Passion was endless, powerful, frantic. Rolling, we bumped the tray, sending glass and plate, knife and fork and steak sauce crashing down. A lamp fell, shattering. My naked back slammed against the sharp edge of a table, making me groan. Not from pain. I screamed in ecstacy.
And just before I came with an explosive burst, as if from the core of my soul, as if after foisting her sins upon me she needed something from me in return, I felt her drawing me close to her, down, ever down.
She moaned and pleaded, "Eat me. Eat me!"
I lost consciousness. The Nebraska state police claim they found me wandering naked down the middle of Interstate 80 at one o'clock in the afternoon two days later. They say I was horribly sunburned. I don't know. I don't remember. All I recall is waking up in the hospital in Iowa City.
In the psych ward.
The doctors lied. They claimed I wasn't ugly. Then why would they have locked me up and taken the mirrors away? Why would the nurses have flinched when they came in with guards to feed me? They thought they were so smart, but I knew the truth. Despite the thick wire screen across the window, at night I saw my reflection. I don't have a chin. There's only one eye. In place of a nose, I've got two flat repulsive slits. I'm being punished. I understand that now. For all the evil in the world.
I used to be a Catholic, but I don't go to church anymore. When I was young, though, learning to go to confession, the nuns made me learn a speech to say to the priest in the booth. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was… And then I'd tell him how long ago, and then I'd confess, and then I'd finish by saying, I'm sorry for these and all my sins. I am, you know. I'm sorry. Except I didn't commit them. The sins aren't mine.
My wife and children came to visit. I refused to let them see me. I couldn't bear to see the sickened reaction in their eyes.
How can a sin-eater get rid of the sins? That's what she said to me. By passing the sins along, of course. By having them eaten by someone else.
I've known for several weeks now what I had to do. It was simply a matter of pretending to be calm, of waiting for my chance. I hope the guard wasn't badly hurt. I tried not to hit him too hard. But his head made a terrible sound when I cracked it against the wall.
I've been very clever. I've stolen three cars, and I've never kept one long enough for the state police to catch me. It's taken me two days to return.
That's why the tree's so important. It's my landmark, you see. Remember the off-ramp had no sign. The tree's all I had to give me direction.
But I'm puzzled. Oh, I found the tree all right, its branches in the shape of the menorah candelabrum. And it's so distinctive I can't believe there'd be another like it. But I swear it had eight upright branches then, and it was bare.
But now it's got nine.
And leaves have sprouted.
Dear God, help me. Save me.
I pressed the accelerator to the floor, racing along the two-lane blacktop. As before, the road stretched forever. Doubt made me frantic. I tried not to glance at the rear-view mirror. All the same, I weakened, and my ugliness made me wail.
I saw the building in the distance, the glint of sunlight off the metal roof. I whimpered, rushing closer. And I found the town again.
Exactly the same. The water tower. The cattle pen (but it's full now). The service station, the BAR-B-CUE.
I don't understand, though. Everyone's normal. I see no goiters, no hunchbacks, no twisted limbs and festering sores. They stare as I drive past. I can't stand to see their shock and disgust.
… I've found her house. I'm in here waiting.
In the hospital, the doctors said I was having delusions. They agreed my initial suspicion might have been correct – that some chemical in my food could have made me hallucinate, and now the effects of the drug persist, making me think I'm ugly, distorting my memory of the trip. I wish I could believe that. I even wish I could believe I've gone crazy. Anything would be better than the truth.
But I know what it is. She did it. She made me eat her sins. But dammit, I'll get even with her. I'll make her take them back.
I've been writing this in her living room while I glance hurriedly out the window. In case something happens to me, so people will understand. It wasn't my fault.
But she'll come home soon. Yes, she will. And then…
I hear a car door. On the street, someone's stepping from a station wagon.
Oh, sweet Christ, at last. But no, it's not one person.
Two. A man and a woman.
But the woman isn't the one I want.
What happened? Did she leave?
They'll come in. They'll find me.
I don't care. I can't bear this anymore. I have to pass the sins along. I have to…
I found a knife in the kitchen. See, I don't know the words. I don't know how to put my sins in the food.
But I remember the last thing she said to me. I know how to do it. I have to use the knife and a fork and make them -
Eat me.
The following three stories were written as a group and published together in 1985 as part of the Night Visions series. Their common theme is ambition and the dark side of success. Each is about a specific occupation, in this case a paper boy. I have a special fondness for this story because when my son, Matt, was twelve, he liked to earn extra money delivering newspapers. He had more than an adequate allowance, but like the chatty likeable boy you're about to meet, he was determined to be an entrepreneur. Because the route required him to get up every morning at five-thirty, my wife and I couldn't resist helping. Often, before dawn, I set out with Matt, and in winter, that help was especially appreciated. It was appreciated even more when, over the space of a year, two paper boys disappeared in a neighboring city. Those boys were never found. As you might expect, the route had its tense moments, and part of the purpose of this story was to communicate how alone a paper carrier can feel early in the morning. These days, the job is usually done by adults in cars, but if you're in one of those rare places that still has paper boys or girls, next time your carrier comes to the door, give a big tip.
Black and White and Red All Over
You probably read about me in the paper this morning. Fact is, if you live near the corner of Benton and Sunset, I'm the kid who normally delivers it to you. 'Course I couldn't bring it to you today, being in the hospital and all with my arm busted and my skull what the doctor says is fractured. My Dad took over for me. To tell the truth, I kinda miss doing the route. I've been delivering three years now, since I was nine, and it gets to be a habit, even if I do have to wake up at five-thirty, Christmas and New Year's and every day. But if you think I slept in this morning, you're wrong. The nurses wake you up early here just the same as if my Mom was nudging me to crawl out of bed and make sure I put on my longjohns before I take the papers 'cause it's awful cold these snowy mornings. You have to walk the route instead of riding your bike, and that takes a half hour longer, especially with the sky staying dark so long, and sometimes you can't see the numbers on the houses when you're looking for where a new customer lives.
The way this works, the Gazette has this guy in a truck come along and drop a bundle in front of my house, and my Dad goes out to get the bundle and fold the papers in my sack while I get dressed. A lot of times, there'll be this card with the name of a new customer or else the name of a customer who doesn't want the paper anymore, and then my Mom and I'll have to add or subtract the name from my list and figure out how much the customer owes me, especially if he's starting or stopping in the middle of a week. It's pretty complicated, but my Dad says it teaches me how to run a business, and the extra money comes in handy for buying CDs or playing video games, even if I do have to put a third of what I earn away in my bank account.