by Brian Keene
That was our life.
We changed. Got older. So did the town. The people who do the census say that Johnstown is the least likely city in the country to attract newcomers. The manufacturing jobs are gone and the service opportunities shit. We’ve tried to adapt. Tried to rebuild one more time. The University of Pittsburgh opened a campus here, and the city government added a whole bunch of fine arts attractions, but nobody goes to them because all art does is remind us all of our failed dreams. The abandoned coal mines left behind brown, barren fields. Our houses are turning into slums. Kids deal drugs, rather than growing up to follow in their father’s footsteps. Johnstown is just as depressed and hopeless as ever before.
The only thing that’s changed is the weather. It doesn’t rain anymore, and there hasn’t been a flood in years. They say it’s because of global warming, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s because the rain’s still falling—but only on Cindy and me. Everything else is dry, but all that we are is being slowly washed away.
A few months ago, the steel mill closed. Cindy still had her job at the grocery store, but it was only part time, and didn’t pay all of the bills. I’m collecting unemployment. I drink more these days, even though we can’t afford it.
• • •
She came home one night and I was sitting in the recliner, drunk. She stood in front of the TV until I looked at her.
“We don’t talk anymore. I miss talking to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Guess I just don’t have much to say, lately. I’ll try to do better.”
I craned my neck, trying to see around her. The Pirates were up and it was the last inning.
“Is that all you can say?” Cindy put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“You could show some emotion. You could speak in something other than that dejected monotone. You could try walking tall again, instead of with that beaten look. Remember Young Guns II? Remember the scars?”
For a second, I didn’t, but then it came back to me.
“You’ve let those scars control you,” she said. “You’re not searching anymore. You’re not happy.”
“Of course I’m not happy.”
“Then tell me about it,” she yelled. “Talk to me! Tell me what you’re feeling and thinking. Get mad at me. Shout at me, if you have to.”
“I don’t want to get mad at you.” And I didn’t. In all our years together, we’d never had a serious fight. Oh sure, we bickered sometimes about money and things, but we’d always made up before going to bed.
Except for that night.
She kept on, and when she didn’t get the reaction from me that she desired, Cindy got in my face. We both said things I’d never thought I’d hear us say. I got mad. I lashed out. I still don’t know if I meant to hit her or if I just wanted her to stop, but I guess it doesn’t matter very much. I apologized, of course. But once it happened, I couldn’t take it back.
• • •
Cindy and I don’t talk much anymore, which is funny, since our fight was about not talking. At night, we still watch TV together, but we sit apart. We go to sleep at night and I lie there in the darkness, wondering if she’s awake. Wondering if she’s wondering the same thing about me. I think a lot about the dreams we had when we were young. I promised her back then that we’d be happy. I promised her our dreams would come true. But they didn’t. We never talk about it. We never talk about anything.
Not even the storm the radio says is coming, which they say will be a big one.
I sometimes wonder if she blames me for everything that’s happened. If she thinks it’s my fault. Were those dreams just stupid, teenage fantasies? They seemed so real at the time. They still do. But they never survived in this town, just like all the other dreams that crashed and burned.
Cindy was right about something else, too.
I’m not happy anymore.
And neither was she. She told me so, right before...
But at least she’s at peace, now, lying in the back seat, wrapped up in the afghan her grandmother made for her when she was a little girl. She loved that blanket. Seemed only right I should use it.
I wish that I could just drive us both into the water and sink beneath the surface, but the water level is down because of the drought. There’s more mud than water in that riverbed.
But the storm is here.
So now I’m waiting. The thunder and lightning are keeping time as I play one last sad song on my harmonica. The weatherman says it’s gonna flood, soon. First time in years.
Pretty soon, the river is going to flow again.
You were right, Grandma.
Cindy and I, and everything that we were, and all that we became, will be washed away.
STORY NOTE: In 2008, I was asked to contribute to an anthology of stories based on the songs of Bruce Springsteen. I wrote a story based around “The River”, “Spare Parts”, and “Johnstown”. Sadly, I ultimately wasn’t comfortable with some of the anthology’s contractual terms, so I elected not to participate. I made some modifications to the story, and published it elsewhere as the tale you just read.
Bruce Springsteen’s music is synonymous with New Jersey, but what a lot of people forget is that many of his songs take place in Pennsylvania. As a native Pennsylvanian, that always appealed to me. I knew the towns and the people in those songs. They were friends of mine, or ex-girlfriends, or bosses. And in a few cases, they were me. Bruce Springsteen’s tales of blue collar pathos and small town existentialism resonated with me because he was signing about my life—those images, thoughts, and emotions were ones I was intimately familiar with.
The best American storytellers have a real dark streak running through their work. This is true of the music of Johnny Cash, John Prine, and Eminem, and it is true of Bruce Springsteen, as well. (I’d add Neil Young and Nick Cave to that list, but they’re not American). As someone who makes his living from writing dark stories, I dig that dark musical streak. Perhaps it’s no surprise then that two of my favorite Springsteen songs, “The River” and “Spare Parts” are also two of his darkest. Which is why I drew on them both for this story. I’ve lived this tale, or know people who did. This isn’t fiction. It’s life.
WAITING FOR DARKNESS
Trying not to cry, Artie waited.
His older sister, Betty, had buried him up to his head in the sand. He’d been reluctant, but Artie feared her disapproval more than being buried. Betty liked to tease him sometimes.
The sand had been warm, at first. Now it was cold. His skin felt hot. His lips were cracked. Blistered. His throat was sore. When he tried to call for help, all that came out was a weak, sputtering sigh. Not that anyone would come, even if he could shout. It was the off season, and the private beach had been deserted all day. Just him and Betty.
And the men.
They’d appeared while Artie pleaded with Betty to free him. Their shadows were long. Betty’s laughter died. The men didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just walked right up and punched Betty in the face. Again and again, until she bled.
Then they carried her away.
Artie licked the film of snot coating his upper lip. Gnats flitted around his face. A small crab scuttled near his ear, waving its claws in agitation.
The sun disappeared beneath the ocean. The waves grew black. Dark.
Artie watched that darkness creep closer.
It was very loud.
STORY NOTE: Rich Chizmar at Cemetery Dance asked me to write a story short enough to fit on a t-shirt. This was it, and it was indeed printed on a line of t-shirts. I was re-reading a lot of Richard Laymon at the time, and I think his influence is very apparent in this tale.
DUST
Two months later...
• • •
She still jumped every time she heard an airplane.
The sound never left her. In her sleep, at lunch, in the shower, watching TV—Laura relived it over and over again.
&
nbsp; Emerging from the subway into the warm September day. Thunder crackles overhead; a stuttering, staccato sound. White noise. The thunder is loud (so loud—everything in the city is loud but this drowns it all out) and she stares upward in startled amazement (but not fear—not yet). The thunder is a plane, roaring toward the towers. Then the sky is falling and there is fire and now comes the fear because that is where Dallas is working.
The panic and chaos that ensued after the second plane were distant events; detached from reality. Only that first sound, the sound of the plane overhead, was real.
She’d been on her way home from the night shift. On a normal day, Dallas would have just been getting up. Laura would have arrived at the twelfth floor apartment they shared, and she’d tell him all about her night while he shaved and dressed for work. They’d discuss their plans for the weekend, when neither had to work. They did this every day. On a normal day.
But none of these things happened because Dallas left her a voice mail on her cell phone. He was going in early, anticipating a telecom rally when the market opened. Grubman said it was going to be big, and you could trust Grubman. Grubman knew his shit.
Dallas went to work early. He crossed the street. Bought a cup of coffee and the Post. Got on the elevator and scanned the headlines on the way up. Adjusted his tie. Walked into the office. Sat at his desk.
And never came home.
Neither had Laura; not since it happened. She never arrived home because of the sound, that terrible jet engine sound. The bottom fell out of her world that day and the center did not hold, did not pass go, did not collect two hundred dollars.
She’d spent the first few nights with some friends in Brooklyn, before moving to her sister’s house in Jersey. She couldn’t go home, they told her. The area was unsafe. They had to determine if the structure was sound.
Dallas had no funeral because there was nothing to bury. She waited. Eventually, she returned to work. She waited.
Then she waited some more.
Finally, the call came. They told her she could go back to get her valuables. There was still a lot of work to be done; windows to be replaced, apartments to be cleaned. Cosmetic work, the lady on the phone had said. But she could collect her things at least, and hopefully move back in within a month.
Now here she was, back at the place where they’d lived—a place she no longer recognized. Her neighborhood was a monument to sorrow. Its geography was forever altered.
The first thing she noticed (after the wreckage) was the birds. Like any other place, the concrete and steel canyons of the city had their own form of wildlife. Squirrels and rats. Dogs and cats. Flies and pigeons. These were common.
But turkey buzzards were something new.
Laura watched one soar overhead; its black, mottled wings outstretched to catch the breeze. The bird reminded her of the plane. Her breath caught in her throat. The frigid November air encircled her, and she was afraid. The shopping bag in her hands grew heavy, and its contents sloshed around inside.
The buzzard joined the other scavenger birds, circling the devastation from above. She wondered if it was the smell that attracted them, or some deeper instinct. Perhaps they waited on the promise of more to come?
She edged her way around the site, shifting the weight of the bulky, misshapen shopping bag from arm to arm. Workers called to each other from across the rubble. Heavy machinery roared to the accompaniment of jackhammers and the white-hot hiss of acetylene torches. Somewhere beyond it all, where the city still lived, came the echoes of traffic; the comforting, familiar chaos of horns and sirens. The sounds were muted, though. The mood here in the dead zone was palpable, and for a moment, Laura was convinced that the circling buzzards didn’t ride the wind currents, but instead, floated aloft on the waves of despair rising from the wreckage.
She continued on to her building, and found something worse than the carnage. Something worse than the circling scavengers or the noisy silence or the twisted girders or the smell coming from the ruins.
Dust. The sidewalks and the building itself were caked with dust. Her feet left tracks in it as she slowly climbed the steps. It coated her palm when she pulled the door open. The haggard security guard in the lobby was covered in it. Dust floated around him like a halo as he solemnly studied her letter of permission. He had her sign a dusty piece of paper on a dusty clipboard.
It’s the towers, she thought, and everything that was inside them. It’s dead people.
She felt a moment of panic as the doors closed behind her and the elevator lurched upward. She set the bag down on the floor, grateful for a moment’s respite. The soft whir of the motor and the cables sounded like the plane.
The dust was even here, inside the elevator. She brushed at the control panel with her fingertips and they came away white and powdery.
Dead people.
With each step, I’m breathing in dead people. I’m breathing in Dallas.
The elevator halted, and Laura froze for a moment, unable to go on. The bell rang impatiently, and she picked up the bag, grunting with the effort. She took one faltering step forward, then another. The doors hissed shut behind her.
The dust was much worse here on her floor. The hallway was covered in it, and the beautiful red carpet was now buried beneath gray ash. It clung to the paintings on the wall and coated the mirrors.
The hallway was quiet. Laura started forward. She heard a hoarse coughing echoing from behind her neighbor’s door. Laura stopped and listened. The coughing came again, harsh and ragged, followed by the sounds of movement.
Timidly, she knocked. There was a moment’s pause and then the door opened.
“Laura! Oh darling, it’s so good to see you.” An elderly German lady waddled out and squeezed Laura tight.
“Hello, Doris,” Laura sat the bag down and hugged her back. “I’d been worried about you. How’s Jack?”
“He’s still in the hospital. Cranky as ever. They’re doing another skin graft tomorrow. And his mind... It’s... How are you, dear?”
“I’m—” and then she couldn’t finish because the lump in her throat made speech impossible. Then the tears came, carving tracks through the dust on her face.
Doris held her tight and cooed softly in her ear, swaying them back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” Laura finally apologized, wiping her eyes. “I miss Dallas. It’s just too much.”
“I know, dear. I know. Do you want me to go in with you?”
Laura shook her head. “No. Thank you Doris, but I think I need to do this by myself. You understand?”
“Of course, Laura. You go on and do what need’s doing. I’ll be here for awhile. I’m just sorting through the mess. The windows inside our apartment are broken, and this damned dust is everywhere! They were supposed to put plywood up until they got them repaired, but they haven’t yet. Too many other things going on, I guess.”
Doris coughed again.
Laura squeezed her hand tightly, and then picked her bag up and moved on.
She came to her apartment door and paused. Something was moving on the other side. She put her ear to the door and she heard it again; a light, rustling sound.
Dallas? Was he alive all this time, and waiting for her? Maybe he had amnesia, like in a movie, and this was the only place he remembered.
She put her key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. The breeze smacked her face. Something fluttered in the shadows. Laura fumbled in the darkness, found the switch, and flicked it, flooding the apartment with light.
A pigeon cooed at her from the windowsill, annoyed at the disturbance. Then it flew away through the broken window. It hadn’t been Dallas. It was just a bird. Laura felt foolish and sad and angry. It hadn’t been Dallas because Dallas was gone. He’d left for work early because Grubman had said there would be a telecom rally and now he was dead and Grubman was dead and everybody else was dead, too. Dallas was gone and there wasn’t even anything to bury because he was dust. Just dust in the wind, li
ke the song.
The apartment was buried beneath it. Piles and drifts of gray ash covered the furniture and the floor, and dust motes floated in the rays of the dim bulb in the ceiling. It swirled in and out of the broken windows, and out the open door behind her into the hallway.
She shut the door and sat her bag down next to the coat rack. The can inside the bag clanked against the tile, and the liquid sloshed again.
Dallas stared back at her from the wall, frozen in time behind the glass frame. Their trip to Alcatraz, when they’d visited Gene and Kay in San Francisco last year. Dallas was laughing at the camera with that smile. It was his smile that she’d fallen in love with first.
In the kitchen, something caught her attention. A yellow post-it note, stuck to the dirty fridge, with her name scrawled on it in his handwriting.
Laura,
I had to go in early. Grubman was on CNBC this morning, and he’s saying that Worldcom and Quest will bounce back today. Tried calling your cell but I got your voice mail. My turn to cook dinner tonight. How’s fish sound? Hope you had a good night at work! Love ya!
Dallas
Laura sobbed. She reached out to touch the note, and her fingers came away gritty. It, too, was covered in dust.
“I miss you baby. I miss you so bad.”
The wind howled through the broken glass, kicking up mini-dust clouds all throughout the apartment. The dust swirled toward her, encircling her ankles. Laura turned, and for just a moment, she heard his voice in the wind. The dust hung suspended before her, twirling in mid-air, and she saw his face within the cloud. Dallas smiled at her, and even though it was gray and powdery, it was still his smile. The one she had fallen in love with. More of the cloud took shape now; shoulders, arms, his chest. Each muscle was chiseled perfectly from the dust.
