Shadows Over Main Street, Volume 2

by Gary A Braunbeck

  Tommy felt his lip trembling and tried to keep from crying in front of the man. He recovered and finished: “And I’m afraid to ask my folks about it in case they’re in on a wicked secret. It’s making me sick, sir. It truly is.”

  Braddock crushed his cigarette in the glass ashtray on the arm of his chair and drew another from the pack of Pall Malls poking out of his shirt pocket. His eyes returned to the horizon as he squinted and lit the cigarette and Tommy finally recognized the focus of the man’s gaze: the town water tower silhouetted against the lowering moon.

  “Something in the water,” Braddock murmured. “Something…”

  “It groans,” Tommy said.

  “Huh?”

  “The water tower. Sometimes it’s quiet and sometimes it groans. I heard it groaning some days ago. I think it’s to do with the festival.”

  Mr. Braddock considered this for a long moment and then asked, “How does it groan, Tommy? Like metal stretching or like an animal?”

  “Uh… to me it sounds like a voice, like a whale song I heard on a phonograph mixed with something deeper like a mad elephant might make. But it’s kinda sad, too.”

  Mr. Braddock’s face glowed red in the light of the cigarette cherry, and the deep shadows of his brow made his face look fierce. “That .22 shotgun your Pa keeps on pegs over the hearth… do you know where to find shells for it?”

  Tommy felt like he’d swallowed an ice cube, but he nodded. “There’s a box in the bottom drawer of his toolbox.”

  Mr. Braddock leaned forward and stamped out his smoke. His breath smelled like gin, tobacco and something sour when he spoke. Tommy thought it might be the gut-eating smell of fear itself. “If you want to help me put an end to this wickedness, son, you go and fetch them.”

  —

  The moon dissolved in a sea of haze over Ward Hill, a picture of perfect stillness in the deep night but for the shapes of man and boy ascending the dome to the water tower at the summit. The boy carried a rifle, the man a gas can. As the pair approached the tower, their pace flagged under the weight of the unearthly din emanating from the tank. The town seemed as distant to them as the moon in that moment, just a scattering of yellow pools of light in the gloom below. A dog barked from a far off yard, its warnings almost drowned by the knee-buckling groans issuing from the rust-stained tank.

  Tommy stopped walking, planted the stock of his father’s shotgun in the dirt at his feet, and holding it by the barrel, gazed up at the hemisphere of rivet-studded metal.

  “It’s bigger than it looks from down there, but it doesn’t look big enough to hold water for the whole town,” he said.

  “It doesn’t,” Mr. Braddock replied. “If Dunbury’s like most towns, you have a reservoir and a filtering station. Most of the water in your pipes comes from the reservoir pump houses, but some of it gets pumped up into this tank every day. When there’s a peak in use—like every morning when most folks are running showers and making breakfast—the tower provides the extra water to fill the demand. It’s also there in case an emergency knocks out power for the pumps. That’s why it’s high up on stilts. The hill helps, too. It adds pressure so gravity can carry the water through the system.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I’m an architect. I had to learn about utilities in college.”

  “Oh. Are you going to build your own house, now that you’re married?”

  Tommy could see Mr. Braddock’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I don’t know if that’s in the cards anymore, Tommy.”

  “So… did you decide which you want to do?”

  “I need to see what’s in there, first. You don’t have to climb up with me. But I need to see the thing that poisoned my bride. I know it’s not just some sort of bacteria. Whatever’s in there, it might be spawning microorganisms, but it’s not small. Nothing small makes a racket like that.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Well I’m going to put an end to it.” Braddock wrapped a rag from his pocket around a stick he’d picked up at the base of the hill and tied it tight, then unscrewed the cap on the gas can and sloshed some fuel onto the cotton. The sharp odor of the fumes flooded Tommy’s sinuses and he swooned.

  “A torch? What about the flashlight?”

  “Beasts don’t like fire. It’ll give me a gander at the inside of the tank and keep whatever’s in there at bay. Then I can decide if I want to shoot it, drain the tank, or incinerate it.”

  Braddock slid the barrel of the rifle through his belt like a sword and climbed with the unlit torch in his mouth. Tommy thought he looked like a pirate boarding a ship. When he reached the steel grate platform that ringed the circumference of the tank, he produced a coil of twine, tied one end around the railing, and dropped the rest down. Tommy tied it to the handle of the gas can and snapped off a salute to the tower. Braddock hauled the can up and set it down on the grate before biting the torch again and climbing the second stretch of ladder to the hatch on the conical roof.

  The groaning had not ceased entirely, but it had quieted, as if whatever lived in the tank were listening to the footsteps on the rungs. Before he had time to reconsider, Tommy grabbed hold of the bars and climbed to the platform. He didn’t know what he could do if Mr. Braddock needed help, but at least up here it would take less time to come to his aid.

  A whooshing sound filled the air above Tommy’s head, accompanied by a flare of yellow light. Braddock had lit the torch. Tommy craned his neck, but the bulk of the water tank obstructed his view. The squeal of stubborn hinges sang out and he knew the hatch was open.

  The silence that followed was excruciating. All groans, metallic and organic, had ceased and now the light faded as Braddock lowered the torch into the hole.

  Tommy wondered how high the water level was inside. If it went down every morning, was it replenished to its highest point by this hour of the night? He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  A wavering moan drifted down from the peak. It had to be Braddock’s voice, but it had the timbre of a child’s cry of fear. Heart pounding, Tommy started up the second ladder but paused when he didn’t find Braddock’s feet on the rungs above him. Cool dread seeped under his skin.

  Water sloshed in the tank with a thrash and clang and he almost let go, almost plummeted to the ground below.

  “Mr. Braddock?”

  Legs shaking wildly, Tommy completed the climb and found Braddock crouched on the roof, in the dark, the rifle in his white-knuckled hand aimed into the hole. He shot Tommy a terrified glance, and in that flicker of an instant when his eyes were diverted, something black and sinuous whipped out of the hatch, wrapped around the barrel of the gun, and pulled the man into the tank with a splash and a yelp that echoed for half a second, then went mute.

  Tommy scurried down to the platform and stood frozen, staring at the tank, listening.

  Silence.

  “Mr. Braddock?” His voice was barely strong enough to travel to his own ears, never mind those of the man inside the tank, in the water. A long moment passed in which the only sound was the baying of that distant dog, now mournful and anxious. Tommy took a step toward the tank, his shoe dragging on the scaffolding grate. He placed his hand on the cold rusty metal and then pressed his ear against it.

  Something massive struck the metal shell from within, ringing the tank like a bell and Tommy jumped, flailed, and clutched at the railing behind him. The clang had been so loud he marveled at the absence of an outward bulging dent. He looked at the gas can beside his feet. Mr. Braddock couldn’t be alive in there, but something malevolent surely was. Tommy couldn’t believe what he was contemplating doing. Did he have the moxie to set fire to the tower? It would be a beacon to the whole town. Until now he had been a stealthy accomplice to an adult, but to carry on without Braddock…

  His eyes pricked on the verge of tears. His breath rasped in short, shallow cycles.

  Then he remembered that the lighter was in Mr. Braddock’s pocket with his cigarettes. He cou
ldn’t light the fuel even if he wanted to. The realization that the last option was out of reach flooded him with relief. He moved to untie the rope connecting the gas can to the railing but remembered there would be no returning his father’s rifle to the pegs over the hearth, either. Best to let all of the missing goods go missing with Mr. Braddock. Best to get down the ladder and down the hill with wings on his heels.

  —

  On Festival Day, Tommy woke from a paltry stretch of restless sleep and plodded to the bathroom. By force of habit he put toothpaste on his brush and ran the sink, but before he’d put his brush under the tap, he detected a pinkish hue in the stream and shut it off as his heart fell through his feet.

  He dressed without showering, dragged a comb across his cowlick, and gave up when it wouldn’t yield. He could hear the bustle of breakfast down in the dining room and girded himself for the interrogation that would await him if his father had noticed any signs of his complicity in Mr. Braddock’s disappearance. Tommy lingered at the top of the stairs, listening, and was surprised to find that none of the voices below carried urgency or worry. He descended the steps with a dreamlike slowness, his hand dragging on the bannister, and stood in the kitchen doorway. The ladies were having toast and tea while Michael chased his scrambled eggs and bacon with black coffee.

  “I thought you’d never wake,” his mother said. “Take a seat and have a bite. Quickly now, we have a big day ahead and can’t be late.”

  “Where’s Papa and Mr. Braddock?”

  “Your father ate early and took the truck for parade setup. Mr. Braddock’s probably gone for a stroll. I’m sure he’ll be back soon if he wants to join us for the festival.”

  Was that a look of caution Michael shot at Mama?

  Angela Braddock, who had been staring into her teacup as if she could divine the future in it, now raised it and took a sip. Tommy thought of the water that had been boiled to make the brew and suppressed a shudder.

  —

  The parade rolled through town under a robin’s egg blue sky, the cars and pickup trucks trailing black streamers and bearing effigies of the Gods enswathed in clouds of pungent incense. Even the vehicles that lacked elaborate decorations were emblazoned with thorny sigils soaped on the windows. Michael drove the family Chevy with Mama in the shotgun seat. Tommy sat in the back next to Mrs. Braddock, who hadn’t spoken all morning, although at times he thought he detected a faint, mournful melody from her direction, hummed softly through closed lips. They cruised down Main Street at the tail end of the procession, then turned onto the four-mile stretch of unnamed road that meandered past derelict cottages, bait shops, and wind-lashed crab grass to the dunes of Dunbury Beach.

  The salt air was humid and brisk. The canvas food tents rippled and snapped in the ocean breeze but held their ground by virtue of deep stakes. Tommy could taste the aromas of fried dough and spiced calamari on that wind, mingling with the darker scents of incense plumes rising from iron braziers placed at intervals along the shore.

  At low tide the beach was a vast stretch of smooth, damp sand reaching down to the languid surf, littered here and there with empty lobster traps and kelp-encrusted rope, but mostly clean, groomed by the sea, and cool under bare feet. The children ran and splashed and screamed. A paper kite in the shape of Dagon swooped, climbed and dove, inscribing circles and barbs in the sky at the end of a length of twine, like the script of some arcane alphabet. The seagulls kept their distance, despite the fragrant promise of scraps, and no sails shone on the horizon.

  At dusk, the women’s choir gathered at the waterline in their black frocks, their heads adorned with the dazzling silver diadems they had kept concealed in their silk hat boxes until the appointed hour. Tommy’s father appeared behind him and clapped him on the back. “Listen well, son. You won’t hear this music again for some years,” he said and gave Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze before continuing down the beach to take his place with the other husbands. Tommy looked around for Mrs. Braddock. He didn’t find her in the gathering crowd, but when he turned to look up the beach, his brother was looming over him.

  “Looking for Mr. Braddock?” Michael asked.

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so. I saw you two on Ward Hill last night. Don’t worry, I told Pa about Bill, but not his little helper.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “It’s part of growing up, that’s all. You learn things you didn’t need to know before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just remember that Ma loves you, even if she can’t tell you the same as before.”

  “Is she taking the vow?”

  “Already has. Now all that’s left is the offering.”

  Tommy looked at the bonfires and thought about scenes of human sacrifice he’d seen in comics. “What’s the offering?”

  “They give their voices to the sea. It’s an honor for every family that has a lady in the choir. No one knows why the water chooses a woman to be a host, but you should be proud of Mama. Mrs. Ruess, too. That’s two from our own house, and Mrs. Braddock’ll be next. Maybe she’ll decide to stay with us.”

  Now Tommy spotted Angela Braddock at the other end of the horseshoe crowd, her hair whipping in the wind. “If she was chosen, why isn’t she in the choir?”

  “Her turn will come next time, probably. How long the gestation takes is different for every woman; how much time the passenger needs to soak up their dark feelings. I thought it might never happen for Mrs. Ruess. But Angela will need time to learn the songs, too.” Michael looked at Tommy severely. “Good thing for you that fool didn’t get lucky last night. We’re all blessed in our home and don’t you forget it.”

  The women sang and Tommy’s arms broke out in gooseflesh. Something immense and mottled rolled in the churning water beyond the sandbar. They sang and their song was as beautiful as it was mournful; a lilting, yearning melody that stirred the air with its dark currents, and yet, Tommy felt that it was shot through with a trembling blue light at its upper reaches, and a green phosphorescence in its minor key depths. The tide rolled in as they sang, and the waves dressed their black frocks with a lace of foam. They joined hands and waded in to the edge of the drop. Tommy remembered the first time he’d slipped off of it into the deeper water. The shortest of the women were up to their necks when the song reached its final cadence and lingered on a long, disquieting chord.

  And in the dimming of the day, the choir bowed to the rising moon and gave their borrowed tongues back to the water.

  SHUG

  John F.D. Taff

  Vesta wanted to find a word she could use with him, some small endearment. Something to take the place of the name he didn’t have or wouldn’t tell her. Something that would sound as nice being called from the porch when dinner was ready or whispered across a pillow while the sweat cooled on their skin.

  Something that wouldn’t remind her of Cyrus, mustn’t remind her of him.

  Cyrus had been her “Hun,” short for honey.

  He would be “Shug,” short for sugar.

  But also, she realized, it was so close to that word he’d whispered to her in the field, whispered over the pulsing, mewling blue thing that squirmed atop his open palm.

  Shug.

  —

  Cyrus had asked her to marry him back in ’40. He’d inherited some land from his dad and intended to go straight into farming it. She’d known him since grade school; he was just a year or two older than her. Quiet, lean and handsome in a blunt, masculine way, with worn features, a pug nose from a fight in his teens. Wavy dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache and big, calloused hands from chores on his daddy’s farm.

  They’d dated cautiously for a year, and as Hitler marched into Norway, she’d said yes. They had a small ceremony at the courthouse in Jackson, a one-day honeymoon in Springfield, then an idyllic year in the small farmhouse outside Odetta. Early mornings spent milking cows and attending
to chickens, afternoons cleaning and doing laundry, making supper. Evenings on the porch looking at the stars or in the sitting room listening to Amos ’n Andy or Abbott & Costello.

  Later, holding each other in bed, under quilts her own grandmother had made, his huge hands sliding over her naked skin, leaving a wake of goose bumps in their passing. Talking of trips they’d take, things they’d do, children they’d make.

  But in the winter of 1941, that all changed. To Vesta, Hawaii might just as well have been the moon; the Japanese, Martians. How could a place, people so far away they almost seemed fictional have such a profound effect on their little community smack dab in the center of the United States of America?

  How could they have such a profound effect on their little lives, Cyrus and Vesta?

  But they did.

  That March, after making arrangements with his family to watch over the farm in his absence, Cyrus left to join the army. Even before President Roosevelt’s speech, before the declaration of war against Germany and the Empire of Japan, the army had begun, slowly at first, to swell its ranks through conscription. But after all this, it gulped men in, and not just as draftees.

  Cyrus had volunteered, had kept it secret, at least initially, from his family, from Vesta. He spent his last night in Odetta, curled in bed with his sobbing wife. She was stunned by his announcement, the question mark it now left on the sentence of their young lives together.

  Where would he go? What would he do?

  When would he return?

  And, of course, the unspoken question.

  Would he return?

  Everything from there on out was unknown, and the gulf that left, the yawning chasm now opened at Vesta’s feet, frightened her more than anything else in her young life.

  But her fear hadn’t prevented him from leaving.

  For the next few years, he sent her letters, pictures.

  Sometime late in 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge, Cyrus was shot by a German soldier. At least that’s what they thought. They never recovered his body. What came home was an empty coffin, a folded flag and a letter from President Roosevelt.