by Hixon, Wayne
As he thought just about every day, Jacob wondered why he was still here. Did he really have some kind of sick love for the town itself? There were parts of it he enjoyed, sure, and the people were always friendly, but he knew that was not the reason he and Rachel had decided to stay. Something lingered in the back of his head. It was a tickle of something he got from time to time. Especially since what he had come to think of as “The Incident.” That something, that tickle, was a sense of unfinished business. He didn’t feel like they could leave Lynchville until their time had come. Part of him wanted this to happen, whatever it was going to be, just to get it over with. Another part of him wanted it to wait for years so he and Rachel could grow old in the town they had grown up in. There was a wonderfully silly and romantic sheen to this notion that he relished.
Just a block away from his apartment now, he stopped at the crosswalk and packed the cigarettes he had bought at the gas station against the heel of his hand, peeling the cellophane off, opening the box and yanking out the foil, stuffing the trash in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs.
Someone was on the sidewalk in front of his apartment and, at first, he thought it might be Rachel, even though he knew she wasn’t coming over tonight. They had decided, since she was moving in with him, she should spend as much time with her parents as possible. Of course, this was also supposed to give them a little time apart to decide if they each really wanted to be with the other person. Besides, it would seem more special when she moved in if she wasn’t already living there. Until this past week, they had spent nearly every waking moment together.
He continued walking down the sidewalk. He walked slowly, savoring his cigarette and the last shreds of warmth.
After a few more steps, he saw the person in front of his apartment was obviously not Rachel and, after realizing who it was, he felt ashamed about ever even thinking it was.
It was his landlady, Mrs. Benson. She had suffered a stroke a little over a year ago and had been completely insane ever since. Her husband had been dead for years and she lived in one of the ground floor apartments with her son, Jeremy, who now performed most of the landlord-type functions.
She stood on the sidewalk and turned slowly in circles, her arms raised toward the sky.
Jacob had become accustomed to her craziness. He knew she was completely harmless. He just hoped she didn’t wander out into the road and get hit by a car.
He drew closer to her, moving toward the brick of the apartments so he didn’t get clobbered by one of her waving arms. Her head was thrown back, matted white hair hanging in a clump, and her eyes were closed. She hummed something under her breath. Jacob thought it was some kind of hymn he remembered from his parents’ born again phase but he couldn’t quite put a name to it.
He stood in front of the door and called to the woman, trying to bring her back from whatever Eden she danced in.
“Mrs. Benson?”
She didn’t acknowledge him.
“Mrs. Benson? You okay?”
Still, no recognition.
He decided to abandon his Good Samaritan mission and go up to his apartment. Just as he turned his back on her, her hand clamped down on his shoulder and she whispered into his ear.
“She’s lost in a storm. Lost in a storm. Ain’t gonna be no findin her once the storm takes her.”
Mrs. Benson removed her hand from his shoulder and Jacob turned to ask her who was lost in a storm but she had already returned to her muttering reverie.
He opened the door and entered the dim foyer of the apartment. Mrs. Benson’s door was to his right, at the bottom of the stairs. He knocked on the door, hoping Jeremy was home. The door opened after a few moments of listening to the hushed TV through it. Jeremy stood in the doorway, the smell of pot drifting out with the boy, around his collective girth. He stepped all the way out into the vestibule, as though he were hiding something, pulling the door to a narrow crack behind him, and looked at Jacob with his bloodshot eyes. Jacob saw disinterest and a few brief scenes of his mother caring for Jeremy when he was little. He felt pain and loss and quickly looked away.
“Your mom’s outside on the sidewalk. I think she’s dancing or something. You might want to go get her before she gets hurt on the street.”
The boy stared vacantly at Jacob for a second with his heavy- lidded eyes, slowly processing what he had just heard. Then he said, “Uh, yeah, thanks... I’ll go get her.”
“Need any help?” Jacob volunteered.
“No. She’s been doing this a lot lately. I have to jerry rig the door so she can’t get out. I must have forgot.”
“Good luck,” Jacob said, flashing a smile and heading up the old wooden steps to his apartment.
He had lived in this apartment nearly two years. He liked it. It was small and old but he didn’t need a lot of space and he found most of his likings leaned toward things that were older rather than newer. The apartment was furnished modestly with things pilfered from a thrift store in town that purported to be an antiques shop. Luckily for him, the prices were more thrift store than antique shop. The door opened into the living room. The wall to his left was outfitted with old floor to ceiling windows. Outside the windows was an old wrought iron balcony. He liked to go out to the balcony and sit, watching the town go about its business. The balcony reminded him of pictures of New Orleans. A corn plant sat off in one corner of the balcony. He kept telling himself he was going to bring it in but it was just one of those things that didn’t take priority.
A ratty couch sat in the middle of the living room. He couldn’t see the point in owning both a couch and a bed so he made sure they were combined. The only times he ever pulled it out into a bed were the nights Rachel stayed over. Her parents frowned upon that sort of thing so those nights were few and far between. Against the wall opposite the door an old 19-inch television rested on a garishly yellow-painted metal TV stand. The stereo was below this, a record player resting on top of it, speakers sitting on the floor to either side. He listened to music more than he watched TV.
The wood floor was the color of coffee with a lot of creamer in it and he thought the lightness of it brightened the whole room. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a bar. The kitchen was very small and narrow. The only thing it really housed was a refrigerator. He had never seen the point in having a kitchen table when he ate everything in the living room. There was also a small bedroom to the right of the kitchen. He stored his books and music in there. Ever since leaving the farm where his parents had lived, moving out on his own, he bought many books and obsessively read them. Most of them came from the Den of Iniquity downtown, owned by the curious Mr. Stoop.
Jacob stood in the middle of his apartment, feeling somewhat helpless. He had grown so accustomed to Rachel’s presence he felt lost when she was not there, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Actually, there were many times he was not around her. She had a job and took college classes online. He guessed it was more the idea that she was not coming over tonight that bothered him. The fact that he had a, to him, copious amount of alone time to fill.
As had become his custom, he thought he would fill this alone time with music and beer. Anything to stave off the panic attack that was nearly inevitable. The panic attack that would leave him lying on the couch in a cold sweat, thinking all the worst thoughts that could possibly run through his head and knowing, just knowing, bad things were going to happen.
He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a Guinness. He took the magnetic bottle opener from the refrigerator and pulled the cap off. He reached into the sink and found a glass. Sniffing it, he deemed it useable. He poured the beer into the glass and instinctively reached for the cordless phone resting on the counter.
He wanted to call her. But he knew he shouldn’t. The whole reason for her not coming over was so she could spend time with her parents and they could spend time apart. If he called her then she might as well
just come over.
Instead, he dialed the only other number he knew by heart—his psychiatrist, Dr. Samuel Bettermore.
Usually, when he called after hours, he got some sort of voice mail prompt telling him to leave a message and the good doctor would get back to him as soon as possible. To his surprise, Dr. Bettermore, who insisted Jacob call him Sam, picked up.
“Dr. Bettermore.”
“Sam. This is Jacob Riley.”
“Of course it is. How are you doing, Jacob?”
“Oh, you know, okay...”
“Really? Is that why you’re calling after hours?”
Jacob had the impression Dr. Bettermore had been on his way out of the office. He could practically see him standing by his desk, pushing papers into his briefcase.
“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
“Is it an emergency?”
“I don’t know. I just feel... I don’t know what I feel.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Jacob. You have to work through those feelings.”
“But I don’t know if I can.”
“What do you mean?”
Jacob moved over to the couch, taking a sip of his beer and pulling another cigarette from the pack.
“I just have so many feelings, Sam. I don’t know if I can sort through them.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Of course.” This was a lie. The doctor had prescribed a very powerful anti-depressant but he refused to take them because it got in the way of the drinking.
“You’re sure you’re taking your medication? It helps you think a little more clearly. You can sort things out.”
“I’m glad you’re talking to me, Sam.”
“You sound lonely, Jacob. Are you lonely?”
“I’ve been lonely all my life.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get back to your feelings. You said you were having too many feelings... Let’s start at the top. Have you found a job?”
“No. That’s not a feeling-type question.”
“I know Jacob but, in a way, it is. If you get a job, you can be around other adults. You can interact with other adults. That way I think you would realize you’re a little more like everyone else than you know.”
“I’m not like everyone else though. You know that.”
“Of course, Jacob. Nobody is just like everyone else. What about Rachel? Is she why you’re feeling bad?”
“A little bit. She’s not here. I don’t know if she’s going to come back... you know, to live? And that worries me.”
“Okay. And what else?”
“I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Everything.”
“That’s irrational.”
“I know that’s irrational. That’s why I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Jacob.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I mean that. You have no more to fear than any other person.”
“That’s still a lot.”
“That’s part of being human.”
He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray beside the couch.
“So what are you going to do this evening, Jacob?”
“I don’t know. Probably watch some TV.”
“Have you heard from James?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. I think it would help if you try your hardest to reestablish that family connection.”
“Maybe. I think James is finished with Lynchville.”
“You should at least give it a try. Jacob, try not to worry so much, okay? The world is a beautiful place. It is not all gloom and doom. Have some fun. Stop brooding all the time. That is what keeps people away from you.”
“Okay. Sure. Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
“And, just to let you know, I’m going to be out of the office tomorrow. I’m trying to get away for a little three-day weekend. But, if you need anything... anything at all, leave a message and I’ll get back with you. I do check them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Take care, Jacob.”
“You too, Doc.”
Jacob clicked the OFF button on the phone and sat it on the floor.
After hanging up the phone, Jacob got up from the couch, went into the kitchen, and poured himself another beer. He put a Ramones album on the stereo and went about vigorously cleaning the apartment, trying to burn off some of his nervous energy and focus on something that wasn’t Rachel. When did he get so possessive? He didn’t really know but figured he had never cared about anyone in quite the same way he cared about Rachel. She was the only person in his relatively short life that had been able to offer herself completely to him. He had greedily consumed each and every offering.
In the process of cleaning, he polished off three more beers. He finally ventured out to the balcony and brought in the corn plant, centering it in the row of windows he had left open, letting the autumn breeze blow in, cleansing the apartment of the old wood smell that seemed to rise from the floor during the summer. When the music finally stopped, he was oblivious to it. He was in the bedroom alphabetizing the books he had read that week (there were twelve of them) and the CDs and albums he had listened to (there were nearly fifty of these).
The beer, as usual, had made him more sleepy than drunk and, even though it was only around eight o’clock, he decided to lie down, not really knowing if he would sleep the entire evening or not. It seemed like he spent a lot more time trying to sleep than he actually spent sleeping. He could lie on the couch for hours before falling asleep for a half an hour or an hour only to wake up and lie there for three more hours, trying desperately to go back to sleep.
Though physically debilitating at times, this process seemed to keep the nightmares away.
He dreamed about things happening to Rachel.
He dreamed about things happening to James, out there on the road somewhere, searching for some secret and terrifying underworld.
He dreamed about things happening to himself and wondered why the dreams ending in his own death were somehow more comforting than those ending in the deaths of his loved ones.
He flopped down on the couch and, pointing the remote control at the stereo, cued up Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew. This was one of his favorite albums to fall asleep to. It was long and some of those sleepy trumpet notes just seemed to hang on for an eternity, coaxing him into a cool and comforting place. There were not any words to distract him, no words to feed him grains of thought destined to turn into something sinister.
With the chilly breeze blowing in through the window, he fell asleep as Miles ran the voodoo down.
Jacob woke up screaming.
Jacob woke up in hell.
At least, it felt like hell.
Cacophonous noise surrounded him. The room seemed entirely too bright. He was too hot. He could feel the sweat on his skin, disorienting him—he shouldn’t be sweating. Unable to open his eyes against the bright light, he slid from the couch, trying to organize what was happening in his head.
The first thing was that he felt incredibly nauseous.
Already on the floor, he doubled over, hunching his back as he heaved up the contents of his faraway dinner and four Guinnesses. He vomited until he couldn’t vomit any more and this seemed to bring a little bit of clarity to his situation.
A storm raged outside, rare for this time of year, even though it had been unseasonably warm. But the violent flashes of lightning couldn’t account for all the blinding light in the room. He looked over toward the wall of windows. The corn plant had blown over. The open windows swung lightly in their wooden frames, rain and cold air spewing into the room. He knew he should close the windows but he didn’t have any interest to crawl over there and do that just yet.
Thunder rumbled and smacked its charged lips up in the heavens. But that wasn’t the only sound. The
re was a much more constant sound rumbling the floorboards beneath his knees.
He turned away from the windows so he faced the television.
Yes. This was where the rumbling sound came from. It seemed impossible for a sound that loud and that resonant to come from this ancient TV with its tiny speaker.
Blinding light emanated from the TV and he knew this was not right at all.
The television had been off when he fell asleep. There wasn’t a remote control that went to it so he knew he couldn’t have rolled over on it during his slumber. But it didn’t make any sense for the TV to just come on all on its own unless... unless it was all happening again.
That was the only explanation for all of this, wasn’t it?
His walking nightmares. His hallucinations, as Doc Sam called them. Those violent things that threatened to rip his brain apart. Those things that had never happened before the Incident.
That’s what was happening now.
He had to tell himself that.
None of this was real.
He scooted closer to the television, dragging his jeans through his puke, wanting only to get close enough to reach out a hand and turn it off. To turn off the nightmare. Turn off the hallucination. The television’s screen was filled with a glowing orange image like someone had taken a camera into hell. He reached his hand toward the TV, ready to press the button, when he saw a shape emerge from this blinding orange image.
He retracted his hand, kneeling in front of the TV like it was some kind of altar.
The screen became much less bright and much clearer, although the image remained grainy.
