Through the Mirror
Page 5
***
On my way - 10:21 a.m.
***
After I sent my reply, I finished my meal, threw on some only lightly used clothes, and headed for my bike. The sky outside looked as if it was preparing for an ark to dock in the port, yet it wasn’t raining. It wasn’t warm though either, so my decision to grab my leather jacket proved to be the right one.
I rode out of our enclosure and raced through the downtown Main St. area to the port. I made the trip in record time, passing a color coordinated jogging group as I did so. On the farthest edge of the portside, I found Thomas sitting in my father’s cedar white lobster boat “The Dolphin.” The boat was truly a sight to behold. My father always said it was in the same vein of a traditional “Downeaster”. The cockpit was lined with mahogany while the deck trim was supposed to be teak. It had a bronze propeller and hydraulic ram steering controls. It seemed silly to have gathered all this information about the boat when I didn’t really understand half of it, but my father had always talked so much about it that it was impossible not to have picked up something. Anyway, Thomas took care of the boat while my father was… locked up in Tharkham. Even before the event, my father had taken Thomas out on it near every other weekend. There was a special bond between the men, and a special bond between them and the boat.
“What’s up, Tom,” I called out from the wooden scaffolding.
I received no response.
I jumped the short distance from the dock to the boat and saw him squirm in surprise as the boat rocked back and forth. He withdrew his earphones from their resting place.
“Hey Jason, how are you doing?” he asked.
“Pretty well, Tom. You wanted to meet, right?”
“Oh yeah, that,” he replied. “I’ve been tinkering on The Dolphin and it definitely is in need of some repairs. It’s a smooth vessel in all, but neglect has taken its toll. Some of the parts are on their last leg now.”
He wiped the sweat from his neck.
“Anyway, I called you down because I need you to pick up a reduction gear for me.”
I shot him a confused glance.
“Yeah… I have no idea what that is,” I declared. “Also, the post office is just around the corner.”
He laughed.
“No, no, no Jason. I ordered this for plane delivery. And, wait… what? Your father never taught you about working on boats?”
“Never interested me,” I replied.
“Just a surprise, I suppose,” he responded. “Having a reduction gear in a boat is required because the prop does not turn at the same speed as the engine. Your father pulled the engine from a 1969 Camaro when he built the rig, and so this reduction gear is not a standard marine engine part. Since it isn’t, I had to have it specially machined, and they sent it through air freight.”
“Okay, I get that, but the whole plane thing is a bit off. I mean, we don’t even have an airport in Eastmouth,” I replied.
“Oh, I know. That’s why I want you to head over to the airport in Eastport.”
My jaw went slack.
“That’s like thirty miles away. It’s not as if I can exactly bike there,” I declared.
“Hey, you find a way Jason, and you make an easy $75 bucks. You’re a smart kid. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he said.
He was right. It was a very tempting offer. Half a day’s work, an out of town expedition, and some easy money. Only person I knew with a car that might drive me though was Maxence. Wait that’s not quite right. I could always ask Ernie. I’m not sure what I would be able to bribe him with, but he was definitely my best bet.
“Okay, Thomas,” I replied. “I’m on it.”
His smile was worn by decades of smoking, but he chose to bare it anyway.
“Knew I could count on you Jason. You’ll be able to find me back here at around five-ish. I’m going to take the boat out around 11:30.”
“No problem,” I declared.
“Oh, yeah. Before I go, how’s your father?” he asked.
I swallowed hard at the idea.
“My father’s doing fine, Tom. I haven’t really gotten to see him as of late, but I really ought to. I know he gets lonely,” I said.
I don’t quite know why I lied there, but I felt as if I might be overloaded with questions, and I really didn’t want to get involved in talking about what had happened the night prior. Even I wasn’t sure what had really happened. Thomas probably had enough on his plate anyway.
“Oh, that’s cool. I should probably too. Just been a little busy with the family and all you know. I’ve got a third little angel on the way.”
He sighed as he massaged his slicked back hair into place.
“Just promise me you’ll go and see him, Jason. I know your dad misses you. He talks about you all the time.”
“Definitely,” I replied with my best fake smile.
“That’s good to hear, kid,” he said.
He checked his watch and mouthed a curse.
“I’ve got to get prepared to go out, and you’ve got a job to do. I’ll see you later.”
With that, he climbed off the boat and headed back towards his car.
I sighed as I ran my fingers through my hair.
First things first, I’ve got to get Ernie to agree to this adventure. Now how the heck am I supposed to do that?
✽✽✽
“Dude, you don’t even realize how crazy this is,” Ernie exclaimed as we climbed into his van. He’d always left it across the street from Maxence’s shop.
“You’re right,” I responded. “I don’t. And nice going on letting the Tharkham thing slip yesterday.”
“I’m sorry about that, dude. I thought Ellie knew,” Ernie said.
“Well, she didn’t, but it doesn’t matter now anyway. I forgive you, but be a little more delicate on who you let that slip to in the future, please,” I responded.
“Okay, man. Sorry. Anyway, I’ve been intending to drive out to Eastport for a while now, man. Gen-B Game Shop still sells the old-school NES cartridges for Kid Icarus in brand new condition. You have to pay a pretty penny to pick one of those up online, and there’s still no guarantee that it won’t be a fake,” Ernie declared as he resumed his tangent.
“If that’s true, how did they not sell out decades ago?”
“Funny,” he replied. “I’ve lurked a bunch of online image boards to find this. I caught this bit of info a while ago.”
“I don’t need the details. I’m just glad you don’t mind driving me out there,” I replied.
“No problem at all dude.”
“Cool, so just, you know, get driving already then,” I declared.
“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” Ernie replied.
I groaned.
Ernie pushed his black van into gear, and we were off.
As I reclined into my seat, I glanced through the passenger side wing mirror and spotted an elderly man dressed in a formal bone white business suit step out of Maxence’s shop and into a limousine. It wasn’t an all too out of the ordinary sight, but something about it resonated with me. We really didn’t have too many customers at the shop, least of all elderly people, and I didn’t recognize him on sight. I rolled the idea around in my mind till I connected two and two together. That might have been the guy who nearly hit Ellie and me on the way from the movies the day before. Maybe that was a bit of a leap. I don’t know. He could’ve been a friend of Maxence’s or something. It was something I’d just have to remember to ask him about.
✽✽✽
I forgot quickly about the man dressed in white as we began to drive. It wasn’t nearly anywhere as excruciating as I expected it to be; especially after I asked Ernie about the drum kit sitting in the back of the van. He told me that he occasionally played gigs down in the Main Street bars for extra cash. This lead to us getting lost in conversation, and I quickly found our musical tastes were actually pretty similar. Who knew that I wasn’t the only one who could name five modern thrash metal bands
that originated from Maine? Beyond that, the drive was a fairly standard slog. We passed by some dense forests and briefly drove near the water’s edge. I even think I might have seen an elk at one point. Fairly quickly we had crossed the border into Eastport and then soon after we were parked right outside the gate to Eastport Municipal Airport. It was around this time that I texted Thomas for some clarification.
***
So what are we looking for? - 12:52 p.m.
His name’s Race. Tall, white hair, chocolate chip pattern camo BDU jacket - 12:56 p.m.
Where? And what is BDU? - 12:59 p.m.
Battle Dress Uniform - means camouflage. Check the coffee shop or bar across the street from the airport. Here’s his number just in case (207)-xxx-xxxx - 1:01 p.m.
***
That wasn’t much to go on but surprisingly enough we found him fairly quickly. He was sitting in a booth at Kromer’s Coffee Shop mixing both of Thomas’ descriptions into one wonderful concoction. A small flask in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. Thomas had been spot on though when he had described him. Race must have been at least 6’5”, his hair was a shade of cocaine-white, and he wore the BDU jacket.
Ernie and I crossed the room and sat down across from him. He had just finished pouring the last of his chrome flask into the cup as we sat down. Race raised his gaze at our arrival and smiled with a welcoming demeanor.
“Ah, you must be the two boys Thomas told me about,” he declared.
“That’s us,” I replied. “Thomas told me you had a reduction gear for us.”
“So that’s what this is,” he said with a warm chuckle. “Explains why he didn’t just want it sent through the mail. They’re always breaking shit.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Ernie added.
“So… can we have it?” I asked.
“Yeah, go ahead and take it,” he replied as he lifted the package from his feet onto the table.
Ernie looked like he was about to explode in anticipation for his shopping spree, but something Race said had caught my interest.
“When did you fight?”
“Ah, so you’re interested in the military, kid,” Race asked.
“A bit of a passing interest really.” I replied. “I’m still undecided, but enlisting is an option for me after high school.”
Race tenderly rubbed his frayed, dark and light patterned sleeves.
“I fought in Gulf War One, kid. Operation Desert Storm, and then Afghanistan later. It was all such a long time ago. Word of advice?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Don’t enlist. The military has changed a lot since I fought. Changed for the worse. I can imagine plenty of old vets have said that same line before, but it’s just going down the shitter now. I separated from the service, and I haven’t looked back since then. Independent work is a lot better as a pilot.”
“What happened?” I inquired.
“Why did I leave?” he furthered.
“Yeah,” I reaffirmed.
“It’s a long story, and honestly I really don’t want to get into it,” Race said.
He put away his flask and removed a pair of shades from his jacket pocket.
“Just remember to tell Tommy I said hi,” he declared.
“Will do.”
“It was nice to meet you, but we’ve really gotta get going dude,” Ernie exclaimed as he nudged my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I added. “Have a good one.”
Race nodded and went back to sipping his coffee.
“Now let’s get moving, I can’t wait a second longer, dude. I’m so damn excited,” Ernie said.
I nodded, and we went on our way.
✽✽✽
We realized almost immediately that we had more than enough time, so I texted Thomas back and told him we’d just leave the package in front of his house. He replied quickly and told me that that was acceptable. He’d just leave the money in Maxence’s mailbox the next day. This worked out well for me because if I had to spend another second with Ernie raving about his new game I’d have probably blown my brains out. Ernie wasn’t a bad guy, but he could really get on my nerves at times.
Either way, we headed home, and I spent the rest of the day just wasting away my time by playing guitar and surfing the net. What can I say? It was summer after all. At some point I flicked on the T.V. and drifted off to sleep with a rerun of The Shining flickering through my moonlit bedroom.
✽✽✽
The next morning I awoke to sunlight piercing my eyes. I recoiled like the vampire I am, and decided to postpone getting up in favor of another five minutes of sleep. As you can expect, this didn’t work. After I slept for another two hours, I finally fell out of bed and dragged myself down the stairs. My grumbling stomach was my master. Everything else was merely its slave.
I am actually a fantastic cook by the way, or so I like to tell myself. It didn’t matter what kind of meat, cheese, or bread I was armed with as I could always cook up one mean sandwich. This time my choice of poison was a club sandwich, a personal favorite, mounted with an unnecessarily monstrous amount of bacon and ham. After completing my concoction, I almost sat down at the kitchen table before realizing my error. It was filled to the brim with all sorts of papers and boxes. There was literally not an inch of room to eat. For all of Maxence’s proper upbringing, he had never quite learned what the word cleaning meant. This meant I was quested with finding a new place to eat my sandwich. This was a task not meant for the faint of heart. I don’t know what it was that drew me too it, but I felt a strange desire to eat it in the secret room on the second floor. Something about the rhythmic motion of the grandfather clock set me at ease.
When I actually reached the guest room, I spied the chair in the corner and, not wanting to sit in the dark, pulled it into the secret space so I could sit in the sunlit room. It was actually a very tranquil place to relax. This was not only due to the grandfather clock’s ticking just outside the door, but also due to the fact that the mirror was so alluring. It seemed to be a nice place to think when one wanted to be alone. Or maybe it was just the fact that finding a hidden room in your uncle’s Victorian mansion is really, really cool.
I had almost reached the edge of the sandwich before I noticed something rather peculiar. It was something to do with the sun. Something I couldn’t have seen before due to the poor lighting. The entire room was built with smooth clay bricks, all perfectly aligned. I hadn’t noticed it before but they actually weren’t all aligned. One brick, illuminated under the sunbeam, stuck out like a sore thumb. Now it could have merely been the workings of the light at my angle of vision, or maybe just that the brick had been loosened due to time, but my curious nature prevailed. I set down the remnants of my sandwich on the chair and went to investigate.
I could tell immediately that my first thoughts about the angle of vision were incorrect as the brick was in fact noticeably loosened. I gripped its edges with both of my hands and slowly pulled.
Wham, it went.
The next second, the brick lay on the wooden floor below me, and I was overcome with surprise. Behind the brick lay a hollowed out portion of the wall. Inside was a treasure trove of items. There was a series of thick, leathery books, a set of maps, and even an antique keyring. One of the keys was so old that the rust it had gathered had turned to the color of dried blood. I reached in and pulled out one of the books at random. Its leathery flesh provided an easy grip as I removed it.
I gasped.
Written in terrible, scribbly handwriting were the words ‘Bens Juornal,’ with the word ‘Juornal’ crossed out and replaced with the neatly written word ‘Journal’ below it. I was rendered useless by shock for a moment. Even with all my time spent with Ben, I had never once seen him carrying around a journal. Further, what if it gave some kind of clue to his whereabouts? In that moment I was overcome by glee and curiosity, a potent mixture.
I gathered everything up and set them on the floor in front of the chair.
I put down the first map and grabbed the other. While each appeared to be the exact same overhead view of Eastmouth, this one had several colored lines running through each of the streets. The lines were absolute gibberish to me at first until I flipped the map over. On the back, the words ‘Storm Drain Paths’ were scribbled in Ben’s handwriting. Well then, this was probably less helpful than the other map, but it did at least add context. I had always known my brother to have taken great interest in the oddities of the town, but I had never known the depths of his absorption.
I’d thought he had shared everything with me before, and yet after his late night escapades and then eventual disappearance this seemed a naive line of thought. Regardless, his interest had sparked my own.
I massaged the textured cover of the first journal as I picked it up for a moment before finally delving into its mysteries. The first few pages seemed to fall in line with the cover. They were clearly written by Ben at a young age before he had a firm understanding of grammar. It was laughably bad. I mean, as a kid, I had always misspelled a few words, but his understanding had been abhorrent. He spelled forest as ‘fourest’, leaves as ‘levs’, and bunker as ‘buhnkor’. Wait, what? Where the hell was there a bunker in Eastmouth? Maybe Ben had just been playing pretend as a few pages down there were mentions of wizards and elves, but the reference to some hidden bunker by what had to have been a seven or eight year old was a little odd. I kept reading and watched as the journal slowly transitioned from the made up adventures stories of a young mind to writings about boy scout techniques and depictions of the natural world. That seemed more like Ben. He had always been disappointed that there hadn’t been a troop in the surrounding area. That didn’t stop him from doing heavy online research anyway. He had written down what must have been hundreds of different knots and plants. Ben was also a far better artist than I had ever imagined. The images he drew were sketched in immaculate detail, with even three dimensions included in his thought. Every layer was accurately detailed and shaded. If our lives hadn’t taken a fucky turn, he honestly could have made it as an artist or at least pursued some classes at the art school in Portland.