Tenth of December: Stories

by George Saunders

  Drama doesn’t suit you, Beloved Only.

  If you want the privilege of competing in a team sport, Scout, show us that you can live within our perfectly reasonable system of directives designed to benefit you.

  Hello.

  A van had just pulled up in the St. Mikhail’s parking lot.

  Kyle walked in a controlled, gentlemanly manner to the kitchen counter. On the counter was Kyle’s Traffic Log, which served the dual purpose of (1) buttressing Dad’s argument that Father Dmitri should build a soundproof retaining wall and (2) constituting a data set for a possible Science Fair project for him, Kyle, entitled, by Dad, “Correlation of Church Parking Lot Volume vs. Day of Week, with Ancillary Investigation of Sunday Volume Throughout Year.”

  Smiling agreeably as if he enjoyed filling out the Log, Kyle very legibly filled out the Log:

  Vehicle: VAN.

  Color: GRAY.

  Make: CHEVY.

  Year: UNKNOWN.

  A guy got out of the van. One of the usual Rooskies. “Rooskie” was an allowed slang. Also “dang it.” Also “holy golly.” Also “crapper.” The Rooskie was wearing a jean jacket over a hoodie, which, in Kyle’s experience, was not unusual church-wear for the Rooskies, who sometimes came directly over from Jiffy Lube still wearing coveralls.

  Under “Vehicle Driver” he wrote, PROBABLE PARISHIONER.

  That sucked. Stank, rather. The guy being a stranger, he, Kyle, now had to stay inside until the stranger left the neighborhood. Which totally futzed up his geode placing. He’d be out there until midnight. What a detriment!

  The guy put on a Day Glo-vest. Ah, dude was a meter reader.

  The meter reader looked left, then right, leaped across the creek, entered the Pope backyard, passed between the soccer-ball rebounder and the in-ground pool, then knocked on the Pope door.

  Good leap there, Boris.

  The door swung open.

  Alison.

  Kyle’s heart was singing. He’d always thought that was just a phrase. Alison was like a national treasure. In the dictionary under “beauty” there should be a picture of her in that jean skort. Although lately she didn’t seem to like him all that much.

  Now she stepped across her deck so the meter reader could show her something. Something electrical wrong on the roof? The guy seemed eager to show her. Actually, he had her by the wrist. And was like tugging.

  That was weird. Wasn’t it? Something had never been weird around here before. So probably it was fine. Probably the guy was just a really new meter reader?

  Somehow Kyle felt like stepping out onto the deck. He stepped out. The guy froze. Alison’s eyes were scared-horse eyes. The guy cleared his throat, turned slightly to let Kyle see something.

  A knife.

  The meter reader had a knife.

  Here’s what you’re doing, the guy said. Standing right there until we leave. Move a muscle, I knife her in the heart. Swear to God. Got it?

  Kyle’s mouth was so spitless all he could do was make his mouth do the shape it normally did when saying Yes.

  Now they were crossing the yard. Alison threw herself to the ground. The guy hauled her up. She threw herself down. He hauled her up. It was odd seeing Alison tossed like a rag doll in the sanctuary of the perfect yard her dad had made for her. She threw herself down.

  The guy hissed something and she rose, suddenly docile.

  In his chest Kyle felt the many directives, Major and Minor, he was right now violating. He was on the deck shoeless, on the deck shirtless, was outside when a stranger was near, had engaged with that stranger.

  Last week Sean Ball had brought a wig to school to more effectively mimic the way Bev Mirren chewed her hair when nervous. Kyle had briefly considered intervening. At Evening Meeting, Mom had said that she considered Kyle’s decision not to intervene judicious. Dad had said, That was none of your business. You could have been badly hurt. Mom had said, Think of all the resources we’ve invested in you, Beloved Only. Dad had said, I know we sometimes strike you as strict but you are literally all we have.

  They were at the soccer-ball rebounder now, Alison’s arm up behind her back. She was making a low repetitive sound of denial, like she was trying to invent a noise that would adequately communicate her feelings about what she’d just this instant realized was going to happen to her.

  He was just a kid. There was nothing he could do. In his chest he felt the lush release of pressure that always resulted when he submitted to a directive. There at his feet was the geode. He should just look at that until they left. It was a great one. Maybe the greatest one ever. The crystals at the cutaway glistened in the sun. It would look nice in the yard. Once he placed it. He’d place it once they were gone. Dad would be impressed that even after what had occurred he’d remembered to place the geode.

  That’s the ticket, Scout.

  We are well pleased, Beloved Only.

  Super job, Scout.

  Holy crap. It was happening. She was marching along all meek like the trouper he’d known she’d be. He’d had her in mind since the baptism of what’s-his-name. Sergei’s kid. At the Russian church. She’d been standing in her yard, her dad or some such taking her picture.

  He’d been like, Hello, Betty.

  Kenny had been like, Little young, bro.

  He’d been like, For you, grandpa.

  When you studied history, the history of cultures, you saw your own individual time as hidebound. There were various theories of acquiescence. In Bible days a king might ride through a field and go: That one. And she would be brought unto him. And they would duly be betrothed and if she gave birth unto a son, super, bring out the streamers, she was a keeper. Was she, that first night, digging it? Probably not. Was she shaking like a leaf? Didn’t matter. What mattered was offspring and the furtherance of the lineage. Plus the exaltation of the king, which resulted in righteous kingly power.

  Here was the creek.

  He marched her through.

  The following bullet points remained in the decision matrix: take to side van door, shove in, follow in, tape wrists/mouth, hook to chain, make speech. He had the speech down cold. Had practiced it both in his head and on the recorder: Calm your heart, darling, I know you’re scared because you don’t know me yet and didn’t expect this today but give me a chance and you will see we will fly high. See I am putting the knife right over here and I don’t expect I’ll have to use it, right?

  If she wouldn’t get in the van, punch hard in gut. Then pick up, carry to side van door, throw in, tape wrists/mouth, hook to chain, make speech, etc., etc.

  Stop, pause, he said.

  Gal stopped.

  Fucksake. Side door of the van was locked. How undisciplined was that. Ensuring that the door was unlocked was clearly indicated on the pre-mission matrix. Melvin appeared in his mind. On Melvin’s face was the look of hot disappointment that had always preceded an ass whooping, which had always preceded the other thing. Put up your hands, Melvin said, defend yourself.

  True, true. Little error there. Should have double-checked the pre-mission matrix.

  No biggie.

  Joy not fear.

  Melvin was dead fifteen years. Mom dead twelve.

  Little bitch was turned around now, looking back at the house. That willfulness wouldn’t stand. That was going to get nipped in the bud. He’d have to remember to hurt her early, establish a baseline.

  Turn the fuck around, he said.

  She turned around.

  He unlocked the door, swung it open. Moment of truth. If she got in, let him use the tape, they were home free. He’d picked out a place in Sackett, big-ass cornfield, dirt road leading in. If fuckwise it went good they’d pick up the freeway from there. Basically steal the van. It was Kenny’s van. He’d borrowed it for the day. Screw Kenny. Kenny had once called him stupid. Too bad, Kenny, that remark just cost you one van. If fuckwise it went bad, she didn’t properly arouse him, he’d abort the activity, truncate the subject, heave the thing out, cl
ean van as necessary, go buy corn, return van to Kenny, say, Hey, bro, here’s a shitload of corn, thanks for the van, I never could’ve bought a suitable quantity of corn in my car. Then lay low, watch the papers like he’d done with the nonarousing redhead out in—

  Gal gave him an imploring look, like, Please don’t.

  Was this a good time? To give her one in the gut, knock the wind out of her sails?

  It was.

  He did.

  The geode was beautiful. What a beautiful geode. What made it beautiful? What were the principal characteristics of a beautiful geode? Come on, think. Come on, concentrate.

  She’ll recover in time, Beloved Only.

  None of our affair, Scout.

  We’re amazed by your good judgment, Beloved Only.

  Dimly he noted that Alison had been punched. Eyes on the geode, he heard the little oof.

  His heart dropped at the thought of what he was letting happen. They’d used goldfish snacks as coins. They’d made bridges out of rocks. Down by the creek. Back in the day. Oh God. He should’ve never stepped outside. Once they were gone he’d just go back inside, pretend he’d never stepped out, make the model-railroad town, still be making it when Mom and Dad got home. When eventually someone told him about it? He’d make a certain face. Already on his face he could feel the face he would make, like, What? Alison? Raped? Killed? Oh God. Raped and killed while I innocently made my railroad town, sitting cross-legged and unaware on the floor like a tiny little—

  No. No, no, no. They’d be gone soon. Then he could go inside. Call 911. Although then everyone would know he’d done nothing. All his future life would be bad. Forever he’d be the guy who’d done nothing. Besides, calling wouldn’t do any good. They’d be long gone. The parkway was just across Featherstone, with like a million arteries and cloverleafs or whatever spouting out of it. So that was that. In he’d go. As soon as they left. Leave, leave, leave, he thought, so I can go inside, forget this ever—

  Then he was running. Across the lawn. Oh God! What was he doing, what was he doing? Jesus, shit, the directives he was violating! Running in the yard (bad for the sod); transporting a geode without its protective wrapping; hopping the fence, which stressed the fence, which had cost a pretty penny; leaving the yard; leaving the yard barefoot; entering the Secondary Area without permission; entering the creek barefoot (broken glass, dangerous microorganisms), and, not only that, oh God, suddenly he saw what this giddy part of himself intended, which was to violate a directive so Major and absolute that it wasn’t even a directive, since you didn’t need a directive to know how totally verboten it was to—

  He burst out of the creek, the guy still not turning, and let the geode fly into his head, which seemed to emit a weird edge-seep of blood even before the skull visibly indented and the guy sat right on his ass.

  Yes! Score! It was fun! Fun dominating a grown-up! Fun using the most dazzling gazelle-like leg speed ever seen in the history of mankind to dash soundlessly across space and master this huge galoot, who otherwise, right now, would be—

  What if he hadn’t?

  God, what if he hadn’t?

  He imagined the guy bending Alison in two like a pale garment bag while pulling her hair and thrusting bluntly, as he, Kyle, sat cowed and obedient, tiny railroad viaduct grasped in his pathetic babyish—

  Jesus! He skipped over and hurled the geode through the windshield of the van, which imploded, producing an inward rain of glass shards that made the sound of thousands of tiny bamboo wind chimes.

  He scrambled up the hood of the van, retrieved the geode.

  Really? Really? You were going to ruin her life, ruin my life, you cunt-probe dick-munch ass-gashing Animal? Who’s bossing who now? Gash-ass, jizz-lips, turd-munch—

  He’d never felt so strong/angry/wild. Who’s the man? Who’s your daddy? What else must he do? To ensure that Animal did no further harm? You still moving, freak? Got a plan, stroke-dick? Want a skull gash on top of your existing skull gash, big man? You think I won’t? You think I—

  Easy, Scout, you’re out of control.

  Slow your motor down, Beloved Only.

  Quiet. I’m the boss of me.

  FUCK!

  What the hell? What was he doing on the ground? Had he tripped? Did someone wonk him? Did a branch fall? God damn. He touched his head. His hand came away bloody.

  The beanpole kid was bending. To pick something up. A rock. Why was that kid off the porch? Where was the knife?

  Where was the gal?

  Crab-crawling toward the creek.

  Flying across her yard.

  Going into her house.

  Fuck it, everything was fucked. Better hit the road. With what, his good looks? He had like eight bucks total.

  Ah Christ! The kid had smashed the windshield! With the rock! Kenny was not going to like that one bit.

  He tried to stand but couldn’t. The blood was just pouring out. He was not going to jail again. No way. He’d slit his wrists. Where was the knife? He’d stab himself in the chest. That had nobility. Then the people would know his name. Which of them had the balls to samurai themselves with a knife in the chest?

  None.

  Nobody.

  Go ahead, pussy. Do it.

  No. The king does not take his own life. The superior man silently accepts the mindless rebuke of the rabble. Waits to rise and fight anew. Plus he had no idea where the knife was. Well, he didn’t need it. He’d crawl into the woods, kill something with his bare hands. Or make a trap from some grass. Ugh. Was he going to barf? There, he had. Right on his lap.

  Figures you’d blow the simplest thing, Melvin said.

  Melvin, God, can’t you see my head is bleeding so bad?

  A kid did it to you. You’re a joke. You got fucked by a kid.

  Oh, sirens, perfect.

  Well, it was a sad day for the cops. He’d fight them hand to hand. He’d sit until the last moment, watching them draw near, doing a silent death mantra that would centralize all his life power in his fists.

  He sat thinking about his fists. They were huge granite boulders. They were a pit bull each. He tried to get up. Somehow his legs weren’t working. He hoped the cops would get here soon. His head really hurt. When he touched up there, things moved. It was like he was wearing a gore cap. He was going to need a bunch of stitches. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. Probably it would, though.

  Where was that beanpole kid?

  Oh, here he was.

  Looming over him, blocking out the sun, rock held high, yelling something, but he couldn’t tell what, because of the ringing in his ears.

  Then he saw that the kid was going to bring the rock down. He closed his eyes and waited and was not at peace at all but instead felt the beginnings of a terrible dread welling up inside him, and if that dread kept growing at the current rate, he realized in a flash of insight, there was a name for the place he would be then, and it was Hell.

  Alison stood at the kitchen window. She’d peed herself. Which was fine. People did that. When super-scared. She’d noticed it while making the call. Her hands had been shaking so bad. They still were. One leg was doing that Thumper thing. God, the stuff he’d said to her. He’d punched her. He’d pinched her. There was a big blue mark on her arm. How could Kyle still be out there? But there he was, in those comical shorts, so confident he was goofing around, hands clenched over his head like a boxer from some cute alt universe where a kid that skinny could actually win a fight against a guy with a knife.

  Wait.

  His hands weren’t clenched. He was holding the rock, shouting something down at the guy, who was on his knees, like the blindfolded prisoner in that video they’d seen in History, about to get sword-killed by a formal dude in a helmet.

  Kyle, don’t, she whispered.

  For months afterward she had nightmares in which Kyle brought the rock down. She was on the deck trying to scream his name but nothing was coming out. Down came the rock. Then the guy had no head. The blow jus
t literally dissolved his head. Then his body tumped over and Kyle turned to her with this heartbroken look of, My life is over. I killed a guy.

  Why was it, she sometimes wondered, that in dreams we can’t do the simplest things? Like a crying puppy is standing on some broken glass and you want to pick it up and brush the shards off its pads but you can’t because you’re balancing a ball on your head. Or you’re driving and there’s this old guy on crutches, and you go, to Mr. Feder, your Driver’s Ed teacher, Should I swerve? And he’s like, Uh, probably. But then you hear this big clunk and Feder makes a negative mark in his book.

  Sometimes she’d wake up crying from the dream about Kyle. The last time, Mom and Dad were already there, going, That’s not how it was. Remember, Allie? How did it happen? Say it. Say it out loud. Allie, can you tell Mommy and Daddy how it really happened?

  I ran outside, she said. I shouted.

  That’s right, Dad said. You shouted. Shouted like a champ.

  And what did Kyle do? Mom said.

  Put down the rock, she said.

  A bad thing happened to you kids, Dad said. But it could have been worse.

  So much worse, Mom said.

  But because of you kids, Dad said, it wasn’t.

  You did so good, Mom said.

  Did beautiful, Dad said.

  STICKS

  Every year Thanksgiving night we flocked out behind Dad as he dragged the Santa suit to the road and draped it over a kind of crucifix he’d built out of metal pole in the yard. Super Bowl week the pole was dressed in a jersey and Rod’s helmet and Rod had to clear it with Dad if he wanted to take the helmet off. On Fourth of July the pole was Uncle Sam, on Veterans Day a soldier, on Halloween a ghost. The pole was Dad’s one concession to glee. We were allowed a single Crayola from the box at a time. One Christmas Eve he shrieked at Kimmie for wasting an apple slice. He hovered over us as we poured ketchup, saying, Good enough good enough good enough. Birthday parties consisted of cupcakes, no ice cream. The first time I brought a date over she said, What’s with your dad and that pole? and I sat there blinking.