Choke

Chapter 38

HOW TO MAKE AN EAR CANDLE is you take a piece of regular paper and roll it into a thin tube. There's no real miracle to it. Still, you have to start with the stuff you already know.

This is just more flotsam and jetsam left over from medical school, something I teach now to the field trip kids at Colonial Dunsboro.

Maybe you have to work your way up to the real bona fide miracles.

Denny comes to me after stacking rock outdoors in the rain all day and says he's got earwax so bad he can't hear. He sits in a chair in my mom's kitchen with Beth there, standing by the back door, leaning back a little with her butt against the edge of the kitchen counter. Denny sits with the chair pulled sideways to the kitchen table and one of his arms resting on the table.

And I tell him to hold still.

Rolling the paper into a tight tube, I say, "Just supposing," I say, "Jesus Christ had to practice being the Son of God to get any good at it."

I tell Beth to turn off the kitchen lights, and I twist one end of the thin paper tube into the tight dark tunnel of Denny's ear. His hair's grown out some, but we're talking less of a fire hazard than most people have. Not too deep, I twist the tube into his ear only far enough so it stays in place when I let go.

To concentrate, I try and not think of Paige Marshall's ear.

"What if Jesus spent all his growing up getting things wrong," I say, "before he ever got a single miracle right?"

Denny sitting in the chair, in the dark, the white paper tube juts out his ear.

"How is it we don't read about Jesus' failed first attempts," I say, "or how he didn't really crank out the big miracles until he was over thirty?"

Beth pushes out the crotch of her tight jeans at me, and I use her zipper to light a kitchen match and carry the little flame across the room to Denny's head. Using the match, I light the end of the paper tube.

From striking the match, the room smells full of sulfur.

Smoke unwinds from the burning end of the tube, and Denny says, "You're not going to let it hurt me, are you?"

The flame creeps in closer to his head. The burned end of the tube curls open and comes apart. Black paper edged with worming orange sparks, these hot bits of paper drift toward the ceiling. Some bits of black paper curl and fall.

That's really what this is called. An ear candle.

And I say, "How about if Jesus got started by just doing nice things for people, you know, helping old ladies cross the street or telling people when they'd left their headlights on?" I say, "Well, not that exactly, but you get the idea."

Watching the fire curl closer and closer to Denny's ear, I say, "How about if Jesus spent years working up to the big loaves-and-the-fishes thing? I mean, that Lazarus deal is probably something he'd have to build up to, right?"

And Denny's eyes are twisted over to try and see how close the fire is, and he says, "Beth, is it about to burn me?"

And Beth looks at me and says, "Victor?"

And I say, "It's okay."

Leaning back even harder against the kitchen counter, Beth twists her face not to see and says, "It looks like some kind of weird torture."

"Maybe," I say, "maybe even Jesus didn't believe in himself at first."

And I lean into Denny's face, and with one puff, blow out the flame. With one hand cupped under Denny's jaw, to keep him still, I slip the last of the paper tube out of his ear. When I show it to him, the paper is gummy and dark with the earwax the fire wicked out.

Beth turns on the kitchen light.

Denny shows the burned little tube to her, and Beth smells it and says, "Stinky."

I say, "Maybe miracles are like a talent, and you have to start with the small stuff."

Denny puts a hand over his clean ear and then uncovers it. He covers and uncovers it again, and says, "Definitely better."

"I don't mean like Jesus did card tricks," I say, "but just not hurting people would be a good start."

Beth comes around, and she holds her hair back with one hand so she can bend and look into Denny's ear. She squints and gets her head around to see in from different angles.

Rolling another sheet of paper into a thin tube, I say, "You were on TV the other day, I hear."

I say, "I'm sorry." Just twisting the paper tube tighter and tighter in my hands, I say, "That was my fault."

Beth stands straight and looks at me. She shakes her hair back. Denny sticks a finger in his clean ear and digs around, then he smells the finger.

And just holding the paper tube, I say, "From now on, I want to try and be a better person."

Choking in restaurants, fooling people, I'm not going to do that kind of shit anymore. Sleeping around, casual sex, that kind of shit.

I say, "I called the city and complained about you. I called the TV station and told them a bunch of stuff."

My stomach hurts, but if it's guilt or impacted stool, I can't tell.

Either way, I'm so full of shit.

For a second it's easier to look at the dark kitchen window above the sink, the night outside it. Reflected in the window, there's me looking as wasted and thin as my mom. The new righteous, maybe-divine Saint Me. There's Beth looking at me with her arms folded. There's Denny sitting beside the kitchen table, digging in his dirty ear with his fingernail. Then he peers under the nail.

"The thing is, I just wanted you to need my help," I say. "I wanted you to have to ask me for it."

Beth and Denny look at me for real, and I look at all three of us reflected in the window.

"Sure, yeah," Denny says. "I need your help." To Beth he says, "What's this about us being on TV?"

And Beth shrugs and says, "It was Tuesday, I think." She says, "No, wait, what is today?"

And I say, "So you need me?"

And Denny still sitting in the chair, he nods at the paper tube I've got ready. He lifts his dirty ear to me and says, "Dude, do it again. It's cool. Clean out my other ear."