Pilgrims Upon the Earth Read online

  PRINCIPAL LEMON decided throwing bottles against a church was crime enough to kick them off, and coach sat them down after practice.

  My hands are tied. Bound by a force which I have no control. I wish it were different.

  Terry walked a field behind his father’s house, busted heads of milkweed in the air. The dead light broke over the ground and farther the trees grew thick and the ground pushed up thorn and tight brush against his calves and the air dropped cold.

  He found a rusted car shell, metal and sour vinyl, wheels gone, hood peeled one corner over the empty engine block, fallen limbs inside on the maroon seats, grass grown up through all of it. He pulled branches out. He scaled a window frame legs first, hands on the door. He sat down and put his hands on the rotten steering wheel. He tore foam from the seats. It broke dust at his hands. His breath fogged; he liked watching it frozen in the half light coming through rust holes in the roof and the split back windshield.

  He climbed out of the car and stood in front of the engine block. He lit some old newspaper, got a bottle of lighter fluid from his jacket and pushed a stream at the flame. It caught blue, and the fire nodded, a bear pushed from sleep. He watched it for a moment, and then he dropped two red plastic lighters inside. They swallowed heat and trembled, burst a dull thud. The fire caught grass and trash and branches and burned high orange. He warmed his hands, chewed trucker speed.

  Past the fire and the far trees the sky lit green and sparked, risen light like a star shot from the ground. Another light arced, pink this time, purple the next, then blue, all hissed toward him, into the black and then down, burning in the woods.

  He kept the car between him and the lights and crouched at one side. He stayed that way for a moment. It was quiet; he knew it was the Russians, the red storm, fur-lined earflaps and sickles. It didn’t matter. He knew for a long time they were coming. For many years the actor president promised such a thing. Terry tapped his pockets for the knife and tried to hold his words. He’d left the knife beneath his pillow. Fuck all, he said.

  There were fell branches in the leaves. He picked one up. It bent wet, and he knocked it against the ground and it fell off at the middle. He pulled one from the engine block, fire burning at one end, held it up high, a torch.

  The first one grazed the roof of the car and fell off behind him, and then they came faster, splitting branches and pitching the high leaves. The rockets were small, moved fast through the dark. Terry crouched, put his eyes over the lip of the engine block and held the branch high in the dark, the rockets still, then, and the trees silent. He waited, and the deep quiet stayed, and he waited some more and then he stood up and held the lit branch in front of him.

  He saw it come; a hiss, soft and then loud and gathering speed, a burning yellow spark through the dark and the woods. He watched it crash his nose; the force of it sent him backward to the leaves and crossed his eyes, his neck thrown back, nose cracked white, hot pain shuddered through his cheeks.

  Terry opened his eyes and twitched, looked up to the tops of trees. There were voices nearby. He turned his head on the ground, the fire high again at the block; beside the car, shaded outline of shoulder and neck. He slowed his breath, worked his hands in the leaves for a branch he could use as a club. He moved his legs. Leaves cracked and jostled. The near voices stopped. He found a branch in the leaves, stayed on his back, dead limp.

  The legs got close enough. He swung the branch and broke it to one set of knees; a yelp, then, and one of them dropped to the dry leaves. Terry pushed up at his hands and got two steps on a run. The shirt bunched around his neck, and he fell hard to his back. A set of knees pressed cap point on his biceps, dark face above turned to one side, the other down in the leaves and yelling. His nose beat hard. He felt the blood swell in his cheeks. Eyes fixed to the weak light over the shoulders above him, he made out the face some more; dark eyes, like mallets, head shaved an army cut, widow’s peak a knife tip. His shirt was black or blue, the word FEAR pasted in sharp white letters on the chest. Terry remembered him from the plane yard and shook his arms.

  Come on, man, he said. The fucking airplanes remember?

  The kid sitting on top squinted his eyes some more, loose and wet in the sockets. Terry smelled drink on him.

  The cats? The fucking judge? We talked, man.

  Are you following me?

  No, man.

  The kid at the ground stood up, narrow shoulders, head cocked to one side. He brushed his chest off, stepped close to them and stood over.

  What are you doing out here? he said.

  I built that fire, Terry said. I was just out here, man, smoking fucking cigarettes. Man, come on.

  Terry jerked an arm from under the kid’s knees. The kid took his arm with one hand and jammed the knee back down on top.

  What are you two jackasses doing here? Terry said. You and fuckface over there. It’s not your woods, man, you don’t own them. Get off, man, fucking get off.

  I don’t know this person. Did you call me fuckface?

  Terry’s mouth was dry. He turned his head on the ground and spit at his feet. Not much came out. The kid on top brought his right arm down and gripped a hand wide at his jaw, thumb and fingers wrapped a smile, ear to ear. It didn’t feel like he meant to choke him. But then the hand clenched more. Terry knocked at the kid’s forearm with the loosed hand, opened his mouth, and no words came out. The other one stood up, said Stop, fucking quit. He pushed the kid hard at the shoulders, and the hand left Terry’s neck. He breathed in hard, turned on the ground to his chest. He pushed up on his hands and knees and stayed. The big one crouched low on his heels.

  I remember you, he said.

  Terry nodded, and then he spit.

  I have this ghost in me sometimes, the big one said.

  The big one rubbed his eyes with the butts of his palms, and then he stood and put a hand down and helped Terry up.

  I thought you were Russians, Terry said.

  No, the big one said. Just recreational fireworks is all. It’s a hobby, I guess you’d call it.

  He went with the two of them back over to the fire set in the engine block. Isaac Calendar was tall and skinny, head shaved both sides, long piece left in the middle, bent over his right eye. His head was cocked to one side. He wore a dark shirt that read SAMHAIN. Louden was bigger than Terry remembered. He stoked the fire with a stick. Isaac dropped a box of matches. The fire welled. They saw his face.

  You get hit? Isaac said.

  Somebody got hit, Louden said.

  I hope they look as bad.

  Terry’s nose was swollen up to his eyes.

  Wasn’t a person, he said. One of those rockets.

  Rockets? Isaac said. Like spaceships?

  I don’t know what it was. Something flying through the woods. It sounded like a rocket.

  They looked him stone face for a few moments.

  Louden spit some beer on the ground and wiped his mouth. Isaac got two sparklers from his jacket. He gave Terry the last handful of bottle rockets. Terry lit the fuses and shot them off at the woods. Isaac burned a sparkler and stared at the waved green bloom. They looked to Terry like a planet’s birth.

  I guess they’re dangerous, Isaac said. People say that, but I’ve never seen it.

  Louden shook his head at him.

  Tell that to my old man. Ask him where his thumb is.

  Where is it?

  A bunch of pieces, man.

  Terry slept with his nose throbbing and by morning it was fat and swollen to his cheeks. His father stopped him in the kitchen, studied his face and the gash there.

  Go on and sit down, he said.

  Terry sat down, leaned on the tabletop and rubbed his forehead. Benjamin Webber put ice from the tray to a plastic sandwich bag and twisted the top and tied a flimsy knot. He set it down on the table in front of Terry, ran water in the sink until it steamed and held part of a dishtowel beneath the steam.

  Who got after you? he said.

  He tou
ched Terry’s nose with the end of the towel. Terry winced.

  Shit, man, careful. It was a bottle rocket.

  His father dropped the towel to the counter and lifted the plastic bag filled with ice.

  Hold this on your nose until it hurts, he said. It’ll go numb after that.

  Terry took the bag.

  Like a damn firework thing? his father said.

  That’s what hit me.

  Benjamin Webber smiled a little.

  Playing a war then? he said.

  No.

  Just out of nowhere? That’s what you’re saying?

  I am.

  Benjamin Webber finished at the cut and went over and dropped the towel in the sink. He stayed looking through the window to the back and did not turn when he spoke.

  Me and this woman, he said. That’s nothing about anyone but me and her.

  I understand that.

  Sometime you’ll know, this life, this one right here, it’ll bleed you, son, if you don’t make a spot.

  Terry watched him close the back door and go outside. He thought of him sobbing, like a baby, remembered how it scared him. He remembered the burn marks in the wood floor. He went to his room, opened the window and smoked. The air moving past the house curled the smoke over one side of the window frame when he blew it out. He put a hand outside to feel it. He brought the hand inside, and then he lit one end of the gold metal pipe shaped like a spark plug. He pulled a long time and held it in. He coughed when he blew out and he kept coughing. He put a hand to his mouth and leaned over onto his thighs. When it left him he raised up, his father’s head close to the bottom of the sill.

  Come on out, he said.

  Terry didn’t move, or speak.

  I don’t give a shit, now, come on outside.

  Benjamin Webber sat back pressed to an oak. Terry stood in front of him. His father looked up.

  What do you want me out here for?

  Sit down alright?

  Benjamin Webber patted the dirt and Terry lowered down at one side of him and crossed his legs.

  You got some more? his father said. What you had going in there?

  Terry nodded, hesitated on his pocket for a moment and then he took out the pipe. He crammed the head full and gave it to his father. Benjamin Webber held it up, squinted his eyes and studied it for a moment in the light. He smiled.

  Can I hold that lighter? he said.

  Terry gave it to him. He stuck a flame and held it to the end and squinted his eyes to the head of the pipe. He blew out and coughed, put the back of one hand against his mouth.

  I used to have one like this, he said. Or I’d roll up those joints sometimes. I had a wood pipe, too, from Africa.

  He passed the bat and lighter over to Terry

  I had it for a while. It was my favorite. This shithead Frank, I can’t remember his last name, Crory, maybe, rich white boy type, always playing fucking golf or something you know, goddamn croquet, he wanted to go off with this girl one night. He needed it, you know, so they could get high and loose, and then he comes back a few hours later and gives it back. It was cracked, split right down the middle, the whole way up. Done for good.

  Terry packed the head again and pulled smoke. He held it in, gave it over once more to his father. Benjamin Webber took the pipe, held it while he spoke.

  When he’s walking off, I say, Hey Frank, and he turns around, and I hold the thing up. So the jackass just shrugs and starts to go off again. Maybe I was feeling mad about something, I can’t remember. I booked right at him and got him by the shirt and turned him around, and still, he shrugs. Next thing I’m jamming him up against a wall. I went to his pockets, I thought he might have some dope, maybe, some money to pay me back, seeing as he’s a fucking rich boy, but there’s nothing. Nothing except a pipe like that.

  Benjamin Webber held it up and then he gave it back.

  Right in his front pocket, he said. It was gold, you know? I never saw one like that. I said, Frank, I’m keeping this, and then I let him go. I pushed him, I think. Maybe I slapped him.

  You want more? Terry said.

  I’m good.

  Benjamin Webber patted his chest.

  I’m high as a falcon, he said.

  Terry got another hit and coughed. Benjamin Webber patted his back like Terry saw women do to babies.

  Frank, his father said. He did this thing, he’d tap you on the shoulder in class, make a pistol with his fingers, move his thumb like the hammer. He did it when you could see between a girl’s legs, you know, said he was shooting a squirrel.

  What?

  Nothing.

  Benjamin Webber scanned the yard back and forth. Some small gray birds knocked at a feeder and squawked. A few cardinals jumped among them, stormed red and yelled, sprang away, and then did it again.

  They like whatever seed you put out, Terry said.

  Benjamin Webber nodded.

  My old man liked to hunt, you know, he said. Anything. He shot all of it. Birds, though, most times. He took me with him some before he figured pretty quick I wasn’t for it. He’d go for doves, but any kind that flew past he shot, so close sometimes they just popped. Gone. Nothing but some feathers left. And he laughed, too, was the strange thing. He used some long-barreled thing that was taller than me.

  This one time, he helped me hold it, and we shot a dove from a power line. When it fell down we walked over. The gun shook even with my old man helping it was so big, but the shot didn’t get the bird so well. Took a piece of its wing off. It was twitching around and blinking its eyes. The most scared thing I’ve ever seen, ever. These black eyes going back and forth and this sound coming out of it like a person crying. He reached down and took the bird and he showed me how to hold the body, around the wings so it couldn’t squirm, told me to hit its head against my boot. I didn’t want to, but I did, and the head didn’t come off, and I tried again, and it still hung on and he kept saying do it again, do it again, but it wouldn’t come off. I just kept going. Don’t know how long it took. There was blood all over my pants and feathers stuck. Then its head popped off. The thing I couldn’t let be, besides its eyes, was how corn came out of its neck after I knocked the head off, feed corn. The bird had just finished eating, I guess. It was just sitting there on the power line, resting, until we shot it.

  Neither one of them said anything for a few minutes. After a while his father stood up slow and wobbled. Terry rose up quick and put a hand at his shoulder. His father put a hand on Terry and caught himself. He nodded, smiled some, and took his hand away.

  I’m fine, he said. I’m good.

  What was she like? Terry said.

  Who?

  My mother.

  What do you mean?

  I mean, did she like flowers?

  Yeah.

  What sort?

  Petunias.

  Petunias?

  You like repeating things.

  I know, man.

  There were pink ones she liked.

  Terry went inside and stood at the window. He watched his father in the backyard raised tall in the early light bowed through pine and over his shoulders, redbirds busy on seed, heads turned, splay of wings. Benjamin Webber crouched low, spilled seed from one hand to the ground. The birds dropped and huddled at his feet.

  Terry put on earphones and turned a record up loud and listened until it was late. The record skipped, and the needle hung on the fourth song. He put the arm past the scratch. He didn’t want to hear his father and his woman friend moving in the house. He took the headphones off and started watching a program about sharks and how they liked to eat people. He was close to sleep, eyes sunk slits. He nodded, and his chin dropped.

  The doorknob rattled and it shook him awake. He fell off the bed and crashed on the floor.

  There was a light knock. Terry stood up and went over to the door and put his hands and one ear against it. He listened for a moment, and then dropped to the floor. He saw two feet under the gap, toenails painted light blue. He
thought for a moment what to say, and stood up.

  Can I help you with something? he said.

  The knock came once more, and he was confused, and then he unlocked the door and went over to a chair at the window and sat down.

  Come in?

  A woman with thick red hair smiled and pushed through the door and shut it behind. She had on loose dark brown corduroy pants, a hooded gray sweatshirt, MONTANA printed at the front. She moved a chair from another corner, brought it close to his. She turned it backward and sat down, leaned her chest and arms on the chair back.

  Your father’s asleep, she said.

  Terry looked down at his feet.

  Okay, he said.

  I couldn’t sleep, she said.

  She tapped her hands against her thighs.

  Can I have some of that?

  She pointed to the pipe on his bedside table.

  She laughed after the second pull, smoke piped from her nose and mouth. She coughed, patted her chest with one hand. Her eyes watered.

  I like it when it gets right here, she said.

  She put four fingers at the base of her ribs, told him she worked across the highway from a boat warehouse, in the head office of a company that manufactured hosiery and frozen desserts, wholesale. She gave people jobs; sometimes she took them away. Before that she worked with the records of an insurance company, and then later, at another job, she watched kids drive gasoline-powered miniature race cars and sometimes split their heads open.

  I knew how to scuba dive, once, she said. I was very good at it.

  She tapped her left ear.

  I popped this one, she said. I went too deep.

  She pulled one pant leg up to the knee, scar on the shin like a smile.

  That’s a tiger shark, she said. But just a small one.

  She took a pull from the pipe and held it in. She blew out and stood up, made circles with her thumbs and index fingers and put them over her eyes like a mask, acted like she was swimming.