by Tim Waggoner
But as her fingertips neared the bristles, the mustache blurred, grew indistinct, and then was gone. When her fingers came in contact with his upper lip, she found it smooth, with only a hint of stubble.
He was looking at her quizzically now, still amused, but with growing concern. She let her fingers linger on his upper lip for a moment and managed what she hoped was a convincing smile.
“I’m just so glad to see you again, that’s all.”
He looked at her intently for a moment longer, as if trying to determine if that really was all, and then he smiled, pulled back his head a fraction of an inch and lifted his mouth to her fingers and kissed the tips gently.
She withdrew her hand, took his, and wordlessly they continued walking down the sidewalk.
The street ended in a cul-de-sac. No houses here with porch lights burning to push back the night, just a dark row of trees that served as a gateway to the woods beyond. Elm trees, if she remembered correctly, though there wasn’t enough light to tell for sure.
She felt a cold fluttering in her stomach and sour-hot bile at the back of her throat. The night air, which had seemed warm only moments ago, now felt suddenly cool and she began to shiver.
“We should probably get back to the house,” Lauren said. “Grandma might need help seeing to the last of the guests…and there’ll be dishes to do…”
Stephen didn’t slow his pace, and Lauren, feeling as if she were attached to him by the hand—her finger bones and flesh fused with his—and unable to free herself, continued alongside him as they headed for the trees.
“Do you remember when we were kids and we used to play in the woods?” he asked.
Fire between her legs, tears wet on her cheeks, snot slick on her lips as she begs him to stop, please stop, you’re hurting me!
“I…think so. My memory’s kind of spotty these days.” She wanted to tear her hand free, turn and run back toward Grandma’s house, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. She just kept walking with him. Toward the trees.
A chuckle. “Your grandmother says the memory’s the second thing to go.”
Without thinking, she supplied the punch line. “And I can’t remember what the first thing is.”
“I’m sure the memories are there, Lori.” It was the first time tonight that he’d used his nickname for her. “And the longer you’re home, the more will come back to you.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, she thought. But was she really? Though she’d returned to attend her father’s funeral, maybe another, deeper reason she’d come back to Trinity Falls was to unlock whatever memories lay buried inside her…to come to terms with them once and for all, no matter the outcome, so that she could reclaim her life. No, not reclaim—rather, begin her life. She’d done little more than exist since she’d left home: pass groceries over a scanner, cash small paychecks, fail at relationships, wake up every night shrieking at the top of her lungs. She wanted more from life, but in order to get it, she would have to face her past and lay it to rest, bury it, just as they had buried her father earlier today.
But now, walking with Stephen toward the trees—toward the goddamned woods—she thought maybe she’d confronted the past enough for one day, thank you very much.
“I really want to go back now, Stephen. Please.” She didn’t want to sound like she was begging, but she couldn’t help it.
“In a minute, I promise.” He stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac, their feet resting on the last few inches of concrete before grass took over, the trees less than a dozen feet away. “Do you remember how we used to play in the woods when we were kids? We went there almost every day: playing hide and seek, climbing trees, exploring…”
An odor filled the air, sharp and musky. The scent of an animal—a large animal.
Lauren had the feeling that something was watching them from behind the trees, but she could see nothing in the darkness that filled the woods. She listened, thought she heard soft, heavy breathing beneath the sound of the night-breeze and the chirping of insects, but she wasn’t sure.
The breathing and the musky smell were both somehow familiar to her, as was standing here before the trees, peering into darkness. If only she could remember…
“Got him!”
Lauren held up her closed fist for Grandma’s inspection, a yellow-green light glowing between her fingers.
“Go ahead and put it in your jar before it wiggles free, but be careful or you’ll let the others out.”
Lauren knelt in the grass on knees bruised, scraped and scabbed from a dozen different summertime adventures. Tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, she unscrewed the lid of the peanut butter jar (though there was no trace of peanut butter left, thanks to Grandma’s scrubbing it out earlier) and popped the lightning bug inside with the others. She held the jar out at arm’s length to inspect it, and watched as the bugs glowed and dimmed at different times.
Lauren stood. “Why do they call them lightning bugs, Grandma? Their light doesn’t look much like lightning.”
Lauren wore a pink T-shirt, blue shorts and sneakers without socks. Grandma wore sandals and an orange sundress that looked brownish-black in the twilight. They stood in the grassy field at the end of the street, where Lauren had convinced her grandmother to accompany her on a lightning-bug-catching expedition. Grandma had asked why they didn’t just chase lightning bugs in their backyard, but Lauren had said there were more bugs here, and bigger ones besides, because it was so close to the woods. So here they were.
Lauren was seven years old.
“Some folks call them fireflies,” Grandma said.
Lauren watched the bugs glow for a bit, thinking about that name. It was better, but their light didn’t look all that much like fire, either. “I think glowbugs would be better.”
Grandma smiled—at least, Lauren thought she did; it was hard to tell in the deepening gloom of approaching night. “I think you’re right.” She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side, a gesture Lauren had learned signaled amusement. “So now that you have a jarful of ‘glowbugs’, what do you intend to do with them?”
Lauren wasn’t sure. She hadn’t given any thought about what to do after she caught them. She wished Stephen were here; he was always good at coming up with ideas. She looked at Grandma, feeling a little lost and embarrassed. “I don’t know,” she said in a soft voice.
“Well, whatever you decide, best do it quick. It’s going to be full dark soon.” A pause, and this time Lauren was sure her grandmother was smiling because she could hear it in the tone of her voice. “When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me that some people believe glowbugs are really angels come down to earth for a visit. If that’s true, it wouldn’t be nice to keep them cooped up for long, would it?”
Lauren brought the jar closer to her face. Grandma had soaked off the paper label when she’d washed it, and there was nothing to obstruct her view of the insects. They crawled on the bottom and sides, abdomens glowing on and off almost urgently, as if they were sending out distress signals. The thought that she’d caught and trapped angels frightened Lauren and made her feel a little sick to her stomach.
“Is it true? Are they really angels?”
“I don’t know.” A teasing tone in Grandma’s voice now. “But if I were you, I’d let them go pretty soon. The last thing I’d want is for a bunch of angels to be angry with me.”
Lauren felt as if her stomach were being squeezed by a hand of ice. She quickly began to unscrew the lid, but before she could get it off, Grandma stepped over and put a hand on her arm.
“Not here. Over by the trees.”
There was something different in Grandma’s voice now, but Lauren wasn’t sure what. She sounded as if it were really important to her that they let the bugs go by the trees, but that she didn’t want it to sound as if it were important. Lauren was confused, but she said okay and G
randma took her hand off her shoulder. The skin hurt a little where Grandma had touched her, and Lauren knew that if it were light out, she’d see a red mark where Grandma’s fingers had clasped.
Grandma stood back, as if she wanted Lauren to lead the way. Lauren started toward the trees—they were only a dozen feet or so away—and her grandmother followed. Lauren clutched the jar to her belly with both hands, suddenly terrified to go any nearer the trees (and worse, near the dark spaces between and beyond the trees), but she knew Grandma wanted this, so she kept going. She always did what Grandma wanted. Everyone did.
As they drew near the trees, Lauren watched lightning bugs blink on and off in the woods. There were so many, spread so far and deep through the forest, that it was almost as if a field of stars had fallen to earth and taken up new stations among the trees. Everywhere, that is, save for a large black patch directly in front of them. No bugs blinked there. It was almost as if there was something wrong about that space to make the bugs avoid it.
No, not wrong, Lauren realized. They couldn’t blink there because something was preventing them. Something that was in their way. Something big.
Something that was watching a little girl and her grandmother approach. Something that breathed furnace-heavy and smelled like a wet dog dipped in honey and salt.
Lauren started to tremble, and her grandmother placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s all right, sweetie. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It won’t come out of the woods; the Offertories see to that. Their songs keep it…happy where it’s at.”
Twin globes of light appeared, like the lights of two gigantic fireflies, but these lights were far brighter and didn’t blink. They were eyes, Lauren realized. Eyes that saw everything.
“What…?” She could barely talk; her voice was a hoarse croak, caught in a throat dry as desert dust.
“It doesn’t have a name, my love. Not like you and I do. It’s beyond names. Now go ahead and let your angels go.”
Lauren had trouble making her trembling fingers work, but she managed to unscrew the jar lid and let it fall to the grass. The lightning bugs didn’t come out at first; they had to crawl to the lip of the jar before spreading their wings and taking to the air. But one by one they flew off and toward the woods, and as Lauren watched, they sailed directly toward the twin lights that were the nameless thing’s eyes, only to have their tiny glows swallowed by the harsh illumination of those huge orbs.
It took several moments before the process was complete, before her jar was empty and the last lightning bug was gone. Then the others in the woods were drawn toward the thing’s bright eyes, streams of them coming from all over, surging faster and faster, eager to join with and be subsumed by a light far stronger than theirs.
And then, faster than she thought possible, the lightning bugs were gone—all of them—and the woods, except for those two blazing eyes, were completely dark.
“Beautiful, wasn’t it?” Grandma asked, voice soft and reverent.
Lauren finally found her voice. “I wish it would go away.” She didn’t know if she’d make Grandma mad by saying this, but she didn’t care. She just wanted the awful thing with its awful eyes to be gone.
Grandma turned to look at her. “Then wish it. You can make whatever you want happen—if you wish hard enough.”
Lauren looked at the twin yellow-orange orbs and thought about them disappearing the same way all the lightning bugs had. She put everything she had into her wish—mind, heart, soul and body. Go away, go away, GO AWAY!
For a moment, she thought nothing was going to happen, but then the lights winked out. No, she realized as she heard the sound of brush being shoved aside and limbs snapping. The lights of the things eyes hadn’t been extinguished; the thing was turning and leaving.
Whatever. As long as it was going away, Lauren was happy.
Grandma patted her shoulder. “Good job.” She sounded pleased.
“What was it?” Lauren asked again.
Grandma hesitated. “God…or at least as close as I can get.” She smiled down at Lauren. “For now, that is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to, child, not for a few years yet. In fact, it would be best if you forgot this altogether, all right?” She touched an index finger to Lauren’s forehead, and Lauren felt dizzy for a second, but then Grandma pulled her finger away and she felt better. All better.
“C’mon, let’s go home and pop you in the bathtub,” Grandma said. “You’re filthy from playing all day.”
“Okay, but can I use your bubble bath?”
Grandma bent down with a grunt and picked up the empty peanut butter jar and handed it to Lauren. Lauren frowned. How did that get down there? And what had happened to all the lightning bugs they’d caught?
“All right, but only a little. Last time you used it, there were suds all over the floor.”
Lauren looked down at the empty jar. She had the feeling there was something she should remember. Something about the lightning bugs and the woods…
Grandma stroked her cheek, drawing her attention away from the jar. “If you want that bubble bath, we’d best be going. It’s getting late.”
Lauren smiled. Whatever she was trying to remember, she decided not to worry about it. After all, if it had been so important, she wouldn’t have forgotten it in the first place, right?
She took her grandmother’s hand and together they headed home.
Stephen leaned his face close to hers, brought his lips to her ear and spoke softly, pulling her out of her memory. “Sometimes we’d pretend that we were Adam and Eve, and the woods were our Eden.” Soft lips kissed her earlobe. “We’d take off our clothes and—”
A branch snapped loud as a gunshot, and Lauren jumped. Whatever was in the woods—and she was certain something was there now; branches didn’t break themselves, after all—had moved, shifted its ponderous weight on tree-trunk thick legs, or perhaps tossed its head back as it drank in the rank-sweet smell of her fear. She tried to pull her hand free from Stephen’s iron grip, but she couldn’t.
From behind them Lauren heard the shuffle of leather on asphalt. She turned her head and saw a trio of robed figures walking toward them. The Offertories walked around Lauren and Stephen, two passing on their left, the other on their right, rejoining ranks in front of them. Lauren couldn’t see the faces hidden inside the hoods as they walked by—it was too dark, and the hoods were too big—but for the first time in her life, she was happy to see them, whoever they were.
Backs to the two former lovers, faces toward the woods, the Offertories began to sing.
It was a song without words, melody or rhythm. Lauren had once seen a television documentary on Buddhist monks who produced unearthly sounds called throat-singing as part of their rituals. The Offertories’ sound was something like that, sonic vibrations as much felt as heard, penetrating flesh and echoing through bone.
She sensed the attention of the thing in the woods shift to the Offertories, could imagine it cocking a huge, furry head to one side as it listened. And then came a rustle of leaves and cracking of branches as whatever it was turned and made its way back into the depths of the forest. When the sounds of its passage could no longer be heard, the Offertories stopped singing, paused for a moment, then turned and began walking past Lauren and Stephen.
Lauren was so relieved and grateful that she forgot her fear of the Offertories. She reached out and touched one’s sleeve.
“Thank you,” she said.
The Offertory stopped and turned to face her, and Lauren’s blood iced over. Inside the hood was nothing but impenetrable shadow. Nothing at all.
Stephen smiled, waved, then turned and headed down the sidewalk. The Offertories were somewhere out there in the darkness ahead of him, continuing on their rounds.
Lauren stood on her grandmother’s porch, w
atching Stephen go and trying not to think about what she saw—or rather hadn’t seen—inside the Offertory’s hood. It had been a trick of the light at best, another hallucination at worst, but it hadn’t been real, just as the thing in the woods hadn’t been real. The Offertories might be strange (she’d never heard of any other religion which used them) but they were men and women, members of the community selected to don the robes and wander through the town, singing-chanting their praises—and by extension, those of everyone in Trinity Falls—to God. At least, that was how Grandma had explained it to her when Lauren had first asked about the Offertories as a child. Every religion had its quirks and eccentricities, and what was weird to the practitioner of one faith was perfectly normal to the follower of another. Maybe she had never been comfortable around the Offertories, but that didn’t make them sinister, faceless figures out of a nightmare. No, what she’d seen (thought she’d seen, thought, thought!) was just another crack in her damaged psyche.
It had been good to see Stephen again, more than good. It seemed as if there was a spark or two left of the feelings they once had for each other. Sparks that, with a little time and care, might be fanned into a blaze once more. What was the old saying? There’s no flame like an old flame.
Today you watched your father being lowered into his grave, and now, only a few hours later, you’re mooning around like a lovesick teenager. You’re really sick, you know that?
Maybe. Or maybe it was natural for someone to look for beginnings after experiencing an ending—a way to reaffirm life in the face of death. Whichever the case, she supposed it didn’t matter right now. Inside were friends and relatives for her to console and be consoled by in turn, and that was where she belonged right now, not standing out here on the porch thinking in circles. She opened the door and went inside.
The first thing that struck her was how quiet the house was. There had hardly been a raucous party going on when she’d left for her walk with Stephen, but people had been milling about, eating cold-meat sandwiches, drinking coffee and talking in hushed and appropriately somber tones. But now it was completely silent, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Had everyone gone home? She found that hard to believe. It was getting late, but it wasn’t that late.
