Please Don't Go (13 page)

He bullshitted his way through the best he could, and though he was quite convincing at that, it was possible that he was lying to himself on the matter. Worst case scenario, he would score a C or a D for a grade. Best case scenario, Paulson was a gullible sap who enjoyed big fluffy words designed to mask ignorance. Zephyr prayed for the latter.

***

When he arrived at Rattup’s home, all inner turmoil now extinguished from his stumbling through his final exam, he breathed deep while idling his vehicle in the gravel driveway. In the window, a curtain shimmied for a moment, and he was certain that Rattup was watching him, wondering why he was so hesitant to enter.

On this day, Zephyr had brought along his own notebook. On top of their paper-bound conversation, he hoped to keep some notes of Rattup and his purported story of entrapment. He had still not finished
Breakfast In Galway
, but hoped to soon enough. Perhaps after his visit he could pluck it free from his ever-growing to-do list. He turned Kiki off, pocketed the keys, and made his delivery. Rattup, as always, greeted him as though he was an unshackled friend returned from his cold grave.

14.

Zephyr had brought along with him a strange futuristic device which connected to Rattup’s semi-antiquated television. Though the RCA that Rattup used (which touted rabbit ears, though it was cable-ready) was more than ten years old, it had all the proper hookups necessary to handle the extraneous DVD player that Zephyr no longer used. Rattup had declared of his television, with a touch of spite upon his tongue, “I had this silly thing brought to me by my cousin James about nine years ago. He works at one of those discount warehouses and stops in on occasion. Not lately, but back then he visited all the time, with his wife Tammy and their repugnant bratty children. I appreciated the gift, but haven’t put it to use, although that may be why it’s lasted me so long. I can’t say I’ve done much with it besides watching Jeopardy every night after my dinner. I don’t get proper reception, being way out here in the midst of Nothingness, USA, but I can make out Trebeck’s tie and his cocky attitude.” Zephyr offered a chuckle to the lambasting of Alex, but shook his head at the saddening shame that Rattup had never witnessed the magic of a DVD player. Perhaps next, thought Zephyr, he would expose the old timer to the magic of the “internets” (he always pluralized the term as a sideways Bush-Barb).

“
So we’ve got this DVD player all hooked in, and it can stay here for good. I don’t use the thing, so you’re welcome to it. I have a newer one at my apartment; it holds five movies at once.”

“
Why would you ever watch five movies at once?” Rattup queried.

Zephyr ignored the question, for he had no real good answer to it. Certain modern amenities were quite limited in their usefulness. “Also brought
Jaws
along, as requested. This isn’t even the newest game in town, either. Even these DVD players are obsolete, another reason you’re welcome to it, since I’ll be upgrading once I can get the cash together to do so,” Zephyr noted. Rattup looked on, studying the words from his young friend’s mouth with amazement while Zephyr was fiddling behind the television stand with the tri-colored auxiliary wiring. Zephyr continued with his explanation, “They have these Blu-Ray things now, but you wouldn’t notice much of a difference without a suped-up high definition TV. Maybe not worth your time, but DVDs make the old VHS tapes look like they all belong in the nearest dumpster.”

“
VHS,” stated Rattup, kneeling in front of the DVD player and gazing into its tiny green indicator lights and digital flashing clock; 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. “I don’t follow you.”

He laughed in response, “You’re even more out of the loop than I thought. I feel like I’m teaching a Sudanese kid how to use a toilet for the first time.” Zephyr had just watched a documentary with Jackie about the Lost Boys of Sudan, a pack of young males escaping war in a long trek away from their homes, many who were adopted by Americans and brought stateside to live and work and begin their lives anew. One particular humorous montage was of these young Sudanese boys and men learning about refrigerators, microwaves, bagged and canned foods. The toilet, though, was the most amazing marvel of all. The sound of the flush had sent the African escape artists into hysterics. This, Zephyr thought, was the same kind of giddy wonder that he saw in Charles Rattup, his eyes glistening with curiosity.

“
Sudanese kid?” Rattup replied, a smile creeping over his face. Oh, how he reveled in his backwardness and lost expressions. It was the kind of role that he felt he was born to play- Mr. Charles Rattup, the Confused Old Fart. He was writing his own character right before Zephyr’s eyes, and delighting in the visceral process of it all.

“
Now you’re just fucking with me, old man,” Zephyr shot back, at which they both had a good long laugh. Their laughter was amplified and elongated when Rattup chortled between his words that he had not fucked with
anybody
in decades, and that his bits and pieces were certain to be defunct and void. There was a sincerity in Rattup’s words that charged Zephyr with a sense of excitement, and they delayed their Spielberg viewing as they wiped away the tears from their eyes.

***

Jaws
went by without Rattup releasing a single breath of air. His face stayed so rigid that it appeared as if it had turned to wax. He dared not shift in his chair, lest a raging shark emerge from between the cushions and ravage his bones for the fleshy meat. “Oh dear,” he announced in a low tone during several startling moments, coupled by the covering of his eyes whenever the shark burst from the water without warning. Zephyr found, mostly during the later scenes aboard the Orca, that he was studying Rattup’s face more so than the movie itself. To observe such a modern dinosaur, taking in a classic movie of terror like
Jaws
for the first time, some thirty years after the fact... well, that sort of thing didn’t happen very often, no matter who you were or what circles you ran in. When Rattup asked, “Is it really dead?” at the very end, Zephyr had replied in the affirmative, but upon adding that there were three more movies in the
Jaws
series, Rattup was on the verge of keeling over from a heart attack. “My boy, you must bring me these movies. That was marvelous,” he replied, clapping in slow rhythm as the credits rolled before his eyes. “Marvelous.” It seemed to Zephyr, then, that Rattup was on the verge of tears, a sense of regret filling his face. How many other movies had he missed?

“
Are there any other classics you’d like to see? I’ve got quite the DVD collection,” Zephyr stated, at which Rattup began rattling off a series of Hitchcock movies that he had enjoyed in his youth. “I have
Psycho
and
The Birds,
” Zephyr replied. Rattup next asked of
Citizen Kane
and Zephyr replied, “Yes! I just picked that one up. I try to watch that
Kane
every year or so if I can. I’ll bring it along. That and I’ll bring a whole bunch you’ve never even heard of, but that you’ll need to see.” It was agreed that this would now be a part of their unexpected ritual and friendship, consuming classic films, both of Charles’ past and of the past that he had dodged by his extensive seclusion.

A noise creaked from the pumpkin floor boards beneath them. It may or may not have been the Woman Of The House; Zephyr could not be assured either way. It was then that Zephyr felt an aching desire to discuss their eavesdropper again. He wrote upon the already opened notepad that he had left on the coffee table, preparing for the inevitability of their conversational banter.

Zephyr:
Is she in the room?

Rattup:
My boy, she is always in the room.

Charles raised an eyebrow, looking up to the rafters. His dark eyes shifted from side to side in a comedic gesture, as though to say that she was in every nook and cranny of his existence, pilfering his livelihood for her own desires. She did not control his life, but she allowed or disallowed every thought and gesture therein.
If you believe in that sort of thing
, Zephyr always added to the end of such thoughts.

Rattup:
She grows so very angry with the passing of time. When we first started out, it was something I could manage. I told myself that YES, I was to be spooked by this incessant woman for all my days as she had promised me, but NO, she would not dictate my existence. I would not let her take that away from me. I am a man of free will, and she will have no choice but to understand that. I soon found that free will is a subjective pursuit. But while I still held some optimism in my belly, I would work around her, and at first that strategy was an astounding success. As time flew by, as it often does, I found that she was hesitant to allow even these small compromises in our... ahem.... “relationship.”

Rolling up the sleeve of his tan patchwork sweater, he displayed his forearm for Zephyr to see. Dark purple patches forming what appeared to be hand prints had inflicted deep contusions upon him. Charles rotated his forearm to expose the other side, which was even more terrible than the first side. The gangrenous blackened ovals reminded Zephyr of discolored crop circles. There was a concentric swirl to the wound, as one would expect if a large blunt screw had been applied to the surface of his skin and dug deep into his flesh, muscles, and tendons. Next, Rattup pulled up the fold of his sweater which hung around his tweed trousers, exposing a new bit of havoc. A long pink slice ran across his pale flaky abdomen. Though it was not bloody or oozing any visible fluids, it looked to Zephyr as if it once had been in that repugnant sort of state, and not very long ago, at that. Rattup pulled up his shirt an inch or two more to expose to the warm open air that it was not the only pinkish slash, but that there were three siblings above the first one, running parallel to form a dragging clawed mark.

A sound clattered from a distant space in the house. It sounded to Zephyr like a whimpering dog, but he knew nothing of Rattup owning any animals. He ignored the sounds as best he could, trying to focus on his discussion with Rattup. The sound repeated, but Zephyr’s attuned mental filter for oddity was working like a charm.

Rattup:
Her nails are treacherous. I wouldn’t even call them nails. Talons may be a more fitting word. She works them on me so slow, it feels like somebody is dripping acid across my body. She’ll pin me down so that I can’t move. When I was younger I could fight back some, but I’ve gotten older and subsequently weaker, so the struggle is brief. She stays the exact same age while I wither and tip-toe towards my eventual demise. A losing battle. She will always win at this point in the game, so I resign myself to her and practice coping methods. Meditation helps. I displace myself from this house, at least in the mental sense, and that makes all the difference in the level of pain I feel. It works for cancer patients, I’ve read quite a bit on that. So I guess it works for me, to some extent. But those claws. They are hell, young man. Total hell.

At this, Zephyr noted to himself that he would never bring his DVD of
Nightmare on Elm Street
. The mere character of Freddy Krueger may be too real for Rattup’s already damaged psyche to bear.

Zephyr:
She really did this to you?

Rattup:
I would not say so if it wasn’t true. I will never fib or exaggerate any of my truths with you, for there is no need. She’s a terrible banshee. It often seems to me as though she inflicts harm for harm’s sake. She is my warden, and I’m her prisoner, and she forever delights in that fact. There is no greater purpose in her doings besides the pleasure of my suffering, and likewise, her empowerment.

Zephyr:
Does she ever say anything to you when she does this? Can she communicate with you at all? You hinted at it before, but what does she say?

Rattup:
Not very often, but every now and again she’ll whisper something in my ear. We never speak about things like whether we need a new gallon of milk or not. We only talk on matters that affect our collected livelihood, and the communicative relationships that we take upon ourselves. We discussed
you
at length, as an example.

Zephyr:
That doesn’t make me feel better.

Rattup:
She would never DARE harm you, my boy. I’ve had visitors for decades, but none have ever known of her. They think I’m just a recluse. She doesn’t mind visitors, as long as they keep out of my affairs and never trifle with my predicament. In you and I recording our friendship to paper, you are above harm. When we discussed you, it was made very apparent by me that if any harm befell you, that you would never return. You see, she cannot hold you back from leaving, you are and always will be a stranger to her. Her and I are connected in a cosmic kind of way, and that connection is only inside of me. I cannot leave, and she will never allow me to. She has her WAYS. Like the bruises I’ve shown you, she has her ways.

Zephyr:
You can just walk out of here. I’ll help you. She can’t fight both of us.