My touch is intimate, too familiar, almost like that of a lover. And why not? There’s nothing left to fear. There’s nothing more she can do to me. Death would be a most welcomed release, but yet, it will never come—not from her, at least.
I would reach past her knee, over her thigh, and across her business if I could. I’d reach clear up and wring her broken neck, but her calves are as far as I ever get.
The only comfort I get from touching her is knowing that she’s with me instead of terrorizing someone else.
The burning in my chest comes to a boil, and I hack up a glob of blood. It splatters on her precious little bridge and I make no motion to clean it up.
I swear I can feel her smiling.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, but my voice lacks conviction. I dig my nails across her flesh, feeling her skin peeling across my knuckles. I put everything I have into it.
Her legs tremor and shake violently, but I know it’s not from pain.
It’s from laughter.
5
Copper
Our cabin rests between the slumping shoulders of two mountains. The five room structure is little more than a shack, disintegrating with respectable charm. It’s a cozy place, warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It’s a small space, but plenty enough for two people. When I was a kid, and the cabin was assaulted by a harsh summer rain, it was my duty to keep the pots empty. Holes in the plaster ceiling were like constellations in a night sky, and it was my job to gather the tears of a weeping Big Dipper.
It was a big change for me. I was used to a pair of doting parents and a playroom with central air. I had a fenced in yard and a golden retriever. I rode my bike to the park and played for hours. Then one day, it all changed. My parents died in a car accident while I was at a friend’s house. I was ten years old. Silas Ramsey was my uncle, my next of kin, so he was the one I was sent to live with. My doting parents were exchanged for a bedraggled old uncle. My playroom shifted into a bedroom not much bigger than a closet. My fenced in yard became the backwoods boonies, the ground too steep and uneven to ride a bike on. I at least got to keep the golden retriever. That patient soul wrapped in fur became my lifeline. As far as I was concerned, he was the only one that understood, because he experienced my transitions with me. He always knew when to put his head in my lap, his brown eyes saying what his mouth could not: I know, Copper, I know. I miss them, too.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the patched ceiling when I hear my uncle call from the kitchen.
“Copper! Are you up?”
“Yeah, I’m up.” I fall to the floor, my ankles caught up in the bed sheet. I stumble around the corner, my hair all akimbo.
Silas holds a bowl in the crook of his elbow, beating eggs with a fork.
“I can do that for you,” I offer, gesturing towards the bowl.
“Nope, I got it.”
For as long as I can remember, my uncle has never been able to use his left hand. He compensates his arm and elbow for things that you would normally use two hands for, and if he can’t make it work, he just goes without. Like shoelaces, for example, who really needs those?
Shortly before my parents’ death, Silas suffered a stroke. I remember him on the front porch in his rocking chair, stretching and massaging his fingers. He regained control of most of his motor skills, but his hand would never cooperate. Eventually, he gave up. If the hand is never going to function properly, why put so much effort into it? The muscles have deteriorated, causing the left hand to be a size smaller than the right one. The fingers have curled and closed in on themselves, permanently resembling a half-hearted claw.
Silas may have The Cough and a non-functioning hand, but he has a great deal of pluck about him, otherwise. His skin is rough and his hair is wooly, but there’s a mountain of pride in his spine.
Silas places a filter into the coffee maker and scoops an outrageous amount of coffee into it. “Want some?” he asks.
I make a face. “You know I don’t like mud.”
It’s entertaining to watch the old man around the kitchen; he’s just as efficient as a person with two hands, if not more, simply because he has the ingenuity. If arthritis plagues his remaining hand and he can’t get a soda bottle open, he simply places the bottle between his knees and uses a pair of channel locks. There’s really nothing he can’t do, because he refuses to be outdone.
“When are you going to cut your hair off, Uncle?” I ask, stealing a strip of bacon. “You look like a yeti.”
He rolls his eyes and ignores the question.
My uncle has a snowy white mane with a beard and whiskers to match. The wavy locks end just short of his belly button, blending with his whiskers in such a way that you can’t tell if it’s attached to his chin or his head.
After breakfast, I hurry to take a shower. I always go first because I’m in and out in ten minutes. Silas takes considerably longer since he’s eighty percent hair.
I don’t know what it is about his hair, but he refuses to cut it, other than the occasional trim from Wendy at the Salon. Uncle sits on a stool in front of me, the wood creaking beneath his weight. I grin as I run my fingers through his hair, pulling it into a braid. He spruces himself up on Sundays. He uses church as an excuse for shining the pennies in his loafers, but I know the real reason.
Silas’s genuine church is a babbling brook, hymns the songs of a robin, the voice of God is in the silence of nature, where prayers spill from the heart. He never attended church before I came along, leaving his mountain only when he needed things that he couldn’t supply for himself. I suppose he started going for my sake, trying to embrace the lifestyle that I was accustomed to. He was in over his head, no doubt about it, but no one else could have done any better. Sure, he goes to church to worship God, but being able to see Miss Jenkins is an added bonus.
When we arrive at Vein River Church of Christ I elbow my uncle. “I see your girlfriend at the far end of the parking lot, you can’t miss her.”
“Oh, hush,” he whispers.
Widow Jenkins started attending church last spring. According to gossip, after her husband died, there were no available bachelors to her liking at her original church, so she started going to this one. She was of the mentality that you don’t find good men in bad places, so instead of going to a bar, she went to church. Assumptions pass from the lips of one old bitty to another, but nothing is more talked about than Widow Jenkins’ hats. Last Christmas, she wore a hat with so much garland wrapped around it that people joked of using her as the Christmas tree. Today, there’s a bow around her head the same size and color as the Easter Bunny’s bowtie. Autumn is quickly approaching and she’s wearing disturbingly bright Easter colors. Brown is probably not in her repertoire. Today, her lipstick is fire engine red, applied as expertly as a kindergartener. She did it purposefully, in the attempts of making her lips look fuller. I believe that she was striving for Angelina Jolie, but channeled Tammy Faye Baker instead.
I’ve noted the rise of attendance since Widow Jenkins’ arrival. I believe they show up just to see what she’s wearing, since she never wears the same hat twice. I figure small town folks have to create ways to amuse themselves.
“Hello there, Silas Ramsey!” she bellows, waving a kerchief in the air like a surrender flag. She really doesn’t have to make such a scene, it’s not like anyone can miss her.
“Hello, Miss Jenkins,” Silas says politely.
She hurries to his side and loops her arm through his. “Mind if I sit with you two handsome boys?” she squeezes Silas while smiling at me.
I think my uncle is blushing beneath his mountain of whiskers. He starts to say something but is cut off by a racking cough. He doubles over, struggling for breath.
“Goodness, Silas! Are you alright?” Widow Jenkins has not let go of his arm.
He recovers, but just slightly. He stands up and there is blood in his beard, trickling from his open mouth. The contrast is unsettling. Cherries in the snow.
Widow Jenkins
discreetly dabs the blood with her kerchief, the worry evident in her eyes. She might be loud, but at least she’s sincere. “Do I need to take you home, Silas?”
He’s breathing better now, but his face is pale. I glance at the familiar faces surrounding us. Most of them are concerned, but some wear a knowing grimace: you made Angelina mad at some point, didn’t you?
He makes eye contact with Charles Oates, an old drinking buddy that just so happens to be his first cousin. Charles smiles sympathetically with his overly wrinkled mouth because he knows what’s going on. He has the same bloody problem.
“I think I need to lie down.” Silas hands me the keys.
Widow Jenkins rubs his shoulder. “I can take you if you need me to. I can make a hot toddy that might help.”
He pats her hand. “Thank you, Miss Jenkins, but I just need to rest, I think.”
It only takes a single coughing spell and my uncle is completely drained. I know he hates to miss out on any sort of nurturing that Miss Jenkins wants to give, but I also know that he’s embarrassed to share his humble abode with a woman who seems so put together.
I lead him back to the car and we go home.
6
Charles Oates
It’s a rattle in the lungs that never leaves, a wetness in the chest that is both heavy and hot. They say you have to pick up your life and keep going, that you learn to adapt. You get used to it when you have no choice. Every breath is a haggard reminder of a stupid mistake. The ones that die quickly are the lucky ones, they’re not doomed to suffer for decades.
I make a turn around the old oak that threatens to take over the driveway. It’ll be a shame to remove such a beautiful beast, but if it falls in the winter, not a soul could pass through. I’m sure Copper will get around to it, although he’s in for quite the job. Hopefully his friends will help him out.
The shack is something that fell out of a Norman Rockwell calendar. It’s small, but in a homey way. The porch is as worn and muddy as an old brown dog, but is just as friendly and inviting.
I see my friend in his rocking chair, a pipe perched between his lips. If someone were to paint this humble abode, it wouldn’t be complete without Silas. He is a mountain man in his mountain home, and he couldn’t be a more fitting fixture.
I park the Ford and swing my legs from the truck, my joints burning with complaint. Silas raises an arthritic hand, the only hand left that will answer his brain. It’s a gesture that is both half-hearted and pure. My arrival is unremarkable because I’m a frequent guest. No invitation is needed, because I’m always welcome. I am family, after all.
“Up for a visit, cousin?” I ask, standing at the bottom of the steps. “You had a doozy at the church. I figured I’d check up on you.”
“Pull up a seat.”
I help myself to Emmy’s rocking chair, although it feels sacrilegious to sit in it. She was the heart of the house, as a woman should be, and put a light in my cousin that I never saw before or since. She’s been gone eight years, and it shows in the chair, the green paint chipping from the armrests. I take as little space in the chair as possible and look out across the field.“How are you feeling?”
“It’s getting worse, Charles.”
I say nothing, but nod in understanding.
We sit in silence a few moments.
I nod at the scrap of cloth in his lap. “Switched to blue handkerchiefs, I see.”
“Hides the blood better.”
I snort. “The things we go through for the comfort of other people.”
“It’s for Copper’s benefit. He doesn’t need to worry any more than he already does. I know he’s aware that I cough up blood, but he doesn’t need to know the extent. This used to be something I could deal with. I could work around it, I could manage. But lately it’s getting stronger. It’s no longer confined to my chest. It’s working its way up my throat, spreading down across my arms. I’d give in, if not for the boy. It’s unfair to be made an orphan twice in one childhood.”
I chew on my lower lip. “Were you aware that there’s a new family in town?”
“No. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Copper didn’t tell you? Matilda Forrester, a writer of some sort, just moved into Ruby McAllister’s old place with her teenage daughter. They’re relatives of Ruby’s. You know the place, right above Angelina’s Bridge?”
“Been here all my life, Charles, I’m aware of what is around Angelina’s Bridge. What are you getting at?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a shift at the bridge. I think it’s because of the girl. Something feels…unsettled. Angelina is becoming more agitated, more hostile. She’s been more active in the past few days than she’s been in the past few decades. Something is stirring her up.”
“So, you’re blaming our decline in health on a girl that wasn’t even born here?”
“I’m not blaming her exactly, but I do find it odd that we now have an exacerbated sort of misery.”
“You’re off your rocker, Charles. Our misery is our own. We agitated Angelina back in the sixties when that child was but a twinkle in the universe.”
“You’re probably right,” I say begrudgingly, although I in no way agree.
I mindlessly pick at the chipping paint with my fingernail, but then I remember that Emmy painted it herself, so I stop.
I thread my fingers together. “What do you think she wants?”
“If I knew, I’d have given it to her years ago. She’s just evil, Charles. She doesn’t need a reason.”
7
Annie
The outhouse hasn’t been used in decades. I can’t say I know this for a fact, but judging by the overall rot of the wood and the dried-up feel of the hole beneath, it’s a safe assumption. At some point, someone installed an actual porcelain toilet seat and discarded the hard, wooden original. A few chunks of the old seat lie scattered across the floor. I’m sneaking a smoke while Mom works on lunch. I’m savoring my last cigarette, trying to make it last as long as I can. I need to get ahold of Moof; surely he can hook me up. I’m sitting there pondering on how odd it feels to sit on a toilet with my pants on when I notice a pair of green eyes staring at me.
“Oh, crap!” I gasp, jumping back a little.
The wood beneath my bum strains and cracks and a few rotten woodchips fall from the ceiling. I force myself to sit still. The outhouse won’t give many more warnings before she lets me see what’s at the bottom of the pit.
A fuzzy gray kitten plunks down on his haunches and looks at me questioningly.
“Well, hello there, kitty. Where’d you come from?”
He meows as if to say, “I’ve been here all along, where did you come from?”
“Did the rescue people leave you behind?”
He purrs.
All that’s left of my cigarette is a burning filter, so I toss it into the hole. I’m none too happy to tell it goodbye. Focusing on the positives, I turn my attention to the kitten.
“I bet you’re hungry.”
I scoop him up without the slightest resistance on his part. He rubs his face against my chin.
“You’re a darling little thing, aren’t you?”
I bounce through the kitchen door, beaming with my bundle of joy.
“Oh no, don’t even,” Mom says, shaking her head. “We’re not keeping it.”
“Oh, c’mon Mom, please? I need him. I don’t have any friends.” That you know of.
“You’ll have plenty of friends once you start school.”
“Oh yeah, as if I was so popular at my last school.” I roll my eyes.
She gives me a look.
“Listen, he can sleep on my bed, keep me company as I do my homework…and get rid of that squeaking noise in my bedroom.” I totally don’t see him fixing that problem, but you don’t know that.
The chance of him being a mouser gets my mother’s attention. I can tell, because she stopped stirring the tomato sauce on the stove. One way for an an
imal to win over my mother is the possibility of its usefulness.
“Fine, but he better pull his weight around here, and keep the vermin under control. You’re cleaning his litterbox, and if he gets sick, you’re working off the vet bills.”
“Done!” I throw my arms around her. “You’re the best mom ever!”
She snorts. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
I’ve never had a pet of my own before, so I’m excited! We had a “family” dog; but the froufrou, mean little Shihtzu only liked my father. When they divorced, it was so long Sasha, nice knowing you.
Once the kitty’s belly is full of tuna and he’s snoozing on my bed, I climb into Mom’s old truck to go on a mission for kitten supplies. The air conditioner’s broken, there’s holes in the upholstery, and there’s something sticky in the floorboard that refuses to come up. She’s a rusty little lady, but she gets you where you need to go. I’ve lovingly dubbed her “Sticky Bun” because of the pale brown upholstery and the goo in the floor. Mom decided that now was the time for me to have my own wheels, so she let me have Sticky Bun and she bought herself a cheap Mazda.
I drive Sticky Bun along the narrow driveway that weaves its way down Cricket Mountain. I pull to a stop when I reach the covered bridge. Light spills through the spaces between the rafters, spattering the floorboards with misshapen squares. Even though these sporadic puddles of sunshine fill me with just an ounce of courage, I can’t help but feel trepidation. So many people seem to be afraid of this bridge, and let’s not forget that I sort of made a promise to a boy I barely even know to never come here at night. I’m already being haunted by something, so there’s no use in stirring the pot.
Onto the bridge I go. I keep one eye on the rafters, the other eye on the road, half expecting some fang-toothed phantom to grab me. There’s a clump of something at the center of the bridge, off to the side of the road.
Vein River Page 4
