by Rio Youers
“On three,” Sheriff Tansy growled. “One, two—”
They pulled. The animal’s dead weight sickened Matthew, but worse was the sound—the feel—of it scraping across the blacktop, leaving a broad smear of blood. Matthew turned away, but not before seeing the mostly severed leg separate from the body.
“Almost there,” the sheriff said. “One good heave.”
After they had dragged the deer to the grass verge, the sheriff grabbed the severed leg and tossed it into the woods. He could have placed it with the rest of the body, but he decided to launch it, like a man throwing a stick for a dog to fetch. The leg flew end-over-end (not unlike a stick) and clattered among the branches, out of sight.
“Job done,” the sheriff said, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt.
Matthew gasped. He felt sick and dirty. He wanted to step into a shower so hot that it would strip at least three layers of skin from his body.
“Thanks,” he uttered.
“Just doing my job,” the sheriff said. “I’d liked to have seen you pull the trigger, but . . .” He slapped Matthew on the back, a largely sympathetic gesture. Okay, so you got nothing in your sack but a couple of dry old beans and some lint, but don’t let it get you down. Matthew opened his mouth, but had nothing to say.
“Adios, amigo,” Tansy said, strutting back to his cruiser. “Maybe I’ll see you in town, if you’re staying a while.”
Matthew nodded. Sweat trickled down his face. He wanted to wipe it away, but didn’t want to touch himself.
The cruiser’s lightbar whirled and throbbed and Tansy gave the siren an unnecessary three-second blast, perhaps in celebration of testosterone and good old country grit. He swept the cruiser around. Its rear tires splashed through the blood and dragged it across the blacktop, as if marking the occasion, like Zorro.
Matthew watched the cruiser disappear in the direction of Point Hollow, swallowed by a curve in the road.
Yeah, adios, amigo, he thought. Let’s hope that’s the last I see of you.
He trudged wearily to the rental and waited for the wrecker to arrive.
———
It was almost ten P.M. by the time Matthew arrived in Point Hollow. The town was dark and quiet. He drove directly to the Super 8 on Main Street, where he checked into a room, grabbed a much-needed shower, and slept for twelve hours.
Chapter Six
The lost memories were like remnants inhumed by the strata of time and repression, and only a disturbance would bring them to the surface. Same for everyone, Matthew knew. No person has total recollection. But he wondered how many people had great swathes of memory missing. It felt like his childhood was a chalkboard that had been hurriedly wiped, leaving pale smears and spectral half-words. His aim, returning to Point Hollow, was to disinter—to disturb. He knew there’d be ghosts, and that the weight of years would shift with a dry sound, like old bones crumbling.
———
He felt okay. Not great, perhaps, but positive. His sleep had been disjointed, filled with dark rumbling and images of the deer. He kept seeing the sheriff tossing the severed leg into the woods, and the broad leaf of blood that had unfolded on the road. The air conditioner in his room squeaked, and his sleep converted this to the deer’s constant, pained gasps (he eventually got out of bed, turned off the A/C, and slept, coated in sweat, on top of the covers). An unsettled night, certainly, but even so he felt . . . okay. Maybe it was because the sun was blazing and the air was impossibly fresh. Or maybe it was because he was away from the city—from Kirsty—and intent on lighting the darkness. A few days in Point Hollow, surrounded by ghosts and memories, and by the woods he had been lost in. When he returned to the city, and met with Kirsty to discuss their future, she would see a different man—perhaps one she didn’t wholly recognize. It might not be enough to save their marriage, but Matthew thought it might save him.
He walked along Main Street, inhaling the clean air and feeling the morning sun on his shoulders. It hadn’t changed much, from what he remembered. The Super 8 had replaced the flea market—a massive, barn-like structure that Matthew recalled walking around, handling curios that looked like they had fallen through portals in time, while his mother snapped at him to not break anything. The Scratch, Matthew thought, the name falling into place with a tiny click. That’s what it was called. How could I have forgotten that? There were a couple of new franchise stores: a McDonald’s (of course) and a Starbucks (of course), the latter having muscled out Cuppa Joe’s. Dad used to say they serve the best coffee in the country, and their chocolate chip muffins . . . made in heaven, I swear to God. The water tower had been pulled down—a redundant, rusty structure, Matthew recalled. The fountain standing in its place was far more pleasing to the eye.
Another change brought a surprising pang of regret: walking past Buzzcut Billy’s, Matthew had looked through the window, fully expecting to see old Buzzcut snipping away, but instead saw rows of footwear; the barbershop where he’d had the first forty-or-so haircuts of his life was now a shoe store. He figured that Buzzcut—who must have been eighty when he was cutting Matthew’s hair—had passed away, joining the Scratch and the water tower in the pages of the town’s history.
If there were other changes, Matthew didn’t recognize them. He walked around like a stranger, for the most part. Main Street was picture-perfect, lined with mom and pop stores that may or may not have been part of the commerce when Matthew left town. The post office, on the corner of Main and Sparrow, was a log cabin, quaint beyond measure, flying the Stars and Stripes, as large as a ship’s sail. The library was on the opposite side of the road, a friendly looking building with a porch for reading on and a notice board out front. An elderly lady tended colourful flowers sprayed around the porch, occasionally swatting at a wasp or bee. He looked at the notice board, which was filled with small-town communiqué: a chili cook-off at Blueberry Bush Park on August 8; NASCAR Madness at the Rack—half-price pitchers and free wings during the races; Hollow County Idol, with celebrity judge Aretha Bell from Rise FM. The names and places were not immediately familiar to him. Neither were the Davy Crockett post office and the library. Matthew thought they should be, but there was nothing in his mind but a faint shimmer.
This is my hometown, he thought, over and over, as if trying to drill this unlikely truth into his mind. I spent the first ten years of my life here. Yet there remained a detachment, despite the things he could remember. It felt like an unrequited friendship—like speaking to an empty room.
The town’s beauty was accented by its surrounding scenery: hills and ridges, carpeted with trees like green glaciers, and countless peaks splashed with austere colours. You didn’t have to walk far before the sidewalk became woodland trail, and the asphalt became glistening river. Stroll for fifteen minutes in any direction, and you would leave the man-made world behind. No people, no cars, no bricks or streetlights. Simply nature, the sound of the trees and the rich tang of sap. It was breathtaking, and although outdoor groups had discovered Point Hollow’s secret and spread the word, it hadn’t lost its natural splendour.
And then there was the mountain.
Abraham’s Faith, Matthew thought, turning toward it, his eyes squinted, as if it were a loathsome person. A living thing. I could have gone the rest of my life without thinking about you.
It had been twenty-six years since he’d looked at the mountain, and he wondered now if it was connected to the darkness inside him—to everything that had gone wrong. He remembered his parents warning him to stay away from it. Stick to the trails, they had insisted, because no trail came close to the mountain. He wondered if that was how he’d gotten lost all those years ago. Had he veered from the trails, drawn toward the mystery of Abraham’s Faith, like some ill-fated character in a fairy tale?
Matthew shuddered and crossed the street, where the buildings blocked the mountain from view. An idea occurred to him—crazy, n
o doubt, but it felt plausible: that Abraham’s Faith exuded a menace that spilled into the town proper; that Point Hollow had taken on its darkness. It was picturesque, certainly, with its quaint storefronts and patriotic bunting, yet there was something untoward about the town. Unfriendly, almost. He felt the locals staring at him, imagined their eyes narrowed to reptile-like slits. They glared from the opposite side of the street, from their cars, and from behind store windows, and when he turned to face them they looked quickly away. Maybe he was making something out of nothing—a shade over-sensitive, perhaps, due to him feeling like he didn’t belong. They probably weren’t staring at all, only curious. Still, his cheerful greetings and smiles were ignored.
And it wasn’t just the people; his reflection in every window was distorted, as if there was a subtle ripple in the glass; the shadows were too deep, casting shaped impressions on the walls and sidewalks; and the sounds were odd, not all of them, but the traffic—what little there was—sounded the way it would in a tunnel, and Matthew winced when the town hall clock struck eleven, each peal punctuated with a static-like hiss.
My hometown, he thought again, and then shook his head. No, it didn’t feel right. He wondered if Point Hollow—this mysterious iota of the world’s geography—remembered that he had turned his back on it twenty-six years ago, and refused to forgive him. Had he somehow disturbed its energy pool by returning?
He crossed Jefferson Avenue, festooned with cherry blossoms and stars and stripes, and his gaze was drawn to the east, where Abraham’s Faith squatted beneath a curvature of sky that looked too small.
———
What better place to recapture that hometown feeling than the house you grew up in?
Matthew walked along streets with names like Pawpaw Avenue and Pussy Willow Road, past houses with pastel-coloured siding, comfortably placed on mature lots with white picket fences. Old folks in straw hats and sandals mowed their lawns, some of them scowling as he strolled by, others giving him barely a glance.
He took a few wrong turns, but eventually found his way, and the memories started to trickle through as soon as he turned onto Maple Road—a curved, green belt, basking in the shade of the plentiful trees it was named after.
Matthew had to stop for a moment. His mind flickered, like an old film reel with missing frames, excerpts from a childhood that blanched in the light. He saw himself tearing along the sidewalk on his BMX, believing that, if he went fast enough, he would take off and fly, like Eliott in E.T. He heard his sister crying after she had fallen down and grazed her knees. He saw a cluster of boys with tanned, bare backs, carrying patched inner tubes that they used to ride the rapids on Something River—Gray Rock River, Matthew thought, and there it was, catching sunlight in his mind. Other fragments: voices and faces that whirled like sand in the wind, and Matthew felt them on his skin, in his eyes.
He walked to one-thirty-eight, his old house. It hadn’t changed. A fresh lick of paint, but that was all. It was like looking at a restored photograph. A silver tear curled from the corner of his eye. This was where he had spoken his first words, and taken his first steps. It was where he learned to use the potty, and read, and where the myriad examples set by his parents filtered into his grasping mind. But so what? No big deal. Everybody has to learn to drop their drawers and take a crap, after all.
Only it was a big deal, because his bruised soul, and the years he had spent with Kirsty, had left him empty. Standing in the sunlight looking at his old house, Matthew felt those places inside him begin to fill, and he realized—with an emergent feeling not dissimilar to waking—that his marriage was over. He didn’t need Kirsty. He was more complete without her.
Matthew snapped his fingers and imagined a small flame, impossibly bright, popping from the tip of his thumb. I’m lighting the darkness, he thought. I’m really doing it.
He knuckled tears from his eyes and let the memories come. There wasn’t a great flood of them, only drips, but frequent and rhythmic, filling the glass bowl of his past, hitherto empty enough to create an echo.
A dog barked in one of the houses across the street. The maples shimmered. Matthew shuffled his feet and his shadow wavered.
Chapter Seven
Matthew walked a different route back to Main Street, passing the New Hope Anglican Church on Clover Hill Road, and turning left on Acorn Street, where he passed the sheriff’s office. His cruiser was parked outside, and Matthew got a dose of unwanted recollection—the episode with the deer spilling through his mind in its gruesome entirety. He walked a little faster, imagining the sheriff sitting with his boots (still stained with the deer’s blood) propped on his desk, cramming a blueberry jelly donut into his crooked mouth.
Acorn met Cicada Avenue, which intersected with Main beside the shoe store that used to be Buzzcut Billy’s. Matthew had planned to go back to the Super 8, grab a cool shower and maybe a siesta, but the sight of the neon beer signs fizzing in the windows of the bar across the street got his mouth watering. His mind turned into a beer commercial—rock music playing while a brunette in a devastatingly tight T-shirt served him a fantasy smile and a glass of ice-cold Budweiser. He crossed the road, blinking sweat from his eyes and licking his lips.
The brunette turned out to be a young bartender with tattoo sleeves, full-lobe ear plugs, and a soul patch that had been plaited and adorned with a single red bead that tapped against his chin when he spoke. The fantasy smile was anything but. The ice-cold beer, however, was exactly how Matthew had imagined it. He drained two thirds of the bottle with a purring sound, suppressed a gassy belch, then finished the beer and ordered another.
A song came on the jukebox that Matthew didn’t recognize, but it set his foot tapping and was perfect for the bar’s ambience. It was little more than spit and sawdust, but with a name like the Rack, Matthew hadn’t expected anything more. The bartender flicked around on his cell phone between serving customers, and a waitress with fire-wild hair worked the tables and a small patio out back. It was cool and dark at the bar, away from the light slanting through the windows. A notice board filled with photographs rippled as a dusty fan turned its ponderous head that way.
The other customers were as somnolent as wildlife in the shade, occasionally raising their heads from their drinks, looking around with barely interested expressions. One old boy drew shapes in the spilled beer on the bar. A younger man with gunpowder-black eyes chewed his fingernails and spat the pieces on the floor. Matthew tended his own business, supping his beer, cooling down, and trying to get his thoughts in order. The song on the jukebox changed to something that skipped and ended in less than ten seconds. “That was my goddamn quarter,” the man chewing his fingernails said, and the bartender took a quarter from the register and flipped it his way. It was snatched from the air without even time to flash. Lynyrd Skynyrd started singing “Comin’ Home” and Matthew spied the waitress plucking her jean shorts from the cleft of her ass.
He had just started his third beer—it was going to be the last one before heading back to the hotel—when a tall man with a tiny Mets cap perched on his brick-like head strolled in, belly swinging, and sat at the bar three stools over.
“Hot as blazes,” he wheezed, nodding at the bartender. “Get me a Pepsi, Jesse. Biggest glass you can find. Fill it with ice.”
“Maybe I should just load a pitcher.”
“Go for it.”
Matthew raised his eyebrows. The man turned to him and he looked quickly away, suddenly interested in the photographs riffling on the notice board. He supped his beer, but felt the man still looking at him. Jesse returned with his pitcher of Pepsi, the ice popping and cracking with a sound like bubble wrap.
“There she is, Bobby.”
Bobby curled his impressive hands around the pitcher.
“You want a straw?”
Bobby gave his head a little shake, lifted the pitcher, and took several noisy slurps. Foamy lines tric
kled into the folds of his chins. Matthew was reminded of Kirsty slurping from her massive Starbucks mug. He sneered and sipped his own beer quietly. Bobby set the pitcher down with a thump. Pepsi fizzed. Ice crackled. Bobby wiped his mouth and belched musically.
The old boy looked up from his beer shapes, smiled toothlessly, and then drew a shaky star.
“God and be damned,” Bobby said. “Okay, get me a glass, Jesse.”
Jesse fetched him a glass and went back to playing with his cell phone.
“I know you, don’t I?” Bobby asked, pouring a tall glass that foamed and spilled over the top. He looked at Matthew, his brow creased.
“Me?” Matthew pointed at himself with the neck of the bottle.
“Yeah. Your face is familiar.”
Matthew shook his head and smiled politely. “I doubt . . .” But the sentence melted in his mouth. Bobby, he thought, looking at his pink face and freckled nose. The band of his Mets cap was almost black with sweat. Still beads, like balls of candle wax, mottled the heavy pockets beneath his eyes. Bobby . . . yeah, I think . . . And it was the baseball cap, small and raggedy, that brought it home. Judging from the size of it on Bobby’s head, it could have been the same one he was wearing when Matthew last saw him in 1984. He’d been a kid then, of course. Ten years old. Now he was an adult, but looking at him closely, Matthew still saw the little boy inside.
“Bobby Alexander,” Matthew said. He hadn’t spoken that name out loud for many years, but there it was.
“You got it,” Bobby said with a grin. Deep creases rippled his full cheeks.
“We were best friends.” Matthew blinked like a man emerging from deep, confusing sleep.
Bobby snapped his fingers. “Matthew . . . Matthew Bridge.”
Matthew nodded, smiling.
“I’ll be damned.”
Something strange happened then: both men slipped from their stools, met in the middle, and hugged. They did it simultaneously, neither prompted by the other, and although the hug was somewhat clumsy and uncomfortable, Matthew still felt warmed by it. The weirdness of the town, and the way it appeared to have turned its back on him, dissolved instantly. He found, in Bobby’s arms, in the smell of his sweat and the firm bulge of his belly, confirmation that he had once belonged. A long time ago, but it was there, nonetheless.