The Bleeding Season

by Greg F. Gifune

  They never tell.

  I ran my hands through my hair and focused on the ceiling.

  Things I’d been certain of no longer seemed absolute. Was Bernard right about a lot more on that tape than any of us wanted to admit? Were any of us what we seemed? Was I just an asshole for thinking Rick capable of such a thing or naïve for never before realizing Bernard was?

  I tried to picture in my mind what Rick was doing at that very moment, but my thoughts drifted to Donald instead.

  In many ways I’d always felt closer to Donald than I did to Rick, but like Bernard, he could be terribly aloof at times. The difference was that unlike the occasional mystery associated with Bernard, there was never anything along those lines evident in Donald’s behavior. When he distanced himself I’d always believed it had more to do with a desire for basic privacy than it did with anything suspect. In fact, he was the absolute antithesis of Rick in that he was the most nonviolent person I’d ever known. I couldn’t remember a single instance when Donald had raised a hand in anger against anyone. His mind had always been his weapon. A weapon he’d used often, until Tommy died. None of us had been quite the same since his death, but Donald shut down for more than a year after the incident, and any child-like essence or shred of wide-eyed wonderment that had still resided in him was instantaneously snuffed out.

  I remembered walking the beach with him the day of Tommy’s funeral. We walked the same stretch of deserted sand again and again, only speaking occasionally, and even then only in clipped phrases. On one pass, Donald spotted a rotting grapefruit resting in the tall grass along the edge of the beach. He picked it up and held it out for me with an awkward expression somewhere between tears and rage. I looked at him questioningly. “Just take it,” he’d said quietly, his voice barely perceptible. “Nothing should ever go to waste.”

  Although it was rotten garbage, although it already had gone to waste, I took it anyway, carried it with me until we’d left the beach and returned home. Only when Donald had gone and I knew he wouldn’t see, did I throw the grapefruit away, and even then I’d felt guilty for having done so, because he’d been right. Nothing should ever go to waste. Not a grapefruit, not a teenage boy.

  Donald had gone on to college as planned, but his heart was no longer in it, and his excitement and hopes for the future became memories; dreams unfulfilled, dead and buried along with Tommy. He began to drink more, and I suspected his problem had been festering for a number of years now, though only recently had it clearly gotten away from him.

  Like Rick he hadn’t had many serious relationships, but unlike Rick, he was not promiscuous. Unless he was with us, he was usually alone. I had only heard him mention a couple of people over the years, and those were more casual acquaintances—occasional dates or friends—not meaningful partners.

  As Bernard said on the tape, there had been someone in high school, but that had apparently ended badly and only deepened Donald’s cynicism and depression. He’d been hiding, in a sense, ever since. Even in a room full of people he seemed hopelessly alone, more purposely detached than shunned, as if he and he alone understood how futile and senseless existence could be.

  Donald had thrown away a lot, but the list included neither his wit nor his sense of compassion. Though he’d tempered his humor over the years, it remained an enormous part of who he was, as did his genuine concern for others. He was a deeply complex man, and as well as I knew him, some days I wondered if he’d always be there on the other end of the phone, the other side of the door. Like Rick, and to a degree, like me, he was a survivor to be sure, but a survivor in spite of his actions, not because of them.

  But maybe Donald wasn’t exempt either. Did he know something else about what was happening? Did he share some secret with Bernard like perhaps Rick did? Could it have been to blame for his downward spiral escalating in recent months?

  I sat up and slowly swung my feet around onto the floor. A brief dizzy spell replaced my shameless paranoia. I closed my eyes; saw the faces of the young boy and his mother glaring at me.

  My eyes opened. The room had stopped spinning.

  I had thought about the others, suspected and betrayed them in thought, but what about myself? Was there something I knew, something I shared with Bernard in all this without realizing it?

  Before I could further search my mind I heard the kitchen phone returned to its cradle, followed by the sound of Toni padding toward the bedroom.

  As the door opened she balked but quickly regained her composure. “I thought you’d be asleep,” she said through a meager smile. “You startled me.”

  “Just woke up. Those pills knock me out.”

  “That’s why Gene prescribed them. It’s an anti-anxiety,” she told me. “He said they’d help you sleep.”

  “He’s right.” I rubbed at the stiffness along the back of my neck. “What time is it?”

  “A little after ten.”

  “At night, right?”

  “Yes, sweetie, at night.” Toni strode to the window, raised the shade.

  I glanced at the moonlight, then back at her. I could almost feel her discomfort. “Look, I’m sorry about the job.”

  “You can always get another job.”

  “I had it coming, but Nino only fired me because Petey made him. After a few weeks he’ll be begging me to come back. Where are they going to find anyone as reliable and loyal as me? Besides, I got that nice check, that’ll help hold us over for a while.”

  Toni moved toward me with an air of caution I’d never seen her display, and sat next to me on the bed. “We need to talk, Alan.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  “I mean about what happened the other night.”

  I nodded. She’d been smoking heavily; I could smell it on her. “Look, I told you everything that happened as best as—”

  “I spoke with Gene about all this, and—”

  “What? Why did you do that without talking to me first?”

  “Honey, he’s a psychiatrist, this is what he does.”

  I stood up, legs shaky. “It’s none of his fucking business. Jesus Christ, Toni, why does Gene have to know every goddamn tidbit of what happens in our personal lives? You work for him, it’s not like he’s a member of the family—I don’t even consider him a friend.”

  “Well, I do.” Her hair, thick but styled short, was mussed. She combed a renegade strand away from tired, mascara-smudged eyes. “He’s concerned about you, Alan, and so am I.”

  I stood there clad only in a pair of boxers, not certain what to do with myself. “I freaked out, OK? I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “That’s it, end of story.”

  She looked at the floor. “I’m afraid, Alan.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’m afraid of you.”

  I felt emotion well up at the base of my throat. “For Christ’s sake, baby, come on.” I sunk to my knees, put my hands in hers. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

  Trembling, her eyes brimmed with tears. “The other night was—I mean, I’ve never seen you like that it—you were babbling and insisting all these crazy things had happened and I couldn’t calm you down or talk to you. You had a total collapse, a—a breakdown. That’s not normal, Alan. It’s not healthy.”

  “I’m OK,” I told her. “I promise you, I’m OK.”

  She removed one hand from mine and wiped her eyes. “Gene feels it could be extremely beneficial for you to go in and discuss what happened that night.”

  “Who are you talking to, some patient?” I pulled my hands free and stood up. “Gene. What the hell’s he know about it? Is that who you were on the phone with just now?”

  “Yes, we—”

  “Getting awful cozy with that fuck, aren’t you?”

  Her face dropped, the tears still staining flushed cheeks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I moved to the window. “Tell him to mind his own fucking business.”
>
  “I went to him for help, Alan.”

  “Well stop going to him for help. Leave him the hell out of it.” I grabbed either side of the window casing as a means of occupying my hands so I wouldn’t put them through the wall. “I’m not some nut who needs a psychiatrist. I’m not one of his fucking whacked-out patients.”

  “I never said you were any of those things,” she answered softly. “I just thought it might be a good idea to go and talk with him about it, that’s all.”

  “About what, exactly?” I pushed away from the window, turned back to her. “About what? What should we cover first, my nightmares? That maybe Bernard was some sort of deranged psychopath and had been for years? That maybe all the clues were right there in front of us all that time and for some unknown reason we chose to ignore them? That maybe no one—motherfucking no one—including myself are who or what I thought they were? That I’m seeing people who aren’t fucking there? Dead women and little boys in the dark—that’s a good one. Or how about that I know even more things happened in that factory—bad—evil things that I—I don’t want to remember, Toni, I—Christ almighty, they’ll lock me up, I…”

  What began as choking sobs quickly evolved into violent, uncontrollable weeping. Without a word she opened her arms, and I went to her quickly. We held each other, arms and tears entwined for what seemed a very long time.

  I held her face in my hands, looked into her eyes. “I need to handle this on my own. I know it seems crazy but something is happening, and it’s not in my mind. It’s real. I’m not insane.”

  “I never said you were. But you’re having problems, you—”

  “It’ll be all right. I need to find the truth now. I can’t ignore it anymore, it—it won’t let me, do you understand?”

  She tried to smile as she touched my cheek, and for the first time I realized she was wearing only a long T-shirt and a pair of panties. The dark tint of her nipples showed through the thin fabric, erect and pressed against it as if trying to escape. She looked so helpless and afraid in the moonlight, as if her safety and sanity hinged solely on me, and perhaps it did. “I love you,” I told her. “No matter what, I always love you.”

  Soft hands caressed my thighs, warm breath tickled my neck, and moments later Toni blended into focus above me. Soulful eyes blinked slowly, cradling history—our history—as her tongue flicked across my cheek, slid into my ear. My arms wrapped around her, fingers kneading firm buttocks, slinking gradually across her back and onto her shoulders. I felt myself harden between her legs, parting a soft tuft of hair there as she moved to meet me, raising her hips, arching her back, drawing me deeper. She slithered closer, her body moving like a python as she straightened her spine and lay on top of me, eyes holding mine as if fearful she might lose me in the dark.

  * * *

  When it was over she was by my side, her heart beating against me, warm fingers gently tracing the contours of my chest as we lay quietly in each other’s arms, winded and wet. It was the first time we’d made love in quite some time. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she feared it might be the last.

  Everything trickled through my mind like falling rain: The cellar, the photograph of the woman none of us could identify, the tape, the nightmares, the hauntings, the abandoned factory. The madness. “Bernard wasn’t what we thought he was,” I said softly. Toni snuggled closer but said nothing. I knew she still didn’t believe me, but then, I’m not sure anyone did.

  Until winter melted away, became spring, and the first body was found.

  SPRING

  CHAPTER 10

  Near the end of Main Street, the train tracks curved off into a wooded area where the shrubbery and grass grew wild and tall. The track was laid on a raised hill of dirt topped with crushed stone that tunneled through the otherwise natural setting, snaking along for as far as the eye could see. Following the tracks had been a popular pastime since our preteen years, and later, while in high school, the particular section near the end of Main Street, the section right before it disappeared into the overgrown landscape, became a meeting place. Though on foot it was accessible within moments from the street, the uneven and wild terrain discouraged most adults, including the cops, and as a result kids recognized it as a good hangout spot. We were no exception, and often congregated there to smoke cigarettes, a joint, maybe drink a beer or two, or sometimes to take a walk with a girlfriend.

  Beyond the bend of one section of track was a low field that could be reached by a narrow dirt road carved through the forest on the far end. The ground there was disturbed on a regular basis and hastily packed back into place. The grass grew only in sparse patches, and a tiny rundown shed sat at one corner. Everyone knew it housed some tools and things—nothing of interest—and except for Mr. McIntyre, Potter’s Cove’s only animal control person, no one ever went down there.

  That afternoon we’d decided to skip the latter portion of the school day. Bernard was depressed; his dog Curly had died the night before. Bernard had found him behind the picnic table in his backyard just that morning. Apparently the dog had been hit by a car and had somehow managed to get to the yard, where it collapsed behind the table and died. Mr. McIntyre had taken Curly away in a large, heavy duty plastic garbage bag, and since we all knew the town used this field as a burial ground for animals, we knew where to find his final resting place.

  “How come you didn’t just bury him in your yard?” I asked.

  Bernard was sitting on the slope of hill between the tracks and the field below, a long piece of grass between his lips swaying with the wind. “I wanted to,” he said softly, “but he was so big Mom said we couldn’t dig up the yard like that even for Curly. She tried to hand me some line about how McIntyre would give him a good burial and all that—yeah, right.” His eyes, still trained on the field, narrowed. “That must be where he put him,” he said, pointing to a small patch of freshly turned earth in the distance. “You can tell that was just dug up. That must be where Curly is.”

  I felt bad for Bernard. I’d lost my cat a few years before, and I knew even though we were fifteen and at a stage where maintaining our level of cool was paramount, he was in a lot of pain. He’d had Curly since he’d been a toddler, and we’d all known and loved the dog too. “What kind of asshole hits a dog and keeps going?” I said, standing behind him while doing my best to look anywhere but at the field.

  “I should’ve got him in before I went to bed,” he mumbled. “It must’ve happened in the middle of the night. He was probably across the street digging through Mrs. Petrillo’s garbage like he used to.” Bernard chuckled. “Fucking dog always ate her garbage. He was probably on his way home when he got hit.”

  “Still, the fucker should’ve stopped.”

  “Maybe he did. It was late, and I found Curly in the backyard. He probably crawled back there and it was dark and shit and whoever hit him probably couldn’t find him, figured he was all right and ran off. I don’t know. Maybe it was just some prick who mowed him down and kept going, never gave it a fucking thought.” He pulled the piece of grass from his mouth, studied the small chewed section a moment then looked up at me. “Curly didn’t move as fast as he used to, he was old. Maybe he tried to make it but didn’t. He was bleeding out of his ears, and Mr. McIntyre said that was probably because he got hit in the head by the car.”

  I stood there, unsure of what to say.

  “I’m gonna miss that fucking dog, man.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Curly was cool.”

  Bernard turned back to the field. “Thanks for taking off school with me.”

  “No prob.” I kicked a stone from the slope. It bounced, clicked along the tracks. “You going to that party over at Michele Brannon’s house tonight?”

  “Nah.”

  “Might get your mind off shit.”

  The blade of grass was back between his lips, bouncing again with the breeze. “You ever seen anything dead, Al?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so, yeah.”


  “Have you?”

  “My cat Doc died.”

  “I remember. He got cancer.”

  “Yeah. Doctor Halstrom said he couldn’t do anything to save him, he had this big tumor.”

  “So he killed him for you.”

  “He put him to sleep.”

  “Yeah, he killed him.”

  “I didn’t want Doc to suffer, man. He was real sick.”

  “Did you see him do it or did you leave before?”

  I walked around near the tracks, not wanting to think about such things. “We left the room before he actually did it. Doc was out of it though; he didn’t know what was happening. My mom let me take him when it was over, and we buried him in the yard.”

  “I remember,” Bernard said. “It’s fucked up, seeing something that’s dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Especially something you knew when it was alive.” Bernard nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “Like, if you see something that’s dead on the side of the road or something—something you never knew or gave a shit about or even saw when it was alive and walking around—it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s gross and all and you might think it’s sad or whatever, maybe even kind of interesting in a way, but it’s just dead. This dead…thing. But when you knew it before, when you’re used to seeing it alive and then it’s dead it—it’s fucked up.”

  “You ever seen a dead person?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Been to a couple wakes.”

  “I saw my grandmother after she was dead,” I told him. “She looked so weird in the casket, all powdery-faced and everything—shit, didn’t even look like her, not really.”

  “Because it wasn’t her,” Bernard said. “Not anymore.”