by Matt Hayward
“Of course. I love you, Peter.”
“I love you, too.”
She shuffled from the kitchen drying her hands in a towel, and he kissed her head before opening for the door. Outside, the wind still screeched and the dark sky poured rain. Peter dashed for his car and climbed inside, shivering at the cold. His grandmother stood in the doorway and waved, pulling her blouse tight across her chest. Peter honked the horn as he pulled out of the driveway, giving one final wave back.
Today’s the start of a new life, he told himself. If I can keep it together.
CHAPTER THREE
“Peter Laughlin, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter shook the hand of the large man addressing him. By his looks, Peter guessed him to be ex-military. Cropped hair sat slack from the rain against his thick skull. Despite his mean appearance, however, the man gave a polite smile before releasing his calloused grip.
“Jerry Fisher,” he said. “It’s a pleasure. Now, I just need to double check everybody’s here before we take off.”
As Jerry looked to the clipboard, Peter took in the area. The clouds had finally broke that morning and rain blew down in sheets, sounding like radio static as it hit the tarmac. Harris Dawson had called the night before, asking Peter if he’d make his way to a shopping center car park in the city center for nine a.m. Missing the alarm, he’d just about made it. Now, family cars littered the lot, the navy-blue eight seater bus they were about to take sticking out among them.
Jerry Fisher tapped a pen on his clipboard. “Henry Randolph?”
“Here.”
Henry raised his hand, an old man hunched against the harsh weather. A whisk of thin hair clung to his damp skull, blowing in the wind. Dark circles drooped beneath his eyes. The dark green raincoat he wore looked made of oil in the rain. He reminded Peter of an animal who’d seen too much abuse, now cautious of others.
“Good,” Jerry said. “Walter Cartwright?”
“H-here.”
The chunky middle-aged man shuffled about from foot to foot as if he needed to pee. His thick-framed glasses, dotted with raindrops, sat crooked on his nose. Badly dyed, black hair circled his head from temple to temple with a perfectly round bald spot to top it off. He gave a lopsided grin as the gathering turned to him. “H-Hello. Walter, Walter Cartwright. It’s a pleasure.”
Jerry nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Walter. Jamie Peters?”
“Yeah.”
Peter looked to the kid, the kind of person who would’ve dunked Peter’s head in the toilet if they’d attended the same school. But despite the jock’s youthful appearance, dark circles beneath his eyes aged him by a decade. An addict, Peter could tell, and most likely to prescription drugs. Everything Peter had been at seventeen, this kid seemed the opposite.
Except here, Peter thought, he’s in the same boat as you. So cut him some slack.
“Shelly Matthews?”
A mousy voice spoke up. “Yes.”
Peter placed the woman at about forty-five, showing telltale signs of a time-hardened junkie. Her actual age was probably closer to thirty. She rubbed at deep scratch marks lining her bare arms, shivering. “I’ve only got a tee shirt, Mr. Fisher. Can we get going soon? Don’t wanna catch a cold.”
“Of course,” Jerry said. “Apologies, Shelly. Just one more. Donald Bove?”
“Right here.”
Jesus Christ, Peter thought. What is this guy? Mafia?
If Peter learned that Donald Bove starred in the movie The Godfather, it would not have surprised him. The man wore a long leather trench coat that glistened in the rain. Comb lines ran the length of his slicked-back hair.
Ah! Peter thought. Got it. A younger, fatter Robert De Niro.
Jerry tucked away his clipboard and clapped his hands. “Okay, we’re all accounted for. Rain’s starting to really come down now, so if you’d all like to climb aboard the bus, we’ll get moving. Sorry for our late start, and it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Donald Bove went first, clamoring inside and taking the front seat. The nervous fat man named Walter Cartwright followed but stood aside to allow Henry Randolph onboard. “After you, sir.”
The old man climbed in without a word, his face long and unreadable. He went to the back of the bus.
Walter smiled and gave a nod to the group. “Ma’am, you, too.”
“Thanks Walter.”
Shelly Matthews took a set at the front of the bus, hugging her skeletal frame and looking out the window. Peter went next, taking the seat behind Shelly and Donald and Walter shuffled after, taking the seat next to him. Jamie came last.
“Peter, is it?”
A cold, wet hand engulfed his and Peter shook despite his revulsion. “Yeah. It’s nice to meet you, Walter.”
“What brings you to this retreat?” Walter’s magnified eyes jittered over Peter. “What’s your vice? Or is that too personal? Oh, I shouldn’t have asked.”
Peter smiled. “Not to worry. Little bit of this, little of that. Mainly booze.”
“Ah. I see, I see.”
“And you?”
Walter sighed and wiped his glasses on his soaked shirt. “Prescription medications. I mean, my doctor knows I’m not the most stable man in the world, but he put me on these anti-depressants about a year ago. And it just sort of . . . Got out of hand. Spiraled. My mood went all over the place. Soon enough, I was balancing uppers with downers and uppers with downers and . . . Well, you get the idea. Had a wife, now I don’t. You know how it goes.”
“Sure,” Peter said. He didn’t, not the loss of a partner, but he wasn’t in the mood to have a heart to heart with Walter Cartwright. That could be saved for group support sessions, which he assumed there would be many of. In fact, if Peter was honest, he’d never had any type of relationship before. With Throttle active, the band had eaten up his time with recording, touring and rehearsing. Of course, there had been girls on the road, but that grew tiresome faster than it’d been fun. When the band broke up, the bottle had been there for him. He’d been in no condition to care for another human being. Hell, he’d hardly been responsible to care for himself.
Peter gave Walter a smile before buckling his seatbelt and turning his attention to the window. Out there, the world went on, normal as ever. Talkative, happy folk went about their day, walking their pets, doing their shopping, visiting loved ones, all sorts of things that normal, capable people do. Peter wondered if they knew their luck, something as simple as getting through a standard day without getting black-out drunk. He envied them, because the bus oozed despair. He could feel it, an almost tangible sense, like a dark mist constricting the group. An unseen boa of addiction.
“Well, we’re all set,” Jerry Fisher called from up front. He keyed the ignition and the bus vibrated. A happy, morning time chat-show chimed from the radio. “We’ll be about an hour or so on the road. I hope you’ve all used the bathroom.”
A few lighthearted chuckles greeted this, but Peter felt like a child on a school trip being chaperoned by a responsible adult. He half expected to be asked to ‘buddy-up’ as not to get lost. His stomach jerked as the bus set off.
What have I gotten myself into? Peter’s heart quickened. His palms grew sweaty. Just what have I gotten myself into?
Walter patted his leg, making him jump. “Hey. It’s all right. We’re all in this together, okay? We’ll be like a family. You’ll get through this.”
Peter sighed and closed his eyes, the bus rocking him back and forth. The sound of the radio fell away. Very soon, he drifted into asleep.
He saw a packed stadium, the stage decked with a lighting rig and colossal PA. The deafening sound of applause erupted from the crowd. He’d seen this place before, San Francisco in 2010. The debut record, Broken Dreams, had just cracked the top ten. Squished against a metal barrier at the front of the stage stood a wall of sweating fans, their eyes searching the platform. Peter stood alone with no sign of Robby or Bill, an acoustic guitar hanging
from his neck. His stomach roiled with nerves. How could he break it to so many people that the band no longer together existed? How would they react? Blinded by the stage lights, Peter raised his hand against their sharp glare. He pressed his lips to the microphone and cleared his throat. A squeal of feedback followed.
“Hi, everyone. I know you were expecting—”
Peter’s voice caught in his throat. His heart jackhammered his chest. Staring back weren’t the eyes of fans like in San Francisco. Instead, he found himself looking into glazed-over faces of the dead. They slouched and drooled, their flesh slopping away and hitting the floor. Their hands left brown streak marks on the barrier. Their stench hit, overwhelming, like rancid meat. Then Peter heard their chanting.
“Join us, join us, join us . . .”
Someone tapped his shoulder and Peter snorted, bolting upright. “Hmm?”
The bus pottered along an old country road, the engine angry as it climbed a steep hill. Thick redwoods enclosed the road from either side, making it seem like nighttime instead of the middle of the day.
Walter stuck his face in Peter’s. “Wake up, sleepy head. We’re almost there. You’ve been out the whole way. Nearly two hours, in fact.”
“Oh.” Peter rubbed at his eyes. “Thanks, Walter.”
Shifting his position, Peter eyed the isolated road. Deep woodlands stretched as far as the eye could see. A startled fox bolted from behind one of the bushes and shot across the road, leaping into a thicket. Now and then the gray sky cut through the fat tangle of leaves overhead, strobing light on the window. Rain drummed the roof.
“Just here, folks,” Jerry Fisher called from up front. “If you’d like to look out your window, the farmhouse should be coming into view any second now.”
As bus rounded a sharp corner, the building slipped into sight. A large, two-story farmhouse, just as Harris Dawson had said. On a good day, Peter imagined the place would look idyllic with its large open porch and smoking chimney. In his mind’s eye, he could see the dark wood turn a golden brown from the setting sun. But now, gray clouds cluttered the sky, and instead of homey, the place looked like a nightmare escapee. The home of an inbred Addams Family.
A single redwood stood in the yard, and around it, the grass yellowed, balding away to mud in patches. A cat slept on the steps of the porch. With the amount of money the clients paid, Peter thought the place would be a little more visually welcoming, but then again, he thought, they were here to work, not to relax.
The bus rattled up the driveway, passing a single band of barbed wire dripping with rainwater. In the mud beneath the wire, Peter noted a thick white line also circling the yard. Subtle, but there.
“You see that?” Walter asked. “In the mud. There.”
“Salt,” Peter said, squinting. “Keeps the slugs away from crops . . . But I don’t see any vegetation in the yard, just . . . Dirt.”
“Right.” Walter produced a battered notebook and began scribbling. “Slugs don’t like salt . . . But eat their veggies. They like those, do they?”
“Yes, Walter. They do.”
“All right,” Jerry said. “We’re here. I’d advise you get on your jackets if you have them, looks like the sky’s about to really open up again.”
The bus crept to a stop outside the porch and Jerry killed the engine, silencing the radio and startling the cat. Rain beat the rooftop like tiny drumming fingers and a single stream of water slopped down Peter’s window, blurring the outdoors.
Jerry opened his door. “Out we go.”
Pulling his suitcase from beneath his seat, Peter waited for the others to climb out. He listened to their boots slosh the mud as they ran for the house, dragging their suitcases, then he stood.
“Hey.”
Peter turned. The old man, Henry, sat alone in the back of the bus.
“Um, hi. Henry, was it?”
The old man nodded. “Listen, kid . . . I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I’m scared. Can I tell you that?”
Peter sat. “Of course. If it makes you feel any better, I am, too.”
Henry flashed a smile. “I’ve a bad feeling about this.”
“I know how you feel, man. But we’ll get through, don’t worry. We’ll all help each other out. I mean, we’re all here for the same reason.”
The old man’s eyes went to the window, his bushy brows drawn together. “Nah. It’s this place. Makes me anxious. I feel . . . Off.”
“Think we were both expecting a little more hospitality for our money, that’s all. It might not be the Hilton, but it’ll clean us out, that’s the main part. Come on, we’ll get inside and suss it out. New environment, takes a while to settle in, you know?”
Henry didn’t reply.
“All right. I’ll see you inside, man.”
Peter made his way off the bus, slipping as he slung his suitcase over his shoulder. The mud sucked at his boots and he pulled against it, plodding to the house. In the shelter of the porch, he shivered.
“Shoes, if you don’t mind, Mr. Laughlin.”
“Sure thing, Jerry.”
Jerry gave a brisk nod before returning inside while Peter removed his muddy footwear.
Off to a good start, Peter thought. At least I didn’t punch him.
The heat of the farmhouse prickled Peter’s arms as he placed his suitcase on the floor. He chuckled.
Good thing I didn’t judge too soon. This place isn’t bad . . . Not bad at all.
A thick red carpet covered the staircase ahead. To the left stood two doors, both deep mahogany, and both closed. Small metal name-holders embossed the wood, the kind found on a doctor’s door. Peter squinted, making out ‘living room’ and ‘dining room/kitchen’. A large set of double doors also flanked the right, the name holder too far to read, but Peter guessed it to be a library.
Two men stood to either side of the staircase. The man on the right wore a tartan shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his meaty arms. His thick, ginger beard lifted as he flashed a tight smile to the newcomers. To the left of the stairs, a skinny black man wearing a plain work shirt gave a wave and rocked on the heels of his feet, his freshly shaved head bouncing light off an overhead chandelier.
“Let me get that for you,” the first man said and reached for Peter’s suitcase. Peter thanked him as he put it with the others by the stairs.
“Ah, you’re all in. Good.” Jerry Fisher came from the dining-room, dabbing at his hair with a towel, a bundle tucked beneath his arm. “Here, take one each. Dry up.”
As the group patted themselves down, Jerry motioned to the two men. “I’d like you all to meet Andrew Harper and Paul Richardson. They are our staff, and both are here to help you with anything you should need. Do not be afraid to talk to them.”
The two men nodded.
“Now, while Andrew and Paul bring your bags to your rooms, please join me in the living room. I’ve prepared some refreshments, and you can warm by the fire. Please, come, get cozy.”
The scent of pine hung thick in the living room, a spacious area with a full-length window. Peter saw the yard through the buffered glass, the yellowing grass stretching to the wired-off woodlands. Ahead in the room, a roaring fire cast dancing shadows along the polished hardwood. Two plush couches surrounded an oak table in the center of the room, a white rug resting beneath its feet. Ten mugs circled a steaming metal pot on top of the table. The smell of cocoa ghosted beneath the scent of pine.
“It’s a very nice room, Jerry,” Walter said. “Very big. Very, very nice.”
“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Cartwright.” He faced to the group. “Please, make yourselves at home.”
Peter took a seat, scooting close to the fire. He removed his raincoat and folded it on the armrest while Jamie Peters, the young athletic man, sat next to him.
“I’m glad you’re all here,” Jerry said, ladling out cocoa into each of the cups. “I want you to feel relaxed, and at home. This is a non-judgmental environment. When we start our group sessions
together, I want you to feel safe and secure, as if you were talking to family. Because that’s what we’re going to be over the next two weeks. Like a family.”
Jerry handed a mug to Peter with a smile. The warmth worked into Peter’s hands.
“For tonight, please relax. Feel free to get familiar with the house and roam about. Across the hallway is the library—”
Bingo!
“—Which is connected to my study, and I’d request it to be the only room out of bounds for obvious reasons, but there’s a TV room next door with a DVD player and good selection of movies. You’re more than welcome to use it. We don’t have cable here. I do have to set a curfew on the television watching, however, so as not to disturb our other guests. How does eleven p.m. sound?”
Nobody responded.
“Okay, then. Eleven it is.” Jerry finished doling out the cups. “You’ll need to keep a regular sleep pattern to keep your strength up. We’ll be having breakfast at eight, followed by our first group session at nine. At ten o’clock we’ll begin our work on the farm. Anybody who doesn’t like manual labor is free to take up another task, all I ask is you try your best to cooperate. We’re all here to get through a very, very rough patch, and we’ll work hard to do just that. I promise you, we will do this.”
Walter cleared his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Jerry.” He dipped a chubby finger into his cocoa, stirring. “It’s so nice. I haven’t been treated with such kindness for a long, long time. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time someone was so nice to me.” Walter sniffled, a tear dropping to his lap. “It’s been so hard,” he said, shaking. “So very hard.” Cocoa slopped to his lap. His lips quivered. “Nobody seems to like me, because I’m a loser. A big stinking loser.” His voice rose. “I’m a big stinking loser! I’m a big stinking lo—”
Jerry moved fast and kneeled beside him. “Walter, hey, Walt, it’s all right. You’re here now. You’re not a loser. You’re not. You’re going to change.”
“I’m never going to change!”
With that, he stood and hurled the mug, shattering it against the far wall. Jerry grabbed his shoulders, forcing him back down. “Sit, Walter. Shhhh . . . Sit.”