River Bones

by Mary Deal

  Their group departed ahead of her. As they passed her booth, the man turned and looked her straight in the eyes. He had short dark wavy hair and deep-set brooding eyes like blue-topaz sparklers! Their eyes locked into the kind of stare that made a connection long before words were spoken. In fact, he slowed his pace, his intensity softened, till he finally smiled and his curiously sad expression melted.

  Sara had gone back to that restaurant several times and finally saw the man leaving with a couple of other men. Her timing seemed off. On another occasion, she had walked out of the restaurant just as they walked in.

  “Hello there,” the man with the blue-topaz eyes had said.

  “Hello,” Sara said. All she could do was walk away because making an excuse to go back inside seemed contrived.

  On yet another of her jaunts to furniture shop in Sacramento, that same man walked down the street with others. While she sat at the light and wondered how they might meet, he walked into a building on the next block. As she drove past, she saw that the building housed government agencies. She wondered about the man until she realized she was quite taken with him. Or was it his love of family?

  “The next time I see him at that restaurant,” she said to Starla's name, “I'll start the conversation.” But she had not seen him in the three weeks since. She had to overcome her shyness about meeting men. Some part of her childhood programming still wanted her to believe she didn't measure up. She knew it was wrong to think that way and vowed this was another flawed aspect of her personality that she would overcome. It was never too late to change and she really did wish to find a new love one day.

  Since returning to the Delta, as she became known locally, she doubted anyone would remember her. Other than her family's deaths, that were considered just more river drowning, her life back then had been unremarkable.

  Another image that stayed with her from more than thirty years earlier was when the Sheriff had to inform her about the accident. The horrible pictures and images flashed in her mind, fresh as yesterday.

  She had stayed home alone to work on a class project. Her parents were late getting home with Starla. When they drank they were always late. Unbeknownst to her, while she sat doing homework, deputies dragged the Sacramento River with grappling hooks just a quarter mile down the levee. They found the old family sedan at the bottom lodged in silt under eighteen feet of water. Her mom and dad, still in their seatbelts, probably drowned easily, having been too intoxicated to know they had inhaled river water instead of air. The divers found scrawny little Starla floating with her eyes wide open in the air pocket inside the top of the car.

  “Little Sis,” Sara said to the headstone. “You've been my guiding star all these years.” She grabbed more twigs and withered leaves and cast them aside without caring, onto her parents' graves. Her fingertips turned red and numbed. The gigantic tree nearby was just a sapling when Sara buried her family. She sat cross-legged on the cool grass and stared at Starla's name. Patches of fog slipped in with dusk.

  “I learned something else,” she said. “We never were poor little white trash girls like they used to call us.” She wished she could talk to her sister, like they rattled and played when they were young. Memories flooded her mind and jumbled her thoughts.

  “Today's Valentine's Day.”

  Sara remembered that particular holiday as being nothing more than a popularity contest in grammar school to see who would receive the most Valentine cards from classmates. She was lucky to get one or two. Perky little Starla had been deprived of learning how popular she would have been.

  “Your name's famous now.”

  She closed her eyes and then finally opened them. “Mandy died,” she said quietly. “But you've been up there watching everything unfold, haven't you?”

  Sara felt a chill and huddled inside her jacket. The breeze whipped her hair across her face and wrapped it around her neck. When she looked up, she could no longer see the grave markers in the rows ahead through the oozing white haze.

  She remembered the fog of the California Central Valley. The scientific name was Advection Fog. Locals called it tule fog. The condition originated in the San Joaquin Valley. Rains and irrigation would saturate the agricultural area and when a cold mass of winter air invaded the wet valley, moisture in the air thickened and turned into fog. The low-lying blanket of white could cover nearly half of the state for days at a time. In bad years, patchiness in low areas could last well into spring.

  Sara gritted her teeth, remembering. Living in Puerto Rico for the last thirty years hadn't dimmed her memories. Tule fog was what surely blinded her drunken father, whose speeding car went flying off the levee road south of the town of Ryde.

  She stood, then bent over and scraped more small debris from Starla's grave onto those of her parents. She picked up a spindly dry branch from in front of her own marker and tossed it onto the rest. During a fog, it wouldn't be safe to be on the roads at night. “I'll be back,” she said.

  With that, she turned to leave and couldn't see her white SUV. She walked carefully in the direction she remembered having parked, arms outstretched to feel her way. A break in the fog came and she found she had walked past it.

  Chapter 3

  Sara drove cautiously as she made her way home. When fog blanketed the I-5 in the Central Valley, it could easily cause a multi-car pileup. At the moment, she couldn't see twelve feet ahead. She strained forward to see through the windshield, then slowed, thinking she had found the turn-off, only to realize she would have driven into a ditch.

  “The reflectors,” she said, mumbling in frustration. “Where are those…?”

  The fog separated momentarily. The faint outline of tombstones in the older, mostly abandoned, Franklin Cemetery came into view in the fading evening light. She breathed easier knowing she had turned onto the correct road.

  A light shown ahead and was being cast in different directions. She continued her crawl. Three people walked the road, laughing and jumping around on the pavement, inviting havoc into their lives should a speeder come upon them. She stopped to avoid hitting them as they cavorted in her headlight beams. She could tell they were teens. They playfully banged on the hood and peered into her passenger window, yelling like Halloween ghouls. The red flame from one of their cigarettes dragged across the side window. She accelerated and pulled away quickly.

  Something vague appeared up ahead.

  “Look out!” she said, yelling and stomping on the brakes as a man stepped onto the road a couple feet in front of her. She gave the horn a good long blast. Her SUV spun around and she felt the front tires drop off the pavement.

  The man's freakish image popped out of the shadows of the fog and headlights and then disappeared again into the gloom. Then a face popped up at the driver's side window, made ghoulish by the haze, with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, penetrating stare. Sara screamed. Her knee banged the steering wheel when she nearly jumped out of the seat. The face leaned closer.

  From out of the darkness, a young male voice yelled, “Hey! Get outta there!”

  The old man darted away carrying something with a handle, maybe a hoe or a shovel, as the fog swirled in and erased every trace of him.

  Sara remembered the sound of the tires kicking up gravel on the shoulder. “Great! Just great. Now which direction was I headed?”

  Someone pounded on the back window. She jumped again. A flashlight beam shone around. It was those teens. One appeared at the driver's side window and knocked. “Hey, you okay?” the boy called out. When she opened the window a crack, he said, “C'mon, we'll get you back on the road.” His marijuana breath floated in.

  She sighed with relief as the other teens flashed lights and stood along the right shoulder of the pavement. Carefully, the first teen told her how far to back up and then banged on the rear window to tell her to stop, then to pull forward.

  When the tires told her that she was back on the pavement, she yelled out the window, “Thank you. I'm grateful.”


  “Hey,” the boy said. His face was a lot less threatening as he came close again. “That's Crazy Ike. He gets off on digging in graveyards.”

  “And running people off the road,” Sara said. “He digs in graveyards?”

  “Yeah, he's pretty bizarre,” the boy said. The other teens came to stand behind him. “This graveyard's not used much anymore.”

  “He has a mean dog,” the girl said. “A little mangy mutt.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the other boy said as they all leaned in close. “If Crazy Ike sics him on ya, you're supposed to call the cops.”

  “People go missing out here,” the girl said. She shook her head doubtfully. “Never hear from 'em again.”

  “Nah,” the first boy said with a wave of his hand. “That's BS.” They stepped away.

  “Thanks again,” Sara said. She closed the window, waved, and started off, cautiously. Her chest heaved with a long sigh of relief. Perhaps she should have offered the teens a ride, but they were out there, evidently because they wanted to be. She didn't need to be picking up strangers, least of all, any who smoked dope. She continued to strain to see through the fog. “Perfect cover for a serial killer, if you ask me!” she said, realizing her fright was partially caused by the elusive madman newscasts.

  The fog came steadily without much clearing between one blanketing haze and the next. Sara had not wanted to be on the roads at dusk at a time like this. She had no experience driving in a fog other than being a passenger in her parent's car. Maneuvering through the blinding white that reflected back the headlights' beams was a frightening experience.

  She finally made it onto the narrow winding levee and crept along. She opened the window listening should her tires leave the pavement. She didn't wish to follow her family into the river.

  Chapter 4

  “A mile and a half to go.” She sighed wearily. She hoped never again to be on the narrow, winding levees in such a blinding situation. Her hands were clammy on the steering wheel. River roads weren't equipped with streetlights. “Danged if it isn't dark during a New Moon,” she said. Just that one night of the month, even the carefree drove cautiously. Locals who navigated the levees all their lives thought it reckless to hurry along during the dark of the moon.

  “The trees,” Sara said, straining to see along the levee. “Where are those trees?”

  Talbot House was situated about two miles north of Courtland, where Buck and Linette lived.

  “Somewhere along here.” She leaned forward over the steering wheel. The left side tires suddenly dropped off the pavement and onto the soft shoulder. Screaming, she cut the wheel to swerve back onto the asphalt, realize she had been driving in the oncoming lane. One of the first things she needed to do was install driveway access lights. She almost turned too soon. Had she done so, her SUV would have slid or rolled thirty feet down the embankment.

  “Not exactly the way I wanted to come home again.” In her fright she talked out loud. “Where are those trees?”

  As the wind momentarily cleared the fog, the stand of tall eucalyptus trees loomed over her, like foreboding shadows slithering past.

  “Another quarter mile.”

  The imposing image of Talbot House presented itself, first with its tall roof spire pointed upward out of the opaque white mist, and then darkened windows stared. Had she not already seen the house in daylight, she would have been tempted to drive away from the wretched scene and return in the morning. Sara found her driveway just beyond, on the south side of the property, turned, and headed downward off the levee. The crunch of gravel under her tires had already become synonymous with being home. She listened, relished the sound, and felt relief. Finally, she pulled into the garage.

  The house was built on an elevated earthen pad that sat below the height of the levee but higher than the level of the surrounding fields. It sat back far enough from the levee to showcase an expansive front lawn. She had plans to build a gazebo beside the flagpole under the tall old Pin Oak shade trees. The remainder of the five-acre estate spread south around the garage and east beyond the rear yard. Sara wasn't sure what to do with the empty field. When she described the place to Daphine on the telephone, Daphine had suggested she plant a garden.

  “The Delta's loaded with fresh produce,” Sara had said. “That's what the Delta's all about.” She would plan something else. But first, the rock pile at the back edge by the canal needed to be cleared. The two rusting cattle troughs for holding the salt lick and water would be removed. They were the last evidence of Orson Talbot's use of the property to raise a few heads of beef cattle.

  Thoughts of renovating the old house filled Sara with happy anticipation. She burned a lot of incense to rid the place of its stagnant, tired smell. Remodeling was expected to take months, but for her, it couldn't happen fast enough. She liked the name Talbot House and wondered if she should let it stand. What mattered was that she had her river mansion. Having grown up in a rental cottage in shambles, where the roof leaked and the walls actually groaned with the wind, forced her into dreaming impossible dreams. She clung to those dreams and didn't mind that this house was not a true historic property. She now owned an 1896 Queen Anne Victorian style mansion that deserved a better fate than to stand neglected despite rumors of an alleged resident of the supernatural variety.

  “So much for driving in the fog.” She intended that time to be her last.

  She grabbed the flashlight from the car door pocket. She made her way through the empty workshop situated between the garage and the steps to the back door off the porch and kitchen. It was a good night to stay home. She had plenty of work to do. The company that bought the computer programs she created provided the funds to purchase Talbot House. Now they sent requests to learn her progress on the second half of their deal. She had a year to complete two more programs but might have been crazy for relocating across the country from the Caribbean to remodel a home while completing the contract.

  On the steps, the monstrous house with its full basement and attic, and many gables and windows like darkened eyes, loomed above her. She felt dwarfed and wondered if she should have stayed longer with Buck and Linette. Maybe she should have made the Victorian more livable instead of moving in as soon as escrow closed.

  After hearing all the rumors about the house, the first thing Sara did before moving in was to re-key the locks. Waking from her first night in the house and hearing questionable noises, the next morning she searched to find what made the intermittent rustling sounds that kept her awake. She stood in the back yard and watched the winter winds whisk dried leaves and twigs up under the eaves. The Delta was rural, with trees and shrubs plentiful. Small branches were easily buoyed along by brisk seasonal wind gusts.

  Most of the house noises were repetitive and became familiar. Occasionally, she heard hard thumps in the middle of the night and was unable to find the source. One tree sat too close to the north wall. In its present state of neglected over-growth, the wind might be knocking the branches against a gable, but trees didn't make the sound of footsteps.

  Chapter 5

  The Asian Festival took place on the first Saturday in March. It would be the first in a string of celebrations throughout the year as Delta residents paid tribute to themselves and their heritage. Sara never had a chance to attend festivities in her younger years, but that was about to change.

  Heavy equipment dropped the last concrete roadblock into place where Isleton's Main Street intersected H Street. The sign on the equipment said Eldon's Crane and Rigging. Sara smiled and tried to get a look at the operator. She wondered if he might be the same Eldon she knew in school. She could be mingling among former acquaintances and not recognizing them. She wouldn't hide, but didn't wish to be seen earlier than planned. She wanted to save what surprise she could for the class reunion. Daphine had said gossiping was the same as it had always been. Out of control. So word that she had returned might get around anyway.

  Seeing old classmates meant a lot. She wanted them to know s
he had transcended her downtrodden youthful image. She had also grown an inch taller since graduation. Actually, she had nothing to prove. She came back to carry out a life-long dream of owning a Victorian along the Sacramento River. Still, she had a great surprise in store.

  Isleton's streets and lanes were narrow and crowded. Tall trees shaded every yard. The closeness enhanced the town's ambiance. Sara found Daphine's house number and parked under the spreading arms of a couple of old maples.

  Daphine came outside to greet her and, not wearing a sweater, wrapped her arms around herself in the chill. “Like a lot of homes in this town,” she said. “This rental's been refurbished.” She seemed self-conscious about her house. Overall, she seemed happy, but hidden in her more revealing moments of conversation was the fact that she struggled to support her life style. Daphine had moved to Isleton after her divorce and rented the house next door to where the movie actor, Pat Morita, grew up. The Morita home melded in on the block with no signs or markers to show that a famous actor once lived there.

  “Spring fever's hit me,” Sara said.

  Daphine's house was full of art canvasses, supplies, and easels too numerous to count. It looked like she had some exceptional pieces of furniture underneath it all. The house was clean, just cluttered. A tiny crowded corner of the living room near the window looked to be where she did her painting.

  “Got lots of these in garage sales,” Daphine said, motioning to half a dozen easels standing in a corner. “Just when I think I shouldn't buy another, I end up seeing a bargain.”

  “Surely, you spend most of your time at your store,” Sara said, teasing and alluding to the crowded space. They felt instantly comfortable with each other, as before when they were teens. The larger bedroom was glutted with storage articles and didn't invite entry.