Her California neighborhood is rural enough to walk in the middle of the street clear up to the thoroughfare; this is exactly where Luanne walks. The frustrated parade star inside likes the feeling of ownership that comes with her central, promenading position—or maybe it’s the latent rebel—and own it she does, at least until she spies a cluster of daisies growing roadside. Growing on the sidewalk side of grass, too, instead of the lawn side, making them public property as far she’s concerned, and entirely up for finding and keeping. Her step quickens as she envisions the magazines she could buy at the Piggly Wiggly instead of wasting money on flowers. Flowers that would just droop and die unappreciated anyway, on account of Momma’s lack of discernment these days. When she reaches the curb and bends to pluck the daisies, she hesitates.
At the last second, her questing fingers skip over the loves-me, loves-me-not blooms and enwrap a discarded scrap of rolled grey satin. Satin that in turn enwraps…a bouquet? Are those petrified petals really a bouquet? She grabs the curiosity and stands in one fluid motion. Fingertips test faux pearl hatpins that anchor the arrangement in place. It feels oddly cool to the touch—practically refrigerated, really—and with a quick glance around, she impulsively decides to keep the weathered treasure, the daisies forgotten.
At the top of the block, she turns right and left in rapid succession. Her route picks up on the other side of the cross street, and while she loses the tree canopy, she gains a shadow. It’s a reasonable exchange. She likes her ephemeral double and while humming the melody to “Me & My Shadow”, she switches between watching it and examining the creped petals. This stretch of the road is always the quietest. It’s rendered so by the myriad traffic laws specific to the church, elementary school, and Christian youth center that triangulate the next half-mile. The ambient birdsong and Kepler-effect of exercising in the heat lulls her into a dreamy contemplation.
Why would a woman toss out such a carefully put together bouquet? The socially aware Luanne judicially adds “or man” to her mental query, but it’s a half-hearted addition. The delicate spray is so clearly feminine, and the stretch limo with tinted windows rolling through her imagination showcases a womanly forearm distended in disdain. She must have been angry, Luanne decides, and as the flowers soar to join tin cans rattling from the pretend limousines bumper, she wonders if it were a bridal bouquet. It’s probably too small for that. The cans disappear from her mental imaging as she waves to the crossing guard stationed at the crosswalk outside the school.
“No, no. Not crossing over,” Luanne calls out, relieving the orange-vested woman standing at attention from imminent duty. When the flowers incorporate into her walking shadow on the upswing, she mimics the Statue of Liberty’s pose.
Concentrating on her projections—physical and otherwise– she holds the stiffened blooms at different angles. She’s an Olympic torchbearer now. Maybe the bouquet was part of an award ceremony. She cradles them, fluttering her fingertips at the cement. Maybe it was a beauty contest bunch. They’re awfully modest for that, but they might have been for second place. That would certainly explain their ignoble disposal.
Blotting her brow with the back of her arm, she notices her sweat has grown as cold as ice water, for some reason—and does the satin of the bouquet seem colder now too? Hmm. She sniffs the preserved beauty, breathing dirt and stale sweetness, pondering the trappings of quinceaneras and proms: the former, maybe, but not the latter. Definitely. She’s no rocket scientist, but Luanne’s pretty sure it’s too early in the year for prom. Besides, the flower offerings boys bring are generally for the wrist.
Teenage Latinas tap-dance in her melon as the stretch between her and her destination closes, but when the rows of houses give way to allow for the spacious grounds allotted to Momma and her neighbors, her reverie breaks. Oh, snap. She’s gone and done it now. She’s forgotten to bring fresh flowers of any kind, roadside or otherwise. So preoccupied was she with her musings, she’s quick to blame the heat for her forgetfulness instead of her habit of daydreaming. It isn’t as if Momma will chastise her for the blunder, but still. Where were her priorities?
And who, for heaven’s sake, has come up behind her? Despite the daylight, she prickles with apprehension to notice another shadow has joined her own. It’s a longer, taller, and decidedly more insulated shadow, especially considering the heat and her steps quicken ever so perceptibly. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the road for more than a second: a second spent considering the flowerbeds that edge the grounds of Momma’s place, and goodness! Is he wearing a hoodie sweatshirt or something? Or is his head just Elephant-Man gigantic? Is it even a “he”? Luanne notes an elongated, mushroom-like quality to the trailing shadow, but doesn’t dare look back. Momma raised her right after all, and she has good manners, but it’s plain to see the stranger is easily twice her size. The length of shaded reflection towers over hers. She shivers, glancing briefly skyward to explain the sudden, all-enveloping chill, but sees no newly installed trees, awnings or outbuildings casting shade to account for the radical temperature drop.
As she walks by the guard at the check-in kiosk, she jerks her chin in what she hopes is both a noticeable and an unnoticeable manner, depending on one’s perspective, to let the guard know she’s uncomfortable about the fellow behind her, and would he please check him out as he passes? It was a lot to try to convey in a simple nod, and apparently too much, since Mr. Stevenson barely glances up from the sports section as she clumsily steps over a speed bump. She could be as inanimate as his charges, for all he cared.
The grounds crew is no help either. Two jump-suited Hispanics drive by in a golf cart loaded down with landscaping equipment. They return her wave and call out to her in Spanish, but roll out of sight behind an oleander bush before she’s remembered the word hola. Well, who could blame her? The shadow is abreast of hers, now, and it’s positively unnerving is what it is. At least five impossibly long seconds tick by before she’s plucked up enough courage to turn and address the stranger head-on.
“Aren’t you hot in that…?” The question dies in her throat, and the sensation of coldness compounds, despite her truncated rhetoric. There’s no one there. Even her bones are cold! She glances down at the lawn, heart pounding hard enough to ruffle the fabric of her shirt. The cowled shadow is still there: large, in charge and altogether far too close to hers. What’s more, it’s brandishing an object in its left hand she hadn’t noticed before. Huh. Is that a walking stick? A walking stick topped with a ridiculously, over-sized grip?
There’s no time to wonder. Luanne runs, the tread of her sneakers sticking to the lush sod that’s replaced the sidewalk beneath her feet. It weighs her feet down with sudden soles of dirt and Marathon grass. She stumbles on, rounding the oleander bush the maintenance guys had disappeared behind just as the stick-wielding arm behind her swings.
Before her shadow can be safely swallowed by the pool of darkness cast by the oleander, an evanescent scythe slices her jugular area. It separates her head from her body as neatly as the bouquet of dried flowers drops from her hands to adorn the unmarked headstone at her feet. Her feet catapult the business-end of a fallen garden hoe to and through her throat, severing her head and shot-putting it outward, like a streamered dead-weight. Cold jolts into her in a powerful, shifting force—as displaced earth in an earthquake might move, waving in ever-deepening layers, and now there’s a blinding, electric pain shooting across her neck, and she’s pitching. Her headless torso is pitching into the fresh-dug gravesite hidden by flora until a moment ago, and a final—necessarily fleeting—thought zips through her still pin-wheeling head.
It really is a perfect day to visit Momma.
Trapdoor
By William Rasmussen
Crouched on hands and knees in his back yard, well out to where the tangled woods crept closer to his house seemingly on a daily basis, eleven year old Cory Sanders watched in fascination as the tiny cricket he had just planted on the scrub grass before him tiptoed carefully aroun
d the spider’s burrow as if sensing its imminent demise. Suddenly, virtually without making a sound, the small, brownish-gray spider flipped up its vegetation-camouflaged door, clutched the defenseless insect with its jaws and a pair of its eight legs and dragged the wriggling body back into the dank recesses of its underground lair. The makeshift lid closed shut quietly behind it.
Whoah! Cory thought, eyes widening. That was cool!
Over the past few years, he had become quite interested in the outdoors and wildlife, insects in general, but arachnids—spiders—in particular. He knew, for instance that the trapdoor spider, which ranged in size from barely a half-inch to a maximum of two inches, constructed an elaborate underground network whose single opening was protected by a hinged door comprised of vegetation and silk to provide a safe, hidden refuge for its tenant. When a bug or insect stumbled across one or more of the silk threads positioned like tripwires outside of its burrow, the spider would feel the vibrations inside its lair, flip open the concealed door and capture it’s prey. It would then drag the helpless victim into its den for consumption. Cory thought the design was simply brilliant.
On a conscious level, he didn’t know why he had developed this sudden absorption with nature; but subconsciously, Cory understood his preoccupation with bugs and other small creatures had started a couple years ago when his grandmother—his mother’s mother—had begun to visit them during the spring for longer and longer periods of time. He was her only grandchild, but he was afraid of her. She gave him the creeps. And no one understood why he always resisted her obvious attempts to get close to him, to bond…
Cory got up off the ground after a moment, dusting his hands off on his faded jeans and stared up at the sky. It was getting late, he realized, probably close to 5:00p.m. Almost dinnertime. A cool breeze—even for the end of April—caressed him, tickling his neck and slithering snake-like up the sleeves of his windbreaker; shadows stretched like taffy across his back lawn. His mother would be calling him in soon.
And just as he spared a glance back at the house as if the two of them could read each other’s mind, his mother thrust her head out the back door. “Cory! It’s getting late. Time to come in.”
“All right, Mom!”
With a sigh, he hustled over to where she was waiting in the doorway and squeezed by.
“Why don’t you take that up to Nana?” She indicated to a tray on the counter on which sat a steeping cup of tea alongside a spoon and containers of cream and sugar. “You know she likes you to visit with her in the afternoon. She’s asked about you twice already.”
Cory’s face dropped for a second, but he quickly painted on a more pleasant look. And if his mother noticed his brief slip, she discreetly chose to ignore it.
He carefully picked up the wobbly tray and slowly headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway, hanging a right at the stairs. His mother watched intently, a concerned frown tugging at her features as Cory cautiously and methodically began to climb. Once he reached the landing, she shook her head unconsciously before returning to the kitchen.
When Cory finally stood outside his grandmother’s bedroom, feeling like an inmate about to face the warden, he gently placed the tray on the carpeted floor and knocked tentatively on her door. He knew he only had to put up with her in the house for about three or four months a year since she split the rest of her time with her unmarried son—his uncle—and her younger sister—his great-aunt—, but it was a long and difficult period for him nonetheless.
“Who is it?” his grandmother said in a somewhat frail voice that belied her actual physical appearance and strength, but confirmed her long seventy-five years.
“It’s Cory, Nana.”
“Well, come on in,” she went on, the timbre of her voice improving dramatically.
Cory quietly turned the knob and nudged the door open before bending over to collect the tray. Balancing his prize with both hands, he elbowed the door further to gain entrance.
“Well, it’s about time,” she said to him, propping herself up in bed. “Make sure you close the door now.” Wearing a harsh smile, she stared at him with an intensity that chilled him to the core.
And as Cory paused to kick the door shut behind him with a soft thunk, he felt as if he were an insect being pulled against its will into the lair of a hungry trapdoor spider.
* * *
Later that evening, after he had visited with his grandmother, they had all eaten dinner, and he was busy in his bedroom finishing up his homework when his mother peeked in on him.
“Cory?”
“Yes, Mom?” he said, gradually tearing his eyes from his studies.
She stared at her young son, her only child, with affection only a mother could feel. Cory was small for his age, with thick, wavy, brown hair, blue eyes that favored hers, and a splash of light freckles that dusted his nose and upper cheeks, courtesy of his father.
“Is something wrong, honey?” she said, taking a seat on a corner of his bed.
“Uhh…no. Why?”
“Well,” she began, struggling to find the right words, “it just seems to me, and your father, that whenever your grandmother is around you act kind of strange…and then after you’ve visited with her, you act even stranger, you know, kind of quiet and moody.” She searched his face for some indication that he might be hiding something. “I was just wondering if…perhaps you and Nana were having problems with each other, now that she’s here three or four months a year.”
Cory fidgeted almost imperceptibly in his chair, his eyes shifting guiltily to his lap like someone torn between lying about a situation or turning into a lowly, desperate informant.
“Cory,” she said, unable to ignore his telltale signals, “has your grandmother done something to you? Did she have to discipline you?”
“No, Mom,” he said, lying. “She hasn’t done anything to me.” He glanced up as if upset with her for making him choose. “It’s just boring having to talk to her every day. She’s so old, and all she wants to do is tell me this stuff about her growing up and raising you and Uncle Bill. Geez!”
“I know, honey, but you have to remember, those are important memories to her, and I guess she thinks you’d want to hear about them.” She paused, gazing again at him, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry that it’s boring to you, but she only stays with us part of the year, and she’ll be leaving in another month or so. She does love you, you know.”
“I know.”
She stood up, closed the distance between the two of them, and wrapped her arms around Cory’s shoulders, planting kisses on the top of his head as if he were ten years younger.
“Mo-o-om,” he cried, trying ineffectually to extricate himself from her smothering embrace.
“Oh, all right,” she said, laughing and letting him go.
But as Cory gathered himself, dragging a hand through his unruly locks and rearranging his shirt, he turned abruptly serious, looked straight at her and said, “Was Nana ever mean to you and Uncle Bill?”
A frisson of unease marched up her spine while a host of long-buried memories flooded her mind. Is it starting again? She wondered. Please, dear God, no!
“W-why would you ask that, honey?” She tried but failed to calm her trembling hands.
“I don’t know… It’s just that you and Dad hardly ever have to spank me or anything when I mess up, and I was wondering if Nana was the same way with you and Uncle Bill.” Cory’s eyes searched his mother’s face for a frank answer.
As the rational side of her being—the side that wanted to take the easy way out—warred with the myriad dark thoughts racing through her brain, she ultimately chose the cowardly alternative.
“Your grandmother was strict with me and my brother,” she began, “but nothing really out of the ordinary.” She practically bit her tongue as the words left her mouth. “There were many times when she would get mad at us, and sometimes even have to discipline us physically—spanking, you know—but we almost always deserved the pun
ishment.” She couldn’t believe hearing the words she was spitting out. “Has Nana ever spanked you, Cory?” Horrible images of her enraged mother in front of her, the belt in her hand whistling like a whip toward her, battered her mind.
“No…” he said, untruthful again. “It’s just that sometimes she talks kinda mean to me, like she doesn’t like me anymore.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, enfolding him in her arms again. “Your grandmother loves you very much. It’s just that sometimes she has a strange way of showing it.” Warm tears spilled over her lids, crawling down her cheeks as she hugged her son tightly and remembered vividly the thwack of the wire hanger on her backside—relived the exquisite burning sensation—as if it were happening to her right now. There was no way, she vowed, that she would ever let her mother touch her son the way she had abused her and Bill as children so many times…
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, releasing him from her grip again. Sniffling, she palmed tears from her eyes and swiped a hand underneath her nose. “I’ll have a chat with Nana tomorrow and see if I can straighten out a few things with her. Okay?”
Cory nodded timidly.
She stood up again, sniffled once more, and rubbed her hand affectionately through his tousled hair. “Now, finish up your homework; it’s getting late. I’m going downstairs to talk to your father for a little while.”
At his bedroom door, she turned around for a second and smiled at him, before quietly closing the door behind her and continuing down the hall, her footsteps trailing away in the distance. Cory had watched her retreat and, once she had gone, he wondered why she had lied to him more than he had to her?
Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology) Page 5