A section of Clifton Heights all his own.
Of his making.
Though he’d intended his layout to generally resemble Clifton Heights, he’d tweaked his version in places. Most of his alterations were cosmetic, accounting for railroad tracks that didn’t exist in real life. And, some buildings he’d moved around, simply because he’d thought they looked better this way.
But that was fine. Realism wasn’t necessarily reality, after all. Realism offered its own reality.
This was his world, wasn’t it?
So he poured one last drop of plaster. Picked up a flat, rectangular piece of balsam wood, placed it edge down over the newly-poured street and scraped the excess plaster off the road’s surface. He put the wood aside, grabbed the moist towel hanging from his belt, dabbed the plaster that had leaked under the tape. Tomorrow, he’d paint the road black, lay down some gravel for its shoulders, and begin landscaping.
He dabbed away one last spot of plaster.
Stood, and examined the new road. Tucked the damp towel under his belt and grunted. Then turned to his workbench, where he’d laid out the buildings he intended on using. Six different styles of residential homes.
And a church.
But not just any church.
For he’d modified it. Removed the steeple’s cross, painted over marks of mainstream faith with a slate gray. Because this was his church. This was his world, after all. This church should worship him.
He smiled. “The First Congregational Church of Brad,” he chuckled.
But of course, he couldn’t name a church after himself. So instead, he’d decided to call it “The Church of Luna.” Dedicated to the various moon gods and goddesses he’d encountered in his studies. Which made wonderful sense, seeing as how tonight was May 5th, the month’s first full moon, which would last until Wednesday night.
His sigil? Carefully painted onto the front and back doors with a toothpick dipped into black paint, a pagan moon symbol:
And he knew exactly how he’d arrange things after he’d finished the road and surrounding forestry. Houses on either side, with varying-sized lawns . . .
And the church at its end.
Yes.
A road leading to his church. The Church of Luna. Because all roads in his world lead back to him, yes? And, as a final touch, he’d already decided on a graveyard behind the church, framed by hills and a forest. Of course, many pagan beliefs favored cremation over burial, but that didn’t matter. This was his world, one he’d built with his own hands, the product of his toil and care and sweat, his blood, too.
He could do what he pleased.
He glanced at the wall clock.
It read three.
He thought of breaking for an early dinner; reading from Edith Hamilton’s Mythology to prep for Monday. After, he’d cut wire mesh for the surrounding hills, mark out building plots and begin laying ground cover: lawns, shrubbery, the forest. Perhaps he’d even tinker with The Church of Luna’s graveyard . . .
Or.
meeting at the White Lake Inn tonight
an ‘end of the semester’ mixer
around nine, you should come
if you’re not too busy building your own world
He rubbed his nose.
Staring at the completed sections of his layout.
At its curving tracks, rolling hills, precise town blocks, brilliantly verdant lawns and forests, and that newly poured road. Thinking about building and molding his world. And about how loud and crowded it’d likely be at The White Lake Inn, how he’d much rather spend the evening here, making a world from nothing . . . but for Emma.
Emma, on one hand.
The train layout on the other.
Everyone needed variety. He was an adult. Capable of balancing more than one interest, and he respected and liked Emma. Wanted to be around her, learn more about her, maybe even . . .
(take her to bed)
. . . and he’d begun caring for her, more than as a colleague. That he couldn’t deny.
But did she reciprocate?
Could she reciprocate, actually feel attracted to him? He was ten years older. Stodgy. And he spent all his time building model trains, for goodness sakes. Their only common ground was mythology. The idea of a liaison between them seemed far-fetched. What if he revealed his feelings, and she didn’t reciprocate?
He’d feel foolish. Also, if that ruined their pleasant friendship, he’d be devastated.
But what if she did reciprocate?
What then?
He bit his lip.
Staring at his layout.
And decided that even a Creator could relax. Even a god could take a day off, couldn’t He?
But as he left the basement, thrilling at the prospect of seeing Emma socially for the first time (even if in mixed company) he couldn’t repress a small twinge as he shut off the basement lights and ascended the stairs, couldn’t completely repress his guilt at casting his unfinished world into darkness.
Friday Evening
Bradley sat at the end of the table at The White Lake Inn, staring at nothing, sipping his Heineken occasionally, cursing himself.
For the night had turned out exactly as he’d feared.
It had begun fine. Emma, excited to see him, had squealed, slip-stumbled off her stool and hugged him briefly around the neck with one arm. She’d followed that up with a quick peck on the cheek.
Completely platonic, of course.
As she’d kiss a brother or cousin.
But his heart had swelled with pleasure. And the folks from other departments, whom he didn’t recognize, had acted pleased to meet him.
However, after some small talk, Bradley faded into the background, gradually disappearing, like always. Occasionally, Emma glanced his way and smiled, but she seemed far more interested in a young man sitting next to her, a young man with longish, curly black hair and big blue eyes.
So things had transpired as they always did: he became part of the scenery. His attention drifted as they chatted about sports and reality television and the next episode of that zombie apocalypse show; politicians and whether or not the budget will get passed, who was up for tenure, who was a son-of-a-bitch, and which son-of-a-bitch was up for tenure.
An idiot.
An absolute idiot.
But then things changed. Everyone at the table scattered. The women headed to the lavatory and the men either to the bar for more food and drink, or to the jukebox.
Leaving Emma and him alone.
His mind fumbled a dozen witty conversation starters . . . but failed to initiate one. Luckily, after finishing her current glass of wine, Emma asked, “And how are you managing, Quiet Mouse? Hanging in?”
He shrugged. Pursed his lips, and in a rare moment of inspiration, decided on the truth. “Actually, I’m bored to death. Having a dreadful time.” He offered her a jaunty smile that surprised even him. “You?”
To his delighted surprise, Emma snorted and had to cover her mouth with both hands. She swallowed, coughed and managed, “Oh, God. Some of them are kind of shallow, aren’t they?”
He opened his mouth, paused, realizing he didn’t actually mean that, at all. “No, not really. I’m just a crusty old academic, I suppose. More comfortable in solitary pursuits than I am social ones. I can lecture eloquently about humanity and our hopes and dreams and fears and how those are reflected in our myths and legends, what they reveal about being human, but I’m not so good at acting like one, I’m afraid. Or at enjoying their company.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “So not true. Really. We get along, don’t we?”
And there it was.
An invitation for him to broach his true feelings. Did he dare? “Well, yes . . . mostly because . . .”
But the moment slipped past as she reached over and patted his hand. “I’m sure any single woman your age would be mad about you.”
woman your age
And the chance disappeared.
woman you
r age
As the ladies returned, followed by the men with refilled pitchers and promises of hot wings and chili cheese fries soon to follow.
Quickly, almost as if he’d never spoken, Bradley faded into the background once more, occasionally sipping his now lukewarm beer, feeling numb, realizing he was flirting very near to pouting, and not sure if he cared.
And then Emma yawned, ran a hand through her gorgeous, silky black hair. “I’m done, folks. Bushed. Summer session starts Monday, and I’ve done nothing to prepare.”
Chuckles circled the table. Bradley flickered a smile, though he doubted Emma noticed.
And then, a blessed reprieve. Emma met his gaze, smiled and asked, “Walk me out, Brad?”
He blinked. Stupidly, he felt sure. He did his best not to stammer. “Yes. Certainly. Really, I probably should get going myself.”
“I bet.” Emma winked as she shrugged into a light spring coat. “Probably eager to get home to your trains, and all.”
A slight flush of . . . anger? pulsed through him. Was she joking, or . . .
The group’s laughter sounded amiable, the young man who’d sat next to Emma—a Math instructor, he thought—saying he’d love to see Bradley’s layout some time, to which he nodded numbly.
But Emma’s remark bothered him.
Was she mocking him? In public, no less?
But he shook it off. Hell, she’d asked him to walk her out. A chance—however slight—for them to be alone. So he prepared his best face and smiled. “We gods are busy, Emma. Can’t keep my Creation waiting, now can I?”
This reply apparently served well, because everyone laughed again. And Emma’s smile was rewarding: bright, energetic, and mirthful. Joking, she’d been. Obviously.
Surely.
As they left The White Lake Inn, Emma flashed him a hopeful-looking smile. “So, I’ve a favor to ask. One I wanted to pose in private.”
His heart stirred inside, beating faster.
Making it very hard to breathe.
So perhaps this was it.
As they faced each other, Emma’s red lipstick glistened in the neon glow of the Inn’s beer signs, eyes shimmering in the night. He struggled not to sound too desperate. “Anything. Name it.”
“Could you cover my class next Friday?”
His mouth hung open, for a second.
Stomach twisting.
He closed his mouth, scrambling to recover. “I . . . well. Yes, I’m certain I could.” Hating himself for acquiescing so easily, he asked, “What for? No troubles, I hope.”
“Nooo . . .” she bit her lip. “I have . . . ah, hell. I can tell you, right?” She cocked an eyebrow. “If you can’t trust a friend, then who can you trust?”
At the word “friend”, his stomach twisted more. “Of course,” he murmured.
And amazingly enough, Emma looked embarrassed. “I’m sort of . . . going away next weekend. With a friend. A . . . work friend.”
“Someone from the college, then. Our department, or . . .” He understood her reticence, now. Inter-faculty dating wasn’t forbidden or unheard of. But missing class to vacation with a fellow faculty member wouldn’t be received well, at all.
“No. From the Math department. Ned Simmons, actually. The one who said he’d love to see your layout sometime.”
Bradley nodded. Yes. The one with the curly black hair and blue eyes, whom Emma had shown so much attention.
“We’re going to Maryland for the weekend—Ocean City—leaving early next Friday morning.” She twisted her hands, looking sheepish. “I did sort of tell the Department Chair I had a family affair, so . . .”
He nodded, hoping the night hid what he felt burning behind his eyes. “I see. Of course. I assume your leave was approved, long as you found your own substitute.”
Emma’s apprehension dissolved, her face breaking into a beautiful smile that crushed him, because he understood that it wasn’t for him. “Yes! You’re so awesome. So you can cover? You were the first person I thought of, because I knew my kids would be in good hands, and also figured you wouldn’t blab.”
He forced a small smile. “Of course. As you said, what are friends for?”
She grabbed his elbow, squeezing it. “Great! You’re teaching Intro to Mythology this summer, right?” He nodded. “That’s in the afternoon, I’m always home by then. I’ll come by your place, say . . . Wednesday night? Drop off my lesson plans?”
His place.
Wednesday night.
Faint hope bloomed inside. Emma at his home, at night. Them, alone together . . .
yes, you idiot, so you can help her go off on a dirty weekend
Still.
Desperate measures.
“Sounds excellent. Maybe we could eat . . .”
“Sure!” Emma smiled and slapped his shoulder. “I’ll bring over some pizza and beers. The least I can do. And hey—I’ll bring Ned over, if that’s all right. He’s crazy about trains. He’ll love your layout.”
Frustration burned in him. “Well, actually, I was thinking more that . . .”
But she struck him dumb with a heartfelt look of gratitude. “Thanks, Brad! You’re the best.”
With that, she headed to the parking lot and her car, leaving him on the Inn’s front walk, fumbling his keys.
“Friends,” he murmured. Rolling the word around in his mouth.
And it tasted like ashes.
***
Bradley had taken a wrong turn somewhere.
Hard to believe—having spent hours driving around Clifton Heights’ roads during his layout’s conceptual stages—but there it was.
He was lost.
Didn’t recognize this road at all. Too dark. No buildings, no streetlights, even, and the transition had been instant: one minute, he was passing the Great American Grocery on the corner of Asher and Front Street, the next, he was here.
On this dark, murky . . . hazy road.
He braked gently.
Parking the car.
Sat for several seconds, listening to the night, which sounded empty. Devoid of life.
Silly thought.
Then why did his hand tremble at the door handle?
Snorting, Bradley unhooked his seatbelt, opened the door and slid out. The air felt cold on his skin; unseasonably cold for this time of year, even in the Adirondacks.
He stood on the center stripe. Glanced over his shoulder and, sure enough: the bright streetlights on Front Street glimmered. But the other direction, where this road led..?
The back of his neck tingled.
His breath echoed in his ears.
His belly swirled. “This is ridiculous. Just an old road, is all.”
But to the best of his knowledge, no road branched off Front Street here.
Except . . .
No.
Ridiculous.
He squeezed his hands into fists and turned.
Looking down this strange road that seemed to disappear into the gray, indistinct haze his car’s headlights couldn’t penetrate . . . almost, as if there were no more road.
Or anything, at all.
yet
because it wasn’t finished
No.
Ridiculous.
Fog, that’s all. The Adirondacks was notorious for its heavy fogs.
He looked up.
No stars. Nothing.
Except a large, bloated full moon. Casting the fog and the road itself into an eerie phosphorescence that somehow didn’t make the night any brighter.
Of course, the full moon. But where were the stars?
“Cloud cover,” he murmured, “What was the forecast today? Clouds. That’s all.”
Clouds.
But how could clouds be so selective, shutting off everything but the moon?
He turned and looked back into town, saw the lights of Front Street, farther away than before, it seemed. Saw also the nearly insubstantial red glimmer of Great American, and just barely saw the turn he was supposed to have taken, onto
Adams Street.
But he’d missed it, kept driving because he was tired, frustrated and depressed. So he’d missed his turn, drove onto a road he didn’t know, drove into . . . this.
He faced forward again, trying very hard to shake the impression that the road ahead disappeared into a seething, roiling, drifting gray nothingness.
Fog.
That’s all.
And then, an immense fatigue weighed him down. What he really needed was to get into his car, turn around, go home to bed.
So he did exactly that.
Not thinking about how quickly he got back into his car, how his keys jingled in his trembling hand as he stuck them into the ignition, ignoring the relief that flooded him as the car started and he turned around and drove away.
Saturday Morning
Bradley awoke slowly.
Blinking. Pain throbbing in his neck where it bent; his face sore, resting on his forearm . . .
Wait.
Neck sore where it bent.
Face resting on his forearm.
He blinked again. Raised his head experimentally, wincing as the pain’s dull throb stabbed down his neck, into his shoulders.
He gazed around, confused. Couldn’t be hung-over. Only drank one beer last night. But strange, he couldn’t remember much after leaving the Inn. He’d taken a wrong turn, hadn’t he? Gotten spooked by some strange fog, before he finally found his way home.
And as foam crunched under his fingertips, he realized: he’d fallen asleep on his train layout.
He inched his head higher up, feeling his stiff neck pop. Slowly he uncoiled, sitting up and leaning back in his rolling chair.
He closed his eyes.
Cupped his face.
Kneading his forehead with his fingertips, fumbling his thoughts, groping last night’s fragmented memories. They drifted there, in gray mists. Just had to pull them together.
He’d stayed up after coming home last night, later than he’d intended. That much he remembered. In a fit of depression over his failure with Emma, he’d started landscaping the area around the new road. He’d laid some ground cover: grass, brush, trees, gravel shoulders on the new road, then proceeded to landscape. He’d cut some wire mesh, started molding it over mounds of crumpled department meeting agendas, formed some hills, secured the mesh down tight, started laying strips of wet plaster . . .
For The Night Is Dark Page 11
