That’s the one I had to use, because the other one seemed broken. It was in the usual position of a kids’ urinal, lower to the ground—but you wouldn’t need one of those in a bar, it occurred to me. Instead of an “Out of Order” sign, they’d placed a slanted sheet of clear plexiglass across the top half of the urinal—kind of like a sneeze guard at the salad bar.
Graffiti covered the walls, as expected. The usual “Kilroy Was Here” drawing made its appearance—a face like a sun peering over the horizon, nose resting on the ground. In this version, the face was lower, the horizon aligned with the top of the scalp. A “For Good Head” advertisement, with phone number, seemed in particularly poor taste.
While I was taking care of things, I heard the door bang open. Music from the back room followed the guy in briefly, along with some heated conversation I couldn’t make out. He went to the sink first, splashing and muttering under his breath. Then he headed into the stall.
He flushed the toilet immediately, growled something about inconsiderate pigs. His voice boomed from the small gap at the bottom of the stall.
Then, with a sound like a gunshot, the metal wall next to me bulged out in the shape of a fist. The whole stall shook from the impact.
I finished up and got out of there fast as I could. Truth was, I’d been holding my breath almost the whole time, and even the smoky bar would count as fresh air at this point.
I left the bathroom and walked straight into hell.
#
The corridor was an inferno, flames stretching from the back room of the Tavern. A wooden beam had snapped and fallen from the ceiling, one end bright like a giant torch. Dark human shapes waved their arms in a dance of agony.
I thought maybe I was still holding my breath, since I didn’t smell anything burning. I listened, and there wasn’t the crackle and roar of fire; none of the burning people bothered to scream. Nothing but a guitar solo from the jukebox, and maybe a faint moan of pleasure.
Jack grabbed me by the arm, steered my attention to the front room.
I should have known.
The same crowd of locals, their heads beneath their shoulders, arms lifting beer glasses a short distance to their mouths. Nobody in the front room was panicked about the fire. They didn’t see it.
“C’mon,” Jack said. “We gotta run.”
“Are you kidding me?” I twisted out of his grip, started to turn around.
“Don’t look back,” he said. “Trust me.”
And we fast-walked out of the Garora Tavern.
#
“Okay, what was the point of that fire?”
“Keep moving,” Jack said. We were across the parking lot, a faint glow from the bar’s neon sign lighting our way. “I’m sorry, it was the best I could do on short notice.”
“Why?”
“I saw something in the back, okay. I wanted to protect you from it.”
(Jack’s gift was always kind of spur-of-the-moment. This ability . . . glamour I guess is the technical term . . . always came to him easily, but I was the only one who saw the images he conjured. Jack said it was a tribute to our relationship but since the communication was one-sided, and Jack’s images always tended toward the gruesome, I often wondered if it wasn’t more of a curse. Or, at least, one of those things about your partner that you can’t change, so you resign yourself to accept it.)
We crossed the street, and Jack led me between two houses. Some kind of shortcut, I guessed.
We were half a block away when the Tavern door burst open. Jack ducked behind the nearest house, pulling me after him. He pressed his back tight against the wood siding and indicated I should do the same.
“Faggot,” a man shouted to the night. “Faggot, where did you go?”
Jack pressed a forefinger over my lips to signal silence, then whispered a quick explanation. “I insulted him. By accident. Stupid of me, ’cause he’s kinda strong.”
His footsteps sounded strong enough, I admit. Heavy, drunken treads on the road.
Getting closer.
I wanted to look, but didn’t dare.
The footsteps paused near the alley we’d ducked into.
“Inconsiderate pig.” The voice was so near I almost cried out. I recognized it as the guy from the restroom stall.
There was a mucus sound, the gathering of spit—I thought again about a twisted esophagus—and the guy hocked onto the road. “Faggot,” he said again. “Pig.”
A wheeze crept into my breathing. Psychosomatic, most likely, brought on by fear. It was loud.
“I see you, pig.” This couldn’t have been true since we were blocked by the house, but Jack wasn’t waiting for him to round the corner. He pulled me by the shirt to guide me through the back yard, and my panting breaths were like a homing device for the guy to follow.
His heavy boots scraped the pavement, then crackled against dry grass. I turned and saw him—or, more accurately, his shadow, a short distance away. His head was already down, of course, and his shoulders were incredibly wide. He was charging at us like a bull.
A drunken bull, which gave us a slight advantage. That, and the dark. If only I could stop breathing, he’d lose our trail.
“Back to the road,” Jack said. He knocked over a garbage can as we rounded to the front of the house. When we hit the asphalt, he steered me back toward the Tavern.
“Wrong way,” I said. The words squeaked out, shrill in the night air.
“We can’t lead him to where we’re staying. Keep moving.”
Jack was taking us off the map again.
#
We stayed on the road for a while and we gained a bit of distance. I think it took the guy a moment to realize we’d doubled back—plus, in his drunken state he had more trouble running in a straight line than we did.
The Tavern’s neon lights shone faint in the distance behind us. I could barely make out the bull’s shadow, small and still. He’d given up the chase, but he kept watch.
“This way,” Jack said at a cross street, again taking us in the opposite direction of the Bittinger home. The bull wouldn’t be able to find our lodgings—but I wondered how far we’d stray before we headed back.
At least we could slow down a bit. I caught my breath, and the wheezing stopped.
Once we were a mile or so from the Tavern, I asked what had happened. “Seriously, Jack, I was only in the bathroom a minute or two.”
“You know how when a straight guy walks into one of our bars . . .?”
It sounded like the start of a joke, and I said so.
“Bear with me,” he said, which was my signal to sit down on the curb. Jack joined me. “This straight guy walks into a bar. He thinks it’s one of his places. He doesn’t notice right away, because most guys like to drink, and they have these sports bars where a bunch of manly men can sit close together and high-five one another or whatever when their team scores on the television. Seems normal, and maybe he’s ordered a drink already and he’s looking for the pool table in back or a bare patch of wall to lean against, and he passes this guy making out with his girlfriend. He checks her out, since that’s another thing guys do, and she’s got long straw-blonde hair and her pants are tight, and he walks past to see how the face holds up . . . ”
“And she’s got a beard.”
“Exactly. So what does he do?”
I wanted to say the straight guy would be gracious. Finish his beer and step out quietly. But usually the guy made a huge fuss—gagging maybe, saying “That’s disgusting,” or “I can’t believe I walked in here,” overcompensating for fear anybody’d think he was gay, God forbid. Even in our limited experiences with gay bars, that bit of straight-guy theater was pretty familiar. . . as was the frustration that somebody could feel free to step into our establishment and insult us.
“Right,” Jack said. “And that’s kind of what I did.”
I didn’t follow . . .
“So, we’re in this local bar, and it’s a freak bar, basically—you gotta admit i
t.” He noticed my distaste at the word, but kept going. “The whole time we’re in there—and you were doing it too, Shawn, don’t lie—I’m trying so hard not to react at how odd the people look. I mean, all of them stooped over, their heads low, that bartender with the collar above his friggin’ ears. Hard not to laugh or shudder or simply say something about it, you know, but it wouldn’t be polite. So I’m kind of proud of myself for keeping my cool. ’Cause it’s their place. They don’t deserve to be insulted in their own place.”
He attempted an ironic laugh, hoping to comfort me before he continued. That weak laugh scared me as much as anything we’d experienced so far. His voice dropped to a whisper—a reminder that our friend from the Tavern might lurk nearby in the surrounding curtain of darkness—and he continued:
“So when you headed to the restroom, I followed behind a bit, stealing discrete glances around the main room to find someone who might be approachable—maybe a good-natured couple laughing, or somebody lonely enough to welcome strange company. As I wandered past the bar, I saw the restroom sign and the hallway you’d ducked into, and I noticed how the hall led to a totally separate bar at the rear of the building.
“A few couples huddled against the walls of this hallway, keeping mostly to the darker patches. We have the same thing in some of our bars: kind of a ‘make out’ area where people kiss or rub against each other—a preview of what might happen later, or a bit of fun in its own right. If you’re not there for similar action, the polite thing is to keep walking.
“Which I was doing, since I wanted to check out that back room. It was darker than the front of the tavern, the music was louder; more smoke clouded the air, making the room seem out of focus. I got closer, and the cloud started to clear.
“Then something in the hallway caught my attention. It was a girl about our age, with that same slouched head we’ve seen all evening. She was in an aggressive and flirty mood, and she’d backed this slightly older, kind of muscular guy against the wall. Her hands were on him, searching . . .
“That kind of behavior doesn’t bother me, of course. I’m no prude. People can do what they want as long as they keep to themselves.
“Then I realized what I was really looking at . . . ”
We still sat on the curb, our knees almost touching. It was so dark, I could feel his shudder easier than I could see it.
“I held two beers, pretty much both full since I’d barely tasted mine. I dropped them both on the floor.
“Remember, I’d put a cork in my reaction all this time. I was so good. But man, what I saw really shook me up, and the cork popped. I gagged, said something like ‘Oh My God’ or ‘What the Hell.’
“I might have said freak once or twice.
“The beers had splashed on that couple, already a pretty rude thing to do, and here I was firing off the insults. In their bar, you know? But I was so shocked.
“By the time I recovered myself, it was too late to take it all back. An apology wasn’t going to cut it. The guy called me a few choice names himself, including faggot like you heard, then stormed off to the restroom.
“If he saw me again, there’d be serious trouble. I knew you were in the bathroom, too, but I didn’t dare go in after you.
“I waited, thinking Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. One of the make-out couples had gone back to what they were doing, but another couple glared at me disapprovingly. A guy came from the back bar, and that couple stopped him, talking excitedly, doing that weird head-and-shoulders lean to nod in my direction.
“Timing was going to be tight. I couldn’t stop to answer your questions.
“That’s why I threw up that fire image—to help us get out quick, and to keep you from seeing what I’d seen.
“You finally came out, and I grabbed your arm, guiding you away from the glass shards on the floor, pulling you from the hallway.
“Pulling you out of the fire.”
(What did Jack see in that hallway? I asked him the same question, Celia. Didn’t think it could possibly be worse than a building on fire, seeing trapped bodies writhing and crisping in the flames. Jack said he’d explain later, after we’d circled back to our lodgings. It would be better to learn this part of the story in a bright, cozy room.
I don’t know if he was right about that. You decide.)
#
Even small town roads will twist in odd ways, and not all the signs were clear. I didn’t know which way was up, though Jack was confident we’d eventually stumble onto a familiar path. The whole time, I was afraid that guy would catch our trail again: he’d jump from behind a parked car, or his muscular arms would burst through the slats of a wooden fence.
I can’t tell you how relieved I was to find that filling station and know we were close to the Bittinger home.
Our red Beetle, parked in the street, made it easy to spot the right house. A dark blue Monaco with a hardtop leather roof filled the Bittingers’ driveway.
We passed the car on our way to the porch. Jack cupped his hands on either side of his face and peered in the driver-side window, but it was too dark to make anything out. He circled the car, inspecting it. He called my attention to the front grill.
Next to one headlight, a section of the grill had fallen off—the same side of the car that had brushed past us on the wooded road. We hadn’t actually collided, but maybe the Monaco’s bumpy detour had jostled something loose. Or maybe the grill was already damaged, and I hadn’t noticed as it headed straight for us.
As Flora suggested, we’d left the door unlocked when we headed out for the evening. It was locked now, though. Nearly 1:40 a.m., but I was so exhausted and desperate for our quiet room that I overcame my scruples about waking the house. I lifted the brass knocker and gave it a few hard raps.
Flora answered the door. After the evening’s drama, I was grateful to see a friendly face. A happy realization washed over me. Earlier, I commented how Flora’s physical deformity grew more obvious the more I looked at her, as if I’d never get used to it. But I was used to it now. I’m not going to say she looked normal to me, but her appearance was no longer disconcerting.
We stepped into the foyer, and Flora asked about our stroll. Jack gave a vague response.
A television blared from the sitting room, dark aside from the gray and white flicker. Some late-night movie: I’d like to say it took place in Paris and starred Charles Laughton or Lon Chaney, but it was one of those black-and-white cheapies where third-rate Martin & Lewis knockoffs ran through an old castle. Lots of suspenseful music, not much suspense.
With the click of a remote, the television went silent. An arm waved from one of the wingback chairs. The rest of the person was obscured by the angle of the chair; I assumed it was Mrs. Bittinger, but the bare arm had a masculine shape.
In a flash of panic, I thought it might be the man who chased us from the Tavern. He figured out where we stayed—how many bed and breakfasts were there in Garora, anyway, and with a sore thumb VW Beetle out front? He got here first and waited in the dark, sharpening a knife or polishing a loaded rifle.
The hand reached under the shade of a floor lamp and toggled the switch. It was a man, definitely a man, though he faced away from us. He struggled to rise from the chair.
“Oh Daddy,” Flora said. “We’ve got paying guests. Put your shirt on, for goodness sakes.”
Well, I knew Flora had to come from somewhere, but I’d assumed Mrs. Bittinger was a widow. The way she projected ownership of the house was part of it. The other part, well . . . she was a brusque, unattractive old woman, so I didn’t expect anybody would stay married to her.
“We’ve met already,” Mr. Bittinger said. He rose to full height, stepping away from the chair, but his back was still to us. It was an old man’s back, the bones of his bent spine making a mountain ridge down the middle. Freckles dotted his shoulders, and random patches of age spots darkened the pale skin. A few irregular moles, too, one of them big as a bullet hole.
A fleshy smoothness
ran uninterrupted from one shoulder to the next. From our vantage point, it looked like he didn’t have a head at all.
Then he turned around.
Jack waited to tell me what he’d encountered back at the Tavern. It would have been less disturbing in a well-lit room, he thought. Well, the parlor and foyer were bright as can be, but that clear view didn’t make it any easier for me to grasp what lumbered toward us in the parlor.
There was no head between his shoulders. Lower down, beneath his nipples sprouted semicircles of dark hair that I recognized as . . . eyebrows. Blue eyes blinked beneath, one on each ribcage and large as lemons. The nose was puffy and red, like an alcoholic’s, and it pressed out above the slight bulge of his stomach. The hair underneath was shaped into a handlebar moustache. And just above his waist, where the belly button should be, was a wide, toothsome mouth.
Smiling.
This is where I wish Jack had prepared me better. It’s one thing to meet such a creature in a dark bar or chasing after you in the night, its teeth bared in malice. It’s another thing to encounter one in the bright light of a sitting room, extending its arm in a friendly greeting.
Between mine and Jack’s first encounters, I think I got the worst shock. I felt sick. It’s like my whole world and everything I ever understood was wrong. I didn’t scream and curse like Jack apparently had back at the Tavern, but I had to hold onto the wall to keep from fainting.
Jack stepped forward. “Nice to formally meet you, Mr. Bittinger.” They shook hands.
My turn was next.
#
Well, you know, you have to do what’s polite. I kept my composure, best I could, and shook Mr. Bittinger’s hand. “Call me Simon,” he said.
Nice guy, once you talked a bit. I felt a little better after he put a shirt on. A little.
Odd Adventures with your Other Father Page 6
