The Bleeding Season (38 page)

Toni held the bag up again.  “Well, just wanted to grab a few things.”

“You mean I should talk to someone like Gene,” I said.

The mention of his name didn’t sting her as I’d intended.  If anything, her expression softened.  “Are you still taking your pills?”

“No.”

“They’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I said.

“And you think that’s a healthy way to feel?”

I wondered what the two of them did together, besides the obvious.  What did they talk about?  Did she settle trustingly against him in the night the way she had with me?  Did they laugh like we had?  Did she tell him the things she told me?  Did any of that even matter anymore?  I wondered if she ever thought about me when she was with him.  “I just need a little time to get things together,” I said.  It sounded lame the moment it left my lips, but it was all I had.  

She nodded at me, like everything suddenly made perfect sense.

“I miss you,” I said, and without thinking, reached for her.  She shrunk a bit—a subtle reaction, but an honest one.  I dropped my hand to my side.

Her eyes filled.  “Do you think we’ll ever be all right again?”

“You’re the one who left,” I said.  “You’re the one who had to think.”

She looked at me with an expression that said:
And you’re the one who went crazy
.

I let her go, watched as she walked into the bedroom with a spring in her step I hadn’t seen in years.  Her body was out of sync with her emotions, one spry and the other pensive.  It seemed a clever deception, like an illusionist’s use of misdirection, and I found myself resentful suddenly of her attempt at a healthy, lively veneer.  Yet deep down I could hardly blame her, and was glad she’d again be leaving soon, distancing herself from me, if only for now.   Bernard was a disease, and he had infected me.  I didn’t want the same for her, and until I could rid myself of him, she was at risk.  I felt particularly contagious of late.

In the kitchen, I put my gun down on the counter and had a quick shot of whiskey.  It left a warming path as it slid through my body, and I embraced it, allowing my nerves to calm.  By the time I’d had another and put the shot glass in the sink, I heard Toni rummaging about in the bathroom.

I met her near the front door, careful not to get too close.

“All set,” she said softly.  The bag was now bulging in places with items removed from the medicine cabinet and bathroom shelves.  I had also heard her bureau drawers closing earlier, so I knew she’d taken more clothing as well.  She smiled, though it was solely for my benefit.  “I hope you have a nice fourth.  We’ll talk soon, OK?”

I had run out of chitchat.  The whiskey was seeping through my pores and mixing with the sheen of perspiration already painted across my skin.  The goddamn humidity was swallowing everything whole.  I nodded but said nothing.

With head slightly bowed, Toni slipped past me through the door.

From some black corner of Hell, Bernard whispered to me, and as my wife moved down the stairs and blended into the blurred heat below, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever see her again.

CHAPTER 28

Go back to the beginning
, Claudia had said.  And that’s exactly what I did.

After Toni left, I drove across town to the neighborhood where I’d grown up, and parked in front of the house Bernard and his mother had called home for years.  I experienced the same waves of nostalgia I had the last time I’d revisited these hallowed stomping grounds of my youth, and although most were of the pleasant variety, once I focused on Bernard’s old house—still empty and slowly rotting away—all the thoughts and memories turned to black.  The house looked about the same as it had in winter, but for a realtor’s sign stabbed into the front lawn.  Apparently the bank had decided to sell the property after all, but had yet to do anything to dress it up, which led me to believe this was a recent development.  A few feet from the realtor sign was a
No Trespassing
 sign with a warning to any who vandalized the property that they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

I checked my rearview mirror.  It was late afternoon but the humidity was still lethal.  The other houses on the street sported window fans and air-conditioners, and but for two young boys riding their bikes, no one was on the street.  With all that was happening in town, with all the police everywhere, the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself as someone sitting in a parked car in a neighborhood where I no longer lived, so I grabbed a pen from my visor and pretended to jot the number on the sign down as the two boys pedaled past, laughing and shouting to each other.  I watched them until they disappeared around the bend at the end of the road.  Shirtless and in cut-off denim shorts, hair buzzed down for summer, bodies tanned brown from hours spent playing outdoors and at the beach, they might as easily been ghosts of Bernard and me; trouble-free versions of us in less complicated times.

If those times had ever really existed.

Once the boys were out of sight and quiet returned to the street, I climbed out of the car.  Just in case anyone was watching, I strolled across the property like a prospective buyer then circled around to the fence that ran along the side yard.  As in winter, the lawn was dead again, only now it was burned and matted down from sun and grubs.  I opened the gate and stepped through, closing it quietly behind me.  I looked up to the circle of trees just beyond the backyard as I had the last time I’d come here, but on this occasion no birds welcomed or warned me.  Only silence.

Even more windows had been broken from thrown stones, and additional graffiti had been added, spray-painted along the back wall of the house, including a crude pentagram, a parade of profanity and the scribbled names of a few rock bands I recognized.  I could see how in a town like Potter’s Cove, where teenagers had little to do, a house like this could quickly become a late night retreat, the neighborhood spooky house, abandoned and easily accessible for hanging out, drinking beer, smoking pot—whatever.

I crossed to the cement patio in back.  The chaise lounge, lawn furniture and plastic garbage bags that had been there before were gone.  Cigarette butts and a few spent beer and liquor bottles littered the area instead.  

It was then that I noticed the sliders off the patio.

A section of glass near the bottom was missing, kicked in from the looks, and while the sliding door was closed, the wooden rod that fit into the track and held it that way was gone.

That same uncompromising feeling that I was being watched returned.  I looked back at the yard and trees.  Nothing.  Not even a breeze.  Just heat and sky and silence.

I tried the slider.  It quietly slid open, and a waft of musty air met me, a dank, mildew smell that intensified once it mingled with the humid air outside.  I fanned the initial blast away with my hands then stepped through the open slider and into the kitchen.

Vivid memories still lived here for me.

I could almost see Bernard’s mother flitting around on a hot summer day just like this one, dressed in high-heeled slippers and a terrycloth waist-length cover-up that did little to cover much of anything, especially the bikini beneath.  I remembered her pouring us lemonade and dancing her way back to the refrigerator while music played from a radio on the counter, Tommy, Rick, Donald, Bernard and me—just kids—huddled around the table, sweaty and out of breath from playing, gulping our lemonade and laughing, reliving adventures we’d had earlier in the day.

It occurred to me then just how long it had been since I’d set foot in this house.  Although Bernard continued to live here as an adult, he had preferred instead to come to our houses or to meet us at some other neutral point—and strangely enough that had been fine with us.  The last time I could remember being inside the house was a few weeks before his mother was hospitalized with cancer.  A few years now, I thought.  Odd.

The memories receded, leaving behind a dirty, dilapidated kitchen and a musty stink.  There was an uncomfortable stillness to the house, the walls and those windows still intact providing an unnatural quiet, a buffer to the world outside that seemed different somehow, more intense and final.  Though the windows that were not broken were filthy and smudged, I was careful to avoid them anyway.

The floor was dirty and littered with dirt tracked in from outside and what appeared to be small rodent droppings.  I crossed the kitchen and slipped through the doorway into a living room.  There had once been wall-to-wall carpeting here, but that had been ripped up for some reason to reveal old wooden flooring beneath.  Void of furniture, and stripped bear of everything else, the room looked larger than I remembered.  The wallpaper was cracked and hanging in places, and more graffiti had been spray-painted across the walls and even on the floor.  I stepped around a pile of trash and debris and continued on to the foyer just inside the front door.  To my left was the staircase leading to the second floor.  Beyond it was a short hallway that led to a bathroom.

I stood at the base of the stairs and looked up.  Darkness waited at the top in more ways than one.  I wiped sweat from my hands onto my pants and slowly climbed the staircase.  The carpeting remained and cushioned my steps, but the banister was gouged and scarred, as if someone had been at it with a knife.  The destruction kids had caused in the time the house had been unattended was surprising.  All those years before, when we’d been kids ourselves, I could never have imagined this result for a house where I spent so much time, where I had so many memories, good and bad.  But here it was, a dead shell, a decaying monument to nothing.

When I reached the top I hesitated, hand still on the banister.  It wasn’t quite dark but due to the low ceiling and location of the landing in relation to any of the upstairs windows, light was limited.  The musty smell wasn’t as bad here, but there was another odor I hadn’t detected previously.  It smelled like sulfur, recently lit matches.  I took the final step, and once on the landing at the top of the stairs, saw a bedroom directly ahead.  Linda’s bedroom.  Further down the hallway was Bernard’s old room, so I lowered my eyes and fled to it, hoping to escape the other if even for a short while longer.

The light increased as I neared Bernard’s room.  There had once been a door there but it was now removed and leaned against the wall next to the doorway.  It had been kicked and broken in places.  The room itself was empty.  I walked in as I had so many times over the years, but now it was as impersonal and barren as an open grave.  In my mind I could still see his bed, his desk, his record player, and the posters that had once covered his walls.  I ventured deeper into the room.  His closet stood to my right.  I opened it, swinging the door wide.  But for a string dangling from a light bulb fixture on the ceiling, it too was empty.

A soft scratching sound stopped me cold.  Movement.  Scurrying movement within the wall, as if Bernard had been sealed away behind it and was now clawing his way out.

Mice
, I told myself.
It’s only mice
.

Familiar laughter from the past echoed through the empty hallway, each echo reverberating one atop another until it sounded like a group laughing, the dead amused by the living.  But the laughter was Bernard’s, duplicated again and again.

Even in death he was abandoned, hidden in shadow and deceit.

My mind calmed a bit, absorbed the laughter and quieted it.  I slowly scoped out the room, found only a rather lethargic wasp slinking across one of the cracked windowpanes facing the street.  For now, we were alone.

I forced myself back into the hallway, back toward the other bedroom at the top of the stairs.  I felt like that sleepy and disoriented wasp, just another creature that had taken a wrong turn and become lost within these dying walls, destined to spend its final hours sharing space with all the secrets trapped here.

What secrets, Alan?  What secrets live here?

Secrets.  Memories.  Lies.  Nervous smiles and downcast eyes replaced all that had existed prior, as comfort turned to dread.  Forgotten, pushed down—deep down—pretending that not believing in the Devil was enough, that it would disarm him and protect you from him, when all the while disbelief only made him stronger.

All the good and clear memories were before—before we were teenagers—before the changes in us, in our bodies and minds and in the way we saw the world, the way we experienced it—before Bernard had been introduced and brought into a realm he did not yet know was his legacy.  What had been a regular hangout and a safe haven—Bernard’s house—ceased to exist as such once those changes happened because it had become too difficult, too strange.  The memories turned from good, carefree and innocent to bad, dark and shameful, and we needed to stay away—we all needed to stay away—or we might remember.  And we did not want to remember.
I
 did not want to remember.

But now that was no longer an option.

What did you see?

The bedroom was closer now; I could have reached out and touched the doorframe had I wanted to.  My throat became dry, my lips pasty, and as I moved into the room I realized my entire body had begun to tremble.  I made myself look.

It was empty like the rest of the house, but I saw the past—Linda’s bedroom—and all that had been there so long ago.  The bedroom at the top of the stairs, the bed against the back wall, the mismatched nightstands on either side of the headboard, the clutter of overflowing ashtrays and empty liquor bottles.  Garments stuffed into plastic clothesbaskets and strewn about the room as if thrown or dropped there, an ironing board against one wall, a dressing table with mirror and closet against another.  Lipsticks and makeup, small bottles of polish and colognes and body sprays, tins of soap and powder rattling, clicking one against the other.

And what else?  What else did you see?

“Jesus, God,” I whispered, falling against the doorway for fear I might otherwise collapse.