The Book of Harold Page 18

More than one group of Haroldians have interpreted Harold’s statement, “Don’t have any more babies,” as an order not to procreate. They, like the Shakers before them, feel marriage and sex are sinful.

  Others claim that the statement was intended only for those who were in the immediate area when the statement was made.

  Many lesbian and gay groups feel Harold was pointing out the moral superiority of sex where pregnancy is not possible. Some have gone so far as to proclaim homosexuals God’s new Chosen People. One sect of Jewish Haroldian homosexuals describes itself as “the most chosen people on the planet.”

  Perhaps the most radical and outrageous interpretation of Harold’s statement is made by the fringe group, Haroldian Church of Truth and Justice. They argue that Harold’s words were misquoted. Instead of saying, “Don’t have any more babies,” they believe Harold said, “Don’t have any Moor babies.” According to them, Harold was telling the world to stop birthing black babies. At last count the Haroldian Church of Truth and Justice had over 40,000 members in the United States alone.

  The Quote That Saves My Life

  I said many things to that reporter in my backyard, that damn light exposing everything, blinding me. She asked. I answered. I only remember bits of what I said. She asked what he was like, what he taught, did he ask for money, why had I followed him? I babbled. I tried to explain, tried to justify why I had left so much for what seemed like so little. Some of my words were full of praise. I spoke of sunrises and rain clouds and the taming of possums. Other words were bitter. My wife died. He did nothing.

  Everything I said felt something like lying. Harold doesn’t translate. Words don’t work. And now here I am over thirty years later, and I’m lying again.

  “Do you believe, as many do, that Mr. Peeks, or followers of Mr. Peeks, were responsible for last month’s Internet freeze?”

  “I’m not sure what . . . Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Mr. Peeks has refused to be interviewed,” she said. “Mr. Waterson, there are those who feel that Mr. Peeks is exploiting the current panic to benefit his own movement. How would you respond to that charge?”

  She waited. I watched my toes wriggle.

  “Just one more question, Mr. Waterson. Mr. Peeks has grown popular for his insightful comments. Can you tell us, what were Mr. Peeks’s wisest words to you?”

  “Take your greatest enemy,” I said, “the one who stole everything from you and give him a home. Give him food and care, and you will be giving to God.”

  I don’t recall saying it, but I’ve seen the interview online. The strange thing is, I don’t think Harold ever said those words. I made it up. The quote that saves my life. If they knew that I first said those words, would they kill me? Or does it matter anymore?

  Today I have taken all the pictures off the wall and the embroidered quote. I’ve unplugged the lamps and stripped the bed. I’ve collected all the towels from the bathroom and books from the shelves. I’ve made a pile in the center of the basement with the Van Gogh print on top. I looked for matches and found I didn’t have any. Peter came in with my lunch and saw me sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my pile. I asked for a match.

  “Why?”

  I told him I needed to burn some things.

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Never

  I wanted to find Steven, find him in his store listening to music I didn’t know. I wanted to warn him that nobody promised he’d like what he saw. He wouldn’t like Beddy as a corpse or the blood between Harold’s fingers or me or a dark blue sky and nowhere to land or broken glass or a pool of water thick with scum. I wanted to find him and warn him and help him. But I never did. Never even tried.

  Trust

  The morning after the reporter came, I walked out my front door and picked through weeks’ worth of newspapers. I spent the day reading.

  While I had been hiding in my home, America had popped and was now quickly deflating. Banks had already been failing, companies sinking. That year alone, eight airlines had puttered out. Even Wal-Mart was teetering on bankruptcy. There was also a sort of national guilt as America slowly removed itself from conflicts in which, it was becoming increasingly clear, we had been the bad guy. In February things got worse. The week following Jennifer’s funeral, a salmonella outbreak hit the east coast. They blamed lettuce, then beef. By the time they traced it back to mayonnaise, two hundred and twelve people were dead. Toyota announced it would be eliminating its entire American work force, 32,000 jobs. A pipe bomb, built by a group calling itself Americans for a Free Middle East, exploded in a Chicago high school parking lot, killing four. Then, on February 28, the entire Internet froze. No emails, no websites, nothing. America collectively shit itself. After seven panicked hours, the Internet blinked back to life. Computers obediently smiled at their makers as if nothing had happened. More than one group claimed responsibility, but nothing was ever proven and no charges were filed.

  The crumble became the Collapse the next day, February 29, Leap Day. It was as if everyone took a long look at that incorporated glitch on the calendar and said, “Ah fuck, there’s another thing you can’t trust.” I’ve been told you could feel the change like a break in the weather. On that day the market dropped like a dead bird, and somehow everyone knew it would not soar again, not soon at least, not soon enough. Things accelerated. Unemployment, which had already been high, rocketed skyward. The government took emergency action, shoving new money into the economy. But it was just printed paper, and for the first time, Americans saw that. Experts threw out all kinds of terms: a radical drop in investor confidence, a complete paradigm shift in American consumerism, etc. It was simple, really. No one believed in the system anymore, or the government, or the American way of life, and it turned out belief was the only thing that had kept it going.

  Beddy died on March 1 and Harold’s picture was everywhere. Harold’s timing was perfect . . . or the time was perfect for Harold. He showed up just when there was nothing left to believe in.

  Lost

  The next day, I put on pants and a shirt and climbed into my car. Figwood looked different. Businesses with dark windows, “For Sale” signs in every other front lawn. But my mother-in-law’s neighborhood was just as perfect as it had always been. The trees were trimmed, the hedges were immaculately sculpted, and the windows glistened. I rang the doorbell of my mother-in-law’s home and listened as the first four notes of some Mozart masterpiece echoed through the house. Then my mother-in-law, dressed in a long-sleeved blue dress and stockings, answered the door.

  “Yes?” she asked, as if I were a door-to-door salesman.

  “I’d like to speak to Tammy, please.”

  “You should have called.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Dad?” It was Tammy, coming down the stairs with a half-smile. My mother-in-law stepped back and allowed me in. I gave Tammy a hug and we walked to the living room.

  I was a mess. Unshowered and unshaven, my hair long and tangled in knots. The house was a bleached white sheet and I was the stain. Everything in and from this home had always been clean and expensive and breakable. I was dirty, of little worth, and very broken.

  The air-conditioning filled the house with a dry chill. Too cool to be comfortable. In the living room artificial logs burned away in a gas fireplace.

  Tammy and I sat in leather chairs. My mother-in-law kept to the couch, her back straight and her eyes watching me like a mother eagle guarding her eggs from a serpent. I told Tammy how much I missed her and how sorry I was for anything, for everything. Tammy listened to every word but gave no signal about how she felt. I asked if she’d like to come home.

  “Well, I don’t see how that’s possible,” my mother-in-law chirped in. “You’ve got no electricity? You don’t have a job.”

  “We’ll get by.”

  “You have no insurance, no health plan, nothing,” she said. “And I don’t think Tammy needs the influences of a cult at this point
in her life.”

  “It’s not up to you. It’s up to Tammy,” I said, directing my stare at my daughter. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She looked down at her hands and rubbed her knuckles the way her mother used to do. And I knew I was fired.

  I nodded. “I guess I’ll be going.”

  They both walked me to the door. But at my car, key in the door, Tammy called out and ran to me.

  “Dad,” she said, standing a few feet away. “Are you okay?” To see her outside, to see her in morning sunlight, I smiled. My next words surprised me.

  “I thought I might be holy,” I said.

  “Dad?”

  “I didn’t mean for all this.”

  “You leave, Dad. You’ve always been leaving.” She stepped closer. “Do you know how old I am?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I turned sixteen last month.”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I just wanted you to know I’ve grown up. And I’m all right.”

  She thought she was grown up, this little girl in front of me.

  “I used to hold you. You were this squirmy little baby. I used to hold you for hours. I used to take care of you.”

  “I know, Dad. But you can’t take care of me anymore.” She glanced over at her grandmother standing in the doorway. Then back at me. Right at me. “You need to go home. Sleep some. I’ll visit in a few days.”

  I couldn’t talk. The walking, the being alone, the losing. It had cracked any hardness away. Her eyes bruised me. A year before I would’ve opened the passenger door, stared her down, and demanded she come home. She might not have loved me, but she would have respected me. She would’ve come home. But I couldn’t demand anything of her. Harold had made me weak. She could see it and I could see that she could see it. She loved me. I could see that too. But she pitied me.

  “Tammy,” her grandmother called. “Time to come in now.”

  “Daddy, get some sleep, okay?”

  I nodded. She leaned up and kissed my cheek. Then she ran back inside.

  My daughter has never come to visit me in the Mole Hole. Not even joining her mother to peek in. I watch the vent and wait, but nothing. I imagine she’s married. Maybe has some babies. Maybe she’s wonderful and happy. Let’s just say she’s wonderful and happy.

  Tonight Is the Night

  Peter came in with my breakfast. He was smiling, his eyes shining. He moved around the basement, tidying up and whispering his plan.

  “Tonight is the night. Don’t do anything different today. Just write and paint. If there’s anything you need to take, use the trash bag. Make sure you eat all your meals. You’ll need the energy. Late tonight, I’ll come back. It will be dark. The whole place will be. The power will be out, but it will only last a few minutes, then the generators kick in. We have to be outside before that happens or the alarms will sound. Get some rest but try not to sleep too deeply. Do you understand, Mr. Waterson?”

  Today of All Days

  I left my mother-in-law’s house intending to drive home, sit in my kitchen, and put a bullet into my forehead. Last time my nerve had failed me. But I just needed the right motivation. My daughter’s eyes had provided that. I sincerely wanted to die. Quickly.

  When I pulled into my driveway, I found Terry sitting on my doorstep. He had a box of fried chicken beside him and was wearing a black shirt with bold white type saying, “ASK ME ABOUT HAROLD.”

  “Blake, it’s good to see you. You look good.”

  I did not acknowledge him.

  “I saw your interview on the CNN. Heavy stuff. Nice to see you with some pants on,” he chuckled, slapping my back. “I was on MSNBC. Did you see it?”

  I wanted to get inside and kill myself. I tried to maneuver around him, but Terry blocked my path.

  “Don’t ignore me, Blake,” he said, his face turning stern. “It’s time to end the pity party. Harold needs you.”

  “Harold needs me?”

  “He needs all of us. Today of all days. After the announcement, things will—”

  “What announcement?”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Have you heard nothing? Today, in Austin! Harold’s giving his first press conference. Says he’s going to announce something.”

  “Announce what?”

  “Well, it seems pretty obvious to me. I mean, can’t you just feel it? He’s going to tell them, tell everyone who he really is!”

  My stomach bubbled. “Who is he, Terry?”

  “God, of course. God in the flesh!” His hands sprang towards me as if he were flinging water from his fingers. “You, of all people, should know that. We are blessed, Blake. We’ve known him since the start. We were there when the fire was lit! And you, you walked with him! With God! Like the twelve, right? Now, I don’t know why he sent you away, but that’s all—”

  “Sent me away?”

  Terry dropped his hands and met my eyes. “Well, didn’t he?”

  I pushed past him into my house and slammed the door, late morning shadows scuttling to corners. This was my home, this pit where madness stained the air like the stench of wet ash. Harold as God was too much for me to take. The truth is at some point I might have accepted it, might have cheered and ranted like Terry outside my door. But now . . . If Harold is God then God let my wife die. If Harold is God then God was unable to save Beddy. If Harold is God then God is too weak and too cruel for me stomach. I found my pistol, but I didn’t put it to my head. Instead I walked back out the front door.

  “It’s okay,” Terry said. “He sent me away too. It’s okay. It’s not about you or me or anybody. It’s about Harold, the movement! Ri—”

  I grabbed his shirt and shoved the pistol into his mouth until he gagged. He tried to shake away, almost a spasm, but I held firm, the barrel shaking against his teeth.

  “Terry,” I said, my voice weird to my ears. “Never talk to me again.”

  He had tears in his eyes. He moaned. I removed the gun, walked to my car, and drove away. The last I saw of Terry was in my rearview mirror, sitting on my front porch, his head between his knees.

  Billions of Words

  You cannot drive to where you once walked. The journey changes the destination. I was driving to Austin. But it was not the same Austin.

  The road was filled with pilgrims, new eager followers. Walking, many of them, as I had walked, except they were near the highway. Some were singing, dancing. Others were somber, walking with their heads lowered. And there were the opponents as well, more and more the closer I got to Austin. Billboards and posters crying out that Harold was not to be trusted, idols were not to be worshipped, Jesus was the truth, hell was waiting. I honked and waved at all of them.

  Every newsbreak on every station focused on either Harold or the Collapse. Those were the two stories. The economy is imploding. The Messiah is arriving.

  Talk radio was insane. Stories about Harold having several wives and dozens of children. Harold demanding sex from his followers. Harold having millions of dollars hidden in secret bank accounts. One man came forward swearing Harold had killed his mother.

  And the sightings. People called in and swore on-air that Harold was in a yogurt shop in Pensacola, Florida, a subway in New York City, a children’s hospital in Wichita, Kansas. Suddenly anyone could claim Harold.

  Reporters rattled off any Harold fact they could find: where he went to high school, how much he paid in taxes, what charities he had given to.

  There was never a shortage of facts about Harold. We hardly know anything about Jesus of Nazareth. Just odds and ends. We’re left to piece together a picture from hand-me-down rewrites and a few fading words on scraps of parchment. The picture is underexposed, all shadow and black. But with Harold the opposite is true. To find Harold you have to dig through an unending pile of information and misinformation. By now, there are billions of words written about Harold. Hardly any of them are worth the letters it took to spell them. The picture is overexposed,
all white. He is lost.

  Beddy’s death made Harold popular, but his own death made him divine. Death took Harold out of time. Allowed us to experience him as we experience God. He could be all over the place at once. Not just random sightings, but personal, private experiences. “He’s with us now,” they’d say. “Harold is in our hearts.”

  Little factions within churches started to pop up within a year of his death. Pockets of Christians who believed Harold was the Second Coming or at least a prophet. Terry’s web page church became one of many. Some Jewish groups believed Harold was the Messiah finally come. A faction of Muslims claimed he was Abu al-Qasim Muhammad, the Hidden Imam. And many others who had had no faith before found it in Harold. These groups began meeting together in a series of conferences, dozens of conferences, trying to decide what Harold had meant. Harold had talked about throwing out rules. Now they met to make rules on how to throw out the rules. How to experience what Harold was. How to still the water so everyone can have a sip without getting too wet.

  Each conference led to splits. More rules. More attempts to clear up the mystery. Harold never wanted to clear up any mystery. Harold would have hated that. He embraced ignorance. The only answer he provided was that you don’t need answers. But Harold’s not around to argue. Or if he is, he’s not saying anything.

  Wake Up

  I lay on my cot fully dressed waiting for Peter. I massaged my legs so they would be ready to run. Once I was free from this basement, I’d head south again. Mexico didn’t work last time. I stayed still for too long, had to deal with those damn painted prayers. So I headed back north, crossed the Rio Grande again, sneaking back home. That didn’t work either.

  This time I’d go further south. South enough for the world to turn strange. Find a place where the images are as foreign as the language, where facial expressions mean nothing to me. I want a world where no one can reach me. So far south the sky is liquid and the ocean is air. Get lonely enough and God meets you there.