Under-Heaven

by Tim Greaton

  I wondered how I had gotten here and who this woman was, but the questions made me uneasy. I felt as though a part of me didn’t want to know.

  “Can you talk?” she asked.

  My thoughts too jumbled to speak, I nodded.

  “Take your time, Nathaniel,” she said. “There’s a lot to get used to. For now, let me show you around your new home.”

  Uncertain, I accepted her grip, which was warm and gentle. Though I was almost ten years old, it seemed odd to be left alone with a stranger. Questions littered my mind, but I sensed even the tiniest inquiry would be like a scalding pot. Forcing any dangerous thoughts away, I followed her up the stairs and froze. There, between two white wooden chairs, sat a pure white lobster trap. Fear crawled like a spider along the back of my neck. I shivered and followed her into the house.

  “I’m your grandmother,” she said as we walked into a small but serviceable living room. Two over-stuffed chairs and a couch sat snuggly against the walls. The seats were upholstered in a cream material that matched the carpet. The ceiling was white as were the walls, which were noticeably devoid of pictures. The only end table in the room had a single brass lamp.

  “You can call me Grandma Clara if you like,” she continued. “You have quite a slew of relatives looking forward to seeing you, Nathaniel, but we’ll probably wait a little while for you to get used to things first, okay?”

  “I guess,” I said, finding my voice.

  A growing queasiness in my stomach wouldn’t allow me to question why there was no radio in the living room, no more than it would allow me to ponder why I hadn’t recognized my own grandmother. Would my other relatives also be strangers to me? Somehow I knew they would, but I didn’t question the woman as we moved into the kitchen.

  My new kitchen was as unadorned as the living room. After checking the cabinets to discover no food, I realized that the room also lacked a refrigerator, stove, or sink. The only furnishings were a small round table and four chairs. Across the small hall was my bedroom; it held only a bed and a rocking chair. I stood in the doorway and smiled. Though oddly austere, the house had a warm, comfortable feel. I liked it.

  “It’s usually quite peaceful here,” Grandma Clara said as we returned to the front porch.

  Something was wrong.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I stood at the railing and consciously avoided looking at the lobster trap that inexplicably sent fear coursing straight to my heart. What was wrong with me?

  I stared out at the neighborhood. To either side of my house sat other white homes, and beyond those were yet others. They were all single-story with small porches and bay windows. Including the light gray roofs and brilliant floral displays, none was distinguishable from another. However, a quick glance to the nearby porches revealed only chairs. Mine was the only one with a lobster trap. Instinctively knowing my anomalous porch addition might lead to dangerous memories, I refused to think about it and instead let my eyes follow the string of identical structures that were like the pearls of a huge necklace. That necklace surrounded a circular, white cobblestone street that was completely self-contained with no entry or exit roads. The round median consisted of a thin strip of meticulously maintained grass and a large pond. At the center of the pond rose a stunning, two-story tall cherub that spouted water in four directions. The immense marble statue seemed to be smiling down at me.

  I felt worse.

  Depressed for reasons I didn’t yet understand, I gazed out at my new neighborhood and caught the scent of flowers wafting up at me. Leaning over the rail, I looked down at blossoms of every conceivable shape and color. I knew I should have enjoyed their sweet aroma but something about the fresh country smell caused my uneasy stomach to twitch again.

  I quickly stood upright.

  I could see no fences or walkways, but the neatly mowed grass wasn’t matted down anywhere. Obviously people did walk on the deep green surface, though, since men and women were milling about—mostly in pairs—all around my small neighborhood. At least a dozen people knelt and faced the pond as if in prayer. As I looked out over the scene—immaculate homes, vibrant flowers, people dressed mostly in white, lush green grass—it seemed too perfect. Even the white cobblestones of the circular street were too bright. I couldn’t see a single smudge of dirt or mud on the road’s surface. Oddly, there were also no cars.

  I turned my attention to the people at the pond’s edge and wondered why nearly everyone in this place was dressed completely in white. Of the dozen or so people kneeling at the water, there were only two exceptions: one man had dark shoes and bizarre slacks that were black up to his knees but then white from that point upward; the other really stood out because his clothes were colorful to the point of being garish. His green plaid pants, yellow striped shirt and green hat, made him look as though he had just stepped off a fairway at Staber’s—

  My breath caught at the thought of my hometown golf course. Any further reflection scurried to the outermost reaches of my mind when I realized my hands were trembling.

  Focusing instead on the kneeling people by the water, I wondered if they might be watching fish or turtles. Abruptly, the man with the bright golfing outfit made a fist and jabbed a finger toward the water.

  “You better hope I never see you again!” he spat. Then he got up and stomped up onto a porch four homes down from me. “And that’s what I think of this goddamned thing!”

  Suddenly a white child-size tricycle flew off his porch and landed with a metallic thump on the grass in front of his house. One of the white rear tires was still spinning as he disappeared behind a slamming door.

  I glanced back toward the people at the pond’s edge. Not a single one paid any attention to the angry man, each one instead still kneeling and staring at an unusually calm spot of water. I shifted my focus to the four separate sprays of water cascading from the fountain and let my eyes follow one stream all the way from the cherub’s polished marble hand to the pond below. Where the stream struck the pond’s surface, water splashed and churned, sending small waves gently rippling across the pond to lap at the shoreline, but those ripples never affected the smooth spots of water in front of each kneeling person. Those spots, like round windows, remained as motionless as glass. Confused, I watched as two of the pond side people got up and moved away, one after the other. In both cases, the gentle waves immediately erased the motionless spots and lapped at the shore. I was still trying to unravel that mystery when it came to me!

  I snapped around to look at my grandmother.

  “I know what’s wrong with my house!”

  “It seems nice to me.” She smiled.

  “Maybe I missed it,” I said, striding back inside. I looked again through each of the three rooms. I didn’t see any additional rooms or doorways. “There’s no bathroom.”

  “You won’t need that anymore,” Grandma Clara offered, having followed behind me.

  “You mean I’m supposed to use an outhouse?” I’m sure my face scrunched with disgust at the thought of it. Billy Ganglin’s family still used an outhouse. There had been large black spiders crawling on the walls and the smell had been worse than all the dog poops I’d ever cleaned up. Worse was that after I sat my naked butt on the wooden bench, I could have sworn something splashed underneath me. Terrified, I yanked up my pants and ran. After my one visit to the hole from hell I swore I’d never go into such a place again.

  When was that? I wondered, but my mind had already clamped shut. Unable to even remember the boy’s name, I struggled to recall the thoughts that had just been so clear in my mind. The effort sent my heart racing. My entire body quaked. Fear washed over me like a chill rain.

  I gasped.

  “Are you okay?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Nate—I hope it’s okay to call you Nate?”

  I nodded.

  “Nate,” she continued, “you don’t need to go to the bathroom anymore.”

 
“I’m supposed to hold it?”

  “Nate, nobody here goes to the bathroom. We just don’t need to anymore.”

  “Oh.” I nodded with feigned understanding. Though I knew her statement was ridiculous, I also knew it would have been improper to point that out. Until I figured something else out, I would sneak out back when I had to go. I didn’t allow myself to stop and consider any of this too deeply. In the back of my mind, I knew it was preposterous for an almost ten-year-old to get his own house, and it was equally crazy for that house to have no radio, no appliances, no sink and no bathroom. Of course, it all made about as much sense as a perfect circular neighborhood populated by people dressed mostly in white—which, come to think of it, included me.

  My stomach roiled with fear. I wanted to understand but at the same time lacked the courage to search inside myself for answers. At that moment, staring at the strange woman who called herself Grandma Clara, I realized that a secret was locked inside my head. I knew it wasn’t just something bad; it was quite possibly the most horrible and terrifying secret there had ever been. I imagined a steel-reinforced prison inside my mind, and I further imagined a fang-filled creature locked just behind that prison door. In my hand I held a key, a key that I feared I would someday have to insert into the lock and turn—

  I threw the imaginary key and raced out onto the neatly mowed grass of my new neighborhood. As I ran, my feet left no imprints in the perfect grass.

  Though Grandmother Clara visited every day, she was still a stranger to me and I found myself missing other people that I knew I should have but couldn’t remember. I suppose that emotional confusion might have played a part in the way my subconscious mind began to dole out memories...

  The bright red school bus reeked of disinfectant, which made my five-year-old mind wonder if a lot of kids threw up during their first ride to school. My stomach sure felt funny. Terrified, I sat on one of the hard leather seats and craned my neck so I could watch my mother wave until she disappeared in the distance behind us. I tried to hide stray tears from the other kids as the tall buildings of Providence, Rhode Island slid past. Though I had seen many of the same buildings from my bedroom window, they looked so much larger when staring out through the windows of a disinfectant-smelling school bus. Once at school, the day passed in a blur of new rules and odd social moments with more kids than I’d ever seen together in one place. What made things worse was that our only teacher, a young woman with frizzy red pompom hair, spent most of her day coddling one brunette girl who couldn’t stop crying. Though I put on a good show, I came very close to crying myself. When the same red bus pulled up to the sidewalk in front of my house, I was ecstatic to see not just my mother but also my father standing there. He held four beautiful balloons that I slept with for almost a week until the air got so low they were nothing more than drooping pieces of colorful rubber...

  Marching out into the backyard of my lonely new home, I could still feel my father lifting me up so my mother could smother me with kisses. It was my third day in that strange place and Grandma Clara had been gone for only a few minutes. I stood on my back lawn and stared at the wall of clouds encircling my new neighborhood. Hesitantly, I brushed my hand along the white mist and walked along its edge. Though damp, the clouds were warm and not as frightening as I first thought. I walked back and forth along that wall several times and wondered what might be beyond. But, no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see anything but fluffy whiteness.

  Somehow I convinced myself that other children were beyond the whiteness, so I took several steps into the impenetrable border. Suddenly, the fluffy whiteness became a terrifying gray gloom so thick I couldn’t see my own fingers wiggling in front of my face. I stopped, certain that at any moment I would walk right off the edge of a cliff. Peering into the murk and gingerly testing the ground in front of me, I took another step, then another and another. The whole while, I kept telling myself that a new neighborhood filled with children would be just steps away. With my fourth step I saw faint light ahead. Excited to be free of the dense gray mist, I rushed out onto a perfect green yard behind a perfect, small white house.

  I crept along the flowerbed that bordered the edge of the nearest house. Peering out into the front yard, I hoped to glimpse even one boy or girl my age but saw only adults milling peacefully within the tidy circle of white houses or kneeling at the edge of a fountain pool. The pool was identical to the one in my own neighborhood. My eyes flicked from house to house around an identical circular road. Confused, I turned and froze as my gaze locked upon the one item that couldn’t possibly have been there.

  My lobster trap.

  3

  Falling Hero

  Jesse dropped his Thor hammer. Though it was his favorite toy and he had begged his mother for two days after seeing the movie, not even a superhero weapon was important in comparison to spending time with his father. Besides, today was an especially important day because they were going to play his mother’s favorite game and convince her to join them. Between the loud intercom buzzes, he heard his father’s voice. Bolting out into the kitchen, he was just in time to see his mother angrily punch the broken TALK button on the intercom.

  “Ow!”she exclaimed, scratching her finger on the exposed metal prong. The loud buzzer blared throughout the small apartment for the fourth time. More gently, she depressed button again.

  “Wagner,” she said, “you do know that just pisses me off, right?”

  “Hey, babe,” came his father’s static-filled response, “I ain’t here to make you mad. ‘Just wanted to make sure this busted thing was working.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Jesse’s mother pressed the UNLOCK button and waited until they could hear footsteps coming up the stairs before letting it go.

  “I’m going to take a shower, baby,” she said. She leaned down to kiss him on the top of the head. “Maybe you and your dad could play a videogame or watch some TV.”

  Jesse nodded with a secretive smile. That would give his father and him time to get the Monopoly game set up. Once it was ready, he knew she’d never be able to resist, especially since she won every time they played—except once when Jesse caught her slipping money into his pile when she didn’t think he was looking. He smiled and looked forward to the long game that would give his parents time to talk. What he wanted more than anything was for them to get back together so things could go back to the way they used to be. The footsteps stopped right outside the kitchen door.

  “Hi, babe,” came his father’s voice.

  “You let your dad in,” his mother whispered. “I’ll be in the shower.”

  Certain their plan would work, Jesse reached up on his tippy toes to turn the bolt lock. His father shoved the door open and nearly knocked him down. As it was, the edge of the door hit him hard in the forehead.

  “Hey, beautiful,” his father said, pushing past him.

  Unshaven, with messy hair and clothes that looked like they’d been worked and slept in for multiple days, his father was a mess. Snots were frozen to his upper lip and his cold, red hands were embedded with dirt. Worst of all, he stank of vomit and body odor. He glanced around the kitchen and took several steps to peer into the living room.

  “Babe?”

  “She’s taking a shower.” Jesse said, wishing his father had done the same before coming over. No way would his mother want him around looking and smelling like that.

  “That’s a hell of a way to treat guests,” his father said, but there was no anger in his voice as he reached over and grabbed a paper towel to wipe under his nose. Most of the snots came off.

  “So where’s the game, Jess?” he asked.

  Jesse’s shoulders sagged. Though he didn’t understand what caused it, he recognized the glassy look in his father’s eyes. That look meant it wouldn’t be long before he started talking too loudly and getting mad for no reason. Jesse was certain that a few minutes after his mother got out of the shower they would start fighting. The only question left was
would his father leave when asked or would he make her call the police again? Jesse wanted to cry. Why couldn’t they just be a normal family?

  His father made a loud rasping noise at the back of his throat then spit in the sink. “Go on, Jess. Get the game.”

  Jesse trudged to the hallway closet and pulled out the worn Monopoly box. The sight of it depressed him even more because he remembered the happy times they used to have playing that game together. His father would keep telling his mother how badly he was going to beat her, and she would say things like “Bring it on” and “Give it your best shot.” Then throughout the whole game his mother would help Jesse count his money and keep track of his properties, while his father would whisper not-so-secret plans about how the men were going to team up and crush her. The game always ended with his father going broke and bargain selling all his properties to his son, then helping him until he, too, lost to the all-time champ, his mother. Jesse could envision his mother’s triumphant grin and could hear the cheerful father of his past saying, “We’ll get you next time, just wait and see.” Then he and Jesse would go on a tickle attack and chase his mother all through the house until they had her pinned down, laughing and gasping for mercy on her bed.

  But there would be no laughing tonight.

  Jesse returned to the kitchen to find his father rummaging through the cupboard.

  “Where the fuck is my Best Husband cup?” he asked.

  Jesse wasn’t sure but thought it might have been the cup his mother had thrown out a few weeks before. That same night, she had been crying for no apparent reason and had thrown out several things, including something from the kitchen cabinet, a dried flower from the family Bible, and a stack of old letters from her bedroom.