“How ’bout them tent worms?” Darnell eventually says, with too much enthusiasm. “I had to scrape them off my windshield this—”
“They’re not worms,” Sue interrupted. “They’re caterpillars.”
“What they are is nasty. I ain’t never seen so many. It’s like something right out of the Bible. Like that Moses movie with Cha—”
“I’ve seen lots of bad years,” Sue interrupted. “And you wouldn’t know Moses if he came up and bit you on the titty.”
Rumor has it that Darnell is studying to be a masseuse, or a yoga teacher. Something carnal. Something wicked. Abigail clutches her purse, stuffed with tracts, a little tighter. Sue, squat and round, doesn’t put up with the other woman’s nonsense.
“Sit yourself down, hon,” Sue says to Abigail, brushing a spot on the bench, then jokes. “Let me get these worms off.”
Abigail does as she is told and, powerless against both women, is grateful that Sue spoke first. She feels safer with Sue. Abby slips into a moment of silence, a break in the perpetual argument between her coworkers. The space closes quickly around her. Abigail has no idea what they’re debating. She doesn’t really care. Will she miss this when the Rapture comes? Abigail tugs at the zipper on her purse. She is distracted, running several unlikely narratives in her head, when she hears the sound.
At first Abby thinks it’s a bird, several birds, spring robins made crazy by the urge to mate. To rut? Every May day they splatter themselves against the windshields and grilles of unwitting drivers, the feathers and viscera stunning in their beauty, humbling in their urgency. But it’s not birds making those noises.
It’s Andy, sitting at the other table, with a harmonica. Abigail comes into focus. She sees Mitch pull a ridiculously small guitar out of a backpack.
“That boy’s been whacking that silly little guitar all week,” Darnell says. “Getting pretty good, too.”
“It’s a ukulele,” Sue says. “Don’t you know nothing? Them boys got the devil in them.”
Abigail hears the boys seek then find the right pitch, and begin to play and sing. She recognizes the tune immediately, but not the words. It’s a hymn, a song Abby grew up hearing. Grew up singing. “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” But Mitch and Andy have changed the words. Abigail scoots a few inches closer to Sue and cocks her ear.
“Just a closer walk with Jinx,” Andy sings. “Let us find him on his knees.”
Sue throws a carrot stick that bounces off Mitch’s forehead. He smiles and keeps strumming.
“Sweeeeetly blowing—”
Sue passes judgment on the situation and dismisses them by loudly changing the subject. She turns to Abigail and bellows, “We miss you down at church, hon. When you coming back?”
≠
I go to the stupid little girl’s room. It smells like stupid little girl. Like bubblegum shampoo. There’s a goldfish, almost as big as my beast, in a bowl on her dresser. There is a plastic bottle of bubblegum shampoo. I open it. I smell it. I don’t mean to, but I take a drink. They think they’re perfect, these stupid people. The perfect family. The goldfish is fat and slow. I reach into the bowl and catch him easily. I put him in her pajama drawer. All of a sudden I feel dizzy. The bed is not made. I sit on the edge. Her stupid Elmo doll lies on the pillow. All of a sudden I feel sick to my stomach. I puke, sitting on the edge of the stupid little girl’s bed. All down the front of my Spiderman pajamas and onto her floor. It looks like milk and Sunny D. I see chunks of scrambled egg and bacon. Little pukey balls of chewed paper. I take off my pajamas, ball them up, put them in the stupid little girl’s dresser drawer. I pull out something of hers. It’s a Disney princess nightgown. Too small for me, but I don’t care. I force it over my head. It rips some when I wrench my arms through the armholes. The stupid princess nightgown hangs down to my bellybutton. I’m naked below. I am dizzy. I am cold. I am so tired. The world ends tomorrow. I never got to spooge. I lied. I didn’t beseech. I lie down in the stupid little girl’s bed. I cover up. I hear the fish flopping around in the dresser drawer. I am so tired. So tired.
∀
The instant Sue Grebb asks her question, a midday wind peels down off the mountain and blows through the shelter, carrying with it, like a reluctant avalanche, hundreds of tiny white petals from the pear trees.
For the briefest moment, they’re all blinded.
Church? Abigail thinks.
≠
I am the Human Lightning Bolt. Everything I touch explodes. Sparks fill the sky. People are screaming all around. Maybe I’ll save their lives. Maybe I won’t. I smell burning flesh. I hear the shrieks and cries of my victims. Nothing can stop me. I am strong and brave. I hear the screaming. The screaming. I open my eyes. Where am I? This is not my room. There is no fire. But there is screaming.
It’s that stupid little girl. She’s standing in the doorway screaming and pointing at me. I could destroy her. Somebody is running up the stairs. I pull the blanket over my head. I close my eyes. I make it all go away. I make the world stop spinning. Everything stops.
Everything except the person yanking back the covers.
“Lord-god-almighty!” the mother shrieks.
I could strike her down. But I don’t. I close my eyes tighter. I feel the air on my skin. I am naked except for the stupid princess gown. The stupid little girl screams and screams.
“Danita!” the stupid mother screams. “Go downstairs now!”
She’s by the bed. I can hear her breathe. I can hear her heartbeat. I can smell her, the ladyness of her.
“Get up!”
I look at her. My gaze burns the flesh from her face. It smolders. It stinks.
“Get up! Get out!”
She grabs my arm, pulls hard. I am a rock. I do not budge. I press my face into the stupid princess pillow. I make it all go away. I think she hits me. I don’t know. I feel no pain. I am all powerful. I curl into a ball. My pecker pushes out from the back of my legs. I create a force field. She can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me.
∀
Satan is in the pulpits. All of them. The man on the radio says so. The Devil himself has come into the churches. All of them. It is part of God’s plan. Something to do with the salvation program. The man says so.
The man says that the True Believers should flee from the churches.
It’s too late, Abigail thinks.
“It’s too late,” Abigail says out loud.
“What?” Darnell asks.
The wind blows the flower petals down from the hillside. The wind swirls beneath the picnic shelter, picks up ashes and stench from the overflowing bucket of sand and cigarette butts at the edge of the concrete slab, pulls with it the mechanical stink from the salvage yard, envelops the lunching Slinky employees. But what chokes Abigail at the close of that noon hour, what stings her eyes and clogs her nostrils, is a sense of loss. Not the niggling ever-present dread that has run, uncatchable, through her veins every day of her life. Nor the feeling of loss that accompanies birthdays: a surly monster that grows bigger and more horrific by the year. What rolls down the mountain that day, what nearly bowls Abigail Augenbaugh over, is a moment of awareness, a moment of clarity, in which she sees clearly Sue Grebb, Darnell Younce, Mitch and Andy, even Mr. Jinx; sees her small life as it is, confined to a few streets, a couple decaying blocks, of Joy, PA—the town itself pinched in by a few ragged humps of the Alleghenies; sees Burns and Willie, and knows that she knows them even less than she knows her coworkers; sees them as they are: the two strangers she shares her house with. Abigail sees all this— with no under standing of how she got there—with the absolute certainty that in a few days she will lose everything. These are her people, like them or not. This is her place. And by the end of the week, they’ll be dead or dying, and Joy—along with every other town and city and village in the world—will be destroyed. Heaven.
In that crystallized, rarefied, instant, sitting at the picnic table, about to go back inside and box Slinkys for the rest of the day
, Abigail quakes inside. In her soul. Her soul. That thing, that place, the man on the radio rants so fervently about.
What if the boy, what if his prayers weren’t enough? What if? Burns, the man, her husband, is lost. Abby knows that. She has let go. She released Burns to his own demons a long time ago. But the boy. Willie. Her son. She birthed him. She bathed him. She fed him. What if the promise of spending eternity as the bride of Christ, eternally worshiping the Lord, the destroyer, isn’t enough? What if it doesn’t fill the vacuum inside Abigail? A sense of urgency rifles her veins and slams and slams against her ribcage.
Can she bear the few remaining hours of her shift before rushing home to pray with Willie? What if she simply left? What if she just clocked out, hung up her smock, and drove home? To be with, to pray with, to beseech the Lord with, her son. But the fine details of the fantasy are beyond Abigail’s imagination. Even in the face of the coming Rapture, the act of quitting her job is too scary. She tries and tries to envision herself rising from the table and walking away. But the act will not take shape in her mind.
What can she do?
More than her “Christian duty” or out of concern for her coworkers’ souls, it is fear of being alone (even up there) that stirs Abigail’s hand, that makes it reach deep into her purse and extract a stack of Rapture tracts. Before she can change her mind, Abby juts one into Darnell’s face.
It’s too late, Abigail thinks. “It’s too late,” Abigail says.
Darnell takes the offering, studies it, reads the title aloud.
“Judgment Day Is Almost Here—”
Darnell smiles, shakes her head gently.
“I think your god abandoned this old sodomite a long time ago,” she says.
Mitch and Andy laugh. They leave the table, together.
Abigail turns away.
“It’s too late,” she says again. Takes all her courage to do so.
“Abigail,” Sue Grebb begins to speak, but Darnell interrupts.
“Too late is nothing but a state of mind, girlfriend.”
Darnell stands, moves up close behind Abigail, lays a hand on both shoulders.
“You’ll be back here tomorrow. The next day. Next year. Same as the rest of us.”
Abigail tries not to tremble. Tries not to weep.
Darnell gently, tenderly, pulls the loose strands of hair over Abigail’s left ear, tucks them, and traces a fingertip down Abby’s cheek. Darnell bends close. Whispers. The words roar in Abigail’s head.
“Go home. Make a nice dinner for your family. Give your husband a blowjob. Take the boy to play Goony Golf. Then call me if that’s not enough.”
Darnell traces her tongue along the rim of Abigail’s ear then eases the tip inside.
≠
Nothing can hurt me. My force field is strong. She screams. They scream.
“Danita, get the hell out of here! Anthony, go! Go now!”
I feel her over me. I feel her breath on my shoulder.
“What are you doing here? Why are you in Danita’s bed? Why—”
She has so many questions. I stop listening. I squeeze my eyes tight. I am a superhero. I am The Rock. I will not budge. I hear nothing. I see nothing. I feel nothing.
She pokes at me with her finger. Her thick red nail digs into my skin. I don’t mean to, but I bleed a little. I feel nothing. I feel nothing.
“I’m calling the police! I’m calling your damn mama! What are you doing in here? I tried! I tried to be nice. I did. What are you wearing? Danita’s nightgown?”
The yelling doesn’t stop. I can lie here forever. I do lie here forever. Stupid girl. Stupid mother. How long will she stay? I am strong. I can outlast her. She talks nonstop. Is she talking to me? I hear the door slam downstairs. She yanks and yanks. The bedspread gives way. My beast roars. Slays them all. They beg for more.
“TINA!”
The voice gets louder as it climbs the stairs. Like it’s spilling out of a giant bullhorn. I am strong. I am The Rock. I will not budge. I fuse my stone body with the stupid girl’s bed. There is a hand on my leg. There is a hand at my elbow.
“Goddamnit boy!”
“Tim, don’t—”
∀
There is the stink of grease and oil and rutted earth. There is the peal of wind that brings the flower petals down the mountainside. There is the schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka of the box-and-tape machine. There is the wet tip of Darnell Younce’s tongue burning inside Abigail’s ear canal. There is laughing. Someone is laughing. There is the slamming door. There is the song. What is it?
“Moooooon Riverrrr—”
Who’s singing? Why?
“Mooooon Riverrrrrr—”
There is Mr. Jinx, bright red in the face and yelling. And pointing. And yelling.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail says.
But no. It’s not Abigail that Mr. Jinx points at. Yells at.
≠
“He stinks! He stinks like puke! Why are you here, boy? What are you trying to pull?”
“What the hell?”
He yanks hard. I land on the floor.
“Tim! You’ll hurt him.”
I keep my eyes closed. He tries to make me stand. He tries to make me sit.
“This is sick,” he yells. “Disgusting. Danita! GO DOWNSTAIRS RIGHT NOW!”
“Should I call the police?” the stupid woman asks. I could destroy her with a flick of my wrist.
“Get me a knife!” the stupid man says.
“What are you gonna—?”
“Just get me a damn knife. Do it! Now!”
There is crying. I don’t think it’s me. She goes away. Comes back. My eyes are shut tight.
“Tim? Don’t hurt—”
I feel something cold against my skin, pressing into my collarbone.
“Goddamnit! The little bastard pissed on me!” he says.
She screams. There is crying. I don’t think it’s me.
I feel the knife. I am brave. I will die like a warrior. I feel the blade slip under the cloth of my superhero cape. No, it’s the princess nightgown. Will it protect me? I feel the stupid man’s grip tighten on my elbow. I feel a sharp jerk at my neck. I wait for the blood. I wait for the pain. Nothing comes. I feel the blade at the other side of my neck. I feel the yank. I feel the air against my now naked body. The stupid man cut the nightgown away.
“Put this in the trash,” he says.
“Should I call the police?” she says.
“No, Tina! Just throw the damn gown away!”
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
What could they do? I am all-powerful. I can crush the whole house to smithereens if I want to. I hunch into my nakedness and hold tight to myself. It’s the only way I can protect them from certain death.
“I’m taking him home,” the stupid man says. He grabs me by the hair and lifts.
“Put a towel around him or—”
“No!”
I blaze. I scorch the walls as we pass. Light bulbs explode in their sockets. My agony is glorious. I don’t mean to, but I decide to let them live. For just a little longer.
You swing. And swing. And swing.
It might be sleep. Or it might be a sandstorm. You can’t tell.
Are you in the barracks? No. You must be in the basement, in Joy.
Is it sleep, or is it thunder and hail? You can’t tell.
You taped the windows. You moved the washing machine across the floor to cover the drain, but sometimes the sand still bubbles up and drowns you. What’s that goddamn noise? That pounding in your head? No, not this time. Not inside your head. Outside your head. You are on the couch in the basement. Tiger Woods stands always ready on the tee box. A breeze stirs the magnolias. What’s that pounding?
You grab for something. It’s Big Bertha. That pounding comes from upstairs. You react. You react without thinking. You charge up the plank stairs. Maybe you were trained to do so. Maybe not. Maybe you are afraid.
Yo
u nearly knock the kitchen door off its hinges. The fat titanium head of Big Bertha looms overhead. That pounding. Your heart is pounding. You are out of breath. Your head is pounding. You are dizzy. There is pounding inside you and outside you. The front door. Someone is beating at your front door.
Who the fuck! You think you say. You will not go without a fight. Your hand grips Big Bertha’s shaft. Tightly. Your nails dig into your palms. Four little sickles of blood.
You raise the club and open the door.
∀
“Moooooon River!” Mitch strums the ukulele and sings from high on the ladder of the center storage tank. Andy clings, half a dozen rungs higher, singing along, his pants and underwear to his knees, wiggling his bare backside for all to see.
Everybody looks up.
Everybody listens.
Everybody sees the bolt give way, the ladder cant away from the tank.
The boys could die. Right then. Right there. And all present would bear witness. Or the boys could sprout wings on their way down to earth and fly up and up and up. And all present would bear witness.
The ladder creaks and jostles one more time, then is still. Still. The danger has passed. Clearly, the Lord has spared them.
“Mooooon River—”
“You boys get down here right now!”
≠
It hurts. He hurts me, the stupid man who drags me by the hair all the way downstairs and up onto my porch. It hurts, but I am brave. I will not walk. It hurts, the way my bare feet drag across the sidewalk. There is blood. I decide so. I’m sure of it. My heart bangs against my ribs, and then the man bangs on my door. He holds me by the hair and hits the door. He just keeps hitting and won’t stop.
You know who he is. You know who they both are.
You stand in your doorway, fat, sweating, heaving for breath, with Big Bertha raised and ready. The sun blinds you, but you see him. He stands there with his goddamn hairy chest and the gold chain and the tattoos and the muscles, and he’s got your boy. Your boy is naked. And his bitch of a wife is screaming through the window screen.
Joy, PA Page 5