“Yeah.” I’m such a paranoid nut case that I think the whole world depends on me for its survival. Atlas, supporting the planet on my shoulders. Savior of mankind. An unlikely role for a man like me.

  “You okay?” Sid asks. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m all right. This straight bourbon will fix what ails me.”

  He nods and returns to his paper. Then the door opens and a girl walks in. She sits two stools over and orders a gin and tonic. She’s tall, thin, and blonde . . . and I know her name, even though I have never met her. Vera.

  She is aware of me staring at her, but she isn’t about to make the first move.

  I’m aching to talk to her, but I can’t seem to open my mouth. It’s as though my head were full of glue.

  At last I turn to Sid. “Never mind running a tab on me, Sid. I’m leaving.

  I slap down another buck and swing off my stool. I catch Vera’s eye at this instant, and I know that there has been no mistake. She remembers too, although perhaps only vaguely, and what happened last night. What happens tonight. She is the same woman I held in my arms last night, seeking solace in her warmth.

  I say nothing as I walk to the door, and I don’t look back. It is not up to me to defy the will of the entire human race. Besides, I’m tired from the day’s ordeal and from staying up late last night. I have to get up in a few hours and go to work . . . and then take Mary to the clinic to have our little mistake taken care of.

  I snap on the car’s stereo to the public radio station, expecting to hear Wagner’s Gotterdammerung. But no, the news is on, telling in calm tones of the acrimonious breakdown of the Oslo summit. I shut it off and drive through the early morning fog, not going home after all.

  At last I come to the park where Mary and I will sit later today, after she sees the doctor. There is a dirt road where I park; then I get out and sit on a wooden bench.

  Birdsong is all around me, the rush hour traffic barely audible in the distance as an occasional horn or squeal of tires. I notice the bright red tulips and bougainvillaea. Spring is lovely in this part of the country.

  I sit and think about what I know as the sun rises. If too many people remember that the world ends every day, it might not work anymore. I will tell no one, and I will try to forget it myself. I will exert every ounce of strength to push it from my mind.

  “It’s all a dream,” I say aloud, rising to go back to the car.

  I am facing Washington in the east, when the flash comes. It is too bright and too low on the horizon to be the sun at eight in the morning. A huge, brilliant dome rises over the city, and the ground begins to ripple like waves on a pond. Buildings crumble and fall as the shock wave approaches, the monstrous mushroom cap spreading over all.

  I fall back onto the bench and shut my eyes so tightly that they hurt. I will the vision of Armageddon to go away.

  I pray that I will awaken in my bed, a stranger to the terrible truth once again. To see the clock say eight-oh-one . . .

  1993

  Mother and Child Reunion

  BILLY knew that he shouldn’t have stayed for the second feature. It was called Dark Sabbat, and he told himself as the creepy opening titles unrolled that he would just watch for a few minutes. He could get away with that, but if he came home after dark, he was going to be in trouble.

  But the sight of a beautiful woman locked in an iron maiden, blood gushing out from beneath its suggestively carved lid, transfixed him—as did the witch’s rising from her grave; the bloody murders of several minor characters; and the final burning at-the-stake scene which seemed to rid the earth of the evil but sexy witch once and for all. Watching her writhe, her smooth skin shiny with sweat, Billy felt something new and yet oddly familiar. His penis grew until it wedged his shorts uncomfortably into his backside.

  As the final credits rolled and the lights came up, Billy didn’t get out of his seat right away. Not just because of his erection, but also because he had enjoyed the film so much that he didn’t want it to end.

  Soon the deliciously weird images gave way to dark thoughts of what was going to happen when he got home. He got up and made his way through the deserted lobby of the decrepit movie palace. Only an old man stood at the door, wearing a maroon uniform with gold epauletes on his sloping shoulders.

  It was dark between the streetlamps, and the wind was blowing pretty hard. Billy pulled up his collar against the cold and started walking. The sidewalk smelled of stale piss. He caught sight of the clock on city hall: seven-thirty. God, was he gonna get it.

  He tried to keep thinking about the movie, but his dread increased as he got closer to home. He turned the corner of his street, walking very slowly up the hill. He wasn’t thinking of the movie at all by the time he opened the front door and stepped softly inside.

  The odor of cooking meat filled the front hallway. His parents must have been in the dining room, having dinner. Or maybe the food was warming in the oven while they waited for him. They were gonna kill him.

  Maybe if he sneaked upstairs real quietly, got into bed, and pretended to sleep . . . maybe he could come down in the morning and pretend he’d been in his bedroom the whole time. He could say he’d been reading; that’s why they didn’t hear him. And he’d dozed off before dinner. . . . They’d never realized he was in the house, ha ha, and it had all been a big misunderstanding.

  Of course, they’d never believe it. He’d have to face them sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.

  Still wearing his jacket, he went into the dining room. He was surprised to see the table set, but Mom and Dad not there. They must be in the kitchen. Sighing, he passed through the swinging doors.

  Dinner was in the oven, all right—smelled like beef cooking—but the kitchen was empty, too. Where was everybody?

  Even more than he did before, he wanted to go up to his room and hide out until morning. He had a feeling that something awful was about to happen, and the best thing to do was just keep away from it, just sleep through it.

  He passed through the silent house and returned to the staircase. He clutched the newel post, looking up. It seemed a long way to the top. He swallowed air and started for the second floor.

  Each step groaned underfoot. About halfway to the top, he heard another groan. It was coming from his parents bedroom.

  “Oh, God!”

  It was Mom!

  He froze.

  “Oh, Jesus! God!”

  Someone was hurting her! There was somebody else in there, grunting, wheezing like an animal. Dad?

  Looking around wildly, he tried to think. Somebody was doing something to his parents in their bedroom, maybe holding them at gunpoint. Threatening them. Torturing them.

  His mom cried out. “Jesus! God! Oh, God!”

  Whatever was happening, Billy had to put a stop to it. But what could he do? He was just a kid.

  He looked around, desperately trying to think of something. His eyes were level with the second floor, and at the end of the hallway he saw the gun cabinet. He had to go past his parents’ room to get to the rifles. If he should make any noise, he might get killed!

  It took another scream from his mother to make him take the next step. The creak of the step scared him to death, but he heard more grunting and screaming that seemed to cover the sound of his footsteps. He was sweating so much his shirt was clinging to him under his coat.

  Five more steps and he was on the landing. His parents’ bedroom was just ahead to the right. He had to really be quiet now.

  The bedroom door was ajar. As Billy moved toward it with agonizing slowness, he heard his father’s animal grunting more clearly. He didn’t want to think that his dad could make noises like that, but there was no mistaking his voice.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Ooooohhh!” Mom shrieked.

  That made him hurry up. He crept past the door and made his stealthy way to the cabinet. His hands were slippery as he tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge.

  He strained to free it, smearing sweat on the wood and glass, but he couldn’t. It was locked. So where the hell was the key?

  “Oh, no . . .” he muttered. He remembered where he’d seen the key when he’d gone hunting with Dad. It was on Dad’s key chain, the one with the plastic family crest.

  A horrible, sputtering, wheezing cry came from the bedroom. It was Dad, and it sounded like he was dying.

  Gritting his teeth so hard he thought his jaw would crack, Billy balanced himself on his left leg and raised his right foot. He kicked hard, and watched in amazement as glass cascaded down in front of him. He leaped back to avoid being cut.

  The glass under his feet crunched and tinkled as he reached into the cabinet and touched the stock of Dad’s twelve-gauge. The ammunition was stored in boxes in a drawer under the rifles. He fumbled with it frantically.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Billy whipped around. He was greeted with the incredible sight of his parents, neither of them wearing a stitch of clothing, standing in the hallway.

  “I . . .” Billy didn’t know what to say. Where was the kidnapper? What was going on? He had never seen his parents naked before. Actually, Mom wasn’t completely naked. She was pulling a robe over her soft, pale shoulders. But he could see her breasts, and down below, a dark triangle of—

  “Answer me!” his father demanded. He took a threatening step forward, and Billy watched in astonishment as his dad’s penis swung from side to side, wetly striking his hairy thighs.

  “I thought somebody was hurting Mom . . .” Billy heard his voice trail off.

  Dad stopped. Mom was standing behind him, putting on her robe to cover her nakedness. “Hurting Mom? Hurting her? Don’t you know what man and wife do when they’re alone, at your age? Did I raise a half-wit?”

  Billy didn’t say anything. When Dad got like this, there was no way to talk to him.

  “Answer me, goddammit!”

  Dad lunged, swinging his arm in a blind rage. Billy ducked, slipping under Dad’s armpit, his face passing near the hairy crotch. He caught a whiff of some strong odor he’d never smelled before, though it was oddly familiar.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dad screamed. Billy couldn’t see him, but he heard a sickening crunch of glass and the heavy sound of Dad falling to the floor.

  Billy tried to run. Mom blocked his path, though, stretching her arms out to enclose him. He looked up into her icy blue eyes, and knew that he couldn’t escape from her.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

  Billy started to say that no, he was all right, but she wasn’t talking to him. She looked past him at Dad.

  Billy couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder. He saw Dad picking himself up off the floor. Dad’s big hands were red, and as he stood, he smeared blood across his chest, clutching his heart as if he were about to die.

  “You’d better go into the bathroom and clean up,” Mom said. “I’ll be in to help in a moment.”

  Muttering, Dad walked past them with a hangdog expression on his face, and holding his dripping hands against his chest, went through the bedroom door.

  Mom still had her arms around Billy, and he felt her warmth against his sweating body. He smelled the same odor he’d noticed on Dad, almost as if they were two parts of the same salty creature. It didn’t smell like either one of them, but somehow like both.

  “Billy,” his mother said in much the same tone she had used to tell Dad to go clean up his cuts, “go downstairs and get cleansers, a bucket and sponges from under the kitchen sink.”

  “Okay, Mom.” He backed away from her and started downstairs. His face was level with her lips for just a moment, and as she turned to go into the bedroom, her robe parted. He saw what looked like blood on her thighs.

  But that was impossible. The blood hadn’t even spattered on Billy, and he was between her and Dad. And Dad hadn’t touched her on his way into the bathroom. So how could she have blood on her like that . . . especially down there?

  She was gone, and he couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen, but it sure looked like blood. What had they been doing in there when he disturbed them by breaking the glass? As he headed to the kitchen, he remembered what Dad had said about man and wife, and realized that he had never thought of his parents making love before.

  He got the cleansers, bucket, rags, and sponges, filled the bucket with hot water, and toted it back upstairs. It sloshed onto the carpet as he set it down. Billy got down onto his knees, sprayed some cleanser on the carpet and dipped a sponge into the bucket. He wiped the blood up as best he could by the bedroom door, and worked his way back toward the gun cabinet. The cleanser frothed as he listlessly rubbed it in circles, turning the yellow carpet to orange.

  “Ow!” He felt the glass shard pierce his fingertip, popping through the skin like a knife point through paper. Holding up his shaking hand, he looked at the crystalline bit protruding from his index finger. A gleaming maroon bubble swelled around the penetration point, grew until gravity could no longer hold it, quivered, and dropped onto the carpet.

  He watched it fall straight into a tacky puddle of Dad’s blood. Staring at the spot, he couldn’t be sure exactly which was his blood and which was Dad’s. He pulled out the sliver and absently wrapped a rag around his sore finger.

  He heard Mom and Dad talking, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying behind the closed bedroom door. Just the sound of their voices was enough to get him moving again.

  Still, he worked around the area where his blood had fallen. He was reluctant to wipe it away for some reason. He couldn’t explain why, but it had something to do with his relationship with Mom and Dad.

  The red stain spread on the rag around his finger as he worked. The cut stung, but he would wash the cleanser out of it later. It was best to finish this job, so Mom wouldn’t be so mad at him.

  Not that she would do anything to him. No, it was always Dad who punished him. But he knew that Dad was only carrying out Mom’s wishes. He’d heard Grandma say it once—Mom was strong-willed. That was why she got her way. It was a good thing, though, most of the time; things wouldn’t go so good if Dad was running things, which Dad himself admitted.

  He heard his mom calling: “Finish that up, Billy, and get ready for dinner.”

  He scrubbed harder.

  ▼▼▼

  The shepherd’s pie was pretty dried out by the time they had dinner. The way things were going, he didn’t feel very hungry anyway.

  “Pass the peas,” Dad grunted, reminding Billy of the noises that had come from the bedroom earlier.

  Billy did as he was asked, picking up the bowl of peas and passing it to Dad. His index finger pressed against the warm ceramic and made him wince. He almost dropped the bowl, and it slammed down pretty hard on the table. Dad didn’t seem to notice, though. He just spooned some peas onto his plate and kept eating grimly.

  “Billy,” Mom said, “where were you?”

  Billy stopped chewing. “Huh?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Dad, chewing.

  Billy swallowed the mass of potatoes and stringy beef.

  “Well?” Mom demanded. Her eyes were as silver-blue as the sky before a storm. “Why did you get home from school so late, Billy? Where were you?”

  “I . . .”

  Mom leaned forward expectantly. Dad kept chewing while she said, “Yes, tell me.”

  “. . . went to the movies.”

  “The movies. And what did you see?”

  “Two shows.”

  “The titles, please.”

  “Well, one was The Chuckling Brain from Outer Space.”

  Dad’s shoulders shook a little, but his mouth was so full it was hard to tell if he was smiling.

  Mom never took her eyes away from Billy’s eyes. It was as if there were an invisible thread connecting her left eye with his right, her right eye with his left. “And the other film’s title, Billy?”

  Here, he was on shakier ground, and he knew it. Maybe he should make up something. No, because all Mom had to do was look in the paper, and she’d see what the double feature was. He had to tell her the truth.

  Dad swallowed his food with an audible gulp. “Answer your mother,” he said.

  He looked at Dad with pleading in his eyes, but the Old Man’s frown told him he wasn’t gonna get out of this. He cleared his throat. “Dark Sabbat.”

  Mom just kept looking at him, completely still. Dad didn’t actually say anything, but he kind of rumbled, like he had gas or something. The cooling oven pinged softly.

  Finally, looking confused, Dad spoke: “Some kind of devil worship thing?”

  “Just a horror story, Dad.”

  Dad was thinking about that, but Mom leaned forward. “You know you’re not supposed to see those kinds of movies, don’t you, William?”

  William. This was getting ominous. He said in a low voice, looking down at his plate: “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled at him, which was the worst thing that she could have done. “And yet you did go to this movie, coming in very late, so that dinner’s spoiled, breaking the glass in the gun cabinet, and causing your father to have an accident. You did all this, just to see this movie, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen, Mom.”

  “You didn’t mean it?”

  “No, really—I’m sorry.”

  It was so quiet that the only thing Billy heard was the squeaking of his chair. His leg was shaking so hard under the table that he thought it would come off at the hip.

  Mom took a sip of water. Then she set her glass down, and said, “That’s not good enough, William.”

  William. When she called him that, he was as good as dead. His punishment was gonna go on and on and on.

  “Is it?” she said.

  “No, I guess not.” Maybe his punishment had already started.

  . . . Maybe it had been going on for a while now.

  “You guess not. What should we do about that, your father and I?”

  His voice seemed tiny and far away. “I don’t know, Mom. It’s not up to me.”

 

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