Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by Ray Garton

  "Well, if you change your mind," he said, "give me a call."

  "Yeah, sure, that's a good idea. I'll call you. If not tonight, then...well, maybe tomorrow. But...things look pretty thick here for the whole week. I don't know..."

  "I'll see you in class tomorrow night, though, right?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  He stood by the phone for a while after hanging up, puzzled. Marjie sounded as if something were definitely wrong.

  The phone rang and Roger picked it up immediately.

  "Hello?"

  "Leave the Valley."

  It was unfamiliar, a low male voice, so low it was almost a growl.

  "You didn't learn your lesson the first time, demon-lover. Don't make us teach you another one."

  The voice hung up.

  Roger slowly replaced the receiver. He turned on the stereo, found a San Francisco station that played hard rock and roll—none of that middle-of-the-road cotton candy—turned it up loud and started doing some housework.

  He did not let himself think about the phone call. He did not let himself wonder if it had anything to do with Marjie's odd behavior, if the three hang-ups had been the caller waiting for Roger to answer. Each time he started to think, It's happening again, he stopped himself by singing loudly with the radio or dancing hard to the beat as he vacuumed.

  He decided he would ignore it.

  He would ignore it if it killed him.

  25.

  The phone did not ring again until shortly before two o'clock the next morning while Roger was typing.

  He had spent the entire evening cleaning and the house was immaculate. After a couple of hours of TV watching, he had gone back to work, having pushed the phone call far into the back of his mind, deciding it was an isolated incident.

  Before the third ring, he had gone through all the possible reasons someone might be calling him at such an hour and decided to let the machine get it. Just in case.

  By the fifth ring, it occurred to him that he had not turned the answering machine back on.

  By the ninth ring, he decided perhaps it was important and answered it.

  "Your lights are on. Don't you ever sleep? Or can you sleep?"

  Roger slammed the receiver down so hard, the phone gave a startled little ding! sound, then he went to the front window and pulled the curtain aside, peering out at the early morning darkness.

  The street lamp across from his house was out and he could see nothing.

  He turned off his porch light, went out front and walked down the drive, shivering in the cold. The street was silent and lifeless.

  Roger tried to remember if he had heard a car drive by earlier, but could not.

  When he got back inside, he was still shivering. But not from the cold.

  26.

  Roger held up his class for five minutes waiting for Marjie to arrive. When she did not, he clumsily began the first hour's discussion on characterization, glancing now and then at the door, hoping to see her sheepishly peering through the window.

  He ended up letting the class go early, unable to shake the feeling, the fear, that something was wrong. He suspected that it had been more than an unusually busy day or a flat tire that had kept Marjie from the class. After her behavior on the phone yesterday, he would not be too surprised to find that she had dropped the class.

  As he pulled into his drive and his headlights passed over the front of his house, he saw what looked like a small sack on the porch with two short sticks protruding from the top.

  He got out of the car and headed up the walk, his pace slowing as he neared the object. In the glaring yellow glow of his porch light, there seemed to be two glistening marbles stuck to the object's sides and something dark and wet was puddled around the bottom of what Roger no longer believed to be a sack.

  The puddle dribbled over the edge of the top step and onto the next.

  Roger moved closer, squinting in the poor light, and when he was certain what it was, small clicking noises sounded in his throat as he swallowed dryly again and again. He gingerly touched the toe of his shoe to the severed goat's head and it fell heavily to one side, the freshly hacked neck pulling away form the concrete with a gentle, moist sound.

  Light glinted off the yellowed teeth revealed by the curled back lips and the eyes were comically wide and bulging, a morbid caricature.

  Roger stepped over the head, avoiding the blood, sucking the cold air deep into his lungs. He turned his back on the front door and kicked the head onto the front lawn. It hit with a heavy thunk and rolled over the grass.

  Inside, he poured himself a drink and finished it in a couple of gulps, then poured another. He leaned on the kitchen counter, waiting for the liquor to calm his trembling.

  "No," he said quietly, flatly, as the pain in his side returned for a moment, just an instant, then disappeared. He took another drink, then spit it into the sink, crying out like a child when the pain hit again, the worst since his stay in Sylmar, chewing through his insides like a ravenous demon, silently screaming at him in a mocking, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice:

  I'm baaaack, you jelly-assed motherfuckerrrr, I'm back and it's been TOOOO LOOOONG!

  27.

  When Roger shuffled into the deli the next day, exhausted from lack of sleep, Betty stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, took his hand, led him into the Munch Room, and sat him down. He fidgeted as she watched him, chewing her lip.

  "What's wrong, honey?" she asked.

  "I didn't sleep well last night. I was working on—"

  "Don't jerk me around. What's wrong?"

  Roger tried to look puzzled, but when he saw she wasn't buying it, he slumped in the chair. "Just tired, Betty. Really."

  "Roger, you look like hell. You're pale, you're...you're..." She chewed a thumbnail nervously. "A police officer was here this morning. It wasn't Chucky, it was someone I don't know. He was asking...questions about you."

  Roger's stomach twisted.

  "I'm not sure," she went on, "but I think it has something to do with Sidney."

  "Well, that makes sense. Apparently, I was the last one to see him."

  She shook her head. "It sounds like more than that, Roger. Please. Tell me. Just between us. Did something happen here? Is there something I should know? Do they...suspect you of something?"

  "Jesus, Betty," he laughed, "what is this? The guy came in, said hi, delivered the bread and left. That's it."

  She tugged at her lower lip, searching his face.

  "Betty, I'm telling you, there's nothing to—"

  Glass shattered out front and someone screamed.

  "Jesus!" Roger blurted as he dashed out of the room, Betty close behind.

  There was a jagged hole in the window facing Main Street. Michelle stood frozen behind the register, both hands over her mouth. Broken glass was scattered over the floor and on the front table, which was fortunately unoccupied.

  A brick lay among the pieces of glass. Attached to it with a rubber band was a crumpled piece of paper.

  "Is everyone okay?" Betty asked.

  No one was hurt.

  Roger felt a needle-like twinge in his side as he stared at the brick, afraid to pick it up.

  Betty bent down, grabbed the brick, and took the paper from it. Her eyes scanned it, then looked at Roger.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  She handed it to him.

  In crude block letters, the note read: "ROGER CARLTON IS EVIL. HE BROUGHT DEATH HERE.

  He could not bear to look at Betty, at anyone. He wadded the note in his fist, spun around and went back to the Munch room. He gathered up his things, feeling sick.

  Betty followed him, calling his name. In the Munch Room, she said, "Roger, we'll call the police."

  "No."

  "Where are you going? We should report this to—"

  "I'm going home. Don't report it to anyone. I'll pay for the window."

  "Roger, wait!" />
  He did not wait. He had to get out. The pain was coming.

  28.

  When he got home, he began to drink, pacing the house like an expectant father, chain smoking and muttering to himself under his breath.

  What had happened to bring it all back? Everything had been going so well.

  He wondered what the police had asked about him, what they knew, what they had found. He could not have felt more confined, more enclosed, if he were hunkering in his closet.

  The liquor hit and he began crying like a barfly, sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between his thighs. He quickly tired of his own company. He took a long shower, first hot then cold, guzzled some coffee, and drove to Josh's house.

  The cold day smelled sweet, which made the odor of death in Josh's house even more overwhelming.

  Roger had spoken with him on the phone twice since their last visit, but the dying man's voice, although weaker and more hollow, could not have prepared him for the visible progression of Josh's illness.

  His face seemed to be collapsing, his skull deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. He walked with two canes now. When he walked.

  The shock Roger felt showed on his face and Josh chuckled—it sound like someone slowly crumpling a sheet of wax paper—and said in his trembling, pencil-thin voice, "I'm dying, for Christ's sake, what'd you expect, the cover of GQ?"

  Josh nearly fell in the living room and Roger quickly reached out for him, felt the skeleton beneath the robe, the ribs and fragile joints, the sticks that would serve as limbs for only a short while longer.

  Later, Roger would remember the clothes—a long-sleeved shirt, pants, a heavy sweater, and an overcoat—neatly laid out on the sofa. He would even remember seeing Josh's car keys on the coffee table. But his eyes passed distractedly over them now, his head too crowded with his own problems for him to realize their significance.

  "Did Betty get my flowers?" Josh asked.

  "Yes. She wanted to thank you, but—"

  Josh held up a twig-fingered hand. "I understand. So. What brings you here?"

  "Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. I thought I'd drop by."

  "And I appreciate that. But what's wrong?"

  Roger laughed and said, "Am I that transparent?" An instant later, he had his face in his hands and was bawling like a frightened toddler.

  * * * *

  Roger had never discussed his problems with Josh. Their conversations had always been limited to movie and show business trivia, Hollywood gossip, talk that Roger had been unable to get from his other friends and which—having been a movie fan long before he ever mustered the courage to risk his soul to the Lake of Fire by entering a movie theater—he craved. Roger had always talked to Josh to forget his problems, not stir them up or work them out, so Josh knew nothing of his ordeal with the church.

  Roger told him everything up to the time he'd left Sylmar.

  "After that, I did some screen work, sold Ledges, and wrote a draft of the screenplay. I kept busy and made quite a bit of money, but...nothing changed. It went on. Phone calls, occasional vandalism. Finally, I just sort of disappeared for a year. I drove. That's all I did. All over the country." He sighed. "Didn't even go home for Christmas. I spent New Year's Eve watching Dick Clark on a black-and-white television in some roach-eaten motel outside Kansas City. I told no one where I was. I wanted to be unreachable. To be honest, it kind of felt good. I got no more threatening phone calls because I had no phone. I found no surprises in my closet because I had no closet. Just suitcases. I drove and stopped and wrote and ate and slept and drove. It was nice. A relief. For a while, anyway."

  "After all that happened," Josh said, "why the hell did you come back here?"

  "I love it here. I missed the Valley. It made me angry that I'd allowed myself to be chased out of a place I loved. And I got sick of being alone. I wanted to prove to myself that it was over. I figured it had to be by now. I wanted to see Betty and Leo. You. Sit in the deli and write again. I've missed it."

  "Is the pain gone now?"

  Roger shook his head. "It's...come back."

  "Then it's not over."

  After a silent period of thought, Roger decided to tell Josh everything. He knew it would go no further than the room and Josh would take it with him to the grave—probably quite soon.

  He told him about Sondra, about her parents and Benny Kent and Leo and Sidney Nelson, and Josh listened silently without moving. When Roger was done, Josh stared at him for a while, then a smile grew slowly on his skull-like face.

  "You're afraid I don't believe you," he said.

  "What sane person would?"

  "Listen to me, Roger. All my life, without even being aware of it, I have lived, thought and acted as if I would never die. As if I would live forever. Well, now I'm sitting here at Death's table, we've finished desert and the place is about to close. I mean, I'm dying, here. It's real. And suddenly, a lot of other things are beginning to seem real. Suddenly...flying saucers don't sound so crazy. Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster seem possible. Maybe even likely. Things don't seem as...absolute as they used to. If I can die...well, then I guess anything can happen. Knowing the end is coming soon has somehow been liberating to my mind. Does that make sense?"

  "Then...you do believe me?"

  "Go to the bookcase. Third shelf down, far left, the black book."

  Roger removed a trade paperback titled, Lon Chaney, Full Moons and Lycanthropy. There was a picture of Lon Chaney in full Wolfman makeup on the cover.

  "I bought it because I thought it was about the werewolf movies," Josh said. "You know, 'Even a man who is pure of heart and says his prayers by night,' That sort of thing. It is, in a way. But it's more than that. It turned out to be more serious than I expected."

  Roger thumbed through it.

  "Did I ever tell you I was a Mormon, Roger?"

  Sitting down, Roger shook his head.

  "Well, I was. A good one, too. I loved my church, grew up in it. My family was devout. We consumed no stimulants, wore our magic underwear. But when I got to junior high...ah, those were hellish years. I knew I was...different than the others. I went to church school so everyone was Mormon and everyone was pretty much alike. Except me.

  "When all my friends started noticing girls, I started noticing all my friends." He chuckled. "The guys, you know. I got so scared. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, and I didn't dare tell anyone.

  "I was taking piano lessons from Mr. Coswell. A kinder, gentler man never lived. He knew something was wrong and started to pry a little. Didn't take him long to figure it out. He was gay, too, it turned out. No one knew. He would've lost his job, been ostracized. We became very good friends. Not lovers, though. No, he was only gay in his head, not in his pants. He was celibate. He could accept that he was gay, but he'd been a Mormon too long to do anything about it without being...I don't know, strangled by guilt. He helped me understand myself. Accept myself. Yes, he was a good man." Josh's eyes looked past Roger, past the walls of his house, and focused on something far away. Fifteen or twenty seconds later, he came back. "Anyway, Mr. Coswell helped me to believe that there was nothing wrong with me. I wasn't a monster or a pervert. And the...the summer before I went to college...I told my parents." He frowned as he looked at Roger again. "Have you ever heard of the Doctrine of Blood Atonement, Roger?"

  "No."

  "It's Mormon. A lot of them deny it. Some have left the church because of it and formed little offshoots. Very controversial. Some people take it very seriously.

  "It's like this. Some sinners have committed a sin so heinous, or have sinned unrepentantly for so long, that they cannot be forgiven. Their only hope for salvation is death. Their life must be ended, their blood spilled, in order for them to be accepted into the kingdom.

  "I told my parents and I thought they'd take it well. We'd always gotten along. I thought they would accept me unconditionally. But no. My fa
ther went insane. Tried to kill me. Chased me out of the house with a knife. Destroyed all my belongings. He even called the college I was planning to attend—a Mormon college, of course—and told them I was a homosexual. Naturally, I was not accepted.

  "I lost all of my Mormon friends and the church—the church I loved and had actively contributed to all my life—no longer wanted me." He smiled. "I don't have to tell you how that felt, do I?"

  Josh carefully shifted in his chair and took a deep, labored breath.

  "I was the same person I'd always been," he went on, "but suddenly everyone in my life—including my family—felt differently about me. They rejected me. I was bitter for years. I hated god and Christianity and any organization that vaguely resembled a religion. My life became...it was...oh, well, I don't need to go into that.

  "I feel a little better about it all now. Mostly because of that book, silly as it may seem. There's a section in there—you'll know it when you find it—that made me think long and hard about all this, and I found some answers to my whys. I'm at peace with them now.

  "People like you and me, Roger, we're the lucky ones. We went through hell, and yours isn't over yet, but we're still lucky. There aren't many like us."

  "I don't understand," Roger said. "Why are you we lucky?"

  "They are being controlled, those people. So, in turn, they try to control others. It's like a sort of pecking order. Ever since their childhood, they were taught to believe in the enormous importance of a list of rules. Some of the rules are contradictory, some are impossible to follow, but they have become all-important to these people, whether they're Adventist rules or Mormon rules or Catholic rules. So they are under the control of this list and the people who enforce it.

  "Then along comes someone like you or me who very innocently breaks one of those rules. You wanted to be a writer, I learned to accept the fact that I'm gay. It doesn't matter how innocently we broke them—we broke them. These other people—Adventists, Mormons, whatever—see that we're not following the rules that control their lives, so they try to enforce them. They try to scare us, or hurt us, into keeping those rules. They try to control us as they are controlled. They do this by convincing us we're sick, evil monsters. Do you know why that so often works, Roger?"