I fly into the house, slam the door behind me.
∀
Abigail Augenbaugh prays. She prays the Celebrity into the lot of Dingus’ Convenient. And there, inside the store, along the back wall to the freezer shielded by shelves of Utz pretzels and chips, Abby acts more decisively than ever before in her life.
Abigail opens the freezer door, picks up the “family size” box of pizza bites. It’s $5.24. She can’t remember if there is a tax. There must be. There’s always a tax. Right? Abby takes a deep breath. It’s not too late. She lifts the Slinky smock and tucks the box into the waist of her pants. Into the elastic of her panties. The box is so cold against her flesh, Abigail almost cries out. It is bigger than she’d expected. The smock is loose, but Abigail has to walk stiffly and erect. She rolls her shoulders in a little more than normal. The box hurts. It is May. It is late afternoon. It is not too late. Abigail picks a bottle of cola from the display. What has she become? What will she become?
There is one other customer at the register. An old man in cowboy boots and a camouflage cap. His nails are perfect. Abigail sucks in quick shallow breaths. The man looks back at her and winks. She turns her attention to the rack of lottery tickets. Powerball. Lotto. Mega Millions. Mustache Cash. Fat Wallet. Lucky in Love. What does it all mean? Abigail wants the man in line to leave. She wants to get home to her husband, her son, their special dinner. The man in the camo hat is telling the clerk a story, or a joke, about fish, or a donkey.
The man looks back at Abigail, again. Does he know? Can he tell?
“Let’s buy this pretty girl a lottery ticket,” the man says.
He pays, winks again, and leaves.
“Good luck, honey,” he says.
Abigail plops into the seat of the Celebrity. The box of pizza bites crumples, splits along its bottom seam. Little square pockets of cold dough spill into Abby’s underwear. The clerk might be watching. There’s nothing she can do. Abigail pulls away from Dingus’ Convenient, stops a block away in front of a defunct Family Dollar, fishes the pizza bites out of her panties, returns them to their box, and puts it into the plastic bag with the cola and lottery ticket. She is a good mother. She is a good wife. She has a plan.
≠
“Daddy?” I say. Just one time. He’s sleeping on the kitchen floor. I think there’s blood, but I don’t look too close. I go to the sink. The floor is sticky. I get some water and sit at the table. I flip on my Game Boy. He must be gathering his powers. He is gathering his powers. He’s wearing his hero suit. I’m wearing my hero suit. When he wakes, I’ll tell him about the boy. We’re there together. Together we are unbeatable.
It might be yours. The blood.
∀
Blessed. Is there any other way to say it?
Abigail pulls into the alley, and the sight of the DeFonzies in their backyard, this time, unlike all the other times, makes her happy. What has happened? What has she become? A good mother. A good wife. A good family. Like the DeFonzies. It is not too late. Even if the Judgment comes, just two short days from now.
Abigail parks. She’ll go in the house. She’ll start the oven. She’ll go. Go down into the basement, help Burns off the couch and up the stairs. But first she’ll say hi to the neighbors. Invite them over for pizza bites. Abby practices the sentence in her head.
Tim DeFonzie methodically raises and lowers a clanking barbell full of metal plates. Even from a distance, Abby sees his chest muscles bulge and stretch. Tina stands at the grill by the back door; smoke roils around her. The smell of charred meat reaches the alley. Abigail sees the daughter dancing around in the grass with a naked My-Size Barbie. She looks for the son but doesn’t see him. The little DeFonzie boy often makes a game of running across the alley just in front of moving cars. More than once, Abigail has had to slam on the brakes.
Abby gets out of the Celebrity confidently. Won’t they be surprised? she thinks.
When the DeFonzie son pops up from behind the Virgin Mary grotto, grinning maniacally and firing right at Abigail Augenbaugh with the largest squirt gun she’s ever seen, she smiles.
The water jet hits Abby between the eyes, blinds her momentarily. She feels the stream soak the front of her Slinky smock.
“Anthony!” someone yells. “Cut that out!”
By the time Abigail’s eyes stop stinging and she can see again, Tim DeFonzie stands, shirtless, in her path. And her nipples are hard. Abigail blushes, but it’s OK. She doesn’t know where to look. Without really meaning to, she watches a bead of sweat fall from the foot of the cross around Tim’s neck, trip and spin down the hirsute ditch between his pectorals, through the thorns of the Sacred Heart tattoo, skirt the rim of his navel, and dissipate among the damp shorthairs sweeping the corrugated plain of his belly and disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-hanging gym shorts.
“Ohh,” Abigail says, more croak than word. She folds her arms across her chest.
“Pizza bites,” she says, showing Tim the bag.
“I told your husband,” her neighbor says, “and I’m telling you. Keep that little per—keep that son of yours away from my house and my kids. Or else.”
Abigail looks at his feet. Her feet. The smells from the grill make her salivate. She looks across the yard. My-Size Barbie straddles the Virgin Mary grotto, and the DeFonzie kids are running around and around them both. Abigail waits and waits for the “or else,” but nothing comes. She stops. Time stops. Wind and waves and orbits cease. The lumbering cataclysm grinds to a halt.
“Pizza bites,” she says, again.
Did something happen? Something happened while she was at work. Something changed. It would be easy to deny the boy here, as she’d denied the Lord earlier. I don’t have a son, she could say. But there is Willie. The palpable fact of Willie. Willie is her son. Has Willie gotten into trouble? He couldn’t have. Not after last night. Not after praying and beseeching. No. She has a plan. The nice dinner. The classic rock. Willie is a sweet boy. She knows he is. She thinks she knows so. She’s going to call that woman. Carole. She has the whole night planned out.
“Time to eat!” Tina yells. She puts a platter of food on a picnic table made from a massive wire spool. Tim stands close. Maybe he wants to kiss me, Abigail thinks. Blessed day.
“Blowjob,” Abby says. She doesn’t mean to. But she can’t take it back.
Tim DeFonzie doesn’t respond. “You’ll be getting a visit from Family Services,” he says. “Any day now.”
Any day now? It’s too late. Is it? Abigail watches Tim walk away; the muscles of his back splay like wings.
Any day now, he whispers. Any day now.
“Hey!” someone says. “Hey!”
It’s Tina, yelling.
≠
I’ll save you, Mama. I’ll save you. Mama. I put on my cape. I need nothing else. I gnash my teeth. I blister the wind. My terrible roar rips the day in half.
∀
“Hey!” Tina DeFonzie yells, and they all turn to see the boy.
The boy runs, naked but for some thin fabric flapping behind him, down the sidewalk. Screaming. The boy is Abigail’s son. The boy is Willie.
The little DeFonzie girl shrieks, rushes to her mother’s side at the picnic table. Anthony hides behind the grotto, his weapon at the ready. Willie hurtles down the narrow walk, arms raised, palms together, as if diving. As if flying. The boy babbles, wails, runs without pause into the solid tattooed torso of Tim DeFonzie.
He would have bounced, except that Tim catches him by the neck.
Abigail Augenbaugh tenses, flushes, trembles. What to do?
There is the body’s allegiance to the boy. She birthed him. She raised him. She prayed with him, just last night. Too, there is allegiance to her God. The man on the radio talks about it. There is Tim DeFonzie’s horribly beautiful arm locked onto the boy’s neck. Her boy. Flesh of her flesh. She ought to say, Let him go. She ought to say, Who the hell do you think you are? She ought to swing, kick, bite, scratch.
Abb
y is not capable of looking into Tim DeFonzie’s eyes. She tries. She tries again. She looks to her son. His filthy, oil-flecked face. Looks into Willie’s eyes. Looks for the boy who knelt with her last night. Abigail Augenbaugh cannot see that boy. He is not present in the raging eyes of the animal held tight in her neighbor’s grasp.
Tim DeFonzie lets the boy go. The boy stumbles into Abigail Augenbaugh. She cannot embrace him. Her arms refuse to open wide.
“Family Services,” Tim says, a stern finger jabbing for emphasis, then goes and sits at the table.
Abigail Augenbaugh is confused. She has to muddle through the moment, somehow. She has to. She steers the naked boy by his scrawny shoulders, along the sidewalk past the DeFonzies, Tina with her hand over the little girl’s eyes, and past the platter of still-sizzling bratwurst and venison burgers, the plate of cheese and tomato slices, glorious in their geometries.
“Let’s get you some supper,” Abby says, so loudly that it startles the other children. “I’ve got pizza bites and Coke.”
≠
I saved you, Mama. Didn’t I? Didn’t I save you from him, Mama? You didn’t save me. I saved you. You let him hurt me, didn’t you? He hurt me. And you let him. Didn’t you, Mama?
∀
Supper. It’s all she can think to do. It might be the last one before they join together at the foot of the Lamb, in eternal worship. Supper. It’s what a good mother would do. A good wife. They’ll listen to Froggy 99. They’ll put Willie to bed, tuck him in together. Maybe she’ll read him a Bible story. The one about Noah and the flood that drowns everything. Or maybe the one where blind Samson brings the temple down and crushes all the Philistines. Abby wonders what a Philistine is. It’s a good story. They’ll put Willie to sleep. She and Burns. She’ll surprise him with the lottery ticket. They’ll scratch off the silvery box together. They’ll win. Everything will change. It’s hard to say. Abigail can’t even imagine what they’ll do. She and Burns. He’ll be so happy. She’ll surprise him. No end to the surprises. She’ll unzip his pants. She’ll do that thing. She really will.
Abigail leads Willie through the door and into the house. The home. Their home. She’s ready. Everything will be different. She’s ready.
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
The house, stifling airless and still, provides only a moment’s respite for Abigail. She hears the Mario Bros. theme song coming from the kitchen. Then her eyes adjust to the lack of light, and she sees Burns on the kitchen floor.
Abigail wonders if he is dead. Wonders if he died playing Willie’s game. Bip bop bop, ticka ticka. Burns dead, she thinks, and leans against the door. What about the pizza bites? What about the lottery ticket? It’s a winner; Abigail knows it. Feels it. She has been bound to this man for a decade and a half, bound for the last few years by the immovable enormity of his absence. There is a person living in the basement and inhabiting something of the body and soul she knew as Burns. But barely, and rarely, does she recognize him. His living, breathing presence on the couch below has created a palpable vacuum in the rest of the house, a dense black hole of unknowing that threatens more and more to spill out, to suck in and consume the whole of Joy. But today was supposed to be different. Was going to be different. It’s not too late. She is a good wife. She is a good mother. She is a True Believer.
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
There is no movement from the kitchen. No sound other than the Mario tune bopping along happily somewhere out of sight. Burns dead. What would it mean? Who would protect the boy during the coming Judgment? What about the lottery ticket? The nice supper? The other plans? What about the boy? Damn it. God damn it. The boy, their son, Willie. Alone to face the Rapture. While she, among the elect, would be called up on that final day to spend eternity worshiping the merciful Lord, with Burns dead, there in the other room, Willie will have to face the horror all by himself. The weeping and wailing. The violent earthquakes. The rotting bodies. The starvation. The eternal dark.
Abigail Augenbaugh is confused. She is scared. She is conflicted. Angry. Ashamed.
“It’s not my fault,” she says.
“Mama,” Willie says.
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
“I didn’t mean to,” she says.
“Mama,” Willie says. “There’s something wrong with Daddy.”
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
“It’s not my fault,” she says. Again.
Maybe it’s all a test. The Lord God likes to test his faithful flock.
“Mama,” the boy says.
But she doesn’t know what to do. She never knows what to do. Never.
The Lord works in mysterious ways. Abigail has heard the phrase for her whole life. Whole life. Don’t question; don’t ask.
Burns is in the other room. She sees his still legs. For all she can know, he is dead. The boy crouches by the front door, looking at her. Abigail’s mind spins. Cannot find traction in the muck of her upbringing. With the few days left before the Rapture, what would she do? With the body? Without the body?
God likes to test. The man on the radio says so. Everybody says so. Abigail remembers a Bible story. Isaac on the rock, and Abraham with the knife raised high. God is somewhere in the wings. Goading. It was a test, everybody says so, but Abigail doesn’t understand what it proves.
What would a good mother do? What would a good mother sacrifice? Abigail looks at the cowering boy, filthy and naked. Could she bring the knife down on him? Plunge the blade into his thin belly? Would this end his suffering? Would this be an adequate sacrifice to her God? Her neighbor said to expect a visit from Family Services. If they come, and find her dead family, they’ll put Abby in jail. Will Jesus be able to find her in the cell? In the Bible story, Isaac is spared. The boy gets up from the cold hard stone, still loving his father. His father gets a gold star in history. The outcome in Joy, PA, would surely be different.
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
“Mama—”
Abigail takes Willie by the arm and practically staggers into the kitchen. It’s not too late. Is it? Burns lies on the floor. Dead or not dead.
“Daddy’s dead, honey,” she says. It might be true. Have faith.
“You want some pizza bites, honey?” she asks.
She turns on the oven.
“Let me get you some pizza bites.”
≠
No. No. Daddy is not dead. She killed him. She didn’t. Didn’t. Didn’t save me. She didn’t help us. She abandoned me. She’ll go up to Heaven. Without me. Us. She will never help us. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. We hate her. We hate her. She is nothing. She is the enemy. I will not crack. I will not give in to her torture. I am fire. I am rage. I am storm and flood. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I. Hate. Her. No. No.
∀
“Let’s have some supper, honey,” Abigail says. “Daddy is dead.”
He must be. Dead. It is a test. It is the test.
“Everything will be all right,” she says. “Soon. Soon. It’ll all be over.”
No.
Bip bop bop, ticka ticka.
“No,” the boy says. “No.”
“We have to beseech,” Abigail says. “Like the man tells us. We have to.”
“No,” Willie says. “He’s not. Not dead. Daddy. Daddy’s not dead.”
Willie stands, naked and accusing. Behold the boy.
“You did it!” he says. “It’s your fault! Daddy is dead. Daddy is not dead.”
Abigail Augenbaugh falls to her knees. Not to pray, but to look. At the body. At the man. At Burns. He lies, in his ill-fitting uniform, partly under the table, and clinging to the golf club. But he is breathing. Breathing. Alive. Alive despite the pinkish tendril of blood seeping from beneath his head and rooting its way through and coagulating in the orangey powder covering the floor. Alive. It is a test. Abigail passes the test. It’s not too late.
≠
I am hungry. I am not
hungry. I am scared. I am not scared. I am dead. We are dead. I am not dead. We are dead. I remember the dream. Slinkys as big as dinosaurs. They chase me through town. Their giant wobbly footsteps. They eat everything. They eat me. I remember the dream. The dream is right now. I remember her. She is upstairs, looking out at me. She sits in a chair and laughs and laughs and laughs.
∀
Reprieve.
Blessing.
Mysterious ways.
She is with her family. They are all together. The husband, Burns, lies, breathing and bleeding quietly, on the kitchen floor. Willie, the boy, their son, sits at the table. So beautiful in his bruised nakedness. Abigail is there too. She is the mother. She is the wife. It is not too late. She is the mother. She is not an imposter. The imposter. She wants to tell somebody. She wants to call that woman, Carole Onkst, the guidance counselor. She looks around for the business card. Where is it? She has things to say. She is the wife, the mother. The daughter, too.
Abigail had a father. She remembers his legs. She squatted and played and waited beneath the folding table at the flea market. She remembered the La-Z-Boy recliner, the color of snuff, and her father yelling at the television all day and all night. The man died arguing with Oprah. His brain popped. Abby can’t remember if she cried.
Abigail had a mother. She can’t remember the face. She remembers judgment, and proclamations of sacrifice. Three times catch in the craw of the girl’s memory. Three events. Three moments in which her mother became distinctly human. Once, when the girl was whipped at the laundromat. She saw the mother steal some quarters. She asked for one. She wanted a grape jawbreaker. The mother raged. Once, when she was whipped after Vacation Bible School for asking the mother if Jesus made the Hinnish twins retarded on purpose. And later, after age had ravaged both mind and body, every time she changed the woman’s diapers.
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