Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  They were outside on the patio, where the noise wouldn’t disturb Cindy. She was inside huddled in her office nook with paperwork for a closing in Ovid. Jerry and Rand were in the garage, fussing with a tangle of wires and hardware they had picked up from Home Depot and Radio Shack. A trap, they said. It looked part vacuum cleaner, part boom box.

  The reeds of John’s old Selmer were stiff and cracked from years of disuse. His squawks drew giggles from Nigel, and then belly laughs when Jason tried to imitate them.

  “Okay guys, we’re playing ‘Summertime.’ Ready? A one. Two. One, two, three ….”

  He started into the melody, and the boys joined in, Jason banging maniacally on a xylophone, Nigel sucking and blowing the same two chords over and over on his harmonica. John stayed focused on the changes, round after round, resisting the urge to wander off into the sonic wilderness where the boys dwelt.

  He wondered where he could find more Gospel-y sheet music that would keep him in Cindy’s graces. He knew she wasn’t going to tolerate these music lessons if he didn’t keep them Christian. Then, maybe once in a while he could sneak in one of the tunes he had scribbled on his notepad straight from Aerie’s Tokyo recording with the Hollis Brooks Quintet, having scoured the track listing from some back corner of iTunes.

  He reflected on his last conversation with Aerie, sifting through his recollections for crumbs of hope. Behind the wall of tempered hostility, he found meager pickings. A fleeting kindness here. A speck of pity there. A touch of wonder that this married fool could find cause to be infatuated with her.

  Her words and tone almost didn’t matter. The remembered resonance of her voice was fuel enough for his heart.

  Maybe Aerie’s snub was for the good. Feelings were unfolding much too fast. He was still married for God’s sake! And he still loved Cindy, no matter her infidelity.

  He blamed himself for her wanderings, for not being the man she expected. He had tried to pour himself into the mold of what he presumed Cindy considered the ideal husband, but had produced nothing more than a good roommate with nanny skills.

  Jason pounded on a toy piano, alternating between it and a xylophone with bursts of surprisingly stable rhythm. Nigel squealed away on a chromatic harmonica that his grandparents had brought back from a bus tour of Germany.

  John noodled away on the clarinet, trying to weave something coherent between the boys’ chaotic excursions. He surprised himself with how good a tone he could pull out of his old horn. It felt good making that wood vibrate, feeling the control come back. He had been pretty good in high school, and he still had the knack.

  The tykes were remarkably rapt in their noise making. Nigel alternated between piano and harmonica, making chromatic runs up and down the scales. Jason clenched drumsticks and xylophone hammers in frenzied little fists, whacking at anything that would make a sound.

  Cindy stepped onto the patio, a bulging portfolio clutched to her bosom. “Easy, Jason! Nanny brought that all the way from Switzerland. Nigel, take those sticks away.”

  “Oh, he’s fine, Cind,” said John, lowering the clarinet from his parched lips. “They build these things sturdy.”

  She tipped her brow, eyes stern. “A piano is not a drum.” She held up a coffee filter. “When you get a chance, can you please—” Her eyes bugged. She screamed and dropped her papers.

  “Get in! Quick! Th-there’s … one of those things!”

  “Huh?” John tucked his clarinet and swiveled. Cindy swooped forward, snatched Jason’s arm and yanked him away from the xylophone.

  A patch of haze hovered over a rose bush, swirling like smoke over a fire but contained by some invisible barrier. Dust tendrils stretched twined and peeled like a nest of snakes sketched in charcoal. It slunk through the thorns, homing in on the patio.

  “Oh my God!” He dashed the clarinet down onto the white plastic table and hauled Nigel up by the waist, tucking him under one arm like a squirmy football. He backed away from the thing, knocking over the toy piano with a rattle and clang.

  The dust cloud paused to hover over the fading dissonance of the toy piano. The leg of a white plastic lawn chair browned and then blackened where the spinning cloud touched it. The leg crumbled away and the chair toppled into the thing.

  The thing hovered too close to the patio door for comfort. Cindy disappeared around the corner of the house with Jason. John rushed after her, Nigel kicking and bawling with terror.

  A second clot of ropy dust was coming up the drip line under the eaves. As it passed over the garden hose, thin jets of water sprayed up, before the hose just opened up and gushed like a split artery.

  Cindy detoured wide onto the lawn, sidestepping, hyperventilating, Jason giggling at the commotion.

  Jerry emerged around the front corner of the house like an apparition, startling Cindy and producing yet another scream. He stood beside the gutter spout and leveled his shotgun.

  “Front door. Now! Rand’s got it covered.”

  Cindy stumbled, nearly tumbling into a holly bush. John grabbed her arm and steadied her.

  “What are these creatures?” said Cindy, her voice trembling. “Why are they after my babies?”

  “Keep moving,” said Jerry. “Get in the damn house.”

  They sprinted for the front door, held open by Rand, all wide-eyed and gaping, one hand on his shoulder holster.

  The dull roar of Jerry’s shotgun echoed across the hills.

  ***

  John’s forearms and brow sported dotted lines of rose pricks from crawling through the bushes in search of the beast. Rand had bumped his head on a tree limb, and the impact site was already knotting up and turning blue.

  “You two go in, take care of yourselves,” said Jerry, his beard studded with bits of twig and leaf complementing his cammie coveralls. “I’m gonna stay out here a while longer.”

  The house was deathly silent. No TVs, video games. No voices.

  “Cindy?”

  The family and living rooms were empty. He trotted up the stairs.

  “Cindy? Are you guys home?”

  He hustled down the hall, checking the master bedroom, both kids’ rooms, lunging into the shared bath and yanking back the shower curtain. Nothing. Not a sign of his family.

  Panicking, he surged back into the hall and caught a high-pitched keening coming from the master bedroom. He ducked inside.

  “Cindy? That you?”

  He found them cowered on the floor on the far side of the bed, one boy tucked under each arm, heads clasped to her bosom. Nigel stared blankly, trembling. Jason sang nonsense syllables and played with the fringe of the bedspread.

  “Jason, shush!” said Cindy. “Stop that singing right now.”

  “Cindy, why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been calling you.”

  She just glared up at him, lips sealed.

  “It’s okay. Jerry says it’s gone. The shotgun scared it off.”

  “Right.”

  “No really, Hon. We ransacked the hedges. Jerry even tried to go after it, followed it way deep into the woods. He said there’s no trace.”

  “He didn’t kill it. Means it’s still out there.”

  “Kill it? How—?”

  “Donnie assured me they had moved on. That we had nothing to worry about.” She stayed huddled in the corner, rocking the boys in her arms. Tears dribbled down both cheeks. “I’m calling Mac.”

  “Mac? What’s he gonna do?”

  “He promised his friends could make them go away. They failed. Obviously.”

  “Maybe … it’s not possible. I mean, Jerry said he doesn’t even know—”

  “Donnie needs to come back and finish the job,” said Cindy. “I can’t abide having these things prowling around out there, terrorizing my children. I can’t live like this. Scared of every cricket that hops. Every squirrel rustling in the hedges.”

  “Maybe we should consider moving,” said John. “If we lived in Syracuse, near your mom, it’d be easier for me to find a job. We’d ge
t … child care. And you’d still be close to your territory.”

  “Move?” Cindy scrambled up onto her knees. “You know how much I have invested in this project?”

  “Yeah. A lot. I know,” said John.

  “Everything,” said Cindy. “You know what this place means to me. This is my future. Once the rest of the subdivisions get built we’ll have a community hall. A playground.”

  “I know Cind, but given the circumstances, not to mention the economy.”

  “You’re saying we should quit.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be—”

  “Cindy Swain does not quit, ever. Cindy Swain is not a quitter.”

  “It’s not quitting, it’s … adjusting.”

  Cindy pouted at the night stand. “We’re not giving in. Mac promised he could get this place pure. I’ll have him call Donnie. Get him back here to finish the job. Mac can get him to come. They’re good friends. They go way back.”

  “Frankly, hon. I don’t know what the Reverend is going to be able to do. These things … I’m not so sure they have anything to do with any devil. What if … they’re God’s creatures?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m just saying. They might be natural.”

  “How about we let the Lord sort it out? Get Last Hope back here with some prayer. Have you even seen Mr. Jerry pray? He doesn’t even wait for grace before dinner.”

  “I pray. You pray all the time. Hasn’t seemed to have made a difference.”

  “Well, Duh-uh. There’s prayer and there’s prayer. Deliverance is an art. These Ministries have access to rites that summon and unleash the full power of the Lord. Have you not read the brochures? Last Hope folks hasn’t done diddly squat for us yet. Mac will get Donnie back here to finish the job. He just needs to be a little more … thorough … this time.”

  “These things, Cind. I’m just saying … I’m not sure praying’s enough.”

  Cindy gave him a stink-eye. “Did you not read the brochures? They use more than just prayers. I mean, look at what Jerry does.”

  She loosened her grip on the boys. Nigel escaped onto the bed, slipped under the covers and clicked on Cartoon Network. Jason kept singing his weird little ditty over and over.

  “Jason, stop that! Listen to him! How does something as bizarre as that get stuck in his little head?”

  “It’s just music, Cind.”

  “It’s not human … what he’s singing. Jason, please! It hurts mommy’s ears.” Cindy clasped her hand over his mouth. She fished around in her purse with her free hand. “Here, have a sucker.”

  Nigel grunted and squirmed. “Me too!” Cindy tossed him one. “Here. Have a grape one.”

  John shrugged. “Weird sounds like that, they’re natural. They’re inside everybody. Kids are born weird. Most get it drilled out of them by time they’re eight.”

  Cindy shook her head and glowered. “Calling my babies weird.”

  “Weird isn’t necessarily bad. They’re just unformed. They just need some good influences. I mean, music can be a good thing. A Godly thing. We sing in church, don’t we?”

  “I can’t believe you chose this time to haul that clarinet of yours after all these years. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking … Gospel. Counteract the bad.”

  “I bet it attracted that thing. From now on, I want silence in this house. No iPods. No CD players. No horns or noisy toys. Jason, stop that humming!” She kept her palm pressed over the little boy’s lips.

  “That’s a bit extreme. No?”

  “Extreme? Until we know what attracts it … it’s only prudent. They obviously have a thing for sound.”

  “So that means I can’t practice my clarinet?”

  Cindy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, John, I’m beginning to wonder. Maybe those things have gotten to you.”

  “What? You think I’m … possessed? Goll-ee, Cind.”

  “No more singing or playing or noise-making with my boys. I’m taking all those dang music toys and chucking them out. I don’t care where Nanny got them. They’re going straight into the … wha-at?” Her eyes grew wide. “W-what’s that sound?” She dove into bed next to Nigel, hauling Jason up after her. “It’s them!” she hissed.

  “What? I don’t hear—”

  A low drone woven with fiddle wafted through the open window through the thin cordon of trees separating their sanctuary from the hell house.

  “Oh. The band. Yeah, they’ve been back a couple days now.”

  “And how come no one thought to tell me? I live here too, you know.”

  “Gee Cind. I thought you knew.”

  Hyperventilating, she snatched the phone off the night stand.

  Chapter 35: Night Walk

  Beneath her quilt, Aerie kept her limbs still as death, ignoring every itch and ache, fighting the urge to roll over. She kept her lids clamped shut, acutely aware of the street light glaring through the rip in her shade. She modulated every breath, hoping to lure her hurtling heart into winding to a pace that made sleep possible.

  Those new pills, most likely, were messing with her head. She had followed Mom’s advice and had gone back to see Dr. Bowen. Fear drove her. She could sense the edges of her psyche eroding, crumbling like cliffs before an ocean’s onslaught. Life without guard rails was much too scary. She had left Dr. Bowen’s with a blister pack sample of the new drug and a prescription good for a month’s supply.

  Despite the insomnia, these pills seemed slicker than other antidepressants she had used. They cut the fog and calmed the storms without running a road grader through her brain; a far cry from the glorified sugar pills and the little pink monsters from Japan that had looked so cute but had blasted through her soul like neutron bombs, obliterating all curiosity, motivation and verve.

  Still, the sleeplessness was annoying. ‘May induce drowsiness,’ said the warning label. Right. She had never felt more fit to operate heavy machinery.

  Two hours, she had lain beneath her quilt, eyes forced shut, pushing daydreams of baking, of all things, running her mind through the steps of mixing and shaping little twisty breads and filled pastries. Her nerves jangled with a fine tremor.

  To sleep was futile. She stopped pretending and hauled herself out of bed, her arms and legs coated with a sweaty sheen, as if a fever had broken.

  Wind whistled through the screen of her slightly open window, the draft bracing not raw. An urge possessed her to go out in the night. Better that, than succumbing to the couch and a parade of unwatchable late night TV.

  Why not, while the weather allowed it? Impromptu nocturnal jaunts would be out of the question once Winter set its teeth. She wondered if and how she could last an entire Ithaca winter, without a job, without a band.

  She shoved the thought out of her head before it could fully form. How pathetic. The first snow yet to fall and already longing for Spring.

  She pulled on some clothes and slipped out the door. The wind ruled the night. Leaves and bits of trash scurried underfoot like fleeing rodents. Breezes blew up the cuffs of her jeans and billowed up her jacket, seeking flesh. She pulled on a knit cap to protect her ears from its nip.

  She had no particular destination; she just wanted to be outside. She let her mind and legs roam free, like careening celestial bodies, reacting only to obstacles: red crossing lights, unthinkable thoughts.

  She passed an old lady in raincoat and nightie, walking a hacking dachshund. She crossed a small park, her eyes cast heavenward at the few stars visible through the light pollution that blurred the skies of downtown Ithaca. Venus was nowhere to be seen, but she found a planet she was pretty sure was Jupiter. To think of all those exotic moons winging around it, completely unseen and unappreciated.

  Her phone buzzed. She glanced to find a message from Verizon. Her monthly charges had been posted. She noticed an earlier, unchecked message from John. How did he get her number? She went to delete it, but her thumb hovered. She clicked on it.

  “Yr g
ang played w Aaron agn this pm. Birdies atkd me n kids.”

  So Aaron and the collective had ditched her. She already knew that. Why did John have to rub it in? Attacked by birdies? What did that mean? She looked askance at some shrubs, half-expecting something to burst out after her.

  He was a curiosity, that John. How weird that she, in so few encounters, could spark the infatuation of this married man, a born-again Christian no less. She couldn’t help derive some pleasure and pride out if it. Who would have thought a geeky girl like her could inspire such a thing?

  The more she thought, the more she festered at the Aaron’s injustice, and the more determined she was to confront him. The idea of Ron and Mal and Sari and Eleni back without her was almost enough to make her implode like that bell jar. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to play with them anymore. It was the principle of the thing.

  The streets were vacant but for occasional distant, shadowy shapes that moved on or went indoors before Aerie could reach them. There was a time that some of the darker neighborhoods near the canal might have made her quail and hasten along. Not tonight. Tonight she felt invincible, her wiry arms hanging loose, ready to show off her three lessons of Okinawan Kobudo. All she needed was a good stick, or if need be, the Krav Maga she remembered from a high school demo.

  It was all rather silly. This was Ithaca, after all, not the meaner streets of Baltimore, where such bravado might have gotten her into trouble.

  She noticed after a time that she had spiraled ever closer to the downtown area, as if the commercial cluster exerted its own gravity.

  She turned right when she came to the corner where Moosewood and the Guitar Works hunkered dark in their basement lairs.

  When mother had come back through Ithaca, Aerie had surprised her and Sadie by taking them there for lunch. Reggie and the wait staff were just as startled, falling over themselves with embarrassment. She found their discomfit quite amusing.

  The window display at the Guitar Works held a fretless blonde Precision bass that Aerie had gone and played with her Mom and Sadie in tow. She had made it growl and whine through a little amp, and she had considered buying it, but its tone lacked character, like cheap wine or Chinese food from a mall. It might have sufficed as a device to keep her fingers limber, but this was no serious instrument.