The Fog

by Dennis Etchison

  “Did you order the candles?” said the blond-haired woman. “What a thought! A candlelight procession with no candles.”

  “Sure,” said Elizabeth. “That will be fine.”

  “All taken care of,” said the curly-haired girl. “Did you get the promotional material over to Stevie at the lighthouse?”

  “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “You may be a very annoying person, Sandy, but you’re an excellent assistant. I want you to know that. What did you think of the statue?”

  “A work of art.”

  “Sandy, just be civil to me for another five hours, that’s all I ask. It’s my project and if it falls apart, it’s my ass.”

  “Anything you say, Mrs. Williams.”

  Elizabeth got a better look at the oversized aquarium behind the bar. A model of a diver hung suspended by an air line over a little plastic treasure chest. Every time the diver leaned forward, a stream of bubbles was released from under the lid, striking his face mask and knocking him upright again. Then she noticed an insane-looking eel lurking behind a lava rock, its beady eyes reflecting the ultraviolet light, which turned them a skin-crawling orange. Lovely, she thought sarcastically. That really whets the old appetite.

  “If I can just get through the speeches without yawning. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “Too excited?” said Sandy.

  “No. My husband went out on his boat yesterday and didn’t come home. He still isn’t back. And, on top of that, at twelve o’clock on the nose my dog started barking and didn’t stop until six this morning.”

  “I heard the church bells at midnight,” said Sandy, “started to drift off to sleep, and all of a sudden my next door neighbor’s car alarm went off for absolutely no reason. How about that?”

  “Last night?”

  “Uh-huh. Woke up the whole block. This town sits around for a hundred years and nothing happens. Then one night the whole place falls apart.”

  “Please, Sandy. The more you go on like that, the more hysterical I get. I’ve got to talk Reverend Malone into giving the benediction tonight. Life is hard enough.”

  “What was he barking at?”

  “My dog? Nothing. He was barking at nothing. That’s the thing.”

  “You may not see it,” said Sandy, “but it’s always something.”

  “He was facing the ocean and growling. What does that tell you? My dog goes crazy and decides to bark at the ocean.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sandy, do you know something?”

  “What?”

  “You’re the only person I know who can make ‘yes ma’am’ sound like ‘screw you’!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The drinks arrived and the waitress set them out on napkins shaped like ships’ wheels. “Here you go, Mrs. Williams. Any word yet on your husband?”

  “No, thank you, dear. We haven’t heard anything, but Al will probably be waiting for me when I get home. Why, he wouldn’t miss the celebration, would he?”

  Mrs. Williams. It dawned on Elizabeth, and she was amazed at herself for not getting it sooner. Al Williams, the captain of the Sea Grass, Nick’s friend.

  That means she hasn’t been told. Or if she has, they still don’t know what happened to the other two. The Coast Guard knows about it. I heard Nick and Ashcroft talking to them over the radio on the way back. Nick, she thought. Nick. He’s so sure of himself.

  But he can handle it, whatever it is, whatever’s out there and did that and—the other things. Can’t he? He thinks he can. Or is he afraid to say that he needs somebody now? That he needs a friend.

  And you, girl, what are you so afraid of?

  There’s no easy answer to that one. You always run away before you can find out. Michael tried to tell you that last week. You can run but you can’t hide. But you wouldn’t listen. And now it’s too late to go back. It’s too late to go back to San Diego. But . . .

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you know . . . ?”

  “One sandwich and a club soda,” said the waitress.

  Sandy and Mrs. Williams were looking at Elizabeth.

  I can’t tell her, she thought. I have no right. She’ll find out soon enough, when we’ve got the whole story.

  “Yes?” said Mrs. Williams.

  Elizabeth smelled something foul that almost made her stomach do flipflops again. She blinked at the sandwich. It was long and gray and reeking, and the fumes coming off it sliced her nostrils like formaldehyde.

  “Uh,” she said. “I was wondering if you could tell me what time it is, please. I have to meet someone.”

  “Four-fifteen,” said the waitress.

  “Sorry to bother you,” said Elizabeth to the women in the booth. Then, “What is this?” she said to the waitress. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Life lays it down in front of you, and you have to learn to pick it up. And eat it. That’s the way of the world. Whatever it is, I’d better eat it, I need something in my system.

  “One Mahi-Mahi Melt,” said the waitress, “specialty of the house. Enjoy.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The tires of the Cadillac Seville lurched over sinkholes and pieces of quartz the size of small animal skulls, squealing and complaining all the way. They finally braked in the dust at the dead-end of a winding, tortuous dirt road.

  The car bucked and misfired, settling to a stop in front of an overgrown cemetery. A cloud of steam sizzled from the grille and draped briefly over the windshield before slinking away through the tall grass and mangled links of a corroded hurricane fence. Inside the car Kathy Williams peeped out from under tinted glass, her face an anxious mask. Her suit was wrinkled, her mascara was smudged, and in the oppressive humidity, despite the air conditioner, one of her eyelashes was coming unglued.

  “This place always gives me the creeps,” she said. “I swear, I’ll never get used to it as long as I live.”

  “You can say that again, Mrs. Williams.”

  “No, thank you. Look at this place. Make a note, Sandy.”

  “Is that a man standing there?”

  “Where?” Kathy strained toward the windshield, then sat back against the headrest and performed one quick round of her chin exercises. “That’s only a sunflower, Sandy. Are you trying particularly to give me a coronary today?”

  “I never saw one that big.”

  “They grow that way here, dear. It’s something to do with the soil.” She pointed in the direction of a wild patch of dandelions and Scotch broom among the crumbling monuments. “No one ever tends the grounds. Reverend Malone claims he doesn’t have the time. Take this down, Sandy. I’m announcing it now. This is my next project, the restoration of the cemetery. Our ancestors are buried here. It’s historical.”

  “Got it. Mrs. Williams, it’s four forty-five. We still have to drive Mr. Malone—”

  “Reverend Malone.”

  “Reverend Malone, back to town, drop you off at the house to change, pick up the mayor and his wife and—”

  “We’ll have to get one of the JayCees to handle the mayor. If his wife’s not ready, tell them to leave her. You can call from inside.” She opened the door.

  “This town should be proud of its past. But trying to get people involved in any sort of community activity is like pulling teeth. Get me an estimate ready for the council meeting next month.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They hurried up the irregular path. Weeds rooted between the bricks had crept through the blackened rosebushes and up the front of the church to overspread the ivy like cobwebbing. The church looked none too sturdy, as if the withered tendrils hugging its pitted sides were all that kept it standing. A new crack had opened beneath the window and a nest of spiders had already taken up residence within the musty gap.

  “If you could say a quick prayer that he not be in his cups today,” said Kathy, mounting the worn steps.

  She rapped with the brass knocker. There was no. a
nswer. She tried again.

  The pressure of her hand jarred the door, swinging it inward on darkness.

  “Not a good sign,” said Sandy.

  “You had to say that, didn’t you?”

  The interior of the sanctuary smelled of mildew and burned candles. Kathy knocked again in the hallway.

  “Hello?”

  Sandy dragged her feet noisily.

  “Wait,” said Kathy. “I think I hear him. Reverend? Reverend Malone?”

  “. . . Ma-lone . . . lone . . . lone,” came the echo.

  “I suggest we get going,” said Sandy. “Mrs. Williams, it’s late.”

  “Nonsense.” Kathy forged ahead, leading the way briskly past the vestry. “Hello?”

  “. . . o . . . hell-o . . . hell-o.”

  She approached the altar. As she moved, the dark wood trim appeared to undulate with the last golden reflections of the massive cross that leaned toward her from the rock-ribbed wall. She knocked again, and a fine stream of sand fell from the ceiling and filtered over her knuckles and hair.

  “Another bad sign,” said Sandy. “Do you mind if I wait in the car?”

  “The telephone, Sandy, remember? Try the office. Call Bernie. Wait, I’ll come with you. That must be where Reverend Malone is hiding.”

  “That’s a good idea, Mrs. Williams. I would have thought of it myself, if it had occurred to me.”

  A looming figure withdrew from the pillar near Kathy.

  “Mrs. Williams!”

  “Jesus!” she screamed, dropping her purse. “Oh! I’m sorry, Reverend Malone. I didn’t see you standing there. Are—are you all right?”

  He moved in front of her, blocking the way.

  “We’ve come to offer you a ride into town. For the ceremony. I know you said you weren’t sure you could make it, but I thought—”

  “Ceremony?”

  “Yes, the benediction, remember? The Antonio Bay Centennial? Surely you—”

  “The benediction,” he said. His throat quivered but his lips remained still. “You want me to give the benediction?” The voice came from way back in his throat.

  “Of course. Who else? If you’d care to change, wash up, perhaps, then—”

  “Mrs. Williams,” said Sandy, “it’s awfully late.”

  “Yes, Sandy, it certainly is, isn’t it? What time is it getting to be, anyway? My Lord—excuse me again, Reverend. But with the traffic this time of day, there really may not be time, you know, to—”

  “How fortunate, Mrs. Williams, that you came here first.” He described a beckoning half circle in the air, hooking one finger. “Come with me.”

  Behind his back, Kathy mouthed for help. She tipped her thumb to her lips, making a drinking motion. But Sandy was having trouble taking her eyes away from Reverend Malone’s ravaged face.

  “Thank you, anyway, Reverend. On second thought it is getting rather late, and the others will be waiting. Is it really that late, Sandy? Oh, my goodness.”

  “This way,” said Malone in a rasping voice. “I have something to show you. You may want to change your plans.”

  “No, really, Reverend. We’ll go on ahead. I can see—”

  His eyes bored out of the shadows as if illuminated by a cold, pitiless fire.

  “You must understand, Mrs. Williams. It’s important that you do.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand, Reverend. I can see you’re, well, not feeling up to par. The pressures this town has been under these last few days . . . I’m going to call Dr. Thayden and have him come over. You’re like me. You’ve been taking this all too seriously.”

  “But of course you don’t understand yet. How could you?”

  “Understand what? It’s a historical tradition. One hundred years ago today . . .”

  “We are cursed, Mrs. Williams. Every last one of us. Our lives are founded on a lie. My grandfather tried to hide his sins in the walls, but it would not hold. And now the evil returns. It is written. Can you understand this much? We are all damned.”

  Stevie drove via the coastal route, the top down, grateful for the chance to soak up the last of the day’s warming rays.

  She saw that the tan hills had come alive again with a riot of wildflowers and viridescent grasses that stretched to the edges of the sea cliffs, waving in the breeze like the fields of a brilliant undersea harvest. The breeze strafed the languid surface of the ocean, plating it with a billion sparkling coins.

  It was her favorite time of year, the season when seeds scattered on the winds, breathing life once more into the rainswept northern California coast. She had another hour left till broadcast time, and it was well worth it to her to take the long way around to Spivey Point. The air made her feel alert in a way no dirty Chicago winds had ever done. Which was one of the main reasons, she realized again, that she had chosen to stay here, for better or worse. Never to go back, she thought. Let the dead bury the dead and remain there with them in that dying, polluted necropolis.

  She poked in the glove compartment for her sunglasses. Her fingers clattered the ad cassettes she had hidden there. She found the glasses, put them on, lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter, and gave in. Face it, she told herself; money is money. Gee, that’s profound. How come I never thought of it that way before?

  She chucked the first reel into the tape recorder on the seat next to her and depressed the PLAY button. It’s depressing me, she thought, waiting for the leader to run out. But so what? That’s the price you’ll have to pay, Stevie, for a whole new life in the far, far West. Play or pay.

  A chorus of small-mouthed blonds sang into the wind:

  It’s one hun-dred years a-go to-day,

  So please now don’t you go a-way

  Un-til you take the time to say,

  “Hap-py Birth-day,

  An-to-ni-o Bay!”

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY FROM

  THRIFTIWAY CLEANERS!

  “Oh, brother,” she said. With friends like that . . . Small mouths, bad taste. I Have No Voice and I Must Sing. Wasn’t that the name of a book Andy had been reading? It should be, she thought, it should be.

  She considered playing the tape that had arrived in the mail today from Chicago, just to take the bad taste out of her ears, so to speak, but decided there would be plenty of time for legal talk once she got to the station.

  The rest of the way was free and clear with no off-road vehicles in sight. In her rearview mirror she saw a silver Cadillac whiz by in the opposite direction on the main highway above. As she approached the Point, she passed a burned-out campfire site but no people, thank God, only the usual remains of pop-tops, empty cigarette packs, and crumbled potato chip bags mixed in with the ashes. A small animal, a badger or a weasel, dashed across the access road and froze at the sight of her orange VW bearing down, so that she had to take her foot off the accelerator and downshift after the curve. It came to life at the last second and dashed for safety in the shadows of the chick-weed, its eyes glazed saucers in the flat light. She arrived at the lighthouse with time to spare, started to roll up her window and secure the top, in case that unscheduled fog bank decided to pay a visit to the mainland, but decided to leave the car as it was. Unlikely, to say the least. And vandals? Who ever came this far out onto the Point? Besides, canvas and vinyl wouldn’t keep out anyone who was determined, especially if they had so much as a penknife with them.

  She gathered up the tapes, stuffed them with the recorder into her tote bag, grabbed the keys and some extra cigarettes, and headed for work. She unlatched the gate and started downhill.

  The lighthouse thrust into the sky before her, a whitewashed mushroom anchored on the rocks at the end of a long, graded walkway built over the boulders. A hundred-and-thirty-nine steps down, she knew; she had counted them often enough. An invisible salt spray had slicked the handrail; it dripped at each jointed segment with bright, sparkling droplets that drilled infinitesimal target craters into the sand below. She hooked her hair behind her ears and raised her face to the sinking sun.<
br />
  She was halfway there when, suddenly, a drumming she could even feel sounded under the ramp. She nearly dropped her bag over the side.

  The metal platform sent vibrations through her body and left her motionless. White gulls perched underneath her were startled into flight, wheeled upward, and circled, cawing. They flew low, eying her. She watched them glide gracefully and alight farther down on the rocks, above the skittering sandpipers.

  She shook herself back to the here and now.

  Twelve minutes to go.

  No time to stand and dream. She unshouldered her bag, lifted out the portable tape player and inserted the cassette letter from her lawyer.

  “Hi, Stevie, and greetings from Chicago! Katherine and the kids send their love to you and Andy. One of these days you’re going to have to get an answering service, so at least I can reach you without having to call on my dinner hour . . .”

  She smiled at the friendly immediacy of his voice. It made her forget the odd tramping outside. She did not know her lawyer that well, really—they had met when she needed help with Marty’s will. He had remained solicitous and protective—and yet he spoke to her with an unforced intimacy that put her at ease and reassured her that she had a friend across the continent who was actively concerned with her welfare. It seemed appropriate that they communicate by tape and phone most of the time, with hardly a written word between them except for forms that required her signature. It felt right, she thought, unlocking the door to the lighthouse. Well, he should sound friendly, she thought; I pay him well enough, don’t I?

  “Did KAB get the news that we had a big storm here last week? Here it is the middle of April and it’s snowing. Guess you didn’t make such a mistake, after all . . .”

  She keyed the door shut behind her and stepped around the mop and pail and ladder to the spiral stairwell, smelling the same old odors of mold and rust mixed with the fresh paint. She gazed up at the beams of sunlight made visible in the dust she had disturbed by her entrance, knowing that nothing would be changed upstairs, either. And yet, childishly perhaps, she always hoped. A big present on my console, a box of chocolates tied with a pink ribbon. Or a new chair to save my poor back.