Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Your hand,” Wesley said, noticing it for the first time. “You’ve cut your hand. Is it all right? Do you need—”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I thought maybe I could make some sense of…” As Daniel got up to leave, movement in the corner of his eye stopped him cold.

  Dora stood in the doorway to the den, watching him. Her red hair, nearly orange, was thick and wiry, cut short but mussed. It stood out in the otherwise drab room.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Wesley said quickly. “Mr. Cicero and I are just talking. You remember my friend Mr. Cicero, don’t you? You take your things and go into the kitchen with Mom, OK?”

  Unmoving, she gazed at Daniel blankly.

  “Hello Dora,” he said, unable to mask the nervousness in his voice.

  “Say hello, sweetheart, don’t be rude.”

  She raised her arms up in front of her, connected the tip of each index finger to the corresponding thumb on both hands to form circles, and then slowly turned them back toward her face and placed the circles over her eyes, as if to replicate glasses.

  Daniel’s heart plummeted. He knew Dora wasn’t playing at making eyeglasses at all.

  She was simulating goggles.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Sweetheart,” Wesley said through soft laughter, “what are you doing?”

  Daniel took a step in her direction. “You know about them too. Don’t you.”

  Dora dropped her hands to her sides, stared at him.

  Autism…Down syndrome…Manipulation and deprivation…

  “What do you mean?” Wesley asked, traces of a smile lingering on his face. “Who does she know about?”

  Dreams…hallucinations…Alzheimer’s—what the hell are they?

  “And if you’ve seen them,” Daniel said, returning Dora’s dead stare with a pleading and frantic stare of his own, “then you know what’s happening.”

  They’re different, alternate forms of consciousness.

  “You can help me, Dora. You can—you can help me.”

  “Help you with what?” As much concerned as he was confused, Wesley began to struggle his way out of the recliner. “What are you talking about? Who has she seen?”

  Without response, Dora lumbered across the room with the determined stride of a drill instructor and gathered up her papers and crayons.

  “Please, Dora. Help me.”

  Holding her drawings against her chest with one hand, and the box of crayons in the other, perhaps defiantly, Dora’s posture stiffened. Dull, moist eyes searched his for purchase, a foothold of comradeship, safety.

  “Daniel?” Wesley asked, befuddled. “What’s going on?”

  The three stood in place, participants in a game of musical chairs caught between songs and awaiting another burst of music to set them free. Beyond the false security of walls, of plaster and paint, sheetrock and insulation, the sky spit snow, pelting the house with a steady barrage. The wind picked up, as if just for them, and the foundation creaked, settled submissively. Through it all, the darkness waited, steady, patient and poised, concealing all that moved within it.

  Without taking her eyes from Daniel, Dora placed her box of crayons on a coffee table. A sudden thought seemed to occur to her, and her lower lip twisted, curling her mouth into a broad frown. With painstaking care, she shuffled through the small stack of drawings she had made earlier, finally settling on one in particular. Slowly, she turned it outward so Daniel could see.

  Like the typical drawings of a small child, the artwork was primitive and straightforward but still discernable.

  Daniel felt the evil moving through him, or perhaps something else, he couldn’t be sure. He only knew that whatever it was, it was cold, terribly cold.

  A boxy structure with windows that could only be a house was engulfed in wide swaths of bright orange and red crayon, drawn there with ferocity to illustrate fire. Within one of the windows was a stick figure looking out but covered in flames. Another figure stood on the roof of the structure, beyond the carnage.

  Though his hand was trembling, he pointed to the figure in the window and softly said, “Bartkowski?” Dora offered nothing. He slid his finger up and across the paper to the man on the roof. “Who is that, Dora?”

  “What is this?” Wesley asked.

  Ignoring him, Daniel stabbed his finger at the figure more emphatically. “Who is this, Dora? Tell me who this is. Is it Gorton? Is it Russell Gorton?”

  She sighed heavily. “Heed hewu.” Her voice was a bit gruff, and the words were not properly enunciated, which gave it qualities similar to the speech impediment deaf people often possess.

  “He’s here? Who is he Dora? Who is he really?”

  Look closer.

  Wesley snatched the paper from her hand. “What are you two talking about?” he asked, quickly scanning the drawing. “What are you saying?”

  Without answering Dora turned over the next sheet of paper to reveal another drawing, this one of a large and round figure standing in an empty room holding what appeared to be a long stick, perhaps a baseball bat. Above the room was a moon and crudely drawn stars indicating night. Standing outside and looking through a window in the room was another figure. The hair indicated it was meant to depict a female.

  “Jesus,” Daniel said through a nervous swallow. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Daniel, please. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in front of Dora.”

  “Lindsay?” he asked.

  Dora slowly nodded her head. “She comin’.”

  “Lindsay?” Wesley stepped between them. “Your wife Lindsay?”

  “She’s coming?” Daniel grabbed Wesley’s fleshy upper arm and tried to maneuver him out of the way. “How do I find her? Where is she now?”

  Dora revealed another drawing. Several horrible, hideous faces, the eyes covered with large black goggles.

  “With them?”

  She nodded.

  “Who are they? Why do they cover their eyes?”

  Face expressionless, she reached out and took the first drawing back from her father, who stood there baffled and speechless. Holding it out again, so Daniel might see, she pointed to the flames.

  “Christ almighty,” he whispered.

  Dora turned a final drawing over of what appeared to be a television, or more likely, a computer monitor, the screen hastily colored black. Before it stood two stick figures, and a third sat in a chair. “It not you.”

  “What do you mean? It’s not me, what—what does that mean?”

  It’s not me. Tell him it’s not me.

  Her finger slid over to one of the standing stick figures. “It not you.”

  “I don’t understand, what—”

  “Enough,” Wesley said sternly, but without raising his voice. “That’s enough. Dora, take your things and go into the kitchen with Mommy.” His daughter did as he asked and left the room without another word or even a glance in Daniel’s direction. Once she’d gone, Wesley put hands where his waist should’ve been and creased his brow. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

  “I don’t know, I…” Suddenly lightheaded, Daniel ran a hand through his hair and backed away toward the chair. “Her drawings they...”

  “What about them?”

  Daniel flopped down into the chair, unable to summon a response.

  “Dora loves to draw. She’s been doing it for years. It’s one of her favorite pastimes. She draws nearly every night. I don’t understand. What were you two talking about?” When Daniel gave no answer he said, “Who is this Bartkowski person?”

  The ringing of Daniel’s cell phone sounded. He pulled it from his belt.

  “And what was that about Lindsay? Daniel, answer me. What’s going on?”

  Rather than answer Wesley, he flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

  “Danny?” a tentative female voice asked. “It’s Maggie. Maggie Hutchinson.”

  It took a few seconds before he realized it was Bryce’s ex-wife on the line. He
pushed himself up and out of the chair. “Maggie—sorry—I didn’t recognize your voice.”

  “Look, I have Bryce here,” she said in a low, controlled tone. “He showed up a few minutes ago and he’s not acting right, he’s…I think he might be having some sort of emotional breakdown or something. He’s all worked up and not making any sense and he won’t leave. I had to sneak into the kitchen just to call you. I don’t want to have to get the police involved to get him out of here, but I will if I have to. I was hoping maybe you could come and get him instead.”

  “Keep him there,” Daniel told her. “I’m on my way.”

  “What is going on?” Wesley demanded as Daniel snapped the phone shut.

  He put a hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “Listen to me. I know you’ve been dealt a lousy hand and you’ve been shit-hammered more times than you ever deserved. But you’re a good and decent man, Wes. Don’t ever let anything change that.” He turned to leave then hesitated. “You and Gale take good care of Dora. You were right, she is special. More than you’ll ever know.”

  Mouth open, Wesley nodded with bewilderment. He looked as if he’d intended to ask another question, perhaps make a statement. But it was too late for either.

  Daniel had already returned to the night.

  THIRTY-TWO

  By the time Daniel reached Burlington, the icy rain had morphed fully into a thick and quickly-accumulating snow. Traffic was practically nonexistent. Almost everyone was off the street, hunkered down inside and sheltered from the growing storm. He drove and functioned on an automatic pilot of sorts, his mind exhausted and his body drained, both surviving on little more than nervous energy. From deep in the pit of his stomach an acidic nausea boiled and frothed over, firing occasional spurts of heartburn into the base of his throat and an annoying tightness up into his chest. The tension headache at the back of his skull continued to thump in time with his pulse, and though he thought for sure he’d have to eventually pull over to vomit, he reached Maggie’s house without incident.

  A small raised ranch on a quiet side street of homes that all looked more or less the same, it took him several minutes to locate the right number, as he’d only been there once before with Bryce when he’d stopped in to see his kids.

  A wrought iron lamppost near the end of the driveway was on, as was a small fixture over the front door. The soft white lights cut the darkness and illuminated the whirlwind of snowflakes blowing about enough so that Daniel could make out Maggie standing in the doorway. He pulled over in front of the house and sprinted across the yard to where she waited. “Got here fast as I could,” he assured her, stepping inside.

  Maggie shut the door behind him. He could tell she was shocked at his haggard appearance, but she refrained from asking if he was all right. “He’s gone,” she said instead. “I tried to do it quietly, but he heard me on the phone. When he found out I’d called you, he got really pissed and left.”

  “How long ago? Is he on foot?”

  “Five minutes maybe. No, he had his car.”

  Bryce must’ve taken a cab after leaving Washington Street back to his apartment, he thought, picked up his car and come directly here.

  “The kids are at a sleepover at my parents’ house,” she said. “Thank God they didn’t see him like that. It was like he was having a nervous breakdown, it was that bad.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Home.”

  “Thanks for calling me, Maggie, you did the right thing.”

  “Look,” she sighed, “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, or what you’ve gotten yourselves into, but you need to come sit down for a minute. We have to talk.”

  “I don’t have time, I have to find him.”

  “Bryce has a lot of problems, Danny.”

  “I know.”

  “No,” she said, hugging herself. “No, I don’t think you do.”

  * * *

  Daniel found himself in a chair at the kitchen table. The room was small and modestly outfitted. Like the rest of the house it was cluttered and disorganized and exuded a sense of turmoil and tension. This was a harried, incomplete place where sorrow and remoteness overshadowed warmth. There was pain and unhappiness here, and its residue filled the air, lingered like an offensive odor. An opened loaf of bread and some cold cuts were out on the counter. A large glass ashtray filled with butts sat on the table next to an open bottle and a half-empty glass of red wine. Maggie, dressed in a terry-cloth robe and a matching pair of slippers, shuffled over to the counter, put the meats, bread and condiments back in the refrigerator then motioned to the wine. “Drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  She made her way to the table and retrieved her glass. Though she wasn’t drunk, it was obvious this had not been her first taste of alcohol that evening. “Settles my nerves,” she said with a rapid, self-conscious smile. With her free hand she dug a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her robe pocket and slapped them on the table. “Can you believe I still smoke too? God, nobody smokes anymore. Just can’t seem to kick it, you know? You still in the club?”

  “I quit after Lindsay died.”

  “Some of us are strong.” She stabbed a cigarette between her lips, lit it. “Some of us, well, not so much.”

  As she exhaled then quickly polished off what was in her glass, Daniel realized he hadn’t seen Maggie since Lindsay’s wake. She’d stopped in briefly, paid her respects and given him a hug, whispering her condolences in his ear. But on that day his mind had been so fogged with anguish she’d been little more than one in a line of many blurry faces passing by, awkwardly trying to think of something to say that made some sense then drifting off. Now he saw her more clearly, and was surprised at the degree to which she’d changed. When she and Bryce had married she was young and effervescent, a short and slim woman with big bright eyes and girl-next-door looks who seldom wore makeup and usually had her chestnut-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail. Vibrant in those days, she had since given birth to two children, gone through a divorce, and aged several years. None of those experiences had been kind to her. She was harder now, inside and out, and even in the way she carried herself and spoke. She’d wrapped herself in false bravado, it seemed, a protective cocoon of defensive, simulated toughness she wore like a suit of dented, rusty armor. Though she was only thirty-one, she looked a good fifteen years older. She’d gained a bit of weight, and her once radiant eyes had turned languid and dull, saddled with dark bags. Her hair, mussed and in need of styling, hung to just above her shoulders on either side of her face like old drapes, and her posture had become slumped, her manner slovenly. Had he passed her on the street, Daniel might not have immediately recognized her.

  “Life hasn’t exactly been kind to any of us,” he reminded her.

  “But then, some of us have more control over those things too. You’re not the only one who lost a spouse and an entire way of life.”

  “Actually, I am. You two are still alive.”

  “We are?” She poured herself another drink then swirled the wine around in the glass like a connoisseur. “Trust me, the man I married, he’s as dead as Lindsay is.”

  “What is it you wanted to tell me, Maggie?”

  She moved away from the table, the cigarette leaving trails of smoke behind her, curling slowly through the air. “You and I were never really what you’d call good friends, but we were all fairly close there once upon a time, weren’t we?”

  “I’d like to think the four of us were friends when you and Bryce were together, yes.”

  “I meant what I told you at the wake,” she said, as if he should’ve remembered her exact words. “I miss you and Lindsay. I miss my life then, our lives then as couples.”

  “I know when you guys split it seemed like we took Bryce’s side, but—”

  “Yeah, probably seemed that way because that’s what you did.” Maggie gave an exaggerated wink then sipped her wine. “But it’s OK, I expected that. You were all buds before I came on the
scene, and you and Lindsay both knew Bryce a lot better than either of you ever knew me.” She took a long pull on her cigarette, held the smoke in her lungs a moment then slowly released it through her nostrils. “At least you thought you did. After all, that’s how the whole thing was set up, wasn’t it?”

  Daniel began to rise from the chair. “I don’t have time for this, I need to find him.”

  “You need to listen, that’s what you need to do.” Pointing at him with her cigarette, she stared him back down into the chair. A nervous twitch danced under her left eye and down into her cheek. “Lindsay and I had lunch right after Bryce and I split up.”

  “I remember.”

  “I wanted to tell her then what the problems were—the real problems—but I knew you guys were siding with Bryce and would just think I was exaggerating or trying to make him out to be a sonofabitch for spite, so it seemed pretty pointless. Lindsay tried to be nice about everything, but how do you do that exactly? How do you nicely tell someone your friendship is over because you’re breaking up and you’re taking his side? How do you nicely dismiss someone from your life? We’ve been friends, we’ve gotten close over the last few years, but now that you’re not with him, you’re out. Bye-bye, take care—oh—and don’t let the door hit you where the good lord split you, sweetie.” This time when she took a drag from her cigarette it was so violent she nearly killed what was left of it with a single hard inhale. “No matter what I did or said, it wouldn’t matter. Bryce was the poor put upon old friend and I was the bitch leaving him, breaking his heart and tearing his children away from him. It was like a script had already been written and we were just acting it out, no chance to change or alter the outcome or even the dialogue. After all, that really was exactly what it was. I just didn’t realize it then. I guess none of us did, but at that lunch, Lindsay told me how sorry she was, how she’d hoped things would work out between us, and asked if there was anything she could do. Even though I knew she was just going through the motions at that point, I appreciated the effort. Never did hear from you, of course. Know what really surprised me, though? Lindsay never asked why. Not once did she ask me why we were splitting up, why I was leaving him. Bryce had already told her, told you both, so why ask? Why get my side? So I told her the easiest thing I could, and exactly what she wanted to hear, that things just weren’t working out, and while I loved Bryce, I could no longer live with him and continue to be his wife. Like the lawyers call it, irreconcilable differences. And they were right. Our differences were most definitely irreconcilable.”