Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Go down and see. Turn on the outside light and see. Be a man!

  He straightened, pushed himself deliberately towards the one of the narrow windows beside the door. If there was an intruder, or a stupid raccoon which was probably all it was…

  He flipped on the outside light, turned his head against the window.

  The porch glowed a dull yellow. Nothing. No animal, no fleeing man in black ski mask, no pile of dog shit left outside the door by some kids.

  He couldn’t see much of anything past the steps. The front yard looked empty. Whatever it was had probably slinked back into the thin patch of woods between the house and road.

  Go back to bed.

  Open the door.

  Go back…

  Corey tightened the bathrobe and opened the inside door, stood in front of the screen door and checked the porch one more time. Still empty. Until a white dog emerged from the cover of the rhododendron bush Sam had planted last week. Corey knew this dog, had seen it walking with Hank Cowles.

  Its stump of a tail began to wag, a vague blur in the murk outside the circle of the light. The little dog opened its mouth as if in to yawn. It hissed instead. Not a bark or growl, just a steady hiss like escaping steam. Corey expected to see it collapse into itself, deflate like a balloon…

  …floating above the trees now, think of the balloon, sailing away…

  Headlights up the driveway, bright square eyes. He prayed it was a police cruiser. They’d tell him of a trespasser in the neighborhood, explain he wasn’t mad, wasn’t losing his mind. The car pulled to a stop in front of his Honda, engine idling.

  A growl made Corey look back down. Nurse Charles’s mouth had closed, lips raised, tiny white teeth. No, no this is wrong. He looked back towards the police car, but that wasn't what it was. A white In Service sign flashed from the roof. The yellow cab’s back door opened.

  Corey closed his eyes, thought of the balloon, but the sky in his mind was filled with burning clouds, roiling black with red zips of lightning. Was this how the mind went away, how it died, in a mental firestorm?

  The cab’s horn began to honk in a protracted beeeeeeeeeep. Corey kept his eyes shut tight, even as the dog started barking. He would not look at the cab, which was not real anyway, nor the dog, nor the clouds or storm building in his mind. None of it was real.

  He finally covered his ears and screamed, trying to block out the noise. Eyes still closed, he turned and stumbled back into the house, tripped on the leg of the recliner and dropped his hands to catch himself. Behind him, the screen door had closed, but he knew the dog had followed him inside. Corey could hear its tiny claws on the squares of tile in the foyer. He would not look. Instead, he crawled further into the living room, around the chair, surrounded now by the renewed buzzing of the wasps and stench of the house. He reached up, found the recliner’s arm and climbed up onto it, pushing to the floor a pile of newspapers, only absently noting their unexpected presence, and curled into a ball with his feet pulled up.

  Something small landed on his head. More bees. They were bees, had to be, and if he did not bother them, he would be safe. More landed on his arms, crawled along his neck. He curled tighter and began to scream again, and again and again, and would continue until everything went away.

  It did not. Beside his chair, the dog renewed its barking, stirring up the bees. The patter of wasps on his head and arms, in his hair - not stinging, they weren’t stinging, not yet at least—overpowered by the pounding of a fist against the side of the screen door. Why didn’t he just come in?

  Try as he might, Corey could not focus on Abby, or Samantha, could not help them anymore. The end had come and he was too afraid to do anything but force himself into stillness and hope the bees did not sting and the dog not bite and he kept on screaming as the night dragged on and on and on…

  II

  A touch on his shoulder. “Corey?”

  Corey opened his eyes, confused. The living room was filled with bright sunlight. He’d been asleep, in the chair, curled up, hiding. Samantha leaned over with a look of tentative amusement, changing as she got a better look at him. “Corey, why are you—” Her eyes drifted over him; her mouth tightened. “I thought you’d managed to get out this morning without waking me, but—”Again, she didn’t finished the sentence, only waved a hand at him.

  “Daddy, are you staying home today?” Abby had a box of Pop tarts in her hand, waiting for Sam to get one into the toaster.

  Corey uncurled his legs. They were stiff and his back hurt. “I…” What was he going to say?

  As he leaned back into the chair, stretching his legs free of the robe, Sam’s wonderful, cool hand pressed his forehead as it had done last night. Could she feel how fast his mind was racing, trying to rework what had happened, to rationalize it? How could he explain that her husband could no longer protect her, care for her, that he’d gone completely ga-ga last night?

  “You’re a little warm, but not too bad. How are you feeling?”

  Maybe he wasn’t crazy. He could think, appreciate the feel of his wife’s touch, miss it as she moved her hand away. He could never tell her what he’d seen. A lie was all he could come up with. “Sorry,” he said, forcing his breath out in a casual stream of air—like the dog last night, leaking, deflating before it began to growl, don’t - ”couldn’t sleep last night… Did I wake you at all?”

  Sam looked sideways, considering, then shook her head. Her expression, Corey was delighted to see, had softened from fear to, maybe if he was lucky, a touch of appreciation. Just keep lying and that look will always be yours, he thought. His gut hardened. He wanted to cry.

  Corey forced himself not to look where his feet were, afraid of seeing dead wasps littering the carpet. “Anyway, sorry. Figured I’d let you sleep and curled up on the chair, read for a while. Finally fell back to sleep.” Liar, liar, pants on fire…

  Sam did a cursory glance around, perhaps looking for some corroboration to his story. There was, of course, no book. Regardless, she leaned in and embraced him. “My knight in terrycloth armor,” she said, rubbing her hands along his robed back. “You don’t look like you’ve slept much. Maybe you are sick. Why not call work then sleep in a little?”

  He grunted, already thinking that was a good idea. He stood up, pulled her close and glanced at Abby still waiting at the edge of the kitchen spinning the box of Pop tarts between her hands. Corey kissed his wife’s ear, whispered, “Maybe I will.”

  She pushed him away, gently, adjusted his robe. “Sounds like you haven’t slept much the past few days.” Her hands lingered on the folds, eyes down. “Maybe it’s just the new house.” She didn’t sound convinced. No more than he was. She must have decided to leave it alone, looked up—she had beautiful blue eyes speckled with brown—and kissed his cheek before walking into the kitchen, plucking the Pop tarts from Abby on the way. Corey looked around the living room. Hadn’t he knocked some newspapers off the chair? The floor was clean except for a couple of naked Barbie dolls under the side table. Another illusion of the night. Newspapers had no place in this house. They only fed the fire of his madness.

  Sam called from the kitchen, “Abby and I are going to visit the library today. They’re having a story time.”

  He nodded, knowing she wouldn’t see it. Story time… the thing Vanessa had suggested. So much happening in one week. How much more would come to push him further down the rabbit hole before it was over? Corey stopped at the door to the bathroom. He needed to brush his teeth, get back into bed, sleep away the night so he could wake up new, better. He doubled back and leaned into the kitchen. The room was clean, orderly. Safe as always. Samantha was pulling the Pop tart from the toaster—hardly more than warmed, the way Abby liked it. His daughter was at the table tracing the Formica patterns with a fingertip, completely lost in the exercise.

  All was well with the world. Corey faded back down the hall before Sam caught him spying. In the bathroom, his reflection refused to meet his eyes as he brushed his
teeth. He didn’t blame it.

  III

  The Hillcrest Public Library was an impressive blend of two worlds, the modern and the historic. Large stone blocks had been arranged with a symmetry only masons of two hundred years past could have achieved with minimal tools save a desire to build something functional and pleasing to the eye. Rising two stories from this stone foundation, the library shone with recently-restored brickwork, according to the sign on the wall of the reading room where Samantha waited. Through the arched doorway, Abby and seven other children fidgeted before a narrow faced old woman who read from The Lorax. Of all the Dr. Seuss’ stories, Sam thought this one might be too heavy-handed for such a young crowd. Still, the children listened to her hushed reading, worrying in their own ways about the Truffala Trees. Sam tried to avoid the searching gaze of another mother sitting across the alcove. The woman was tall and lean, a mass of blonde hair rising from her head in a tsunami. Since they were seated in facing chairs—the remaining mothers having slipped away to their cars or the bookshelves—Sam felt bad for avoiding her unspoken plea for company.

  She turned away from the children and whispered, “I’m Samantha. That’s my daughter, Abby, in the pink t-shirt.” She nodded into the main room. The woman’s expression brightened with relief.

  “Fran,” she said, offering her hand. Sam took it. It was warm and damp, unlike the dry, confident feel of Vanessa. She chided herself for the thought. Fran added, “That’s my Honey sitting next to—was her name Abby, you said?” Sam assumed she meant the red-haired girl with whom Abby was whispering in a miniature rendition of their conversation.

  “Yes. Honey? Is that her name?”

  Fran put long painted nails to her face to cover a smirk. “Yes, seriously. One of those family names we had to use else risk excommunication from the family. Honey, like the bees.”

  Sam tensed, couldn’t believe that was a coincidence. She fought to believe it anyway, even as the sun coming though the tall, stained-glass dimmed to yellow. Yellow, like the bees.

  “Are you OK? Samantha, was it?”

  She would roll with it, swim with the tide until it carried you home.

  “You said bees, that’s all. We’ve been having some wasp problems in the new house. Caught me a little off guard.”

  Fran clapped her hands together—her hands were always in motion, like a baker kneading dough. “Are you the family that built on the Cowles property?”

  Sam leaned forward. “You know Hank Cowles?”

  “No.”

  The woman said nothing else, eyes clear but hardly blinking. No real expression to gain any meaning. She was simply done talking. Sam wondered if everyone in this town was crazy. Maybe that would be a good thing. She’d fit in better.

  “Oh,” Samantha said, then looked around for something to inspire a conversation. “This is a nice building.”

  “Yes, we come here every Thursday for Story Time…”

  Stepford, Sam decided, that’s what this woman reminded her of, one of the wives from that movie.

  “…since there really aren’t too many children Honey’s age on our street.” She glanced into the room. “Our daughters seem to be hitting it off.”

  The two girls were now listening attentively to the old woman as she reached the part where the gloppity-glop was muddying up the river. Sam shrugged. It would be good for Abby to make a friend. Even if the kid’s name was Honey and her mother a robot. “They seem to, yes. Have you lived in Hillcrest long?”

  Fran nodded, the wave of hair coming in, drifting out. “Cab and I moved into town after we were married. It seemed like such a nice town - ”

  Cab. Honey. Bees. Yellow.

  Please, God, everyone in town has a screwed up name but that doesn’t mean anything…

  Samantha cleared her throat, but was spared having to find a comprehensible reply. Fran added, “Like I said, there are simply no girls her age on our street. It would be wonderful if maybe—Abby was it?—could come to our house for a play date. Tomorrow maybe? Honey would be so thrilled!”

  Sam smiled, pushing up her cheeks with some effort, feeling like a clown. Where had she left her notebook? On the table, maybe. God, no… Corey was home. It’s under the mattress where your husband sleeps, where he lay lost in his own world. What did it matter, anyway? He told her in no uncertain terms he didn’t care if she kept her poetry from him, and he’d always known where she hid it. Maybe that’s what was bothering her, the secret. No longer hers. Never had been.

  “Or another day is fine. I’m sorry. I can be so pushy sometimes.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Tomorrow would be nice.” She’d said this out of reflex, before fully understanding what the question had been. Play date, that was it. “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

  The hands rose and fell, waving away the smoke of doubt, the fog curling about our wrists and trying to pull us all into its undertow.

  She liked that line. Hopefully, she’d remember it.

  “No, none at all. Does she still nap?” Sam shook her head. “Good, good. They’re getting older now, aren’t they? Honey still goes down in the morning for an hour, gives me a chance to try my Pilates routine. Have you tried Pilates?” Sam shook her head again. New recipes intimidated her. “Oh, it’s wonderful. You’ll have to try it. How about one o’clock? Just after lunch? Honey will be so thrilled.”

  “That would be fine. I should check with Abby. Sometimes she can be shy.”

  “Of course. We have to let them make some decisions, don’t we?” Flutter, wave.

  The conversation wilted into silence. Before it could collapse entirely, the old woman closed The Lorax and thanked the girls “so much” for their attention. Abby and Honey were chatting, like the friends Fran so hoped they would be, as they found their mothers. Seeing them like this, Samantha didn’t think her daughter would object to a play date. It would be good. Give her some time alone while Abby made some friends.

  Would Vanessa would be home? A warm feeling accompanied the thought. She didn’t curse herself for it. Not this time.

  IV

  Vanessa

  Vanessa stared at her own reflection in the mirror. As usual, she didn’t like what she saw. A hypocrite, a cheat, a lonely pathetic woman lost in others’ illusions. She spit, rinsed, worked on brushing her hair. Last week cutting it short had seemed like a good idea, but she continued to feel the presence of the lost braid, a phantom limb reminding her every day how much uglier she was without it. It taunted her like the world itself had always done.

  She put the brush down. Good enough. She’d see how it looked once it had dried completely. She wished Robert would leave so she could walk out of the bathroom naked, as she liked to do most mornings, most usual mornings, and let the cool air dry the remnants of the shower from her skin. It was a sensation she loved almost as much as she hated everything else about herself. A Yin to the Yang of her own self loathing. Especially today.

  She’d broken The Rule. Not just last night— she wasn’t going to pretend this was the first— but she’d gone farther, beyond any reasonable line. She spent a long hour afterward rationalizing everything from as many angles as her tired mind could create but she, more than anyone, knew the danger of building illusions. The eyes glaring back at her this morning in the mirror were tinged red. Not enough sleep, Vanny? Maybe if you stayed in bed with your cocoa and book instead of sneaking into Mister Union’s, you’d be feeling more chipper this morning.

  She lifted the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and wrapped it reluctantly around herself; stepped into the bedroom and dressed. Robert called through the door, “I’m going to head home, Vanessa. You’ve got your other man coming over in a few minutes, don’t you?” He laughed, never one to hide an innuendo if he could help it. But he knew she was a professional. Vanessa almost laughed at the irony.

  Dressed, she could have gone out into the hall and spoken to him face to face. Instead she shouted through the closed door, “That’s fine.”


  A pause. “OK. See you again tonight, then?”

  “I’ll be counting the hours.” She hoped he noticed the sarcasm. Robert only laughed, the sound fading as he headed for the door. He was an on OK guy, she supposed. Kept things business-like most of the time. Unlike Andrew. She shouldn’t look forward to his arrival as much as she did, or smile at the thought of him. He was nice, but she couldn’t afford to let anyone get too close. Not now.

  Robert’s car started outside, crunch of tires on gravel. After fidgeting with her drying hair in the mirror over the dresser for another few minutes Vanessa finally left the bedroom, wandered into the kitchen. The coffee was on. Robert earned some brownie points for that. She took one of the oversized ceramic mugs from the cabinet, filled it and wandered outside to the porch. She closed her eyes and let the morning sun burn away any sleep lingering behind her lids, losing herself in the coffee steam, the aroma.

  Movement in the yard. Vanessa looked up through the steam. Hank Cowles stood by the tree line, staring back at her. She gasped, almost spilled coffee across her new white blouse. Wiping her steam-damp face with her hand, she stood and peered over the railing. The old man wasn’t there, of course. Just the twisted arms of an oddly shaped clump of mountain laurel.

  She sat back down. Did he know how she’d broken so many rules, that she’d physically intervened against him? Did Cowles understand, watching from his own private prison cell, that she was the one who would finally break the hold he had on the Unions?

  She laughed, tried to at least, wasn’t very successful, took a sip of coffee. It burned her awake a little more. Don’t head down that path. Hank Cowles did not know. How could he?

  Didn’t matter. The need to step inside Corey’s world, become the wedge between him and his wife and child, between him and Cowles, was growing dangerously towards desperation. Time was running out. The clock was ticking and she had to try anything, everything, before—

  Before what? The end of the world? Union’s fantasies, his phobias as he himself called them, had no basis in reality and if she ever forgot that important fact, she’d be as lost as he already was. Corey didn’t understand what was happening, not consciously, but was beginning to recognize what she was doing, removing Samantha from his life permanently, along with his daughter. It was surreal how he had misinterpreted her love for him as some forbidden love for his wife.