The Book of Harold Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  My Rescue, My Capture

  BOOK I

  Nativity

  Day of Declaration

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Day of Declaration

  The Office Miracle

  Sand

  Another Miracle

  The Pickles Miracle

  My Prayer for Pickles

  It Would Have Been Wiser to Say Nothing at All

  My Daughter

  Peter Doesn’t

  Perfectly Folded

  Stay, Stay

  Released

  Lump on the Lump

  Blue Harold

  Head Shakes and Shrugs

  An Introduction to Haroldism - First Baptism

  Mrs. Saint Peter

  Figwood

  The Haunted World

  Harold’s Sanity

  Irma, or How My Wife Lost Her Housekeeper

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Irma Bragston

  Most Treasured Memory

  Questions

  No Sky at All

  Sight

  Waves

  Surprise

  Moving Out

  Dreaming of Now

  Questions

  Following

  The Beast Is the Least

  BOOK II

  Packing

  First Steps

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Community Pilgrimage

  Pain

  Why Austin?

  Unpacking

  The Hot Tub Incident

  Relic

  Beddy

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Solo Pilgrimage

  As We Walked

  The Girl I Never Made Love To

  The Bath Tub Incident

  Possum

  Mother Irma

  First Words

  Hiding

  Peter and Prayer

  Beddy’s Bible

  Whisper in Corners

  Beddy’s Breathing

  Safe Jobs

  Thrack

  Hands

  Here

  Burial

  Shape

  Value

  What Shaped Harold

  Two Mirrors Dancing

  Gratitude

  Arousal Day

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Arousal Day

  Reverend Patterson

  Borders on the Boundless

  Hush

  Driftwood

  My Warmth

  Feet

  Light

  Whiskey

  Another Confession

  Shrug

  Tremble

  Christmas

  Blood

  Fast

  Everything Must Go

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Renouncers

  Austin

  Springs

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Feast of the Fast

  Right as Rain

  Glow and Shadows

  Harold’s Confession

  Bus

  Sorry Sight

  The Damage I Did to Peter

  Questions

  BOOK III

  Home

  God’s Missing Leg

  What Harold Wanted

  Peter is Planning

  My Wife Died

  I Know

  Hermit

  Went All Names

  God

  Beddy Is Dead

  Martyr

  Don’t Have Any More Babies

  An Introduction to Haroldism - “Don’t Have Any More Babies.”

  The Quote That Saves My Life

  Never

  Trust

  Lost

  Tonight Is the Night

  Today of All Days

  Billions of Words

  Wake Up

  Closed

  Dies

  Waterson Fires; Peeks Falls

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Self-Examination

  Stop Salvation

  An Introduction to Haroldism - Second Baptism

  Today

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  To Brad Biggers,

  friend and thinker, scarred by faith and a golf cart.

  My Rescue, My Capture

  “You don’t have to jump into the water,” I told myself. “Just jump into the air. Gravity will do the rest.”

  I wavered on the ledge above a stadium-sized reservoir. Beside me stood a flickering florescent streetlight, one of a dozen surrounding the lake like thin, head-heavy soldiers. I watched the oily surface of the water slice the light into a swirl of rainbows. It was time to die, time to drown. After seventy years of living, over thirty of those spent running, I was tired and ready for nothing more. I was coaxing my old, stiff legs to move, when a voice spoke from behind me.

  “Mr. Waterson?”

  Turning, I saw a group of shadows. They stepped into the ring of light, a dozen polite-looking men in casual slacks and pastel sweaters.

  “Blake Waterson, we’ve come to help you.”

  I turned back to the water and jumped—a rush of air and then cold, black water. I let myself sink, my shoes and clothes pulling me down. The air bubbled through my mouth and nose, abandoning ship and darting for the surface, making me heavier. Above me there were splashes and voices. The light grew dimmer the deeper I sank and the more water I swallowed. Soon everything was black.

  I didn’t drown. They didn’t let me.

  I don’t remember being pulled back into the air or having the water squeezed from my chest. I was in the black water and then I woke up here. It’s a basement, as far as I can tell. Sparsely furnished. Poorly lit. No windows to the outside. One set of stairs. A door at the top. Locked. There’s a cot, a television, a desk where I’m writing now, and a bookshelf filled with Haroldian texts including An Introduction to Haroldism by one J.P. Beaman, which I’ve pulled out and placed on the desk beside my papers. An easel with some paints is set up in a corner, and by the bathroom door stands a foosball table. It feels like the basement of a church, a place for youth group meetings and bible studies.

  I don’t know what they want from me, my rescuers, my capturers. But judging by the stacks of yellow writing pads and the box of ballpoint pens, I presume they would have me write what I remember. Write my confession. Write about Harold.

  BOOK I

  Nativity

  I never should have been a follower of Harold. That’s pretty clear from the history books. I am not a godly man. In truth, God and I have never been on good terms. I’ve always suspected that perhaps God was hunting me. Not in a good way, not the shepherd searching for a lost sheep. More like a pissed off loan shark looking for payment.

  I know it’s silly, conceited even, to believe I have the ability to offend the all-powerful monarch of existence. The idea is childish. But I think an event from my childhood explains it.

  When I was a young, I believed in God with the same certainty and apathy with which I believed in China. Both were far away and had little to do with my life. I believed in both because I had been told of both. I didn’t know not believing in God was an option. God just was.

  My family went to church every now and then, and I’d be dropped off in the bright, green and blue Sunday school room. We were irregular attendees, but by chance, in my ninth year, we showed up the day of casting for the live Christmas nativity scene.

  This was a Christmas tradition for our church, complete with an outdoor set, a slew of blue and yellow lights, and children dressed up like Romans, Israelites, and angels. A scratched album passed down through the years played the entire story complete with a game-show-announcer-style narration and full-choired carols. All the kids did was mouth alo
ng.

  Ms. Pock had been directing the nativity for ten years. She was a single woman in her late forties who smelled of hairspray and potpourri. For her the live nativity was as holy as any hymn, any prayer, any stained glass window or Renaissance masterpiece.

  Ms. Pock cast most of the second graders as the angelic choir, a handful of fourth graders were assigned the roles of cowering shepherds, one lanky third grader was made King Herod, and the part of Mary was given to a girl named Mary, a coincidence which made the assignment inevitable to all of us. For that year Ms. Pock had also added the role of the Little Drummer Boy.

  “But there is no Little Drummer Boy in the Bible,” Mary pointed out.

  “Oh, yes. He’s in there,” Ms. Pock answered.

  “He’s not on the album,” Mary said.

  “We’ll figure something out.” She gave the role to her six-year-old nephew, Trevor. I, much to my surprise, was given the role of Joseph. Ms. Pock had forgotten to cast Joseph earlier, and since I hadn’t volunteered for any role, I was the only option left.

  The star role of Baby Jesus had been portrayed by the same plastic doll for the past decade. Its hair was spotty, one hand had snapped off, and the voice box that mewed “Mamma” each time the doll was lifted had been broken for years. But the Baby Jesus didn’t need to cry for Mamma. He was just a swaddled lump to gaze at and occasionally cuddle.

  We practiced for the next two weeks. My part was simple enough. I lead a donkey, carrying Mary, to the makeshift stable built in the church parking lot while the album describes our journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem and being turned away at the inn. At this point the focus of the story goes stage left, where shepherds are confronted by angels and told the news. By the time the story returns to the stable, the Baby Jesus has been born, swaddled, and laid to rest in a trough. All I had to do was stand by the trough/crib with Mary and look gooey and fatherly while shepherds and Wise Men visit.

  After the record announces the Wise Men’s gifts and plays “We Three Kings,” Trevor has his big scene. He picks up the microphone which is lying on a bale of hay by the trough and recites the scene’s one live line. We had a microphone hooked up just for it.

  “Jesus, I am so poor. All I have is a song,” was all Trevor had to say. Then he was to place the microphone back on the hay bale beside the sleeping Jesus doll. This gave Ms. Pock just enough time to change records to the Christmas Classics album which played “The Little Drummer Boy” while Trevor pretended to play and the rest of us swayed back and forth. At the end of the song, Ms. Pock put the nativity album back on and the show ended with an abbreviated version of Handel’s Messiah being mouthed by angels dressed in white sheets like hoodless Klan members. Hell of a show.

  Trevor did a fine job, except for his one line. He didn’t say “Jesus, I am so poor.” He said, “Jesus! I am so poor!” Like a low-wage earner taking the savior’s name in vain.

  The first two nights went fine. A few of the angels cried on night one, and the donkey nibbled on Mary’s robe on night two. But the show was a success. People even enjoyed the addition of the Little Drummer Boy.

  Our last performance was Christmas Eve. The crowd was the biggest yet, flashing pictures as Mary and I entered from behind the gym. The donkey had been getting grumpier every night and was now protesting his involvement by dropping balls of dung every other step.

  That wasn’t so bad until a Wise Man approaching the cradle slipped on a dropping and doused the microphone with myrrh. Even that didn’t seem so important until the record player went silent and Trevor reached for the wet microphone. “Jesus!” was all he got out. He threw the microphone down and rubbed his hand. The microphone landed right on top of the head of Baby Jesus with a nasty, amplified bonk.

  For a moment we were all quiet, wondering what to do next, when a miracle happened. The voice box inside Baby Jesus came back to life.

  “Mamma,” said the Baby Jesus.

  The crowd gasped. Jesus had a line. It looked like everything was going to be fine, but then the baby said “Mamma” again. And again. Mary, played by Mary, was too surprised by the change in script to react, so the new mother motionlessly stared down as her child called out for her. On Jesus’s fourth “Mamma,” the voice box got stuck and the baby wailed one long “Maaaaaaaa.” The cry slowed and warped as if Mary had accidentally birthed the Baby Satan. I reached in and tried to move the microphone, but it shocked me. I yanked my hand away, shouting an expletive. I was told later that it looked as if the newborn had snapped at my fingers.

  Ms. Pock was desperately trying to get “The Little Drummer Boy” to play, but the album was skipping. “Rum tump. Rum tump. Rum tump. Rum tump.” Like a hideous beating heart. Trevor was in tears, holding his hand. Mary still stared into the crib, aghast at the horror she had brought into the world. The Baby Jesus wailed on. The only way to save the show was to shut Jesus up. I tried to shift the doll, knocking it with quick jabs to avoid the microphone. It looked as if I were portraying Joseph as an abusive father. None of it worked. If anything, it seemed the doll was moaning louder. Finally, I picked Jesus up. The sound was coming from somewhere inside the doll’s neck. My motives were good, I swear. I wanted things to go smoothly, but my next act was not well-thought-out. With a quick snap, I removed Baby Jesus’s head. The crying stopped.

  “Holy shit,” said one of the shepherds. I heard a child scream from among the onlookers. In one hand I had Jesus’s head and in the other his body, quickly unswaddling itself. Even the donkey seemed freaked out. The record player skipped to the next song on the Christmas Classics album, which happened to be “Frosty the Snowman.” The lights went out and the crowd, unsure what to do, applauded.

  In the dark, Mary leaned close to me and whispered, “You’re gonna get it.”

  I never voiced the fear, never even gave it much conscious thought, but ever since that night I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that I owed God and sooner or later He was going to collect. Years later I met Harold Peeks, well into his thirties, a little thick around the waist, with a half-inch crop of hair—never more, never less—and a goofy, show-it-all grin. I didn’t know at the time, but God had finally found me.

  Day of Declaration

  In the beginning Harold was just a man. Not a particularly exciting man.

  We both worked for the Sales and Distribution Department of Promit Computers. I wouldn’t have called him a friend. He was simply a face at work, three cubicles down from mine. He lived less than a mile from my family, but I’d never seen him outside of work or work-related events. Harold was the kind of guy I didn’t mind comparing myself to because I always came out on top. I was a little younger and fitter. Harold carried a roll of pudge just above his belt. His hair was juvenile, slightly longer than a crew cut, Wally Cleaver all grown up. My hair was dark, thick and wavy, like the hair of a shampoo model.

  I sold computers for the Promit company, lots of computers, while Harold, as Second Assistant Sales Analyst, simply analyzed what I was doing. He remained a stationary figure on the corporate ladder, neither competition for promotions nor a butt I had to kiss to get one. Harold couldn’t help me or hurt me, so we got along fine.

  I worked hard at Promit Computers and I was good at what I did. For three years running, I won Highest Sales Achiever at the annual Employees’ Banquet.

  Ah, those banquets. Always the same dry chicken, soggy broccoli, and watered-down iced tea. Each year the same speeches designed to encourage and entertain and failing on both fronts. But I liked the awards. I liked the vice president of the company smiling as he shook my hand. I liked being told I was doing a good job.

  At my last banquet at Promit Computers, they hung up a banner saying:We’re not just selling computers. We’re selling the future!

  I liked that. I was helping to create the future.

  I sat at a round table with my wife, daughter, and half a dozen co-workers. We laughed at office inside jokes and talked about baseball. My wife, Jennifer, discussed granite kitche
n counters with the woman to her left. My daughter, Tammy, text-messaged her friends. She would study the scene every now and then, quickly type a message, and giggle her well-practiced teenage giggle, high-pitched and superior.

  “What’s so funny?” I whispered to her. She shook her head and went back to typing.

  The awards came: Employee of the Year, Best Time-to-Sell Ratio, Highest Sales Achiever. I walked up, collected my plaque, and shook the aging vice president’s hand. My wife smiled and clapped. My daughter never looked up from her phone.

  Towards the end of the evening, they moved on to less prestigious awards: Most Punctual Employee, Cleanest Cubicle. People were starting to sneak out, leaving their dollop of rainbow sherbet melting at the table. I was trying to gather my family and do the same.

  “We better get going,” I explained to my co-workers. “Tammy’s got a load of homework.”

  “No I don’t, Dad.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s late,” and pushed my chair back.

  “Our next award is for Most Improved Sales Analyst,” the company vice president announced, smoothing down his well-gelled comb-over. “It goes to Harold Peeks.”

  Harold stood from his table just as I was standing from mine. He smiled at me, looking pleasantly surprised. He was thirty-nine then, had been with the company almost as long as me and, as far as I knew, had never been recognized at any banquet before. He walked to the podium amidst a smattering of applause as I pulled Tammy to her feet.

  “Geez, Dad. I’m coming, okay?”

  Harold took the plaque and shook the VP’s hand. I herded my family to the door and nodded a few goodbyes. Then, as the vice president turned around to pick up the next award, Harold stepped behind the podium.

  “Thank you for the honor, but I’m not sure if I should receive it,” he said. “I do have an unfair advantage since I am Christ, the Son of God. But thank you all the same.”

  There were a few nervous chuckles, a few cleared throats. Harold Peeks walked back to his seat, leaving the plaque on the podium. The vice president, who apparently had been too busy with the next award to hear the speech, continued with the presentations. I shook my head and left.