I drag myself to the door, peer through the glass. I’m forced to look down because whoever rang the bell is that short. I see a bald head with age spots. An old man. We’re not much for locking doors around here, so I open the big wood door without having to disengage a deadbolt or doorknob lock.
The little man standing there has got to be eighty if he’s a day, his face wrinkled and pale, his eyes big and wet. So wet they are almost tearing. Like I said, he’s bald and dark brown age spots tattoo his scalp. He’s wearing old baggy jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt with paint stains on it.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he says. “But I’m a little lost, and my truck is about to run out of gas. Can you tell me if there’s a gas station anywhere close?”
For a brief moment, I’m taken aback by a man his age driving at all. But then, maybe he’s not as old as he appears. Maybe he’s just one of those people who looks far older than their years. Do I ask him in? Maybe it’s better if he stays out on the porch. Peering across the lawn, I can make out an old pickup truck covered in rust and dents. Very old with lettering painted on the side panels that has faded with time and wear, making them entirely indiscernible. The truck is something my dad would have driven before my twin sister and I were even born.
“Are you completely out of gas?” I say.
“Oh no,” he says. I sense he’s trying to smile, but his lips aren’t moving. It’s very strange. Like the nerves in his lips no longer operate. “I think I have a few miles left in the tank. But the gas gauge don’t work no more. That’s why I stopped. I didn’t want to keep going if there ain’t no station for many miles.”
“Where are you coming from?” I ask, immediately sorry that I asked.
He raises his hand, extends his thumb over his shoulder. I live back in Castleton about twenty miles away. I’m out here visiting my sister on the Massachusetts border.”
“You’re a far cry from the border.”
“So I gathered.” Again, that smile that’s not really a smile. Almost like a man who’s suffered several minor strokes.
For a quick moment, I think about offering him some gas from the cans we store in a shed behind the art barn. He’s a little old man. Gentle even. But there’s something not right about him. Something that makes me feel cold and lonely inside.
“Tell you what,” I say. “There’s a Stewarts Convenience Store not far from here. Maybe two miles.” Raising my hand, pointing to the north. “Take Garfield Road all the way to the end. Turn right, drive maybe a half mile until you come up on County Route Two. You’ll see the Stewarts on the corner. They sell gas.”
One might expect his face to light up. But it maintains that stiff expression. I lower my hand, and when I do, it brushes up against his hand. Rather, he shifts his hand purposely so that his finger touches the back of my hand and forearm. His nails are too long, and they feel jagged and rough. Like tree bark.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to touch you like that.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, taking my hand back quickly, shoving it in my jeans pocket.
“I’ll be going then. Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”
He turns, slowly begins shuffling himself along the porch floor to the steps. He sets his left hand on the banister, but before he descends the first step, he turns back around.
“Your skin, ma’am,” he says. “It’s so soft. How you keep it so soft?”
The question takes me by surprise and, to be blunt, kind of creeps me out. Usually, my hands are covered in paint, my nails chiseled down to the fingertips. Such are the hands of a visual artist. But I’m not about to tell him any of this.
“Lotion,” I say, after a beat. “Plenty of lotion.”
Once more, I sense he’s trying to smile.
“Have a nice afternoon,” he says, before starting back down the stairs and slowly, almost achingly, crossing over the lawn to his relic of a truck.
I don’t close the door until he’s started the old vehicle back up and pulled back out onto the road. I close the front door, twist the deadbolt, lock the door knob. Do it without thinking. I can’t get the old man’s face out of my head. It’s like having swallowed sour milk. He and his ancient pickup. It takes a while to get rid of the taste entirely.
I make an about-face. It seems to take an extraordinary amount of energy just to transport myself to the couch in front of the stone fireplace in our big living room. When I get there, I fall flat onto my belly, and immediately drift off into a deep sleep.
In my dream, I see him walking through the corn. I don’t see his entire body, but instead, his boots. Making their way between the dry, dead stalks, the soles slapping the ground, crunching and snapping with every stalk crushed under his weight. It’s dark and getting darker. Not like the sun is going down. More like a lamp that’s being dimmed.
Soon, an entire body takes shape. I see all of Sam Goodman in his blue jeans and work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a gun — what looks to be a semi-automatic — gripped in his right hand. He uses his free hand to shove aside the stalks while he slowly, methodically walks, eyes wide open, searching for something he believes, or wants to believe, is a figment of my child’s imagination.
Still, he searches. Hunts.
Then, I catch something happening down by Sam’s feet. Something coming up from out of the ground. A piece of the earth opening up and a wiry, pale-skinned animal slipping out. It’s a like a tarantula shooting out of its underground nest. But this is not a spider. It’s a man. A naked, hairless man with fingernails so long they look like claws and teeth that have been chiseled into sharp fang-like points. The man crawls rapidly through the corn on all fours. He’s going for Sam . . .
The dream shifts.
Now Sam is deep in the woods. I can hear the stream and feel the mist that rises from the waterfalls. It’s as if I am in the woods along with him. We climb uphill for a while until Sam senses something and stops. He extends his right arm, points the gun at something.
“Becca!” he shouts, “Don’t come up here. You hear me? Do not for the life of you, come up here.”
There is panic in his voice. There is terror, and there is anguish.
Then, something crashing through the trees and brush, directly behind me. No choice but to propel myself forward, up the hill to where Sam is standing. Breathing labored, heart beating, pulse pounding. Suddenly, I’m standing beside Sam, staring down into a dark basement. What I see robs me of my breath, turns my blood to ice. Sam is now crying. Because lying inside the hole are two bodies. The bodies belong to the children.
“Sam,” I cry, “how can this be?”
I feel it then. Something behind me. Something moving, breathing. I smell its rancidness.
I turn to see the face of the lost old man who showed up at my door. He’s lifting his hands, reaching for me . . .
I awake in a pool of sweat.
My heart is beating so rapidly I’m having trouble catching a breath. A quick glance at my watch tells me I’ve been passed out for half an hour. I call out for Robyn. Call out for the kids. No answer. They must still be inside the art barn, making art. God willing. Maybe I should think twice about letting Mike out of my sight. Or maybe I’m overreacting to a lot of nothing.
Sitting up, I shift my feet onto the floor, press my back against the couch, eyes forward, focused into the empty fireplace, but in my head, I’m seeing my twin sister Molly.
“What the hell is happening to me, Mol?” I say aloud. “Happening to us. Has the evil come back?”
I see her, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room where the radiance of the afternoon sun paints a square parallelogram on the wood plank floor. She’s fifteen again, her long black hair tied into braids, her skin tanned and healthy after an entire summer spent mostly outdoors. She’s wearing her black Paul McCartney and Wings, “Wings Over America” T-shirt that shows the band rocking it out on stage under hot multi-colored lights. She’s also wearing her sun-
bleached Levi cut-offs and a pair of grass-stained white Keds sneakers.
God Bec, she says, thought we were done with all this crap . . . The Boogeyman crap.
“Tell me I’m making a mountain out of an anthill, Mol.”
Good new use of a very old cliché, she says, turning so that she faces the sun. But then, you were always the creative one. She rolls her eyes. As for the evil one . . . Well, you know how kids can be. They have vivid imaginations. I wouldn’t overthink it right now.
“I won’t overthink it,” I say. “But I’ve got two kids who swear there’s a man named Skinner living in the cornfield out back and I’ve got a boyfriend who’s out there right now with a gun looking for him.” Inhaling, exhaling. “I mean, you’re dead. You’re a ghost. You see things I can’t.”
Do your research, Bec. Maybe there really is a man out there whose name is Skinner. But if he’s out there, I truly doubt he lives in a cornfield. But maybe he visits the cornfield sometimes. You never know.
I nod. Then, I find myself laughing under my breath. I’m talking to a ghost. No, that’s not right. I’m talking to my own imaginary friend and sister. I just dished out a fifty-buck co-pay to a shrink so that my kid will stop speaking with his imaginary friends . . . his ghosts...
Like mother like son . . .
But then, what the fuck. Sometimes the people that live in your head can be a real comfort when things feel like they’re quickly sliding south.
“So how is it, Mol?” I say. “How is it, being dead?”
She smiles, the sun shining golden on her tan face. She’s moving her hand in and out of the sun parallelogram, the beam shining right through it.
It’s got its ups and downs, she says.
“Do you see mom and dad . . . Trooper Dan?”
You can see whoever you want, or you can see nobody at all, or you can choose to simply sleep . . . forever.
When she turns to me, I see that her face has transformed itself from beautiful, young, and healthy to the ugly distorted face she had worn just hours before death touched her. A sick, pale face, grossly bloated from steroids and countless radiation treatments, her long, lush blonde hair now reduced to just a few sad strands that hang off her scalp like spider webs.
“Sometimes I think I would like to sleep forever. And then, when forever is over, wake up and play with you. My twin sister and best friend.”
Forever is a long time, Sis. But then, when you’re dead, you live an eternity of forevers.
I close my eyes for a moment, rub the life back into my face. It’s then I realize I’m crying.
When I open my eyes again, Molly is gone.
My twin sister is right (as usual).
It’s time to stop worrying about something that’s potentially nothing. Potentially being the operative word here. And the only way to do that is to take control of the situation. That means doing a little research. But first, I need to grab my laptop which is currently on my desk inside the art barn.
Heading out the back door, I cross over the now empty parking lot, head in through the open double barn doors. I had the place renovated seven years ago from a dilapidated old building on the verge of falling apart, to a state-of-the-art classroom/studio complete with two dozen mini-studio cubicles — or bays for students who are afforded an unobstructed view of guest models who are planted in the center of the big three-thousand square foot floor. I’ve been trying to get Sam to model, but he won’t take his clothes off for anyone. Except me that is, and even we haven’t gone that far yet.
The overhead beam-mounted track lighting is all LED, and there’s even a skylight which can be opened and closed for both ventilation and natural sunlight, just like Monet’s studio outside Paris. The massive walls house at least three major shows from our own students per year, and there’s plenty of wall space for a permanent collection which contains photos and paintings not only from Robyn and myself but also our most famous student — the late, but oh so great, Francis Scaramuzzi.
I certainly don’t need to be digging up any more ghosts, but every time I step into the art barn I can’t help but see Franny painting in his favorite corner space, his oversized baggy jeans pulled up high over his big round stomach, his bald head stained with paint where he scratched away at an itch, his round face content and happy to be immersed in another one of his colorful, Grandma Moses-like creations. He was with us for only a brief time after the second Whalen abduction. But his life still shines brightly through his paintings.
By the looks of things, the kids are just finishing up their projects because, when I walk in, they are washing their hands in the soap sink located at the far left-hand corner of the barn. As soon as my eyes lock on Robyn’s, I sense that something is up. I know for certain something is up when I see that both the kid’s paintings have been inverted on their separate easels so that all I can see is the back of the canvases.
“What’s wrong?” I say to Robyn, under my breath.
She pulls a brand-new pack of cigarettes from the chest pocket on her overalls, finger combs her hair and gestures with her head towards the door.
“Outside,” she says. Then, turning to the kids. “When you’re done washing up guys, head right back into the house. Do not, for any reason, veer from my instructions. Do not stop even to take a breath. We’ll be watching you the entire time.”
“Aunt Batman and Robyn,” Mike says. “What time is it?”
She looks at me rather than the boy, her mouth forming a slight grin over the use of his favorite Robyn Painter nickname.
“It’s going on four, Batman and Robyn,” I say, grinning back at her.
“Four o’clock,” she relays to the boy.
His face lights up. “Can I watch Sponge Bob?”
Robyn eyes me again.
I nod.
“Yes, you can,” she says. “After that, we’ll make supper. So go, scoot, be gone with you already.”
Together we watch the kids run out of the barn. We don’t breathe until we hear the screen door slam off the kitchen.
We go outside, head around the far side of the barn so the kids can’t see us smoking. Not that we’re always very good about hiding our bad habits from them, but one can only try. Robyn lights her cigarette then hands me the lighter.
“So, what is it?” I say as soon as my cigarette is lit and I’m feeling the soothing sensation of the nicotine going to work on my fragile nervous system. I pocket the lighter.
Robyn exhales blue smoke into the atmosphere.
“The paintings the kids made,” she says. “Revealing, to say the least.”
“That why you didn’t want me to see them?”
“After the day you’ve already had?”
I frown. “That bad, huh?”
“Not if you subscribe to the imagination argument.”
The banging of a snare drum. A crash of cymbals. Tom toms rolling across the valley.
“There goes your boyfriend again,” Robyn points out. “Getting his frustration out on those drums. We should start calling him Ringo Goodman.”
My eyes shift their focus to the cornfield.
“Sam’s not supposed to be playing drums,” I say, a bit baffled. “He was pretty adamant about heading into the cornfield to check things out. He should be out there right now.”
The drumming stops. Or, considering that Sam’s house is over a mile away, it’s not all that difficult to imagine him playing a bit softer, and we just can’t hear it. But then, Sam has demonstrated his playing abilities for me many times before in the basement of his house, and he is anything but a soft player. He’s a big strong guy, and he’s a pounder on the skins.
“You hear that silence?” I say. “Sam’s on the job.”
“Maybe he played the drums for a while just to scare whatever’s out there away.”
“He’s also got a gun, Rob,” I point out. “And if he has a gun, do you really think he’s subscribing to the imagination argument?”
She smokes. “We’re all
a little on edge still. Your abduction occurred eight years ago, but somehow the wounds are still fresh.”
“And what about you?” I say. “How are you feeling these days?”
Without my having to spell it out, Robyn knows what I’m talking about. Like I’ve let on already, she was brutally attacked and raped by a man who posed as her date on Match.com. It occurred almost simultaneously with my 2008 abduction. The child she bore, Molly, was the only good thing to come of it. A blessing even. As much as little Mike was a blessing for me.
“Still stings,” she says, her eyes forlorn, the acid still tainting her voice.
“Maybe it’s time to start dating again,” I say. “Put the past behind you for good.”
“Ahhh, hello, Bec. I have dated.”
“I don’t just mean hookups, and you know it.”
She smokes some more. “I’m not ready for a relationship. Any more than you’re apparently ready to give up on the ghost of your dead husband.”
Part of me wants to stomp down on her sandaled foot, a bigger part of me wants to tell her how right she is. Instead of saying another word about it, I choose to hush myself. Dropping the cigarette, I stamp it out.
“Let’s see those paintings,” I say. “Make the day complete.”
She tosses her cigarette, runs some Vaseline Lip Therapy over her dry lips, and walks.
I walk back into the barn behind Robyn. She goes straight for the small painting mounted to an easel in the cubby that Molly likes to use since it gets the afternoon sun from the overhead skylight. She turns it over.
A little of the oxygen is sucked from my lungs.
While Molly doesn’t possess the artistic chops that Mike does, it’s not difficult to interpret what she’s painted on the canvas. It’s the cornfield. Sticking its head out from between the thick brown stalks is a creature that’s part dog, part man. The face is ovular and hairless, the ears long and pointed, the teeth extended and sharp like fangs, the eyes dark and without any whites whatsoever. The creature appears to be down on all fours. There’s a word written beneath the creature.
The Ashes (The Rebecca Underhill Trilogy Book 2) Page 6