Take Me Away

by Jerry Cole

  Was it possible to hope that they could have something?

  Wyatt wasn’t accustomed to such bubbling feelings. He wasn’t accustomed to hope.

  For now, he shoved them down. He tossed himself on the bed. It had been mysteriously made up for him, presumably by Marney, who’d perhaps come into sheets and blankets and pillows via her connection to Everett. She’d laid his bags out on the bed, and he slipped his hand into the backpack, drawing out his laptop. It blinked at him in the light, expectant, seemingly unknowing of all the chaos outside.

  Wyatt began the letter to his editor, his fingers churning out a whirl of words that he ultimately had to edit down, as they genuinely made him appear a bit too crazed to write anything coherently —at least, in his mind.

  “Hey Scott!

  “So, as I said before, I headed out from New Mexico with a few hippie twenty-somethings in an RV—which you said was probably insane but isn’t that what we’re meant to do, insanely push ourselves to follow every story?

  “They led me into a sort of goldmine, and the gold is only getting shinier.

  “Everett McLean is the self-appointed leader of the cult in which I find myself. They believe that live beings of sorts from Venus will be arriving soon to take them to safety, as the selfishness and evil of the world will eventually destroy all humanity. Apparently, some leader on Venus has been communicating this to Everett, which seems highly unlikely—funny that he’s convinced over fifty people to come to the middle of nowhere to ‘prepare’ for it.

  “Anyway, the thing that makes this a bit different from an ordinary cult—if any cult can be deemed ordinary—is the fact of its location. Here I am, in the middle of a Texas ghost town. I’m sitting inside one of the abandoned rooms, above what was once a hardware store, typing this now. Thank goodness, I’m able to make a hotspot for myself—otherwise, I would be out here just floundering, without internet.

  “The ghost town doesn’t quite know what to make of the cult. It seems they thought it was a vague curiosity for a bit, but now have caught wind of how strange it truly can become.

  “Namely, it seems the cult has taken up property on the edge of a very old, decrepit old cowboy’s land. Just today, he powered out onto his porch and screamed at them, threatening them. You should have seen the way he faced off with the leader of the cult, Everett. It felt like worlds colliding.

  “In essence, I want the piece to be a breakdown of all that happens—the day-to-day life of the cult members—what they eat, how they dress, how they fight, how they love—along with the larger fight between the so-called ‘cult members,’ who represent this generation’s idealists—all looking to better the planet, better themselves, in the wake of the ‘baby boomers.’ It’s clear that neither party is inherently good or inherently bad—although, the cult’s origin is questionable, I can tell you for certain that some of the members are whole-heartedly some of the best people I’ve met in a long time.

  “What do you think of this premise? It’s clear I’ve been caught in a kind of whirlwind, especially with regards to this recent development with the very old cowboy. I wonder if I can get over there. Interview him. Get some quotes about his hatred for the cult.

  “Looking forward to your response, Scott. And yes, I know that this doesn’t necessarily have ‘anything’ to do with ‘food.’ But also—if we could be the first people to break this story, then dammit, why wouldn’t we be? You’d get all those social media clicks you so desire, and I’d get my name out there. A win-win, don’t you agree?

  “Cheers and thanks,

  Wyatt”

  Wyatt clicked out of his email and turned off his hot spot, ready to begin organizing his notes and writing an initial draft of the first story. He sensed that the cult needed a name—even if the cult hadn’t labeled themselves as of yet, the public would want something to latch onto. Venus in the Desert, perhaps? He thought it over for a moment, turning his eyes toward the window. It was only just lunchtime, and he marveled at the time that had passed since he’d arrived in the strange ghost town. It felt as though he’d lived several lives. Los Angeles felt a million years ago. He imagined himself returning, a big-league journalist, his name upon the lips of countless strangers. That sort of fame had always been his MO, he knew. He imagined telling this lust to Isaac. Would he question it? Would he laugh?

  But he felt that Isaac wouldn’t laugh at anything Wyatt had to say. He sensed that Isaac would uphold his opinions, without question; that he would enjoy every facet, every strange element of Wyatt’s personality. He was open in a way that Wyatt hadn’t encountered in years.

  Was he the kind of person Wyatt could see himself with?

  He churned back further on the pillow, his hand lowering toward his crotch. He’d grown hard, just thinking about Isaac. In a bit of a fever dream, he felt that Isaac was approaching the little building, his cock hard and dark red, hungry for him. Isaac would open the door and say in that southern drawl—one he’d been fighting since he’d left Texas, “Hey. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  And then, they would be cast into one another’s bodies, lost in one another’s scent. Wyatt’s hand dove beneath his boxers, carving out space along his rock-hard cock. He yearned for Isaac to watch him, to see how hard he made him, even in memory. He pushed his laptop further from him, his body pulsing with desire.

  He came in a fury of passion, catching the semen in a tissue. He gaped at it, seeing spots, before cleaning himself up further. In the kitchen, the scent of cooking beans emanated. Marney was singing an old song from the ‘90s, something Wyatt had heard over and over again in his youth. He began to hum along, latching up his pants once more. The heat in the room was overbearing, casting sweat between his pec muscles and toward his flat abdomen. Had Isaac noticed his body? Had he been aware of it, turned on by it? Wyatt had to assume that was a yes.

  When Wyatt pressed back into the kitchen, Marney shoved a large portion of beans and rice into his hands and instructed him, “Eat up. We have another big seance in twenty minutes, and Everett says it’s going to destroy us, body and mind and spirit, so that we can become a better collective. He says we need to be united in a single mind, so that the beings from Venus can recognize who we are.”

  Wyatt slipped a fork into the beans and rice, eating heartily. He made sure not to show his inward smile when he said, “Of course. I understand that,” before shoving still more beans and rice between his teeth. “I can’t imagine a better way to do it.”

  He made a mental note to include this facet of the cult in his write-up. Kenny sauntered into the kitchen, his mouth downturned.

  “I don’t see why we have to meditate all day, every day,” he offered, his voice gritty. “It seems like a waste. I, for one, don’t want to lose my personality.”

  “Darling! It’s not about your personality,” Marney said. She whirled in a circle, making her low-cut white dress do a bit of a Marilyn Monroe. She glanced back at Wyatt, as if to tempt him.

  How silly she was, Wyatt thought. And yet, he really did appreciate her, love her lust for life, her appeal for this seeming bullshit. She was entirely genuine, open to the world. In a sense, this had invaded into Wyatt’s personality, allowing himself to dive deeper into feeling for Isaac.

  He gobbled the last of his beans and rice, watching as Marney dolloped another bit into his bowl. With a voice that didn’t sound entirely like his own, he said, “All right. When does this seance begin?”

  “You don’t have to work longer?” Kenny asked him, arching his brow.

  Wyatt shrugged. “I just did a bit.”

  “He knows he won’t have to work much longer anyway,” Marney sighed, her eyes glowing. “I can see it in you, Wyatt. You’re becoming changed, like the rest of us. You see Everett’s goodwill, and you’re open to it.”

  Kenny glowered at Wyatt, his nostrils flared. He chewed slowly at his beans and rice, like a cow chewing his cud. Wyatt hadn’t the energy to feel embarrassed at the statement. He blin
ked several times, feeling like a specimen to these people—performing his essential acting job. Kenny turned his eyes toward the fire, which had begun to smoke out. In the distance, they could hear Randy and Clara making love, with Clara’s moans escaping through the large crack in the door. Wyatt marveled, knowing one day he would look back at all of this with confusion. But he had to lean forward, for now. For the good of the story.

  Chapter Seven

  Isaac

  Isaac ambled alongside Marcia, walking at the outer edge of the cult. There wasn’t a single streak of shadow, and sweat pumped down his back, muddying up the end of his shirt. Marcia walked with an assurance he felt one must attain after years living in a ghost town; a knowledge that the rest of the world had to go on without you, that you were trapped here and you would make the best of it, regardless. Her potato salad sloshed around a bit in the Tupperware.

  “So, you know my father a bit better than you let on?” Isaac asked, his voice low.

  Marcia’s eyes flashed toward him. She grunted, seemingly unwilling to answer. They drew closer to the ranch house. Isaac’s heartbeat ramped up, becoming like a metronome. He walked to it, marching, feeling as though he was walking the steps to his death. He hadn’t a clue what would happen when he reached the other side of the door. He prayed to a god he wasn’t quite sure of, that Marcia’s appearance beside him would make his dallying a bit less horrific. He didn’t imagine it would.

  When they reached the door, the cult had generally disbanded, shoving off to their various tents, building little fires, singing songs and braiding one another’s hair. Everett McLean was nowhere to be found. Isaac had forgotten to ask where it was he resided, but he imagined it to be an air conditioned, high-quality RV, parked someplace the others didn’t know about. He imagined Everett to live at the height of luxury, while his “followers” ate muck and wasted away beneath the Texan sun.

  Marcia looked at Isaac with eyes like a snake, seeming to peg him as a weakling, someone she could easily strike. She grunted, then said, “Aren’t you going to…”

  And Isaac fumbled forward, rapping his knuckles against the wood of the ranch house. He shivered, waiting. He heard Monica holler out, “JUST A SEC!”

  There was chaos within, Isaac knew. He shifted his weight, craning his ears to hear the commotion.

  Trudy moaned something, something like, “Oh, God. Come on, Dad. Just sit down. You can hardly walk.”

  “Them fools, they can’t just take up my property…”

  “Daddy, they’ll be gone within the week. You know they can’t…”

  “Don’t lie to him,” Monica sighed.

  “What? He’s just gonna sleep for a few days more and not remember it. All over again,” Trudy stammered.

  “You’re such a fucking pessimist.”

  “Don’t curse in front of Quintin!” Trudy hissed.

  “What? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s gonna have to learn, him being raised up in Texas,” Monica returned.

  Marcia cleared her throat. Isaac took this as a sign that he was expected to knock once more. He reached up, noting that his hand shook as he did it. After clearing his throat, he rapped again.

  “JUST A SECOND!” Monica cried once more.

  “You don’t think it’s them, do ya?” Trudy said.

  “If it’s that leader of them, I swear I’ll use Daddy’s rifle right now and take him out. What is he thinking, trying to intimidate an old dying man?” Monica offered.

  Suddenly, Marcia all-but barked, saying, “Ladies! It’s me. It’s Marcia. It ain’t no creepy cult leader, I can tell ya that. And I brought ya some of my potato salad again.”

  Isaac tilted his head. Again? Had Marcia been spending time with his sisters? She kept her face burning forward, seemingly unwilling to give Isaac any hint of her interaction with his family. He felt sure she spun with judgement toward him—knowing that he hadn’t yet come to see his father, and that he’d spent the night with Wyatt the evening before.

  Yet also, there seemed to be an element of empathy to her. Perhaps he was putting it onto her; making her out to be something she wasn’t—a soft person, a person who understood the strange nuances of the world. But he couldn’t be sure.

  “Just Marcia,” Monica sighed.

  There were rapid footsteps. One of the children whined about lunch—something about grilled cheese sandwiches. Isaac waited, clenching his fists. Finally, Monica lurched open the door, her eyes scanning across Marcia’s face. Initially, she lent a big, false smile.

  But it all faltered the moment she spotted Isaac.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, her voice a growl. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Hey, Mon,” Isaac murmured.

  “We’ve been waiting for you for days. I been calling your phone. I thought you got kidnapped or something,” Monica said. Her eyes burned like fire. Isaac had never seen her so volatile.

  “I know. It took me a bit longer than I expected it to,” Isaac sighed, hating how weak he sounded, even to his own ears.

  Marcia drew her Tupperware into the sky between all of them, shaking it back and forth. Isaac’s stomach churned at the sight of the strange water, shifting around in the plastic. Still, it seemed to be the perfect antidote to the anger in Monica’s face. She recognized that this wasn’t just between family, just now.

  “Marcia, it’s always so sweet of you to bring that,” she said, her voice candy sweet. She gripped the Tupperware with the hand on which she wore her wedding band. It glinted in the sun. “Please. Both of you. Come in. I can’t have you out there with the crazies.”

  Marcia took the first step, seemingly yanking Isaac in after her, as though he were her tail. Isaac drew the door closed slowly, making it click softly behind him. The house smelled of traditional Texas meals he’d had as a child—cornbread, meats. It also smelled of child-friendly foods, like macaroni and cheese and burnt toast and hot dogs. Just now, he watched as Trudy dropped several skinny hot dogs into a pot of water on the stove. She glanced toward him, grimacing.

  “Isaac,” she sighed.

  Beside her stood her son, Quintin, who gazed at the hot dog ruefully, seemingly in the midst of complaining about the lack of grilled cheese sandwiches. In the corner sat Monica’s daughter, Caroline, along with Trudy’s youngest daughter, Zoey. Both girls were bent over their coloring books, trading crayons. They hardly glanced up at Isaac, despite their sincere love for him the Christmas before. Or had it been the one before that? They looked enormous, now—Zoey perhaps six years old, and Caroline around nine.

  “Hello, everyone,” Isaac offered. His eyes glanced toward the back bedroom of their own accord, catching sight of his father stretched out across the bed, on his back. His belly eased up and down, showing his slumbering breath.

  Trudy sniffed. After giving the hot dogs a stir. Something they most certainly didn’t need. She stomped toward Isaac, stretched her flabby arms outward, and gave him a strange, firm hug. Isaac felt as though he would burst into tears. They stayed like that for a long moment, with Monica standing to the side, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Trudy drew back and sniffed, turning toward Marcia. Marcia didn’t flinch at all.

  “It’s good to see you again, Marcia,” Trudy offered. “Daddy woke up this morning looking for you. I didn’t really think he was conscious yesterday morning when you were around, but he must know more than we give him credit for.”

  Marcia betrayed nothing. Isaac marveled at this, wondering what lingered behind the older woman’s eyes. Was it possible that Marcia had been—in love with his father?

  “He always had more tricks up his sleeve than we all gave him credit for,” Marcia said. Her cat-like features fidgeted for a moment. Isaac was perhaps the only one to notice that she peeked back to the room in which Thomas was now sleeping. A shadow passed over her face. “I did hope he wouldn't notice that ruckus going on outside. But I supposed it was only a matter of time.”

  Isaac wanted to interrupt, to dare to say that
he hadn’t thought his father could even rise from bed. He swallowed, waiting. Silence ticked between all of them. The only sound came from the crayons in the corner, and the bubbling hot dogs, shuffling around in their pot.

  “He ain’t been rising much at all,” Trudy finally offered, drawing her eyes toward Isaac’s. “Fact is, I didn’t think he’d make it past yesterday. And to think, you didn’t even make it yesterday. I prayed all night, thinking—what the hell would it mean, if you never got to say goodbye to your poppa?”

  Isaac shifted his weight. He wished he had something to hang onto, like a Tupperware container, or even a cowboy hat. As it was, his hands swayed at his sides, unable to grip anything at all.

  “But the fact is, he woke up and he stood outside and he spotted those morons,” Marcia said, her voice slicing through. “And of course, as Thomas Baxter is wont to do, he didn’t like what he saw whatsoever. I’m sure the three of you are very familiar with that sort of thing.”

  Isaac felt the words were directed toward him mostly, since Marcia had learned of his love for men and drawn her own conclusions about his relationship with his father. Complicated.

  “You—you want to see him?” Monica finally asked, sniffing. Her face had crumpled into itself, showing her fear from the previous half hour. “God, I swear, that cult leader. He must have taken the last bit of energy from him, at least for the day.”

  “He just needs rest,” Marcia said, her voice somber, yet sure. “I’ve seen men come back from stuff like this. He’s a powerful man, your daddy.”

  Isaac wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see his father. He felt a bit like one of the cult members—as though his father was akin to the beings from Venus. Was contact ACTUALLY what they wanted, in the end, or just the idea of it? He imagined the answer was again complicated.

  But Isaac felt the weight of the three women’s eyes upon him. He took a small step forward, hearing the echo of his shoe fall. Even Zoey and Caroline had stopped their scribbling to look up. He walked the rest of the way toward the doorway of the back bedroom. A bit of wind caught in from the kitchen window on the way, splashing across his cheeks.