6 Short Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  It was hard for him to look at it that way, after what had gone on back in '92, but it wasn't like he wanted to go back to the way it had been. Those had been some terrible days.

  So he tried to believe, with all his heart, that Fox's wreck and Judy's accident at the plant had been nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

  That way of thinking sure was comforting, but it didn't last.

  Friday night, he stayed in and watched a movie on TV. The phone rang twice, but he was so involved in the movie that he didn't even get up to answer it. The answering machine picked up, but whoever was on the other end of the line didn't bother to leave a message.

  After the movie, he caught the local news and the start of Letterman, then shuffled off to bed. His chocolate Labrador retriever, Lucy, followed him to the bedroom and hopped up on the big empty side where the real Lucy had once slept. Lucy his wife.

  She'd been gone since the Bad Old Days in '92. And not gone in the kind of way that would let him pick up a phone and call her up if he was feeling lonely.

  She was gone gone. Off the face of the Earth gone.

  After switching off the lamp on the bedside table, David patted the sleek fur on the Lab's side. She was such a sweet animal.

  But she was no Lucy. Not the real one.

  Unlike the past few nights, when the string of incidents had weighed on his mind, David had no trouble slipping off to sleep. He slept soundly, too, until the explosion.

  It was like a dozen thunderbolts blasting all at once, bursting with earth-shattering force not from the sky but from right outside the house. One massive BOOM erupting in the night, throwing him out of his sleep like a child from a whirling merry-go-round.

  Lucy leaped from the bed and scurried under it, terrified by the sudden blast. Completely disoriented, David thrashed to one side and slid off the bed's edge, knocking the alarm clock from the bedside table on his way to the floor.

  Scrambling to his feet, he staggered to the window...and stopped before looking out. Already, he could tell that what awaited him was not something he wanted to see.

  The shade over the window glowed bright orange.

  He knew it then, knew that the Bad Old Days were officially back. Somewhere outside, something was on fire.

  He took a deep breath and pulled back one side of the shade. Another breath, and he looked out the window.

  The house next door was in flames. They weren't just shooting from the windows, either.

  The exterior of the house, from shingled roof to white-painted wood siding, was on fire.

  David let go of the shade and charged out of the bedroom. Heart pounding, he ran straight for the kitchen phone and dialed 911.

  "There's a fire at 315 Rabbit Drive in Clover," he said breathlessly into the phone. "Hurry!"

  Before the emergency operator on the other end could say a word, David dropped the phone receiver and darted out the front door.

  Which was when he realized that he'd been all wrong about this particular emergency.

  Though he'd intended to run straight over to the house he'd seen burning from his bedroom window, David stopped in the middle of his yard and stood there for a moment, his jaw hanging open. The fire, it turned out, wasn't limited to the house at 315 Rabbit Drive.

  The house on the other side of David's was on fire, too. So were two houses across the street. And the house across the back yard from his.

  But not David's.

  Incredibly, his little yellow ranch house was untouched. Flames leaped from the houses around it and across the street, but David's home squatted in the middle of the destruction as if it were just another serene night on Rabbit Drive.

  It was hard to believe...and yet, David knew that he'd been expecting something like this all along. Welcome to the Bad New Days.

  He stared for another moment before he snapped out of it. He ran across the yard toward the first house he'd seen burning, which was where old Mr. and Mrs. Gurdy lived.

  Fire sirens wailed up the street as he ran, as the flames crackled and leaped, as neighbors poured from surrounding houses.

  As he prayed that no one would die that night because of him.

  *****

  He could see it in their eyes. Grief, anger, confusion, doubt.

  Blame. Blame, directed at him.

  Every single one of them remembered or had heard about the Bad Old Days. As they sat in the pews of his church at the funeral service, they remembered or knew and they couldn't help themselves. Maybe they didn't even want to.

  Some tried to hide it, others didn't. Sometimes, he only caught a flicker as he looked out over them. Sometimes, it was a hostile, prolonged stare.

  But always, it was there. Because gas line explosions weren't supposed to blow up or ignite every house on a block except one. Because they desperately needed someone to blame. Because none of it made sense without someone to blame.

  Because it wasn't the first time that tragedy had walked alongside David.

  After what had happened in the Bad Old Days, it was easy to blame him. Knowing how easy it was to blame himself, which he did, made it easy for him to understand how the congregation felt.

  But it didn't make it any easier for him to face them. It didn't make it any easier for him to stand in front of them and conduct a funeral service for those whom they believed had died because of him.

  In fact, it was one of the hardest things that David had ever done in his life.

  His hands shook as he closed the Bible on the podium and spoke to the crowd. The church fell into complete silence as he opened his mouth; even the scattered women who were weeping choked back their sobs and focused on him.

  "Our brothers and sisters are saved," said David, looking from one bloodshot set of eyes to the next. "We know they are with the Lord Jesus Christ today."

  Except for his voice, silence reigned in the church. No one even rustled the pages of a Bible or shifted position in a pew.

  They wanted to hear this. They wanted to hear what he had to say.

  The one they blamed.

  "We all know this to be true," said David. "Knowing these seven men, women, and children, we have no doubt that they are in the Kingdom at this very moment.

  "But it is still hard for those of us left behind. We feel that these brothers, these husbands, these sisters, these wives have been taken from us too soon."

  David swallowed. His mouth was dry as cotton, but he had nothing at hand to drink.

  "We will always miss them," he said, "but we must not forget to rejoice. Rejoice for ourselves as well as them."

  As he looked into the crowd, he caught one of those lingering stares full of blame. It was right there, on the face of dead Lou Mosley's brother, Phil...frank and bitter and cold.

  It cut through him, and his stomach twisted. He had to look down at the podium to collect himself before he could keep speaking.

  "For they," he said, and then his voice caught and he had to start again. "For they have gone on ahead to prepare the way for us. As John the Baptist prepared the way for Christ, our loved ones have gone to prepare the way for us."

  Carol Hess caught his gaze next and pinned him like a mouse in a trap. Her brother and his wifehad died, and her glare was hot with rage and accusation.

  David fought his way free and directed his eyes at the ceiling. It was the only place he could look away from the blame. It was the only place he could find a reprieve from this waking nightmare...and even there, without seeing those faces, he could feel their eyes upon him, boring into him.

  Suddenly, he knew he could not go on. It was a canned sermon, one he'd done so many times before that he knew it by heart, but he absolutely could not say one more word. He would be lucky if he could get through the service at all.

  With his eyes still fixed on the ceiling, he raised his arms. "In Jesus' name, amen," he said, his voice shaking.

  And no one in the church, not a single soul, offered up an "amen" to go with David's.

  *****
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  From that day on, David's life changed.

  Before, though everyone knew about the Bad Old Days, they hadn't seemed to hold it against him. He'd become a minister since all that trouble, after all, a man of God, and things had seemed to go just fine for him in spite of what had happened in the past.

  If anything, he'd been held in high regard by the community. The fact that he worked in the ammunition factory right alongside the rest of them had seemed to make him one of them. Just another working stiff in the plant, though on Sundays he preached the Good Word.

  But since the gas line explosion, people drifted away. He found they didn't make the same effort to talk to him in passing, let alone seek him out. In fact, he was sure most folks were avoiding him.

  Lots of times in the following days, he found people going out of their way to keep from talking to him. He'd be walking down the street or a hallway at work, with someone or other coming from the opposite direction, and they would catch sight of him and duck into a doorway or cross the street. Always, they had the same funny look on their faces, the same blank expression betraying none of what was going on inside their heads, yet revealing it all.

  Blame. Suspicion. Fear.

  No one wanted to come too close. No one wanted to take the chance that the bad luck would rub off.

  It wasn't a good thing to have hanging over you, especially at work in a bomb factory.

  Before the explosion, David had been on friendly terms with everyone in the plant. Not a shift went by when people weren't telling him stories and joking around with him, treating him exactly the way he wanted to be treated, like one of the gang.

  Now, he was almost a complete outcast...and not just because people weren't talking to him or including him in their fun. Now, if he was working on a bomb, whoever was assigned to work with him would find an excuse to get away from him. Even Judy and Moe and Maxine bailed out when David was in the room. By the end of the next week, in fact, they had all moved to other rooms or duties or shifts, leaving him with new faces who didn't look like they wanted to be anywhere near him, either. No one wanted to be around when the next unlucky break hit someone close to him.

  He couldn't blame them, but it hurt. His days, once filled with companionship and merriment, were silent and painful and awkward.

  Pretty soon, the only ones who would still have anything to do with him were Fox Brazos and Lucy. He clung to them needily, though he was tempted out of love for both to voluntarily exile himself from their lives.

  After all, he fully expected more bad luck to strike. That was how it had been in the Bad Old Days.

  *****

  "One good thing about being your friend," said Fox, smacking the yellow golf ball between the turning blades of the little windmill. "No one's pushin' to play through on the putt-putt course."

  It was true. The minute Fox and David had gotten out of the Explorer and walked toward the counter at the miniature golf place, everyone else who'd been standing there had hightailed it. Even the teenagers had shuffled away, saying stuff to make believe they'd had changes of plans and had to get somewhere else right away.

  The worst case, though, had been Judy Krulwicki herself. Judy and her husband, Beau, had already paid and were standing at the gate with clubs and balls in their hands when David and Fox had walked up. Judy and Beau had hovered indecisively a moment, whispering to each other...and then, when David and Fox came their way, they'd pretended that they were coming out of the course instead of going in.

  "She beat me again," Beau had said with a big grin. "She's scary with a club in her hand."

  "You silly," Judy had said, batting his arm playfully...but she'd looked down while walking past David, maybe because she was ashamed or because she was afraid even to look him in the eye lest a lightning bolt strike her dead.

  Somehow, the half-hearted insincerity of the people who actually talked to him bothered David a lot more than the people who completely ignored him.

  He'd seen it all before back in the Bad Old Days, but every little cut like that took a little more out of him.

  "Yup," said Fox. "Only thing better's eatin' in a restaurant with you. We're always guaranteed the best seating, 'cause everyone else clears out soon's you show your face."

  David took a deep drag on his cigarette. His

  twenty-third cigarette of the day, if he was counting right.

  "I don't know what to do next, Fox," he said. "Things are getting bad around here."

  "Why? Because people're givin' you the cold shoulder?" Fox moved to the other side of the windmill and lined up his next shot on the cheap indoor-outdoor mat of the green. "Pardon my French, Reverend, but I say screw 'em if they can't take a joke."

  "Easy to say," said David, looking toward the little shack where the attendants watched him and whispered. "This time, it's worse than before."

  "You done nothin' wrong," said Fox, tapping the yellow ball into the cup. "People are a bunch of superstitious horse's patoots. Would you want 'em for friends anyhow, after the way they've been treatin' you?"

  "You don't understand," said David, dropping his cigarette butt in the gravel between the wood-framed greens. "I can't blame them."

  "Bullcrap," said Fox. "Ask yourself, would you do the same thing to them if the positions were reversed?"

  The idea was so completely the opposite of his own situation, David had to think about it for a second. Then, as he reached for his smokes, he shook his head.

  It was true, too. He just wouldn't do it. Whether it was because of what he'd been through in his life, or because he was a pastor, or whatever the reason, he just wouldn't do it.

  "See?" said Fox as he stepped onto the next green. "But not a single one of them has given you the same kindness. So, and I repeat, screw 'em."

  David pulled a cigarette out and lit it. He was really just watching Fox play putt-putt, since he'd left his own ball and putter back on the second green. "The people aren't even the hardest part," he said, sucking in smoke. "It's the waiting."

  Fox put his ball on the tee, eyed his shot, and took it. The yellow ball looked like it was heading straight for the mouth of the covered bridge...then rolled left at the last second and splashed into the water under the bridge.

  "Waiting for what?" said Fox as he went to retrieve his ball.

  "For the next shoe to drop," said David.

  "Maybe there won't be a next shoe."

  "There will," said David. "And maybe it'll be you next time."

  "It won't be," said Fox. He fished the ball out of the water and dried it on his bluejeans. "I already had my close shave and walked away. Lightning don't strike the same cowboy twice."

  David felt a pressure building behind his eyes. He took an angry pull on his cigarette and jerked it from his lips. "You don't know it won't," he said. "It's always somebody close to me. Never me."

  Fox walked over and leaned on his putter. "You've built this whole thing up in your head like it's a done deal, but it ain't. You don't know what may or may not happen. No one does."

  David felt himself welling up and turned away. Clenching his teeth, he fought back the wave of emotion rising within him. "Why can't it be me?" he said, his voice threatening to catch. "Why doesn't He just get it over with?"

  "You're lookin' at this all wrong," said Fox, lowering his voice. "Maybe it's got nothin' to do with Him. Or anyone else."

  "I can't take it!" said David. "I should just kill myself before anyone else dies!"

  Fox dropped the putter and stepped closer. "Now you listen to me," he said quietly. "What happened before, it had nothin' to do with you. You understand? Your mother dyin', that wasn't your fault."

  David took a deep breath and clamped the heels of his hands over his eyes. It was too much, everything was too much.

  "It was stomach cancer took her," said Fox. "Not you. Same with Boonie and Mark Chalk. Did you put 'em on that motorcycle? Did you string the guidewire that took their heads off?"

  "But I was there," said Da
vid, remembering that night, remembering the sight of his two drunk buddies roaring off into the darkness...the sight of their heads popping off like champagne corks, the cycle with their bodies skidding off down the dirt road on its side.

  "It wasn't your fault," said Fox, putting a hand on David's shoulder. "Same with the fire at the strip mall. Same with the car crash." He paused. "Same with your brother."

  "I was there," said David.

  "You were there when he caught the AIDS? What, you were there in the room with him when he got it?"

  "You know that's not it," said David.

  "None of it had anything to do with you!" said Fox. "Not your father, either. None of it."

  Lashing out, David flung Fox's hand from his shoulder. "It's happening again!" he snapped. "Just like before! I'm the one in the middle of it, so don't try to tell me I don't know!"

  "Listen," said Fox. "Let's go get you a drink. I think you need one."

  "Do you want to die?" said David. "I mean, how dumb can you be? Stay away from me before it's too late!"

  Fox squinted at him for a moment, then reached into the back pocket of his bluejeans and pulled out a can of snuff. "Well," he said, screwing open the can. "I'd do that if I was like every other asshole in this buttcrack town. But you know what dumb is?"

  David glared silently, shoulders rising and falling.

  "Here's dumb," said Fox, pinching out a helping of dark flakes and lodging them in his mouth along the gumline of his lower jaw. "Dumb is seein' a young guy who's had some tough breaks, who's lost his father and mother and brother and buddies, and tellin' him it's all his fault.

  "Dumb is what ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of this dumbass town done to you because they're all workin' in a bomb factory could blow 'em to kingdom come any day of the week, so they're all a load of superstitious idiots.

  "As for me," said Fox, screwing the cap back on the can and jamming it into his pocket. "I'm the point-oh-one percent of this town that ain't dumb enough to do that. So don't be tellin' me I'm dumb."