C6 The Granny

Be my little baby, be my baby now, tell Isabel I love her, tell the kids I love them, let the good times roll, there were good times, that night in Michigan.

The kids up to their knees in the white of it, the snow fall- ing into the tops of their rubber boots, and their faces hidden in parka hoods, with a ball of wool each one of them, and their scarves hiding their faces, red noses peeking out. Beneath the snow-covered branches of the pine forest, the branches bent to the ground since the snow was so heavy.

They were getting ready for Granny’s arrival—Granny their favorite, Granny who left them squealing as the three girls ran to the door when her car pulled up, the Pennsylvania plates showing how much she loved her three granddaughters, the smile he saw in his mother’s face. The only thing she ever cared about were children. She worked for his college education after Daddy died, and she was there for every occasion, always the one in charge, always standing at attention, waiting for the next obstacle to dare get in the way of her children’s happiness. They were good times, that night in Michigan, that Christmas Eve in Michigan, the tree cut down that afternoon, all the girls taking a swing with the ax, out in the forest, not far from their new home, not far from Oscar’s new job. He was Oscar once—he can still remember—he was Oscar McBain once, he put on fresh socks in the morning, assumed he would put on fresh socks in the morning forever, that nothing could ever end on a Christmas Eve like this.

Granny, where did you go, how did you fall? Everything was falling then—the snow was falling, the world was falling, the chaos was starting to set in, children being sold on street corners, and Oscar felt so safe.

They were living in San Francisco the next Christmas Eve, and Granny’s Pennsylvania plates showing up in the drive, forever mov- ing toward the hearts of her family, the happiness of all her offspring, when nothing seemed wrong with the world, when nothing had been lost yet, when everything was promised.

And then there were threats of an uprising, troops moved into the cities, the rebels disappeared, the troops moved out of the cities. All seemed calm. Was that before or after the chaos set in? When did the chaos set in? Which Christmas Eve was it actually? When did everything start spinning downward and upward, like vortexes spinning out of control? Was it Christmas? Was it Michigan? Was it Kansas? Was it San Francisco?

A cyclone of history, sucking up all sanity, all reason, everything poisoned and distorted by rampant fear, streaking through the culture like a deadly virus. People fled from all their assumptions about real- ity, nailing down what little they could hold onto as tsunamis flooded continents. Island nations vanished. Hawaii vanished. Currency wars broke out, Pakistan took out India, Russia swarmed across its former satellites, retaking Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Hungary, Poland, the Czech Republic, Georgia, Bulgaria, Romania.

It was just like the good old days, and then the Middle East turned all its might against Israel. Jews begging, crying, banging their heads against walls to be given a chance to worship Allah, before their heads were cut off.

Then China got hit by a plague and a draught. Japan attacked.

It was just like the good old days, the bloody torn bodies becom- ing mountains of dead bloody flesh, and Sarah saying it’s a smaller world tonight as she sat by her Christmas tree and fireplace in cozy Alaska. Mountains and mountains of limbs and heads, news of the world diminishing as the world got worse.

It was the good old days again, when there wasn’t so much news, when life was less complex, as if the world was inhabited only by

gleeful celebrities, sports heroes, politicians who produced the most entertainment. Nobody wanted to address reality anymore. They were fleeing their homes, fleeing their cities, fleeing themselves, flee- ing from anything they could flee from, fleeing from anything that resembled the good old days, running toward anything that resem- bled the good old days.

When you could wish upon a star, and it just kept spinning, and all your dreams came true, and it just kept spinning. And Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea, and it just kept spinning, frolick- ing in the autumn mist, and it just kept spinning, his head bent in sorrow, and it just kept spinning downward.

Was it when?

Was it here?

Was it then?

Was it there?

Billy felt the lights come on. It was always like that.

The spins came out of nowhere. They were impossible to pre- dict. They could hit him in a crosswalk. They could hit him as he bit into someone’s half-eaten sandwich.

Everything went black for who knows how long.

Sometimes a cop’s club brought him out of it. Sometimes he’d continue walking, without knowing it, in the middle of the spins, and find himself miles away when the lights came back on.

No one else was there when the spins came on.

Even Billy wasn’t there. He could never remember any of it. It happened and then it didn’t happen.

When the lights came back on this time, Billy found himself standing on top a ridge that looked down toward the Dugout. The ridge was high enough that Billy could see if the Dugout was clear of unwanted visitors.

Nobody else could see the Dugout. It was buried in an aban- doned construction site. The Dugout was Billy’s home.

It was never Billy’s home before, but it was Billy’s home now. He lived like a rat. He lived like a mole. He lived like a mouse. But nobody bothered him.

He saw a group of Sarah’s Soldiers moving toward the Dugout.

Had somebody reported him? Would he have to go back to sleeping in Dumpsters?

He pushed his shopping cart down the back of the ridge so Sarah’s Soldiers wouldn’t see it. He lay on the ridge and watched.

What were they doing down there?

They never came out here.

Billy made sure of that before he started digging. He wanted

something remote. He wanted a place where he could step outside in the middle of the night and take a piss without anyone punishing him. He wanted a place where he could sleep all day if it suited him.

The Dugout was the only shred of freedom he had left. And now those fucking Sarah’s Soldiers were snooping around.

It was a desolate part of town. Construction had come to a halt in what was designated to be several square blocks of new buildings for research laboratories for the pharmaceutical industry.

Each square block was a deep hole, dug into the earth to cre- ate a foundation, and then it was all abandoned. High mounds of dirt surrounded the excavations, further obscuring anyone’s view of Billy’s home.

But none of that was important now.

Billy felt a rage toward his intruders. The deep excavation that was covered with new grass concealed the door to the Dugout. The Dugout had been dug into one of the sides of the deep hole, and then Billy fashioned an earthen door.

Billy was in a rage because he could not get to his prescription bottles. From the looks of things, the Christmas gift he promised himself would have to be delayed.

What were they doing?

Sarah’s soldiers, young men and women dressed in red t-shirts and blue pants and white sneakers, were dragging canvas bags and large pieces of lumber to the top of one of the mounds of dirt over- looking Billy’s home.

They built a fire. They emptied the bags. They laid out a man- ger with statues of Joseph and Mary, along with peasants and live-

stock, all looking down on a cradle covered in hay, with the Baby Jesus resting upon it.

They stood back and admired their work. Then they took the two large pieces of lumber and began to nail them together. When they were done, it looked like a cross.

Finally, they opened a large canvas bag, which seemed nervously animated. There was a small man inside of it. They pulled him out of the bag and dragged him to the cross. The cross was flattened on the ground. The group of them forced the man down on the cross so his arms were pinned down, spread-eagled. They drove nails into his hands. Then they tied the rest of him to the cross with clothesline.

They dug a hole and raised the cross and thrust it into the ground. The man was twisting and turning and crying out for help as they raised him on the cross. They covered the foot with the dirt that had been dug out to make the hole.

They all stood back to admire their work. Their spirits were high. Their mood was happy. They applauded and cheered the man on the cross and then started laughing at him, as he hung there wrig- gling like a fly on the end of a pin.

They took the hay that was left over from decorating the man- ger and spread it around the bottom of the cross. They doused the man with kerosene. Then they lit the kerosene.

Billy was horrified.

He slid down the ridge on his stomach to the shopping cart. He hurried to get away with the cart and headed toward the far side of an adjacent construction site, surrounded by more mounds of dirt. He was far enough away that they would never see him.

There was a Dumpster along the side of the site. The Dumpster had no use anymore. There was nobody around here to use it. There was nobody around here, for the most part.

Except for those Sarah’s Soldiers.

They were free to do what they wanted. They were free to abuse and imprison anyone they deemed a threat to society. They were good Christian thugs set upon the population to ensure order.

Billy lifted the lid of the Dumpster. He had lived in the Dumpster while he was digging out the Dugout. Its contents hadn’t changed since the last time he stayed here.

There were small pieces of lumber lining the floor of the Dumpster, with piles of cardboard heaped on top of them. Billy found the two strong sticks where he’d left them, standing in the corner of the Dumpster.

He propped the lid open with the sticks and pulled the American flag off his shopping cart. He folded it neatly and let it drop to the floor of the Dumpster. He gazed into the shopping cart and admired his belongings. They were all he owned now.

They lost the house on Christmas Eve. Isabel was there. The children were there. The bankers came in the afternoon. They had two armed guards. They told them to get out. Billy asked to take the Christmas presents. They told him to get out. They told him to come back with a moving van on a designated date.

When he came back with the moving van, all the furniture was gone. The bankers said thieves had cleaned out the house.

Billy took great care of the few objects he still owned. He kept a list in his head, and he went over the list as he gazed into the shop- ping cart:

• Small lamp, no shade, no bulb, no wire

• Golf club

• Flattened football

• Ouija board

• Suntan lotion

• Handcuffs

• Whip

• Skateboard

• Broken toaster

• Purse

• Book in Japanese

• Broken radio

• Frisbee

• Newspaper

Each object had a special significance that only Billy under- stood. Some of the objects spoke to him. Others kept an eye on him. He felt protected.

Billy went over his list three times when he loaded the objects into the shopping cart in the morning and three times when he unloaded them at night. Then he divided the total by three.

And so he handled the objects with great care as he set each one into the bottom of the Dumpster. When he was finished, he turned the shopping cart on its side and slid it under the Dumpster. He left just enough sticking out so he could use it as a step to lift himself enough to drop into the Dumpster.

He stood in the Dumpster looking out, the lid tilted above his head. There was no sign of Sarah’s Soldiers anywhere near him. The flames of the cross rose up in the sky and the screams of the victim died down.

He rolled the sleeping bag out and opened it. His objects surrounded the sleeping bag. He stood up and held the lid of the Dumpster open and took out the two sticks.

He set the sticks in the corner of the Dumpster. Then he lowered the lid until it quietly closed.