Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  But there they were, at eye level: G.T. & M.R.

  There were other initials and obscenities carved in the bark around it, but mine had been first. They stood out strong and clear after all this time. It’s too bad the relationship hadn’t lasted as long.

  Meg Rand.

  I ran my fingers along the furrows of our initials.

  Then the headache struck.

  They had started a few months ago. The first of the symptoms Dr. Cutler said I would experience, followed by blurred vision, blackouts, maybe even hallucinations. It felt like a claw had ripped its way through my scalp and grabbed my brain in a vise-like grip – and squeezed. Pain burst through the left side of my skull. My feet became wobbly as everything blurred around me. I grabbed hold of the oak, nails biting into the bark, to steady myself and stood there, head hung down, waiting for the roaring pain inside to subside.

  As it started to dissipate, I opened my eyes and looked up. As my vision cleared and I began to focus, I noticed the words carved just above my initials on the tree. I didn’t remember seeing them before.

  It said: R. U. Next?

  I wondered what it meant, who it was meant for. It almost seemed like a message speaking to me. (Next? Next for what?) Even though it was a question, it felt more like a warning, or a threat.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at some silly words that surely weren’t meant for me. I left the tree and headed back to my car.

  There was no getting around it. My car knew where to go, and I let it lead me, feeling the steering wheel move in my hands as I turned onto Maple Street. I drove slowly, the houses coasting past me, anticipation building. I could catch a glimpse of it up ahead. Just a glimpse, but my throat dried up and my heartbeat hesitated. It came into full view, and I stopped in front of it and got out of the car.

  My house.

  This was where it all began. This was where it all happened. This was my neighborhood. Ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. The years drifted backwards like pages in a book. (But I haven’t written it. Can’t get past that first line.) Nothing changed; it was all still the same.

  This was my playground, where my stories began, the tales grew. There in the ravine of trees between the rows of houses on Maple and Elm streets. There in the Pines on the hill beyond. There down the end of Shadow Drive where the Tin Man’s house stood.

  I shuddered.

  I stared at my house.

  Paul Woodman’s house stood on one side, Dale Carpenter’s on Elm Street behind the ravine. Oliver Rench lived across the street from me, Lonny Mudge beside him. Martin Peek’s house was over on Autumn Avenue. And down Maple Street, on the corner of Shadow Drive, was Jason Nightingale’s house.

  I could feel it in the air. We were all here. This is where I wanted to be, where I really wanted to be. I could feel it now. A group of boys, maybe eleven years old, maybe twelve are running toward the ravine.

  It’s Martin, Woody and Dale. Oliver and Lonny. And my god, it’s Jason too. They stop and look at me, waving their arms for me to follow.

  Come on, Geoff, Jason calls out, waving his arm frantically,

  My body tries to move, but my feet are embedded in the cement of the sidewalk. How I want to go with them.

  Hurry up, Geoff, Jason calls again. We’re gonna play the game.

  No, I thought. Don’t play the game. “No!” I screamed out loud. (Don’t open it), I thought. (Don’t open it) and nothing bad will happen.

  I turned around and looked across the street at the dead, burnt maple tree in Oliver’s back yard with its scorched bark and amputated limbs.

  Why did they leave it up? Someone should have cut it down.

  “We can’t play the game anymore,” I said to no one, because no one was there.

  I left the neighborhood and drove to the inn to see if it was okay to check in yet. I parked in the gravel lot and stepped out of the car. The typewriter and ream of paper were in one hand and my hurriedly packed suitcase in the other. I walked up the wooden steps which creaked under my weight like an old man’s aching bones and imagined as I reached for the doorknob that if I opened the heavy oak door I would see dozens of cats running around the interior of the lobby, licking their chops.

  I grabbed hold of the cold brass handle and turned it, pushing open the door but not taking a step inside. There were no cats of course, and after leaning my head inside and looking around, I stepped onto the wooden floorboards and approached the counter. I did not see anyone and set my belongings down while examining the lobby.

  On the wall behind the counter loomed a deer head, antlers branching outwards, glass eyes staring straight ahead. Looking around the room, I immediately detected a theme. Hanging on the wall beneath the deer head were various photographs of a middle-aged man in camouflage clothing standing or kneeling besides various animal carcasses: deer, rabbits, boars, wild turkeys and pheasants. On the counter before me, next to the guest book, was a wooden duck decoy painted with great detail to represent a mallard with its green head and neck. The detail was so exquisite I half expected the bird to get up and waddle along the slick surface. Beside the decoy was a small woven basket of apples.

  Across the counter was a doorway that led to another room. On the wall on one side of the door stood a grandfather clock and beside it on the wall hung a pair of criss-crossed snowshoes. On the other side of the doorway hung a painting of a doe at a stream, its head bent, about to taste the cool-looking water, its white tail raised. The picture had a calming hypnotic effect on me as I stared at it. I became lost in the tranquility of its setting. It was only after a minute of admiring it that I noticed on the right edge of the painting a figure in the bushes alongside the stream. It was a hunter, rifle raised as he drew bead on the doe.

  I heard the clearing of a throat before I was aware there was someone behind me.

  When I turned around, I came face to face with the man in the photographs. He was balding with a round cheeks and tough skin. He smiled and extended a hand.

  “I’m Bob Wolfe, the proprietor.”

  I shook his calloused hand and told him my name. My fingers were relieved when he relinquished his tight grip.

  “One of the club, right?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Am I too early to check in?”

  “A little bit. But that’s okay. Your room is all set.” He picked up a pen and began writing in the guestbook, glancing once at the grandfather clock.

  “It’s amazing what you’ve done with this place. I remember what it was like when the Peas sisters owned it.”

  “It was a lot of hard work,” he said, turning the book around and offering me the pen. “It was my wife’s idea. She got me to retire early so we could run this place together.”

  “Just the two of you here?” I asked, signing my name slowly and carefully, like when I used to practice my signature for when I became a famous author.

  “My wife died before we got to open.”

  I looked up in time to catch his smile fading and felt myself blush. “I’m sorry.”

  “My niece works with me, she’s been a great help.”

  Looking for a way to change the subject, I picked up the wooden mallard off the counter. “This is beautiful,” I said, noticing something sifting inside, like it was filled with sand. Without a word, his hands reached out, gently took the decoy from me and placed it back on the counter.

  “Those are my wife’s ashes,” he said, not looking up from the duck. “I had that specially made, so she can be here with me at the inn. I even take it hunting with me sometimes.” He came around the counter and picked up my suitcase. “Let’s show you your room.”

  As I reached for the typewriter case, I noticed a curious look on his face.

  “Quiet time is after 10 o’clock,” he said.

  I told him that wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t think there’d be much noise coming from those keys. He led the way up the stairs, and I followed, running my hand along the smooth
varnished wood of the railing.

  “Place full?” I asked.

  “Two others besides your gang. Young woman and the professor.”

  “Professor?”

  “Professor Bonz. A crypto-zoologist. Spends most of his time floating around on the lake.” We had reached the second-floor landing. He turned and gave me the raised eyebrow. “Says he’s looking for dinosaurs in the lake.” He shook his head and laughed.

  On the wall at the top of the landing hung a large moose head, just like in a lot of corny old scary movies. It was the kind of stuffed head whose eyeballs would follow your movements around the house. It reminded me of a story I had written when I was young, about a moose head on a wall that torments a hunter in a cabin and ends up biting off his face.

  We began the ascent to the third floor. There were three rooms on each floor, plus the tower room. Wolfe told me my room was on the top floor, along with Lonny Mudge and Dale Carpenter. Paul Woodman’s room was on the second floor, which was where the young woman and the professor were staying. Oliver Rench would be staying in the tower room. He had specifically requested it.

  When Wolfe opened the door, we stepped into a simple bedroom. A four-post king-sized bed stood against one wall with a nightstand beside it. Across from the bed was a bureau with a large mirror on top. The only other piece of furniture was a cherry desk up against the wall beside the window that looked onto the lake.

  It was on this desk that I set the typewriter case down. Wolfe placed my suitcase beside the bureau while explaining each floor had a community bathroom. I stared out the window at the peaceful water while he gave me the rest of the rundown.

  “My niece’s name is Sandy. Cleans the rooms between eleven and one. There are no locks to the bedroom doors, but I have a safe in my office if you need any valuables locked up. Dining room only serves breakfast, from 6:30 till 10, though there’s usually a pot of coffee on earlier. Your club’s allowed use of it after hours for your, uh, meetings. Guests are allowed full use of the den. Just don’t disturb them.” He turned to go. “Not that you could disturb the professor. He seems already a little out of sorts.” He smiled, winking, and then left, shutting the door.

  Here I am, I thought, looking again at the lake. Back where it all began. Now what?

  I looked at the typewriter case. I didn’t lug this antique all the way up here for nothing, did I? I opened it and set the typewriter up, wondering if it would even work. I grabbed the ream of paper from my suitcase and placed it beside the typewriter. I quickly thumbed the pages. Did I actually think I could fill them?

  I removed the piece of paper from my pocket and placed it beside the typewriter. My eyes went back and forth from the typewriter to the page with my one line on it while I stood unmoving beside the desk. I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to place my fingertips on those cold keys. Keys so frigid my fingers would grow numb and be unable to move. I was afraid that once I typed that one line again, I wouldn’t be able to go any further.

  I thought of Jason Nightingale. And of Paul Woodman. I stared at the piece of paper by the machine. Something was missing. I let out a sigh and turned away from the desk.

  Rest was what I needed right now. It was an excuse, like the hundreds I had come up with over the years, but I had driven all night from the city without stopping. The excitement and anticipation of getting here had kept me going, but now weariness had set in. I had plenty of time to kill. The others wouldn’t be driving in until later. We had mostly spread throughout the east coast. Martin still lived here though, working in the tax office at the Town Hall. Last I heard, he still lived with his crippled mother taking care of her. They had moved out of the old neighborhood to somewhere on the west side of town.

  And of course, Jason was still here.

  I looked at a closed door I assumed must be a closet and thought about hanging my jacket in it. (Don’t open it, Woody had said.) Instead, I just tossed it over the back of the desk chair. I kicked off my shoes and reclined on the soft green plaid comforter covering the bed. I stared up at the painted white tin ceiling for a while, my eyes following its mazelike pattern, and then closed my eyes. Sleep beckoned and I succumbed. It felt nice.

  Geoffrey! A voice called. You’re late.

  I did not stir.

  Wake up, it called again. Dale and the others are here. Hurry up, you’ll be late for school.

  “Mother,” I said as I sat up in bed.

  I looked at the clock on the night stand. It didn’t appear to be working. I should get up, I thought, spend more time seeing the town. Besides, I was feeling really hungry.

  I left the inn and walked to town, strolling along the boardwalk. The cool air from the lake brushed against me. The town was still quiet, though businesses were open. A few cars drifted by on the streets, but I had the boardwalk to myself. Not even Carrothead, a local fixture on the boardwalk, was around. My footsteps on the wood planks echoed beneath me. It sounded as if someone was walking along behind me. It even felt as if someone was there. I stopped – the steps stopped. I stood absolutely still. I held my breath and listened, concentrating as hard as I could to feel if someone was actually there.

  Carrothead? Meg? Jason?

  I turned.

  It was none of them. It was no one.

  I continued along the boardwalk until I came to the marina and saw an old man loading some equipment into a small motorboat.

  “Howdy, Professor Bonz,” I said, hoping I guessed right. He looked up at me from the boat, a cracked face squinting in the sunlight.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No,” I said, introducing myself. “Mr. Wolfe told me about you. I’m staying at the inn too.”

  “Oh, you must be one of them from the Jackass Club?”

  “No,” I laughed. “It’s Jokers Club.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He loaded the last piece of equipment into the boat and then followed himself. “No doubt Mr. Wolfe told you what an eccentric fool I am.”

  “Said you were looking for dinosaurs.”

  He grunted, shaking his head. “Not dinosaurs. A fish. Thought to be extinct, dating back to the Mesozoic era.” He pointed out toward the center of the lake and my eyes followed. “This lake was formed by glaciers. Its depth is unrecorded. It’s virtually bottomless. No one knows what could be down there. The possibilities are unfathomable.” He looked at me and winked.

  “It’s funny,” I said, looking out over the rippling water. “I wrote a story about a prehistoric fish in this lake. It attacked some fishermen in a rowboat.”

  “Oh, are you a writer?”

  I hesitated, laughed a little. It was a question I had wanted to answer for such a long time. I just wasn’t sure of the answer.

  “Yes,” I said, before I realized it.

  “What have you written? Maybe I’ve read you.”

  At least a dozen book titles ran through my head; books that were supposed to be; books that should have been; books that I just never got around to writing. What had happened? I had such high hopes for myself, such ambitions. I was going to make it big. I had fled to New York City ready to ignite my imagination. But the stories never came. There was nothing there. I was in the biggest city in the country, full of millions of people, full of stories. It was there that books were born. But I had lost it. I couldn’t find the stories that had driven me since I was a boy. Somewhere along the line, in the process of growing up, I had lost them.

  “No,” I said. “You haven’t read me. I don’t have anything published.” Yet, I wanted to add, yet.

  “Oh,” the old professor acknowledged. He seemed to understand.

  “I haven’t tried too hard.”

  “Then why write?”

  I smiled. “For the fun of it.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then dismissed himself, starting his motor. I wished him luck and watched him head out to the middle of the lake. I stayed on the dock, keeping my eyes on him in his boat, playing with all the knobs on
his sonar detecting machines. It reminded me of the scientists in old B-movies I used to love watching on Saturday afternoons. As I turned to go, I could almost imagine a prehistoric fish leaping out of the water and eating him.

  I smiled.

  As I walked downtown, I decided I needed a bite to eat and something to drink. I found a new place, the Loon Tavern, and stepped inside.

  The bar was dark and it took my eyes a moment to adjust from the bright outdoors. During that fraction of a second of sightlessness, a combination of broiling beef and stale beer provided a mental snapshot of the place. When my gaze focused, I saw a scattering of tables before me and a long bar against the back wall. An arched doorway to the right led to a dining room, but I ignored it and walked straight to the bar.

  There were a couple of tables occupied, but the rest was empty. I settled on a stool, placing my feet on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the sticky surface. The bartender, a bald burly man with a handlebar mustache, came over and wiped the countertop in front of me with a rag.

  That stained damp-looking rag reminded me of the many years I tended bar. It was the only job I had when I got out of college. It was a way to make good money while giving me time to write. A lot of friends, and even Meg, used to ask when I was going to get a real job. Didn’t they understand writing was a job, that it was hard work? At least Meg should have understood.

  I ordered a beer and asked for a menu.

  I was on my third drink when my meal was set down in front of me. In the city I’d had many meals served to me on a bar countertop. When you’re alone, there’s no need to occupy an entire table.

  After eating, I ordered another beer and glanced at a pay phone I noticed earlier in the corner. I pondered doing something I had thought about many times on the ride up here, but didn’t quite know if I should. Unsure, I left my stool, went over and picked up the phone book with sweaty hands. I began thumbing through it slowly, hands shaky. When I got to the R’s, I ran my index finger down along the names.