It is a pencil sketch of you. You are slyly smiling. Your hair is perfect. Your eyes are gorgeous, knowing and compassionate. Not only does that picture look like you, it looks like how you have always wanted to look. It’s the picture of what your childhood self fantasized you would like as an adult.
Todd follows your eyes. He knows you’ve seen it. It’s too late to go back now, though. The office is silent. Everyone is watching you.
“Fine,” you say, and you smack your palms on the top of his cubicle wall for emphasis. You turn around and sit down.
Time is ticking away. You stare at the spreadsheet on your computer. It is nothing now, it means nothing. Lines and numbers, jumbled about. It doesn’t even make sense, like a foreign language. Your hands shake. You have no idea what to do with this mess.
From behind you, Todd is making noises again. Todd. Fucking Todd. Damn him. Damn him so much.
Your phone is ringing now. People want to talk to you. People want explanations. They need results. They demand answers. Your computer beeps as more emails come in.
But all you can hear is the soft noise coming from Todd’s cubicle: the sound of a piece of sketch paper, slowly being torn into long jagged strips.
Scream Like a Baby
“You were talking in your sleep again last night,” Melanie says. You’re still out of it, thick white comforter practically shoved into your drooling mouth.
“What did I say?”
“You said, ‘Where’s Megan?’ Really loud. Woke me up.”
“That’s weird,” you murmur. You know where Megan is. She’s in her crib in the nursery you just recently finished painting.
“I thought so, too,” Melanie says, mouth full of frothing toothpaste.
“Since when do I talk in my sleep?”
Melanie spits. “Since always. For the three years we’ve been together, at least.”
“No shit,” you say. This is news to you. “Next you’ll be telling me I snore.”
“Like a walrus,” Melanie says, laughing. You throw a white-shammed pillow at her, which bounces off the bathroom door jamb.
“What else do I say?” you ask.
Mel shrugs. “Stuff. Most of the time I can’t make it out. Just mumbles.”
“You’re not helping your case, Melanie,” you say.
She is putting on her bra, a lacy white affair you fear you paid far too much for. Melanie is only a B cup. It can’t take that much fabric to rein those puppies in.
“Sometimes, it sounds like you’re saying the word, ‘cobbler.’”
You sit up and swing your feet out of bed, burying your toes in the warm white shag carpet. The winter sun oozes in through the slats of the mini-blinds like marshmallow cream.
“Like the dessert? I never eat that.”
“You do in your dreams,” Melanie chuckles, as she gingerly clasps a pearl necklace behind her neck.
You gently move past Melanie, who is already dressed, into the bathroom. You have to piss like a horse.
“Now, you’ll be okay until my mother gets here, right?” Melanie asks. “She should be rolling in around noon.”
“We’ve been doing this since Megan was born, Mel,” you say. “I think I know the drill.”
Melanie kisses the back of your neck. “You do good,” she concedes.
“I can change a diaper and warm up a bottle,” you say. “That’s pretty much the whole job right now.”
“Back around suppertime,” Melanie says, and she marches prettily out of the bedroom, in her white dress, off to work. You hear the front door open. You hear the deadbolt click.
You brush your teeth quickly, wrap your bathrobe around yourself and go into the hallway. The nursery door is cracked slightly, and you peek in. The baby is sleeping. You do not usually wake her up before you have had coffee, but news of your sleep-talk has you edgy.
Megan snores slightly. Tiny sighs. Angel breaths. You normally have to hold your own breath before you can hear hers. You inhale and hitch up, letting the air fill your lungs. Nothing. You can’t hear anything.
You open the door to the nursery and approach Megan’s crib. “Come on, Meggie,” you say. “Time to get up.”
Megan is not in her crib. You stand up straight and scan the entire room. Nothing. She is nowhere. You cannot see or hear her. Your little girl is gone.
How the hell did this happen? She can’t climb out herself. She can’t even walk yet, for God’s sake. Where the…
…behind you, the closet door squeaks. You’ve been meaning to fix it. You’ve been meaning to do a lot of things. You stride across the nursery, realizing that it is impossible for Megan to be in the closet. Not without help.
You breathe deeply and yank the closet door open.
The creature holding Megan has talons. Megan’s eyes are wide with fear and confusion as the thing caresses her throat with grotesquely long fingers, covered with brown scabs. It grins at you from the shadows, half-hidden among the neatly folded pajamas and tiny white frilly dresses. Drool falls from one corner of its jagged mouth.
You don’t know what it is. You don’t care. You just want your daughter back.
“Let go,” you demand. “Give her to me right now.”
The thing in the closet shakes it head, gibbers and moans. It glares at you, and slowly runs its finger from Megan’s navel to her throat. Megan begins to cry. She stretches her arms towards you. You walk further into the closet.
“Give her to me,” you yell. The monster shakes its head and clutches Megan tighter. It traces his finger across your baby’s throat. Its claw tugs her soft skin, pricking it. A small bead of blood forms under her chin.
You are fury. You are rage. You kick the horrible thing in the forehead, pinning it to the wall. It screams with rage and momentarily loosens its grip on Megan. You hop forward with your other foot and reach down. You snatch the baby from its weird claws, let the brute loose and stumble away.
It follows you quickly, like a feral animal. You barely have Megan in your hands, like a slippery football. The creature leaps in front of you, smacking the crib to the other side of the room. It jumps for Megan, swatting and smacking at her like a basketball. Megan screams, high-pitched, terrified. The monster drops and charges, ramming its head against your chest. You flail back violently, against the window. It’s not your fault. You raise your hands and fall backwards, shattering the glass and losing your grip on Megan, sweet shrieking Megan, who falls and falls and falls.
“Where’s Megan?”
Melanie sighs. “Wake up, honey. You’re doing it again. Oh, and you weren’t saying, ‘cobbler.’ You said, ‘goblin.’”
“Megan’s okay?” You are sweating.
“Relax,” Melanie says. “I’ll get her.”
There are red smears on your side of the bed, stark against the white comforter. Your feet are raw. You can feel the sandy grit of grinding glass in your toes. Are you awake now? Are you still dreaming?
Melanie is screaming now. She wants to know where Megan is. You pull the comforter over your head and try to go back to sleep.
Easy Mea t
You aren’t supposed to meet the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life at a shitty Karaoke bar in Milwaukee, but she is in front of you and the facts are undeniable. Her hair goes down to the small of her back. It is at least four shades of blonde, depending on how the light hits it. She is wearing a black dress that shows just enough to let you know that you want to see what’s under there. Under where? Ha.
Sometimes your mind is an idiot.
Her eyes are the kind of blue anime artists use for unicorn tears. Her teeth are not perfectly straight, which pleases you. Beauty lies in the incorrect and you are strangely attracted to flaws. And now those blue eyes are looking at you and those teeth are visible in her smile.
At first, you can’t believe she’s looking at you. You pull the awkward cute moves. Tilt your head. Look to both sides to make sure you’re alone. Point to yourself and quietly say, Me?
She gets up from the table with her beer. Slowly, she walks over to your table. She sets her drink down. She leans over the table and gets right in your face.
Don’t do that, she says.
What?
Don’t pretend to be cute. It keeps you from being cute.
You’re taken aback by this. Nervously, your hand goes to your collar, which you compulsively straighten. You begin to sweat. The girl laughs.
That, she says, is cute.
She sits next to you. Her hand slowly slides its way into yours. The next round of music starts up. Your evening, perhaps your life, has finally begun.
The next three hours take five minutes. Everything takes forever and no time at all. She is laughing at you for eating fried pickles with thousand island dressing she is laughing at you for spilling your beer she is laughing at you for laughing at her while she’s laughing at you are laughing at that green thing stuck in her teeth you are laughing while you are singing a duet with her and her voice is more Kate Bush than Liz Phair and that’s more than okay and you realize that you still don’t know her name and you ask her what it is and she smiles and says Jennifer.
Jennifer.
Not quite as exotic as you were hoping for, but within context, that name is suddenly beautiful.
The bar is closing. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay there. Jennifer takes your hand. Come on, she says. You want to ask where she is taking you. You hope you already know.
And now you are in her car, some kind of SUV, and you watch as she climbs into the back. She is pulling levers and pushing buttons, making the back seats lie down flat. Are we doing this here? Is this what we’re doing?
Jennifer smiles and beckons you closer. You scoot up to her and you are almost face to face. You are anticipating that kiss. That sweet first kiss. The kiss that foretells what happens next. She bites her lower lip. Her blue eyes are translucent in the sepia light filtering in from the parking lot through the tinted windows. When she hits you in the face, full knuckle closed fist, you never see it coming.
What can you think? There’s nothing to think. Except she’s strong, and what the hell and then she hits you again, a good one right across the chin and you feel that fine china singing pain along your jawbones all the way into your brain and you think, why didn’t I notice that before, how strong her arms are. And then her hand is behind your head and she is forcing you down, down between her legs and you can see her panties, which are blue and strangely match her eyes, and you can see, you can see, you can see and the next thing you know, it is in your mouth, choking you, filling your throat and why didn’t you see that, why didn’t you see that under there (under where?) and she is slapping you across the temples saying, Take it. Take it. All you fucking frat boys like it dirty anyway.
Peniten t
Body to body, job to job. So much moving about. You go to where the work is, and the Church universal is always there, waiting.
***
“You make it sound like casting out demons is difficult,” Pastor Ed says. “You don’t need a young priest and an old priest. We’re Pentecostals! We do this all the time!”
“I know, but we don’t do it to people who don’t need it,” you reply.
“It happens sometimes,” Elder Freeman says. “What does it hurt? Everybody needs a good praying over once in a while.”
“Because,” you say, “this is my child we’re talking about.”
“Do you think she’s possessed?” Elder Flynn asks.
You sigh. “I don’t know, Brothers,” you say. “And that’s the truth.”
It’s a Saturday. The Assembly is usually empty. So much energy flies around this place on Sundays and Wednesday nights, even the walls need time to discharge and decompress. But you asked for this meeting, called in the Pastor and the Elders, begged them for advice.
It comes with the territory.
“All right,” Pastor Ed says. He is using his Calming Voice, the one you’ve heard him use over the last six months with grieving wives and penitent husbands. “Let’s give this a little more discussion. Tell me, why do you think your daughter is possessed? She seems like a lovely child. She’s fit in well here over the last three months. From what I can tell, the other kids love her. Already they look up to her.”
“My son has a bit of a crush on her,” offers Elder Freeman.
“She has some natural leadership abilities, for sure,” Elder Flynn pipes in. “I’ve noticed the youth on Sunday night have started doing whatever she says to do.”
“That may not be a good thing,” you groan.
“Why do you say that?” Pastor Ed asks. “You have a perfectly delightful, beautiful eleven-year-old daughter and for someone who is raising a child by himself, you seem to be doing a remarkably good job.”
“I don’t think she is what you think she is,” you say. “But I don’t know. It could be paranoia, it could be a trick of the Devil, I honestly don’t know.”
“But what is she doing?” Elder Freeman asks. “What signs is she exhibiting?”
You rub your sweaty palms on the top of your pants. “She says things,” you say. “Things I don’t understand, but I feel like I should. Does that make sense? It’s gibberish, but it sounds like familiar gibberish.”
Elder Flynn leans back in his chair and strokes his patchy beard, deep in thought. Suddenly, he leans forward and stares at you intently. “Ego sum via, veritas, et lumine,” he says. “Does that ring a bell?”
You think back to the strange things you’ve heard coming from her bedroom, late at night when she thinks you’ve fallen asleep. “Sounds familiar, maybe,” you say. “I can’t be sure.”
Elder Flynn laughs. “What I just spoke to you was Latin.” He seems very pleased with himself. “In fact,” he continues, “that was the Latin for, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Light.’”
The three clergymen murmur amongst themselves for a second. Pastor Ed fixes you with his stare. “Is there any way she could know Latin? Any Latin books around the house?”
“Who keeps Latin around the house. Pastor?”
He folds his arms. “Don’t you see what’s going on? She’s speaking languages she has no way of knowing. That’s speaking in tongues. If your daughter is possessed with anything, it sounds like the Holy Spirit.”
The Elders nod their heads in agreement.
“That’s not all, though,” you say. “Sometimes, she will sit at the kitchen table and laugh, just laugh, for hours on end. She won’t say a word. She just laughs, a high-pitched giggle, and it’s okay at first, because who doesn’t enjoy the laughter of children? But after two or three hours, it isn’t cute any more. It’s terrifying.”
Elder Freeman simply shrugs. “That’s the phenomenon of Holy Laughter. Haven’t you heard of it? It’s a perfectly natural manifestation of the Holy Spirit. The Spirit comes, bringing a supernatural joy, that can only be expressed by humans through laughter. It happened at Pentecost and it still happens today.”
Elder Flynn flaps his hands in front of his face with excitement. “Your daughter sounds absolutely extraordinary!”
Elder Freeman is also beside himself. “She sounds like she’s been chosen.”
“Chosen?” you ask. “By who? For what?”
Pastor Ed replies. “By who? Well, by God, of course! And for what? I don’t know. But it sounds she like is coming to make His ways known and make the paths clear. I have always believed these were the End Times, and I have always searched for the signs and wonders that would accompany the End. Signs and wonders like what you say your daughter is exhibiting.”
“Come on, Brothers,” you say. “She’s just a little girl.”
“In the Kingdom of Heaven,” Pastor Ed says, “there’s no such thing as just a little girl.”
“We must speak to her though,” Elder Flynn says. “It’s easy to get all excited about some new Spiritual wave drifting through our transom, but we must first examine our hearts and talk to the little girl. Is she her
e?”
Elder Freeman claps his hands together, like a toddler before the circus begins. “Bring her to us!” he cries. “We must talk to her!”
“Did you bring her?” Pastor Ed asks.
You nod your head. “She’s here,” you say. “She’s waiting outside.”
“Praise the Lord,” Pastor Ed sighs. “Bring the child in.” The elders nod in agreement.
You get up from your chair and open the door. Your daughter sits in the hallway. Blonde, curly hair, blue gingham dress, the picture of Christian Americana.
“You’re on,” you say. She gets up from the floor and smiles at you, a half-smile that you find a little creepy. She brushes past you and enters the room.
***
It was a difficult birth. The baby was born with a hole in her head; your wife couldn’t stop bleeding. The child came into this world and was immediately zipped away to ICU while your wife bled and bled into her hospital bed, the placenta ripped into pieces, her face growing whiter and whiter.
You ran. You retreated to the hospital chapel and prayed. You spent two hours on your knees, praying to Jesus. When you went back to the room, your wife’s situation had not improved. She was still bleeding internally, but they couldn’t figure out from where. Your baby daughter was fighting for life inside an incubator.
The tiny chapel that smelled of stale popcorn and fake floral air freshener was the only place you knew to go; prayer, the only way you felt you could actually be of service. But you were angry. You were furious. This is not how it was supposed to go down.
***
The Kingdom of Heaven smells like must and old books. The Way. Good News for Modern Man. The Answer. Tens of thousands of replications of millions of translations of the same one thing.
Your daughter comes into the room, all sweetness and light. Her smile seems to emanate a pure shining white, filling the room with a calm expectation. It is like sitting in the front row of a fancy music hall, waiting for an opera diva to sing.
Short Stories About You Page 2
