Night Relics

by James P. Blaylock

  He shuffled through the photos again.

  “Are we drinking coffee or turpentine?”

  At the sound of Beth’s voice, Peter jerked in surprise, his hand knocking his coffee cup, the coffee spilling out across the photographs and off the edge of the table.

  Beth grabbed the towel off the hook, snatched the photographs up, and dried them off one by one. She was dressed, as if ready to leave.

  “Sorry,” she said, wiping the table clean. She looked at the photos then, laying them out on the table to dry more thoroughly. “I didn’t mean to set you off.”

  “It’s nothing,” Peter said. “I’m a little gun shy. I’ve been...” He took the towel from her and sopped up the coffee on the floor.

  “Thinking about your family,” Beth said, finishing his sentence. She picked up a picture of Amanda and him, looked at it for a moment, then laid the photograph back down. “I’ve always thought she was pretty.”

  Peter waited.

  “Walter and I ended up hating each other. You and Amanda didn’t?”

  “Not really. Not like you two.”

  “You don’t hate her?”

  “No,” Peter said. “I guess I don’t.” He sipped gritty coffee from the half-full cup and then set it aside on the table.

  “You know,” Beth said after a moment, “Bobby’s coming home this afternoon. It’s a week early. His father’s too … busy to keep him the full month.”

  “Walter’s a jerk,” Peter said. “I knew he was a jerk when you married him.” He felt suddenly bitter, as if in some vague way he shared Walter’s weaknesses. Maybe all men did.

  “Yeah,” Beth said. “I’ve always known how you felt about him. You were right. If I had known more about the way things worked, about how men are, I might have protected Bobby from some of it. I didn’t know enough.”

  “I don’t buy that part about ‘how men are.’ Some of us just aren’t like that.” For a minute they listened to the sound of the wind.

  “Yeah,” she said finally, “that wasn’t fair.” She thought for a moment, as if choosing her words. “Let’s just say I know more now. I won’t let it happen to Bobby a second time.” She looked away, studying the photograph of Amanda again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead,” Peter said.

  “When you found out about Amanda, about what had been going on between her and the other guy, was it already over by then?”

  “What do you mean ‘over’? For who? Between us, you mean?”

  “No, I mean her affair. Was it still going on?”

  Peter shook his head. “Dead and buried.”

  “But you chose not to live with it? Not to let bygones be bygones?”

  “Chose?” Peter said. “I guess it was a choice. Some things, though... I worked at it, but—what? It spoiled things. Maybe if I hadn’t known him...”

  “And you weren’t ever guilty of the same thing?”

  “Not once,” Peter said. “I’m a confirmed monogamist.”

  “Like foxes,” Beth said. “I guess if you’re a confirmed monogamist you won’t stand for anything less in a mate.”

  Peter shrugged. “Since we’re telling the truth,” he said, “tell me what you meant about Bobby, about how you wouldn’t let that happen to him a second time.”

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “What did I mean? I guess it’s just that in the last three months he’s become pretty attached to you.”

  “I guess he has,” Peter said.

  “His life is all full of Peter this and Peter that. I bet his father is sick of hearing your name. I hope he is.”

  “Remember that we’re not all alike,” Peter said.

  “I know you’re not. Why do you think I’m here? If you were like that you wouldn’t be sitting in an empty room at dawn staring at photographs of the woman you broke up with after fifteen years of marriage. I guess what I wish is that you’d... figure out what you want right now, and settle down to it. Find a way to let the rest of it go.”

  She stepped across and picked up the coffeepot, wrinkling up her face, trying to act cheerful. “And you complain about my coffee.” She set the pot down.

  “You going?” Peter asked. “Stay for breakfast.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got lots to do today before Bobby’s plane lands. He’s flying into John Wayne at noon.”

  She put her arms around him and kissed him, long enough to take some of the fear out of him. “Cheer the hell up,” she said. “This isn’t the end of life as we know it. It’s just time that we got to know it a little better, that’s all. It’s time we got serious.”

  After she left, Peter sat in the kitchen chair staring into his empty cup. He could still feel the pressure of her lips against his. His hands remembered the shape of her body from last night, and he recalled the lilac smell of the scented powder she put in her bathwater and how, with her skin still damp from the bath, she had slipped into bed.... Each part of him seemed to have its own singular memory of their lovemaking.

  The woods outside were gray-green now in the dawn light. He got up and made a fresh pot of coffee, thinking now about the ghosts of summer afternoons. He went out into the living room and rummaged through the hutch again, pulling out more envelopes of photographs, sorting through them as he stood there, barely conscious of the wind sighing in the trees.

  There was something in the photographs, in their captured memories, that reminded him again of what he had seen before dawn that morning. He set them back into the drawer, then walked to the parlor door and looked in. Early-morning sunlight slanted through the shutters, dimly illuminating the room.

  On the carpet directly in front of the cold hearth lay a small flute, delicately carved out of wood, lying in plain sight like another hallucination. It was tipped across the edge of the tiles as if it had just that morning rolled out of the open fireplace.

  3

  OLD, OUT OF DATE—THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY POMEROY could describe Mr. Ackroyd’s place. It was the nicest in the canyon, because it had always been maintained, but the interior was like some kind of time-warp place, all wood and wool and books and old pottery. There were doilies sitting around on things, too, which was weird in a bachelor’s house, but the whole place was clean, and that was something to admire. Most men couldn’t keep a clean house. There was even a little closet near the front door with a broom and dustpan in it.

  When Pomeroy had arrived that morning, Ackroyd was sweeping up the leaves and rose petals on the front porch, and had picked up the debris with the dustpan and put it into the bin instead of just sweeping it under the railing. Pomeroy had committed the scene to memory, playing it through in his mind to get the phrasing just right so he could tell the story to customers. That kind of attention to cleanliness and detail was why the place was in the shape it was in. That would be a selling point.

  “I’d miss a television if I lived out here,” he said, watching Ackroyd prepare sandwiches in the kitchen. The old man moved slowly and methodically. Surprisingly, he had offered Pomeroy something to eat, for no reason at all—a sandwich, even though it was only eight-thirty, more like time for breakfast. Still, that was real hospitality, and Pomeroy made a mental note to that effect. Recalling it later in conversation could be impressive. He was a man who appreciated a good deed, regardless of the time of day….

  “Don’t you miss television sometimes? On a rainy afternoon with nothing to do, say?”

  “Never had a television,” Ackroyd said. “I don’t have anything against them, I just never got the habit, living out here.”

  “It’s the old movies I’d miss—Judy Garland, Maureen O’Sullivan, Laurel and Hardy. I saw a great one just last night—Going My Way, with Bing Crosby. Have you seen it?”

  “At the old Gem Theatre in Garden Grove. That must have been upwards of forty years ago now.”

  “How about when the old lady comes in at the end? If that didn’t bring tears to your eyes …”

  “Shameless,” Ackroyd said, “but effecti
ve.”

  “Der Bingle,” Pomeroy said, sighing.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “That’s what they called Bing, people who knew him.”

  “Ah,” Ackroyd said.

  “Der Bingle. It’s German, I guess.”

  “Sounds distinctly German, doesn’t it? Lettuce?”

  “You don’t mind washing it pretty well, do you? I’m not tolerant of insecticides.”

  Pomeroy looked around the living room, calculating the square footage. “Ever think of moving the hot-water heater out of the kitchen?” he asked. “That would be a selling point, moving it outside.”

  “Is that right?” Ackroyd said, running the lettuce under the tap. “You wouldn’t think something that simple …”

  “No, I’m serious. Just a couple of changes would make all the difference in the world. I’m talking a few hundred bucks. Wall-to-wall carpeting, maybe, and white paint on the woodwork. This place wouldn’t last on the market a week with upgrades like that.”

  A coughing noise came from the faucet, as if there were air in the lines. Pomeroy grimaced. “Where do you get your water?” he asked.

  “Spring up the hill, mostly. Late in the season or in drought years I draft it from the creek.”

  “From the creek?” Pomeroy could see through the window that the property behind the house rose steeply up the hillside. It was green with undergrowth, most of it shaded by live oak and sycamore and maple. A water tank, maybe a thousand gallons, sat at the end of a dirt path a hundred feet up the hill. “Must be tough out here—pretty primitive for year-round living.”

  “It’s all I know.”

  “I’d like a place like this for a weekend getaway. Bottled water all the way. What do you think you’d need out of it?”

  “I’ve always gotten what I need out of it.”

  “I mean seriously. What kind of offer would I have to make?”

  “I wouldn’t sell it.” Ackroyd laid the sandwiches on plates along with two variety-pack bags of potato chips. He poured iced tea out of a big jar into glasses and carried all of it out to the dining room table.

  “Well, like I said out on the porch before we got to talking,” Pomeroy said, “I’d like to make you an offer.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a waste of time. Napkin?”

  “Thanks.” Pomeroy took a paper napkin from a holder and unfolded it on his lap. “I mean a serious offer. What I’d give you on this place would make a healthy down payment on one of those new condos out in Tustin Ranch. All the amenities right there—stores, jacuzzi, pool. You wouldn’t have to drink water that’s had fish swimming in it. Or worse.” He opened the sandwich and looked at the lettuce inside. “A condo’s a sound investment.”

  “I’ve never been able to think of my home as an investment,” Ackroyd said. “That’s probably a personal failing of mine.”

  “Hey,” Pomeroy said, shrugging. “Some people have no head for business. But then the right kind of money comes along and they learn fast. Crash course. That’s the best kind of education a man can get. You won’t find it in any of these books.” He gestured at the rows of books, dismissing them all. Then he waited a moment, giving the old man a chance to chew the idea over along with his sandwich. “What do you say?”

  “Pardon me?” He was staring at the photos that hung on the wall above the bookshelves. “I’m afraid my mind wandered.”

  “Name your price.”

  “My price? Somehow what you’re suggesting sounds so exotic that I think we’re speaking different languages.”

  He sounded almost testy. Pomeroy nearly laughed out loud. The old man was shrewd as hell; you had to give him that. Pomeroy winked at him, one salesman to another. Clearly he’d underestimated the old man, sold him short. “Money’s the universal language,” he said. “But I don’t have to tell you that. You’re good.” He shook his head in admiration. “Scotchman in the woodpile somewhere, eh?”

  “In the woodpile?”

  “Look, I’m serious. Quote me a figure. See if you can make me laugh out loud. What? Fifty K? Sixty?”

  Ackroyd stood up without saying another word and walked into the kitchen. He was probably thinking about the money now, putting together a counter offer. Pomeroy would pretend to be shocked at the figure when the old man finally spit it out. The thing was that old boys like Ackroyd had been out of things for so long that they didn’t know what a dollar was worth when it came to real estate. You flatter them with the idea that they’re driving a hell of a hard bargain, and when you knuckle under and pay them off, they think they took you to the cleaners. Car sales was like that: well, there goes my commission…. Pomeroy pulled that old chestnut out of the fire every night of the year.

  Ackroyd returned, carrying a paper lunch sack.

  “All right,” Pomeroy said, “what would it take?”

  Ackroyd picked up Pomeroy’s uneaten sandwich and put it into the sack along with the bag of chips. “I’m awfully tired all of a sudden,” he said, gesturing at the front door.

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid I need fairly regular naps. I’ve got to leave in a half hour, and I’d like to lie down for a moment first. If you’d like to take the iced tea with you, I can put it into a jar.”

  “No, thanks.” Pomeroy was momentarily confused. The old man ushered him toward the door, showing him out. “Go ahead and sleep on it, then….”

  “Please, Mr. Adams,” Ackroyd said, calling Pomeroy by his current business alias, “I’m not interested in selling my house. I’ve lived here for upwards of fifty years, and I mean to die here. There are things connecting me to this canyon that would bore you utterly if I tried to explain them to you, but I’ll guarantee that they’re sufficient to keep me here despite the lack of amenities, as you put it.”

  He smiled briefly as the door swung shut. Pomeroy found himself standing alone on the porch. The old man was serious! He was apparently a nut. Pomeroy hadn’t pegged him for a nut. He got into his rented Thunderbird and turned out onto the road, pitching the lunch bag out the window when he was out of sight of the house. Nut or no nut, it was cat-skinning time. If he couldn’t take out an old fool like Ackroyd, then it was past time to retire.

  4

  THE WIND WAS STILL BLOWING AS PETER DROVE ALONG Chapman Avenue, over Orange Hill and down into the suburbs. He turned on the radio, punched through the buttons without listening to anything, and then turned the radio off again. There was something familiar and comforting this morning about the billboards and telephone poles and housing tracts, something safe and predictable.

  From the top of the dashboard, he picked up the flute he had found on the parlor floor. It belonged to his son David. Peter had bought it for him in Louisiana a year or so ago. Last Sunday David had brought the flute out to the canyon and had spent half the afternoon messing around with it, getting down the first few phrases of “The Merry Old Land of Oz.”

  So, what had happened? David had dropped it and then gone off without it? But then it would have been lying on the floor throughout the week, in plain sight.

  There must be some easy answer. Perhaps David had laid it down on the fireplace mantel and forgotten about it. Maybe the wind, or a rat, had knocked it off onto the floor. That was probably it—rats. Rats were to blame for everything—the appearance of the flute, the hallucination, the crying in the woods, the coffee burning. No doubt rats had also stolen the pocket watch that Peter had left lying on the front porch railing the night before last. The mayor of the rats was wearing it now, tucked into a vest pocket.

  A car horn honked behind him, and he realized that he was driving far too slowly, paying no attention. He sped up, thinking suddenly about Beth and about their talk that morning. The words “confirmed monogamist” rang in his ears again, as jarringly off-key as the flute on the parlor floor. In a way he had meant the phrase to be funny, but instead he had sounded a little too much like someone striking a holier-than-thou pose, choosing, as Beth had put it, to be offended by somethin
g. He hadn’t looked at it that way before. It was almost always easier just to blame your wife.

  He and Amanda had agreed to share custody of David, who was ten now. Peter’s move to the canyon was the one thing in the business that bothered Amanda. She could understand Peter’s wanting to live like a hermit, but David, she said, needed more. David wasn’t always easy. He could be moody, and in the last year or so, what with the breakup and Peter’s moving out, he had gone through a sullen phase. Peter’s attempts to fix things with him too often brought silence and shrugs.

  On impulse he pulled into the parking lot of a Sprouse Reitz dime store. There were eucalyptus trees and fall flowers growing in newly built concrete planters, and the stores had a recently tacked-on pastel facade. Peter was surprised to find that he couldn’t remember when the place had got a face-lift.

  Inside the dime store, things were the same as ever. The air smelled of yardage and popcorn. Near the door there were bins of Halloween candy and racks of plastic masks and wigs and skeleton suits. He looked the stuff over, tempted to buy one of the skinny rubber chickens that hung by its feet from a clothespin. A woman about seventy years old, very neatly dressed and with purple-gray hair, stood at the only open register a few feet away. She smiled at him when he inspected the chickens, as if she thought they were funny, too.

  It seemed to him that a dime store wouldn’t be a half bad place to work, wandering around with a feather duster among knickknacks and bolts of brightly colored cloth, sticking price tags onto glass tumblers and pincushions and putting in a few hours at the register, shooting the breeze with the occasional customer. It was a sort of haven built of trinkets, a never-never land where you watched the world slip past beyond plate glass windows. You could live back in the stockroom among the cardboard cartons, resting your feet on an old desk covered with invoices and with pens advertising wholesale dry goods.

  He caught sight of himself in the mirrored backdrop of a jewelry display, and with his fingers he smoothed out his wind-mussed hair. Yesterday evening Beth had told him that shaving his mustache had made him resemble Gene Kelly and then had tried to get him to dance with her to a tape of old Motown songs on the portable cassette player. It turned out that shaving his mustache didn’t make any difference at all. He still could dance only a sort of two-step that Beth finally began to refer to as the “Clod.” Gene Kelly, though … He was built about right, although he was a little tall. He tried smiling at himself in the mirror. Well, maybe with a hat and umbrella, kicking through a puddle …