Bumstead's Well

by R E Swirsky

  Chris squeezed his fingers across his mouth and pinched his lips. He wanted to say something, but he was at a loss for words. He really didn't want to look under the sheet, but he had to see for himself that it was really Vincent.

  Dean nodded to the examiner who reached forward and pulled the sheet up from the feet. He carefully folded the sheet over itself until only the head remained covered.

  Chris fumbled in his coat pocket for his glasses and rested them precariously near the lower tip of his nose. Chris noticed the shoes first. He purchased those shoes for Vincent three weeks ago. He knew they were Vincent's by the colour of the fabric and soles. Vincent insisted he wanted the flashy bright Sketchers with the orange fabric and soles with bright orange rims. Chris thought they were loud and unappealing at the time, but he stifled his opinion and bought them for Vincent anyway.

  Chris started to nod; he knew this was indeed the body of his grandson, and he had so far only seen the shoes. He looked further up the body and continued nodding. He recognized Vincent's grey shorts with the white trim immediately. He was wearing them when he left the house for work on Friday morning. They were now spoiled with a deep burgundy colour of dried blood and black ash. He could see the remains of the boy’s crushed thighs and pelvis under the stained and ragged shorts. The exposed portion of his legs above the knees were bloodied, broken, and strangely disfigured.

  "And here's what we found on him." He motioned to the examiner who passed a small tray over to Chris.

  Chris nodded again as he picked up the black-faced ROOTS watch he bought Vincent for Christmas one year past. He rubbed some of the crash scene grime away from the watch face with his thumb.

  "This is Vincent's," he said. He dropped the watch back into the tray and looked at the iPhone, headset, keys, wallet, and other items. From what he could tell, all of the items appeared to belong to his grandson. A few items he didn't recognize, but it didn't sway him from his belief. He saw an extra set of keys, a few pens, note pad, CDs, sunglasses, and phone charger. With the exception of the keys, the items were probably all Vincent's. The extra set of keys most likely belonged to the greenhouse.

  He looked back down to the table at the charred arms and hands that rested on each side of the cart. The intense fire engulfed both boys from the chest up, but only the front of the bodies were charred. The back of the boy's shirt and hoodie were still untouched, and there was no doubt in Chris' mind that this was his grandson Vincent. He didn't recognize the shirt, but the hoodie, shorts, shoes, and other items convinced him that this was most definitely his grandson.

  He did not want to see anymore. As Chris removed his glasses and turned to leave, Dean grabbed him lightly by the arm.

  "Chris, I need you to take a look at his face."

  Chris shook his head and waved his long thin arm in front of him. "No, that's not necessary. This is Vincent. Those are his clothes and watch. It's him. I've seen enough."

  "I’m sorry, Chris. You have to. It's procedure. Just one look, and then we can go."

  Chris let out an uncharacteristic whimper as Dean moved him back towards the body. The examiner pulled up the rest of the sheet and revealed the charred and disfigured face.

  "My God," he whispered. "Vincent. My poor boy."

  He stepped forward and reached out with one hand to touch his grandson, but he hesitated; his hand hovered inches over the boy's eyes and forehead. He reset his glasses on his face and looked deep into the blackened skin. He studied the horrific image in front of him and started to sway. Dean grabbed firmly onto his arm to steady him.

  "I'm okay!" he huffed and pulled himself from Dean's grasp. The boy's lips and nose were almost completely gone. His eyelids, eyelashes, and eyebrows were burnt away along with most of the hair on his head. He looked at where the boy's eyes once glistened with excitement and saw a bubbled yellowy mess. The shrivelled and gnarled skin that remained on his face bore very little resemblance to the boy he grew to love so very much.

  He stepped back and pointed to the other stainless steel trolley.

  "That one is Roger?"

  "Ayuh. Officer Wu brought his mother Katie down earlier to identify the body."

  He looked back at the corpse that was supposedly his grandson. "It's him. It's my Vincent. And what it is… is a God damned shame."

  CHAPTER 13 Day Two - Saturday 1:55 PM

  It was mid-afternoon before Chris finally corralled enough gumption to walk across the road to offer his condolences to Roger's mother, Katie, in person. He listened astutely as she broke down repeatedly throughout her circuitous retelling of Roger’s death. She told him Roger's funeral was set for Wednesday in order to wait for family members to arrive from abroad. Chris responded simply that Vincent would be buried at the Crawford cemetery on Tuesday around noon. There was some comfort in knowing that the funerals would not be held on the same day. He hugged Katie tenderly before he returned home to check on Anita.

  He saw Anita seated alone in the front room with the phone up to her ear talking feverishly to someone on the other end. He nodded at her, but he wasn’t sure if she even saw him. He retreated out onto the patio where he lit up a cigarette and thought about his Grandson.

  Anita managed to make only one phone call alone in the other room before she broke down and went out to the patio with the cordless phone outstretched in one hand and a short list of names in the other. She insisted that Chris make the rest of the calls. He nodded and stared despondently down at the phone that was now resting in his palm.

  Taking her phone calls in private was something Anita always did; she would shoo him away each time and tell him she didn't need him eavesdropping on her private calls. Over the years, it had become habit for him to leave the room whenever she was on the phone. She would only have to pick up the handset and stare at him from across the room, and he would smile and remove himself from her company. It was one of the many little peculiar things she did. It defined her, and he loved her for it.

  He stared down at the phone again and puffed away. If he was ever in desperate need of a cigarette, it was now. The patio allowed him the sheltered comfort of chain smoking without Anita telling him he had enough cigarettes for the day.

  He set the phone down and scowled at the damn thing. He hated talking on the phone. Anita was the one who always contacted family members when it came to these kinds of things. But things quickly fell away from convention these past few months as her dementia progressed faster than what anyone expected. It was clear that he would have to make all of the heartbreaking calls himself.

  He sat, smoked a few more cigarettes, and sipped at his tea that already grew cold as he prepared himself. Through the patio doors to the great room, he could see his wife watching the news on CNN in peace. She stopped crying a while ago, and as far as he could tell, she had relapsed and was now back comfortably in her own reconstructed world once again with no recollection of Vincent's death. He was not about to go inside to ask her.

  Chris picked up the list of names and studied each one. He spoke with his son, Charlie, and oldest daughter, Jennifer, first thing this morning. Both wanted to drop what they were doing to come over immediately, but Chris shut them down right then and there. He needed to be alone and didn't want the fuss of anyone around him and Anita. He could handle what needed to be done, and he promised he would call them if he needed assistance. Maybe tomorrow or, better yet, Monday. Monday they can come by, but absolutely not today, he told them.

  He knew the next call he needed to make was to Vincent's mother. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he last spoke to this particular daughter. But Chris believed in many things, and one of them was family. He often appeared to be a miserable old man who stomped through life with little emotion. He seemed cold, harsh, and uncaring. But that was the complete opposite of how he truly felt. It didn’t matter that he found the actions of his daughter against her own son despicable. He thought she deserved to know her son was dead.

  Although they had
not spoken in well over nine years, he knew exactly where Arlene was. He always knew. He made a point of keeping tabs on all of her movements since the day she dashed off to Vancouver. Anita had no idea he kept tabs on their daughter, but there were a lot of things he did that Anita never knew about. Chris believed that his obligations and rights as patriarch of the family included the unchallenged pursuit of information regarding anything he thought warranted an investigation into any descendant of his. Knowing where each of his children was and what exactly they were doing was one of these obligatory actions, and if money was available for such investigations, then money certainly could and should be used for such things. And Chris had no shortage of money. Every three or four months, Chris made one call, and within a week, he had another update on his daughter.

  His fourty-eight year old daughter, Arlene, answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?" she said.

  His first thought was her voice sounded frail as if she had been crying, but it was so utterly soft and breathy, almost sensual, that he quickly reconsidered. ‘Sensual’ was the wrong word. The correct word evaded him, but he knew it would come to him in time.

  "Arlene, it's time we finally had a talk."

  She recognized his voice immediately. Her voice brightened with a discomfited excitement he had not expected. She quickly fell into a rambling of questions about him and her mother. He answered her questions and was immediately annoyed.

  "Enough about us," he interrupted. "There is a reason I'm calling. It's about your son, Vincent."

  It bothered him that she had not immediately asked about Vincent, and she didn’t seem at all embarrassed by what she did done all those years ago.

  "Vincent. Yes, how is my boy? I bet he's so tall now. How's he doing at school?"

  She talked as if she had done no wrong and asked her questions easily as if she was still actively engaged in his life.

  "Oh, he's done with school," Chris replied. "In fact, he's been out near you in Vancouver all of the last two years at University."

  She hesitated a moment, possibly surprised or deliberately searching for the right words. Her voice suddenly broke as if she was trying not to cry. "I uh... That's what I meant... University..."

  "Arlene, just stop it! I'm only calling because Vincent was killed last night. I just thought you should know."

  She stammered again. "What? Killed? By whom… how...?"

  Chris paused to light up another smoke before continuing. He then told her as many of the details he thought she needed. He tried not to break down, but he couldn't keep the quiver from mixing in with his words. It hurt to repeat it aloud; his beloved grandson was dead.

  Arlene started to cry, and Chris attempted to console her, but he did it reluctantly. He thought her despair and pain sounded rehearsed, and he wanted to just hang up the phone. The call came to a quick close with Arlene promising that she would be out on the very first plane in the morning to help with as much as she could. Chris insisted that he would pick up the check.

  Chris felt unsettled after talking to his youngest daughter, but he was glad she was coming for the funeral. At least she had the dignity to pay her respect to her son and face the rest of the family after what she did.

  The list of names was long, but the first and most difficult call was over with. There were many calls to make to many different people. Most people he called he knew, but some he didn't. He called his children Charlie and Jennifer again to give them the details of the funeral. They both passed the news down to their own children, Vincent's cousins, as promised.

  He thought about his call to Arlene and then reconsidered his insistence about none of his children coming over and said that they all, including the grandchildren, must come over after all. "Tomorrow would be best," he told them. "Come over for brunch." He then called Anita's two sisters who also promised to relay the news down their own family lines.

  The calling tired him immensely. By the time he got to the end of the list, calling Vincent's closest friends, teachers, coaches and coworkers, he repeated the story without any emotion. He was numb.

  Chris went inside to check on Anita and brought her her evening tea. She frowned when he put the tea on the coffee table in front of her.

  "Where's the biscuit?" she asked and looked at Chris as if he was the one who lost his mind. She always had her evening tea with a biscuit.

  CHAPTER 14 Day Two - Saturday 7:42 PM

  Time passed slowly in the well, and as the afternoon sun moved over to the evening and threatened to disappear for one more day, Vincent felt despair growing deep inside his belly. His friends certainly should have been back by now.

  As word spread across the valley that Vincent and his best friend Roger were killed in the fiery crash a few miles from the old Bumstead property, his Grandfather was in the midst of funeral arrangements for the following Tuesday. The fact that it was actually Aaron's body, not Vincent’s, that was recovered from the driver seat of the crash was of ill consequence; no one was about to miss Aaron or even bother to search for him. Not even Aaron's mother. Come Sunday morning, when he still hadn't returned home, she would simply assume he ran off to Grande Prairie, true to his word. She was not about to chase after him this time. Aaron was a big boy, and she was all set to just let him go.

  Vincent's neck was stiff from cranking his head upwards to watch for any sign of his friends. He twisted his sore neck up to the opening once again and called, "Aaron!"

  He waited for an answer, but no answer came.

  "Roger! I know you guys are up there!" he hollered. He hoped they really were up there waiting and simply playing games with him.

  "Aaron! Come on now! I've done my time. Pull me up!" He tugged lightly on the rope.

  Still nothing.

  "Aaron!" he called again.

  He cussed quietly to himself at the bottom of the well.

  The soft blue colour in the sky deepened to a heavy royal blue.

  "They couldn't have forgotten. They just couldn't have," he whispered. "I am such an idiot for doing this." He stared back up to the hole and concluded that the sun had surely set by now.

  "Assholes," he uttered. He felt the panic inside bubbling just below the surface. He wanted to cry but refrained. If they were just playing with him and trying to freak him out, it was working.

  He stood up, grabbed the bag and felt inside for the water bottles. There were only two left.

  "Really? I drank three bottles of water?"

  He rummaged about in the increasing darkness in search for the other bottles. When he found them all, one was almost empty, and the two resting against the opposite wall were filled with urine. His mind started to spin away at an uncontrollable pace as he counted the bottles of water again.

  "Roger wouldn't leave me down here another night. No way. Not you, Roger."

  He reached back into the bag and pulled out the four remaining pepperoni sticks and the half-eaten box of crackers. That was it for the food.

  Vincent jumped up in the air, grasped onto the rope that still dangled down the centre of the well, and screamed with all his lungs could deliver. "Help! Anybody! I'm down in the well! Help me!"

  He listened, but no reply came. He screamed and called out frequently over the next hour. There was to be no reply tonight; there would be no reply tomorrow; and there would be no reply the next day.

  CHAPTER 15 Day Three - Sunday 4:12 AM

  Vincent woke from a sound that ripped him out of a terrifying dream. In the dream, his grandfather stumbled through the forest screaming for help as he was pursued by three faceless, human-like creatures. Two of the dark-skinned, faceless beasts easily caught his fragile grandfather as the third smaller one limped along and struggled to keep up. The two stronger ones plucked the old man up off the ground and tossed him onto their shoulders; he hollered and grappled about in attempt to free himself.

  The creatures cackled unintelligibly and continued to run through the forest tossing the limp old man back and forth betwe
en them. They finally stopped where the forest opened into a large clearing. They waited impatiently for the smaller, limping creature to catch up. Once it arrived, the three arranged themselves into a small triangle around a pile of damp stones that lay stacked in the centre. Each one extended an ash coloured arm inwards and pointed down towards the pile of stones. The two holding his grandfather suddenly heaved him up high into the air where he floated momentarily before falling onto the pile of stones. Instead of crashing hard, he passed through the stones as if they were dust and dropped deep into the earth below. Deeper and deeper he descended into the ground. Vincent could see roots, bones, worms, and other objects protruding from the broken soil as his grandfather passed deeper and deeper into the earth.

  The sound he thought was his grandfather's body slamming into the bottom of the pit was what woke him.

  The terror of his dream seemed acutely real for a moment as he opened his eyes and saw nothing but complete blackness swallowing him up. He searched desperately for the light but there was no light to see. Dense, heavy clouds had chased away the stars as Vincent slept, and even the small opening of the well that usually hovered dimly above him vanished within the thick layer of cumulous clouds.

  A crack of thunder and flash of lightning ripped across the sky above him, and for a fraction of a second, the well, with its tower of rocks reaching up on all sides of him, was revealed.

  Vincent groaned. He hoped he was still inside the dream. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall of stone. His heart pounded and beads of sweat dribbled down his temples. He waited for another flash to light up the inside of the well. His foggy mind told him he was awake, but a part of him still expected to see his Gramps crumpled at his feet.

  Another flash of lighting followed by a clap of thunder was just enough to put his mind in touch with reality. The bottom of the well lie empty under the momentary blue flash; only the stool, a few water bottles, and Aaron's bag rested on the surface of the mud.