But I could see the signs then. No longer able to drive, arthritis, failing eyesight and hearing, advancing stages of senility…the list continued to grow as each month passed.
As did my own depression and anxiety. I remember someone once said that there is nothing sadder, nothing more heartbreaking, than watching your hero die.
They were right.
It was during that time I decided I couldn’t let that happen.
8
The snow was falling harder now. The narrow streets were covered, neighborhood yards of dead grass just beginning to glisten a beautiful white.
I was standing by the rental car, nervously running my bare hand over the cold metal. The two of them stood huddled together on the porch, Crawford’s cigarette aglow. The man had emerged from the house several minutes ago, but the detective had insisted on talking to him first. Alone. I’d trusted him this far, so I’d agreed.
Five minutes later, twenty minutes before midnight, they finished talking and walked to the driveway.
Crawford pulled me aside and said, “Your dad was sleeping like a baby. Just as we planned. There was no pain, no surprise.”
I closed my eyes, nodded my head. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” the detective said, reaching for my hand. “And I mean that. Now, don’t worry about anything. I’m going to get our friend back to the airport and back on that plane. You get inside.” He waved at me from the car. “I’ll be in touch.”
Before he joined Crawford, the man laid a hand on each of my shoulders, touched a single gloved finger to my face. “Immortality is a rare and wonderful thing, Mr. Wallace. But it is not without its failings. It will not always be easy. Cherish this gift, protect it, as I know you will, and you and your father will be truly rewarded.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I opened my mouth to thank him, but the words did not come.
He held a finger to my lips. “Say nothing. I must go.” I watched the car back out of the driveway, pull away into the night, its brake lights fading to tiny red sparks in the falling snow. I looked at the second-floor window—my father’s bedroom—then at the front door. A snowflake drifted to my lips, and I opened my mouth, tasted it like I had done so many times before as a child. I looked skyward and caught another on my tongue. Then, I started across the lawn, his words still echoing in my head.
Immortality is a rare and wonderful thing.
God, I hoped so.
DITCH TREASURES
1
A two-hundred-year-old Bible.
A brand new pair of Air Jordan sneakers.
An iPhone in a leopard skin case.
A cigar box containing ashes.
An expensive fly fishing rod.
A framed velvet Elvis.
A George Foreman grill still in the box.
A rusty Sucrets tin filled with Buffalo nickels.
Three dead puppies in a burlap bag.
A wallet containing $269 in cash.
A loaded handgun.
A gold Rolex wristwatch, broken but still beautiful.
A ziplock baggie of marijuana.
A powder blue tuxedo balled up in a paper bag.
A battered suitcase full of wind-up monkeys.
A laptop computer with a smiley face sticker.
2
These are just a handful of the more unique items I have found strewn along the grassy shoulder and median strip of I-95 in northern Maryland. For reasons I can’t figure out, womens’ shoes and compact discs are the most common. I once thought I had found a dead body lying there in the weeds, but it was dusk and the light was bad, and it turned out to be nothing more than a mannequin—incredibly lifelike, nude, with BEAT PENN STATE written across the torso in black magic marker. Some people sure are weird.
3
My name is Jake Renner, but most everyone calls me Rhino on account of a fight I once got in with a big Mexican. I lowered my head and charged and actually managed to knock the huge bastard off his feet. He still kicked my ass without breaking much of a sweat, but I got his shirt a little dirty, and got a nickname and a little respect out of the deal.
I’m 34 years old and have worked the I-95 grass-cutting crew for going on six years now. Despite the Maryland summer heat and humidity, it’s a pretty good gig; we work eight months out of the year and make seventeen dollars an hour. Plus benefits. For a guy with no college, it beats laying asphalt or working construction, that’s for sure.
The job is simple, but that’s not to say easy. It mainly consists of pushing or riding a mower or working one of those big industrial weed-whackers. The whackers are heavy suckers and can do serious damage in careless hands. That’s the first thing we learn around here; those things aren’t toys.
The boss only cares about two things: the grass gets cut and the grass gets cut safely. If your crew does those two things, the boss man pretty much leaves you alone.
There are six of us on my crew. Me, three wiry Mexicans we call Huey, Dewey and Louie after the cartoon ducks, a barrel-chested redneck who goes by Tex and doesn’t talk all that much, and the only black guy I’ve ever known named Kyle. Kyle talks enough for all of us. The guy never shuts up, but it’s okay; he usually makes us laugh and helps the time pass quicker.
Some days out on the road are a cakewalk. We cut grass and crack jokes and sip lemonade spiked with vodka. Traffic is light and the breeze is cool. Other days are nothing but sunburns and thrown pennies and shouted cuss words from passing cars and nasty surprises run over and shredded by our mower blades. Trust me when I say you have never smelled anything quite as ripe as a loaded diaper—a shit sandwich, we call them—or a rotting, maggot-infested groundhog chewed up and spit out in 90 degree heat. Get some of that juice on your jeans and it’ll take three or four washes to erase the stink.
But mostly it’s boredom we fight on a daily basis. Cutting grass ain’t brain surgery—and I-95 is one long-ass road.
4
We call them ditch treasures.
The name came about from a lunch conversation we had one sweltering July afternoon last summer in the shade of a busy underpass.
Between big, sloppy bites of roast beef sandwich, Kyle (of course) expressed his sincere dismay that so few kids today would ever experience the wonder and joy of the rain-soaked and swollen girlie magazine (traditionally fished out of dumpsters or trash cans or ditches, but sometimes—on rare, lucky occasions—found right out in the open).
We all understood where Kyle was coming from and shared in his pain. When I was a kid, every fort and tree house we ever built was stocked with a couple of these puffy, pages-stuck-together treasures. We surely wouldn’t have thrown a copy of Playboy outta the old treehouse, but we all agreed the nastier the mags the better. Gems like Swank and Penthouse and Oui were especially coveted.
But, nowadays, with all the easily-accessed online porn, these ditch treasures—I’ll proudly take credit for that little phrase—had all but become an endangered species. Hell, we didn’t even see that many tree houses around anymore.
We all agreed it was a damn shame.
5
The rules were simple: finders keepers.
Any ditch treasures you found, you kept. If you were working by yourself when you stumbled upon it, the treasure was all yours. If you were working with a partner or partners, you split the goodies in equal shares.
Some guys tried to hide their finds if they were working with a partner—if the item was small enough, a stealthy kick of a work boot usually did the trick—so they could sneak back later and pretend to find it when they were alone.
But our crew wasn’t like that.
We were all grateful to have the job and liked each others’ company. Even Huey, Dewey and Louie. We couldn’t understand a damn thing they were saying most days, but that was all right; they worked hard and usually did it with smiles on their faces.
The six of us rooted each other on and were genuinely happy when
someone found something tasty.
Kyle’s all-time favorite find was a shoebox full of baseball cards. Rare baseball cards.
Tex’s was a saddle. A big, leather, scuffed up horse saddle.
Before today, I would have said my favorite ditch treasure was the Rolex—I mean, how else is a guy like me ever gonna hold a genuine Rolex watch?—or maybe the Buffalo Head nickels that reminded me so much of my father.
But all that changed this morning…
6
Before I get to that, I need to tell you about the ponds.
Although, in reality, very few of them are actually ponds; I think the technical term is run-off collection basin. You’ve probably seen them yourselves if you’ve ever driven the interstate. Narrow strips of muddy water sitting just off the shoulder, no more than twenty or thirty yards in length, varying in depth depending on recent rain totals. In mid-Summer, these basins often transform into dried out, sun-cracked depressions in the landscape, like footprints from a wandering giant.
But every once in awhile, you stumble across an actual real life pond. Complete with plant life and fish and frogs and snakes and even the occasional beaver dam. Our cutting territory on 95 held two such bodies of water, both located flush against exit ramps. The first pond was small and shallow and held little mystery for us. The fact that it was often used as a depository for recent roadkill and smelled pretty rank didn’t help matters.
But the second pond was something else entirely. Tucked further back from the road, it sat in the shade of a couple ancient weeping willow trees. The pond itself was bigger and deeper and dappled with lily pads. Water bugs and dragonflies skated across the water’s surface. The occasional fish jumped. Turtles sunned themselves on exposed logs and rocks. If it wasn’t for the constant hum of traffic, you could stretch out a blanket on the grassy bank and enjoy a picnic lunch and almost forget that thousands of cars were hurtling past you a mere thirty yards away.
Kyle was the fisherman of the group, so the pond was his baby. He would often sneak a fishing rod and tackle box into the work truck on days he knew we’d be cutting nearby. He’d cast a line out during his lunch break, and although on most days he usually only caught a handful of fat sunnies, he once pulled a four pound largemouth bass out of that pond. I still have the picture on my cell phone to prove it.
But Kyle was home sick today. A summer cold, his wife said. Fever and the shakes.
So, I was working alone this morning. Pushing a hand mower in a wide, lazy circle around that pretty little pond. Humming to myself and paying extra attention to the ground in front of me, being especially careful of the weeping willow’s thick roots.
7
I thought it was a baby doll at first.
Laying half in and half out of the water, face and legs obscured by mud and weeds.
I stopped and stared for a long moment—and my heart skipped a beat.
It looked so real.
I switched off the mower and started down the bank. As I did, my mind flashed back to the evening I found the mannequin, and any desire to call out to Tex, who was weed-whacking up on the shoulder, dried up and died in my throat. Better to take a look myself first; I was in no hurry to be the butt of their jokes again.
As I carefully worked my way down to the water, I noticed something distressing: there was a very clear path of broken and pushed-down grass leading to the pond…leading to the thing in the pond…as if it had somehow dragged itself there, looking for safety. Or water.
I stopped and picked up a broken tree branch. Eased a little closer. I leaned over and poked at the thing on the ground. Once. Twice. It was mushy to the touch, sponge like, and it didn’t move.
Holding my breath, I poked it a third time. Harder. Nothing.
I inched closer and used the tip of the stick to flick away the weeds and cattails—and got a much better look at it.
It wasn’t a baby doll.
It wasn’t a baby.
It wasn’t even human.
For a moment, I thought maybe it was some kind of animal. Hairless or even skinned. A species of animal I had never laid eyes on before.
But then I looked closer—at the long, narrow head; the three slanted eyes, wide open and cloudy, lined up vertically in the center of the creature’s sloping forehead; there was no nose centered below, only a trio of small puckered indentations that could have been nostrils; still lower, a lipless and toothless pink slit for a mouth, stretching grotesquely across the entire length of the thing’s lower jaw; no ears; not a wisp of hair; only pale, unlined ivory skin glistening and taut like a rubber wetsuit; and its arms, long, thin, boneless arms, ending in hands that didn’t belong to man or beast; the hand-like appendages featuring three slender fingers each, the fingers unmarked by nails or knuckles or blemishes of any kind; and then finally its legs, spindly and spider-like, almost translucent, at least six of them tangled underneath it and submerged in the pond, each leg tapering to tiny claw-like feet.
I stood there for a long time and stared and listened to the cicadas in the trees and my own heavy, quick breathing, my brain still fighting the reality of the situation, even as I put a name to the thing laying in the muddy weeds at my feet.
“It’s a fucking alien,” I whispered to myself.
A baby alien.
A dead baby alien.
I looked around and realized I had dropped the stick and backed away a short distance without even knowing it. I glanced at the stick on the ground, then back to the creature again. I glanced up the hill at Tex, still powering away with his weed whacker, then quickly back to the creature again.
Had it moved?
Had it gotten closer?
I took another step back, then shook my head. Don’t start seeing things now, jackass.
It hadn’t moved. It wasn’t breathing. It wasn’t alive.
And it definitely wasn’t human.
I looked up at Tex again and thought about what he would say. Knowing Tex, probably not a whole helluva lot.
Thought about Huey, Dewey and Louie…what would they say? Probably nothing I could understand.
I wished Kyle wasn’t home sick; he would know what to do.
And then I heard my own voice inside my head: finders keepers.
It belonged to me, and me alone.
It was my decision.
8
I sat down on the cool grass in the shade of one of the weeping willows, just staring up at the blue sky above the highway and thinking hard thoughts. Tex and his weed whacker had moved down the road a bit. I could still hear the distant whir of the whacker, but could no longer see him. I might as well have been a middle-class suburbanite stretched out on a hammock in his back yard, reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping iced tea and listening to a neighbor finish his yard work down the street.
Only I wasn’t a suburbanite, had never even been in a hammock before, hated iced tea, and had never laid eyes on a Wall Street Journal in my life.
I had a high school education (barely), cut grass eight months out of the year, moved snow the other four months, and lived with my pregnant girlfriend and our baby girl in a two-room apartment above a butcher’s shop on Tupelo Street. The shop smelled funny on hot summer days and wasn’t exactly located in the best part of town, but rent was cheap and the locks on the doors and windows worked.
I sat there and wondered how much the National Enquirer would pay for a story about a real life alien. A story and pictures. Hell, a story and pictures and the actual body of an alien. We sure could use the money.
Then, I wondered what my boss would say about all this. He was the cantankerous sort and very protective of his little grass-cutting kingdom. Like I said earlier, he mostly left us alone because the grass got cut and the grass got cut safely. What would he think if cops and federal agents (yes, I watch The X-Files; who doesn’t?) were swarming all over his territory? Searching for evidence. Interviewing his employees. Getting in the way of our grass cutting efficiency? It wasn’t a pretty t
hought.
And, finally, I couldn’t help but wonder about those cops and federal agents. Might they be especially interested in the guy who found the alien? Might they even look into that guy’s past and find some things that guy didn’t want anyone to find, especially that guy’s girlfriend and boss? These were troubling thoughts to ponder.
9
I pulled on my work gloves and followed the same winding path down to the water’s edge. I didn’t care about fingerprints; I just didn’t want to actually touch the thing.
I walked quickly, any caution from before gone. My mind was made up.
Across the pond, a fish jumped. A gust of wind rippled the surface of the water.
I arrived at the pond and bent down, then decided to take a knee. I reached out with one hand to grab the baby alien—and hesitated, my hand hovering inches away.
What the hell was I doing?
“The only thing I can do,” I answered before my mind could waver—and the words gave me courage.
I reached down and took hold of the alien’s torso and pulled—but it didn’t budge.
It was heavier than its small size indicated, and was stuck in the mud.
I reached down and seized it with both hands and…
…there was a sudden flash of blinding white light behind my eyes…and when my vision cleared I was no longer kneeling by a small pond alongside I-95 in Maryland, but was in a faraway place with a roiling, purplish sky overhead the color of old bruises, jagged lightning strikes etched along the far horizon, and in the foreground, a scattering of strange buildings that almost seemed to be alive and glistening in the flickering purple light, and emerging from these buildings, dozens of skittering creatures, larger versions of the baby alien at my feet, approaching and surrounding me, until a pair of them stand before me, beckoning with their strange hand-like appendages, moist eyes beseeching me, and I suddenly realize what they are and who they are searching for and…
A Long December Page 5
