by Ray Garton
"Oh, God," J.R. breathed, going to his side and hunkering down. "Reverend? Are you all right?"
"Who… what… who is it?"
"J.R. Haskell."
"J.R. Has… I'm sorry, I…"
"From Valley High School. We spoke last week."
"Last week," the reverend muttered, rolling onto his side and squinting up at J.R. "Last week was a hundred years ago." His eyes were red and watery; his face glowed with a sheen of perspiration and was puffy around his eyes and mouth.
"I need to talk to you, Reverend."
"Talk… oh, yes," he said, nodding with vague recognition. His breath reeked of whiskey. "Yes, I remember you. Talk? About what?"
"Mace."
"Mace, Mace… oh-ho, yes, Mace, you want to talk about Mace." He tried to sit up but couldn't, so J.R. lifted him into a chair at the kitchen table. "What about him?"
J.R. looked around the kitchen. Empty Jim Beam bottles were everywhere; there was a lumpy yellowish puddle on the floor by the sink where the reverend had apparently vomited. "My God, what's happened?" he asked Bainbridge softly.
"Happened?" The reverend looked around and smirked, then scrubbed his face. "Yes. Well. You haven't caught me at, um, my best, I'm afraid. It's been… a bad week."
"Where's the coffee?"
"Fridge. Help yourself."
"It's for you," J.R. said, opening the refrigerator.
"Oh, no-no-no, I don't want any, thank you."
"I need you sober." He hurried around the kitchen, looking for coffee filters, rinsing out the pot, trying to avoid the mess on the floor.
"Oh? Now, what could you possibly need me for?"
"I need your help. Mace and his group are performing at Fantazm tonight."
"And?"
Once J.R. was finished and the coffee was brewing, he sat across from Bainbridge.
"How long have you been like this, Reverend?"
"Uuhhh, I'm not sure. What day is it?"
He doesn't know, J.R. thought. He was about to tell him of Nikki's suicide gently, ease into it, but he thought the shock might be good for him. "Nikki Astin killed herself yesterday."
Bainbridge ran a hand slowly through his unwashed hair, staring at J.R. as if he'd spoken in an unfamiliar tongue. He lowered his hand and was still for a moment, then began to tremble, clutched the table, and groaned as he slipped out of the chair. "Dear God, wh-what have I done…?" He sounded heavier than he looked when he hit the floor.
J.R. knelt beside him and said, "Another girl killed herself, too, Reverend, and there may be others. And all of them have been spending time with him."
Bainbridge seemed unconscious for a moment, and J.R. shook him, saying, "Reverend, can you hear me?"
His head began to move back and forth. "… my fault …my fault… Mace… was right…."
"Right about what?"
"Doesn't matter. Go… away. Leave me alone."
"Look, a lot of these kids know you, Reverend, respect you. I think you can help me. Before any more die."
He propped himself up and looked into J.R.'s eyes. "Respect?" he asked as tears rolled down his face. "No. No, I let them down. Failed them."
"But you can still help them."
Bainbridge rubbed a temple with his thumb as he smacked his dry lips. "The… the parents… what about the parents?"
"I've been calling parents all day. Most of them—nearly all of them—are at work, and a lot of them won't be coming home very soon. The freeways are a mess. Of those I talked to, some are concerned and said they would try to keep their kids away from Fantazm tonight; others resented being told how to raise their kids. Two of them hung up on me. I'm going to keep calling, but I don't know how much good it'll do. That's why I want your help. I need it."
"What could I do?"
"Come with me tonight to the concert. Talk to them, to the ones you know. Convince them they're making a mistake. I think that's what they need, Reverend—someone they know and trust, or once trusted, to show that he cares, to let the kids know they have an option, that Mace is dangerous and whatever he's telling them is a lie." He helped Bainbridge into a sitting position and leaned him against the wall. "Please."
The reverend scrubbed his face hard with both hands, groaning into his palms.
"I've failed them," he said, his voice raspy. "I thought I was doing the right thing—I—I meant well, I did, but… Mace was right. I was changing them, fitting them into— into little boxes, trying to—to make them into something they weren't. That was wrong. It… I think it nearly destroyed some of those kids. It seemed to work for some, but… but I wonder…." He slowly shook his unsteady head. "… I wonder what kind of effect it had on some of them as they grew older, as—as they realized they couldn't fit into those boxes I made for them forever. Because no… nobody can, you know." He turned his bleary eyes to J.R. and whispered, "I couldn't." He coughed and held his stomach, as if suddenly nauseated. "Just—just leave me alone, I can't help you, I can't expect those kids to—to listen to me ever again, not after the way I let them down, let… let Nikki down." His lips pulled back over his teeth as if he were in pain; his eyes clenched, and J.R. could hear his teeth grinding. "Nikki," the reverend hissed, "I'm… so sorry."
J.R. went to the coffee maker and poured a cup, put it on the table, then helped the reverend back into his chair.
"Here," he said, handing the cup to Bainbridge, making sure it was firmly held between his trembling hands, "drink this."
"I'll drink," he said, putting the cup down, "but not this."
"Reverend, I'm not a religious man, but isn't a person in your position supposed to have faith, supposed to believe that God forgives and—"
"Believed, Mr. Haskell, I believed those things, past tense. If there is a God, He has no reason to forgive me, but I'm not so sure there is a God. I'm not sure what I believe anymore, because everything I've lived for, the work I've done, seems to have been a… a mistake!"
"It wasn't a mistake if it worked, if it did some good. And you can make it work again if you'll just sober up. I don't necessarily approve of some of your methods, but I—"
The reverend stood cautiously and looked around the kitchen at the bottles, slowly rubbing his eyes one at a time; then he tightened the buckle of his bathrobe, mumbling. Moving slowly, he reached for the cupboard above the sink, opened it, and removed one of his last two Jim Beams.
"What're you doing?" J.R. asked.
He took another coffee cup from its hook over the counter and sat down, saying, "I am trying to prevent myself from sobering up."
"Reverend…"
Bainbridge smiled up at him as he slowly removed the cap from the Jim Beam and said, "Mr. Haskell, I took my first drink of alcohol when I was nine years old and for the next nine years was seldom sober. When I found the Lord and took up the ministry, I believed that God ended my craving for alcohol, took the bottle out of my hand. But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Thinking and drinking," he laughed, pouring some whiskey into the coffee cup. "That craving never went away. I stopped drinking. I put the bottle down. I stopped. Ah, but to a preacher, everything comes from God. All this"—he waved his arm toward the ceiling—"the house, the low rent, the furniture. All provided by the Lord for… the work. But you know what? I worked hard for this. I did. I've put my whole life into this, into those kids." His hand shook as he lifted the cup, and a shudder passed through him as he drank the whiskey. His voice was wet and throaty as he continued. "I told them that everything they'd learned, everything they were, was wrong, and they had to become what He—what I—wanted them to be. I did it for Him, because I thought that's what He wanted. But last week, Mr. Haskell, I saw something." He poured again. "Something… hellish. I saw Mace kill—did you hear me?—kill my unborn baby." Another pour, another swallow. "I don't know what Mace is, or where he's from, but the God I worshipped, the God I thought I was serving, would never… ever… let that happen. Especially to a soul as kind and caring… as simple… as Nikki A
stin. But I saw it." He drank again. "If there is a God, it's not the God I thought I was serving. If… there is a God. And that, Mr. Haskell, means that my whole life has been a waste. It means that at the age of eighteen I changed my way of thinking, living, my personality—me, I changed me—for nothing, because some other ignorant, misguided man of God told me to. Because I saw in that man someone who cared for me, respected me as my parents never did. I could never seem to please my parents. No matter what I did. But Mortimer Bigley wanted me… as long as I became what he wanted. So I did. Oh, I liked him, he was a dear man, and I had all the signs, all the religious fire and fervor. But I wanted it. Because I wanted so very much to be wanted."
J.R. sat down across from the reverend, listening attentively, but frowning; the pain in Bainbridge's eyes and voice made it difficult, but he seemed to be working his way to a point and not just rambling drunkenly.
"I've thought about all that a lot these last few days, Mr. Haskell"—another drink—"and I've realized that I have been doing the same thing to them. The kids. Changing them. Because they're not good enough for a God who's going to let them suffer anyway. And they allow me to do this because they want… to be wanted. They have parents who don't care or don't notice, who are too drunk or too caught up in their marriages, their divorces, their affairs, their jobs… too caught up in their lives to be parents. They have children, but they just don't… they don't…"
J.R. cleared his throat and said quietly, "Pay the piper?"
"Yes, yes, you could say that. So. These kids turn to me. Or, God help us"—another drink, this time followed by a ragged cough that turned his face red—"to Mace. Or drugs. Maybe sex. Even suicide. Whatever's there to fill the holes or numb the pain. Like this." He giggled drunkenly as he held up his drink, then finished it off.
"And you're not gonna do anything about it?" J.R. asked. "You're just gonna sit here and drink? You're scared, right? What, you think I'm enjoying this? I'm scared shitless, I feel helpless. And I'm putting my fucking job on the line here. I'm trying to stop something I don't understand, and I haven't the slightest idea how I'm gonna do it, and you're just gonna sit here, you and Jim Beam, and not do a goddamned thing to help?"
Bainbridge smiled at J.R. again, but tears rolled down his puffy cheeks and his lips trembled.
"I can't help myself right now," he whispered. "I'm not sure I want to. I'm mourning a death, Mr. Haskell. The death of my faith. My belief. Everything I've worked for. So." He stood with his bottle in one hand and his cup in the other. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone in my sorrow." He began to shuffle out of the kitchen, scattering bits of glass with his feet. "I'd show you the door, but—hah, I'm not sure I could find it myself." He went into the living room and fell onto the sofa, nearly dropping the bottle.
J.R. decided to give up; he knew he was going to get no help out of James Bainbridge. As he slipped into his coat on his way to the door he heard the reverend mutter, "Good luck, Mr. Haskell." Then, with a chuckle, Bainbridge added, "I'll pray for you…."
An hour after J.R. Haskell left, the reverend awoke to an ominous stirring in his gut. He gulped as he clambered off the sofa and staggered down the hall, careening from wall to wall, trying to hold down the contents of his stomach. Two doors from the bathroom, the stirring became a rush, and he fell to his knees vomiting.
It covered the front of his robe and slopped to the carpet, spattering his arms and hands, dribbling down his chin. Kneeling on the floor, he waited for some of his strength to return, then limped into the bathroom, hugging the wall for support. He removed his robe, threw it in the tub, and washed up.
Reverend Bainbridge stared at the filthy, trembling, unshaven stranger in the mirror. Naked except for a pair of stiff, soiled briefs—When did I change them last? he wondered—his body looked bony and frail. There was a massive dark purple bruise on his right thigh; he had no idea how he'd gotten it.
Splashing more cold water on his face, he sputtered in a weak voice, "What'm I doing?"
He cautiously took a hot shower, and as he stood beneath the hot spray he went over his conversation with J.R. Haskell, remembering what he'd said about giving up the bottle and working hard to build Calvary Youth. He lifted his face to the water and grumbled to himself, "If I can do that, I can do this."
After he dried, he walked naked to his bedroom and began sorting through his closet for some clean clothes. He was putting on a shirt when he heard the familiar scraping sound in the wall over his bed. He spun around and stared at the wall for a moment, afraid for only an instant, then hot with anger as he growled, "Keeping an eye on me, huh? Like what you see?"
The scuttling continued as he dressed, then he went to his bed, sat down, and picked up the phone. He dialed directory assistance and asked for J.R. Haskell's number. As he dialed the number, it seemed appropriate to pray for strength, for guidance. Instead, he muttered, "Never thought I'd say it, but if You're out there"—he lifted his eyes to the ceiling—"I don't need You anymore."
"Hello?"
"Yes, um, Mr. Haskell? This is Reverend Bainbridge. I'm calling because I…"
"Yes?"
"Well, I don't know if I'm worth much. In this condition, I mean. But I want to help you…."
Twenty-Six
Brad's sister Becky and her husband Neil lived in a small apartment with a leaky roof on Cartwright Avenue in North Hollywood. Becky was twenty, a slightly overweight brunette with crooked teeth and a bleeding heart tattoo on her left shoulder.
When Brad and Jeff entered the apartment, Becky hurried out of the kitchen grinning, arms open, ample breasts bouncing freely beneath her loose-fitting spaghetti-strap top, and hugged Brad warmly. "Happy seventeen, little brother," she said, kissing his cheek. "Who's your friend?"
Brad introduced Jeff, then Becky put an arm around each of them and quickly led them into the kitchen.
"Who else is coming?" she asked.
"Nick, Keith, Jason, and maybe Rob from Santa Monica, but probably not."
"Well, I hope they hurry," Becky said. The kitchen was dark except for the candles on Brad's birthday cake and the ember of a smoldering joint in an ashtray on the counter. The apartment smelled of marijuana and kitty litter. Becky opened the refrigerator and said, "Beers?"
Both boys nodded, and she handed each of them one.
The beer was ice-cold, and Jeff sighed quietly with pleasure as he took a swallow.
Jeff considered backing out of Brad's party that night, but after his mother left and he was alone in the apartment, he began to notice sounds he hadn't noticed during the day. His mind turned to thoughts of Mallory—
There's something wrong with me.
—and it became impossible to concentrate on his homework. When Brad arrived, Jeff went with him giadly.
"Plans have changed," Becky said. "Neil was gonna join us for a couple beers and some grass, then take you guys over to the bar, but he can't make it."
"What bar?" Jeff muttered.
"Radical!" Brad shouted simultaneously.
"C'mon, guys, let's go ogle the T and A."
"What? Where are we going?" Jeff asked.
"To watch women take their clothes off. At the Playpen…
Erin put her drink tray on the bar and shouted above the music, "Hey, Neil!"
He was mixing a drink and spun around to say, "Yo!" He was a big man with a round face and long black hair gathered in a ponytail.
"Am I up next?"
"Yep." He went back to his drink.
The Playpen was loud, smoky, and crowded. Pool balls clacked together and Robert Palmer pounded from the jukebox as Chaunte, the bustiest girl working that night, licked both index fingers and wet her nipples, grinding her hips at one end of the stage while Lori worked the other.
Erin gathered her tips from the tray and walked between two pool tables and down the dark, narrow corridor to the dressing room. It was really just a large bathroom with lockers against one wall and a couple bare lightbulbs hanging from t
he ceiling.
She'd danced one set already and had been serving drinks for the last hour. The dancing would be a relief from the lewd remarks, suggestions, and propositions sneered at her as she went from table to table taking orders. At least on the stage she had some distance from them and didn't have to concentrate on getting the right drink to the right customer. As long as she kept smiling and moving to the music, showing her tits and shaking her ass, she could let her mind wander.
Chaunte burst through the door dabbing her face with a hand towel and said, "The guy in the fishing cap sitting at runway two's a big tipper. He likes it when you shake your tits."
"Thanks."
Debbie hurried in, adjusting an earring. "I'm up with you next. I'll be right out."
Dressed in a black teddy with silver handprints over her breasts, Erin left the dressing room, crossed the bar, put a quarter in the jukebox, and punched in two selections.
A Tina Turner song began, and Erin hurried through the mirrored door by the jukebox, passed through the small room off the stage, and picked up the beat by slapping one black-stockinged thigh. She put on a big smile and strutted out to a chorus of whistles, catcalls, and stomping feet.
The stage had two runways with men seated around each one, a mirror along the back, and a copper-colored firepole at each end. When Debbie joined her, the shouting and clapping grew louder. Erin kicked up a leg, swung her hips as she went to the firepole, straddled it, and slid herself up and down suggestively, smiling over her shoulder, licking her lips.
At the other end of the stage, Debbie, a young woman with a svelte dancer's figure, turned her back to the audience, bent over, and smiled between her legs as she playfully wriggled two fingers under the elastic of her panties.
Erin spotted the man in the fishing cap sitting at the runway. He was fiftyish, with eyebrows that sprouted from his forehead like little gray bushes. He beckoned her with callused hands, flashing a silver-capped tooth when he grinned and called, "C'mon over here, babe, come to Poppa!"
