Not Far From Golgotha
RICHARD FUTCH
Not Far From Golgotha
Copyright 2015 Richard Futch
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From scrap found in trunk
When the wailing drained out
in the evening, where the
cobblestones still held the sound
of thumping hoofbeats,
there remained a trace of
unseen blood, darkly
staining in one corner of
the temple
not far from Golgotha.
Crosses and moans were
no peculiarity here, no more
than bread and water
for the soul,
to be broken, absorbed
like the Son
as his faithful drifted away
leaving the Hill of Skulls
where His blood darkly thickened,
painting the vicious ground,
leaving the blood in the temple
another wasted essence
it seems,
another ended purpose.
As the old tom licked his lips
in satisfaction, mutely
beneath the pews…
not far from Golgotha.
Ebenezer Holgren
May 11, 1957
October 27, 1991
Chapter 1
The wind whipped around the corners of the buildings, leaving behind rippled beads of light reflecting the downpour. A fine patina of humidity tossed its bloated, ghostly form from wall to wall. Billy kept his head tucked into his shoulders, his eyes studying the path his shoes cut in the sluice on the sidewalk. The storm had been growing since early in the afternoon and its throaty howl warned only of increasing fury.
Even so, he hardly felt the stinging drops. He kept remembering the telephone call from his mother. “Elizabeth's tests came in today," she'd said, her voice hardly above a whisper but maintaining its standard, forceful control. And she’d continued, although her voice had been lost to him. In its place a maddened, unsolicited wandering had blocked his thoughts, phased away his mother’s endless litany. He’d hung up at some point.
And now, block after block later in the murky, steaming French Quarter he’d drained completely. For more than an hour he’d simply sat on a covered stoop halfway down Royal Street, watching as the rain blossomed from its first fatty drops into the gale that had him now.
It’d been the better part of three hours since he left the Personnel Director’s office at the hospital. Mr. Wallace had approached concern when Billy requested the rest of the day off and that was bothersome, uncomfortable: this feigned sentiment spewing from the iceberg. The man knew nothing of Billy’s family. In truth, Wallace had spoken to him on no more than five occasions since Billy’s initial interview, and by this date Billy didn’t want or need sentiment.
He fully realized how the Robert Wallace’s of the world perceived him: an unexplainable waste, an underachiever. In short, a loser finally getting what he deserved from lack of initiative. Billy tried hard not to sniff too far along this trail. As far as he was concerned, the sonofabitch could choke himself to death on hospital politics until he was a time bomb of clogged arteries and Bermuda shorts. Just as long as he kept his goddamn distance. Disdain was something Billy was perfectly capable of handling as long as it came silently, and from a distance.
But Elizabeth, Jesus Christ, Elizabeth. Her weight loss had been dramatic, but weren’t there a hell of a lot of other possibilities like stress, maybe, or some gland simply being out of whack? My God, he thought, shaking his wet head as he shuffled down the sidewalk. She was only twenty-one, four years his junior.
Low, ominous rumblings wafted down the street. The bilious fog thickened, carting fat, oily drops of rainwater and filth to its breast as the wind calmed to catch its breath. A bolt of lightning burned fleetingly in the windows fronting the street, gone before its roaring gnash of thunder exploded seconds later. Billy’s rain-proofed trench coat was close to surrender by the time he saw through the melee a wildly flapping canopy beating away in the shadows of an exhausted building’s facade. Set into the wall behind it peered a neon sign, blinking like a murky eye through a great swirl of muddy water. Its neon article was broken, hanging in pieces. It coughed simply and weakly: “Ripcord…Ripcord…Ripcord,” as if barely possessing the strength to whisper its existence.
He ducked underneath the canopy (finally free of the sharp stinging rain on his face) the same moment another closer boom roared overhead, shaking the souls of the very buildings around him. There was no telling how long it would last, but he took no further notice as he grabbed the brass handles and pulled. Nothing ever closed in New Orleans.
Stepping inside, he paused for his eyes to adjust. Though he’d become accustomed to the swirling gloom outside, there was a bruise of a different sort here. Grainy purple and red bulbs threw off thin, spreading shades to the walls, every corner and nook melting back into the thick, bare wood. The place fairly burst with the pleasant scent of cypress and oak, mixed with a grand dash of whiskey, malt, and barroom philosophy. It immediately reminded Billy of his grandfather’s private parlor years back, that mysterious and wonderful cove the old man had used to escape the hard glare of his harried wife or any one of a dozen screaming kids set loose by their parents in his home. Soft but lively jazz pulsed from the Wurlitzer in the corner.
Billy saw no one near his age, even a good twenty years distanced him from the barmaid. He sized up the place as each of the old barhounds took a studied moment to size him up before turning back to their worn-out tales. Then he crossed to the bar and chose a stool that squeaked loudly when he sat down. “Yes?” the barmaid asked in a roughly courteous voice filed down by years of cigarettes.
“Turkey and water,” he told her.
“Got plenty of both,” she replied and turned away. When she brought the drink back he paid her without another word. Then he threw back his head and drank deeply, oblivious to both the noises inside and out.
In a relatively short time he poured his way through that and another, musing over Elizabeth and feeling sicker with every passing moment. And as these torturous thoughts rang freely through his head the door suddenly blew open, the wind violently tearing a small stack of napkins lying next to him into a fluttering dance across the bar.
Billy turned around with a wet collar blown against his chin.
An old man barreled inside shaking himself like a dog. Silver, frazzled hair threw water in every direction while he deftly detached and flipped his overcoat from his shoulders to a previously invisible coat rack stuffed into a nearby spider-webbed corner. “Jesus Christ!” the old man bellowed. “It’s blowing like Camille out there, boys!”
As he stomped into the purple and red gloom several of ‘the boys’ acknowledged his presence but didn’t go to the trouble of stopping whatever they were doing to come over and engage him. The newcomer paid no mind. He simply waddled over to the bar several seats away from Billy and sat down with a thump. His seat, too, gave a squeak. He glanced over at Billy, carefully offering a brisk nod and a wink. “Wasn’t me,” he assured the boy before turning back to the woman. “Maggie, let’s hurry, my dear. This old man’s freezin.” Maggie, without question, quickly brought over a shot glass of Wild Turkey and Billy watched from the cor
ner of his eye as its contents vanished instantaneously. “Thank ya, my love,” the old man growled. “A thousand golden crowns await ya beautiful head in Heaven.” The old man placed the shot glass softly on the bar, and pushed it away with one bent, arthritic finger. “Let’s have another,” he whispered. He happened another glance at Billy and saw the nearly empty glass sitting before him. “And how ‘bout one for the young man here?” he proposed.
He swiveled toward Billy and extended his hand. “Ebenezer Holgren,” he snapped. “Glad ta meet ya son,” even though he hadn’t. Billy nodded his head and let it slide. It was pouring outside and the old man’s handshake felt genuine enough. Billy squeezed back and found the gumption somewhere inside to smile.
Chapter 2
As the storm ranted between spurts of ominous pants and pauses the two proceeded on their mutual pilgrimage to drunkenness. They gradually washed off their perches at the bar, coming to rest at a decrepit table farther back near the Wurlitzer. Billy finally relegated his dripping coat to the back of an empty chair at Ebenezer’s urging. What must have been at least a Bing Crosby-era, red, Christmas light hung naked above the table, and although flecks of white shone through, the shading effect was soothing even if a little garish.
Billy could feel his tongue knotting up, his mind suddenly full of things that needed to be said. The rub was in the telling, however, because he continued staring into his drink, struck silent, as the old man rambled. After a while Ebenezer stopped his steady flow and looked hard at the young man. “Somethin on ya mind?” he inquired, neither exasperated nor irritated, just mellow and inviting.
“I found out today my sister’s probably gonna die.” The words came out flat and dead, as a matching set to his mood. Billy saw himself suddenly in a larger light, a piece to a puzzle slotting into place: an average person faced with a loved one’s oblivion. It seemed to Billy a huge, unrecognized slice of human history revolved around this single circumstance: ambition and happiness dashed upon the shore of singular desolation. The finished puzzle was not a heartening one. “The reports came in today,” he finished, both the statement and his drink. What remained of the ice settled wetly.
Ebenezer turned from the table, raised a finger to Maggie in a silent request for another round to sort amongst them before swiveling back. He had no problem looking Billy in the eye. “A kid like you, huh?” he asked.
Feeling the last harsh grasp of whiskey knotting his stomach, Billy croaked, “Yeah.” Then silence.
Maggie appeared, ghostlike, with the drinks and vanished with the same stealth. Ebenezer brought the drink to his lips and initially Billy thought the old man would start on a new topic, disregarding the last. Outside a bitter smash rattled the broken shutters, kicked against the door as if entreating entry. “That, my friend, is a goddamn shame,” Ebenezer replied. His face grew hard, but somehow paradoxically passive as he set the drink back down.
“I know,” Billy answered. “I know.”
Later, it came to a simple question, one that would form the foundation for the peculiar friendship that followed.
Chapter 3
“Ya like stories?” Ebenezer asked, his voice maintaining a craggy dignity despite the copious amount of whiskey he’d put away. Billy folded weakly against the back of his chair. He knew standing would be an embarrassment.
“Yeah,” he answered with dragging tongue.
“Well son…Sorry, Billy,” Ebenezer drunkenly corrected himself. “I got a good one. Plenty as a matter a fact.” He looked off, gazing into the past to recall old memories. “If ya want I’ll tell ya what happened ta me during WWII, the Big One. A little tour I did in the godforsaken jungles outside Cape Town, South Africa ‘fore I flew in the European stage a that magnificent killing field. Nasty place, South Africa, regardless what the National Geographic says ‘bout it,” he amended before drinking a quick sip as primer.
Billy rubbed a hand across his forehead, trailed it down his face. Already a thick stubble raked at his fingertips. The glass sat on a foggy, lonesome island waiting for his stomach to catch up.
“—ta hear?” Billy blinked his eyes.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“The story. Care ta hear it?”
“Yeah, okay.” From the continuing roar outside Billy knew he wasn’t going anywhere soon, and a story touched him the right way: simply. He nodded his head to match his reply.
“Good, good!” Ebenezer exclaimed, the response germinating toward Billy like a seeking root, wrapping its tendrils lightly around the audience of one. Oddly enough, Ebenezer’s enthusiasm seemed to ease the torturous grind manifest in Billy’s stomach and head. He relaxed and slid deeper into the chair.
Nonetheless, he let the glass maintain a respectable distance.
“Well,” Ebenezer began, and the rest of the night slipped away.
Chapter 4
“Was seventeen in 1943. Too young ta be in the army but in all the same. There was ways back in the days. Seemed like every man went if he could piss a straight line and didn’t have a habit a droppin soap in the shower. Didn’t have all the hippy bullshit like in Vietnam. Besides, I wasn’t gonna miss out on all the fun.” Ebenezer laughed dryly, sardonically recalling ideas that had lost their novelty. He nodded his head as if checking a bearing before continuing. “I’as an orderly, kinda similar ta what you do, I suppose.” Billy didn’t, but what did it matter? “Patchin up soldiers at this make-shift med unit set in a piece a hollad-out jungle.
“Place sat on a big hill surrounded on three sides by some a the thickest goddamn jungle ya ever saw. The fourth side,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating what Billy could not see, “faced the ocean. One road led ta our supply base,” and he held up one finger. He took another quick sip. “Mostly, we was just plain cut off. When it rained, and Sweet Jesus it rained, the road and trails become somethin looked like a huge snail laid down. Thick as potata soup. Sometimes took weeks ta dry.
“The only other road ran down the backside through a lil depression, away from the med post, finishin up at a dock we built on the beachhead. We used the dock road ta jockey supplies back and forth from the ships if the weather was right. When it was we’d drive the Jeeps right down ta the water’s edge. Didn’t happen often but when it did saved a helluva lotta time. Mostly though, it was pretty near slick as owl shit, so we also built this sorta descendin staircase parallelin the road outta the dock. Used cement for all the posts ta keep the fucker from washin out in the deluges. Took longer ta hump supplies and the wounded when ya had ta, but it was the only way. Gotta make do, ya know?” Billy nodded that he did.
“Sometimes men died on the ships because we couldn’t even get ‘em ta the base. Send medics and supplies out, probably as good a facility as we had, but hell, Death was everwhere those days. Seemed ta fly in front a our faces, snickerin like a bratty child. And all ya cud do was watch ‘er go.” He took a long swallow, finishing the high-ball. He raised a finger for Maggie’s attention. “Another please, my dear,” he mouthed. She came over to fetch the glass and Ebenezer turned to Billy. “You?” he asked.
“How about a glass of water.”
“Sure, sure,” Ebenezer replied. “Ain’t lost ya, ‘ave I?” A quick scrutiny of Billy’s face followed as the old man searched for flaws.
“No,” Billy assured him.
“Don’t worry son,” he told him. “I’ll get ta the point. They called me ‘private-first class,’ but I called myself ‘gopher’. Did everthin anybody above me didn’t wanta do. And one a the worst things was pickin up those goddamn supplies from the military base almos twenty miles up that long, shitty road. It was closer ta eight or nine as the crow flew, but a gopher ain’t got no wings. We did have a Jeep though, all beefed-up, and it could really get it even when the weather wasn’t so good. Other times it was like wallowin with a pig through a sty. On average, I made it there and back in a rough three hours,” he said, holding up three fingers this time.
“This th
ing I’m gonna tell ya happened when I was comin back one day. And the weather was nice then. Goes ta show ya never can tell, huh?” Ebenezer cleared his throat. “I saw a man lyin in the middle a the road right where he hadn’t been when I came through hour, hour-n-half earlier. His head was layin in a mudpuddle and he was out. Looked dead ta me and God knows where he come from. But he’as one a ours, no doubt. An there I was an I want ya ta try an picture it.” He held up his hands and framed an area above the table with his fingers. “Middle a Fuckin Nowhere, lit’rally, and this guy layin in the middle a the road like he just came off a bender on Bourbon Street.” Billy could see the old man meant every word. His eyes told the same story his lips did.
“Well, see Billy. I just pulled the Jeep over ta the side and sat there a moment, tryin ta get everthin straight in my head. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I says ta myself. ‘What the hell is this?’ I ‘member havin my hand on the butt a my revolver as I walked up like I was fixin ta spook a goddamn snake.” He ran a rough hand over his lips and sucked in his breath.
“I was fuckin scared,” Ebenezer whispered, so low it seemed an unintentional afterthought. His eyes radiated wild light and a nerve ticked above his right eye. “I walked over sorta hunched over. Nudged him with the toe a my boot and that’s when he groaned.” Ebenezer stared across the table at Billy, his face drawn in harsh lines. “But real quiet, almos like a baby wakin up from a nap. Not exactly a groan, not exactly cryin. That’s when it hit me ta get my ass in gear and I bent down like somebody cracked a fuckin whip and rolled him out the mud. And it was like everthin around me sorta loosened up somehow ‘cause there wasn’t no ghost there no more. Only a kid younger than you are now, sick and dyin.”
Maggie returned with their drinks and, oddly enough, Billy saw aside from Ebnezer’s drink she had both a glass of water and another beer for him. And at that moment he realized the woman had read his mind, or perhaps she merely already knew the story. It definitely called for something stronger than water. Billy found himself hanging on every word. The storm added perfect vitality to Ebenezer’s spell, one that grew more immense despite its owner’s vast consumption of alcohol. Strangely, the old man didn’t look any drunker; just a little louder, more emphatic.
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