by J D Ventura
“Stephanie, he has dementia, not asthma. I don’t think moving to the West Coast or Spain is going to improve his prognosis.”
“No, but it might change yours. And, I don’t know, I think if you were happier, well, I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you should consider it.”
“Consider leaving Frontier Village? Fuck no. I plan on retiring here. You can’t get rid of me that easily, bitch,” Claire said, managing to crack a sheepish smile.
They both laughed and the normalcy of that noise made Claire lean back on the couch and break into a fit of the giggles.
“Seriously, Claire, my prediction is neither one of us will be here for much longer.”
“I like the sound of that, but I am where I am. For Sam. I just don’t want to convince myself, and him, that we can run away from this, because we can’t. Tragedy follows you, I’m afraid. There are no fresh starts.”
“Oh, boo,” said Stephanie, getting up from the couch and opening the front door. Now on the porch, she turned to Claire, “Shame need not crouch, In such an Earth as Ours. Shame, stand erect, the Universe is yours.”
Claire smiled back.
“Emily Dickenson. Goodbye,” Stephanie said, blowing a kiss before shutting the door gently behind her.
Chapter 9
After Stephanie left, Claire’s day devolved into a blurry, anchorless timeline of Lifetime movies, Hot Pockets, gin and her best friend, Ben Zodiazepine (Ha! That old joke). Fresh from a hot shower, her mind numbed and blank, she lay on the couch, as the hum of the central AC and the way-off sound of an infomercial filled the room with noisy nothingness.
Claire fell asleep there, and woke up in the middle of the night, still naked, ripped from sleep by a noise she could not remember hearing. She stood up, her skin paper-white in the moonlight, a photo negative. As she had as a child, holding strips of brown film to the light to discern the moment the camera had captured, she peered through the darkness, attempting to understand what she was seeing — and if she was alone.
Her bare feet crept noiselessly across the carpet, until she stood, motionless, her nipples touching the sheer curtains of the window that overlooked the backyard and the nearby cross street. Under the orangey light of a street lamp, a figure walked slowly, heading away from the house, seemingly without purpose. It was a man; even from this distance she knew that. His silhouette was familiar, and this hint of recognition made her heart race with terror. Sam? It is! Sam is walking up the street in the middle of the night!
With no memory of leaving the house, she was behind him now, standing in the middle of the road, staring down at her naked body, her bare heels pushing into the coarse asphalt. She screamed after him, “Sam! Sam!” But he continued to walk slowly down the road, gaining ground. Her legs barely moved and she had a sickening feeling the pursuit was futile. When he reached the stop sign and took a right, she inexplicably knew where he was going and the fear that embraced her prompted Claire to begin sprinting after him. He was heading to the Murray’s, to the house on the hill. Something primal within her knew she had to stop him. SAM! NO!
As she rounded the corner, she stopped running. In front of the Murray’s house were hundreds of people, their dark forms faceless, their arms outstretched, as if to welcome Sam’s arrival. She screamed but could not hear it. Sam turned his head to face her, his body still walking slowly toward them. He placed an index finger to his lips, “Shhhh.”
Claire awoke drenched in sweat. The dread was immediately vanquished by an overwhelming sense of relief. You had a nightmare, Claire. A trippy fucking nightmare. She tried to remember it, but it was quickly fading, a flame denied oxygen, extinguished.
Over a breakfast of mini bagels and a hard-boiled egg, she decided it wasn’t too early to finally call Jessica. Out of all her acquaintances and associates in D.C., her relationship with Jessica Kincaid was the most enduring. Their friendship predated her marriage to Sam by several years, and she regarded Jess as someone who could remind her not only of whom she was, but who she had been. They had seen each other through several failed romantic relationships, a stint in rehab, the death of parents, the birth of a baby, a breast cancer scare and, of course, Sam’s diagnosis. Perspective, Claire. She will give you perspective.
Her old friend answered on the third ring and the familiar sound of her voice made Claire audibly sigh with relief.
“Well, well, well, she lives after all. How’s life in the suburbs girl? Are you pregnant yet?”
Claire tried to laugh but the sound she made was more like a stilted high-pitched moan that stuck in her throat like a cotton ball. She bit her bottom lip as a tear escaped down her cheek.
“Claire? What’s wrong, sweetie?”
She tried her best to explain to Jess, and made it a point to exclude the more crazy-sounding parts of her narrative – the creepy dog and the crow, for example – and instead spoke of Sam’s odd and unexpected departures and her ever-increasing anxiety, paranoia and now nightmares. She was surprised and consequently relieved at how hum-drum most of her story sounded when spoken aloud.
“Claire, you sound like every suburban housewife I have ever met, honey,” said Jess.“You are going through a period of adjustment out there. His illness is a lifestyle change. Moving is a lifestyle change. And his inability to stop working is, well, it’s not fair to you, Claire. Especially when you’re rightfully worried about his mental health.”
“You’re right. You’re right.” Claire said, taking a tissue from the box on the kitchen counter and dabbing at the corners of her tear-filled eyes.
“When he comes back from D.C., Claire, you need to sit down and tell him all of this. You know? And you need to keep busy.”
“Busy, right, yes,” Claire said, thinking about Stephanie’s similar suggestion. “Jess, I’m afraid if he changes too much,I won’t know him anymore. That he won’t be the person I fell in love with.”
“You’re borrowing trouble, sweetie. We’re always changing, all of us. I’m not downplaying how horrible his dementia is, but even if you guys weren’t dealing with that, nobody in any relationship is exactly who they were going in. Who’s to say who you’ll be after this experience? But at a certain point you have to let go.”
Claire’s bottom lip was quivering again and she wished she could lean across a dinner table and kiss Jess’ cheek, wished she could just go home. “You’re a good friend to me,” she said with a sniffle. “Come visit soon.”
“Too far,” Jessica said with a laugh. “Next time you move, it better be closer. Take care.”
“Bye, babe.”
She was determined not to pace around today, like a restless pet anxiously awaiting the arrival of its owner. No, today, she would get out of the house. A sober day. Was it possible? Yes! After a quick shower, she tossed her breakfast plate and coffee mug into the dishwasher, put on her running shorts, sports bra and tank top and, iPhone strapped to her arm, left for a head-clearing run.
She first ran down the street, toward the stop sign at the foot of the hill leading to the Murray’s house. Indecipherable visions from her dream crept into her mind, a powerful sense of familiarity she vanquished by running faster. In staunch defiance of the intruding visions —- Sam, wait! Sam, no! – she banked right, and began sprinting up the hill. The Murray’s compound unfolded above her, its imposing gates and enclosed gardens looking down on the development like a royal castle lording over a lowly settlement of serfs.
As the road curved and sloped further upward, an animal ran by her at what seemed like extraordinary speed; so quickly, in fact, she couldn’t discern what it even was. It must have been fleeing something. Claire stopped and turned, but before she could stop the music blaring in her ears, a group of teenagers came around the sharp corner she had just rounded. There were four of them, two on bikes and two on skateboards, and the shortest of the four plowed into Claire with a force that sent
them both rebounding in opposite directions. Claire hit the ground hard, and without even looking, knew she had badly scraped her arm. The skateboarder, a sandy-haired kid with a slight frame and faded skinny jeans, rolled forward onto the pavement, his baseball cap flying skyward and one of his high-top sneakers hurdling into the roadside bramble. His skateboard slipped under the guard rail and sailed into the valley below.
“What the fuck, lady!?” the skater yelled, springing from his somersault and futilely running in the direction of his board. “Great! Fucking great! That was my favorite fucking board. Fucking fantastic!”
His three friends, who looked to Claire like they ranged in age from 12 to 16, were now laughing so hard at their friends’ misfortune, nobody seemed to notice or care a grown-up had just been body-slammed to the ground and was now bleeding on the side of the road.
“Hey, you little shits! What about me? That fucking hurt! Jesus Christ! Do you live in this neighborhood?”
The question immediately silenced the group, and the oldest teen, the other skateboarder, a curly-haired redhead with a skull-shaped earring and a concert tee that read “Rancid Riot, Roanoke, 2013,” extended a freckled hand to Claire and, leaning back, hoisted her to her feet. “Shit, lady, are you okay? Fuck, you’re bleeding.” He peeled off his tee shirt and handed it to Claire.
She pushed the sweat-soaked garment away with a grimace. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Thank you. My name is Claire. Cut the ‘lady’ shit okay?”
“We are so sorry, Claire. Um, I’m Craig, this is Brad, Skylar and Bird.”
“Hey,” Skylar said.
“Yo,” Bird said.
“You’re going to buy me a new board, Claire,” Brad sneered.
“Why were you guys chasing that animal?” Claire said, ignoring Brad.
More silence. The four boys looked at each other as if determining who had betrayed the group by telling this woman such a closely guarded secret.
“What are you talking about?” Craig asked, trying to sound surprised. The down-turned eyes and slack jaws on the younger boys’ faces did little to back up his attempt at conviction.
“I’m not stupid. There was a cat, or a raccoon, or a dog, fuck, something furry. It ran by me, clearly being chased by you guys.”
“It’s a dog,” Skylar, the shortest and presumably the youngest of the group, blurted out with a pre-teen squeak. “It hangs out in town, but always comes back here.”
“Big fucking mouth, Sky,” Brad said, still staring into the valley in hopes of spotting his board. “Fucking pussy.”
“We ain’t trying to hurt it or nothing,” Craig interjected. “We just want to know where it goes when it comes back here.”
“Why do you care about that? If it’s a stray, just call animal control. Poor thing is terrified of you, clearly.”
“No it ain’t,” said Bird, wiping the sweat from his blond, prepubescent mustache and spitting a slimy wad of chewing tobacco quickly to the right of him. “You don’t understand. When we ain’t chasing it, it follows us.” The other boys all shook their heads in emphatic agreement.
“Maybe it’s hungry?” offered Claire. “Or hurt?”
“Nah, we left a steak out for it once. In the parking lot near the skate park. It walked right up to it, stared at it, didn’t even sniff it,” Skylar offered, inviting a slap from Brad.
“Shut up, Sky,” Brad sneered, as he climbed onto the back of his friend’s bike. He then turned to Claire. “Sorry, lady, we’ll bug out. Come on guys, it’s getting late anyway.”
The board-less skater jumped on the back of one of the bikes and the foursome started rolling down the hill. “Wait!” Claire called after them. “How did you even get in here?”
Ethan just gave her the peace sign as they rounded the bend, disappearing from her view. If given more time, she may have told them she, too, saw the dog once, and believed it belonged to Marie Hershel. That dog was weird though. Creepy. Why was it in town on its own? And always off leash? And where had it been the night they had dinner at the Hershel’s? She should probably call Marie but, given the awkward dinner party, she didn’t want to commit to any more politically-charged small talk. Claire pulled her iPhone from the jogging holster velcroed to her arm and hit the preset for neighborhood security. The phone rang only once.
“Officer Donovan. Guard shack. Front gate.”
“Yes, hi, this is Claire Sturgis. This is going to sound strange, but I am jogging on Pine View Lane, on the hill leading up to the Murray’s, and I ran into these kids chasing a dog.”
“Where are they now?” The security guard sounded slightly eager, as if he was familiar with these teens.
“I think it might be Marie Hershel’s dog. Do you know if she is still looking for it?”
“Did you just see these kids?” he asked.
“Yes, but they just left me, they’re on bikes and a skateboard. I think they’re leaving the Village. They were heading down the hill, your way, I guess.”
“We will take care of it, Mrs. Sturgis. We appreciate your call.”
“Well, I don’t know there is anything to-” Claire stammered, before realizing the line had gone dead.
Claire strapped back on her iPhone and began jogging down the hill, toward the guard shack. As she descended and took the left back onto her street, she saw the kids in the distance, heading to a service ladder she had never noticed on the perimeter wall. As her endorphins kicked in she broke into a sprint. Even though she had called security, she now felt she needed to warn the boys, or at least let the guards know, face-to-face, that they had really done nothing wrong. She felt foolish and guilty, as if she had caused unnecessary trouble for the kids. Her heart rate quickened, and the thumping of her running shoes provided a soundtrack to an inexplicable and growing sense of anxiety.
Claire came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. She probably saw the white paneled van before they did. It raced down the street leading from the guard shack at an alarming speed. What the fuck? It was driving at about 50 miles an hour, right for the kids, who presumably now saw its approach, evidenced by the evasive maneuvers they all made by banking hard right. The van spun sideways in a move clearly meant to block their escape. The red-headed boy, Craig, who had offered her his shirt, jumped off his skateboard and sailed through the air, his entire body slamming into the vehicle’s sliding side door. Claire covered her mouth with her hand in horror. Shit! Shit! What the fuck!
Concerned for their friend, the other three boys ditched the bikes and ran to his aid, arms up in protest. Two uniformed guards got out of the vehicle, holding Tasers and handcuffs. Claire moved from the center of the street to the sidewalk and positioned herself behind a large oak tree. You have got to be joking?
The guards were, however, clearly not in a joking mood. The boy named Brad puffed his chest out and attempted to push one of the men. The match-up was akin to a ballerina picking a fight with a marine. The guard grabbed the boy’s neck and body slammed him to the pavement. As the other teens knelt over the boy who had hit the van, the guards began zapping them with the Tasers, their stunned bodies falling to the ground and shaking convulsively. Claire was frozen with fear. You’ve got to do something, Claire. Do something, for Christ sakes!
She sprinted to her house and frantically grabbed her car keys and purse from the kitchen counter and headed for the garage. Still in her jogging gear, with her smartphone still strapped to her arm – dammit, Claire, you should have filmed that – she turned the Range Rover’s ignition and drove quickly toward the still ascending garage door. The roof of the SUV scraped it and for a moment she thought she might drag the entire garage door with her. She raced down the street without any clear idea what she intended to do. But she had witnessed something. That was not cool. Totally excessive. Her mind raced with all the things she might say to the guards. Chill out. I’ll give them a ride home. I overreacted. Sorry I
called you guys. Fucking thugs.
Claire’s opportunity to protest had already passed, however. The boys, along with their bikes and boards, had already been loaded into the van by the time Claire reached the end of the street. As the vehicle pulled away she thought about honking or flashing her lights, demanding they pull over. She was, after all, Mrs. Sturgis, an association-fee-paying homeowner. At the end of the street, the van passed the shack, still manned by another guard, and continued onto the main road into town. She decided to hang back and follow it. Claire, what are you doing? You’re a fucking detective now? You should call the police, Claire. Just call the damn police.
She tailed the van for several miles before it pulled onto one of the fire service roads running parallel to the main route leading into town. It drove into the tree line and disappeared. Claire pulled onto the shoulder of the main road, just ahead of where they’d turned, and tried to control her breathing. Her hands were shaking as she unlocked her driver’s side door and peered through the slanting sunlight, squinting to see the van through the dense woods.
The sound of gravel beneath tires and a flash of white signaled its return. She back-tracked to her car and, jumping in, slid down in her seat. Shit, shit, shit. Without raising her head, she adjusted the left-side mirror. The van burst from the woods and turned left, heading back toward the Village. If they saw her at all, she figured, they may have assumed hers was an abandoned car. Still, she held her breath and, only when she didn’t see brake lights did she finally exhale.
She was out of her vehicle now, running down the service road, the dust from the upturned gravel still settling around her. But the boys were gone.
As her car crested the slope above the valley, her eyes immediately went to the guard shack at the bottom of the hill. Had the guards seen her tail them? Given what she had witnessed, could she now calmly ask about what happened to Marie’s dog?
Seeing the white van parked alongside the small building at the entrance to the Village, she felt her adrenaline level going up, so much so her right knee began to jump. She considered demanding to know what they did with the fucking children they’d just kidnapped. Or, maybe more sensibly, she could just call the cops.