Page 84 - WTP Vol. VI #4

Jesus (continued from preceding page)
woodstove and shovel snow and cook us meals.
up the window, cream and sugar premixed at the bottom of the mug. He turns, a sharp goatee thick with blood. “It’s strong,” he says.
I’m pulling the ladder down from the truck when chance has me looking up to the living room win- dow. Jesus in the form of a goat has grown in size and he’s standing on his back legs. Wings—moth wings—extend above his head, fire pluming from his nostrils, neon-piss green.
Tastes like rust and motor oil. “Thank—”
I go up with the first load, the ladder and drop cloths, the cheap plastic type. Dolan’s sitting in an arm chair with Jesus at his feet, his eyes all pupils.
But he’s already left the room. I’m standing there with the mug in my hand, the drop cloths already spread beneath my feet. Jesus in the form of a goat sits on his lap, small now. Beagle size. And both have horns with the right one clipped sitting in the armchair, faces turned, red flannel col-
Out of the corner of my own eyes, I see him pet- ting Jesus beneath the chin. I look, but he’s too quick. He’s sitting there with a leather-bound, black book, and I swear he’s holding it upside down, the red ribbon bookmark dangling. Jesus nibbles at it.
lars buttoned up—the top button stretched tight against skin.
I go back down, and again, I see petting from the corner of my eye. I don’t look. “I’ll need help with the table,” I say. Jesus lets out a shriek and I hear click-ticking on the hardwood floor.
I look up and the ceiling isn’t more than a foot from my face, the ladder groaning as I shift my weight, the mud knife flexing, feathering the edges. “Won’t need much sanding,” I say. “Won’t need much sanding. Won’t need much sanding. Wont...”
Mr. Mallory drops the book with a thud. He picks up his end before I’m ready. With his pinky finger and nothing else, he lifts the entire table like a cartoon strong man and places it in the corner. Jesus is standing on the table. From there he looks down on me and then turns towards the refrig- erator where he rips down the calendar and eats it whole. He finds a muffin tin on the top of the refrigerator. He eats that too, the metal bending and grinding in his jaw.
“Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good...” Supernatural high-pitch broken record set to repeat, scratched across both faces no matter how you flip them. Pupils spin. Both sets of eye sockets. And the clock—the minute hand flies. I can’t stop it. Won’t stop. Jesus in the form of a goat nuzzling grizzly beard to beard, the young man holding fire in the form of a book daring me to say it—no, that’s not right. Daring me NOT to say it. Say it about the wrench and the plastic fittings and overtightening till I hear the crack. No drip, drip, drip. Not yet. Takes a week. Maybe three days. Maybe more. Drip down through the ceiling. Buckles the floor. Nice hard- wood too. A giant wave engulfing the kitchen table, the counters, the refrigerator, and Jesus in the form of a goat rising up above the water— walking on water and lapping up blood—tastes of rust and motor oil—mold multiplying bacteria up the walls, around windows, stifling cabinets in death’s choking grasp, crossing the ninety- degree crack from wall to ceiling, racing towards mud knife wielding knuckles. Doing this to a man. What I felt. What I am. Doing this to a man. Another man. And things he loves. Future. Hope. Untimely ripped. Ripped, for he’s no better than
“What’re you looking at?” Mr. Mallory asks.
“Nothing, I—”
“You need something to drink? Soda in the fridge. Cup of coffee? I made extra. And I’ve had enough.
I throw away the extra. Have some. Have a cup. I’ll make it for you. Sugar? Cream? How do you take it?”
“I—”
“You could use some.”
He pours coffee from a glass carafe, steam fogging
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