Four Years from Home

by Larry Enright

  Funny, I couldn’t remember when I’d gotten any nasty bump, at least not recently. I must have run into something and not even realized it. It couldn’t have been that bad — I hardly felt it.

  “When did you get this?” James asked me.

  There was no point in making something up. The truth was just as good in this case. “I honestly don’t remember. I didn’t even know I had it until just now. I must have bumped my head on something, but I don’t remember what.” James reminded me of Columbo the way he gestured, scratching his head quizzically. I guessed he was a regular viewer and probably got some of his best techniques from Peter Falk. “Just one more thing…” that was the line Columbo always used. How they managed to find so many stupid criminals for the show was beyond me.

  I half expected James to come out with the trademark Columbo line, but instead he said, “Maybe from something like a railroad tie?”

  “I think I might have remembered that, detective.”

  James just grunted. Doc Miller continued his examination. He spread my hair farther, pulling it tightly, exposing the wound I could not see. I hated when people pulled my hair. Always have. It hurt like hell, but I just gripped the chair arms harder. “You see this, in the slightly inflamed area?” James nodded, but I could tell he didn’t see. If he kept that up he’d be demoted to Yes Man. “This dark spot. It looks like a little splinter that’s under the skin surface, irritating the area around it.” Just like James, I thought — irritating. “I’m guessing that tissue is building around it and eventually it will be either dissolved or encapsulated.”

  “Any chance you could pull it out? I’d like Billy to take a look at it. Run some tests.”

  Doc Miller’s hand was in and out of his bag before I could say anything. He was pretty deft for an old country gentleman. I felt a slight pinch and the pull of the tweezers on my skin. The sweat beaded up on my hands. I braced myself for the Chinese water torture that I was sure would follow. But just as quickly as I had prepared for the worst, he released my hair and held the tweezers up to the light. “There’s the little guy that was causing all the trouble. Let me set this up on a slide for Billy.”

  James and the doctor left me alone. I relaxed my death grip on the chair and wiped the sweat off my hands. Now my head did hurt, those bastards. I stood up and, gathering my dignity, walked out of James’ office. Officer Williams was not at her post, and James and the doctor were in another room. Perfect. I was done here. I zipped up my jacket and left.

  It was dead cold out and the possibility of making it back to Gambier alive seemed remote at best. I needed a Plan B. I’d missed my dinner with Beth and Ransom and it wasn’t all that late but Mount Vernon was filled with a quiet punctuated only by my footsteps crunching on the packed snow. I got to the corner of the town square and began to reconsider my decision to leave the police station. Could I take a few more hours of James’ questioning? The choice was between that and a long frigid walk back to the college. A bench at the corner had been swept clean and invited me to sit and think this through. Why not? I wasn’t going anywhere. The seat was cold. I sat on my hands. My hands became cold. Could Plan B be go back to the police station?

  I barely noticed a car quietly pull up to the sidewalk in front of the bench. I looked up when I heard the click of the passenger side door opening. The interior light came on and a woman in her thirties smiled, “Can you get in before we both freeze to death, please?”

  So Plan B had become accepting a ride from a woman who I didn’t recognize, in a car going who-knows-where, on a night that was freezing? I hopped over a piled of snow and got into the car. “Thanks. It is pretty cold out.”

  She cranked up the heater and drove off as if she knew where I wanted to go without ever asking. I didn’t really care, as long as it was anywhere but here, but I did feel some obligation to determine exactly where that would be. “So, where are we going?”

  The woman glanced up briefly before her eyes returned to the road. We seemed to be heading away from Gambier, but I couldn’t be sure. It was all residential and all looked the same to me. “That depends. I can drop you at the bench, or if you’d prefer, I can drop you at your dorm.”

  “Do I know you?” I really needed to get rid of that sign on my back that said: “This is Harry Ryan.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, although you do look familiar for some reason.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you pick me up?”

  “You are a Kenyon student, aren’t you? And you were sitting on the bench, weren’t you?”

  “The bench. Of course.” What a loon. Of course, I was sitting on the bench. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Don’t they tell you kids about the bench anymore?” She laughed, a nice laugh, not like Detective James’ laugh where you expected a fist in the face to follow close on its heels.

  “I must have cut that class. What are you talking about?”

  “You’re a silly one. You really don’t know the tradition of the bench?”

  “The one where Philander Chase climbed a hill and said a prayer and founded Kenyon College there and then put a bench down to mark the spot?”

  She nearly swerved off the road laughing so hard. “Stop teasing me. The bench. There’s one in Gambier and one here in Mount Vernon. You know, whenever a student sits on the bench it means they are looking for a ride? That bench?”

  “Oh…” I feigned remembering. “That bench. Sorry, I did hear something about that but I’ve never bothered with it. I just stay in Gambier.” So the lazy rich kids didn’t even have to stick out their thumbs when they hitchhiked. They just planted their fat asses down on a bench and waited for their chauffeur to roll by. Nice. Maybe Harry had hitched a ride from a townie who resented him enough to drop him in the river.

  We had reached the end of the residential section and turned onto a two-lane road heading out of town. “I’m Karen Edwards,” she said, “Dean Edwards’ wife.”

  She had a lot more hair than him and was much easier to look at. I hadn’t noticed her photo on his desk. That, in itself, was suspicious. And what was Soup’s wife doing in Mount Vernon alone, at night? The possibilities all seemed good from my point of view. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Edwards. I’m Ryan.”

  “Oh, Harry Ryan. I knew I recognized you from somewhere. Don’t you remember? We met at a luncheon last year?”

  “Sorry, I don’t, but I do appreciate your stopping to give me a ride.”

  She laughed again. I liked that, but it would have no effect on the Ransom Hall Plan. “It’s so refreshing not to be bullshitted to because of who my husband is. I was at that event, but we never actually met. So nice to really meet you, Mr. Ryan.”

  “You, too.” Mrs. Edwards was only making it harder for me to feel good about destroying her husband’s office. She was cool; he was definitely not, thus proving the theory that opposites attract. Too bad.

  “So what were you doing on the bench if not looking for a ride?”

  “I was just… thinking.”

  As we left Mount Vernon and its dull incandescence behind, the uncivilized lands became lit by the eerie glow of moonlight reflecting off the snow. The wind had picked up and the fields of wild grass moved noiselessly, giving the impression of a multitude running across them. Memories of Saturday afternoons spent watching B Horror movies hosted by Chilly Billy Cardille suddenly filled me with an uncharacteristic sense of dread. In the anticipation of some unnamed, horrible event happening, I began to sweat. Stupid. This was stupid. I used to laugh at those inane movies. To me, it was funny to see a zombie chew its own arm off and try to attack people with it, and absolutely hilarious to watch Bela Lugosi pretend to be a scary Dracula who “vanted to suck my blood.” Unable to move or bend my mind from its course through these memories, I watched as the night around the car melted and the fields filled with zombies carrying their arms, aimlessly walking around, swinging at everything, or nothing, like a field of tall grass blowing in the wi
nd. The scene shifted and I saw Harry standing among them. I tried to look away and break the spell that held me staring at this nightmare out the car window. I was gripping my legs so tightly they hurt. I wanted to chew my own arm off to make it stop. The zombies converged on Harry, arms raised to strike. I wanted to yell, “Stop the car!”

  “Are you okay?” I felt warmth spreading through my left arm and my grip relaxed. I turned my head toward Mrs. Edwards and the night faded to a blackness held at bay only by the dashboard lights. “Are you going to be sick? Should I stop the car?” She touched my forehead. “You’re as cold as ice.”

  Finally able to breathe again, I replied, “I’m okay. I just felt sick there for a second. Probably that junk food I had earlier.” The field was empty and moonlit. The zombies had taken Harry.

  She saw me look out the window again. “Is there something out there?”

  “No. It’s nothing.” I looked back at her and tried to smile. I didn’t have a very nice smile — probably from lack of practice. I felt like I was coming unglued. I felt drugged. It must have been that damned Billy. Somehow he must have slipped me something. James probably told him to: a truth serum, something like that. They would indeed both be valuable additions to my empire, but I would need someone I could trust to watch them at all times.

  “Maybe I should take you to the infirmary.”

  We were climbing a hill now and passed a sign for the Alumni House. We were almost back to Gambier. Things looked so much different in the dark — this was the same road I had taken a few days ago to get to Gambier. “No, I’ll be okay, thanks; if you could just drop me in town that would be great.”

  She stopped the car in front of Farr Hall. “How’s this?”

  I was never going back into Farr. For all I knew, James was waiting for me in there, though I saw no sign of the police car. “This is great. I really appreciate the ride. I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come along there. And it was nice meeting you.”

  She smiled as I got out of the car. “Maybe we’ll meet again sometime, Mr. Ryan.”

  I watched Mrs. Edwards drive away. There was no way we’d ever meet again. I was leaving. Now. I just needed to pick up my things from Mrs. Hoople’s house. It was time to go home and let the family know of Harry’s fate. By the time I got to Pittsburgh, I would have that story all worked out, using a fine mix of fact and fiction as only I can do. My only regrets being leaving my Ransom Hall redecoration plan unfulfilled… and Beth.

  Chapter 12

  I took the alley beside Farr Hall to the parking lot and worked my way back to Wiggin Street and Mrs. Hoople’s backyard. There was a light on in the kitchen, but the only sign of life was the cat sitting in the window. It was looking at me, passively still, expressionless and serene. At this point, a lesser person would have envied that cat, oblivious to the troubles of man, concerned only with which of them would next serve its needs. But not me — I didn’t like sitting around doing nothing, always at the mercy of a cruel taskmaster. I controlled my own destiny. And I didn’t particularly like cats. Then why was I running? At least I felt like I was running. The battle had turned against me and I had no plans at this point other than retreat. Not the most honorable of resolutions, but I would live to fight another day. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

  I leapt the fence and went in the back door. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the hall clock. The cat followed my movements but remained on the window ledge, knowing that there was nothing to be gained by sucking up to me. Too bad I really had no use for them. Cats are perceptive and would make a nice alternative to surveillance cameras if only they could translate from cat to human. There was a note on the table. Half expecting it to be from Beth, I opened it.

  I put some leftovers in the fridge for you if you’re hungry. I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to bed early. Beth was worried when you did not make it back for supper, but I assured her that something quite important must have come up. She went to the library to study.

  I do hope you are all right. You haven’t been yourself lately.

  Amanda

  So much for Grabber’s relaying my message. I went upstairs and looked in on Mrs. Hoople. She was asleep. There was a glass of water and an aspirin bottle on the nightstand and an empty pot on the floor. Old-fashioned medicine — drink liquids, take aspirin, and throw up as needed. Mom was like that, too…

  “Harry needs to be left alone, Tom. He’s sick and has to rest.”

  I was only eight and didn’t yet understand the concept. “Doesn’t he need more happy medicine?” Happy medicine, I later found out was Kool-Aid laced with some liquid aspirin that would have been otherwise odious-tasting.

  “No, he’ll be fine. You needn’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, Mommy, I just need Harry to test out my new cannon.” Which, when translated, meant I was going to use Harry as the target…

  I closed the door softly and went to Harry’s room. It didn’t look any different or disturbed in any way so I guessed neither Beth nor the police had been there. Gathering up my belongings I also took a sketchbook, the photo of Harry and Beth, and the drawing tacked to the wall. I remembered the book in my coat pocket, pulled it out and stuffed it into my bag. A King in a Court of Fools by H. Ryan. The family would want to see that. It would all be part of the story I would tell to bring closure to the loss of Harry.

  Feeling suddenly sick, I sat on the edge of the bed. Something was gripping at my gut, twisting my insides, something that would not let go. It must have been what little I ate of the fast food coming back on me. One last look at Harry’s room and I headed downstairs and back to the kitchen. Mrs. Hoople had left a plate of cold chicken in the fridge. I looked at the chicken, then down at the cat staring up at me blankly. We shared one final meal before I closed the front door and left the Hoople house and Gambier behind forever.

  I paused at the gate. Wiggin Street was empty and quiet, and all I could hear was my own breathing. Detective James was probably in bed having dreams about tracking me down and cuffing me. That’s what I would have been dreaming of had I been him. Across Wiggin, the campus was a serene and stately bastion, a fortress deep and mighty that had withstood the ravages of time for hundreds of years.

  It was time to change all that before I left. With little forethought, I crossed Wiggin and took Middle Path toward Ransom Hall. The entirety of my plan was to break into Ransom, trash the place, get my car, and leave Ohioland in my dust. Stealth and deception were not an issue at this point. My only regret was that I wouldn’t be around to see the reaction. Maybe that story would make the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

  Though it was late, students were still about, but they didn’t even show up on my threat assessment radar. As I passed them, they were quickly scanned and determined to be either a) stoned, b) drunk, c) afraid of the dark and anything that was moving, or d) simply too unaware to have a clue what I was up to. I recognized one of the girls from the cafeteria line but she was so busy taking evasive action that our eyes never met. Beth stood at the verges of my consciousness trying to hug me.

  Damn it. The trashing would have to wait. My convoy of one changed direction and set a course for the library. I had to say “good-bye” to someone I didn’t even know. How stupid was that?

  The student at the library front desk was reading and looked up when I came in. He returned my smile and pointed upstairs, “She’s in the carrel area.”

  One more person who knew Harry, and one more person to be forgotten when I dusted off the dirt of that one-horse town; I was looking forward to going back to Pittsburgh and not being mistaken for my idiot brother who had somehow gotten himself killed and misplaced. Even from his stupid grave he was taunting me with the fact that he had done this, and he had succeeded at that, and everyone knew him and the stupid details of his stupid life. But the result is always in the bottom line, isn’t it? And the bottom line was that I was still alive and he was dead and therefore I had won. The epic battle for supremacy
in the Ryan family, the battle I had waged for years against him, from the day he was born, was finally over. I had won.

  Then why didn’t I feel like I had won?

  Not being entirely sure where the carrel area was or even what a carrel was, I stopped at the top of the stairs. The art exhibit was complete, and Harry’s last work was in place. My hatred for the brother who had intruded on my life by being born my unconquerable rival was becoming a tangible entity, an entity that wanted to trash this place and then trash Ransom Hall and anything else that got in my way. Trash everything! He had some nerve succeeding at so many things behind my back! How dare he sneak off for four years and accomplish so much without me around to destroy his dreams and dash his hopes! The story I would tell the family had suddenly changed in my mind. No longer would I make them proud of Harry and his accomplishments. Now the tale would be one of the sordid behavior that had ultimately led to a suicide on a lonely bridge over the Kokosing River. I reached for the first painting that I was going to chuck over the railing. Someone touched my arm.

  “Harry.” A soft, pleading voice… It was Beth. As quickly as the tide of my anger had risen, it ebbed in her embrace. “I was so worried about you. I thought that something had happened to you. I called the infirmary. I called the Mount Vernon hospital. I even called the police…”

  “The police? What did they tell you?”

  She looked up at me. There were no accusations in her eyes, no anger at my leaving her high and dry, nothing but concern… and if I didn’t know better… I squashed that thought like the thousands of tent caterpillars we had destroyed one year when we were kids. They had attacked and infested the neighborhood and it was our sworn duty as soldiers of the United States of Tom to destroy them. It was one of Sergeant Saunders’ first campaigns. The lone traitor had been Harry. He thought that their eating everything in their path must have a hidden purpose, that it was wrong to slaughter them without knowing what that purpose was, that all life was sacred or some such crappola. I was more interested in the cool, green stains they made when we smashed them on the brick walls of our house.