by Kit Reed
Travers would wake up on the same train he was riding this morning, surrounded by the same passengers and sitting next to the woman keyboarding with the morning paper folded on his lap and his briefcase at his feet and he would wake up with no actual time elapsed. Waking, he’d discover that although it’s almost night here in the field where he is standing, on the train he was riding to the city, it is still ten a.m., seconds before he jumped.
There’s also the possibility that he fell out: some kind of seizure—an attack of petit mal or a sugar crash that knocked him flat. In that case Travers will come to on the rattling metal floor just over the car’s rear wheels, surrounded by horrified commuters who don’t know what to do because he’s choking on his tongue. Step back, one of the passengers will say, brandishing a pencil for him to clench between his teeth. I’m a doctor. Worst case scenario is a heart attack, unless it is the best: Travers returning to consciousness in an emergency room in Stamford or Bridgeport because much as the white light beckoned, at the last minute he lost heart and ran away from it. He hopes it doesn’t spin out that way because he knows that people who almost die and come back from the white light spend the rest of their lives in perpetual mourning. They felt so calm, they say with that catch in the breath that masks a bereaved sob.
It was so peaceful there that they will never be happy again.
Travers should be so lucky. As it turns out, once he starts walking away from the house, he has to walk for hours. With no sun to steer by and no sliver of moon to light his way, he has no idea whether he’s going east, toward the water and the tracks, or whether in fact he has circled in the dark and is accidentally heading for the mountains in the west where—if this could only be Zork!—where he’d go through the mountain pass and broach the gorge to find the miserable dam and, with any luck, the lost Atlantis which reveals itself when a player pushes the right buttons and the river drains. When he looks back in hopes of sighting his only landmark, Travers can no longer see the lights of the house glowing behind him. He thinks the breeze is a little damper and he catches a hint of salt on his tongue, so there is a chance he’s really going toward Long Island Sound and the tracks.
Then a string of lights streaks along just above the horizon: the train, he thinks, lucky people staring at nothing out of all those lighted windows. It’s so late here that he has no way of knowing whether it is his train. Probably not. It would appear that this journey is not the product of a temporary fainting fit and he isn’t dreaming, either. His train is long gone. It really is night and it’s getting late. After midnight the Metro North schedule thins to a trickle. Few trains go by at this hour, so he has to wait. There is the additional problem of getting any train to stop for him.
When a train does come its lights pick up Travers standing in the middle of the tracks with his white face glowing like a surrender flag. He wigwags his arms wildly, trying to get the engineer’s attention, but the thing comes roaring down on him anyway. For a second he wavers, considering. It is an opportunity, and it is tempting. He jumps out of the way, but only at the last minute. When you decide to get back on the train you don’t give in and get trashed by one.
He shrugs. Sighing, he starts walking along the tracks.
It is a long night.
The landscape is barren and the tracks seem endless. Even in gathering daylight the engineers won’t stop for him. The stations, if there are stations where he is heading, must be closed for the night. Eventually, he supposes, he’ll come to at least one crossing where the tracks intersect a major road instead of taking the bridge over it or disappearing into yet another underpass. Then he can take the road and hope drivers are better at the Samaritan thing than the night engineers on Metro North. Hopeful, he looks ahead, but as far as he can tell, it’s unbroken track all the way down the line.
Come on, he thinks. I can’t go on this way. As it turns out, he can. He walks for another hour and except for detritus stirred up by the breeze from passing trains, nothing changes. It’s getting tired out. He’s hungry now.
Defeated, he taps his phone. “Sandra? It’s me. I’m on the train.”
He’s not but it won’t matter. Either his battery’s dead or the nearest relay tower is so far out of range that she won’t hear him.
“I never should have gotten off that train,” he says anyway.
—The Texas Review, 1986
The Bride of Bigfoot
Imagine the two of us together, the sound of our flesh colliding; the smell of him. The smell of me.
At first I was afraid. Who would not be frightened by stirring shadows, leaves that shiver inexplicably, the suspicion that just outside the circle of bug lamps and firelight something huge has passed? If there was a Thing at all it was reported to be shy; the best photographs are blurred and of questionable origin; hunters said it would not attack even if provoked, but still … The silence it left behind was enormous; I could feel my heart shudder in my chest. With gross figures roaming, who would not be afraid?
We did not see or hear it; there was only the intimation. It had been there. It was gone. Thomas, whom I married six months ago, said, Listen. I said, I don’t hear anything. Roberta said, I’m cold. Thomas persisted: I thought I heard something. Did you hear anything? I did not speak but Malcolm, who was torturing steaks on our behalf, spoke politely. Everybody’s so quiet, it must be twenty of or twenty after. Then Roberta said, Something just walked over my grave. I tried to laugh, but I was cold.
This was the night of our first cookout of the summer, shortly before I found certain pieces of my underwear missing from the line.
Our house is on the outer ring of streets here, so that instead of our neighbors’ carports and arrangements for eating outside we look out at a wooded hillside, dense undergrowth and slender trees marching up the slope.
If it weren’t for dust and attrition and human failure our house would be picture perfect. I used to want to go to live in one of our arrangements; the future would find me among the plant stands, splayfooted and supporting a begonia; I would be both beautiful and functional, a true work of art. Or I would be discovered on the sofa among the pillows, my permanent face fixed in a perpetual smile. I would face the future with no worries and no obligations, just one more pretty, blameless thing. It’s a long road that knows no turning but an even longer one we women go. Each night even as I surveyed my creation I could see fresh dust settling on my polished surfaces, crumbs collecting on my kitchen floor, and I knew soon the light would change and leaves drop from my plants no matter what I did. Each night I knew I had to turn from my creations and start dinner because although Thomas and I both worked, it was I who must prepare the food. Because women are free and we are in the new society I was not forced to do these things; I had to do them by choice.
But it was summer, we opened all the windows and went in the yard without coats. We had that first cookout and maybe it was the curling smoke that wakened it, or maybe it saw me in my bathing suit … All I can tell you is that I lost certain underthings: my satin panties, my gossamer sheen bra. When I came home from work at night I went directly into the back yard. I tried to penetrate the woods, staring at the screen of leaves for so long that I was certain I had seen something move. The summer air was already dense with its scent, but what it was I did not know; I could not be sure whether that was a tuft of hair caught in the wild honeysuckle or only fur. Every night I lingered and therefore had to apologize to Thomas because dinner was late.
Something dragged a flowering bush to our back stoop. Outside our bedroom the flowers were flattened mysteriously. I got up at dawn and listened to the woods. Did I imagine the sound of soft breath? Did I catch a flash of gold among the leaves, the pattern of shadows dappling a naked flank?
In midsummer something left a dead bird with some flowers on my kitchen table and I stopped going outside. I stopped leaving the windows open too; I told Thomas we would sleep better with the air conditioning. I should have known none of our arrangements are permanen
t. Even with the house sealed and the air conditioner whirring I could hear something crashing in the woods. I ran to the back door to see and when I found nothing I stood a moment longer so that even though I could not see it, it would see me. When we went to bed that night it was not Thomas I imagined next to me, but something else.
In August I retreated to the kitchen; with the oven fan going and the radio on, the blender whizzing and all my whisks and ladles and spatulas laid out I could pretend there was nothing funny happening. We had seafood soufflé one night and the next we had veal medallions, one of my best efforts. When we went to bed Thomas turned to me and I tried to be attentive but I was already torn. I was as uneasy as a girl waiting for somebody new to come in to the high school party—one of those strange, tough boys that shows up unexpectedly, with the black T-shirt and the long, slick hair, who stands there with his pelvis on the slant and the slightly dangerous look that lets you know your mother would never approve.
On Friday I made salmon mayonnaise, which I decorated with cress and dill, and for dessert I made a raspberry fool, after which I put on my lavender shift and opened the back door. In spite of the heat I stood there until Thomas came in the front door. Then I touched the corners of the mats and napkins on my pretty table and aligned the wineglasses and the water tumblers because Thomas and I had pretty arrangements and we set store by them.
Honey, why such a big kiss?
I missed you, I said. How was your day?
Much the same.
So we sat down at the little table with all our precious objects: the crystal candle holders, the wedding china, the Waterford, him, me. I asked if he liked his dinner.
Mmmm.
All right; I tried to slip it in. Am I doing something wrong?
I’m just a little tired.
Tell me about your day, you never do.
Mmm.
Outside, the thing in the woods was stirring. Thomas, love is to man a thing apart, it’s woman’s whole existence.
Mmmmm.
In the woods there was the thunder of air curdling: something stopping in mid rush.
I love you, Thomas.
I love you.
Honey, are you sure? Mmmmm.
I put out a dish of milk for it.
No, Lieutenant, there were no signs of a struggle, one reason I didn’t think to call you right away. I thought she had just stepped out and was coming back. When I got home from work Monday she was gone. Nothing out of order, nothing to raise your suspicions, no broken windows or torn screens. The house was shining clean. She had even left a chicken pie for me. But there was this strange, wild stink in the bedroom, plus which later I found this stuck in the ornamental palm tree on our screen door, your lab could tell you if it’s hair, or fur.
I wish I could give you more details, like whether the Thing knocked my wife out or tied her up or what, but I wasn’t too careful looking for clues because I didn’t even know there was a Thing. For all I knew she had run over to a neighbor’s, or down to the store to pick up some wine, which is what I thought in spite of the heap of clothes by the bed, thought even after it got dark.
By midnight when I hadn’t heard I called her folks. You can imagine. Then I checked the closet with my heart going, clunk, clunk. Nothing gone. Her bankbook and wallet were in her purse. All right, I should have called you but to tell the truth I thought it was something I could handle by myself. Ought to handle. A man has a right to protect what’s his, droit de seigneur, OK? Besides, I didn’t think it was kidnappers. That gray fur. The smell. It had to be some kind of wild animal, an element with which I am equipped to cope. I used to hunt with my father, and I know what animals do when they’re spooked. Your cordon of men or police helicopter could panic it into doing something we would all be sorry for. I figured if it was a bear or wolf or something that got in, and it didn’t kill her right here, it had probably carried her off to its lair, which meant it was a job for one man alone. Now I have my share of trophies, you might as well know back home I was an Eagle Scout and furthermore I am a paid-up member of the N.R.A. Plus which, this is not exactly the wilds. This is suburban living enhanced by proximity to the woods. If something carried off my wife I would stalk it to its lair and lie in wait. Then when it fell asleep or went off hunting, I would swarm in and carry her out.
All right, it did cross my mind that we might get an exclusive. Also it was marginally possible that if I rescued her we might lure the creature into the open. I could booby-trap the terrace and snare it on the hoof. Right, I had guessed what it was, imagine the publicity! The North American serial rights alone … After which we could take our sweet time deciding which publisher, holding the paperback auction, choosing between the major motion picture and an exclusive on TV. I personally would opt for the movie, we could sell backward to television and follow up with a series pilot and spinoff, the possibilities are astronomical, and if we could get the Thing to agree to star …
But my Sue is a sentimental girl and I couldn’t spring this on her all at once. First I had to get her home and then I was going to have to walk her through it, one step at a time, how I was going to make it clear to the public that she was an unwilling prisoner, so nobody would think she was easy, or cheap. You know how girls are. I was going to have to promise not to take advantage of her privileged relationship with the Thing. But what if we could train it to do what we wanted? What if we taught it to talk! I was going to lay it out to her in terms of fitting recompense. I mean, there is no point being a victim when you can cash in on a slice of your life.
Lord, if that was all I had to worry about! But what did I know? That was in another country and besides … Right, T. S. Eliot. I don’t want you to think of me as an uncultivated man.
I got up before dawn and dressed for the hunt: long-sleeved shirt and long trousers, against the insects; boots, against the snakes. I tied up my head for personal reasons and smeared insect repellent on my hands and face. Then I got the rest of my equipment: hunting knife, with sheath; a pint of rye, to lure it; tape recorder, don’t ask; my rifle, in case. A coil of rope.
It took less time to track it than I thought. You might not even know there was anything in the woods because you’re not attuned to these things, but I can tell you they left a trail a mile wide. Broken twigs, twisted leaves, that kind of thing. So I closed in on their arrangement while it was still light; I came over the last rise and down into a thicket and there it was. I had expected to have a hard time locating her once I got to the lair; the Thing would have tied her in a tree, say, or concealed her under a mass of brush or behind a pile of rocks.
This was not the case. She was right out in the open, sitting on a ledge in front of its lair just as nice as you please. Except for the one thing, you would think she was sunning in the park. Right. Except for the dirt and the flowers in her hair, she was au naturel. There was my wife Susie sitting with a pile of fruits in season, she was not tied up and she was not screaming, she wasn’t even writing a note. She was—good Lord, she was combing her hair. I went to earth. I had to be careful in case the Thing was using her for bait. It could be in its cave lying in wait, or circling behind me, ready to attack. I lay still for an hour while she combed and hummed and nothing happened. There was nothing, not even a trace. I got up and showed myself.
I guess I startled her. She jumped three feet. I said, Don’t be frightened, it’s me.
Oh, it’s you. Where did you come from?
Never mind that now. We have to hurry.
What are you doing?
Suze, I have come to take you home.
Imagine my surprise. All this way to rescue my darling helpmate, the equipment, precautions, and all she could find to say was: You can’t do that.
What do you mean?
So she was trying to spare my feelings, but that would take me some time to figure out. You have to go for your own good, Thomas. He’ll tear you limb from limb.
Just let him try. I shook my rifle.
Thomas, n
o!
I did not like the way this was going. Not only was she not thrilled to see me but she showed signs of wanting to stay put. I was not sure what we had here, whether she was playing a game I had not learned the rules to or whether she had been unhinged by the experience. You should only have to court a woman once. What I did at this point was assert my rights. Any husband would have done the same. I said, Enough is enough, honey, now let’s get home before it gets dark. Listen, this is for your own good. Susie, what are you doing with that rock?
To make a long story short I had to bop her on the head and drag her out. I don’t know how we made it back to the house. Halfway down the hill she woke up and started struggling so I had to throw her on the ground and tie her up, in addition to which the woods were filled with what I would have to call intimations of the creature. There was always your getting pounced upon from the shadows, or jumped out of a tree onto, to say nothing of your getting grabbed from behind and shaken, your neck snapped with one pop. I kept thinking I heard the Thing sneaking up behind me, I imagined its foul breath on my neck. As a matter of fact I never saw hide nor hair of it, and it crossed my mind that there might never have been a Thing, a thought I quickly banished. Of course there had. Then I figured out that it was afraid to run after what it believed in, which meant that it was craven indeed, to let her go without a fight.
As soon as we got inside I locked all the doors and windows and put Susie in the tub with a hooker of gin and a pint of bubble bath, after which, together, we washed all that stuff out of her hair, including the smell. I guess the gin opened the floodgates; she just sat there with the tears running down her cheeks while I picked the flowers out of her hair. Somehow I knew this was not the time to bring up the major motion picture. What we had here might turn out to be private and not interesting to anybody but us.