It was the chronicle of a breakdown foretold. Probably.
Father Steward had been a priest for long enough to notice the sign of times. Back in the day, there was not an empty bench at the parish and in Sundays and holidays a needle falling wouldn't have hit the floor. He would spend an hour easily shaking hands and chatting at the end of mass at the gates. Folks would often come at any time to have a private talk to the Blessed Sacrament, pray the rosary in a group. Now? Now it seemed people had forgotten God and only came just the minimum needed not to go to hell, like it was one chore to cross out their to-do list. The usual those days was to only lay a foot on the church when someone died and their presence was required not to give people a reason to talk. The world was going to hell, it was not just the opinion of an old geezer, one just had to turn on the TV or open a newspaper to see. The fabric of society was breaking and people, instead of turning to the loving arms of the Father, preferred to turn to drugs, junk food, video games, binge watching, obscenity, you only live once! they say, and get deeper and deeper into that pit of doom, go mad and start picking fights for the smallest reasons, for the thrill of it, even. He tried to warn them about the bad path they were walking but it was like preaching in the desert. Who listens to priests anymore? And his sheep were not making things easier for him, either. In fact, they seemed to find pleasure in testing his patience.
The morning when it all happened, when he was preaching and trying to help the usual handful attendants understand the implications of Virgin Mary's Assumption in flesh and spirit, a phone rang. Given where the sound was coming from, where the people glanced at, it belonged to an old lady. He tried to be patient. Not many elders know how to put their phones on vibration or have someone who can do it for them. She didn't bother to cut the call, though. It almost seemed like she was the only one who couldn't hear it. Stewart was starting to lose his train of thought. At someone's warning, she finally started opening her purse to look for it. The phone stopped ringing before she reached it. Father Stewart sighed in relief and continued with the mass. However, the person calling didn't understand that she was busy and called again. And once more, the phone rang, and rang, and rang, while the lady, with no hurry whatsoever, shoved her hand inside the purse and searched for it like she had all the time in the world. The Father made a great effort to remember it was a Christian duty to put up with people's flaws...But when the caller didn't surrender and tried again, during the Transubstantiation, he felt a great pressure inside his chest. This time the lady answered, but he could not thank God for this.
"HELLO? I CAN'T TALK NOW, I AM AT MASS...WHO?! WHO IS CALLING?! SISSY?! I'M AT MASS!"
There was no need for Heaven to come down for this solemn moment: her voice surely reached the Heavenly Kingdom.
"HOW ARE ROBERT AND THE KIDS? I'M FINE, I'M FINE, I'LL TELL YOU LATER, I'M AT MASS...NO, SHE DIED, THE POOR THING!"
No matter how people looked at her, how someone shushed her, the lady just kept shouting and didn't seem to find the moment to press the darned red button. Father Stewart didn't even know what he was saying anymore. All he knew he wanted to grab that phone and crush it against the pavement and dance on it. A thought he quickly repelled.
But the feeling was there long after the mass. What happened was the last episode of a series of things he hated and had to put up with.
Yes, he was really irritated and prayed that morning, while he was shopping, for that ugly feeling to leave him, but it was still there, glued to him, and all his efforts were useless, for he could only find more and more reasons to be irritated. The rise of the prices! The long queues! The confounded old ladies skipping line using their age and fragility as an excuse! How he hated those old hags! If he didn't say a couple of truths to their wrinkled faces it was because of the collar he was wearing...
He needed to fill the tank of his car and there, at the gas station, he encountered—what a surprise—a longer queue. Stewart just closed his eyes and tried to distract himself from the frustration, from the feeling that, this day, he hated people and wanted to go back to his house as soon as possible...
It was then when that big ginger behind him, pushed by all the people in the line, brushed his disgusting, sweaty, hairy body against him.
Then, the bubble burst.
"Hey, you, you racken fracken varmint, I ain't looking for a man to cuddle with tonight, so get off me!"
The line at the gas station had been quiet until that very moment. Some even looked around like woken up from a state of drowsiness. Among them was Ben, who had a bag of chips, a coke and a pre-prepared salad in his hand. His eyes, like everyone else's, turned to that little man who was glaring at the hairy ginger behind him.
His response, that rude response from someone as well-known and affable as Father Clayton Stewart was surprising enough to make everyone fall into a stupefied silence. But when the big ginger finally stepped back, when the priest took a couple of guns from the pockets of his jacket, the silence gave way to a big racket. A lady screamed at the top of her lungs, most of the clients ran out of the station or hid among the shelves, when the little man started firing in all directions.
"Anybody else wanna be clingy?! Nobody?!" He shouted, breaking glass, making the fluorescent lamps explode, shot after shot.
Ben definitely didn't want to mess with that man or try to be a hero, like the worker who, under the counter, was calling the police. Like everyone else, he ran to hide, dropping his dinner.
One of the bullets went through a bag of snacks near him and he crouched. A woman who was also hidden there pointed at his cheek, babbling. Ben touched his face and stared at the blood on it.
He held his breath, his heart raced, adrenaline ran through his veins.
An affront which demanded reparations.
The thought came quite unexpectedly, and it was so stupid, so suicidal Ben quickly pushed it away. Any sane person would know that one didn't get revenge on someone who had a gun.
Kath wasn't very sure of what she was going to say to Ben when she saw him. To be honest, she wasn't very sure of what one was supposed to say in a situation like this. They had talked so little in all the years they lived next door...It was not that they didn't know each other...It didn't have to be so difficult, did it? She shook that worry off, saying to herself that words would start to flow once she saw him.
Ben finally answered to the door. He had a big patch in his cheek, with a dark reddish spot. He seemed to be ready to go to work; she had caught him before he left. Kath took deep breath.
"Uh, hi. I just saw you and saw...What happened?"
Ben was quiet for a couple of seconds, still processing that she was there, talking to him, and she was worried.
"The priest. He...wanted us to meet God, apparently." Was all he said. And he regretted it.
Good thing her lips curved a little, finding that remark funny and thinking she had nothing to worry, if he was in the mood for jokes.
"Are you okay?" She insisted.
"Yeah, it was nothing. Just a scratch."
Good thing that the guy didn't have much aim, he added internally. It would have been nice to make that comment aloud, but he kept it to himself, not to turn this into a comedy festival.
"I'm so glad. Dear Lord, I was shocked to see you with your face covered in blood! A shooting! Good thing you only got a scratch!..." Kath kept talking, showing her worry, and Ben almost had to thank that deranged man for making Kath worry about him, giving her a reason to talk to him after so, so long. She was so pretty...
"...He didn't get you anywhere else, right? You were so lucky! Why is a priest carrying firearms, anyway?" She kept saying.
He didn't know, but there was one thing he was completely sure of: there was nothing he wished more than grabbing her and kissing her cherry lips, look into her gorgeous aqua eyes and tell her how absolutely amazing he thought she was and how he wished to take her out to have dinner together...He had been dreaming about it since he was twelve.
...Oh, but that was what all males in Warner Falls wanted. What made him think she would want none of that with him? They never talked much back then. Kath probably only remembered remotely that they were in the same class. They did a project together once or twice, maybe, and that's it. They were not friends. Acquaintances. That's it. She was only concerned about him because her mother had spoken her into it or something of the sort. What relationship did they have? The guys at school, those jocks she was always surrounded with, made it clear for him: he was a big toothed, ugly, stupid maroon who couldn't even dream of getting a chance with her. The only reason why she would show any interest on him was to laugh at him, because of a bet, something like that...
Kath Reese had always been out of reach. He couldn't get his hopes up.
"Uhm, thanks for your concern..." Ben finally said. "Listen, I've got to..."
"Oh! Yeah! Sorry. You probably got things to do...Just wanted to make sure you were okay...If you need something, anything...I'm..."
"Sure...Good day."
And with that Ben closed the door.
He rested his back against it and sighed, insulting himself. Idiot, why can't you make an effort and put that big mouth of yours when it matters?
On the other side, Kath sighed and reluctantly walked away from the door. It was so difficult to get to know him...She wondered why she even tried—it was obvious he wanted nothing with anybody. Back at school and now.
"It's a pity. I always had the feeling a fun guy lies underneath..." Kath thought while coming into her house, in order to have everything ready for that night's little adventure with Sheldon.
"Don't you know what happened to Ben?"
Brian didn't look up as he stirred his coffee.
"What Ben? Ross?" He asked.
"The clerk, Whitby." Morty, from Sales Department, replied. "Did you hear about the shooting at the gas station?"
"Rosie told me, yes."
"He was shot."
"Gracious! Is he dead?" For someone who didn't know who this Ben Whitby was a second before, Brian sounded really concerned.
"Oh, no! He's quite alright! But he couldn't come today. The police's inquiring, the fright...You know." Morty replied.
"Sure, of course. I should probably text him, send him a fruits basket or something."
Brian judged the sugar was finally dissolved and sipped his coffee. It was still quite hot, he burnt the tip of his tongue.
It was true that he had no idea of who Whitby was. He just couldn't remember his face. Ben had such a talent becoming invisible that it was difficult for everyone to remember his name and his existence. But Brian considered his subordinates a family, and thought it was his responsibility to take care of each one of them and comfort them when it was needed. Like in this case. Now that Morty mentioned him, he thought of Ben Whitby for the first time in his life.
"Well, I gotta get going." Morty finished his sandwich and paid for his consumption. "The head office is biting my ass with this project."
"Okay, I'll see you later." Brian said to him, and he was left alone.
He still had some time to eat a good cheese sandwich. There was no better way to start the day than with one of Noble's treats. They made the best sandwiches in the county, in his opinion.
He was far away from the fuss at the office. In fact, the silence was such that he tried to end it humming a song to himself.
In spite of his coworkers and underlings taking him for a simpleton anyone could take advantage of, Brian was afraid that someone saw him as an ogre. He was just convinced that they thought so. The boss, the guy with the whip, the one with authority to fire them...But he wasn't like that. I don't want anyone to think of him that way...It was just that...well, all companies need a firm leader or it would be Sodom and Gomorrah...they should understand...Still, he wanted everyone to remember him as a good fellow who never wronged anybody, who lived in peace with all the creatures. Darn, he was a vegetarian because he couldn't even stand the thought of eating something which had a mother.
Whitby...
He felt so curious about him...
Brian's gaze then turned at the man in the table by his side, at the shotgun he had left on the table so that everyone could admire. Its owner, the manliest person he had ever seen, seemed pleased to see some people look at it with horror, like a twisted sense of pride. He noticed Brian was staring at it with big curiosity and smiled at him with crooked teeth. Brian returned a kind smile.
"Did you have much luck?" He asked the hunter.
"Nay! They told me I'd find deer and boar here but there's only rabbits and shit."
"That's too bad."
"Beer's good, though. Tomorrow I'll be heading South, to a great place I know."
"I hope you're lucky."
"You know about hunting?"
He? An animal-lover who couldn't stand mud and the cold? That was completely out of question.
"Heh, no. Not a word." Brian chuckled.
"Uh. Hey, buddy, can you do me a favor? I gotta get something from the van, keep an eye on my stuff, okay?"
Brian couldn't refuse, not even reply, because the hunter immediately stood up and walked away. Brian continued to gaze at the gun on the table, until, pushed by a great force, grabbed it.
Why? He couldn't say. He just probably wanted to know what it felt like, what was so interesting about guns.
Hm. It's wasn't a bad feeling at all, alright. He could understand. In his hands he was holding the capacity of killing others. Life and death. He could also understand the underlying implications, what all these philosophers called a phallic symbol...
"Hey, you, I don't want that stuff in my cafe." The waitress told him.
Brian blinked, perplexed. It was at this moment when he noticed he was holding the gun like he was about to shoot at the wall. Quickly leaving it on the table, he muttered an excuse, he refused to touch or look at it again. But the owner was back and he had seen it all.
"Nice, ain't it?" He grinned.
This time, Brian didn't reply. Now that he was aware of what those cool things could do, he was scared of them, he wanted to stay as far away from them as possible.
...If it was so, why, after work, he drove to the local armory? Why did he stop watching the shop's window and go through that door? Why didn't he run away when the seller asked him what he was looking for? Why did he buy a double-barrel shotgun?
And why did it feel good?
First, he didn't hear the waitress calling because he was focused watching a fragment of those cartoons, Beans & Buddy, on the television. Now, he was making her wait, while he realized she was handing him his cup of coffee.
"Exc-Exc-Excuse me, miss...Uh...Do I kno-know you?"
The waitress was an overweight woman with rosy cheeks and pretty brown hair and eyes. Her smile was as gorgeous as those, at least that was Joey's impression.
"Of course you do. You come here very often, Mr. Mayor." the woman replied softly.
Joey chuckled. "Oh, su-su-sure, silly me."
He grabbed his coffee and sat on the table near the window. That allowed him to break away.
He had heard very unsettling news–of course, from José; that man was somehow so fell informed!–about a shooting in the town. That was the last thing he had expected in Warner Falls, someone trying to kill another someone! And the priest, to be more exact!
He felt responsible for that in a way, even if he couldn't answer for people's actions. He was supposed to keep that town a safe place, that's why they voted him.
Darn, first the explosion, then the shooting...Not to mention the alarming rise of vandalism. It was as if something in the water was making all the inhabitants lose their sanity and behave like monkeys, breaking everything, destroying what they wanted, punching people at the first chance they had...Was it his fault? Had he somehow encouraged that kind of behavior? Or was it the clouds permanently above their heads, which prevented any light, any happy little thought from entering their minds and clouded them and depressed them to the point of recurring to this in order to feel something?
What was sure was that he was feeling really anxious. José found a bottle of pills on his desk and he could not even reply to his questions about it. He just needed them. The stuttering had returned. It was as bad as it used to be back in New York, when his health problems started, when stress almost made him kick the bucket. It was ridiculous, and more in a man whose work depended much on his speech. It was frustrating. Why did it have to return now, when he needed to show confidence the most?
But then...Joey forgot all about it suddenly when a person passed by the café. He had never seen him before but for some reason his heart skipped a beat. his legs shook, ready to stand up. And he did. Did he really think about talking to him? But what would he say? That person was leaving, Joey quickly followed.
"Hey! Excuse me! You, yes, you! Wait!"
Sheldon stopped.
"Sorry." Joey panted. "But I just saw you and...Haven't we met before?"
Sheldon studied that man. Where had he seen those cheeks like apples, that piggy nose, that formal, almost outdated attire? Yes, it was somehow familiar, but so vague that Sheldon replied:
"I...don't think so."
"Really? High school? College? A party maybe?"
Sheldon shook his head.
"Oh...I beg your pardon. I was completely sure I knew you."
Joey walked back to the café shaking his head. Well, now he was sure he was going crazy, knowing every single person he came across...Even cartoons brought him a very strange feeling. He would have to follow José's advice and get some rest before his brain fried.
Sheldon, on the other hand, kept walking at a slow pace, turning his head towards the man. Yes, he was so familiar...But...Ah, sure! He was one of those politicians whose face is everywhere during election campaigns! What a weirdo.
Anyway, he had more important things to think about. While Kath was making sure her mother would be alright in her absence, he prepared everything necessary to break into the house of the Man from the Stars. He had things to buy, people to ask questions...
It was late in the afternoon when Pip knocked at the Harts' door. Fortunately, it was Mrs. Hart the only one who answered it, wiping her wet hands on her apron.
"Ah, Pip! It's you, my dear! Come in, come in!" She grinned as soon as she saw him.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hart...I just came to give you this back. Thank you so much, but I can't accept it."
A few candy she had given him the other day...Mrs. Hart grabbed the boy from the shoulder before he rushed away.
"Wait a second! What's the meaning of this?" She asked.
Was Isadore at home? Pip didn't see him but he could have been listening.
"I...I don't think I should..."
"Did your parents tell you to do this?"
"No, no..."
"I can have a word with them."
"No, it was my idea, I promise. I can't keep it. I can't. And I can't keep seeing you."
"Oh, Pip, but I certainly don't understand. Don't you like me now?"
It broke Pip's heart to hear that, the look on her face...
"Are you kidding? Of course I like you, ma'am! I...I like you so much! As if you were my own granny!" He claimed.
"Then stop this nonsense." Mrs. Hart gave Pip the treats back and made sure he kept them. "You are also very dear to me, child, and I would be so, so sad if you left me."
"I don't want you to be sad."
"In that case, I hope to see you around often. You have a way to make me feel happy. With you and Izzy around, oh, I need nothing else, my dear."
Pip's smile faded a bit when that name was mentioned. Isadore wouldn't be pleased when he found out he had disobeyed him.
Oh, but if his presence made that lovely widow happy, he would go against him and everyone. Maybe Isadore would understand with a little bit of time.
"Of course I will be around, Granny. Always."
They both smiled at each other.
Isadore, inside the bathroom, still naked and with his clothes on his hands ready to get into the shower, gritted his teeth.
He didn't like the sound of that. Not at all.
In fact...He could have eaten that kid at that moment.