Calamity

for college textbooks. With such persuasive skill at work, they might actually sell a few books. Anthony would have only objected to the pained Jesus-on-the-cross picture. Wouldn’t it be better to have a redeemed, empowered Jesus, perhaps floating over his worshippers with an angelic glow about him?

“Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.

Anthony knew something now of burdens. He could write his own biblical book—The Gospel of Misery. For then Anthony beheld the mighty power of Misery, an angel of pain, as it fell upon him and crushed his soul, whittled away his will to live. Then he knew the mighty power that was and is and ever shall be Misery and it punished him with impunity. Anthony knew he should have repented but it was too late. In the late hour of the day, Anthony beheld the dead, or the soon to die, and wept for he had doubted the power.

It probably wouldn’t catch on in churches, but he bet the people would understand it, accept it, even. They would know it because they lived it. No one lived as The Empowered; everyone, however, knew life as a victim of Misery. Jesus promised rest, but could He actually deliver?

Chloe had been resting for weeks, nearly a month, and now she would keep resting, maybe forever. Is that the rest Jesus offered? When Chloe slept, she was not free from the demons prying at her mind. Even when heavily drugged, her eyes still twitched and rolled beneath their lids. When she woke, she never spoke of what happened behind closed eyelids, and Anthony was glad for that. He didn’t need any more nastiness crowding his mind. He had enough to last a lifetime.

He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He would find no rest. He went to the garage and stood in the dark for several minutes as his eyes adjusted before he flicked on the light. He had hoped to see something. When the eyes were adjusting to sudden darkness or vice versa, sometimes the unusual appeared. It was like catching a glimpse of another world, just for a second. He didn’t see anything and that seemed more cruel than it probably should have been. He only wanted reassurance. He wanted to know his daughter was okay; wherever she was, he needed to know she was safe.

Chloe’s red Subaru was in the second spot where it had been since that trip on Route 84 that tipped it over. He had driven it only a few times, sort of as an experiment, and found it too difficult to use. There was nothing wrong with it mechanically speaking. The tow truck driver had even marveled how the car suffered such little damage. The repair shop fixed a few dents and gave the car a tune-up and assured him it would run almost like new. And it had.

His baby had died (eye socket gushing blood) and the fucking car had survived with a few dents. In fact, the strange knocking sound the car sometimes made on left turns had vanished. Anthony buried one child but the car in which that baby died kept living. That was Gospel again: for Anthony marveled then at the awesomeness of Misery’s works. “The irony and the cruelty,” Anthony cried.

The few times he drove the car, he couldn’t handle it. The first trip to the local grocery store had ended badly on the side of the road. During the drive, the red-and-purple stain in the passenger seat (gushing blood) had grown bigger and bigger until it soaked the entire seat. Anthony vomited his breakfast into a ditch. The next few rides brought nausea as well but he hadn’t vomited. Instead, he cried so hard he had to pull over because he couldn’t see the road. It wasn’t the seat those times; it was the baby’s crying. It filled the car, its wail echoing throughout and even drowning out the radio music blaring from the speakers.

But the baby hadn’t been crying. He had been too blue—almost purple—and couldn’t make a sound. He hadn’t uttered a single noise from the moment they found him in the crib until the paramedics eased him out of Chloe’s grasp. When the first paramedic, a woman with her brown hair in a bun, took the baby and wrapped it in a cloth, the baby had cried, a single, desperate note that hung in the air and then vanished on the wind. Chloe hadn’t heard it and Anthony made no mention of it. The paramedic glanced at him and then turned away. Anthony imagined that cry, must have.

The crying in the car was that single sound over and over, dragged out, exaggerated and amplified. It pounded and reverberated. Anthony screamed against it, sobbing, and almost crashed into an elderly lady stopped at a Yield sign. Anthony pulled over and cried near somebody’s bushes. He eventually called Tyler and had him come drive the car home while Anthony drove his son’s. Tyler told him to see Dr. Carroll. Anthony didn’t want the kind of relief Dr. Carroll and his prescription pad offered. There was no crying in Tyler’s car—that was relief enough.

He wasn’t going to get back into that car, hopefully ever again. It was his car he had come down here to see, visit with. It sat on two flat tires in the first car port. The windshield was completely destroyed, the crumbled pieces of glass still on the front seats and in the foot wells. The front bumper and hood was crumpled in where the car had hit a tree. The engine had given up upon impact, the mechanic said. The car was totaled, of course. But Anthony refused to let it be demolished. He paid to have it brought back here. The tow truck driver, different one from the Route 84 scene, at least—didn’t ask any questions, though his face said he was mystified as all shit. Good, let him be confused. Tyler asked about the car. “My daughter died in it,” was all Anthony said and that was all it took. No more questions.

He walked around the back of the car. The back end was unscathed. Even his bumper stickers—NEVER BELIEVE IN GENERALIZATIONS; EVERYBODY DOES BETTER WHEN EVERYBODY DOES BETTER—remained. They hadn’t even really started to peel. Delaney had taken a bowling ball to the face going sixty miles per hour and the glue on the bumper stickers hadn’t given up an ounce of strength. She hated those bumper stickers, especially, READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY.

He knelt before the bumper. An array of scrapes and minor dents where paint had started peeling speckled it; the bumper was the bruised face of one of those ultimate fighters after a match. He caressed those bumper stickers that Delaney had ridiculed. She was mortified, or at least pretended to be, to have to use his car. He was going to give her this car soon, but he knew he’d have to peel off the damn stickers. They’re just so … uhg, she said more than a few times when he pried her about what was so bad about his bumper graffiti.

The top corner of READING: EDITORS DO IT FOR MONEY was hanging loosely and Anthony grabbed it with his thumb and middle finger. He yanked on it but the tiny piece slipped from his grip. If he had taken these things off sooner, had given her the car all freshly cleaned, tuned-up, and smelling sweet, maybe things would have turned out differently. That was ridiculous, of course. How could the simple removal of stickers so substantially alter the events of the universe? They couldn’t. But what about the butterfly effect thing? Tiny wings in one place create a hurricane millions of miles away. Removing a few stupid bumper stickers could have delayed Delaney just long enough on her way to pick up her friend after stopping at Starbucks for a Tall Skinny Latte (it had been found in the car); she might have knelt before the bumper as he was doing now, even run her finger across the clean bumper and smiled, knowing how badly Dad wanted her to be happy. Instead, she took no note of the stickers coming out of the coffee shop, hopped in the car, and sped off to her death.

He grabbed the corner and tried again. The sticker wouldn’t budge. It might as well be painted on. He changed hands, changed back again, braced his free hand against the bumper for leverage, and pulled and pulled but it kept slipping and he had to keep starting over. He cursed, punched the bumper, and cursed again at the pain flaring in his knuckles. He sat back, breathing deeply, fighting off the tears.

He might have stayed that way all night, but the memory of those horrible infant cries in the other car got him moving.

He hadn’t let Delaney take Chloe’s car because he didn’t want her to be able to drive too fast. What would happen if she heard the baby crying when she was driving eighty miles per hour? She might lose control of the vehicle and plow into a tree or something.

He chuckled; he sounded like a lunatic.

The driver’s door had suffered a rippling dent (the insurance agent had used that term), so the plastic was warped in and out in a rolling ocean wave. The glass in this door had shattered as well. That had happened when the force of the bowling ball crushed her face against the headrest and then knocked what remained of her head into the driver’s window. She had died instantly, or so people told him. There was enough blood across the front seats to suggest that at least her heart kept pumping for a little while even after she lost her face.

The door opened with a metallic screech. Pebbles of breakaway glass littered the front seats, the gear shifter and the foot wells. He didn’t even consider wiping off the seat before he sat behind the wheel, which had been removed because it had collapsed onto Delaney’s lap, effectively shattering her pelvis. The airbag had deployed, the