We Cast a Shadow

by Maurice Carlos Ruffin

  I hired a personal trainer and nutritionist to help me get healthier. I purchased cookbooks but usually ordered out. I even dated occasionally, but none of the women I met made an impression. It was nice to have someone go with me to firm functions, but they weren’t Penny.

  Work was fine. I was a shareholder, after all. I still worked most closely with Octavia but also teamed up with Dinah and Riley, who actually came back to the firm after leaving the School Without Walls and doing a brief stint as executive counsel for Mayor Pavor. He seemed happier since he returned. I’d even taken on a few small business clients of my own. Pavor was in his second term, and some of the Black Safety Laws, as they came to be called, had tightened statewide, such as the right to use public facilities after dark. And the City condemned the Tiko. The whole neighborhood. Eventually PHH bought the land and was nearly done building its sprawling, state-of-the-art replacement for the ramshackle original.

  But some of the old Tiko structures, including the Chicken Coop, were spared the wrecking ball and converted to condos. The whole nastiness disheartened Mama, who moved to Canada with Aunt Shirls. I visited them twice a year, at summer solstice and Canadian Thanksgiving. None of us could find Supercargo, who simply vanished without so much as a goodbye.

  And then one day as I was pecking out a brief in my condo—it turned out that condo living suited me—an email pinged through from Jo Jo, whom I hadn’t heard from since he left town.

  Such a strange aspect of our friends that we consider them constant. The childhood pal we last see in grade school is still fundamentally the same goofball we meet in middle age. Our college buddy who leads the ragers and keggers remains the same insecure animal at his core. Our first love is always our first love, even if she is in the arms of some barrel-chested child oncologist.

  But Jo Jo’s email was not from the same laconic brother I’d loved all my adult life. His voice was unwrapped, loose, joyous. After their stint in the war, he and Polaire moved to the Netherlands. They had triplets, age four. They skied with the children in tow and lived in a cabin a short hike from a mountain. They all, kids included, took pictures of the mountain, which the family sold to collectors around the world. Polaire volunteered in a nearby school. Jo Jo injured himself in a skiing accident—a tree ran right into him!—but was almost completely recovered, except for recurring migraines. A picture was attached to the email: his new family standing on a mountaintop, Jo Jo and the others all in matching red sunglasses and gear—one of the clone children noticeably smaller than her siblings—the colors of the snow and tree leaves digitally enhanced to a level of ebullience unattainable in nature.

  He had been trying to contact me for months. But his calls to the firm were fruitless, his emails bounced back. Of course, I should have known. I had changed my name within the past eighteen months to break with the past. To renew my life. When he called, the receptionist, a new girl from Minnesota, had no idea who he was asking for. Only select persons had my new email. The complications of being a transracial person.

  In any event, he appended a note messaged to him. It was from Nigel.

  Hi Dad,

  I wanted to tell you not to worry. Don’t search for me. I’m doing fine. I’m sure you are, too. Leave me be.

  N

  And in the second attachment, which was initially incomprehensible to my eyes and, therefore, ignored: Nigel’s location, typed in by Jo Jo and laid out by longitude and latitude as determined via the IP address Nigel had used to send the original message.

  39

  The hills and mountains around my Appalachian destination, Carrier Falls, made for a scenic journey. As I drove, my mind wandered to the ancient Confederate battalions. The ones who a couple hundred years earlier marched northward in defense of the Beneficent Institution. How many of the very best young men were taken by conscription? How many sacred Southern sons gave blood and spirit back to the earth for the Lost Cause of the landowners?

  Which reminded me. I checked the revolver in the glove compartment and was comforted to see it there in all its snub-nosed glory. It had belonged to my grandfather and was given to me on my eighteenth birthday by Mama, who was a believer in armed self-defense. I’d never used it. I brought it because there was no telling what I might come across in my search for Nigel. One-handed, I removed the gun and tried to spin the cylinder as I’d seen in films. It didn’t work.

  I might encounter any variety of woodland creatures, hillbillies, or for that matter, Nigel. There was no telling what level of brainwashing he had experienced, or who held him captive. Force might be a necessity. I had no intention of losing him again. Not after all that had happened. Not after all the time that had passed.

  One of the pleasurable aspects of driving the hidden highways and byways—along State Route 342 at that point—was coming across raw Americana. Advertisements painted on the sides of barns. Abandoned wells. General stores cum military recruitment centers. The drive itself was mostly unremarkable except for my mind’s tendency to conjure up unpleasant daydreams. At a rest stop, I saw a kind of fata morgana—a flickering image of Penny, Nigel, and me seated on a knoll, as if picnicking. I continued through that stop without resting.

  Later, after traveling through a particularly winding stretch of road, I came across a delightful old-fashioned filling station—it only had one pump. A handwritten sign promoted homemade blackberry winter pie. As I stood at the pump feeling the current pulse through my fingers, I noticed people inside staring at me, taking my measure. The observation wasn’t violent, and I figured they were suitably impressed. Trusting that I was very close to Nigel’s location, I had dressed that morning at a local motel, the Magic Hound, and put on my very best seersucker—a darker tone to suit my skin—and brogues. A pocket watch chain dangled from my vest pocket. I had a new paper fedora from Paris. I wanted Nigel to see me at my smartest.

  A young couple came out of the station. A black woman and a ginger man. They mistook me for a doctor who had given them free care at some point in the past, a Dr. Holm. I insisted that I wasn’t who they thought I was, but they seemed so happy in the assumption that I almost felt bad in having to assert my real identity. The whole thing was very odd, and I couldn’t help but feel that I was somehow in danger. They absolutely would not accept payment from me. After getting assurances that I was heading in the direction of my destination, I sped away.

  When was the last time the gun had been fired? I had no idea. Had it ever been cleaned? How did you even clean a gun? With dish soap? Formaldehyde somehow seemed appropriate. But I couldn’t worry about that. I put it back and slammed the glove compartment door shut. Immediately, I heard a whapp, and the Bluebird, my new car, shook violently. Flat. Damn. Tire. No spare.

  A single mountaintop looked down on me from the near distance. I asked my device to tell me where I was. But the search screen drooled in response. We could send astronauts to Pluto, but we couldn’t make an electronic device that got reliable reception in a gulch. A trio of eagles flew by. No, two eagles and a military drone.

  I waited for some time, leaning against the Bluebird’s trunk, but no vehicles passed. Luckily, I had come prepared. My outrigger pack, which I had ordered from a women’s home and garden company, included dried meats, a coffee pot, a compass, a sexton, an altimeter, a duck-billed sun visor—pink, so I kept it stowed—and most important, a custom topographical map of the area. After some frustrating attempts to use the materials to fix my location, I was fairly certain that I was less than three miles from Nigel. It seemed like an easy trek except for a purported natural gas field to the east. I could avoid it by simply walking straight thataway.

  I wished I had just one Plum. Then I scolded myself for the thought, using the litany my addiction counselor had taught me: You’re a good man riding a bad road. Walk if you must.

  I hadn’t taken one in three years.

  At dusk, I lit off into the hills with my
pack jauntily clanking in time to my steps. To distract myself, I sang, although I stopped due to a splitting headache. The smell of unseen furry animals reminded me that life went on around me all the time without any difficulty whatsoever, so just relax. This was nothing more than a leisurely hike through spindly trees and kudzu. But about thirty minutes into the action, I was gasping for breath. A raindrop hit my shoulder like the sky was saying, Hey, buddy, up here, don’t you forget about me. Shortly thereafter the drizzle intensified to an even shower, to a steady spew, to darting spikes that rebounded from every direction.

  The rain let up as I crossed a small summit. It was there that I heard voices nearby. I couldn’t quite place it. Was it a radio? Was I near a church? I trotted in the direction of the voices, which sounded like the chant of Native American people on a long, hard trail.

  After a few minutes traveling in the direction of the sound, I found nothing. I recalled what an expert psychiatrist once explained: If you start to hear voices, stick your fingers in your ears; if the voices go away, you’re sane.

  I held my fingers in front of me as if that would help. Slowly, I brought them to the sides of my head and plugged my ears. My heart beat. My breath sounded distant, but clear enough to follow each draw and exhale. No voices. I sighed and unstuffed my ears. The chanting came back, but closer than before and greatly changed. I saw movement beyond the foliage. It wasn’t chanting but vaguely gospel-style singing. Curious, I moved closer still. The music shifted again—banjos. Radio! Had to be a radio. Who the hell had a radio in the middle of a mountain wood? Suddenly the voices sounded angry, drawling, questioning. The movement in the brush picked up, and dogs barked. It wasn’t a radio, and I wasn’t tracking them. They were tracking me. I ran.

  My pack made too much noise. Whoever was out there could go anywhere I went and maintain their distance just by listening. I might as well have been under a spotlight. But I needed my provisions. What chance did I have if I just dropped my stuff and ran for it?

  They, whoever they were, closed in on me from the east. At one point, I could have sworn that they were right on top of me. The foliage to my right parted. In a lightning moment, I told myself to stay calm and see whether it was friend or foe. But my body—in that same split second—made other arrangements. I hopped, as if goosed, and slipped in the mud, careening down a hill butt first, prickly branches stabbing me, berries bouncing off my skin, my pack serving as a toboggan.

  I came to rest maybe a hundred yards away, in a muddy ravine. Then the gun tumbled away from me and went off. The muzzle flash was small, but the blast was louder than I would have thought possible. Fearing that I’d shot myself, I climbed to my feet slowly, checking the workings of my arms and legs as if I were a marionette. But other than being wet down to my underwear and covered in muck, I was fine. I also felt lighter. I reached around and discovered that my pack had disintegrated during my fall to earth. All that remained was the base and the straps. I rummaged through the underbrush for my things, locating the compass and the gun, which I tucked into my belt holster. It was impossible to find the other items in the descending gloom.

  Oh. And something was in the trees right above me.

  At first, I thought it was nothing. Shadowy leaves and branches danced on the breeze. A bird—a warbler, probably—chattered in the high dark green. Its agitated, twittering melody brought Duke Ellington—conked hair and all—to mind. Something crunched, and the song stopped abruptly.

  Something moved in the upper branches, and my stomach shrank to the size of a walnut. The thing in the trees was white-furred and about as big as a large cat or small ape. I didn’t move, hoping it wouldn’t see me. Or at least I tried not to move, but my body wouldn’t stop shaking. And the animal was getting closer. I sprinted—forget the remains of my pack—scanning the trees as I ran.

  I stopped to catch my breath in a clearing. A branch fell, bruising my shoulder. The creature climbed down toward me, its forelimbs scissoring, its bill-like jaws mimicking the sound of the bird I’d just heard.

  It followed me as I ran, jumping along the tree limbs as easily as I would stroll down a street. I tripped on some kudzu and scrambled to my feet, cursing. Then the animal flew, like a flying squirrel. I’d never be able to outrun it. But I remembered: The gun, you idiot! The animal groaned above me. My hands failed. I couldn’t make them stop vibrating long enough to unholster the gun. Just then I noticed a shimmering surface beyond the edge of the woods. The shimmering area was a small pond, black as a mirror. I leaped in without even slowing down.

  The water was cold! But once I was submerged, the bottom emerged into view. Rock formations lurked. At the shore, that thing splashed into the water. No way. Was it really swimming? Its head was submerged, and great splashes of water shot out as it moved. My leg cramped from the coldness. I struggled to the center of the pond and dove.

  I found an opening, a smallish, phosphorescently glowing portal. I swam along the tight, underwater corridor for a while. It was very narrow, and it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Worse yet, there wasn’t enough space to turn around. I couldn’t go back if my life depended on it. In a panic, I exhaled, and bubbles ran up my forehead, like a clutter of hairy spiders. I was running out of air, and everything inside me said to turn back, fight, return to the surface, you fool. But I kept going. Suddenly the rock ceiling above me cleared away, and I was in a dim cavern. Gasping, I climbed onto a muddy shelf and shivered with my back pressed against the rocks. I shook out the gun from its holster and aimed it at the surface of the black water.

  Eventually my eyes adjusted to the dark. The cavern was bounded by high, smooth walls. My body was a phantom. My hands and feet came into focus, reluctantly. One by one white specks appeared above me as if answering a silent roll call. I couldn’t tell if I was watching the night sky away from the lights of the City or minerals in a rock ceiling. Scar-chasm.

  Funny how it made no difference. Vast cosmos or submerged tomb, the space gave me, for the first time, a sense of how endless the big dark really was. The stars were just punctuations within a blackness that went on in all directions for eternity.

  I stood with the gun pointed at the glimmering water for half the night. I was freezing, wet, and I had no idea how to get out of my cocoon.

  40

  The next morning I woke up alive. I was stunned to find myself still in something like a dark, airless tomb. Still lying, I yawned and rubbed my eyes, taking note of the fact that I could only see the faintest outlines on my fingers in the gloom. My lips tasted like dirt.

  Not remembering where I was, I rolled my legs over the side of the rock outcropping, as if to get out of bed, and slipped. Back in the chilly water, I found myself fully awake in an instant. Splashing around and yelling, my voice reverberated in the chamber. At least I wouldn’t need a bath.

  I was in an optimistic mood. There was no creature. There were no chanting ghosts. My dread had been purely manufactured by an overactive pyloric valve or a cluster of long-fried synapses. I’d panicked in the dark and conjured up the whole dumb nightmare. Typical. Now that I was back in my right mental mind, I just needed to find a way out so that I could reclaim my Nigel.

  I got out of the water and leaned against the rock face—I really didn’t want to jump back in—and felt something jab my shoulder blade. I turned around. The wall was irregular. Some sections of the formation were big enough to put my entire bare foot on. The gun lay on the ground where I’d left it the previous night. I grabbed the gun and let water dribble out of it. I didn’t know if it would ever fire again, but I stuffed it back into the holster. Then I climbed. Near the cavern’s ceiling was a shelf, now clearly visible. A stream of fresh air hit my face. Freedom.

  I unfolded into a sun-dappled morning. I stretched my arms and admired the freshness of the breeze. Green leaves goldened. Dew twinkled grass. Floral scents. Dripping wet, I started in what I hoped was the right dire
ction. Rabbits and squirrels darted around the landscape. I came across a log fence, which I clambered over, and entered a field of grazing cows. I was never a big fan of the farming life, but had a measure of respect for the people who brought forth the flora and fauna that conglomerates processed into sluice and pulp for our consumption. But there were no megatractors here, no skyscraper silos. What would my life have been like working to bring forth goodness from the soil, coerced by a whip? I wasn’t hardy. I would have died from cholera or consumption. Or been whipped to shreds for the master’s amusement.

  Quonset huts appeared at irregular intervals. Occasionally, I saw someone hacking at the hard earth with a pickax or pulling chopped wood on a rickety cart. The farther I walked, the more activity I came upon. I arrived at an expanse where a group of folks of seemingly every race plucked green beans. People in plain cotton clothes carried buckets of water from a well. Was that a cotton field? Many of the women and girls wore flowers in their hair or bell-sleeved dresses. Some of the men and boys, too. Commune.

  In the heart of the commune, it was an active morning. Newly planted evergreens swayed in the breeze. Hens clucked across the dirt road. Who could say why? People stood outside the huts talking about crop rotations and an upcoming pageant. Children chased dogs. Dogs chased cats. How big was the commune? The central road stretched beyond my sight. My son was here, or he was nowhere.

  I approached a Latina girl and asked after Nigel. She had a sable-tipped paintbrush tucked in her hair, and feathery earrings dangled from her lobes.

  “I don’t know anybody with that name,” she said. “Maybe try Claremontville, thirty miles north.” She eyed me warily before walking off with the easel and canvas she carried.

  I noticed more and more of the locals dropping their conversations to watch me. I had a feeling I was attracting too much attention. I kept my head down and avoided eye contact.