Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “I … don’t know about this,” said Aerie. “What do you think, Eleni?”

  “I’m okay with it,” she said. “But we’d better bring a mop. I’m pretty sure someone’s gonna pee their pants when they hear us play.”

  “Oh posh! That’s ridiculous,” said Sari. “It’s only music. I am totally at ease with it, as I was from the start. I think your discomfort is a cultural thing with you European-Americans. You expect your music to be packaged tidily in scales and meters, and when it’s not it upsets your tummies.”

  “Like I said, I’m game,” said Eleni. “But then again, I’m jaded. The stuff doesn’t bother me anymore. I suppose it would be a little bit easier to take without Aaron and his damned fiddle, pushing the envelope.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Aerie. “Maybe it won’t be so bad if it’s just us.”

  “That’s my girls,” said Sari. “Now look, I have already arranged a venue. The Ithaca Arts Coop is renting us use of their dance studio above the old theater. We have it Thursday and Friday, six to twelve. It’s short notice, so we will need considerable promotion to have this succeed. I have already prepared a block ad for the Ithaca Times. We may also want to consider the entertainment listings in the Journal. I’m trying to interest them in an interview and full story about me, but so far my charms are failing.”

  “I can make a poster,” said Eleni.

  “That would good,” said Sari. “Make sure you vet it by me before you print anything, though. We can enlist Ronald and Mal to help put them up. My people in Vida can help.”

  “What name do we put on the poster?” said Eleni.

  “How about … the collective?”

  “Too plain. Too … ordinary,” said Sari.

  “That is how people know us,” said Eleni.

  Sari sighed. “Alright. But how about we use K’s instead of C’s. One L. No E at the end?” She fetched a pen from her purse and scrawled something on a napkin. “Like this.”

  “Kolektiv,” it read.

  “Remember, Vida at the top, big letters, and make sure you mention Aerie’s Downbeat appearance, with the name of her group. What was the name?”

  “Hollis Brooks … Quintet.”

  “I like that. It’s good. Gives us … gravitas.”

  “I played with the Horseflies once,” said Eleni. “And … and Donna the Buffalo.”

  “Nobody knows or cares who the Horseflies are,” said Sari. “Or Donna the Buffalo.”

  Eleni sighed. “My friends do.”

  “When do we rehearse?” said Aerie.

  “Rehearsal? No. Well, I am to be rehearsing with Vida, of course, but for the collective, I don’t think it is necessary, do you?”

  “Suppose not,” said Aerie. “I have one small problem, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I left my bass at Aaron’s.”

  Sari blinked back at her. “Not a problem. Malachi knows where Aaron keeps the extra key. Take him out there. He’ll open the door for you.”

  The waitress came with their dinners, setting a bowl before Aerie—thick, chilled noodles slathered in tahini, peas and scallions. Something braised and suspiciously rodent-looking (dark meat, leg bones protruding) rested on top.

  “I thought you ordered angel hair pasta,” said Aerie.

  “Angel hare,” said Sari. “H-A-R-E.”

  “What’s with this place?” said Aerie. “Can’t they make anything without … murdering bunnies?” She nudged the meat aside with her fork, and went after the noodles. Maybe she was turning into a vegetarian after all.

  Chapter 16: Infernal Properties

  Another clear night. The moon, a sliver past full. The hell house remained as silent and dark as it had been all day. Since sundown, the infrared monitors picked up nothing but a skunk nosing about for grubs in the lawn and a quick, little rodent that might have been a shrew.

  John stood, nose to the picture window, staring at the rhododendrons in the side yard. Despite Jerry’s conviction that the shape that had glided across the monitor last night was some demonic manifestation, John was not convinced that it had been anything more than the play of light and shadow.

  But the thing he saw in the drizzle last July still nagged at him. He hoped that had been the whiskey talking. Glenfiddich, in the quantities he had consumed, might conjure all sorts of phantoms, maybe even elephants—if he drank enough of it.

  He sank into his easy chair with a long neck Budweiser, glaring at the tangle of cords and monitors that had invaded their living room. Jerry was huddling with Tammie and Rand, going over some of the arcane EMF data they had been collecting all day. Rand had staged an assault on the hell house itself, installing radio-based listening devices on several windows and yet more EMF detectors in the shrubberies.

  The Daily Show and Colbert were coming on, two of his few illicit pleasures. Cindy tolerated Jon Stewart, but could never make it through an entire hour without grumbling and walking away to find something better to do. John worried about changing the channel with Rand and Jerry in the room. Rand was a Glen Beck fan and Jerry had kept Fox News on in the background all day. John made like a good host and let Fox drone on.

  He went up to check on the boys. Cindy had just given Nigel and Jason a bath, and was cleaning up in the bathroom. The boys were both in their bedroom, playing with Duplos in Jason’s crib.

  “Daddy read?” said Nigel. “Da one about the bears? Da bears?”

  “Um, sure,” said John, fishing through a pile of books on the floor. He settled down onto the carpet.

  “I think we left off here. Remember? It was getting dark and Jonathan’s getting ready to go over the mountain to get a cooking pot from his Aunt Emma’s?”

  He shifted into his storytelling voice. “There are no bears on hemlock mountain. No bears. No bears at all.”

  Cindy ducked into the room. “What is that you’re reading?” she said, crumpling her brow.

  “It’s da bear book, momma,” said Nigel, all chipper.

  “I thought I had tucked that one away. I know it was a gift from Nana, bit don’t you think it’s a little too advanced for them?”

  “Nigel likes it,” said John. “And Jason just likes to hear the words. He could care less if I was jabbering in Swedish.”

  “Point is, John … see those numbers on the spine? The 6-8? That’s the reading level. The publisher put that there for a reason. Little brains can’t deal with stuff that’s too advanced.”

  “But … I’m reading it to them.”

  “That rating’s not just difficulty,” said Cindy. “It’s age appropriateness. There’s stuff in there that might be a little too scary, don’t you think? Considering what we’re going through?”

  “But it’s ‘The Bears on Hemlock Mountain.’ It’s about how Jesus can keep you safe when you’re scared. How you’re not alone when you think you’re alone. It’s a nice Christian story.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Cindy. “But look at those eyes on the cover, peeking out of the trees. It’s creepy. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about already. You’re gonna give them nightmares. I just don’t think my babies are ready for it.” She gave John the tight, toothy smile she displayed when she was on the verge of losing her patience.

  John closed the book. Nigel started bawling. “Noooo! I wanna hear da bear story!” Cindy glared at John. He kissed the boys good night and stormed out of the room.

  If he had his way, and if these were his kids, he would be reading the Hobbit to them, the way Grandpa Joe had done for him when he was four, moving on to through the Lord of the Rings trilogy from kindergarten through first grade. Just a little bit every night, just enough to keep the story smoldering in his imagination.

  John suspected that the presence of a Tolkien novel in this household would provoke a deliverance ritual out of the Reverend. The book would then be relegated to the Holy Fire in Jerry’s smoker, freshly stoked with rock maple wood from the cord that John had helped him split ea
rlier that day. But at least the LOTR series could be seen by some as Christian allegory. He shuddered to think of how Cindy would react if Harry Potter made an appearance in her household.

  Cindy would be taking the kids up to their grandparents in the morning, against John’s protestations. He was sure that staying with Cindy’s well-intentioned but toddler-challenged parents would be more traumatizing to Jason and Nigel than anything he would encounter here at home. But Donnie had insisted.

  Donnie seemed a mere shell of the backslapping, prayer-spewing, dynamo that had shown up on their doorstep the evening before. He had begged off dinner and was looking a little green around the gills. John hoped it had nothing to do with the chowder he had re-heated for lunch. But everyone else seemed fine. Maybe it was just the stomach flu that had been going around the parish.

  Cindy came into the room with tray loaded with mugs of hot cocoa. Donnie, slumped on the sofa, waved her off.

  “I’m so sorry that you’re not feeling well, Reverend. Would you like some tea?”

  “That’s kind of you, but um, no thanks. I’m thinking of heading back to the hotel, get some rest, given the lack of activity and all.”

  “We can set you up here with a room,” said Cindy. “It’s no problem at all.”

  “That’s alright. All my bags are there. I just need to get some rest. Tam? Rand? We’ll head out after you have your cocoa, alright?”

  “Sure, Donnie,” said Rand. “We can go now, if—”

  “No, that’s okay. Have your chocolate. I can manage.”

  Rand guzzled his cocoa in large gulps, practically choking.

  “It’s amazing,” said Cindy. “What you were all able to accomplish, in such a short time.”

  “Well thank you,” said Donnie, “But we haven’t done anything yet. We have yet begun to fight, as the saying goes.”

  “One quiet day means nothing,” said Jerry. “They know we’re here. They may just be lying low, hoping we’ll go away.”

  “True,” said Donnie. “Much too premature to declare victory. We haven’t even begun the casting out rites. Still, their silence is a good sign.”

  “I don’t think this Aaron guy is even home,” said John. “His car’s been gone all day.”

  “All I know,” said Cindy. “Is that three nights in a row they were going at it every night. You guys show up, and it all stops. That’s gotta be more than a coincidence. It’s your doing, with the good Lord’s blessing.”

  “It’s kind of you to think so?” said Donnie, who was looking awful antsy. Sweat gleamed on his brow. His face was pale. “Rand, Tam?”

  Rand slammed his emptied mug on the counter. Tammie abandoned hers still three-quarters full.

  “We’d best be going,” said Donnie.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I crash on your sofa again,” said Jerry.

  “There’s no need for that Mr. Winston,” said Cindy. “We have an extra room.”

  “I’d prefer, if you don’t mind, to stay close to my equipment. In case something pops up. Know what I mean?”

  Donnie rushed towards the door. “If there’s any action, don’t hesitate to call, Jerry. We’ll come straight out here. Hopefully … things will stay quiet. Oh, Lord!” He moaned and vomited into the yews off the front stoop.

  “Oh my,” said Cindy. “Let me get you some wipes.” She rushed into the backroom and came out with a travel pack of baby wipes. “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

  Donnie clenched his jaw and nodded, climbing into the cab of the pickup, as Rand hopped into the driver’s seat, Tammie in the back.

  “God Bless you all,” said Cindy. “Mac was right. You guys are certifiable heroes.”

  ***

  John’s eyes popped open about a minute before six am. He never needed an alarm; he had a body clock you could set a watch with. Every morning it was this way, no matter how late he had stayed up the night before, no matter how restless the night.

  John was what they called a ‘morning person.’ He didn’t need coffee, had never drank it before he met Cindy. But because he didn’t need caffeine to function and because Cindy did, John was the one who brewed the coffee every morning.

  By that same logic, John was also the one who attended to the kids during the night. Nigel, thank God, was a sound sleeper and didn’t need much tending. He was a lot like Cindy that way—slow to rouse from a slumber, slow to calm from an upset.

  Jason, though, always woke up once or twice, hungry or with a wet diaper. But not last night, and John rushes down the hall to the kids’ room, a little concerned.

  He found Nigel curled like a kitten in the corner of his bed, whistling gently through his nose. Jason stood in his crib, cooing and playing with the shadows of leaves flickering on the wall. His head jerked around and he smiled as John entered the room.

  “Hey buddy! Whatcha doing? Shadow puppets?”

  This start was atypical for Jason, who usually woke up screaming. After a quick change, John hoisted him off the changing table and onto his hip. They went downstairs for breakfast.

  A constellation of LEDs glowed in the living room. Jerry wheezed under a fleece blanket on the sofa. With Jason snapped into his high chair with a sippy cup of juice and a bowl of mush before him, John transitioned into what he called the ‘coffee ceremony.’

  Three hundred consecutive mornings of brewing Cindy’s coffee had allowed the process to evolve into a ritual dance whittled to an absolute economy of motion—half Tai Chi, half Japanese tea ceremony.

  He opened the cabinet and retrieved the coffee grinder, unwinding the cord with a swirl of his wrist. He slid two fingers down its length till they seized the plug, guiding the prongs towards the outlet like a Soyuz mating with a space station. With a wiggle, the prongs slid home.

  He shifted his weight, swooping like a speed skater to reach the drawer with the coffee beans, tipping it, catching it, stabbing his finger between the foil walls to create a spout, tilting it, filling the grinder. Down went the cap, smothered by a dish towel. On went the switch.

  The grinder shrieked. The blanket leaped. Jerry shouted and thudded to the hardwood floor.

  “What the fuck?” said Jerry, befuddled, from the floor.

  “Sorry,” said John, wincing. “I didn’t think it’d be so loud, with the towel and all.”

  John finished the operation without the usual grace, like a dispirited gymnast after a fall, spilling grounds all over the counter, sloshing water out of the reservoir, punctuating the spoiled routine with a double hit of the switch.

  “S’alright,” said Jerry. “I should get my ass out of bed and check those graphs, anyhow.”

  “Graphs?”

  “EMF sensors. I’m curious about new ones Rand planted.” He ran the cursor over each window, maximizing them one at a time.

  John came and peeked over his shoulder. “Anything?”

  “Eh … not much. Looks like background noise.”

  “That’s … good. Right?”

  “Depends what you mean by good. I mean it’s great we didn’t get slaughtered by demons. Not so great we didn’t find what we’re looking for.”

  “Maybe … there’s nothing to find?” said John.

  “Nothing? We both saw that thing cross my monitor.”

  “But it didn’t show up on your detectors.”

  Jerry took a deep, slow breath. “Doesn’t mean it don’t exist. EMF and infrared don’t cut it, sometimes. There’s stuff crossing the void that goes beyond our ability to measure. You’d have to be in my business, see all the stuff I’ve seen, to understand. As for these gizmos—we gotta make do with what we got.” He looked out the window into the woods. “There’s something out there alright. Probably attracted to that noise your neighbors make.”

  The coffeemaker snorted, percolating its last drips. “Coffee?” said John.

  “Sure,” said Jerry. “I take it black.”

  John poured two regular cups and a larger mug with extra sugar and half and half for Cindy.r />
  “Much obliged,” said Jerry, taking a cup. He took a sip and gasped. “Whoa! That’ll put hair on your chest.”

  “Yeah, I should have warned you. It’s an Italian roast, espresso grind. Cindy needs the caffeine or else—”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining,” said Jerry. “Sure beats that dishwater they serve at Dunkin Donuts.”

  “No argument there,” said John. He climbed the stairs, keeping his elbows loose. He had a knack for carrying a mug filled to the brim without spilling a drop.

  Cindy had the TV on, but her eyes were closed.

  “Here you go, hon. I’ll set it down.” He placed the mug on the night stand. Leaning over the bed, he gave her a peck on the cheek.

  She winced and squirmed. Her eyes stayed closed. “What was all that racket?”

  “Um. That was Jerry. The grinder kinda startled him. He fell off the couch.”

  “Oh my,” She sat up and blinked at the harsh light beaming through the window. “You shoulda set it up before we went to bed.”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t thinking, I guess.”

  “Any stuff happen? Outside?”

  “Not as far as I can tell,” said John.

  “Good. That’s good, right?”

  “Not according to Jerry. Sounds like they actually want to catch something … or kill it.”

  Cindy shuddered. “I just want them to go away.” Her eyes grew wider, and fully alert. “Do you think Donnie’s prayers did the trick?”

  “Don’t know.” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Cindy yawned. “Mac’s coming over this afternoon with some folks from the parish. Would you mind stopping by the grocery store?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make sure you get some mint chocolate chip ice cream, for Mac. And tortilla chips. He likes chips and salsa. Extra hot.”

  “For … Mac?”

  “Well, he’s gonna be staying with us for a while. The Reverend didn’t look so great last night. Mac said he could come over and lend some extra support. The kids will be up in Syracuse. He can sleep on Nigel’s twin.”