by Brian Rowe
I heard a noise. It came from underneath the his-and-her sinks across the bathroom. I tried to ignore the sound, but it grew louder. I hoped it was just a harmless rodent, but then the cabinet on the left opened, revealing, of all things, a hairy foot.
“What the…” I clicked off the phone.
The cabinet on the right opened up, too, revealing an even hairier face.
“Oh,” a man said, peeking out from the side. “Uhh, hello.”
I screamed so loud the shower curtain vibrated. A bearded sixty-something man rolled out of the cabinet, butt naked, wearing only a pink towel. He was dripping wet.
“You sicko!” I shouted. I leaped to my feet and threw the phone at him. “You… you pervert!”
“No! Wait!” he shouted. “It’s not how it looks!”
I ran into the bedroom, then the second-floor hallway. I ran so fast that I almost tripped going down the staircase. At the bottom I collided against Frankie.
“There you are!” Frankie said. “What were you doing up there?”
“Holy shit!” I shoved my hands against my cheeks, turned to the staircase. I tried to calm my breathing. “Frankie! There’s a man up there! He was in the bathroom watching me!”
“Watching you what?”
“Pee! What do you think?”
Frankie eyes turned cold; his whole face transformed into a frightening scowl. He bolted up the staircase.
“Where are you going?” I shouted.
“Where do you think? To kick his ass!” He disappeared down the hallway.
I heard a few confused shouts up above, then a punch to the wall. I searched the first floor grounds for a weapon. I couldn’t find anything in the entryway, so I ran into the kitchen. I searched the drawers for a sharp knife, but not even a plastic fork appeared before me. I grabbed a rolling pin from the counter and raced back into the foyer, just in time to see Frankie and the old man tumbling down the staircase.
“Get off me!” the stranger shouted.
“Not until you apologize!” Frankie shouted even louder. They both started swatting at each other, but their hands barely made contact.
“What’s going on?” I asked, holding the rolling pin above my head. “Is this supposed to be a fight?”
“Say you’re sorry,” Frankie said.
The old man had a death grip on his pink towel. He backed against the wall, and turned to me. “I’m sorry.”
Frankie shook his head. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Stop it!” I shouted. “Both of you! This is stupid!”
“Please,” the stranger said. He reached for me. “Before you do anything, can you let me explain?”
He took a step toward me. Then another. He was too close. I hit him on his shoulder with the rolling pin.
“Oww!”
“Stay away from me!” I said.
“I’m not going to hurt you! Can you please lower that thing?”
I brought it down, but kept a firm grip on it, just in case. “All right, all right. What’s your name?”
“Thank you.” He sighed, glanced at Frankie, then back at me. “My name is Lieutenant Balm,” he said. “2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment.”
“7th Cavalry what?” I asked.
“It means—”
“Do you live here?” Frankie said, jumping into the conversation. He collided up against me and faced the older man.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I was just using this house to take a shower. That’s all.”
“You were taking a shower in there?”
“Yes. And when I heard someone talking in the bedroom I hid. I didn’t know what to do. I’m very sorry. I promise I didn’t mean to, you know, see anything…”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” Frankie said. He formed his hands into fists and stepped toward the man, like he wanted to throw him a punch this time, not a girly slap.
“Please,” the man said, putting his hands up toward the ceiling. “I mean no harm.”
“Frankie, stop,” I said. I held out the rolling pin like it was a railroad blockade. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
“I just wanted to get clean,” the man said. “I didn't mean to hurt anybody.”
“What, are you homeless or something?” Frankie asked.
He nodded, then smiled, for the first time. “I’m so happy you kids are okay. I’ve seen some crazy things these past few hours, let me tell you.”
Frankie moved closer to the man, but brought his hands down to his sides. “Yeah? What kinds of things?”
“I don’t think I should tell you,” he said. “It might be too much for you kids to handle.”
I raised the rolling pin back up. “You tell us everything you know, or I swear…”
“Okay, okay. Please. Stop.” He pressed his back against the wall, and covered his hands over his heart. “I can’t take it anymore.”
I lowered the rolling pin, and shared an awkward glance with Frankie.
“I can’t, all right?” the man continued. “I have this condition, and if I get too scared or stressed, my heart can explode. Literally.”
“Literally?” I asked.
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Frankie suggested.
“Hey, enough,” I said to Frankie. “Everyone, just calm down.” I tossed the rolling pin to the floor. “I’m sorry if we scared you. And I forgive you for watching me go to the bathroom, Lieutenant—”
“Please,” he interrupted. “Just call me Mr. Balm.” He put his hand out. “Can we start again?”
I glanced at Frankie, then back at the man. I nodded, and shook his hand. “Okay, Mr. Balm. But in return I want you to tell us everything you know about what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Because I just talked to my dad, and he told me some crazy shit that I really don’t want to believe.”
“All right.” Mr. Balm didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
“You talked to your dad?” Frankie asked, turning his head my way. “How’d that go?”
I didn’t answer him. I stayed focused on Mr. Balm. “So you just broke into this house? Weren’t you scared there might be people here?”
“I tried the front door, and it was unlocked. I shouted for help, but didn’t hear anyone. I figured whoever lived here would’ve been gracious enough to let me use their shower. Especially in a time like this.”
I looked over my shoulder, at the broken window. “Wait, the front door was unlocked?”
The three of us stared at each other. Nobody said a word.
Then a buzzer went off.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I, uhh…” Mr. Balm scratched his neck, and turned toward the kitchen. “I was a little hungry. So I cooked a frozen pizza.”
Frankie and I looked at each other. Our stomachs growled at the exact same time.
The man pursed his chapped lips and pointed at the kitchen. “The two of you wouldn’t be hungry, would you?”
“Oh my God, I'm starving,” Frankie said, and he raced out of the room.
I didn't follow him. I needed to eat something, but I stayed put.
Mr. Balm followed after Frankie. He stopped at the doorway and waved me toward him. “What’s the matter? Are you coming?”
“Yeah.” My eyes stayed fixated on the corner of the family room. “Just give me a second. I’ll be right there.”
I walked up to the big-screen TV at the back of the room and surveyed the VHS player. Three tapes were stacked on top of it. The first was Meet Me in St. Louis; the second, Cabaret.
The third was Jurassic Park.
I slid my fingertips over the tape, and closed my eyes.
#
Saturday, August 14, 1993
“Get dressed, Zippy,” my mom said. “We’re going out.”
It was 11 AM but I was still in my PJs. I sat at my desk sneaking in a few chapters of the latest Goosebumps book, The Girl Who Cried Monster. “Where are we going? Do you need to get your medicine—”
She pla
ced her finger against her mouth and said, in a whisper, “Shh. No questions. Your father’s only gone for a few hours, and if he found out I was doing this, he’d kill me.”
“Doing what, Mom?”
“Just do as I say. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
My mom had been battling stomach cancer for four months. We all had hope in the beginning—she was a fighter, and the doctor had been optimistic—but the chemotherapy and radiation weakened her, and Stage III became Stage IV.
She had lost forty pounds; she was tired all the time. She rarely left the house. So when she came into my bedroom that Saturday and told me we were taking a little trip, I didn’t even care where we were going. I was dressed and ready in ten minutes.
I ran to the bottom of the staircase. No sight of my mom. I checked the kitchen, then the mud room.
Then she honked the horn from the driveway.
I tried to get my mom to tell me where we were going, but she stayed focused on the road.
“Are we going to the mall?” I shifted in my seat, then shoved my feet against the glove compartment.
“No, Zippy.”
“Baskin Robbins?”
She patted my hand, but didn't respond.
“We’re not going to Church, are we?” I asked. “It’s not even Sunday.”
“Just hold on. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
We didn’t say much the rest of the car ride. When she pulled off on Wanamaker Road, I searched my mind for what I was in for. Clothes shopping? Museum hopping?
She pulled into the parking lot behind a Red Lobster. We stayed put for a moment. I hoped the destination hadn’t been just some restaurant chain.
My mom leaned over, clamped her hand over her stomach, and moaned.
“Mommy?” I asked. I grabbed her arm. “What is it? Do you need—”
“I’m fine.” She leaned back up. “I’m fine, Zippy. Let’s do this. I want to do this.”
“Do what, Mom?”
She stepped out of the car and slammed her door. I followed. We passed the Red Lobster, and a small frozen yogurt shop. Our destination appeared on the left. My mom smiled and took my hand as we walked up the steps to the Mountain Grove Movie Theater. I saw the blinking lights from the marquee, smelled the fresh buttered popcorn from inside. I clasped my hands together in anticipation. I hadn’t seen a movie in months.
We stopped at the back of the line. I read the titles of the movies playing.
“What are we seeing?” I asked. “Hocus Pocus? The one with the witches?”
“No,” she said.
“Free Willy?”
“Nope.”
My heart sank when I saw the title at the bottom. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
“Oh,” I said. My dad didn’t take us to the movies much, but when he did, it was always animated Disney films. The first movie I saw in theaters was Beauty and the Beast; the second, Aladdin. I had yet to see a third.
My mom approached the ticket seller and pulled a ten-dollar-bill from her purse. “Two for Jurassic Park, please.”
I had to hold in a high-pitched squeal. I hadn’t even let myself look at the title on the marquee, because it made me sad. The movie had been out for two months but my dad refused to let me see it. He called it blasphemy, and utter nonsense, even though he had no intention of screening it first to judge it. He knew I worshipped dinosaurs, that I would love every second of it—and he still wouldn’t let me within a mile radius of any theater playing it.
“Oh my gosh, Mom. Really?”
She grabbed the two tickets and nodded at me, with a big, comforting smile. She turned around but I stopped her, wrapped my arms around her. I planted my face against her blue summer dress and just started crying. Cried because of the movie, cried because of her illness. A tidal wave of mixed emotions flooded through me.
She leaned down and set her hand under my chin. “Are you ready to see some dinosaurs, Zippy?”
“Boy, am I ever!” I said.
I had to close my eyes in a few of the scarier scenes—the first T. rex attack was so realistic I tried, and failed, not to scream—but for the most part I did well, watching my first live action movie in a theater. It was the greatest movie-going experience of my life, sitting there in the dark, watching my favorite movie play out on the big screen, huddled next to my mom as we both enjoyed being terrified together.
My mom couldn’t have given me a better gift that day. Not just Jurassic Park, but that one last outing.
Just her and me.
#
Sunday, June 13, 1999
I was so hungry that the mediocre pizza tasted like a gourmet bacon quiche, even though it was stale pepperoni. Frankie and I both started inhaling our second slices when Mr. Balm placed a second frozen pizza in the oven.
As Mr. Balm set the timer, I took a sip from a Coke I’d found in the fridge and diverted my attention to the old man. He had thrown on a huge black t-shirt from the upstairs closet—“a perfect fit!” he’d shouted while Frankie and I waited for our lunch—and baggy lime green sweatpants hung past his dirty sneakers. His hair was gray, except for a few touches of red at the bottom of his beard.
“How is it?” Mr. Balm asked.
“Mmmm!” Frankie closed his eyes as he took another bite. “Hits the spot, I'm telling you.”
I wasn’t the enamored food critic like Frankie. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just happy to be eating something.”
The timer dinged, and Mr. Balm brought out another pizza, this one topped with ham and pineapple.
“Gimme, gimme,” Frankie said, his arms sliding against my forehead.
Mr. Balm took a Bud Light out of the refrigerator and sat at the table. He cut a slice of the Hawaiian pizza with a knife and fork, while Frankie shoved in the food like a savage beast.
“So where are you kids from?” Mr. Balm asked.
Frankie's mouth was too full to answer, so I stepped in. “I'm from Kansas,” I said.
“Kansas? Really?” Mr. Balm sipped his beer.
I started on my third slice. “Yeah. My dad’s the mayor of Topeka.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Topeka. That’s the anti-gay place, right? With that Western Bible church, or something?”
“Westboro Baptist.” I said the name, even though I didn’t like to acknowledge their existence. “I’ve driven by it a couple times. It takes discipline not to throw molotav cocktails at their windows, let me tell you.”
Mr. Balm dropped his silverware to the side and started eating his pizza like a normal person. “I hate religion. Nothing good comes of it. People take sides, start hating each other. It only makes us more rotten and contentious. And anyone with a brain knows there isn’t a God. With all the tragedies and disasters and evil in the world, how could there be?”
“I believe in God,” I said. “I just believe in a God who accepts everyone, even those of us who are different.”
Mr. Balm pursed his lips. “Different how?”
“Well, I’m gay.”
“We both are,” Frankie said.
“Oh,” he said. “Well that’s…” He searched for a word. “…Cool, I guess.”
Frankie stopped chewing for a second. “What about you, Mr. Balm? Are you gay?”
“Nope! I’m as straight as they come. I haven’t gotten any in a while, though, if you know what I mean.”
I tried to picture the old, hairy man having sex; then I wished I hadn’t. “Have you ever been married?” I asked.
“Long time ago.”
“Like ten years?”
“Try forty.”
“Jeez,” I said. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to be your grandpa, little lady.”
I leaned back in my chair and enjoyed one last bite. I was stuffed. “So you said you’re a lieutenant?”
“That’s right.”
“In what war? World War II?”
“Jesus, I’m not that old!” All three of us laughed. “No, Vietnam. 1965.”
He hesitated. “Just call me Mr. Balm.”
I decided not to press further. Was his first name Liza or something? “All right, no problem. Is it bomb, like atomic bomb?”
“No. Like lip.”
“I see,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve had a real love-hate relationship with God all my life. And don’t tell my dad this, but I've even had my moments of doubt.” I tapped my fingers against my knees. “That is, until yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?” Mr. Balm downed the rest of his beer and did his best to mask a loud burp.
I glanced at Frankie, then turned back to Mr. Balm. “You know. The rapture.”
“The rapture?” Mr. Balm laughed so loud Judy barked from under the table. “Are you serious?”
Frankie looked at me like I was nuts. “You mean the thing where people fly up into the clouds?”
“Yes,” I said to Frankie, but I kept my attention on Mr. Balm. “My dad said he saw it, every moment of it. What other reason would there be for everyone disappearing like this?”
“I’ll admit, I’ve seen some strange things in the past few hours,” Mr. Balm said, “but I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. The rapture is fiction, Zippy, nothing more.”
“But there’s barely anyone left in this neighborhood. We didn’t come across a single person on our hike here. Frankie said our plane was full when it took off, but it was practically empty after it crashed. What’s your reasonable explanation for that?”
“I don’t know, a disaster of some kind? Maybe something from the government?”
“I think it was an alien invasion,” Frankie said. Mr. Balm and I stared at him with blank expressions. He shrugged. “What? It’s just as likely as the rapture.”
“Listen to me,” Mr. Balm said, scooting closer to us. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you two. There’s been plenty of times in my life when I could’ve used God’s help. Times when I literally begged for it. And you know what? He never—not once—answered back.”
I nodded, but said, “Maybe you just aren’t looking close enough. Yesterday, He gave me a way out.”
“Yeah, by crashing a plane,” Frankie added, in a harsh tone.
“What?”
“Zippy, if this God is as great as you say He is, then why did He bring the plane down? Why did He pick that particular moment to have the rapture? And here’s the real question...”