This is too much. It’s more surprising than setting some school record.
“I never knew.”
She laughs. “Why would you?”
I shake my head, my mouth slightly open, ready to say something but unable to.
Then Poe moves and kisses my lips before they can say something stupid and ruin the moment. And for the second time in a short span of hours, I’m lost and I’m free and I’m full.
I don’t know how long that kiss lasts, but it feels like a long time.
When our heads part, I see the beams of light in the driveway below us.
“Perfect timing, huh?” Poe says.
“I had no idea.”
“Well, now you know.”
I shake my head.
Poe smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay. And we can talk.”
I stand and feel dazed and confused for the right reasons.
She’s still sitting there.
Not some girl hidden behind black and covered with anger and angst.
She’s smiling and looking at me like someone who wants me, like someone who likes me, like someone who finally has told me the truth.
“Go on,” Poe says. “Listen to some songs tonight and think of me, okay, Mr. Record-setting Track Star?”
I nod and smile.
It’s only in the car that I realize I was too speechless to wish her good night.
But she’s not clueless, so she knows why.
Girls know.
88. The Spaces in Between
I’ve been working on this project for Iris all day and getting nowhere. I told her I’m not a writer and I really don’t know what I’m doing. There are pages and pages of notes that I’m trying to cram into a school paper. Or not even that. Into some short copy for a brochure. I’m not the guy to do this.
I can’t help but think about the past week.
The stuff that happened with Gus and with Kelsey. And then the track meet and the kiss with Poe.
I think about our conversation the next day. It wasn’t any momentous occasion, just a passing conversation.
So I have an idea. Why don’t you take me to prom?
Before I could answer, Poe smiled and told me to think about it. No pressure. No harm, no foul, she said.
I still never gave her an answer before the weekend came.
I’m thirsty and haven’t seen much of Iris today. I go into the kitchen and decide to get a bottled water from the fridge. Then I notice something that I’ve been curious about every time I see it.
The pantry is at the end of the rectangular kitchen, with the refrigerator to the right, then the sink with a window above it. But to the left of the pantry there’s a short, square wooden door in the center of the wall. Not really a door, maybe a half door, with a latch on it.
It seems random and out of place. I can’t tell where the door goes because the house extends farther than this wall.
It’s silent. Iris must be outside doing something.
The door isn’t bolted. I decide to see what’s behind it. Probably nothing. It’s not like I’m a cat and curiosity is going to do anything to me.
As I try the bolt, I have to force it to unlock.
I swing the door open and feel a cool blast of damp, musty air.
It’s black inside, but I can make out something very short and narrow. A small cupboard—no, not really a cupboard. More like just a blank room hollowed out and enclosed with wood.
It’s just big enough for one or two people to hide in.
“So what do you think?”
The voice causes me to jerk and turn around and then feel guilty.
“It’s okay. I’m not hiding anything. At least not today.” She smiles and goes to the sink to rinse out a glass.
“Sorry,” I tell her.
“Not at all. Do you know what that is?”
I shake my head. “A closet of some kind?”
“Unused space. Years ago they discovered that there was a small amount of unused space behind this wall. For some reason nothing was ever done with it—no closet or cupboard was built. Probably because it was too small to be worth it. But I call it one of the spaces in between. Every time something is built, this happens. There are small little nooks and crannies that go unnoticed, untouched.”
I shut the door and bolt it back.
“How is your project going?” Iris asks.
Every day I work here, the elderly woman seems to look younger to me. Every day I see her, the lines seem less visible, her eyes and smile more apparent. It’s a weird thing, but weird in a beautiful sort of way.
“Slowly,” I say.
“Why don’t you sit for a minute. Please.”
As I sit she gets a teacup and makes herself some tea. I wait, familiar with this ritual of hers. She takes her time and doesn’t rush. Soon she is sitting across from me, letting the tea cool.
“Do you remember when you first started work here, Chris? Remember when I asked you what you believe?”
I nod.
“Has that changed at all?”
I think for a moment but know my answer. “I don’t think so.”
I’m being nice, because actually I know it hasn’t changed.
She takes a sip of her tea, looks at me as if she’s trying to look through me. It makes me nervous but doesn’t give me the creeps like it would if it were 95 percent of the people out there.
“Tell me what you think about Solitary.”
I’m surprised by her question, because it seems as if we’ve never spoken about the town. I’ve often wondered if she’s avoiding the topic.
“There’re a lot of things I think.”
“Such as?”
“It’s a weird town.” Such an understatement. But what am I supposed to say?
“If I told you it was evil, would you believe that?” she asks.
I nod.
“So it’s easy to believe in the darkness, but not in the light.”
“I haven’t seen a whole lot of ‘light’ around this place,” I say.
“If you studied the Bible, you would see how many times the terms light and darkness come up. ‘We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows. Like the blind we grope along the wall, feeling our way like men without eyes.’”
Sounds like I could relate to that writer.
“Do you believe in the evil things you cannot see?”
Again I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure if this is a test, or if she’s trying to get something out of me. Or if she’s finally going to start really preaching at me.
“I’m not sure.”
“It sounds like you do.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t hesitate to say the things you do not believe in. Your passion and your strength give you away.”
“Strength?” I ask. I laugh. “Not sure about that.”
“Do you want to know what I believe about Solitary?”
“Sure.”
“‘He will bring into the light of day all that at present is hidden in darkness, and he will expose the secret motives of men’s hearts.’ That is a quote from the Bible, not from me.”
“Do you know what’s happening? With the town? With the stuff going on there?”
“I know this place and my calling, Chris. And I tell you this now, because a few months ago you would have shut me out. At least you’re listening. At least you know I’m not going to hurt you. At least you know a little more about this place. We’re not in Solitary. We’re above it. And there is a reason why. This place is a light in the darkness, Chris.”
“But—how, exactly?”
“You are doubtful,” Iris says.
“No, it’s just … nobody even knows about this place. The few that do think it’s haunted. I just—how can you say that this place is a light?”
“That door, the one you just opened. Remember what I called it?”
“An unused space.”
“A space in betw
een. That’s what the Crag’s Inn is, Chris. It’s always been in one of the spaces in between. But its purpose is to provide help and hope. To provide some amount of reinforcement in a dangerous setting.”
I don’t get this. It’s a tiny bed-and-breakfast that’s used by strangers visiting North Carolina. What does it have to do with Solitary, with the evil going on there, with Staunch and Pastor Marsh and all the weirdness and evil?
“You don’t do a very good job keeping your feelings off your face.”
“No?” I ask.
She reaches over and touches my hand.
For someone who hasn’t ever really been hugged and kissed much in his life, I’ve sure been touched and kissed this past week.
“I want you to do something else for me. Will you?”
I nod, feeling awkward and not sure what Iris is going to ask.
“I want you to read the tenth chapter of the book of Daniel. It’s in the Old Testament. Will you do that for me?”
“Sure.”
“Take these words to heart, Chris. ‘Don’t be afraid—for you are deeply loved by God. Be at peace; take heart and be strong!’”
I nod as Iris lets go of my hand.
“Please read it. Read it and think about what I said, about this place, about the spaces in between. And Chris—you need to know something. Your coming here to this town, you sitting across from me right now—it wasn’t an accident.”
I almost don’t want to know what else she’s going to say. I’m beginning to get a little frightened.
“I have something else to show you. Something else to give you. Come on.”
89. The Bike
There are a couple of sheds on the property around the Crag’s Inn. One is full of tools and equipment and junk that I spent a couple of Saturdays sorting through and disposing of and organizing. I always assumed that the other shed was something similar.
I discover that I’m wrong.
This shed is more a garage of sorts. Inside is a car, which makes sense since I never see any cars up here and I assume Iris has to get around somehow.
You thought she could fly, right? Like witches do.
The thing I notice right away, however, is a silver-and-black motorcycle that looks old but doesn’t look like junk.
“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” Iris asks me under the hazy orange light in the shed.
“A few times. Mom’s never been a big fan.”
“This one belonged to your uncle.”
First we’re talking about light and the Bible and the book of Daniel, and now she’s talking about Uncle Robert. Both seem like crazy made-up stories to me.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get it?”
She folds her hands and gives me a nice, polite smile the way a politician or First Lady might. “He used to work for me some time ago.”
“What?”
“In many ways, you remind me of him.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, Chris.”
“Does my mother know about this?”
“No.”
“So then how—do you know where he is?”
She shakes her head.
“What happened?” I ask. “How long ago did he work for you?”
“A few years ago. The bike was something that he found and brought up here to work on. An actor that he liked once owned a bike like this. I forget the actor, but the bike is called a Triumph. He never managed to get it fixed. I got someone to finish it in case he ever came back. But he didn’t.”
“He quit?”
“Yes. I wasn’t as … patient, I guess I should say, with Robert.”
“With what?”
“With trying to teach him. With trying to let him know who he was.”
She makes it sound like Uncle Robert was some Jedi warrior or something.
I know my Star Wars, and this is not Star Wars.
“I tried too hard with him. That’s why—this time, I decided to back off. As opportunity permits, I’ve been able to talk with you.”
“I don’t understand. He just didn’t like all the stuff you talked about?”
“Uncle Robert was confused, Chris. Probably much like you are.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the place he was living in.”
“It has everything to do with the place. But it also has everything to do with him. And that was the part he refused to accept.”
“What about him?”
Iris ignores my question and goes over to the bike. “Do you want to learn how to ride this?”
“Now?” I’m picturing her getting on this and think my mind is a few seconds away from being blown.
“No. Not now. But soon. They’re a little tricky to start. And of course you’ll have to be careful going down the hill.”
“But—”
“It’s yours.”
“For what?”
“For listening. And for showing up when your uncle never did.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I wish I knew,” Iris says. “I still pray for him every day and night. I pray that he is still alive and that there’s still time. But I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
90. Oh Man
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
That’s how I answer Poe Monday morning when she asks me if we’re still going to prom.
That should show how into it I am, how much I’ve thought about it.
I haven’t stopped thinking about the connection between Uncle Robert and Iris and my place in this.
How in the world can I think of prom when I’m thinking of bigger things? Like life and death and dead animals and gravestones and French guys with ironic last names and Triumph motorcycles I need to start riding.
How can my answer be anything other than Oh, yeah, sure?
But the problem isn’t what Poe says next. She only smiles and nods and walks away. She knew I was going to say yes anyway. She kissed me, and I didn’t run away to the nearby hills. She knew that there was something on the other side of that kiss, though I couldn’t really say what exactly, because I don’t know myself.
It’s a big adjustment from thinking someone hates you to realizing they’ve liked you all along. I’m not just seeing Poe in a different light. It’s a whole different room. No, make that a new house in a new town on a planet far, far away.
No, my problem comes when I get to art class.
Oh man.
Kelsey greets me, and I see how excited she is to see me and I instantly know I’m in trouble. Not now, of course. But once I’m found out. Once my predicament is known.
“How was your weekend?” she asks.
“Great.”
At least I have a motorcycle now. One that can take me far away from all of this. Once I learn how to drive the thing.
91. As If Eventually
April belly flops into May, and I soon find myself drowning.
Something happens, and I can’t say exactly what. It’s like a full moon rises in the sky and then just hangs there, daring everybody to keep going, taunting us all with its cold color and craziness.
The craziness starts, of course, with Mom.
It started when she got the idea to come back to this crazy town and it continued once we actually arrived.
She’s been working more and coming home later and acting more strange, though part of me has been too preoccupied to really notice. But when I get home one evening after practice, Ray having given me a lift, I find her in a state of panic.
Make that terror.
I get to the door and find it locked. It’s never locked when Mom’s home. I unlock it and hear someone bark out at me and see a shotgun pointed at me.
“Chris! What are you doing?” Mom is standing behind the couch, in front of the island in the kitchen, pointing a shotgun.
At me.
“What are you doing?”
I guess most kids would be calling 9-1-1 by now
and saying “Yes, sir, I’ve got a bat in my house but it’s actually in my mom’s head ’cause she’s gone totally batty.”
She lowers the shotgun but doesn’t apologize or even act like it’s weird to be pointing it at me.
“Mom?”
“I thought you were someone else.”
“I usually get home around this time.”
“What time is it?”
I know she’s been drinking. I can hear it in her voice. Her pitch is slightly higher, and even when she can say the words without slurring, they sound as if they’ve been coated in wine.
“It’s around seven.”
“Lock the door.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just do it!”
I lock it and put down my bag and look around the room. There’s only one light on in the whole house. I don’t even need to bother to look to see if dinner is ready.
“Mom?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“With who?”
“You be nice to the wrong people and they’ll just want to wreck your soul, that’s all I can say.”
For a split second I wonder if this has anything to do with Dad.
She’s still holding the shotgun.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“It was here.”
“Where?”
“None of your business.”
“Mom?”
“Promise me, Chris. Promise me that when you grow up you’ll not be like ninety-nine percent of the guys out there. Promise me that.”
“Why don’t you put that down?”
“I’m not giving this to you.”
Yeah, because I can’t handle it, but you sure can.
“Just put it down.”
She sets it on the island.
“Should I call the police?”
“We’re not calling anybody. But if someone comes through that door, he’ll get an answer. I told him if he sets foot on this property, I’ll shoot him. I don’t care.”
“Who?”
“Chris—it’s not your—”
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