Imaginary Friends

by John Marco

  Ten steps. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he was totally enshrouded by the gloom.

  Greg reached forward, hands extended. Eleven steps. Twelve. Thirteen. Still nothing. On his fourteenth step the ground fell out from under him. Greg screamed, flailing his arms as he fell into the hidden pit. His arm struck first. Then his body and head banged into jagged rocks. Greg heard a snap, and shooting pain went up his right arm. He fell unconscious on the cold stone as the darkness swallowed him whole.

  Fear overwhelmed Greg when he finally opened his eyes. There were no night-lights, no lamps, no light at all. Nothing but impenetrable darkness surrounded him. Sharp rocks under him were definitely not his bed. This was no nightmare. He whimpered, remembering what had happened and wished that he had never gone into the mine. He had no idea which way was out and lay there on the ground, paralyzed with fear.

  Why had he been so stupid? He tried not to cry and cradled his injured arm. His head and knees ached from the impact, but his arm hurt the worst, and his stomach knotted with hunger. He tried to move, and the pain in his arm pulsed through his entire body. He touched the scabby wounds on his knees. His touch made them sting, and he withdrew his hand. Greg managed to roll onto his back and heard a high-pitched rattling sound.

  A rattlesnake. It was very close by, cloaked by the darkness.

  The echo of the rattle was all around. He couldn’t tell where it came from. He lay there in shock, trapped with the agitated snake that couldn’t be more than a few feet away. He imagined the needlelike fangs sinking into his flesh and injecting him with a poison that would kill him dead. A man might survive a bite, but the TV show he saw said a little boy would die for sure.

  “Greg? Are you okay?” Eli’s friendly voice gave him a glimmer of hope, and at that moment, he had to believe. His friend was real and hadn’t abandoned him.

  The snake rattled louder, sharper, faster.

  A whimper escaped Greg’s lips. “Eli, my . . . arm . . . hurts.”

  “Just move slow,” Eli said, “so the snake won’t get more angry.”

  “Go get my dad, please.” Greg cradled his broken limb as he took in a shuddering breath, wondering if the snake had come closer. The fear made him want to pee so bad, but he held it in.

  “I can’t, Greg. You have to get out of here yourself. Now climb up.”

  Greg’s body shook with sobs, and the pain was intense,“I can’t.” He was too afraid. It was too dark. The snake was too close. It was going to bite him if he moved, and how could he climb in the dark with a broken arm?

  “You can do this, Greg.”

  “I can’t see.”

  “Reach in your pocket.”

  Greg felt with his left hand, reaching across his body. His fingers wrapped around the book of matches he’d used for the ants. “I can’t light one with one hand.”

  “You can, just try,” Eli said, as the snake’s rattle became slower and more ominous.

  The first three matches wouldn’t light as Greg put the matchbook on the ground and ran the match across the lighting strip. The fourth one sparked to life. The faint glow had a blue center and illuminated only a small area. Greg raised the match, trying not to move it too quickly.

  The rattlesnake lay coiled right in front of him. The light glinted off its eyes. The rattle was held high, and its head was cocked to strike. The fire singed his fingers, Greg shook his hand. The snake reacted to the motion and struck at Greg’s face. The little boy sprang back with a shout. He banged into a rock wall, hitting his head and sending a jolt of pain down his broken arm.

  The snake rattled loudly again, the sound echoing in the once again black pit.

  “Climb up, Greg. Come on,” Eli said, “it’s not far.”

  “But I can’t see.” Greg wiped his eyes. He wanted to find the matchbook he’d left on the ground, but the snake was right there, waiting for him. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t do anything. He was going to die in the pit once the snake bit him. No one would ever find him. Bobby and the others wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened. He would disappear forever. Maybe that was for the best.

  “Greg, you have to find a handhold and climb up.”

  His breath came in short gasps. He couldn’t think. He was trapped with no way out. His knees and arm hurt so bad.

  “Listen to me, Greg.” Eli’s voice was strong. The strongest it had ever been. “Feel the rock. Find a place to climb up. I’m going to help you. I’ll always help you. That’s why I’m here.”

  The tears stopped. His friend was with him. He wasn’t alone. Greg felt the rough wall, realized he was in a corner. His one good hand traced the rock, found nothing; then he discovered a little hole smaller than his fist. He imagined baby rattlesnakes or black widow spiders in it, just waiting for him to put his hand in there so they could bite down.

  “Climb up, use the corner,” Eli said.

  Greg gnashed his teeth and put his hand inside the hole. It was cold and there were soft wispy things in it, but he used it to lever himself up to his feet. Greg leaned against the rock, supporting all his weight with his feet and grit his teeth to endure the pain in his arm. He took in shuddering breaths as he reached up with his good hand to find a place to grab onto.

  “That’s right, come on up,” Eli said, sounding much older than he had before.

  The rock was cold and sharp, but Greg held on and pulled himself upward, then moved his feet higher. He leaned against the rock again and was shocked to find the lip of the shallow pit. But there was nowhere to hold onto. His hand disturbed some small rocks. They tumbled down and clattered on the stone.

  The snake started rattling again, more slowly, louder.

  “Eli, help me.” Greg couldn’t find a handhold. He searched along the edge, and his foot slipped a little. He was going to fall.

  A warm wind moved his hand into a crevice just wide enough for his fingers. “Thanks.” He grabbed on and pulled himself up and out of the pit. There was no light visible at the entrance tunnel, but he felt along the wall until he bumped into the boards and saw the lights of town below him. He wondered how long he’d been missing as he exited the tunnel. Greg staggered out, feeling the cool night breeze and seeing a massive blanket of stars. Bobby and the other boys were long gone, but his bike was still there.

  “Leave it,” Eli stood by the bike. “You can’t ride it now.”

  “But . . .” He immediately reconsidered arguing. White, angelic wings protruded from Eli’s back.

  “You’re my . . . ” Greg blinked. The wings were still there. “You’re an . . .”

  “Something like that.” Eli smiled as he walked down the road and disappeared.

  From now on, Greg decided, he was going to listen to his best friend.

  No one was on the street when he stumbled into the town proper. His arm throbbed, and he couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line. A cop car was parked outside his house when he staggered to the gate.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd!” The sheriff yelled, “Your son is back!”

  Greg’s parents burst out of the door. The little boy stood there with dried blood on his skin, torn clothing and a swollen right arm. Mom gasped, then swept him up in her arms, hugging him close and causing Greg a lot of pain. “What happened, Greggy? Are you all right?”

  “I . . . fell.” A wave of dizziness swept over him. “Mom, I don’t feel good . . .”

  “Greg, baby?” His mother’s voice cracked. “Greg!?” She faded from his consciousness as he blacked out in her arms.

  When Greg woke up, his right arm felt like a lead weight. A florescent green cast encased his arm from his elbow all the way down to his fingers. His parents slept on a little cot beside him, snuggling together in the dim hospital room. He barely remembered the ride in the helicopter that had taken him to Vegas.

  “Mom, Dad.” Greg croaked through a parched throat.

  First Mom, then Dad bolted off the cot and knelt at his bedside, nervous smiles on their faces.

  “D
o you want me to turn on some lights?” Dad asked, ready to flip the switches.

  Greg shook his head. The dark didn’t bother him that much now. “No, I’m fine.”

  His parents looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, honey,” Mom said, holding his good arm. “I’m so sorry for being a bad Mommy lately. It’s been so hard since . . .”

  “Since Joe died,” Greg said.

  She nodded and wiped her eyes. “I haven’t been myself. I’m sorry, baby.”

  He stared at his mother, wanting to tell her about Eli, but he remembered his dad saying not mention him. He figured out what to say. “Mom, you know that little voice in your head that tells you things?”

  “Yes, honey. I know it.” She looked away, guilt on her face, as if she had not been listening to hers.

  “Sometimes I don’t listen to mine.” Greg sighed, remembering all the times Eli told him stuff and he didn’t pay attention. “If I hadn’t listened to it when I fell in the pit,” Greg touched his mom’s hand, “I wouldn’t have gotten out.”

  “I’m so glad you listened, honey,” Mom said. “We all need to listen to our inner voice.”

  “It wasn’t just some voice though, Mom. It was like a friend,” Greg glanced at his father. “He told me what to do, Mom. He told me how to climb up.”

  His mother blinked.

  “He was there with me in the dark when I was all alone.”

  Mom’s eyes filled with tears again. They hugged him, one parent on each side of his bed. It was the best feeling ever, but Greg had to ask them something else. “Mom?” Greg pulled back a little.

  “Yes, honey.” She lifted her head off his pillow.

  “What does your little voice say about . . . you two getting divorced?” Greg glanced nervously at both of them.

  Her lips trembled, and her eyes were moist. She choked up and couldn’t speak, but she looked at her husband and squeezed his hand.

  Dad said, “No matter what happens, Greg, we’ll always love you. You’ll always be our son.”

  They hugged him close, and he figured things were never going to be as good as they had been before. But they loved him. Greg knew they weren’t pretending. He always knew.

  Greg woke up in the morning when a nurse came into his room. He recognized red-haired Megan from the “I See You” when his mom was there after the accident. She had been his favorite nurse ever since that first night when Joe went to Heaven.

  “Hi, Greg.” Megan’s bright smile made him feel better and he thought her freckles were even cooler in the sunlight. “I just saw your parents in the cafeteria, and I had to see you, sweetie.” She sat down at his bedside.

  “Do you like my cast?” Greg pointed to his arm and the fluorescent green wrap.

  “That’s a cool color. Can I sign it?”

  “Uh-huh.” Greg moved his arm toward Megan as his parents walked in with breakfast trays and broad smiles.

  “Hey,” Megan touched the cast, “someone already signed it.”

  Greg’s parents nearly dropped their food trays when they saw the letters. Greg twisted his arm to see the signature. He couldn’t believe it. The letters were scrawled as if a young child had written them.

  “Who’s Eli?” Megan asked.

  Mom shook her head and sank into a chair as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “It was going to be . . . ” She stared at the cast in disbelief.

  Dad finished, “Eli was going to be the middle name of our son. Joseph Elijah Lloyd.”

  Greg touched the signature on his cast. He understood at last about his friend. Greg looked up at his mother and didn’t let the tears come. His little voice quavered. “See, Mom, he didn’t have to be born to be my brother.”

  AN ORCHID FOR VALDIS

  Russell Davis

  “If you forgive me all this,

  If I forgive you all that,

  We forgive and forget,

  And it’s all coming back to me now.”

  —Jim Steinman, “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now”

  Part I: Of Envelopes and Empty Trailers

  JAMIE Marsters held the envelope in his hands, studying it with deliberate care and debating what to do with it. The envelope was an odd shade of lavender—not a proper purple, nor a little girl pink— but a washed-out combination of the two that was so singular it both drew the eye and simultaneously repelled it. Larger than a traditional greeting card envelope, but smaller than the usual six by nine that some people liked to use for more significant correspondence. The sender, using the careful penmanship of an old man, had addressed it properly to one Ms. Valdis, and the amount of the postage was fine. Jamie could remember when it had been mailed out, almost three weeks ago now.

  He had been a postman for a long time, working the rural areas of his route with almost machinelike precision. He knew the roads, the people, even the dogs and horses that he encountered on his route most every day for the past eleven years. He had believed that there were no mysteries in the postal system for him anymore. Until today when the envelope he was holding in his hands presented several problems.

  The first problem was that it had been clearly marked in bold, black, block lettering: RETURN TO SENDER.

  The second problem, more challenging than the first, was that the sender was dead.

  And the third problem, more vexing than anything else, was that he wanted to open it and read what was inside. The envelope was like knowing there was a secret or a mysterious conspiracy, while being denied the details. It reminded him of being a young man, a teenager really, and just knowing that beneath all the wrapping, women were a mystery waiting to be revealed.

  Jamie sat in his truck, parked near the battered mailbox, and looked the envelope over again, running it through his hands as though by simply touching it, he could somehow discern its contents. From the feel, there was more than a letter inside, but what the envelope contained precisely, he didn’t know. All he really knew was that the old man who had lived and died here had sent it out, and now it was back.

  The old man had been a strange sort of fellow, moving in to the single-wide trailer at the end of Tumbleweed Road about four or five years ago. He’d brought along a German shepherd with an inky-black coat and an ear that looked as though it had been through a meat grinder. The dog was friendly enough, though, that on those rare occasions Jamie had gotten out of his truck, he’d been able to give him a pat on the head and one of the doggy treats he kept in his pocket for such occasions. The dog was sitting on the porch as usual, looking as though the old man might open the door at any minute and offer him dinner.

  Next to the trailer, still in his stall, was a copper-colored Arabian gelding that was getting on in years but that he’d seen the old man riding from time to time. They never looked as though they were going anywhere in particular but were just meandering through the desert to see what they could see.

  The trailer itself was a lot like the old man had seemed. Worn down and tired and well past its prime. In the windows, curtains that were bleached from the sun blew lazily in the slight afternoon breeze that always sprang up during the late summer days. The tire tracks from the ambulance he’d called yesterday when he’d found the old man were still visible in the dirt drive of the front yard. The trailer itself was bone white and unremarkable for this part of the world: a swamp cooler on top along with a satellite dish, windows that were too thin to be energy efficient, wooden steps that led to the front door and were no doubt rotting from within. Wood didn’t do well in the dry, high desert of northern Nevada.

  The old man’s real name—and why did he think of him that way? As “the old man”?—was Rhys Dylan, and he was from a Welsh family that had come to the United States three or four generations back. He wasn’t particularly talkative, but once in a while, he’d offer Jamie a glass of lemonade, and they’d have a short visit. From what he’d said, Rhys grew up out in the plains and came west when he was in his thirties. He’d been a write
r of some sort or another, then gave it up after something he wrote made him a bunch of money. He’d spent most of the rest of his years riding horses and . . . what was it he’d said?

  “Writing bad poetry because I can afford to.”

  That was it, Jamie remembered. So far as he knew, no one ever visited the old man, and he didn’t receive much in the way of mail either. A few catalogs, the occasional business correspondence, nothing that stood out in Jamie’s mind, anyway. And now one of the very few things he’d ever sent out for him had come back—a day too late for the man to know that whoever Ms. Valdis was, she hadn’t received his letter.

  Shaking his head, Jamie pulled his truck into the driveway, put it in park, and turned off the engine. It ticked quietly as it began to cool down, and the horse raised its head.

  “Hey, old boy,” Jamie said, trying for reasons he couldn’t explain to keep his voice down. “Has anyone come out and given you water today?”

  The dog came off the porch to greet him, and Jamie offered him a treat, which the dog gulped down greedily. “No one has fed you either, have they?” he asked the dog, who looked at him hopefully. Jamie sighed and figured the least he could do—he would still bring the mail out here every day until whoever ended up running the old man’s estate showed up to tell him different—was make sure the animals were getting food and water.

  Tucking the envelope into his back pocket, Jamie crossed the barren yard (no one in this part of the world with a lick of sense had an actual lawn) to the storage shed. He opened it up and saw a large bag of dog food and several bales of hay. Enough to last quite some time. He peeled off two leaves of hay and carried it out to the horse’s stall, tossing it over the railing and into the feeder bin. The horse nickered appreciatively and started before the hay dust even settled.

  Inside the stall, the horse’s water bucket was full, and Jamie saw that an automatic fill system was in place—the bucket was full—so at least he wouldn’t have to track down a hose and haul it across the yard.