by Peter Ponzo
Then the writhing slowed, then stopped completely, and slowly the long black root slipped smoothly away, sliding again into the drain, leaving her limp body lying on the bottom of the tub.
The coils had gone.
The water was gone.
The waltz continued in the other room.
***
"I'm sorry Mr. Bourden," said Inspector Jaffre, pulling at his ear. "I really can't say anything more than I've already told you. Your wife was strangled. Her body, you saw it, it was covered in welts. The lab has no theories either. But don't you worry Mr. Bourden, we're still working on it. I think you should go home now. Nothing you can do here. Get some rest."
Harold hadn't shaved in two days. He had come to the police station and stayed, hoping for some news on the investigation. Somehow it calmed him to be where others were concerned about the shocking death of his wife. For two days he had come to the station and waited in the lounge, drinking black coffee and smoking continuously. Sandra had tried to get him to stop smoking, bad for his health. He promised to stop many times, but never did. He eventually resigned himself to the habit saying that he expected to die young anyway, might as well enjoy life, even a short one. Sandra would laugh. She had a wonderful laugh. It began almost silent, then a hissing sound, then the giggling.
He had been lucky. He was awkward, short, his round face too pink and his taffy-coloured hair too thin. He found it difficult to make intelligent conversation. Everyone seemed to speak at once and he would wait for a pause in the conversation, not wanting to interrupt anyone, but there never was a pause, so he didn't say anything. But that wasn't really the reason for his silence because Sandra always waited patiently for him to speak, and he knew she was waiting, and he thought of how he could string together the words, how he could express his thoughts, and when he had constructed a meaningful sentence he was afraid it would sound pedantic, so he said nothing. But he was lucky. In spite of these clear defects Sandra, wonderful Sandra, had married him and as the years went by he acquired more courage, found it less difficult to express his thoughts.
Wonderful Sandra. Beautiful Sandra.
And now she was gone and he was alone. How could he survive, alone?
Harold stood and walked to the window. It had started to rain and people were colliding in their efforts to find protection. Rain? In November? And why did people run from the rain? It was only water. He remembered stories, islands in the Pacific where the rain was completely ignored, the natives ignored it and soon the rain was over and soon they were dry again in the hot sun.
Harold returned to his chair, lit another cigarette. He should go home. He would try to get some sleep. There was nothing he could do. He put out the newly lit cigarette and left the station.
Inspector Jaffre watched him leave through the small window of his office.
"So what do you think, Inspector?" asked his assistant. "Got any theories? What would do that to the body, covered in bruises, dirt and slime in the tub? What would do that?"
Inspector Jaffre stared at the photos on his desk and pulled his ear. "Damned if I know," he muttered. He pulled a small black and dog-eared notebook from his vest pocket and made a note: dirt-slime-diagonal welts covered in small hairs.
***
For a long time Harold sat in his car, at the end of the driveway, staring at the house. It was getting dark and the moon stood directly over the peaked roof, a bright arc. There were very few stars visible, the big dipper and maybe that very bright star was the planet Venus. Sandra and he had bought a book, intending to learn about the constellations. They did sit out back one night, then they lay side-by-side on the damp grass staring up at the star-filled sky. It was so dark they couldn't read the book. Sandra had laughed. She laughed often, a hiss then a giggle.
The engine coughed and stopped and Harold looked at the gas gauge: empty. He grunted and opened the door and began to walk to the shed in the back of the house. Would the can be full? He always forgot to fill the gas can after he used it, but Sandra never did. She was an accountant, maybe that's what made her so efficient. It was unusual for women to practise this craft, but she was very good at it. She thought of everything, she organized everything. He was clumsy and forgetful and silly. She didn't seem to mind. You're so helpless she would say, that's your appeal, my sweet,why you're such a terrific salesman. Then she would laugh, that wonderful laugh.
He opened the shed door and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. He reached into his pocket, removed the cigarette lighter. Could he light it in here, in the shed? If the gas can were full maybe it wasn't a good idea, dangerous. It would be exciting, but not a good idea. If he stepped outside it would be all right, but then he couldn't see the can inside a dark shed. He shook his head. What was he thinking? This was silly. Maybe he would wait until morning. He was tired, very tired. He looked at the house and the giant willow tree which seemed a black extension to the side, tall and irregular and wild looking, cradling the old house. The tree seemed to move, its branches seemed to rise and fall. Harold rubbed his eyes.
Sandy had loved that tree when they first moved into the old house. After a time she began to complain of the stains on the window and the constant rubbing of branches and the lack of sunlight on that side. He had promised to cut it down, but never did more than remove a few branches. He had tossed them behind the shed and they had immediately taken root. Eventually he burned them, but never tried to remove the entire tree. She reminded him once or twice, but he always forgot.
Harold closed the shed door and walked to the side of the house. The ground was wet after the rain and his feet were now cold and damp. He stopped beside the willow tree and looked up into the chaos of shiny wet leaves glinting in the moonlight. The leaves should have fallen by now, but this tree, it seemed different. A slight wind came up, the leaves shook and he was drenched. He shook his head and brushed his wrinkled suit with his left hand. In his right hand he still held the cigarette lighter. One day he would definitely cut down that tree and burn it. He flicked the lighter and a small flame leaped up. He held the flame to a wet leaf. Silly. It wouldn't burn.
He remembered when he was a kid, leaning over the railing of the porch. His parents lived in an apartment on the tenth floor. He often stared down at the traffic wondering what it would be like to jump. He was a coward, but dreamed of doing foolish things, dangerous things. Somehow the thought thrilled him. It would be so easy, just lean over and jump. He would spread his arms and glide to the ground.
Death was exciting. Driving down the highway with cars coming at you 60 miles an hour, just a foot or two away. Cars passing, just a few feet away, at 60 miles an hour, approaching each other at 120 miles an hour. It would be so easy, just a slight turn of the wheel, no more than a slight pressure with his finger. The thought thrilled him.
He stared at the leaf. The small flame was still flickering about the leaf and it was now dry and burst into flame and the flame died immediately. The black shrivelled leaf hung limp. He put his lighter back into his pocket. Silly, dangerous, thrilling. It started to rain again. If the tree had caught fire then the rain would have put it out. He was tired. Was it really thrilling? The rain would have put out the fire anyway. Under the tree it would be dry. The rain may not get through the dense foliage. He stooped and peered through the branches, hanging to the ground. It was too dark to see anything. He lifted a branch and it watered his arm. He stooped and began to make his way under and through the hanging branches, gnarled, twisted, distorted. Underneath, inside, it was empty. He straightened up and looked about. Dark. He pulled out the lighter again and lit it. It was like a cave under the tree and it was dry. He could hear the rain, tinkling, but he couldn't feel it. He looked up, but couldn't see the sky, not a single star. It was black. A flash of lightning. He counted to six-one-thousand before he heard the rumble of thunder. More than a mile away. He was tired. He should go inside and sleep. Tomorrow he would go back to the station. Maybe J
affre had some information. Sandra could not leave him, not that way. He must know how, why.
He tried to raise the branch, but it was stiff and wet. He tried another, but couldn't move that either. Somehow he had lost track of which way he had entered the space beneath the tree. Every branch was like a steel bar, a prison - he was in a prison, a prisoner of the willow tree. He leaned against the trunk. It was rough even through his suit. He ran his hand over the bark, crevices, scaly, peeling. He was still holding the lighter against the darkness, but now it flickered. Was it running out of gas? His car had run out of gas, hadn't it? He stared at the flame and watched, mesmerized as it decreased, shivered and decreased. Then it went out. He was tired and slid down the trunk until he sat on the ground. The rough bark had torn his suit, but he paid no attention. He saw shapes flickering and rising and shimmering, luminescent in the space before him. They rose from the ground, wavered then fell again. He closed his eyes. He heard a humming, rising and falling, becoming more shrill. The lighter fell from his hand.
The branch dropping slowly from above his head. A gnarled, twisted, distorted branch, coiling and uncoiling, coiling and uncoiling. A flash of lightning. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand ... then a crash of thunder.
***
When Inspector Jaffre arrived there was already a crowd of neighbours. The house had been searched, but there was no sign of theft or damage. The reporter from the Gazette followed him, asking questions, his assistant taking pictures almost at random. The body had been wrapped in a white sheet and was lying on the ground beside the willow tree. Jaffre walked and answered as he walked. "I just arrived ... don't know what happened. A neighbourhood kid found the body. I guess the kid was playing and stumbled across the body. Really ... I know no more than that. Yes, the fellow's wife died three days ago. We're still investigating, don't know the cause of death. The body was covered in welts, bruises. Can't say what happened -"
Jaffre knelt beside the body and removed the sheet. The camera flashed. The Gazette reporter gasped. The first thing he saw were the eyes, they were open and bulging. Jaffre muttered something under his breath and threw the cloth back over the twisted and crushed body, the face covered in welts and slime and small hairs. He pulled the notebook from his vest, read the last entry, pulled his ear then added: vines-hairy roots.
After the body had been removed the crowd began to disperse, except for someone in a heavy dark gray coat with collar pulled high. The figure stood by the road for some time then turned and walked away, slowly, stopped once, turned, then continued down the road.
CHAPTER 7
Willow Towers: August, 1947
Michael Colby looked at the house for a long time. It stood tall and slim beyond a large expanse of weeds. Skyrocket junipers exaggerated its height as did the narrow stained glass windows surmounted by an arc of brick and ornate woodwork, cracked and peeling. The massive carved wooden door in the center of the building was leaning on its hinges.
At the front left corner stood a gargantuan willow tree with soaring branches which arched high above the house then fell in a wild tangle to the ground. The tree seemed almost to hold the house in its arms.
Although the previous owners had done some renovations just ten years ago it was now run down and bricks were falling from the arches over the stained glass windows. That was good. He could buy it at a good price. It was an eyesore and the city would be pleased to approve a change in the zoning to allow for a highrise building. The lot was over an acre and could accommodate a parking lot as well as the apartment building.
Michael Colby opened the door and bent out of the rusty black Chevrolet. He walked up the driveway and stood in front of the small porch. This will be just fine. Too bad the tree is in the middle of the lot. No matter, I'll still call it Willow Towers. If anyone asks it's because there used to be a huge willow tree in this spot.
He smiled and walked to the back of the house. There was a shed, broken and leaning crazily. He walked to it, peered inside the opening where a door had once been, then stepped inside, careful not to soil his suit. There were several cans, red clay flower pots, a rusty saw and a bench with cardboard boxes. He picked up the red box. Came's Rat Poison : guaranteed to destroy rodents and other pests. Colby dropped the box onto the table, removed a clean white handkerchief from his vest pocket and carefully wiped his hands then backed out of the shed.
"Gonna buy this place?"
Colby jumped. The old man was puffing on a short stubby pipe, thin wisps of white hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap. "Ain't been lived in since the Bourdens left, you know. Funny ... the Bourdens. Wife just upped and died. Strangled they say. She was a good looker too, but a little huffy if you know what I mean. Kept to themselves, they did. When the wife died, or got herself killed ... Mr. Bourden did too. Ever hear of somethin like that? Just got hisself killed too. Work of the devil I'd say. Yup, work of the devil."
"Excuse me," said Colby, pushing past the old man. "I'm late for a meeting. Yes, to answer your question, I do intend to buy this place." Colby walked quickly toward the rusty black Chev, looking back only once at the old willow tree.
"They was funny folk," said old man Shulom, still talking in the direction of Michael Colby even though he had now entered the car. "The wife was Bourden-Brown and the husband was just plain ol' Bourden. Ever hear of somethin like that? But she was a good looker, just a wee bit huffy if you know what I mean."
Colby's car disappeared over the hill at the end of the street and the old man turned to look into the shed. He picked up the rat poison then put it down. He picked up the can of gasoline and shook it; it was almost quarter full. He looked about and saw no one so he took it and walked slowly back to his house across the back field. "House ain't right," he mumbled. "Since Josh up and died, house ain't been right. House o' the devil, I'd say."
Butch Camden: September, 1947
Butch Camden had been a war hero, or at least that's what he told everybody who would listen. He had been wounded in battle, been given command of an infantry unit when the senior officers had been killed, had been the first over the hill when his unit attacked the bunkers, and had been the last to return home when the war was over.
"Butch. Stop relivin' the goddam war."
Harry McGinnis was speaking to the four construction workers gathered in the coffee shop. Harry's face was streaked with red veins and his oversized nose was just as veiny. It was cold and the four of them often dropped in before work, trading stories and planning the day, and the evening. Most were married, but they still spent time each morning planning a joint night out, even though these plans rarely materialized. They usually worked late and when they didn't, they were exhausted. Yet, it passed the time just to make the plans.
Harry often talked of owning a coffee shop of his own, then a string of shops, then a whole plaza full of shops, all his. Then he would retire and watch his three sons look after the plaza. He was the foreman of the construction team and the conversation usually revolved about Harry's dreams. But not this morning.
This morning Butch Camden was on one of his war-story kicks.
"Listen guys," said Butch, "the war was the greatest thing in my life. I was somebody there, people looked up to me, did what I said, they'd stand at attention when I talked and -"
Harry McGinnis immediately jumped up from the table and stood at attention. The others followed suit, then they all saluted Butch.
"Okay, okay, forget it," muttered Butch. "You guys weren't in the war so how'd you know? Go ahead, take all the crap from Colby, work late, get paid peanuts. We're nothin' and we all know it ... but, in the war, I was somethin', really somethin'."
"Butch?" Harry asked, sitting down and finishing his coffee. "Do you really have your basement filled with war stuff, I mean with guns and stuff, so you could start a war, yourself?"
The others looked at Butch for a response. They were sure the rumours were true. Somebody had actual
ly been in Butch's basement and seen all the war supplies. Everybody joked about Butch starting a war some day, all by himself. When he talked of the war, which was all the time, his eyes would flash and he seemed remote, in some kind of trance, and his whole body would twitch.
Butch Camden operated the backhoe, bulldozer, ball and crane. He was good at everything, could fix anything, but they always imagined that Butch was actually fighting some secret war and the construction machinery were his weapons. When he was in the cab pulling the levers and swinging the crane or front-end bucket or back scoop nobody could talk to him; he was in his own world, eyes glassy, staring. Stay out of Butch's war they would say, meaning stand back when Butch was operating the crane.
"Yeah. I've got some stuff in my basement, left over war surplus stuff," answered Butch, staring straight out the window. "That's all. Just junk."
They didn't believe him because he had that faraway look when he said it. When Harry McGinnis got up from the table they all jumped up. All except Butch, who continued to stare out the window for some time.
***
Butch Camden finished his eggs and drank his coffee and leaned back.
"Why do you have to go to work this early in the morning?" Lou asked. His wife stood behind his chair and refilled his coffee cup. "It's still dark. You won't be able to see a thing."
"You know Colby," he grunted. "He's in a big hurry. Keeps saying his money won't wait. He don't say he can't wait ... says his money can't wait."
Butch got up from the table and walked to the closet, pulling his army jacket from the rack, slipping into the heavy army boots then kissing his wife goodbye. When he left, Lou watched him pull out of the driveway in the rusty pickup truck. He was a good man and worked hard to provide for their small family. He often worked through the holiday season and on Sundays. It was difficult to accommodate to civilian life after the war and his wife often thought he would have been happier remaining in the army.
