by Ray Garton
"You are Albert Caymon Holt," he said softly.
Al looked up at that disturbingly familiar face and got a sick feeling in his stomach. He felt light-headed, dizzy. He nodded slowly.
"So am I," the tall man said.
They said nothing for a long time, just looked at one another. They looked long and deep. Al looked for some trace of himself in those eyes, some hint of the things he felt and loved, a sign of the things that had always been important to him. He saw nothing he recognized.
"So," the man they called Bishop said, "what do you think?"
It was a long time before Al could answer. His throat was dry and coarse and his voice came out in a rasp.
"It's wrong. All of it. Everything. This is not what we wanted. We had only one thing in mind, stopping the abortions, bringing an end to that slaughter. But now...now I'm beginning to wonder...if even that was right...if I was misguided about...everything."
Bishop Holt's penetrating eyes narrowed.
"We did not intend to take everyone's choices from them," Al said. "Not all of their choices. This is...un-American. It's blasphemous. Even...even God allows the freedom of choice. Who are we to put ourselves before God? Who are we to say that we can make choices for everyone?"
Their eyes remained locked for a long, silent time as the other men waited in the room for Bishop Holt's response. He backed away from Al and turned to Elder Walters.
"Execute him. Now."
"But Bishop Holt," Elder Walters said imploringly, "you must understand that he is your—"
Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "You are mistaken, brother. He is a heretic and a madman. Too far gone even for the camp. Kill him at once. And after you've killed him, do the same with his whole family. You've heard me."
He spun around and left the room, slamming the door.
Elder Walters was a little pale when he turned to Al. He tried to smile, but failed.
"I'm afraid we must follow the orders of Bishop Holt, Bish—uh, Broth—erm, Mr. Holt." He turned to the uniformed officer. "Deacon Potter, you heard the order. Here and now."
Without hesitation, Deacon Potter unholstered his gun, came to Al's side and placed it to his temple.
Folding his hands before him, Elder Walters gave a slight smile and said softly, "If it's any consolation, it certainly has been an honor knowing you."
The gun fired and plunged them all into nothingness.
MONSTERS
1.
The drive from Los Angeles was like sliding naked along the edge of a razor blade. He hadn't stopped once in nine hours. A rusty nail was imbedded deep in the small of his back, he was sitting on crushed glass and somewhere along the way, he'd swallowed a rock. The rock had gotten stuck between his throat and stomach and remained a lump of dull pain in his chest. He didn't always feel the pain—mostly when he heard the wrong song on the radio or began to worry about returning to the Napa Valley.
Which was most of the time.
2.
The Valley was getting ready to change color when Roger arrived late Thursday afternoon. Fall was a footstep away and with it would come the crush, when the entire Valley would smell like a freshly opened bottle of chilled wine. But now the green of the trees had darkened on the verge of brown and the grapevines, full with leaves ready to be pruned, clung to their trellises as if shocked by the changing of their color.
St. Helena remained cradled among the vineyards, a small town that still seemed uncomfortable with blacktop rather than cobblestone streets. It had not changed.
Why would it, asshole? Roger asked himself. You were only gone six years, and they didn't exactly log your departure in the fucking town records.
Upon closer inspection, he found that the town had changed in places.
Jim's Country Kitchen, a coffee shop on the south end of town, was now Molly's and looked more like a houseplant boutique than the noisy greasy spoon it had been.
Taylor's Hardware was now a video store.
The biggest disappointment was that Hollywood North was gone. It was a store that sold only Hollywood memorabilia—posters, stills, lobby cards, decorations, greeting cards and toys—and had been run by Josh Draper. Roger had spent many an afternoon sitting behind the counter in Hollywood North with Josh, drinking coffee and talking about movies, trying to stump him with trivia questions. Josh's specialty was horror films; one whole wall of the store had been covered with posters and stills of old Frankenstein and Wolfman movies and nearly all of the Hammer vampire films, some of which were valuable originals that were not for sale. Roger was sorry to see that it had closed and wondered what had become of Josh.
The sidewalks were busy with fashionably dressed shoppers who crossed the narrow Main Street indiscriminately, slowing traffic to an uncertain stutter.
He was glad to see that the most welcomed sight in town had not changed at all: The barber's pole in front of DiMarco's Deli.
He parked his gray Accord behind the deli and went in the back way past the stacked cases of beer and soft drinks and—
—suddenly he felt as if he had just driven over from his house on Sulphur Springs Avenue after spending a few hours at the typewriter.
Suddenly, he had never decided—after finding his mutilated dog hanging over his back porch—to pack up late one night six years ago and drive back to Los Angeles without telling anyone. He had not yet faked his way through a single pitch for a preoccupied producer and hadn't once been told, "It's just not what we're looking for." He'd never had a gun in his mouth and he'd never heard of the Sylmar Neuropsychiatric Hospital, let alone seen its sterile white interior.
It was as if he'd never left St. Helena.
The place still looked more like a garage sale than a delicatessen. In the front was the candy counter and register, then the meat counter, shelves of groceries, coolers of drinks, and the sandwich counter. Above it all were shelves and shelves of souvenirs, knicknacks, mementos, photographs, drawings and other objects unidentifiable from any distance. The walls were covered with posters, postcards, letters, photographs and notes. Nothing was arranged in any particular order but somehow did not look sloppy. It looked...right. As if the place could not possibly look any other way.
Roger was halfway to the meat counter when he heard a hoarse shriek.
"Roger Bernard Carlton!"
Betty DiMarco was already rushing toward him when he turned, her arms open wide. She laughed as they embraced , the cigarette between the first two fingers of her right hand trailing a thread of smoke.
"Holy god!" she cried, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "How long has it been?"
"A long time, Betty. How are you?"
"Well, I'm—oh, you know how I—Jesus, but it's good to—let me look at you!" She stepped back, a hand on his shoulder.
Betty, a small, spare woman, wore a red plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans that still looked good on her despite all the gray in her curly auburn hair and the deepening lines around her eyes and mouth.
"Come on in the back," she said, tugging his arm. "Come on."
She led him through a door beneath a sign that read THE MUNCH ROOM and seated him at a rustic picnic table. It was the very same table where he used to sit each morning drinking coffee, reading the paper, and writing.
"A sandwich?" Betty asked.
"Yeah, I was just gonna—"
"Let me. The usual?"
"Roast beef and hav—"
"Havarti dill on dark rye, no onions, no sprouts. Right?" She grinned before hurrying out of the room.
The same pictures and posters adorned the walls in the Munch Room: Nixon and Agnew dressed as Batman and Robin, promotions for a local rock group, an art show, a wine tasting, a few old beer logos, and a painting of Betty and Leo. Mickey Mouse ticked away the time on a wall-sized wristwatch.
The far end of the room was partitioned off and held a large metal sink, a cutting board, and shelves of cutlery and containers.
Roger remembered sitting at the same table one day more than six years ago during just such a busy lunch hour. A young couple walked in, college age, both neatly but plainly dressed. He didn't recognize them, but knew immediately that they were Seventh-day Adventists—no doubt students from the college up the hill, which he had once attended—and looked away from them, went back to his writing.
A moment later, he realized they were standing by his table, facing him. He looked up to see them staring, lips parted, eyes wide below frowning brows, sandwiches held before them on paper plates. He started to ask them what was wrong when the girl spat on him.
The voices in the Munch Room silenced and all eyes turned to Roger and the couple.
"You're the writer," the girl said quietly with a mixture of fear and awe, as if she were standing before a movie star who also happened to be a serial killer. "I caught my brother reading your book once. I burned it." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You're sick." She turned and walked out, followed by her boyfriend.
The eyes of the other patrons remained on Roger for several silent seconds, then he said, somewhat nervously, "Probably kept the book and underlined the dirty parts."
A brief chorus of laughter broke the uncomfortable silence and the chatter continued. A man asked if Roger was really a writer; when Roger introduced himself, the man said he'd heard of him but had not read his work, although he would start. They talked for a while, had a laugh about religious nuts, and the man even bought Roger lunch.
But, pleasant as the conversation had been, the lunch had not gone down well. In fact, on his way home, Roger was struck by a pain in the lower right side of his abdomen, a pain so severe that he had to pull over to the side of the road and sit a while. It was a dreadful scraping pain, as if a claw were scooping out his insides, tearing at the inner wall of his abdomen. At home that day, he'd vomited his lunch and kept retching until blood splashed red in the toilet.
It was the first sign of an ailment that would elude many doctors. He spent the next three years undergoing test after test, none of which showed the slightest sign of an ulcer or intestinal problem, and all of which inspired the doctors to suggest he see a therapist. Although he would do so later, he wasn't quite ready to go that route when it was initially recommended.
Instead, he would sometimes spend entire days in bed curled into a ball, either waiting for the pain to go away or fearing it would return, all the while imagining it to be an ugly gnarled claw that scraped through his insides, trying to gut him like a fish. ...
Betty hurried back into the room and seated herself across from him, taking his hand.
"The sandwich is coming, now how are you? Where have you been, what's the—oh!" She held up his left hand and examined his fingers. "You're not married?"
"Uh, no." He gently pulled back his hand and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "That, um...didn't work out."
"Oh. Well. I must admit, I'm glad to hear that."
Roger chuckled. "You should've said something then."
"Oh, I did. Plenty. But when you're in love, honey, you'll hear a gnat fart before you'll hear a friend's warnings. You were deaf to 'em. And understandably so. She was a very appealing, very pretty girl."
"She was selfish," Roger said, shaking his head gently. "She was...deceitful...unfaithful..."
"She was a Seventh-day Adventist."
After a pause, Roger said, "That, too."
"That in particular."
"Oh, well. That was...Jesus, that was over five years ago." He shook his head again; he hadn't thought of Denise in a while.
Betty asked how long he'd be in town and if he needed a place to stay, and Roger explained that he'd already rented a house on Beakman.
"Have you even seen it yet?" she asked.
"Not lately, but my friend Eric Neibord—remember Eric? The musician who believed in better living through litigation?"
"The one who tried to sue Springsteen and Sting and...somebody else, I don't remember who."
"Yep. Over songs he claimed they'd stolen from him. Never happened, of course. He was a little crazy back then. Anyway, he's lived in this house for the last few years and now he's moving to L.A. I needed to come here, so I grabbed it up."
"Why are you here?"
"I got a teaching job through Napa Community College. Creative writing and a short story class. Night classes here at St. Helena High."
"Well, that's good." She took an uncertain drag on her cigarette, cocking a brow. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah, sure. Sure it's good." He tried to give her a genuine smile as he thought, Better than bouncing around a rubber room or using a gun to repaint my bedroom a deep shade of brain matter. "I've always wanted to try my hand at teaching."
"But you're still writing, aren't you?"
Roger half-shrugged.
"Well, you are, aren't you?" Betty was beginning to sound stern and motherly.
Someone came into the Munch Room and placed a sandwich and a Michelob in front of Roger, saving him from having to reply. He looked up to say thank you but could only stare silently for a moment at the beautiful, frightened eyes that briefly met his.
"Thank, um...thank you," he stuttered after a moment.
The girl quickly turned to leave, but Betty waved her back.
"Sondra, Sondra, c'mere."
The girl stopped suddenly, as if disappointed she hadn't escaped, slowly turned and came back to the table.
"Sondra, I want you to meet Roger Carlton, the writer you've heard so much about." She turned to Roger. "I talk about you all the time and I came in here screaming my head off the morning you were on that talk show." To Sondra: "Remember that?"
Roger was touched that she stilled seemed interested in him after he'd made no attempt to stay in touch for so long. But he gave that little thought; he couldn't take his eyes from the girl.
Her hair was the color of creamed coffee and her eyes, which he could not stop watching, were a deep, solid brown that darkened gradually into the black of her pupils.
She leaned over Betty's shoulder, holding out her hand cautiously, as if he might bite her.
"I knew who you were soon as you came in," the girl said, her eyes turned downward to the table. "I didn't see—" Her mouth was dry and she stopped to swallow. "I didn't see you on TV but, but I saw your picture in the paper."
Betty said, "The Chronicle ran your picture when they reviewed Ledges. It was a terrible picture, Roger. I hope you've had another taken."
Roger figured Sondra was about seventeen or eighteen. She wore no makeup and her skin was unblemished and fair. There was a darkness about her eyes that made eyeshadow unnecessary and somehow made her look worried.
As Roger shook her hand, her eyes met his for just a moment and he saw something in them: Flecks of gold, like minuscule slashes, tiny slits in the brown that opened up on something else.
She pulled her hand away and—Roger wasn't sure, but he thought he saw her wipe it on her apron.
"Nice to meet you," she said quickly, then spun around and hurried out.
Roger noticed as she left that she was quite tall, maybe taller than he.
"I just love watching the brains drip out of men's ears when she walks through the room," Betty said, laughing. She put out her cigarette. "Isn't she a stunner?"
"Yeah," Roger breathed. "Is she new?"
"She's been here about six months. That's a long time for the girls who work here. But then, everybody here's new to you. You've been gone too long." She reached over, took his face between her hands and gave him a big kiss. "Glad you're back, kiddo." Standing, she pointed a finger at him and said, "Tonight. Our place. Seven. We've got a lot to talk about. I'll tell Leo you're here."
After Betty
went back to the front of the deli, Roger took a back issue of American Film from the basket of magazines on the floor and absently thumbed through it as he ate, just scanning pictures and reading captions. He couldn't start an article because each time Sondra whisked in to wash some lettuce in the sink or slice some tomatoes, he had to look up and watch her go by.
She smelled only faintly of a sweet perfume, the kind a teenager would wear, and quickly rushed by him as if he weren't there, as if she were afraid he might speak to her.
The sandwich was delicious, but Roger couldn't finish it.
3.
Ten years before, when Roger was going to the Seventh-day Adventist college on the hill above St. Helena and living in the dormitory, DiMarco's Deli was a refuge, a place that served real meat, played rock and roll music over the rickety old speakers, and where no one damned you for drinking a beer. Of course, if you weren't careful, you might be spotted by one of the school's many narcs who occasionally came into DiMarco's for a vegetarian sandwich and a bottle of fruit juice, and who would immediately report your transgressions to a dean or some other faculty member.
When Roger quit college to write full time and moved down the hill to St. Helena, he frequented DiMarco's even more. It became a second home, or a sort of office, and the DiMarcos became a second family. His own small house was too enclosed and too empty.
He'd moved to St. Helena for two reasons; he loved the town and he wanted to be close to his friends at the college. He'd grown up with most of the students he knew there because he'd gone to Seventh-day Adventist schools since first grade. The Adventists are a close-knit, self-contained group; they have their own schools, their own hospitals, even their own towns. One of those towns was just eight miles north of St. Helena.