“And it never did me a fuckin bit a good.”
He gestured around at the darkened walls full of movie memorabilia. “Ya see all these posters, all this shit I got around here? I gave up whatever I coulda been and took this on. And let me tell ya, it ain’t enough. It’s just emptiness and memories, and most of em ain’t even mine. I pictured myself livin the kinda life I wanted through characters in movies and books and for a long while it seemed like enough. Well it ain’t. It’s a kick in the ass ta realize somethin like that too late, but thank God I did. Wouldn’t want ta go blind and kickin ta the grave. All them stories I tole you, Billy. Most of ‘em’s made-up. And not everythin by me. The trunk over there with the journal and newspapers, the old clothes; it’s all there for effect. It’s the only thin I’m good at.
“Ya see, all I turned out ta be is a half-rate storyteller.
“I make up shit ‘cause I got nothin better ta do. Been too goddamned wrapped up beatin myself over the head for thins I couldn’t change. When somethin’s time goes by ya let it go. I know this. Ya gotta make room for the livin and let the dead lay.” He wiped a hand across his face to clear the tears running from his eyes. His face held no shame. Now in fact, it looked stronger than ever before.
“But in you,” he said, pointing his finger at Billy, “I see salvation. My salvation. Maybe there is a such thing as a miracle and ya’ve just gotta be perceptive enough ta recognize em when they look ya in the eye. Ain’t no time for second guessin. Ya live long enough ya’ll see what I mean.”
Ebenezer shut his mouth and let time roll by.
“’Did his love kill him?’” Billy asked, only half aware of the thing he’d spoken.
“What’s ‘at?”
Billy shook his head and looked into Ebenezer’s eyes. “That night we took the cab home. You asked me that. I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about then, but now…” Billy took a quick sip and set the bottle down on the floor beside him. He felt it was time to give the old man back something, as little as it seemed to be.
“You’re more than a storyteller, Eb.”
Ebenezer shrugged his shoulders. “It takes a long time for some things, Billy. It was the night I got stabbed that finally woke me from the sleep. But only gradually. I don’t think real insight ever comes quick.”
Billy could no longer hold back. “Eb,” he said quietly. “I saw those guys that night and ran! I should have tried to get back to warn you—“
“Goddammit! Billy! Ain’t ya heard a word I said?!” His roar shocked the boy to silence. Ebenezer’s nostrils flared and for a second Billy thought the old man might get up and strike him. But then the old man closed his eyes, and made a studied attempt to slow his breathing. He held his hands out in apology and peace. “I’m sorry, fuck. Don’t mean ta lose my temper.” His eyes were wounded now, as if Billy had been the one yelling. “Just please listen ta me.
“What ya think don’t matter. Things had ta happen like they did. That’s the night I had my epiphany. That’s when this understandin began to form, finally, after all the years I let slide by. I made it back ta the Ripcord somehow. This thing didn’t come when I first woke up, but I do remember it later, from dreams I had while I was there in the hospital. I saw smoke and fire and destruction that I helped rain down on Germany from the B-17’s we flew over Europe.
“I never set foot in that country but I used ta picture what it looked like after we left, and I used ta worry ‘bout the innocent women and children there that had no choice in the hell we brung with us. But there was nothin ta be done. Call it Fate or Destiny or Nothin At All. Whatever it was it had ta be lived or died with; it was that simple.
“While I was strugglin back ta the bar that night, my head spinnin while I bled out all over, I began ta see in clear, vivid detail the kinda destruction that had only been formless and vague in my mind for years. Clearer than any goddamn movie ever was. The smell and sense of doom surroundin me made it much more. Every ravaged chunk of shattered concrete, every little wisp a smoke that trailed outta the blasted hulks a houses and tanks…and bodies. Gray hung over everythin, even the faces a the livin, faces twisted tight in pain. Blood ran in black rivers from underneath piles a rubble, from smokin doorways. Everwhere was nothin but burnt earth.
“But inside one a the smashed houses, I could peer through what remained ova window. Shards a fingered glass ringed two sides a the frame, and the rest was just gone. A fire still burned within. And I looked inside, searchin for survivors or somethin I guess, (it really was more of a dream than vision) and on top a the only spot a remainin floor stood a table. An undamaged table. On this table sat a single red apple.
“Through the chokin smoke I could see it was bruised, sure, but it was still whole. It was the only thin that seemed outta place. I remember standin there puzzled, lookin at that apple with this incredible fascination, fascination that kept rollin over, compoundin. ‘S been with me ever since.” Ebenezer stopped and pointed a very steady finger at Billy before going on.
“You’re that apple, Billy. Bruised, yes. Ain’t no doubt a that, but still whole, managin ta shine through the circumstances that surround ya. So what was it? A miracle, a vision…just an hallucination? I don’t know, not quite able yet. Maybe it’s really some cock-eyed symbol a myself an for some God-forsaken reason it just chose ta come outta hidin. Doan matter; I know what I b’lieve it is and I’m lookin at ‘im. I’m finished with my ‘repentin in leisure’ as the old folks used ta say when I was a lad. I’m not gonna pile on the bad anymore; it don’t have no use. I hope you won’t either. Life ain’t worth it. I don’t know how clear I been but I hope ya get the gist a what I’m sayin.”
Billy looked directly into Ebenezer’s eyes. “Maybe so,” he replied. “Elizabeth wrote me a note the day she died. Talked about how a vision she’d had whispered it was almost over, all the pain. She said afterward, when she woke, she couldn’t wait anymore…”
Ebenezer smiled. “Yeah, well. Who says miracles don’t happen? Just maybe they don’t always scream and yell for everybody ta watch. Sometimes, most times I’m startin ta believe, they just play aroun in the background, givin out lil clues for ya ta interpret as ya will. Maybe we should listen more ta the whispers…”and Ebenezer looked away. “Ya ever heard a Golgotha, Billy?”
“Yeah, that’s where they crucified Christ and the two thieves.”
“Right. Years back I wrote a poem. When I got finished I didn’t really know what it was about and now it must be long gone. It was about the crucifixion and all the agony that was goin on there on the Hill, the history that was bein made. But then it cut ta a fat ole tom cat lickin his lips behind the pews of a synagogue not far away. There was blood on the floor spilled from the mouse it just killed. A seeminly small, insignificant piece a circumstance against that immense backdrop a history an influence. Wish I knew where that old poem was because it just now cleared itself up.
“We all got Golgotha’s, Billy. They’re never far away, even in the best a times, because we never can tell when the rugs gonna get pulled. The best we can do is deal with whatever comes and go on. The best we can do and hope for is all we should expect.” Ebenezer laughed lightly. “A course, we should look out for miracles too.”
Billy nodded his head and laughed too, louder than Ebenezer. After the sound passed away the smile stayed. “You’re probably right, Eb. The stories don’t lie about what’s inside.” He pushed the bottle to the side with his foot. “And hell, some of what you say’s gotta be the truth.”
Ebenezer matched Billy’s smile with his own. “Let’s hope so, boy. My God, let’s hope so.”
June 27, 2003
Chapter 72
“…so when the doors of the elevator rolled open and he saw the flames waiting on the other side, he suddenly knew Hell was a lot hotter than anyone ever expected,” and Bill Stockton finished his story before stopping to wet his whistle. Talking always brought on a powerful thirst. He sat across from the young UNO philosoph
y major valiantly engaged (when he wasn’t drinking in the many bars around town) in completing his dissertation.
Not much had changed at the Ripcord in the decade-plus since Billy’d discovered the place, except many familiar faces had gone, new ones appearing as if sent to replace them. The sign outside had been modernized in an attempt to bring in a younger clientele, but it had not been able to change the mood inside. It was still perpetually sedate, barring unspeakable drunkenness which only occasionally had a way of slipping inside. Bill’s face was much the same at it’d always been although it was slightly marred around the eyes and corners of the mouth with faint wrinkles, and his long hair was now thinning and flecked with an early gray which made him look older than his years. It didn’t bother him though; he’d been through the fires of Hell and no one came through unscathed. Scars were to be expected.
The old jukebox (miraculously still in service) had been revamped also; now it contained music from as far back as fifteen years before rather than thirty. Bill still loved it, both the place itself and the memories floating from the box. The Ripcord still had its pride, its grandfatherly appeal. Bill supposed in a way he was keeping up its tradition. “Care for another?” he prompted his listener, holding up the husk of his empty beer mug.
“Sure,” Doug said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” Bill knew all that meant was the young guy’d go get the drinks but he wouldn’t pay for them. Bill flipped a five onto the table (it was still the only place in town to get a draft for $2.50), and watched as the befuddled philosopher made his way to the bar. Even as Bill watched him go he reminded himself that Doug still possessed more self-confidence than Bill owned over a decade before. When the young philosopher got back with the mugs Bill set his back in the wet circle left by its predecessor.
“Good, good,” Bill said, tipping a small salute as he downed a sip. Doug sat down and checked his watch.
“I gotta bug out soon. Plying through Hume looking for an angle. Not something you’re terribly interested in, huh?” The smile was teasing but well intended.
“What? Work or Hume? Not much to the first and I prefer Decartes to your boy.” He expounded no further, closing the subject by bringing the mug to his lips again.
Doug tilted his head back and drained off half his mug in a single gulp. He belched and patted his stomach, which (unlike Bill’s) had grown noticeably in the last few months. “Damn good,” he said and smacked his lips.
Bill nodded his head silently before cutting in with an off-center remark. “You remember me talking about Ebenezer.”
“Sure, the old guy who died several years back.”
“Yeah, heart attack.”
“I remember.” Doug eyed his beer, suddenly not so ready to leave for the grind. He knew Bill’s style. “What about it?”
“Remember I told you about him getting stabbed one night when he left here?”
“Uh huh.” Perhaps there was one more morsel to be tasted.
“I saw the one who did it right after Ebenezer died. Couldn’t have been more than two or three days afterward.”
“But I thought you said it was pitch black that night, that you ran, that you couldn’t be sure…”
“It was pitch black that night, and I didn’t get a real good look at him, but I knew all the same. An evil soul is almost impossible not to identify when you see it twice. You always remember.” His conviction was very clear in both his steely eyes and steady tone.
“Go on…”
Bill shook his head, the knowing smile growing on his face. “Thought you had something you needed to work on.”
“There’ll be time for that. Go on,” the philosopher pressed.
“Many things are every bit as hard to believe in as the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus, but that doesn’t make them any less real. I didn’t used to think so, but growing up, if that’s really what it is, has changed my view. Growing older helps you see things you’ve been missing for years.
Doug acquiesced. “You really think it was him?”
“I know it was, like I said. I was on the side of St. Louis Cathedral, walking down Pirate’s Alley. Does a Yankee like you know about Pirate’s Alley?” He always kidded the philosopher about being from Philly.
“Hell yeah. It’s the one in all the charcoal drawings, the famous one.”
“Yeah, the famous one. You got it. Anyway, I’d just turned the corner and down on the right, stuffed up in an alcove with this shitty straw hat on his head, was a bum handing something to this bald-headed black guy. Had a head as slick as a baby’s ass, just like the one I’d seen the night Eb got knifed. Of course, that didn’t mean a whole lot, especially with as many bald-headed black guys running around, but the closer I got, the stranger I felt.
“I slowed down when I got close and the white guy, the guy with the straw hat, kinda ducks his head. That’s when the black guy jerked around real quick to see what’s up. This is the weird part. Usually I’m one to avoid trouble, and on any other day in any other circumstance I’d’a booked it outta there. But when this guy whirls around (and I really knew it was him) I just stopped in my tracks. Cold turkey.
“And stared right back at that sonofabitch.
“He was supremely disturbed, had the kinda face reserved for demons as masks, but it didn’t work. I just stood staring straight back, suddenly aware of this intense anger growing in my gut. Then, inexplicably, I saw his eyes skitter away from my face as he lost confidence. That’s when I took a step closer, and I swear to God he fell back against the wall. His lips were moving but nothing came out. Somehow I got the up the balls to say what I said. And to this day I don’t know how.” He paused to take a pull from his mug.
“What was it?” Doug entreated.
Bill laughed and set it down. “I asked him for a light. Just like he’d done that night to me. The most sarcastic thing I’ve ever said in my life, and when he heard it he started sliding away, down the wall trying to hold me off with this weakening glare. Utterly powerless. He stumbled on a crack in the pavement and almost went down. When he regained his balance he never looked back, practically running from the alley.
“I stood there watching him go, my heart really starting to make a go for it by then. And I heard a low whistle coming from behind me. I knew it was the bum in the doorway. When I turned to look, he was staring back with this toothless, eerie grin on his face. He bunched himself up tighter in the corner and told me he’d never seen the devil run before.” Bill coughed into his closed fist.
“Come on?” Doug asked incredulously.
“I’m not kidding. When he said that I started laughing, probably as much to keep from crying or passing out as anything else. Then I mustered up what reserve I had left and walked out of that alley. Didn’t feel like pressing my luck.”
“I’ll be damn. You ever see the guy again?”
“Not yet,” Bill replied ominously.
“Well.” Doug wrinkled his forehead before slapping the table top. “Interesting,” he admitted before taking a peek at his watch. “Look Bill, I gotta run. You’ll be here later in the week I’m sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good. Well, see you then.” He got up to leave, giving Bill a friendly pat on the shoulder as he walked past. Bill swiveled around to watch his friend go, acutely aware of the déjà vu enveloping him. The places had changed, the parts become intertwined, but the story was, ultimately, the same. Something came to him then. Elizabeth’s talk of circles, life’s endless circles. Oh, dear sister. And Ebenezer too, both gone now for years.
But not entirely. Sometimes when he entered the Ripcord he could almost see the old, frazzled shadow of his friend, his deliverer, slouched down in one of the chairs near a back wall. The very air still exuded his rich essence. And Bill was it, the last of Ebenezer’s family; not bound by blood, but something stronger by far. The old man had pulled him from the Fire, as hard as it’d been for him he’d done it anyway. He’d left everything to Bill, the least of which his flat in
the French Quarter. There were still many things Ebenezer had said that remained unclear but as time went on there was a gradual lifting of the veil. Light from surrounding darkness.
He looked down at his watch. Janice, his wife, would be working in the studio by now and it was almost time to pick up little Elizabeth. Bill finished off the beer, smiling. Sometimes when she smiled the resemblance was uncanny. Anyway…he shook his head. There were papers to grade and the final draft of the story was due by the end of the week.
He cleared his throat and stood up. “Many thanks old friend,” he muttered quietly to the walls before making his way to the door.
The End
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