VAPORS
The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 2
G. Wayne Miller
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2013 / G. Wayne Miller
Cover images courtesy of:
Indigodesign.deviantart.com
Obsidian Dawn
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
G. Wayne Miller is a staff writer at The Providence Journal, a documentary filmmaker, and the author of three novels, three short story collections and eight books of non-fiction, including THE XENO CHROICLES: Two Years on the Frontier of Medicine Inside Harvard’s Transplant Research Lab and KING OF HEARTS: The True Story of the Maverick Who Pioneered Open Heart Surgery, which is in Hollywood development. He has been honored for his writing more than 40 times and was a member of the Providence Journal team that was a finalist for the 2004 Pulitzer Prize in Public Service. Three documentaries he wrote and co-produced have been broadcast on PBS, including The Providence Journal’s COMING HOME, about veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, nominated in 2012 for a New England Emmy and winner of a regional Edward R. Murrow Award.
Miller is Visiting Fellow at Salve Regina University’s Pell Center, in Newport, R.I., where is cofounder and codirector of the Story in the Public Square program (publicstory.org), and former chairman of the Board of Trustees and now trustee emeritus of the Jesse M. Smith Memorial Library in Burrillville, R.I. With Yolanda Gabrielle, he enjoys travel and time by the ocean, particularly the New England coast and most especially Deer Isle, Maine. Visit him at gwaynemiller.com
Also by G. Wayne Miller
Fiction
Thunder Rise
Asylum
Summer Place
Since the Sky Blew Off: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 1
A Proper Burial: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 3
Non-fiction
The Work of Human Hands: Hardy Hendren and Surgical Wonder at Children’s Hospital
Coming of Age: The True Adventures of Two American Teens
Toy Wars: The Epic Struggle Between G.I. Joe, Barbie and the Companies That Make Them
King of Hearts: The True Story of the Maverick Who Pioneered Open Heart Surgery
Men and Speed: A Wild Ride Through NASCAR’s Breakout Season
The Xeno Chronicles: Two Years on the Frontier of Medicine Inside Harvard’s Transplant Research Lab
An Uncommon Man: The Life and Times of Senator Claiborne Pell
Top Brain, Bottom Brain: Surprising Insights Into How You Think (with Stephen M. Kosslyn, PhD.)
Films
Writer and co-producer
On the Lake: Life and Love in a Distant Place
Behind the Hedgerow: Eileen Slocum and the Meaning of Newport Society
Coming Home
Screenplays
Summer Love
Bishop Bob (with Drew Smith)
DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS
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CONTENTS
Introduction
Nothing There
Vapors
The Senator
Sweetie
Honey Love
God of Self
Gnawing
Death Train
Simon
Drive
Chiganook
Monster
The Devil at Bay
Summer Love: A Screenplay
Introduction
F. Scott Fitzgerald may have been right when he famously observed that there are no second acts in American life. In writing, however, there sometimes is a second act –– and even a third. The book you are about to read is proof.
From the earliest age, fiction was my first writing love. I wrote stories and then outlines and drafts of novels, a satisfying Act One. Then the real world called. When I graduated college, journalism still offered great opportunities for writers, and monetarily, at least, non-fiction was an easier row to hoe than fiction — one has to eat, right? So Act Two began, and it continues to this day, with three decades as a Providence Journal staff writer and eight books of non-fiction and three documentary movies to my name.
The first act seemed to have ended (or at least sputtered to an intermission) in the 1990s, after publication of my first (and to that point, only) novel, Thunder Rise, and dozens of horror, mystery, crime and sci-fi short stories. I kept writing fiction as that decade closed and the new millennium began, albeit at a slower pace. Creativity, energy and desire notwithstanding, there’s only so much time in a day. My fiction audience began to head for the doors. After all, the play seemed to be ending.
Enter the good folks at Crossroad Press, David Niall Wilson and David Dodd. In early 2012, publisher (and fellow writer) David Wilson found me on the Internet. He had a damn good idea for a third act, though I myself initially did not construe it as more than a good chance to take the fiction stage again for an encore or two.
David wanted to publish an e-book version of Thunder Rise, which had been released in hardcover and paperback editions. With David Dodd’s editing and cover art, Crossroad brought that e-edition out, in 2012, along with an audio book, released in 2013. Then they wanted to publish the other never-before-released books in the Thunder Rise trilogy –– Asylum and Summer Place –– which they did, this year. And they wanted a short story collection, Since the Sky Blew Off, which they published in 2012. Now comes volume two of the short stories, with at least one more on tap.
So Vapors is continuing proof that a writer really can have an Act Three, which in my case is an echo, or a continuation — or a whatever — of the opening act.
Vapors contains some new stories and some older ones previously published in the late Dave Silva’s now-legendary The Horror Show, American Fantasy and other classic magazines. The roots of it all lie in that intermissive period of my writing life when the legendary NECON, the New England Writers’ Conference, was a highlight of the summer for me and so many other writers of horror, fantasy and science-fiction, all the way back to the earliest days with Stephen King, Peter Straub, Robert McCammon, Yvonne Navarro, Tom Monteleone, Elizabeth Massie, John Skipp, John Farris, the 2013 NECON Legend Chet Williamson, and the late Les Daniels, a fellow Rhode Islander, and the late Charles L. Grant. Like me, some of these writers have been brought to new audiences by Crossroad Press. And a bunch of us — including King, Straub, Williamson and Campbell — have stories in a new classic, The Big Book of NECON, from Cemetery Dance, another formidable name in the field.
Here’s to second and third acts — and however many more may follow! I have the fiction bug again, big-time, and there’s lots of fiction yet to come.
But my fondest wish, as always, is that you, the reader, enjoy the fruits of something I have loved so passionately virtually my whole life: writing. Visit me at www.gwaynemiller.com and drop me a line, will you? All comments welcome!
Now, lights down, the curtain is rising again...
M
ay 23, 2013
Providence, Rhode Island
Nothing There
He drove north from Chicago in a rented Honda. The Saturday afternoon traffic was thick and sluggish, like blood through diseased arteries. How polite these drivers seemed. Back in Boston, you couldn’t go a block without some idiot trying to nail you. Here, folks signaled when passing. They stayed close to the speed limit. No one tailgated. He supposed it was part of their Midwestern nature to be so courteous. He wondered momentarily what kind of world it would be if everyone were like them.
Before long, the factories and tenements had thinned and then disappeared. The jets in and out of O’Hare had shrunk to distant specks. He passed an amusement park, closed for the season. He saw transmission lines coming down from Canada. It was suburbia now, 7-11 stores and neat little lawns fronting neat little houses. Soon they, too, had faded. Farmhouses took their place. Cornfields and dairy cattle. Silos, rigid and tall, guardians of this rich black soil. He crossed the line and he was in Wisconsin. From here, she’d said, it was only another half hour.
The traffic was weaker now. The November day was, too. High, thin clouds spread across the measureless sky. Another hour, and the sun would be swallowed by the fields. At kitchen tables, dinner would be served. He imagined seeing aproned housewives, their hair done up in curlers and kerchiefs, bending over ovens where hamburger casseroles simmered. He imagined hearing the children, giddy with the thought of Saturday night, and the tired husbands, ready for their evening of rest.
Overhead, the sign said County K, one mile. What a funny name for a road, he thought. County K, like some new brand of cereal. He looked down at the directions he’d scribbled on hotel stationery. Yes, this was it. He eased over into the travel lane, slowed and left Interstate 94. There was the 76 truck stop, just as she’d said. A combination restaurant, gift shop and Greyhound bus stop. A parking lot full of full-sized Fords and Chryslers, with hardly a Toyota in sight. The heartland.
He’d called her after lunch from his hotel room. The first few minutes had been awkward for them both. He could hear the sounds of kids in the background. He told her about his convention. She talked about the weather, unseasonably mild, and unlikely to last, considering Thanksgiving was just around the corner.
“Where are you staying?” she’d asked.
“The Palmer House.”
“Very fancy.”
“It’s OK.”
“No, it’s fancy,” she insisted. “I’ve been there. Window- shopping in that big lobby.”
“They have some nice shops.”
“You’ve done all right for yourself, John,” she said, trying to mask her bitterness. A trace still showed. “You always did.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t know what he could have said if he’d tried.
“So how’d you find me?” she asked after shouting at the children to be quiet, Mommy’s got a very special call.
“The alumni office.” They’d been the same class, the class of ‘96. He’d gone back east after graduation. She’d gone home to Wisconsin, never expecting to hear from him again.
“It’s funny.”
“What?”
“That you tracked me down. I tried to find you, you know.”
He didn’t. But it didn’t surprise him. There was a time he’d actually dreaded her call, but that had passed. During the period he was married, he’d almost forgotten her. It wasn’t until after his divorce that he’d thought much about her again.
“I tried several times, as a matter of fact,” she continued. “I wrote letters. They kept coming back.”
“I’ve moved a lot,” he said. “The company.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
There was another pause. The words weren’t coming easily from either of them.
“I’m divorced, you know,” she said after a bit.
“I know. I am, too.”
“I’ve got two children. That’s who you hear running around. A boy and a girl.”
“I know,” he repeated dumbly.
“You seem to have done your homework,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was mad or not.
“It’s all on record at the alumni office,” he explained. “Anyone can get it by calling.”
“Did they tell you they were both adopted?” she asked.
“No.”
“After Bryce, I couldn’t have children. Of my own.”
Bryce, he thought. So that’s what she called him. Why did she even bother to name him? What could it matter?
“I’m sorry,” he said. He wished he had a glass of water to get rid of the dryness in his mouth.
“I am, too.” He was surprised at how cold her voice had turned. How suddenly. He didn’t remember her like that. He remembered her as soft, pretty, the youngest-looking girl sitting at the back of Economics 101 the morning he first set eyes on her.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Sure.”
There was silence again. It was a bad cell, and he could hear static through the phone.
The child had been stillborn. That much he’d heard years ago from a friend of a friend of a friend. There had been whispers of some horrible deformity, but he’d never been able to confirm that, never bothered to try. What would have been the gain? What was done was done. All he knew for sure was that Sheryl had carried the baby to term, and he’d come out blue and unbreathing. There was a question of medical malpractice. As far as he knew, it had never come to a suit. That wouldn’t have been like her. This had all happened that September, three months after he’d said goodbye.
“So why’d you call, John?” she asked, breaking the silence.
He’d been ready for this one, but he still didn’t have a good answer. Just some private feelings he couldn’t share because he wasn’t sure what they meant, if they meant anything at all.
“I just thought I should,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
“Do you want to see him?” she asked. “I think you should see him. Just once. It wouldn’t have to be for long.”
He had no idea what she was talking about.
“Who?”
“Bryce. His grave, I mean.”
What a strange idea, he thought. Perverse. Again, the pause was long, uncomfortable. He wished desperately that the call was over, but he saw no way of ending it. It was up to her now.
“I could tell you how to get there. It’s not even two hours from Chicago.”
“I—”
“I think you should, John,” she said sternly. “I think you owe him at least that. Him and me. Respect for the memory. Respect for the past.”
“Yes,” he finally said. “I’d like to.”
She gave him directions. He was reading them again now after stopping at the restaurant to use the men’s room. County K six miles west to an intersection. Right on Rowe’s Lane about a mile to a seed farm. The cemetery would be just over the next knoll. You can’t miss it, she’d said. It’s on the highest land around.
He rolled the window down and put the car in gear.
Night wasn’t far off, but it seemed to have warmed up since leaving Chicago. The air on his face felt refreshing, like a shower after a bad night’s sleep. For some reason, he’d been getting increasingly anxious the last few miles. Strung out. He could feel the excess nervous energy running up and down his body. It was like having too many cups of coffee. His palms were actually sweaty. For the first time since talking to her, he wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into, and why. He didn’t have the answers. That bothered him more than anything. He’d gotten where he had in business by coming up with answers.
County K, a two-lane blacktop, wound off toward the setting sun. There was almost no traffic, only an occasional tractor or pickup truck or stainless-steel tanker carrying milk destined to become butter or cheese. The only buildings were farmhouses and barns. It seemed everyone was flying an American flag. In the Ivy-League East, patriotism smacked too much of Tea Party
politics to be worn on the sleeve. Here, it fit.
He found the cemetery without any trouble. From this knoll, you could see for miles and miles over the rolling countryside. It reminded him of a Grandma Moses painting, the fields and outbuildings arranged like patchwork.
He got out of the car and paused a moment, surveying the cemetery.
It was unexpectedly tiny, a postage stamp of graveyards. The only smaller one he recalled ever seeing was one near Concord, Mass., where a handful of Revolutionary War heroes were buried together under white headstones whose inscriptions had worn off over the years. He counted, unconsciously using his finger as a measure. There couldn’t be more than a dozen families buried here. One of them was hers, the Andersens. He remembered her telling the story of how the family had come over from Sweden during the great wave of Scandinavian immigration a century ago. They’d been carpenters and masons, these Andersens, and they’d done all right for themselves in the New Land.
The wind had picked up since the truck stop and it was insistent now, brisk but not harsh. In a few short weeks it would deliver the sleet and the snow, but today, on the cusp of fall, it brought only a final reminder of summer. In great sheets, it came whipping across the flat landscape, fragrant with a sweet agricultural odor he did not recognize. He stood, letting the wind caress him. He looked out over the stones, the torn veterans’ flags, potted geraniums wilted by the autumn’s first frost. The cemetery was surrounded by fields. They were brown, their life gone silently underground to await a more encouraging season.
The heartland. He’d probably eaten food grown around here, maybe from one of these very fields.
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