He watches the rats gnaw on the soft flesh of her stomach and crawl through her body in triumph until finally he watches them lie down and die, exposing their little bellies to the ceiling. The next morning, he remembers nothing.
The police find him sitting bolt upright in bed, staring straight ahead, with the knife next to him. They take Lily away in a body bag. No more kisses.
He is dying now, he thinks. Her absence is slowly draining his blood away. His rats are all dead and their corpses appear everywhere he looks.
You know the rest of the story. He dies a month later of an overdose procured for him by his mother. Why are you still reading? What are you waiting for? The kiss? But he kissed her already, don't you remember? And she woke up, and afterward she was never alone.
They were children, you know. And there still are children in pain and they continue to die and for the people who love them that is not romantic. Their parents and friends don't know what is going to happen ahead of time. They have no narrator. When these children die, all that is left is a blank, an absence, and friends and parents lose the ability to see in color. The future takes on a different shape and they go into shock, staring into space for hours. They walk out into traffic and they don't see the trucks, don't hear the horns. A mist lifts and they find that they have pinned the messenger to the wall by his throat. They find themselves calling out names on streets in the dead of night. Walking up the block becomes too hard and they turn back. They can't hear the doctor's voice.
Death is not romantic; it is not exciting; it is no poignant closure and it has no narrative causality. There are even now teenagers—children—slicing themselves and collapsing their veins and refusing to eat because the alternative is worse, and their deaths will not be a story. Instead there will be an empty place in the future where their lives would have been. Death has no narrative arc and no dignity, and now you can silkscreen these two kids’ pictures on your fucking T-shirt.
* * * *
"Yesterday I thought I was a crud. Then I saw the Sex Pistols, and I became a king."—Joe Strummer, 1976
Punk rock saved my life when I needed it most. The Clash—Joe Strummer in particular—made me feel powerful, like there was lightning in my blood, and I don't think I'm the only one, though I guess I don't care if I am. But nothing works for everybody; punk rock wasn't enough to save Nancy Spungen's life, and it wasn't enough to save Sid Vicious either. I wrote “Rats” because I was angry with the way the recent coffee-table histories of punk seem to have no problem with demonizing a dead, mentally ill, teenage girl. This story is about what it means to grieve for the suffering of a thoroughly unpleasant, even hateful, person (it's easier when you've never had to deal with her personally, of course).
"Rats” is at war with the idea of Story even while it uses the most traditional narrative conventions. Its main character is a girl about whom nobody, myself included, has a good word to say, so it can take place only between the lines of what people do say. Those tensions make the story interstitial: it is tearing itself apart in order to lay bare the violence inherent in the very notion of Story. “Rats” invokes recent history, and then peels it back to reveal the magical thinking that is truer to experience than realism ever can be—the rats in the walls.
Veronica Schanoes
[Back to Table of Contents]
Climbing Redemption Mountain
Mikal Trimm
When Pa died, it was generally agreed that he might not make it to the happy side of the Afterlife. He just hadn't been sweet enough to tip the scales the right way.
"Friends, we have a soul here in grave need of intervention. The journey to Salvation comes at a price, and our Brother Lemuel Task is a few dollars short of the fare."
So said Reverend Samuels, and the rest of the congregation nodded in response.
Cole and me sat in our pew, heads bowed, lips moving, and tried not to squirm. We knew what was coming and prayer wasn't going to change things.
"Brother Task needs to travel the long, hard road, friends. He needs to go up Redemption Mountain. Can I get an amen?"
"Amen!” our neighbors chanted.
Amen, and amen, and damn y'all to Hell, Cole whispered, his face going gray under the tan.
I just sat there, picturing the Mountain.
We wrapped Pa up good and tight in real linen, and Maisy Reynolds painted a bunch of Paradise scenes on his wrappings. She really knew her Bible, and Pa's body could've been displayed at one of them fancy museums in France or Germany or New York. There was Moses as a baby in his basket, and David with his guitar, and a whole lot of saints and prophets with long beards and long faces. Mary was there, too, right there where the cloth bunched up around Pa's nethers.
Mary looked kind of like Maisy. Not sure what that meant.
The whole town came out to build the Heaven-Cart. Darby Wheelwright and Jamie Cooper and Kurt Smithy—even old Burly Mason, who didn't really have anything to do with the cart but lent moral support by yelling at people a lot and pointing.
Ladies brought basket lunches and lemonade, and the little ones ran around the fields playing Soul-Catcher or Bear-the-Cross, just like Cole and me did back before Mama died.
Course, Mama never went up Redemption Mountain. Her soul's done gone.
Pa was another story.
The Heaven-cart looked like a big beer barrel tipped over sideways. No tap, no lid. Two big wheels with heavy wooden spokes and thick iron rims, and two padded handles up front, so the folks pulling the cargo wouldn't get blisters.
Pa went into the open top of the barrel. Me and Cole took up the handles, taking a minute to settle the leather pads on our shoulders.
Reverend Samuels gave the send-off speech, speaking the words like they were new-born.
"—'The road is narrow, and few there are who follow it.’ Thus saith the Lord.” Amen. “—'Treat thy neighbor as thyself.’ Thus saith the Lord.” Amen, Brother, amen. “—'We are all brothers and sisters under the eyes of God,’ thus saith the Lord.” Amen, amen, amen, Brother. “—'Your neighbor is your brother or your sister; we are all family in His eyes.’ Thus saith the Lord.” Amenamenamen. “—'Forgive your brothers and sisters, your family, a thousand times and a thousand times again.’ Thus saith the Lord."
A hush.
"—'And help them carry their burdens, as you would want them to help you.'—"
"Thus. Saith. The Lord!"
The folks answered so loud they could've shook the floor out of Paradise itself.
"Heard it all before.” Cole kept wiggling around, like he was already pulling the cart. He spat on his hands and gripped his handle, like that would do some good.
"You ain't never hauled a Heaven-cart, Cole. I can't even remember the last time we built one."
Cole shrugged his shoulders, finding the most comfortable place to let the handle rest. “Still heard it all before. Reverend-talk. Lots of words that don't mean nothin'."
"They're Book-words, little brother. Don't ever forget that."
Cole found his spot, lifted his side of the Heaven-cart. “—'Less you learned to read since this morning, big brother, you don't know no more'n I do.” He nodded toward Reverend Samuels, spat. “Neither does he."
"You saying you don't believe? You gonna go heretic on us?” I hadn't even grabbed my handle yet, and Cole already had my dander up.
"I'm sayin', shut up and pull."
We started up Redemption Mountain, Pa behind us and a long hard road ahead.
Maisy Reynolds ran up and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “You get this man to the top, Ben. You make sure he gets saved. For m—for your dead ma's sake."
Then she was gone, back with the rest, and I wondered why she cared so much.
Cole lurched forward, and I grabbed and pulled just to keep from being run over.
Shouts and prayers echoed from the valley. Hard to tell which was which.
I never really noticed how much bigger Cole was than me until we started pulling that
cart up the mountain.
Two years younger than me, and he outweighed me by twenty pounds at least, all of it muscle. Taller, too, not by much, but enough so it counted, especially when I was trying to match my step with his and keep the handle in a comfortable spot on my shoulder.
So while he trudged along with his cart-handle in an easy notch next to his collarbone, I pushed my legs harder to keep up, and the handle on my side kept hitting me in the same spot, thwack, thwack, until I could feel the blisters forming across my neck and shoulder.
I knew I couldn't say a word, though. I was the older brother. I was the man. We were taking Pa to Eternity, and I had to be strong.
We walked for hours, hauling Pa's body along a well-worn path. The rise stayed even, but I could tell we weren't making a lot of progress to the top.
"How long you think this'll take? No one ever mentions it, you know? Like they're not sure or something."
Cole plodded along, not even turning his head when he answered me. “Don't know. Don't care. Takes as long as it takes."
"Ain't you even curious? C'mon, Cole, it's been a long time since anyone we know's done this. Don't you think about what's up there?"
Cole stopped dead. My handle slid off my shoulder, and I felt the cart try to twist sideways. I grabbed hard on the raw wood knob at the end, splinters ramming into my palm.
"I don't want to think, Ben. I just want to get this damn rig up the mountain and drop it off. Don't care who was here before, don't care who'll be here after.” Cole took a deep breath, readjusted his hold on the cart, and spat a thick glob right next to my shoe.
"Any more questions?"
I took the hint. Shut up and pull.
Right after we started up again, the blisters popped.
I hardly even noticed.
The trail got rougher. The wagon shook and moaned, and I wondered if Pa's soul was beating the slats trying to get out. The wheels went off-balance, pitted by rocks and roots, and even Cole grunted under the strain of pulling the thing along.
Then we hit a nasty switchback that took us around an old, weathered oak and a jagged crack in the rock itself. We fretted with the cart for near an hour, nursing the wheels around roots and wedges of rock, finally able to get the rig facing up the slope again—
—and they were everywhere.
Heaven-carts. No two alike, big and small, different woods, shapes, wheels. Sitting there abandoned, some near whole, others just skeletons. Ribs of wood, rims of rust. They slumped together on either side of the path—the end of the path—crippled and forgotten.
Like Pa, almost. Like his gray old soul.
"Why are these all here?” I kept staring at the wrecks of carts, couldn't move to save my life. Pa's Heaven-cart got heavier, and I felt the pain shoot across my raw shoulder until Cole lifted the handle off me and pushed me away.
"Looks like the carts only make it this far.” Cole didn't spare me a glance. He just looked further up-mountain, whistling between his teeth.
I finally quit tallying the wagons and saw what Cole saw—no path, no way for a cart or even a horse to pass. Just broken rock and dried-up shrubs and a long, rough climb to the top.
"We gotta carry him?"
I turned to look at Cole, but he'd already moved on, checking out the other wagons.
"Don't suppose that's necessary, Ben."
"What's that mean?"
"Means,” Cole said, tugging a length of yellowed linen from one of the abandoned carts, “this looks like the end of the line, big brother."
Something rattled when he pulled the cloth, and toe-bones spilled out and bounced across the path.
Everything spun, and I sat down hard beside Pa's Heaven-cart. I might've even passed out for a minute—I saw the little demon-spots you see when the Devil steals your breath. My ears buzzed with a swarm or two of bees.
I heard Mama's voice, way back in the distance, talking about planting seeds—.—.—.—
Then Cole slapped me upside the head, just like Pa used to do when I got lost in there, and it all came back.
"Let's take a look in those wagons, Cole. That alright with you?"
Cole shook his head, then helped me stand up again.
Lot of the carts was empty.
Lots more weren't.
I looked inside the rotting Heaven-carts. Bones and cloth, sometimes even skin like leather holding the pieces together. A God-damned mess, and I wasn't cursing when I said it.
Cole snickered when I blasphemed. “Don't think God had nothin’ to do with this. Just looks like a lot of folk don't care much about redemption. Leastwise, not ‘less it's their own."
"Pa doesn't deserve this. Don't know who these folks were,” and I turned a circle, arms up, taking in all the unsaved dead, “but Pa ain't staying here. He's taking the narrow path."
"Fine. You want to carry him first?"
I looked around at all the abandoned carts, and all I could think of was Ma. She always had some use for everything, no matter how old and worn. She used to say it was a sin to waste anything, even if it was broken.
Rope and wood, canvas and linen—this place wasn't a graveyard, not if you looked at it like Ma would've.
"Give me some help, little brother, and we won't have to carry him at all."
For one of the few times in his life, Cole didn't give me any backtalk.
The trail was there, if you looked real hard.
Me and Cole pulled Pa behind us on a makeshift stretcher. We'd put pieces together, a bit of frayed rope here, some canvas from an old cart there, couple of cart-handles, even some linen from one of the old skeletons. Cole got that—I figured we could use it, but I couldn't make myself unwrap the bones. I wanted to try and bolt some wheels on there, but we couldn't make a new shaft, so we wound up just dragging the contraption behind us.
Still, it was better than having to carry Pa's stiff body.
Besides Pa, the only things we took from our own Heaven-cart were our water-skins and some wrapped vittles, mostly hardtack and waxed cheese. Some folks had thrown prayer-beads and luck-wreaths in the cart with Pa, but we figured we didn't need to carry anything we didn't have to.
Good thing, too. The way up got harder and harder, and sometimes me and Cole had to pick up Pa's stretcher and balance him over our heads to make it through a tight turn. My arms hated me, and even Cole trembled whenever we got the chance to put Pa down.
We hit a nice flat expanse, and Pa went down without us even trying to agree about it. The sky turned purple while we caught our breath, and the air got chillier. My clothes clung to my body, wet with sweat and colder by the minute. Pa's body, tethered to the stretcher by fraying ropes, looked too solid in its wrappings, like a petrified log.
No heavier than the weight of the Cross, as Ma used to remind us when we complained about hard tasks.
Cole flopped on the ground spread-eagle, eyes closed and breathing rough.
"That's it for today, Ben. We ain't making the top any time soon, and I need some food and rest. My back don't like Pa much right about now."
I wanted to argue some, but truth was I couldn't take another step. Cole was bigger than me, stronger, and he probably could've gone another mile or two, but I figured he was giving me an out.
That's what I figured, anyway. Been wrong before, will be again.
Just not about Cole.
Baby?
Mama's talking. I hear you, Ma.
Don't be afraid, son. You're on the right path. I think your Daddy's calling—.—.—.—
"Ben."
Even the moon had drifted off. “What's wrong? Pa move or something?"
"Why are you doing this?"
I remembered Ma's voice from the dream, but the words got lost when I opened my eyes. Cole sat by the remains of our campfire, staring at me. I don't think he'd slept a wink since we settled down for the night.
"What, sleeping? Snoring?"
"You know what I mean."
I could barely make out Pa's body a
t the edge of the embers’ glow, out of reach of stray sparks. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I just don't know what you're askin'. Why are you doing it?"
Cole shrugged, looked out past Pa into the darkness. “—'Cause you are, I guess. Don't really have a choice, comes down to it."
"You always got a choice, Cole. If nobody ever had choices, we'd all be pure good or pure evil, no two ways about it. There wouldn't be no need for Redemption Mountain, ‘cause we'd know where people were goin’ when they died, no question."
"That's Reverend-talk again. You might as well go join the church-school and learn to read, way you go on."
I didn't like the way Cole was talking. Scared me some, truth to tell. “That ain't just talk, Cole. We all learn right from wrong sooner or later. Pa just—.—.—."
"Pa just didn't know how to tell the difference?” Cole pulled up close to me, watching my face, his eyes glimmering with ember-sparks.
"Don't do that, Cole. Don't pretend you know what I was thinkin'. Pa had a hard time of things, is all."
"He beat us, Ben. He drank and carried on something fierce. Just ‘cause he never killed nobody or run off with someone's wife or stole from his neighbors, that don't make him worth savin'."
I didn't want to listen to this anymore. Pa was Pa. Our Pa, our flesh, our blood. “If he wasn't worth tryin’ to save, why you think Ma married him in the first place?"
Cole laughed, but it was a Devil-laugh, dark and nasty, filled with secrets. “Pa always said you was a mama's boy, Ben. You know that? Nope, guess you wouldn't. He only told me, times when we was in the fields workin’ and you was starin’ off into space like you do. He'd say, ‘Cole, I want you to look good and hard at your brother. That's what happens when you let a woman have too much time in a boy's life. I done failed Ben, but you ain't goin’ down that same road. I promise you that, son, I surely swear it.'—"
"You're lyin', Cole. You want me to hate Pa and give up tryin’ to save his soul.” But Cole's voice even sounded like Pa's when he told me all that, and I knew Pa'd probably said it. I knew Cole got beat lots more than me, too, back before Ma died.
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