Blind Man’S Eclipse: Stories by Jonathan P. Davis

© 2016 Jonathan P. Davis. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Todd Faris

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/12/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6568-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6631-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919911

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

IN THE HOUSE OF ABRAHAM

BEAUTY

ESCAPING FROM HEAVEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We write for different reasons. I write because I feel compelled to explore what inspires me as well as what I don't understand. I write to try to discern how light and dark coexist in this world.

I also write to find out what I think and believe. Those two places don't always align, but I gain much from---and appreciate---the exercise. By challenging and questioning our current thoughts and beliefs, we might know what can endure as truth and what might fade as fleeting feelings and concepts we cling to.

The exchange of ideas is communal; we cannot learn and grow expressing ourselves alone on an island. I owe gratitude to those who reviewed these stories and shared their honest insight into what worked and what didn't---or might not. Because of them, this book has greater potential to stir or prompt something within you.

Thank you Aideen Carrick, Robin Faris, Lisa Gaspero, Paige Hess, Jane Ricciardi, and Ann Marie Turner for lending your distinctive abilities to make this a more thorough, engaging, and stylized fictional journey.

Thank you also Todd Faris for yet another cover of exceptional power and vision. Your art tells its own moving stories while elevating what I aim to convey. I can think of few others with your singular gift.

Above all, I'm grateful to God for granting me the ability to desire more than I can achieve. You are the master artist and the source of all creation, and I thank You for allowing me to perceive and interpret Your work with the always developing reason and imagination You gave me.

IN THE HOUSE OF ABRAHAM

T he condemned man slumped in front of the large, silver gurney. The prison guards to either side of him held him up. His breathing shortened. The chaplain touched his shoulder.

Be strong, Quentin, he said. Very soon, the pain of this world will be behind you, and you will be at rest with the Father.

The guards removed Quentin's blue work shirt and laid him on the gurney.

His hands clasped behind his back, the warden observed from between the gurney and the guard standing just inside the death-chamber door.

The guards bound Quentin's body and legs with the broad, thick leather straps and their large, silver buckles. They strapped each bare arm to the boards extending from the sides of the gurney. The warden checked each fastened restraint.

Quentin looked at his faint reflection in the expansive witness-room window. That really was him: Quentin William Simms, thirty-seven, divorced, father of two. Ex--auto shop worker with a two-inch scar on his upper left cheek---he'd been told by some it had appeal. Convicted rapist and killer and a pale, gaunt shell of his former self. His reflection stared back from its supine crucifix pose.

A tear formed in his left eye. The chaplain wiped it away.

My daughter's ballet slippers, Quentin said, his voice quick and airy, make sure she doesn't lose them, okay? That girl can't keep track of anything.

The chaplain held his hand and squeezed it.

And Nathan, he'll be alright if he gets that math tutor, Quentin said, trying to laugh. His mouth was pasty and dry. He can be a smart kid, man, you know, he just needs the extra help.

The chaplain nodded.

Quentin forced a smile.

The guards left the chamber. The two members of the medical team entered.

And Darlene, Quentin said, please, after I'm gone, keep praying that she forgives me. His Adam's apple bobbed. She loved me once, and this is all I gave her back.

The medics swabbed him with alcohol and inserted the IVs into each arm. The lines ran through the holes in the wall between the chamber and the anteroom.

The anticoagulant solution began to flow. The initial saline solution soon followed.

The warden checked the restraints again and stood at the head of the gurney. The chaplain let go of Quentin's hand, stepped back, and stood to the side.

Oh, God, Quentin said. His body trembled and twitched.

The medics positioned the monitors on his bare chest and left.

The warden moved toward the door. The guard opened it. The warden spoke with the assistant secretary stationed outside.

He returned.

No stay.

He moved to the witness-room window and knocked on it.

Knuckles rapped on the other side. The warden drew back the curtain.

He nodded at the chamber's one-way mirror. A boom mike descended from the ceiling. He reached for it.

At this time, we will carry out the legal execution of Quentin W. Simms, he said into it. Does the condemned have any last words he'd like to share?

Yes, warden, Quentin said. His eyes were red and glassy. I do have something to say.

The warden pulled on the mike to extend the cord. He placed the mike so it hovered over Quentin's face. Quentin lifted his head toward it.

He cleared his voice and swallowed thickly.

The dead girl's parents stood at the back of the witness room, their faces flat and grim. The father held the mother close with an arm around her shoulder.

Quentin glanced to the bottom right of the window. His mother leaned forward in her chair with her elbows on her knees and her hands praying against her forehead.

He had no idea where his father might be.

Darlene sat next to his mother with her legs straight out and her hands pressed flat between them. Her face was an indifferent mask.

She loved me once, and this is all I gave her back.

At least she hadn't brought their children.

He thought of the last time he'd felt warmth toward her and shown it, the only genuine emotion he could recall before everything went incredibly wrong.

I... He cleared his voice again. "I...I want to say to you all what I'm sure you expect and don't care to hear.

I'm sorry for what I did years ago, and if there's anything I could do to change the past, I would. I was a stupid young man full of rage and pain and drugs when I did what I did, and what I did was horrible.

He licked his cracking lips with his slab of a tongue.

I've had a lot of time to think about the monster I was, and how selfish and evil I had become. Nothing can bring her back. Nothing can change what I have put you through.

He paused. The intervening silence sucked the air into an invisible hole.

I can only hope that my death might give you some peace, he said. It won't return your loved one to you, but it will pay the price you ask for. I...I want you to know before I leave that I have given my heart to God and prayed for His forgiveness.

Tears streaked past his temples.

Most of all, perhaps if someday you stop hating me, I ask you to remember that before my life went bad and all of this happened, I was a man, a human being like you.

The girl's father shook his head.

I committed one heinous act in my life, and it defined my life. Before I go, please know that I return your hate with love. I will do all I can to be a light on the other side, if it is God's will that I be with Him there.

He looked from the chaplain to the warden to the window.

You may never, ever believe me, but I am truly sorry.

The girl's father let go of the mother and stormed toward the window. He slammed his palms against it.

Fuck you, Simms! His words were muffled through the glass. Burn in hell where you belong!

Quentin looked toward his mother again. If only the chamber would stop moving---reality had already begun to bend in his vision. He thought she might be resting against Darlene's shoulder, her face in her hands.

Several others appeared to be in the witness room too. Three sat in the back row---probably the girl's friends or siblings. Another few, maybe media, stood along the back wall. Was that the attorney general too? There might have also been some citizens who wanted to watch.

That looked like his old buddy Jake right behind Darlene. He was the only one who'd ever stayed in touch with him. They'd been friends since second grade.

Red rover, red rover, let Quentin come over

Was Jake looking at him? Or was he hanging his head?

The damn room just wouldn't slow down.

Quentin looked at the warden.

That's all, he said.

The warden gestured to the one-way mirror. The boom mike retracted back into the ceiling.

Quentin let his head fall against the thin pillow beneath it. He closed his eyes to squeeze out more tears.

Still facing the mirror, the warden tapped his left forearm with the first two fingers of his right hand.

Is this going to hurt? Quentin said.

The warden turned toward him.

It's not supposed to, he said.

Quentin's eyes became even more red. He smiled faintly. A thin string of saliva stretched between his slightly parted lips.

Do you think the Lord will forgive me?

That's between you and Him, Quentin.

Quentin tried to smile more but couldn't.

I had two nice kids, he said. I did at least one good thing for this world, didn't I?

The warden looked away.

I don't know, Quentin. Let's hope so.

The executioners behind the chamber wall administered the 5.0 grams of pentobarbital that would put him to sleep.

The chaplain bent his head in quiet prayer. He then backed away toward the door.

Quentin's eyelids became heavy and closed. His jaw sagged.

After the flush of the lines with the sterile saline solution, the 50cc of pancuronium bromide flowed into the stream to paralyze his muscles and collapse his lungs and diaphragm.

Quentin coughed and sputtered. His breath let out---the sound of air squeezed from a balloon.

His mother sobbed. No one in the chamber could hear her.

The girl's father returned to the mother and pulled her even closer to him.

Another saline flush followed. The final 50cc of potassium chloride arrived to shut down Quentin's heart.

His mother wailed and fell to the floor. Darlene stooped down over her.

The medics re-entered the chamber. One of them checked Quentin's chest with a stethoscope and shone a light in his eyes.

He looked at his watch.

Six twenty-five, he said in a low voice to the warden.

The warden nodded.

The boom mike descended from the ceiling again. He reached for it.

At approximately six twenty-five p.m. on March twenty-first, the execution of Quentin W. Simms was carried out in accordance with the laws of the state, he said into the mike.

It retracted back into the ceiling. Knuckles rapped on the other side of the one-way mirror.

The warden closed the curtain.

Quentin's face began to show the first signs of blue.

The medics removed the IVs and unstrapped him.

Two guards entered the chamber with the gurney for the funeral home. The medics transferred him to it.

The warden, guards, medics, and chaplain left with the gurney, returning the chamber to silence.

The last of Quentin's teardrops dried on the floor.

R ockton State Penitentiary Warden Clifton Caldwell III cut a piece of his beef tenderloin and ate it with quiet intent. His wife took a mouthful of balsamic green beans and set her fork on the china plate with a gentle clink. Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 1 swam around them at a low volume.

So, she said solemnly. How did it go?

He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his red linen napkin.

The execution?

She slid her hand around her wine glass, looked at it, and nodded.

Efficient, he said. It was over in good time.

She sipped her wine.

I still think he'd changed through the years, she said. He became a different person. I believe his conversion to faith was real.

Who? Simms? Why wouldn't he repent? He got caught and had to go to the table. It's easy to change and be sorry when all you have left is a cell and an expiration date.

He cut more of his steak.

They're all liars, he said, pointing his fork at her. Or they wouldn't be on death row.

She looked to the side. Both of them listened to Mahler.

I don't know, she said, it's like we've talked about all along. Is the sum of a man just one act or a series of acts he commits? He might make awful choices, and he should be punished for them. It doesn't have to mean that we provide a final solution.

Six billion people on Earth, Brenda, Clifton said. Most of them get through struggle, dysfunction, disappointment, and even tragedy without the need to kill.

He sipped his own glass of wine, a Cabernet Sauvignon.

I understand that, Cliff. There are some who are beyond redemption. Then there are those like Simms. What he did was horrific. But maybe life in jail would have been better.

Clifton set down his glass.

It's not our problem, Brenda. He rang up a debt to society. A vetted, impartial jury decided he had to pay it in full. If he hadn't killed the girl, he wouldn't have been on the table.

She looked off to the side again. Her eyes became thoughtful and distant.

It's still always so sad to me, she said. Even though they deserve it. At some point we have to ask ourselves about vengeance. She paused. Light can't shine where we board the doors and windows.

He took another bite of steak and chewed slowly. His neatly trimmed moustache moved with his mouth.

Tell that to the victims' families, he said. Do I need to remind you of what Simms was guilty of?

The chandelier light reflected from his wireframe glasses.

She was seventeen, he said. Four hours she suffered his abuse before he shot her four times. You don't think he got what he deserved?

She looked down.

It closes the case for the family, he said. It delivers justice and hangs the price tag on evil. What if that happened to Danielle? We've talked about this.

You know I've stood behind you through the years, she said. It's always made some kind of sense. But something about Simms made me think that we can punish without killing. Forgive without granting a pardon. He could have shared and spread his faith, and that might have changed other lives in prison. We just don't know.

Clifton focused on his plate.

Maybe there's a divide between God's will and what we're doing down here, Brenda said. Maybe God's plan was for Simms to reform himself and fulfill a purpose in prison. Maybe we got in the way of that.

Clifton placed his wrists on the edge of the table.

Damn, Brenda, he said. I think Danielle's getting into your head.

She cut a piece of her steak.

She called today, by the way, she said. She's coming in to visit next month on the twenty-ninth.

He cut again as well.

Is Dan coming with her? he said.

She shook her head.

He's staying behind at the mission. Melissa and Jacob are staying back too. She'll be here by herself.

Very well, he said. But you know how I feel about the last time she was here. At least it'll be just her.

Dan's a wonderful man, she said. He's been a great husband, and such a good father.

Of course, he said. But he's also very left wing for a Christian. Sometimes those people just don't know when to keep their opinions to themselves. He patted his mouth and moustache with his napkin. Same goes for the right wing. But at least they're not on my back all the time.

Her eyes moved as she looked at him.

It's my job, Brenda, he said. Somebody needs to take care of the uglier problems. Somebody needs to wake up with them and manage them. He leaned toward her with his elbow on the table. Less than five percent of the U.S. population is incarcerated. But good lord, the damage they can do if we don't lock them up and watch them. And sometimes kill them too.

She nodded and looked away.

Mahler moved into a different symphony. They ate quietly and listened awhile.

She smoothed her napkin in her lap and cleared her voice.

Christopher called, she said.

Clifton stopped chewing.

And? he said. What did he want?

He said he needed five hundred dollars for rent and food.

He tilted his head. The chandelier light filled his lenses.

Of course you told him no.

I told him you and I would talk it over.

He shifted his head out of the overhead glare.

Well, we talked it over and the answer is no.

But...well...maybe we could send just a little, she said, her voice slightly breaking. Just so he can eat. He's always so hungry.

Clifton's face hardened.

The answer is still no. You know what he does with the money, Brenda. We can't be a crutch no matter how bad it gets. I love him. But we cannot be his enablers. He's humiliated us too many times. You and I both know he won't heal until he hits bottom and decides for himself he's had enough and wants to change.

The mist of tears formed in her eyes.

But he's our son, Cliff.

He looked at the food that remained on his plate.

He is our son, he said, looking at her. He's also a helpless slave to addiction. At some point, every man has to account for himself. There's nothing else we can do.

She dropped her head and looked away.

The movements of Mahler grew louder as they finished eating without words.

T he cockroach stopped at his chin. When it sensed no imminent danger, it scurried over his face toward the dinner of dander and week-old cheese on the other side of his greasy, matted hair.

A boot toe nudged him. He didn't wake, so it nudged him again.

One eye broke from its glue and slowly opened.

He looked at the brown-leather cowboy boots with the emblems of serpents engraved in the sides.

Wake up, Christopher, said the baritone voice from above. There's a whole world out there. The sun's been shining for hours, for Christ's sake.

The tall man pulled down on a cracking, splitting vinyl retractable window shade and raised it halfway.

Christopher squinted at the light, rolled onto his back, and rubbed his eyes with balled fists. He dragged himself up to his butt on the thin and bare floor mattress surrounded by syringes. Part of his button-down shirt from Goodwill stuck to the mattress. He didn't know why and didn't care. Jesse was here, and that meant another possible fix.

Jesse stooped. His boots squeaked and his knee joints cracked beneath his faded jeans.

Christopher's constricted pupils continued to battle the glare. Jesse's long, strong, and boxing-scarred face came into focus. The low brim of his black Stetson obscured his sunglasses.

He reached into the left breast pocket of his blue denim jacket and removed a tiny ziplock pouch with China white powder inside. He held it up between his thumb and index finger and shook it.

Is this what you're thinking about right now, or do you want to eat a real breakfast like a real human being before you get started?

Christopher stared at the pouch. His mouth became even drier and his heart began to drum. His lost eyes swam in their deep, black-circled sockets.

He reached for the pouch.

Jesse soft-slapped his hand.

Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.

Christopher glanced away from him and looked around the room. More syringes. Matchbooks and lighters. Empty and half-empty beer bottles. Vodka, gin, and whiskey bottles. Dried pools of urine. Crumpled potato-chip bags bleeding trails of crumbs. Dirty and deserted socks. Loose clumps of tangled cat fur. Burned silver spoons and aluminum foil. Somebody's wallet---empty.

In the corner, Toby the tomcat stared at him from his bed, the lid of a medium-sized cardboard box. Right next to it, his litter box remained full of the feces that hadn't been scooped in more than a week.

Janiese started to awaken on Christopher's side of the room. Theo and Marionetta still slept in their stupors on their mattresses opposite them.

Christopher sat back and leaned on his arms.

The litter box, he mumbled.

Jesse shrugged.

What about it?

It...it needs...we need to clean it. It stinks in here.

Jesse laughed.

Whose fault do you think that is, junkie? Get off your ass and do something about it. You guys want a pet, you have to take care of the goddamn thing.

Toby licked his gray and grungy coat. He paused and looked at Christopher through his cloudy eyes, one of them red and damaged.

The cat wasn't my idea, Christopher said.

Who cares, Jesse said. There's four of you. Work it out.

He leaned forward with his head and sniffed.

I don't know what smells worse, you or the cat.

He drew back.

You need a shower and a toothbrush, man. A change of clothes wouldn't hurt, either.

Christopher's face remained blank. He stared at the pouch and blinked.

Jesse placed it back in his jacket pocket.

Please, Christopher said. Jesse...

You're in to me for over a grand, Jesse said. You know how I feel about credit lines. I've been very generous to you.

Christopher's eyes remained fixed on the pocket hiding the pouch.

Wouldn't you agree? Jesse said.

Christopher broke from his trance and nodded.

Yes.

Jesse stood up and put his hands on his hips.

"Well, what are we going to do about it? This is supposed to be a fair exchange. I give you your shit, you pay me the half price I charge you for it. If you were out on the street you'd be in to some stone-cold dealer for over two thousand and probably dead in a Dumpster by now. You're trying to make a fool out of me, and I don't like it. You want to hit again, you have to pay up. In full. He pointed down at him. No more favors."

The panic bell rang in Christopher's mind.

The dragon with butterfly wings was already coming back out.

Please, Jesse, just one hit for today. Just one. That's all, I promise. Just one hit and you'll get your thousand dollars.

Jesse smiled.

Nope. Not this time.

He reached into his pocket, took out the pouch, and shook it again.

It's right here, Christopher. Hell, I want you to have it.

Come on Chris just do whatever you have to and we'll get off so hard you'll break into pieces of light and the pain in your soul will be gone

Please, Jesse, Christopher said. Please, don't do this to me. I just have to get through today. Just today---I swear. I know I've said that before, but this time I mean it. Swear to God.

Jesse looked at the pouch and pursed his lips.

"Please," Christopher said.

Jesse hung his head and shook it.

He looked up.

You know, I should have my head checked, having a heart for people like you, he said. And you really shouldn't bring God into this.

Christopher's eyes widened and sparked.

Here's what we're going to do, Jesse said. "I'm going to give you this"---he waggled the pouch---"and you're going to do this."

He reached inside his jacket and removed a stiletto switchblade. He squatted, opened it, and held it sideways to Christopher's neck.

You're going to use the powder however you want over two days. By the end of those two days, you will pay me twelve hundred dollars. If you don't, I will sink this into you. If you ask me for any more shit between now and then, I will sink this into you. I will then carve you up and make sure it's a long time before anyone finds you. He paused. Do you understand?

Christopher looked into his sunglasses. He couldn't see his eyes.

He nodded.

Yes, he said softly.

Yes, what?

Yes, I will get you your money in two days.

Jesse ran the tip of the blade along the bottom curve of Christopher's chin.

He smiled and stood back up.

Good. So we have a deal then.

He threw the pouch into Christopher's lap. Christopher snatched it.

Jesse turned toward Janiese, who was now awake and staring at them.

What about you, sunshine? he said.

Her eyes bulged within her round and haggard black face that should have been pretty.

Yes, daddy, she said. Baby need a fix.

I thought you might, he said.

He removed his jacket and set it on the weathered wood chair against the wall between her mattress and Christopher's. He approached her and undid his jeans.

Janiese blinked several times, licked her dry lips, and moved toward him on her knees.

Jesse looked over his shoulder at Christopher.

Two days.

Christopher looked at Janiese. She glanced at him with empty, starving eyes.

You can watch if you want, Jesse said. Too bad for you you weren't born a girl.

I 'll take two, Samuel said.

He discarded two cards from his hand. They landed and slid on the round and polished oak table.

Jeffrey peeled two cards off the top of the deck.

You got shit, Necktie, he said. What about you, Pufferfish?

Patrick leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin, and stared at his cards. He tapped his chin several times.

Gimme three, he said.

I say the man's got two twos, Jeffrey said. See-Through?

Richard sat calmly and straight, his mouth a thin line.

He made a loop with his right thumb and forefinger.

I'll take zero, he said.

Jeffrey looked at the others.

Do you believe this guy?

Richard shrugged.

Jeffrey shook his head and considered his own hand.

I'll take four, goddamn it.

Richard smiled.

Yeah, go ahead and get happy, Jeffrey said. I'm not the one who whistles through his chest every time the wind blows.

Clifton glanced back at them from his desk in the opposite corner across the room. The sun had sunk hours before, and he hadn't turned on the infernal lights. He worked by the glow from his desk lamp and computer monitor.

Would you mind? he said. I'm up to my chin in correspondence over here. I would appreciate some peace and quiet.

Jeffrey looked back at him over his shoulder.

Seriously, Clifton said. Why do you always have to do this when I'm busy?

Since when do you have a say? Jeffrey said. You're in charge on that side. We're in charge on this side. Call it a perk of having to die.

Clifton shook his head and pushed air through his nose.

You really are a nuisance, he said.

Hey, technically you're a killer too, bro, so deal with the consequences, Jeffrey said. We do. He regarded the other three. Am I right?

All three looked at Clifton and nodded.

Clifton returned to his e-mails.

Talk all you want, he said. You can pester me the rest of my life. It's not going to change anything.

Jeffrey smirked at him.

Okay, fellas, let's roll, he said. Necktie?

Samuel threw his cards face down onto the table.

Done.

Yeah, that's what I thought, Jeffrey said. Pufferfish?

Patrick looked back and forth from his cards to the pot in the middle. He set his cards down and pushed all but one stack of his chips forward with both hands.

Those are some bull-swingin' balls, buddy, Jeffrey said.

Patrick shrugged.

Richard's eyes wheeled from his hand to the pot to Patrick's chips.

Nope, he said.

He threw his cards down.

Wimp, Jeffrey said.

He looked across the table at Patrick.

Me and you, big boy.

Jeffrey studied his hand.

Okay, he said. I'll see it.

He pushed in what remained of his chips.

Let's see what you got.

Patrick set down his cards in a fan.

Four jacks, he said.

Jeffrey looked at the cards and then at Patrick.

Bummer, he said.

Patrick leaned forward.

Jeffrey set his cards on the table.

'Cuz you lose! Straight flush, bitch.

Patrick leaned all the way back and put his hands behind his head.

Jeffrey scooped up the pot and started creating new stacks.

So, Cliff, that was a pretty nice execution yesterday, he said. You're truly a pro.

Clifton continued to type.

Wish I'd had it as easy, Jeffrey said.