Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  “It’s called a mortgage, son. Once you sign that, it’s kinda like a marriage. You can’t just change your mind. That’s not how it works.” Following a gulp from his mug, Dad grinned. “We’ve got every penny sunk into this down payment. Even had to borrow some money from your grandparents.” His eyes grew alert. “Besides, this home’s got character. Admit it.”

  Character wasn’t Mark’s vocabulary choice in this case. How could he tell his father the house was like the witch in Hansel and Gretel tempting the family with baked goodies before pushing them into the oven? Maybe that’s what the incident in the garage was all about—tapping into his raging hormones for the sake of a distraction.

  All Mark had at the moment were hunches. Impressions. Meaningless incidents that could be explained away. His sister’s tantrum was just a bad mood. The fallen windowpane was just loose. The monster in the living room was just his dog. The ghost was a product of a chemical fume high. Dreams were dreams. Although each isolated event was easily explainable, when compiled together they took on a different meaning. It was like magnifying an ordinary surface, and being confronted by hundreds of squirming organisms.

  Dad drummed his fingers on the counter. “Remember, everything is energy. Our bodies are made of it. Everything around us is made of it too. Every house has its own personality, its own history. We’ve all got to get to know it. You with me?”

  Mark bit the inside of his cheek and nodded reluctantly.

  Salem lapped some water.

  When Mark looked down at the dog bowl, the liquid in it was green. Slime sloshed around, some of it hanging in strings from the retriever’s mouth. As she continued to drink, he banished the notion that someone had scooped up a serving of the fountain’s contents and brought it inside. A faint rotten scent drifted to his nose.

  Almost gagging on his mouthful of food, Mark shut his eyes. He felt a cool damp snout pressed into him and knew the sludge crept up towards his dick like acid-borne algae, hungry to burn essential body parts. When he opened his eyes again, Salem nuzzled her face, drooling with ordinary slobber, in his lap. The water in her dish sparkled crystal-clear.

  Mark longed for his old suburban apartment that had kept its personality and history to itself. So far this place’s energetic baggage was liable to drive him batty, no matter how many excuses he’d been willing to give it. There were times he used to pray for a cure for summer boredom, but this wasn’t what he had in mind.

  January 1862

  Over the previous weeks, Emma had pushed away the traces of jealousy when she’d observed the patient brightening at Jonathan’s attention. The woman’s mouth readily opened for the food he’d spooned. Her hands actively reached for the liquids he’d offered. Emma had scarcely achieved a lifting of the Dakota girl’s eyelids.

  Even though Emma had persisted through the extended convalescence, she clearly hadn’t the proper aptitude to heal the spirit. The communication barrier prevented a deeper human connection, which was no fault of hers. How had Jonathan penetrated that barrier, though? With the magic of being the opposite sex? Had sharing the same room led to physical contact? Emma imagined his body spooning the patient back to health, or maybe caressing her, or more. What an incentive to get better. Maybe she was pregnant! And it’d been all her idea.

  “It seems being with you has done the trick,” Emma said, looking to Jonathan, then touching the patient’s hand. She noted the extra bedding folded up on the chair, trying to intuit the last time Jonathan had slept on the floor.

  “There be a secret to that,” he said, “but now’s not the time to discuss it.”

  She knew it. Those blankets hadn’t been touched all week, then. Emma retreated down the hallway of her emotions, the tunnel lengthening like a piece of stretched taffy. No matter the expanse she sought to keep between herself and Jonathan, her attraction kept pulling her back. It was only a matter of time before she’d be metaphorically face-to-face with him again, right where she’d started. She braced herself for his upcoming declaration of love for the Indian girl and that they’d be moving out to be together. How Emma hated being so ridiculous, so unable to control her feelings. Nonetheless, he’d have to be honest with her sooner rather than later.

  “Let me know when it’s time, then.” Emma gathered the dishes and silverware, setting them on the bedside tray. “We do need to discuss what’s next. Papa’s been speaking about training some of his students here. It’s getting too dangerous.” If only her father had finished the guesthouse on the other side of the property. That would’ve provided another option for their current predicament. Funny how easily you could spend life dreaming up what was possible, or fretting over what you wished never happened to start with.

  “We’ll have to make it ‘til I can bring her on a supply errand. Then, I’ll see if she recognizes anything—or anyone.”

  Either Jonathan played the convincing role of neutral party, or he didn’t really harbor romantic feelings for the Dakota woman.

  “Might you find a translator? Surely, that’ll improve matters—for all of us.” Emma took up the tray.

  “Good thinking,” he said, but it seemed something else weighed on his mind.

  What was his secret?

  Almost to the door, Emma turned.

  Before she’d the chance to utter a word, Jonathan had stepped close. His hand brushed her cheek—flushing from her frayed nerves or his heat. Now they were literally face to face. “I was going to say—”

  “I know. I won’t forget an’ lock it.” That dormant adoration swirled in his eyes. She wanted to jump up and down like a child. “We can do this. Don’t worry.”

  If only Emma could smile, but her face stiffened. There was plenty to worry about. She detected a black cloud forming over her as she exited the room. The sparks of friction charged the air. Lightning prepared to strike any minute now.

  Summer 1988

  The family car pulled into a parking spot at the nearby lake, just what Mark didn’t need. More water. Yet, someone at the college said it was what everyone did during the summer. “When in Rome,” Mom had remarked. Fun and sun, barbeque and all that jazz.

  Considering the elbow-to-elbow crowd, everyone and their mother, literally, had come out here. Even in the stifling heat, the rays of the sun beating on him, Mark shivered at the sight of the body of water. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. If he’d known that an old ass poem in English class was going to torment him at a time like this, he would’ve tuned it out.

  Nearly getting hit in the head with a Frisbee, Mark carried one of the bags from the car to the only available picnic table. Once the family had emptied the car, Mom unpacked all the Tupperware and drinks. Dad popped open a soda can.

  After setting her warrior doll down, Tausha casted her dress aside and dashed to the shore, blending with the other kids splashing like maniacs. Rafts drifted around. A floating platform with a waterslide spit out slider after slider like a factory conveyor belt. Screams and laughter rode the breeze.

  Mark sauntered his way to the shore. Up closer, it was rather gross. His opinion was it was just a larger version of the fountain in their yard. He had to force the flashbacks of his dreams away. Sure, out in front of him, nothing floated on the surface, since it was far from stagnant, but the color was just as green. If Mark was being fair, it might’ve been a shade or two lighter, so he tried to focus on the differences. The vibe here was more upbeat. There was actually room to swim around. Tausha seemed to be enjoying herself.

  Most importantly, they were all out of the house.

  So why wasn’t he capable of relaxing?

  A finger tapped Mark’s shoulder. When he turned, a silly grin beamed at him. “Fancy meeting you here,” Hexx said, already barefoot and shirtless.

  Here in broad daylight, Mark’s new buddy flaunted his scrawny and hairless chest. By comparison, Mark’s physique was lean instead of scrawny, with a few more hairs. Although he briefly considered flinging off his shirt, Mark kept it on.


  “Where’d you get that line? A cheese ball movie?” Mark poked a finger in his mouth like he wanted to puke. “Do you actually swim in that?”

  “What? It’s just the run off from the rivers. You know, leaves and other stuff. It’s, like, nature, man.”

  “I must be used to places like Lake Superior. That water is crystal. You can drink a handful of it right there on the spot.” Mark gestured like an Italian complimenting his mama’s spaghetti. “That’s what I call a lake.”

  “Well, lots of things are different around here. I think it’s time for your initiation.” Before Mark blinked, Hexx was at his back, shoving him, shirt and all, into the water. Despite Mark’s resistance, his immersion turned into a splash war, erasing any animosity toward the fountain. His house was miles away from here.

  When they tired of blasting each other with water, the boys went a few rounds on the slide.

  “What’s up?” Hexx called out to another swimmer.

  The kid made a disgusted face, while saying something Mark couldn’t quite make out in all the commotion, and kept doggy paddling away. Mark swore he heard, “Get away from me, you prairie nigger.” The last thing he wanted to do was press Hexx to tell him what that was all about. Instead, he asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Someone from school. No big deal.”

  Obviously, it was a big deal, but Mark let it go.

  About an hour later, the two teenagers plunked on the shore, eyeing the passing girls. Mark also admired the occasional boy with more muscle definition.

  A girl with curly red hair and freckles strutted their way. Her bikini was five sizes too small for her curves, making her look like a superhero spilling out of her costume. Although most boys probably drooled all over her, there was something about her Mark didn’t like. She turned her nose up at him and Hexx as she passed.

  “And who’s that?” Mark asked.

  “Skylar.” Searching the air for his words, Hexx paused, “but she’s pretty much a straight up bitch.”

  They both laughed.

  Hexx faced the lake. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you were—”

  “Nah, I’m not.”

  Hexx bobbed his head in a goofy nod. “So what was it like to live in the twin cities?”

  Mark engaged in the idle chitchat about St. Paul and how they’d be in the same grade at the town public school.

  As Mark guessed, Hexx wasn’t his real name, but Hexx hated being called Hector. Hexx was cool and simple, or whatever. It stemmed from someone’s mispronunciation of his name and it stuck.

  Mark reminded him of the Trojan War hero of the same namesake, but Hexx said that made Hector even more pretentious. Not one of his cells fit the genetic makeup of a legendary warrior. Besides, Hector’s dead body had been dragged around the city, and his baby son drop-kicked to its death. Definitely not an association Hexx wanted to perpetuate. He preferred decimating 2-D ghosts and intimidating other Pac Man enthusiasts via a monitor. Oh, and the extra x at the end of his screenname was supposed to be rock star bad ass, like Nikki Sixx of Mötley Crüe.

  Mark’s only nickname, faggot, was one he’d rather wipe from his history. That was the one good thing he left behind when they moved. What bothered him more than the label were those kids whose moms worked out to Richard Simmons and swooned over Elton John, while they themselves rocked to Judas Priest or Queen. Being prejudiced was one thing. Being a hypocrite was another.

  “Hey, any interest in going to the library tomorrow?” Mark asked.

  “Sure, I got nothing else to do.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Throwing a hand on his chest, Mark feigned heartbreak.

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Hexx chuckled.

  Like a bullet train, Tausha scurried up the embankment and waved to Mark.

  “That your sister?” Hexx asked.

  “The one and only.” Mark followed her with his eyes.

  Tausha sat at a picnic table facing an eccentric man with long black hair and wearing a white shirt. Leaning over the table, he spoke with Tausha like they already knew each other.

  Mark’s eye locked onto the stranger’s tribal necklace, multi-colored beads woven into a repeating pattern that hung down and ended in a larger design that was some kind of animal. It was too far away to make out.

  Once he realized Mark was staring, the man’s beady eyes became slits. A predatory gaze, the kind from an episode of Animal Kingdom. For a second, they seemed to glow fiery red, sending a quiver through Mark’s entire body.

  The corners of the man’s mouth upturned. At first glance the grin might’ve been considered friendly, but with more scrutiny, it was the I told the teacher you cheated on the test kind. As his lips stretched wider, he bared sharp canines, akin to Salem’s. When he waved at hand under the table, the tips of claws curled at Mark.

  “Do you see him?” Mark asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Who?” Hexx replied.

  It should’ve been obvious. The guy with his sister. Perhaps the problem was Mark was the only one who saw the stranger. “Never mind.” Without explanation, Mark charged over to his sibling, grabbing her by the arm. “Come on, Taush.” He pulled her off the bench and up to Hexx.

  “What’re you doing?” she pleaded.

  “Mom wants us for lunch.”

  Tausha peeped up at Hexx. “You know, we have an elevator at our house.”

  “For real?” he replied.

  “Um, okay.” Mark shot a disapproving glance at his sister before turning to his friend. “You wanna eat with us?”

  “Sure.” Hexx scratched his chest. “Now that I know you have an elevator. How can I not? Like you guys are extra cool now.”

  “It’s not that big a deal, really,” Mark said with disinterest.

  “When do I get to ride in it?”

  “Never, unless you convince my mom otherwise.” Mark’s mind was still on the stranger. Clutching Tausha by the shoulders, he peered down at her. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Oh, that’s my friend Jonathan.” She grinned, one of her dimples showing.

  Mark gulped for air. “Who’s that?”

  “He used to live in our house.”

  Before he was able to grill her further, Tausha ran off to the picnic table.

  Mark glanced at Hexx, who casually shrugged his shoulders.

  January 1862

  Emma paused in the kitchen to sneak a sliver from the chocolate cake cooling on the counter. Her taste buds rejoiced at the sweetness, and a moment later, a toe-curling scream joggled her. While licking her fingers, her ears strained to determine whether its origin emanated from within or from outside the house. Her body readied to lunge in the appropriate direction.

  A new commotion grumbled outdoors, so she edged to the window. The light of the evening waned, and the usual blanketed expanse of white glittered across the yard. Branches, encrusted with ice and frost, draggled near the window.

  The patient, her hair free, labored barefooted through the snow, yelling a bombardment of words Emma didn’t understand. Feathers and colorful beads flapped from her dress like bursts of fireworks. So much for concealing her identity.

  Emma inhaled deeply, noticing something falling from the woman’s hand.

  In close pursuit, Jonathan shouted, his words spiked with desperation, and equally foreign to Emma’s ears.

  After several moments, she realized they spoke the same language to each other. Like when the cloth is yanked from a magic trick, the closeness between the pretend married couple suddenly unveiled itself.

  Emma threw on her boots and coat. Careful not to drop the lantern, she barreled down the back steps. Nearing the thing the Dakota girl had discarded in the snow, Emma slowed to identify it by lowering the light. Her brain attempted assembling the image of an unidentified animal, but the reality of what she regarded sunk in. Her boot poked the specimen to verify the truth. What appeared to be a scalp of black hair, unfolded into a pair of eyeholes, a nose, lips, and ended in a
ragged chin. The birthmark on the cheek reminded Emma of a lake on a map.

  Cupping a hand over her mouth, she flung the stable door open, rushing inside.

  A saddle lay forlorn on the ground, the horses whinnying from their stalls at the upheaval.

  Emma and Jonathan stood blocking the door to the exterior, meaning the only way of escape was up. The pretend couple hurled words back and forth as the faux-wife scaled the stairs, Jonathan scrabbling after her. Emma surmised he was preventing her from blindly running off on a stolen animal into the harsh elements, without warm clothing or any provisions.

  A metallic thrashing against the planks, followed by a cry, echoed while the woman faltered. As she struggled to regain momentum, on her continuance upward she lost her balance.

  Jonathan’s efforts to catch her proved seconds too slow.

  Emma trailed them upstairs, passing splotches of blood.

  By then the woman had scaled the barn window, digging a metal object into the wood for leverage. The panel swung open with the force of the body weight.

  The patient assessed the ground below.

  After a thwack against the outer wall, the shutter swayed back.

  Emma’s pulse palpitated in her head.

  What if the patient let go? Would the snow cushion her fall?

  As the Dakota woman’s grip on the wooden panel slipped, she veered back into reach, and Jonathan threw his arms around her. They both toppled to the floor. A rip murmured as the skirt snagged the wood. The shred, clung to by a few beads, sagged into a crevice. What appeared to be a rusty hook skidded from her grasp.

  A flurry of snow from the window dusted them.

  Removing her coat, Emma placed it around the girl’s shoulders.

  A sea of questions flurried in her head, but she managed to spit a couple of them out. “How’d she escape? What’s happening?”

  The sobbing woman burrowed into Jonathan’s chest. As he stroked her hair, her heaves lessened.

  “I locked her in, as usual. I swear it. Then, while stokin’ the living room stove, I heard a cry in your pa’s office. Ain’t sound nuthin’ like him, so I shot in there and seen her with a skeleton in her lap. In her hand she’s got the hook—the one he was danglin’ from. Seein’ me, she plumb run off.”