Dwelling (20 page)

“Mrs. Smith? You still want to look at the property?” asked Eugene, pressing, sounding less as if stating a question and more in a way that hinted that he already knew the answer.

“Let’s do this. Lead the way,
Chuck
.” Maggie started after him. The closer she got to the porch, to the house, the more Moxie began to stir. She looked up at the tall, thin man who held his arm out toward the open door, gesturing for her to take the first step inside. Moxie began to growl louder. Maggie ignored her, petting her head gently if not nervously. The dog suddenly bit her hand.

“Shit!” Maggie yelled, dropping the dog on the porch. “What the hell’s gotten into you—?” she started. But Moxie scurried off mid-sentence, in a mad dash off the porch. She rounded the house and disappeared into the field of wheat stalks.

“
Moxie!
” Maggie yelled after her, half running. She stopped just short of the porch. Gazing out in the field for any sign of disturbance among the tall golden stalks.

Nothing.

Stillness.

A gang of crows perched on a scarecrow, a robust effigy of some hay-girthed farmer, plaid shirt and all, at the epicenter of the field glared back at her, cawing venomously. Maggie blinked, and then turned and walked back inside the house where Eugene stood, waiting for her.

CHAPTER 18

CONVERSATIONS WITH DEAD PEOPLE

Johnathan

Smoke clung to the bar walls, slithering in from the constant opening and closing of the back patio door. The smoking ordinance in Houston was in full swing but damn if it was going to stop casual and socially adept smokers from enjoying a Camel or Marlboro toke. Pool balls clanked in the corner, followed by laughter and drunken bravado and misfortune wages over lost billiard games. Barflies clung to their stools. Widowers. Divorceés. Blue collar types. Refinery linemen from over near La Porte or perhaps Pasadena still dressed in blue coveralls. Office managers. Waste disposal specialists. High school chemistry teachers in faded white button-ups and planetary ties, principals, off-duty nurses, tax collectors, whores disguised in red satin skin-tight dresses, the whole lot, every one, seeking answers at the bottom of a glass or in the company of a stranger, or perhaps both.

Here, below the cackle of empty conversation lay a slumbering, ancient, and despondent god dejected from the normality of the world and cast into a pitiful humdrum existence craving more; more than what it has or could ever have. Here in the bar, everyone was something other than themselves—that is until the jukebox played its final hit, maybe something by Bruno Mars or Ellie Goulding or that one song by Foo Fighters, and then the open sign would fizzle out and the bloodshot eyes of an ill-gotten night would be forced to readjust to the harsh, earthly shine of reality.

Johnathan raised his hand signaling for the waitress to bring him another glass of Johnny Walker. Normally, the crowd and roar would have bothered him. But luckily, they were able to find an empty table near the corner that faced the main entrance and exit. Here he would be able to keep an eye on who was coming and going, until the warmth of the booze set his mind more comfortably at ease. The mood at Hoister’s felt dull with melancholy, and perhaps it was a good thing. A wild crowd would put him on edge. And the best part, here the chances of ghosts or dead friends finding him seemed slim to none. In the chaos is when dead things seem to find you, not in the somber, drunken, decadent orgy around him. Jake sat in the chair beside him, nursing a Coors bottle, also unwilling to turn his back on the door. His eyes occasionally surveyed the bar. He didn’t seem thrilled with Johnathan’s choice of bars.

“So, you gonna tell me what’s going on or are we going to need another round before you start talking?” asked Johnathan, chasing the last of his scotch with a chug of Miller Lite. “You know, to be honest,” he said belching, “I didn’t even know priests could drink. You know, celibacy and all.”

“I think you mean sex. And yes, sex is allowed, if you’re married,” said Jake, his gaze wandering over to the pool tables. Some lumberjack looking fellow with a long beard and red flannel shirt was making what appeared to be a poor attempt at getting the number of some pretty girl in skinny jeans and a loose revealing top.

“No, I meant booze. Aren’t you supposed to be celibate from booze?”

“You mean abstinence? No, not necessarily. Some ministers during Lent will give up alcohol, except for Holy Communion, the taking of wine during the Eucharist is allowed during such practices. Though, traditionally, we use grape juice. But otherwise, outside of Lent, no, there are no restrictions
per se
.” Jake took a sip, pretending not to notice the woman in the short skirt walking by their table.

Johnathan grinned. He winked. “I think she likes you!” he said, nodding toward the bar where the short-skirted woman stood ordering a drink, casually glancing back at Jake and smiling.

Jake turned, briefly, and then returned to the table, eyes downcast on his Coors, watching the sweat roll off the bottle and collect in a ring on top the napkin coaster.

“What? Not your type?” asked Johnathan, grinning like some drunken fool.

“No. Don’t really have a type. Just not in the mood, I guess.”

“Where else are we going to find you a nice respectable girl than here? You got the pick of the litter,
Padre
.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Oh—right. Sorry, man. Habit.” Johnathan searched for the waitress. “What does it take to get a drink around here? It’s not even that crowded, not really.”

“So—how was your flight? How are things with Karen?” Jake asked, probing.

“I hate flying. Hate heights. Guess that’s why I never joined the Air Force.” He laughed.

“You didn’t join the Air Force because you’re terrified of heights. Remember when we all went to Astro World? You, Maggie, Bobby, me and Ricky? You were scared out of your mind!” Jake laughed dryly. He didn’t care to mention Ricky, to speak his name. It still felt too soon.

“Yeah, well, whatever, man. And no. I told Karen I had a late flight. She’d be pissed if I told her I was going to hit up a bar before coming home.” Johnathan was still searching for the waitress. Finally he spotted the young twenty-something and waved her over. She gave him the
‘wait just a minute’
finger signal as she took another table’s order.
“Jesus—”
he hissed.

“Something bothering you?” asked Jake, taking a sip of Coors.

“Yeah, I’d like my drink.”

“Sounds like something else.”

“I thought we came here for you?”

“Maybe both.”

Johnathan watched the waitress as she ventured up to the bar, hopefully to retrieve his scotch. With his eyes still lingering on her firm form, he said, “This thing with the Wounded Warrior Project, talking about the war and my experience, this was my first run—out of town that is. Two days of regurgitating my trauma. Once with veterans and the next day with civilians at this global herbal supplement company out near Largo. One flight, two visits, a double whammy. Two birds, one stone kinda thing, I guess. Talking with the veterans bothered me the most…I don’t know why.” The waitress returned and sat the glass of Johnny Walker in front of Johnathan; she smiled automatically.

“Sorry about the wait, hun,” she said, “new bartender tonight.” She smiled again and went off back to the bar to assumingly pickup her next round of orders.

“You were saying,” prodded Jake.

“What?” Johnathan was distant, watching the waitress.

“About your trip.”

“Oh—right. Like I was saying, I don’t normally mind talking with civilians about—you know,
it
, the war. It probably sounds strange, right, but it’s true. You can talk and talk and pretend nothing touches you. They just nod their heads, like
‘yeah, man, far out,’
as you tell your story. But with vets…
they know
. They can see past the bullshit. They can see your
real
face.” Johnathan bit hard against a swing from his drink and then exhaled a hot odor across the table.

“Not sure if I follow,” said Jake sounding a bit apologetic.

“Hmm—” Johnathan searched for an example. His eyes brightened, “You ever watch this show on Showtime called Dexter?”

“I don’t watch much TV.”

“Okay, well…it’s a show about this serial killer that works for the Miami Police Department in Florida.”

“Your experience talking with vets is akin to a fictionalized serial killer?”

“No. Shut up a sec will ya, I’m trying to explain something here,” Johnathan said frowning.

“Sorry.”

“Okay…anyways, in the show there was this episode where he, Dexter, is forced into joining this AA group.”

“Prophetic?”

“Kiss my ass, you going to let me explain this or not?”

“My apologies.”

Johnathan took another sip from his drink. Putting the glass down, he noticed Jake smiling at him. “Jackass, anyways, so yeah, Dexter goes up in front of these drunks and druggies and talks about what he calls his
Dark Passenger
, which is basically his serial-killing alter ego.”

“Okay.”

“And these drunks think he’s talking about his addiction to booze, but really he’s talking about his addiction to kill. It’s a great scene, probably my favorite from the entire series.” Johnathan took another drink. “But anyway,” he continued, exhaling, “so he’s talking about his
Dark Passenger
and how he knows he’s got this darkness in him, but he hides it and never talks about it, but it’s always there with him. The darkness lies to him, makes him think no one could ever love him. But then he goes on and says that he gets these glimpses, moments when he feels he can connect with people, like a mask slipping away.”

“Okay.”

“Well, that’s how it felt when I was talking with those vets in Washington. They could see my darkness, and I could see theirs, like we were at some masquerade or some terrible unmasking or something.”

“That’s deep.” Jake nodded his head slowly, looking into his beer bottle as if in some existential thought.

“Kiss my—”

“No,” Jake interrupted, “I’m serious. Is that what’s bothering you about your trip? Feeling…exposed?”

Johnathan shrugged, killing his Miller Lite. The waitress materialized as soon as he’d set it back on the table.

“Can I get you another?” she asked, collecting the now empty bottle.

“Please,” said Johnathan, suppressing a belch.

As soon as the waitress smiled and disappeared to the bar, Johnathan cut loose. Jake held his breath, making a funny face and waving the air with his hand. The jukebox ended with some song by Metallica and then started up on “The Man Who Sold the World” by
Nirvana
. Through the speakers sang the smooth acoustic, if not grizzled, voice of Kurt Cobain, talking about speaking into this man’s eyes, this man who said he was his friend and thought he died alone, a long, long time ago. Silence fell between them again, both nursing their drinks as they listened to the song play out. The waitress returned with Johnathan’s beer, smiled again, and then disappeared to tend to another table. Kurt was still going on about how he never lost control, even when he was face to face with the man who sold the world.

“So,” Johnathan started.

“So,” Jake returned.

“How’s church these days?” Johnathan asked.

Jake looked seemingly embarrassed, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked anything about his job or his career or whatever this priesthood, minister, thing was. Or maybe it’s because of where they were and what he’d been doing here last night, searching for whatever satisfying vice that supposedly
Padres
were not allowed, unless married.

“Good, I guess,” Jake said, looking into the neck of his Coors. He pulled out a pack of Camels from his jeans pocket and set them on the table, hoping perhaps to instigate a hasty departure for the patio.

“Jeez, you smoke too?” Johnathan said laughing. “No judgment, man. It’s just kind of funny. Remember that time we got a pack of unfiltereds from that bowling alley across Bobby’s neighborhood? What was its name?” He scratched his head.

“Palace Lanes?”

“Yeah—that’s the one! Had the pull-tab style vending machine. We were so scared about getting busted by the owner we tossed our quarters in and ran, didn’t even care which kind of smokes we got.” Johnathan smiled warmly. His scotch was half gone.

“I remember hating those smokes.”

“Yes, yes we did. And I’ll never understand to this day why they had that vending machine set up next to the arcade. It was as if they wanted kids to buy ‘em.”

Silence returned as the childhood memory faded in the low roar of conversations going on around them. Jake gazed at his pack of Camels as if they’d move by
kinesis
. Johnathan pondered his glass, looking at the brown contents, or perhaps beyond it, on some distant thought light years from Hoister’s. The waitress had returned, inquiring about refills. Jake was good. And surprisingly, Johnathan was too.
If I cut off now, I should be sober enough by the time I get home
, he thought, the image of Karen and her disapproving albeit worried face came to mind, making his stomach knot and his heart set to lead.

“Okay man—” Johnathan started, looking directly at Jake. “Are we going to talk about what we came here to talk about or are we just going to call it a night?”

Jake exhaled deeply. He picked up his smokes and returned them to his pocket. He looked to the bar. A strange look of relief darkened his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Maybe it was nothing more than a
hallucination
. Maybe I dreamt the whole damn thing. I was in a bad place yesterday…The more I think about it, the more I think this whole thing is nuts. The dead do not come back, it’s just not possible.”

Kurt was still wailing, finishing up his chorus before the cello started in, singing about how he must have died alone, a long, long time ago,. Johnathan was watching Jake. Gazing at his old childhood friend as the color on his face turned white. The no-nonsense teenager he remembered now sat before him in some hole-in-the-wall bar talking about ghosts and unimaginable things. It was all so bizarre. An irregularity that weighed on his own thoughts of his own hallucination, if that is what it was.