He steps toward the TV and stares at the blank screen. His distorted reflection stares back. After a minute he presses the ON button.
He realizes, in those first precious seconds, his world has forever changed.
Chapter 9
So Many Sins, So Few Regrets
My bride must know of my failure. More to the point, I must tell her. But as I sit here in this mildewed tavern, writing these words by the light of a dim candle, my hand has ideas of its own.
London has been brought to its knees, I write, and the lies flow from there. I go on to explain how I have made my name in industry: building canals to start the limitless parade of coal from the mines west and north so London can burn brightly. This is only partly true. I say I have come into a most respectable position: a commander of pickmen, leading the whole lot beyond the walls of this great city, and into the wilderness of the unknown, toward Marlborough in the west, Nottinghamshire in the north. I cannot possibly know for how long I will be gone. Not until the canals are complete and you can see the fires of London from the hills of Berwick.
But know this, I write: Through shed sweat and spilled blood, I am remaking this world.
I tell her the work is tiresome to most, but it is fine to me. I barely have a free moment to rest my weary head, to give my abraded hands the briefest respite. I am learning, teaching and making my mark, both on the landscape and in the minds of men who matter in a civilized world. My time in the wind and rain, knee deep in muck, will have its dividends. My work will draw eyes, and soon the men who decide matters of wins and losses will whisk me from this hole in the mud, away from the stink of oxen and the fog of dead, brown air. My pockets will fill, and then all my days hence will pass in a proper office on the blessed span of London Bridge, warmed by the comforts of gin and a well-fed hearth.
I can imagine, can I not?
The letter I know I should write: I have erred, horribly so. I walked away from a land of plenty to be a lowly pickman, digging holes in the wet, stinking earth. I break my back twelve hours a day, all for a few shillings per week. Despite the breaking, the men above me have no intention of admitting me into their circle. They see me as a beast of burden, nothing more.
I am an animal, a servant willing to eat dirt for a handful of coins.
A wiser man would have learned something from Roger Roberts, the woodenheaded heir to Roberts Farm, down the road from the farmhouse in Berwick whose door I never should have abandoned. Like me, young Roger departed Berwick for London, only to return eighteen months later, thin and gray and blinded, one eye as useless as a dead bird. “London changed me,” he told me, though he neglected to say precisely how. Or perhaps I neglected to ask. He implied city life had made him better. His sightless eye proved otherwise.
London changed him all right, just as it changes me. He left before it killed him. I, too, have the sense to know my stubbornness, and to not allow my stubbornness to lead me to the brink of death. Sacrifice has helped me save quite a bit, at least. This I can tell her in truth. Night in and night out, my body finds rest on the cold ground, my lips parched and stomach empty, all to sock away every penny so I might one day afford a proper place to call home. How much will be enough? No one has been able to say.
Brooding aside, my faith in my abilities remains strong, as does my faith in the random hand of good fortune. But even I, a stubborn fool, can admit this experiment must end soon. I have another month in these bones, two at most. By then I should have enough saved to afford something. By then I at least can say I came to this city, worked my back down to its bones and earned enough to stay here until I am an old and tired man, though I shall not stay. By then, I will be able to say without a lie on my tongue that I had succeeded here but chose to return to Berwick.
Life reaches its end all too easily in London—a slaughterhouse, a gallows, a maker of widows. Villains with blades and clubs prowl about for gentle souls to slay. Gaol fever chokes the air, eager to burn me up. A godless beast stalks the midnight streets, hungry for meat. The worst: the gnarled rope of the Tyburn Tree. If I let my imagination roam, I can hear the rope groaning as my body swings, purely because my pauper’s hands slipped into some fellow’s untended pockets. My remains would rot in a coffin shaft, pockets picked clean and shoes peeled from my feet.
My bride would never forgive me for leaving her without a body to bury.
Berwick calls to me. I miss the smell of the sea, if not its salty skin. I miss the clear skies. I miss the cows chewing their cud, tails swaying. And I miss her—my bride.
Yet these secrets will remain as such, unspoken.
I wonder how she is. Wonder is all I can do for now. In these darkest hours of mine, I fear I may never see her face again, at least not in this life.
Chapter 10
The End of Hope and Prayer
The pastor nods toward the first pew as the organ hums the last cheerful bar of “Jesus, Joy of Our Desiring.”
A thin woman rises from her seat and creeps toward the pulpit. Her foot slips on the carpet of an unnoticed step. As she regains her balance, she reaches the lectern and places her Bible off to the side. She twists the microphone down and then up, back to where it had been—perfect. The Bible falls off the edge of the lectern, and the book lands with a boom just as the organ music ends. Her arthritic knees crackle as she bends to pick up the weathered book. When she stands, her cheeks blaze red. She clears her throat.
“What you’re about to hear will be unlike anything else you’ve heard here at Crows Gorge United Methodist Church,” she begins. “We all know the saying about desperate times, right? Well, those times are upon us.”
She pauses to take a breath and steady her trembling hands.
“I was in the market just the other day, in the produce aisle. Across the aisle I saw a child—a boy, no more than four, five at the most—standing with his young mother, perhaps twenty-five, blessed and pregnant. The boy was doing as boys do, putting their chubby little hands where they don’t belong. I saw him pick up an apple from the display case. You know how they stack those apples, almost like they’re in a pyramid straight out of the Egyptian desert. Well, I swear that apple must have been a puzzle piece, a key of sorts, because every other apple in the pyramid-shaped display came crashing down, cascading down to the floor. Apples, apples everywhere.”
She takes another pause, this one purely for effect.
“I’ve never seen such rage,” she says. Her voice becomes soft, almost sinister. “Not from the mother, mind you, because none of us would have faulted her for taking a rod to the child for letting his hands wander. No, it was the little boy, throwing a terrible fit! He picked up one of those apples and hurled it clear across the market. Splat! Then he did the same with another, and another one after that. One of them almost hit me, if you want to hear the truth. And when that boy’s mother went to discipline him like he deserved, what do you think happened?”
She waits for a response that doesn’t come.
“That little boy just started swatting his mother, swinging at her—lashing out at his own flesh and blood, at the very woman who made him. Kicked her in the shins. Even punched her right in the belly, right in the space where his little baby brother or sister was doing nothing more than trying to take shape. Mom doubled over, nearly fell right to the floor, and that little boy just kept up his not-so-little fit, raising Cain right in the middle of the public grocery.”
She doesn’t need to finish the story.
“What do you think caused that outburst? I know what I think.”
She inspects the puzzled faces of the Sunday morning congregation.
“Demonic influence,” she says. She repeats the phrase, smacking her Bible against the lectern to emphasize each word. “I’ve seen this influence at work, not only inside that little boy in the grocery, but everywhere I turn in these troubled times. Have any of you seen what’s happening over in Beak, right in our backyard? The beast is among us, spreading his poison like a rain so
aks the ground, and we’re lapping it right up.”
The pastor hurries to the lectern so he can whisper in Edna’s ear. She nods insistently and waits for him to walk away.
“I want to thank Pastor Greg for being gracious enough to let me speak with you today,” she says. “I think he thinks if he gives me five minutes to say what I have to say, I’ll take that as a gift and then keep my mouth shut, as quiet as a mouse in an open pantry. ‘Wait and see,’ he likes to say. That’s what he thinks we should do about what’s happening over in Beak. He is wrong.”
The pastor forces an audible sigh.
“The time for waiting is over,” Edna seethes. “It’s already too late, in fact, but most of us just don’t know it yet. The devil has been made flesh, here to defile and deface and destroy us all. The time for hope and prayer has reached its end.”
She bends toward the microphone.
“Now is the time for war!”
The microphone squeals.
“We are under … attack. Our way of life is under … attack. The Lord Jesus Christ is under … attack.”
The pastor returns to her side and remains there, pursing his lips.
Heads turn in the congregation, chattering, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
“I can imagine how you must be feeling,” she says. “Some of you may be confused, scared, or maybe you just don’t want to admit what’s lurking just outside our door—standing on the seam between worlds, between darkness and light, between the good in us all and the evil that has worked to consume us since we first set foot in the garden. I know. I’ve seen it. And let me tell you, the hour of decision has arrived.”
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. The microphone picks up the sound—like the hiss of a bull snake—and broadcasts it throughout the church.
“I believe I have been called here for a reason. The enemy has awakened from its slumber and now walks among us, right here in Beak, intent on luring us into eternal darkness. I’m here to tell you we must steel ourselves. We must prepare for the battle ahead. And we must be willing to fight and die and ki—”
The pastor steps in to separate her from the lectern and, more importantly, from the microphone.
“Thank you, Edna,” he says. He bends toward the mike, hands grasping both sides of the lectern and his elbows pointed up, as if to box her out. “Let us pray to the Lord.”
Chapter 11
Revisions
“Well, look who decided to show the fuck up.”
The scowl on Bulcavage’s face suggests he is, in a word, unenthused.
Basil, by his best guess, has blown past the start time for his second day of work—a Monday, no less—by more than an hour. The boss has every right to be furious, but Basil is too giddy to care. The knowledge he has acquired in the past forty-eight hours has made him, in a way, bulletproof.
The secret: The humans consider him a god, or at least a demigod. Of course, they cannot possibly be expected to know the truth, but he will do nothing to correct their false assumptions.
“We’re done here,” Bulcavage insists. “Take whatever shit you have at your desk and get the fuck out. This is the last time I ever take Mary Jane Pix at her word.”
“I had an unbelievable weekend—”
“Spare me. I don’t give two shits for any more of your sob stories.”
“Don’t you want to hear the reason for my lateness?”
“There’s no excuse. Out. Now.”
“I get it now. I understand the world.”
“Yeah? How the fuck did you manage that feat?”
“Television. I’ve been watching television since Friday night. Nonstop, give or take a ten- or twenty-minute catnap.”
“So now you’re an Einstein?”
“The world outside my door terrifies me,” Basil says. “I don’t know how you stand it.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“I feel like I know so much, but at the same time I feel …”
“Yeah?”
“Slightly dumber.”
“What was the bug that bit you?”
“World news. Fables about doomed love. Cartoons starring anthropomorphic ducks and rabbits. Shows about Nazis. Humans seem to have a strange fascination with these Nazis.”
“We do love our monsters.”
“And the advertising! So much wonderful advertising!”
“Wait until you get to the daytime soaps. You’ll have plenty of time to watch ’em too, because you don’t work here anymore.”
“Don’t be silly,” Basil says, buoyed by his newfound confidence. Humans fear him, he knows. They’re terrified of him, in fact, or someone much like him. Their fear of him, of the evil they think he has come to sow—this is the best weapon he could ask for.
“Go fuck yourself,” Bulcavage says. He slaps a hand on the clammy flesh of Basil’s left pectoral and tries to push him away, yet Basil does not budge.
“I understand how you must feel,” Basil says. “You’re angry. You’re embarrassed because you think you made a mistake hiring me, but I can assure you of this: You chose well. Grant me an audience so I can share my idea for the Big Bair campaign and I’ll prove it. If you like what I’ve come up with, take it and use it however you see fit. If not, I’ll walk out the door and you’ll never see me again. At least not for a while, if you catch my drift.”
Bulcavage’s expression softens, his anger yielding to an even more primal emotion.
“My brain brims with ideas to inform my work,” Basil adds. “Give me thirty minutes to prepare.”
“Take an hour.”
“Half that is all I’ll require. Round up Herbert and let me present to both of you while it’s still fresh.” He knows he can dispense with the pleases and thank yous.
Bulcavage pretends to mull over the idea, but Basil knows his boss believes he has no other choice.
* * *
“Legacy,” Basil begins. He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Alan Keller was nineteen years old when he put the building blocks of his business in place with nothing to his credit but callused hands, a strong back and an unbreakable will. He loved what he did, and he cared about the people who bought the things he made with those callused hands—their struggles, their triumphs, their stories. It’s what he did with every breath, down to his very last one. Although Alan Keller has moved on from this world, his spirit endures. It inspires us, it lifts us up, and it leads us boldly into the future.
“Guided by the next generation of the Keller family, we’re building upon Alan’s legacy with this simple promise: We’re going to keep the story going—ours, and yours. It’s what Alan would have wanted, and that’s what we’re going to do.” Basil’s voice drops to a whisper, adding, “Big Bair Agriculture and Machinery—reaping the harvest since 1959.”
Basil tips his head and awaits a reaction, expecting applause. None comes.
“What do you think?”
“It’s … not bad,” Bulcavage says. “‘Transcending death’.”
“In so many words.”
Basil puts more flesh on the bones of his campaign, suggesting interviews of real-life Big Bair customers, grizzled farmers in ball caps talking not about the quality of Big Bair’s wheat threshers and grain augers—“The quality of the product is a given,” Basil explains—but about their fears and hopes for the future: bad harvests, the lack of suitable heirs to lead the family business, shrinking subsidies making it harder to earn a living wage from one year to the next, etcetera.
“And how does that soft-boiled stuff help?” Bulcavage asks. “Because in a horribly uncertain world, we are their rock. The world doesn’t give a shit about their troubles or their worries or their pain, but we do. Or, Big Bair Agriculture and Machinery does.”
Bulcavage nods.
“We’d use the campaign to just let people talk about their lives and tell their stories, whether good, bad or ugly,” Basil says. “No ad-speak, no sales angles—just the truth.”
/> “We’re not journalists.”
“Just the truth, sir. We can do a whole series of radio ads, a print campaign, maybe some TV spots. Imagine.”
“Imagine? Try impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Look at me.”
“It’d be way too expensive. I’m talking about one full-page ad with a good hook—just one measly ad. You’re talking about telling stories.”
“I’m talking about telling a new story, and letting other people share their stories. I’m talking about connecting. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do here? Build a strong connection between Big Bair and its customers? Isn’t that the story you would try to sell to Alan Keller’s shit stain of a son?”
“We’d have to hire all these photographers, do all these sugary interviews …”
“That’s where I come in. Besides, you’d be able to charge more. A lot more, by my best guess. Thousands more, I would think, all of it flowing right into your back pocket. Pitch it and see what happens. What do you have to lose?”
Herbert clears his throat, adding, “He’s got a point, Bob.”
* * *
Basil clops down the stairs to the first floor, wearing a smile from ear to ear, his yellowed canines on full display. He knows he nailed it. He just knows it. Even though Bulcavage gave him a lukewarm “maybe”—green lighting the campaign, and hopefully affirming his employment—he feels invigorated by his usefulness, by having done something worthwhile, by having thought of something that could do some good for someone somewhere. He swings open the fire door and steps fully into the hallway.
“Jesus fuck!”
It’s her, the brunette from the parking lot.
“You scared me half to death,” she says.
“I’m … sorry. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“You didn’t,” she says, stepping around him. “It’s fine.”
“I’m Basil,” he says to her back.
She stops and turns halfway around, eyeing him from top to bottom and back again.
Burn, Beautiful Soul Page 11
