∀
The man on the radio says you can’t know who is saved and who is not. Who is going to Heaven and isn’t. He says, too, that you have to pray without ceasing for your family. And that maybe God, in his infinite mercy, will save them at the last minute.
Abigail knows.
Abigail looks out at the coming night. The chariot of the Lord is out there, somewhere, on its way. But night does what night does, draping its tattered blanket over Joy, PA, and everyone there. That the dark cowling is nothing more than mere orbital hocus-pocus is beyond Abigail. Abigail knows. She has prayed enough. Beseeched enough. When the Rapture comes (tomorrow? the next day?), they’ll go into the yard together, hold hands, wait for Jesus.
Here we are, they’ll say. We’re ready, they’ll say.
Abigail squats on the floor, leans against the counter and looks at her family. Burns stands over her with the golf club raised high. A jagged crescent of blood marks his pale forehead. She sees the welts, stings maybe, on the pasty, bloated flesh of his arms and neck. His uniform pants are unbuttoned; his belly strains against the belt. Poor suffering man.
Willie, her son, their son, a watery patina of blood smearing his sweet face.
Here we are, they’ll say. We’re ready, they’ll say.
“Mama,” somebody says.
Back when she went to church—back before the man on the radio told her to stay out of the churches, said God had put Satan, installed Satan, in all the pulpits—back then, she never asked Burns to go with her. Did they ever talk about it? Did they ever talk about the sacrament? The blood and body of Christ? Did they? Did they ever talk about judgment and forgiveness? Sin? Salvation? Abigail can’t remember.
It’s not too late. She can talk now. Pray now. It’s not too late.
“Mama,” somebody says. “Something’s burning.”
≠
I am hungry. Something burns. It might be me. I am flame. I am hunger. I am flesh in the fires of Hell. I eat the man. I eat the woman. I eat myself.
Something is burning and the club is raised and she is squatting beneath you and all you want to do is bash her skull in and the boy is sitting at the table and what is he wearing and why is he bleeding and what is he eating and you look down at them and you look out of the window and you can’t tell if it is day or night or summer or winter or if even you are awake or asleep or alive or dead.
∀
Burning. The smoke. The stench.
It could be the souls of all the unsaved, the millions and billions of sinners, already smoldering. But no. Abigail Augenbaugh knows. Once again, Abigail is gifted a rare moment of clarity. A parcel of time so small as to be nonexistent on the clock face, but spanning from everlasting to everlasting in its scope. And what is it that Abigail knows in that fleeting instant? Much.
She knows that humans do what humans do. Regardless of consequence or promise of reward. She knows that Joy, PA, will scroll along on its mandated latitude, and the town’s residents and what they do to and for each other are as irrelevant to the looping sun and the burlesque moon as are the outcomes of those actions. Night does what night does. Somewhere beyond that, the hurdy-gurdy universe careens indifferently. She knows the husband stands over her, ready to strike. She knows the boy, Willie, sits at the kitchen table. He’s eating something. It is the lottery ticket. She can see it in the boy’s teeth. She knows the smoke, the stink. The pizza bites. The supper is burning. Abigail lays her head on the boy’s pale thigh, looks up at the husband. Awaits the blow.
Gone, the moment of knowing.
“Goddamn it, woman!”
You snap. You snap. The touch jolts, like a cattle prod. It knocks you from your seat. You stand over her, raise Big Bertha high. The boy cowers.
“What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“What the fuck is wrong with you!”
One swing. Just one swing. Cave in her godforsaken skull. One swing. Where’s the boy? He should watch you work. He should see this. He shouldn’t see this.
“What’s in the goddamn oven?”
You have to ask. She doesn’t answer.
∀
Gone. All. Man. Boy. Husband. Son. Hope. Family. This is a test. Abigail Augenbaugh knows it, finally. This is a test. Abigail Augenbaugh turns. Turns away. Turns in. Abigail’s hands tremble as she pulls the tracts from her purse. She presses them between her palms. Abigail Augenbaugh turns her mind to God. To the wise guidance of the man on the radio. She kneels low. Beseeches with all her might. She cries out. She mouths his words: “Oh Lord God. I am a sinner. A sinner. Not worthy not worthy of your magnificent love.”
“Get up, goddamn it! What’s wrong with you? Where have you been? Where the hell do you go? Whoring? Is that it? You goddamn whore! You’re fucking them all, aren’t you?”
She babbles something about work, but you know she lies.
“Bullshit!”
There’s never any money.
“You’re fucking them all, aren’t you? Everybody but me!”
Where’s the boy? Your son. You have things to show him. Things to teach. She’s on the floor, babbling.
“I’m not doing nothing, Burns,” she says. You can barely hear it.
“Don’t call me Burns!” you say. “Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Why are you here?”
“I’m your wife, Burns. We’re married, Burns,” she says.
But you don’t believe it. This is not the woman you married. You’re not even married. You’re dead. You’ve been dead for years. You raise the club again. She’s crying so hard she can’t breathe. You say other things. Bad things.
“You don’t mean that, Burns,” she says. “I know you don’t mean that stuff.”
“Stop your goddamn blubbering,” you say. “You sound like a goddamn goat. What are you doing down there! Get up! Get the fuck up!”
You are immense. You fill the room. You are pure power. You are pure. She curls into a ball. She gets smaller and smaller, like a bug. You stomp her out of existence.
∀
Abigail Augenbaugh sees it all now. Clearly. She is undeserving. The man on the radio says so. Says God says so. Says only God can save. Says God picks and chooses His elect. Says all we can do is beseech and pray without ceasing. And maybe, maybe, maybe.
Judgment Day is nigh. Abigail cannot help the man, the boy.
The man looms above her, raging. Ready to bring the full weight of his wrath down upon her weary body. Abigail presses her forehead to the cool linoleum. The floor is slick with blood and snot and water. The man, her husband, can kill her only if God wills it.
“Whore!” he says. “Bitch! Slut! I’m hungry! I’m hungry! I’m hungry.”
Abigail looks at the man. There is utterance. Something about forgiveness.
There is jihad in your head. Explosions rattle your skull. Your teeth shatter, but you keep biting. She won’t stop talking. Who is she? Why won’t she shut her goddamn mouth?
“You don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!”
She grovels on the floor. She won’t stop talking.
“Who the fuck are you talking to?”
There is blood. Always the blood. There is sand. Jihad.
“You don’t know. You don’t know what I saw. You don’t know what I did, what I had to do—”
“You did laundry, Burns,” she said.
“Over there,” she said. “You were in the Laundry Services Corps.
“You washed underwear, Burns.”
∀
Abigail Augenbaugh transgresses. Abigail Augenbaugh transcends. The boy at the table chokes on something. Gags and retches. The man above her readies his weapon. Abigail Augenbaugh awaits the blow.
The blow. The blunt force of fact. You cannot breathe. You cannot breathe. Sand clots your throat. But you will strike. You will. You will. You will strike with such force that all will feel your mighty wrath. The blow. The blow will kill you all. The blow.
/>
∀
The blow.
The blow comes as a knock at the door.
The knock at the door stops the clock. Everything ceases.
Abigail looks up from her crouch. The man’s eyes are black with rage. The mighty club, chocked midswing. The boy quakes in his cloak of fear.
The knock comes again. Abigail Augenbaugh could reach up, turn the knob, open the door. It might be Jesus himself on the stoop, His arms open wide. No. It might be Satan there, waiting. Tempting. No. Could it be Tim DeFonzie, shirtless and sweating? Tina DeFonzie? Mr. Jinx, maybe, with her Slinky cloak and Slinky crown? Or Darnell Younce with other sorts of promises? No. What if it’s someone from the lottery, what if there are truckloads of money waiting outside the door? Or the man on the radio, come to comfort her, to pray with her, in these final hours? Or the police? That woman, that guidance counselor, that Carole Onkst? All Abigail has to do is open the door.
No. It is a test. The Day of Judgment is nigh. Abigail’s entire life has been in preparation for this test. One unending study. All Abby has to do is open the door. That is all.
No. The Lord God alone provides, denies.
Abigail Augenbaugh crawls, quiet as a church mouse, under the kitchen table and wraps herself in prayer. In her world there is no room for hope outside of the church. The knock on her front door—interruption, intrusion, invitation—will go unanswered.
This is a test.
This is a test.
≠
I bite and her head explodes. No. I bite and my head explodes. No. Someone is beating me. No. I am Lottery Man. I am the Savior. All kneel before me and pray. And weep. She is weeping. I am bloody. He kills her. No. I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe. See how my eyeballs pop out and bounce around at the end of the springs? Like Slinkys. I see yesterday. I see tomorrow. I am blind. It is the end of the world. The man on the radio says so. At the end of the world, all the dead Slinkys will chew up their coffins, chew through the earth, rise from their Slinky graves and wreak havoc. They’re on their way. Already here. At the door. I hear them knocking.
You shit yourself. What else can you do?
The Beast is at the door. You had a wife. You couldn’t keep her. You dream a pumpkin shell. You dream seven heads and ten horns. You dream the plagues—every last one—and the spring lamb. Who the fuck does she think she is?
Who is it?
Who’s there?
Shhh. You are as silent as sand. As patient as death.
∀
Sooner or later, fate passes over the Augenbaugh house. The absence deafens. Abigail waits and waits. The man in the room storms about for a bit, then he too departs. The boy? Abigail doesn’t know about the boy. She didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to say what she said. Didn’t mean to do the things she did. All of them.
Burns, her husband, he didn’t mean those things he said. Right? He can’t help it. Right? He came back like that. Came back that way. Right? He can’t help it. And she can’t help him. Abigail knows it. The man on the radio says so. And the boy. And the boy. Judgment Day is nigh. Right?
You find yourself midswing. Where is the woman? The boy? Who was at the goddamn door? You swing and swing the club, knock everything off the counters. You think you see the boy run upstairs. You break dishes and cups, the salt and pepper shakers, a canister of flour, a canister of sugar, some coffee, and the pot. You beat at the cabinets and the stove and refrigerator until your arms are weak and too heavy to lift. If you were a real man, if you were the hero of the minute, you’d hit her. But you’re not. You see the basement door. It’s open. You’ll be safe down there. Away from her, and the rest of the lunatic world.
There she is. Under the goddamn table. Still.
“Clean up this goddamn mess,” you say.
You go downstairs. You shit yourself. You stink. Right? You go to your couch. You jab the remote until something comes on the television. It’s a porn movie. There are four, maybe five guys, and one scrawny girl. You watch. You can’t watch. You watch. Why did she say those things? You killed them all. The towelheads. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Who the fuck does she think she is? How can one girl take so many cocks? You can’t watch. You do. You need the noise. You turn the volume up. She’s crying upstairs, you think. Maybe it’s the porn. You can’t tell the difference. You turn the volume up even more, and still the crying. You keep turning the volume louder and louder, but you can’t get the sound of crying out of your ears.
∀
Because she wants to be a good wife, in these last days; because Burns, her husband, told her to, Abigail cleans what she can of the kitchen. Sweeps a little here. Wipes a little there. She is not angry. She is not angry. She focuses on the task at hand. Burns said to clean up the mess.
But soon Abigail Augenbaugh abandons the wrecked kitchen and, laboring under the heavy burden of her newfound truth, climbs the flight of stairs as if going to the gallows, the gutting scaffold, to await her Savior’s return. The steps to the second floor seem ladder-like, higher and narrower than ever before. Not blood but lead courses through the veins and arteries in her legs. Each step is more difficult than the last. The treads and risers work against her. Abigail is light-headed. Dizzy. The dim bulb in the socket at the top of the stairs flickers. Pulses.
Abby climbs and climbs, for hours it seems, and by the time she reaches the landing it is all she can do to lie on the splintery hardwood floor and gasp for breath. The Rapture, her Rapture, is coming soon. She knows it. She has been chosen. She knows it. She needs only to hold on for a while longer.
It is not without pain or grief, however, that she anticipates leaving behind her family and everything she’s ever known, to spend the rest of eternity worshiping at the foot of the Lamb. But abandonment in various forms is a familiar misery, a boon companion throughout her life.
She gets to her knees. Stands. Wills herself into the bedroom and closes the door. Her son is somewhere behind his own closed door, both his presence and his absence vying for command of her awareness.
Abigail Augenbaugh takes her pen in hand, finds the calendar. She wants to mark the day, to make the X, but her legs bounce and her hands shake with fear. She takes the calendar to the bed, lays it flat on the faded chenille spread, kneels. She presses the ballpoint into the box, but it takes both hands to inscribe the mark. Finished, Abigail has to lay her head on the bed. She thinks she might vomit. It is as if she has personally removed a day from every living creature on earth. As if she is responsible, solely or in part, for what will happen in just three short days.
Two more days. Two days left. Two days remaining. Two days to go. There is no best way to say it. Though she cannot reconcile the dichotomy, Abigail both longs for and fears the impending change. She can do what she has to, can abandon her damaged family, just like she abandoned the ravaged kitchen. She can leave behind the job at the Slinky plant. She can leave behind Joy, its coal-hearted mountains hollowed out, its pinched and polluted valleys. Leave behind all the unsaved. Those not chosen. But she needs help. Needs comforting and guidance. Prayer.
Abigail Augenbaugh lays her weary body down on the lumpy double bed, reaches across the vast expanse of what was her husband’s side, and turns on the radio. The familiar voice, his voice, fills her ears, fills her bedroom, spills out of the window and down sidewalks and streets, flows under the bedroom door, down the stairs, into the basement.
≠
She lies. I hate her. Daddy is a hero. Daddy is a killer. I hate her. Why did she say that about him? She lies. I want to break something. I have to break something. I open my dresser drawers. I open my closet. I want to break her teeth for the things she said. Daddy is a hero. Daddy killed the bad guys. Daddy protects me. From the basement, he protects me. It’s my turn. I have to protect Daddy. I’ll protect him from her. I’ll protect him from the steel beasts. I’ll protect him from the people on the porch. I’ll protect him from the man on the radio. I have superhuman power. I eat misery
and fear. I puke death. Nothing can stop me.
I look out the window. I see the graveyard. When the dead bodies come up, come at me, I won’t run. I look out the other window. I see the stupid neighbors. They look at me. They cower. Pee their pants. No. Not yet. The stupid little girl is in bed. I see her through the window. The stupid mama sits and pats her head. The stupid girl might be crying. The stupid little girl points at me. The stupid mama stands up at the window. The stupid mama is wearing a bra and panties. They’re called titties. Pussy. Travis told me everything. I see the stupid tattoo of a little kid. He’s dead. Maybe I killed him. I need a weapon. I need a special potion. I fly through the windows and destroy them both. I throw the little girl through the roof. Throw her so high she never comes down. I squeeze the stupid mama’s titties until they pop. She’s a liar. They’re all liars. I hate her. And her. And her.
Bitch. Liar. She wasn’t there. She doesn’t know. What you did. What you tried to do.
You beat her senseless. No. She got lucky. This time. You don’t beat her. You never have. You’re not lucky. Your head pounds. Somebody knocked on the door. There’s dried blood in your scalp. You don’t remember why. You watch the sex on the screen, but can’t forget how unlucky you are. You smell shit. It might be yours. It’s night up the stairs, outside. No matter what you do, dark creeps in. You’re mad as hell. You’re always mad, but this time it’s different. You know what you’re mad at. You’re mad at her. For what she said. You tried to go to war. You tried to do it for her. Partly. You didn’t ask to be assigned to the Laundry Corps. You couldn’t help it that the blood, the bloody uniforms, they just kept coming. So much blood. You didn’t want to see the faces and the bodies. You stopped knowing when they were real or not.
You’re sweating. It drips in your eyes and stings. Your hands cramp from gripping Big Bertha so tightly. Where’s the boy? Was he in the kitchen the whole time? Serves her right. You wanted to kill the bad guys. The recruiter said you could. You killed them all. The bad guys. You told the boy so. You didn’t tell the boy the recruiter lied. He’s an asshole like all the rest, wading around hip deep in the same bullshit as everybody else in this goddamn town. Bullshit that’s run down off the mountain for generations. Bullshit that’s pooled and stagnated in the pinched valleys and coves. Nobody who crawls up out of that muck and tries to get somewhere in the world stands a chance. The bullshit always wins. Bullshit about everything. About good and bad, right and wrong. Worthwhile. Not. Golf, for instance. All you wanted to do was play the stupid game. You figured, maybe, killing sand-niggers was a good second bet. It’s possible to believe the bullshit forever. If you stay in the valley, it’s the only bullshit you know. But, once you venture out of your mountainous cage you see there are other bullshits. Other bullshitters. Other believers. It takes a heavy toll.
Joy, PA Page 10