WHEN SCOTT CAME FOR WES
The dogs weren't barking. That's when I knew there was trouble.
Standing on the porch of Wes's house in Georgetown, I knocked and rang the doorbell. No Wes. No dogs. Finally, I tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. I pushed my way in.
I tried the light switch. No lights. A smell of loam and urine and human waste assaulted my senses. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness and the lumpy shadows I saw looming. "Wes?" No response, no dogs. I closed my eyes, hoping they would adjust to the darkness. On opening them, the piles of debris began to resolve. A disaster had hit here. There were mounds of broken boards and drywall and dirt, surrounding a huge pit in the middle of the family room.
I carefully worked my way around the clay, and peered into the pit. In the gloom at the bottom I could barely make out a human form. "Wes?"
He was seated, indian style on the floor of the pit, at least 12 feet below. He was bent over something, and appeared to be rocking gently back and forth. He was muttering something, which grew louder, "I am just a poor boy and my story's seldom told, I have squandered my existence for a pocket full of mumbles…for a pocket full of mumbles…"
Was he singing? "Wes? Wes!" He became louder, rocking faster now.
"Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came." He looked up at me, the whites of his eyes showing. "He's coming. Hide! Hide you fool!" When he looked up I could see that he was holding a dog in his lap. The size and color looked like Finny. He wasn't moving. "What's going on? Who's coming? Finny!"
"Hide! Save yourself!"
I scrambled around the dirt and opened the french doors to a still-intact closet off the living room. I closed them in time for the front door to come swinging open. At least, I think it was the front door—maybe it was a portal to another world. Blinded by the light I couldn't see who it was, but when he spoke, the voice was unmistakeable: Scott. I hadn’t heard that voice in years.
"Hey buddy. I worked out a system for getting rid of the bodies. We'll just throw them into the street! Not all in one place, but you know--how many dogs you think get hit by cars? Buddy? Wes?"
Wes's quiet voice echoed up from the pit, "Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, no one was saved…"
"Eleanor Rigby again? You need some new material Wes."
My eyes were adjusting to the dark again. Scott's massive bulk standing on the edge of the pit. Impossible! He was peering down at Wes. "You still holding that dog, buddy? You got to eat. Dogs are a valuable source of fresh, vitamin rich meat. Stave off scurvy. Are your gums bleeding yet?"
"I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone. Going home…going home."
"You ARE home Buddy! Look, why don't we just go back to the way it was and you can get out of there? I can’t force you, you gotta want to come."
"When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy in the company of strangers…"
"THAT's Enough!" boomed Scott, in a voice that seemed other worldly. "You can't win, Wes. You just can't! In for a penny in for a pound, Buddy. We started this thing together and that's how it's going to end."
"But WHY!" Wes was shouting. "Why can't I spend a few more years here? Take a few more trips? Watch a few more games?"
"'Cuz that's the way it is, Buddy. We all have our roles. Yours is to sit there right by my side and nod and laugh at my jokes. I need you buddy. Now you better stop messing with me or you'll never get out of there."
“But you’re dead!”
“No. Not really. It’s just like I told you all along…”
