The Bleeding Season

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Think back through the years, fellas,” Bernard continued. “Think about the things deep inside you can’t remember, don’t want to remember. Think about all the times things with me just didn’t add up, how things seemed just a bit off, just a little strange. Then think about how you reacted, how you dismissed it the same way you choose to ignore an unusual sound in the middle of the night. Ever do that? Have you ever been lying in bed, darkness all around, when suddenly there’s an odd sound? You know you weren’t dreaming; you know you heard it for sure and you know it’s not commonplace. You know it’s an intrusive sound, a sound that doesn’t belong there, and even though it makes no sense, even though it might be an intruder or God knows what, you roll over and forget it…but have you ever wondered what you’d find if you didn’t?

  “I’m so tired,” he said through a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired, fellas. I had it under control for a long time—or I thought I did—but it got away from me. I couldn’t concentrate on my job, I knew my mother was dying, I…I knew without her my life would spiral down into nothingness. The only way the mortgage could be paid was through her savings and the disability checks she got every month. Without that income, even when I was working, I couldn’t maintain the house and I knew I’d lose it. I couldn’t hang on anymore, I…things were all confused. I couldn’t think anymore, I…I just couldn’t think clearly, you know? Too many goddamn voices at once, and…

  “I couldn’t do my job, lost that, then when Mom died and they took the house, I…Christ, how that woman suffered. For what? For what!”

  He screamed the same phrase three times more, the volume and savagery of his voice such that it distorted through the large speakers and became indecipherable. I felt a chill burst through me. Bernard sounded completely, hopelessly insane.

  “God abandoned me.” The tremor in his voice indicated he was struggling to hold back tears. “I knew when I moved in here with Sammy my time was over. I did my thing, I made my mark…and I’m not afraid, not anymore. Face your fear, that’s what people always say, and you’ll conquer it. It’s true. It’s true. I faced my fear…then I became it. The things you see are beyond belief, but they’re real.

  “I’ll miss you guys,” he said a moment later. “I’m not who you thought I was—what you thought I was—but I’m still Bernard, man, still a loyal Sultan, still one of you, and I always will be. We’ll always be together no matter what. I just wish that could’ve been enough, but ask yourself this—was it enough for you? I wish I could’ve told you the truth about me, about the things I’ve done, but if you’re honest with yourselves and you stop and think long and hard, you’ll realize the answers are right there and have been all along.”

  Donald struggled to his feet. “He’s insane.”

  “I like the idea of dying in winter,” Bernard’s voice interrupted. “It’s barren and cold and still and it’s the perfect time for me to step away, now that my destiny has been fulfilled and I’ve done all I can to assure my place in the afterlife, in the realm of darkness where I belong, where I was born to be.

  “When the seasons change and the world begins to warm and thaw out from the chill of winter, you’ll better understand what I’m talking about. You’ll see firsthand the fruit of my labor. Rancid fruit to be sure but fruit just the same, fellas. Like in the days of old when they’d bleed the illness, the darkness, the wickedness from a person, I’ve shown you the way by bleeding the world, man, by letting it flow in the fucking streets. It’s why as much as I’d like to I can’t slit my wrists. Yeah,” he said in a quietly gleeful tone, “I need it where I’m going…down beyond the dirt…beyond the Earth. And just like here, where I’m going, you might just have to follow. But I have to go now. It’s time.”

  The tape was quiet but we could still hear Bernard breathing. Eventually he spoke, but this time his voice was void of emotion, a detached monotone that could have been anyone. “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”

  No one moved until the tape reached the end and the player clicked and stopped with a loud, eerie finality. We sat in stunned silence until Rick removed the cassette and tossed it back to me. I caught it and returned it to the envelope it had been mailed in, no longer wanting to touch it.

  “Well, that was fun,” Donald said. “Think it’s available on CD?”

  Rick stomped about, hands on hips. “Yeah, good, make jokes, asshole.”

  I cleared my throat and rose slowly to my feet. “We need to sort this out.”

  Rick whirled around, faced me. “You know what he was saying the same as I do.”

  I nodded. “We also know Bernard had problems.”

  “No one in their right mind hangs themselves,” Donald added quickly. “And besides, you can hear him at the end of the tape, he’s clearly disturbed.”

  “Doesn’t make him a liar.” Rick arched an eyebrow. “Does it?”

  “Not necessarily, no.”

  “He was saying, without actually saying it that…” I shook my head in disbelief, still hopeful none of this was happening. “He was claiming he’d killed people.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Poirot, what would we do without you?” Donald rolled his eyes and took another mock draw on his still unlit cigarette. “Look, this is Bernard we’re talking about, Bernard, for Christ’s sake. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He had some problems, yes, we all agree on that. He had a habit of stretching the truth from time to time, but he didn’t—this is absurd—Bernard wasn’t some—”

  “Did you hear that shit at the end of the tape?” Rick asked. “That’s a quote from the Bible.”

  Donald shrugged. “I assumed as much. So what?”

  “This is bad shit.” He looked to me, eyes imploring support. “Alan, this ain’t Bernard making up some story, and you know it. We all know it. This is a suicide note; remember that. Pretty stupid time for pipe dreams, no?”

  Rick had a point. The end was a time for truth, confession and hopefully redemption, not further deceit. But were Bernard insane, would he have even known the difference?

  “He said when the seasons change we’d understand,” I finally replied.

  “Spring is still a few weeks off,” Donald mumbled.

  “This might explain our nightmares,” I said.

  Donald looked at me, his face failing to conceal the fear. “The…nightmares.”

  Pacing near the window, Rick came to an abrupt halt, mouth open and eyes wide. “What nightmare?”

  I exchanged glances with Donald then said, “We’ve had similar dreams where—well—where Bernard—”

  “Says goodbye,” Rick said, finishing the sentence before I could. “There’s people—or something like people—with him.”

  “Christ.” Donald’s hands were trembling so badly that the cigarette in his fingers snapped in half. “There’s no way this is happening, this can’t be real.”

  Rick moved closer. “Not making fucking jokes now, are ya?” He looked at me, what little color he still had in his face draining away as I confirmed his question with a quick nod. “And in the dream, do you know why they’re there, these people?”

  I nodded again, feeling dead inside. “To take him—”

  “To Hell.”

  We turned in unison to Donald. He was shaking violently, still trying to occupy his hands with the frayed cigarette filter. “Why would they want to do that?” he said in a loud whisper. “Why would they want to take Bernard to Hell?”

  “Because he wasn’t lying,” Rick answered. “Because everything he said on that tape is true, and when the seasons change we’ll understand.”

  “Maybe we should turn this tape over to the police,” Donald suggested.

  Rick scoffed. “And tell them what? Hi, we think our friend—you know, the one who just offed himself in his cousin’s cellar—killed some people. Here, listen to this tape, he sounds completely out of his fucking mind on it, and doesn’t mention anything specific, but we th
ought we should turn it over to you guys.”

  “Well why the hell not?”

  “Because we’ll look like fucking loons ourselves if we do that.” Rick resumed his pacing. “Besides, what if this shit is true? What if Bernard really did do something? I don’t want to get involved in all that, I don’t want the cops fucking snooping around my life and me just because we were friends. Who knows what kind of fucked up shit we might bring down on ourselves if we get involved?”

  Donald seemed to think about what Rick had said for a moment then turned his focus to me. “Alan, what do you think?”

  “I think at this point we don’t know what that tape means,” I said. “It could be a confessional to murders and it could be nothing but the delusional ramblings of a mentally ill man at the end of the road, just hours away from taking his life. Either way, I think it needs to stay with us for now.”

  “I agree,” Rick said. “Definitely.”

  “And if something should happen,” I continued, “and in the following months we learn there is something to all this, then we can decide what to do from there. I just think going to the cops now is a bit premature. Besides, I’m not even certain what we’re dealing with here is—I don’t know if the cops could help.”

  “I’ll hang onto the tape,” Rick said, “put it away somewhere safe.”

  Donald’s fight to regain control of himself had worked, at least for the moment, and he appeared more levelheaded, less shaken. “Granted, our dreams are strange,” he said. “The fact that they’re so similar and seem to have meaning beyond the norm is a bit unnerving, and that, coupled with the things Bernard said on the tape is frightening, but we can’t lose control here. We have to maintain our own sanity and try to approach this in a logical, unemotional manner.”

  “You do what you want,” Rick said. “But I’m gonna keep my eyes open. This is some bad shit—you mark my words—and I bet we don’t know the half of it.”

  I checked my watch. “I gotta go, I’m working tonight.” I headed for the door, then hesitated and looked back at them. “And that shit Bernard said about Toni isn’t true. He was always jealous of what we have. If I had it to do again I’d marry her in a heartbeat. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Donald grimaced. “You don’t have to—”

  “The best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Rick had resumed his position at the window. “Snow’s starting to accumulate,” he said absently. “One last kick in the balls from winter. Motherfucker never dies quietly.”

  Few things do.

  CHAPTER 6

  Located near the water, across from a long-abandoned and decaying factory, the car dealership occupied a large lot between an auto parts superstore and a Chinese restaurant along the tail end of a boulevard less than a mile from the state highway. My shift was eleven at night until seven in the morning, when the owner showed and opened for business. Once an hour or so, I was to take a quick stroll around the property, but mostly the shift would be spent at a salesman’s desk positioned in the front window, which despite the periodic snow squalls gave me a perfect view of the entire lot as well as most of the street beyond. It wasn’t an armed detail, which was good, because I’d never been comfortable strapping on a gun for the money I made. I carried a baton and a handheld company two-way, and usually passed the time either reading a paperback or listening to a portable radio I always brought with me. If anything happened, I was only there to put a call in to the police so they could handle it. I was a babysitter in costume, dressed like I was something more, something official, keeping an eye on a bunch of used cars no one would want anyway.

  The vacant factory, only one of many that littered the city—mementos of an age when the textile industry had sustained it—the same as in Potter’s Cove—loomed beyond the shadows of the lot across the street, the enormous rotting structure blocking much of the moon, the remaining portion masked by spitting bursts of snow.

  Because I knew my supervisor wouldn’t be around, I’d brought a six-pack with me. The beer relaxed me, and I hoped it might help me forget all that had happened and much of what Bernard had said on that tape. But even alcohol failed to rid me of the continuous stream of thoughts exploding through my mind, because just like the nightmares, we’d all experienced the tape. Now it was just a matter of deciphering it, and the potential danger therein was different than anything we’d encountered to that point. Different than a dream or a feeling, this was more than real; it was palpable. But were the things he’d hinted at on the tape just more of his stories, more dramatics, or had he spoken the truth down in that cellar?

  Think back through the years, fellas. Think about all the times things with me just didn’t add up, how things seemed just a bit off, just a little strange.

  I dug a beer from a small cooler at the bottom of the gym bag I brought with me on each job, cracked it open and took a pull.

  I wish I could’ve told you the truth about me, about the things I’ve done, but if you’re honest with yourselves and you stop and think long and hard, you’ll realize the answers are right there and have been all along.

  Visions of Toni came to me then. She’d been asleep when I left for the shift, curled up and warm in bed. She always looked so beautiful and peaceful when she slept, like she hadn’t a care in the world, and this time had been no exception. When I’d returned home from Rick’s I told her about the tape but left out most of the specifics and downplayed the confessional aspect. She dismissed it as Bernard just being Bernard right to the end and was more concerned with how I was doing. We cuddled in the recliner and watched TV until she went to bed, then I sat with her and ran my fingers through her hair the way she liked until she’d drifted off to sleep. Sitting there on the edge of the bed, I wondered if perhaps part of what Bernard had said was true.

  Bet she realizes she should’ve picked someone else to spend her life with.

  Maybe that’s why our lovemaking hadn’t been the same in eons. Maybe she loved me but was no longer in love with me—hadn’t been in years. Maybe she was afraid she’d become pregnant and the idea of bringing a child into a marriage such as ours was beyond what even she was prepared to endure. Maybe she was getting it somewhere else. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe we adored each other and simply had problems like any other couple. Maybe as long as we knew the other would always be there, it didn’t really matter.

  I killed the beer and tossed the empty into the gym bag.

  Think back through the years, fellas…

  * * *

  But for certain specific episodes of importance or particular impact, the years prior to our teens were vague at best. Life in Potter’s Cove was largely uneventful, and things rarely changed. It was a time when a distinction still existed between “school” clothes and “play” clothes, a time before VCRs or video games or cable television, before personal computers, the Internet and e-mail, cell phones and beepers and microwave ovens, and a time when the handheld (wireless) calculator was about as exciting as technology was liable to get. It was a time when kids spent most of their time playing outside, rarely watched what the seven television channels (nine or ten if you counted UHF and had the appropriate antenna) had to offer, and a period that produced the last generation to grow up in a world not quite so jaded and not yet consumed with technology. It was the beginning of the end of an era of innocence to be sure.

  In the summer of 1975 we were all in the process of making the awkward transition into our teenage years. At thirteen, we were no longer considered little children per se, but were still far from adulthood, trapped instead for that and a handful of years to come at some unidentifiable point in between.

  The year before, President Nixon had resigned, and Patty Hearst had been kidnapped. In January, men who seemed to be on television constantly at hearings none of us paid much attention to—John N. Mitchell, H.R. Haldeman, and John D. Erlichman—were found guilty of the Watergate cover-up and sentenced to jai
l time ranging from thirty months to eight years. In April, the Vietnam War finally ended as the city of Saigon surrendered and the remaining Americans were evacuated.

  Between Vietnam and Watergate, times had changed—even at thirteen you could sense it—both had damaged us as people somehow, and things didn’t feel the same. People had begun to view the world differently, with less trust and higher cynicism. The damage was done, and good, bad or indifferent, the country would never be the same again.

  But that summer there were more important things to most thirteen-year-old boys. The Red Sox were tearing it up (and would go on to the World Series, only to lose to Cincinnati in a heartbreaking game-seven). Bernard’s mother had taken us to the R-rated films One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Dog Day Afternoon, but when Jaws hit the theaters it immediately became the coolest and scariest thing any of us had ever been allowed to see. Even in summer hotspots like Potter’s Cove and all throughout Cape Cod, people stayed out of the water in record numbers, constantly on the lookout for killer sharks, seeing fins behind every wave.

  Later that year President Ford would survive two assassination attempts in less than seventeen days, then go on to lose to Jimmy Carter in the 1976 election.

  But the summer prior, the summer of 1975, marked the first real memory I had that signaled there was something a bit different about Bernard.

  Of the group, Bernard had the youngest mother, and although all our parents knew one another, none of them socialized or could be described as friends. She was the only one who didn’t work. She had injured her back and received disability checks from the government, though she always looked fine to us. She drank a lot and rarely left the house during the day, but despite her problems, she was a very attractive woman, and considered by us to be a “cool” mom. Bernard slept at one of our houses almost every weekend, as his mother “entertained” various men she met at the local taverns she frequented and preferred to be alone with her beaus. This was common knowledge, but something none of us ever talked about, as Bernard seemed fine with it and only became embarrassed or upset if someone outside our group made a comment.