Jim Rubart Trilogy

by James L. Rubart

  “Just because I like Star Wars doesn’t mean I’m going all Lucas on you.” He joined her laughter and slid his arm around her shoulders.

  “I think it would be cool if you had a chair made by Jesus. You could start a cult. Pretend it gives people visions if they sit in it. Hey! Make them pay to sit in it to get their visions and make a few bucks. Or build duplicates, put them in the store and up on your Web site, and sell ’em.”

  “So you’re still up for launching ourselves off that mountain this weekend?”

  “Absolutely.” She stared at him from under her eyebrows. “Kind of.”

  “Explain.”

  “Just promise me you won’t go crazy on me again, okay?”

  Was it that obvious? His penchant for buddying up to the Reaper? Probably. But he couldn’t stop it. Maybe he didn’t want to stop it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s what concerns me.”

  She was right to worry. But he’d never admit that to her. He barely admitted it to himself.

  CHAPTER 3

  At nine o’clock the next evening, the sound of thunder ripped through Corin’s house, making him think once again they must have constructed his walls out of papier-mâché. The lamp on his workbench flickered. Welcome to late October in Colorado.

  “No.” Corin shut his eyes. “I don’t need this. I want to get this piece finished.”

  A second peal of thunder reverberated through the room, and the lights went out for half a second, then back on.

  Corin yanked open a drawer and pulled out a flashlight.

  If the power went out, it meant another delay in finishing the table and getting it on his sales floor.

  He ran his hands over the top of the Top Swan carved end table. It was turning out beautiful. Researching the type of stain that had originally been used had taken days. Finding the stain took longer. In the end he had the stain custom made. But there was no point in restoring the piece to its almost-original condition. Exact was the only acceptable standard.

  He plugged in his sander and fired it up. In a few minutes he’d have all the rough spots smoothed out on the final leg of the table. Corin glanced at the lights. Just give me power a little bit longer.

  The lights flickered again.

  Corin turned the sander on high and went to work on the leg. Three seconds later all the lights in his shop went out. Corin sighed, set his sander on his workbench, picked up the flashlight and turned to the door of his workshop. “What?” Dim light reached him from his kitchen. Oh no. The power hadn’t gone out. He’d blown a fuse.

  Corin swore, closed his eyes, and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

  Every time this happened he promised himself he’d cut a door from the outside of the garage so he could get to the fuse box without having to face the tunnel of fear that insisted on burrowing its way into his mind.

  Sweat trickled down his forehead as he walked into his living room and stared at his couch. Maybe he’d sit in it for five or ten minutes—it’d give him time to work up his nerve.

  Sure it would.

  And at least three of the Fantastic Four were real and living in New York City.

  Couldn’t he even reset a fuse without morphing into a six-foot-two mass of fear?

  What had the psychiatrist told him a few years back? Think open thoughts. Close his eyes if possible and think about meadows, the ocean, mountaintops with nothing but sky surrounding him. Yeah, right.

  He took a deep breath. Something about holding his breath kept the claustrophobia at bay till he let the air out. Holding his breath meant he wasn’t breathing in . . .

  No. No point in going there. He relived it often enough in his nightmares.

  Corin wiped the perspiration off his forehead again and shook his head.

  Why couldn’t he have a simpler fear like being scared of the dark?

  The lead box for that kind of kryptonite was simple. Night-lights, flashlights, spotlights.

  He roamed toward the garage door and reached for the knob hating himself for the slick coat of perspiration he left on it. As he stepped into the belly of the beast, he took another deep breath.

  Corin eased toward the crawl space between the back of the garage and the wall that created an extra, hidden storage area. Shouldn’t the home have been built with an easily accessed fuse box? Wasn’t it important to get to these type of things? Or did the previous owner build this wall without getting permits?

  I so appreciate what you constructed, pal. Thanks a bunch.

  When he reached the spot where the wall started, he rubbed the Sheetrock with the palm of his hand and muttered for the 2 millionth time, “There’s no logical reason to be afraid.” And for the 2 millionth time it didn’t help.

  He clutched his knees to stop his legs from bouncing.

  Why couldn’t he shake this?

  Closed spaces had nothing to do with water. He puffed out a quick breath. Yes, they did. It’s why some people couldn’t scuba dive or even snorkel. It felt like the water was closing in.

  Corin shook the summer of 1987 out his mind, lied to himself, and pretended the two incidents weren’t related.

  He flashed his light at the opening. It was only fifteen feet to the fuse box. There was an abundance of air to breathe between here and there. And he could hold his breath long enough to get to the switch, flip it, and get back to the safety of the open garage.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to pit out another one of his Crazy Shirts just because he swallowed a few lungfuls of water when he was a kid. Big deal. Get over it. Be a superhero, face the fear, and get on with life. But he couldn’t. Counseling, hypnosis, even acupuncture. Nothing had helped.

  He sucked in a rapid breath and held it, closed his eyes, and imagined open fields. Why did his mind always flood the fields with water?

  Go!

  He turned sideways and shimmied in between the walls, almost hopping as he sidestepped toward the fuse box. In six seconds he reached it.

  Flip the switch and get back.

  Corin yanked the fuse down for his shop, then shoved it back up. It snapped into place.

  Yes! Done.

  Now to escape the confines of the crawl space before the air in his lungs forced its way out. As he reached the halfway point, his jeans caught on the head of a nail sticking out of a two-by-four. Its dull shape dug into the side of his shin sending a sliver of pain up his leg.

  He swore and the air in his lungs burst out and panic rushed in.

  His palms went clammy and the walls pushed in, crushing him, sucking the—No. Stay calm. The walls weren’t moving. They weren’t crushing him. If not for the nail, he would have made it in and out and been fine.

  He jerked his leg forward, but the nail held and the tear in his jeans lengthened. He closed his eyes. Open spaces. Think open spaces. He opened his eyes, reached down, and yanked his jeans free of the nail, his legs shuddering. Hang on. Just a few more feet.

  As he stumbled out of the crawl space, he lurched forward and fell across the hood of his car. Sweat covered the back of his shirt and his pulse must have been 140 plus.

  A minute later he stood, pulled off his shirt, and trudged upstairs to the shower. When he reached the bathroom, he peeled off the rest of his clothes and turned on the water, waiting till thick steam filled the bathroom and shut out the haunted look he saw in the mirror. This shower would be long and hot. A reach for relaxation—and the smothering of his past.

  After drying off and changing into sweats and a T-shirt, he sat on the front porch wishing he could talk some sense into himself.

  He hated his claustrophobia. It didn’t matter that as much as 7 percent of the world fought the dread of small spaces. It made him feel weak. Helpless. Vulnerable.

  Corin
went back inside and grabbed a drink. As he stumbled back onto his front porch, he pushed all thoughts from his mind except the jump that weekend. A jump that would make him forget all about his scrambled, neurotic brain.

  Just before heading for bed, a meteor streaked through the earth’s atmosphere.

  When you wish upon objects in the sky,

  Not knowing if you’ll live or die,

  Heal my heart and heal my head,

  And for once sweet dreams,

  When I crash in bed.

  Fat chance.

  Corin stood and headed for his bedroom.

  The amber plastic bottle that sat on his nightstand seemed to stare at him. His doctor had prescribed the pills to help him sleep, and more important, sleep with no dreams. Most nights it worked. Most.

  Corin picked up the bottle and rattled the two pills left. He was only supposed to take two or three per week at the most. For the past month it’d been seven every week.

  Because the dreams were getting worse.

  Sleep covered him in minutes, but his pill once again decided to take the night off.

  CHAPTER 4

  Corin’s eyes were slammed shut, but he didn’t need them open to feel the cold water trying to thrust its way into his mouth.

  An icy current surged against his face from the left, then another from straight on. Corin felt someone beside him and he forced his eyes open.

  A blurry figure. A monster? Human?

  Yes.

  A hero.

  His dad. Rescue. This time he’d be pulled to the surface, sputtering, but alive.

  His dad grabbed the strap of Corin’s life jacket, yanked him off the handlebars of the upside down bicycle, and pushed for the surface.

  A few more feet, six, maybe seven. Then sweet air.

  The light filtering through the water grew stronger. He saw the wavering forms of his mom and brother above the surface, kneeling on the pontoon boat, peering down at him.

  Faster. Please.

  Go faster, Dad!

  Just a little more.

  But an instant later the strap wasn’t the strap of a life jacket any longer. As his dad pulled on it, it melted into a long strand of black licorice that snapped into pieces and floated down into the darkness of the lake.

  Corin’s life jacket turned to lead, and he sank like a boulder racing for the bottom of the lake.

  The blackness reached up for him and accelerated his descent.

  He spun deeper, holding his breath till the pressure of the deep water forced the air out of him and he gulped in lungfuls of murky, icy water.

  Then darkness.

  Then nothingness. Always the nothingness.

  Then . . .

  Corin woke drenched in sweat. Fear swallowed any rational thought of it only being a dream. Not a dream, a nightmare. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 4:15 a.m. He staggered out of bed, stumbled into his bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.

  Might as well try to wake up. Sleep was over for the night.

  CHAPTER 5

  Corin sat hunched over his desk doing a bill-juggling act and trying to ignore the article on the front page of the New England Journal of Medicine that kept screaming at him. He glanced at it for the eighty-ninth time that day, and for the eighty-ninth time felt a bowling ball take up residence in his gut.

  New Surgery Working in High Percentage of Spinal-Cord Injury Cases.

  It was wonderful news as long as you had three hundred thousand dollars fluttering down your chimney into your Christmas stocking.

  But the insurance Grinch had stolen the stockings, and the only green flowing into Corin’s life these days was his penchant for herbal green tea.

  A moment later the bell on his front door announced the arrival of a shopper, thankfully interrupting the melancholy mood he’d let himself slip into. Corin stood and shook his arms. Must wake up and be charming. Smiles, everyone, smiles.

  He walked out of his office in time to see a woman and a boy holding hands clump down the two steps inside his front door onto the main showroom floor. It was obvious the woman wanted to keep holding hands; the boy didn’t. He tugged on her dilapidated purse with his other hand.

  “Can I let go? I won’t run, Mom, okay?”

  She looked mid-thirties, reddish brown hair, jeans, and a faded T-shirt with a photo of three boys ironed onto it that said, “Sane Women Stop at Two.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes!” The boy bounced on his toes as he pulled on his mom’s hand.

  The woman released him and the boy stared up at her as if to show her he meant to keep his word. His blond hair was cut short and his brown eyes were full of energy.

  “Hi, I’m Corin, welcome to Artifications. Have you been here before?”

  “No, this is our first time.”

  “Can I answer any questions?”

  The woman motioned toward the boy who wandered toward the back of the store. “He can’t run because of his asthma.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. “Not that he should be running in a store anyway, but there’s something about the aisles of a store that make him want to race up and down them.” A wave of sadness swept over her face and in that instant she looked fifty.

  “I remember loving to do that as a kid.”

  “Me too.” The woman shrugged and sighed.

  “That has to be tough.”

  She gave a glum smile. “It’s especially hard on him because his two older brothers are both basketball players and he’d love to be one too. He wants to follow in their sneakers, but with his asthma there’s just no way.” She sighed again and brushed back her hair. “He can’t even play baseball, which is his favorite sport. So when there are game days or basketball practice like this afternoon, my husband goes with the two older ones and we look for places to go while his brothers play.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Us too. It’s all he’s wanted to do since he was little.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Brittan. I’m Tracie.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Corin stepped toward the small refrigerator next to his sales counter. “Would you like a bottled water?”

  “No thanks.”

  He watched Brittan’s head swivel from left to right as he strolled down aisle two gazing at the antiques. “How old?”

  “I’m not sure you should be asking how old I am.”

  Corin smiled. “I meant . . .”

  Tracie burst out laughing. “I know, I’m just being silly. He’ll be seven in two months.”

  A joyful shriek came from the back of the store. “Hey, Mom! Look!”

  They turned as Brittan streaked down the aisle with a Boston Red Sox game program from the 1950s wrapped up in thick plastic. “Look at this! Can we get it?”

  “You can’t run like that, Brittan!”

  Seconds later the boy reached the end of the aisle and stumbled to his knees in front of them, wheezing in and out like a plugged-up vacuum cleaner. A moment later he crashed onto his side and gasped for air.

  Corin staggered back and sucked in two quick breaths.

  Out of air.

  He was fine.

  The kid is out of air.

  Plenty of air to breathe all around him.

  Relax.

  Corin laced his fingers and squeezed but his hands still shook.

  “Brittan!” His mom skittered over to him, fell to her knees, and jammed her hand into her purse. “Where is it?” She turned to Brittan. “Do you have your inhaler?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She continued to rummage through her purse obviously looking for one.

  “Mom,” Brittan wheezed, “I’m okay.” The boy took an inhaler out of his pocket, pl
aced it in his mouth, pumped it three times, then fell forward on his hands and continued his labored breathing.

  His mom pulled him up and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “Relax, you’re going to be okay. Deep breaths if you can. Relax, Brittan.” She turned to Corin. “I’m sorry about this.”

  Corin slowed his breathing and blinked. “What?”

  “I’m sorry this happened in your store.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

  But he wasn’t fine. The anxiety waterfall rarely buried him except right after having the dream. He wasn’t used to having it attack in public. He ran his hands over the top of his head and forced out a smile. “What can I do?”

  She glanced around the room. “Can he sit someplace?”

  “Sure, of course.” Corin buried his fear and knelt next to the woman. “Does he need a soft—?”

  “Anywhere is fine.”

  The closest piece was the chair the elderly lady had brought on Tuesday and Corin motioned toward it. “Let’s sit him right here.”

  They settled him into the chair and Corin stood and took a step back. A moment later Brittan’s breathing returned to normal and the boy smiled. “I feel good. I feel warm inside.”

  “You scare me when you do that, Brittan.”

  “I’m sorry for running, Mom. But look.” Brittan coughed once and held up the program from an era when baseball players were true heroes, and if they did anything unheroic in their private lives it never made the papers.

  “That’s a good-looking program.”

  Brittan beamed, then looked at Corin.

  “Do you like Ted Williams, mister?”

  Corin stepped forward and knelt on one knee. “I do. I guess you do as well.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s the last major leaguer to have a lifetime batting average over .400. He’s a legend!”

  “I’m impressed. A lot of kids your age wouldn’t have any idea who he is.”

  Brittan smiled again, a big innocent smile only kids could deliver. “I know about Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio and Roger Maris and Willie Mays is my favorite . . . and I’m only six years old. Almost seven.”