Baby, You're Gonna Be Mine

by Kevin Wilson

  “My aunt used to eat here every Thursday night,” Father Naylon said. “Back when it was the fanciest restaurant in the county. She would leave me at home—I could never come with her—and she would eat and drink and then only come back after I had already put myself to sleep. I remember, in the morning, she would make my breakfast with whatever she had brought back in the doggy bag. Sometimes I would have steak with my eggs or she’d reheat the baked potato and crumble scrambled eggs and bacon into the pouch of the potato skin. Sometimes it was just warmed rolls from the night before with bacon and cheese in the middle. It was both a cruel and kind thing to do. This is actually the first time I’ve eaten in this restaurant.”

  Father Naylon looked with bemusement at the surroundings and worked a piece of gristle with his teeth before he finally finished the whiskey. During the entire story, Edwin had listened intently but had never stopped eating. He and his mother almost never went out to eat and, even then, never this much food. He ate and ate and was shocked to discover that, suddenly, there was almost no more food left. As if on cue, the waitress brought them a piece of strawberry shortcake that the two of them shared, the rhythm of their movements easy as they dug bites out of the cake, each taking a turn. It was impossible for Edwin to resist the urge to imagine Father Naylon as his own father.

  When the meal was finished and the check arrived, Edwin reached into his pocket and handed Father Naylon the twenty-dollar bill. “Will this be enough for what I ate?” he asked. The priest looked at the money and Edwin saw the priest smile in a way that Edwin understood quite well, a smile that could, if you let it get away from you, turn into a crying jag. Father Naylon handed the money back to Edwin, gripped the boy’s shoulder, and squeezed. “This is all my treat,” Father Naylon said to Edwin. “This is all my gift to you,” and Edwin nodded his thanks. He could not decide if he was keeping Father Naylon from getting too sad, or if it was the other way around. Edwin decided, now that the check had been paid and the two of them were driving back to the decrepit house, that they were helping each other, and that this was the best way that any life could unfold.

  As soon as they returned to the house, Father Naylon told Edwin that he was going to explore a little, look for any important papers or things of interest. Edwin took a bath and prepared for bed, his stomach croaking like a tight sack of frogs. He found a worn packet of Alka-Seltzer in the medicine cabinet, the tablets slightly crushed, and he stoppered the sink and let it fill with water. He dumped the tablets into the water, watched them fizz and hiss, and then Edwin brought his face to the surface of the water and gulped as much as he could, gagging softly on the acidic taste of the tablets. Five minutes later, it seemed to have offered no relief from his stomach pain, but he was so heavy with food at this point that he could barely keep his eyes open. He could hear Father Naylon banging around in the crawl space of the house, the sandpaper dragging of boxes across the wood floor. Edwin crawled into the bed of the guest room, the sheets damp and slightly moldy, and let himself drift into sleep, missing his mother but feeling safe with the knowledge that a priest was hiding within the walls of this strange house, ready to protect Edwin at the slightest sign of invasion.

  Hours later, still pitch-black outside, Edwin woke to the intense and troubling sensation of his stomach expanding long after his last meal. Everything he had eaten for dinner had turned into some kind of stew that simmered within his belly. He was sweating under the covers of the bed, and he kicked them off and stumbled, in the absence of any night-lights, to the bathroom, where he retched and gagged and finally emptied his stomach of whatever he could coax out of his body. He felt instant relief, could not bear to look at the remains of his last meal, feeling guilty that he could not keep down what Father Naylon had paid so much for at the restaurant. As he walked back to his bedroom, he saw light coming from downstairs, and Edwin, now wide awake, felt the humming of discovery and followed the source of the light. In what had once been the library, nearly overflowing with boxes, Father Naylon was sipping from a bottle of George Dickel and holding a black fireman’s helmet in his hands, turning it over and over. The priest looked up to see Edwin in the doorway, and he smiled and waved the boy over to him. He was wearing his black pants, but he had removed his shirt and collar and was only wearing an undershirt, stained with sweat. There was a cup of water near the priest’s foot, a layer of ash clinging to the surface, an armada of drowned cigarette butts sunk at the bottom.

  “Did I wake you?” Father Naylon asked. Edwin said that he had not. “Do you need something?” the priest continued, and Edwin again shook his head. “Would you like to see something interesting?” the priest then asked, and Edwin was happy to finally say yes to something.

  He walked over to Father Naylon as the priest reached into a crumpled box and he produced what looked like an old gas mask, a hose hanging down from it. “This is an old respirator,” Father Naylon said. “My uncle would wear this during a fire so he could breathe.”

  Edwin touched the yellowed glass of the mask and then, without warning, the priest slipped the mask onto Edwin’s head. Immediately, Edwin could hear his own breathing rattling inside of his brain. He felt as if a thick layer had been placed between him and the rest of the world. He looked up at Father Naylon, who was smiling. “This is how they could stay alive,” the priest said. He reached down and held the hose in front of Edwin’s limited gaze. “This connected to a filter of some sort; I can’t find it in the box, though.” Father Naylon then placed the palm of his large hand flat against the hose, cutting off the air to the mask. Edwin felt panic spill out of himself, and his hands gently touched the front of the mask. The priest smiled and then released his palm. “Imagine that, to be in a swirling inferno, your respirator the only thing keeping you alive, and to have it shut off. I had nightmares about these things all the time. A real fire was scarier to me than any story of hell that the nuns would tell us about.” Edwin wanted the mask off him, did not want Father Naylon, in this state, in control of his air supply, but he wasn’t sure how to go about taking it off. He simply breathed as calmly as he could, unable to imagine himself in any situation except for the one he was currently experiencing. Finally, Father Naylon pulled the respirator off Edwin and then tucked it back into the box.

  “I would play for hours with this equipment,” Father Naylon continued. “I would put out so many fires in my imagination. And then, sometime after my uncle died, I played a game where I would go into a burning building and then get trapped. My respirator would fail or a piece of the ceiling would come down on me, or the flames would simply spring up around me, and I would go limp, fall to the floor, and let the fire engulf me. It seems strange now, but it was terribly exciting when I was a child.”

  If there was another person on the planet to whom Father Naylon did not need to explain himself, it was Edwin. Or was this normal? Edwin suddenly wondered, the desire to be dead, or the desire to pretend with such intensity. All Edwin knew with certainty was that he and Father Naylon were alike, and even if the priest had scared him just now, it had staved off the discomfort that had awakened him this night.

  Father Naylon reached into the box for a heavy, black coat and then tried it on. “All this equipment fits me now,” he said. Edwin watched as the priest stepped into a pair of thick pants with suspenders, then into a pair of boots, still smudged with ash and dirt and dust. He put the helmet on his head and, to Edwin, he looked like a real firefighter. The jittery, tired man Edwin had seen just minutes before took on a different shape in the costume and became rigid and capable.

  “Would you like to play a game?” he asked Edwin, and, shocked by the request, to have an adult suggest anything fun, Edwin agreed. “Your house is on fire, Edwin. I’ll save you,” the priest said. Edwin knew how to pretend. It was one of the few things he was good at doing, to imagine a world and then take up residence there. To have someone else enter into that same world seemed a gift, or, it being so late at night, a dream.

  Edwin n
odded and then scampered into the kitchen, where he pretended to cook something on the stove, something highly flammable and incorrectly prepared. As the grease spilled onto the burners, he felt the heat of the flames as they touched the drapes and the cabinets. He ran to the phone, pretended to call 911, and then shouted that his house was on fire and that he needed help right away. He coughed into the receiver and heard, from the library, Father Naylon shout that help was on the way and to remain calm, to get out of the house and to stay out.

  “I can’t get out,” Edwin shouted. “The fire is too intense.”

  “I’m coming,” Father Naylon shouted, and Edwin fell to his knees, coughing, his body feverish from either illness or imagination. He lay on the floor, his head tilted back, and he watched the upside-down image of Father Naylon, transformed into a fireman, running into the kitchen. The respirator and helmet obscured his face, but Edwin recognized the priest’s hands as Father Naylon scooped him into his arms. He carried Edwin into the hallway, where he gently laid him on the wood floor. The priest ripped off his mask and gently compressed Edwin’s chest, restarting his still-beating heart. Edwin smiled, but kept his eyes closed, his body limp. “You’re okay,” Father Naylon called out, and then he began counting, “one, two, three,” forcing the air already in Edwin’s lungs out of his body. Finally, the priest’s ear resting against Edwin’s chest, listening for a sign of life, Edwin began to sputter and flail his arms, coming back to life. It was a thrilling feeling, after so many games where he died, to be resurrected. It was a miracle—Edwin believed this without hesitation—to have another person bring him back from that quiet place where the world ended. He put his arms around Father Naylon and the priest simply smiled. “You’re okay,” he said again.

  Still clothed in the fireman’s outfit, Father Naylon led Edwin back up the stairs and into the bedroom. He tucked the boy into bed and said, “Good night, Edwin.” Edwin replied, “Good night, Father,” and then listened to the satisfying sounds of the priest’s heavy footsteps clunking down the stairs, back to the library, where Father Naylon would probably spend the rest of the night.

  When Edwin awoke the next morning, his stomach ached in a way that suggested poisoning, a grenade swallowed and detonated within his gut. He had sweated his way out of his pajamas, the sheets twisted in violent shapes around his figure. It had to be the meal from the night before, the toxic way that creamed spinach interacted with tomato sauce. He struggled to his feet and then, as if touched by an electrical current, remembered the night with Father Naylon. It had the distinct elements of a dream, how everything felt real but distorted by strangeness that could not be convincingly explained. He remembered the gas mask, the pretend emergency, Father Naylon performing chest compressions. It was now, in the stark sickness of the morning, entirely possible that it had not actually happened. It was an unsolved mystery that required further investigation, which would commence the minute Edwin followed the sounds of activity in the kitchen and saw Father Naylon again.

  The priest was frying bacon and buttering slices of toast. He was shaved, seemingly untroubled by the prospect of the new day, the smell of bacon grease and cigarette smoke heavy in the air, which made Edwin’s stomach turn over.

  “I let you sleep a little longer, so we have to get moving,” the priest told him. “I didn’t trust the milk or eggs in this house, so it’s just bacon sandwiches. Eat up.”

  Father Naylon placed a sandwich, filled with nearly burned crisp bacon, in front of Edwin, who had neither the strength nor the inclination to reveal his internal discomfort, and so he took the sandwich and bit into the salt and fat and butter of the sandwich and managed to get it down. The priest wolfed down his own sandwich and then washed the pan in the sink, drinking water from the spigot when he was finished. Edwin slipped the remaining half of his sandwich from the plate and walked back to the bedroom, where he opened a window and tossed the sandwich outside. He could not eat another bite without retching. Father Naylon called out to him as he walked away, “Meet me back here in ten minutes and we’ll make our way to the church.” Edwin replied that he would be ready, and the priest said, though it didn’t seem intended for Edwin, “We’ll get through this.”

  The church was tiny, a stone building with two sets of ten small pews. There were perhaps eight or nine people in attendance, all of them ancient save for the fortyish funeral director who had already rolled the casket to the altar on a cart. “No matter how many people come to a funeral,” Father Naylon commented, flipping his spent cigarette into the gravel parking lot, “it always feels like too few.”

  After they had changed into their vestments, Father Naylon suddenly embraced Edwin, the overpowering smell of tobacco filling the boy’s internals, and then said, “We’ll do the best we can and only that, okay?” Edwin nodded. He was a servant and he would do exactly what was asked of him, as best as he could, whatever strangeness might await him. He steeled his body against weakness and processed down the aisle, toward the altar, toward the casket, Father Naylon just behind him.

  The nausea was so intense that Edwin had trouble following the mass, sometimes needing the instruction of Father Naylon to remember the next step. He was sweating profusely, his skin baking under the heavy garment, his hands clenching and unclenching each time he felt the urge to vomit. He thought of the twenty dollars and then he thought of his mother’s disappointment if he ruined this mass. Finally, most effectively, he thought of Father Naylon’s words before Mass, how they would help each other, and he knew he could not make things any more difficult than they already were for the priest. He would wait for the miracle of strength and, until that moment, he would find a way to the end of things.

  When it was time for the host and wine to be consecrated, Edwin reminded himself, over and over, to breathe, to circulate the air throughout his body. He maintained a steady rhythm, in and out, and when Father Naylon raised the host, Edwin was ready for it, jangled the bells in celebration of transubstantiation, but also, more importantly, his own victory in staying conscious. For the wine, he rang the bells and felt the satisfaction of receiving the very benediction he prayed for. This was the blessing of religion, he decided, the moments when you were rewarded for your faith. Father Naylon smiled weakly at Edwin, the two of them performing rites of great importance for the few people who would bear witness.

  Finally, the mass almost ended, Edwin moved to the corner of the altar, where a table held a boat of incense pebbles, red and gray like the gravel in a fish tank, and a box of matches. The thurible was hanging from a stand, and Edwin worked carefully to light the coals inside of the censer. It took five matches before the coals finally began to smoke, the tiny briquettes turning grayish white. The smoke upset Edwin’s stomach, and his desire to breathe deeply only pulled more of the smoke into his body. He waddled over to Father Naylon, careful not to let the heat of the thurible touch his garment. The priest took the bowl of incense from Edwin and began to sprinkle the pebbles onto the hot coals. The smell of pine and lemon, of dry wood, wafted across the altar, and Edwin felt the intense nausea rack his stomach. His legs trembled, his grip on the thurible weakened, and he quickly handed the chain to Father Naylon and took two steps backward, trying to get away from the scent. Father Naylon reached for Edwin with his free hand, but it was too late and Edwin felt the lights dim, the buzzing in his head, his stomach gurgling, and he fell forward, right at Father Naylon’s feet. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he could not form the words. He felt himself rise up, lifted bodily, and he thought something beautiful was happening, something perfect, and he let himself drift out of consciousness. If it was not a miracle, then Edwin believed there was no such thing as miracles.

  When he awoke, he was in the priest’s car, moving slowly down the highway. There was a handkerchief in his lap, the fabric splotched red, and he noticed that his nose had been, or perhaps still was, bleeding. He groaned, instantly felt the nausea return to his body, and he leaned toward the AC vent, which poured wind into
his face.

  “Stay awake, now, Edwin,” Father Naylon said, as if this was the fourth or fifth time he’d had to say it.

  “What happened?” Edwin responded, hoping that someone had the full story of his circumstances.

  “You passed out again, unfortunately; just a flash. You hit your face on the floor and gave yourself a nosebleed. I carried you to the sacristy and finished the mass. Then we walked to the car. I’ve been keeping you awake, just in case, but I think you’re okay. You did manage to give yourself a good bump on your forehead.”

  “I’m sor—” Edwin began, but the priest cut him off.

  “Please don’t say it, Edwin,” Father Naylon said. “It’s not necessary and it’s not something I need to hear. It was my fault for bringing you, knowing that you’ve had problems before. I just thought it might help, to remove you from the situation at Saint Rose. I was wrong, of course.”

  “It wasn’t the same thing,” Edwin said, but found he couldn’t explain himself the way he felt would result in Father Naylon understanding.

  “I’m afraid your mother will be quite angry with me,” the priest continued, as if he hadn’t heard Edwin.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Someone is always at fault, Edwin. Someone or something is usually responsible for the way things go. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  They drove in silence to the cemetery, and, when they finally arrived, the priest instructed him to stay in the car, which was still running, the air conditioner thrumming with effort.