The Summer Man

by S. D. Perry

  Karen didn’t wake while her sister was away, her bruised face at rest against the stiff, white hospital pillow, and John spent that time thinking about last night’s conversation with Bob. About the town going crazy. About the girl who’d foretold the attack, Amanda Young. According to Bob, she’d also known about Ed Billings’s murder and suicide spree. It surprised him a little that Bob was so quick to credit that kind of thing, mass madness, psychic ability…although he had to admit, he’d been a bit unnerved last night when Bob had related details he shouldn’t have known about the rape—that it had happened at the fairgrounds, that the attackers had been teenagers. John suspected that the girl was plying for attention and had worked out some elaborate prank to get it. As for the rest of Port Isley…coincidence. Tragedy inviting tragedy. He watched Karen sleep and assured himself that the rest of the summer would be uneventful. Surely the town had exceeded its seasonal lunacy quota.

  When Sarah returned, she brought coffee and sandwiches. They talked in low voices as Sarah set out the makeshift picnic on the counter beneath the window, plus napkins and paper plates she pulled from a grocery bag. She’d already talked to Karen’s current guests and left messages for the people she couldn’t reach directly.

  “What about Tommy?” John asked. “When’s he coming back?”

  “Day after tomorrow, Tuesday,” Sarah said, handing him a sandwich on a paper plate. “It’s roast beef, is that OK?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He was absurdly touched that she’d bothered to stop and pack food for him. He set the plate down, not particularly hungry. Outside, the sun was shining brightly, glinting off metal in the parking lot, but the hospital’s air conditioners fed cold, antiseptic air into the room from next to his seat, making the view seem unreal. “Are you…will you tell him what happened?”

  Sarah sat across from him, her chair close enough to the industrially padded loveseat he’d taken that their knees almost touched. “Actually, I was hoping you might have some advice,” she said. “About what to say, I mean. I don’t want to traumatize him, but I don’t feel comfortable lying to him, either…” She put her own plate aside and put her hands in her lap, her fingers restless. “We have a pretty good relationship, but he’s been through so much in the last couple of years…Jack and I splitting, moving out of Seattle…” She smiled a little. “He’s doing so well, though. And he’s so smart.”

  “It sounds like you already know what to do,” John said. “I don’t think you need to go into details or anything. Tell him that Karen got hurt, and she’s very sad about it, but that she’ll get better.”

  “She will, won’t she?” Sarah asked. Her eyes were worried.

  “Absolutely,” John said, sincerely. She’d never be the same, though. And while she might succeed in getting past the event, the brutality of the rape, the violation of self…

  She will be haunted, John thought. Doomed to remember. Would she experience a loop of images, repeating? How long would it be before she could close her eyes and not see their faces, looming over her in the dark, not imagine their stupid, pawing hands on her body? Her experience of herself as a sexual being had been redefined by force, perhaps irreparably damaged.

  Someone should kill those fucking kids, he thought, the hate burning in his gut, suddenly, startlingly clear and savage and all-encompassing. Hurt them, beat them, rip them apart and bury them in pieces—

  “John? Are you OK?”

  He focused on Sarah, saw her concern, and slowly shook his head, still burning inside. He didn’t trust himself to speak. The depth of the feeling frightened him, badly, because he wasn’t like that, he didn’t think like that.

  Annie’s murder, Karen getting raped, he told himself. Projection, guilt, stress. Perfectly normal…and it felt normal, as if the intense desire to kill was a natural part of him, one he had somehow never noticed before, and that was wrong, too, all wrong. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

  Panic attack! His mind screamed helpfully. Panic attack!

  Sarah leaned forward and touched his arm. Her fingers were warm. Her eyes were beautiful, direct, and deep blue. “Hey,” she said.

  He closed his eyes, concentrating on inhaling, exhaling, on the touch of her hand. He made a conscious effort to relax. To not think of Karen or the boys who’d raped her, or to think of when, exactly, Rick had driven a meat knife into Annie’s soft, flat stomach, or to berate himself for having those thoughts; he was letting those thoughts go, he was letting go; he inhaled, exhaled, more deeply now…and felt a steadying gratitude to the woman sitting with him. She seemed to understand what he needed and kept her peace, sliding her hand down to hold his. Their fingers interlocked. After the briefest of hesitations she moved from her chair to sit next to him, put her other arm across his shoulder, rested her head against him.

  Long seconds ticked past. Her breathing was slow and even, and she smelled sweet and mild, like vanilla, her shampoo, perhaps, and he imagined that she had closed her eyes too, was…was resting with him, sharing what limited physical comfort was appropriate between two relative strangers. He knew he should let go of her hand, should smile and say something appreciative; that the time had come to acknowledge their moment together as shared grief, to set it aside and perhaps talk about what steps were next. They weren’t friends, after all; they barely knew each other. She had called for help because her sister had been a client of his, because he’d been a resource she could utilize to help Karen. But there was no awkwardness in their half embrace, no indecision or tension in the gentle pressure of her body; they were here, they were together, and he wanted to keep touching her, keep accepting her, her gift to him. She pressed closer, and her breathing seemed to thicken. His senses were filled with her, the bad thoughts far away, and he wished they could be closer still, that she would climb into his lap and look into his eyes while he—

  John let go of her hand, making himself smile at her as he pulled himself back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and sat back slightly. She was flushed, her eyes slightly dilated. She looked almost frightened. “I’m…sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  “That’s OK,” he said. “Really. I feel like I should apologize. I’m not usually so…” He stared at her, not sure how to finish his sentence, either. What were they apologizing for?

  For not being ourselves. For acting like teenagers on a hormone high.

  Sarah laughed, a small sound, and said what he’d been thinking. “I have not been myself, lately.”

  “Right there with you,” John said, which felt like the understatement of his life. In about three minutes, his emotional pendulum had swung from wholeheartedly wanting to kill, to actually take life, to wanting to…

  He didn’t dodge the thought, determined to face whatever was happening to him. He’d wanted to go to bed with her. As much as he’d ever wanted anything. And it seemed so natural, so reasonable that they should sleep together, comfort each other with their bodies, as if getting to know one another first was an unnecessary prerequisite.

  Just like with Annie.

  “Maybe I should start seeing you, professionally,” Sarah said, drawing him away from the thought. “Seriously. I’ve been feeling so…so different since I came here. It hasn’t been bad, but it’s just not me.”

  “I could refer you to someone,” John said, his voice distant to his ears. He was already too involved personally to consider treating her. Why? What’s happening? “It might be helpful to have someone to talk to, while you’re taking care of Karen’s affairs, supporting her emotionally,” he added, the encouragement reflexive. “That’s a lot to deal with.”

  Sarah hadn’t really met his eyes since they’d moved apart, but she did now. Hers were summer-sky blue, the rich afternoon clarity of a late day in July. “I couldn’t talk to you?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She turned her head and looked at Karen, sleeping. “That’s too bad,” she said, her voice soft. “I feel comfortable talking to
you. And I can’t tell you what it means to me, that you’re here. To me and Karen.”

  “We can still talk,” John said. “I’d like that. I only meant I’m not taking on any new clients right now.”

  “I understand,” she said. Her disappointment was obvious, and it actually pained him to see it. Before he could think, he was talking. Telling her the truth.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said. “A friend of mine was killed, recently, a woman, and I keep thinking about it…everything is so muddled, and I’ve been able to keep a professional distance from my clients, I’ve been working, but you…just now, I was so angry about what’s happened to Karen, enraged, actually, and then I thought—when you touched me, I felt—”

  He shook his head, willing himself to shut up. He wished he could explain, that he understood enough about his state of mind to be able to explain.

  Sarah studied him a moment, her gaze direct. “You wanted more, didn’t you? With me. Wanted to…wanted to be closer.”

  He didn’t try to deny it. “I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep breath and looked down and away. “I felt the same way. That’s what I was talking about, about feeling different. What just happened, between us—I’ve never felt like that—that fast, I mean—with anyone. Not since high school, anyway.”

  “It’s the situation,” John said, affirming it as much for himself as for her, really working to believe it. “The trauma—people react in ways they wouldn’t, normally.”

  “It’s not just this, though,” she said. “This is just the latest thing, you know?”

  John nodded slowly, thinking about Annie. He was about to ask what else she’d experienced, but she was looking at Karen again. Her eyes welled with tears. “Sometimes I’m so goddamn selfish.”

  “It’s not selfish to keep having a life, even when something terrible happens,” John said, jumping at the chance to be back in the role of therapist. He groped for it like a drowning man, grasping for salvation. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  She wiped at her eyes and nodded. “Right, OK.”

  What’s wrong with me? Why was he spouting therapy? Why wasn’t he able to be in the moment without stopping to analyze it? Why was he like this? He was confused, a little scared, even…but he wasn’t here to make things worse. He was sure of that much.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. It would undoubtedly be best if he left, made his excuses and got out before he suffered another flash of insanity. “Maybe later, I can come back…”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Sarah asked, her expression stricken. “Don’t leave. I mean, if you really have to, if you have somewhere to be, I understand…but I’d really—”

  She interrupted herself with a sharp, unhappy laugh. “Listen to me. I do want you to stay, but I’m—it’s fine, whatever you want to do. Really.”

  Her obvious distress moved him. He wanted to touch her again, to hold her and tell her he would stay as long as she needed him…which he knew was crazy, he knew it, and yet the intensity of the feeling was only slightly diminished by the realization. And he had to actively fight the urge to reach out and touch her again.

  People aren’t acting themselves lately, have you noticed? Bob’s words. How had he dismissed them so easily?

  He forced another smile and picked up his plate. Karen, I’m here for Karen. He’d repress the hell out of everything else until he could get home, get a chance to work through whatever was happening to him.

  Maybe to everyone, he thought, and didn’t care for that thought, not at all.

  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a while,” he said, and she smiled warmly, and he wanted her, still. And he thought that he’d better be very, very careful.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dick Calvin climbed onto the stepstool beneath the opening for the attic, reaching for the poorly knotted rope to fit around his neck. He’d learned how to tie a hangman’s noose in his late teens, back when knowing how to tie different knots had been an integral part of working the piers, but he wasn’t as dexterous as he once had been. Between the arthritis and the eyesight, he couldn’t tie shit anymore.

  He’d just touched the loop of rope—and there was a knock on the door. He hesitated, twisting the thick nylon braid between his fingers. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he didn’t have any friends…unless he counted Cecil, which he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  Dick felt a familiar wave of deep unhappiness. Cecil had lost most of his marbles a few years back due to a series of strokes and didn’t know his own name anymore, let alone Dick’s; the few times Dick had made it out to the nursing home in Port Angeles, ol’ Cecil had only stared at him, his poor, sagging, frozen face shaking a little, his eyes haunted by a confused and silent stranger. Cecil wasn’t going to be knocking on any doors, ever again…and lately, Dick couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the Cecil he’d known at twenty, or at forty; hell, the man he’d known only a few years before.

  A man’s man, Cecil Weston. Cecil had been the sort other men privately held up as an example for themselves—because he was responsible and straight-thinking and he didn’t hold truck with idiots or fools. He also told a good joke, a rare commodity, and wasn’t quick to judge anyone. Cecil had served honorably in Korea, come home and married his high school sweetheart and raised three good boys on a ship worker’s salary. He’d even aged gracefully, putting a life-is-for-the-living face on his widower status—his pretty, funny wife had died from the big C shortly after his retirement—dating a nice lady from his church four or five years after Hazel had been laid to rest. He’d mourned his wife, of course, but he’d done it in private, the way it was supposed to be. A good man, with a lifetime of good memories to help him grow old…and blam, the first clot hit, worming into his fine brain and settling in, a massive CVA that blew out half his lights. He’d just gone to bed that fateful night, and by the time his oldest son used his key the following afternoon, it’d been far too long…doctor said it was a wonder he was still breathing, considering, and just like that, Cecil Weston was doomed to diapers and delirium for the rest of his days. His kids had pooled their money, got him into a nice place; as much as they loved him, they couldn’t take care of him at home. But the nursing facility still smelled like piss, and even if the staff got slightly better than minimum wage, they didn’t know him, didn’t care about him. They looked at Cecil Weston and saw the living, breathing parody of the man he’d been, a series of systems to be fed and wiped and pitied until his body wore out or broke. And all those memories, lost…

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Dick scowled. The neighborhood kids knew better than to come to his house scrounging for jobs or selling their stupid crap. He knew a few people on the street by sight—the doctor, the young couple a half block down—but they’d have no reason to knock on his door. People generally annoyed him, and he didn’t mind saying so. Last time he’d had a drop-in visitor, it’d been Annie Thomas, asking about the girl in the park; before that, he couldn’t recall. Crazy world, now, sin to every side and no end in sight…and maybe a man like Cecil could have handled it, he would have handled it, would have found a way to navigate the chaos of the young century and his old body and done it smiling, remembering his life with Hazel and the boys, taking his lady to quiet dinners and regaling her with tales of the sea. Dick had tried to tough it out, tried to keep himself busy with his yard and his occasional scribblings, but he could see now that he’d been kidding himself, that the world had little use for the likes of him. His own sweet Annelise had died better than a half century ago; his strongest memories of the only woman he’d ever loved were as thin and translucent as smudged glass. But to lose even those, to wind up like Cecil…

  The reality was, he was doomed either way. If his brain didn’t give out, something else would; some tired, damaged piece of him would stutter to its inevitable halt, and if he was lucky, that would kill him. Chances were far better that he’d rot to death alone in some low-rent h
ospital bed, robbed regularly by the migrant orderlies and condescended to by some creaky, dried-up nurse. Or worse, a perverted Nancy boy, who maybe got a little tickle from sponging off old-man cock. But even if he beat the odds, if he stayed hale and healthy until his final day, passing peacefully in his bed after a good night’s sleep, he wasn’t half the man Cecil Weston had been, not half. He’d lived a sour, solitary life and left no mark on the world. Sick or well, what memories did he have to fill the long nights when he couldn’t sleep? And really, who would give two shits when he was gone?

  Knock-knock.

  Persistent bastard. He had a brief urge to go down and tell the intruder where he could stick his sample case or whatever the hell he was selling. Interrupting a man at his home, where maybe his peace was all he had; shameful, it was downright shameful.

  He slipped the noose around his chicken-skin neck, pulled the rope tight. Not much slack; he had it solidly tied to the rafters—maybe his hangman’s knot was off, but he could still tie a competent anchor bend, arthritis or no—and needed the drop to be short, what with the stool being so low to the ground. His toes would almost touch as it was. The ladder he’d used to put up the rope was locked away in the shed, the bills were paid up, the garden weeded and watered. He’d written a will and left it propped on the kitchen table, donating anything of value or interest to the township of Port Isley. Not that anyone would care, but he’d tidied up as best he could. It’s what Cecil would have done, if he’d known what was coming.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dick snapped, and pushed away from the stool, giving it a kick for good measure.

  John knocked again, though he felt fairly certain that Dick Calvin wasn’t home. The old man’s car, a battered beige Ford sedan, was in the tiny detached garage, but Calvin was active; he spent an hour or three in his yard every day that it wasn’t raining; there was no reason to suspect that he hadn’t simply walked down into town.