He’d always been afraid somebody like Reed Taylor would ask him that question point-blank someday: “Why didn’t you people change? Why didn’t you get off your asses and get Nole coal?” He wanted to be able to come up with something more than “We were afraid,” but that seemed increasingly unlikely. They’d been scared to death of losing everything, all of them.
The town had been an accomplice to what the mine had done in the first place: survivors, victims, Charlie and Ben and Amos Nickles and Inez, Reed’s parents, all of them. They’d known for years that the waste dam was unsafe, but had stopped at the mildest sort of complaints. Because the Nole Company had their jobs, and kept the town alive with its money. People figured if the Nole Company pulled out there wouldn’t be any Simpson Creeks anymore. The lies had been simple ones: lawyers had ignored small aspects of the cases and neglected to do adequate research, merchants had rationalized the shoddy materials they sold, laborers had told themselves that the company bosses knew best, husbands had reassured wives that at least there was still food on the table, politicians made deals “for the good of the community,” local regulators figured the statutes discriminated against an important source of local income—but the accumulation had meant one enormous, dangerous falsehood.
The company had said the dam was safe…perfectly safe. The Nole people had been very reassuring.
And after the flood, after all the lives lost and all the property damaged, they still did nothing. Just talked and grumbled.
Charlie supposed that could have been excused for a time—people had lost friends, neighbors, relatives—but as the months rolled by and the Nole Company sent down their team of lawyers, offering them this and that, offering them the moon, the grumbling quietly ceased. People still felt used, cheated, but the dissatisfaction went underground. And the town of Simpson Creeks still had its sugar daddy.
No lawsuits were filed. No one was asked to investigate. The townsfolk continued to accept the jobs the company offered. And when the company finally did shut down most of its operation above the Creeks—the profits just weren’t enough anymore—people moved away, and most of those remaining just plain forgot.
A shadow at the shaded window again, hulking. Beating on the door.
It was Big Andy’s revenge on them all, Charlie was thinking as the glass burst inward. The dead, now part of Big Andy, would be repaid in full.
Mr. Emmanuel had been thinking over the problem of the sinkhole all day, examining it, worrying over production time lost because of it, and he was fed up. The Simpson Creeks operation was now only a minor cog in the Nole Company operations, and not worth the trouble. He didn’t know if the geologists would be coming down or not; the supervisor certainly sounded reluctant over the phone. But there might be legal problems with this one…and there was Simpson Creeks’ past history to consider. He didn’t think they’d want to take any chances. They’d send somebody, if only one lawyer.
He’d left work early to take a long walk outside town; the weather was nice, there’d be almost no one around this time of day, and besides he needed the exercise. He had never been one for athletics, but sitting all day in that hot aluminum mine office didn’t help his mood any.
He was walking across what Jake Parkey said was the old site of the town. Emmanuel supposed that could have been; the area seemed flat enough, and occasionally he’d stumble over a brick or two. It was much nicer down here, with the trees all around—a damn sight better than that hideous-looking slab. But these people seemed to be obsessed with their fears of flooding.
The trees made a curved green and brown curtain bordering the level expanse of grass. He imagined the area would make a good football or baseball field, if only enough young people stayed to make a team. The grass was wonderful here—he hadn’t seen anything like it since Pennsylvania. Deep blue green like a sea.
There was something at the edge of the wood.
He squinted his eyes, but the form was still blurry. Hard even to guess what it was. He needed to get his eyes checked if he ever got back to civilization. Or maybe he was just getting old. The thought chilled him slightly. He began walking, fixing his eyes on the object, trying to guess what it might be. For one thing, it seemed to be moving. Not very much, but slowly, gracefully. Perhaps it was a small sapling bending in the wind. But there was no wind.
Pale, pale skin…the head and hair looking bright, bright. On fire! No…no, just pale skin and unusually bright, glowing hair. Giggling. Swift movement behind a tree.
Slowly, anxious and excited at the same time, he approached the edge of the woods, the place where the figure had disappeared. Another giggle. Soft laugh. He pulled back the first branch and saw pale pink skin.
Doris Parkey was standing in the tall ferns by a willow tree. Smiling. Stark naked. She held out her arms to Mr. Emmanuel.
He stepped closer, hesitated. He squinted, even more skeptical of his vision. But it was truly she…Doris Parkey. And naked she had more softness, more curves than he had imagined from her drab, straight-seamed cotton dresses.
She was stepping closer, her lips parted. He felt himself pulling back…
And suddenly she was pulling at him, moaning, tugging his shirttail loose and undoing his pants. Tugging them down. She was raking at his groin with her long fingers, pulling at his pubic hair as he felt himself dropping to his knees, losing himself among the trees, in her mouth, down in the wet grass and dampened earth…
Inez had seen somebody enter the woods past the old town site, just across the way. Now…why would anybody be messing around over there? Most people were scared of the place…she guessed she was, too. But then she didn’t see the movement anymore, and thought perhaps she was just seeing things. She was tired…much too tired. Her brother Hector was driving her crazy. The town and all the goings-on there were driving her crazy.
She’d been in Hector’s room just now; her forearms still ached from the way he’d grabbed her, clutching like some kind of starving, desperate bird or something. Some old bird. Seeing things again. His eyes ready to pop right out of his skull. “Woman with her head on fire!” he’d screamed. That again. It was getting worse. She was going to have to commit him finally. It made her feel real bad, but he had no right! She was just going to have to commit him, be rid of him, and get on with her own life…get herself a husband and maybe even move away, maybe even leave the hills entirely, live on the beach or on a snowbank…anything be better…
There was a glow out by the creek.
Inez stared at it for some time before even questioning what it was she was looking at. Nothing like she’d ever seen. Maybe one of those balls of fog she was always reading about in newspaper fillers. But the way it moved… something odd about that…
Then she realized the glow was moving around the spot where Hector had almost drowned. She went downstairs and out the front door.
The glow seemed to brighten as she neared the creek, bobbing here and there, hiding itself behind a bough or trunk momentarily, and then reappearing. Then Inez was standing by the creek. And there was another woman standing on the other side.
“Why, Janie Taylor!” It just slipped out, automatically. She wasn’t that close to see who it really was. And Janie Taylor, one of her best friends in this world, Ben Taylor’s sister-in-law and Reed Taylor’s mother, had been dead, drowned, a good ten years now.
The way the woman’s complexion…shone. It was almost unnatural. Dark eyes, reflecting…what? The sun was almost down. But those eyes were virtually flashing out at Inez like a beacon. Delicate pink mouth and sandy-colored hair. But the hair was also…brighter than it should be. What was going on here? Who was this?
“This is…my property,” Inez said haltingly, her hands making trembling fists behind her dress. “I’ll have to ask you…your name…please.” She tried to smile at the woman, but couldn’t.
The woman said nothing. Inez stepped closer to the edge of the bank, careful not to step too far. The current seemed swifter than normal, a
nd it made her nervous.
Janie…the woman looked so much like her. And my…didn’t they have fun in their teens! Riding down to the high school in Four Corners on the bus together, sleeping over, always falling for the same dark-haired boys…she might have been Mrs. Inez Taylor, in fact, if Poppa hadn’t got so sick after graduation, and she’d had to stay with him all the time. And by the time Poppa died it had been Mrs. Janie Taylor a good four years, and Reed was almost three years old. Of course, the way Alec turned out, she’d been lucky.
They’d been best friends, but she hadn’t done a thing for Janie after the flood. Hadn’t tried to contact Reed and hadn’t made trouble for the Nole Company. Just like all the others. A coward. Hadn’t done a thing to make them pay for the murder of her best friend.
And Lord, Janie’s little girl…would’ve grown up to look just like Janie had when they’d gone to school together. Inez began to cry.
And felt…whispers…across her cheek. She looked up and the woman was smiling, her hair glowing.
“Janie…” Inez whispered. Inez felt an aching in her legs, an aching in her belly…from lack of child, lack of husband…suddenly she was thinking of things she hadn’t imagined in years: naked men, sweaty buttocks, and that secret thing they had…that she’d never understood, even taking care of her father in his deathbed, doing everything for him. She wondered if she’d even understand after she were married.
Inez was sweating profusely, stomach feeling queasy. She looked up, and the woman was right there, burning, burning…
Inez looked away, down into the cool, dark, now swift-running stream. And saw herself and her best friend Janie, the way it should have been, floating there with their eyes wide open, lips blue, hair trailing out and catching the debris like seaweed.
Charlie Simpson raised his gun at the great shadow stumbling its way toward him through the darkened store, shadow-arms sweeping items off counters, breaking bottles, the shadowy figure weeping. He began to squeeze the trigger.
“Dammit, Charlie! Don’t shoot!”
Charlie relaxed, and a very drunk Jake Parkey stumbled into view.
“What the hell you breakin’ in here for, Jake? I’m closed!” Charlie didn’t think he’d ever been so angry before.
Jake looked down shyly. “Need a gun, Charlie…need some protection.” Then he looked up, his eyes wide like an excitable little boy’s. “There’s a beast out there, Charlie; ain’t no bear! No bear was ever like that! Why, I can hear it out there at night, a-stalkin’ and waitin’ for me…for us! It’s waitin’, Charlie! I gotta get a gun ready for it. We all do!”
Charlie shook his head slowly. “Don’t know if I can sell you one, Jake…not the way you’ve been with Doris lately.”
Jake grinned crazily. “No harm…no harm, Charlie. Won’t happen again! Don’t care no more…she’s crazy, that Doris! Don’t even want her around! Drive me crazy if I keep livin’ with her. She’s out somewhere now…I don’t care if she never come back. No problem, Charlie, no problem. I’m through with that woman.”
Charlie stood silently, considering. Selling a man like that a gun…all hell to pay. Everything had just gone crazy; he wondered if he could see it to its end. Maybe they could just get all the craziness out of their systems…maybe the Big Andy would blow up like some volcano…get all that pent-up hate and long delayed revenge out of its system, and it would calm down some too.
He pulled the key ring out of his pocket and moved to the locked cabinet where he kept the guns and ammunition.
Mr. Emmanuel pulled away from the Parkey woman, rising up in a crouch over her sweaty, mud-slimed hips. Her eyes were closed, and she was still moaning, whimpering softly to herself. Like some animal. He was repulsed. By her and by himself.
His clothes were dirty. He’d throw them away. Burn them. He stood and pulled his pants up, zipped them and turned to walk…run back up to the town. What had come over him? Never…she looked and sounded like a pig. Moaning…moaning…
He raised his eyes and looked out over the grassy expanse of the old townsite. Deep blue green. Water green. Here and there mist rose from the shadows in the grass.
And brought the water with it. Climbing and climbing until he knew it would soon engulf him. People were screaming out there, whimpering. Dead animals drifted by, stench in their wake. People were drowning. Through the mist he could see the outstretched arms, the thrashing legs, the pale faces etched with desperation.
He squinted; he moved closer. But it was mist again: white, swirling mist. Fog filling in the shallow depressions of the earth, once sliding mud, that now covered the old townsite. A fine, impossibly wet, fog.
Chapter 24
For some reason Charlie decided to do a little repair work on the slab before going home for the evening. He didn’t know why—he worked a bit patching and strengthening the slab about once every five years, certainly no more frequently than that. It had to be done occasionally; the slab was quite old and a poor foundation for all the buildings on it even in the best of condition. Once enough bricks and stones started deteriorating, it was a downright hazard. Charlie’s family had had a lot to do with this slab being here, so he felt a special responsibility for it. Ben Taylor usually offered to lend a hand, but Charlie had always refused. Tonight he would have liked the company, but he figured he’d been afraid enough the past week. It was time to muster a little backbone and see to this job himself.
He brought out the cement and plaster and two different sized trowels from the storage shed in back. There were a couple of large brushes inside the store itself, and the embankment by his store, at the end of the slab, had about all the replacement stones and bricks he might need. He’d seen a few holes here and there down around the base of the slab. There were always stones missing—he never could understand that. He could understand wear and tear, the stones eroding away. But entire stones? What happened to them?
Charlie started with the cracks radiating out from the front door of his store, a firm believer in the idea that he should be taking care of his own eyesores first. He laid down a thick layer of cement here, knowing that in a few months’ time the slab would settle some more, the crack would widen, and the portion of the slab facing his store would look the same as before. But at least for those few months it would look mended. That was something.
He stood away from the slab and examined it critically. There was a series of hairline fractures running along the bottom, near the roadbed. For some reason they worried him, perhaps because there were so many of them. Cracks always formed in that area, but never before had there been so many, it seemed. He poked at one of them with the edge of the long trowel, and a layer of plaster fell away, revealing the decaying brick beneath.
Charlie remembered then that this brickwork was a relatively recent patch in the slab, one of the last his father himself had done before his death. And yet it looked older than those sections underlaid with field stones. The brick was cheap material, porous, and falling apart with the moisture. Charlie hadn’t realized that so much dampness could be trapped in there; seeing it, he was surprised the whole slab hadn’t crumbled by now.
He applied the cement thickly here, carrying bits of granite gravel from the embankment to use as a strengthener, and made a new, stronger top layer. After smoothing it out, he examined it for imperfections. It was a good job…couldn’t have been better. Now if only that crumbling brick underneath held together.
He patched some holes in front of Ben Taylor’s store, using roughly square stones from the embankment, using a hammer and chisel to knock off an occasional rough edge to make a better fit. Strange how only one stone would be missing here and there, as if someone had made windows in the slab. It looked as if the stones had been pushed out, or had fallen out, but he was never able to find even the broken pieces of the fallen stone on the outside. Maybe kids had picked them up and played with them. Or maybe some adult in the town made a habit of moving them without telling anyone, playing the mischief-maker. It
was a mystery, kind of like losing socks in a washer—they just seemed to dissolve into the atmosphere. He chuckled as he thought about it, lifting one of the heavy replacement stones to slide it into place. For a moment he looked into the darkness of the hole, and discovered he couldn’t see past a couple of inches. But it was hollow back there in this section; he could feel an ice-cold draft seeping up from between the rocks. When the stone slipped in there was a thud and an echo, and Charlie thought he could hear a scurrying of tiny feet inside, like rats in a barrel.
It was getting dark; he’d better hurry. He didn’t like staying in town anymore after dark.
Again she awakened inside the slab. Her thoughts hot, drifting away from her skull, floating and licking at the dark stones. Her thoughts on fire. Her head of flames.
She’d left the Pierce woman only a short time ago to return to this retreat. The Pierce woman had stirred uncomfortable things in her, and she’d needed this darkness, this rest.
She remembered more things. Knew more about how it had been to be human. The ache and frustration. The desire to be what she could not be. Fire licking at her throat, her thighs. But now she was something else, and these old desires belonged to her but yet did not belong to her. She had been something else, then. She had changed.
There were soft sounds outside the slab. Human hands working. Her hand floated out and she picked up a fragment of mirror, holding it lightly in front of her face. Alabaster skin, thin arched brows, crimson hair. Beautiful. She was beautiful. What any man would want.
She turned and floated a few inches off the black, moist earth. Insects scurried away from beneath her. Bugs and dull white worms. She let her eyes rest on the scattered bones near one end of the cavity. Fox, cat, dog. Scattered among the pieces of jewelry, the coins, the bits of glass and wood and paper, the things lost or left behind over the years this slab had been here.
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