Shadows & Tall Trees

by Shadows

  He made his own noise as she did. Hers was a response to the man’s compliment, crude as it was. Don knew the sound because he remembered it. Knew what it built to.

  His own sound was loud but lacking the same joy. His was anguish.

  “There!” Carolyn said, not with encouragement but with, “I heard it again.” Pulled the top sheet up under her chin.

  Don was falling. Or so it felt. So that’s why she was coming home later each night.

  Up, left, right, down, sideways through the spaces, hurtling along inside the walls, banging his shoulders, scraping his knees, rushing to get back to their own dwarf door, to learn the truth. To run from it.

  Bursting out, stumbling forward across the vinyl floor. Striding to the bedroom, passing through the doorway.

  Carolyn in bed, reading. Looking up, startled, at his dramatic entrance.

  He raised a finger—wait—while he got his breath. Bent forward, hand to his chest.

  Her quiet voice. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine! Fine. When did you get home?”

  She put a postcard to the page she had been reading. Shut her book. “About an hour ago.” A wife’s pause. “I was surprised you weren’t home. ”

  “I was looking....”

  “For a job? At seven o’clock?”

  He brushed the dirt from his pants. Caught himself.

  “Why are your clothes so dusty, Don?”

  “I fell.”

  “You fell?”

  “I scraped my elbows. See?” Held them out to her as proof.

  “Were you at an interview?”

  “I was walking around, to see if any office windows were lit. And if they were, I was going to ring the front bell and talk to the owner. I thought maybe a face to face, after hours, a more casual setting, might be a way to bypass all the usual crap. Because just sending résumés out on the Internet, like I’ve been doing, obviously hasn’t been that effective. It’s time to think outside the box.” He was rambling. Some of it felt true.

  Carolyn concerned. “Are you feeling okay?” Put her book on her nightstand. A good sign. “I know this has been a strain . . .”

  “I feel great.”

  “You look pale. Maybe take a day off, get out, watch the world go by. You know?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got home. About an hour ago?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Naked, sliding open a drawer in the bureau for his pajamas. “Maybe I should get out more. I could ask one of the guys out for lunch, there’s one who lives alone in the building.”

  She sat up in bed. “Maybe he works from home.” Sat up even taller. “A lot of people work from home now. Maybe he could give you some tips!”

  Tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Oh, I’m sure he could.” Buttoned his pajama top.

  “Sweetheart, you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He turned his back on her and tried to sleep.

  He was in someone else’s apartment, but no longer sure whose apartment it was, or what floor he was on. Didn’t really matter, at this point. His wife was preparing to jump ship.

  Don sat in the living room like it was his own, watching a daytime quiz show. Got up at one point to see if there were any snacks in the fridge. A bag of pepperoni slices in one of the trays. He took about a third of the dark red circles, sat back down in his chair, nibbling on them. Got up again during a commercial to pee. Zipped back up, wondered, Should he flush? Let the renters figure out what had happened. The people in these other apartments were so stupid. They had no idea there was a king among them, living in the walls, observing everything they did.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.

  Hollow eyes, haggard cheeks. Unshaven jaw. Was that really him?

  Walked back to the kitchen. Troubled. Started thinking about what he had been doing. Remembered that first night. The steaks, the peppermint ice cream. The love.

  Looked around the kitchen he had no business being in.

  “I’m lost,” he said.

  When did it happen? The first time he crawled behind the dwarf door? The fifteenth? The fiftieth?

  I just want to find my way back home. Start over.

  Three feet away, a key in the front door.

  The door knob turning.

  He rushed into the crawl space, banging the upwards curve of his spine. Swung the dwarf door shut as the front door of the apartment opened. Scuttled down the length of the space between the walls, frantic. Which way? Which way? Thick, noxious spray surrounded him. Reaching up, he climbed to the next floor. Heard, behind him, a man’s voice. “This is the only sure-fire way of getting rid of pests.”

  The floor he climbed to was also swirling with spray. Even more potent, in such a confined space. His throat tightened. He tapped his Adam’s apple, trying to breathe. Arms numb, face desperate, he shuffled on his hands and knees across the dusty floor. Spray billowed down from above.

  Coughing. Clamping both hands over his mouth, eyes blinking, so he wouldn’t be heard.

  He had his favourites. That newlywed couple on one of the lower floors, who didn’t have a lot of money. They were both really funny. The hip, sarcastic humor he remembered from his and Carolyn’s early days together. He’d stand sometimes at the foot of their bed while they made love, admiring her leggy sensuality, his athletic ability to keep thrusting deep for a long, long time. Whenever they quarreled, Don would be upset. It really isn’t important who should have loaded the dishwasher. But he had a lot of confidence in them.

  And of course the elderly couple, tending to each other in their sunset. Such tenderness! He spent many quiet hours sitting at their kitchen counter, watching them enjoy a simple lunch at the table. Did each have their own flaws? Of course. But it seemed, in their old age, those flaws had been accepted by the other. It was no longer about being right. It was about being together.

  Don, in their bedroom, fastening his black bowtie, spotted a tiny peephole in their wallpaper. Brought his blue eye up against it, adjusting his focus. Saw a cramped world of slanted boards, shadows, dust. One of the shadows retreating to the side, but that must have been a trick of the light.

  Carolyn appeared, little black dress, the string of pearls Don had bought her to celebrate his promotion. And that was the greatest part. Not the incredible way she looked after all these years, but the pride on his wife’s face. He had done well. A husband to be proud of.

  Behind the walls, he followed them from the bedroom to the kitchen.

  Carolyn emerged. But her husband never joined her. All the boxes they had packed up for their move to the new house were missing.

  Where was her little black dress? Her string of pearls?

  A plain top, cheap slacks.

  The microwave beeped. She opened the small door, retrieved a Salisbury steak TV dinner. Set its rising steam down at the sole place setting at their kitchen table.

  Her face was lined. Those beautiful blue eyes, once alive with angels, were sad.

  He had to get back to her. Let her know everything was going to be okay. Was already okay.

  He crawled through the dust to the end of the passageway. To the dwarf door. Pushed against it.

  I’m coming!

  But the dwarf door wouldn’t swing open. The dwarf door was immovable. Carolyn? Carolyn?

  He heard nothing back.

  He pushed against the door again, this time asking, Don? Though he no longer knew who that was. Did he even live there anymore?

  But the dwarf door was unforgiving.

  VRANGR

  C. M. MULLER

  Before the inheritance, Arthur Speth had neither heard of Vrangr, North Dakota, nor of the great-aunt who authored the will. This mysterious relative had, for some inexplicable reason, bequeathed him both her house and a generou
s parcel of land on the outskirts of said town. Included in the will was a handwritten note detailing how one might locate Vrangr; this would prove beneficial, for upon consulting the internet, Speth found no mention of the place. Even his musty old atlas proved discouraging. If the town did exist, cartographers had thought best not to include it. There was no description of the house, but the fact that it resided on nearly eight hundred acres of land led Speth to envision a sizable and well-furnished abode. Details concerning Aunt Torgren were also absent; indeed, the wraithlike executor who delivered the news claimed to know nothing about her. Upon relaying the essential information, the rain-soaked figure had slithered back to whatever shadowy realm he called home, leaving Speth to wonder if the meeting had even taken place. But here was the will, written as it was in nearly illegible script but legitimate-looking all the same.

  Since childhood Speth had been fascinated with history, particularly as it related to his own family, and had long assumed he had a good handle on its major and minor figures; which, of course, made this supposed great-aunt such an enigma. Had she purposefully been excised from the family record? And what of Vrangr itself, what significance did it hold? For all Speth knew, it was the place where his ancestors had first settled after crossing the Atlantic, the place of origin as it were. But why, then, had it never been mentioned in all these years? Desperate for answers, Speth consulted the family albums he had inherited upon his mother’s passing and began to systematically remove photos containing individuals he could not properly identify. Most of the images were thoroughly documented on back (in a variety of generational scripts, including his mother’s), but none matched the name he sought.

  Speth had not looked at the albums in years, but doing so made him remember just how obsessed he had once been with the past. As a teen he had longed for a kind of alchemical absorption into these old black and white photos. Even now, nearing middle age, he still distrusted modernity—but he had come to terms with it, securing employment at the local library, where the past commingled rather nicely with the present. His apartment was littered with books of a mostly historical nature, and he did little else outside of work but read and watch old movies. He would be the first to admit that his life had become directionless since his mother’s death the previous year.

  The mystery and lure of Vrangr lingered for the remainder of the day, but in the end Speth continued to have reservations about the will’s authenticity. This, coupled with the idea of driving such a great distance (nine hours, by his calculation), made the entire proposition seem little more than a fool’s errand. Then again, maybe things would become clearer in the days to come.

  Before turning in for the night, Speth channel surfed until he arrived upon a delightful period piece that in the end overwhelmed him with joy.

  He slept soundly that night, experiencing a dream wherein he glimpsed himself, or at least a past version of himself. While the countenance of this past-Speth was uncannily similar, his manner of dress bespoke a much earlier century. The man even sported infinity-shaped spectacles, on which the modern-day Speth also prided himself. This individual sat in a rocking chair on the porch of a lavish farmhouse; reposing at his side was a stately woman encumbered in a frilly white dress. She read from a palm-sized leather book as her pipe-smoking companion gazed in Speth’s direction. While the man indicated no sign of recognition, it was nevertheless an eerie feeling to be stared at like that. In the front yard, a passel of children chased one another across the huge expanse. Speth longed to inch closer, in the hope of touring the interior of the house (or chatting with its owners), but he was locked to this one distant perspective.

  The following morning he awoke with an impulse to flee. It was quarter to noon (this surprised Speth, for normally he was an early riser), so he frantically collected a few items and stuffed them into a small duffle bag. He then phoned the library to inform the director that he had taken ill and would therefore not be able to make his one o’clock shift. His voice was groggy, which only helped matters, and he managed to conclude the call in just under twenty seconds.

  While spontaneity had never been his strong suit, Speth embraced it now like a newfound book of wonders, and in less than half an hour he was driving by rote through the streets of the city. Once he reached the interstate, he continued on a westerly route until he passed the dividing-line into North Dakota, where the landscape gradually levelled off to a vast and nearly featureless expanse. Speth’s only companion, due to the unreliability of his radio antenna, was an ‘80s cassette tape, the only one in his collection which had not been mangled by the player. While he had high hopes of making the journey in a single day, he decided not to push his luck. His arrival would coincide with nightfall, and he had little interest in experiencing Vrangr (and his inheritance) in the dark. Therefore, with less than 200 miles remaining, Speth began searching for a motel. The one he eventually decided upon was cheap and rundown, but it afforded him the rest and relaxation he required, even if the mattress was uncomfortable and the exterior vending machine expelled one flat soda after another. None of these inconveniences mattered in light of what awaited him.

  The remainder of his evening was spent watching an old film on the outdated television in his room, which presented the fictional world not in its intended black and white but a grainy viridescence that pained his eyes and spirit. He left the set on, for the sound worked splendidly, and merely shifted his focus to the papered wall above, attempting to visualize his inheritance and to resurrect the details of his dream.

  He awoke to the disorientation invariably encountered while sleeping in new environs, but this time the sensation never fully cleared. Surveying the unknown room, he was struck by its meticulousness and antiquity. There were framed portraits of various individuals on the walls, and he examined each before venturing to the far window. From the opposite side looking in, he felt certain he resembled the images he had just glimpsed; however, none of the children running about on the yard below took notice. He turned from the window to again peruse the portraits, discovering to his delight that they had completely changed—each now featured Speth standing proudly before his inheritance.

  The dream had no small effect, for upon awakening the following morning Speth gathered his things and returned to the interstate as though he had never left. The way he saw it, his waking life was mere interlude to the dream; the long road ahead, a stepping stone to seeing its promise fulfilled. He cruised down the interstate well above the posted speed limit, feeling alive for the first time since his mother’s passing. He didn’t worry about being ticketed, for he had yet to come across a state trooper or any other traveller for that matter. It felt strange being the sole motorist, but he accepted it all without question.

  At a little past noon, Speth glimpsed the first sign for Vrangr. It was composed of wood that might very well have been erected a full century ago. Even the letters appeared chiselled. Veering off the interstate, Speth pulled to the side of the road where he could again study his great-aunt’s directions. He rolled down the window and felt the purity of the country air fill his lungs. Relieved to be so close to his destination, he continued ahead, and in less than three miles arrived at a familiar crossroads; familiar because Aunt Torgren had written “thresher” near two intersecting lines on the map, and sure enough there was the rusted-out implement in the corner of an empty field. Speth turned left, and within a quarter of a mile entered a tightly meshed corridor of corn. After venturing down several more adjoining roads, he began to feel as though he had become trapped within a maize labyrinth, of the sort which used to fascinate and unnerve him as a child. It was a disorienting feeling, but only in the sense of being unable to successfully retrace his route to the interstate. If he read the map correctly, Vrangr should only be a few miles distant, though he had yet to glimpse any telltale signs of a town: no church steeple rising above a copse of trees, no water tower, no opposing traffic or wandering souls. Nothing but corn and the
dust kicked up by his vehicle, and a growing sense that he had been duped, that the entire enterprise was little more than a hoax.

  Upon entering the supposedly final stretch of road, Speth came to an idling halt, wondering if he had followed the directions incorrectly. He contemplated retracing his route, and in doing so shifted his attention to the map on the passenger seat. It, however, was gone. Only a thin layering of dust remained, the outline of which suggested a single sheet of paper. Speth had a hard time believing in its disintegration but for the evidence. Without the map, he knew that finding his way back would be challenging. Then again, maybe Vrangr was closer than he imagined. Perhaps all he need do was continue up this final road. Feeling faint, Speth stepped outside to stretch and get some fresh air. He glanced across the way, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  When his vision adjusted to the glare, he saw the structure. At first he thought it a mirage, but the longer he stared the more distinct it became, until at last it materialized into a lavish farmhouse. He closed his eyes, merely to confirm that his mind wasn’t playing tricks. Upon opening them, however, he discovered the truth of the matter. Contrary to his dream, the structure was as equally decayed as the Vrangr sign on the interstate.

  Speth eventually broke free of his paralysis and approached the overgrown drive that led to the porch. Considering the overall disrepair of the house, the windows remained intact and the front door appeared solid and functional. There was even a rocking chair on the porch, but Speth saw this as just another detail mocking his dream. With each approaching step he longed for it all to vanish, longed to find himself in nothing more than an endless field of corn. Then again, he had not travelled all this way to come up empty-handed. Perhaps the interior would prove more bountiful. Speth stepped onto the porch and, placing a hand on the rocker, recalled the children of his dream. He turned to examine the weedy expanse, displeased to find nothing but his sun-battered vehicle.