I Will Rise

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  My mood plummets.

  Goddamn I am so stupid.

  Where in the fuck is Annabelle? I’m starting to rethink that maybe she doesn’t exist. Maybe my decaying brain has made her up and I can’t remember how to bring her back. I mean, if she is a figment of my fucked-up imagination, the least my fucked-up imagination could do is bring her back and maintain the integrity of this fantasy. Henceforth the crude descriptor: fucked up. I am fucked up. Everything is fucked up. Reality is a fucked-up wave of inconsistencies and futile yearnings.

  I am fucked up.

  Eddie breaks the sweet silence and pulls me from my collapsing thoughts.

  “Where are we going, Charles?”

  “I don’t know, Ed.” Might as well be honest.

  “Eddie. Not Ed. Eddie, remember?”

  Anger blossoms. I want him to shut his little mouth. I feel like shit and don’t particular want to talk. I snap back, “I remember, Ed, and I don’t know where we are going.”

  He lets it go. “I apologize for some of the things I said back at the restaurant. I just really need to be here,” he says quietly.

  “Where?” Monotone. Fucking with him for the hell of it. Am I tired? I haven’t slept, but do I even need sleep? I feel so apathetic. Eddie’s voice is like a gnat obnoxiously hovering around my ears.

  “Here, with you, away from the rest of the world.”

  “I’m no different than the rest of the world.”

  “Yes you are, you’re just moody and agitated right now.” His little face lights up with an idea or a thought or something. “You’re lost? Tell me where we are supposed to be going and I will tell you how to get there. I’ve memorized tons of road atlases.”

  He is trying to cheer me up, his voice has gone sugary and his little eyebrows go up and down in overexaggerated, cute-kid arcs as he speaks. And you know what? Smack my face and call me a sucker, but believe it or not it’s working. I have little experience with kids and given my stormy disposition didn’t think I would like them much, but go figure, as it turns out I’m a kid person and Eddie Lee Wiggins is about the most adorable five-year-old this world has ever produced. I really want to pursue my bad mood, ride it into anger and tell him we aren’t going anywhere, crush the goodwill in his voice and say that where I am going isn’t any of his business, but instead the pleasantness infects me and I lighten up.

  “I think we are going to Arizona.”

  “Easy. Stay on I-80 East. In about forty-five miles look for the ramp toward Fernley, Fallon, Ely and Great Basin National Park, then make a slight right onto NV-343…”

  “It’s probably best if you tell me as we go.” The only thing I can remember is his first command—stay on I-80 East.

  “No problem, Charles!” Eddie is jazzed. He kind of reminds me of that little dog that follows around the big dog in those goofy commercials.

  By the way, did I mention I live (lived) in a small town just outside of San Francisco? I suppose it doesn’t matter and in supposing it doesn’t matter, I suppose the name of the small town doesn’t matter either. Whatever. Regardless, at this very moment (for you geography buffs), we are nearing Reno, Nevada. I don’t know how I got here. My strategy thus far has been to point the car east and drive, but with Eddie along as navigator this may work out fine. “Just be sure to remind me as the interchanges come up,” I shout back at him.

  “Right, I’ll navigate!” The chance to help, to be a part of my nightmare, what must seem like a grand adventure to him, sends beams of radiant delight from his twinkling eyes.

  “Navigator it is!” I egg him on in a playful voice.

  And happy as a hound digging through a graveyard, he’s off:

  “I have read a little about navigators. They are essentially the backbone of most military operations. They are full-fledged members of the crew and they make use of highly specialized computer systems to carry out their task and may be appointed as operational commanders of the aircraft and must be able to make quick decisions. Electronic warfare is an integral part of the navigator’s task. The career of the navigator consists of three areas; namely the assault/reconnaissance navigator, the maritime navigator, and the airborne navigator.” Eddie pauses and takes a breath. His eyes roll up into his head, his lips move as if he is reading and then the eyes drop back down. He continues:

  “The main task of assault navigators is to trace hostile targets, such as hostile aeroplanes, runways, tanks and convoys so that they can be destroyed. They make use of, among others, the Cheetah-D fighter aircraft …” He comes to an abrupt halt and then says, “Charles?”

  “Yeah?”

  Eddie drops the navigator stories for a minute and switches gears. “We have to get another car. They’ll find us if we keep this one.”

  “I know. I’m trying to work it out in my head.”

  “Good, just so long as you know. As your navigator I have to advise you that I can feel my mom. She’s got the police looking for me, but don’t worry, I am good with cars. I’ve studied mechanics intensively so if you need help, I am positive I can hot-wire one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” And he is off yet again, “Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, navigators. Maritime navigators specialize in air operations, which are carried out over the sea. The maritime force protects and…”

  From navigator job descriptions to just about any other topic imaginable, Eddie’s words careen wildly. He truly is a battery of knowledge. For forty-five minutes he goes on and surprisingly for forty-five minutes he has me listening. Driving about aimlessly doesn’t seem so bad, what with a talking encyclopedia burning time.

  Here is what I learn:

  I learn that Eddie hates television. He thinks it’s too easy and that it is directly responsible for making America lazy. He does admit to liking one particular show, some superhero cartoon silliness, but he quickly assures me it is a guilty pleasure watched very infrequently.

  I learn that it is insulting to think, even for a millisecond, that aliens had any part in developing ancient Egyptian architecture, in particular the pyramids. To do so is to disrespect black culture by inferring that native Egyptians didn’t possess the cognitive dissonance to design and construct a few “simple geometric temples.”

  I learn that Eddie dislikes sweets of any kind, save for chocolate milk and pancake syrup, as evidenced by breakfast at Denny’s.

  I learn that males have a pronounced occipital crest.

  I learn that Eddie understands sex, its purpose, its “critical reproductive qualities,” and he understands that hormones will infect his body sometime in the next ten years, but he has yet to understand how these hormones will make him feel, or rather he understands how they will make him feel, he just has no way in which to conceive how these feelings will feel. Right now, the whole concept makes him feel “icky and nauseated.”

  I learn that Eddie’s two biggest fears are the threat of chemical and biological warfare and upside-down roller coasters.

  I learn that Eddie is afraid of his stepfather and he tries to act dumb, or “normal,” around him.

  I learn that Eddie loves his mother, even though she has made “every wrong choice a young woman can make.”

  I learn that it is one of Eddie’s goals to be a writer and have a book published before he hits the double digits.

  I learn how many ball bearings are in the average mountain bike (already I have forgotten).

  I learn that Eddie loves to spin. When things get to be too much, he just cuts loose. Grinning from ear to ear he tells me, “When you get down, just close your eyes, throw out your arms and spin. It really clears the head.”

  I learn that the human body only needs five hours of sleep to function at optimum levels and that the standard eight-hour theory reinforces Eddie’s vision of a lazy America.

  I learn that once we are past infancy, we aren’t meant to drink milk.

  I learn that Sylvia Plath’s only novel The Bell Jar is a work of pure perfection and as he sa
ys this I think what is a five-year-old, genius or not, doing reading a book like that?

  I learn that Tolstoy’s War and Peace is right up there with The Bell Jar and as he says this I don’t even know what to make of it.

  Does Eddie being a genius mean he can actually grasp complex, emotional concepts like those presented in Plath’s or Tolstoy’s books? I can understand his little enhanced mind memorizing phone books and history books and the technical manuals for cars or computers, but does he actually get the significance of literature? Maybe. He is pretty sharp. But I can’t help thinking he is flossing. No that he hasn’t read those books, I’m sure he has. I’m sure he’s memorized every word, just like he has committed the yellow pages to memory, but something tells me he hasn’t taken them to heart. He can’t. Not at five years in, no matter how much you read or how kick-ass your brain is. Something inside tells me he is showing off.

  Regardless, I like Eddie. He’s a good kid and a lot more interesting than any adult I have ever met. What’s more, he likes me. Finally, someone who likes me, not only likes me, but respects me. We have a lot in common. We both distrust humanity as a whole. Eddie can actually get inside people and see firsthand how fake they are and although I don’t have ESP, I can see it behind their eyes. We both just want to fit in and want to see acceptance in those human brains and behind those deceptive eyes.

  As much as I like Eddie, enough chatter is enough and after a while his ramblings cause my brain to glaze over. I continue to address him in the rearview mirror, feigning interest just like every other untrustworthy human in our lives, and even though I can’t actually hear him anymore—just a rhythmic murmuring of sound pumping from the backseat—there is still a connection, a deep communing that transcends words and finds its home in the eyes. Our eyes seem to understand each other. Trust. Feeling guilty about not really listening, feeling that trusting eyes are not enough, I blink a couple times and try to come back around to paying attention, and I give him a little of the respect he deserves. But before I have the chance to focus, a red glare beckons from the corner of my right socket.

  Annabelle.

  “What’s up, Charlie?”

  Excitement washes over me.

  Finally. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, looking better than ever, is my death guide—the one, the only, Annabelle. She is wearing the requisite bondage pants and baby tee. No slogan this time, just thin white material and the strong outline of her bra showing through. Her hair has darkened to a plum color, but the sun shines off it in severe red bursts and it looks almost as if a red halo circumvents her head.

  “Annabelle,” I exclaim with relief.

  The Eddie-isms cease. “What, Charles?” he asks from the backseat.

  “Nothing,” I mumble, but reconsider: maybe he can see her or feel her what with his superbrain. “You can’t see her?” I ask.

  “Of course he can’t,” Annabelle snickers.

  “See who?” comes the reply from the backseat.

  “Nothing,” I shout back at Eddie. “You were saying?”

  And he’s off, bringing his dirge back around to the noble navigator without skipping a beat.

  “Who’s the kid?” Annabelle gestures with her thumb. I look at her and make eyes indicating I can’t talk in front of him. Her mouth stretches from ear to ear and I am mesmerized by that glorious smile.

  “You don’t have to talk out loud, you doofus. Use your mind.” Annabelle taps her forehead.

  Instead of speaking I think, “Where have you been?”

  “It is a long story.” Annabelle makes a sour face. “Some other time perhaps.” She takes a little breath. “Anyway, it’s good to see you on your way. I was worried I’d find you in jail.”

  I think, “I can’t believe this is working.”

  “What? Not talking? Pretty cool, huh? So, what’s up with Chatty Cathy back there?”

  The endless story drones on. I meet Eddie’s eyes in the rearview mirror and give him an encouraging smile. He smiles back and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Charles?” Annabelle gives me impatient eyes.

  “Right,” I speak aloud and then catch myself. With my mind. Fortunately the word slipped at an appropriate time, as though I am engaged in Eddie’s speech. “Right,” with only my brain this time, “that’s Eddie. He’s a genius.”

  “Great, but what I meant, Charles, is why is he with you?”

  Do I detect a bit of attitude? I lower my eyebrows and muster up a deadpan mental voice, “He came with the car.”

  “Funny. Look, Charles, this isn’t a fucking game!” Annabelle is pissed.

  She’s very attractive when she’s angry. Attractive? What is happening to me? “I know,” I think back. “In any case, it’s a long story.”

  “Well, we both know we don’t have time for those. Pull over.”

  “What?”

  “Pull over. We gotta get rid of him.” She gives me a serious stare.

  There is no way I am leaving Eddie in the middle of nowhere. Even when I wanted to ditch him, I couldn’t do it, and now that I like his company, now that he’s almost a friend, I wouldn’t even fathom such a thing. Instead of explaining all of this to Annabelle I just say, er, think, “No way.”

  Annabelle lets out a long sigh. “He’s going to die anyway. Do you want to see that? Obviously you’ve grown somewhat attached, but this isn’t a pet we’re talking about, Charles. This is a little boy, and believe me, he is going to die.”

  “He’s fine. I won’t let him die.”

  “Have you forgotten what this is all about? Do you even remember why you are here? They are all going to die and we are going to kill them. I don’t know if this kid is humanity imposing a line of defense, trying to soften you up and turn you, but it’s too late. It has already started and there is no stopping it.”

  Silence, except for Eddie’s jabbering. We drive for a mile or so and then Annabelle points to a gas station off the freeway. “Get off here and pull into that station, there’s something you need to see.”

  “We’re not leaving him,” I mentally protest.

  “Have you touched him?” She crosses her arms across her chest and looks back at Eddie. I look back too.

  “Are we going to swipe a car?” Eddie inquires.

  “Not yet, just a little break is all,” I say aloud and then inside, to Annabelle, “What do you mean have I touched him?”

  Before she has a chance to answer, my brain tunnels inward, mad spirals, and there at its center, encased in a brilliant white glow, I see two hands—one adult, one child—locked in a handshake. I see smoke billow from their palms and a quick separation, as if flesh has been burned.

  “If his skin has come in contact with…” Annabelle tries to continue but I cut her off.

  “What do you mean, ‘have you touched him’?” I scream internally. My head goes light and swimmy, my mouth is dry as sandpaper. I hug the wheel and steer with my arms. Pulling into the gas station, I clumsily careen the car into a parking spot and screech to a halt. I rest my head on the wheel.

  From the backseat: “Are you okay?” Eddie, concerned.

  “Give me a minute, Eddie.” I close my eyes.

  Annabelle speaks slow and careful. She can sense that what she is about to say is going to hurt. “I’m sorry, Charles. It’s the change. It’s the new you. If you touch anybody, if you so much as brush against them, they will be dead within twenty-four hours. And in turn, anybody they touch and then anybody the touched victim touches and so on and so forth, will also be dead in the allotted twenty-four-hour time period.”

  And on and on and on, world with end, amen.

  It’s the new me.

  I can’t stop picturing my big, stupid hand, encircling Eddie’s tiny little palm, fingers, fingernails. The smoke. The recoil. The nonchalant dismissal.

  I killed him. Right then and there I killed him. Worm food. Dead child talking.

  “What’s going on, Charles?” Eddie’s voice is saturated with worry. />
  I suck it up. “I’m just tired, man. Kick back for a minute and just let me think and rest and then we’ll make a plan, okay? Cool?”

  “Cool,” he echoes enthusiastically through a huge grin.

  Annabelle goes on: “I really am sorry, Charles. I know you weren’t as prepared for this as I was, but you have to start looking at it in a different manner. People have made you and I what we are today. They deserve what they are getting and what’s more, we are protecting something pure and innocent. We are preventing the human world that damaged us from damaging the beauty that is at our origin. In essence, we are protecting the children. We are putting an end to the dysfunctional pattern of growth that has developed within the human strain. You have to remember that kids like him are growing to be adults like that.”

  She points to a man in an expensive suit pumping overpriced gas into an extremely overpriced luxury car.

  “Or worse, they grow up to be like us.” She steps through the passenger’s door and walks around the front of the car to my door. “Come on.”

  I tell Eddie to sit tight. He gives me a nervous look, but I calm him down by assuring I will not ditch him. I get out of the car and walk with Annabelle to the gas station minimarket.

  “Do you know why you haven’t been apprehended by the cops?” she asks. “Why they haven’t chased you down?”