by Bruce Jones
Everyone just sat there a moment digesting it. Then Scroogie jumped up.
“Hot fucking damn!” he cried, and swept up all the cards into his arms and flung them ceiling-ward, to flutter and helicopter down like confetti, opening the gates for more laugher and tears from the Enders than they’d shared in forty years.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Richard turned, eyes brimming, to Maser and silently mouthed “thank-you.”
Maser just smiled back.
But there was something in his eyes.
Some small glint that told Rich and only Rich that the Maze had nothing really to be thanked for, no personal credit at all that he could claim. Not that I want any, the quick look said, and then just as quickly was gone…but I wouldn’t mind an answer or two. Even a partial one. You know, just to justify my faith in my profession…
And there was something else…one more little thing in Maser’s look, so lightning quick no one but a writer like Richard would have noticed it. It was a look of mixed sadness and fear.
That perhaps Richard had just been gifted a reprieve from the grim reaper…only to live to face something far worse with his friends.
THIRTEEN
Driving home from the poker party that night, Richard found his mind a million miles away. And as close as the next shadowy street corner.
Something was haunting his little town. Or at least the people he cared about most in his little town. And every one of them knew it. Maser most of all. Clinically minded, straight arrow, always rational Maser knew it most of all. Maybe even knew more than he was telling.
Cancer-free.
I should be doing cartwheels, Richard thought, right here inside the car. I should be shouting out the window at the top of my lungs and calling Allie and telling her the whole thing now, the whole grim business from start to finish. Or maybe I should just let it go, not expose her to unnecessary unpleasantness and just go on like always, only—for him—a hell of a lot relieved. Besides, why tell her about something that could always come back?
Except it wouldn’t come back. Richard knew that deep inside now as well as he knew anything. It wasn’t the fear of returning cancer he’d seen in Maser’s eyes tonight; it was the fear of a returning something else.
Richard looked down there behind the wheel. He’d been unconsciously gripping the cell phone. To call Allie, he supposed.
Funny Maser would do something like that, break the big news in front of everybody like that without even consulting the patient first. Not exactly standard practice. Maybe Maze had felt it would make for a more joyful occasion, make Richard feel even better than he had. Still. It was a bit off the wall. He’d shared the secret with Richard for so long, then just opened up like that on what almost seemed like the spur of the moment. Why? Could there have been ulterior motives? Like changing the course of the conversation maybe? Steering it away from nightmares and monsters. Everyone was uncomfortable with the subject, but Maser—in his way, his madly composed way—maybe most of all. Had he deliberately tried to maneuver away from the topic, if only to calm poor Scroogie down? Or was the good doctor just too sensitive to the phenomenon himself? A phenomenon he seemed to have no explanation for, despite all his rationalizing?
All of a sudden, driving along here in the dead of night all alone and feeling even lonelier, Richard needed very much to talk to someone.
But who? Not Allie. And it sure as hell not the Deadenders.
What he needed was an objective ear. That he could trust.
He glanced down at the silvery glow of cellular in his hand.
He thought about it for another mile. Then he flipped up the plastic lid and did something he’d been toying with in the back of his mind for weeks but never really dreamed he actually put in motion. Heart in his throat, Richard punched the key pad.
“—hello?”
“Mrs. Seasons?”
“This is the Seasons residence, yes.”
“Hi. Uh. Long time no—this is sort of a voice from your past, I guess…”
“Is this telemarketing? I’ve asked you people not to--”
“It’s Richard Denning, Mrs. Seasons. Remember me?’
“Oh, my God! Richard! You know, someone told me you were in town! How in the world are you? It’s been…how many years?”
“A lot, I’m afraid.”
“How sweet of you to call! Oh, I’m so glad! You were always such a sweet boy. Laurie’s favorite.”
“Well…”
“Oh you were, absolutely. I could never understand why…how come you two didn’t get married!”
“Well, like I said…it was a long time ago.”
“Oh, not so very long, honey. Not when you reach my age. So you have a family now, I’ve heard? Is your wife from the area?”
“Allie’s from California, Mrs. Seasons. L.A.”
“Oh, my!”
“And kids?”
“No…”
“But you’ve moved back to Topeka to stay, you’re not just visiting?”
“Moved back. Lock, stock and barrel. Listen, I’m sorry for the late hour—“
“Not at all. It’s wonderful hearing from you. Where did you relocate?”
“My folks old house, actually. Kind of weird, I guess.”
“Oh, that’s sweet! It’s nice to have a Denning back in the old neighborhood again!”
“Listen, Mrs. Seasons, I…I have a kind of strange request. I hope you won’t mind, the late hour and everything, but would you happen to have Laurie’s number? I just…I don’t know, I just—“
“Wanted to hear her voice again. I understand.”
“You wouldn’t mind then?”
“Not at all. You were always such a sweet boy. She married Harlan Jennings, you know.”
“I think I’d heard that.”
“Oh yes. They lived in St. Jo for awhile, moved back to town about fifteen years ago. Harlan did what you did, took over his daddy’s place. Only a farmhouse, not a suburban two-story!”
“You think…I mean, would Harlan mind if I called? He and I weren’t exactly best friends in the old days.”
“Well, what business is it of Harlan’s now anyway?”
“Well…I mean…wait, what are you saying?”
“Laurie and Harlan divorced, dear. It’s been years now. You didn’t know?”
“No. No, I didn’t. The Maze—Dr. Maser told me they were still married, I thought.”
“Bobby Maser? He never keeps up with anything current in this town. Too busy making money. Not that I hold it against him, I liked all you boys. What was the name of that gang of yours?”
Richard smiled into the phone. “A club, Mrs. Seasons. The Deadenders.”
“That was it. Such sweet boys. Have a pen handy?”
“I do. Shoot.”
Mrs. Seasons gave him the number.
Said again how good it was to hear from him, thanked him again for calling, for thinking of her. Please don’t hesitate to drop by if you and the Mrs. are in the area. My goodness how time flies. Kind of nice having all you boys back together again, don’t you think?
* * *
Funny thing is he almost didn’t make the call after all.
He actually put the cell phone away, back in the little tray in back of the gearbox and drove on home. But when he finally got home, Richard sat there in the driveway a moment with the motor idling, sat reflectively, just staring at the in-need-of-paint garage door; then he finally pressed the opener and pulled into the garage and cut the engine. He closed the door again behind him, sat there listening to its ceiling chain draw it down firmly, lock it in place firmly against the cement lip. And found himself still sitting, staring at the garage wall, the peg-hole bison board affixed there, festooned with hanging saws, and hedge clippers, brooms and rakes, left over from his father’s days.
It was dead quiet in the darkened garage save for the cooling tick of the car’s engine.
He picked up the cellular (ironically, Allie’s cellular) impul
sively and punched in the number Mrs. Seasons had given him.
ring
ring
--hi! You’ve reached the Seasons’ joint! This is Laurie, the sole occupant. If you’re anyone but the IRS leave your name and number after you hear me go “beep!” I do it really well, just like a robot! Toodle!
Beeeeeeeeep
Richard closed the cellular’s plastic lid without speaking, cutting off the circuit.
So. She’d changed back to her maiden name.
It was late, he was tired and it wasn’t exactly the world’s most expensive cell phone in his hand, but the voice was Laurie’s all right. He’d have recognized it even if he didn’t know it was her number.
Hers, not theirs.
Easy, stud, doesn’t mean she isn’t seeing other guys, she was always a looker. Be surprising if they aren’t lined up at her door!
Changed her name back but stayed on the farm?
How come? She was going to a writer like Richard. Beautiful enough to be a model. Lost her ambition somewhere along the way?
Like after you left town? Don’t flatter yourself.
Beautiful enough to be a model or a movie star. They had talked about it lying in summer grass under showers of stars. So Richard goes off to Hollywood and she stays here in Hicksville and marries a no-brainer like Harlan Jennings and lives on a farm and raises…what, tomatoes? Spuds. Corn as high as an elephant’s eye?
Kids, maybe.
Funny, he’d neglected to ask Mrs. Seasons if Laurie had had any children over the years. She hadn’t volunteered it.
But she sounded happy enough, Laurie did, at least whenever it was she made the recording. If maybe a little forced. ‘Toodle’? But, hey, he got to hear her voice again after all these long years. That was something, anyway.
yes, and let it be enough…you heard her voice, now let it go…don’t mess up a beautiful memory just because you got a new lease on life. One gift like that in a lifetime is enough…
“You’re right,” he answered himself.
Richard tossed the cellular in the little gear box tray just as a wedge of light from the north kitchen door fell over him and Allie’s silhouette appeared there.
“How was the poker party? Make any reckless bets?”
And then she was gone quickly back inside.
Leaving him alone again in the garage to wonder what that tone in her voice meant.
* * *
It meant, apparently, that Allie was leaving.
She wasn’t in the kitchen when Richard entered and she wasn’t in the hallway or living room and the bathroom door was open but she was in the bedroom, along with her two large wheeled flight bags she’d gotten down from that high top shelf in the garage all by herself, the one she could barely reach. The bags—black, with black straps and black pull handle and only a small red maker’s logo—looked even blacker there on the white bedspread, like two open cavities. Allie had her back to him, still dragging down clothes from closet hangers, keeping her back to him even though Richard knew she’d heard him come in. “What’s up?” he asked, a little surprised at the faintest sound of desperation in his voice.
Still not turning to look at him, as if turning might stop this busy, somewhat automated process of hanger to flight bag, flight bag to hanger, Allie said: “Schiffer called. Which reminds me, I need my cell phone back…”
That said a lot, Schiffer was their Hollywood agent. Richard hadn’t heard from him in months, hadn’t seen him longer than that. “Work?” Richard said. Of course it was work, why else would their agent call?
“There’s a staff job open on ‘Married Single’,” Allie said. And it seemed that was all she was going to volunteer for the moment; not ‘a staff job for us,’ or ‘the producers are very anxious to see us.’ But Richard already knew he wasn’t included in the phone call from the coast, could tell that just by the clipped way his wife moved about packing, methodical but as though wanting to finish it quickly, as though afraid something might happen or be said to prevent her from finishing it, like the whole axis of her life depended on finishing packing those black bags.
“When are you leaving?” Richard asked feeling a little dizzy, like he wanted to catch hold of the door frame for support but refused to do that.
“Tomorrow morning. Early…” Still hours away, but somehow making the packing seem more urgent than ever.
Richard stayed in the doorway watching her back, the bedroom suddenly feeling strangely bigger and farther away, the white bedspread slightly alien and antiseptic.
“How long will you be gone?” Richard said.
When his wife didn’t answer immediately he knew, heart zinging with a mild pain, that the answer would be, “I’m not sure,” and that’s exactly what Allie said.
Richard stood there. Thinking there was something he was supposed to know but unable to conjure up what. Something had been left out or taken away when he was looking in the opposite direction; his eyes kept roving the bedroom’s interior as if seeking it, as if it were a tangible thing, though he knew it wasn’t.
When his eyes came back to his wife, she was standing facing him, eyes bereft of anger, but resolute. “I can’t do this anymore, Richard. I’m sorry.” He really could have done without the ‘sorry’ part, that one word rang with finality.
“Okay,” he said, trying to show her how calm he was, that he was willing, even eager to listen, that there might still be some way to circumvent this. But Allie was racing ahead now with a fuselage of rehearsed and exacting grievances. “This house of your parents, this godforsaken weather—freezing my ass in the winter, dripping humidity all summer—these moronic local used car commercials, these little PTA, Green Stamps, Home Association minds…like fevered little insects, always buzzing and clicking.”
Not for nothing was Allie a good script doctor.
“—the absolute, overwhelming artlessness of this place! The smell!”
“The smell?”
“Yes! Like…what, I don’t know, fertilizer or something!”
But at least you can smell here, he thought, odors weren’t nullified by a blanket of pollution; but he didn’t say it, she’d only counter with the smell of the ocean, the clean salt air, which would then lead to attendant comparisons, like walking the beach at sunset or a trip to the mountains, tough commodities to top.
Clinging to hope, seeking to derail by switching subjects, Richard said, “Well, ‘Married Single’--that’s great, Allie, congratulations.”
She gave him an icy look. “Oh, Richard, you haven’t even watched the show.”
It was true, he hadn’t kept up with prime time shows since they’d moved back. The fact was, they bored him. As if acknowledging the thought in his eyes, Allie added, “You didn’t keep up when we lived out there. You hated those fucking low brow sitcoms. I believe that’s a quote. Apart from the fact that they paid the rent. Fine. But it beats, for me at least, the hell out of stifling hours showing ugly houses to cynical couples trying to figure out just how low they can go on the price to make sure I don’t get too big a commission. I’m surrounded by bad hairdos, little or no make-up and pink pant suits from Wal-Mart super sales, and the minds that go with them! I hate it, Richard. I don’t think you understand that. I feel as if I’m drowning…”
Richard was nodding now, gazing at the bedroom rug, the battle lost.
“It just isn’t me, honey! Christ, you must have known it wasn’t me!”
Yes, he must have, come to think of it. Worse than merely not her, perhaps even the death of her, as surely as it had nearly been of him. Something that had been hiding in the back of his mind all along—from that first day Maser had diagnosed him—it was the idea that he’d never have contracted the illness if he hadn’t moved back here. And to extrapolate further on that theme, the whole act of moving back here had been a kind of subliminal death wish.
The battle was over. But Richard still had a few spare rounds left. What they call revenge shots. “Well, anyway, I’m happ
y for you. Network sitcom, even with all this reality show crap around. When do you start?”
They both knew she didn’t have the job jet, that it was only a meeting and meetings often—usually—went nowhere; she was going on the excuse of a job, not the reality of one. Both knew this and both knew he was goading her now, playing little hurt Richard.
“You know I don’t have the actual gig yet,” she said, turning stiffly to the bags again.
The hurt went right out of him. The protective Richard flew back. He was scared for her. It was a grinding town, a ruthless engine run on lies oiled by deceit. How courageous this was of her made him see just how courageous living here in this alien town had been, how much worse than even the hardest life on the coast. He’d let her down. Maybe let them both down. There’s still time, he thought, to stop her, though just finding the will to walk the miles between doorway and the bed seemed to elude him. Still, he couldn’t let her slip away like this without at least a college try. “Even if you get the gig, Allie, TV is seasonal, shorter seasons now than ever. There’s still the spring and summer to get through…”
She kept her back to him, fingers folding, arms tucking, posture speaking for her. He could say nothing she hadn’t already imagined, probably lost sleep over. For how many nights? Months? He felt, for the first time in her presence, physically shorter than she was, that if he were to cross to her he’d have to look up.
He must have been silent for awhile because she was turning to look back at him again, a shadow of her own concern for her husband behind her eyes. “I’m forty-three years old, Richard, I’ll be fine. We still have friends there, lots of friends.”
“Call me when you get yourself…located?” he said.
She was back at the bags again, then, movement officious, tone neutral, empty. “Of course.”
When he was a kid, a grade school friend, not a Deadender, lived on a ranch outside of town where his father kept horses; one of them broke a front leg, shattered the bone hopelessly. “You’ll have to shoot him, Ben,” Richard had heard the vet say.