The Bighead

by Edward Lee

  “Hi,” Jerrica greeted. “Told you I’d come.”

  He nodded dejectedly. “Hi.”

  “Somebody shoot your dog?” she tried to joke.

  The priest shrugged. “I been working my ass off downstairs, trying to sledgehammer my way through those newer bricks we saw two days ago. It’s rough.”

  But was that it? Jerrica didn’t think so.

  “Well,” he added, “and I found something.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged again, stood up. His pectorals glazed in sweat. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  Dumbly, she followed him, down the main hall, to the end-room with the stairs. Along the way, she couldn’t help but notice his back: tight skin over lined muscles, the shrapnel scars pocking around one side like haphazard stitches. She forced herself to look away; when she did so, however, a sharp glint caught her eye. “Wait. What’s that?”

  There was a lancet window in the stairwell, broken out like most of the others. It faced the woods behind the abbey, and the declining ridge. Along the decline, though, through the trees, she deciphered the glint.

  “That looks like water,” she observed.

  “It is. It’s the lake,” Alexander said with no interest at all. What was bothering him?

  “Damn, I forgot to bring my camera again. I’d love to get a picture of it, along with the rest of this place.”

  “Later,” he said dully. “Right now let me show you this.”

  She followed him the rest of the way down, into sudden darkness. Smears of lights fluttered down the hall: alcohol lamps where the priest had been working. He picked one up, held it closer to the wall.

  As she remembered, the segment of newer bricks faced her, as though this had once been a doorway and someone, for whatever reason, had sealed it up. “See these strike-marks in these newer bricks?” he said pointing to the inch-deep gouges.

  “Yeah, but we saw those first time we came. Someone—”

  “Right,” he interrupted. “And someone tried to break through them, probably a long time ago. We’ve already established that.”

  Jerrica’s lips pursed. What was the big revelation? But then the priest picked something up. “Take a look,” he said. “I found this in the corner.”

  It was a pick ax.

  “We didn’t notice it the other day because it was literally cocooned in cobwebs. I’ll bet this thing’s been lying here for decades. And check this out.” Alexander hefted the tool. One end of the head was a narrow adzeblade, the other a long, sharp spike. The priest fitted the spike-end into several of the gouges in the wall.

  “Fits perfectly,” Jerrica noted. But she still didn’t see the mystery. “All right, that’s the same tool that someone used to try and break down the wall. So what?”

  “Look harder. You’re not thinking.”

  Jerrica frowned. She still didn’t get it.

  “I’m six-foot even, a normal sized adult male,” the priest said. “Watch.” Then he mocked the act of taking a swing at the bricks with the pick ax. The point of the ax landed several feet higher than the original impact marks.

  “If a normal-sized adult had tried to knock down this wall, the marks would be higher, up here, see? But they’re two, maybe two and a half feet lower. Get it?”

  Now Jerrica realized what he was saying.

  Alexander lit a cigarette in the wobbling darkness. “So unless it was a midget down here all those years ago, trying to bust these bricks, it must’ve been—”

  “A…child,” Jerrica slowly realized.

  — | — | —

  EIGHTEEN

  (I)

  The Bighead sat under a mockernut tree, med-er-tate-in’, thinkin’ ’bout his psychical placement in the you-ner-verse, he were. Somethin’ were…weird. Bighead, see, he hadn’t et in two days, nor had he had hisself a nut since he corn-holed that ay-dult in the farmhouse, who was punkin’ his kids. You-sure-ally, see, The Bighead scarfed brains’n guts’n what not as much as he coulds, an’ any chance he had ta bust a nut—well, he’d be alls over that like like stink on toe-cheese.

  He just weren’t interested right now, no sir.

  What were it? The Voice? The reck-er-lecktions of his fine ol’ grandpap? His filler-soff-ical ass-sen-sure-un into the exer-sten-shull domain? Or were it a comber-nation’a those thingies?

  Bighead didn’t know! He didn’t know doodly-squat! He were a deformed, woods-rompin’, brain-eatin’, pussy-bustin’ retart!

  Didn’t matter, though, ’cos even deformed, woods-rompin’, brain-eatin’ pussy-bustin’ retarts experienced moments’a surmisin’ their state’a self-ack-sure-ull-ization. Like Abraham Masloe’s hierarchy’a needs, Bighead were realizin’ there were more important things ta life than eatin’ an’ havin’ a come.

  Yesterday, when he’d found the cemetery, he’d been even more confused’n fog-headed. It were almost like somethin’ had guided him there, it were. But why? Why? A cemetery? A place where folks in the Outer World buried dead folks under the ground when they up’n died?

  Just one more thing, it were. One more think that didn’t make a lick’a sense!

  He’d slept there till mornin’ then moved on.

  Ands now he were restin’ under that mockernut tree, starin’ inta the woods, anna big toad hopped forward, but The Bighead didn’t even kill it. Any other time, shore, he’d’a squished the guts outa that toad an’ sucked ’em right up, but not today. Ands even with no pussy or cornhole ta bust, he’d’a jacked two, three nuts out his pecker by now.

  But not today.

  Yeah, somethin’ were weird, an’ gittin’ weirder. His head felt all stuffed up with fog, it did, confusin’ him like, causin’ him ta wonder ’bout things he didn’t even understant. Shee-it, how he wished Grandpap were still alive! Bighead missed the stinky, crackly, white-bearded old fuck, and that deformed li’l twig of a left arm flippin’ ’round when Grandpap were riled about somethin’. We’se alls put on this here earth fer somethin’, Bighead, the old man had said many’a time. And I knows now that I was put here ta fer one reason: ta raise you. Think about that, boy. That’s what I’se was put here for. Ands one’a these days you’ll’se realize whats you was put here for…

  But that were the problem, see.

  How woulds The Bighead ever come ta know ’zactly what his purpose were? Grandpap couldn’t tell him nothin’—Grandpap were dead.

  But then he remembert somethin’ else the ol’ man said ’fore he died.

  You’ll’se know, son, when the time is fit’n proper. It’ll’se come to ya when ya least ’spect it to. Grandpap coughed, hackin’ up a big black goober. It’ll come to ya like a voice whisperin’ in yer head…

  The Bighead stood up then, his aura’a godawful stink risin’ with him. He walked on, with deliberation, he did. Fer miles. His big feet crunchin’ through the brambles, crackin’ falled limbs’n branches. The heat beat down on him like hard rain, but after awhiles, he stopped.

  His one big eye an’ one li’l eye stared though the trees, never blinkin’, and that’s when he heards it again:

  The Voice:

  COME.

  And that’s when he sawwed it too:

  The house.

  (II)

  chink-chink-chink!

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Huh?” Alexander glanced, if a bit testily, over his shoulder before the next swing of the pick ax. Jerrica looked bored, and drenched in sweat, standing there in the dim lamplight. “I guess I shouldn’t have asked you to come out; you look like you’re about to keel over from the heat.”

  “I don’t mind,” she replied, too politely.

  The priest rested the pick-ax head on the floor, exhaled. Not much headway, but at least with the pick ax he was closer to breaking the brick than with the sledgehammer. “This is gonna take me a lot longer than I thought. I’ll probably be down here for hours. Why don’t you just go back to Annie’s? There’s no point in both of us burning up.”

 
“No, I’d rather hang around and wait for you. Maybe I’ll go for a walk around the grounds.”

  “Good idea, get out of his heat. I’ll be up in a while.”

  He wiped sweat off his face with his handkerchief, which by now had become saturated. Jerrica moodily disappeared down the dark corridor and up the stairs.

  What am I going to do with her? he wondered. She’s got more problems than Holy Trinity’s got prayerbooks. He’d just have to slowly work on her, use his priest-shrink savvy to get her into counseling and treatment.

  Soon the heat down here would suck him dry. It was no joke; he wasn’t a kid anymore, he’d have to be careful.

  chink-chink-chink! he began again with the pick ax. Mortar dust billowed in gusts, bits of brick stung his face.

  chink-chink-chink!

  He paused to rest again. Damn it, Spock! I’m a priest, not a jackhammer! He was picking along the outline, where the newer brickwork had been set in to seal the entry; it stood to reason that this oblong perimeter would offer the weakest point.

  I’ll bust these bricks, goddamn it! I will!He wiped more sweat, hefted the pick ax, and began again:

  chink-chink-chink!

  (III)

  The heat was infernal. Even outside now, walking down behind the abbey, Jerrica’s sweat poured, her wet arms grained by basement dust. How did the priest stand it downstairs where it was even hotter, wielding the pick ax against the wall?

  A lovely, if overgrown, trail led down the ridge. Bright fungi, like scabs of day-glow orange, red, and yellow, adhered to tree roots. Heads of colorful flowers burst forth through teeming weeds. Halfway down the trail, though, she stopped suspiciously, glanced back up the incline. The abbey could no longer be seen. Why be suspicious then? Why be paranoid? Certainly the priest couldn’t see her now, not unless he had x-ray vision that could bore through the hard earth of the ridge.

  Her hand touched daintily her cutoff shorts. The stuffed front pocket. No, she thought, steeling herself. I. Will. Not. There was no end to it. Just a little? another part of her suggested. Look what you had to go through to get it. Her guts flinched, remembering.

  Just a little wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  I. Will. Not.

  She needed a diversion, something to get her mind of the cocaine she’d risked her life and swallowed a drug-dealer’s semen to get. That’s why she’d elected to go for a walk in the first place, but it wasn’t working. What? What now?

  A sharp glimmer blazed at her through the trees.

  The lake!

  Yes! Now there was a diversion! In this heat?

  She scurried the rest of the way down the trail, as though the silver surface of the lake pro-offered some temporary salvation. Int a moment, she was standing on the grassy shore, looking out. The sunlight raved; the water looked pristine, so pristine in fact, it looked unreal. In D.C., looking at the Potomac River, she’d been spoiled by reality. In this lake, there was no pollution, no floating garbage, no shining rainbow spectrums of oil film on the water. The lake was beautiful. Next thing Jerrica knew, she was taking off her clothes.

  Why not? she considered. She wanted diversion—here it was. It was so hot out, and so humid, she could barely breathe. What better way to get her mind off her problems than a nice, cool skinny-dip? And who would see? Way out here, in the sticks?

  Her sweat-damp clothes fell to her feet.

  And next, she was sighing to the sky, stepping into the cool water. The water washed away all her sweat, and also all her misgivings, her insecurities, as well as her addictions.

  All gone in the cool flow.

  I wonder how deep this lake is? she wondered. Silt squished between her toes; she walked further, relishing the unique coolness. The water level rose. Mid-thigh, then to her belly. Then to her bare bosom. Then to her chin. And then—

  What is…that?

  She stepped on—

  (IV)

  The afternoon burned on, then out. Thank God it was cooling down. Annie had been putting flowers on her mother’s grave for thirty years, It’s high time I did too, Charity thought, and picked some out in the wild garden. She picked a pretty bundle of Cardinals and Beebalms, a nice flux of reds and pinks. When Aunt Annie had invited her to go to the cemetery with her, Charity didn’t even think of refusing.

  “It’s so hot,” Annie remarked down the treed path. She wore a great white sun hat and a light pastel dress. Oddly, though, Charity couldn’t help but notice how her aunt, every so often, brought her free hand to her bosom and rubbed, as though her nipples itched. Charity herself, for a change, wore shorts and a lime midriff blouse. And her aunt was right: it was hot, even this late in the day.

  “I can’t imagine were Goop is,” Annie said. “I haven’t seen him, not in the yard, not in the house. I suppose he’s mad at me for sending him off to Roanoke. He must know I did it to keep him out of Jerrica’s hair.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Aunt Annie. He’s off doing something, but—”

  Charity’s thoughts bumbled to a halt. What was she going to say? The question had been rasping at her, like a rash. “I have to ask you something.”

  “What, hon?”

  The sun baked Charity’s cheeks. Weeds fell under her sandals. “I want to know about the second grave. The unmarked one I saw you put flowers on the other day.”

  Silence. The two of them marched on down the path. Charity waited, until her aunt finally answered, “It’s just…something. Don’t’cha worry ’bout it none,.”

  Not much of an answer at all.

  And then Annie, obviously changing subjects, said, “I can’t wait till Jerrica and Father come back. I love cooking for folks. Tonight I’m gonna serve Crawdad Purloo, Buttermilk Soda Biscuits, steamed Pokeweed shoots, and Pear Upside-Down Cake fer dessert. Father’ll love it.”

  “He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, a fine, fine man’a God.”

  But Charity could traipse through all this small-talk forever. She wanted to ask again, about the unmarked grave, but figured it would be best not to, not right now. She’ll tell me in her own time…

  Eventually they arrived at the cemetery, its high grasses bright in the sun. When the trail emptied into the graveyard’s basin, Charity’s foot tripped on a root, and she stumbled, dropping her flower bundle. “Oh, I’ve got to rearrange these!” she griped aloud. “Go on to the graves, Aunt Annie, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Her aunt walked on, seeming almost to disappear in the glare of sun. Charity stooped to retrieve her flowers, paused to refit the arrangement, and—

  Heard a scream.

  She jerked up, froze, then called out: “Aunt Annie!”

  The only response was another scream.

  Charity ran, stepping on graveplots. She sprinted out to the far corner of the yard, and saw her aunt collapsed on the ground.

  She also saw something else:

  The graves of her mother, and also the odd second unmarked grave—

  My God!

  —dug up.

  — | — | —

  NINETEEN

  (I)

  Where the hell is she? Alexander wondered. He’d given up on the wall downstairs; there was only so much of him. He’d have to come back tomorrow, and finish knocking the rest of the bricks out. An old fuck priest like me—shit. I gotta take it one step at a time.

  But where was Jerrica?

  Bad scene, he knew. That heavy ration of shit he’d lain on her yesterday? He was surprised she was still talking to him. Get a life, Tom, he told himself. People have flaws, give ’em a break.

  Still shirtless, and revitalized now in the fresh air, he walked around the circumference of the abbey. Tall trees hovered, laden with heavy green branches; honeysuckle scents nearly intoxicated him, and birds squawked. But Jerrica wasn’t to be found.

  He lit a Lucky, wended down the path behind the building. “Jerrica!” he shouted. “Where are you?” But then he thought, Oh, no, when he arrived at t
he end of the trail, at the lake’s shore. Her sandals, blouse, and shorts lay in a heap. She’s in the water—can’t say that I blame her, as hot as it is. But—

  I oughta kick her ass, he thought next. He noticed the bag-corner sticking out of her shorts’ pocket, inspected it. More cocaine. Shit…

  He glanced out over the lake. One thing he didn’t need to see—even though a solid part of his pre-priest self did—was Jerrica rising nude from the water. But she had to be somewhere. His eyes scanned and roved the entire perimeter of the lake. Floating sunlight glared, a pane of wobbling glare. Shore to shore, though, he checked, but there was no sign of her. Until—

  “Jerrica!” he called out.

  There she was. On the other side. He could see her coming out of the water—

  “Jerrica!”

  Tiny as she was, she didn’t turn, or even acknowledge his call. Certainly she’d heard him…

  “Jerrica!”

  She disappeared into the trees at the other side of the lake.

  (II)

  Charity struggled frantically. Heat stroke, she feared. And old woman like that? Christ, she could die! She pulled her aunt across the fringe of the graveyard, to the cooler shade of the woods.

  Too many images piled up at once. Her aunt lying unconscious before her. But also—

  The graves…

  She’d seen them, only at a glance. But a glance was enough. Someone had dug them up.

  Animals? Perhaps. But why just those two graves? Sissy’s

  —her mother’s—and the smaller unmarked plot nearby…

  Both dug up, as effectively as if by a trencher.

  First thing was first, though. Aunt Annie. Her face looked pale, so Charity raised her aunt’s feet with a rotten log, remembering from a first-aid class in the orphanage, If the face is red, raise the head, if the face is pale, raise the tail. But with Aunt Annie’s legs inclined now, her sunskirt fell down…