Abigail Augenbaugh—worried mother; beleaguered wife; pitiful, worthless sinner—gets to her knees, plants her elbows wide on the seat of her chair, and tries to find the right words.
Then comes the knock.
≠
It is night. I am night. All the world’s darkness lives in my belly. I lie on the concrete pylon and dwell in my own pitch-black. I shiver. I eat the cold. The cold becomes a stone around my neck. I roll off into the Juniata River, sink down, drown without waking. I bob along the riverbed. I spill out into the salty bay. The black drums, the sturgeons, the stargazers, the carp and catfish—the bottom-feeders—welcome me home. No. I hear the moon roll by overhead. I hear the river surge below. I hear the thump thump thump of the earth’s wretched heart. No. What is it? A thumping full of dread. I get to my knees. I lean over, look into the water. Look upstream, and there, bumping off stones, logs, tacking in fits and starts, back and forth down the river, toward me, toward the boy, comes the fish. No. Not a fish. More than a fish. The Leviathan. Its green skin dull and hard as armor. Its eyes—big as hubcaps—stare down all comers. Its mouth gapes. Beckons. I fall. I fall in. Into the open mouth of the gigantic fish. Into its gullet. I am swallowed. I am swallowed.
∀
Then comes the knock.
Then comes the fear.
Then comes the crushing guilt. Who is she to question the will of God?
Then comes the knock.
Could it be the Lord Himself? A day early?
No. No. Please no.
The knock continues. Jinx? Sue Grebb? The Walmart security guard? What if it’s the neighbors? What if it’s the police? The knock persists. Maybe it’s Burns. Maybe it’s Willie! Willie, come home to his mama!
“Willie!” Abby says, struggling to her feet. “I’m coming, Willie!”
Abby, unstable, staggers into the doorjamb, careens into the wall, but refuses to let the pain stop her. “I’m coming, Willie!” she says. “I’m coming!”
Abigail opens the front door. “Willie!” she cries out.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the Mormon boy says. “I’m Elder Kevin, and this is Elder Brad.”
“Willie?” Abigail says. “What happened, Willie?”
“I’m Elder Kevin,” the taller boy says. “And this is Elder Brad.”
“Good evening,” the shorter boy says.
“Willie?” Abigail says, again.
They’re so clean, these two Mormon boys. And slim, and handsome. Abigail has never seen such beauty in her whole life.
“Have you heard the good news?” Elder Kevin asks.
“About Jesus Christ,” Elder Brad adds.
Their white shirts are immaculate. Goodness, peace, and contentment emanate from their clean-shaven faces.
Both boys hold Bibles in their strong, capable hands.
“OK,” Abigail says. She looks at both the boys. Looks them in the eyes, back and forth. And in their tender gaze, she feels accepted. Seen. “OK.”
Elder Kevin starts talking. Abigail doesn’t pay much attention, just watches his mouth move. A car passes. Abby, standing in the door, feels lit up by, illuminated by, the purity and the love and the white shirts.
“What do you think?” Elder Brad asks.
“What?” Abby says. She missed the question. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Speaks in parables. Abby tries to unravel the puzzle. She sees Elder Brad look at Elder David. There is something in the look that troubles her. Some shard of doubt. Some slight retreat. The Lord gives, the Lord takes.
“No,” Abigail says. Meaning Don’t stop. Meaning Come back. Meaning I want to bathe forever in your pure goodness.
“Maybe there’s a better time for us to come visit?” Elder Brad says, backing ever so slightly away.
What is it that God wants from her, in this moment? Abigail feels the threads of faith pulled taut. Give and take; offering and sacrifice.
“No,” Abigail says. Meaning There is no more time. Meaning I want you to stay.
The boys clutch their Bibles a little tighter, confer quietly. Beautifully. The boys glow, radiant in their unblemished beliefs. Abigail yearns for that glow, for something other than her own stained past.
“Maybe there’s a better time,” Elder Kevin says.
Her dirty house, her dirty husband, dirty son. Her filthy soul.
“No,” Abby says. “Jesus is coming.”
The man on the radio proclaims it. And Abigail will be the Bride of Christ, forever. She wants to be at the Wedding Feast of the Lamb. Wants to be, forever, in the arms of her Savior. What is it that the Lord is asking of her? What does He demand of His bride? Abigail searches the eyes, the faces, the bodies of the two young men. She will do whatever it takes.
“We’ll come back another day,” Elder Kevin says.
“No,” Abby says. “Jesus is coming tomorrow. Don’t go.”
And in a moment that surprises even her, Abby pulls her shirt up over her breasts, pulls her workpants and her underwear down to her knees.
“Don’t leave me,” she says.
But the two Mormon boys are already backing carefully down the stairs.
Backing away and looking straight into Abigail’s face, her pleading eyes.
“We’ll be going now,” Elder Kevin says.
Elder Brad says something about the Lord Jesus.
Elder Kevin says something about the weather.
Abigail Augenbaugh says what she means. “Will you just look at me?” she begs. “Please. Look at me.”
Abby stands on the porch, exposed, listening to the rhythmic squeak as the Mormon boys pedal away on their mountain bikes. She can hear the beautiful elders even after the night has taken them from her sight. A school bus goes by, the marching band on its way home from some event. Even in the dark Abby can see the faces pressed against the windows. Can see the huge bells of the tubas, the feathered plumes on the hats.
“Take that skank-hole back in the house and cover it up!” some kid yells.
Abigail does as she is told.
≠
Get up.
What? I open my eyes. It is not yet day. The stars rage overhead. I am cold, hungry. I am covered in bile. Where am I?
Retched up out of the belly of the whale.
Why?
Get up. Now.
What? Who said that? I stay still, my backbone fused with the concrete. Something crawls across my chest.
Get up. You know what you have to do.
Who is this? Who are you?
Who is this? Who are you?
I am a worthless little faggot. I am a pussy boy.
No. Who are you?
I am nothing. I am nobody.
No. Where is Daddy?
They took him away.
Where is Mama?
Going to Heaven.
Who are you?
I am scared. I am hungry. I am by myself.
No. Not yet. Get up. Put the river in your pocket. The railroad track is your belt.
I do as I am told.
When you walk, the earth groans. You spit tornadoes. You piss tsunamis.
I do as I am told. Millions drown.
Who are you?
I don’t know.
You are as old as salt. You are as pure as the maggot in your heart.
I don’t know.
It is time to go home.
I do as I am told. I walk the alleys. Scald Mountain trembles as I pass. The clock in the courthouse tower spins, faster and faster, backwards. Backwards. The clappers in the church bells shrivel and fall to the ground.
Who are you?
I am Willie.
What do you remember?
Everything.
You are Willie. Go home. You know what to do.
But it is cold. It is dark. I am in the churchyard. I think. A nighthawk screeches. I yank it from the sky and bite its heart out. I am lost. I say this aloud. I am lost.
You are Willie. You know what to do.
No. I don’t.
Getting ready for Heaven.
No. Where is Daddy?
In jail.
You know what to do. Daddy told you. Daddy told you everything you need to know.
A police car drives slowly down the alley; the moon reflects in the rooftop bubble lights. I dive into the bushes. Roots surge over me. Beetles crawl in and out of my mouth, my nose, my ears. It happens so fast. I look up. I can see all the way to Heaven. It’s busy up there, what with the coming Rapture and all. The man on the radio talks about God’s complicated plan. I look for God, but don’t see him. I lie still. I wait to be instructed. I am older than stone. I am older than orbits. I know everything. I wait. I wait a thousand years in the churchyard. Who am I? I am the Abomination of Desolation. I speak it.
I am Willie, I say. Aloud. I am Willie.
∀
The sleep that finds Abigail Augenbaugh is merciless. Night is a bootblack, predestinated. Night is a gyroscopic scapegoat. Night, devout as a dumbwaiter. Night sweeps over the land like a mad dowser. Night barrels over the horizon, sweeps the land like a mad dowser. And the lunatic moon, that clabbered albino, homes in on a bottomless well of fear.
Abigail dreams a vast nothingness, and falling and falling and falling. She dreams she is in the belly of Scald Mountain, and everything she has ever said, everything she has ever thought, is spelled out in bituminous black veins of coal. In Joy, PA, Abigail Augenbaugh dreams a lifetime of want and need, about to come to an end. Abigail Augenbaugh dreams the hymnbook. Sings. The sleep that finds Abigail Augenbaugh is merciful. But she is no prophet. She does not dream, she cannot dream, the day to come.
≠
I know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
Listen.
I can’t hear. I can’t hear you. Anything.
Listen.
I am. I listen. I wait. I listen. Please, I say. Come back, I say. Help me, I say.
Shhh!
Please, I say.
Listen.
Nothing.
And then, something.
Willie.
What?
Willie. Willie.
I’m here. I’m Willie.
Willie. Willie. Willie.
What, I say. Where are you? I say. Can I see you? I say.
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
Stop it, I say. It’s too loud!
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
But it doesn’t stop. Who’s calling me? Who are you? Who’s calling my name?
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
Stop! I can’t make it stop. It’s too loud. I don’t know where it comes from. It comes from everywhere. I lie in the churchyard. I cover my ears. I look up. I can’t see Heaven. I see only the nests, the tent worm clouds in all the trees. I see the black-headed caterpillars writhing inside. Then I know. It’s them. They whisper my name. All of them.
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
No, I say. Stop it, I say. I jump up. I run. I see the shed in the corner of the churchyard. I run. I go inside. They chase me with their cries. My name clicks against their worm-teeth.
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
I cover my ears, but it doesn’t help. I close the shed door, squat against the wall. Their cries eat away at the wood, at my skull. I cry. Nobody can hear. Then I smell it, the gasoline. Then I remember. What Daddy said. Daddy told you what to do. I drag the gas can out of the shed. I have a lighter in my pocket. It has boobs and a naked butt. No head. I take the lid off the gas can. I go to the trees. I splash the nests. All of them. The whole world stinks of gasoline.
Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie.
One by one, I ignite the nests of caterpillars. Each one offers a beautiful fwooomph to the night. I walk the line of trees, leave destruction in my wake. The night burns and burns. And I am triumphant. I have burned the tongue from my enemy’s mouth. Scorched the throat. Seared the larynx. The nests sizzle, crackle, pop, as the bodies of the writhing tent worms swell and explode. I am victorious.
Willie.
No.
Willie. You know what to do. Willie.
They are screaming now. Enraged. In pain. Insistent.
Willie. Willie. You know what you have to do, Willie. You know what to do. Willie.
The churchyard is ringed in fire. I close my eyes. The blaze burns through my lids. My hands are torches.
Willie. You know what to do. You know what to do.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone!
You have to do it, Willie. It’s the only way. You have to kill her, Willie.
No! No! No! No!
The only way, Willie. The only way is to kill her, Willie. You have to. Kill her. Willie.
The trees burn and whisper. Whisper and burn. The flaming caterpillars drop to the earth, passing their sentence all the way down.
You have to, kill her, Willie. Kill her Willie. Kill her, Willie.
I can’t! I can’t do that.
It’s the only way, Willie. Daddy says so. You have to kill her. Kill her, Willie. Kill her.
OK, I say. OK.
I hear sirens. I hear a door slam. I run. I know where to go.
I am Burns Augenbaugh. You say it aloud. It’s the only thing you know with any certainty, right now. You are in bed. In a hospital. You can tell this much. Your hands are cuffed to the bedrail. You don’t mind. You wonder what day it is. What month. What year. The door opens. A nurse stands there for a minute, looking in. She’s backlit. She glows like an angel. There may be wings. A halo. I am Burns Augenbaugh, you say.
≠
I am Willie. I know what to do. I go home. It is the end, Willie. The end of the world. Whole. I alone can stop it. We know what to do. No. There are sirens. In the distance. I wonder why. I go home. The streets are empty. The streets are dark. Light spills from my body. I may be on fire. The house is dark. I know why. My coming was foretold. I enter the house. The house barely contains me. I am Super Willie. I listen. I sniff. I taste the air. I puke in the corner. I know what I have to do. I puke in the other corner.
I need a weapon. I need the weapon. I go to the basement. To find Daddy’s club. With Daddy’s club, nothing can stop me. There is no club. The enemy confiscated the club. I know what I have to do. Daddy told me. The house is dark. The basement is dark. In the dark basement I find the tackle box. In the tackle box I find the fillet knife. I pull it from the leather sheath. All of Heaven is reflected in the skinny blade. I don’t question. It blinds me. This is a good weapon. This is the weapon for what I have to do. I know what to do. I slide it back into the sheath. It fits perfectly.
I know where to go.
I know the banister. I know the creak of every stair. I know the door-knob. I know the ray of moonlight cut into thin strips by the blinds. I know the blue blanket with red flowers. I know the body beneath the blanket. I know the nightgown. The one with pupp
y dogs. I know the breath in those lungs.
She lies on her back. The traitor. I know the smell of her.
Be brave.
I know. I know the feel of the knife’s handle. The hush of the blade sliding out of the sheath. I know. I am Willie.
You are Willie.
Willie holds the knife tight. In both hands. Willie can see her heart beating beneath the nightgown. Willie lowers the tip of the blade to that heart.
Be brave. Be strong. You are Willie. The Great Willie.
Willie watches her breathe. Watches her heart beat. Willie knows what to do. How to stop it. Willie knows what to do. Daddy told him. She’s breathing. Her eyes are closed. Her skin is so pale it’s almost blue. Willie hates her blue skin. Willie hates her breath. Willie hates her puppy-dog nightgown. Willie hates her heartbeat.
Who are you?
You are Willie.
Who is she?
She is a traitor. She is going to Heaven. She is leaving us behind.
Behind her closed lids the eyes flit back and forth. Willie watches.
Breath and heartbeat. He puts the knife to her chest. He pushes. But just a little bit, just enough for the tip of the blade to penetrate the thin cotton gown. Leans his weight into the moment just enough for the steel knife tip to pierce her skin.
She winces, the traitor. A tiny bark, the bark of a catfish flopping in a bucket, escapes her mouth. She does not open her eyes. But the eyeballs roll wild in their bony cups. She cries, the traitor. Willie hesitates. Watches breath and heartbeat. Watches a tear roll down her cheek. Stupid cheek. Willie hates it. Watches the blood-red moon rise between her boobs. Stupid boobs. Willie pauses.
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