GARDENS OF NIGHT

by Greg F. Gifune

  “The pills they give you,” she said in a soft voice, “they make you dream, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re not dreams.” As she leaned closer, bending forward, her hand reached for him, clutched the head of his erection and squeezed through the sheets. “Do you understand?”

  He moaned uncontrollably as an orgasm exploded from him, wracking his body with shivers and a flood of ecstasy the likes of which he’d never known or even imagined possible. It was so intense he literally blacked out at one point, only to come awake and find her still there, still watching him, her hands back at her sides.

  Even as he tried to catch his breath and stop his body from trembling, a wave of guilt surged through him. He hadn’t had sexual contact with anyone but Brooke in years. He hadn’t wanted this but had been unable to help it, unable to resist it. The mere touch of this woman had sent him over the edge. How was that even possible?

  “Who are you?” he gasped. “Why did you do that?”

  “Listen to the things you’ll soon hear,” the nurse told him in the same soft voice, her eyes boring into him. “Pay attention to the things you’ll soon see.”

  Marc felt himself nod but was still unable to move or raise his head from the pillow. “You’re not a nurse,” he said as she moved away. “You’re not…”

  She stopped at the door, and again draped in shadow, looked back at him. Slowly, she raised a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Once she’d slipped back into the hallway and the door had closed behind her, Marc was able to sit up. Though still lightheaded from the orgasm and woozy from the meds, he managed to roll from bed and stagger to the door.

  The hallway was empty, the woman gone.

  The snores of his roommate brought him back. He closed the door and padded quietly to his bed. His pajama bottoms were wet and stained, and he could feel semen trickling along the insides of his upper thighs. Ashamed, he went in search of a towel with which to clean himself, but something in the corner of his peripheral vision caught the moonlight. It glistened for just a moment, long enough to draw his eyes to it. There, in the window, an intricate silk web with a small spider suspended from it. Though Marc had always disliked and feared spiders, he stood mesmerized, unable to look away or think of anything else.

  Listen to the things you’ll soon hear.

  And he understood in that split-second that something was taking place he could neither explain nor deny. He didn’t know how or even why, but there in the moonlight, staring up at a spider and its elaborate web, Marc knew something somewhere was attempting to communicate with him through this tiny creature.

  They’re not dreams.

  The spider suddenly scurried up along its snare, changing position as if for a better look at the moon dangling just beyond the window. Or perhaps a better look at him.

  Marc felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  Do you understand?

  “God help me,” he whispered. “Yes.”

  From that night forward Marc realizes that no matter how many pills they give him or tests they administer or therapy sessions they make him sit through, he cannot be sane in that place. He can only be sane if he’s free, and he can only be free if he’s with Brooke. He needs to wake up next to her and look at her face, because when he looks at her he sees everything he needs to know. It’s all right there, secrets, lies and truth.

  Marc especially likes to look at her while she sleeps. Or in those quietly breathless moments right after they’ve made love, when her eyes are closed, her chest rises and falls in steady, exaggerated rhythm, and she gently moistens her lips with her tongue, running it over them with unintentional eroticism again and again. He loves the way her breasts are still slick with perspiration, nipples taut, stomach sunken, arms draped across her forehead, legs held slightly apart and toes pointed. But most of all, he loves the way her eyes move rapidly beneath the lids as if she’s in the throes of REM sleep, her mind conscious and aware but still dreaming of not-so-distant moments when they’d held each other tight, he’d been inside her and her breath had escaped in whispers and quick tiny gasps.

  Now those eyes search for the love, the happiness, the safety they’d known before, and he can only wonder what Brooke really sees and feels when she opens those eyes and looks at his face. Does she still hear the screams too?

  Does she hear him crying, weeping like a child?

  Curtains of blood and tears part, return him to the backseat of Spaulding’s rental car. Windshield wipers wag back and forth, the sky darkens and the rain falls harder. The sedan, a capsule of metal and plastic and glass, rockets along the highway and through the storm. Gone is Spaulding’s mane, his hair cut short and styled professionally like any good corporate employee. The unique look of his youth replaced with something mundane, infinitely less interesting, and unfortunately, wholly necessary. It’s true for all of them, of course, but seems more pronounced in him. The lines in his face have deepened more than theirs, and his temples are sprinkled with negligible flecks of gray that could pass for rumors. Both serve to give Spaulding a mature and stable appearance, though arguably he’s neither.

  Armor, Marc thinks; memories of the night nurse drifting through his mind.

  “It won’t save you,” she whispers from deep inside him.

  It won’t save any of them.

  Three

  He first sees him in the rearview mirror, a blurred silhouette standing in the driveway. Marc cannot make out any features, as the sun setting in the distance behind the man obscures all but his outline. He’s big, at least six-three or four with what appears to be a rugged build, yet Marc didn’t see him when he pulled the car into the driveway. The man has apparently walked in behind them, but how did he not see him beforehand?

  Brooke notices him staring at the mirror. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a man in the driveway.”

  She turns and looks over her shoulder. “What’s he doing?”

  “Just standing there.”

  Marc squints, hoping for a better look. They’re familiar with everyone in their small neighborhood, and even with a limited view he’s certain this is a stranger.

  Night is falling fast, rolling in and following behind the man like a black wave.

  “Who is it?”

  “Not sure.” Marc sighs. “Probably a salesman or someone lost and looking for directions or something.”

  He tells Brooke to stay put, and the moment he steps from the car, Marc feels something in the air, a palpable tension the likes of which he’s never before experienced.

  He’s not afraid. But he should be.

  * * * *

  He awakens to the whirl of blue lights and realizes he’s been asleep for some time. I didn’t dream, he thinks. The whales have abandoned him. Or, as he continues deeper into upstate New York, is he simply too far away, the ocean too great a distance for them to reach him? It’s dark out, and though the rain has stopped, the roads are slick and recent raindrops still dot the car windows. The lights are captivating – beautiful and threatening all at once – but oddly distorted. Marc wipes at his eyes, mistaking this for another instance when he’d gazed at similar lights through a haze of blood and misery. This time his blurred vision is simply a remnant of sleep and quickly dissipates.

  “What’s all this then?” he hears Spaulding say as the car creeps to a stop.

  At some earlier point they left the highway for a more rural road, and have now come upon a roadblock. Numerous state police vehicles line either side of the road and several officers wield flashlights while milling about in raingear. An ambulance and fire engine are parked to one side, their red lights blending with those from the police cars and casting the entire scene in an otherworldly pale. The colored beams sweep through the thick forest on either side of the road in continuous patterns, as if some alien spacecraft has landed in the nearby woods.

  Marc cocks his head and gazes up at the night sky. Enormous trees lo
om overhead, the tops cutting shadows across a hazy moon already masked in clouds. He imagines it stained and dripping with blood.

  “Oh my God,” Brooke says.

  A car has overturned in a ditch along the side of the road. Glass and debris is scattered across a wide area, and there are two bodies nearby. One is covered with a sheet. The second is surrounded by EMTs.

  The police, using flashlights to point the way for drivers, direct their car and the two in front of them through the narrow space available, and soon the accident scene is behind them, the lights fading in the darkness and distance.

  “That’s certainly sobering,” Spaulding mutters.

  Brooke offers a weary nod. “I hope that other person makes it.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he agrees, though he sounds less than optimistic.

  “I only saw the one car, they must’ve lost control.”

  “Probably going too fast.” He glances at the GPS unit on the dash. “Between the rain and the bends in these back roads it’s treacherous going.”

  “At least the rain’s let up.”

  “Yes, but the roads are still slick.”

  Brooke pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes shut her eyes.

  “Are you praying?” Spaulding asks.

  “I’m saying a Hail Mary for whoever that person is.”

  “Oh, how Catholic.” His is a light but dismissive laugh.

  “You were raised Catholic too.”

  “Yes, and I’m still recovering.”

  “No harm in sending good thoughts, is there?”

  “No, but I thought you stopped attending services years ago.”

  “I did, except for Christmas. We still go to midnight mass sometimes.”

  “Well, isn’t that quaint?”

  “Don’t be so patronizing.” She playfully slaps Spaulding’s shoulder. “Some of us still believe, you know.”

  “In what, silly fairy tales, bedtime stories for the feebleminded?”

  “Oh, OK, I’m feebleminded now?”

  “Let’s face it, Brookie, you’ve always been a little slow.”

  “Funny, last time I checked I was the one with the master’s degree.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t mess with me, office boy.”

  As they continue joking back and forth, Marc remains quiet, hidden in the darkness of the backseat. He’s never before realized the extent to which he loves the sound of Brooke’s laughter. It’s a wonderful sound he’s missed terribly, and though she and Spaulding are engaged in little more than deflecting fears of their own mortality, he’ll take it even under such spurious circumstances.

  Marc turns and looks out the back window. The swirling lights are gone, swallowed by night.

  For some reason he thinks of the store just then, specifically, the tiny lights on the alarm he’d set each night at closing. It’s been months since he’s been to work or even set foot in the store. Brooke took a leave of absence from her job as well, and they’ve been living the past few months by tapping into her teacher’s retirement and the small disability payments Marc receives, but unlike him she plans to return to work after the first of the year, in just a few months. She’d have returned sooner had she been able – her job has always been something of a sanctuary for her – but she knows someone has to watch over her husband. Like some helpless and irresponsible child who can’t be left alone, Marc thinks.

  In a perfect world he’d return to his job too, and everything would go back to the way it was before. But the longer he stays away, the less likely that all seems. Garth Petrie, the owner, gave Marc’s assistant the position of manager once it was clear Marc would be unable to report to work for an extended period. “It’s only temporary,” Garth said when he’d stopped by the house to give Marc the news. “You know, until you’re back.” Garth has always been fair with Marc, treats him right and takes care of him, and while Marc certainly doesn’t owe Garth anything – he’s slaved at the store for years and has always been a reliable and dedicated employee – he knows he’s not only let Garth and his staff down, but himself as well by having to go on disability. Willis, Marc’s assistant manager at the store, has worked there a little over two years. He knows Willis will do fine but still feels guilty not being able to do the job himself. After all, Marc spent years working his way up into the manager’s position. Now it seems such a waste, so totally pointless. Maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

  It’s only temporary.

  No, he thinks. Nothing’s temporary. Everything lasts forever, especially things that ought not to.

  Time passes. Marc cannot be sure how much, but some time later Spaulding announces, “We’re here!”

  The sound of his voice snaps Marc’s concentration, and he focuses on the rumble of the car as it rolls along the suddenly uneven terrain of a long and narrow driveway. Covered in white gravel, the stones pierce the darkness like shards of glowing bone strewn about the earth.

  As Marc wonders how many skeletons it might take to produce the amount of bone necessary to cover that much ground, the car comes to a stop.

  Even bathed in obscure moonlight and the harsh gaze of car headlights, the small chalet looks like something out of a fairytale. Set on a secluded and well-maintained piece of densely-wooded property, beyond which lie a series of distant hills, it waits amidst the forest as if just for them.

  The rain kicks in again, pummeling the car and falling even harder than before. Spaulding kills the engine but leaves the headlights on.

  “It’s beautiful,” Brooke says, looking back at Marc as if for validation.

  “Yeah,” he answers, doing his best to sound animated, “very nice.”

  Spaulding rummages through his pockets until he finds the key to the front door then pops the trunk with a release mechanism next to the steering wheel and shuts off the lights. “No way to do this without getting drenched, kids, so let’s just grab the bags and make a mad dash for the door.”

  “Careful not to melt now,” Brooke teases, “being made of sugar and all.”

  “Bite me.”

  “I’ll need a far more substantial meal, I’m starving.”

  “Let’s get inside and see what we can rustle up.”

  “Rustle up? Oh, how quaint.”

  “Did I mention you could bite me?”

  Beginning with her middle finger, Brooke playfully counts to three and they all jump from the car, run to the trunk, retrieve their suitcases and bolt for the chalet. She laughs effortlessly, the sound of her joy filtered through rain as her sneakers splash puddles. Spaulding laughs too, saying something Marc can’t quite make out as he runs along behind him for the deck steps.

  As Spaulding and Brooke hurry up the steps and huddle near the door, Marc comes to an abrupt stop just shy of the chalet. His eyes pan from the dark sky to the surrounding forest to the outlying hills. Rain crashes down, but he makes no move to escape it. There’s something beautiful here, clean and powerful. He smiles, feels rainwater pour over his eyes, across his face and into his mouth.

  “Marc?” Brooke calls from the now open doorway, a flood of light appearing behind her inside the chalet, “come on, you’re getting soaked!”

  He stays where he is, his suitcase dangling by his side. An abundance of aromas waft about. He breathes them in. The trees, the grass, the soil beneath, the dying leaves and the night air – all of it moist and wet and dripping – he can smell them all in a single intense rush that throttles his senses and leaves him lightheaded and breathless. But he is not frightened. Rather, he feels thoroughly alive and connected; a part of something so much larger and profound than he that his mind cannot quite fully grasp it. The sensation reminds him of his dreams, of the whales and their beautiful melancholy songs, a surface he has only begun to scratch, one hiding countless secrets that lie beneath.

  * * * *

  Brooke and Marc take the loft bedroom and Spaulding throws his things in the larger of the two downstairs bedrooms. The chalet is every bit
as beautiful as Spaulding described, and is clean, neat and fully furnished with modest but practical furniture and accouterments, including a small brick hearth and fireplace on the back wall. There is electricity, indoor plumbing and a woodstove for heat, but no telephone or television, only a countertop radio in the kitchen and a small stereo in the main room. The cupboards are bare but for seasonings and the like, and the refrigerator houses a box of baking soda, two plastic jugs of water and a few condiments.

  Thankfully, Spaulding has packed and brought along a double-pack of Mrs. Grass’s Chicken Soup mix, a loaf of Italian bread and a bottle of White Zinfandel. “This is to hold us over for tonight.”

  “Nice. Good night for soup.” Brooke selects a pan from those hanging above an island in the kitchen area, fills it with water then fires up the gas stove.

  “See?” Spaulding points to his temple. “Always thinking.”

  “I was wondering what that smell was.”

  “Side-splitting. In the morning we’ll drive into town and get some groceries. According to Scott, downtown Dasgar is only about fifteen minutes from here. I’m sure it’s quite the bustling metropolis.”

  “They must have a general store or grocer or something.”

  “I’m sure.” He yanks his Blackberry free of his belt. “OK, there’s no landline so let’s do a quick phone check.”

  Brooke tests her cell phone as well. They both get moderate though useable signals. Marc, lethargically standing by a pair of sliding glass doors that lead to the back deck, leaves his hands in his pockets. He hasn’t had the use of his cell in months. The nurse checking him in took it from him when he’d first entered the hospital and he hasn’t seen it since. Far as he knows they returned it to Brooke along with his other personal belongings and she tucked it away in a drawer somewhere at home. He isn’t even sure it still has service. What difference does it make? Who would he call? Who would call him? He’s damaged, after all, and nothing drives people away quite so fast.