Evening in the Yellow Wood

by Laura Kemp

  “I sure as hell hope not,” she admonished. “Because I like our place and I sure don’t want to go back to Bill and Marty’s basement over some figment of your imagination.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but was cut short by a pair of headlights that seemed to be on our side of the road.

  If we’d been on our side.

  “Shit! Look out!” I cried.

  Too late. Holly slammed on the brakes, leaving no choice but to swerve left—which she did—landing us squarely in the ditch.

  I sat for several seconds in stunned silence, then watched as the vehicle that had run us off the road circled back in our direction. Scenes from every slasher flick where Old Hook Hand returned to finish off the surly teenagers ran through my mind.

  “Holl—” I turned to see her still clenching the wheel.

  “Are you okay? I never saw them coming. The curve—”

  I bit back the part about staying on her own side of the road, then braced myself for the sight of a hideous monster when the driver stopped, got out, and approached her window at a brisk pace.

  “Hey!” a voice cried, muffled through the glass. “You all right?”

  The face that appeared behind the voice was cast in shadow, but he seemed about our age and was a far cry from the creep I’d imagined. In fact, I was certain I’d seen it splashed across the Abercrombie and Fitch bag I’d been using as an underwear drawer until the real thing came along.

  Knowing we would have to explain ourselves for almost running him off the road, I elbowed Holly to roll down her window. She obliged, still shaking, still mumbling, “We’re fine…I mean I think we’re fine…who the hell knows.”

  He bent down then, his features illuminated by the dashboard lights. I stared but tried not to as I took in a smooth face exemplified by a strong jawline, nose, and mouth. Short, blond hair that had just enough length to curl and blue eyes completed an appealing picture I tried not to stare at.

  But stare I did, hoping this wasn’t going to throw me off my game…so to speak.

  “Dylan?”

  My eyes flew to Holly. She knew this guy? Better yet, he was probably one of the conquests she didn’t have time to tell me about.

  “Holly?” He laughed, relieved.

  “Holy cow…I haven’t seen you since—”

  “That night at the Deer Hunt Lounge.”

  She smirked. “How the heck have ya been?”

  He laughed again. “Not so great considering you almost ran me off the road. “

  Holly turned to me, “We’re sorry. We just got a little freaked out.”

  “We were…uh…” I mumbled, unable to think of an explanation that wouldn’t make us look like the morons we were. “Ghost hunting.”

  “And one got away?”

  I thought of the woman with the dark splatter on her dressing gown, “You could say that.”

  “Let me guess,” he paused, tried to suppress a smile. “Presque Isle Lighthouse?”

  I nodded.

  “Been there, done that,” he said matter-of-factly, and I was left wondering how to introduce myself when he saved me the trouble with, “I’m Dylan Locke, by the way. The guy you almost killed.” He reached across Holly to shake my hand.

  I opened my mouth and answered with a fairly respectable rendition of my name.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, the feeling of his hand in mine comfortable. When I let go, however, I felt a slickness that hadn’t been there a moment before.

  “Oh, my God,” I heard him gasp. “You’re bleeding!”

  I looked to my hand and felt my stomach kick over.

  “Justine,” Holly flicked on the dome light. “Did you hit the window?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled, looking for cuts on my palm, my elbows, pulling down the visor mirror and examining my hairline. It was impossible to bleed with no apparent injury, wasn’t it?

  “We need to get you to a doctor,” Dylan said. “That looks pretty bad.”

  I sat, unable to find an open wound and answered, “I don’t need a doctor.”

  He crouched down, a look of intensity on his face that matched my need for an explanation. “We don’t have to report this if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “He’s right,” Holly said, fumbling across me to the glove box where she grabbed a handful of McDonald’s napkins. “We should get it checked out.”

  “We will,” I agreed while pressing the napkin to my palm. “When the clinic’s open. I can’t afford a trip to the E.R.”

  Dylan seemed displeased but must have realized slinging me over his shoulder and carrying me into the hospital caveman-style would be a bit presumptuous. So he turned his attention to helping us in another way.

  “Can you get out of the ditch?”

  Holly put the Lumina in reverse and gunned the engine. After a few moments, we were free of the brush that had entangled us and back on the open road.

  “Nice to see you, Holly,” Dylan said. “But next time I hope it’s in passing.”

  She flashed him a thumbs up.

  “Justine,” he turned to me. “You’ll take care of that hand?”

  “I will,” I promised, a strange warmth spreading to my chest.

  “Good,” he smiled. “Because I have spies in this town.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take his humor, my fingers instinctively reaching for the silver necklace. His eyes followed, lingering for a moment before returning to my face.

  “I like it,” he said.

  I smiled.

  “Drive safe. I hear the cops are out tonight.”

  Holly chuckled under her breath as we watched him walk back towards his truck—an extended cab Ford F250 that would have won our little chicken contest without losing so much as a feather.

  We were back on Highway 23 before Holly spoke again. “We shouldn’t have gone out there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I admitted. “But you did get to catch up with an old friend.”

  She glanced at me, her eyes slits. “Uh-huh.”

  “Were you close?”

  She shrugged. “We graduated together. Hung out a few times after that.”

  I waited before asking more. “Did you have classes together or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Like Algebra or Physics or English Lit or something like that?”

  I saw her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “And so, it begins,” she sighed.

  “So, what begins?”

  “What do you think? Just look at him.”

  “I did,” I smiled out the window at nothing, surprised that he could distract me from my search so quickly.

  She chuckled again. “And you’re his type, too.”

  “I am?” I didn’t try to hide my delight.

  “Krissy McKee was his steady bimbo back in the day. I don’t need to tell you she was a blonde cheerleader with perfect tits and no depth perception, right?”

  “And I’m his type?”

  “I sure as hell wasn’t,” she breezed over the insult. “Although no one could say I didn’t give it the old college try.”

  I frowned, not sure if she was making me feel better or worse. “So, what is it about me…exactly…that he would find attractive?”

  “Don’t get yourself all worked up, Squirt. He probably has a wife and ten kids by now.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but maybe it was for the best, seeing how quickly he’d succeeded in throwing me off my game.

  “And I let that stupid insurance policy lapse…” she hit her forehead. “Let’s hope SuperCop keeps his word and doesn’t report this. Otherwise, you can kiss our cushy digs goodbye.”

  “SuperCop?”

  “He works for the county. Why do you think he made that stupid joke about the cops being out tonight?”

  I imagined him in uniform, imagined him out of uniform, and quickly pushed that thought from my mind as we rod
e in silence the rest of the way home. Several times I tried to gauge Holly’s mood but found it impossible. Still, the night wasn’t a total bust. I’d learned that the lighthouse Dad had painted was either haunted or I was having random bouts of insanity that was kicked off by ringing in my ears.

  I was still mulling things over when we arrived home. Making my way down the hall to the little room I’d acquired during a pre-dinner coin toss, I pulled my mattress from the jumbled heap of metal frame and box spring that littered the floor.

  I also took the time to find a special hiding place in my closet for the birthday present I’d never opened, feeling the need to do so before Holly saw it and started asking questions.

  Moments later, I heard footsteps pattering down the hallway, followed shortly by, “How’s your hand?”

  I looked at Holly, the bottom of her Snoopy sleep shirt barely covering her butt.

  “Fine,” I held it up, clean as a whistle after a good scrubbing.

  “That was some weird shit. Ghost ladies floating around and then you bleed all over Dylan Locke.” She sighed. “Hope you can keep a lid on it or this summer is gonna be off the hook.”

  I bit my lip, wondering the same thing while Holly, ever the gracious roommate, knelt to help me make up my bed.

  “Sorry about the whole ‘serial killer’ thing,” she said once we had finished. “And I have no right to question your depth perception.”

  “It’s pretty good,” I assured her.

  “I noticed,” she smiled, blowing me a mock kiss before sauntering down the hall to her own quarters. In a few minutes, Joey would be curled at my feet. My steady man.

  I adjusted my pillow under my neck, settling in for what I hoped would be a peaceful night’s sleep. Instead, I listened as a foghorn called from the lakeshore and imagined the lonely eye of the lighthouse watching for sailors that had drowned long ago.

  Strange, rambling dreams disturbed me, ones in which a bird alighted in a tree that caught fire but never burned, and I awoke in a sweat, unnerved and homesick and wondering if this was the way it was going to be now that I’d crossed into my father’s world, remembering a morning we watched cardinals eat from our winter feeders, their wings red as an open wound.

  Unable to sleep, I made a mental note to take Holly out for breakfast in the morning.

  I had scared her to death with what was most likely a figment of my imagination.

  I just hoped another one didn’t show up anytime soon.

  Chapter Three

  My first week in Lantern Creek flew by in a haze of activity as I purchased necessities that included a shower curtain with strategically placed clownfish, a used TV, and a six-dollar bottle of red wine. I also picked up a copy of the Lantern Creek Lectern every day and perused the classifieds.

  Holly walked in after work one afternoon as I was reading the tiny section with mounting frustration.

  “Did I forget to tell you we have the highest unemployment rate in the Lower Peninsula?”

  I frowned. “It must have slipped your mind.”

  “I’d get you into camp, but Jen Reddy took the last spot.” She paused. “I thought you had some money saved and were going to start a blog”—Holly stopped when she saw my wounded look—“or something.”

  I shook my head, wondering where she’d gotten the idea a blog would lead to anything resembling rent money.

  “Newspaper?” she offered.

  “They don’t need any help.”

  She laughed out loud. “They need help but would rather die than take it. Old Miles Jenks and his sister have been running it since the last ice age. I tried for a job in high school and the jerk acted like I wanted his left kidney.”

  I nodded, “Apparently he thought I was after the right one.”

  I tried to mask my disappointment. Truth was I’d been counting on my editor in Webber to help me get a job at the Lectern. I had hoped it would be the edge I needed on Lantern Creek happenings, including but not limited to the whereabouts of Robert Cook. But now it seemed I was going to have to look elsewhere for a livable wage—a task that seemed impossible considering what Presque Isle County had to offer.

  Holly sensed my mood and tried to cheer me up. “I’ve got a little money stashed away until you find something. Thank God Dylan kept his mouth shut or we’d be in Bill and Marty’s basement together right now.”

  “I told you he’d keep his word,” I said while pushing to my feet.

  She smirked. “That makes one of you.”

  I opened the refrigerator and paused. “Huh?”

  “You never went to the doctor.”

  I shrugged, hoping to downplay the event and how much I’d been thinking about it.

  “Let me see that hand again.”

  I held it up as she came to inspect it under the natural light streaming through our kitchen window.

  “Not a scratch.”

  “Maybe I have a disorder.”

  “Then you should go see a doctor.”

  “Ignorance is bliss.”

  “If Dylan finds out he’ll hunt you down.”

  “Worse things could happen.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What did I tell you about the wife and ten kids?”

  “He wasn’t wearing a ring.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Regardless…I’ve known the guy since kindergarten. His girlfriends usually end up walking around like brainless zombies after the inevitable break-up. Did I tell you about Krissy McKee?”

  “You did,” I shut the fridge, tired of her parenting style. “But like I said I’m not looking for a summer romance, so you don’t have to worry.”

  “That was before you met Dylan Locke.”

  I sighed, stretched and tried to ignore her last comment. Next on the agenda was looking for my car keys, a daily routine Holly likened to King Richard’s quest for the Holy Grail. After minutes of fruitless searching, I found them curled in my left tennis shoe and headed for the door.

  “I’m just going to check out that job at the dairy farm in Posen,” I called over my shoulder.

  “I can’t wait to see your uniform.”

  I laughed, ready for some space to clear my head as I walked out the door.

  Moments later, I started up the Heap and headed toward downtown Lantern Creek, a place where nightlife consisted of dinner followed closely by a seven o’clock movie. Fine dining was non-existent, but a good tavern could be had for the price of a tall Bud Light and a pan of cheesy bread. Not wanting to look like an alcoholic my first week in town, I avoided the local watering hole and opted for lunch at McDonald’s.

  I have spies in this town…

  The last thing I needed was to be thinking about him. I didn’t even like zombie movies.

  My Big Mac Extra Value Meal was cold comfort against that thought and so I hit the road again, weaving south, the dairy farm job forgotten as Grand Lake shimmered outside my driver’s side window.

  Before long I found myself at the breakwall again, staring at Dad’s lighthouse, hoping that something in the light or atmosphere would explain away the woman with the dark splatter on her dress. Certainly, I shouldn’t start seeing ghosts in Lantern Creek when I’d never seen them in Webber.

  I sat down on a flat rock, breathed the early summer air and tried to imagine what Dad had been thinking when he set his easel up and began to paint, memories of this place flooding all the hot spots in his brain. He always wanted quiet while working, and I remembered an autumn afternoon when I ran into his studio, a wounded bird in my hands.

  I’d heard it hit our front window and gone outside to investigate. The little robin was flailing but stilled when I bent to pick it up in my small hands. I knew Mom would be upset about me touching it, so went to find Dad even though I knew he didn’t like to be disturbed.

  I remembered him turning at the sound of my voice, putting his paintbrush down and coming towards me. He sat on a chair, invited me into his lap and unfolded my hands. I remember his clucking sound, the sound tha
t said something was a shame, as he looked at the bird.

  “Can we save it, Daddy?” I had asked.

  “I don’t think so, Muffet.”

  “But it’s going to die.”

  Dad’s eyes went soft as he kissed the top of my head. “See his wings? Even if this bird lives it will never fly again.”

  “I want him to live.”

  A pause, and then softly, “I don’t.”

  I didn’t understand it then and had no idea why the memory came to me now, on this breakwall overlooking the lighthouse. But Dad was right—there were worse things than death and so we carefully placed the bird in an old shoebox and buried it beneath the yellowing maple in our backyard.

  I sat thinking about that bird until the sun hung heavy in the afternoon sky, then climbed back into the Heap and headed home, unsure if I had learned anything but feeling closer to my father than I had in a very long time.

  I was near Grand Lake when I spotted something that made me start—a familiar truck pulling out of a driveway in front of an impressive log cabin. One glance and I realized it was Dylan Locke’s Ford F250. My heart sped up in the slightest. I even considered pulling over to see if he wanted to chat when I saw the slender, tanned arm hanging out of his passenger window.

  Was this the wife? Daughter? Soon-to-be Zombie?

  A wisp of long, brown hair whipped out the side as the truck sped up and I realized it most likely belonged to the girlfriend I’d been warned about. I tried not to stare through the back window but couldn’t help it. I saw their heads turn towards each other, saw him reach over and lay his arm across her shoulder and felt a wave of disappointment wash over me for the second time that day.

  I have spies in this town…

  Well so do I, Mister.

  Yes, sir—the passenger seat of Dylan’s truck was the place to be in Presque Isle County—and I was stuck behind in a crappy Honda Civic.

  I was so full of self-pity that I almost didn’t notice when he pulled into the public library.

  Gorgeous, chivalrous, and well-read?

  I couldn’t win for losing, and so circled the block one last time before heading home, more discouraged than ever, knowing I was going to have to make up a story about the dairy farm job or Holly would start getting pushy.