House of Sighs

by Aaron Dries

  Gray.

  The highway out of James Bridge.

  Gray.

  Her mother opening the living room door as Liz edged towards the kitchen, her father on his knees in the dirt, her brother.

  The bus had a distinct smell to it before a shift, one that would fade as the day progressed. Disinfectant and shoe polish. Light shone through the windows, hit the railings and handlebars. All fifty plush seats were ready for passengers. As she had guessed she was on Route 243. It would be an easy shift. It was the Sunday “back-road” valley transit between the Maitland depot, with two rarely frequented stops along Wollombi Road leading to James Bridge. Then the same return trip. It was an outskirt detour designed specifically for The Bridge Folk. “Easy money, little dice,” her boss often said. Liz suspected that given time the route would be canceled due to declining demand.

  Gray.

  The bus roared to life. Vibrations ran through her body. From her pocket she took a small glass diamond strung on a chain. She had bought it for two dollars at a flea market. Liz slipped the trinket over the rearview mirror, her movements robotic. Sluggish. The diamond hung just above her eye line. She stood and wound the Route and Destination signage into place with a manual crank.

  Next to the diamond, on the same silver thread, there was a second twinkle, this one old but polished. Her mother gave her the Saint Christopher medallion on her first day of work.

  To keep her safe.

  Ninety-Three: The Last Passenger

  It was ten minutes past eleven.

  The coins sat in Michael’s hand.

  “No charge today. Everyone’s riding free,” said the driver. She avoided his eyes, her knuckles tight on the wheel.

  “Thank you,” Michael said, walking past her up the aisle. The loose change jingled in the pocket of his jeans, her sad face burnt into his mind.

  The air inside the bus was thick. The metal handlebars were already too hot to touch. There was no air conditioning, just a small caged fan above the driver. Just as Michael was about to drop into a seat in the first half of the bus, he made eye contact with two young women further up the aisle on the opposite side. The older one smiled at him.

  “Our lucky day, see?” she said.

  “Sure is,” he replied, caught off guard by her American accent.

  Diana’s smile faded. Next to her, sixteen-year-old Julia turned away and watched her reflection in the window.

  Sarah Carr toyed with the spikes of her hair, looked across the aisle at the two young women and could tell two things straight away. They were good kids. And they’re sisters, she thought. But I don’t see the resemblance.

  Six seats ahead of her, Peter Ditton sat upright, notebook across his kneecaps.

  Steve Brown fanned himself, the heat building within the heavy fabric of his football jersey. He sat close behind Peter. There had been a time when Steve had been young and fit too, just like the skinny kid he had boarded the bus with. He wiped his hands on his shorts. Now he was old and getting soft. But he didn’t care, a lot of that bullshit lost its importance when you were married. He had nobody to impress. Bev kept her shape and that was great for her, he was proud of his little gym-bunny, but the awkwardness between them was increasing. She was beautiful and he was not the movie-star type, as he would put it. When they made love, he tired quicker and sometimes didn’t orgasm at all. He had even faked it once. I’m sure she saw straight through that too. She always does.

  The passengers sat in silence. There was no music being played from the old speakers that day.

  There was a moment when they were all looking forward at the same time and saw their driver slump forward. A slight deflating movement. A crackle from the two-way radio and the driver corrected herself, sitting upright again.

  Sarah put her hands on the handlebar in front of her and could feel the ground rumbling through it. She studied the driver and could have sworn the woman was almost falling asleep. Sarah felt the first lick of panic flirting with her skin. A shiver ran through her.

  “Hey!” yelled the young, porcelain-looking girl across the aisle. All of the passengers spun towards the cry. Sarah clutched her chest.

  Julia could feel all of their eyes landing on her, could see their older, confused faces. She had no choice but to ignore their intimidating looks and pushed herself up off her seat. “Driver, stop!”

  Ninety-Two

  The voice of the teenager dripped into Liz Frost’s mind like a splattering of acid. Somewhere inside, the wet nose of The Beast turned upwards towards its host, ruffling its leather wings. She slammed on the brakes.

  “You went straight past that stop,” called the older of the two girls in the same seat.

  “There’s a—” started the young guy close to her. He held a small book in the air.

  Peter was about to say “a guy there” when he realized that the bus was coming to a stop, everyone lurching in their seats.

  Michael had been on the verge of sleep. He grabbed the handlebar in front of him and watched the man run along the side of the bus.

  The stranger looked strong, athletic. Maybe in his early thirties, it was difficult for him to tell. His hair was cut short, and his goatee perhaps masked someone younger. He wore a plain, gray shirt, the wind plastering it against the soft pad of his belly.

  Liz opened the door with shaking hands.

  Ninety-One

  Jack Barker hated not being noticed. It always made him angry.

  Driver went straight past my stop, am I invisible? Jack felt calmer with each step towards the bus. The door opened before him.

  Once inside, he reached into his denims for change. He wished he had worn shorts. It was too hot for heavy pants like these. The veins in his forearms filled with blood and stood out like a pulsating network of tunnels. He found himself gasping for breath; he was fit but not that fit. The run had taken it out of him. Jack lifted his gaze to meet the driver’s.

  Death was the only word he could think of to describe her. Like she hasn’t slept in years. Jesus. “What’s the rush, luv? You in the Grand Prix, too?” he asked, shaking his head. His voice was a deep drawl. His confidence faltered as he looked at the driver. “It’s all right though.” He paused and glanced the length of the bus. Everyone was looking at him. “I’m here now, so all’s good.”

  “I didn’t… I went so—” Liz said, words failing her. The wires refused to connect. “It’s free.” It came out too loud and abrasive. Her head pounded, vision blurring. She knew death was better than living this way.

  “Free? You sure? It’s okay that you missed me. It happens. Water off a duck's back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  Her face darted up to his. She moves like a bird, Jack thought.

  Liz attempted to smile. “You’re. Riding for. Free. Today. That’s the way it’s going. To be. And you go have a seat. And just pull the wire when you want to get off.”

  He studied her. Somewhere there was an alarm going off but it was drowned by her shaky smile. She had the potential to be pretty. He smiled back at her. “Well thanks, luv. I won’t say no to that one.”

  Jack had lived in James Bridge his entire life and to his surprise, recognized no one. The older man in the football jersey seemed familiar. Perhaps they shared a beer once. Jack fell into the backseat, grabbed the handlebar with both hands. Just like school days, he thought. He remembered water fights on the bus home from school, laughing children and throwing balled-up pieces of paper. Their driver back then had been a big Maori guy named Sao. Man, that guy was the best. He let us get away with anything.

  It looked as though the driver was going to drive off without closing the door. It clanged shut and the passengers felt relief, which struck Michael as a strange sensation. He had not even realized he was tense.

  Ninety

  Liz’s smile melted away as the bus accelerated. She struggled to change gears, the engine shrieking.

  Michael leaned forward,
then sat back again as the stick-shift corrected itself. Ahead of him the young guy with the neatly combed hair and notebook glanced around. They smiled at each other.

  “If you can’t find it, grind it, right?” Michael said.

  Peter nodded and returned to his writing.

  Steve felt perspiration welling in the folds of his gut. He was tempted to take off his jersey but he was not wearing a shirt underneath. He fanned himself. The bus was fitted with large, inoperable side windows. Above each of these were two sliding glass panels that a small child could get a head through. They were all open and whatever air could get in was in already. He imagined sitting at the Maitland Golf Club bar, a schooner of beer in hand, and having to talk to his mates over the whirr of Formula One cars. “I can feel a XXXX comin’ on,” was the catch phrase from the television advertisements—and the line had never been more inviting.

  The fantasy dissipated when his gaze passed over the emergency escape window near Peter. Next to it there was a small box where a hammer should have been tied, only the box was empty.

  The more Steve looked around, the more he noticed tears in the seating, scuffs on the handlebars. The alert wires sagged in long, thin smiles. There was graffiti scratched into the glass on his right. Peeling warning stickers covered the walls, a faded cardboard advertisement for Wrigley’s Extra Sugar-Free Gum near the driver.

  “Stop looking at me like that, you’re really annoying me,” Julia said to her stepsister, Diana, who sighed. Julia flicked the hair from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear—a trademark move of hers. Diana found these small habits endearing. She wanted to take Julia in her arms and hug her until all the bad things in her world were gone forever.

  In the tiniest of voices, “I wish I’d never told you.”

  Each word was a bee-sting. Julia continued. “I mean—oh god. I just wish I never had to tell you.”

  Diana touched her leg, pushed herself in close.

  “I know you’re trying to get my mind off it all, but I just can’t,” Julia said. “This thing isn’t growing in me, it’s eating me up. It won’t be much longer and Mom and Dad will be able to tell what’s up.” Her lower lip started to quiver. Another strand of hair fell across her upturned button nose, and Diana slipped it behind her ear for her.

  Julia had read about how to get an abortion and about how much it would cost, but the procedure would appear on her parents’ Medicare records. That couldn't happen. No way. She had even considered doing it herself. Cooking skewers, coat hangers, random objects around the house—any one of these objects could do the job. Julia swallowed. Such thoughts sent her stomach caterwauling and drew a heavy lump into her throat.

  “Everything will be okay,” Diana said. “Please, don’t think about it. I know that’s easier said than done. But just empty your head today. Let it all just disappear. Look out the window and watch things go by. Think about those things. I’m here, Jules. Think about the movie, okay? Clueless will rock. We love funny stuff, right? Do you remember when we saw Mrs. Doubtfire? That movie was hilarious. Oh, what was that line? Ah…‘Layla, get back in your cage! Don’t make me get the hose!’”

  Julia couldn’t help it. She giggled.

  “Or what about that part when he’s pretending to be Spanish? Remember?”

  “‘I. Am. Job,’” Julia recited, laughing now.

  “‘Ah, do you speak English?’”

  “‘I. Am. Job. Ha. Ha.’”

  “‘I’m sorry, the position has been filled.’ SLAM!” Diana nudged her sister in the arm, drawing a smile. Julia nudged her back and turned to the window, her skin glowing white in the day’s harsh glare.

  Eighty-Nine

  The outside world had shrunk to a pinpoint and Liz pushed the bus towards it. Nothing else existed. Just the vanishing point that she wanted to vanish into. She chased the dot, pushing her foot against the accelerator. If she lost sight of it, then it all would have been for nothing.

  She could hear the hum and inner workings of the bus. The sound grew louder and louder. The dot of light brightened.

  The wheels spun faster, kicking up dirt.

  A mother pushing a baby carriage with two additional children at her side threw her hands into the air, cursing, as the bus roared past her stop at the entrance to Combi-Chance Road.

  Three days later Bobby Deakins will leave a copy of the Bridge Bugle in the mother’s mailbox. She will read about what happened, who died and on what bus it all occurred. The woman will cry for four continuous hours.

  In the cloudless sky five black crows circled.

  Jack Barker followed the angry figures on the roadside until their yells bled away, their forms lost in a cloud of orange dust. He stood to look through the back window and realized that the bus had no back window, just a black metal plate covered in stickers.

  “Oi, driver!” he called.

  Peter turned towards Michael as though their initial eye contact had made them partners. “Geez, she’s gone and done it again.”

  The driver did not respond.

  Diana caught Sarah’s surreptitious glance at them. She shrugged. “Oh well, whoopsie-daisy.”

  “Whoopsie-daisy my bloody big toe is more like it,” Sarah said, chortling. Her thick crucifix bobbed against her breasts. “That poor mom. And with three little ones in tow too. I’ve got half a mind to go up and give this young lady a piece of my mind.”

  Liz could hear the rumbling of the road under the wheels, could feel the force of the engine in her fingertips. The high-pitched metal-on-metal screech made her nipples harden. Oh to be in that light, to live in this sound forever, she thought.

  She drove on.

  The speedometer climbed, trees skimmed past the windows faster than they should. The houses were sparse and their lawns wide as open fields, but speed drew them all together.

  “We need to stop,” Michael said out loud.

  He watched the driver lean to the left. Michael’s gaze went to the window again, his suspicion confirmed. They were drifting closer to the curb.

  “We’re going awfully fast,” Sarah said to nobody.

  “What?” asked Julia.

  “She’s right,” Diana said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Should I say something?”

  Jack was the first to stand.

  “Hey, driver-lady!” He whistled at her. “You tryin’ to kill us?”

  Outside, the curb grew larger. The tread of the wheels blurred into a dark wave. The wind whistled.

  Inside the bus, Steve had stood up as well.

  Peter slouched in his seat, eyes even with the low sill of the side window. The passing grass was a running yellow river. Panic coursed through him, tingling in his toes.

  At the back of the bus Jack took his first step towards the front. His sweaty hand slipped on the handlebar of the seat in front of him and he stumbled. Julia’s heartbeat quickened and in turn, deep inside another heartbeat raced to keep up.

  Lower.

  Deeper.

  Closer.

  A screw fell into its socket. It was coming loose and Liz could hear it screaming. Felt it vibrating out of place.

  Closer—

  (it’s so bright!)

  —closer—

  (it’s beautiful!)

  Closer.

  (oh god…)

  She was bathed in the white dot, so large now it burned everything else away.

  “Yes.”

  The light was the sun reflecting from Liz’s diamond trinket, from the face of Saint Christopher. Together they waltzed back and forth on the end of the sliver chain.

  There was a scream. A punch in the air.

  The wheels on the left-hand side of the bus collided with the curb.

  Eighty-Eight: Shadow

  Liz was on the ground of her parents’ shed. An exposed light bulb swung back and forth in a lethargic arc.

  Shadow. Light. Shadow. Light.

  A leather belt was tied around her left bicep, the skin bruised. On the floor ne
xt to her was the syringe. From a hole in her arm a single line of blood was drawn.

  In the dark she saw The Beast hiding so she opened her eyes. Her teeth chattered. There was a shadow that remained even when the bulb swung the world into illumination. A person so tall and far away. In the middle of this shadow she saw the winking red eye of a cigarette. She felt so good and she wanted more.

  “Please—”

  The shadow fell over her.

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  And the shadow fell away. Where Liz’s face had been moments before, there was now a spluttering pulp. Blood erupted from her nose and flooded the wells of her eye sockets. Limp hands swiped numbly at the red. Screaming, then silence.

  The shadow drew backward, fearful of what it had done and felt no emotion about. Its wet cigarette fell to the floor where the night continued to breathe in its bitter calligraphy. It stumbled around the room, looking down at the crooked nose on Liz’s face and without thinking grabbed the loose cartilage and snapped it back into place. Pause, then: “Thank you.”

  In reply the shadow spoke. “I’m so sorry—”

  (light)

  “—I will never hurt you. Oh god.”

  (dark)

  “I’m so sorry, Liz.”

  (light)

  “I’ll never leave you.”

  The shadow moved away.

  Through the red, Liz watched the eagle flap its wings as it sailed out between the swinging corrugated doors astride her brother’s shoulders.

  Then there were only stars.

  Eighty-Seven: Impact

  The twinkling of the Saint Christopher medallion blinded her. She couldn’t tell how long she had been staring at it, hypnotized. Where am I? Liz wondered. She was in a strange place full of loud noises.

  She moved her hands and realized she was gripping a steering wheel. The bus swerved away from the curb. There was a world beyond the medallion—a land of blur that she pulled into focus with a single punch of concentration.