Since it’s Halloween, I thought I’d scare you with another of my loser short stories: This one about a crippled Vet and the good times he faces when he returns from the war: the one where we settle the score with Saddam. In the 5K equivalent, it was probably a 24-minute race run in the 30-35 age bracket–passed up in the first mile by a pack of slick, schmalzy remembrances oozing with cliches, euphemisms, and other clumps of feminine vomit: you know, the stuff that wins short story contests.
This story had the makings of a Barney Fife Memorial 5K winner, but it just peetered out; it was all underarmour ™ and starting line striders.
May you enjoy it–for free.
Adventures with Rusty
By Duncan Larkin
Copyright 2008
After I got back from that war—the one that was to set the Middle East ablaze with freedom and democracy–I sat around a lot. I was half a man and so I couldn’t walk anywhere—couldn’t jump in a car and drive to the ocean to smell the sea’s briny air. I couldn’t do anything at the spur of the moment. Going somewhere took real planning and a lot of physical work.
First, I had to roll myself on my wheelchair. (I named it Rusty.) I rolled it down to the latrine. I had to hoist myself up and onto my special seat and empty everything out of me. Then I had to roll over to my bedroom and hoist myself up onto my bed and change out of my pajamas. Originally, I forgot that I couldn’t change out of my pajamas if I didn’t have a fresh set of clothes (pant legs cut off) in my hands or at an arm’s reach away from my bed. I would mumble all the swear words that the Marine Corps taught me as I re-hoisted myself back onto Rusty and wheeled myself over to my dresser. A few months later, I figured that I could get around in my little room without the use of Rusty. I’d just drop down to the floor and crawl over to my dresser. I got pretty good at crawling. (My forearms, pectorals, and triceps are nothing but gorged veins and taught muscle tissue.) I look like one of those crustaceans crawling around on the beach that I used to go to. These days (these dark days), crawling reminds me of boot camp more than the beach—having to duck under menacing strands of barbed wire while getting my face pushed in by that wife-beating Drill Instructor of mine. Things evolved more: My crawling turned into hopping—which I now do. I hop around my house. I leave Rusty near the door to use only on the rare occasions when I’m going somewhere where the wind blows and the sun shines.
It still takes me a long time to go somewhere, though.
So I sit around a lot. A few half-dead Korean vets from the V.F.W. came over one day and gave me an old, donated computer and a few video games which I play from time to time. A press man accompanied them and took some pictures and then they all filed out my door. They also gave me a few donated books, but those are mostly about running, soccer, or some other ambulatory adventure. One day, I tried giving the Bible a try. It was the New American version and was Uncle Mark’s homecoming present to me. It was black and shiny; it smelled like the insides of a stationary store. Uncle Mark had my name stitched on the cover in cursive letters.
When I read it, I made it as far as Genesis 11. God destroyed the tower of Babel and scattered the world, forcing its inhabitants speak to each other in indecipherable tongues. I think in Chapters 12 or 13, the book takes one of its strange turns where some person begets some person who begets someone who begets someone else etc. The day that I got to that tedious part, I had drunk a lot of whiskey and remember my mind thinking stupid thoughts. My head couldn’t keep all of them inside. From that moment on, my mind took charge and started ordering parts of my body around. It told my arm to go get some paper and to write important things down. I hopped off my bed and crawled to my dresser. (I was good at following orders; I was programmed to be that way in the Marines.) I got my journal and my plastic pen (I’d gnawed it really bad at its end.) and got myself back up on my bed.
My mind screamed: “Write this down!”
My arm said, “Yes Sir, but slow down, please.”
Mind: “Hurry! It’s eluding me!”
Arm: “I’m climbing the bed—almost ready, Sir.”
Mind: “It’s nearly gone! The language is changing; the tongues can’t be interpreted—they are beginning to sound like gibberish.”
Arm: “Whiskey first sir—gotta grab it. You’re telling me to.”
Mind: “Nearly gone!”
Arm: “Just following your order, sir: ready to write now.”
I wrote this down in my journal: “Joe and Betty begat Sally; Sally grew up and became a whore; Sally drank whiskey and fooled around one night with a sailor in San Francisco; sailor disappeared and nine months later, Sally begat me, Wes Jenkins.”
Mind: “Why are you stopping? There’s more!”
Arm: “But it’s you who are telling me to take another drink, Sir?”
After that swig, I laughed hysterically and put the gnawed pen down.
“Don’t!” my mind screamed.
Stumps-for-legs: “C’mon, give it a shot! Are you a man or a mouse?”
Arms and mind together: “I’m half a man.”
I pulled myself up and spun my legs around—trying to see if my strong arms could make my torso turn a full 360 degrees. I couldn’t do it—not even making it 180 degrees. I had challenged myself and had failed. I sobbed.
“Failure! Failure! Failure!” I wrote in large letters in my journal.
Then I continued writing what my mind told me to write: “Wes begat nobody; he was sent to Babylon—in the middle of the Sunni Triangle. He got blown up and now he’s back. His tower fell and now he don’t understand nothing. He’s half a man.” I wrote again in all caps, “HALF A MAN.” And then I underlined it.
Mind: “magnifique!”
Arms: “Let’s give it another try: 200 degrees this time.”
I shut my journal and tried to spin myself again: only 120 degrees! Again: 130 degrees! On my third attempt, I fell off my bed and hit my head on the dresser. When I awoke, Uncle Mark was knelt down beside me feeling my head—his large crucifix beat against my bare chest, ticking off seconds like a grandfather clock’s pendulum. Christ in crucified form was cold as ice. The Son of Man’s body was as dead as mine.
I tried to hoist myself up, but Uncle Mark stopped me. “Stay down Wes. Stay down,” he said pinning my arms with his big hands. Remember: I told you I was strong and so I broke his grip.
“Lemme up!” I screamed.
“Stay down. You had a rough night again.”
I hoisted myself up on the floor and reached to get up on my bed. Uncle Mark picked me up and put me down on it.
“Looks like you were at least finding Jesus in your drunken stupor,” he said as he picked up my open Bible that had been sitting on the bed.
I shrugged.
”Did you find Him?”
I shrugged again.
Uncle Mark licked his thumb, touched his crucifix, and thumbed a few of the Bible’s pages. He said, “You’ve had this thing for five months and you’ve only made it to Genesis 12? So you haven’t found Jesus yet. Good God Wes, you haven’t even found Father Abraham.”
“Found Babel,” I said.
Uncle Mark licked his thumb again and searched in my Bible—navigating through it like a ship plying familiar seas—until he got where he wanted. He pointed his index finger and tapped it loudly on the page containing the verse he was looking for. “Here. Read this one,” he said proudly. “It’s about the Son of Man.”
Uncle Mark was pointing to some chapter in the gospel of Mark—his namesake.
“Maybe some other time,” I said while gazing out my window. I had caught sight of a sparrow on a tree.
“Maybe some other time you say? When is ‘some other time?’ How much longer are you going to delay getting to know Jesus, Wes?”
“Dunno—not today though.” (The sparrow was preening itself.)
“You’re going to die, Wes.”
I looked at the sparrow and nodded.
“You’re going to die a stranger to Christ.”
The sparrow flew away.
“Do you know why I came here tonight?”
“Must be Sunday.”
“Yes it is. Today is the Sabbath—maybe had you gotten to Leviticus, you’d know that God ordered us to keep holy this day. He commanded it, Wes.”
“Must be five o’clock.”
“Yes it’s around that time.”
“Must be time to take me to confession and then sit in Mass and take communion.”
Uncle Mark closed the Bible and scooped me up. He took me over to my dresser and put me down on top of it. I looked like a puppet. “Yes: You can’t receive the body of Christ without receiving absolution for your sins. You can’t receive absolution for your sins while wearing these horrible rags,” he said, pointing at my pajamas. He riffled through my dresser drawers and found a pair of designer jeans. (Please don’t forget to imagine them with their legs missing; it’s important that you remember that designer jeans aren’t designer if they’re cut in half.) “These look clean,” he mumbled, sliding them onto me.
I lay there on the table looking up at him like a baby would. I stared at his dangling crucifix and counted the number of times it swung back and forth (13). While I counted, I wondered if I did the same thing when my momma wiped me. I wonder how I passed time back then, back before I could speak—back when my legs were attached to my body and were lifted up over my head when it was time to clean me up and dress me to go outside.
Rusty sat over by the door. After he had dressed me, Uncle Mark set me onto it and then wheeled me to the bathroom. He put me in front of the mirror and let me look at myself while he wetted his hands and combed my hair. He parted my hair to the side. I looked like a wax figurine.
My mind barked: “You aren’t a paraplegic!”
Stumps-for-legs: “Yeah. What are you doing? Grab that comb from him.”
I tore the comb out of Uncle Mark’s hands and threw it. It flew down the hallway and skidded to a halt against the front door of my apartment. I messed up my hair and wheeled myself out of the bathroom. “I ain’t going!” I screamed. I was bold to fight Uncle
Mark like that.
Uncle Mark put himself between me and the door. His booted foot came to a rest against Rusty’s wheel. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull this kind of stunt again, Wes. I’m here to take you to confession and Mass and that’s that.”
“Ain’t goin,” I said stubbornly crossing my arms.
Uncle Mark crossed his arms in reply. We mirrored of each other (except he had legs): “Remember our deal?” he asked with one of his eyebrows cocked.
Mind: “Remember the deal, Wes.”
The deal, the deal, the deal—oh how I hated remembering the deal.
Arms: “No sir. Unfold and hit him! You are strong!”
Mind: “Wes, you gotta remember the deal. Uncle Mark pays your rent. He buys you bags of popcorn and peanuts; he fills your
propane tank; he even rents you a new video game once in a while. And hell, how can you forget: He drives you to Frank’s Lounge if you’ve been good! Remember Vicky V? Remember the deal; you do it for the deal. Yes.”
I gave up. “Alright, let’s go,” I said letting out a big, sour sigh.
Uncle Mark pointed at the bathroom. “Wheel yourself back in there and comb your hair the way it’s supposed to be combed at church. You know better.”
I sighed and pushed Rusty into the bathroom; I straightened my hair and parted it to the side. I even buttoned the top button of my collared shirt. I looked at myself and spit at the mirror. Uncle Mark didn’t see me do that. He just saw my top button buttoned; he paid me a compliment; he said that a bit of discomfort on my behalf would make Jesus proud. I was on my way to
Jesus looking like a champ.
Uncle Mark held the door open for me and I wheeled Rusty into the night. I remember that was raining bad that night—remember thinking that Rusty was going to get rustier in that weather. Uncle Mark made me wait outside his van while he worked the wheelchair elevator from the dry inside of his driver’s seat. My hair became messy again. My cheap outfit got soaked. I shivered and shuddered. The van’s elevator came down slowly—creaking like the joints of an old man.
“Push yourself in,” Uncle Mark ordered. He was sitting in the driver’s seat.
I pushed myself in.
“Close the door.”
I wheeled around inside the van and closed it.
“Turn around.”
I turned Rusty around.
“Comb your hair.”
Arms: “Don’t comb your hair.”
Mind: “Remember the deal.”
Arms: “Yes sir—the deal.”
I combed my hair.
Uncle Mark didn’t secure my wheelchair (on purpose). He was an awful driver when he was in a rush and so I had to brace myself a couple of times as we negotiated sloppy fast turns on those wet streets. His windshield wipers were missing their rubber gaskets; they scraped loudly against the van’s windshield. The screeching noise hurt my ears and reminded me of the chopper blades on the MedEvac that took me out of Babylon.
Uncle Mark hummed a hymn while he drove. I wiped a layer of condensation from the window with the sleeves of my collared shirt and stared outside. Along the sidewalks, people ran under the eaves of roofs and hurried into parked cars to shelter themselves from the storm’s onslaught. We didn’t get much rain in these parts: This was unusual.
Uncle Mark stopped his humming and turned his head to ask me a question: “All this rain makes me think: When you made it to Genesis 12, did you read Genesis 6? Did you read about Noah? Do you remember what the Lord said in that chapter?
I was silent; I ignored him, rubbing my index finger along the foggy windshield. I traced out the word “Silence.” Drips of water ran down the letters in long, straight lines. Neither arms nor mind said anything which was a good thing. I was thirsty for a nice shot of whiskey. I imagined all that water outside was whiskey. I wanted to get out of Uncle Mark’s van and throw myself into the gutters—drinking it all up like a thirsty pig at a trough on a sultry day.
Uncle Mark pulled the van over abruptly. I was caught by surprise and reached out to grab the plastic, oval-shaped handle above the van’s door: I missed it. Rusty took me down the length of the van and I slammed into the back of the passenger’s seat with a crash.
Uncle Mark turned around in his seat and glared at me; he was really upset; I could tell, because the veins on his temples were throbbing. “You don’t remember do you? You didn’t read it. You’ve been lying to me, Wes.”
Mind: “Remember the deal; remember the deal. Be calm; be calm.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” I offered.
Uncle Mark cleared his throat. The van’s hazard lights were on; their clicking marked time with his response. “The Lord said: ‘I will wipe out from the earth the men whom I have created, and not only the men, but also the beasts and the creeping things and the birds of the air, for I am sorry that I made them.’” He turned back around and slammed the van into gear, pulling it back onto the road.
I rolled myself down to the window in the back and held on to that oval handle.
We were a bit late for confession. Pious women in the church’s parking lot were running fast—shielding themselves from the rain using their leather purses. Men had thrown their hoods up over their heads. Their kids jumped over puddles. These families were rushing inside to tell sequestered priests their sins.
Uncle Mark yelled “Hurry up!” as he operated the van’s elevator. I rolled onto it and rode it down. Its gears ground and squeaked. Uncle Mark pushed me from the saturated parking lot, up the handicapped ramp, and into the bowels of Saint Sebastian’s Church. He stopped us inside and doused his hands in holy water, as if he was washing himself in a basin of hot water. He made the sign of the cross and then lathered me up with the holy water like he was getting ready to shave me.
Into the nave we went. The church was mostly empty. Those parishioners we saw in the parking lot were already inside the telephone booth-looking confessionals making their calls to God. Saint Sebastian’s was dimly lit. Uncle Mark once told me that the church dated back to the 19th Century. Long lights hung down from the ceiling. Candles flickered. Paintings of martyred saints gazed down upon us—pierced, burned, skewered. None of them were missing their legs.
That was me.
Rusty’s wheels didn’t hold up too well on the church’s slate floors. They weren’t quiet; they clacked and squealed—more that usually since it had been raining. A few people–lost in prayer with Rosary beads dangling from their hands–found their bearings by gazing upon us as we moved past the transept on our way to the very front of the church; the place where the devout wore the kneelers’ wood smooth day after day. Uncle Mark made eye contact with a few of them; I looked down and put my head in my hands. As we drew near to the little booths, we could hear the muffled noise of people in various stages of confession. Some people just started; others were being given their penance.
There wasn’t much privacy in this church. The rain pattered on the roof.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” came out of one of the confessionals.
“I have lied to my wife; I’ve cursed at my kids,” came out of another.
“Amen,” came out of a third confessional.
The fourth was silent. It came to life a few seconds later. Someone was crying. Uncle Mark parked me in front of this one. He locked Rusty’s wheels and came to his knees beside me on the hard floor. He made the sign of the cross, clasped his hands, and bowed his head.
“Pray. Pray!” he told me.
I sat in Rusty’s plastic seat and looked around. We were on the right side of the altar; a clean-cut boy clad in a white cassock lit candles that had been placed on either end of it. Behind the altar sat the priest’s seat: a velveteen throne-looking chair with a high back. To the left of the priest’s seat were two flags: the Vatican’s (with Saint Peter’s keys to heaven exposed for full viewing) and Old Glory. The American flag’s finial was a proud golden eagle; its talons held sharpened arrows.
“Pray. Pray,” whispered Uncle Mark as if he were feeding me my lines to a cheap theatrical production.
I stared at the eagle and the sharp talons.
From the confessional in front of me came the whispers of the priest giving his absolution. We heard more sobs and then the curtain opened. An old man with a full, silver head of hair appeared. He wiped his eyes and reached for his cane that was leaning against the booth’s wooden wall. As he limped past me, he looked down and nodded approvingly.
“Get ready,” whispered Uncle Mark standing up and unlocking Rusty’s wheels.
Mind: “Get ready arms!”
Arms: “Sir, permission to speak.”
Mind: “Shh: No time to talk. Push! Remember the deal.”
My arms pushed Rusty forward towards the confessional.
Uncle Mark came to my side and gave me my orders. “Confess your sins, Wes. Tell God everything!” he said.
I pushed Rusty.
“Tell Him about your alcoholism.”
I pushed closer to the booth.
“Tell Him about Vicky V.”
I pushed.
“Tell Him about the war!”
I stopped; I turned in my seat and stared up at Uncle Mark. How could I tell him about the war? How could I tell anyone about what happened over there?
Mind: ‘Remember the deal!”
Uncle Mark: “Remember the deal. Go in there and make God proud!”
I couldn’t enter the confessional; Rusty didn’t fit.
“Go, go, go!” urged Uncle Mark.
I jumped out of Rusty and onto the cold church floor. I crawled; then I hopped, as if I were in my little bedroom at home. Some of the devout in the front pews saw me. The clean-cut altar boy stared. I was quite a sight for the clean-cut crowd: the token vet with the missing limbs.
With one of my strong arms I slid open the confessional’s curtain. Towering above me was a wooden seat; above that was a small mesh screen. I couldn’t hop onto it. I sat on the confessional’s cold floor.
Uncle Mark’s head appeared from behind the curtain. “Speak, speak, speak!” he said.
A voice spoke from behind the mesh screen said, “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
My hands remained still; they held me up.
Uncle Mark grabbed them. He forced me to bless myself; he placed his hands over mine; he made me do it—that bastard.
Arms: “Fight! Fight!”
Mind: “Remember the deal.”
A voice spoke again from behind the mesh screen: “What are your sins?”
“Tell them!”
From behind the mesh came again: “What me your sins?”
“Tell them, tell them!” said Uncle Mark excitedly.
I hopped closer to the screen and put my hands up to the kneeler that was flush against the wooden wall that held the mesh screen. The priest was close to me; I could almost feel him behind the wall. I smelled his stale breath: He had held his tongue in his mouth for the greater part of the day—had said few Masses, had counseled few people. His halitosis was reserved for me alone that night.
I pulled myself up on the kneeler and hesitated—my cheekbone was flush with the wire mesh; it hurt. I was hemmed in: Uncle Mark was behind me I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t retreat. The armies had me enveloped.
“Tell!”
Silence.
“Tell!”
I said nothing.
The priest baited me with something Christ-like: “Be not afraid: The Lord forgives everything—all sins; you can speak freely, son.”
Uncle Mark put his hand into the confessional; and pushed on my shoulder blade. I didn’t expect this: My head banged into the wooden wall. “Say it!” he said.
“Goddamn disgrace,” I whispered to the priest.
Arms: “Leave!”
My mind was silent.
I did a 180-degree turn and pushed Uncle Mark out of my way. I must remind you that I am very strong. Though he thinks he’s a strong man—a big-time construction foreman of a big-time construction firm—Uncle Mark’s really nothing. He’s a weak person. He flew into the wall of the confessional.
I found my way to Rusty and climbed aboard. Uncle Mark got himself up and rushed to my side.
“Did you tell; did you tell?”
“Yes,’ I said, lying.
“Good, good!”
“And what was your penance?”
“100 Hail Marys,” I said, lying again.
“Good. That’s a hefty sum, but you can achieve it.”
“Yes.”
“You will say them now. You must.”
“Yes.”
Uncle Mark wheeled me to the front of a plaster statue of Mary. She was to the left of the altar. She was stepping on snakes that slithered across a bluish globe. I looked at her—at the cracks in her head. She’d been there for a hundred years. A lot of devotions had been made to her—votive candles had been lit. Generations worshiping her had come and gone, but she stayed. She was all cracked and disfigured. A snake’s forked tongue was right up against my nose; its sinister-looking eyes met mine.
“Begin!” Uncle Mark hissed.
I began the monotonous prayer: “Hail Mary full of grace…”
“Again!”
I said many of them. After I finished one and began to start the next, Uncle Mark snapped his fingers. About 10 minutes passed.
Before I could say another, a bell pealed in the rear of the church. A woman walked up beside me and genuflected before the altar; she got up and walked to the front of a wooden lectern. “Please stand and greet our celebrant, Father Harvey,” she said.
The congregation stood. Uncle Mark stood. He wheeled me back over to the first pew. “Sit up straight,” he said into my ear.
I arched my back as stiff as I could. I was remembering the deal; it was coming soon.
Father Harvey was an old man; his shoulders were stooped; it was as if sack of concrete had been thrown upon them. He shouldered this imaginary load miserably. A young acolyte clad in an ill-fitting cassock and carrying a withered Christ impaled on a cross led the procession. The woman led us in song. Father Harvey limped and bobbed. He peered up occasionally from his burden to look at the congregation.
“Sing! Sing!” came from behind me.
I didn’t sing. I moved my lips.
Uncle Mark rushed to my side and turned my wheelchair to face him. “You will sing!”
I sang: “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me…”
Father Harvey passed the transept.
“…Let me walk with my brother, in perfect harmony…”
Father Harvey made eye contact with me.
A stage whisper filled my ears: “Nod your head and acknowledge him!”
I nodded.
Father Harvey appeared to be too buried under the hump of his back to see me. He came to the altar and tried to kneel. An acolyte (not the one carrying the withered Christ) caught his elbow. He curtseyed and mounted the altar like a drunken man. A few folds of his alb got stuck under his shoes—nearly tripping him up completely.
Then came his blessing (his arms shook);
Then came the readings (the first reading was about water; the second was about faith; and the Gospel was about Jesus walking on the water). Father Harvey gave his homily while seated on his large throne with velvet padding. He fumbled with his microphone for a few seconds. The congregation was silent. Above him was an electric light; it hung down from a long chain and shone brightly on his pale face. It made his wrinkles look like enormous canyons. He spoke to us, but his lips weren’t visible. He said very little, he was so old.
Uncle Mark gave me a break until the Profession of Faith; then he formed his hands into a knife-like edge and thrust them into my ribs. “Say it!” he said.
And then the collection basket was put in front of us.
Uncle Mark thrust money into my hand. “Give! Give!” he told me.
I put the money in: The basket was withdrawn. A second collection was announced. I gave again.
Then Father Harvey stood—teetering. He broke the bread and consecrated the Eucharist. An acolyte rang the bell which symbolized the precise moment when Jesus took form in that raised, shaking wafer.
“Believe! Believe!”
The bells rang again.
Father Harvey was supposed to genuflect after the bells silenced, but he couldn’t. His knees creaked. He swaggered like I did when I had too much whiskey. Communion was doled out and distributed by the stewards of the church: three clean-cut men in suits. Since we were in front, we got fed last. I think there’s a verse about the last being first in the Bible. I don’t know if Uncle Mark knows that one, else he’d have wheeled us to the back before communion started.
When it was our turn, Uncle Mark nudged me. Father Harvey tried to walk over and give me a wafer, but couldn’t. With the body of Christ held in between his shriveled fingers, he motioned one of the other Eucharistic ministers to come over and feed me.
“Serve this man,” Father Harvey said.
“On your knees!” Uncle Mark hissed.
I hopped off Rusty. Warm stumps met cold slate.
“Bow!”
I bowed and then a wafer was put in my mouth. I bit down on it; my saliva reduced the unleavened body of Christ to a soggy, sponge-like substance. I turned to get myself back up on my wheelchair; a Eucharistic minister tried to help me.
“He will do it,” said Uncle Mark.
“I can do it,” I said stubbornly. But I slipped and fell back down to the cold floor.
My mind flew into a rage: “What was that?” it screamed at my arms. “I thought you were strong?”
The Eucharistic minister placed his chalice down on the altar and bent down to pick me up.
“He will do it on his own.” Uncle Mark said.
The congregation watched me struggle. Even the organist paused playing while I fought to remount trusty Rusty. My arms gave out a third time—unlocking; soggy and limp like the last traces of that wafer in the back of my mouth. Back to the floor of the church I went.
The Eucharistic minister bent down again; it pained him to see me struggle like that. Uncle Mark held the minister back with his big hands.
“He will do it, I said. Let him do it on his own.”
“Help that man,” commanded Father Harvey from atop his padded throne.
Uncle Mark heeded the old priest’s order and let the Eucharistic Minister pick me up and place me on back on Rusty. Uncle Mark only listened to people in authority—especially priests.
Mind: “What is going on? You are ruining the deal! I’m thirsty”
Arms: “We are tired.”
Father Harvey stood and raised his hands–proclaiming that mass had ended and that we could go in peace; that we could love and serve the Lord.
Mind: “WAR!”
Father Harvey shuffled down the nave as slowly as he entered it. The congregation behind us filed out. We were the last ones; we were left sitting in the church. We sat there for a long time. The altar servers came and blew out the candles; a few moments later they reappeared in their street clothes and turned out the electric lights above us.
“You made a scene tonight,” Uncle Mark said. He faced forward when he spoke, not looking me in the eye. I could see his weathered face illuminated by the flickering of the votive candles. “You did it on purpose—to draw attention to your pathetic situation.”
“What about the deal?” I asked.
“You have shamed us; you have let us down. I don’t know.”
“What about the deal?” I repeated. My mind was screaming. My hands shook. I needed whiskey; I needed Vicky V.
“God especially: You let him down.”
“And the deal?”
“You did this in God’s house of all places.”
Arms: “Hit him!”
Mind: “The deal! The deal!”
“You know that you should refuse help. You must depend on God alone for mercy and support, Wes. You know that: You know that you are to mirror the suffering Christ.”
“Yes. And the deal?”
Uncle Mark turned and looked at me. His eyes were wide; the church’s candles could be seen in his pupils. “You must confess this act of vanity, you know.”
I lied. “I will—next week,” I told him. I would tell him anything he wanted at that point; it had been a long time since I’d had whiskey on my lips
Uncle Mark faced forward again. He gripped the large crucifix around his neck and mumbled some inaudible prayers.
“And the deal?”
“Silence!”
We sat there for a very long time. The last few cars outside in the parking lot drove off; the church was silent except for the pattering of the rain on the large roof.
Mind: “The deal! The deal!”
Arms: “Kill him!”
Mind: “Ask him about the deal! Beg for the deal!”
Arms: Break his neck; reach out and snap it. We are strong.”
Mind: “Silence! Beg for it.”
Uncle Mark broke the silence. “Are you ready now?”
I had to know and so I asked again. This time I begged. “Please Uncle Mark: what about the deal?”
Uncle Mark smiled. “Have you learned your lesson tonight, Wes?”
I didn’t even need to think before I answered him. He could have asked me anything and I would have given him the same answer: “Yes!”
“Have you prayed about it?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Will you confess this?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Good. Then I will take you there tonight, Wes,” he said. He stood up and exited the pew, genuflecting and crossing himself piously. Then he pushed me down the aisle. Rusty squeaked and clanged as it rolled across the slate slabs.
Mind: “Hallelujah!”
A figure was sitting in the last pew of the church. It was so dark that we didn’t see it. We only heard it. It was Father Harvey. His dry voice made Uncle Mark jump as if he’d heard the Holy Ghost—causing him to nearly spill me out onto the hard floor.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
Uncle Mark righted me and Rusty. “G-g-g-goodnight, Father Harvey,” he stuttered.
“Please, come closer gentleman,’ Father Harvey said, beckoning us with an outstretched finger.
Uncle Mark wheeled me over to him. (Remember, he was obsequious to priests.)
Father Harvey struggled to rise from his seat. Uncle Mark gripped the old priest’s elbow to help him up.
“I don’t think I gave you absolution young man,” Father Harvey said, pointing at me. “You were at confession tonight weren’t you?”
Uncle Mark spoke for me. “Yes. He went. And no: I don’t think you did, Father, but he has started on his penance.”
“Well then, bow your head son,” Father Harvey commanded.
Mind: “Oh hurry! Hurry! The deal! The deal!”
I bowed my head.
Father Harvey mumbled a prayer; I wasn’t listening to him so I don’t know what he said while he moved his shaking hands above my head. All I remember is what he told me after the prayer. After he made the final sign of the cross over me, he bent down and said audibly, “And now I will seal you with the Holy Spirit by breathing it into your ear.”
“Amen,” I said.
It had been Father Harvey who was in the confessional that night; his breath gave him away. I smelled it when he whispered in my ear. He said, “COME SEE ME SON. COME WHEN YOU ARE SAFE TO COME,” he said.
“Amen,” I said again.
“Thank you father,” Uncle Mark said unaware that he was being betrayed.
“My pleasure, gentlemen,” Father Harvey said as he struggled to sit back down in the pew. (Uncle Mark helped him again by holding his elbow.)
Uncle Mark wheeled me out the door and down the ramp of Saint Sebastian’s Church. “Never leave the confessional without absolution,” he reminded me. “Don’t do that again.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Uncle Mark wasn’t in a hurry now that he’d been to Mass. He leaned against the van’s door while he operated its elevator. He even belted me in (checking to make sure I was safe) and made some small talk for the first time that night. “They say this storm front is supposed to clear out tonight; cold weather’s on the way,” he said.
He drove me a few miles down the road: to Frank’s Lounge. He wheeled me right up to the bar and ordered me a double shot of whiskey.
John was tending the bar that night. “Same deal with Wes tonight Mark?” John asked as he pointed at me.
“Same deal John,” Uncle Mark said slapping a fifty dollar bill down on the bar.
Mind: “The deal! The deal!”
John scooped up the money and poured me my first shot. “What time you picking him up?” he asked Uncle Mark as he slid the shot glass into my quivering hand.
“We’re cutting Wes’ play time short tonight. He was a bad boy in church,” Uncle Mark said chuckling. “Eleven.”
Mind: “Eleven? Did he say eleven?”
Arms: “Kill him!”
Mind: “Shut up and drink.”
I slammed down my first shot. I licked my lips and ordered another. John obliged.
“Slow down Wes,” Fifty dollars ain’t going to get you past nine,” Uncle Mark warned.
John winked at Uncle Mark. “Is he getting a turn with Vicky V too?” he asked.
“Not tonight.”
Mind: “Of course, I was a bad boy.”
“He was a bad boy, remember?”
John nodded. “Right: Then I’ll call the cab at ten thirty.”
Uncle Mark nodded and slapped me on my back. My arms wanted to strangle him; my mind told me to be cool and to drink—to enjoy what I had.
“Be a good boy, Wes. Don’t give Johnnie here a hard time; don’t beg him for more time or for a loan; don’t beg him for Vicky V; don’t give the cabbie a hard time, neither. Just behave.” Uncle Mark said.
“I will,” I said—lying.
“Goodnight Wes.”
I said nothing.
Uncle Mark left; I never saw him again.
That night was different than all other nights. I had made up my mind on the ride to Frank’s. I already knew what I was going to do. My mind didn’t tell me what to do; it didn’t come up with an idea for the first time since I got back from Babylon. It was refreshing—as liberating as liberating Baghdad itself.
I drank five shots in a row: bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. John tried to slow me down; waving his hands in my face and making throat-cutting gestures with his hands, but I told him to go die and to hurry the hell up. Chet, an old Vietnam vet, a regular at Franks who had those red, scaly fingers that a long-time alcoholic has, stumbled over to me. He tried to calm me down. (John enlisted Chet whenever I got especially angry and bitter.) The room spun. I was drunk. Without my legs, I had less space for the alcohol to go. I could catch a buzz like a 10 year-old kid.
“Go die Chet,” I said.
Chet was drunk like me. “Semper Fi. Once a Marine always a Marine!” he said with his arm around me, nearly squeezing me to death. He always said that to me. He loved Marines—especially legless ones like me. We drank a shot together and high-fived. He damn near kissed me on the lips.
“Another,” I commanded.
John poured a seventh shot. “Ok this is your last one Wes. You’re out of money. I’m calling the cab now,” he said.
I protested. “It’s only nine o’clock,” I said.
John made the throat-cutting gesture again while he spoke on the phone. “Hello, Bob’s taxi service? This is John over at Frank’s Lounge. I need a handicapped cab….”
Mind: “Do it!”
Arms: “Do it!”
“From the halls of Montezuma….” Chet crooned, squeezing me, smelling like grain alcohol.
My arms spun Rusty around; I faced it towards the door. Chet made a lazy swipe at me, but I brushed him off. John came across the bar—placing his hand on my large bicep. I was strong, I tell you. I crushed his hand, making him retract it and moan. And then I wheeled Rusty out the door.
No one else in Frank’s Lounge tried to stop me; I had made my point. I was out of there in no time—out on the highway: Me and Rusty. There was so much water on the roads from the storm that I got thoroughly soaked pushing Rusty. Cars zipping by at 80 miles an hour splashed me—making me cold and shiver. No one stopped to ask if they could help; hardly a trace of a Good Samaritan in my freedom-loving town. I was on my own: I just had my united arms and mind to get me there: to that place.
The wind of an 18-wheeler passing me knocked Rusty over. My stumps became submerged in a puddle that was as cold as that church floor that I had been propped up on. It took me a long time to get them out of the mud. When I did get them out, they dripped like they did the day that my legs were blown off me. I got back up on Rusty and moved out.
After a mile of pushing, I felt the whiskey wearing off. Rusty seized up on a rock. I had to dislodge it using my old gnawed-on pen that I kept in the back of my pants. I had to hurry! My mind and arms were going to rebel; “the deal” was going to be summoned, turning me into a coward. I was aware for the first time that time itself was working against me! A white van suddenly passed me. I pictured a frenzied Uncle Mark hunched over behind his steering wheel, humming his Biblical hymns, looking for me like a crazed warden on the hunt for the escaped fugitive. I was ready to fight him; I was ready to die that night—more ready to die for THE CAUSE than I was when I was in Babylon fighting for freedom.
But it wasn’t him in that van. As I said before, I never saw him again. He’s exited from this story; thankfully.
I couldn’t believe it when I got there all bloodied up and dirty. It was like a dream; my ride there must have been five miles. Rusty hadn’t let me down. When I got there I knocked on the door—pounding it with my clenched fists. Nobody answered; I couldn’t hear anything. Everyone was asleep. I held that rock that had gotten stuck in Rusty a few miles back; I held it tighter than I’ve ever held anything in my life. I looked at the window on the second floor and calculated things.
Mind: “Stop! Stop!” What are you doing? Call Uncle Mark before it’s too late!”
Arms: “Throw it!”
I let the rock fly like that live grenade I once threw in Babylon. I lifted myself off Rusty and fell to the ground in front of it. I put my hands over my head—protecting my mind—my treasured brain–from the impending blast.
Mind: “Count to three!”
I counted to three out loud.
Mind: “Prepare for the explosion!”
I did!
The window crashed. A light came on. I heard grunts. Eventually, feet shuffled from behind the door. I heard someone walking down a creaky stairway very slowly. I groveled on the ground with my big arms outstretched. The door opened; I put my hands around the extended feet and kissed them profusely; I kissed them like I kissed my whiskey bottles; I kissed them like I kissed Vicky V in the room at Franky’s Lounge.
Then I looked up at the wrinkled face of Father Harvey.
He was too weak to pick me up—to old; to close to death. He held onto the rectory’s door for balance and bent down. He touched my arm with his extended finger. “I knew you’d come,” he said with a smile.
