In the Dark of Night – Part 8
Jim Gaffigan broke last night.
Not just a little, either.
Jim Gaffigan broke last night, and in doing so I finally saw my pain realized.
All the swallowed comments, all the tamped down politics, bursting forth in one righteous tirade against a champion of corruption. If Nurgle existed, Trump would surely be his avatar. Jim just couldn’t stomach Trump’s rot any longer.
I broke this year. Correction, I have been breaking this year, over and over. I’m nothing, however. Just a small man shuffling words about in his own quiet little corner of the internet. Jim is enormous, a titan both in terms of his comedic prowess and his temperament.
Jim is just a good guy. Even keeled, loving to his family, a devout Catholic who walks the walk and talks the talk. Is he on the same page as me politically? No, not even close. Yet on a night where lies, open and brazen, were sent out to a country where 180,000 people have died and millions more are sickened and starving, Jim said enough was enough. He threw aside his neutrality, used the full might of his social presence, and laid into the facist cult of personality that has overtaken the GOP.
It was cathartic. Just. Everything that I wish the death of my own apolitical stance could have been. No collection of well-tended words in my garden could equal his fury.
Most of all, watching Jim fire howitzer shell after howitzer shell into the paper-mache justifications of the current political right, I finally felt at peace with my decision.
If Jim, with all his money and privilege and connections, was willing to set the other matters of his life aside to take up this mantle, then I have no excuse not to do likewise.
It matters. Vote this year, and when you do, vote for Joe Biden. He isn’t perfect. He isn’t my ideal candidate.
The alternative is untenable. Be better than Trump and his lies and his toadies, because you are better.
Storytime.
In the Dark of Night – Part 8
The blanket that Jacqueline had wrapped around me as I got in her car smelled of lavender. Everything Jacqueline owned ended up with the same lingering scent. The two had melded in my mind until I couldn’t imagine one without the other.
I was huddled in the passenger seat of the station-wagon as Jacqueline shared some final words with Mr. Cushinberry. They were civil words, as all her words were, but that didn’t mean Mr. Cushinberry had avoided the rough side of her tongue. Jacqueline was very protective of her family, and that had come to include the six of us.
I ducked into the sweet-smelling fabric, trying to banish the shaking in my hands that had been there since my call for a ride home. I had expected recriminations, outrage, tears, or silence. Jacqueline had asked no questions, given no scorn, extended no judgements. Instead, she had shoved as much love through the receiver as two sentences could hold and began packing up the entire clan to come rescue me.
The station wagon had arrived like a Higgins Boat, disgorging Jacqueline into the halls of my school like an avenging angel. She had thundered through the halls to Mr. Cushinberry’s office. She had filled the room with her anger, scooped me out of the chair like a newborn kitten, and gently marched me out to the car without saying a single word. Mr. Cushinberry had given chase, attempting to explain himself as he went.
Jacqueline had not been persuaded.
“Don’t you dare put that seat-belt on sweetie. You’ve been hurt enough today. I’ll drive extra slow so we all stay safe.”
Her words brought me out of my sluggish attempt to gather my wits and back into the present. She had wrapped a smile around the words that was fit to shame Cheshire Cat. Seeing that her words had reached me, she turned her attention to the passengers in the rear of the car.
“As for the rest of you rascals, I better not hear any nonsense coming out of the back of this car. Understood?”
Ryan and Abgail both nodded, and even The Tweedles were keeping their incessant fussing to a minimum. They had all learned not to argue with Jacqueline. Far better to pick a fight with a mountain. At least the mountain wouldn’t slather you with shame after you inevitably lost.
“Are you sure you’re alright Claire? You look frightful.”
My hair and the cap over it were both mangled. My ninja turtle shirt was a mess, my face still had some runny makeup on it, and I was cradling my ribs as I sat in awkward defeat against the door. It was hard to blame her for speaking up; I looked like I’d been worked over by a werewolf.
I tried to find the best smile I could for her. Not something fake; Jacqueline wasn’t someone you lied to. Instead I thought about what I had done. Not the consequences for my actions, but what I had actually managed to accomplish.
Men and women would live because I had stood fast. Yes, I would face ridicule and sneers for the state that Officer Davis had found me in. Karen would be almost unbearable. Yet… she would be alive. She would hate, but she would do so upright and breathing.
The smile that came to me filled my face near to bursting. I almost cried because smiling hurt, but the pride in my voice as I responded made the pain worth it.
“Yes Jacqueline, I believe that I am.”
She looked over, hand hovering over the lever to put the wagon into motion. She smiled back, laughing as she finally took the wagon on its slow journey back home. Mr. Cushinberry stood outside, hands in his pockets, frowning down at the pavement as we drove away.
“Baby girl, I don’t even know why I asked. You could find something to smile about in the face of armageddon.”
My smile wilted at her words. Armageddon wasn’t as inaccurate as I wanted it to be. The Warlock, whomever it was, had my number. They had struck twice now with exacting precision. That wasn’t luck; It was a message. I wasn’t safe. They could, and would, strike at me when I was most vulnerable. They didn’t care about casualties, about propriety, about anything other than making sure I was scattered in as many small pieces as they could manage. If others happened to be dismembered in the blow that felled me, then so be it.
Every part of me wanted to scream for admitting it, but I was going to have to ask for help. I huddled into the blanket as the full weight of what I was about to do fell in on me.
I was going to need a lot of help. And there was only one place to go for it.
Every wizard, from Hammurabi to Merlin, had the ability to do what I was about to attempt. It was dangerous; you could only try it once. The answer, if one came, would be absolute and inviolable. It could be anything. Anything. Artemisia had been forced to kill a king to find the salvation she had been seeking.
I was out of options, however. Jake could amplify my powers, but only to build things. Building things would take time I couldn’t spare. Even replacing the nunchucks that had surely been destroyed by now would take the better part of a week. I didn’t have a week.
I might not even have an hour.
The warlock after me could be forging a new pact with Azazel at this very moment, securing even more powerful help from the demon in return for greater influence in the human world. Wizards and warlocks could live an awful long time. And as Jake had demonstrated; you could always make a new deal with the devil.
The Abyss wasn’t the only game in town.
However, a bargain with Heaven was every bit as dangerous as any pact with a demon.
Heaven had a very cavalier attitude with the health of any wizard which turned to them for help. Martyrdom first, ask questions later. That had been their standard operating procedure for the whole of human history.
Joan of Arc had been forced onto the pyre at 19 in order to save her city.
I only hoped that whichever angel had made that particular offer was out to lunch when I gave the hosts of heaven a call.
Wingfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
