Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  Oscar

  CURRAGOWER FALLS

  HALLOWEEN

  “Hey, guys, you up for this trip to Bunratty?”

  Oscar was scanning Kate O’Brien’s suggestion list and tourist leaflets.

  “What’s Bunratty?” asked Jess, swinging in the cane chair in the window recess.

  “Remember the castle we passed on the highway near the airport? That’s Bunratty.” As well as the medieval castle there was a reconstructed medieval village. “According to this brochure, there’s a Halloween event today. Visits to a creepy crypt, séances, and fire eating.”

  “Count me in,” Elliot shot up from the sofa.

  “Okay, then,” said Oscar. “Jess, you go organize Mom. She can’t still be in the shower.”

  Hazel was still fretting over yesterday’s incident with the hammer. And twice now, she’d mentioned someone in the park watching the house. Oscar didn’t want to think about it, but every now and then four shadowy consonants flashed before his eyes. PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

  “It’s okay, I’m here,” said Hazel, making an appearance. She looked strained under her makeup.

  “It looks like everyone’s on board for Bunratty,” Oscar said.

  “Great,” said Hazel. “I’ll just go check if my sunglasses are in the car.”

  “Sunglasses, Mom? It looks like rain,” said Jess innocently. Hazel was being overly sensitive, you’d have to look pretty hard to see the remains of any bruises.

  On Hazel’s return, Oscar sensed that something was wrong.

  “What’s up, hon?” He saw that she had found the glasses.

  “Out there,” she mouthed, pointing to the window.

  Not again. This was getting tiresome.

  He strolled to the window. There was no one in the park. It was deserted. He waited. A woman with a stroller walked by. He looked at the river. The tide was out, leaving the boulders of the falls exposed. But there was nothing else remarkable. Or unremarkable, for that matter. Certainly nothing sinister. He turned to Hazel and shrugged.

  Hazel walked slowly to the window to check for herself. “I could have sworn . . .” she said softly.

  An hour later they were wandering around the reconstructed nineteenth-century village. Oscar was feeling pretty virtuous about himself, he was doing this Ireland thing for Hazel. It was more than he’d ever done for Birgitte—he’d never even gotten around to visiting Sweden. But there had never been any compelling reason to visit, there was no family there. Like Hazel, Birgitte too had been an only child. Her parents had died before Oscar had a chance to meet them.

  In Bunratty, the Harveys spent the afternoon going from one thatched cottage to another, listening to ghost stories around peat fires. On October 31, the Celtic festival of Samhain, they learned that the division between this world and the next is at its thinnest, the thin division allowing the spirits to pass through on Halloween. After the storytelling, they made their way to the crypt in the castle. Entering the castle through the portcullis door, Oscar could feel the cold reach out to touch him. It seemed colder inside than out.

  Elliot was on a high after leaving the dungeons. The live tarantula in the glass box had really caught his imagination. In the car on the way back, he ran his fingers up and down Jess’s arm, pretending to be a spider.

  “Enough already,” hissed Jess.

  “Come on, you guys. We had a super afternoon. Don’t go and spoil it,” said Hazel.

  “Can we rent a scary movie for tonight, Mom?” asked Elliot.

  Every year, back home in the States, Hazel made a big deal of Halloween. She invited the kids’ friends. She lit pumpkins and put glow-in-the-dark witches out on the balcony of their Riverside Drive apartment.

  “I’ll see what I can do about a scary movie.” And then casually, “We could get in just a few little goodies . . .” She paused. “What do you think, Oscar?”

  “A few goodies . . .” he repeated.

  “Oh, come on, Dad. Chillax for once!” said Jess.

  Oscar said nothing.

  They went ahead and made their plans. Hazel would drop Oscar and the kids back to the house before heading off to source a scary movie and all the accompanying junk deemed necessary to celebrate the night. Oscar had real difficulty watching his kids eat junk. Hazel thought him too Draconian. But Oscar knew only too well where such sloppiness could lead. Over the years, he’d seen how his sister, Helen, had steadily turned her food into flesh.

  It was dark and murky as they reached the Limerick suburbs. Drizzle fell on clusters of kids in garish bloody masks, pointy hats, and witches’ broomsticks. But there was a real menace to the strutting herds of teenagers dressed in all-white track suits. They drove past youths gathering in packs on a supermarket forecourt, marking territory like a raggle-taggle militia, torsos taut with aggression. Their sense of purpose did not feel wholesome. Oscar was glad he was inside the car.

  Back in the house, Oscar put on some music. The kids were downstairs in their rooms. They wanted to change into pajamas for a lazy evening’s viewing. After a while Oscar got up to close the drapes. Outside, the river looked full and angry, tumbling over the rocks, sluicing along the sides. Above the muffled roar of the water, he heard a sharp crack. A lone red light zigzagged and flared into the sky. And then another. More fireworks. The street outside had become busy. Oscar stood watching. A black-cloaked child wielding a plastic ax walked by, led by an elderly woman. In the park, a group had formed on the grass, their backs to him. Wearing leisure suits, they were smoking and drinking from cans. He pulled the drapes now, conscious that he could be seen, should they turn around.

  Oscar looked at his watch. Hazel should be back soon. As he arranged the cuff of his sweater, he noticed that his fingernails were dirty. He’d been handling the sods of peat in Bunratty earlier. Perhaps it was his profession, but clean nails were something he was particular about. Scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, Oscar remembered how he used to enjoy regular manicures before the Susan thing. Before that bitch screwed things up for them. The weekly manicure was only one of many cutbacks. He stood there at the sink brooding, scrubbing his nails, one at a time.

  He dried his hands carefully. Hazel should be back by now. She’d been gone at least an hour. What was she doing? He’d found it difficult to gauge her many shifts in mood today. Hearing the crunch of gravel outside, he looked out the little window over the sink to the side entrance below. Yes, that was Hazel in the VW sedan. He stood and watched her from the window as she got out of the car. She walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He could see that Hazel wasn’t happy about something. She was shaking her head in annoyance. Oscar leaned farther over the sink for a better view. That was better. He could see the problem. Some groceries had broken free of their plastic shopping bags. Hands on hips, Hazel shook her head. Then, swiftly stooping under the hood, she set about repacking the purchases.

  Then he saw what she had bought. Among the packets, tubs, and jars—an outsize pack of potato chips, two massive tubs of what looked like chocolate ice cream, and a supersized bottle of full-calorie Coke. Junk. Junk. All junk. The whole lot of it. She’d bought nothing but junk.

  Wait! What was that? What the hell . . . ? He could hardly believe his eyes. And in an instant everything changed. Like a forgotten circuit crackling into life, a switch tripped, and Oscar found himself hurtling down the stairs. It had taken only a moment to register and he could scarcely process what he had seen. He was reacting purely on instinct now, head screaming, a pounding in his ears. He raced outside.

  The next few moments were a crazy blur. And after that, for the briefest of moments, time stood still. Oscar tried to understand it, tried to make some sense of the sudden unexpected violence, but an explanation wouldn’t come to him. His mind was separating from his body, protecting itself, retreat
ing like a tortoise into a shell.

  The numbness passed, and then it came. He could feel it coming, standing there in the drizzle. He knew that feeling. That sickening empty feeling. That feeling of impotence. After all the adrenaline and fear had flushed through him, the memories came flooding back. One after another they replayed in his head. Those memories he’d tried so long to suppress. He was shaking uncontrollably. Shivering like an animal.

  Under the harsh outside light on the wall, he watched the blood seeping through her hair. Hazel was slumped over the lip of the trunk, where the blow had felled her. Her head was twisted awkwardly to one side, an open eye staring straight ahead. She looked surprised. Fragments of bone had shattered and splattered into her red-blond hair where the back of her skull was smashed. Oscar pressed two fingers onto his wife’s neck to feel for a pulse. He kept them in place for what felt like a long time. Nothing. He bent down, leaning next to her mouth, listening for a breath. Nothing. He stood up and looked again. She was so very still. The blow was catastrophic. Final.

  There was no time. There was no time. He had to move. The kids. Gripped by panic, he bent down and grabbed her lifeless legs. He tried to do it gently. He heaved. It was harder than he thought. He heaved again, a still warm arm draping itself around his shoulder, the fingers brushing his cheek as if to caress him. Stricken now, he let out a sob.

  He had to hide her. The kids couldn’t see their mother like this. Whatever happened after this, this could not be their last memory of their mother. He would spare them this. They were only kids, their whole lives ahead of them. Oscar knew such pictures stayed in the mind forever.

  Swallowing back the bile that burned his throat, Oscar heaved as hard as he could. He gagged, suddenly fearing that he might throw up. He arranged her so that she almost looked like she was sleeping. Curled up, facing him. Gently, he leaned in and closed her eyelids. And one last time, he checked again for a pulse. Reluctantly, he closed the hood, and leaning on it a moment, he felt himself go dizzy.

  He lay against the hood for a minute, maybe two, maybe ten. He couldn’t tell. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the scattered groceries lying in the rain. He didn’t know what it was that he should do next. As if in a trance, he could hardly move. Gradually, he became aware the kids were standing there. Elliot looked around, puzzled, remarking how Oscar had been gone for ages. Jess knew something bad had happened. Alarm flashed across her face. She asked Oscar something but he could barely hear her over the roar of the water. He watched the way her lips were moving.

  “What did you say?” he shouted.

  “Where’s Mom?” she shouted back.

  “Come inside, Jess.” He willed himself to move.

  “Where’s Mom?” she asked again.

  “Inside, Jess. Now.”

  He had no idea what he was going to tell them. Elliot too was standing on the path, afraid to move. But Jess ignored Oscar’s instruction. Already she was walking around the back of the car, eyes wide, taking in the smashed jars, the exploded bags of popcorn and potato chips.

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  He followed Jess’s eyes as she took it all in, until her eyes came to rest. Jess was staring hard at something over his shoulder, something he couldn’t see. With a jolt and without turning around, he realized what it was that made her look like that. Confused, she opened her mouth to form another question. No words came out.

  “Come, Jess.” He took her by the arm.

  The spade!

  He should have hidden it. Slid it under the car. But there had been no time. Lying abandoned among the debris, with its frosting of flesh and hair, he’d left it where it was.

  Oscar stopped and bent over to pick up three bananas that had escaped intact. He felt a stupid stab of guilt. It didn’t matter now, but it hadn’t all been junk. And the giant bottle of Coke was Diet Coke. He’d been mistaken. Hazel had been listening to him after all.

  “What happened? Where’s Mom?” asked Elliot, still standing in the doorway.

  “Upstairs now, Elliot,” said Oscar.

  But Elliot was rooted to the spot, staring at something on the ground.

  “My feet, Dad,” said Jess.

  “Look at my feet. There’s blood on my feet.”

  • • •

  The kids sat on the sofa warily, hesitantly, almost willing Oscar not to say anything. They wanted to know. But they didn’t really want to know. Elliot was chewing his fingernails, unable to drag his horrified gaze from Jess’s feet. Her mother’s blood was on the white ribbon of her pajama bottoms. In the distance, fireworks went off. The HAPPY HALLOWEEN banners they’d received in this afternoon’s goody bags at Bunratty hung from the ceiling.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  Somehow the words came out of Oscar’s mouth. The fidgeting stopped.

  “Mom’s been in accident and . . .” But the words got stuck, his throat constricting, choking the sounds. Oscar tried to continue, digging his nails into his fists.

  “Mom’s not . . . is she? She’s not . . .” Elliot couldn’t say the words.

  How could he look his children in the eyes and tell them this?

  But there was no way out. “I’m afraid so, Elliot.”

  It was as if someone else were speaking with his voice.

  “I’m so, so sorry. So very sorry. But Mom is . . . Mom is . . . Mom won’t be coming back.”

  It felt like a boulder was pressing down on him. Inside, Oscar felt hollow. In the way a small child takes a few suspended seconds to register a pain, there fell an eerie quiet.

  “NO!! NO!!!”

  Jess screamed into the horrified silence. “Take it back! You cannot say that—take it back, Dad, take it back!” Jess launched herself at Oscar, pummeling his chest.

  He tried to grab her flailing hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Jess. Stop. Stop it, please. It’s okay.”

  Jess fell against him, shuddering, wailing. The wailing like the animal in the dark a few nights earlier. Elliot stared at his older sister. He was shaking violently now, his face deathly pale.

  “Dad, you’re not really telling us that Mom is dead?”

  Fear and disbelief flickered in his eyes. “Not DEAD?”

  With his free arm, Oscar tried to reach out to his son, but Elliot recoiled.

  “Come here, son . . .” Oscar begged him gently.

  Livid blotches erupted across Elliot’s cheeks. He stared hard at Oscar.

  “You’re sick, Dad. This is one sick Halloween prank. It’s not funny at all and I don’t FUCKING believe you! I’m going outside to get her. I’m going outside to get my mom!!” Elliot sprang up from the sofa and made a break for the door.

  “No! Stop, Elliot!”

  Oscar made it across the room, pushing Jess aside and grabbing Elliot, winching him into his chest. The two of them clung on to each other as they rocked to and fro. The room filled with pain, Jess wailing, Elliot joining her now, howling like wolves in the snow.

  It was a full two hours later before a lull came. “What are we going to do, Dad? What are we going to do now?” Jess asked Oscar.

  That was his dilemma. What should he do now? Whom should he call? Whom could he call? He knew he should call somebody now. The kids would need support. Not only was Oscar in a foreign country but he felt he was in a foreign body.

  Bad things had happened before and he’d managed. But this was different. This was the worst by far. It occurred to Oscar then that if he sat here quietly for ten minutes or so, resting his eyes, all of this would go away. It never happened. He sat back on the sofa and took Elliot’s hand in his. For a minute or so, he did nothing but listen to his own breathing. And then Oscar opened his eyes. The sound of Jess’s howling was coming through the floorboards. He knew then what he must do. Whom he’d call. A plan was forming in his head. There were at least three phone call
s. He’d find the energy somehow. He had to do this for his kids.

  • • •

  “Spike. It’s Oscar Harvey.”

  “Hello there, Oscar. How’s it going?”

  “Not good. I wonder if you could come over.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Look, that’s no problem, buddy. I’m a bit tied up at the moment but I’ll be over in an hour or so.”

  Oscar could hear Bob Marley in the background and the sound of a woman’s voice. He needed Spike now but he had to be careful how he proceeded. Elliot was still sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. Oscar was very worried about him. He almost looked catatonic.

  “There’s been an accident, Spike. I think it would be best if you came now.”

  There was a sudden muting of Bob Marley.

  “An accident?”

  A muffled conversation was going on in the background. But there was no further hesitation. “No worries, hang on. I’m on my way.”

  The line went dead.

  That was the first phone call done. He could move on to the next. Oscar had a choice for the next. But he grappled with whom that should be. He tried to think straight, to stay focused.

  “You okay? Where are you off to, Elliot?” Elliot stood up robotlike from the sofa.

  “To the bathroom, I don’t feel so good.”

  He was moving and talking mechanically.

  “When you’re done, come back and get a drink of water.”

  “Okay.”

  It was an innocuous exchange and it struck Oscar how bizarre this was—that they should be having this mundane conversation, with the child’s mother growing cold in the trunk among the tins of soup and melon.

  “Stay focused. Stay focused,” he repeated aloud. Returning to the business of the second phone call, he tried to think logically. Whom had he always gone to in times of crisis? Who was the one person who was always there for him, no matter what he’d done? Who understood him and his weaknesses? Who understood what drove him? Who would support him and help him with the children? And, as always in these situations, he found the answer was his sister. It was Helen whom he should call. Helen should be the recipient of the second phone call.