Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (6 page)

“Where is Mom?” I asked.

Dad had already gone outside again.  I heard the squeak of the outdoor faucet as he prepared to wash his truck.  I shrugged and dragged my back pack up the stairs to the bedroom that John and I shared.

Late in the day Dad put burgers and hot dogs on the grill.  He called John and me outside to talk while he watched over it.  Inside the house, our sisters were busy making potato salad and other dishes for a family cookout.  We stood near the grill, inhaling the aroma as Dad lifted the lid to flip the burgers again.

“Your Mom passed on,” he sighed and his shoulders slumped forward.  “She endured it all for as long as she could.”

John and I looked at each other.  His words made no sense.  Mom was sleeping in her dark bedroom upstairs like always.  My eyes filled with tears and everything blurred.  I wanted to go to my grandmother’s house.  I didn’t want to be there with my father who could tell me such a horrible lie.  My grandmother would make everything right again.  John sat still, not speaking, and showing no expression.

I ran into the house, stomping up the stairs as I went.  I banged open the door to my parent’s bedroom to see my mother.  I would tell her about my father’s lie and she would correct him.  The curtains that she always kept closed hung open, flooding the room with sunshine.  The empty bed had been made up neat as a pin.  Her makeup and perfume were gone from the top of the dresser.  Her soft pink robe wasn’t hanging on the back of the door. 

Panicked, I jerked the closet door open.  I pushed at the clothes hanging there.  The pinks and purples that my Mom loved best were gone.  Her shoes that had stood in neat rows had vanished.  Her summer hats that rested on the high shelves had all been removed.

I fell to the floor with my face on my arms.  It was true.  Our Mom was gone.  She had passed into some other place and no longer inhabited our home.  A dreadful pain filled my chest.  Nothing in my family home would ever be the same again.

Dad came up to sit on the bed he had shared with our Mom.  He held me in his arms as I cried myself to sleep.  Sometime late in the day our grandma arrived.  Grandma woke me gently and took my hand.  She led me down the stairs and out the front door.  In her house, scented with cinnamon, coffee, and lavender, she fussed over me for days.  I think she needed that time as much as I did.

The night before the new school year began; Dad announced that we all needed to move forward.  Working two jobs, he would continue to provide well for our family.  My sisters would continue to tend to the house.  John and I would be responsible for our school assignments, taking out the trash, mowing the lawn and clearing away snow.  Our mourning period had officially ended, and there would be no more displays of emotion.

It was a bitter end to the incredible summer.  For the rest of my life, the smell of smoke from a grill would bring on a wave of nausea and painful thoughts of my Mom.  John and I never talked about the vacation at the cabin again.  In time, my mother’s death and the cabin blended in my mind and it all became one unpleasant memory best forgotten.

*

Two decades later, I was back in the cabin.  I had buried all of the memories deeply.  So deeply they hadn’t been called up in nearly two decades.  Annually, I sent a wreath of flowers to my Mom’s grave on her birthday.  I didn’t go there.  I had been to her grave only once, accompanied by dad and John, the first Christmas after she died.  I had no idea what my siblings did to honor her.  We didn’t talk about it.

The year I started college, Dad quit his jobs and moved to California.  After a lifetime as a welder at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, he had no trouble finding a good job in San Diego.  He remarried and she blessed him with a baby girl.  They lived a life apart from us on the other side of the country.  We talked on the phone for ten minutes or so, every few months.   Every other year we flew out to California for Christmas with Dad.  It was not something John or I looked forward to.

Recalling the memories of John, Jimmy, and the OUIJA board unnerved me.  I had accepted that it was just the imagination of an eight year-old boy at work.  Yet combined with the recent incident with the snow on the floor it felt more real.  I shook my head, trying to push the unwanted thoughts away.  If I continued to dwell on it, there would be no more sleep before morning.

I pushed the notions away and welcomed sleep.  It carried me away to a comfortable cloud where I found happy dreams.  I was eight years-old again, fishing on the bank of the St. John River.  Mr. Flaherty helped me choose the best worms and bait the hook.  John and Jimmy sat close by, telling the kind of jokes young boys believe are funniest.  I woke hours later, bathed in morning sunlight, with my dreams fresh in mind.

My smile faded as the memories slowly flooded back into my head.  I sat on the edge of the bed replaying the events of that summer in my mind.  None of it felt real.  They were no more than recollections from a book that I had read or movie I had seen.  I was eager to talk with John about it, but didn’t know if he would welcome the conversation.  He seemed so at ease in the cabin.  I doubted he would be willing to rehash the pain of the past.

Like the day before, I packed my gear and cleaned up the cabin.  Not knowing when John or one of his guys might arrive, I left the wood stove burning.  It wouldn’t take long to extinguish it when he or they arrived.  Late in the morning I went out to the old shed and pried the doors open.  I rolled the ATV out and started the motor.  It sat idling while I closed the doors again.  In minutes, I was bumping along the game trail toward the cluster of tall pines.

I stopped before the fallen tree and turned the key to the off position.  The engine quit and the sound faded.  Quiet settled over the area as I walked around the end of it and looked along the dirt road.  There were no tire tracks or foot prints.  I exhaled and contemplated my options.  I could wait there until my ride came.  Or I could return to the cabin and wait by the woodstove.  An icy gust of wind made the decision for me. 

The clock on the wall ticked off the hours as I turned page after page in the book I was reading.  I put it down periodically to add a log to the fire, refill my coffee mug or use the bathroom.  My contentment held fast until I realized that the sun had slipped low in the sky again.  It was near setting and I flipped the switch to light the room.

I wavered between disappointment and worry as I prepared a simple supper.  The sky grew darker and the wind blew harder.  Dense clouds blotted out all traces of the moon and stars.  In the distance, a wolf or coyote was howling.  The mournful cry made me shudder.  An eerie sensation crept into the cabin.  I blamed the memories I had recalled the night before.  It had ignited my imagination and brought out all sorts of unpleasant thoughts.

Late in the evening I ventured outside for a load of wood.  I regretted not having retrieved it earlier when the sun could have accompanied me.  Anxiously, I hurried out to the wood pile.  With my arms loaded, I trudged back around to the front porch.  Relieved to be back inside, with the door locked, I dropped the wood into the box near the woodstove.  Smiling again, I grabbed the coffee pot from the top of the stove and headed for the kitchen. 

Passing close to the table, I grabbed a chair to steady myself.  A battered old box had been left in the center of the table.  Mice had chewed at the edges and water spots marred the cover but there was no mistaking that box.  The shabby old OUIJA board with the nibbled corners had been unfolded.  The planchette with the cracked center pointed down at the words “Good Bye”.

I considered running out of the cabin, but where would I go?  I knew I could not survive alone in the woods for a night with temperatures in the teens or lower.  I needed my coat and boots… and the shotgun.  My stomach was rolling and churning.  I could hear my heart thumping rapidly inside my chest. 

“What do you want?” I shouted, fighting the panic that threatened to take hold of all reason. 

I took two steps back as the planchette began to move.  Standing several feet from the board, I watched as the pointer moved freely.  I clenched my hands repeatedly and forced myself to stay there.  The lights flickered off and on again.  I backed against the open side of the narrow staircase.  The corners of the steps jabbing at my back.  On the board, the pointer continued gliding around in great loops until it stopped at the letter W.

Through the elaborate presentation it spelled out W-E-L-C-O-M-E B-A-C-K E-R-I-K.  I was breathing so fast I was sure I would hyperventilate and pass out.  I would be happy to be unconscious and unaware.  My weak attempt at convincing myself it was my imagination again was pointless.  This was no imagining.  The planchette swept smoothly around the border of the OUIJA board then back to the center.

“Stop,” I pleaded, shamelessly.  “No more.”

It did not stop.  The planchette moved out to the edges then straight up the middle.  I M-I-S-S-E-D Y-O-U.  It informed me, slowly circling each letter twice.  The words did nothing to reassure me.  I moved back to the kitchen area and filled a glass of water.  Sipping slowly, I looked away from the table.  I felt a trickle of sweat trail down my spine.  Nothing moved until I turned toward it again.

I walked toward the seating, leaving a wide berth between me and that board.  Standing near the woodstove, I picked up a log and let it drop again, feeling foolish.  I felt compelled to look to the table again.  My eyes fell on the pointer as it formed a lazy figure eight.  Leisurely, it circled the YES and NO, that was printed at the top of the board.  Mindlessly I watched the hypnotic movement. 

“Do you plan to hurt me?” I asked at last.  Dreading the answer it might give, I stared at the planchette.

NO, it pointed out quickly.

“What do you want from me?”

F-R-I-E-N-D-S-H-I-P

“Are you the one?  The one we talked to years ago?”

YES

“Is this your cabin?”

M-Y W-O-O-D-S

“You told us you were a kid.  I’m not a kid anymore.  I don’t know how to entertain a child.”

N-O-T A K-I-D

“You said you were a kid.”

I L-I-E-D

I drew in a sharp breath and my heart rate soared.  This was no lost child.  It was something that could communicate and tell lies.  I wanted nothing to do with the OUIJA board or the thing that was speaking through it.  Yet I had no idea how to end it.  I worried that it could be dangerous if I angered it. I would have to wait until morning to leave.  It appeared to be in control.  All I could do was to wait through the night.  At dawn, I would pack my gear and leave with the ATV.  I would find my way back to the main road and hitchhike south if need be.

D-O-N-T G-O

“I’m not leaving,” I fibbed unconvincingly.

D-O-N-T G-O

D-O-N-T G-O

D-O-N-T G-O

“I won’t!” I shouted.

F-R-I-E-N-D-S

“Do you have a name?”

H-A-R-V-E-Y

“Why are you here?”

H-O-M-E

“Did you die here?”

YES

“When?”

1-9-2-5

Oddly, the thought that it might be the spirit of a man who once lived in the area relieved me somewhat.  It wasn’t some evil entity called up from hell in a horror movie.  He had once been alive like me.  I swallowed hard at the thought.  I felt less distressed, but had no desire to remain in the cabin beyond early morning.  At the first morning light, I would be on my way.

“How did you die?” I asked the obligatory question.

S-H-O-T

“Were you murdered?” I asked, growing intrigued.

NO

“Was it an accident?”

He did not respond.

“Who shot you?”

G-A-M-E W-A-R-D-E-N

I considered his message.  In the 1920s a variety of criminals, poachers, bootleggers, thieves, and murderers travelled through the Maine woods in and out of Canada.  If he had been shot by a Game Warden then he may have been a bad person.  The information brought me no comfort. 

“Did you live in this cabin?” I asked.

NO

“Were you Canadian?”

NO

Dozens of questions swirled in my head, but I feared the answers.  I wanted to hear his story and understand why he had come to this isolated place in the woods.  Still, I knew I could not forget it again after he told me.  He might have been an innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time or…  My mind would not allow me to finish that thought.  I considered stating that I was tired and suggesting that he leave.

W-A-I-T-E-D F-O-R Y-O-U

“For me?” I asked, surprised by the words.

W-A-I-T-E-D F-O-R Y-O-U

“Do you mean someone who would come and talk with you or for me personally?”

W-A-I-T-E-D F-O-R Y-O-U

“Why me?” I asked and fought the urge to shout at him to ignore my question.

I M-I-S-S A-B-E-L

“I don’t understand.”

I M-I-S-S A-B-E-L

“Someone special to you?” I asked and found myself moving closer to the table again.

P-A-L

“Were you old men living out here together?”