Purgatorium (34 page)

I try to understand where Raphael is going with all of this as I attempt to load my pistol only using one arm. I fumble the bullet and it falls off the table, making Raphael wait until he scoops it back up.

“Anyway, Jack was a fair man. Didn’t like killing someone without a fair fight. He was no ordinary pirate, some would say because of his nobility. So he gets out two flintlock pistols and lays them down on a table. He tells the general the rules that he just made up. They wait until the clock strikes 11 o’clock, and then they are allowed to start loading their pistols. It was quite a sight, for the general was in his pajamas at the time, but that didn’t stop him from finishing first. The general aimed the pistol and fired at Jack, shooting out his right eye. Jack laid there for a second and while the general was taking his time reloading the pistol, Jack pops back up and shoots the general clean between his eyes. Jack celebrated by getting drunk at the bar. While he was there, he told people around him what had happened, and explained his little game to them. It didn’t take long before word spread, and Jack brought fear into anyone who challenged him. Some said that looking into his missing eye would force the soul right out of a man, and that’s why anyone who challenged Jack would lose. Or people said that Jack’s pride was so strong, it caused whomever he was challenging to doubt themselves. Pride is a powerful thing. It’s really too bad that Jack met his end getting drunk and falling down a well, don’t you think?”

Without warning, Raphael
picks up the now loaded pistol, points it at me, and pulls the trigger. The pistol misfires, the bullet leaving the barrel obliquely and hitting the wall off to the right. I look at him, terrified.

Raphael drops the pistol on the desk, laughing. I walk across the office and out the door, him still laughing, and head down the hall. I can hear him laughing and then the sound of the refrigerator in the break room opening.

I try to breathe a little more deeply and recover from just having been shot at. I step out in the hallway and walk toward the break room where the employee kitchen is. I can smell pancakes.

Raphael is sitting at the break room table, smoking, with a plate of pancakes in front of him. The break room floor is yellow tile, and the entire room looks like a late 70s kitchen.
Raphael
pushes the plate towards me. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and blows it in my face. He takes another drag and blow it on the pancakes.

“Pancakes make me happy. Do they make you happy? You see, happiness is the key to healing. It cleanses you. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You like feeling fuzzy now, don’t you?”

I push the pancakes away. I have had enough and my vulnerability to Raphael’s abuses overwhelms me. I quickly fantasize shoving pancakes down
Raphael’s
throat until he chokes and suffocates.

“What are you going to do, one armed Willy?” Raphael says, looking at my angry face. “Nub me to death?”
Raphael
guffaws, pushing the fork to me.

“Remember what it felt like? Coming down the stairs and your mom’s making pancakes. She hands you a fork. Remember the feeling when you touched the fork—anticipation, excitement, hunger, love from a
mother
…”

I touch the fork but can’t invoke any of the feelings Raphael is talking about.

“You want me to cut that up for ya, sir? Okay! Let me oblige you!”

Raphael
takes his
hatchet
out and slams it onto the pancakes, just missing my hand. “Now eat your pancakes!”
Raphael
pushes the plate right up against me. Again, he blows smoke from his cigarette onto the pancakes. “I knew it was missing something, that smoky taste.”

I look at Raphael, nonplussed.

“Boy, if you don’t eat, I’m gonna slice something a little bit more precious than your arm! And that’s real talk, you feel me?” I look down at the hacked-up pancakes and pick up the fork with my left hand, but it feels awkward. I fumble with it, trying to pick up a piece of pancake.

“Wow, boy, it’s like you never used your left arm to do anything before. I’d hate to think how long it’d take you to work out your personal business.”

I finally pick up a piece of pancake and put it in my mouth. I look up at
Raphael
defiantly, then chew and swallow.
Raphael
starts laughing.

“The look on your face! How does eating pancakes solve anything? You can’t even taste the shit.”
Raphael
gets up and walks toward the break room, laughing. I pick up the plate and throw it at him but miss. Raphael keeps laughing and walks down the hallway.

I head to the door of the break room and look for Raphael, but he isn’t there. I proceed to the elevator. The door’s open. I am about to step in when I see that the elevator car isn’t even there. I look down and see just below door level a glass tank, half full of water, with a hinged lid lifted up to one side.

“I put a lot of time and effort into this one. Had to kill a lot of reapers to get that water at just the right height,” I hear Raphael say from right behind me. He pushes me in. I gasp, shocked by the sudden immersion. Raphael reaches over, slams the lid closed, and locks it. My head is just above the water.

“Okay, so how do you feel?” Raphael asks smiling. Horrified and angry, I hold up my middle finger.
Raphael
reaches to a panel on top of the lid and turns a small black knob.

“Carbon dioxide freezes at negative 109.3 degrees Fahrenheit.” The machine starts shooting what looks like air, but it must be CO
2
, I conclude, into the water at the bottom of the tank. I feel the cold and start to shiver.
Raphael
looks down at me, smiling. He turns another knob on the control panel. I see the water level is getting higher. In less than a minute, it rises to the top of the tank. I can barely hold my mouth above water and can no longer breathe.

“You need to search deep inside!” I close my eyes trying to hold my breath.
Raphael
turns the first knob up all the way. CO
2
blows in with violent speed, filling the entire tank with bubbles, and the water immediately freezes. Within seconds, I lose all feeling and black out. Raphael looks down, satisfied. The water is completely frozen, a giant ice cube, and I am frozen inside it.

Suddenly, I begin to hear birds chirping and start to smell pancake syrup. How young am I now? I look down at the ground and notice that I have shrunk. I must be at least 9 or 10 years old.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

I look up to see that I am in a kitchen that looks exactly like the break room in my office building. My
mother
has her hands sternly on her hips. I had been making a mess, sifting and funneling baking soda from the box into an empty plastic soda bottle.

I gaze at my mother with loving eyes. I wish I could talk to her, but know that I can’t. I try with all my might to make myself move. I fall over. My
mother
bends down and picks me up. I put my arms around her waist and hold on to her tightly, wanting to never let her go. I tighten my hug as my
mother
hugs me back. I can no longer move. I know that this moment will end soon. I take one last look at her before I get sucked away.

“Is everything okay, dear?” she asks.

I try to forget the weird lack of control of the last few moments.

“Hello, Mom,” I say, doing my best to make her smile.

“Son,” she says, her mouth twisted with concern, but her eyes bright with care and love.

I read her expression carefully before proceeding. She is not disappointed, not yet at least.

“This is my science project,” I say proudly, continuing to funnel the white powder into the bottle. “This is something I’m supposed to be doing for school.”

My
mother
folds her arms. “You know, I don’t need to say it.”

“So don’t,” I reply playfully.

“Your father won’t like you doing that in the house.”

“Mom, please,” I plead. “I have to do this.”

She sighs. “Well, let’s hurry before your father finishes the yard work,” she says, looking at the assignment on the counter beside me.

“Thanks,” I say.

Sun beams in through the windows as I hear the ice cream man music coming from outside. I look through the window and see the ice cream van pass my house. My stomach starts to growl. I should have eaten lunch. Maybe I can get Mom to make me something really fast.

I bring the soda-makeshift-laboratory beaker toward the sink where the half-full vinegar bottle awaits. Knowing I am under her scrutiny, I place some of the loose items out of harm’s way. I am aware of what should happen when the two elements unite inside the bottle.

“Careful,” she cautions, refusing to look back.

“Here it goes,” I say eagerly, removing the lid from the vinegar and allowing it to trickle down through the open spout. As soon as the vinegar touches the soda, a small, popping reaction occurs, but then there is only fizzing.

“Darn!” I say.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, ignoring the indiscretion of my swearing.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I reply. My
mother
places a hand gently onto my disappointed head and
watch
es the chemical reaction continue dissipating down to nothing.

“You’re supposed to mix the two together?”

“Yes,” I say, tilting the bottle side-to-side, hopeful of a second reaction. “They’re supposed to create carbon dioxide gas.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mom,” I say, feeling for a moment embarrassed that my
mother
might know less than me. “It’s science.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, dejected. “I’ll try again another time. I am getting hungry.”

“Dad will freak if you eat before dinner,” my
mother
says in a worried voice.

I nod eagerly. “In my rush to get the project together, I forgot to eat lunch, though.”

“What do you want?”

“Pancakes!” I reply,
watch
ing as my
mother
opens the fridge.

I slowly dismantle the pieces of my experiment while my
mother
prepares buttermilk pancakes.
Why didn’t my experiment work?
I wonder. All the other kids will get this right, I think, as my
mother
opens the cupboard and takes out a plate.

“You better eat fast before your dad gets back from the yard,” she says. I listen to see whether I can hear my father outside. There are sounds of chopping wood from behind the shed.

“Okay, Mom,” I reply, the mere thought of my father inspiring an undeniable pulse of fear. I quickly open the fridge and take the syrup out from the door.

“You know how this kind of thing drives him up the wall,” she says, placing the plate with five perfectly round, silver dollar pancakes in front of me. “Understand?”

I understand. I understand all too well. I nod to my
mother
, assuring her we are of the same mind. She knows, I think, as I pull the tab of the sticky syrup bottle open and pour it out over my pancakes. She knows what I go through.

“Will five pancakes be enough?”

“Yes, indeed,” I say, taking the fork from her.

“Are you sure?” she continues. “You’re a growing boy.”

My
mother
reaches over and playfully pinches my side. “Yes,” I giggle. “Of course, it will be fine.”

The dining room goes quiet. I eat my pancakes as my
mother
sits across the table from me, head in her hands, watching me and smiling. “Eat it quickly,” she says. But her thoughts are starting to drift to fear. “Before your dad is done.” She goes over to her record player and picks out a vinyl record to put in it. I watch her take a cover out and smile.

“Hey Mom, why are you smiling?” I say to her.

It takes her a second to look back at me as if she were in a daydream. “Because I was remembering the first time I heard this song. I was just as young as you are now. It was the first time I saw your father. It was playing in a bowling alley.”

She puts the record on. The music begins to light up the room. My mom closes her eyes as if she was traveling back through time to that exact point. I like when my mom is happy. Lately she never smiles anymore or dances. Only when she plays her music is when I get to see her smile now. I notice a tear fall down her face and her smile turns to sadness.

“Why are you crying, Mom?”

“It’s nothing. I just really miss those simple times is all,” she says.

“Did the music make you travel back in time? Because if so, I can really get an A on my science project!”

She smiles towards my imagination. “For a second I felt like I was reliving the whole night over again,” she says to me. “So yea, it kind of is like a time machine. Though I don’t think the world or your science teacher is ready for this invention just yet.”