“Hey!” I shouted at her, wanting to break her focus on Denise, and when the girl blinked at me I asked her if anyone had called an ambulance yet. She nodded, her body beginning to shake, and said, “Josh did, yeah. They—they should be here soon.”
I turned my attention back to Denise and slapped her face again, told her she had to wake up, told her she couldn’t die just yet. And my attention was so trained on waking Denise and trying to keep her alive that when the girl came and sat down on the bed and took her friend’s hand, I didn’t even notice.
• • •
THE PARAMEDICS ARRIVED ten minutes later. And with the paramedics came the police.
By then news of what happened had spread throughout the party. Maybe a dozen people came upstairs and poked in their heads, some asking if Denise was okay, others clearly blitzed out of their minds and wanting to only see a possible dead girl. One pothead with long dark hair wrapped in a ponytail actually started laughing and said, “Yo, that’s fucking awesome,” before one of the girls called him a jerk and pushed him out of the room. Mostly all who stayed were Denise’s closest friends, one who even said she was a trained lifeguard and knew CPR. But the girl was too tipsy and reeked of dope, and I knew CPR was the last thing Denise needed right now and told her so. She looked disappointed, called me a prick under her breath, and walked to the corner to sulk.
I continued slapping Denise’s face, the spot on her cheek now even redder. I was uncertain if my actions were more harmful than helpful but kept doing them anyway. Once her eyes fluttered and she moaned, said something that sounded like apples, but then she just shifted her body and lay still. One of the girls watching screamed, “She’s dead!” which caused others to begin panicking, and I told them all to shut the fuck up.
The dance music continued pumping downstairs. It was faint but the beat could still be felt through the floor. I figured the party was still going on and even though many knew an ambulance was on its way, none of them were smart enough to realize that when an ambulance is called to an overdose scene, the police are dispatched first. This didn’t seem to register for anyone until the music abruptly shut off downstairs, and someone shouted that the cops were busting the place.
Out of the half dozen girls and two guys standing watch in Denise’s room, only two of the girls split. The rest looked nervous but knew they were screwed anyway, and wanted to wait it out with their friend. I tried sending this message to Denise through her soul in hopes it would give her more reason to wake up. But she only continued to lay motionless in my arms, her chest hardly rising and falling at all anymore.
A deputy stepped into the room a minute later. He glanced suspiciously at everyone, then at Denise on the bed, before motioning two medics inside. A man and woman rushed in, wearing blue jumpsuits and carrying equipment, and the next thing I knew I was pulled off the bed so they could begin working.
The deputy had headed back downstairs. A few others had as well. I stood there a moment watching, then turned toward the door when the female medic spoke.
“Do you know how many she took?”
I shook my head, told her I had no idea. But in my mind I knew there had been eighteen pills in the bottle when she emptied it, though I wasn’t about to say that aloud, I could just imagine the stares I’d receive.
I went downstairs into the frenzy of running drunken teenagers. Melvin Dumstorf ran past, the front of his green polo splattered with vomit, and judging by the hurried expression on his face it didn’t look like he was in the mood to do any of his freestyling or ninja skills anytime soon. Through the open front door I saw one of the deputy’s cruisers parked in front of the house, the ambulance right behind it. Two more cruisers were up at the end of the extended driveway, blocking any escape. One girl asked me if Denise would be all right. I shrugged and told her I didn’t know, but it was a lie.
I knew.
I knew that in the next two minutes the medics would cause her to throw up the Valium. I knew that she would spend the night in the hospital (a floor above the one Joey had been on) and that in the morning she would have to face her parents, who would fly home a day early from their trip. I knew how difficult it would be for her to tell her parents why she tried killing herself, and confessing to them how she would not be graduating on Saturday.
Almost everyone now had concluded that they weren’t going to run away, though a few had taken off through the back, up into the trees. Others simply waited for the deputies to come to them. One big kid wearing an Elmira High football jersey, number 79, walked outside the front door with his hands in the air. Between his lips was a fat unlit joint. Someone shouted, “You go, Boomer, you show ’em who’s boss.” I knew I was sober enough to pass the motions—especially after the rush I’d just had upstairs—but passing the Breathalyzer would be next to impossible. For the first time I thought about John and his friends and wondered just how they were faring.
I went to step outside toward the bright red blue and white flashing lights when a hand gripped my arm and spun me around.
“Well hello there, nephew,” my uncle said. He was dressed in his uniform, the PISTOL EXPERT pin flashing in the light. “Funny seeing you here.”
• • •
WE DROVE DOWN 13 in silence. We passed Harvey’s Tavern, its parking lot moderately filled with pickups and cars, then eventually made a left onto Mizner Road. I knew we had about another five minutes until we reached The Hill. I was beginning to think we could go the entire ride without a single word when Dean spoke.
“She’ll live, you know. One of the medics told me they reached her just in time. Another five minutes and she would have been gone for good.”
We came up over a rise and our headlights splashed a deer three hundred yards ahead of us, the animal stopping and staring, its glassy eyes reflecting the light, before hurrying into the trees.
“You know, you’re the last person I expected to see there tonight.” Dean shook his head, seemed to have to force himself not to look at me. “How’d you get there anyway?”
“Does it matter?”
He emitted a low heavy laugh without smiling. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“What can I say? I’m incorrigible.”
This time he shot me a glare, one that suggested it’d be best to stop being a smartass. “Mom doesn’t know where you’re at, I’m guessing.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“Do you realize how she lost it when she found your little note yesterday? I never thought she’d stop crying. Chris, you have to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been talking to Steve. We both think it’s a good idea if you went back to Lanton. To stay for good. Too much bad stuff’s been happening up here, and ...”
“Yeah? And what?”
“And you seem to be right in the middle of everything.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it? Then explain to me why you and Moses Cunningham are such good friends all of a sudden. Mom tells me she’s seen you hanging out in his trailer and going places with him. Am I the only one who finds it odd that after his son gets abducted, the kid refuses to speak to anybody but you? Then after he dies you’ve got nothing to tell us but yet you’re hanging around with his old man?”
I was silent for a long time. Then, “So what do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I don’t want you to say a goddamn thing, because to be honest, I really don’t want to know. But I have off on Saturday. I’ll take you back to Lanton then. I know you’ve made the trip already by yourself, but I’d just feel more comfortable if I went too.”
Silence again. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. I’d been sitting in it ever since Dean placed me there two hours before. He’d told me to get in, and I waited while nearly everyone else got citations for underage drinking and even arrested for possession. I wondered when I was going to get mine, too, when Dean got in without a word and we started off
toward The Hill.
“I would like to know one thing,” he said as we passed by a dark and empty-looking Shepherd’s Books. “How did you know about Denise?”
“I didn’t. It was an accident. I opened the door and found her there, and knew she needed an ambulance.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Chris. Steve told me about what happened back home, at that guy’s farm. He said you ... that you almost sensed what was about to happen.”
“And you believe him?”
He glanced at me once more, as we slowed down to make the left into the trailer park. “Let me tell you a story. Back about twenty-five years ago, I had just graduated high school. I was dating this girl then, her name was Susie, and we were in love. She was going to college close by—nearly all our friends were, even my best friend Tom—and she wanted me to come along too, said it’d be the perfect place for me. But I wasn’t sure. Instead I followed after my old man and joined the army. I asked Susie if she’d wait for me and she said she would.
“I spent five years in the service. I tried writing Susie as much as possible. Occasionally I’d get a letter from her, or she’d answer when I called. But pretty soon her letters didn’t come as often, until they didn’t come at all, and every time I called she wasn’t there. Not until I got back to Bridgton did I find out she was already engaged to somebody else. And the ironic thing about it is she was engaged to Tom. The guy who got us together in the first place. My best friend.”
He stopped the cruiser in front of my trailer. Cut the lights but kept the engine running.
Dean, staring ahead out through his bug-splattered windshield, said, “You’ll have to fend for yourself tomorrow morning. Mom always has breakfast with some of the girls up here on The Hill on Fridays down in Elmira.” He glanced at me. “But the point of my story is that I learned early on you can’t trust anybody. I think everyone learns that eventually, some just take longer than others. But after living your life and coming into contact with people who care only for themselves, you begin to realize the only way to survive is having faith in yourself and nobody else.”
He shook his head.
“But you, Chris ... the sad thing is, I don’t even know who you are. The little I do know is what Steve told me last week. Like how you were suspended for fighting and should have been arrested but the kid didn’t press charges.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is I can’t trust you. Tonight just proves it. I should cite you for drinking and God knows what else—I can smell the weed on your clothes—but I think you saved that girl’s life tonight, so I’m going to let it go. But by Saturday you’ll be back in Lanton and out of our lives. Hopefully we’ll keep in touch.”
He sighed and shrugged.
“So do I believe what Steve told me? There are times when I think I can, but then I always have to remember that unless I’m there to actually experience it myself, I can’t be certain. That’s why I never go with Mom to church anymore. I just don’t have the faith to believe in God. But Steve ... he sounded like he believed it though, so at least I know he does.”
Dean had been staring forward at the field beyond the drive hiding in darkness. Now he looked at me.
“And in case you’re wondering, I’m not going to tell Mom about tonight. She might ask where you were, and if I were you I’d tell her you were with Moses Cunningham. At least maybe she can believe that. I know she does try her best to trust people. And I know she trusts you.” He paused, nodded once. “Goodnight, Chris.”
I got out of the car, shut the door and waited until he turned back on his lights. I watched him as he drove down the drive and circled around the trailer park. When his taillights disappeared down Half Creek Road, I headed toward my trailer. It didn’t take long before I was inside and in bed. And it didn’t take much longer before I was asleep and had the dream.
Chapter 24
I’m standing in a narrow hallway. The pictures on the wall show me and my family but I can tell from the white carpet and sky blue wallpaper that this is Denise Rowe’s house. A cold pang slices through my soul and I turn around, notice her closed bedroom door. Behind it, a faint but familiar sound: bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp.
Joey suddenly appears not ten feet away. He’s wearing the clothes he had on the night he stayed in the Beckett House: plain shorts and T-shirt, his nondescript sneakers. His hands are behind his back. He faces the wall, staring at a framed picture.
“Joey?” I say, my voice faint and echoing. Then, as any naïve dreamer is apt to do, I begin, “I thought you were—”
“You should read it when you get the chance,” he says, his voice not only an echo in the hallway but also an echo from the past. Slowly, and in a very stiff way, he looks at me. His eyes are gone. In the empty sockets, deep darkness stares back. “Really,” he says, pointing with a hand that has now become a skeletal claw, “you should read this.”
Then he’s gone and I have only a moment to step forward to see the picture. Only it’s not a picture. It’s a section of a newspaper hiding behind thin glass. A black and white photograph of a woman rests in the corner, surrounded by text. I recognize her immediately as Sarah’s mother.
Another icy pang stabs my soul, and I turn back toward the door at the end of the hall. Behind it, my parents’ alarm clock has gone silent. I start forward but immediately stop when I hear heavy breathing coming from behind a closed door to my right. It’s a mixture of moaning and panting, and before I can stop myself I open the door.
Like before he’s taking her from behind, only this time the girl is someone I know. I watch as he grips onto her shoulder with one hand, his other hand holding her waist. Her hanging breasts aren’t large but still they sway back and forth as he thrusts. Her eyes are closed as her face writhes in pleasure, but as she begins to cry out in orgasm they snap open. She looks straight up at me.
She screams, “Promise me, Chris! Promise me!”
I grab the door and slam it shut. I expect to hear her continued screams from behind, but there is only silence. I continue down the hall.
Something lies right in front of the door: a large bundle in the dimness. I can’t tell what it is until I’m standing less than three feet away. It’s a bloody bed sheet—my parents’ bloody bed sheet. Something moves around inside the bundle. The movement is slight but still it’s there. I lean down and reach out, even though I want nothing to do with it. If I could have it my way I’d kick it aside and continue on to what’s behind the closed door—where I know something terrible is happening, where I need to be—but this is a dream, and just like in most dreams where we fool ourselves into thinking we have control, I’m forced to unwrap the bed sheet.
A fetus rests inside. It’s a living fetus covered in blood, and even though it’s impossible—I know it’s impossible—the fetus stares up at me.
Why did you kill me? the fetus’s black eyes ask.
Blinking, the fetus is gone. Blinking, the bloody bed sheet is gone. Blinking, the only thing in front of me now is the closed bedroom door.
I step forward, grab the knob, turn it.
The door opens inward. Inside, Mrs. Roberts lies in bed. She’s sleeping, so her dark glasses are off her face, resting on the wooden stand beside her bed, along with a clock and a large print trade paperback of Danielle Steele. Her one wrinkled hand is on her chest. A soft and steady snore comes from her opened mouth.
I wonder what I’m doing here, why the icy pang has brought me to this room, when I see the fly.
It crawls freely from her mouth, onto her dried lip, then down to her chin. It seems to be alone until, seconds later, others follow. More appear, from behind the curtains and pillows, from behind the clothes and under the bed. They fill the room with a buzzing roar so loud that I wonder how the woman can possibly continue sleeping.
Then, as if on cue, she awakens.
Her eyes open and her mouth widens even more as she sees and feels the flies. At once they a
ttack. Those that aren’t already swarming her body come at her hard and fast, until she’s covered and then covered again. She tries to scream but her mouth quickly becomes blocked. She tries coughing but only manages to swallow more flies.
I stand in the doorway watching, my entire body frozen. Mrs. Roberts stares back at me, her eyes the only things not yet covered. They scream at me, her eyes, they scream for help, and as much as I wish I could I still can’t move.
Then both her eyes disappear as even more flies land and begin driving their way into her sockets.
• • •
I AWOKE WITH a start. For one disconcerting moment I didn’t know where I was. Then the present caught up with me and I lay back down in bed. My hair was damp with sweat, my neck sore. I did my best to slow my heavy breathing.
I lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. My head pounded some from my hangover. Sunlight streamed behind the closed windows and curtain, enough so that the cramped trailer had begun to overheat. I glanced at my watch, saw it was almost nine o’clock.
I sat up, yawning, wishing for a glass of cold water. I thought about what all had happened in my dream. I remembered everything.
And suddenly I had a feeling.
Not the feeling, but another feeling which was almost the same, though this was more of a hunch.
I stood and grabbed a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, my socks and sneakers. When I walked outside seconds later a cool breeze hit me at once. The sky was clear, the sun bright. Off in the distance, behind the faint traffic on 13, I heard the sound of a lawnmower.
And flies.
Lots of flies.
The Calling Page 19