Authors: Jon Bassoff
So what could my father do? He’d been on the Mountain his whole life. A carpenter by trade. What did he know of disease and medicines and cures? He was no doctor, but he taught himself medicine. He was no scientist, but he taught himself science. Nobody else cared. They would have let her wither away, a raisin in the sun. Not my father. He wasn’t crazy. He was in love.
* * *
I sat on the tire-swing hanging from the frost-covered pine tree, sucked on tobacco, and stared at the old house, the yellow paint peeling, the single pitch roof ready to collapse, a house marked by sorry dilapidation and decay. The lights shone dully behind the curtains.
Eventually, I made my way along a broken path until I came to the front door. My shadow stretched out long and menacing. I pulled out the chewing tobacco from my mouth and flung it on the ground. Then I rapped on the door a few times and waited. No footsteps, but a faint voice. The door is open…
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. Except for the ticking of a longcase clock, everything was quiet. Slowly, zombie-like, I walked across the living room. I glanced up; saw old photographs on the mantel. I pulled one off and studied it, that familiar nausea and repulsion spreading through my body. A young family. Husband, wife, son. The man wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, a thick mustache on his face, lips upturned in domestic contentment. The woman in a long flower dress, black hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. And the boy, eight maybe nine years old, cowlick in his hair, grinning goofily, unaware of the future, unaware of the death and despair that would surround him for the rest of his days, unaware of the sickness that would destroy his mother, the corrosion of her body, the corrosion of his father’s mind, the corrosion of his own soul.
I used to not believe in God, his father had said, but now, I’m a changed man, a true believer. Only a Supreme Being could create such misery and mayhem.
And now this man known as Joseph Downs, a man who’d fought and fallen in the desert, stood outside the bedroom, the very bedroom his father had kept locked all those months while his mother had suffered and died and putrefied. Open the door, soldier. Then peel off your soul with a paring knife.
Flan Faulk sat on edge of the bed. His strawlike hair was disheveled, peppered with bald spots from his own yanking. His face was the color of yellowed newspaper except the broken blood vessels around his eyes. He wore no clothes, save for striped tube socks, and his hairy gut hung over his shriveled cock. He stared intently at some imagined point on the floor.
Downs stood in the doorway, a monstrous figure. Everything was quiet and still. Faulk didn’t look up, and one might have thought him dead but for his massive stomach rising up and down. Downs took a few more steps into the bedroom, paused, and then continued until he was standing directly over the old man. Now, at last, Faulk looked up, briefly met Downs’ gaze.
Do you know who I am? Downs asked.
No answer.
Downs sat down on the bed, placed the man’s cold hand in his. Do you know who I am? he said again.
Once again, Faulk looked up, stared into the horrific face. Then, slowly, barely perceptibly, he nodded his head, once, twice.
After that, neither of them spoke for some time. A narrow gauge train whistle blew, and it was a ghost train racing down a track of bones. Then the train was gone, lost in the forest, and the grandfather clock played “Westminster Quarters.”
Downs held the old man’s hand, squeezed it tightly. Faulk stared at the hands intertwined, eyes glassy. His mouth opened slightly and he seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but there were no words.
Downs glanced up, and then, for just a moment, he saw a strange man standing behind the window, a man with a white physician’s jacket, thick spectacles, neatly trimmed mustache. In one hand he held a pipe, in the other an ice pick…
When the old man spoke, his voice startled Joseph Downs, for it was clear and deep and mournful. He said: Your mother. She’s very sick. You won’t be able to see her. Not today. Not for a long time. Then Faulk squeezed his lips shut, and Joseph Downs noticed a single teardrop roll down his jaundiced cheek.
Downs rose to his feet, looked out the window.
Don’t you wonder what became of her? Don’t you sometimes hear the crows circling and wonder if she might still be down there?
And now Faulk stared up at the wounded soldier with eyes full of nothing, and Downs’ shadow spread across him, a hooded cloak. The old man shielded his eyes, as if blinded by the gruesome face. Joseph Downs smiled and there was no pleasure in the smile. He bent down and picked up a pillow, held it in both hands, and Faulk must have sensed what was going to happen. He lay down on the bed, hands folded across his chest, eyes suddenly alert. Maybe, Downs said, there’s a heaven for people like us. I reckon not. He brought the pillow down and pressed it against Faulk’s face, and at first the old man didn’t react, but after a time he started struggling and fighting, kicking his legs and punching his arms. How much time passed? Several minutes perhaps, but eventually the body was still, and Joseph Downs pulled back the pillow and placed it back on the bed.
Flan Faulk’s eyes were open wide and so was his mouth, an eternal scream. Downs slumped down onto the bed, next to the lifeless body. He sat there for a long time, hands trembling. Then he closed the old man’s eyes with his thumbs. Icy sunlight shone into the room. And Joseph Downs, the war hero, laid his head on the corpse’s chest and listened to the wind and the clock and the crows.
PART FOUR: REVEREND WELLS (2011)
“And the Earth died screaming.”
—Tom Waits
CHAPTER 36
For ten long years I’d driven back and forth across the country in my old pickup truck, listening to The Blackwood Family and The Lefevre Trio, stopping only when the Good Lord told me to stop. Then I’d get out of my truck, stretch my long body, and wander through the streets and bars and whorehouses, gathering up sinners, and the words of the Lord would flow from my mouth with the speed and articulation of an auctioneer, words soaked in kerosene and blood. And sometimes passersby would ignore me, and sometimes they’d stop and snicker, and sometimes they’d stare mesmerized. And perhaps some mistook me for an actor or a street performer, but make no mistake: I was a true believer. Dressed in a frock coat, black trousers, white shirt, and a black string tie, the requisite wide-brimmed hat balanced on my head. And below my hat, a white rubber mask, pulled tight across my face.
El Hornillo, Texas. With a tattered suitcase in one hand and a Bible in the other, I stood on the top of Black Oil Hill and stared down at the town below, all stuffed full of drunks and whores and rapists and killers. I shook my head and spat on the ground. And then, whispering to the skies, Earth is his, but not forever. I stayed on that hill for some time, just thinking and praying and crying. Then I made my way to town.
* * *
Main Street was putrid, just like I expected, the ground smelling of booze and sex, and for forty days and forty nights, I preached without cessation, and I converted a thousand people at least, pain turning to joy, hell turning to heaven. But there was a devilish woman that I saw from time to time, and she reminded me of someone I used to know, and her heart was hardened. Physical appearance: skin wrinkled and leathery, eyes brown and bloodshot. A healthy helping of rouge, lipstick, and mascara doing nothing to hide the ravaged features of her face. A whore, plain and simple. A whore like the rest of them.
Take off your mask! she said one day. Show me your face! And I stepped off my whiskey carton and walked toward her and said: Ain’t nobody would want to see my face. Believe me, lady. A face of pure grotesqueness. This mask is only worn to protect you, understand.
And so I told her a story about a sinner of the worst kind. Drinking, whoring, fighting. A marionette, with the devil as his puppeteer. I said: There was a woman I was involved with. Beautiful young thing. Soul of the purest kind. Trusting as a child. You know, she might have even loved me. But I hadn’t found Christ. All I knew were the devil’s ways. And I was brutal and cruel. And I did some things to her that are too terrible to mention. Don’t you understand? Satan himself was rattling around in my skull! He controlled my every move. Sister, sister, I was well on my way to an eternity of torture, an eternity of wrath!
But then I had a vision! A vision of God himself! And do you know what he told me? Do you know what words he spoke on that frostbitten day? He told me to go to the hardware store, presently, and buy myself a jar of Sterno. And I did what I was told. And he told me to open that jar and spread it directly on my face! This is the truth! Homemade napalm! And then a flick of a match…And this was the word of the Lord! And I followed his word on that day, and I’ve followed his word every day since! Don’t you see? I burned my face, so I wouldn’t have to burn my soul!
And this story got the whore good and worked up. She smiled and grabbed her swollen breasts and said, Well, I think you’re a goddamn prophet is what you are! I never met anybody like you in my whole life, and that’s the truth! Looking for a good time? I can give it to you in spades!
Well, now, I followed her through the streets of El Hornillo, but there was no lust emanating from my loins, only rage from my soul, and we came to this old house of sin, an immense Victorian that might have once been stately, now nothing but a sickly-looking eyesore. And I walked into that filthy house and walked into that filthy room and watched as she downed that flask of filthy bourbon, a pair of golden streaks dribbling down her filthy chin. She dropped the flask on the floor, smiled a spiteful smile, and yanked off her hand-me-down dress. I was filled with nausea, believe me. Okay, Prophet, she said. I ain’t got all night. A hundred straight in. Two hundred up the ass.
I scowled and clenched my fists. I don’t aim to fornicate with you.
Yeah? Well, what do you aim to do? ’Cause I don’t do weird shit.
And so I paced across the grimy room, staring at the woman with contempt from the corner of my eyes. I said: The first thing you’ve gotta do is stop talking so crudely. A woman of God would never—
A woman of God? That’s a real laugh, Prophet!
What you don’t understand, I said, my voice barely above a whisper, is that you can’t live without Jesus. Not really. I came here…God sent me to…
God sent you here? He sent you to me?
Yes. Yes, that’s right. He sent me to save you. He sent me to save all of you.
And the whore snorted. Sure, honey, I’ll let you save me. Just as long as the price is right.
It doesn’t work that way. You can’t whore yourself to God. God is no pimp.
You’re right about that, she said, laughing. He’s worse than a pimp. A pimp beats you for money. God beats you for adulation.
That there’s blasphemy, I said. I don’t care if this
is
a whorehouse.
Then she pointed at my face. Why don’t you take off that mask, she said. I ain’t afraid. I’ve seen terrible before.
Oh no, I said. Too horrific.
I don’t believe you, she said. I think you’re a fake.
I’m no fake! I shouted. I’m a prophet of the almighty God! And then I took a step toward her, hands clenched, ready to preach. I slapped the girl hard, driving her to her knees, leaving a welt on her cheek. And I kept right on charging, ready to show her the ways of the Lord, and that’s when the whore reached into her purse and came out with a spring-loaded-pearl-handle revolver. She pointed it straight between my eyes. And her hands weren’t shaking even a little bit.
Nobody hits me, she said.
A smile spread slowly across my masked face, and I nodded my head. I do apologize, ma’am, I said. But you must understand. The Lord wants to save you. He wants that more than anything in the world. That’s why he sacrificed his only son. That’s why he sent me.
I don’t need no saving, she said. Never did.
Hurriedly she put on her dress, managing to keep the gun pointed at me all the while. You better watch yourself, she said. Prophets don’t act that way, they just don’t! So I picked up my Bible, threw down a filthy twenty at her feet, and marched right out of that House of Sin. The whore was unconverted, but I guessed it wasn’t the last I’d be seeing of her.
* * *
That evening was a long one. I sat inside my pickup truck, dome light on, reading my Bible and jotting down notes for a possible sermon, snorting apricot snuff and swallowing plum brandy. Well, only Jesus was truly sin free…
And then when my eyes were good and tired, and my brain was good and pickled, I closed the Bible and my notebook. I took off my hat and placed it on the seat next to me. Then I removed my rubber mask, placed it inside my hat. Oh Lord, I whispered, how long will you keep me in this purgatory? How long till I prove my worth?
I opened the glove compartment, pulled out an envelope. Inside the envelope a silver chain. Hanging from the chain a dog tag. And on the dog tag, the name of a soldier. Dead now. Buried in an unmarked grave.
I pressed the dog tag to my cheek, felt the coolness of the metal. Then I placed it back in the envelope, sealed it, and returned it to the glove compartment.