Mark needed to drive them to the hospital. It was the only way.
He dropped his mother’s sandals on the tile and helped her slip into them. She was almost a rag doll.
He sat her on the toilet. His shaking hand combed her hair.
Leaving her there, Mark went to his room to change out of his wet clothes.
After putting on the first available boxers and shorts, he smelled the shirts lying around. His nose crinkling in disapproval, he tugged open a dresser drawer.
He sensed arms embracing him from behind, his heart running a mile a minute. When he reached for the mirror shard on his nightstand and stared into it, empathetic eyes met his. She touched her cheek to his, her whole body flush against his back.
“Let’s start over,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Let’s play our cards differently.”
Had she said that before? Mark drew her hand from his chest and brought it to his lips. If only he understood. If only he had the time to ask and listen to the replies. “I’ve gotta go.” The first shirt he grabbed went over his head. “We can talk more later.”
She gazed at him with understanding.
Mark pecked her with reassurance. Impulsively, he added, “You know I’m not Jonathan, right?” Did he utter this now because he didn’t have the time to stay for the fallout? Perhaps he wanted to clarify the reason for her affection. Or to set himself up for serious rejection. No one had romantically loved him to date. Why did he deserve it now?
Her eyes roved as if contemplating what he’d said.
Without looking back, he hurried from the room and collected his mother, who hadn’t moved from the toilet seat. He escorted her down the stairs, snatched the car keys from the entryway table, and safety belted her into the passenger side.
Mark started the car, heart pounding at the fact that he didn’t even have a learner’s permit. His hands on the wheel, he wondered if the one or two driving lessons his father had given him would be sufficient. Now he didn’t know if his dad was going to make it. And, what about his sister? What if he and his mom had to carry on without them?
There wasn’t time to have a breakdown. Or to worry about getting pulled over by the cops. Mom needed him.
Mark’s hand on the lever, he yanked it to D. The car sputtered forward, as his feet weren’t on the brake. He stomped on the pedal, realizing he had to put the vehicle in reverse to back out of the driveway.
Before he levered to R, he visualized ramming into the fountain. But he changed his mind. With his luck, the car would lose that face off, and the engine would fall out, leaving him and his mom stranded.
When he glanced next to him, Mom’s head leaned on the window, her entire face lifeless.
He had to get them to the emergency room. If his mother didn’t come back to reality by then, maybe talking to the doctors would help her regain her senses.
Mark punched the gas pedal.
Having been to the hospital enough times, he pretended the streets were a Pac Man board. Too bad gobbling up ghosts and leveling up weren’t an option. He could really use that right about now. The house had the current high score. That wasn’t going to be the case for long, if Mark could help it.
He wasn’t giving up. Not yet.
—
Mom kept falling asleep on Dad’s hospital bed, squeezing his hand so hard it must’ve been cutting off his circulation. The nurse prodded Mark to take his mother home. She’d promised to call the house if there was a change with either Tausha or Dad, who was at least in stable condition.
Mark steered his mother to the car.
On the drive home she kept her eyes shut, tapping her head against the window.
After Mark parked the vehicle, Mom got out and dragged her feet across the front porch, past the threshold, and up the staircase.
Mark headed to the kitchen to take Salem outside.
Once he and his dog got up to his bedroom, Mark stood transfixed in the doorway. Black vinyl pieces littered his floor, LP sleeves scattered everywhere.
Mom had just slid a record from its album cover. Shades of orange and yellow, the naked blond children climbing all over the apocalyptic landscape told Mark it was his only Zepplin.
He held his breath as she dashed Houses of the Holy—one of his new acquisitions—on the nightstand. It broke apart, the pieces pinging onto the floor.
“No more devil music!” she shouted, her voice shrill. With an insane look in her eyes, she thundered out of the room, and then slammed the door to her own.
Did she know the word Satan was in one of the songs on that very album? Or that Jimmy Page was somewhat obsessed with Aleister Crowley, even buying the legend’s house in Scotland? Or that people played Zepplin’s records backwards, listening for hidden messages? Mark doubted she had that much time on her hands to devote to digging up such information. He’d read all about it in various magazines, but the details never scared him. But now the seed of doubt Mom had planted long ago, took root and flourished. Had merely owning that record opened a door to something evil? Was what happened to Tausha and Dad somehow his doing?
He prayed it wasn’t going to get any worse, that the house was satisfied.
Meanwhile, he let himself get fucking pissed about the broken records. He dropped onto the bed and wailed into his pillow.
February 1862
Jonathan had been removing his coat when Emma nearly tumbled out of the basement. “Where ya been? Been frettin’ ‘bout ya.” A few sprigs of hay clung to his hair and clothes. The earthy scent of feed and sweat traveled through the air.
He must not have known she’d been back from her errand.
She failed to make eye contact and lumbered forward, thrusting her hand against the wall. Her rubbery legs waddled to the center island. As her vision distorted, she clutched the pitcher of water and gulped until she choked. Following a clumsy wipe of her mouth, she raided the breadbox. She ripped a hunk off the loaf and the crusty edges seemed to slice down her raw throat before becoming a great lump in her stomach.
Jonathan lunged to her, grabbing her by the shoulders, surveying her tousled tendrils and rumpled, bloodied dress. While gaping at the marks on her face and neck, he asked, “Are you all right?”
Emma’s eyelids fluttered and she wilted into his arms. “She’s—” If her father was capable of dissecting a live human, what might he do to his own daughter? His threat closed in on her, stealing her breath.
“Did ya get to the medicine man?” he asked in a low voice. When she didn’t reply, he shook her gently. “Did ya?”
“Yes,” she murmured, her lip trembling, “but we’re too late.”
Footfall stomped up the stairs.
“What?”
She wanted to ask where Riley was, or if there’d been any word from Hugh. “My brothers?” was all she managed to utter.
“Riley’s takin’ care of business in town. Haven’t heard ‘bout the other.” His voice trailed off while he wiped a tear from Emma’s cheek. “What happened to you?”
Her brow knitted together. Maybe Hugh being dead was the truth.
The imminence of her father’s ascent increased her pulse rate.
She backed away. Her chin angled downward, and her shoulders hunched. “Go—you must—”
“Tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s happened?”
She looked to the basement door.
Papa climbed the last step and entered the kitchen, toweling his hands with a bloodied rag. His eyes narrowed at Jonathan who removed his boots and hung his hat. “I’m sorry, Jon, but I just couldn’t save her.”
“Sir?”
“I did all I could.”
A harpoon speared Emma’s heart.
“Can I see her?” Jonathan asked. “Is she down there? Why would she—?”
“Had a slew of pre-existing conditions. She received the best possible treatment in my lab, I assure you.”
Emma widened her eyes and shook her head the
slightest bit, praying Jonathan perceived it.
His entire face reddened. He pushed his hair back with both hands while sticking his chest out. His body resembled a steaming teapot about to screech.
“My deepest sympathies, Jon. We can discuss burial arrangements later,” Papa said with the same delivery of an uninspired preacher.
Jonathan cast a glance at Emma before beelining for the staircase leading to his room.
As she turned away from her father, he clamped a hand on her arm. “Remember,” he said with hostility. His mouth contorted as if more words might sputter from his lips. Then he handed her the rag and she processed the grave significance. Although he normally would’ve pitched the cloth onto the stack of laundry, he intended to bloody Emma’s hands and saddle her with one more visual reminder of his sadistic exploits.
Objects upstairs smashed against the wall and crashed to the floor.
“Poor lad,” Papa said with a demented smile curling his lips. “He must’ve loved her a great deal.”
Summer 1988
Mark sought the refuge of his bed, while Salem jumped in at his side.
Lying there, he seemed to buoy up from the bottomless abyss. What if everything that happened was the house’s fault, instead of his? What if his mother just needed something to lash out at? Then the craziest idea of all came to him: what if in all the madness, he was the sanest of his family members? That didn’t seem possible.
The thin sheet, a protection from whatever lurked between the four walls, swathed him. There was something vulnerable about sleeping uncovered. It was devastating to lack the paternal security blanket to call out for in the darkness. As pussy as the idea was, he longed to recline on his father’s side of the bed, coiling there as Salem would on a stormy night.
He hated that societal gender expectations stung him with shame. Fathers weren’t there for cuddling. Fathers took a baseball bat to your demons if you couldn’t. Fathers taught you to become a man and wield your own weapons. Mark still needed more lessons.
On the camping trip when Jack tagged along, Mark had adeptly pitched the tent and built a fire. Jack had been impressed, a hint of jealousy in his eyes since his dad had left him and his mom long ago. That was the first time Mark recognized how fortunate he was to have someone to show him the ropes of life. Mark and Dad taught Jack a thing or two about survival skills then, even showing him how to open a tin on a rock and create a camping stove with a soda can and a knife. Jack grew so animated, like he’d been handed the secrets of the universe. Mark had had access to that kind of knowledge every day of his life. Until now.
Peering down at his hands, the image of his dad pumped full of embalming fluid, caked in heavy makeup, brought him agonizing pain. To save him from further imagining, his body shut down, making him sleepy. He was a toy rapidly losing the last of its battery power.
Where was she tonight? He needed her more than ever before, especially since Salem had taken up residence on the area rug. Had she realized he wasn’t who she thought he was, rejecting him once and for all?
As he turned onto his side, she materialized as if commanded by his pain.
Also on her side, they mirrored each other. They lay there in silence, the potent frequency between them. Mark zinged with so much excitement he was afraid to reach for her.
He tried not to shame himself for wondering how lucky he was about to get with a spirit. Just the sensation of her fingers on his chest drove him mad. He wanted her hands all over him, and his all over her.
But he kept his paws to himself. “How can I help you?” It seemed the only question to ask.
“Promise you won’t do anything you can’t undo. You won’t listen to him.”
“Who?”
“The shaman.”
Was that the weirdo with his sister at the lake? Mark did not intend to ever listen to what that guy had to say. Regardless of whoever spoke to him, Mark would weigh the words carefully—whether it be someone outside or inside this house. Mental note taken.
“I promise,” he said, disappointed he was still Jonathan to her. Would she ever see him for who he really was?
“Good. Then we can be together always.” Her eyes sparkled with hope and an ocean of tenderness, which cast a spell over him.
In that split second, Mark fully bought into the charade. Her invitation was one he readily accepted. Their spiritual link served as an anchor. Being as physically close to her as possible rose to the forefront of his mind. Everything else turned inconsequential.
While she leaned to kiss him, he fumbled over her dress for a way to take it off, without much success. Their lips met, the softness of hers more sensual than he’d remembered. At her navel, he discovered a row of buttons. Undoing the first one was no easy task. His fingers ascended to the second, wishing it yielded more quickly.
A loud knock banged on his door.
Mark flew from the mattress to see who it was.
The retriever scooted under the bed.
The banging had been so urgent, his heart thumped. He looked around the room as if it held an answer hidden behind the wallpaper, or beneath the floorboard. He took a breath. More knocking launched into four heavy strikes.
“Who’s there?” he whispered, his voice as puny as he felt.
No answer came. He staggered towards the door. Gulped down an invisible hardball.
“Who’s there?” His voice a little stronger.
Another two knocks landed and Mark grabbed the handle before a third hit. When the door creaked open, there was no one there. The entire hallway was dim, and the house enveloped in quietude.
While pulling the door shut, two giant paw prints glared back at him.
February 1862
Indian scouts had left a couple of hours ago to signal the medicine man to ride into town.
The plan unfurled like the wings of an enormous bald eagle, ready to swoop for its prey.
At her bedroom window, Emma fidgeted with the fringe of her shawl while keeping watch for the shaman to arrive. Despite the cool wind shoving against the pane and the dying embers in the stove, moisture pearled at her temples and above her lip. Her body surged as if a bolt of lightning had walloped it.
Would she and Jonathan finally be able to run away? She’d packed a trunk with some of their clothes, along with a few photos, her sketchbook, and the rosewater. Maybe they’d take up a life with Zyanya’s tribe? There was a thought. They’d carry on her legacy while forging their own. Emma felt certain she could adapt to anything, anything but living with her father.
Hooves sloshed through the melting snow. Had Emma not been vigilant, she might’ve missed the three men who rode close to the house. Their bundled forms trotted out of sight, so she slid the window up to stick her head out. Cold air swept away clouds of breath and whipped her hair against her cheeks.
Jonathan corralled the steeds into empty stalls before conversing with the men. Their heads and shoulders angled to the individual speaking. It wasn’t until Emma noted their particular gestures corresponding with each other that she grasped Jonathan was easing into his authentic self. An aspect of him related to these men like she’d never witnessed previously. She doubted this resulted from trade negotiations, or his letter alone.
Papa hurried over to the gathering, swinging what could only have been the skeleton’s scalp. His hand cinched the skinned face, the raven hair waving like a flag. In his other hand, he aimed a pistol. “Get offa my land, if you know what’s good for you!”
The scouts scowled at the scalp, but the shaman adopted an alarming tranquility as if he came to a decision about something.
Papa turned to Jonathan, expecting his support. When his hired help remained steadfast, Papa pointed the weapon at him. Jonathan scratched his chin, betting his employer calculated the blast of a gunshot would draw unwanted attention.
“We’re here for Zyanya,” the medicine man said.
“What are you squawking about?” Papa asked gruffly.
Lifting her
pistol from beneath her skirt, Emma hid it under her shawl and raced for the rear staircase. By the time she landed on the ground floor, they’d all come inside. One of the scouts had confiscated her father’s gun, propelling him along with prods to his back.
The other scout had custody of the scalp.
“Once we have her, we’ll be on our way,” the shaman said, undoing the front of his coat.
“You can’t get to her,” Papa said.
While Emma joined the group, the Indian who’d invited her into his tent not too long ago, met her eyes and nodded.
Her father caught this and laughed maniacally. “You knew about this?”
Without looking at Papa, she laced her fingers into Jonathan’s. He squeezed her palm reassuringly.
They all marched downstairs.
The men glared at the shelves and at the rest of the lab before facing the vault with the others.
A threat of a grin twitched at the corners of the shaman’s mouth. “Open the door.”
“Papa, please. Let her go where she belongs,” Emma pleaded, her finger near the trigger.
“How dare you bring these savages into my home. You’ll pay for not keeping your trap shut!”
As if on cue, someone grabbed Emma from behind and thrust a blade to her throat. Using her weapon risked a fatal gash across her jugular, so she refrained.
Her legs turned to pudding.
The shaman zeroed in on the scar on Riley’s hand and arm, which possessed a unique keloid pattern. “It’s you.” His deep eyes narrowed at the wound and then at Riley’s face. With each step, that remarkable tranquility squelched the bubbling rage behind his eyes.
Practically nose to nose, neither man flinched.
“Ya slashed her belly.” Jonathan’s breathing deepened as he glared at Riley. “Then ya ordered the papa be made to watch while ya nailed that unborn babe to a tree. That wee innocent life—butchered—and while showing your teeth. I seen it all. Then I get here and your pa’s a vicious wolverine, just the same as ya.”
Fountain Dead Page 18