A Human Element (3 page)

"Come on," he said. He put his arm around Fanny and helped her up. "Let's get you into the house and get Doctor Anna over here. Maybe she can tell us what happened."

"No, no." Fanny shook her head. "I don't need Doctor Anna to tell me I'm all right. Whatever happened is God's will."

Wesley looked at Laura again. "I don't know if it's God's will at work here …or something else."

Laura hung her head and helped Fanny to the house. She had seen how her father looked at her. She didn't want him to look at her that way. She just wanted to be his normal little girl again and have him toss her up in a tickle hug and sing silly songs and snuggle up with a book. She didn't want their life to change.

As they walked in small steps across the lawn, Laura spotted movement in the woods across the road. A man dressed in black. He stepped out from behind a tree and stared at her. She had never seen him before. He moved closer onto the road and stood motionless under the bright sunlight that created long shadows in the late afternoon.

Even from across the road she could see his bright, green eyes. He crammed his hands into his black jeans as he hunched over. His thick, furrowed eyebrows gave him a menacing look, yet his face held puzzlement too. Laura looked at Fanny and Wesley but they hadn't seen the stranger. She shut her eyes and pinched her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. When she looked back, the man turned and melted into the shadowy woods. She held Fanny's hand harder.

Laura just wanted everything to be the same. But she knew in her young heart her life might never be the same.

Ben Fieldstone watched the coffin as it was lowered into the earth and fantasized new ways to kill his foster father.

He drags Frank in his drunken daze to the shed, holds up his reeking body, and presses his head in the vise on the workbench. He winds the mechanism…tighter, tighter…Frank mumbles and shrieks…his skin splits and blood oozes down his face.

He didn't know what would happen if you squeezed someone's head in a vise. Would it just pop and bits of brain and blood explode outward or would it be a slow, bloody mess? His heart pulsed quicker just thinking of it. He could never kill Frank, though. Ben was tall, but thin, and no match against Frank's bulky, squat frame.

"Hey, let's go." Frank nudged him. "I need to get outta here." His red-rimmed eyes made him appear forlorn over the passing of his wife, Emma, but Ben knew it was the booze. He nodded and flicked his bangs from his eyes and glanced over at the man who had been standing motionless across the cemetery throughout the service. He stood with his legs far apart, an immense figure clad all in black. Ben couldn't see his face. Who could he be and why was he was there? But Ben had bigger problems to deal with now.

He ripped off his jacket and headed toward the rusty car baking in the blistering August heat. It was as if the world had taken its last breath. Summer had sucked the life out of all things green, leaving the cemetery a burnt landscape. His shirt clung to his chest, and the sweat rolled down his back.

He already missed Emma. His foster mother had been kind to him, when she was sober. But when drunk, she had stared at the TV, ignoring Frank's rages. Those were the nights Frank chased him around the house. Sometimes he used the belt, the one with the heavy metal buckle on it that could catch him across the tender parts behind his knees. Sometimes Frank just liked to kick and pummel. Ben, at seventeen, was afraid to fight back. He'd weather the beatings until he turned eighteen. He had been in five foster homes over the past eight years. He'd seen worse.

He and Frank drove back in silence.

"You need to take over Emma's place now." Frank pulled up to their small bungalow. "The laundry, dishes, cleaning…grocery shopping, too."

A tear slid down his sagging cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. Ben tried to feel sympathy, but staring at Frank's rough hands on the steering wheel, he only felt hatred.

"No problem." Ben jumped out of the car. Up in his room he stretched out on his bed and let his mind wander. If he hadn't run away the night at the lake, he would be dead too, just like his parents. Sometimes he wished it had happened. Dead would be better than this place. Since then he had closed himself off from people. He didn't want to take the chance of loving anyone again. Besides, no one wanted to adopt a sullen teen. If a foster family decided not to keep him, he couldn't be hurt by their rejection. So he shuffled along from family to family, biding his time and keeping his painful memories just beneath the surface. He closed his eyes against them now and dozed off.

When he woke up, dark enveloped him. Banging noises came from downstairs. He jerked upright. What could Frank be doing? He eased out of his room and moved with quiet control down the stairs from his room. He found Frank smoking at the kitchen table. The light hovered dim, the globe full of dead bugs. Ben counted nine empty beer cans scrunched up on the table.

"Want something to eat?" he asked, to gauge Frank's mood. He opened the fridge.

"If I wanted something to eat, don'tcha think I'd be eating it?" Frank spat out. Grimacing, he dropped his head on his arms and started to cry.

Ben stood still. The sobbing bounced off him. He shifted from foot to foot the longer Frank cried. He forced himself to move nearer and placed his hand on Frank's thick shoulder.

"We'll be okay. You'll see." Ben tensed and snatched back his hand in disgust. As he turned back to the fridge, Frank touched his bottom. Ben stopped mid-step. He held his breath. He told himself it was just a light pat. Until the pat became a caress. It lingered. Soft in its want. He darted to his room, not looking back.

He dragged out his backpack from beneath his dusty bed and filled it, keeping one ear cocked for Frank's approach.

And it came.

He shoved the backpack under his bed. The door swung open, and there stood Frank.

"Don't ever walk away from me. You hear?" Frank leaned on the doorframe, his shirt clinging to his gut.

Ben nodded with his head down, hoping Frank would leave. He had a terrifying vision of Frank throwing him on the bed, pulling down his jeans, and mounting him like a pig. He clenched his buttocks together.

"Why don't you answer me?" Frank staggered into the room, his face red and sweaty. He grabbed Ben by the shirt. "Get up!"

Ben shook off Frank's hand. "Leave me alone! You make me sick."

Frank's eyes narrowed. He shoved Ben down. He kicked him in the back, then the head. Ben curled into a fetal position.

"Who do you think—you—are?" Frank delivered a kick with each word.

Fury exploded through Ben's brain.
Enough!
He grabbed Frank's foot mid-kick, throwing him off balance, and punched him hard in the chest as he fell. Frank made a loud
whoomph
as he landed on an elbow. He slowly stood and clutching his elbow, took a shaky step toward Ben. But then Frank's red face suddenly turned pale and he grabbed his left shoulder. He contorted in a twisted dance. With a gruesome grimace, he stumbled out of the room.

Ben touched his forehead. Blood oozed slick. He wasn't sure what just happened. But he was glad it did. His hands trembled. His back knotted with pain. He had to get out.

He pulled out a boot from under his bed and grabbed a roll of money he had been pilfering from Frank's top drawer over time. He had enough for a bus ticket and a cheap room for a few days. He'd find a place where no one could hurt him again. If he was found and brought back to Frank the beating might be more than he could take. But he had to face this fear. If Frank did more than beat him he would want to die anyway.

He swung his backpack over his shoulder and looked back at the bare room. He had never belonged here. He fought off self-pity and pushed open the door to listen. The television's ghostly light poured from Frank's bedroom and murmured old comedy.

Ben tiptoed to the door. Frank sat in bed, his eyes shut. He had passed out, an arm spread out on his leg, newspapers strewn around him. A cigarette hung from his fingers, the ash still glowing. The television flickered, canned laughter filled the room. Ben kept his gaze on the cigarette. The ash grew. Then the cigarette slipped. It quivered. It tumbled in slow motion. Nothing happened. The sheets smoldered. Laughter rang out again. Ben looked at the television. Some character ran around a kitchen. His gaze returned to the fallen cigarette. Minutes passed like hours to him.

He needed to choose. Run, or pick up the cigarette and prevent the certain fire? If he did nothing and Frank died, would he be a murderer? But Frank could have killed him just now. Might still kill him, or worse, if he ever caught him. He continued to stare where the cigarette fell.

The flames burst up from the newspapers and sheets and fanned along the comforter. It framed Frank in a soft glow. They licked with hungry abandon through the old bedspread until Frank's image blurred. Why didn't Frank wake up? But he looked so serene, so harmless. Ben felt free and safe seeing him like that.

And he knew. He had to live. He wanted to live.

He ran.

Laura pumped her bicycle so fast her legs burned like the rising sun along the empty road. Summer spilled all around her as the sky grew lighter, casting long shadows across her path. She had slipped out of the house just as the birds woke up. They called to her as she sped along.
Hurry, hurry, Laura
! She chugged up and down hills.

She spun down the narrow entrance road to the grassy parking area and bumped along the uneven ruts that had been there as long as she could remember. Once she reached the birch logs that stretched across the grass marking the parking area, she threw her bicycle down and pulled off her backpack.

She unzipped the sagging, worn bag and brought out the knotty old blanket she always carried with her. She never knew when she might need it. She could find herself drawn through thick woods to where a window opened onto a glorious field of soft blowing grasses. Then, she would glide through the golden rushes and rest amongst nature's soft noise to stare at blue skies.

It was magical how a field came to be in the middle of the woods, a bare, open plain encased by uneven and roaming rock walls. Maybe it was a magical meadow that appeared just as she came upon it and disappeared when she left. She loved the movie
Brigadoon
about a town in Scotland appearing one day every one-hundred years. The town stayed the same while the world changed around it in a flash.

She spread out her blanket on the grass and sat cross-legged, facing the lake with her notebook and pen in hand, waiting for the sun to hit the water. She wanted to capture in words the beauty of the summer morning all around her. The sun burst out of the treetops and shot shimmering jewels across the water. Laura shielded her eyes and her heart leaped with a thrill. She had made it just in time.

The cool morning air blew off the water and embraced her. She closed her eyes for just a second to feel the warmth of the sun on her face, but instead a slobbery snout nudged her cheeks and hair.

"Hey," she shouted in surprise and scrambled up to find an old, chocolate Labrador sniffing her legs. He had white whiskers around his jaw and a pleading, sad look. He instantly became her friend. She fell back down on her knees and wiggled his ears.

"Where'd you come from?" Laura scratched his head. "You're so cute!"

She laughed as he tickled her with his nose.

"Scooter," a gruff voice called. "Come here, boy."

Laura looked up to see a trim, old man whacking through the brush in the woods. It had to be the hermit people talked about. She had seen him from afar, with his gray cap, but never up close. The old man twitched, startled to see her there with his dog. He stopped a few feet away from her. He didn't look like a hermit but a nice, normal grandpa dressed in jeans and a green plaid shirt. He leaned on a crooked, black walking stick. He looked in good shape for an old geezer.

"Scooter, come here, boy," he called again, but the dog remained entranced by Laura.

"He's so sweet." She nuzzled the dog's head and smiled at the old man.

He scrunched his eyebrows down as if to get a better look at her. "He took off on me."

"Maybe he knew I would be here and wanted to make friends."

Scooter jumped up with a woof and put his paws on her as if in agreement.

"See?" Laura laughed. "Scooter. What a cool name. Are you fast like a scooter?"

"
Hmph
, not anymore." The old man moved toward her and whistled to get the dog's attention. "Well, come on Scooter, leave the girl alone. Let's get home."

Laura stood up. "But you didn't ask me my name and I don't know yours either."

The old man frowned, taken off guard by her directness. "It's Jim Barrens."

"I'm Laura Armstrong. I'm eleven." She stuck out her hand and smiled. "Nice to meet you."

Jim looked at her hand as if unsure what to do, as if children were a mystery to him. Finally, he shook her hand and nodded.

"Cool sunrise, huh?" Laura pointed at the sky. "I like to come here early when no one is around. It's as if I'm the only person awake in the whole world. But now you're here, too. Did you get up just to see the sunrise?"

"Um, not exactly. Scooter here had to go out."

"Oh yeah, dogs are like that, I guess. I never had one but wanted one. We just have cats but they live in the barn. And chickens, too. I feed them and clean their house. I name them all, too, and can tell them apart. They're feathers are so soft. We got new ones this year to lay more eggs to sell."

"
Hmph
." Jim nodded. His gaze followed her hands that painted pictures in the air. "You must live close by if you biked here, eh?" Jim moved a little closer and jerked a thumb at her bike.

"I do. I live a couple miles away on top of a hill, on the long windy road going down the mountain."

"I know where it is. I live up there." He pointed up into the woods.

"I know. I've seen you sometimes. You're the only person who still lives year-round above the lake, right? People call you a hermit. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"A hermit?" She tilted her head at him and raised her eyebrows.

"No." He paused for a moment. "I am a solitudinarian."

Laura giggled and spread her arms out wide. "What the heck is that?"

"A person who chooses to be alone and does it well."

"So what's the difference between that and a hermit?"

Jim looked out over the lake. The sun rose clear of the horizon now. "A hermit is sad and lonely and lives far away from people. I am none of those."

"But you're not near people. You're the only person who lives at the lake now."

"Yes, but not by choice. The government took care of that."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that's a conversation for another day."

"So we'll meet again?" Laura flicked her hair out of her face and grinned at him.

"I suppose." Jim nodded in a non-committal fashion. "Do your parents know you're here?"

They continued to pet Scooter, who by now leaned his long body into both of them, luxuriating in all the affection.

"They know I take off early in the morning to catch sunrises. It's all part of my journal writing, see?" Laura picked up her book from her blanket and flipped through the pages. "I'm making a sunrise diary. It's a book of all the different sunrises I see in all kinds of weather. Clear skies, snow, rain, mist. Sunrises are like snowflakes you know, each one is special. Today's sunrise is different than any other sunrise you'll see. Neat, huh?"

Jim scratched his cropped, gray hair and gave her a full smile. Minute by minute he seemed less like a hermit to her and more like a friend.

"Definitely," Jim said. "But why not take pictures of the sunrises and have a real visual memory, not just a description?"

Laura's eyes grew wide and she clapped one hand on her journal, startling Scooter. "Aha! Because a picture is so easy to take. Every sunrise I see makes me feel and see different stuff. Mist is a cool one. The sun glows through it and the water drops look like glittery fairies. And my description of each sunrise will also change because of how I feel that day too. That can't be found in a picture, right?"

"Hmm…photographers may argue the point, but I get it." Jim now had a full grin on his face. "Well, time for us to go. Come on, Scooter, you old dog."

Laura knelt down and put her arms around Scooter's neck. "You're so sweet, I love you."

Scooter woofed in agreement.

"You could meet me here again some other sunrise, you know, or anytime? You and Scooter. I'm home-schooled so can come whenever."

Jim looked down at her and nodded. "We just might. Bye now."

Laura waved as they left and turned back to the lake. The sun grew bright overhead. The mist had blown off the water. The day stood open for business. Since she missed writing about the sunrise maybe she would just have to write about her new friends, Mr. B and Scooter. How cool she had met the hermit! He intrigued her and she had to find out more. She sensed he didn't want to get to know her. She sensed his thoughts and his past.
He's afraid, that's all
.

She smiled as she described him in her journal.

Mr. B is a serious, old solitude dude who roams the woods with his loyal chocolate lab, Scooter. He is sad because he lost his wife and pretends to be gruff but has a good heart. Oh, and nice blue eyes too.

It would be her mission to help Mr. B. She pulled out her thesaurus she carried in her backpack. Now what was the opposite of solitude? Social?
Boring.
She looked up another word for social. Convivial.
Great word!
She wrote it down. She would make Mr. B into a chooser of people not aloneness. He would be a convivialtarian. That would be her word for the day, if it existed. She plotted next what she could do to help her new friend become part of her world.

She couldn't wait to share it with him.

Jim woke up the next day at 6:30 a.m. to rain and darkness. It drummed loud on the cabin roof. A sound he liked. Nature talking to him. It made him feel not so alone. He was glad he had the place winterized ten years ago. He could be snug from rain and snow. It wasn't a large place, but just enough for him and Scooter. The place he most enjoyed in the summer was the screened-in porch. He could enjoy the woods without being devoured by mosquitoes.

He saw Laura in his mind sitting at the lake writing about the rainy sunrise.
Today's sunrise is different than any other.
Her words echoed in his head and he smiled thinking about her. He tried to remember the last time he had such a conversation and couldn't. He'd been alone a long time.

He and his wife, Susan, had bought this as a vacation place years before people started building cabins around the lake. Back then the lake appeared at night as a dark void below. Through the years they watched as each cabin lit up below. It looked like a set of Christmas lights strung around one large glass globe.

Then, there were the two agonizing years when Susan battled cancer. Jim could only watch her slip away. The cancer spread to her brain but her loss hadn't been a blessing. He had been filled with rage and couldn't bring himself to speak to people. He sold his tax accounting business and their house in Pennsylvania, said goodbye to three old friends, loaded household items, and drove with Scooter the four hours to the cabin. These days he was surrounded by his own silence and Scooter's snoring, not the chatter of energetic children.

He got the sense with this girl, Laura, the spotlight on the stage he stood on alone would grow to encompass the audience as well. But then the solitary life he had built over the past years would disappear. He wasn't sure he wanted that to happen. He had grown content, at peace.

"Enough ruminating, Jim."

He got up and fed Scooter, then poured himself a mug of strong, Columbian coffee. He cupped his gnarled hands around it to feel warm in the chill and damp of a rainy, July morning. The cold made his arthritic hands stiffer than usual. He stepped out on his covered porch to watch the rain and nearly dropped his coffee cup. There on the small table beside his rocking chair sat a pie. It smelled delicious. Sweet, baked peaches oozed juice over a golden crust. He touched it and found it still warm. A folded note was placed beside it with a sunflower on top.

Dear Mr. B, something from my orchard to you. I hope the sunflower brings you a ray of light on this rainy day. Your new friend, Laura.

He didn't know how she managed to carry a pie in her backpack over bumpy, dirt roads in the rain without smashing it, and then up the overgrown trail to his cabin. She must have been up quite early to bake this for him. She must still be nearby. He grabbed his rain coat and roused Scooter, who was snoozing again after his breakfast.

"Come on, old boy." Jim stroked his ears. "We have to go find Laura and thank her."

Scooter perked up at her name and trotted along beside him down the porch steps and out into the rain. Big, wet splotches plunked down on them as the rain fought to get past the heavy leaf cover. They followed the rough, half-mile long path down to the lake. Small footprints oozed in the mud every few feet. She had been here all right. In the course of one day a young girl befriended him and baked him a pie. He couldn't stop smiling. At seventy-two years old he was actually giddy.

"Come on, Scooter, we don't want to miss her. Keep up, boy."

The old dog and the old man reached the bottom of the trail and the lake spread out before them. Tendrils of mist rose from the water lapping at the shoreline. A gray curtain of rain fell steady and soft. A faint
pling, pling
called out as the raindrops met their end.

Jim stopped and peered through the fog that rolled across the water and filled the woods beyond. The sky hung heavy, descending upon the mountaintop as if it wanted to crush it. He could see the ghostly outlines of several empty cabins surrounding part of the lake. They sank into ruin after the government forced the owners to sell so they could close off the lake area affected by the meteorite all those years ago. The damn government didn't even have the sense to knock the cabins down.