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Lumbricus
 
On Monday morning Harold awoke at six a.m., perfunctorily showered and shaved, swallowed some day-old coffee, and set off to work. Harold worked at Dilliards now. His title was no longer Reverend; it was Customer Assistant Number Five. He was too old for this job. He shouldn't have been living in a crackerbox. He had a masters. The employment opportunities for former ministers, however, were bleak.
The mall off I-95 was a little smaller than the church off Highway 14 which he had pastored for six years and seven months, until the "incident" eleven months and twenty-eight days ago. The parking lots were distinguishable only by their landscaping: the mall had azalea bushes; the church had dwarf pines. At the church, Harold had parked his Lexus in a convenient space brightly designated PASTOR; at the mall, he parked his used Chevette at the edge of the lot, next to a ditch filled with with Slurpie cups and Gap bags. "'Mornin' Harry," said Arnie Beauregard, Dilliards' head janitor, as he opened the EMPLOYEES door.
My name is Harold, Harold thought. "Good morning, Arnie."
He walked inside and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the mundanity ahead. "Good mornin', Dad," said Gina, the impossibly cute nineteen year old behind the cologne counter. Gina thought that, since he was forty, Harold was like a character from "Father Knows Best." This would ordinarily have infuriated Harold, but he didn't consider Gina capable of grasping reality, so he endured.
"Good morning," he said in the kindest tone he could muster.
"Well, another day, another wooden nickel, as they say."
"I think you mean another dollar, 'Princess'."
"Oh, yeah. So how are things on the homestead?"
"Not too good. I'm sort of in the doghouse."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Gina said.
"It's nothing. It'll all work out. I suppose."
Gina leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek then turned away. Harold walked to his station and began prepping the cash register. He tried to remember the last time his wife had kissed him. It was fuzzy.
Reverend Harold Adams shook the hand of the last of the Sunday night worshipers. "Good sermon, Brother Adams," said Deacon Friday.
"Thank you, Brother, I must give credit where credit's due," Harold responded, glancing skyward.
Donald Mason, minister of music, approached. "Harold, can you stay late tonight and help plan some things for next week's revival? We've really got to get this stuff together--"
"No, Donnie, 'fraid I can't; not tonight. Jacob's got a bad cold and Barb wants me home a s a p. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
Donald Mason Minister of Music, mumbled something as he walked away to an office full of work.
"PTL, Brother Donnie," Harold called after him.
Harold drove down Sycamore street, away from his house on Pine. He crossed town by back streets and in fifteen minutes arrived at Sandra's house. Sandra's house was not as nice as Barbara's. It did not have a wrap-around porch or a pool or a family room. It had only one bedroom with missmatched furnishings. Sandra's bed didn't have expensive linens or a canopy, as Barbara's did, but it held Barbara's husband far more often. She came to the door in her nightgown, a bottle of strong liquor in her hand. They didn't talk: they knew what they were about. They drank in silence, they undressed in silence, they knew each other in silence. When she finished her first cigarette , he got up, showered, dressed, and took the freeway to Barbara's house.
"Harold, I need to talk to you," Jason said. He was sixteenyears Harold's junior and was his boss.
"Yes, Mr. Jenkins?"
"How's business?"
"I've sold four ties and a belt today."
"Four ties and a belt, eh?"
"Yessir."
"That's all?"
"Yes, four ties and a belt, sir."
"You see, Adams, that's just what I've come to talk to you about. Your sales have been rather low lately."
"Well, it is summer, sir. People don't buy many suits in summer."
"Don't you think I know that, Adams?"
"Yessir, but--"
"No buts, Adams. More sales. Other salespersons are doing well. Gina, in fact, has been setting records in men's cologne."
"I'm sure that Gina always performs to your satisfaction, sir."
"That's uncalled for, Adams. I won't have my employees speak to me like that." Harold grabbed the name tag on his jacket, ripped it off, and slammed it on the counter forcefully, so that it broke.
"Take your damn job!" he shouted. "I'm not going to be bossed by some smartassed kid!"
Suddenly Harold noticed a mall security guard by his side.
"Put him down," the guard said. "Put him down now."
Harold was surprised to see Jenkins' collar in his hands. He slowly lowered the man to his feet, then slowly released his collar. Jenkins' face was white with shock and twisted with rage. He glared at Harold with hatred and horror.
"Get him out of the store."
As the guard dragged Harold past the cologne counter, Gina called out singingly, "Bad day at the office, Dad?"
"There's something I never told you, Princess," Harold spat as he was forced through the door. "You were adopted."
Outside, the air was heavy like a sponge. Pallid clouds kept the heat from rising. The parking lot smelled of car scat. Harold stepped in a pool of motor oil. When he reached the back of the lot, the little ditch was even more polluted. The box from a G.I. Joe action playset had been added, now soaked with urban bilge. A big white pigeon sat atop Harold's car. "Coo," it said.
"Get off my car!"
The pigeon sat there, staring at him. It cocked its head to one side. Harold swung wildly at the bird, missed, and smashed his hand. The bird lifted slowly into the air and flew three cars away. Harold drove angrily home.
The front door of the Adams' home shook under the knock of a heavy fist. It shook for some time before Harold put on his robe and made his way from the back of the house. When he opened the door, a huge shape bolted in.
"Hey, Marv. Good to see you. How's little Sarah?"
"I know, Harry."
"Excuse me, Marv? You know what?"
"Don't lie to me, Harry."
"Look, Marv, it's late. I--"
"You and her, Harry. I know."
"Marv, it's not what--"
With his giant hand, Marv knocked Harold on the floor. For a few seconds, Harold's lungs wouldn't work. He gasped and grabbed his chest.
"Where's my sister?" Marv demanded.
Harold couldn't make words.
"Barbara!" Marv called. A moment later, Barbara entered the room. Jacob clung to her legs. She held her robe around her and tried to hide her face, but Marvin saw the puffed purple flesh around her eye. He stared at it for a long time, then he glared at Harold still lying on the floor. "It's bad now," he said.
The next afternoon, Harold woke up with a tube in his arm. His head was full of cement. The doctor told him it was a mild concussion. His chest was wrapped tightly with mummy cloth. The doctor told him two ribs were broken. He lay there several days. A nurse asked him if he would press charges. Harold said he had a little manhood left to preserve.
When Harold's rent was three weeks late, his elderly landlady came to visit. She was blue headed, bent, and batty. She occasionally wheezed and always forgot her hearing aid. Harold didn't offer her a seat.
"I've come for the rent," she said.
"I don't have it."
"What?"
"I don't have it, Mrs. Wickersham."
"Yes, it was due three weeks ago. Did you think I would forget?"
"No."
"I need the rent, Harvey."
"Mrs. Wickersham, I don't have it because I lost my job."
"Does it pay well?"
"No, I lost it. I lost my job."
The landlady began to look around the room. She saw the television.
"That," she said, pointing, "you can sell that."
"Don't be ridiculous!"
She saw the microwave.
"And that. At a pawn shop. You can sell that."
Harold refused to answer. The landlady looked around some more. She walked over to the desk and opened it. There was the restraining order. Beside it was a picture of a tow-headed boy. Mrs. Wickersham shut the drawer.
"You have a month," she said. "A grace period. Find a job. Pay up then."
"Thank you," Harold said.
The landlady left and the tenant sat alone in the house.
When Barbara discovered that she was pregnant, Harold was overjoyed. He bought the crib, the wallpaper, the race car mobile. "God told me in a vision that we're going to have a boy," he joked to Donnie Mason, Minister of Music. "It was a burning bottle." He delivered a series of sermons on the joy of parenthood. He read books.
The labor was very long and Barbara had to be put under. Harold insisted. Jacob demanded a caesarean. The nurse told Harold that he had a son. Cigars were forced on everyone. Proud Pop asked when he could see his boy. The nurse fidgeted. She said there were complications.
After a few months, Jacob came home. The deacons' wives offered to find a good nurse (some of their husbands were doctors), but Barbara refused. She forgot the world. Her life was her son. Jacob grew, but not well. His father saw right away that he would never wear a mit on his meager hand, that racecars would never be of any use to him. He saw his progeny struggle merely to survive. He began to doubt. One day, at the drug store, he met Sandra.
All the windows and the front door were open. Harold sat sweating in front of the television. He was looking at a picture of Barbara and Jacob, dressed for Easter. Jacob grinned expansively. As he stared at them, at Jacob's thin legs, at Barbara's blue eyes, he tried to place himself beside them, but couldn't. Then the picture began to change. Jacob's limbs became thinner, Barbara's eye became obscured by a black welt. Harold shouted. He threw a few things against the walls before he collapsed. On the floor, he shuddered. His hands, cupped to his face, filled up with tears. His voice was reduced to animal sounds. A dark thing coiled around his heart.
Harold got up and walked into the kitchen. There, he opened the silverware drawer and took out a knife. He studied it. He set the knife down and opened the medicine cabinet. From it he took a bottle. He read the label to discern its potency. Something on the windowsill above the sink said "Coo."
Harold looked up, enraged. "What do you want?" he screamed. "Why don't you leave me alone?"
The pigeon sat on the windowsill and cooed.
"Shut up!" Harold cried.
He grabbed the knife and lunged for the bird. It floated out of the window and onto the lawn. Still it looked at Harold. It fluttered its wings and bobbed its head.
"Stop tormenting me!"
Harold ran out the front door and into the yard. He lunged again for the bird. The knife stuck in the ground, the pigeon flew into a tree. It cooed at him. He climbed the tree. As he edged along a branch, the pigeon flew past his head and he fell. Harold, limping, chased the pigeon down the street and through his neighbors' yards, until it flew through the broken window of an abandoned church. He tried the door, but it was chained, so he kicked out the stained glass and climbed in.
He stumbled over rotting pews and tripped on a tarnished offering plate.
"Where are you?" he yelled. "Face me!"
There was no reply. Harold Adams dropped his knife and fell to his knees. His chest heaved. His shoulders slumped from exhaustion. His tears fell again now. He let them fall on the dusty church floor. As the dust became mud, he saw in it Jacob's crushing birth. He saw Sandra's welcoming sin. He saw Barbara's death by motherhood. He watched his love becoming disgust.
At the front of the church there was a noise. Harold started. First there was a coo, then there was the fluttering of soft wings, then there was a beating of wings and a loud wind. He shook. In the dim light he saw the monstrous bird diving towards him, its wings terribly white, its eyes searingly bright. It swept over him, and Harold Adams quaked in his soul; but when it passed, the touch of its wings was gentle. It caressed him with its feathers as it passed down the aisle and out the broken window.
Harold kneeled, immobile and mute, in the church for many minutes. When he could, he stood up, walked back to the little house, and dialed Barbara's number. He called her five times before she would listen to him. After a short, uneasy conversation, he unplugged the television, loaded it into the trunk of his car, and drove towards a pawn shop.
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Work © 1997 Lumbricus. All rights reserved. Page design and code © 1997 The Farm. All rights reserved. See Legal Notice for details. Do you have something to Share? Mail The Farm at thefarm@dead.mailbox |