“Ricky stomped on the soft dirt until all he could see were his footprints criss-crossing and when he looked up he was alone with his shovel, his sister and mother rounding the garage corner before vanishing in a whoosh of wind.”
Lazarus in the Backyard by Blake Kimzey
The fresh mound of dark black dirt was visible from Ricky Jensen's second-story window. He was standing at the windowsill, clipping on a beige tie while holding the collar away from his neck with a hooked finger. Church! Ha! Ricky said cuss words under his breath during the sermon and refused communion and daydreamed about the biggest goddamned slingshot he could find and slinging stones through all the stained glass in the sanctuary, and sending shards of glass into the baptismal dunk tank while the congregation was in mid-hymn.
By now it had to be the third or fourth time his mother called up the stairs saying we're late and you need to get a move on mister and don't make me come up there! Ricky was almost a man by now and at 13 he didn't need his mother telling him to get a move on or that his soul was in peril if he skipped church two weeks in a row. He didn't need motherly instruction anymore, because: as a young man his sideburns were taking root, sideburns he had sculpted into light-colored rectangles that were identical in shape on both sides of his face and inching southward each week toward his jawbone. Facial hair was the key to his independence, to his manhood, to his bachelorhood coming to a swift end, to becoming an adult male!
He could hear his mother walking up the stairs now because the wooden banister was creaking. He was sure that Lilly, with lavender-scented powder in her blonde hair and blush on her cheeks, was standing under the fake crystal chandelier in the entryway, her neck craned skyward, yelling it isn't fair we're always late and we're going to miss the meet-and-greet if we aren't careful! Ricky tugged at the knot in his tie, the metal clip cool against his neck, and thought about church, how women loved it so they could talk before and after the service and say let's get together sometime for: lunch, lunch, lunch! But Ricky didn't care about lunching; he thought about the great beyond and the cosmos and God and Jesus racing cloud cars across galaxies with the same indifferent leisure that rich men on earth enjoyed with their absent-minded hobbies.
When the door handle rattled (with Charlene on the other side, saying open this door, mister!) Ricky was still staring at the fresh mound of dirt that was half shaded by a line of oak trees behind their house. It was the final resting place for his dog Harvey, a longhaired mutt that had been run over by a truck hauling an empty horse trailer two days ago. Every passenger-side tire managed to run over Harvey and the tread made a wide swath across his back, crushing Harvey da-da-da-da-da. Ricky thought if there was no heaven for Dad, who put a gun in his mouth, then there probably wasn't a heaven for Harvey. Besides, there was no dignity for Harvey: they buried him in a black trash bag and cinched the top of the bag with four red twisty ties and then Ricky shoveled five minutes' worth of dirt on top of Harvey until the ground was true again: a black oval of loamy soil, silt and sand interrupting the overgrown crab grass that was just starting to fade in the early summer sun. It was hot out and Ricky couldn't tell if it was his armpits or his dead dog that smelled so bad. Gnats and flies were balled in the air around him and they kept flying into the back of his mouth making him hock forth a mouthful of air. Ricky stomped on the soft dirt until all he could see were his footprints criss-crossing and when he looked up he was alone with his shovel, his sister and mother rounding the garage corner before vanishing in a whoosh of wind, their skirt hems tailing them out of sight.
*
The long wooden pews were old and the green seat cushions were worn thin and Ricky's butt was normally asleep by the time the offering plate came around. Ricky was re-reading the paper bulletin to pass the minutes: pot luck tonight at six; men's softball Monday; women's prayer group and knitting club Wednesday; men's retreat next month. It was at these moments that Ricky had to be aware of getting a boredom boner: his boxer shorts bunching or the zipper rubbing against his crotch creating a neutral stimulant that was bothersome because he had to flip-n-tuck his boner so that it was wedged between his skin-boxers-belt-buckle and out of sight, no longer jutting out and visible to everyone around him.
Pastor Palmer, what a pushover! A guy who basically wore a dress! He loomed behind the podium in a decorative maroon robe and told the congregation to turn to the Gospel of John, chapter 11, verses 32-44. As if maroon was a manly color or something! Ha! Ricky looked at his mom: her face was tired and she was starting to look like a younger version of grandma, crow's feet and lipstick on her teeth and stray gray hairs bent like wire above the rest of her dark hair. Charlene licked her finger and thumbed quickly through the thin Bible pages as if it were a race against the other congregants until she arrived at John and breathed a sigh of relief; she kept bookmarks, dog-eared the pages and placed multi-colored ribbons throughout her Bible to mark favorite passages and sometimes wrote notes in the margins. Charlene glanced around at people still flipping the pages and smiled broadly toward the altar table where sacraments were arranged on silver platters and grape juice was brimming in stagy gold cups.
Pastor Palmer adjusted the microphone on his lapel. By now people had found John and were ready to receive the Word. Ricky was fashioning the paper bulletin into an airplane when his mother slapped at his wrist and shushed him and nodded her chin toward Pastor Palmer. Listen up, she whispered. Lilly was peering over her mother's shoulder, her eyes trained on the Bible.
By now Pastor Palmer had stepped to the side of the podium and had his hands outstretched like he was hugging the air in front of him. Can you imagine a love so big and a power so mighty it can raise the dead, Pastor Palmer asked. I can. And so does Jesus. This morning I want to talk about Lazarus, how after four days Jesus rolled away the stone from in front of his tomb and brought Lazarus back to life!
*
On the way home Ricky couldn't stop thinking about Lazarus, how he probably looked like shit coming out of that tomb but was probably happier than hell to be alive, as in: thanks Jesus for a second chance! Ricky had never heard this story and it was the only story he could remember ever grabbing his attention during the service, making him forget all about that paper airplane.
That was a good sermon, Ricky said to his mom after the service. Charlene looked at Ricky and told him to cut it out as she waved goodbye to her girlfriends in the gravel parking lot and said no they weren't going to get burgers at Shorts no matter how much he said he liked the sermon because there were leftovers in the fridge. Then she added: only sincerity gets burgers, now come on. Lilly stuck out her tongue and Ricky looked around and when his mother wasn't watching he shot the finger. Lilly yelled Mom! and when Charlene turned around Ricky said what? Just get in the car and not another word, Charlene said. Can't we just have a Sunday? Huh?
This summer had really sucked big time thus far and now Ricky couldn't even tell his mother he liked a sermon, as in: maybe Jesus is not a longhaired milquetoast. One bad thing after another. First Donny Perkins gets electrocuted when they tried to pirate the nudie channels by rigging the cable box, then Ricky gets a letter from Kimberly Downey saying they're through because his breath smells like eggs and the sewer. Then Lilly caught him masturbating in the guest bathroom and he'd had to cover his penis with the braided husk basket containing potpourri and when he did the potpourri flakes sprinkled out and stuck to the sticky parts of his crotch and inner thighs. And then Harvey gets aced. It was the pits.
As they turned into their subdivision Ricky wondered how many other dead guys Jesus resurrected and what kind of stone was needed to qualify as rolling-away-grade stone and would limestone classify? The wooden entry sign that read Preston Hills was losing its paint and flaking badly, warped and faded from years of neglect and it needed replacement or a new coat of weather sealant because it now seemed to announce a White Trash Settlement instead of the classy, brick home subdivision it was.
Ricky was sitting in the back seat and asked: Mom, do you think Jesus or God or the Trinity or the Main Ghost or any of them can really raise people from the dead? He could see his mother glance up at him in the rearview mirror and from behind he could see her shake her head. Don't blaspheme, she said. Just don't do it. I'm serious, boy. Ricky said, but mom, and Charlene glanced over her shoulder and said not another word about this, Jesus deserves better than your sarcasm. Besides, they are three in one and it's the Holy Ghost and they can do whatever they dang please. That's right, Lilly said. Shut up, hairy arms, Ricky said, and Lilly looked at her mom and yelled Mom!
When they got home Charlene parked the mini-van in the circular drive because the garage was too full of boxes filled with her dead husband's personal belongings marked and ready to be sold at their garage sale next weekend. Ricky got out of the car and started for the woods behind their house. No way mister, Charlene said, I want you changed out of your good church clothes before you do anything. Ricky said, this will only take a minute; he kept walking toward the tree line, the wind mussing his bowl-cut and blowing his tie over his shoulder.
*
Just beyond the first line of trees stood a towering oak tree with thick branches supporting a weatherworn fort with a frayed rope ladder spilling down the base of the trunk. It had been some time since Ricky spent every day in his fort with Donny Perkins, plotting ways to get girls to play spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven at co-ed parties. A year and a half had passed since Ricky booby-trapped the fort to prevent Lilly from gaining entry; he'd hung a piece of limestone in the limbs high above and rigged a trip wire under a cluster of decomposing leaves. Despite his best efforts to crush his sister, the limestone had fallen on Ricky one evening when he saw Lilly coming toward the fort; Lilly tripped the wire and when the limestone started to drop Ricky pushed his sister out of the way just in time. As a consequence, the limestone crushed Ricky's nose and knocked out most of his teeth. The only good thing to come from the incident was Ricky got a new, straight smile and his nose, which was naturally crooked, had been straightened by a surgeon, giving him a new, more handsome face. His mother grounded him for a month and Lilly would often tell people Ricky had tried to kill her and he deserved a cell in juvenile detention, but soon after Ricky healed things were back to normal, and he could give Lilly titty twisters again without her screaming that he was a murderer.
It was the fallen piece of limestone Ricky was after. He found it in the same spot where it had come to rest after smashing his face, hidden beneath felled leaves and a mound of dirt. Ricky looked toward the back yard and could see the dark spot in the grass where they had buried Harvey two days ago. He wiped the face of the stone clean and dug his fingers into the ground below it.
The limestone was heavy and Ricky held it close to his chest, soiling his tie and dirtying the front of his white Oxford shirt. He shuffled quickly across the yard and when he reached Harvey's grave he leaned down and let the limestone slip from his hands so that it tumbled out of his forearms and came to rest on the middle of the plot. Ricky took a step back and imagined Lazarus' tomb, covered neatly with a stone that, in a few days time, could be rolled away to resurrect the dead man inside. He thought of Harvey starting to heal in his black trash bag just under the dirt, maybe his tail wagging to life. Ricky knelt next to the limestone and patted it. In a few days time, he said. Just you wait, Harvey.
*
Ricky walked past the metal swing set that was rusted and leaning badly to one side, the sand box with buried Matchbox cars, and into the garage where his mother was placing items into a cardboard box marked Tom's Shirts. There was an old Bow Flex machine in the corner next to a bulky treadmill, equipment Ricky had never seen either of his parents use before. When Charlene looked up she said Oh Ricky, not your good shirt and that tie, I thought I told you to change. Ricky said, it'll come out as he held the middle of his tie delicately in the palm of his hand as if to present his case. Just go change, Charlene said.
Ricky walked over to a stack of boxes that were lining the side of the garage next to his father's old workbench, where all of the tools that once hung from hooks on the wall had been placed haphazardly into a few boxes labeled Tom's Tools. You're getting rid of all this stuff, Ricky asked, digging though the box and finding a drill set, a multi-level tackle box and a hammer. Ricky held the hammer in his hand and took in the dull shine of the metal head. Not this hammer, Ricky thought. What happens when we need tools, Ricky asked. Charlene didn't look up from the pile of shirts she was folding but said, and I'm guessing you're asking because you know how to use those tools? Ricky slipped the hammer's wooden handle through a belt loop on his slacks and said Dad taught me enough, even though they both knew that was a lie.
Ricky had gotten to pump gas occasionally when his father wasn't in a hurry but Ricky wasn't strong enough to shovel the hard Texas caliche to make a hole fit for a fence post, something Tom had kidded him about, calling him a squirt and a pipsqueak. Ricky wasn't even big enough to operate the riding lawn mower when his father was alive and there wasn't really anything manly his father had passed down to him; come to think of it Ricky despised his father and looking at the assembled boxes he thought of how pathetic his father was, how his meager life could be arranged in a few boxes ready for sale without his wife or kids attaching the least bit of sentiment to any item he left behind.
As Ricky weaved through the boxes he came to one that read Tom's Books and he stooped over to rummage through the box. There were a few self-help books and one book for habits of highly effective people and at the bottom of the box was a black leather-bound Bible with gold-embossed lettering stamped into the bottom right corner of the cover reading Tom Jensen. Ricky picked up the Bible and turned it over in his hands. The Bible looked as worn as his mother's Bible, maybe even more so. This is Dad's Bible, Ricky said, across the room. You're selling it? I'm selling everything, Charlene said. We'll take the money and get some new clothes up at the Outlet Mall. It's a garage sale, Ricky. Everything goes. Ricky stood for a moment, holding the Bible. I think I'll keep this, Ricky said. And the hammer. Suit yourself, Charlene said, finally looking up. Those aren't big-ticket items, anyway.
When Ricky got to his room he locked the door behind him; Lilly was always bursting in unannounced just to bother him and even though his mother threatened to disable the lock she never did. Ricky ripped off his tie and balled up his Oxford shirt and threw both of them toward the clothes hamper in the corner. He placed the hammer on the bureau next to his bed then hopped on one foot and then the other until he was out of his slacks and threw them at the corner as well. Ricky put on a pair of soiled jeans and went to his window and placed the Bible on the sill, then opened to the table of contents.
Ricky didn't know what to make of his father's Bible. There were plenty of bookmarks and multi-colored ribbons dividing the pages. How his father could read this book so much and still kill himself was a mystery to Ricky; after all, he was taught committing suicide is a one-way ticket to hell, as in: the Devil thinks you're awesome and kickass and welcome to your new, slightly warm, uncomfortable home where you will melt forever! At any rate, Ricky wasn't sure where John was located and when he found the page listing he flipped through the pages until he was at John, chapter 11. Ricky read the Lazarus story again, following each line with his index finger. He thought about Lazarus, how he was the original zombie/mummy and what a badass he had to be in his day, as in: Hey, I'm back from the dead everybody, so don't fuck with me because Jesus obviously likes me a ton, and you see this: that's a friendship bracelet! Ricky ripped out the thin page so that he removed the entire story from his father's old Bible. Ricky left the book sitting on the windowsill, then folded the torn page and put it in his sock drawer, and thought to himself: just one more day.
*
Ricky finally came down for dinner when he couldn't stand to hear Lilly yelling up the stairs that dinner was on and mom has already ladled all the stew into bowls and yours is getting cold! Ricky descended the front stairs slowly, lost in thought. It was dark out and Charlene was trying to save money on their energy bill so the outside floodlights were off and the house was quiet and felt lonely as if there was no family at all living there, merely three strangers renting rooms under the same roof. That's how Ricky felt, anyway. His sister was a bother. His mother was a bother, and all of them had been too much of a bother for his father to handle so that was that, at least that is what he had told the counselor at school a few months ago when she asked him how he was feeling about everything.
The kitchen smelled good, like his mother had bought the good beef for the stew and she hadn't forgotten to season the broth the way she sometimes did. Charlene told Ricky to wash his hands and when he stood over the kitchen sink the smell of wet onion peel and garlic was steaming up through the drain and the aroma and the thought of having to sit through another quiet or at times interrogation-like dinner with his spoiled sister and bossy mother made him want to puke into the sudsy water where dishes were soaking.
There was no longer steam rising from Ricky's bowl and he took his seat at the table with a thud and his mother said careful, this isn't an obstacle course you can blow through. Ricky salted his stew and stirred it absentmindedly. Lilly was humming that new boy-band song and Charlene was already scraping the bottom of her bowl, using a bit of cornbread to sop up what little stew remained.
After a moment Ricky asked his mother: How come we never went to Dad's grave, you know, after four days, like in the Bible, the way Pastor Palmer said? Charlene was about to eat a mouthful of damp cornbread; instead she put the piece of bread back in her bowl and looked at Lilly and then at Ricky. Life isn't like that, Charlene said. Those are just stories. Ricky stood up and said I'm not hungry. Eat your stew, Charlene said. You need to eat, son. I think I'll watch TV instead, Ricky said, and put his napkin on the table. Then he said: I'm not so sure. About what, Charlene asked. Ricky answered: I don't know.
*
Ricky was staring intently at the alarm clock on his bedside table. The blurry red numbers read 11:59. It was almost midnight and at 12:01 he resolved to execute his plan to resurrect Harvey. It had been four days since they buried the poor mutt and with any luck they would be playing fetch by sun-up. Maybe Harvey would be a bit groggy and maybe he would have a limp or look a little gimpy, but he'd be panting and ready to play like he hadn't been left to rot forever in a black trash bag; Ricky was certain of that much and he thought Harvey would forgive him, no, would thank him in dog-speak for finding a piece of resurrection-grade stone in the back yard and not letting it go to waste on Lilly or his mother if something should happen to them in the future. Thanks a lot, master!
Ricky retrieved the section of John he'd ripped from his father's Bible from his sock drawer, grabbed his Mini Mag flashlight, slipped his hammer through a belt loop, and tried to sneak slowly down the front staircase, which seemed to bend and squeak with each step. He thought for sure his mother or Lilly or both were going to appear at any moment at the top of the landing and bust him, ask him what on God's green earth is he doing, and doesn't he know he made them think an intruder was burgling them? But he managed to slip quietly out the back door after grabbing the shovel from the garage and tiptoe across the patio and through the small gate at the edge of the manicured part of the back yard. When Ricky was in the taller grass he turned on his flashlight and kept it low at his side so that it was projecting dull yellow light in a small circle on the path before him.
When Ricky reached Harvey's grave he shone the light on the limestone and it looked green and seemed to glow in the darkness. The moon was half full but shining fiercely and with no clouds in the sky everything was bright navy blue and Ricky thought he didn't need his flashlight after all. He knelt beside Harvey's grave and put the shovel on the ground then unfolded the Bible page and turned it around in his hand so that it was right-side up. He put the beam of light on the page and it cut through the thin paper so that the words were hard to distinguish.
Ricky cleared his throat and said Harvey here we go buddy and thank you God in advance. He found verse 32 and started to read aloud and when he got to the end of verse 44 he looked toward the sky and said I guess this is it. Instead of picking up the stone he pushed on its sides so that he could scoot it off the plot because it wasn't big enough or round enough to roll away and he didn't want to screw anything up at this point and scooting was as good as rolling he thought.
Once the stone was removed Ricky decided to paw into the dirt because he didn't want to hit Harvey and hurt him even more with the tip of the shovel. He was throwing dirt over his shoulders and to the sides and after a while his fingers dug into the plastic trash bag and he froze. Ricky listened for movement or whimpering and didn't hear anything; he waited a moment more in the hopes of seeing a tail wagging inside the bag. But nothing gave Ricky the indication that Harvey had been resurrected yet and after a moment he decided to rip open the side of the bag. The plastic had been softened by the heat and the dirt and came apart easily and when it did the air soured and Ricky coughed and he immediately thought Harvey would need a bath. Ricky grabbed the flashlight and pointed it in the shallow grave so that he could see Harvey and when the light illuminated the hole in the bag Harvey was curled in a ball and his dark coat was matted and greasy and Harvey was as lifeless as the day Ricky put him underground.
Ricky was alone and the trees around him were still and he could hear himself breathing and he could smell Harvey and nothing was happening. He looked back toward the house and everything was dark inside and he knew his mother and Lilly were still asleep and he wondered why nothing was happening. Ricky started to read the Bible verse again and midway though he looked down into the hole and Harvey was still dead and not moving and in one erratic motion Ricky tore the page into tiny pieces and shoved them through the hole in the trash bag on top of Harvey; Ricky wasn't crying but he felt like he was going to, like every muscle in his face was tensed trying to hold back tears and snot and he thought his face had to be glowing red in the darkness. Ricky said goddamn it and got on his knees and bent to hug the ground where he could gather the dirt and push it back into the hole.
When Ricky had covered the hole and it looked like the grave hadn't been disturbed he took his hammer and smashed the limestone until it started to break into smaller pieces, all the while cursing God and Pastor Palmer and the whole circus. He thought of his Dad, dead as anything and underground in some undistinguished plot six miles away at Heavenly Acres and how there was never any hope for him or Harvey or anyone, not even his mother who underlined everything or Lilly who was training to be just like her.
The limestone was a small mound of rubble and when Ricky turned around his mother's bedroom light was on and he knew he'd get an earful when he got back inside. That was fine; Ricky could still lock his door and tune her out and he would look for a sling shot at Wal-Mart or at a garage sale and in a few weeks time he'd make quick work of every stained glass window in town.
.....................................................................................................................................................
Blake Kimzey's fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Lifted Brow (Australia), Red Line Blues (USA) and Short FICTION (UK). He is currently working on a collection of stories and a picaresque novel. Born in Texas, Blake has worked as a bicycle tour guide in France and now lives with his wife, Artist Danielle Kimzey, in Iowa City.
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Monday, 20 December, 2010
In New voices
- Lazarus in the Backyard by Blake Kimzey
- The Packed Lunch by Alistair Daniel
- The Contortionist by Jemma Foster
- The Regime of Private Affairs by Orlando Whitfield
- A Passionate Affair by Katri Skala
- Never Better by A. C. Goodwin
- The Spy by Connor Caddigan
- (1) by Dorothy Feaver
- The Coat Room by Orlando Whitfield
- Christmas Eve, 1982 by Philip Langeskov
- Prelude by Katri Skala
- Checkpoint by Zoe Green
- Nervous Pig, Dreaming Pig by Michael Kissinger
- Menzies Meat by Evie Wyld
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