Before the crowd dispersed, I held their attentions. Though Henry was a hard act to follow, I thanked everyone for coming, and encouraged them to stay and browse.
“Be sure to dig out your monocles and magnifying glasses,” I smiled, “because we’re on to Agatha Christie next.” And with that announcement, Sam, Raina, and Rachel started passing out flyers for my next Fright Night, a week from today, which I had printed just in case things had gone well.
The crowd applauded, and then circulated through the store. A long line formed at the counter, where I handled the register while Sam bagged books. We chitchatted with customers, all smiles and laughs, and it felt like we were a real couple. We were, weren’t we? Even in the course of all this blessed success, I thought of his words, I love Delilah, but it’s hard to move forward when you have to keep looking back and his second trip to Fayetteville without telling me. Was all my brokenness preventing us from moving forward? Was this all somehow my fault? Was I overreacting to Sam’s secretiveness in the first place?
I looked around at all the happy customers, my good friends, the store in all its gothic glory. I’d managed to slap a band-aid on Beach Read for the time being. What could I do to fix Sam and me?
Chapter Thirty-One
Aftermath
The word “aftermath” doesn’t have the simple etymology one might expect of a compound word. It’s actually a farming term that means to mow or a mowing. In one definition, it was the land after being sickled. Over time, it became the word we know it as, meaning what comes next after a catastrophe.
Sam, Henry, and I had just finished counting the till and tallying up the numbers, the after math, and I’d made more money in four hours than I had since day one combined. I had been mowed down by my problems, but had somehow managed to squeak in a success.
Sam was the first to say it. He grabbed my hands across the counter and said, “You can do this. You can make this place work.” He laughed with proud delight. “You’ve proved it, Delilah!”
“It was pretty amazing, wasn’t it? I proved I can throw a good party,” I admitted, “but I have to sustain it.”
“Sustain it?” Sam argued lightly. “Hell! All you have to do is throw a couple of parties a month and that’ll be enough not only to make Joe Duffy happy, but to keep you in business comfortably.”
I was cautiously optimistic, and content to celebrate the joy of one success without considering how I’d make more, for the time being. I bundled up the money, receipts, and my scrawled amounts, and locked everything in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in my office.
“Ready for me to walk you home?” Sam asked from the doorway.
“Almost,” I said. “Just give me two minutes to shutdown my computer and I’ll be all yours.” To this, he smiled.
“You are all mine already,” he noted, “but I’ll wait at the door.”
I grinned. Yes, I was his, but I wasn’t sure he was really mine – not with secrets lingering between us. I needed to ask Sam about Fayetteville, find out why he’d gone without telling me, again. But, I remembered our Area 51 night, how I pretty much almost ruined it by bringing up Fayetteville and topping off that poop cake with mentioning his wife. I wasn’t about to do that tonight.
I sat down at the desk and moved the touchpad of my laptop to wake it up. When the screen came to life, however, it was not on the desktop screen where I left it. Rather, Internet Explorer was open, and so was my browsing history. My breath caught in my throat. Had I done this and just forgotten? No. I hadn’t. The last time I’d been on the computer was that morning when I printed out my Frankenstein conversation starters. But, I’d left the screen on the desktop. I was sure of it.
My browsing history had been left open to the last significant day when I had researched everything I could think of relating to the redheaded woman. Lighthouses. The Peacock. The number four. Her symptoms. And the web page displayed was one of my findings, an article on the effects of lead poisoning which had popped up during a search of the symptom, blue lips. This had also brought me pages on the Blue Man Group, blue shades of lipstick, asphyxiation, and Smurfs, so I hadn’t really given this article much thought.
But, here it was, glaring at me. Someone had been here, had seen what I’d been up to, and had either gotten interrupted or left it for me to see like this. Why would anyone care about my browsing history?
People had come in and out of the office all night to use the bathroom. Perhaps someone had checked out my browsing history the way a nosy nelly might snoop in someone’s medicine cabinet. An innocent curiosity thing. Could it be?
Staring at the screen, my skin crept alive with goosebumps. Giant, normal, child. The shadows drifted through my head. Then came his. My hand went up to my neck where the cuts stung. In my daydream, he grabbed me, and the panic started to take over again.
With a trembling hand, I shut down the computer. I met Sam at the door. Though I had often battled him foolishly over things like opening doors and walking me home, I didn’t protest tonight and doubted I would for a while in the aftermath of the robbery and now this strange realization that someone had been snooping on my computer.
We strolled around the corner of the building, under the lovely lights Sam had installed, and made our way down the alley. A cool breeze kicked up, and filtered through me like ice water.
“I just can’t get over how awesome it was,” Sam remarked as we went. “The whole thing, from the decorations to the costumes to the food. Yes, even the food. Mike’s not my favorite person, but he did a good job and I can’t believe your Aunt Charlotte showed up. I hope Clark puts a picture of that in the paper-”
“Sam?” I said, stopping as we reached the stairs. His smile fell when he looked at me.
“Delilah, are you shaking?” He grabbed my hands.
“Sam, I know you need to go home,” I spat out, “and I know you haven’t slept and I’ve asked way too much of you already and I get you’re uncomfortable, being alone with me, but would you stay? With me? Tonight?”
“Of course. What’s wrong?” he asked.
I breathed in heavily, almost swearing I could feel the blade at my throat again, feel its tip traveling down my chest. Was my attacker at the party? Had he been the one to get on my computer? Had I spoken to him, smiled at him, not knowing who he was, while he got his secret kicks? I shivered.
“Sam, I-I’m scared,” I let go at last. “I’m, I’m just scared.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Boundless
Mahatma Gandhi said, “True love is boundless like the ocean and, swelling within one, spreads itself out and, crossing all boundaries and frontiers, envelops the whole world.” This was how I felt about Sam. The problem was that I could just as easily replace the words “true love” with “my fear” and have an equally true statement. My fear swelled and spread into everything.
The voices that had been stirred to life under the chaos of the last two days took a hiatus. Just knowing Sam was in the room (on the couch, not in my bed) was enough. And thankfully, Sam didn’t press me for details. He was just there, the way I needed him.
But, upon waking, the voices returned, like a cantankerous old woman who does nothing but rock her chair and criticize, her bony finger stabbing at me.
I awoke from the most peaceful night of sleep I’d had in ages to find light pouring in my window, Willie pressed against my backside, and Sam gone. When I looked to see the time, I found a note against my alarm clock. Be back soon. Be ready.
Ready for what, I wondered.
I closed my eyes again only to set off a slideshow of dark memories. Trapped in plastic, unable to breathe. An endless black ocean. A knife pressed against my throat. And, as much as I tried to fight it, a redheaded woman having a spastic fit in my arms. Could I be creating drama to add to my already-impressive playlist?
We are all just one pain away from lunacy. Perhaps I’d already crossed over.
I needed no further encouragement to get out of
bed. Sam made me promise that today would be ours, and we needed it. But, I worried he was going to try something drastic, like taking me to the Point for a day of swimming (or anything water-related), and I dressed to reflect my feelings. A blue sundress, hair down, but pinned back neatly at the sides, make-up, earrings, and my nicer, canvas deck shoes (better than flip flops anyway). I packed a light sweater in my bag, sunglasses (mainly to help hide the bruise on the side of my face), and lip gloss. Today, I was bound and determined to look and feel like a real girl, even down to my matching black underwear.
“So, what’s the plan, Sam?” I asked when he returned.
“Not telling.”
“Am I dressed appropriately?” I insisted.
His eyes went up and down, and with a short, unrevealing smile, he said, “Perfect, as always.”
And the first hour of our Jeep ride continued much the same way – me trying to manipulate clues out of him, and him smartly not letting me do it, the downside to having an ex-military, cop boyfriend – he knew how to keep a secret.
My beachside fears were put to rest, however. We left Tipee Island (by bridge, thank goodness) and headed inland – destination unknown. We passed through many small Carolina towns, from the quaint to the barren, and for a while, I enjoyed the drive. Wind massaging my skin. Sun warming my face. Sam doing all the driving. If I could just stop thinking, I might actually enjoy myself.
But, with the first hour behind us and well into the second, worry bubbled and festered. Where on earth were we going? Our date was turning into a road trip. Where could we be going that couldn’t have been found within a fifty-mile radius? A movie theater? A nice dinner? All other entertainment fare was close at hand, closer than this. Our casual day together seemed to be transforming into something more serious, and the something more serious could be anything. A break-up. An intervention. A proposal.
“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” he asked finally.
I smiled. “And you’re enjoying that fact, I think.”
“A little.”
“What is this all about, Sam?” I insisted. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you’d never understand if I tried to explain,” he returned cryptically. “I’d hate to ruin it with words.”
“You’re being so mysterious.”
“Yeah, but you like that sort of thing,” he decided.
“Only in books,” I countered softly.
I could feel Sam’s eyes on me sideways, but I kept looking out the absent window. We were top down and beachy-cool today. “Are you doing okay?” he finally asked, and by the way he said it, he referenced a plethora of things: my attack two nights ago, my ever-present panic and fear of water and dark places, my general state of being, my seeing a woman who perhaps wasn’t there (and making a big deal about it) all of my lunacies tied up into four little words. Are you doing okay?
I ignored the question. How could I answer it anyway? “Did you know that the first mystery story wasn’t written until 1841 by Edgar Allan Poe? The Murders in the Rue Morgue. It took writers that long, centuries of telling stories, before one finally said, ‘I think I’ll write about a crime for readers to try and solve. A mystery. I find that fascinating since it’s a relatively new form of literature and yet it’s the most popular type these days, next to cheesy romances.”
“What do you think people enjoy about it so much?” Sam asked. “I deal with crime every day, and I don’t see what’s so fascinating. People are either stupid or evil, sometimes both. Why do people want to read about humanity’s cruelty?”
“People want to read about humanity’s redemption,” I returned, “not its degradation. They want to believe that even though there is evil afoot, someone is hot on its trail. Makes us feel safe even when we’re not.”
Sam turned right onto a country road. We’d been losing civilization for a while. Towns vanished into fields. We hadn’t seen a gas station in ages. And now, we were pulling onto a wooded road with no lines.
“Speaking of feeling safe,” I said, “where the hell are we? Looks like we just pulled onto Serial Killer Avenue.”
Sam snickered. “Guess it does look like a road you’d hide dead bodies on, but don’t worry. I have no plans to kill you just yet.”
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “There are worse ways to go, I guess.”
This shaded country road took us to another and then another before we finally slowed down. Sam scanned the woods and found a small parting, like a closet in the great mass of this country room, and pulled in. The driveway wrapped around trees and took us slowly deeper into the forest, where the air was cool and alive with fragrances. Pine. Dirt. Grasses. Before long, a structure came into view where the dirt path ended.
Once, it had been a house. The wood was a rotted gray, except for the few places where moss grew. The windows were only holes next to a door that had somehow managed to hang on by its rusty hinges. Trees and bushes and tall grasses encroached on it the way a spider wraps up its prey in silk. It wouldn’t be too many seasons before the house melded into the forest again, which seemed fitting.
Sam smiled, turned off the engine and sat a minute, looking over the place.
“If I wasn’t curious before, I surely am now,” I admitted. “What are we doing here?”
“Exploring.” He jumped out of the Jeep child-like. He raced around to my side, and held out his hand as if I were stepping out of a Cinderella carriage.
We approached the front steps – three that led to a small porch and then the front door. Some boards were so black with mold they were mush, rotted away and waiting for just the right movement to crumble.
“Is this safe?” I asked before we took the first step.
Sam shook his head and grinned. “Probably not.” Sam’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Should we try it anyway?”
My lips curved into a coy smile. I slipped my hand into his, and said, “Yes.” The three steps passed under us without a problem. We carefully avoided holes already busted through on the porch. Sam pushed the door open with one forceful move, letting a cloud of dust and grit shower our heads.
The inside hadn’t fared much better. Tacky wallpaper drooped from blackened walls. Cobwebs hung like curtains across the window holes. Dirt, leaves, and animal presents littered everything and the air was a musty, mildewy mix – not entirely bad, just strong. A seatless chair and broken lamp were the only remnants of furnishings. The kitchen was a shell. A tile counter was broken into shards, draped across a few cabinets. Empty beer bottles littered the floor. The place looked and felt like a cave.
“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Sam said as he eyed the light fixture above his head. It jutted out of its place like the house had thrown it up. “Never even told anyone about it.”
“What is this place?”
“I know I don’t talk about some things,” he went on, hesitantly. “I’ve always been taught to keep everything close to the chest. Thought it was better that way. Maybe if I didn’t talk about the bad stuff, well, maybe it’d go away.”
I rolled my eyes over the holes in the ceiling, creating odd skylights with warm yellow rays bursting through, and breathed out heavily, “You lived here.”
“It was a shack then, too,” he told me, “but anything without wheels was a mansion to me then, even this shit heap.” He strolled through the kitchen, slapping some of the loose tiles on the floor where they cracked into shards. “It’s almost exactly the way I remember it.”
“How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. Come with me.” He took my hand and pulled me into another room at the back of the small house. Sam bent over and toured the floorboards, looking for something. It was a small room, so within two minutes, he held up a finger and said, “Found it.”
A tiny X had been etched into one of the floorboards. Sam sat down next to it, and used his keys to wedge a plank out of its place. He revealed a makeshift compartment beneath, where a dirty cigar box laid in wait.
Sam’s smile widened, and he said, “Treasure.” He unwedged the box and set it before me. “Open it.”I lifted the lid and discovered just what you’d expect a kid to hide in a cigar box. A stack of Garbage Pail Kids cards. A broken compass. Coins. Two Hot Wheels hot rods. A couple of packs of unopened Wrigley’s. A wrapped up ball of string. And a tattered picture – his parents.
I pulled out the picture, holding it in my hands like the rarity it was, and held my breath as I looked at it. I’d never seen a picture of them before, and from the few things Sam had told me about his life with them, there wasn’t much memorabilia.
“I used to hate them,” he told me as I saw their faces for the first time. Sam looked just like his father. Both his parents were attractive people with strong faces, but there was something about their eyes that didn’t seem real. A dullness.
“And now?”
“Now, I just feel sorry for them.”
A sympathetic smile crossed my face as I handed the picture to Sam. He glanced at it briefly, placed it back in the box, and grabbed the Garbage Pail Kids.
“You ever have these?”
“With my mother? Are you kidding?”
Sam laughed, and removed the stuck-on rubber band that held them together. For the longest time we sat there, chuckling over images like Leaky Lindsay, Oozy Suzy, and Fryin’ Brian. And even though Garbage Pail Kids were gross and uncouth (that’s what my mother would say), they provided a humorous distraction. The dilapidated house, the endless cobwebs, and even thoughts about the parents who made him live in places like this (and worse) disappeared in our laughter.
“I’m surprised you’d leave all this here,” I mentioned, gathering up the cards into a neat pile again.
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