Strays

by Remy Wilkins

  Rodney was so surprised that he blurted out a single, quick laugh before he could clamp his mouth shut. He held his hand to his lips.

  Otis ignored the outburst and continued. “Then he said, ‘That’ll be enough of your silliness, Rotsnogger,’ and he came out from behind the pulpit. He had clearly lost it; everyone could see that.”

  “What’d he do after that?”

  “Who knows? I was so offended I walked out. I only went back once more . . . ” His voice trailed off, revisiting the scene in his mind.

  Rodney called him back with a question, “Why’d you think he did it?”

  “He cracked. All that talk of demons or talking to demons. Believe me, there’s a lot of people that think he knows a bit too much about demonic activity. They think he’s conjuring.”

  “What’s conjuring?”

  “Invoking demons.” Otis leaned forward to search his face.

  That would explain the terrifying encounter yesterday. But why would Ray be involved with demons? Rodney took the last gulp of tea. The cold liquid made his teeth ache. He set the glass down when his host stood. Otis grabbed his glass and said, “More?”

  He wasn’t ready to bike back to Ray’s yet, so he nodded his head. Otis went back into the kitchen and Rodney stood to peruse the room. Across the tops of every table, the mantle, the piano, and hung on the wall were pictures that spanned the years from black and white into color. He recognized Otis and a woman he presumed was his wife. For many years Otis had a bushy mustache, but about the time the woman disappeared from the pictures, the mustache did as well.

  Rodney recalled his father’s bristly chin digging into his stomach when they’d wrestle. They’d only wrestled when he was little. Last time he’d tried to grapple, his dad smacked away his hands and said “scat” before returning to the newspaper.

  Rodney also noticed a boy, at first appearing in the woman’s arms, then next just below the knees, then slowly rising until he could look down on the place where Otis was going bald. He was built just like Otis—long, copper-wire legs and arms. Otis reentered the room.

  “I didn’t know you had a son,” he said thumping the picture with his finger.

  “I don’t,” Otis answered without looking up. He set both glasses on the table between them. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  “He drove him away.” Otis stared at his glass.

  “Who did?”

  “Raymond. It was his greatest failure.”

  “What happened?”

  “Gerald had his demons.”

  “Demons?” His voice came out more alarmed than he intended. Otis looked up to scan his face.

  “Problems. Drugs, drinking, spiritual problems.” Rodney returned to his seat unsure of how to reply. Otis continued, “He was friends with your uncle. Your mother, too.”

  “Was she his girlfriend?” This seemed significant to ask.

  “For a time.”

  Rodney was shocked. Such things seemed like they should be kept a secret. He didn’t know why.

  “Gerald went to Raymond at my suggestion. I thought it would help to talk to a man of God, but he . . . he . . . ”

  Otis sputtered and his face twisted. “He came back scared, no, terrified. Raymond had . . . well, I don’t know what he said or did. Gerald wouldn’t tell me. But what drove him off was Ray’s final outburst, the thing that forced the congregation to dismiss him from the pulpit.”

  Otis stood and faced the wall, looking at a picture of Gerald. “I got the story from a friend who still goes to White Pines. He said Raymond was preaching the deliverance from the evil one, when Gerald got up to go. When Raymond saw him, he yelled out some nonsense word and threw his Bible at him. Hit ’em right between the eyes, then Raymond started ringing the church bell like a madman and the whole building filled with bees.”

  “Bees?”

  “That’s right, bees. Been living in the walls. Still do, I hear. They’re fine unless you rile ’em up.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, they called me and I went to pick up Gerald. Blood streaming out his nose. Gerald ran away the next day, leaving only a note.”

  Otis stood and walked over to a desk. He unlocked a drawer. After shuffling through some paper he withdrew an envelope and handed it to Rodney.

  Rodney didn’t want to open it, but Otis stood over him waiting so he pulled out the index card inside. It was faded and yellowing, showing wear on the edges, like it was handled often. On the back, in hasty print, was written:

  Dad,

  I’m sorry. He has driven me away.

  —G

  “Who?” Rodney asked after reading it.

  “Who else? Raymond.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  Otis shook his head and stared at the floor. “No idea. Aside from a few neighborly comments we haven’t talked since.”

  Otis slumped into his chair, but his eyes were still drilling the floor. Rodney placed the glass back on the table and backed away. “Thanks for the tea, Otis.”

  Otis waved his hand without speaking.

  “I hope your son comes back.”

  Otis shook his head and rested his elbows on his knees. “He won’t. He abandoned me, just like you’ve been abandoned here.”

  Rodney turned and let the screen door slap hard against the door frame. He felt his face flush. He got on his bike and stomped on the pedals. As he rode back to the street he decided to check out the church sometime. Maybe he could find someone else to tell the story of when Ray first started talking to demons. He shivered as he popped his front wheel over the potholes. He biked back to Ray’s wondering what to believe.

  * * *

  Rodney arrived at Ray’s looping driveway in a torrent of dust and huffs. His bike skidded in the gravel with each long thrust of his legs. The wind was enough to cause the branches to slap his face.

  Crossing over the bridge he saw rocks perfect for his slingshot. Not quite ready to encounter Ray yet, he slid and slung his bike to the ground. He took out the slingshot from his back pocket and marched down the slope to the river to pick out smooth stones for slinging.

  He fit five or so in each pocket and looked for targets. Bullseyes on trees from where branches had broken off, looking like swollen eyes, became his primary victims. Rocks pinged and panged into the foliage, increasing his satisfaction.

  He moved his aim to a large rock in the water, just above the rapid current. His shots skittered off the dome into the black flow with deep ploops. The river under the forest’s canopy cooled him off. A breeze caused him to shiver.

  He paused to gather more ammo and in the quiet he heard a low hum. It was a soft murmuring sound that grew louder the farther he moved from the water. He walked up a slope to discover the source. As he reached the top he looked down and saw a great oak split in half, part still planted, the other prostrate on the ground. It was rotten within, and out of the hollow streamed a host of bees.

  Rodney scrambled down the slope and peered into the black hole from a safe distance. He could just make out the bulbous hive hanging inside the tree. Bees flew out of it like smoke.

  He reached into his back pocket where he had put a large, smooth stone and set it into the slingshot’s pouch. He aimed, and for a second it seemed like the hive was pulsating, a black heart. He drew back the cords until they were taut, and released the stone missile. It sank into the throbbing mass, and everything went still before the tree erupted in bees.

  The cloud expanded around the mouth of the tree like a flower in bloom. Rodney realized that a thick spear of bees was surging toward him. “Jeez!” he cried and turned to run.

  He abandoned his bike and fled from the angry constellation of bees. The forest seemed to shiver with their racket. The whole way he could hear the murmuring, and he half expected to see the fist-sized black cloud follow
ing him.

  He made it to the front steps and collapsed. The sun was straight above him. He looked for Ray’s yellow Honda. The space beside the house where he parked it was still empty. He caught his breath and considered his options. The muffler was loud enough to announce Ray’s return from afar, so he decided that if he wanted to snoop, now was the time.

  If Ray really were conjuring demons, there’d have to be evidence of it somewhere. He wasn’t sure how a demon would be conjured, but he thought it might involve animal sacrifice of some sort. Of all the possible places, the workshop was the most likely for Ray to cause trouble.

  He walked over and lifted up the great wood bar that kept the wide doors shut. It was cool inside even though the small window unit was off. The high ceiling was cast in shadows, but he could make out the dark patches of birds’ nests built atop the beams. Squeaks and chirps echoed periodically.

  There were a series of worktables with a variety of saws on top or vice grips holding rocking chair parts. Wood of every cut, kind, and length was stacked or laid against the walls. He walked around, inspecting Ray’s current projects. The smell of sawn wood filled his nostrils. Ray’s tools were neatly laid out on the table or hanging on the wall. On one table, he saw the box of carving tools Ray used when chiseling something new on the surface of some nook in the house.

  No signs of animal sacrifice, however. He laughed at his foolishness. He couldn’t imagine Ray killing anything. His tenderness with the rabbits was evidence enough of that. Against the far wall he noticed the failed attempts at bat-making. Each one badly misshapen. He tripped against a table leg and sent four rockers clattering to the ground. He paused to listen for the rumble of Ray’s car as if the noise would call him home. Aside from the intermittent peeps from the birds in the rafters, there was no sound. In the back, he saw a great wood cabinet. If there were something to hide, that was the only possible place to hide it.

  Rodney reached the cabinet and began opening the ornate drawers. The first held woodworking magazines. Another was crammed full of receipts and pay stubs. The third was filled to the top with disposable ear plugs, orange and yellow. The final drawer held nothing more than some correspondence. The letters were haphazardly stacked, and fingering through them he noticed that they were all sent from a man in Italy.

  He flipped open a yellowing page and noticed strange words. The letters were all written in what he supposed was Italian, so he tossed them back into the drawer. Digging deeper, he discovered a cardboard tube about the length of his forearm. He pulled it out. It was from the same man who had sent the letters, Filippo Campanella. He brought it over to a nearby table to open it. Inside was a rolled blueprint. He spread it out over the table, pinning the top corners with a hammer and chisel.

  At the top was written “Alvarium Maleficorum,” and it appeared to be building plans for a little house. There were four rooms—two smaller circular rooms at the back and two oblong rooms in the front. The side view of the building showed it to be a dome, like a bulbous cathedral.

  There were other words scrawled along the side. The word “Cruentationis” was underlined and there was a star next to the phrase “le api sono sangue del cuore.” He read aloud, “La porta dei demoni,” and followed a line that indicated the central wall dividing the building vertically. He didn’t know Italian, but demoni certainly looked like demon. Perhaps Ray was involved in conjuring after all.

  Rodney heard the sputter and bang of Ray’s car. He quickly rolled up the plans, grabbed the tube, and kicked the drawer shut. He ran to the door and slipped out into the bright heat of noon. Squinting his eyes, he shut the doors to the workshop and carefully stuffed the plans back into the tube. He hopped over to the tree line and tossed the tube into the brush. He’d recover it later.

  Ray’s yellow car slurred to a stop, a billow of dust coming over the roof. Ray opened the door and rocked himself to his feet. “Rodney? Yo, Rod? I found your bike by the bridge? Hello?”

  Rodney came from around the building. Ray was wearing a blue blazer over a white button up shirt. Only his tie bore a spiral of color. “Hey, Uncle Ray,” he called. “Yeah, I left it in the woods.”

  Ray pulled it out of the back of his car. “I thought you might’ve. Either that or the varlets got you. I called but didn’t hear anything, so I assumed you just walked home.”

  “Yeah, I had a run-in with some angry bees.”

  Ray looked up, concerned. “Bees?” He shook his head. “Where’d you come across bees?”

  “Down by the river. I don’t know. They had their hive in a broken tree.”

  Ray seemed to consider this as though it were grave news. “Careful,” he said, stroking his beard. “Bees can be mean.”

  “No kidding. I felt like they chased me all the way here.”

  Ray laughed and they went inside. “Let’s get some lunch. Once the sun gets at a lesser angle we can hit some baseballs.”

  Rodney gave a groan in response. Ray chuckled.

  Perhaps tomorrow he could bike into town to the library and find an Italian dictionary. He could check out the ruined church, too. Maybe the plans held some clue to the strange things happening around here. Until then he had to devise some plan to avoid playing baseball. Maybe he could feign sickness.

  * * *

  It was inevitable, once Rodney saw his uncle’s high leg kick, that he would get hit. He lay in bed with a bag of frozen blackberries held to his face and cringed at each recollection of his most recent injury. The pitch, the swing, the dancing stars, the grass beneath his head, the trickle of blood down his cheek.

  Ray knocked on the door. “Can I get you anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “Aw, come on, Rod. You aren’t mad at me, are you?”

  “What else could’ve happened?” His voice lilted peevishly.

  “That was a freak event. I’ve never seen something like that. The best hitter in the world couldn’t do that in a thousand years.”

  Ray had been throwing fastballs that hissed past and ricocheted off the shop wall. He had painted a white square behind his nephew and then marched off sixty feet, planting a bucket of balls beside himself. He’d crouched over, glaring, as if trying to make out the signs from the catcher. He’d shaken his head, shaken his head, then risen and rested his glove on his paunch.

  Rodney had waited, cemented to the spot, bugs alighting on his nose, the grass swaying at his feet. He’d wanted to wiggle his bat, shift his feet like his dad had barked at him to do, but he had been fixed in place, as if in stone. Ray had rotated his hips and thrown his leg up. Rodney’s eyes had bulged as Ray lunged and catapulted his arm to release the howling cowhide ball. Rodney had fallen away as the bat collapsed into a weak arc, missing the projectile. The missed ball had made the entire shop thunder.

  “Stay in there, head down,” Ray had said, choosing another ball.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, had been followed by whiff, whiff, whiff and the sound of the ball smacking the shop behind Rodney. On the second-to-last swing he had spun around and ended up like a pretzel afterwards.

  “You’re spinning like a pinwheel,” Ray had remarked, rubbing down a ball, probably just to give him time to rest and reset his feet. Rodney had dug in like the batters on television.

  Ray had tugged his hat lower and said, “Give a big swing.”

  On the ensuing swing, Rodney had connected with the pitch off the inside part of the bat, deflecting the ball into his face. There had been a meaty smack and a burst of light. Rodney had keeled over and gone sprawling to the ground. The day had flashed and spun. Rodney had moaned as his uncle pulled him up and helped him to his room.

  Now, Rodney stared at the beetles that were carved on the crown molding. “My nose isn’t bleeding anymore.”

  “Nosebleeds are good for you.”

  “I hate baseball.”

  “Baseball is good for yo
u.”

  “I missed every pitch except that last one.”

  “Oh, but it was a beautiful swing.”

  Rodney lifted the bag from his eye. “Is it black?”

  Ray gave an appreciative whistle. “It’s a nice shiner.”

  Rodney smiled. “Mom would kill you.”

  Ray laughed. “Remember that time we went canoeing, and she thought I pushed you off the dock?”

  “You did push me off the dock.”

  “Yeah, but she thought I did it on purpose.”

  “That’s what we all think!”

  Ray knocked on the wall. “Well, life’s full of mysteries.” His grin made his beard bristle like a porcupine jumping. “What I remember is how preternaturally calm you were. You know,” he said letting his finger and thumb disappear into his facial hair, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you afraid.”

  “Peternaturally?”

  “Preter—, preternaturally. It means beyond the natural.”

  “I’ve been afraid lots of times.”

  “But you never act like it. Like that time with Lucasta’s dog, Mordecai. He knocked you down and chomped your finger, but you didn’t even scream.”

  “I don’t remember that. Who’s Lucasta?”

  “She’s a friend, an angel really. Lives right down the road in fact. We went to visit her, I guess that was around five years ago. You would’ve been six or seven.”

  The memory returned to him. A big dog surprised him. He remembered being scared and then sitting on a soft couch eating ice cream. “Yeah, I kinda remember getting a treat there. I guess I got ice cream afterwards. I remember that; it was blackberry ice cream. It was the best ice cream ever.”

  “Yup, ole Lucasta’s full of treats. I remembered thinking how brave you were.”

  “Well, I was scared today. Could you tell?”

  “Being brave is not the same as not being afraid. It’s not bravery unless it comes with fear. Every pitch, you hung in there even though you didn’t want to. That’s bravery.”