room, surrounded by torn and beaten down couches, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, candles burning down to nubs. There was no heat, no electricity, and no water. I had my gun, and a thin layer of filth over my skin, taking what I needed from those that were too weak to fight back, hired out by men and women, drug dealers and cops, tracking me down to my rotting homestead, or catching me out at whatever dive bar I could walk to. Around me the ghosts of my family flickered like a television set on its last legs, snow roughing up the faded screen, their voices haunting my every choice.
I’d stay sober long enough to take the pictures, showing the hubby diddling the babysitter, the wife turned to stone, lips tight, a few folded bills tucked into my swollen hands, her mouth opening and closing, chirping like a bird, hesitating, and then asking what it would take for that thing, that finality, not wanting to say it out loud. I’d nod my head, and say I could make it happen, but there was no turning back, she’d have to be sure. She’d sip her red wine or her gin or her espresso and I’d watch the gears turn, the innocence slip out of her flesh, pale skin turning slightly green, her eyes sparking, flecks of flame, the buzzing getting ever louder, her head engulfed in a dark ring of flies, until she’d open her mouth and the snakes would spill out, the deed done, as my heart smoldered black inside my chest. I never said no.
I’d sit inside the back seat of a white Crown Victoria, radio crackling, the men in the front seat wrinkling their noses, the back of the car reeking of vomit, urine and death. We knew each other once, I imagine, my descent into madness one slow step at a time, so gradual and inevitable, that I hardly noticed the noose slipping over my neck, the poisoning so subtle that the bitter taste on my tongue never overtook the lust and hunger, my mouth filled with blood and bourbon, cigarette tar coating it all, as I rotted from the inside out. They’d hand me various things—ammunition, directions, names, addresses, knives, wire, rope, tasers, and envelopes stuffed with cash. Sometimes they would say he was guilty, off on a technicality, a botched Miranda, or nothing but circumstantial evidence. Sometimes they’d talk about witnesses that disappeared, the case ready to go to trial, suddenly the courthouse filled with ghosts—all charges dismissed. And sometimes their silence would fill the car, their dark blue uniforms a color I’d come to hate, nothing said but the place and time, the need for something they couldn’t do themselves, telling me to be careful, as they remembered what I used to be, the envelopes thick, telling me to take a shower, Jesus Christ, eyes watering, as they tried to look away, tried to pretend I didn’t exist.
I felt the same way.
I’d sit in a dark tavern surrounded by other shadows, glassware around me filled with various liquids, amber poured down my throat, one bar as good as the next, the seats on either side of me filled with the shapes of dark acts come to life, filling the space so that no mortal flesh would get anywhere near me, the fumes coming off of me like gasoline on a black stretch of tar, shimmering and pungent, not quite solid in my existence. When a hand finally did come to rest on my sleeve, I’d turn to see black beady eyes imbedded in a shrinking skull, a red beard flowing off of pock-marked flesh, yellowing teeth uttering threats then demanding answers then asking for help before finally devolving into a long string of begging for something violent. The truth didn’t matter much anymore, so I’d take that job, too, sometimes only needing to take a few steps, a pool cue cracked over a head, a
knife slid in-between ribs while the leather-clad behemoth pissed into the urinal, baring his teeth as he slid to the floor. Sometimes it was a ride into the endless night, the lights of the city sparkling like a distant galaxy, deeper into the concrete jungle, or perhaps out into the communities that ring the city, thirty miles north to never-ending cornfields, just to run a blade across a throat, a hole dug in haste, a fire burning late into the night, clothes tossed in, standing naked amongst the sharp stalks, blood collecting in a pool at my feet.
And yet, I still turned away from it all, smiling like a Cheshire cat, laughing at whatever demons lurked inside my melted brain, shadows at the periphery, a flock of birds shooting up into the sky, writhing snakes at my feet, and shattered mirrors whenever I paused to stare too long. Waiting to take my photos, as the windows filled with fog, spiral graphics emerged in the mist, wrapping around the interior of some car I’d stolen, a language I chose to ignore. The cackling radio spat out nonsense as the distracted officers tried to get the case right, hissing and popping noises coming from the interior of the cab, dispatch turning to distant tongues, biblical verse spinning out into the air, whoever utters the name of the Lord must be put to death. A cairn of stones was stacked at the end of a dirt road, lost in the suburbs, out past the farms, oak trees ringing the green fields, dusty paths between bulging harvests, and in the middle of the rocks a singular tree branch, forking in all directions, gnarled digits reaching into the sky.
For a man with no faith, it was easy not to believe.
***
The things we say when we are desperate, I imagine I said them all. Somewhere between the angst of my youth and the desolation of my last days on this planet, I had a life that mattered. I was in love, and she was able to see beyond the mask I wore, able to lay her hands on mine and calm the savage beast, bring me down off my high that prowling the city streets required. It shimmers like a ripple in the water, my memories of what once was, the boy in his quiet innocence, the ways we used to be a family. It was as plain as can be, a house in the suburbs, with all of the essentials—hardwood floors, fireplace for surviving the harsh Chicago winters, bedrooms and baths, a back yard with trees and flowers, a two-car garage, a dog that licked my hand no matter how many times I struck it, a basement unfinished in gray concrete where I’d disappear to in order to shed my skin. We would sit down to dinners of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas, a glass of cold milk, and smiles all around the table, no questions about my day because she knew it had been anything but nice. The first thing she’d do when I got home was to drop whatever she was doing—making dinner, playing with the boy, feeding the dog, working on the computer—just to show me that I mattered, wrapping my weary head in her small, soft hands, kissing my face, hugging me, pressing up against me, to remind me why I worked so hard, her feminine lightness fluttering around me like a butterfly, bringing me down to earth, pulling my head up out of the ground, as my arms went limp, and I tried to shake it all off.
But the death came anyway.
I could lie and say that I’d become a different man, that the wife and son had changed me, made me better, erased my past actions, and the violent acts I’d committed. The mannequin I’d become out here walked these streets with a profound selflessness, a sense of charity, and hope. And maybe I believed it all at first, that I could repent, that I could ask for forgiveness, and find absolution. But deep down I knew it wasn’t true. So much had been buried, gunshots in the dead of night, open wounds spilling blood and life onto warehouse floors, back alleys swallowing naked flesh and hungry mouths—no, I knew nothing had been forgiven.
Or forgotten.
My memories of fatherhood were fleeting, and scattered, but true. It was like coming up out of an ice-cold lake, skin shimmering, numb yet awake, my heart pounding in my tight ribcage as if it might explode. I could see my son with such clarity, the way he’d wrinkle up his nose, or hitch up his shorts as we ran around the back yard kicking a soccer ball, his eyes on me as if spying a dinosaur—something he thought had been extinct, wonder wrapped around disbelief. And then the darkness would come swooping back in, and I’d disappear, my base desires overriding the logic. It wasn’t that I didn’t see him, I did—but for some reason he felt eternal, the time I needed, I wanted, grains of sand in a never-ending hourglass.
When he first got sick, the boy, she took him to one doctor after another, his cough filling the upstairs of our house, his tissues dotted with yellow phlegm and splotches of red, his skin going translucent as we thought cold, then flu, then pneumonia. Then cancer. I saw how it drained her, how it sucked all of the life out of her, her hair no longer golden, merely straw. Her eyes dimmed to dull metal, the oceans I used to get lost in, shallow and dirty—polluted with worry and exhaustion. She wouldn’t even get up from the kitchen table when I came home, merely shifted the wine glass from one hand to the other, her lipstick rimming the glass in a pattern that wanted to be kisses, but ended up turning into bites.
And in that moment, I made a deal.
***
It was a warehouse on the south side of Chicago, a friend of a friend of a friend, or more like the enemy of a junkie who dealt to some whore, the information sketchy at best, the ways I’d pushed out into the world so vulnerable—a walking, gaping wound, grasping at straws, lighting candles in churches as I stumbled across the city, uttering words that I didn’t believe.
Rumors.
Speculation.
The blood moon was a rare occurrence—our planet directly between the sun and moon, Earth’s shadow falling on the moon in a total lunar eclipse.
It was a last resort, my time spent praying falling on distant deaf ears—knees sore from time spent groveling, fingertips singed from one long matchstick after another, holy water dousing my flesh, as my boy turned slowly into a paper-thin ghost. I told her I might not be back, and she hardly moved, almost as hollowed out as I was, smoking again, standing in our back yard, her gaze settling on me, finally seeing me for what I was. She didn’t have to say that I’d brought this sickness down upon us, for she’d known I was a carrier for as long as we’d been close. She had just chosen to see me now.
I stood over the boy, as he slept, and thought of all of the things we’d never done together, and never would. The posters on the walls were of Batman and Superman, and I longed to tell him they didn’t exist, to beg him to see the world as I did, which only reminded me of why I had to leave. Even this innocent soul, my son, was just another canvas upon which I needed to splatter my darkness and deceit. Whatever magic and illusion surrounded him, in his youth, why couldn’t I just leave it alone? Was I so damaged that the cracks in my armor let all the light out, unable to hold dear to a single memory, or loving gesture, or gentle way?
In the corner of his room there was a large stuffed animal, a black-and-white-striped tiger, which I’d won him at Great America, one of the few times we’d spent the day together alone. We rode the rollercoasters, ate cotton candy and hot dogs, and then spent whatever money I had on a series of games I told him were certainly rigged. He looked at me with suspicious eyes—unable to believe such a thing could be true. I pointed to the ladder climb, the way it was balanced, nearly impossible to stay on top. A young boy about his age was working his way forward, getting so very close, the guy running the game easing over to the edge of the structure, leaning up against it, and when nobody was looking he nudged the frame, shaking the metal of the game, so the kid spilled onto the cushion below. I nodded my head, but the boy had missed it, squinting his eyes, and shaking his head. When we got to the ring toss, I was down to my last ten dollars.
“Nobody ever wins these things, do they?” I asked the chubby girl running the game, her cheeks rosy in the summer heat.
“Sure they do, all the time,” she beamed.
“Really?” I asked. “When was the last time somebody won?”
She looked away from me, scrunching up her face, eyes glazing over as she stared off into the distance, searching for a memory t
hat didn’t exist.
“See, son,” I told him. “Never happens.”
He eyeballed me and exhaled.
“Can we try anyway?” he asked.
“Last week,” the girl said, “I wasn’t here, but Amanda was, she told me . . . ”
“Save it for somebody that cares, sister,” I said handing her the bill. She gave us each a bucket of plastic rings, frowning slightly, stepping back out of the way. She swallowed and tried to smile, wishing us good luck, as I glared at her from where I stood.
The boy went through his rings pretty quickly, as I tried to develop a plan, a way to surprise us both, and win one of the damn prizes for once in my life. I was working on a backward flip, the rings seeming to clang around the middle of the glass bottles, and shoot up into the air. The spin seemed important, not like a Frisbee, spinning round and round, from side to side, but like a coin flip—the motion backward, some new way of beating the system, I thought.
The boy watched me as my bucket emptied, quickly running out of chances.
“See, I said,” as he looked on, the day having sapped our energy, the sun starting to set, “this thing is . . . ”
And the plastic clinked off of the glass bottles, flipped into the air, the revolutions slowing as the voices around us drifted on the hot summer air, the smell of popcorn, my boy smiling, the ring settling over the top of a bottle, rattling back and forth before sitting down for good, staying on the top. It was a winner. We’d won.
The girl looked at the bottle, back to us, and set off the siren, cranking the handle, yelling, “We have a winner, big winner over here—winner winner chicken dinner,” her smile so wide it ate her face, the kid jumping up and down, and against all logic, a grin seeping across my face as well. She asked my son which one he wanted, and he selected the tiger, almost as big as him, and he took it from the girl, soon to hand it off to me, the day almost gone, the spark of our victory pushing us onward.