My sister cried into her chest. Tears brought Devona back.
— I don’t want to hate anyone, my sister whispered. But I feel like I do.
Merril finished her tea, only a sip or two.
It gave Nabisase some time to shake before Merril went down the girl’s throat with compassion. Grandma could be heard in her bedroom, but her actions sounded like small ones. I doubt she wanted to hop out here and talk.
Nabisase said, — I remember when the church helped Ms. Petit find a place to live when she wanted to take her kids and leave her husband.
Devona nodded.
Merril tapped the tabletop firmly. — People know who you are now. I bet it’s them who would feel lucky to have a TV star staying in their places. They’d tell all their friends!
Nabisase laughed along as well.
— We want to help, Merril said.
Merril put on her glasses when they were reading Scripture; even Devona clowned less. I crouched on the other side of the door. Nabisase said, — I know a lot of people say this, but if I only ever got to ask Selwyn one question I would want to know why he made some of the people in my family get so sick.
— Is that the only question you’ve got for Him? Merril asked. If that’s true then, baby-girl, you’re lucky.
It was the only time I saw Merril get angry; it revealed her to me if not my sister. A woman in her fifties coming to aid a pretty teenage girl who, by some luck, had been featured on a national television show. A little wackiness in one’s family probably didn’t seem like much pain.
Merril said, — We learn to read the whole Bible, not just the parts that make us feel good.
— Selwyn had brothers, Nabisase said.
— Mark tells us so, Merril agreed.
— I was scared when I read that because I never thought of it before.
Merril said, — Maybe you heard of the Bible, but never really learned it.
— It’s easier that way, my sister said.
— That’s why so many people only come in on holidays.
— I don’t want to be one of those. Nabisase had both hands open, faced down on the table. I want Jesus’ protection.
Even now Devona was impatient and turned from their Bible to ask what is this? — A map of Uganda as a dinner mat, my sister explained.
And this?
— Look at it, Nabisase said.
Devona opened my book and read:
— Gather.
Wishing to return a long dead mystic to life Jimmy Larson begins raiding the local morgue because he’s learned of a scientific process by which a fresh cerebral cortex can be siphoned of its vitality, which becomes a purple paste. Enough of it, when injected into a corpse, can bring back the dead.
Devona said, — What the fuck?
— Devona!
— I’m sorry Merril, but that’s just odd.
Devona looked at a few other pages. — Killing Is My Business? I watch scary movies with both my boys and I never heard of these.
Merril slammed the book’s cover closed so hard that I winced. — Can we get back to the important business? There’s only one thing on this table that matters to me.
Devona said, — Okay Merril, don’t act high post. You almost broke my finger.
Merril said, — There’s a lot to learn, Nabisase. You should read the Word for moral guidance. It’s the power of Jesus. But you’ll see that when we read about Abraham of Ur. How he traveled to Canaan and in Egypt. You’ll find out that this isn’t just about one man, it’s the development of a whole people. Their arms eventually stretched so wide that they found you and I. Today. Right here. They hold us close to their bosom. The book becomes a record of ourselves.
38
Wish that Ishkabibble had been my best friend when he quoted me the cost of publishing two hundred and ninety-nine more copies of my encyclopedia. Or that he’d named this price before sitting me down that day in Brookville Park with the formalized pages in my hands. Before my Thermite gladness. Previous to letting me walk around owning it for two days. In advance of my loving it.
— Five thousand dollars is the sweetheart price, he insisted on the phone.
It was November 26th and Nabisase had gone with Merril and Devona. Not permanently, just for Sunday morning service. They left the night before and came back at 8:00 AM. Then left again, together, at noon.
Have you ever held your own book? I’d like to pretend it’s nothing, but I’m not in a self-deprecating mood.
— You’ve printed all three hundred copies already? As I asked I poured Grandma’s tea, then brought it to the living room couch.
— And trust you to repay a bill that big? You pay, Anthony, and I print.
— How do I know you won’t just make a few thousand copies of it first and get rich off of my work? Maybe you could sign an affidavit that you won’t cheat me.
— Do me a solid and get your book. Now read one to me.
— Homunculus, I began. 1987. An unnamed fishing town in Maine is preyed upon by a presence that has impregnated its women. The wives speak of waking on different mornings to find a tiny man in bed with them. Climbing inside them. There is no pain. The fiend appears once to each woman and never again. The children they bear are malformed, give off noxious odors, and they mature rapidly. After a month they’re as big as toddlers. The men of the town are horrified; they shun these mutant children. Even the mothers are ambivalent at first. Until they realize that these children can’t be hurt. Completely indestructible. Faced with such an idea the mothers rejoice. Men leave town in disgust. The women age, and though they pass away they are glad; their babies will never feel pain. The film ends displaying an entire town of monsters intermarrying, persevering. Victorious. A horror movie with a happy ending. It’s my favorite film.
Ishkabibble was on the line, but quiet besides breathing.
— I don’t see your point, I said.
— Forget it. Look. I’m not giving you any affidavit because I don’t even want to waste money on a notary public until I see cash from you.
— But I’m your boy!
— That’s the only reason I didn’t charge you for the copy in your hand.
— I don’t have five thousand, but what if I take orders? Then you could see how many people want to buy it.
— Get money, not names on a sheet.
— How much would you charge?
— Don’t ask for any hundred dollars, that’s a bet. Ten would be cheap enough.
— Three hundred books at ten each is only three thousand.
— You come up with that much and I’ll let you pay me the rest slowly.
— That’s very generous. Must mean you don’t think I can sell fifty.
— The possibility did come to mind.
— Want to buy a book? I asked him.
— Why would I?
— Since we’re friends.
— No. Come up with a convincing pitch.
— Buy one because ten dollars doesn’t mean much to a successful man like you.
— Poor people always think about how much they don’t have. Everyone else thinks of how much they want to keep.
— To support a great artistic endeavor?
— Don’t sell your aspirations to me.
— Encourage local talent?
— Forget about what you think you are and think of what other people see.
— You should buy a copy to get the neighborhood kookaburra off your stoop.
Ishkabibble chuckled. — Next time I see you I owe you a dime.
A neighborhood can seem like a nation when selling door to door; the enterprise is most fruitful when there’s something sad to sell. Americans yield for tragedy, not altruism.
The hardest work, what got me into many living rooms, had already been done by people like Candan, Mr. and Mrs. Blankets, my own mother probably. Folks knew of unfortunate Anthony, that my brain wasn’t worth a wheel of cheese. I had $90 after nine homes. A few thousand places were left. My confidence multiplied. Shame withers beside success.