Dark Hollow (7 page)
“We won’t,” I promised, realizing how empty it sounded. “Next time, you’ll see. A year from now there’ll be four of us. You, me, Big Steve, and the baby. Five of us, if we have twins.”
She sniffed. “I’m just so scared. I know we haven’t…haven’t been intimate in a long while, and I’m sorry about that. I know it bothers you.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I was lying, of course. It did bother me, but I wasn’t about to let Tara know that. The last thing she needed to hear right then was that her husband was sexually frustrated.
She wiped her nose on her blouse sleeve. “It’s just that every time we try, I think about the miscarriage. I’m scared to try again.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I understand. Remember what the grief counselor said? It’s normal to feel that way.”
“But not for this long, it isn’t. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About all kinds of things. That you’ll go elsewhere. Find another woman, or have an affair with one of your fans or another writer, maybe at one of these conventions or when you’re on tour again. I worry that you’ll leave me because I can’t give you a baby and because we don’t have sex anymore.”
“Tara…” I was speechless.
“Maybe I’m just being silly, and I know that, but I’m scared.”
I took her face in my hands. “Listen to me. I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’d never cheat on you or leave you for another woman. You need to know that.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m tired of feeling bad. I want to move on, but I just can’t seem to do it.”
“It’s okay,” I repeated. “We’ll get through this. Together. I promise.”
We sat there, and I held her for a long time, and whispered to her, and stroked her hair and dried her tears, and softly reassured her. When she felt better Tara went upstairs and changed clothes while I heated up some leftover meat loaf. We ate dinner and then watched TV and played a video game. We didn’t talk about the miscarriages or our sex life or anything else unsettling. We pretended that everything in our lives was normal.
Before bed I took Big Steve outside. We’d missed his regular evening walk because I’d been drinking beer and listening to the neighbors tell me ghost stories.
A thin sliver of moon hung in the sky, and the stars seemed cold and distant. A screech owl called out from the top of the oak tree. Next door, the bass line from a Wu Tang Clan song thudded from Cory’s apartment, along with the sound of screeching tires and gunshots as he played a video game. Cliff’s lights were off upstairs, and I wondered how he could sleep with all that going on underneath him.
Big Steve led me slowly toward the alley. When we reached it he stopped and stared toward the woods. His tail was between his legs.
I reached down and scratched his head. “It’s okay, buddy.”
Big Steve didn’t move. His body was rigid beneath my fingertips.
I followed his gaze and stared at the forest. Despite the glow from the sodium lights in the Fire Hall’s parking lot, the tree line was a wall of shadows. I looked at that impenetrable darkness, and suddenly I was very afraid. Big Steve growled at something I couldn’t see.
The events of that morning played back in my mind again. I’d tried to convince myself that what I’d seen was just Shelly and her boyfriend getting their freak on. But in my heart I still didn’t believe it.
Shivering, I turned back to the house. Our bedroomlight was on upstairs, and it looked warm and inviting. Safe. “Come on, bud. Let’s go night-night.”
He cast one last look at the forest, and then trotted along with me. He wagged his tail and sniffed the ground as if everything were normal again. We went inside. I turned off the light and curled up next to Tara. Big Steve lay between us, facing the bedroom door, guarding it. He fell asleep, and I followed. fell asleep, and I followed.
It was the last truly good night’s sleep I remember having.
On Tuesday morning I tried very hard to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened the day before. Some weird part of my brain convinced me that if I made believe everything was normal, it would be. Tara went to work, and I took Big Steve out for our morning walk, just like we always did. Shelly didn’t jog down the alley, but I didn’t let it trouble me. There could have been a million different reasons for her absence. Maybe she was sick, or she’d been early or was running late. I refused to think any longer about what I’d seen. Big deal. Shelly Carpenter was into kinky sex with guys in goat suits. So what? It wasn’t any of my business.
A few years ago our small town made
Forbes
magazine’s list of “The 200 Most Desirable Communities to Live in with Populations under Ten Thousand.” At the time I’d joked that it was because we had a Wal-Mart, but there were plenty of other more tangible, realistic reasons. Our town offered instant access to Interstate 83, and a short, easy drive to York, Baltimore, Harrisburg, and Philadelphia, and it was only a little farther to Washington, D.C., or New York. Our property taxes stayed low, and housing was still affordable. We had good schools with teachers that still gave a damn, plenty of activities for adults and young people, the Lion’s Club, Masonic Lodge, Knights of Columbus, the annual Volunteer Fire men’s Carnival (which was held in the vacant lot across from our house), the antique district (which attracted tourist dollars), and a decent infrastructure. Churches abounded: Baptist, Lutheran, Brethren, Methodist, Catholic, Episcopalian, and a Jewish synagogue. Our residents loved the Lord in all of his denominations, and abhorred anything unholy (and, in the opinion of some townspeople, their resident mystery writer fell into that category). As a result of these leftover Puritan attitudes, we were a dry town, meaning we had no bars, taverns, inns, or liquor stores within the borough limits. You couldn’t buy a six-pack or a bottle of wine at the grocery store, and if you wanted those or a bottle of liquor, you went to York or Maryland. None of the establishments in town had liquor licenses, not even the restaurants. If you wanted to drink on Friday night, you had to drive down to the state line and pony up to the bar at the Maryland Line Bar and Grill. There was also no gambling (except for the state lottery tickets sold at the local convenience stores), no smoking in public places, no unleashed pets, and no skateboarding. Skateboarders were seen as just a notch above Satanists.
Maybe it was these attitudes and laws that contributed to our almost nonexistent crime rate (which was zero unless you counted Seth Ferguson and some of the other juvenile delinquents around town). Secretly I thought the real reason we had so few serious troubles might be because the town was in heat. We may have paid attention to the rest of the Ten Commandments, but it often seemed like everybody in town coveted his neighbor’s wife. At least once a week, when we got together in the backyard, Merle and Cliff would gossip about who was cheating on whom, which hubby had been spotted slow dancing down at the Maryland Line with somebody else’s wife, who was getting divorced or separated, or climbing in and out of each other’s bedroom window, who’d gotten whom knocked up, and what they planned to do about it. The townspeople liked the Lord, but they absolutely loved to fuck. Why should Shelly Carpenter be any different? She probably wasn’t the only person in this town who liked to get peed on by men in goat suits.
I put it out of my mind and focused instead on the weather. It was another beautiful day. I let the dog linger where he wanted, sniffing around our trees and bushes and peeing on everything. I was in no rush to get back inside and start working. Instead I soaked up the sun, closed my eyes, and listened to the birds’ songs.
We crossed through the field and skirted around the park. Big Steve stopped before we got to the woods, and that was okay with me, because I had no desire to reenter them. An unseasonably warm breeze ruffled my hair, making the trees sway and bow, almost as if they were beckoning us toward them.
The dog lifted his leg and peed a few more drops, then turned around and started back toward the house.
“You done?”
He wagged his tail and began to pant, confirming that he was indeed finished, so I took him home. I got the impression Big Steve was pretending nothing had happened the day before, too.
I made a pot of coffee, pulled some hamburgers out of the freezer, and let them sit out to thaw. I started a load of laundry, and then sat down at my desk. I went through the daily preparatory ritual, mouthing a prayer to the gods of writing that my muse would be there.
It was. Forcing myself to forget about the events in the woods had worked. My writer’s block was gone, replaced with an overpowering urge to write. For an author that’s the best feeling in the world, and I took full advantage of it, sitting at the computer and pounding the keys until well past noon. I couldn’t
not
write. I was so entranced with my tale of two brothers, one fighting for the North and the other for the South, that I didn’t even get up to refill my coffee mug, which had grown cold. I paused only to light my cigarettes, and even that was done on automatic pilot.
Big Steve gnawed his daily bone, and then fell asleep at my feet. Occasionally his paws would twitch or he’d growl softly, as he dreamed of chasing bunny rabbits.
At least, that was what I told myself he was dreaming about.
Around one that afternoon, I could no longer ignore the insistent urgings of my bladder. Happy with the progress I’d made, I saved my work and took a piss. Then, satisfied that I’d written enough for the day, I put the laundry in the dryer, walked down for my daily nicotine fix from Leslie, and then mowed the rest of the lawn, basking in more of the same unseasonably warm weather. The lawn mower felt good beneath my hands. The motor roared, sounding nothing like a shepherd’s pipe.
After finishing with the mowing I brought Big Steve out and tied him to his chain. Then I raked the grass clippings into mounds and put them on my mulch pile. I’d use them as fertilizer in another month or so, after we’d planted our annual garden of tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet peas, parsley, and chives.
Big Steve started barking, and I turned to see what was bothering him. Out front, a young mother walked by pushing a baby stroller. She paused when she heard the dog, but as soon as she saw him cringing behind me she visibly relaxed. The mother waved, and I waved back. She peered over the top of the stroller, smiled, and made baby talk to her child.
I was filled with a sudden, overpowering sense of anger. That could have been my wife and child. It
should
have been. I closed my eyes, picturing Tara pushing the same stroller, hearing her cooing to our child. Imagined the baby’s laughter, the twinkle in its eyes, and the flush of its cheeks. I felt like screaming at the woman. How dare she walk her kid by my fucking house! Didn’t she know what had happened here? Didn’t she know we’d lost ours? It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this unreasonable rage, but it had been a while, and the strength of the emotion surprised me. Immediately after the miscarriages I’d experienced it all the time, anywhere there were children: at the mall, the county fair, down at the gas station, and the park—especially the park. Children playing on the swings and slides. Have you ever noticed that if you close your eyes and listen to a group of children’s laughter, it sounds like they’re actually screaming?
I’d thought those feelings had passed, but I’d been wrong.
The woman passed from sight. Big Steve settled down again and busied himself with digging a hole in the yard. Apparently he’d heard there were good bones in China and was determined to find out for himself.
I checked the time. Three p.m. Tara would be home soon. I took Big Steve for his afternoon walk, and we stuck to the same shortened route we’d taken that morning. He wasn’t his usual self. He seemed sedate.
When we got back I pulled the grill out of the shed, cleaned it up, and made sure there was still propane left over from last summer. Then I tied Big Steve’s leash around the oak tree and fired up the grill. The dog sniffed around the base of the tree, rooting through dead leaves, while I unwrapped the raw hamburgers.
I heard the purr of a motorcycle engine, and Cliff roared down the alley on his Harley. He pulled it into our garage, where he stored it, and then walked back outside and unsnapped his helmet.
I waved and Big Steve thumped his tail, but Cliff didn’t notice us, for at that moment a black-and-white state police cruiser zipped down the alley. Its bubble lights flashed, but the siren was silent.
Cliff froze, one booted foot in his yard and the other in our driveway. I suppose he thought the cops were after him. He obviously hadn’t been doing the alley’s posted speed limit of twenty-five, and the cops had been cracking down on that lately, what with the playground nearby. But the police car cruised past him without slowing.
Cliff glanced toward Big Steve and me. His eyes were wide, and he flashed us a lopsided grin.
“What’d you do now?” I hollered.
He shrugged. “Wasn’t me, man. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
One by one I placed the hamburger patties on the grill. They sizzled and I breathed in the smoke, savoring the aroma. Meat cooking on the grill is the surest sign that winter is over, in my opinion, even more than the sighting of the first robin of spring. My mouth watered. Big Steve looked hopeful, his eyes darting from the burgers to me. I put the lid down and started toward the alley. Whining, the dog followed me to the edge of his leash.
“No,” I told him. “You stay here and guard the burgers.”
He gave me a mournful case of puppy-dog eyes and whined again, this time louder and longer. Relenting, I unclipped his leash from the tree trunk and took him along with me.
“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
He wagged his tail, confirming that he did indeed know that, and it didn’t matter, because I loved him anyway. And he was right.
As we reached the alley another police car, this one unmarked, sped by. Big Steve cowered and then shrank away to the end of his leash.
“It’s okay, Stevie,” Cliff said. “It’s just the cops.”
I nodded at the police cars. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t know.” He flipped his long hair out of his face.
“Thought maybe they were gonna give me a ticket at first.”
“Me too.”
A township police car flashed past us, tires humming, and Big Steve retreated a few more steps.
“State and township both,” I observed. “Must be something serious, whatever it is.”
Cliff pointed. “Looks like they’re pulling into the Leg-erskis’ driveway. Wonder if Paul and Shannon are okay?”
Sure enough, all three cars were parked in the Leg-erskis’ driveway, six houses down. Paul’s black truck was also there.
“He’s home from work early,” I said, indicating the truck. “He usually doesn’t get back until around six.”
“I don’t think he went in today,” Cliff told me. “His truck was parked in that same spot this morning when I went to work.”
“Maybe he’s sick,” I suggested. “Or hurt.”
“Then where’s the ambulance?”
“Good point.”
“Maybe that fucking Ferguson kid broke in or something,” Cliff said.
Seth Ferguson was nothing but trouble. He lived across the street, thirteen going on thirty, and was steadily working on a one-way ticket to the juvenile detention center in York. Leslie had caught him stealing gas from the pumps at the station a week before. Every neighborhood, no matter how Mayberry-like, has a Seth Ferguson: the type who shoots out windows with his BB gun, bullies other children, ties firecrackers to cat’s tails, and soaps the windshields of cars.
We made small talk while we watched. Cliff wondered how my new book was coming along, and I asked him if he’d gotten lucky over the weekend. He had, with two different women he’d met at a bar in Baltimore’s Fell’s Point district. Spring fever had hit Cliff Swanson as well, it seemed. I secretly envied him.
A fourth patrol car raced down the alley. This one had its siren blaring, and it frightened Big Steve even worse. He pulled on his leash, cowering behind the shed. The ambulance finally arrived. Its siren was also on. I grew more concerned. This seemed like too much commotion for one of Seth Ferguson’s pranks.
“Shit,” Cliff breathed. “This is looking worse by the minute.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Something’s up. Should we go down there?”
“Better not. Cops will just chase us off.”
We both lit up cigarettes and watched the events unfold. I had a bad feeling in my stomach.
After hearing the sirens Merle and Dale came outside to see what all the commotion was about, and joined us in front of my garage. As the four of us stood there talking amongst ourselves, I thought I heard something—that all-too-familiar piping from the day before. I froze, waiting to see if the others had noticed it, but none of them had. There were a few more brief notes, and then the music faded again. I chalked it up to my imagination—part of the background noise from the sirens—but then I noticed something strange.
I had another erection.
And I wasn’t the only one.
Even as I tugged my T-shirt down over my pants to hide it, I noticed that Dale was staring at his own crotch, looking both very surprised and mildly uncomfortable. I followed his gaze and saw that he had a bulge as well.
Merle noticed it, too. “What the hell, Dale? Am I that sexy?”
Dale’s face turned bright red with embarrassment.
“Not on your best day. I don’t know what woke it up. First time in a while…”
“Did you pop some Viagra or something before youcame outside?” Cliff joked, but I noticed that he was pulling his shirttail down as well.
“N-no,” Dale stammered. “It just…woke up.”
Cliff chuckled. “One thing’s for sure: Claudine will be happy tonight.”
“I guess so,” Dale said. “Hope it lasts till then.”
Big Steve began licking himself. His own erection jutted like a pink candle.
Merle grinned and scratched himself through his jeans.