by David Greske
"What'd you think, Molly?” Her father looked at her round face in the rearview mirror.
Molly shrugged. “All I see is corn. Corn. Corn. Corn."
"Oh, you'll get used to it. Just wait and see."
"I doubt it.” She crossed her arms and dropped back in the seat. What she wouldn't give to be at the mall right now. There probably isn't a movie theater within a gazillion miles of this place. As for boys, she doubted if any of the goat-herders here looked anything like those dreamy ‘N Sync guys. The boys in this town probably all wore blue jeans and straw hats. She'd bet a few even had teeth missing. Yee-haw!
Part of the problem was that Molly was fourteen, and like all fourteen-year-olds, she knew practically everything there was to know about life. Don't try to tell her something different, it just wouldn't fly. The other part of the problem was Molly. With her raven hair and mischievous cyan eyes, she was nearly a carbon copy of her mother, both in temperament and appearance.
"Witchy-bitchy, Molly! Witchy-bitchy, Molly!” Travis suddenly yelled.
"MOOOOM! Travis called me a bitch!"
Diane turned around and scowled. “Both of you settle down, or I'll have your father stop the car and you can get out and walk the rest of the way."
Travis stuck his tongue out at Molly; Molly wrinkled her face at him. “You are so dead when we get out of this car."
Stupid brother. Stupid dog. Stupid place.
* * * *
"It'd be nice if you'd discipline the kids once in a while.” Diane scowled at her husband.
"Why! You seem to take such pleasure in it!” Jim snarled back.
Sometimes, he wished he would've left the lot of them back in California with the trash, but he had to admit, witchy-bitchy was sort of funny.
Eventually, the gravel road forked, and Jim veered to the left. Off to the right was a cemetery. It was surrounded by a six-foot wrought iron fence. Morning Glories clung to the black rods and their bright pink blooms brightened the otherwise dismal place.
"Hey, Molly,” Jim said, trying to deflate the tension that had filled the vehicle like helium in a balloon, “do you know how many people are dead in there?” He nodded toward the graveyard.
"I don't know, Dad. How many?"
"All of ‘em"
Molly rolled her eyes. “Stupid."
Well, he tried.
While the road they'd just left was nameless, this stretch was called Miller's Lane. After a couple of miles, the lane passed in front of the Miller's house—the Anderson's new home.
"Here we are.” Jim pulled the Suburban onto the serpentine driveway.
There was a heartfelt, “Yippee!” from the back seat as Travis pressed his face against the window.
Three yellow and black Roadway Transport trucks were parked in front of the house. The furniture had arrived a whole day early. That was good. Jim wouldn't have to listen to his wife bellyache that she had no place to sit her ass.
Jim parked the Suburban behind the last truck. The vehicle barely had time to stop before Travis opened the door and tumbled out of the back. Rufus, barking madly, was right behind him.
"Cool.” Travis looked up at their new house.
* * * *
Diane wasn't enthusiastic at all. She unlocked the door, let it swing open, and reluctantly stepped out of the vehicle. When she saw the house, she almost cried.
Damn you, Jim. What the hell have you gone and done now?
The house was a monstrosity. It was a three and a half story stone structure with a porch that wrapped around the front. Windows were broken. Shingles were missing. Screens were torn. Years of soot covered the exterior. It would take a crew of ten men working around the clock for the next ten years to restore the walls to their original beauty. The best thing to do would be tear the thing down and start over.
The sidewalk that led to the front door was cracked and broken. Dandelions and thistles flourished in the fissures.
Parasitic vines and Creeping Charlie had overtaken the lawn. In one corner of the yard was an area that, at one time, might have been a garden, but it was so overgrown with weeds it looked like a pasture. Rusting, broken down machines were scattered across the yard. An old washing machine had been taken over by a swarm of yellow jackets.
"So, what do you think?” Jim asked.
"I think it's a dump,” Diane replied. She still couldn't believe what she was looking at.
"Is this where we're going to live?” Molly asked. She cuddled next to her mother like a frightened child.
"I'm afraid so.” Diane sighed. She stroked her daughter's hair and shot an icy stare at her husband. “It's what Daddy wants."
Jim ignored the caustic remark. “Why don't you go inside and check things out. I need to talk to the movers for a minute."
The inside was no better than the outside. Wallpaper, yellow and stained, was peeling from the walls, exposing the wet, crumbling plaster behind it. Paint curls hung from the ceiling, ready to fall to the cracked marble floor of the foyer at any time. Near the top of the stairs, just above the first landing, was an oval, stained-glass window. But even on the brightest of days, sunlight couldn't penetrate the crust of filth that coated the elegant design. Consequently, this absence of light made the landing seem dim and foreboding, and the shadows seemed to creep out of the walls.
* * * *
"Still think it's a dump?” Jim asked, coming up behind her.
"No, I was wrong.” Diane put her hands on her hips and turned to face Jim. Her eyes bore into him. “This place is a disaster area. There's dirt in every corner of every room. It's dark and cold. That banister looks like it'll snap right off the minute someone puts any pressure on it. And the place stinks like piss. I guess that pretty much covers it."
Jim's left eyelid began to twitch. Just like it always did before he got angry.
Diane continued, “I'm afraid to turn on a light because the wiring is probably so bad it'd start a fire. Besides, if I could actually see anything, I'd probably run out of here screaming bloody murder.
"I can't for the life of me understand why you want us to live in this hellhole."
"Hey, kids,” Jim said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, “why don't you go and check out the rest of the joint.” Translation: Jim felt a debate coming on.
Travis scurried through the house with the same kind of excitement he'd shown the day his father had brought home Rufus. Molly strolled into the kitchen with the uninspired obedience that seemed to possess all teenagers.
Jim wished the rest of his family saw things the way Travis did—as adventures instead of curses.
"I bought this place for us, Diane,” he said at last. “I bought it because it needs work and I thought we could do it together. I thought maybe it'd bring us close again."
Diane walked across the floor, wincing every time the floorboard squeaked, and ran her hand across the banister. She stuck her hand in her husband's face.
"Look at this, it's filthy! The air's so polluted with dust my lungs burn every time I breathe! It'll take years before this place is inhabitable!"
Jim moved toward her. “No, it won't. Not if we do it together. It'll be fun."
"Fun! Will it be as much fun as that Internet company you invested in? How much money did we lose there? Or how about those securities you insisted we had to have? ‘We have to prepare for our future,’ you said. Well, the future's here and I don't see our mailbox overflowing with those fat dividend checks! Fun, oh, yeah, we're having fun now!"
"All right, I made a few bad choices. Everyone does, but it's different this time.” Jim wrapped his arms around Diane's small waist.
She pushed him away. “You're right, Jim, everyone makes a few bad choices, but not everyone has made a career out of it. When was the last time you wrote a book that actually sold more than a dozen copies?"
"At least I didn't fuck the pizza boy!” That shut her up. “I sometimes wonder if Travis is even my son, or the product of a horny teenager and an
unfaithful wife who just couldn't wait to have another man's pepperoni in her oven!"
"You bastard!” Diane screamed and slapped Jim across the face.
Never in his entire life had Jim Anderson wanted to hit someone as he did at that very moment. He wanted to hear bones crack beneath his fist. He wanted to feel blood on his knuckles.
Instead, he turned and walked away.
"Where are you going?” Diane snapped.
Jim spun around on his heels. “Why the hell do you care? Maybe I'm off to find some nice little waitress of my own!"
He slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.
Chapter 2
Jim Anderson pulled the Suburban up to the curb, got out, and walked into the tavern. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then found a stool at the bar.
The Stumble Inn smelled of stale smoke and bacon grease, but at least it was quiet. There were only a couple of guys playing pool in the back room and a trio of middle-aged men sharing a pitcher of beer in a booth near the jukebox.
A mirror behind the bar reflected the liquor bottles on the shelf in front of it and gave a panoramic view of the room behind him. It reflected something else, too. Something Jim didn't much like—himself. There were creases in his face where there shouldn't be. His eyes were as dull as stones.
If it weren't for the children, I'd of left long ago. But they need a stable adult in their lives.
When Travis had called his sister a witchy-bitchy, he had the words right, but he was talking about the wrong person. It was Diane who had turned into the bitch witch over the years.
"So, what's your poison?"
"Huh?” Jim said, breaking away from his thoughts.
"Whatdaya want to drink?” the man with the long, gray hair and ruddy face asked again. A silver cross on a leather thong hung from his sinewy neck.
"Whiskey's good."
"Then whiskey it'll be.” The bartender reached under the bar. He brought up a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. “You look like you've got women problems."
"Wife problems.” Jim took a long swallow of the liquor.
"Ouch, they're the worst kind. Names’ Jarvis Clarke, owner of this fine establishment."
"Jim Anderson.” He tipped his glass in acknowledgment. “Please to make your acquaintance."
"Jim Anderson, the writer?” Jarvis asked.
"Yup, the one and only."
"I thought you looked familiar when you walked in. I've read your stuff. Liked it, too."
"Thanks."
Jarvis rested his elbows on the bar. “What's it like? Being a writer?"
"Oh, it pays the bills. Barely."
* * * *
Raucous laughter rose from the trio at the table as they finished their beers. In the dim tavern, the men looked featureless. But in reality, their faces were creased with wrinkles so deep they looked painful. The lackluster of their eyes and the curl of their lips hid individual truths. These were men with secrets.
Jake Malone, the school janitor, had a taste for boys. Young boys. Very young boys. If the local cops raided his single room apartment above the hardware store, they'd find boxes and boxes of magazines filled with naked, succulent boys. Take a peek at his computer hard drive and they'd find animations of the same. But how could this be? Jake Malone is a fine citizen of Prairie Rest. Any parent could entrust the safety of their children to him. And many do. Jake Malone is the Scout Master for the town's cub scout troop.
Carleton Green is not really the father of his newborn daughter. Bill Daily is. His wife, Alice, had an affair with the town bad boy, and well, accidents sometimes happen. Alice continues to see Daily twice a week. Apparently, Carleton has a little problem in the bedroom department and a woman has her needs, after all.
But the joke's really on Alice, as Carleton has known about her indiscretion for years. He has silently vowed that for the next thirty years, he will make her life a living hell.
Pete Underdahl, owner of the five and dime store, enjoys dressing up in his dead wife's clothing. Then he parades around the house until he gets so hot and worked up that he has no other choice than to drop onto the bed and masturbate into a paper cup he keeps by his bedside.
The door swung open and sunlight spilled into the room. A twenty-ish-year-old man walked into the bar. He wore a black leather jacket and thought of himself as the new James Dean. He looked more like Fonzie.
"Hey, Daily, you're late,” one of the boys in the back yelled.
"Yeah, Bill, you're late,” Carleton Green said. “What happened? You get so busy waxing the dolphin you forgot about the time?"
Daily looked Green square in the eyes. “Why do it myself when I have an old lady that'll do it for me."
Carleton Green only smiled.
"Now, I don't want any trouble from you today, Bill,” Jarvis shouted across the room. Bill raised his arm and shooed him away like a troublesome fly. He headed back to the pool table.
"That's Bill Daily,” Jarvis said. “He comes in here three, four times a week, gets a load on, and tries to pick fights with the other customers."
"That guy?” Jim remarked, glancing over his shoulder. He found it hard to believe that anyone who looked like a walking toothpick would be much of a threat to anyone. “He looks pretty harmless."
"He is. Most people just laugh him off."
The door opened again and a man dressed in a white jumpsuit entered. He walked directly over to Jim.
"I know who you are,” the man with the wild eyes and pasty skin said, “and I know why you're here. The children told me."
"You know you're not supposed to be in here,” Jarvis said. “Now scram."
"But I have to tell him about the children. He has to know."
Sheriff Ebert came into the bar. Ebert was a big man, not fat, but muscular. A shock of dusty brown hair poked from beneath his cap. He immediately grabbed the vagrant's arm.
"Come on, you know you're not supposed to leave the hospital.” Ebert lowered his voice to a whisper and dropped his gaze to the floor.
Prairie Rest had its secrets: Jake Malone, Carleton Green, Pete Underdahl, but Honeybrook Asylum was the town's dirtiest because it can't be hidden. It's right there for the entire world to see. Like a blackhead on the porcelain face of a teenage girl.
The asylum was a group of five, red granite buildings that sat on thirty acres of land about a mile and a half west of town. One of the four smaller buildings was the staff's residence; the other three were divided into apartments where the elderly who were forgotten or abandoned by their families could live out the rest of their days in relative comfort. The main building housed patients who needed more supervision than those in the apartments.
A ten-foot cement wall surrounded the acreage of Honeybrook, but every once in a while, a patient managed to scale the wall and wander into town.
"But he needs to know about the children,” the vagrant whispered back to the sheriff. “Someone has to tell him."
"I'm sure he'll be just fine,” the sheriff remarked, gently leading the patient out of the bar and into the squad car.
"Poor guy.” Jim finished the rest of his whiskey. “Who is he?"
"Dunno,” Jarvis lied. “He wandered into town one day crazier than a lesbian in a room full of cracks.” The bartender refilled Jim's glass. “So, what brings you to Prairie Rest? Research for your next book?"
"Actually, I live here now. I bought the old Miller place."
The bartender's jaw creaked open like a rusty hinge, and the color drained from his already pale face. His hand shook so violently, he spilled booze all over the bar. Unconsciously, he touched the cross that hung from his neck.
"The old Miller place, huh?” He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible as he sopped up the mess with a towel he'd taken from the waist of his pants. “Pretty run-down, ain't it?"
"Yeah, that it is,” Jim admitted. “Thought I might fix ‘er up. I'm in between books right now and thought it might
be fun to do something else for a while."
Jarvis was about to fill the glass again, but Jim stopped him.
"I think I've had enough for now. I kinda wanna check out the rest of the town. See what it has to offer.” Jim reached for his wallet. “How much for the drinks?"
"Forget about it,” Jarvis said. “They're on the house. First visit and all that."
"Well, thanks.” Jim slid off the barstool. “That's real kind of you. I'm sure I'll see you again."
"Yes, I'm sure you will."
Once Jim left, Jarvis collapsed into the chair next to the beer cooler. His heart thumped in his chest. His legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. Beads of cold sweat erupted on his forehead and tumbled down his temples.
The Miller place. Good Lord in Heaven, he'd bought the Miller place.
"Jake. Jake Monroe,” Jarvis said once he'd composed himself. He poured a pitcher of beer from the tap and set it on the bar. “Why don't you and your friends belly up to the bar here and keep an eye on things for a while. I need to go see Larry Taft."
That said, Jarvis disappeared out the back door.
* * * *
Lawrence Taft Reality was three doors down from the Stumble Inn. It was a small building sandwiched between the five and dime store and Lily and Lila's Sew What! There were a pair of potted mums on the stoop and the happy yellow flowers looked like splotches of sunshine against the red brick. In an effort to keep out the morning heat, the blinds were drawn across the window that faced the street. A black and orange sign proclaimed: Come on in! You're always welcome!
Jarvis opened the door, and the small bell that hung above it jingled to announce his arrival.
As always, the office was filled with the nutty aroma of fresh brewed coffee and the cinnamon goodness of just-baked sweet rolls. Both were complimentary to visitors.
Dorothy looked up from her romance novel. “Hey, Jarvis.” A smile beamed across the receptionist's face. “How are you?” Then the smile faded. “Are you okay, kid, you look as white as yesterday's mashed potatoes."