Stories (2011) (41 page)

With a trembling hand I closed the lids down over those
empty eyes, put the dirt back in place, the rock, and returned to bed. But I
did not sleep well. I dreamed of a grown man talking to a wooden doll and using
another voice to answer back, pretending that the doll lived and loved him too.

But the water had gotten to it, and the sight of those
rotting legs had snapped him back to reality, dashed his insane hopes of
containing a soul by magic, shocked him brutally from foolish dreams.

Dead is dead.

* * *

The next day, Machen was silent and had little to say. I
suspected the events of last night weighed on his mind. Our conversation must
have returned to him this morning in sober memory, and he, somewhat
embarrassed, was reluctant to recall it. He kept to himself down below in the
locked room, and I busied myself with my work.

It was night when he came up, and there was a smug look
about him, as if he had accomplished some great deed. We spoke a bit, but not
of witches, of past times and the sea. Then he pulled back the curtains and
looked at the moon rise above the water like a cold fish eye.

"Machen," I said, "maybe I shouldn't say
anything, but if you should ever have something bothering you, if you should
ever want to talk about it . . . well, feel free to come to me."

We said little more and soon went to bed.

I slept sounder that night, but again I was rousted from my
dreams by voices. Machen's voice again, and the poor man speaking in that
little child's voice.

"It's a fine home for you," Machen said in his own
voice.

"I want no home," came the little girl's voice.
"I want to be free."

"You want to stay with me, with the living. You're just
not thinking. There's only darkness beyond the veil."

The voices were very clear and loud. I sat up in bed and
strained my ears.

"It's where I belong," the little girl's voice
again, but it spoke not in a little girl manner. There was only the tone.

"Things have been bad lately," Machen said.
"And you're not yourself."

Laughter, horrible little girl laughter.

"I haven't been myself for years."

"Now, Caroline . . . play your piano. You used to play
it so well. Why, you haven't touched it in years."

"Play. Play. With these!"

"You're too loud."

"I don't care. Let him hear, let him . . ."

A door closed sharply and the sound died off to a mumble; a
word caught here and there was scattered and confused by the throb of the sea.

* * *

Next morning Machen had nothing for me, not even a smile
from his borrowed collection. Nothing but coldness, his back, and a frown.

I saw little of him after coffee, and once, from below --
for he stayed down there the whole day through -- I thought I heard him cry in
a loud voice. "Have it your way, then," and then there was the sound
of a slamming door and some other sort of commotion below.

After a while I looked out at the land and the sea, and down
there, striding back and forth, hands behind his back, went Machen, like some
great confused penguin contemplating the far shore.

I like to think there was something more than curiosity in
what I did next. Like to think I was looking for the source of my friend's
agony; looking for some way to help him find peace.

I went downstairs and pulled at the door he kept locked,
hoping that, in his anguish, he had forgotten to lock it back. He had not
forgotten.

I pressed my ear against the door and listened. Was that
crying I heard?

No. I was being susceptible, caught up in Machen's fantasy.
It was merely the wind whipping about the tower.

I went back upstairs, had coffee, and wrote not a line.

* * *

So day fell into night, and I could not sleep, but finally
got the strange business out of my mind by reading a novel. A rollicking good
sea story of daring men and bloody battles, great ships clashing in a merciless
sea.

And then, from his side of the curtain, I heard Machen creak
off his cot and take to the stairs. One flight below was the door that led to
the railing round about the tower, and I heard that open and close.

I rose, folded a small piece of paper into my book for a marker,
and pulled back one of the window curtains. I walked around pulling curtains
and looking until I could see him below.

He stood with his hands behind his back, looking out at the
sea like a stern father keeping an eye on his children. Then, calmly, he
mounted the railing and leaped out into the air.

I ran. Not that it mattered, but I ran, out to the railing .
. . and looked down. His body looked like a rag doll splayed on the rocks.

There was no question in my mind that he was dead, but
slowly I wound my way down the steps . . . and was distracted by the room. The
door stood wide open.

I don't know what compelled me to look in, but I was drawn
to it. It was a small room with a desk and a lot of shelves filled with books,
mostly occult and black magic. There were carpentry tools on the wall, and all
manner of needles and devices that might be used by a tailor. The air was
filled with an odd odor I could not place, and on Machen's desk, something that
was definitely not tobacco smoldered away.

There was another room beyond the one in which I stood. The
door to it was cracked open. I pushed it back and stepped inside. It was a
little child's room filled thick with toys and such: jack-in-the-boxes, dolls,
kid books, and a toy piano. All were covered in dust.

On the bed lay a teddy bear. It was ripped open and the
stuffing was pulled out. There was one long strand of hair hanging out of that
gutted belly, just one, as if it were the last morsel of a greater whole. It
was the color of honey from a fresh-robbed hive. I knew what the smell in the
ashtry was now.

I took the hair and put a match to it, just in case.

ONE: Honest Work

Godzilla, on his way to work at the foundry, sees a large
building that seems to be mostly made of shiny copper and dark, reflecting
solar glass. He sees his image in the glass and thinks of the old days, wonders
what it would be like to stomp on the building, to blow flames at it, kiss the
windows black with his burning breath, then dance rapturously in the smoking
debris.

One day at a time, he tells himself. One day at a time.

Godzilla makes himself look at the building hard. He passes
it by. He goes to the foundry. He puts on his hard hat. He blows his fiery
breath into the great vat full of used car parts, turns the car parts to molten
metal. The metal runs through pipes and into new molds for new car parts.
Doors. Roofs. Etc.

Godzilla feels some of the tension drain out.

TWO: Recreation

After work Godzilla stays away from downtown. He feels
tense. To stop blowing flames after work is difficult. He goes over to the BIG
MONSTER RECREATION CENTER.

Gorgo is there. Drunk from oily seawater, as usual. Gorgo
talks about the old days. She's like that. Always the old days.

They go out back and use their breath on the debris that is
deposited there daily for the center's use. Kong is out back. Drunk as a
monkey. He's playing with Barbie dolls. He does that all the time. Finally, he
puts the Barbies away in his coat pocket, takes hold of his walker and wobbles
past Godzilla and Gorgo.

Gorgo says, "Since the fall he ain't been worth shit.
And what's with him and the little plastic broads anyway? Don't he know
there're real women in the world?"

Godzilla thinks Gorgo looks at Kong's departing walker-supported
ass a little too wistfully. He's sure he sees wetness in Gorgo's eyes.

Godzilla blows some scrap to cinders for recreation, but it
doesn't do much for him, as he's been blowing fire all day long and has, at
best, merely taken the edge off his compulsions. This isn't even as satisfying
as the foundry. He goes home.

THREE: Sex and Destruction

That night there's a monster movie on television. The usual
one. Big beasts wrecking havoc on city after city. Crushing pedestrians under
foot.

Godzilla examines the bottom of his right foot, looks at the
scar there from stomping cars flat. He remembers how it was to have people
squish between his toes. He thinks about all of that and changes the channel.
He watches twenty minutes of _Mr. Ed_, turns off the TV, masturbates to the
images of burning cities and squashing flesh.

Later, deep into the night, he awakens in a cold sweat. He
goes to the bathroom and quickly carves crude human figures from bars of soap.
He mashes the soap between his toes, closes his eyes and imagines. Tries to
remember.

FOUR: Beach Trip and The Big Turtle

Saturday, Godzilla goes to the beach. A drunk monster that
looks like a big turtle flies by and bumps Godzilla. The turtle calls Godzilla
a name, looking for a fight. Godzilla remembers the turtle is called Gamera.

Gamera is always trouble. No one liked Gamera. The turtle
was a real asshole.

Godzilla grits his teeth and holds back the flames. He turns
his back and walks along the beach. He mutters a secret mantra given him by his
sponsor. The giant turtle follows after, calling him names.

Godzilla packs up his beach stuff and goes home. At his back
he hears the turtle, still cussing, still pushing. It's all he can do not to
respond to the big dumb bastard. All he can do. He knows the turtle will be in
the news tomorrow. He will have destroyed something, or will have been
destroyed himself.

Godzilla thinks perhaps he should try and talk to the
turtle, get him on the twelve step program. That's what you're supposed to do.
Help others. Maybe the turtle could find some peace.

But then, again, you can only help those who help
themselves. Godzilla realizes he can not save all the monsters of the world.
They have to make these decisions for themselves. But he makes a mental note to
go armed with leaflets about the twelve step program from now on.

Later, he calls in to his sponsor. Tells him he's had a bad
day. That he wanted to burn buildings and fight the big turtle. Reptilicus
tells him it's okay. He's had days like that. Will have days like that once
again.

Once a monster, always a monster. But a recovering monster
is where it's at. Take it one day at a time. It's the only way to be happy in
the world. You can't burn and kill and chew up humans and their creations
without paying the price of guilt and multiple artillery wounds.

Godzilla thanks Reptilicus and hangs up. He feels better for
a while, but deep down he wonders just how much guilt he really harbors. He
thinks maybe it's the artillery and the rocket-firing jets he really hates, not
the guilt.

FIVE: Off The Wagon

It happens suddenly. He falls off the wagon. Coming back
from work he sees a small doghouse with a sleeping dog sticking halfway out of
a doorway. There's no one around. The dog looks old. It's on a chain. Probably miserable
anyway. The water dish is empty. The dog is living a worthless life. Chained.
Bored. No water.

Godzilla leaps and comes down on the doghouse and squashes
dog in all directions. He burns what's left of the doghouse with a blast of his
breath. He leaps and spins on tip-toe through the wreckage. Black cinders and
cooked dog slip through his toes and remind him of the old days.

He gets away fast. No one has seen him. He feels giddy. He
can hardly walk he's so intoxicated. He calls Reptilicus, gets his answering
machine. "I'm not in right now. I'm out doing good. But please leave a
message, and I'll get right back to you."

The machine beeps. Godzilla says, "Help."

SIX: His Sponsor

The doghouse rolls around in his head all the next day.
While at work he thinks of the dog and the way it burned. He thinks of the
little house and the way it crumbled. He thinks of the dance he did in the
ruins.

The day drags on forever. He thinks maybe when work is
through he might find another doghouse, another dog.

On the way home he keeps an eye peeled, but no doghouses or
dogs are seen.

When he gets home his answering machine light is blinking.
It's a message from Reptilicus. Reptilicus's voice says, "Call me."

Godzilla does. He says, "Reptilicus. Forgive rne, for I
have sinned."

SEVEN: Disillusioned. Disappointed.

Reptilicus's talk doesn't help much. Godzilla shreds all the
twelve step program leaflets. He wipes his butt on a couple and throws them out
the window. He puts the scraps of the others in the sink and sets them on fire
with his breath. He burns a coffee table and a chair, and when he's through,
feels bad for it. He knows the landlady will expect him to replace them.

He turns on the radio and lies on the bed listening to an
Oldies station. After a while, he falls asleep to Martha and the Vandellas
singing "Heat Wave."

EIGHT: Unemployed

Godzilla dreams. In it God comes to him, all scaly and
blowing fire. He tells Godzilla he's ashamed of him. He says he should do
better. Godzilla awakes covered in sweat. No one is in the room.