A Dark Passage

Something wasn’t right. The power was out. Not unusual, Reed told himself. Out here in the country, outages were common and there had been heavy thunderstorms off to the east earlier that morning. But the phone was dead too, a long static hiss on the line.

Coop hadn’t said much until dinnertime came around.
When’s Pa coming home?
He’d been tearing around the farm all day, his eight year old legs in constant motion, head to the ground, lost in his own world.
I don’t know Reed said, working together a couple of sandwiches. Must be in town… at the Run Aground probably. Truck’s gone. He didn’t tell me nothin’ and he didn’t leave a note. Here… eat.

Coop was asleep by ten, worn out from his active day. Reed stepped out onto the porch and looked across the shifting fields. Silence. He sat on the porch swing, an oil lantern beside him. The air was cooler and still. Not a sound. Not even the usual song of crickets. But there were thunderstorms still to the east, silent with quick flashes of yellow-green light. An orange moon cast a blue glow over the fields. He sat and waited.

He woke in the morning on the porch-swing, shivering in the cold morning air. It was still dark. He went inside, checked on Coop sprawled in a mess of blankets, then went to his father’s room. The bed was undisturbed, the same as yesterday. He picked up the phone and tapped the cradle. Still nothing. He flicked the light switches and tried the radio and TV. Nothing. He went back to his room and grabbed a sweater. In the kitchen he left a note on the table for both Coop and his father: Power’s out. Gone to old man Shelby’s place. Back soon. Reed.
Outside, he scooped up his bike and sped off down the road toward the Shelby farm two miles away, the morning light flickering behind him, his breath puffing small white clouds.

The Shelby place looked empty. Reed went up on the porch and knocked on the door. Then he banged on it. He walked around the house and shouted. Anyone here? Mr. Shelby? Silence. A sour ache formed in his stomach. The fields carried a colder wind. He stood still on the porch for a while and listened, not a sound.

And then he heard it, a distant thumping. It was coming from the east, from town, towards the farm. He crossed the road and climbed on a tall fence. Shading his eyes, he could see the large mass of forest, just the other side of where their farm sat. The thunderstorms still flashed. He froze then and blinked. Trees were dropping. All along the horizon, the trees were dropping. He’d once seen on TV, a hotel being demolished, imploded from the inside, crumbling and dropping straight down out of the sky. He saw that now but couldn’t understand.
Coop.
Reed ran to the house. He grabbed up his bike and turned and there stood Mr. Shelby, crooked on the road looking at the spectacle on the horizon. At first Reed thought he had imagined him but then Shelby shifted and in an odd voice said; we gotta’ go.
What’s going on, Mr. Shelby? I gotta’ get Coop. He’s home.
Cooper’s gone.
What? Reed said, his face blank.
Gonna’ be here soon. No time. Come on.
Shelby headed across the road and into the ditch toward a sectioned field. He turned to Reed who stood frozen, watching the falling horizon.
You see that? Shelby shouted. It’ll be here in a minute. If you wanna’ live, you best come with me. Nothin’ we can do ‘bout the others. Sorry.

Reed watched the hazed green horizon approach. The thumping had grown louder, a buzz-sawing hum, the forest now gone and the farm… Coop… then Shelby was at his arm, tugging him hard and they ran. A hundred feet into the field, Shelby stopped. Next to a block stone pillar, a dark maw lay open in the ground, a heavy wooden door propped open above it. A dark passage led down into the earth. Go, Shelby croaked, now panicked, pushing Reed down the dirt stairs. The sound was on top of him then and Shelby gave a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes unbelieving as he slammed the heavy door down, bolting it. The passage swallowed them into darkness.

Slipping, a Faulty Memory

I’ve existed for over half a century. That is mind-boggling. It seems like a long time, over five hundred thousand hours of thinking; you’d think there would be a lot to remember. Not really. About half that time I slept away. Many of my memories are faded, skewed and some are flat out fiction. There are few points of pure clarity. That’s not helpful if you’re a writer.

My recent memory isn’t bad and by recent I mean maybe a month ago. Events from my early years are more obscure like old snapshots in a deteriorating photo album: here I am at two, in a stroller with my brother; here I am staring out a car window, a prairie landscape skimming by and here I am throwing rocks into a lake with faceless friends of yesterday. I have thousands of snapshots like that floating about in my subconscious. Was it real? Is it real? Maybe life is but a dream.

I’ve read that the cells of the brain have a limited shelf life. Our brains will shrink and wear out as we age. I believe it. There are things you try to forget and can’t. Other things you try to recall and it slips away. I have a vivid memory of an annoying girl from high school. I remember her name, see her eye-glassed and pimpled face and visualize the pink sweater and blue-gray wool skirt she wore ‘everyday’, according to my memory. But there’s only a faint glimpse of a girl I dated for a couple of months. I don’t remember her name. I’m embarrassed to say that I barely remember my own wedding. Worse, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night and I don’t drink.
“You’re slipping,” the guy in the mirror says. It doesn’t help to hear that when you’re shaving.

I wonder if my brain is crumbling? I worry if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. Looking at my family history, there’s no evidence of it. My mother had a pretty good memory. She would tell us about her childhood during the war, stories of the German occupation in Belgium. Her stories were riveting with such fine detail and clarity. She was eighty-two when she died in 2008. Cancer. It seems almost impossible up here in my questionable memory. It feels more recent than that. I find the pain and disbelief of her death beginning to subside but with that, there’s a gnawing thought that keeps nibbling the soft cheese. What if I start to forget her life? I already feel guilty that I don’t think about her or my father much. I can still clearly see them both in their respective caskets. I suppose my mind tells me to retain these images because they are important and I want to remember. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid.
“You are slipping.” I guess, maybe I am.

My wife’s memory is terrific. She relates stories and events from our thirty years together and I nod and say, “Really!” or “Really?” depending on the importance. More often, it’s the second ‘really?’ that I entertain. She’ll tell me that it’s so-and-so’s birthday and I cringe. Some of these people are obscure, some of them my own relatives. As long as I don’t forget her birthday, our son’s or our wedding anniversary, I think I’m safe.

“No, you’re slipping.” OK, I am.
I don’t remember everything about our relationship that I should. Let me write that down to remind myself. Maybe I should stop writing altogether? If I’m not being honest then why bother. The thing is I am being honest, as far as I can remember. Forget what I said.

Man’s Got a Gift

Of all the residents spending time at the Parker Park nursing home, Mr. Perry was the oldest. He clocked in at 103. Can you believe that? Man that guy was healthy. He claimed his longevity was due to this philosophy: always keep your mind and legs moving simultaneously. Cute for the nursing staff but I knew better. I knew it had everything to do with that plain blue “music” box next to his bed.

It was an unassuming little cube; small and wrapped like a gift with a bow on top. It wasn’t that noticeable sitting there between a vase of flowers, water glass and medications. There was a wind-up key on its side but oddly, when you wound it, no music played. Not a sound. But there was a gleam in old Perry’s eye when he would look at it. It was a secretive childlike look, as if he had just pocketed money from some unsuspecting purse. I’d visit with him every so often and I’d see his wandering gaze settle on it. He thought I didn’t notice but I did.

When the “music” box went missing, well, that was the day old Perry’s health started to decline. He lay in bed, raving about his missing music box, refusing to eat and then refusing to speak. Very quickly, he began to look that 103. Man, the whole place went nuts trying to find that box. Funny thing was, they weren’t sure what to look for. “What is it?” from the nursing staff. “A music box?” from the orderlies. Everyone claimed they’d never ever seen such a thing. But soon, there were several suspects. There always are with things like this. By the end of the day, it had narrowed down to a short list. There was talk of a happily humming nurse walking off with it. Fingers were pointed at one orderly whose last name unfortunately happened to be ‘Fingers’. Man, it got crazy as every resident on the floor became a suspect, even Mr. Kern across the hall in Room 3 who suffered from throat cancer but for the past two months, slept quietly in a coma.

Of course, all who could deny ever taking it did but man, I won’t. I can admit it now; I took it. No, that’s not quite accurate. I borrowed it for a while. I’m always up and down these halls and I look in on every single one of these folks daily. I took the “music” box, wound it and put it under old Mr. Kern’s pillow across the hall there in Room 3. The next day, well, old Perry was up and around, crowing that he’d found his music box again, right where he’d left it, there between his vase of flowers, water glass and medications. He was his old self again. The stunned staff wasn’t paying much attention to him though as they were all gathered in Room 3 with Mr. Kern. He was sitting up rubbing his throat, saying, “Can you feel that? Can you hear that?” I’m no doctor but man, I surely can.

Murderer’s Road

The road ran an empty mile, straight to the Gulf of Mexico. North, it sandwiched neat between prehistoric land where snarled tangles of branch filled a landscape of dune and swamp. A thousand burned sticks, tall and barren rose to a burning blue sky.
Nuketown, Sillinger mumbled. He shifted slightly on his seat and leaned against the van door. Beyond his windshield, he watched convicts lay sod.

There were four of them dressed in baggy prison gray. Jim Davis, a black, Walt Henley and Johnny Watt, trailer-whites and Hector Chochu, an Indian or mexican maybe. Sillinger fired up another cigarette and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. He’d lost track of the years, four… five, sitting screw-ups who landscaped and constructed nothing in the middle of swampland. Saved taxpayers money, they said. Big money. He started to drift. His eyes were heavy, just another minute, he thought. Convicts weren’t going anywhere. They were ‘shorty’s’ doing lesser times for their aggravated crimes-- assault, robbery, drugs and trafficking. No murderers slipping away here, nowhere to run to anyway.

His thoughts shifted to Brenda. Darlin’ Brenda, love of his life. They’d been adrift for months. It didn’t help she was away much of the time.
It’s DEA Ray, she had said. The Sabina case is my case. What do you want me to do, quit? This case means a lot; it’s everything.
A Federal agent, she spent much of her time in Coyoacan securing the deal for drug lord Eduard Sabina and his family members and it was almost done. She had trailed the accounts, the deals and was now ready to move on him. Just a few loose ends, she had said. Then it’d be over.

This ain’t no Boy Scout outing.
Sillinger jumped. His eyes popped open to Jerry Remy, scowling at him through the open cab window. Remy’s eyes were black and dead, his ruddy pockmarked face expressionless. He wore an ivory white handlebar mustache that dripped down below his chin; a tight red bandana surrounded the top of his head, a pump-action shotgun at his side.
These boys need an ass kickin’, he said. You might want to get off yours and give me some help.
Sillinger crushed his cigarette and climbed out of the cab. They stood side by side and watched convicts kick dirt and lay sod. A single hawk flew low over them, its shadow crossing like a dark omen. It would turn out so.

What time is it?
Nine-o-three, Sillinger said, eyeing his watch.
Get these pricks moving then. Truck‘ll be here soon.
Remy eased across the road. He nodded at the mexican.
Get that barrow over on this side, then added in a mocking tone, mucho pronto amigo.
Without expression, Chochu dropped his rake and picked up the waiting wheelbarrow holding broken soil and a busted spade shovel. Sillinger made his way down the road toward the others, kicking the ground absently. Only Remy seemed to notice the car slowly creeping down the road toward them from the north.

He’s sleeping with her, Sillinger thought, shuffling through the dust. That much he knew about Jerry Remy. He had no proof, only a feeling. But he knew. Ahead, Watt and Henley unrolled sod sections in the simmering morning heat, stomping them haphazardly into place. Davis was further up raking debris off to the side. Cicadas and blue jays chirped relentlessly from the surrounding swamp, a chaotic distraction, a warning. Watt stopped and looked up the road toward Davis, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Sillinger looked up to see the car approaching, a sleek black Lincoln Continental that stopped next to Davis. As Sillinger approached, he was surprised to see his wife Brenda’s smiling face perched behind the wheel.

She watched Sillinger. My husband, the fool, she thought. That Remy too, swaying and grinning just beyond like death in a withering heat haze. Remy had believed her about everything; about ridding herself of Sillinger, the easy access to the Sabina drug money, springing the guy for a big payoff. It was all setup. She had slept with Remy to secure his participation, to get them isolated, to seal the deal. But now there would be another deal.

Davis stepped off toward the ditch as Sillinger leaned in the open window on the passenger side.
What ya doin’ here, Bren?
He scanned the interior.
Where in hell ‘ya get this car?
I bought it for me, she said smiling. It's a bonus from the Sabina case.
I brought you something too.
A delayed smile crossed Sillinger’s face. He glanced back at Remy who had not moved. His dark eyes appeared to shine. What is she doing here, he thought?
He never saw it coming.

Brenda was quick. The blue silver revolver fired two shots through Sillinger’s head, wiping the confused smile from his face. The first bullet dropped him to his knees like a sinner on Sunday. The second removed his left cheek and ear but he was already dead. He toppled over backward and was still. Remy grinned. He was impressed. He had been sure that when it went down, she wouldn’t pull the trigger but she had, quite easily and it was his last sure thought. The broken shovel handle entered the base of his neck just above the top vertebrae. The broken point exited his throat and he grasped it with his right hand. Remy’s dead black eyes were alive. They bulged from their sockets and he half turned, dropping his shotgun and gurgled nothing to Chochu standing there. Then there was no more. Chochu squatted and picked up the shotgun. Both Henley and Watt were running and he methodically took them down. Davis hadn’t moved from beside the ditch. He smiled up at the open cobalt sky. He didn’t say a word. Brenda squeezed the trigger, emptying the gun into him.

Hector "Cho" Sabina stepped over Sillinger and got in the car.
How you doing baby? Brenda said.
I see my father got you the money and our ride. Drive.
The Lincoln’s wheels spun shards of gravel and stone as they fishtailed down the road. Two hawks flew high above them, sitting silent on the wind.

Fireworks

The sound comes; a distant thumping, the dull falling of running feet, a low voice barking, then feet on the veranda, then John exploding out the screen door slamming:
“YOU COMIN’ OR NOT!!!”

I lean awkwardly into the heavy wooden lawnmower and turn to watch John vanish around the side of the house. I look back to the veranda, half expecting to see the old man’s chair roll up but no one comes. Sweat streaks down my red face, my stiff stubby fingers tight and cramping on the handle. The lawnmower sits silent, patient in the morning heat, its shadow long on the grass and dandelion. Above, the sun burns a white coin.

Down the lane, I catch up to John. He’s stopped to pick up small red racket that has fallen from his pockets. The air smells of mint and over-packed garbage cans, the heat of the day starting to take hold of the waste.
“You got matches?”
John pulls a small box from his waistband and hands them to me.
“I brought this too,” he says.
He holds out a bright yellow pool ball. He presses the side. A spark. Again. A flame.
“Pop’ll kill ya if he finds out.”
“He woan,” John says. “Here, I got some string too.”

We cross the road to Higgins field and wade through the waist-high grass, thistle-burrs hitching to our socks and jeans. We climb a long slow hill. Below lies open land, sporadic trees to the west, the town a brown cluster in a wheat yellow patchwork. We lurch in the morning heat, and then come to Pinkers, the stink smoldering at the top of the hill. Somewhere off, a dog barks but nothing else stirs. We kick through fly mounds of trash and debris, old furniture, boxes, paper, black plastic.
“Here,” John says. He picks up a cracked glass jar. Inside are a few green plastic soldiers, a blue bowlegged cowboy, a faded gray aluminum horse, stubby bits of used crayon.
“Yeah these. Let’s do these.”
In a shallow dirt ditch next to the field, he dumps the contents of the jar in the dirt. I sit, pulling the box of matches and string from an oversized pocket.

We blow up everything. John handles the fused red shells with precision, his hatchet face shiny, jubilant, blasting foam cups, tin cans, soldiers, and crayons. When the matches are done, we switch to the pool ball lighter, its flame orange and pointed. We set fire to a small village of milk cartons. We watch an old cigar box full of derby ticket stubs burn and smolder. We blow apart a bald plastic doll. Later, with our artillery exhausted, we lay still in the ditch, surrounded by mangled Marines and a now blackened horse. I flip through the odds and ends of bundled colored paper from the cigar box; quinellas, exactas, stained paper like a foreign currency.

“We goin’ to the parade?” I say, handing John our spoils of war.
“Naw. There’s not much of a show ‘less you like lame fireworks. It’s the old man’s thing down at the firehouse anyway.”
The heat of the day simmers in the dirt around us. John paws the sweat from his thin face. He slowly rotates the lighter in his hand. “You ‘wan any of this stuff?” he says, nudging one of the fallen green Marines with his toe as if it might be somehow alive.
“These here ain’t too bad. I used to like them. Tough guys.”
I pick up the plastic cowboy. A leg has melted to a twist. “This one’s pretty banged up. Kinda like Pop’s.”
“Shut up,” John says. “It ain’t like that at all.” He stares at the lighter. “It ain’t.”

We sit in silence and watch the horizon. A light wind now moves over the wheat fields below. I cup a hand over my brow and squint at the sun.
“It’s gonna be some h…”
WHUMPT!
The grass behind us suddenly shoots up, orange and white crackling fast. Fat smoke plumes gray then turns black. The wind picks up and the fire explodes. I jump, stepping back as John leaps away, dropping the lighter.
“Pop’s gonna kill us.”
“He woan find out,” John says. “We weren’t here.” The flames leap higher.
“Ya hear’n me. I wasn’t.”

I watch as John races down the hill, his own shadow chasing after him as he plunges and disappears into the tall dry chaff. As I turn to run, I step on something hard. The lighter. Jamming it in my pocket, I run into the dump, a shadow myself, quickly swallowed whole by Pinker’s smoldering landfill.

On the road, the engines go up the hill, their red racket rumbling, their sirens blaring around the melting morning sun.