Both men, now in their early thirties, had retained the toned muscles and trim waists, which had made them so popular with the girls during their high school football days. To see them together, even today, it would be easy to believe they were brothers.
"How ‘bout let's do some work,” Ted said. “That is if you've recovered."
Ed stamped out the cigarette butt, and pushed his hat up in front. “Let's get to it."
Earlier in the week, Ted had cemented a twenty-foot long metal pole into the ground behind the house. Now all three were around the back, wrestling with the wiry array of what had to be the largest antenna in nonmilitary use this side of the Mississippi.
"Damn, Ted. Do you think you could have found anything larger?” Ed grimaced, his funky, straw hat crushing under the weight as he was using his head to help support the massive array teetering at the top of the pole.
Ted, hanging on around on the other side of the pole, was cranking a ratchet as fast as he could. “Just a minute. Hold it still. I've almost got it."
Lee's job below was to hold the ladder and to retrieve and return any dropped nuts, bolts, washers, etc. that fell, back up the ladder to Uncle Ed. He had already made the trek up the wobbly, overloaded ladder four times, as there had been quite a volume of things falling from the sky that morning. The vocabulary that followed each fallen piece, though the words came from above, was anything but heavenly.
Placing the last support bolt in the sleeve, Ted got the washer on, but the nut slipped through his fingers, rebounded off the brim of Ed's hat, and hit the grass. Before Lee could get there, Flapjack ran over, rooted it out, and ate it.
"Goddamn duck!” Ted hollered, clinging to his dangerous perch, having seen the nut disappear down the greedy gullet.
The expression on his dad's face and the venom with which he'd yelled, “Goddamned Duck” Lee couldn't help but laugh, though he was smart enough to turn away, so his father couldn't see his face. Quickly, though, he had another nut from the bag and joining the two men on the ladder, handed it up to Uncle Ed.
"I'm going to kill that damn duck!” Ted called out bitterly. “Stuff him in a pillow!"
Flapjack, demonstrating the intelligence that had made him a survivor, retired to the easy pickings of the long grass at the far end of the yard.
Ten minutes later, the antenna was secured and the wires attached.
Ed, being an expert in all modern conveniences, had supervised from the ground as the antenna was aligned to the north, striving for a compromise to allow for the best reception from the stations that currently served the valley.
Lee was so excited. Tonight, there would be T.V. that they could actually see. Their old set had worked more like an oscilloscope than a television. Unless someone stood in just the right position, holding part of the antenna, all they ever saw were wavy lines, snowy static, or a picture that rolled faster than the cherries in the windows of a slot machine.
With the antenna mounted, now came the best part of any of Uncle Ed's visits. The two men would take to the lawn chairs with a cooler of beer and recount their days of high school glory. Though Lee had heard all the stories many times before, and could accurately remember the original yardages, scores, and records better than they could, he loved to sit back and listen, as the stories grew and the victories rolled on. Sometimes, it seemed like his dad and Uncle Ed must have played on football fields two hundred yards long, during earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, and against the minions of hell themselves.
"I think the best part of that game was stepping on Foebricker's ugly face right before I scored,” Ted laughed. “If I hadn't planted my foot in his mouth, I'd have never gotten in the end zone."
"You know I sold him a house,” Ed smiled, then took another drink from his bottle. “He's still got some of your cleat marks over his eye."
"An improvement, I'm sure."
Lee joined in the laugh. Though he wasn't sure if he had ever actually seen Foebricker, the name was enough to conjure up quite a vision.
A pause followed, one that grew, as Lee could see both men trying to think of something else to say, searching for a story that remained untold.
"You know, Ted. It sure is strange to be back over here.” Ed broke the long silence, tracing his thumb around the lip of the brown beer bottle he held between his legs.
"I've got to admit, it's kind of weird for me too. I'd never have dreamed that Kathleen would leave anything to Maggie. After that scene she put on when Maggie told her she was pregnant, I'd have never ever, not even in thousand years...” Ted stopped, obviously remembering Lee was present. “Hey son, why don't you go see if Maggie's got those sandwiches ready?"
Uncle Ed flipped his wrist to look at his watch. “Yeah, I've only got time for a quick bite and then I've got to run. Laura's got us booked for Belinda's dance recital at two."
Grudgingly, Lee peeled himself up off the ground and went inside.
After dinner, it was almost like Christmas morning, the excitement was so thick. Maggie, Patty, and Lee took their places on the sofa, and Ted, with much ceremony, switched the set on.
The screen went from its dull, deep green to a seething boil of static. Everyone covered their ears as the volume blared, the knob turned up all the way.
With one hand, Ted turned down the noise and with the other, twisted the dial to channel 2.
They were greeted with the eagerly friendly and homogenized face of Mart Johnson, the 2 News anchor. “President Eisenhower announced today, that the he is confident Vice President Richard Nixon will trounce whomever the Democrats nominate next month in Los Angeles. The Democratic frontrunner, John Kennedy, is expected to—"
Mart was drowned out by the cheers from Lee and Patty.
"If you two get so excited by the news,” teased Maggie, “I don't think we'll survive Bonanza."
Both kids broke out into their vocal instrumentals of the popular Bonanza theme from the new, hit Western, “Bum diddy bum diddy bum diddy bum diddy buuum buuuuuum!"
Ted squeezed in on the couch, and Maggie snuggled in under his arm. They joined in with the kids for the last bars. “Bum diddy bum diddy bum diddy bum bum bum!"
As the evening wore on, they feasted on a huge bowl of buttered popcorn and drank from sweaty metal tumblers of frosty ginger ale. All in all this was one of the best evenings that Lee could ever remember. It seemed that maybe first perceptions would be wrong, and the move to Grandma's house was going to turn out to be a good thing for everybody. Even the Indian, crouching in the wall, seemed to have a grin on his face.
CHAPTER SIX: THE EYE
Tuesday morning Lee found himself back over at the Ballard house. His grounding for getting caught trespassing in the train yard had expired on Sunday, and both Ted and Maggie had suggested he take Mrs. Ballard up on her offer.
"It'll keep you out of trouble,” Ted had recommended, before leaving for the shop that morning.
Lee had cut straight across the Ballard grounds, running amid the crisscrossing shadows under the hopeless cherry trees. As he approached he could see the balcony where the two Union soldiers had posed so long ago, and in a few minutes he was standing right below where they had stood, catching his breath at the Ballard front door. Again the chimes echoed softly when he pressed the doorbell, and in just a short time he heard quick footsteps and the door opened.
Brenda looked out.
"Is Mrs. Ballard at home?” Lee asked.
The housekeeper looked momentarily confused.
"I came about her offer to work,” Lee offered quickly. “She said I might be able to earn some money replanting her roses."
Brenda stood back, pulling open the door. “The roses, oh yes. I remember Mrs. Ballard saying something to me about that.” She ushered Lee in and closed and latched the door. The grim face, which had greeted Lee at the door, was replaced by a bright and sincere smile. “You'll have to excuse me, son, for being startled when I saw you standing there. We don't get many visitors."
&n
bsp; The entry was just a beautiful as Lee had remembered, maybe even more so on seeing it a second time. Unfortunately, the doorway to the little side parlor was closed; he'd hoped to catch a glimpse of the rainbows and maybe spend a bit of time looking at the photographs on the walls. Still, Lee couldn't help but stare over Brenda's shoulder at the huge cigar store Indian who was still standing by the door. Brenda turned, following his gaze.
"Oh, so you've noticed Kawliga?"
"Is that his name?"
Brenda nodded. “I don't know if that's his real name, but that's what I call him, after the Hank Williams song.” She reached up to run a finger over a line of red war paint on his cheek.
For some reason Lee was flooded with the distinct impression the statue didn't like that one bit.
Rubbing her fingers, Brenda turned her attention back to Lee. “He's a bit dusty. Strange, I dusted him only yesterday."
Lee was thinking: “He looks more pissed than dusty to me."
Brenda looked Lee in the eye. “I think you're in luck, and Mrs. Ballard is still taking her breakfast out in the arbor patio. Follow me.” The stout lady set off, but stopped with a squeak of her rubber-soled shoes at the foot of the left hand stairway. “While I'm thinking about it, let me go up and get my dust cloth.” Brenda seemed suddenly preoccupied, as though Lee wasn't even there. She took a step up and then stopped again, grabbing the marble newel to steady herself. “I guess you'd better come along with me. Mrs. Ballard would have a fit if she came in and found you standing here all on your lonesome."
"I could wait in the parlor,” Lee offered eagerly.
"No, you'd best come with me. It'll only take a second. I know just where I left it."
Lee was amazed, following along behind the housekeeper. The staircase was magnificent. The polished, blood red marble steps curving up were unlike anything he had ever seen in real life. The ritzy funeral home where they'd had his Grandma's funeral wasn't even this nice.
"Watch your step,” Brenda advised, keeping her own hand on the banister. “It's always dark up here. We just can't seem to keep any light bulbs in the fixtures. Put one in, an hour later it's burned out. It's so dangerous to change them, I just gave up."
Lee was hardly paying attention. There were paintings and photographs covering almost every inch of the walls. The faces, which stared back at him, seemed to glare out at him from the deepening gloom. He remembered once being told that if the eyes follow you, that's the sign of a good painting. These were obviously very good paintings.
They reached the top landing where the right and left staircases came together. It was terribly dark up here as they were under some type of dome built into the ceiling. Lee remembered from a vocabulary quiz these architectural devices were called cupolas. It was cold here too, up under the cupola; there was no mistaking the chill. Momentarily, Lee looked down to the bright marble floor of the sunlit entryway. It seemed much further down than could be possible. But he remembered it could just be a trick of perspective, caused by the curve of the staircases ascending to either side. Still, it did look like a whole different world, way off down there in the sunlight.
"Long way down,” Brenda called out to him. “You sure wouldn't want to tumble over that rail. Come on though, I don't have time to dawdle."
Lee let go of the railing and quickly caught up to her, entering into the hallway which led to the left. The other hall, which went off to the right was dark, almost pitch dark just a few feet away. But this hallway was lit by a window down at the end. The sun pouring through the framing of the panes cast off a long shadow in the form of a delicately thin cross, which stretched out down the floor and up one wall. Counting quickly with his eyes, Lee counted six doors on one side and seven on the other. He couldn't even imagine taking care of so many rooms in one house, and this was just one hallway on one floor.
"Is it just Mrs. Ballard who lives here?” he asked.
Brenda didn't turn back to answer him. “Yes, just she."
"All alone in a house like this,” Lee replied wistfully.
Brenda walked down dead center straight to the last door on the left, right by the window. Here, the cold and darkness of the stairway landing was unimaginable as the sunlight and heat flooded in. She put her hand on the brass doorknob, fashioned in the shape of some kind of a bird, still not looking back at Lee.
"You're never alone in a house like this,” he thought he heard her say.
Brenda opened the door and stepped in to reveal a beautiful bedroom. There was an enormous canopy bed, a real antique, and the walls and rugs were done in a matching lush, green velvet velour. Truly, it was the most beautiful room Lee had ever seen.
He stood outside in the hall. The heat from the window felt focused, like a heat lamp. If it was this hot here now, he wondered what it must be like in the afternoon. “Sweatbox,” was a word that jumped to mind. Just to see, he ran his hand up and down, letting the shadow run across his fingers.
"I know it was in here,” Brenda called out. “Where'd that thing get off to? It can't have just walked off."
Lee was looking down the hall, back toward the stairway. Here there weren't any pictures on the walls, none at all, just a dark, rich paneling, he thought was probably real walnut, not a stain or veneer. On the floor was a long purple runner rug, tacked down with bright brass tacks and stretching from doorway number three all the way to number twelve. The floor itself was a deeply polished, blood red wood, beautiful in its grain and shine. He figured just this floor alone would probably cost more than most folk's whole houses.
It was then that he saw something. There was something noticeable marring the floor's finish. The imperfection ended a couple of doors down from the staircase, disappearing under the rug. At first, from the angle he was at, he wasn't really even sure if what he was seeing really was there. But when he moved slightly, there appeared the distinct traces of a grouping of scraggly parallel lines gouged into the wood.
Forgetting about Brenda and her search for her errant dust rag, Lee found himself walking over to get a better look. Depending on his position, as he walked, the lines appeared and disappeared like some kind of strange optical illusion. When he arrived at doorway number three, at that precise spot, he could plainly see the lines. They were scratches and appeared to be gouged into the floor, but were underneath the new finish.
Lee couldn't understand why anyone would do such a beautiful job on refinishing a floor and leave such imperfections. Too, it suddenly struck him as what was so strange. These weren't scuffmarks from some amore or dresser moved without a dolly. They resembled fingernail marks. Two sets of five ragged lines were torn into the wood; the thumbs being offset to the insides were a dead giveaway. He'd seen scratches resembling these on his own flesh when he and Patty were rough housing and she'd accidentally clawed him. From the angle he was standing there could be no mistaking what it was he was seeing. But who could have done such a thing, and why?
"What are you doing off down there?” Brenda was standing in the hall, her dust rag in hand.
Lee looked up at her dazedly as though coming out of a daydream.
"Yoo-hoo!” She waved the rag like a flag. “Come on."
Lee pointed toward the stairwell.
"No, this way.” She stepped over and opened the door across the hall. “This is the back staircase down to the hall that leads to the kitchen."
Lee stepped lively to catch up, but did take the time at the doorway for another look back. The marks had disappeared, like some kind of an optical illusion, probably caused by the angle of the sun shining through the finish onto the grain of the wood.
The stairway he found himself in was narrow, musty and steep. The walls were a chalky yellow, and the wooden steps worn and unvarnished. Keeping right behind Brenda, they came out down in the main hallway. Swinging her dust rag she lead the way down the hall. Both sides of the corridor's walls were plastered with framed photographs of one kind or another. No oil paintings, just pictures.
; The Ballards must have traveled a lot at some point in their lives, as many of the black and whites images showed palm trees or craggy, snow-covered mountains in their backgrounds. These exotic looking locales, and the people he could see posed in the shots, caught at Lee's attention as he all too quickly passed them by. He really wanted to stop and take some time to look, but there wasn't any chance. He'd always found old photographs mesmerizing, like time machines back to a past reality of people and places, allowing him to see traces of the world, which once had been, but now was gone. One of the gravestones in the old Lenoir City Cemetery had an inscription, which read: “As you are now, so I once was. As I am now, so you will be.” For some reason that stuck with him whenever he looked at an old photograph. When he had time, he loved to look into the people's eyes and try to feel what they were feeling, see what they were seeing, knowing they were just as alive then as he was now. He'd once divulged this secret about himself to Ronnie. But after Ronnie's reply of: “You're weird, Lee,” now he just kept things like this to himself. The only pictures most of the other boys his age cared anything to stare at were from their dad's stolen Playboy magazines. And of course, being fourteen-years-old, those kinds of pictures had a strong effect on him as well.
Coming through a pair of double doors, just like those in a restaurant, they passed into an enormous and immaculate kitchen. All types of burnished copper pots and pans were hung from a circular rack, fashioned like an old wagon wheel, which was hanging above the center island. And the huge, white enameled stove had more doors and compartments on it than Lee had ever seen. Though the room appeared spotlessly clean, upon entering he was hit in the face by the sharp odor of hot frying grease. Though there was no cooking of any sort going on, the smell was incredibly strong. It was as though the grease was way too hot, on the verge of catching fire. Fried fish had one kind of smell and fried chicken another; this was something all together different, almost like fried hair. He would have said something to Brenda, but as she didn't appear to notice, and since nothing was to be seen on the stove, Lee just kept his mouth shut. He knew other people whose houses didn't smell all so nice either.
Evil Heights, Book I: The Midnight Flyer Page 10
