Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

"Jesus, Will, you just said that—"

  "—I said that I didn’t want to go—but I've been thinking about what Dad said, about looking out for obligations before thinking about your own happiness, and he was right. And just like you, I gotta make my dad's death count for something."

  Jackson stared at him. "You sure about this?"

  "Yes. It’s the first thing I have been sure of. It's about time."

  The boy was now resigned.

  The son would become the father.

  "All right," said Jackson, swallowing back his rage and disgust.

  "I'd ... I'd really appreciate it if you'd come along, Sheriff."

  "Why's that?"

  "I think you and I have something in common. I think we both never understood what our fathers went through, and I think we've both always wanted to know."

  Jackson glanced out the window, at the factory. "I could never imagine what he must’ve ... felt like, day after day. I could never—" He blinked, looked away. "Yeah. I’d like to come along."

  They went downstairs. Will asked his mother to please help him pack his lunch pail.

  The other men seemed pleased.

  Jackson shook his head, offered his sympathy to Darlene once again, and left with Will and the others.

  7

  —someday you'll understand, boy, that a man becomes something more than part of his machine and his machine becomes something more than just the other half of a tool. They marry in a way no two people could ever know. They become each other's God. They become a greater Machine. And the Machine makes all things possible. It feeds you, clothes you, puts the roof over your head, and shows you all the mercy that the world never will.

  The Machine is family.

  It is purpose.

  It is love.

  So take its lever and feel the devotion.

  There you go, just like that.

  8

  The parking lot was deserted, save for cars driven by the midnight shift workers.

  They milled about outside the doors to the basement production cell, waiting for Jackson and Will.

  As they approached the group Will gently took Jackson by the arm and said, "I think it’d be nice if you didn't stop coming around for cards Saturday nights."

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

  They stood among the other workers. Barrel-chested Rusty smiled at Will, nodded at Jackson, and said, "We got to make sure."

  "I figured," said Jackson.

  "Sure of what?" asked Will.

  And Rusty replied: "You never actually started working with the press, did you?"

  Will sighed and shook his head. "No. The strike was called right after I clocked in." Without another word, he took off his jacket, then unbuttoned and removed his shirt, turning around.

  Rusty pulled a flashlight from his back pocket and shone the beam on Will's back.

  Several round scar-like marks speckled the young man's back, starting between his shoulder blades and continuing toward the base of his spine. Some were less than an eighth of an inch in diameter but others looked to be three times that size, pushing inward like the pink indentations left in the skin after a scab has been peeled off.

  "Damn," said Rusty. "Shift's gotta start on time."

  "Don't you think I know that?" snapped Will. "Dad used to talk about how ... oh, hell." He took a deep breath. "Better get on with it."

  Rusty pulled a small black handbook from his pocket, then turned toward the other men. "We're here tonight to welcome a new brother into our union—Will Kaylor, son of Herb. Herb was a decent man, a good friend, and one of the finest machinists it's ever been my privilege to work beside. I hope that all of us will treat his son with the same respect we gave to his father."

  The workers nodded in approval.

  Rusty flipped through the pages of his tattered union handbook until he found what he was looking for. "Sheriff," he said, offering the book to Jackson, "would you do us the honor of reading the union prayer here in the front where I marked it?"

  "It would be ... a privilege," replied Jackson, taking the book.

  Will was marched to a nearby wall, then pressed face- and chest-first against it, his bare back exposed to the night.

  "Just clench your teeth together," whispered Rusty to Will. "Close your eyes, and hold your breath. It don't hurt as much as you think."

  The other shift workers were opening their lunch pails and toolboxes, removing Philips-head screwdrivers.

  Jackson would not allow himself to turn away. His father had gone through this, as had his father before him. Jackson had been spared, but that did not ease his conscience. He wanted to know.

  He had to know.

  Rusty looked toward Jackson and gave a short, sharp nod of his head, and Jackson began to read: “’Almighty God, we, your workers, beseech Thee to guide us, that we may do the work which Thou givest us to do, in truth, in beauty, and righteousness, with singleness of heart as Thy servants and to the benefit of our fellow men.’”

  The workers gathered around Will, each choosing a scar and then, one by one, in orderly succession, plunging their screwdriver into it

  "'Though we are not poets, Lord, or visionaries, or prophets, or great-minded leaders of men, we ask that you accept our humble labour of our hands as proof of our love for You, and for our families.’”

  Blood spurted from each wound and gouted down Will's back, spattering against the asphalt.

  His scream began somewhere in the center of the earth, forcing its way up through layers of molten rock and centuries of pain, shuddered through his legs and groin, lodged in his throat for only a moment before erupting from his throat as the howl of the shift whistle growing in volume to deafen the very ears of God.

  Jackson had to shout to be heard over the din. "'We thank Thee for Thy blessing as we, Your humble workers, welcome a new brother into our ranks. May You watch over and protect him as You have always watched over and protected us. Who can be our adversary, if You are on our side? You did not even spare Your own Son, but gave him up for the sake of us all.'"

  "'And must not that gift be accompanied by the gift of all else?’” responded the workers in unison.

  “'... So we offer our gift of all else, Lord, we offer our labours for the glory of Thy name, Amen.’”

  "Amen," echoed the workers, backing away.

  "Amen," said Will, dropping to his knees, then vomiting and whimpering.

  Jackson closed the union handbook and came forward, tears in his eyes, and began to cradle Will in his arms; the boy shook his head and rose unsteadily to his feet, then began staggering toward the slowly opening basement doors—

  (here is my son

  does he have the makings of a factory man?)

  —squeaking, screeching, loud clanking, heavy machinery dragging across a cement floor—

  —the doors opened farther—

  —something long, metallic, and triple-jointed pushed through, folding around the edge. A glint as more metal thrust out and folded, seizing the door—

  —throwing sparks, the mechanical hand raked down, gripped the handle, and pulled the door wide open.

  ... doors open and the OldWorker is cast away...

  Something crumpled and man-like was tossed out over their heads and landed with a soft whumph! in the snow.

  Will turned toward Jackson. "A man works his whole life away, and what does it mean?"

  Jackson and the workers stared into the shimmering electric gaze beyond the iron doors.

  "Welcome, my son," whispered Jackson—

  —in a voice very much like his own father’s—

  "Welcome to the Machine."

  …as the production line begins again...

  9

  You'll be a worker just like me, that’s the way of it.

  Work the line, wear the smell; the son following in his father's footsteps.

  Something like this, well…it makes a man's life seem worthwhile.

  I always knew you'd do me pro
ud.

  I love you, Dad. I hope this makes up for a lot of things.

  I love you too, son.

  Best get to work.

  That’s a good boy....

  All But the Ties Eternal

  “All waits undreamed of in that region...

  Till when the ties loosen,

  All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,

  Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.”

  —Walt Whitman "Darest Thou Now O Soul"

  Afterward she spent many hours alone in the house for the purpose of making it emptier; it was a game to her, like the one she played as a child, walking on the stone wall of the garden, pretending it was a mountain ledge, not wanting to look down for the sight of rocks below, knowing certain death awaited her should she slip, a terrible fall that would crush her to squishy bits, walking along until her steps faltered and she toppled backward, always thinking in that moment before her tiny body hit the ground: So that's when I died.

  She always had laughter then, as a child, sitting ass-deep in mud and looking at the wall.

  All the house had was the hole Daddy left behind, and there was no laughter remaining.

  Yolanda stood looking at the small hole in the living room wall, wondering when it would start bleeding again. It only bled at night, at twenty minutes past twelve, the same time her father had—

  —a stirring from the bedroom. She listened for Michael's voice. He would have to wake soon, he always did whenever she got up at night. She peered into the darkness as if it would warn her when he awakened, perhaps split down the middle like a razor cut and allow some light to seep through, and in that light she would see her father's face, winking at her like he often did before letting her in on a little secret.

  He’d let her in on all his little secrets, except the one that really mattered. She found it hard not to hate him for it.

  Nothing came at her from the darkness. She turned back and stared at the hole. It was so tiny, so silent.

  The digital clock blinked: 12:19.

  She took a breath and watched as the numbers changed—

  —then looked at the hole.

  It always began slowly, like a trickle of water dripping from a faucet not turned completely off: one bulging droplet crept to the edge and glistened, almost wiggling the same teasing, impatient way a child does before pulling a harmless prank, then it fell through and slid down the wall, dark as ink.

  She watched the thin stream crawl to the floor, leaving its slender-thread path for the others to follow. And follow they did.

  Pulsing out in streams heavier and thicker, they spread across the wall in every direction as if from the guts of a spider until she was staring into the center of a web, admiring patterns made by the small lines where they dripped into one another like the colors of a summertime ice-cream cone. Strawberry; vanilla.

  A soft groan from the bedroom, then: “Yolanda? Where are you?”

  She looked once more at the dark, shimmering web, then went to the bedroom where Michael was waiting.

  He saw her and smiled. She was still naked.

  “Where were you? Come back to bed.”

  "No," she said. "I want you to come into the living room and see it for yourself."

  "See what for my—? Oh, yeah. Right."

  “Please?”

  He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “Look, Yolanda, I've been telling you for days—you've got to get out of this house! Your father's dead and there's nothing you can do about it. You've got no reason to stay here. The sooner you get over this, the sooner you can get on with your life."

  "I thought you left the social work at the office."

  "I only mean that—"

  "Goddammit, stop patronizing me, Michael! Get your ass up and come look at this!"

  The anger in her voice made him do as he was told.

  As they entered the living room, she saw the last of the web slip into the hole and thought of the funny way her father used to suck in the last string of spaghetti.

  As the last of the streams pulled back into the hole, she gripped Michael's arm and pointed. "Did you see it? Did you?"

  He placed his other arm around her bare, sweaty shoulder, pulling her close. "Take it easy, Yolanda. Look, it's been a rotten time for you, I know that. It's why I came over and—"

  "I didn't ask you to come over!"

  "I know, but, Jesus, you haven't even so much as called for ten days! I figured you'd need a little time to yourself, but I never thought you'd start to... to..."

  She pulled back and slapped away his arm. "Don't you dare talk to me like that! I am not one of your screwed-up runaway teenagers who just needs a shoulder to whine on!"

  "I was only—"

  "I know what you were only, thank you. I'm not one of your fragile children who might shatter if pushed a little, and I am not imagining things." She crossed to the hole and stuck the tip of her middle finger in, feeling the moisture. She pulled it out and felt the trace of a smile cross her lips: there was a small droplet of blood perched between her nail and the flesh of the quick. She faced Michael and offered her evidence.

  "Look for yourself. Blood."

  He lifted her hand closer to his face, squinted, then turned on a small table lamp.

  For a moment she saw him hesitate.

  There was, indeed, blood on her fingertip. He stared at it, then brushed it away. "You cut your finger on the plaster."

  "I most certainly did not."

  "You did," he said. "Look." He lifted her hand; she saw the small gash in her fingertip.

  Something pinched in her stomach. Her eyes blinked. Her arms began to shake. She swore she wouldn't start crying.

  Making no attempt to touch her, Michael said, "If you insist on staying here, why don't you just fix the hole?"

  She took a breath and wiped something from her eye. "It's not that big. It's just not...that big."

  "You must be joking, right?"

  She stared at him.

  "It's not that big?" he said. "Christ, honey, I could stick a pool cue in that thing." He pointed and she followed with her gaze—

  —remembering she'd only been able to press her fingertip against the hole before, never inside it, never—

  But Michael was right.

  The hole was bigger. Not much, less than a quarter inch in circumference, but bigger.

  Her voice came out a whisper when she said: "I remember thinking it should have been bigger. I mean, he used a bullet with a hollow point, right? He sat in his favorite chair, put the gun in his mouth and...and the hole was so small. The sound was so loud. It was like the whole ceiling turned into thunder. I was in my bed, I heard Dad mutter to himself, and then..." She took a small breath. “Then it was over and the sound stopped ringing in my ears and I...came out here."

  She stared at the hole. "I didn't look at him. I looked at the hole. It was all I could see. It looked like a mouth. It was...eating everything."

  She stood hugging herself, transfixed. “The blood, the tiny pieces of his skull and brain, the hole pulled them in. It was like watching dirty dish water go down a drain. It all swirled around the hole, got closer and closer till there should have been nothing left—but it was still there on the wall, his blood and brains, all the pieces were still there and—"

  "Yolanda, c'mon—"

  "...wanna know why he did it, Michael, if I did something to upset him—but I don't think I did. I loved him so much, but that wasn't enough. I guess he missed Mom too much. I told him it wasn't our fault that she walked out, that she didn't love us back. He didn't ask me for much, he never did, he always gave, and I wish he had...I wish he would've asked me for help, said something, because he was always there for me and when he needed someone I was...was—"

  "You need rest."

  She felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn't care.

  "...I just want him back! I want my father back, all right, and all I've got is this fucking hole that t
ook him away from me. It sucked him in, left me alone, and it's...not...fair!"

  She buried her face in her hands and wept, feeling the fury and sorrow mix, feeling a bellyful of night making her shudder and she hated it, wanted to destroy it.

  Before she knew it she was against the wall, pounding with her fists, feeling the force of her blows ripple through her arms like electric shocks but she didn't care, she kept pounding as if Dad would hear her and call out from the other side.

  Then Michael was behind her, his arms around her, easing her away; she didn't want him to, so she whirled around to slap his face, lost her balance, suddenly falling from the garden wall again, her arms flailing to protect her from the rocks below as she fell against the wall—

  —and saw the hole swallow four of her fingers.

  It was still getting bigger.

  Michael was all over her, picking her up like she was some goddamned helpless pathetic frail child. She swatted at his face because he wasn't looking at the hole, he didn't see the small globule of blood peek over the edge as if saying wait until next time...

  Once in bed, she fell immediately asleep.

  Then woke, Michael at her side.

  Then slept. And woke. And slept.

  And woke—

  Daddy was there, just between the beams of moonlight that slipped through the window blinds, smiling at her, his mouth growing wide as he stepped closer to the bed, whispering It's the family comes first, you and me, that's all, honey, because family ties are the most important ones, then he was bending low, his mouth opening into a pit, so wide and deep, sucking her in—

  She slept—

  No sense to her dreams, no rhythm to the words spoken to her there by figures she didn't recognize, moving slowly past her like people on the street; no purpose, no love , no reason, empty here, this place, yet so full of people and place and time going somewhere but she couldn't tell, wouldn't tell—

  And woke—

  —massaging her shoulders, Michael was massaging her shoulders, his hands strong, warm, and comforting, his voice close and tender, "I'm not going anywhere, baby, I love you, just sleep, shhh, yeah, that's it," like talking to a frightened child; she loved him but when would he start treating her like an adult?