The God Pocket

By Speer Morgan

The God Pocket as a collection grapples with issues of light and dark, mortality, and epiphany. In “The Fool-Killer,” a teenager encounters adolescent heartbreak for the first time, while in “The Girl,” a troubling moment of intimacy catalyzes a man’s haunting obsession. “The Big Bang” shows passionate romance becoming something quite different. In “Turbulence,” a Silicon Valley millionaire faces an unlikely problem in his troubled love life; and in “The God Pocket,” grace confronts death in the most unlikely of circumstances. In all, these stories provide a rich sample of one of America’s foremost short story writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Speer Morgan
• Release date: Sep 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465780485

Speer Morgan

Born and raised in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Speer Morgan is the author of five books. His first novel, published in 1979, was set in Arkansas and the Indian Territory during the late 1800s. Among his other four novels, three have been set in Arkansas and Oklahoma - one in 1894, another in 1934, and another in the 1980s."The Whipping Boy" (1994)was aided by an NEA Individual Fellowship in fiction. His latest novel, "The Freshour Cylinders"(1998), won Foreword Magazine's Silver Award for the best book of the year. It also won an American Book Award in 1999. Morgan teaches in the English Department at the University of Missouri where he has edited The Missouri Review for 30 years.

Book preview

The God Pocket

Stories

Speer Morgan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Speer Morgan

Morgan’s novel, The Freshour Cylinders, in a winner of the 1999 American Book Award. His stories have appeared in The Atlantic, The Iowa Review, Prairie Schooner, Northwest Review, River Styx, Shenandoah and New Letters, among others. He is a professor of creative writing at the University of Missouri and the editor of The Missouri Review. The God Pocket is his second collection of stories.

Acknowledgments

The Fool-Killer originally appeared in River Styx, Number 50. The Girl originally appeared in Prairie Schooner, Fall 2000, and was the winner of their Lawrence Foundation Prize for the best story of the year. The Big Bang originally appeared in Shenandoah, 58.3, and was the winner of the Goodheart Prize for their best story of 2007. Turbulence originally appeared in New Letters, 76.2, 2010. The God Pocket originally appeared in The Iowa Review, 41.2, 2011.

Book designed by Owen Neace

Cover image taken from Egon Schiele’s Self Portrait as St. Sebastian

Contents

The Fool- Killer

The Girl

The Big Bang

Turbulence

The God Pocket

The Fool-Killer

When I went by to pick up Kitty for dates, Mr. Havelock required me to sit with him for fifteen minutes before she could come out. A square, severe man with thick black hair, he would greet me at the door and lead me back to the den where we'd watch TV. Since the conclusion of these waiting periods was always Kitty's appearance I didn't mind them, but Mr. Havelock made it plain he wasn't interested in a lot of talk during our visits. The few times, early on, that I tried to make conversation, he turned stiffly toward me and, at best, allowed a word or two about the weather. He kept the TV's sound turned down very low because he was always listening for the short-wave radio that sat in his bedroom. Havelock Funeral Home had recently diversified into the ambulance business, and he was keeping an ear on his drivers.

Kitty's father was a nose-to-the-grindstone businessman, but her mother was a free spirit. In the past Mrs. Havelock had worked for the funeral and ambulance company like everybody else in the family (including Kitty, three or four afternoons a week), but lately, to Mr. Havelock's chagrin, she spent most of her time pursuing her own interests. She had converted for a brief while to Catholicism, then given that up and become an Indian. (She was a half Choctaw, as was her husband, but in his opinion that was the last thing to go bragging about.) For a while she had written poetry, none of which found its way into print, then, the previous spring, she'd quit everything else to become what she called a simple fisherman, going out by herself day after day with stinkbait, concocted out of chicken livers soaked in motor oil, and fishing on a curve of the Arkansas River behind Wildcat Mountain a few miles from their house. Throughout the fall and now even in winter, she continued to fish, sometimes on the river, sometimes at Lake Tenkiller and other, smaller lakes over in Oklahoma. She's like some old colored woman, Kitty once confided to me. Dad says it'll be the end of his business if people find out how out to lunch she is.

Her mom didn't even sleep with her dad, Kitty said, because she claimed the radio he kept by the bed to monitor his ambulance drivers drove her crazy.

When I came by to pick up Kitty, Mrs. Havelock sometimes came into the den to visit with me when her husband went away to monitor the ambulance radio. It seemed a little eerie the way she appeared only when he was out of the room, as if she'd been somewhere in the house listening, waiting for him to leave. She'd wander in with a cigarette and often a beer, wearing old rolled-up blue jeans, white socks and sneakers, and she'd talk about baits, lures, trotlines, crappie, bass, and channel cat-all of which, at seventeen, I found among the least interesting things in the universe. But I was fascinated by the fact that she dressed however she wanted, that she goofed off, wasted time, and, in complete disregard of her stem husband, had abandoned the family business in favor of going fishing anytime she wanted to.

Her older brother Carl was almost never around when I came by for dates, so I was surprised—on a Saturday evening in late December—when he answered the door dressed in a tux, wearing dark glasses and smelling boozy. Hey man. She's gettin' ready. He sauntered back to the den and flopped down on the sofa. I glanced down the hall into the back of the house and took a seat on the edge of a chair.

He sat looking through his shades at the TV, which was turned off. Carl was a year out of high school, taking art classes at junior college and working for the ambulance company. He was called Cool Carl for his reputation with the women and slightly beatnik airs, a fashion still exotic enough in our neck of the woods that no one quite knew to hold it against him. He was smoking and offered me one, his brand Simon Artz, thin cigarettes in powder blue paper, perfumed, with gold tips.

His forehead wrinkled in a slight frown. I got a date tonight with your cousin.

Kitty told me. He was escorting Deborah Slate to the debutante ball at the country club. Deborah was actually a very distant second cousin from the rich side of the family, but I didn't bother to set him straight. He leaned over and lit me up with a Zippo. The ash tray was full of butts and the room was in unusual disarray, pillows out of place and things scattered around. This was Mr. Havelock's den, and normally very tidy. There was a small Christmas tree in the comer, put up by Kitty.

I thought I heard Kitty's voice in the back of the house.

You all goin' to the dance? Carl asked.

Get serious. I'd been at the country club once in my life, as a guest at a seventh-grade tea dance. We're going to Ben Hur. He raised an eyebrow. Would you go if you had tickets? Sure, I said hesitantly. I wasn't much good at dancing, despite the fact that I'd logged my share of hours bopping around the living room alone with American Bandstand. Yet the debutante ball was the premier social event of the year, and not that many juniors got to go, even among the in-crowd. It was an attractive but scary prospect.

Carl flopped two green tickets out on the table. I'm in a little jam. The old lady disappeared in the Falcon and the old man went after her in the Buick, leaving me nothing in the garage but a meat-wagon. You mind trading cars with me for the night?

Your mother disa-

Carl shook his head, It's nothin'. She went fishin'.

At night?

The old bag does it all the time, he snapped, ending the subject.

Again I thought I heard Kitty's voice, sounding as if she was on the telephone pleading with someone. I'm not a member of the country club.

He laughed. Do you think we are?

But you're an escort.

Hey, no sweat, the dance is open. All you need are tickets, daddy-o. Chrysler and the Imperials are playin', number one band in the South. Country club's puttin' out the coins. He gave me a little smile, You know, your cousin talks about you. You're her favorite, like, relative.

No way. I couldn't suppress a blush of pleasure. Debbie Slate had scarcely ever spoken to me, but all references to pretty girls noticing me, especially ones as popular and stacked as Debbie Slate, were appreciated.

The little frowning wrinkle deepened above his dark glasses. It definitely wouldn't be cool, me picking her up in a meatwagon for the final event of the season. You don't want your cousin like coming out in a hearse, man.

Could we double-date in my car?

Carl exhaled a long sigh, and shook his head. I gotta keep a radio nearby.

Radio?

I promised my old man. He didn't want me to leave here at all,see. He wanted me to drop my date. Sounding impatient at having to explain, he got up from the couch, slipped a comb from a back pocket and ran it quickly through his ducktails. I'm already late. We could sit around all night bullshitin' about this. Can you handle it or not?

Does Kitty want to go to the dance?

Are you kiddin'? She's primed, man. She's ready.

I nodded uncertainly. Well, I guess-

We're in business. I'll turn the radio on when I go out. Kitty knows about it. Any messages, she can take 'em, say I'll call back if they want me. What we'll do is take turns checkin' in while we're at the dance. You have any booze?

I was gonna buy a six-pack for the drive-in...

"Not for the class event of the year-no way, my man. I've got an