by 19
The rest of it was not.
He sheared off the memory of what had infected her, held it in himself feeling like he had a centipede wriggling in his mouth.
He stood up very slowly and walked towards Daniel with his hands out, and her disease burning in his eyes.
–No...
–Did she say that to you?
He didn't touch Daniel. He didn't want to touch him. He slammed the disease through the air between them.
Daniel crumpled, made a single sound like a cry or a plea.
He covered his face in his hands. When he could move again, he put his glasses back on, walked past the ruin kneeling on the floor.
–You may want to put him in a guest room, or on the couch, until he dies, he told Daniel’s wife. –After a while, he's going to smell. And his outside is going to begin to match his inside.
He found their bathroom without asking, scrubbed his hands, and left.
Mary was waiting on the steps for him. –How is she?
He didn't answer her. He managed to climb past her, made it inside and into their bed before the tears started. He curled up small, wrapped his arms around his head, crying so hard he couldn't make any sound.
She didn't ask him. She rubbed his back, his shoulders. She let him cry himself out.
–Cry too much. You must think you married a queer or something, he said after a long time, sniffling.
–You did heal her, didn't you?
Her voice was colored with unexpected religion. It made his skin crawl.
He nodded into the pillows. –He raped her. Her father. Why is it always that? Why do people behave that way? I just can't imagine it, the kind of mind that would...
He couldn't go on. He wept. She held him.–I don't know, she said. –Maybe one day, we'll have a son. We can make sure there's at least one man in the world who knows right from wrong. Besides you.
–You think I know right from wrong? He made an ugly sound that was not quite laughter. –I'm a dope fiend, I'm married to a sixteen-year-old, I never go to church...
–You're beautiful. You care about the whole world. You've never hurt me, not even when you could have without getting caught.
–I healed you, he said, quietly. –You had pneumonia.
That startled her. She didn't stop touching him. –Oh...I don't remember. I wish I did.
–No. You don't want to remember. It...hurts, sometimes, when it's such a deep sickness. Do you believe me?
–I checked the pills, she admitted, like she expected him punish her for her intelligence. –There were four antibiotics missing. The rest of them were full. I believe you.
–Took two of them myself. Sometimes it spreads to me, he said.
–It spreads...oh, God, did it spread to you, what happened to her?
–Not the disease. I gave that to her bastard father. The...damage, in her mind...
She pushed him over on his back, and lay on top of him, smoothing his hair, kissing him. –Don't. Don't think about it.
–I don't want to. I don't want to ever think about it.
–Then don't. Think about this instead.
She was kissing him again. She was a fast learner. He kissed her back, almost politely, and said against her mouth, –Not now. I'm not in the-
She moved against him, licked from his chin to his upper lip. Whatever he had been saying faded into irrelevance.
He was almost vicious with her, not even bothering to take off their clothing, just rearranging what was necessary and fucking her, no foreplay, no gentleness. He held her hands over her head, looking down into her eyes. He knew he was hurting her. She was biting her lip to keep from screaming. He thought it was pain, until she leaned up to kiss him in furious passion, hurting him back.
She wound her legs around him. She only closed her eyes at the end, shuddering. He didn't stop. He was trying to pour his demons into her with his semen, to let her purify him, or at least forgive him.
She was pushing at him, not yet upset, but getting that way. He moved from on top of her, lay gasping, fumbled one hand out. He stroked her stomach. –I'm sorry.
She took his hand, kissed his fingers. Bit the one he’d come to think of as her finger. –I told you not to apologize to me. Ever again.
(23)
After that, there was one or two a month, sometimes more. The packages kept coming, set on Mary's–their–steps, marked with crosses. He quit resisting after a while. It was a way for him to support them. At least he was delivering what he was being paid for.
He healed arthritis, mono, one case of Crohn's disease, a dislocated vertebrae, a brain tumor, two cases of heart disease. A terrible gaping abdominal wound due to an accident with a tractor. He could only try not to imagine how they had managed that one. Sheer stupidity didn't seem like sufficient reason to explain it.
He was becoming a legend.
People were coming from Clayton, Bethany, Nazareth, even Haven, the town that had wanted him hanged.
By now, everyone in Calvary knew him. Elijah sat behind Mary, in the town's one restaurant, a filthy hole-in-the-wall that had incredible cheeseburgers. He'd given a loud sermon, mostly pointed in their direction. His adoring clique threw in a hallelujah and an amen politely now and then, when he got particularly zealous about wizards and false prophets.
–Think I should turn him into a frog? he'd whispered to Mary.
–Why not a lizard instead? That's what he looks like, she'd murmured back, damn near making him anoint himself with his coffee.
Elijah was the only one who seemed hostile. The other townspeople seemed either unconcerned or tolerant, when he was lucky. More often they were afraid of him, in a reverent sort of way. They avoided his eyes, lowered their voices when he was near, Sometimes if he turned his head too quickly, he would catch them looking, with something uncomfortably like awe.
Especially women, he thought. Mary had noticed that. She actually put her arm around him with her hand on his hip in public, looking daggers at one offender in particular. He had leaned over, given her such a lewd kiss she had blushed, pushing him away, whispering, –Careful.
–So? We're married. They're looking. Let's give them something to watch.
She kept him away, pretending to be annoyed, looking pleased under the thin disguise.
One local case was completely unplanned, completely unrequested. He was in the town's little excuse for a hardware store, buying sandpaper and primer for the outside of the trailer. He planned to scrape off the worst of the rust, and cover it with as many coats of paint as he could manage.
There was a woman, and her little girl, two aisles over. The little girl stood with her head down. A black kerchief was folded into a triangle and tied over the lower half of her face, as if she were playing cowgirl or bandit or something. Except she wasn't.
This woman and her daughter were looking at the floor in the standard way. He walked towards them, slowly, because the mother was trembling. The little girl raised her eyes, looking out over the handkerchief. She didn't seem afraid.
He crouched in front of her, raised his hand to her bandage. She moved as if to pull away, a little startled. –It's okay, sweetheart. I won't hurt you, he said, in the softest voice he knew.
–Don't take it off. I'm ugly under it, she said, the words so garbled they were almost unintelligible.
–I can already see under it. You're not ugly.
He reached behind her tiny head, untied it, pulled it away.
Her upper lip and palate were split, up into her nose. Her mouth was twisted so badly that her teeth jutted out at angles that had left her lips cut and scabbed. She had perfect elfin cheekbones and fey-green eyes over this holocaust.
His eyes filled with tears. He had found so much to weep over in this horrible fucking town. –How old are you, sweetheart?
–Nine, she said, lisping horribly. He could watch the motion of her tongue, almost all the way back into her throat.
–Please. Can you? her mother whispered, h
ardly daring to speak.
He had a terrible vision, then, of that same beast with a thousand eyes. A sea of people, with weeping sores, crooked limbs, bruised faces. A sea of pleading eyes, a sea of voices saying please, can you? A sea of hands. A beast with a thousand diseases.
They can't help it. Stop it. They can't help it–they're only human.
–All right, dearest, he said to the girl, ignoring her mother. –I need you to do something for me, he told her. He made a funnel of his hand and pressed it against the wound of her mouth. –I'm going to count to three. When I get to three, I want you to breathe in for as long as you can. Okay?
She nodded against his hand, a little scared, still looking him in the eye.
He drew in a deep breath and counted. –One...two...three.
He put his mouth against his hand and breathed into her.
She drew it in and started coughing.
Then, the first wet crack of bone breaking, the flesh around it tearing too, her entire jaw involved in the earthquake. The first vibrato scream.
She was convulsing, holding her hands over her face and shrieking.
–What have you done? her mother was shouting at him.
–It's only for a second.
He turned away, still looking for coarse sandpaper in an absent kind of way. Mary was waiting, and he wanted to try and find someplace that he could buy flowers for her, or maybe perfume.
–You've killed her!
He rolled his eyes, turned back to the little girl. Sighed. –It's okay. Stand up, sweetheart. You're okay.
She stood up, shaking. He pried her hands away from her face. Her mouth was whole, a perfect cupid's bow, no scars, not even a bruise. He smiled to show her it was okay, and let her hands go so she could investigate this new geography with her fingertips.
She smiled the first human smile of her life.
–Thanks, mister, she whispered, words awkward, tongue and teeth still shaping words around teratology that no longer existed.
–You're welcome, he said. It was pretty much the first thank you he had gotten in months that he actually appreciated.
She turned and hid against her mother's knees.
–Here, he told her mother, offering her the handkerchief he was still holding. –Do you want this back?
She stared at him, still trembling, and swatted it out of his hand.
He sighed, retrieved it, tucked it into the pocketbook over her arm, and wandered around until he found the sandpaper. He picked up what he needed, paid the clerk with a hundred-dollar-bill.
–I can't change this, the man told him, looking terrified.
–Keep it. Add whatever she buys, if she buys anything, he said, gesturing behind him.
He turned away, and left in search of roses. The little girl’s mother was a sudden din of hysteria behind him.
He told Mary about it, a week later, while they sat in their customary site on the kitchen floor, eating Chinese food that he had driven fifty miles to bring her. She had strange requests, lately, driving him insane looking for fried rice, peaches, jalapeno peppers, boiled peanuts, watermelon.
–Sarah's little girl? The one with the...problem with her mouth?
He nodded. He felt embarrassed, for some unknown reason.
She gave him one of those souldeep smiles that cut him down to the bone, holding chopsticks frozen in her hand. –I love you. Think of what that means to her. Think of all the things that she never would have had, that she might have, now.
He shrugged. –Think of the pain of that, thirty seconds...
–Think of all the times YOU go through that for someone you don't even really know. I know you feel everything you do to them. Now stop this. You are doing a beautiful thing. Quit trying to talk yourself out of it.
–I don't want it.
That was more than he had ever told another living soul.
(24)
It would have been okay, if their lives had gone on in that way. There was enough money, more than either of them had ever had. He had the trailer leveled, painted, had electricity re-installed, complete with light bulbs, and he turned them on whenever he felt like, and nobody ever said anything to him about it. He gave Spectre shoeboxes full of money, and had filled his entire tool shed with gasoline cans (and three fire extinguishers.) He bought a new bed that made the dresser almost inaccessible but made their frequent violent and enthusiastic lovemaking less likely to end up with one or the other bruised against the corner of a table.
It was home.
Mary seemed to have developed a new hobby, in addition to requesting impossible to find food in large quantities. Lately she had started bursting into tears for no apparent reason. She was alternately irrational and incredibly affectionate. He loved her no matter which way she was behaving at the moment.
It was, new, to be able to wake up from a nightmare, beside someone who would wake up too, and tell you it wasn't real, I'm here, shhhh, it's okay, go to sleep. He never remembered what the dreams were about. He had questioned her about whether or not he talked in his sleep, and when she told him no, he believed her.
He learned that showering together was fun, if not exactly a useful way to actually get clean. He learned that fighting with paint, even clear paint, was a bad idea. He learned that if he licked Mary's collarbone, so lightly it almost tickled her, it would drive her out of her mind. He learned that when she bit his neck or his shoulders hard enough to bruise, it drove him out of his mind.
And one night, he learned the most incredible thing he had ever heard in his entire life.
(25)
–I'm pregnant.
He was lying in bed with her, sticky, and waiting for sleep. When he realized what she had said it startled his eyes wide open, snapped him awake like cold water.
–What?
–I'm pregnant, she said again.
They were both sitting up, then, both talking at once, both half-crying with fear and joy. He was kissing every part of her at once and laughing. –Oh, Mar. I'm sorry. Does it hurt? Can you feel it in there?
–Don't be sorry, you idiot. I keep telling you that. Of course it doesn't hurt. I can't feel it, I just...know.
–I made you pregnant? You're pregnant? There are three of us, there's a baby in here? He was shaking all over, his heart slamming like he'd done too much cocaine. The room was listing to port, and he was afraid he might faint. He had not known it was, possible, for him to...
–Right under your hands. I think it's about the size of a tadpole right now. Oh, God, I was so afraid you'd be angry, or make me get rid of it...
–No, Mar. Never.
He leaned over and kissed her all over her stomach, whispered, his mouth against her skin, so softly that even she couldn't hear it, hi baby. I can't wait to meet you.
She felt his lips move. –Are you talking to it?
–Yeah.
He wanted to go outside and tell everyone in the goddamned town.
–What did you say?
–I told it that its mother is a dear sweet beautiful geek who can't French inhale.
They fell asleep curled up like cats in a patch of sunlight.
He had his hand over her stomach, his fingertips moving in slow circles.
(26)
He made her stay at home in bed the next morning, despite her protests that she wasn't an invalid. He also forbade her to smoke anymore pot, and took all he could find with him to keep her from temptation.
He drove like a lunatic to Spectre's.
There were three cars already outside Spectre's sprawling house.
He pulled in, and as an afterthought put his sunglasses on.
Spectre met him at the door, holding two glasses of lemonade. –Here.
–How did you know I was coming? he asked.
Spectre smiled. –Sometimes I just know things, remember?
He decided he would wait to tell him about Mary. –What are all these cars?
–It's funny you should ask that, Spectre said. –
They're here to see you.
There were seven people crowded into Spectre's living room, not counting Jordan and Zillah. He walked in, expecting for some surreal reason for all of them to stand up and yell surprise!
If they did that, I'd probably have a heart attack, he thought.
They didn't yell anything. They just sort of sat there, staring at him like they were seeing a ghost. None of them were locals. They were dressed in the usual black, and all of them looked road weary and like they would have given just about anything for a toke.
–Hi, he said. He had never felt like such an idiot in his life.
One of the men, a whipthin tanned creature that seemed to be their leader, stood up. He was trembling. –My name is Paul. It's an honor to meet you, he said, and held out his hand.
They shook. He was beginning to realize what all this was about. He looked at Spectre, telepathically saying I'll get you for this. You just wait.
–I guess you guys want me to, um, heal you or something.
–No sir. A boy really, sweating and nervous. –We want to help you with your ministry.
He sighed. –I don't fucking have a ministry. That's the problem. That's your problem, all of you, everybody I've ever met on this planet. You want ministers. You want somebody to come along and tell you what to do about all this. You want someone to fix it. You're someone. You fix it. Be your own minister. Be a church of one.
They were listening to him, rapt, devouring every word with such hunger that he could feel the touch of their teeth. He was preaching, he realized. He was doing exactly what he'd been preaching about not doing. He didn't care. Somebody had to give them a clue.
–Look. Figure out what it is that you're looking for in religion. Is it belonging? Is it love, acceptance, money? Is it purpose?
He reached out to Paul, still standing there like a mannequin, and tapped the man on his chest, and then on his forehead. –Look here. Look in your heart. Look in your head. Look in your dreams. That's where you'll find what you're looking for. If it isn't inside you, you will never find it anywhere.
