The Orangefield Cycle Omnibus

by Al Sarrantonio

  One of them turned before climbing under the tent flap. “That leaves you two to get more brews,” he said.

  Josh pushed the cooler into a hidden spot beneath some nearby bushes, and stood up. “Forget driving,” he said, “I’ve had too many.”

  “Me too,” Will replied. “Got your i.d.?”

  Josh fished in the front pocket of his pants, produced a card. “Phony as Dolly Parton’s tits,” he laughed. “I can’t believe we’re twenty years old and can’t buy a beer without lying about it.”

  “Let’s walk to Burrita’s,” Will replied. He glanced blurrily at his watch. “Ten to eleven. He’s open till midnight, right?”

  “I don’t remember,” Josh answered. “Might be eleven tonight.”

  They set off through the park, in the direction of the main road. The night was still misty with the remnants of the night’s fireworks display; there would be another on the last night of Pumpkin Days, next Saturday. In between, there would be nightly music in the tent. Tonight it was rap music’s turn; another night, 40s music and then classical, with the high school band filling in another night and a polka party yet another.

  “You ever think about how stupid all this Pumpkin Days crap is?” Josh laughed.

  “Bullshit. You’ve loved it since you were a kid. It’s one of the best things about this town.”

  His friend snorted in agreement.

  Will went on, “I wasn’t kidding about Jordie being fucked up.”

  “You think he stopped taking his pills?”

  Will didn’t laugh. “Maybe,” he said, nodding back toward the tent, which was now in the distance behind them. An old Puff Daddy song, its lyrics cleaned of numerous obscenities, could barely be heard.

  Josh snorted again. They had reached Main Street and waited for traffic to clear in front of them, cars still pulling away from the end of the fireworks display, others trying to park to catch some of the music in the tent. It was a little colder than it had been, and Will suddenly shivered.

  “Don’t know about his meds,” Josh answered, “but he’s as big a weed head as ever. I noticed him pull a pint bottle from his pants during his first set, too.”

  “That’s part of what I’m talking about. When he’s on his medication, Jordie’s even tempered. Mild and funny as hell and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Remember all that crazy stuff he used to do in grade school, just to make us laugh? And that time he flipped out when we found that puppy that had been hit by a car?”

  “He cried like it had been his.”

  Will’s face darkened, and he nodded his head. “And remember that time in seventh grade when he didn’t take his pills, just to see what would happen?”

  There was an opening in the traffic, and Josh dashed out into the street, Will after him. They reached the other side and began to walk quickly; Will checked his watch — it was within five to eleven.

  “You bet your ass I remember,” Will said, quickening his pace. “Tore up a classroom and almost killed old Peterson. They were going to throw him out — shit.”

  They had stopped abruptly in front of a convenience store with the name Burrita’s over it; the lights within were out and the hours posted in the window stated that they closed at 7:00 on Sundays.

  “I forgot what day it was,” Will said. “We won’t find anything open now.”

  “Just as well,” Josh laughed; he had reached into his wallet and found it empty. “And I know you haven’t got more than a buck on you,” he continued, “you cheap bastard.”

  “Let’s go back.”

  They reversed their steps, crossing to the other side of Main Street as soon as they could and straddling the park fence till they came to the entrance.

  The tent glowed like a pumpkin from within, and they could see shadows of the dancers moving in strange shapes across the orange canvas surface.

  “Looks cool,” Josh said. He glanced at Will. “So spit it out. I can tell there’s still something on your mind.”

  “It was just too normal in Jordie’s house tonight. Everything looked like it had been cleaned, just for us. You know his Mom and his Aunt —”

  “She ain’t really his Aunt, dude.”

  “That’s just a rumor—”

  “Jordie told me himself. It’s why his father left. Jordie didn’t seem to give a crap, one way or the other—”

  “Well, anyway, I don’t ever remember the house being all that clean. Tonight it looked like it had been scrubbed. And when I asked him about the Halloween decorations in the windows, he laughed and said he put them there himself. Can you see Jordie taking the time to do something like that?”

  Now Will laughed. “No way. He’s a bigger slacker than you or me.”

  “There was just something weird in that house, is all.”

  “And why do you care?”

  For the first time that evening Will looked at his friend in a completely sober way. “It’s just that I think we should be responsible for our friends, is all. If we’re not, why bother to have friends?”

  Josh studied his face for a moment, then broke out in a grin. “Man, we’ve got to find you another beer!” he said. “You’re way too serious!”

  At midnight, the last record was played, with Charlie Fredricks, one of the local sheriff’s deputies, politely telling Jordie, with Josh and Will helping him by this time, that it was time to call it a night. Fredricks, who wasn’t much older than Will, was a good guy and whispered to Will, “Tell your friend Jordie to leave the bottle home next time, or I’ll have to bust him. He’s been acting weird all night, and, from what I hear, for the last week or so. I’ve already told him I’m gonna keep an eye on him.” He slapped Will lightly on the back and walked away.

  The music ended, the crowd left, and they broke down the equipment in short order, pulling out cables, stacking the amp and turntables, slipping the vinyl LPs which littered the table and ground into their paper sleeves, their album covers, and then into the plastic milk crates that held them. Will and Josh carried the heavy speakers out first, hauling them by their handles and handling them into the bed of Josh’s truck.

  By twelve thirty they were completely packed, and on their way back to Jordie’s house.

  In the closed cab of the truck they could smell the overpowering alcohol odor of vodka on Jordie’s breath.

  “Say, Jordie, how much did you drink?” Josh asked, adding the deputy’s warning.

  “Fuck ’im,” Jordie grinned, pulled an empty pint bottle from the deep leg pocket of his baggy pants, let it fall to the floor. He giggled, pulling another empty pint from the other leg pocket, also empty. He frowned momentarily, then reached into his Jacket pocket and produced a third battle, three-quarters full. He unscrewed the top and took a pull.

  “Jesus, you’re gonna kill yourself drinking like that!” Josh said, and Will added, “Why don’t you give me that.”

  Jordie turned to him, and for a moment there was a murderous rage in his eyes. Then he handed the pint to Will and grinned. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  Will slipped the pint into his own pocket. He asked quietly, “Are you still taking your pills, Jordie?”

  “Just like on the list,” Jordie answered, a bit slurrily. “Always follow the list.”

  “Isn’t it a bad idea to drink so much while you’re on your meds?”

  Jordie swung his head around, and again that murderous glow came into his eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Tamping a touch of fear that crawling up his back, Will kept his voice level. “I’m just thinking about you, bud—”

  “Well, don’t.” He waved his hand, his anger gone. “Got a list…”

  “What kind of list—”

  “Here we are!” Josh interrupted, pulling with a braking squeal into Jordie’s driveway. He pushed open his door and gave Will a look that said, “Not now.”

  They unloaded everything into the house, first setting up the folding table in Jordie’s immaculately cleaned room and then arranging the a
mp and other equipment. The records came next, and while Will and Josh carried the last of the milk crates in, Jordie was meticulously lining up everything.

  “Jeez,” Josh said, trying to sound cheerful, “when did you learn to make a bed?”

  Jordie looked up quickly. “It was on the list. I do everything that’s on the list.”

  Will was about to open his mouth but Josh shot him another look that told him to hold off.

  “Guess we should get going,” Josh said.

  Jordie was inspecting his mixer, pushing it into line with the amp. He nodded without looking up.

  “See you around,” Josh added. “You said your mom and Aunt will be back in a few days?”

  Jordie nodded again, reaching into his still unzipped jacket to pull out yet another pint bottle of vodka, this one unopened. He twisted the metal cap off with a snap and swallowed some of it.

  In the cab of Josh’s truck, Will said, “Can I talk now?”

  “You’re right, he’s completely fucked up,” Josh said. “Every room looked like it had been scrubbed by a Navy swabbie. And he’s drinking way too much. We have to keep an eye on him.”

  In his room, Jordie heard the roar of Josh’s truck peeling out of his driveway, and then up the street. He was finished with the equipment; everything was lined up perfectly, like the list said.

  He pulled the list from his pocket, opening it carefully on a clear spot on his DJ table, and smoothed it out. It was a long list now, and growing.

  He fished a pen, which he now always carried with him, out of his pocket. He paused, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  After consideration, he nodded, and added to the bottom of the list:

  KILL WILL AND JOSH.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Annabeth Turner stood before a large, heavy-looking wooden door painted a dark shade of orange. The door curved up into a half-circle at the top. Inset into this section was a stained glass inset in the shape of a pumpkin. The glass had been stained the same color as the door.

  The stained-glass section was too high to try to look into, so she rang the bell.

  The house the door was attached to, which was at 1420 Acre Street, was a low, squatting, gloomy affair. Though it was just off Main Street, it looked as if it had shrunk away from the larger community of houses. It was surrounded by trees on all sides which seemed to press in on it. Unraked leaves of dark golden red and brown and yellow had washed like ocean drifts against the foundation of the house and a tall pine, in its entirety, had fallen over, victim to some storm or fierce wind, and lay on the right side of the house, with its root system, now dried as a knot of branches, pointing like an arrow at the front walk. Though it was daylight, and the last day of Pumpkin Days, with noise and laughter and bright October Saturday sunshine behind her on Main Street, Annabeth felt as if she had walked into a gloomy forest.

  She rang the bell again, and this time heard a deep Bong, Bong echo far within the house.

  There was the sound of shuffling, slippered feet approaching the door, which seemed to go on for much too long a time.

  Finally they stopped, without seeming to get any louder.

  She saw a shadow pass across the stained glass pumpkin.

  The door made an unnaturally loud creaking sound as it opened a wide crack, giving her a view of an old wrinkled face, like the face of a capuchin monkey, attached to a thin, robed body not much taller than her own.

  “Yes?”

  A shadow seemed to pass across the whole world; she glanced up and saw, barely, through the dark tree tops that a huge white cloud had crossed the sun.

  The voice was strong and deep but papery. The eyes, behind spectacles as thick as pats of butter, were large but rheumy, extremely light blue, a blue that was almost white. A fall of long wispy white hair fell from high on his forehead back over the rear of his skull, which was almost orange.

  “Are you T. R. Reynolds?” Annabeth asked, in as strong a voice as she could muster.

  The wizened monkey’s head broke into a smile. “You must have read my book,” he said. “No one calls me T.R. but my publisher, who is me of course.”

  The door opened wider and now Annabeth smelled Vicks Vapo Rub, and another, drier smell, like old books. Reynolds, she now saw, was indeed shod in slippers, which looked to be of old cracked black leather; there was golden piping around the foot opening. The visible portion of his foot between slipper and the bottom of his cuffed flannel pajamas was blue-veined and delicate-looking.

  Annabeth thought that if she blew on the man, he might break into dust motes.

  “And you are?” Reynolds asked, his voice still showing pleasure; he had thankfully stopped grinning, which had showed her a mouth of dentures backed by few other teeth, and red inflamed gums.

  “My name is Annabeth Turner,” she answered, in the serious voice she had practiced all morning. “Yes, I read your book and loved it. I’d like to talk to you about Volume Two—”

  “Ah!” Reynolds said, in a stronger, suddenly sad voice. “In that case, you’ll have to come in…”

  The door opened wider, making an even louder creak which Annabeth was sure would bring someone running from Main Street. But as she stepped into the now-wide opening the outside world, sounds and light, seemed chopped off as if with an axe.

  The door closed behind her, leaving her in almost total darkness except for a faint amber cast through the pumpkin stained glass in the door.

  By its light she saw a low wooden stool behind the door, against the wall — Reynolds must have used it to step up and look out at her through the pumpkin window.

  Reynolds was already shuffling off down a hallway. His slippers made a much larger, more annoying sound here inside the house. As he passed a doorway he flicked a switch on the hallway wall and a flare of illumination burst within a room behind the opening; now Annabeth, behind him, could make out art objects in the hallway — a dark wooden chest in the shape of a squatting beast, with its head hinged open at the cranium to reveal a red felt-lined cavity within. On the walls were dark paintings, mostly forest scenes; there was a sconce in the shape of a pumpkin without a top, unlit.

  “Come into the parlor, Ms. Turner!” Reynolds rasped heartily. She caught up to him only to see him disappear into the back of a room even gloomier than the hallway — deeply dark red damask chairs and, behind an ebony coffee table, a Sheridan sofa that almost looked to be clad in black velvet. The only illumination in the room came from a single lamp next to one of the damask chairs, which she quickly sat down in.

  Reynolds was fussing over a dark fireplace against the far wall, leaning down and poking at it with a long twig; she realized he was trying to light a fire within with a long match. The mantle above the fireplace was lined with what looked like tiny taxidermied animals — a field mouse, a chipmunk, a red squirrel in a fiendish pose, on its hind legs with its front claws ready for a fight, mouth opened in a silent hiss.

  Reynolds threw the match down in disgust and turned around. “Is it all right if we don’t have a fire, Ms. Turner?”

  “It’s warm enough in here,” Annabeth answered.

  It was — it was dry and airless as the inside of a toaster.

  “Very well.” He shuffled to the black sofa, and settled himself in the middle of it. It seemed to swallow him up for a moment, until he came to rest and sat with his hands folded.

  “What, then, would you like to know about Volume Two of my book?”

  Annabeth replied, “Will it be out soon?”

  There was a long moment of silence, during which Annabeth heard the whisper of a tocking clock somewhere else, faraway in the depths of the house.

  “It will never be out,” T.R. Reynolds finally replied.

  “Why not?”

  The pause was longer this time; and Annabeth distinctly heard the faraway striking of a chime for four o’clock.

  “Because I want to live.”

  Annabeth was about to speak when Reynolds spoke again.
“You see, Ms. Turner, the legend about Samhain is true.”

  “I know. I’ve… spoken to him.”

  “So have I, Ms. Turner.” His eyes behind his spectacles seemed to have faded entirely to white. “In a pumpkin field, last October, he appeared to me and asked me politely — a voice in my head, not unkind but with what I would call an undercurrent of authority — not to publish the second volume of my book. At that time I had finished writing it, and had only to satisfy my own curiosity regarding the existence of Samhain. He had no problem with the first volume; he even complemented me on it, but did not want the second part to be published. ‘A special request,’ he called it.”

  He leaned closer, looking slightly to the side of where Annabeth was sitting, before focusing on her again. “I don’t see very well these days, I’m afraid. And my health, as you can see, is precarious. However…”

  He rose from the black couch unsteadily, and shuffled off to a large chest on the wall behind him. Above the chest was yet another dark painting of a landscape: a tiny house, lit from within, surrounded by mountains and a brooding sky.

  He drew the top drawer of the chest open. It slid out with the screech of dried wood. He took something out, long and bulky, and shuffled back to the sofa. He placed what he held — a large, thick dun-colored folder — on the ebony coffee table.

  He sat back, the sofa swallowing even more of him.

  “There it is, Ms. Turner. He told me to give it to you when you came.”

  Annabeth sat stunned, and then reached for the folder, drawing it into her lap.

  Reynolds was studying her closely. “The thing I don’t understand — one of many things, I’m afraid — is why he chose you instead of me. But he became quite peevish when I asked that question.”

  Annabeth said nothing.

  “Quite peevish. You might study the copyright page on this second volume, Ms. Turner. It will prove instructive. And I won’t counsel you to be careful, because you already haven’t been. Perhaps some day my son, who is in California with his mother at the moment, will return and continue my work. Do show yourself out.”

  As Annabeth got up, clutching the folder, she again smelled the odor of Vicks, and saw that T.R. Reynolds was crying. She stood watching him. He turned his wizened face away from her, and lifted his paper thin, blue-veined hands to cover his face.