by Ray Garton
Pulling his bathrobe together in front, Josh led Roger into the house where Humphrey Bogart was shouting at Edward G. Robinson on television. Josh walked slowly and carefully, as if his body might, at any moment, crumble into a heap of splintered, broken parts. The temperature in the small house was cloyingly warm and smelled of pungent, stinging medicines. Josh fell into a chair and turned off the television and VCR with the remote.
Roger seated himself on the sofa and looked at Josh, wondering if he should have come. This was not the same man he had known six years ago. He was a withered stalk of flesh and bone. Roger did not have the foggiest idea what to say. So, how have you been? was out of the question.
A tune from the seventies ran through Roger's head, but with slightly altered lyrics: What do you say to a dying man?
But Josh managed to make him comfortable. Eventually.
"Did you call?" he asked.
"No, I'm sorry, I should have—"
"Oh, no, I was just wondering. I haven't checked the answering machine lately. I sleep a lot. Practicing, I guess." His chuckle sounded like twigs breaking.
Roger winced.
"You should hear my answering machine tape. 'I'm sorry, I can't come to the phone right now. I'm in the bedroom rehearsing my Greta Garbo death cough.'" His laugh was a wheezing rattle in his chest.
The joke made Roger fidget. He couldn't bring himself to laugh.
"You would have laughed at that a few years ago, Roger."
"But you weren't sick then."
"Yes, so it wouldn't even have been funny. But I'm sick now. And if I can laugh at it, so can you." After a moment, he added, "Please."
Their conversation was peppered with Josh's razor-sharp, jet-black jokes about his illness. It wasn't long before Roger was laughing with him. They talked about movies, Roger's work, his teaching job. The topic of Josh's impending death finally moved in like a bank of storm clouds.
"This isn't going to take me," Josh said quietly. "The doctor doesn't give me long, but I think I've got a little longer than he says. I can feel it." He placed a bony hand on his chest. "Inside. But when I do go, it won't be because of this sickness."
"What do you mean?"
"I have a gun. I've never used it before, but I know how. When I feel I don't have much longer, when I know I'm going to go die soon but while I'm still able to do it myself, I'm going to disappear and use that gun."
"Where?"
"I'm the only one who needs to know that."
"But...why?"
"I don't want to be found dead here at home, and I sure as hell don't want to die in some hospital." He cocked his head, looking at Roger thoughtfully. "You're the first person I've told. About my plan. Keep it to yourself, okay? As a favor to me?"
"Sure, Josh, but...well, the thought of you—"
"Then don't think about it. I probably shouldn't have told you. But believe me, Roger, the thought of this thing, this sickness, taking me when it wants to..." He shook his head. "It has to be my decision."
"I understand," Roger said quietly, remembering the sensation of cold gunmetal against the roof of his mouth. "Believe me, Josh, I understand."
8.
Although the police would confirm nothing, word spread that Benny Kent had been shredded like a life-size paper doll and that parts of him had been eaten. The police made only a brief statement, saying that Benny had been attacked by a wild animal while jogging and had bled to death before he was found.
Roger knew the press would stay with the story for weeks to come, ferreting out every rumor and speculation, wringing as much from it as they could. As he read about it in Saturday's paper, Roger kept remembering what Betty had said about Benny Kent:
He always wore jogging clothes, but I don't think he ever really jogged ...
The funeral was going to be Tuesday. The high school would be closed for half a day so students could attend.
... I don't think he ever really jogged.
Roger tried to shake it from his mind. He had a habit of turning unanswered questions into quests with which he became obsessed. Sometimes he pursued them at the expense of his work and sometimes they became his work. Sometimes they disrupted his sleep as well.
He didn't need that now.
More than anything, he needed sleep.
9.
Roger's last months in St. Helena were like riding a roller coaster that only went down—straight down.
The story of his visit to Bill's room was blown out of proportion and distorted, and it spread like a plague. It went like this:
Roger had burst into Bill's room and begun spouting some kind of evil spell in an ancient tongue. A paperweight had flown across the room, untouched and of its own volition, destroying a picture of Jesus Christ. The evil force that, for years, had been so subtlety inspiring Roger's unholy stories of lust and murder was clearly making itself known. The monster inside him was finally coming out. Roger Carlton was obviously possessed by Satan.
The late night phone calls doubled.
"Are you keeping the Sabbath, Roger?"
"Do you know you're going to burn, Roger?"
"Take your demons somewhere else, Roger, your evil isn't welcome here."
"The bible says—"
"Sister White says—"
"God says—"
The voices were male and female, sometimes familiar, sometimes not. He had his number changed twice, always unlisted, but the calls continued.
After the girl spit on him in DiMarco's, Roger began to spend more time at home with his dog Larry, a mutt he'd found outside the deli one evening almost a year earlier.
Stories of Roger's "possession" began to spread among the few non-Adventists in St. Helena. While they were not familiar with the church's beliefs and taboos and did not accept the stories as gospel, they still looked askance at Roger, apparently deciding that there must be something strange about him to generate so much talk.
Roger began to see Betty and Leo at their home or his; DiMarco's Deli was no longer the refuge it had once been. He began to drink more than he should and write less.
The phone calls did not stop—he kept his phone off the hook most of the time—and the police said there was nothing they could do unless the calls were specifically life-threatening. The phone company said they would put a tap on the line, but if they caught the offending caller (or callers), he would be required to go to court and press charges. He considered it.
His tires were slashed again and one morning, he awoke to find a red cross painted on his front door. Crudely written beneath it was a bible verse: Exodus 22:18. He went to the library to look it up because he no longer owned a bible.
It read, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
He filed yet another report with the police, but they did not see it as a threat.
That was when he finally began to think it was time to leave in spite of his love for the Napa Valley. He began to think about possible destinations.
Two nights later, feeling restless, he drove to the coffee shop in Calistoga and did some reading over coffee. On his way back, as he drove through Manning, headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. A car parked behind a large tree beside the road pulled out and followed him. The headlights drew close very fast, filling the mirror, and a few hundred yards farther down the road, two gunshots rang out behind him.
The next few minutes became a blur as Roger slammed his foot on the accelerator and doubled the speed limit the rest of the way through Manning, hoping he would attract a patrolman. Rivulets of sweat cut chilly trails down his neck and back as he hunched over the steering wheel, hugging it as if for protection, breathing to himself, "Oh God, oh fuck, oh shit," as he drove. He tensed in anticipation of another gunshot, of the sensation of a chunk of lead tearing through his flesh, nicking his bone—
—but the headlights were growing smaller in the mirror and the sound of the car's roaring engine was fading away.
&nb
sp; Roger did not slow down; he went down the hill from Manning to St. Helena, where he parked in front of the police station and ran inside, nearly sick with fear. After a glass of water and a cigarette, he calmed down enough to tell the on-duty officer—a man named Miller with a barrel chest, thick glasses and thin brown hair—what had happened.
Afterward, Miller began asking questions, shaking his head slightly after each reply.
No, Roger could not identify the car or its driver or passengers.
No, he did not see the license plate.
No, he did not actually see a gun, but it sure as hell didn't sound like an engine backfiring.
"Look," Roger said, "this has been going on for a while now. Not as bad as this, but—well, I've reported everything."
After checking a file and shuffling some papers, Miller returned to his desk and said, "You sure have." He kept glancing from the papers to Roger and back again, noisily chewing some gum. "You've reported a lot of stuff, haven't you?"
"Everything that's happened."
"But you had no proof then that these things were being done by Seventh-day Adventists. Right?"
"But the things they say on the phone, the cross and—"
"Those things aren't proof. Listen, I've lived here most of my life, and you can't do that without getting to know a little about the Adventists. They're kinda strange—no movies, no coffee, no jewelry or dancing—but maybe it works, because they're good people far as I can tell. They do a lot for the community. They—"
"Yeah, I know, they collect clothes for the poor and food for the hungry, they help people stop smoking, yeah, they've got great PR." Roger stood. "But they're like spiders, Officer Miller. They eat their own."
Miller leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "Well, even if the people who shot at you were Adventists, you've got no ID on the car or driver, no witnesses. You've got nothing."
Frustrated, Roger started to leave.
"Wait, Mr. Carlton, I'd like to make a suggestion."
Roger stopped and turned wearily.
"Don't take this wrong, now. I'm on your side. I believe that somebody's got it in for you and your work. And, hell, I've dealt with enough religious nuts in my time—all kinds of different religions—but you need solid proof. You don't have it. It might be a good idea if you didn't report any more of these things until you have that proof. Think about it. Some kid on the hill gets a wild hare up his ass and burns down one of the school buildings." He shrugged one shoulder. "Just an example. We've got no leads, no suspects. But we do have a stack of reports filed by some guy who thinks the Adventists are out to get him but can't prove it. Turns out you were home alone the night of the fire. No witnesses, no alibi. And we know you don't like them. Wouldn't be too good for you. That's why I'm telling you. For your own good. Get some proof before you come back. Think about it."
The short drive home was terrifying. Each time he saw headlights in his rearview mirror, Roger's body buzzed with adrenaline.
When he got home, his front door was open a crack. With his heart pumping its way up into his throat, he cautiously entered, turned on the lights and looked around.
The lock had been broken. No one was inside and nothing seemed to be missing.
But he couldn't find Larry.
Not at first, anyway.
Larry was hanging by a rope over the back porch. All four of his legs had been twisted and broken. His abdomen had been cut open down the middle and his insides lay splashed on the concrete.
Roger moved to Los Angeles that night.
10.
Sunday was covered by a shroud of gray clouds.
Around one o'clock, Roger bought a paper and went to DiMarco's. Sunday was always slow. There were a few people in front but the Munch Room was empty except for Sondra, who was seated at a corner table studying and drinking apple juice. She sat straighter than she had the day before. She looked a little healthier, fresher, more rested. Roger got a bowl of minestrone soup and took a seat at the table closest to hers.
"On a break?" he asked.
She nodded without looking up.
"What are you studying?"
"American history," she whispered.
She seemed to have no interest in talking, but Roger did not want to give up while she was on a break. He wanted her to talk, wanted to have a whole conversation with her. He wanted to put her at ease, to calm whatever fears she was harboring.
"Do you go to St. Helena High?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Why not the prep school on the hill?"
She slowly lifted her eyes to him.
"You're a Seventh-day Adventist, aren't you?" he said.
The light from the small lamp on her table glistened in the tiny golden gashes in her brown eyes. "How did you know?"
"Just a guess. I'm familiar with them and...well, a pretty girl like you should be wearing a little makeup. Maybe a nice necklace, or—"
You're making an idiot of yourself, he thought.
"—but you aren't. I thought maybe—"
"You used to be one," she whispered, turning away from him.
"That's right. That's why I used to go to school in Manning. How did you know that, by the way? That I went to school on the hill?"
She suddenly seemed out of breath as she gathered up her things from the table.
"Where did you hear that?" he said.
"Around."
"Is your break over?"
"Uh, no, I just have to...I have to, uh..." She pushed away from the table and started to stand, then stopped. Frowning, she reconsidered and lowered herself back into the chair as she seemed to come to a decision. "No, it's not over."
Roger turned his chair toward her. "Are you afraid of me, Sondra?"
She bowed her head again. "Well...not...not really. But...they say I should be."
"Who?"
"People at church."
He nodded. "Do you believe them?"
"I...don't know." She whispered this secretively, as if afraid of being overheard. "You don't seem...um..."
"Evil?"
She nodded.
He waited because she seemed about to ask something. Finally, she looked at him and, like a fearful schoolgirl asking the principal if it was true that he kept a spiked paddle in the bottom drawer of his desk, Sondra said, "Are your books inspired by Satan?"
"No." He smiled gently. "If anything, they're inspired by the news. I write about the things people do to each other, mostly bad things, and about what happens to them afterward."
Here I go again, he thought, defending myself against their lies.
"But...if they're bad things...why write about them?"
"Have you ever read the bible?" He chuckled. "That books is full of more bloodshed and gore and kinky sex and—" He was trying to make a joke but failing by the look of her blank stare, so he dropped it. "If we don't look at the bad things we do to each other—write about them and read about them and think about them and why we do them—they'll only get worse. We'll never figure out a way to make them stop if we don't look at them long enough to figure out why they happen. Unfortunately, everyone in the world doesn't do the things Adventists think they should do."
Including Adventists, he thought.
"Don't you ever write about...good things?"
"Of course. About good people and bad people. Good things happen in my books, but bad things happen, too, and sometimes to good people. Because that's just the way it is. I'm interested in writing about the way things are, not about the way I wish they were. Think about it, Sondra, have you ever had a single day when only good things happened to you?"
As she thought about that, her face slowly changed, softened, and Roger thought he saw a glimpse of something that made him want to smile: Understanding. Something he'd said had cut through probably seventeen years of Adventist indoctrination and had reached her.
This must be how a teacher feels sometimes, he tho
ught, still wanting to smile, but he wasn't sure how she would interpret it.
She gathered up her things, stood and said, "Well, I guess I'd...better go." She started to walk away but quickly turned back and, without making eye contact, whispered, "Do...do you really think...I'm...pretty?"
"Very," he said, meaning it. Before she could go, he touched her hand, stopping her, and said, "Would you like to read one of my books?"
Her eyes moved downward to his hand and lingered for a long time, so long that Roger thought she was getting angry, thinking that he was making a pass, and he pulled his hand away. But her hand followed his, gently brushing it with her fingertips. Then she jerked it away as if burned. Sondra's entire body jolted once and she stepped back, bumping her chair and pressing her hand to her stomach.
"Sondra?" Roger said, alarmed. "Are you—"
"I'm fine," she whispered, backing away, still holding her stomach. "Fine, just...I just...have to..." She bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Something fell to the bathroom floor with a smack—
Her books, he thought.
—and muffled retching sounds came from behind the door.
Roger wondered if he'd said something that had upset her? Made her ill? He pushed away his bowl of minestrone; his appetite had abandoned him.
A moment later, Betty called him from the front of the deli. As he left the Munch Room, Leo passed him coming in, grumbling.
"Where the hell are those boxes, goddammit?" he snapped as he passed, heading for the restroom. "Sondra? Where the hell is Sondra?"
As Roger walked through the doorway, Betty grabbed his arm and led him past the grocery shelves.
"Somebody I want you to meet," she said.
"Betty, Sondra's pretty sick, I think. She just—"
"Oh, it's just—" She leaned close and lowered her voice. "—her period. It always hits her hard, poor kid."
Betty introduced Roger to a customer who was a fan of his books. They chatted at the register for a moment and Roger answered the usual writer questions, then froze when they heard Sondra's scream.
No one moved for a moment, as if paralyzed, until she screamed again:
