In Dark Corners (14 page)

"I see." Galen did not know what else to say.

After several seconds of silence, Martin continued, "Unfortunately, I anticipate no other teaching opportunities with the County next year. Of course I'll be happy to give you a strong recommendation if you find something elsewhere." He paused and packed his pipe, then stood and offered his hand. That was that.

Leaving the County office, Galen thought: I'm unemployed. Out of work in a couple of months. He rubbed his right hand, which ached. What the hell was he going to do after June? An artist who couldn't use his hands, with a degree in art history; his options seemed limited at best. Maybe something at the junior college? No. He had to admit he'd been an ineffective teacher even with students who were
not
prone to criticism. And college students…

That afternoon, after his last class at Theodore Roosevelt, Galen drove straight to the old Jamison place. He parked the VW under the oak and slid out of the bucket seat, glancing up at the house. Damn. Rennie's window was closed! Now that was strange. He was sure it'd been open last night. He shook his head and moved around the car, stopping short of the chalked drawing. He'd expected the man with no face to be gone, washed away by last night's rain. But it was still there…and more. The figure was kneeling, staring down, but more elaborate, the angular lines softened, brushed slightly, making the drawing less crude, more subtle. Still the man lacked a face; and now, in a more sophisticated sketch, the lack of detail was even more striking. Galen studied the changes technically; the artist had added more lines, cleverly varying length, using different degrees of pressure on the chalk and brushing for tone, but he found no use of curves. Curious. And there was some background added behind the figure: a tree, its lines soft, undefined.

Galen turned slightly to his left and stepped back into the street, looking up at the live oak, comparing it to the drawing. Of course it matched.
Who was doing this?
he asked himself.

Still puzzled, Galen turned to the Volks and picked up the watchman's flashlight. Then he walked up the driveway. Kid? No, that didn't really square with the growing technical competence of the chalked drawing…No, it wasn't a kid's prank. He walked up the steps of the old house, caution slowing his stride. He paused and listened intently at the front door. Nothing. I wish I had called the sheriff, Galen thought, feeling even more uneasy as the front door creaked open.

Late afternoon, gloomy silence and musty smelling.

In the front room Galen checked the windows. Locked. Everything appeared secure. He went through each room on the ground floor, finding nothing disturbed, the furniture draped with sheets just as they'd left it. The kitchen, pantry and sewing room were in perfect order. Galen paused in his studio, the emptiness closing in on him, increasing his unease. The last time he'd worked in this room was
that
day.

He put the flashlight under his arm and blew on his cold fingers. Then he took a deep breath, closing his eyes.
Rennie, her brown eyes glistening
. Oh, God. He snapped his eyes open. I'm going around the bend, just like Lynn. He hurried out of the room.

Climbing the staircase to the second floor, Galen ran his hand along the smoothly-worn handrail, his shifting weight making each riser creak noisily. He shook his head as if warding off a pesky mosquito. The sun must've dipped behind the hills, he thought, noticing the darkness upstairs. He flipped on the big flashlight and checked the guest bedroom—windows locked, everything secure. Then he followed the yellow beam into the master bedroom—nothing disturbed. Down the hall to the other guest bedroom—okay, not even a wrinkle on the sheet over the bed. Finally he moved to the end of the hall, the last door—Rennie's room. He paused, his heart thumping against his ribs. He hadn't been inside the room since her funeral. After taking several deep breaths, the tightness eased slightly in his chest. He pushed open the door slowly, swinging the light around the room: Rennies's toy chest, her rocking horse, the clown paintings he'd done special for her. He moved closer to the mural on the walls; the stick figures were similar to the first man-with-no-face drawings. He shook his head.
That
thought was crazy—

A noise startled him.

Galen flashed the light on Rennie's bed. The covering was bunched, wrinkled, half on the floor—and something had moved under the bed. He swallowed hard, jumping back as something darted across the floor for the open door. A ball of orange fur—Rennie's pet cat.

"Rhubarb, Rhubarb," he shouted, following the animal out the door. But it was too late; the frightened cat was gone, down the staircase…The pet had disappeared shortly after Rennie's funeral and they'd assumed it was dead. Obviously not. Had it been around here for a year? Galen shivered; he was cold and tired.

Downstairs he slumped onto the couch, not even bothering to remove the white sheets. The cat reminded him of happier times. Lynn had brought Rhubarb home when they were still in Minnesota…

***

It had been the time of the annual St. Paul Winter Carnival. Lynn had bundled the two-year-old Rennie in a bulky snowsuit and taken her to a nearby park to see the elaborate ice sculptures. She chased the little toddler across the drawbridge of an ice castle, along the ramparts, down a tower, through a courtyard and back across the solid moat. The roly-poly two-year-old scrambled up the side of a huge bear and scooted down its backside, a tiny kitten joining her. Lynn finally caught up near Snow White and the Dwarves. The two rested on their backs, cheeks a strawberry red, gasping geysers of mist into the air as the kitten climbed over them. A TV cameraman had recorded it all and Galen and Lynn had watched it as an overlay on the 11:00 o'clock news. They'd made love on the couch in front of the TV, giggling at each other's goose-pimpled nakedness and the little orange kitten that wanted to join the play.

***

Galen forced himself up off the couch. Outside the house, he stopped near the chalk drawing. How could Rennie do this? It was ridiculous, but he was convinced that somehow the drawing related to his dead daughter. He climbed back into the Volks.

***

The sky was dark and overcast at the end of Oakwood Lane. From his spot under the live oak, Galen could barely see the house. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, then leaned forward and poured himself another brandy-laced coffee. Sipping the hot drink, he settled down in the canvas chair, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. He blinked back tears. What am I doing here? he asked himself. Earlier it had seemed like such a good idea to sneak out here and set up a stakeout. He'd parked the VW on 29 just at dark and hiked in, carrying the chair, blanket, thermos and a couple of joints, careful to keep out of sight of the old Jamison place. But after two hours of sitting in the cold and getting loaded, the idea seemed pretty stupid. He wasn't sure now what he'd expected to find out. Too much TV. He leaned away from the trunk and checked the mouth of the driveway—he couldn't actually see the drawing from here, but he'd spot anyone coming up. So far, nothing.

The buzz from the dope was wearing off and the brandy was making him sleepy…

Galen's eyes blinked open. Confused, his reactions slowed, he struggled up out of the canvas chair. Someone was at the drawing, someone very small. He blinked. The figure dissolved to a ball…the ball moved toward him.

"Ahh," he shouted, lifting his arms to shield his face. But the ball of fur dashed by Galen and up the tree. He blinked again, rubbing his eyes. Had he been dreaming? Maybe it was Rhubarb, he wasn't sure. He was unsteady on his feet, sweaty under the heavy blanket. He let the cover slip from his shoulders and moved closer to check the drawing.

The figure's position had been changed, more frontal now, the face exposed to view. Head cocked, the figure appeared to be listening to something. On the ground was a piece of chalk. Galen picked it up. His fingers felt supple, alive. He kneeled and made a few tentative strokes. Gaining confidence, he began to sketch boldly. First the facial details, eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth. Then the subtler marks of expression: a lined forehead, crow's feet at the corners of the eyes, the deep creases around the mouth. Sketch, smudge, soften. He worked furiously for several minutes, the chalk detailing the features from his subconscious mind's eye. The creative outburst was finally complete. Galen sucked in his breath: It was his own face! He had regained his touch, the arthritis gone. The nature of the drawing was clear. The figure was looking down at a drawing, but something—a sound from behind?—had caused the figure to look up and turn slightly.

Suddenly he had the creepy feeling of being watched.

Then he heard something from up in the tree. He turned slightly, cocking his head, listening. At that moment he realized he was striking the pose in the drawing at his feet. Something very strange was taking place—

A voice from the treetop, hardly more than a whisper, "Da-dee, Da-dee…"

Good God, it was her. "I'm coming, Baby, I'm coming," he shouted, struggling up the old rope ladder. Up, up he pulled himself, tears blurring his vision. Then he saw it. A face. He brushed aside a limb. It was Rennie—

No: her features dissolved, replaced by a man. A man grinning, his face puffy and discolored a dark indigo…and fading. Nothing there but rough tree trunk.

Snap.

A rung gave away and Galen was falling…falling, something tangling around his neck, growing tighter, tighter. And as the blackness closed in, he knew Aunt Jane had been right.

Last night was
Monday Night Football
on ABC, always a hectic time at Judnich's; but with the Minnesota Vikings coming to town to play the 49ers, I knew before opening it would be crazy. Little did I know how crazy. K.D. usually made sandwiches and waited tables on busy nights, and Gavin helped behind the bar, but he was sick and I couldn't find another part-time bartender. So, after opening up, I fortified myself early with a pair of double Smirnoff's.

Guys hurried in right from work from the surrounding industrial area. By 6:00, half an hour till kick-off, the oak bar that ran the length of the room was three deep, shoulder-to-shoulder with customers talking, laughing, betting, and bugging their neighbors:

"Hey, Tark can't carry Brodie's jock!"

"Well, Howard says—"

"Oh, man, Cosell don't know jack shit."

"Guess y'all doan 'member what Sayers did to 'em in the mud?"

"Hey, Seamus, turn up the sound willya?"

After punching up a sale on the old-fashioned brass cash register centered behind the bar, I glanced up at the big screen where Don Meredith had taken the mike and was giving his pre-game analysis. The guys liked Gifford, tolerated Cosell, but they loved Dandy Don. I turned back and shrugged at the meat-cutter from the Safeway plant down the hill. It wasn't any use raising the volume with all the hubbub.

K.D.'s chili must've smelled good to the crowd, because it was gone before kickoff. And most of her sandwiches, too. I managed to keep up with the drink orders even without help, because everything ordered was fast and easy. Most of the crowd were beer drinkers. Even a trio of couples at the tables near the unplugged jukebox weren't ordering anything tough, except for one yo-yo from Bay City Steel trying to impress a secretary from uptown with margaritas. But they'd come in early and I'd whipped up a whole pitcher on the first order and just poured refills. I'd even managed a couple of sips from my third Smirnoff's. Oh, I was into it. The game started…

Then someone caught my attention and motioned downbar to Mr. McIntire, holding up the phone for me to come answer. I nodded at K.D.'s tray, which I was filling with Miller drafts. He shrugged, still holding out the phone. I figured it must be important, because Mr. Mac always answered the phone on busy nights and could handle routine bullshit himself. He was a regular, a court reporter who lived nearby and came in every night for his
medicine
to take the edge off constant back pain. He walked with the aid of aluminum canes, the kind with sleeves that slipped around his forearms—polio or something when he was a kid. Anyhow I nodded back and mouthed,
one minute
, while I finished K.D.'s order. I worked my way down the bar, the crowd settling down a little, now that the game had started. Brodie had already marched the 49ers down the field on the opening drive for a score. Still, the noise level was pretty high, and I had to cover one ear when I took the phone from Mr. Mac. "'lo," I snapped, not trying to hide my irritation, "Cavanaugh speaking."

For a few seconds there was dead silence on the phone, and I glanced over at Mr. Mac with a questioning expression, thinking whoever it was had got tired of waiting. But the old man was busy watching the game and sipping his shot of Jack D.

Then I heard a low chuckle and pulled the phone back to my ear in time to hear: "Hello, Clyde,"

I hadn't heard
that
for over twelve years. It dated back to my high school days when a writer for the
Chronicle
described my floor play like that of a "pale Walt Frazier."

Frazier, the slick guard for the New York Knicks, had been dubbed Clyde for the way he dressed in period '30s—reminiscent of Clyde in the movie
Bonnie and Clyde
. But only one person knew
all
that.

"Are you there, Clyde?"

Even after all the years there was no mistaking her voice: husky and full-throated, but not masculine, much smoother, like an Eartha Kitt without the purr. It was Grace Williams. Still in shock I managed a weak, "Gracie, is it you?"

She ignored the stupid question. "I've missed you Clyde. It's been a long time, but I'm back…back home."