T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Shaking, he delivered the first lash.

The bailiff walked out to John-John, poked at his back. Not even so much as a welt. Try again.

Harder, yelled John-John, harder goddammit, D, harder please.

The next one cuts. Jo-Jo, shaking and shivering, says, I’m okay. Candice had said, Delight in his eyes. Daron imagined John-John Kelly whipping Louis — Lenny Bruce Lee, swinging harder each time, the whip unfurling like an extension of his arm, starting the strikes at the wrist, but soon swinging from the shoulder, then the hips, leaning into each blow like Michael Jackson in Smooth Criminal, his self-reproach diminishing by the yard, every lick a neat slice, the skin parting like broad petals. By the ninth, John-John Kelly passed out, his back torn like an old sail, the waist of his stonewashed jeans pink with sweat and blood, one sneaker, the clay kicked clean, upside down a few yards away, in the shadow of that stump. Candice said he had delight in his eyes. Daron felt the nettling in his chest that had plagued him on the drive from the morgue finally begin to unwind.

The bailiff nodded and two men wheeled out a cart bearing a coffin with iron bars in place of the hinge lips. The satin bedding was ripped out and replaced with slimy river rocks and black snakes. The men-at-arms lifted Pvt. John-John Kelly VI’s limp figure, and sympathy and repulsion assailed Daron in equal measure as he watched Pvt. Kelly’s body droop, and he saw the hand with the cross tattoo dangle, and he saw Pvt. Kelly’s head loll like Christ carried down from the cross, and he heard the liquid sloshing in Pvt. Kelly’s stomach as they tossed him into the coffin and locked a metal gate across the top. About five minutes later, muffled screams could be heard from everywhere, it seemed. Daron heard them even from the gate, when he was being driven back into town, the gray, aged wood of the hunting lodge fading in the side mirror to his right, his cousin whistling in the seat to his left.

Flagellation, Candice loved to say. Oh, yes she did. Flagellation. It sounds so much like sexiness.

FOR LUNCH, HIS FAVORITE: meatloaf with sweet onions, jalapeños, and extra ketchup, and his mother even remembered to fry apples on the side. Kissing him on the head every time she passed his chair was only the beginning. For dinner, Out! Out? Out! Hell yeah! Outside the house? Outside the backyard, even. An early dinner, when it’s still broad, bright, cave-man naked daylight?

And why not? his father asked. Not even those second-string Katy-catch-ups are across from City Hall anymore, and there’s an antijournalism barricade up the way.

Daron hadn’t noticed.

At the end of their street, Sheriff had now stationed a deputy, who waved them through, giving Daron, he could have sworn, a conspiratorial nod. Didn’t he? On the ride through town, Young Tanner, David First, Greg Keen, Ellen Ray. All at their windows or porches, all waving for a parade. His father drove at a leisurely clip, in no rush tonight, no longer on graveyards.

At Lou’s they were greeted with smiles. Rheanne gave him a little wink, and there was even extra whipped cream on his pie that he didn’t ask for. After dinner his father pushed back from the table and rubbed his stomach, drawing his middle finger in a circle around his belly button. His mom burped once, demurely. Excuse me, she giggled.

I told you about being flirtatious in public. His dad winked.

His mother placed one hand on his father’s forearm. With the other, she tightly clasped Daron’s fingers. Eyes watering, she said, My men, my men. My little piggies. What would I do without you?

I wonder that myself, agreed his father.

She sniffed and sank a foot deeper into her sentimental abyss.

No. I mean that’s a good question. What would you do without me? asked his father.

I don’t know, but I know what you won’t do with me. She reached across the table and took his father’s cake. I shouldn’t have let you order this. No one over twenty needs a second dessert.

When his father objected, she explained, You’ll thank me for this one day.

That was what Quint had said on the way home. Those were in fact the only words they had exchanged, or ever would again.

Agent Denver had warned them that it wasn’t over, though they tried to live otherwise. It was twelve months after Louis’s death and the Incident at Braggsville. D’aron had transferred to Loyola University of New Orleans to be with Candice, and both were on track to graduate with honors. Charlie was living at home, attending Northwestern. The Incident at Braggsville had been too much for his mother to bear, though she did let him travel (by train only) to Nola to visit his friends (for a weekend only). The occasional laugh sounded, but when the 3 Little Indians bid adieu at the station Sunday night, tears couldn’t mask their relief. Charlie promised, via text, to be back, He!!a soon!!! All three agreed that would be, S+upendous!!! Daron was therefore shocked when, some thin months later, Candice skipped in clapping and singing about Charlie spring breaking in Nola.

Since that visit, Daron had entertained very few thoughts of Charlie. Fewer than few, he had to admit, turning his mind over and finding himself to have been agitated by only one query. Idée fixe. This constancy of theme was of no solace. No, not at all, not when it traveled brothers-in-arms with a rabid and merciless frequency, tugging at his hems, cuffs, collars like a child with a limited vocabulary who will have his chocolate bar or, oxygen be damned, return to the womb. (That’s crazy, D!) Likewise, erudition be damned, so D’aron’s mind assaulted him with this artless inquiry. And explanation be damned, he ignored the incessant reiterations, attributing them to — horror!! — ego!!. ego!!? [And that horror paled, appalled as it was by guilt of C/catholic — yes, both majuscule and minuscule — guilt of C/catholic dimensions (with apologies to Louis ten-times-hella-ten-times over. For we were to shed Freud like diapers, were we not? For we were to transcend the institution’s attendant psychic impositions, were we not? For we were to walk upright, were we not? Or we were to be slapped straight up in the dick with this hefty textbook, to, Give us something to motherfucking crouch about!) LeggoMyego!! No!! EgoLeggoMe!! LeggoMe!! dammit!]

Certainly, it was ego!! which, like yet another awful waffle, was mostly empty space inexplicably generously outfitted with fluffy deep pockets for your favorite toppings — misinterpretations and defense mechanisms and neuroses, inherited and congenital. In his case, Daron mused, a double dose of contradiction. For how else could D’aron come to ask Daron if Charlie ever had a crush on him? How else could he have come to house such anguish and alarm when imagining Charlie laughing at that inquiry? And what if he said no? Would D’aron be relieved or offended? When Maylene’s boyfriend had claimed that Charlie was a three-way-caller, Daron had dismissed said claim, said implications, said sentence as neatly as… as… as Lou enacting his role as sergeant-at-arms. Oh, no, he’d said to himself, Charlie’s sexuality is NOT BEING REVIEWED. When Charlie had admitted it himself, Daron still hadn’t believed it. Oh, no, he’d said to himself, A surreptitious-smooch-shared-amid-middle-schoolers-at-summer-camp-in-a-split-second-of-adolescent-uncertainty-to-alleviate-a-hormonal-headache-exacerbated-exotic-by-de-facto-segregation was NOT FUCKING BEING REVIEWED! Not to mention that (don’t worry, he won’t) D’aron had once touched his own cinnamon bun — as Nana called it — while shooting his goobers to the moon — as Nana called it; Daron had admitted, sober, that Bruno Mars was an aw-ite-looking fellow; Daron had taken an interest in matching clothes; and knew none of that made him a three-penny nickel. Despite this, Daron watched in amazement as D’aron reminded Candice that it wasn’t spring break for everyone, and that he was carrying an exceptionally ambitious course load in anticipation of early graduation, and that they’d promised themselves a romantic weekend in Gulfport, Mississippi (We’re open for business and geared for a good time!). Finally, he prepared the doomsday device: Our spring breaks don’t end well! Fortunately, before tearing into the launch codes for that one, the spirit of curiosity possessed him because Candice added, And guess what? He’s bringing his new boyfriend!