by Joel Arnold
He shivered again. Took a step forward. His foot tripped on the root of a tree. He fell forward, hands splayed out to stop the fall. His body twisted and turned and landed on its side. One hand knocked into a tree, the other landed on a fallen branch and was scraped by the rough bark. A dull ache spread over them. His whole body began to ache, and he gasped for breath. He cursed, trying to pull himself up. But as he struggled to get up, a thin strand of moonlight shone through the trees and reflected against two small objects on the ground. They glowed bright green and were only inches from Andy’s head. He reached out to touch them but quickly recoiled. His stomach churned violently, and he began to choke on his saliva. He tasted the bile swimming in his throat. The contents of his stomach exploded out of his mouth in a short, quick burst.
What he had seen reflecting the moonlight, what he had reached out and touched - practically putting his fingers through - were the eyes of the cat.
Its eyes attached to its head, which lay inches from where he'd fallen.
FIVE
Mae lay on her back, spread out in bed like an old dead angel. Her eyes were wide open, the pupils straining against the absence of light. It was the first time she had looked down those basement steps in a long time.
Funny how a person can be afraid of her own home.
Looking down the stairs.
Mae! I need your help, Mae.
Down the throat of the basement.
Mae! I’ve had a little too much to drink. You gotta help me with this one.
Walking down, seeing the bright light on, hearing her father’s voice, knowing what she was going to see, but never quite prepared for it. Always having to look in small, half-lidded glances.
Mae, goddammit, hurry up!
Around the corner to her father’s side. His hands shaking, sweat dripping off his forehead, as he leans over, the swaying of his body almost imperceptible, the smell of rum on his breath.
There’s a good girl, now give me a hand with this, will you, Mae?
At her father’s side, so hard to look at him, yet fearing to look down at the bright steel table in front of him, fearing to gaze upon his work. Yet, obediently, she starts to help him. She pulls a long rubber hose off the floor. Inserts one end into a large metal bucket.
There’s a good girl, Mae. There’s a good girl.
Andy’s pulse beat out a rhythm at his temples. The image of that cat wouldn’t let him sleep. Every creak, every moan of the house reminded him of that branch, swaying in the night breeze, swaying under the weight of the cat, the rope. The backs of his eyelids were like movie screens, the cat projected onto them every time he shut his eyes.
His ears throbbed. The blood surged through them as if shot from a water cannon. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead, realized it was soaking into his pillow, and thought what the hell, wiping his entire face on the pillowcase. There was no way he could sleep.
The moon glowed soft green through the window shade. It reminded Andy of those eyes. The eyes of the dead cat.
Jesus, he thought. I’ve got to get out of bed. Get something to do. Keep my mind occupied.
He got out of bed, stumbled over to the light switch and flicked it on. The room lit up and he glanced around.
No cats here.
He laughed at himself, at his paranoia.
He looked in the closet again. The five dresses were there, but that was all. He ran his hand over the dresser and closed his eyes.
Smooth. Smooth.
Get his mind off the rough bark of that tree outside.
The rough bark, the swing and creak of the rope, the dead weight of the cat, a sack of swinging, bleeding bones -
Andy put his hand on the knob of the bedroom door and turned it as slowly as he could. A shiver ran through his limbs as he pulled the door open. He closed his eyes, for a moment imagining the cat’s head hovering on the other side grinning at him.
The door cried out and Andy squeezed his eyes shut tight, then resumed pushing it open.
Christ, get a hold of yourself. It was just a sick joke. That thing, that head - that cat - was real. And it was dead. Nothing more than a bundle of bones and guts. He'd seen it and touched it. It wasn’t going to come back and bite him. Yet, it was so hard to get the image out of his mind. His fingers still felt it. The fur. The moisture. He needed something to distract him.
Something to read.
He looked down the hall.
There was the bathroom. Nothing good in there except an issue of Good Housekeeping, but paging through recipes accompanied by pictures of meat could only remind him of the swaying carcass.
There was another bedroom down the hall, but that was emptier than Andy’s room.
Mae’s room was across the hall. Her door was shut. That was obviously not an option.
Another door at the end of the hall had remained closed since he’d arrived. Probably another closet, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. He walked down the hallway barefoot, stepping softly. No point in waking Mae.
Something to read. A book. An old newspaper. He just hoped this wasn’t the place Mae kept the cat food.
He reached out and turned the knob. It wouldn’t give. He turned harder, but the catch wouldn’t spring. He placed both hands on the knob and clenched his teeth. Finally, it gave way with a sharp snap, making Andy flinch. He held his breath, expecting Mae to poke her head out of her room at any moment. She didn’t, so Andy gently pulled the door open.
The smell of moldy paper and dust seeped out, enveloping him. He saw nothing but darkness and the beginning of a stairway at his feet. He reached in, groping for a light switch. The steps were suddenly illuminated in a dirty, golden glow as he found one and turned it on.
This is obviously not a closet, he thought.
Andy quietly went up the steps, shutting the door behind him. The wood beneath his feet was cold. He wished he’d worn socks, but didn’t want to go back for them.
The stairway was short, only about ten steps. Andy quickly realized he was in Mae’s attic. Only it was more like a small library. Shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Paperbacks on one side, their covers yellowing from age. Hardcover books on the other side, most missing dust jackets.
The walls of the attic were unpainted and short, meeting the roof, which continued upward at a slant towards its apex. It was a small room, only enough space for the shelves against the walls, a row of shelves in the center, some boxes, picture frames, oil paintings, with only a little space left over to move around in. Bare beams held back new insulation.
Andy scanned the rows of books. The farther away from the stairway, the older the condition of the books; bindings torn away, pages and covers bloated with moisture. Andy picked one from the shelf and opened it, breathing in its musty vapors. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Andy put it back. Not a good one to go to sleep to.
He grabbed another one, this one bound in thin, brown leather. Dracula. It quickly joined Jekyll and Hyde on the shelf.
Andy took a third one and smiled when he saw the cover. Tom Sawyer. That was more like it. He'd read it before in high school, and now was as good a time as any to read it again. He opened it up.
A piece of paper stuck out from the middle. A bookmark. Andy pulled it out. Someone had drawn a big snarling face on it. A child’s drawing, with stuff dripping from its teeth. Underneath, a scrawled inscription stated, LOOK OUT FOR BIG ED, with arrows pointing up to the drawing. Andy turned it over and saw the name Evelyn scribbled across the back in the same child-like scrawl.
Evelyn. The name didn’t ring a bell.
Andy took the book back with him to his room.
After the first few chapters of Tom Sawyer, while Andy became lost in the memories of someone else’s childhood, he realized with a start what was about to happen.
Shit. He closed the book, closed his eyes, laid his head back on the pillow. He set the book on the floor next to the bed. He'd forgotten about Huckleberry Finn coming to Tom’s window carrying a sack full of dea
d cat.
Shit.
Not even Mark Twain could help him now.
He let out a nervous laugh, giving up the struggle to forget about what he saw in the woods. After a bout of tossing and turning, he eventually fell asleep.
He dreamed about Tom and Huck. Not about the cat, surprisingly - neither the one in the book nor the one in the woods. But Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Finn were soon interrupted by the bookmark with the snarling face floating in front of him. Its teeth gnashed and spat. Dolls surrounded him.
They said, Oooh, Andy - look out for Big Ed. Look out behind you.
And something was behind him. He felt its hot breath on his neck. Drifting down his back. He turned around and looked in the face of - Mother?
Mom?
(oh, Andy - you’re my doll, you’re my baby)
She was breast-feeding him, smothering Andy in her bosom. He pounded on her back - No mother, you’re choking me.
(Andy, stop being such a big baby - you’re my doll, you’re my hon, my honey bun)
- her hot milk poured down his throat, scorching, gagging, coming out his nose, hot molten milk, and he stared up into her gnashing teeth - STOP IT MOTHER!
(rock-a-bye Andy, my big Andy, my big honey bun, my precious baby doll)
- milk pouring from his ears, his eyes, his nose, his ass, his cock, Andy pounding, scratching on his mother’s back, Andy the human water balloon - the human milk balloon.
LOOK OUT FOR BIG ED! screamed the bookmark zipping past his head like a horsefly. LOOK OUT FOR BIG ED! screamed the dolls, the million dolls, filling every crack, every pore of the room, of the house.
(drink up, Andy, cause you’re my baby doll)
- and he drowned, exploded, milk covering everything in a thick, viscous glow.
The night remained clear and cool. Every so often a car drove by, its headlights almost illusory, the sound of its passage like a short, violent yawn. The drivers passed, not seeing either house, the houses like two silent sphinxes, dark and brooding and wise, facing each other across a no-man’s land of dead grass and weeds.
And all the while, the cat swung pendulously in the woods, the creak of rope against branch like the jaws of a steel trap being pried slowly apart.
The stars threw a shadow over the cat. The shadow remained for an hour, watching. As still as the trees.
Watching.
When it made a sudden move, the creaking stopped.
The crickets, momentarily muted by the wind and sudden movement, began to scream.
SIX
It was nine in the morning when Mae pulled into the parking lot of Harmon’s Supermarket. She sat a moment, relieved. She never felt completely comfortable in the old Ford pickup she drove into town. She used it once every other week for the two-mile round trip, which wasn’t enough for her to get used to it. It rattled too much. Creaked when she shifted her weight. She felt that at any moment it would crumble around her.
As a child, she used to walk the distance. Trek down with her sisters and buy candy and gum and pop with the change her father gave them. It was not a long walk, and there was nothing like it in the spring after the snow had melted, the blooms were out, and everything felt fresh.
They walked on the side of the road, which was gravel back then, and even less traveled than it was now.
Edna walked with a steady gait, always very serious, while Evelyn skipped ahead, urging her two older sisters to hurry up.
“Go ahead,” Edna would say. “But I’ve got the money.”
This was before Evelyn had her drum.
Yes, that’s right, Mae thought, finally getting out of the pick-up. Before she had her drum.
She looked across the road at where Pete’s Five and Dime used to be. It was where they got their weekly sugar fix. Now there was a coffee shop there. Same building, different fix. The word Pete’s could still be seen above the coffee shop sign, fading farther into the brick with each passing year.
Mae grabbed a shopping cart and started rolling it down the aisles. She had gotten up early, checked in on Andy and decided to make a trip to the supermarket.
She pushed the cart down the produce aisle. There was a large display of freshly picked apples. As she inhaled the sweet, earthy aroma, she felt a tug on her slacks.
“Hey, lady.”
Mae blinked. It was a little boy, no taller than her waist.
“Yes?”
The boy looked up at her, fascinated. “Are you the crazy lady?”
“Pardon?”
“My mom says you’re the crazy lady.”
Mae bent over, so that her face was inches from his. “Well, then I must be. And you know what else?” she whispered.
The boy’s eyes grew wide.
Mae grinned. “I eat children like you for breakfast.”
The boy turned and fled.
When Andy awoke, he woke completely, all at once, as if a switch had been flicked on inside of him. He felt apprehensive, his senses humming with a super-keen awareness of every noise - every creak and groan of the house, every stretching of its joints. He knew what he had to do.
He had to leave. He had to go back to Cathy. It didn’t matter if his car wasn’t fixed. He’d take a bus if he had to and worry about the car later. He’d walk back to town - he didn’t think it was too long of a walk - and check at the garage. If it still wasn’t ready, he’d get a ticket at the nearest bus station. Or hell, he’d hitchhike if he had to. But he could not let Cathy slip away from him. He loved her. That was all there was to it. He loved her and he was a fool to leave.
He showered and dressed. Noticed Mae’s bedroom door was open and her bed was made.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he found another note.
Went to the supermarket.
His nose turned his body toward the coffee pot sitting on the counter and he poured himself a cup. As he sat drinking the hot black coffee, he couldn’t help but think of what he had seen the night before. The cat swaying in the darkness, the creak of the rope, the groan of the branch holding up its dead weight.
He made up his mind. Before leaving, he would go back into the woods behind Mae’s house and find the cat again. Take a good long look at it, get a picture of it in his mind, in the daylight, listen to the real noises the rope made burdening the tree’s tired limbs. Maybe then his imagination would stop taking the fragmented images and feelings from the night before and make it real. Make his mind stop toying with the sight of it, stop expanding it and making it grow into a monster.
Then he would bury it. As a favor to himself, but most of all, as a secret favor to Mae. He didn’t want her to discover it the way he had. How awful would it be to find something you love in such a degraded, humiliated state?
No. He would bury it. Once and for all. It was the least he could do for her.
He circled around to the backyard and quickly found the trail that led to the cemetery. The best way to find the cat, he decided, was to follow the trail all the way to the graveyard, then find the crude path he'd made the night before. Considering the number of scrapes and bruises on his arms, he figured he must have left some sign of a trail. Broken branches. Trampled leaves. Dirt. Bits of skin, he thought, looking at his arms, forcing himself to laugh.
It was close to nine-thirty in the morning. Sun filtered through the trees in a light mist. Birds chattered among the branches, ignoring Andy as he walked. The morning dew soaked into his tennis shoes and brought out the odor of the fallen leaves. He took in a deep breath. It smelled good.
Soon, the clearing loomed up ahead. Slabs of marble, granite, and cement stuck up through the ground, some grainy and cracked, others smooth and fine.
He stepped into the cemetery. His breath rose in a light fog. It seemed so quaint. Like a picture in a travel brochure. Come explore the back-roads of Minnesota, the caption would say.
One of the gravestones in particular caught his eye. Last night the moonlight hadn’t been strong enough to illuminate it. But now, with the rising sun, Andy coul
d make out the writing on the stone clearly.
Camille and Charles Stone.
Andy’s grandparents. He’d never guessed they would be buried here, never knew this place existed until last night. It made sense, of course. Ellingston was where they had spent most of their lives. But to suddenly have this part of his past staring Andy in the face was like plunging his head in ice water.
According to the marker, Camille died in 1967, Charles in 1969.
Funny that Mom never talked about them, he thought. He knew they had died when his mother was young, before Andy was born, but that’s all. He knelt down. Reached out and touched the headstone.
Maybe it was too painful for Mom to talk about, he thought. She hadn’t talked about Mae either, for that matter. She hadn’t even talk about his father. His own father.
Andy ran his hand along the rough granite slab. He traced their names with his fingers, whispered their names aloud. He felt his throat tighten. There was so much he didn’t know. Why was Edna so silent about them all?
Next to his grandparents’ stone was a small cement slab, its letters weatherworn and hard to decipher. Andy squinted, trying to read it. Cracks ran through it, mixing with the lettering, making it even harder to read. He reached out and felt the slight indentations, trying to read them by feel, as if they were in Braille.
His eyes strained, and his head began to ache from the effort of concentrating on the worn surface, trying to distinguish letters from the cracks.
Finally, he thought he could read the top of the inscription. It said, Buried In Sorrow With Our Tears.
Then the next line - Our Daughter.
And under that - Evelyn Stone 1936 - 1948.
Twelve years old. And next to my grandparents’ grave.
Our daughter? That would mean she was another aunt. One he had never even heard of before.
He straightened up, his back sore from stooping. The sun gained strength through the bare tree branches. Wisps of clouds dotted the sky like emaciated ghosts. There was a small stone building to Andy’s left. Yellow, crumbling stone, held together with rotting mortar. In front, above a rusting, padlocked door was a hole where a small window had once been. Andy figured it to be a tool shed, maybe a place for shovels and lawn care equipment. A caretaker’s shed. He stared at it. Found himself drawn to it. The buzzing of flies emanated from within.
