THE BOOK OF JOSHUA by J. Hardy Carroll
Whosoever he be that doth rebel against thy commandment, and will not hearken unto thy words in all that thou commandest him, he shall be put to death: only be strong and of a good courage.
THE MAN AT THE AMERICINN would not take cash. “I am afraid I need a major credit card, sir,” he said in an Indian accent. He looked afraid, white eyes jutting and forehead glistening. He kept his hand poised above the keyboard of his AmericInn computer, ready for my information.
I realized was staring at him. “Of course,” I said, and reached for my wallet. It came out with a little pop, fat with credit cards, debit cards, business cards, receipts for wine and bookstores and dinners out, drawings by both of my daughters, a photo of my wife, punch cards from coffee shops and burrito stands.
He slid my card through his cash register. The printer under the counter chattered and spat like a cartoon child eating corn on the cob.
Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law
And ye, in any wise keep yourselves from the accursed thing, lest ye make yourselves accursed, when ye take of the accursed thing, and make the camp of Israel a curse, and trouble it.
The room was a beige rectangle. Bed, chair, desk, closet. A framed print of the alphabet hung over the bed. Something about it seemed wrong. I looked closely. It had two Rs. Did somebody not proofread art? I wondered how many of these flawed prints were hanging in AmericInns all over the country. Probably thousands.
I once saw a show about hotel rooms where they used a black light to show how disgusting they are, so I pulled down the bedspread to reveal the fuzzy blue blanket and white sheets. I sat. The mattress made a cheap sound as it collapsed with my weight. A tag stuck out from beneath the bottom sheet. I bent to read it.
UNDER PENALTY OF LAW
THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED
EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER
Who consumes a mattress?
ALL NEW MATERIAL CONSISTING OF
URETHANE FOAM 95%
SYNTHETIC FIBERS 5%
2004
I tore off the tag and threw it in the trash.
We Have Champagne
And it shall be, when ye have taken the city, that ye shall set the city on fire: according to the commandment of the LORD shall ye do. See, I have commanded you.
My day began with a terrible hangover. Some of my wife’s friends from school had come out to our farmhouse for dinner the night before. I'd served whiskey sours followed by so many bottles of wine that we forgot to eat. I went outside and built a bonfire in the yard. We passed a bottle of bourbon around while we watched the blaze. After a while, all the wood was used up. I got the chairs off the porch and threw them in. When they were gone, I grabbed anything that would burn––my daughter’s wagon, rakes and shovels, a bag of bark dust. Finally I pulled our redwood picnic table across the yard and set it so it straddled the fire. It wouldn’t catch, so I got the gas can from the garage and poured it on. There was an enormous ball of orange flame that blossomed into the night air. We cheered and clapped.
My youngest daughter came down to see what all the noise was about. I put her in my lap and told her about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicking over the lantern and starting the Great Chicago Fire while I drank whiskey from a half-gallon bottle. I don't remember what happened after.
I woke up in bed, shirtless and alone. The taste of vomit in my throat, head brimming with pain. Cup of pain, I thought, and sat up, dizzy and sick. I’d had enough. This was it.
I’m never going to drink again.
I stood in the shower with my head bowed and the water racing over me. No soap, no shampoo. The water turned cold. I got out and dried myself with the pink towel, stepped over the bucket of bath toys. I dressed and went downstairs. In the kitchen I made an Alka-Seltzer in one of the little whiskey glasses from my bachelor days. I watched the tablets dissolve, picked up the glass and drank it down.
My wife was sitting on the living room couch with my youngest daughter and our friend Dmitri. She turned to me, eyes swimming. “We have champagne!” she said, waving the bottle and her glass, a wedding flute engraved with our initial. “Dmitri and I went to the Walgreens and got some! Sit down!”
Dmitri turned and smiled at me, waved his glass too. They were watching a collection of old Fleischer color cartoons from the 30s, a DVD I ordered off Amazon. “These old cartoons are great! Come watch with us. Grab a glass.”
I stood behind the couch and watched. An old couple from the sticks was going to the World’s Fair. A bunch of robots were sprucing them up, the robot brooms and powder puffs and hair clippers circling around them and making them look shiny and new. Even the old dray horse was changed, given a hat and a seat of honor on the new car that had once been the wagon.
I was filled with a sudden, ungovernable rage. I went to the back door and out into the yard, strode past the still-smoldering fire pit with the wreck of the table collapsed into it, plastic chairs strewn about in a rough circle, the singed grass littered with bottles and cigarette butts.
I went to my car and picked the keys off the dash, started it up and backed out onto the dirt road. A spume of gravel and dust hid the house from me as I sped away.
Kelley Blue Book
And Joshua burnt Ai, and made it an heap for ever, even a desolation unto this day.
I have a 1982 Porsche 911 coupe in a color that Porsche calls “beige,” but I call “bronze.” It has a sunroof and a three liter engine with a single overhead camshaft. The spoiler has been broken since my wife fell against it last summer, and my attempts to repair it with Bond-O only made it worse. The sunroof doesn’t close and the motor runs rough because I can’t afford to take her to the Porsche mechanic. The other mechanic says he doesn’t have the special Porsche tools.
When my daughter was very little, she would only sleep in the car. I drove her around for hours through the various small towns near where we live. I would buy a pint of whiskey at a gas station and pour it into a can of energy drink, sipping while I drove. Quality time, I called it.
The Porsche was a gift from my father-in-law. It was his baby, very low miles and superbly maintained. He gave it to us as a wedding present, whispering to me to make sure his daughter never drove it.
I am glad my father-in-law hasn’t come to visit. I would hate for him to see her now.
Save Money. Live Better.
And afterward he read all the words of the law, the blessings and cursings, according to all that is written in the book of the law.
I had no destination. I didn’t know what was next. I stopped for gas. I went inside and grabbed a bag of peanuts a couple cans of energy drink. I bought a quart of oil. I went to the ATM and withdrew the maximum amount.
I knew my Mossberg 12-gauge was in the trunk. I’d gone out a few days before and blasted some holes in an old water tank outside of town, using up three boxes of shells. The exit for the mall was just ahead. I could swing into the Walmart and pick up some ammo, just in case. I parked at the far end of the lot next to a shrinking hill of black ice left by the snowplows. I walked past minivans and campers. My light jacket was inadequate in the chill air, but spring was right around the corner.
The doors snicked open revealing pyramids of Easter baskets and candy flanking the spacious aisles. There were several groups of Amish pushing shopping carts. The men wore collarless shirts and severe jackets. The women wore identical dresses and doilies on their heads. I saw more of them in the back, near the electronics. I'd heard the Amish were allowed to buy burner cellphones to use in certain circumstances.
I walked to the sporting goods section. Tents and coolers, a forest of fishing rods, sleeping bags and mattress pads. At the far end was a kiosk with pistols and knives displayed in a locked glass case. A blue-vested man stood with arms crossed in front of a half-empty rack of shotguns and small-caliber rifles styled to look like combat weapons. He uncrossed his arms as I approached, seeming to ready himself for something. I smiled and he smiled back, his teeth yellow beneath the gray mustache.
"Help you?" he said. His name tag said
Fred
Associate
Save Money. Live Better
"I need some 12 gauge shells," I said. "Remington, if you got 'em."
"Bird or buck?"
"Buck, I guess," I said, resisting the urge to talk about the various loads and the damage they could do. When I'd shot the tank, I'd used slugs, the tremendous power of the shells slamming the shotgun stock into my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Get 'em while they're hot," he said, placing the green and gold box on the counter. "Word come down we're discontinuing firearms in this store come next month. That's why the stock is down."
"I'll take one more, I guess."
"That all? Because come the first, you won't see them at this price."
"Two should do it," I said.
"Suit yourself," he said.
He rang me up without further comment. I got the sense he was disappointed in me.
The Secret to Staying Young
That they feared greatly, because Gideon was a great city, as one of the royal cities, and because it was greater than Ai, and all the men thereof were mighty.
In the parking lot, I opened the hood and set the boxes of shells next to the padded shotgun case. My hangover was creeping up on me. I got in the car and popped open one of the energy drinks and guzzled it down.
The highway was studded with signs for tiny towns I knew from experience were a long way to the north or south. Sometimes there would be a gas station and then nothing for miles and miles until you finally reached the town. Green Castle, Mingo, Lamb’s Grove. They sounded like they would be interesting places, but weren’t.
In every town, no matter how small, there was at least one bar. I liked going to these places when I drove my daughter around. She would wake up and I’d stop in the next town, taking the car seat in with me and setting it on the bar, dipping a straw into the chocolate milk I ordered for her and eye-dropping it into her little mouth.
When she got older, we’d sit in a booth. She had her own Styrofoam cup then. I’d order her fries and a grilled cheese while I drank whiskey and beer before we’d set out for home. She was usually asleep again by the time we got back, so I’d sit idling in the driveway until she woke up. I would carry her up the stairs in my arms and tell my wife of all the things we’d seen and done in our travels. Most of what I told her was untrue.
A wave of fatigue washed over me, my headache bobbing in its wake like a bell buoy. I reached for the other can of energy drink, opened it and sipped. My sour stomach heaved. A sign ahead said
AMERICINN––NEXT EXIT
The motel was just off the highway. It looked brand new, the parking lot a gleaming black with glacier-white lines ghosted with spray-paint halos. I parked out front and reached my messenger bag from the tiny back seat.
The miniature lobby had a counter, two gold-upholstered chairs, a coffee table with a vase of artificial flowers and a rack of tourism brochures for local attractions. A doorbell mounted on a little wood platform screwed to the counter had a sign beneath:
RING BELL IF UNATTENDED
I heard a TV in another room, somebody selling something to a lot of enthusiastic people. I rang the bell and the Indian man with the jutting eyes came out. He wore a blue shirt of a thin fabric that looked good with his skin. I told him I would only be staying for one night. He said if I wanted to stay longer, I could save ten dollars. I told him no and then we talked about the credit card.
After I signed the charge slip, I saw that a fortune had fallen out of my wallet. Whenever I eat Chinese food, I save the cookie fortune. Over the years I have amassed quite a number of them. I picked up the fortune off the carpet and read it.
THE SECRET TO STAYING YOUNG IS LYING ABOUT YOUR AGE.
I remembered getting that fortune and laughing, reading it out loud. I don’t remember who I was with, or what restaurant we were in. I don’t remember if I really thought it was funny or if I was laughing just for show. It didn’t seem funny now. I put it back in my wallet.
Reason for Leaving (Required)
Ye have not left your brethren these many days unto this day, but have kept the charge of the commandment of the LORD your God.
My messenger bag contained a sketchbook, a few pens, a toothbrush and my old laptop. I'd forgotten to bring the power cord. I opened the laptop. The battery was three-quarters full.
There was a card on the nightstand that said
FREE WIRELESS INTERNET
There, written in Sharpie, was what I assumed was the password.
AMERICINN_guest
The password worked. I opened my email. Nothing. I opened Facebook. There were photos Dmitri had posted from last night. He'd tagged me in two of them. In one, I was a hulking, blurred figure pulling a picnic table toward a bonfire. In the other I was sitting in my dining room, a full wine glass in my hand, my mouth wide open and my eyes closed, my hand up in a karate chop. Again I was blurred, apparently whipping my head back and forth. I had a large wine stain on the front of my shirt. The table was a mess of bottles and glasses. In the corner of the picture I could see my wife’s shoulder. On the table was somebody’s hand. Other than that, I was the only one in the picture.
I typed into the search bar
Delete Facebook Account
Google came up with a whole page of results. The first one read: How do I permanently delete my Facebook account?
I clicked on it.
If you deactivate your account, your Timeline disappears from the Facebook service immediately. People on Facebook won’t be able to search for you, though some info, like messages you sent, may still be visible to others. We also save your Timeline information (ex: friends, photos, interests) in case you want to come back.
I followed the instructions and clicked on the link that said Deactivate your account.
I read the next page.
Are you sure you want to deactivate your account?
Deactivating your account will disable your Profile and remove your name and picture from most things you’ve shared on Facebook. Some information may still be visible to others, such as your name in their friends list and messages you sent.
Your 1,602 friends will no longer be able to keep in touch with you.
Then it listed some of the people who would miss me. My wife, Dmitri and a couple of people I didn’t know in real life.
I had to give a reason for leaving. I checked I don’t feel safe on Facebook.
I opted out of receiving future emails and clicked confirm. I had to re-enter my password one last time. Then I was done.
I closed the window.
I closed the computer.
Both the Book and Movie
And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and oliveyards which ye planted not do ye eat.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock. My stomach churned. I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I took my key card and walked out into the hallway, through the door and out into the lot. From this angle, the Porsche looked pretty good. The tires were new. I walked around the front and didn’t look at the broken spoiler as I got in.
I headed north on the rural road that fronted the motel. I passed a sign:
DONAHUE–7
A few miles later, I saw massive grain elevators and a water tower that said in blue letters:
DONAHUE
I drove past neat houses with lawns still brown in the early spring, the elegant trees bare of leaves. Along the main road was a low red building with an enormous Dutch windmill at one end. A florid sign across the front with huge red letters said OLE’S LITTLE DENMARK INN.
I wondered what windmills had to do with Denmark. The country of origin was further confused by a plywood cutout in the parking lot of a painted Dutch boy and girl bowing to one another. Three long vans with handicapped license plates were parked in a row out front.
I pulled open the door and was greeted by the powerful smells of cooking meat and cabbage, pies and strudel and hot milk, boiled onions and baking bread. The hostess wore a scarlet dirndl dress with lace sleeves. She was in her mid-seventies and wore black support hose tight around her calves. She showed me to a narrow table with two chairs facing one another.
Without asking, she removed the silverware and scalloped paper placemat opposite my chair with one hand while the other reached an amber colored water pitcher. She filled my glass. “The morbrad with rodkal is very good tonight,” she said. “We also have frikadeller and medisterpolse, plus the prime rib special. Shelly will be over with you in a minute.” She turned and left, deftly refilling waters as she went.
There was a low shelf next to my table with many different books about Iowa. I picked up the one on the end. It was a gold and white book about the size of a high school annual. On the cover was a red bridge that looked like a barn spanning a river. Beneath that it said:
IOWA’S COVERED BRIDGES: A HISTORY AND GUIDE
By
STEPHEN G. MEANS
There was a sticker affixed to the front in the shape of a glowing sun. It was red with white letters that read:
THE INSPIRATION FOR THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY
(BOTH THE BOOK AND THE MOVIE)
It had slick pages with black and white photographs of Iowa's covered bridges alongside dense blocks of text. The front of the book was inscribed:
To Ole and Donna—thanks for the wonderful meal. Velbekomme!
–Stephen G Means
His signature was enormous and looping with a John Hancock flourish beneath it.
The waitress came. She wore regular clothes and looked tired. She told me the specials again.
I ordered one without asking what it was. She asked me if I wanted something from the bar. I said no. As she left, I asked for a cup of coffee. She brought it along with rolls and butter and soup. When I was done with these she brought me a little dish of pink cabbage and a little dish of cottage cheese along with more water. I ate the cabbage and cottage cheese together, sprinkling them with pepper. She brought me a giant plate of meatballs in a brown sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy and pickled beets. She asked if I wanted another roll and I said yes, and when she brought it I slathered it with butter and dipped it in the gravy.
Everything was delicious and I ate it very fast. She brought me more coffee and told me to save room for dessert because they had a special Dansk Lagkage. “It’s made for spring with spring colors!” she said.
I ordered some, again not asking what it was. She brought me over a dish of what looked like rice pudding with almonds. It was white and showed no sign of spring colors. She saw my confusion and smiled. “This comes with the dinner, I’ll be back with the Lagkage in a sec.”
She returned with a massive slice of multicolored layer cake, green and red and vibrant orange. It was the size of a toaster and the top was decorated with edible flowers. She set it down in front of me. “I can get you a box if you can’t finish it, honey.”
It was the best cake I'd ever eaten, and even though I was so full that I thought I might be sick I finished it all.
I sat back and sipped my coffee, now cool in the cup. An old couple across from me sat over half-full plates. The man poured beer from a pitcher into his glass. The woman stared at him through thick glasses. Neither of them said a word while I was there.
Choose From Photos…
Now after the death of Joshua it came to pass, that the children of Israel asked the LORD, saying, Who shall go up for us against the Canaanites first, to fight against them?
It was dusk when I got back to the motel. I got out and went around to the engine and opened the hatch. I pulled out the dipstick to check the oil. I didn’t have anything to wipe it on so I used my thumb and forefinger, smearing the excess on my sock. I closed the hatch and went around to the front and opened the hood and looked at the shotgun in its zippered case and the green boxes of shells. I unzipped the case and peeled it back. The blue of the barrel gleamed in the cold light, the walnut stock warm and inviting. I ran my hand down it like I was petting a dog.
I glanced around the parking lot. A giant Ford truck with dual rear wheels idled in the handicapped space in front of the office, the engine a low rumble. A big husky sat panting in the passenger seat. Its eyes were a startling blue, so bright they seemed to beam through the tinted window of the truck.
A man came out of the office and lit a cigarette. He was tall and burly with a mullet and little gold glasses. He wore a hat that said HAWKEYE PIPING.
He nodded at me. “Motor’s in the back.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He got into his truck, put it in gear and backed out.
I called out “I like your dog,” but I don't think he heard.
I zipped the shotgun case back up and closed the trunk. I went back inside. My room was just as I’d left it. I pulled the curtain across the window. My computer was still on the bed. I opened it up. The Facebook page refreshed itself, my username and password already filled out in the login area. I clicked ok. At the top it said WELCOME BACK, JOSHUA.
I had no new notifications.
I clicked on my photo and went to my profile. My photo was at least five years old. I right clicked it.
Edit Profile Picture
I selected Take photo.
The little light atop my laptop glowed blue. In a second, I saw my image on the screen.
It was dark and grainy, like an El Greco or a Goya. The only light came from the computer screen. I moved closer to it and clicked OK. The countdown said 3 2 1…
My dark picture gave me the same feeling as when I looked at photos of victims in a book about famous murders. The Clutter family. Sharon Tate. The Black Dahlia. I clicked ok and it became my profile picture.
I went into the bathroom. I saw myself in the yellow bathroom light. In the mirror, I didn’t look murdered. I looked tired and unshaven. My eyes were red and my hair was stringy and windblown from the sun roof. I had a runny nose.
When I returned to the computer I saw that three people had liked my new photo.
The computer flashed a warning to me:
Switch to outlet power now. Your computer has a low battery, so you should act immediately to keep from losing your work.
I closed the lid. There was a little bit of light in the room. I reached over and switched on the lamp. I pulled open the drawer. There was a King James Bible with a white cover. It said in gold letters:
Placed Here by the Gideons.
I shut the drawer and turned out the light.
I closed my eyes, glad that the Bible was there in case I woke in the night.
J. HARDY CARROLL is a writer and comics artist living in Iowa. When not reading or writing, he can usually be found riding an elderly motorcycle or playing drums in some band or other. His work has appeared in Iowa’s Emerging Writers, Flash Fiction Magazine, Snipehunt, Prose, PDXS, Little Village, and various online journals.