Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “You’re one to talk,” said Ron, starting up the van. “Someone who plays a fucking coffin with strings.”

  “It does not look like a coffin,” said Aerie. “I think it’s rather elegant, myself.”

  “Fuckin’ wooden tuba makin’ fart noises,” Ron muttered. “Fer geetar player wannabes.”

  “Ease up, Ron,” said Mal.

  “Oh, I forgot, this is Aerie Walker, International Recording Artist.”

  Aerie lifted the cover of the bell jar a tad with her sneakered toe. Tingles of anticipation or dread prickled her chest. But the glass was opaque, as if the inside had been frosted or coated in dust.

  “Jesus! What’s that thing coming out of the woods?” said Ron. “Look at the beard on him. It ain’t hunting season yet, is it?”

  Mal gripped his seat. “Fucker’s got a shotgun pointed at us. Gun it, Ron!”

  Ron hit the accelerator and all went sliding towards the back. The bell jar tipped on its plywood base. Aerie grabbed it and righted it before it could overturn. The glass felt oddly warm in spots, and cold in others.

  They careened down Connecticut Hill Road, throwing gravel up at the shoulders, through a dark tunnel of trees until the valley opened up and the lights of Route 13 welcomed them back to civilization.

  ***

  As they homed in on Ithaca, Aerie relaxed. She had her evening all planned out – a hot shower, some pizza delivered, and then maybe an hour on her Juzek, pizz and bow.

  “Thanks for the all help, guys,” said Aerie, prepping for a drop-off as they approached the turn to Court Street. “It’s nice having her back.” She patted her bass. “I missed her.”

  “Your bass is a girl?” said Mal.

  “Shouldn’t have told him that,” said Ron, roaring past her turn without even slowing down. “He’s gonna put the make on her.”

  “Hey! Where you going? That was my—”

  “Didn’t we tell you?” said Mal. “Sari’s having a pre-gig party tonight.”

  “Honestly, guys. I think I’ll pass. Can you stop the van and let me out?”

  “That’s a negatory,” said Ron. “It’s being catered. We’ll miss out on the food if we get there any later.”

  “Besides, it’s a band party,” said Mal. “You’re with the band. Ergo, you must attend the party.”

  “But I can’t go looking like this. I’ve got tomato stains on my blouse. I smell like onions. Drop me home, please.”

  “Sorry,” said Ron. “But that’s a no go.”

  “Not cool, guys, taking me prisoner in the back of your van.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s casual,” said Mal. “We’ll make our appearance, grab a quick bite, and run you home. How’s that?”

  Aerie sighed. She pictured herself running a gauntlet of Sari’s snooty friends to reach a buffet of rabbit hors d’ouvres, rabbit entrees, rabbit salads. She slumped amongst the coils.

  The bell jar rattled against the plywood base as the van passed over the brick cobbles leading up the steep incline of Buffalo Street. She noticed her leg brushing up against the bell jar and jerked it back.

  Aerie sorted through her purse, rattling her pills. She couldn’t remember if she had taken any of them. The days all ran together. From the way her nerves thrummed, it sure didn’t feel like she had, although the proximity of that bell jar to her rump didn’t help her anxiety, not to mention the stress of heading un-groomed to a party full of strangers. And Sari’s crowd was likely to contain an unhealthy share of fashionistas.

  She found a hairbrush, at least, and did her best to sort out the rat’s nest on her head. She wished she had a hat of any sort. She had left all her makeup in her ‘going out’ purse at home. The cylinder floating amidst the detritus at the bottom that she hoped was lipstick turned out to be ChapStick.

  The van pulled into a hedge-lined driveway just bellow Collegetown, leading to an ornate Victorian perched on the edge of Cascadilla Gorge. At first Aerie took it for a Cornell fraternity, but the gardens looked too well-kept and there was nary a Greek letter in sight.

  “Who lives here?”

  “Friend of Sari’s,” said Mal.

  “Rich friend,” said Ron.

  “No shit, Ron.”

  They all climbed out. The turnaround at the end of the driveway was crowding with cars. Techno pop pulsed within, above the steady drone of voices. Aerie used Mal and Ron as a shield as they approached the door. In the porch light, she picked dried tomato seeds off her cuff, and scraped at a green smudge—spinach?—with her fingernail.

  Several large Persian rugs had been rolled up against the wall revealing wide pine floors on which a throng of guests bounced to the steady throb of the music.

  Sari was standing near the door holding a bright pink cocktail. Her eyes lit up when she spotted them. Ron blew her a kiss and went straight for a table with a row of warmers holding a selection of vindaloo, tandoori and basmati. Aerie snatched a piece of garlic naan.

  “I thought you all would never show,” said Sari. “Everyone is wondering: ‘where is this infamous Kolektiv?’ Are they fashionably late or simply cultivating the mystique?”

  One side of Sari’s face looked all bloated, as if she had been in a fight, but there was no bruising.

  “What happened to you?” said Mal.

  “It’s called anaphylaxis!” said Sari. “Can you believe it? I am allergic to mollusks and these silly caterers bring a dish contaminated with lake mussels. I didn’t eat it, thank goodness, but I picked one out of my food with my fingers. One touch to my eye, and voila! I look like Quasimodo. It’s not a good look for me, no?”

  “Get yourself a hunchback and you’re in business,” said Mal.

  “Mussels?” said Ron, returning with a plate heaped with rice and curry. “I love mussels!” He gestured back at the warming trays. “Which one …?”

  “It’s long gone,” said Sari. “We made them dump it in the bushes and bring us replacements. But it worked out well. They brought extra for free and the new platters arrived just when we were running out of food.”

  “Lucky for us,” said Mal.

  “Where’s Eleni?” said Aerie, hoping to commiserate with a fellow fish out of water.

  “Does Eleni even know you’re having a party?” said Mal.

  Sari’s eyes flashed blank for a moment. “I … think so.”

  “It’s Wednesday,” said Ron. “If she ain’t here, she’s in T-burg. Bluegrass jam.”

  “Jeez. What’s with this music,” said Mal. “Sari, you mind if I—”

  Sari rolled her eyes. “Go ahead, Mal.”

  Aerie noticed a guy with shades and a long ponytail tracking her movements, glancing over repeatedly. There was nothing flirtatious about his manner. He had the suspicious manner of a secret service agent.

  “That guy, he keeps staring at me,” Aerie whispered.

  “Who? Him?” said Sari. “That’s Peter. He plays bass in Vida. I’ve been telling him a lot about you. He likes to scope out the competition.”

  “Competition?”

  A couple came in to the room and waved at Sari, flashing big, exaggerated smiles.

  “Excuse me,” she said, drifting away.

  Mal hunched over the sound system thumbing through an iPod Classic. Stacks of CDs spilled from a milk crate. The techno pop transitioned to something frilly on top and light in the bottom end. It sounded almost like a parody of the genre. It sounded awful, worse than the worst Tokyo teenybopper dance hall music. Aerie half expected hamsters to break into song.

  Mal came bounding over, beaming.

  “What do you think?” said Mal.

  “Frankly,” said Aerie, between nibbles of her naan. “It sucks.”

  Ron burst out laughing—big, convulsive belly laughs.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is Mal’s mix,” said Ron. “It’s his side project.”

  Mal looked crushed.

  “Oh Mal, I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, for what it is, it’s …
nice. I just never cared much for techno pop.”

  “I’m with you Aer,” said Ron. “It’s total crap.”

  “Ron? Fuck you! This happens to be hot on the Brooklyn club scene.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of clubs? Lithuanian euro trash?”

  Mal looked flustered. “Sari likes it,” said Mal. “She thinks it’s cute.”

  “Yeah, it is,” said Aerie. “It’s … cute.”

  Someone grabbed Aerie from behind, one hand too high, one too low. Aerie wheeled around to belt them. She found Eleni.

  “Easy girl!” said Eleni. “It’s just me.” Her speech was slurred, and she wore a slightly cross-eyed expression.

  “Well, well, the band’s all here,” said Sari, squeezing between the dancers. She pecked Eleni on the forehead. “See? I did invite the little dear.”

  “No you didn’t,” said Eleni. “I heard about it from Peter.”

  Sari shrugged. “What matters is that we are all here—Vida, Kolektiv—the musical elite of Ithaca, whether Ithaca appreciates us or not.” Her eyes gleamed. “But they will, after tomorrow.”

  Mal sidled off to the sound system in the corner of the room, thumbed the iPod in its cradle and squelched the music in mid-beat. The dancers groaned and complained. What came over the speakers next stunned her. ‘All the Things You Are,’ the up-tempo version from the CD, the only CD, that she had recorded with Hollis Brooks in a tiny basement recording studio in Western Tokyo—Koichi’s nifty brushes on the drums, Hollis’ staccato trumpet, Arthur’s minimalist comping on piano and behind it all—Aerie’s peripatetic, lost-in-the-woods but always reaching home walking bass.

  People whispered, pointed. Eyes drifted in Aerie’s direction.

  Mal returned, sporting an impish grin.

  “Where did you ever get a hold of this?” said Aerie.

  How it had come into Mal’s possession baffled her. It had been released only on a tiny, local Japanese label. Aerie stomped over to the sound system. “How did you—?”

  “Sari found it … on Amazon,” said Mal.

  “Impressive.” Aerie swiveled to find Peter, Sari’s other bass player, holding a drink, his eyes animated. “How do you learn how to walk like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aerie, the blood rising in her cheeks. “It’s just jazz. It’s like breathing to me.”

  “You should see her walk … in heels,” said Eleni.

  “What?” said Aerie. “You’ve never seen me— Oh! Eleni, are you sloshed?”

  A chubby guy in a fedora, looking annoyed, worked his way over to the sound system and stopped the music in the middle of Aerie’s bass solo. The dance groove resumed with a harsh, industrial beat.

  A couple ran inside. They looked concerned. “Anybody here own a white van?” said the guy.

  “Why? Are the lights on?” said Ron.

  “There’s a puppy … or something … inside. Sounds like it’s … dying.”

  “That was no puppy, Alice,” said the guy, a pallor in his face.

  Ron exchanged a glance with Mal dashed outside, Aerie rushed after them.

  They reached the van. Ron unlocked the door and slid the door open a little too hard.

  The interior as silent as a hearse, the bell jar inert. Mal reached for the shroud and lifted it slowly.

  Chapter 19: Burgers

  Jerry pushed through a patch of mountain laurels, keeping his shotgun leveled at the van. John stumbled after him, keeping his eyes on the woods behind them.

  The sight of that circle etched in the moss galvanized him. He felt as if awakened from a long slumber, struggling to disentangle dream from reality. His mind had no neat compartments in which to file the flurry of oddities he was witnessing.

  The van peeled out of the driveway, spewing gravel.

  “Look at them riff raff scram,” said Jerry. “Buncha cat burglars.”

  “Did you have to point your shotgun at them? What if they call the cops?”

  “Don’t worry. The shells are in my pocket. Didn’t want to waste them on a grouse.”

  John kept glancing back up the slope they had just descended. “That circle in the moss … what could make such a thing?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” said Jerry. “I see a lot of weird shit in this job, but that’s a new one.”

  They crossed the road to the hell house. A white ribbon now encircled it, wrapping around the young birches and dogwoods that dotted the yard.

  “Rand must have put this up,” said Jerry, twanging the taut ribbon with the muzzle of his gun. “Must be a Catholic thing, holy oil and salt and all that mumbo jumbo.”

  “What’s it for?” said John.

  Jerry shrugged. “It’s supposed to keep whatever’s inside, inside.”

  Again, John glanced up the hill. “What if … whatever it is … is outside?”

  “That’s … a problem,” said Jerry.

  ***

  John kept dinner simple—Angus burgers and fixings—all grilled over charcoal on the little black Weber out back—no Holy Fire for this meal. Potatoes wrapped in foil. Corn stripped of silk, soaked in water, husks replaced. He couldn’t restrain himself from whisking together a little balsamic aioli to brush on the corn.

  As he stood by the grill, Heineken in hand, his eyes kept drifting to the edge of the yard. Every breeze, every rustle of bush by bird or a squirrel caused his eyes to dart into the trees, silhouetted by the sky’s residual glow.

  Headlights appeared on the main road. Cindy’s Camry—John knew well the geometry of its lights, from many a night rushing to the window to see if it was her car heading home. Another set of lights followed close behind.

  John flipped the burgers, rotated the cobs and, tongs in hand, rushed around the side of the house to greet them. Cars pulled in. Doors opened. Cindy emerged.

  She glanced at John, flashed a smile and looked away, her face rigid. She bustled past him down the walk and into the house, without saying a word.

  “Cindy—?” His eyes followed her. The screen door slammed.

  Mac climbed out of his car and went around to help extricate Donnie, who was moving like a geriatric.

  “Good timing, you all,” said John. “Burgers are about done. Let me know if anyone wants cheese on theirs.”

  “No burgers for me, thanks,” said Donnie.

  “Still under the weather?”

  “A bit.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “A small glass of ginger ale might be nice. I’m taking baby steps right now. Last night I couldn’t even keep down water.”

  “Be right with you.” He ran out back and filled up the platter with the last of the burgers and brought them inside.

  Cindy shot up from the computer desk, whisked through the living room and up the stairs. Mac, looking fidgety, settled down hard on the couch and picked up a three-day old newspaper.

  John watched her go as she fetched some pickles and condiments from the fridge and set them on the counter besides the paper plates.

  “Okay guys,” he said. “Dinner’s ready.” He poured a glass of ginger ale and brought it out to the Reverend, who had sunk deep into an easy chair.

  “Why thanks.”

  “Sure I can’t get you anything else? Some soup, maybe?”

  “I’m fine for now. Thanks.”

  As Jerry and the interns herded into the kitchen, John made his way to the stairs. He heard the shower creak on in the master bathroom, and trotted up the stairs.

  He rapped lightly on the bathroom door with his knuckles. “Hey Cind? Everything okay?”

  No answer. He knocked again. When there was no response he slipped into the bathroom and shut the door gently. Cindy sang low, like a lullaby, her petite form softly suggested behind the translucent curtain. The scent of her lavender soap wafted through.

  “Cind?”

  She squealed. The shower curtain leaped. A shampoo bottle thudded against the acrylic floor.

  “It’s okay. Just me.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Can’t I shower in peace? What are you doing in here? We’ve got guests in the house.”

  “I was just … I hadn’t heard from you all day. Is everything alright?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “How … how’d it go with the kids?”

  “Fine,” said Cindy. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

  “Alright.” He sighed and slipped out of the bathroom, releasing a puff of billowing steam into the hall. He went back downstairs. Mac and the deliverance folks were arrayed on the sofa munching burgers in front of the TV, watching NCIS.

  John went into the kitchen put together a plate of his own, noticing that no-one had disturbed the sliced avocado and shredded arugula that he had arrayed around the tomatoes and onions. He sighed and helped himself, slapping on a dash of habanero sauce instead of ketchup.

  Jerry sat facing the Reverend, at his monitoring station, filling him in on the events of the day.

  “Have to say, I’m not surprised,” said the Reverend. “Just the unkempt look of these woods—I mean look all the tangled vines and the chaos—it all suggests an infernal hand.”

  “Can’t we … do something about it?” said Jerry.

  “Nothing to be done about the wilds,” said Donnie. “It’s … beyond our means. I mean we’re talking nature, here. Do you know how many square miles of forest there is out there? That house is going to be challenging enough.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” said Jerry. “But if we could trap them or hunt them down or … something, or at least consecrate their hot spots, their nests, the places they gather—”

  The Reverend took a tiny sip of his ginger ale. “From what you’re telling me, they’re obviously attracted to that house. If we focus our efforts there … I bet the problem will disperse.”

  Jerry looked pained. “Yeah. I know what you’re saying and all, but … chasing them out of that house … I can’t help it … feels like sweeping we’re something under a rug instead of cleaning up the mess. You get my drift?”

  Cindy came downstairs in a bathrobe and with a towel wrapped around her head. She kept her eyes on the carpet, not looking at anybody, not Mac, not John, not Donnie. She went into the kitchen and made a plate of avocado and corn, with a little arugula on the side.

  John rose and swung around the counter to face her, smiling, trying to catch her eye.

  “Did you have a good day, Cind?”

  She shrugged. “Fine.” Her gaze flickered into his and fluttered away like an elusive gnat.