Nothing Town

by Cherie Mitchell

  “Errrr, do we have far to go?” This is around the same time that I notice my door doesn’t have a handle on the inside. Instead, there’s a creepy round hole with dirty frayed vinyl around the edges. I can see the inner workings of the door from where I’m sitting but I have no idea which part I’d need to wangle if I wanted to open it from the inside.

  “Not too far. Never too far. Hey do you like watching movies, girlie?”

  “Uh, yes. I love movies.” I decide it’s probably best to keep up a good conversational flow and keep him talking. Sticking to bland subjects might keep his mind on his driving rather than on any other kind of crazy shit.

  “Ever seen that Australian horror movie Wolf Creek? About a guy who picks up some hitchhikers and goes AWOL on their sorry asses?” He cackles again, his entire skinny frame shaking with the effort of mirth, and I start to look around for something I can use as a weapon if push comes to shove.

  “Can’t say I have. I have a mild aversion to horror movies.” There’s some kind of metal object on the floor beneath my foot but I can’t quite see what it is without making it obvious that I’m looking. I’m hoping it’s a crowbar or something similar, a weighty tool that might keep him at bay if he decides to lose the plot.

  “You should look it up sometime. It’s a good movie.”

  He lapses into silence and the truck keeps bouncing along the potholed road. I pretend to sneeze, throwing myself forward violently so I can see what the metal object under my shoe is, and I’m disappointed to see that it’s only the framework of the pickup showing through the threadbare mat.

  “My cousin is in it.”

  “What?” For one bizarre instant, I think he’s telling me that he’s killed his cousin and somehow managed to hide his body in the framework of the truck.

  “Jerome. My cousin. He went to Australia some time back and managed to get himself a bit role in the Wolf Creek movie.” Sid’s pride is evident in his tone as he turns a pair of suddenly sparkling blue eyes on me. “He’s the only member of the family who has managed to find himself any sort of fame this century. Unfortunately, my own sons are too dull-headed to get themselves into anything like that.”

  “How lovely.” I exhale in a long, slow breath as relief floods through me. Sid really is just an old man trying to be friendly.

  “He always was a showman, even when we were kids.”

  I think of my sister Organza. “Some people are just like that. Uh, Sid, remember when you said before that the lyrics of Mama Tried remind you of your own life? What did you mean?” I figure I can ask this now as we’ve just passed the ‘Welcome to Euthanasia, A Town Where Life Matters’ sign and I’m starting to feel as if I might arrive safely.

  He turns those startling eyes on me again and I briefly wonder if his cataracts are retractable. “I spent my 21st birthday in prison, just like the boy in the song.”

  Shit-a-roonie. Perhaps I jumped the gun somewhat with those premature feelings of safety. “Do you mind if I ask you why?” I ask in a small voice. I know for a fact that the lyrics go on to say the boy in the song is doing life with no hope of parole.

  Again, he lets out another one of those hideous cackles. “Stole a chicken from the Sheriff’s henhouse. Spent two days and nights in prison, missed me birthday, and got a whupping from me mama when I got out.” He abruptly applies the brakes and we shudder to a stop outside a modern-looking bungalow with a well-tended garden and bright, white net curtains in the windows. “Here’s your house. Windfell, we call it.”

  I’m pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t optimistic that the station’s budget would allow Elmer to spring for anything too spectacular in the way of accommodation but this really is a nice house. Certainly, it’s the nicest place I’ve stayed in for a while. Elmer did mention that it had a couple of bedrooms in case I decided I’d like to have a friend or two come visit but I suppose I imagined some rundown, budget dwelling without much going for it in the way of creature comforts. The name is cute too. Windfell. Sounds like some sort of medieval castle.

  “I’ll get your suitcase out of the back and then I’ll be on my way. Phil is making pot roast tonight.” Sid leaps out, displaying astonishing agility and speed, and seconds later my suitcase is waiting for me on the pavement. “Sure was good to meet you, Miss Friedlander.”

  “You too.” I grin at him, feeling bad for doubting him in the first place, and go to pick up my suitcase. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I ended up dating one of your sons while I’m here?”

  Sid’s face darkens into a scowl. I notice that his eyes have clouded over again, too. I have no idea what I’ve said that might’ve caused his mood to alter so quickly. “I can’t say it would be funny, Miss. Might pay you to keep yourself focused on the young men in town. Leave the country boys alone.” He delivers the last comment on a reeking gust of halitosis with his face held too close to my own.

  “Uh, why?” I’m at a loss as to why he’s warning me off his sons. He’s already told me his farm is only a few miles from here and isn’t every man who lives in tiny Euthanasia essentially a country boy? It’s not exactly a bustling metropolis out here.

  “Just keep your nose clean and your mind focused on the town folk. It’ll be best for everyone if you do.” He nods curtly, effectively ending the conversation, and limps back to the truck. He’s dragging one leg now, which I find odd given the way he vaulted out of the vehicle just a few minutes ago.

  I wait until the pickup bumps away from the curb and disappears out of sight down the road. I can’t help but notice that Sid doesn’t return my wave. Shaking my head at the perpetual strangeness of most members of the male gender, I turn around and drag my suitcase up the path to my new temporary home.

  Chapter Four

  Shit-a-roonie!

  I wake myself up with my cussing and find myself staring wide-eyed at the bedroom wall. My heart is pounding and my mouth is gross and dry. The edges of my dream skittle away from me like crabs on a beach, elusive and rapidly fading, but I vaguely recall I was frantically fighting against someone. Or something. I try in vain to snatch the dream back but it’s gone. I push myself up against the pillows and wait for my stampeding heart to slow down. I can hear the wind has picked up outside and the branches of the trees that grow close to the house are tapping against the windowpanes. It’s an eerie sound in the hushed quiet of the early hours of the morning.

  Throwing the bedclothes back, I grab my sweatshirt from the end of the bed and pull it on over my t-shirt. The temperature inside the house has dropped but I remember seeing a thermostat in the living room so I’m guessing the place is centrally heated. I switch on some lights as I go – the layout of the house is still unfamiliar and the night terror of my dream is still hauntingly clinging to the back of my mind.

  I turn the heating on and wander out to the kitchen to fetch a drink of water. The house is fully furnished, one of those vacation rental type of places, although I’m at a loss as to why anyone would want to book themselves a holiday in Euthanasia. From what I’ve seen of the town, it’s one of those one-horse, two gas stations type of communities where the most thrilling thing to happen each day is the arrival of the newspaper on the front lawn. All the same, the house is extremely well appointed. The furnishing and linens are top quality and the cupboards are crammed full with anything anyone would ever need.

  I grab my phone from where I left it charging on the kitchen counter and walk back out to the living room. The wind continues to batter the house as a vehicle drives slowly by outside on the street, its headlights momentarily illuminating the curtains. I curl my legs up beneath me on the sofa and stretch my sweatshirt down to cover my knees. I feel comfortable here in this house, despite only having arrived a few hours ago. It’s one of those houses that feels impersonal, much like the atmosphere of a hotel room, but it’s a good impersonal. I think I’ll be happy enough here for the next eight weeks and hey, I might even meet someone interesting through my paid-for dating exploits. Stranger things have hap
pened, as they say.

  After scrolling through my social feeds, I download a dating app that I’ve used a few times in the past. I always end up uninstalling it, usually after a few too many dead end dates, but it’s easy to use and can be set to include different locations. I open the app, upload a photo from my phone’s gallery, and change the location to ‘Euthanasia & Surrounds’, disregarding Sid’s gruff suggestion that I stick to making potential dates with the townies. I take a few minutes to decide on a profile teaser and settle for typing in ‘Newcomer in town looking for in-depth conversations with fascinating men’. Feeling smug and clever for hinting at my news story assignment without giving anything away, I click out of the app just as my phone pings with an incoming text.

  I’m surprised to receive a message at this late hour of the night but it’s good to know I have insomniac company out there somewhere. I open the message to find that it’s from Reece, which makes sense. My brother doesn’t sleep a lot these days; he’s one of those people who can get by on just four or five hours a night. He generally spends the hours of darkness reading or playing games on his computer and I can’t see that the lack of sleep has had any ill effects on him. He’s just Reece Friedlander, same as he’s always been except for when his name was Timmy Friedlander, and I love him to pieces for who he is. I scan my eyes over his text. Hey sis, hope u got there ok. Arriving Tuesday, R x

  Tuesday? This Tuesday? I wasn’t expecting Reece to arrive for his birthday celebrations for another week or so. I stab at his name on my contact list and phone him, certain that he’ll pick up.

  “Hi, Ellie.”

  “Hey, Reece.” I can picture him now, the hood of his sweatshirt flipped up and his face eerily awash in the blue glow of his computer screen. “I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon. Tuesday is only two days away.”

  I can hear the casual shrug in his voice as he replies. “I was told by my boss that I need to use up some of my vacation days so I figured I’d come out to hang with you.”

  “I’m here on an assignment,” I remind him gently. “I know I offered to throw a birthday party for you but I guess I thought you’d arrive closer to your birthday. I have a lot to do and won’t be able to spend as much time with you as I’d like to.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” And to Reece, it clearly doesn’t.

  I try again. “I still have to work.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring my computer. I do know how to amuse myself, Ellie.”

  I can feel my lips twitching into a smile. I keep forgetting that my baby brother is practically a grownup now. “Of course you do. Have you decided if you want to invite any friends?”

  “Probably not. Most of my friends are online and I don’t even know their real names. I think I prefer it that way.”

  “If you’re happy with that, I am too.” I’m already imagining the quiet fun we’ll have together in between my dates and my journalism work. If I had to choose only one member of my family to spend eternity with, Reece would win hands down.

  “Good.” He drops his bombshell without warning, an underground nuclear explosion that immediately rockets my stress quota to potentially life threatening levels. “I’ve invited Organza.”

  He ignores my groan and carries on talking. “I can’t have a birthday celebration without Organza.”

  “She’s probably too busy with her insta-world,” I suggest hopefully.

  “No, she said she’ll come. She’ll be there on Wednesday.” He pauses for the briefest of seconds. “Mom’s coming too.”

  “Reece! You could’ve checked with me first. You know how difficult Mom can be. Is she bringing Morris?” I’m grabbing for straws now. She’s generally on her best behavior around Morris. Too scared of losing yet another man from her life, I guess.

  “Not sure,” he says happily.

  “I only have a three bedroom house. Organza and I will have to share.” I can already imagine how well this news will go down with my spoilt and pampered sister. I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled about the idea myself.

  “That’s fine. See you Tuesday.” He rings off after that, patently unaware that he’s turned all my well-ordered plans for the next two months upside down and inside out.

  As Dr. Lucy McIntyre, my old therapist would say there’s no one in the world who puts more stress and higher expectations on you than your own family.

  Chapter Five

  I have my first date. I woke up this morning to find a heart notification blinking at me from my phone and it took me a moment or two to understand what it was. I jumped up and down in excitement when I realized it was from the app. I took my time opening the message, waiting until I’d taken a pee in the freezing cold bathroom and made myself a coffee with the fancy Krueger, drawing out the anticipation for as long as I could.

  I’m looking at the message and the attached profile again now. Stewart Greenwich, aged 31 is a proud and permanent resident of Euthanasia. Perfect. Stewart represents my exact intended target and he wants to meet me as soon as possible. I take another look at his photo. He’s not a looker, I will admit that but hey, I’m not planning on marrying the guy. He’s one of those hairy types with 80’s hair and a full, long hipster beard but he has kind eyes. I think. I shove my face up close to my phone screen and enlarge the photo as much as the site will allow me to, but his eyes are still hard to see beneath those heinously bushy eyebrows. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s the first in what should pan out to be a long line of documentary subjects and my project is now underway.

  I type out a reply to Stewart and suggest a coffee meet up later this afternoon at a coffee shop that I’ve just Googled. It’s within walking distance from the house, only a block or two from Windfell. I can jog over there if it’s raining without getting too drenched. I haven’t looked outside yet, but the weather still sounds stormy and those tree branches continue to scrape and batter against the side of the house. I take my time showering and dressing, basking in the knowledge that I don’t have to spend the day in the van with Michael and I can pretty much do as I please.

  It’s not until I’ve opened all the curtains and switched the coffee machine on again that I notice there’s no storm happening out there. In fact, the sky is beautifully clear and blue. Perplexed now, especially as those tree branches are still clattering against the side of the house, I open the door and step out into the day. Sure enough, there isn’t a breath of breeze out here yet I can hear the trees moving and rustling. I walk down the steps and make my way across the lawn to peer around the corner of the house.

  There are four trees growing there, those long, tall silver birch type of trees, and the branches of each are knocking rhythmically against the side of the house and windowpanes like ghostly skeleton fingers. Tap, tap, tap. Yet, there’s no wind. I take a few steps closer and I’m instantly caught up in a swirling wind strong enough to whip my hair against my face. If I step back, the wind stops again. It’s so weird, like a tiny micro climate or vortex centered on this spot alone.

  Something hits the ground behind me and I swear I nearly shit a chicken. I whirl around in fright to see the grinning face of a boy on a bike. “Newspaper!” he shouts unnecessarily before cycling away, his feet spinning on the pedals like turbines.

  I give the trees one last wary glance before deciding to leave well enough alone. The memory of the oak tree at Pannier Street is still clear in my mind and some things are best left in the past. I pick up the newspaper before scooting back inside. Sid did tell me the name of the house was Windfell, I reason to myself. It’s probably nothing to worry about.

  The next few hours pass quickly as I spend my time working on questions to ask my dates and sketching a draught outline for my proposed story. I check the video camera, take a few test pans around the house to make sure the footage is smooth and steady, and then I tuck it into my shoulder bag ready for my date. I plan to ask the men for their permission before I film them, of course. Shit-a-roonie, no one could ever say that I aren’t a consummate
professional.

  By the time I’m about to leave for my date, a few stray nervous butterflies have set themselves up in my gut. I tried to count back over how long it’s been since I last went on a date while I was putting some mascara on. The sad truth is that it must be close to two years now. My last quasi-boyfriend was Gordon Jennings, a nervy, thin man with a passion for French sub-titled noir films. We dated for a couple of weeks before he told me our relationship probably wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t try to convince him otherwise; I don’t think my heart was in it from the beginning.

  I take a peek around the side of the house as I leave and I’m a little disconcerted to see that the trees are still moving and rustling. However, the skinny branches are no longer tapping against the side of the house. It’s as if the trees have moved back a foot or two and the house is no longer within reach. Impossible, I know. Deciding that now isn’t the time to investigate further, I swing the strap of my bag over for my shoulder and set off for my date.

  The main street of Euthanasia is practically identical to every other small town main street that I’ve ever walked down. There’s a diner, a dollar store, a bank, and a bookshop. There’s a shoe shop, a grocery store, a secondhand goods store, and a boutique. Honestly, you could lift the entire street up and dump it down in a town on the other side of the country and I guarantee no one would ever notice the difference.

  The coffee shop window is decorated with painted, dancing coffee beans and I glance through it as I open the door, in the hopes of seeing my hairy suitor. He’s there alright, sitting at a table at the back and staring intently at the door. I give him a quick wave and go to the counter to order before walking across to join him. “Hi, you must be Stewart.”