House of Sighs

by Aaron Dries

  Seventy-Seven

  Reggie Frost climbed out of her well-loved recliner and decided to make herself useful. There were things that needed to be done and hate it though she did, if she didn’t do them, nothing ever got put in its rightful place.

  Like the Christmas cutouts, she told herself. Reggie had forgotten how many times she had asked for them to be taken down. She sighed. It was now November; almost time to put them back out again.

  She knew she was invisible, an extension of the furniture. I’m being worn away, eroded. Reggie daydreamed of meeting someone who made her feel young again. Someone who knew how to love her.

  It was simple: she was over being a mother and wife.

  When she thought about leaving, guilt wracked her body. Her life was interwoven too far into the fabric of the family to ever consider being apart from it.

  “You’re a silly, fat fool for thinking like that,” she told herself as she shuffled into the kitchen. She wore a loose-fitting one-piece dress covered in a faded flower-print. How long had it been since she bought new clothes, or anything for that matter? Too long.

  She poured herself a glass of cloudy water and tipped it down the drain. She went to the refrigerator, opened the door and looked inside, closed it and left the room.

  Upstairs, Wes was playing his records. She hated the music more than she hated his silence.

  Reggie entered the study, pulled bags full of tinsel and handmade decorations from the shelves. Thoughts turned to her daughter. It would be hard to leave her. She wished that Liz would just tell her to leave, that they could live together, but Liz never said anything. In whispers, Wes and Reggie had agreed that forcing their daughter out of home might not be the best thing for her. Her husband was a tough and often unfair man, but there was a loyalty in him that she still respected.

  At fifty-five Reggie felt the time had come for her to be alone again—with her husband at least. How else would she salvage their relationship?

  Every day she spent unhappy was a day closer to her dying unhappy. “Oh well.”

  Dust filled her nose. She sneezed and blessed herself. She found the box for the fairy lights—a corner eaten away by mice—and put it on the floor.

  Reggie had perfected denial. Ignorance was not bliss, but it was better than giving in to those around her. Her love for her children was clouded, as though felt through fog.

  Without having things spoon-fed to her, Liz floundered. And it was pathetic. It was no surprise for Reggie to hear that her daughter was going to be a bus driver. Routes and routine; it would be good for her. Even better, she had managed to hold on to the job. In her own quiet way, Reggie was proud of Liz—she just didn’t know how to express it.

  There was a small, gray mouse crouched in the corner of the room. Its fur was matted, its eyes dark and full of fear. Reggie picked up an old shoebox to sweep it into. Family photos fell out and landed on the carpet. She looked at the faces for a moment, and then stepped over them. Her giant shadow fell over the mouse.

  A cool wind blew through the house when she threw open the front door. Reggie hobbled across the veranda and sat on the steps, her legs spread wide, thighs threaded with varicose veins. She lowered the shoebox to the grass and upturned it. The mouse scurried away.

  Seventy-Six

  The crashing sounds of metal on metal were all consuming.

  Jack launched himself across the aisle and onto the seat behind Sarah. Julia and Diana were screaming. Sarah fell. Her hands shot into the air and grabbed at nothing. She landed on the floor, her legs kicking in the air like a beetle on its back, useless and worthy of discard. Sarah despised her moment of self-pity.

  The sound continued. The intense rattle and pound.

  Peter knew that at some point he had fallen asleep. Yes, the nightmare was vivid but it was a nightmare nonetheless. Things like this did not happen to people like him—it was that simple. He felt like his life had intertwined with fiction. His mind clutched at straws, he grew confused and his notebook fell out of his hand. It landed on the floor; a corner of it soaked up the blood. He couldn’t help it—he started to cry. Jagged vibrations bulleted through his body. His already busted lip cracked again, shooting fresh blood into his mouth.

  The bus continued to shake.

  To Michael it felt like they were driving into the sky. The strobe of sun through the passing trees had disappeared. He squinted against the blinding light, slammed his eyes shut and saw red.

  The noise. It was as though the driver had put it in his head. I hate you, he thought. I hate you as much as you hate me. He was afraid to look in the mirror just in case she was looking back.

  Liz was also shocked by the noise. Her hands flew in the air and landed hard against the wheel with a slap—

  —a hand against her face, then pain. A child needed to be disciplined. He pulled away, her father’s face full of sadness—

  Michael felt the bus jolt to the right, not much, but enough to throw him off balance and into the aisle. There was an endless second where he had no control. He watched, unbelieving, as his hands drew closer and closer to the floor, to the black ooze of blood and brain. He closed his eyes.

  Bang!

  His nose slammed against the floor, gore filled his eyes. He cried out and inhaled the mess into his mouth. From behind him he heard the driver yell. Her shrill voice cut through him. Michael started to crawl, his hands and knees slipping on the rubber flooring.

  The bus lurched again.

  Metal screeching, sparks fanned in the left-hand side windows. Endless thunder. It was too much for Sarah, who screamed.

  Michael crawled but did not move. He sometimes had dreams where some dark entity was chasing him down his street in Maitland, and he endured the pursuit in painful slow motion. In these dreams he grabbed on to fence posts, the doors of cars in the desperate hope of propelling himself along faster. He felt that same desperation now. The entity was getting closer.

  He looked along the long abattoir floor. The end of the bus was so far away. His blood-streaked hands grabbed on to the nearest handlebar, and he forced himself forward. His other arm landed on the dead man’s leg.

  Sarah reached out to him. “Come on!”

  Michael felt the vibrations of the bus through the corpse.

  Michael missed the old woman’s reach, fell forward and his hand sunk wrist-deep into the gaping hole of the dead man’s head. He pulled free of the mess with a sickening schlopping sound, stood and ran. Michael could feel the wet heat squishing between his fingers—it seemed to spread up his arm like quick-moving vines, strangling the life from his body. Within moments he was surrounded by the others and felt safe among them. It was then that he felt the first ebb of claustrophobia brushing up against him, the vines drawing tight.

  Jack went to the window and at first, saw nothing but his reflection looking back at him. He pushed through this image and beyond, saw sky and water. “What?”

  A spark of recognition. Things fell into place. The thunder they heard was the sound of the bus crossing Flagman’s Bridge. It linked the roads on either side of the Hunter River. The metal-on-metal sound was the bus grinding against the metal railing. It alone had stopped them from plummeting over a hundred feet into the dry riverbed.

  The thunder stopped. They had made it across the bridge.

  Jack turned to tell the others that they were at the far end of town, heading west. A thick shadow fell over the bus again like the giant wing of some threatening bird blocking out the sun. His eyes returned to the window. The bird had swallowed up the last of the blue sky.

  They re-entered the hollow of trees.

  Diana and Julia could hear the driver screaming at them to sit down. They did as they were told.

  A steady quiet descended upon them. It was as though they had been shaken into obedience. Michael’s blood-smeared face met the driver’s. She was looking straight into him through the mirror. She knew all his secrets.

  I see you, you fat little faggot…


  He bent over, pressed his flushed face against the artificial leather.

  Jack intercepted the driver’s look. She lowered her eyes and watched the road with newfound concentration. She was no longer a zombie. Jack watched her take the oversized hat from her head. It landed on the floor. Jack put his head against the window, relishing the cool.

  Going over the bridge had snapped Liz from her fugue just as the death of the little girl had before. This brought a small glimmer of hope to the others.

  If she went under twice, she may do so again.

  Jack understood there could be no more whispering. The bus was an extension of her arm and they were in its grip. She could kill them all if she wanted to, though he doubted that was her intent. She was on her own, running scared. Those who had died so far met their fate because they got in the way.

  Jack bit his tongue; the old woman was right. They had to wait it out, no matter how much it would frustrate him to do so. They were not hostages after all but still passengers. The thought offered little relief.

  Somewhere between screech and murmur, the voice broke the silence.

  “Hey come in, Lizzie, come in.”

  The sheet of silence fell over them again.

  Jack punched at the seat in front of him. “Holy shit,” he said, disbelieving.

  At no point had they considered the two-way radio.

  Seventy-Five: Radio

  “Report back, two-four.”

  Liz looked down at the radio to her right. The handset sat on its hook, its DC cable swung in an arc, ticking against the dash.

  Static crunched at her. “You there, Liz?”

  The voice on the radio belonged to Bridget Sargent. Bridget was overweight and loving, her messy hair held together with old bands and pencils. She greeted Liz every morning by tapping her garish, painted fingernails against the window of her cubicle. Bridget was their lead fleet correspondent. She alerted employees to changed traffic conditions and radioed drivers concerning route punctuality. Liz knew this was why Bridget was calling. The reason was obvious: a commuter had grown tired of waiting for the bus to arrive and called the transit hotline to file a complaint. It was Bridget’s duty to find out the reason for the delay.

  Liz imagined her co-worker’s plump face washed in the switchboard lights, could hear the fingernails drumming against the desk. Brow furrowed, the first twinge of concern.

  The bus carved through the humidity; nobody dared move. They waited.

  A wasp slammed against the windshield and splattered.

  White noise, click and Bridget’s voice came again, firmer now: “Come in, two-four.”

  Liz felt the passengers staring at her. She looked up at the mirror above her head and saw their red eyes blinking in the shifting shadows.

  When she reached for the microphone, it rattled in its bracket like something alive and anxious. At any moment she expected it to jump into the palm of her hand.

  Sarah watched the driver’s head dodge from the road to the radio and back again. If she picks it up and talks into it—should we yell for help? Will they hear? Will she turn around and go for the gun? Do we charge? Is this the perfect distraction? Will we crash? Will we burn alive in an explosion as the bus wraps itself around the trees? Sarah wished Bill were here—he would know what to do.

  Half-finished sentences and empty excuses flashed through Liz’s mind. Another bug detonated in her line of sight; a bloodied star.

  Bridget’s voice crackled through the radio for the final time.

  Liz snatched the microphone and yanked it towards her. The coiled DC cord pulled taut and tore from the radio unit. It snapped, flung upwards and slashed across her cheek. She fought for control of the wheel and threw the microphone out the window. It shattered against the tarmac.

  Sarah felt her heart empty out.

  The wheels crunched over gravel. The noise was a lullaby to Liz after all the chaos. Blood trickled down her cheek from where the cord had whipped her but she felt no pain. It was lost to adrenalin, to the remaining angel dust. She felt sad. In her time with the company, Bridget had never been anything but kind. Liz wondered if her co-worker would cry if she learned that Liz was dead, had shot herself in the privacy of her bedroom. No note or explanation, just a bang. Would it have been Bridget who cleaned out her locker, tied together her final pay stubs and sent them home to her mother?

  Liz knew she wanted to live. Her life had to change. It had changed now. Now she had friends, an entire busload of them. They would grow to see her in all the ways her family had forgotten.

  The two young men were the sons she never had. She couldn’t wait to fill their lives with happiness and loving. They would never feel alone.

  The oldest: her new mother. There was so much for Liz to learn from her.

  The two girls: friends to gossip with and share stories.

  Liz imagined the goatee of the man tickling against her nose as she nuzzled close to him. He loved her and told her everything that was bad was behind them both. Nobody died. There was no blood. No carnage. Just forgiveness and a future worth living for.

  The thought was broken by the twinkle on the horizon.

  An oncoming car.

  Seventy-Four

  As Wes Frost sifted feed among the chickens, arthritis throbbed in his hands. The birds looked up at him between their frantic pecking with absent, dispassionate eyes.

  Food, said the eyes.

  He rounded up their eggs, placed them in a basket and took them inside. He returned with a butcher’s knife.

  The Rottweiler growled and barked at the end of its chain, furthered its arc in the dirt as it ran back and forth. Wes set his eye on one of the fatter hens and upended her. A single brown feather lodged under the collar of his shirt. He stretched her neck against the cinderblock and envied the bird for its simple thoughts, its lack of fear. He severed the head, set it to run blind and watched it fall. Wes spent his morning plucking the bird.

  He cleaned his hands in the upstairs bathroom, listened to the record playing down the hall. Wes looked at himself in the mirror, drew the feather from his collar and set it beside his razor.

  Downstairs, his wife rifled through the study and prepared to take the Christmas decorations down.

  He shaved and wiped the mirror clean.

  In his bedroom from under the bed, he took out a footlocker, opened it and took out a worn copy of Hustler. The women looked up at him with fake smiles.

  Getting old there, babe.

  Struggling to get it up? It’s okay, we’re here to help you.

  Come on, big boy, work it for me.

  He loved the ladies. He hated the ladies. They spread their legs for him but never let him in. He missed the touch of others. Wes and Reggie had not made love in two and a half years and even then, they had been short-lived interludes. On the page a woman who looked like Reggie twenty years ago looked up at him. Her upturned nose and freckled cheeks were framed by burnt honey. Wes smiled. His fingertip traced the line of her torso.

  “I miss that,” he said, speaking as much of his youth as her flesh.

  I miss you too.

  Wes stroked himself hard, closed his eyes. He saw himself at twenty in the rain, a black umbrella in his hand. The woman, pretty in her own quiet way, ahead of him with the bags of groceries, water in her eyes. He ran, introduced himself and opened his umbrella. Her name was Reggie and a year and a half later they were married.

  Wes spilled himself into a rolled-up piece of toilet paper. He opened his eyes and looked at the woman on the page.

  Her left eye was welted black. Blood poured from her nose and ran down her breasts in a threaded, ruby necklace.

  That’s the last time you ever lay a hand on me, Reggie said.

  She had spoken the truth.

  Outside Dog barked, the chickens clucked and somewhere his daughter shot a man she didn’t know in the face. He died as Wes came.

  Weakened, he closed the magazine, put away the mess. The footlocker re
turned to its place under the bed, slipped into the heavy indentation in the carpet. Wes showered and washed his false teeth. He had lost his own to sugar and a brawl five years prior. He flexed his muscles to remind himself those at least were still there.

  Dried and dressed he went to the window and threw it open. The sun sucked the moisture from his skin and spat it back at his face as humidity. He knew the day would end in thunder and lightning.

  Dog continued to bark. The Rottweiler knew only hunger and obedience. He admired the animal for its simplicity, its loyalty.

  Seventy-Three

  They continued down the road. The wheels skidded over loose rocks. It was not a well-traveled stretch and grew more dangerous with every turn. The speed of the bus did not slow. They were well into the valley now. Inside, nobody moved.

  Jack pulled at his whiskers and bit his thumb. It was a habit he’d had since school, nails bitten down to the quick as he waited for the teacher to ask questions he didn’t know the answers to.

  Sarah saw the oncoming car.

  Peter readjusted himself in his seat. His prayers did not falter and perhaps had been answered. He swore to himself that he would get out of this alive and trusted his God to shield him. Sitting there in the heat, he knew that when the time came to run there would be a fleet of angels protecting him. Their strong, white wings would be his armor.

  He could hear his mother’s voice whispering in his ear. I’m proud of you. Her breath was thick with stench of liquor. This is a test of your faith. And you will have faith, babe. You’ll have faith or I’ll put my cigarette out on your arm again. You know that, don’t you? Peter sometimes wondered if his mother was using religion as an excuse to hurt him. The discipline of the Lord, she often said. It was more warning than doctrine; the words were as vicious as the blows that followed. He remembered the wooden spoon that sat alone at the top of the spice rack when he was a child. Mr. Cranky. Into its moon-face was drawn an angry expression in permanent marker. When Peter was bad, his mother made him get the spoon and bring it to her and place it in her hand. This had hurt the most, the endless walk from kitchen to living room, where his mother would always have the soap operas playing loud and obnoxious, the room smelling of tobacco. Afterwards he would return Mr. Cranky to his home and go to his room without being told. He would kneel and pray, not for forgiveness but for his mother to die. Now, after all this time he realized that his mother was right to do what she had done, to slap and pinch him. He would be tested, and her advice and the pain she inflicted had crafted him into the man he was now—faithful, resilient and ready. He missed her.