Not Far From Golgotha

by Richard Futch

  Before he backed to the street, he watched her carefully measured steps to the door and the tediousness with which she opened it. He wanted to tap the horn once just to acknowledge their parting, but wisely thought better of it. Shaking his head and wondering if the number crumpled in his hand was legitimate, he drove away.

  Chapter 39

  Billy walked briskly down Dumaine, away from the river, just on the outskirts of the cobblestone courtyard that anchored the St. Louis Cathedral. The usual street performers and artists were scattered about as if they’d been shaken loose from the very sky itself, even though all did their best not to infringe on another’s space. Their effort was spent making their own appear the most fascinating. These performers held a strange, strong appeal to Billy, and he’d often come and watch. Give what he could as he tried to fathom their natures. Here were people willingly brave or foolish enough to scratch out a living practically from the very brick lining the walkways and porticos. Seeing them somehow usually made him feel better about himself, but not so today. Even the rapid-fire rhythms of the young, black dancers with beer-capped tap shoes only sounded like artless clatter.

  He held the scrap of paper Gerda had given him tightly in hand. Pointless, really since the information it held (scant as it was) had been committed immediately to memory when she’d handed it to him. 267 Ursulines Street, not far from here. Billy took a right on Chartress, one block down from the river. Two more blocks and then a left.

  He moved at a fast trot, glancing at the address once more, continually assuring himself the number he’d memorized was the correct one. And after finding himself right each time he refolded the scrap and stuffed it back into his pocket. Out it would come again seconds later. Now he could just see the black street sign he was in search of, mounted high atop the green, antique lamp pole in hopes no one would steal it.

  He walked beneath the lamp and checked the addresses across the street. The first one read 189 Ursulines in bold Gothic script. Not far then, just about as expected. He jaywalked across the intersection to the odd-numbered side, the first address in the second block, 201. Now his walk slowed because many of the fronts bore no addresses whatsoever, while others only barely managed to state their tenants’ names with vague, yellowed tags set next to intercoms beside wrought-iron fences.

  He didn’t find the address as written; found instead a sudden fluttering upon a second story balcony. The wind soon fleshed out the material into a raincoat as Billy stood watching below.

  There was no doubt as to who it belonged to as Billy recalled the night Ebenezer had burst in from the storm, railing like King Lear on the stormy moor. Billy quickly jogged ahead, straining his eyes to see if there was anyone on the balcony. He saw two French, double-doors hanging open, their curtains dancing the same steps with the raincoat, but there was only darkness farther back. Perhaps the erratic flicker he saw inside was the light from a television.

  He came out of the street where he’d drifted for this vantage point, and stepped quickly to the thick, wooden set of three steps which ascended behind an iron fence to a dim alcove. He squinted into the murky shadows crouched in and against the side of the building, searching with his finger through the fence for a name or number. There, right there; his finger stopped. 267, Ebenezer Holgren. He pushed the button on the intercom, fearing it no longer worked. It had surely seen happier times. In fact the whole building appeared, at least from the outside, fairly uncared for. However, you could never tell; the cover of a book was oftentimes misleading. He considering walking back out to the street and hailing Ebenezer from there, but before he committed himself to this action, he pushed lightly at the irongate stuck on thick poles embedded in the concrete sidewalk. He laughed quietly when it rocked back easily on surprisingly quiet hinges. He peered at the lock as he passed within. Not much use.

  Perfect, Billy thought. A veil of mystery (deception?) surrounds everything about him. He made the skinny, creaking stairway and started up, with each step the knot of apprehension tightening in his belly.

  He held onto the piping to the top of the landing where the beaten STOP sign held up the wall. He pursed his lips, his hand hovering in the air, and knocked. Once. He caught his hand before he could do it again, and crazily entertained the idea of taking off. At that very second the unseen, overhead bulb jolted to life, filling the area with light. Billy jumped, bumping the wall, challenging the authority of the STOP sign as it thumped against the wall. A second later the familiar, gruff voice barked out.

  “Who da hell is it?”

  Billy paused, wondering if this was a good idea. He swallowed hard, then, “It’s Billy.”

  Nothing for two beats. “Billy, huh. Well, I’ll be good goddamned,” and a familiar laugh passed like smoke from underneath the door. Billy heard shuffling footsteps and then the rasp of a dead bolt. The door remained closed. “Come on in, boy!,” Ebenezer said a little louder, so that Billy could practically picture the old man even if he could not actually see him. Eyes crystal-clear as he made his way back into the living room, tossing the greeting over his shoulder like a handful of salt for good luck.

  Billy reached down, grasped the door knob, and opened the door. Pushing inside revealed a small, tiled foyer which branched off quickly to the right. Inside was almost as dim as the stairwell had been, seemingly illuminated only by the last, faint rays of sunshine spilling in through the French doors. Billy heard the old man settle heavily into a chair, the springs shooting off like pellet guns in the echo-filled room. Billy stepped inside and shut the door quietly, not yet used to the odd acoustics. Around the corner he heard low, incoherent mumblings from a television. He walked the few short steps across the foyer, eyeing the many old movie posters glowering from the shadowed walls all around. Both familiar and unfamiliar faces regarded him with an unnerving silence.

  When he rounded the edge of the wall he saw Ebenezer’s slipper-clad feet perched on the footrest of his easy chair. The old man was dressed in a robe and his hair was wild as usual. He clicked the television into silence when Billy entered, and his smile served to break the nervousness Billy had prominently carried with him into the room.

  “Well, well,” Ebenezer said, gesturing for the boy to sit upon the richly-lumped couch pushed against the opposite wall. Billy went to it, noticing all the furniture in the room was situated close to the walls; everything that is, except the old man’s chair. It seemed to serve as a pulpit of sorts, a pivotal axis around which everything else revolved. The other décor, besides the array of interesting and brooding posters, was Spartan but comfortable. Billy tried to imagine how many times the couch had borne a passed-out drunk. From its condition, countless. He sat down and leaned back in a pose of relaxation.

  “Hello, Ebenezer,” he began, now searching for the right words as to why he’d come. There were some he’d entertained on the way over, and knowing Ebenezer, he chose the bluntest. “I didn’t make it back, but I’m glad you left the address with Gerda.” He picked up speed in case Ebenezer tried to cut in. “I just about kicked myself in the ass when I didn’t, and I didn’t know if you’d be pissed---“

  Ebenezer fanned off this attempt with a wave. “Please, no excuses. I owe none and expect none. I’m glad ya decided ta stop by. Damn shoulder’s been pitchin a bitch all morning so I been holed up. I really hate layin around on my ass all day, and hell, with them damn pain-killers I ain’t even had a drink. Tried a couple days back and almost puked.”

  “But you are feelin better, I hope?” Billy tried restively.

  “Oh, yeah. Damn good. Just like ta bitch, is all.” Ebenezer snapped the footrest back into the chair and tottered to a standing position. “Let’s move out ta the veranda, m’ boy. I love ta feel the City breathe.” He made his way to the French doors, fingering his chin before deciding the request. “Why don’t ya grab us two cold ones from the box. Ain’t gonna let my company go dry; what kinda gentleman would I be? A beer can’t kill ya.” Billy nodded and went to the box as Ebenezer
stepped gingerly through the French doors.

  Chapter 40

  On the balcony, Ebenezer positioned the thinly-cast wrought iron chairs so they faced down Ursulines Street toward the river. “The angle’s a little better this way,” he assured Billy, pointing. “I love ta watch the sun reflectin off the windows, really showin off the brickwork. Some days it’s magic; ya’d half expect a genie ta dance a two-step down there by the shop front,” he said, now nodding.

  Billy sipped the beer, then set it between his legs. The wind made a difference up here, much more so than down on the street, and it gave him a feeling of privilege, as if suddenly privy to a long-kept secret. He peered over the railing, watching the usual miasma of people strolling through the Quarter. Some with packages, others with cameras, some just walking.

  Ebenezer gazed at the brick facades across the street, squinting at the way vines and other curious plant life sprouted directly from the cracks in the brick itself. Despite their location some were practically the size of window shrubs, hanging over the buildings’ ramparts, refusing to give an inch as their roots dug deeper into the mortar. Tiny cracks were filled and forced larger in their steady advance, and it was a marvel, the utter resilience of these once wind-blown seeds.

  “Damndest thing, ain’t it?” Ebenezer commented, catching Billy looking too. A miniscule smile crept at his features.

  Billy was taken unawares. “What’s that?”

  “The plants growin all over the sides a them buildins. Hardly a bare strip a ground for blocks, but somehow they still manage ta make somethin a theirselves.”

  “I know what you mean,” Billy acknowledged. He snapped his fingers. “Reminds me, there’s this building on Esplanade, close to where the Interstate comes across. One whole side is completely covered. It almost looks like the side of a hill, really, like the building was rolling backward in Time somehow.”

  “Yes sir, I seen it,” Ebenezer said, nodding his head, gazing down the street. “Kinda makes ya wonder, don’t it? Where’s the separation line? We’re all fightin for every square inch be ya bug or tycoon.” The sarcasm in his voice was almost surprising. Billy took another sip into the face of the breeze.

  They sat in silence for several more minutes, each quietly digesting their impressions. When it felt appropriate Billy said, “I’m glad you left the address. I kinda get the feeling I’ve made a habit of running out on you whenever we meet.” Even though it took a fair amount of will power to get this out, Billy could not miss the concerned, mystified expression deep in Ebenezer’s eyes as the old man turned to face him.

  ”Christ, boy,” Ebenezer said, his tone just a step from reprimand. “’Ow many times I gotta tell ya? Ya don’t owe me nothin. Ya hear? Ya ain’t bound ta me, for Christ’s sake. I just tell a few stories and drink beer. Hell, everthin’s therapy, each ever-livin day. We all got our ways.” Surprisingly, he reached out and slapped Billy on the knee. “We just pass a coupla beers between business.” Then he quickly looked away, hurrying the mug to his mouth. After taking a mighty heave he wrinkled his nose and snorted violently. Shaking his empty can, he cracked a smile. “That weren’t too bad. How bout one more?”

  “You got it,” Billy replied.

  “Well what the hell ya waitin for!? Get in there and get ‘em so we can close those doors! Goddamn mosquitoes’ll carry me off tonight if I leave ‘em open much longer. Like the jungle around here, the way them damn things come on all goddamn year!”

  Billy nodded both approval and affirmation, standing up. When he turned his back on Ebenezer to go inside the old man spoke again. “Come for another story, did’ya?” he asked bluntly.

  Billy didn’t even turn around. “You bet I did,” he said, disappearing into the darkened room.

  Chapter 41

  “Sit down,” Ebenezer said, halfway down himself already in the worn recliner. Billy walked over and set the cold beer on the tray resting nearby, and then attempted his former place on the couch. “WHOA, don’t sit down yet!” Ebenezer contradicted and Billy stopped, for what he did not know. Ebenezer pointed toward the French doors. “Sorry ta be a pain in the ass, kid, but the damn door didn’t set when I closed it. Just saw another one a those damn mosquitoes fly in. Could ya get it for me? Makes a little dry rasp when it catches.”

  Billy went to do it, listening as Ebenezer cursed furiously, swatting at one of the long-legged mosquitos bobbing idiotically around the room. “Goddamn bugs!” he shouted. Billy pushed the door and sure enough, a faint little rasp issued when the groove was met. He turned and went to his seat, increasingly aware (as he took a good look around within the glow of the kitchen light) of the enormous number of posters hanging from the old man’s walls. It was a virtual history of Hollywood crammed into five hundred square feet. There were Hepburn and Cagney, Durante and Stallone, DeNiro and Taylor; Brando brooded from a corner while Bogey smoked silently near a bookcase. Burton, Dean, Monroe, Pacino, Portier, both Fondas, Davis, Crawford, and on and on; everyone accounted for; everyone in silent respect of all others. And somehow, at the center, this strange old man holding forth for his private audience.

  “Got a ton a ‘em, don’t I?” Ebenezer said proudly, catching Billy’s interest. He took a healthy swallow of brew and bent to the side, pilfering with something Billy could not see.

  In fact, Billy was just about to voice his interest in James Dean when Ebenezer stopped the unspoken comment by sliding the chest into view. Billy had only seen trunks like it before in movies, movies like the ones lurking on the walls around him. The trunk was obviously constructed from old cedar, rusty iron bands strapping it together. Billy immediately forgot Dean as Ebenezer began speaking, withdrawing a key from his pocket and placing it into the lock.

  “Had a friend a mine; Italian fella, used ta work down in the Warehouse District. Met ‘im at a Mardi Gras parade ‘bout a century ago.” He gently pried the lid back and rummaged within, grunting until he found whatever it was he searched for. “Hah!” he spouted, withdrawing a small journal before closing the lid again carefully. Ebenezer held up the small book with one hand as he pushed the chest out of view again with the other. “Guy’s name was Calandro, ten years younger’n me but that don’t mean much when ya’re dead, does it?” He fought a pinched smile that touched the corners of his mouth. “Poor guy ditched thirteen years ago this comin May. On a Friday as I remember, emphysema. Damn cigarettes’ll kill ya,” he said and took another pull from the mug.

  The light floating in from the kitchen didn’t appear substantial enough to read by, if that was in fact what Ebenezer planned to do. And as if in answer the old man reached over and pulled a completely concealed lamp chord hanging from the ceiling. A gentle, gloomy glow absorbed into the room, providing perfect ambience for reading, the mood suddenly created akin to something out of the Brothers Grimm. The effect was a trivial majesty that Ebenezer appeared ignorant of, but the old man was wily; Billy thought that much was so and it would be well to remember. It was ever harder to tell what was staged and what wasn’t. Ebenezer patted the cover of the book with one finger.

  “This journal came outta one a them warehouses. Got no name or address, but plenty a clues, nonetheless. A diary a sorts. A diary uva profession and a man.” He rubbed a hand through his thick beard. “When I finish ya’ll see,” and Ebenezer waved the book in front of his face, “the author was completely mad. Perhaps even…possessed.”

  Billy leaned over, finding it hard to distinguish where this mysterious introduction would lead. “What is it?” he asked dumbly. Ebenezer pulled off the rubber band that held the covers tight and tossed the journal over. Billy caught it easily, noticing the cover was completely blank; no title; there were also no markings on the spine or back. But it was obviously very old. A musty smell of mildew and yellowed pages drifted out reminding him (for some unknown reason) of coffee. Or the basement darkness of a museum, something else whispered; the smell of decomposing secrets, came from yet another. When he opened the tome Billy found a tight
cryptic scrawl overwhelmed every page front to back.

  “Hmm,” was all he managed. Then he closed the volume and stood up to hand it back to Ebenezer. The old man set it down in his lap. “So tell me about it,” Billy prodded.

  Ebenezer snapped the small journal up in his craggy hand. “Calandro used ta work in one a the warehouses by the river,” he said. “I tole ya that already. Years ago, way back, he assured me anythin and everthin in the world was stored somewhere in one a them warehouses, everthin from delinquent estate property taxes ta the bones a slaves from botched escape attempts before the Civil War. Ever been inside one?” He crooked his eyebrow at Billy.

  “Never have.”

  “Yeah, no matter. But believe me, I been in a few and it don’t take long ta believe what ‘e said. Some a the older buildins’re straight outta the Twilight Zone.” He waved a hand in the air. “Anyway, back ta how I got the book. Calandro give me a call one weekend. Middle a the summer, and Jesus H. Christ, the heat!. Even the rats, damn near as big as beagles, just layin there in the spaces between boxes pantin as we went by. Ya didn’t dare step on one a them damn things either, lemme tell ya.”

  He took a pull from his mug to lose the rasp from his voice. “Anyway in this partic’lar place, a whole back wall—and this was one hell uva wall lemme tell ya—was used for storin private articles like furniture, antiques, the works. Everthin was packed inta these huge, wooden crates with numbers in the corner, and then they was stacked one on top uv another ta the ceilin. And keep in mind, that ceiling was about fifty feet above our heads! Musta been about a twelve thousand foot section square, piled full.” Ebenezer popped out the footrest and Billy likewise leaned back on the couch to hear what followed.

  “Calandro’d somethin ta show me that godawful hot day,” Ebenezer continued. “Somethin long lost among all the piles a this privately owned bullshit people had stashed, and for one reason or the other, forgotten. Calandro tole me he’d seen billing manifests listin some a the stuff as old as the ‘70s. Not the 19’s, the 18’s. Plantation goods boxed after the Civil War for one, a box discovered in a shuffle one day turnin out ta contain what was left a two very old, very chained bodies. Years ago, accordin ta Calandro.