Since the frenzy of the vicious struggle, I thought I understood something about soldiers that I hadn’t before. Whatever the differences in, or moral assessments of our motivations were, I now knew that fury, mixed with fear and the desperation to survive, totally encompassed every nerve, brain cell, muscle fiber, and all the lifeblood pumping through your veins. To crawl and run and hide, to sneak and stalk, to deviously outwit and strike without mercy had been as essential as my breath for me to stay alive. Choice was gone. Instinct had directed every movement, every thought.
I survived.
In the quiet of the motel room, the tire iron splintered bone once again, the chain smashed into flesh and teeth repeatedly.
I beat those bastards.
I fumbled for a cigarette to stop the exhilaration I felt at the reliving of the fight. I lit another to chase away the ecstasy of victory through violence skyrocketing within me.
Frightened of owning the sadistic memories inside myself, I fought against and lied about my feelings. I needed to counter the evil thoughts springing forth, so contrary to who I believed myself to be. No, no, I’m not feeling a hint of a smile at the memory of charging into battle. My eyes didn’t really light up while I visualized Crew Cut’s head snapping back, the chain crashing into him. No... the satisfaction of crushing a shoulder blade was because... because... I had to, not because I thrilled in it.
I don’t believe I’m evil... It was the wild dog, the primitive savage... I was tripping.
What has happened to me? I just wanted to save Teresa’s life.
Lost in wrestling with my conscience, I didn’t notice the corner of the room blacken to a darkness deeper than my own until a thought, unbidden, entered my head—When the Shadow Creature opens its eyes, does light shine forth?
As if in answer, I became aware of a soft light above me. Under its spell, I saw my self-incriminations become twisted, burned objects streaming upwards into the radiance. I wrapped myself into my childhood cocoon, able to watch the mess inside my head fly forth without analyzing, comparing, or justifying any of it. This sense of separation from thinking, conversely, made me feel whole. And that completeness, oddly enough, connected me to a place inside myself which I can only explain as being like I didn’t exist—something that was nothing, like a Zobe in a child’s sandbox.
Like the shadow that was no longer in the corner of the room.
I heard a faint tinkling sound. A far-off bell was waking me. I became aware of the bed, the bathroom light, and remembered I was in a motel in the Poconos.
Teresa started talking softly, still on her side, looking towards the room’s curtained window. Her words sounded as if they had once been tears.
“We had a fruit orchard behind our house when I was a little kid. About a dozen apple trees and a couple of scraggly-looking pear. There were raspberry bushes and a strawberry patch on a path in the woods where I played with Cynthia and our gang.
“One time, I must have been six, I stopped to pick some berries, and Cynthia kept walking ahead with her girlfriends. I was wearing big rubber boots, like today, and carrying a doll. She had big blue eyes and curly hair, and I thought she looked just like me. Or maybe I looked just like her. I would pretend the raspberries were lipstick, and I’d pucker my lips and rub the fruit on them and then do the same to Belle. That was her name. Belle Little.”
Teresa laughed a small sound, like it was stifled right from the start.
“Anyway, playing with Belle, I lost track of Cynthia and became frightened. I hurried after her, screaming for her to wait. There was this little inlet off the Chesapeake that we had to walk around at high tide. Sometimes, when the tide was low, we hugged the shore and cut across a section of water to get to this hard-packed sand dune area, where all these gigantic phragmites plants grew. They formed a maze of overhanging tunnels and hidden paths. We loved playing there—hide-and-seek or racing our bikes through the passageways.
“When I reached the water, I could see my sister and the girls disappearing into the phragmites. I didn’t want to take the time to go all the way around on the shoreline. I’d lose my sister in the labyrinth, and I had my big boots on, so I started to wade across the inlet. I knew it wasn’t deep, just yucky mud. About thirty feet from shore I got stuck, started sinking, and went all panicky. Water was above my knees, flooding into my boots. As I flailed, muck splattered my dress and face, then I toppled forward. My head went under, and my hands sunk into the cold, sticky bottom. Out of sheer fright I was able to right myself, and I remember spitting out globs of wet filth, crying, screaming for help, believing I would never get out as the quicksand sucked me down deeper.
“I yelled out what I thought would be my only hope, ‘Daddy.’ And immediately, within seconds, I was scooped up, right out of my boots by my father. He held me in his arms, trying to soothe me, but I was hysterical. Then he did what he always did to calm me. He had a little game he would play with me if I hurt myself or was upset. He’d say, ‘Oh fiddle, faddle, fiddle, Teresa Ann Little, what are abracadabra and kisses?’ and I would answer, ‘Magic.’ Then he’d put a band-aid on my injury or sing me a song and give me a kiss. So there I was screaming, and he yells out, ‘Abracadabra,’ then realizes his boots are stuck too, and he yanks his feet out of them and goes splashing up to the shore, carrying me. Once we were on the safe sand, he turned around to look at his boots sticking out of the water alongside mine. He started to laugh, and I was amazed that he had rescued us, and the boots looked ridiculous with no one in them. I forgot about my tears and joined him in laughing at the silly scene before us.
“That night when he tucked me into bed, I realized that Belle had been lost in the commotion and told my father she had been sucked into the quicksand, and I’d never see her again.” Teresa let out a long sigh before continuing. “So he said, ‘Oh fiddle, faddle, fiddle, Teresa Ann Little, we’ll buy a new little Belle Little.’ Then he kissed me goodnight.”
Teresa lay silent for a while. Sensing the churning of her mind, I lit another cigarette, waiting for her to continue. I ached for her to turn and face me. She sighed and rolled onto her back. I could see a glint of light in one eye as she stared up and spoke to the ceiling.
“Later that night, I woke up and heard sobbing sounds in the darkened house. It must have been two or three in the morning. I got out of bed to find out what was going on. I remember it clearly. From the top of the stairs, I had a good view into the living room. Only one small table lamp was on, and the rest of the room was dim, but I could see my father. He sat in a chair, crying into his hands. I didn’t quite make out my mother as much as hear her. She was hissing at him. Oh, it was terrible—sharp, cutting whispers, like jabbing a spear at him. Her voice was so harsh. I thought she was hurting him, calling him and someone named Bezzle, fools. I took it all in quietly, not understanding why she harped at him or why he cried. Finally I whispered, ‘Abracadabra,’ and with my heart shattered all over that crazy house, went back to bed.”
Teresa finally looked over at me.
“Apparently my dad had been stealing from the company he worked for. Mom never gave me details, but Cynthia and I figure he was an accountant, we think with some electronics company.”
“What happened?”
“He forgot to buy me the new doll. I can’t remember everything, but after a while he didn’t live with us anymore, and the kids at school used to tease me, hooting or hollering, being malicious. I can still feel the pain from all the times they told me my dad was a jailbird.”
I raised myself from my pillows. “Teresa.”
She held a hand up, her palm telling me stay in my bed. “Wait, there’s more. After today, you should know.”
I lit another cigarette, shook out the match, and tossing it into the ashtray, saw a half-smoked Kool with an inch long ash resting there.
Teresa shut her eyes and continued, “My father served a few years in priso
n. Mom bought me a new doll, and I named her Emma Bezzle. I took all the furniture out of my doll house and placed Emma into it. Then I went down to my father’s workshop in the basement and painted all my pick-up sticks gray. Poking the sharp ends all in a row through the cardboard floors of the dollhouse, I turned it into a jailhouse.”
She raised a hand and waved it loosely above her in a futile gesture.
“Trying to make sense of my family life back then was probably the beginning of my yearning to do art. Crazy, huh?”
She formed a fist and tapped her forehead a few times lightly, then rested it there, readying herself for the rest of her story.
“When my dad got out of jail, I was about nine. We moved into an apartment in DC, and my parents were always yelling at each other. I didn’t know it until a few years later, but she had seen other men while he was in prison, and when he got out, she didn’t stop.
“When I was twelve, I jabbed myself with an x-acto knife doing some paper cut-outs, and he played the fiddle faddle game with me. It had been about five years since we had last done that, before he had gone to jail, and I still cherish the joy I felt to hear him say it. I giggled and answered, ‘Magic,’ and he kissed my forehead and twirled a curl of my hair between his fingers.”
Teresa touched the side of her head lightly.
“It was the last time I saw him. I went into the bathroom to clean my cut when suddenly I heard him yelling, ‘Get the fuck out of here. What do you mean coming here with your goddamn daily fuck?’ Then I heard another man’s voice and my mother laughing in a high-pitched cackle, mocking my father.
“I started to open the bathroom door, and he yelled at me, ‘Close the door and stay in there.’ He ripped it from my hands, slammed it shut. I backed away, frightened out of my skull, and sat on the tub, listening to a vicious argument.
“There was a crashing sound, and my dad was yelling, calling the other man a bastard. Mom screamed, and then I could tell my dad shoved her because I could hear her heels clicking wildly like some violent dance, all spastic, before she thumped against the bathroom door. Suddenly everything became silent, and I froze, not knowing what to do, what had happened, or what to expect. Finally, I tried opening the door. It wouldn’t budge, and I had to push with all my strength. I got it open a few inches and saw my mom’s red and black dress on the other side. Her body was blocking the door. When I realized it was her, some inner strength surged through me, and I shoved the door open. Her body rolled over, and, God, I was so thankful when I heard her groan. But I hated her in that exact same moment. I get so messed up whenever I think of that afternoon. Dad was nowhere.
“There was a man, a stranger I’d never seen before, lying in the front hall. The door was open and a metal lamp lay next to his head. The bulb was really bright, and it’s weird, but what remains vivid in my mind is that there were shiny crimson highlights in this pool of blood spreading across the floor. Deets, I still had the x-acto knife in my hand....”
A choking cry escaped up from Teresa’s throat, and she turned on her side, catching my eye with a look that pleaded for understanding.
“I sunk down on my knees and raised the blade to stab at his neck, but a hand grabbed at me. I saw Mom’s wedding ring on the fingers wrapped around mine and let her pull me into her arms. We both cried miserably, longingly. It seemed like our agony fused together and would never end.”
I got up from my bed and sat next to Teresa. She inched over to make room for me. I massaged her shoulders lightly as she continued her story.
“My dad had run out on me and not said goodbye. There was a dead man in the hall. My mother was crying and vomiting, and policemen filled the little apartment. My finger kept dripping blood. What a mess my life had become. Today just made me feel like I was back in that apartment all over again.”
“Roll over. Onto your stomach.” I kneaded with my fingers at her neck and spine in silence for a few minutes.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tender.
“Hmm, it’s been tough getting my head to function. Dealing with all the violence, and then the legal stuff afterwards didn’t help. Maybe we should have just left them in the cabin and gone home.”
“Bonnie and Clyde. But the two crazy lovers on the hill in the woods sure were fantastic.”
“That was us.”
As I continued to massage her, I saw a thin ripple of multicolored light move up her spine. Little streamers of color flared outward across her back and buttocks. When I heard the gentle, rhythmic breathing of her sleep, I let my hands rest on her back for awhile, watching as the light became a soft pulse that moved in tandem with her breath.
A vivid image of a snow-covered mountain peak flashed in my mind. Exhausted, I let my hands slip from her and crawled back onto my bed, pulling the covers to my chin, wondering what happened to Teresa’s dad as I plunged into a blank chasm where dreams I’d never remember clamored to come alive.
Chapter 45
Around nine the next morning, a steady knocking awakened us. The lawyer Daisy had contacted stood on the other side of our door. He introduced himself as Curtis Hornblower and invited us out for breakfast. Over bacon and eggs, he explained to us that the only evidence of a crime were the two injured men I had confessed to maiming. He wanted to put pressure on the local investigators to take our story as the truth and charge Gus and Drake with attempted rape, assault with a deadly weapon, and conspiracy to murder.
Teresa was outraged. “You mean those two jerks could turn it all on us? Just say we attacked them?”
Hornblower wiped his fingers with his napkin, lifted his coffee mug, met Teresa’s angry eyes. “They could claim you were about to engage in consensual sex with them, and Deets discovered what was about to happen and attacked them.”
“What? Anyone could see the absurdity of that.”
“Well, yes, you know what happened, and I believe you. The sheriff most likely does too, but the law gives these two creeps a chance to tell their story.” Hornblower looked at his watch and signaled the waitress for the check. “Let’s go see the sheriff. We have an appointment in a few minutes with him. I’m sure you two want to get back home.”
We were in and out of the Sheriff’s office in twenty minutes. He informed us that Gus, who we knew as Mister Skinny, the guy with the broken wrist and collarbone, had backtracked and stumbled through his relating of events, getting caught in so many contradictions he had been arrested while laying in his hospital bed. The crew cut Drake was in no shape to talk right now. He had bitten halfway through his tongue and was drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Sure, their lawyer will say Gus was under the influence of powerful medicines or in shock and traumatized when we questioned him, but we pressed charges, believing Mister Parker’s and Miss Little’s version will be the prosecutor’s case. He’ll be contacting you sometime soon, but you’re free to go.” Sheriff Bidwell stood up and escorted us to his office door, directing his last words at me. “Could be you getting lost in the woods and tripping down that embankment was about the luckiest thing that could have happened in your situation.”
We drove back towards New York in silence. I wondered about luck and randomness, predetermination and choice. I kept coming back to the the words of Doctor Steel. He knew about my trip to Boston and my ghostly friend Hank, referred to my Indian hallucination and the dog whose howl I had heard. My vision in the mirror had been shaped by the primitive fierce energies of the warrior and the canine. And the ghost Hank’s determination had steered my journey to Betsy.
What did it all mean?
I theorized I was caught up in a war with the whip-tongued Doctor Steel. If so, I hoped Amelia, Jenny, and Santa Pigeon were my allies. They appeared to have a relationship with him and insight into my circumstances. Who were they? Why had Pigeon and Steel been fighting in Monster Alley? Was the Shadow Creature a living entity? A deadly,
other-worldly clash had intersected with my understanding of reality. Steel had shown capabilities of dissecting my thoughts and harming people around me, most likely by manipulating others. Had Steel entered the fray at the cabin, Teresa and I wouldn’t have prevailed. If he was just toying with me, what was the point of all the havoc it created?
How could I go on? The situation with the demonic, freakish Steel was out of control. I had to go see Amelia and Jenny again. They were my link to an explanation of, and hopefully, a solution to the nightmare that had invaded my life.
When thinking about the inhabitants of Monster Alley Mansion became too much of a strain, I tried to solve my more earthly worries. I was falling behind in my preparations for the art show, Teresa sounded fragile and disoriented, my family was in chaos over Richard’s arrest, and I dreaded a future that appeared to have too many lawyers and trials in it.
“I’m getting tired of the fuzz. It seems like every time I take a step, a cop is questioning me. Al, Orville, Renkins, now this.”
Teresa stared out the passenger window. “It’s a hassle. I don’t think you’re a magnet for trouble, though. More like you’re caught up in a tornado.” She pointed across the valley. “Look at those people up on that trail. They must be riding mules, like we read about in that brochure.” She sighed as she watched the animals plodding up a wide swath of barren hillside. “You’ve been gracious not to prod me for more information, but I never finished telling you the story about my family. My dad shaped his own doom with first, the embezzling, then later, by killing that man. Abe Daniels, that was the poor guy’s name. Mom said Dad lost it and smashed the lamp into his head. Whacked him right on the temple a couple of times so he was already dead when I got out of the bathroom. Dad escaped. Cops never found him. Over the years we’ve picked up rumors he was in South America, but that’s all I know. Could be he’s riding a mule up some mountain trail right now.”
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 22