Gun Church

Jean-Jacques Beauchamp, the Engagin’ Cajun, was chairman of the English Department at Brixton County Community College: a job nearly as prestigious as being the head shit-shoveler behind a circus parade. And while Beauchamp’s fall from grace wasn’t quite as precipitous as mine, it was plenty steep. Thirty years ago, he’d been hailed as the next Faulkner, which, in a literary sense, was like being hailed as the next Babe Ruth. What a curse to hang on someone. Now the only thing J. J. Beauchamp did like Faulkner was drink. He had once been quite a handsome man, but the drink had robbed him of more than his talent. Any shred of vanity had gone the way of his depleted liver. I liked J. J. and he liked me. We were kindred spirits. Neither of us bothered pretending we were anywhere but where we were or that a single thing we’d accomplished mattered more in the scheme of things than a swatted fly.

“Chairman Beauchamp will be with you shortly,” said his famously unfriendly secretary, Miss Crouch. Her mien matched her manner.

“Fine,” I think I said. I wasn’t paying much attention.

The ground hadn’t stopped shifting under my feet simply because Renee had returned to my house and to my bed. I still couldn’t make sense of her veiled warning about getting out of town and, no matter how I prodded and cajoled, she continued to be disinclined to help me understand. I recalled that Renee had suggested I leave Brixton once before, a few months back when Meg had first called to discuss the rights deal. It hadn’t seemed like a warning then. It did now. Look, it was easy to understand why she might think it a wise idea for me to get out of Brixton, but why would she want me to do it in the middle of the night, to just get in my car and go? That was the part I couldn’t get my head around. Did she have a jealous ex-lover I didn’t know about? Was Stan Petrovic making threats that hadn’t yet gotten back to me? I didn’t know what to think. Beyond that, I was worried that I’d hurt Renee by admitting I didn’t love her, worried even more that she had come back to me knowing it.

Maybe some of the ground shifting had to do with the fact that we were coming to the end of the fall term. Final papers were due in a few days and the new term would begin in mid-January. Maybe the end of the term had something to do with Renee and Jim’s recent confusing behavior. Were they worried that the end of the term would mean a severing of the bonds between us? Were they distancing themselves from me before I could do it to them? Maybe so and maybe they were right. For even as I sat there, trying to make sense of the last week, these past few months, the last seven years, it dawned on me that it was useless to pretend things hadn’t changed. During my early morning run, I realized that no matter how little New York City felt like home, neither did Brixton, not really. It was clear to me that the subtle and not so subtle changes I’d noticed in Renee and Jim since my return were a kind of blessing. A blessing because it disabused me of whatever fantasies of domestic and rustic bliss these last few months had engendered.

How long did I think playing house with the St. Pauli Girl was actually going to last, especially after our little chat the other night? She was back now, but for how long? How long would it be until it wasn’t enough for her? A week? Two? A month? Six, at most? Could I envision another seven years of shooting in the woods with Jim? Me, I never had to grow up-academia was Never-Never Land without Smee and Hook-but Jim would grow up. Brixton made its inhabitants grow up. Even if Cutthroat turned into a bimonthly event, it would become like any other high. It would flatten out, get old, get boring.

Frankly, Jim had scared the shit out of me with this change of weapons thing. I wanted to live long enough to finish my book, to spend my money, to see Amy again. When I thought about it, I just could not imagine facing another crop of student-zombies and their illiterate ramblings. I hadn’t been much of a teacher to begin with and I didn’t think I had it in me to fake it for very much longer, not now that I was a writer again. And finally, there was my own uneasiness about being found out, and the sense that the world I lived in and the one I created weren’t really so far apart.

“The chairman will see you now, Professor Weiler.”

When I walked into his office, J. J. Beauchamp was seated at his desk, pouring himself a tall bourbon of questionable heritage. Some of his straggly gray hair nearly got to taste the cheap whiskey before he did.

“Well, fuck me if it ain’t the great man his own self, Kip Weiler,” Beauchamp said, a broad smile on his face. “Drink?”

“No thanks, Chef.”

“Chef! Mondieu. Kip, you call me chef, it mean you wantin’ sometin’ from me, non?” Beauchamp slipped easily into his childhood patois. “If not a drink, what it is, then?”

“A sabbatical.”

“Next fall should be no problem. I’ll have Miss Congeniality start drawing up the papers.”

“Not next fall, J. J. Next term.”

“Little late in the day for dat, ami, non?”

“I know, but I got it coming. More than that, I need it.”

“Not to get too technical about it, Kip, but you’re supposed to give me some more notice than this.”

“I’m not fucking around with you, Chef. If I didn’t need it, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Porquoi?”

“The truth or the horseshit?”

He laughed. “There’s a difference? From where I sit it’s hard to divine the one from the other. Why don’t you say your piece and I’ll cipher out what I need to know.”

“I just signed a book deal with Travers Legacy.”

“Is that the horseshit?” he asked.

“No, J. J., that’s the truth.”

He jumped out of his chair and threw his big arms around me. He kissed both of my cheeks. His breath smelled strongly of bourbon. “Well, kiss my fat Cajun ass. Congratulations. Do I get a free copy?”

“Two.”

“Then you let ol’ J. J. worry ’bout dat sabbatical. I’ll say you requested it last term and I lost the paperwork. You may have to come back in and fill out some forms, but I know some folk who owe dis ol’ Cajun beaucoup favor.” He winked at me. “A man doesn’t chair a department in a shithole like this without people owing him.”

“Thanks, J. J.”

“Forget dat. You go finish dat book, ami. Where you going to?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, then, just go get there.” He waved his hands at me to leave. As I turned to go, he was on the intercom asking Miss Crouch to come into his office.

It had snowed again that afternoon, lightly, but enough to evoke memories of the night we drove to the old berry farm for Cutthroat. Jim didn’t take that turn away from the river and we were clearly headed to our usual spot in the woods above the falls. Jim wasn’t very talkative and that suited me fine. I was feeling a little like a man who’d just pulled the rug out from under his own feet and found myself wishing that J. J. Beauchamp had been less amenable to my request for a sabbatical. I was okay until J. J. asked the question about where I was going.

I didn’t think I could stay in Brixton and hope everything-my writing, playing house, running, and shooting- would somehow return to the way it had been before I’d gone to New York. It had already changed. I had already changed and recognized there was no going back. Once you learn how a magician does his tricks, you can’t regain your innocence. There were a lot of places I could go to other than New York, but even I knew that going anywhere else would just be running away. In my gut I understood that if there was such a thing as destiny, I was going to find it there, not here or some other town or city in which I’d first be establishing myself.

Even when we got to the bluff by the falls and began our trek up the hill, we didn’t have much to say to each other. That changed when we got to our usual spot. He asked me if everything was all right.

“Got a lot on my mind,” is all I said.

“Like what?”

I wasn’t going to mention the sabbatical, not to Jim, not now, but he had known Renee longer than me and, according to her, they’d dated a few times. I figured it was safe enough to ask him some questions.

“Do you know if everything’s okay with Renee?”

“Why?” he said, pressing rounds into the Browning’s clip.