Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  “Ain’t she a beauty?” he asked, appearing to channel Eddie Griswold. I nodded. “Let me show you around.” The hum of an electric generator droned in the background.

  We walked toward the building, but I found the lumpy terrain far from easy to navigate in the darkness. I stumbled twice as the level ground gave way to a series of three-foot-wide mounds of soil. I followed him inside through the solid pine door that, surprisingly, was fastened via a set of heavy duty hinges. One deadbolt above the knob and one below -- each with a unique key -- confirmed the importance he placed on security. He turned both double-cylinder locks as soon as we entered.

  For a moment I considered attempting to yank the gun from his hand while he focused on the door, but I held off. Better to wait until he was less aware -- while he slept, perhaps.

  He flipped a light switch next to the door, and a shoulder-height lamp in the room’s corner illuminated the gloomy living area. A black wood-stove sat in the opposite corner, a three by three pile of seasoned oak beside it. Two overused blue corduroy recliners were situated against the far wall, both covered by matching afghans and facing toward a console television that had somehow survived since the sixties. The entire room couldn't have been larger than ten feet by ten feet.

  "Make yourself comfortable," Thomas said as he gestured toward the chairs. I doubted comfort would ever be achievable in such a dump.

  "Do you have a bathroom?"

  "Course." He grinned. "Just off the foyer." I felt like laughing, but kept my mouth shut. The foyer to which he referred was nothing more than the door mat on which we tramped as soon as we crossed the threshold.

  He pointed to the shower curtain on our left -- covered with hot pink pigs, some of which had matching wings protruding from their backs. I set my suitcase down, slid the curtain aside, and stepped into what was surprisingly a clean -- albeit undersized and dated -- full bath. I did a double take when I noticed two toothbrushes resting in the cup that sat on the rear portion of the sink. Perhaps Thomas had a girlfriend?

  After I peed and washed up, I found that Thomas was no longer in the living area. "Have a seat," he said through the swinging door that must've led to the kitchen. "Hope you're hungry!" I sat down and considered my options for escape. I looked at the window, but wired sensors on the its sides indicated that Thomas had installed some sort of alarm system. Additionally, some locking mechanism appeared to be embedded in the catch, preventing anyone from opening it without a key. Therefore, the front door was likely my only point of egress. However, as Thomas had replaced the keys in his pocket, there was no way to immediately escape through the front door. For the time being, I was stuck.

  Within minutes, he returned with a tray of cocktail shrimp, at the center of which sat a bowl of tartar sauce. After setting it down on the hand-carved coffee table immediately in front of the chairs, he handed me a glass of champagne, held his own glass, and suggested we toast. "To family!" I allowed him to clank his glass against mine, and I downed the bubbly. "Eat up." He then returned to the kitchen.

  While he was occupied doing God knows what, I downed at least a dozen of the shellfish. Even though it must've been the wee hours of the morning, I still found myself famished. Besides, what else was there to do?

  In between bites, I flipped on the television. Since it didn't have a remote control, I had to manually power it on and turn the dial. Strangely, as I turned from one channel to the next, all I found was static. Nothing came through. I wasn’t surprised that Thomas couldn't afford cable or satellite, but wouldn't he at least get over the air channels via an antenna? If not, why'd he even bother having a set?

  I jolted when a cold hand touched my shoulder. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Antenna fell from the roof in last week's thunderstorm.” I racked my brain, but I couldn’t recall any severe thunderstorms in the Susquehanna Valley over the past few weeks. Some rain fell, sure, but I didn't think any showers were accompanied by winds in excess of twenty miles per hour, hardly enough to knock an antenna from the roof. Hot summer evenings were usually the domain of damaging storms.

  He ran into the kitchen and returned with microwaved lasagna that reminded me of a similar dish I’d once eaten at a local diner. The radiation with which Thomas cooked, however, had left this version dry and hard. I ate it anyway. “Thanks,” I said.

  He sat in the recliner next to me and grinned while he stuffed forkfuls into his oddly shaped mouth. I hadn’t noticed it before, but when the edges of his lips turned up, he was a dead ringer for Batman’s arch-nemesis. A little Halloween face paint would've transformed him into the Joker.

  Chapter Thirty

  It must have been three in the morning by the time we finished our lasagna -- I was still guessing the time, as I was unable to find any clocks in the shack. During the few seconds I spent alone while Thomas returned our empty paper plates to the kitchen, I thanked God that Thomas didn’t talk during the meal. Besides, he didn't need to speak to reveal his emotions. The unending smile he wore every time he glanced at me bore witness to his happiness.

  When I stood up to stretch he suggested I get a shower and brush my teeth. I furrowed my brow and stared at him. “But I don’t have a toothbrush here.”

  “It's in the bathroom. Yours is the one on the right.”

  I froze. “Where’d - you - get - it?” I hadn’t even brushed my teeth while at Oak Ridge, so his reply sent a chill down my spine. Could he have visited my house to retrieve my toothbrush? Although the idea was more than far-fetched, I wasn't quite sure of the extent of his insanity.

  He giggled like a boy whose father asked a question to which the father already knew the answer. "I bought you one, silly. What, did you think I took it from the Oak Ridge supply room?" His laughter continued, this time reminding me more of a creepy clown than an innocent child.

  I feigned a chuckle, but inside I was nearly as freaked out as I would have been had he, in fact, stolen it from my own bathroom. The fact that he had purchased a toothbrush and placed it in his home prior to my arrival there was beyond frightening. He must have decided to take me from Oak Ridge before hearing about Half-Ear. My story about Half-Ear fed into his plan, as he had no difficulty convincing me that he was helping me escape in order to give me the freedom I needed to protect my wife. My stomach tightened.

  "Thanks," I whispered. He patted me on the back, and he watched intently as I removed a clean change of clothes from the suitcase and headed into the not-so-private bathroom. I didn’t dare look him in the eye.

  After closing the curtain behind me, I glanced at the toothbrush on the right. Just as he said, it appeared new. However, only one tube of toothpaste sat in front of the toothbrushes. And that tube bore the wrinkles of one used more than a time or two. I was not going to share a tube of toothpaste with this man. I ran the water over the bristles and replaced it in the cup. I'd rather have bad breath or a couple cavities than ingest any of Thomas's germs.

  I turned on the showerhead and undressed, taking note of the weak water pressure. We must've been on a well. At least the water wasn't brown. I hopped in and took a shower that I ended even more quickly than the cold ones through which I had to suffer in Vietnam.

  While I toweled off – Thomas at least gave me my own clean towel -- I couldn’t help but look through the quarter inch gap between the curtain and the door frame. In the living area, Thomas was sitting in his recliner and staring at the television set. He shot a quick glance in my direction, and I was afraid he saw me watching him.

  I pretended not to see him, and jerked my head behind the curtain. It was likely too late, but I had to at least feign ignorance. I didn't want him to think I didn't trust him...that I kept an eye on him.

  I threw my clothes on, anxious to see what he was watching. Was he merely staring at static? As I pulled on my pants, however, I heard the recliner squeak and his footsteps race across the floor. A cabinet door slammed shut, and the footsteps raced again. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, he was again seated
in his recliner and smirking.

  "Feel better?" he asked.

  "It's nice to finally clean up," I lied. Although I was able to remove the grease and grime from my body, just being in Thomas's presence...in his home...made me feel like I was living inside a dumpster. No matter which way I turned, I was face-to-face with the filth of his lies...of his unmitigated creepiness.

  Although we were seemingly isolated in the woods, I still held out hope that we'd be found. And I decided that a simple question would let me know whether my hope was well-placed. "I really appreciate you getting me out of that looney bin," I said. "But won't Oak Ridge track us down? I mean, they have your address, right?"

  "Naw," he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Only my sister knows about this place. I use her address for work, for my driver's license, and for anyone else who needs to mail me." He shrugged his shoulders. "So I guess it's just you and me, gramps."

  I walked across the room and leaned against the far wall. I dug my bare toes into the high-pile but low-density beige carpet remnant that covered much of the unfinished plywood floor. "By the way, how'd you know I was your grandfather?" I needed to understand more about the insanity with which I was dealing.

  "That was easy," he said with a wink, “once I learned your background.” His smirk seemed to reveal on devilish intent. "My mom always told me and Liz -- that's my sister, if you haven't already figured that out -- about your time in Vietnam. About how brave you were, and how you were ready to give up your life for our country. She was awfully proud of her pops."

  I was dumbfounded. I didn't know how to react. So I stood still, the bottom of my jaw creeping ever closer to the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  "When the Army reported that you were missing in action, grandma lost it." Thomas said. "According to mom -- who was only four at the time -- grandma only went to work about half the time, began smoking all sorts of things, and slept. Mom often had to scrounge for crackers in the pantry...a couple times a week, grandma forgot to feed her."

  Was this true, I thought? Did his grandmother give up on her own daughter when her husband went missing? With Thomas, it was difficult to parse facts from lie. But the clarity with which he recited the tale made me believe that, at the very least, he thought this was the truth.

  "That sounds awful."

  "It was, grandpa," he said. He stood and put a hand on my shoulder. I wanted more than anything to back away, but I forced my arm to stay still. "But don't you worry. It's not your fault. You were just doing what you thought was best."

  I nodded. I've never acted -- not even in a high-school production -- but I attempted to channel my inner thespian. I even tried to generate a tear, but I failed. Regardless, he seemed to buy my melancholy state.

  "After the Army declared that the Viet Cong must've killed you and disposed of your body, grandma believed she didn’t have the right to outlive you...the most perfect man she'd ever known. And she knew she didn't have the wherewithal to raise mom by herself."

  Thomas leaned his head on my shoulder, and I patted his back. What else was I supposed to do? "You okay?" I asked.

  He picked his head up, and I saw real tears raining from his eyes. "The police found her hanging in her bedroom closet from a noose she'd fashioned out of a doubled-up clothesline."

  "Oh, God," I said. Up until that point, I'd done my best to keep my emotions in check. After all, I trusted Thomas less than any of the previous election's presidential candidates. But at that moment, I realized that maybe his horrible story was true. And if it was, he needed comfort. He leaned toward me, and I embraced him. I couldn't stop a few tears from dripping onto his greasy hair.

  "Mom," he mumbled between sobs. "Your daughter, I mean." I gnawed on my lower lip, almost allowing myself to believe that his story was real. That my daughter did believe I was missing. That my wife did kill herself. I can't explain it now, but it felt so real -- kind of like the episodes that sent me to Oak Ridge in the first place. "She spent the next dozen years alternating between orphanages and foster homes."

  I was never MIA, I reminded myself. I didn't even know Claire until my injury. I have no daughter.

  "I didn't know," I said.

  "I understand," he said. "I'm sure you tried to track her down when you returned from Vietnam, but by that time she was lost in the system. It would've been nearly impossible for you to find her." He fell back into his chair.

  "Once she aged out, she fell hard for a bouncer five years her senior. He worked one of the establishments she frequented. During the few years they lived together, Liz and I were born. When I was two and Liz was five, he bolted, leaving mom to raise us on her own." I recalled with suspicion Thomas's earlier claim that his father watched his baseball games. "Awfully difficult for a waitress working for her share of the tip jar, but she made due."

  "Do you see her much?"

  He shook his head. "An burglar with a gun took her from us five years ago. Now it's just me and Liz."

  "Have you ever tried to get in touch with your father?"

  "Thought about it a couple times. To be honest, though, I hate the man. Not only did he abandon the three of us, but, according to Liz, he laid his hands on mom a couple times a week. He wouldn't let her go out much, either. She returned home as soon as her shift ended, and rarely saw friends. When she did, his fists were waiting for her return home. Guess he was afraid that, if he allowed her to leave whenever she wanted, she might decide not to come home."

  That's where you get it from, I thought. "I'm surprised he left her after he put so much effort into keeping her around."

  "He found a young woman even more submissive than mom. Someone who always did what he wanted."

  "Sounds like your family's been through a lot."

  "You mean our family." He grinned, patted the seat of the other chair, and I sat. "I know you've been away from us for what seems like forever...so long that you remarried and started a family of your own. But that family...Claire and Charlie...aren't your real family. They were simply folks who filled the void in your life until you found me and Liz." The hairs on my neck stood on end. Not only was I freaked out by his dismissal of my real family. I was terrified because I had never told him the names of my wife and son.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thomas pulled two blankets from the floor behind his recliner and tossed one to me. He then flipped on a pig-shaped nightlight and turned out the lights in the kitchen and living area. Those two rooms, plus the bathroom, made up the entirety of the house.

  “So,” I said, letting my curiosity get the best of me. “Why all the pigs?”

  I heard him chuckle from beneath his blanket, which he had pulled over his head. “You know how some folks collect knick-knacks featuring dogs or cats?” I nodded even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Your daughter collected ones with pigs.” He sniffled. “I keep them around to feel like she's here.” Although I understood that he missed his mom, a pig nightlight and shower curtain seemed a peculiar way to remember her. As I thought about it, I realized that I hadn't noticed any pictures of her -- or anyone else, for that matter -- inside the place.

  "I wish I saw her before she passed," I said. I meant it, too. Maybe if I did so, I would understand Thomas better…though his explanation of his childhood gave me more than a few hints as to why he felt compelled to keep me locked inside the cabin. "Thomas," I said, hoping my empathy was beginning to curry his favor. "I'm not like your dad. I'm not going to abandon you."

  His sheet ruffled. "I want to believe you. I really do." He shifted in his chair. "I know my dad was an ass. No decent man could, in good conscience, abandon his wife and two little kids. None."

  "You're right. That's exactly what I'm saying. I'm not like your dad. I am a decent man. I could never do that to you."

  "Oh, grandpa," he said with a sigh. "I so want to believe you."

  "Then do." I reached my hand to touch his arm, to help him know it would be okay.

  As soon
as I touched him, though, his muscles turned to stone. He jerked his arm away as though he feared I was going to snap it in two. He leapt out of his chair and, in the pink light that shone through the pig's snout, I saw him aim his gun at my face. "I don't believe you. I don't believe anyone."

  I held my trembling hands up and froze. "Why?" I whispered. "Have I done anything to make you think I'm not trustworthy?"

  "You brought mom into the world, didn't you?"

  I cocked my head, utterly confused. "What?"

  "You're the one who fathered mom! Isn't that enough to prove I shouldn’t trust you?"

  "But...but I thought you loved her?"

  He ran his free hand through his greasy, overgrown hair. "I try to convince myself of that, yeah. But I know I never loved her…not really. She brought that man -- my father -- into her life. She allowed him to beat her...to beat me...to beat Liz." He paused, and tremendous sobs, reminding me of a barking seal, poured out of his mouth. He convulsed like an asthmatic who was unable to catch his breath during an attack.

  After a few minutes, he held his hand on his chest and somehow willed himself calm -- as if he did so frequently. "All I remember about him was his beet-red face and the belt he held in his hand."

  "I can't imagine how scared you must've felt, Thomas. But didn't she raise you after your dad left?"

  He chuckled. "Yeah, if raise means stocking the pantry with cans of beans so we could eat while she got high with her man-of-the-week." He grunted like an angry warthog.

  He lowered the gun, but I was confident he did so as a result of the strain its weight placed on his arm rather than a sudden inclination to trust me. "But I thought you wanted to be reminded of her?"

  "I do," he said matter-of-factly. "I absolutely do want to remember her."

  "But what do you want to remember, then? Sounds like you didn't share many good times."