The Clearing

by Dan Newman

  Nate knew this was when he would die. The man stood up, towering over him, with a severed bloody hoof in one hand and a large cutlass in the other. He reached down and put the tip of the blade on Nate’s chin.

  Nate closed his eyes; he didn’t want to see the end coming.

  8

  Tristan never got the cigarettes. At least, not for keeps.

  He made it to the edge of the party, out of the shadow and into the booze-hazy penumbra inhabited by the guests. He watched carefully as Mrs. Patterson leaned on the back of her husband’s chair. As she did her breasts fell forward and hung down in great looping arcs, and the wide neck of her blouse spilled invitingly open. Every man at the party looked over to see. Tristan knew that was the moment, and he reached from behind the wicker sofa and took the cigarettes in a smooth silent motion, then set off back into the shadows.

  “Tristan De Villiers! Stop right this instant!” Nate’s mom had delivered a commandment, not a request, and Tristan could do nothing but comply. He stood rooted to the spot, his back to the party, dropped his head, and cursed under his breath. In the shadows, the other boys froze in horror, and despite the fact that they knew they were all but invisible to the partygoers, they understood that Tristan’s infraction was something for which they all might pay a price.

  “Nathan! Are you back there? I said, Are you back there? Nathan Alexander Mason come out here right this instant!”

  And so Nate, too, dropped his head, and walked zombie-like into the light. Behind him he heard a stifled giggle, and knew that Richard and Pip were already headed for the hibiscus bushes and relative safety. It would be Tristan and Nate alone on this one.

  The two boys were called to the edge of the party, which had virtually stopped save the Steve Miller Band and their advice to Take the Money and Run, and they were forced to stand guiltily in front of the guests. Tristan, true to form, stood with his chin defiant, eyeballing the guests and radiating contempt. Every one of them caught a look from him. Everyone except Mrs. Mason, of course. Nate, on the other hand, studied the grass at his feet, and could feel the crimson creeping up through his face.

  “Just what do you think you’re up to, young man?” asked Nate’s mother with her balled fists pressed firmly into her sides. She was talking to Nate, but the scolding was designed for two. “Since when is thieving acceptable behavior?”

  All the guests were watching now, many with expressions of amusement hiding behind feigned adult concern. “Come on now, Patty. The boys are just having a bit of fun. No harm no foul.” Oddly enough it was Sweaty Scoocher who had come to their defense, but his protest was short-lived once he took a sharp glance from Patty Mason.

  “David, I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of this,” she said, and the gallery of gently glazed guests let out a collective ooh. It was enough to break the tension and finally Mrs. Mason cracked a smile and shook her head. “Tristan, you get on home. And you’ll be lucky if I don’t call your father in the morning.”

  And then she turned to Nate. “And as for you, young man, march yourself inside and into bed. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.” Nate looked up and caught his father, to the right of the group, beer in hand, looking at his son with a bemused expression on his face. He knew that later, when the moment was right, his dad would come in, smile and tell him everything was okay. He had the power to do that, and with a few kind words everything would be made just fine again. Nate would suck it up for now, take the heat, and wait for his father.

  An hour later, Nate, lying on top of his sheets watching geckos stalk their prey on the high bedroom walls, tried hard to ignore the antics at his window. All three of them were there—Tristan, Pip and Richard—ducking down low and popping their heads up and doing anything that came to their minds by way of getting a reaction from Nate. It was a silent pantomime conducted through the wrought iron burglar-bars.

  “Can’t you guys see I’m in enough trouble already?” He was whispering as loudly as he dared, but in truth there was no way the partygoers on the other side of the house could hear a thing. “Jeez, if my mom finds you out there she’ll kill me—and you guys, too.”

  Tristan scoffed. “Come on, you big baby. You’re free and clear now. You’re busted and jailed—everyone’s forgotten about you. Come on. Come on out. We’ll go spy on old Judge Harding.”

  “No way, guys. I’m staying put.”

  Tristan pressed on. “Come oooon!”

  “Naw. I can’t.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Screw you, Tristan.”

  And then Richard chimed in from the windowsill. All Nate could see of him was his eyes, a tuft of blonde hair and a set of fingers on either side. “Leave the guy alone, Tristan. He doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to.” Richard’s eyes flicked up and over to Tristan’s, and the reaction was instantaneous.

  Tristan reached out and clipped Richard at the back of his head with an open hand, hard enough to make Richard’s head pitch forward and hit the window sill with his mouth. Tristan laughed and Richard’s head sunk below the sill. In the background, Pip took a step away from the action.

  Nate watched the exchange and, inside his head, called Tristan an ass. He would do something about that one of these days. He would do something about the way Tristan always treated Richard.

  Just not today.

  • • •

  The voice was somehow familiar, Nate knew, but that wasn’t enough to pull him from the edge, away from the promise of heavy, dark sleep that offered an escape from all this—from everything. It was the tone in the voice that opened his eyes.

  At the door he saw two officers; the one who had been there earlier and another—a large man with an unruly mustache and a spray of sweat about his forehead. He wore sergeant stripes on the sleeve of his blue police uniform, and he held his hat in both hands the way people do at funerals. It took Nate a moment to place him, and then he remembered.

  Sergeant Cole walked slowly into the room and sat on the coffee table in front of Nate. It was a solid piece of furniture but still creaked under the weight of the big man. His holstered gun made a dull thunk against the table top, and the officer wiped at the perspiration on his forehead. “Mr. Mason…” He spoke softly, as if to a child. “Do you remember me?”

  Nate looked at the man and somewhere inside a dam began to fracture.

  “Hello, Sergeant Cole,” said Nate. A moment later he began to cry.

  The big policeman placed one hand on the Nate’s shoulder. “Ain’t this a son of a bitch,” he said quietly. “Ain’t this a goddamn son of a bitch.”

  Kathy looked on, puzzled, but calm. She produced a tissue, almost magically, and handed it to Nate.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, taking a deep, steadying breath. He knew the loss of his father would shake him, but this reaction—these tears and the sudden emptiness inside him—that was all tied to the sudden appearance of Sergeant Cole.

  Cole took a long breath and began. “The officer there,” he said, pointing at the policeman by the door. “He tells me you found your dad? Just like he is now?”

  Nate nodded.

  “You didn’t move him at all?”

  “No. Well, I covered him up. Covered his head with a towel.”

  Sergeant Cole nodded. “And the gun. Did you touch it?”

  “No.” he said hollowly.

  “What about the box of papers and things? All that stuff he had around him. Did you touch any of that?”

  “No,” said Nate. It was a lie, but a small one. “I just came in here and called you guys.”

  “That’s good, that’s good,” said Cole, putting his hand again on Nate’s shoulder. “Has your dad been going through tough times lately?”

  Lately? thought Nate. Sure, if lately meant the last thirty years. “Yes, he’s been struggling for some time. He had some problems with alcohol.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Sergeant Cole looked around the room. “And what about relationships? I gather he lived alone, but is there
anyone else we need to notify? Your mother perhaps?”

  Nate shook his head gently. “They’re not together anymore, not for a long time.”

  Nate thought about that quietly. His mother. When was the last time he’d seen her? He couldn’t remember. Someone should probably tell her, he thought. Nate knew it wouldn’t be him.

  Behind Sergeant Cole two men in overalls came through with a stretcher. Cole raised his hand and the men retreated silently from the doorway. “Those guys, they’re from the Coroner’s office, they’re gonna take the body away when we’re all done, okay?”

  Nate was still thinking about his mother. “Sure. Okay,” he said vacantly.

  “Right. I’m going to go take care of things in there. You sit here with…”

  “Kathy.”

  “…with Kathy, here. She’ll help you with whatever you need, all right?”

  “Sure. Okay,” said Nate, watching the big man heave himself up from the coffee table.

  The Sergeant nodded to Nate, then retrieved a small device the size of a harmonica from his breast pocket. He turned to the bedroom and brought the black digital voice recorder to his lips, speaking as he went. “Today is June twenty-seventh, the time is 6:22 pm. This is the audio log of Sergeant Eugene Cole. We are at the private residence of one Mr. David Mason at number twelve, Morningside Drive…” His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner into the bedroom, followed by the other Officer.

  In his mind, Nate had disappeared to a time long ago, huddled under the sheets in Cody’s darkened bedroom and cuddled into a tangle of arms and legs, deep in a bedtime story. His son absolutely loved them. Nate made them up on the spot every night, and Cody would gleefully retell the stories to his mother the next morning, details and characters jumbled, but with an enthusiasm that filled every corner of Nate’s heart. He remembered his wife standing at the door as he crept from the boy’s room. I can’t believe how much he loves your stories, Nate.

  Really?

  I don’t know if you can see his face when you’re telling them to him, but he’s just sitting there, beaming. I mean, he adores them. He might be the only kid in the world that actually looks forward to bedtime.

  It’s gonna suck when he gets too old and doesn’t want them anymore.

  You ever thought that writing for kids might be your thing? They’re great little stories, Nate. You should record them. If not for you, for Cody.

  You think so?

  I do, he might want them for his own kids one day. In fact, I’m going to get you boys something that will help.

  And so, in time, the small digital voice recorder she bought them was added to the nightly bedtime story—which Cody officiated over, looking very serious and stern when pushing the record button. They recorded hundreds. Some were put on the family computer, and some were recorded over, being mostly just the breathy sounds of a father and his five-year-old son sleeping.

  It was a warm, calming memory, and as it ended, Nate had no idea how long he had hung there.

  The men from the Coroner’s office were coming out of his father’s room, and on their stretcher was a heavy shape zipped into a thick black plastic sack. He had expected a crisp white sheet, like in the movies, and somehow the blatant practicalities of the black bag seemed cold and on some level cruel, even disrespectful.

  “They’re all done now, Mr. Mason,” said Kathy. “Let’s get your things. We can take you home and have your car sent over.”

  Nate smiled thinly. “No, thanks. I can take myself home.” They stood, and Nate looked once again around the room. Across the room the bedroom door was still open.

  The slippers were still there, on the floor, but his father was gone.

  9

  With the man’s weight suddenly off his chest, Nate was able to suck in at least half a lungful of air. He waited for the thud of the blade, the grunt of the man wielding it, and the muted crack as it splintered through bone.

  But it never came.

  He lay on his back and finally opened his eyes. The man was gone, and once again the light from the corridor poured through in a perfect rectangle on the floor, this time interrupted by his own legs from the knees down. Soon a face peered round the edge of the door. It was an older man in pajamas, bleary eyed but startled nonetheless, and soon he was joined by a woman in a housecoat, and then others.

  Lights were flicked on and people flooded the room: guests, staff, and a man who seemed to be a doctor, or at least somehow medically trained. Nate could hear voices, high strung with concern, What happened? Oh my God, what happened? but his panicked mind couldn’t connect the sounds with the faces. He sat up and became aware of the wetness about him, and when he looked at himself he saw that his clothes, the ones he had fallen asleep in and still wore, were spattered with blood. He reached up to his face and his hand came away red. Panic flooded through him and his hands flittered desperately around his face in search of gaping wounds.

  Someone passed him a towel and he wiped frantically at his face, and the man who might have been a doctor spoke in calm, reassuring tones. It’s okay—it’s not your blood. More staff arrived and the guests were herded out. The door closed and Nate took a hand that helped him to the edge of the bed. Then he remembered the sensation of something spattering his forehead as the man had held him down, and with a pang of relief he put the pieces together—the severed hoof, the spatter. Blood from an animal part—not his own. Nate forced himself to calm down. He was not cut. He was not going to bleed to death from some yawning wound at his neck.

  Finally, he became fully aware of the people in the room with him. He recognized the man from the front desk, and another from breakfast. The other two were strangers, and one held a cell phone to his ear. The man with the phone snapped it closed and took Nate by the elbow. “Come, come. We take you to hospital. Just in case.”

  Nate did not want to go anywhere. It was all happening too fast, too loosely and altogether too far out of his control. “No, I’m okay. I don’t…”

  “Mr. Mason, we must go. Just to check, to make sure.”

  Nate shrugged out of the man’s grip. “No, I’m okay, really.”

  “But Mr. Mason…”

  “No!” said Nate sharply. He regretted the outburst the moment it left his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, really. I just need some time to gather myself. I’ll take myself to the hospital tomorrow. I promise. But right now I just need to…I just need a bit of time.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Mason? I can drive you.”

  “No, honestly. I’m fine.” It finally occurred to Nate that the man with the phone was the hotel manager. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  The manager nodded in understanding, then knelt beside Nate and spoke gently, as if to a child. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Nate wiped his face again with the towel and looked at the blood that stained it. “I’m not sure. I was asleep. There was a man. At the foot of the bed. He had this sword thing, like a cutlass or something. He attacked me, had me on the ground and I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Did he take anything?”

  Nate cast his eyes around the room. It hadn’t occurred to him that this might have been a robbery, and he suddenly wondered if his wallet and watch were gone. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, seeing everything where he had left it the evening before.

  “I think you must have hurt him. Cut him,” he said, pointing at the blood stained towel.

  “No,” said Nate. “That’s not his blood either. He had something else with him, part of an animal I think. That’s where all the blood came from.”

  The manager’s brow furrowed deeply. “An animal?”

  “Yes, a cow’s foot I think. A hoof. He held it over my head and…”

  There was a solid rap on the door and two men came through without being asked in. The police constables were wearing smart navy blue uniforms with shiny buttons and clasps, and each was armed with a pistol strapped to a broad and polished leather belt. They wa
ved the manager aside, cleared the room of everyone but Nate, and curtly asked, Are you hurt? Nate shook his head, and wondered why he felt no compassion from the two officers.

  The larger of the two men dragged the chair over to the bed and sat down. He leaned in close enough that Nate could see the small veins that ran through the whites of his eyes. The officer stared at Nate for a long moment, and then asked in a tone that was just short of accusatory, “Why was this man in your room?”

  Before Nate could answer, the other officer barked his own question. “Were you buying something from this man tonight?”

  Nate was incredulous. First he’s attacked in his room and now the police were going to blame him for it? “What? No! I was sleeping!”

  “And yet here you are fully dressed at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I was tired and fell asleep in my clothes…”

  “So you’ve been consuming alcohol as well.”

  “I was with a friend and…”

  The other officer was looking at the door and cut him off. “The door here is in fine condition. No one forced it and the window is not accessible from the street. You let this man in?” It was more accusation than question.

  Nate felt his chest tightening. “I didn’t let anyone in. I was asleep. What the hell’s going on here?”

  The seated officer reached over and picked up Nate’s wallet from the desk and fished out a fistful of American dollars, about $60 in all. “And what about all dis currency?” He waved it at Nate accusingly.

  “Currency? “Nate’s face twisted incredulously. “Christ, that’s just my money. I’m a tourist, for fuck’s sake!”

  The officer flipped through the wallet again, eyeing Nate suspiciously. It fell open and a photograph of Cody appeared in the inner plastic photo sleeve, upside-down and facing Nate in silent appeal. The picture was of Cody holding up a small book—small ­­even in his five-year-old hands. He was holding it proudly, right after having given it to Nate as a present—not for a birthday, Father’s Day, or Christmas­­. It was what Cody and his mother called a just because present.