Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  David leaned his head against the cool surface of the freezer while hot tears tumbled down his cheeks. It was staggering how much of his world revolved around and focused on Laura.

  Where was she?

  How was she?

  Was there a ”life after death,” as so many preached, or did you just float around in some perpetual limbo, dodging other lost souls?

  “Where are you, Laura?” The voice startled him out of his reverie. His voice, he realized. He glanced at the kitchen clock.

  7:59.

  “My God!” He hastily returned the carton, spilling some in the process, swung the door shut, and headed for the bathroom. In the bathroom, he opened the cabinet and scanned its contents. He flipped a can of shaving cream off the shelf, along with a razor and some aftershave. When a man wants to feel like a man.

  “And right now you’re not feeling all that damn well,” he mumbled and stepped over to the sink. He twisted the hot water tap and plugged the drain. The water cycled from cool to warm, then hot, sending a mushroom of steam rising past his face. He turned the spigot off when the water was just below the toleration point. Leaning down, he splashed the steaming water over his face, but it barely cut through his numbness. He squeezed a generous amount of shaving cream into his cupped hand and spread it over his prickly jaw. He plunged his hands into the water, rinsing off the excess cream, and looked up at his reflection.

  “You look like hell, sir,” he informed the man in the mirror. Stress lines shot out from the corners of the red-rimmed eyes that stared back at him. His silver-black hair stuck up from his head in erratic angles. It would have appeared comical in any other situation, or on a less anguished face.

  Well, old man, you’re just going to have to look your best for this going-away party. He was suddenly too weak to hold it back any longer. His shoulders shook as pain-wracked sobs ripped from deep inside him. A torrent of emotions exploded from him: sorrow, anger, and fear.

  “Why’d you have to leave me so soon?” he asked.

  He supported himself against the sink as his emotional wave slowly subsided. He stared into the milky water, watching dollops of shaving cream float like miniature icebergs in a porcelain ocean, reflecting the incandescent yellow of the light bulbs.

  The ivory-cream glaciers floated about gracefully, and then quickly changed from yellow, to an odd, green-tinted gold. David reached down and gently probed one. It skittered away nervously, but the color remained. It was a reflection. David looked up, and staggered back a step because of what he saw in the mirror.

  Trees. Many trees … and a field. Yet, unlike any trees or field he had ever seen before. The trees were all so different, but then so alike in a variety of shapes and sizes, and many shades of green. So much green, but strangely, all with a golden hue.

  It wasn’t just the trees—everything in the mirror had that golden aura. The grass, the tree trunks, even the sky was a bold, royal blue, merged with gold.

  David’s shirt rippled. He took a step forward. There was a breeze coming through the mirror as if it were a large window. It was so light and sweet.

  This must be what air was like before man got to it, he thought.

  Gradually the breeze strengthened, pressing his shirt tightly to his chest, pushing his tousled hair back. The wind swirled around him, getting faster, squeezing him in a snug but cool blanket of air.

  David’s feet left the floor as he felt himself rise and recline, until he was suspended horizontally five feet off the floor.

  “My God,” he gasped, “what is going on here?” He tried to grab the mirror edge in his panic, realizing that he was floating through the mirror. It was useless, he couldn’t move. The wind had bound him in an invisible cocoon.

  Once through, he shifted upright, and then gently placed down on the border of the trees and the field. The sheets of wind released its silky wrappings and freed his limbs.

  David spun around, wary, protecting all sides from the unexpected. He turned around again … slower. There was nothing at all threatening about the land on which he stood. He stared, spellbound by the serenity of it all. The perfect beauty every view offered.

  David stepped forward, now aware of a beautiful, high-tinkling sound drifting with the breeze, like a thousand tiny wind chimes. It was the leaves lightly tapping each other, he discovered

  Tiptoeing, he plucked a leaf off a tree. The branch shook in response and emitted a wave of jingling. The resonance sent shivers coursing through his spine; it was a good feeling. David turned the leaf over and studied its fine webs and veins. Whatever its material, it was as alien as anything he’d ever seen or touched in his life. He folded it tightly in half, and then held it by the stem. It unfolded itself, unblemished. He then gripped two of the leaf’s seven points and pulled. His fingers slipped off, leaving it still unmarred.

  “It is remarkable, isn’t it?” a gentle voice asked, permeating the air with its sweetness.

  David spun around, startled.

  “You didn’t notice, but when you removed that leaf, another one replaced it,” the voice continued.

  David looked down at the leaf in his hand, and then returned his dumbfounded gaze to her … speechless.

  Laura stepped up to David and lifted the leaf from his hand. He watched her movements. He could not remember her looking so young and vibrant. She did not look the same as she did five days ago, yet she did. She looked the same as she did when he met her. She was seventeen again; she was thirty, forty … fifty. She appeared ageless and angelic.

  Laura twirled around with her arms outstretched, obviously understanding his confusion. Her every move was a breath of youthfulness and joy.

  “Everything here is like this,” she said. She held up the leaf, presenting it to him. “The trees, the grass, even the flowers.”

  “Where’s here?” David asked, finally able to speak.

  “Here is where I’ll be from now on.”

  “What is this place?” David asked, looking around. “Jupiter? Heaven? I know this isn’t Boston.”

  “Paradise, Holy City, Kingdom of God. Yes Love, this is Heaven, but only the smallest granule of the whole big beautiful place.”

  David looked out over the golden hills in the distance. “How big is it?” he asked.

  “There are no boundaries; it is limitless.” She lifted her arms as if to display its extent. David found the motion very sensual, and it brought back a sinking sense of loss.

  “Why’d you have to leave me so soon?” David asked suddenly.

  “It’s the way it has to be,” she responded. “The proverbial part-of-the-plan.”

  “But, why …”

  “This is not for you to know at the moment, but in time you shall.”

  “Will I ever get to see you again?” he asked. “I can’t go on without you.”

  “Oh, you will, David,” she assured him. “And in time, yes, we will be here together.” Laura twirled around again, her sari-like tunic lifting, and then settling feather-like to her legs.

  “Are you all right? Are you happy?”

  “Yes, oh yes, David, I am very happy!” she replied. “But you must go now. I wish I could tell you more. Remember that you have to be somewhere at nine.”

  “How do I know we’ll be together again?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll know,” she reassured him.

  “I need you!” he pleaded. He felt like a child left alone in the dark.

  Laura placed a finger over his lips. “Go now, the rest of your life shall be good to you.”

  “But, how do …”

  “I know.” Laura pulled David forward and kissed him gently on the lips. “Always remember, I love you, and I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  “David, are you all right in there?”

  David stared down at the foamy water. He was still leaning on the sink.

  Oh God, he thought. Here I am daydreaming, when I should be ready.

  “Yeah,” David said to the person behind the door.
“I’ll be right out.”

  He picked up his razor and pulled the protective cap off. He looked in the mirror; his clean-shaven face stared back. He looked back at the sink, no whiskers.

  He jerked his head back to the mirror when he realized what he had seen.

  His hair was clean, combed, and dry, and he was wearing his clothes: suit, shoes, aftershave, and all.

  “Well I’ll be a horse’s ass!” he exclaimed, bewildered.

  “What?” David’s brother Michael called from behind the door.

  “Nothing, just squawking to myself,” said David. “By the way, what time is it?”

  “Eight-oh-four,” came the reply.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh,” Michael said. “It says eight-oh-four right here on my old Timex. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” David said and swished his razor around, making the milky water whirlpool down the drain.

  “Eight-oh-four,” David mumbled. That meant he shaved, showered, dressed—and daydreamed—in less than five minutes. “Impossible,” he said.

  David walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Shafts of sunlight spanned between the window and the bureau, populated by countless speckles of dust trekking aimlessly across the room.

  David looked at the alarm clock on the night stand. The large white numerals boasted 8:05.

  “This is crazy,” said David, shaking his head.

  “What?” Michael called from the opposite end of the hall.

  “Sorry, Mike,” apologized David. “It must be the brain tumor finally taking hold.”

  Michael answered David’s morbid attempt at humor with a chuckle. “I got some coffee on the burner,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not as long as you pour me one.” David walked into the kitchen, rubbing his now smooth chin, pulled out a chair and sat.

  David knelt at the casket for the final time and laid his hand over the hands inside.

  “I don’t know, Laura, but whatever that was that happened this morning, I pray that it’s true.” Again the tears started their course.

  “God, you look so relaxed, so … at peace, I pray that that’s true also.”

  David rose, his knees snapping loudly in protest. He leaned over and kissed her hands, with quivering lips.

  “Don’t know how I’ll make it without you, Laura,” he said. He rubbed his finger along her cheek. “I love you.”

  Michael laid his hand on David’s shoulder. “C’mon little brother, it’s time to go … out,” he said, motioning to the door.

  David looked at his brother with a slight, but sad smile.

  ”Little brother,” he thought. Michael had been calling him that for over fifty years. Michael had David by four years, three inches, and thirty pounds, which meant he definitely was his “big” brother in every sense of the word. David realized he was still grateful for a big brother. All the childhood fights he helped him win, the places they had gone; they were all still with him. And here was Michael again, helping him fight yet another battle. A battle fought not with muscle, as in their youth, but with tenderness. Like high-polished steel, Michael was solid and unyielding, yet smooth as silk.

  The pallbearers carried the casket down the steps to the hearse and lifted it inside. It slid on the roller tracks, and then settled with a heavy, metallic clank, reminding David of a vault door, slamming shut with deafening finality.

  You went through this about ten years ago, big brother. How’d you do it? he wondered.

  Some men piled numerous bouquets of varying sizes and colors inside the hearse, a station wagon, and a large limousine. The undertaker ushered Michael and David to another limousine. Within moments they were gliding up and down streets, then through large wrought-iron gates, supported by massive granite posts. Tarred, narrow paths ran straight between headstones of assorted sizes and shapes. Each was as different and unique as the people whose names they bore once were.

  David could see the gravesite ahead on the left. The knoll of shoveled dirt hidden beneath a tarp of imitation turf in no way resembled grass. Beside this was a hole that looked bottomless, its foreboding darkness ready to swallow his Laura whole, never to return.

  The procession came to a stop. People clambered out of their cars and walked to the gravesite, as the pallbearers carried the casket.

  Michael and David stood beside the headstone as they listened to the eulogy. When the pastor finished, a line of people took their turns hugging David, offering condolences, and assuring him Laura would always be ”alive” in their hearts.

  “Don’t forget,” Michael informed the people, “there will be food and drink at my house.”

  David walked over to the casket and rubbed his palm over it, like a psychic in search of vibes. He knew this was the last farewell and his eyes stung with bitterness.

  “Well, Laura, I guess this is it. I just hope that you are truthfully happy.” He rubbed his eyes. “God, I’m going to miss you.”

  David squatted before the monument. It was nearly three feet high by four feet wide. A cross surrounded by laurel leaf was engraved on the front of the polished granite. Under this, in beveled grooves, was the name:

  LAMPTON

  David moved behind the stone. It read:

  1942 – DAVID C. LAMPTON

  1945 – 1996 LAURA M. LAMPTON

  “I guess I’m going to have to tend to that also,” he said to himself. He ran his hand over the top of the stone, and then used it to lift himself to his feet. As he did, his hand knocked something from the headstone, sending it spiraling to the ground. David picked up the object and turned it over between his fingers.

  “Thank you!” David sobbed with relief as he raised the foil-like leaf to his lips. “Oh Lord, thank you!”

  David turned toward Michael, tears running freely.

  “David?” Michael asked as he saw the strange smile on David’s face. “Are you okay?” His voice was heavy with concern.

  David said nothing. He simply handed the leaf to Michael.

  “What have we got here?” he said appraisingly. “Some kind of tinfoil leaf?”

  “Tear it,” David said.

  Michael yanked and pulled at the leaf, trying to rend it along the veins, but he was unsuccessful. He looked at David.

  “Fold it.”

  Michael folded it, squeezing it tightly between his thumb and forefinger, then watched in awe as it unfolded. Like a butterfly, it spread open with a life of its own. He returned his uncomprehending gaze to David.

  “This is incredible, what is it?”

  A smile stretched across David’s face. For the first time in days, Michael saw true joy in David’s eyes.

  “Oh, just a little piece of Heaven,” he said.

  Saddled Vengeance

  Lucas McAdams was ornery—maybe the meanest son of a bitch that ever carried a gun. The mention of his named instilled fear in the hearts of men, caused women to swoon, and brought babies to tears. The bravest of men would cower before him, preferring to fight the devil himself … whom others swore he was. It wasn’t only his reputation that terrified people, for Lucas was uglier than a wart on a pig’s ass.

  Lucas was a short man, for which he was grateful. Six bullet holes, evidence of his advantage, marked the hat he proudly wore. His face was as dry and furrowed as a riverbed at drought, with skin as tough as leather. He had a stubbled chin and a relentless mouth. Lucas never smiled and he bathed even less.

  Yes, to stare at Lucas eye to eye—which was all one could do seeing as his left eyelid squinted over an empty socket—was a view into the depths of hell. Few who did lived to speak of it.

  It was said that Lucas could shoot the fangs off a rattler from two hundred feet—no one challenged this. It was also said that he, in a fit of rage, bit off one of his horse’s nuts. This was not entirely true. Lucas considered himself just and efficient. All you had to do was peek under the Appaloosa’s tail to see he had bitten both nuts off.

  Where
ver Lucas traveled, a trail of death followed. He was The Eliminator—death for a price, killer for hire. He asked no questions and needed no reasons, since all feared to face him. An anonymous note slipped into Nomad’s saddlebag with a name, hometown, and one thousand dollars, bought his services.

  The name “Bobby Lawson” was written on the latest note in a delicate feminine script. Under the name, the owner of the script had written “Las Cruces, New Mexico.” Below that was a small message to be delivered by Lucas, so the victim would know why McAdams had his number. The bundle of bills to which it was tied was now secured deep within a saddlebag, where it had been since El Paso.

  Lucas hadn’t been in Las Cruces since 1866, eight years earlier, but it hadn’t changed much—still as hot, arid, and dusty as ever. There was little reason to travel to Las Cruces, never without a cause. In fact, it was more beneficial to stay out of the area. Travel usually led one through Cochise Territory, where an ambush of Apache warriors could be waiting behind any rock or in any canyon. Lucas was corrupt, Lucas was ugly, but Lucas was not stupid.

  Squinting against the midday sun, Lucas looked at Bubba’s Saloon, surprised it was still in business. Bullet holes from his last visit still decorated the sign. He scratched his greasy head and dismounted his horse, the eighteen horses hitched near him moving as far from him as their tethers would allow. Two wagons passed, veering wide. If it was a fine-tuned sense of danger prompting the reactions, or the effects of the forty-mile ride on his already reeking body, he wasn’t sure. He hoped it was the earlier.

  Lucas never hitched Nomad, as it slowed escape. Nomad wouldn’t run. He feared Lucas—with due cause. Lucas pushed his hand into the front of his pants and scratched angrily at his balls. This latest batch of crabs was a gift from a cheap hooker he had violated in El Paso.