Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by Ray Garton

  Mr. Moser excused himself from the chatter, left the room, and headed down the main corridor of the church toward the front entrance, walking at a brisk pace, thinking of Brett.

  "Ed! What's your hurry?"

  He jerked to a stop and spun around to see Pastor Alexander coming out of his study.

  "Well," he began, pushing a smile onto his face, "I'm, uh...I'm in no hurry, really."

  "Then step in here for a minute. I'd like you to meet someone."

  Mr. Moser followed the little man with the big walrus mustache into his study where a man, woman, and little boy were seated on a brown vinyl-upholstered sofa facing his desk.

  "Ed Moser," Pastor Alexander said formally, "I'd like you to meet the Rileys, Jack, Betty and their son Jason."

  Mr. Moser smiled, shook Jack Riley's hand and said, "Pleased to meet you."

  "The Rileys have just moved to Manning," the pastor said. "This is going to be their first Sabbath with us."

  "Oh. Well. Glad to have you." Still forcing that smile, he glanced at his watch and made a note of the time. He had been gone almost half an hour.

  Pastor Alexander moved behind his desk and seated himself in his squeaky chair. "Have a seat, Ed."

  Mr. Moser thought of Brett back at the house, sitting in front of the television set watching a movie. What would it be tonight? Jaws? Stripes? The Wizard of Oz? Brett would not be going anywhere. Mr. Moser seated himself in a chair and turned it to so he could face both Pastor Alexander at his desk and the Rileys on the sofa.

  "Ed is one of our Sabbath school teachers," Pastor Alexander siad. "He works in X-ray at our hospital. Has quite a reputation up there, too. But I'm happy to say he's very generous with his time and he's devoted to our children here at the church." The pastor winked at Jason and said, "You'll be in his class tomorrow, Jason."

  The boy smiled hesitantly at Mr. Moser.

  "We'll be glad to have you, Jason," Mr. Moser said. "I've got a great bunch of boys and girls in my class."

  Jason blushed beneath his freckles and looked away bashfully.

  "That's a fine looking boy you have there," Mr. Moser said to the proudly beaming Rileys. "A fine looking boy.

  * * * *

  There were several movies on the tape, one after another in a continuous parade of naked bodies, thrusting hips and fondled genitals. Each one ended in explosions of what looked to Brett like thick soy milk.

  He hit FAST FORWARD, waited a moment, the pushed PLAY. More of the same. He did it again and found still more. He stopped the tape, then pushed REWIND and sat watching the ant races, thinking.

  Did Mr. Moser watch these movies? He must, or why else would he have them? Did he ever show them to anyone else? To whom? The movies would probably get him in big trouble with people at the church. Brett had never seen such movies before, but he had a pretty good idea they were not on the approved list.

  Brett wondered if his Sabbath school teacher had any more of these movies.

  He dashed down the hall to the living room and looked out the front window. Shadows were lengthening outside as the dark Sabbath approached, but there was no sign of Mr. Moser's car.

  He hurried back to the bedroom and began his search.

  Being careful not to disturb anything, Brett looked through drawers, under the bed, in the closet. He found nothing but underwear and clothes, shoes and some dusty boxes and books. Disappointed, he sat on the edge of the bed and slowly looked around for a place he might have missed.

  To his left, he saw two rectangular sliding doors in the headboard, each with a round brass knob in the center. He reached over and slid one aside, then the other.

  Boxed videotapes were neatly stored on the headboard shelf, labels facing out. From left to right were WARNER BROS. CARTOONS #1 through #7, with #2 missing. There were three more tapes labeled LITTLE RASCALS #1 through #3.

  Brett removed the fourth cartoon tape and put it in the VCR.

  After about two minutes of Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny arguing about whether it was duck season or rabbit season, more naked people appeared. Their movements made wet sounds as they gasped and grunted and said words Brett had never heard before. Brett rewound the tape, ejected it, and put it back on the headboard shelf.

  Wondering why they were labeled differently, Brett could not resist taking a look at one of the LITTLE RASCALS tapes. He chose #3. Once it was in the VCR, he sat on the bed again.

  The film—Our Gang in "The He-Man Woman-Haters Club"—was old with fuzzy black-and-white images and music and voices that seemed to be coming through a wall of gauze.

  A fat little boy and a tall skinny one with funny hair entered a makeshift clubhouse The fat one said, "Well, Alfalfa, this is the headquarters of the He-Man Woman-Haters Club."

  There were some other boys in the clubhouse and they all waved at Alfalfa, who waved back and said, "Gee, Spanky, I'd sure like to join. What do I have to—"

  Ant races.

  Then blackness.

  Brett slowly realized the blackness was a room, unlit and unoccupied. A light came on with a distant click, and Brett saw what looked like a doctor's examination table. It was covered with a sheet of heavy plastic. Tied to the table was a naked little boy. Brett squinted at the boy's still face.

  It was Jimmy Greenlaw.

  A naked man stepped into the picture, his back to the camera. His skin was white and flabby. When he finally spoke—

  "Okay," he breathed with moist anticipation, "oookay."

  —Brett recognized the voice.

  It belonged to Mr. Moser.

  * * * *

  It was only a matter of minutes before Jason Riley lost his bashfulness and was chatting with Mr. Moser as if they were old buddies.

  "Do you like bible stories, Jason?" Mr. Moser asked.

  "Sure do," the boy said, nodding.

  "They're my specialty. Tomorrow I'm telling the story of Daniel in the lion's den."

  "Oh, that's his favorite!" Mrs. Riley chimed in, putting an arm around her son's shoulders.

  Mr. Moser grinned. "Good. It's my favorite story to tell."

  Mr. Riley politely said it was time to go home and they all stood at once. Pastor Alexander suggested that he and Mr. Moser walk them to their car and they headed down the corridor at a leisurely pace, Jason walking beside Mr. Moser, who rested his hand on the boy's shoulder.

  Mr. Moser said with a smile, "I'm looking forward to having you in my class, Jason."

  * * * *

  Brett's fingers dug into the mattress and he felt something uncoil in his gut as he watched.

  His back still turned, Mr. Moser ran his hands over Jimmy's small, still body, his breaths heavy and wet and coming steadily faster. He turned so Brett could see him in profile, reached under the table and produced a white bottle. He squeezed something onto his palm and began rubbing it on his rigid penis as he stared open-mouthed down at Jimmy.

  Brett closed his eyes. He tried to put the walls up, tried to shut everything off the way he did in church. But it did not work.

  When Brett opened his eyes again, his Sabbath school teacher was holding Jimmy's legs up in the air and grunting as his dimpled buttocks made spastic thrusts.

  * * * *

  At the Riley's car in the parking lot, Pastor Alexander suggested Mr. Moser say a prayer and the five people joined hands in a small circle.

  "Dear heavenly father," he began, "we thank you for bringing these good people to our town and our church. We ask that you watch over them as they settle into their new home...."

  * * * *

  Brett sucked in a sharp, sickened breath and diverted his eyes, looking at the room on the screen.

  It looked like a garage only smaller, with lots of dusty shelves on the walls. Behind Mr. Moser and Jimmy was a large rusty metal sink; next to that were a washer and dryer. Below the table was a drain centered on the concrete floor surrounded by a large dark stain.

  Laundry room...it's a mess
...

  When Jimmy screamed, Brett clenched his eyes shut for a moment. He opened them again just in time to see Mr. Moser lift a hatchet over his head and bring it down with a heavy, wet crunch.

  * * * *

  "...We especially ask that you watch over young Jason. Guide him in your way, oh lord, and protect him from the snares and temptations of the evil one...."

  * * * *

  Blood shot upward in a crimson spray.

  Jimmy's scream ended abruptly in a wet coughing sound.

  * * * *

  "...Guide them safely home now, heavenly father, and rest them well so that we can all gather tomorrow in your name. We ask these favors in the name of your son Jesus...amen."

  "Amen," they repeated in unison.

  Mr. Moser gave Jason a friendly hug and said, "You'll have to come over to my place real soon and we'll go lizard hunting."

  "Okay!" Jason said happily. "I'd like that."

  Mr. Moser bid them goodnight and walked to his car.

  * * * *

  Another chop.

  ...a mess...

  Brett's fists unclenched and the tight knot in his stomach relaxed as he was finally able to put those walls up. Soon he felt numb, detached. He felt nothing.

  Just like in church.

  * * * *

  Driving down the road in his car, Mr. Moser slipped a cassette into his stereo. It was a tape he often played for his children in Sabbath school, an old album of Anita Bryant singing some children's gospel favorites. The first song began and he sang along.

  "Jesus loves the little chiiillldren...all the children of the wooorld..."

  He smiled, knowing that in just a few minutes, he would be able to give Brett his surprise.

  * * * *

  Brett stopped the tape.

  He thought of Mr. Moser teaching Sabbath school, leading them in song, in prayer, acting out bible stories and making them laugh. And he thought of what he had just seen.

  I have a surprise for you, Brett....

  ...a surprise...

  Brett stood, left the room, went to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. He was surprised to find it unlocked.

  The sink was across the room. The table was covered with canvas and boxes were stacked on it, making it look like a sort of workbench.

  The drain in the floor looked clogged with black, soggy lumps.

  To the right of the door was a tall wooden cupboard. Brett opened it and stared for a moment at the tripod, the black and gray camera case beneath it.

  He hurried down the hall to the front window and looked out again. He still saw no sign of Mr. Moser, but knew he probably had little time left to cover his tracks. It was getting darker.

  Back in the bedroom, he felt vaguely ill, like he might throw up. He hummed a church hymn and ignored it. He did not want to make a mess he would not have time to clean up.

  He ejected the LITTLE RASCALS tape and returned it to the headboard, then picked up Ghostbusters from the floor where he had left it. He wished he had time to see the movie. It would be even better if he could see Ghostbusters in a real theater on a real movie screen.

  The idea that came from that thought made his hands tremble.

  Hurried by a gnawing feeling of urgency—he knew Mr. Moser could not be gone much longer—Brett returned to the living room and put Ghostbusters back on the shelf. He found a small brown paper bag in the kitchen, took it to the bedroom and retrieved LITTLE RASCALS #3 from the headboard. He stuffed it into the bag, rushed out of the house and put the bag in the basket between his handlebars.

  Only seconds after he turned onto Glass Mountain Road, Brett heard a car up ahead. He drove his bike into a deep ditch, tumbled into the weeds and remained perfectly still, hoping he was out of sight.

  The car passed, slowed, then turned into the driveway. It was Mr. Moser.

  Brett waited until the crunch of tires on the dirt road began to fade, then pulled his bike onto the pavement again. Before getting back on, he leaned over and vomited into the ditch until his eyes ached.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then rode home, already thinking about tomorrow morning.

  * * * *

  Mr. Moser came to Sabbath school late the following morning. He rushed in looking rumpled and winded; his hair was mussed and his brow glowed with perspiration. The moment he entered, his eyes locked with Brett's and narrowed briefly to dark, bloodless cuts.

  He seemed preoccupied as he led the class through a few songs, kept tugging at his tie as he quizzed them on the weekly Sabbath school lesson, and wiped his brow again and again as he stuttered through a retelling of Daniel's stay in the lion's den. He cut the story short and excused himself, asking Mrs. Juarez, the pianist, to take over. Before leaving the room, Mr. Moser looked at Brett and nodded toward the door.

  Brett followed him.

  In the main corridor, Brett could hear the sanctuary organ played mournfully by Miss Potter in the adult Sabbath school class. Voices sang along glumly, blending and garbling until they seemed to be singing in some old dead language.

  Mr. Moser took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face and neck. When he was done, the cloth looked drenched.

  "I don't seem to be feeling too well, Brett," he said nervously. "What do you suppose might be wrong?"

  "I don't know. The flu, maybe?"

  "I don't think so." He dabbed the underside of his chin with the soggy handkerchief. "Enjoy the movie last night?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You, uh...you left before I could give you your surprise. That wasn't very nice. I thought maybe—"

  "I took it, Mr. Moser."

  He froze, still as a snapshot, his eyes searching Brett's face, mouth open slightly, tongue darting around inside.

  "Don't worry," Brett whispered. "The tape's in a safe place. And I won't tell anyone. If..."

  "If?" Mr. Moser breathed. "If what?"

  "If you do what I ask."

  A moment later, Mr. Moser chuckled. His nostrils flared and unspilled tears glistened in his eyes.

  "Blackmail," he muttered, shaking his head in wonderment. "I'm being blackmailed."

  "If anything happens to me," Brett said, "someone will find the tape. There's a note attached that explains everything." The part about the note was a lie, of course, but Mr. Moser had no way of knowing that.

  Mr. Moser wiped an eye with a knuckle, then scrubbed his shiny face with his palm.

  "I don't want much," Brett said.

  "And what...is that?"

  "I want you to take me to the movies. Whenever I want to go."

  The music and singing stopped and somewhere in the church, a chorus of voices exclaimed, "Amen!"

  * * * *

  The following morning, Brett called Mr. Moser and said he wanted to see the new Clint Eastwood movie. He really wanted to see Bedside Manner more than anything, but it was only playing in San Francisco, which was too far away. Besides, he wanted to see that movie with Mom; that would make it special. He and Mr. Moser agreed to go to a theater in Santa Rosa so no one they knew would see them.

  After hanging up, Brett went to the kitchen and told Grandma he was going for a bike ride and would be back in time for supper.

  "You stick close to the house," she ordered. "Don't go riding off someplace where you're all alone. And say your prayers!"

  On his way through the dark living room—it was dark even on sunny days—Brett saw Grandpa sitting in the far corner by the phone table. His big gnarled hands were joined on what little lap he had and his head turned slowly, following Brett as he passed.

  "See you later," he said, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed. Grandpa did something then that Brett had never seen him do before and he did not know quite what to make of it at first. The old man's lips pulled back around his scraggly teeth and the corners of his mouth twitched into slight curls. He was smiling! "Have a good time," he said.

  * *
* *

  In the car, Brett and Mr. Moser were silent for the first half of the drive. Mr. Moser fidgeted at the wheel, drumming his fingers and cracking his knuckles as he drove. He acted as if he were alone in the car.

  Brett finally spoke: "Was I going to be next?"

  Mr. Moser blinked, wiped his mouth, shifted his buttocks in the seat, but kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.

  "That was the surprise, wasn't it?"

  No reply.

  "Why do you do it?"

  Still nothing.

  "Because you enjoy it?"

  More silence. Brett almost gave up on the idea of getting a response, but then Mr. Moser spoke.

  "I can't help it," he said quietly.

  "Can't help what?"

  "What I do."

  Brett frowned. "Sure you can help it. Nobody has to do something like that."

  "I...I crave it. And the temptation...it's too strong."

  "Temptation? You mean, like from Satan?"

  "Yes. I'm too weak. I can't fight it. And I give in."

  "But why do you kill them?"

  Mr. Moser chewed on his lip a moment. "If I don't...they'll tell. I can't let that happen."

  "So you do sex to them because you...you crave it. And then you kill them to keep from getting caught."

  After a long pause, he nodded.

  "Then you were going to kill me."