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It was as if Vic and he were reading from a script they’d rehearsed to performance levels.
“Did I put them on the TV?”
“No. ”
A pause as Vic tilted his head as if listening.
“No, sir,” Mike amended.
“Where did I put them?”
“You put them on the newel post. ”
“How then did they get to the top of the TV?”
“I guess I put them there. ”
“You guess?”
“I put them there, sir. ”
“Did I ask you to move my keys?”
“No, sir?”
“Then why did you freaking move them?”
This was the point at which Mike either had to fake an explanation or give a sullen silence. He’d learned that sullen silences usually brought this part of the ritual to a quicker close. Explanations drew it out and gave Vic more time to get hot. It was better not to let Vic really get going. Mike said nothing, so Vic belted him. This time is was not a casual how-do-you-do backhand, but a real corker of a forehand slap with nice form as Vic put his hips and shoulders into it. Mike could almost appreciate the way in which Vic turned into it like a ballplayer knocking one up into centerfield.
Mike closed his eyes as the blow came in, having learned from experience that open eyes can catch part of a finger and that was worse, and he tried to move with the blow to take the edge off it. Not that it mattered much because Vic was a pro and a pro knew how to swing. Mike never actually felt the blow—he almost never did—all that he had was an awareness of the moment before it landed and the moment after it knocked his body into motion, as if the blow itself was too intense for his mind to process. There was a big white flash like a photo strobe and Mike was falling, one sneaker tangled in the bottom rungs of his chair, his hands still holding onto the history book, the floor rushing up toward him. His shoulder hit the linoleum and he slid at least a full foot. Mom must have waxed the floor, he thought with his connoisseur’s appreciation of the minutiae of such moments. His head swung on his neck and tapped the floor once, twice, before he settled with his back against the dishwasher and his legs still tangled in the chair.
Good one, Vic. Nice form and follow through. Let’s see what score the judges give you. A seven-point-five. Ooooh, bad luck. No blood, no perfect score. Mike’s mind was handling the commentary, awarding tenths of points for aftershock and degree of pain. Vic had missed his ear, so there was another mandatory deduction there.
Vic crouched down, his face red and eyes intensely hot. He jabbed Mike’s forehead with a stiffened index finger with each syllable. “Don’t. Touch. My. Freaking. Keys. ”
There was a second part to this performance, but Mike wasn’t in the mood to see how many of Vic’s buttons could be pushed this early in the day. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in the most sheepish voice he could manage. “It won’t happen again. ”
Vic glared at him, and his face showed the disappointment he must have felt for so easy a win. He snorted and stood. “See that it doesn’t. ” Then he turned and left the kitchen. A moment later the front door slammed.
Mike lay there a moment longer, feeling the burn of pain on his cheek, assessing the kitchen from that perspective. It was immaculate, even the floor, and he appreciated that now that his cheek was resting against it, and even wondered if it actually was clean enough to eat off of. That was one of Vic’s requirements. How many times had Mike heard Vic growl at his mom, “That floor had better be clean enough to eat off of, Lois, or you’ll be pissing red for a week. Don’t even think I’m joking!” Mom never thought Vic was joking. Mike sure as hell never did.
A full minute passed and Mike wondered if Mom was going to come down to see if he was okay. She used to always do that, but lately…well, lately Mom tended not to hear much that she didn’t want to hear, or see much that she didn’t want to see. Nowadays she was almost always a little drunk, except when she was a lot drunk. He lay there and waited to hear her footsteps on the stairs. Nope. Nothing. Sighing, Mike rolled over onto his back, feeling the ache in his ribs flare along with his other bruises. He stared at the ceili
ng, enjoying the cool firmness of the waxed linoleum under him.
Slowly, with great care and no great hurry, he sat up. Then he stood up and righted his chair, sliding it back toward the table. He bent and picked up his textbook and set it on the table, then went over to the cupboard above the sink and got down the big bottle of Advil. Mom had bottles of it all over the house. He popped off the cap and shook six geltabs into his palm and popped them into his mouth, washing it down with two glasses of tap water. Then he went back to studying.
(2)
Tow-Truck Eddie came in from his part-time job and threw his hat onto the chair by the door, unbuckled his equipment belt and hung it over the back of the chair, and walked across the living room to switch on the TV. It was tuned to a religious station, but he used the remote to prowl around until he found the local news station, broadcast from the student-run TV studio at Pinelands College. Mayor Terry Wolfe was speaking to a group of reporters. Flashes popped so fast it looked like Wolfe was standing in a strobe light. From what he could tell it looked like the press conference had just started and Eddie stood there, fascinated, hanging on every word. He had always respected the mayor. It always seemed to Eddie that Wolfe shone with a very bright, very pure inner light despite his being a Jew. Of course, he knew from town chatter that Wolfe hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue in years, so maybe the Light of Truth had broken through for him. Eddie hoped so. He liked the mayor and would hate to see him swept away when God cleansed the world.
Thinking that, Eddie glanced at the calendar thumb-tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. Eddie had circled the 31st of October with many red rings that had gone round and round until they had cut through the glossy paper. He had torn off the pages for November and December because they wouldn’t be happening now. The world was going to end on what the pagans called Halloween. That was what God had told him, speaking in his head day after day.
Into his mind flashed an image of the evil imp disguised as a boy on a bicycle that God in His glory had revealed to Eddie as the Antichrist. The Beast. All day yesterday Eddie had prowled the roads in his wrecker looking for the Beast, certain that he would find him, and he had found nothing. When he had come home late last night to change into his police uniform, he wondered if his belief that he would find the Beast was a prideful thing, and if so, maybe it was that sin that had resulted in his failure to do so. He prayed for forgiveness and for strength to aid him in his search.
He closed his eyes for a moment so that he could recall the passage from John 2:18, “Dear children, this is the last hour; and as you have heard that the antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have come. This is how we know it is the last hour. ”
Every chance he could he took his wrecker out and prowled the roads looking for the Beast, and each time he found nothing. Not a single trace, and no hints or guidance from above. Why was it so hard? It had to be some kind of test, he was sure of it. Sitting there while the press conference rambled on, Eddie picked up one of his Bibles and searched for passages about arrogance and pride, trying to burn the words into his brain. He swore to his Father that he would never let pride overcome his judgment. Next time he would make sure the Beast was dead. Dead for good and all. Opening the way to God’s promised thousand years of peace on Earth. He smiled.
