Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  This question strikes me, and for a moment I’m back in the Motel 6, where I waited three days for Alix to call before opening the classifieds for an APT. FURN.

  The calico leaps up onto the coffin and begins to sniff. She claws at the top and makes a chalkboard skritch. The Reverend Evangeline snaps out, “Ecclesiastes! Shush now,” and the cat scampers away. To Rhonda’s left, the Doberman trots down a side aisle. She says, “I put it all together after I saw you on QVC. Look, Seamus, I need your help.”

  The smile on her face makes me feel certain she knows I was the one who defended her when her dance failed. I don’t want to disappoint her by letting her know the truth, that whatever she saw on QVC wasn’t really me, that I have no special powers of perception.

  The Reverend goes on. “When our lives sour, when the world around us seems ruled by chaos and anarchy, where do we turn? From where do we seek consolation and understanding? To what do we cling when madness rules our lives?”

  This question turns Rhonda’s face away from me. She seems to tense, and I wish I knew what she was thinking.

  “Amen!” one of the wrestlers shouts, though I’m not sure which one.

  “The righteous man surrenders not to the darkness. Though his face be streaked with tears of anger and regret, still he turns to God and declares I will do better. Brother Hillwigger is just such a man. Starting Monday, he will be closing the drinking establishment he has misguidedly operated in the past. After a brief renovation period, he will reopen as a nonprofit animal shelter.” The Reverend raises her huge hands. “Praise God!” she shouts, and the duck flutters off the altar and back into the rafters. From somewhere behind us the Doberman barks twice, as if he too agrees this animal shelter idea is a winner.

  One of Snake’s employees shouts out, “That’s just great, Paulie.” Faced suddenly with unemployment, she excuses herself past her co-waitresses, sidles to the end of the pew, then clacks in high heels down the aisle toward the door. Ecclesiastes the cat pads silently behind her. But when the blond reaches the exit, she stops abruptly. A dark silhouette blocks the doorway. “This heresy must end.” The intruder steps into the light and is dressed as Snake Handler: black pants, black shirt, black tie, black jacket. Top hat. White face paint, black lipstick. Cane. The blond says, “Oh Jesus. Another freak. Just what we need.” The man lifts his cane and smacks her across the neck. She goes down.

  Reverend Evangeline cries out, covers her mouth, and everyone stands. But immediately he freezes us again by raising his other hand and showing us what else he’s holding: a grenade.

  Cro-Magnum says in a loud, clear voice, “Remain calm. Let’s just see what he wants.”

  Next to me Rhonda says, “This is far from good” and reaches into her purse. When her hand comes out, she’s holding her keys, attached to which is a tiny yellow can. The intruder leads four young punks into the church. Each wears a white T-shirt and a black beret. One stays at the door, holding what I think is a baseball bat. The other three follow the leader to the coffin, where he stops and announces, “We have been sent to claim the body of Lucifer, as he has been betrayed by his First.”

  Snake, the real Snake, says, “Please don’t do this—”

  “Silence,” snaps the leader. “You have lost your right to speak for our Master. You would stand side by side with his murderer!” He aims his cane at Hardy. “We know the full truth of what happened. You will pay for your transgressions.”

  Hardy yells, “I don’t like transgressions” and steps toward the leader. Suddenly Hardy clasps one hand to the side of his head and looks straight up, then around. “Hello?” he shouts. “Who said that? What? Oh. Yessir. Yessir, I understand.”

  The leader is as confused as the rest of us. Hardy takes up a defensive posture in front of Snake and says, “Jesus don’t want you to hurt Mr. Hillwigger.”

  The leader offers the grenade and says, “All who oppose us will face the wrath of the true Disciples.”

  “Just let them take the goddamn thing,” one of the blonds suggests.

  Rhonda pushes into the small of my back and quietly says: “Like Mace.”

  I reach behind me and she presses the tiny canister into my hand.

  “Let us be gone!” the leader shouts. But when two of the punks position themselves to lift the coffin, the Reverend Evangeline charges around the altar and hugs one end, anchoring it with her considerable weight. “I will not allow this holy vessel to fall into the hands of the vile.”

  One of the kids snaps, “Let go of the damn box, you hippie bitch.”

  The leader offers the grenade. “You don’t think I’ll do it? You don’t think we’re all ready to die for what we believe?” He drops the cane and grabs the pin.

  “I believe you,” I say, and the leader spins to me. “I know you’re ready to die for what you believe.”

  Grim with resolution, he nods his head certainly and I step toward him, ready to raise Rhonda’s Mace, when Reverend Evangeline shouts, “Leviticus, Vitken! Vitken!”

  The Doberman explodes from behind her robes, jaws snapping. He latches onto the leader’s wrist and the grenade tumbles into the air. The leader screams, drops to the floor with the dog writhing on his arm. The two Disciples release the coffin, sending Reverend Evangeline flailing backward with a huff. The coffin clatters to the ground, dumping the desiccated body of Lucifer into the aisle. Snake wails.

  “Grenade!” Cro-Magnum Man yells and Rhonda tackles me, pinning me down behind the pew and flaring pain through my shoulder. There’s a loud pop, but no explosion. I open my eyes to Rhonda’s red hair in my face and pink smoke in the air above us. Over the growling of Leviticus and the leader screaming, “Get it off me!” I hear scuffling. Hardy shouts out, “I don’t like you,” and a few pews back there’s a loud crash. Above us, the ducks circle, quacking madly.

  “C’mon,” I tell Rhonda, who gets off me and helps me up. In the soft pink haze floating from the grenade, Hardy bear-hugs one of the young thugs. Cro-Magnum’s working his arms into a choke hold around the neck of the second, and Jambalaya and the Spirit Warrior corner the third against the mural of Noah. In front of the altar, Evangeline grabs hold of Leviticus’s collar, and the leader tucks his bloody arm into his body. Rhonda says, “This I did not see coming.”

  “We should evacuate ASAP,” Cro-Magnum announces. “Certain additives in the coloring agent can be harmful if inhaled in sufficient quantities.”

  I’m wondering just how he knows this when the Disciple with the bat emerges from the pink fog, heading for his wounded leader and Evangeline. Behind him, for just a moment, I swear I see a dark figure standing in the doorway, the man-child from the Civic Center. But with the Disciple bearing down on me, I have no time for a second look. I block his path, raise the Mace straight-armed to his face, and say, “Don’t be a martyr, son. This shit really stings.”

  He looks at my empty sleeve and says, “Out of my way, gimp.”

  I’m not in the mood for games, so I pump the button, but it’s my eyes that explode, my head that shocks away from the burning pain, my legs that go instant rubber. And just like that I’m back on the floor, cursing and rubbing at my eyes locked down tight. “That only makes it worse,” Rhonda says, her face down close to mine. “Try to breathe slowly.”

  “Swift,” I hear the punk say.

  The jingle of keys and a misty hiss.

  “Bitch!” the punk shouts, followed by the distinct sound of a bat clattering to the ground. Rhonda’s arm slides inside my good one and she says, “Let’s get you out of here.”

  She leads me shuffling down the aisle, and around us is growling, sniffling, someone coughing with the fumes, cursing from the beaten Disciples. I keep my eyes closed tight against the pain.

  “This stuff can’t be legal,” I say.

  “My ex-fiancé isn’t respecting the restraining order,” Rhonda explains. “Three steps here.”

  Suddenly the air cools and breathing is easier. My hair is wet. We take the steps tog
ether and she guides me to one side. With my right arm around her shoulder, Rhonda lowers me onto what feels like a stone bench and says, “Opening your eyes would be good. This rain will help, but you have to open your eyes. Just look up.”

  I nod my head, then lift my face to the sky and force my eyes wide, blinking back the tears and letting the pure rain rinse the poison. The world is a gray haze. “I can’t see anything,” I tell her.

  “I know,” Rhonda says. “But this is a condition that will pass.” Gently, she squeezes my hand and we sit together outside the chapel, waiting for the healing she has promised.

  -----

  Your First Time. Convergences. Our Hero Learns the

  Distinction Between Weeds and Wildflowers.

  As my vision clears, the first image that comes into focus is the chapel’s steeple, aimed at heaven. Smoke drifts from its point and floats off into the thin rain. Some of the smoky cloud coalesces into hard shapes that break away in flight, a phenomenon that makes no sense until I recall those ducks inside the church. They are fleeing, driven from their sanctuary by the mad actions of true believers. The air shifts around me, and the raindrops hitting my face become larger and more frequent. Rhonda says, “Storm’s just getting started, Seamus. What do you see?”

  When I turn to her voice, all I can make out is an outline, a tall silhouette. Even more upsetting, her red hair is black, her face a dull gray. The world is an out-of-focus black-and-white film. “My colors are gone,” I announce.

  “Don’t panic,” Rhonda tells me. “This is a documented side effect. Everybody’s gathering under a tent.”

  “What about the bad guys?”

  “They’ve had enough with that Doberman. They’re sitting on the ground.”

  I ask her to bring me over, and we weave through a few tombstones on our way to the burial tent. Finally, we step out of the rain.

  “Mr. Cooper, sir, your eyes are all red. Did you hear Jesus in the church?”

  I raise my good hand and say, “Everything’s going to be OK, Hardy.”

  Snake says, “Buddy, please, the Reverend went back inside to check on Lucy. I’ve got just a terrible feeling.” I hear him blow air and hope the Nicotaint is steadying his nerves.

  Quinn’s voice surprises me. “I’d advise against disturbing a crime scene. When the authorities arrive we want to provide full cooperation. I’m certain they can ascertain how these little miscreants learned about our private ceremony.”

  A snicker rises from the ground, where several blobs crouch together. The young leader speaks. “We were guided here by dark forces beyond your comprehension. Our master is truly omnivorous.”

  “Good thing education is a state priority,” Mad Maestro adds.

  One of the perky blonds says, “I’m being fired because a snake died.”

  I aim my face at the gray blob that spoke with Quinn’s voice and say, “You mentioned authorities.”

  “I called the cops as soon as we cleared the building.”

  Rhonda squeezes the muscles in my good arm, settles her chin on that shoulder. “He’s lying.”

  I turn to her gray featureless face, wish for the return of her green eyes.

  “I am not firing you,” Snake says. “You’ll be retrained as an animal caregiver.”

  “Outstanding,” the blond says. “Think of the tips.”

  “Those goats are getting away,” Hardy says.

  “I haven’t got any goats.” Evangeline’s voice comes from behind us. Her large gray form comes in from the rain, and everyone looks into the field.

  Hardy says, “Oh. Maybe they’re wild goats.”

  Evangeline runs a hand over her head and says, “I don’t understand this, Brother Paul, but brace yourself. I bear dreadful news.”

  “It can’t be,” Paul says, his voice hardly a whisper.

  “Your loved one’s body. It’s not inside.”

  “Our master is triumphant!” one of the punks shouts. Leviticus barks twice and shuts him up.

  Paul collapses into Evangeline’s arms and sobs. Coming to the tent was a bad idea. I turn to Rhonda and ask, “You got a car?”

  “I sure didn’t walk out here, Seamus.”

  “His name ain’t Seamus,” Hardy says.

  I face my friend. “She knows, Hardy. Everything’s OK.”

  The Quinn-shaped blob puts a hand on my shoulder. “B. C., considering your current condition, I would be remiss in my obligation as your legal counsel and your friend if I failed to advise you to remain here and assist law enforcement. Besides, members of the media should be on-site any minute.”

  “How do they know what happened?” Mad Maestro wants to know.

  There’s a long silence, then Quinn offers, “Police scanners. They monitor all frequencies.”

  Again, Rhonda gently squeezes my arm. She doesn’t believe him. “Quinn,” I say. “I’ll talk to the cops later. My eyes.”

  “This man needs medical attention,” Rhonda says. “I’ll drive him to the hospital.”

  “Just a moment, miss. Could I ask exactly who are you?”

  “She’s with me,” I tell Quinn.

  “Nevertheless, I’m sure we’d all feel better if we saw some ID. Preferably something with a photo.”

  “Show me your badge,” Rhonda says, “and I’ll show you my ID.”

  “I vouch for her,” I say. “She’s a friend.”

  “How can you vouch for her,” Quinn asks, “if you’ve got amnesia? Clarify.”

  “Don’t push it, Lowell. Remember, I’m not the man you think I am. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I take Rhonda’s hand and turn, take a step and plant my foot squarely into what I figure at first for a water-filled ditch dug for pipe or cable. When Snake wails I realize I’ve just desecrated the open grave of his beloved pet. I wonder now if they’ll fill it in empty.

  After she’s buckled me in and we’ve left St. Francis’s behind, Rhonda accelerates through the pine forest at unsafe speeds. The tall dark shapes of the trees whiz by, and I hear the gears shifting rapidly. Oncoming traffic—a series of black and gray blocks—shushes past in the wet of the rain. The radio plays chaotic jazz, New Wave stuff with no beat or rhythm I can detect. I run my blindman’s hand along the dashboard and announce, “Ford Escort. ’95.” If I had to guess at the color, I’d say white.

  “Honda Civic,” she says. “No notion what year. Listen, we could go find a hospital, yeah, but the stinging will wear off on its own.”

  I’m not sure how she wants me to respond to this. “Did you see that kid with gray hair?” I ask. “Back in the church?”

  “Can’t say I did.”

  “In the doorway, just standing there.”

  “I’m no help.” She shakes her head. “So where do you want me to take you?”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “Wilmington. Anywhere. I don’t care.”

  She swings wide left to avoid what looks to me like a centaur walking on the shoulder. “Look, Seamus. I’ve got an offer for you: I’ll bring you to my special place and in return you agree to help me.”

  Instead of contemplating what help she might need, I find myself imagining Rhonda’s special place, a secret garden to which I’ve been invited. But I’m distracted by the whine of sirens, growing louder. In the oncoming lane, bright white lights sparkle and flash from a black block that races back in the direction from which we came. “SWAT team,” Rhonda reports. “Side of the van had a picture of some kind of killer pig.”

  “I’m glad we took off.”

  “Me too. Those friends of yours are nutjobs.” The sirens fade behind us. Rhonda says, “You seemed pretty rattled when you saw me. I apologize if I spooked you. Really, I thought you’d be expecting me, you know? I thought you’d maybe have foreseen it.”

  “Things have been a bit hectic lately,” I say. “I haven’t been foreseeing all that much.” I reach up and rub at my shoulder.

  “This is not on my list of wrongdoings. I hate to say I told you so, but …”

&nb
sp; “I’m not blaming anybody. I hung up on you. I acknowledge that.”

  “Good. I was afraid you’d be mad and maybe wouldn’t help me. But you didn’t seem mad at the dance benefit, so I was kind of hoping.”

  This tiny admission, that she has connected my phone call with my actions at the benefit, makes me feel strong and fine. Then we curve up an entrance ramp and blood slides into my wound. Rhonda merges us into eastbound traffic and we drive listening to the jazz and the windshield wipers. The gray billboards we pass seem like giant square balloons. I loosen the seat belt to improve the blood flow in my immobilized arm. Rhonda says, “The thing you did that night, that was an act of genuine kindness.”

  “It was no big deal. I don’t even know why I did it.”

  “You did it because you are a fundamentally good person, Seamus. This to me is clear. I can see it in your aura.”

  I want Rhonda to describe my aura. I want to know what brilliant colors radiate from my body. Even more, I want to see hers. “What you said about the restraining order,” I ask. “Your ex-fiancé, that was legit?”

  “The truth is all I speak,” Rhonda says.

  I think of where Rhonda lives now, Sanctuary House, and I wonder at the size of the man who could physically abuse such a strong woman. I’d like to ask her, but these issues, it seems to me, are out of bounds for now.

  “So tell me the truth,” I say. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  My question causes her to accelerate and we pass a block so large it must be an eighteen-wheeler. Finally she says, “I told you. I want you to tell me my future.”

  “Why not ask one of your psychic sidekicks?”

  “Look, the best of them couldn’t predict the seasons. But what you did on QVC, calling that kid in Paducah, that was proof enough for me. Don’t you see, Seamus? Everything’s connecting, you know?”