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"Thunderclouds forming, cream white moon…"
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The afternoon is blushing with a febrile heat that blasts citric, bloody light through the examination room's blinds. He waits.
He's palming a ceramic mug of coffee--IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE--and dandling with the nibs of his stethoscope. His countenance is crisp and professional, betraying nothing; his fingers, however, tango clumsily across his immaculate lapels. The white coat isn't necessary, but its passing resemblance to Jesus's robes does wonders for his God complex and when it comes to assuaging rankled patients, having the confidence of the Lord himself is as useful as a handful of opiates.
Bloberta, gazing blankly at the tiles beneath her bare feet. She extracted herself from the stirrups upon hearing the news, but hasn't moved to exchange the flowery gown for her housedress. Her visage--typically a calculated amalgam of serenity, confidence, and a satisfaction he now knows is false and has ossified like limestone into her expression--is a slab of marble with only the most basic features carved into it. One hand traces her lacerated leg.
She makes him uncomfortable. He knows he should be attracted to her, that he should appreciate the intricate details of her body that go grossly unnoticed by her insignificant other, but that ardor shrivels whenever he sees her at close proximity. There's a disconcerting flintiness about her, an arctic crust encompassing her heart that would slice him to ribbons should he hook her up on the stirrups again and have her. Not that he wants to. This coffee mug was a present from his late wife and kitschy as it is, he can't desecrate her spirit with it clamped in his lurid-white knuckles.
Quentin Potterswheel consults his wristwatch and stands awkwardly. "Well. I suppose you should be on your way home."
Bloberta glances up from her unclad thighs. Her eyes are glass shards. "He used to think your white coat made you holy."
Potterswheel clears his throat in reply.
"I don't know a thing about him… I'm supposed to love a stranger," she whispers. He mentally armors himself for the self-deprecation to follow, but nothing of the sort follows. To declare herself an unfit mother is like conceding some sort of tacit victory to Clay; not even a bullet can shatter her pride. Still, her expression falters and he perceives a ripple of revulsion spidering through her. "But I do love him. He's my child…"
"Of course," he agrees.
"I'll take care of him, Doctor. But I'm not sorry."
She stands at last, nothing more than an ice sculpture. He is obligated to feel disgusted by her apathy, by her rejection of her own son, but the sentiment lacks any real venom. Instead, he fosters a pity for her. This icy mistress is melting before his very eyes and he's uncomfortably aware that no one will care when she vanishes.
"Don't forget your painkillers, Mrs. Puppington," he finally says. The vial of colorful jellies changes hands.
Bloberta turns the bottle over in her lightly-callused hands, pink mouth pinched into a cryptic frown. "Don't give him the satisfaction, Doctor."
"It was an accident, Mrs. Puppington."
A shadow of a smile graces her lips. "There are no accidents, Doctor."
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Nursula Bendy watches as Bloberta crosses the parking lot with a cloth square as white as a surrender flag pressed to her nose. Her housedress is very grown-up. Very adulty. Nursula wishes she had a dress as adulty as hers.
The blonde addresses her nails--perfectly manicured--then the patient in the wheelchair. She isn't supposed to talk to him because the doctor is in the hallway and Nursula isn't allowed to do anything without the doctor, but she knows the patient. He was all dead and not alive a few days ago, which made her all blue in her head, but then he came back, which made her feel more yellow. Yellow is always better than blue.
But now his leg is all twisted and dead inside the little white house the doctor built for it, and that makes her insides feel blue. Nursula hates the blue. It makes her feel all itchy and alone. And even though she can't really remember why she chose to be a nurse or even how one starts nursing, she feels like trying to be one will bring the yellow back. She really misses the yellow.
"So, like… do guns hurt?"
He looks up from his lap and something about the dark circles around his eyes scare her. Nursula doesn't know him so good, not like she knows the doctor and Fakey and her Sonny (but that's her special adulty secret), but he's always surrounded in yellow. She likes that a lot. He smiles a lot too, she likes that, and he talks about God like he's there in the room and she doesn't understand that part so good, but she likes it anyway.
There's no yellow on him today. It's all blue and it scares her some. She wishes she had listened to the doctor and waited until it was okay to talk.
He smiles a little, just a little. "It hurts some."
Nursula feels better when she sees his smile; it kind of reminds her of how she feels when she comes home and sees Sonny waiting for her. "I'm starvish. Do you want some eating stuff?"
A light comes into his eyes. "Yes, please."
When she stands up to get something for them, there's a weird feeling in her head. It's like yellow and blue mixed together, but it isn't all itchy and bad like blue is: it's almost nice. She doesn't feel like she does when she's with the doctor. She feels… important.
In the cafeteria, she sees a bird outside the window. It's blue and she usually doesn't like blue, but Nursula likes this bird. He almost looks like he's smiling at her. Then he flies away and she thinks that maybe blue is a little okay sometimes. Not as good as yellow, but okay.
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milk scared scared milk? cake? cake! CAKE! alone? cake!
orel?
…
milk! pretty pretty! milk!
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As he knocks on the door, he realizes he sincerely misses Mr. Puppington.
Mr. Puppington isn't the sort of man one should miss or even foster an affection for in the first place, but Doughy still misses him. The feeling isn't reciprocated--of that much he's aware. He could scarcely remember his name, let alone cultivate any paternal warmth towards him, but those few, treasured moments where he treated Doughy like someone worth fathering stay stitched into his mind.
As he shuffles up the Puppington's front walk, Doughy briefly wonders if Orel had any fun on the trip. He can't imagine Mr. Puppington being pleasant company or dispensing pearls of wisdom, but he can vividly picture him firing a rifle with staggering accuracy and that would be fun enough for Doughy. An absent-minded hair tousle… a quiet nod… a sentiment of the paternal persuasion… yes, that would be nice. Great, even. Maybe Orel will have a story along those lines and Doughy can pretend that he was the recipient of said loving gestures.
Maybe.
Doughy knocks on the door and waits, clandestinely hoping Mr. Puppington answers.
Mrs. Puppington, a broom in one hand. She stands at an awkward angle, favoring one leg over the other. "Doughy."
"Oh, uh, h-hi! Can--?"
"He's been in an accident," she says placidly. "He was shot in the leg."
Her face almost looks like the masks he's not allowed to wear. Usually, there's a lovely trill of music, of half-song, in her voice, but today it's as vibrant as a bowl of day-old cottage cheese. For a moment, Doughy thinks she's playing some kind of strange
god doesn't mind if we show up drunk and/or late for church
joke on him.
"Oh. So, uh, he can't come out and play?"
"I'm afraid not." The door closes so quickly, he can't believe it was ever open at all. Doughy blinks in the tawny sunlight.
He had the golden trigger finger. He was the perfect shot. And yet Orel had gone along instead.
A pang of regret ricochets through his chest and he feels shame creep up his neck like a bloody ivy. Orel's his best friend: he should be upset. His own father put a bullet through his leg. A man capable of such a terrible feat should not be missed.
As Doughy wanders aimlessly into town though, he can't help but wonder what would have happened if he had been at Mr. Puppington's side instead of Orel.
He decides things would be different.
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News travels quickly in Moralton. Like all precious substance and substrate, it enters the heart of town with remarkable speed.
It's a Saturday afternoon illuminated by a feverish, rashy heat; the fan in his office pumps filmy warmth across his desk. Errant papers flutter like dove wings in the draft. Perhaps, he thinks with momentary delight, they'll arrange themselves into a comprehensible sermon.
The sermon doesn't matter now. He can't bring himself to adulate God, not after this. A divine plan is premeditated--the entirety of human existence is premeditated. The Big Guy Upstairs deserves none of his praises for including something so twisted, so reprehensibly unfair, in his glorious design.
Rod Putty laces his fingers behind his head and stares down at the illegible drafts scattered across his desktop. While a majority are just half-sketched, hazily realized cogitations, they center on a hideously inappropriate theme: hope. Easter is supposed to emanate the stuff. His job is to plumb the depths of the holiday and present his lustrous findings to the captivated congregation--it's the least laborious sermon of the year.
How can he preach hope from his ivory pedestal when the solitary beacon of hope in this miserable excuse for a town has been extinguished?
A rill of fury surges through him. He's senselessly angry and when he doesn't have a target
oh my god don't say target
it diffuses through him until he's shrouded in the stuff. Putty glances out the window at the pregnant crest of Town Hall; his mouth contorts itself into a primitive snarl. He hates that bastard so much. He hates seeing his condescending simper when he looks out on his congregation and hearing him whine like a spoiled child and knowing he's pulling this town along on marionette strings.
Who will he blame the gunshot on? God? A passing animal? Orel?
The notion chills him. Clay's not above blaming the incident on his own son, but the mere concept just twists his gut. Orel shouldn't have to shoulder that burden and continue weathering the interminable storm that is Clay Puppington. It just isn't fair. He wants Clay to be punished, to endure the immediate consequences of his actions.
No such retribution will ever occur. Clay will go on unscathed, unsullied--pathetic, yes, but ultimately untouched. And Orel… Putty closes his eyes against an unprecedented swell of despondency. He isn't the nurturing type, but something in him still clenches whenever he pictures the bullet drilling through Orel's flesh and bone. The kid is a little sunny aura of goodness and righteousness and purity, a veritable saint in some regards, a truly special spirit. To think Clay has squandered such a precious gift, has broken the spirit that Jesus meticulously crafted…
His heart canters along. In his ears, his pulse sounds like hoof beats. He inadvertently pictures a herd of zebra galloping across a dresser top.
Putty sighs and pushes the pages across his desktop. He doesn't want to speak tomorrow. Orel will be present, of course--come hell or highwater, that should be the kid's mantra--but present doesn't guarantee presence and he doubts he'll be much of a presence. And if Clay is there… if the bastard has the spine the Good Lord didn't grant him…
No. Clay isn't even worth his anger. If he doesn't get his dose of cosmic karma tomorrow, he'll get it eventually. Though the Big Guy has a penchant for disappointing His followers, he won't allow Clay that glorious GET OUT OF JAIL card. He
you think god can't see into the future?
wouldn't.
"Nice one, God," he snaps. Then he picks up his phone's receiver and reluctantly dials.
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"Stephanie?"
"Hey there, Revs. I thought you'd be toupee deep in Easter crap."
"Well, I was. But then, uh…"
"Is it Florence again? You know I'm still kinda pissed at you for being so mean to her. She's a person too, Dad."
"I'm allowed to have at least one standard, aren't I?"
"You do and it's 'women who steal used tissues'."
"Right… you can be mad at me later, kid. I got some bad news for you."
"Don't tell me you're canceling dinner tomorrow. I already went to Sinville and got us some wine."
"Stephanie, Orel was shot in the leg."
"…"
"Kid?"
"What did you say?"
"Doctor Potterswheel told me. Didn't say who it was, but the only other person on that trip was his dad… You okay, kid?"
"… He bought a first-aid kit, though. Just for the trip."
"That's what he was working for? A first-aid kit? Jesus…"
"I can't believe this. Shorty… He didn't do anything to deserve it."
"I'd say God works in mysterious ways, but I'm not such a fan of the Big Guy right now."
"I would've come after you anyway if you'd said it."
"He'll be fine, though. You know Orel."
"Yeah, but…"
"I know. It sucks."
"Oh, my God."
"He's not taking calls right now, wanna leave a message?"
"I just remembered. His closeface…"
"Pardon?"
"The girl he brought to the dance… She has no idea."
"His Orelette? Geez, you somehow made this more depressing."
"I just hope she doesn't find out. It'd break her heart."
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Christina Posabule wakes up.
She sunfishes against the quilts and sheets, emerging from their suffocating embrace like a butterfly from a cotton cocoon. Her sandy-brown hair is laminated to her cheeks with sweat and her vision oscillates like television static until her vein-slashed eyes adjust to the bedroom's darkness. There isn't enough oxygen in the universe to replenish her spent lungs.
Panting, Christina sits up and looks across the room at her dresser. The band of silk roses is still there; its presence quells her fear. Only a nightmare--a terrible nightmare, but no degree of intensity can make real the imaginary.
As she settles back into her blankets, a shy smile illuminates her soft face. Her Orel is fine and safe and not even a dream or a length greater than that of their arms can stop her heart from soaring at the memory of their dance. She cannot wait to dance again with him.
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She smiles as she tenderly caresses an immaculate hen egg.
"Perfect," she says to the egg with near matronly affection. "Just perfect."
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Clay shambles out of his study, Forghetty's already on his mind, and sees Orel in the foyer. For a moment, he can't fathom the bulky white coffin of a cast and he feels inexplicably weak.
Orel notices and suddenly Clay's gaze is trapped in his son's dull eyes. Neither speak.
A creak of the stairs breaks the spell. Bloberta enters the foyer, ribbons on her hat and venom in her voice. "It's time for church."
Clay ignores them both as he strides ahead to open the door for himself and himself alone; the slam of it behind him is deeply, primitively satisfying. He is dimly aware of the unpleasant squirm in his gut when he thinks about the crutch, but he's quick to forget it. There's so much more to think about, to do, to do over and over and over again.
But that's just the sacrifice he's willing to make.
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Everything's gonna be okay soon...