Demon Shadows

by Mike Sirota

  “Did you talk to Harriet Thorburn?”

  Gail scowled. “Walter insisted that an audience with her was required. It happened on the second night. He took me to her table. She was friendly enough, considering the trouble I’d caused. But she asked me questions, so many questions! I wasn’t very cordial. One- or two-word answers; sometimes I didn’t respond at all. A couple of times I thought for sure she would tell me to pack up and leave. But Walter, for whatever reason, was supportive, and I survived the interview. It had only been about fifteen minutes, but I swear it felt like hours!”

  “Fifteen minutes? She talked to you for that long?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “So you never spoke to any of the other residents?”

  “They tried…like you did. Same result. After a while the word got out: ‘Leave the crazy bitch alone.’ Soon I was part of the woodwork. They hardly knew I was around.”

  “You don’t believe that!” he snapped. “They talked about you, laughed when you walked out early . . .”

  She shrugged, looked away. “It was my choice, and I had to live with it. Wasn’t the first time.”

  “Tomorrow night’s your last one here. If I talk to Walter and have him arrange it, will you sit with me at dinner?”

  “Paul, no!” she cried, standing. He was afraid she would leave and immediately regretted saying it. “I can’t, I—”

  He took her hand. “Gail, I’m sorry. Please sit down.”

  Her body was trembling as she dropped cross-legged to the thunderbird rug. Still holding Paul’s hand, she gazed at him.

  “The head doctors would call my last twenty-four hours a breakthrough. Fine. But I can’t take it any farther right now. There’s still so much to sort out.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Everyone here has witnessed my behavior,” she continued, “some for nearly a month. To change that suddenly on the last night…No, I’ll sacrifice this residency, let them take home their stories about me. If—when I come back here another time, it’ll be different.”

  “I believe that,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  “Besides…” She hesitated.

  “What?”

  “You still have more than half your time to go. I don’t want you having to deal with anyone’s comments about associating with me. That was why I didn’t want them to see us together.”

  “I would have been proud for anyone to see you with me,” he told her.

  Gail looked into his eyes and knew that he meant it. She took his other hand. For a minute the only sound in the cabin was the crackling fire. Sometimes they glanced at it; mostly they stared at each other, trying to understand what was happening but hardly disturbed by the confusion they shared.

  Finally she said, “Am I going to see you again? I mean, after Thorburn?”

  “Is it what you want?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too.”

  Suddenly the thunderbird rug became their world, a stationary one, for everything else around them seemed to rush away. The fire, once near, became a faint star in the foreground of an infinite blackness. Their thoughts intertwined, and their souls, and they danced without moving, starting to become one.

  Paul drew her closer. She yielded willingly. Her lips brushed his cheek with a feather’s touch. She explored his face that way; he did the same. When it was again her turn she retraced her kisses, but more firmly, and he followed, going farther, under her chin, along her neck. She liked that and threw her head back and closed her eyes, hoping it would go on and on.

  Then it was no longer enough. She took his head in her hands, found his lips with hers, crushed them hard. His tongue probed her cautiously. She let him know it was welcome. They thrust in and out eagerly, tasting each other, their hunger growing with each sampling. Finally, their hearts racing, they separated.

  “Oh, God, Paul!”

  “What should we do with this?” he asked.

  Her face changed, and in it Paul read a fear not unlike what he’d seen in her work. It first surprised him; then he understood.

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  Her mouth fell open but she didn’t speak. She nodded rapidly; it reminded him of a child.

  “We don’t have to rush it, Gail,” he said, touching her cheek. “It’s okay.”

  The words finally came. “When a part of you that once died suddenly comes back to life, I’d say that’s a reason to be scared. I’m all right now.” She smiled. “See?”

  They kissed again, harder than before, until even that could not satisfy them. Gail peeled off her sweater. Instead of the warm-up suit she wore white knit pants and a red pullover top, both of which outlined the curves of her body. Paul cupped her breasts and felt the nipples grow hard through the material. Gail undid the buttons of his Dickies shirt, then his belt. Her hand dropped casually to fondle his throbbing erection. He leaned his head back, his fingers massaging her breasts more vigorously.

  They caught themselves and slowed the game down, delighting in every intricacy of what would be new only this one time. They laughed when Paul had trouble unhooking her bra in front. Then Gail struggled to restrain her hunger when his tongue laved the dark tips of her thrusting breasts. She pushed him away gently and helped him pull off his jeans. Taking his manhood in her hand, she studied it inquisitively, then touched the glistening droplets on the head and rubbed them gently over the sensitive skin.

  Soon all their clothes were strewn along the perimeter of their small world. Gail stretched out across the length of the thunderbird rug. Paul, on his knees, admired the smoothness of her body with his eyes, explored it with his mouth. She made soft whimpering sounds and sometimes writhed when he touched special spots.

  They changed places, Gail straddling him as she bent over to put her face near his. It was as if she had known him forever, he thought, for her tongue flicked into his ear, nearly causing his explosion before he was ready. He clutched at the sides of the rug, moaning, praying it wouldn’t come yet. She felt his excitement, probed deeper. But he had anticipated that and rolled his head to the side. Then, to balance what was happening, he let go of the rug and put his hands on her breasts, first massaging them, then rolling the already hard nipples between his fingers.

  “Paul, oh, Paul!” she gasped, stretching out beside him.

  Reason and control were gone. Paul was over her, the tip of his manhood against the reddish brown triangle that was the gateway of her long-denied passion. Despite his urgency he opened her gently, his touch within the folds of her sex causing her body to tremble. She had been dry, but not now. He felt this, opened her more. She took his sticky-moist erection in her hand, first guiding it along the surface of the matted hair, then into her, taking all he had.

  It hadn’t been as long for Paul…but long enough. He thrust in and out slowly, deliberately, wanting it to happen but wishing it would go on forever. She encircled him with her legs, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her climax came in a silent burst of joy. His first pleasure was in watching her face. Then, before the tremors of her body could subside, he poured himself into her with a flood that he thought might go on and on, but finally ebbed.

  They lay side by side, exhausted and happy, not spoiling the moment with words. Once again the fireplace was close by; the Wieghorst over the desk, the unused bed. Mostly back from the journey, they held on to what was left of it for as long as they could.

  Finally Gail lifted her head from Paul’s chest, looked at him, smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  He smiled back. “You’re welcome, it was my pleasure.”

  She was thoughtful for a few moments then said, “I think I might be ready now.”

  “For what?”

  “Some help, someone I can talk to. Last night was a start, but I still have so much more to go.”

  “The fact that you recognize it may mean you don’t have as far to come back as you think.” He kisse
d her on the forehead. “I’m proud of you, Gail Farringer.”

  She put a hand to his cheek. “And you, you’re a special person, Paul Fleming.”

  He shook his head. “No, not really. But I am your friend. By the way…”

  “What?”

  “No, dumb idea. I was going to recommend someone I know real well, a person I’m sure you’d be comfortable with, except that her office is in Irvine, not far from me. But it’s a long way from Woodland Hills.”

  “There are some nice places to live in south Orange County. I’m not tied to the Valley. It was just another place to be. Sure, I’ll give your friend a call.” She rolled onto her back. “That is, if you don’t mind having me for a neighbor.”

  He grinned. “It worked,” he said to the wall. “She bought it.”

  She looked at him. “Oh you—!” she exclaimed, hitting him playfully but firmly in the stomach. He feigned agony, grabbed her, and they wrestled on the thunderbird rug. Then they kissed—long, deeply. Paul took a blanket off the bed, and they held each other beneath it, until the fire began to die. Gail glanced at the Baby Ben.

  “I should be getting back,” she said, and began to dress.

  “You won’t let me walk you to your cabin, I suppose. No one comes out this way.”

  “No one? What about that creepy handyman last night? I’ll be okay. You get some more wood on the fire and stay warm.”

  When she mentioned Joe Landry, Paul suddenly thought of the clearing. He wanted to ask her about it—what she knew, what she felt. But the evening had been good, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

  “What are you going to do on your last day?” he asked, putting on his own clothes.

  “Pack up what little stuff I have. Think, mostly, make some plans for when I get back. Maybe jog along the lake if the weather’s okay. Will you come over after dinner?”

  He nodded. “I’ll write down some things for you: the name of my doctor friend, some people who can help you find a place, if you want to get started right away. If not, I can help you when I get back.”

  She finished dressing and slipped his book into her purse. They walked to the door, Gail stopping for a moment to peer out through the blinds.

  “A clear night,” she said. “I hope it stays like this through Wednesday.”

  “You’ll be careful going back?” he asked.

  She nodded, kissed him. “I can’t wait to see you again,” she whispered, and hurried outside before he could respond. He watched her run down the path, then closed the door and stood with his back against it.

  “Wow,” he said softly, shaking his head.

  Nearly ten-thirty, and he was wide awake. He returned to his work, and a scene that had held him back now came out of his head faster than he could put it down on paper. An interlude in an otherwise violent, action-oriented story, a chance meeting between the lead character and a woman from his past.

  Paul wrote until after one, then fell asleep thinking of Gail, wishing she were next to him.

  Tuesday, December 10

  There were no snowplows at dawn. The temperature was 20° and climbing. Waking early, Paul showered and hurried to Big House.

  Robert Kingsley and another resident scheduled to leave that morning were loading their cars as Paul crossed the asphalt. “Aren’t you staying for breakfast?” he asked the artist.

  Kingsley laughed. “You think I would drive to Portland on an empty stomach? I’ll be right in. Michael’s already there.”

  Paul went inside, decided he was starved, and piled his plate with food. He joined Michael and Mary at the second table. Michael looked at Paul and made a face.

  “Are you really going to eat all that?” he asked.

  “Oh, leave him alone, Michael,” Mary chided good-naturedly. “The fires of literary excellence must be fed, lest they burn out!”

  “This is true,” Paul said.

  “Some fire,” Michael said. “What is it, a fuel tank explosion?”

  Mary groaned. “This is dangerous, Paul, he’s actually starting to exhibit a sense of humor. The Phoenix Chamber Orchestra will never be the same!”

  Michael laughed. “All right, peace. Anyway, do you believe I’m finally out of here? I must’ve looked out ten times during the night to see if it was snowing.”

  “Are you sure you can get down?” Paul asked.

  Michael nodded. “Walter checked. The roads to Truckee are drivable, and the interstate is in good shape.”

  “Did you accomplish what you wanted up here?” Mary asked.

  “That and then some!” Michael exclaimed. “Things weren’t going too great for me. It was almost like…I was at odds with my own instrument or something. My performance was suffering, and I hadn’t written a note of music in a year. But it was so peaceful up here, all the time in the world to think, practice, compose. This month at Thorburn was just what I needed. If I ever feel it happening again, I’ll beg them to let me come back!”

  “Quite a testimonial,” Paul said. “And I sure do understand what you mean.”

  Robert Kingsley joined them, and they shared good talk over breakfast. Finally Michael glanced at his watch.

  “Well, I really want to start down,” he said. “I’ll say good-bye here, since you’re all still eating.”

  “I’m done,” Paul said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Michael grinned. “I was right, you couldn’t finish all that.”

  He shook hands with Robert Kingsley and endured a bear hug from Mary. Paul also said good-bye to Robert and agreed to meet Mary in the day room before dinner.

  On their way outside Paul asked Michael, “When you had your audience with Harriet Thorburn, how long did you talk to her?”

  “About a minute, if that much. She asked me a couple of questions, welcomed me to the colony then said good night.” He looked at Paul. “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  They said their good-byes with vague promises to get together again, to call when one happened to be in the other’s neighborhood. Michael drove off and was soon on the road down from Big House. The last resident scheduled to leave that morning was loading her car across the lot. It was, as Kathy Parrish had said, a mass exodus off the mountain.

  Why had he asked Michael about his meeting with Harriet Thorburn? Paul wondered. He wasn’t sure himself, but it was…something. Yeah, something crazy, like himself maybe. But why spend less than a minute with the personable musician and so much more time with someone as uncommunicative as Gail Farringer?

  It was Harriet Thorburn’s eccentricities. Had to be. This was a woman who, in the midst of an entertaining story about John Muir’s visit to Big House, suddenly asked Walter McClain about a toilet that had overflowed.

  Deciding he was right, Paul started back for No. 11.

  The temperature had already risen eight degrees since dawn, with no wind. He lingered along the footpath. As well as the book was going, he felt no great desire to run right back to it. The morning was clear, the surrounding mountains impressive, especially Thorburn Peak, so sharply tapered that it resembled an Indian arrowhead.

  Soon Leanna Creek had joined the path then twisted around the back of No. 13. Gail, in her warm-up suit but without a coat, sat on the step, a sketchpad open on her lap. She saw Paul and waved.

  They were looking at each other when Nora appeared around the curve. Gail saw her first. She stood quickly and went inside. Paul, who had slowed, picked up his pace until he was near the woman.

  “Strange bird, that one,” Nora said, jerking a thumb in the direction of No. 13. “Yeah, we get ‘em. I seen a few over the years.”

  Paul nodded vaguely. “I can believe that.”

  “I missed your cabin last night at dinnertime, so I was just out changin’ your sheets and cleanin’ up. Got your laundry too. It’ll be ready tonight. Oh, I put all your papers back where they were, even the ones on the floor. I know how you people are about that.”

  “Thanks. See you
later.”

  Nora watched him go then glanced at No. 13. Shaking her head, she continued on to Big House.

  The disturbance from beyond Paul’s cabin could barely be felt that morning. Still not ready to work, he strolled on to the clearing. Crossing Leanna Creek, he followed it for another ten yards. There, at the tributary’s widest point, the icy grip felt stronger. But it held him in curiosity, not fear.

  Was this the spot where the Thorburn/McClain cabin had stood? Maybe there, farther along. Who had died in it? Paul tried to remember. The McClains’ baby. God, a baby! And the older McClain boy set off from there, to die eventually at Sutter’s fort. The Thorburns had all survived, although the daughter—Leanna—would later die in San Francisco. Still, the families were freezing, hungry, at odds with the rest of the party, virtually isolated from them. This was a place of concentrated despair.

  Emotions like that could linger for an eternity.

  It bothered him now, being there. He crossed the creek and returned to his cabin.

  For nearly an hour Paul stared at a blank page. The first words of the day came slowly, and it wasn’t until late morning that he stopped glancing at the clock every few minutes. Once again he immersed himself in the story.

  Still, by two-thirty a few more crumpled pages had hit the wastebasket. He decided that what he had written was crap, and stopped. Creatively speaking, it had been great for him at the colony; but ten straight days of working! Everyone had limits, and he might have reached his that afternoon.

  After tomorrow—after Gail was gone—he would go down to Lake Tahoe, assuming he wasn’t snowed in again. Not Sunday; he couldn’t wait that long. Thursday, or Friday at the latest. He would clear it with Walter McClain.