A Guy Named Joe

A Guy Named Joe

"Call me Joe," he said when I met him at his interview. And he seemed like

a nice enough guy. If I only knew . . .

"How do you pronounce your last name?" I asked. Josef Brzhezne was what

was on his application.

"Ru-SHAY-nee," he told me, and I made a note of it. Despite the ethnic

name, he didn't have a trace of an accent. In fact, when I asked him where

he was from, he named a town only 10 miles away.

Upon pressing the point, I learned that his family had come from Eastern

Europe, "one of those little countries that doesn't exist anymore." Before

the war, he said.

He didn't say which war. Had I asked, I would have learned the surprising

truth about Joe. He wasn't an ordinary guy.

He started in the back room, receiving freight and getting it to the

floor. Watching him lift the cartons one day, I was surprised at his

strength. He lifted a 70-pound box like it was nothing.

"Do you work out?" I asked later.

He looked a little guilty, which I couldn't understand. "Uh, yeah.

Sometimes."

"Where?" I went to a gym near my house; maybe he frequented the same one.

"At home, mostly. Sometimes at the high school gym."

"Oh." I was impressed. Good looks and a body to match--I was falling in

love.

Big mistake.

As time went on, I noticed some odd things about Joe. Not bad,

necessarily. Just weird.

For instance, he spoke at least six languages. English, of course; French

(we had a busload of Canadian tourists one evening); German; Russian;

Yiddish (so he WAS Jewish--I had wondered but hadn't dared to ask); and an

odd dialect which he rarely used, which I couldn't quite place. It sounded

vaguely Slavic, but the vowels were strange. I figured it was the language

his family spoke at home.

That was the other weird thing; I never actually saw his family. Though he

spoke of them frequently, and talked on the phone to them (that's when I

heard that strange dialect), they never came into the store, not even in a

car outside driving by. He didn't even have any pictures in his wallet.

Months went by. We went to lunch together--well, whatever you call lunch

at one in the morning. There was a restaurant around the corner that

stayed open until two, and we'd go there to sit and talk.

Mostly about me.

He knew everything there was to know about me, things my own family didn't

even know, and he was still such a mystery. Finally one night I came right

out and asked him if I could come to his house some time.

He seemed taken aback. "Come to the house?"

"Just for a little while," I said. "Just to see where you live."

I think I asked more to see his reaction than to get an actual answer.

He was silent for a long time.

"I'll have to ask them," he said at last. "We don't usually have a lot of

visitors."

"Why?" I knew it was none of my business, and I wouldn't have asked had I

not had a few drinks in me. (It was the end of shift.)

"We just don't."

He changed the subject, and I thought that was the end of it, until a few

days later when he caught me by the time clock.

"You know how you wanted to come by the house sometime?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night? I know you're off, and

I am too, so you can stay a while."

I was in shock. I couldn't believe it had been that easy. He must have

seen my silence as a decline, because he then said, "We can make it

another night if it's no good for you."

"Oh, no, it's fine," I found myself saying. "What time?"

"We eat at six, so you should be there by five-thirty."

"Okay then." I smiled.

Then I realized I had no idea where he lived.

"Hey, Joe . . . "

I had never been so nervous in my life. I was so nervous it was

embarrassing. I mean, come on! It's not even really a date! You're just

dropping by his house! No biggie.

Five o'clock came, and I was paralyzed with fear.

I had no idea how to dress.

Should I wear slacks? A dress? Casual? Formal? Should I call and ask? No,

I'd look like an idiot.

Five-fifteen.

Finally I just picked a skirt and blouse and got in the car.

Then another fear gripped me.

Was I supposed to bring anything? A bottle of wine or something? Should I?

Were they expecting it, or would they be offended? Maybe they didn't

drink.

I stopped at a convenience store and bought a bottle of Coke and a box of

chocolates. Well, that's something, at least.

I got back in the car, and it wouldn't start.

Great! Five-twenty, and my car wouldn't start! Maybe I should walk--I was

only four or five blocks from Joe's house.

But then how would I get home?

I kept trying, and at five-twenty-seven, the thing finally caught.

Looking back, I think it knew something I didn't.

So here I am, standing on Joe's front doorstep, my gifts in one hand,

ringing the bell with the other.

The bell didn't work.

Maybe I was doing it wrong. I tried again.

Complete silence.

Oh, this is great! I'm already a few minutes late, the Coke is getting warm, I dropped it getting out of the car so it's probably going to fizz all over the place, and I can't get into the house!

Just as I was about to completely lose my mind, I noticed the brass door knocker right above my head. I decided to give it a try.

But something I couldn't put my finger on just creeped me out about it. It was like I was looking at a self-portrait of Satan's kid brother....

Okay, I said to myself, so they've got weird taste in decor. Doesn't make them bad people, does it?

I looked up and down the street.

Not a light was on in any of the windows.

Not a sound anywhere.

It was as if . . . no one else lived there.

Now that was really stretching the limits of an overactive imagination.

I lifted the ring on the creepy door knocker and let it fall.

There was a huge booming thud, and then silence.

Anyway,after what seemed like a million years

or more,the door opened....

And a perfectly ordinary-looking woman stood there.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Kathy--Joe's friend?"

She said something that sounded like "Drubishilisha mushkitoo". I couldn't

understand any of it.

"I'm Joe's friend," I repeated, trying to resist the urge to shout at her.

"Joe? Yosef?"

"Booboosha shittoomma."

Suddenly Joe himself was there. He said something to the woman, and she

went inside.

"Sorry about that. That's my grandmother. She doesn't speak English."

"So I noticed."

"Come on in, we're all waiting for you. Just watch yourself on the

steps--they're a little tricky."

You had to go up four or five steps to get inside the house proper.

And these weren't little steps,either.These were huge steps that seemed to take at least a hundred years to climb. I just hoped I didn't break an ankle or something.

After a climb that seemed to last hours I finally reached the top. I enter

a room lighted with candles and shades dancing on the walls and the old

closed curtains.

Joe said, "Power is out again so we'll have to do with those candles. But

we cook on gas so dinner will be ready in time."

I hardly heared what Joe said for my attention was diverted toward an old

chair in which an old man was sitting. He may have looked old but his eyes

stared at me with a strange powerfull energy with in them. It scared the

hell out of me but i stayed silent like a mouse that smelled a cat.

Then i feld a tapping on my back...

It was the old crone, who must have followed us from the door. She didn't

say anything, perhaps finally realizing that I didn't speak her language.

"So where's the rest of the family?" I asked Joe.

"Oh, they're coming," he said, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere.

Something inside me was screaming, Get out of here now! This place is creepy, just go home!

I tried not to listen.

We went into the dining room, where the table was set. Looked perfectly normal

Blue tablecloth, placemats, napkins and all. The chairs didn't match, but that was probably because only four of them went with the table, and the rest had been pulled up from other places. As long as I wouldn't be sitting on a box I was fine.

I hadn't even thought to ask what we were having. I just hoped I liked it, whatever it was.

Finally Joe's parents showed up. We made the introductions all around, and then sat down. I was starting to relax and enjoy myself when they brought out the first course.

It was a human hand.

Oh my God.

I blinked, and saw that it wasn't a hand at all, but a chicken. One of those little Cornish hens. Why had my imagination transformed it into a hand? Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I'd touched something or inhaled something, and it was starting to affect me.

"What's wrong?" Joe asked me.

I didn't know what to tell him.

I couldn't eat, I was so jumpy. I caught several of them giving me strange looks, as if they couldn't figure out what was wrong.

What could I say?

Joe was staring at me with a small twinkle in his eye.

"Why aren't you eating?"

"Ah . . ." I said. "Ah . . . I don't usually start eating before the head of the house says his blessings."

Oh, gosh, what came over me? I couldn't find a better excuse than THAT? How rude can you be when you try to impress the family of someone you lov . . . DID I JUST SAY THAT?

Joe was now speaking to the rest of the group in that strange dialect, explaining what I'd said, I hoped. Nobody got mad or laughed when he finished talking, they just sat there looking pensive.

After a couple of seconds (or was it minutes? my heart was racing so fast by now, trying hopelessly not to clash with my mind saying "It's just a dinner with someone's family, what's the matter with me?", that I had NO WAY of knowing how much time has passed if at all) Joe's father started speaking, in a deep, dark voice, and as he talked Everything except for his eyes and Joe's whispering voice translating into my ear, my mind, my soul - faded out and disappeared.

"Young lady", he said, "we have come a long way and have travelled a long time to be able to sit here with you again".

(Again? AGAIN?!?)

"You seem to have been completely drowned in this pagan culture. As a matter of fact, I hardly recognised you when you came in. Some of the sainted custums you still seem to remember, although I doubt on more than a subconcious level. Why did you bring the bottle of the black conspiracy and the rocks of the white solution with you, do you even know?"

Does he mean the coke? What IS this?!? and when did Joe stop translating?!? How can I be understanding this at all?

I saw a pair of red eyes staring at me from behind Joe...

...eyes full of hate.

"Say hello to my little friend."Joe said with a smirk.

Something black and furry came flying at me, screeching like the damned . . .

I felt a terrible slashing pain on the side of my face, and I knocked the thing to the floor.

It . . . meowed?

"Schatzi, bad kitty!" Joe's mother said. "You know you're not supposed to jump up on people!"

The demon that had attacked me was a small black-and-grey cat that sat on the floor under the table, looking into my eyes defiantly. Maybe I was sitting in its chair.

I was so relieved I started laughing and crying at the same time, which made everyone look at me funny all over again.

I got up from the table. "I'm sorry, I don't understand any of this . . . that stuff you were saying before . . . I'm sorry, this was all a bad idea."

"SIT DOWN", Joe's father commanded me, in this strange echoey voice.

I sat down.

"Young lady", he said, "we have come a long way and have travelled a long time to be able to sit here with you again".

(Again? AGAIN?!?)

Does he mean the coke? What IS this?!? and when did Joe stop translating?!? How can I be understanding this at all?

I saw a pair of red eyes staring at me from behind Joe...

...eyes full of hate.

"Say hello to my little friend."Joe said with a smirk.

Something black and furry came flying at me, screeching like the damned . . .

I felt a terrible slashing pain on the side of my face, and I knocked the thing to the floor.

It . . . meowed?

"Schatzi, bad kitty!" Joe's mother said. "You know you're not supposed to jump up on people!"

The demon that had attacked me was a small black-and-grey cat that sat on the floor under the table, looking into my eyes defiantly. Maybe I was sitting in its chair.

I was so relieved I started laughing and crying at the same time, which made everyone look at me funny all over again.

I got up from the table. "I'm sorry, I don't understand any of this . . . that stuff you were saying before . . . I'm sorry, this was all a bad idea."

"SIT DOWN", Joe's father commanded me, in this strange echoey voice.

I sat down.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

Joe's father stopped chanting and looked at me strangely. "Of course not," he said. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Oh, nothing, I thought. Just that you CREEP ME OUT!

"You are one of us," he went on. "We mean only to complete the bonding ritual."

"Bonding? What are you talking about?"

"Do you not remember?"

Remember what? I had never met these people before . . .

Or had I?

There was silence again. I didn't like the silence.

Then Joe's grandmother spoke.

In English.

"You should wear ponytail," she said. "You look so nice in ponytail."

There was a thud as eleven jaws dropped onto the table.

"Netta?" Joe was staring at her, amazed. "You speak English?"

"Of course I speak English!" she exclaimed. "I am in America. I am in Russia, I speak Russian. I am in Germany, I speak German. I am in America, I speak English. Why they no call it American, I don't know."

She had a very weird accent, but I could understand every word. I wondered if the babbling at the door had been an act, or a test.

Strangely enough, I wasn't afraid of her. Something about that voice . . . it was way at the back of my mind, refusing to let me draw it forward.

So Netta did it for me.

"How are Helen and Frank? They still live in same house?"

"Excuse me?"

"Helen and Frank. Your-what is word? Grand-parent?" She looked at me quizzically. "They are still alive?"

All of a sudden it clicked.

My grandparents used to live in this two-family home a few towns over. We used to visit them every Sunday. They lived on the first floor, and on the second . . .

"Don't bother the people upstairs. They sleep days . . ."

But I had been bold enough to creep up to the top of the stairs.

And then the door opened . . .

Netta smiled as she saw I remembered now. "You were pretty little girl," she said. "Pretty pink dress. Bows in your hair. I saw you, and I said, there's the girl our little Joey should marry. Nice girl. You played together, in the garden."

That's right, we had. He only came out at dusk, just before we were getting ready to go home. We played Hide and Seek-he was very good at that. Very good at blending into the shadows, so that I didn't see him, and then popping out and scaring me.

Then something awful had happened.

I didn't want to remember, but now that the floodgates were open, there was no stopping it. In my head I could hear loud voices yelling things I didn't want to hear. Shouting accusations back and forth while I stood there helpless, unable to understand what was so bad.

Candles burning . . .

"You did something to me," I said, as it came horribly back to me. "That scar on the back of my arm, that I could never figure out how it got there-you did that, didn't you? I was up there, and you were burning candles, and chanting something, and then there was a knife-"

Sacrifice was the word that kept echoing in my mind.

What had they done to me?

Netta was shaking her head. "It was just Binding Ceremony."

"Binding Ceremony?"

"So you be one of us."

That scared me even more. What exactly were they?

Joe seemed to be reading my mind. He said, "We're not monsters or anything like that. We don't drink blood or turn into bats. Nobody does that. We're just people."

"Scary people," I couldn't help saying.

"You weren't scared of me back then. Not until your parents walked in on us and got the wrong idea . . ."

I remembered now. I wished I hadn't.

"They thought you were . . ." I could hardly say the words. "Satanists or something. They thought you were trying to kill me."

"They almost pressed charges," Joe's father said. "We had to leave town."

"Not that that's never happened before," Joe's mother said. "People just don't understand us."

Aunt Somebody brought in dessert, some kind of whipped cream cake.

Nobody noticed.

"I can't," I said. "I can't be one of you. I don't even know who you are. I'm sorry, I have to go." I got up from the table, grabbing my jacket and my purse, and bolted out the front door.

Halfway to my car, I heard footsteps behind me. I was afraid to turn around to see who it was.

Then I heard Joe's voice in my ear.

"We can't help what we are," he said. "Don't run off."

"I'm sorry," I said. I couldn't look him in the eye.

"I saved you a piece of cake," he said, holding out a perfectly ordinary plastic container.

"Oh," was all I could say. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

Joe looked strange. "I . . . I don't know."

I didn't ask what he meant by that. I just got in my car, put the cake container on the passenger seat, and drove off.

If this were a movie, or a book, something dark and horrible would have followed me. In fact, I expected it. I kept checking the rearview mirror every few minutes, but I never saw anything more ominous than a highway sanitation truck. They were starting the street cleaning.

I got to my house, and the phone was ringing, but by the time I got inside (stupid key got stuck in the lock), it had stopped.

I tried calling Joe, to see if it was him that had called, and the strangest thing happened. There was a click, and then a recorded announcement came on saying the number was not in service.

I tried again, in case I had misdialed.

Same message.

I decided to drive by the house, before work, to find out what was going on. Maybe to apologize for running out on them again.

I thought I knew where his house was. I had only been there the night before.

But when I reached what I was sure was his street, the houses were all different.

It just looks different in daylight, I told myself. It's number 147, it should be right . . . across . . . the . . .

Number 147 was a vacant lot.

I drove to work feeling shaky. This all had to be a dream. Maybe I'd just dreamed the visit last night, and that's why it all looked different.

Then I got to work and found out Joe had quit.

"Funny thing," Stacy, my assistant manager, said. "He called up this morning and said he couldn't come in anymore because his family was moving to Cleveland."

"Cleveland?" I was stunned.

"I thought that's what he said. Might have been Chicago, or Cincinnatti. I don't know. Anyway, he's gone."

Gone.

Just like that.

I'm sure it was nothing new for them. They'd had to move a lot over the years-an awful lot. It just hurt me to think that I was responsible for their having to move this time.

I've checked in Cleveland, in Chicago and Cincinnatti, and all their surrounding towns, but I haven't found a Brzhezne listed anywhere. They might have changed their names, for all I know.

And I lay awake in bed at night, thinking about what a nice guy Joe was, and feeling like such a fool for having turned my back on him. Just because he was a little different.

I wonder, if I ever find them again, if they'll give me a second chance?