Joy, PA

by Steven Sherrill

  ∀

  Abigail Augenbaugh, bride of Christ.

  Abigail Augenbaugh, wife of Burns.

  Abigail Augenbaugh, mother of Willie.

  Bleeds with all the devotion she can muster.

  ≠

  Kill her they said. The caterpillars told me to. Said Daddy said. I tried. I am a failure. I am a little faggot. I am a pussy boy. I run into the burning sky. I run into the last sunrise on earth. I failed. I tried. I failed. I came to the pond. I waded in. I went under. Underwater I heard them, still, hissing and burning and screaming. Kill her kill her kill her.

  But I tried. I couldn’t. I am not that big. That strong. That anything. I am only Willie. I am wet. I am hungry. I am at the bottom of the pond. I want to stay here until the Rapture has come and gone. I dig at the mud, hold tight to the roots, suck the nasty water deep into my lungs. I die. No. I don’t. I fail. I am a coward. I crawl onto the bank. I puke. My puke is green. I hear the boys with their golf clubs. I want to lie there and let them beat me to death. No. I fail. I am a pussy boy. I crawl into the bushes. I hide. I cry. Just a little. And quietly.

  I hear sirens. The sun is bright and hot. I don’t know what to do. You do know what to do. No. I close my ears, close my eyes, close my mouth. I don’t want the Rapture. I don’t want Mama to go. To Heaven. I don’t want Daddy in jail. But I am only Willie. I am Willie, only. I am hungry and too little to stop the world from ending.

  No. Kill her.

  No. I want to stop them. The tent worms. They’re in my head. They crawled into my ears. Their feet, by the tiny hundreds, scritch and scratch inside my skull. Their little black heads bump against my eardrums. Whispering whispering whispering: Kill her.

  No. Stop, I say. It’s too loud, I say.

  Where’s the knife? I say. I’m here. By your side. The whole time. The handle fits perfectly. I pull the blade from the soggy sheath. The blade is thin and bends easily. There is a fish scale stuck in the blood groove. I sit in the grass, on the bank of the pond. With the skinny blade I dig the caterpillars out of my ears, one at a time, and toss them, one by one, to the carp floating at the surface with their mouths gaping. The blood trickles from my ears, down my neck, makes a pretty necklace at my throat. My fingers are bloody. The caterpillars, bloody, squirm. The fish don’t seem to mind. They’re beautiful, the carp. Floating like fat balloons. Catching caterpillars in their open mouths. Catching the sun in their orange scales, they burn and burn. Kill her.

  What?

  I can’t hear you. What? I can’t hear. You.

  What?

  Kill her.

  No. Stop it. I can’t. You can.

  You are Willie.

  Stop. It.

  You can. Kill her. You can.

  And then.

  I smell.

  Vanilla pudding.

  And remember.

  The gospel truth.

  ∀

  “Mrs. Augenbaugh, we’re looking for your son, William.”

  Abby stands in the doorway, unclear how long she’s been there or who these people are. Maybe they’re familiar faces, maybe not. She feels naked. She checks. She’s not.

  “It’s too late,” Abby says.

  “What? Excuse me?”

  They shuffle papers. Shuffle furtive glances.

  “I need to sit down,” Abby says. And she does. There in the doorway.

  “What do you mean, It’s too late?” a woman asks.

  There’s something in her tone that Abby dislikes. She looks at all the knees. She wishes she had some tracts.

  “The Rapture,” Abby says. “Today is the day. It’s too late. For Willie. For all of you.”

  “We’re coming inside, Missus Augenbaugh, to look for your son, William. And you seem—you’re bleeding. We have to get you some help.”

  “No,” Abby says.

  They look through the whole house. Abby waits in the living room. They return. They surround her. They say a lot of things. They leave behind warnings and judgments and instructions and a whole stack of papers. They leave empty-handed.

  Abby wonders if any of her work friends will be in Heaven with her.

  “Sign here, Mr. Augenbaugh.”

  What?

  “Note the court date, and don’t forget it. Do you have a ride?”

  You’re free to go. Not to stay. They say so. They know your name. They don’t know what you are capable of. It’s not true. You are not free to go.

  “Where?” you ask.

  “Home,” they say. “Go home.”

  “I’ll walk,” you say. “I can walk. It’s not far.”

  You lie. There’s no map to anything you could call home. You want to ask for your club back, for Big Bertha, but you don’t. You feel the pills. They burn in your belly and your esophagus. But it’s good. You feel them in your head too. It’s good. The pain brings focus, clarity. It’s been a long time. You don’t know how long. You put your hand in your pocket, grip the pill bottle, make sure it’s still there. You don’t know how long.

  You sign your name. It feels almost true.

  You’ll walk home. You’ll walk all the way. You’ll walk slow, and think about stuff. It’s a new day. There’s some space in your brain. You’ll walk home, and think about stuff. When you get there, you’ll have things to say.

  ≠

  Do you smell it?

  What?

  Vanilla. Vanilla pudding.

  So?

  Now I know.

  Know?

  What to do.

  How?

  I just know.

  You are Willie.

  You are the Truth. The Gospel Truth.

  It’s the end, right?

  Yes.

  The Day of Judgment. Right?

  Yes.

  And who can stop it?

  You. Only you.

  And how do you know?

  Daddy said so.

  And who are you?

  I am Willie. I rise up, out of the muck, and follow my nose. I know what to do. I know because I know. I say so.

  You are wet and hungry. Are you sure?

  Shut up!

  Who is she?

  I don’t care.

  Why, then?

  I know what to do. Daddy told me. He told me what to do, there at the store. She’s the cause of it all, he said. Conquer that and you’ll rule the world, he said.

  Who said?

  Daddy said.

  He’s in jail. He’s dead. He’s nobody.

  Shut up! Daddy’s a hero. A war hero. He told me what to do. I’ll do what I have to do.

  You’re a pussy boy. You’re a faggot. You’re a failure.

  I am Willie, I say.

  I walk around the dumpster, and there she is. Lying in a patch of weedy grass on a Hello Kitty towel. She wears a bathing suit the color of cantaloupe, with tiny hearts, white and red. She is beautiful. Her skin is perfect. Her butterfly tattoo is perfect. Her skull toe-ring is perfect. Her camel-toe is perfect. Her eyes are closed. The lids, perfect little upturned scoops. There is a Game Boy beside her head. No. It’s a phone, with ear-buds plugged in and leading to her most perfect ears. Her foot sways to music I can’t hear. I want it. I want to go inside her beautiful head.

  Stop it, Willie.

  She can’t hear me.

  I step to the edge of her Hello Kitty towel. I look closer. There’s a robe bunched under her head for a pillow. Dirty green flip-flops peek from beneath a thick yellow book, Biology for Dummies. A bottle of Naked-Shake stands in the grass, surrounded by a baggie of celery and carrot sticks, a Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll, and a bottle of tanning lotion. The stink of vanilla clots in the back of my throat.

  Every time she breathes her perfect boobies rise up in their orange cups. I am Willie. I know what to do. I step up. I stab her. One. In the booby. The blade goes in so easily. So deep.

  “Hey!” she says. Her eyes wide. “Quit that!”

  Like I pinched her or something. She starts to sit up. I stab her a
gain. Two. In the belly. The blade almost disappears.

  She looks confused. Beautifully confused.

  “You’re that kid,” she says.

  I am Willie. I don’t want to hear her talk. I stab her again. Three. In the throat. A giant redbird unfurls its wing. Feathers brush my face. She puts her hands up to her throat. Her mouth works like she’s chewing something. Like she’s eating. She rolls from side to side. I sit on her belly. Be still. I know what to do. I stab her again. Four. She bleeds. I didn’t know there was so much. I wonder what her nipples look like, but it doesn’t seem right to peek. I stab her again. Five. Six.

  I’ll tell Daddy. Look, Daddy, I’m conquering the world.

  I keep stabbing. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Because Daddy would want me to. Because it’s what I have to do. She squirms some. Wiggles. Her eyes go in and out of focus. They’re pretty. They’re green. I almost kiss her, but then I realize it’s a trick, one of her evil ploys. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. I stab her again. I am Willie. I will not be deceived. I look up, out of her gaze, out of her spell. I see the back of the apartment building, all the little balconies. I see the windows and the sliding glass doors and all the faces of all the people there cheering me on. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Go Willie! Go Willie! Willie go! Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. I am the champion. I am the victor. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. You can do it, Willie! Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Perfect. I stop there. There’s no good reason. I hold my knife aloft; blood drips down my arm. Everybody claps and hollers. My pant legs are soaked with blood. I bounce a couple times, sitting on her slack belly. Little geysers of blood erupt from her holes. The crowd goes wild.

  I can do anything. I know the Truth, the Gospel Truth.

  Get up, I say. I can do anything. Get up; go tell them all what happened. Tell them all who rules the world.

  She doesn’t move, though. Except for twitching. And something like a hiccup.

  You’re making me mad, I say. I am Willie. I can do anything. Get up.

  But of course she can’t. I’m still sitting on her.

  I don’t move. I am hungry. I am tired. Ruling the world is hard work. I see the Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. My fingers are slick. It’s hard to tear the plastic. But I finally get it open. They taste like blood. I don’t care.

  Don’t move, I say, and she listens. I sit, triumphant, on top of the stabbed girl. I eat all her snacks. I pick up her cell phone. It’s playing music. I can’t hear it. I stand up. I look down at her. She’s perfect. Beautiful. Don’t move, I say. I want you to stay like that forever. I have an idea. I use her phone. I take the picture. I wish I could call Travis. I wish Travis could see. I ought to call somebody. I have an idea. I open her phone, tap on the screen. See Mom/Work. I call.

  “Good afternoon, Joy Area Middle School Guidance Office. May I help you?”

  “Oh,” I say. I know that voice. “I know who you are,” I say.

  Now I get it. Your mom is that lady. In the office. With the tattoo. Like yours. Now I see how the evil plot thickens.

  “Who’s this? May I help you?”

  “I am Willie,” I say. “Oh,” I say again, then, quick-thinking. “There’s a bomb.”

  “William? Where are you, William?”

  “There’s a bomb,” I say again.

  She’s not listening.

  “Where are you, William? Are you OK? Is everything OK?”

  I am a genius, I say, to the stabbed girl. Then I have another idea.

  I tap her cell phone screen another time. See Mom/Cell. I find the picture of the beautiful girl, stabbed. I press send. I lick my fingertip clean. I tap at the small keyboard.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.

  This is how many times we stab her.

  I press send. I am a genius, I say again. She doesn’t disagree. I am a mess, I say. It’s your fault, I say. She doesn’t disagree. I have an idea. I take the robe from beneath her head. Gently. It is pure and white. Spotless. Stainless. A miracle, no doubt. I put it on. The robe fits me. Perfectly. Covers me. Completely. I want to do something nice for her. I plug the earphones back into her cell. I snug them, gently, back into her ears. I wipe the knife in the grass, sheath it, hide it inside the robe. I walk. Toward home. I put my hand in the robe’s pocket. I find something there. Small. Plastic. Rectangular. I wrap my fingers around the find, pull it out, look at it there in my open palm. It’s her nametag.

  Remember what Daddy said. “Conquer that shit and you’ll rule the world. Nothing can stop you.” I did it, Daddy. We did it. Me, the boy, you, the Dark One, we conquered that shit. I can do anything. We can do anything. Anything. You’ll rise, full of life, come out of the basement, uniform spotless. Jesus will stay up in his clouds. Mama will make dinner. I did it. Just like you said to.

  Her nametag says Cheyenne, and Property of Scald Mountain Country Club.

  I am Willie, I say. Property of no one. I toss the nametag into a weedy ditch. In the distance, on the ridge of Scald Mountain, the windmills stand ready. Spin, I say, and they do. The massive blades chop the afternoon sky into brilliant blue bits. I walk down the alley toward home. I’ll walk right past the graveyard, tell the boys there to settle their bones. I’ll tell them what I did. I’ll tell them how I fixed everything. Made everything all right.

  You are Burns Augenbaugh. You are walking the streets of Joy, PA. The hills and cracked sidewalks are, mercifully, familiar. You pass the Toyota dealership. Over it the biggest flag you’ve ever seen whips in a wind you can’t feel. Sounds like machine-gun fire, but it’s not. You say it out loud: It’s just a big flag and some wind. You keep walking. You are out of breath. You rest at a bus-stop bench. You look up. You think about Scald Mountain throwing its hump against this sky for millions and millions of years, and you know you’ll make it home. For good measure, you squeeze the pill bottle in your pocket. Head down the street, toward a rented house, where you sleep on a moldy couch in the basement. You don’t own anything real. You had a wife and a son, a while ago. No. Stay clear. Hold on to the clarity. You had a wife and a son just yesterday. You have them today. Is there any reason to believe you won’t have a wife and a son tomorrow? You see the courthouse clock tower. It mindlessly claims the moments as they pass. You hear sirens. This time you know they’re not coming for you.

  ∀

  Abigail Augenbaugh fidgets. She fusses. She holds a pair of clip-on earrings up to her face, then another. She lays out a skirt and a blouse. She lays out a dress. She rifles through her underwear drawer. Modesty is key. What about makeup? she wonders. Maybe just a little lipstick. But she can’t find the old tube. Abigail wants to be ready. Abigail wants to be pretty. To be perfect. For Jesus. In Heaven, Abby expects nothing less than perfection. She paces. She looks at the clock. She looks at the clock. She looks at the clock. There are sirens in the distance. Is it the Apocalypse come early? She’s been listening, waiting. But still is caught off guard. Abigail makes an anxious little bark. She hurries. She’s leaving for Heaven today, and nothing in Joy is going to stop her. Not a broken rib. Not the deep bruise it bears to the skin’s surface. Not a stack of confusing forms. Not her raw, stinging sex. Nor the penetration. Not filth. Not memories. Not regrets. Nothing. She looks at the clock. She looks at the clock. The Rapture is hours away, and every minute yawns—eonian. The house is a shambles. She can’t let Jesus see such a mess. Abby has to decide whether to stand in the backyard or in the front yard to await the Rapture.

  ≠

  “Daddy,” I say, when I see him. “Daddy!”

  Back from the de
ad. Back to life. I did it. I brought him back. There’s nothing I can’t do.

  “It’s me, Daddy. Willie. I’m Willie.”

  He’s standing in the front yard. He’s looking down the street toward me as I approach. He’s proud. I can tell. I can feel it. My glory washes over all. Everything shines.

  “It’s me, Daddy. It’s Willie. I did it. I made it right. I did what you said. I did everything you told me to do. And now you’re back! You died. You were dead and I brought you back. You know what that means, Daddy?”

  See how happy he looks, how glad to see me. My power overwhelms him. Daddy backs up, just a little, to make room for my awesome presence.

  “Do you know, Daddy? Do you know what it means? It means I stopped the Rapture too! I listened to what you said, Daddy. I am the conqueror. I did exactly what you told me to do, and I brought you back to me, I stopped Mama from going to Heaven without us, and I stopped the world from ending. I stopped the end of the whole world, Daddy! I am Willie. I rule the world now.”

  I open the white robe of purity. I open my arms. I embrace him.

  ∀

  “Are you from the Rapture?” Abigail Augenbaugh asks.

  In rushing for the door she had missed buttons on her blouse, left a shoe behind, hurried too much with the lipstick. She’d hoped for Jesus himself, would forgive him for being early.

  “Are you from the Rapture?” she asks again, confused and disappointed by the suit-clad representatives. “Is that why you’re here? Are you with the Apocalypse?”

  “Every day is the Apocalypse for somebody, lady,” one of the two plainclothes police officers says.

  The other tells her they‘re here to arrest her son, William Augenbaugh.

  Abigail looks at them. Tries to focus. Tries to concentrate.

  “Willie?” she calls into the kitchen. “Your friends are here to play.”

  “Willie!” she calls again, even louder. The boy probably can’t hear her over the washing machine. Her husband, Burns, is in the basement doing a load of laundry. That old washing machine gets off balance easily, thumps and bumps the wall, and practically jumps across the floor.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.