Zombie

by J. R. Angelella

  The jocks apologize, their cheeks flushed red.

  “What drives a man to allow himself to be hit repeatedly without question?”

  The football jock says, “It’s a game, sir.”

  “And how does one win a game like this?” he asks.

  The soccer jock says, “It’s called Deadarm. It goes until someone quits.”

  “Because they have a dead arm,” Mr. Rembrandt says. “Yes. I see.” He clears his throat and leans forward into my peripheral vision. “Have you ever played such a game, Mr. Barker?”

  I can hear the computer geek behind me, still reciting the script to himself. There are no other teachers in sight and no one else who witnessed the jocks playing Deadarm. Words flee. He knows I’ve seen it. It’s the only explanation. Like a gift from God, the line shifts forward again, this time at a good clip, and funnels through the double-doors and into the lobby of the lecture hall and when I finally turn around, ready to retaliate, though I’m not sure with what, Mr. Rembrandt is gone.

  Oh, absurdity of absurdities.

  40

  The lecture hall is empty except for a few priests spread out, each in close conversation with a student. Priests make the Sign of the Cross. They bow their heads. They close their eyes. Some hold necklaces with big beads. Some hold their hands together in their laps. Sometimes they smile. Sometimes they nod, either in recognition or simply feigned understanding. They dispense penance like Pez—penance, a flashy word for punishment—some mutant alien shit.

  Kids exit though the art studio behind the lecture hall, otherwise known as the penance palace. There, kids kneel. They recite different prayers, numerous times, like they’re memorizing lines in a play, repeating their way back into Heaven. There is a teacher monitoring the art studio/prayer palace, but not really monitoring. I can see kids quietly fucking around from the lecture hall, slapping each other in the middle of the back with open hands. Fucktards.

  A priest in the front row motions to me—a pencil-thin priest with a neck beard and a messy mop of black hair. He’s a young guy, maybe a few years older than Jackson, and looks like if it weren’t for a standard all black uniform, he’d be a hopeless mess. He’s definitely more of a nerdy, virginal version of Jackson without any muscle and with a white collar. He sits in his chair the way the broom leans against the wall of our kitchen—stiff and patient.

  I fumble in my pocket for my script but decide I don’t need it thanks to the neurotic computer geek still mumbling behind me.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It has been forever since my last confession.”

  “Jeremy Barker?” he asks.

  How the fuck does he know my name? I could hit the door in seconds and be out of the foyer and at the circle, before anyone has a chance to stop me.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he says. “You were at our auditions for the play, but didn’t audition. I’m Father Vincent Gibbs, faculty advisor to the drama department with Mr. Rembrandt.” This is the first time in a while when I haven’t shook hands with someone after an introduction. “I’m sorry if he embarrassed you the other day.” He rolls his eyes. “You know how he can be—loves any opportunity to get bent out of shape.”

  “I really don’t know much about him, other than his … you know.” I wiggle my pinkies.

  “Oh my goodness.” He slaps his cheeks. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Only rumors.”

  “Can you tell me one?” Father leans forward to listen. “No. Of course you can’t. Don’t tell me.” He closes his eyes and leans back into his seat, but that smile can’t be drowned and it comes bobbing back to the surface. “Well, maybe you can tell me just one rumor.”

  It’s harmless fun to be gossiping with Father Vincent, but I want to try and be normal, like the other students here confessing sins. I reboot and try again. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It really has been forever since my last confession. This is my very first time.”

  “You are an earnest, young man. I apologize for my behavior. Continue, please.”

  The Reconciliation script fades from my memory. I’ve been so busy and excited and nervous preparing for this important and bizarre Catholic rite that I never sketched a backup plan. Right now, I need a backup plan.

  “I’m listening, my son.”

  I can’t believe the simple call-and-response language has completely disappeared. I run through the recent alleyways of my mind, through the cafe, and Mykel and Jimmy Two, but I can only think of one thing worth discussing. My nightmare comes screaming out.

  “My dad disappears at night,” I say.

  “Where does he go?” Father Vincent’s voice is soft, but serious.

  “We watch zombie movies together every night with dinner. I fall asleep and when I wake up he’s gone. He doesn’t return until morning when he takes me to school. Brings me here.”

  “What has your mother done about it? What does she say?”

  A response fires before I can censor myself. “My mother is dead,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Have you ever asked him point blank? Dad, where do you go at night? Because it’s possible there’s a simple explanation for all of this. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe he’s protecting you from something.”

  I mentally step outside of this conversation to test the strength and weight of my fears, but they are not enough to scare me away from continuing.

  “I found a homemade video in his office. The word sublimation was written on the disc.”

  “What a word. My goodness.” Father rubs his head. “I’m not confident I fully understand what it means.”

  “It means two things, Father.” I extend one finger on my hand. “It refers to a chemical process where an object in a solid state transforms into a gas state, but does so by skipping the liquid state completely.”

  “Do you mean phase—skipping the liquid phase completely?”

  “No. It’s state. They are states of being. That’s the whole point—sublimation is the phase or lack of phases between the states.”

  “This is bizarre. I had no idea such a thing existed.” He rubs his temples, like a headache appeared. “That definition still doesn’t help much in the way of explaining things at all, does it?”

  “The second is just as odd. It had to do with impulse control.”

  “You mean, like, an addiction? Someone’s an addict and works on sublimation, controlling their impulses.”

  “Not exactly. It’s is when a person channels their negative and unacceptable impulses into activities deemed more socially acceptable.”

  “I see,” he says, but I don’t think he does.

  “The socially acceptable activity is supposed to force a change for the good.”

  “Have you seen what is on the disc yet?”

  “There was a man strapped to a bed and the bed was on a stage. Other men watched as two doctors prepped the man for some kind of black market surgery.”

  “Jeremy, I don’t know what to say.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening to us. “I’m sorry. I don’t. I’m at a loss.” Father pats his pockets, looking for something. “You said you and your father like to watch zombie movies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lucky for you, that’s something we have in common.”

  “That’s not sacrilegious for a priest?” I ask. “To watch zombie movies?”

  “Zombies have more in common with Catholics than people care to admit.” He stops patting his pockets.

  “What’s your favorite zombie movie?” I ask him.

  Father Vincent’s smile resurfaces.

  “Hands down, no contest? Night of the Living Dead,” he says.

  “I have the original Night movie poster on the ceiling of my bedroom. The black-and-white poster of the little girl zombie.”

  “Zombies represent our greatest fears. Humans must seek salvation in order to survive. This is not all that different from what Catholics believe in.”
<
br />   “Father, I’m going to be honest with you, as much as I love zombie movies, I don’t see how any of this has to do with me or my father.”

  “The Greatest Story Ever Told,” he says. “It’s the life of Jesus Christ—crucified, died, and buried. He rose from the grave three days after his death and ascended into Heaven to save us from our sins. Basic Catholicism 101. This death and resurrection is also the Catholic holiday of Easter. That’s why sometimes people refer to it as Happy Zombie Jesus Day.”

  “Jesus was a zombie?” This priest has to be off his meds, like me.

  “I believe that Jesus was the second zombie known to mankind. But if you watch The Greatest Story Ever Told, you will meet Lazarus and Lazarus was zombie number one. Lazarus was dead for four days until Jesus brought him back to life.”

  “Raised him from the dead?” I’d never thought about Jesus in those terms before, as a zombie, and the whole undead connection. “What you’re saying makes a lot of sense. There are a lot of similarities, and I see what you’re trying to do—get me to see things from a more Christian perspective and all. What it comes down to for me are my five simple codes to survive the Zombie Apocalypse.”

  “Codes?” A moment of recognition crosses his face as he repats his pocket, this time inside his sport coat. “Bingo,” he says and pulls out a little pencil and a tiny booklet and scribbles a note on the blank pages. The cover has contrasting splotches of color, like a sunset maybe, or sunrise, I’m not sure. “Are they similar to commandments?” He lifts his booklet. “I’m intrigued by your idea of codes and want to make a note of them.”

  “No. They’re Zombie Survival Codes. Nothing like commandments.” I stand before this continues any further.

  “You said you couldn’t see how all of this Catholic and zombie talk could help you or your dad. If you listened to nothing else I’ve said, then listen to this—no matter how far gone you believe a person to be, there’s always the possibility of a miracle to bring them back to life.”

  “The possibility of a miracle,” I say.

  Father Vincent makes the Sign of the Cross and absolves me of my sins, even though I didn’t confess shit and didn’t ask to be saved.

  “Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?” he asks.

  “I do,” I say.

  “For your penance, I want you to say the Lord’s Prayer three times. Once for your mother, once for your father, and once for yourself. And maybe sometime you can stop by the chapel and tell me all about your codes.” He closes his booklet and slips it back inside his pocket. I don’t know for sure what he wrote in that book, but my gut tells me he wanted to know my codes and that book won’t let him forget.

  “No problem,” I say. “My mother used to say the Lord’s Prayer all the time.” This isn’t a complete lie. She used to say it right before she took a fistful of pills. Mom doesn’t say the Lord’s Prayer anymore. Now she takes her pills with a smile.

  41

  I walk to the back of the lecture hall. Brother Fred waves me into the penance studio. He whispers that we are on a time budget and I have absolutely no idea what that phrase even means. Kids kneel at metal folding chairs, hands at their heads, eyes closed, mouthing prayers. I kneel and accidentally knock the leg of a chair against another, which makes an unflattering clang.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Brother Fred says. “You were all just forgiven your sins. I will send you back to do it again. There is to be no dorking in here. Understood?”

  I pretend to say the Lord’s Prayer because I don’t care enough to say it for real.

  The other kids around me do the same.

  Two baseball players finish praying at the same time.

  When Brother Fred turns his back, one player pretends to strangle the other, gripping hands around the other’s neck.

  The kid getting choked flails his arms.

  A debate club kid laughs, and snot shoots out his nose.

  Baseball players laugh at the dangling snot.

  Brother Fred snaps his fingers on both hands like he’s firing a six-shooter.

  A kid across from me with a Limp Dick knot, the band kid with all the acne, who made fun of my shoes and called me Pocahontas, he finishes his penance and opens his eyes. He smiles at me with crooked teeth and says, “You are such a fucking dork.”

  42

  I wait in the lobby of the theater after school under the giant green plant between the lecture hall and theater doors, right where we lined up for Reconciliation only a few hours ago. It didn’t smell like Lysol earlier today, but it does right now.

  Students float through to the theater in mixed gender groups. Prudence girls are in the house. Mykel sniffs through too, slapping me five as he passes by, chasing skirt. I expect to see Brother Lee pop up like the badass, Christian Brother ninja that he is. Father Vincent stops outside the theater and waits for the others to enter, before asking me if everything is okay?

  “Planet Terror,” I say.

  “Never seen it,” he says. “Good zombies?”

  “A girl gets her leg amputated and a Minigun attached instead.”

  “Consider it on my list,” he says. “And The Greatest Story Ever Told?”

  “You say early zombies. I say old and crappy Catholic movie,” I say. “But I’ll watch it.”

  “It’s all that I ask.” He gives me that smile and continues into the theater.

  After my proclamation to her the other day, I haven’t seen Aimee White on campus. But she is the assistant director of the play and has to be here. Then at last the double doors swing open and she walks in wearing her school uniform—white blouse, plaid skirt, sexy. She holds a thick, black binder in her hands and writes on a pad of paper, taking cute little diligent notes, I’m sure. The doors close behind her and I see him, dictating to her, lecturing about Nora’s motivation and Torvald’s mistakes as a husband and Krogstad’s manipulation.

  They reach the door to the theater and both stop walking.

  Aimee stops taking notes. She doesn’t smile when she sees me.

  Mr. Rembrandt doesn’t stop lecturing about subtext and emotional commitment. He does smile when he sees me.

  I open the door for them and they pass through—first him, then her—and as they pass through and the door closes and I leave the lobby, I fantasize about Tricia, reading one of her magazines, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, her hair tied up in a ponytail.

  43

  Dad picks me up after school. I don’t know right away if he’s here for me or for Rembrandt, but Dad blasts his horn until I come over to the car so by process of elimination I figure it out. It seems he’s here for me. I wonder if Dad is gay and dating Rembrandt. It doesn’t explain the video or books but makes more sense than anything else I’ve come up with. We pull around the circle and see football players killing and soccer players chasing each other, all for a ball. I can’t see O’Bannon or Volkavich, but I know they’re out there.

  Dad hits the highway and exits off of 83 South, speeding onto the cobblestone streets of Fell’s Point on our way to visit Jackson. Cobblestone paves the streets just off the Chesapeake Bay. Crumpled tinfoil potato chip bags surf the choppy water in the harbor. Beer bottles bob and eventually drown to the bottom of the bay. Chipped red bricks line the sidewalks. We pass a video store called Rick’s Flicks and a coffee shop called the Daily Grind—the one where Mykel is holding his art show tomorrow night—and an abandoned police station. Birds flock in and out of the station’s broken glass windows, perching on ledges, nesting in nooks.

  I look between buildings to see if I can see Mom’s building across the bay and I sure as shit can—The Prince Edward peering past the Inner Harbor from Federal Hill.

  Dad rolls through a stop sign. A younger crowd inhabits Fell’s Point. Yuppies. Sport coats. All types of knots. Short and long skirts. Couples arm in arm. Cell phone talkers and dog walkers. Fell’s Point used to be run by drug dealers, junkies, and whores, but it’s all cleaned up now. That’s what Dad says anyway. Dad s
ays Baltimore moved the bad element back to their own streets. When Dad says bad element, he means black people. Obviously.

  “Does Jackson’s new apartment have a bathroom?” I ask.

  “I’m sure it does,” he says, loosening his Windsor knot from around his neck.

  “The last one didn’t.”

  “I’m sure it did.” Dad approaches a red light, but doesn’t brake. It turns green at the last second, like Dad changed it with some kind of mental power. “How was school today?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Just fine?”

  “Okay.”

  “Was it fine or okay?” he asks.

  “My day was good,” I say. This is what Dad calls executing decisiveness. I want to tell him about confession and Jimmy Two getting dorked. I want to tell him about Father Vincent and Zombie Jesus Day and Lazarus. But I don’t. Fuck it. Honestly, I want to ask him where the fuck he goes at night. I want to ask him about that fucking DVD. Instead, I just say, “My day was good. It was good, good, good.”

  “Good is better than bad, I suppose,” he says as he parallel parks in front of Jackson’s red brick building. “One handed parking. Yeah.” Dad spins the wheel with one hand, the other behind my head on the car seat, eyeballing the open space.

  “Shouldn’t you be using two hands?”

  “Women parallel park with two hands.”

  “You’re going to hit the curb,” I say, peering out the window.

  “You shouldn’t doubt your father.” Dad parks perfectly alongside the curb, tight between two cars. “You should trust your father.” He feeds the meter as I shadow box behind him, watching the shadow version of myself dance across the sidewalk.

  I am Jeremy “The Hero” Barker. The unsung heavyweight hero of the world. Only thing missing is an aluminum fucking bat.

  44

  The wood stairs in Jackson’s building creak at every step. A thick banister wobbles. There are two apartments facing each other on Jackson’s floor—3A and 3B.