The biker gunned his engine, his back tire spitting up grass and dirt as he barreled into the parking lot.
Simon was only a few steps away from his car. He was going to make it. Remembering he had left the door unlocked in his haste, he grabbed the door handle and pulled.
But the door was locked.
He didn't understand. As the biker roared toward him, he fumbled for his key, but couldn't find it in either pocket. Then he remembered that he hadn't only left the door unlocked, he had left his key inside as well—and he realized, as he heard the sound of the biker's tires squealing, exactly who had it.
No ... !
Sensing he had no time to turn, he jumped toward the front of his car. The biker, his back end swinging around as he banked into the turn, smashed into the driver's-side door. Simon landed on the pavement, scraping his hands, but he was up instantly and running.
He headed for the narrow line of trees separating the rest area from the highway. Through the darkness and the rain, he saw glimpses of the road, like a giant black serpent.
He would cross the road. Get to the campground on the other side. Find someone. It was his only chance.
He made it up over the sidewalk and onto the soggy grass, but then the roar was right behind him and something struck his shoulder. As he went sprawling, the biker thundered past, spinning around, his back tire carving a brown half-circle on the grass. Simon struggled to his feet, but a searing pain lanced through his right knee, and he collapsed onto the wet earth again.
He heard the engine die, the kickstand pop down. He raised his head to see the biker dismount. Simon rolled onto his back and scrambled backwards, the moisture soaking through the seat of his pants. Rain ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. The biker loomed over him like a black shadow. Gloves descended, grabbed his shirt, pulled him off the ground.
Blinking away the water in his eyes, he looked up at the faceplate inches from the end of his nose.
The black helmet now bore a jagged silver scratch on the right side. Simon tried to peer beyond the mirror, but he saw only his own face reflected back at him: his left eye purple and swollen, a line of blood dribbling from his bottom lip across his chin, his soaked hair plastered against his scalp. It was the face of a small and frightened man. It was the face of a man Simon didn't know.
"Please,” he begged. “Please ... I have a wife ... a daughter."
The biker's grip on his shirt tightened. For the longest time, he held Simon there, the faceplate so close Simon's breath fogged the glass. He got whiffs of motor oil and leather. The rain lessened, a gust of wind shaking the trees, starting as a whisper and ending as a low moan.
Finally, the biker released him. He fell hard on his backside, and looked up, too scared to move. The biker looked down at him another moment, then reached into his pocket and tossed a pair of keys between Simon's legs.
As if he was in a dream, Simon watched the man turn and walk back to his bike, a bike Simon now noticed was scratched, the fuselage dented, one of the handlebars twisted. He watched as the man started the engine and, without so much as a glance in Simon's direction, drove away.
Exhausted, Simon laid his head on the grass, listening as the roar of the biker's engine moved beyond the rest area, out into the road, and then blended with the storm. He lay there for a long time, then finally rose, retrieved his keys, and made his way back to his car.
As if he were floating outside his body, he watched as he put the key in the door, climbed inside, started the engine, and drove his car toward the exit. He thought the moisture on his face was rain until he tasted the tears on his lips.
With his car idling at the entrance to the highway, the road stretching into darkness on both sides, he knew he had a choice.
To the right lay the casino, where a group of strangers waited around a green felt table, the dimly lit room hazy with smoke. In his mind's eye he saw an empty chair, a stack of chips in front of it, five cards facedown. He saw himself sit, pick up the cards, and toss his ante into the pot. The pull was there. Even with his bloodied face and aching chest, he felt it. He wanted to go there. He wanted to join that table. There was still time. Nobody would care how he looked. Nobody.
But to the left, somewhere beyond the shadowy hill, he saw something else: his daughter's dark room, the street lamp in the parking lot breaking through the gaps in the blinds. It was as if he were standing there in the doorway, his clothes still dripping. The room smelled so much different than the casino—no smoke, but instead the faint stench from her soiled diapers, an odor her diaper pail couldn't quite contain. It didn't smell bad to him, though. It smelled wonderful. He saw himself move quietly into the room, navigating around dolls and blocks and board books littering the floor. He saw himself ease down in the glider across from her bed, cringing when it squeaked. He saw his trembling hand reach for her sleeping form, his fingers inches from her hair.
He closed his eyes. He saw her so much more vividly this way. If he concentrated, he could almost feel his fingers brushing against her hair. Soft, like the finest silk. If he thought about how it felt, if he didn't allow himself to think about anything else, not even for a second, the feeling could save him. He knew it could. It had power. All he had to do was surrender himself to it. All he had to do was turn his hands to the left.
It should be so simple.
It should be so easy.
And yet, as he opened his eyes, and with a last convulsive shudder forced the wheel to the left, he knew it was both the hardest and the greatest thing he had ever done.
©2007 by Scott William Carter
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THE WORLD BEHIND by Chris F. Holm
Born in Syracuse, New York, Chris Holm is the grandson of a cop with a penchant for cop stories. Hardly surprising, then, that his debut fiction should be a mystery. He is also a scientist who currently manages a marine biology lab on the coast of Maine. He has recently completed his first novel, a supernatural thriller.
It's hot. Too hot to sleep, I think, though the gentle rise and fall of the sheet as my wife slumbers be-side me argues otherwise. I glance at the clock on the night-stand. It's not quite four A.M. The curtains flutter in the warm summer breeze, translucent and insubstantial by the pale glow of the street lamps. They're beautiful—one of a thousand tiny reminders that the world is as it should be.
I kiss my wife gently on the cheek and slip out of bed. She smiles but doesn't stir. I pad down the hall past Maddy's room, pausing a moment to listen to the quiet sound of her breathing. Downstairs, I make myself a cup of tea and head for the porch, the screen door creaking in protest as I ease it closed. I'm greeted by the scents of dogwood and honeysuckle, and of fresh-cut grass sweet like hay—the scents of summer in Virginia.
It's been twenty years, I realize. Twenty years since the summer that changed my life forever. Sometimes, after the first hard frost has browned the leaves and the chill rains of winter are on their way, it seems a lifetime away. But on a night like this, when even the setting of the sun provides no relief from the oppressive Southern heat, it seems so close. Truth be told, I know it's never far away.
The summer of 1986 was one of the hottest on record. Drought had been declared in the city of Richmond, and sprinklers and hoses were forbidden. Though the air was thick with moisture and our clothes stuck heavy to our skin, the grass grew dry and brittle beneath our feet, and eventually grew not at all.
My family and I lived in a well-manicured house in a suburb at the edge of town, where the last tendrils of development stretched into the wild Virginia countryside beyond. At the end of the street was a turnaround, past which lay a dense thicket of brambles that gradually gave way to an old-growth forest of birch and oak. A single, winding path cut through the brambles into the forest beyond.
I'd often wondered where the path led, but I was a shy kid, bookish and afraid. In the end, it was that fear that drove me down it. I was certain then that I could hide. Now, of course, I know better.
It all started with the squirrel.
* * * *
"Go on, Timothy, do it!"
Billy McMahon's eyes glinted with mischief. He knew damn well that nobody called me Timothy but my mother, and what's worse, so did everybody else there.
"No. I won't."
"What's the matter, Timothy, you too much of a pansy?” Billy's nostrils flared in animal aggression. Billy McMahon was a cruel child, the kind of cruel that made you mighty popular at that age. He had me on the ropes, and he wasn't about to let up. Not while he had an audience.
"Timothy's a pansy! Timothy's a pansy!” This from Mike Harrington, and in a whiny falsetto, no less. The kid lived in Billy's shadow. Honestly, living in Billy's shadow was one of the better moves he'd ever made. Mike was a little slow, and small for his age, and standing behind Billy McMahon was a sure-fire way of never ending up in front of him.
"I'm not a pansy,” I said through gritted teeth. The crowd gathered tighter around us, humming with voyeuristic interest. I scanned their faces for an ally, but all I saw was relief that it was me in the hot seat and not any of them.
"Then touch it."
The squirrel lay dead on its side in the center of the street, one blank eye staring skyward. It looked to me like all it wanted was to be left alone. I knew how it felt.
"Fine,” I replied. “Give me the stick."
"No stick for you, Timmy-my-boy. You gotta touch it bare-handed. You're lucky I don't make you pick it up for being such a girl about it."
A voice cut through the rising din of the crowd. “Leave him alone, Billy."
The crowd parted. I couldn't help but wince. There, straddling her bike, was Alison Ashbrook, all elbows and scabby knees. Billy broke into the kind of grin that you feel in the pit of your stomach.
"You hear that, Timothy? Your girlfriend wants me to leave you alone."
"His girlfriend," Harrington echoed in that same singsong falsetto.
I opened my mouth to reply, but all that came out was a dry croak.
"Hey, Billy,” Alison said, nodding toward Mike, “tell your boyfriend he sounds like my little sister, only maybe not as cute. You think he's getting jealous you're paying Tim so much attention?"
Harrington went red and silent.
"You should watch your mouth, you little bitch,” Billy replied, shaking with rage. The crowd had turned on him, laughing at his discomfort from the safety of a few feet away. Anonymity is a hell of a cure for cowardice.
"And you should watch yours," she replied. “Every time you open it people get to see what kind of guy you really are."
Billy picked up his bike from where it lay on the street and climbed atop it. “C'mon, Mike,” he said. “Let's bail. Too many losers around here for my taste. Oh, and Timothy? I'll see you around."
Mike collected his bike without a word, and they rode off, leaving a snickering crowd behind.
With Billy and Mike gone, the crowd began to disperse. I was grateful. My face was flushed with embarrassment, and tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over. Soon it was just me and Alison. She looked at me with an expression of sympathy. I looked at my shoes.
"Don't worry about those guys,” she said. “They're more bark than bite. You okay?"
"Yeah,” I said, turning away. “I'm fine."
"You wanna go get some ice cream or something?"
"Can't,” I replied. Truth was, I couldn't stomach the thought of the looks we'd get, the whispers as we passed. Timothy Hewitt, saved by a girl.
"Oh. Another time, maybe."
"Yeah. Maybe.” I started down the street, toward home. There was a flutter of playing cards against spokes as Alison turned her bike around to do the same. I took a breath and turned around.
"Hey, Alison?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Alison flashed me a smile that almost made the day worthwhile, and then turned and rode off. I strolled home beneath a sky of deepening orange. I thought about Billy and Mike, and the price I'd pay for Alison's intervention. I thought about the squirrel, lying dead and bloated on the sun-bleached pavement. I thought about Alison, so quick and so fearless when I was clumsy and afraid.
But mostly, I just thought about her smile.
* * * *
When I came down for breakfast the next morning, my father was sitting at the table, hidden behind his morning paper. A half-eaten plate of waffles sat in front of him. I sat down at the empty plate beside him as Mom fished another batch of waffles out of the toaster and set them down in front of me.
"You see this, Meg? Looks like another coupla animals went missing from the neighborhood again. Coyotes, they're saying. Says here the heat drives ‘em out of the woods looking for food. They're telling folks to make sure to bring their pets in at night."
Mom said nothing. I concentrated on my breakfast. Dad continued from behind his paper, “Only I was talking to Mark Holbrook the other day, and he says that isn't so. His brother works over at Animal Control, and he says the ones they found were taken apart, but there wasn't anything missing. Way he tells it, no animal coulda done it. You ask me..."
"David," Mom replied sharply. “We do not need that kind of talk at the table.” At the table is what she said. In front of Timothy is what she meant.
"What?” Dad glanced over the top of his paper. “Oh geez, kiddo, I didn't know you were up yet. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sure Thurston's fine."
"That's okay,” I mumbled. It wasn't, though. Thurston was our cat, a four-year-old tabby. Earlier that summer, she had wandered off. Nobody'd seen her in weeks. Mom insisted she was all right, that some nice family had taken her in, but I knew the truth. Thurston wasn't coming back.
"So,” Mom said, “I was thinking you could ride your bike over to Ben's today if you like, maybe go for a swim? Ben's mom says she'd love to have you."
Ben's house was half a neighborhood away. The route took me right past Billy McMahon's house. “I don't feel like it,” I said, pushing waffles around the plate.
"Well, I've got a house to show, and you can't just lie about all day. You're going to Ben's."
"Fine.” I pushed back from the table, leaving behind a congealing mess of waffles and syrup. I threw my swim trunks and a towel in a bag and headed for the door. As the screen door clanged shut behind me, Mom called out.
"Timothy?"
"Yeah?"
"Be safe!"
Safe. Right. I grabbed my bike from the garage and rode off down the street.
* * * *
The important thing was, I had a plan. Three blocks up to Forest, four blocks over to Cherry, and then back onto Oak. That's five blocks more than I needed to go, but it would be well worth it if it kept me away from Billy.
I was barely to the end of my street when I heard the call.
"Hey, Timothy, I got a present for ya!"
He'd been hidden behind a tree, waiting. In his hand was a tree branch. By the time I spotted him, he was less than an arm's-length away. He jammed the branch into my spokes. The bike jerked to a halt. I didn't.
I sailed over the handlebars. Palm-first onto the pavement. He was on me in a flash.
"You think I'm gonna let you make a fool outta me?” he asked, rolling me over with a nudge of his foot. “You think you and that girlfriend of yours are so smart?” He hit me. I didn't even try to stop him.
"I asked you a question.” He hit me again. Tears spilled down my cheeks. “What'sa matter? Cat got your tongue?"
Behind us, I heard the slam of a door, and footsteps approaching. “Hey!” someone shouted. “Get off of him!"
Billy straightened. I didn't get up.
"What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"We're just having some fun,” Billy said. “Ask him, he'll tell you."
"The hell you are.” He glanced at my bike. Front wheel bent. Spokes snapped like twigs. “You could have killed him."
"I didn't mean nothin’ by it."
"Sure you didn't. Only now you've got
a problem. See, you so much as set foot on this street again, I'm calling the cops, you hear me? You don't come anywhere near him."
"Yeah, whatever."
"Don't shrug me off, William. Not unless you want me to take this up with your father."
Billy blanched.
"I thought so,” the man replied. “Now's the time for you to leave."
Billy shot me a look of pure venom and took off down the street. The man turned his attention to me. “You all right?"
"Yeah,” I replied.
"Tim, is it?"
"Yeah."
He extended a hand to help me up. I took it. “Name's Murray,” he said. “Ryan Murray. I teach up at the high school. Had a couple of run-ins with William and his brothers last year. Not the friendliest bunch."
"Yeah."
"You know this isn't going to keep him from you forever."
"I know."
"You okay to make it home?” I nodded. “Okay, then. I suggest next time, you be prepared. Kids like him, there's always going to be a next time."
Next time, sure. He'd have to find me first.
* * * *
The path stretched out before me, disappearing into the weeds. Narrow, but well-worn. I'd stood here dozens of times before, hundreds maybe, but today it looked different. Today, it looked possible.
After my run-in with Billy, I'd dragged my bike toward home, watching from behind a neighbor's bushes until my parents left for work. I stashed the bike in the garage, piling toys and junk atop it so my parents wouldn't see. Then I came back. To the path, and the safety it afforded. I was sure I could just melt into the forest and disappear. I had no idea how true that nearly was.
I took a breath and set out down the trail. It was scarcely wider than the shoeprints I left behind. Brambles dug at my clothes, my skin. The air was thick with dust and pollen. I pressed on, coughing.
As the canopy grew thicker overhead, the weeds began to dwindle. Eventually, they receded completely, the ground covered instead by a thick mat of leaves. It was cooler here by maybe ten degrees, and the air was fragrant with sap. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the trickle of running water. It was beautiful here, nothing at all like the orderly grid of suburban streets just a hundred yards away. This was something different. This was the world behind the world.
EQMM, June 2007 Page 11
