Scenes From the Second Storey

by Mark S. Deniz

  Brooksie shrugged.

  Then David Quibbins got in the car.

  "Why, Gordy, why did you bring David fucking Quibbins to my party?"

  I stood with Scott and we both watched Quibbins sucking down a keg beer in a plastic cup like it was water and he'd walked thirty miles through the desert.

  "I felt bad for him, you weren't there, his parents are nuts. The guy's never been to a real party, he deserved to go out."

  Scott snorted and pointed his cigarette at me. "Listen, Kofi Annan, David Quibbins is a stray dog. He's pathetic and you feel bad for him and maybe his parents are these monsters you say. But he's still a stray dog. And you know what happens when you bring home strays? They shit on your rug."

  "He'll be fine. I take full responsibility." But even as I said the words, I winced as I watched David through the crowd, pouring his third beer. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

  "This guy better not pass out and drown in his own puke, Gordy. I'm not gonna be involved in some school scandal because you brought fucking Jethro to my party."

  Scott was a tall beefy redhead with plans to go on to Harvard Law School next year, and was therefore perpetually concerned about his reputation, lest Harvard Admissions find a stain on his character. Despite this, he seemed heedless of the risk in purchasing mescaline from a local pig farmer, then distributing said drugs to thirty five of his closest friends.

  "Look, Scotty, don't wig out. Brooksie was the one who invited him anyway, not me."

  Scott laughed. "Brooksie is over there having a conversation with a tree. Don't talk to me about Brooksie being responsible."

  I scanned the surrounding woods and spotted Brooksie, his blond hair flickering orange in the firelight. He was indeed talking to a tree. I was feeling pretty tweaked myself, and my eyes lingered on the snow covered branches, thinking how beautiful it all was. And that's when I saw David Quibbins' father.

  Or at least I thought I saw him. He stood in the woods, ten feet out, diagonally behind Brooksie and his new tree friend. The moonlight illuminated his gray hair, and he wore a thick wool coat, chequered black and white.

  But then he was gone. I blinked, scanning the surrounding woods. Had I seen him? My eye was drawn back to the branches, which seemed to dance and wave. It was the drug, I decided. I'd only imagined I'd seen him. Still, I went to check on David, feeling unsettled.

  A couple of girls from Archer Dorm were talking to him. I could see in their dilated pupils and ventriloquist dummy grins that they were tripping, and treating David like an amusement novelty.

  "Do you have a girlfriend, David?" The short blond one asked this, as her friend suppressed giggles.

  "My mother won't let me have friends," he slurred. "She says I can't socialise till I…" He hiccupped. "Finish my edu…cation."

  "Well that's too bad," the blond continued. "A guy like you should have a girlfriend."

  She looked up as I approached. "Hi. Gordon, right? I'm Penny and this is Amber."

  I grinned, nodding. "Hi Penny." I shook her hand, and as I did, leaned into her ear and whispered. "Freakshow's over. Move on."

  She blinked at me, then blew a puff of air. "Whatever, man. I wasn't doing anything."

  She and her friend moved on. David filled another beer. I'd lost count of how many he'd had. I wanted to take David back to his house now. I wanted to be done babysitting him so I could enjoy myself. I'd only had one beer, so I was legally all right to drive, but the mescaline had kicked in, and I wasn't sure it was a good idea. I weighed the options, and decided to bring David home. He only lived five minutes away, I could make it.

  "How you doing David, ready to call it a night?"

  David looked at me with blood shot eyes. Next to the bonfire, they gleamed amber. "The party's not over, Gordon."

  I nodded. "I know. But won't your parents be worried?"

  His forehead lowered. "Fudge them, I don't care."

  I sighed, stuffing my hands in my pockets. Now I'd made the decision, I was almost desperate to be rid of Quibbins. This was Brooksie's fault. He's the one that invited him. Why should I have to babysit? I looked around for Brooksie. He'd abandoned his tree friend, and was back among the humans, flirting with Deb Randolph a few yards away.

  "Gordon, are you trying to get rid of me?"

  I looked into David's eyes, and for just a moment, I was afraid. I vowed never to mix mescaline with socially retarded Pollock locals again.

  "No, of course not," I said.

  "I think you are. You don't want me to talk to people. You sent those two women away. You don't want me to have any friends. You're just like my mother!"

  His voice bellowed above the crowd chatter, and a few heads turned.

  "No, no, David, that's not it," I said in a hushed tone, trying to comfort him. "I just thought you might be tired. I mean, I'm a little tired."

  "I'm sure you stay out far later than this when I'm not with you. You just don't want to feel responsible for me, and you're afraid I'll embarrass you."

  I scowled. Fucking Quibbins had a brain after all. "David, come on. That's stupid."

  He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Now you're calling me stupid!"

  I shoved him off me. "Hey, take it easy! You've had too much to drink, David, and I think we should take you home now. That's all there is to it."

  David glared at me, his fat lip curled up, and tears streamed down his cheeks. "I hate you!" he screamed, and ran off into the woods.

  "David, come on!" I shouted, but he was already out of sight.

  Scott got a couple of flashlights from the dorm and he, Brooksie and I trudged through the snowy woods looking for David Quibbins. All the while, Scott cursed me for inviting him, and assured me that I would take the fall for this. He accepted no responsibility for losing the librarian's son.

  Brooksie had gotten up ahead of us, but suddenly he stopped. "Oh shit. Oh…you guys! Over here!"

  Scott and I ran, and aimed our flashlights to line up with Brooksie's. A ledge of rocks descended in stepping stones about twenty feet down to the campus pond. It wasn't a steep drop, and easily manoeuvrable if you were scaling it intentionally. But in the dark, at a full run, if you didn't know it was there…

  David Quibbins lay at the edge of the pond, face down. A trickle of blood stained the rock he'd landed on.

  "David!" I shouted. He didn't move.

  "Oh no," Scott said. "Oh no no, this is not happening."

  Brooksie just stared. Even in the darkness, I could see his complexion was bordering on green.

  I climbed down the rocks, careful not to slip on the ice and snow. I'd never come down here in the winter before. Finally reaching him, I knelt down next to David, turning his head. He groaned. His cheekbone had a nasty gash, but it didn't look serious.

  "You okay, David?"

  He groaned again, but didn't open his eyes. I had no way of knowing if he had a concussion or was just shithouse drunk and not used to being so.

  "I'll be right back, okay David?"

  He didn't respond. I climbed back up to where Brooksie and Scott stood on the edge of the embankment.

  "Is he dead?" Brooksie asked, trembling.

  "He's not dead. He's drunk and he hit his head but I think he'll be okay. We should call an ambulance just in case though."

  "What?" Scott said. "Oh no, fuck that. No ambulance, then the cops will get involved and suddenly it's out that some kid got hurt at one of Scott Workman's parties."

  "Think about someone beside yourself, Scott!" I shouted. "The kid's hurt! He could have a broken back for all we know!"

  "Fuck you, Gordon, you brought the freak to my party, you handle this! No ambulance."

  "Oh and what am I supposed to do, carry a drunk, wet Quibbins on my back all the way to the car?"

  "I'll help you carry him, but no ambulance. Let's just get him back to the car, drop him on his doorstep, ring the bell and be done with it."

  "Guys…" Brooksie said again.

  We both
turned to him.

  "Quibbins is gone."

  After an hour of searching, we had no choice but to call the police. Quibbins was drunk, injured, and nowhere in sight. The temperatures were below freezing. And we were all in a panic.

  The police had brought Mr and Mrs Quibbins to the woods now, and they sat in the back of a cruiser while officers scanned the area around the pond. Brooksie, Scott and I stood nearby. The party was over, and we'd been answering the cops' questions for what seemed like an eternity. In the world of worst possible experiences to have while under the influence of chemicals, this had to be top of the list.

  Brooksie and I were finally allowed to return home. We lay in our beds, staring at the ceiling, awake. Shadows danced on the walls from the swaying trees, and I thought of David out in the frigid woods, alone and helpless.

  I had done this. I had lost, possibly killed the librarian's son. I wondered if I could be charged with kidnapping as well. Then I remembered that David was twenty-one, a legal adult. Twenty-one today. Happy Birthday, David.

  The next morning, Brooksie and I grabbed a coffee and went directly to the police station. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut by a horse when they told me the news. They'd searched all night. They were still searching. They'd dragged the pond. They hadn't found David.

  "Is there anywhere he might have gone?" I asked Gloria Quibbins as I sat in her living room. I hadn't thought she'd let me in, even considered she might kill me on sight, but she waved me inside. I followed her into a cosy den, where a neighbour sat with her, making her tea, rubbing her shoulders. A police cruiser sat in the driveway, in case there was news.

  "I told the police already, Gordon," she said, sounding tired. "David has no friends. The only place he would even think to go is the campus, and they're checking all the buildings now."

  I nodded. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Quibbins. I just…he wanted to come with us. He said he wanted to get out for his birthday."

  She looked at the floor for a long time. I was just about to leave, thinking I'd overstayed my welcome, when she spoke again.

  "David is on medication. Strong medication. He's not supposed to drink alcohol."

  She looked at me. I stared back at her. "Oh. I didn't know that."

  "Neither did David," she said with a sad smile. "David had some trouble when he was a child. He spent time in a facility. But they let us take him home eventually, as long as it was guaranteed he'd take his medication." She paused, taking a sip of tea. "David refused to take it. So we've been putting it in his food. For years now."

  I didn't know what to say.

  "The doctors have had to adjust the medication every few years. When it's working, David is fine. Docile. Focussed. But when he's off…well, he can be violent. Unpredictable."

  I nodded.

  "I'm not an ogre, Gordon. I keep my son away from people for his own protection. And for theirs." She stood, and her friend did the same, wrapping an arm around her tiny shoulders.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sure they're going to find him, safe and sound."

  Gloria looked sad. "I'm not. Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to leave my house."

  On my way out I passed a closet, and something made me stop in my tracks. Hanging on a hook was a man's wool coat, white and black chequered.

  I walked around to the garage and found Mr Quibbins hunched over the open hood of an old truck. He straightened up when he heard me come in. A strand of his gray hair was blackened with engine grease, his face was flushed.

  "What in the name of God do you want?"

  "You were there."

  "What?"

  "Last night in the woods. Before David had his accident. I saw you. In the trees."

  He stared at me, fury tightening the chords in his neck. "Get off my property."

  "Did you kill him?"

  He looked like I'd kicked him in the groin. "You little son of a bitch!" He came at me, stopping just before grabbing me. He glanced out at the cruiser parked in his driveway, then pointed at my face. "You better watch your back, boy, and you better hope my son is dead."

  I laughed. "What?"

  Mr Quibbins grabbed my wrist, squeezing tight, and pulled me back inside the garage, out of sight of the cop. "Listen to me, buddy boy. Let's say for argument's sake I was in those woods last night. Let's say I'm tired of seeing my wife suffer year after year because of that devil child. Let's just say I saw David get into your car, saw an opportunity, and followed you."

  I shook my head. "You…you killed him?"

  "I didn't kill him," he said, giving me a shove. He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his forearm. It had a fresh gash with deep teeth marks. "But let's just say, hypothetically, that I tried to kill him, and he bit me and got away."

  My breathing hitched, and the air in the garage seemed to heat up. "I don't understand. Why would you do that?"

  "Did you know David was in an institution when he was a child?"

  "Your wife told me, yes."

  "She tell you he killed his brother?"

  I swallowed. "No."

  He turned away and walked back to the truck engine, picked up a wrench and started tinkering. "He was five. Jason was eight. David always wanted to be with Jason. Followed him around, never gave him a moment's peace. Then one day, Jason didn't want to play with David. He wanted to go off with some neighbourhood kids, and refused to take David along. So after dinner that night, David went into his room and stabbed him in the eye with a kitchen knife. Killed him."

  "Fuck!" The word came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  He turned around and looked at me. "Every time his body chemistry changes, his medication stops working. We have to sedate him, take his blood and have the doctor update his prescription. Last time his medication started to fail, he tried to kill his mother."

  Sweat ran in streams down my back, though the garage door was open to the winter morning. I didn't know what to say, so I simply nodded.

  "I heard the story you told the police," he said. "Is it true? What set David off at the party? That you were done with him, and wanted to take him home?"

  "Yes."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Then I suggest you pray they find that boy frozen to the earth somewhere out in those woods. If not…lock your doors at night, son. Lock 'em up tight."

  Weeks went by, the semester edging toward winter break, and no one ever saw or heard from David Quibbins again. No body was found. There were a thousand speculations. Some students actually thought Brooksie and I had killed him, something that drove Brooksie to withdraw and stay in the dorm most of the time. School was not a fun place to be anymore. For either of us.

  *****

  I spent the first two years post-graduation worrying that David Quibbins was alive, and fearful of what that could mean for me, in light of his father's revelations.

  Then, as another year passed with no word of him resurfacing, I became paralysed with guilt. A twenty-one year old man was dead, and I was indirectly responsible for that. I was ashamed of my selfishness, as rather than mourn this tragedy and accept my share of blame, I'd spent two years looking over my shoulder, worried about my own skin. And alongside the shame was embarrassment, that I'd ever entertained the notion that Quibbins might be alive somewhere, waiting to pop up behind me like a murderous ghoul, still wearing his party hat.

  I asked myself which was worse; living with the guilt of David's death, or living with the fear that he might be alive. I assured myself that I knew the answer to this question, and I willingly draped on the guilt like a heavy cape, a noble burden I wore around my shoulders. When I walked out to my mailbox six months later and found the invitation, I tried desperately to cling to that resolve.

  There was nothing written inside, and no return address. I told myself it was a bad prank. There were certainly plenty of people at school that had known about the invitation I'd received from Quibbins. And there were certainly plenty of party invitations with balloon-bearing clowns.

  While
I couldn't imagine anyone being that cruel, or holding such ill will toward me, I refused to consider any other option.

  Which was worse, I asked myself once again. Living with the guilt, or living with the fear? I chose guilt a second time, but it had transformed, grown into something far less noble with the return of my terror. For my shame was no longer spawned by the truth that David Quibbins was dead. I now carried that bilious burden because deep in my self-preserving soul, I really, really wanted him to be.

  Home

  Shannon Page

  I keep having real estate dreams. Night dreams, I mean; everyone in this golden state of mine has unattainable fantasies. I'm a lifelong Californian, so dreaming of Victorians, Craftsman bungalows, sweet little Edwardians, even an Eichler or a Marina style — this is all to be expected.

  These dreams, though, they're unusual. Peculiar.

  Disturbing, even.

  They weren't always like this. I've always dreamt of homes — houses where I've actually lived during the awake side of my life; mansions and palaces I saw in movies or read about in books; or dwellings from nowhere but the gelid depths of my overactive imagination.

  For a long time after my first marriage crashed and burned, I dreamt repeatedly of finding new rooms, entire new wings, floors even, in my house. My therapist loved those dreams. "It's your consciousness, your creativity! New paths, new directions, new areas of your mind are opening up!"

  Well, okay, I thought; whatever, fine. I just figured it meant I wanted more space, that I was sick and tired of living in tiny cramped apartments with too much hand-me-down shit: sagging love seats and blenders that barely worked and painted particle board bookcases and unmatched glassware, cracked and pitted with hard use. And the apartments themselves: mildew everywhere, peeling paint on the high ceilings, stained and warped hardwood floors, a general odor of decay and neglect underneath the reek of burnt grease from our inept experiments in cookery, curtains made from bedsheets or Indian tapestries. Who wouldn't want to find a fresh start, a whole new floor, rooms opening into more rooms, light and air and color and loveliness?