Music from somewhere. Loud music from somewhere in house. I nearly fall over. It’s not religious music. I stagger back in to the hall. I am being driven mad. I close my eyes and try to wake up somewhere else. In the cornfield. I’ve fallen asleep covered with husks. I am dreaming. I open my eyes and see myself in a mirror in the hall. Someone is playing music upstairs. No. I close my eyes. I have fallen asleep behind the cash. No woman at the lights. Who kills people for no reason? Not me. Ever. No woman in a van. No cop. No family. I have never and would never kill a soul. In fact, in fact, I am someone you might go to if this were happening. I’m a comfort. I am a comfort! The music is loud. What is scaring me is that whoever is playing the music doesn’t even care that I can hear them. Somebody has dragged a body upstairs and is blaring music waiting for me. I have walked into somebody else’s trap now. This has been somebody else’s trap all along. My minds are tumbling, hitting each other. It is not me that is crazy. It isn’t me. Clearly the entirety of everything has flipped out of its hinges or some person, some lone soul, has led me to this point. I have to find out. I have to face this down.
Wind whips down the stairs from the broken window in the kitchen up there. I breathe it deeply as I ascend. Breathing will make me stronger. The music is coming from the other end of the squat hallway that comes off the apartment. There’s a door. I walk up and stand inches away. I put my hand on the cheap gessoed wood. The bass bumps across my thumb. This is my house. I make a fist and bang the door.
The music gets louder.
I bang again and feel an anger rising.
The music gets louder. The sound is blown out.
“Turn that off!”
I can hear my voice. It is clear and strong but overpowered.
“Come out here now!”
I beat the door. I kick the door.
“This is my house!”
I realize as I say it that it’s not true, but the thought that it could be anyone else’s house fills me with real rage.
And then the music stops. I’m about to punch the door and the sound stops. There is a ringing that dies down and then it is completely silent.
“Thank you.”
I put my hand over the doorknob.
“I’m coming in now.”
The door is locked. I kick the base of the door four times in rapid succession.
“Come out of there! Come out of there!” I am going to lose control so I step back into the hall, into the breeze from the broken window. I breathe in and out and soon I am calm again. At least I have located the person. In fact, I have them in a cage. I have no idea who they are or why they’ve done this but it is them trapped in there not me. I have to stay in control.
I walk around the outside of the house looking for a window to the room up there. It sits to the south off the hallway leading off the kitchen. I haven’t been there yet. To the front of the house. The driveway. A garage. Yeah, that’s right. Takes you five days to locate the getaway car. Anyway, it’s too late for that now. I back up in the driveway and scan the roof. There’s a small window, a dormer window. I don’t think you could climb out of there. It’s very narrow. Nobody could get through there. This person is trapped. I have to get back and guard the stairs. I find a long metal bar sitting upright in a pile of loose rocks. I will wait out this madman and I will brain him at the bottom of the stairs.
18
I don’t dream while I sleep at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t let go of my iron bar. I roll to the side and spend the night snoring into the baseboards. I sleep and I sleep and I sleep. It is the first real sleep I have had in days and nights. It feels as if some merciful hand has laid me down and pushed the world aside so I could sleep. I wake slowly. The bar is against my face on the floor and I smell iron as I blink. I come up on my elbow and am looking at an exposed outlet. There is a dead mouse in the back of the housing. I sit up quickly. Toast. I smell toast. I hold the bar up. There are wet footprints coming down the stairs leading to the kitchen.
In the kitchen the bread sits on the table. The butter and a knife. There is a dish in the sink. I turn and run up the stairs. The door is open and I enter with my weapon up high. Nobody. It’s a teenage girl’s room. Another door is open behind the bed. A bathroom. I ferret my way to the door and lean in. The shower stall is steamed up. There is a damp towel on the floor.
The phone is ringing. It rings four times and stops. There is a phone up here somewhere. It rings again. He’s calling me. This son of bitch has managed to get out of the house and is calling to taunt me.
I pick up the phone and say nothing.
“Hello?”
I listen. Not a crazy voice.
“Hello?”
I answer.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lerner?”
I turn and back into the wall. This isn’t going to be what I thought.
“Uh. Yes.”
I cough, correcting my voice a little.
“Mr. Lerner. Good morning. It’s Charlie Baker from DSS. I’m Patty’s art teacher. We’ve never spoken.”
“Good morning, Mr. Baker. Yes. Is there a problem?”
I try to think of why she’s not in school. Keep it simple. She has the flu. We all do. The doctor said to just hole up in the house till everyone’s in the clear.
“Well, Mr. . . . Jeffrey, can I call you Jeffrey?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“I have Patty here right now and it appears she might have fallen down or something on her way to school. She has a nasty cut above her nose and, well, it’s quite a gash.”
I feel the phone slipping. I have to turn into the wall to keep it in my hand.
“Anyway, yeah, she seems a little worse for wear, sir. I think she needs to see a doctor right away. In fact, I almost called an ambulance when I first saw her.”
I mouth a word but still feel like I might fall down.
“But she’s otherwise okay. A little out of it but you know teenagers. So, we’re just going to send her on home, I think. For the day. But, like I say, you might want to get her looked at.”
I have slid down the wall to the floor.
“Will you or your wife be at home?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks, Jeffrey. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Okay. I’m sure, too. Thanks. Bye.”
19
First things first. I stand at the door in the kitchen leading out back. I am not looking out yet. I don’t really expect to see them all standing up in the compost but I have to eliminate the possibility. Mr. Baker has put a whole new stamp on this. I do not yet know what I’m dealing with but it isn’t pictures on the roof of my skull. I turn and open the door.
Vultures. There are a dozen massive black vultures on the mound. They hear me and roll their tiny crimson faces to me. Their wings reach up all across the yard like an army waving black death flags. Vultures. Their feet are deep in faces and ribs and pelvises. They are not scared. They are many. I hear a low growl and look down. Maggots roil around on every surface; in fact, they are a surface. A shivering skin of dazzling detail that moves across everything. And the shadow of a dog. Two dogs. More. I see them lunging just before I close the door. The beasts hurl their weight and the door heaves in. I push back but it doesn’t close. A set of sharp grinning teeth poking out from under the door. Then other mouths stab in along the door’s edge. I push hard and the growls deepen. I feel weight against the door. Some of these dogs must be as heavy as men. I cannot hold them. I launch myself and dive to the door beside the fridge. The dogs don’t follow immediately, a bit stunned at falling so suddenly into the room. I make it though and manage to close the door before they assault it. I run to the basement and find the hammer. There’s a small workbench screwed to the wall with cans of nails on it. I pull books from a shelf, Bibles and heavy volumes of accounting texts. The planks from the shelf are thick and dense. I nail them in with the longest spikes I can find. One across each corner of the door. All this time
the dogs are exploding, tearing the kitchen apart and slamming into the door. I check the front door to make sure it’s closed and I return to the basement to check that it too is secure. There is a sizable part of hell outside trying to get in. I go to the kitchen upstairs and stand in the shattered window above the collapsed section of roof.
The vultures are mingling on the mound and give the appearance of a single black creature. Occasionally a pink head snaps up to swallow organ meat in a single repulsive spasm. From here I can’t see the maggots moving but I know they are there. The ground that looks still from up here is actually marching across itself with a billion pumping bodies. The first dog comes out and makes a short run at the vultures. Broad black wings shoot up and form a wall decorated obscenely with pinkish-purple heads. The dog backs down, but another appears. And another. Soon all of the dogs, maybe eight or ten of them, form a line facing the birds. The vultures seem to know how to share death and they drift off the top of the mound, letting the dogs in.
I return to the now peaceful main floor. It seems I am, remarkably, looking forward to Patty coming home.
20
I don’t have to wait long. I hear the front door open. I stay seated, listening, as she opens the closet door and hangs up her coat. I hear a sigh as one boot comes off. Then the other. I even hear the light pat of her stocking feet down the hall as she approaches. I try to make myself as ready as possible, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly. She sits beside me. I glance at her knees. Heavy black stockings and tartan skirt. Catholic school. She extends her feet and points her toes then swings her legs back under the settee.
“I’m sorry about the music.”
I look over. She’s pretty. About fifteen. There is a massive hole in the centre of her forehead and her eyes are encircled with heavy shades of black and deep purple. There are small delicate red spiders of burst blood vessels on her cheeks.
“That’s okay. I’m sorry I kicked your door.”
She shrugs and brings a hand up to her forehead.
“Does that hurt?”
She pushes the edge of the hole.
“No.”
I lower my head. There is no question that she is here.
“Do you want an aspirin or something?”
She shakes her hair down over her face.
“No. I’m fine. Can I just go to my room?”
I think it would be very small of me to wonder why we have roles at this point.
“Yes.”
She shifts forward and stands.
“I won’t play loud music.”
She doesn’t look at me. It seems we are shy.
“It’s okay. You do what you want.”
She leaves and heads for the stairs. I rise without thinking.
“Patty?”
She stops and turns without looking up.
“I’m sorry.”
Her head tilts and she looks out between two bands of hair.
“What I did, I mean.”
Patty sidesteps so she’s half hidden by the archway. She takes hair in her hand and pulls it across her chin.
“I know. It sucks pretty bad.” I don’t know what to say. I think I should say nothing. Patty takes a step back and turns toward the stairs.
“I don’t know what to say.” I’m at the bottom of the stairs and Patty stops halfway up. She thinks for moment then looks back.
“I miss my little brother.”
I see my fingers shaking on the banister.
“That’s all. I miss him.”
Patty looks at my hand then moves the hair from her face.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
She sighs. She wants to go.
“Patty?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know why.”
“You don’t know why what?”
“I didn’t have to. I just did it. I don’t know why.”
There. I said it. It’s true. I don’t know why.
“I’m going to go lay down now.”
I wait until I hear her door close before I move.
Night falls at around seven and I don’t get off the settee or turn any lights on until eight. I stand by the barricaded kitchen door and listen. There are animals in there rooting around and I hear the occasional screech of a vulture. They are still feeding. It occurs to me that Patty hasn’t had any dinner but I think it’s more important that she rests. I am tired too. I haven’t managed to ask myself why she’s here because I am drained and worn and beaten. I am going to sleep in a bed tonight. I am going to put my head on a pillow.
DING.
Someone is at the door.
DING.
I can’t do this now.
DING.
A bald man with round glasses dressed entirely in black. A black turtleneck.
“Hello, Mr. Lerner. Charlie Baker.”
He extends a hand and I shake it. I don’t know what I look like.
“Can I come in for a second?”
I draw the door and let him by. We stand in the alcove looking at each for a moment. I don’t think I’ll bring him right into the house. I really don’t want to kill Charlie Baker. He has a friendly face.
“Well, how is she?”
I don’t close the door completely. I want Charlie Baker to escape.
“She seems okay. She says she’s fine.”
Charlie nods. He’s heard this from her, too, but still something’s bothering him.
“It’s just, that’s a helluva . . . helluva big gash she’s got there. And she wouldn’t say how she got it. How’d she get that, Mr. Lerner?”
I widen my eyes, thinking. You need to accept what I say, Mr. Baker. Your life depends on it.
“She fell. In the morning. She was running down the basement steps and she tripped and this bar . . . a rebar caught her right between the eyebrows up here.”
I point to the spot. Charlie Baker stares hard at me for a second, then whistles.
“Well, holy shit, Mr. Lerner. Holy shit. She’s lucky she didn’t lose an eye. Or worse.”
I nod repeatedly.
“Yes. Oh. She scared me pretty good.”
“But she’s okay now?”
“Seems to be.”
“You don’t think she needs to see a doctor?”
I make a parent face. Weighing the practicals.
“I think it looks a lot worse than it is.”
Charlie Baker gives me another study. It still bothers him.
“Patty told us your wife took the other kids to the States for a couple weeks. Relatives?”
“Uh. Yeah. My sister.”
Charlie moves sideways. He’s going to leave soon.
“Okay. That’s fine, but in the future could you give us a little heads-up when you plan to pull the kids from school for that long? We don’t mind but we like to send them off with some homework so they don’t get too behind.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry.”
Charlie Baker fixes on me again. This is almost good enough for him but still not quite. He lingers, trying to think of the question that might get the answer he’s looking for.
“Okay, Mr. Lerner. Well, tell Patty I hope she feels better.”
I match steps with him as he moves through the door.
“Will do, Mr. Baker.”
“Call me Charlie.”
“Sure, Charlie. Thanks for dropping by.”
Charlie Baker pulls a knitted black cap on top of his bald head and heads up the long dark driveway. I hear the dogs and vultures wrestling and grunting at the side of the house. This was a dangerous thing for you to do, Charlie.
21
I make breakfast in the upstairs kitchen while Patty showers. The downstairs kitchen is still a barricaded portal to hell. I got up early and mopped the floor but there’s nothing I can do about the shattered window and splintered frame. I did remove the tags of skin and flesh but there are still ruddy marks against the wall and on the sill. I hope she doesn’t look out because the birds are still
eating her family.
I set the table for two. Toast and jam, eggs and sausage. I manage coffee but can’t find any juice. When she appears I stand in front of the massive hole. I hope she can pretend it’s not there. I decide to let her speak first.
“Morning.”
“Morning, Patty. I made some breakfast.
Do you eat breakfast?”
She sits and looks at her plate.
“Looks good.”
I sit without taking my eyes off her. The
hole in her forehead isn’t closing or healing, but it isn’t festering either. Her eyes are shaded prettily in blue and purple. Bruises that haven’t changed. She pulls her long black hair back behind her shoulders.
“There’s a breeze in here.”
I reach across and pour her coffee.
“Are you cold?”
She peers in the cup and pours in sugar
straight from the bowl.
“No. I’m fine. It’s nice.” She sips her coffee and looks past me to the window.
“Something happened there.”
I turn to look as if just noticing.
“Yeah. Sorry. That’s my fault. You don’t really want to know.”
“I guess I don’t.”
She sips silently, staring out the window.
“Your eggs’ll get cold.”
It takes her a while to respond. She puts the cup down.
“She made a smell up here.”
People Live Still in Cashtown Corners Page 7