Chris Adrian - A Better Angel

“It’s supposed to be creepy,” said Paul.

“But who will die first?” Cindy asked.

What matters time when time is soon to end?

“He’s never very straightforward,” Cindy said. “You just have to be patient.”

“But I don’t want to know,” said Sonia.

“Sure you do,” said Cindy. “Come on, it’s just a game.”

It is not a game. It is the end of time. My suffering is great but yours will be greater .

“Was it horrible?” asked Arthur. “There in the tower. It must have been horrible. Did you see it coming? Did you see the plane?”

It was coming all my life but a greater disaster is coming for you .

“I think he’s on their side,” said Paul. Cindy told him to shut up.

“Who will die?” Cindy asked again.

All but one .

Cindy sighed exasperatedly. “Sometimes you just have to humor them,” she said, “to get your answer. Fine. Who is it? Who is going to live forever?”

The Great One. Lucifer’s son. Antichrist .

“The Antichrist is at this party?” asked Paul. “I’m going to kick his ass!”

He is among you. He has always been among you, sleeping and dreaming but even now he wakes .

“Who?” Cindy asked. “Stop teasing. Tell us!” And instead of letters this time the planchette swooped toward the person it wanted to name, the fingers drawing along the hands, the hands drawing along the bodies, so all twelve of the players fell forward, faces to the carpet. The planchette flew off the board and flowed over the carpet as if on wheels, stopping at the uttermost reach of their arms and pointing squarely at me. I turned to look behind me, expecting for some reason to see Cindy’s mom, back early from her trip out of town with Cindy’s sister, standing in the door. But the door was closed and there was nobody there.

“Crazy party,” Paul Ricker said to me the next day. We were in the locker room after practice.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was all pretty weird.”

“I don’t remember anything that happened after nine, but I heard about the Ouija thing. Don’t worry about it. One of those things told my sister that she was Jesus.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Well, a couple flashes here and there. I remember singing a lot. And a little bit of the poker game. And looking for my pants. That’s about it. Except. .” He leaned down so his mouth was close to my ear. “I think I screwed somebody. Don’t remember any of it — dammit! — but I woke up the next morning with this feeling, and when I felt down there it was just like after. . you know. How’s that for fucked-up?”

“That’s definitely fucked-up,” I said.

“I have a list of candidates, but how do you figure something like that out? You can’t just walk up and say, ‘Hey, Cindy, did we screw last night?’ Except I’m sure it wasn’t her. Anyway, I’ll figure it out.” He left his practice uniform in a pile at his feet and walked off to take a shower.

“Good luck with that,” I said, and waited until he was done with his shower before I took mine.

Cindy found me again while I was waiting for the bus. There was barely enough light to read by but I was sitting in the grass with my history book and for once I could pay attention to what I was reading, so I didn’t notice when she came up, and only saw her when she sat down next to me.

“Hey,” she said. When I didn’t look up she pushed my shoulder. “Hey!”

“What?” I said.

“What?” she said, imitating my voice but making me sound like a retard. “Thanks for coming to my party last night. Too bad you ruined it by being the Antichrist.”

“Whatever,” I said. After the Ouija game I had left, though Cindy asked me to stay, and made a big joke of the whole thing by taking the planchette and pointing it at people, and saying things like “You’re Ronald Reagan” and “You’re the pope” and “You’re a double-penised huffalump!” But I felt like it had been a mistake to come. I went home and felt that way for the rest of the night. “I usually don’t go to parties. Something stupid always happens to me at parties.”

“Not that it’s bad. I wouldn’t mind meeting the Antichrist. I have a lot of questions for him, because he’s somebody in the know. Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it. He’d know more than us, right?”

“I guess.”

“I used to be into all that shit, back in junior high. Black candles and secret piercings and praying in your fireplace and being, like, Satan is my master! I had black hair back then and hung out with Susie Freep. Did you ever know her? She goes to Trinity now.”

“No,” I said, still trying to read.

“Good thing. She was a bad influence. My mom practically had to send me to a deprogramming camp to get me away from her. She was like our high priestess or something. She gave it up, though. Now she’s in Young Life. How about that?”

“Yeah,” I said. Then she was quiet for a moment, but it was too dark to read. The sky was still bright pale blue, but shadows had come over the grass and I couldn’t make out letters anymore. Cindy leaned over and put her head on my shoulder. “It’s going to be a beautiful evening,” she said.

“I like the fall,” I said, not moving.

“It’s my favorite season,” she said. “Still, even with September and shit. Hey, my mom and my sister are going to be gone until Friday. You should come over and watch a movie or something.” She was quiet a little while longer, and I was wondering where the bus could be, when she said, “Last night I dreamed I was having sex with my father.”

“Everybody has that dream,” I said, which is true, if a therapist saying so makes a thing true. Cindy took her head off my shoulder and when I turned to look at her she threw water in my face.

“Jesus,” I said. “What was that for?”

“Does it burn?” she asked. “Does it hurt you?” And even though the water was in a regular squirt bottle I knew it was holy water.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” I said, grabbing it away from her and taking a long swig of it. It was very warm, and I thought as I drank it that she must have been keeping it close to her body all day. I threw the bottle down. “How’s that?” I asked. “Now will you lay off? Now will you just leave me alone? I don’t have any answers for you. I don’t know shit.” And I picked up my bag and my stick and walked off.

“It was just a joke!” she called out. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride!” But I kept walking all the way home.

I was mad all through dinner, so I barely talked at all when my mother asked me questions about the party. She said she was sorry if it wasn’t very fun, and told me I shouldn’t judge all parties by one party, and that to give up on all on account of the one would be like giving up on people just because my father was a boor and a cheat. Then she told me stories about parties she had gone to in high school, and about the prom, when she’d nearly died in a boating accident, except that the natural buoyancy of her dress saved her. I had heard the stories before. I hardly ate anything before my stomach started to hurt. I kept thinking it was being so mad that gave me the stomachache.

I was nauseated later, but didn’t throw up until close to midnight, just after I fell asleep. I woke up to it — a horrible burning stab in my belly, and then a feeling of fullness, and then I was throwing up right in my bed. When I turned on my light I saw that it was bright blood that had come up. It covered my sheets and my pillow, so I changed them, thinking that was all that was going to happen, and even feeling a little better, but then the burning came again, and though I made it to the toilet this time, I had barely finished throwing up before I had to sit down and shoot black blood out of my ass. I sat there for a little while, shaking and cold, before I got dressed and knocked on my mother’s door.