Bestial (15 page)

“Where are we going now?” Karen said.

“Back to the motel. Maybe we can pack up and get out before they search our room, if they haven’t already.”

“Any guesses as to who
they
are?”

“People who don’t like the fact that we’re here. We’ll have to find another place to stay.”

“And then?”

“Good question. By now, chances are they know who we are, and they’ve probably got some idea as to why where here. And I don’t imagine they’re too happy about it.”

Karen said, “Whoever
they
are.”

CHAPTER NINE

Sabbath’s End/Saturday Night

“Why don’t
you
ever get to pick what you watch on TV?” Royce said.

Bob sighed, holding the phone to his ear with one hand as he clumsily tried to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the other. Earlier, he’d cooked vegetarian chicken patties and broccoli for Mom and Grandma, but he had not been in the mood for that. Instead, he’d wanted a PB&J sandwich on sourdough bread with a cold glass of milk.

“They won’t let me,” Bob said.

“Won’t
let
you? Jesus Christ,
you
do all the housework, all the yard work, all the cooking, all the driving. My God, you even
bathe
your fucking 
mother
! What has
letting
you got to do with it? You’re a middle-aged man, for crying out loud! When are you going to stand up and tell them you live there, too?”

Another sigh from Bob. “Yeah, but that’s easier said than done. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The sun isn’t down yet, so the TV is off.”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t want the TV on in case Jesus drops by for a surprise Sabbath visit.”

Bob laughed.

“That would be just like Jesus to drop by without calling first,” Royce said. “Have you ever noticed that Adventists like to do that? Especially on the Sabbath. They love to drop in unannounced to see if they can catch you sinning.”

“Look do you want to have lunch tomorrow, or what?” Bob said.

“Lunch? Yeah, sure. At Winkie’s?”

“Where else?” Winkie’s was the small diner on the edge of town where they always met. “When?”

“I’ll be up late tonight working. Not before one.”

“Sure, one o’clock’s fine.” Bob thought of his encounter with Vanessa in the church kitchen. “I’ve gotta tell you what happened to me at church today. You won’t believe it.”

“At church? What’d you do, have a vision during the pot luck lunch? Did they serve oysters and vinegar?” He chuckled.

“No, no. It’s a
lot
better than that. It involves a gorgeous woman.”

Bob heard someone at the door as he finished making his sandwich, cradling the phone against his shoulder. The front door opened onto the hallway that passed the kitchen and dining room on the way to the living room in the rear of the house. You had to be in the kitchen and dining room to hear it open—the sound never quite made it all the way back to the living room. The door slammed shut and he heard Rochelle sigh as she started down the hall. She stopped at the doorway and leaned into the kitchen.

“You’re on the phone
again
?” she said with a sneer. “I swear, you’re like a teenage girl. You’re
always
on the phone.” She headed for the living room.

“I should go,” Bob said. “My sister’s here.”

“What’s she doing there?” Royce said. “Shouldn’t she be at home sucking all the spinal fluid and testosterone out of her husband and son?”

Bob laughed, then said goodnight to Royce. He put his sandwich on a small plate, poured a tall glass of milk, and took it to the living room.

Mom and Grandma and Rochelle talked loudly to be heard above the radio’s high volume. The Christian station was on, as usual, and a group was singing about the glories of worship. Bob hated the music, but he didn’t want to go into his bedroom yet. It was too early, and he didn’t feel like locking himself up in there yet. He sat down on the couch and took a magazine from the stack on the end table. He thumbed through it as he ate his sandwich. The sun would be down officially in about fifteen minutes and he would be able to turn off the radio and switch on the television. Bob found it amusing that Adventists always knew exactly when sunset occurred on Friday and Saturday nights—they used to check the newspaper for the times at the end of each week, now they got the information online.

“Where’s Mike and Peter?” Mom said.

Rochelle’s face screwed up for a moment and she waved a hand dismissively as she flopped into the loveseat. “Oh, they’re lying around at home. As usual.”

“What are you doing out?”

“I just wanted to get out of the house on my own.”

“This late?” Grandma said.

“Late?” Rochelle said. “It’s not even dark yet. I thought after the Sabbath was over, I’d hit the mall and just window shop, maybe pick up a new pair of shoes for work.”

Bob tuned them out and focused on the magazine, a recent issue of
Time
. The room and his family faded away as he immersed himself in an article about the rise in identity theft. After awhile, he realized Grandma was shouting. Then he realized she was shouting at
him
. His head jerked up and he looked over at her seated in her favorite chair.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Grandma shouted.

“What?” Bob said.

“I
said
, is that a magazine you should be reading on the Sabbath?”

“It’s
Time
.”

“
Time
is
not
Sabbath reading,” Grandma said. She lifted her hand and pointed a knobby forefinger at him. “You have six days to do whatever you want, and all God asks is that you give one day to him, just
one day
. And you can’t do that, can you? You can’t give the Lord twenty-four hours out of your whole week!”

Bob sighed, closed the magazine, and tossed it back on the stack. “The sun’s gonna be down in just a few minutes.”

“Then you can just give the Lord a few more minutes of your precious time,” Grandma said.

“Why do you even bother going to church, Bob?” Rochelle said. “You don’t practice your faith. You can’t wait for the Sabbath to end, you seem to sleep through the sermon, you never read your bible, and you hang around with that awful Royce Garver. I mean, he might as well be a
Satanist
with the kind of work he does.”

“Royce is not a Satanist,” Bob muttered.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Rochelle said. “Shouldn’t you be in your bedroom masturbating?” She laughed as if she’d just said the funniest thing ever heard.

Bob felt his face grow hot as he ate his sandwich and stared at his plate.

Rochelle said, “Mom, remember that time I caught Bob sitting on the edge of his bed masturbating?”

It had happened over twenty years ago, and Rochelle would never let him forget about it.

“I remember,” Mom said, her voice darkening with disapproval. “I hope you don’t
still
do that, Bob. You know what Sister White said about solitary vice.”

“Of
course
he still does it, Mom,” Rochelle said. “I mean, he doesn’t do anything
else
. He doesn’t date or have a girlfriend, he doesn’t even have a social life.” She turned to Bob, frowning. “Have you
ever
had a girlfriend? I can’t remember you ever going out with one.”

“He had a little friend years ago,” Mom said. “That funny-looking little girl. What was her name? Gloria? Glinda?”

Eyes down, Bob stopped chewing a bite of his sandwich long enough to mutter, “Gladys.” His back stiffened and his shoulders hunched forward, making him appear to curl in on himself a bit. The sandwich was sticking in his esophagus in a hard lump. His chest felt swollen and tight, his stomach twisted into a knot, and although he was unaware of it, his right foot began to jitter so that his knee bounced up and down. He hated being the center of attention, but Mom, Grandma and Rochelle seemed to enjoy his embarrassment when they talked about him as if he weren’t even there. He was sure they talked about him when wasn’t around to hear it, too—that was probably worse.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mom said. “Gladys. She was always hanging around you.”

“Did she ever let you lift up her dress, Bob?” Rochelle said snidely.

“Stop that,” Mom said. “I don’t like that kind of talk. Your brother doesn’t need a girl. He’s got Grandma and me. We’re all he needs.” She looked across the room at Bob. “Now if only you’d get a
job
.”

“Why should he get a job?” Rochelle said. “He’s got everything he needs right here. Food, a bed, a computer for pornography. You oughtta kick him
out
. Then he’d
have
to get a job. He couldn’t afford to be worthless if he really had to
earn
a living.”

“He’ll get a job someday,” Grandma said. “If he ever grows up enough.”

Bob felt a tremor move through his body. The sandwich in his right hand wobbled as his arm trembled.

“
Someday
?” Rochelle said. “He’s
thirty-eight
! Dad wouldn’t have put up with this if he’d lived.”

Mom flinched at the mention of her late husband. “A lot of things would be different if your dad hadn’t died.”

Breathing harder now, Bob stared at the wobbling sandwich in his hands as they talked.

“Bob would be different,” Mom went on. “With the influence of a father, maybe he wouldn’t be so... so... oh, so withdrawn and childlike and unable to—”

Bob suddenly lifted his head and shouted, “I’m in the room!” His eyes widened with shock at his own outburst.

The three women turned to him with slack jaws. The stared at him, frozen in disbelief.

Bob’s voice lowered to a rasp and his entire face trembled as he said through clenched teeth, “Quit... talking about me... like I’m not...
here
.”

Grandma’s eyes narrowed and her chin jutted. “Who do you think you
are
, young man? Raising your voice to your mother like that. And on the
Sabbath
!”

“What do you expect?” Rochelle said with a chuckle as she stood from the loveseat. “I’m gonna go. Sun’s almost down. I’ll hit the mall and wander a little.”

Still shaking, Bob stood and took his unfinished sandwich and glass of milk back into the kitchen.

“You gonna go into your room now?” Rochelle said, laughing as he left the living. “Go pout and play with yourself?”

“He’d better go get on his knees and ask Jesus for forgiveness,” Grandma grumbled. “Talking to adults that way. And on the Sabbath.”

Bob tossed the sandwich into the garbage, poured the remaining milk into the sink. Then he threw the plate and glass into the basin. He threw them harder than he’d intended—they both shattered.

“What was
that
?” Mom shouted from the living room.

Bob quickly tried to gather up the pieces and throw them away before she came in, but he knicked his left hand on a jagged shard.

“Are you breaking my dishes?” she said angrily as she came into the kitchen. “What did you do?”

He pressed a paper towel to the small cut on his hand.

“Cut yourself,” Mom sad. “Serves you
right
. Throwing dishes around. Go to your room. I think you need a
nap
.”

Rochelle came in and saw the blood on his hand. “Didn’t hurt your whacking hand, did you?” Then she laughed again.

Bob turned and went to his room. He was surprised by the force with which he slammed the door. Normally, he made no sounds as he moved through the house, wanting to draw as little attention as possible to himself. It was not uncommon for him to feel anger and frustration, but he’d never let it out before—not like he had tonight. He paced in his room as blood trickled from the cut on his left hand.

He sat down at his computer but could not get comfortable or hold still. As he surfed the Internet absently, his foot rhythmically kicked the leg of his desk. The light in the room faded as the last of the sun disappeared outside, and before he knew it, Bob was sitting in the dark. He felt taut, like a guitar string about to snap. His foot continued to kick and the cut on his hand kept bleeding.

Outside his room, the religious music suddenly stopped. He could hear Mom and Grandma talking to each other, Mom’s voice loud and shrill, Grandma’s voice lower, bitter. The television came on and he could hear the laughter of a studio audience. Their voices yammered on, audible over the television.

They scraped at him, those voices. They were like needles being shoved into his ears, stabbing his brain.

You’re a middle-aged man, for crying out loud!
Royce had said. And he was right.

“Middle-aged,” Bob muttered as he sat in the dark. “Middle... aged.”

Another sound rose in the room—crunching, rumbling. He realized he was grinding his teeth. He stood so suddenly, he knocked the chair over. Paced some more. Both fists clenching. He didn’t even feel the sting of the cut on his hand.

The voices continued outside the room. Shrill... bitter.