by John Langan
Flip ahead a frame, and you have a picture that looks as if it's been triple-exposed. There's the waiter's face, then there's Ted's human face, while behind the two of them, Ted's other face shows just enough of itself to freeze your blood. Roll forward one more frame, and you're back to the waiter's attempt to hide his boredom with his job. Too late, though: the damage has been done, my rational mind has blinked off, every last one of its fuses blown by whatever it was that burned a hole in that second frame. Older reflexes, the kind that would have sent you scrambling away from the saber-toothed tiger, took over, putting as much space as possible between me and the horror that had shown itself. Believe me, if we hadn't been seated at a booth—if we'd been at a table or the counter—I would have been out of that restaurant and halfway to the dock before the waiter had finished setting my tea on the table.
As it was, though, we were in a booth, and escape was impossible. Roger continued to try to catch hold of me until, fed up with being slapped and punched, he seized his glass of Coke and dashed its contents into my still-screaming face. Cold soda and ice cubes splashed my hands, face, neck. Coke sloshed in my mouth and I coughed. Ice cubes slipped under the neck of my blouse and ran freezing down my back. While I was coughing, Roger reached over to the booth behind us, grabbed the water glasses of the couple sitting there, and threw them over me, as well. Ice cubes rained like hail. Rusty-tasting water washed the Coke out of my mouth. For the second time that day, I came back to myself, though not in time to prevent Roger tossing a last glass of water at me. My hair and clothes dripping, my throat ragged, I opened my eyes to a chaotic scene. The booth's table and seats were wet, dotted with ice cubes sliding slowly towards the table's edge to join their fellows in the massive puddle on the floor. Plastic cups rolled on the table, clicking against the broken remains of my teacup and saucer. Roger stood at the end of my seat, empty cup in hand, watching me with one eye, searching for more cups of water with the other. Of course everyone in the diner was looking at us—at me, some with expressions of concern, a few with amusement or contempt, most with blunt curiosity. A youngish man with a beard and glasses had left wherever he was sitting to offer his assistance. He was about three feet behind Roger. The waiter was nowhere to be found; having limped off, I presume, to ice the leg I'd kicked. I held up a hand to Roger, saying, "Okay, okay. It's all right. It's all right."
Except it wasn't okay; it wasn't all right. It was anything but. Still holding my hand up, I leaned forward. Roger took my hand and helped me out of the booth. Ice cubes fell from me in droves, tinkling on the floor, as I stood. The rest of the diner continued watching me, waiting to see how whatever drama they'd found themselves unexpected spectators to was going to conclude. My nerves were jumping—my whole body was. What I'd undergone on the carousel had been disorienting. This had been pure shock, as if all of me, body, mind, and soul, had suffered a violent blow. Standing beside Roger as he asked me what had happened, I started shivering uncontrollably. Roger said, "Poor dear. All that cold water," and put his arm around me, drawing me to his warm—and dry—chest. Maybe the gallon of ice water that had been poured on me did have something to do with me shaking, but I doubt it. From the corner of my eye, I could see a man approaching, his belly straining his black t-shirt, his name tag declaring his rank assistant manager. I had no desire to stand there explaining the last five minutes to him. In the distance, I heard a siren, and knew that either the police or EMTs—or both—would be walking through the front door imminently. I had even less desire to deal with them; although my left leg was throbbing where the hot water had spilled on it. Slipping out from under Roger's arm, I said, "I can't do this," and fled the restaurant, pushing past the startled assistant manager on my way to the door.
I never asked Roger how he explained my screaming and kicking to that man, or to the police and/or EMTs—assuming they showed up, which I didn't ask him about, either. Walking rapidly, I went right out of the diner and up the street. Through the fog, I saw a clothes store three storefronts along. I turned in at it. The salesgirl reading the magazine behind the counter was college-age. When she saw me standing in the doorway, soaked and still shivering, she started, then left her place and hurried over to me. She was wearing a saffron pantsuit; her hair was piled on top of her head. "Oh my God," she said, "what happened to you?"
"Kids," I said. "A couple of kids ran into me—spilled their drinks all over me."
"And you need something to change into."
I nodded.
"No problem." She led me to a rack of blouses, which she sorted through until she came up with a white linen thing she held up for my inspection. "How's this?"
The part of my mind that decided such matters was still shorted out. The blouse was plain. I said, "Fine."
"Good." Holding the blouse, the salesgirl walked across the store to a rack of skirts. With her free hand, she selected a denim skirt. "What do you think?"
"Great."
"Great," she said. "There are changing rooms at the back of the store—but maybe you'd like to use the bathroom first, to clean up?"
"Yes."
"We're really not supposed to do this," the girl said, "my manager would flip if she ever found out, but look at you," she ran her gaze up and down me, and for the first time saw my leg, which already looked pretty bad. The skin was bright red and angry; clear blisters had raised themselves from it. Her eyes widened and she said, "Oh my God. Your leg."
"Yes," I said. "Coffee—one of the kids was carrying a cup of hot coffee."
The salesgirl's brows lowered. How many kids run around with cups of hot coffee? She said, "Do you need a doctor? Because I can—"
"I don't need a doctor," I said, forcing a smile onto my face. "It looks worse than it is."
"Well, aloe cream, then. There's a drugstore next door. Once you're finished in here, you should stop in there and get a bottle of aloe cream. I had a wicked sunburn last year, and my boyfriend used that stuff on it, and it completely cooled it down."
"Thanks. I will."
"Aloe cream. It's green, and comes in a clear plastic bottle."
"Green," I said.
"Uh huh." She nodded.
"Is the bathroom—"
"Oh my God, right," she said, "I'm so sorry. This way."
I followed her through a door at the store's rear, down a short corridor. "Thanks," I said when we reached the bathroom.
"Do you want to take the clothes in with you, and try them on in here?" the salesgirl asked. "I'm really not supposed to do this, either, but, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?"
"That's right," I said, taking the blouse and skirt from her. I had no idea what she was talking about. "I'll be a couple of minutes."
With the bathroom door closed and locked, I stood staring at the wall. The new clothes were in my hands, but trying them on seemed an impossibly elaborate task. I could see myself in the small mirror hung above the sink, hair wet and bedraggled, makeup smeared, skin drawn taut and pale. I looked like I'd seen a ghost, all right. One step at a time, I told myself, and hung the new clothes on the doorknob. I stripped off the wet clothes, and dried myself with about half the roll of paper towel mounted beside the sink. When I was reasonably dry, I washed my face and cleaned the ruined makeup off it. My hair was still damp, and sticky in places from the Coke, but the rest of me was dry and clean enough for me to reach for the new clothes.
They fit, which, considering the girl hadn't asked me my size, was pretty impressive. Or, it should have been. Buttoning the blouse, sliding the zipper up the side of the skirt, it was as if I were watching someone else performing these actions. I recognized that both blouse and skirt were well-made and only slightly overpriced, but this registered with me in the same way as the white walls of the bathroom, as one more thing to notice.
What was occupying my thoughts was keeping myself together, which was becoming more difficult with each passing moment. When I'd run out of the diner, I'd been driven and guided by instinct more than the con
sciousness Roger had splashed back into existence. That consciousness was a patchwork affair, a jury-rigged jumble of memory and idea barely up to the challenge of answering the salesgirl's questions, let alone of dealing in any way, shape, or form with what I'd seen. Really, I was doing what I could not to recall that face, because I had no doubt the mere memory of it would be more than sufficient to reduce my improvised self to rubble. Did I mention that I hadn't looked directly at the salesgirl once? I was terrified that I'd see Ted's face—his faces—staring back at me from above her jacket. I'm sure she took it as one more piece of the strangeness that was me.
There was a knock on the door. The salesgirl's muffled voice called, "Is everything okay in there?" I glanced at my watch. I couldn't say for sure, but I thought I'd been in that bathroom for something like half an hour. I unlocked the door and, eyes lowered, said, "Sorry. It took me a while to clean up."
"No problem," the girl said. "What do you think?"
I almost asked, "About what?" before I understood she was talking about the clothes. "I'm not sure," I said. I pointed to the mirror over the sink. "That's the only mirror."
"Oh, sure, right," she said. "Come back out front." I picked up my wet clothes and hurried after her. She stopped beside a full-length mirror and gestured to it. "Here you go."
As if my behavior hadn't been odd enough, when I stepped in front of the mirror, I kept my gaze to one side. I was afraid of seeing something other than myself staring back at me. I don't know why I even bothered. The salesgirl couldn't help but notice, but she spared me any questions. I guess she was used to dealing with eccentricity. I waited what seemed a reasonable time, then said, "This'll do," which was about the truest thing I could say.
"Are you sure," she asked, "because if you're not—"
"It's fine," I said, "honestly."
Once I'd paid for the new clothes and placed my old ones in a plastic bag, I ducked out of that store and into the drugstore next to it, where I picked up some aloe cream for my leg, as well as a Martha's Vineyard baseball cap and a pair of cheap sunglasses. Suitably disguised—I hoped—I left the drugstore at a stroll, trying to pretend I wasn't that woman who'd been screaming her head off a few doors down. I had no idea where Roger was: if he was still in the diner, trying to account for my actions and settle the damages; or if he had finished there and was searching for me. If all else failed, we would meet at the dock, but I didn't spend much time worrying over it.
Movement was my concern, not staying anywhere long enough to allow any further weirdness to envelop me. Although doing so aggravated my leg to no end, I walked up the street. I almost welcomed the pain as a distraction. Eyes on the sidewalk, I concentrated on avoiding seeing more than the feet and legs of the people I passed. Once, the fog unveiled a pair of army boots below green camouflage pants, and in my panic, I looked up—but the man I saw wasn't Ted. I hurried past him.
Inside, I was trying to keep on the move, as well, concentrating on not remembering what had held me in its gaze in the diner, those glass eyes torturing the skin around them. I was close to some great expression of emotion—screaming, crying, even laughing. Holding back that one memory set a host of others free, and I walked out of the street into memory—out of one memory, into another—
—The tile of the hospital room floor is cold on my cheek; I look up at Roger's hospital bed, looming mountainously high above me; another round of cramps grabs me like a great hand squeezing my insides out; warm blood that smells like pennies spills down my thighs—
—I enter Belvedere House's living room, which smells faintly of the lemon cleaner Dr. Sullivan and her family used in their final cleanup; the blinds are drawn, and glow white with the early afternoon sun; my arms, legs, neck—my whole body prickles, as if I've walked through an enormous cobweb—only I can feel the strands running off in all directions—
—Roger's face is a map of purple bruises; dried blood crusts the corners of his mouth; the faint odor of pepper spray clings to him; through swollen lips, he says, "I cast you from me"; spittle flecks his unshaven chin as he says, "May you not escape your failure"; each word bursts against my eardrums like thunder—
—His thumb and forefinger dimpling as they close on the lead soldier, Roger places it inside the space bordered by plastic buildings, third in line, just outside the circumference of the red chalk circle flaking on the tabletop; the light overhead and the light through the window send two tiny shadows out from the figure's base; the plastic pungence of bubblewrap stings my nostrils; Roger's hand hovers over the soldier; he exhales—
—The kettle whistles, I fill the white mug, watching the boiling water darken as the odor of instant coffee lifts into the air; the red numbers of the kitchen's clock radio read 4:15; the black coffee singes my lips as I stare out the apartment window into the early-morning dark where Roger walks—
—Grandma looks at me over her half-glasses and says, "Poor bunny; my poor, poor bunny. We must stay awake and see evil done just a little longer"; her voice sounds as if it is full of dirt, and she reeks of pine trees—
I shook my head—my grandmother had never said that to me. Ahead, the fog curled around a street sign. I turned right and followed the new street as shops gave way to houses. First a couple of contemporary places, studies in bland luxury, then a row of pastel A-frames, their eaves, doors, and shutters carved into lacy patterns like the icing on a cake. When the street I was on joined another, I saw more A-frames vanishing into the fog in all directions. I had found the gingerbread houses.
Do you know them? There are literally hundreds of houses that look like something from a children's story, all painted bright, cheery colors, all sporting intricate carving that does make them resemble enormous confections. Prior to our last trip here, I'd never heard of them. Roger had known about them, but not seen them. When the two of us found them—it was after my first ride on the carousel, and seeing house after house with its ornate decoration gave me the momentary illusion I'd fallen into one of the books I'd reread so obsessively as a girl, Little Women, or The Wizard of Oz. I had been delighted, Roger less so—he'd said, "It all seems so . . . New England Yankee," which I guess it was.
Now, wrapped in fog, the houses were less cheerful. I passed one whose front garden was full of white roses, their heads bobbing ever so slightly in a breeze I couldn't feel. I passed another whose front porch displayed a couple of wicker chairs, one of which held what I thought was an oversized burlap sack until it said, "Hello," and resolved itself into an old woman. I passed a house whose shutters were closed, its paint flaking off in large patches, its front yard bare. One after another, the houses appeared, variations on an architectural theme. Where previously the repetition had charmed me, today it seemed decadent, obsessive.
The street I was walking t-junctioned the road around the park where the old Methodist revivals had been held. I don't know the history in any depth—really, all I can tell you is that, during the latter half of the nineteenth century, this part of the island had been the site of Methodist revivals, some of them attended by thousands. At what I assume was the height of the revival craze, the Methodists had built this gigantic metal pavilion in the park across from me. It's enormous—I'm talking circus big top, here; it seats something like five hundred people—with open sides and stained-glass windows set high up in it. Even with the fog, I could see it lifting itself in the near distance, a huge presence, which, for reasons I didn't understand, had been painted black. It's like some kind of avant-garde cathedral. The gingerbread houses sprung up on the ground surrounding the site. I'm not sure what connection, if any, there was between the two. Probably none.
I crossed into the park. The ground dips in the middle, which makes the pavilion appear even taller as you approach. I was alone—although the fog hung pretty dense in and among the grass and trees—and when I climbed the far slope to the pavilion and looked into it, I saw that it was empty. The fog had found its way inside the metal tent, pooling at various points throughout.
Even so, it was less thick in there. I could see rows of seats fanning up and out from the altar, amphitheater-style.
My leg felt as if someone had poured gasoline on it and added a match. I needed to stop walking, if only for ten minutes, and get the aloe cream on. Inside the tent, I'd at least be able to see anything coming towards me. The fire in my leg raging, I walked into the pavilion and all the way along one of the aisles to the altar. Once I was seated, I retrieved the bottle of aloe. When I slid my skirt up, I saw that the skin on top of my leg was crimson, crowded with blisters that oozed clear fluid. I squeezed a green stream of the aloe up and down the burn, gently spreading it across the angry skin, wincing and catching my breath as new agony bit my nerves. I followed that coat of aloe with a second one, by which time the first was starting to work, cooling my leg. Talk about blessed relief. When you're hurt like that, your whole body contracts around the wound. As the cream dulled the pain, it was as if all of me relaxed away from it. I wouldn't have minded a couple of gin and tonics to help the process along, but I was reasonably sure a Methodist tent was the last place you'd find a bar. Finished tending my leg, I replaced the bottle of aloe in its bag, wiping my hand clean on the blouse in there. I left my skirt up, letting cool air flow over it.