by Ray Garton
No reply.
"But it's wrong. Doesn't it bother you that it's wrong to kill people?"
Mr. Moser gulped, licked his lips, and said, "Of course it bothers me." His voice was thick. "But I know that Jesus forgives me."
Brett's eyes widened slightly as he thought of what he had seen Mr. Moser do on that videotape. "Even...even for that?"
Mr. Moser turned to Brett, frowning intensely. "You know he does, Brett. We've discussed this in Sabbath school. Jesus forgives everyone of everything if they ask and are truly sorry. Hebrews tells us that. And it says that once he's forgiven us, he forgets our sins. Remember? 'And their sins and iniquities will I remember no more.'"
"But aren't you supposed to stop after you've been forgiven?"
He spoke in little more than a breath. "I...I try. I do, I really try. But...I can't. I can't."
"Well, maybe...maybe you should go to someone for help. You know? Maybe you could talk to Pastor Alexander."
"No," Mr. Moser said abruptly, turning his head back and forth. He breathed through his nose for a while as his jaw moved back and forth. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "That...doesn't work."
"You've tried it?"
"Not here. At the...place I was before I came here. I was a teacher. A school teacher at the Adventist school where I lived. And I...I weakened. I couldn't fight the temptation. But the boy...he told."
"You got in trouble? With the police?"
"No. They didn't call the police. But I had to meet with several people from the school and church. They put me into a counseling program with the pastor. He prayed with me a lot and we asked Jesus to forgive me. And then they decided I shouldn't teach there anymore. So I left. And I came here."
Brett thought, And you make sure nobody tells on you again.
They said nothing more for the rest of the drive.
* * * *
The theater they went to had six screens. Brett stood in the lobby, breathed in the smell of popcorn, and looked at the rows of movie posters on the walls. He took in each and every detail around him, even the feeling of the thick carpet beneath his shoes, as if he were in the last hour of his life and wanted to miss nothing.
He looked up at Mr. Moser and said, "I'd like some popcorn."
Without meeting Brett's eyes, Mr. Moser got in line, bought a tub of popcorn with butter, then they went into the auditorium and found seats.
Moments later, the lights dimmed and the screen came alive.
The back of Brett's neck prickled with excitement and he stuffed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. It was the most delicious popcorn he had ever tasted in his life.
The next two hours were everything Brett had hoped they would be.
* * * *
Two days later, Brett called Mr. Moser again from the upstairs phone and said he wanted to go see the new James Bond movie. Grandma was gone shopping and Brett wanted to hurry out before she returned; the less explaining he had to do, the better. He raced downstairs and through the living room, stumbling to a halt when he heard his name called.
Grandpa was sitting in the corner again by the phone table. He was holding something out to Brett.
"Here," he said.
Brett stepped forward and saw two one dollar bills held between Grandpa's beefy, gnarled fingers.
"For Milk Duds," Grandpa whispered conspiratorially with a crooked smile.
Brett chilled for a moment, realizing he had been found out, but Grandpa's smile was reassuring. He seemed to be saying, Just between us.
As Brett took the money, Grandpa said, "Have fun."
Riding his bike to Mr. Moser's house, Brett wondered how often Grandpa listened in on telephone conversations, and how much he had heard.
* * * *
Over the next two weeks, Mr. Moser took Brett to eight movies. One day, they even saw two, back to back.
At first, they said little, but they began to talk a bit more each time, until it seemed they were nothing more than two friends going to the movies together.
They did not mention Jimmy Greenlaw or the tape or Mr. Moser's laundry room.
Sometimes Brett spotted Mr. Moser staring at him, like he used to when Brett watched movies on his VCR. But now he stared with tense eyes and chewed his lip nervously. He always looked away immediately, as soon as Brett spotted him, but Brett always knew—he felt, anyway—that Mr. Moser had been staring at him for a while. Brett tried not to wonder what Mr. Moser thought about while he stared at him because that reminded him of what he had seen on that videotape, and that conjured thoughts too frightening to entertain.
During the first week, Brett worried about Grandpa. How much did he know? Most importantly, would he tell Grandma?
By the second week, Brett felt better. Grandma knew nothing yet, and when they passed in the house, Grandpa always gave him a silent, secret smile and a wink, something he had never done before.
For the time being, he seemed to be safe.
It was turning out to be a fun and exciting summer.
He came home after his eighth movie, a Steve Martin comedy, and found his mother seated on the sofa talking to Grandpa.
* * * *
When Brett walked in, she dashed across the room and greeted him with a laughing, perfumed embrace. She was beautiful. Her hair fell around her head in a golden mane, tiny stones sparkled in her earlobes—they were actually stuck through her earlobes!—and bracelets clicked and rattled on her wrists. She looked like a movie star. She was a movie star!
"How are you, baby?" she breathed. "Look at you, oh, honey, you're such a big boy! Oh, give your mom another hug." She covered his face with kisses and ran her fingers through his hair.
Brett could hear Grandma washing dishes and humming a hymn in the kitchen. Naturally, she would not be visiting with Mom. Grandma had nothing good to say about her daughter, and Brett supposed she had nothing good to say to her, either.
"How about an ice cream!" Mom exclaimed. "A big one! Two big scoops—three if you want—on a sugar cone. Would you like that?"
He nodded and she kissed him again.
"C'mon, let's go. I've got some surprises for you in the car." She kissed Grandpa's forehead and said, "Be back in a while, Pop."
As Brett followed her out of the house, he heard Grandma's voice behind him.
"Brett!" she hissed.
When he turned, she hunkered down in front of him, clutched his shoulders with her hands and whispered, "Now, I don't want you eating any of that ice cream stuff, do you hear? Jesus doesn't like you to pour all that bad sugar into your body. It's his temple." She tossed a glance over his shoulder in the direction Mom had gone and her face darkened with intense bitterness. "And I don't care what your mother says. You hear me?"
Brett went out the front door behind Mom, and Grandpa's quiet, throaty laughter faded behind him.
* * * *
On the way down the hill to St. Helena, Brett trembled with anticipation, unable to stop smiling. He knew his days in Manning were numbered now and he would be going to live with Mom in Los Angeles soon. He would be able to go to movies and watch TV anytime he wanted without fear of being caught or punished or lost forever. There would be no more dreary Sabbaths, no more long church services to endure among all those long church faces, and, best of all, no more Grandma!
"The stuff in the back seat's all yours," Mom said breathlessly. She was bouncing in her seat like a little girl.
Brett turned in his seat and retrieved two boxes from the back. He put them in his lap and opened them. One held shirts and pants, the other held a blazer and tie.
"Brand new, all designer, expensive stuff," Mom said. "See that blazer? Roll up the sleeves a little and you'll look just like Don Johnson on Miami Vice."
Brett had never seen Miami Vice. She knew that. She had to remember what living with Grandma was like. Sure she did. Grandma was her mother.
"You'll be the best dressed guy in church, kidd
o!" she said with a laugh.
Church? Brett thought.
"There's more back there, keep looking.
He found a bag full of school supplies—paper, pens and binders with pictures of the Hollywood sign on them—and a drinking mug that read on the side, HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD!
"Now you're all set for school in the fall," Mom said.
Something was not right.
Brett said, "But I thought I was gonna—"
"Where shall we go for ice cream?" Mom asked quickly.
Brett felt himself sinking into the seat of the rented car as a great deal of his excitement drifted away like a thin mist on a passing breeze.
* * * *
"I thought I was gonna come live with you," Brett said over his banana split.
They sat facing each other in a booth at the Big Dipper ice cream parlor in St. Helena.
She said, "Well, honey...we'll see."
"But you said—"
"I know, and I meant it, sweetie. It's just that...well, things are a little different now." She stirred her milkshake thoughtfully, frowning. "I met this man. He's a producer, a very successful producer, I should add. Four big hits in two years. He's...I've...well, I moved in with him last week. He's got this incredible place, you should see it. His name is Jeff, and he wants to use me."
"Use you?"
"Yes. He thinks I'd be good for a lead. Can you imagine that, baby, a lead! A starring role! But...well, for now, there's just no way I could take you back with me. Not now. Maybe later, after I've done a couple of pictures for him. But not now."
Brett suddenly lost all interest in the banana split. His stomach ached and his head felt bloated with thoughts of staying in Manning, trapped in Grandma's house, listening to those skin-crawling hymns on the scratchy record player and having to give Grandma more Ben Gay back rubs.
He had to concentrate hard to steady his voice. "But Mom, you said—"
"I know, honey, but I can't. Not now. But...that's okay, isn't it? I mean, you're doing well here, aren't you? Grandpa says your grades are good, and he says you've made friends with your Sabbath school teacher. That's wonderful. I mean, I'm not much of a Bible reader these days, but I suppose it's good for you. I'm glad you're getting a Christian education. The right morals, and all that. It's good for you. C'mon, sweetie, don't look at me like that. You've waited this long. Can't you wait a little longer?"
He put his spoon down and stared at the table.
"Hey, how about a movie tonight?" Mom said, reaching across the table to take his hand. "I'll go back to my hotel and change and we can go to dinner, then catch a movie. Whatever you want to see. Tonight's your night. Can't be out too late, though. I've got an early plane to catch."
She was leaving tomorrow.
Without him.
Panic began to rise in his throat. He wanted to cry, to scream, kick something. He tried to make the walls come up and shut it all out, but he could not. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop feeling things. It was worse than that, though. Feelings seemed to be rising up in him, flooding him. It felt as if all the hurt and anger and bitterness he had been able to hold off over the years by raising those walls suddenly filled him all at once until he felt that he might burst and splatter black ugliness in every direction.
It took every ounce of strength Brett possessed to hold it all in. He swallowed it in big, thick, throat-clogging lumps. After taking a few deep breaths, he tried to see the bright side. They would go to dinner and a movie that night and maybe he could change her mind. At least he got to pick the movie. And he knew exactly which one he wanted to see.
* * * *
After he showered and changed, Brett went downstairs to wait for Mom to come back from her hotel and get him. He slumped on the sofa.
Grandpa's chair rumbled into the living room and his gravelly voice said, "You don't look too happy, boy."
Brett didn't reply.
Grandpa stopped in front of him and began drumming his fingers on the wheelchair's armrests.
"Your mom's not gonna take you with her, eh?"
Brett shook his head.
"Well. Guess you'll just have to make the best of things here, eh?"
Brett shrugged.
"Not so bad, is it? You got your friend Mr. Moser to keep you company." He winked and added, "Don't worry, boy, your secret's safe with me. You got Gabby, too. And in her own way, I suppose, you got Grandma. She thinks the world of you." With a frown, he muttered, "Hell of a lot more'n she thinks of me." His eyes suddenly snapped open wide and he looked around cautiously as if he might have been overheard. In a moment, his face relaxed and he smiled as if he had suddenly remembered something. "Grocery shopping, that's right," he mumbled. "She's grocery shopping."
Brett sat up straight, surprised. This was the most Grandpa had ever said to him. It was the most Brett had ever heard him say, period.
"Course, now, if I had a pair of those," Grandpa said, pointing at Brett's legs, "you and me, we would have a good old time."
Brett chuckled. "Grandma wouldn't let us."
Grandpa's head fell back and his wheelchair squeaked beneath the weight of his laughter. "I suppose not. Fact, I just might be better off without her than I would be with legs. But..." He waved a hand with resignation. "You going to the movies with your mom tonight?"
Brett nodded. "Have you ever been to the movies, Grandpa?"
"Used to go a lot. Before I met your grandma. I often wish we had a TV in here so I could watch some of them old movies late at night. Don't sleep like I used to. We got enough money saved up to get a good one, you know. Color. Remote control. I look at 'em in the catalogs sometimes. But..." Another wave.
Brett looked at Grandpa for a long moment, seeing a different person in that wheelchair, much different from the silent, empty old man who wheeled around in the dark. He wondered what it would be like to live there with Grandpa, just the two of them. Maybe they would stay up late at night and watch old movies on their TV. Grandpa could tell him about the movies he had seen when he was a boy, about his days in the Big War, and how it felt to be on the battlefield. And they could listen to real music instead of those depressing hymns, music like he heard in the movies.
A car rolled to a stop out front and honked.
"There's your mom," Grandpa said. "You better git. And don't worry. Things won't be so bad."
Brett stood and gave Grandpa a long hug so unexpectedly that it surprised them both. Then he rushed out to meet his mother.
* * * *
Over dinner, Mom said, "So what movie would you like to see?"
Brett smiled with anticipation and said, "Bedside Manners."
Mom's fork stopped halfway to her mouth and she slowly lowered it to her plate with a frown.
"Well," she said, drawing the word out to a troubled length. "I don't think so, honey."
Brett's smile disappeared and his spirits dropped even further.
"How come?"
"It's not such a good movie. Really. I mean, it's low budget and, and...well, there's one scene where you can see the boom hanging about two feet into the frame, and—"
"What's a boom?"
"Never mind. It's just a bad movie, that's all."
"I don't care, Mom. I just wanna see you in it."
"Look, sweetie, my part is really small and I'm...well, I get..." She sniffed and straightened her posture. "I just don't think you should see it, that's all. It's not a movie for kids."
"I've seen movies that aren't for kids before."
"Not like this one, honey."
Wanna bet? Brett thought.
"But Mom, I wanted to see it with you!"
"Lower your voice!" she hissed, glancing around the restaurant to see if anyone had heard. "Now that's it, okay? There's a lot of sex and violence in the movie and I don't want you to see it. Maybe when you're older. Now that's it." She took a bite of food and chewed for a moment, then said, "Hey, how about th
e new Benji movie, huh? I hear it's pretty good."
Brett clenched his fist around his fork and turned his eyes away from Mom. He knew he could not conceal his anger and disappointment if he looked at her. The walls were not working. They would not come up. His appetite was gone.
Mom continued eating, apparently unaware of how upset he was.
"Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?" he whispered.
"I have to, honey. Good grief, you sound like you'll never see me again."
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Until...well, for a while. It's not so bad, babe." She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. "Don't do this now, Brett. Please. You've got friends here."
No, I don't, he thought.
"Grandma takes good care of you."
No, she doesn't.
"I know she's a little weird. With her religion, and all. We sure don't get along. But that's different. We've never gotten along. Grandma loves you. So does Grandpa. You'll be okay."
No, I won't.
"Until you get more movie roles?" he muttered.
"What? Oh, yeah. A couple leads under Jeff and I'll be able to take good care of you."
"A lead? You mean, like a star?"
"Yeah, a starring role. In a good movie. None of this low budget horror crap."
"Is that what you really want? To star in a movie?"
"Honey, that's what I've been working for all these years. I want that more than anything. Now eat your dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"Not hu—this is an expensive dinner," she snapped. "Now eat."
He stared at the plate silently for a while.
"I have to go to the bathroom," he lied.
"Okay. But when you come back, you'll eat, right?"
He nodded, then left the table and crossed the restaurant. As he rounded the tables and chairs, he thought of a scene from one of the movies he had watched at Mr. Moser's. Prime Cut. Lee Marvin played a gangster who was sent to Kansas City to find and punish Gene Hackman. Not only had Hackman broken a few promises to old friends and business partners and cheated them out of a lot of money, but he had killed some of them—he even had one ground up into hot dogs at his meat packing plant. When Marvin was through with him, Hackman ended up full of bullets and fed to some pigs.
