“Go upstairs,” you say to the boy.
“Find your mama,” you say to the boy.
“Put some clothes on,” you say to the boy. And he looks at you. You look around the house. It’s a shithole. What happened? He is your son. You are the father. Act like it. She’ll come back, the woman from his school. She’ll bring along a whole battalion of pencil-dick social workers. But you’ll show her. You won’t be here.
“Get ready,” you say. “We’re going out.”
≠
Like a storm trooper. A war hero. He takes charge. I am not afraid. I go to my room. I search and search and find my Evel Knievel shirt, the black pants. I put on boots, not shoes. No socks. I think my toes bleed. I pull the curtain back, snarl at the stupid neighbors’ house, the graveyard, the whole outside world. I tuck the Game Boy in my waistband. Like a pistol. Daddy is downstairs, waiting on me.
I am not afraid. I will go with him. Anywhere.
Is she dead? you ask the boy. Did you find the body?
No, you don’t.
“Get my club,” you say.
You are the father. The boy does as he’s told.
≠
The basement scares me. It is the lair of the Dark One. But I serve the Dark One. I must be brave. I do as I am commanded. The club is on the floor by the couch. The Dark One sleeps on the couch. He takes my daddy. He gives back my daddy. The couch holds the shape of his body. The Dark One is disguised as a fat man. One day soon, he will rip off the fat suit, rise up in glorious rage, and reveal his true self. I pick up the club. It sizzles and crackles with fire. The club is the ultimate weapon. I bear it to my master. Together we will destroy the world.
“What are you wearing?” you ask. The boy doesn’t seem to hear you. Dumbass pajamas. It’s her fault. You close the only two buttons on your army jacket. You should’ve put a shirt on, but it’s too late. There’s a jelly jar with some pocket change by the busted telephone. It’s not much. You take the jar, without counting. Under the phone book, in the junk drawer, an envelope holds your debit card and Visa. You pocket both and hope for the best.
“Open the door,” you say to the boy. You don’t have a plan. You are the father and the husband. You don’t need a plan. You shoulder Big Bertha and let the boy go out first. You almost go back inside. Almost retreat. It’s the sun. Too bright. Too many colors. You can barely see. In the desert, and in the basement, there aren’t so many colors. But the boy steps off the porch, and you have no choice but to follow.
How long has it been since you left the house? Two days? A decade? It’s all the same. You’re the father. He’s the son. You have to show the boy things. He’s turning into a mama’s boy. A pussy. You showed her; now you’ll show him. She liked it. You could tell. He will too.
≠
I don’t need Travis. I don’t need Mama. I don’t need school. I don’t need Heaven. I serve the Dark One. When the Rapture monsters come, we’ll stand together and slay them. I am not afraid. I am not afraid of the stupid neighbors. Or that bitch from school. I am not afraid of the dead bodies that’ll rise up out of the grave tomorrow. I am with my daddy. He wears his uniform. He has his club. He is a war hero. I wear my uniform. I am body and not body. I am the boy. The boy is me. There is sky. There are mountains. We are going for a walk. I don’t know where to. I don’t care.
You take the boy through the alley because the mountains are harder to see there. You don’t want the boy to know that you fear the mountains. You see the toppled grotto in the neighbors’ yard. You smile, sort of. At the end of the alley are two churches, one on either side. The boy walks too close to you.
“Move,” you say. He does.
You have a son. One time you held his hand. You don’t remember the day.
The church on the right has a big gold dome, shaped like an onion, topped with a cross. Simple. You’ve walked by this church your whole life. For most of it, you believed the rumors about satanic rituals. Whatever those are. Across the alley, a plain brick box with a thin steeple jutting into the afternoon sky. There may or may not be stained glass behind the thick, milky Plexiglas and the bars on all the windows. You don’t care. The boy walks too close, still.
“Move, Goddamn it.”
He does. The son. For God so loved the motherfucking world, you think. You might say it aloud. You don’t know where you’re going. It doesn’t matter. You are prepared. You lead. You follow a higher order. Both church lawns are immaculate. The paint jobs, immaculate. The monkey bars and swing-sets, immaculate. The boy never had a swing set. You see the garden shed in the corner. There is a door; it may or may not be ajar. You’ve trained for this. You are ready for either scenario. You notice the trees in both yards. They’re full of tent worms. The dense silk nests clot the branches.
“Come here,” you say to the boy. “Here I am,” you say. You take him beneath one of the trees. He’s afraid. You can tell. You like that. You have things to teach.
“Here I am,” you say, again. “Listen,” you say. And you both lean close to the trunk.
≠
“Listen,” he says, and I do. I press my ear against the hard bark. It hurts. I’m scared of what I hear. But I do as I am commanded. The Dark One speaks sap and bark.
“No, dumbass,” he says. “Listen at that.”
The Dark One points right above my head to where the trunk splits in two. I see the nest. It’s full of caterpillars. I know so, even though the white web is too thick to see through; the wormy shapes boil and squirm just beneath the surface.
“Listen,” he says.
I listen. I shut out all other noise. I refuse to hear any sound except what spills out of the nest. It’s like dry palms rubbing together. And faint clicks. Like crumbling leaves. I let the sounds fill my head, my body.
“Look up,” he says. Points at the other nests in the tree. At the other trees with nests. All full of hairy black caterpillars fighting for space. The roar is so loud I fall to my knees and cover my ears.
“Get up, dumbass,” he says. “Watch this.”
The boy acts retarded. The boy is retarded. It’s her fault. You’re sorry you killed her. You’re not sorry. You didn’t kill her. You make him stand up. You take Big Bertha. You shove her titanium head right into the middle of the caterpillar nest. You dig it in deep and yank it free. It’s like the nest is vomiting worms. They spill then dribble from the hole you gouged. They cling to the head of the club. You look at the boy. He has a spark in his eye. You feel like a father. You’ve shown him something. Important. The tree is full of tent worm nests. You reach a little higher with the club, puncture another. The caterpillars fall, some tumbling in clumps to the ground. The caterpillars crawl across the face of the earth. The boy backs up, afraid. You stomp and stomp their yellow guts into the churchyard. You think you hear the boy laugh.
“I wish you could take that club to all of them,” the boy says.
No. Not the boy. You turn. It’s a man in a stark black shirt. He carries a plastic gasoline jug in one hand, a Weed Eater in the other.
“We’re leaving now,” you say. “No trouble.”
When he puts the Weed Eater down and his hand out to shake, you see his collar.
“Pastor Mike,” he says.
You could take him if you had to. With the club, or maybe with your hands. The boy could watch. You tighten your grip on Big Bertha. The man smiles. The man seems soft. Not weak, necessarily. Not flabby. Just not hard.
You don’t take his hand. You don’t trust the man. The three of you stand in the backyard of the church and wait for what comes next.
≠
It’s two against one. We wear our uniforms. Our enemy is in black. He smiles a black smile and the worms bristle in their cocoons. The worms are under his command. I am scared. I am not scared. Daddy has his club. The man in the black shirt wields a cruel weapon. It drips green blood. The man in the black shirt smiles when he talks. His teeth blind me. It’s a trick. I want to yell to Daddy. It is us aga
inst this man and his world. Don’t take the enemy’s hand! I watch Daddy. Wait for orders. We stand in the grass for a long time without saying anything. Without doing anything. I can hear the caterpillars crawling.
“We’re leaving now,” you say to the preacher. “Don’t want no trouble.”
“They’re bad this year,” he says. Smiling. “I wish you’d stick around and stomp every last caterpillar for me. I might even be able to pay you.”
We both look up into the trees. The boy, too.
The preacher stands close. You can’t tell what he means to do. The sky is too blue. It makes you nervous. The grass is too green. The preacher’s dandruff falls like snow. God of scalp and follicle. You push Big Bertha’s head into a clump of caterpillars.
“You ought to douse them all with that gasoline,” you say. “Set them on fire.”
“Reckon that’d solve my problem?” the man says. Smiling. He looks at you and the boy. He looks you in the eyes, but you can tell he’s trying to see it all.
≠
This is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people this is the church and this is the steeple open the door and these are the people.
The boy fidgets. The boy is doing something with his hands. Is mumbling something, with his mouth. Stop it, you say. Maybe you don’t.
“Listen,” the man says. “It’s about lunchtime. We’ve got soup in the church today. Y’all come on in.”
“I don’t think so,” you say. The boy fidgets. Stop it, you say. Or not.
“It’s free,” the preacher says.
Fuck you. “Ain’t nothing free about it,” you say.
The preacher smiles.
“This can just be about the soup, friend,” he says. “Nothing else,” he says.
“Let’s get the boy something good to eat. Maybe something to wear.”
For God so loved the motherfucking world. You can’t imagine it. What if? What if you let the boy go? What next? You think about it. Your brain hurts. There is no room for the possibility. No, you say.
“No.”
The earth quakes. You feel it. The ground, the churchyard, shifts under your feet. You fall.
≠
We win. With the Dark One, I conquer the church man. We march him into the garden shed. Lock him inside. It smells of dirt, moldy grass, and hot engines. We are not afraid to torture. But it’s not necessary, this time. I follow him, Daddy, the Dark Lord, down the alley. He knows everything. He knows about fire and gasoline. I will always follow him. I hear the preacher screaming inside the shed. I hear the worms. They’re close behind, and coming up fast.
I wish I could show him the hideout, under the train. I wish I could show him the things Travis showed me. I don’t need Travis. I don’t need Mama. I wish the Dark One would go to school with me, would take his mighty club, would avenge everything.
You fall. The man kneels beside you, offers his hand. Get the fuck away from me. You fall. You rise. You take the boy’s hand. He trips. He falls. You pull him along anyway. Did you feel the earthquake? Did you? You take the boy away from the churchyard. You don’t know what to say about the preacher so you don’t say anything. You wish you had your pills. You wish the sun would quit shining so bright. You wonder why the boy isn’t in school. You don’t ask. You don’t know where you’re going. You might be leading the boy, but you might be following something too. Your coat is hot and itchy. You worry, but only for a minute, about people seeing you and the boy. You think you say something about keeping off the sidewalks. But you see the phone booth.
“Watch this,” you say to the boy. You’ll show him. You’ll prove your power. You dig in your pocket for change, step inside. The boy follows, closes the door. The space is too small for you both. Something stinks. You think you hear wasps twitching their wings, getting ready. A cement truck rumbles by, and the whole damn booth quakes in its flimsy frame, like an elevator to hell, you think, beginning its descent.
Hold on. You can do it. Just pick up the phone. Say the word. Bomb.
You’ll show him. He’ll see how you control everything just by speaking.
You pick up the receiver. It’s silent. Dead.
“Move,” you say, and it takes the boy so long to get the hinged door open you think you might explode. Or push his head through the glass. You are the father. You have things to do, things to say. You go, without knowing where. You don’t intend to go to Sheetz, but that’s where you see the girl.
She comes out of the store with a bottle of suntan lotion. Her nails are perfect. You don’t know the girl, but you know everything about her. Her name is Cheyenne. Her nametag says so. You’ve seen her before. Every day of your life. The short skirt and the stained white dress shirt say she’s a waitress at the Scald Mountain Country Club. The handful of ass, flip-flops, the skull toe ring, the butterfly tattoo on her scrawny ankle, and everything else say cocktease.
You don’t mean to step in front of her. You do mean to step in front of her. She backs against a steel cage full of propane tanks and looks at you, at the boy, back at you. There’s fear in that look, but something else too. You can’t tell what. Pity, you won’t allow. Recognition, maybe. Does she know? What you’ve done. Who you are? You’d show her. You think quick. See the corner of the building. The brickwork is fancy, the mortar joints deep. You’ll climb this. You’ll show the bitch. The boy.
You step up to the wall. You know he’s watching. You know she’s watching. You watch yourself. In your mind, you scale the wall all the way up, do a backflip off the roof and land perfectly, inches from the girl. She smiles. You leave the boy. You take the girl. Life is good.
Truth is, you can’t get your fat ass off the ground. You turn. She’s walking around the store, down the path. You listen to the sound of the flip-flops slapping against her skinny feet. A mating call. The boy stands there, grinning, like you just did a magic trick. Abra-ca-Fucking-dabra.
“You see that,” you say to him, pointing Bertha at the girl. “That there is the cause of it all, son.”
You can’t remember the last time you called him son. Conquer.
“Find a way to conquer that shit and you’ll rule the world. Gospel truth, son. It’s the gospel truth. There’ll be nothing you can’t do. Nothing can stop you.”
He’s watching her skinny ass walk away but you doubt the boy understands anything you’ve said. You don’t care. You’ve done your job. It’s hot. People are looking at you both. Walking wide berths around you. You see a lady with a cell phone. Another.
“Let’s go,” you say.
Somehow you end up near the river, on the weedy path to the golf course. It’s just you and the boy and years of garbage. You recognize the place. It’s probably noon. Did you miss the bells? You wonder what the hell you’re doing.
The boy with you, he’s yours. But what does that mean? It’s just you and him and the trash, down by the river. The water is sluggish and shallow. Beetles skitter over its surface. You wish you could just walk right across it, up the other bank, and keep going. You could leave the boy behind. The boy walks too close to the muddy bank, slips, soaks his leg up to the knee. You could use Big Bertha and put him out of his misery. There’s nobody around. One good swing would do it. Overhead, in the spilling leaves of a willow tree, a crow and a blue jay argue the point.
≠
Gospel truth. Daddy told me the gospel truth. I’l
l follow him anywhere. That girl, that fraidy-cat. That slut, I’ve seen her before. Somewhere. I see her everywhere. The Dark One let her live. I’ll follow him anywhere. Mama says the world is about to end. The man on the radio tells Mama the story over and over. I don’t care. Me and Daddy will survive. He’s shows me how. Nothing can stop me. The Beast is awake. I listen. I learn. We walk down through the woods. I know the path. Me and Travis walked it. I wish I could tell Daddy about Travis. I wish I could ask him about the Rapture. I wish we could’ve had some soup from the church. We keep walking. Maybe we’ll walk forever.
I look at Daddy and try to keep up. I wish I had a club. I look at my arm. A caterpillar is climbing my sleeve. I don’t like it. I brush at the worm and fall into the water. My boot fills. I almost get the Game Boy wet. Daddy stops, looks at me. I don’t know if he’s mad or not.
You leave him. You bash his sweet head in. You keep going. Together. They’re all viable parenting options. All good in their own way.
“Get up, dumbass,” you say. You reach out with Big Bertha. Your rod. Your staff. The boy takes the bulbous head of the club in his pitiful little hands, pulls himself back onto the path. That’s when you see the ball.
You’ve been here before. The path skirts the golf course, following the dogleg of the seventh hole. Years ago, when you mowed fairways at the club, you walked this path to and from work. You know the place well. You know where you are. You’ve seen some things here. Tell him. Tell him about the pond and a sickle-shaped bunker where the fairway hooks left. You know the less skilled players drive hard from the tee box and overshoot the bunker. The rich bastards, the ones who don’t mind cheating a little or a lot, the ones who can afford a new sleeve of balls every round, leave behind those that slice or hook deep into the weeds.
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