Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

HOST: Okay, one of those nights. All right, dear, now listen to me closely. These young men shave their heads, they don’t lose their hair, they shave their heads. Voluntarily. You understand? They do it to themselves. It has nothing to do with any disease. It’s a way to identify themselves as part of a hate group. And I’ll take a moment to say that I wish people would listen just a little more carefully before they call in. Next caller.

CALLER: Hello, Ray. It’s Johnny Z calling.

HOST: Johnny, haven’t heard from you in quite a while.

CALLER: You’re a popular man these days. Tough getting through those lines.

HOST: And what does my friend Johnny have to say about tonight’s topic?

CALLER: Clean and simple, Ray. Long as we’re castrated by the liberal courts in this state it’s up to each man to protect his family in whatever way necessary.

HOST: Amen, brother. Amen to that.

CALLER: These faggots are one more reason we got to protect our constitutional right to bear arms. I’ve got a beautiful double-pump Winchester I keep right on the back of the bedroom door, loaded and ready to go. I say, come on in, skinheads. Come on and visit. I’m all ready and waiting. Wouldn’t think twice.

HOST: I hear you, Johnny.

CALLER: Just wanted to say it.

HOST: Thanks for calling. Next caller, you’re on the air.

CALLER: Yes, Ray, just wondered if you people down at the station would like the real truth about all this?

HOST: About all what, caller?

CALLER: About how these skinheads are just one branch in Mayor Welby’s secret army and as we speak they’re mapping out the final details in their plan to round up all the blacks and Jews and—

HOST: Next caller, you’re on the air.

CALLER: Yeah, Ray, this is Vin from down San Remo. I thought this was going to be UFO night? What happened to UFO night?

HOST: Next Wednesday, Vin. Next caller, you’re on City Soapbox.

CALLER: Raymond, what’s gotten into you? You sound as bad as these skinhead people you’re complaining about. “Throw them in a pit and bulldoze the earth right over them.”

HOST: This is Mrs. G, isn’t it?

CALLER: You know my voice, Raymond.

HOST: Poor Mrs. G, we’re never going to see eye-to-eye. But let me tell you, dear lady, when you’re out there, day after day, the way I am, and you see this constant erosion of everything that was once good and pure in our town, well, I’m sorry, you start to think that maybe drastic measures are called for before it’s just too late and we wake up one day and the whole thing has been taken away from us. History tells a sad story, Mrs. G, believe me, it’s happened before. And we’ll be back in a short minute after this word from your friend and guide in your darkest hour, Loftus Funeral Home over on Patterson Ave.

Ike is dreaming an awful vision of his mother and father in the kitchen of the old family house. He’s standing in the center of the room, ashamed of something unclear. And his parents are walking in circles around him, equidistant from each other. They’re furious with him, berating him for this unstated failure or transgression. He’s sobbing, begging forgiveness, promising repentance, but it’s useless. Whatever he’s done is so heinous, they won’t even listen to his sorrow. Ike’s body trembles in his bed, the dream is so clear and real.

Outside the green duplex, Eva looks at both entrances and finds Ike’s—91B. She moves first to his doormat, squats down, and lifts it, but there’s nothing underneath. She stands back up, steps to his mailbox, opens the lid, and looks inside to find it empty. Then she runs her hand along the underside of the box and pulls a key out of a small metal lip. She lets herself into the apartment and stands silent inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

She moves through rooms, steering herself with her fingertips on the edge of furniture, walking in tiny, comical steps to avoid tripping. She finds her way to the back bedroom and stands in the doorway for a few minutes watching Ike’s body quake. It’s a horrible sight, like looking on a helpless child in the midst of a dangerous fever.

Before she can rethink her actions, Eva walks into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and begins to stroke Ike’s forehead softly and whisper, “It’s okay, now, I’m here, it’s all right, Ike,” as if she were his dead mother come to life out of his nightmare, but bearing a radical change of heart.

Ike’s eyelids flutter, flip open, and his whole body bolts backward on the bed as he lets out a scream of Ma, Ma, Jesus , loud enough to be heard three houses away.

Eva jumps up into a crouched position on her feet, her hands and arms balanced on the mattress. She’s yelling back at him, “It’s Eva, it’s Eva, stop it, it’s me.”

Ike knocks a glass off the nightstand, then manages to turn on a lamp.

“For God sake,” he chokes, hand on his chest, then up over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Eva says, backing up. “Are you all right? I’m sorry.”

Ike takes a second to breathe and look around the room. “How’d you get in here?”

“I looked until I found a key. There’s usually a key.”

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry, Ike. I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“You always go breaking into people’s homes?”

“Really sorry. It was a stupid thing to do—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you, Ike.”

“I’ve got nothing to say. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Just dock me for today. Whole day.”

Eva comes forward again and sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Why did you run out today, Ike? What happened?”

“I just wasn’t feeling well. I think I’m getting the flu. I’m probably contagious right now.”

“Did something happen while you were sorting, Ike?”

“My God, I’m having chest pains, I’m having actual chest pains.”

“Now, take it easy. Calm down.”

“Calm down. Calm down. This is it. I’m having chest pains.”

“What kind of pains? Should I call an ambulance?”

“I don’t believe this. I’m thirty years old. This is unbelievable.”

“Oh, Ike, what have I done? Should I get on the phone? Should I call?”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Hold on.”

Ike sits up in the bed, leans forward, tilts his head to the side. His cheeks balloon out a couple of times. He makes a fist with his right hand and very lightly thumps his mid-chest. It’s possible that he belches, though Eva hears nothing. Then he comes upright and takes a breath and says, a little sheepishly, “I think it’s okay now,” as if he were speaking about something other than himself, “I think it’s all right.”

Eva sighs her relief and shakes her head. “Please forgive me, Ike. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“It’s just, you wake up, someone’s standing in your room.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I just had no idea who it was. It could have been anyone. I had no idea.”

“It’s just that things feel like they’re on the verge of getting out of control.”

“Listen, Eva—”

“And I don’t feel like I can trust anyone else.”

“I’m not sure I want to talk about this anymore.”

“I know that something happened today.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe you should go home.”

“I think you should tell me what happened at the station, Ike. You were sorting and then something happened.”

“I don’t want any problems here, Eva.”

“At the bookstore you were all for going to the authorities. What happened, Ike? What changed your mind?”

“Forget the bookstore, Eva.”