“Watch out, Timmy! Oh my God! He’s got a gun!”
Stupid bitch.
You know the boy is yours. You don’t know why he’s naked. You don’t know what time it is, or what day. It is day, though. Sunlight. You should be sleeping. Or trying to. But the bastard woke you up pounding on the door. And now this.
The boy is trembling. The boy is your son. You look at him. You look at the man. You look inside your own sorry ass for some scrap of father-hood. Something to motivate you to protect him. The boy. Your son. The man has him by the hair. You can see his scalp. His toes are bloody. You try to focus. You find the man’s eyes. They’re locked onto you. You know he’s aware of Bertha.
“Be quiet, Tina,” he says.
Can you take him?
“What?” This you say aloud. The syllable deafens you.
“What!” the man yells. “Yeah! What? What the hell is this little pervert doing in my house? In my daughter’s room? In my daughter’s bed?”
You hear the courthouse clock strike its bell. Once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven … will it ever stop?
≠
I open my eyes. I have to. The stupid man loosens his grip. I almost fall. I taste puke in my mouth. I might be crying. I don’t mean to. I am body and not body. That woman keeps yelling. She might be crying. I could just reach over and crush her jaw. I don’t. I decide to stay. In my body. Not body. I look at Daddy. Daddy is fat. He used to be skinny. Daddy’s skin is the color of milk on the kitchen floor. He’s breathing hard. I want him to hit the stupid man. I want Daddy to beat them all until there is nothing more to beat. Daddy can do it. Daddy is a soldier. Daddy is a hero. I will beseech Daddy. No other.
∀
Everybody laughs.
No. Not everybody. Mr. Jinx doesn’t laugh. Abigail Augenbaugh doesn’t laugh.
Why won’t they listen? Why don’t they care?
It’s too late.
No. What if it’s not too late?
Schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka.
What if she goes home and does what Darnell says? Does that thing? Does those things?
Mr. Jinx isn’t laughing. Mr. Jinx is not laughing.
Everybody else goes inside. She sits, sweeping flower petals off the picnic table. Abigail Augenbaugh hears the zipper close on Andy’s pants. Hears the boys clamber down the ladder.
Abigail wonders if Mr. Jinx will be in Heaven with her. Probably so.
Schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka, schkkk-chick-chicka.
“Look, Mr. Augenbaugh.”
The man says your name.
“Burns,” he says. “I, I really appreciate what you did, serving the country and all.”
You’ve heard this nonsense before. Big Bertha twitches in your hands.
“And I’m sorry for—for whatever it is that’s happening now—”
The boy is yours. You ought to do something.
“Come inside, Timmy,” his wife says. “Before something happens.”
You should be the one to do the something.
She has a round ass that jiggles when she carries groceries or kids down the sidewalk. You remember it. You don’t remember.
You will not do anything. You wish things were different. Things used to be different. They did. Maybe they didn’t.
“Take your boy inside, Burns. Clean him up. Put some clothes on him, for godsake.”
He lets the boy go. On his knees, the boy slips between you and the doorframe. You think he crawls into the kitchen. The man leans close to you. Too close. Closer than anyone has ever come. Ever. He speaks. It’s whispering. It’s wet and hot and smells of vitamins.
“I’m going to tell you this one time,” he says.
You feel sweat trickle down the crack of your ass.
“I’m calling Family Services. I’m not going to call the police, this time. But if he sets foot in my house again, if he comes sniffing around my girl, I don’t care what happened to you over there, I’m gonna beat both of you.”
You should do something. You notice a smudge on the heel of Big Bertha’s head. You wipe it off with the hem of your shirt. You should do something. You step inside and close the door.
≠
The boy goes inside. I am the boy. I crawl through the door. The boy’s bleeding feet leave two ragged bloody tracks across the floor. I am the boy. Those are my feet. My blood. I go inside. Inside is the Rapture. The boy’s filthy living room contains the entire Apocalypse. The earthquakes. The firestorms. The tidal waves. The Rapture stinks of puke. And bubblegum shampoo. He sees everything. He sees the beginning. He sees the end. All the lies he’s ever told. Everything he’s ever killed. I see the boy in the distance. In that perfect moment. That glass moment. I see through the walls. I see through the bodies. Through Scald Mountain and the river. I see through space, black as coal. I see the boy coming toward me, from far far away. It’s too late for the boy. I tell him so. We decide that we will not beseech anymore. Ever.
∀
Mr. Jinx holds the door for Abigail, but steps outside and closes it before the boys get there. Abigail has struggled, from the beginning, trying to understand who gets into Heaven, who gets left behind, and why. The man on the radio says all that is “God’s business.” He says “what right do we have to question holy God?” He says “Almighty God is merciful and awesome,” and those who don’t agree will soon be “under his terrible wrath.”
Abigail’s heart thumps as she makes her way through the plant. She wishes she was braver. Or brave at all. She wants to go home. But she has work to do. God’s work. God’s work? The Slinky production line fires up, drowns out the radio. She hurries through the break-room door to find Darnell standing—her back to Abby—at the bank of employee cubbies. And Darnell has four legs. It must be the heat, Abigail thinks, or the stress. Abigail blinks, trying to come to terms with the vision. She does. It’s not a hallucination. It’s not a monster from the Book of Revelation. It’s Karl, the walleyed boy whose sole job is to sweep the floors. Darnell has him pressed up against the cubbies, her chest to his back. Abigail knows without seeing that Darnell’s hand is in Karl’s pants.
Abigail fumbles for the door. Drops her purse. Everything spills onto the floor. Darnell and Karl both laugh. Both kneel to help Abigail collect her stuff. Abigail refuses to look at either one. Karl picks up the extra-large bottle of extra-strength Tums; rattles the few remaining tablets, and hands the bottle to Abby. Darnell gathers the Rapture tracts, neatens the stack, but hesitates before returning them.
“Do you really believe all this nonsense, girl?” Darnell asks, thumbing the pamphlets like a deck of cards.
Abigail reaches for her things. Darnell pulls back.
“Do you?” she asks again.
Abigail shakes her head. No. Abigail shakes her head no.
Abigail has denied the Lord.
“I have to go home,” Abby mumbles.
Darnell jams the tracts back into the purse, wipes her hands together and holds them palms-out toward Abigail.
“Jinx will have your ass if you leave,” she says, finally.
Karl slips out without speaking. Darnell follows. Abigail stumbles into the bathroom, collapses onto the toilet. Her hands shake so she can barely get the stall door locked.
Abigail denied the Lord. What should she do?
She hears the man’s voice in her head.
Pray for mercy, he says. Pray and pray and pray for forgiveness.
Abigail leans forward, presses her face into her hands, her forehead against the graffiti-filled door, and begins.
You’ve never beat the boy. Not once. Not even that time he drilled holes in all the bathroom walls. You should’ve beaten him then, but you didn’t. You never beat the boy. You look around the kitchen. The boy is not there. You should do something. Who the hell does he think he is? That asshole neighbor.
Maybe you should beat the neighbor. He’s out there, in his backyard. You c
an hear the barbell clink into its rack. Where’s your wife? The kitchen is a fucking pigsty. Maybe you should beat the wife. You never have. Not yet. You see the plastic tub of Metamucil on the counter. You rear back with Bertha. You swing as hard as you can. The white tub shatters on impact; the explosion of grainy orange powder coats everything.
You’re not cleaning the mess up. Where’s the wife? The boy? He may be upstairs. You haven’t been upstairs in you don’t know how long. The first human you see in months, and it has to be that asshole next door. You go into the basement. Back to the couch. You should be sleeping. Daytime is when you sleep. You turn on the Xbox. You can’t concentrate. What if that asshole calls Child Welfare? You turn on the porn. You stare at an enormous white ass. The hairy cunt, staggeringly beautiful. For a second, you think you might be getting a hard-on. But you just have to piss. You piss in the utility sink.
They tell you to take pills. You need a pill now. A battalion of tiny sand-niggers storms around your brain. Your vision blurs. Where’s the boy? You think you have a boy? Was that your boy, naked? You need a pill. Pills. You find the bottles. Some colors are missing. The bottle is empty. Is that thunder? Lightning? You realize the storm is in your head. You imagine the smell of ozone. You wish you could sleep. You wish you could get hard.
You dump the tackle box on top of the washing machine. Pill bottles and bullets clatter against the lid. You notice that the bullets look like big pills. If you could just talk to somebody, to the right person. You have no idea who the right person is. No one comes to mind. One person comes to mind. The pharmacist with the mole on her lip and the little tits. She’s always there. You look for the phone. You remember smashing it last night. There may be a telephone upstairs, up in her bedroom. Weren’t you just upstairs? No. You don’t think so.
≠
Wasps live in my mouth. I smell like motor oil and dirt. I smell like nothing. Absence.
My toes bleed. I hear Daddy downstairs, slamming things. I dig through the hamper, find my Captain America pajamas. Dung beetles roll their cargo through my veins. The ichneumon fly breeds in my nose. I am the assassin bug. I find my video game under my mattress. I find a shoe. I wish I had a cape. There is one day left. I go out into it, changed. I will find Mama. I need to make a plan. I look for the boy. I feel him, close.
You have Big Bertha. You need your pills. Where is the boy? Where is the wife? You haven’t seen them in weeks. Why did you break the phone? You just need to call in the prescription. You can talk to the woman with the tits and the mole. You can tell her what you need. The drugstore is a few blocks away. Can you walk that far? You think so. Do you have the prescription? You’ll take the empty bottles. You think that’s all you need. Do you have any money? You check the pockets of your sagging sweat-pants. Empty. You try to pull them up over your gut. How long have you been fat? The stupid pills you have to swallow turn to fat inside you. Clog you. Shrivel you. You don’t know the last time the sweats got washed. What else could you wear? You know what to wear.
You drag your crumpled uniform from beneath the couch. You put it on sometimes when the nights get really bad. It doesn’t fit. The pants won’t zip, nor button, but the belt works fine. Your fat arms and shoulders make the jacket splay open. But your name is there, on the pocket. She’ll see it. She’ll talk to you. Where’s the boy? You bet he’d like to see you in uniform. You told him all kinds of bullshit about your time over there. What choice did you have? You can’t find the hat. You wish you had a hat. You haven’t washed your hair in months. Or more. You remember a hat. It’s a golf hat. You ordered it from the Masters course in Georgia. You got it as a birthday present for yourself years ago. It’s in pretty good shape. Where’s the boy? He should see you in uniform. He’d be proud. You never beat him. The boy.
You put the golf hat on. You fill your pockets with pill bottles. You get the number from the phone book. No paper; you write it on your palm, digging hard with the ballpoint pen. You find fifty cents in a pocket. You pick up the little pistol, then put it back down. You pick up Big Bertha, shoulder her, take some deep breaths, and climb the stairs.
∀
The man on the radio talks in great detail about God’s plans for Judgment Day. His plans for the end of the world. The man on the radio talks in great detail about God’s Program of Salvation for the True Believers. Abigail imagines a vast office with rows and rows of neat desks and efficient secretaries in immaculate white blouses. Abigail Augenbaugh wonders if she could ever be one of God’s secretaries.
But she can’t get the image of Andy’s naked buttocks out of her mind. She can’t get the exquisite burn of Darnell’s tongue out of her ear.
Abby wishes she could beseech God. It’s what the man on the radio says to do. But, she doesn’t know what the word means, so she’s not sure how to do it. She thinks about kneeling. Maybe she has to kneel in order to beseech. But the bathroom floor is sticky and filthy. She wonders if kneeling matters.
Abigail stands, turns, and kneels, snugging her knees against both sides of the toilet. She presses her hands together, laces her fingers, props her elbows on the lid, and makes an attempt.
“Beseech,” she says, hesitantly. Then, “Lord Jesus.”
Abigail thinks and prays, and makes some plans of her own.
≠
I go past Travis’s empty lot. I duck into the alley. I wish Travis was here. Me and Travis found all the secret escape routes. If he was here, Travis would help me make a plan. Empty garages line the alley. I swoop from garage to garage. Nobody can see me. I move like lightning. I wear one black slipper. I wish I had a cape. Something moves at the edge of my vision. I slam myself against a garage wall. I am The Chameleon. I become the gray boards. I look out, with my super vision, and see three, four, five black balloons, almost deflated, float by, bouncing slowly along the pavement. Five black balloons. Their gold ribbons, knotted, drag along a torn piece of paper. It reads Happy. I wait until it passes the back doors of the Dollar Store and the kitchen of Main Moon. I run fast. An old Chinese man sits on a bucket and smokes, out back of Main Moon. I move so fast he doesn’t even see me.
I have to make a plan. There is revenge. There is world destruction. There are only a few days left. Does he know? Daddy? About the end of the world? Daddy could stop it if he tried. Daddy is a soldier. A hero. I could help him. Does he know? Daddy? About the boy? The boy will help. The boy will be here soon.
I know all the escape routes. I am The Creeper. Mole Boy. I know all the secret ways. I will not be captured. I need to make a plan and I know where to go. It’s our hideout. I run the alleys. I run the weedy path through the golf course. Me and Travis used to collect golf balls and throw them at the turtles and frogs in the pond. Me and Travis liked the pond. It was at the bottom of a hill. We had to run behind the apartment complex to get there. Sometimes girls would lie out on blankets, listen to stupid music, and tan. Rich bitches, Travis would say. I got just what they need. We hid behind the dumpster. Travis taught me to watch between their legs. Travis closed his eyes every time he spooged. Once I closed my eyes, grunted, said, I did it, Travis. He said, Dumb fuck. He said, Lying little bastard. He said, You pissed all over your foot.
I run past the dumpster. I don’t even look for girls. I run all the way to the river. There’s a train trestle; a single track, held up by three concrete pylons, crosses the water into Joy. Travis showed me this. Twice a day, once in each direction, a line of diesel locomotives pulls boxcars, hoppers, flat-cars, and tankers up the mountain, or down the mountain. Travis showed me this. The railroad ties are open to the water below. He walked out to the first pylon. Come on, pussy, he said. I followed. Look down, he said. I did.
There, between the ties and below the tracks, the top of the concrete pylon was flat and clear. A square space the size of a breakfast table. Climb down, Travis said. I didn’t. Pussy, he said. I did. I slipped between the sticky wooden railroad ties. Standing, my head and shoulders rose just above the level of the tracks. I
had to hunch.
I felt the train before I heard it. The rails jittered. The whole pylon buzzed. I started to climb out. Where you going, pussy? Travis laughed. He stood over me, straddling the tracks. I hunched. I squatted, my head almost bumping the track. I sat with my back against the concrete support, my legs hung over the base. The muddy river churned below me. Don’t move, pussy, Travis said. I almost couldn’t hear him for the roar of the oncoming train. Then he was screaming at me from the bank. Come on, you dumb bastard! Run! Run! Run!
I saw the lead locomotive come into sight. I almost shit myself. I climbed up from the top of the pylon, out from between the railroad ties. I tripped and almost fell into the river. I can’t swim too good. I might have been crying. We hid in the bushes on the riverbank until the whole train passed. It might’ve taken fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour. The train was long. Travis laughed. After the train passed, me and Travis both went back out on the bridge and climbed between the tracks to the top of the pylon. Travis said there wouldn’t be another train until suppertime. I trust Travis. We sat there. We spit in the river. We made plans. We busted bottles. It was our hideout. Our secret. We stole things from Travis’s mom, Travis’s dad. A Bic lighter with naked boobs and a butt. No head. A twelve-gauge shotgun shell. A tampon. Other stuff. We kept our secrets in a coffee can. We went there every day that summer before Travis left. We timed it right. Between the trains.
Now, Travis is gone. I’m by myself. The boy is coming. But the boy is almost here. The boy will be here soon. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t care. I will make a plan. Plans for us. For us all. I run by the golf course, past the dumpster, and to the river. I walk the ties without looking down. I might have even closed my eyes. I am Stealth Man. My body is pure movement. I slip between the railroad ties and lie flat on the cement pad. I wish I had a cape. I smell the river. I smell the creosote. I pull the Game Boy from my waistband. I turn it on and the Mario sound track fills the tiny space. I wish Travis was here. He knows about the end of the world, I’m sure. Travis knows everything. I want to tell Travis about the boy. What would Travis do? What would Travis do?
Joy, PA Page 6