Dimly, Through Glass

by Knight, Dirk

  “Ah-ha, I told you!” Ernie screams with joy.

  Terrance looks over the lip of the drum into the chasm-deep abyss of the container and, for a fleeting moment, he sees it too. He is five years old—with twig thin arms and legs, wearing a helmet so big that he looks like a dandelion—and is wobbly and unsure, but he is doing it. Terrance has finally ridden his bike without the trainers. He remembers the ecstasy in that crack of time, and turns to see the pride in Ernie’s face, as he relives this long-past moment, illuminating him from within like an underwater fire. He hasn’t seen the old man like this in so long. Then again, the old man hasn’t found anything in a barrel in a long time either.

  Before the smile has a chance to dissipate, the moment is gone. That frozen piece of time melts and drains through a rusted hole at the bottom corner of the barrel until this drum, like all the countless others, is empty. Terry is beginning to understand what his father must be enduring—searching day and night for a glimmer of his memory, only to have the moment diffuse into nothing right in front of his face. Terrance imagines that trying to catch fireflies with a net made of chicken wire would be less frustrating, less hopeless, than the endless searching.

  “Over here, Son, this one! Your mother can’t be far. She’s here somewhere, I can feel it!” he says, moving to the next container, then turns with a stern look.

  “I have to find her, Son, I have to, and I need your help.”

  “Of course, Dad, I’m here. Let’s find Mom,” he says with a tear in his eye. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, too, Son, and I am so proud of you! You have grown up so much. . . . I can’t believe you’re already riding a bike!”

  Ernie doesn’t look disheartened or deterred in the least when the next barrel screams open to proclaim a bone-dry and hollow rusted space. He turns to Terrance and repeats, “I’m so proud of you, Son. My Big Guy!” Then, after a confused and confusing pause, “Your mother is in one of these barrels. Son, you have to help me; will you help me, Son?”

  Again, Terry affirms his father and smiles through the tears. “Of course I will, Pop,” he says out loud, but only to himself, because Ernie is on to the next barrel, already calling again for help.

  “She’s in one of these, Son. I can feel it!”

  The field, the sunset, the barrels, his father . . . they become fuzzy all at once and he realizes he is waking up from a dream. His father and the rest of the scene melts, oozes, and trickles away just as his father’s memories had. His grasp on this alternate reality fades in an instant and his eyelids crack open to harsh and bleaching light from the florescent tubes buried in the translucent ceiling tiles.

  The door rattles in its jamb, closed too hard by a withered and tired old woman. Terrance wipes the sleep from his eyes to reveal his mother holding some of that God-awful coffee they serve in the hospital cafeteria.

  “Thanks for watching your father, dear; I just needed to stretch my legs. Did he come around at all, Honey?”

  “No, Mom, he hasn’t moved since I got here . . . just keeps staring out the window. I talked to him for a little while; I guess I just dozed off.”

  “Well, Honey, you’ve been here for a spell, so why don’t you go on home to Cindy and the kids? I’ll call you if his condition changes. Alzheimer’s is a strange thing. Most days he just sits here like this, staring into nothing, or asking the nurses if they’ve seen the keys to his Studebaker. That was the car he drove when we first met. I miss that car.

  “And then some days he’ll snap out of it like he was stuck with a safety pin, come over and give me a kiss and tell me he ‘found a barrel’ or something. Sometimes, I wonder if he is still in there at all.”

  Stunned but trying hard not to show it, Terrance smiles at his mother’s tired eyes and tells her, “He’s in there, Mom. He is. I really must be tired, because he did say something. He told me he was proud of me, and he wants me to tell you he loves you.”

  His mother’s smile dominates her face and the tired eyes seem to gain new light with this comment. Terrance squeezes her frail hand gently, and then looks towards Ernie, unsure how he was able to share a moment of reality in his father’s delusions, but sure that it was as concrete for both men as it had seemed in his dream.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mom. I love you.”

  Terry leaves the parking garage still confounded by his oddly realistic dream. He knows it was just a dream, but his mother had never mentioned the bit about barrels before, he’s sure of it.

  Maybe dad was saying it aloud while I slept, he thought. Yes, that must be it.

  He continues this exploration in his mind, putting together the pieces and bridging the gaps as to what the dream meant, trying without end to convince himself that there was nothing supernatural about the imagery. He needs to make sense of it all.

  Terry has been deep in thought concerning the ramifications of the dream for over an hour. The I-17 Highway North is stretching out in front of him endlessly and his pickup truck is piloting itself while he stews on the morning’s experience.

  He almost doesn’t notice the car behind him flipping off the asphalt and kicking up dust while rolling down the shoulder.

  He almost keeps driving.

  His subconscious picks up the distress call his eyes have almost ignored, and he spins the truck around to help the crashed driver.

  Prob’ly Shouldn’t a Done That

  With the city shrinking in her mirror, and having made it well past the weirdo who shouted and stared, Evie decides to text Freddie to let him know she is on her way, and that their ski weekend getaway together is soon to be underway. She wants to know if he has anything planned other than sex, TV, and snow. Even with their weekend on the horizon, and her barreling towards it as fast as she dares, she can’t help but to keep looking back to the deal she’s made with Jarrod for dinner on Monday. She is stunned by his sudden confidence and that he seems genuinely smitten with her.

  Jarrod, apparently unable to keep her far from his thoughts either, begins sending messages to her as she races up the highway. She is excited to see him taking the initiative, and feels the little flutter of a teenage crush being born.

  And what of Freddie? He’s not answered her call, not so much as a text back to say he’d gotten her message.

  The mountain passes she navigates twist and curl up and around the peaks, through arroyos and above deep valleys, where the unchecked wind rocks her car with every gust, threatening to toss the Lumina into the guardrail, or the few oncoming motorists. Forced by invisible hands, back and forth within the lane markers, she has to hold the wheel with both hands in order to feel safe.

  Her phone rings.

  Is it Freddie? she wonders.

  Jarrod’s voice booms into her headphones when she picks up.

  “Dude I thought you were supposed to be at work,” she barks. Jarrod doesn’t seem to notice her inflection, or care, if he does.

  “Well, ‘dude’, I thought this was better than texting you while you’re driving on those windy roads. Besides, my job is fucking boring, and I wanted someone to talk to.”

  “What do you do again?” she asks, suddenly realizing she’s never taken an interest in anything more than what Jarrod could offer her, and feeling like a bitch for not knowing.

  “I work at Blockbuster.”

  “You work where?”

  “Blockbuster . . . it’s a video store-”

  “Ha-ha, what the fuck is a video store? I thought those were extinct.”

  “Might as well be. Practically no one comes in and when the phone rings it’s just someone asking for obscure movies, or ‘what’s the name of that one movie, with the guy from Speed that’s coming out soonish?’ and that’s it. I feel like I work the phone lines for IMDB.”

  “Wow, dude, I can’t believe you even have a job. No wonder all you do is smoke pot and play video-games.”

  “Thanks, I guess. . . . I’m actually not sure how to take that. Well, at least it gives me the oppor
tunity to keep you company on your drive.”

  “As much as I appreciate the company, I’m actually gonna let you go. I’m about to hit a rest area and I want to stretch my legs and take some pics of the mountains. So . . .”

  “Okay, fine, but at least call me and let me know when you’re leaving there so I know you didn’t get kidnapped and raped by truckers.”

  “Ha-ha, I’ll be fine. Besides, I already had my scare with a creepy-ass dude, this morning.”

  “Wait. What happened?”

  “Just some douchebag guy in an Acura who was screaming, ranting and raving, that almost slammed into me, so I threw a lit cigarette at him.”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude, you’re going to get your ass kicked one day.”

  “I’ll be fine. But, hey, I’ll text you later.”

  “No way. You gotta call, or else I’ll think you’re a rapist trucker trying to cover your tracks.”

  “Wow, you are super paranoid, maybe you need to cut down on the smoke there, Cheech. Ok, I’ll call you later.”

  Jarrod was cute, persistent, and somewhat endearing. Even though he’s suddenly become overpowering, she thinks guys are allowed to be a little possessive in the infancy of a romance.

  She parks the Lumina in a spot near the restrooms and kills the engine. She grabs her sandwich and camera before making her way past the urine-smelling lavatories and vending machines to a bench overlooking the mountains.

  The mid-day sun is etching paintings of shadows and steam across the valley. The mountains seem alive under the few clouds that have wandered into the desert. The Joshua trees and saguaro cactuses remain perfectly immobile in the violent gusts, frozen in time from an era long-since gone. The only things older and more suited to this harsh landscape are the dust and rocks.

  She enjoys a peanut butter and jelly, along with the view. It’s peaceful. There are no cars, and no people. There is no engine noise, or airbrakes on buses squealing. She craves the open spaces, and fresh air—another reason she wants to attend school away from the city. She doesn’t feel she belongs in the shithole suburb of her parents’ home any more than she feels comfortable in her crumby ghetto apartment, listening to gunfire and screaming from domestic disputes.

  Evie doesn’t know how long she has been there, snapping pictures, deep in thought, enjoying her lunch. She feels as though she has joined the eternity of the desert for only a moment, and doesn’t want to look at the time, for then the moment will end. She has no sense of urgency. She has no time she’s expected, apparently. She could sit there until sunset, get some truly lovely pictures, and be in total peace and serenity.

  Until she hears a revving engine and stands to see the black Acura pull into the rest area.

  Her heart thrumps loudly in her chest, filling her throat until she is breathless. Her fear is so intense that the world seems to move in slow motion, her thoughts racing while she is outwardly catatonic. Time stops even more than it did when she imagined life as a saguaro cactus. She is hoping for a coincidence, hoping for a different man to get out, proving she is being paranoid, but the car stops behind hers for a moment, reverses into the space next to the Lumina, and he gets out.

  Finally able to fire the correct synapses and re-acquire motor skills, Evie gathers her belongings without lowering her eyes to the table. The man is out of his car, sees her standing near the bench, and starts to walk toward her as if they are old friends. She has nowhere to go. The stranger stands between her and her car, blocking her exit, forcing her to confront him. She walks towards the man, trying to present the illusion that she does not fear, or even recognize, him. She gives a wide berth, and he steps farther to his left to close the gap. She offers him a small smile and cuts back the other way, but he steps, then, to his right.

  “Excuse me,” she says, but he just stares back at her and stops.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have another cigarette, would ya there, Tater Tot?”

  The words stick in her like an ice pick and her spine responds as the ice; once hard as stone, but now crumbling. Her hair tingles and her hands begin to shake from the adrenaline. She surveys the rest area quickly, confirming her fear that she is alone with him, and she is sure things are going to get ugly.

  Just then, the sound of tires wafts into her ears; the unmistakable sound of a vehicle’s weight on the loose and eroded asphalt strike her as a merciful Godsend and her tense chest loosens as she expels a tightly held breath. In her periphery, she sees a minivan gliding up the entrance ramp to the rest stop, cresting the hill, and solidifying the prospect of salvation that her ears had first announced.

  The man’s eyes flick to the van, and she darts around him quickly, never looking back.

  Slamming her door, she peels away from the roadside attraction with as much speed as her Lumina can muster; her palms sweaty on the worn rubberized steering wheel. In her rearview mirror, she sees the man standing in the same spot she left him, coldly watching her go. Still waiting, taunting her for a cigarette.

  He’s not gone from her rearview more than a minute before she sees the pointed hood gaining ground on her. She should call 911. She should pull across the median and head the other way, but she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps her promise and calls Jarrod back. She tells him that he was right about the creepy man from earlier. She tells him that she thought he was going to kill her, or worse, and that the look in his eyes had been one of cold, irreverent steel.

  She doesn’t know why she has called Jarrod instead of the police. Perhaps she called him because to call 911 would only ratify the fears in her mind, to make them official, to give them weight. She’s not sure how he can possibly help, but facing the prospect of death, and seeing it materialize in the form of a black car, she needs to hear his voice.

  “So the truckers didn’t get—”

  “Oh my God, He’s chasing me!” she screams into the phone, her voice tremulous and threatening tears.

  She sees the car closing the gap behind her. She pushes her engine to the breaking point, but her worn and disabled car is no match for the Japanese racer.

  “Calm down, who—“

  “The fucking guy. The sports car guy. He’s fucking chasing me!”

  “Not funny, okay. Ha ha—” But she starts crying and Jarrod shuts up.

  All that surrounds her is desert—cactus and rock which only moments ago provided her tranquility and refuge, and now offered desolation and hopelessness. The midday sun has stolen even the shadows under which she might have hidden. She dimly recognizes the irony that she provoked this man with perceived impunity just hours before; somehow assuming she was invincible in her car. She starts to sob and weep, her distilled terror getting the better of her, and her voice is catching as she tells Jarrod she is afraid. She hopes upon hope that he is not coming for her, so she lets off the accelerator to let him pass.

  Her hopes are dashed. He does not pass.

  The Acura slams into her rear bumper, causing her to fishtail.

  The car rolls violently into the dust and off the elevated roadway. The screams Jarrod hears on his end of the call end abruptly as the mobile phone is tossed from the car, landing in the desert.

  She knows he will dial 911, but doesn’t have enough usable information to share with the dispatcher who will field his call. She knows that help is not close enough to make a difference. His call will be recorded, and heard, eventually, by someone who can help, but for today, Evie’s on her own.

  Part IV:

  “. . . and what may have been a predisposition for violence becomes a disposition. And as the condition develops and its purposes or its characteristics become more defined, it begins to demand more attention and time of this individual.”

  - Ted Bundy

  “Lift up your eyes to the bare heights, and see! Where have you not been ravished? By the waysides you have sat awaiting lovers like an Arab in the wilderness. You have polluted the land with your vile whoredo
m.”

  - Jeremiah 3:2

  Dennis and Jiménez

  Jiménez has long since lowered the revolver, having made his point, and gotten comfortable in the passenger seat; even fiddled with the radio a bit. Dennis no longer cares what the Mexican does. He has resigned himself to the fact that, although his ghost is no more real than the Twinkie, he didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon. Like the pastry, he was real at one time, but now lives on only as a memory, or an artificial knock-off manufactured in a distant factory to closely resemble the original.

  Dennis knows somehow, confidently, that he has created this mimeograph of Jiménez and that he is just a faded and weak copy. What he doesn’t know is why his mind has put him there. He thinks that maybe he needs him there, for now. So, real or not, he has a fucking deranged Mexican riding shotgun as he ventures uphill to colder weather.

  Dennis gets a text from Libby, asking when he is coming home, and telling him the police have just left. He dials his attorney’s office from memory. He never realized that he had memorized the number.

  Dennis has always been a connoisseur of murder. Ever since he was a child, he wanted to learn about the historical serial murderers and their pasts. He studied up on men like John Wayne Gacey, Ed Gein, and his personal favorite, Ted Bundy.

  Ted went after beautiful women, Dennis’s least favorite creature, which is why Ted had always been Dennis’s favorite. Something about the way a beautiful woman behaved, and carried herself, the way she seemed above everyone else, made Dennis want to possess them; to completely dominate and own them. The infatuation was something beyond the act of murder, or lust. It wasn’t a question of why the Bundys and Geins did what they did, or what they got out of it—Dennis could understand why from an early age, could see the rewards—but how they had crossed that line. Where had they gotten the courage to go out and take that first life?

  Dennis tells himself that it would have been an even simpler decision thirty years ago, before all the policing agencies were linked and before Feds could use traffic cameras to ID suspects, or find DNA on literally everything. Even if you had the balls to cross that line in the sand in 1965, how much harder was it to cross in 2013? It seemed very brazen to want to be a mass murderer when the cops were tracking killers by satellite, and using microscopic identifiers.