Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Where’s Thomas?”

  “Still inside—trying to save the account books and petty cash.” When Riley heard someone shrieking, he barreled back into one of the storefronts.

  Emma hoped Thomas was okay. Even if she wouldn’t end up marrying him, his being sweet on her made her feel needed. Would she ever feel like that about anyone who returned the sentiment equally? She’d eavesdropped on wives who boasted of coaxing their husbands into doing their bidding. Those husbands doted on their spouses unfailingly. While, on the other hand, many husbands at the saloon chased the skirts of the barmaids without a thought of their spouses back home.

  Since the business district had been reduced to a blackened pile of smoking wreckage, friendly neighbors took in most of the victims. As far as Emma could tell, no one had been sent to the hospital or to the morgue. She let out a sigh of relief. Then she pondered where they’d get their daily news, since fire had obliterated the headquarters of The Winona Republican.

  Papa and Hugh packed up the unused medical supplies.

  While Riley finally let his sister bandage his hand and forearm, which was raw and oozing, he neither winced nor flinched. He stared at the hovering black smoke, his eyes glistening. “You know how Choate saved his business? The bastard.”

  “No.” Emma dabbed the wound with cotton, wondering what was really on her brother’s mind.

  “Fed the fire boys free whiskey.”

  “Is that where Thomas ended up? He didn’t even bid me goodnight. A girl can’t even get any attention around here.” Emma envisioned his green eyes, swimming with both adoration and trepidation. It was like he stood at the edge of one of the bluffs, too timid to take the plunge into the lake below. She held her breath now, awaiting her brother’s response.

  “He didn’t make it.” Riley was still mesmerized by the black cloud above. “Looks like you won’t have to wed him after all.”

  Emma’s hands trembled as she fastened the rest of the bandage.

  “You at least said yes tonight? For his sake, for Mama’s.”

  Her brain refused to come to terms with what he was saying. “Said yes?”

  “He asked Papa for your hand. Papa not only agreed, but offered Mama’s ring—which is probably melted with him under all that rubble.”

  Emma wiped her nose.

  “I don’t know why he was so stuck on you. You didn’t deserve him. Never did.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, her brother’s hurtful words skewering her heart. Apparently, Riley still assumed the worst of her, believing she’d shown special favor to that bastard who killed Mama. God, how Emma wished she’d shot that man dead. Then her mind turned to poor Thomas. What if she’d been able to love him? Would that have tipped the scales of life in his favor? Would he have made different decisions tonight?

  But Emma couldn’t keep doing this to herself. Mama wasn’t dead because of her. Nor was Thomas. She wanted to move away to a place where she wasn’t Riley and Papa’s whipping post, since the two of them appeared to be one and the same. When the war was over, her brothers would be home for good and her father might not find her so indispensable. She sensed Papa was currently attempting to replace her with one of his students, but none of them had proved themselves worthy enough, not yet.

  More than ever, Emma needed to put her pain aside and stick to her intention.

  Hugh came up behind them. “Everything’s packed. Papa’s ready to go. Thomas gone already?”

  Sadly, he was gone, but not in the way Hugh meant. “No.” Emma swiped a tear from her cheek while glaring at Riley. “Come on. Let’s go get him,” she said to Hugh, taking his hand. “We’ll take him home.”

  Summer 1988

  Mom’s whistling drifted up from the garden and into his bedroom. When she really got carried away, she massacred the entire soundtrack to The Sound of Music, skipping snippets here and there and missing the right pitch. Nails on the chalkboard, anyone?

  While the rest of the family sorted through boxes and settled in, Mom dripped sweat by the buckets, yanking weeds and manicuring the hedges. Dad cracked jokes about how neurotic she was about making a favorable impression with the neighbors, but whatever floated her boat. A crash course in relationships: know when to fight, know when to shrug and smile, Dad had always advised.

  Mark tacked up hair band posters, Rolling Stone covers, and some snapshots. Studying one of him and Jack next to a campfire with impaled marshmallows, Mark recalled how fast that family trip had flown by. When he’d asked his mother if he could invite Jack, Mark was floored—and even more floored when Jack’s parents consented. Both their parents were just glad the boys had a companion. And that they weren’t robbing convenience stores or vandalizing shit, or whatever else juvenile delinquents did.

  Pinning the photo above his headboard, Mark wondered what Jack was up to and if he remembered their friendship. Maybe someone else in the neighborhood had already replaced Mark, someone else who invited Jack on a weekend getaway. Or this might’ve been the year Jack went away to sleepaway camp. Or the year Jack decided to speak to girls. No matter what, Mark wasn’t around to hear any of the stories. Nor did he have anyone to tell any of his to—an objective point of view, or at the very least someone to make him laugh about it all.

  He could hear Jack saying something like, “Dude, if there’s a monster in the living room, put on a wolf costume and talk to it. You’ve read Where the Wild Things Are. Come on, use a brain cell.”

  If whatever Mark thought he saw that first night in the house was real, he sure as hell never wanted to talk to it. This wasn’t some children’s book.

  He snickered to himself as he plugged in his alarm clock and record player, in an attempt to settle in to his new room. Bonus: drown out Mom’s interpretation of show tunes.

  Mark was just about to switch on the clock radio when she yelled, “Oh my God! Justin, you won’t believe what I found!”

  Curious as to what the big deal was, Mark listened for his father to answer.

  “Look! An Indian pipe! Crazy, huh?” she said. “It’s a confirmation we’re supposed to be here.”

  “It is?” he asked.

  “Come on, baby. Don’t you see? What are the odds I’d find this right now? You know, some tribes thought the stone was the blood of their ancestors. And, smell it.”

  Mark took a peek over the sill to witness his father’s expression. As she thrust the object to his nostrils, Dad’s entire face creased. He wiped the dirt from the tip of his nose. “What am I smelling?”

  “The tobacco—isn’t that incredible? Reminds me of my grandfather. God, that takes me back to when I was a little girl.” Mom brushed at the sides, using the tip of her index fingernail to clear grime from decorative grooves.

  “That’s great, babe. Let me take it inside.”

  “Oh, no. I’m gonna go clean it up and find a special place for it.”

  Big whoop. A freaking pipe. You’d think she won the lottery or something.

  Next thing you know, she’ll be digging up the entire backyard like a dog unearthing bones.

  —

  On his sister’s initial night in the house, Mark heard a bunch of the fuss through his open bedroom door. He had a flashlight aimed at the Andrew Jackson biography with him under the sheet, to prevent being chided for staying up too late. His mother had this thing about keeping normal hours and some kind of schedule. At least that’s what he recalled from the lecture he’d tuned out.

  He’d attempted to ignore the commotion going on in his sister’s room. Mom tucked Tausha in, even switching on a cherub nightlight, but Tausha got up and climbed into their parents’ bed while they watched late night television. Mark’s peaceful reading lasted for a little while, until his sister drifted to sleep. When Dad carried her back into her room, she moaned. It was a cranky moan, the kind she used to do when she hadn’t napped. Probably assuming she’d settle down, Dad left her to carry-on and snuck down the hall.

>   Mark heard her rocking, the headboard clanging against the wall. Following a hop out of bed, he slapped his thigh and kissed the air. Salem obeyed, shadowing him into his sister’s room.

  He patted the bedding until the dog sprang onto the mattress. “Salem can sleep with you from now on,” he whispered.

  “But she always sleeps with you.” Tausha wiped her eyes.

  He stroked her hair. “It’s okay. She’ll protect you now.”

  His hand petted the retriever’s back before covering his sister’s exposed feet with the pink sheets. Salem jumped down to head after him. “Go on, girl,” he mouthed as he closed the door, keeping it cracked until he saw the dog mount the bed again.

  Mark slipped back into his room. His mind was clear for a few moments before he suddenly relived the day he and Jack had read the articles in his dad’s Playboys, while camping out in the teepee. Somehow, they were suddenly more grown up. Later, while zipped into their sleeping bags, Jack asked how Mark had gotten them. The monetary value alone was mind-blowing.

  “Well, these did come at a price,” Mark had said.

  “How do ya mean?” Jack asked. “You didn’t buy them, did ya?”

  “Let’s just say my old man caught me red-handed.”

  “No shit. Where?”

  “At the curb in front of our house.”

  “No way! Did he give you the riot act?”

  “Not even.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it was like he was relieved, or something. He put his hand on my shoulder and sorta just went back inside.”

  The animation draining from his face, Jack looked away.

  “I was expecting to get a sex talk right there on the spot. I braced myself and everything. It was bananas.” Mark had swallowed the lump in his throat. “You already get one of those?”

  “The talk?” Jack giggled, resuming eye contact. “You’ll be scarred for life if I tell you. You sure you wanna hear it?”

  “You can’t leave me hanging now.”

  “Okay, so me and my pop are watching some show on HBO. Two people start going at it. Real hot and heavy. So, he takes off his hat. It’s one of those beanie type deals. I have no idea where this is going. Somehow, he folds it up like some gross origami vagina. I can’t even look away at this point.”

  “Seriously, dude?”

  “There’s more. He asks me if I know how girls get pregnant. All I can do is nod, or at least I think I did because he says, ‘Good, don’t let that happen.’ By then the moaning on TV is done and we go on like nothing happened, but to this day I can’t even look at one of those hats without getting all traumatized and shit.”

  Mark guffawed so hard he snorted. “Better you than me, dude. That’s a whopper.” Practically gasping for air, he stopped and started laughing a few more times. He resisted the urge to ask what color that hat was. The likelihood of it being pink was small, but funny as hell to consider. “And your name—even better. You’re like Jack and the Beans-Talk. Get it? Beanie and talk?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Good one, asshole.” His face went from all crinkly to sporting a grin.

  The pair had giggled themselves to stomach aches.

  On the wings of this memory, Mark drifted to sleep.

  —

  A howl pierced Mark’s inner ear. It was impossible to discern if it came from his room, from outside his window, or from inside his head. Nor was it clear if the noise was animal or human. And Salem wasn’t there to help any.

  Whatever it was interrupted his dream, right before it was about to get good. His body tingled at the fading sexy sensation getting further from his mind’s reach.

  The half-empty house seemed to hold its breath. Its aches and creaks held fast against the sighing breeze. No one stirred in the neighboring bedrooms.

  After stepping to his window, Mark leaned over the sill. A jasmine fragrance hung thick in the heat. His father was the only reason he even recognized the scent.

  The glow of the moon radiated on each tree leaf. Crickets chirped, sounding like distress signals, but the rest of the outside world rested. Across the lot, trees and shrubs cast their usual dark shapes.

  The fountain begged for his attention. It flaunted its goo. A stench of rotten algae wafted, reminding him of a cadaver in one of his dad’s anatomy classes. He stared into the coagulated growth until it gurgled, but how could he perceive something like that from way up here? His exhausted perceptions urged him back to bed. But what about the cry? A trick of the wind? If it did come from inside him, was it a banshee of his subconscious? Fear manifests in countless ways. He’d explored that in English class. That must’ve been it. His loathing of moving here was rearing its ugly head. That was the real monster.

  Reprimanding himself for being too quick to own the blame, he redirected his train of thought. Maybe Tausha had a bad dream?

  He tiptoed to her room, easing the door open. Her face resembled a painted doll’s, a hint of a smile on her lips. Her chestnut hair spilled over her pillow, highlighted by rays of moonlight. Her rhythmic breathing assured him everything was all right.

  Salem snored beside her.

  Mark’s head leaned on the doorframe.

  Tonight’s animalistic scream forced him to recall Tausha’s fit the day they first looked at the house. That still haunted him for some reason. At least now she was slumbering peacefully.

  Following a drowsy blink, his sister was suddenly sitting up. The pipe Mom had found perched in Tausha’s hand. Tobacco embers smoldered. Her eyes flamed red with malevolence, worse than any portrayal in a scary movie. “It’s in the blood,” she whispered.

  Mark swallowed his heart and lost his balance.

  With the next blink of his eyes, his sister slumbered just as before. When he inhaled a lungful of air, he didn’t smell any trace of smoke. And Salem hadn’t stirred from her position.

  More sleep called to him. Facing reality with rest. That’s the ticket.

  Once in his room, while getting into bed, he glanced at the door to the rear stairway. Even though he was sure he shut it before turning out the light, he wasn’t concerned. It’d probably not completely latched. Case closed. Too tired to get up again, with one hand he yanked the sheet over his side.

  That door led to the former servants’ quarters and their passage to the kitchen. This seclusion was why the former owners had rented out the back rooms to college students. Mark’s door could remain locked, if necessary, and the students would have easy access to their own apartments and could come and go as they pleased via the kitchen door next to the refrigerator. They’d also be able to get to the basement to use the washer and dryer, and even set up a TV room down there. For now, those vacant apartments were still. Terribly still.

  Mark questioned how his parents would avoid living with local students. Wouldn’t that be the definition of awkward—particularly if someone was caught in merely underwear, or worse.

  At Mark’s back, the mattress jiggled with weight.

  “Really, Tausha? Can’t you sleep in your room?” he muttered.

  There was no reply.

  Mark caught a glimpse of a shadow through the cracked door. After a few seconds, it’d vanished. That had to be his subconscious messing around with him. Again.

  If he turned and his sister was lying next to him, his sanity would be restored. Her presence was the only logical explanation. But what if her eyes glowed back at him like they had a bit ago? He’d surely suffer a heart attack. His chest tightened.

  “Taush?”

  Nothing.

  Having to force himself, Mark rolled over. The bed was empty. Funny, he didn’t notice when his sister left the room. When had she learned that stunt—to appear and disappear in a flash? Little bugger.

  —

  Late the next morning, Mark moseyed into the living room and sat on the couch at the bay window, his book in hand. At the other end of the room, Tausha stuffed Salem’s paws into the arms of one of her dresses.

  Last nigh
t didn’t sit well with Mark. He tried not to picture his sister with demon eyes. “Hey, Taush, did you come into my room last night?”

  “Nope.” She’d gotten one of the dog’s legs through and was maneuvering the other.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.” Her teeth gritted while she discovered Salem’s girth was too massive for the frock to be buttoned up.

  Mark decided she must’ve slept walked, not that she’d had a history of it. New house, new rules, he supposed. Expecting the unexpected seemed the norm around here.

  Dad entered the dining room, where Mom worked at the table, and handed her the photo paper and a magnifier. He’d reappeared after about an hour in the bowels of the home, where he’d set up a darkroom. All of this had been previously announced in great detail as if the house was so massive he might go missing.

  Mark marveled at how his father survived down there, this time without Salem. A possible personal dare, a spontaneous test of manhood.

  The teen opened his book, pretending to read, his ears ready like hidden microphones.

  “What do you see?” Dad asked her.

  Mom’s eye inspected the image several times. On the last look, her hand wavered slightly. She thrusted the seemingly contaminated picture and the magnifier at him. “Nothing, Justin. Absolutely nothing.”

  “What about the smudge in the corner?”

  Her hands pushed around some of her papers on the table, mimicking a shell game. “So what?”

  “It doesn’t look like a face to you?”

  “Not really. Just some grime. That’s all.” Her attention roved the text in front of her.

  Dad pushed through the swinging door and reentered the room. “Did you clean the mirror?”

  “Not with all those boxes left to unpack.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He fingered his chin. “Well, then how do you explain that there’s nothing there right now? Clean as a whistle.”

  “You’re the one with the practical mind. You tell me.” Mom hadn’t glanced up from the table. Her voice teetered on the verge of an attitude. “A trick of light? Optical illusion?”

  Mom had a right to be suspicious of his suddenly entertaining the unexplained, although her own words and actions were often contradictory at best, at least according to Mark. Were Dad’s own perceptions piling up? As far as sounding insane, two adults with PhDs had the most to lose. Mark and his sister would simply be dismissed as kids with active imaginations.