by Matt Drabble
The ground beside her car sloped dangerously and steeply away down into a canyon that looked bottomless. The treacherous drop was protected only by a tired and worn looking low metal barrier.
The man suddenly jerked his wheel to the right, and the large heavy vehicle smashed into her ageing, wheezing Chevy. It was no contest. The powerful SUV took only one dominant sideswipe to send her crashing with screaming twisted metal through the barrier, and tumbling ever downwards.
The large man pulled over to the side of the road. He plucked a set of binoculars from his vehicle and surveyed the damage at the bottom of the canyon below. The old Chevy lay in broken, ruined pieces. The mass of metal was beyond comprehension from the rolling fall, and life was hopeless.
He was pleased to spot a limp, bloody arm hanging out of what used to be a car. He watched for several minutes for any signs of miraculous movement. When he was convinced, he hoisted his bulk back into the SUV, carefully lifting his troublesome knee and then drove away, leaving the corpse to the emerging wildlife drawn out by the mouth-watering scent of blood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Michael skirted the garden with cat like stealth; it had been two weeks since he’d walked in on Janet’s somewhat enthusiastic indiscretion. Chris and Janet had both been conspicuously absent since the incident. Emily thought that they would both be too embarrassed because of his unfortunate presence, but he was not so sure. Janet had never struck him as being anything other than full steam ahead, regardless of the situation. No matter what the reason, Michael was still firmly English, and was borderline terrified of getting dragged into someone else’s domestic troubles.
He kept his head down below the rear fence line as he ran back from the bird feeders that Emily had lined the garden with. She had been nagging him for days to refill them, but he had been too scared about catching either Chris or Janet in the garden. He felt emotionally inadequately equipped to deal with either of them. Would Chris want a shoulder to cry on, would Janet want a priest to confess to?
“Michael?”
His face clenched and he cursed his luck for being caught under the spotlight; he cursed the damn birds and Emily too.
“Michael, is that you?” the soft, feminine voice called out.
“Oh, hi, Janet.” He straightened and answered as casually as he could.
It was a little after lunch and Emily wouldn’t be home for a while yet; he’d finished writing for the day and had been looking forward to a cold beer beneath the sun. The book was progressing nicely. The story was unraveling before him as the characters spoke with natural ease and flow. Luckily for him, Emily had little interest in his writing; she was always supportive of his work and respected the effort and talent that it took, but the genre was never to her taste. He knew, however, that her thoughts were clear on the subject of him taking inspiration from Eden for his new novel. She objected to him distorting their new found home, to twisting the actions and thoughts of their new neighbors from welcoming to sinister. Michael was very much a “crossing the bridge when he came to it” sort of man. He would write the book and worry about Emily’s anger later. One of the main reasons that he was unwilling to give up on the novel was that it was actually very good. The protagonist couple were sympathetic and charming, and the townsfolk were suitably creepy and ominous.
He walked up to the wooden fence that partitioned the two houses. The barrier was about five feet high - just enough to duck under, but low enough for him to lean over. Janet stood on the other side; her hair was messy, and her face devoid of the perfect makeup mask that she normally wore. Her outfit was a mismatched tracksuit selected for expedience rather than fashion. The garden around her was overgrown and in need of attention. She obviously had not gotten around to replacing her gardener, and Michael hoped that it applied to all his duties, horticultural and otherwise.
“I thought that you were avoiding me,” Janet said.
Michael felt shame at his antics; Janet’s voice was laden with sadness and slightly slurred with alcohol, even at this hour. “How are things?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“Not great, but better than I deserve, I guess.”
“How’s Chris doing?”
“He’s off in Dallas till the end of the week; he’s going to come home with a decision,” she choked off, her voice muffled with tears.
Michael stood awkwardly as she cried before him. The wooden fence stood between them preventing him from comforting her, even if he had felt able to.
“I’m sorry that you got stuck in the middle of this, Michael,” she said, her voice strengthening as she regained some of her composure. “It wasn’t fair. Chris wanted to come and see you, to torture himself with all of the gory details, I suppose.”
“What do you think he’s going to do?”
“I honestly don’t know. I hope and pray that he gives me another chance. I told him to go and bang a million strippers if that’s what it takes. I don’t care, I just want him, Michael,” she sobbed as she ran back into her house. “I only want him,” her voice faded away.
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“I call this town council meeting to order.” Casper spoke with a clear authority that would not be denied.
The town hall was a large wooden colonial style building that sat proudly upon the town square. Its perfect white slatted wooden walls were topped with powder blue window frames and shutters. The roof was pitched and layered; the lowest point was over the entrance and supported by four large white pillars. A turret extended out of the central roof, and there was a clock on each side facing out across the town informing everyone just what time it was in Eden. The interior was lined with a dark oak hardwood floor that was mirrored in color by the beams that ran the length of the ceiling. Small steps led up to a raised platform area at the end of the large open room, and a huge, long, and heavy antique table ran the width of the stage. The open floor was lined with comfortable chairs for the town’s people to sit and listen during town meetings, with standing room behind for when the subject matter dictated a wider audience.
Today’s meeting, however, was a private affair being held in a small private room at the back of the hall. The Woodland Festival was nearly upon them and nothing could be left to chance. The room was compact and concealed; this was where the true town matters were discussed, and this was a meeting of the inner circle. The windows were closed and shuttered against the outside world and prying eyes. The room was dark, even with the side wall lights glowing. The furniture was sparse, save for the dark wooden table and chairs that sat in the centre of the room. Today, all five seats were occupied.
Casper stood at the end of the table; his was the voice that chaired all such meetings. He set the agenda and his plans were always ratified as a matter of course.
“Today’s first item,” he said to the upturned faces around him. “Michael and Emily Torrance - I think that it’s time we moved to stage two.”
No one disagreed.
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Emily sat in the doctor's outer office. The waiting room was pleasant; it was sunny and light, with neutral colored walls and mellow artwork hanging to reassure. Another part of the town’s benefits was the healthcare. Being a relatively small community, they operated a private system. The contributions were low, but the structure and facilities were unlike anything that she or Michael had ever experienced back in the UK. There, you could opt out of the overburdened National Health Service and take out your own private insurance. She was fortunate in that her own family had always had private healthcare, but one of the anomalies of the UK was that you found that private healthcare meant only that you jumped the queue. You would, on the whole, find yourself in the same hospital with the same doctors; you just wouldn’t have to wait months for appointments. The staff, as always, were dedicated and committed, but the system was drowning under a sea of bureaucracy and red tape. Here in Eden, the monies collected went directly into the system. It was spent on doctors, nurses and facilities. The doctor’s
office looked plush and comfortable without being overly luxurious. She was beginning to get used to the overtly cleanliness of Eden and could not imagine having to get used to the untidiness of the outside world again.
The receptionist sat behind a large pine counter. Her desk beyond was neat and tidy, and the computer screen was devoid of dust and gleamed in the sunlight. The woman looked around forty with a warm and friendly face, with a figure that was plump and short. She wore a mauve knitted woolen cardigan over a high-collared crisp white shirt. Her glasses hung loosely around her neck on a chain ready for action.
“It’ll be just a minute, Mrs. Torrance. I’m so sorry for the delay.”
“It’s really no problem,” Emily responded happily. She checked her watch and found that her appointment was only running about three minutes behind schedule.
Today was her first check-up. She had been putting it off for a few weeks now, but the appointment now appeared unavoidable. She had been feeling under the weather for a couple of weeks, a little tired before the end of the working day and her energy levels seemed abnormally low. She had always eaten healthily and exercised, taking pride in her enviable figure, but now her waistbands all seemed a little tight and her stomach seemed bloated all the time. Most worrying were the headaches. She felt irritable most mornings and Michael was bearing the full brunt of it. It was he who had made several doctor’s appointments for her and she knew that he was worried. They had entered into a repeating play where he would make an appointment for her and she would agree, only to find a reason to cancel, and only for him to make another and round they went again. The clinic had now started calling every couple of days to reschedule. Even her colleague and growing friend at the school, Sarah-Jane, had been pressuring her to attend. She did not know why Sarah-Jane was so insistent, but she thought that perhaps her friend must have had a death in the family hanging over her head. Emily had never been overly scared of doctors, but she did have a healthy fear of clinics and tests. She was always pessimistic that a doctor would find some terrible impending sign of doom. To the outside world, she knew that she was considered to be ebullient and jovial. She knew that Michael was often intimidated by her exuberant manner with strangers, but she did have a dark side. A lot of times, her over-enthusiastic approach to life was a cover for her secret fears and worries. Could she really ever be truly happy? Or would Michael leave if she ever grew too tired and old?
“Mrs. Torrance?”
The voice interrupted her thoughts, and she shook the darkness clear. This was a beautiful day and nothing could, or would, spoil it. “Yes, sorry, I was miles away.”
“Dr Creed will see you now,” the receptionist informed her kindly.
Emily stood and headed for the private office. She wore thin and light white canvas trousers that were three quarters in length and a pink polo shirt. As usual, the day was hot and sunny. She swung the door open and chastised her wandering mind's propensity for private worry, as it clawed around the edges with visions of disaster.
“Mrs. Torrance, so pleased to meet you,” the doctor said as he walked around his desk to greet her.
She had seen enough television to expect the doctor of a small American town to fit a certain warm and cuddly, slightly elderly stereotype, but Dr Creed was not it. He was well over six feet tall and in his mid to late thirties. He was heavily built with long grey wavy hair that hung loosely around his face like a Woodstock hangover. His eyes were a piercing steel blue that peeked out from under the large mop of hair, and he wore a long goatee that matched his hair in color. His white lab jacket was stretched tightly over a red and black checked shirt and green tie. He wore stone colored cargo pants and Timberland dusky boots that augmented his already impressive height.
He reached her and grasped her small, delicate hand in one of his large paws. He pumped her arm enthusiastically, and she couldn’t help but smile back at his infectious grin.
“Please, it’s Emily,” she said, as she regained her slightly sore hand.
“And I’m Samuel,” he responded. “Please sit, sit.” He pointed to a plush leather chair.
The office was bright and airy. The walls were smothered in framed photographs; some were of famous landmarks, and some were of a more artistic variety. The office was delightfully messy; his wooden desk was large and covered in paperwork and files. The shelves that lined the walls were overflowing with books and manuals. A heavyset metallic filing cabinet stood with several drawers open off to the side, devoid of the paperwork that seemed to be covering his desk.
“I know, it’s a mess, right?” he said with a smile. “Blanche out there is always moaning at me; she says that she can never find a thing in here, but I can’t help it.”
“You make my husband look like a saint,” she laughed.
“Ah, Michael. I haven’t seen him yet either. You must bring him in soon,” he chided. “So what can I do for you today?”
Emily began to protest her medical innocence and apologize in a most British way for wasting his time, when she stopped. Something about his attitude, manner, or even the mess of his office made her want to speak openly. She listed her symptoms, checking them off one by one; he listened and didn’t interrupt as she scratched around for accurate descriptions and articulations. Once she’d finished, she looked into his face expecting to see worry and concern, as though his internal medical mind had recognised a major illness in her symptoms.
His face was calm and friendly. He smiled at her worry. “Let’s run a couple of tests and find out just what exactly is going on Emily.”
About forty minutes later she looked at him stunned. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Pregnant,” Samuel said, his face beaming. “You, my dear, as they might say back home, are up the duff.”
Emily sat back in the chair, grateful for the sturdy furniture preventing her from collapsing. “But how?”
“Well, I think it’s a bit late for Sex-Ed,” he grinned.
“Pregnant,” she muttered to herself. She knew that she and Michael had been operating at a less than sedate pace since the move. He’d jokingly put it down to the open air, and good weather. Like rabbits, he’d laughed.
She closed her eyes and started to cry, weeping gently at first, then great, painful sobs of heartache wrenched from her chest, expelling the final refuges of grief from their first pregnancy loss.
“Oh, my dear,” Samuel said, suddenly distressed and concerned. “Am I to take it that this is not good news?”
Emily began to laugh through the tears as the poisonous misery at long last loosened its toxic grip. “Samuel, it’s the greatest news ever.”
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Michael was plotting when the front door breezed open; he was sitting in what had become his thinking position on a wooden steamer chair out on the rear decking. He would often sit here beneath the warm sunshine of a late afternoon. The red hot heat of the day had passed over to be replaced by a warmth that was bearable. He had a small table by his chair that matched the steamer - on it sat a cold beer can, a notepad and a pen. The condensation ran from the can, beading and pooling on the wooden surface. The stains were testament to his frequent musings; he would often lie back and close his eyes against the brightness. His mind would dance and pry around the edges of his book as he would trace mazes back and forth with characters and scenarios, leading people up and down paths that sometimes worked, and sometimes didn’t. He had found over the years that he could never plan his stories too far ahead; each had to build brick by slow brick until it reached the sky. Too much information, or too many ideas, would get in the way and block his creative path. Whenever he finished his day's work, he would retire to his spot and retrace his steps, poking for holes in the story, or gaps in character development. After he was satisfied with the day’s work, he would sketch around the overall idea, jotting down copious notes that would often be illegible the following day. He was attempting to work around a roadblock that required two characters to be brought t
ogether, finding the right balance of suggestion, when Emily blocked his light.
“Michael?”
She stood before him, her expression unlike any that he had ever seen her wear before. He sat up in apprehension; this was not a good look to be wearing after a doctor’s appointment. “What’s wrong, what did the doc say?” he demanded curtly, his worry overriding courtesy.
She handed him an envelope. He took it with a furrowed brow, confused, and opened it. Inside was a Father’s Day greeting card. The front read, “To the best Dad ever” in jaunty printed writing. He opened the card, and the front message was printed again, but Emily had used a black marker pen to block out the “To” part of the message and written “You’re going to be” in its place.
Slowly, realisation dawned and Michael stood on shaky legs. “You’re sure?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she confirmed.
She sat beside him on the large steamer chair; they held each other and loved each other until after the sun set and the evening cooled. Words were not required and were unwelcome, as their minds aligned and adjusted to the bright new and perfect future.
It was three days later; Michael and Chris were standing over the charcoal grill in Michael’s back garden, bathing in meaty odors whilst sharing beers and happy thoughts.
Chris had returned from Dallas, minus any STD’s from his wife’s “Stripperthon” suggestion. Michael and Emily had found various reasons to repeatedly wander past the front windows, waiting impatiently for any indications as to whether Chris would be staying or leaving. When dusk had turned into darkness, and there was still no sign of either Janet or Chris lugging luggage down the driveway, they had both relaxed. Emily’s stance appeared to have softened a little, Michael thought. He knew that her father had been somewhat of a serial adulterer, aided by her mother’s blind eye towards his indiscretions. It was a subject that she rarely discussed, and he had never pushed it. Emily had staunch morals when it came to fidelity, and somewhat repressed anger towards her mother’s complicity.