Seven Devils

by M. Chris Benner

  He puts the paper down and looks at me.

  “Remember how much trouble you used to have with your left arm?” he asks.

  I’m surprised by the random question and look up to meet his gaze.

  “Yeah…what about it?”

  Years ago, my left arm had been rendered useless after I suffered a gunshot to my back shoulder. I had left the country before having it examined by an American doctor and, instead, traveled as far as I could before finally seeing a “specialist”. The scapula had been shattered and the local muscle and nerve tissue was severely damaged but the back-alley surgeon (genuinely met him in a back alley) performed something short of a miracle and brought my left arm back from the dead, with about 40% functionality and limited range of motion. After training started, Sensei Ki-Jo broke several of my bones – including my left ulna and humorous in one kick – and he even dislocated my left shoulder (possibly the worse pain I’ve ever felt); then, he would take me on the long trip to the nearest hospital, one stocked with sterile equipment and real doctors, and they would heal the damaged bones. Over time, after each trip, my arm seemed to heal better than it had been before – by the time training ended, my arm was at about 75%.

  I’m not sure Sensei Ki-Jo meant to break my bones in order to fix them.

  “I was just thinking about it. It’s like it was never even an issue,” Steve says, finishing his thought. When he and Travis arrived to Sensei Ki-Jo’s house in the woods, I was already in the middle of trying to heal myself, obsessive and determined to get my arm back to 100% functionality. It had been arduous, as the pain increased to my breaking point, but they always assisted me with the physical therapy, coached, hurled insults to get me to work harder. It was soon after we first met and there was still a bit of awkwardness between us, but the therapy actually served to loosen our tongues a bit more and, though the atmosphere was anything but tense (at least in the beginning), it helped us to relax and bond.

  “Why—what brought that up?” I ask, feeling there’s more to the conversation.

  “You get this look in your eyes when you’re working really hard and you’re determined and focused. I catch it sometimes and it always reminds me of you and your arm. I thought you were very…standoffish, I guess is a nice way to put it. But when we used to help you—especially when we’d have you lift the book up over your head and keep it there, man, your eyes were…like, evil determined. Like, not even the world could end without waiting for you to accomplish what you wanted.”

  “Stop hitting on me,” I tell him, but I have a tiny smirk.

  “Not my type, bud. Anyway, I mean it as a compliment. You…no matter what people can or will ever say about you, you get shit down.”

  I nod in genuine appreciation, melodramatically mouthing the word, “Thanks.”

  THE BAD NEWS

  Shortly after Steve finishes the compound and we begin cleaning up, Augustus contacts us.

  For the first time, we hear the ringer he’s assigned his number on our phone:

  Pick it up bitches. Pick it up, bitches. Pick it up, bitches.

  It’s his voice saying it, that’s the ring tone.

  We both put in out tiny Bluetooth devices.

  “What’s up?” I answer.

  Travis begins to complain about us hanging up earlier but Augustus steamrolls him:

  “Bad news. Center City Police Department has tracked down the identity of the driver—more importantly, his occupation. He’s in the hospital, fucked up but fine. Lucky for him, he’s well covered since he is—drum roll, please—a Secret Service agent.”

  We all groan with annoyance more than surprise.

  “So…the people we’re watching are Secret Service,” he continues. “As in, protectors of POTUS and foreign dignitaries and important people. As in, once controlled by the Treasury but now controlled by the Department of Homeland Security – I had to look that last one up.”

  There’s a short pause where all of us mutter the word “fuck” in unison.

  “They have one of the most secure servers in the world, which means I can’t do a fucking thing,” Augustus says, adding a final two cents. “Seriously, we need to reconsider this thing. Secret Service are no fucking joke.”

  “We continue,” I say, firm. “For now, at least. Everything’s going to continue the way we’ve planned until I see Charne Sunday. We’re finished here. Travis…” I wait for him to give an acknowledgement, “you, me, and Steve are on hotel detail after dinner. Augustus and I worked it out, there’s three specific areas for each of us to search. We’re going to look far and wide, gentlemen, see if we find anything unusual, anything that reminds us of the first building, and we’re going to stake out the streets to see if they do a drop-off and pick-up at 2:00 and 3:00.”

  I think a moment, then,

  “We’ll hold off on phase three until I get back. But I am not going home until I know what’s in those fucking rooms.”

  THE UNHEARD WORLD OF PUBLISHING

  The cab ride from the station is short as they pull up to a mountainous building.

  David’s been here several times before and, though quite deaf, he’s sure the meeting will go the same as it does preceding every book signing circuit. He forces Shepard to walk in front of him and, for the first time, David is glad that he cannot hear; it saved him an excuse during the cab ride to ignore the often crude and tactless ramblings of his publishing agent.

  They pass the front security desk and an official-looking guard nods an acknowledgment when Shepard lifts a plastic badge looped around his neck from under his gray vest. David wheels his traveling bag behind him, dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt to prevent himself the extra exhaustion of over-dressing in the hot August weather. Shepard, on the other hand, is in a shirt with extra long sleeves to reach the wrists of overlong arms, with slacks and a thin, tight vest – his skinny, spidery appearance (like the son of a human and a preying mantis) would look proper if his shirt wasn’t untucked beneath the vest and his tie wasn’t loose around his neck. In the elevator up to the thirty-ninth floor, he tucks in the shirt and tightens the tie.

  When the doors open, the office is practically empty. There isn’t a receptionist at the front desk, across which are the garish, gold-painted, sprawling letters DAWLISH PUBLISHING. The sight of an empty office is the first to match the lack of sounds in David’s head since he woke alone in his Philadelphia hotel room. Shepard looks over – his eyes knowing, his mouth ready to jettison a dozen unnecessary words – but he catches the reproving look in David’s eyes and stops. Instead, he mouths, It’s Friday, then sweeps his arm out in a grand fashion, as if showcasing the empty office. He leads David to an open boardroom in the back and has him take a seat near the front, then pushes a dry erase board to the front of the room before leaving, presumably to get the two heads that had scheduled the meeting.

  While David sits alone, he returns to the place where he’d spent much of the train-ride over: in his head. There were several thoughts that had been circulating like gnats, ones that he would unsuccessfully try to swat and squish but came poking back around, sometimes joined by another.

  You’ll never play music again.

  Kate doesn’t love you.

  Lizzy isn’t safe, and you’re brother’s probably dead.

  There’s one idea that had surfaced during his cab ride with Kate through the city of Philadelphia…

  You can do more than write a book to help the school system here.

  …and it was this idea more than any other that his mind kept returning to. He didn’t accept the other thoughts as true now anymore than he did when they’d first began annoyingly banging into his face and swimming in the air around him. There’s a sphere-like optimism around David that had been built in the time after Lizzy’s mother had died. It had been hopeless in those months, growing slightly happier just before spiraling into violence; but, in the aftermath, there remained a sense that it could be better – it could stay better – if he just willed it. A
nd the world of a deaf person wasn’t completely unfamiliar as his mother had been deaf: it was only the view from this new, opposing shore that was foreign. He knows sign language, though he’s a bit rusty, and reading lips just takes practice. Plus, the doctor had mentioned ways of preventing any further damage.

  Beethoven was deaf.

  He would see Kate one last time in London.

  Lizzy was fine, as was his brother.

  And he would hear again.

  There’s a disruption in the air and two older, balding men enter, both in pinstripes with rugged, aged lines covering their faces. David rises to shake their hands and returns to his seat as they watch him with pitying eyes. An unfamiliar third man enters soon after, followed by Shepard – this new man looks like a young intern, one college-aged. Their heads are turned to the intern and it’s hard for David to read their lips, but whatever’s being said isn’t yet meant for David.

  The intern begins signing:

  I’m here to tell you what they’re saying.

  David nods and signs back:

  Okay. What are they saying?

  Nothing important, the intern returns.

  Shepard shoves the intern to the side a bit so he can stand in front of the dry erase board with a large black marker. He attempts to write something several times only to find the marker doesn’t work – David can visibly see the curses coming out of his mouth – and he shuffles around the room, looking for a marker that does work.

  The intern continues signing, though no one has yet spoken:

  I’m a fan of your work. It is nice to meet you. My sister is also deaf. She is young. She also likes your work. Would it be alright if I ask you to autograph a copy—

  Shepard gives a playful (yet rude) slap at the intern’s hands, stopping a sentence he deems needless as neither the publishing heads nor he had said anything. David shoots him an angry glare before,

  Yes. I would love to. Do you have a copy here?

  The intern nods.

  Shepard’s already written in big letters on the board:

  BONUS

  He underlines the word twice.

  The intern reiterates the words coming from one of the heads,

  You’re contract is up with the next book in the series. They wish to extend your contract for another three books over a three year period. They offer a signing bonus upon completion of the next book.

  The rest of the conversation, details, dates, and money are discussed – nothing is negotiated, as Shepard had done that long ago and David had agreed to the terms weeks before the meeting. They expect the new book by the end of the year, a deadline David is sure to meet as he’s already nearly finished. The only surprise is when the intern informs him,

  London has extended your appearances to six total.

  “What?” David asks aloud, startling the head sitting closest to him.

  The head talks to him in slow words that David is still unable to read.

  They want you for extra signings. Your book is expected to do better in the United Kingdom than here. It is possible the book will break the top ten bestsellers overseas. They are offering an extra bonus for the…

  And on and on.

  The money doesn’t matter and David is unimpressed. Once the meeting is over, David signs the intern’s copy of his latest book:

  To Stacy,

  Sound is important only to those who lack imagination and cannot see the wondrous world for what it is…one that speaks to all of us clearly, no matter the obstacles.

  David Henry Ridley

  TRAYCEE IN ‘BAMA

  On the video, a man sits on a stool. Behind him is the back of a house. There’s tall weeds in the grass around him, and a trash bin nearby. The man has a cheap guitar and he’s setting up to sing, the microphone cradled in a stand near his cheek.

  “This man’s the reason I came to ‘Bama and went to public high school for awhiles,” Chris tells Lizzy. “Almost finished, too.”

  The tape’s a VHS and the footage is grainy.

  The man is dressed in the remnants of a tuxedo in heat – the jacket is off, the bowtie undone, and his shirt’s loose over his black dress pants and cummerbund. He finds himself comfortable enough to start and so he begins singing a cheesy love song, strumming the guitar. Lizzy snickers at the silly lyrics, the man’s guitar ability (he sloppily strums, playing only the E and G chords), and the poor quality of the VHS player.

  She didn’t even know what it was when she saw the VCR.

  Behind the man, the back porch door swings open and stays open. An old woman and an old man come walking out, the old man stepping backwards as he carries the legs of a dead animal.

  “What the hell is going on in the background?” Chris asks no one in particular.

  The man emerges from the back door only a moment, during which period you can see he’s been sprayed with something red. The old man and old woman haul whatever they’re carrying a bit onto the grass; it’s never fully seen as they step outside and further back, away from the music, with the screen door remaining open and mostly in the way.

  “Sort of looks like a dead person,” Lizzy says.

  “It,” Chris looks close, “could be…?”

  The man with the guitar continues playing, singing his love song. We see no one particularly listening until the old woman pokes her head around the door to watch him sing, a particularly glaring smear of blood on the underside of her neck. With a gentle old-womanly smile, she heads back inside.

  “He’s in for another two years but they say he’s gettin’ out with good behavior so you better believe he’s gonna try’n screw that up.”

  Traycee says this as if the man she’s speaking of is at the store.

  “He goes to prison for the healthcare,” Chris whispers to Lizzy, an extra detail to confuse her further.

  “Yeah,” Traycee agrees, overhearing Chris’ whisper from across the room. “He had ta have two teeth pulled – they was killin’ him ‘fore he went in. Plus he got all that asthma medicine and blood pressure medicine…” she trails off, watching the tape from behind the dirt-brown couch. “This is ‘bout a year after you left and when he start’t playin’ music, playin’ guitar – tryin’ to be like you.” Traycee chortles, turning back to chuck yet another toy into a bin overflowing with toys.

  “You played music—the guitar?” Lizzy whispers up to Chris.

  Chris sort of shakes his head, pantomiming that Traycee’s not quite accurate.

  Traycee doesn’t notice the quick back-and-forth, walking around the dirt-colored couch to stand beside Chris. Lizzy hadn’t really seen Traycee up close, choosing instead to look elsewhere timidly, but while Traycee’s eyes are on the television, Lizzy notices that she’s quite pretty. Her hair is a ball of black curls sprouting in all directions, and the sun’s darkened her complexion, and she could definitely use braces…but her curvy body has an elegant flair, her smile is bright and wide, and she speaks with security, with confidence – a quality she most liked about Sadie.

  Traycee talks the entire time Lizzy judges her:

  “—that’s Joeleen’s ma and pa taken out the carcass. He was hacking it up…” she says in her thick southern accent – and, as if on cue, the old man lifts up what looks like a hatchet and begins going to town behind the still-ajar screen door, “…oh gee, maybe forty-five minutes he was hackin’ it. This’s ‘round the time he got sick, too. He’s back there hackin’ the whole rest’a the video.”

  “Thanks, Traycee,” Chris says, turning off the tape.

  “You can keep it if’n you want,” she adds.

  “That’s okay, Trace. I wouldn’t know where to find a VCR anyway.” Chris turns to Lizzy and she has a momentary feeling of awkwardness with both Chris and the stranger (introduced as Chris’ cousin) named Traycee staring down at her. “Anyway, that was my uncle. You’re lucky because you got a badass uncle and an awesome dad.”

  “Where’s your dad?” Lizzy asks.

  “My daddy was elect
rocuted,” Chris tells Lizzy.

  “Like in prison?” Lizzy eyes grow wide with curiosity.

  “No, nothing that interesting. He was an electrician, guess he made a mistake, zzzt…the end. I was maybe five. Don’t remember him other than in tha’ pictures.”

  “How’s yer lemonade?” Traycee asks.

  Lizzy has a glass of orange-tinted lemonade in one hand, something forced upon her by Traycee moments before the video had started. Originally, Lizzy had requested water but Traycee brought lemonade instead, pushing it into her hand and telling her it was the state drink. [Chris shook his head at the incorrect information.] Whatever the reason, Traycee was persistent enough in urging Lizzy to try the “specially mixed lemonade” that she had no choice. After a preliminary taste (with Traycee watching closely), Lizzy surreptitiously faked a smile while trying to guess the secret ingredient: after a few guesses, she had to stop; the possibilities for making the “specially mixed” lemonade taste that horrible were just too gross to think about.

  Lizzy opens her mouth to lie when there’s a loud commotion.

  Traycee’s three boys – each one a blur – storm in through the front, screaming like animals, rampaging, the older two jumping on the dirt-brown couch. Traycee smacks the youngest one in the back of the head since he’s closest. [Lizzy sneaks the glass of lemonade behind a picture on a nearby bureau while attention is elsewhere.] Traycee yells for them to get outside and threatens “to get the broom.” The threat works and the kids rush out the back door, their screams lowering in volume but never fading entirely. All three boys are in various stages of maturity, which had been funny at first and annoying shortly thereafter: the four year old would carefully select random objects and hand them to Lizzy as presents; the seven year old pulled Lizzy’s hair, kicked the youngest for giving away their toys, and talked about how Lizzy “smelled like a gross-ugly-girlie-yuck!”; and the eleven year old ignored her entirely, only drawing attention to himself while running rampant with his brothers.

  “They do that sometimes,” Traycee exhales, exasperated but chuckling in an effort to shrug it off, adding, “God’amn heathens.”

  Lizzy can hear a quick apology to Jesus under Traycee’s breath.