Dwelling (18 page)

CHAPTER 16

MOTEL 8

Jake

“Shit! Shit! Answer your damn phone, Johnathan
!” Jake screamed. The ringer rattled away on the other end.

Still nothing.

“Come on man,” Jake huffed against the empty metallic silence. There was some clicking and then an animatronic voice picked up the line and confirmed the number he was attempting to dial has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet.

Jake hung up.

Fumed.

Damn!
He peered out the yellow hard plastic blinds of some slum dog motel he’d set up in for the night over on El Camino and Nassau Bay. A great looming neon
Motel 8
sign stood erect on a large steel pillar. He had originally intended to get laid. To find some pretty gal at one of the many fine establishments he frequented along the Bay at night. Or, at least the ones where he believed he’d never bump into one of his parishioners. Not like last time with…
oh what’s her name?
But plans had changed. Renfield had followed into town and chased him away from his church.
But the dead don’t walk, do they?

Jake caught a glimmer in the corner of his eye. He jumped back, carefully looking out the window. A woman, dressed in a skin-tight, red dress, pulled around her voluptuous thighs, and dark ruby lipstick and more makeup than was probably necessary, walked by. In tow, she led some
John
, a fellow wearing tan Khaki pants and a nice sky blue button up. His hair was neatly combed and parted to the side. Jake spotted the gold ring on his left hand instantly. He smiled.
Sinner.
And licked his lips, watching them retreat into the room next door. There were some muffled voices making some kind of brief exchange of payment, of that Jake was pretty sure and a part of him wished he could join in on the fun. The part of himself that desired solace, restitution, fulfillment, purpose, something—anything than the dead silence where God used to speak to him, guide him.

He looked at the motel phone.

Nothing. No callback.

Shit
.

Outside, the streetlamp near the crest of the Nasa Bypass began to flicker and dim. The soft dirty beam strobed as if by heartbeat.
Is he back? Is IT back
, Jake wondered, eyes darting and searching the desolate underpass. Cars roared like a herd of lions on the bridge above, but underneath, nothing stirred, nothing but the blinking, strobe-flickering light. He watched the shadows, praying it was nothing more than some bum looking for somewhere dry to sleep, while half expecting Renfield’s shambling corpse to come out from the murky depths. Renfield and his ruined body crudely sewn back together, guts trailing behind him, his ACU marked with shrapnel and mud.

Jake fought trembling hands as he dialed Johnathan’s number again. The phone rang for another round of eternity.
Come on, man. Come on!
More clicking. Jake was about to hang up when Johnathan’s grizzled voice sounded on the other end.

“The world better be coming to an end, or I swear to God,” grumbled Johnathan sounding half asleep, or drunk.

For a moment Jake was at a loss for words. It had been some time since he and Johnathan spoke. The last was when he’d visited Johnathan when he first got back from Germany. He was still adjusting to…his leg, and by the sound of his drunken voice now, perhaps he was still adjusting.
Should I even bother him with my problems? I’m supposed to be a minister, for Christ’s sake!

“You got three seconds,” Johnathan said, a little sluggish.

“Johnathan, its Jake.”

“Jake? Jake Williams?”

“Yeah, man, Jake.”

Silence.

“Hello? Johnathan?”

There was some rustling over the phone. Something like bed sheets being flung.

“How the hell are you, man? Jeez, how long has it been?” said Johnathan, chipper as a skunk.

“Good, I guess. And you?” inquired Jake, avoiding.

“Well, to be honest,
Padre
, not very good, not at all. Kinda feel like run over
shit
stuck up here in Washington, forced to share my story to a bunch of folks who probably don’t need to hear it. The veterans weren’t too bad, I guess, but these fucking civilians…Have you ever talked with civilians about, you know, the war?” asked Johnathan.

“Umm…”

“Course you have,
Padre
. You probably talk all the time, am I right? But you probably talk about the quality of food at the DFAC and the best coffee shops or places to buy bootlegged DVDs from Mr.
Haji
over on Victory. You’ve been on Victory, right?”

“Yes. But—”

“Victory. POG city, man. No offence,
Padre
. Lots of places to spend your money, sure enough. Lots of big bellied
fobbits
, too.” Johnathan started laughing on the other end, cruel and cold.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” said Jake, soft but sharp.

“What? Fobbit? POG?”

“No.
Padre
. I wish you’d stop calling me
Padre
. It’s not really how the Presbyterian Church works.”

“Sure it is,” Johnathan shot back.

“How would you know? When’s the last time you were at church? And besides, it sounds creepy coming from a friend.”

Silence.

“So, care to tell me why you’re calling at two in the morning?” Johnathan finally asked.

Jake cleared his throat, peeked out the window again. Checking under the bypass bridge, he found only shadow.

“I’m sorry, Johnathan, I really am. I know I shouldn’t have called so late, especially since we haven’t really talked in a while. But, I don’t know who else to call. I don’t have anyone I can talk to about…this.” Jake did his best to mask the panic in his voice, but every time his gaze wandered out the window, the more he feared he’d see Renfield staring back at him with his milky eyes and yellow-green skin and shredded uniform. He could smell him, now, in the back of his mind, the awful stench of wet spoiled meat.

“About what, Jake? You’re giving me nothing here.”

“I’ve got a problem.”

“Call a crisis hotline.”

“Come on, man. Isn’t that what you do with the Wounded Warrior Project? You help people, right?”

“Are you a Wounded Warrior?”

Silence.

“And besides,
Padre
, talking about
problems
isn’t exactly in my job description with the WWP. Sounds like something in your neck of the woods, right? Can’t you phone another priest or something?”

“No. And you did it again. You know I don’t like to be called
Padre
, especially by one of my
supposed
friends.”

“Well, I don’t like getting calls at two in the morning, even by
old
friends.”

“You’re a real class act, man. A true hero. Thanks!” Jake could do nothing to mask the defeat in his voice.

“
Jeez-oh-Pete
, Jake. You’ve always been so damn sensitive. All right…all right. What is it? Tell me what your problem is.”

Silence. Jake had the floor. His chance to talk with someone, a friend, regardless how distant they’d become. Someone to listen to his…problem, someone to give him direction because surly wasn’t, not anymore. And now he didn’t have the foggiest how he was going to explain everything. From when it all started, getting his honorable discharge, finishing his vocation, becoming a minister in the Presbyterian order…where? But still…feeling
empty
inside. God had filled the void for so long. Jake felt lost without that burning stuff the old parishioners like to call
grace
. So Jake filled it with
vice
, sex particularly. And that too felt good, for a time. But as all things come to an end and then you’re left with the inevitable nothingness, the shell of the person you once were, the person to which nothing pleases, nothing satisfies. However, as a
good
minster would, or as Johnathan amply put,
Padre
, he faked it, while never making it. And then the unimaginable happened. A ghost found him prostrate in prayer. His
ghost
, Private Renfield, the dead child soldier from Camp Ferrin-Huggins. The maimed and ruined son of some mother Jake never took the time to write. Never gave condolence. Just flimsy
Last Rites
in the mud and blood drenched field. He held Renfield’s hand as it trembled, waning life. He continued to hold after the boy’s death until his arm fell limp. He held on until he was forced away. Medics, taking Renfield’s mangled corpse; taking Jake. “
Shock
,” they had told him. He had been in shock. But when he finally snapped to, it didn’t feel like shock. It felt like something was missing. Something important that had always been there.
Faith
. Plain and simple, yet seemingly unattainable, faith. It was gone. Or at the very least, mortally wounded. And now ghosts haunting him, as all good specters do.
How can I tell Johnathan all this? What can I say?

“You know. I wasn’t stationed on Camp Victory,” said Jake.

“Oh. I thought that’s what—” started Johnathan.

“—No. I was on Camp Ferrin-Huggins. It was called Camp Falcon before that, I think. I always thought the name was strange. Not warlike, it wasn’t a
war
name like some of the others. Babylon, Arrow, Apache, Anaconda, Balad, Blackjack, Bushwaker, Iron Horse, Liberty, Patriot, Shield, Renegade, Raider, those were good names, hell, even Camp Victory sounded more
war like
than Ferrin-Huggins.”

“Where’s this going, Jake?” asked Johnathan. The drunken slur had evaporated. In his voice Jake could sense strength as well as comfort, or at least as much as one can get from another hardened soldier so early in the morning.

“Something—happened—during my deployment. I’m not saying I’ve had it worse than others. I didn’t have it worse than…
you
. But…I saw someone get killed over there, another soldier. He was so young, Johnathan. But I guess we all were. Age takes on a different meaning when you’re
in
. Anyways, I never went on mission, unless it was on a convoy to Victory. Loved to go on
those
trips out the wire. Second stop was always the Burger King trailer for a round of Whoppers. Well, Ferrin-Huggins was no picnic, and took its share of mortars. On one occasion, I was leaving chow and the in-coming alarm starting blaring. I made it to the bunker before it started raining. But there was a soldier who didn’t. Well…I gave him his
Last Rites
, right there, on the field. And…”

“So, what? Are you having nightmares now? Are you—” Johnathan started.

“—just shut up a minute, will ya? Listen. That soldier died in front of me. I swear to God he did. No way he could have survived,” Jake interrupted. The panic returned. He kept his eyes on the road, between the blinds, under the bypass. Searching. Waiting. Next door, cheap mattress springs started to whine in violent thrusts.

“Oh yeah, baby…hmm. You fuck so good. Your dick is so big,”
the woman moaned loudly through the wall, masking partially the man’s strenuous grunts.

She sounds Vietnamese
, Jake thought.

“Okay…he died. It sucks man, I know, trust me, I know, but—” Johnathan said, confused and mocking patience.

“He
was
dead,” Jake corrected.

Silence.

“Was?”

“I saw him, Johnathan. I know it sounds nuts. But I saw that dead soldier at St. Hubert’s, where I preach. He was…it doesn’t matter. What I want to know is if I’ve gone over the edge. Am I going
Looney Tunes
, or what?” Jake pleaded.

Silence on the line. The only sounds were coming from next door. The bedsprings dancing the cuckolds jig. Blessed fornication. Lascivious boot knocking. Redeeming lewd and lustful whoopie.
Oh, the heart wants what the heart wants, ain’t that true, Jake, ain’t that true?
Renfield spoke from somewhere in his head.

“Did you hear what I said?” Jake asked, cried.

More moans next door. The final thrusts of wood against the wall accompanied by the shrill cry of a fake orgasm, or maybe it was real, it’s not quite easy to tell sometimes. “
Oh baby, oh baby. You’re so big in my tight pussy. I’ve been bad, oh baby, I’ve been so bad,”
the woman screamed, followed by the stuttered grunt of her
John
. Jake looked down at the Gideon’s bible sitting fat on the bedside table.
Jesus, please…God, I can go for a lay right now
.
Just send me a blessed virgin and I’ll never ask for a thing again.