by Vin Carver
A tall, white flower swayed above the weeds. It was perfect. He left the trail and spread the weeds as he walked—a swimmer breast-stroking across a green pond. He walked and walked, but couldn’t find the flower, or the trail. The bright world turned dark. He walked out of the weeds and stepped on a damp pile of pine needles. He raised his head, and the sun hid behind giant fronds covered in green-black needles.
He didn’t know where he was. With his head raised, he turned in a circle. Every fear he'd ever had came to him. Bats flew from the treetops to bite him. Fire ants ran down the tree trunks to pee in his bat bites. Black dogs with yellow teeth padded through the forest, sniffing for him. These weren’t just any black dogs. They were the mean ones. They belonged to a man named Dober, and Dober man's dogs were the meanest.
He sat on the ground and folded his hands over his lap. Alone.
Little Warren said, “Mommy?”
He might never see her again. He might never see Cameron again. He might never see anyone, ever again. He sobbed. His sobbing built momentum, and he cried. He had never known loneliness like this, and the feeling engulfed his heart. He screamed.
“Mommy. Cameron. Daddy.”
His scream left his lungs empty. He choked and slammed his little hands on the pine needles. His brown hair flopped back and forth, and he shook his head. He gulped a breath of air. “No, no, no…no—”
“There you are little fellow. I found you.”
Old and raspy, the voice had come from nowhere. Warren turned, and a man hoisted him into the air. The man smelled funny, but not strange. Behind his tears, the man’s face blurred, but Warren didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and held on as the trees bounced and swayed side to side. They walked to the clearing, and the trail appeared. The white flower swayed with the wind, becoming smaller and smaller as they left the forest. The funny smelling man carried him down Acorn Row toward home. Warren’s dad was bending the loops of metal back when they crested the hill.
“You little son-of-a…” his dad said, letting go of the fence and pointing his finger.
Warren’s eyes opened wide. He turned away, put his head on the man’s shoulder, and squeezed the man’s neck.
His dad said, “Where’d you find him?”
“I found him sitting under a tree, bawling his little eyes out.”
The man swooped, and he dipped Warren near the ground.
“Jesus Dad, give him here. You’re going to drop him.”
Little Warren’s mom came running out of the house, tears streaming down her face. “You found him. Is he okay?”
His mom’s voice blanketed his heart. He let go of the man’s neck and reached for his mom with his hands open wide. The funny smelling man stumbled forward. His mom grabbed him by the armpits and put him on the ground. He tried to wrap himself around her leg, but she pushed him away. She knelt, and Warren leaned into her. A crowd had gathered around them and voices blended into a cacophony of murmurs and little laughs. Warren’s face got hot.
His mom bent him over her knee, pulled his pants down, and spanked him.
SWAT
“Don’t you ever—”
SWAT
“run away—”
SWAT
“again.”
SWAT
Warren cried. It was worse than the forest.
Run away? What’s run away? I just wanted to pick you flower for a mom’s day.
His mom stood him up straight and left him standing there. The crowd talked amongst themselves, milling about like nothing had happened. Warren pulled his up pants, rubbed his butt, and sobbed.
Weeks later, his dad replaced the metal fence with a wooden one and painted it white. The day after that, Warren climbed over it. He stared into the forest, turned around, and climbed back. He didn’t go into Lake Forest again for a long time, and when he finally did, he didn’t go alone. He went with Tanner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A Meth Addict Jonesing for a Fix
Two billowy clouds floated opposite each other, not knowing that the sun was watching. They floated across the sky not knowing Hellhole Cameron was also watching. He lay in the ditch along Ponder’s Lane with his arms stretched out, soaking up the sun. He ignored the annoying cluster of trees between him and the high school, and, by taking long, slow breaths, he achieved a state of heightened awareness. Warmed by the sun, the outer layers of his skin challenged his inner cold. He let some of his inner cold float away with the clouds, leaving small spots for warm memories to occupy his mind. He didn’t have many warm memories, but the ones he did have were from after he’d joined the war on the time lines. The clouds floated into the middle of the sky, casting a shadow that split Cameron in two. His left side became cold, and he lost concentration. The cloud would have apologized had it known Cameron was watching.
Cameron rolled onto his side and pushed himself up off the ground. He walked up to the road and backtracked south to the intersection of Ponder’s Lane and Highway 23. Through the mist of Lysos, he had seen a building beneath a sign that read HI-WAY CHAPEL. Logic told Cameron the chapel would be on the highway, but he didn’t trust logic. Directly in front of him, Highway 23 became Main Street, and he followed Main Street into town. The chapel should have been named Main Street Chapel, or The Chapel on Main, or something like that. A few blocks away, Main Street turned north and ran parallel to Ponder’s Lane. The Hi-Way Chapel sat on the outside corner next to a black and white letter board that read TIRED OF DARKNESS? FOLLOW THE SON.
Cameron followed the street instead.
The Lumberman’s Club sat across from the little white chapel. From his Lysos teaching, Cameron had learned that every town begins with church and a bar. The club was probably the first building built in Tamarack, and the chapel was probably the second. Cameron could smell the suffering. For decades, people had been getting drunk at the Lumberman’s Club. Sometimes their drunkenness had led to suffering, and their suffering had led to the chapel. Cameron concentrated on the club. On Saturday nights, people would betray and punch each other beneath the neon lights. On Sunday mornings, those same people would go to the chapel, pray, and forgive each other. Cameron licked his lips. On weekdays, no one would be at the chapel. Today was Thursday.
He walked past the Lumberman’s Club and climbed the short set of stairs up to the chapel’s front door. Strokes of ink swooped and spelled out words on a piece of parchment taped to the door. Cameron pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t open. He pulled the parchment off the chapel and tried to read it. The writing had tight twists and turns, and he held it close to his face. The last line read WITH LOVE AND HOPE, FATHER GENO SARDINO. He skimmed over the parchment again and deciphered the words LUMBERMAN, and AFTERNOON. He wadded it up and threw it on the ground.
Across the street, a neon sign marked the entrance to The Lumberman’s Club. The neon tube jigged and jagged through hooks in the shape of tree branches. Cameron wondered when the last time neon had attracted customers to any business.
1967? Maybe 1997?
He was sure the golden box was hidden somewhere inside the chapel. His teachers had shown him that, but the door was locked. Two cars and a bicycle sat across the street at the club. An old car the size of a small yacht sat with Illinois license plates in the chapel parking lot. The priest had left a note and gone across the street to recruit.
Cameron walked around the side of the chapel. A row of small, basement windows lined the bottom of the wall. Higher on the wall, a row of larger windows let God’s light shine inside through stained glass. Cameron knelt by the last window and picked up a rock. He turned his head and watched the wind blow the parchment across the street towards the Lumberman’s Club. He rammed the rock into the window, and the glass shattered. Triangular shards protruded from the inner edges of the frame like giant shark’s teeth. He broke off the bigger shards and left the smaller, piranha-teeth shards in place. He stuck his head in through the window and moved forward until his shoulders
butted up against the frame.
A pathetic circle of white plastic chairs sat in the middle of the basement. A sandwich board read WELCOME TO SURVIVOR’S GLORY - PARENT’S THURSDAY. Stacks of Sunday school books and pamphlets sat on shelves around the edges of the room, and the aroma of hope made Cameron ill. He tried to push his way in, but a piece of glass pierced his neck. He pulled himself out of the basement window and stood up. A trickle of cold blood ran down the side of his neck, and he blamed the priest for locking the door. He gazed at the Lumberman’s club and walked across the street.
The door to the club swung closed behind him, and a voice came from the bar. “Hey, kids can’t come in here. Are you looking for your mom or something?”
Cameron squinted in the dark. A man’s shadow moved behind the bar, and a dim light cast upon another man sitting at the bar. Cameron walked closer, and his eyes adjusted. The man at the bar raised a glass mug to his lips, tipped it up high, and drained it. The man behind the bar fixed his eyes on Cameron, grabbed the empty mug, and put it in the sink next to a long row of empties—clink.
“Can I get another one?” The man at the bar swiveled toward Cameron, rolled his eyes, and swiveled back to the bartender. “Jack…did you hear me? I need another one.”
The bartender raised his hand to the man and turned his attention to Cameron. “You can’t be in here kid, state law.”
Cameron said, “I’ll leave, I just need to talk to the priest because I—”
“He’s busy.” The man at the bar pointed over his shoulder. In the back corner, two shadows—waving hands and cocking heads—sat talking. “Come on Jack. I got to get back to work, and I need one to get me through the afternoon.”
“Hold your horses Hank, it’s coming.”
The man swiveled toward Cameron. “Hey, aren’t you that Renner kid that was traipsing by my apartment yesterday?”
Cameron said, “No.”
“Hmm. You sure look like him.” He swiveled back to the bar and held his hand out. “Come on Jack.”
The bartender pulled on a tap, and suds fell into a fresh mug. The suds burst and turned into a thick, yellow fluid. Cameron closed his eyes, and he saw a yellow fluid suspended in a clear plastic bag. A tube ran from the bottom of the bag, and the fluid ran inside the tube. Cameron closed his eyes tighter. He followed the tube to the floor, and up the side of a bed. He was lying in a bed. The tube ran under the sheets, and the fluid ran through the tube. He pushed the sheets off his body, and the tube ran under his shirt. He lifted it, and the fluid disappeared into his chest.
“You okay kid?”
Cameron opened his eyes. The barroom appeared brighter than before he’d closed them. Dollar bills hung crooked on a rough-cut post behind the bar. Someone had scrawled strange messages on the bills using a black marker. On the bar top, four rows of silver dollars stared at the ceiling through a thick, acrylic lacquer. Cameron stared at the silver dollars. He didn’t want any of them. He wanted the golden box with the flying naked baby that he’d seen in the mist of his teachers.
“Kid?”
Cameron turned toward the back corner. The two shadows took form. One was a large, round man, wearing a black dress shirt and slacks. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the table, gazing at his companion. The other—thin and lanky—wore a blue flannel shirt and dirty denim jeans. His hands waved wildly in the air as he spoke. Both men had thick black hair styled in a way that matched their body language—one groomed, and one with locks shooting in all directions.
The bartender raised his voice. “You’ve got to get out of here. I don’t need Maxwell coming in and accusing me of serving minors.”
Cameron turned back to the bartender, cocked his head to one side, and raised an eyebrow. “Then don’t serve me.”
“Oh, so you’re a wise guy. Great. Now leave.”
Cameron turned away. The messy-haired crackpot in the back corner talked and talked, while the round man sat and nodded. This conversation wouldn’t be ending anytime soon. The round man needed rescuing from whatever the crackpot was saying. Cameron put both hands on the bar. He leaned toward the bartender and lowered his head. He peered through eyes half crested by his brow. His black pupils flashed with sheets of red. In a low, guttural voice, Cameron said, “Jack. I’m going to go talk to the priest.” He pointed to the back corner without moving his head. “Then, I will leave.”
The bartender’s shoulders stiffened, and he turned white. Cameron stood up, wiped the back of his neck, and examined his hand. His neck was still bleeding. He wiped the blood off on his shirt and walked to the back corner. The man at the bar—his beer mug held up to his lips—swiveled around as Cameron walked past him.
The bartender said, “Christ. Did you see that, Hank?”
As Cameron approached the two men, he rubbed the back of his neck and put some blood on the inside of his elbow. He started to shake.
The crackpot said, “And when the trains came together—”
The round man turned to Cameron. His gentle eyes and sparkled. He smiled and held his hand up to the crackpot. “Hold on a second.” He rotated his palm and motioned for Cameron to come closer. “Can I help you, my son?”
“I hope so.” Cameron stepped forward and, not to his surprise, smelled marijuana coming off the crackpot. He softened his eyes and looked at the round man. “Are you a priest?”
“Yes. I am Father Sardino.”
“I need to talk to someone. I’m in trouble. Not real trouble, not with the police or anything, just with myself I guess.” Cameron shook his body like a meth addict jonesing for a fix and turned to make sure the priest could see the inside of his arm.
The crackpot said, “And when the trains came together, I—” He looked down, then up. “I found this shirt yesterday, and I think it belongs to my brother, Tom. It’s from the other side.”
The round man glanced at the crackpot, raised his eyebrows, and nodded toward Cameron. The crackpot turned and stared into Cameron’s eyes. “You came to the right person. If you are in trouble, if your train is running off the tracks, Father Sardino can help you.”
Father Sardino took one of the crackpot’s hands in his. “Thank you for talking with me today, Mark. I hope to see you again soon.”
The crackpot held onto the priest’s gaze two seconds too long. “Thank you, Father. I’ll go.”
Father Sardino relaxed his hand and pulled, but the crackpot held onto it. Father Sardino grimaced, pulled again, and his hand came free. He turned to Cameron, smiling ear to ear. “What is your name?”
“Cameron.”
“Cameron, would you like to come to my office where we can talk?”
Hell yeah, I want to go to your office.
Cameron tried to hide his excitement by gazing at the table. He faked a shiver and turned away. “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know where else to go.”
Father Sardino pushed his chair back, and it butted up against the wall. He tried to stand, but his belly hit the bottom edge of the table. He sat back down and waved his hands for the crackpot to move. The crackpot stood up, pulled the table away from the priest’s belly, and headed for the door. The man at the bar raised his wrist and pushed a button on his watch. The watch lit up, he let go of the button, and guzzled the rest of his beer. He slid off the stool and fell in line behind the crackpot.
The bartender wiped the bar with a dirty rag and watched the motley crew leave. “Have a great day, gentlemen. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Calm of a Buddhist Monk
Cameron squinted when the sun hit is face. Father Sardino’s feet shuffled behind, and Cameron shivered, though he was warm. The crackpot got on his bicycle and pedaled away before the man from the bar could start his car. Father Sardino put his hand behind Cameron’s elbow and guided him across the street. They walked up the steps of the little chapel, and Father Sardino unlocked the door.
Inside, a cluttered bulletin board contra
sted with the doors to the nave. The wide, white doors ran from the floor to the ceiling. Golden handles decorated with cherubs held the doors closed. Below the bulletin board, a sign reading BASEMENT pointed to a set of stairs on the right. To the left, a sign reading OFFICE hung above a brown door. The door had a small, black knob that disappeared when Father Sardino’s hand covered it.
“Please, come with me, my son.”
Father Sardino wedged himself behind a small desk opposite Cameron. Cameron scanned the room in search of the golden box. A telephone sat on the desk surrounded by hundreds of scratches and dings. A cardboard box overflowing with black books leaned against an empty bookcase. On the opposite wall, three thumbtacks held up a poster of a stone cherub standing on top of a water fountain. The bottom corner of the poster curled up just below the words MONTECATINI TERME. A signed photo of a man wearing an orange and black sweater, holding a football, and sporting a thick mustache hung next to the poster. Cameron didn’t know who it was, and he didn’t care. He wanted the golden box.
Father Sardino folded his arms on the desk and clasped his hands together. “Cameron, you look cold. Can I get you a blanket?” The priest’s face was warm, inviting, and annoying.
“No, I’m not cold.” Cameron shook his upper body. “I’m alone.”
The priest’s cheeks rose when he smiled. “With God, none of us are alone. The Bible tells us, ‘And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.’ Cameron, do you believe in God?”
“I guess so.” He scanned the office.
Where is that box?
“Then your loneliness problem is over, my son. You are not alone.” The priest’s cheeks fell, and he glanced at Cameron’s arm. “But I can see you have other problems. Tell me, where are your parents?”