Winter Wake

by Rick Hautala

  The memory of what had happened to Abby was torment enough. Why would someone torment him like this?

  He was increasingly convinced that it had to be Randy, but if so, why?

  And why finish the message with the word ME?

  “A new set of wrenches, I’d say by the feel,” he said, forcing a laugh to cover up the tremor in his voice. He glanced at Julia, and although she didn’t say anything, he was positive she was looking at him strangely, as though she knew full well what was going on.

  Is she in on this with Randy?

  And then it hit him like the concussion of a cannon shot.

  It has to be Randy Chadwick.

  He’s known all along what happened to Abby, and now that I’m back, he’s using it against me.

  And maybe Julia’s helping him.

  How else could these notes be appearing in places they shouldn’t be?

  Randy’s trying to steal my wife away from me.

  “Come on ... Open it,” Julia said. “It’s late, and I have to get to bed.”

  Her voice sounded innocent enough, but when John looked at her, he was convinced he saw something dark shifting behind her eyes.

  His hands trembled out of control as he tore through the wrapping paper. All the while, he was thinking, What if I see the same message on the inside of this?

  I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ME!

  But as he peeled the paper away, he glanced at the inside of the box, relieved that there was no handwritten message. It was a small white box, heavy for its size, with the word Norelco stamped in gold on the bottom left corner.

  “An electric razor,” he said.

  He took a breath, fighting to control the trembling he was sure everyone had now noticed.

  “That’s neat. Thanks.”

  He slid open the cover and looked inside but didn’t bother to take the razor out of its case.

  Bri leaned forward, presenting the side of her face, and he kissed heron the cheek and then put the box down on the coffee table next to his cocoa cup.

  “I’m beat,” Frank said as he pulled back on the wheelchair wheels and turned around. “I’d say, all in all, it’s been a fair to middlin’ evenin’.” Glancing at Julia, he nodded and added a soft, “Thanks for comin’ to church with me, Abby.”

  Julia was about to correct his mistake, but then decided to let it go.

  “My pleasure,” she said, and then she turned to Bri and said sharply, “You! … Get your teeth brushed and your butt into bed now.”

  “Do you want me to help you clean this mess up?” Bri surveyed the crusted cocoa mugs and torn gift wrapping that was strewn around.

  “You need to sleep,” Julia said, glancing at her watch. “It’s already almost midnight. Your father and I can take care of this.”

  John noticed that, again, she looked at him strangely. Was it because his father had called her “Abby?”

  “Merry Christmas, everyone,” Frank said tiredly as he rolled down the hallway to his bedroom. His door slammed shut behind him.

  “Go on,” Julia said, waving her hand at Bri. “Get upstairs.”

  “I hope I can fall asleep,” she said as she started slowly up the stairs, dragging her feet on each step. “Tm so excited about Santa coming.”

  “Get out of here,” Julia said. She took some crumpled-up wrapping paper and tossed it playfully at her.

  John still hadn’t moved from the couch. He sat there, staring blankly at the lights on the Christmas tree as though hypnotized. The ornaments caught and fragmented the colored lights into thousands of dazzling sparkles. Beside him on the couch was the balled-up gift paper with the penciled message. It burned against his leg like a hot coal. He was vaguely aware of Julia as she started bustling about, cleaning up.

  “You want me to take that?” she said, standing at the end of the couch with her hand out.

  “Huh?”

  “That paper,” she said.

  He picked up the paper ball, fully expecting it to sear his hand the instant his fingers touched it.

  But nothing like that happened —

  It was just a crumpled-up piece of wrapping paper which he handed to his wife. For a tense moment, he looked at her, studying her… trying to fathom that curious, dark expression in her eyes. He wanted to know if she did know what was written on that paper.

  “That’s about it,” she said simply as she scooped up the other discarded wrappings and, crumpling them all together, went into the kitchen and stuffed them into the trash can.

  She went around the house, turning off all the lights except the Christmas tree lights. Then she sat down on the couch, snuggling under her husband’s arm as she laced her fingers through his and held him tightly.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” she asked, giving his hand a jiggle.

  “Good enough,” John said, not able to look away from the tree.

  “You’ve been acting kinda uptight all night.” She jiggled his hand. “Come on. Tell me what’s the matter.”

  She reached up to his shoulder, pulling him around so he would have to look her directly in the eyes. They stared intently at each other while the brilliant tree lights sparkled in their eyes.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. ‘‘I’m just … beat, is all.”

  “Well …” She pulled him closer and brought her face up to his. “You know, I was wondering if you were going to give me what I wanted for Christmas.”

  “You mean what was on your list?” He noticed the glazed look in her eyes.

  “Um-hmm,” she said. “That.”

  They brought their faces closer, their lips less than an inch apart. She pressed her mouth against his and gave him a long, lingering kiss. His body was rigid in her grasp, but the longer they kissed, the more he loosened up. His tongue flicked between her lips, and she took that as a signal to proceed. Rubbing her hand on his chest in long, lingering circles, she sighed and let herself melt into his arms.

  Half an hour later, naked and bathed with sweat, the two of them were slouched side by side on the couch, their arms wrapped around each other as they stared out the picture window at the cold night. The snow had stopped, and through the breaks in the clouds, a sprinkling of stars spread across the night sky.

  “That did it,” Julia said as she ran her fingertips up and down John’s inner thigh. “I know it did.”

  In the moment before he penetrated her, she admitted that she wasn’t going to use the diaphragm, and he had simply muttered, “What the hell ...?”

  John chuckled.

  The sex, he had to admit, was good. He had lost himself in its release. All evening, ever since Julia had first told him she wanted to go to church, he had felt tension building inside him. And during the candlelight service, remembering what had happened when he was ten years old and trying to figure out what his father was trying to say to him and then seeing that girl and, later, that note on the inside of the wrapping paper — everything had worked to fray his nerves.

  He had needed a release.

  But now, after making love and — maybe — a baby, he was finally unwinding ... beginning to, anyway. The other memories were just that — memories. They might be unpleasant, but they were already fading. He told himself he could deal with them, ignore them as much as possible, and dismiss or explain them the next time they arose … if they did.

  The note, though —

  I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ME!

  — was different.

  Unlike a memory, it had been — and was — too real.

  Someone was leaving notes around to remind him about what had happened to Abby.

  To his knowledge, no one — other than himself — had known a thing about it, but the notes indicated otherwise. Once he was convinced it was Randy — and the more he thought about it, he realized he had started to suspect Randy back when he and Julia had gone over to the Chadwicks’ for supper — it all made sense ... maybe twisted sense,
but sense nevertheless.

  What he had to do was simple — make sure he never gave Randy or whoever else might be doing this the satisfaction of seeing that it was getting to him.

  After all, it wasn’t like he had done anything wrong.

  It wasn’t as if he had killed her or anything.

  He had to admit that it was a nice, chilling touch to use the word ME, when he had been expecting to see her name. The note should have read: “I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ABBY!”

  In the warm glow of the Christmas lights, John held his wife close, feeling her sweat-slick skin pressed against his. He wanted to let himself feel absolutely content. If she was right, if she had gotten her pregnant tonight, well, then ... so what? It was what she wanted, and God knew they had tried often enough before, so she must have her mind made up on the issue. And anyway, if tonight was like so many other nights back when they had first gotten married and both wanted to have another baby, it hadn’t worked, and she still wasn’t pregnant.

  “How can you be sure,” he asked, looking at her skin, glowing from the multicolored tree lights. “You can’t feel it or anything, can you?”

  “Women have ways of knowing things,” she whispered before kissing him on the chest and shoulders. Her lips were warm and wet on his skin. “When it happens, you can feel it.”

  “Yeah … sure.” He chuckled softly. “Men can feel it, too. It’s called ‘orgasm.’”

  “Cut it out,” Julia said, slapping him playfully on the bare stomach hard enough to make a loud smacking sound. “You men are all the same —”

  For an instant, John wondered exactly what she meant by that. He was trying not to think that maybe Julia had been seeing Randy Chadwick, and he had gotten hr pregnant because he couldn’t.

  Was that possible, or was he being paranoid?

  Could his wife, who was home all day while he worked in Portland, be having an affair with his best friend from high school?

  Had soap opera come to Glooscap Island?

  Stranger things have happened, he supposed.

  A sudden dash of chills blew over his naked body when he thought, That’s why Randy’s leaving those notes around. He’s trying to drive me fucking crazy so he can steal my wife.

  “If we’re going to get up sometime before noon tomorrow, we ought to be getting up to bed,” Julia said. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, and John couldn’t help but admire her shapely body in the glow of the tree lights.

  Shifting forward, he bent over to pick his clothes up from the floor when a sudden, loud groan interrupted the silent night.

  Startled, he and Julia looked at each other, their eyes widened with sudden fear and surprise.

  “What was that?” John asked as they both scrambled to get dressed. A second later, another — louder — noise … a ragged shout … sounded through the house. This time, they both knew where it was coming from.

  “My father …” John said.

  He bounced up and down as he pulled his pants up and zipped them. Bare-chested, he ran down the hallway. Buttoning her blouse as she ran, Julia was a few steps behind him.

  The door to Frank’s bedroom was shut, and when John turned the doorknob, it wouldn’t budge.

  “He’s got it locked. He never locks the door!”

  He looked frantically at Julia when, for a third time, a sound — a low, stifled scream this time — came from the bedroom. John clenched his fist and hammered on the door.

  “Dad! … Dad! Are you okay?”

  He gripped the doorknob and twisted it violently from side to side with no effect. The door rattled on its hinges, but it wouldn’t open.

  “Oh, Jesus! … Oh, Jesus!” Julia muttered when, below the sound of John’s pounding on the door, she heard a strangled, gurgling sound coming from behind the door.

  “Dad! For Christ’s sake! Open the door!” John wailed. He stopped trying the doorknob and instead pounded with both hands on the door. Then, moving back a few steps, he coiled himself up and threw himself at the door. He hit with a resounding thump, but still the door didn’t budge.

  “Why would he lock his bedroom door?” John shouted frantically.

  Julia stared at him with eyes like shiny coins. She held her hands up in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Come on, Dad! Let me in!”

  Both he and Julia could tell by the sounds coming from his bedroom that something was seriously wrong with Frank.

  Another stroke ... or a heart attack, John thought, and already his mind was darkening with thoughts of all the things that would be left unresolved between them if his father died now.

  “Is there a spare key or something? Maybe in the kitchen?” Julia asked, her voice pinched with panic.

  John shook his head and then threw himself at the door again, hitting hard and bouncing back with a grunt.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  For a third time, he slammed his body so hard against the door he thought the doorframe would smash to splinters, but the door only gave a fraction of an inch. From inside Frank’s room, they heard a loud rustling and thrashing sound, as though Frank were struggling violently. His raspy breathing filled the night, and his throat made loud clicking sounds like he wanted to scream but couldn’t find the breath to do so.

  “Get me something,” John said, turning to Julia as he continued to rain heavy-handed blows on the door. “A hammer … an ax … anything!”

  Frantic, Julia turned to run out to the garage and ran smack-dab into Bri, who had come downstairs to find out what all the commotion was about. Julia let out a piercing shriek.

  Turning and seeing Bri cowering in surprise, John shouted to her, “Quick! Call nine-one-one.”

  While Julia went out to the garage to find the ax or hammer, Bri hurried into the kitchen and dialed. Convinced the door was giving way, John braced his legs against the opposite wall and pressed against it, pushing with everything he had. Sweat stood out on his brow and ran into his eyes. His muscles strained; his veins bulged.

  The door sagged inward but wouldn’t give. It was as if the wood was swollen and wedged tightly inside the frame. The wood creaked and groaned every time John pressed against it, but the sound wasn’t loud enough to mask the strangled, choking sounds coming from inside the room. He grunted and pushed for all he was worth. The sounds of the struggle within the room grew louder until that was all he could hear. A flurry of motion beside him caught his attention.

  “Here,” Julia said, her voice a raw bark as she thrust the ax into his hand.

  John gripped the ax handle, braced his legs, and flailed at the door like a madman. The blade bit into the wood with each swing, sending splinters of wood flying. The door reverberated like a tight drumhead. Julia stood back and watched, horrified at what was happening and thinking crazily, Why on Christmas Eve?

  Finally, the door gave way with a loud inward explosion of shattered wood. John dropped the axe to the floor and thrush himself into his father’s darkened bedroom. His eyes strained to see in the darkness but — so far — all he could see was a shapeless mass wrapped up in a tangle of sheets.

  “Dad!” John shouted as he fumbled for the wall switch. Loud, ragged breathing came from the bed, sounding like someone crinkling paper. He found the wall switch and swatted it on, ready for anything, but what he saw made him stagger backwards until he hit the wall.

  “What the — ?” Julia said from behind him, looking through the shattered door.

  After a second or two, John regained his composure and walked over to the bed. He knew his father was dying. His raspy breathing sound sounded like what they called the “death rattle.”

  “Did you call the rescue?” he yelled, glancing at the doorway over his shoulder.

  “Bri did,” Julia said as she approached the bed and looked at Frank. The sheets and covers looked like he had been wrestling with someone. They were untucked and strewn all around, hanging off the bed. Frank lay on his back, his arms and legs spread wide. The buttons of
his pajama tops had ripped off, exposing his white, bony chest that rose and fell with his quick panting breath. His eyes were milky white, and they stared blankly up at the ceiling.

  John stood helplessly beside the bed, his hands hovering over his father as if he wanted to touch him, to help him, but he didn’t dare to.

  “Can you hear me Dad?” he whispered, leaning close to his father’s ear.

  The old man’s harsh breathing sounded like metal scraping against metal. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move except for his labored breathing. His face had a translucent cast to it, like waxed fruit. His eyes looked sightless … dead

  “The ambulance is on its way,” John said as he reached out gingerly and, simply to do something — anything — buttoned his father’s pajama tops. When his fingers brushed against his father’s chest, he was shocked at how cold his skin was.

  Julia came over and stood beside John. They exchanged worried glances, silently acknowledging what they were both thinking —

  This is it … The ambulance isn’t going to arrive in time.

  Tears of thick, milky fluid formed in Frank’s eyes and trickled down the sides of his face, soaking into the sheet. Traces of pink foam dribbled from the corners of his mouth. His pale lips were moving, but neither John nor Julia could tell if he was trying to speak or if it was only a muscle spasm.

  John turned to Julia and nodded at the sheets, indicating that the least they could do was cover him up, make him as comfortable as possible until the ambulance arrived. Julia went to the other side of the bed and, trying not to touch Frank, untangled the sheets from his legs and pulled them up with John.

  “She —” Frank said, his voice a raw whisper.

  “Just relax, Dad,” John said as he tucked the sheet under his father’s chin. “You’re gonna be all right.”

  He knew it was a lie.

  A faint flicker of light brightened Frank’s eyes for an instant as he broke his steady stare at the ceiling and looked at John. At first, John thought it was simply a spark of recognition, of realization that he was dying and, although he never had and couldn’t now say to his son what he wanted to, it was all right ... everything was all right now ... he was beyond pain. But as John looked deeply into his father’s eyes, he saw something else — a spark of what could only be pure terror …