Brad was taller than Stacy Lynn by only two or three inches. She'd grown considerably taller and larger than her mother—like some different species of female—but had her mother's tawny-brown hair he'd used to think was fawn-colored letting it ripple over his hand. Sobering to realize, Linda's shy little daughter was now a mature woman. She had none of her mother's delicate facial features and soft-seeming feminine manner but maybe this was a good thing.
The weight of those years was sweeping over him like a wave, a succession of waves where you couldn't get your breath, dark brackish water. Could be he was looking dazed, sick. In a throaty-flirty voice the girl was saying, cajoling—"Brad, my man—you look like you need a drink. And moi aussey."
Had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Her hand on his forearm—large stubby fingers, nails chipped frosted-green—went through him like an electric current.
Together they got beers at the bar inside—Brad had to insist, he was paying—returned to the veranda where they'd thought there was a table, but all the tables were taken—the kind of situation that made Brad self-conscious, irritable—goddamned people looking at him, guys he knew and him with the big-boned Indian-looking girl with the piercings in her face. Smiling like a man who's been kicked in the stomach and determined not to show it. On his way to Star Lake he'd been thinking that the woman who'd called him out of nowhere wanted to see him for some romantic purpose but no, turns out it's a step-daughter of his he hadn't seen in possibly fifteen years and had not given a thought to in those years. His first beer went swiftly to his head—since the diabetes, he didn't drink like he'd used to. Stacy Lynn kept pushing close to him saying, “Oh Brad—Daddy-Brad—this is amazing isn't it? Never thought I would see Daddy-Brad again, my heart was broke when you and Mom split. Hey—I got my car here—let's go for a drive out to Star Lake. Lots to catch up on. Too many people here."
Bold like some girl on TV Stacy Lynn grabbed his shoulders and aimed a kiss at his mouth—her hard-rubbery lips were wet, unexpectedly cool—her sizable arms around his neck—then she went slump-shouldered, as if weak, forehead pressed against his chest in an attitude of submission, female abnegation. Standing back from him smiling Stacy Lynn was looking better to Brad now, younger and more vulnerable.
Brad wanted to drive but Stacy Lynn insisted on driving. So adamant, Brad had to give in. Weird to be in a car—in a passenger seat—with a female driving—like he'd become some kind of disabled person and this strapping young woman with shining eyes and Indian braid halfway down her back like a horse's braided mane was in charge of him.
Star Lake was one of the larger lakes in the southern Adirondacks—twenty-seven miles north to south and six miles wide—only a small fraction of its shoreline was developed. The woods were dense pines, firs and junipers with clumps of ghost-white birches glimmering here and there like patches of cloud. When he'd been a kid and in his twenties Brad had come out here a few times a year fishing, backpacking, and, in deer season, hunting with his buddies but no longer. Couldn't even say where some of those guys were, these days. Now the landmarks returned to him like slivers of dream elusive to memory. Through high vaporous clouds a three-quarter moon shone with unnatural brightness like phosphorescence. Stacy Lynn was drinking as she drove and talking nonstop, and some of this Brad was hearing, but mostly not, his thoughts scattered and the beer-buzz in his head like a hum of bees. “Like my car? Pretty cool, eh?"—some kind of upscale Toyota, Brad doubted belonged to her. His own vehicle was a Grand Cherokee, secondhand, or maybe third-hand, he wished he had insisted upon driving.
Stacy Lynn turned off the lakeshore road and onto a gravel road—no houses or cottages out here—though Brad believed he'd been in this part of the lake, fishing—years ago—weird how bright the moon was, and the sky, and how inky-black the woods. “C'mon! Let's walk to the lake"—Stacy Lynn had a flashlight in hand, shining onto a faint path through the underbrush. Brad had finished his second can of beer—unless it was his third—and he was feeling a stir of—not sure what—some kind of arousal, yearning—not sexual exactly but the anticipation of sex—or of surprise—the kind of feeling that can turn on you, and plummet, like a kite struck down by the wind. The girl was humming loudly, whistling between her teeth—drinking from a can of beer also—wielding the flashlight in her hand like a wand. "Vite-vite—c'mon Brad mon ami"—some foreign words, or mock-foreign words, teasing as you'd tease a clumsy child, fondly—for Brad was stumbling in the underbrush, cursing as brambles tore at his clothes and nicked his fingers. At the lake shore—not a beach but rock-strewn, littered with storm debris and a faint stench of dead fish—Stacy Lynn surprised Brad by gripping the flashlight between her knees, grunting as she pulled off her satin T-shirt in a flourish, and beneath it she was wearing what looked like a sports bra in the same kind of shiny satin fabric except polka dots. Was she going to wade out into the water? How cold would the water be, in Star Lake? Her midriff spilled gently about the snug waistband of the designer jeans, soft female flesh Brad would've liked to squeeze, knead. His mouth had gone dry. Hairs stirred at the nape of his neck. The kiss aimed at his mouth was still damp and felt like a scar or a scab in his flesh. “See? Clair de lune'—light of the moon—just for us, Brad."
Her voice quavered. She'd been joking, or trying to joke—but her voice quavered and for an awkward moment Brad thought that she might start to cry.
Not that! Women's tears made him edgy, resentful. What did tears mean?
Star Lake—so named for its irregular star-shape, seen from the air—was both very dark and shimmering with broken moonlight. The air had turned chilly but there was no wind, waves were flattened, only faintly agitated in areas of the lake as if stirred from beneath by mysterious and unnameable lake-creatures. Abruptly—playfully—Stacy Lynn turned to shine the flashlight in Brad's face—just for a moment, startling and blinding him—annoying him—then turned in another direction—"Brad! This way.” Again her manner was girlish, provocative. No question of wading into the lake which was a damned good thing, Brad wasn't in a mood to follow her. Would've liked to bring this outing, or whatever it was, to an end—but had no choice except to trudge after the big-boned girl humming and whistling leading him—where?—the earth was both rocky and marshy—they were climbing an incline, away from the lake—"Wait, Stacy Lynn! Christ sake"—Brad pretended exhaustion, exasperation—in fact he was badly winded—there was a smell here of something rotted, an animal carcass—a quarter-mile from the lake still they were climbing uphill, Stacy Lynn in the lead, Brad hot-faced and panting behind—suddenly they were in what appeared to be a cemetery—a ravaged-looking old cemetery—behind an abandoned church. Once, there'd been a settlement here, oddly named—
Beersheba—this had been the Beersheba Lutheran Church—some name out of the Bible, Brad supposed. The stone markers were mostly fallen, crumbled—covered with lichen—choked with vines and weeds—their inscriptions faint, flattened, unreadable by moonlight. Brad saw that some of the markers dated to 1790—so long ago, it was hard to believe anyone had ever lived here, in such a remote corner of Beechum County. The girl was saying in a breathy voice like a girl in a TV movie, “Brad-Daddy—I mean step-Daddy—this is a secret place I used to come. When Mom stayed with some relatives at Star Lake, I'd bicycle out here. Haven't been here for—Jesus, how long?—ten years maybe. Mom isn't buried here but I came here, by myself. I have some good memories of this place."
"Mom isn't buried here'—why'd you say that? Nobody's been buried here for a hundred years."
"That's all you know, Brad my man."
This was the sort of pointless banter meant to arouse and excite or possibly tease, taunt; Brad wanted to think the girl was just in a party mood, joking, on the edge of being drunk. She was sitting—trying to sit—on one of the toppled-over grave markers—but her large haunches kept slipping off. She giggled, heaving herself into a more secure position, even as the flashlight slipped from her fingers into a patch of weeds. “Hey Brad, c'mo
n sit by me. See, it's romantic here"—as Brad stumbled toward her, not sure if he wanted to sit so close to Stacy Lynn, but aroused, excited by the prospect; somehow it happened that, as Brad approached her, the girl stooped, as if to snatch up the flashlight, but instead tugged Brad's pant leg upward—roughly, his left pant leg—so swiftly this bizarre action took place, Brad was too astonished to react, still less to shove the girl away or defend himself—even as something razor-sharp was being drawn—swiped, sawed—against the exposed skin of his left leg, above the ankle—there came a bolt of pain beyond measure—Brad screamed, lost all strength in his wounded leg and fell heavily into the rubble-strewn grass.
The girl leapt away from the stricken man. She was hooting with excitement, childish glee. What had she done?—what had she done to him? In her left hand she'd snatched up the flashlight and in her right hand she held something that gleamed in the moonlight—a knife-blade? Her eyes glowered. On her feet she was unexpectedly agile, like a young steer. “Know what, Brad?—that's your Achilles tendon that's been severed."
Helpless, Brad had fallen to the ground. Such pain, he could not bear. He was screaming, writhing and squirming like a hooked fish. Elated and exuberant the girl circled him stamping her feet and taunting. “Killed my mother you sorry prick, you goddamned wicked man—evil son of a bitch now you will pay. How d'you like it? That's your Achilles tendon’ that's been severed, asshole. You can crawl like a worm, make your way home like a worm."
"Help me"—Brad was begging. He was delirious with pain, trying to drag himself—where, he couldn't have said—dragging his leg, that throbbed with pain as blood poured from the wound—as Stacy Lynn circled him gloating and furious. “You killed my mother! You treated my mother like shit! She was so hurt by you—so miserable—depressed—she'd drive her car half-drunk like nothing mattered to her—late at night she'd drive on the Interstate—almost she took me with her that last time then changed her mind left me home watching TV—If Mommy is late coming back, call Grandma.’ You caused her death sure as if you'd shot her—stabbed her in the heart—didn't even come to her funeral! What're you going to do now, asshole? Big Daddy-Brad asshole? How's it feel, you're the one in pain? You're the one made to crawl like a worm?” Stacy Lynn paused, breathing harshly. Her young solid-packed face glowed with an oily film of sweat and her eyes, that were nothing like her mother's eyes now, shone. “Know what, asshole?—I'm going to leave you here. This is a sacred place you don't deserve to die in."
Brad was clutching at his bleeding leg as if trying to stanch the bleeding with his fingers. He was having difficulty comprehending what had happened—what had happened to him. Trying to reason with the girl—begging her not to leave him but to help him. With a part of his brain thinking, calculating—if his assailant understood how she'd hurt him already, if she understood the terrible pain he was feeling, how utterly broken he was, and no threat to her, she would have mercy on him—maybe—and not leave him. The old Lutheran cemetery was just a few miles from Star Lake but so remote a place, no one would discover him even if he shouted for help. Not for weeks, or months. The gravel road leading to the ruined church was a derelict road no longer maintained by the county.
The girl confronted him jeering—"Shit, that don't hurt like you're acting it does—you trying to manip'late me? Here, asshole. You're not gonna bleed to death."
In a gesture of disdain she tossed him something—a soiled rag. Desperately Brad pressed the rag against his bleeding leg.
The wound—a deep wound—was just above Brad's ankle, at the back of his leg. So far as he knew it was so—it was his Achilles tendon Stacy Lynn had slashed and sawed at—"severed.” With unerring precision and astonishing boldness she'd yanked up his pant leg—the leg of his khakis—swiped and sawed at his flesh with what appeared to be a hunting knife—razor-sharp, less than eight inches long—a powerful stainless-steel blade with a bluish cast—so quickly and with such skill she'd acted, the blade had pierced Brad's cotton sock and his skin—his flesh—in a matter of seconds.
Disdainful of his agony Stacy Lynn jeered: “Make yourself a tourn'quit, asshole! Ain't you some hot-shit Navy officer? Must be, you know how to take care of yourself. You're not gonna bleed to death if you make some goddamn effort."
Brad was pressing the rag against his wounded leg. Brad was pleading: “I didn't kill your mother, Stacy—I loved your mother. Please believe me, I loved your mother . . . “
"Like hell you loved my mother! That's a joke! Son of a bitch you never loved anyone."
Brad protested he did—he had—"I married your mother because I wanted to be her husband and I wanted to be a—father—to you. That was my hope, to be a good husband and a father . . . “
"This is such bullshit! You treated Mom like shit and you caused her to die—you wanted her to die, to get rid of her. So you wouldn't have to pay alimony, or give a shit about her. That was how it was."
"No—it wasn't that way."
"It wasn't? It wasn't that way? What other damn way was it, then?"
"I loved your mother—I loved you—"
Furious—laughing—the girl kicked at him. Brad shielded his face with his arms.
"Any damn desperate thing you'd say now, to save your miserable life. Not even you're lying, man, you don't know what the fucking truth is."
"Stacy—no. I loved your mother. I loved you . . . “
"Hell you did. Why'd you never even see me, then? Never once."
"Your grandparents wouldn't allow it . . . “
"This is such bullshit!"
More than the pain, and the bleeding, Brad was terrified that the girl would leave him here. He was shivering convulsively with cold, in terror of dying. The earth was icy-cold, he would expire of hypothermia. This prematurely balmy April day had turned cold when the sun set. In the southern Adirondacks, so near to Star Lake, the earth had rapidly darkened and the earth had rapidly cooled. Cold rose from the earth like departing spirits. The old cemetery was a place of broken stones, you'd think were the parts of human skeletons. Slabs of cracked granite, broken crockery like skulls, thick-snarled vines like pythons. The Beersheba Lutheran Church had been boarded up for at least ten years. The shingled roof had rotted through, the paint on the clapboards had mostly peeled off. At the front, saplings and wild rose grew in profusion, obscuring what remained of the church. From the road—should someone in a vehicle drive along the road—you could not see into the cemetery even by day. Frantically Brad was dragging himself toward the taunting girl—who kept a cautious distance between them—she'd drained her final can of beer and tossed it at him. She was laughing loudly, wiping at her mouth. She was drunk, or high on a drug, or intoxicated with her own adrenaline. Where tears had glistened on her fattish cheeks now beer glistened. In a voice of supreme disgust she said: “Also you did things to me, asshole. Like I had to beg for Cheez-Its, pizza—if Mommy was sleeping and I was hungry you'd make me beg—that turned you on, didn't it?—don't even remember, do you? Got drunk and had me unzip your disgusting trousers. Had me scratch’ you—ugh!"
Brad protested—he had not. He had not done such a thing.
Despite the pain in his leg and his terror of death he was genuinely shocked. He'd never done anything like that to Stacy Lynn—never...
"You did! You did! Not once but many times! I was just a little girl—nine, or eight—when it started. And Mommy knew—I know she did. I hated her—she pretended she didn't know but she did."
"Stacy, that isn't true. I swear—before God I swear—"
"With God as my witness'—that's how you have to swear."
"With God as my witness'—I did not harm you, and I did not harm your mother. If she claimed this—"
"She did not claim anything! She was a mentally ill woman, you pushed over the edge. She was not a woman who wanted to die but when you were done with her, that is what she was, and that is what she did. And you walked away—you left us."
"Linda wasn't—mentally ill. She was sensitive, s
he was under stress—"
But it seemed to Brad that this was exactly true. His young wife had been mentally ill. No one in the Gutshalk family had acknowledged this, even hinted this. And Brad hadn't realized. Too young, naive and stupid. Because Linda had been such a beautiful woman, he hadn't seemed to understand that she could be sick.
"Say you're sorry! Confess, murderer."
"But I—I didn't hurt her—"
"Say you're sorry, asshole—or I will cut your throat like the pig you are."
Knife in hand the girl lunged at Brad, feinted at him with whoops of glee and derision. Her manner was drunken, both playful and deadly serious. Her eyes shone with tears of indignation, cruelty. The sharp knife-tip caught him in the shoulder. He cried out like a rabbit stricken by an owl. Laughing she said: “Big baby! Asshole big baby! Crawl on your belly, you are wicked as Satan. Crawl—this way."
Blindly Brad obeyed. At a distance of several feet Stacy Lynn whooped at him, kicked and feinted with the knife to drive him forward as you might drive a confused animal. Here the smell of organic rot, mold, and stone was overpowering. Surely it had to be, these were human bones, and broken fragments of bones, over which he was being made to crawl in abnegation like one before an idol-God. At the edge of the cemetery there was a sudden drop-off—a ravine—Stacy Lynn stood behind Brad and with her foot kicked, shoved, pushed him—forcing him over the edge—he fell, whimpering—the ravine was no more than twelve feet deep—a place of rocks, sharp stones, rubble, and underbrush through which a shallow stream ran, icy water in glittering rivulets. In the clumsy fall Brad struck his head against a rock. Stunned he lay at the bottom of the ravine, his lips had gone numb with cold and he could hardly move, like the stump of a person, as the triumphant girl crouched above him. “You will be scourged of God—that's why you have been called to this place where there is nowhere to hide."
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 26
