Three
grown men sat at an umbrella-covered table at the county fair. Each was thirty
years old. They looked similar in the face. Not far from their table a young
black woman was breastfeeding her child. The men watched closely from the
shade, as the sun drenched the earth around them.
“White
kids go for a lot on the black market,” said one of the men, the one with a light
blue sports coat clashing with his yellow shorts. His name was Sigurd. “They’re
considered a commodity.” He bit into his soft pretzel and decided it wasn’t
soft enough.
“Doubt
that very much,” said one of the other men, the one wearing sunglasses. His
name was Sigfried. He eyeballed Sigurd’s soft pretzel and took a sip of Diet
Cherry Shasta.
“Why?
It’s true. People are buyin’ white kids all the time. Not for sex and stuff, or
as slaves, but for kids. Like, as their
own kids. Some people can’t have children so they gotta buy ‘em. And some
people get boyfriends or girlfriends there. Husbands and wives and that kinda
thing.”
The
third man spoke up. He wore a gold chain around his neck and was using his
fingers to spread ketchup on his hotdog. His name was Sigmund. “Nah, man. White
kids might be popular there, but it’s black kids they really want. Why you
think it’s called a black market? People want black kids.”
“That’s
not what black market means,” said Sigfried. “It’s black like mystery, like the
shadows.”
“Color
ain’t important,” Sigurd said. “You could call it a red market and white kids
would still be the most sought after children in the whole thing.”
“Sounds
like bullshit to me.” Sigmund said, shoveling the hotdog into his wet mouth.
“Fuck
off. Jonathan told me all about it. You calling Jonathan a liar?”
“I’m
callin’ you a liar,” Sigmund replied,
moist chunks of hotdog falling out of his mouth. The chunks landed on his gut resting
on the table.
“Jonathan
never told me shit about black markets,” Sigfried said.
The
young mother pulled her child’s lips off her nipple, and tucked her
breast back into her shirt. She stuck a pacifier into the child’s mouth and
strapped the little guy into a stroller.
“Show’s
over,” Sigfried mumbled. He handed his Diet Cherry Shasta to Sigmund and
Sigmund handed the half-eaten hotdog to him. They consumed the exchanged food
and drink.
“Ya’ll
some racist motherfuckers,” the woman muttered as she pushed the stroller
by, not stopping to wait for a response.
“The
fuck?” Sigurd was upset. “That ain’t racist. How’s that racist?”
“It
ain’t,” Sigmund said, Diet Cherry Shasta dripping down his chin. “Jonathan
woulda said somethin’ if it was racist.”
The
men finished their food and drinks, and spent the rest of the day at the fair
soaking in the hot sun, and enjoying the over six-hundred advertisements placed
strategically around the fairgrounds, obscuring all but the most flashy and
sketchy vendors and activity booths.
***
Sigmund,
Sigfried, and Sigurd were quadruplets. Three quarters of quadruplets, that is.
Their fourth brother died at birth. His name was Jonathan. If one were to ask
the living brothers what the best part about being quadruplets was, they would
tell you it was the ability to communicate with their dead brother. Psychic
communication from beyond the grave, they would say, was just one of many
attributes quadruplets had with which those of a singular birth are not
endowed.
The
brothers lived together in a mobile home not far from a cheap diner and even
less far from a landfill. The smells that wafted toward them and met outside
their door filled their home with the very essence that defined their
existence. Each brother had moved out of Mom and Dad’s house separately, within
the same month.
“Shut
up, Mom and Dad,” Sigmund had yelled one evening after an argument about his
future and his girlfriend. “ I'm staying at Ford Bluckins Community College and
marrying my best friend, Tan Blaiynes.” His defiance in the face of authority
was nothing new, but this time it meant freedom. He wouldn’t go to the
university like his parents demanded, and he wouldn’t break up with his
long-term girlfriend of three weeks just because she brought out his inner
animal. No. Sigmund like community college, and he liked Tan’s effects on his
personality. He was an animal, and
she knew it. Sigmund left home that night to find a new place to live. His
parents called after him, with shouts of, “We only want to protect you!” and,
“We want what’s best for you, Sigmund!” But these words fell on ears deafened
by lust and hope and the tinted windows of a 1985 Buick LaSabre. The car sped
away, rocketing Sigmund to a new life.
Only
a week later, Sigfried was asked to leave the house when mom and dad found
every entrance to the house covered in spider webs. When more spider webs were
found around Sigfried’s bedroom door, and spiders the size of baseballs were
discovered nestled inside, devouring apples and coffee beans, corpses of bugs
of all sizes weaved into the webbing, it was the last straw. Sigfried would
have to take his spiders elsewhere. But Sigfried knew he couldn’t take them
anywhere. Spiders were the apotheosis of wild nature, untamed, unrestrained
hunters. To try to control them would be to try to play god, and Sigfried
wasn’t about to dabble in that sort of thing. His orb-weavers and black widows
and other miniature beasts brought him a certain comfort. It was his belief
they enchanted him with gifts of a transcendental nature, though he would never
discuss those gifts with anyone. With wet eyes he packed his bags and rode off
on his scooter, into the dark of night, no fear in his heart as long as the
pale moonlight poured over him.
Sigurd,
always the deep feeler of the family, was troubled from youth by his first
memory, the memory of mourning wood. At his dead brother’s funeral, he
witnessed his grandfather give a heart touching eulogy in front of the family.
As granddad’s eulogy ended, a bulge grew in Sigurd’s pants, a preposterous
poking of penile shape. Sigurd was too young to understand the words his grandfather
spoke, too young to know the meaning of death, too young even to form memories,
yet this one somehow stuck to the crevices of his mind like fat hardened to a trucker’s
loaded gut. From this point forward, when Sigurd mourned he also yearned. A
sexual yearning that ignited his palms and his pores, turned him upside down
with lust, and soaked him in tears of melancholy and sweat of desire. With a
pairing of tragedy and arousal, there comes, as you might imagine, a great deal
of sexual confusion. The signals of Sigurd’s body were mixed up for as long as he could remember.
When a sexual situation presented itself to him, as it rarely did, Sigurd found
his emotions turned to a torrent of bleak, hopeless, despair. It’s all upside
down and backwards, Sigurd often thought. And he was right.
One
night, caught in the midst of his parents arguing about his recently departed
brothers, Sigurd tried to remain calm and collected. But tempers were on fire
that night, and hurtful things were said of all parties. Sigurd’s feelings were
hurt. His insides were heavy with grief, and soon enough, his penis poked
through the hole in his gym shorts, staring his father and his mother in the
eyes, unafraid of confrontation. The embarrassing aspect of this only increased
Sigurd’s displeasure, and a shockwave of sensuality moved through his body as
he ejaculated upon the faces of his loudly arguing parents. It was only minutes
before Sigurd was out the door with a bag over his shoulder, ready to live
elsewhere.
The
mobile home was small, but with two bedrooms it was more than enough room for
the brothers. Sigmund often went shirtless when his girlfriend Tan was staying
over. Sigfried went shirtless as well, hoping Tan would take a liking to his
greased chest and waxed abs. Sigurd’s shirt always stayed on to cover his pale
skin, his fifth nipple, and his lack of a tan, something he figured Tan might
be offended at if she saw, given her name.
It
was Saturday night. Everyone was home, even Tan. Sigurd sat in his room
stapling bells into his sports coat for church the next morning. The sound of
his brother’s voice from the other end of the home bothered him.
“Tarantulas
are everywhere,” Sigfried giggled, sitting on the living room floor. “The floor
is covered with ‘em. But the nice thing is you can turn ‘em on or off. If you
turn ‘em off, they just become scorpions.” With little effort, Sigfried saw
scorpions covering the floor, crawling over his legs, giving birth to hundreds
of miniature scorpion babies to populate the carpet. “But I like tarantulas for
their hair.” The scorpions became tarantulas again, hundreds of them crawling
slowly across the floor, many exploring his body like the hands of a new lover.
“Someday I’ll ride in a chariot made of scorpions, pulled by one giant
tarantula.”
Sigmund and Tan
were sprawled on the couch, half naked, fully baked, smiling at Sigfried’s
writhing body in front of them.
“Boy sees spiders where they ain’t even at,” Sigmund
removed his tongue from Tan’s neck long enough to say. His gut made the perfect
pillow for Tan’s perfect 2 body.
The sound of jingle bells filled the mobile home’s
hallway as Sigurd walked into the living room. “What’re you guys doin’?”
“You got them bells on your coat,” Tan said. “Lookin’
good!”
“I’m ‘bout to go see
Jonathan,” Sigurd said, wiggling his arms to test the jingle-jangle of
his bells. “Anyone wanna go?”
Sigfried rolled on the floor, shouting laughter into the
beige carpet. He raised his hand to show interest in going.
“Naw!” Sigmund shouted. “Sigfried’s too high on widow’s
poison to visit. He gotta stay here.”
“I don’t think I wanna go alone,” Sigurd said, pressing
his hands over his freshly belled coat.
“Sigurd’s gonna bring his journal to the cemetery and ask
Jonathan for girl advice,” Sigmund said to Tan, his tongue back in her ear as
soon as the last word left his lips.
Tan laughed.
“No,” Sigurd said. “I just want to ask him about the
gates of Heaven and some other general stuff. Before church.”
“I’m not too drugged to go,” Sigfried said, sitting
straight up. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were red, but he otherwise
looked fine.
“Can we take your car, Sigmund?” asked Sigurd. “My bike’s
locked in Rooster’s garage and he ain’t gonna be home ‘til tomorrow.”
Sigmund threw his car keys to Sigurd. He cupped his hands
around the handles of fat on Tan’s sides. She squealed like a pig.
***
Sigurd and Sigfried walked through Green Seasons Memorial
Park while the dry midnight air rushed around them like the breaths of ghouls
out for an evening haunt. Sigurd’s bells jingled with each step. Sigfried drank
water from a flask pulled from his back pocket. He looked at the ground as he
walked, hoping to see a spider crawl across his feet, or to spot the small home
of a funnel-web dwelling friend. Jonathan’s grave was ahead. Sigurd stopped and
stood a body length away from the tombstone as Sigfried sat down in the grass.
The night was quiet. Crickets chirped. There was even a bird at one point.
Sigurd opened his coat and pulled out a notebook.
“Brought your journal!” Sigfried yelled. “You dick!” He
laughed at his brother of equal age and sipped on his water.
“Jonathan,” Sigurd said, ignoring his brother, “there’s
someone in my life I want to form a relationship with. I think I love her. I’ve
come for your words of wisdom.”
Sigfried appeared amused, and laughed into his flask.
“Jonathan must hate you.”
Sigurd opened his journal and took out a pen. “Lay it on
me, brother,” he whispered.
A woman’s voice came from behind them. They spun around
in unison to see a shadowy woman standing below a tree, out of the moon’s
bright bath of light.
Sigurd
slammed his journal closed and put it inside his coat. “Olynda,” he said. “My,
you’re looking good tonight.” He smoothed his coat and straightened his
posture. The bells on his coat glistened in the moonlight.
“Sigurd and Sigfried, is that you?” the woman said. “How
are you?” She stepped forward, out from the shadow of the tree.
Sigfried stood up and slid his flask into his pocket.
“Damn, Olynda.”
“Hello, Sigfried,” she said, still looking at Sigurd’s
face.
“Hey, baby,” Sigfried said. “You still seventeen?”
“You mean am I still the age I was nine years ago?” She
faced Sigfried and looked disappointed.
“What? Naw, how old are you, hun?”
“I’m twenty six, Sigfried.”
“Cool, cool. You wanna grab somethin’ to eat later?”
Sigurd interrupted. “Shut up Sigfried. Olynda, I didn’t
think I’d see you here. What’re you doin’ in a graveyard at midnight?”
“I came to see your brother,” she replied.
“Huh?” Sigurd looked at Sigfried.
“No, your other brother.” She pointed to Jonathan’s
grave. “You told me about your relationship with him. Said he was your favorite
brother. I’ve been coming here for months, a few times a week. Always too shy
to go over and say hi, though. After all the things you said about him I didn’t
know what to say.”
Sigfried frowned. Sigurd still stood stiff, and walked
closer to Olynda. “Would you like to meet him?”
“You kiddin’?” Sigfried asked. “Sure you are.”
Olynda smiled. “I hoped you’d ask.”
Sigurd took Olynda by the hand and walked her closer to
Jonathan’s grave. He began talking to her about Jonathan’s otherworldly
all-knowing, and the relationship the brothers shared. As he spoke, Sigfried
couldn’t hear what was said. He was coming down now. The drugs seemed to be
wearing off. His head was clear and his heart’s pace slowed to a healthy beat.
He walked next to Sigurd and Olynda.
“That girl you want a relationship with,” Sigfried said.
“Is it Olynda? Jonathan thinks it is. I do, too.”
Sigurd became silent and looked at his brother. His stare
said devilish things and hateful things, but his mouth was quiet.
Olynda looked at the brothers. “What’s this? What’s he
talking about?” She grabbed Sigurd’s arm.
“Show her your journal!” Sigfried suggested. “I bet you
got poems about her.”
“Nah, there’s nothing like that in there,” Sigurd
sheepishly said. “I mean, I don’t got a journal or nothin’.”
“Yeah you do!” Sigfried pushed Olynda aside and pulled
Sigurd’s coat open. The brothers wrestled for a moment as Sigfried forced his
hands toward the inside pockets, reaching for the journal. The bells on the
coat jingled as they wrestled. Sigurd was weaker than his brother and was soon
overpowered. Sigfried pulled the journal away with him as he rolled backwards
on the ground.
“Give it back!” Sigurd yelled.
“Yes, give it back!” Olynda said.
“Just a minute,” said Sigfried. “Jonathan, I think
Sigurd’s in love with Olynda, here. She’s the one. What should we do?”
***
Sigmund
and Tan were naked in bed with sweat dripping from their whale-like bodies.
Each emitted heavy moans as their hands glided unguided over one another’s
skin. The springs of the bed beneath them warned of structural failure. Tan
lurched her head up and sipped Coca-Cola from a long straw hanging over the
bed. The brown stream flowed through the
straw, following loops and complicated paths from a bucket on the floor. The
Coca-Cola was almost gone. Sigmund tilted his head back and sipped on the straw
when she released it to get the final mouthful of Coca-Cola. He licked his
lips. He had homework due Monday morning in his Intro to Phonetic Speaking
class. A speech about personal relationships. Nothing had been written. This
realization hit him as soon as the Coca-Cola hit his stomach. He rolled out of
bed and cut the beached-whale lovemaking session short to a little vocal
opposition from Tan, who’d waxed her hips just for this.
“My speech ain’t gonna write itself, darlin’,” Sigmund
said. He walked out to the living room to use the home’s only computer.
“Sure is hard lovin’ an academic man,” Tan said to herself
as she rolled out of bed.
***
At first, Mom and Dad celebrated their sons’ departures
by throwing yogurt and finger-foods parties in their newly emptied home every
night. Their friends brought so many flavors
into the house it was as if Sweet and Salty met in a deserted warehouse
and fisted each other’s faces to produce a smorgasbord of tastes. But soon they
grew lonely. The absence of their boys left them with only each other’s
company, a curse so vile it drew them to the edge of sanity’s cliff. Rounding
up the boys and bringing them home wasn’t the answer. No, their bedrooms had
already become a meat locker, a doll graveyard, and a museum of the boys’ baby
teeth and hair and the broken condoms that led to their conception. The boys
never called. Never wrote. Never visited. They lived many miles away and not a
peep was heard from them since they left. Did they forget about ol’ Mom and Dad?
It seemed so.
“All we want’s a little recognition,” Dad said, a phone
to his ear. “Garlilah and I miss the boys, but we don’t want ‘em back. We just
want ‘em to remember where they came from. You know, show us they love us. Send
us postcards or money or pay stubs.”
Dad’s wife, Garlilah, also known as Mom, nodded while her
husband spoke. The smoke from the cigarette in her mouth filled the kitchen,
and its ashes fell into the potato salad she was stirring. It was almost time
for dinner.
“Just do what you do best, Pop,” Dad said. “They ain’t
seen you in twenty years. They ain’t gonna remember you.” He hung up the phone
and sat at the dinner table.
“Your dad gonna take care of it?” Garlilah asked, still
stirring the potato salad, ashes and all.
“I reckon so,” Dad said. “When’s dinner? Smells like a
fresh sewer in here.”
“Soon, Fenton,” said Garlilah. “Soon.”
***
“Jonathan
says there’s no hope for you, Sigurd,” said Sigfried, sitting on top of
Jonathan’s tombstone, reading through his brother’s journal. “You got it bad.”
Sigurd shook his drooping head, kicked the dirt, and
looked up at Olynda. In the glow of the moon Olynda could see Sigurd’s face
blush red. He sure was handsome. With a face red like that, he was even cute.
Probably a good kisser, too. His hands had always been small, but Olynda could
tell they would feel nice on her back, even her chest. She could tell Sigurd
was a sensual person when he wanted to be.
“He didn’t say that,” Sigurd replied. “I didn’t hear it.
He said you need to get off his rock and respect me.”
“No, he’s sayin’ I need to read him your journal entries.
Here’s the latest. Oh, it’s a long one!”
Sigurd surrendered to Sigfried’s will and avoided eye
contact with Olynda. Olynda kept her eyes on Sigurd, for he was a sight that
quenched her eyes’ thirst.
“My story is best
told by an impersonal third person narrative,” began Sigfried, reading
aloud. “From a voice not sympathetic nor
introspective. It’s just a story, after all. Not a song or a poem. This is not
the way my story will be told. I will tell it myself, as it happens.”
Sigfried looked up from the page. “Good God, Sigurd.
What shit is this?” He continued. “Here
we are, the two of us. What fun times
we’re having together. Don’t we always have fun times when we go out? Yes,
certainly we do. This time is just like every other time. Although you may not
know it, the sequence of events is the same.
“An hour before I came
to see you I fell into a state of emotional paralysis. It happens every time.
It means my insides become a void where emotions go to die, where a black hole
consumes and destroys all traces of stupefying laughter that bounce around. But
every trace of sadness disappears, too. All excitement or anticipation have
turned to hollow dread that guts me deep and leaves me unable to feel anything
but a nagging, stabbing tingle of nerves and anxiety.”
Olynda was by now smiling a farmer’s daughter’s smile, the
sort of smile a girl might smile when flattering poetry is whispered into her
good ear. Sigurd continued to look down, accepting that this would be his night
of shame.
***
Tan
walked to the middle room of the mobile home to see Sigmund watching couple’s
S&M videos and a family bestiality video she recognized, called Bestial
Cravings, in the picture-in-picture at the bottom of the screen. His face was
wet with tears, his pants barely unzipped. Tan set a Bud Light on the desk
beside him and didn’t say a word. She sat down on the couch and lit a
cigarette. Sigmund’s sniffling was inaudible below the sound of a man being
whipped by a masked woman in leather. He took a sip of Bud Light.
Tan
closed her eyes, spread her legs, and slid her hand up her inner thigh. A
violin played a haunting solo behind her eyes, its tempo increasing with the
beat of her heart. Her hand moved faster, back and forth, up and down, around
and around, her fingers dancing a pauper’s jig around her privates. It was as
if at any moment an orchestra would begin accompanying the violin in her head,
but she kept a steady pace, allowed her stimulation to reach a plateau before
diving into the final movement. That’s when it happened. The orchestra burst
in, horns and strings and timpanis and woodwinds backed the violin’s furious
screech until climax. Tan let out a brief scream and it was over. Before her
eyes opened a different kind of horn sounded. This one sounded real, not of her
sexual imagination. And not of the
musical sort, but of the deep, troubling sort. The kind of horn an
18-wheel semi-truck might sound on the interstate. And once more it blared out.
Tan’s
eyes opened. “The fuck is that?” she shouted.
Sigmund
fell out of his chair and zipped up his pants. “Nothin’,” he said. “Watchin’ a
wedding.”
“Not
that. Outside.” Tan stood up and went to the window, peering into the front
lawn. “Motherfuck. Sig, there’s a truck in the yard. A big ol’ truck.”
“What
kinda truck?” Sigmund asked, standing up slow.
“I
said a big ol’ truck.”
“Kick
ass. I always wanted a truck. You think I can fit a boat in the back?”
“
I ain’t a truck stop gal. I don’t know. Come see for yourself. You ain’t even got a boat! ”
“Thinkin’
about getting’ one,” Sigmund said as he walked to the window. “Hot shit, that’s
a semi. Givin’ me a semi, if ya know what I mean.” He winked at Tan and rubbed
her belly.
“Someone’s
getting’ out,” Tan said, her cigarette about to fall out of her mouth.
“Old
man looks lost,” Sigmund said. “Really, though, I was just watchin’ a friend’s
wedding.”
“What’s
that in his hands?”
Sigmund
squinted his eyes out the window. “Looks like a shotgun.”
“What
do you suppose he’s gonna do with it?”
The
old man fired the gun into the air.
“Fuck!”
Sigmund rolled to the ground and covered his head with his arms. Tan backed
away from the window and dropped her cigarette on the floor.
“Siggy,
what’s he want?”
“I
don’t fucking know, woman!”
Another
shotgun blast rang out. “Get out here, little shits!” The old man’s voice was
like an empty toolbox.
“Think
he’s talkin’ to us?” Tan said.
“Go
out and ask him,” Sigmund said. “I’ll wait here.”
“Fuck
no, Siggy.”
Another
shotgun blast. “You got ten seconds!”
Sigmund
hurried to his feet and opened the front door. His hands flew into the air.
“Don’t shoot!” Tan followed him, her hands also in the air.
The
man was pushing 80 at least, but was large and imposing in stature. “Where’s
the rest of ‘em?” he asked. “Get ‘em out here.”
“No
one else inside, sir,” Sigmund said.
“Just
the two of ya?” the man asked.
“Just
us,” Tan said. Then she started to cry.
“Where
the fuck they at!?” the man shouted.
***
“These aren’t bad things, to feel this way,”
Sigfried read in a mocking tone. “They’re
good things. The feel of sudden death makes me feel alive. That you’re the one
person who can make me feel like this says a lot about the power you hold.
You’re someone special.”
“Sigurd,” Olynda said, shyly. “Did you write that?”
Sigurd nodded.
Sigfried continued. “Now
that we’re hanging out I’m having such a nice time. It couldn’t be better. I
couldn’t be happier. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. There’s no one I’d rather
be with. We’re talking about all sorts of things, all over the board! Great
conversations, great catching up, and our drinks go forever!”
“You write like
one of them wig-wearin’ guys who write with feathers,” Sigfried said. “I could stare at you for hours, but I won’t.
I’m just stealing friendly glances, smiling, having a nice time. It’s so nice
you aren’t ashamed to be seen in public with me. It makes it seem like you might
enjoy this, too. But I know you’re just being nice.”
Olynda stepped closer to Sigurd.
“Tonight, when we
part ways and I ride my bike home, I’m overcome with the same breathless
disappointment and self loathing. It
always comes after you depart. There’s a ball of melancholy in my chest while I
ride home with my headphones on. I hope on the street a car hits me and sends
me flying off my bike, into a ditch, and I die there, cut up and bruised. I
think of all the things I did wrong.”
Sigfried started to laugh. “Goddammit. You must cry a lot
when no one’s looking. I gotta let Sigmund see this shit.” Sigfried coughed. His
eyes went wide. “Hm. Oh boy. I think the drugs ain’t done with me.”
The sound of an enormous engine rumbled in the distance, and
Olynda and the brothers became quiet. Blinding headlights appeared in the fog,
racing toward them. The ground-clouds dispersed to reveal a semi-truck
barreling toward the graveyard, along the dirt road leading to the gate. The
gate crashed open, and the semi truck stopped just short of running over the
graveyard’s only visitors.
Olynda ran back to the tree and jumped into its branches,
screaming, “Ho’mygod, ho’mygod, ho’mygod,” as she ran.
“Is this happenin’, or is this drugs?” Sigfried asked,
his eyes bloodshot and his hands shaking.
“This is not drugs,” Sigurd said.
The driver’s side door on the truck flew open and the old
man stepped out, shotgun in hand, and he walked to the back of the truck to
open the trailer. Sigmund and Tan stepped out. The old man motioned for them to
follow him. He walked closer to Sigurd.
“Evenin’ boys,” the old man said. “Gonna bust ya up with
ma’ Remington.”
“Us?” Sigurd asked. He looked at Sigmund and Tan, then at
Sigfried. “Why?”
“Ya got slimy faces and diseased bellies,” the man said,
following it with a wheezing laugh that seemed to taint the air with a fishing
boat’s aroma. “Remington’s hungry for some shootin’. I like to kill with mah
Remington.”
“He been talkin’ about his Remington all the way over
here,” Sigmund said. “We could hear it in the back.”
“Shut yer mouth, boy,” the old man said, pointing the gun
at Sigmund. “I’ll blast that gold chain right off yer neck, n’ take yer head
with it.”
Sigmund took the gold chain off his neck and threw it on
the ground at the man’s feet. “Take it!” he said.
“Don’t want yer fuckin’ gold, boy. Keep it.” The old man
fired the shotgun into the air and everyone ducked, and covered their ears.
“Betcha wish yer moms was here now, dontcha, boys?” the
old man said. “Momma and papa, right? Wish ya had that teet to suckle up to,
and yer old man’s hairy chest to cuddle up with. Maybe a nice kiss on the cheek
from the both of ‘em, to keep ya safe.”
The brothers looked at one another, Sigfried only barely
aware of the situation, and all shook their heads to disagree with the old man.
“Well, they ain’t here!” the old man shouted. “Too bad,
ain’t it!” He fired another shot into the air, toward the tree. Something fell
from the branches. “I’m comin’ atcha like a hundred mile an hour fastball!”
“Oh my God!” Sigurd shouted, running to the tree. “You
shot her!”
Olynda lied on the ground, a sizeable wound in her leg.
She screamed a banshee’s wail as she bled.
The old man gasped and ran to her side. “My Lord!
Olynda!”
“Are you her father?” Sigurd asked, shouting over Olynda’s
screams. He knelt by Olynda’s side.
“Father?” the old man muttered. “Boyfriend.” He dropped
his gun and embraced Olynda. “Don’t worry, honey. We gonna getcha to a
hospital.”
Sigurd stepped back. “Her boyfriend? You mean her grandma’s boyfriend?”
“Her fuckin’ boyfriend, Sigurd! You shit! I ain’t her
dad. Hell, I’m yer fuckin’ granddad.
Howdy ho, ya little fuck. Now help me pick her up.”
“This is like a grief explosion all over my face,” Sigfried
said, his eyes bloodshot, nodding his head in a circle.
***
The
semi-truck roared down the interstate with the old man at the wheel. “Keep
pressure on the leg, son,” he told Sigurd, who held his hands at Olynda’s leg.
She was placed in the middle seat, between the two. Sigfried, Sigmund, and Tan
were in the back, holding on for life as the truck burned rubber.
“What
were you firing that gun off for? You trying to kill us? What the fuck, old
man?” Sigurd seemed angry.
“Call
me grampa. Don’t you remember me, boy? You boys was young when I last saw ya,
took ya on the sailboat and showed ya how to fake a pregnancy. I’m the one who
got yer dad the job writin’ subtitles for the black characters in Hollywood
movies. I’m connected. Looks like ya grown
up, some. Listen, I was only tryin’ to scare ya back there. You and yer
brothers. Yer parents wanna see ya. Miss the buncha ya awful bad.”
“I
can’t go back,” Sigurd said, one hand holding Olynda’s hand, the other holding
her leg. It was the first time he’d touched her, and he was touching her with
both hands. It was nice, even considering the circumstances. “I came in pop’s
face. Mom’s too.”
“Boy,
that’s coward talk and you know it. Maybe—wait, hold up.” The old man pulled
his Remington shotgun off the floor of the truck and rolled down the window. A pickup
truck had just merged into his lane. “Christmas time, ol’ boy!” the old man
shouted. He stuck the shotgun out the side of the truck and blasted a hole in
the bed of the pickup. It swerved quickly out of his lane and into a darkness
beyond the old man’s field of vision or field of concern. He set the shotgun
back on the floor. “Maybe you came in ya parents’ faces, maybe ya embarrassed
yaself. But you know what? You stop givin’ a fuck about that and start worryin’
about the bond of family.”
The
old man’s words drifted through Sigurd’s
head while he watched his hand grow red from Olynda’s blood. She was getting
light headed, seeming to drift in and out of consciousness. She hadn’t been
screaming for a good five minutes. Maybe the pain had started to disappear.
“How
long have you and Olynda been together?” Sigurd asked.
“Seems
I oughta ask you the same thing, Sigurd,” the old man replied. “You got a
heartbeat for her. I can tell. Ain’t no boy gonna let himself get bloody from a
girl he don’t fancy. I know, ‘cause I was a boy once.”
Sigurd
looked the old man in the eyes, but the old man’s eyes were looking forward,
angry at the road, so it hardly mattered. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“The
girl and I been seein’ each other a couple months, now. Met her at the
graveyard. I come see Jonathan from time to time. She was there, sittin’ under
that tree just starin’ at his tombstone. I come by to put a bottle of wine at
Jonathan’s grave and she’s askin’ me if I’ll introduce her. I says no, explain
it’s a family thing, but I introduce myself
to her. We get to talkin’ and one thing led to another and we started kissin’.
Girl’s got a tongue like a Cincinnati racehorse. Knows how to use it, too. Was
hopin’ she’d make me young again.”
Sigurd
blushed and shook his head. Olynda’s grip on his hand started to loosen. Her
eyes darted from side to side. Stay with us, Sigurd’s eyes seemed to say. I’m
trying, Olynda’s eyes seemed to say.
“Got
her pregnant, actually,” the man said. “Had an abortion. We don’t tell her
parents that. But they know we fuck.”
“I
don’t really want to hear anymore,” Sigurd said. The rest of the ride to the
hospital was silent except for the times the old man fired his shotgun at cars.
***
Fenton’s
lips caressed Garlilah’s hips, and echoed guitar chords played through their
childless home. All the lights were off and for the first time in months, the
two were intimate. As Fenton’s pants dropped to the floor the phone rang.
“Let
the machine get it,” Garlilah said.
“I’ll
show you a machine,” Fenton said.
As
the call went to the answering machine, Fenton’s father’s voice blared through
the kitchen.
“Fenton,
this is Pop. There was a problem. We’re at the hospital now. Ya know how the
Remington gets. Bye.”
“He
shot the boys!” Garlilah and Fenton yelled, simultaneously.
***
Sigmund,
Tan, and Sigfried laughed in the trailer.
“And
here’s the last part,” Sigfried said, reading from Sigurd’s journal. “The next day I’ll be consumed with a feeling
I don’t like. Like I’m mourning something that’s lost. I’ll be silent and sick
all day, ready to vomit at a moment’s notice. I won’t have an appetite. Even
music sounds like shit. Days will go by and this feeling will diminish. I’ll
return to normal, I’ll talk to friends again, I’ll get back to sewing and
cross-stitching. But I’ll think of you often, and remember the last time we
hung out. I’ll look forward to when we see each other again. I’ll hope for
things that I know won’t happen. I’ll think nice thoughts and turn into an
awkward little boy when I talk to you again. I’ll continue with my life and
hope I see you soon.”
Laughter
carried through the trailer.
“What
a goddamn idiot,” Sigmund said. “Sigurd oughtta write soaps.”
“It
ain’t good enough to be soaps, Sigmund,” said Tan. “Soaps are good, this
ain’t.”
Sigfried
set the journal down. “Man… I… hmm…” he pushed his hand through his hair.
“Drugs
still goin’?” Sigmund asked.
Sigfried
nodded.
***
“Which
one of you did he shoot!?” Fenton yelled as he stormed into the emergency room.
But only Sigurd and his father were there.
“Oh
my God!” Garlilah cried. “Sigmund and Sigfried!” She did the sign of the cross
and tears ran down her face.
“Naw,
neither of ‘em,” the old man said. “Shot mah girlfriend. She’s in with the doctors
now, gettin’ all fixed up.”
“Where
are your brothers?” Fenton said to Sigurd.
“Awe
shit,” the old man said, running out of the room. “Left ‘em in the back of the
truck! I’ll be right back.”
“How
are you, Sigurd?” Garlilah said. “It’s been so long!”
“It’s
been a week, Ma,” said Sigured, unable to look either parent in the eye.
“Son,
I know you’re embarrassed about the cum.” Fenton turned on his best
father-to-son voice. “But we’re past that. We want you to be past it, too.”
Sigurd
stood up and faced his parents. “I’m so sorry.” He tried to smile. They came in
for a hug that Sigurd hesitantly accepted.
Double
doors flew open and a doctor covered in blood walked out at a brisk pace.
“Hello,” he said, pulling the mask down from his face. “We couldn’t save her.
She bled out. I’m sorry. We did what we could. We will be contacting the girl’s
parents. If you’d like to see the body, follow me.” He turned around and walked
back through the double doors.
Sigurd’s
eyes teared up. “No! No!” he shouted. “Shit…”
Fenton
noticed the bulge in Sigurd’s pants. “My god! Garlilah, down!”
But
it was too late. Sigurd achieved a level 9 orgasm that rocketed through his
jeans, blasting Mom and Dad in the face, and sending him into the wall. The
force was so great he could make no attempt to tame it. His parents were soon
covered, and so were the four strangers who shared the emergency waiting room
with them.
The
old man ran to the back of the trailer hitched to his truck and unlocked the
padlock.
“Sorry,
fellas!” he shouted as he opened the door. Expecting to be met by his
grandson’s and a whale of a potential daughter-in-law, he was instead met by
thousands of black scorpions crawling along the floor, walls, and ceiling of
the trailer. Sigmund and Tan soon ran out, covered in stings that bled from
their limbs.
“Grampa!”
shouted Sigmund, falling to his knees. “Sigfried’s made ‘em real. The
scorpions! Awe, god. Something’s happened. They’re real.”
Tan
fell to the ground in obvious pain, crying out into the hospital’s moonlit
parking lot.
“Lucky
for the two o’ you, we’re at a hospital,” said the old man. He looked in the
trailer for Sigfried.
Scorpions
poured from the trailer in a swarming black mass, and the old man mostly
ignored them as they scuttled past his feet and into the cool night air. Prey
was out there, and they would find it.
Sigfried
walked forward from the shadows. Scorpions crawled all over his body but not a
wound was on him. His face was beaming with pride and the gleam of
accomplishment. His eyes were red as
blood. He clutched Sigurd’s journal in his arms.
“They’re
real, old man,” Sigfried said. “I always knew they were.” He walked out of the
trailer.
The
old man nodded at the boy as he walked past, and made sure not to step on any
of his scorpions. The boy’s tapped through, he thought. His ability shines like
a beacon. A psychic beacon.
From
across the parking lot a cry was heard, and Sigurd came running toward the
group, the bells on his coat heralding his approach like a siren. As he came
closer it became clear he wasn’t going to stop. He just kept running. His pants
were at his ankles.
Not
far behind him were Fenton and Garlilah, wearing scrubs, and wiping something
from their eyes.
“The
fuck was that?” the old man asked. “The boy seems a lil’ upset.”
“The
girl died,” Fenton said. “Sigurd had a crush on her. She bled to death, and,
well, he ain’t takin’ it so well.”
“What
on God’s green earth!?” Garlilah shouted upon seeing Sigmund and Tan lying on
the ground, surrounded by thousands of fleeing scorpions.
“Looks
like yer boy Sigfried over there made some friends. Literally made ‘em, know
what I’m sayin’?”
Sigfried
spun in circles while scorpions crawled on his body. He hummed tender notes to
the sky.
Sigurd
tripped on his pants and fell face first into the concrete of the parking lot. Fenton
and the old man ran to him.
“You
alright, son?” Fenton asked. “Don’t worry about, uh, inside. I know you’re
upset.”
“Sigurd,”
the old man said. “I see yer pretty down about this girl dyin’. Listen, though.
Last time we fucked, she said your name. She called me by it. Swear to God. She
said, “Sigurd go deep, go real deep!” I know she was thinkin’ of ya.”
Sigurd
turned his scraped up face to the old man, wiped the tears from his eyes, and
forced a whimpering smile. “Really?”
“I
said ‘Swear to God’. I don’t swear for nothin’.”
Garlilah
ran to Sigurd’s side. “My boy! Are you alright? All my babies are hurtin’!”
“He’ll
be fine,” Fenton said. He grabbed the old man by the arm and pulled him away.
“Dad. You were fuckin’ that girl in there? What the hell?”
“Aw,
no way,” said the old man. “My dick ain’t worked in decades. Just tellin’ the
boy a few lies. Tryin’ to make it easier on him when she passed, is all.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Oh,
the girl was no good. Olynda was her name. Never met her before in ma life, but
Jonathan told me all about her. Just
about the time I showed up to scare yer kids shitless, ol’ Jonathan starts
rattlin’ off his streaming lines of psychic warnings. Says “there be a girl in
that tree! Blast her down!” So’s I did. Hit her right in the leg. But goddammit
if Sigurd wasn’t in love with her. Jonathan filled me in on the rest and I
played my part. Had to be done, I s’pose.”
“Why
the hell’d you shoot her, Pop?”
“She
had bad intentions for the boy. Wanted to hurt him somethin’ fierce. Jonathan
said so.”
“Jonathan’s
dead, Pop.”
“I
know.”
“The
boys all think they can speak to him, but they can't.”
“They
can’t,” said the old man. “But I sure as fuck can.”
Garlilah
got the attention of a cluster of nurses inside the hospital who came to rush Tan
and Sigmund away.
“I
got a speech to write!” Sigmund yelled as he was pulled inside the hospital.
“My
academic darlin’,” Tan could be heard saying as the doors closed.
“Sigfried!”
Garlilah screamed. “Why the scorpions?”
“They’re
real, Ma!” he said. He stopped spinning and sat on the ground. The scorpions
weren’t running around as they had been, and seemed lethargic. As he sat
surrounded by scorpions, Fenton and the old man joined Garlilah.
“S’pose
we oughtta get the boys back home,” said the old man. “Awfully late. Sigurd
said they got church in the mornin’.”
“What
will we do with all them scorpions, Pop?” said Fenton. “Can’t take them with
us.”
“I
can take them,” Sigfried said. “I promised myself I’d never play god, but watch
this.” He stood up, tucked his brother’s journal into the top of his pants, and
closed his eyes. The scorpions moved in what appeared to be choreographed
motion, climbing upon one another, taking positions on the ground, and forming
a massive black shape with their bodies. Scorpions attached to one another to
form large, upright circles, and others grabbed onto the massive shape to
connect these circles.
“My
chariot,” Sigfried said.
“Dear
God,” Garlilah said, trembling. “The boy’s a demon. He need to go to church to
be renewed.”
“The
boy’s an angel,” said Fenton, wiping sweat from his brow, obviously impressed.
“The
boy’s neither,” said the old man. “I’m getting’ outta here. Ya’ll are puttin’
me up for the night. I ain’t drivin’ all the way home.”
“Who
shall ride the chariot with me?” Sigfried said, as he climbed into the black
swarm of scorpion creation.
“I’ll
go,” said Sigurd, pants-less, cut in the face, tears running down his cheeks.
His bells jingled as he climbed onto the scorpion chariot. “And give me my
journal. I have updates to make.”
“I
don’t think that’s wise, boys,” said Garlilah. “It’s just scorpions! It won’t
move!”
Wind
rushed through the parking lot and the lamps flickered. A flash of light came
in front of the scorpion chariot. When it cleared, a twenty foot long tarantula
stood in the parking lot, brown hair on its legs and abdomen, and moonlight
reflecting from its eyes. Scorpions from the scorpion chariot crawled up the
tarantula’s back legs and formed a chain from tarantula to chariot. Sigfried
threw his hands in the air to signal triumph, and commanded the beasts to take
him and his brother home. The tarantula pulled the chariot at a speed that
surprised Mom, Dad, and the old man. It crawled into the street and scampered
away into the dark, the pitch-black chariot of scorpions pulled close behind.
“We’re gonna see how Sigmund and Tan are
doin’, Pop,” said Fenton. “And maybe wait around to see if Olynda’s parents
show up. We’ll see ya at home.”
The
old man climbed in his truck as Fenton and Garlilah walked into the hospital.
He set his shotgun on the seat in case he ran into any tarantulas on the road.
***
The
tarantula-drawn scorpion-chariot stopped before a smoldering foundation where
the mobile home had been. “They took our home,” said Sigfried, his hair a mess
and his eyes in distress. “I dunno what to do.”
“No
one took anything,” said Sigurd. “Looks like it burnt down. Everything’s gone.
It don’t matter, anyway. Who needs a home when you ain’t got a heart left to
live in it?”
“Everyone
needs a home, Sigurd. Even the heartless.”
“Must
have been Ma and Pa burned the place down,” said Sigurd. “Wantin’ us to move
home.”
The
brothers discussed their circumstances and argued about their next step.
Sigfried was too high to understand any of Sigurd’s suggestions. Sigurd was too
grief-stricken to care about Sigfried’s ideas, or his dazzling displays of
sudden psychic abilities. The sun rose above the hills to the east as the
brothers lamented into humid morning air. As Sigfried’s drugs wore off, the
tarantula and scorpions relaxed. Fatigue seemed to pull them away from his
grasp, and he grew tired as well. Sigurd hopped off the chariot of scorpions
and looked at his watch. Church would be starting soon. He didn’t have pants,
but he had his coat. That would do. He got to walking.
Bells
rang as Sigurd walked up the sidewalk to the old brick Baptist Church he went
to every Sunday and Wednesday since he could make his own decisions. Dehydrated
and exhausted, his face scabbing over, he pushed his way through the doors and
took a seat in the back. With no pants on the wooden pews felt cold against his
skin. He hoped his coat would attract God’s eyes and ears. He prayed quietly
while the preacher preached a Sunday parable to the yawning masses.
He
prayed for God to hug Olynda and to cover her in holy kisses when she arrived
to Heaven. He prayed for Jesus to be a good man to her, to never let his beard
get too close to her soft cheek. He prayed that Olynda would meet Mary and form
a friendship with her. The kind of friendship she would never have found on
Earth. He prayed that when his grandfather died, he would be sent to Hell and
kept as far away from Olynda as possible.
“I’ve
got a prayer request, today,” said the preacher, after his sermon. “Sigurd Poppertawn
has requested the church pray for him and for a woman named Olynda. Sigurd asks
us to pray for Olynda to look deep in her heart and to accept Jesus as her
savior, and then accept Sigurd as a lover.”
Sigurd
shook his head at the preacher, waving at him, hoping to silence the man. “No!”
Sigurd shouted. “It’s OK, really. That prayer request was from last week. I
don’t need it, now.”
“Quiet,
boy,” said the preacher, “This isn’t a call and response sermon. You can preach when you got a congregation
sittin’ in front of you. Why would you put in a request you don’t want? Maybe you don’t need it. But maybe Olynda
does. Someday, God’s gonna want to place his magic fingers on her and check her
for devils and demons. She’s gonna need the Lord’s holy residues on her before
that day comes so he can take her into Heaven. We gonna pray for her real good.
Everyone, I want a community prayer goin’ out to Olynda tonight. Everyone get
by your bed, your couch, your bathroom door, and take a knee. Open your hearts
and pray to the Lord that Olynda finds Jesus. Call out to her. Let her know
you’re with her.”
The
bells on Sigurd’s coat jingled through the church as he left the building. As
the morning sun hit him in the eyes, he reflected that he’d always hated the
idea of other religions existing, even other sects of Christianity. But maybe
it was time to find a new church. His voice found itself muted enough at home.
How was he supposed to get God’s attention with his voice muted in between the
pews? That was the point of his coat. A beacon to draw attention to his needs.
Jonathan’s advice made sense. It just didn’t seem to work. Maybe there weren’t
enough bells.
Smells
of toast and pancakes from the diner tempted Sigurd as he passed on his way home.
He was too tired for breakfast. He would sleep by the ashes of his house. Maybe
he would search the remains for old notes from Olynda, or a pair of pants.
As
Sigurd walked through the diner’s parking lot, a Buick LaSabre pulled in front
of him and stopped. The window on the driver’s side rolled down to reveal
Sigmund’s smiling face.
“Hey
brother,” said Sigmund, his face swollen and red with small wounds. “How was
church? Want some breakfast?”
“Fine.
And no. I’m goin’ home. Don’t really got an appetite.”
“Home’s
gone,” Tan shouted from the passenger seat. Her face was also red, and her lips
bulged like a balloon animal worm. “Fire got it.”
“I
know,” said Sigurd. “Ma and Pa did it, I guess.” He stretched in his coat and
pulled it down to cover his privates.
Exchanging
glances, Tan and Sigmund shook their heads, then nodded, then tried to decide
which to stick with. Nodding.
“Yeah,”
said Sigmund. “Guess so. Probably wasn’t Tan’s smokin’. Ain’t never caused a
fire before, anyway.”
“Come
and eat with us, Sigurd,” Tan said, squeezing her lips together in the rearview
mirror. “We just got outta the hospital."
The
only empty table in the diner still had coffee stains on the fake wood surface,
and maple syrup on the seats. Sigmund and Tan sat their swollen butts in one
seat and Sigurd sat across from them. Syrup felt good on his bare skin.
“We’re
gettin’ married,” said Sigmund, holding Tan’s swollen hand up, with a gold
ring stuck over the tip of her finger, unable to be slid down any further. The
tip of her finger was purple. “Proposed to her last night!”
Tan
squealed a laugh that permeated the entire diner but didn’t draw the kind of
attention she had hoped for. But she smiled.
“That’s
really somethin’,” said Sigurd. “You guys will be happy.”
“Kinda
a good thing the home went up in flames,” Tan said. “My daddy came by the
hospital this mornin’. He was real happy to hear the news! Said he’s buyin’ us
a house boat out on the river. Got three hundred horsepower, Sigurd. Big ol’
engines on it.”
“Always
wanted a boat,” Sigmund said, wiping syrup off the seat and licking his swollen
finger.
“But
I ain’t happy the home is gone,” said Sigurd. “Where’m I gonna live? Or
Sigfried?”
“Sigfried’s
off with his spiders,” said Sigmund. “We just saw him by the house. Spiders built
a big web in the trees and he’s sleepin’ in there. Scorpions, tarantulas, crabs,
snakes, and stuff. All kinds of gross stuff. A big hole in the front yard, too.
Looks like his big tarantula sleepin’ in it.”
“You
could live with your grampa,” said Tan. “Or why not move back in with your
parents?”
Sigurd
stared at the table and shook his head. The coffee stains stared back.
A
waitress walked to the table, short of breath, appearing to be in a hurry.
“Mornin’ ya’ll,” she said. “Can I start you folks with some biscuits and
gravy?”
Sigurd
looked up to face the voice he recognized and looked into a black woman’s face.
Sigmund shared his gaze.
The
woman forced a smile and nodded. “How ya’ll doin’?” Disgusted by the condition
of her customers, and recognizing the brothers from the county fair, she lost
her enthusiasm for providing the quality
service the diner was known for.
“Fine.”
Sigurd lowered his head and rested his arms at his side in hopes his bells
wouldn’t betray his nerves.
“We
might need a minute,” said Tan. The waitress sighed, rolled her eyes, and left.
“Sigurd,”
Sigmund said, sudden enthusiasm in his voice. “I got it-“
“I
know,” said Sigurd, with an air of confidence. “I think I’ll do it. I’ll sell
myself on the black market. Hope a wife buys me up and gives me a place to
live.”
“I
was thinkin’ you could get a side of bacon and I’ll get a side of sausage so we
can share. But that’s a good idea, too. Do whatever you want.”
“I
ain’t livin’ with Mom and Dad again.”
“Ain’t
no one gonna buy a white man for a husband, though,” Sigmund said. “Not even
with all them bells.”
“I’d
buy you,” said Tan, into Sigmund’s
ear. She licked his swollen neck.
“You
know I’d buy you, girl,” Sigmund said,
licking Tan's swollen lips.
“Someone
will buy me,” Sigurd assured himself. “Jonathan says the market’s lookin’ for
guys like me.”
Tan
and Sigmund were kissing in their seat, tongues afire with animal desire, unaware
of Sigurd’s words, and happy about the future. Sigurd waited for the waitress to
return and thought that he, too, might be happy about the future soon.
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