by Keith LaHue
He thought about that fact for a moment while he was upstairs helping his mother with the dishes. Only Karl had ever given Davey a negative vibe. And Davey thought that was out of jealousy of the relationship Davey had with his father. He didn't know much about Karl. Except that sometimes he saw bruises on his arms. Bruises that had started after Karl's mother had died. Davey might have only been eight going on nine, but he wasn't dumb. He'd met Karl's dad. There was something about Karl's dad that gave Davey a sense of real danger like he'd beat the heck out of you if he had the chance. He always smelled funny too, like his mom and dad did on Christmas Eve when they had that drink they generally didn't have. They drank on Christmas Eve together, and sometimes his dad would have a beer when he watched the baseball game.
But that smell of his parents when they drank was tempered with the love they shared. As such it had a different meaning to Davey. The smell of Karl's dad was malevolent. Something about the man struck Davey as having the characteristic of real danger. Karl was afraid of him.
And what of Karl? Since his mother had died, he had become sullen, full of unfocused anger. Davey was in the same class as him and had seen Karl called to stay after class, which meant one thing: his grades were low. Other than teasing other kids, which was about the only reason Davey could think of why you'd be called to stay after. When Karl's mother had died, Karl had changed. And not for the better.
Karl arrived home in the darkness. He prayed his father wouldn't notice. He'd left when it was light out, and his father hadn't really noticed him slip out. He was more interested in the TV, whatever was on; it had his father's attention.
Tonight Karl's dad was drinking Gin. Karl knew that was bad. When he drank beer, he'd be his normal self. This meant that while he was mean, he didn't always beat the hell out of Karl. He'd sneak around the living room and up the stairs. He was almost there when he heard his father call him.
"Come here you little shit. What are you doing out after dark? I made you a fuckin' TV dinner shitass. Now you're gunna fuckin' eat it. Got that?" His father jumped up, almost spilling his drink in the process. He grabbed Karl by the throat and began dragging him to the kitchen.
Once there, he shoved Karl into a chair. The remains of a TV dinner were sitting there cold. It looked like the rats had been at it. The kitchen was a disaster area. The trash was piled up. His dad went to the dump every day, yet rarely took his own garbage. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes and leftover rotting food.
His dad liked the rats. He called them his friends. Karl was afraid of them. They were so ballsy they'd run around the kitchen, and the rest of the house, in broad daylight. There was one now, nibbling on some unrecognizable rotted leftover.
"You're gonna fuckin' sit here and eat what my friends left you." He took a piece of something from the tray and tried to stuff it down Karl's throat. He pushed and pushed through Karl's clenched teeth, forcing the cold food into his mouth. Karl was trying not to cry. If he cried, it would only make things worse. Then his dad would hit him and tell him not to "be a fuckin' fag". That was one of his favorites. Karl was aware of what a fag was, but seeing as he hadn't reached puberty yet, it was only a vague awareness. His father took a small handful of mashed potatoes and began punching him in the face while simultaneously shoving the food down. Karl started to choke when he realized this was the same TV dinner he'd failed to eat yesterday. It was rancid. Then he started to cry.
"You fuckin' queer. I put a hot meal on the table for you and you cry." He backhanded Karl, throwing him to the floor. Karl sobbed.
"Why do you hate me so much? What did I do?"
His father stopped for a minute and looked at Karl. For a minute Karl thought his father was going to go into one of those pathetic phases where he cried, and told Karl he was sorry that he hurt him so much, and he knew what a bad father he was. Somehow that was worse than the beatings and the burns.
Karl knew how weak his father was deep down. His father was a piece of shit. That same phrase that his father had called him so many times resonated in the little boy's head. Karl new one thing: when he grew up he was going to kill the bastard. His father had damaged him. Maybe beyond repair. He had taken anything about Karl that was any good and killed it. Karl's mother had been good to him. To both of them. Then his father had killed the only person that ever loved him, his mother. He wondered why the police had been so quick to call it a natural death. It was anything but natural. She had been murdered. The night he murdered her his father had come into his room, naked. That was the first night of the burnings. His father had been careful that the scar wouldn't show. When he was done torturing him, his father had taken his model of a 1967 Camaro that Karl had worked so hard on. He'd carefully painted it, after having shaped the pieces with sandpaper so they fit just right. It was perfect. As perfect as that asshole Davey's diorama was. His father had smashed the car model to bits. Karl didn't know which hurt more, the burn or the car being smashed. He hadn't built another model since then. The next day when the police with an ambulance arrived to take his mother away, they hadn't even looked at him like he was a person. They just asked his dad questions. His dad had mustered up tears for the occasion. Then they had just taken her. Karl never got to say goodbye. There had been no funeral.
His father looked at him. He motioned to the mess all around the kitchen. "Clean all of this fucking mess up. Unless you want to be with your mom forever." That didn't sound like a bad idea to Karl.
Still crying, Karl got up off the floor and began to clean the mess up. His father went back to the TV. Karl thought about it for a minute. Maybe it would be better to be with his mother forever. It had to be better than this.
But burning in the back of his mind was the thing that had set the night in motion, and caused him to be out late. He was gonna get that fucker Davey's model. Just like his dad had smashed his car model, he would smash Davey's.
17
James struck up an idea as he was falling asleep. He knew that the days of the week didn't really matter. Donna would have a party, he would go, rinse and repeat. Only now Donna was dead. He wondered how she would have her party "Tomorrow". Some days he had skipped the party. He had a feeling that he was no longer a part of the greater construct that kept the inhabitants of little LA, as he had come to call it, in check.
Today. The day he had inadvertently killed Donna. Or rather been instrumental in her death. He'd called her early in the morning. She was having a party and of course, he would be there, but perhaps she might like to go to the beach first. Go for a swim, take in the sun. She'd agreed and he said he'd be right over to pick her up. Her place overlooked the Pacific, but he had a feeling that the Pacific didn't really exist. Donna apparently awoke every day with no knowledge of the previous day. Sort of. One time he'd quizzed her on the details of their trip to the desert, and she'd shown an inkling of remembrance, just a moment of reverie that finally faded. She looked confused for a moment, and then snapped back into the repetition of the day.
He'd picked her up in his VW, not really wanted to bother with one of her expensive cars. He was headed to the beach, which he could see off in the distance. There had to be something there, he was pretty sure it wasn't water. The rose higher in the hills, was this the way? He asked Donna if she'd been to the beach in Malibu, and she'd replied "Of course silly, it's right there. Can't you see it?"
"We're climbing up is all. I'd think we should be headed down by now."
"Keep driving lover boy. It descends in a few minutes."
He kept on driving. After thirty minutes of what should have been a five-minute drive, they were on a cliff overlooking the ocean. They stopped and got out.
"So. We're not at the beach." He looked below at the thin strip of white sand that was Malibu beach. Donna looked confused again.
"Well, I'm sure we came the right way. Look there's a path down. Let's follow it."
"Lead on." This went against the grain of everything. He wondered if they weren't seriously
screwing with the time lords or the gods. Whoever or whatever had created this flawed and incomplete version of Los Angeles, where everyone blithely went about re-living the same day over and over. Donna was getting ahead of him, he hurried to catch up. They were headed down, but the path grew ever more treacherous. He called out to Donna to stop and wait for him.
It happened quickly. One moment she was on the rocky precipice they were descending, and then she tripped and fell. All the way down. She had disappeared over the cliff. Alarmed, James went after her. He hesitated as he approached the spot where she'd gone over. Then he stopped. There was a blue mist here, obfuscating his view. He knew that if he took another step, he'd end up where Donna was. He moved a little to his left, to get a view of the base of the cliff. He didn't see Donna's body.
Had he killed her by taking her on this ill-fated expedition? He could have and should have come alone. Then he might have suffered the same fate as Donna. He wasn't sure that was a bad idea. Some of him wanted this to be over. He stood for a moment on the edge of the cliff before headed back to the car.
He drove to Donna's. He wasn't sure where that was in relation to where he was, he needed to find familiar ground. He just drove into the hills, away from the coast. He needed to call the police. He knew there was a staff at Donna's place that would let him use the phone. He saw a signpost ahead that had the effect of instant relief as he recognized the name. He took a turn and soon was headed to Donna's.
He arrived and got out of the car. Strange, there were cars that didn't belong to Donna in the driveway. He knocked on the front door, and one of Donna's aides answered. It was one of the housekeepers he knew.
"You're early," she said
"I know, look I need to use the phone. May I?"
"Yes of course. This way." She led him into the living room, unpopulated for the moment. He dialed the police. The desk sergeant answered.
"There's been an accident. Donna Withrow is dead. She fell off of a cliff."
"Are you sure she's dead?"
"Yes, look you've got to send a car, and ambulance, anything. Her body has to be in the cove that the cliffs overlook. I can take you there."
"We're sending someone now. Just hold tight. What is the address you are at now?"
He gave Donna's address and hung up the phone. The housekeeper that had let him in was crying. She also looked like she didn't quite understand. She asked him how she died, and when he answered she replied that she had to get the house ready for the party.
He ignored this obvious conflict with whatever had programmed the maid to be on a singular train of thought. As he waited she did indeed begin preparing the house. It was getting late, soon the guests would arrive. And they'd find no host to greet them. Some perverse part of him wanted to stay and see exactly what would happen with the party, sans Donna.
The police arrived, he walked over to the car where the cop had the window down.
"You're sure she's dead?"
"Well, I didn't see the body. But she did fall off the cliff, the one above the cove, south of Malibu beach proper."
"Can you give me directions back to it?"
"I think so. It was a strange route. We were trying to find beach access."
"Then why didn't you just drive down the hill instead of up? Are you on drugs?"
"No officer, I assure you. We started out taking the obvious route, then got all turned around in the hills."
"Whatever you say. Get in."
The drove in silence as the cop tried to figure out the bizarre directions James had given him. After about an hour, James spotted the road they'd been on. He motioned to it, and soon they were at the same overlook that Donna and he had stopped at before.
They got out of the car.
"Lead me down the path, and show me where she went over," said the cop. He barked something unintelligible into his radio then turned his attention back to James. James led him right to the point where the blue mist was. Then he stopped.
"It was right here. Those rocks...."
The cop moved to the left, avoiding the mist. James wondered if he even saw it. Maybe some of the population was hardwired to ignore the boundaries of "Little LA". The cop looked over and over.
"I don't see a body. And it's not that far down. I'm calling for backup to head down there. We'll stay here." James caught the fear and confusion in the man's eyes. They waited quite some time for the backup. When they arrived, the confused cop pointed, and one by one, the three searchers went into the mist. You could see beyond it where the path was. When the searchers went in, they vanished. The cop stood with him as if nothing was wrong. James and he waited for what seemed an eternity.
Then the search party was suddenly there. They'd appeared not out of the mist, which was what James was expecting, but from above them, from a hill. They were talking amongst themselves as they reached James and the cop.
"No body. Are you sure she fell?"
"Yes, I saw her go over. She couldn't have survived the fall."
"Well the tide is out now, and the cove has a fairly wide area of beach and rocks. We couldn't find a trace of her. I guess now we wait for her to wash up somewhere. If she hit the water, her body could have been pulled out by the tide. I suppose. At any rate, we'll need you to come to the station and fill out a report." The cop had a strange stare as he spoke like he was reading from a script. He was a bad actor.
James couldn't believe the turn of events. He'd gone to the station and filled out a perfunctory report. The cop that took it didn't seem all the interested. In fact, he had the same kind of glazed over eyes that the rest of them had, like all of this was out of anything they had experienced. Surely this would change tomorrow's headlines in the paper. So far the paper had been the same every day.
James was waiting for sleep, going over the events of the day when the phone rang. He felt like ignoring it. Donna was dead because of him. And nothing would bring her back. He supposed that seeing as nothing in the world was real, maybe it didn't matter.
He picked up the phone. It was Donna.
"You're a little late lover boy. I guess the part where I was dead for a few hours threw you for a loop." She sounded anxious. James sat bolt upright in the bed.
"Donna? How can this be? I saw you die."
"More like I died because of you. But I came back. And you know what? I remember being dead"
"B-b-but..."
"No buts. The beach doesn't exist. But you knew that, didn't you? I bet there are a few other things you know that I don't. I remember the day we went for the drive to the desert now. It doesn't exist either does it? You know what else? I don't think that we exist. We're all part of some puppet show being put on for god knows what reason. I want you to get in the car, your shitty VW, and get to my place. We've got some things to go over. I want out. I want out of this shitty mess created by some omnipotent being that doesn't give a shit about us. At least we can't die. That much I know. And you will soon. I want to kill you. So you'll know what it's like to die here. Tell ya the truth, it doesn't hurt a bit. I should know. So are you coming?"
18
Davey sat with his bed-ridden father in the guest room, wondering how he was going to tell him that Pangaea was alive, and growing even in his absence. He knew his father wouldn't believe him, so he also wondered if there was any point in telling him. Something in him nagged at him, maybe a sense of confession. There was also the fact that he felt alone in the knowledge that what they had created as father and son had taken on its own life. He had to tell him. His dad would be out of his casts in three weeks, and presumably, he'd be back to work on the model. Davey had been ripping down the progress made on the Great Wall, and he hadn't noticed any other changes in the parts that were already built.
His father was in a semi-upright position, at least as much as he could manage. He was eating a sandwich, it was high noon and if there was one thing Marigold could be counted on it was timely meals.
"Dad. Pangaea is alive. It's growing
." His dad heaved a sigh and put down his sandwich.
"I was afraid this would come up. Your mother told me all about it. How you order the people around and like to pretend that there are real people there. I assure you there are not. It's just not possible Davey. This is a fantasy you're indulging. And while I encourage an imagination, I don't think taking it to this extreme is healthy. You have to be able to draw boundaries.
"Then how come the Great Wall grows every few days? It gets bigger. Longer. And I haven't done a thing to make it happen. I tell you there are people there! They're working on it even now! Do you want me to show you pictures.?"
"Now son, there is no such thing as magical people living in a model that I created. It isn't possible. You're mother said she's heard you threaten the people of New York, saying that terrorists are going to crash planes into the World Trade Center."
"Well, that's going to happen! There's a new building there now in real life. Terrorists did crash planes into the twin towers. I know you didn't want me to know, but I do. I saw it on the news just like everyone else. So I figured I better tell the people -"
"Stop this David! Stop it now! If you don't the first thing I'll do when I get out of bed is destroy the damn thing. Understand? Not one more word. I'm warning you. Understood?"
Davey looked down at the floor. "Yes, dad. I understand. I'm going to the kitchen to eat with mom. She told me to take your plate if you're done."
Dave Sr. shoved the plate on the tray. He wasn't hungry anymore. "Yes, you can take it, Davey. And I'm sorry if I was harsh with you. But understand that Pangaea isn't real. It's just make-believe. Got it kiddo?"
"I got it, dad." Davey resolved not to speak to him of it again. He also would stop tearing down the parts of the Great Wall that were being built by the people of China. That would show him. When he got out of bed in a few weeks he would see for himself. He took his dad's tray, said he'd be back later and headed for the kitchen.
