by Eric Arvin
“Hey, Dash,” Tony greeted, trying to conceal his surprise. “What’s up?” He reached for a paper towel from the dispenser.
There was a vacuum-like pause before Dash spoke. “Um, I wanted to tell you….” He stopped and looked frustrated. Tony saw a word search happening behind Dashel’s eyes, his mind turning over adjectives and stagnant nouns. “I saw you sitting with Wilder… at breakfast,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I know it’s none of my business, but you should know something about him. He’s not…. You shouldn’t trust him. I mean….” He faltered. He was stuck, unable to make clear what he wanted to say.
Tony faced him, imagining a hidden war between Dashel and Wilder, each shooting poisoned arrows filled with the other’s secrets. “I don’t trust him, Dash, don’t worry. I get a feel from people. Besides, he didn’t even know who I was until this year.”
Dash relaxed. His whole body seemed to deflate a little.
With a smile and a wink, Tony threw the wadded paper into the bin and leaned back against the sink, arms folded. “Thanks for your concern, but there’s no need to worry.”
“Good, good….” Dash sighed. “I’m just telling you this as a brother. He hurts people.” Dash looked to the floor, apparently lost in his own thoughts, but then regained the moment and looked back up at Tony. “See you later,” he said hastily, and he turned awkwardly to leave the room.
“Dash,” Tony called after him, catching him in the hallway. He sensed the clumsiness of Dash’s exit. “Maybe we could get together later. Talk or something?” He couldn’t believe he had just said it, but there was something more to Dash. Something extra that had to be determined. Something better than Wilder. One small talk couldn’t hurt his reputation.
“S-s-sure,” Dash stuttered. He looked at Tony with a hint of suspicion.
“I bet we have a lot more to talk about than either of us might suspect,” Tony posited with a reassuring smile. He tried not to hear the cryptic spin on his own sentence. Dash nodded, then turned and walked to his room as Tony stared after him. Dash took one last look at Tony before he opened his door and disappeared behind the frame.
Still thinking, Tony walked down the stairs to the basement kitchen and dining area. Dash’s stuttered warning about Wilder clung to his thoughts like a burr. Tony found it strange how the other guys in the house seemed so enamored by Wilder. So charmed. He knew better, and Dash had validated his feelings.
Though Tony didn’t really know Dash at all, he trusted his instincts. Where Wilder had wanted to dish some kind of dirt about Dash, Dash had only wanted to warn Tony about Wilder and seemed very uncomfortable even doing that. He wasn’t eager to share whatever he knew, and that gave it greater merit. Tony decided he would spend the evening getting to know Dash, listening to what he had to say.
He would simply hang out in Dashel’s room all night. As a little bonus, he could more easily avoid the girls who came in constantly drunk, loud, and clingy, looking for a quick bang from the college stud. Hanging out with Ashley and Dash would be a welcome change from his usual obligatory routine of bonging beers. Sure, the other football players in the house might crack a few jokes, but none of them would ever truly believe he was gay. None of them would dare destroy their own image of him. Yes, his plan for the night was set, and it was a decent one. He grinned to himself in silent affirmation.
The basement was alive with the rowdy crew that had passed Tony in the upstairs hallway. They were sitting at a long table on their way to getting drunk. Most were taking shots of tequila with the house mom, an old badger affectionately called Ma Toots.
“Tony! Come join us. These boogers think they can out-drink me,” she yelled as Tony walked toward them. The guys hollered and yelled in a swell of chaotic machismo. A few pounded and slapped the table.
“I’ll bet they’re wrong,” Tony said, joining in the fun. He pulled up a chair next to Ma Toots, straddling the back of it.
“I’ll bet they are, too,” Ma Toots grinned. She spoke in a voice like gravel under the wheels of a rig. Her hair was thinning and white. She had the face of someone who had seen way too many bitter seasons. “You’re on my team, hon,” she said, as she squeezed Tony’s thick arm. He laughed and grabbed a shot glass that read Slurp it up! in sloppy pink lettering.
DASH FELT relieved after he talked to Tony in the restroom. He had set out to warn him, and he had done just that. If Tony did not choose to heed the warning, that was his business. One would think that was all there was to it, that there was nothing more he could do. Wilder was no longer his concern. But he knew that was not the case. Wilder greedily invaded almost every waking thought and, sometimes, even Dash’s dreams.
Wilder would make an appearance in Dashel’s favorite dream, the one where he was a great bird perched upon the old tree—the Old Lady, as he called her—at the Point. In a nightmarish moment, just before the dream would end in its enigmatic way, Wilder’s glaring eyes would flash into Dashel’s mind. It didn’t happen a lot. Usually, the dream ended in the comforting, mysterious way it always had. But every now and then, Wilder made his unwelcome presence felt. It was as if part of one nightmare was being shown in snippets in another dream.
He’d made Wilder Tony’s problem. “Leave it at that,” he whispered to himself. But the relief Dash had felt at warning Tony soon disappeared. The old worry and fear returned. At the party that night, Wilder would most likely show up. He would try to charm Tony, and the thought of that disturbed Dash greatly.
It crawled into his mind and wriggled around until it found a nice little spot where it could fester and stink. Dash did not want to be around to see any of it. He did not want to see if Wilder would succeed in his plan to do whatever he intended to do to Tony. Dash really didn’t want to care about how Tony would react, to see if he would fall. But he did care. Tony was a decent guy. Still, he could do nothing more. It was done.
Dash decided the only way to escape was to be gone for the night. He decided he would go to the shore, to the beach down below the abandoned paths that had been the only entrance onto the campus at one time. He would sleep there until the party subsided a little. He could be away from the madness and disaster that was to unfold.
He knew it was a coward’s way out, but he was tired of being so strong all the time. That night he would not be strong. He would flee instead for the soothing sounds of the green river below, where he would sleep, cold and shivering, by the grounded barge that sat slowly rusting among the rocks and sand.
He put together a small group of necessities, packing each item carefully into his backpack. A little food and water, a flashlight, a knife, matches for a fire, his meds, and paper so he might work on his Independent Study. He rolled up the sleeping bag from under the bed with two covers. After bundling himself up in heavy layers and slinging the weighty mass over his shoulder, he stole quietly from the house. Jovial shouts and guffaws rose from the basement as he went. His drunken brothers. It was not yet noon.
He was undetected by anyone as he crossed the campus. Walking one of the lesser-used paths on college grounds, he let the harshness of the earth beneath him echo up his body. Each step became a grasp at new ground. Each step became a plea for new ground.
ASHLEY AND Sarah walked the forested outline of the campus until they tired of the cold. Dashel’s sudden illness left them with no desire to attend any more classes. They wandered into the Campus Center dining hall and sat at a table, talking mostly about Dash.
Ashley liked being with Sarah. She seemed genuinely interested in anything he had to say. She always looked him directly in the eyes. Most people were afraid to do so, but not Sarah. “Crazy albino,” she would say when he exasperated her, or “Ash, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He had heard it all before, but said with her inviting wink and smile, it seemed refreshing and new.
At two o’clock they had theology class. A religious speaker was on campus giving a presentation and discussion on a book he had written. He was an alumnus who had m
ade a semisuccessful foray into writing and seminars; the kind of scholar who is only important when they return to their alma mater after many years and are hoisted onto a pedestal for a brief time, but then fades away never to be heard from again. He was scheduled to give his lecture in a large hall so students, faculty, and community might attend.
Ashley and Sarah walked into the crowded hall, a long rectangular building with windows on all sides and a patio to the south. They had decided to attend that one class just to feel they had lived up to their daily academic requirement. Ashley wondered why anyone would willingly give up his or her time to hear anything on religious matters, though. As the cliché goes, he was a very spiritual person, but religion? Religion meant control. Ashley was never comfortable with structured faith. It was mind control. That’s all the Fear of God was, mind control. He looked at the magnetic white letters clinging to the blackboard that announced the speaker:
GUEST SPEAKER ALLEN GRAYSHALL, ’93
Discusses his best-selling book
THE FEAR OF GOD
ASHLEY RAISED his brow at the coincidence.
Just as Sarah was about to move forward and take a seat, Ashley reached for her arm. “Let’s not just yet,” he said. “I don’t plan to stay too long.” She smiled at him and stepped back to his side. More pious students brushed past them.
The two of them stood at the rear of the hall and let the seats fill up with more willing participants. People cast strange looks Ashley’s way as they walked by. Even after four years, he still received the occasional baffled glance.
“Damn,” Sarah said quietly, “by the looks being thrown your way, maybe we should turn and run.”
“Yeah,” Ashley chimed in, “I’m the Antichrist with green hair.” He would not run from them, though. He was very familiar with those looks.
“People are scared of what they don’t know, or what they don’t care to learn,” his father had told him once, holding Ashley in his lap as the young boy cried.
“Why do they hate me?” he’d whimpered.
“It’s because you’re special. Because you’re going to do great things,” his father gently assured him.
“I don’t want to be special. I want to be like them!”
“No, you don’t, Ashley.” His father remained calm and loving throughout, his tone never rising. “You’ve got a higher purpose, a calling. If you were just like them, you might never find that purpose. It’s only through suffering that we see the light. It’s only through struggle that we are able to relate to the struggles of others. The more you go through, the more compassionate you become.”
Ashley was never sure what light his father was referring to, but he sure liked the sound of it. It made him feel as warm as a June day.
Soon everyone quieted, and Dr. True walked timidly up to the podium. As usual, he looked surprised to see people staring back at him, listening. He was a man with the unfortunate appearance of a lifetime pot smoker. He grinned widely, eyes big and round, and, with his gentle voice, introduced Mr. Grayshall. Clapping, clapping. Grayshall walked up to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and offered the obligatory stale anecdote. Ashley rolled his eyes at Sarah and waited for an appropriate moment to ditch the proceedings.
The moment presented itself about five minutes into the delivery of the floundering speech. Ashley nodded at Sarah with a grin of pure mischief and quietly backed away. “Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered loudly with gritted teeth and pleading eyes.
He laughed lightly and walked out of the hall, leaving Sarah to plan her own escape. Giggles surfaced beneath his breath. He would wait for her on the steps outside the hall.
Once outside, he pulled his jacket tight around him and sat down on the cold concrete steps, laughing out loud and hugging himself tight, excited for Sarah to join him soon and playfully reprimand him.
STANDING ALONE against the back wall, looking around to see if she could find a suitable route for escape, Sarah couldn’t keep from smiling.
Damn you, Ashley!
She tried to stifle her grin, certain someone would see her. Bowing her head to hide her face, she slowly edged her way along the wall until she came within an inch of the door. Almost there. Soon, very soon, she would not be able to control her laughter. Giggles welled up within her, threatening to burst out at any moment. A sense of giddy panic overtook her. She couldn’t take it any longer and rushed out, sure she had caused a commotion. But that was better than inopportune boisterous glee. She knew nothing was more offensive to a religious congregation than the sight of glee.
Once outside, she burst into great heaving waves of laughter, hardly waiting for the heavy white doors to fully close behind her. All the panicked excitement that had massed inside her gut spilled out into the cold air.
Ashley looked up at her with devilish delight from where he sat on the steps, his faux yellow eyes eating her up. “Something wrong, Sarah?” he quipped, hardly able to control his own cackles.
“I hate you!” she laughed as she playfully swatted at his head with her gloved hands. “Everyone was watching me! Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I couldn’t stop laughing or grinning like an idiot. I can’t believe you left me in there.” She sat down beside him and pulled out a cigarette from her coat pocket. Giggles surfaced like the aftershocks of a quake.
“Hey, it’s every man for himself,” Ashley said. “Besides, if both of us had ditched at the same time, everyone would have seen it. You gotta think on your feet.” He watched as she lit her cigarette and took a long drag. “Those things’ll kill you.”
“So will sitting out here.” Sarah stared out at the frozen lawn. “We’ll both catch pneumonia. They say the flu season was the worst ever this year.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re here, then. All these religious folk will make sure we go right up to Heaven.” Ashley nudged her in the side. “I wonder if they have hair dye there.”
“Meh,” Sarah shrugged. “I’m sick of Heaven. I just want it to be over when we die.” She took another drag. Despite himself, Ashley could see the allure of smoking. It was sexy. At least when Sarah did it, holding the little tube of tobacco lithely between her delicate fingers, the smoke passing between her soft lips. She was mystical when she smoked, an enchantress surrounded by haze and light.
“Now why would you say that?” Ashley asked, staring at her. He was surprised by her indifferent statement.
“You try being the daughter of a Baptist minister. My father,” she said, looking at Ashley, “he’s a trip. He’s always so concerned with what happens afterward, he doesn’t even think of what’s happening now. If he knew I smoked….” She trailed off, looking at the stick she held.
“So, he’s the reason then? The reason you smoke?” Ashley pried.
“Yeah… I guess. I don’t know. I’ll just be glad to get away. Out of his control. After school, I just want to get away.” She paused. “But I need his money right now. How else am I supposed to afford smokes and alcohol?”
“Maybe you should stop smoking… for you. I mean, you’re so pretty. You don’t want to end up looking like a corpse,” Ashley said. “There are other things besides cigarettes.”
“Pot? Doesn’t really do anything for me.” She looked at him suspiciously. “But if you know of something else, I’m willing to try anything once.” A lovely smile graced her face. “And thanks for calling me pretty,” she said, prodding his shoulder.
A cold sensation touched her nose, and she saw the first soft flakes of snow due to come. “Looks like we’re about to get that storm they promised us,” Sarah observed as she looked into the sky.
Ashley looked up and closed his eyes. Sarah glanced at him. He stuck out his tongue and caught the falling snow, then opened his eyes again to look at her. The large flakes were collecting in his dyed hair.
“I’ve never seen snowflakes this big before,” Sarah said as she got up and stomped out her cigarette on the concrete. She held out her hand and watched the flakes collect for an
instant on her black wool gloves before they faded into the fabric. Ashley remained seated on the steps. She liked his look, or rather, the way he looked at her. She had always hoped Dash would see her that way, though it had a stronger appeal coming from Ashley now.
“Do you think we should go back in?” she asked.
“Nobody’s missing us,” Ashley assured her as he rose. “I think Mr. Grayshall has all the admirers he needs.” Sarah waved her hand through his hair, shaking out fallen snow.
Suddenly, on a gliding gust of wind that broke the silence around them, they heard a howl from somewhere down in the valley. It came up through the trees with such force the wind could barely carry it. Sarah shuddered, but not from the cold. It was the note of the howl that came into her. The sound of release, of joy, made her skin prickle. It was an enviable sound that stoked in her the desired warmth. The sound of Yes, yes! Finally, yes!
BEFORE ROADS were built leading through the trees and hills, the only way onto the college campus was from the paths that wound up from the beach at the base of the bluff. These paths were steep, an unfriendly terrain for women in stylish dresses or smart-looking gentlemen in shiny shoes. The college had installed occasional stone steps to make the walk up a little less treacherous. All the same, it was not an easy journey through the growth and vines of the thick, hillside woods with its massive trees that were ancient even then.
