Choices, Part 12

by john | Jun 3, 2009 | Fiction, The Chosen

Chapter 3

It’s not a long ride from Tyler, Texas to New Orleans, but when you have to make a couple of pit stops and more than a couple of puke stops because of a two-day bender, it can be a seriously unpleasant trip. Michael and I drove, and Cain followed on his bike as Emily and Myra did their best impersonations of plague victims in the back seat. Cain and I had consumed nearly twice as much as they had, but we weren’t precisely normal, if you’ll recall. We only get about as drunk as we want to, and we can shake it off pretty quickly when we need to. I figured we needed to. The girls didn’t have quite our level of resilience, so it was a tough trip for them.

Finally, about nine hours into a seven-hour trip we rolled into the Crescent City. I’d never spent a whole lot of time in New Orleans, but I’d been there once or twice. I had nothing against the town, it just felt like too much old for me, and I had enough memories of old running around in my head without shaking them loose walking through the French Quarter. Cain pulled even with my window as we rolled off the interstate, and yelled “Follow me.”

We meandered through the Quarter until we pulled up to a small house on Royal Street, just off Jackson Square. Cain pulled his bike into a narrow alley and gestured for me to park on the street in front of the house. He motioned for me to follow, and we all trooped up a rickety flight of stairs into a second-floor apartment.

“Welcome, dear pater, to my humble abode.” He said grandly as we entered his slightly shabby yet somehow chic living room. There was a sofa that somehow managed to be threadbare and classy all at the same time, a feat I’d never managed personally, and a couple of mismatched lamps that nonetheless tied the whole room together somehow. The walls were decorated with back and white photographs of people in various ages, all taken in and around New Orleans. Emily wandered the walls as if in a museum, while her mother made a beeline for the sofa and curled up into a little, sweaty, exceedingly hung over ball.

“Cain, these are amazing,” Emily murmured as she looked at the photos. “It’s like you took a picture right into their souls and hung them up on the wall. Like this one here, I can almost see this woman crying for her lost little boy even though she’s smiling at a street musician.”

“You know, baby sister, there are some culture that still believe that a camera can steal your soul and trap it in the photograph. I think it’s the opposite, really. I think that the camera can set free a part of your soul that’s trapped in the everyday and let it loose to be miraculous. Turn around.” She did, and Cain was holding an expensive-looking digital camera. He snapped her picture before she could even vamp, and said “Gotcha! Now I’ve got a little piece of Emily-soul to carry around with me and stick on my wall.”

“You ass, you could at least have given me some warning.” She went over to him and punched him on the arm. “Well? You’ve gotta at least me see it so I can tell you to delete it.”

“Oh no, baby sister. You can see it, but I’m not deleting it. This is the most time I’ve spent with a sibling in a long time, and I want something to commemorate the moment.” He was smiling, but there was a heaviness to his eyes, and the moment, that gave us all pause. Myra broke the silence by getting up off the couch, bolting down a dark hallway into the tiny bathroom and being noisily sick.

“That’s Mom. She always knows just what to say.” And just like that, all the tension flowed out of the room. Emily slid her head under Cain’s arm just like they’d been raised brother and sister and snatched the camera out of his hands. She thumbed the controls expertly until her photo came onto the tiny screen.

“wow.” Her voice was very small, and she looked suddenly nervous as she looked up at Cain. “Is that what I really look like?”

“The camera doesn’t lie, baby sister. You’re beautiful.”

“But, I’ve never been pretty.”

“You’re right. You’re beautiful. I might have mentioned that. Have I developed a stutter after all these centuries?”

“But, it’s not right, I’m not like that, I don’t take good pictures, that’s not me.” By now my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I wandered over to look at the image over her shoulder. Cain had caught her just as she turned around, hair flying slightly, with a touch of backlight making it look even more golden than normal. Her mouth was open a little, teeth just barely showing in a pixie grin, and her eyes twinkled in light I never saw in that apartment. She was, in a word, beautiful.

Now don’t get me wrong, Emily was a pretty girl, and in the right setting maybe even men who aren’t her father would consider her beautiful. But after a drinking binge, nine hours on the road in the Texas-Louisiana summer and a total of maybe three hours sleep in as many days, she wasn’t at her best. But in Cain’s photo, she was everything she could ever be on her best day. He captured the absolute essence of Emily and distilled it into a single digital image. It was both breathtaking and a little scary.

“Damn, Cain. That’s an amazing picture. That’s the kind of thing photographers wait their whole life to capture, and you did it without even thinking or trying twice. You’ve got a gift, son.” I said.

“Well, Dad, I’ve had a lot longer to practice than most artists.”

“Good point.”

“So, other than to admire your skill in photography, which is considerable, and to allow Myra to vomit in your toilet, which is admirable, why are we here?”

“Well, I thought we could rest up here and then you and I could go looking for Mom later tonight when the clubs open.”

“You don’t think they’re open now?”

“They are. She’s not there yet.”

“How do you know? Never mind. You know. More to the point, does she know you’re here?”

“We’ve talked from time to time.”

“Is she alright?” This time it was my voice that was small, and I couldn’t look at my son’s eyes. I walked across the living room and out onto his tiny balcony. It was just big enough to hold two wrought-iron chairs and a tiny round table. I bypassed the chairs and leaned on my elbows on the railing instead.

“She’s okay, Dad. At least, she’s okay for Mom. You know how she is.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She’s bitter, and angry all the time and she gets into fights with clients and gets guys so mad they punch her and throw her into the street half-naked sometimes and she runs through jobs like I go through clean socks, and I don’t think she’s happy unless she’s miserable.”

“Yeah, I know.” I did, too. She’d been like that ever since I brought Abel’s body back from the shallow grave where Cain buried him and laid him to rest under the Tree. Yeah, that Tree. It wasn’t the Garden anymore, and it wasn’t really the Tree anymore, since our Father had withdrawn his presence from us, but it was still the oldest Tree we had ever known, so it seemed somehow appropriate. I dug a deep hole and buried my eldest son there, and when I finished shoveling dirt back in on top of his lifeless form I turned around and saw that I was alone.

Eve stayed gone for several days, and when she came back she was different. The loss of our two sons in the same day had changed something fundamental in her, and it wasn’t long after that when we went our separate ways. We travelled the world for centuries, our paths sometimes crossing, but never for very long. And here I was after thousands of years ready to make nice and play happy family again. Oh, and here’s our long-lost son, the one that you kept in touch with and I said I’d never touch again except to strangle. Yeah, I could see this was gonna be a long night.

Choices, part 11

by john | Jun 2, 2009 | Fiction, The Chosen

After several hours, multiple bottles of whiskey, bourbon and by the end of things, tequila, we had gone through about twenty-five hundred dollars worth of booze, and Emily and Myra were looking a little the worse for wear. Cain and I may have had a slight edge on them in the tolerance department, and let’s face it, once you’ve drank mead with real Vikings, there’s not a whole lot of impressive rolling out of Milwaukee. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, just a lot of liquid group therapy and some gentle dancing around the big topics. Cain and I talked through Emily a lot, asking her what she was interested in, what she wanted to be when she grew up, that kind of stuff. We very studiously didn’t discuss any abandonment issues, empty feelings because of being an only child or anything else that might have ripped off scabs that were just starting to form.

I figure we sat in that bar for the better part of a day and a half digesting a steady diet of Emmylou Harris, Reckless Kelly and Townes Van Zant before Michael finally came strolling in, looking for all the world like he was on a pleasure cruise rather than rolling cross-country with a couple of immortals who’d broken his nose twice in twenty-four hours and their indefinable mortal relations.

“Well, look what the cat regurgitated onto the rug.” I said sweetly as he pulled up a chair and materialized a white wine spritzer. Lucinda Williams was on the jukebox singing Return of the Grievous Angel and I was pretty sure that he had either timed his entrance to fit the song, or more likely that he had changed the jukebox to make a better entrance.

“Really, Michael? That has to be the only wine glass within a hundred miles. Do you want to get punched in the face again that badly? I’m sure if you just asked, one of the boys here would be willing to oblige you. It’s not necessary to show all of Texas exactly what a fairy you angels can be.” Myra cracked herself up and went into a fit of drunken giggles at the whole fairy angels bit.

“I presume we have gotten all of our childishness out of our systems and are ready to proceed with the world-saving portion of our program?” Michael ignored Myra. Probably a good idea given her level of inebriation. I wouldn’t put it past her to knock the angel on his ass herself.

“Well, in the words of Jaws, we’re gonna need a bigger boat.” I said.

“Excuse me?” responded the confused angel. Pop culture references, even ones dated enough for me to follow, were apparently no good with the seraphim. All that harp music interfered with their television reception, I guessed.

“We came her in a Civic. I don’t think five of us are leaving that way.” I explained.

“Don’t sweat it, Dad. I didn’t exactly fly here, you know?” Oh yeah. Cain had to have some type of transportation. “My bike’s right outside.” I felt a little twinge when he said that. Like father, like son, I suppose. Maybe I could have a relationship with this son even after all the water under (and over) that bridge.

“Well, then, we should go. Cain, I believe you should take the lead on this leg. After all, you know where we’re going.” Michael said.

“Well, I don’t know exactly where we’re going, just a general idea.” Cain said, and he suddenly became very interested in the tops of his shoes.

“And where, roughly, does that general idea lead?” I started to have a really bad feeling about the answer as my thoughts flashed back to Cain’s initial re-entry into my life a couple of days back.

“Well, it’s kinda tough to say. You know how Mom is, she doesn’t like to stay in one place too long, and sometimes I get mixed signals when I’m trying to track her down, and…”

“Cain. Where. Is. Eve?” I used the Daddy Voice. It’s different from The Voice, but has a similar effect, if the audience is a little more limited. I was happy and more than a little surprised to see that it still worked even if your kid is a few thousand years old.

“Bourbon Street.”

“And what is she doing on Bourbon Street? As I recall, Eve is an excellent musician, so I have some slight hope that she’s playing music.”

“Not exactly, Michael.” Cain replied. I knew that whatever the answer was, I was not going to like it.

“So what, exactly, is she doing, son?” I asked as gently as I could muster.

“Dancing.”

“Where is she dancing, Cain?” I tried to keep my voice level.

“Well, she moves around a lot.”

“Cain. Talk.” I said. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but it had been a long time since I’d been on Bourbon Street and had a modicum of hope that it had changed since the hurricane.

“Big Daddy’s.” Apparently neither Bourbon Street nor Eve had changed since the last time I saw them. Bourbon Street still housed as many strip clubs as jazz clubs, and Eve still worked hard to surround herself with as much of humanity’s filth as possible. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against strip clubs, and some of my favorite conversations throughout the years have been with strippers and prostitutes. I’ve always appreciated their unvarnished view of the world. They have a level of honesty that you just don’t find in “legitimate” society, and every once in a while I’ve needed that type of honesty. But I knew instantly that Eve wouldn’t be working in the top-notch strip club, she’d be working the seediest dive on the street, and that at some point before we left New Orleans, I was going to end up hitting somebody again. And there was only about a 50/50 shot that it wouldn’t be Eve.

So I knocked back one last shot of Patron, looked over at the Jason (after a certain number of bottles, you move into a first-name relationship with your bartenders) and asked if we had any cash left. He looked over at the tab and brought me four twenties. I handed them back to him with a couple of unflattering pictures of Ben Franklin and headed toward the door into the sunlight just as Robert Earl Keen started to sing “Sherry was a waitress, at the only joint in town.” I chuckled to myself and thought about the truth is Keen’s song. The road really does go on forever, but I thought this party might be just getting started.

Choices, Part 9

by john | May 29, 2009 | Fiction, The Chosen

This is the 9th installment of a story I started on my old site. The full story is posted on the page labelled Choices, but as I write more, I’ll post it here.

“I thought you two would make friends if I gave you a little time to get to know each other.” Myra said as she came through the door I’d never bothered to close the night before. “Where’s the angel?”

“Last I saw he was lying on the hood of the car looking up at the stars. He might have taken off to get a better look at the sunrise, though. That’s the kind of thing they used to do.”

“Take off?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, you know, fly? They really can do that if they choose to take that form, but they have to make sure not to let anybody see them. That form is a little much for most humans to handle seeing.”

“But not you?”

“Nah, kiddo. Remember, I saw them in their natural form all the time back in the Garden days. So it doesn’t bother me. It unnerves me a little more to see them in human form, actually. Especially Michael. He never was much of one to hang with us in the Garden, and I haven’t seen him, or any of them really, since they tossed us out.”

“Does the Garden still exist? Could you go back there?”

“No. It was more than a place, it was a state of being. Being cast out of the Garden was more being cut off from all the pure light of the world than it was being tossed out of a physical place. I suppose it’s something similar to what Lucky felt when his little revolution failed, being deprived of seeing the face of God for all eternity. Being tossed out of the Garden was a little like that. We were cut off from our Father, who had held a pretty active role in our lives until then. And all our friends, the angels and animals both, were gone. We couldn’t talk to the animals anymore, and they started killing each other. And the angels, well, between the day we were tossed out and yesterday, the only angels I’ve seen were either fallen or porcelain.”

“That’s awful.” Emily said, as she threw her arms around my neck.

“Moderately awful, yes.” I hugged her back as Myra sat on the bed on my other side.

“Well isn’t this just fucking precious,” came a voice from the door. I went very, very still, the way someone does when they hear a rattlesnake’s buzz as they’re walking through the desert. I knew the voice, even after all these years, and I knew that his presence here was no more an accident than my picking that particular diner as I cruised east.

My oldest son slid into the room, all sinewy muscle and blue-black hair,  and sat down in the chair. He took my abandoned glass of whiskey, knocked it back, and poured himself another. “Good choice, pops. Life is too short for cheap liquor, even for us.” He raised a glass to Emily, said “Cheers, baby sister. Cheers,” and sipped the amber liquid, taking a deep breath as he set down the glass.

“Now, Dad. Suppose you tell me exactly what is going on and why you and Baby Sis and this mortal floozy are snuggling in a no-tell motel while Mom’s working in a strip joint on Bourbon Street shaking her moneymaker for wasted tourists. I mean, after all these years of being the black sheep of the family I suddenly find myself downright respectable by comparison.”

I was on my feet before I knew it, but Cain was always fast. He caught me and had me bent backwards over the cheap table quicker than an eyeblink. His strong arm went across my neck in a choke, and he got right down in my face, close enough for me to smell the hate on his breath. He smiled at me, and my blood ran cold. I knew real fear for the first time in centuries, as my psychotic son held my life in his hands.

“No, no, papa. We’ll have none of those outbursts. They aren’t good for the soul, are they? But what would I know about that, right? I don’t know how you got me here, and I don’t care. But it’s not going to end well for you, Daddy. It’s not going to end well at all. Remember, only one of us can really hurt one of us. And I know how to hurt, Daddy. I know very well how to hurt. And I…” Cain grunted heavily and his grip on my neck loosened as he slumped off my back onto the floor. I got up off the table shakily and saw Emily behind him holding a Gideon bible like a sledgehammer, her hands shaking but her eyes fierce. I looked up at her and saw her ultimate grandmother in those flaming eyes, and there was no denying that this kid was something to reckon with.

Chapter 3
I tied Cain to the chair with his belt and mine, and sent Emily running for Michael. I hoped the angel was within earshot, and had a plan, because I had no idea how we were going to deal with this. In the back of my mind I knew we would have to deal with Cain eventually, but I had convinced myself that Eve would come first, because Eve could deal with him. Yeah, I know, probably not the greatest parenting strategy, but after a half dozen eons or so I think I can get by without any tips from Dr. Spock, alright?

Apparently Michael was close, because Emily brought him back a few minutes later, and the little shit had the audacity to look pleased about the situation.

“What, by all the names of the Father, are you grinning about?” I asked as Emily closed the door behind the angel.

“Well, Adam, it should be apparent. Now we don’t have to look for Cain. He’s found us. It’s a capital development!”

“Capital?!? Jesus and Mohammed, no wonder nobody likes the British! I’ll grant you that he’s found us and that makes one bit easier, but now we have to deal with him, and I guarantee that will do nothing but complicate matters.”

“Complicate matters? Oh Daddy, you always did underestimate me. I will do so much more than merely complicate matters. I plan to end matters. I’m tired of this dance we’ve done with each other for so long, and now that I see you again, it’s finally time to do something about it. Just like I did with your precious Abel.”

“Don’t. Speak. That. Name. You lost all right to say your brother’s name when you took his life, you insane little bastard! I should end you myself right now. I should have done it a lifetime ago, but”

“But what, Daddy? But Mommy wouldn’t let you? But you didn’t have the guts? But you didn’t know then that you couldn’t die so you chickened out because you were afraid of going to Hell with your friend Lucypher? BUT WHAT, DADDY?” Spittle landed on my shirt as he screamed the last at me.

“But he still loves you and can’t stand the thought of losing you, too.” Emily was sitting on the far bed, all the way across the room from where Michael and I flanked Cain’s chair, but she didn’t have to raise her voice to stop our yelling match cold.

“Can’t you see? He’s spent thousands of years bludgeoning himself for not seeing what you were going to do, and for not stopping you. He’s beaten himself bloody for centuries for not stopping your mother from going off alone into the Garden that day. He’s never forgiven himself for never telling you that he forgave you the second he told you to get out of his sight, and he’s been so afraid of the hurt in your eyes every time you look at him that he’s tried to cover it up with anger. You know, for people that have lived for thousands of years, you’re all pretty stupid sometimes.”

I listened to her say the words I couldn’t even bring myself to think, and looked at Cain as he saw the truth of what she said reflected in my eyes, and I did something I thought I’d never do again after Matthew died in my arms. I cried. My legs went weak and I fell to my knees in that cheap room on the second floor of a Quality Inn in Tyler, Texas, and I wept like a baby.