CUTTER'S GROVE

by Patrick Dakin

  “How you doing, Herb?” I call out.

  He glares at me “Beth tell you about the poker game?”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  “Be at the hotel at seven. We get a room for the night. Everybody throws in twenty for beer and pizza.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  Herb grunts and I watch his fat ass disappearing into the night.

  “Peach of a guy,” I mutter to myself.

  Beth gives me a bogus laugh. “Oh, he’s a real charmer. Wanna come over and watch some T.V.?”

  I consider it for a second or two but decide a night of just cuddling with Beth will be too tortuous. I really am a shithead sometimes. “Think I’m gonna head home and turn in early,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “See you tomorrow?”

  “You bet.”

  When I get home Victor is waiting for me again, but this time he doesn’t look so happy. Actually he looks a little nervous. Like I’ve caught him trying to hump the little Schnauzer-Poodle cross (called, of course, a Schnoodle) that lives down the street from him. Her name is … wait for this … Shania. That’s right. Shania the Schnoodle. And she is without question the most hideous looking creature I have ever laid eyes on. Victor, clearly, is not in agreement on this issue however. He has made it his primary mission in life to score with Shania. If he gets so much as a glimpse of her he’s after her like … well, me at the sight of Beth in a mesh and lace teddy by Victoria’s Secret. Anyway, when I bend down to pat him I notice a pool of watery vomit nearby, which accounts for his nervousness. I take his head in my hands and push back on his ears. His tongue hangs to one side like a large slab of liver and he tries out a weak smile on me. “What’s the matter, boy?” I say. He puts his paw on my thigh and whines softly.

  I take him inside with me and give him some water. He laps it up and then looks longingly at the couch. “Come on,” I sigh, turning on the little television I picked up the other day at the used furniture store. As I park myself on the couch in front of the t.v. Victor climbs up beside me and plunks his head on my lap. For the rest of the evening I am treated to a chorus of malodorous and thundering belching and farting.

  Most of which emanates from Victor.

  In the morning, Victor is still here, and there’s another pool of vomit - this time in the corner by the door. He looks devastated by his poor manners and scoots out the door as soon as I open it. After I clean up his mess I go to the office to see if Sonny is there. He isn’t, so I call Beth at work. It’s a busy time for her so I come right to the point. “Is there a vet in town, babe?”

  “Not really,” she says. “Paco Alvarro is a trucker, but he’s about the closest thing we’ve got to a real veterinarian. Why?”

  “Harold Miller's old mutt, Victor, has been hanging around here for the last couple of days and he’s not doing too good. Thought maybe somebody should have a look at him.”

  “Give Paco a try. I think he’s pretty good for most things. He’s got a place just west of town about a mile out.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  I’ve got nothing lined up in the way of work right now so I go outside to see if Victor is still around. Sure enough, he’s parked in his favorite spot in the morning sun. “Come on, boy,” I say. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  ‘Ride’ is one of the words with which Victor is very familiar. As soon as he hears it he struggles to his feet and trots off toward the Jeep. He’s at the door, waiting eagerly for me to open it, when I arrive.

  He makes a few attempts to heave himself up into the Jeep when I open the door but it proves to be too much of a job for him and I have to help out by lifting his rear end.

  When I climb behind the wheel he snuggles right up close to me, allowing me barely enough room to drive. He’s like an old high school girl friend I had who used to do the same thing.

  As I recall, however, she had considerably sweeter-smelling breath.

  There’s a mailbox at the road that identifies the Alvarro place. The house is a low slung rancher set well back from the road. There’s a big highway rig, used for pulling semi trailers, parked off to the side of the house, and a three or four year old Ford Explorer out front. I count three different breeds of dogs, two goats, and some chickens wandering around the yard as I traverse the dirt driveway. Half way to the house a guy wearing jeans, a light blue shirt, and a western style straw hat comes out the front door and heads toward the Explorer. When he sees me he stops and waits for me to pull up beside him.

  “Mornin’,” he says. If his name hadn't already identified him as being of Mexican descent, his looks certainly would remove any doubt. His skin is olive-toned, his hair jet black, and there’s an almost Oriental slant to his eyes. He's got a little Fu Manchu mustache and a few wispy whiskers on his chin that don't quite qualify as a goatee. When he smiles, deep crevices appear in his cheeks. He’s around my age, about six feet, and maybe twenty pounds heavier than he'd like to be.

  “Are you Paco?” I ask.

  “That’s me.” There's just a slight hint of an accent. I'm guessing he was born in Mexico but raised in the U.S.

  “Hi, Paco. I'm Lucas Tunney.”

  “The mechanic.”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Glad to meet you, Lucas. What brings you out here?”

  “A friend of mine isn’t feeling too well. I’ve been told you’re the closest thing we have to a vet in the immediate vicinity. Wondered if maybe you had a minute to look him over.”

  Paco peers around me at Victor. “Now that looks a lot like Harold Miller’s dog, Victor,” he says.

  “Right.”

  “What seems to be the matter with him?”

  “He’s been tossing up his cookies for the last couple of days.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at him.”

  I help Victor out of the Jeep and we follow Paco to a big shed out back of the house. “I know you’ve already been told but I have to emphasize it anyway,” Paco says as we enter his makeshift clinic, “I’m not a real vet.”

  “Yeah. I’m not a real mechanic either,” I reply. “And whatever you know about animals is a damn site more than I do. I won’t be holding a gun to your head for a thorough diagnosis or anything, Paco.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s get him up here on the table.”

  I take the rear and Paco takes the front. With one mighty heave we deposit Victor on the table.

  Paco has an instrument he uses to look in Victor’s eyes and ears and another to look down his throat. Then he feels around Victor’s stomach with his fingers and checks his temperature with a thermometer that brings no joy at all to Victor as it’s inserted.

  When Paco is done he looks at me and runs his fingers over his little beard. “I don’t see anything obvious wrong with him. He’s an old dog you know. Could be he just ate something that didn’t agree with him."

  "It's probably my fault," I tell Paco. "I've been feeding him cereal and milk."

  "I doubt that's it," Paco says. "He probably got into somebody's garbage, more likely. Don’t think I’d be too concerned. Keep an eye on him, if he’s still no better in a day or two you should probably get him to somebody better qualified than me.”

  “I appreciate the advice, Paco.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Can I give you something for your time?”

  He smiles. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he says. “The Mack is idling a little rough, though. Want to give it a listen?”

  “Glad to,” I say.

  Paco throws me the keys and we walk out to the truck. I climb up in the cab and fire it up, then take a few seconds to listen to her. It doesn’t sound like anything very sinister. I pop the hood, fiddle around for five minutes making a few minor adjustments to the carburetor and she’s purring like a pampered Persian.

  “Looks like we’re all evened up,” Paco says.

  We’re sauntering back to the Jeep when he says, “If you’re not in a hurry, come on in the hou
se for a minute. I’d like you to meet the wife and kids.”

  “That’d be great,” I say.

  Paco leads the way to a bright, open kitchen at the rear of the house. A pretty woman with pony-tailed blond hair, wearing shorts and a halter top, is standing at the sink washing dishes. There are three cats and a pure white rabbit near her feet.

  “Honey, say hello to Lucas Tunney,” Paco calls out. “Lucas, my wife Bonnie.”

  “How do you do, Lucas,” she says, turning to give me a smile that reminds me of the way my mother used to smile at me at the end of a day filled with housecleaning, clothes-washing, and cooking for a husband and five boys whose ages, from youngest to oldest, differed by less than eight years: weary, but happy in the knowledge that she has been made so doing what gives her more joy than anything else on earth.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Would you like a coffee?” she asks.

  “Thank you, I’d like that,” I answer.

  Paco and I sit at the table while Bonnie does the honors. While we’re sipping our javas and chatting, two children come running into the house through the back door.

  “Slow down, you two,” Bonnie hollers. “Come here and meet Mr. Tunney.”

  The kids are carbon copies of their parents. The boy, Chet, is five and a miniature Paco; the girl, Jenna, is four and the spitting image of Bonnie. They’re adorable, delightful children. “Well, not hard to tell who your parents are,” I say.

  Jenna introduces me to her doll. Chet confides that he’s expecting a new two- wheeler on his upcoming birthday. Then they’re off to new adventures.

  “Just have the two kids?” I ask Bonnie as the children race from the kitchen.

  A look of sweet sorrow passes over her and she turns abruptly quiet. Paco answers for her. “We lost our older daughter a year ago, Lucas. It’s still very hard for us to deal with it.”

  I’m mortified for touching such tender wounds. “I’m sorry. I--”

  “No, it’s okay,” Paco interrupts gently.

  Bonnie leaves the table and returns a moment later with a framed photograph that she hands to me, tears welling up in her eyes. “This is our daughter, Anne Marie,” she says quietly. “We don’t know where she is or what has happened to her. She was in town shopping with me one day a year ago. She was out of my sight for no more than a few minutes. When I tried to find her she had vanished.”

  I look at the photograph in my hands. Suddenly it feels like the floor has just dropped out from under me. My world is spinning out of control, turning upside down, inside out. The girl I’m gazing at is a beautiful child with lovely dark eyes and shiny, long black hair. She appears genuinely happy, without a care in the world.

  Nothing at all like the haunted, ruined girl I saw in the desert three weeks ago.

  But despite the obvious differences in her appearance, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind.

  It’s her.

  8

  Paco and Bonnie have got to figure me for a complete nut case. After seeing Anne Marie’s picture I was struck dumb. I rushed out of their home, ashen-faced, eyes agog, leaving them to wonder at my bizarre behavior. But how could I tell them that three weeks earlier, while lost in the desert, I had seen the ghost of their daughter? How crazy does that sound?

  What the hell is going on here? Am I crazy?

  Maybe, I am. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  I’ve got to talk to somebody about this. There has to be an explanation for what’s happening to me. But who do I talk to? Shit, I’ll be locked up for sure if I start telling people I’m seeing ghosts.

  I run down the list of people I know in this town. It doesn’t take long. It’s not like there are dozens of possible choices; there is only one person I can talk to about this.

  Deborah Miller.

  It’s a weekday so I assume she’ll be at work at the post office, a tiny operation occupying a corner of the pharmacy, which in turn occupies a corner of the general store. When I arrive there Deborah is at her station and sees me approaching. The look on my face must tell her all she needs to know about the urgency with which I need to speak to her.

  She comes out from behind the counter with a concerned look on her face. “Lucas, is everything alright?” she asks.

  Everything is far from alright and there is no use trying to pretend otherwise. “No, Deborah,” I say, “it’s not.”

  “Just a minute,” she says, touching my arm lightly with the tips of her fingers. She turns and approaches one of the store clerks busily stocking shelves. “Adele, I’m going to take my lunch break a little early. Can you cover for me?”

  “Sure, Deb, you go on,” Adele says, making no effort to disguise her curiosity as she looks over at me.

  Deborah returns to me and takes my arm, then steers me out the side entrance of the building. “Lucas,” she says, “what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course.”

  I don’t seem to be able to think straight. I can’t even remember where I left the Jeep. “We could go to the hotel - to the dining room. Is that all right?”

  She arches her eyebrows. “Perhaps someplace more private,” she suggests.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” But where?

  “Do you have your car here?”

  I’m looking around like an moron, trying to find the damn thing. When I hear Victor bark I realize I’m standing practically right in front of it. “Here. Here it is,” I say.

  We get in the Jeep after I scoot Victor into the back seat. Again, Deborah doesn’t question Victor’s presence. Once behind the wheel I can’t think of where to go.

  “Just drive out of town, Lucas,” Deborah says, clearly sensing my complete bewilderment. “We can stop anywhere.”

  “Right.”

  She makes no effort to get me to speak until I steer the Jeep off the road at a rocky pullover on the outskirts of town and come to a stop, killing the engine.

  As I sit there, staring forward, completely at a loss about where to begin, Deborah says, “Lucas, talk to me. What’s happened?”

  “I … Jesus, I don’t know what’s going on, Deborah. I think I’m going crazy.”

  “You are in trouble, aren’t you? I knew it the first time I saw you. I wasn’t lying to you, Lucas. I really can tell these things.”

  “Deborah … how much can you tell?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me you could tell if something bad was going to happen to someone. Is that right?”

  “Well … sometimes, yes.”

  “Not always?”

  “No, not always,” she says uncertainly. “Sometimes I get mixed messages. It might appear to me that someone is in danger but it could turn out they’re just very worried about the health of a loved one or something. Sometimes … well, sometimes I get nothing at all.”

  I press both hands to my forehead, trying to stave off what seems like it might be a doozy of a migraine. “Have you ever seen a … a ghost?” I ask lamely.

  I half expect her to laugh in my face - a repeat of the episode with Sonny - but she doesn’t. “No, I haven’t,” she says, “but I believe they exist.”

  I'm a little bit amazed at her response. “You do? Why?”

  “Because many perfectly sane people swear they’ve had some form of contact with them. And I know - perhaps better than most people - that just because something might seem strange doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

  By now I'm far from certain that I qualify as one of those perfectly sane people Deborah has alluded to. Before I can give this thought the attention it deserves, I blurt, “I’ve seen one.”

  She doesn’t bat an eye. “I believe you, Lucas.”

  “Do you know Paco and Bonnie Alvarro?”

  “Not well but, yes, I know them.”

  “You know their daughter went missing about a year ago?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I'm on a roller coaster
now and I couldn't stop if my life depended on it. “Well … I’ve seen her,” I say.

  Suddenly Deborah’s eyes go big. “Are you saying you’ve seen Anne Marie Alvarro’s ghost?”

  For a moment I stare into Deborah’s widened eyes, appalled at the thought of what I’m about to finally give voice to. But there is no way, it seems, that I can deny what now appears to be an irrefutable fact. “Yes,” I say, my voice tremulous and my guts feeling like I’ve consumed something cold and acidic, “that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  9

  Slowly, and with great deliberation, I acquaint Deborah with every detail of my experience in the desert. There is no denying that it feels wonderfully therapeutic to unburden myself, to share what has happened to me with another human being. Even better, she accepts everything I say without the slightest sign that she believes I’ve flipped the old hairpiece.

  When I’m done, she’s says, “Okay, what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Do about it?” I say, physically cringing at the thought of actually confronting my problem.

  “You can’t just leave it at this, Lucas. If we accept that you’ve been chosen by this poor child’s ghost to be contacted for some reason, you have to pursue it, don’t you?”

  “I guess so,” I answer. My response is articulated with all the enthusiasm of a terminal malaria patient responding to a request that he donate whatever time remains to him to the preservation of the Amazonian strangler fig. “What do you know about her disappearance?” I ask, giving in to the inevitable.

  “Only what everyone in Cutter’s Grove knows. Bonnie Alvarro was in town shopping with her three children one afternoon last year. As a matter of fact it was just about this time of the year as I recall. Anne Marie was nine at the time. She left her mother in the general store and walked outside. She was alone when she left the store. No one ever saw another trace of her again.”