The Living and the Dead

by Greg F. Gifune

  If that rain out there isn’t tears, then God never cries.

  Wrapped in the silence of the house, he was reminded that Lacy had whispered that very thing to him one stormy night not long before he left home. He hadn’t thought of it in years. And then, suddenly, there it was.

  He heard the front door open and close, followed by footfalls as Nancy made her way to the kitchen. The scent of her cologne got to him before she did, and when she appeared in the doorway she was drenched. Her dark hair (which she dyed but still wore to near the middle of her back) was wet and stringy, her peasant blouse pasted to her breasts and her ankle-length crepe skirt damp and wrinkled. She’d already kicked off her shoes, but her bare feet made squishing sounds as she walked across the linoleum floor. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. Tall, lithe, and thin as a reed, she looked positively waiflike, and just for a moment Chris couldn’t help but remember her as she’d once been—so full of love and life and laughter, a free spirit hippie-girl with the soul of an artist, a camera around her neck and a constant gleam in her beautiful blue eyes, an individualist who made him believe in himself again, and in the possibility of love and true happiness. And for a while they’d had just that. He owed her for that. Didn’t he?

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and in an instant he was back on Earth. “That’s some rain out there, isn’t it, Chris?”

  “Certainly is,” he said, watching as she carefully placed the soggy paper bag of groceries on the counter. “It’s building into quite a storm. I was listening to the weather on the way home and the meteorologists were saying it’s hitting the entire eastern seaboard, from Maine to Florida.”

  “Did they say how long it’s supposed to last, Chris?”

  “They didn’t seem terribly sure.”

  “Chris, maybe you should wait until the storm passes.” She emptied the bag and began putting the items away. “You could always leave in the morning.”

  “That’s probably wiser, but I need to get this over with.”

  “You don’t have to go at all, Chris. You really don’t. There’s no law that says just because your father is senile and making prank calls in the middle of the night that you have to run up there and fix everything. There’s no law that says that, Chris.”

  Somewhere deep inside him, a glimmer of what very well may have been hope flickered. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “You know I don’t like being alone at night, Chris.” She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. The silver bracelets on her right wrist clacked together. “I know it’s silly and immature but sometimes I get scared in the dark, Chris, you know that. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I reach over to make sure you’re there, and when you are I’m not so frightened anymore, Chris, I’m not really frightened at all. But if you’re not there then I am.”

  “Nancy,” he said, nearly whispering, “I can postpone this, if—”

  “No, you do what you have to do and I’ll do the same.” Her expression changed, the vulnerability and benevolence gone, replaced with contempt. “I’m not a child, Chris, so please don’t treat me like one. Please.”

  “Nancy, I wasn’t suggesting you were, I only thought—”

  “I was simply trying to tell you how I sometimes feel.”

  “And I listened and tried to offer a response that—”

  “Go to Maine as planned, Chris. It’s fine. Really it is. Go.”

  A pain flared across his temple. He brought a hand up and casually massaged the area until it left him. Had she really been trying to reach out in her own awkward way, or was it just another example of how disjointed and peculiar his wife had become? “Look, the sooner I get up there and see what’s going on the sooner I can get back home, OK?”

  She offered a quick, efficient nod. “I’ll be fine, Chris. Remember, I’ve got the Turner Wedding on Sunday so I’ll have my hands full with that all weekend.”

  To listen to her, one would’ve thought she was the wedding planner rather than the photographer.

  “It’s going to be quite an extravagant affair,” she added, “so rest assured I’ll be insanely busy with that.”

  What else will you be insanely busy with Nancy?

  He considered asking her who was on the phone just then, but he let it go.

  “Well, you be careful, Chris, and drive safely.” She turned back to the groceries, snatched two TV dinners from the counter and slid them into the freezer. “Those are treacherous roads out there. And that’s here. I can just imagine what they’re like up there in the boonies.”

  He nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him. “I actually should get moving. I’ve got a long drive. Seven hours normally, and in this weather it’ll probably be more like eight or nine.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks again for packing my suitcase,” he offered. “And for the New Yorker, too, I appreciate it.”

  “I told you on the phone, Chris, I wanted to. You’re welcome.” She turned and looked at him. With what was clearly a degree of exertion, a smile crossed her face, but like the rest of her, it looked uncomfortable and forced. How could this be the same woman who had once smiled so easily, so effortlessly? Was she really that miserable? Had things gotten that bad?

  Did I do this to you? Did you do this to me?

  Chris cupped his hand beneath her chin and gently stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her pale skin was cool and a bit pasty. There had been a time when he would’ve thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he’d have tried to make love to her just then. But now there was something horribly futile about even attempting it. “I love you,” he said softly.

  She watched him a while with eyes that had once adored him. “And I love you,” she finally said, reaching up and wrapping her slender fingers around his wrist. “So go take care of this family business and come home to me.”

  “Is that really what you want?” he asked.

  Even much later, when he’d been on the road for hours, wearily slogging through the storm, Nancy’s response continued to haunt him.

  He suspected it always would.

  “Life isn’t about what we want, Chris. It’s about what we need.”

  7

  Once certain the driver had gone, Lana removed her raincoat, hung it on a freestanding coat rack to her right, then more closely inspected what would be her new home for the next few days.

  With only a small overhead fixture to light the room, she allowed her eyes a few seconds to adjust. The exterior appeared somewhat rustic, and the inside, though relatively neat and clean, was quite dated. In the main room a pair of glass sliders outfitted with Venetian blinds filled nearly the entire back wall, offering a view of a small yard and miles of Atlantic Ocean beyond. She dropped her purse on a table, switched on a lamp and moved deeper into the room. Fully furnished, the den, adjacent kitchenette, a single bedroom and a full bath at the end of a narrow hallway constituted the entire cottage.

  Lana kicked off her pumps, found a remote control on a coffee table across from a small television, crawled onto the couch and hit the Power button. Static. She switched it off and tossed the remote aside, watching as it bounced silently across the cushions. Apparently the rabbit ears didn’t do much, particularly during a storm.

  Main Street was perhaps three or four miles from the cottage. She decided that in the morning she’d walk back into town—what little there was of it—and get a few things so at least she’d have something on hand in the cupboards. Provided the weather improved, she’d spend the rest of the day walking or sitting on the beach and prowling the rocky shoreline farther north. The exercise and fresh air would do her good. From what she’d been able to ascertain thus far, Tall Tree Junction had virtually no tourist activity and few visitors. It seemed a good place to think, to decide what in the hell she should do next. Lana realized she’d stick out like a sore thumb unless she kept mostly to herself, though. Keep to the plan, she told herself. Take a jaunt into town for supplies then
head back to the cottage and stick to the beach, the forest and the ocean air until a few lazy days have quietly passed and your head clears.

  Although essentially a transient and incomplete little town, an ominous permanence hung in the air here she’d picked up on immediately, an eerie sense that time had little to no meaning in such a place. But perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps under the circumstances that was best.

  Flashes of events earlier in the day came to her suddenly then drifted off.

  Rain poured along the windows as the cottage creaked gently against a strengthening wind blowing in off the ocean. She considered her watch. Just after seven o’clock. It felt much later.

  Her stomach growled—a welcome distraction—but the idea of eating just then held little interest. Lana strolled back to the den, opened her purse and pulled out a manila envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash. She flipped through the bills, feeling the edges move between her fingertips as if to prove their existence.

  With a sigh, she put the envelope aside.

  Even with the heavy rain, it was so quiet here. She’d only left home a few hours before, yet it already seemed light-years away, as did her life there. The money, a shoulder bag packed with a few personal belongings and a small purse was all she’d taken with her. It had been a clean and quick escape.

  At least that’s what she told herself. Time would tell.

  In truth, Lana had no idea what lay ahead once her time in Tall Tree Junction was over. Maybe she’d continue on into Canada as she’d originally intended when she’d boarded the bus. She could disappear up there somewhere and start again. Regardless, one thing she knew for sure was that things would never be the same. They couldn’t be. Not now, not after what she’d done.

  She tried not to think about who and what she’d left behind. They’d know by now, she thought. They wouldn’t understand, but they’d know she was gone. They’d be in the early stages of annoyance or perhaps even worry by now, wondering where she could be and if anything serious had happened. As the night drew on, it would only get worse. Eventually confusion and panic would set in, and then outright fear.

  Her hunger pangs had grown worse. She dug through her purse until she found a Snickers bar she’d purchased back in Massachusetts before leaving the bus terminal. Lana plunked herself down at the kitchen table and ate it to the increasing strains of wind and rain. Chewing purposefully and making each bite count, she did her best to ignore the images and scenarios flooding her mind.

  * * *

  Some time later, darkness fully engulfed Tall Tree Junction, bringing with it heavier, more violent summer rains and scattered bursts of thunder and lightning. The nearby ocean frothed and slammed the coastline as waves crashed the beach and trees surrounding the cottage swayed in the wind.

  Curled up in bed, Lana tried to concentrate on the paperback mystery she’d purchased at the bus station in Boston, but the shadows along the walls of the small bedroom, combined with the sounds of wind and rain and turbulent ocean made it nearly impossible. She bent the last page she’d read and placed the novel on the nightstand.

  With a quick glance at the shoulder bag she’d hidden the envelope of cash in and then partially slid beneath the bed, Lana pulled the sheet up tight around her, switched off the lamp on the nightstand and scooted down until her head met pillow. The sheets were inexpensive, a bit scratchy and smelled of bleach, and the pillow was too soft for her taste, so she rolled it into a tube-like shape then pinned it in place beneath the weight of her head.

  Yawning, Lana spread out, pushing her feet as far toward the edge of the bed as possible while sweeping her arms back and forth like she had as a child while lying in the snow making an angel. It was only a full-size bed but felt enormous and wonderfully freeing. It also felt peculiar to be alone. Wrong. Like a great many things, she’d have to get used to this, come to accept it even, to experience it without guilt, without context.

  Under sparse moonlight, tree limbs disguised as shadowy talons, elongated and gnarled, scratched the windows and flickered across the walls.

  The sounds of night increased, as if to accommodate her imagination and anxiety, and despite her attempts to prevent it, the day again replayed in her mind. This time, the memories were oddly remote, as if she was sitting in the dark anonymity of a movie theater watching the story unfold from a safe distance, free of any personal connection whatsoever.

  She touched the rough edges of her engagement diamond then slid her fingers lower to the gold wedding band beneath it. She’d considered removing them earlier but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not yet.

  Faces came to her in the darkness but quickly vanished.

  Though she felt wholly unworthy, Lana attempted prayer, hopeful it might allow sleep, and ultimately, escape from the specters dominating her mind.

  Eventually sleep did come for her.

  But it made no promises.

  8

  In most of his dreams Dempsey was still married to Lucille, still sharing the cottage with her, still happy. They were together for nearly thirty years, and established habits were hard to break even after all that time. In dreams, Dempsey could roll over in bed and feel her there against him, hear the slow pattern of her breathing, smell a trace of her favorite deodorant soap. He could touch the light cotton fabric of her nightgown, or maybe just hold her beautifully delicate hands a while. But then the night stories would come along and blur every damn thing and turn it all hazy in his head. Most days, his brain swimming in liquor and nightmares, Dempsey couldn’t remember for sure where the dreams ended and the searing pain of reality began.

  That night the dreams hadn’t been so nice. They’d led him into the kitchen, to Lucille in that awful state above him, one foot still in a slipper, the other bare and dangling, toes pointed down like they were still trying to reach the floor somehow.

  She was a good woman, Lucille, a decent and caring woman, a damn good wife and a loving mother to their son Christopher and daughter Lacy. Dempsey hadn’t seen his son in a few years, but Lacy had been gone for more than thirty now. He told himself she’d probably gone on to live with some guitar player in Seattle or L.A., but in reality there was no way to know for sure exactly where she was nowadays. Had he known her as an adult he’d miss her, but he couldn’t rightfully miss something he’d never had in the first place, could he? What Dempsey missed was his little girl, his precious baby. And she’d been gone for years. She’d grown up so goddamn fast, always in such a hurry to throw off childhood and rush headlong into her idea of adulthood. Thinking back on it now, as he sometimes did, Dempsey knew he hadn’t been a very good father to either of his children. He’d tried, God knows, and he’d loved his family—anyone who said otherwise was a liar—but he’d never been good at showing it or talking about it the way so many women and kids needed a man to.

  As Dempsey remembered it, Lacy had decided to leave home at eighteen the same as her brother had, opting to run off with a ragtag bunch of musicians that were working small rock clubs throughout New England. From the moment she announced she intended to leave, Dempsey knew he’d never see his daughter again. Christopher had taken the cowardly way out, sneaking off under cover of darkness like a criminal on the run. Abel had always hoped he’d one day see Lacy again, that it would all turn out better somehow, and even up until a few years ago he’d occasionally allowed himself the fantasy that she might one day walk through his front door. But he’d learned to accept that was never going to happen. She was gone and gone for good.

  Some nights he’d try to remember the sound of her voice, and what it felt like when she’d called him “Daddy.” Then when he stopped and thought about it he realized she’d be into her forties now, probably with grown kids of her own, even grandkids. But the way Dempsey saw it, didn’t much matter. Lacy was as dead as Lucille was.

  They’d all died a little the day Lucille had. Wasn’t any way a woman like Lucille could check out of this world and not take something of them along wi
th her…just wasn’t possible.

  When he couldn’t bring himself to think about Lacy anymore, he’d sometimes try to remember Lucille. But the memories always brought him back to the day he’d found her and the way the kids blamed him for it. Truth be told, most days Dempsey agreed with them. It probably had been his fault, the years since nothing but penance.

  That’s why he liked Lucille in dreams better now. In dreams she was happy. They were happy, and Lacy and Christopher were still there with them too, little and smiling, his boy so smart and quiet, his girl even smarter and cute as a button in her pigtails, eyes wide like an angel.

  The night stories didn’t just tell him the truth, Abel knew, they made him listen to it, really hear it. And that’s why he’d drink once the sun went down. Had to get a head start on the damn things, maybe have a chance to outrun them. It never did work, but he tried just the same. Every night, he tried. Tried and failed.

  He’d heard all the whispers in town for years now. How could he still live in that cottage after what Lucille had done there? Why hadn’t he ever gone after his son or daughter, or even tried to find out where Lacy had gone? Why did he still drive around in that old junk heap years after he’d retired? Why did a wonderful woman like Lucille have to die while a useless old man like him lived on and on and on?

  Dempsey hadn’t realized until just then that he’d nodded off and spent the entire night in the rocking chair on his porch. Though the heat was rising, the rain kept up, so nothing had dried out. His clothes were stuck to him and drenched through. Two empty bottles of whiskey lay just beyond his feet. His gut ached, his lungs burned and his joints were so stiff and sore he could barely move them. He let out a short burst of a cough that rattled his lungs and produced a gurgling sound from deep within them. He distracted himself from it by looking out at where the yard had once been. Neglected and mostly mud these days, it was dead as everything else in his life. Seemed unfair how things around him kept dying and he kept right on living.