by D A Fowler
Jay felt dizzy. “I don’t know, Nancy. I think you’re assuming an awful lot. I’m still wondering what happened to the Obers’ bodies. Doesn’t that make you think there’s maybe more to this than you’re aware of?”
“Which is exactly my point,” Nancy said, poking a stiff finger in Jay’s shoulder. “There’s a ton of things I’m unaware of, but not for long. You with me or not?”
Jay rubbed his sweaty palms together, his eyes fixed on the floor. At last he muttered, “Guess it’s…with.”
Eleven
The bell rang, ending Lana’s first day at the new school. She gathered her books and merged with the flow of students toward the door. She was feeling tense; the day had been a rough one, and she was completely bogged down by the amount of catch-up work she had to do. Her social life was going to suffer drastically. So much for the smooth transition.
Bruce was waiting by her locker. She had no classes with him, but Dennis, unfortunately, was in her second hour geometry class. She glared daggers at him throughout the whole period, but he hadn’t seemed to notice.
Bruce saw the glum look on her face and offered a pitying smile. “Somebody step on your bottom lip?”
“That obvious, huh?” She managed a weak grin. “Maybe I’ll have time to see you again on Christmas break. I can’t believe all the homework I’ve got. You guys are way ahead of Edgewater.”
“Oh, blarney,” Bruce said, punctuating his statement with a raspberry. “With me as your tutor and scholastic assistant, you’ll be caught up in no time. They don’t call me Apple Head for nothing.”
Recalling an earlier conversation they’d had about school, Lana asked suspiciously, “What’s your grade-point average?”
Bruce shrugged. “Oh, 1.5, 2.0, something like that. I didn’t say they called me Apple Head because I’m smart.”
Lana giggled as she tugged her locker open and grabbed the rest of her books. “Guess I’d better get a backpack to carry all this crap in.” She groaned, the weight of the tomes causing her to stoop. Bruce removed the top three and piled them on top of his remedial English book.
“Beast of burden, at your service.”
“Thanks, Bruce. If it weren’t for you, I think I’d go home an’ hang myself. Hardly anyone spoke to me today besides teachers. The kids just stared at me like I was a bug under a microscope or somethin’.”
Her comment about going home and hanging herself, even though she obviously wasn’t serious, left Bruce with a heavy black ball in the pit of his stomach, but he tried not to show it. “Hey, they’re just checkin’ ya out. Trying to decide if you’re a good witch or a bad witch.”
In a duet of laughter they sauntered down the hall to the stairwell, buffeted on either side by students who seemed to think the building was on fire. Bruce bellowed after a chubby boy who had nearly knocked them over, “Hey, like it might be just a fart, you know!”
The stairwell rang with derisive tittering, and above the descending sea of heads an index finger was raised. Bruce yelled in response, “No way! I’m not that kinda guy!”
Lana was laughing so hard her sides began to ache. “Please, gimme a break,” she pleaded breathlessly. “I’m about to split a gut.”
Bruce beamed, pleased with himself for his success in snapping Lana out of her depressed mood. He had dreamed of nothing but her the night before, and in the morning, when he woke up, the front of his shorts had been wet and sticky. He hadn’t felt terribly embarrassed about it—that happened fairly often anyway—but it had been a little frightening, because it confirmed how much he really liked her. He’d never allowed his emotions to go very far out on a limb. But they were crawling out there now, despite his warnings, in defiance of his attempts to rein them back in. Soon, he knew, he’d hear that thin branch begin to splinter, and nothing he could do would stop the plunge.
Outside, a circle of teenagers had formed near the motorcycle lot. Amidst the jeers and catcalls and mild obscenities, Lana could hear someone shouting, “Lick it! Lick it good!”
Sparks of anger flared in Lana’s eyes. She wasn’t certain yet, but she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. She muttered to Bruce, “I think they’re doin’ somethin’ awful to Spiro. Let’s stop ’em.”
Bruce was compassionate, but he had no desire to play champion of the underdog. He preferred to keep a low profile. “Listen, they do it all the time, all right? You can’t stop them, Lana. All that’ll happen is they’ll start giving you a lot of the same shit. Spiro’s big enough to defend himself if he wants to. He won’t ever learn if somebody jumps in to rescue him every time the bullies decide to have a good time with him. Really, you wouldn’t be doing him any favors.”
Lana turned her head, her eyes squeezed shut, wishing she had both hands free to cover her ears. Moments later she whispered hoarsely, “I guess you’re right. Come on, let’s get outta here. I can’t stand this.”
Behind them the taunting voices suddenly became a chorus of fearful screams. The crowd dispersed quickly, running in every direction. Lana and Bruce whirled around together just as Spiro catapulted the flailing body of a terrified teenage boy about fifteen feet through the air.
Tardo was learning fast.
The white casket was surrounded by elegant funeral wreaths, displaying a collage of harmonious colors in the form of flowers and satin bows. It was the kind of beauty that made one want to vomit.
A staunch, middle-aged woman with a wavering soprano sang “Rock of Ages” to conclude the service. A few old women in the small Episcopal chapel were weeping, one of them as if expecting to win a prize for mourning the loudest. The lament certainly had volume, but it totally lacked the quality of true sorrow. Marla sat wishing the stupid old bag would just shut the hell up.
The people around her were rising. Marla stood between her mother and brother and stole a glance at an auburn haired woman whom she’d caught staring in their direction throughout the service. The woman’s face was familiar, but Marla couldn’t place it.
The Mingee family made their way toward the casket to say a final farewell to the lifeless, waxy figure within. Marla felt her stomach lurch as her mother, in line before her, stooped over to kiss the cold marble flesh of Gramma’s forehead. Surely she wouldn’t be expected to…? No, no, she couldn’t. That thing in the box was no longer Gramma Colter anyway. It was just an abandoned, wrinkled shell that would, in time, decay and fall apart. Marla refused to touch it. She stepped up after her mother had passed and stared for a few stricken moments at the shriveled husk; the bony hands, gnarled and liver-spotted, placed in restful repose upon a breast that would never rise and fall again. The small, pinched face, an empty oval of ghoulish hue, would never smile again, give butterfly kisses, read storybooks. Marla numbly followed her mother back down the aisle to the front porch of the chapel.
They were immediately joined by the auburn haired woman, who put a comforting hand on Pamela Mingee’s shoulder and said, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Jane Bellows. I work the night shift at Pinedale. We met last Christmas Eve, I think.”
Pamela nodded bleakly. “Yes, I remember. It was good of you to come.”
Jane paused, searching for the right words, if there were such things in a situation like this. “I was with her when she…passed on,” she said carefully. “She, ah…she thought I was you.”
Pamela grappled at the black wrought-iron railing for support. When the swoon passed, she looked back at Jane with tears in her eyes and asked quiveringly, “What did she say?”
Jane saw the deep pain on the woman’s face and felt an immediate rush of sympathy, yet she knew she was going to go right ahead and pour salt into the wound. “Well, I don’t think you would have known what she was talking about; apparently it was something she never told you,” she answered, ashamed of her impropriety, feeling like a crass intruder, even a rapist, on such delicate, deep intimacy, but she coul
dn’t stop. “She said she did something. She didn’t say what, but I’m sure it had something to do with Morganna Ober. That’s why she was so afraid of her. Do you…have any idea…?”
“How dare you?” Pamela spat, her sorrow turning to hot indignation. “You leave my mother’s memory alone. And mind your own damn business!” She grabbed Marla’s arm and whisked her away to the waiting limousine.
Inside the limo Pamela said to her husband, “That woman, Harold, had the nerve to suggest that Mother did something she couldn’t tell me about except on her death bed. I can’t believe the nerve of some people. I suppose she wants to exploit Mother’s ravings about witches and bat’s blood and—”
She burst into angry sobs. Harold Mingee blinked, patted her knee, and looked away. Pamela’s brothers seemed lost in space, wondering, perhaps, if they would catch their flight out on time. Rick looked inquiringly at Marla, but she shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for questions.
Jane remained on the porch as the other mourners shuffled past her toward the parking lot, shoulders hunched in apparent grief, embroidered hankies soaking up an impressive amount of tears. She felt like a complete boob. What had she expected? She should have waited at least a couple of weeks before even thinking about hitting Pamela Mingee with something like that. But no, she had to ask right at her mother’s damn funeral. Why did she feel such a sense of urgency?
It was her own impatience; selfishness. She wanted to put this thing away, just as Jasmine Colter’s body was being put away, and forget about it. So she could go to sleep at night without being subjected to one horrendous nightmare after another. Now she’d blown it. Even if Pamela Mingee did have any answers, Jane knew she would never hear them. She was on her own. With a despairing sigh, she proceeded to her car. She’d already missed an hour of work.
They were halfway up the north side of Beacon Hill when Nancy ordered Jay to pull off the road and park. He did as he was told, his eyes darting about nervously, like a rabbit’s upon picking up the scent of a nearby wolf. They got out and locked the doors of the Charger. Nancy headed into some thick underbrush. “Come on, I think it’s this way.”
Afraid to do otherwise, Jay followed.
They fought their way through prickly brambles, broken branches, and overgrown weeds, following a path that time had all but erased. Jay’s heart was thumping “In a Godda Da Vida” at 78 ipms. But he couldn’t turn back, not now. She’d made him say a vow, and guaranteed that if he broke it he’d really be sorry. He believed her. What he couldn’t believe, now that the realization of what he’d so impetuously done had fully sunk in, was the fact he’d actually pledged allegiance to the fucking Devil. But he had. She’d dangled immortality before him, and like a fool he’d grabbed it as greedily as he had the offer of a clear complexion.
He hadn’t totally believed that she could do that for him, at first, and was in fact humiliated that she would even bring up an issue he was so sensitive about. But he was willing to try anything to put an end to his tormenting acne problem. She could heal him, she said. She told about Montgomery and what she had done to him. She claimed she was in control of true magic.
Jay didn’t spend a lot of time reaching a decision. He envisioned no more dismay at looking in the mirror mornings to discover a fresh crop of angry red pustules. No more nicknames like Pizza Face or Strawberry Patch. Clean, clear, smooth skin—sure, you bet. Do your hocus-pocus, Nancy. Slaughter my kid brother’s pet rabbit. Whatever it takes.
She’d told him how lucky, how privileged he was to receive her trust. She wouldn’t even share her secret with her best girlfriend. Marla was nothing but a chickenshit. She would get scared and go running to blab everything all over town. Nancy couldn’t have that.
A zitless face and immortality. That was worth his soul, wasn’t it?
They finally came to a small clearing, at one edge of which stood a towering lodgepole pine. Nancy studied the area for a few minutes, then finally decided they were in the right place. She pointed to a thick overhanging limb on the pine tree. “I think that’s the limb they hung the Obers from.”
Jay nodded slowly. What was he supposed to say—Wow, far out? His tongue was lodged somewhere near his larynx. He made a funny gurgling sound in acknowledgment.
After turning around in circles, scouring the forest floor with her eyes, Nancy walked to the center of the clearing and began kicking at fallen leaves. She glared up at Jay. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me clear it off.”
He obediently joined her in dislocating the brown, rotting cottonwood and scrub oak leaves. After a short while his foot struck something hard. “Hey, what—”
“Keep going,” Nancy barked, kneeling to pull the sodden blanket away with her hands. When they were finished, they were staring at a dirty stone slab approximately six feet long, four wide. Jay remembered it; he had seen it before. Years ago his Boy Scout troop had come upon it during a hike. Nancy was right—it was Digger’s Bonestone. A lot of kids knew about it; they supposed it covered some gold miner’s grave. If he remembered correctly, Neil Henderson’s oldest brother had given it the nickname. But Jay knew now it was something much more than everyone else supposed.
It was a doorway to Hell.
Nancy was rocking back and forth slightly, her eyes wide and glazed as she stared at the blackened stone. The surface seemed in motion. Jay bent over to take a closer look and saw that it was covered with maggots.
“This is it, this is the place,” Nancy intoned reverently. “This is where they sacrificed the baby. This is where they’ll return.”
Jay’s expression revealed total disgust, but Nancy was unaware of it. At last able to make his tongue work properly, he muttered, “And we’re supposed to get two people to stand here next Friday night. What happens to them?”
“Who cares?” Nancy smiled. “I suppose their poor, displaced souls will find somewhere else to go, or maybe they’ll get sucked right into Hell. I couldn’t care less.”
Jay crushed some of the squirming maggots with his boot. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Twelve
Not caring to make another thirty-five mile jaunt back into Rapid City to see her uncles to the regional airport, Marla asked to be dropped off at the house after the graveside ceremony. No one argued.
The first thing she did was to run up to her bedroom and grab the telephone from her nightstand. She fell across the bed with it, determined not to start crying. She didn’t want Dennis to get the mistaken impression that she was crying over him. She didn’t care to stroke his ego any more than she had to.
She pushed the correct series of buttons with trembling fingers, listening to the familiar tune his phone number played, the first seven notes to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” After three rings the line was answered by Dennis’s mother. “This is Marla, Mrs. Bloom. I was wondering if I could speak to Dennis, please.”
“Of course, dear,” the lilting voice came back softly. Florence Bloom reminded Marla of a powder puff, all soft edges, skin like fresh cream, a voice made for recording children’s books, politely telling the little brats to turn the page after each beep. Exhale too strongly and she would blow away.
“.. . and I’m terribly sorry about your dear sweet grandmother. I saw in the paper that she’d passed away.”
Marla cleared her throat. “Thank you.” She waited for Dennis to be put on the line, wondering how he was going to respond to her attempt to make up with him. Surely he didn’t really like that girl he’d been with, judging from what Nancy had said of her. At any rate, Marla didn’t plan to do any groveling. When she heard his voice, she was suddenly without vocal cords.
Dennis repeated impatiently, “Hello? Who is this? Mom, who did you say it was?”
“It’s Marla, Dennis. Remember me?” Her voice, once she’d found it, carried a hint of sarcasm she’d intended to suppress. Dennis was silent for a few moments.
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“I remember,” he answered casually. “So, what’s up?”
She was tempted to slam the receiver back into its cradle, let him go ahead and live happily ever after with his little blond hick, but instead she forced herself to say sweetly, “Come on, Dennis, let’s stop this. I don’t even remember how this fight started, but let’s end it, okay? I’m willing if you are.”
Dennis was satisfied. His plan had worked beautifully, just as he’d known it would. With a triumphant smile that Marla couldn’t see, he said, “Sure, why not. But just to set the record straight, you started it, babe.”
Marla clenched her teeth to keep herself from debating his ludicrous claim. “Whatever. Listen, I just got home from my gramma’s funeral and I’m really depressed. You want to get together later with Nancy and Jay, maybe go to the Elk or something?”
“I’m broke,” he lied, going for every ounce of contrition he could squeeze out of his hot-tempered girlfriend. She always had more money than he did anyway.
“I’ll pay for it,” she said grudgingly.
“Okay,” he agreed quickly. “Pick you up around six-thirty.”
“Oh, one more thing, Dennis.” She asked herself: Now, over the phone, or later, face-to-face? Dennis had some explaining to do about Saturday night. She decided face-to-face would be better; then she might be able to tell if he was lying when she asked him if he’d gotten into that girl’s pants. “Never mind. It can wait.”
He arrived at 6:45pm. Marla let herself in on the passenger side of his Monte Carlo, smelling of a generous application of White Linen. “You’re late,” she said tersely, “but I guess it doesn’t matter. When I finally got hold of Nancy, she told me she and Jay had already made other plans. Her and my parents are going out together for dinner tonight, then probably to the Gold Mine to get drunk.”
