The widow steps onto the chair. The Edricks steady her, as she positions a knee so that she can crawl forward into a kind of tunnel like an animal’s burrow, no more than three feet in height. A repairman might make his way into such a space on his haunches but the widow finds it easier to crawl—like an animal, or a child.
Her heart is pounding rapidly. Her nostrils pinch against the damp rank earthen odor.
The cramped tunnel is less than a few yards long. Yet, by the time she reaches the space itself, she is feeling light-headed from having held her breath for so long.
Why are you here? You are not wanted here.
Rats are more faithful than you have been.
With difficulty the widow lowers herself into the storage space. It is the size of a small bathroom or a large closet, with a puddled floor of broken cement; the feeble light of the flashlight reveals that there is an unexpected light hanging from the low ceiling, which she turns on—this too is feeble, no more than a forty-watt bulb. There are just two squat, badly waterstained and intricately taped cardboard boxes on the floor. The smell here is very strong, oppressive. Cobwebs stick to the widow’s face, hair. If only she’d known to wear something on her head! And her open-toed summer shoes are not appropriate for this treacherous place. She hears a sound of scuttling—beetles….
She is breathing very quickly now, near-panting. It is very difficult to get enough oxygen into her lungs.
The beetles have frightened her. Or, disgusted her. But she will persevere.
Such a low ceiling! This is indeed oppressive. She isn’t able to stand upright but must crouch like a simian.
She tugs at one of the boxes, which is so heavy she can’t budge it. Books inside? Jed had owned so many books, some of them oversized, first editions of mathematical classics….
She couldn’t possibly drag either of these boxes with her back along the tunnel. If she wants to bring their contents with her she will have to open the boxes and unpack them in the crawl space.
After much struggle with the shears, which isn’t as sharp as she might have hoped, she manages to open the first box: indeed it is just books.
Of not much interest, she thinks. Disappointing!
Why had Jed hidden away A History of Mathematics, Discrete Mathematics, A History of Zero, A History of Calculus, Infinity and Beyond…. She’d hoped there might be something valuable here, and revealing; something Jed had not wanted to share with his wife, perhaps.
You don’t want to know. Why do you want to know.
Suddenly she feels panic. A constriction of the chest, a wave of fear. Must escape!
She stumbles to the tunnel. She forces herself into it, crawling on hands and knees but what is this?—the way is blocked?
It must be a mistake of course. She has just crawled along the tunnel and knows that the way is not blocked, though it is disconcertingly narrow at one point.
“H-Hello? Mrs. Edrick? Are you there?”
No answer. She tries to force herself past the blockage, which seems to be solid rock, but she is frightened of getting just her head and shoulders through the opening, and being then trapped in this terrible place.
“Hello? What have you done? Help me….”
No answer. She is trying not to become hysterical.
“Hello? Hello? Hello? What have you done? Mrs. Edrick? Hel-lo …”
No answer. No sound except her panicked breathing.
The new owners so resent her haunting the house, their property. They can think of no other way to stop her. Is this possible?
Of course, this is not possible. Ridiculous!
Yet they have gone away, upstairs. They have switched off the basement lights and they have shut the basement door. They will go away and leave their trapped visitor. They have planned this for years and when they return, the widow’s cries will have grown faint.
When they return a second time, and a third time, her plaintive cries will have ceased.
Still, she calls for help. She thinks—They are warning me, maybe. It is punishment for me—a warning.
“Hello? Help? Mrs. Edrick! Mr. Edrick! I—I won’t come back—I won’t ‘haunt’ you … I promise.”
She is begging. She is desperate. But there is no answer. They have gone away, they have shut the door at the top of the basement stairs.
No one’s fault but your own. What did you think you were doing, joining me in the grave? Seven years too late.
Oxygen is fading. Her brain is fading. To occupy her mind, to occupy her panicked fingers she unpacks the first box fully—yes, these are all mathematical books, badly waterstained.
In some, Jed had made numerous annotations. What had the deluded man thought, that such fussy notes, such calculations, would make a difference?
The second box is more promising. Amid crumpled and stained sheets of newspaper used as padding there is something small, desiccated—mummified? A doll?
Not a human infant, the widow is sure. But disconcertingly lifelike.
Or—is it a human infant, so mummified that it has lost its human face?
Her hands are trembling with dread, and with excitement.
Cautiously she lifts the thing from the cardboard box, shaking off the stained newspapers. All about her is a scuttling of glinting beetles of which she is scarcely aware. She stares at the badly waterstained, faded face, a miniature face, with sightless eyes, broken glass, or plastic, or something that has atrophied and is no longer recognizable as even intended to be human. The miniature pug nose has been mashed flat, the nostrils are smudged holes.
The mouth, a battered O like the mouth of a small fish.
“Oh! Poor thing …”
A wave of sorrow sweeps over her, the futility of all things human and nonhuman. She holds the doll to her chest, in cradled arms. She rocks it in her arms. Her eyes fill with tears, her pain is more exquisite than she could have guessed. So many years, so many days, yet no time has passed.
HEARTBREAK
1.
In the top drawer of my step-dad’s bureau the gun was kept. It was kept unloaded.
They were laughing at the rear of the house. My sister Caitlin with her laughter like shattering glass and my cousin Hunt Lesinger who’d brought his .22 rifle over at Caitlin’s request.
Giving her lessons in shooting a rifle. But not me, not even looking at me.
Showing off for Caitlin, is how it was. And Caitlin showing off for him.
In the mirror above the bureau—a flushed blurred face. I had learned to look quickly away from that face for so often I hated what I saw.
Mr. Lesinger’s (forbidden) gun in my hand! Heavier than you’d expect.
(My stepdad didn’t like it when I called him “Mr. Lesinger”—that did sound weird. He wanted Caitlin and me to call him “Dad.” He put pressure on us to call him “Dad.” But that was the name of our actual dad so how could there be two Dads? There could not.)
They were down by the ravine. I hated it, they’d gone off without me another time.
Behind Mr. Lesinger’s house was an acre-sized lawn like a field that descended to a ravine, and beyond the ravine was Mineral Lake that was shallow and weedy at this end so you couldn’t swim and even young kids wouldn’t want to wade out in the muck on a hot day.
In the ravine was a wrecked car all overgrown with weeds and vines. Years ago someone had crashed his car through the guard railing up on the Herrontown Road, on a rainy night. The driver and his passenger had both died in the accident, in the ravine in what was called a “fireball” when the gas tank exploded.
This had happened long ago before we’d moved into Mr. Lesinger’s big shingleboard house on Herrontown Road. Before Mom had married Mr. Lesinger and brought us to our new life.
Mr. Lesinger hadn’t told us about the ravine or the car. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind probably. Adults don’t think of the most obvious things like what’s behind your own house, in a ravine. Part of Mr. Lesinger’s property was marshy and you wouldn’
t want to walk there.
The ravine was about twenty feet deep, and part of it was filled with trash. You could hardly make out the wrecked car covered with vines and badly burned, that looked like the skeleton of a giant insect.
Hunt Lesinger, who was Mr. Lesinger’s nephew, knew about the wreck of course and the first time he came to visit us, after we’d moved into his uncle’s house, he told us to come with him, he’d show us something we maybe didn’t know about. It was a surprise to see the wreck back there, hidden from sight unless you knew what to look for.
First, we peered down at the wreck from the top of the ravine which was dense with underbrush. Then, Hunt wanted to climb down. He’d brought his .22-caliber rifle which he left on the ground for it was dangerous (he said) to climb anywhere with a rifle.
Caitlin hadn’t wanted to climb down into the ravine—of course. But I was eager to follow Hunt.
Our step-cousin was the kind of boy you wanted to impress, by keeping up with him. Whatever he was doing. And if Hunt made jokes, you’d want to laugh.
It was awkward pushing through the underbrush then slip-sliding down the rocky hill, into the ravine. I’m a strong girl and my legs are hard with muscle but it was not easy going. A flurry of mosquitoes buzzed around my eager damp face.
Caitlin cried, “Wait for me!”
Caitlin was wearing flip-flops on her skinny white feet, short shorts and a tanktop. Caitlin was so girly, you wanted to laugh. You wanted to give her a swift hard slap to make her stop acting so silly.
“You never saw this? My uncle never told you?”
Hunt recounted how he’d been in sixth grade when the car had plowed through the guard railing and it was in the local paper and on TV. His uncle had said how he and his wife had just gone to bed at about 11 P.M. and they’d heard the car hit the guard railing, then the crash in the ravine, without knowing what they were hearing, and then the terrible loud explosion when the gas tank blew up—”Like the end of the world.”
Of course, both the bodies had been removed. There was no trace of anything human in the wreck (that I could see) that had turned black in the fire. All the windows were broken but little slivers of scorched glass remained in the frames like teeth. If you tried to climb inside the wreck, you could cut yourself pretty bad.
I thought of climbing into the front, behind the melted-looking steering wheel and the black-burnt dashboard, to sit on what was left of the seat and pretend to be driving, but decided against it when Hunt shook his head No.
“Better not, Steff. You could hurt yourself.”
Caitlin wouldn’t come too near the wreck—her flip-flops were so flimsy on her feet, she couldn’t risk climbing down into the ravine. Saying in her throaty little-girl voice (the way she never talked around the house but only if there was someone special to impress) she was afraid of seeing something “awful”—(like bloodstains? parts of bodies?)—how terrible it must have been, those poor people skidding in their car on the road, and crashing through the guard railing—”They must have been screaming all the way down.”
Hunt said they didn’t have much time to be afraid, the gas tank had exploded within seconds.
Hunt laughed, the way a guy will laugh when he knows he has said something disturbing. There are some thoughts that scare you so, you have to laugh.
Caitlin put her hands over her ears as if this kind of talk upset her delicate nerves. “Oh Hunt, please. I don’t like to think about it.”
It was like that with my sister. The least thing she could turn to her own advantage, to draw attention to herself, she would. But Hunt could see through her, I think. He’d just laughed, as he and I were climbing out of the ravine, and didn’t even answer her.
Later he said to me, “Maybe don’t tell my uncle or your mom we were climbing in the ravine, O.K.? Just, they don’t need to know.”
It was thrilling to me, that Hunt would say this to me, in a quiet voice like we would share a secret.
2.
His name was Hunter—everybody called him Hunt. It was a nice name that suited him. And he was an actual hunter, too.
He was my cousin—I guess you’d say step-cousin. First time we met, introduced by my mother, I knew Hunt and I would be in each other’s lives forever.
“Steff, this is Hunt. You know—your new cousin …”
“Hi, Steff! Good to meet you.”
Hunt was smiling at me, and it was a sincere smile. Hunt was not laughing at me. His eyes didn’t slide away like guys’ eyes do when they see, seeing you, that there’s nothing to hold their interest but they need to appear polite.
Just then, Caitlin came downstairs. Even before Mom introduced them I saw how Hunt’s eyes slid on my sister with her red-lipstick mouth and platinum-blond hair streaked with just-visible strands of purple and green.
In that instant, when Hunt lifted his eyes to Caitlin, I could see how he was forgetting all about me.
I hated Mom calling me Steff instead of Stephanie which is a much more beautiful name.
Steff makes you think of Stuff.
I think it is a deliberate thing they do, my mother and my sister, and everybody else, to put me down. Not Stephanie but Steff.
But when Hunt said “Steff”—it didn’t sound so awful.
Hunt and his father Davis Lesinger had driven from Keene, New York, in the Adirondacks in his father’s Jeep, to Morgantown, Pennsylvania, which is six miles south of Erie in the western part of the state. It was a twelve-hour trip they took once a year at least. The Lesingers were all hunters and Hunt and his father had brought two hunting rifles with them.
Hunt was proud to show us his rifle which was a Remington .22-caliber with a handsome polished stock—he brought it with him everywhere he could, he said.
Hunt’s rifle was a registered hunting rifle. It was a legal gun in every way. When I saw Hunt lift it and squint through the scope I felt a chill along my spine but it was a pleasurable chill, of excitement.
Right away Caitlin said, “I want a shooting lesson! Ple-ease.”
Hunt looked at Caitlin, and Hunt looked at me. It was like he was about to wink—at me.
Isn’t your sister silly? How can you all stand her?
“Well, see—a rifle has a kick, Caitlin. It can hurt your shoulder if you don’t handle it right. And the shot is loud.”
It was startling to hear—how Hunt spoke the name Caitlin. So that it sounded special.
In this way, Hunt put my sister off. But knowing Caitlin, how stubborn and persistent she was to get her way, I knew this would be just temporary.
Hunt’s mother was no longer in their family, it seemed. Hunt did not explain where she had gone and we would not have wished to ask our step-father Martin Lesinger who disliked personal questions especially from Caitlin and me.
“Maybe he’s just like us, Steff! Except his mom left, not his dad.”
Every summer Hunt and his father made the long drive from Keene to visit relatives in Morgantown. They stayed with his father’s elderly parents for a week or ten days. It was strange for us—(Mom, Caitlin, me)—to think that they’d been coming to Morgantown all these years but we’d had no idea they existed.
Now that our mother had married Martin Lesinger, who was Hunt’s father’s younger brother, we were Hunt’s relatives, too.
It was a surprise to Caitlin, and to me. I mean, a nice surprise. We had a brother Kyle who didn’t live with us. (Kyle lived with our father.) But no other close relatives in Morgantown, or anywhere. No cousins our age. Suddenly there was Hunt Lesinger in our house and my mother laughing at the looks in our faces—”Girls, this is your step-cousin. Hunter is family.”
Whatever else was said at that time passed by me in a roar. Must’ve been blood beating in my ears.
Seeing Hunt for the first time, and seeing how Hunt smiled at me, it was like something turned in my heart. Like one of those tiny keys you can hardly grasp with your fingers but when you do, unlocking a lock, a little door comes open.
I had never seen any boy that age, or younger, or older, as polite and well mannered as Hunt Lesinger. Mom had told us he was eighteen years old—he’d graduated from high school three weeks before. In the fall he had a scholarship to study forestry at the state college at Syracuse. He was a tall, lanky, long-limbed boy with chestnut-colored hair and a habit of whistling under his breath. He laughed a lot, but not loud or rudely. His favorite things to do (he said) were hunting, hiking, canoeing and camping in the Adirondacks. He hoped to work for the Adirondack National Park Service after he graduated from forestry college. In the fall he planned to enlist in the New York State National Guard.
Mom kept saying how cool it was, she had a “nephew” now—a “step-nephew.” When she’d married Martin Lesinger eighteen months before she’d been hurt that almost no one from the Lesinger family had come to the wedding though most of them lived right here in Morgantown.
Mom’s new husband was eleven years older than Mom. He had been Mom’s boss at the Buick dealership where she’d worked until they were married, and you could see that he was still Mom’s boss—the way he spoke to her, not exactly giving orders, never forgetting to say Please but in a tone of voice that meant there was no negotiating.
Of course, Martin Lesinger had been married before. His wife had died of some wasting disease like Parkinson’s—there were pictures of her in the house, which Mom intended to hide away as soon as she dared. But Mr. Lesinger’s children were all grown up and none of them lived in Morgantown, or had troubled to come to the wedding. Caitlin and I felt funny thinking how we had step-sisters and a step-brother old enough almost to be our parents whom we had never seen. That was weird.
Mom told us these step-siblings were “not overjoyed” about her marrying Mr. Lesinger whose wife had died just three or four years ago.
We asked Mom if these step-siblings were worried about Mr. Lesinger leaving money to her and not to them?—and Mom said she didn’t think so, or anyway they shouldn’t worry since she’d signed a prenup.
Dis Mem Ber and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense Page 6