The Shadows Behind

by Kristi Petersen Schoonover

  Rosalia grips my hand. “Would you do anything for me?”

  The air sears my throat and lungs. Water. What am I doing up here? Why didn’t we bring water? I take a step back, but she pulls me toward her.

  “Would you?”

  We are precariously close to the edge.

  My face burns. Sulfur squeezes my lungs.

  The ground rumbles beneath our feet and my legs turn to jelly. Rosalia falls forward and over the cliff.

  “No!” I dive to the ground, scraping my chin on the jagged ledge. I manage to grasp her right wrist. My mouth is full of the foul taste of iron and dirt.

  She’s dangling over a drop into the seething pit.

  My sweaty hand is slippery. “I can’t hold you long! Give me your other hand!”

  There’s another rumble and a belch of steam from below.

  “Hurry!”

  Her fingers grope for mine, and finally, I feel her palm.

  It’s strangely cool to the touch.

  There’s a voice from nearby: “Thom! Stop! That’s not me!”

  Barely able to move, I strain my neck to look.

  Behind me, standing firmly on the smoking earth. It’s Rosalia.

  What?

  “That’s not me! Let her go!”

  No, you’re seeing things. The heat is playing tricks on you.

  I look at my hands below. Rosalia is still there. Begging me.

  The mirage screams, “That’s. Not. Me! Please, Thom!”

  “Help me!” Comes the urgent cry from beneath the crater lip. “Don’t let me die!”

  A pop from inside the basin results in a hissing column of steam.

  The mirage doesn’t stop. “Do you remember the story about the ghosts tempting you with your strongest desire? That’s what happened, Thom! They made you think you were with me!”

  There’s a flash of lightning. A clap of thunder.

  “Help me! I’m slipping!”

  I fervently face the suspended beauty at the end of my grasp: she’s real. She’s desperate and real and that thing behind you telling you to let go is a delusion. You’re overheated and breathing in fumes. You’re delirious. “I’ve got you!”

  “Let go of her!” The mirage shouts. “She’s here to take your soul! I . . . I traded you for the mountain’s deepest secret but I’ve changed my mind!”

  The Rosalia below me has sheer panic on her face. “I thought you said you loved me! Pull me up!”

  The mirage thrusts out her hand. “I’m giving it up! I’ll go work in an office, I don’t care, just come with me!”

  The tug on my arm is insistent. “Help me!”

  The mirage yells, “I’ll prove it! Do you remember the dying of the light? Do you remember that?”

  Rosalia?

  No. “Go away! You’re in my head!”

  “Do you remember when we went to Naples and I hated torta caprese?” The mirage says. “You had it planned out. Every restaurant. Every taste. And I hated it. And you were so angry!”

  Yes, yes I do . . . and I forgave her . . . Rosalia!

  Then whose hand am I holding?

  I peer into the crater.

  Orange Dress gives me a chilling smile.

  She yanks on my hands with what feels like the force of a hundred men, pitching me into the igneous pit.

  The last thing I see is Rosalia. Her hand outstretched. Her face contorted.

  Once, we wanted to see every volcano in the world.

  Not like this.

  Thirty-Seven Birds

  V era’s front stoop was littered with dead sparrows.

  She hugged her silk robe against the December bite and stood, transfixed by the desperate gazes that seemed to betray their last thoughts: Oh God I’m falling.

  Breathless, she flung shut her white colonial’s front door and braced against it.

  When they’d first moved in, Vera had seen a meteor shower, and was certain it had meant the world was ending (which, of course, it hadn’t—the only world that had ended was the one in which her new friends invited her to their parties). Six months ago, she had gone to a wedding at which the altar flowers were wilting. When she’d tried to warn the bride’s mother that this certainly was a bad omen, she had found herself escorted out before the organist had begun the prelude.

  But this time, these pathetic little thirty-seven birds on her stoop—this time she was certain it meant something. She told her husband Richard as much: “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  He chewed the ice from his emptied rocks glass. “Not really.” He headed to the bar and gave himself another generous pour. “Animals die all the time. Birds probably hit the windows. You know, glass kills, they call ’em. One’s big enough, lots of birds, it makes the news.”

  She stirred the rice she was cooking to accompany their quail a bit faster. “That’s when they fly into skyscrapers. We live in the middle of nowhere.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, gulped more scotch, and shoved a hand in his pants pocket. “Please, Vera, it’s not the end of the world and no one’s marriage is doomed. If you’re that worried, call the BOCES or the university or something. I’m sure they’ll tell you it’s exactly what I just said. Or some wacky disease brought over from God knows where.” He wandered back into the living room and turned on the television.

  Vera knew he was probably right: be rational; don’t embarrass yourself by calling in experts to tell you what you should already accept. So she didn’t call the BOCES or the university. Instead, she took a pair of tongs into the indigo dark and deposited the feather bombs into a garbage bag, which she sealed and dropped in the trash receptacle at the head of her driveway.

  ~~**~~

  Millfoil had always been a quiet little community, an enclave for 2.4 kids, ten a.m. coffee hour, and five o’clock pot roast nestled among sparkling lakes and apple orchards. It was not at all like the place in which Vera had grown up. She was used to car horns, not the hisht of falling snow. She adored the smells of spices and fresh-baked black-and-whites, not necessarily those of spring mud and chimney creosote. Her pulse quickened at the sight of neon, not at a single porch light in a five mile stretch. She was comfortable with being anonymous: not with her neighbors attending the same church, shopping the same stores, and checking books out of the library where she worked.

  But mostly, where there had been parking lots there were woods, huddles of gargantuan trees whose winter limbs seemed hungry. What was worse was that any unpredictable beast could be lurking there. Wolves or bears or owls or even creatures she couldn’t envision, ones with gnashing teeth and piercing chartreuse eyes. She much preferred the denizens of the city, because they were human—perhaps desperately poor, oppressed, strung out, or lonely, but human, with the ability to choose.

  ~~**~~

  It had snowed during the night, a light dusting. She thought they might have a white Christmas, then realized with regret the holiday was a little more than a week away and she hadn’t put out any decorations.

  More than that, there was something else having to do with Christmas, something she was supposed to do, but she couldn’t remember what. She looked at the clock—an hour before she needed to go to work.

  It was Saturday—the day the library held Story Morning, which meant that from ten to noon she essentially entertained children whose parents needed a little downtime. It was the part of her job she loved most; she had never been able to have children, which Richard hadn’t seemed to mind, but it had left her wholly unsatisfied, burdened by the constant feeling that no matter how many times she read Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears or helped them make colored paper turkeys by tracing their little hands or filled their cups with apple juice, there would always be something . . . unfinished.

  Ann, a short, dark-haired woman who always wore paisley scarves and worked behind the front desk, smiled warmly. “They’re waiting on you, Vera.”

  Vera hurried past the children’s section’s half-height water fountains and walls p
ainted with leering suns and jocular moons.

  The six-year-olds were restless. Annalisa tugged at her Barbie’s hair, Carlos and Mike whacked each other with Nerf bats, Sylvia picked at a string on her kitty applique’s eye. The other children were in various fits of giggles and yells.

  She sat in her usual chair. “I’m here now, everyone! Time to settle down!”

  A few seconds and a repeat badger later, they were quiet, all eyes attentive and blinking.

  All except Alan. “Alan, come on now, it’s time for—”

  He turned around. A trickle of blood frothed from his ear onto his Phineas and Ferb T-shirt, a splotch of red covering the blue platypus’s pursed lips. A chunk of Alan’s head was missing, the wound’s liquid glistening under the fluorescent lights.

  Vera clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream and closed her eyes. Help, get help—

  “What’s wrong, Miss Vera?”

  She took a cautious peek.

  Alan was normal.

  “Nothing. I’m . . .” she quelled the bile coming up her throat. “I’m fine.”

  The children just looked at her curiously.

  Vera took a deep breath, opened the cover of Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears, and began to read.

  ~~**~~

  Richard would be out at the country club most of the night. While she normally filled the hours with housecleaning and craft projects, she thought that after what she’d seen, she deserved an evening off. She could read a book and drink some tea.

  The only problem was she was out of her favorite. She’d have to go to the store to get it.

  Yannity’s parking lot was busy. She wedged her Volkswagen into the small space between an SUV that had overshot the white lines and a shiny Volvo wagon. Suddenly feeling drained and wondering whether or not she should go in at all (couldn’t she just make do with the hot apple cider K-Cups she had at home?) and deciding the answer was no, she climbed from the car, grabbed her bag, and trudged to the building.

  The smell of bananas, grapes, and deli meat assaulted her as she set her handbag inside a red shopping basket.

  A woman’s voice. “Hi, Vera! How are you?”

  Patty. Patty also worked in the library’s children section. But she had a bloody hole in her chest and her face was half-burned. Clear liquid ran down her neck.

  Vera’s basket hit the floor with a clack.

  “Oh my God! Are you okay?” Patty was back to her chemically tanned tennis-playing self.

  Catching her breath, she awkwardly bent to pick up the basket, tucked a loosed strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine, I’m . . . just . . . so busy this time of year, you know?”

  “I hear you,” Patty said. “I’ve barely started my shopping and now I’m hating myself that we have the Christmas party tomorrow. What are you bringing?”

  “Christmas party?”

  “Yes. At the library. For the kids and their parents.”

  Vera cursed herself. That was what she had been trying to remember this morning!

  Patty’s expression changed to concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Vera barely heard her. She was looking at the brightly colored display of pre-baked holiday cookies, a chaos of sugars and chocolates and reds and greens. “Cookies.”

  “What?”

  “Oh—cookies.” Vera smoothed her coat. “Cookies. I’m bringing cookies.”

  Patty was slow to respond. “Okay.”

  There was silence between them, nothing except the soft Muzak version of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”

  Patty smiled nervously. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  She watched Patty venture off into the produce section.

  You’re tired. You’re tired and those stupid birds just spooked you, that’s all. The hell with tea. You need something stronger.

  She paid for the cookies, drove home, and fixed herself a scotch on the rocks.

  ~~**~~

  When she awoke, daylight was at the window. The bottle of scotch, on the coffee table, was empty, alongside a crusty bowl; she couldn’t remember eating at all, let alone what.

  Her head throbbed, and she sat up. There was a note on the table. We missed church, but didn’t want to wake you. Went to the gym, see you later. – R.

  She vaguely recalled now: Richard had come in, kissed her on the forehead, and turned out the living room light.

  What the hell time was it? She looked at the clock; it was past noon. She went into the kitchen and saw the package of cookies. The party was today, in an hour. Half the kids in town would be there. See, yesterday is over. It’s time for you to get up, go to the library, and do your job.

  She went into the kitchen, popped a Donut Shop K-Cup into the Keurig, waited the minute for the machine to heat up and another to brew. When it was done, she took the mug into the bathroom and set it on the marble vanity.

  Just after she turned on the shower, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  She was bleeding. Badly. Blood burbled down her chin, her hair was matted in it, and her ear . . . her right ear was missing—

  —she jumped and nearly fell into the shower, popping the curtain from its hooks on the way down. Coolish water stung her eyes.

  She touched herself. Her hair, her ear . . . her ear was still there.

  She clambered to her feet. It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing. Open your eyes and look in that mirror.

  She was fine. Her chin was clean, her ears were intact, and her hair was only wet.

  Doctor. You’re calling a doctor, and you’re doing it right now.

  Today was Sunday. She’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  Her back ached and her right arm throbbed. That’s it, you’re not going to work today. To hell with the party. You’re going to lie down, take some aspirin, and get some rest.

  She turned off the shower, shrugged back into her robe, grabbed her coffee, and went to call the library to tell them she wouldn’t be in.

  ~~**~~

  It was just past three. Vera stared at the ceiling and listened to the sounds around her, nothing but ticking clocks, out of sync with each other, tich-tach, tich-tach. And something else—a distant beep.

  Her cell phone.

  She climbed out of bed and went to her purse. Six missed calls. All from Richard.

  She frowned and dialed his number. “Richard?”

  He was panting, nerve-wracked, wavering. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you. You’re alive? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

  “Richard, what’s the matter?”

  “I’m outside. I’m outside but they won’t let us near the building.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re okay, though, right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  There was a long silence. In the background, she could hear a distant siren, men yelling.

  “Richard, what the hell is going on?”

  “You’re not at the library?”

  “No, I didn’t go in today, I felt . . . oh, baby there’s something I need to tell you about, something awful and I have to go to the doctor . . .”

  “There was a shooting. At the library. Some guy burst in and just—shot everybody up—they don’t know how many are dead yet, but little kids, maybe, these guys down here are saying—there’s just ambulances and cops and reporters and . . .”

  The news hit her full in the stomach. She staggered backward, stopping only when she hit the half-wall between their kitchen and dining room.

  “Are you there?” He was moving; running, it sounded like.

  “I’m here, I—”

  She could hear clearly that he was crying. “God, it’s so awful. Fucking animal. What the hell makes somebody do that? What?”

  She swallowed, and when she spoke her voice was nary a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  “Lock the door,” he said. “Lock the door. I’m ri
ght around the corner. I’m coming home. Right now.”

  Dead air.

  Her robe flew open as she rushed to the television and turned it on to the absurd scene of cartoon elves cavorting around a Christmas tree. News. She needed news. CNN. The ticker on the bottom of the screen: Breaking Story: Shooting At Millfoil, CT Library. Source: Thirty-Six Suspected Dead.

  She sank to her knees in front of the television. Thirty-six. Thirty-six people. In her mind flashed the gory images she’d seen: little Alan would have been there today. Patty would have been there today. And she . . . those birds—those birds had meant something . . .

  There was a sound at the front door.

  “Richard?”

  No answer.

  “Richard, is that you?”

  She climbed to her feet, toed to the door, and listened.

  “Richard?” She set her hand on the knob.

  You were supposed to be thirty-seven.

  HOURGLASS

  I was on page 298 in Clive Cussler’s Raise the Titanic! when the first kid in our neighborhood disappeared.

  It was Vinny Dolorosa from number thirty-eight across the street. He was, basically, the neighborhood bully: on Halloween, he’d swipe your plastic pumpkin and brain you with his full pillowcase. You weren’t exactly safe the rest of the year, either. If he decided you annoyed him, he’d take off his belt, which had a big western buckle, and use that instead. Not that he ever beat up on me or my six-year-old sister Kimmie; we were girls. But he loved to call me Dent-face Denise.

  The half-mile walk up the hill to the bus stop was too much for his chunk, so he’d take a shortcut up our driveway to the cave path. He wasn’t allowed in our sandbox, but nobody in our neighborhood didn’t know about it. It was a kingdom of riches. Dad had gone out of his way to fill it with bones, shells, shark teeth and other treasures—probably things he’d pilfered from his office; he was a geologist for the state—and sometimes, we even found nickels and the occasional dime.

  Not that there weren’t plenty of popular hangouts; it was the seventies. The swing set at the bus stop, the caves in the woods where Vinny and the older boys stashed their Playboys, and a stream that was a fine choice when you were too lazy to walk to the lake. But a day at the sandbox was a day that a kid could strike it rich, and everyone came; even, sometimes, when we weren’t home. Twice a year, on Easter and Halloween, Mom and Dad made sure there were some treats—candy buttons, chocolate cigarettes, wax bottles—hidden too. Sometimes I swore I saw Vinny out there at night, rummaging.