by Ronald Malfi
“There’s the proud papa,” Dr. Crawford said, not looking up from the dials on the sonogram monitor.
Alan stepped toward the back of the room, his hands fumbling with each other in front of him. For some reason, his heart was slamming in his chest and he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Sweat broke out along his chest, dampening his shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the lake—two or three days ago?—and wondered if its effects were wearing off.
Dr. Crawford assisted Heather in lifting her blouse, exposing the pale white bulb of her belly. Dr. Crawford got a white towel and tucked it partway into the waistband of Heather’s pants, then folded the section of towel over her groin. She took a tube the size of a canister of caulk and squirted bluish gel onto Heather’s stomach.
“Cold,” Heather said.
“Sorry, hon.” Dr. Crawford put on a pair of rubber gloves. “Have we been feeling any movement?”
“I think so. It’s hard to tell.”
“You’ll probably only feel the really extreme movements. All those small kicks and jabs will just feel like indigestion at this point.”
“God knows I’ve been feeling that,” Heather said and offered her doctor a crooked half smile.
“Okay, here we go,” Dr. Crawford said, and the sonogram monitor blinked once, twice.
Alan held his breath.
What is it? Jimmy Carmichael’s voice said from the back of his head. What’s got you so rattled, sport? Ain’t you been heading down them happy trails, boyo?
For a split second, he worried if the sonogram would find nothing—that there was no baby inside Heather …
Stop it.
Static, morphing shapes alternated on the screen. A tubular protrusion grew in size as Dr. Crawford manipulated the transducer across Heather’s abdomen. On the monitor, the protrusion gave way to an ovoid chamber. The thing within the chamber moved with surprising forcefulness.
“Hold on,” Dr. Crawford said, still manipulating the transducer. “Roll a bit on your side, so I can get a better view.”
Heather rolled over with a groan.
Alan remained standing against the wall, his hands still fidgeting with each other.
In the center of the monitor sat the suggestion of a tiny cranium and the slender, tapered swipe of a small shoulder and arm. A foot, all five toes clearly visible—
(in the bag)
—on the screen.
“Oh, wow,” Heather breathed.
As Dr. Crawford once again adjusted the transducer, the image on the screen rolled onto its side, bringing its profile briefly into relief.
Alan released an audible gasp.
A single oblong eyeball fitted above two narrow slits for nostrils … a mouth like a ragged slash through which he swore he could make out the suggestion of teeth filed into sharklike points …
Both Heather and Dr. Crawford turned to him.
He smiled at them weakly, then looked back to the monitor. The child’s head turned away from him, presenting only the back of its skull. He could see the contours of the brain. A normal-shaped head. Alan blinked and convinced himself, by the stares of both his wife and the doctor, that he was seeing things, that his eyes were playing tricks on him and everything was fine.
Nonetheless, he had to ask. “How does everything look?”
“We seem to be coming along nicely,” said Dr. Crawford. “We’re going to take a few snapshots and measure the head, the hips, the leg bones. We can better narrow the due date based on the rate of growth.”
Alan ran a hand along the back of his neck. His palm came away moist with perspiration.
After Dr. Crawford had taken the measurements and snapshots, she said, “Okay, folks. If we can get the little fellow to turn around again, we might be able to determine the sex—”
“No,” Alan said, and it was nearly a bark.
Again, both Heather and Dr. Crawford turned to him.
“I mean, we haven’t discussed whether or not we want to know,” he quickly amended. But in reality, he didn’t want to see the baby turn again. He didn’t want to see what it looked like.
“Oh,” Heather said.
Alan looked at her. “Is that okay?”
“Well,” she said, “I guess it might be nice to be surprised.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Dr. Crawford said. “Because if you don’t want to know now, you won’t know until you deliver.”
Heather’s gaze volleyed between Alan and the doctor.
“I can have you both look away,” Dr. Crawford suggested, “and I can take a peek myself. Then I’ll write it down on a piece of paper. If you change your minds at any time, you’ll have your answer in an envelope.”
“Yes,” Heather said. “Do that.”
“Okay. Just roll over on your side some more, honey. And I’ll tell you when to look away from the screen. You too, papa.”
Alan turned away.
A minute went by before Dr. Crawford said, quietly and to herself, “Okay, there we are.” Then louder: “You folks can turn back now.” She replaced the transducer on its stand beside the monitor and peeled off one rubber glove.
By the time they left Dr. Regina Crawford’s office, Alan was already beginning to feel somewhat better.
Heather was in high spirits. She held on to the envelope Dr. Crawford had given them with the sex of the baby written inside, tempted to open it. In the end, she stuffed it into her purse and turned the car radio up loud, singing with an old Leonard Cohen song.
They stopped for dinner at an Italian restaurant outside of town and had a nice time. The food and ambiance calmed him, and by the time darkness settled over the town and they returned home, Alan was feeling pretty damn good.
Yet later that night he awoke in a panic. Sweating, breathing heavily, he was again overcome by the sensation that someone—or something—else was in the house with them. He flipped the sheets off and pulled on a pair of dungarees. Again, he searched the house but could find nothing. The vines had been a constant nuisance, but he had been fastidious about cutting them away each time they appeared, climbing a wall or winding through a space in the floorboards, and there were no more vines to be seen. He retrieved the stepladder from the pantry and climbed into the attic. But there were no more vines up there, either.
The weather is getting colder, he told himself, replacing the stepladder to the pantry. The vines won’t start growing again until the spring. They’ll get brittle and die off when winter comes.
Or so he hoped.
His ulcer was simmering in the pit of his stomach. Instead of climbing back into bed beside his wife, he laced up his sneakers and pulled on a hooded sweatshirt, then crept outside. It was dark, and a low cloud cover kept the stars from shining. The moon was visible in the distance, a scythe-shaped grin behind wisps of clouds. A flashlight would have been beneficial, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Anyone could be watching. Cautiously, he scanned the street for Landry’s police car, but the street was empty, silent. No lights were on in the Gerski house.
He crossed the backyard. He could see the path clearly now, as the leaves had fallen from the trees. He hesitated before entering the woods, recalling what Cory Morris had pointed out to him on Halloween night: the pale, fleeting visage of a man—or what looked to be a man—and that nondescript, lumbering thing he’d glimpsed moving through the trees. Was it the Great Spirit? What had George Young Calf Ribs called it? Yowa? Or possibly the thing that had taken those campers out on Packer’s Pass, the thing the old Indian at the bar in Devil’s Stone told him about? Alan couldn’t recall the Cherokee name for it, but he remembered all too clearly the translation: He Who Lives in the Woods.
A chill traced down his spine.
Then a moment later, steeling his courage, he cut through the trees and started down the path.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Thanksgiving Day at the Gerski house carried with it the subtle nuance of deception.
Alan felt it the moment he and Heather came through the front door, a casserole dish in Heather’s hands, a bottle of Chianti in his.
Catherine took the casserole dish from Heather and asked if she could touch Heather’s stomach. Heather smiled and told her sure, and the girl caressed the side of Heather’s abdomen with hesitant wonder. Then Heather and Catherine disappeared into the kitchen where Lydia was pulling the turkey out of the oven.
Hank invited him into the living room where he opened the bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. Hank made a brief toast and they clinked glasses. Alan recognized the Paul Desmond record that was playing on the stereo: Late Lament. It was one his father had listened to, his old man’s taste in music perhaps his only redeeming quality.
“So,” Hank said, “did you find out the sex of the baby yet?”
“No. We’ve decided to wait.”
“Oh, well, okay.” Hank grinned, his teeth already purpling from the Chianti. “You wanna step out back? I got a couple of cigars we could smoke.”
He’d been trying to quit smoking in preparation for the baby, but it hadn’t been going so well. Fuck it, he thought, following Hank to the backyard. There was plenty of time left for him to quit.
The sky was overcast. Great charcoal-colored clouds had settled upon the distant treetops like horizontal bands of smoke. The distinct scent of burning firewood hung in the air.
Hank unwrapped two cigars, cut them, and handed one to Alan, along with a butane lighter. Alan lit his cigar, then handed the lighter back to Hank, who lit his own, sucking on the end vehemently. Both men expelled plumes of grayish smoke into the still air, where it appeared to float away and join the distant clouds.
“You been feeling good?” Hank asked. “You look good.”
“Sure,” Alan said.
“About ready to be a dad?”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
“Well,” Hank said, examining his cigar between two fingers, “I guess you don’t have much of a choice now, huh?” He chuckled but there was nothing humorous about it.
It was at that moment Alan sensed an undertone. His guard went up immediately.
“Listen,” Hank said, “I’ve been meaning to bring up something, but I didn’t want to do it in front of the women. I was hoping you and I would pick up where we left off—you know, drinking beers together and what have you—but you’ve been pretty busy with Heather and the pregnancy, I guess. Which is understandable. No hard feelings is what I mean.”
“What is it?” The cigar suddenly tasted bitter. “What did you want?”
Hank seemed uncomfortable. “Well, I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m accusing you of anything. It’s just … see, I’ve been thinking about some things and …”
“Spit it out.”
Hank sucked on his lower lip. He wouldn’t look Alan in the eyes. “Heather told Lydia you guys couldn’t get pregnant.”
A cold worm moved in Alan’s stomach. “Did she? When?”
“Months ago. Before the pregnancy. Remember when I asked if Heather was all right? About … about the scars on her wrists? Well, Lydia talked to your wife just like I talked to you, and Heather told her about what happened in New York. She told her about the miscarriages and how you two couldn’t have children. She told her about that night in the bathroom.”
“Why are you talking to me about this?”
“Because now you’re pregnant,” Hank said flatly. “And those scars on her wrists? They’re not there anymore.”
Alan turned to go back inside. Hank snagged his arm, turned him back around. Instinctively, Alan swatted Hank’s hand away, causing the man to take a step back and raise both hands in a show of surrender.
“I thought we were clear about the lake. What happened?”
This is it, he thought. This is the deception. This is what he’s been gunning for all along. It’s not his lake.
“I don’t believe in your goddamn lake, and you have no right to stick your nose in my family’s business,” Alan said. “You or anybody else in this town. Do you understand?”
Hank sighed. He looked suddenly miserable. “I’d hoped you would understand.”
“Who do you people think you are, anyway?”
“Alan …”
“No, tell me. What gives you the right to tell me what I can and can’t do? What gives you permission to decide whether or not my wife and I have a child?”
“Please, man, it’s not about anyone deciding anything. It’s not about—”
“Oh, I know what it’s about. It’s about control. It’s about keeping something for yourself and not wanting anyone else to benefit from it.” Alan leaned closer to Hank and swore he could smell fear coming off the man in waves, the way a shark smells blood in the water. “Tell me something. Is the power of the lake limited? Are you afraid it’ll get used up if too many people know it’s there?”
“That’s not it at all. I’ve told you why before; you didn’t listen to me. You have no concept of what the lake is capable of if it’s misused. There’s a power here, a certain strength. And it’s not just in the lake but in the land itself. All around us.
“See, after I learned about what happened to you guys in New York, I began to wonder if your uncle left you that house for a reason. You once told me you were surprised he even remembered you. So I started wondering if maybe the land called you and your wife here. Maybe it seeks out people who need it and uses them in return.”
“That’s insane,” Alan growled.
“Maybe you think you’re using the lake, but really the lake is using you.”
“No.” Alan tossed the cigar on the ground, crushed it out. Far off in the woods, something howled. “For whatever reason, you’re just trying to scare me off.”
“I wouldn’t do that if there wasn’t a reason.” And in truth, there seemed to be genuine concern in Hank’s voice and in his eyes. “Remember what I said about the Morelands? I said it was possible they found the lake hiking through the woods or going on a goddamn picnic or something? But you were right—I didn’t believe that then, and I don’t believe it now. They were summoned. Just like you.”
“Cut it out. This isn’t about the lake. This is about you and the town and your precious fucking secret. It’s about you people wanting to feel superior to everyone else.”
“Come on.”
“I want you to leave my family alone.”
“People are meant to get sick and grow old and die. Your skin is supposed to die and slough off and you grow more. Part of life is having pieces of you fade away, and if you keep—”
“Is that the same train of thought you had when you were dragging your kid down to the lake?”
The silence that crashed down upon them was instantly deafening.
Hank eventually broke it with a level, even voice. “I’m telling you this as a friend. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself or your fam—”
“No.”
Back inside the house, Alan called for Heather. She was already seated at the dining room table, along with young Catherine. Lydia had set the turkey down in the center of the table and smiled at Alan. If the aggression on his face registered with her at all, she made no acknowledgment. She merely waved a hand at the empty seat beside Heather and, quite pleasantly, told Alan to sit down.
Hank came up behind him, put a tentative hand on his shoulder. Alan’s initial reaction was to brush the man off, but he fought it, not wanting to cause a stir in front of the others.
“Let’s have a seat and a nice meal,” Hank practically breathed into his ear. “We’ve got a lot to be thankful for this year, huh?”
Alan still recognized the undercurrent to Hank’s words. He controlled the urge to shove the man out of his face. Instead, he claimed his seat beside Heather, who smiled warmly at him and didn’t seem to notice that he was burning up inside. She looked pretty, radiant even. The pregnancy was good for her. In the back of his mind, he tried to recall whether or not he’d filled up her water jug rec
ently … but then chased the thought away as Hank sat opposite him at the table.
He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt almost as if Hank were reading his thoughts.
They left immediately after dinner, not even waiting for dessert. Alan rose from the table and confessed to having a terrible migraine. He told them he needed to get home and go straight to bed. He then looked at Heather, not wanting to ask her to come with him in front of the others but giving her a look that suggested she do so. Thankfully, she picked up on the look and stood as well. She apologized to Lydia until she and Alan were out the door.
One hand against the small of her back, he hurried her across the street toward their house. He looked over his shoulder and was not surprised in the least to see Hank watching them from one of the front windows.
Back home, he bolted the door and closed the curtains. Heather stood watching him from the foyer, her lightweight coat and shoes still on. When he zipped by her to peer out one of the windows she frowned and asked him what was wrong.
“I thought you had a headache,” she said.
“I do. I’m going to take a shower, then go to bed.”
“Do you want company?”
He caught his breath, counted silently to ten, and pried himself away from the window. When he turned to Heather, it took all the strength he had to summon a convincing smile. He kissed her cheek, then her mouth. She kissed him back and leaned forward into him. The soft mound of her belly pressed against him.
This is my family, he thought. I have to protect my family at all costs. No matter what.
No matter what.
“Let’s skip the shower,” he said, “and go straight to bed.”
“Aw.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I was looking forward to the shower part.”
After lovemaking, they remained in bed as darkness pooled in through the bedroom windows. The smell of their sex hung like humidity in the air, and Alan could still taste his wife on his lips.
He was drifting off to sleep when Heather got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He heard the distant dream sounds of clanging glasses and a running tap. They could have been in someone else’s world. Then she climbed back into bed beside him, snuggling up to him and wrapping an arm around his abdomen. Caught in the semiconscious state between sleep and wakefulness, he smiled and thought he could hear himself murmuring nonsense. The thrust of Heather’s belly pressed gently against his right hip.