This task complete, he walked deliberately to the basement door and swung it open—musty air and nothing more. He took a few steps down and tested his father’s step. The repair felt stronger than the steps above and below it.
Satisfied that the morning had quieted the house, he hopped into the Prius—thankful for its silent start—and headed off down the drive.
The practical part of his brain told him that the Shop-a-Lot would be open and more than likely had coffee pot replacements in stock, but as he turned off onto the highway that circled Maple City, driving away from the grocery store, he realized that he was heading somewhere else altogether.
The drive took him around the boundaries of the town. Past the Intermission Motor Lodge, past Primeland and the smell of charred bacon. He drove on, looping past the old municipal airport and the fairgrounds where roadies had raised the Ferris wheel and carnies had raised their tents in anticipation of the Fall Festival crowds. Lights on rides blinked as workers tested the electricity—fellow early risers on this cool, autumn day.
Turning right, Peter rode past the Maple City Cemetery where his parents had their plots. His father had bought them from a local fellow who was having a hard time making sales. After his father’s purchase, the man was flooded with orders. Friends of his father, mostly. Whatever was good enough for Big Bear was good enough for them.
Someday, they all lie together, Peter thought. The whole lot of them.
He headed down neighborhood streets, avoiding the school buses that had started to appear. By the time he reached Applegate, he had counted fourteen.
Recommended visiting hours were 8:30 am – 10:00 pm, but no one hassled him as he made his way to room 16. He found his father asleep in his chair, footrest up. The old fellow hadn't even changed into his PJs.
The man snored something awful, and the sound of it comforted Peter.
His mother lay curled in a question mark, balled up under layers of blankets. He leaned over her. The skin on her face was translucent as if she were made of wax.
Peter pulled up a chair and sat next to his mother's bed, but he kept his eyes on his father.
“Why did you ever buy that goddamn house, Pop?” he asked. The big man only snorted and chuffed in his sleep.
* * *
Two hours later, a nurse making her morning rounds woke Peter with a gentle shake and broke the news that his mother, Myrna Larson, was dead.
The Jansing Funeral Home was quite accommodating. After all, Herbert Jansing was an old poker buddy of Peter’s father and had apparently been allowed to let a few debts slide.
“Anything for Bill,” Mr. Jansing said.
Hence, the use of the larger of the two viewing rooms even though turnout was low—had it been Big Bear himself, Peter had no doubt there would have been an overflow crowd—and the allowance to have Mrs. Whittier play the organ. The old gal usually played for Turner’s Funeral Home exclusively, but Mr. Jansing being an old neighbor of theirs, Peter had asked the man if he could make an exception just this once.
“Your mother had her trials,” was all Mrs. Whittier said by way of condolences before taking her place at the organ to play “A Mighty Fortress is our God.”
Gina showed up ten minutes before the viewing with her kids in tow. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.
“Did you bring the photos?” she asked. Peter assured her that he did. Gina had washed her hands of anything inside the house on Oak Street, save for snapshots, prom photos and the like. Peter had three boxes in the trunk of his car waiting to be transferred to her safe-keeping.
Their father sat in a chair next to the door as far as one could get from the casket up front. The odd member of the VFW would linger to chat for a moment before going in search of the best seat for the service. Otherwise, Pop just sat there fidgeting, looking like a man waiting for a bus.
Sunday and Monday had been a flurry of activity. Peter met with Mr. Moots three times to make sure the funeral came off without a hitch.
“I guarantee, this will be the last meeting we have to have before the funeral,” Moots had said. The next day, he’d called to schedule another.
“My sister and her family would like to stay in the house on Oak when they fly in. Is that going to be okay?”
Mr. Moots had frowned. “Well, Lillian tells me that the college has already signed the papers. But let me make a few calls. The name Moots still has a little sway in this town.”
He’d made his calls, and Gina was given the green light to board her and her kids at their folks’ old house. Lillian Dann’s crew had done a good job cleaning the place out and storing the majority of the household items. Only the beds remained.
Peter made his way over to Gina, who was busy scolding her eldest for staring at his grandmother’s corpse.
“I’m worried about Pop,” he said.
“We all are. Bailey, eyes in your head!”
“I mean tonight. I hate to think of him going back to that room alone after all this. You think he could stay with you?”
Gina looked at him like he was daft. “Overnight? I don’t think that’s a good idea, Pete.”
“It’d be nice for him to be somewhere familiar.”
“Not overnight. Why don’t you swing him by after the cemetery? We're going to have a little spread laid out for the neighbors. Besides, I want to get an early start tomorrow. Shea’s got hockey."
Peter nodded. His sister, like his mother, was a force to be reckoned with.
He spotted Hannah chatting with the minister and excused himself. The man shook his hand when he approached.
"I was saying to your wife that since your father didn't have any stories that he seemed…well, able to tell at the moment, I thought I'd offer up one of my more generalized sermons. Not cookie cutter, by any means. Something suited to the time and situation. Perhaps I'll begin with Daniel 12:1-3.”
Peter thanked him, saying he’d defer to his judgment.
“Daniel it is.”
Mr. Jansing nodded that they were ready to begin. Peter held up a finger, holding him off a minute.
“Have you paid your respects?” he asked Hannah.
“Yes,” she said. “Have you?”
Peter took a deep breath, walked to the front of the room and peered down into the baby blue casket.
She looks fake.
And so she did. The woman's makeup had done a fine job of masking her lack of life, but it went too far in its attempt to make her look cheery. Her cheeks were overly red, so too her lips. She wore eyeshadow for the first time in her life, and her hair…
Dear God, that’s a wig.
Her hands were clasped together in an imitation of serenity. To the rest of the world, she probably seemed at peace. But to Peter…
What are you doing in my room!
He touched her hand. Wasn’t that the sort of thing that sons were meant to do?
Myrna Larson's eyes flew open.
No, they didn’t.
She turned her head toward him.
No.
Her brightly painted lips parted, exposing her overly-white, dentured smile.
Nope.
“I think we’ll get started,” said the minister. Peter nodded and went to collect his father. The scratches on his arm itched terribly under his suit jacket.
* * *
After the graveside service, the dozen or so mourners took their collective leave. Hannah floated the idea of lunch at Myrna’s favorite restaurant, but both Peter and Gina overruled her plan.
“I want to do what’s best for Pop,” he said. “I don’t think a crowded restaurant’s the way to go.”
One look at Bill Larson in his baggy suit and tie, watching the traffic pass by the cemetery, and Hannah agreed.
The affair at the old house on Oak was barely an event at all. Gina’s kids spent the majority of the time complaining about the lack of a TV while Gina guided neighbors to the meat and cheese spread from Shop-A-Lot.
Lillian
Dann had put in an appearance, spending the majority of her time talking Hannah’s ear off. Finally, his wife caught his eye and extracted herself from the realtor.
“What’s that all about?” Peter asked.
“Nothing,” Hannah said. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” he said, which wasn’t a complete lie. Flatiron Audio had given him an extra week to get his first audio in due to his death in the family.
“We can cancel your contract if you’d like,” Mika had said over the phone. Peter was quick to take that option off the table.
“The funeral didn’t…bring up anything, did it?”
She was talking about the other night, of course. Peter’s Crazed Night—the perfect complement to Hannah’s Bad Day. It helped that the house had remained silent during this recent wrinkle in their lives. Had he heard so much as a peep out of it, he would have dragged Hannah out of there kicking and screaming and hauled ass down the road.
“I’m good. I swear.”
But, he couldn’t do that to her. As restless as his soul was, he couldn’t move her again. She’d been patient during the funeral arrangements, had begged off working her shifts at the bar. Riggs had told her not to worry, that the Blind Rock was waiting for her whenever she was ready to come back.
In fact, he was here, wasn’t he?
He found Riggs scarfing down shrimp doused in cocktail sauce.
“Thanks for understanding,” Peter said.
“Of course, my friend,” Riggs replied. “Besides, what was I going to do? Fire my moneymaker? That wife of yours knows how to squeeze gold from a lemon.”
“Well put.”
“Sorry about your mom. Never really got to know her, but then again, this is only the second time I’ve ever been in this house.”
Peter scowled. “That’s not true. You were over tons of times.”
"Not so, monsieur. I was a frequent visitor to your backyard, it's true, but I wasn't…how shall I put this? Welcome inside.”
It was true. Myrna, the gatekeeper, had barred the doors to his friends.
“Besides,” Riggs continued. “We didn’t pal up until late, you being a senior, me being a lowly frosh.”
“Frosh is a college freshman.”
“Is it?”
Peter looked about for his father but didn't see him. More than likely, the old fellow was wandering around the place, wondering where all his stuff went.
“Now, what was the name of that play we did together?” Riggs asked.
“Shit, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Ole Larson and his ten-minute memory. It was The Cat and the Canary, you dumb fuck.” Riggs tensed, looking around at the other mourners. “Sorry, Jeez. Language.”
Hannah caught his eye from across the room. She’d been deep in conversation with Gina and now waved him over.
“Hold that thought,” he said to Riggs.
Peter avoided getting ensnared in conversation as he made his way to his wife’s side.
“We’ve got a problem,” Hannah said.
“It’s more than a problem!” Gina shouted.
"Hush, Gina." Hannah's voice was steely, and it shut his sister down. It was a skill for which Peter immediately envied her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Don’t panic,” Hannah said. “But we can’t find your dad. And your sister’s car is missing.”
* * *
Peter’s search took him all over Maple City.
He started with his father’s old businesses—the dry cleaners, the car wash—all the while keeping his eye out for Gina’s purple PT Cruiser.
He’d told Hannah and Gina to hold off calling 911 for half an hour to give him a chance to make an initial sweep, and his time was almost up.
Where the hell was the old guy headed?
Peter had a flash of insight and steered his way back to Jansing’s Funeral Home, realizing that was literally the last place his father had seen his mother, but the place was deserted.
His phone rang. It was Hannah.
“Tell me you found him,” he said.
“No, but I wanted to tell you that your sister is calling the police. You might as well come on back.”
“Shit. Just what he needs today. A ride in a cop car.”
“Peter, he might hit someone.”
“I know.”
“Come on back.”
He hung up and was about to take the next left back to Oak when he spotted the PT Cruiser.
You gotta be shittin’ me.
The car was racing away from him, but Peter could tell it was a match. He made a wildly illegal maneuver through a red light to get on the car’s tail, and the chase was on.
* * *
Peter’s father outpaced him for several miles, and if the situation weren’t so dire, weren’t so downright sad, Peter might have seen the humor in the race—a PT cruiser versus a Prius.
Fortunately, the ride steered clear of neighborhoods and schools, his father sticking to the main roads, determined it seemed to get the hell outta Dodge.
The train tracks on the edge of town slowed his father enough that Peter managed to pass him. With total disregard for the Prius, he swerved to the right, blocking his father’s path. Luckily, the old man hit the brakes.
Peter hopped out of the car and strode, state trooper-style, to the PT Cruiser’s driver’s side window. He rapped on the glass.
His father rolled down the window. “Yes?”
“Where are you going, Pop?”
“Pete?”
“Yeah, it’s Pete.”
Peter reached in through the window, turned off the ignition and retrieved his sister’s keys.
“You had us a bit worried. You wanna get out of the car?”
His father didn’t budge. “She’s dead. Right? She’s dead?”
“That’s right, Pop.”
“I knew that.” His father’s face wrinkled in sudden sorrow. “I knew she was. But I don’t want her to be.”
Peter’s breath caught in his throat at the childlike truth of the statement. At the sheer fucking honesty of it.
“She was the most beautiful gal I’d ever seen. You’re sure she’s gone?”
“Yeah. She is.” Peter opened the door. “Come on. Let me take you home.”
Peter returned his father to Applegate. After a brief chat with the social services office about next steps—new roommate, grief counseling and such—he bolted for the front door.
He called Hannah. “I’ll pick you up in ten so we can go get Gina’s car. That work for you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hannah said through the car’s speakers. “Riggs and I already took care of it. Your sister decided not to stay the night, and she wanted her car back ASAP. She can be…well, you know.”
“I sure do.”
“Shea ate too much cheese and got a stomach ache. And a woman from the college dropped by. I guess Mr. Moots didn’t get around to telling them your sister and the kids would be squatting another day.”
Peter tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “All right, I’ll see you at home.”
He heard a horn honk in the distant. “I’m not there. Riggs and I are swinging by the tavern so I can pick up keys.”
“You’re not working today?”
“No, just getting my keys. Your sister said she wants to be on the road by three. I already said my goodbyes, but you should go on back before she leaves. Maybe you can make sure all the food gets thrown out? We don’t want the folks from the college to find the same kind of mess we did.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Phone call ended, Peter headed down Pine Street on his way to Oak.
Riggs and I already took care of it.
He scratched at his forearm. The itch was getting worse.
* * *
Th
at afternoon, after Gina had made her escape and before Hannah returned home, Peter made a beeline for his laptop.
He conducted a quick search of his narration email account and located the message he was looking for.
Ellen Marx.
Ms. Marx was the author of three books he’d narrated for Quoth Audio, a now-defunct company that had blinked out of existence before he’d seen the last of his paychecks. The author's messages had grown progressively more terse. Not directed at him, but at the producers at Quoth. When had he last heard from them? Had they paid him yet? What kind of filthy liars were these people?
Her contact info listed Iowa City as her place of residence—a major city for this part of the country. It was only two hours west of Maple City. He could be there and back before Hannah even knew he was gone.
He tried the number and was pleasantly surprised when Ellen answered.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Hi, Ms. Marx. This is Peter Larson. I narrated your Heartland Haunts series a couple years back? I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
* * *
That night, as Peter lay in bed next to Hannah, he had an odd sensation of anticipation. True, his mothers’ funeral had shaken him, but for some reason, its timing was not surprising. Myrna Larson would have hated to have him miss out on her death. She would have wanted him to be knee-deep in it.
Hannah rolled over on her side and played with his hair. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Yeah.”
He felt something tug at the back of his brain. A subtle vibration thrilled his nerves. The sensation was akin to the gut-dropping feeling of being strapped and locked into a roller coaster.
The house was stirring.
“I need the car tomorrow,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I need to make a run to Galesburg. A couple of my cables are shot. I need to replace them before I start back up.”
“Good you found out now. When do you plan to get back to it?”
“Later tomorrow after I get everything hooked back up,” Peter said. “And you? What’s your schedule.”
Hannah lay on her back and stretched her neck. She raised her hands above her and laced her fingers, eentsy-weensy spider-style. “I’m scheduled for tomorrow, but I could always beg off and take a drive with you.”
The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1) Page 10