Then again, Corey was at work all day, could talk to anyone he wanted. Sam had the same right. His chest tightened. Was he jealous? Ridiculous. Standard male paranoia, two women talking in secret, bringing up all his faults and foibles. What happened at home should stay at home, not be spread around as conversational fodder.
He steered the Honda onto the highway off-ramp. Sam wouldn’t bring up intimate details with a stranger, no matter how charismatic she might be. He was being paranoid, another blemish on his soul to join so many others.
Entering Hillcrest. The drive home was a panorama of unspoiled beauty. The towns, nestled between the industrial cities of Worcester and Fitchburg, might have been culled from a Rockwell painting. Bucolic, he thought the word might be. Trees reached from both sides, sometimes opening to an expanse of hay fields soon to be rolled into oversized bundles by the rusty red tractor parked by the road.
He passed west through the center of town. Corey tried to remember if he was supposed to pick up milk at the Greedy Grocer. No, didn’t think so. Milk was one of the few staples that could be gotten last minute without a twenty minute ride back into the city. Corey passed by the stores, then noticed the old man walking towards him on the sidewalk. Stooped, long sleeved flannel shirt buttoned to the wrist in defiance of the heat. A small white dog trotted beside him.
Both looked up to follow the car’s progress. Corey’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening. Not an ancient cab driver this time but a tired old man walking his dog on a warm summer evening. Hank Cowles again.
Everything suddenly made sense. He must have passed him and his little dog on the way home another day but didn’t remember it. He lived in town, after all. Then why did the sight of him fill Corey with such paralyzing fear? Anger, he decided, not fear. Hank Cowles knew too much about them, more than anyone, even in this small town, should know.
Hank didn’t smile as the car passed, but raised his hand in a gesture which could have been greeting or dismissal. Corey’s chest felt hollow. He waved back, wanting to stop, run from his car and grab the man by his unseasonable shirt, shake him until he admitted spying.
His palms squeaked painfully on the steering wheel. The car wavered in the lane. Corey let out the breath he’d been holding, took another in. He drove past the old man, glanced occasionally in the mirror to make sure he hadn’t transformed into someone else again. He and his dog, walking away without a care in the world.
IV
The Cabel Grille was a modest-sized restaurant located on the east side of Hillcrest, a half mile from Interstate 190. The place was crowded for a Tuesday. Samantha hadn’t called ahead. In fact, she’d forgotten about it as soon as Vanessa arrived for lunch. Regardless, after Corey had taken a few minutes to change into jeans and a clean polo shirt, they’d gotten into the car to see if the place was open. If not, Sam reasoned, they’d have an excuse to go somewhere else, seeing as they would already be in the car. Corey agreed with a smile, but Samantha couldn’t help notice a distance in him this evening. She tried not to worry over it, nor assume it had anything to do with her confession last night.
She ordered a chicken Caesar salad, Corey an extra-thick cheeseburger, and for Abby, a kid’s meal of macaroni and cheese with a cookie. Their daughter played with a twenty piece puzzle of a Labrador that came with her meal (thankfully not a Shih-Tzu, Sam had joked with Corey, then had to explain to Abby that she hadn’t said a swear word). The restaurant knew how to cater to small town clientele with an elaborate array of vegetarian and low-carb plates alongside enough meat and potatoes to satisfy pretty much everyone.
Sam speared a piece of breaded chicken onto her fork and looked at Corey. He was currently bent towards Abby. She was giving him every detail of Vanessa’s visit.
“And when she took a bite of pie it was too warm because Mommy heated it in the microwave so she said ouch and blew on it. She smiles a lot, you know. She’s pretty, like Mommy. She works on the computer in her house for a job.” All of this with as little breathing as possible. The girl stopped long enough to spear as many macaronis as possible with her fork, a game she played whenever mac and cheese was the meal. When she could fit no more on the fork she gave her mother a quick, sideways glance. Samantha’s cue.
“Please don’t put all that in your mouth.”
“I can eat all this!” Waving the over-laden fork in the air like a scepter.
“If you do,” she said, calmly, playing the game, “it’s going to leak out your nose.”
Abby laughed but still managed to get nearly half into her mouth before finally chewing. Samantha shook her head and poked a piece of lettuce, real food.
Corey watched their exchange with a wistful smile. He looked tired. “So it went OK?” he asked, an opening for Samantha to work any details in that might be worth mentioning while Abby was chewing.
She nodded. “Vanessa’s very nice. A little intense.”
“Intense?” He used both hands to raise the burger, watched over the bun.
Sam shrugged. “Not sure why I think that— maybe because she always leans forward when she talks to you, or when she’s listening, you know? As if whatever she’s about to say, or what you’re saying is the most important thing ever.”
“Vanessa invited us over to her house for supper tomorrow night,” Abby said, refueled for another run.
Before she could build up steam to add more, Corey said, “She did? So soon?” He didn’t sound happy.
Samantha said, “Well, yes, she wanted to repay the favor, said she’s booked for the next few nights after that and, to be honest, I think she might be a little lonely. Living alone like she does.”
Corey’s face had darkened. Not angry. Whatever it was, it was new for him. She didn’t know what it meant, but something bothered him.
“O…K…,” he said, drawing out the letters. “I suppose that’s fine. I assume it’ll be early enough for Abby to hit the sack at a decent time.”
Abby tilted her head, twisting her mouth in a what-does-that-mean way. Corey noticed and added, “Hit the sack. It means go to bed.”
“Why?”
He raised his burger in front of him and shrugged. “No idea.” He was looking at Samantha again, not wanting to get off track.
Sam wondered why she felt so defensive. “We figured six-thirty. It would allow you time to change if you want, and for us to get home by eight. Nothing too elaborate.”
“She doesn’t have a dog,” Abby said with a pout. “But she used to. She had a big black one named Blackie. It ran away when she was little. She said maybe some day if she got another one I could help train him and … ”
And she went on for a few minutes more. Samantha took advantage of the dialogue to eat more of her salad, grateful that Corey’s attention was forced on their daughter. He watched Abby talk, nodding now and then, occasionally looking Sam’s way as if there were a hundred questions meant for her alone but which he either couldn’t or wouldn’t ask. Not in front of the child. Words meant for adults, those who understand the cravings of the body.
She blushed, tried to cover it by taking a sip of her water. She never felt comfortable drinking alcohol in public. Maybe a glass of wine if one was offered. The water was cool going down, washed clean as if from a baptism, concentrated on the sensation to help fight the red she knew shone like a beacon from her cheeks.
Vanessa had been wonderful with Abby, never getting annoyed with her or put off by the constant interruptions. When Samantha and Vanessa could talk directly it was mostly about local events. Not much on that topic, however. Hay Day in the Fall at the Swayne Farm, local fairs and bake sales. That topic led to the pie, Vanessa casually wondering who’d made it. She was quick to point out she didn’t know too many people in Hillcrest. She had, however, noticed a sign for Story Time at the town library. Every Thursday during the summer. Samantha thought it would be a good place for Abby to meet other kids her age, so she’d written it down on the cal
endar.
Throughout the visit, Vanessa’s presence filled the room. She dressed conservatively again, similar to Sunday, but blue this time, subtle floral patterns reaching to the knees, buttoned to her throat. Her demeanor and expression were far from conservative. Wide, sweeping arm gestures, a sharp, brown gaze. Long black hair which sometimes— perhaps because of the way she kept it closely braided— looked as though it were no longer than the dress’s collar.
Sam was swept up in the woman’s spirit, wrapped in it like a blanket on a cold night.
It made no sense. She loved Corey and never once found herself attracted to anyone of the same sex. But this afternoon, Sam couldn’t help wonder if, in some strange way, she wasn’t falling in love with the woman. Probably a crush, drawn by the way her neighbor carried herself, how she sounded so comfortable with any topic. More than that. Sam wished she could be like Vanessa. If she spent more time around her, she might actually learn how.
She thought she understood Corey’s reaction to Vanessa’s invitation. He was jealous, of the sudden drawing away of his wife’s attention from him.
Nothing more. Nothing.
Their table had fallen silent, the only voices that of other diners’ conversations. Corey and Abby watched her. His expression had softened to the relaxed, amused look he got when Samantha said something “endearing.”
She blinked and whispered, “I’m sorry. Veg'd out for a minute. What was the question?”
Corey said, “Nothing important. Just wondering how long that booger’s been stuck on the end of your nose.” He pointed to her face. She reached up, face filling with heat for the second time that night, and wiped at her nose. Abby grabbed her stomach and doubled over in laughter.
“There’s no booger!” she screamed, drawing looks from other diners. “Daddy was just joking!”
Corey was laughing now too, though much more quietly, shoulders moving in time.
Sam wanted to laugh. She really did. “Very funny, guys.” She gave Abby a poke across the table.
Corey’s mouth stretched suddenly into a wide yawn. “Sorry. I’m suddenly exhausted. Slept like a stone last night, but maybe my body isn’t used to it.”
“Rocks don’t sleep, Daddy.”
He ran a hand over her hair. “Just an expression, Honey. It means I slept all night without waking up.”
Abby narrowed her gaze. “You got up, Daddy. When I had my bad dream and you sent me to bed. You made me tell it. I went back to sleep and didn’t have any dreams at all. Just like a rock!”
Samantha looked at him, but Corey was still staring at Abby. “Did I get up last night?” He looked at Sam.
She shrugged. “I don’t remember. I was sleeping - ” she leaned across the table and whispered, “– like a rock.” Abby giggled. “So if you did -”
“Abby what was your dream about? I don’t remember.”
Sam closed her mouth and leaned back in her chair. He’d just interrupted her.
Abby’s bottom lip stuck out. “Big giant forks, remember? Bad ones, sticking out of the clouds. It was scary.” She sat back, crossed her arms in front of her, said sternly, “I do not want to talk about it. I already told you.”
“Ok,” he said. He looked to Samantha for confirmation. Of what, she didn’t have a clue.
“Giant Forks,” he said, to himself, then forced a smile towards Abby. “Sounds very silly. At least you know it won’t come back ever again, right?”
Abby nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
WEDNESDAY
I
Corey
The morning was clear, still cool this early. Corey enjoyed driving to work when most people were only considering getting out of bed. Summer meant no buses or high school kids waiting on corners. Just him and the woods, then the slow merge into the human race as he rolled down the interstate towards Worcester. The real world rose ahead like a storm cloud.
He’d slept soundly again, after an extended session of staring at the shadowy wall across the room, thinking about his daughter’s nightmare. Flashes of memory, nothing concrete. He could not remember getting out of bed the night before, settling Abby down. She’d been so certain. If her mention of the “angry forks” hadn’t sounded do damned familiar, he would have assumed she’d dreamt his part, too. Dreaming of waking, as Sam might put it.
What had finally allowed him to drift away beside the steady breathing of his wife was the decision to accept that he had gotten up, tended to Abby, even listened to her story of the dream without waking up completely. When he returned to bed he’d simply incorporated what she’d told him into his own dream, only to be forgotten on waking like most of his others.
He did dream, last night, but preferred not to think about it. No giant forks. He’d dreamt again of their beautiful but mysterious neighbor standing over his bed, reaching down, touching him, a lost, distracted look as she—
No. He wouldn’t dwell. Dreams were only dreams. Nothing else. Time to settle his mind on the world rolling towards him. The clean country air thinned to a polluted sheen as he closed in on the city limits.
The clock wound more easily this morning. That was one aspect of these odd few days Corey decided he would embrace, Hank Cowles’ intrusions aside. The thing had languished in his family for generations and now it had a chance for life. It ticked away the seconds for the first time in years, and would continue to do so as long as he took care of it. These days everything around him felt out of control. Doing this one small thing was a corner he could tuck in tight, have power over. It was still just as ugly, and in truth didn’t keep very good time, but he’d keep at it, until things settled down.
A truck passed on the left, roaring like a jet. He slid the window up. As he approached the Ararat Street exit, more cars spilled from their private worlds onto the highway. The road widened into three lanes this close to the center of the city, an assembly line for daily worker bees, far from the peaceful stretch of road it had been.
Bees. No sign of them this morning; no waking in the night to their angry, insistent whine. He’d called the builder yesterday after lunch, but Wayne hadn’t remembered any wasp issues when the house was built.
Not that it isn’t possible, he’d said. You want everything storybook, but bugs are the one thing you’ll never completely control, especially where you live. They need to live somewhere.
He’d given Corey the number of an exterminator. If they continued to poke their alien faces where they didn’t belong, he’d give the guy a call. He’d forgotten about checking the attic. Tonight, though. He’d check tonight.
He moved into the right lane, heading for the downtown exit. The city always looked refreshed in the morning, clean. Corey was falling behind on his project. Time to focus, get stuff done, take his mind off the pending visit to Vanessa’s house tonight. He wasn’t looking forward to it. In some ways, everything had started to get weird once she had made her entrance into their lives.
Vanessa, the old man and his cute little dog. That was another battle Corey had no mental energy to tackle.
II
“Almost seven years, now,” Vanessa said, in answer to Sam’s question, “and hopefully another seventy.” She tossed her head back in a gesture now as familiar to Corey as his wife’s constant tucking of stray locks behind her ear, or Abby’s habit of sticking out her lower lip when deep in thought.
“I can see why,” Sam said, leaning back on the couch. “The house might be small, but it’s so warm. And with the woods behind you, feels like it’s hidden in a forest.” She pushed aside the thin curtains drifting in the breeze over the double hung windows, looked out towards the neighborhood. The house was angled to allow a view to the trees marking the edge of the woods. The twilight glow, filtered through the sheer material, drifted across her face. Corey decided his wife never looked more comfortable anywhere, or more beautiful. The thought kindled a strange sadness in him.
“Like a gingerbread house.” Vanessa laughed, ignoring Corey’s discomfort
or, more likely, missing it entirely.
“Yes,” Sam said, “exactly.”
That was when Corey realized what bothered him so much. Not how well Sam and Vanessa connected, on more levels than perhaps he and she ever had. It was, quite simply, that she became Vanessa, took on her relaxed, comfortable-anywhere persona when they were together.
He was losing her.
No, he wasn’t. He was jealous. And selfish.
Their dinner had been a delicious meal of angel hair pasta adorned with shrimp, covered in white sauce. Everyone, including Corey, had nothing but compliments for the food. Vanessa had waved the praise away with a reference to a recipe she’d seen on the side of the box of spaghetti. Somehow, Corey didn’t think that was true, especially since it was the same self-effacing comment Sam used the other day.
He sipped his coffee, a thick brew of decaf sprinkled with ginger. She’d added it without asking and, in keeping with the evening, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had in a long time. The bitch, he thought.
Corey smirked, wiped his mouth with his hand to cover it. Hand down, smile gone, he felt better. Abby’s legs dangled over the edge of the couch, sipping a mug of hot chocolate with a generous dollop of marshmallow. She looked content letting the adults talk, but her eyes focused too much on the drink. She was fading. Almost bed time.
Vanessa regarded Corey with those piercing eyes of hers. He was entrenched in the thick cushion of a recliner. The living room was smaller than theirs, but laid out similarly. Vanessa said, “You’ve been rather quiet tonight, Corey.”
He shrugged, forced a smile. “Sorry. Well-fed and warmed with coffee, I’m content to listen.”
She stared a moment longer, reclining back against the couch like Sam was doing. For the moment, at least, he was the center of this woman’s attention. It felt patronizing. “I know,” she said, “next time you come, I’ll show you my computer. You work as a programmer, don’t you?”
Destroyer of Worlds Page 9
