Forced Entry
PD Mallamo
PD Mallamo
1.
I love you so far beyond the words “I love you” that I’ll never say “I love you” again because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like taking a drink from the ocean.
The ocean’s salt water. You can’t drink it.
An ocean of fresh water.
Like the Great Lakes?
You understand why I didn’t say “the Great Lakes?”
It’s not poetic?
That’s right.
Well then thank you. But love’s not like water, salt or fresh.
What, then?
A locked door. Nice and safe.
2.
When he cracks the lock he nazzes his pants. He nazzes his pants because he’s scared. He’s scared because he isn’t high. He isn’t high because it’s a tricky job.
Nonetheless, when he pokes his head through the door and cautiously enters, something just doesn’t feel right. He takes two wary steps and on the third falls headfirst down a steep flight of stairs. Airborne and halfway to the bottom he realizes he’s cracked the wrong house.
Shit, he thinks in that millisecond before striking bottom, I coulda had a bowl.
3.
That wasn’t the cat, she says, in all her naked 26-year-old brunette glory sitting straight up in bed. Unless she knocked over the refrigerator.
The pipes are cooling, he says. You just had a shower. Expansion/contraction. He makes an accordion motion with his hand. No worries.
4.
Post-impact he can’t tell up from down, wicked all-over hurt head to toe. In the process of figuring out who he is and where he’s broken, he runs hands over his crotch and accidentally discharges the pistol tucked in his pants -
5.
Jesus, he yells, bolting to his feet, What the hell? What the hell was that? He searches frantically for his cell phone. Where’s my phone?
Downstairs, she cries, charging in the kitchen with mine!
6.
Ears ringing and left foot suddenly hot, he reaches down and comes up wet. He moves his hand up his leg and discovers he’s blown off his kneecap.
7.
She has thirty-two multicolored butterflies between her shoulder blades tattooed up and down her back. She’s getting dressed as fast as she can. She slips on a t-shirt without a bra and then thinks that with a crazed lunatic downstairs and likely all messed up with a gun, maybe this is not such a good idea.
He’s going to shoot my boyfriend and rape me, she thinks. Then he’ll slit my throat.
8.
He orients himself and moans in dismay. He’s obviously in a bare basement, one or more bones are broken, his kneecap is missing, there’s a deep bleeding gash on his forehead. They’re going to kill me, he thinks, remembering a story he heard about a burglar beaten to death by an enraged citizen with a 5-iron. The basement is inky-black. He feels around the cold concrete floor for his pistol and cell phone. All he comes up with is blood.
9.
They move everything to block the door – bed, dresser, clothes, chairs. In a few minutes they’ve constructed a barricade the Corp of Engineers would have difficulty breaking.
10.
He knows he’s got to make a tourniquet or at least a pressure bandage or he’ll bleed to death. He takes off his shirt and fashions a pad from his undershirt. He wraps the overshirt three times around the undershirt and ties it off tight as he can.
Then he remembers another story about a citizen who drowned an intruder in his basement. He knocked him unconscious, tied him up, and ran the hose for two days.
Pain is beginning to move up his leg. With his fingers he swabs blood from the head wound out of his eyes and wipes it on his pants. His ribs grind and scream when he breathes.
11.
If he can’t get in here he’ll light the house on fire, she says. Then he’ll wait outside. When we jump out the window he’ll shoot us.
Why would he do that? He’s here to steal something, not take revenge.
What if he’s crazy? Or high?
They’re all high, he says. That might work in our favor.
Really? she asks. If it’s meth, he’s superman.
12.
OK, yes, actually he did do a tiny hit before he went out this evening, but less like a junkie and more like a Navy SEAL - something to sharpen him up a little, give him an edge.
The reasoning was sound, even if it didn’t work out so well.
13.
Why the hell would he want to break in here, he asks? – We don’t have anything.
She looks him squarely in the face, places her hands under her breasts and pushes them up.
Honey you are one beautiful woman but …
They stare at each other for a long second then shout at the same time, He’s in the wrong house!
14.
Oh god, he declares – oh god, no matter how hard I try I still fuck things up! This is the topper. This is the bottom of the deck. Even if I get out of here alive I’ll do 20-years. One goddamn house over, that’s all I had to do.
15.
Next door! They shout in unison, referring to the hippies with five children directly south who grow, process & market, an operation so perfectly integrated, he once told her Apple could learn something.
Steve Jobs should come out here, he had said. He could get high, too. Did you know he has cancer?
16.
By now, he thinks, they know I’ve made a mistake. They know I’m in the basement and look - no weed, no cash! Problem is, they’ve phoned the cops, which means in about two minutes they’ll gas me and I’ll suffocate or send dogs down to tear me up. Where’s that fucking gun?
17.
By now he knows he fucked up, he says. Big time. He probably shot himself, too. He’s called his buddies. That’s when the real fun starts. We gotta get outa here. Tie some sheets together.
18.
Oh Jesus, he moans. He moves his leg several times to find a more comfortable position but nothing helps. The pain is getting worse. His head is still bleeding and he’s having trouble breathing. Knows he’s gotta do something or die.
19.
Gotta do something, he says, can’t just wait up here, that’s crazy. He peers out the window. Nobody in the yard, he says. Come look.
20.
He hobbles around in the dark until he finds the stairs, then grabs the railing with both hands and begins the long agonizing ascent. He holds his shot-up leg out stiffly, dragging himself up with his arms.
21.
They tie sheets together and coil them by the window. It’s a long way down. They keep the window closed and the room dark in case his friends actually show. They agree he’ll try the stairs and she’ll wait by the window. If there’s trouble she’ll let herself down on the sheets.
They carefully unpile furniture at the door. He opens the door a crack. Listens. Nudges the door open a foot and listens again, then sticks his head through. Then he slips out the doorway and begins a slow vigilant creep through the hallway to the stairs.
22.
By the time he reaches the top he’s exhausted, drenched in blood and sweat. He feels for the door he came in through but there are two doors and he can’t remember which one leads outside. He takes his best guess and stumbles down a small landing, falling again on his face, still inside.
He has chosen the wrong door.
23.
He hears a thud so stops to listen. When he steps off the last step at the bottom of the stairs a hand grabs his arm. His heart stops and she whispers fiercely, I am not waiting up there without you!
24.
Lying on the floor within his deafening cocoon of agony he thinks he hears something. He turns himself over, hoists himself to his elbows, holds his breath and listens hard as he can.
25.
Her hand still grasping his arm, he feels on the wall for the light switch. He holds his breath and flips it.
26.
White light blinds him. High on pain he announces to no one in particular, What we got here is a Mexican standoff - only I ain’t no Mexican and the gat’s in the basement.
27.
The light reveals a man on the floor reclining on his elbows, blood from the very top of his head to the very soles of his shoes. He is saying something that doesn’t make sense. They catch the words “Mexican” and “gat” but he doesn’t look Hispanic and they don’t see a gun.
She presses her hands to her cheeks and whispers, Where in god’s name did you come from!
28.
He eases off his elbows to the floor and stares at the ceiling. Hell of a dee-fense you got here, he croaks. Course, it don’t help when the crook’s a fuckin’ idiot. Get it over with. I don’t care anymore.
29.
The only words they hear are “dee-fense,” “crook,” and “idiot.”
He’s lost a lot of blood, she says. He’s delirious.
If we wait a minute, he whispers, he’ll probably pass out. What did he do to himself?
30.
He does indeed pass out and they check the front door to see where he cracked the bolt. They find the crowbar he left on the sidewalk. They go downstairs into the basement and find the handgun, cell-phone and a pool of blood.
31.
They sit on the couch for a quick chat.
Look at him, she says. What was I afraid of?
He prods the man with his toe. He shakes his head. What a mess. The police wouldn’t have done this.
He’s suffered enough, she says.
Meaning?
Prison will just make him worse.
Do we care?
Of course we care. What would Jesus do?
Jesus would call the cops.
There weren’t any cops back then.
He’d call the Romans.
Oh god, she says, do you know what that sounds like?
Like what sounds like?
Saying Jesus would call the Romans.
He thinks for a moment. Like saying I love you like the Great Lakes?
That’s right, she says.
Or Hopis in Alcatraz
Or concentrating on relaxing.
Or if the football team loses you blame the band for not playing loud enough.
Or religion without god.
Or hooking up with another woman when the weather’s fair.
Or realizing how much I love my husband when the weather’s foul.
Or you’re not a hero because you pull the driver from a burning gasoline truck.
You’re a hero because you tackled the man who was going to run out there and pull the driver from a burning gasoline truck.
And right then the truck explodes.
But you’re a hero only to yourself because nobody saw what you did and the guy’s in shock and doesn’t remember.
He laughs. I knew it! What are the chances? It’s a sign!
You don’t believe in signs.
And you don’t believe in Jesus.
32.
She enters the man’s mobile number into her iPhone under the name Forced Entry. They take down the shower curtain and lay it in the back seat of their little Dodge, then slide him in and drive 22 minutes to the hospital. They tell a nurse and then the police they found him on the side of the road, probably hit & run. They give the police his phone. They keep the Glock, a nice little .380.
33.
Neither has ever shot a gun before but one day they decide to take the Glock to a shooting range and get some instruction. They enjoy the outing so much that they go back frequently and become quite proficient. They can hit, even offhand. Since both work and both have their own money, they regularly shoot scores for dinner. She usually buys him fish; he usually buys her pasta.
34.
A year to the day after the break-in, they sit down on that same couch and dial his phone number. It rings six times before someone picks up.
How’s the knee? she asks. You know where we live. We’d like to talk with you. Then she hangs up.
What are the chances? she asks.
One in fifty, he says. One in a hundred. I’ll believe it when I see it. We’re not even sure that was him.
35.
Four days later the doorbell rings like it never does. She grabs his arm and says, God Almighty! They open the door and there he is, a thin twentyish white man with a NASCAR bill cap and cheap white runners.
The first thing he does is point to his kneecap and say, Good as new, ceramic nylon and steel, just like the real thing. I’ll be payin’ forever but it’s worth it.
Without a word they wave him in. He looks down at the spot on the floor where they found him. He shakes his head. Sits heavily on that couch, looks around. Looks closely at them. Looks at them for a long moment. Shakes his head again. Then drops his head onto his arms and begins to sob.
Why would you do this? he cries. God, I should be rotting in prison. Why would anyone do something like this?
36.
They move him into the basement, on the cement floor of which, though bleached and hosed several times in the interim, he can still discern the stains of his blood. They buy several big rugs and a bed and a desk with a lamp and a nice flat-screen television.
They talk to the hippies, whose operation has expanded considerably after a new law, making weed quasi-legal.
We can surely use the help, the hippies say, as long as it’s someone we can trust.
They tell them the story and the hippies nod their heads as if what they’re hearing is the most natural thing on earth, like puberty or autumn.
You know something, she says, nothing special, you would have done the same thing.
Lots of people would, the hippies say.
We’ll vouch for him, they say, we have confidence he’ll do a good job.
Make sure you tell him that, the hippies say, that you’re vouching. Make it personal. That’s the best way to put him on the right track and make sure he doesn’t fuck this up. It’s a good opportunity.
Kneecap goes to work, doing a variety of jobs from transport to security.
37.
At some point they ask if he wants the Glock back, now that he’s working for the hippies, in case they get robbed by someone like he used to be.
No thanks, he says, you two enjoy it. More trouble than it’s worth. A little advice: don’t carry it in your pants.
38.
Six months after he shows up they decide to get married and pregnant, and as the years go by they have more children.
Imagine, she laughs, how much I hated kids and never wanted a single one and now I’ve got four! How do these things happen?
Lady, he says, let me tell you a story, and starts to cry for only the second time.
The children call him uncle and they have the garage expanded to fit three vehicles and now he parks his pickup inside. He makes good money and pays rent and finally pays off his knee and, thanks to a black president he despises, has health insurance to treat his Crohn’s and psoriasis.
That goddamn Muslim, he says, but give him that. He’s the only one to do anything about healthcare. How do these things happen?
39.
One day the Baptists come around with their bibles and pamphlets and unexpectedly defenseless faces glowing with anxiety for anyone not Baptist. Nobody else is home so he answers the door.
One of them asks, Sir, have you read in the Bible how to get to heaven from here? Because far more important than living in this house right now – he taps the doorjamb with his finger – is the place you’ll live forever!
He invites them inside, tells them his story, and cries for the third time. The Baptists cry, too, shaking their heads in amazement, Jesus in action!
They tell him he needs to get baptized anyway.
I was baptized, he says, in blood and pain just like Lord Jesus of old. You just can’t do any better than that.
40.
That evening the youngest, a five-year-old named Mona, comes down to his room. She climbs up on his bed where he’s napping before dinner, places her little hand on his shoulder, and shakes him awake.
I’m upset, she says. Do you believe in god?
He blinks his eyes open and folds his hands behind his head.
I sure do. Why do you ask?
Mom says there isn’t one.
Not true.
What’s he look like?
Your mom.
She doesn’t look like god to me.
He scoops her up in his arms, rises, and steps to those holy stairs. That’s because you aren’t a little bastard, he says. That’s because you aren’t mean and stupid like I was.
Then what am I?
A nice little girl.
She pats his face. Not as nice as you think.
Even nicer.
How do you know? Nobody’s that nice!
You have no idea, darling, he says, and begins to cry for the fourth and last time.
She wipes his tears, kisses his cheek and says, After dinner let’s go out and get some ice cream. That’ll make you feel better.
Me feel better?
Of course! Anyway, what would Jesus do?
Why don’t you ask your mother?
Already did.
And?
Ice cream. Definitely ice cream.
I love you so far beyond the words “I love you” that I’ll never say “I love you” again because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like taking a drink from the ocean.
The ocean’s salt water. You can’t drink it.
An ocean of fresh water.
Like the Great Lakes?
You understand why I didn’t say “the Great Lakes?”
It’s not poetic?
That’s right.
Well then thank you. But love’s not like water, salt or fresh.
What, then?
A locked door. Nice and safe.
2.
When he cracks the lock he nazzes his pants. He nazzes his pants because he’s scared. He’s scared because he isn’t high. He isn’t high because it’s a tricky job.
Nonetheless, when he pokes his head through the door and cautiously enters, something just doesn’t feel right. He takes two wary steps and on the third falls headfirst down a steep flight of stairs. Airborne and halfway to the bottom he realizes he’s cracked the wrong house.
Shit, he thinks in that millisecond before striking bottom, I coulda had a bowl.
3.
That wasn’t the cat, she says, in all her naked 26-year-old brunette glory sitting straight up in bed. Unless she knocked over the refrigerator.
The pipes are cooling, he says. You just had a shower. Expansion/contraction. He makes an accordion motion with his hand. No worries.
4.
Post-impact he can’t tell up from down, wicked all-over hurt head to toe. In the process of figuring out who he is and where he’s broken, he runs hands over his crotch and accidentally discharges the pistol tucked in his pants -
5.
Jesus, he yells, bolting to his feet, What the hell? What the hell was that? He searches frantically for his cell phone. Where’s my phone?
Downstairs, she cries, charging in the kitchen with mine!
6.
Ears ringing and left foot suddenly hot, he reaches down and comes up wet. He moves his hand up his leg and discovers he’s blown off his kneecap.
7.
She has thirty-two multicolored butterflies between her shoulder blades tattooed up and down her back. She’s getting dressed as fast as she can. She slips on a t-shirt without a bra and then thinks that with a crazed lunatic downstairs and likely all messed up with a gun, maybe this is not such a good idea.
He’s going to shoot my boyfriend and rape me, she thinks. Then he’ll slit my throat.
8.
He orients himself and moans in dismay. He’s obviously in a bare basement, one or more bones are broken, his kneecap is missing, there’s a deep bleeding gash on his forehead. They’re going to kill me, he thinks, remembering a story he heard about a burglar beaten to death by an enraged citizen with a 5-iron. The basement is inky-black. He feels around the cold concrete floor for his pistol and cell phone. All he comes up with is blood.
9.
They move everything to block the door – bed, dresser, clothes, chairs. In a few minutes they’ve constructed a barricade the Corp of Engineers would have difficulty breaking.
10.
He knows he’s got to make a tourniquet or at least a pressure bandage or he’ll bleed to death. He takes off his shirt and fashions a pad from his undershirt. He wraps the overshirt three times around the undershirt and ties it off tight as he can.
Then he remembers another story about a citizen who drowned an intruder in his basement. He knocked him unconscious, tied him up, and ran the hose for two days.
Pain is beginning to move up his leg. With his fingers he swabs blood from the head wound out of his eyes and wipes it on his pants. His ribs grind and scream when he breathes.
11.
If he can’t get in here he’ll light the house on fire, she says. Then he’ll wait outside. When we jump out the window he’ll shoot us.
Why would he do that? He’s here to steal something, not take revenge.
What if he’s crazy? Or high?
They’re all high, he says. That might work in our favor.
Really? she asks. If it’s meth, he’s superman.
12.
OK, yes, actually he did do a tiny hit before he went out this evening, but less like a junkie and more like a Navy SEAL - something to sharpen him up a little, give him an edge.
The reasoning was sound, even if it didn’t work out so well.
13.
Why the hell would he want to break in here, he asks? – We don’t have anything.
She looks him squarely in the face, places her hands under her breasts and pushes them up.
Honey you are one beautiful woman but …
They stare at each other for a long second then shout at the same time, He’s in the wrong house!
14.
Oh god, he declares – oh god, no matter how hard I try I still fuck things up! This is the topper. This is the bottom of the deck. Even if I get out of here alive I’ll do 20-years. One goddamn house over, that’s all I had to do.
15.
Next door! They shout in unison, referring to the hippies with five children directly south who grow, process & market, an operation so perfectly integrated, he once told her Apple could learn something.
Steve Jobs should come out here, he had said. He could get high, too. Did you know he has cancer?
16.
By now, he thinks, they know I’ve made a mistake. They know I’m in the basement and look - no weed, no cash! Problem is, they’ve phoned the cops, which means in about two minutes they’ll gas me and I’ll suffocate or send dogs down to tear me up. Where’s that fucking gun?
17.
By now he knows he fucked up, he says. Big time. He probably shot himself, too. He’s called his buddies. That’s when the real fun starts. We gotta get outa here. Tie some sheets together.
18.
Oh Jesus, he moans. He moves his leg several times to find a more comfortable position but nothing helps. The pain is getting worse. His head is still bleeding and he’s having trouble breathing. Knows he’s gotta do something or die.
19.
Gotta do something, he says, can’t just wait up here, that’s crazy. He peers out the window. Nobody in the yard, he says. Come look.
20.
He hobbles around in the dark until he finds the stairs, then grabs the railing with both hands and begins the long agonizing ascent. He holds his shot-up leg out stiffly, dragging himself up with his arms.
21.
They tie sheets together and coil them by the window. It’s a long way down. They keep the window closed and the room dark in case his friends actually show. They agree he’ll try the stairs and she’ll wait by the window. If there’s trouble she’ll let herself down on the sheets.
They carefully unpile furniture at the door. He opens the door a crack. Listens. Nudges the door open a foot and listens again, then sticks his head through. Then he slips out the doorway and begins a slow vigilant creep through the hallway to the stairs.
22.
By the time he reaches the top he’s exhausted, drenched in blood and sweat. He feels for the door he came in through but there are two doors and he can’t remember which one leads outside. He takes his best guess and stumbles down a small landing, falling again on his face, still inside.
He has chosen the wrong door.
23.
He hears a thud so stops to listen. When he steps off the last step at the bottom of the stairs a hand grabs his arm. His heart stops and she whispers fiercely, I am not waiting up there without you!
24.
Lying on the floor within his deafening cocoon of agony he thinks he hears something. He turns himself over, hoists himself to his elbows, holds his breath and listens hard as he can.
25.
Her hand still grasping his arm, he feels on the wall for the light switch. He holds his breath and flips it.
26.
White light blinds him. High on pain he announces to no one in particular, What we got here is a Mexican standoff - only I ain’t no Mexican and the gat’s in the basement.
27.
The light reveals a man on the floor reclining on his elbows, blood from the very top of his head to the very soles of his shoes. He is saying something that doesn’t make sense. They catch the words “Mexican” and “gat” but he doesn’t look Hispanic and they don’t see a gun.
She presses her hands to her cheeks and whispers, Where in god’s name did you come from!
28.
He eases off his elbows to the floor and stares at the ceiling. Hell of a dee-fense you got here, he croaks. Course, it don’t help when the crook’s a fuckin’ idiot. Get it over with. I don’t care anymore.
29.
The only words they hear are “dee-fense,” “crook,” and “idiot.”
He’s lost a lot of blood, she says. He’s delirious.
If we wait a minute, he whispers, he’ll probably pass out. What did he do to himself?
30.
He does indeed pass out and they check the front door to see where he cracked the bolt. They find the crowbar he left on the sidewalk. They go downstairs into the basement and find the handgun, cell-phone and a pool of blood.
31.
They sit on the couch for a quick chat.
Look at him, she says. What was I afraid of?
He prods the man with his toe. He shakes his head. What a mess. The police wouldn’t have done this.
He’s suffered enough, she says.
Meaning?
Prison will just make him worse.
Do we care?
Of course we care. What would Jesus do?
Jesus would call the cops.
There weren’t any cops back then.
He’d call the Romans.
Oh god, she says, do you know what that sounds like?
Like what sounds like?
Saying Jesus would call the Romans.
He thinks for a moment. Like saying I love you like the Great Lakes?
That’s right, she says.
Or Hopis in Alcatraz
Or concentrating on relaxing.
Or if the football team loses you blame the band for not playing loud enough.
Or religion without god.
Or hooking up with another woman when the weather’s fair.
Or realizing how much I love my husband when the weather’s foul.
Or you’re not a hero because you pull the driver from a burning gasoline truck.
You’re a hero because you tackled the man who was going to run out there and pull the driver from a burning gasoline truck.
And right then the truck explodes.
But you’re a hero only to yourself because nobody saw what you did and the guy’s in shock and doesn’t remember.
He laughs. I knew it! What are the chances? It’s a sign!
You don’t believe in signs.
And you don’t believe in Jesus.
32.
She enters the man’s mobile number into her iPhone under the name Forced Entry. They take down the shower curtain and lay it in the back seat of their little Dodge, then slide him in and drive 22 minutes to the hospital. They tell a nurse and then the police they found him on the side of the road, probably hit & run. They give the police his phone. They keep the Glock, a nice little .380.
33.
Neither has ever shot a gun before but one day they decide to take the Glock to a shooting range and get some instruction. They enjoy the outing so much that they go back frequently and become quite proficient. They can hit, even offhand. Since both work and both have their own money, they regularly shoot scores for dinner. She usually buys him fish; he usually buys her pasta.
34.
A year to the day after the break-in, they sit down on that same couch and dial his phone number. It rings six times before someone picks up.
How’s the knee? she asks. You know where we live. We’d like to talk with you. Then she hangs up.
What are the chances? she asks.
One in fifty, he says. One in a hundred. I’ll believe it when I see it. We’re not even sure that was him.
35.
Four days later the doorbell rings like it never does. She grabs his arm and says, God Almighty! They open the door and there he is, a thin twentyish white man with a NASCAR bill cap and cheap white runners.
The first thing he does is point to his kneecap and say, Good as new, ceramic nylon and steel, just like the real thing. I’ll be payin’ forever but it’s worth it.
Without a word they wave him in. He looks down at the spot on the floor where they found him. He shakes his head. Sits heavily on that couch, looks around. Looks closely at them. Looks at them for a long moment. Shakes his head again. Then drops his head onto his arms and begins to sob.
Why would you do this? he cries. God, I should be rotting in prison. Why would anyone do something like this?
36.
They move him into the basement, on the cement floor of which, though bleached and hosed several times in the interim, he can still discern the stains of his blood. They buy several big rugs and a bed and a desk with a lamp and a nice flat-screen television.
They talk to the hippies, whose operation has expanded considerably after a new law, making weed quasi-legal.
We can surely use the help, the hippies say, as long as it’s someone we can trust.
They tell them the story and the hippies nod their heads as if what they’re hearing is the most natural thing on earth, like puberty or autumn.
You know something, she says, nothing special, you would have done the same thing.
Lots of people would, the hippies say.
We’ll vouch for him, they say, we have confidence he’ll do a good job.
Make sure you tell him that, the hippies say, that you’re vouching. Make it personal. That’s the best way to put him on the right track and make sure he doesn’t fuck this up. It’s a good opportunity.
Kneecap goes to work, doing a variety of jobs from transport to security.
37.
At some point they ask if he wants the Glock back, now that he’s working for the hippies, in case they get robbed by someone like he used to be.
No thanks, he says, you two enjoy it. More trouble than it’s worth. A little advice: don’t carry it in your pants.
38.
Six months after he shows up they decide to get married and pregnant, and as the years go by they have more children.
Imagine, she laughs, how much I hated kids and never wanted a single one and now I’ve got four! How do these things happen?
Lady, he says, let me tell you a story, and starts to cry for only the second time.
The children call him uncle and they have the garage expanded to fit three vehicles and now he parks his pickup inside. He makes good money and pays rent and finally pays off his knee and, thanks to a black president he despises, has health insurance to treat his Crohn’s and psoriasis.
That goddamn Muslim, he says, but give him that. He’s the only one to do anything about healthcare. How do these things happen?
39.
One day the Baptists come around with their bibles and pamphlets and unexpectedly defenseless faces glowing with anxiety for anyone not Baptist. Nobody else is home so he answers the door.
One of them asks, Sir, have you read in the Bible how to get to heaven from here? Because far more important than living in this house right now – he taps the doorjamb with his finger – is the place you’ll live forever!
He invites them inside, tells them his story, and cries for the third time. The Baptists cry, too, shaking their heads in amazement, Jesus in action!
They tell him he needs to get baptized anyway.
I was baptized, he says, in blood and pain just like Lord Jesus of old. You just can’t do any better than that.
40.
That evening the youngest, a five-year-old named Mona, comes down to his room. She climbs up on his bed where he’s napping before dinner, places her little hand on his shoulder, and shakes him awake.
I’m upset, she says. Do you believe in god?
He blinks his eyes open and folds his hands behind his head.
I sure do. Why do you ask?
Mom says there isn’t one.
Not true.
What’s he look like?
Your mom.
She doesn’t look like god to me.
He scoops her up in his arms, rises, and steps to those holy stairs. That’s because you aren’t a little bastard, he says. That’s because you aren’t mean and stupid like I was.
Then what am I?
A nice little girl.
She pats his face. Not as nice as you think.
Even nicer.
How do you know? Nobody’s that nice!
You have no idea, darling, he says, and begins to cry for the fourth and last time.
She wipes his tears, kisses his cheek and says, After dinner let’s go out and get some ice cream. That’ll make you feel better.
Me feel better?
Of course! Anyway, what would Jesus do?
Why don’t you ask your mother?
Already did.
And?
Ice cream. Definitely ice cream.
PD Mallamo has published in journals such as Barcelona Review, Sukoon, Granta, Don't Do It, Conte, Lana Turner and Eclectica. He holds degrees from Brigham Young University and the University of Kansas, is a MacDowell fellow, and lives with his family in the American Midwest.