by Serra, D. A.
Hank was sorely needed at Pump Up The Volume. He is the one who examines the demographics of the audience and creates the music playlist for the DJ events. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of music history and his playlists are a sought after commodity. Pump Up The Volume has started providing them over the Internet for a fee. They were almost making more money on that than on rental equipment. Sometimes when Hank is deep in the flood of chords and melodies he remembers his father, standing in the doorway of his bedroom yelling, “Damn it, Henry, turn off that music and study or you’ll never get a job.”
That morning, several clients called Hank, panicked with what they thought were emergencies. His definition of emergency has changed forever. All of this provided some distance for him, since it helped to place the island and its events, in time past.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
Alison refuses to leave the house. Doctor Cartwell who has come to the house two more times told Hank she is still in shock. He prescribed medications, which she pretends to take. She tried them one time but it made her feel murky. She needed to be clear-headed. Of that, she is certain.
When Jimmy leaves for school each morning she gets up infused with anxiety. She paces back and forth in the bedroom. How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the danger? It is so loud - it is practically screaming at them! Her head begins to shake back and forth with aggressive energy. What to do? What should she do? Damn it.
Doctor Cartwell asked her if she was having hallucinations and she decided not to tell him about seeing Theo’s eyes like two black bullet slugs glaring at her in the chrome of the toaster. Cartwell would not understand. How could she tell him that when she was cutting through the orange peel yesterday she felt the knife close in around Gravel’s skin? How would that help anything? These are not hallucinations. These are warnings. And she has them all the time: in the glass door of the microwave, on the stainless steel hood over the stovetop, hollow-eyed faces take shape in the fog of her shower. It startles her, but none of those visions with their hellish dead eyes are as fearsome as the living eyes of Ben at the bottom of the mudslide - at the bottom of the mudslide where she heard him make a promise. He’s coming. I know he’s coming. She waits.
In the evening, Jimmy jabbers on about his school day. He is giddy with school news. It feels good to have things to say again. Hank listens happily to his son’s tales from life on the outside. They have been imprisoned with each other, emotionally trapped on that island. Hank notices a genuine lifting-up in his chest.
Jimmy’s face comes alive as he talks, “But that wasn’t just it because…” he pauses for effect, “Alan likes Cindy.”
“You mean likes?”
“He like, likes her. So that’s why he let her have his spot in line at tetherball and I don’t think it was any of Sarah’s business.”
Alison tries to focus. Exhaustion makes demands. Her mind hovers. She blinks her eyes forcefully and squints hoping to see Jimmy clearly but there is a film over her eyes she can’t clear. She puts on a fake smile and her eyes begin to close involuntarily.
Hank asks “I thought Alan like liked Jennifer and you like liked Cindy.”
“Gross, Dad, really.”
“Sorry.”
“I was telling Mrs. Davidson that English is definitely missing some words.”
“Like what?” Hank asks.
“”Cause if you like someone then you can like them, but if you like like someone you have to say like like because there’s no word between like and love. How’s a kid supposed to say they more than like but less than love a girl? ‘Cause love is for grown-ups, and is scary, you know? And it’s not like you just like her, and then you love her, there’s a lot of space in between and there aren’t any words for…” Jimmy stops. Both Hank and Jimmy notice as Alison’s head drops forward and slowly she crumbles over with her forehead landing in her dinner plate. She’s asleep. She sleeps only when she literally passes out and it never lasts, an hour here or there. Hank signals for Jimmy not to touch her. Two sets of compassionate eyes stare at her. And then they whisper.
“Dad, why won’t she get better?”
“She will. She had a different experience than we did.”
“It was bad for us.”
“Yes. Bad, very bad, but different. We need to be patient. Just think how patient she would be if it were you or me.”
“Yeah, but, I kinda need my mom.” Tears roll down his cheeks. “I want her back.”
“Me, too, buddy, me too.”
They finished their over-cooked hamburgers and limp asparagus in a sad silence. Alison didn’t move for forty minutes and then her head shot up! She looked around in bleary-eyed confusion. Hank had cleaned up dinner except for the plate she was lying in. Jimmy had gone off to do his homework. The anxiety of her husband’s face touched her in the place where she loved him. And for a brief second they exchanged an affectionate smile and Hank felt a palpable rise of hope thinking it might be the beginning of her road home. He dared not speak, but he could see it was her. It was definitely her. He sat down next to the wife he knew and loved and missed and with a clean napkin, he gently wiped the ketchup from her forehead. She rested inside his warm eyes and it felt so good. It felt like a sip of cold fresh water, like a soft down pillow. Then, her eyes clouded, and he knew he’d lost her again.
* * *
Jimmy finished his homework and Alison tucked him into bed. She said nothing except good night. Jimmy rolled over and slept soundly. The content of Jimmy’s dreams, which has been toxic with island memories, has been slowly changing. Instead of feeling vulnerable, thanks to the astonished reactions of his classmates he feels tough, cool, more like a survivor than a victim. Sharon Singler said he must be some kind of superhero. Relief and healing creep over him as he sleeps.
Alison stands stoically by the window. Dread stands with her. Sometimes it sits on her chest. Sometimes it stands right behind her. It always has a cold boney hand on her shoulder. The dread is a companion that presses down on her. Each day it accelerates with its full weight in a free fall toward her, and like the pull of gravity, it is inevitable and cannot be persuaded. She knows what she knows. Nothing can change that. She realizes that now she must keep her raw thoughts in a box, well wrapped, to ward off the scorn of those who do not understand, including Hank. So she stands lonely in the coal blackness and she waits for Ben.
At two a.m., the neighborhood goes dark. In an attempt to be conservation-smart the town elected to turn off all of the streetlights at two a.m. every night. The street outside the Kraft home sinks into black. All of the houses look like indistinct hulks.
The lamps on the nightstands in the master bedroom are off. Alison has plugged nightlights into every single electrical socket in the room throwing a lattice of beams, which eerily resembles the floodlights at the fishing camp. Hank is asleep. He is sleeping for longer chunks of time, but he knows that she is not sleeping at all. He knows every beat of Alison’s personality and he is aware that she is not really home with them. She is not making progress every day in the same way he and Jimmy are. He wakes and looks at the clock. Then, he rolls over to see her. She is where she always is, every night, standing at the front bedroom window staring out into nothing.
Hank slides from the warm comforter and joins her at the window. He drapes his arm around her.
“Allie?’
She is stiff and nonresponsive.
“Alison, you have to sleep. We have all these sleeping meds. Take something. Please.”
“I need to stay alert.”
“No you don’t. I’ll stay up. Okay? I’ll stay up tonight.”
“No.”
His frustration grows, “You need to eat, to sleep; you need to take care of yourself.”
“I am taking care, right now.”
“You’ve lost weight. You’ve lost hair. There are circles under your eyes.”
“I’ve postponed my Cover Girl shoot.”
“You kn
ow that is not what I mean. You are physically deteriorating. Surely you can see that.”
“He’s coming, Hank.”
“They have witnesses that he entered Canada. He is gone, long gone.”
“No. He’s not.”
“Alison, try and be rational.” Doctor Cartwell warned him not to argue with her, but he can’t help it. Someone has to bring her back to reality. Who will it be, if not him?
“I am being rational.”
“You are staring out a window into complete darkness in the middle of the night looking for someone who is long gone. You’re exhausted. You are probably hungry. How is any of this rational?”
No response. Frustrated, Hank pulls the little desk stool over to where she is standing. He gently pushes her down onto the stool so she is sitting. He thinks at least this way she won’t literally fall over and hit her head. He stands for a few minutes feeling awkward in his own skin. By his sides, his arms hang long and heavy with uselessness. And that’s it, he thinks, it’s the uselessness! It has been the uselessness all along. He is utterly ineffectual. He was useless on the island. He is useless now as his wife comes apart piece-by-piece. Despondent, he climbs back into bed alone. He tells himself he must be the quiet strength she needs. He must stay in complete control. It is for him to provide a solid foundation. It is for him to rebuild a sturdy platform so she can find her balance. Time will be the key to releasing her back into his arms. She belongs in his arms. How can he make this world, this house, her reality again? He studies her over at the window. The crisscrossing nightlights in the room create an uneven design on her back. The beams swipe across her white nightshirt leaving a pattern of light with dark edges that resemble the pieces of a puzzle. He thinks that is what she is now - a series of broken pieces fitted together, appearing whole, but not whole. He takes his finger and holds it up at arm’s length. He runs it over all of the edges of those pieces and as he does, he miraculously fuses her back together, it melts into one piece again, and then, he wakes and realizes he only dreamed that he’d fixed it. His heart aches and his chest feels heavy. He watches the back of his wife’s nightshirt for an hour until his eyes close again. She senses when he drifts off and she stands back up from the stool to get a better look at the street.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
A week later, the morning light is tilted and the air stays cool longer as winter’s hand dangles over Minnesota. At first, the slinking cold creeps its way into the neighborhood during the night when everyone’s sleeping, and then it hangs around through morning, and after a few weeks, it grips down hard as a fist until March. People are thinking about turkey, and butternut squash soup, and airline tickets for annual family gatherings. On Oakline Street, everything looks perfect on the outside. Inside the foyer of the Kraft house, Alison is explaining the brand new state-of-the-art alarm system to Polly.
Polly tries not to think about what Alison has been through. It all seems unreal to her. She can, however, see clearly that this woman in front of her right now is not the same woman she has come to know over the last nine years. Polly is no longer at ease in Alison’s company. There is no humor in the home, no contentment. The home feels cold and edgy. She thinks Alison is like a zombie. Polly continues to show up on her scheduled days. She does her job and she listens.
“I want to show you how to work the system. It is important that the system is on constantly. It should never be off. Do you hear? Never.”
“Yes, Alison, never.”
“Every window, every door, inside and out, is wired.”
“Okay.”
“Every day I will change the code.”
“All right.” Polly’s voice sounds heavy. This is all too much for her.
“When you enter and you hear the little beep you will have ten seconds to punch in the correct code.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Alison tries to smile because she knows she is supposed to, she searches around for a smile, but has none. So she spreads her lips, forces a grin, and shows some teeth. Polly leaves the conversation very sure now that smiling actually comes from the eyes and has little to do with the mouth, because Alison just looked scary.
Cautiously, Alison opens the front door and looks out. Seems fine. She walks quickly to the mailbox. Jessie, who is pulling out of his driveway, rolls down his window.
“Hey, Alison?” She looks over. She had hoped if she didn’t lift her eyes he wouldn’t call to her. No such luck. She continues moving toward the front door.
“Hi, Jessie.”
“Can you and Hank come over for cards this weekend?”
“Nope, sorry. Don’t think we can. Say hi to Pam for me.”
She is at the door and inside. He drives away. She takes the mail into the kitchen. She flips open her laptop to CNN, and begins to scour the news not completely certain what she’s searching for.
Later, having decided to work from home that afternoon, Hank puts his key in the lock and opens the front door. Nine seconds later, as he steps into the hall closet to hang up his coat, an ear-splitting alarm blasts followed by floodlights all around the property. Alison rushes into the foyer, opens the end table drawer, grabs the handgun she’s stashed there and turns it on Hank. He freezes, confused by the alarm, stunned to see the weapon in his wife’s hand. Her distant look. She doesn’t see him. Doesn’t know him. She aims. Polly screams! The scream shakes her and her eyes clear. She sees Hank. She lowers the gun. She takes a deep breath. Polly and Hank are paralyzed. Alison walks over to the alarm keypad. She punches in the code, picks up the ringing telephone, gives the alarm company the password, returns the weapon to the drawer, and walks back into the kitchen without a word. Shaken, Hank and Polly look at each other. Tears pool in Polly’s eyes. Neither one of them knew she had a gun. They realize just how far gone she is.
“Hank…” Polly begins, “I just can’t -”
He will not let her finish, “Polly, please.” His desperation is so clear, so heartfelt. “Please,” he begs. “I’ll take care of it.” Polly cannot add to his distress. She nods. He nods. They both turn away. He starts for the kitchen. She collects her coat by the door and as she leaves.
“I’ll be back Monday.”
His voice cracks with gratitude, “Thank you.”
Once inside the kitchen he hears their car engine. He looks out the window above the sink and sees Alison driving away. He knows it must be 2:30 and so she is on her way to pick-up Jimmy. With his adrenaline pumping and his heart pounding, he thinks about her aiming a gun at him and he must face it: Alison is dangerous, dangerous to him and dangerous to their son. This may not be something he can wait for her to get over. It may take more than time. He wonders if there is something contagious about violence, if it’s a virus, if her brain has caught something she can’t shake. What if violence is infectious in the same way as laughter? He’s experienced that. He has been in a room where someone is roaring with laughter and he has begun to laugh having no idea why. Maybe violence is like that. What should he do? Is he failing to help her? Is he failing to protect his son? What should he do? Who can help? His misery is mounting. He goes back to the foyer, pulls out the end table drawer, and removes the handgun. It is the gun his dad had and Hank inherited when he passed away. It’s been in the safety deposit box at the bank for ten years. That’s what they both decided. Neither one of them wanted a weapon in the house. He stands in the middle of the living room having absolutely no idea what he is supposed to do.
Alison parks the car in the red zone in front of the building. The crosswalk guard begins to wave her arms for Alison to move, then she sees who it is, and she backs off. Everyone has backed off. Some are giving her the time they know she needs, others fall back as their instincts dictate. Methodically, Alison scans the front lawn, play area, parking lot. There is too much to keep within her control. She hates this part of the day. She gets out of the car and walks up the sidewalk to the front of the school. Jimmy is standing right there wa
iting as he has done every day since he returned to school. She takes him by the hand and leads him quickly back to the car. He tries not to look around. Many kids in the packed schoolyard stare. He gets into the car and slumps down in the seat. He’s no superhero this way.
“How was school?” She asks.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
They drive in silence because her vigilant attention is required to check into every passing car, to peer around every streetlight post, behind every trash can and mailbox and tree. She runs every yellow and only stops for a red when necessary. She pulls the car into the driveway. Jimmy jumps out and runs into the house. His dad is waiting in the kitchen. Angrily, Jimmy blasts past him without even saying hello and vaults up the stairs two-at-a-time slamming his bedroom door. Alison enters, closes the door and hits the code. She turns.
“What happened with Jimmy?”
“Nothing. He’s good.”
“What’s with the alarm?”
“It’s smart to have an alarm. I’ve got a series of codes worked out we can go over them together at dinner tonight.”
“I don’t want an alarm.”
“I do.”
“It’s an overreaction.”
“It is not.”
“We live in an extremely safe neighborhood.”
“No such thing,”
“Alison, do you even know you pointed a gun at me today?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“The alarm went off and it was actually a good rehearsal for us.”
