GARDENS OF NIGHT

by Greg F. Gifune

  For some reason he imagines it ringing anyway, the sound muffled and drifting unanswered through lifeless and empty rooms back in Massachusetts. There is something at once sad and funny about this, as they all stand around beneath artificial light in what seems to Marc like some giant pretend cabin so far from home, tucked away in pristine woodland conjured in the mind of a whimsical child.

  Outside, the rain keeps coming, angrily crashing the chalet and spraying the sliders with forest debris and dead leaves. They all pretend not to notice how violent it’s become, how stifled and imprisoned it makes them feel. Brooke flits about in search of bowls and silverware, and upon locating both, sets the table. Spaulding appears from the bedroom a moment later with a squat candle, places it in the center of the table, and lights it with a match from a box he finds next to the fireplace. Marc stays out of the way, wandering aimlessly about the main room, taking it all in and doing his best to work through the static clogging his mind. He wants desperately to hone in on something – anything – other than this cerebral white noise, but the storm is blocking either him or those trying to communicate, he can’t be sure which.

  “Headache?”

  Marc looks to the kitchen, meets his wife’s concerned gaze. “Just a little one, I’m OK.”

  “I’ve got Tylenol in my purse if you need it.”

  “I think once I eat I’ll be fine,” he answers, strolling toward the fireplace, his attention now locked on an unusual but attractive rug tacked onto the wall above it. Native American, he assumes by the patterns and design, but it is the intricacy that fascinates him.

  Spaulding suddenly appears by his side, the bottle of White Zinfandel held high like a trophy, “All right, who wants wine?”

  “Not allowed,” Marc tells him. “Can’t have booze with the meds I’m on.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, moving away. “Jesus, I should’ve known that, I –”

  “Don’t sweat it, you guys have some.”

  Spaulding looks to Brooke as if for her permission. She gives a subtle nod and pours the soup mix into the now boiling water.

  An awkward tension hangs in the air as Spaulding searches the cupboards for glasses. He begins babbling about some woman he works with, and how she drinks on the job and hides bottles of gin in her desk drawer and how it’s so sad but no one knows what to do or how to approach her about it.

  It seems an odd story to tell just then, but perhaps that’s all he’s got handy.

  Brooke sips some broth and raves about how good it is. She’s trying so hard, Marc thinks. Too hard really, but she needs to find her way through this too, and all the while with him tied around her neck like dead weight.

  She looks so beautiful there in the kitchen, in her jeans and sneakers, her figure thin and lithe, small breasts strained against a tight blouse, short dirty blonde hair mussed, windblown and still damp from the rain, brown eyes wide and hopeful, as if no harm could ever come to her. As if none ever has.

  Though Marc can see through her carefully constructed facade, he envies her nonetheless. At least she’s capable of creating one. Still, he’d give anything to see Brooke like she was before, like they both were.

  But that’s no longer possible.

  The sudden and uneasy feeling of being watched causes Marc to train his eyes on the glass sliders along the back wall.

  Somewhere out there, in the dark and rain, he senses something. Beyond the trees, on the far side of the hills, something waits…

  Something evil.

  Marc feels it so strongly his fingers begin to tingle as if asleep. The sensation spreads into his forearms, shoulders and neck. So as not to draw attention to himself, he leaves his hands at his sides but clenches them into fists. The pins and needles gradually recede.

  Visions of fire flicker through his mind. Fire from torches and burning crosses, held aloft by a group of women shrouded in black habits standing in a line at the summit of a large hill. As if in formation, they are silent and still as statues, their flames impossibly bright in an otherwise impenetrably dark night.

  Pay attention to the things you’ll soon see.

  They shouldn’t have come here. But they never really had a choice.

  He knows this now. In a way, he always has.

  Four

  The three sit at the table eating soup while fates unseen swirl about in curious patterns like microscopic organisms floating in air. Now and then Spaulding or Brooke says something, but it’s forced and awkward and silence creeps back in, a slow wave slinking to shore. Marc stays quiet, listens to the rain instead and glances at shadows cast along the floor. Their shadows, like painted sentries. Through the rain-sounds Spaulding decides to take another shot at conversation and tosses out a sure winner: politics. But they’re all progressives, so he’s more or less preaching to the choir. Still, it’s effective, Marc thinks, because it occupies them and allows him an escape from rainstorms and chalets and the memories of whales that have stopped speaking to him.

  Yet what he escapes to is no better. Perhaps it’s worse.

  His psychiatrist’s office comes to him just then, as if to prove the point, and though he knows why, he pretends not to. A bit cramped but decorated to radiate a false sense of warmth, the office reminds Marc of a theater set. Not quite real, but close. Much like Doctor Berry, who at least for him, only exists within those four walls. For some reason he cannot picture her anywhere else, and often imagines her sitting in her high-back chair waiting quietly in the dark, hoping to come alive again soon as he or some other lost soul crosses the threshold of her alleged sanctuary. He does not envy her predicament. She may not be a patient in that lockdown facility they call a hospital, but she’s trapped there too. While she goes home at night and lives out whatever life beyond that awful place she has, in the end she always returns, as much a prisoner of the institution as anyone, shackled to the mysteries and tears of an old building that’s been dead since before her birth.

  “Sometimes I pretend they were angels.”

  “Do you believe in angels, Marc?”

  “Not the kind that float around on clouds blowing kisses and handing out advice to lonely housewives and elderly shut-ins.”

  “What kind of angels do you believe in then?”

  “The ones described in most ancient texts are warriors. They’re brutal, merciless and carry out God’s wishes without question. They flatten cities and slaughter thousands, all in His name. Part of me respects them. Their love for God is unconditional, and they believe the violence He orders is necessary. They see beauty in the horror they wreak, purity.”

  “Do you believe God is vengeful, that He punishes us?”

  “I believe He pulls us from the wreckage. Only we kick and fight like a bird that’s been injured and doesn’t understand you’re trying to help it. It only knows it wants to get away from you because it fears you. It doesn’t understand you’re there to save it.”

  “Marc, are you telling me that you believe God sent angels to save you and Brooke through the use of violence?”

  “No. But I wish He had.”

  Rain interrupts his reverie, returns him to the table and the soup and Spaulding’s endless antiwar diatribe. Eyes wide, Brooke listens intently, as if he’s the most fascinating person on Earth. Sipping wine between occasional swallows of broth, she nods her head whenever he makes a compelling point.

  “Why are you here?” Marc asks suddenly. He hadn’t meant to say this aloud but it’s too late to take it back. He puts his spoon in his bowl, lets it go and watches as it disappears into the murky broth.

  Surprised that his speech has been interrupted, Spaulding arches an eyebrow and leans back in his chair a bit. “I’m sorry?”

  In a halfhearted attempt at escape, Brooke grabs her bowl and heads for the counter. “Anybody want seconds?”

  “Why are you here?” Marc asks again.

  “I don’t understand,” Spaulding says through an inconsequential chuckle. “You mean why did I come with you
guys?”

  “It’s a simple question. Why are you here?”

  “Marc,” Brooke says, managing to find a shred of patience amidst her embarrassment, “you’re being rude, there’s no need to –”

  “No, it’s OK.” Spaulding holds a hand up to silence her. “You two were more than welcome to use the place on your own. I just thought it’d be nice if we all got together. Why, would you rather be alone with Brooke?”

  “I’d rather you answer my question.”

  Spaulding draws a deep breath. “I thought spending some time together would be beneficial, seeing how we haven’t done anything like this in ages.”

  Brooke turns her back to them, puts her bowl in the sink and rinses it out.

  Marc pushes away from the table and stands, his eyes on the sliders. Despite the ferocity of the rain, dead leaves stick to the glass. He knows exactly how they feel.

  “Marc,” Spaulding says, “I’m here because I thought it might help you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Baffled, he looks briefly to Brooke for support then turns back to Marc. “You don’t think I’m here to hurt you, do you?”

  “No,” he answers softly. “I don’t think you’re here at all.”

  * * * *

  The loft features a large skylight on the sloped ceiling, a faux bearskin rug and an oak bedroom set. Marc sits at the foot of the bed and takes it all in. Like the rest of the chalet, it is disturbingly immaculate. He envisions a horde of uniformed maids converging on the property day after day, cleaning maniacally; tending to a woodland version of Dunsinane. But there is no trace of anyone here. In fact everything appears unused and has an impersonal, nearly sterile feel, and Marc senses nothing in this room, hears nothing but the storm. As he gazes up at the rain-blurred portal he can’t be certain if this is good or bad.

  Until the rain and impenetrable night beyond becomes something else.

  The vision of someone on the roof stretched out over the skylight and gawking down at him with feral eyes flashes through his mind, but there is no one there. Still, as one might hear barely audible whispers, he senses something sinister. Something…out there…not close, but not too far either.

  And it knows…somehow it knows he’s there too.

  Brooke appears at the head of the stairs. With a frown she joins him on the bed. She sits close but doesn’t touch him. Marc looks at the floor and prepares to be reprimanded. “You really hurt Spaulding’s feelings,” she says in a quiet voice. “And now he thinks he’s intruding and that you don’t want him here.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not the point. He arranged all of this for us, for you.”

  “I’ll apologize in the morning,” he says, vaguely repentant.

  “Why did you say that to him, Marc?”

  He shrugs.

  “Do you want one of your pills? You won’t feel so agitated.”

  “I’m not agitated.” He places his hands in hers. She doesn’t resist but he can feel the tension in her. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

  “Need something to help you sleep?”

  Why is she always so eager to anesthetize him? “No, thanks,” he says, releasing her.

  She nods, chooses to believe what she knows is a lie. “OK, get some rest then. I’ll be up in a bit.”

  Before Brooke returns to the downstairs she removes sweatpants and a sweatshirt from Marc’s suitcase, and meaning well, lays them across the foot of the bed for him. They kiss goodnight as they often do of late, with a brief and soulless peck on the lips. Though genuine love remains, the gesture lacks the luster it once possessed, the passion, the power. Like the moon in daylight, he thinks, despite its profound beauty it seems clumsy and out of place.

  Holding tight to blurry yesterdays he knows will only temporarily mend him, Marc undresses once she’s gone, changes into the nightclothes, steps into a pair of moccasin slippers then pulls back the bed sheets. He switches off the nightstand lamp, returning the loft to darkness, but rather than go to bed he moves to the banister. When he reaches the open staircase he crouches down, careful to remain hidden in shadow, and presses his face between two balusters so he can look down into the main room of the chalet.

  This reminds Marc of his childhood, and more specifically, his mother. When he was a child and it was time for bed his mother would watch him ascend the stairs to his bedroom and stick her face through the balusters, giving him a kiss with each step until she could no longer reach. Marc can remember gazing down lovingly at his mother, who had switched to blowing kisses by then, smiling and saying, “Goodnight, honey. Mommy loves you.”

  His parents are retired and live in Florida. Marc seldom sees them. He misses his father but misses his mother’s kisses even more. He misses those phrases; that love and the simple, quiet evenings of his childhood.

  Blurring, his mother’s face drifts away, morphs into the room below.

  Brooke sits on the couch and Spaulding joins her a moment later, carrying a lit candle and two glasses. He places them on the coffee table next to the bottle of wine they began at dinner and are now apparently determined to finish. Marc can hear their voices but only catches every third or fourth word, as they’re speaking softly, presumably so as not to disturb him. Coupled with the rain, he has no hope of deciphering their conversation, so he watches their expressions and body language instead. In that moment, as Brooke kicks off her shoes and stretches her legs, his wife reminds him of friends of theirs who have kids, the way they relax and slump with relief into comfortable, more natural positions once the children have been put to bed.

  Spaulding pours them each another glass of wine. They click their glasses together and drink. He does most of the talking, gesturing with his hands as he tends to do. He offers frequent, wry smiles, rolls his eyes and kicks back, turning his body into the corner of the couch so he can face Brooke comfortably. He says something about making a fire, or perhaps getting the woodstove going, as it and the fireplace are the only sources of heat the chalet has. She responds, best as Marc can tell, that it’s not necessary, the candle and wine will do fine for tonight. The only other light downstairs now is one in the kitchen, which bleeds slightly into the main room, casting a narrow swathe near the sliders. Otherwise Brooke and Spaulding are bathed in shadow and the flicker of the candle’s flame. Marc can’t remember the last time he’s seen her so relaxed. She almost looks at peace.

  Almost.

  Or is it safety she feels just then? The possibility alone breaks his heart.

  As he watches them, Marc notices their interactions, how as old friends they’re so at ease with each other that their moves are distinctly familiar and can be read, deciphered and countered by rote. And yet this thing lurks in the corner, hovers in the air – the incident – a plague visited upon their lives that has forever changed things. Evil and divine both, it has at once wrought destruction and regeneration; melding it all into a single fiery, twisted effigy, a smoking and bloody sacrifice set before indifferent gods. Though he knows it’s puerile to hide in the dark, snooping on them like an overprotective, preposterously covetous husband, Marc remains where he is.

  As rain lashes the chalet he feels himself fading away even more, slowly dying, transforming into a dream, a wisp of smoke, a garden of night, concealed and unseen, roots like chains burrowing deep into dark soil and shackling him to horrors that should’ve destroyed him by now. He is a ghost, tethered to the Earth and unable to break free.

  Twisting and turning in space, an astronaut dead in his suit, he drifts aimlessly into different and happier times when he would’ve been down there with them, drinking a cocktail and talking the night away. When he thinks of the times the three of them have spent together over the years, as opposed to the times they spent as pairs, there are of course similarities, but also marked differences. His remembrances of them as a threesome yield many things. There were bad or melancholy times for sure, but mostly the memories are happy ones. He recalls silly, c
arefree exploits, amazing conversation, intellectual (and at times sexual) tension, and an intense camaraderie he has never felt with anyone else. But mostly he remembers laughter. As Brooke grins at something Spaulding tells her, Marc is reminded of their teenage years. Though very bright even then, she was still somewhat shy, soft-spoken and lacking in confidence. But being around Marc and Spaulding awakened a free spirit in her that had been previously suppressed due to her strict upbringing and relatively humorless home life, and she’d never looked back. Marc remembers one episode in particular when they’d gotten stoned out of their minds on some high-end Hawaiian weed Spaulding scored, piled into Brooke’s beat-up Toyota Corolla then hit the local grocery store on a quest for munchies. Two steps into the parking lot Spaulding decided breaking into a song-and-dance number straight out of Cabaret was a really good idea. Before he could finish, Brooke, who shared Spaulding’s love of musicals and had an entirely different idea, hooked his arm and together they transformed into Dorothy and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, skip-dancing across the lot as if it were the yellow brick road. Marc remembers laughing as they’d continued straight into the market, leaving him to field the stares and grumblings of disapproving townsfolk. He also remembers how they hadn’t asked him to be the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion or even Toto, and how he wished they had.

  The couple downstairs returns to middle-age. Neither has gained any weight to speak of, and but for minor aesthetics, both simply look like older versions of themselves. One who knew them as teenagers would likely still recognize them even after all this time. Marc has not been so fortunate. Not only is he someone else now, he looks the part. His hair is so thin he’s nearly bald, and his once bright brown eyes, saddled with heavy black bags, have faded considerably. In his thirties he gained thirty pounds, and his once-powerful build has turned slumped and soft, weakened and irreparably wounded.