Point Hollow

by Rio Youers

  They never returned. They hardly even thought about it.

  “I think I need to get away,” Matthew said. “Get out of the city for a few days. Get my head together.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea.” Only Dr. Meeker’s lips moved.

  “I’ve been thinking about Point Hollow.”

  No reaction.

  “That’s the town I grew up in.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven’t been there since the day we left. Twenty-six years ago.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to revisit my past?”

  Dr. Meeker considered this in his silent, stationary way. “Your priority, Matthew, is to be true to yourself. This means soul searching, and asking yourself what you still hope to achieve in life. If a trip to your hometown complicates this process, then no, it’s not a good idea. But if you feel it will be a benefit, then you have my full endorsement.”

  Matthew nodded. “I told you about my recurring nightmares, right?”

  “Unresolved anxiety . . . repressed memories.”

  “From the time I was lost in the woods.”

  A near imperceptible nod from the Doctor.

  “There’s so much . . .” Matthew searched for the right word. “So much darkness in my head. I can feel it. It’s like a cloud, constantly raining. And despite our talk-therapy sessions, Dr. Meeker, I think it’s getting worse. Stormier.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I woke up screaming the other night, for the first time since I was . . . Jesus, maybe thirteen, fourteen years old. Not only that, but I’ve been having strange thoughts lately. Terrible, violent thoughts.”

  Dr. Meeker tilted his left eyebrow a fraction. “Such as?”

  Matthew chewed his lip and looked at the backs of his hands.

  Dr. Meeker waited.

  “I would never hurt Kirsty,” Matthew said. He used the thumb and middle finger of his right hand to twirl his wedding ring. “I couldn’t hurt anybody. You know that about me.”

  An immaculately dressed statue.

  “But I’ve been having these . . . reveries, I guess the word is, where I am hurting her. Not just hurting her.” He took a deep breath. His wedding ring gleamed. “Killing her. Violently. With a hammer. A hatchet. A power drill.”

  Nothing from the doctor.

  “It’s a bloodbath in my head sometimes.”

  Not a flicker.

  “And I’m thinking that—like the nightmares—they could be linked to my repressed memories.”

  “They’re a pressure release,” Dr. Meeker said. “Thoughts of spousal homicide are not uncommon during periods of duress.”

  “But so violent?”

  “Often, yes.”

  “And if I’m waking up screaming, my nightmares must be more intense.”

  “You’ve been under a great deal of stress.”

  Matthew sighed and studied the backs of his hands again. “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you believe a trip to Point Hollow will help?”

  “It might shake loose a few memories—shine a light on the darkness. That has to be a step in the right direction. And at the very least, I’ll get out of the city for a while.”

  Dr. Meeker nodded. “I applaud your assertiveness, but suggest you apply an element of caution; memories can often be overwhelming.”

  “I know,” Matthew said, and closed his eyes for a moment­. He flew, his precious wings extended, over mountains and lakes and forests. “But I hope they can be healing, too.”

  They said nothing for the next few moments. Matthew was a bird. Dr. Meeker was a statue. His watch marked time with a sound like falling years.

  ———

  He woke that night with a heavy sob. It trembled in his throat and would have developed into a scream had he not clapped one hand over his mouth. The nightmare broke apart in his mind, as weak and dark as charred paper. Running, he thought. Enclosed . . . trapped. He fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and flicked it on. The light was like warm water.

  He shrank among the bed sheets, his heart thudding, trying to cling to the sounds of the house—the sounds of outside: distant traffic and trains. Anything to move him farther from the dream. He blinked his tear-filled eyes.

  What do I have to do? he thought. He sensed that something was trying to reach him, or break him. Amid the darkness he held inside, something was calling his name.

  Matthew got out of bed and walked to the window, feeling like he was ten years old and expecting, when he looked out, to see Point Hollow. But it was Bay Ridge, of course, his parents’ neighbourhood, with Manhattan’s glow painting the darkness to the north.

  His reflection in the glass was small and pale.

  “What do I have to do?”

  He answered his own question, looking beyond the city’s lights where, across the miles, Point Hollow was waiting.

  ———

  “Hi there, you’ve reached Kirsty. I’m not available to take your call at the moment, but you know what to do after the beep.”

  She’d taken his name off the voicemail. The bitch, he thought. It used to say, “Hello, you’ve reached Kirsty and Matt . . .” (even though “Matt and Kirsty” rolled off the tongue better). He’d been erased. He wondered what else she’d done. Repainted the walls? Bought a new bedroom set? Anger bubbled over inside him.

  The bitch.

  BEEP!

  He couldn’t speak. He cut the call and hissed, “Ffffffffuuuccckkk yooooooooou” across a dead line. He counted to ten and called again.

  “Hi, Kirsty.” His voice was smooth and even. It was chilled—the voice of Bootsy Collins, if he ever had to make such a call. “Yeah, it’s Matt. Listen, I’m not going to be around for a few days. I’m actually blowing town, you dig? Maybe we can hook up when I get back. I guess we should talk. Anyway, take care of yourself. Keep it real.”

  You dig? Keep it real? Hmm, maybe a little heavy on the Bootsy, but no matter. The call was made, his bag was packed. It was time to light the darkness.

  Time to go home.

  Chapter Four

  He showed his bluff: jack high.

  “I can’t work out,” Sheriff Tansy said, “if you’re lucky or stupid.”

  They were in the Rack, the only bar in Point Hollow, a small yet colourful establishment on Main Street. There were no surprises in the Rack—a horseshoe bar, several TVs flashing CNN or the ball game, a scuffed pool table, and a jukebox that played only country and light rock. The walls were decorated with sports memorabilia and portraits of the town and its surrounding beauty. Neon signs buzzed in the windows.

  Thursday night was Poker Night. The table was lined with the same old faces: Sheriff Edgar Tansy, who in twenty years had never had to break a sweat (just as well, considering his high cholesterol and the fact that he was forty pounds overweight); Tommy Whipple, who owned Sure as Shot Sporting Goods and, with Point Hollow’s booming popularity among hunters and hikers, had gone from driving a Chevy Malibu to a Cadillac CTS; Dr. Lionel Ruzicka, Point Hollow’s long-serving physician, who knew the town’s secrets as if they were his own (but not all its secrets, Oliver thought); Rupert Grayson (just Gray, if you were smart), foreman at the lumber mill, as tough as a tree and apt to break your arm if you called him by his Christian name; and, of course, Oliver Wray, self-made millionaire and Point Hollow’s favourite son.

  “I’m not lucky or stupid, Sheriff,” Oliver said. “I just know how to win.”

  “I guess you do,” the sheriff said, and pushed the cards across the table. “Your turn to deal, hotshot. Be good to me. You know I’m good to you.”

  Oliver nodded, shuffled.

  Did he like these people? He searched their eyes as he flipped the cards between his fingers, showing them a smile that was in ev
ery way false. No, he didn’t like them at all. He didn’t like anybody, really. Be good to me, Sheriff Tansy had said, and Oliver could smile and pretend until the stars fell from the sky. He mirrored the town in this regard: pretty to look at, but with a darkness too deep to shine a light on.

  He placed the cards facedown on the table and invited Gray, to his left, to cut the pack.

  “Shit on that,” Gray said, waving his meaty hand over the top of them. “It’s time to change my luck.”

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” Oliver said, starting to deal.

  He was owned—body and soul—by Abraham’s Faith, although his many years of servitude could not diminish his love for Point Hollow. It was a stale place, yes, but it was home. Every trail. Every flower. Every tree. The rivers were his arteries. The mountains were his bones. His graphic design business was successful enough that he could live anywhere in the world, but being bound to Abraham’s Faith wasn’t the only reason he stayed. Even if it released him (and surely it would; he’d paid his dues), he would stay. He knew Point Hollow—everything about it. Broaden your horizons, someone once said to him. Some motherfucking prick. And Oliver had asked him if he would move to a shack in Tibet, or adopt an Ashanti family, or choose a new wife, in order to broaden his horizons.

  Fucker.

  Point Hollow would always be home. He didn’t want subways and skyscrapers and streets choked with people that couldn’t speak English; he wanted little pink houses and deer in the back garden and breathtaking starlight. He felt as if the rivers and lakes and trees were his family. An embodiment of his inner-being. If you could dig out his soul and plant it, mountains would grow, rivers would ripple, flowers would bloom. He knew every blade of grass, every branch and pebble, for miles around.

  He would, on occasion, live in the wild. He’d venture beyond the trails and hunting zones, wearing not a stitch, and forage for food just like any other animal. For days on end, in a world where nothing was man-made. No noise pollution or human voices. The only smells were pine and spruce and moonlight. He slept on the forest floor or curled among the rocks. He tapped into his animal-and bird-self and purified his body. It was euphoric.

  “A pile of horseshit,” Gray said, tossing his cards into the middle of the table.

  Oliver had the nine of diamonds and the three of spades. You fold that hand ninety-nine times out of a hundred. The bet came to him and he raised.

  “Son of a whore,” Tommy Whipple said.

  “Where are your balls, Tommy?” Oliver asked.

  “Don’t you worry about my balls,” Tommy said, throwing his chips in the pot. Dr. Ruzicka and the sheriff were right behind him. Oliver dealt the flop: Queen of hearts. Ten of hearts. Two of spades. Everybody checked, except for Oliver, who had nothing, but raised anyway, forcing Tommy from the hand. It was so easy to fool these people. He’d been doing it for years.

  “What have you got, Doc?”

  “Shit,” Dr. Ruzicka said, meeting the raise. “It’s only money.”

  “And you, Sheriff?”

  “I’m in, goddamnmit.” Sheriff Tansy laid his money down. His left eyebrow twitched

  The turn revealed the three of diamonds. He shouldn’t be able to win this hand on a pair of threes, but he was going to.

  The doctor checked. Sheriff Tansy checked. Oliver raised.

  “Not this time, Oliver,” Sheriff Tansy said.

  Oliver smiled.

  Dr. Ruzicka folded.

  “Just me and you, Sheriff,” Oliver said. “Again.”

  Dr. Hook came on the jukebox singing “When You’re In Love With a Beautiful Woman,” and the game was momentarily disrupted when Drunken Debbie Kendrick—the Rack’s favourite barfly—pulled Tommy from his seat and demanded a dance. Tommy acquiesced, humouring the guys, and the clientele applauded as the couple stepped and staggered. Oliver smiled and clapped his hands, his mask slipping—only for a second—when he noticed Bobby Alexander shooting daggers at him from across the bar. Oliver grinned and Bobby turned away. He sees through me, Oliver thought. God only served him a half-scoop of brains, but he’s the only one who doesn’t trust my smile. The song ended. Tommy kissed Drunken Debbie’s hand, dropped into his seat, and the sheriff looked at Oliver and said:

  “Game on, hotshot. Let’s see the river.”

  Oliver burned and turned. The three of clubs.

  Trip-threes, Oliver thought. God loves me.

  “You got nothing,” the sheriff said.

  “I got everything,” Oliver said.

  Which was true. The mountain had taken care of him, but the things he had achieved—the success of his business, the townspeople that loved him, the children he had snatched without trace or repercussion—could also be attributed to guile. He was a fox. A smokescreen. A walking illusion. These people watched the news and read the papers. They knew about the missing children, and had not the first clue that he was responsible. Veneers and façades. They shook his hand and called him a friend.

  Right on cue, as if he were aligned with the cosmos, the TVs tuned to CNN flashed photographs of Ethan Mitchell and Courtney Bryce. All smiles and big eyes. The happiest kids in the land when those photos were taken, but deep inside the mountain now, and never to smile again. The TVs were muted, but Oliver didn’t need sound to know what the report was about. New Jersey and Pennsylvania cops had compared what scant notes they had to see if there was any correlation in the children’s disappearance. They had nothing, though. Oliver had covered his tracks and nobody could touch him. Even Sheriff Tansy, sitting directly to his right, looked at the screen, then dropped his ignorant gaze to Oliver and nodded.

  “Think you’re one step ahead, don’t you?”

  “Always,” Oliver said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  The report ended. Replaced by a commercial for United Airlines.

  “All-in,” Oliver said.

  “Son of a bitch.” The sheriff looked at him closely, trying to peek beneath the mask. “Think you can scare me?”

  He had learned to smile when he realized that he was alone. His childhood was cold water: an ocean in which he was adrift, occasionally riding crests, more often being pulled under. Mom and Dad were distant islands, always out of reach, no matter how hard he swam. His mother’s island was full of withered plants. His father’s was a wedge of grey rocks, hammered constantly with rain. Oliver was dragged and swept between the two, and eventually learned to look not east or west, but up. The sun burned and shimmered. He smiled and found his own atoll. White sand and glimmering coral. He pulled himself ashore and grew.

  His mother took ill when he was twenty-four. Terminal cancer. Her island crumbled and within a matter of weeks was swept away by the ocean. Oliver thought the old man would follow soon after. Not from a broken heart—Jesus, no—but because he smoked sixty cigarettes a day and often coughed yellow and black wads of phlegm into his fist. He was known to imbibe, too, and recklessly. Still, the old man’s island was as tough as it appeared, and he was still alive to this day. Oliver gave the impression of caring very much for him, but this was purely to bolster his impeccable image. Heaven forbid the town should think him uncaring. He visited often. An hour of acrimony, three times a week.

  You’re going straight to hell, the old man had said to him recently. Sixty-seven years old. A Vietnam vet who’d lost his right eye in the Battle of Khe Sanh, and his sensibility and hope in everything that came afterward. You can’t pull the wool over the devil’s eyes. He’s going to ride you like a goddamn surfboard.

  And you’ll be right beside me, Oliver had said.

  Alone in his ocean. A smile-shaped atoll. No friends, only certain individuals he could abide more than others, like Sheriff Tansy (always good to have the law in your corner) and the rest of the guys he played poker with on Thursday nights. Then there was Tina Quinn, who hated everyone (just like
him), but still had certain urges (just like him). She was as dirty as a barn floor, too—would have him shoot his spooge on Oreos and gobble them down like the Cookie Monster.

  He smiled endlessly, beautifully. He supported local businesses and gave generously to charity. People stopped in the street to talk to him. Old ladies hugged him. He had a plaque on a bench in Blueberry Bush Park. In 2006, Mayor Woolens awarded him the Key to Point Hollow after his handsome donation helped keep the doors of Rising Pine Elementary open.

  Everybody loved him.

  Oliver looked up from his cards and caught Bobby Alexander’s gaze.

  Well, almost everybody.

  “Okay,” Sheriff Tansy said. His eyes flicked from his cards to his chips. He licked his lips and nodded. “All-in. Do or die.”

  “Do or die,” Oliver said, and showed his cards. “Trip-threes.”

  “Son of a buck,” the sheriff groaned, setting down two pairs—queens and tens. He pushed the remainder of his chips toward Oliver, shaking his head, half smiling. The other guys hooted, guzzling beer, smearing drips from their chins. Oliver nodded and grinned and hated them all.

  “Nice knowing you, Sheriff,” he said.

  Sheriff Tansy shrugged. “The devil’s children have the devil’s luck.”

  Oliver made horns of his forefingers and held them to his head, then flipped the cards and the dealer button to Gray, and displayed his perfect smile.

  ———

  Fleetwood Mac on the jukebox, and Drunken Debbie danced alone. It was after midnight and the guys had gone home (the sheriff weaving drunkenly away in his cruiser). The Rack was almost empty—just a few midnight cowboys, those without families to return to, or jobs to wake up for. They slouched at the bar staring into their drinks. The TVs had been switched off. The neon beer signs in the windows were cold and dark.

  One for the road.

  “Jack Daniel’s,” Oliver said. “Drop of water, a little ice.”

  Bobby Alexander sat on the other side of the horseshoe. Normally, Oliver would ignore him, but he’d had a few drinks and his restraint had slipped a gear. He looked up and their eyes clashed.