Lineage (21 page)

John nodded without looking in Lance’s direction. “I built this place for her. My two hands, a hammer, and some nails were all it took. We moved here from a little town down south called
Delrose
.
High-school sweethearts—wasn’t anything
more foolish or more wise than what we had. Love pushed us this way after we graduated. I turned eighteen, and May, my wife, she was just shy of that when we got ourselves a one-room apartment down in
Duluth
. I tried working on a fishing boat for a while but it didn’t take. Must be my Irish legs stopped their heritage just short of the waterline in my case. Gave me a taste for beer, though,” John said, as he sipped the last of the brew appreciatively.

“I got a job caretaking at your place shortly thereafter,” John continued. “It wasn’t much at first, but it grew into more, and after a bit my name got around to the other, wealthier, folks up and down the shore. We were able to scrape enough together to build this place, and May eventually got her teaching degree. She taught at the school in
Stony
Bay
, second and third grade mostly.” John abruptly stopped speaking again.

The pause stretched out and Lance became sure John wasn’t going to continue. He weighed his next words carefully, and spoke them with as much tenderness as he
could,
continuing with what the alcohol had nudged into view. “When did she pass away?” The question swept across the deck like a subtle gust of wind, but Lance could see its effect on the caretaker. John’s eyes scrunched as if remembering a nightmare from only hours ago, and Lance regretted actually voicing his curiosity.

“Fifteen years ago this December.
Cancer.”
The older man spat the word as if it left an acrid taste in his mouth. “I watched her, the woman I swore to care for and cherish, I watched her …”

John’s eyes were still closed tight and Lance considered telling him to stop, not to cause himself any more pain. But in the midst of the other man’s anguish, Lance sensed a deep need for John to say the words. Perhaps he felt that if he revealed what had been festering within, it would diminish, like a wound partially relieved of its infection.

“I watched her die,” John finished, and breathed out.

The caretaker’s eyes were wet and Lance looked away out of respect. He didn’t know how to react or what to say. He felt as if the other man had bared a piece of himself so raw it glistened with newness and pain. The urge to divulge the details of his own childhood to John arose within him. He reflexively shoved the images and longing to reveal his past away, and instead, offered the only words he knew that wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said at last.

John nodded as he stared at the leavings of the meal on his plate.
“Me too, son, me too.”
A reserved quiet fell over them again, disturbed only by the crickets and the sighing of the pines.

After making sure John had regained his composure, Lance asked the other question that had been nagging him. “Do you know what’s in the room at the base of the stairs?”

John shook his head. “Storage mostly, I think. Always been storage, ever since I’ve known the place.”

Lance frowned. “I can’t seem to get the door open. One of the keys on the ring seemed to fit it, but wouldn’t turn when I put it in the lock. You wouldn’t have the key on your ring, would you?” Lance watched John’s face for a flicker of hesitation that would belie his apparent ignorance.

“No.
Haven’t really had to go into the old place as of late.
Carrie’s had a cleaning company come in, so I’ve just tended the outdoors. As I said before, I haven’t been as enthusiastic since there’s been no one to appreciate it.” John turned his head toward Lance and rewarded him with a disarmingly genuine smile. “But now that you’ve moved in, that’ll change.”

Lance nodded and finished his beer in a few swallows, as John stood from the table and grabbed each of their plates.

“You feel like some dessert? I picked up a pie from the bakery today. I can’t bake worth a shit, but the gals at that shop sure can.”

The rest of the evening flowed past like an idle stream. Pie was eaten and current events were discussed. The two men shied away from anything resembling a deeply personal issue, so when the topic changed to politics, Lance was grateful that he and John shared similar views.

It was nearly midnight when Lance stepped out the front door, into the yellow glow of John’s yard light. The woods had fallen silent at last and only the occasional snap of a tree settling in the breeze disturbed the peace.

“Thanks so much for inviting me, it was really nice,” Lance said, extending his hand and shaking with John, who swayed above him on the stoop. Lance had stopped drinking after three beers, but John had carried on. After the eighth bottle had been exchanged in the kitchen, Lance quit counting.

“Don’t mention it, son. Glad we figured things out. Not good to have bad blood between people, poisons the soul.” 

“You’re right. You’ll be by the house this week?”

“Absolutely.
I have some real work to do before she looks as good as she did years ago, but we’ll get there.”

Lance smiled and waved as he walked toward the Land Rover waiting near the garage. He watched the old man turn and hobble back into the house and shut the door behind him. The sight pulled at Lance’s heart. He wondered if that would be him someday, alone with only nights of solitary drinking to look forward to. A voice that spoke only when he wished it wouldn’t
chimed
in as he turned the vehicle around and headed down the dark driveway.
It will be if you don’t let someone in.

Lance flicked the radio on and turned it up close to full volume to drown out any more words of wisdom, should the voice find it prudent to share its opinion again. He could see a light still on in the house behind him, and his mind replayed the evening once again. He could find no fault in John’s words, only honesty and deep sadness.

Before pulling onto the highway, he threw a final look back in the rearview mirror. The light had gone out in the house and only a black nebulousness floated behind the car, as if the world ended just past his bumper and fell away into nothingness.

Chapter 8

“This isn’t coincidence, there’s no such thing.”

—Brandon Boyd

The next two weeks passed by easily, as a routine became established in the large house overlooking the cooling September waters of
Superior
. Since the night Lance arrived home from John’s, there hadn’t been a single nightmare or invasion. The shotgun, which he’d forgotten in the back of the SUV until the evening of their dinner, remained unused but in an easy-to-reach position a few feet from Lance’s bedside. When he uncased it in the living room to admire its flawless shine of blued metal, he wondered if he was being rash in keeping a weapon on the premises. He had never felt the need to own one before, but after remembering the sight of the face floating in the darkness of his room, he decided that he wasn’t. With a flourish, he’d raised the shotgun in one hand over his head and yelled to the empty house.

“This is my
BOOM
stick!” He’d then laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.

Each day that dawned on the lake held the warmth and promise of a summer that refused to end. After waking, Lance sat at his post in the alcove each morning until lunch drove him to the kitchen to appease his hunger. The afternoons were normally spent writing until John’s truck made its appearance in the front yard. The two men would
gab,
normally over beer that Lance now kept cold for just this occasion, and then John would announce that he should get to work. Gradually, the yard became not just tidy but well-groomed, and Lance began to see how truly gifted John was with his shears and mower. The evenings, Lance spent alone. He would sometimes walk the shore to the far points of the bay that had spawned not only the town’s name but, in all reality, the town itself. John had filled him in on the local history one particularly hot afternoon after finishing his second beer of the day.

“Whole town was built on shipping, did you know that?” Lance shook his head, smiling at how John’s eyes lit up when telling a story.
“That bay right out there was a major shipping port a hundred years ago.
You wouldn’t think so, but the water gets real deep, real quick out there. Don’t go
wadin
’ in ’less you want to take a swim.”

“What about the rocks in front? How did the ships navigate between them?”

“Well, son, the ships you’re thinking of weren’t nearly the ships that are today. They could fit in smaller places than most. Although, they didn’t need to since those rocks you see out there were actually part of the port itself. They helped make up a gangway that stretched out over two hundred yards from shore.” John must have seen the questions arising in Lance’s face because he added, “Oh, the pilings are all gone now, rotted off and either floated away or sunk like anything else in that lake. No, they shut this port down and moved the harbor a few miles south of town. That’s only just a small recreational port now; the real shipping dock is in
Duluth
, of course.”

Lance imagined a bustling scene of activity and ships entering his small bay years ago in a time that felt like a myth. The only traces of what had once been were now between pages of a local history book and in the handed-down words of the oldest residents.

When his phone rang beside him one Thursday afternoon, it startled him from thoughts of sunken goods covered in wet moss and pilings that a man couldn’t reach both arms around in the cold waters below the window. Andy’s frowning face stared back at him from the screen, and with a flick of his thumb, Lance answered the call and tilted back in his chair.

“To what do I owe this momentous occasion?”

“Really?
That’s how you answer?” The irritation was palpable even through the speaker of the phone. “You haven’t called me in over a week.”

“Hey, the phone works both ways, buddy, I’m just saying. Plus, it’s been closer to two weeks.”

“Ass.
I haven’t called because you sounded angry in your last text.”

“You
texted
me at four in the morning!”

“I was just leaving a party—horrible ordeal, by the way. I haven’t had such shitty food since St. Cathy’s. And the condo it was being held in was atrocious. I can’t fathom why these celebrities insist on going to an obscure location and having a fucking cocktail party in a second cousin’s living room.”

Lance listened to his friend rant as he gazed out at the lake, which held streaks of the setting sun among its rippling blue waves. “I’m sorry you had a terrible time at a get-together with the who’s who of
Hollywood
while I’m up here alone in the wilderness.”

“You’re the one who was ostentatious and bought a house without consulting anyone else first. I’m not going to feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t expect you to. Besides, the place is really growing on me. I’m getting settled in here. I’ve even met some people.”

“I don’t believe it for a second. You don’t meet people, they run into you and realize they’ve read your books and want to be friends.”

“Not up here. There are some people that have read my stuff, but mostly I’m an unknown.”

“Yeah, an unknown from out of town that shows up and buys an enormous house in the middle of the community.”

“It’s not enormous. And how would you know, you haven’t even been here,” Lance said, leaning forward in his chair with a bemused smile.

“That’s actually why I was calling. I’d like to come up and stay for a couple of days. Maybe read what you’ve written so far?”

“Oh, I see. Checking up on me so you can throw the wolves at the door a bone?”

“No, I’ll tell them to get fucked, which is exactly what I’ve been doing since you up and disappeared.”

“Thank you for giving me some space. It was much needed. You don’t know how great it feels to be writing again.” Lance rose from the chair and meandered through the living room, toward the front entry. He had heard the now-unmistakable sound of John’s truck approaching.

“Don’t mention it. So can you text me directions, or does this weekend not work?”

“It works
great,
I’d love to see you, my friend. I’ll send you directions in a bit.” The two men said their goodbyes, and Lance opened the door just as John was getting out of his beat-up truck.

“Hey there, young man!
Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” John said, stepping onto the apron before the entryway.

“It sure is.”

“Get your work in for the day?” John asked, motioning toward the alcove.

“Yes, I did, and actually I wanted to ask you, would you be interested in swinging by tomorrow evening? My friend from the cities is coming to stay for the weekend and I thought it would be nice to have a get-together.” There was only a half-second pause before John’s smile lit up his lined face.

“That’d be great, son. Need
me
to bring anything?”

“No, just yourself and an appetite.”
John nodded and smiled again as Lance unconsciously stretched his jaw, which snapped audibly. John looked at him, concern wrinkling his brow.

“Just an old injury.
Broke my jaw when I was younger and it never really healed right.” Lance smiled reassuringly, but the troubled line above the other man’s eyes didn’t recede. John looked away at the ground and seemingly searched for an overgrown patch of grass that needed trimming. When none presented itself, he looked back at Lance.

“No more problems?” John asked, tipping his head toward the house and raising his bushy eyebrows.

“No, none to speak of,” Lance said, and almost continued with
and no more dreams, either.
Although John had become a welcome addition to his very short list of friends, Lance still played his psychological concerns close to the chest.

“Good, good.” John’s eyes looked into the distance, across the blazing expanse of lake, and grew filmed-over. Lance watched the old man stare into something that he couldn’t see, and finally had to ask him about it.

“What do you see out there?”

John smiled sadly, and at last brought his attention back to Lance.
“Just the past, son.
Memories of years gone by.”
A funny look flitted across John’s face, the simple caretaker’s veneer scratched by something within, although the surface remained the same. “If I can tell you one thing, son, it’s this: we are our choices, nothing else. Every decision that’s made builds a man, mortar and stone rising up out of the earth. Intentions don’t mean squat, only what we do.”

Lance tilted his head, his eyebrows drawn down. When John looked at him, he merely grimaced.

“I’m
sorry,
I get carried away thinking sometimes. Call it getting old. Don’t get too old, son,
it’s
hell on the body and mind.” John turned from Lance and headed toward his truck door. “Don’t think I’m feeling up to
workin
’ today, if you don’t mind,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be round about five tomorrow if it suits you.”

Lance stood, dumbfounded, on the stoop, watching John climb into the pickup and start the engine. The caretaker’s change of mood had shifted like an unexpected tide in calm waters. Lance wondered if he’d said something to set John off, but couldn’t recall anything disturbing. Dr. Tyler’s voice floated to him out of the storage bins in his mind.
Everyone has their cross to bear, Lance. Whether you can see it or not, it’s there.

The next afternoon, Lance heard the crackle of gravel in the front yard and looked at the clock above the stove in the kitchen. It was a few minutes after two. He walked into the entry and saw the flash of silver steel, as the Audi zipped out from the trees and rounded the drive, sliding to a stop in front of the house.

“Early much?”
Lance said, as he watched the figure behind the wheel fumble with an object in the center console.

After John left the previous day in a cloud of dust and ambiguity, Lance had called Stub at the gun shop, making good on inviting the giant out for beers. Stub sounded pleased and promised to be there with bells on. Stuffed chicken breasts were already waiting in the fridge, along with two dozen beers and several bottles of wine. Although Lance felt the old apprehension of having several people in his home settling over him, he was still excited nonetheless.

The door to the Audi opened and Andy stepped out into the bright sunlight. His eyes were shaded behind three-hundred-dollar sunglasses, and he wore dark slacks along with a white long-sleeved shirt open at the collar. Lance mused that his friend couldn’t look more out of place in this part of the world if he had stamped
Citiot
on his forehead in red ink.

Andy stood looking at the house, the edifice reflected in the twin mirrors of his shades. The agent looked rigid, like a cardboard cutout of himself. A breeze ruffled Andy’s hair, breaking the illusion, but the man remained motionless. Lance had never seen his friend so still. Normally he exuded a frenetic energy, suggesting that there were other things to be done and the present couldn’t be dwelled upon for more than a few seconds.

Andy turned from the house and grasped the door handle to the car. Lance watched him, thinking he had forgotten something inside. To his surprise, Andy slid into the seat and slammed the door. Lance stepped out of the house and into the light of the day. The movement caught Andy’s attention and Lance saw his friend’s head turn in his direction. They looked at each other through the tinted glass of the car until Lance began walking toward the passenger door, feeling a heavy ball of unease growing inside him. When he reached the Audi’s door, the window slid down and revealed the interior of the car. He could feel the coolness of the air conditioning sliding past him. Andy sat looking at him from behind his sunglasses, and only then did Lance notice the car’s engine humming beneath its sleek hood and his friend’s hand playing across the shifter.

“Leaving already?” Lance said, leaning into the frigid air of the car. Andy just stared at him, his right arm shaking, as if it longed to throw the lever into gear.

“I’m … yeah. I think I might go home,” Andy managed in a whisper that just made it across the gap between them.

“What? You just got here,” Lance said. The unease he had felt earlier expanded, speeding up his heart and weakening his muscles. Andy made no attempt to reply, and only stared at him. Lance opened the passenger door and leaned into the car. He could smell Andy’s cologne and the well-treated leather of the car. He reached out and grasped the bow of the other man’s sunglasses and removed them from his face.

Lance had been wrong. Andy wasn’t staring at him. His colorless eyes were trained over his shoulder, locked on the tall structure of the house.

“Andy,” Lance said, snapping his fingers several inches in front of his friend’s nose and eliciting no reaction. “Andrew!” Lance had used his friend’s full name only a few times throughout the years. Andy had never revealed much about his own broken past prior to their meeting at St. Catherine’s, but the response that followed the use of his full name seemed to be tied to it. Lance had once seen Andy attack a teacher who had refused to call him by the shortened version of his name, resulting in a broken nose for the teacher and a suspension for Andy.