William Vollmann - The Royal Family

But why did he feel so radically isolated from her, the only one of the two he really loved, the one who…

The two men came back. They set their dog on him.

Once upon a time there lived a man named Henry Tyler whose enemy was Jesus. This may seem peculiar, since that Name’s purity remains as white as the naked-scratched steel on railroad tracks; besides, Jesus loves and is loved by losers-of-everything, in whose ranks Tyler had long since been enrolled, but because he was a Canaanite, which is to say idol-worshiper and lover of an overthrown goddess, he held Jesus blameable for his loss, no matter that the Israelites, not Jesus, were the ones who swarmed down upon Canaan — no matter that the Canaanites held their own even in Jesus’s own time; no matter that Jesus healed a Canaanite woman’s daughter of some demoniacal sickness (not, however, without first feeding her a helping of scorn). Down on the gravel, looking at the railroad spikes which had worked themselves into varying degrees of looseness on those long rusty double journey-blades, Tyler wanted to run away from Jesus, but wherever he went, he saw Jesus’s name chalked up on walls and trestle-bridges. For him, JESUS equalled DEATH. Whenever Jesus was signified to him, he said: Oh, please, don’t let it be true. — Whom was he begging? Not Jesus, for certain. Did he believe in God? The vanished Queen of Darkness couldn’t help him. He believed in her — and maybe only in her. He knew that she couldn’t help him, and so when he whispered or muttered please don’t he was entreating only as a child does, hopeless and fearful, but still thinking that some miracle may come, if only the need becomes desperate enough or can be expressed movingly enough. We stop being children when we stop believing that we can move the immovable or ride all trains grey, green, brown and blue. A week after my latest AIDS test, with another week to go before learning whether the verdict is doom or the usual qualified anxiety, I wake up with a sore throat, aching and feverish. Wouldn’t it be too much of a coincidence, if it were really AIDS? It must be the flu. But of course, waiting for life or death never stops being stressful, and stress lowers resistance, so that the AIDS virus which already lurks in my blood now laughingly proclaims its existence. And Irene is pregnant. What if she and the baby were doomed, too? I can’t eat anything. I can’t sleep. I can’t wake up; I know I’m not awake because how could this horror be so real? Oh, please, don’t let it be true. I want to die because I’m afraid to live, but unfortunately I’m also afraid to die. Who will help me? The people who live are the ones I’ve injured. How can I go to them? And Jesus? That quickwitted, intolerant, impatient, sarcastic disputant, who told a bereaved man: Leave the dead to bury the dead, who scourged the moneychangers in the temple, who quizzed and commanded those he met, who refused to see his own mother because he had no mother anymore, no earthly family, no kin at all except those who believed as he did, how can I face him? I’m not quite dead, but I want to bury myself. I don’t want to be flogged out of my sordid niche; I don’t dare to be questioned or answered. Please love me; help me. I love without doctrine. Can’t you? I’ve loved righteous and evildoing women alike. I feel sick and afraid, and my throat hurts. Oh, Jesus, come to my aid. Help me. Help me. But I’m afraid of your help. I’m afraid that you might gaze into my eyes and then burst out like Domino: Why am I so ashamed of your life? I don’t dare to examine my life anymore. Don’t examine me. Maybe I didn’t wash myself clean enough for you. I’m so ashamed. Don’t seek to know me. I cannot ever be unknowable like you in your majestic incomprehensibility; I am all too knowable; I have grimy secrets to hide. I am human. I am wicked. I am a bad boy. Now my father, who is DEATH, comes to punish me. He comes as stately as a train rolling rustily over a rust-brown river. Jesus, I know you could persuade him not to drag me away this time. I know you could defend me from him. But I dare not appeal to you, because self-revelation is worse than death. I’d rather die miserably alone; I’ll shoot myself in a tall field of grass; I’ll go to the edge of town on one of these cloudy or rainy purple days which mark the last season of my life, and with my pistol in a paper bag I’ll walk until I can’t see the highway anymore. I’ll lie down in the mud. Quickly now, before I get cold! I’m already shivering. Raise the heavy gun. My hands shake. I’m cold; I waited too long. The grass hisses over my head. Now I’m wet to the skin. I’ve lived too long. I’m breaking promises even at the very end. I lie on my back in a muddy puddle. I bring the gun down against my forehead. I will escape revelation. I will sneak sordidly out of life because I haven’t the courage to see or be my own shame.

But Henry Tyler was not that kind of coward. The smoldering red sun of judgment already hung over his left shoulder. He had faced it; he had participated in his trial and heard the sentence. He’d eaten his portion of scorn. Now Jesus inscribed seductions before him everywhere; why didn’t Tyler want to be reconciled? But Tyler did not want to. He was too proud. He wanted to be honorably damned. Oh, please, don’t let it be true. But if it’s true, then don’t ever presume to believe you can extort my full soul as the price for rendering it untrue. A piece of my soul I’ll sell you, by all means; like other prostitutes I’ve been amputating meaty hunks of myself for all comers ever since the Vice Squad shut Eden down. I can be numb; I can lose most of myself, but inside my spinal column lives a shy sad caddisworm who’s not for sale.

The three eyes of a locomotive came glaring down the track. Tyler wanted to run away from Jesus. But instead of escape he met only the stale diesel breath and diesel wind of a train which wasn’t going to stop, the engineer high up in his sunshine-hued locomotive peering out the window, and then the train rumbled past with double- and triple-tiered loads of cars bound for Stockton or Los Angeles.

Beside him on the gravel sat a middle-aged hobo whose sad-hound eyes watched the train vanish, then blinked, watered, blinked again with bloodshot patience.

Where are you bound? said Tyler.

I finally just quit worrying about all that crap, all those things to do, said the hobo. I don’t even care anymore whether I get on a train or not.

Tyler said: I want to go someplace far away from Jesus.

The hobo pointed in the direction of the faintly whistling train. He said: It’s sixty-four miles to Gold Run. I been there. It’s six hundred and ninety miles to Terminus, Utah…

Trusting in him, struggling to see some hidden lesson in what he’d already seen, Tyler saw how the tracks tapered and curved into a vanishing point — a point beyond God, yet much nearer than Terminus. Indeed, the vanishing point did not look very far away. Might it not be possible that faith could get him there?

That was south. He turned and gazed north, in the direction that the train had come. Long before the horizon, conveniently marked for him by the developer Benvenuti’s so-called Renaissance building and by the pallid, blue-windowed library high-rise, he saw another vanishing point.

He went behind a bush, so that the hobo couldn’t see him, and kneeling down on the tarry gravel he prayed to the Queen: I know you’re dead, so you’re too far away and too busy to come back to me, but please can’t you send me an angel to show me how to get to the vanishing point?

Then he stood up. He had faith. His knees hurt from the gravel. His shoulders ached from carrying a duffel bag full of heavy ripe fruit, a blanket and clothes, and most of all, water (sixty-four pounds per cubic foot) across bridges and freeway overpasses in the hot sun. He walked around the bush and found a girl sleeping on his bedroll. It was his dead sister-in-law. He took off his coat and quietly draped it over her legs.