Where Things Come Back Page 2

  On this particular day, two days after my trip to the morgue, I decided to call Lucas and see what he had planned.

  “I’m bored to death.”

  “Wanna go for a drive?” he asked immediately.

  “You driving?”

  “I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  If you had to put Lucas Cader in a bubble, and you might be one of those people who has to do such a thing, then he would fit right smack dab in the middle of the preps. Now, keep in mind that I hate hate hate using stereotypical terms like prep and preppie, but it is unavoidable. These were the words my people, as it were, used to describe those high schoolers who dressed nice, bathed regularly, drove a nice vehicle (or, in Lily, drove a vehicle at all that wasn’t their parents’), or were on the football team. Feel free to apply whatever term you yourself would use to refer to this group if you were in my place. Lucas wasn’t much like me at all. He played football, for one thing. For another, he had a girlfriend. Her name was Mena Prescott, and she reminded me of the redhead from The Breakfast Club. She also made me uncomfortable by always hugging on me or kissing my cheek, always doing something that I assume she thought I would find flattering or sexy, but instead just found annoying and offensive. I also hated her accent. I understand that everyone who lives anywhere can be expected to have an accent, especially those of us down here in the South, but honestly, hearing her voice made me ashamed to be human, much less southern. Here’s an example: “Hey, y’all! I went o-ver th-a-y-er la-yast wayeek.” Try saying that three times fast.

  Lucas pretended to love her as much as she thought he did. But it was all bull, really. As he pulled into my driveway, I let the screen door go with one finger and listened as it tap-tap-tapped on the door frame when it shut. The smell of cologne in Lucas’s car was overpowering.

  “Did you bathe in that shit?” I asked, waving my hand before my face.

  “How’s your aunt?”

  Lucas did this all the time. You would ask him a question, serious or not, and he would manage to skillfully deflect it by bringing up something very important and distracting, out of the blue, and your previous thoughts would be left in the dust, just as my house was as we sped down Eighth Street toward town.

  “She’s a little better. She’s eating now.”

  “And Gabe?”

  “Seems the same to me.” I thought about my answer. It seemed wrong in some way.

  “You know, he’s a good kid,” Lucas said.

  “I like him all right,” I joked.

  “I mean, you’ve got all these kids around here doing bad things. Getting into trouble and getting kicked out of school and all that mess. And then you’ve got Gabriel. He just sticks out, ya know? Like he’s better than this place or something. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I did not know what he was saying.

  “I almost think of him as my little brother sometimes,” Lucas said in an oddly serious manner.

  “Sell him to you for fifty bucks?”

  One could always tell when Lucas was doing that thing where he was lost in his own thoughts, as would often happen when the topic of brothers came up. His eyes would get this certain strength about them, like they were really focusing on what was in front of them. And his lips would purse a little like he was getting ready to whistle. And one could only be left to sit back and witness this spectacle, waiting to see if anything brilliant or cathartic would come about. Usually it all ended within a few minutes, when Lucas would realize that he had gotten himself into an awkward position and made others around him feel uncomfortable. Lucas Cader was not in the habit of making others feel anything but comforted. As soon as we pulled up to Burke’s Burger Box, Mena Prescott ran up to his car window, leaned inside, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she walked around to my side, knocked on the window, waited for me to roll it down, and kissed me on the cheek as well. As she climbed into the backseat, I wiped her saliva and lipstick off my face.

  “Did you really have to see his body, Cullen?”

  She began her questions before Lucas could roll the windows back up and pull out of the parking lot.

  “I really did,” I said blandly.

  Mena Prescott had a past that did not involve innocent, good-natured boys like Lucas. It did, however, involve my overdosed cousin Oslo. Let me sum up their relationship like this: They met at a party when she was a freshman and he was a senior. They made out, both drunk, and then ran into each other one week later at the grocery store. They dated off and on for several weeks before Mena realized, I presume, that Oslo Fouke was nothing more than a drug addict and a bum. That moment in the car would be the last time Mena Prescott would ever mention Oslo Fouke, at least around me anyway.

  When one is sitting in the passenger seat of his best friend’s car as an overly enthusiastic hillbilly is ranting in the backseat about being snubbed by a cheerleader at lunch, his mind begins to wander and think about zombies. Here’s the thing about zombies: They are supposed to be killed. You just have to do it. Humans are obligated to kill zombies, just as zombies have an obligation to seek out humans and feast on their flesh. It is for this reason that I was imagining Russell Quitman and his friend Neil as zombies, wreaking havoc on Lily and killing men, women, and children. They crept down Main Street, dragging their feet, each having one ankle completely limp and dangling behind him. A woman screamed from a store window. A car sped by and crashed into a nearby tree. The scene was a gruesome one until I arrived. Walking slowly and with much confidence, I approached the Quit Man and his minion with a shotgun in one hand and an ax in the other. After idly blowing off Neil’s slobbering head, I tossed the shotgun aside and double-gripped the ax. The Quit Man was upon me—his teeth more visible than anything else and his smell causing me to gag. I dug the ax into his leg. He fell to the ground, grasping at my pants as I tried to back away for a good, clean swing at him. I tripped, falling down beside him. Just as his teeth were about to pierce the flesh of my neck, his head was smashed in by a black boot. I looked up to see Lucas Cader, smiling and reaching a hand down. Crowds gathered around us and cheered loudly. The zombies had been defeated. “Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!” The sounds surrounded us as I re-established my footing and scanned the crowd for my brother. He sat alone on the edge of the sidewalk. He had been crying. Lucas put his hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “He’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine now.”

  Book Title #73: You May Feel a Slight Sting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mysterious Kids with Shovels

  When Benton Sage found out that he would be going on a mission for his church that year, he was overwhelmed with excitement and panic. His stomach felt a sort of queasy rumble as he stood with his sisters and Reverend Hughes, and watched as the entire church circled around them, clasped hands, and began to pray. Ethiopia, he thought, would be the first place he could truly exert his faith. It was his fear of travel, of leaving his comfortable life in Atlanta, of floating mysteriously thirty thousand feet in the air, that made eighteen-year-old Benton feel as if he would collapse onto the church’s soft, green carpet as he heard the choir begin to chant amens and hallelujahs behind him.

  “Our brother, young Benton Sage, you will surely bring many to the Lord!” Reverend Hughes shouted from the pulpit as the congregation took their seats once again and opened their Bibles.

  “I need to know where I can find bread!” Benton Sage said, louder than necessary, to a local in Awasa, Ethiopia, where he had ended up one afternoon after he realized he was in over his head.

  “No English.”

  “English? Anyone?” he shouted, standing among hundreds of people, all picking over fruits and vegetables and swatting away flies as they walked slowly along the narrow, cart-filled street.

  “Never mind!” he shouted, holding up one hand until he realized that no one was paying him any attention. He had found bread, or what passed as bread in that area of the world.

  After spending a frustrating two and a hal
f minutes trying to figure out how much of what kind of money to give the elderly woman for the bread, Benton Sage walked quickly back to his hotel, which was nothing more than three rooms on the top floor of a small clinic, and up the dimly lit, humid stairwell to his room. Once inside, he devoured nearly the entire loaf and sat on the floor, his back against the bed, crying quietly. It was two days later when Benton was introduced to Rameel, who called him Been-tone Sog. Rameel, who had been converted some five years earlier, had taken it upon himself to contact Benton’s church and request help for his ministry, which consisted of traveling across the country to provide food, water, and limited medical attention to small villages with the underlying intention of converting as many people to Christianity as possible.

  Rameel kept count of his converts. When Benton Sage arrived to help him, his total was, as he said proudly, 1,740.

  “Been-tone Sog, you are going to be the light that my ministry needs!” Rameel said loudly just five minutes into their first conversation.

  “I’m glad to be here. I’m ready to help out!” Benton was still talking loudly and slowly, under the impression that he could be understood better if he spoke in this manner.

  It was on their first excursion to the west that Benton had a vision of God in a dream. The vision went like this: Benton stood alone on the shore of a vast, menacing ocean. The waves crashed against his bare feet and the wind blew his hair into his eyes. The clouds above the sea became heavy, and just as he began to hear thunder, a wall of dark water poured from the sky and into the sea. He squinted his eyes in the wind and noticed that it was not water, but blood falling from the clouds. Turning to walk away, Benton was stopped by a voice, the voice of God. He turned to see, there amid this chaotic and beautiful downpour, a boy standing on the water with one hand, his left, held up into the air. His mouth did not move, but a slight smile remained there as God’s voice introduced the boy to Benton. “This is the angel Gabriel,” he said. “Do not fear him.” Just before the boy opened his mouth to speak, a large bird flew overhead and landed on the angel’s shoulder. It let out a great call just before the angel Gabriel spoke. He then said, with great volume and force, “Benton, you have been called to bring change to the world. You have found favor in God’s eyes.”

  When Benton Sage woke up that next day, in the tent that Rameel had set up for them the night before, just outside of a small village he hadn’t learned the name of, he found himself soaked in a cold sweat, his clothes stuck firmly to his skin and his hair flat and dripping. Rameel stood before him, as dark as a shadow and taller than the tent itself. He smiled, but with an expression of remorse or shame. He sent one hand down to Benton and, as he pulled him up from his cot, said, “God has given us a gift this day.”

  The gift, Benton soon discovered, was a small village called Kwalessa filled with the sick, the dying, and the hungry. They moved from hut to hut, entering each one with smiles and hands full of things like bread and jugs of water and crates of rice and grains.

  “Each family will get two loaves of bread, two jugs of water, and one crate. You understand, Been-tone?” he asked, suggesting Benton would try to sway from these directions.

  “I understand.”

  As they exited their fifth hut for the day, Rameel, with a huge smile on his face, nudged Benton in the arm and whispered proudly, “Seventeen-hundred forty-six.” Benton smiled back awkwardly, thinking that perhaps Rameel had convinced himself that he could convert tribal peoples to a complex faith like Christianity in as little as twenty minutes. He continued on, though, following Rameel into seven more huts before they returned to their tent and settled in for the night. Rameel, sitting up in his cot, looked pleasantly at his new friend and nodded his head.

  “What is it?” Benton asked him.

  “You, my friend, are truly a blessing.”

  “Why do you say that? All I did today was stand beside you and hold jugs of water.”

  “Because, Been-tone, these heartbroken people are finally listening. It is you, because you are here beside me, because you are a Westerner, because you give them a reason to hope.”

  When Benton awoke the next morning, he found himself alone in the tent. A single but amazingly bright beam of sunlight had filtered through the tent door and hit him directly in the eyes. He walked out of the tent, which was set up on the curve of a narrow dirt road, and was instantly blinded. Just as his eyes adjusted to the light, Benton heard the voices of several children. He turned around to find that five kids were walking around the curve and past the tent, joking and laughing. He smiled, and squinted to see what they were carrying. They each carried a shovel much like a solider would carry a rifle, resting on one shoulder and held firmly at the bottom.

  “Been-tone!” Rameel shouted, running over to stand before him.

  “Good morning.”

  “You slept well, then?” Rameel asked.

  “Very well. Thanks.”

  “You met the children?” Rameel asked, nodding his head toward the mysterious kids with shovels.

  “No. I mean, I just saw them walking by. Where are they going?” Benton was still squinting in the sun.

  “They go to dig more graves.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Take Me to the End of the World

  On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, I worked at a convenience store called Handy Stop, which is located right beside I-40. My job included, but was not limited to, the selling of cigarettes, snacks, sodas, lottery tickets, gasoline, and condoms. Sometimes, when life got shitty, I was forced to clean the restroom, which was around back and required a key from the clerk (me) to gain entry. Those were the moments when I imagined an accidental nuclear test bomb landing right smack-dab on Lily, Arkansas. The mushroom cloud. Can you see its majesty? Can you hear its silent fury? I could, especially when trying to ignore the sweat dripping into my eyes as I thrust a brush into the dark abyss.

  Ding-ding. That sound always meant that someone was either entering the store or leaving it.

  “Can I help you?” I asked politely as a tall, burly man approached the counter and peered behind me at the wall of cigarettes.

  “Gimme a pack a’ them Pall Malls.”

  “Two-fifty.”

  Ca-ching. Slide. Clank.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ding-ding.

  When one is spending twelve hours of his Saturday in a lonely convenience store, his mind begins to wander and think about the way the president can’t pronounce “nuclear” and the fact that Lucas’s cousin is still in Iraq. He imagines vast oceans of desert sand and how uncomfortable it would be to fight the winds by constantly squinting and keeping one’s mouth closed, and also how shitty it would be to discover sand in your ass every time you got undressed. He thinks about his mother clipping an older woman’s bangs and asking her about her husband, who is in a nursing home. He imagines his aunt in his little brother’s bedroom, crying and alone.

  Ding-ding.

  The Quit Man cometh, his minion at his heels.

  As Russell and Neil browsed around the store, I watched Ada Taylor, sitting all alone in Russell’s Jeep, staring at herself in the rearview mirror and having no idea that anyone could see her. She wore a bikini top and I couldn’t tell what else for the damn door blocking my view. I liked to imagine that it was a long, wrinkly skirt that danced just above the ground when she walked down the banks of the White River.

  “Can I get a pack of Marlboros?” Neil asked coolly.

  “No.”

  “I’m eighteen, dude.”

  “You’re seventeen.” His face was going back and forth from normal to zombie (which weren’t that different, save for him having no jaw in my imagination).

  “Just sell him the cigarettes, queer!” The Quit Man had a way with words.

  “Nope.”

  “Douche,” Neil murmured as he tossed a bag of Doritos onto the counter.

  Russell walked up to the counter the way I imagine a rapist woul
d and put two bottles of Coke beside the chips. He got out his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to me. He did not make eye contact.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “That and the gas,” he said.

  “You didn’t get any gas.”

  With a look of frustration and a loud breath, Russell stormed to the door, opened it (ding-ding), and shouted, “Pump the gas, dipshit!”

  It was not a long, wrinkly skirt. It was a pair of blue jean shorts that were unbuttoned at the top. When I caught myself staring too much, I turned back to see two full-fledged zombies waiting patiently and arguing about where to drive to next.

  “Cullen, what the hell happened to Oslo?” Neil asked out of the blue.

  “He died.”

  “I know he died, man. How did it happen? Did he really OD?”

  “We’re pretty sure,” I answered, peeking over at Ada through the window beside me.

  “What a dumb-ass,” Russell spurted out.

  For a second there was silence. That sort of extreme silence when sounds that you usually don’t notice start to quickly become more and more evident and obtrusive, like the buzzing of the freezer in the back of the store and the humming of the air conditioner. Russell and Neil were the first people I had talked to that week who didn’t tell me they were sorry for Oslo’s death. And oddly enough, I found it kind of nice in that weird “I’d like to forget about real life and pretend that everything is okay” sort of way.

  “Fifteen seventy-three.”

  Ca-ching. Slide. Clank.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  Ding-ding.