by Alex Bledsoe
He started toward the entrance, then looked back. Bliss was already gone. Reflexively he looked up, but the sky was clear and empty.
29
Steps carved into the stone led down toward the light and music. Beer cans, broken glass pipes, and crushed Styrofoam cups littered the way, growing thicker as Rob descended. He gingerly stepped over a discarded condom.
The path narrowed to a tunnel that turned just ahead. A thick electrical cable was attached to the stone wall near the passage’s roof, and a series of copper pipes ran along the ceiling. He stopped and listened. It sounded like at least two dozen people talking, laughing, and singing. Guitars, mandolins, and banjos rang out, completely lacking the sense of fun and skill he’d heard at the barn dance. These people had no interest in harmonizing, in weaving any sort of musical spell. They just played for themselves, even if they all played the same tune.
Heat surged up, making him sweat like he was in a sauna. Worse, the smell was awful: body odor, burning chemicals, and human waste. He wasn’t sure he could stand it without gagging.
He looked back and up at the entrance. The blue sky outlined the skeletons, especially the one he suspected was human. The bones swayed in the faint wind and clacked softly together.
His belly knotted with tension, but the sleep deprivation also gave him a sort of bravado. He stood up straight, flexed his fingers around the guitar case handle, and entered the cavern.
It was a great upside-down bowl, the center thirty feet high. A pinpoint of daylight was visible at the top of the dome, which was good since it let the smoke from the fires escape. He counted three: one at the center of a group of men, the other two small ones that heated water for a row of tubes and pipes set up on a series of tables. He realized with a start they were brewing methamphetamine down here, as well as making moonshine. The very air was probably filled with poisonous fumes. So much for rustic backwoods charm.
Then he noticed the people. They had the same black hair as all the Tufa, as he himself did, but that was where the similarity ended. Clad in ratty overalls and well-worn clothes from the last century, they milled about muttering and laughing. He saw wide-flared jeans, tube tops decorated with peace signs, and even grunge-style tattered flannel. Everyone looked sullen, and as Bliss had predicted, no one glanced his way.
More than their clothes were distorted, he realized. There was something indefinable but definitely wrong in their physical appearance, a contradictory spindliness and softness that gave the impression of insects rather than people. They didn’t move; they scuttled, or crept, or just sat still like spiders waiting for prey to cross their path.
Around the central fire clustered the musicians, their instruments battered from misuse and lack of care. It was the photo negative of what he’d seen and experienced at the barn dance, and it both disgusted and frightened him.
He walked slowly, stepping around rocks and bodies he hoped were only passed out. He kept his face neutral, but looked around for Stoney Hicks and Stella Kizer. Stoney, at least, was a good head taller than anyone else in the cave, so he’d be easy to spot.
He reached the circle of musicians. He waited until they finished an atrocious version of “Companions Draw Nigh,” then said, “Hi. Mind if I sit in?”
Only one of them looked up at him. He had a beard down to the middle of his chest, and only two visible teeth, one in each jaw. “If your ass’ll fit on the box,” he said. His eyes were all iris, and the skin around them was a creased, dried-parchment map of his hard life.
Rob sat on the indicated apple crate, opened his case, and took out his guitar. By the time he got it situated, the banjo player had begun a too-fast version of “Little Omie Wise,” and the others jumped right in. It took Rob several bars to catch up.
The banjo player began to sing in a voice so pure and high, it made Rob think of a castrato:
I’ll tell you a story of little Omie Wise,
How she became deluded by John Lewis’ lies.
He told her to meet him down by Adams’s Springs;
Some money he would bring, and some other fine things.
Rob knew the song, but now he felt the words with an intensity he never expected. He found it hard to breathe and his eyes began to water, not from the mishmash of fumes but from tears that happened so fast, he didn’t notice them until they dripped onto his hands. He wiped them furiously and choked down the guilt, despair, and hopelessness that swelled inside him.
He looked around the cave again. People milled about in groups now, still unconcerned about or unaware of his presence. Bliss was certain Stella Kizer was here, but where? In one of the side caves, some blocked with curtains? Were these like the little rent-by-the-hour bungalows behind the Beehive Truck Stop on Highway 69 in Kansas?
As if on cue, one of these curtains was pulled back and Stoney Hicks emerged. He was naked to the waist, and his jeans were unclasped. He looked like a black-haired, black-eyed barbarian god, every muscle chiseled and defined. His skin gleamed with sweat, and his hair was tangled, but that did little to dim his glory.
He turned his back to the room and urinated on the cave wall, then hitched up his pants and joined one of the groups. He sipped from the mason jar they passed around.
A moment later, Stella Kizer stepped from behind the same curtain. She wore only a ragged blanket tied under her arms. If she felt self-conscious, it didn’t show: she had eyes only for Stoney. She stood demurely behind him, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. Her face was drawn tight, and her hair also a tangled mess. The sophisticated spitfire he’d met at the Catamount Corner was totally gone.
He took a deep breath to shake off the despair and started to stand up. But then the music hit him again:
He hugged her, he kissed her, he turned her around
He threw her in deep water, where he knew she would drown
He jumped on his pony, and away he did ride
The screams of little Omie went down by his side.
Rob shuddered as the emotions in him seized up, choking the physical breath from his body. Everything he thought he’d gotten past resurfaced, filling him with more despair than he’d ever experienced. What the fuck was happening?
Through hot tears he saw Stoney turn to Stella and painfully pinch her ass through the blanket. She did not cry out, but she clutched the fabric to keep it from falling away.
The singer crooned,
Two boys went a-fishin’ one fine summer day,
They saw little Omie go floating away.
Rob stopped playing, hunched over his guitar, and began to sob. No one noticed or tried to console him. The music continued:
They sent for John Lewis, John Lewis came by,
When confronted with her body, he broke down and cried.
Rob stood up. The others ignored him, except for Stella. She stared, astonished to see him and confused by his tears.
He no longer cared about her. He kicked his guitar case aside and stumbled away from the fire toward the cave entrance. But he was disoriented, and somehow found himself in one of the side tunnels. He kept moving into the dark, crying aloud and feeling like each sob might snap him in half. He was the worst person in the world, he’d sold out everything he believed was important for a few minutes in the spotlight, and even Anna had been sacrificed on the altar of his narcissism. Just like Omie Wise, she’d died because she trusted him and came to him when he asked her to. Now he deserved to die slowly and painfully, each bit of agony an atonement for the hurt he’d inflicted on others. How had he ever thought he could do good? Real men did good. He was a petulant, whiny boy.
Although he’d gone around several turns in the tunnel, the singer’s voice seemed just as pure, just as loud.
My name is Rob Quillen, my name I’ll never deny
I murdered little Anna, she fell from the sky.”
He got tangled up in another curtain, this one much heavier than the others. He swiped at it with his hands as it fell over him, then finally grabbed tw
o thick handfuls and pushed forward.
The curtain dropped away. Light blinded him.
He saw blue sky directly ahead and the tops of trees far below.
Then his momentum carried him out of the tunnel and into the air.
He screamed in free fall as he tumbled three hundred feet to the base of the cliff below.
30
It was midmorning by the time Bliss got into Needsville and stepped onto the post office porch. As she’d told Rob, Rockhouse was there, all alone and slowly rocking. She stood with her arms folded and waited to be acknowledged.
When it was clear she wouldn’t be, she said, “Most men grow their beards for winter and shave them in the spring. But you just have to be contrary, don’t you?”
The old man stopped rocking and turned to look at her. He was clean-shaven again, and his cheeks were pink with the freshness of it. “You taking another day off? You’ll be out of a job if you keep that up. Those are tough to come by these days, especially if you get a name as a slacker.”
“Don’t worry about my job,” she said.
“Whoo-ee, you sound pissy. About to get your monthlies?”
Bliss sat in one of the other chairs. “Why’d you grow that beard, anyway?”
“Sometimes a man just needs to get hairy. Has to let nature have its way for a while. If you’re one of them modern girls who shaves her privates, you know what I mean.”
“My privates are none of your business.”
“Your momma never shaved hers.”
Bliss narrowed her eyes. “That’s beneath even you, Rockhouse. And you won’t piss me off, so you might as well stop trying.”
“Don’t sound like I need to,” he said with a self-satisfied wink.
“You’re mad at me because I tried to broker a truce about this whole situation, aren’t you? Didn’t even matter that I came up to your place to do it, out of respect for your position. You took it as an insult, just like when we stood up to you at the barn dance. And you took it out on Uncle Node.”
He looked away from her, at something in the far distance. “You know, before the power company cleared out trees for the phone lines, the top of that hill used to have a whole stand of sugar maples. Still get them damn saplings in the spring from seeds that just won’t give up trying to sprout, even after all this time. They ain’t never gonna grow to trees, but they come back every spring and have to be cut down. Kind of like the people who think they’re smarter than me.”
“Really?” Bliss said dryly.
He looked at her with a bully’s smug amusement. “Girl, you ain’t nothing to me. Nothing. You think you can protect that little snot Mandalay until she gets growed up and haired over, well, I got news for you: I could rip that little whore to pieces right in front of you and there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do. I let her stay, because I get tickled watching you folks sneak around and try to outfox me. And you, Miss Bliss? You’re a joke. A babysitter who has to take orders from the baby.”
Bliss was not intimidated. She leaned toward him and said, “Keep rambling, old man. Keep acting like you never missed that stroke in front of the queen.”
Pure hatred blazed from his eyes, and his features distorted as something behind them tried to escape. But it was only for an instant. Then he smiled and said, “This ain’t the first time someone’s tried to shellack me. Won’t be the last. For me, that is. Might be the last time for them. Every spring there’s fewer and fewer saplings to cut down.”
Bliss started to fire back, But this is the first time the night wind’s done it. She held back, though, as a new thought struck her.
Rockhouse didn’t know. He thought it was another plot, this time by Mandalay. He had no idea the night winds themselves were not just facilitators this time, but instigators. They’d sent the apparition to Rob. They’d sent the Kate Campbell song to her. They’d probably even planted the suggestion that Rockhouse grow a beard so Rob wouldn’t recognize him right away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rockhouse said, bringing her out of her reverie.
She stood, straightened her jacket, and said, “Maybe you’re right, Rockhouse. Maybe this time you’ll outfox us all again. But sooner or later, you’ll slip up. And then what happens, huh?” She patted him on the arm. “You have a good day, old man. Stay warm. Fall’s coming, and you never know when there might be a chill in the air.”
“Why, thank you kindly,” he said mockingly. “And speaking of falls, shame about that boy from the TV show. Must’ve been a suicide, or maybe just an accident. Reckon we’ll never know.”
Bliss went cold inside, but kept it off her face. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll find out. Surprised I had to tell you about it.”
“You’re pathetic, Rockhouse.”
“You know they say trouble comes in threes. First Uncle Node, then your boyfriend. I’d be watching my back if I was you.”
He turned to look back into the distance, dismissing her from his presence. Bliss forced herself to walk casually back to the Catamount Corner, where her truck was still parked from last night. She drove with the same nonchalance until she knew she was out of his sight, then floored it.
* * *
Rob wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he opened his eyes. He saw blue sky, which was also the last thing he remembered seeing. He’d read “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” in high school, and wondered if he was still in mid-fall, heading toward certain death below. He didn’t seem to be moving, though, and no wind whistled past his head.
He shifted a little and felt solid ground under him. He reached down and touched rocky dirt. Okay, he was on the ground, but there was no way he was still in one piece. Was he split open like a grape, then? If he moved his hand another inch, would he encounter one of his own internal organs? What would the texture of a disembodied pancreas feel like?
Slowly he turned his head. He saw the tops of trees, now above him instead of below. A flock of starlings rose noisily from their branches. He wondered if they were going to circle back and begin to feed on his shattered remains. He’d seen crows and blackbirds picking over road kill, and was glad these little guys wouldn’t have to worry about traffic.
Then he heard a woman singing.
He followed the sound with his eyes. He wondered if there was no pain because his spine was severed somewhere below his neck.
Then he saw her. She was younger than he was, with long black hair and a strong, lean body. She wore tight jeans and a black tank top that showed off her curves to excellent effect. At the moment, she was on her knees, weeding a patch of flowers that was clearly some sort of shrine.
And she was singing.
John Lewis, John Lewis, will you tell me your mind?
Do you intend to marry me or leave me behind?
Little Omie, little Omie, I’ll tell you my mind.
My mind is to drown you and leave you behind.
He raised up on his elbows. It didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing about him hurt, not even his eye, the bruise on his back, or the stitched lump on his head. When he looked down at himself, there were no injuries, no blood. Except for a little dirt, he was spotless. There could be only one explanation for that.
She looked up and stopped singing. “Back with us?”
“I always thought the idea of sexy angels was just a gimmick to sell lingerie,” he said. “But I’m not going to argue.”
She smiled. “Careful. My boyfriend has a direct line to God.”
He sat all the way up. He wasn’t even stiff. “I expected heaven to be more pastel. Kind of Maxfield Parrish. But I can live with this.”
“You’re not dead, wise guy.”
“Really?” He looked behind him, and there it was. He sat at the base of the sheer cliff he was certain he’d fallen out of. There were several cave openings toward the top, far too high for him to have survived. “I’m pretty sure I fell out of one of those.”
The girl laughed, low and sexy. “Sure you
did.”
He got to his feet. Everything was there, and everything worked. There wasn’t even a fresh scratch or new bruise. “I did. I remember it very clearly.”
“And I suppose something just flew in and caught you at the last moment?”
Now that he was upright and the last cobwebs were gone from his brain, he looked at the girl more closely. “You look familiar.”
“So do you.”
“I was on TV for a while.” He offered his hand. “Rob Quillen.”
“So was I. Bronwyn Hyatt.”
Her grip was as firm as any man’s, and he recognized the name. “Yeah, I know you. Well, that is, I know of you. You were in the army, got rescued on live TV. Killed how many enemy soldiers?”
“More every time it’s told. And you were on So You Think You Can Sing?”
“That’s me. What’s this?” he said with a gesture at the flowers.
“A memorial. My older brother used to bring me here when I was a little girl. He taught me the basic chords and how to sing harmony. He also showed me how a man was supposed to behave around a girl he respected and loved. Set the mark pretty high for my boyfriends later. Too bad I never held ’em to it, like I should have.”
“I take it he’s no longer with us?”
“No. He died back in the spring.”
“I’m sorry. Was he sick?”
“He was stabbed.”
There was nothing polite he could say back to that, so he resumed looking around. He spotted something half-hidden behind some rocks. He picked up the neck of his now-smashed guitar, still attached by the strings to the bridge pegs. “Look at this.”
“Needs more than restringing, I think. It must’ve pissed off somebody.”
“No, this is mine. It fell just like I did. From up there.”
She put her hands on her hips in annoyance. “Well, maybe whoever or whatever caught you only had two hands and did the best he or she could.”
He tossed it aside. “Ah, it’s no great loss.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say about a musical instrument.”