by Ed
"What's wrong, Cal?"
"Dad. He's, um, he's dead, Carmen. Somebody killed him. He's been murdered. You gotta come."
Carmen was stunned into cold silence for a while. When she could speak again, she told Everett it was snowing in Connecticut, but she would catch the next available plane and be there as soon as possible.
After she'd hung up, she plopped onto the sofa and stared at nothing as she thought about her father. Her parents had divorced when she was twelve and she'd never been close to her father, had hardly known him, really, unlike her brother, who had remained in constant touch with him. In spite of that fact, Everett had always held their father's lifestyle in contempt—his constant drinking, his lack of care for himself, his hand-to-mouth life on the edge—but not enough, apparently, to keep himself from following the same pattern. The presence of that pattern in her family kept Carmen from touching alcohol, and was responsible for the gnawing concern she had about Al's attachment to beer, something she had not yet found the courage to mention to him.
She called the airport. Carmen was able to find a plane leaving that evening. Al had to scramble to make arrangements at work so he would be able to take care of the kids while Carmen was gone. He cringed at the thought of doing such a thing so soon after starting at the quarry, but it was one of those unpredictable and unavoidable crises that happened to everyone from time to time, and his boss would just have to work it out.
After driving Carmen to the airport, Al and Stephanie and Peter picked up a pizza on their way home; Al had never been able to cook and had no intention of trying now, so, until Carmen returned, they'd live on take-out and frozen dinners.
That night, once the pizza was gone, Stephen retreated, as usual, to his room. He'd spent most of the evening there, anyway, taking his dinner downstairs with him. Tension was growing between Al and Stephen; the room was quieter when they were together, the air somehow thicker. They spoke to one another only when necessary, which was slowly becoming less often as time passed. That was fine with Al; he didn't care to have much to do with the boy until he cleaned up his act. Maybe that was harsh, but it was the best he knew how to do. There was no reason for Stephen's recent behavior, and to act as if nothing was wrong seemed no different to Al than telling him it was okay.
Al and Michael watched a football game on television while Stephanie and Peter did some pasting and coloring at the dining-room table. There was no school tomorrow, so Al wasn't concerned with how late they stayed up. But they had grown used to going to bed early and it wasn't long before they were all sleepy enough to retire to their rooms.
Al was left alone after the game, watching sitcom reruns. And thinking.
He didn't look forward to going to bed. Not alone. Alone, he might just lie awake...waiting...for the music...the voices...the vibrating...
Three hours later, his eyes were heavy and his head kept drooping forward as he watched television. Finally, he gave in, turned off the television and the lights and went to bed.
Once beneath the covers, his weariness vanished and, just as he'd suspected he would do, he lay awake, twisting and turning to find a comfortable spot, a soothing position.
He did, eventually. His eyes closed on their own, he felt the heaviness of sleep wash over him, was aware of his breathing becoming slow, felt himself slipping away, until...
He heard music and his eyes snapped open. He sat up. It was the same music he always heard: old and tinny, conjuring black-and-white images of rooms full of cobwebs, old photographs in ornate frames, and antique furniture.
Al lay back down, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaning.
Faint voices laughed. The music continued. And there was something else.
Barking. The dog was barking outside once again.
I'm going to ignore it, he thought. All of it. I may not sleep, but I'm not getting out of bed.
The music went on. The voices continued to talk and laugh festively. The dog's barking became more intense.
Al rolled over and pressed his head into the mattress, pulling the pillow down over his ear.
But he could still hear it. The phantom party, the persistent barking...
And then he felt the familiar vibration ooze through his body, through his bones. It curled its long and bony fingers around his elbows and knees, over his shoulders and over the top of his skull, increasing its pressure, vibrating deeper and deeper.
Al rolled onto his back and began to kick frantically at the blankets, his breath hissing through clenched teeth as he rolled off the bed and thunked to the floor, then crawled a few feet away from the bed before clambering to his feet. Moving backward, he bumped into the dresser, stood there and stared at the bed.
He could see nothing. There were no visible signs that the bed was filled with some kind of sinister movement. He reached behind him and flicked on the small lamp on the dresser, but still there was nothing to be seen.
There was, however, plenty to be heard.
Music played from somewhere deep in the house, and muffled voices and soft laughter mingled with it.
Outside, the dog barked as if it were ready to attack and kill.
Al turned the overhead light on, slipped on his pants and went into the short hallway outside the bedroom, turning on lights as he passed the switches, his movements rapid and jerky.
The music continued.
The voices murmured on.
Once again there was only darkness downstairs.
Al was halfway down when the sounds stopped.
Silence.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand and realized it was because he was gripping the bannister so hard.
Outside, the dog continued to bark so hard that it was becoming hoarse.
Al turned, went back up the stairs, into the living room—he switched on two lamps there—across the hall and into the dining room, where he froze.
Someone was standing at the front window, looking out into the night; the blinds were raised and the figure was silhouetted in the dim moonlight that reflected off the snow.
Al held perfectly still in the doorway, except for his hand, which crawled over the wall, searching for the light switch as the figure turned and faced him.
Al flicked the switch, filling the dining room with light as he sighed with relief, "Stephen."
"Somebody's dog is"—he chuckled—"kinda carried away out there."
"Were you playing music just now?"
Stephen rubbed the back of his neck and started to walk slowly out of the dining room. "Music? No, I wasn't playing any music."
Al gently held his arm as he passed through the doorway. "You didn't have anybody in here? You didn't sneak some friends into the house?"
"Why? It's crowded enough in here as it is."
Al let go and the boy went down the hall...down the stairs.... Later, Al would wonder about Stephen's words and how he had spoken them; they would bother him, even give him a chill when he recalled them. But for the moment, he took them only at face value. When Stephen was gone, Al went to the window and looked out at the dog.
It looked like a lab and was closer to the house now, but seemed tense, ready to run if necessary. Much closer and it would actually be biting the corner of the house.
After lowering the blinds, Al went back to the bedroom, dressed, and went outside. He ran along the front of the house toward the dog, waving his arms and calling, "Get out of here! Git! Go! Beat it!" He threw, even kicked, snow at the dog, but it was surprisingly difficult to tear the animal's attention away from the house. When he finally did, the dog hurried off, stopped and turned, whined a little, gave Al a few insistent woofs, then went away.
Back inside, Al undressed, then stared at the bed a moment, wondering if it was safe to lie down again. He realized it didn't matter because he was wide awake. In his robe, he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
"Damn, that's right," he whispered. "No beer."
He was still staring into the refrige
rator's glaring light when the barking started again.
Al slammed the refrigerator door. Glass clinked and cans rattled inside. He clutched his fists at his sides as the barking got closer, louder, more vicious. Eyes closed, breathing harshly though his nose, Al thought, Boy, oh, boy...sure could use a beer.
In the living room, Al settled into his recliner. His thumb trembled as he used the remote to turn on the television.
"Gonna have to talk to somebody about that damned dog," he breathed as he flipped through the channels.
Its barking was relentless.
He settled on an old western and put the remote on the end table, where he spotted a rosary. Carmen kept them all over the house. He picked it up idly in his trembling hand, silently telling himself it wasn't necessary, that he wasn't upset, wasn't frightened, just restless, that was all.
The dog went on barking and barking...
Al whispered, "Hail Mary, full of grace ..."
...barking...barking...
In the back of his mind, Al thought—but he wasn't quite sure because it was faint, so faint—he heard the tinny sound of music....
Carmen returned three days later.
Her father had been found in his small, run-down trailer. No bullet holes and a minimum of blood were found in the trailer, so it was presumed he was murdered elsewhere with his own .22-caliber pistol and brought back to his trailer. Although they didn't say as much, of course, the police seemed to think that finding the murderer was of little importance—after all, the victim had been an old drunk who barely subsisted, and who associated with the shadiest of characters, the kind of people most likely to do such a thing casually.
Carmen and her brother made the burial arrangements and, because she wanted to get back home as soon as possible, she left Everett as the executor of their father's estate—what there was of it.
She was glad to be home, and Al was glad to have her back. Everything had gone smoothly in her absence, he told her, but she had been missed.
Everyone seemed fine, Al included. But somehow, Carmen felt something was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it...it was nothing visible...nothing anyone said...
Just my imagination, she told herself. After the last few days, everything looks pretty dark.
They began the usual Christmas activities. Al brought home a tree and Carmen and the kids—except for Stephen—decorated it.
Al had taken Stephen to see Father Wheatley every day while Carmen was gone, and she kept it up after returning. She resisted the temptation to ask Stephen about his visits with the father, telling herself that the results would begin to show soon. But they didn't. Stephen was still rude and profane when he spoke, quiet and brooding when he didn't.
If the talks with Father Wheatley didn't work, she hoped her prayers would. She wanted her son back.
Carmen put a wreath on the door, some holly and garland here and there in the house, and brought out the records and tapes of Christmas music they'd collected over the years. She played the music often, kept egg nog in the refrigerator.
Michael, Stephanie, and Peter made a snowman in the front yard and Carmen gave them a broom and an old scarf and hat to put on him.
They watched A Christmas Carol and It's a Wonderful Life again, as they did each year.
They did all the things they did every Christmas, all the things that made them feel good, put them in the holiday spirit, and made that time of year different from any other. But this year, as Christmas neared, then passed, none of those things quite worked. It wasn't the same. Something was missing, something other than Stephen's usual willing and cheerful participation.
Carmen didn't know how the others felt, but no matter how hard she tried to work at it, it just didn't feel like Christmas. She didn't feel the way Christmas always made her feel.
No matter how silly it sounded, Carmen simply did not feel safe.
Not even in her own house.
Perhaps especially in her own house.
13
The New Year Begins
Christmas decorations disappeared from store windows and were soon replaced with Valentine hearts and candy boxes. Strands of colored bulbs and sparkling garlands were boxed up and returned to storage. Christmas records and tapes were returned to their shelves where they would stay until the following December. Trees were removed and dry pine needles were vacuumed from the carpet.
All over town, naked toppled Christmas trees lay waiting for garbage men to carry them away; strands of tinsel and bits of garland still dangled from their brittle branches, sometimes blowing in the wind over the snow and ice.
The sky remained a dark steel gray and the air a blade sharp enough to slice flesh. The stripped branches of the trees reached skyward like arthritic claws. The snowflakes eventually turned to raindrops and the snow on the ground became a thick, icy mud....
"We've been meeting for some time, now, yet I don't feel as though I've really learned much about you. Why is that?"
"I dunno. Maybe because I haven't said much about me, you think?"
"Yes, I suppose. Why is that?"
"Mm. Don't like talking about myself, I guess."
"I see. Well, would it be easier if I asked questions?"
"All you've been doing is asking questions."
"Yes, you're right. Well, then...I guess I'm at a loss. You see, your mother asked me to speak with you, oh, a few months ago, I guess, because she was noticing what she thought were some unpleasant changes in you. So I agreed. For a while, it was five days a week, then twice a week, down to once a week. All that time, I kept thinking that if I gave you a chance, you would tell me what was bothering you, what was wrong. Now I'm beginning to think that perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps your mother was mistaken as well. So, tell me, Stephen. Were we? Mistaken?"
Stephen sat where he always sat in Father Wheatley's study, the way he always sat there: on the brown leather sofa, right foot dangling over his left knee, hands locked behind his head, elbows pointing upward on each side of his head like small wings.
Father Wheatley sat in a straight-back chair on the other side of the coffee table in front of the sofa, facing Stephen. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, thin hands joined loosely. He was in his fifties, bald on top with a wreath of white hair around his head. He had glasses with brown tortoiseshell frames and thick lenses; he had a habit of removing them to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
Stephen asked, "Were you mistaken about what?"
Father Wheatley did it again—removed the glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose—as he released a soft sigh. "Oh, I'm not sure really. Were we mistaken about, um...about there being something wrong with you? Tell me, Stephen, has something upset you lately?"
"How lately?"
"Well... anything at all?"
"Yeah. Cancer. That upset me." His voice was not sarcastic; it remained low, level and without expression.
"Of course it did. That's perfectly understandable. But our prayers have been answered. Your cancer is in remission and you seem to be doing very well. Physically, I mean. I'm talking about something that might have hurt your feelings, something that might be making you angry, or...or even scared. Is there anything like that?"
Stephen's lower lip slowly moved inward until he held it between his teeth, nibbled on it slightly as his eyes moved gradually around the room, finally stopping, once again, on Father Wheatley.
"No," he said. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine."
"You don't believe you've been behaving differently?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Different than what?"
"Different than...usual?"
"Uh-uh. Not that I know of."
"What about the way you dress? Your clothes?"
"What about 'em?" The slightest hint of defensiveness showed itself in his voice.
"Well, they're not the kind of clothes you usually wear. Are they? I mean, the jacket, for example. The T-shirts you wear around the house."
&n
bsp; "T-shirts? What, you been talking to my mother?"
"Of course. She says you wear T-shirts with rock-and-roll groups and slogans on the front that are...well, offensive. Even blasphemous. Like your leather jacket."
"So? What's wrong with that? Lots of kids wear them."
"But your mother says you never used to wear such things, or listen to such music."
He shrugged. "I do now."
"Yes, but your mother seems to think the sudden change was brought on by .. . well, by something. Is that true? Did something happen that—"
"No. My friend Jason played his tapes for me one day. I liked the music. He gave me a couple old shirts, this old jacket. They just don't like it, is all. The music, the clothes. So they're making like there's something wrong with me because of it."
"Well, I must admit, Stephen, the jacket is blasphemous. The cross on your back is—"
"But there's nothing wrong with me. If that's why I've been coming here, then"—another shrug—"I've been wasting your time. I'm sorry."
Father Wheatley looked at Stephen a long while, studied his face through narrow, thoughtful eyes. Then: "Would you like me to tell that to your mother?"
"I dunno. What do you think you should tell her? You're the priest."
"Well, I suppose if you think these visits are a waste of time...then they are. If they stop, would you promise me something, Stephen?"
A shrug.
"If ever you need to talk to someone about something that...well, that you might not want to discuss with your parents or a school friend...will you come to me? I'd be happy to sit down with you any time."
"Yeah. Sure." Stephen smiled.
"I have to admit, Carmen, your boy is going through the throes of adolescence."
"What do you mean? Exactly?"
"Well, he's rebellious. He enjoys doing things that shock you, offend you. That's why rock-and-roll stars are able to make so much money without being talented." He chuckled. "Because the kids know their parents don't like them."
"But it's more than that, Father." Carmen clutched the receiver tightly, pressed it hard against her ear. "He's...changed. His personality, his behavior...it's like he wants nothing to do with us anymore. He stays down in his room almost all the time. Only comes up to go to the bathroom or eat. He sits down there in the corner and mumbles to himself while he listens to that horrible music on headphones. He wears those shirts, that jacket, rings with little skulls on them, all that heavy-metal paraphernalia. I don't even know where he gets it, although I suspect it's got something to do with the boy he's been hanging around lately. Stephen is just not the same boy, Father."
