by Hamill, Ike
When I was a kid, I sucked at running. Even two laps around the soccer field would make me want to throw up. Another boy in my class—Luke Mason, maybe?—taught me to take three strides for every time I take a breath. It doesn’t always work. When I first start running I have to pant until my body settles into the rhythm. I still try to use Luke’s method. It makes me focus on my breathing until it comes under control. So that’s what I do now—focus on my breath. My hand scans back and forth three times, making three passes at the floor, and I take a breath. Over the next three passes, I let it out.
Fingertips brush something metal. It moves.
Finally, I find the keys under the seat.
I fish them out slowly, fearing that if I ease my grip they’ll disappear again.
They jingle together and I hear something tap on the door right next to my head.
Whatever is out there, it’s only inches away from me now. Only metal and glass keep it at bay.
My eyes are still shut tight as I push up and squeeze between the steering wheel and the seat. I don’t know how many of them are out there. I don’t know if they’re smart enough to find a rock and smash through one of the side windows.
When I’m sitting in the middle of the seat, face still scrunched up to keep my eyes shut, I pull on the steering wheel to slide into the driver’s seat.
Even through my eyelids, it’s like I can still see a pair of glowing eyes. Maybe the hypnosis isn’t just visual.
My trembling hand guides the key into the side of the steering column. I pull back and try three more times until the key finds its slot.
The key turns and clicks.
The sound is echoed by a tap on the window.
What is that thing? It’s shaped like a person, but it has to be some kind of cunning animal, right? It’s a blind, glowing-eyed, hypnotizing predator that Mr. Engel described as a vampire.
I turn the key almost all the way to ignition when I remember the transmission. Uncle Walt taught me to always leave the truck in first gear when I park it. I stand on the clutch and pull the shifter out of gear before my hand finds its way back to the key.
The starter grinds and whines. It seems like an eternity before the thing catches. I punch the accelerator and the engine roars under the hood, sending a throbbing vibration up through my feet.
Now what?
The dooryard is pretty big. I would normally back around to the left and then crank the wheel back to the right in order to turn out to the road. The tapping on my window is increasing in speed. It’s getting ready to do something. How far can I drive using muscle memory before I have to open my eyes? There’s a ditch that runs along the length of the field and passes under the driveway. Uncle Walt used to have sections of fence on either side, acting like a guard rail between the driveway and the ditch. It rotted away years ago and we never replaced it. The fence just made it difficult to mow the grass that would grow up around the ends of the culvert.
Now, I can only pray that I don’t need it.
I spin the steering wheel and push the shifter into reverse. It clunks home.
The speed of the tapping increases even more.
How many of them are there? Is there still one in front of the truck? Is it scurrying after me as the tires throw gravel and I back away?
I brought Kimberly up to Maine once. It was right after she found out that she was pregnant. We went to the fair out in Windsor, and I bought tickets and rode the twisting and spinning rides alone. Kimberly made fun of me every time I staggered down the metal stairs, trying to get my balance.
“Why are you torturing yourself like this?” she asked every time.
My answer never changed. “One day, maybe eight years from now, our child is going to drum up the courage to ride these and they’re going to want me to ride with them. I’m just practicing for that day so I don’t throw up.”
The truth was that I liked the feeling. The rides made me nauseous, but I still liked the feeling of being thrown left, right, up, and down with zero control. The queasy stomach was a small price to pay. It’s almost the same way now. Driving in a tight, fast arc with my eyes closed, my stomach flops and my head spins. I desperately want to open my eyes so I can lock onto some distant point and make sense of the way that I’m accelerating.
Tonight, the feeling of being out of control isn’t welcome at all.
Ditch
(Time is relative.)
Time is relative.
I know that this isn’t an original thought. It’s not even particularly creative. I remember when it first occurred to me. I was standing in the kitchen, eating a piece of buttered bread. My mother was racing around, trying to make sure she had everything she needed before we left on our trip. Mom was a blur, racing from the hall, through the kitchen, and then disappearing into the living room while she stuffed a folder of papers into her bag.
Passing by me, she said something like, “I certainly hope you packed your toothbrush. There’s not going to be a single store open when we get there.”
I did have my toothbrush. Everything I needed for the week was stuffed into my backpack and that was planted firmly on the floor between my feet.
The next time I saw mom, she was headed the opposite direction with an armload of folded clothes.
“And who knows if the washing machine will be in working order. Last time I spent a fortune in quarters at the laundromat. I’m not doing that again.”
I had enough underwear to last. I wasn’t worried. Besides, I didn’t plan on wearing anything besides a bathing suit. We were headed to the beach. For a few years, before she started shipping me off to Uncle Walt’s for the summer, we stayed at the beach. Her “friend” had a place that he let us borrow. The first thing Mom would do when we arrived would be to gather up all the pictures of her “friend” and his wife and stuff them deep in a drawer in the dining room. At the end of the trip, Mom would return the pictures to where they belonged.
When she finally finished her preparations and stood by the front door, she turned back to me with a scowl.
“Are you coming, or are you going to make me wait all day?” she asked.
In her mind, the time packing and racing around was nothing. The few seconds she stood by the door, waiting for me to finish my bread, was a lifetime. Time is relative. I noticed it more and more after that moment. The trip to get to the beach took a century. The return home to my mundane life was over in a blink.
I wake up to the sound of the truck’s horn. It sounds distant, almost sounding like a train horn in the fog. As I blink and push back from the steering wheel, it stops. I yawn and pop my ears.
The tapping starts almost immediately.
I nearly turn to look at the source, and then I remember.
It all comes flooding back.
I backed up fast, perhaps turning too far before I pushed the shifter into first. Then I must have overshot the driveway and crashed into the culvert. Without my seatbelt on, I had cracked my head against the hard plastic steering wheel and then slumped into the horn.
I can feel a lump rising on my forehead.
There’s another tapping coming from the right side now.
At least two of them are tapping.
I put the shifter back in reverse, push the clutch, and start the engine again. It rolls back into life. The rear wheels pull the truck back a foot or two and then spin. Something is caught. The front wheel could be stuck on the culvert, or maybe the remnants of the old fence. I spin the steering wheel left and then right, trying to get free.
There’s not enough traction to build up any momentum. When I press in the clutch, I feel the truck roll forward again. I try to rock it back and forth to spring loose. One time, my uncle used this technique to get the front tire over a rock when he got stuck behind the barn. It worked for him, but I can’t seem to get the rhythm right.
The tapping is getting stronger and stronger.
Maybe they’re not trying to echolocate me—maybe it’s just an eff
ort to draw my attention so I’ll look into their hypnotic eyes. It almost works. I want to see what’s making that sound. When I open my eyes, looking straight forward, I can see the glow in my peripheral vision. They’re definitely on either side of the truck. There may be more than two.
I let the gearshift settle into neutral and I take my foot off the gas. I’m idling in the ditch.
The tapping matches the speed of my thudding heart.
I take a breath and try to hold it, imagining myself running three strides before I let it out.
An image takes shape in my head. It’s Mr. Engel’s house. There are two trees flanking the building and two windows on either side of the front door. On the second floor, I see three windows across the face. One of those windows belongs to Mr. Engel’s bedroom. I’ve been up there. The third floor has just the one window and it’s smaller than the others—four panes over four panes.
Four by four.
Four…
“Wheel drive,” I whisper. My eyes fly open and I fumble for the switch on the dashboard that controls the lights. When they come on, I focus on the green glow of the radio and then carefully study the knobs and switches below that.
It’s not a switch I’m looking for though. If the truck were more recent, maybe it would be, but I’m looking for the second shift lever—the one I’ve ignored all these years. I never drove up here in the winter time, so I never had cause to touch it. I guess that over time my eyes grew accustomed to skipping right over it.
It’s pushed all the way forward into two-wheel drive. I push the clutch and clunk it back into four high.
This time when I close my eyes, I’m praying that four-wheel drive will get me out of the ditch. I put the truck into reverse and ease into the gas.
The front hangs up again and the back wheels spin.
The answer pops into my head immediately.
I haven’t switched the hubs yet. Uncle Walt had to get out and engage the locking hubs on the front wheels before four-wheel drive would work. I had a really good look at those the other day when I was changing the flat.
I bang my head back against the headrest and let out a disgusted sigh.
Listening to the engine idle, something occurs to me—there’s no tapping.
When did they stop?
I have an idea.
I reach forward and shut off the lights, holding my breath and waiting.
Before I hear it, my lungs are burning and I have to breathe again.
By my best guess, it takes almost a full thirty seconds for the tapping to return. But, like I said, time is relative. Is that enough time for me to engage the locking hubs? What if I just do the one on the left side? What if the lights don’t actually drive them away? What if my conjecture is completely wrong?
When I turn on the lights again, the tapping stops immediately. I count to thirty anyway.
My hand finds the lock and I gather my courage.
There’s no other way, right? I have to get out of here and getting the four-wheel drive engaged is my only hope.
The image of Mr. Engel’s house appears in my head again. It’s a perfect New England house, flanked by perfect trees. It could be on a jigsaw puzzle—that’s how perfect it is. I don’t know why someone chose to build it in the middle of nowhere. The house would be right at home in the center of town, on Main Street.
In my imagination, the sun is directly overhead. This time of year, the front of the house would face the rising sun at…
“Dawn,” I whisper.
What was I thinking? I don’t have to blunder out into the night and try to engage the hub. They haven’t shown any ability to break the windows and the headlights seem to keep them at bay. Why would I risk leaving the truck when it’s possible that all I have to do is wait until dawn?
I lean forward and cup my hands around my eyes so I can confirm something.
Yes—the tank is nearly three-quarters full. I’m guessing that the truck could idle all night with the lights on. Then, when the sun rises, they’ll go away to hide in a basement somewhere. I’ll be able to waltz outside and take my time locking the hubs and extracting the truck from the ditch. Hell, I could probably stroll inside and use the phone.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.
That’s right—the phone is dead. I have to keep my wits. Let’s not forget the hard lessons I’ve learned.
I settle into the seat and try to relax. I might need my strength.
(The waiting is the hardest part.)
The waiting is the hardest part.
I have the radio on very low. Every few seconds, I turn it all the way down so I can listen for sounds of movement outside the truck. Then, I turn it back up. Focusing on the lyrics is the only way that I’m staying awake, and I desperately want to stay awake. In the middle of the night, eyes closed, windows up, with the gentle vibration of the engine, staying awake is a nearly impossible task.
Tom Petty reminds me one last time that the waiting is the hardest part and then he’s on to another tale. Now he’s telling me that I wreck him. I don’t think he’s talking to me.
When I was a kid, my mom really liked to listen to Anne Murray. Mom had a scratched up record from the seventies that she would put on when she took a bath. In South Carolina, the stereo was in the living room and it was my job to flip the album while she soaked. Through the slightly-open door, I would hear the occasional slosh of water and see the flickering candlelight.
I never understood the lyrics. Some of the songs seemed to talk about empowerment, but always with the backdrop of a supporting man. A woman could stand on her own as long as the ground was stabilized by a good, strong, man first. I never thought of my mom as weak. If she could have seen herself the way that I saw her, I’m sure she would have understood that a weak person couldn’t have done the things that she did.
Maybe Anne Murray was the same way.
I guess I inherited some of Mom’s learned helplessness. I learned to ride my bike by pushing off with my feet and then holding them to the sides while I coasted around. I would only rest my feet on the pedals when my legs got too tired. I didn’t realize that I was already doing all the hard parts of riding a bike—balancing and steering. Still convinced that I didn’t really know how to ride, I would stay home when the other kids rode to the store or down to the creek.
The girl next door, Shelby, chastised me one day.
She said, “You think you’re too good to ride bikes with us. You’re stuck up.”
I blushed, looked down, and scuffed my foot on the pavement. I really liked Shelby. I finally admitted to her that I didn’t know how to ride.
“Yes you do, liar. I see you ride all the time on the dirt road behind the apartments.”
I explained that all I could do was coast.
“Pedaling is the easy part. You just push down.”
She showed me in about three seconds. The first time I tried, I pushed down with both feet at the same time and lifted myself off the seat. When I fell over, Shelby laughed at me and my scraped arm.
“One at a time, dummy.”
The second time was like magic. Pedaling was almost easier than coasting. Something about the extra torque stabilized the bike even more. Shelby and I were riding down to the store a few minutes later and I rode so fast that I thought I might take flight.
I had taught myself the hardest parts and it was only my lack of confidence that had stood in my way. Shelby hadn’t really helped me, she just pointed out that I didn’t need anyone’s help. I wonder if Mom ever came to that same realization. If she did, she never told me. Until she died, she still seemed to be looking for someone to take care of her. She wanted someone to make sure the ground was firm so that she could stand up straight and proud.
They would never play Anne Murray on the Mountain of Pure Rock.
I turn the radio down again and listen to the idling engine.
When I turn it back up, it’s Pink Floyd. Airy and smooth melodies are not what I need right
now.
I hear a tapping on the roof of the truck and I snap off the radio and hold my breath. With my hands cupped over my eyes, I sneak a peek directly forward to verify that the headlights are still on. The tapping isn’t as consistent as before. It sounds like random plunks against the metal.
A second later, I realize why.
“Rain,” I whisper, chancing another peek. Sure enough, there are drops on the windshield.
I should have guessed. After all, that’s why I had made sure to put the truck windows up before I went to bed. There had been the chance of rain.
I wonder if they’re still out there in the rain. I wonder if they’re getting wet, waiting just beyond the circle of light cast by my headlights.
I turn up the radio a little and the DJ tells me that we have Bad Company, Candlebox, and Soundgarden coming up after the break. He doesn’t mention the time. I wonder if his voice is prerecorded. The clock on the dash is stuck at three.
I have no idea how many hours are left until dawn.
Just for something to do, I grope around on the radio until I find the tuning knob. Making a slow sweep, I go from one end to the other. Buried in static, I find a voice but I can’t really make out what he’s saying. It must be religious. The only word that I catch is “Temptation.” I wander back to the Mountain and listen to an ad for a car dealership and then a furniture store.
The rain slows down.
(I remember the phone.)
I remember the phone.
I have to keep my wits. The cordless phone was working, but the line was dead. Since moving to my uncle’s place, I’ve never had issues with the internet service or the phone. It would be stupid to assume that it’s a coincidence that the phone outage and my visitors were unrelated. Therefore, it would be stupid to assume that they’re simply cunning animals. They must be intelligent enough to understand that the phone is connected by the cable and that they could cut me off from the outside world by severing that line. If they’re smart enough to do that, what else are they smart enough to figure out?
