Not Far From Golgotha

by Richard Futch

  These were trying times, times when the Lord sought to prove a person’s mettle. She breathed out and muttered a short, incomprehensible prayer. Now, now…perhaps she’d spend less time at St. Paul’s, now that she’d examined things in some detail. She needed to get back home and try to stabilize the foundation there. She did love her children, she knew that, and even if it was in silence, did that make it any less real? One couldn’t change the course of a river, or make a forest out of a parking lot. That was God’s sole domain. It didn’t matter what kind of grievance or insight might appear later, one wore the face he was given.

  Nora knew her chapter in the Great Book had been written long ago, and a desire to change certain chapters now would make no perceptible change in the outcome awaiting. She was too old for new attributes, too tired for new tricks. She’d have to satisfy herself with the determination to make the ones she knew more accessible to her children. Her place was home, not wrestling with torturous demons in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Making up her mind she quickly stood, straightening out her skirt and genuflecting at the altar. A calm descended as she turned and walked down the aisle toward the door. She would do everything allowed of her. Of that she was determined.

  Chapter 50

  Thomas left shortly before Nora arrived home from St. Paul’s. By the time she turned the corner in her lighter-than-air Festiva, Elizabeth was already sitting alone in one of the two rocking chairs on the porch. She seemed so deep in concentration that she scarcely nodded as Nora jerked to a stop, pulling the emergency brake and opening the door in one surprisingly fluid motion. Only then, in the flurry of movement, did Elizabeth finally gesture her way, acknowledging her mother’s presence but not much else as her face remained fixed on something in the distance, far out past the railing and down the street.

  Nora straightened out, bumping the door closed with her hip. Curiosity would allow her silence no longer. “Elizabeth!” she called. “Are you all right?” She held up her hands to shade her eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the pavement.

  Elizabeth turned slowly, resting both hands on the arms of the rocking chair. Nora could tell she was still miles away, but didn’t know the boy had been here; she could not fathom the conversation that had just taken place, nor the disconcerting confusion that had spelled its end. These things were just sinking in good with Elizabeth and Nora could neither pierce the moment nor remotely understand it for the vulnerability it had revealed. Elizabeth, retreating from her trance, thought quickly to distract any unnecessary concern and subsequent questioning, which could eventually derail the train of her thoughts. She wanted to chew on them awhile longer. “I’m fine, Mother,” she said, much louder than she preferred.

  Nora stood still for a moment and then nodded her head as if suddenly understanding some minute point. She turned back to the car, bent through the open window (the damnable A/C had gone on the fritz several months back) and retrieved her Bible, vainly attempting to hold back all the multitude of harrowing thoughts that had followed her home. Because of this she was also a bit lost as she walked up the drive, across the porch to the front door. Elizabeth scarcely noticed her as she made her way by, and although Nora paused at the closed door momentarily, she eventually pushed it open and walked inside without saying another word. The unrest a pronounced but quiet fixture on her face as she pondered her new boundaries.

  Elizabeth remained aloof to these fears; she had Thomas on her mind. He’d stayed for less than an hour but she couldn’t fault him for leaving. They’d both known Nora’s return was eminent, and Elizabeth had supplied the prompt, telling him she was tired. As it turned out, the ploy had been as much escape route for her as it had been for him. She had pulled no punches, she’d laid her tale bare in all its terrible brilliance. Of course it would take time to digest, but she already felt better, emptied of an appalling burden. She’d scrubbed herself clean to the articulate and caring young man she’d given her body to only a short time before. She’d told him she didn’t want a relationship. It would complicate matters too much. Besides, she felt it would be more or less pointless.

  Since he’d felt strongly enough about calling she’d granted him the honor of the truth. Her time was limited, she’d told him plainly; many decisions were out of her hands. There was no time for beating bushes.

  Thomas had taken the news quietly and carefully, studying his hands as if expecting to find something marvelous there, sitting beside her in the matching chair. When she was through he’d put a hand on her knee and said he was sorry, that he knew how useless that sounded but that he meant it anyway. Thankfully, he’d not regressed into blubbery, meaningless chatter or imaginary solutions. He’d simply expressed remorse and was then silent, quietly accepting things as they were. But he’d also done something unexpected too. He’d said he wanted to continue their friendship, that he wanted to help.

  He also said he wanted to take her out again.

  She accepted and they’d sat for a moment until Thomas checked his watch and, seeing the hour, soon left.

  Chapter 51

  Billy made his familiar rounds, stopping in The Blacksmith Shop for a beer after leaving the hospital. He had the night shift tomorrow so the early afternoon hours off provided an outstanding window of opportunity. As he walked the Quarter he found it hard to suppress a smile, and then after becoming conscious that he’d actually been doing so, let it come on in full flower. The day was beautiful. The light pulling back in the sky trapped long shadows in the streets and alleyways, spurring the breeze within the tight gauntlet of old buildings. He stepped off the curb to the cobblestone pavement, looking back at the old bar as he pulled another draught from his beer. The walls were the best; bent toward the middle bearing the weight from above, as if the roof had been forced upon a building too big for it.

  He tossed his empty cup into a large, cluttered box alongside the curb, and dropped into a package liquor store a short walk down for a six-pack. The Vietnamese shopkeeper carefully placed the beer in a bag and gingerly folded the sides down so it was perfectly rectangular. Then he nodded his head in curt acknowledgement that their transaction was done, and turned to get on with his other business which consisted of squatting before an ancient typewriter (sitting on a box underneath the cabinet) and pecking away. Only the bell above the door (which tinkled when someone came inside) was enough to halt his frantic tapping. Billy tucked the package underneath his arm and whistled as he left the store. Oddly, he felt new, revitalized. A touch excited, actually. All in all, the strange result of a much stranger circumstance. He really hoped Ebenezer was home today. If not, he’d hot-foot it over to the Ripcord and try to snag the old man there. Today it was his turn.

  Because over the last couple of nights the nightmare had achieved singular perfection. Never before had he remembered a phantom so vividly. What had initially frightened him to the point of disorientation and frantic breath had now resigned and refined itself through meditation and curiosity. For days, either working or not, he’d separated different elements in his mind and fashioned them (albeit crudely, he thought) into an interesting story. Like Elizabeth had said, nightmares and most dreams had a way of slipping away, but every once in a while…. She knew this; she’d helped him to recognize it. This one hadn’t. Lying in bed, alone in the cavern-like darkness with every fragmented shadow shielding, possessing, containing some untold form of wickedness, he’d begun thinking about the nightmare objectively as soon as the shaking subsided, calming himself with the slow construction of elements he could use to fashion his own story. A rite of passage, if nothing more.

  Out of the sheer coincidence of his association with Ebenezer, Billy had begun a discriminating examination of what he thought useful in the nightmare, how to make something surreal actual enough to invoke a fragment of the intensity it had visited upon his sleeping mind. And with this effort he had begun to calm. The shadows hadn’t seemed so sharp-edged and menacing, the darkened room no longer filled to capacity with
every sort of homicidal maniac or dripping thing from sewer depths. More tool than apparition; his own tale. This initial spark of originality and excitement had managed to hold the basic elements together amid the steady drift of the truly horrifying ones. He’d slept very little the rest of the night.

  Reaching the corner of Ursulines, he picked up the pace as he neared the old man’s apartment. For the first time in a long time he felt the sense of achievement that strolled with success. He felt taller, like he moved with an uncanny purpose, a guided instinct. He felt the exhilaration that money gave some, what power and sex gave others. The exhilaration that many never felt at all. Ebenezer’s ass better be there. The story bubbled inside like a scalding pot.

  He didn’t even pause at the courtyard gate; he simply reached out as he neared it and pushed it away as he came through. The sun relinquished its ward to the night as he made his way across the cobbled walk to the staircase. However, the sodium lights were on and he saw the inside courtyard, illuminated, for the first time. The fountain in the center throwing up a fine spray which managed to mist the entire area in humidity. Water hung on the walls like transparent pearls. An elderly couple sat in wicker chairs at the periphery, only looking up for a second as the gate opened. Oddly enough (with the cloud of mist locked between the sweaty walls), the courtyard seemed spacious and comfortable amid a sprawl of ferns and low palms bulging from every niche. The archway on the far side was completely inundated with smaller versions of the building-clinging vines street side. Before the stairwell Billy paused, offering a small nod to the couple who reciprocated briefly before going back to their coffee and conversation.

  Billy went up two steps at a time, balancing carefully so he landed softly, but firmly, on each one so as not to sound like a rutting elephant assaulting the building. He saw the entrance light was off but thought he remembered no difference the first time. Reaching the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door a few loud raps. His hand was hardly to his side when Ebenezer’s muffled voice invited, “Com’on in, Billy. Door’s open.”

  Billy reached for the knob, wrinkling his forehead as he did so. “How the hell he know it was me?” he wondered under his breath. He turned the knob and pushed the door open, finding a flood of light waiting inside this time. Stepping across the threshold, he shut the door and walked through the foyer. The television was off and Ebenezer lay sprawled on the well-worn sofa. “How’r’ya doin son? Had ta get off ole Bertha over there,” he said pointing toward the easy chair. “Just diggin a little siesta. Damn shoulder’s a bitch today…. too damn ole for bullets, by God.” He stopped and looked from Billy to his chair. The boy seemed uncomfortable, as if a lot of space around him needed filling. “’Ave a seat,” Ebenezer said, his hand proffering the recliner. He immediately caught Billy’s hesitation. “Go on, boy! It’s a chair, not a goddamn china cabinet! Sit down!”

  Billy went and sat down, placing the carefully wrapped six pack in his lap. Ebenezer once again changed the course of their conversation with the skill and timing of a trained psychologist. “Off early?”

  Billy nodded, still musing over the unexplained identification at the closed door, the offer of the old man’s chair. Surely he couldn’t…but his timing was uncanny…

  “Well, I’m glad ya could make it. ‘S been damn borin. Haven’t felt up ta peckin with this shoulder, so I ain’t made it out much this week. Don’t know if it’s them damn pills or what, but I been slow.” Ebenezer stopped just long enough to gesture toward the paper bag. “Wha’cha got there?” he asked.

  “A six-pack getting hotter by the minute. Thought we could do something about that.”

  “Thinkin only wastes time. Get ‘em out here so we can give ‘em a little air.”

  Billy tore the bag away from the six-pack, holding up a finger as if for additional quiet. “Coming up, but there’s something else besides…”

  Ebenezer smiled curiously and inched himself up into a sitting position. “Go on,” he challenged.

  “This time, I’ve got the story,” Billy said.

  Chapter 52

  He sat down in the storyteller’s chair again, after returning from the refrigerator where he’d left the remaining four beers, trying to disguise his nervousness with a nonchalant toss to Ebenezer. The old man caught the beer in his lap and had the pop-top open before Billy managed his own. Then he casually leaned back, letting the couch suck up around him. Billy tilted his head back and studied the ceiling momentarily as if pondering how to start, and hoping, maybe, the directions were up there. He decided to let dramatics come as they may. “This thing came to me a few nights back,” he began. He peered down at his hands and rubbed them together. His eye caught on the strip of sunlight jutting across the floor through the French doors. “Mind if I close those?” he asked.

  “By all means,” the old man replied. “Whatever it takes ta tell,” and he motioned for Billy to proceed. Billy stood up and walked over, finally deciding to begin in motion. “A family on vacation: a man, a woman, their child. A boy, four years old and his name’s Allan.” He shut the doors, listening for the familiar rasp, and paced back to the chair, pausing at the lamp to readjust it in case he might want to kick out the footrest. “Doesn’t matter where they’re going. They’re just out, maybe making groceries not far from the house, maybe just out cruising on a weekend afternoon.” He adjusted the lamp to his satisfaction, nodded and sat down. The initial nervousness was gone, urgently replaced by the need to to get on with the telling. He stared across the room, much more confident (in Ebenezer’s estimation) than he’d been upon entering, and began the story in earnest.

  “They pull off the highway into the dusty parking lot of an ancient Acadian-style country store. Dust hanging in the air even after dark here. A neglected, paint-blistered porch wraps around the building, giving off a faint, nefarious suggestion of strangulation. At the far right hitching post, stuck beside a crooked stoop near the front door, a glue-factory-bound old nag munches on a busted bag of peanuts spilled about her hooves. The mare seems intent on memorizing the dullness of the sun-scorched walls as it eats. To the left of the cock-eyed door, several heaps of metal ripe with peeling bumper-stickers and bald tires rest in (what appear to be) permanent positions. The air’s humid, choking, and the car’s A/C has problems even on mild days. Not a nice place to be.

  “Suppose they’re due at a relative’s wedding rehearsal, or a birthday party for their son’s friend, and suddenly, without warning or recognition, nothing is familiar. Maybe they’d been there once before when Allan was only an infant; maybe they’d never been there at all. Neither of them prove fabulous with directions. Though these directions have, in all probability, been hastily scrawled on the back of a credit card envelope and then just as hastily thrown into a roadside garbage bin after stopping for a restroom break. But now they’re hot and a damn sight disgusted. Sam decides, finally, no more mindless cruising; he actually intends to ask directions inside the store. Meanwhile, Donna waits in the car with Allan. No problem.”

  Billy reclines in the chair, feeling more at ease now, only slightly nagged by doubt and nervousness. Suddenly the story is brilliantly clear. He pauses in surprise, amazed how the loose ends have suddenly been stitched into the weave, how every rough angle seems to have rounded well and true. Then he is up and running.

  “Donna watches him step up the porch,” he goes on, “and then turns to situate Allan in the back seat. Appeasement doesn’t help and after several more minutes of kicking and screaming, she releases him from the car seat to come up front until Daddy gets back. She checks her watch after several more minutes and taps her knee in irritation. ‘What’s keeping him?’ she wonders. The better part of ten minutes and still no Daddy. How the hell hard can directions be? Just before getting set to pack the kid on her hip and go inside herself, she looks off to the side and lets out a very low, ‘How the hell’d he get down there?’ Because, almost to the curve in the road, there he stands on the shoulder. In fact, she woul
d not have noticed at all had he not been waving both arms in the air above his head like a madman. She chances a look back at the store. Might as well be several minutes before; still closed tight. When she looks back, the figure is even more animated.

  “She turns the ignition over, kicking the tired old engine to life. The parking lot grows suddenly dustier in a freak wind rolling in through the trees. However, (unknown to her) the kid picks up a hell of a different scene. As his mother backs out, Allan notices with the acute sensibilities of a child, the lights suddenly dim in the store. The windows flash black. Ripe cracks run and split deeply into the now ancient walls and the porch suddenly turns on itself and crumples rottenly. Farther down, the old horse collapses to its side, spewing long strands of mucus from its head and a great gaseous cloud from its side as it splits open like a waterlogged paper bag. He considers telling his Momma this, but from her tone of voice she sounds like she sometimes did after he’d done something Bad. That was never a good time to bother her, especially with things that were not much different than what he saw on T.V.

  “The dust storm continues building in the parking lot as Donna backs away from the store. By the time she shifts into Drive, the frantically gesturing figure is more obscure than visible in the swirling dust, and seemingly, farther down the highway. She begins to be truthfully frightened and spins the car’s tires, speeding toward the figure she’d been so sure is Sam, but now, getting closer, is not. Whoever he is (she will see it is obviously a man) has stopped gesturing and seems suddenly much taller….lankier. No more than thirty yards away she gasps, instinctively reaching for Allan, at the same time she eases off the gas pedal in astonishment.