Crackpot Palace

by Jeffrey Ford

“I have to be really careful, perform rituals and such before I go out. I can’t mess up.”

  “What are the chances of that?” I asked.

  “I can do it,” he said, “but the question is, can you two? Remember, you’re my witnesses. If you tell anyone outside of this protected area, even in a whisper, about what I’ve shown you, they’ll know I took it and it won’t matter how careful I am. So you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal.” I stood up and shook his hand. I said a quick good-bye to Ginny, thanked the old man, and split, almost missing the concrete block on the way down. Crackpop said I could take a painting, and as much as I wanted to just get out of there, I had to stop and consider it. The old man was truly insane, and his slow revelation of it on the porch gave me the creeps, not to mention old Ginny smoking a joint and secretly mocking him to me. On the other hand, I knew that years later, if I didn’t have something tangible to attach to this story, when I told it, no one would believe me. I grabbed the rendering of the oak tree burial from the hand of a tree-being. As I relieved it of the picture’s weight, the wooden giant moved, as if stretching. All the way home, with that painting in the backseat, I kept checking the rearview mirror.

  Lynn took one look at the painting and said, “No,” so I hung it in my office. Later that night, in bed, she asked me about my walk. I told her about the church and the art show. I really wanted to tell her about the bizarre episode of my bearing witness, but I swear I didn’t. And the fact that I didn’t followed me into sleep.

  Time passed, a couple of years, and both kids were in school and Lynn and I were both working. The Curse of Crackpop wasn’t the worst that could happen, and so the whole thing faded pretty quickly from my thoughts. Occasionally, I’d see him on the move, and I’d wonder what rituals he’d performed in order to walk so far from home. At other times, I’d notice the painting hanging in my office, and that would make me think of him as well. All this was fleeting, though, in the onrush of our lives. Through all of it, even drunk at the holidays or stoned with old friends, I kept the old man’s secret.

  More time passed, and the whole thing was as prevalent in my thoughts as my third birthday party, when one night Lynn came home from work pretty upset. She was trembling slightly.

  “Crackpop,” she said. “I almost hit him. He’s drunk or something, stumbling around in the middle of Atsion Road.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “Fuck him. I almost hit a tree trying to avoid him.”

  “What should we do?”

  “What are you going to do?” she said. “Stay out of it.”

  “Somebody’s gonna hit him,” I said.

  “He’s popped his last crack,” said Lynn. She picked up the phone and called the local cops.

  Maybe a month after that, I heard, in a matter of two weeks from different neighbors and the guy at the 7-Eleven, that Crackpop had a meltdown at the pizza place, engaging in some unwelcome bellowing, then he was spotted weaving along Atsion one afternoon, literally frothing at the mouth; after that a car did hit a tree, trying to avoid him, though no one was injured. This chain of events ended in his being hit and killed one night by a semi. Our neighbor, Dave, told us about it at the beach. He knew one of the cops who was called to the scene. “Gretts was completely obliterated,” he said.

  I waited a few months out of some strange sense of respect, and then I told Lynn at the end of summer. We sat out back on the screened porch, having coffee by candlelight. The crickets were strong and the night was cool. When I finished telling her about my bearing witness to Crackpop, the first thing she said was, “Does that mean Ginny told someone and the old man was possessed by a demon?”

  I laughed. “I didn’t think of that,” I said.

  Soon after, there was another fatal accident down on Atsion. Four high school kids in a white Windstar, drunk and high, veered off the road into a large oak tree. The driver was killed instantly, the two in the back died later, and only the front passenger, having been thrown from the vehicle, lived. That person was Duane Geppi, and when he finally came to, he swore to the cops that it was Crackpop, back from the dead, who had come lunging out of the shadows at the van. That story made the rounds. I heard it from a number of different people and told it to more. Hence a legend was born. Weird old guy, hit by a truck on Atsion, comes back from the dead to walk the road, seeking revenge against the world that shunned him. Reports of his ill-intentioned specter showed up frequently in the local paper around Halloween, and I heard from my older son that kids sometimes drove out that way toward the lake, hoping for an encounter. Eventually, Crackpop’s house burned down in a fire of “mysterious origins,” as it was reported. They didn’t know the half of it.

  What really scared me was something else entirely. That question Lynn had asked me about whether Ginny might have given away the old man’s secret came back to me every time I’d see the oak tree painting in my office. I knew the only way I could find out whether she had or not was to meet her face-to-face. I believed that even if she lied to me when I asked her, I’d be able to detect the truth in her expression. I called the couple who’d had us to our first Christmas party in town, where I’d met Ginny, and spoke to the wife. I told her I wanted to get Ginny Sanger’s phone number. She said she didn’t know who I was talking about. I described the stately older woman with white hair, and she said, “I can tell you for sure, we don’t know anyone like that.”

  “She doesn’t visit you sometimes? She lives down Atsion.”

  “You must be thinking about one of your books,” she said, laughed, and hung up.

  I scoured the phone book, paid for an Internet trace, stopped and talked to old people when I’d see them out in their yards along Atsion Road. Nobody had ever heard of Ginny Sanger. I took some solace in the fact that Lynn attested to having met her. There wasn’t a Sanger in the county, though. It took me years to figure it out, my kids are in college now, but I had the answer hanging in front of me the whole time.

  I found her yesterday, in the circular cemetery next to the white church. The giant oak looking on, I scraped some moss off one of the stones and there she was: VIRGINIA SANGER, BORN 1770—DIED 1828. Like I said to Lynn, don’t ask me to explain. I don’t understand my own part in what happened, let alone Ginny’s. What I was fairly certain of, though, was that, if I went into that church and went through their archive, I’d find some thread of a story about her, a sketch, a letter, and then there’d be no end to it—legend giving way to legend, like a hydra. That’s the way it is here. The mind of the place manifesting in human legends that intersect and interbreed into a vast invisible wilderness all their own. We really only live along the edge of the Pine Barrens, but, still, for whatever reason, that spirit reached out and gathered us in.

  A Note About “Down Atsion Road”

  The Jersey Devil isn’t the weirdest thing in New Jersey by a long shot. As a matter of fact, when I lived there, I had neighbors who make him look like a patsy. That creature has gotten the most publicity, though, which is a shame because there are literally hundreds of legends that exist in and around the Pine Barrens. There’s the White Stag, the Black Doctor, the Atco Phantom, Captain Kidd at Reed’s Bay, the Rabbit Woman, Jerry Munyhon (a kind of Barrens wizard who, when turned down for a job at Hanover Furnace, cast a spell and filled it with black and white crows), more ghosts from every era than you can shake a stick at, and that’s not mentioning any of the Lenape legends. If you live there for a while and keep your eyes and ears open to these tales, as I did, being a writer of the fantastic, it soon became evident that there was something about the place that engendered legend. Part of this has to do with the enormity of the wilderness, its loneliness and mazelike quality, but I think the main reason is that there is some kind of sentient energy at its heart, as if it is aware and scheming, imbuing the lives of those who live in it or near it with some kelson of its primordial consciousness. The feeling is palpable. I’ve only felt this fr
om a landscape in one other place I’ve been, the Scottish Highlands. I spent ten days there once in a cottage near the Isle of Skye. The place was remarkably beautiful, but haunted. There was a pervasive feeling of melancholy and loneliness mixed into the spectacular views of the mountains and lochs. I definitely felt as if the place was alive, like some sleeping giant dreaming. “Down Atsion Road” is my attempt to chronicle the supernatural influence of the Barrens. Believe me when I tell you that most of this story is true, and the parts that aren’t are the incidentals. The strange wilderness has been shaping legends since humanity first set foot there. They crisscross and interconnect like a web. Through them, it communicates with us. Consider this, a vast piece of real estate in the Northeast, within commuting distance of New York City, that remains virtually untouched. Think of the money it would be worth to developers, think of the towns and malls and roads that could be cut into it. As other landscapes fall to the onslaught of “progress,” the Barrens has retained itself. Pretty damn cunning, if you ask me.

  Sit the Dead

  Luke was in his room at his computer, looking at used cars. His cell phone rang. He answered with it on speaker.

  “Darene,” he said.

  “Gracie died,” she said.

  He pictured the deceased, hairdo like a helmet, overweight, in flowered stretch slacks. Her earrings were disco balls; her face a half inch of powder and pale green lipstick. He’d met her at a barbecue in Darene’s backyard. “You’re in for it, kid. God bless ya,” she’d said to Luke and kissed his cheek green.

  “That sucks,” he said.

  “Is that all you have to say?” asked Darene.

  “I only met her once,” he said. “I’m sorry you feel bad, though.”

  “My father’s inviting you to sit the dead.”

  “Sit the dead . . .” said Luke.

  “It’s a family ritual.”

  “I don’t have to touch her, do I?”

  “Don’t be a tool,” she said. “You just have to go and sit with the body in the church for a few hours.”

  “Like a wake,” he said.

  “Yeah, but nobody else but you and one other person will be there.”

  “You just sit there?” he asked.

  “Two members from our family have to sit with Gracie till they take her to her grave. It’s a family tradition going all the way back.”

  “Sounds weak.”

  “Your shift starts at midnight.”

  “Me and you?”

  “No, you and Uncle Sfortunado.”

  Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “This means my family is officially accepting you,” said Darene. “My father says it’s a test of your manhood.”

  Luke laughed.

  “I can see you’re not mature enough,” she said.

  Two nights earlier they’d been at the lake on the picnic bench. She sat on his lap facing him, her legs on either side of his. There was a cool autumn breeze, but she glowed with warmth as they kissed.

  “Okay, sign me up,” he said, “but my parents are gone for the weekend with the car. I’m stranded.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty,” she said.

  He turned the computer off and went to take a shower.

  Luke always got stuck sitting next to Uncle Sfortunado at the Cabadula family parties. After a while the reason for it became clear to him—no one in the family wanted to. The ancient patriarch often spoke in some foreign tongue, and when he did talk in English, he mumbled cryptic sayings involving animals—“The moon in the lake is for the fish” or “A spider in the mouth will empty your pockets.” When Luke stared back in puzzlement, the old man would spit out the word “gaduche,” which Luke was sure meant “stupid” or worse. Once he’d asked Sfortunado what country the Cabadula were originally from. He guessed Greece, Italy, Romania, Turkey, Russia.

  The old man squinted and shook his head to each.

  “Are you gypsies?” asked Luke.

  “I wish,” said Sfortunado.

  “I give up. Where then?”

  “Another country.”

  “Which one?”

  “The old country, up in the hills,” he yelled and shook his head in annoyance.

  As the shower water fell and the steam rose, Luke closed his eyes. “I’m gonna have to get blazed for this,” he thought.

  Darene pulled up in her old Jeep Cherokee at exactly eleven thirty. Luke had never known her to be on time. He got in. She was dressed all in black—T-shirt, jacket, jeans, and he knew, even though he couldn’t see her feet, that she’d be wearing black socks and sneakers. She gave him a quick kiss before he could slide across the seat and put his arms around her. Just as he reached, she turned, started the car, and pulled away from the curb.

  “Put your seat belt on,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” he asked and lightly touched a ringlet of her hair.

  “The church over on Gebble Street.”

  “That’s a crappy area.”

  “That’s our church,” she said and made a stern face.

  “How about we make a detour to the lake and you can test my manhood?” he said and laughed.

  “Are you high?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m tired. I was asleep when you called.”

  She sighed, and from that point on it was silence until they pulled into the church parking lot.

  “I can’t go in with you,” she said. She opened her door. He also got out and met her at the front of the car. She put her arms around his waist and he leaned back against the hood.

  “I know this is beat,” she said, “but it means a lot to me.” She looked up and he smiled. She put the side of her face against his chest.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said. “I’ll sit the dead like my father sits the bowl.”

  “Seriously,” she said.

  “I’m all about it.”

  The next thing he knew, she was closing the front door of the church behind him. He stepped into a dark alcove and a sudden smell of incense and old wood made his spine twitch. Luke looked through the open doors and down the aisle before him, past the rows of darkened pews, to the altar—white marble, crowded with statues, and holding the candlelit coffin of Gracie. He took a deep breath and moved toward the light.

  Between the first pew and the altar, there was an empty folding chair set up next to Uncle Sfortunado’s.

  “Hello,” Luke said too loud, sending echoes everywhere.

  The old man turned and stared through thick glasses. He wore a gray cardigan dotted with cigarette burns. His beard was a week old and white as snow, his hair crazy. “Gaduche,” he said, raised a trembling hand, and farted.

  “Good to see you again,” said Luke.

  “This is who I get to sit the dead?” said Sfortunado, shouting into the dark. He grimaced. “The cat makes the owl bleed . . .”

  “Darene’s father told me to come.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The old man waved a trembling hand in front of his face.

  “My condolences about Gracie,” said Luke.

  Sfortunado laughed and pointed at the altar. “Go tell her you’re sorry,” he said.

  Luke got up and slowly ascended the three steps to the coffin. Gracie came into view, a deflated balloon made of dough. She wore a white dress, a giant version of a little girl’s party rig, pale green lipstick, and her blond hair helmet was slightly askew. A hand grabbed the side of the coffin. Luke started and then saw it belonged to Uncle Sfortunado, who stood beside him.

  “Looks like shit,” said the old man. “What do you think?”

  Luke stalled by rubbing the back of his neck. Finally he said, “Well . . . she’s dead.”

  Sfortunado shrugged and nodded. “This is true.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Something bad.”

  Luke went back to his chair. Sfortunado mumbled a few words to Gracie and then announced, “She smells like flowers.” He threw his head b
ack and laughed loud. The echoes rained down and Luke considered splitting. The old man hobbled back to his chair, and less than five minutes later was asleep.

  Luke studied the statuary on the altar, elongated marble figures in the throes of agony gathered in a semicircle at the center of which hung a large golden sun made of gleaming metal. He took out his cell phone and texted Darene, WT RELIGN R U? Uncle Sfortunado was swaying slightly from side to side, snoring, his arms folded across his sunken chest. Darene’s reply came back. NO TXTING. C U @ DAWN.

  Time stood still in the candlelight, and Luke listened to the church quietly creak. The rapid scuttling of some tiny creature echoed like a whisper from the shadows. Somewhere something was dripping. It didn’t take long before the creepiness gave way to boredom. “They should have a TV set up here,” he thought. Eventually his mind turned to Darene.

  They’d been together since the previous autumn, junior year. Whatever her culture was, it demanded an old-fashioned formality between kids their age. They went to all the parties together, movies, some concerts, but she insisted he meet her family and attend the holiday and birthday gatherings at her house.

  Both his male and female friends told him he was pussywhipped, but he didn’t care. Darene’s hair, ringlets of black springs that seemed alive, her smooth dark complexion, her green eyes and unabashed laugh, canceled out all of their scorn. She definitely knew her mind, and yet he wasn’t particularly good at school, or good-looking by anyone’s standards. The whole thing was a mystery he enjoyed pondering.

  Luke’s memory returned to that night at the picnic table by the lake for quite a while and then he checked his phone for the time, sure that at least a couple of hours had passed. He discovered that not even a half hour had gone by since Sfortunado had fallen asleep. Taking a cue from the old man, he put his phone in his pocket, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes. As he began to doze, a putrid stench, the first stirrings of which he attributed to Uncle Sfortunado, slowly overcame the aroma of old incense and pervaded the place. “Gracie’s not embalmed,” was his last thought before sleep and then he dreamed of going naked, late, to the SATs.