Well Below Heaven

By Idyllwild Eliot

Seventeen year old Kelly is in a spartan boarding school in northern Idaho, sent away for drugs—as planned. Her little brother Sammy is left home in Missouri, getting ready for high school. He is quirky, quick, writes dark poetry and longs to play football. He’s also got a nose for trouble, and Kelly has left a truckload. And it&rsqu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cur Dog Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780984615681

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PROLOGUE

•========•

2004

October 28

Sammy,

Dad’s in the car already and Mom’s downstairs screeching for me, so this is it. But you need to remember something. Even though out of state—way out of state—was always the plan, NOW was not. Not until I’d graduated and you’d finished freshman year and we’d at least convinced them to let you play football. THAT was the plan—to come home from college and watch you juke. But it won’t be bad. Really. Eat your limas—use ketchup if you have to. Study hard and don’t do what I did and all the other sisterly crap I’m supposed to say. But I mean it. Don’t screw around where you shouldn’t and you’ll survive. OK—she’s about to stroke. Write me. Bye.

Kelly

PART 1

––––––––––

I AM NOT A SLASHER

•========•

November 27

Dear Kelly,

I asked Dad if we were going to go visit, since you’re going to miss Christmas, and so we could see the mountains and ride horses and maybe hike, even if it’s snowing. It looks cool in the pictures, and Mom said it was pretty. The forests at least, where they haven’t burned. But Dad said,

—It’s rugged up there, Sammy. You might not survive.

I’d survive though. Easy. Even with the bears. They’re probably all sleeping now anyway, particularly up in the skinny part, but if you see one, like in a cave or something, tell me.

The river’s way high here, up to the levees in some places. No snow yet, just rain. It’s rained like everyday since Thanksgiving, which was no big deal. I folded the napkins wrong and put the glasses on the wrong side, but Mom and Dad weren’t loud since it was a holiday and only me. And dinner was the same. Except Mom didn’t make the sweet potatoes and she charred the turkey so the house stunk and the cranberries came out of a can. Everything was pretty bad actually. You didn’t miss anything.

You’re in the snow, anyway. You can go out and throw snowballs and stomp around through the trees if you want. I can’t. I’m in my room. Grounded. For nothing, too. All I did was come home late and not call. I would’ve called, but Mom still won’t let me get a cellular phone. So I couldn’t. And I got home as fast as I could. It was raining and I was wet and it was starting to get cold, because it’s a lot colder when your clothes are wet. So I ran. I got home and right off Mom grounded me. Just for being late. Not for accidentally slicing a kid or for breaking anything even. If I’d broken something then maybe, but not for just being late.

Sammy

—•—•—•—

November 29

Dear Kelly,

Mom’s still frothed up. I heard her talking downstairs yesterday in the living room. She was trying to be quiet, but she can’t really when she’s talking to Dad like that, not the way I can with my socks on. She was saying things like,

—He wasn’t lost, Reed. Not all night.

and,

—He smelled of smoke! He will not start smoking, Reed. Not Sammy.

I really was lost though. Until like midnight I didn’t know where I was. I swear. And I wasn’t smoking, either. And I was all wet, so I don’t know how she smelled anything. She’s a mutant. Now she thinks I’m getting into some drug stuff, like I’m the biggest weed dealer in Cape Miss. They’re probably going to shove me away to some school in Maine so that you’ll be on one side and I’ll be on the other and they’ll be in the middle. It’ll be a V, if you connect it on a map.

I didn’t hear much else. Dad griped about me head twitching again, which I’m not at all. Like once maybe since Thanksgiving. Mom got screechy when he brought it up so Dad told her to be quiet so they wouldn’t disturb me, which was funny since they were way quiet compared to normal. I had to keep my door open just so I could listen. Then they went into their room. I could still hear them, only not the words, but I wasn’t going to sneak downstairs because if they came out all the sudden they’d catch me for sure and then I’d never get out. I already got two days extra for my boots.

Mom went into my closet while I was at Joey’s and pulled them out so that at dinner they were sitting by the door all muddy. It was just Mom and me in the dining room since Dad was out, and first thing after we sat down she asked me where I really was that I got my boots so dirty. It’s red mud on them and she said there’s no red mud around the neighborhood. But there’s red mud everywhere, like at school and by Joey’s. She doesn’t believe me. It’s true though. There’s red dirt right behind Joey’s house and it was raining so much I got my jeans muddy too and how can you not? I told her,

—It’s not like I burned the house down or anything.

She got all upset and her face scrunched and she couldn’t look at me really. So she got up and looked out the window how she does. And after like two minutes easy, she turned and in that sad voice she has she told me,

—You used to be so conscientious.

So I nodded up and down like I do and then got up and told her how good the chicken was and walked past her into the kitchen and washed my plate and the rice pot too that was all crusty. Then I cleaned my boots, because it was stupid not to clean them.

Now I’m in my room typing on the computer. I hope it’s quiet in Idaho, and that school’s OK. Not like here, but cooler.

Sammy

—•—•—•—

December 6

Dear Kelly,

I’m going to be grounded again, and I’m going to have to take a class in the summer so I’m not in middle school all my life, and it’ll probably be art again since Mom’s so into me being some well-rounded kid who can do everything except play football.

It’s because of my project. Mom and Dad even have to go to a conference about it. I was supposed to make something that describes myself, like a collage or painting. But I didn’t know what to paint so I wrote some lines. I wrote them like I always do, all broken up like a poem. But they’re not a poem. Poems are boring. So when I went to class and Mrs. Pathel called my name to show the class, I told her I made a story. Everyone laughed because they’d all made paintings of flowers or Jesus and trees or football and stuff, except one guy who painted a goose with its neck broken. He was the loudest. Lenny. He even looks like a hyena his mouth sticks out so much, and he was screaming Ya ya ya ya really loud like he was in a cartoon. But Mrs. Pathel slapped her hand against the desk and told everyone to be quiet because a story was a really hard thing to make. It got quiet after that and she smiled and told me to go ahead. So I went to the front and started to read my lines to the class. I wasn’t shaking my head or pinching my arm or anything like that. I was pretty cool really. But I couldn’t speak. I wasn’t afraid because I’m not a wimp, but Mrs. Pathel told me it was OK if I didn’t want to read.

It was the paint. That’s why I couldn’t talk. This girl Becky’s painting was still wet and it was the only freezing day all month so they wouldn’t let us open the windows on account of it would cost too much to get the room hot again. All I could smell was the paint and I couldn’t really breathe right to talk loud. So Mrs. Pathel read for me. She sat on the front of her desk and told me I could sit next to her if I wanted, but I didn’t, so I stood off to the side while she read my lines.

She only read the title though and then stopped at my name, which wasn’t Cantz. I don’t hate Cantz, not like I used to, but it’s short. I like three syllables, at least for stories. Like Allenbee. Samuel Allenbee’s a cool name. But I didn’t use it this time. I made up a new name so I wouldn’t get grounded. Bartleme. It was going to be Bartleme Beagle, because the story’s about a dog, but that would’ve been stupid so I just used Bartleme.

Since it wasn’t Cantz though, I had to tell her Bartleme’s my story name, like Mark Twain. I had to tell her too, to make sure the class knew the lines were a story and not real, like about my friend Joey or anyone else in the whole state of Missouri or even someone from back in Indiana. So she did. Even though I think the class heard me telling her, Mrs. Pathel said really loud that she was going to read a story and not anything real.

Anyway, here it is. I hope you like it.

A Chocolate Sniffing Dog

by

Samuel Bartleme

Joe had a brother

A long time ago

And a dog

Diana

A black cocker spaniel

With shiny hair

But Joe doesn’t have a brother any more

Or a mom or a dad

Because a long time ago

Kenny,

Joe’s friend,

Had a party

On his birthday.

They shaved balloons

Kenny, Billy and Joe

With their pocket knives

Like guys used to do

Back when cowboys wore guns

And saved ladies

And ate porcupine stew.

Right in the middle of his third stroke,

Joe got an itch

All the sudden

On his neck

And he jerked his shoulder to scratch.

The balloon popped.

Shaving cream splattered.

And Billy laughed and Kenny laughed

So Joe whacked them.

Only the blade for shaving

Was still in his hand

And he sliced Kenny across the face.

When the blood started spurting

And Billy screamed

Joe dropped the blade

And kicked Billy in the shin

Kenny’s mom ran out.

She screamed

Kenny started bawling.

Billy yelled,

It’s Joe, It’s Joe

Over and over again

And hopped around pointing.

Kenny’s mom pushed Joe away

Grabbed her son

Wrapped his face

And rushed to the hospital

Billy went with them

Because he lived far away.

Joe walked home.

When he walked in the door

Pop grabbed his shirt

Threw him across the room

And started yelling

How Joe was a little no good piece of trash

And what was he going to do with him

He should’ve sent him away with his brother

To Wisconsin

Mrs. Pathel started flipping ahead then, to see how long the story was and if there was any more slashing. So I told her there wasn’t any blood after that, just fun. I said,

—It’s about a dog really, and the dog doesn’t die.

Because no one likes a story with a dog dying. So she said okay, and went on.

Joe grabbed his bookbag

Loaded it with water

And headed out

With Diana,

His dog.

They hiked,

Side by side

Past the line of cottonwoods,

Over the dry creek,

Through the desert

And up to the cave

Behind the big boulder

Way out in the hills

Where Joe had buried

Swiss bars of chocolate

Because Diana

His dog

Liked chocolate

And could smell it a mile away.

But it was hot,

Over a hundred,

And Diana didn’t want chocolate.

She wanted water.

Only Joe didn’t want water.

He was starving.

He wanted chocolate.

So he dropped his bookbag

And dug.

But he’d forgotten where the chocolate was

And in which cave

He went delirious,

And started yelling,

Diana, where’s the chocolate?

Find me the chocolate,

You stupid dog!

But the dust was in Diana’s nose

And her tongue was hanging out.

She was licking the bottles of water

That she’d nuzzled out of the bookbag.

They were new bottles, though

That didn’t leak.

She started having fits

And running around and digging

Like she was digging a well.

But instead of water,

She found chocolate.

Joe screamed,

Ripped the bars from Diana

And smashed them one after the other

Into his mouth

Until finally he chilled

In the cave with the cool ground

And fire pit.

After swallowing the last square

He noticed Diana

And grinned.

She was standing on two legs

Like some dogs do

When they’re so thirsty

And hot

They start peeling their fur.

Joe handed her some water.

She drank,

Said thanks,

Drank some more,

Threw her hair back,

Laughed,

Put her paws on his shoulders,

Then licked his neck

And licked his face.

Mrs. Pathel stopped there. She had to, because she didn’t have the last page. I don’t think she wanted to read any more anyway. She kept staring at me. Everyone was staring at me. Like it was real or like Joe was Joey and he was going to slash somebody. But no one shaves balloons now. That’s what Dad did. And Joey’s dog’s a boy and he doesn’t let it lick him ever, because it would be gross. So it’s all fake. And that’s what I told Mrs. Pathel. She kept looking at me though, so I said,

—That can be the end if you want. There’s more, but that can be the end.

I had the extra sheet in my bookbag so I could’ve gotten it if she’d wanted me to. I don’t think the class cared because they were all quiet too and watching all weird. My hair was sticking into my forehead and I almost did a head shake but didn’t. I did kind of wiggle around a little and jam my hands in my pockets and take them out and rub my hair. But everyone would do that, because no one likes being eye scrubbed for an hour and a half. Which is what it seemed like, two hours at least, before finally Mrs. Pathel said,

—This is a happy ending. We’ll stop here,

And then she smiled at me and told me I could go back to my seat.

The thing is, I don’t know where the end is anymore. It’s only a few lines and I think it got all mixed up with my other papers. It wasn’t with my algebra stuff I know. But maybe with government. I’ll look. Because Mrs. Pathel will probably tell them I was high when I wrote the story, so if I find the end I can add some stuff, like maybe make a rock group come to camp, and then give it to Mom before Monday so she doesn’t totally freak. She probably will anyway, just because she has to go. Conferences suck.

Sammy

•========•

December 11

Dear Sammy,

I’m in Siberia, in a slave labor death camp. I mean it. I just got out of indoctrination—which is why I haven’t written. They call it ‘Program Orientation’, but we spent all our time painting a barn and clearing brush and then, when there was no more brush to clear, we moved a pile of frozen mud—eight girls with shovels and picks—twice!!! I am not kidding. The wardens told us it was to help drainage, but it’s just part of their ‘therapy’. There’s no therapy here. It’s brainwashing. By the end of the first week, I was so cold and so exhausted I could barely stand, and that’s when they came in and started asking us questions about our families, and why we were sent up, and how we felt about everyone back home. Some of the girls started shaking and bawling as if they’d stabbed their mothers.

It was a bunch of crap, Sammy. They’re tricking us, and it’s lame. If I’m not careful, I’m going to come out a prissed-up, environmentalist zombie and spend all day—not an hour like we do now—‘contemplating’ my place on this earth.

Well my place is a glacier. Everything’s frozen, even the pine needles. It’s the coldest fall in school history, and winter’s supposed to be worse. The wardens were kind enough to give me some extra blankets, and before I left, Mom and Dad gave me some flannel pajamas. (Thanks Mom, they’re really great. I just love yellow.) They should’ve sent me to Louisiana, and they could have if they would have waited. But no, they had to yank me away in the middle of the semester. I barely even got to tell you goodbye. They didn’t want me to, Sammy. Mom was afraid I’d corrupt you with a hug. If they could have, they would have packed me up while you were at Joey’s and had me call from the road. Whatever. So now I’m going to shiver myself to death, and the bitch in the bed beside me will probably let me go on shivering and take my blankets and boots once I’m stiff. I doubt I’ll even smell. It is that cold, Sammy, and the girls are that heinous. They all want to tell me what to do and how great school is and how I’m going to love it once spring comes, which I don’t think it EVER will. They’re almost as bad as Mom. They won’t shut up some of them—as if I’m a freshman again!—even the eighth graders. All it takes is a day at level three and they become know-it-all hags.

Laurel, my absolute favorite, the one waiting for my boots, she’s already told me how to eat breakfast and what I should do on the ropes. And the first day out of Indo, when they finally let us ride a horse instead of brush one, she comes out like a cheerleader captain and tells me how I’m slouching and how I need to sit up straight during a trot. AS IF I’d never ridden before! Ugh! Laurel had never even been on a horse until she came to Larchridge.

I hope your conference went well. They really can suck. As long as you didn’t have to sit between Mom and Dad while Mrs. Pathel or some other loser teacher tells them how horrible you’ve been, you should have been okay. So don’t worry.

And think about this—your story rocked. It’s the start of an epic, about a traveling boy and his chocolate sniffing dog. Mrs. Pathel probably only called Mom and Dad in because she thought you were so