Point Hollow

by Rio Youers

  What can you tell me about this picture, Kip?

  He might help me understand. Help me put an end to it.

  Perhaps if Kip wasn’t blind, I would have asked anyway, despite his frailty and stubbornness. It might have surprised him enough to get a reaction. It had to be worth trying. But I didn’t see the point in showing him a photograph he couldn’t see, so left it alone.

  Until today.

  I was at the doctor’s office for my annual medical (Dr. Alex, not Ruzicka; it just isn’t done to have your testes squeezed by one of the guys you play poker with). Everything checked out. Blood pressure a tad on the high side, but put that down to white coat hypertension. Kip was in the waiting room when I came through, sitting in his wheelchair while his helper talked to the medical secretary. I glanced at him, nothing more, kept walking, and all of a sudden my legs decided to go left instead of straight ahead. Two seconds later, I was sitting in the empty seat next to his wheelchair.

  “Hello, Mr. Sawyer. It’s Oliver. Oliver Wray.”

  His cloudy eyes flicked my way. “Oh,” he said, or maybe, “Hello.”

  I looked at his helper, who was deep in conversation with the secretary. I had some time before I was shooed away like the nuisance that I am.

  “I’m holding a photograph,” I said (the photograph was actually here, in a folder on this desk, but he didn’t need to know that). “It’s very old, probably taken at around the time Woodrow Wilson was in the White House and you were a young man. A long time ago.”

  “Mong bime,” he agreed, and tried to smile.

  “Perhaps you can tell me something about it,” I continued, and leaned a little closer. “It’s a local photograph. I’ll describe the scene and maybe you can—”

  “Mokul?”

  “That’s right, local.”

  His blind eyes flicked away from me. I saw the tiny water droplets in the cannula tubing tremble as he inhaled.

  “It was taken on Abraham’s Faith.” I hesitated whether or not to tell him how I knew this, and decided it didn’t really matter; old Kip was knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door, and would take whatever I said with him. “I know this because I recognize the mouth of the cave. I’ve been there many times, Kip. I’ve been inside. I’ve seen the bodies.”

  His eyes drifted my way, as blank as bullet holes.

  “There’s a man standing in front of the cave. In his late twenties, early thirties, I’d say. He has thick, dark hair and a lopsided smile. There are children with him. Two girls and a boy, aged between—”

  “Mo . . . I dun mo.”

  “Aged between four and eight years old. They’re crying, Kip. They’re terrified.”

  “Mo . . .”

  “What happened?” I whispered. My heartbeat was louder than my voice, drumming so hard I thought my nose was going to start bleeding. “Why did he do it, Kip? And how did he make it stop?”

  The old man shook his head. Tears trickled from his eyes, rolled as far as the cannula tubing, then ran across it like rain on a pipe. He mumbled something unintelligible and flapped his hand toward the exit in a gesture that was easier to discern: Go pound sand, boy. Leave me the hell alone. The helper came over at that point. She looked at me accusingly and I offered her a fetching smile in return.

  “Just saying hello,” I explained, getting to my feet. I squeezed Kip’s shoulder as he knuckled the tears from his face, and then left. I whistled all the way to the door, but was clenched and burning inside.

  Kip Sawyer is no help to me. A heartbeat in a shell. Even his soul is in chains.

  He’s taking his secrets to the grave.

  September 10, 2007.

  Abraham’s Faith woke up today—pulled me screaming from my bed at four A.M. and I pissed myself like a little kid. It had been silent for more than ten years.

  The thunder—booming in my head as I write this—reminds me how small I am.

  September 12, 2007.

  I don’t know his name yet. I’ll watch the news later and find out. I grabbed him from a playground in Kent, CT. He struggled all the way and now I have to sleep; I look in the mirror and see an extremely tired man.

  Update: Felix Brodsky. Nine years old.

  I look in the mirror and see a monster.

  Chapter Nine

  Ninety-six by noon.

  Dry, somnolent heat. Everything slower and brighter. The weekend had been a burner but now—Tuesday—it felt as if the ozone layer had been replaced by a sheet of Saran Wrap. It didn’t look like cooling down anytime soon; the Weather Channel showed the same blazing sun icon deep into next week, and offered tips on how to stay cool and be safe, but to consider the environment and conserve energy when possible. The people of Point Hollow didn’t feel the same rules applied to them when it came to ecological concerns. They lived in one of the greenist, tree-eist parts of the country. They were the environment, by God, and if they wanted to crank their aircons and sprinkler their lawns, then dammit, they would.

  And they did. Walk anywhere in Point Hollow and you would hear the whir of air conditioners, all at maximum power, with intent to run until it either cooled down or the power blew out. Not that anybody was walking around. Too damn hot. If they had to leave the house, they drove their vehicles, aircons blasting, even if it was just a two-minute trip to pick up the mail. There were a few foolhardy youths sunbathing or playing ball in Blueberry Bush Park, and a few more splashing around in Gray Rock River, but the older (sensible) folk stayed in their cool homes or places of work, or sat in the shade drinking chilled beverages with electric fans blowing at them like mini-cyclones.

  Bobby Alexander went back to work after spending the previous two days with Matthew. They’d fished Sunday morning (while, at his million-dollar home on the eastern edge of town, Oliver Wray stripped naked and prepared to purify body and soul), but the smallmouth were too lazy to bite and stayed low, where it was cool. It didn’t matter; Matthew and Bobby opened their shirts and slathered SPF 40 sunscreen on their thirty-something bellies, then cracked ice-cold sodas from the cooler and shot the breeze.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Bobby had said, on more than one occasion.

  “Me too,” Matthew had replied, every time.

  They laughed a lot, and their conversation had an easy, adolescent quality, allowing for conversation that was both unrestrained and unabashed. Grownups talked about mortgage rates, car repairs, and politics. Matthew and Bobby talked about Lost and Survivor and which superheroes hadn’t been invented yet. They also talked about the past, of course, and Bobby eased a few more of Matthew’s memories into the open. They were good memories, too (building a raft they’d taken down Gray Rock River, only to have it break apart in the rapids; the time they let the air out of Mr. Nordhagen’s tires, using tiny pebbles to keep the valves open), and Matthew felt as if he’d removed a damp jacket that he’d been wearing for many years, its cold weight causing him to stoop. He stood and straightened his shoulders, laughing with Bobby and realizing, with no small relief, that his childhood hadn’t been a playground of dark images, after all. His brain had locked something away, that was for sure, but perhaps it was one insignificant thing. A single cluster of nightshade in a pasture of orchids.

  I don’t need to concentrate on lighting the darkness, Matthew thought. I need to concentrate on the light itself. This concept burst from his ribcage like a hundred small birds, colourful wings beating fast, swirling into the blue dome of sky. He wondered how Dr. Meeker would assay such enlightened intellection. He further wondered, reaching into the cooler for another soda, if he’d even find out. Perhaps his sessions with Dr. Meeker were a thing of the past. Like his marriage.

  One step at a time, he thought. Let’s see how you feel when you get back to the city. When you see Kirsty again and begin hunting for a ruthless-yet-affordable divorce attorney. When you’re signing endless legal paperwork by
day, and sleeping—alone—in a single bed by night.

  “Do you think you’ll ever move back here?” Bobby had asked as they packed away the fishing gear, shooting their empty soda cans into the empty creel.

  “Point Hollow?”

  “Sure,” Bobby said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Matthew frowned. Could he tell Bobby that he was enjoying himself, and finding himself, but that Point Hollow nonetheless gave off an eerie, Twin Peaks vibe? Would Bobby be insulted if he told him that he just didn’t trust the town, that being here felt a little like keeping a wild animal as a pet? Would Bobby understand if he told him that, for all its natural beauty, and all the memories, it simply wasn’t home anymore?

  Bobby’s eyes were big. Sad, almost.

  “Work,” Matthew said.

  “We have jobs in Point Hollow,” Bobby said. “It’s not New York City pay, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s stress-free, and you’ll live in a house, not a shoebox.”

  “I understand,” Matthew said, tossing the last soda can into the creel. “But I work for a huge company, and there’s potential for moving up the ladder.”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “I’m just not ready to do the Grizzly Adams thing,” Matthew said. “But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll visit two or a three times a year, but you have to come see me in the city, too. I’ll show you around. We’ll have fun.”

  Bobby smiled and patted his chest. “I’m not sure my ticker can handle the city.”

  “I’ll take you to a Mets game,” Matthew said.

  “It definitely can’t handle a Mets game,” Bobby said, but he grinned and they shook on it.

  Sunday afternoon had been spent at Bobby’s house, being pampered by Mrs. Alexander while watching said Mets take on the Diamondbacks. Following a fine steak dinner (Bobby allowed to indulge—the rabbit-food diet put on hold for one night only), they walked to the Rack and shot a few games of pool. Matthew stiffened as soon as he walked through the door; Sheriff Tansy—the friggin’ Deer Hunter himself—was sitting at the bar with his chums, dressed in his redneck civvies, but still managing to look self-important.

  “Looky, fellers,” he said, slapping one of his pals on the back. “It’s Matthew Bridge, founder of Friday’s feast.”

  Matthew nodded and forced a smile. “Good to see you, Sheriff. And thanks again for helping me out on Friday.”

  “That whitetail was hellish tasty, boy,” he said, and licked his lips. His buddies guffawed and nodded in agreement. “Nicely tenderized, thanks to that Jap piece of shit you were driving.”

  The smile trembled on Matthew’s face. “Well, I appreciate your help.” Which was another way of saying, Okay, Sheriff, you and your backwater buddies have had your fun, so how about you show a little professionalism and drop it now?

  “I thought you were going to piss your tighty-whities,” the sheriff said.

  “Or number two,” one of his cohorts cracked.

  “Number two,” another one echoed, and they all laughed.

  Matthew turned away from them. He looked at Bobby and the expression in his eyes said everything: You see why I don’t want to move back here? Bobby squeezed his shoulder and asked if he still wanted to shoot pool, or maybe head back and watch the night game on ESPN. “Mom will bake cookies,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Matthew said. “Your mom’s been in the kitchen all day. Give her the night off and we’ll shoot a few frames. Rack ’em up, big guy.”

  Bobby did. Matthew took the first shot and potted off the break.

  “He can shoot pool,” Sheriff Tansy announced to the bar. “But he can’t shoot deer.”

  They all howled at that one. Matthew smiled and raised his hand. Two and a half miles away, Oliver Wray emerged, cold and hardened, from the spring that he and Matthew had crossed as children. His head was clear. It chimed like a bell. He stood among the trees—in his mind he became a tree—as Matthew and Bobby played pool and Sheriff Tansy fired over the occasional bullying quip.

  On Monday—hotter than Sunday, but not the scorcher it would be Tuesday—Bobby took Matthew to a place he said would help him feel better. “I think I’m the only person who knows about it,” he said, leading Matthew off the trails and through the woods (Matthew wasn’t entirely comfortable veering from the trails, but said nothing). Bobby stepped softly and pressed a finger to his lips as they approached the edge of a clearing, and peering through the branches they saw a gathering of whitetail. At least a dozen adults—the bucks adorned with splendid antlers—and twice as many fawns. They stepped among the goldenrod and hollyhocks, chewing the leaves and flicking their ears. The fawns trailed their mothers, big-eyed, their spotted coats looking almost wet in the sunlight. Matthew grinned, shallow breaths trapped high in his chest. Thank you, he mouthed to Bobby, who nodded and tried to shuffle a little closer, but stepped on a dry twig that broke the silence. The deer sprang from the clearing in shimmering bounds, tails flashing, gone in seconds, which in itself was marvelous to behold. “I thought you needed to see that,” Bobby said, his face pink and sincere, his eyes shining. “Sort of an antidote to what you went through with the sheriff.” And Matthew threw his arms around Bobby and hugged him tight. Too tight, perhaps, because Bobby wheezed and laughed a little bit, and a small tear trickled from the corner of his left eye.

  “You know something?” Bobby said later in the day. They were sitting on the porch drinking Mrs. Alexander’s lemonade, watching the sun turn the western peaks into copper. The air was scented with wild honeysuckle. Bumblebees purred on petals. Children’s laughter tinkled from down the street, sounding divine.

  “Tell me,” Matthew said.

  “While I was in hospital with my ribcage wired shut and my chest stitched together, I came to realize that I don’t have any friends. It was the most frightening time of my life, yet the only person who visited me was my mother. That’s sad, huh?”

  Matthew nodded. He reached over and squeezed Bobby’s arm.

  “I’ve lived here all my life, and I know lots of people,” Bobby continued. “The whole town, in fact. But friends? Not really. Nobody I can call and ask if they want to shoot some eight-ball or go fishing. Nobody who’ll visit me after I’ve just had major surgery. And that’s what friends do, right? They’re there for each other.”

  Matthew nodded again. He sympathized because he felt the same way. Colleagues and associates, but no friends.

  Only Bobby.

  “I’m your friend,” he said, and that made Bobby smile. He winked at him, squeezed his arm a little harder. “Next time you’re in hospital, I’ll visit you. Promise.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Bobby said. “Anyway, you’ll probably forget about me when you get back to New York.”

  “No, I won’t,” Matthew said, and he meant it. He looked Bobby in the eye and said it again. “I won’t.”

  They sat on the porch for another three hours. They talked about Dexter and superhero movies and whether or not Manimal was a better TV show than Automan. When the sickle moon drifted above the treetops, Matthew gave Bobby a hug and said goodnight. Bobby stayed on the porch a little longer, watching the moths go crazy around the streetlamps, listening to the crickets sing.

  He slept that night curled on his side, like always, but smiling as he dreamed.

  ———

  Tuesday. The hottest day of the year so far. Matthew stayed in the cool hotel lobby and surfed the ’net, perusing potential divorce attorneys in the five boroughs. Oliver ran naked in the wild, his body painted with earth pigments, crow feathers in his hair. Bobby was at work at the post office, giving the smile he’d carried from his dreams to everyone who walked in.

  ———

  “Good morning, Mrs. Anderson. Hot one today.”

  “It’s the afternoon,” Mrs. Anderson corre
cted him, mopping sweat from her wrinkled brow. “As in after twelve P.M. And it’s not good, either. I’m as cranky as a kicked ass. Goddamn heat.”

  Bobby’s smile became a grin as he watched Mrs. Anderson shuffle to her mailbox, dragging Dickens, her old bulldog, along behind her. Bobby took a Beggin’ Strip from a stash he kept in his bottom drawer, came out from behind the counter, and gave it to Dickens.

  “It’s bacon!” Bobby said, and at this point Mrs. Anderson usually grinned and said, Dogs don’t know it’s not bacon, just like the commercial, but she only mumbled something under her breath and grabbed her mail. Dickens shared her suffering; he sniffed almost disdainfully at the treat, too hot to even open his mouth, and then collapsed on his side, tongue lolling.

  “Okay,” Bobby said, retrieving the Beggin’ Strip. “Looks like I’ll have to give this to Mr. Green’s Labradoodle. You had your chance.”

  Dickens gave him a look to suggest he really couldn’t care less. His owner, meanwhile, shuffled through her mail, then handed Bobby a card and grumbled, “Parcel.”

  Bobby smiled and flicked the card. “Be right back,” he said.

  Mrs. Anderson nodded drowsily and edged closer to the A/C.

  Amid the incoming boxes and packages behind the counter (but out of the customers’ sightline, so they couldn’t see what a disorganized shitpile it was), Bobby found Mrs. Anderson’s parcel, and noticed something else: three uncollected parcels addressed to Oliver Wray. Bobby frowned. Oliver was usually dead-on when it came to collecting his mail—had a lot of it, too, being a big-time businessman. They’d been delivered yesterday, while Bobby was playing hooky. He must be on one of his business trips, Bobby thought. He went out front and gave Mrs. Anderson her package. She thanked him and left, with Dickens slumping behind her, making a sound like a squeeze toy. Bobby used his master key to open Oliver’s PO Box. It was full of mail. Two thick bundles. One for yesterday. One for today.