There is so much blood. You never knew there was so much blood in the world. You never knew all the colors of spilled blood. You watched the TV shows, you watched the movies. The blood was different. False. The true blood stains. There is camouflage. The Army pretends. There is sand. Sand in your bed. Sand in your eyes. Sand in your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sand in your dreams. There are buttons and zippers and bootlaces; there are sheets and blankets; there are uniforms in so many different sizes; and it’s all bloody. The bleach stings your eyes. You taste the detergent in the back of your throat. It’s humid like some tropic island, in hell. Rinse, wash, dry. Rinse, wash, dry. There is never enough camouflage. There is always more blood.
∀
Well, you know the fact is that we know that the wages of sin is death. That’s the first thing we have to keep in mind. Those who enter into the Day of Judgment, and it will be almost seven billion people that will enter into the Day of Judgment, the first thing they are going to face is death. Maybe already on day one there will be millions who die, and on day two millions will die, and this will keep going until finally whoever is left alive on October 21, at the end of the five months, then they will be destroyed and the whole world is going to be annihilated and never be remembered or come into mind.
You kill her. You should have. Like you killed all the others. It’s nasty work.
Hard, hot, nasty work, the killing. But you can do it. You are a soldier. A killing machine. A hero. What do you think about? Nothing but the death and suffering that passes through your hands. What does she know about suffering? Nothing. Who the fuck does she think she is? Nothing. Does she think her tears and her snot are gonna make some kind of difference? You’ve seen men and boys cry who had reason. You should’ve hit her. You ought to go upstairs and knock all that Jesus bullshit right out of her head. That’s what she needs. It’s what you need. The boy needs his mama. Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. You had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
Who is she to question? What you did, what happened to you? She knows nothing about what it takes to fight. You did the best you could. In your own ways. You wanted a rifle. You wanted grenades. You know how to use them. You know what they can do. You’ve seen it. You’ve touched that aftermath. What the fuck does she know? You ought to go upstairs and show her. You think about it. You think about every detail, in slow motion. You hold tight to Big Bertha. There’s porn on the television. You’re tired. Tired. Tired of the pills. Tired of the blood. Tired of pussy. Of cock. Of breath. It’s dark somewhere outside. You should go. Up the stairs. You’re the man. You’re the hero. You think your way through the act. You see the carbon fiber head of the golf club as it travels the arc of your swing. You see it connect with her head, right at the hinge of her jaw. You hear the satisfying thwack. You see teeth fly out the other side. You see her eyes roll back. You raise the club again.
No. You cannot do it.
You hear the clock tower at the courthouse.
Sometimes you’ve got a crystal ball in your head. You can see forwards and backwards. You can see your daddy wheezing on a couch for the last ten years of his life. You see your own couch, your own years. You see no reprieve. You need your pills. There is a gun in the tackle box. You leave it there.
There was a man, once, touched a woman. Real gentle-like. On the cheek. He died.
You ought to go up. Stairs. You think your way up each step. You think of her face as she sat at the kitchen table while you shrieked and cursed at her. She cried and slobbered. Snot streamed from her nose. She is your wife. She looks helpless and pitiful. You sit on the couch, in the basement, in Joy, PA, and think of her choking sobs. Her eyes swollen, nose red and leaking. Pleading with you. She is your wife. And she is at your mercy. You think of these things. She begs. She pleads. You are the man. You are the hero. Warrior. The filthy details play in a loop through your electrified brain. And then it happens. You get hard. For the first time in years. Your cock pushes against your uniform, stands at attention.
≠
I hate them all. I hate the man on the radio. I hear him. I hear his voice through the wall. His voice is like dark syrup. It catches all the flies. I hear him talk about Satan. Satan is in all the churches, preaching from all the pulpits. What does it mean, all the pulpits? At the same time? Like Santa Claus at Christmas? I want to ask Mama. She’s dead. I hate her. She’s not. I hate her more. I wonder how big Satan is. Does he wear a suit? I hate Satan. I am afraid. Of Satan. I am not afraid. The man talks about the end of the world. He sounds so happy. I hate him. I love when he tells me how everybody will die. I think about Satan in all the churches. If I go to the church down the street, I could find Satan and we could join together, and be a team, and fight the man on the radio.
I hear people call him and cry and ask him why, or when. I don’t understand his answers. He talks about mercy. I don’t know what that means. He makes it sound like a good thing. He makes it all sound good. I hear a woman call who’s scared for her baby boy. I wish my mama would call. The man says we’re all born sinners. Says we deserve to die.
I crawl under my bed.
I lie in the black.
She deserves to die.
They deserve to die.
I deserve to die.
I will not die.
We will fight.
∀
the whole world is going to be annihilated
Abigail Augenbaugh takes solace in his voice. She lies in bed and tries to conceive of no more world. She knows there are roads that lead out of Joy. And railroad tracks. There must be airplanes overhead. And people and people and people. Do they hear the man? Are they listening? Do they understand that everything leads to desolation? Everything.
The man has explanations for all of it. She can’t understand his theology. Numbers are involved. The man counts. The man adds and subtracts, divides and multiplies. Parsing out the past, present, and future. The man quantifies the whole universe. Abigail listens. Abigail is confused. Abigail prays. He talks about signs and symbols. She can’t see them. There are prophecies and parables. The man speaks of demons and angels as if they’re right outside on the bus-stop bench, or just behind in the grocery checkout line. There are God’s chosen people. The Elect. There is God’s Salvation Plan and God’s Judgment. Abigail can’t tell which is the act of love, or where the mercy dwells, but that’s OK. The man explains, and though his reasoning confounds, Abby trusts. It’s the voice, and the certainty that voice embodies.
It was the voice that first captured Abigail’s attention, then laid claim, bit by intangible bit, to the rest of her until she was fully his, body and soul. The discovery of the man and his voice she owes to her son, Willie. They were in the car, months ago. The boy was angrily poking at the radio knobs, the tinny speakers spitting fragments of songs and speech. Then she heard it.
Because Holy God is so merciful, maybe he will have mercy on you.
That chamberous voice surges from the very belly of the earth, fills Abigail Augenbaugh’s ears, spills out over her body. An ancient sound. Paternal. Wise at the sonic level. Distinct from, less terrifying than, the lifetime of televangelists and pulpit pounders she used to give her obeyance. Willie reached to change the channel. Abigail Augenbaugh wanted that mercy. Abby grabbed his wrist. Not long after, she noticed the several billboards around Joy, PA.
JUDGMENT DAY, May 21, 2011
Now, months later, a couple scant days from the end, Abigail still doesn’t understand what the man on the radio means when he talks, but how he says those mystifying things suffices. Is enough.
Self-doubt, as a force, as a guiding principle, has shaped much of Abigail’s life. But not, ever, doubt of authority, in all its forms. Insidious or otherwise. Too scary. Just beneath the surface of belief things get too muddy, too unclear. She finds it best, easiest, imagines it less painful, simply to obey. She hears the callers, the desperate or angry listeners who phone in to speak with the voice on the radio. Some weep. Some beg. Some smugly agre
e. And some mock. The man on the radio takes them all in and spits them all out. He is unflappable. He is impenetrable. How can Abigail not follow him? And how can she ever live up to his kingly standard? Even this night, so close to the finish, she worries that his God will hold those past doubts in judgment against her. The man on the radio says as much.
Now what God is simply teaching, He knows what’s in our heart, He knows our situation, way better than we do, and the Holy Spirit here, of course, is God Himself, and so whatever it isn’t, it isn’t how loquacious we are or how erudite we are, that is how well we can speak and so on, and make any impact upon God at all. It’s what’s going on in our heart and God knows, exactly, exactly, better than we do, what’s going on in our heart, and so this is a terrific assurance to us when we are so emotionally upset about something and either way, in joy or in terror or in whatever, we don’t.
Does God know of her wickedness? Her greedy clutch on the lottery ticket? Does God know? Does he feel what she feels? Did God feel Darnell Younce’s hot breath? Does he know the misery, the cruelty of the husband? Her unnamable quenchless yearning for the boy in the next room? Yes. The man on the radio says yes, God sees all. God knows all. Abigail is ashamed. She clings to the man’s voice. She begs, as she was instructed. Beseeches. God sees all. All. Abigail looks up. Burns in the scrutiny. She looks, but can’t find his eyes.
You are naked. You are hard. Years. It’s been years. Bitch. Your pale bloated gut hangs low. You can’t see your cock, but you grab it to make sure it’s still hard. Who does she think she is? She is your wife. Goddamn it. You’ll show her. You go through the kitchen but don’t look at the mess. You stand at the bottom of the stairs. Has it been years? You think of the blubbering snotty face. You keep the picture in your mind and haul your heavy self up one step at a time. You stand at the closed door. You check again for the erection. You realize you left Big Bertha downstairs. It’s OK. Come back to the picture. She’s on her knees and sobbing. You open the door. She’s lying on the bed. Still. Like she’s dead or something.
∀
Abigail hears footsteps. Maybe it’s Jesus. Come early, and without the fanfare? On a covert mission? Maybe this is how the Rapture comes, with Christ as clandestine savior. She hopes. She doubts. She prays. Abigail wants the mercy. The footfalls are too heavy to be Willie. Graceless.
Abigail doesn’t allow herself the luxury of lingering in hope. She is afraid, but no more or less afraid than she has been her entire life. There is, and always has been, trepidation every time someone comes to any door.
Abigail doesn’t want to look. She wants only the comforting voice of the man on the radio. She wants to look up through the ceiling, through the rafters, through the shingles and the black sky, Heavenward. But try as she might, Abigail’s vision fails her. There is nothing to see but cracked water-stained plaster. She lies motionless in her bed, in her unadorned bedroom, on the second floor of her steadily dilapidating house, and awaits instruction.
It’s Burns. She’s never seen him so heavy, so naked, but Abigail knows it is Burns standing in the doorway. He is backlit by some dim and distant light, so she cannot see his face. But even over the radio, she hears his laboring breath.
She ought to call out to him. She knows it. That’s what a wife ought to do.
Abigail doesn’t.
She’s not dead. Yet. You are the hero. The warrior. You can tell she’s breathing. She is your wife. You recognize things. That damn granny-gown she’s worn since before the boy. The bridge of her nose. The slight whistle of her constricted breath. You’ve been in this room before, but you can’t remember when. Your head pounds. You are dizzy from the stairs. For a second you forget why you came. Then you check your dick. Still hard.
∀
Burns Augenbaugh galumphs the short span between the doorway and the bed. His flab is pale and loose. Abigail has seen this man before. Naked, before. He is her husband. Abigail thinks, for the briefest of seconds, of embrace. He’s come to embrace her. To comfort. Abigail hopes. Then Abigail doubts. She knows this man. She has seen this man before. There is his penis. He stands right at bedside. Abigail is embarrassed to be so close to his nakedness. Not always. They made the boy. Together. But now, she cannot tell what he means by this presence. Gift or threat? She wants to turn away, but can’t. She hasn’t been given permission.
It occurs to Abby that Burns may kill her. That she might die before the Rapture. She wonders, briefly, how God would handle the complication. Then Burns reaches out and grabs her. The touch brings Abigail back to temporality.
She is your wife. You went to war for her. Doesn’t matter whether she thinks so or not. What you did. What you do. She owes you. You stand there, before her. You are ashamed of your fleshy body. What are you looking at! Even in the dark, you know she sees it. Who do you think you are! You flip this woman over. You let the shame consume you and blossom into a beautiful flower of rage. You can deal with the rage. Rage is a man’s sport.
You flip her over, this woman, this wife. You don’t want to see her face. You pull the granny-gown up, yank the white panties down just enough. You climb on the bed, straddle this woman, this wife. The mattress sags, the bedsprings squeak, the wood frame groans. Like a goddamn train whistle.
You have to lift your own fat gut to see the cheeks of her fat ass. You are a hero. A warrior. She owes you. They all do. You poke the tip of your dick into her business. It’s dry. You try to get some spit but your mouth is just as dry. You just push harder. It finally goes in. You don’t want to see her face. Not her real face. You scroll through the pictures in your brain. Find the one where she’s blubbering like a baby. You hold onto that picture. You drive into her from behind.
∀
Abigail Augenbaugh goes to Heaven.
She lies beneath the heavy man struggling behind her, struggling inside her, and tries to match her shallow, hard-won breaths with his thrusts. It lessens the pain. He is her husband. She knows she is obligated, complicit even, in what’s happening. She was schooled in this knowledge, from before birth. He is the husband. He deserves this.
Abigail’s face is in the pillow. She smells the unwashed bedclothes. She can’t see anything. She hears the radio. She hears the man grunt each time he enters her. Each time the grunting man enters her, she claims the pain as her own. Turns the pain into a small door at the core of her being. Each time his penis goes in, it pushes the door of pain open a little farther.
Abigail imagines Heaven just on the other side of that door. She rides the Slinky float all the way. At Heaven’s gate, the crown is bestowed upon her. Pure joy. Complete happiness. No more pain. The hope excites her. Just a little more of this earthly suffering, she thinks, and she’ll be home. Will it be like this when she is the bride of Christ? Will the Lord’s desire be so furious? Something almost animal inside Abigail stirs. She arches her back ever so slightly to meet her husband’s onslaught.
You want it. You know you do. The snotty nose, the drooling mouth, the red and swollen eyes. The helplessness. This is what you want. You are the man. You are the warrior. And you will slay every last motherfucker who tries to tell you different.
You hear the clock tower at the courthouse. You time your stroke to the clapper’s strike. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Etcetera. Too many bells, but you don’t question. She likes it. She must. She is your wife. You have a right. Doesn’t matter how fat you are. Doesn’t matter how fat she is. You hear her call your name. You think so, anyway. You don’t want to see the face. You’ve done this before, this in-and-out. You get distracted. Then the blood creeps into your brain. You’re cock is raw and stinging, but you work harder, push deeper. Harder. Deeper. Like a good soldier. But your brain betrays you. Your dick betrays you. You feel it shriveling. Burning. You try to call up other images. Anything but the blood. You think of hitting her. You think of pulling her hair until her neck snaps. You think of all the mouths and pussies and
assholes in every porn movie you’ve ever watched. You think of the pharmacist with the mole and the little titties. Your mind races, reels, desperate for something to hold to. But it can’t outrun the blood. You can’t outrun the blood.
∀
Soon enough, the door of pain opens wide, and Abby, ushered in by the mad tintinnabulation of bells, passes through. Eagerly. Giddily. But she finds herself in a colorless and formless place. The words that have defined Heaven—throughout her childhood in her mother’s church; and now from the man on the radio—the words remain cuneiform. They refuse to be anything other than consonants and vowels. Nothing more than thin black scribble in infinite white space. They are not ladders, nor stairs. The words will not sing. They will not shine in glorious golden beams. They are neither sweet nor bitter to the taste. They will not become robes. Nor wings. Abigail cannot even find a secure foothold amid the words.
Abigail does not like the Heaven she has stumbled into. The Hell. She doesn’t want to be here. The man on top of her pounds away. Pounds away. She knows his face. She’s never seen him before. The husband. Jesus. The man. The faces all become one. The body above, driving away at the body below. Penetrating. The body. The man. He may have finished what he came for; she can’t tell. But still he pounds away. Abigail cannot block the images in her mind. Abigail needs assurance, blessed assurance. She wrestles her arm free, reaches over, and turns up the radio.
Joy, PA Page 11