by Don Sloan
A young man in his early twenties, wearing a short white apron over his jeans, came quickly to her table and handed her a menu.
“Good evening,” he said. His features spoke of a Middle Eastern heritage, but his voice had no trace of accent.
“Hi,” Sarah said. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot to start, I guess, and order dinner in a little while.”
“OK. My name is George, and our specials are on the board behind the bar there. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
“Thanks, George,” Sarah said and smiled back. As he departed, she turned her gaze toward the bar and the whiteboard containing the day’s specials. Framing the board was an ornate mirror that reflected the cozy interior of the restaurant. The other patrons were couples, and one large party of six that apparently was there for a special occasion―a birthday, perhaps, judging from the mound of gift packages stacked on a nearby table. Indeed, the party was already well underway and the six at the table―an older couple and four younger people―were laughing and occasionally singing snatches of songs, which brought on more hilarity. Two bottles of wine sat open on the table along with large dinner plates brimming with fresh pasta dishes.
Sarah did not even think about self-pity at being left out of the throng, for she was not unaccustomed to dining alone. Her work as a mortgage banking loan officer often took her into other parts of Philadelphia and to bordering states where she found herself in similar settings. At such times her routine varied little, ordering red wine and a Chicken Caesar Salad with a side order of rolls, unless she was especially hungry. Even at those times, however, she only ate a small portion of the main entrée and took the remainder back to the hotel or home in a take-out container.
Her daily routine also included a brisk aerobic workout at a downtown gym near her office, so she rarely gained any weight, even when on the road. Rob used to tease her about having the metabolism of a tapeworm, but she didn’t seem to mind. It was all part of being Sarah, and, for the most part, she felt she was as good a person as anyone, with only a few quirks, like any other.
And, if anything, she only wondered at times like these whether she would ever be married, like the older couple seemed to be, or even if she wanted to be.
Being married seemed to be such a miasma of give and take―but mostly give on the part of either one or the other in the relationship. She shook her head quickly to banish the thought before it could spoil her good mood, and thus was smiling again when George reappeared with her wine.
“I think I’ll just have some rolls right now to go with the wine and order dinner in a little bit,” she said. George bowed his assent and departed for the kitchen. Sarah watched him go and admired his derriere, then laughed quietly to herself, remembering a line from Dolly Parton. Look out, young man, she thought. I’m old enough to be your lover. And she raised the glass in toast to the flickering fire.
As she took the first sip, she looked into the mirror and saw the front door open to admit another man, whom she recognized as the one who had fixed her furnace the night before. A flush came over her expressive face and she turned her head away quickly, hoping he had not seen her.
Come on, Sarah, she thought. You can at least be polite after he’s seated someplace and go thank him again for helping you. And for God’s sake get his name this time. These thoughts intermingled with the first rush of warmth from the wine to make her a little light-headed, and by the time she looked up into the mirror again, he was gone from sight.
“Hello,” she heard a voice say and realized that the man had slipped up on her right side. In confusion, she smiled hesitantly but could find no answer right away. “I’m the guy from last night―furnace repair, fireman, CPA―remember?” Now at last, Sarah found her voice and extended her hand.
“I remember. How are you?”
“Hungry. Cold. Wind-blown. But better now, thanks,” Nathan spoke easily, but he was now noticing for the first time how pretty this young lady was, with her high cheekbones framed by a boyish hairstyle. Her large brown eyes were smiling, but her lips seemed to be having a little trouble finding the right expression. He misunderstood and thought she was trying to overcome the awkward situation of having to explain that her boyfriend was about to return. Yet he noticed there was only a place setting for one.
“And how are you?” he asked. “Finally get warmed up?”
Sarah had finally found her smile as she dropped her hand and said, “Yes, thanks to you. The furnace works perfectly and I went through the rest of the house today, cleaning it up.” She wasn’t sure why she added this bit of unnecessary intelligence, but she was proud of it. “You know, I don’t think I ever asked your name last night, and I’m so sorry.”
“Nathan Forrest,” he said, “and no apologies are needed. Rescuing damsels in distress is kind of a new line of work for me, but I was glad you didn’t have a plumbing problem. I couldn’t have helped you there, except with the most basic stuff.” He still stood by her table and George reappeared.
“And will you be joining the young lady?” he asked.
“Only if she asks,” Nathan said, keeping his eyes on Sarah. He really hoped she would say yes, though he could not say why. This was not his style on first meeting someone and he wondered later what in the world ever possessed him to be so bold.
Sarah blinked as though she had been away for a moment, lost in thought, but said, “Of course. Please join me.” And she smiled again, this one coming from deep down, and Nathan was glad. He wasn’t sure what he would have done had she said no.
He removed his coat, brushed off the snow carefully and hooked it over the back of his chair.
“So it’s still snowing outside?” Sarah asked.
“Getting heavier,” Nathan replied. “I was hoping I could get a weather report here.” Both she and Sarah looked inquiringly at George, who replied that the weather reports he heard in the kitchen were not encouraging and that the area could be in for as much as a foot of snow by morning.
“But by then you will both be warm in your homes and it will be no problem,” he said. “Will you also have some wine, sir?”
Nathan thought a moment and said, “Why not? A glass of Chardonnay for me, and a menu.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll be back with your wine.”
Nathan fluffed out his napkin and placed it on his lap, while Sarah spoke. “Did you say you also are here on vacation?”
“I am,” said Nathan. “My house is about a block and a half away from yours, between Jefferson Street and Howard. It’s also facing the shore. I inherited it from my aunt. She died this past fall.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said.
“Well, she lived to a very ripe old age and seemed to have no regrets. She went in her sleep at a rest home nearby―about the way I would choose to go, I guess.”
Sarah did not reply right away. Nathan’s wine had come, along with the rolls, and George was hovering, waiting for the dinner order. She fished her menu out from under the rolls and ordered quickly, a Chicken Caesar Salad. Nathan also made his choice from the specials menu: Chicken Alfredo, with a side salad of spinach. He lifted his glass of Chardonnay and tinked Sarah’s upraised glass. “To chance meetings,” he said, though he could not remember who in the world he was quoting. The line seemed appropriate, though, and he wanted the evening to go well. Sarah smiled at the toast and replied, “To chance meetings,” and took a longer sip this time.
The talk turned in many different directions that night and later each wondered at the ease of the conversation―the seemingly effortless way in which two people brought together in a small seaboard town on a wintry night could talk―about themselves, about their friends, their work, their beliefs in everything from politics to religion and everything in between, finding so much in common that it later stunned them both.
At the time, however, the conversation just seemed wonderful, and a happy coincidence that each should be so instantly interested in the other.
Dinner came, acc
ompanied by more wine, and the unceasing flow of dinner talk went on. In fact, long after dessert had come and gone, Nathan and Sarah still sat completely and totally involved with each other. George was cleaning up after the other diners, the last of whom was departing, when Nathan finally broke his attention away from Sarah long enough to notice they were the only ones still in the restaurant and that the time was well past 9 p.m. He could hear the wind whistling outside and he had no doubt they were in for a long walk if they could not find a cab. He motioned to George, and asked for the check. Sarah protested and reached for her pocketbook, but Nathan insisted and said truthfully that he had not enjoyed dinner so much in a very long time. Sarah, now flush with wine again (and, she thought, after promising herself only last night to cut back) did not protest long. The matter was therefore quickly settled and a cab was called.
George reappeared with the check, which Nathan promptly paid, including a generous tip, and they headed for the door. “Your cab should be here any minute,” the waiter said. And even as he spoke, the door blew open and a stout, short man of indeterminate racial heritage stood there, asking who had ordered a cab.
“That would be us,” said Nathan and, taking Sarah by the arm, they trudged out into the storm.
Chapter 4
They tried later to understand why Nathan had not gone inside Sarah’s house when she invited him. The snow was howling and it seemed ludicrous for him to go off to his own big silent house. Surely this structure was more than enough for the two of them, particularly on a night like this. But the moment was an awkward one, and ended only with a warm embrace and a smile from Nathan, who turned abruptly and fought the wind and driving volleys of snow back to the waiting cab.
Sarah raised a hand tentatively in a parting wave before going inside, but she could barely see Nathan get into the cab, and so she entered the empty hallway and closed the door behind her. The brass lock tumblers fell into place with greased precision when she turned the knob and she imagined uncomfortably for some reason that she was now locked in just as well as others were locked out.
Nathan paid the cab driver and began pushing his way through mounting snow drifts toward his front door. The storm was gathering momentum, throwing wave after wave of heavy snow at the eastern shoreline and points well inland. The Adirondack chairs were already coated in three inches of wet snow and Nathan knew it was only the beginning. He unlocked his front door and stepped inside.
Instantly, he noticed a difference, and it was not a pleasant one.
It was as though a large animal had died in the basement three or four days earlier, parked against the heating ducts that led from the basement to the upper floors. The odor was so foul and so intense that Nathan gagged involuntarily and put his hand to his mouth and nose. Surely the decay could not have set in so abruptly while he was away from the house at dinner, he thought, and he reached for the hallway light switch. As the lights flared, he moved toward the back of the house and the entrance to the basement stairs. He wasn’t sure why, but he reached into a tall cupboard and extracted a baseball bat, a relic from his visits to the shore with cousins, along with a big, solid Nightwatch flashlight with halogen beam.
He opened the door to the basement tentatively, still expecting to find a rational explanation for the smell. In truth, he thought he would find a couple of Cape May high school kids in his basement with a fresh cow patty or some half-rotten relic from the countryside―something they no doubt intended as a joke. Nathan crept down the stairs in the darkness, hoping to hear adolescent giggling in one of the corners.
Instead, he heard a noise he could not quite place. Nathan flipped on the basement light switch, but no light came on. That’s strange, he thought. He stopped, one foot still on the wooden step of the staircase. Something heavy was being dragged across the cement floor in the darkness.
Nathan switched on the big flashlight, holding it shoulder-high, police style. “Who’s there?” he said. The dragging noise stopped, but when Nathan flooded the area with light there was nothing there. “Come on,” he said gruffly, “this is no time for jokes. Where the hell are you?” The dragging noise resumed, right where the beam of his light was focused, not ten feet away. Bile crept into Nathan’s throat on furry little feet and he choked.
This is impossible, he thought.
Down here, the sounds of the storm were muted, the wind faint and far away. The stench, however, was nearly unbearable and Nathan put the back of his hand to his mouth.
He swept the cellar again with the big light and saw nothing out of place. But the dragging noise continued, receding now into one of the far corners, as though a bag of rotten potatoes or some other object too heavy to pick up was being pulled with deliberate care to its destination.
“Why can’t I see something?” he asked.
And then he did.
Fainting was not something that had happened often in Nathan’s life. He recalled once he did, when he was having stitches taken out of his hand after a childhood accident. Then, later, when he had sliced open a finger and seen the fresh fillet of skin carved down to the white bone, spurting blood like a water pump, he went out cold.
And so it was that on this third time in his life, he came back to consciousness, wondering for an instant where he was and what had happened. He was lying halfway down the cellar stairs, leaning against the cold cinder block wall. The baseball bat he had carried earlier was at the bottom of the staircase along with the heavy black flashlight, now illuminating nothing except the usual basement oddments, stacked here and there.
The muzzy taste was still fresh in Nathan’s mouth and he licked his lips and blinked his eyes. The darkness in the basement was complete, except for the halo of light thrown by the flashlight at the bottom of the steps. But Nathan noted one other thing immediately: the horrible, stifling dead animal stench was gone. Not just diminished, but utterly gone, as though it had never been.
A slightly damp smell was in the air, as you might expect in any basement, but that was all.
“What in the name of God just happened?” Nathan said in a hoarse whisper. And it came flooding back to him: the instant in which he had seen the eyes.
They were wide-set, and seemed to glow with a luminescence all their own, turning, turning toward him, slowly as though in a dream, and regarding him coldly. They were not at animal height, but at man height, about seven feet from the floor. But is that really what he saw or just what he thought he saw? Nathan shook his head and stood up carefully on the creaking wooden step. This was all some kind of temporary mental aberration, he thought, as he walked to the bottom of the stairs and picked up the flashlight and bat. Straightening up, he felt again the bile that teetered on the back of his tongue. But as he swept the cellar again with the light, he saw nothing and heard nothing except the muffled sounds of the storm outside. He went up the stairs slowly, forcing himself not to look back. And, upon reaching the top, where the kitchen light shone out brightly, he closed the door and put the bat and flashlight back into the tall pantry.
“This is all one big illusion, and I’m not buying it,” he said. Yet, doubt gnawed and slavered like a hungry rat around the edges of his reason.
Sarah was sleeping soundly in her house as Nathan was closing the door to his basement.
She had gone upstairs after leaving him, slipping out of her jeans, and climbing quickly into the big four-poster bed wearing only her sweater and panties, trying to escape the chill that swept in from outside. She rarely went to sleep quickly but tonight seemed to be a night for exceptions and she dropped almost immediately into a deep sleep.
She was in a library―not the kind they had in town, with rows and rows of Dewey Decimal coded books and periodicals―but an old-fashioned parlor with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and volumes bound beautifully in leather and gilt.
The smell of roses filled the air and, as she turned in a circle in the middle of the room, she saw bouquets of roses everywhere―on settees, on butler’s tables, on etage
res, and on a fine oak table, set squarely in the middle of an octagonal bay window area.
On the table was the largest bouquet by far, some three dozen fragrant long-stemmed roses in the most beautiful leaded crystal vase she had ever seen. Light from an elaborate chandelier overhead shimmered through the bevels in the elegantly cut glass and threw it in a hundred different hues around the room.
Sarah looked down and found she was dressed in an elegant black sequined evening gown, made of the finest velvet, and that she clutched a small beaded bag.
Where am I? she thought, and heard music from a Victrola playing somewhere. It sounded like an ancient phonograph record she had once heard at an antique store in South Jersey.
toot-toot-tootsie, good-bye, toot-toot-tootsie, don’t cry
The crooner crooned and Sarah continued to turn in place, in the middle of this storybook library, with a ladder close by, a ladder on wheels on a track, and she saw that the track went completely around three-fourths of the room, allowing easy access to the top-most books in the collection.
She turned another quarter-turn and saw the tidy fire set carefully in the hearth, with a leaded stained-glass firescreen placed in front of it. An iridescent blue peacock was fashioned into the middle of the panes of cobalt and hunter-green glass, giving a three-dimensional perspective to the lavish outdoor scene depicted on the screen: a hunt from the middle of the 18th century, in search, perhaps, of this very bird magnificently strutting and warming itself in front of the economical fire.
It really came as no surprise to Sarah when she realized that this was the parlor in her own house, and that she apparently was a guest―or perhaps the hostess―at a party that was about to begin.
She crossed the room to the wide oak mantel and gazed upon a row of sepia portraits. She was drawn to one photograph in particular: a classically posed image of her great grandmother, seated regally amid a forest of ferns and exotic hanging plants. This image had always been a favorite of Sarah’s and occupied a favored place on her bedroom dresser back in Philadelphia.
