He screamed and pounded his fists against the ground.
He stayed in the field until after dark. When he finally returned to the trailer, although he thought he should have been all cried out, the tears continued to flow.
He found the Indian on the couch in the living room. The man was big as a horse. He sat on the middle cushion, stared across the small room at the television. His hair, dark as tar at night, hung in long ponytails over either shoulder. He had bits of bone and rock sewn into his clothing, which might have been deer hide or buffalo or dog for all Jacob knew.
Jacob’s jaw hung, wobbled. Salty tears slipped into the corners of his mouth. He tried to shout at the man, to demand to know what he was doing in his home, but he couldn’t speak, could barely move. He’d wept out the last of his anger and the last of his energy with it.
The Indian nodded toward the TV and looked back at Jacob. His broad, commanding features just about demanded compliance. His eyes were twin arrows pointed at Jacob’s throat.
On the screen, a woman who resembled his wife walked down a hall that looked very much like their hall and into a nursery that almost could have been Tommy’s. She stepped to the crib and stood over it for a long time before plucking the child from within and cradling it in her arms.
No, not it — him. Tommy.
Could it be? More importantly, could he pretend it wasn’t?
What are you doing with my boy! Jacob clenched his fists.
The woman looked out from the screen. Although he’d never seen such a blank, lifeless look on her face, Jacob recognized his wife immediately.
He opened his mouth again, this time to ask what sort of trickery this was, what kind of sick joke, but the Indian didn’t pay him any attention. He only watched the images flickering across the screen. The couch dipped and almost seemed to groan at the prospect of continuing to hold him up, but he never moved, sat with the dignity and presence of a king on a throne, staring ahead.
And so Jacob watched, too.
Sarah took their boy out of the house. The back door slammed shut behind her. She walked to the barrel, stood there for a second with Tommy squeezed against her bosom, and then dropped him into the water as unceremoniously as you’d take out the trash. Jacob shook his head, tried to breathe but couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat. Sarah stood over the barrel for at least a full minute, one arm elbow deep in the water and shaking a little. She faced away from the screen, and although Jacob couldn’t see exactly what she was doing (and thank God for that), he didn’t need to see to know.
He turned away from the television, glared at the big man on his couch.
“What—”
The stranger held up a hand and nodded toward the screen again.
Jacob turned and saw his wife in a cell. He didn’t recognize the place but guessed it must have been the jail in the Mason County courthouse. Where else was there?
Sarah lay with her head on the pillow and her eyes closed, looking peaceful, almost happy.
Jacob gritted his teeth.
Behind her, through the barred door, another figured approached. Jacob didn’t recognize the man as himself until he stepped into an arc of light shining down from an exposed, overhead light bulb.
The TV version of Jacob held a suitcase in one hand and a shotgun in the other. He put the case on the concrete by Sarah’s cell, pointed the gun at it, and pulled the trigger.
The screen went blank.
The Indian rose from the couch and walked past Jacob without a word. Jacob followed him to the bedroom like a solider follows a general. He found his suitcase on the bed and his shotgun beside it.
The big man nodded toward the case. Jacob lifted the lid and found three bundles of dynamite inside.
“I see,” he said, as much to himself as to the Indian. He closed the case, lifted it off the bed, and shouldered the shotgun. The Indian looked at him, nodded.
Jacob hesitated.
What am I doing?
The Indian stared him down for a moment before stepping forward and placing his hand on Jacob’s chest. The big sausage fingers didn’t actually touch Jacob, but he could feel them anyway. Maybe sense them was the better word.
The man made a fist; the fingers seemed to phase halfway through Jacob’s torso. Visions of Tommy filled his mind. He remembered rocking the child to sleep on an especially colicky night, remembered hefting him into the air and seeing the baby’s first smile. Remembered fuming the first time Tommy peed on his shirt and then breaking out in laughter at the child’s innocent face.
The big man pulled his fist away, and Jacob took a deep breath.
Standing very still, the Indian pointed his arrow eyes at the suitcase.
Jacob nodded.
On his way out of the trailer, not thinking about what he was doing, Jacob started to tiptoe past the nursery.
No need for that.
He stopped at the doorway, growled, and hefted the suitcase.
* * *
Not long before midnight, an explosion tore through the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Windows broke, people screamed, and the bones of the dead rattled beneath the ground.
Daniel Pyle is the author of Dismember, Down the Drain, Freeze, and many short stories. He lives in Springfield, Missouri, with his wife and two daughters. Visit his website at http://www.danielpyle.com.
FEEDING THE PASSION
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…AMY FORTE.”
The emcee backed away with a bow and the curtain behind the band parted just slightly. The crowd grew quiet with anticipation. A tall, slender woman emerged. She sauntered across the stage and past her band mates, violin in hand, as if the place belonged to her. Her gait exuded confidence, an ebony goddess greeting her adoring disciples. When she reached the lone microphone standing front and center of her pulpit, she waved her left hand and offered a single, earnest smile. The band began to play, drummer brushing against his snare and cymbal, guitarist gently strumming, man behind the upright bass smoothly plucking away. The audience became hushed yet again as the woman they’d all come to see lifted her fiddle and placed it beneath her chin. Soft, warm notes emerged from the instrument as she passed her bow over the strings, singing out in a pitch of whines and moans that sounded almost human. The bodies of those watching swayed to the music, entranced by the beauty and perfection of both the song and its architect.
Jack Scherzo was among those in attendance for that performance, as he had been for each of the previous five. A nondescript thirty-something with wavy brown hair going gray in all the wrong places and a body growing chunky in others, he was a man who lived for music. Throughout much of his uninspired life, the only thing that initiated a sense of awe in any person he met had been his vast record collection. There was no style or genre he didn’t appreciate and henceforth gather en masse – the classical styling of Mozart and Chopin, past masters like Robert Johnson and Nina Simone, modern bits of underscored brilliance by The Mars Volta and Coldplay. His wife, with whom he felt a pliable sort of security he assumed to be love, never truly understood the depth of his passion. She looked at his anthology as an innocent, leisurely pursuit, not recognizing that the extent of his worship for all things melodic went far deeper than simple audible fascination; Jack Scherzo needed the melody to overtake him, much as any other living being required oxygen to breathe.
It had been two years prior when he first heard the glory that was Amy Forte. At the time she’d been a relatively obscure up-and-comer, her recordings trapped in the moribund wasteland of local college radio. Her voice entered his ears from the speakers of his car stereo and immediately his heart filled with a type of yearning he’d never felt before. The songs she sang, the notes she played – an unheard of amalgamation of R&B and classical, with a whisper of Goth, folk, and traditional jazz thrown in for good measure – tiptoed on his brain like gentle, massaging fingers. A sudden plea built up inside him; he needed to find her, needed to experience the splendor of her music in vivid, living color
.
Watch her perform live he did. Forty-two times over the past two years. He scrutinized her progress from an anonymous peculiarity to a widely accepted, critically acclaimed star. Obsession ruled him. The simple act of looking at her picture felt like a religious experience. She possessed the beauty of Dorothy Van Engle, the voice of Josephine Baker, and the precise hands of Fritz Kreisler. The perfect woman, the perfect living musical instrument.
His job at the paper mill became his hobby, and listening to music – to Amy – his career. On days she appeared close to his home, he simply wouldn’t show up for work. No calls, no forewarnings. In the span of a couple weeks, his employer grew tired of the constant no-shows and fired him. Jack didn’t care. He looked on as her audiences swelled with each show and the legend of her unique style and beauty grew. She was public property now, not just his veiled princess. But that did not bother him; the fact her popularity swelled out of control developed into a point of pride. He’d seen her since the beginning, after all; supported her when she was nothing. In that way, he knew she would always be his alone.
Jack glanced at his watch, feeling impatient. 10:37 PM. It was an odd sensation, that impetuosity. Never before had he wished to speed up time while sitting in his seat during a show. In fact, every other experience had been one of trying to expand time, attempting to draw out every moment until it seemed as if life were occurring through a slow-motion projector. He sighed. Two more songs, fifteen more minutes, and his life would reach its ultimate crescendo.
“Thank you, everyone,” Amy said into the microphone with her cherub’s voice while the crowd chanted for one more, one more, one more. Her smile could melt glass, as well as the heart of a romantic. “You’ve been a spectacular audience tonight.” With that she left the stage from where she appeared, leaving behind a spectral trail of shimmering light. The spectators continued chanting for a few more minutes until it became clear she would not be reappearing for an encore. They then dispersed, filing out the theater exits as if their lives ceased to have meaning. Jack stood up from his chair, cracked his back with arms high above his head, and went in the opposite direction.
He experienced an odd sensation while approaching the area just left of the main stage. It felt like fear, but he knew that wasn’t exactly right. More like the awareness he assumed one would feel when encountering God for the very first time; a forbidden feeling, the certainty he would not be remotely worthy of attention.
He flashed the pass hanging around his neck to security, who led him through the back corridor. As he walked, he glanced at the rectangular piece of plastic. Backstage Admittance – Jonathon G. Scherzo, it read. The final payoff resulting from countless letters, pleas, and donations sent to her representation. The panic slowly faded as he repeated the words on his press pass over and over again. By the time he reached the door to her dressing room, the fear had all but vanished. What replaced it was enthusiasm, unrest, and awe.
“Wait here,” the security guard said. “Miss Forte will be with you when she’s ready.”
Jack did as he was told, standing silently with his hands clasped before him while he rocked on his heels to the music in his head. After fifteen minutes of calm, the dressing room door cracked open and the most stunning face he’d ever seen up close poked out.
“Mister Scherzo?” Amy Forte asked. Her voice, even when simply speaking, sounded harmonious.
“Yes,” Jack replied.
The door swung inward, revealing the full of her figure; the sculpted body of a Greek goddess. “Come on in.”
Jack followed her outstretched arm, passing close enough to her on the way through to smell the faint odor of jasmine-scented perfume. His heart jumped and his loins rumbled with heat. When he entered fully he stood still, allowing her to close the door and guide him the rest of the way. He felt lost, like he couldn’t think on his own; a robot whose artificial intelligence had been corrupted.
The dressing room was quite large – as big as a decent sized living room – and cluttered from floor to ceiling with all sorts of paraphernalia. A table rested against the far wall, standing at the base of a huge mirror, its surface overflowing with makeup, hair brushes, and every other cosmetic supply known to man. Two Ibanez guitars hung from the wall to the left, four half-constructed violins to the right, and posters from great bands of the past like the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Jethro Tull, and Rush plastered on them all. Countless sealed boxes surrounded the two posh red leather couches that faced each other like duelists in the center of the room. A single antique coffee table, square and stylish with meticulous rose vines carved into its legs, had been placed between the couches. An unused crystal ashtray sat on top of that. The room itself smelled odd, but not bad; as if Amy’s own fantastic scents had beaten back the musty remnants of a thousand prior occupants until only the slightest trace of them remained.
Amy moved to the center of the room and sat on one of the couches. She motioned to the one opposite her. “Sit down,” she said.
Jack did so, again like that slipshod automaton. The leather creaked a bit and he heard air escape from seams in the material. The cushions enveloped him and for no apparent reason he felt trapped. A lump the size of Nevada emerged into his throat.
“So,” said Amy, “you’re Jack.”
“Uh-huh,” Jack replied, the stubborn lump making it difficult to talk.
“Well, I’m really glad to meet you. I’ve read most of your fan mail. And I really appreciated the money. It sure was a hell of a lot. How much again?”
The fact she spoke to him like a normal person calmed his jittery nerves. “Well,” he said, “it was sent out in varying increments over the past few years, I think around twelve thousand dollars when all was said and done.”
Amy’s cheeks puffed out and she whistled. “Wow. That’s a lot of money. You rich?”
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not. In fact, that pretty much cleaned me out. Shoot, my wife even decided I had a problem and should get some help. We separated after that. Been on my own ever since.” He said these things in an even tone--not as a plea for pity but as an absolute statement of fact.
“Oh, sorry about that,” she replied, her face uneasy.
“No biggie. It’s not permanent. She’ll be back. I know she will. But this isn’t about her. It’s about you.”
“Why? What’re you trying to prove?”
Jack smiled. “I know what I like. And I’m gonna give my support however I can.”
“What if I don’t want your help?”
“In that case…” he leaned forward, so as to emphasize his point, “you’re gonna get it anyway.”
At this, the disturbed expression left Amy Forte’s face. She threw her head back and laughed, her breasts heaving beneath the thin camisole hanging from her shoulders. The fluorescent light above flickered, caused her subtle brown skin to glow, as if the laughter gave a visible luster to her inner essence.
“What’s so funny?” asked Jack.
“You are.”
His brow furrowed. “Is that so?”
“Yep,” she answered. “Funniest damn bastard I ever met in my life.”
Jack’s enjoyment melted away. “I’m here to honor you,” he said, “and you laugh at me?”
“Oh, come on!” Amy jumped up and danced around the room like a gazelle strung out on cocaine. “Look at yourself, Johnny. You’re pathetic! You give up your life…for what? To meet me? You really think I care about you? There’s a million guys out there just like you! All begging for a piece of me, all wanting to meet me. You know what you all are? You’re lambs. Feeble, pitiful lambs.”
Jack stood up now. “Shut up,” he said.
“Why?”
“This isn’t right. This isn’t you. I know that. I’ve watched you, listened to you, your entire career. The same woman who wrote those beautiful songs couldn’t possibly have your attitude.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Yes I do!” screamed Jack, f
uming.
Amy turned her back to him and ushered him away with a dismissive wave. “Get out,” she said, “and never come back.”
Jack lost it. The awe and anticipation he’d felt only moments before disappeared, replaced by a bubbling, liquid rage. This moment, which was supposed to represent the pinnacle of his existence, had turned into anything but. His fanatical mind couldn’t take it any longer. He ran at her, almost tripping over a box as he did so, and grabbed her thin arms. With a violent motion he spun her around, drawing her face within a few short inches of his. He smelled the sweetness of her perfume again. It didn’t bring him any solace this time. By contrast, his fury grew.
“This was supposed to be my night!” he shrieked. “All I ever wanted was to be a part of what you brought me! A part of the music! How dare you take that away?”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. Despite his anger and the pressure of his grip, she didn’t seem afraid. In fact, the emotion those eyes did display froze Jack in place. They looked so cold, so involved -- the icy gaze of a surgeon.
“Interesting,” she said.
Jack felt a bee sting his side and glanced down. A syringe stuck out of his abdomen, its plunger depressed. His senses grew hazy and his vision blurred. He let go of Amy and staggered away in a backpedal, his heel knocking against the couch. He fell, butt whacking the hardwood floor with a thud, and proceeded to scurry away in a crab-walk. Amy hovered above him, her beautiful face not so charming any longer. She sauntered forward in slow motion. He couldn’t back up fast enough. Her features began to meld and shift. Jack attempted to cry out, but no sound came. Then, as she reached down for him, everything went black.
* * *
The sound of giggling woke him. He felt disoriented, almost an imitation of himself. Jack opened his eyes. He was sprawled out on the floor, resting with his back propped up against the wall with arms limp by his side, forearms resting on the floor. He squinted, trying to figure out what was going on. Amy sat on the leather couch a few feet away. The woman he’d come to meet looked at a sheet of paper propped up on a music stand with enormous interest. She fiddled with a very odd looking, unfinished violin while she read. On the coffee table sat a shiny round metal bowl, into which she would occasionally dip a thin strand of what appeared to be cowhide, dousing it the way one would a sheet of wallpaper. Then she held the strip above the basin, letting the excess liquid drip away, before applying it to the side of the strange instrument. A cigarette hung from her gleaming lips the whole time, its glowing base of ash progressing gradually closer to her mouth with each breath she took. Jack moaned. Amy turned her to him.
The Gate: 13 Dark & Odd Tales Page 6