Anthology - Dark Whispers Part 18

Mom sat at the table with me, doing a cross st.i.tch pattern and occasionally glancing my way. At one point, she set her thread down and turned towards me, a look of concern on her face.

"Matthew, son, some things are better left alone." With that, she up and left the room, leaving me to my thoughts.

From the living room I heard the familiar sounds of the newspaper pages rustling and Mom's chair gently rocking. A small belch escaped Pop's lips and Mom scolded him.

AS WE TRUDGED through the forest, I glanced up, through the cover of the trees. A slate-gray sky hung above the tree-tops. Menacing black clouds raced across the face of the moon, trailing wispy, snake-like tendrils.

I led the way with Rick close behind, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Finally, we found the cypress, its branches cast out in a protective shroud.

Rick gently dropped the sack and reached in to get at its contents. He removed a candle, a small bottle containing a clear liquid, a jar of talc.u.m powder, two small boxes, a ceramic bowl and, much to my surprise, a rooster.

Although very much alive, the rooster stood as if stone, not moving or squawking.

Rick dug a little hole at the base of the elm and inserted the candle. He took the top off the bottle and offered it to me. "Here, take this and splash it on the bird." His voice was flat and emotionless.

I walked over to where the rooster stood and poured the liquid on it, spilling a great deal of it in the process. When I returned, Rick was opening the remaining jar and the two little boxes. I handed him the bottle and he took it with a grunt.

Crickets chirped loudly and the scent of pine and cypress was overpowering, making me dizzy.

Rick lit the candle at the base of the tree and warm yellow light encircled us. The cypress, tall and stately, towered over us as he mixed powders from the various containers and put them in the bowl. There were two brownish looking powders and a white powder. One of the powders was giving off a foul odor.

The tree's exposed roots looked like bones; its branches like skeleton arms.

From his back pocket Rick produced his penknife. He unfolded the pitted blade and began to sc.r.a.pe away at his thumbnail. Little bits of nail curled and peeled off, falling into the waiting ceramic bowl, to join there with the pungent powders. He stirred the ingredients together and set the bowl aside.

Rick stood up and walked over to the dazed rooster and deftly plucked four feathers from its wing.

I couldn't help but think that he had done this before. For what purpose? Surely it was just for kicks?

Did he believe this ceremony, under an old cypress, could actually accomplish what we had left unspoken that day a week ago?

Could he?

I didn't believe it. Did I?

I had come along, I suppose, to see what Rick was up to, and to say a final farewell to my old pal. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that Rick was truly sincere about this. I was depressed last week in the tree house. I thought that Rick was just humoring me. I was at a low point and the idea of having Sam back was exciting.

Rick, however, was seriousa"dead serious.

He handed me the four feathers and a bit of twine. "Tie those into the shape of a cross," he said. With a bit of difficulty I managed to complete the task.

Rick regarded me. "Matt, keep those feathers under your pillow when you sleep. It's real important. Understood?"

"Sure. Uh-huh."

Kneeling beside the tree, ceramic bowl in one hand, face turned towards the stars, Rick saluted the heavens in a complex series of gestures that reminded me of a midway hawker attempting to sell his wares. Come, he seemed to beckon. Come try your luck with me.

Having completed his ritual Rick reached into his bowl and pinched some of the powders between his fingers, holding his hand steadily above the flickering flame at the base of the tree. His head swiveled slowly my way and he leveled his gaze squarely at me. He bellowed: "BY THE POWER OF SAINT STAR.

WALK, FIND, SLEEP WITHOUT EATING.".

He released the potion from his grip, letting it waft down to smother the flame and plunge us into darkness.

MOM SUFFERED A terrible stroke.

A few days after my escapade in the woods she collapsed in the kitchen while fixing Pop a sandwich. He rushed her to the hospital.

I wish I could have been there with her, to hold her hand, to smooth her brow, as she had done for so many years for me.

When I did get there, an ashen-faced Pop told me Mom had pa.s.sed on, she was in the Lords' hands now. I raged at him, "How? How could this happen? Where were you? Where is she? Let me see her!"

He led me to a small green room with no windows and four beds. All the beds were empty except one.

An orderly was frantically trying to cover up Mom, but I saw.

Mom was propped upright on some pillows, a tattered and stained sheet covering her legs. A copper-colored liquid spread out from under her body and the smell was foul. Her eyes were wide and staring, a thin gray film covering the whites. In one hand was her rosary, the other held her cane in a death grip.

As I slumped wearily to the floor, a young man came in and talked to Pop about embolisms and occlusions, about doing all they could for Mom, and saying how very sorry he was.

I wept.

ON THE LAST Thursday in July we laid Mom to rest. It was a beautiful day for a burial. The sky was a deep cloudless blue, the sun a waxy, yellow coin. Pop had found Mom's favorite print dress and best pair of shoesa"her Sunday clothes. She did look beautiful.

I listened listlessly to the service, occasionally peering down at Mom, hoping it was all a bad dream, like that guy Dali and his paintings.

Pop took the flask from his coat, stole a sip.

At the end they played Amazing Grace, Moms' favorite song, and as I glanced down at her, her cane beside her, I was thankful that someone had closed her eyes.

AS I WALKED through the front door, the smell of whiskey hit me square. At least I thought it was whiskey. There was a time when I would come home and the only smells would be that of bread baking, pies cooling or a Sunday roast.

Pop was leaning against the wall, looking for all the world like he was trying to hold back the flood waters. "That you, boy?"

"Yep. Everything okay, Pop?"

"Sh-shure, son. I was jus' wundrin' ifen you'd mind going down to Carl's for some whiskey?"

"Sorry, Pop. I can't do that"

Pop wailed and slid down the wall. His chest heaved and a great sob escaped his mouth. I pulled him up to his feet and dragged him to the couch, easing him down on the comfortable cushions.

I found a blanket Mom had knit and placed it carefully on his resting figure. I looked down at the man who had fished and played ball with me, who had taken me to the Orpheum. The man who'd told me stories of the Memphis Queen and the Samuel Clemens racing down the great river. The man who'd held my hand when I needed it and left me be when I wanted him to. I sighed inwardly. I had already lost two loved ones this summer. I wouldn't allow the same thing to happen to Pop.

I AWOKE A few nights later to a sporadic scratching sound. At first I thought I was dreaming, but as I lie there listening, it would repeat itself like a broken record.Scritch Scritch scritch...scritch scritch scritch.

My first thought was that Pop was up and about, searching for G.o.d knows what. It wasn't Pop. I could hear his restless slumber from the other room.

Leaving my room, I headed downstairs, carefully avoiding the squeaky second step.

At the bottom of the stairs I heard it again, only slower this time, as if labored.Scritch...scritch...scritch .

The sound was coming from the front doora"from outside.

I tiptoed towards the door, pressing my ear firmly against the stout wood. There it was again, slow and faint.Scritch...scriiiiitch .

Heart pounding, I pulled open the door.

Peering into the darkness, I was startled to discover it was raining. Funny, I hadn't heard the rain, just that persistent scratching sound.

Sheets of rain angled down to pound the earth, blurring my vision. I could see nothing. If not for the low mournful moan I would have just shut the door.

Looking down, I saw a misshapen gray ma.s.s, like a wet work sock, stuck to the welcome mat. The coloring was all wrong, but there was no mistaking that large white spot on his back. Sam had come home.

"Sam!" I yelled. "Come here, boy".

Sam lifted his head slowly, as if stuck in mola.s.ses. His dark eyes looked at me blankly.

"That's it. Here, boy, here."

With great effort, Sam lifted himself up and lurched into the house. In his wake, he left a trail of slime.

I gently closed the door, fearful of waking Pop, and followed Sam into the living room. He moved unsteadily towards the easychair and plopped down beside it, curling himself into a ball.

I ran to the kitchen, found some dog food. I put it in his bowl and brought it back to Sam. He just stared at it a moment, a vacant look on his face, and resumed his unmoving position.

I sat in the chair, leaned over and stroked Sam. His coat was stiff and wiry, wet and greasy all at once. I pulled my hand away, wiped it on the arm of the chair. He smelled awful, like an egg gone bad. His legs looked like kindling that was ready to snap in two, and his once glorious brown coat was now an industrial gray.

"It's okay, Sam. Take your time, you've got plenty of that now."

Suddenly, Pop was coming down the stairs, leaning on the rail for support. "W-Whash goin' on?!"

My heart did a triphammer. "Look, Pop, it's Sam."

Pop snorted. "Boys gotta have his dawg, I guess. That bashtard Sam probly sired lotsa mutts."

"No, Pop, it is Sam."

"Yes, and I'm Spiro-f.u.c.king-Agnew."

POP WAS SITTING in the easy-chair, snoring. Sam was at his feet, still curled in a ball, food untouched.

I finished drying the dishes and walked into the living room. I flinched. The stench of whiskey was strong, but there was another more disturbing smell. It smelled like that racc.o.o.n Rick and I had discovered in old man MacGregor's barn. When we'd opened the door to the barn, a great stink wafted out. Holding our noses, we'd found the racc.o.o.n, mealy maggots eating away at its remains. I gagged.

"Hi, Sam. How ya' doing, boy?"

Sam lifted his head, looked at me with unfocused eyes, and lowered his head.

"Ya' going to eat, Sam? Huh? You need to eat something." No response. Sam lay there, unmoving, lacking the energy or willpower to do anything other than lift his head occasionally to stare disinterestedly at something.

"Come on, boy! Let's go for a run." I grabbed a tennis ball from the front closet. "Here, Sam, fetch!" I rolled the ball at him. It hit Sam's side and skittered harmlessly away. Sam paid no heed.

I sat down heavily on the couch. "Sammy, boy. What's wrong Sammy, boy?"

"HE JUST LIES there, Rick. Like a rock."

Rick laughed. "What did you expect, Matt, a brand-spanking-new Sam? It can't happen. It's the same old Sam, only...different."

We came upon the cypress. It was split in two, as if someone had cleaved it clean down the middle.

"Christ, would ya' look at that," I said.

"Probably just from some lightning," said Rick, a little too quickly.

We walked around to the other side of the tree, to where Sam was buried. There was a large hole in the ground, where Sam should have been. The earth looked moist and fresh.

"See," said Rick. "Just as I said."

I tasted bile and swallowed hard. "Yeah, Rick, just as you said. Only, I don't feel so good no more. Can we go now?"

"Sure, Matt. You okay?"

"Just great," I said, acidly. "Who wouldn't be?"

"Just asking," replied Rick. "How's your Pop doing, anyway?"

"Oh, he's fine if he's with his buddy Jack Daniels. It's probably just as well, as he doesn't think it really is Sam. He's too drunk to notice."

"I meant, how's he doing since your Mom pa.s.sed away, not about the d.a.m.n dog!"

"Well, how do you think he's doing? He spends his day drinking and sleeping. Mom was his life. He can't make an ice-cube on his own. He misses her something awful."

We were walking back through the forest. I looked at Rick, who was biting on his lip, deep in thought.

"Yeah, I guess he does," said Rick.