He blinked.
Realized he remembered nothing after that.
And when he looked down, he sucked in a hissing breath and stared.
At the completed mountain range and forestland surrounding the new road he’d poured yesterday afternoon. At ground cover, knolls, rock ledges, brush and trees, lawns, a stand of trees on one side of the road . . .
And the houses, arranged in varying widths from each other.
And the Church of Luna at the road’s end, complete with a sign out front, and a graveyard behind, through which ran a track he’d extended from the main town line.
The track ran to the layout’s end, flush against the basement wall, and stopped there, with nowhere else to go.
Finished.
It was all finished.
as it should be
He spread and inspected his fingers, spackled with grayish-white bits of crushed plaster, peppered also with glued-on bits of powdered ground cover, stained with faint streaks of black paint.
He rubbed his hands.
Staring at the newly completed hills, forest, track, homes, church . . . and graveyard, feeling the gritty proof of last night’s manic endeavors on his fingers.
And it looked perfect.
The hills blended into plains seamlessly. The brush and rock face and tree placement looked natural. Houses all perfectly aligned with the road and each other, lawns and shrubbery immaculate, driveways pristine . . .
And that graveyard.
A chill skittered down his spine.
As he gazed upon the miniature graveyard, behind the Church of Luna. A squarish graveyard, bordered by brown plastic fencing, replete with scaled, rectangular gravestones.
He reached out.
Touched a gravestone with his fingertip, wiggling it. Firm, secured. Not just glued down, but inserted into the foam base, glued down into the foam. Sound practice, what he did with all his trees and telephone poles and street signs. Based on their width and size and texture, he guessed he’d snipped off Popsicle sticks and painted them. They could be purchased in bulk at hobby stores anywhere. He had a box. There it was, open on his workbench.
The gravestones.
He peered closer.
Of course, he’d painted them gray. But . . . had he somehow written epitaphs on them, also? How was that even possible? Such detailed work—if he’d managed it—far exceeded dedicated realism.
It bordered on the fanatical.
As he peered closer, however, he saw that he hadn’t written epitaphs but instead inscribed a symbol very similar to the pagan moon symbol he’d painted on the Church of Luna’s doors and sign:
But what did the symbol mean?
He couldn’t remember.
And the reality hit him, then. “Impossible,” he whispered. “Should’ve taken me days. The plaster alone would’ve taken all night to . . .”
There.
Lying next to the box of craft sticks on his workbench, a hair dryer. At some point in his fugue, he must’ve brought it down here and quick-dried the plastered terrain so he could finish everything in one night.
Which wasn’t necessarily unusual. He’d heard stories of modelers using a hair dryer to speed up the cementing process; had even done it once himself, in his layout’s trial stages.
But that method was for small tasks: Ballast along the tracks, gravel shoulders along country roads. Never for an entire plaster mountain range. The work should look sloppy, rushed . . .
But it looked beautiful.
Nearly perfect. Maybe the best work he’d ever done.
He stood slowly, pushing up from his chair.
Rubbing his gritty, plaster-crusted hands.
Staring at his work, trembling slightly.
But why the alarm? He’d just gone a little overboard last night is all. Consumed by his loneliness.
That’s all.
Which of course didn’t explain why he slowly backed away from the layout, resolving to go upstairs, wash and dress, eat breakfast and study at his campus office, telling himself he needed to work without distraction on Monday’s opening lecture.
But it still took great effort to turn from the layout and walk away.
***
On the way to campus, Bradley made several trips up and down Front Street. Scanning all the side streets he knew, following Front Street as it curved into Old Barstow road, even following Old Barstow all the way to the New York State Electric and Gas Payment Center on the edge of town.
And he turned and came back.
He repeated this several times.
But no matter how hard he looked, he found no sign of a side road with a dead end.
None at all.
Saturday Afternoon
Bradley was sitting in his office, at his desk and laptop, staring at the results of his Google Image Search when someone rapped on his open office door.
In truth, he felt grateful for the interruption. So far, his attempts at undistracted study had failed. He’d barely gotten anything done. Granted, he was teaching “Introduction to Mythology” this summer, which he’d taught several times before, and could probably teach cold, if needed. But he liked having intimate, fresh recall of the material, no matter how many times he’d taught it.
So it had frustrated him, finding himself doodling that odd symbol he’d apparently painted on those tombstones. And no matter how often he’d crumpled his doodles, threw them away and refocused on his studies, his attention had drifted again.
To unbidden images of an empty road disappearing into gray mists.
not so empty anymore
No.
Ridiculous.
But the more he tried to repress the memory of the road shrouded in gray mists, a road that he couldn’t seem to find by the light of day, the more he’d doodled that strange symbol, over and over.
Until he’d finally given up, put his studies aside, opened Google Image Search on his laptop and typed in “moon symbols”, a safe bet because it looked so similar to the image he’d painted on his Church of Luna.
He’d found his answer quickly.
And was still sitting and staring, amazed and maybe a little afraid, when the knock repeated, accompanied by a cough and a “Brad? Got a minute?”
He started, slightly relieved, for some reason, at being interrupted. Some of that relief dimmed, however, when he swiveled in his rolling chair and saw Ned Simmons—that Math fellow Emma was going on holiday with—leaning in his doorway, grinning.
“Hey . . . Brad. Ned Simmons. We met last night at the Inn.”
Bradley stared. Groping for something to say, finding nothing. Ned’s smile faltered. “Ah . . . uh. Sorry. Were you busy? If so, I’ll just . . .”
And then, as usual—damn them—his manners kicked into gear. He smiled, waving dismissively. “Not really. Just trying to prep for Monday and failing horribly.”
Ned chuckled, folded his arms. “Yeah, summer session. Used to teach it myself, but since I got tenure two years ago, I don’t bother with it. Figured I didn’t need to impress folks, anymore.”
“Yes,” Bradley murmured. He’d yet to be offered tenure. “I see your point.”
And as he took in Ned Simmons’ wiry form, rakish curly black hair and big, sensitive blue eyes (eyes that would be gazing upon Emma next weekend) he found that, deep inside, he hated Ned Simmons.
So it was with great effort he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the chair’s arms and smiled. “What can I do for you, Ned? Also. How’d you figure I’d be here?”
And suddenly, Ned managed to look sheepish. “Well. Ah. I looked you up in the faculty directory, called your home, and when you didn’t answer, I called Emma, asked her where you’d most likely be, in pretense of asking to see your train layout.”
“Ah. Interesting. On pretense. So, in other words, you wanted to see me about something you didn’t want Emma to know about.”
Ned held out a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I was totally serious last night. Would love
to see your layout. My Uncle Mark had one, filled his whole basement. Cousins and I spent hours playing with it, as kids.”
He bristled inside at the idea of playing with a train layout. One didn’t play with someone else’s creation, and he loathed the idea that Ned might want to play with his. But he kept his tone light. “What did you want to talk about, then?”
Ned shrugged, looked away.
Shuffling like a nervous teen on his first date.
Swallowed and looked at him again, that silly grin plastered all over his face. “Well . . . this is going to sound cowardly, I know. But Emma. She’s rather . . .”
Bradley raised his eyebrows.
Noncommittal, determined not to make it easy. “Yes?”
Ned licked his lips. Swallowed again. And then, in a verbal rush, “Well, she’s pretty special. Unique. Full of energy and always moving, talking, thinking . . . so expressive. So alive. Makes you feel twice as alive, just being around her. Y’know?”
“I suppose,” he remarked dryly, wondering how Ned could miss his sarcasm, “I see her every day. Maybe I’ve built up a tolerance for her aliveness.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Ned rushed on, clueless, making Bradley despise him even more. “Anyway, she’s fun to be around, and we’ve had a blast on a few dates . . .”
Try as he might, Brad couldn’t repress the jealousy stabbing his guts. “Dates?”
Ned waved. “Yeah. Movies. Bowling. Hiking . . . that sort of thing.”
movies
bowling
hiking
that sort of thing
Sorts of things Bradley had known nothing about; that Emma had never once intimated, at all.
But why would she?
They were friends, of course.
And some things, apparently, friends didn’t discuss.
“Go on,” Bradley prompted. Unable to keep a chill from entering his voice. But, energized by his topic, Ned didn’t seem to notice.
“See, that’s the thing: those dates were all one-shot deals, right? I never really planned on us getting back together, it just kept happening.”
Though he didn’t feel any sympathy for Ned—rather burned inside with a cold envy—he saw the young man’s dilemma. “But spending a whole weekend with her . . . that’s a bigger commitment. More than fun and games.”
“Well . . . yeah. Those other dates we were busy doing stuff, having fun. We go away for the weekend . . . we can’t be busy the whole time . . .”
“Why yes,” Bradley remarked, raising his eyebrows, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm now, but Ned still missing it, “you’ll actually have to make intelligent conversation, for a change.”
Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. “Right! I mean, the car ride alone down to Ocean City will be over four hours. For the first two, I figure I’ll manage all right, have enough to say . . . but after that . . .”
Bradley sighed, fighting to keep his exasperation in check. God. Whatever did Emma see in this stumbling lout? Past his youngish, rugged good looks, of course. His athletic build, excellent fashion sense . . .
He forced himself to speak politely. “So. You came to me because . . .”
Ned shook his head. “I dunno. I know all the right things to say on a date, right? Make them laugh, get them all dewy-eyed, weak in the knees, show them a good time, maybe even . . .”
Bradley coughed.
Ned blushed and offered a weak grin. “Ah. Don’t suppose you want to hear about that, do you?”
Somehow Bradley kept his face blank, even managed a small, wooden smile. “Well. It wouldn’t be polite to kiss and tell, would it?”
Shock and even embarrassment reddened Ned’s cheeks. Least the man had some sense of propriety. Not that it made him any less loathsome.
Ned waved. “No, of course not. I guess what I mean is, Emma’s more than just someone to share a few good times with. She’s bigger than all that. She’s like . . .”
“A virtual force of nature?” he offered, still sarcastic but telling the truth, now. It was how he felt, after all. Which of course made this doubly unpleasant, that someone as young and attractive and suave and modern but so damn shallow could feel the same way about Emma.
His Emma.
Ned snapped his fingers and pointed at him again. A gesture Bradley was coming to hate almost as much as Ned himself. “Right! Exactly. And you just feel so small next to her, right? See, I’m a numbers guy. Good with equations and formulas and processes. Can calculate shit in my head, zero-flat. But get past my bluster and smooth lines, and that’s all I am. Numbers Boy. While she’s so much more, she’s . . .”
“. . . one with the universe,” he finished quietly. No trace of sarcasm in his voice, now. Just a touch of sadness, and, if he admitted it . . .
Defeat.
Resignation.
“Yes!” Ned finger-snapped-pointed again. “Exactly. It’s like she knows things. Like she’s got access to the secrets of life. Mystical knowledge.”
Bradley smiled and said in a dry voice, “She teaches mythology, Ned. Traffics in legends and myths and folklore and religions, and—well—‘mystical knowledge’. That’s her thing.”
No finger-snap-point this time. Ned sighed and slumped against the doorframe. “Yeah. So what chance do I have? I mean . . . how can a guy like me connect with someone like her, connect on a deeper level? Or, at least, not sound like an idiot on the way to Ocean City?”
“And you want to pick my brain. For ways to connect with Emma. Don’t you?”
Ned straightened.
Smiling unsurely. “Yeah. You guys are always together. Eating in the café, talking between classes. You’re so similar. Like she’s your little sister, or something. I thought . . .”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking doubtful, even more unsure. “Hell, I know it’s forward, but I was thinking, maybe we could grab dinner at the Inn and talk.”
A variety of responses occurred to Bradley. Most of them involving violence and aggression and profanity. None of them, of course, suiting his nature at all.
So he sighed.
Clapped his knees and stood, grabbing his jacket from off his chair. “Dinner, then. Was getting hungry, anyway.”
“Great! That’s awesome.” Ned fairly beamed. “And I wasn’t kidding about seeing that layout, sometime. I’d love to. Seriously.”
Bradley smiled tightly, nodding at the door. He followed Ned out and locked his office door behind him, quietly, calmly . . .
like she’s your little sister, or something
. . . burning inside.
Saturday Night
Driving Ned Simmons home, late at night, after too many rounds of beers and Tequila.
Not exactly what Bradley had expected, initially.
Dinner had gone tolerably well. Much to his surprise, after seating themselves and ordering, Ned hadn’t launched into prying him for advice about impressing Emma. Instead, they’d chatted about strictly mundane things: social matters of the Heights, whether or not the reconstruction from last fall’s flood would be finished by summer’s end, about this town resolution or that, little bits and pieces of gossip from the hallowed halls of Web County Community College.
And, not surprisingly—given Ned’s repeated expressed desire to see the layout—they’d talked some about model railroading. Ned had yet to build his own layout (not enough space in his studio over in Oakland Arms) but he’d boxes of supplies just waiting to be opened. He even attended an annual train show in Steamtown, Pennsylvania, and was something of a novice train-spotter, also.
So throughout dinner, Bradley had felt stirrings of grudging respect, maybe even—God help him—feeling a reluctant approval of Ned.
But things changed after several beers, beers that quickly—at a rate Bradley found alarming—turned into tequila shots. And the Ned Simmons that was revealed after the liquor stripped several layers away . . .
Well.
Bradley’s hands tightened on the steering wheel ev
en now, thinking about it. How Ned, after his third or fourth shot, looking slightly disheveled, eyes glassy and distant, had burped discretely and said, “Women. Remarkable, wonderful creatures. No wonder we want as many of them as possible, even with all the headaches they cause.”
Bradley remembered frowning, not sure if he’d heard correctly. “Sorry. Did you say . . . many?”’
Ned paused.
Sucked on his lip in that wary, embarrassed way drunks had. Then snorted and grinned. “Ah. Probably shouldn’t talk about it, eh? Like discussing my exes with my girlfriend’s dad.”
And with that, all his reluctant affinity for Ned had dissipated like fog in the morning sun. A stony coldness had crept over him, and he’d had to force his hands to grip each other on the tabletop, rather than reaching for Ned’s throat.
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, see,” Ned began with a flourish, warming to the subject, rather than being reluctant or coy, “there’s this girl in Utica. Been shacking up with her occasionally for the past year. Dental hygienist. Nice girl. No Emma, mind you. Not even close. But she’d make a solid wife, right? Kinda woman who’d be fine quitting work to raise my kids, attend PTA meetings, run bake sales for the local charities, that sort of thing.
“Problem is, Emma’s wild, philosophical, alive; she’s like a . . . a . . .” he gestured aimlessly, “like a drug. Gets in your system. Addictive as hell.”
“But she’d hardly give up her studies and teaching to go home and be barefoot pregnant for you, would she?” Bradley muttered.
Too drunk on tequila, Ned had missed Bradley’s verbal jab. “See, yeah. Don’t know if she’s the marryin, have-kids-kinda girl. But I just can’t get enough of her.”
He lifted his bottle of Guinness, knocked it back, draining it, and thumped it back onto the table. “Helluva choice. Helluva choice.” He burped again, this time, not so discretely. “Then there’s Haley.”
He’d gripped his hands tighter. Nails biting into the backs of his hands. “Haley?”
Ned had blushed and waved. “Yeah. A junior at Syracuse. Met her at a party, she didn’t tell me her age . . . but that was months ago. Didn’t mean anything, except she keeps calling me. And she was hell in the sack. Hell in the sack.”
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