Under-Heaven

by Tim Greaton

  “…ever catch you hitting that boy or your wife again,” the officer was saying, his voice a low growl, “I will personally come over here and pound you into goulash. Do you get me, Mr. Hunter?”

  Ricky heard his dad mumble something, but he couldn’t quite make it out.

  “I don’t care what you boys do to yourselves down at the rubber plant, Mr. Hunter, but when you’re home you will be a gentleman.”

  “Of course, of course,” Ricky’s father said.

  “I mean it!” the policeman said.

  There was a violent slapping sound.

  Ricky held his breath until the policeman walked back to his car and backed it out into the road. Within moments, he was out of sight. Just then, the front door slammed shut.

  “Ricky, get out here!” his father yelled. “Ricky!”

  Terrified but knowing the alternative was too dangerous to contemplate, Ricky trudged out into the living room.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you tell the doctors?” his father asked menacingly.

  “Just what you said…that I got hurt when I fell down the cellar stairs.”

  His father’s face contorted with anger.

  “That’s a lie and you know it!”

  “I know, Dad,” Ricky said, tears channeling down his cheeks. His body trembled, but he was too frightened to move. “But that’s what you told them. The nurse said so. She said you told them I fell down the stairs.” Ricky was crying full-fledged by this point.

  “If that’s all you said, then what the hell was that policeman doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I swear that’s all I said.”

  “Did they ask a lot of questions after I left?”

  “Not many,” Ricky answered honestly.

  Ricky’s father scowled, frightening him even more than usual because he seemed to be sober. Ricky let his eyes fall to the floor. He knew not to walk away while under such intense scrutiny. He was thankful when his father grunted and strode into the kitchen.

  “I need a goddamn aspirin and a glass of water!”

  Ricky melted back into his room.

  The next few weeks were the most normal Ricky ever remembered. His father came home early from work every day and spent his afternoons and evenings quietly puttering around the house. He fixed things that had been broken for months or even years. For the first time in a long while they were able to flush the toilet without reaching down into the tank to pull on the chain, and the large strips of floral wallpaper in the living room were pasted back up so they no longer hung down like sagging blades of grass. His father even took the time to fix the cracked shelf in Ricky’s closet, a memento of Ricky’s many nights curled up on top of it.

  During those six weeks, Ricky never saw a single can of beer or bottle of liquor anywhere in their house. Apparently, his father had been serious about quitting, which pleased Ricky’s mother and him as much as it surprised them. After a couple of weeks, Ricky even dared to believe that their lives could be normal forever.

  It’s unfortunate that Ricky hadn’t heard the term “calm before the storm” because it might have better prepared him for the events to come. Ricky’s father stayed late for work one night, an excuse Ricky and his mother had both grown used to in the past but hadn’t heard in quite some time. His mother always used to say that “working late” meant hanging out in a barroom filled with other people who also claimed to be working late. As they feared, when Ricky’s father arrived home several hours later, he was both drunk and angry.

  Ricky had already been in bed, but he crawled into the attic within moments of hearing something slam into the living room wall. Soon, the sounds of skin slapping skin and his mother’s screams filled the house. He endured it as long as he could but finally crawled back down through the hole in the bathroom closet. His nose was still tender from the last time he had intervened, but nevertheless he crept toward the living room.

  Like Frankenstein from the movies, his father loomed over his mother who was crouching, hand over her face, against the curio cabinet. Her lips were swollen and blood coated her left cheek. His father held a tall drink in one hand, but the other was closed into a fist ready to strike again.

  “No!” Ricky shrieked.

  His father’s fist crashed fiercely into the side of his mother’s head anyway.

  As though in a rerun of their previous battle, Ricky dove at his father’s leg, cocking his head sideways so that he wouldn’t smash his nose again. Some of his father’s drink splashed on Ricky. He recognized the smell of vodka, which was the worst because it made his father even more violent than beer or whiskey.

  His father pitched his glass at the nearest wall while simultaneously tearing his son off his leg. The glass shattered only a second before Ricky struck against the Victorian carved back of their old living room couch. Ricky rolled down onto the cushions but knew he’d be feeling the imprint of the wooden lion in his back for a long while.

  Ricky’s father was already raising his fist, ready to strike his mother again. Her hands rose weakly to ward off the next blow. Not knowing what other weapon to use, Ricky darted across the living room and yanked a thin, half-burning log out of the fire. He rushed at his father.

  “Leave her alone!” Ricky screamed.

  His father spun and backed away from the torch flames just inches from his dripping wet face. He reeked of the Vodka that had apparently splashed all over him. His father kept backing up until there was more than an arm’s length between him and the torch.

  “S’that what ther poleek—poleem—cop told yer ta say?”

  Ricky glanced down. His mother was slumped down against the curio cabinet, arms settled around her head. Blood dripped from her left ear onto her shoulder. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  Dad, what did you do?

  Holding the smoldering stick in front of him, Ricky eased over to her. Though he didn’t remember hitting his still tender nose again, he could feel blood running out and clotting on his top lip. Gasping from the pain in his bruised back, he bent down and gripped her hand.

  “Please leave, Dad,” he said, his weapon still poised between them. “If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

  His mother groaned.

  Ricky said a quick prayer of thanks. Still, her eyes hadn’t opened and the blood stain on her shoulder seemed to be growing. Ricky stroked her cheek.

  “Mom?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I have to call a doctor, Dad. You really hurt her.”

  “She’ll be fline,” his father slurred, staggering toward them, hands outstretched.

  “Don’t,” Ricky warned, getting to his feet. He waved his torch to show he meant it.

  “Look, shun. Yer mom fell and I need to help cleeg ‘er up. We can take care’ of ‘er like a family.” He nodded at Ricky and inched closer to the torch.

  “She needs a doctor, Dad. I’m calling for help.”

  Ricky’s father wobbled and backed up a step. “What kin doctrans do, anyway?” he barked. “They jus’ want to get in your personal brisness!”

  Many of the kids at school still didn’t have a phone. Thankful they had had one installed less than a year before, Ricky backed toward where the large oak box hung on the wall near the kitchen archway.

  His father lunged.

  Ricky jabbed the torch at him.

  Sparks flew onto the carpet as the torch scraped against his father’s hand. His father let out a bellow that sent a shiver of fear sweeping across his shoulder blades. For a moment, Ricky thought it might be over, that his father might back away and let him make the call, but then he grabbed at the smoking stick again.

  Using it like a sword, Ricky yanked his smoldering weapon back then jabbed it toward his father’s face. Suddenly, the Vodka from his shirt burst into flame. With lightning speed, his father’s chest was enveloped in fire.

  “Dad!” Ricky yelled, dropping the torch.

  His father screamed horribly and staggered
to the kitchen sink. Flames had already spread to his hair. Ricky gripped the phone, thankful there were no voices on the party line, and spun the crank. An operator came on the line.

  “What number can I connect you to?” her pleasant voice asked.

  His father was wetting himself down under the kitchen faucet. He seemed to have the flames out, but the burnt odor seemed doubly horrible because it smelled like a barbeque.

  “This is Ricky Hunter.” The words rushed out of his mouth. “Both my parents have been hurt.”

  “Ricky!” his father bellowed.

  “Let me put you through to the police,” the operator said.

  “There’s no time,” Ricky told her. Already his father, a mass of red flesh and melted tufts of soggy hair, was rushing at him.

  “We’re at 88 Maple Bend Drive!” Ricky screamed before he dropped the receiver. It fell in an arc and slammed against the wall.

  “You little bastard!” his father roared. The pain from his burns seemed to have sobered him up some.

  Ricky jumped back, his eyes darting in search of his flaming weapon. By that time, black smoke was swirling up from the overstuffed green chair in the living room where he had thoughtlessly dropped it on the seat cushion. The chemical smell of burning foam was even worse than the stench from his father’s scorched hair and skin. Ricky lunged and snatched the torch up. He slapped at the cushion, but had to stop to fend off his father who looked ready to attack.

  Having no choice, Ricky abandoned the burning chair and backed toward his mother. His torch now smelled more like chemicals than wood. They had to get out of the house. He knelt and tried to shake his mother awake.

  She didn’t respond.

  Fear held his throat like a clamp. Had his father killed her? Using his free hand, Ricky grabbed her wrist and tried to drag her toward the front door.

  By this time, the green chair had burst into full flame. It gave out great gouts of oily black smoke. His father paid it absolutely no attention, as he staggered toward his son and wife.

  “Little bastard!” he bellowed and surged at Ricky.

  Horrified, Ricky dropped his mother’s arm and stood upright. His father’s face was bright red with a black spot under his right eye that looked like a flame-charred hot dog. Two melted clumps of hair hugged his otherwise scalded red forehead like fungus. His blue work shirt hung in black tatters with bits of undershirt and skin showing through.

  “I’ll twist your friggin little neck!”

  Ricky didn’t dare to leave his mother’s side, but he also felt his father would kill them both if he could get close enough. By then, fire had begun to climb the purple-flowered wallpaper.

  “Mom, wake up! Wake up!” Ricky shook her but still she didn’t respond.

  Ricky’s father lunged and tried to grab him.

  Dodging backwards, toward the center of the living room, Ricky knew he had to keep his father’s attention away from his mother.

  “You burned me, you little Nazi prick. You think you can run this family? You think you’re the boss now?” His father grabbed for him again.

  Ricky ducked around the back of the couch. It sat at an angle in the corner of the room, which allowed space for the Victrola cabinet behind it. The Victrola hadn’t worked in several years, but his parents had kept the old music machine because it had been a gift from Grandmother Hunter. Ricky could feel the machine’s large iron horn press painfully against his bruised back as he slid across the narrow space between it and the couch. On the opposite wall, flames had already crawled up to the ceiling. Dark smoke billowed out from that section of the living room in great, curdled black and brown knots. It wouldn’t be long before the entire room was thick with it.

  Mom, wake up, please, Ricky prayed, but he didn’t dare to speak aloud for fear his father would remember where she was and hurt her further.

  “You did this to us!” His father hissed. “You burned me. You want to ruin this family!”

  “Dad, please stop,” Ricky pleaded.

  His father looked more like a demon than a man as he spread his arms and rushed at Ricky. Ricky shoved the heavy couch further from the corner, making himself a few more inches room to dart either way. He coughed. The smoke burned his eyes and throat.

  “It’s all because of you!” his father roared and dove at him.

  Ricky threw himself sideways and down, just in time. His father’s body crashed into the couch, and if it hadn’t been for the old Victrola, Ricky would have been crushed behind it. He crawled along the wall on his stomach. There was less smoke there, but it felt like he was breathing straight from a school bus exhaust pipe.

  A hand snaked over the couch and raked his back, but he was able to scramble underneath the Victrola legs and out the other side. Somewhere along the way he had lost his torch.

  By then the smoke was so thick it was hard to see and near impossible to breathe. Knowing his father might grab him at any moment but realizing that if he and his mother didn’t escape soon they probably never would, Ricky dropped to his knees and gasped for whatever breathable air he could find. His lungs burned like charcoals as he crawled toward his mother. At any second he expected his father’s strong hands to grab him from above. He crawled faster.

  His mother hadn’t moved at all, and she wasn’t coughing when he reached her side. He heard the blare of sirens pulling up to their house. His breath came in hot, heavy gasps. He kept his face as close to the floor as possible as he reached out to take his mother’s hand.

  “The police are here,” Ricky whispered.

  “Get away from her!” his father screamed.

  Ricky flipped onto his back just in time to see a dark boot dropping toward his face. He pivoted to the side and felt a searing pain as the hard sole scrape along his ear.

  Flashing lights were barely visible through the thick smoke. Ricky could hear men barking orders just outside the front door. The pain in his ear was nothing compared to the burning in his throat and lungs.

  “No!” his father screamed, lurching toward the door. “Stay out! It’s my house!”

  Someone pounded on the door, but Ricky imagined his father was leaning against it to keep them out. The smoke had grown so dense that Ricky couldn’t see his mother just inches away. He brushed his palm against her sticky cheek. He couldn’t hear her breathing.

  Please be alive. Please!

  Coughing and gasping for breath, Ricky rolled her so that her nose was closer to the floor, but even at that level, there was scant anything left to breathe. They needed fresh air. The sounds of crackling fire was all around them now. Ricky gasped, his lungs trying to pull something other than death from the inky blackness around them.

  “Get away from the door!” someone yelled.

  Suddenly, there was a crash. Ricky sucked in through his nose in a desperate struggle to find oxygen, but only cloying smoke filled his lungs.

  “We’re coming in!” a gravelly, deep voice shouted

  But it was too late, because Ricky’s thoughts had already turned as black as the smoke-filled room…

  “That’s how I did it,” Ricky finished. “That’s how I killed my parents.”

  “How could you have known?” I countered softly. “Besides, you tried everything you could. You were trying to keep your mother safe.”

  Tears streaked Ricky’s cheeks.

  “If I had stayed out of it, maybe they’d both still be alive. If I hadn’t used that torch, the fire never would have started.”

  “Ricky, I think you were brave and right in what you tried to do.” I wanted to add that his father was a cruel brute, just like the men who had killed my family, and that Ricky had no choice. But I knew he didn’t need to hear that. How would I have felt if someone spoke of my father that way? Instead I reached out and placed my hand on his knee.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, Ricky.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He wiped tears from his red eyes.

  “No, I’m really sorry,” I sai
d. “I’m probably even sorrier than you.”

  He stared at me. “What’re you sorry for?”

  “For being friends with such a crybaby.” I grinned

  His mood broken, he leapt on top of me and caught me in a headlock. I broke free and vaulted over his porch railing to escape. He dove on me like a hawk on a hare. We rolled in the grass until he had tickled me into submission three separate times.

  “Under-Heaven champ!” he exclaimed as I struggled to catch my breath between fits of laughter.

  What a vision he was—arms high, smile wide—standing there above me. Though a dark secret had been brought into the open on our last day together, it was his triumphant smile that stayed with me. We parted shortly after that, friends forever.

  I never saw him again.

  17

  Decisions and the Damned

  My second year in Under-Heaven seemed to pass in a whirlwind, though there were a few things probably worth mentioning, like the day that a teenaged boy arrived. He appeared several houses down from me with two red stains on his shirt. I was afraid I knew what that meant, and my Uncle Albert confirmed my fears.

  “You mean he was murdered twice?” I asked.

  My Uncle Albert nodded. “It can happen. Sometimes people are reincarnated and things don’t go any better the second time around.”

  I’d been thinking a lot about reincarnation since Ricky had left, and that was just one more horrifying reason I couldn’t do it. The truth was that I longed for life. I longed for another dog and to be warmed by the sunlight and to feel a cool ocean breeze. My mouth still watered at the thought of strawberry shortcake or even a stack of raspberry pancakes with maple syrup. No one ate in the heavens, and I wasn’t supposed to miss food but I did. Feelings like that seemed to grow stronger every day. I had been in Under-Heaven for over a year, and yet I felt a connection to life that I just couldn’t shake. Maybe I had been too young when I died; maybe that’s why I didn’t really feel dead.

  But what was the alternative? How could I seriously consider returning to Earth when someone comes along with not one, but two bloodstains on his shirt? How revolting to think that I could have my head twisted off in one life and maybe get it shot off in the next. No, I would never take such a crazy risk! No matter how badly I yearned for life, the horror of my last few moments made it impossible to return, but at the same time I couldn’t picture myself in Heaven. So, unable to go up or down, there I was, tethered to Under-Heaven as surely as if I had been chained there.