by J D Ventura
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Be right back,” she said, abruptly heading for the rear of the restaurant. Once in the bathroom, she took one of the tiny pills from an Altoids tin in her purse and filled her shaking, cupped hands with tap water and swallowed it. She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked older. The crow’s feet near her eyes were more pronounced. Her hair, flatter and less silken. Being Sam Sturgis’ wife was taking its toll.
Early on in their relationship, Claire didn’t mind the skullduggery associated with the secret projects Sam worked on. It was mysterious and sexy. Her girlfriends would joke he was in the CIA, calling him James Bond. She played along but, in truth, there was nothing glamorous or exciting about Sam’s work life, mostly because he could provide so few details. One night, six months after they met, on a date night much like this evening, Sam drank too much wine. They had parked three or four blocks away from the restaurant and the moon was full, and suspended low in the sky. They walked quickly down leaf-strewn city sidewalks, turning their collars up against a cold November wind. As she waited by the passenger door for him to unlock the car, he instead came around to her side and pulled her tightly to him and kissed her. “Look at the moon,” he whispered, gently pointing her face skyward. “Look up.” She did and then he said, “Art thou pale for weariness; Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth; Wandering companionless; Among the stars that have a different birth; And ever-changing like a joyless eye; That finds no object worth its constancy.”
“Sam, that’s beautiful, and a little bleak, if I am being honest. Did you write that?”
He laughed. “No, it’s Shelley. I had to memorize it my freshman year of college and I have never forgotten it. The ‘wandering companionless’ part has always bothered me. And now it sort of inspires my work, I guess.”
“How?” she asked.
“What?”
“How does it inspire you?”
“It’s complicated. Let’s just say it provides interesting perspective on a side project I’ve taken on, okay? Maybe we can leave it at that? I’m sorry, Claire. Someday maybe I’ll be able to tell you all about it.”
As she walked back to the table, an angry resentment washed over her.
“Sam, I can’t do this spy shit. You should be winding things down at work, isn’t that what the director of the goddamn agency told you? Todd Gunderson told you to not go getting involved in —”
“Claire, I am already way involved. And lately I have been forgetting all kinds of passwords. None of them are as critical as this one, okay? Please, you just have to trust me. When I called you the other day, I had completely forgotten this word and it really freaked me out. My mind was utterly blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean. You will probably never meet Ethan again, okay? But if you do, you must tell him this word if he asks. Promise me.”
She took a long sip of her sparkling water, wishing so desperately it was a pinot noir or a merlot. “Fine, fine. But can we take this food back to the Village? I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Excuse me,” a rotund woman in her early forties seated at the table immediately adjacent to theirs interrupted. “I hate to be an eavesdropper, but I couldn’t help but overhear you mention that you live at the Village. My husband and I – this is my husband, Carl – we live in the Village, too! We are always interested in meeting our neighbors! I’m Beth. Beth Plaskett.”
Claire immediately wondered what else she heard. Oh, Hi, I’m Claire, and this is my completely crazy husband, Sam, who works at NASA but now believes he is a secret agent.
“Oh, well, hi,” said Sam, clearly rattled by the intrusion. “We’re the Sturgises. I’m Sam and this is my wife Claire. Yes, we do live there. We more or less just moved in. Very nice to meet you both.”
Beth Plaskett immediately struck Claire as a busybody. Maybe it was the half-hearted apology for the interruption. Or for the fact that, now that she was conversing with them, she seemed somehow oddly needy for information: her eyes were too wide, her expression too hungry and expectant. She wore a lime green pantsuit, with a brownish stain on the jacket’s worn lapel, which Claire took as a sign that Beth Plaskett had long ago stopped paying attention to herself. But she apparently took an overly active interest in the lives of others. Her husband reminded Claire of a basset hound, his droopy cheeks and sad eyes conveying the neutered domesticity of which he was undoubtedly a prisoner.
“What street are you folks on?” Beth asked.
“Settlement,” replied Sam.
“Oh, well, then, you must know the Hershels? Or the Halls? I think they’re on that street,” Beth ventured. “Marie and Keith? Stephanie and Marc?”
“Yes,” said Claire. “It seems we have great neighbors.”
“I’m on the neighborhood committee with Marie and Stephanie,” Beth offered, ignoring a look of displeasure from her husband as she said it.
“The committee opposing the wall’s removal?” Claire asked, her Xanax buzz goading her to test the waters. She struggled to hide the slight slur of her words.
“Claire, no neighborhood politics tonight, please,” Sam said, before turning to the Plasketts. “She isn’t feeling well. We were just about to head out for the night.”
“Not aware of the wall being an issue,” Beth said, sucking up the last of her cola through her straw. “We are a gated community after all. But there has been some spirited debate about other related issues as of late. Sometimes tempers get the best of people when they hold passionate views.”
“Maybe I could join,” Claire said, sounding a bit standoffish, finding more conversational courage from the Xanax, which was just starting to dull the outer edges of her vision. “I think Stephanie Hall is a member, also. She’s become a good friend of mine.”
Beth didn’t try to hide the displeasure in her plump face. “Oh, I know her, too, Claire. Quite well, in fact. She is very fond of…the local flavor of this place. Very, um, liberal gal.”
“Well,” Sam said, now standing up and pushing in his chair. “It was lovely meeting you both. I am sure we will see you around, back at the Village.”
“Yes,” Carl said, flatly. “Back at the Village.”
With the interior of their car smelling like garlic and the windows fogging up from the warm doggy bags in the back seat, the first 10 minutes of the drive back to the Village was marked by silence. Claire’s mind was as cluttered as a landfill. “Fond of the local flavor?” What was wrong with the people in the Village? Something was off, but what? And is Sam really going crazy? Why would Ethan ever come looking for me? For what contingency is he planning? Am I losing my mind right along with him?
“Sam,” she said, looking out her window at the darkened valley below. “I need to know. Do you think your symptoms are getting worse?”
Instead of answering her, he began driving faster, taking the winding corners of the mountain road with such speed, Claire reflexively reached for the handle above her window. The tires screeched and she heard the crunch of gravel as the car straddled the road’s shoulder.
“Sam, what the hell are you doing? Slow down, for God sakes!”
Rather than slow down, Sam sped up. The take-out in the backseat slammed from one side of the car to the other. Through her peripheral vision she saw her spaghetti fall out of its open carton onto the floor. “Sam, please, babe, you are scaring me. Slow down. You’re acting —”
“Crazy, Claire? I am not crazy!” he yelled.
“Yes, yes, you are acting batshit crazy right now Sam, and I want you to stop the goddamn car!”
Sam suddenly drove off the road and onto an unpaved service lane that led into the state forest. Rocks and dust kicked up in a cloud behind them. When the Audi was completely encircled by woods, he shut the lights off and turned to face her.
“I’m not crazy, Claire. I will tell you when I think I am, but I’m not yet. You have to trust me on this.�
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A chorus of irrational thoughts thundered in her head. Get out of the car, Claire, and just run! This disease is stronger than Sam, and stronger than your love for him. You don’t have what it takes to see something as gruesome as this through to the bitter end. It will be too messy.
“It’s complicated,” he had said long ago on that moonlit night. But she never imagined this.
“If you’re not crazy, Sam, then why in God’s name are you driving like a total asshole?”
“Because we’re being followed, Claire. Someone was following us.”
Chapter 5
Surrounded by darkness, in the woods, Sam, her husband, the man she felt she knew better than anyone on Earth, for a moment was someone she only barely recognized: the face of a passing stranger, the tiniest glimmer of recognition in the eyes and then, disconnection. He shut the car off and the chirping of crickets enveloped them. She studied his face in the dashboard’s glow. His handsome countenance had new lines, fresh wrinkles, more gray, a familiar landscape upturned and foreign.
Dealing with Sam’s disease theoretically was difficult enough. When he was diagnosed, they spent hours, both alone and together, Googling everything they could about it. Often he would go to bed before her, and she would stay up in the darkened kitchen, her troubled face illuminated by the laptop screen. She was particularly drawn to the first-person accounts on the various disease support websites. A woman, who went by the screenname of MarciaV, would write: “Hey guys, I need help. I don’t know my husband anymore.” A man going by BertBud3 would lament: “My wife forgot our daughter’s name today.” As powerful and heartfelt as these stories always were, they read like fiction. Maybe it was the mind’s way of defending itself from such horrors. Surely, that won’t happen to us.
Even though Claire intellectually knew she would one day have her own tragic narrative to contribute, she hadn’t imagined it would arrive so soon, here on a dirt road, in the grasp of both darkness and lunacy.
She grabbed the rearview mirror and repositioned it so she could see the road behind them. There was nothing but blackness beyond the steamed-up back window. She felt like screaming as a jolt of anxiety traveled up and down her arms and legs, forcing her to shake her hands as if she were drying just-polished nails.
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about? There is nothing out there! You cannot be this bad this soon. It’s too soon. You said we had more time. Years! And now you think we’re being followed? I need some air.” Claire got out of the car, walked to the front of it and leaned against the hood, deeply inhaling the cold mountain night. Somewhere off in the distance an owl let out a deep, questioning hoot. Her breath hitched and she started to cry. He was out of the car now, standing beside her. Gently placing his hand on her shoulder, he spun her around to face him. His face was caring but serious.
“Baby, listen to me—,”
“This is just bullshit, Sam. I don’t know what’s happening and —,”
“I know, I know. Just listen to me, please. Can you just do that?”
She nodded, looking downward, as a tear slid off her nose and fell onto the toes of his loafers.
“The hard part of this is going to be me not knowing what is real and what is not. I’m already getting confused by a lot of things. I am going to need your help in discerning what is real and what isn’t. I am wrapping up my work. I’m almost done with the project. But I have to sort out my research findings, and I have to be careful about who I share them with. That’s all I can tell you. But, the dementia doesn’t have me yet. Okay? I am eyes-wide-open right now and dealing with some important information. And I know, without any doubt whatsoever, we were being followed.”
“Sam, why would anyone want to follow us? Does it have to do with this Jeopardy shit and Ethan? Is Ethan in trouble? You just dropped that on me at dinner, with no real explanation. You have to see this from my point of view. It really is cuckoo-cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. One minute we’re on date night and the next we’re sitting in our car on an abandoned mountain road hiding from whom? Who the hell is following us? What do they want?”
“I don’t really know,” Sam said, squinting into the darkness at the main road below. “But I have my suspicions.”
They drove back to the Village without speaking to one another. The guard at the front gate recognized them now and waved them through with a half nod and a wink. The neighborhood was as quiet as usual, with theirs being the only car on the road. The minute Sam put the car in park, Claire was walking up the stone walk to their front door, not waiting for him or looking back. Not wanting to let him see she was crying again. Tacked to the door was a large silver envelope. Now what? In the porchlight, she noticed it was addressed in cursive handwriting: “Sam and Claire, You’re Invited!”
“Invited to what?” Sam asked, reading over her shoulder, holding their reassembled doggie bags.
She snatched the envelope off the door. “It’s classified.”
“Claire, don’t mock me,” he said, smiling slightly, annoyed but appreciating her stamina for argument. He unlocked the door and they made their way down the hall and into the kitchen. She stood in front of the stove and, looking up to be sure she had his attention, began reading:
You are cordially invited to the Murray’s Farewell Masquerade Ball
Saturday, October 20
Join us for a night of anonymous, suburban debauchery
Formal attire and masks required
Make final, lasting memories
Celebrate our departure
WHERE: The House on the Hill
Luanne and Marcus
Claire dismissively tossed the invitation onto the countertop. “I just can’t deal with this place getting any weirder. They’re moving. Lucky them.” I need a drink. Get a drink. I need a drink. Get a drink. I need a drink. Claire opened the fridge and begrudgingly retrieved a bottle of Perrier from the door. “I mean, that’s weird. A masquerade ball? What is this, like Kubrick kind of shit?”
Sam retrieved two glasses and placed them on the counter between them. “It does sound very Eyes Wide Shut, I have to admit.” Claire filled their glasses. “So are we going?”
“We certainly don’t have to decide now, Sam. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“Claire-”
“Sam, I’m sorry for the way I acted on the way home, okay? Let’s just talk in the morning. We’re okay. I just need time to process tonight.” She wasn’t sure, however, if she could justify his behavior. She was struggling to understand how much of what he was telling her was truth and how much delusion. Was there really someone following them? Was his work actually winding down? As confusing as it all was, Claire was sure about one thing: her husband was in trouble and she felt powerless to help him.
“Sure, babe. I love you. I’m going to watch TV. I’ll try not to wake you,” he said.
Claire walked down the hall and up the stairs, pausing on the landing to look at a picture of her sister.It was a school portrait. She was maybe 11 or 12 in the photo. A reflection of her in profile floated to the right of the centered image. Its intended effect was probably to add a layer of dimension to the subject. Claire looked at it now and saw only a ghost, transparent and doomed.
Their bedroom suddenly seemed cavernous and, not from a lack of trying on her part, continued to feel like a hotel room, a place that gave a good first impression, but never offered any authentic sense of home. The master suite was carpeted in tasteful, muted beige the realtor described as “buckwheat.” Her bare footfalls made no sound as she made her way to her nightstand. Her backup bottle of Xanax was nearly empty. Jesus, I need to call in a refill. You cannot run out of these, Claire. Not now. Especially now. She dry-swallowed two of the oval tablets and lay on the bed, fully clothed. The drug swept her quickly toward slumber.
She was standing in the middle of a flat muddy expanse, surrounded by
high rock walls. Her heartbeat quickened as she realized it was the quarry from her childhood, only all the water had been drained. With its departure, a graveyard of detritus remained. Discarded things poked out of the mud at odd angles: old tires, a few cars, a suitcase, milk crates, a bicycle. The sky above was a deep smoky gray, and the air was thick with moisture, as if a storm was imminent. A paralyzing trepidation crawled up her spine, a snake wrapping around its prey, slowly squeezing. There was no air in her lungs to scream for help. This place was not what it seemed. Something was not right. She called out for her sister. She had to warn her. Jenny! Had to warn everyone. She looked up and saw silhouettes on the cliff’s edge. People, watching, judging. They had been watching her for a long time. They had been watching her forever.She looked up in terrified defiance. Their faces were dark and filled with stars. They held their fingers to their lips.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
Chapter 6
She awoke before him, to a soft hum rustling from the window sill closest to her bed. She opened the one eye that wasn’t pressed into her pillow to find a large crow staring at her from behind the pane. It sat perfectly still, its wings motionless and so black they looked purple in the sunlight, almost an amethyst hue, shiny to the point of reflective. Is it sick? Injured?Something was off. Rather than the usual herky-jerky cocking and bobbing, the animal’s head moved smoothly from side to side, like an oscillating fan. Its eyes swept the entirety of the bedroom, and then back again. Claire sat quickly upright, her back tense and rigid against the Cherrywood headboard. The animal’s eyes, two tiny onyx orbs ringed by yellow bands, focused on her intently, blinking slowly three times. And then, with a quick whir of blurry black motion, the bird was gone.
The animal’s departure let the morning sun break through the shuttered slats, casting a ladder of light over Sam’s body. After last night, the serenity of this moment was both welcomed and jarring. This man, her stalwart companion, her strength, looked childlike to her now – a child who must be shook awake for school, just a boy with an overactive imagination. If only it were that simple. She wondered if his dreams had changed, too. If somehow the chaos in his frontal lobe now ruled his dreamscape with brutish indifference. It was too painful to dwell upon.