The Critical List

by Wenke, John;

  Feeling relieved, his escape route before him, Mr. Moyen stood up, swung around the pole and stepped into the well of the rear door. He pulled the cord and waited for the door to open. Outside the careening trolley, there were people, cars, and buildings rushing by in a blue whoosh. He looked at every head on the trolley and assured himself that the stranger had somehow disappeared. Unfortunately, the trolley was speeding along a curved stretch of track toward the cavernous mouth of the 40th Street tunnel. Mr. Moyen was heading underground and would have to wait until the next stop at 34th Street. Then he could get off, climb to the street, cross over, go down the steps and use his last token to catch the next westbound trolley.

  Outside the speeding trolley loomed the blackness of darkness, relieved only by an occasional dull bulb that seemed to rip past in the opposite direction. The window reflected Mr. Moyen’s gaunt face and ribbed forehead. Stricken, he looked away and into the eyes of an old white-haired woman smiling at him from across the aisle. She was saying the rosary. With a spurt as sudden as a ruptured aorta, he imagined taking the rosary and wrapping it around her throat till her neck bulged and blackened. Blinking three times to erase the repulsive specter, Mr. Moyen slipped all the way down into the exit well and yanked the cord four quick times. From the front of the trolley snarled the driver’s raspy yowl, “Hey, mister, I’m gettin’ rid of you as fast as I can.”

  A water wash of light engulfed the trolley, which braked hard. The bi-fold doors flapped open and Mr. Moyen stepped directly on the soiled concrete platform. As the trolley clattered away, he felt like cursing the driver, but without thinking, he pressed his belly button and watched the trolley explode, filling the tunnel with an orange and yellow fireball. Frightened, he slapped the side of his face, blinked twice, and was surprised to see the trolley’s rear red lights twinkle and disappear around a bend. He walked toward the stairs. On the wall between a vodka ad and a Broadway is Best poster hung a gallery of pictorial obscenities—a Cubist collage bearing a closer resemblance to spears, blimps, watermelons, and slashes than to any human sex organ. With heavy tread, he scaled the steep and grimy stairs, the dull ceiling light playing host to attacking bug swarms and an expansive spider web. A huge hairy black blot careened toward three moving figures. Mr. Moyen slowed and was amazed to see miniature versions of his mailman Frank Parris, his barber Zeke Cheever, and his pastor Father Murdock. They were little human bodies ensnared in the trap, their eyes wide and their mouths working vigorously without making a sound. Mr. Moyen picked up a yellowed newspaper and wadded it into a bat. When he turned, the little writhing faces were either gone or Mr. Moyen was staring at another part of the web. Nevertheless, he slashed the netting with furious sweeping motions. Soon he was sawing nothing but air. With a panicky gasp, he tossed the newspaper and ran up from the underground.

  When he reached the street, he found himself immersed in a mob of laughing, screaming people. They were all heading eastward as if toward a baseball game, a rock concert, or a public execution. Mr. Moyen tried to push his way north and cross the street, but a human freshet swept him along. In the crush, his feet left the ground and his body was borne sideways. Soon, he feared, he’d fall through some gap and be trampled by a thousand hurrying feet. He had no choice but to turn and ride the stream. The mob was so tightly packed that he could not bring down his arms. He could do nothing but fan the air before him. Streetlamps were out and he moved through a darkened world, as dark as a moiling night wilderness—the fierce cries of four-legged beasts converging into a vicious carnival murmur, where mirth was little more than a mask for malice. Screams and laughter raked the humid air. Mr. Moyen’s arms tired. In letting them sag, he happened to touch a woman’s pimpled neck. Her skin was hot and scaly—a scabrous sweaty oily sheen. His hands snapped away as if bitten, but not soon enough. The hag’s head swiveled in an abrupt contortion. In the shimmer of light cast from a second story window, she showed snapping teeth. Her tongue was pierced and plugged by a silver ball. Mr. Moyen started to speak, but her spewed words chopped into him like an axe.

  “Shit sucker scum. Bad Jermaine gone cut you up.”

  Mr. Moyen wanted to dig his fingernails into her eyes, but he was distracted by a colliding clutch of hands rifling his pockets, jabbing his ass, squeezing his balls. With a twig-snapping wrench, someone pinched his penis. Staggered by pain, Mr. Moyen stumbled to the right, slipped through an open space and tumbled against a granite building. He bunched into a crevice and watched the mob flow past with the slow pace of cows hoofing toward slaughter. He would wait here for the street to clear. Then he would make his way back to the underground. Even at this hour, the trolleys never took more than twenty minutes to arrive, not unless there was a power failure, a tunnel fire, or a suicidal jumper.

  Mr. Moyen nestled further into the wall and lifted himself so he could better watch the mobbed sea of bobbing human heads. As another slash of light cut the air from a room somewhere above, it fell like a spotlight on the laughing head of a woman who resembled Felicia more in feature than expression. This woman’s shoulders were squeezed into a low-cut black leather tee shirt and her breasts seem to spill out like bulging mounds of detonated earth. In the back of her thick hair was a single pink ribbon. Next to her appeared the face of Ann Hibbins, her mouth painted with a clown-like oval of blood red lipstick. After hugging Felicia and kneading her breasts, Ann buried her painted mouth in Felicia’s neck like a hatchet. Ann’s lithe fingers seemed electrified and her lips were mechanized suction cups. With a twisting spasm, Felicia threw back her head, let out what might have been an orgasmic howl and tried to lick the side of Ann’s face. Mr. Moyen was stunned. It was like waking up in a darkened hotel room, the blue TV light still flashing, and finding his very own wife writhing naked on the screen, hands clutching the bars of a prison cell as she was taken from behind by a masked man. Mr. Moyen could neither turn off the picture nor adjust the sound. He could only squint to get a better look.

  Slowly, Ann and Felicia drifted out of sight. Mr. Moyen was now looking at the backs of their heads. After another stupefied instant, he squeezed his right hand over his heart. Enraged, he bellowed, “Felicia! Turn back!”

  In such an uproar, the woman, whoever she was, could not possibly have heard his voice. Nevertheless, she turned. Her eyes were incandescent and wild, lit by a kind of jovial madness, a party fever fury. When Mr. Moyen recognized what might have been the hand-shaped birthmark on her left cheek, he felt then that his heart was gone forever. In its place was lodged a whole cold potato—lumped, brown, dirty, frizzled with wiry, sprouting weeds. He pictured himself pushing Felicia out of their mortgaged house, down the front steps to the pavement, and then after two fierce kicks, she would be on her way, out of his life forever. She’d never squat on him, never use her down-driving weight to try and cut him in two.

  With Ann Hibbins still sucking the side of her throat and her hands still fondling her breasts, Felicia wriggled out of control, though she seemed suddenly quite deliberate when she brought her right hand to her mouth, spat heavily into her cupped palm and flung the hocking load like a Frisbee toward his appalled face. As Mr. Moyen watched the gob rise in the air and descend toward him, a fist smashed the side of his face and he slithered down the wall. By the time he pushed to his feet and steadied himself, Felicia was gone.

  Without thinking, though spurred by a rage to catch up, he plunged into the mob and was amazed by how quickly he made his way forward. A path seemed to open at every point. Mr. Moyen hurried as if propelled by great gusts of wind. He had every intention of catching Felicia and casting her off, but not before he found a rock or a brick and brought it down atop the skull of the treacherous Ann Hibbins.

  As he raced and stumbled, he became conscious of being cheered. He heard the applause and felt numerous hands slapping his back. The way opened even more and he ran harder, no longer concerned about catching a westbound trolley but increasingly apprehensive about the two shee
ts of paper folded in the left rear pocket of his brown pants. The original venue, he recalled, had been the storage area of the massive post office at 30th and Market, but at the last minute the location had shifted to the main quad of a nearby university. His path now took him through a tree-shaded break between enormous buildings. The branches flailed like attacking arms and accusatory fingers.

  Under floodlights, the stage was nearly empty, but the audience was a crush of cheering people. As Mr. Moyen hurried along the jostling perimeter, the applause increased, and he could almost have sworn that he saw his father—dead five years—carry a chair across the back of the stage. In the wings of the flatbed stage were three old-fashioned nuns in billowing black habits, white wimples and black veils. As he stumbled up the steps, Mr. Moyen saw the smiling stranger remove the microphone from the stand, the cord twisting and whipping like a tortured eel. In the shadows of the rear of the stage, partly hidden by curtains, he thought he saw a woman with wild bushy hair, though her face was obscured by a man in a turban, who held a long stick balled at its point with fire. Over and over, as if to practice, he swallowed the flame. Climbing over the top step, Mr. Moyen tripped, tumbling forward, but strong, unseen hands steadied him. As he wobbled to center stage the spotlights were blinding.

  Offering the microphone, the stranger leaned toward him and whispered, “Once we were sure you were coming, the word got out and not a single member wanted to miss the convocation. This interest derives partly from the high esteem in which your family is held and partly by the passion you so clearly possess for doing our work. And it’s right for you to begin this way—with the speech you’ve worked on for so long—here, center stage. For so long, deep within yourself, you have wanted to become one of us and now as soon as you catch your breath, you may commence.”

  Mr. Moyen took the microphone in his right hand and tried to put it back on the stand. Feedback serrated the air. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the quarter-folded sheets of paper and tried to arrange them on the podium. His mind, usually muddy and slow, a thick mire, had become almost luminous. He remembered the acceptance speech he had worked on for weeks. Anytime Felicia was out shopping or down in the basement ironing clothes, he pulled out his secreted text and worked over the words—about how happy he was to join, how he looked forward to carrying out certain attacks central to their common cause. He wanted especially to destroy all churches and advance the death of all belief. It was his special mission to show the credulous world how God was nothing more than a fool’s fond dream. It was time to smash every fragile box. Everything was based on sham: civic duty, pennies for the Pope, the forty-hour work week, taxation with representation, raffle tickets for dying children. The truth of nothing was the fact of everything. It made him want to laugh.

  With the feedback whining and roaring, Mr. Moyen began to read his speech. Every single word was abruptly snarled by whirring screeches. The crowd groaned. They were waiting, perhaps, for him to propel them into action, to stir up the flames, to initiate the great stadium wave of focused destruction. He was ready to shout it, fist balled. Tonight, for starters, they would march downtown and take over and burn the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul. He was ready to give the word, but the microphone seemed to be attacking him, bickering back with a satanic squeal.

  From the far right appeared a legion of flashing lights. Riot police were overtaking the quad. Wearing wire mesh masks and shiny white helmets, they were swinging clubs and beating back the dispersing crowd. Mobs of people disappeared into hedges, shadows, and arched doorways. Still tethered to the microphone, Mr. Moyen stood on the stage alone. The stranger was no longer beside him. The fire-eater was hustling down the steps. When a tear gas canister exploded stage left, Mr. Moyen dropped the pulsing microphone and ran away on shaky legs. He slid down the steps, skittering across the lawn toward a clump of trees. Behind him three policemen dragged two kicking women across the pavement. He heard gunfire and bullets sizzling through leaves. One cop swung his club and whacked a blond woman on the side of the head. When she fell, the cop turned and stared directly at Mr. Moyen. The cop called to him and started jogging his way, stick raised. Mr. Moyen turned and fled. With flailing arms, he crashed through a row of sticker bushes. Close behind him were shouts. Something large was thrashing in the bramble. A terrified Mr. Moyen stumbled forward and glimpsed an opening in a brick wall. Scratched and bleeding, he got through the door and sprinted into a dark stand of trees, trying to reach the deepest darkness ahead. He was almost there, but as he turned around to see if anyone was following him, he smashed his head against the low-lying limb of a hundred-year-old oak. The blow staggered him, though he didn’t fall. He shook his head and wobbled, feeling his way along the branches, eyes shut, head screaming, pushing forward, engulfed by darkness and then not feeling anything until his earth-slapping feet gave way and his face smashed down to the ground. Almost immediately, or so it seemed, a hand was shaking his shoulder. Mr. Moyen felt the slick wooden bench beneath him as he opened his eyes. His head wobbled. Everything was wet and cold.

  “That’s a pretty mean looking lump on the side of your head,” Mr. Proctor said, pushing back the brim of his Phillies’ cap. “What happened? Did you get mugged? I heard on the news there was some kind of riot in West Philly last night. Those anarchy nuts were at it again, stirring up trouble on the Penn campus. They almost got the ringleader, a guy who calls himself Brown. You weren’t anywhere near there, were you?”

  Mr. Moyen didn’t answer. He was sitting in the Plexiglas shelter in the Darby loop. Early morning light painted the eastern sky with pink pastels. In his right hand, he squeezed two crumpled, quarter-folded sheets of paper. They were dabbed with blood.

  “When you got off the trolley, I was having breakfast in Bud’s. I figured you had gotten overtime at the plant. I looked again and you were still here. It’s been more than fifteen minutes. Hey, your face is all scratched.” He pulled out a cell phone. “You want me to call your wife. What’s the number?”

  “There’s no good on earth.”

  “Yeah, that’s their slogan, the sick turkeys.”

  “The police.”

  “I can call them, too. But your wife will want to know. I saw her standing at the door. She looked tired, like she’d been up all night. When she gets a look at you, she’ll want to call an ambulance.”

  “My Felicia’s gone. Mr. Brown will tell you.”

  Mr. Proctor nodded and patted his shoulder.

  “Concussion. It makes you talk crazy. Did the mugger get your wallet?” Mr. Proctor flipped open his cell phone. “I’m going to call for the cops and an ambulance.” His voice was clipped and serious. “Then I’ll hustle around and get your wife.”

  “Go away,” Mr. Moyen screamed. A rage he couldn’t swallow rose in his throat and choked him. His head was full of pounding hammers. He wanted to take one of the hammers and make a dent in Mr. Proctor’s skull. “You all need to go away. I’m taking the next trolley. There’s an early morning meeting and plenty of work to do.”

  “Well, hell, fella,” he said, patting Mr. Moyen’s shoulder and stepping backwards, squinting. “They must’ve really whacked you one. Stay put and I’ll be back in a minute with the little lady.”

  Mr. Proctor punched three numbers, brought the phone to his ear, and jogged across the rutted tracks toward Mr. Moyen’s home.

  He turned and shouted. “Everything’ll be just fine.”

  When Mr. Proctor disappeared around the corner of the diner, young Mr. Moyen stood up, swayed in place and trudged eastward along the looping trolley track. There were many avenues yet to travel, any number of serpentine paths. With a grim smile, he staggered toward the beckoning arms of the dark, deceitful dawn.

  Baby

  While lukewarm water pummels the cavity of a plucked, headless carcass, the giblet bag clings to the ribbed walls, still frozen despite a twenty-minute spin on the microwave platt
er. Mitchell Ringold turns up the heat and shakes the bird’s rubbery legs. He yanks the slab of neck fat, working his hand into the yaw, insinuating his nails beneath the bag. He claws and tugs but manages only to gouge cold chunks. He is left holding a dripping, slimy, gag-all catch—kidney, gizzard, and shredded wrap, a pulpy mass of bloody eviscerate. He raises butcher’s hands and thinks, all for love. No wonder, in the decades before this latest marriage, he avoided all but the most basic forms of cooking—the oval of frozen meat, the simplicities of toast, the marvel of boiled water.

  Leaving the bird beneath the scalding stream, Ringold scrapes the gunk into the disposal, wipes his hands on a dish towel and stabs his fist into the drawer. With the spaghetti fork, he will pry the bag loose before slamming the stuffer in the oven.

  In this precarious time, the bird would make dinner and lunch for a good three days. Living on take-out would have been the simplest thing: at least three French restaurants in downtown Greenwich would have been happy to do special favors for such an old customer. But over the last two weeks, in the vagaries that come with the family way, Mina became oddly insistent on home cooking, family-style cooking, like she got at the only restaurant she’d let Ringold take her to. Real Fine Dine was an appalling place within smelling distance of Turnpike Exit 4. Ringold shudders to think of the fat folksy waitress and her surly disposition, those bowls of bleached peas, salty red potatoes, sugary stewed carrots, that greasy platter of crusty black meatloaf. He can’t even get a decent glass of wine there. The house wine came from the bottom of a massive jug. It was Merlot, long gone to vinegar and trailing a whiff of gasoline.

  “I can’t go back,” Ringold fumed when they got to the car.

  “I loved it,” Mina declared. She smiled and settled back, resting her hands just above the pulsing mound. Through her shirt, Ringold saw where Baby was kicking. “It’s real home cooking. It’s what we’ve got to get used to. When Baby gets here, we’ll be home every night. I’m beyond the point where I’m up to cooking. When you were in the john, the waitress said they do take-out.”