The woman yanks the crying girl from the floor, clamps her between a fleshy tattooed biceps and pendulous breasts, jabs a cigar of a finger into Abigail’s face, and begins a spewing of filth unlike any Abby has ever been the recipient—the victim—of.
Abby struggles to breathe. She has no recourse.
Somebody speaks.
“Poor little thing.”
“Could’ve been killed.”
Abigail wonders if someone shouldn’t look at the little girl’s foot.
The angry mother plucks a can of beans from Abby’s cart, shakes it in her face, rages. Abby can’t understand what she’s saying, but feels sure the woman is about to throw the can at her. Abigail waits. She’ll bear whatever pain comes her way. The Lord God will not give any more than she can stand. Everybody says so. Abigail waits for the impact. Waits for the rest of the mob to stone her to death in the aisle. It’s OK. She deserves it. She closes her eyes, lifts her palms toward the ceiling, forgives them all.
≠
I am brave. I am a stealth bomber. I am a warhead. I am a death ray. I am a lightning bolt. And I am a hero, just like my daddy. I run, and I will not stop. I will not surrender. I will show no mercy.
I hear the voices of the boys. Hundreds of them. I run down the path. The earth blisters behind me. I see the pond up ahead. I see the boys. I will not stop. Cannot. I jump. I jump so high. I block out the sun. I jump and the boys are piss-ants way below me. I jump and—
“Where you going, faggot?”
I land on my face. Hard. The. Breath. Knocked. From. My. Body. I curl tight. I am a stone. I do not move. I cannot be moved.
“Awww, what’d you do that for?” one boy says. “Let me help you up, little fellow.”
I feel the fingers dig under my waistband. Yank. I bend like a hinge. I puke.
Any minute now I will unleash my fury.
“Look at this little pussy boy. Are you wearing your pj’s, pussy boy?”
I get to my knees. I look around. There were hundreds. Most of them fled. Terrified. Any minute now.
“Look at the cute little Evel Knievel jammies! I wish I had me some Evel Knievel jammies.”
“Jesus H. Christ, faggot! What the hell happened to you? How come you’re all cut up and dirty?”
I know about these boys. Daddy told me. Golden boys. They are the spawn of country-club mothers and fathers. I am Captain Filth. I will destroy them. I use my superpowers to beckon the Dark One. Any minute now, he will explode on the scene. Together we will bring this army of golden boys to their knees.
But you don’t die. Yet. Or maybe you did die. Maybe you’ve been dead for a long time. Who would know the difference? You feel a little cheated. This surprises you. No, not really. Your heart slows some. The lightning storm in your brainpan settles. Just enough breath gets through. You have a boy, you think. A son. You don’t know what happened to him. You think you were together, earlier. Years ago, maybe. You do know what happened to him. He deserves better, you think, than to find you here dead, piss in your boots. Your mouth full of desert. Maybe you didn’t have that son. Maybe you didn’t have that wife. Maybe you don’t have a house and a couch in the basement.
You wanted to do the right thing. You climbed the wall like you were supposed to. You wanted to kill the towelheads, like you were supposed to. You wanted to be brave for the boy you might have had. You didn’t mean to drown in the blood. Resuscitate. You don’t mean to drown in the blood, again and again.
The dumpster lid slams, jolts you to the core. You look up. A kid in a paper hat stands at your feet. He’s filming you with a cell phone.
“I thought you were dead,” the boy says.
“I might be,” you answer.
You struggle to rise. The boy backs up just a little. But he never stops filming.
≠
“Hey!” they say. “This is the fucker who was hitting golf balls at us earlier!”
I do not cry.
“Where’s the old dude?” they say.
“The fat fuck in the Army costume?” they say.
“The freak—the perv—the cocksucker,” they say.
I kill them all.
I do not cry when they take my money. I do not cry when they throw my Game Boy in the pond. I will not break.
“Pull his pants down,” they say. “I want those jammies.”
I do not cry.
“Give me your lighter,” they say. “Let’s burn the hair off his balls.”
I do not cry.
“Hold him tight,” they say. “Hey! Look! The little fucker is hairless!”
I do not cry.
“Look at that tiny worm-dick,” they say.
“Get your phone,” they say. “Take some pictures of this. Send them around.”
I do not cry.
“Hey, take him to the water. Let the turtles bite his pecker off!”
I do not cry.
“Hold him still,” they say. “Belly down! Belly down! Look at it dangle. Fish bait!”
The muddy water fills my mouth, my nose. I will not open my eyes. I will not cry. I will be strong and brave. I wish the Dark One would come. I will not cry.
“Hey!” they say. But the voice is different. “Hey!”
“What the hell are you doing?”
It is a girl’s voice.
The boys drop me. I sink into the muck. I claw at the bank until I can stand. When I stand I see the girl in the bathing suit. No. Go away. I see three boys sitting on the path. Three boys. Dirty water soaks their dirty shorts. Dirty underwear. Streams down their stupid brown legs. She’s yelling something. Her skin is slick and shiny. She jabs her finger into their faces. They smile. They don’t smile. She is tan all over. I know this girl. I smell her. She smells like vanilla pudding. She makes me hungry. I want her to go away. I know this girl. I’ve seen her before. Every day. I want to bite into her. I don’t look in her eyes. It’s a trap. I see the butterfly tattoo. I see the flip-flops. The skull toe-ring. Her toenails are purple, like pieces of candy. Then it’s quiet. Then the boys are laughing. I can’t help it. The water is knee-deep. I have a hard-on. The Beast.
“Pull your pants up,” the girl says, pointing at my crotch. “Go home.”
I hear disgust in her voice. No. Go away. She smells like vanilla pudding. I crawl onto the path. The boys keep laughing. I see the butterfly tattoo. I wish the Dark One would come. I wish I had the club. I close my eyes and beat them all to death.
“Hurry up!” she says. “I have better things to do.”
The boys say something about her titties. She cusses. She steps toward them. They laugh, then they run. Their laughter stays behind. I stoop and tug at my pants. They’re full of water. Heavy. I fall down. I try again. The Beast. I tell her to shut up. I tell her to sex me. No. None of this. I get my pants up. I hold them tight at the waist. Cold water fills my boots. “Go,” she says. It’s all her fault. Her fault. I run back up the path. I trip. I can’t help it. I cry. Just a little. I have failed. I failed the Dark One. I failed Daddy. A girl! I got rescued by a stupid girl. She saw me. My dick. She’s not the hero; I’m the hero. Who the hell does she think she is! Stupid stupid girl. Stupid stupid me. Stupid Mama. Stupid end of the world. I run. My feet big and thick as cinderblocks. I want to find my daddy, to ask him about the gospel truth. I can’t remember what Daddy said. Even if he’s dead, there against the dumpster, I want to be with him. And when he’s not there, dead or alive, I know they must’ve captured him, must’ve taken him away. He didn’t die. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t leave me behind. I know he rose up, in triumph. I know he’s fighting them even now. And looking over his shoulder for me. I don’t care about the mud and the blood. I don’t care who sees me cry. I know I will run until the world ends. I’ll join the battle.
∀
“It’s a damn miracle,” somebody says.
Yes, Abigail thinks. She is ready. Ready for the miracle. Ready for the Savior to swoop down, sweep her up, take her up into the clouds. M
aybe, even, Jesus will let her stop by the house en route to Heaven, to drop off the Rapture-ready boxes for her husband and son. She is a good wife, good mother. Jesus will understand. She wished, only, that she’d had time to change into her Rapture outfit. To look a little more presentable. Jesus will understand. Right?
But Jesus doesn’t come, and Abigail wonders if she’s waiting on the wrong miracle. She opens her eyes, looks into the face of the little girl who’s whimpering now, not wailing. Abby looks at the congregants. Everybody is waiting to see what happens next.
Abigail grips the sticky handle of her shopping cart. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. There is a swelling roar. Abigail can’t tell where it’s coming from. The mob of shoppers and employees presses in on her, murmuring and agitated. Or, maybe not. It might just be the little girl’s family, a few others. A security guard hovers on the edge of the crowd. He carries a bright-red first-aid kit. He wears an ironed white shirt. He has pepper spray in a holster and shiny handcuffs on his black belt. He looks about twelve years old. Abigail wants to pray, but can’t think of how to start. She wants to maneuver the cart between herself and her condemners, but lacks the strength. It will not roll. Abby looks down and sees the Slinky wound around the axle. Ruined.
“Look at her,” somebody says. “Ain’t she the cutest thing?”
Cute? Abigail is confused. She feels sick. Then she realizes they’re talking about the little girl. The security guard is playfully shaking a box in the girl’s face. It’s a TV dinner, colorfully packaged: fish sticks, corn, and pudding. It’s hard to know what’s rattling around inside the box. The little girl smiles, a crooked snaggle-toothed grin, and the bubble of rage begins to deflate.
“She’s going to be all right,” the security guard proclaims confidently, holding the TV dinner overhead in triumph, and because everybody likes a good prophecy, an audible surge of gratitude washes over the crowd. One person claps. In the moment of reprieve that follows, a fragile grace supplants the anger. The little girl’s mother does not hit Abigail with the can of beans. Instead she chucks it, with some force, back into Abby’s cart, where the can knocks the Rapture tracts out of her purse.
“Dumbass old bitch,” the woman hisses, then drags her limping daughter by the arm down the As-Seen-On-TV aisle.
“You look like you been rode hard and put up wet, hon,” a barrel-shaped woman in a Walmart smock says, then lays her hand gently on Abigail’s arm. And that’s all it takes. Abby leans hard into her Samaritan’s motherly bosom and sobs.
Abigail reads the employee’s nametag. Marlene.
“Let’s get you to a register,” Marlene says, and shepherds Abby through the throng of onlookers who whisper and point as she passes. The air is thick with judgment. Condemnation greases their lips. But Marlene is there, by her side. Marlene will protect her. Marlene smells like White Rain hairspray and Dove soap. Abigail wants to fall into those aromas and never surface.
“What are they looking at?” Abby whispers. “What are they talking about?”
“Shhh,” Marlene says, dabbing at Abigail’s face with a wet wipe. “Folks are gonna do what they’re gonna do, honey. Ain’t much you can do to stop them. Don’t you pay no mind. Let’s get you in number twelve, here. Barely any line at all.”
They wait. And wait. A skinny mom, smelling fresh from the beauty parlor—hair and nails in full glory—buys a buggy full of My Little Pony birthday party supplies, talking loudly on her cell phone all the while, and never, not once, looking at Abigail.
Abigail holds tight to the cart while Marlene unloads the basket onto the sleek stainless-steel counter. Abigail pretends it’s just a normal day, pretends she’s out shopping with—with her mother. They’ll get fries and a milkshake later. Abigail pretends she can’t hear the nasty whispers behind her back. Abigail focuses on the checkout clerk and steady heartbeat of the barcode reader. Focuses on the tiny window in the center of the checkout counter from which a geometric spider web of deep-red laser beams projects. Focuses. Focuses.
“That’ll be three hundred seventy-six dollars and eighty-two cents,” the clerk says, with absolute boredom.
“What?” Abby asks.
“That’ll be three hundred seventy-six dollars and eighty-two cents,” the clerk says, with an admixture of boredom and irritation.
Abby fumbles with her purse. Marlene stands at the ready. Abby finds her credit card and thrusts it, like a weapon, at the boy manning the register. Unfazed, he takes the card, swipes it, twice. Runs his pierced tongue across his lips while waiting.
“Declined, ma’am.”
“What?” Abigail says. “What?” The word fires into the sudden quiet like a gunshot, ricocheting through the stillness. The credit card was canceled months ago.
“Declined, ma’am,” the boy says, sucking air through his teeth. Clicks the tongue stud against his incisors.
“You got another card, honey?” Marlene asks.
Everybody awaits her answer. The whole store. Every shopper, every employee has gone quiet, has gathered behind Abigail Augenbaugh, ready. Ready to laugh. To mock. To ridicule.
“My boy needs these,” Abigail says, choking back sobs. “My husband—”
“How about some cash?” Marlene says, reaching for the purse.
“No,” Abigail says, clutching the purse to her chest. “No.” Abigail grabs a handful of Rapture tracts. “No,” she says. “No. No! NO!”
Abby holds the pamphlets at arm’s length. She spins in a slow circle. “No no no! Stop! Who you are? You don’t know me! I’m one of the Elect! The chosen. I don’t know you! None of you.”
Marlene tries to put a comforting hand on Abigail’s shoulder.
“No! Don’t. How, how can they do this? Don’t they know?”
“Do what, sweetie? Let’s get you over to the snack bar.”
“They just go about their business like, like—”
“How about a hot pretzel with some mustard?”
Abigail Augenbaugh looks around, sees what feel like hundreds, thousands, of wide eyes staring at her. Unblinking. Ravenous. In what may be her bravest act ever, she scatters the Rapture tracts in the air. “Tomorrow!” she says. “The Lord Jesus Christ is coming back tomorrow to take the elect home to Heaven, tomorrow! And all of you act like—”
But it’s too late. Abigail hears the laughter, and when she looks out again, all those eyes have closed or turned away.
“Lord have mercy, child,” Marlene says, finally. Clucks her tongue.
“No!” Abigail cries, desperately. “Wait, don’t go! Listen! Listen to me! I have something to say. I have things to tell!”
Abigail feels faint. The pain from her broken rib rides the full length of her skeleton. Does she see the security guard? Is he with the store manager?
“Please,” Abby begs. “Just listen. I know things. I’m here, and I need to say. It’s not too late for you. You have to listen to me. I’ve been chosen. You can’t just ignore me!”
Abby sees the crowd thin, all but the cruelest voyeurs turning their attentions elsewhere. Some have their cell phones out, filming it all. What should she do? What would the man on the radio say? She tried to spread the gospel, tried to make them hear.
“He—” she starts.
He, who? What does she want to say?
“He, he said, he tried, he … he raped me. He raped me. He raped me!”
She says it. She says it aloud, and waits—hopefully—for the repercussions. But those few shoppers and Walmart employees who bear witness to her outburst are unmoved. For all they know she could be talking about the store manager, or God.
≠
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worth
less little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I am a traitor. I am a pussy boy. I am a worthless little faggot.
I deserve to die.
You stagger—a dead soldier—back through the desert, back down the alley, back toward the basement. You retreat. You’re a coward. You’ve been dead all your life. You’ve got your club. You lean on Bertha. A Chinese woman in tight black pants jams an empty lettuce box into an overflowing trash can. Rotting leaves spill onto the asphalt. She might be a girl; you can’t tell. I’ve been dead my whole life, you say to her. You think you do. Anyway, she runs back into the restaurant kitchen. The screen door slams shut, and the sound blinds you. You follow her inside, shove her head into the deep fat fryer, pull her black pants down to her ankles.
No, you don’t. You keep moving. Your heart exploded years ago. You want your pills. You want to call the pharmacist. You want to call anybody. You want to bite the mole off her lip. No. Yes. You have a son. You don’t know where he is. You have a wife. She cried. Her snot-covered face made you hard. No. Yes. You think about that face. Where’s your goddamn wife? You want to be reborn. It’s all her fault. No. Their fault. Where are you? You thought the boy was with you. Now he’s not. You ought to care, but you don’t. You can’t. You pass the trophy shop. All the little golden faceless fuckers squirm and wriggle, break free from their shackles, jump down from their perches and run out the door after you. The chase exhausts you.
You’re in a parking lot behind an eye doctor’s office. Dr. What-thefuck. Some goddamn towelhead name you can’t pronounce, even after all these years in the sand. That must be his wife. Mrs. Dr. What-the-fuck. She’s putting a bag of golf clubs into the trunk of a Lexus as black as her hair, her eyes. I’ve been dead my whole life, you say to her. You think you do. She backs against the car, drops her cell phone and several golf tees. You pick one up, lean in close enough to smell the goddamn nutmeg on her goddamn skin. You bite her throat, gently, right at the larynx, and shove the tee deep up into her nostril with your thumb.
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