by Ty Burson
Chapter 8
Out in the choppy blue water of the Pacific Ocean, miles from where the three friends sat on the river’s edge discussing their crazy afternoon, a water spout formed. Unlike most spouts, which tend to meander and disappear in a matter of seconds, this mini-tornado traveled with purpose, first making a beeline toward the coast and then to where the Smith River dumped into the ocean. Once on the river, the water spout skimmed along like a finger tracing a crooked line, against the current every inch of the way.
At each and every inlet or stretch of beach, it came ashore for a brief moment—tossing hats and magazines and whatever else wasn’t tied down or covered with something heavy. Sun worshipers and little kids alike were forced to cover their eyes and duck their heads. Eventually, the swirling vortex of water found Steve and his companions. It danced among them, maliciously flinging their things into the air, including their poor, beleaguered towels. Joy covered her face, grabbed each boy with one arm, and herded them to the water where they might avoid the worst of the flying dirt and gravel. The whirlwind followed them in.
A small rock ricocheted off Joy’s head as they waded in. “Ow!” she yelled. “Quick, duck under the water!” Steve didn’t hesitate, but Justin took too long, so Joy yanked him under. He thrashed about, but between Joy and Steve, they managed to keep him under for a few seconds. Justin popped up, gasping for air, then grabbed at his friends and yanked them to the surface, “Look!”
The water spout that had followed them into the river now hovered on the surface, defying the current. The three friends watched the twenty-foot tall column spin, its edges spurting water in arcs that were swept away by the river as it hurried toward the coast.
Steve was going to yell at it to go away, but even as he opened his mouth, he heard a distinct, “S-h-h, d-d-don’t.” He looked at his friends, but he couldn’t tell which of them had spoken—though, really, it hadn’t sounded like either. For some reason, though, he knew with absolute certainty that the voice was right; he shouldn’t say anything. So he continued watching the spout until it finally moved away to torment the next group of people in another alcove further upriver.
Joy looked at Steve, who shrugged. Justin, however, was more upset than confused, “You almost drowned me, Joy!”
Joy turned to him and reached down, “It’s only a couple of feet deep. I didn’t almost drown you.”
“You didn’t have to dunk me,” Justin pouted. “I knew enough to duck.”
“No, you did not,” Joy argued, “but it doesn’t matter. What was that?”
“That wasn’t a random water spout,” Justin stated. “I mean it shouldn’t even be here!”
“It’s like it was looking for something,” Joy said.
“Or someone,” Steve murmured. He felt goose bumps run up his back that had nothing to do with the chilly water. He wondered if Joy felt the same. “That was insane. Joy, did you say something to me a minute ago?”
“Yeah, I told you to dive into the water.”
“No, I mean after, once we surfaced when the thing was spinning and not doing anything.”
“No.”
“Justin, you?”
“Nuh’uh,” Justin said.
Again, it seemed Steve was hearing strange voices—or one strange voice anyway. Justin and Joy were waiting for him to continue, but all he said was, “Come on. I’ve had enough of the river.”
Chapter 9
The trio gathered up all their belongings and waited for Joy’s mom by the side of the road, well away from heroic dogs, villainous teens, and possessed water spouts. For a while, they sat silently, content with their own thoughts, then one would say something and a flurry of conversation would begin.
“I think it was a freak occurrence—”
“It sure seem to have a mind of its own—”
“I thought the dog was going to eat one of them—”
“Me too. I was freaking out—”
“Do you think they’ll believe us?”
By the time Joy’s mother arrived, honking her horn, the friends were silent again. Joy’s mom was still a bit manic, but after enough ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers to her questions, even she got the point and simply hummed along to her music.
Steve sat back and stared out the window, sullenly speculating on every possible explanation for the water spout, including why it seemed to have attacked them. Joy was quiet as well. Justin whispered that it might have been alien surveillance—though it seemed a little heavy-handed, if it was.
In other words, they were clueless. Joy had told Steve earlier that he should tell his parents about the teenagers, the dog, everything. Steve wasn’t so sure. Maybe when it was only the birds, but when he thought about all the rest, he wasn’t sure he could even explain what he had seen; it was too—he struggled to find the word—too unbelievable. Not to mention the fact that he was guaranteed to get into trouble for following his dad and being at the river without an adult. It was too much to risk, he decided.
One additional thing was weighing on Steve: his stutter. His stutter was always embarrassing, of course, but the way he reacted with the teenagers had been way worse, and the brief memory of it made him feel ashamed. He had to get a better grip on himself.
Justin got dropped off first. He leaned back into the car and with an intense whisper said, “I’m going to get online and see what I can find on alien abduction and stuff like that. Or maybe paranormal weather activity. Yeah, anyway, I’ll let you guys know if I find out anything.”
Steve was dropped off next and, though he was troubled, he managed to thank Joy’s mom. Joy roused herself out of her own thoughts, “Hey, call me later, okay?”
“Sure. Bye.”
Steve checked the back door before producing his key. It was unlocked, a concession to his sister who kept losing her key. “Hey, Dani, where are you?” When he didn’t get an answer, he did a mental fist pump. “Yes, no Dani.”
He decided he was hungry, though not particularly hungry for last night’s salmon and steamed asparagus. His cravings were moving in a different direction. He found the slightly stale bag of potato chips in one of his headboard’s secret cubbies. There was an ant working its way up the wood, clearly also interested in the snack, but Steve let it be. Who could blame the little guy?
Steve flopped back and savored all those empty calories that his mother referred to as “salt-covered cardboard.” Despite the day’s insanity, he was too mentally wired to be tired. No, he decided, the truth was he was bored, so he did what he usually did when he had nothing to do—he rummaged around for a pad of paper and pencil to draw. He had a coffee table book to use as a temporary desk and let his hand roam around the white paper. Sometimes, when he drew, he had an idea in mind; sometimes he saw faint images on the paper and sort of traced them; and sometimes, like now, he let his hand and his mind drift freely, but one stubborn thought kept intruding: should I tell my folks?
When he finally paid attention to what he was sketching, he thought it looked vaguely lizard-like. Why a lizard? He pushed the drawing aside and flopped back on his pillow. He stared at his walls, his posters, the shelves with his dad’s dusty, old trophies. He reached back and opened and closed the tiny cabinets built into his headboard, feeling around inside. He pulled out a Spiderman action figure that he’d blamed Dani for losing. He was pretty sure she’d gotten yelled at for taking his things, at least she did that time. He felt bad for a moment, then remembered all the times she’d gotten him in trouble, and promptly forgot about it.
He played with the thing for a few minutes, shooting the invisible web at the invisible bad guy. He saw his drawing and decided who the bad guy was—“Thwip!” Suddenly the Lizard was wrapped in imaginary webbing. Once Spiderman had subdued the known universe, Steve dropped him on the floor and crawled to the edge of his bed where he hung, his head inches above the floor. He liked the light-headed feeling he got when the blood rushed to his brain. Dangling, he swept his arms under the bed. He found a pai
r of dog poop-encrusted sneakers; he put those back. He found one of Dani’s dolls, minus its hair, and the G.I. Joe who failed to save her from the scalping. As he reached further, he surpassed gravity’s tipping point and slid off the bed onto his noggin. Whoops.
Since he was already there, though, he stuffed himself under the bed, avoiding the shoes, which still smelled, to see what other forgotten treasures he could find. He sneezed a couple of times and jumped a little when he put his face into a cobweb. His hand closed on a familiar shape—the Buck knife his grandfather had given him before he died; “Ouch,” he said, as if imagining what it might feel like to cut himself with it. More clothes, probably from the last time he’d had to clean his room. He found another drawing tablet which he tossed out behind him. When he hit the wall on the opposite end of his bed, he decided he had discovered all there was and crawled back out.
He leaned back against his bed frame and opened the knife, admiring its keen edge. He thought about testing it on the doll, perhaps amputating a leg, but thought that would be a little cruel, even for a doll. He was still debating the doll’s fate when he saw the sketch book. His name was on the front in marker, but he didn’t recognize it—must have been an old one. Steve drew all the time and there were hundreds of pictures on scraps of paper, as well as in actual sketch pads, throughout the house. Once Steve finished a drawing, if it was a particularly good one, he might show it to his parents or his friends, but then it was forgotten, ancient history.
On a whim, he took up the pad and inspected it. Inside he saw that it was inscribed with “To Stevie, Create your own worlds. Love Grandma.” So, his grandmother had given it to him. That made sense; she had given him drawing materials before. But he still couldn’t place this one, which was weird. He carefully turned each page, looking at things a stranger might have drawn. As he thumbed past each drawing, he realized that the entire thing was filled with dragons. Crude for sure, but definitely dragons.
He placed the open pad next to the picture he had just drawn. His most recent sketch no longer resembled a lizard, but a wingless dragon. As Steve looked between the old and the new pictures, he decided that the recent one needed something—color. It was screaming for a color. He had a red-colored pencil in his hand almost before he realized that he had taken it out of his desk drawer.
Without questioning his reasons, he went at his drawing, carefully applying color and shading, finally producing a beautiful, twisting dragon. It looked like it was in a fighting pose. He stared at it a long time before he turned the page, thinking to start another drawing, but then flipped back. Why was he suddenly so interested in drawing this, he wondered? But then he looked at the pad from under the bed and all the dragons, dragons he couldn’t remember drawing, filling its pages. “This is weird,” he said aloud.
Eventually, he tore himself away and started another drawing. This time he’d only made a couple of lines before he yawned so wide his eyes watered. He wiped them clear and half-heartedly tried to continue, only to jerk awake and find that a scribble had wandered off the page. After several more attempts, he set the pad aside.
For some reason, maybe because he liked to draw so much, Steve could close his eyes and still see distinct images of people and scenes he had encountered from earlier that day. Sometimes he could concentrate and draw them very accurately in his mind; sometimes they crept into his dreams, appearing like photographs brought to life by the flash of a camera. When that happened, it bothered his sleep. Today, his nap was fraught with seagulls, and laughing teens, and a large barking dog. Eventually, the images became more benign and he was lying in the sun with his friends, and swimming in cool, clear water.
After a while, something else pushed its way into his dreams. From far away, he could hear it, a breathing sound—in and out, inhale and exhale, louder and louder. He’d heard this sound before, but in his dreams, he couldn’t remember where. It seemed to be getting closer, and then it began to echo; was it above him or behind him? He couldn’t tell.
The cool water no longer surrounded him; the air in his dream felt cold and damp. It radiated a chill that made his bones ache. And it had a smell, a smell like wet dirt, like mud. And there was another smell, a much stronger one. This one was awful, stinking like rotten eggs and spoiled fish. It was everywhere, filling his nose and sticking to his tongue. Again, there was something familiar about it, something he couldn’t quite place. But then it was gone, leaving the more pleasant wet, earthy smell behind.
In the complete darkness of his dream, Steve sensed something was ahead. It was like moving through a familiar room at night and still being able to tell where the couch was. Steve knew there was something there, something enormous, only a few feet away. He felt himself drawing closer to it, though he wasn’t walking. Then, when it loomed mere inches in front of him, so close he knew all he would have to do was reach out and he could touch it, it did a terrible thing. It spoke: “SSSSSttteeeeeeeeeve. Beeeeeeewwwwware!”
Dani hit the kitchen at a run, banging the screen door behind her. “Hey, Steve, guess what I got?”
Steve lurched awake, his heart in his throat. Dani completely ignored his “Do Not Enter” sign and jumped up on his bed. “Ha, you were sleeping…I woke you up, I woke you up,” she sang.
Still shook up over the dream, Steve shoved her away and headed for the kitchen. Dani followed and proceeded to describe the pair of sunglasses their mom had bought her at the grocery store.
“I don’t care. Leave me alone,” Steve grumbled.
His mother came in with two bags of groceries. “Hey, are you all right, sweetie?” she asked. “You look terrible.”
“I fell asleep, kind of a nightmare I guess.”
Dani trailed behind. “You mean a daymare, because it’s not nighttime,” she said, pointing to a kitchen window where light was still visible.
“Whatever Dani.”
“You want to talk about it?” his mother asked.
Steve shook his head. “No. I-I-It w-w-was just weird. You need help?”
Jeanie set the groceries down and stared at her son for a moment while Dani jumped around him bobbing her head this way and that with the new glasses to annoy her brother. “No, your sister can do it. Dani, go out and get the last bag. But be careful, it’s got the eggs in it. Actually, never mind, go work on your room and leave your brother alone. Stevie, why don’t you go wash up? You’ve got sand in your hair. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Chapter 10
It was a rare night at the Batista household when everyone got to eat at the same time. Fortunately, Jeanie hadn’t had to clean any buildings that night and Roger had managed to get everything wrapped up early out at the docks. Therefore, the family of four were able to sit together around the beat up oak table in the corner of their small kitchen, which doubled as the dining room. Steve hadn’t hit the magic age yet where he wanted nothing to do with his parents; he actually liked hanging out with them, especially if Dani had something else going on. Unfortunately, she didn’t have an appointment on her social calendar this evening.
Steve had decided that there were two reasons why his parents stopped at two kids: the first was the threat of having another Dani, and the other was the size of their house, or at least the kitchen. It was so narrow that he could almost reach over and grab the salt and pepper off the counter without getting up from the table. The stove was only a step or two away. The tight space and the limited number of cabinets drove his mom crazy trying to keep everything neat and tidy. Dishes had to be cleaned the instant they became dirty, and the toaster, which had to be moved in order to do the dishes, had to be returned to its designated parking space immediately after, or else.
Steve’s dad was in the avocado-colored fridge looking for something. “Hey, hon, where’d you put the catsup?”
“Since I’m not the one who eats catsup, I didn’t put it anywhere, but if you move the Miracle Whip in the door, you’ll see it.”
“I knew there was reason I
hired you.”
“You couldn’t afford me; that’s why you married me.”
Roger crossed the worn spot in the linoleum floor to return to the table. He gave his wife a little smooch on the cheek. “That’s not the reason I married you.” Steve groaned aloud, but, secretly, he didn’t mind too much when his parents teased each other.
Steve’s chair was next to one of the many kitchen windows and, despite the family chatter, he could still hear the persistent rumble of the ocean and the occasional call of the foghorn. A lively sea breeze brought in the briny air and fluttered the light lace curtains. Jeanie brought over the casserole dish with the baked chicken. When she scooped out a serving for Roger, he immediately drowned it in catsup. Jeanie made a face at the kids, but did not say anything, having long ago realized the fact that her husband put catsup on everything had nothing to do with the quality of her cooking.
This was one of the many little ways Steve’s parents were different. Steve’s dad was short, deeply tanned because he was Portuguese and he worked outside, and he had a ponytail, which Steve thought was kind of cool; none of his friends’ fathers had one. His mom was taller than his dad, at least by a couple of inches. She had lots of freckles and thick red hair, not wiry or kinky—more like red licorice. Steve’s grandmother said the red hair made Jeanie “rather intense.” Steve thought she meant his mom had a temper. Fortunately, his mother usually saved that intensity for the causes that got her all riled up. Roger was more laid back; life was good and it took a lot to upset him. Steve kind of pictured them as a cat and a dog; his mom, the cat, always alert, always stalking around, and his dad, the dog, always sort of wanting to go outside and play.
