~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It wasn’t long before I reached Swansea. I parked the car alongside the railroad tracks and got out.
A natural tunnel of oak and maple trees formed a thick green canopy overhead, while the sun occasionally forced its way through, creating dancing shadows. It was dark up ahead and I nearly jumped when I heard a stick snap in the wood line. I could also make out the faint smell of wet, musty hair. I’m not alone, I thought. For some strange reason, I looked down expecting to find my best friend, Foxhound, standing by my side. But my childhood dog wasn’t there. And why would he be? He’d died when I was twelve and broke my heart. It hurt so bad, in fact, that I vowed I’d never own another. With my steamy breath leading the way, I started off on the second leg of my journey.
One sweat ring later, I reached the old clubhouse. There wasn’t much left, except a pile of mismatched boards and planks, a tangle of frayed ropes; discarded pieces once brought together to create a haven from authority. I took my time and climbed up into my past.
Under a damp swag of red carpet, Miss November waited with a smile. Her breasts were faded from the elements, but not so blurred that I couldn’t remember she’d once provided a wonderful starting point for my pre-adolescence. With Miss November back under the rug, I spent the better part of the day reminiscing. I took a couple deep breaths, closed my eyes and went back…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I could still see it. It was the last house at the end of Oliver Street. They called it “The Biggins’s Place,” and since as far back as I could remember, it was completely abandoned. My brother, Joseph, used to tease me that I didn’t have the guts to jump the fence and walk through its yard on our way to school. For years, Joseph was right.
The Biggins’s Place was an old Victorian house taken straight out of a horror movie. Blanketed in overgrown trees and lurking shadows, it was quite a scary sight and I hated it. From the first time I set eyes on the place, I hated it.
The city’s hearsay historians claimed that the house was built on an old Indian burial ground. Whether this was true or not, there was a graveyard just to its east. And with each year of small town rumor, the place took on a more haunted appearance.
Legend had it that Mrs. Loretta Biggins had lost her husband, a sea captain, to the frigid depths of the Atlantic. Shortly thereafter, she lost a good part of her mind. They say she paced upon the widow’s walk for weeks after he was lost at sea, screaming his name in a shrill voice that would weaken the spine of the strongest man. Her only saving grace was her young son, Charles. Half out of her wits and with the intention to protect the boy, she locked him in the house like some common criminal. They say he slept in a closet and ate with the family pets. She never let the boy out of her sight. But this only lasted until the disturbed woman grew weary and rested her penetrating gaze.
Charles was ten years old when he escaped his mother’s twisted bastion. They say he ran to the dock where his father had shipped out to eternity. Deciding on one parent over the other, the boy jumped into the icy water and pumped his arms as fast and as hard as he could. Once they tired, he turned back and bobbed in the water, quietly awaiting his fate. Even if he had wanted to change his mind, he no longer had the strength to return to land.
There was a scream. He looked up to see his mother standing on her widow’s walk, her arms outstretched and her voice shrieking his name, “CHARLES!” Some claimed to have seen him smile when he went down. The rest of the city, however, braced themselves against the most horrid pitch a woman had ever released. She wailed, “CHARLES! CHARLES!” but young Biggins was not to return. Preferring to embrace his own death, he’d finally escaped her torment. Tragically, his mother was just sane enough to understand that she had killed her only child.
From that point on, there was no question that the old lady had completely abandoned her mind. Neighbors soon complained about losing their pets, only to discover the butchered carcasses lying in the street in front of the Biggins’s house. No one dared question her on it, though. Those who even considered it got only as far as her porch before they heard the demented shriek of a banshee. They’d look up and find her half-concealed behind a broken window, gesturing wildly that they come in. No one ever did – ever.
The place deteriorated as fast as she did. She became a recluse and lived that way for two decades. No one ever knew the exact day she died. Her body was discovered from the rancid odor it omitted. They say that the man who removed the body could feel her presence in the room and vowed, “She was there.” In fact, just as he closed the front door, he heard her laugh insanely and release a high-pitched scream.
As the Biggins’s only heir had drowned and there were no living relatives, the city eventually auctioned off the place to a family from out of town. The Densons were the first of two families to reside in the place, but moved in to discover that they were unwanted. Fixed objects moved around the house under the power of something angry and invisible. Doors opened and slammed shut throughout the night. Then, to insure their prompt departure, something began to physically strike out; something that couldn’t be seen but felt to the point that it bruised. The Denson’s quickly sold.
The next courageous clan, the Letendres, wasn’t there a month when the patriarch of the family was badly beaten and rushed to the emergency room. “Who did this to you?” they inquired.
Covered in cuts and bruises, he vowed he honestly didn’t know but believed, “It was some vile ghost who wanted to kill me.” He spent a good stretch at Corrigan Hospital, committed for mental health reasons.
The city boarded the windows and shut off the power to the house. Still, the exterior light came on randomly. Some reported seeing a young man – dripping wet in turn-of-the-century clothing – beckoning for his mother from the deserted widow’s walk.
Old Loretta was feared more in death than she was in life. Everyone stayed clear of the Biggins’s place. The only true adventurers of the neighborhood, the kids, used to break in. On one such daring night when the tide was high, two children broke in to prove their courage, while a third kept watch on the porch. They say that the porch lookout never saw Old Lady Biggins standing on her walk until it was too late. When he ran inside to warn his friends, to his horror he discovered one had died. In shock, the second remained catatonic for several weeks. When he finally came around, his child-like babble reported that the old lady had approached them, turned to his friend and whispered, “You’re home now, Charles. And I’ll never let you go again.” At that very moment, the boy choked to death.
That legend witnessed many seasons and outlived many people who tried to dispel it. It undoubtedly grew larger through the ages, so by the time my brother and I caught wind of it, it was bigger than our own lives. It was rumored that the place was going to be a funeral home, but the window boards never came down. Instead, the eerie house continued to serve as a test of courage to adolescents who were chased off the property by town police.
For years, I sprinted past the place on my way to and from school. And though it witnessed all of my childhood woes and triumphs, most of the time I never spared the place a look. As my courage grew, though, so did Joseph’s challenges.
On one late September night when I was ten, I decided to take my brother up on his dare. After all the years of harboring fear of the place, I was finally willing to face the demons of Loretta Biggins – and perhaps even my own.
It was autumn in Massachusetts and there was no prettier place on Earth. On this night, the whole world was perfect – except for the Biggins’s place. It loomed over me worse than my overactive imagination. I’d agreed to the wager only if I could take Dewey, my best friend, along. Joseph agreed.
Peter Duhon, or Dewey, was a heavy-set kid who was a bit too jaded for his age. Though cocky, it was only a defensive trait to combat his low self-esteem. His overprotective father was the complete opposite of mine and showed me what a good dad could be. As a result, Dewey was hell-bent on being somebody; be
ing successful and having money, which he was convinced would bring him all the happiness he’d ever need.
Donned in our hooded sweatshirts, Dewey and I started for the house. I doubted that Old Lady Biggins’s laughter would be any match for that of my cynical brother’s. Under the faint light of a crescent moon, like Marines hitting the beach, Dewey and I approached the place on bicycles. There was never a shortage of drama in our neighborhood. I was just nearing the overgrown yard when I actually felt a presence – an invisible, unfriendly presence. I looked over at Dewey, but my best friend was already high-tailing it home. He’d obviously felt the same thing. Unwilling to face Joseph’s ruthless teasing, I gritted my teeth and willed myself closer. It was then that I heard it. Though faint, it was the distinct sound of a sea captain’s whistle. I expected to find my brother in wait and squinted hard to search the yard for the shoddy ambush. Joseph was nowhere to be found. And then I felt something; it was like a patch of cold air traveling straight through me. I gasped, and at that instant, felt a tormented solitude well up inside of me. I was suddenly lost and alone. In one spine tingling moment, I honestly believed I’d just met the anguished spirit of young Charles Biggins.
The boy’s energy was wandering aimlessly, unaware of the great sin he’d committed; unaware of his natural place in the universe. Although the experience reached beyond bizarre, for reasons unknown I did not feel afraid. Instead, it seemed that all of the fear in the world belonged to Charles. The boy was trapped, imprisoned, without knowing any means of escape. Surprising myself, I called out, “Charles?” I saw and heard nothing, but the stiff hairs on the back of my neck announced that the boy was nearby. I could think of nothing but trying to help. “You no longer belong here, Charles,” I told him. “You must go.” The spirit’s feelings of despair only increased. Nearly paralyzed, I realized that this boy was in hell; the very hell he’d created when he’d tried to cheat nature by cutting his time short on Earth. He was still connected to this earthly dimension and would probably serve his remaining time alone – lost and scared. I had to get out before it was too late; before I was forced to share in the boy’s horrid grief. I pumped my legs and prayed hard all the way home. When I reached safety, I drummed up the courage to look back. There was nothing there.
Joseph was waiting on the porch, smiling. “Told you there was nothing to worry about,” he said.
I calmed my quick breathing and looked into my older brother’s eyes. “Nana was right,” I said, panting. “Nobody can punish us more than we can punish ourselves.” With that, I pushed my rubbery legs into the house.
Joseph followed me in. Before the door closed behind him, his words echoed down the street. “Come on, Donny. It couldn’t have been that scary. Are you really that sorry you went?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A shiver traveled the length of my spine. This time, it was from the falling air temperature. I looked up to see that my trip down memory lane was losing light. Where are you now, Charles Biggins? I wondered. Turning up the collar on my jacket, I half-stood, stretched out my aching back and eased myself out of the clubhouse. As I started down the tracks, I looked back once and had to smile. When you’re a kid, it’s so foolish to think that life will remain the way it is forever; that nothing will ever change. But maybe that’s the true gift of innocence. Good or bad, I’d survived my childhood and was exposed to just enough to choose the life I wanted. I suppose when you add up those two factors, it was a success.
When I reached the car, I popped a pain pill and called Bella on the cell phone. “Miss me?”
“Before you even left,” she said.
“Listen,” I told her, “I think I’m going to spend the night at Joseph’s, so I can spend one more day with my memories. You okay with that?”
“That’s fine. But are you okay?”
“Yup.”
“The pills helping?” she asked.
“I’m a little tired and achy, but yeah – they’re working. How’s Riley?”
“She taking it rough, but she’ll be fine.” There was a brief pause. “I love you, you know,” she said.
“I know. Me, too,” I said and was starting to learn just how much.
Chapter 3
Sometimes, the memory is too kind. Take high school, for example. Most people claim, “I wish I could go back.” But if you recall high school – I mean, really remember it – you’ll probably remember it the same way I do. It sucked! There were bullies, peer pressure, acne and girls – a terrible mix. Folks go through their whole lives without having to face a fraction of the rejection they faced in high school. But when we recall it, the only things we remember are the prom, graduation – all the good stuff.
Adolescence and the few years that led up to it are still a bit hazy to me…
The customers who didn’t tip on our paper routes got hit hard on Halloween. Weeks before the big night, Joseph, Dewey and I bought dozens of eggs and hid them so they’d go rotten. We also used soap, lipstick and shaving cream – anything that would allow us to express our creativity. We thought we’d done it all one year before we saw Ronnie Forrester, the neighbor bully, throwing small pumpkins off the highway overpass onto passing car windshields. I’ll never forget it; the cops thought we were responsible and everyone scattered for cover. But we weren’t complete lunatics. We were only egg pitchers.
I remember going to a slaughterhouse with one of our Portuguese neighbors. The pig squealed something horrible until they slit its throat. Once they drained all of its blood, it was my job to stir the big red pot all the way home so it wouldn’t clot.
The drive-in theater saw a few empty quarts of beer and once we even smuggled in a mayonnaise jar full of moonshine. As I recall, the security guard couldn’t place the odor, and Dewey and I weren’t about to stick around until he did.
The older I got, the more I realized that the generations who passed before us were just as screwed up. Though they criticized and judged our every move, they’d also indulged in alcohol abuse, domestic violence and infidelity – my dad more than most. If anything, the one thing that had changed was that there was less hiding it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The one person I’ll never forget from my childhood is Mr. Duhon, Dewey’s dad.
Mr. Duhon worried terribly over his son from the moment his boy was born. And for years, the worries were justified; the trials and terrors of toddlers, the daring dangers of youth. Even the quirky quests of adolescence were very upsetting to him; us borrowing his car without permission or licenses, and so on.
Then Dewey grew up. He was all done jumping from roofs and eating hard candy while lying on the couch. But his dad still couldn’t adapt. Whether it was the years of conditioning, or his own internal wiring – or a combination of the two – he just couldn’t let his guard down. He was a bundle of nerves.
For as long as I knew him, I thought the man’s twitchiness was no more than his poor attempt at humor. Years went by before I realized he wasn’t kidding at all. He was always overly concerned, without being able to conceal his fears.
Once, the old man sprinkled rat poison under a porch that stood no more than a foot off the ground. When Dewey and I returned home from school, his father was frantic. “Have you boys been playing under the porch?” he asked, as Dewey and I walked up the driveway.
“Huh?” Dewey grunted.
“Have you eaten any of the white powder under the porch?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and anxious.
Dewey just walked away, with my grinning face in tow.
The old man called out behind us. “Because it’s rat poison…”
We never looked back.
“You know that holly berries are poisonous, too…right?”
I thought I was going to pee my pants from laughing so hard. “It’s not funny,” Dewey said and slammed the door behind us.
But it was funny. The best, oddly enough, was the morning Mr. Duhon buried his mother.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~
After a life filled with shared misery, Dewey’s grandmother gasped her final complaint and left the world bawling as loud as she had coming in. “She’s no longer suffering,” Father Grossi sighed. The young priest ran his hand across her wrinkled face and closed her distant eyes on his way.
“Sure,” the family mumbled under its breath, “and neither are we.”
At fifteen, I was honored with being chosen a pallbearer. It was my first assignment as such and I welcomed the opportunity to help my best friend.
It was a cold morning when Aldina Duhon – or Grandma – was laid to rest. Dewey, his father, and his Vovo – Dewey’s other grandmother, the Portuguese one – swung by to pick me up. Dewey gestured his hello and then smiled wide, motioning his eyes over the front seat toward his strangely clad father. In one quick moment, I took it all in: Vovo was snoring like a bear. Mr. Duhon, however, was awake and ridiculously out of style. He wore a brown corduroy sports jacket, one size too small, over a white button down shirt. The slender Western rope tie matched perfectly with a pair of black snakeskin boots. To top it off, a belt buckle the size of a hubcap reading, “If It Ain’t Country, It Ain’t Music,” held up a faded pair of blue khaki slacks. He smelled of cheap cologne and he was smiling.
I nodded and returned the smile. “Mornin’, Mr. Duhon,” I said and then glanced back at Dewey. My friend winked. I choked on the laugher that clawed to break free. “This oughta be one hell of a funeral,” I whispered to Dewey.
He grinned. “You have no idea.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
From the outset, it was clear that Mr. Duhon had honored his cherished mother with the pauper’s package. With a comical rudeness, the funeral director hurried the handful of mourners along. The priest sensed the urgency and spoke like an experienced auctioneer. Upon his blessing, the pallbearers were asked to “report to the rear of the parlor.”
Twelve Months Page 4