by Glen Krisch
"Fine. Show me this proof. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to learn the whole truth."
Part IV
1.
Crouched low in the back of Dr. Thompson's Packard, Jacob and Ellie hid beneath a tattered blanket they'd found draped over the floorboard. She hadn't told him much, yet, just enough to convince him to follow Dr. Thompson when he left the potluck.
It had stung when his mom dismissed him in order to talk privately with Mr. Cooper. But maybe it would be for the best. Maybe he would finally learn something of Jimmy's whereabouts.
He'd left the other remaining boys down at the creek when their moods turned torturous. Archie Beaumont was the ring leader, shoving gravel into the mouth of a thrashing bullfrog. After weighting it down the boy tossed it back in the creek, waiting for it to resurface, if it would at all, laughing uproariously.
Disgusted with Archie's behavior and the other boys' willing complicity, he left, walking aimlessly from creek to barn, then back up to the house again. He'd kept a wide berth, hooking wide of the back porch to avoid his mom and Cooper's conversation. He entered the house through the front door. That's when Ellie found him.
Someone approached the parked Packard. They'd been waiting a solid five minutes, too worried about being spotted or heard to make a peep. The person opened the trunk and slid something heavy inside. Jacob assumed it was the doctor's leftover wine. He was surprised there was any remaining with how the neighbors were putting it away all day long.
They held their breath, but their worries were unfounded. Dr. Thompson walked by the rear door without so much as a glance, then opened the driver's side door, groaning as the seat took his weight. Ellie's head was against the door directly behind Thompson, but Jacob could see into the front seat from his hiding spot. A slice of dusky light washed across the doctor's face, and he looked tired, sober but tired.
Jacob would've bet the doctor had polished two bottles of mulberry wine by himself just this afternoon. But he seemed steady and aware, ready for home. The doctor started up the car, took a turn nearly too wide for the narrow turn-about, then thundered the engine down the double wheel ruts. They'd made it so far, stowed away, hidden and leery.
He still couldn't believe that a person as respected as Dr. Thompson would conceal knowledge concerning Jimmy. Ellie had been keeping her ears perked during the potluck, panning for any useful information. She was a sly one, moving from one crowd to the next, as noticed as a shadow on a cloudy day. Few held their tongues around the girl, and after hours of wine and rich food, their tongues only loosened.
As dusk settled over their farm, Ellie struck pay dirt. The doctor and Magee the barber were speaking in quiet tones, quiet enough not to draw a further crowd, but loud enough for Ellie to get the gist of it. After hearing the conversation, Ellie had pulled Jacob aside, whispering a transcript while cupping his ear.
Magee had spoken to Thompson about a man named Ethan. Ellie could hear the fear in Magee's voice. Ethan was consolidating his power, severing loose ends. When Jacob asked what that meant, she told him the names Magee mentioned. Jimmy, George, Greta, Cooper.
As the Packard jounced down the road toward town, Jacob analyzed the brief interplay.
How much did either man know?
Who else knew?
Quite abruptly, the doctor stomped the brake pedal, the tires ripping coarse grit from the ground.
"You can't stop this." Thompson slammed a fist against the steering column.
Ellie stirred, as did Jacob, but after checking on Thompson, Jacob caught Ellie before she could blurt out or startle the doctor.
Thompson continued to talk to himself. "You're too old. No, age doesn't matter in any of this, does it? Not with that damnable healing. Age doesn't matter, but courage does. And you don't have an ounce in you, old man."
Thompson rubbed his eyes roughly, as if trying to erase some horrible indelible image from his sight. The doctor laughed to himself. At first a chuckle, the laughter grew in intensity and timbre, flooding with a volatile mixture of madness and relief. He laughed and rubbed his eyes some more, then took a deep, quavering breath. He let it out and opened the door.
"Well, let's see what can be done. Sure wish Jasper was well enough to have a part in this foolishness. This should've happened decades ago. Me and Jasper, going in full-bore, guns blazing…" Thompson spoke, as if the words were no longer his own, or that perhaps he was not even aware that they were issuing from his mouth. Jacob made eye contact with Ellie, and as Dr. Thompson closed the door behind him, she placed a hand on his calf and squeezed. Even though they didn't know what the doctor had been rambling on about, she looked terrified. Her look mirrored how Jacob felt.
"Should I look?"
"Yes. Just be careful."
Jacob peered out the rear window. It took a few seconds to orient himself, but he quickly put two and two together. It was the scrubby patch of gravel that hooked behind Dr. Thompson's house. The driveway ended at a disused barn that had weeds grown tall before it, green tendrils extended to reclaim the land for the wild. A small shed leaned against the barn's listing southern side. If Thompson ever did any maintenance of his own property (with advancing age and his position in the community, he'd been hiring on boys to do those simple jobs for years), the hoes, rakes and saws would be found inside that shed. Some years before, Jacob and Jimmy had found a pair of coal shovels inside when the doctor hired them on to clear the three foot snow fall from his drive and front steps. It was a small shed, a shallow path between piled tools and equipment.
Of all the things Dr. Thompson could do on such a night, after drinking and sharing in his community's good spirits, he went inside the shed.
"It's his place."
"What's he doing?"
"He just went inside his old shed."
"What's he getting?"
"No idea. But he just lit a lantern."
Ellie joined him looking out the window.
"That sure is weird."
"Isn't it?"
"Maybe he's still drunk."
"I don't think so."
Jacob conceded to her experience; Ellie would know a drunk when she saw one.
"What was all that laughter and crazy talk about?"
"I don't know, Ellie. I don't know any more than you."
"What should we do now?"
"Wait for him to come out."
"We can sneak into his house, so we're there first, before he comes in."
He could think of no better option. "Fine. We better move, though."
"Wait. What just happened? The lantern went out."
"No. Not snuffed out."
"Maybe he ran out of kerosene."
"No. I don't think so. Looks to me like that light faded, like a light going down a hallway would."
"But there's no hallway in that tiny shed."
Jacob waited, thinking. Making a run for the house had been a good idea. But wouldn't the doctor have gone inside, if that's where he intended to go in the first place?
No, something strange was going on with how that light just faded like that. "I want you to wait here."
"No, Jacob, you can't leave me."
"It'll be okay. Just stay out of sight."
"But it's not safe without you here."
He waited for a reasonable argument to surface, but none did. "Fine, but you better be as quiet as a church mouse."
Ellie found a relieved smile, and though they were venturing into an even deeper unknown, they felt safer than they should have, knowing they had the other. It was a feeling of trust Jacob hadn't felt since Jimmy's disappearance.
2.
The night had turned quiet, mere murmurs of bullfrogs hunkered at the distant creek, a lone cricket's unanswered chirp. His welcoming neighbors had gone, by now settling their energy-sapped and surly kids into bed. They would have moved on to thoughts of tomorrow's chores and errands, the minutiae of the manual hardships of farming.
Alone, Charles Banyon fixated on h
is unrelenting failure as a father and husband.
What a row I've hoed. He sat slouched over on the outhouse bench. The stench held in by the closed door was an appropriate bombardment to his senses. He deserved nothing better.
But his neighbors had been so kind. So forgiving. Not to mention the furniture orders that would keep him busy through the winter. They'd accepted him once again.
And once again he'd slapped the hand of kindness away as if it were a buzzing mosquito. But he had his reasons.
Acceptance and kindness begot expectation, which in turn begot pressure and anxiety, which in the end, brought on a maddening panic that left him reeling, trying to hold together the broken fragments of control. The only way to gain control of the panic was by giving himself over to the harsh touch of the gentle hand of his beguiling mistress.
He tipped the bottle, hating the numbing burn as it surged down his throat and spread through his chest, reveling in the coming darkness. He sobbed silently, trying to hide from the world that he had failed once again.
With his head swimming and self hatred buzzing about his ears, he still noticed how silent the night had become. They were all gone and turned in for the night. His neighbors, the doctor, that kind lady, Jane Fowler, and…
And Elizabeth.
Hellfire.
His poor Elizabeth. All alone. No mother to calm her fears, no brother to turn to. A father pissing his life away.
"God damn it!" He lurched to his feet.
Gotta find my girl. He thought it again, then again, like a mantra. He dropped the empty liquor bottle down the outhouse seat and then opened the door. The air was cool, weightless, too pure. Too pure for him to breathe.
A single light shone from inside the Fowler's home. He walked what approximated a straight line toward the light. His Elizabeth would be up there with Jane. What would he have done without Jane Fowler's kindness?
The three makeshift banquet tables stood empty. Almost empty. Faint moonlight caught the curve of a wine bottle, as enticing as the swell of a woman's breast. His mouth watered as he approached. Flush with adrenaline and anguish and pain, his senses became more alert: his eyes peered through the shadowy yard for onlookers, watched the lighted window to make sure he was left alone. Alone to sin, alone to indulge, alone to quench the fire of craving, of loneliness.
He reached for the bottle, but stopped. Gave himself a mental slap.
Elizabeth. Gotta find my girl. My girl, my girl, my girl.
He righted his path, leaving the table and the wine bottle's magnetic pull.
Dusk had weakened, giving way to full-on night. Where did everybody go? He stopped dead still. How long was I in the shitter? It felt like he had lost time, as he often had while on a bender. Hell, he was on a bender, wasn't he? A new bender. The bender to end all benders.
"Elizabeth!" Instead of a shout, his daughter's name issued from his liquored lips like fingernails rasping on sandpaper.
He unsteadily climbed the porch steps. It felt wrong knocking on someone's door so late at night. But hadn't he been invited? This was a potluck and Jane Fowler had invited him and Elizabeth over. None of that changed, even after he went off to the shitter with that bottle.
Managing to quell his anxieties for the moment, he knocked on the door. A silhouetted figure walked through the kitchen to answer the door. He swatted the air in front of his face, trying to clear the alcohol vapors. He exhaled into his palm and smelled it, but couldn't tell how hard he would need to work to fool Jane. She could be a tough nut.
When the door opened, Charles was relieved to see Louise Bradshaw. Louise he could fool. Jane on the other hand…
"Yes?" Behind Louise, he saw the clutter left in the wake of the potluck. Piles of dirty dishes. Furniture pushed to the room's corners. But no sign of Elizabeth. No sign of anyone.
"My girl, Elizabeth, I've come for her."
Louise didn't say anything for quite awhile, simply stared into him with a shameful look. Nightsounds seeped into the silence. The whisper of branches bending to a gentle wind. Frogs croaking, a fox's baleful cry.
"Everyone's cleared out. The party's over."
"Please, you gotta tell me: where's Elizabeth?"
Louise continued to scrutinize him with her unflinching gaze. The lamplight glowed behind her. Inside it seemed so warm, inviting. But quiet. Empty.
"Where is she?"
Louise folded her arms across the top of her expanding belly. She winced, then rubbed it. She was so forthcoming he could strangle her. It'd feel good to get his hands around her judgmental neck and wring it like a chicken's. Oh, how it would feel, and then he'd find another bottle and disappear for awhile into oblivion.
"I don't know where she is."
"How so? She was at the potluck."
"Which has ended. Potlucks end. People go home."
"So that's where she went, back home?"
"I told you I don't know. If I did know, I don't think I'd tell you anyway." She reached for the doorknob behind her.
He shoved it open. Exasperated, Louise stepped back, allowing his entry inside. The odors of the feast and spilled wine and sweat permeated the house.
"Where is she?" He snatched a solid grip of her upper arm.
She cried out, tried to pull free, but her efforts only angered him. "Please. Don't. I don't know where she is."
Her simpering plea made his fingers constrict, made him grind his fingers into her flesh and deeper, into her bones.
She cried out again, this time troubled by her unborn child. Her free hand went to her belly while her eyes fluttered, unable to focus.
"Feisty one, is it?" He placed his hand on her belly, and sure enough, felt a resounding kick. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in so long. Since just before Elizabeth's birth.
Disgusted, she swatted at him to remove his hand.
He raised his hands, dirty as they were, palms out, to show his harmless intent. "How far along are you?"
Louise stepped away and breathed deeply.
"Not much for talkin', huh? Well, by the looks of you, I'd say you're five months tops."
He inched farther inside.
She said nothing, but her eyes spoke of her growing fear.
"You shouldn't shame a child, especially one not yet born. But you hid it. Shamed it. Hid a miracle as if it were a blight." Rage built at his temples, blurring his eyes. The last few days he'd fought so hard, the sweats and cravings, feeling like a marionette pulling against his strings. He fought the newfound clarity of his thoughts, the brightness of the day. But most of all, he fought the guilt for all of the troubles he'd caused, and everything he'd done that no matter how long he remained sober, he'd never be able to repair.
He could never have a fresh start. Not after tonight. Not after he so easily grabbed that bottle when no one was looking, grabbed it guiltily, but with lust also. He no longer had Mabel, not the Mabel he'd fallen in love with. With his own selfish actions he'd turned her into a monster. His boy, George, he was gone, too. As for Elizabeth, she would never see him as anything other than a vile, sticky thing clinging to the bottom of her shoe. Someday she would scrape him off, toss him away, and move on. Maybe today was that day.
Louise's unborn child kicked the hardest yet, making the girl catch her breath. Tears fell down her cheeks as she gritted against the stabbing pain.
He felt bad for her with no husband to calm her anxieties, no one to hold her hand through these baby pains. Jane Fowler was no where to be seen, either.
"Baby coming?"
"No, just doesn't like," she said, cut off by another kick. "Baby… doesn't like potato salad." She somehow smiled when she looked at him.
He closed his eyes and saw his beloved Mabel as young as Louise. So lovely, so humble and pure. The image blurred and distorted to the horrid thing she'd become. Undead, mindless, soulless. He heard the scraping of her nails against the door, wanting to get out, to ravage and tear him apart.
When he opened his eyes, Louise had dri
fted to the kitchen table, within reaching distance of a dirty carving knife.
"You know that Jimmy a' yours?"
Her hand stalled inches from the blade.
"He's dead."
"No. You don't know that."
"A' course I do. I brained him dead myownself."
Louise reached for the blade.
"And here you are, shaming a miracle."
He took two steps, grabbed her wrist with one hand, taking hold of the carving knife with the other. She screamed, but no one was near enough to hear.
3.
It was a rough go trying to find Greta Hildaberg's treehouse in the dark. Cooper had only been there once and was still unfamiliar with the wooded surroundings. Jane hadn't visited since she was a girl, on the eve of her marriage to Dwight Fowler. As they searched for signs they were in the right area, Jane told Cooper that she had gone (with a fair amount of skepticism, she emphasized) to ask Greta how her marriage would play out. Greta had told her during that long ago visit that her marriage would be loving and fruitful. If Jane would've only thought to ask if it would also be long-lived, she could've saved herself years of heartache. When you're fifteen, you never think you or a loved one is anywhere close to death. Death doesn't come near you. It is but a rumored condition afflicting others.
An amber glow warmed a wide tree canopy in the distance. They covered the remaining quarter mile quickly, kicking through a waist-high field that transitioned to a rough undergrowth of brush. The tree was the tallest around, with gnarled branches, roots grown grasping through the soil's surface below, a mantle of leaves blotting out the moon above. They mounted the spiral steps. Cooper found the nighttime effort considerably more amenable than his earlier attempt while accompanying the children in the bright sunshine. By the time Jane tapped on the door, he'd nearly forgotten his fear of heights and that they were now thirty or more feet in the air.
Greta answered the knock almost before it was finished.
"Good, good. Come on in. Cider's at the table. Have some if you will."
