Not Far From Golgotha

by Richard Futch

  Something was definitely wrong. The old man had been too quick to change the subject when Billy asked what he’d been doing earlier. There’d been the warning look not to go too far, and Billy hadn’t, even though it had taken plenty of resolve. Of course he’d seen the old man drunk, but never incapacitated. Not like this; Ebenezer slumped head in hands, his forehead almost resting on the closed stein in front of him. Billy couldn’t be completely sure (not with the hum of the other patrons in the bar and the scratchy sounds coming from the Wurlitzer), but it sounded like the old man was mumbling or singing lightly to himself. Perhaps he was praying.

  Billy bit his lip, trying to decide what to do. There would be no repeat of last time. There was no more room in his soul to run again. He would see the old man home. So committed, he swallowed the last warm sip of beer, and stood up quietly before making his way to the bar. Shelly spotted him halfway between and met him at the corner, concern showing on her ruddy face. She wiped absently at an already dry spot on the bar in front of them. “Shelly,” Billy said, scratching the back of his neck. “Could you do me a favor?”

  She seemed not to acknowledge him at first, looking past his shoulder at Ebenezer who still had his head in his hands. Billy looked back too, thinking by now the old man was probably asleep, or if not, fast approaching it. “He’s really tying one on tonight, ain’t he?” Billy heard Shelly ask and he turned back to face her.

  “No doubt. Can you call us a taxi? I’ll go with him and make sure he gets home, especially after what happened last time. Never seen him like this. Drunk, yeah, but not like this.”

  “You got a point. He’s been coming around long before me, but I never seen him so…used up.” She shook her head as Billy considered her assessment. “I’ll call the cab,” he heard her say. “Shouldn’t take ‘em long. I’m telling you, he’s really been pouring through ‘em today. Hasn’t been himself since he got mugged, seems like.” She cast a concerned eye on Billy.

  He nodded his head. “I know,” he agreed. “Too many pain killers and not so much booze. Until tonight. Something must have happened today.

  “Like what?” Shelly prompted.

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. He wouldn’t say.” He thought for a moment. “When I tried he changed the subject.”

  Shelly held up her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “All right,” she said, backing away from him. “I’ll ring the cab. He’ll poke his head in when he gets here. We do business all the time.”

  “’Preciate it,” Billy told her before walking back to the table.

  Ebenezer managed to turn his head and crack an eye when Billy sat back down. The old man’s tongue leaked out and ran across his lips, his features a hostage of fatigue. “Oh, my boy,” he fairly croaked. “I gotta get home…” His voice held the sum-total weight of the beer he’d consumed and the tale he’d told. He made as if to stand, but Billy reached over and pushed down gently on one shoulder. Ebenezer simply folded without protest.

  “I’ve got a cab on the way, Eb. Neither one of us needs to walk home tonight after that bullshit last time.” He included himself just in case the old man believed he was being coddled. There was no conceivable reason to add any potential gasoline to dying embers. Billy wanted a painless transportation.

  “A cab?” Ebenezer mumbled, as if the word had no meaning.

  “Yeah,” Billy replied, making a stab at humor. “I left my two-seater at home and the subway hasn’t gotten this far yet…”

  Ebenezer didn’t catch the joke. “Yeah, well, guess ‘at’s all right…” and he went back to cradling his head in his hands.

  *

  After the cab came, and Billy had helped the old man to the waiting Chevy idling within the cloud of carbon monoxide escaping through a crack in the worn-out muffler, Ebenezer continued his morose silence. He slumped against the window, occasionally staring out at the passing buildings (Billy knew because he watched him continuously), offering no comments and fielding no questions. Thankfully, (there was so much to be thankful for, after all, Billy thought sardonically), after a few vain attempts at mundane conversation the cabby had given up and drove them on to Ebenezer’s apartment in a quiet disturbed only by the tortured engine’s infrequent, but vocal, complaints.

  By the time they pulled up to the curb on Ursulines Street the fog had built again, leaving the street milky and damp in the glow of the street lamps. Billy got out to help Ebenezer up the stairs to his place, signaling the cabby with a knock on his window to stay put until he returned. The cabby simply pointed at the meter and shrugged his shoulders in disinterest. Surprisingly, Ebenezer did not balk at the arm. In fact, by the time they got through the gate Ebenezer was leaning on Billy heavily.

  After a precarious and stumbling accent, Ebenezer pulled away, pausing a moment to regain his balance as he fumbled for his keys. He made no comment when Billy finally took them from his thick fingers, and picked through himself until he found the right one. As he pushed the door open he asked if Ebenezer was all right. The old man was so lethargic Billy feared another hospital visit on the horizon.

  Ebenezer looked at Billy and patted the young man’s arm in a warm (if drunken), grandfatherly way. “God…yeah. I b’fine. ‘Jus ova did it…” He shuffled through the open door into the gloom that waited, stopping in the foyer and turning around. Billy noticed he wasn’t swaying quite so much as before. From the darkness Billy barely heard, “Was it love that kilt ‘im, Billy?”

  Billy wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What’s that?”

  “Did it kill ‘im? Love, I mean…” Ebenezer began pushing the door closed.

  “The guy in the story?”

  The door stopped only long enough for the reply. “Yeah…the guy in the story,” came the voice from the darkness.

  “I’m not sure—” Billy attempted as the door started closing again.

  “Well let’s jus sleep on it tonight,” Ebenezer said right before the door shut. Standing alone in the stairwell, Billy heard the deadbolts slotting into place. He considered the strange, parting question and how it related to the odd behavior he’d witnessed. He finally shook his head (after coming up with nothing tangible) before clunking back down the stairs, exasperated and more than a little drunk himself, for the ride home. And on the way it was his turn to stare silently out the window and watch the buildings pass silently and darkly by.

  Chapter 62

  “Make love to me again, Tommy,” Elizabeth whispered in his ear. They were still entwined, their naked flesh slowly finding a normal pace after the first time. She kissed his chest and moved slowly up to his lips. Her hand found him and gently squeezed, implored. He squirmed under her need, tracing his tongue along her lips. Her breasts were hot, her nipples straining. “Take me…” she urged, flexing and finding progress.

  They’d been home almost forty-five minutes from Gator’s in Metairie. They’d danced until she got winded, then sat and talked on a couch emblazoned with gold trim near one end of the spacious dance floor. But after a short while the formalities had been nothing but a bore and she’d insisted he take her to his place. And once there, talking had ceased. She’d attacked his clothing like an animal, ripping them away, her face flushed discernibly even in the dimly-lit room, and he’d gone down on her immediately. She’d pulled his hair and begged for more until it became a sort of pagan ritual on some long forgotten primal beach, two forms combining with the force of creation. Even now his heart speeded its pace. She turned on her back and he covered her, not needing a guide this time, the need urgent enough. The first time now lost to memory.

  Because this time it was slower. She clung to his back like a survivor to a life raft, both of their ears thrumming with the power of their bodies’ actions. “Yes,” she whispered, her very breath sensuous and wet. “Do me forever.”

  Thomas made no sound save a low groan so deep in his chest that it vibrated softly against her skin, awakening every cell. Her response was all consuming. The stars ope
ned ancient, celestial secrets as her hands explored farther, down his back to his tightened buttocks. When they finally came together the room seemed to flash brilliantly.

  Elizabeth was not convinced it hadn’t.

  Afterward they lay exhausted in each other’s arms; Thomas’ nose nuzzled into her hair. The smell of their sex clung sweetly and pungently to the covers, the only thing concealing them from the greater, surrounding darkness. “You are incredible,” he panted, gently, flicking his tongue out to graze her ear. She tensed and nuzzled closer.

  “Tell me we’re the only ones…in the world, the only ones. Right now…”

  “We’re the only ones, baby,” he assured her.

  They lay for a long while not saying anything more, until Thomas realized her breath had become slow and rhythmic. He nudged her lightly. “Elizabeth,” he plied. “Don’t you want me to bring you home?”

  “Hmmm?” she murmured, as if from behind a curtain. She wiped at her eyes as innocently as a child, and he pulled her closer. “Let’s wait ‘til morning. Can we?” Her eyes reflected the moonlight filling the room as she turned her head away to deeper sleep. Thomas checked the clock on the nightstand. It was five until three.

  “What time?” he asked, knowing his parents wouldn’t care. The back portion of their large home was his sole domain.

  “Whenever,” she breathed.

  He kissed her softly on the cheek, and her resulting sigh faded off into the still corners of the darkened room.

  Chapter 63

  Ebenezer awoke with a groan. His shoulder felt like hell again, and he subconsciously knew it was because he’d slept on it all night. He’d dreamed but it was all fragments now, lost in the mesh of pain radiating in his head and shoulder. He stuck out his tongue and passed it along his parched lips. His mouth might as well have been chewing dirty socks for a month. “Oh God,” he implored, easing himself into a sitting position. His heart pounded in his chest and lightheadedness reminded him his blood pressure was setting new records.

  He found himself on top of the covers, fully clothed. He even had his shoes on, although one was untied; he didn’t know if he’d done it or not. In fact, he didn’t know much. He peeled himself to the edge of the rumpled bed, knocking his pillows to the floor as he scooted across. When he got his knees right, he stood up carefully, slowly so as to acclimatize himself in case his stomach optioned revolt. A few images drifted back and he looked atop his dresser, and finding nothing there, then around the room. Where was the goddamn stein? “Shit,” he growled. Probably at the Tavern. He hoped Shelly had picked it up for him.

  But what about Billy? He scratched his head, trying to piece together the lost parts of the puzzle. He half-remembered telling some story, though not which or how, and he was pretty sure they’d rode home in a cab. What a waste, he chided himself, stumbling into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The taste in his mouth was nearly debilitating. He gagged while violently scrubbing his teeth, tongue, and gums, and only barely managed not to vomit. The image he made in the mirror was equally suitable for either B-class horror movies or state mental institutions. “Ya ole fucker,” he snarled menacingly at his reflection. “Ya’d think ya’d learn somethin once ina awhile.”

  Yeah, right. Absolutely right, if not for other factors involved. Like seeing Sarah’s grave. He’d never gone, not in the thirty odd years it’d taken him to get to where he was; he’d never gone. And the proof of what it’d done to him reflected in the mirror. Well, whad’ya expect? Ya go dredgin up stuff been down that long and ya can’t expect roses. Ya can’t dig up dead bodies and not be affected. He squinted at his reflection. Now that was something he didn’t want to consider. But it was true enough…

  Where has your life gone? Where exactly has your life gone, you lonely old bastard?

  “No Goddammit!” he snarled and punched the mirror, starring it and cutting his knuckles in the process. His bloodshot eyes peered back at him through the cracks and the blood from his fist ran down the porcelain to the drain. He gripped the edge of the sink, vice-like. You can’t hide from the truth, his eyes told him. That’s where the boy comes in, ain’t it? You see yourself in him and it scares you, so you’re trying to save yourself saving him.

  Then, a sarcastic shadow-voice from further down in the recesses of his mind tried to apply a framework. Two options: one, out of selfishness which you know a good deal about, or two, genuine concern? The jury hedges its bets.

  “Fuck It!” he bellowed into the emptiness of the bathroom. He took the drinking glass from the toothbrush rack and dashed it against the shower wall. A sharp, stray piece of glass ricocheted back and nicked his cheek, but he paid it no mind. He just wrapped his bleeding fist in toilet paper and walked from the bathroom, feeling like the dead.

  He walked past the kitchen, continued across the living room straight to the chest in the corner by the French doors. He banged the top open, and thrusted his good hand inside (unmindful of the ache in his shoulder), slapped the journal to the side, and reached underneath the folded newspapers and clothing. On the bottom, sitting on top of a legal-size folder, he found the envelope. Of course it hadn’t moved, but it had paled to the color of cedar, its edges gray and ragged. But in one corner of this envelope there was a small raised circle of a much darker shade. It stood out like a searchlight.

  Ebenezer peeled it from the bowels of the chest, and turned back to the recliner, sitting down heavily, not noticing the sharp crack as the remote hit the floor. His hands trembled as he ripped the weakened envelope in half. He kept only the side with the circle imprint and let the other half fall to the floor at this feet. Then he blew into the remaining torn side and poured the contents into his waiting hand.

  The wedding band rolled out, dull and tarnished.

  He slipped it on his finger in a daze, unaware until much later that he was crying.

  Chapter 64

  Elizabeth stood in front of the Beauregard statue feeling the heat of deep exhaustion wedged deeply in her bones. When Thomas had dropped her off early that morning Nora had still been asleep. Very strange. Usually her mother was up by six, but not today. Her bedroom door had been shut, and as Elizabeth had stood quietly outside it, her ear pressed against it, she had heard nothing save the droning of the ceiling fan within.

  The pain was back, spreading through her body like a slow moving tide. The plan was finally clear in her mind; there was no escaping it. A departure from the ideas she’d been raised to believe, but she was beyond such culture now. In fact, looking back, she knew she'd actually made her mind up days before. It had only made itself concrete the day she’d gotten drunk at the Tank Station and called Thomas. And now, strangely enough, her mind was at ease even though her body was not. It didn’t help much. The pain was an insidious disturbance threatening to swallow her whole, threatening to destroy everything she had become. It would take her senses, her essence, if allowed.

  She would not allow it.

  The night before and the dreams would not allow that sacrilege. It was finally time.

  So she’d crept into her room, stealthy quiet, retrieving her journal and the bottle of Valium. There were almost thirty pills left. And just as quietly she left, disappearing through the front door, leaving no note. Words would mean nothing to her mother. She would never understand because this was not a choice she would have ever considered. Pain and subjugation seemed to somehow accommodate her; they did not Elizabeth.

  On the bus to City Park she’d written the letter to Billy. He, at least, needed some sort of explanation. She hoped he alone would understand. Regardless, it had grown beyond her; the stage was set, the principal due.

  She passed along the sidewalk towards the Art Museum. The sealed, stamped envelope was heavy in her hand, as if with each step it took on weight like the ring Frodo had borne to the lip of Mount Doom. As she’d expected, the receptionist at the counter didn’t see any harm in placing her letter with the rest of the museum’s outgoing mail. Postage was paid and o
ne more wasn’t likely to cause the collapse of modern society. Elizabeth made sure the woman saw her drop the ten dollar bill in the ‘Friends of the Art Museum’ donation box before leaving. The receptionist called out a warm thanks for her patronage, and Elizabeth waved goodbye as the door crept shut.

  She left the building and turned left, walked down several steps, and then across the grass instead of circling to the sidewalk. Once across the traffic circle which ringed the museum, she headed to her Spot, the one where she’d watched the pigeons among the thick branches of the enormous oak tree, where she’d fed the squirrels. She was in luck; no one was there.

  Except the ducks.

  They rested in typical, easy fashion underneath the tree; some standing unperturbed on one webbed foot, while others rested with their tiny heads tucked beneath a wing, as if hiding from a world that carried on too fast for their interests. For just a moment they shuffled nervously as Elizabeth sat down, but once convinced the intruder meant no harm, they continued their light dozing. With a careful, slitted eye trained in her direction. But their attention proved short, and soon, Elizabeth became merely another piece of the landscape of which they could close their eyes to safely.

  She looked out at the placid, tranquil lake. Hardly a ripple disturbed the glassy surface except when, every now and again, a fish from the unpredictable depths darted to the surface after an insect. The subsequent disturbance would break the silence with only a meager splash followed by a succession of growing ripples rolling away in all directions. Elizabeth watched each one until it faded into the lake again as if bowing to perfection. But there was always that single, hidden moment when the ripple was there just at the brink of extinction, and then the moment, and afterward, nothing. A secret universal moment Elizabeth knew she’d soon explore.