Coda

by Keith Knapp

  Scott Franklin was the antithesis of a bad boy. He was in his second year of college with a major in fine arts, four years older than Rachel. He never missed a class or a day of work and observed her with the utmost respect. Scott would’ve been the perfect teenage boy in a cookie-cutter 50s sitcom, which was a breath of fresh air for Rachel. Plus he played the guitar, and that was fucking cool.

  Scott provided a strong ground for which Rachel could plant her feet. But it was still cheating no matter which way you looked at it, and now her own bad girl choices were beginning to concern her.

  Licking saliva from her lips, she slid off Scott and pushed his legs to the side, brushing her messy and tangled hair with an open fist.

  “What’s wrong?” Scott asked.

  At first she didn’t answer him. She knew what was wrong but couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “Come on, you can tell me,” he said, prodding for a response. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Rachel said.

  Scott lifted a hand to assist her in brushing her hair. She pulled away like his hand was on fire.

  “Whoa, okay,” he said. “Don’t touch Rachel when she’s upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Then what are you?”

  There was a station wagon parked next to them, and Rachel wondered if the owner would soon finish their shopping and return to their car to find two kids making out in the Stanza next to it—one of them a little too old for the other, to boot. The wagon looked abandoned, though. Disheveled, it hadn’t been cleaned in what looked like weeks and had more than a handful of dents. In fact, the two tires facing Rachel were flat and the car sat precariously close to the pavement. No, no one would be returning to the station wagon anytime soon unless they had a tow truck with them or

  none of this is real.

  “Rach?”

  She shook her head, snapping herself out of her reverie of the station wagon. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “Ah-ha, so there is something wrong.”

  Holding her breath, Rachel knew now wasn’t the right time. Yes, she had to tell him, but not now. Not like this. Sighing, she said, “Meet me in the courtyard after work. We’ll talk then.”

  Scott looked at his watch. “We still got a few minutes. Let it off your chest, Rach. Get it started. It’ll help.”

  “Scott, please.”

  “Tell me.”

  She knew then that she wasn’t getting out of the car without coming clean with what was on her mind. She could lie to him, maybe tell him Brett was sick again and needed looking after tonight…but she didn’t think she could lie to Scott for too long. He’d pick up on it. Worse yet, she’d pick up on it and hate herself in the morning. Shit, she’d be hating herself even more than usual for the next few mornings as it was.

  Ah, the hell with it.

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  Rachel motioned between the two of them with a finger. This.

  The longest minute of Rachel’s life then passed as Scott remained silent and stared down at his knees, slowly nodding his head as if he’d been expecting this. He turned to look at Rachel, then quickly averted his eyes and glanced out the side window at the nearly full parking lot. The sun was going down, its orange glow barely making it through the opening on the third level of the parking structure. His watch told him in five minutes his lunch break would be over and he’d have to get back to the theater.

  “Is it because of Jimmy?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  “Yes,” Rachel answered. She didn’t have to think about it and wasn’t surprised by the question. She had played through this conversation in her head dozens of times over the past week and knew Scott would start with that one.

  “I thought you were gonna break up with him.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Me and Jimmy are just going through some tough times, that’s all. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of all this.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.”

  She began to close up the shirt of her uniform—Scott had gotten through three buttons—when his attitude took a turn for the worse.

  “I understand that you’re a bitch who doesn’t know what she wants.”

  This part of the conversation had not been in the script all those times she had played out the scenario in her head. In those, Scott had understood. Sure, he’d been pissed but he’d understood. That was Scott: simple, kind, understanding. He’d go home and write a song about it on his guitar.

  This wasn’t like him at all. She guessed if you pushed someone hard enough, though, they’d push back. This was Scott pushing back, that’s all.

  Her fingers pulled at the handle to the door. Scott reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Look, Scott. I understand how you must feel, and I probably deserve whatever you want to throw my way, but I can’t talk about this right now. I have to get back to work.”

  She pulled her arm free from his grasp and twisted out of the car. Before her feet touched the ground, Scott was already out and whirling around the trunk to intercept her. His sudden appearance in front of her startled Rachel. It was like magic.

  “You can’t leave. You can’t just lay that on me and leave,” he said.

  “You pushed me. Left me little choice.”

  “Bullshit!” His voice echoed off the concrete.

  Luckily there was no one around to hear the argument. Public displays of anger were one thing Rachel liked to avoid. Plus, she didn’t want to see Scott get in trouble. There was the chance that a passerby could see him going off his rocker, recognize his movie theater uniform, and report him to his manager.

  “Keep your voice down,” she said as she slid between him and the dilapidated station wagon. Without looking back she headed for the bank of elevators a few feet away.

  “You can’t do this to me, Rachel,” he said, following her. “You owe me more than this.”

  Perhaps she had misjudged the quiet guy who always got good grades and was never late for work. Maybe he had been holding it all in. It’s always the quiet ones that surprise you even though

  none of this is real.

  No, this was real, alright. She didn’t know why she was trying to convince herself it wasn’t—that’d be the best thing in the world if none of this were real, if she was really at home drunk and passed out or if her and Scott had never met.

  “You owe me,” he repeated.

  They were at the elevators. Rachel pressed the DOWN button and kept her eyes on the little red arrow that lit up above her. “I probably do,” she said as the cables behind the elevator doors slowly began to move, “but I don’t know what else to say.”

  Scott’s stare was wearing her down, his eyes boring a hole into her skull, his breath breathing hot plumes of heartbreak and rage her way. He was silent, the only sound coming from him the air going in-and-out-and-in-and-out of his lungs. It was deafening. Yes, she had certainly misjudged Scott Franklin. There was a beastie in there.

  The elevator stopped a floor below them. She could surely hold out and put up with Scott’s Stare of Hate for a few more seconds.

  Rachel let her eyes dart in Scott’s direction. She quickly dashed them away, but the look on his face would remain with her forever. It would be the image that replayed in her mind when she entered the shed. His nostrils were flared, like a horse ready to kick. His eyes had gone red, but she couldn’t tell if it was from anger or if he was holding back a cry. Maybe both. It didn’t matter. She knew she couldn’t tolerate another second standing next to him like that.

  She turned and headed for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  Rachel sped up.

  Scott’s heavy feet followed. All she had to do was go down three flights and then she’d be on the courtyard level of the Galleria. There’d be plenty of people t
here, and undoubtedly even this new mean version of Scott would not cause a scene in such a public place.

  She hoped.

  The door to the stairwell opened in front of her. An elderly couple walked out and Rachel nearly toppled over them. A hand went to her chest as she excused herself and secured her footing. The old man grinned at her, showing a mouth of teeth that hadn’t seen a dentist in a decade.

  “Nothing to worry about, dear,” he said. His wife held the door for Rachel and they traded smiles.

  “Thanks,” said Rachel as she skirted past them.

  The woman held the door for Scott, who didn’t reward her with a courtesy smile or a pleasant little thank you. He caught up with Rachel and took her arm. Then he just stood there, staring at her, waiting for the door to close behind them before saying anything. At least she had been right about him not wanting to cause a public scene.

  “You can’t do this to me.” He squeezed. Hard.

  “Let me go.”

  “Not until we talk this out,” he said, squeezing harder.

  None of this is real.

  The crook of Rachel’s arm ached where Scott had her. For such a skinny kid, he sure was strong.

  “I told you, we’ll talk about this after work. I’m sorry.”

  “No.”

  “I said let me go!”

  Rachel pulled away with defiance. Scott held on. Caught off balance, he fell forward. There was a moment as he lost his grip on Rachel where it looked like he might actually get a hold of the railing, but the moment passed.

  Down the stairs he tumbled, head over heels, end over end. The stairwell filled with the sounds of his arms slapping against the walls, his feet and knees banging into the stairs. His head hit the fifth stair down and his neck twisted at an obscene angle. Something cracked. His feet hit the landing where the stairs turned. The rest of Scott Franklin followed, his body resting against the wall of the stairwell.

  The silence was overpowering. It was worse than the sound of Scott’s Hate Breath. Although his descent had lasted no more than five seconds, the sounds of his bones cracking and his flesh smacking against the concrete would go on forever in Rachel’s mind. Through it all, Scott hadn’t uttered a single peep. He had stopped wanting to talk it over.

  Rachel made sure that the door behind her was still closed, that the agreeable elderly couple hadn’t returned to see what all the noise was about. Then she slowly started down the stairs toward the body.

  There was no blood and she took that as a good sign. He hadn’t broken the skin.

  But his head. It was backwards.

  She didn’t realize her hands were shaking until she saw her fingers vibrating in front of her as she reached out for him. She tried to say his name, but all that came out of her mouth was a weird little noise that didn’t sound like a word at all.

  “Don’t bother, he’s dead.”

  Rachel jumped. Her hands were trembling even more, now. She didn’t think that was possible, but there it was.

  Coming up the stairs from the courtyard level was the owner of the voice, a clean shaven old man. Bald, she guessed his age to be somewhere around seventy by the amount of wrinkles on his face and the wise glow of his eyes. His clothes were a ragged ramshackle of leftovers the Salvation Army would turn down. A dark leather jacket, three sizes too big, covered a tattered blue sweatshirt. The jeans were held together by dirt, with more holes than fabric.

  “He fell,” she said, finding her ability to speak again.

  “I know,” said the old man. “But it’s still your fault. Yes sirree. I’m sorry: yes ma’am-ee. Is that even a word?”

  He reached for her, his steady hand a grotesque contradiction to Rachel’s wavering fingers. The sleeve of his jacket opened up below his wrist. Something moved in there, and it wasn’t his arm.

  Before Rachel could find out what it was, she slid past the old man and started down the stairs. Maybe it was the fact that the old coot knew more than he should—or could—but Rachel couldn’t argue the fact that Scott’s fall was her fault.

  No it’s not, she thought as she ran down the stairs. If anything, it’s Scott’s fault. He’s the asshole here. But if I hadn’t lied to him, none of this would’ve happened. Jesus Rachel, just get down the fucking stairs and think about it later.

  Her feet skidded on the concrete as she approached the courtyard door and reached for the handle.

  “I can make that guilt you’re feeling go away,” the old man said.

  Rachel stopped. A cockroach crawled across one of her sneakers.

  “It ain’t much now, you’re more scared than anything, but it’ll grow,” he whispered. “And you’ll have to live with it. It’ll never go away. For. The. Rest. Of. Your. Life.”

  The bug crawled up her leg as the next ten years of her life flashed in front of her eyes. Not entire days, but little snippets of moments-

  -her graduation from high school and what a bore and a chore it had been-

  -none of this is real-

  -the time her and Jimmy made love in her parent’s bed when they were on vacation in Hawai’i-

  -none of this is real-

  -the moment Jimmy pulled the trigger on his shotgun, killing convenience store clerk Frank Bancroft-

  -but NONE OF THIS IS REAL, Rachel!!!

  She pushed that other voice out of her head. It wasn’t hers, but it sounded familiar. She didn’t care, though. To Rachel, this was as real as things got. And the one thing all those moments had in common was an underlying remorse. A tightness in her chest that she knew, as the old man had said, would never go away. No amount of repeating “none of this is real” would change that.

  Just run. None of this is real, so just RUN.

  The memory of Scott Franklin wasn’t in any of those moments because she had worked so hard to block him out. She wouldn’t remember his name until she was in the shed years later, but the feeling of shame and guilt was with her from the second she saw Scott’s twisted neck. The craziness of it all was that she actually believed the old man could help her. She didn’t know how or why, she just knew.

  He was right next to her, whispering: “Let yourself go and this moment will disappear. The suffering will stop. There will be no more nightmares.”

  Now there was an army of cockroaches creeping up her legs, and that’s when Rachel lost it. She pulled the door to the courtyard open, shoving the old man back, and did what that other voice in her head told her to do.

  She ran.

  * * *

  Rachel’s feet scrambled on the dirt. She had been expecting the smooth concrete of the Sherman Oaks Galleria courtyard, not the rough terrain of a dirt road. She looked behind her and found a watch and clock repair store; the parking garage was gone, as was the Galleria itself. She had returned to the town.

  A dog barked to her right. She turned to see Roscoe leap to his feet and begin running toward a woman and a teenage girl—Sophia and Jody—a block away. Behind Roscoe, Mike Randal stood in the middle of the street, a hand to either side of his head, his eyes closed.

  THE DARK MANSION

  44.

  All but one of the smoke walls had disappeared. Like an old garage door that just couldn’t do its job one more time, the remaining wall hovered two feet above the ground.

  Mike Randal didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Rachel, Sophia and Jody were coming his way. He didn’t need to see them—he could feel them.

  He felt them exit the smoke along with their fears and nightmares and heartaches. Confusion was on their minds, which was perfectly natural. Mike was still rather confused himself, but he was getting a good idea of what was going on. Believing it was another struggle altogether.

  It was with some sadness and confusion that Mike realized Brett, the nice kid who loved Star Wars and was maybe a little slow in the head, wasn’t to be sensed anywhere.

  None of this is real, Mike pushed. The thought echoed back to him. Brett’s line may have been open, but the kid wasn’t picki
ng up. Brett, come on, buddy. None of this is real.

  He heard the wind—his ears where still in the town—but there was nothing to hear in his head but his own thoughts.

  Mike finally opened his eyes. The others had halted in the intersection, giving him the space he needed to do whatever it was he was doing. Or maybe they were just freaked out by the guy in the Dallas Cowboys cap with his hands to his head pretending he was Professor X from the X-Men.

  There was nothing else he could do. At least nothing else he could think of to do. Maybe Alison had given him some secret code, but he hadn’t gotten the secret deciphering key before the Bug Man had cut off their connection.

  The kid was gone. His phone line had been severed and Mike couldn’t get a call through anymore.

  So he hung up.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Mike said.

  * * *

  They communed in the intersection. Every now and then a tiny ripple would go through the one remaining wall, Brett’s wall, like a pebble being dropped in a lake. The wave would swell to the edges and then slowly flow back to the center. Swell and flow, swell and flow. A heartbeat. Whenever this would happen, Mike would place his hands to his temples—he was all about playing The Amazing Kreskin now—but a few seconds later he’d drop his hands and shake his head.

  Soon they all found themselves on their knees, peering under the smoke for a sign into Brett’s World. All they saw underneath was the street they would’ve seen had the smoke not been there.

  Sophia rubbed Roscoe between the ears (he seemed more than ecstatic to have her back) as she concluded the story of her adventure back through time. And although the details of her story were vastly different from everyone else’s, they all shared one thing in common: the old man that had showed up, the asshole who wanted them to pay for their mistakes and sins and lies.