“YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO FACE IT SOONER OR later,” Atchley said. We were in my apartment, had been for three days. Outside were dozens of news vans, camped out, trying to get me to give a statement of some kind, to apologize for my misdeeds, to condemn my mother, to show remorse or defiance or something, and I was sorry, I truly was. I’d agonized over what had happened for years, and every time I thought about what my mother and I’d done, a pain lurched in my chest and I dry-heaved until all I could do was choke, but I wasn’t ready or able, much less both, to give the media what they wanted. Instead, I just stayed on the couch with Atchley and ate crackers and peanut butter and drank Fresca until all we had left was tap water. We binge-watched television and fucked like teenagers, all elbows and grunts and toothy kisses, and she told me the reason Pinkett had outed me.
“I’ve been fucking him, too,” she said.
“I know.”
“You did?”
“Sort of. I thought you might be.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
I hadn’t because I’d hoped I was wrong. I knew they’d hooked up, had feared they were seeing each other for a while, but since Atchley and I had gotten together I’d hoped they hadn’t been. I hoped it was all in my head, and that Kari had been right—it had been just a one-night stand. Turned out, Pinkett and Atchley had been an item, fuck-buddies or booty calls or whatever. It made sense. They’d known each other before I came along, spending eight, nine, ten, even eleven hours a day with each other, working and eating and getting drunk and stoned together. Eventually, something was bound to happen. They were both young and carefree and untethered by adult responsibility. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. It made it hurt more, in fact.
“I’m done with him, though,” she said. “I pick you. Only you.” But it only made it a little bit better. I didn’t feel betrayed, but the fact she continued to see us both for a time made me feel as though I was easily discarded, that if things had turned out just a little bit differently she’d have been on Pinkett’s couch instead of mine, saying the exact same things, “I pick you, you, only you,” but to him instead of me. It made what we had seem ephemeral and transient, like at any moment, if I even let her out of my sight for a second, she’d be gone and I would be all alone once again.
“I won’t leave you. I promise. I’ll be right here with you, but you have to face this.”
I didn’t have much of a choice either way. About a week after the news had leaked, Jonah showed up at my door. At first, I didn’t recognize him—it had been close to five years since I’d seen him last. He and Dad had found me after the raid. They showed up to my trial and hired me an attorney, and they visited right after I’d been sentenced to juvenile detention, but I was just so angry with them at the time. I blamed them for what had happened. I blamed them for not stopping my mother, for not finding me after we’d taken off, and for not bringing me back home. None of it would’ve happened if my father had just fought for me a little bit harder, but he didn’t, and a lot of people died because of that. For months I agonized over this while locked up in detention, staring up at the ceiling with nothing to do, and the last time they came and visited I told them to stop.
The visiting room was this large cinderblock place with fluorescent lights and long plastic tables, not unlike a school cafeteria.
“Why didn’t you come looking for us?” I asked my father.
We’d skirted the issue during the trial. Too much to deal with in planning my defense, or at least that’s what we’d told ourselves.
“I wish I had,” he said. He chewed the inside of his cheek and rubbed his fingertips together. It was an old tic of his—he wanted a cigarette, but he couldn’t smoke in there.
“That’s not an answer. Why didn’t you?”
“What can I say? I mean, whatever I say will come out wrong.”
“Just tell me why. You have to tell me.”
“You were just too much. Your mother had warped you. You weren’t yourself anymore. And I couldn’t deal with it. I thought everybody would be happier if you were with her and Jonah was with me.”
“You thought it was too hard?”
“Yes.”
“You thought I’d be too hard?”
“I’m sorry. But yes.”
That was the last time I saw either one of them. I’d thought about them a lot since I’d been outed. I’d wondered if Jonah had changed, if he was still a skeptic, still tough and ornery and rebellious, and I’d wondered if Dad still chain-smoked and worked fourteen hours a day, and I’d wondered why, after they must have learned where I was at, after the news broke I was living in Oklahoma City, they didn’t try to do anything to help. I was still their blood, after all. I was still their kin, despite what Mom and I had done. Were we not still family? Perhaps we’d just severed ties. Perhaps out of shame. Perhaps out of self-preservation. I wasn’t sure. But I didn’t blame them. I probably would’ve done the same if our roles had somehow been reversed.
But then Jonah showed up at my door. He wasn’t the same as he’d been back then. For one, he was a full-grown man now, a wispy goatee covering his chin and upper lip, his cheeks covered in graphite-colored stubble. He wore a ballcap, and unkempt hair poked out from underneath. A gut protruded over his belt, but his arms had turned skinny, pale, and hairless. He looked sickly, like he desperately needed—but couldn’t afford—dialysis.
“Caleb?” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“Caleb Gunter?”
“Jonah.”
He smiled and came in. He sat next to Atchley, and he couldn’t stop fidgeting. He bounced his knee and scratched his neck and pulled at his facial hair like he’d drunk a lot of coffee. He talked nonstop, his words slurring like his tongue couldn’t keep up with his thoughts.
“It’s just so great to see you, man. Just so, so, so great. You just have no idea. Like no idea what it’s been like out here.”
With every word he spoke, his hands and arms and head gesticulated. His energy surprised and scared me. He’d always been somewhat of a stoic kid. Rebellious, sure, but he was also quiet, reserved, and seemed to hold over his friends this mysterious power. He didn’t have to say a word, and it was like they all thought he, and no one else, was their best friend. Now, though, it was like he vibrated, and the result was repulsive.
“You wouldn’t believe what people are like. They ask you questions about Mom, questions that, like, you have no answers for. Why did she do what she did? Why did people believe her? What was it like living with her? Did she make me do stuff? Like weird cult stuff? Sexual stuff? Evil stuff? Like, it just never stops, man. You just can’t ever hide from it. You know what I mean?”
I was beginning to learn. Yes, I knew what he meant.
“They won’t let you forget, man. They just won’t. Not ever, or ever, forever. They just won’t let you ever forget. And you tell them, man, I don’t know. I don’t know. She was crazy. What do you want me to say? She said and did some crazy, weird shit, and for most of it I was along for the ride, but in the end, Pops and I got out, and I just don’t know. I don’t. I just don’t know.”
“You ever see Mom?” I asked.
“Like now?”
“Yeah. Do you ever go visit her?”
“God, man, no. Hells no. In the beginning, sure, a few times, yeah. I’d go there. I would say hi, but she wouldn’t talk, man. She wouldn’t. Just sat there and stared like beyond you. Know what I’m saying? Like she was looking right at you, but not seeing you. You get me?”
“And so you never went back?”
“Been five years. Five years. Wow. It’s been five years.”
“And Dad?”
“Dad. Wow. Yeah. You didn’t hear?”
“Gone. Poof. Kablooey.” Jonah held his fists by his ears and then opened them like they were exploding. “Everything just gone. Lights out. Doesn’t remember a thing. Just sits there and drools and a nurse wipes his ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“Had a stroke. It’s like his brain imploded. Turned to mashed potatoes or whatever. Lights are on, but nobody’s home. Feel me?”
“But he’s still alive?”
He snorted. “If you call that living, man.”
“And where is he?”
“Man, back home. Bartlesville. Where you think? I can’t afford to move him out anywhere. At the old-folks’ home there. Just wasting away.”
“And you,” I said. “What about you?”
He purged his story like a man in confessional. After the raid, he had to go into hiding. He dropped out of school, and he didn’t leave the house. Vandals came. They threw bricks through his windows and shot roman candles at the house. Toilet paper adorned the trees and egg yolk the gutters. Every day it was something new. He took to drinking more. Ten beers a night. Twelve. Fifteen. A case by himself. Until he could shut his mind down long enough to sleep. He started gaming online, made up pseudonyms and pretended to be a teenage girl in chat rooms. He’d catfish people. He’d lead on lonely, middle-aged men, and then forward his conversations with these pedophiles to the FBI. After a few weeks, the vandalism subsided, and after a few more months, he summoned enough courage to leave the house. He tried to go back to school. He enrolled in classes at Oklahoma State and moved to Stillwater and had thoughts about majoring in journalism or perhaps history, something where he could chronicle life, make sense out of an otherwise senseless world, but soon he dropped out. He continued to drink, and he smoked pot, and then he was offered harder and harder stuff. Cocaine at first. Pills: Xanax and Zoloft and Oxy.
“Just enough to make my skin go numb,” he said.
But that’s when things got out of control. As soon as he woke up, he needed something to dull the edge, a drink, a snort, a smoke, and he went out looking for enough money for his next score. He stole copper wire from construction sites and collected cans from dumpsters to recycle and sold his bodily fluids, semen and plasma and whatever else he could just to make it by. He lost bigger and bigger blocks of time. He’d wake up naked and outside, mere yards from his house, but it seemed as though he didn’t have the strength to make it up to his doorstep. He tried PCP and heroin and, finally, the love of his life, meth.
“It’s like being God, man. Like being reborn, if you know what I’m saying.”
I did. I knew exactly what he was saying.
Started off once a week, then every couple, then every day, until all his time and money and effort were spent procuring, smoking, and eventually cooking methamphetamine. It was lucrative, he said. More money than he could ever spend in a million lifetimes. Just fists full of cash. He hid it in his mattress, and when he couldn’t fit any more in there, he hid it in the crawl space underneath his house, and when that was filled up, he filled an entire room full of pallets of cash. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. All his. But he couldn’t spend it. He knew if he did, he’d be caught. What college student could afford a new Corvette or a 3,000-square foot home or a sailboat? Not anyone he knew, so he started asking around. He met local businessmen, Pizza Hut franchise owners and car wash proprietors and operators of tanning salons. He finally found what he was looking for in an owner of convenience stores and head shops. Carl Huntington. Jonah dropped out of school, became Carl’s little protégé, cash went into Carl’s businesses, and out came laundered money.
“Lemony fucking fresh.”
The problem was that Jonah kept using his own product, and Carl had an eighteen-year-old daughter that looked twenty-five. She wore miniskirts and dark eye makeup and “could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch,” Jonah said. She wound up pregnant, got it aborted, and Carl wound up with a gun in his hand, waving it in Jonah’s face. He took a gunshot to the shoulder, but he was able to get out of there before he got hit anywhere else.
“Praise the fucking Lord.”
But he lost it all. The money was gone and the connections gone and he was told if he ever sold another crystal in his life he’d be dead, and so he got out of the game. Ever since then he’d been working odd jobs: house painting and paper routes and hardware stores. Anything he could find, really, but he wasn’t ever able to keep a job for too long. Never could break his habit. Never could stop using. Went to meetings and rehab and got himself a sponsor, but nothing worked. He wound up blowing all his money and living anywhere he could, crashing on old friends’ couches or at the Y when beds were open or at the shelter. And that was about it for him. Nothing much else to tell.
“But I want you to know I forgive you,” he said. “I do. It took me a long time, but you should know. You’re forgiven.”
I had to admit I was thankful for that. It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. I was forgiven. Someone had forgiven me.
JONAH ENDED UP STAYING ON my couch. He wouldn’t leave, actually. I’d expected him to. Eventually, anyway, I thought he would say farewell, walk out the door, make his way through the sea of reporters, and return to Bartlesville and our father, but he didn’t. That first night, he slept on the couch, and the next day we all watched television together, hunched in shoulder to shoulder on my small sofa, sipping on ramen broth and binging on Hostess cakes. Another night passed and then another, and I found myself starting to worry about him, the fact he hadn’t any clothes to change into, the fact he didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear or money of his own, and so I went shopping. For the first time since I’d been outed, I left the house, with Atchley by my side, and I bought him shaving cream and Hanes T-shirts and a couple button-downs just in case we could line him up a job interview. It felt good to be doing this, to be thinking of someone else, to be needed. To have a purpose once again. It saved me, I think, in a way.
Jonah, of course, was thankful for all Atchley and I did for him. He showed his appreciation by cleaning the house. He vacuumed and washed dishes and even sprayed the windows. He even tried to shoo away the paparazzi. He’d take Atchley’s dry cleaning and walk the three blocks to and from American Cleaners. He made sure our mail was laid out and organized our spice rack and changed lightbulbs, and the entire time we never discussed the fact he’d moved in with me. I didn’t think we needed to. Everything seemed to be working out well, but Atchley, on the other hand, didn’t think so.
“He’s becoming dependent,” she said. “He’s running away from his problems. And so are you. It’s like you two are building this parasitic bubble of denial.”
“He just needs a little help. Everyone needs help every once in a while.”
“He needs more help than you can give him. He’s still using. He needs rehab. Something.”
“He just needs some time, okay? Give him a break.”
“And you?” she said. “What do you get out of this?”
We were out of the house on a rare date night, hitting up fall’s last street festival at H & 8th before winter came with its winds and biting cold. We perused vendor tents hocking impromptu short poems and leather-bound, homemade journals, and ate tacos from a food truck. The cameras had started to lighten up a bit as Mom’s story died down—only a few tabloids called the apartment anymore, wanting quotes about the rumors of a new cult I’d started, how I’d brainwashed the townspeople to turn into cannibal child killers—and so we were alone for the first time in weeks. I knew it was temporary, though. Mom’s execution was set to happen in about a month, and I was sure the cameras would return along with the bright lights and nosy reporters, and so I tried to take advantage. I was worried Atchley would soon grow weary of the circus, deem me not worth the trouble, and leave the first chance she got.
“He’s my brother. And he’s suffered. Because of me, he’s suffered. I owe him.”
“So, you’re alleviating some guilt? Is that it? You were a victim, too, Caleb.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You understand that, right? You’re a victim, too.”
Everyone was quick to point this out. While in juvenile detention, the counselors had repeatedly broached the subject of my victimhood, how I’d been manipulated and coerced by my mother’s eccentric faith. That’s what they called it—eccentric, as if it were some nervous tic or outlandish notion, and I tried to explain to them millions of people believe in God, in the word of the Bible, in Revelation: that one day the dead will rise and the streets will flow with blood and that Jesus will return to the earth and lead the chosen into the kingdom of heaven. This wasn’t the eccentricity of one madwoman—the majority of the nation believes in these things. It just so happened my mother, and I, too, believed it was coming soon, and that we were to play a central role in the end of times. Perhaps we’d been wrong about that, but we weren’t victims, and we weren’t eccentric; it was just a matter of faith. My mother did some terrible things, and I should’ve done more to stop her once things were getting out of control, but I wasn’t a victim. I was complicit. I was complicit in something I’d never be able to forgive myself for.
“And you still believe in God?” the counselors would ask me.
“Yes,” I’d said every time. “Don’t you?”
I tried to tell Atchley this, but she grabbed me by the wrists and tried to get me to face her. I obliged, and the other attendees streamed by us, a little annoyed we were blocking traffic, casting sideways glances as they took bites from their oversized corndogs.
“You were a child, Caleb. A child. Don’t you see you can’t be responsible for what your mother did? You didn’t murder all those people. You couldn’t be culpable. It’s impossible. You have to stop blaming yourself.”
“Let’s just get a funnel cake and order a poem about a unicorn wearing a diaper,” I said.
“I’m being serious here,” she said.
“I am, too. My blood sugar dropped, and I think I could frame the poem and put it in front of the shitter. Give me some perspective while bored on the toilet.”
Atchley screamed. It wasn’t a high-pitched, shrilly scream either, but something full of anger and frustration and gut-wrenching exasperation. That was when she punched me. Hard. Balled up fist, arm flexed, thrown as hard as she could. It landed on my pec just above my heart, and I could feel it skip a beat. From the pain, from the surprise, but she didn’t stop. She just kept throwing them. She swung and closed her eyes and then opened them again and kept on swinging, and I didn’t have anywhere to flee. I just covered my face. I hunched over and tried to deflect the blows, but they kept on coming, and nobody was coming to help.
“Hey!” I said. “Hey! Stop! You’re hurting me.”
“You fucking, fuck, fuckety, fucking fucker.”
“Jesus Christ, Atchley. You’re hurting me here.”
“I am so sick and fucking tired of you feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”
The blows were even harder now. They landed on my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head. I could hear people laughing now. I could feel their pointing, their leering, their wondering, “Is that—Is that Caleb Gunter?”
“Stop, Atchley. Please. You’re making a scene.”
“Good!” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to do! Hey! Hey, everyone! Here’s Caleb Gunter! The child prophet! The messiah! Get your cameras. Get your laughs. He’s right here!”
The crowd continued on past. They gawked, but only fleetingly, their sneers temporary as they made their way to watch a blind man strum his guitar or to see a flash mob dance with hula hoops, but soon, as Atchley continued to swing, as she continued to berate me, a small crowd formed, egged Atchley on, screamed for her to swing harder, faster, to go for the kill shot.
“Here he is!” Atchley screamed. “The one and only, self-proclaimed Second Coming of Christ! In the flesh, folks, for your viewing fucking pleasure.”
The crowd laughed and pointed and jeered. “Oh my God,” they said. “It is him. Holy shit. Get your camera. Take a picture.”
“Atchley, please. What are you doing?”
“Come and take a look! The messiah! Hide your children! Hide your wives! He’s damning us all to hell!”
“Atchley, this isn’t funny! What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help!” she screamed.
She punched again and again, this time landing right on my chin. I bit my lip, and I could taste blood. It filled my mouth quickly, and some dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt. It tasted of copper. It tasted good.
“Fine!” I yelled. I threw my hands up and grabbed her wrists as she continued to swing, but I was stronger than her and could keep her from throwing any more punches. “I am Caleb Gunter. I am. I thought I was the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. I tried to help people. I failed. A lot of people got hurt. People died. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened. I am. But there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Happy?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”