He remembers looking up at Dr Christophe’s photograph. How many years would it be, he’d asked, before men could become solo fathers?
“I’ve just agreed to do my first. The first in the UK as a matter of fact. The clinic has recently gained accreditation for the procedure. We’ll create an egg from the father’s stem cells. But, I thought you wanted to adopt?”
Simone spilled the beans about her childhood; she admitted she wanted to have a child who was biologically unrelated to herself or, more to the point, unrelated to her brothers. She’d said, “Rudy, I’d rather have a baby that’s genetically all yours than have a baby that’s genetically unrelated to either of us. I’m sure you’d prefer that too.”
Dr Christophe agreed to start the paperwork for solo parentage, and made a provisional booking in the gestation suite.
As they’d stood to leave her office, Dr Christophe had said, “The adoption idea wasn’t motivated by altruism, was it? If you’d explained your family background, Simone, I might have suggested this course of action in the first place.”
With his fingertips, Rudy rubs the wool fibres of the picnic rug. He hears the loud thud of a football being kicked hard. In his mind’s eye, the ball flies in a high arc across the wide expanse of grass. And he tries to imagine himself, a few years from now, kicking a football around Holland Park with Julia.
As happens so often when he thinks about Julia growing up, his thoughts slip back to the dimly lit viewing gallery. He imagines the orphaned foetus, the boy, moving within the baby bottle. He imagines the boy turning, pushing out his elbow and causing the womb to distend. He believes that he and Simone would have made a different decision if the boy had moved.
But he didn’t.
***
Anne Charnock’s debut novel, A CALCULATED LIFE, was a finalist for the 2013 Philip K. Dick Award and the 2013 Kitschies Golden Tentacle Award. SLEEPING EMBERS OF AN ORDINARY MIND, her second novel, will be published in December 2015. Anne’s writing career began in journalism and her articles have appeared in the Guardian, New Scientist, International Herald Tribune and the Huffington Post. She studied environmental science at the University of East Anglia, and earned a master’s in fine art at the Manchester School of Art. She lives in London and Chester, England. Say hello on twitter @annecharnock and visit www.annecharnock.com.
PITCH
by J. D. Horn
Author’s Insights:
An editor once pointed out to me that my leading characters are all loners, even a certain redheaded witch whom I saw as being deeply connected to her family and her community. I’ve come to realize that the creation of any character provides an invitation to make a Freudian slip, one that will perhaps reveal more about my own psychology than I might like to make publicly known, or sometimes even privately acknowledge. When creating “Billy Goat” Gibbons, though, I made a conscious decision to dig into those habitually shunned areas of my psyche that hold the memories of what it felt like to grow up the odd boy out in the rural south. I’ve set Billy’s hometown within an easy driving distance of my own, but rather than limit what makes him an outsider to an internal difference, it’s his physical appearance that marks him as an outcast.
So why a goat? Well of course there is the obvious occult connection as a symbol for the devil, but it goes a bit deeper.
The book of Leviticus contains a curious injunction regarding taking a pair of goats, sacrificing the one and driving the other off into the wilderness “for Azazel”. The Hebrew “for Azazel” is translated in some English versions, including the King James Version, as “as a scapegoat”, a wording that neatly sidesteps any theological issues to which an acknowledgement of an earlier form of worship might lead. This command has needled at me over the years, not only as it seems to contain a fragment of a pre-Biblical practice, but as the act of creating an outcast/scapegoat is clearly echoed in the stories of Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, and to a lesser degree, Jacob and Esau.
Still, Billy Goat’s tale is a simple story, of the kind intended to be read around a campfire, or better yet, midwinter, when the days are short, and the nights as black as “Pitch”.
***
Floyd County, Georgia – August 1955
“Where you headin’ with that gun, Billy Goat Gibbons?” Mrs. Mizalle warbled, leaning forward in her rocker. He’d passed the old woman by every morning this summer, and she had never so much as stopped rocking, but the sight of his papaw’s rifle slung over his shoulder was enough to make her to sit up and take notice.
Billy stopped and turned toward the decrepit woman sitting on the porch of her decaying house. The paint on the house had long since stopped peeling, the wood more haunted by the memory of whitewash than by whitewash itself. The porch sagged in the center, as if dragged down by the daily weight of the old woman’s chair, so the rocker never seemed to slide an inch in either direction. Like the porch, Mrs. Mizalle’s face crumpled in on its center, cheeks and mouth puckering in to fill the space her teeth had deserted. A hot, dry breeze carried her scent to Billy—peppermint and old pee, the pee gaining the upper hand.
“You answer me, Billy Goat.”
Billy tugged his dirty, castoff red Rome Red Sox baseball cap over the tips of his ears. How he hated the way his ears stuck out, their tips flopping over like a beast’s. He almost held them in as much contempt as he did his wide, flat nose. “My name ain’t Billy Goat. It’s Billy, and this ain’t a gun, it’s a rifle.”
“Don’t you sass me, boy, or I’ll come down off this porch and box those donkey ears for you, rifle or no.” The old woman lifted her cane like she intended to strike him with it, but then started huffing and sank back into her chair. Her red-rimmed and watery blue eyes burned with anger, but Billy couldn’t decide if she was angry at him or at her own condition. She pressed her free hand against her heart then slid it up to her neck.
After a few moments, she calmed herself. She pinned him in place with her angry gaze, her eyes daring him to try and run off before she caught her wind. She held out one trembling hand, pointing it at him. “You tell me what you up to now, you hear?” Before he could even respond she continued. “You playing soldier? ‘Cause you too young to be running around with a real gun like that. You need you a bb gun, not a real weapon.”
“I’m old enough. I’m almost twelve. Jesus—He preached in the temple when He was twelve.”
Her watery eyes widened. “Don’t you go on with your blaspheming. You ain’t no Son of God.”
Billy touched the bill of his cap and spat. “No, ma’am, I reckon I ain’t.”
“That belongs to your papaw, now, don’t it?” Mrs. Mizalle said, ignoring him. “Does he know you got his rifle out here? What you up to boy? You tell me.”
“Papaw, he knows all right.” He reached up to adjust the strap on his shoulder. “He told me I could take it.” Truth was, he had darned near insisted on it.
Today was Billy’s mama’s birthday. His papaw had been talking to him for weeks about how somebody needed to see justice done for her. When Billy awoke this morning, Papaw was sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning the rifle and polishing off a Mason jar of corn liquor. His eyes were red, from crying or drink or maybe both, and his hand trembled as he raised the jar to his lips for another gulp.
He set the jar down next to an open box of shells. “I’m ‘shamed, I am, boy.” He coughed and ran his hand over his mouth. “I meant to have this done ‘fore you woke up. I aimed to go out and take care of it myself. It’s time,” he said and wagged a shaky finger at the rifle. Billy pulled out the chair opposite his papaw and sat. “Your ma. She came to me last night. Said she won’t ever be able to rest till she sees justice done.” He nodded as he spoke, his eyes wide and fixed on Billy’s. Then he lowered his head and focused on the Mason jar. “I tried to go out. See to it this morning.” He shook his head. “But I ain’t man enough.” The corner of his mouth rose up in a rueful smile. “I’m too durned scared.”
“I ain’t,” Bi
lly had replied. “I ain’t scared at all.” That was when his papaw placed one hand on the rifle and the other on the shells and slid them into Billy’s waiting grasp.
“He said you could, did he?” Mrs. Mizalle rested her cane over the arms of her chair and went back to rocking. “And just what you plannin’ on doin’ with it. You ain’t gonna go shootin’ animals you got no intent on eating, are you? ‘Cause that’s a sin, you know.”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t gonna go shooting no animals.” A surge of pride flushed through him, and he puffed out his chest. “I’m gonna kill me the devil.”
There was a moment of absolute silence, then Mrs. Mizalle burst out laughing so hard she set herself to wheezing. She pitched forward, just about flipping her chair over before she managed to steady herself. It took her a moment to pull herself together and catch her breath. She wiped away a tear. “You say you gonna go kill the devil?”
“Papaw said I could. He said I should.” Billy felt his face redden, his shame turning into anger. “He said it would be a good thing.”
Mrs. Mizalle leaned forward and glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You Gibbons folk are all soft in the head. Always have been.” She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, the knuckles of her spotted and veiny hands turning white. The mirth slid off her face as her tone turned serious. “Your papaw, he been drinking again, ain’t he?” She grabbed her cane, this time using it to point at him rather than swing. “You mark my words, he’s gonna end up out at Milledgeville just like your mama did if he don’t take the pledge.”
Billy winced at her words. His mama had died out there in the asylum. According to Papaw, when her belly started getting big with Billy, folk all over Rome had tried to get her to name the baby’s father. She’d stayed silent pretty much till he was due, but then she finally started talking. Billy’s mama insisted she’d not been put in the family way by any mortal man, no, her belly had been filled by the devil himself. Folk said she’d done lost her mind, but Billy’s papaw had never believed she belonged in the crazy house. They took her there anyway.
Billy had been born in Milledgeville, at least that’s what his papaw told him. The very next day, his mama had used a sheet to hang herself. “Devil’s what made her do it,” his papaw had said on many occasions. “Claimed her as his bride and called her home.”
“They got them meetings to help folk swear off now.” The old woman’s voice droned on, though Billy was too busy turning his papaw’s words over to listen. “He oughtta see into them.” Mrs. Mizalle tapped the tip of the cane on the porch to get his attention. “And you, you’re too young to be wandering around with a rifle, spouting nonsense like you are. You need to take that thing on home to your papaw before you go getting yourself or one of your little friends killed.”
Billy might show a little sass, but it wasn’t really like him to talk back. He swallowed hard and dropped his head. “No ma’am. I don’t mean no disrespect, but I got me a devil to kill.” He kept his eyes on the ground as he started making his way south on Cave Spring Road.
“You be careful, boy,” her creaky voice called after him. “You go looking for the devil, and he sure as sugar gonna find you.”
Billy shook his head without raising his eyes and took another step.
“Boy,” Mrs. Mizalle shouted loud enough to cause Billy to stop and look back. The bent old woman had made it up out of her rocker and stood on the edge of her swaybacked porch. “You best better remember one thing. The Bible, it say Satan, he can show himself like an angel of light.” Her tone had turned real serious; he could tell she was no longer funning with him. “You understand?” Billy opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she carried on. “If you do find the devil, you may not even see him for who he is. He may look like the prettiest girl you ever clapped eyes on. Or he might look like—”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Billy interrupted her. “I’ll recognize the devil when I see him.” He turned away. “He’s gonna look like me.” Papaw had always told Billy that his own goat-faced looks alone were proof enough of his mama’s story.
Billy carried on, advancing with his right shoulder leading, the point of the rifle aiming up at the blue summer sky. Billy headed down toward Loveless Road where he knew Shad Metcalf, his only friend, would be waiting on the corner. Billy spotted Shad from more than a hundred yards away, thanks to his pale skin and paler yellow hair, and the sun flaring off the metal brace he wore on his game leg. Polio had twisted Shad’s leg, so he leaned on his crutch, swinging forward a bit and whistling as he caught sight of the rifle. “Ma ain’t gonna let you take that to the pictures,” he said as Billy drew near.
They’d made plans to meet up and head into town for a matinee at the DeSoto. Billy could’ve made the walk easy, but not Shad. Mrs. Metcalf never minded driving them or paying for both their tickets, as long as Billy accompanied her son and kept the other boys from bullying him. Today, though, Billy had a change of plans.
“I ain’t goin’ to the pictures.” Billy said, slipping the rifle strap off his shoulder and holding the weapon out for Shad’s appreciation.
“But ma’s waitin’.”
“I said I ain’t going.” Billy snapped the gun back.
“Ma ain’t gonna let me play with your gun.”
Billy pulled the strap back over his shoulder. “I ain’t asking you to. I came by to tell you goodbye. We may not see each other again.”
Shad’s face fell, and although Billy wouldn’t have thought it possible, it paled even more. “Why not? What you done?”
“I ain’t done nothing yet,” Billy said, trying to sound brave, though his voice broke. He swallowed. “But I’m going to.” He looked farther south and nodded. “I’m heading down to kill the devil.”
Shad’s expression went blank, then he burst out laughing. “What are you going on about? You can’t kill the devil.”
“I can. And I will. I’m old enough now to make him pay for what he’s done.”
“But how you even gonna find him? And what’s he ever done to you?”
“I’m gonna go meet him where he met my ma. Papaw said she told him the devil knew her in the trees, down where the tracks cross the road.” Billy lowered his voice and fixed his friend with his gaze. “You understand what I mean? He knew her.” Shad’s dull expression told him that his friend did not understand. “The devil. He’s my pa. He ruined my mama, and he made me. And now I’m fixin’ to kill him.”
“Naw.” Shad frowned and shook his head. “That ain’t right. It can’t be.”
“Look at me.” Billy ripped the cap from his head, letting his ears fold out and over.
“So?”
“My ears. I got me devil ears.” Billy felt his face flush hot, the schoolyard taunts that had plagued him for years burning as they came from his own lips.
“You got big ears, all right, but I got a bad leg. We ain’t normal, but we ain’t bad either. You sure ain’t no devil’s boy.”
“I seen pictures of him.”
“You ain’t seen no pictures. You seen drawings.” Shad’s head tilted, and he bit his lip. “He ain’t real, you know. My ma says the devil ain’t nothing but something folk blame their own faults on. The devil ain’t nothing but a scape . . .” Shad swallowed his last word.
“He ain’t nothing but a scapegoat.” Billy slumped forward a bit. “A goat man just like me. I don’t care what your ma says. The devil, he’s real all right, and I’m fixing to kill him.” He reached out with his right hand, causing the rifle to bob on his shoulder, and grabbed Shad’s hand. He shook it, just like a man saying farewell ought to do. “It was a pleasure knowing you.”
Billy walked away in long marching strides, thinking of himself as a brave and determined soldier going off to war. He wondered if that’s how he looked from Shad’s viewpoint, then straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back to elicit that very impression in his friend’s mind. He wanted Shad to see him as a hero. No one else ever would.
He heard t
he clanking sound Shad’s brace made whenever he tried to hurry. “Hold on,” Shad called after him. “Let me come with you.”
Billy slowed his pace enough for his friend to almost catch up to him. Truth was, he’d like the company but he knew he had to go it alone. “Too far. You’ll just hold me back. It’ll be night before we get there at your pace, if’n you make it at all. I ain’t gonna face no devil after dark. The pitch of night—that’s his time.”
“I want to come with you,” Shad protested, but Billy picked up his pace.
“I don’t want you. You’re a gimp, and even if you wasn’t, you’re still too much of a sissy to help.” Billy couldn’t understand why he said those things. Sure, they were true, but he knew his words cut his friend to the quick. Gimp. Sissy. Those were the names the other boys around town called Shad, but only when Billy wasn’t around to whip them. Neither he nor Shad would ever be like the other boys, but until now they’d always had each other. Billy regretted his words even as they came out of his mouth and he cast a backward glance, only to see that Shad was no longer advancing. He was frozen in place, his lips quivering like he might start to cry. The sight hardened Billy’s heart. “You best better head back home to your mama, little girl.”
Billy was about to face the devil, and yes, he realized that in spite of what he told his papaw, he was scared, but that wasn’t what was turning him mean. Billy did want Shad’s company, but it wasn’t reason enough to bring him. Shad was the only one who’d ever looked up to Billy, as far as Billy could tell, and the only one who gave a good goddamn about him. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might fail right in front of his friend, or even worse, he might get Shad killed in the process. If Billy came back—when he came back, he corrected himself—he would apologize to his friend. Maybe even bring him back a piece of the devil—a hoof or a horn to keep as a trophy.
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