Faces in the Night

by Thomas Conuel

  “I don’t mind telling you I was scared that day,” he had said, “scared that it was finally my turn. So scared that when I got in my plane that day, I think I just willed that tire to blow out. You say to yourself it’s all bullshit. There’s no node of death about. Nobody up there is counting or gives an owl’s hoot. And that’s fucking presuming there is even somebody up there to count or give a hoot. It’s your imagination doing overtime. Pure coincidence. There is no more reason to be afraid to fly today than last month. You tell yourself that, but you know you’re just bullshitting yourself. You know in your heart of hearts that there is something out there—something that neither you nor anybody else can really explain, but you know enough to be scared.”

  * * *

  Chapter 63

  Lester Carlson had known that feeling also—the feeling that the node of death was waiting here and now. It had descended on him before Emily died.

  She had been sick on and off for almost a year—kidney stones followed by a small lump in the breast that turned out to be breast cancer, but all medically treatable. And then a favorite uncle of Lester Carlson’s had died in California. He remembered feeling tense and wary after that death. A week later, his oldest friend from the State Department had crashed his small plane into a mountain while on a fishing trip to Alaska.

  The node of death was about. He could feel it—a node of three. A sense of dark expectation hung in the air. He jumped every time the telephone rang. He took to saying small prayers for the safety of his children, though he was not a religious man. And then Emily, who had been doing well after breast surgery, became very sick. He had taken her to the hospital and waited for days expecting her to get better. But she didn’t.

  When the doctors told him it was pancreatic cancer he felt as if a long black veil had been would tightly around his head and eyes permanently darkening his vision—his world now colored only in shades of gray and black. She would not be leaving the hospital alive. He knew that.

  The node of death had hovered at his shoulder while he called their children to the hospital. They had come—his son the environmentalist and Maria, the budding singer, and the three of them stood by Emily’s bed. She was so sick by that point she could barely speak. They had hovered day after day for four days, all of them tense and expectant and waiting for something to happen.

  And then one night at home he woke around midnight with a feeling of great relief and great sadness. The node of death was gone. The phone rang an hour later and Lester Carlson had known before he even picked up the receiver that it was the hospital calling to tell him that Emily had died.

  Lester Carlson recalled all this as he walked about Belton. The morning was no longer young and the commuters hurrying to work in Amherst and Northampton had whizzed by an hour ago when he emerged from the cemetery after spotting the Elijah Durman headstone with the strange cross and glimmering blue stone.

  A light rain began to fall. Rain never bothered him. “Your skin is waterproof,” his father always said. Lester Carlson smiled at the memory. He moved under a clump of old maples where several wooden benches placed by the town looked inviting. He wanted now to sit under the trees and watch the rain and ponder the strange coincidence of Elijah Durman’s grave being almost in his backyard.

  “Hey there, good to see you.” A large heavyset man loomed in front of the park bench. Lester Carlson was momentarily startled. The man was vaguely familiar though. He saved Lester Carlson the embarrassment of asking his name by introducing himself. “Ralph Willock here. Chair of the Selectboard. Met you over at Town Hall the other day when you came to register to vote.” Willock stuck out a beefy hand and grabbed and shook Lester Carlson’s hand.

  “You remember David Scone, our Town Clerk?” Willock gestured behind him and Lester Carlson saw the small bespectacled man who had registered him as a Belton voter weeks ago. They had chatted about local history.

  “Nice to see both of you,” Lester Carlson said. ‘How’s the historical research going these days?” he said to David Scone.

  “Fine, fine. A little bit here; a little bit there and someday I’ll have enough for an article or two.”

  “Lots of old graves right here in Belton,” Lester Carlson said.

  “Yes, I noticed you earlier out walking over that way,” David Scone said. “We have a few good ones here in the old section of the cemetery, for sure.”

  “By the way,” Willock said in a casual tone of voice that sounded forced. “Town elections are coming up in the fall and David and I are both betting you run for office.”

  “What’s available?” Lester Carlson asked feigning interest.

  “Well, we got contests for Select Board and School Committee. Don’t know about Planning Board yet, do we David?”

  “Could be a nasty fight there,” David Scone said. “Planning Board, that’s a tough job. Got a lot of developers who want to get on the Board now, which is no good.”

  “And we got the old Nichewaug Inn that they want to convert to condos,” Willock added. “Not a bad idea. Help with the taxes. But all sorts of problems with asbestos in the ceiling and walls.”

  “And don’t forget the septic system for the Inn,” David Scone added.” It’s going to cost a small fortune to put one in that meets code.”

  Lester Carlson looked across the street at the cemetery. In the old days he would have had some fun bantering with these local politicians—get them worrying that he was after their jobs. But none of that mattered now. Willock was talking again.

  “All these college professors want to move into town and then throw away the key. Drawbridge mentality, that’s what the Planning Board calls it. ‘Now that I live here in my dream house I don’t want anybody else moving into town.’ All these college professors are like that. Anti-development.” Willock paused and stared pensively down the length of the Town Common as if measuring it.

  “It too small here for me,” he said. “I always figured I’d get out with no problem, but I’ve never had the opening. Always been somebody else in front of me when it came time to run for state-wide office.”

  “Well, I’m staying on the sidelines, at least for now” Lester Carlson said. “No elective office for me. I like it quiet.”

  “Well good,” Willock said. “I mean it’s good that you like it quiet. It’s quiet here, and you can always help us out by volunteering. The Board of Trustees at the library is always short a member or two.”

  Lester Carlson laughed. “I’m done with serving on boards of any kind, even the library. I just like to read now.”

  “We have all sorts of good libraries in the region here,” David Scone said.

  “I’m not much for libraries,” Willock said. “I’m a people person.”

  “Come on Ralph,” David Scone said. “Let’s let Mr. Carlson enjoy the quiet morning.”

  * * *

  Chapter 64

  Lester Carlson slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes and drove toward Amherst on Route 9. It was a familiar road--one of those roads that you travel so much it becomes a backdrop to a place. He had come to the Quabbin area in April and it was now June, three months was hardly enough time to build a memory, but Route 9 seemed to be forever shuttling him back and forth between Amherst and Belton, and between Belton and the lost Quabbin landscapes, etching itself into his life.

  He was nervous and tense. The long calm interlude of the past weeks when he had wandered through Quabbin had ended. He could feel it. Something new was coming, gathering itself up like a thunderstorm boiling up on the horizon; streaking forward like a dark cloudy sky when the air becomes all quiet and still and you pause and realize that something is amiss, and then you wait for that first clap of thunder and streak of lightning to confirm the gathering storm. Nobody with any sense rode a bicycle or played golf during a lightning storm. You took shelter. And shelter was what he wanted now—shelter from the storm, shelter from the feeling that something bad was building up on the horizon, a horizon he couldn’t s
ee or even describe.

  He couldn’t say how he knew it—but the child’s face that had come to him in dreams and guided him on his Quabbin walks had gone for good. He was now on his own.

  He maneuvered through the streets of Amherst, quiet now that both the University of Massachusetts and Amherst College were on summer break, and parked in front of Hudson’s Richardson’s small rented house. He had called ahead.

  Blake was in the yard, just firing up his Harley. “She’s just getting out of the shower, “he called over to Lester Carlson. “She’s expecting you. Wants to go see that old gravestone in Belton you saw.”

  “We’ll head out there now,” Lester Carlson called back and waved as Blake wheeled out of the driveway bending his body and the motorcycle into a single supple unit as he rounded the curve of the driveway.

  Lester Carlson walked to the back door and rang once. It was ajar. He pushed the door open and rang again as he stepped inside. He was in a large kitchen with what looked like a bathroom off to the left. As he started to call out for Katherine, she stepped out of the bathroom naked carrying her hair dryer.

  Lester Carlson backed up a step in surprise while Katherine put her hand to her mouth and gasped. “Oh God, I didn’t realize you were here yet.” And then Katherine’s face turned bright red. Lester Carlson couldn’t help himself. He looked at her openly and appreciatively as she turned and scooped up her robe from a nearby chair.

  She had been standing naked in the bathroom drying her hair and hadn’t heard the doorbell ring. Her hair was still wet in spots as she turned her back on Lester Carlson to find her robe. Katherine put on her robe and turned back to Lester Carlson tossing her head and putting one hand on the nape of her neck in back to fluff her hair out over the collar of her robe. It was a gesture of such soft intimacy that Lester Carlson without thinking stepped toward her.

  For a moment it seemed possible. He had enjoyed an active sex life right up to Emily’s death. He was in his 70s—not that old really, and Katherine was in her 40s and superbly attractive. But then he looked at her just as she looked at him—their eyes locking in surprise and they both began laughing.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine,” Lester Carlson said. “But a pretty naked lady is just too much temptation. And I shouldn’t have just barged in like that.”

  Katherine stopped blushing. “Well, here I am walking around naked in a house where I’m only a guest.”

  “Well, at least I know I’m not too old to be tempted,” Lester Carlson said. “And at my age, that’s considered good news.”

  “And with my body, I guess it’s good news that I’m still a temptation,” Katherine countered. Lester Carlson laughed and shook his head no.

  “You’re fine,” he said with seriousness. “Believe me. You are very fine.”

  It was a thing about American women that had always bothered him, but he had never yet met the woman who was satisfied with her own body. Women thought they were always too tall, too short, too heavy, too skinny, too flat chested, or too busty, thighs too flabby, hips too big, hair without body, hair with no curls, hair with too many curls, eyes without good lashes, cheekbones not well defined. The list went on and on. A legacy of the advertisements that bombarded a woman throughout her life, ordering her to redefine herself in another image.

  Lester Carlson liked women and had never been bothered by any of the imagined shortcomings he heard from the lips of women who were his lovers, friends, or family. It didn’t matter if your hips were too big or your breasts too small. To start with, what the hell was too big or too small? It was just some stupid idealized concept that fashion designers came up with. Your hips were as big as they needed to be on the body they carried around. And as long as you were not grotesquely overweight, then your hips weren’t too big. Ditto for all the worries about breast size and the other supposed physical shortcoming that many women talked about.

  In five minutes Katherine was dressed and sitting beside Lester Carlson in his white Mercedes. Lester Carlson drove fast and well swinging the Mercedes into the opposite lane on Route 9 and gliding by slower cars like a sleek white yacht powering through a fleet of rusty tubs in the harbor. The afternoon was waning when they reached Belton. They parked in Lester Carlson’s long driveway. Katherine slid from the Mercedes and turned to smile at Lester Carlson. Together they cut across his well-tended lawn to the Belton cemetery.

  Inside the cemetery it was quiet with the deep silence that falls at the end of a long and sunny day like an orchestra pausing briefly between musical movements. The sun goes down on such a day preceded by a twilight quiet—people move inside carrying their laughter and shouts with them; birds fall silent and settle into nests; neighborhood dogs follow their owners inside; stores close and traffic eases; and the night tiptoes in.

  Katherine followed Lester Carlson across the quiet cemetery, both enjoying the silence. They followed the hard-packed dirt road to the center of the cemetery. Lester Carlson stopped near a large pine that shaded a small grassy knoll. Katherine came up behind him. They were in a small clearing surrounded by old pine trees and large arborvitae bushes. Most of the gravestones were old and weathered though an occasional stone looked newer. Lester Carlson pivoted around several times scanning the stones. Then he stepped forward toward the base of the pine tree. Katherine followed.

  “It’s right over here,” Lester Carlson said. “I was trying to remember exactly where.”

  Lester Carlson knelt by an old weathered gray headstone. Katherine stepped forward and bent low to read the inscription. She had just focused on the words “Elijah Durman” when Lester Carlson jumped up, his face an ashen gray.

  “It’s gone. Do you believe it? It’s gone.”

  Katherine caught her breath. The silence of the cemetery seemed suddenly ominous. She didn’t need to ask what was gone. Below the inscription containing the name of Elijah Durman a long jagged scar was etched across the granite of the tombstone. The face of the stone was chipped and white where somebody had chiseled into the aged surface. Lester Carlson stood and pointed down to the damaged tombstone, his patrician tones gone, his voice now shaking.

  “It was right there,” he stammered. “Right there. The stone cross with the blue stone I wanted to show you. It was right there.”

  Katherine bent closer to look. A chisel or screwdriver had been hammered into the granite face of the old tombstone and then used to pry something away from the face of the stone. There was no cross on the tombstone. It was gone replaced by a jagged fresh scar.

  Katherine slowly straightened up and looked for a long moment at the weathered granite stone that marked the grave of Elijah Durman. Far away she heard the wind stirring expectantly through the heavy silence of the Belton cemetery.

  * * *

  Chapter 65

  The long day had faded to an auburn twilight by the time Katherine returned to Amherst. Hudson was home and had prepared dinner for three. He and Blake had eaten and left a plate for her in the oven. He was a decent to an almost good cook, and Katherine ate the mustard chicken and rice pilaf with relish. Hudson was leaving for the evening, going off to Northampton and the Iron Horse Tavern where a local group, The Boss Tweeds, was playing. Blake sat across from her, sipping from a bottle of Bass Ale while she told of the trip out to Belton with Lester Carlson and the discovery of the missing cross.

  “So the old boy saw you naked?” Blake said raising an eyebrow quizzically when she had finished.

  “Oh, come on Blake,” Katherine said. “He saw me naked. Big deal. He’s seen lots of naked women in his day.”

  Blake sipped more Bass Ale. He had taken a liking to this expensive ale since coming to Amherst. It seemed he could now handle it--have one or two bottles of beer a day and not go off the deep edge. “A naked lady and a guy who sees ghosts. Hey, you can use that on your radio show some day.”

  Katherine smiled. Her days as a radio personality seemed far away and long ago, ancient history, like trying to remember what it felt like to go
to your high school prom. She continued her story. “We got out there and it was gone. Somebody chipped off that cross that was on Elijah Durman’s tombstone between this morning and late afternoon. This is good chicken by the way.”

  “Well tell Hudson. The guy’s been good to let us stay here and even feed us.” Blake sipped more Bass ale, put his hands behind his head, and looked speculatively at the ceiling.

  “Hon, something weird is going on out there. Believe me.” Katherine stood and stretched.

  “Hey Kath, I want to, but have you considered vandals. Plain old simple vandals snatch this old cross off an old tombstone. Could be vandals that took Kevin’s coffin too.”

  Blake stopped talking. He was feeling irritated at Lester Carlson he realized. Besides seeing ghosts, Lester Carlson was now attaching himself to Katherine like a barnacle. Blake’s original idea to come to Belton and confront Lester Carlson over Vietnam seemed as distant and hard to remember as last week’s weather.

  “And what about Jimmy? Who killed Jimmy Bradley?” Katherine asked.

  “Probably not connected, Kath.” Blake stood and stretched. “I really don’t know why anybody would torch his house. I feel bad about it, kickass bad--but I just don’t know.”

  “And somebody slugged you,” Katherine pointed out. “There are just too many weird things happening here. Maybe after Friday I’ll believe in your vandals,” Katherine stood and came over to Blake and rubbed the back of his neck. “Friday is the summer solstice you know.”

  “Summer solstice, my buttock’s,” Blake said.

  “A big bad time,” Katherine said. “That’s what all those crazy ancient folk thought. The hinges of the year. The door swings open for a moment and all sorts of things can come creeping back through and into the world. Midnight of the solstice--the summer and the winter solstices; only time when sunlight and darkness are exactly equal. Summer above the equator, winter below.”