Bradley Denton - The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians

The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians

Bradley Denton

This one is for Barb, too.

Contents

INTRODUCTION BY HOWARD WALDROP

SKIDMORE

THE CALVIN COOLIDGE HOME FOR DEAD COMEDIANS

THE SIN-EATER OF THE KAW

THE HERO OF THE NIGHT

THE TERRITORY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Introduction by Howard Waldrop

Long 'bout grandfather time, say mebbe Plenty Many-Less Many-86, I was at the opening ceremonies

at an SF convention inKansas CityMO.

A woman walked in the room. I immediately wanted to fall down and haveall her children.

She was about 4'6" and cute as a button. There was some geek with her, obviously as smitten as I was,

walking along behind her all sappy-eyed, afraid to make any sudden movements lest he startle her like a

fawn.

"Come with me to the Cash Bar," I said, offering her my arm, "and ditch the bozo." I nodded my head

toward the boy-toy.

The guy looked at me. He had the kind of haircut they give you a free car wash with, and these

Pepsi-Cola bottle-bottom glasses on. He must have known I was staring at them, because he took them

off. Gah! It was worse. His eyes looked like Moon Pies! Gah!

"I mean, cut the sea-anchor, Baby," I said.

"My name is Barbara," she said, in her most charming Miss Manners voice, and turned me toward the

ginzo. "Have you met my husband, Bradley?"

Well, friendships have been built on a lot less.

They lived somewhere out in the scenic flint hills ofKansas ,BaldwinCity to be exact, about a bazooka

shot fromLawrence .

Once I warmed up to him, really made an effort, I found that Brad could be fairly okay company.

Suddenly, six months later, I found myself showing them aroundAustin ; they were moving here so Barb

could get her M.L.S. at UT. Well, good, I thought, at least I'll get to look at Barb occasionally. So then

they and their dog Watson and the two catlike creatures they tolerate moved down here, where they've

been ever since, thanks to Barb's consummate library skills. (If we could only get them to move south of

the river to Bubbatown, everything would be hunky-dory.)

Oh yeah, it turns out Brad writes a little, too.

Enough of this sarcastic humorous stuff.

As a general rule, great novel-writers are not great short story-writers. It's two entirely different types of

work, folks.

Well, Brad breaks the old general rule.

I want to say right now in what total awe I am of Brad's novels and short stories.

Sure, you've read Wrack and Roll, his alternate history novel, which he wrote even before he met me.

And what are you doing listening to me yammer if you haven't read his Buddy Holly Is Alive and Well on

Ganymede, which is just out? and which is merely great?

What I've done that you haven't is to read his next novel,Blackburn , which is, in the old record business

phrase, a True Monster, like, you know, "96 Tears" was the first time you heard it.

Well, good as they are they're, you know, novels. What you have in your hands is one of Brad's first

two short story collections, here only six or seven years into his career, which should tell you something

right there.

This volume is as wonderful (and sometimes as chilling) a reconnoiter into that field of SF and fantasy as

it could and should be that you can find between covers. (This isn't hype talking. This is Howard.)

I don't want to talk about the individual stories; they speak fluently, as Errol Flynn said in another

context. What I want to tell you about is what you will find in this book.

You will find what true salvation is all about in a couple of these stories; and it shows what a writer Brad

is because sometimes it's pulling a trigger, and sometimes it's not. Sometimes, again, it's just standing

there while whatever makes you you takes the beating and the killing.

Sometimes it's eating your Beanie Weenies under the strangest circumstances.

You will meet, in these five stories, the truly prosaic weird, and the truly weird weird. It is a dark (and

funny) and a chilling (and wonderful) trip into our past (the one not found in any history book), our

present (the news that never makes the bottom of page 32B or even CNN at 3 a.m.) and our future (is

this really what those Greek-speaking Syrian goatherds had in mind for all of us 2000 years ago?).

There are a couple of scenes in this book that will stay with me the rest of my life; soon it will be your

turn.

I can't describe what Brad's writing does to me; you'll have to experience it for yourself, and you'll know

exactly what I'm not saying.

(And you couldn't have read "The Territory" before; as in the manner of all great short story writers,

Brad's done it as an original for the collection.)

So come on in. The theatre's about to open. Get your Milk Duds and take a chair (fifth row, third seat

in). Make yourself—well, comfortable...

I wish I could have written any of these stories less than five years on in my career. Yow!

And, since he moved toAustin , Brad's hair is better. Now his haircut looks like it came with a free set of

steak knives.

YOUR PAL,

HOWARD WALDROP

OCTOBER 7, 1991

Skidmore

For a long time I wanted to kill a certain man of my acquaintance. He was the sort of man who

professed peace, love, and liberal viewpoints, but treated people like shit. If my conscience had been that

of an infant, I could have blown him away and suffered not an hour of guilt.

And I wouldn't be caught. I've never owned weapons, but it's an easy thing to steal a firearm and

replace it without detection. I'm a good shot, too, but few know it. Certainly no one would suspect me.

This is because I have the reputation of being a good boy. And so, by upbringing and training, I am.

But upbringing and training can be overcome.

Let me tell you about Skidmore.

Skidmore,Missouri. Population 447.

InNodawayCounty , in the northwestern corner of the state. Farm country.

On Friday, July 10, 1981, a forty-seven-year-old coon-dog breeder named Ken Rex McElroy climbed

into his pickup truck in front of the D & G Tavern in Skidmore, on Missouri Highway 113. His wife, half

his age, sat beside him.

More than thirty people, the moral heart of the community, stood nearby. They had all been part of a

meeting at the American Legion hall that morning. The topic had been What to Do About McElroy.

McElroy, five foot eight, 260 pounds.

McElroy, said to have cut off one of his wife's breasts.

McElroy, thief, arsonist, and rapist.

McElroy, convicted of second-degree assault for shooting the grocer.

McElroy, free on bond, with twenty-five days to file a motion for a new trial.

But the new trial had been held.

As McElroy sat in his pickup, a .30-30 steel-jacketed bullet shattered the rear window and caught him

under his right ear. Then a .22 magnum slug took off the back of his skull. More bullets followed, but

they weren't needed. Somebody pulled McElroy's wife from the truck and took her into the bank. She

was unhurt. Outside, the truck's engine raced. McElroy's foot was jammed down on the accelerator.

No killer was ever named. No one was arrested.

Justice.

I thought about Skidmore every day for the next six years, drawn there by an urge that was like an

instinct. The parallel between McElroy and the man I wanted to kill was inescapable. Their methods of

abuse differed, but they were of the same mold and spirit.

Nevertheless, when discussing McElroy's execution, as everyone in my part of the country did for a

while, I expressed the horror of vigilantism that I believed was proper. This was a result of my upbringing

and training.

I had always been a good boy.

Let me tell you what that means.

I have never been in a fight. As a child I was often beaten up, but that isn't the same thing. It is, in fact,

the furthest thing from it. I took the blows, believing what my parents and church had taught me. When

my lips bled and eyes swelled, I told myself that I would, as Jesus might say, inherit the earth.

I also told myself that I would behave no differently if I were stocky and tough instead of skinny and

weak. My size had nothing to do with my values. Violence was wrong. Violence solved nothing. I knew

this because I watched the TV news. I grew up during the war that was scored by body counts. I swore

that I would never strike another person.

For several months during grade school, an older kid pounded me and my brother after we got off the

bus to walk home. He threw us down in the ditch, then kicked us. Running did no good; he was fast.

Fighting back did no good; he was stronger. Once, I gave in to my brother's insistence that we defend

ourselves, and this taught me the price of betraying my convictions. We were beaten and trampled as we

had never been beaten and trampled before.

Some weeks later, a friend invited me to spend a Friday night at his house. My parents said it was all

right, and for the first time, I didn't get on the bus after school. I sent my brother off alone.

My friend lived near school, so we walked. On the way, we encountered a kid who didn't care for my

friend. He shoved my friend; my friend shoved back. The kid then knocked my friend to the ground and

punched him until blood ran from his nose. Then he punched him some more.

I stood by.

I was a good boy.

On the morning of Friday, July 10, 1987, I kissed my wife good-bye and watched her drive away down

the gravel road. We were living in a crumbling farmhouse in the hills south of aKansas college town, and

she had to make the long trip in every day. I worried about her.

She worried about me, too. Things had not happened for me the way they were supposed to, and this

had made me bitter. Worse, I had been lied to, used, and ridiculed. The man I wanted to kill had been

instrumental in these events.

My back ached. I slept little, and awoke scowling. I shouted at my wife. I refused to speak to friends

when they telephoned. Worst of all, I couldn't work. In my profession, being unable to work is the same

as being dead.

And so it was that as the profitless days stretched to weeks, my desire to kill that man of my

acquaintance intensified. At the same time, my other instinct urged me toward Skidmore with increasing

insistence.

On July 10, as I watched my wife drive away, I knew that I could resist no longer. I would have to

answer one call or the other before the day was out. After a few minutes of indecision, I made the choice

that I believed would be the easier to reconcile with my upbringing and training. I made sure that my dog

had food and water, and then I climbed onto my motorcycle and left. The dog chased me down the road,

and I had to stop and yell at him. He slunk back to the yard.

The trip would be 150 miles, give or take 10. I had checked the atlas and memorized the roads. The

day was hot and bright.

I took the most direct route: north on U.S. 59, then northeast across theMissouri River into St. Joe.

North again on U.S. 71 toMaryville . West 11 miles onMissouri 46.

South 4 miles on 113.

Skidmore.

It was a few minutes before noon. The trip had taken four hours. My back hurt worse than ever, and I

was hungry.

Skidmore: two service stations, a grain elevator, church, post office, bank, café, and tavern. A few

parked pickup trucks. Peeled paint and a rusty stop sign. No human being in sight.

The instinct that had brought me there was gone. Skidmore had been revealed as nothing more than a

podunk town after the pattern of all the other podunk towns I had ridden through on the way. If anything,

it was even less alive. It was worn down, decayed. Silent. The only thing Skidmore had to distinguish it

was the killing of McElroy, and that had happened six years ago.

I ate a greasy cheeseburger at the café. The air-conditioning was weak, and my hair stayed sweaty.

When the burger was gone, I nursed a Coke until my back felt better. A couple of stoop-shouldered

farmers came in, and one asked if that was my bike out front. I said it was, and he said it looked sharp.

Then they sat down across the room and ignored me. I left three quarters on the table, used the rest

room, and went out. The waitress nodded. Her mouth was a dry pink line. She looked a hundred years

old.

What had I expected?

I put on my helmet, got on the bike, and headed south. I would take a less direct way home, cutting

west through the southeastern corner ofNebraska . Unfamiliar territory. I hoped it would be distracting.

Since the urge that had brought me to Skidmore was gone, there was only one thing I wanted to do.

I was less than a mile out of town when the motorcycle died. I let it roll to a stop on the dirt shoulder of

113 before realizing that it was out of gas. I glanced down and switched the fuel valve to the reserve so I

could return to Skidmore and fill the tank. As I looked up again, I glimpsed something to my right. I

turned to see it.

In the ditch, Ken Rex McElroy was waiting.

A ragged, gaping hole took up most of the left side of his face. He climbed up from the ditch, and I saw

that the back of his skull was gone.

"Welcome," he said.

Some of his teeth had been shot away. He was bloody.

"Welcome to Skidmore."

McElroy was big. Redneck big. His tattooed arms were like tree trunks.

I knew men like this. I had grown up with men like this. Men like this had beaten me up for practice

when they were kids. He stood on the highway shoulder, staring at me with his dead eyes, and I was

afraid of him. But even more, I hated him. I hated him as much as the man I wanted to kill.

"Get away from me," I said.

McElroy didn't move. "Ready to go?" he asked. His voice was flat. Stark.

I knew then that he wouldn't leave. "I have to get gas," I said.

He returned to the ditch. "I'll wait."

I was shaking, but I managed to start the bike and ride back to Skidmore. I bought gas from an old man

who wanted to talk. The weather, the crops, the goddamn politicians and courts, all in a dull monotone. I

left as soon as I had my change.

I would go home the way I had come. I would ride fast.

Just north of the Skidmore city limits, a right turn took 113 between two soybean fields. As I came out

of the turn, I saw McElroy standing in the road ahead.

I stopped. McElroy waited. After a while, I let the bike idle up to him. He got on behind me.

The ride home was hard. McElroy was heavy, and I wasn't used to riding with extra weight. Once I lost

control on a curve, and the bike veered into the left lane in front of a semi. I went off onto the shoulder,

and the semi rushed past, blaring.

I was still more than seventy miles from home. I didn't think I would make it.

Then the mirror showed me a flash of silver in McElroy's eyes, and I didn't think I wanted to.

Let me tell you about a flash of silver.

One day during my eleventh summer, my grandfather, my father, my uncle, three of my male cousins,

and my brother and I went tramping in my grandfather's pasture. The day was hot and bright. The adults

had beer. Once in a while we kids were given a sip. My uncle carried a new .30-06 bolt-action rifle with

a scope. It was a heavy weapon with a kick.

We gathered on one side of a pond that was maybe seventy yards across. On the far side, near the top

of the dam, my uncle had placed a flattened beer can. It shone like a mirror. If I looked straight at it, my

eyes hurt.

The others took shots at the can, and the dust that flew up showed where the bullets struck. The men

each shot within two feet of the target. My cousins and brother did less well. No one hit it. I hung back,

hoping they would forget to give me a turn. I had a terror of guns.

When everyone but me had fired, they started to walk around the pond. I hurried to join them, and my

uncle saw me. He made them all stop, then handed me the rifle and grinned. The men and boys shaded

their eyes and gazed across the water.

The weapon was even heavier than I had imagined. The barrel wavered as I brought the stock to my

shoulder. My arms were white twigs.

But when the rifle was in place and I was squinting through the scope, everything felt different.

I let out my breath. The stock was smooth and warm against my cheek. The trigger nestled within my

curled finger. My vision was sharp. I had become a thing of metal and wood, of crystalline sight. A thing

of power.

The stock crunched against my shoulder. A crack of thunder numbed my ear. My power was gone, and

I strained to see.

There was no puff of dust. I had fired over the dam.

"Pretty big gun for a little guy," my grandfather said. My father said nothing. I handed the rifle back to my

uncle, and he winked at me. It was a consolation wink.

We walked around the pond and started across the dam. Then my uncle stopped above the beer can,

and we all stared at it. A round hole had been punched through the middle. My uncle winked at me

again.

One of my cousins said that it must have been his shot. But his bullet had sprayed dust, as had

everyone's but mine. He had to know, as my uncle knew, that it was the runt, the white-armed

bookworm, who had hit the target. Dead center.

My uncle gave me the can, and we headed back toward the house. I was proud. I put my thumb

through the hole. Then I felt sick, and I dropped the can in the dirt.

As I had put my thumb through the hole, the beer can had changed. It had become the face of a kid who

had taunted me throughout the preceding school year. It had become the face that had called me

"Muskrat."

It had become the face that I had seen through the rifle scope, in the flash of silver across the pond.

It was after five when I made it back from Skidmore. McElroy was with me. My wife would be home

soon.

My dog came running at the sound of the motorcycle, then saw McElroy and stopped. The hair on his

back rose, and he growled.

McElroy stood in the driveway. "I liked dogs," he said.

I took off my helmet. "Well, this dog doesn't like you."

McElroy looked at me then, and I was scared.

"You don't have to be afraid," he said. "I don't get mad now. I don't feel nothing. I don't need nothing."

Hate suppressed fear. "Then why did you want to come here?"

"You're the one wants something."

McElroy walked toward the house. He moved stiffly. Wet stains smeared his brown shirt and pants. His

suede cowboy boots were speckled with dark spots.

"What in hell would I want from a corpse?" I yelled. My voice echoed from the barn.

He stopped on the porch. Something dripped from his face and spattered on the cement.

I could hear my wife's car coming up the road, so I went around McElroy and unlocked the door. He

went inside.

I put him in the basement. It was mud floored, dank, and cluttered with piles of junk that a previous

tenant, long since deceased, had left there years ago. These were infested with mice. I had also seen a

five-foot blacksnake down there once. I doubted that McElroy would mind.

He stayed in the basement whenever my wife was home. If we needed frozen food brought up, I made

sure I was the one to go down and get it. He always stood in the corner beside the freezer. Spiders built

webs on him. He didn't speak unless I did.

In August, I went to a weeklong conference on the West Coast. I knew that I should skip it, but I had

bought my plane ticket before McElroy came home with me, and it was nonrefundable. So I talked my

wife into staying with a friend in town, and I asked a neighbor to stop by and feed my dog. My wife

would have known something was wrong if I'd spent money on a kennel. The poor dog would be scared

the whole time, but McElroy wouldn't hurt him. I didn't think.

As it turned out, McElroy came with me.

I didn't know it until the plane was in the air. There had been two empty seats beside me, but when I

returned from a trip to the lavatory, McElroy was in one of them. I had to squeeze past, sucking in my

breath so as not to touch him. His wounds never dried.

I sat down. "Go back," I said. "People will be watching me this week."

McElroy gave me his stare. "You want me here."

A flight attendant came by and asked if I would like something to drink. She didn't ask McElroy. Her

eyes avoided him. Blood smeared her sleeve when she reached across him to hand me a beer, and she

didn't even notice.

A few days into the conference, I discovered that one of the attendees was very much like the man I

wanted to kill. He was a master of ridicule, and he made it clear that he didn't consider me worthy of

anything but contempt. During his most scathing comments, I had to suppress a laugh. What would he

consider me worthy of, I wondered, if he knew what waited in my room?

I thought then of what McElroy had done to the people of Skidmore, and of how they had reached a

point beyond which they could take no more. I wondered how much I would be able to take before I

reached that same point.

More, I believed. Much more. My upbringing and training had steeled me. I accepted my colleague's

contempt and gave back a smile. I had higher limits than he could reach.

I was, after all, a good boy.

Let me tell you what that doesn't mean.

I've already said that I've never been in a fight, and that's true. But that doesn't mean I've never hurt

anyone.

After the day that I saw a classmate's face as a rifle target, I had an even greater terror of guns than

before. I knew now what they could do to me. What I didn't know was that a gun wasn't the only

weapon that could do it. I didn't learn better until my nineteenth summer.

I had graduated from high school and was working for wheat cutters to earn money for college. One of

my duties was to drive truckloads of grain to an enormous elevator on the east side ofWichita . This is

what I was doing when I committed my first true act of violence.

The day was hot and bright. I had been working hard, and my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat

and dirt. Grain dust grated under my eyelids. The truck cab was hot enough to bake biscuits. A single

narrow alley led to the elevator's scales, and it was marked One Way.

I drove to the scales, transacted my business, and helped the elevator employees auger the grain from

the truck bed. My swollen eyes itched, and my chest ached from inhaling dust. As soon as the truck was

empty, I jumped into the cab and continued down the alley. When I was thirty yards short of the street, a

loaded truck turned in. In front of me. Going the wrong way.

I hit the brakes and blared the horn. The other truck slammed to a halt and spilled part of its load. The

red-faced driver leaned from his window. "Get out the way, asshole!" he yelled.

And I could have. I could have put the truck into reverse and backed up an eighth of a mile to the

entrance. I could have let him come in the wrong way. I was supposed to be a good boy.

But I was tired and hurting, and I forgot. I yelled back at him, using the same word he had used against

me. I added that he was going the wrong goddamn way.

I had never done anything like that before.

Bradley Denton - The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians

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