Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  “How’s the new house coming?”

  Andrew’s voice was so sudden above the cubicle’s half wall, Corey visibly flinched. The black man standing over the wall smiled and raised his hands before him. “Shit, C. Sorry.” He laughed. “Deep in thought planning the deforestation of Hillcrest?”

  Corey managed to smile back. Andrew knew better than to talk current events around him. “Not deforestation,” he said in reply. “Up there, we call it a controlled burn.”

  Andrew folded his muscular arms over the cubical wall. He looked tired. Corey said, “You look like you had a busy weekend. Sleep much?”

  A shrug. “Not much last night. My mom’s into painting lately, and gave me her latest one Saturday for the apartment. A monkey hanging on some branches. Creepy thing— eyes that follow you around the room.”

  “Put it in the attic.”

  “Don’t have one. Besides, man, she’s my mother.”

  Corey nodded. “I miss her hot dogs.”

  Andrew nodded and said, “Me, too.” Booth’s parents were locally famous. For decades they ran the Hot Dog Dandy Truck, parked every day between eleven and twelve-thirty outside the building, proudly directing customers’ attention towards the W&G building and their successful son who worked on the fourth floor. After Max Booth died in a bizarre accident with the truck one morning, Andrew’s mother drifted into lonely retirement. No more Hot Dog Dandy dogs.

  Corey absently tapped the keyboard’s space bar as he talked. “Abby’s enjoying the open space, I guess. Hopefully she’ll make some friends soon.” He thought of their new neighbor. Before he could stop himself, he added, “Sam’s got a new friend, too. Some woman who lives behind us on the adjoining property.” A flash from the dream, not his wife but Vanessa on top of him. Just a dream, and a semi-normal one at least, not the half-waking kind with bees. He hoped it was only that and not some lurid fantasy.

  Andrew’s smile faded a notch, reading something into Corey’s statement, maybe. Then he nodded and the world, which had tipped for a second, righted itself once more. Corey was reading too much into everything. The guy was probably bored with the conversation, itching to talk about the war or the latest bombing, the back and forth saber rattling between the Powers, the latest child wrapped in explosives running into a crowd.

  Andrew said, “Wow, look at that.” He was staring behind Corey, at the bank of windows overlooking Main Street.

  Corey heard the tap-tap-tap against the glass and swiveled around in his chair. Hundreds of fat, round bees were colliding with the window. Black and white bodies hitting the glass then spinning, confused, trying for purchase on the smooth surface. They were quickly knocked free by the new wave, and more after them. A cloud of bees raining towards him, striking the invisible barrier, bouncing off—

  Corey covered his face with his palms, bit his tongue to keep from shouting.

  Andrew laughed, “What the hell? You the Wicked Witch or something?”

  His statement was so bizarre Corey lowered his hands and looked up. Andrew nodded his head sideways. “Since when are you afraid of rain?”

  Corey looked. No fat bees. Raindrops, angled by some breeze unfelt inside the building, splattering against the glass before sliding away and making room for the next wave. Rain. A heavy downpour, so thick that details of the bank building across the street blurred away. Already it was thinning. A passing cloudburst.

  Just rain.

  Corey took in a deep breath, held it while he looked down between his knees. His face burned. What the hell must people think of him? He let the breath out.

  Andrew shifted uneasily behind the wall. “Sorry if I spooked you, guy. It’s just that we weren’t supposed to get rain today… you OK?”

  Corey nodded. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep much last night, either.” Andrew didn’t appear to need more explanation. After muttering that they both needed to go to bed earlier tonight, he sank into his own three-walled world.

  Alone again, Corey tapped the space bar. His computer beeped; the spreadsheet had finished downloading. He tried to remember who he was supposed to mail it to while trying his best not to look behind him, at the rain fading to an occasional wet tap against the glass.

  IV

  Barely twenty minutes after the call, Hank Cowles emerged around the side of the house. Sam had been poking holes along the tilled and mulched garden while they waited, dropping seeds into the holes and carefully covering them over. Abby had become frustrated that Nurse Charles would not come inside the garden with her. She was currently running around the yard with the ecstatic little dog, waving a stick over its head. The dog barked and chased her, trying to jump high enough to get hold of it.

  “Mommy! Miss Charles’s daddy is here!”

  When Sam looked up, Hank Cowles was smiling and waving, whether at Abby or the dog she couldn’t tell. He was a tall man, stooped, with unseasonably long polyester sleeves buttoned at the wrist. What little hair he had was grouped in tufts along the top and back of his scalp. Nurse Charles barked and ran excited circles around the old man before returning to Abby, jumping up and finally getting hold of the stick. The interchange gave Samantha time to brush herself off and extricate herself from the garden. Hank met her halfway.

  “Mrs. Union,” he said with an odd expression: half-smile, half-snarl. She remembered that look from their other meeting, suggesting perhaps a minor stroke in his past.

  “Mister Cowles,” Sam said, smiling widely as if to make up for the man’s own incomplete grin. “You got here fast.”

  His grip was cool and dry compared to Sam’s heated, sweaty palms. A wasp circled his head a moment, large like the one she’d seen on the door Saturday. It flew away but another, or maybe it was the same, took its place. Where were these things coming from?

  Hank reached into the pocket of his chinos, produced a cell phone, waggling it between his fingers. “My only phone,” he said, slipping it back into the pocket. “I was merely on the other end of your road. I enjoy taking walks, especially in the good weather.”

  “The tag said you live on Main Street,” she said. “That’s quite a long walk.”

  “What else is an old man like me going to do with so much time in the day? Besides, a trip across town to visit my property,” he bowed his head, “actually, part of it is now yours, isn’t it, has become a ritual for us. Charlie and me, I mean. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s so beautiful here.”

  His smile rose to something more genuine, revealing gaps where a few teeth had long fallen out. “It certainly is. I promise not to intrude on your privacy. But we do enjoy the road.” He gestured towards the front, turned to Abby. “I see Charlie has a new friend. That’s nice. Children need pets, don’t you think?”

  She watched the pair for a few seconds without replying. Finally, “Yes. Unfortunately, my husband’s allergic.” Not a lie, not really. He was allergic to pollen, ragweed. Not dogs. Not physically.

  Hank made a noise in his throat. To Sam it sounded like a stifled laugh. “Allergic, or afraid. Many people have phobias, more so lately it seems. Everyone should have a dog.”

  Sam blinked. What the hell was he talking about? “He’s allergic,” she replied in a weak voice.

  Hank turned, a small move, but now that he faced her, his height loomed. “He’s afraid.” The smile was gone.

  Sam shook her head, not knowing what else to do. Hank counted off his next points on gnarled fingers. “Of dogs, cats, any animal, in fact, which displays a sentient thought. Anything he cannot control. You didn’t know that, did you, that his eccentricities aren’t relegated only to the canine family?”

  A step back, putting more space between them. “Why are you saying that? Lots of people are nervous around dogs. Did he tell you something? When would you have talked?”

  As if bored of the topic, Hank raised his arms towards the house and the slowly developing yard. “I see you’ve settled in well.” He narrowed his eyes. “How much more ar
e you planning on opening up?”

  She assumed, hoped, he realized his rudeness and was trying to change the subject. Accusing Corey of being some frightened child, afraid of more than… was he afraid of cats? Don’t give his ranting any more thought!

  And what they did with the property wasn’t any of his business, either. The land was thick with old trees, choking and competing with each other for room. A half acre was now cleared and usable; the other five and a half surrounded them like a tangled hedge. She shrugged and, with a stammering voice, hoping if she answered the question he’d just go away, Hiding like a bird in the bushes, chirping its plea to go away, go away, “We might go back a little more, if we decide to get a pool. But it’s nice like this, p-peaceful.” Damn it! She hadn’t stammered since she was a child. She was taking him too seriously. The man was old, probably senile.

  But was he dangerous? Samantha’s throat was dry, legs heavy. Don’t show fear lest the wolves attack.

  The book of poetry was on the kitchen table, open and exposed.

  “That it is,” Hank said, nodding. “I don’t suppose you’ve met anyone from town yet? Any neighbors?”

  An image of her, the scent of Autumn filling her head. “Vanessa,” she said, almost to herself. When she realized she’d answered his question aloud, Samantha took a full step away from him. Something was very wrong with all of this.

  Hank stared past her, towards the rear of the yard. “Ah, Vanessa. She lives behind you, through the trees that way?”

  Sam found herself picturing the woman’s eyes, deep blue, almost black. Maybe they were black. Smell of the woods around her, dress buttoned to her neck.

  What the hell was she doing? She and her daughter were alone with a crazy man. Hank stared down at her, again with that half-snarl. He pursed his lips, added, “Well, actually she doesn’t really live there. It’s all a rather complex illusion built and fed by - ”

  “She brought us pie!” She had to interrupt him, even if it meant talking gibberish. His words were confusing, making her dizzy. She blushed partly from embarrassment but mostly a growing frustration. She needed to make him go away, then get inside, write down the flitterings in her mind. He stood judging me, judging us, like God over Adam, knowing too much, while the nurse circled and wrapped her child with strings that bound. Stop it, stop it!

  Any semblance of a grin on his face dropped, as if he’d run out of strength to maintain the pretense. “I don’t mean to imply she’s not real, of course.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, can’t say we’ve had much to do with each other. I’m a rather private man, after all. And, since I never actually lived here myself…” Two wasps zipped across the lawn toward him, veered away at the last minute. Sam followed their progress, and he followed her stare. “Bees and wasps, the workers of the world. They couldn’t give a rat’s ass what’s happening in the outside world. Until, even for them, it’s too late.”

  He knew about the wasps. She thought of the key, cradled a sudden protectiveness for Corey’s little discovery.

  He stared after the bees, towards the woods. His pale, almost colorless eyes were unfocused. “The bees are your friends, if you let them. If you don’t bother them, try to squish them with a newspaper, they won’t bother you.” He blinked, looked down suddenly. “Right?”

  “I suppose.” The wasps were gone. She wanted him to be gone.

  He clapped his dry hands together a couple of times. Nurse Charles bounded to his side. “Well, Charlie and I should be going. Don’t want your husband to start… sneezing when he gets home.” He laughed, a paper sound more like a wheeze. “Thank you for keeping an eye on the dog.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, she loves to explore these woods. I have a feeling this won’t be the last time you see her.”

  Abby ran up to them and hooked her arms around her mother’s left leg. She said, “Miss Charles can come by any time!”

  “That’s good to know.” Hank began to turn but suddenly stopped and snapped his fingers.

  Please leave, Sam thought.

  “In a moment,” he said. She gasped, realizing she must have said the thought aloud. Hank leaned towards her. His breath was minty. “You need to remind your husband when he gets home to keep winding the clock, every day. He can’t let it stop now that it’s been started. It cannot stop, do you understand? He wishes he had control over his universe; well, now he’s got it. All things move forward. All things come to an end.” He straightened, raised his arms a little by his side. “You can write that one down in your book.”

  His smile was full now; no signs of stroke. His shoulders shook as he turned to leave, Nurse Charles at his heel.

  Samantha was frozen, unable to move or stop herself from whispering, “What the hell are you talking about? How can you - ”

  “Mommy! Bad word!”

  Hank laughed, kept on walking. He was nearly to the front corner of the house and out of sight when he shouted back to them, “Bad word, Mommy. Bad place.” Then he and his dog were out of sight.

  “Mommy?”

  It took Samantha a few seconds to look down, kneel beside her daughter and give her a hug. Her head felt tight, daylight flashing around her like anger. “It’s OK, Sweetie, I stood up too fast, that’s all.”

  Abby was quiet for a moment, but finally accepted the excuse. “Miss Charles is a cute dog.”

  Corey was afraid of dogs, afraid of many things. The old man knew about them. And her book of poems. How could he know?

  She squeezed Abby closer, wishing she didn’t care, wishing she understood what was going on in that terrible man’s head, and in her own. In this quiet moment, this vacuum left in Hank Cowles’ absence, nothing felt real. Everything felt like a bad dream about to blink away.

  V

  Corey turned the key until the tension returned, tipped the clock back onto its base. He’d considered letting it wind down, just to spite the old bastard for terrorizing his family. Then he remembered the bees, didn’t want to worry about them coming back. Just a dream. Any connection, no matter how thin, between them and the clock was only a remnant of that. But he was exhausted, and didn’t want anything to keep him awake tonight. The clock was wound, the flue shut; no sign of the bees. Things were locked down and wound tight.

  He looked up at Sam. “You think he was in the woods, spying on me when I found it?”

  She’d been standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, foot absently tapping out her frustration. At Corey’s question, she moved forward and sat beside him on the hearth, leaned into his offered arm.

  “I don’t know. He had to be, but he also knew other things…” She looked up and around the room as if checking to make sure Abby wasn’t around. But she’d had another fun day outside and gone to bed with no argument, after giving Corey all of the details of the visit over dinner. The dog and its owner, working in the garden with Mommy (giving Samantha a quick, smiling glance as she did, some secret passing between them), moving on to what she had eaten for lunch, when she took a nap. Not until she was settled in bed did Sam give him the truth of what had happened, what had been said. Most of it, at least. More than once she would stop mid-sentence, like now.

  “Knew what?” he said.

  “About how you feel, about dogs and such. He knew you were… that you didn’t like dogs.”

  He quietly rocked for a minute, saying nothing, looking across the living room. “You mean that they scare the shit out of me for some reason I don’t understand?”

  She nodded, trying to hide the smile which crept across her face.

  Corey cleared his throat. “I’d wager he knew about the nest in the old shed. All that talk of bees, not bothering them. Would have been nice to give us some warning.”

  “I think he’s crazy.”

  “Sounds it. From what I remember of him, he was pretty old.”

  “Maybe.” She stifled a yawn, then followed Corey when he moved to stand up.

  He said, “Well, I wound the clock. That should make him happy.” H
e bent down, gave the small, screaming man a tap on his head before moving towards the couch.

  Sam hesitated, watched him plop down on the end by the remote. She was exposed now, on display as she’d been with Hank Cowles. Like I will be… she thought.

  He finally noticed, put down the remote without turning on the TV. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry.” Too late to stop, because he’ll want to know what she was sorry for. And why would he care? He hadn’t complained before. But… she was shaking, for heaven’s sake. It made no sense. No sense! “I’m sorry that I don’t let you read my poetry.” She said it quickly, the words coming out without any thought. It was the only way. As soon it had left her mouth, it felt as if the statement would have spilled out on its own whether she’d changed her mind or not. “I love you, you know that right? I’m just… it’s just private, something personal. Don’t be angry.” Tears welled but she dared not blink and make this a worse scene than it already would be. Even now, Samantha wasn’t sure why any of this mattered. She pressed her lips together, feeling like an idiot, waiting for the scorn.

  Waiting for the yellow.

  What did that mean? Yellow. That was the color in her mind. Scorn, sharp ridicule. Pain.

  Sure enough, it began. Corey was smiling.

  He leaned against the side cushion, laid one arm along the back of the couch in invitation. “I’m not angry, Sam. It’s personal, something you prefer to keep private between you and Abby.” She sucked in a breath. He added, “I think it’s kind of cute, a little secret between mother and daughter…”

  Her world stopped. Everything was silent, like cotton in her ears. He knew about Abby? How? Well, how else? Too much to expect a four year-old to keep secrets from her Daddy.

  Corey stood up, took her hand. “Sam, what’s the matter? I swear it doesn’t bother me. Why is this coming up now?”

  She stared and let the tears fall free. Her face burned red, embarrassed. “She told you what I wrote?”