When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  On the bottom was an open concordance. The heading at the top of the page read “Flesh—Flock.” On top of it sat Studies in Isaiah and Isaiah: Yahweh’s Salvation. Apart from the pile, a Bible was open to the book of Isaiah.

  The Bible looked brand new. The delicate silver on the edge of the pages was unblemished, and the pages still looked fresh and uncrinkled, as though the book had just come from the box.

  A single sentence was underlined, in bloody red ink, on the otherwise pristine page. I strained to make out the words, reading them upside down and mouthing them slowly to myself as I deciphered them one by one:

  In that day the LORD will whistle for flies from the distant streams of Egypt.

  The cold penetrated me then. And my flitty paranoia hardened into leaden terror, sinking into my heart so thoroughly and quickly that it pushed the air out of my lungs.

  I sucked that same air right back in as a man’s voice came from behind me.

  “Are you following me?” he said.

  I turned slowly, expecting to see Peter Terry. Instead I saw Gavin. Angry. Pale. Frightened.

  “No,” I said, my paranoia solid and icy now. “Are you following me?”

  “Why would you ask that?” he said.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Studying.” He raised his chin defiantly. “What are you doing here?

  “Studying,” I said.

  “Were you reading my notes?”

  “Yes. How do you know about the flies?”

  “How do you know about the flies?” he asked back.

  “What flies?” I wanted him to say it.

  “Exactly What flies?” he said.

  “Have you had problems with flies? Big, aggressive black flies?”

  “Maybe. Have you?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated a minute. “Will you tell me about it?”

  He shrugged, still mistrustful. “What’s to tell? They’re just flies.”

  “Then why are you looking them up in Isaiah? Why don’t you just buy a flyswatter?”

  “Is that what you did?” he asked. “Buy a flyswatter? Is that all there was to it?”

  “There’s something scary about these flies, isn’t there?”

  He nodded.

  “Something evil,” I said.

  His unease began to shift from me back to the flies. “Do you have them in your house?”

  “I had them one night. I haven’t seen them since then. You?”

  “Want me to show you?”

  I was nervous about going to a student’s room, especially with the charges pending against me. It was a terrible idea, really. But my curiosity won out. I nodded, and he wordlessly gathered his stuff, shoving it into his backpack. I followed him to the exit, stopping to gather my things at the reference desk.

  We walked the length of the campus in the heat, neither of us saying a word.

  We arrived at his dorm sweating and unsettled, both of us. I followed him into Morrison and onto One South, filing along behind him past rooms that smelled of dirty socks and stale food, until we reached 105. He stopped and unlocked the door.

  “My roommate moved out,” he said, as he swung the door into the room.

  At first glance, it seemed I had stepped into a typical college dorm room. One mattress was bare, the other bed rumpled, unmade. A tiny refrigerator hummed in the corner. A computer sat on a fairly tidy desk.

  And then I realized the refrigerator had been unplugged. The humming was coming from somewhere else.

  I looked around more carefully now, spotting them at intervals around the room. Five of them on the wall over the bulletin board. Three on the post at the end of the bed. One walking slowly, zigzagging across his desk. Little black herds of them gathered in the corners next to the ceiling.

  As we stood there, one broke loose from the corner and flew in our direction, buzzing between us and then circling around and returning to the corner.

  I turned to Gavin. “When did they come?”

  “They’ve been coming one by one for a week. I’ve swatted probably a hundred.”

  “Where are they coming from?” I asked. “Can you tell?”

  “No.”

  “Is this why your roommate left?”

  “That and the screaming. I keep having those dreams. With the white cancer dude.”

  He walked to the desk and picked up a paperback, flicking away a fly. He handed me the book. “I think he meant this to be funny. He’s really not a bad guy—my roommate, I mean.”

  I looked at the book jacket. Lord of the Flies. I handed it back to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. There was nothing else to say. “Does the housing department know about the flies? I’m sure they’ll exterminate.”

  “They’re coming today.” He looked around. “Somehow I don’t think it will get rid of them.”

  I didn’t either.

  “Do you have anyplace else to go?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t really know anybody yet.”

  “You don’t have family around?”

  He looked up at me, utterly alone. “I’m from California. I don’t really have much family anyway.”

  He had the haunted look about him that Erik Zocci had had. I resolved at that moment that I wasn’t going to let this one slip away.

  “Do you want a place to stay?” I asked.

  “With you?”

  “No,” I said firmly. The implications of that terrible idea clanged in my head. “But I think I know a family that would let you stay with them.”

  “Do they have kids?”

  “Three. Loud ones. That might be a drawback.”

  He smiled for the first time. “I like kids.”

  I called Tony and Jenny and explained the situation, giving them the details of Erik Zocci’s suicide as well. They agreed immediately to take Gavin in, as I knew they would. We gathered his things quickly, shaking flies off each item before we stuffed it into his duffel. Then I dropped him at Fluff-N-Fold for a couple of hours to wash any remnants out of his clothes.

  I took the time to go for a swim at the SMU pool, needing to feel the clean smooth water on my skin, needing to feel my muscles flex and my breathing regulate.

  By the time I picked Gavin up, we both felt better. I dropped him off at the DeStefanos’, finding a deep sense of peace leaving him in their hands. When I left, he was giving his first piggyback ride to one of Tony’s kids.

  14

  I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON. I do not trust morning people. They are far too enthusiastic for me. But on occasion I find myself up with the dawn. I watch the sun come up over my cup of tea, heavy darkness dissipating slowly into watery blue and then the palest, most transparent yellow, and I feel the pull of the new day.

  I am inevitably, in those moments, compelled by the universal force of morning. Watching the horizon show itself reminds me that somewhere, past the edge of it all, optimism awaits. That something else, maybe something better, is out there for the finding.

  But I watched the sun rise that Monday, after another endless night, with no such hope. The dawn that morning brightened into the harsh, relentless light of scrutiny. Scrutiny I was certain I couldn’t bear.

  I had never in my life felt so vulnerable, so exposed. This spiritual attack was earthy, menacing. I had never felt the presence of evil so profoundly.

  I couldn’t shake the visual I had in my head of two Zocci sons, one an innocent little boy of three and the other a strong, seemingly healthy young man, flying over the railing at the Vendome hotel. Screaming to their deaths. I had watched the scene over and over in my mind the night before.

  I was beginning to have the same fear for Gavin. He was clearly being targeted by the same specter that had haunted Erik. I could see him beginning to slip. The traumatized young man I’d dropped off at the DeStefanos’ was not the same boy that had approached me in class only a week before.

  My fears for my own sake gripped me as well. I was freshly aware of my own fragility, o
f my tiny, inconsequential little place in the world. Of the true frailty of my grip on my own well-being.

  Helene had taken my cases at the clinic. My professional credibility seemed already shredded beyond repair. I was certain I was going to lose my job, and was already casting about neurotically for a new way to make a living.

  My meeting with the university’s lawyers loomed over my afternoon. And with all this on my mind, I somehow had to manage to get through my day with some degree of aplomb and poise.

  I’d taken my Bible on the porch with my tea, determined to summon some faith to see me through this day. I sabotaged my plan, of course, by looking instead for the Isaiah quote about the flies. I found it in chapter 7.

  “In that day,” it said, “the LORD will whistle for flies from the distant streams of Egypt and for bees from the land of Assyria.”

  We’ll. That could not be good. No matter what day we were talking about.

  I looked around suspiciously for flies and bees—who needed a new insect to worry about, anyway?

  Turning back to the pages, I scanned the surrounding chapters, looking for meaning, trying to come up with my own solution to the bug infestation problem. I finally realized that the answer was in the passage itself. If God could summon flies and bees, then it stood to reason He could call them off. The flies worked for Him, not for Peter Terry.

  My first good news in days.

  I bowed my head and had a long talk with the Lord about flies. And about Peter Terry. And about Gavin and the Zoccis and my job. And my professional reputation. All the rocks I was carrying around.

  I had to fight with myself about my old niggling suspicion that God really is very busy and has no time for my dinky little requests.

  I shot myself over to chapter 40 and pounded myself with more of Isaiah’s words. “Why do you say, O Jacob, and complain, O Israel,”—I like to insert “O Dylan,” though it doesn’t have quite the same level of cosmic significance, I admit—“‘My way is hidden from the LORD; my cause is disregarded by my God’? Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.”

  I felt the peace come.

  I paged over to Ephesians and refreshed my memory of chapter 6. The spiritual warfare chapter.

  Sandals, belt, breastplate, shield, helmet, and sword. Head to toe, spiritual protection built to last. Not my usual attire, but perfect equipment for a fight.

  All to be worn “when the day of evil comes.”

  My day of evil had certainly arrived. It was burning hot, bright, and ugly, in fact.

  I vowed to wear my God-issued uniform faithfully. I resolved to myself that absolutely under no circumstances would I go down without a fight. I was determined to remember that I was on the winning side. After all, my General could summon flies.

  I slapped my Bible shut and went into the house.

  I’d gotten three phone calls while I was outside. I pushed the play button and listened to the messages.

  Helene had called just a few minutes before, wanting me to meet her in her office for a working lunch today—she was bringing enough food for both of us. More good news. Helene’s cooking always comforted me.

  David Shykovsky had called just before Helene. He wanted to take me dancing Thursday night. He said he’d call back.

  I had to hand it to the guy. Four days’ notice. Didn’t leave a number for me to call him back, because he intended to call me back. So far, I could bottle this guy and sell him. What a sugar pie.

  And true to form, my dad had called at the crack of dawn, exhibiting his usual irritation that I hadn’t answered my phone. He had information for me, he said, but I had to call him back to get it. He left his pager number.

  I called his secretary instead.

  “Hey, Janet. Dylan.”

  “Dylan! I was just thinking about you.”

  “You always say that.”

  “No. I really was. Your dad just asked me if you’d returned his call. Didn’t you get his message?”

  “I did,” I said. “I’m calling him back. Is he around?”

  “He just stepped out the door, but he said he was coming right back.” I heard her flip the pages of her schedule book. “He’s not due in surgery until nine. He probably just went down the hall for a minute.”

  “How are the wedding plans coming?” I asked. Why do I do this to myself?

  “Oh, honey, what he sees in that woman, I will never know. Now she’s got them riding in on matched white horses.” Her tone shifted to imitate Kellee’s nasal voice. “‘The ceremony must start at precisely 6:07. We’ll arrive on horseback at exactly the very minute the sun sets.’ Do you know how hard it is to find two white horses in a town the size of Cabo San Lucas? Much less two that are exactly the same size. I’m thinking of having some spray painted.”

  I made another mental note to make my travel plans now. I intended to be anywhere but Cabo San Lucas come Thanksgiving.

  “Oh,” she was saying, “I’d prepare myself if I were you. Your name has come up a lot between him and Kellee lately. Every single time they talk about the wedding.”

  “Oh no. He’s not going to ask me to be in the wedding, is he? Tell me he’s not going to ask me to be in the wedding.”

  “I can’t tell you any such thing, as a matter of fact. I’m just saying—Oh good, you’re back, Dr. Foster. I have Dylan on line two.” The line went numb as she abruptly put me on hold.

  My dad’s voice broke the silence. “Dylan, where were you when I called?”

  “Why do you call me at 6:00 a.m., Dad? Who does that?”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Of course I did. Hence the return phone call. What did you find out?”

  “If you’re going to ask me favors, you could at least pick up the phone when I call you.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No Peter Terry at M.D. Anderson.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do I sound sure?”

  “Who did you call?”

  “Shollenbarger.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oncologist. Big guy. Seven handicap,” he said testily.

  “Oh.” I remembered him now. Six five, two fifty. Very nice guy. “Did he check the whole cancer center? Or just his own patient list?”

  His voice was getting louder by the word. “I called him this morning and asked him about Peter Terry. He called me back thirty minutes later and said there was no Peter Terry. That ought to be good enough for you.”

  “What time did you call him?” I was picturing my dad yanking this guy out of bed at five, and then Shollenbarger doing a cursory return phone call thirty minutes later to shut my dad up. Pretending he’d checked some magical database.

  “What does that matter?” he said. “I do you a favor, you’re complaining about how I did it. I called the man. There is no Peter Terry.”

  “Don’t get so defensive,” I said.

  “I’m not defensive!”

  With the temper he had, it was a wonder my dad hadn’t ended up on his own operating table. He was about to blow.

  “Who is this Peter Terry guy anyway?” he asked.

  “I told you. He’s the uncle of a patient of mine.”

  “You said brother.”

  “Okay, brother. Whatever. Why?”

  “Maybe I know him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe you know him’? Are you saying you know someone named Peter Terry?”

  “I might have.”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, who was it? Someone you knew in school or something?”

  “Not really”

  “Know or knew?”

  “Knew. But I didn’t know him very well.” His voice was faltering, the bombast wilting.

  “I’m waiting,” I said.

  “He was a friend of your mother’s.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.


  “How long ago?” I said.

  “While she was in the hospital.”

  “At M.D. Anderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that when I called?” My dad could be so exasperating.

  “I’d forgotten about him.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  “I never met him.”

  “I thought you said you knew him.”

  “I didn’t really know him. Your mother knew him. She spent a lot of time with him.”

  “But you never met him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know about him?”

  “She talked about him a lot.”

  “What did she say about him?” I asked.

  “Nothing, really. She felt sorry for him.”

  “Was he a cancer patient when she was?”

  “She never said how they met, so I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “Mostly she said she thought he needed her. That he made her feel needed.”

  My dad, I knew, had never made my mother feel needed. In fact, he had never, at least since their first few optimistic years together, made her feel anything but neglected.

  He was still talking. “I thought she’d made him up. No one else ever saw him. Yet she claimed to be spending all this time with him.” He gathered himself. “Was your mother having an affair with this man? I think I deserve to know.”

  “An affair? How did you conjure that up? Mom would never have done that. One of my patients knows him. That’s all I know.”

  “But he’s not your patient’s uncle, is he?”

  “Brother,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  “No.”

  I heard Janet’s voice in the background and looked at my watch. It was 8:15. She was probably telling him he needed to scrub.

  “I have to go,” he said, “But we are going to finish this conversation. I have something I want to ask you.”

  “Can you ask me later, Dad? I’m going to be late to work.” No way was I walking behind those two white horses in Cabo.

  “I expect you to answer my calls, Dylan.”

  “Sure, Dad. Call me later.”