The Living and the Dead

by Greg F. Gifune

  “You’re not supposed to be paying attention to content, remember?”

  “I do a lot of things around here I’m not supposed to.”

  Chris attempted to look distracted by straightening his desk.

  “It’s not easy to give me the chills after all the freaky sessions I’ve transcribed over the years, but there are times Dodd manages it.” She gave a faux shiver and grinned. “Have to admit, he makes me wonder sometimes. He seems so sincere when he talks about his conspiracy theories, or whatever the hell they are.”

  “He is sincere.”

  “He’s not really telling the truth, he just thinks he is, right?”

  “Reality and truth are subjective, Nita, you know that.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Then he’s not lying?”

  “Not from his perspective he’s not.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You know it’s really not appropriate for us to be discussing this.”

  “Me and inappropriate are like this.” Anita crossed her fingers and held them up at him with one of her typical wiseass smirks. “Anyhow, listen, do you mind if I take off? Promised my sister I’d pick up my ankle-biter niece from band practice. She’s probably already waiting for me and it’s pouring out there.”

  “Sure, of course, go. Have a nice weekend. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Anita hesitated, watched him a moment. “You sure you’re all right, Chris?”

  He’d already told her about the phone call and why he had to return to Maine, and considered discussing things further with her, but decided to let it go. In the past mixing personal situations with work had gotten them both into trouble, and while no one had ever found out about what happened between them in that one moment of mutual weakness, it often made things awkward nonetheless. They had both agreed that their digression had been a mistake and that they’d put it behind them and move on. Anita offered to resign but Chris encouraged her to stay, and although the first several months had been uncomfortable at times, lately it seemed that at least at work they’d made it through the worst of it and were on their way to restoring something similar to what had existed between them prior.

  “Yeah,” he told her. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  She lingered in the doorway, and for the first time he took full notice of her outfit, a pair of open-toed pumps and a black pinstripe skirt-suit, a white camisole barely visible below a hint of modest cleavage. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  They held each other’s gaze a while. “No,” he finally said.

  “No as in you’re sure?” she asked, lips parting slowly to reveal a playful smile. “Or no as in you aren’t sure?”

  Chris knew Anita would be a distraction, but she’d be an enjoyable one, and with all the unpleasantness awaiting him, it might be nice to have her along for support. Still, he knew where it would lead, and so did she. “I thought we’d decided…”

  “Well that’s just the problem, isn’t it?” Absently—or perhaps purposely—she delicately scratched the corner of her mouth with the tip of a manicured fingernail painted light pink. “We spend our time pretending nothing happened and telling ourselves and each other how sorry we are for it, but in the end we’ve never really decided anything, have we?”

  He nodded. “You’re right, and we need to discuss this, but I have a lot on my plate right now, Nita. I…”

  “I’ll be home later. Let me know. Either way, I’m here if you need me, OK?” She smiled mischievously. “Oh, and Nancy’s on line two.”

  “Jesus,” he said, guiltily blushing at her nonchalance in leaving his wife on hold for so long. “Drive carefully out there.”

  “Will do. Have a safe trip…if I don’t see you.”

  As Anita slipped away Chris gazed down at his desk phone then stabbed the lone blinking button with a pen. “Hey.”

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?” Nancy snapped. “I swear to God, Chris, Anita gets a sick thrill out of leaving me on hold.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” he lied, spinning around so he could watch the rain on the windows. “I was finishing up my notes and had to take another call first.”

  “Uh-huh. Nothing’s ever her fault is it, Chris? She’s always incurably innocent according to you. Everyone is, except for me, of course.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What’s this all about?” he sighed.

  “I’m your wife, Chris, that’s what this is all about. When I call your office I expect to be put through or told you’ll call me back. I’m tired of being left on hold every time I call. It’s become the norm, Chris, and I’ve had it.”

  “OK,” he said, pleasantly as possible. “I’ll speak to Anita about it.”

  “I got your suitcase packed for you,” she said after a moment.

  “Thank you, I—you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to, Chris. I’d come too, but I’ve got the Turner Wedding.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Chris righted the chair. “There’s no reason to drag you into the middle of all this anyway.”

  “Chris, if you’re in the middle of it then I am, too.”

  Yes, he thought. That’s how it should be, how it used to be. But they both knew the words hung empty in the air between them like almost everything else they said to each other these days.

  “I appreciate it, but it’ll only be a few days. And besides, it very well may be time to put the old man somewhere, and that could get extremely unpleasant. I don’t know for sure, I can’t make that kind of assessment over a telephone in the middle of the night with him inebriated, but it’s a distinct possibility that he may no longer be able to care for himself and function without assistance. Regardless, this nonsense has to stop.” He could hear his wife breathing into the phone but she didn’t respond. “Nan?”

  “Just thinking,” she finally said. “Is there any chance he could be telling the truth, Chris?”

  “My sister’s been gone for nearly thirty years. You think she’d just magically appear again after all this time?”

  “Isn’t it possible? I mean, assuming she’s still alive?”

  “My father’s a drunk and a fool, that’s all.” Chris focused on the windows. If only he could lose himself in that pouring rain a while. “He drove me out, drove Lacy out and pushed our mother into an early grave.”

  “Be that as it may, you didn’t answer my question, Chris.”

  No, I didn’t, he thought. And I don’t intend to.

  3

  Lana stepped from the bus into the rain, a folded newspaper held over her head. Carrying a shoulder bag and a purse, she moved hesitantly down the narrow steps and onto the sidewalk in front of an old general store. She looked about, taking in the small town without subtlety. They’d arrived here roughly fifteen minutes after leaving the highway. The bus driver, a man in his sixties with slicked back hair and a starched shirt with the bus company logo embroidered on the pocket, announced this would be a ten-minute stop, a quick chance for passengers to stretch their legs or purchase something to eat or drink at the general store before they continued on toward Canada, the border of which, he explained, was less than an hour away.

  “Where are we?” she asked the driver as he stepped off behind her.

  “Tall Tree Junction, one of the last crossroads before Canada. It was really something back in its heyday. Off the beaten path, but I always make this one of my last stops in the states.” He motioned to the general store before hurrying out of the rain. “Best roast beef sandwich in the state of Maine.”

  Lana continued on along the sidewalk. Her journey would end here.

  For now.

  An aged taxi was parked in an alley between the general store and a post office that looked like something out of the 1930s. A man, seemingly indifferent to the rain, leaned against the hood, arms folded across his chest. Broad-shouldered and dressed in black jeans, worn boots and a shirt with the sleeves c
ut away, he sported a battered black leather cowboy hat with a flat brim dripping rain. The lack of sleeves highlighted his muscular arms and the shirt was unbuttoned far enough to reveal a thin necklace around his throat, a gold cross hanging from it. Perspiration-soaked salt-and-pepper hair jutted out in back from beneath the hat.

  Their eyes met. He gave her a vague nod. “Looking for lodging?”

  “Yes,” Lana answered. “Is there a hotel in town?”

  “We’ve got some rental cottages down by the water. They run fifty a day.”

  “Are they clean?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are.”

  “Any vacancies?”

  “A couple, yeah. Not exactly tons of demand for lodging around here, know what I mean?” His face hinted at a smile. “When I’m not driving I work part-time for the owner. They’re not far from here. I can set you up if you want.”

  Lana took another quick look around. The main street, such as it was, lay empty and wet, a series of puddles already formed in the dirt on either side of the road. The buildings were dilapidated, most empty and boarded up, reduced to ghostly remnants of what Tall Tree Junction had once been.

  She turned back to the man. “All right.”

  * * *

  The heavy summer downpour blurred the world and offered a respite from the stifling humidity, but the heat would return. For now it waited, ready to resume its attack once the storm clouds cleared, prepared to blanket Tall Tree Junction and the rest of the coastline with the scorching sunshine the few remaining locals tolerated until the seasons changed and life was restored to their notion of normalcy. But unlike many coastal communities, this was more village than actual town. Tucked away along the coast of Maine, its edges consisted of nearly equal parts beach, rocky shoreline and woodland. It was apart—some might even say isolated—from the busy and higher populated areas further inland, and though once a modest but relatively successful resort town, Tall Tree Junction had failed to keep up with the changing times. Financial difficulty bankrupted the town and destroyed its lone source of income—tourism—so the formerly beautiful boardwalk was now empty, abandoned and unkempt, the once thriving band shell, dance hall and specialty stores all but vanished, most boarded up and long since condemned. At the far end of the boardwalk, built adjacent to a stretch of sandy beach overlooking the ocean, the skeletal remains of a small but once vibrant amusement park were still evident. The main attraction, a giant Ferris wheel, was long gone, but amidst occasional patches of concrete were the rotted shells of various old rides, attractions and concession stands, barely visible through overgrown weeds and years of decay and neglect. Over the last three decades Tall Tree Junction had become a town few even knew about, much less remembered. It was now a place people came to by accident—if at all—on their way to or from somewhere else. The roughly three hundred permanent residents were comprised mostly of families that had lived there for generations. The rest had wandered into town and never left or were stragglers that stayed briefly then moved on. Odds were, if you weren’t looking for Tall Tree Junction, you’d never even realize it was there.

  But that was exactly the kind of destination Lana wanted, at least for now.

  The cab followed a desolate road carved through the dense woods just off what remained of the town’s main drag, a winding path that on a clearer day might have been quite beautiful. As the taxi slowed to accommodate one section of deeply gutted road, they passed a small cluster of decrepit shacks. Most sat dark and apparently empty, but as they approached the final shack a bright splash of color against the otherwise gray backdrop caught Lana’s attention.

  Through the rain a woman in an inexpensive yellow summer dress stood before a pile of debris in the dirt lot that constituted her front lawn. As the taxi drew closer, Lana realized the mound of rubble was actually furniture, various household items and clothing that had been thrown there as if in preparation for a bonfire.

  Lana adjusted her position and leaned closer to the window for a better view. The woman appeared to be in her early thirties, and despite her rather exotic beauty, even at a distance the wear and erosion life had inflicted upon on her was evident in her face and posture. Her hair was short but full, combed back from her face and secured with a wide black scarf about her forehead. With her olive skin, large dark eyes and onyx costume jewelry, the bright dress seemed oddly out of place on her, a joke somehow, or perhaps a final act of defiance. Two drenched children stood on either side of her, a boy and girl. Close enough to hold hands had they wanted to, they instead stood by the debris in the downpour with their mother and watched the taxi pass. Neither yet in their teens, the children stood as silent and listless as their mother, faces dirty, hair mussed and their clothes unkempt. Lana leaned away from the window for fear they could see her through the rain-blurred glass, and as if in answer, the woman looked up lethargically, sad eyes saddled with black rings and heavy bags, lips parted slightly as if she’d meant to say something but had forgotten the words.

  As the road evened out the taxi increased speed a bit, leaving the woman and her children in the distance.

  After a few moments they came upon a small rundown house with an old wooden sign sunk into the ground at the end of the property. Though ravaged by time and the elements, Lana could still read it. Dempsey Cottages. “He runs the office out of his place,” the driver told her, slowly bringing the cab to a stop. “You don’t have to sign in or anything formal, I’ll just run in and grab some keys. Be right back.”

  Lana waited, watching as the man moved through the rain then disappeared inside the building. If the owner lives in something this bad, she mused, I can just image what these cottages must look like.

  He returned quickly and pulled out. “All set.”

  They soon came upon a large stretch of empty field, and eventually a scattering of permanent residences mixed with clusters of nicer but modest homes and cabins. The road eventually emptied onto a slight incline. At the summit sat a small but fairly well maintained cottage overlooking the ocean, its darkened windows and solemn presence an odd contrast to the furious, storm-inspired waves of the Atlantic crashing shoreline beyond.

  The taxi lurched to a stop, the sudden jerking motion snapping Lana’s concentration. From the moment she’d climbed into the back seat, the interior of the car had struck her as unnaturally dark, even in a downpour. Unlike most taxis she’d been in, there was no partition between the front and back seats, yet the driver hadn’t said two words since their initial conversation. Faint sounds of voices on the radio up front and unseen things rattling and squeaking with the steady motion of the car had distracted her from the sound of rain, but now only the cadence of raindrops thumping metal remained. An unpleasant odor she couldn’t quite identify had not waned even when she’d cracked the window, but had now finally dissipated. She looked to her right, focused on the cottage beyond the blurred glass. A dirt path led to the front door. It wasn’t anything special, but not nearly as awful as she’d feared.

  “This is it,” the driver announced.

  “All right then,” Lana said hesitantly.

  “It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it’s functional and beats sleeping on the beach. And for this town, trust me, it’s posh.” Concealed in shadow, he slammed the column shift into Park and paused the meter. His overall appearance looked quite different than the small black and white photograph on his hack’s license, but if one looked closely it was obviously the same person, only with no hat, shorter hair and a clean shaven face rather than one covered in five o’clock shadow. Still, the man looked out of place. He seemed more akin to an American expatriate driving a taxi in a far off place like Cambodia. And even with limited scrutiny, a seriousness just beneath the driver’s rather eccentric exterior indicated this man had not spent his entire life behind the wheel of a cab. He had seen things, done things—many of them probably less than pleasant—and could handle himself. He was the type of man who could be dangerous, Lana thought. The question was, to whom? He
turned, casually slung an arm over the back of the front seat. “Six-fifty for the ride, ma’am.”

  Lana dug a ten from her purse and held it out for him. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” He motioned to the cottage. “This one’s been empty for a few months but we keep them clean. I tend to them more than Dempsey does nowadays. He’s getting older and can’t do as much anymore. Besides his place, he’s got five cottages along the shoreline spread out on this stretch of beach. I live in one permanently and he rents the others when he can. In the old days he used to pull a pretty penny for them, but that was before my time here.” He reached for the door. “It’s a not a palace, but it’s a roof and four walls, electricity, glass in the windows and clean sheets on the bed, know what I mean? Even has a TV, but it’s just rabbit ears, no cable or satellite or anything. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  She made no move to get out. “If you don’t mind I’d like to see the inside alone before I decide, is that all right?”

  “Knock yourself out.” He handed her a single key on a ring. “This works both the front door and back slider.”

  “And it’s fifty a day, you said?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She watched the cottage through the rain.

  “How long you think you’ll be in town?”

  “Not sure,” she said, “a few days at least.”

  “Spur of the moment decision? Staying, I mean.”

  Lana shrugged.

  “That bus stops here once a week on its way to Canada. In the last year you’re the first person that didn’t get right back on it first chance you got.”