Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Maybe I can show his picture around. See if anyone had seen him around the park. Though, somehow he doubted they’d recognize the photo, even if they noticed any strange homeless men wandering about.

  Homeless…?

  Jake tried to recall the last time he’d even seen Bobby.

  There was a glimmer, an inkling of seeing him during Ricky’s wake. The service had been closed casket. Maggie was in black, solemn, obviously so. Johnathan was still in Germany, recovering from his amputation. Karen stood beside her sister, comforting her best she could. Bless her. Maggie didn’t seem to want any of it. She seemed—angry, but perhaps that was to be expected. From what Jake had gathered from his own experiences, anger was a normal part of the grieving process, or at least that’s what they say during certification training. Tabitha was there as well, Karen’s little girl.

  He’d always enjoyed watching children at funerals. Depending on their age and circumstance, they were absolutely oblivious to the concept of death, the permanence of it, and the life-shattering effect it can have. He imagined that’s probably why they called wakes what they did. The observance of ripples in the water of life, hoping, waiting until that too faded away. Tabitha was like that. The dead man in the coffin was absolutely non-conceptualized in her young mind. For her, they were simply at a grownup event where lots of tall folks gathered together to whisper and weep.

  Strange, how we can be so frivolous with emotion. Is death really something to be mourned or should it be celebrated? It seems to me that those we put in the ground or shovel into the crematoria are better off. At peace, even. Despite himself, he thought of Saint Hubert’s Church. He thought of Renfield’s taunts as he prayed.

  Jake dismissed the dark memory, bringing back an older image of Tabitha. In his mind he watched as she ventured to the cocktail table and then asked some elderly man when his funeral would be. He remembered laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair from where he sat and that’s when he spotted…

  Bobby!

  He was there. But he was so…different. Rugged would be a compliment. What happened? Jake wondered as he pulled back around toward I-45, swerving his yellow Volvo, a loaner from the church, away from an oncoming Ford F-150. He’d try his luck at some of the overpasses toward Santa Fe.

  Jake had had no idea Bobby was, as they say, down on his luck. If it wasn’t for Maggie’s letter, he’d never even have considered it. Though, looking back at Bobby’s prolonged absence, it made a hell of a lot of sense. But then again, haven’t we all been kind of absent? Distant. Reserved to our own suffering? When he called Johnathan, how long before had he actually talked with any of them, his friends? Too long, perhaps.

  Jake took Exit 19 near a bright blue and red auto dealership with a billboard of a little girl on it asking, ‘Why shop anywhere else?’ and then pulled onto Spruce Street. Shrine of the True Cross Catholic School was on his left, kids in boring, blue shorts and equally blue t-shirts huddled near the track field. A forty-something potbelly stood nearby, his white polo a beacon among the droll costumes. Jake could just make out the whistle that hung around the man’s thick neck, sparkling in the midday sun.

  The school reminded him briefly of his time at Oblates of Holy Cross Monastery. He’d fled there over the holidays. Instructed-ordered to take an impromptu sabbatical from St. Hubert's. Elder Haywood was very clear on that. He needed to find God again, whatever that meant. The monastery was only two hours out of Houston, but enough to purify his soul with fresh country air, or so he’d hoped. The monks had been more than welcoming. Jake didn’t bother mentioning his association with a Presbyterian church nor himself being a Presbyterian minister. Nope. He decided to disassociate himself. He needed clarity and he desperately wanted the nightmarish vision of Renfield to disappear, the boy soldier who seemed to be in constant pursuit and taunting whispers into the night.

  Jake disappeared within the walls of the Oblates. By January, the ghost was gone, nothing more than a bad memory. And when Jake left the convent in March, the entire situation that had transpired during the young autumn months felt as if it had happened to someone else or something he’d seen in a movie or television show, like the ones Ricky liked to watch when they were kids. He still remembered. Oh yes, he still remembered, but it was dulled, less sharpened, the emotions sanded down by months spent in prayer and solitude, what the Oblate monks called Desert Spirituality. Whether his faith returned or not was inconsequential. He walked away from that uncomplicated life just outside Beaumont rejuvenated by the cold taste of a New Year’s breath. And most importantly, Renfield was no more.

  Or, so he hoped.

  Jake turned off Spruce and pulled into a dirt and gravel auxiliary road used by Harris County Fish & Wildlife. Up ahead was Dickinson Bayou. He recalled hearing from someone that homeless sometimes congregate there, fishing for dinner, or more likely getting drunk and passing out in the tall stalks of sedge and rushes, listening comfortably to the gentle flow of the bayou. Blissfully distant from the world they shunned which in equal measure shunned them. He pulled into something that resembled a parking area and got out, the doors of the Volvo moaned on rusted aging hinges. He took a full breath, filling his lungs with the mild, waning winter air.

  Spring was coming early this year, soon it’ll be Easter. He remembered the Elders meeting on his first day back in town, before venturing to his office and discovering a letter postmarked from Jotham, Texas, addressed to him from Maggie Smith. The Elders were patient men, but even good men have limits. If Jake could not perform his duties as Minister, with the welfare of the congregation in mind, they’d have to take action. Ergo, if you don’t get your ass back in that pulpit, consider it your termination notice. Minister Earl Flanders would come in as an interim until a more permanent replacement could be found. Ha! Flanders! I’m sure those holier-than-thou pew warmers will love having that dinosaur judging them every Sunday morning.

  Pushing thoughts of his wayward ministerial career on the back burner, he journeyed toward the water, enjoying the sparkle of the sun gleaming off the mild ripples on the surface. Near the shore a flock of egrets were cawing over an unfortunate green snake that had no doubt wandered down the wrong path. One of the larger birds snatched it up. The snake thrashed about in its beak. The large bird took off in a wild flutter of white feathers, chased by the others in a mad dash for an afternoon meal. Another flock of birds, sandpipers by the short stocky look of them, were walking the opposite shore line, also searching for something warm to eat. Gnarled cypress trees draped with Spanish moss grew out from around the midsections on the banks, the long slithering vine like fauna tickling the water. Cicadas clicked from the higher branches. He watched the murky surface carefully remembering another rumor, this one of alligators residing in the dark boggy swamps of the bayou. He’d never seen one personally; rationally speaking this part of the bayou was probably too close to the city to attractive larger predators, but you never knew. He stood there. Looking. Watching. A large orange and black and white spotted painted lady butterfly drifted by and danced around a purplish thistle. Two bumblebees buzzed around a patch of bright yellow honeysuckles. It was all so tranquil and peaceful. Quiet. No wonder the outcast come here. Perhaps I didn’t need to drive two hours outta Houston to escape. I could of very well came here and lived among the wildlife and obscured.

  Jake took another deep breath and continued his search for Bobby. Carefully navigating the steep bank he spotted a group of people lying near a matted section of grass. They were of no particular age taking what Jake could only imagine to be a siesta in the shade of a large and ancestral looking oak. From where he was he searched their mostly hidden faces. But he had no clear memory of what Bobby may look like now, all he had was the image of him before basic training, shaved head and clean cut jaw, young and full of vigor. And he also had the glimmer from Ricky’s wake, the glimmer of a man who had vanished just as quickly as he had appeared. He made his way toward the sleeping homeless, thinking again about
the letter Maggie had sent. Though Jake appreciated the sentiment, it was kind of odd that she didn’t send an email instead. He’d left his contact info with her at the wake. Had she lost it? It had been a year since Ricky’s passing. Maybe she didn’t know if it was still good or maybe she doesn’t have Internet at her new place, as ridiculous as that sounds, or maybe she just wanted to send a letter instead. Make it more personal. Intimate.

  He recalled sitting down at his desk, shortly after returning from his sabbatical. He’d just finished his precarious meeting with the church Elders when he noticed the white envelope with the Jotham, Texas postmark, and most importantly, the name Maggie Smith written across the top left corner. And just below her name, her address. He had her address now. He could visit her, if he wanted, but Maggie was well ahead of him regarding visitations.

  The letter smelled of lavender, or perhaps he imagined it. The hand writing was as masculine as he remembered from their childhood, passing notes in class, giggling about the big bottomed French teacher, Ms. Descoteaux. However, this letter did not feel the same, despite its appearance. To Jake, the contents felt lonely, sad, an eagerness for…the past almost. More than an eagerness really, the letter sounded desperate. Puzzled, Jake recalled reading…

  ‘Dear Jake, where do I start? It has been too long. I know I’m just as much to blame. I have kept my distance, maybe more than the rest of you. I pushed you all away when I needed you the most, especially you, Jake. You were always trustworthy, the kind one in our little group, our Suicide Squad, do you remember that? Our club name? Anyways, I wish you were here. I could use your counsel and your kindness. Well…I guess you’re not always very kind. You’ve got a mean streak too! There was that one time, remember Ms. Descoteaux? The old crone with the big ass? She had everyone bring in a different picture every month of us doing something staged, like going to the movies or out to eat or whatever. And you had to write in French what it was you were doing in that picture. Do you remember? Slowly, each month, you and Ricky replaced just about every single picture with a photo of Val Kilmer. You two cut out his heads and pasted them on the bodies of the other student’s. It was so hilarious. She didn’t even notice until everyone else caught on. The entire class couldn’t stop laughing. Jeez, she was so pissed. So, I guess you got a little meanness in you. I doubt it was just Ricky who forced your hand, though he did find the thing hilarious…that much I remember.

  Ricky…I’m so angry, Jake.

  Do not take me wrong, I love, loved, Ricky. I’m just so…tired. Anyhow, I’m not sure if Johnathan has told you yet or not, I’m not even sure when the last time you two spoke—we’ve all become so separated it hurts—but I’ve purchased a house in Jotham. This large white farm house we came across back in ’95, do you remember? Visiting my grandparents in Giddings and biking over that one summer day? The spooky place we were all daring each other to go in. Call me nuts, but yeah, I bought it.

  Base Housing was giving me the boot and I just sort of…found it. Or it found me…I don’t know. Maybe I’m going crazy. There was this real cheesy commercial that came on the TV advertising property for sale in Jotham. The house was on the commercial. Intentional or unintentional it was there and this silly looking cowboy named Duke was dancing in front of it telling folks about how great Jotham is to live. Regardless, no one here knows me and maybe that’s why I came, to be alone where no one could find me. I know it’s selfish. Everyone is hurting in their own way. We lost…Ricky. And Johnathan got hurt real bad. I know it’s not his fault, but he was there with him. He was there when Ricky died and I can’t shake this feeling of resentment, like he should have done something. I don’t know. It’s crazy, right? Tell me it’s crazy.

  Well, I was just like, fuck it, you know. And went to meet Duke to buy the place but when I got there Duke wasn’t there. Duke was dead. Some other real estate guy sold me the lot, his name was Eugene Parsons. Real creepy guy. Wore nothing but black suits like something out of one of those movies Ricky always conned us into watching. And not only that, Jake, but his sons, Duke’s boys, Glenn and Mark also died. All suicides! Strange, right? Too strange if you ask me. If it was just Duke, maybe. But both his sons, too? Or maybe it is all a big coincidence and I’ve just got a bad case of cabin fever. Whatever it is I’ve got a bad feeling, but I can’t leave. I’ve put too much into this place. I can’t leave. I need you here, all of you. Something strange is going on. I need my friends. I’ve already contacted Johnathan. He’s coming with Karen and their little girl, Tabitha…well Karen’s little girl really. Haven’t seen either of them for…

  The only member of Suicide Squad I cannot get a hold of is Bobby. He’s gone off the reservation. On the streets south of Houston, from what…you know, I cannot remember who told me. Isn’t that funny? I mention this because I need a favor, Jake. A big one. I need you to find Bobby. I know it’s asking a lot, especially since no one really has any idea where he actually is. I’ve heard Dickinson, near the interstate, sometimes further south in Texas City, La Marque area—who told me? I don’t know!—I need you to find him. We need to get back together. I miss how we once were. We were so close back in the day. I want whatever this rift is to close. I’m tired of being alone. And this house…I don’t believe in ghosts, Jake, but I’ve been hearing weird sounds. Without making myself sound totally batshit looney tunes, I may have seen…something. I don’t know what I saw, but it looked like…

  Scribble marks, Jake passed over the unreadable section in the letter.

  Anyways, get here. Find Bobby, if you can. Just…get here. I’m not sure when this letter will find you. I’m just hoping this letter finds you in time

  In time for what?

  Please. Come. Johnathan and Karen and Tabitha will be here on the second weekend of March. We’ll do a couple days of sightseeing around Jotham. Real tourist type shit. You’ll love it. Explore our old summer vacation stomping grounds. Whatever. No need calling or texting, my phone stopped working a few days ago. Been meaning to go into town and get it fixed. I know you’ll be here. I have faith.

  Save the date!

  Suicide Squad Reunion.

  Tu me manque.

  You are missing from me.

  Maggie Smith

  ***

  Jake had read and reread the letter at least a dozen times. It sure sounded like Maggie. Her voice was there in the words. But there was something else there as well. Something had scared her, something about that old house she bought or maybe it was just the isolation. He didn’t like the paranoia in her tone. Nor talk of seeing things or hearing sounds, whatever that meant. And it was strange that he could hardly even recall the house Maggie had mentioned while she had complete recall of the event. Were we there as kids? He searched deeper but still came up with only spurts of memory. A white farm house, sure, but the image was blurred beyond recognition like a sun scorched photograph. She remembered…maybe he would too, in time, once he’d seen the place, perhaps it would all come back, the way memories can resurface with smells or other sorts of triggers.

  Jake passed a tall patch of cattails. The group of sleeping homeless began to stir as he approached. One of them, a shaggy looking fellow with dreadlock sandy hair tucked under a visor, wearing a pair of dirty Adidas jogging pants and an even worse looking smiley face Nirvana t-shirt sat up abruptly, defensively, as if Jake were nothing more than a suburban dweller trespassing on sacred land.

  “What you want?” the homeless man protested.

  “Sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for someone. A friend.” Jake bent down, displaying the most recent picture of Bobby he could find. “Have you seen him?” he asked.

  The homeless man looked it over with a sour look on his face. “Why you looking for him?” he asked, frowning.

  “He’s a friend of mine is all.”

  “Friend, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “Seems to me if you were friends you’d know where he is and wouldn’t be in our spot bothering us.”

 
The others began to stir, looking curiously at Jake. One of them, a woman with wire frizzy hair and soggy bottoms and a torn green tank top, licked her crusted lips as if she had something to say.

  “Have you seen him?” Jake angled the photo so she could see.

  “Maybe,” she said, smiling, all black and blue gums, no teeth.

  “Maybe? As in, maybe you have?” Jake prodded, hopeful.

  “Maybe we have. Maybe we haven’t,” said the first homeless man, the one with the Nirvana shirt. He stood, balancing precariously on his war-torn sandals.

  “Please, if you know anything—” started Jake.

  “I think we can arrange something,” the homeless man smiled.

  “Such as?” Jake cocked an eyebrow.

  “A charitable donation to our church.” The homeless man grinned proudly, closing his eyes. Chin held high.

  “Donation? Church?” Jake sounded confused.

  “Yes, sir. Church of I Don’t Give a Flying Monkey Fuck. You want to know where your friend is…well…” The homeless man held out his palm, coughing in the other.