by Keohane, Dan
Joanne looked at the delicate figurine which Megan had picked out. It leaned against the small clock sitting on top of the television. The doll was a Chinese princess, nine inches high with flowing pastel robes, white-faced with a red dot on each cheek. Joanne had to admit it was stunning. She said, “If having that thing stare at you all night is distracting just drop it down anywhere.”
She tried to sound light, but there was a harshness to her voice.
William looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the doll? No problem. It’s actually kind of pretty.”
Joanne shook her head. “Maybe, but it’s bizarre. All of this is.”
She wanted to say more, wanted to scream. Everything about these past two nights buzzed across her skin like electricity. People didn’t wander down streets selling dolls, she thought. She’d said as much to William earlier, and to her friend Nancy when the two ran into each other at the store that morning. The robed woman had found her way onto Nancy’s street, as well. How that mysterious woman could do both neighborhoods after being so swarmed with customers on Claisdale, Joanne couldn’t say. Yet Nancy said she’d come by around nine o’clock. Maybe there were two of them. Jehovah’s Witnesses trying a new tactic, perhaps. She’d have to ask Nancy if the cart came by tonight.
Joanne thought all this, but said nothing. William stared transfixed at something on the television. Finally, she said, “Don’t be too late,” before turning and going to bed.
* * *
The woman pulled the cart off the road, into the old Mahew Dye Works’ shipping and receiving yard. The pavement buckled with roots that had long since pushed their way skyward, reclaiming the air above. Mahew Dye Works had seen few visitors since closing forty years earlier. There it stayed, crumbling, most of the glass in the windows long fallen inward.
Officer John nodded his head as the woman and her cart lumbered by. He’d been stationed at the entrance to “make sure no one trespasses and risks falling through those old, rotten floor boards”.
In the trunk of Officer John’s cruiser, a G.I. Joe doll wailed and screamed. It tried unsuccessfully to move its muscular arms. Officer John was blind in the darkness of the trunk, while the thing that stole him closed the rusted gate.
The woman in the robes pulled the cart into the half-open door of the receiving area. If someone stood just outside they might, for an instant, see a sharp flash of metal from the interior’s darkness. Someone might catch the outline of something large and angular further down, in what was once the Dye Works’ main production floor. Any glimpse inside would quickly be lost when the woman walked back to the door and pulled it closed.
* * *
When he heard Joanne close the bedroom door, William rose from his chair. It felt like he’d been pulled up - as if the eyes of the Chinese princess cast invisible threads, fine but strong, across the room to entwine him. The small painted eyes beckoned. William heeded and stepped forward.
The doll felt heavy when he lifted it. The princess stared, unblinking, and smiled a smile unchanged since William first saw it. But there was something different. He tried to understand what as he sank back into the worn cushions.
Megan had bought the doll for her mother, but William felt a possessiveness for it. Invisible, pulling threads wrapped about him. Just the merest sensation, yet he felt his possession reciprocated. The doll, the princess, belonged to him. The pulling continued. William held the doll close, laying her tight against his chest.
The threads wrapped tighter, hugging, pulling the two of them together. William breathed in shallow bursts. For a moment, he thought he heard his daughter shouting from her bedroom. Then he was lost in pleasure.
* * *
The next night Joanne expected thunder, at the very least a flash of heat lightening. Neither came. The sky simply opened in a deluge of rain, crashing down on Claisdale Avenue. She watched from behind the screen door. The road was dark, silent, the rain broken only by the glow of house lights across the street.
Her friend Nancy either wasn’t home or chose not to answer. Three times during the day Joanne tried to call. Today was Saturday. Maybe Nancy had gone on a day trip with Rich and the kids.
The rain kept falling, in time with her spirits.
“Dolls!” came the now-familiar voice, muffled through sheets of water. How could this be happening, Joanne wondered? Who the hell would be stupid enough to come out tonight? She wasn’t surprised. The previous nights carried with them an unreal quality. Whether warm, humid, cool or rainy - it didn’t matter. There was something else in the mix. A new element which Joanne couldn’t grasp, but was there all the same. A metaphorical shadow in the corner of the bedroom that did not exist in daylight.
“Dolls!” Closer now.
Movement across the street. The Phillipsons came outside. They were silent except for Max, the father, who kept insisting they weren’t going out into the rain for a damned doll! More words exchanged, lost to the weather and the call of the woman in the robes. The man was pulled excitedly along by his two children. His wife followed, a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Joanne wondered if she wasn’t, perhaps, pushing him forward.
A man’s voice behind Joanne said, “I’d love one of my own.”
She let out a cry and spun around. William smiled and touched his wife’s shoulder. “A doll, I mean. Who knows how much longer she’ll decide to come by?”
Joanne told herself her heart was beating frantically because of her husband’s sudden appearance. But there was more. A slow burning in her stomach, a softening in her legs. Joanne was afraid. In the hall leading to the bedrooms, little Megan stood in silence and watched. Joanne looked alternately between the two, and slowly shook her head.
William stroked her shoulder. “Oh, come on. You guys got one. It’s only fair.” A light tug on her shoulder, barely perceptible, towards the door. Joanne pulled away.
“No,” she whispered. Why the hell was she acting like this? Terrified of a doll wagon, or of the dolls themselves? Of the strange woman outside?
Megan walked up and touched her mother’s hand. Joanne flinched.
Afraid of her own family.
Absurd. She was tired. They hadn’t taken a vacation yet. Not enough rest.
“Mommy,” Megan whispered. “Can I buy Daddy a doll?”
Joanne wanted to say “no” again, reach out and slam the door and slap her daughter then slap her husband, scream “NO, NO, NO.” Lock them all inside. Wait until that damned wagon rolled away.
Instead she wrapped her arms about herself and said nothing. What could she say?
Tears began to well. William didn’t notice as he pulled out his wallet and checked the contents. He walked into the rain alone. Joanne listened to his footsteps fade away.
Megan watched her mother, but said nothing more.
* * *
William shook the rain from his hair with one hand and held the court jester with the other. The doll’s outfit was red and blue with bells tinkling from the multi-faceted crown.
Joanne sat on the couch and did not ask to see it. Still, her husband held it before him. “Well?” he said, moving the doll a little and letting the bells jingle. “A nice one, don’t you think?”
Softly, their daughter said, “Mommy, he has such pretty eyes.”
He did. William held the doll in front of him and stepped slowly, very slowly, toward the couch. Joanne found herself captivated by the tiny blue eyes. They reflected the lamp light, shined all the bluer as William approached. She felt a warmth across her shoulders, as if someone embraced her from behind. Joanne leaned against the sofa as far back as the cushions allowed. Still, the doll loomed closer.
Her tears fell freely now. She sobbed once, but didn’t want to frighten Megan, make her think Mommy was losing her mind. The girl moved softly to kneel beside the couch.
“Lay down here, Mommy,” she said. Joanne wanted to look away from the court jester, from his white face and jingling bells. Megan touched her sleeve, gen
tly, but it was enough. Joanne slid down until her head rested against the arm of the couch. William held the doll and smiled.
Joanne reached out and took it. The act did not feel voluntarily - more like the doll reaching out for her. William lifted her legs onto the couch. Joanne felt his hands, wet and cold from the rain, on her ankles.
She could run. Joanne knew, somehow, that she could run, close herself somewhere safe. But for how long? This was her family. Could she ever truly run from them?
Megan fumbled with the top two buttons of Joanne’s blouse, then gently guided her mother’s hands down until the doll rested its hard white face against her mother’s skin.
Joanne’s body tingled. Her legs shook. She could run, she could run, she could run. She closed her eyes, felt the doll breathing on her neck. Not a physical expulsion of air, rather a presence - a touching. The sensation spread. Joanne no longer felt her legs.
* * *
There came a night when the Doll Wagon rolled down Claisdale Avenue for the last time. Mosquitoes circled the heads of the people as they walked slowly from their homes.
“Dolls...” called the woman in the robes. Her wagon was empty, save for a few strings and hooks swinging freely from their perches, wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. The people came forth, faces obscured in shadow from the house lights behind them. Each held their dolls reverently in both hands. All were silent, save for the voices of the dolls which only the new residents of Claisdale Avenue could hear.
“Please, let me go,” some of these voices said.
“Where are you taking us?” said others.
“Mommy!”
“Baby, where are you?”
“I can’t see you! Where are you?”
One by one, the dolls were laid upon the wagon’s many shelves, or hung from the hooks and loops of string.
William walked to his car and returned with a red gasoline jug. He tilted it and circled the wagon, letting the fuel glug from the yellow spout. In unison the neighbors backed up to watch from their lawns. Finished, William returned to his family.
The woman produced a silver Zippo lighter from her robe, flicked it open and alight, then tossed it burning into the cart. A “whoosh”. The wood cracked and blackened. Tiny clothes, nylon hair curled into flame. The people smiled warmly as they watched and listened. The dolls’ screams mixed with the smoke, drifting high into the warm summer night.
— — — — —
About “Redemption”
OK, time to be honest. No matter how many times I tried, I just couldn’t sell this friggin’ story. Well, that’s not quite true. Remember me mentioning in “The Doll Wagon” introduction, how I had a story accepted for a magazine which eventually went out of business before the story saw daylight? Well, this was it. It felt great to sell this one, as it had a long and sordid history of revisions and rewrites. When the magazine went under, I just couldn’t sell this piece anywhere else. Why? I have no idea! Granted, it might simply be that the story, well, stinks like bad cabbage. I’ll let you be the judge, since I gave it a home here in my humble little collection. Personally, this story is probably so deep, so profound, that other editors felt it would make every other story look bad.
Right. Well, I like it — a lot — so it stays. Hmmpph!
Anyhow, interesting background to this story. When I buckled down a few years ago to do some serious writing, my debut piece of fiction was a nine thousand word epic with a plot so amazingly original, that it would catapult me to fame overnight. You see, I’d come up with the idea of writing about an asteroid coming to earth, and very little time remaining to stop it. What would the average person do in those final days? Treat it from their perspective, keeping all the science fiction broo-ha-ha out. Nothing like it had ever been done!
Halfway through writing “Doomsday” two movies were released: DEEP IMPACT and ARMEGEDDON. I guess the factual near-miss we had with a large asteroid the year prior inspired a lot of other people besides me. Still, I trudged on and finished the piece. It received a lot of attention - in the form of rejection letters.
I cut the story down to six thousand words, then five thousand, boiling it to its essence. Same response. Finally, I canned it, letting it simmer and age, like a fine wine. By this time, the story was called “No Redemption by Doomsday.” You can see from this that I was getting desperate.
A year later, I resurrected the piece, and read it over. It wasn’t as good as I’d remembered. But, there was one minor scene - a nightmare the main character kept having about a beating he’d received the year before. Light dawned! I trashed everything but three things: the dream (which became the primary plot line), the phone conversation with the character’s wife which I really liked, and the naked lady (Gotta keep the naked lady). It sold, but soon became “available” again (see above note re: out of business). I tried remarketing it. Nope. Hmmm... I slashed and attacked the prose, tighter and tighter. Sweat poured from my brow, blood smeared the keyboard. Though I began to get some good comments from editors, they were part of an overall “no”. Still, you must try and try. Still, “no” and “no”. Finally, seeing that I’m putting this collection together, I’m going to make all of you read it – whether you want to or not!
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you “Redemption”. Read it. Read it... or so help me I’ll hunt you down like an animal and make you read it! ....and you’d better enjoy it.....
Ironically, after this collection appeared for the first time in the US, it received Honorable Mention in the 2002 Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, proving that editor Ellen Datlow not only reads introductions to stories, and that she has a really good sense of humor.
Redemption
Standing between dream and memory, Jacob Dempsy turned away from the cooler doors. No buying the six pack this time, so unnecessary this late at night. He moved, as if floating, to the front.
The old man behind the counter sniffed. “Will that be it?”
The six pack was in Jacob’s hands. He let it go. It faded away, reappeared as the old man dropped it into a brown paper bag.
“I don’t want to do this,” Jacob whispered. “Just stop.” This was a dream, the dream. He knew that. Wanted it to change just one time.
The storekeeper whispered, “Can’t do that.” He took the money Jacob hadn’t offered him and flipped the bills into the drawer. He didn’t bother to give change, but said, “Just hold on. It’ll all be over soon.”
Through the window’s neon beer sign, Jacob watched three men walk up to his Toyota and lean on the hood. The skinny one, a tattoo of a dragon scrawled on his cheek, waved like an old friend. Even from this distance the animalistic rage swirled like a thunderhead in the man’s eyes. Rage directed at Jacob, the car, whatever drove him and his buddies to sit outside this liquor store one year ago and wait to kill a stranger.
In the original run of the drama they failed. But only barely. One of the three, a splotchy Irishman with freckles staining his face and arms, had knocked the bag to the ground as Jacob left the store, then held him from behind while the skinny guy kicked. Jacob’s only real memory was the blur of pain, smell of urine and oil as his face pressed against the pavement. A work boot from the third attacker, a fat man in a tight black Harley t-shirt, cracking ribs, working at Jacob’s skull. Then, Jacob simply curled up, numb, and waited to die. In subsequent dreams, like the one he found himself in now, gaps in his memory were filled. He felt every impact.
With only vague physical attributes and a generic description of a white Plymouth Fury, the police never made an arrest. Jacob’s attackers disappeared from existence. Hiding in his mind was how it felt, cowering in his head like scavengers waiting for nightfall. Until he was asleep, defenseless.
Jacob waited at the door. Not this time. Not this time. Still clutching the bag, he turned and walked away. Gravity pulled him down but he waded on towards the back exit. Cracked green floor tiles had an elasticity like in a carnival moon walk. He couldn’t breath. The tinkle of a b
ell as someone came in behind him. Heavy footsteps. A low rumbling like a distant train became the pounding of some monstrous buried machinery.
The back door was chipped red. Jacob pressed the lever. It broke off. Behind him, bottles fell to the floor. A hand slapped his shoulder. Jacob tossed his weight forward, into the door. It opened.
Daylight. Silence. Panoramic hills and distant mountains, never a part of the city’s actual landscape, spread away before him now. Cool mountain air. He was free. A shadow covered the hillside. As Jacob turned, something burned from the sky and screamed down on top of him.
* * *
The baseboard heaters clicked. He turned his head towards the clock. Two-thirty. He waited. Two-thirty-one. Jacob rose from the couch and peered behind the window shade. Some of the windows of other townhouses glowed the iridescent blue of televisions. He wrapped his bathrobe tighter and began his own blue-tinged vigil.
* * *
Jacob let the words of the newscasts fall across him, recycled forms of the same story. “Tomorrow is Doomsday.” And it was too late to do anything about it.
The dream tried to force its way back into his thoughts. He wrestled it away. Dr. Chin was right. Not talking about it, even with Claire, was why the dream kept returning. But he was alive, and if moving on with his life meant having a nightmare once a week, twice a week, so be it. He didn’t need to talk. Didn’t want to talk.
Muffled sounds outside. A fight. The baseball bat leaned against the table. He lifted it carefully, not wanting to move back too closely to the window. Looting and death spread like the fires that accompanied them. He imagined demons crawling from some new crevice in the world, snatching up souls before the end of everything.
