Joy, PA

by Steven Sherrill

  No, you don’t. She’s driving away. And you, you’ve been dead your whole life.

  ≠

  Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.

  Please. Don’t. Die.

  You step off the curb and into the gaping mouth of the whale. It makes as much sense as anything else. Tires skid on asphalt. Someone curses. It swallows you, whole. You fall down down down into the fish’s rank belly. It’s full of bones. And bloody laundry. The boy is there. Your son. And your wife. You hear them scream. All the dead. It might be you. Screaming. No. It’s you screaming. The massive fish looms and you are lying on the sidewalk beneath a bus-stop bench. A pickup truck and a U-Haul trailer block the road. A huge plaster trout tilts toward you. Half a dozen men hold tight to the straps. You scream, like a fucking girl.

  “Watch where you’re going, dumbass!”

  It might be the fish talking. Jesus Saves! is written on the underside of the bench in red marker in cursive. You sit up, lean against the bench. You stare at the ad on the seatback. Some politician railing about high taxes. You might be bleeding. You may have bled to death years ago.

  “Are you all right, fuckwad?” one of the men asks.

  “Jesus saves,” you say.

  ∀

  Abigail Augenbaugh leaves the store empty-handed and alone. But the sheer tonnage of her intangible goods will most likely crush her. Decades of shame yoke her shoulders. She lugs. She hauls. Generations of ignorance garland her flabby back. Abigail plows forward, each step of every day, dragging behind millennia of fear.

  “I am the Slinky Queen,” she says aloud. “All kneel.”

  Empty-handed, solitary, Abby, more dray horse than scapegoat, limps, and heaves, and slogs, and tows her mountainous burden all the way across the vast expanse of the Walmart parking lot to her car, where she finds the front tire on the driver’s side airless. Flat.

  ≠

  And there he is, dead. The door stands wide open. I come through. I go into the basement. I hear the girl screaming outside. The stupid little neighbor girl. She screams because I kicked her. I stomped her into the ground. She got in my way. I had no choice. I go into the basement. She shouldn’t have been there, on the sidewalk. She was putting Barbie Doll clothes on a bowling trophy. He’s there on the couch. Dead. Daddy, I mean, not the man on top of the trophy. I see the club. I see the tackle box. I see Daddy. He’s there on the couch. In the dark. Except for the TV. She’s still yelling. He’s dead. I know it. I just do.

  ∀

  Forsaken. Abigail Augenbaugh feels as if Jesus himself punctured the tire. But only for a fleeting moment. Then, as she has been conditioned to do, Abby takes the onus of guilt upon herself. It is her fault. She has sinned. Her faith is weak, her devotion insipid. False. The myriad of reasons why the good Lord may have deflated Abby’s tire spin, dervish-like, round and round her weary mind. She doesn’t know what to do. Her entire body hurts, so much. She is confused. She left her Rapture tracts scattered on the tile floor near the checkout. She has no supplies for her husband and child. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to spend the next day or what she’s supposed to do when the time comes. And she has no radio to listen to for guidance, for instructions.

  Abby looks at the flat tire. Abby looks up. Even if she had the strength to change the tire, Abigail has no idea how. Heavenward. The deep-blue May sky offers nothing. She cannot walk home; she’d never make it. Abby scans the lot, with no idea of what she’s looking for. But something does catch her eye. Scald Mountain rises just west of Walmart. The country club is on its far side. Abigail can barely make out the green fairways crisscrossing the slopes. On the east side, closer to her, the community college takes a small chunk out of the foot of the mountain. There, in a clearing hacked out of the laurel and sumac, on a patch of cleared ground looming high above the college’s Vocational Trades building, a billboard stakes its claim.

  JUDGMENT DAY IS COMING!

  “cry mightily unto God”

  So she does. Right there in the parking lot, between the cars. Abigail lowers herself to the pavement and begins to pray. Quietly at first, her forehead pressed against the Celebrity’s front quarter-panel. Abby sees the torn paper bag near the flat tire, sees the crushed beer bottle it concealed before she ran it over. Sees the shard that penetrated her tire. The shard. The revelation makes her pray a little louder. Soon enough, in no time even, exhaustion overtakes her, and Abby lies down. The sun-warmed gritty asphalt against her cheek stinks of oil. There, lying in the Walmart lot, in front of God and all other passersby, Abigail Augenbaugh prays for all she is worth.

  ≠

  Willie? Willie?

  Someone calls my name.

  But I am alone.

  Daddy is dead on the couch.

  Mama is getting ready to go to Heaven.

  Willie? Willie?

  Maybe it’s the girl. The one who smells like vanilla pudding.

  I am wet. And cold. I am scared. I am not scared.

  The sump pump sucks and whirs in the corner. The sump pump gurgles my name.

  Willie. Willie.

  I will not answer. I will not cry.

  I am the boy. The boy will not cry.

  I go to the couch.

  I am a failure. I am a coward.

  Mama is getting ready for Heaven.

  Mama is in Heaven.

  I stand by the couch.

  I look at the dead Daddy.

  Daddy is God.

  I see the club. The mighty weapon.

  I touch it. I pick it up. The power surges through me.

  The dead Daddy is not real. The dead Daddy is fat and gray on the couch.

  I raise the club high.

  ∀

  Prays like there is no tomorrow.

  “Abby?”

  “What?” Abigail Augenbaugh answers, as if she talks to angels every day; then she suddenly remembers her manners and hides her face. Heaven smells like brake fluid and rubber.

  “Abby?”

  She doesn’t reply. Maybe it’s a trick, the Devil trying to pull one over on her. Old Scratch monkeyshines. A satanic sly pokey. What else could it be? God, in all His glory, has never answered any of Abby’s prayers so conspicuously. She doubts. She hopes. There in the parking lot, between the cars, with the cigarette butts and crumpled potato chip bags, alongside a sticky puddle of spilled red soda, Abigail lies as still death, holds tight to the breath she struggled so hard to catch, and waits for the messenger—seraph or specter—to pass, to move on down the line and find some more worthy soul to receive its gifts.

  “Abby, what the hell are you doing down there?”

  She recognizes the voice. Voices. There are two angels. “Are you from Jesus?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Are you my savior?”

  “I sure am, honey. In the right light, we’re all saviors.”

  “Hush, Mitch,” one of the angels says. “Are you all right, Abby?”

  No. But she doesn’t say it aloud. Abigail opens one eye. She recognizes the boots, too.

  “What in the wigget-fuck are you doing laying there?”

  It’s Andy. It’s Mitch. They smell like meat.

  “Resting,” Abigail says. There is some truth to her reply.

  “I thought you were dead, girlfriend,” Andy says.

  “Could’ve been killed,” Mitch adds.

  The boys help her stand, help (with an unexpected decorum) wipe the dirt from her clothes, pluck a cigarette butt from her hair, then help her sit in the Chevy’s passenger seat.

  “I’m somebody too,” Abigail says. It’s all she can think of.

  “You’ve got yourself a flat tire,” Mitch says, then shrugs. “That’s all.”

  A flat tire. It’s a situation the boys understand, a problem they know how to solve. Mitch heads into the store.

  “You got the list?” Andy calls out. Mitch waves it over his head.

  “Buy this gi
rl a drink!” Andy says. He digs through the Celebrity’s trunk for the jack, lug wrench, and spare tire.

  “You know we got fired,” Andy says. “For climbing up that stupid tank. Or maybe for showing our asses. Either works.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Abigail says.

  “Best goddamn thing that ever happened,” Andy said. “And we owe it all to you.”

  “—to hit the little girl,” Abigail says.

  “Where’s your lug wrench? It ought to be clipped right here,” Andy says, but he’s behind the open trunk. Abigail doesn’t know where here is.

  “It all went—things got all—I just need to get home,” Abby says. “I have to get ready.”

  Mitch returns with his purchases. While Andy changes the tire, Mitch tells her, excitedly, about their new business venture.

  “Jerky-Jenius!” he says. “We’ll specialize in edgy, experimental jerky recipes.”

  Mitch waves something back and forth in front of Abigail’s face. She can’t focus, can’t follow what he says. “Try it,” he says. “Banana and jalapeño. Try it.”

  Mitch eases the strip of jerky into her mouth. Abigail lacks the wherewithal to chew, so it just hangs there.

  “We got us a business plan and everything,” Mitch says.

  Everything. Mitch talks. Abigail closes her eyes, dozes. She wakes with the Celebrity bouncing each time Andy bears down on the jack to tighten the lug nuts. She wakes to the sounds of Mitch strumming the ukulele and singing.

  “Poontang little and poontang small—”

  “I have to go,” Abby says, too weakly to be heard.

  “Poontang stretches like a rubber ball,” Mitch sings loudly, and off-key.

  The bouncing car makes Abby queasy.

  “I have to get home, to get ready—for tomorrow.”

  “Oh my babe, my salty thing.”

  Between stints at the jack, Mitch and Andy take turns eating from a massive plastic jug of generic cheese puffs. Their hands are greasy, black and orange. The colors of purgatory, no doubt.

  “You’re good to go,” Andy says finally. He slams the trunk lid hard, then drums his dirty fingers across the roof. He stands at the window, smiling at Abigail.

  “Hell’s bells, girl,” Mitch says. “I just had the best idea. Why don’t you come to work for us! For Jerky-Jenius! You could be our bookkeeper and calendar girl.”

  Abigail looks at the boys. Abby wants to tell the boys about what happened in the store. About what happened last night. She doesn’t.

  “You look like shit, Abs,” Andy says, with real concern. “Go home, smoke a fatty, and get some sleep. Come on over to our house tomorrow, and we’ll discuss business.”

  Abigail watches her two angels, her liberators, her deliverers, wheelie their motorcycles through the lot. She tries to climb over the parking brake and shifter into the driver’s seat, but it hurts too much. When she gets out to circumnavigate the Celebrity, Abby sees that the boys left behind the half-empty jug of cheese puffs sitting on the roof of her car, dead center. Its oil-flecked orange contents almost glowing in the late-May afternoon. Forever thinking of her boy and her man, what they’re going to need and what they’re going to have to endure in the coming days, Abigail Augenbaugh uses an old umbrella she got at a Slinky picnic to hook the jug off the roof. She nestles the fat plastic container into the passenger seat, takes the time to secure the safety belt across it. Heads for home.

  ≠

  What choice do I have? The enemy has captured Daddy’s soul. Left behind this dirty brown bag of fat and bones. I will not cry. I will not surrender. I failed once. I will not fail again. The dead body is on the couch. Still. I have the mighty club raised high. I am ready to swing. I will bash the skull in. Knock the blind eyes from their sockets. I’ll go out in the street and crush every person I see. I’ll swing and swing my weapon until everything is dead and destroyed. My power, my bravery, in the face of the enemy will become legendary. Everybody will know my name. Everybody will talk about me. Everybody will worship at my feet. I’ll be on TV. I’ll be on the radio. What choice do I have but to remember the man on the radio? I will never be a legend. I will never be famous. The world is ending tomorrow. Nobody will ever know my name.

  Willie.

  The sump pump has learned to talk. The sump pump knows my name. It calls out to me.

  Willie.

  I wish Mama was home. I wish Mama wasn’t going to Heaven without me.

  Willie.

  I wish Daddy wasn’t dead. I wish Mama was dead instead. I wish the man on the radio was dead. I saw Mama on her knees. The man on the radio says to pray. I don’t know what pray means. I saw Mama on her knees. I put down the club. I get on my knees. The concrete is cold and hard. I saw Mama press her hands together. I press my hands together. I saw Mama move her lips. I move my lips. I want to touch him. Daddy. One last time. Before the end of the world. I reach out. I’m scared. I pull back. I move my lips. It might be praying. I lay my head down on his chest. And I feel it. And I hear it. The heart. Daddy’s heart. Beating. Softly.

  “Daddy?” I say. “Are you dead? Are you not dead?”

  He doesn’t answer, but I know right away. It’s part of his plan. And I try hard but I can’t help myself. I cry. I do. And I can’t stop. I lay my head on his chest. I listen to his heart beat, and I feel the softest breath on the back of my head. I cry. My face is covered in wet snot. Daddy’s shirt. I reach out. I put my arm around his belly. Daddy doesn’t like that. To be touched. I can’t help myself. I hug my daddy. My living daddy.

  Any minute now, he’ll wake up. He’ll come to. He’ll explain his strategy, all about how he tricked the enemy. All about how we’ll stop the Apocalypse. I’ll wait. I’ll be here, ready, when he wakes. I stop crying by the power of my mind. Maybe I sleep. I don’t know for sure. My eyes are closed, then they’re open. And she’s there. Maybe it’s Mama. Except that she’s naked and doing bad things. I close my eyes. I hold my living daddy tight. I open my eyes. She’s still there. She’s lying on her back. Even more naked. Even more disgusting. Or maybe it’s the stupid neighbor lady. No. It’s not Mama or the stupid neighbor lady and her stupid tattoo. It’s the TV. It’s a lady on the TV. She’s naked. I don’t understand what she’s doing, and all of those men. But I do. Travis told me about it. It makes me feel sick, but I can’t stop watching. Me and Travis used to watch the girls in their bathing suits. Travis taught me about camel toes. That’s what we looked for. The woman on her back has so much hair. It’s gross, but I can’t stop watching. I don’t know how long she’s been there. I don’t know how long I’ve been watching. I get up onto the couch with Daddy so I can see better. Willie. What? What are you looking at, Willie? It’s her. She’s calling my name. From the TV. She’s looking at me. I see her lips move. What are you looking at, Willie? Daddy’s not dead, I say. I know, she says. Hit him, she says. No. Want to see my thing? And I say yes. She shows me. Daddy’s not dead, she says. I know, I say. Hit him. Can I see your thing? And she shows me. I never saw one like this before. And I’m so happy Daddy isn’t dead. I wish he’d wake up. I bet he’d like to see it too. Me and Travis watched the girls. He showed me about jacking off. Don’t watch me, he said. Look at them. Eventually, I got it right. Want to see what it can do? she asks. I nod. Yes. I can’t believe the tricks she makes her thing do. I’m so happy Daddy isn’t dead. My Evel Knievel pajamas are still wet and cold. I take them off. Here’s another trick for you, she says. Travis showed me what to do. He moved away. Travis called it spooging. Travis said spooging is the best feeling in the whole world. When you spooge, everything stops, Travis said. Everything explodes. We looked for camel toes. Travis spooged. I almost did it. I almost spooged. Willie, she says, watch this. And she makes her thing whisper my name. Willie, it says, her thing whispers, and I’m pulling and pulling. Willie, it says. I watch her lips move. Whispering my name. Willie. And I’m about to do it. To spooge. Willie! She’s talking too loud. Willie! She coughs. I’m almost there. Wi
llie!

  “Willie! Get off me!”

  No. Not, what’s, no. I look at the TV. She won’t answer.

  “Willie! Get off! I can’t breathe—what in the fuck are you doing? You sick little shit!”

  I fall to the floor. I grab my pants. I run. Up the stairs. Daddy is not dead.

  “Willie! Goddamn it, Willie!”

  ∀

  Abigail Augenbaugh, clutches the half-empty jug of cheese puffs to her breast with due suffering; Jesus dragged his own cross, for the good of all mankind; the least she could do is bear the weight of this last sustenance for her family. She rounds the corner of her house in time to bear witness. But no prophecy could have prepared her for the vision of her naked son charging through the front door and into the woman he hadn’t expected to be standing on the porch. Willie bounces off the guidance counselor and falls to the stoop. The woman stumbles backwards into the arms of the police officer standing behind her.

  “Willie?” Abby says, dropping the jar. The powdery orange balls spill all over the sidewalk.

  “W-W-William!” the guidance counselor stutters as she struggles for balance.

  “Goddamn it, boy!” Burns yells, coming into view with Big Bertha raised and ready.

  Willie cowers, clutches the balled up pants to his groin.

  “I didn’t, it wasn’t, I don’t, can’t—”

  ≠

  I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what to do. I curl into a ball on the porch. I don’t know who these people are. I don’t know what to say. What to think. I curl tighter and tighter. I am the Incredible Marble Boy. I shrink, I shrink, I am a ball bearing, a steelie; I roll away. I disappear. I am gone. Nobody can catch me now.

  “Goddamn it, boy!” you shout. You go through the front door. You think you do. The world is brighter than you remember. Greener. You might be dead. Everything pulses. Throbs. Everything is loud. You might be alive.