Pavel Kravchenko: Project Antichrist

Now that I found it, it occurred to me that there really was no reason to rush. The house I’d sought stood two blocks to the west, and it would remain there for quite some time. I, on the other hand, would be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a few quiet moments of a rural day.

I pulled the Winger over to the curb and folded the roof. The day was not only quiet, but also sunny and fresh. I leaned back and dipped my hands up into the wind current and breathed deeply and squinted at squirrels, as though that had been the purpose of my trip all along. And maybe this really is all I need, I thought. Some rural therapy for my shaken nervous system. Some roofless time. Maybe I don’t need to see her after all.

But then I saw the yellow and khaki ribbons again. “Support the troops,” I recalled. And “Support the fair draft.” The prospect of returning home helped me fight through my reluctance. With one last look at a gray squirrel, which was following an invisible spiral around the trunk of a thick maple, I put the car in gear and drove off.

A redbrick Victorian mansion Jennifer and I had bought with my first real paycheck was just where I’d expected it to be. The windows were dark, but then, I reassured myself, it was daylight. No car in front of the closed garage door. Nothing out of the ordinary, but already a spiteful, hopeful thought (maybe she won’t be home) had entered my mind. I shook my head to get rid of it.

I zipped up the jacket, crossed the lawn and climbed the five-step porch. Hesitating for a microsecond, I pushed the doorbell. It rang faintly, and it seemed something halted inside. She was home, no doubt now. I unzipped the jacket. There was a soft whisper of steps approaching. I inhaled and with great effort kept my hands in pockets, where I’d stuffed them a moment earlier. I heard her touch the handle, reach up for the lock, twist the metal, let the hand fall to the bottom one, slide the bar to the left.

“Who is it?” she asked, the door completely unlocked, but still shut. I blew a smile onto my face.

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Luke.” My nervousness evaporated; a grin split my lips. It was the right thing to come see her. The best decision of my life. In a moment she would open the door and we would talk and work it all out. We would work it out, and then I wouldn’t care then if they took me to war. Jennifer would wait. We would e-mail every day. We could even get married again, before I went, like in that movie. Jennifer would like that.

The door opened, and my euphoria dispersed as fast as it had come.

“What are you doing here?”

“I… haven’t seen you in a long time. Thought I’d—”

“Four months. It’s been four months. Why are you here? Have you come to clean your junk out of the garage? Because I was just thinking about throwing it all away.” In a long, sky-blue silk robe tied at the waist and with long golden hair loose she was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her. But especially it hurt to hear her. She spoke as if her lawyer was still present, as if we were still discussing terms.

“They’re… drafted me,” I stammered.

“What?” Bothered, annoyed eyebrows converging above her thin, delicate nose.

“I got drafted. Failed to appear… So now marshals are coming to pick me up.”

“They drafted. You. To the Army?” Curious, amused wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“Yeah. So I thought I’d—”

And then, suddenly, “Honey, who is it?” a man’s voice like a spit in the face from deep inside the house. For the first time since the door had opened a hint of real emotion glinted in my ex-wife’s face. A brief widening of her eyes, lips gently parting, as my name raced up to them from the heart instead of the gallbladder. But it wasn’t enough. I hadn’t taken my pills for three days.

I shoved past her into the hallway. She shrieked.

“Honey?”

The sound of hurried footsteps from the kitchen. Honey, huh. I rushed to meet them. My ex-wife, meanwhile, recovered enough to start yelling.

“Who do you think you are to barge into this house like that?”

Paying her no heed, I ran into this guy in the dining room. Also in a robe, he was barefoot and brandished an empty coffee mug. Other than that, I didn’t really see him much; he must have seen even less of me.

My fist plunged into his meaty, cleft chin. Jennifer shrieked again, louder this time. “Honey” crumbled to the floor, but bounced up at once, fists ready. The mug remained on the parquet. He was squinting, looking for me, but I had lost interest in him by then.

“So four months, huh?” I whirled around. “Someone’s been keeping time!”

“I’m calling the police!” she screamed back at me.

“Don’t bother! I’m leaving!” I bolted back towards the hallway, ignoring the fist-rotating jock and his loud breathing. “Four months!” I shouted in her face again as I was passing her by, and for one enjoyable moment she cowered.

“I hope they kill you in the war!” was the last thing I heard as I slammed what had once been my door shut behind me.

Hitting that guy didn’t make me feel better. Just the opposite. For some reason, as I tore at the door and flung myself into the driver seat, mumbling “four months” repeatedly under my breath, all I could think of was the look on his face after I’d slugged him. Grimly determined he was, sad even, like a courier carrying the most important message of his life, who had been blindsided by a pick-up, and who, although he was able to immediately get back up on his feet, was just beginning to realize that his injuries might be worse than they seemed, that shock was wearing off, that he might collapse into darkness any instant, that the package, the very purpose of his life, might not be delivered. It was too much. Tears filled my eyes.

“I wish he’d punch me back,” I groaned. I began to shake, feeling like I was being submerged in cold oil. With an effort, I twisted the mirror and focused on my reflection.

Look at me, I thought. I’m a mess. Me, a TV star, whose show ranks number one among the non-police-themed shows. I have a billion fans, more money than I can ever spend, I slept with more women than I can remember, and I am sitting in my million-dollar Winger, about to weep my eyes out because I’ve hit a guy who’s banding my ex-wife in my ex-house.

There was only one thing to do. The solution to all my problems was right there, built conveniently into the dashboard. Spinning the car around, I punched the accelerator and dialed doc’s number.

“Dr. Wright is with a patient,” a female voice answered, but I was having none of it.

“Tell him it’s Luke Whales. It’s an emergency.” A moment later doc’s calm, confident voice resounded from the speakers.

“Luke, are you all right?”

“No, doc. No. I’m not. I lost my pills. I need a refill. Now.”

“When was the last time you took the medicine?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Wednesday? Three days ago.”

“Calm down, Luke. I will call in the prescription right away. Come straight to my office. And drive carefully.”

“Half an hour.” I hung up and, remembering very well the neighborhood now, headed for the highway.

I really meant to go straight to the doc’s office. I held onto my destination firmly, because I was afraid that in my current state any random small thing I encountered was liable to catch my attention and lead me off course, and God only knew what other trouble I would end up finding. Thankfully, there was never any traffic on the expensive first tier of I-94, with the majority of drivers opting for the cheap, open top level, so there was little cause for my gaze to wander away from that point in the middle of everything where all the lines meet. I still held onto my destination as I passed a huge billboard hanging from the ceiling — a field of green under a sky of blue and the words: YOU ARE NOT ALONE — about fifteen minutes into the drive. But then I saw a pigeon flutter across the lanes to disappear outside and I saw that they still hadn’t put the glass between the columns like they’d advertised for years and I heard my teeth chattering and knew I was freezing because I had forgotten to put the stupid roof up, and I started thinking about that triple-layered Alpine wool ski hat I’d bought in Switzerland and how it would feel on my head right about now. I remembered its airy softness, its weightlessness, its innate warmth, which felt as though the wool it had been made of was still attached to the innocent lamb that created it. I imagined myself walking into the bedroom closet, kneeling, searching shelves and drawers, then finally straightening and reaching joyously up, as I recalled putting it away on the top shelf with the rest of the skiing clothes.