Things We Fear

by Glenn Rolfe

  As he came up on Emily Young’s road, he saw her Jetta parked at Webber’s—the ice cream shop across from the apartment complex she lived in. She was all alone on the picnic table, licking a vanilla cone. It brought down and dirty images to his brain. Fuck it, he thought. I feel like sticking my tongue on something pink right about now. He pulled the gas-guzzling SUV into the tiny lot and parked next to her car, casting her Smurfmobile in a shadow of luxury.

  She was busy going at the cone and staring into the trees. He walked up to the window, grabbed a medium strawberry cone, winked at the teenage girl with hot-pink hair who handed it to him, and joined Emily by the faded picnic tables.

  “Emily?”

  He saw the surprise quickly followed by the eye-roll she tried, but failed, to hide. Bitch. No matter, he decided to play it cool. She’d just blow him off again if he didn’t. He wasn’t used to having to play nice to get what he wanted, but for a chance to fuck her, he’d step to the plate.

  “Hello, Matt.” Her damn voiced dripped with disdain.

  “Mind if I sit with you? I promise to leave you alone.”

  “Sure. It’s public property.”

  “I just want you to know that I’m sorry for coming on so strong. I’m not really good with girls who know better.”

  “You’re not the first guy, you won’t be the last.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “Wow, you almost sounded sincere there.”

  “I know. It’s not easy for me. Subtlety’s never been my strong suit.” He waited for more, but she wasn’t giving anything. “I had to swing by here. First thing I always do after that last school bell tolls.”

  “You too, huh?”

  Nailed it. “Yeah, it’s been a tradition since I started at Fairington a couple years ago.” The lie slipped nicely from his lips. He could practically read the surprise. Common threads with her were going to be few and far between until he could dig up more on her past.

  “That’s…weird.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I…I was just thinking how it seems to tie the year up nicely.”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing big, not like the trip to Bar Harbor I usually follow it with, but it’s nice, simple, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s the little things.”

  “Exactly.” She was finished with her cone. He knew when to play his hand and when to hold. He stood as she rose off the corner of the picnic table. As she stepped back toward the lot, he said, “Emily, I meant what I said. I’m sorry for being a macho jerk. I don’t want you to hate me.”

  “I don’t hate anybody.” She gave him a half smile and a weak wave. “Take care, Matt.”

  “Bye, Emily.”

  He licked the grainy strawberry ice cream and watched her get in her car and drive away. He walked to the back corner of the ice cream shop. She pulled into the driveway to the big yellow building diagonal from where he stood. She stepped from the car and walked to the last door on the right. She turned and looked back. Almost like she was staring right at the spot where he stood.

  He ducked back around the corner. Shit. He craned his head back around in time to see her door close. He didn’t think she’d seen him. He looked at the cone—he’d barely eaten the top of the two scoops—and tossed it to the ground. He’d ordered some stakeout equipment last year when he’d tried this same game with the hot chick at Brewster’s Pub up in Orono. That one had gone south real fast. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. He’d become very adept at this sort of thing since then. He’d been too clumsy, too out of his element with the Orono girl, and, admittedly, too cocky and aggressive last night with the bartender from Patrick’s, but he would be more focused with this one. Emily Young would be his Everest. There would be no need for alibis and secret graves.

  Emily set her box of desktoppers on the crushed-blue-velvet love seat, kneeled on the cushion next to it and peeked through her blinds. She’d swear Matt had been watching her from the back of Webber’s. At least, she thought she’d seen him. He also drove a white Escalade like the one that was parked out front this morning… Come on, Em. He may be a sleazeball, but he’s not a psycho. The affirmation did little to subdue the hairs that prickled to life on the back of her neck. There was no one there now. She let the blind fall, grabbed her iPhone from the top of the box and moved across the room to her iPhone base. She plugged it into the station and hit Shuffle. Drums rolled in like an avalanche and steeled her resolve. She walked to her bathroom and started the shower. She wasn’t sure if the aggression in the song was meant to act as a shield or a warning. Either way, her mind conjured up Matt Holmes and his two-bit apologies. Maybe there was a new story here somewhere.

  Chapter Six

  Aaron drove around the bend to Cable Street. The warm June air flavored with all of the scents of the salty Atlantic welcomed him home. On his left, he passed a plethora of small cottages and stores, some vacant, some landmarks of the beachfront town, like the OOB General Store and Harriet’s Ham and Eggs Café, and then the new comic book shop that opened last summer, MB3 Comix. He hadn’t figured out what MB3 was yet, but he was sure it had to do with the owner, Max. All of the properties were in dire need of fresh paint jobs, but the worn vintage look definitely added to the town’s seaside charm. To his right were quaint, slightly fresher cottages set side by side, every one festooned with an American flag jutting out from the nearly identical porches with perfect green lawns and red picnic tables. In the driveways sat gas-guzzling SUVs—the required mode of transportation among his fellow seasonal residents. He wondered if they came with the summer homes on the right side of Cable Street. If so, he’d have to consider moving across the road.

  His summer rental for the third straight year was the last one on the left. The cottage studio was the cheapest on the market, and cheap was a relative term. From the outside, it reminded him of a Happy Meal. Four square walls beneath a slight A-shaped roof. The inside wasn’t much bigger. It was a mostly open space, complete with a few complimentary furnishings—a cozy tan love seat set behind a round wooden coffee table that stood two feet high, and a teeny weenie night stand painted a very rustic red that was set between the love seat and the bed. The bed was covered with a well-worn blue comforter that the owner Mary Hersom claimed belonged to her eldest son, Jake, when he was a child, and next to that stood a tall comforter-matching blue armoire. The walls were freshly painted white and decorated with numerous paintings in nine-by-eleven frames. As was customary for Aaron, he would remove the generic seaside portraits of fishermen, beaches and lighthouses and stash them carefully and neatly atop the armoire until the last weekend of summer vacation.

  He placed his suitcase of clothes on the bed and opened the door to the corner bathroom. There was a plain-white toilet, a shower for one with a horrendous flower-patterned curtain, and a minivanity: mirror, sink and just to the right a tiled countertop dressed with two vases of faux flowers. He pushed the vases to the wall to make room for his toiletries.

  He turned the crystal-looking knob for the cold water and cupped his hands below the faucet. He bent over and splashed the cool water on his face. It was a refreshing sensation that gave a short reprieve from this early summer heat wave. Mid eighties. Nice and hot, just the way he liked it. He shook his hands off in the sink and stared at his face in the mirror. Maybe this would be the year he stepped into the cold Atlantic. The thought slid a frozen tendril down his spine. No. Not yet. And probably not ever. He was suddenly back in the river. His feet kicking at dark water that demanded his breath. The light above so far way. His arms pulling, reaching…

  Knock, knock.

  “Hello? Mr. Jackson?”

  Mrs. Hersom.

  A cold sweat had broken out over his back and chest. He returned to the sink for another splash of water, wiped his hands off on his shorts, and met the elderly woman at the door.

&nb
sp; “Hello, Mrs. Hersom.”

  “Hello back, Mr. Jackson. Are you all right?”

  “Sure, why do you ask?”

  “Oh, you just look a tad peaked. Well, we’ve got plenty of sunshine in the forecast. That should do you some good, I imagine.”

  Aaron rubbed his neck and gazed out at the beach not forty steps from his door. “Yep. I’ll be out there as soon as I get the rest of my things inside. How’s Gil?”

  “Oh, he’s same as he ever is. Still sippin’ beer, watchin’ the Red Sox and complainin’ about the Democrats. How was the school year?”

  “Great. I got to be with a great group of kids and an excellent teacher.”

  “Now there’s that smile I love to see. What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Jackson. Your teacher, the one that put that little lift in those hazel eyes of yours just now.”

  “Ms. Young. Emily Young.”

  “That little sofa in there sits two, you know?”

  “I do, I do,” he said. He felt the warmth hit his cheeks as he bit the corner of his lip, and he glanced at the beach beyond Mrs. Hersom.

  “You sure you don’t want to have Gil bring the television and stand back in here. Make a nice little date night?”

  “Appreciate the offer, Mrs. Hersom, but I like my summers without the boob tube. Plenty to watch right out there. Plus, I bought me a nice new stack of paperbacks for the season.”

  “Oh, anything for me?”

  “I might have snuck a couple of Stephen King and Anne Rice books for you.”

  “I never read those scary books except when you come around, but I do love them. Gerald thinks you’re making me sick. He’s just jealous of our reading-buddy liaison.”

  Aaron smiled. “I’m all over the map genre-wise, but I know you like to walk on the dark side when I’m around. You want me to stop by with one tonight?”

  “Oh, don’t bother yourself. I’ll swing by after supper tonight. Gil’s promised to take me for a walk down the shore.”

  “A hot date.”

  She smacked his arm. “As close as we get these days. Ah to be young again. Well, I just wanted to stop and say hello. Give us a holler if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  “And we’ll see you around six, okay?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Aaron folded his arms over his chest and watched the tall grass, which separated his beach shack from the hot sand, sway with the summer breeze. He wondered if Emily would call. Better not get my hopes up.

  He went to his car to gather the rest of his things.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, with a bucket of Lisa’s Pier Fries in hand and a cooler of cheap light beer in tow, Aaron found his first spot of the season. Just right of the pier, just past the farthest-reaching blades of grass. He would keep his distance from the cold ocean and perch his ass where he could watch the backsides of all the pretty young things coming and going.

  He set the red Igloo cooler in the sand and pulled the Superman towel from around his neck. He couldn’t risk placing his fries in the sand. He tipped the cooler over on its side and placed the basket of fries safely atop it, while he fanned out the towel, and got it just the way he liked it. He plopped down on the towel, grabbed his salted and vinegar-drenched treats and put them between his stretched-out, white-as-a-ghost chicken legs. Aaron set the cooler back up, grabbed it by the handle and slid it next to him. Inside there were three cans of Coors Light, a koozie that read “Runnin’ on Empties” and a John Connolly paperback. He slid a silver bullet in the koozie, popped the top, took a long, pallet-satisfying haul and gazed out at the gathering crowds.

  Three beauties in string bikinis, at eleven o’clock, were lying out, tanning their exposed perfections; at twelve o’ clock, an older couple, laughing and getting very touchy-feely under a big blue umbrella, warmed his heart; at one o’ clock and closest to him were a couple of gravity-stricken grannies. The one on the left with giant sunglasses leaned back in a lawn chair that Aaron gathered must be a lot stronger than it looked to hold this woman and her two large breasts off the ground. The petite one on the left wore a gray- and white-striped button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a large off-white hat over her crop of short gray hair. Sisters? Widows? Lovers? He couldn’t quite tell.

  Beyond the groups that formed his front line, children ran to and fro armed with pails and shovels, beach balls, foam noodles and various-shaped bodyboards. The workout jocks who’d started out on the other side of the pier, tossing the pigskin, continued to creep closer and closer to the trio of babes. Their six-packs made him look at his early makings of a beer belly. He wondered what Ms. Young would think of his little pot?

  Aaron smiled as he switched out beers and grabbed the paperback. It was great to be home.

  Chapter Seven

  “I need you to work for the next two nights.”

  Heather pulled the phone from her ear and held back the irritation thudding through her temples. She locked eyes with Shannon whose thin eyebrows looked frazzled upon her scrunched brow.

  What, Shannon mouthed.

  Heather placed the phone back to her ear and held up a finger to her roommate. “So, which days do I get off this week then?”

  “That’s the thing, Heidi quit. Called out yesterday, interview I’m guessing, and then she called this morning and told me the Hilton Garden offered her a position with more pay. I need you,” Bill said.

  She’d never heard Bill plead. He’d always been like a commander—strong, firm, regimented; she actually felt a pang of sympathy for him. She was ecstatic to hear Heidi was gone, but that meant that she and the rest of their fellow coworkers would have to cover the pretentious, inconsiderate bitch’s shifts for the next week or two.

  “Look, it’ll be good money for you, and it will only be until I can get someone new. We have plenty of qualified applicants on file.”

  “Okay, but I have plans tonight.”

  “I’ll be here with Richard, covering the desk for Heidi’s shift tonight, but I will need you for the next two nights.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Heather. You’re really doing us a favor. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Heather hung up and tossed her phone to the couch.

  “So?” Shannon said.

  “Heidi quit. I get to work extra for the next couple of weeks. Yay.”

  “Cool, more money.” Shannon grinned before re-sparking the joint in her hand. “Wake and bake?” she wheezed. She offered the smoke to Heather.

  Heather plopped down on the couch across from Shannon and reached out for the joint. Shannon took another puff and handed it over.

  “We still going to OOB tonight?” Shannon said.

  Heather held in the hit until her head started to tingle, then exhaled. Try as she might to staunch it, the coughing fit burst out. Her throat felt as if it were coated in embers. Shannon laughed as she took the joint back.

  Heather grabbed her bottled water from the coffee table and took a swig. The wetness dampened the heat in her throat but did little against the desert-sand dryness coating her mouth in the hit’s wake. “Yeah, might be my last night trip to the Park for a little bit.”

  The Park was the nickname for the small amusement park along the boardwalk by the beach. Its official name was Palace Playland, but at some point in their teens her and her friends began to refer to it as the Park. That was about the time it went from the place your parents took you for cotton candy and kiddie rides, to the place you went to hit on boys and get high.

  “Well, I’ll see if Harry can get Jesse to come up.”

  Jesse was Harry’s cousin from New Hampshire. Heather had slept with him during spring break. They’d intended to make something official of it ever since, but life had a way of
deciding such things. Portsmouth was only a couple of hours away, but Jesse worked for a power company that sent him all over the East Coast for weeks at a time. Heather really liked him. He was sweet, rugged and into the same shit she was—rockabilly, horror movies, shitty furniture (he’d helped her pick out the ugly couch under her ass).

  “Is he already back? I thought he wasn’t due for another week?”

  Shannon passed the joint. “Yeah, Harry mentioned that he would be back this morning. Said he already mentioned wanting to come up and asked how you were.”

  “Well, all right, all right, all right,” Heather said, doing her best Matthew McConaughey imitation. She and Shannon busted up laughing. Heather felt the tears building in her eyes. Shannon fell forward and rolled on the floor, cackling for the world to hear.

  Heather wiped the tears from her cheeks and dumped the roach back into Shannon’s coffee tin on the table. Her cell phone rang.

  She cleared her throat and checked the number: the hotel. She stifled another round of laughter as she nudged Shannon with her foot to do the same. “It’s my work again, hush.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Heather. It’s Bill again. I hate to ask this of you. My mother’s doctor just called. I need to get to the hospital. She’s not been doing well lately with her dementia. Is there any way I could get you to come in right now? I’ll relieve you as soon as I’m freed up, but that most likely won’t be until around five or six tonight.”

  Heather’s buzz was officially killed. “Yeah, I guess. Let me get ready. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “I’m a company girl,” she said, hitting the End button and laying the phone in her lap.

  “What now?” Shannon said climbing back into her seat.

  “Bill’s senile mother is having some sort of fit. I need to cover for him.”