And now this.
The scene where the buddy in the story confronts the protagonist. Written in
Marooned
and somehow bizarrely played out last night between Hank and Dennis.
But these occurrences didn’t scare him as much as the text message.
And the fact that Cillian somehow knew.
But there’s no way he could know unless I’m making him up, unless I’m making the text up.
But Dennis saw the message again this morning. It was still there in his phone.
And it made everything in his world tremble.
“No,” Dennis said, still rejecting it, still not believing, still not able to go there.
But he was already there.
He was in the middle of it.
And quickly sinking.
This time Dennis e-mailed Cillian.
The e-mail was short and sweet.
I want to meet with you, face-to-face. Today.
He wanted answers. For his own sake and sanity.
He could accept what they were. But he needed to know.
He waited for a response but none came.
Every time he called her now, Dennis expected to hear the worst. He’d never been an overly worried father, but now worry coated
everything he said and did.
The line rang, and he knew she wasn’t going to pick up. He’d been calling her too often, driving her crazy with worry, making
sure she was okay, making her friends think her dad was a quack. Thankfully that didn’t stop Audrey from answering her cell
phone.
“Helloooooo?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.
“How’s Southern California?” he asked, trying to feign nonchalance.
“A lot better than Geneva, Illinois.”
“Maybe I need to find out.”
“Dad—”
“I know, I’m calling again. But really, I had a crazy thought.”
“You make a living having crazy thoughts.” “This one involves you.”
“This can’t be good.”
“I was thinking about coming to visit you.” “Weren’t you just here?”
“What if I came back out?”
“Dad.”
“What?”
There was silence.
“Audrey?”
“Are you being serious?”
“Of course I am.”
There was a sigh, then another pause.
Dennis knew what that meant.
“We talked about this,” she finally said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And what’d you say?”
“I promised.”
“So what are you doing?”
Dennis knew where she was going, what she was referring to, but this was different. When he promised to give her space and
promised he would be okay being on his own for the first time, he hadn’t known that some twisted, sick freak would be harassing
him and making threats against her. How could he tell her that? She simply thought he was caving in, that he was missing her
and missing having family around.
And the truth was, he was missing her and Lucy.
Or maybe the truth is I’ve flown over the cuckoo’s nest and gotten my wings clipped.
“I’m coming home at the end of the month.”
“I could come out there.”
“It’s been one year. We agreed, didn’t we?”
“Maybe I could just—”
“Dad.”
“Yeah?” He thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, fine, fine. I’ll stop. But listen—just be careful.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I’m fine. You be careful. Watch the Disney channel. Listen to some country music. Go to a tanning salon.”
He smiled. Leave it to Audrey to give him a good laugh.
He loved her and reminded her again that he did.
But love couldn’t prevent something horrible from happening.
Dennis knew this bitter truth and knew it well.
“How precious.”
The voice lodged itself deep inside him, rattling, shaking, tearing. Was it just his imagination or was Cillian’s voice changing
the more time passed, distorting itself into a voice with many layers and textures?
“What’s precious?”
“Being a father.”
A rage continued boiling inside him. “Are you—are you listening to my conversations?”
The laugh unsettled him. “However could I do that, Dennis?”
The phone call had come only minutes after he spoke with Audrey. How could Cillian know he was talking with her unless he
was spying or listening in?
“You never answered my e-mail,” Dennis said.
“I’m answering now.”
“And?”
“Where would you like to meet?”
Dennis stared through the blinds of the kitchen at the back of his yard. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the guy talking
from back there, waving at him as he spoke into a cell.
He named a pub in downtown Geneva. “Nine o’clock.”
“I was rather hoping you were going to invite me over for dinner.”
“This isn’t funny anymore.”
“Do you hear me laughing?” Cillian asked.
“I hear that smart-aleck tone in your voice, so yeah, I hear you laughing.”
“There’s a time and a place to laugh, Dennis.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll give you something to laugh at.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It sounds however you want it to sound. Meet me at O’Malley’s at nine.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Me neither.”
Dennis watched him arrive ten minutes after nine. He had been sitting in the darkness of his car waiting since eight thirty,
just in case Cillian was early. But the guy swaggered into the pub late. Dennis remained resting behind the steering wheel,
parked facing the sidewalk and the building front. It was another twenty minutes before Cillian stepped out of the pub.
He could see the lean figure standing outside, as if waiting. Then he lit up a cigarette, smoking casually as if he had no
cares in the world.
Dennis wished he could see Cillian’s face. He wished he could see the expression behind the taunts and threats and games.
The figure began to walk away from Dennis, down the sidewalk.
Dennis quickly climbed out of the car and began striding toward him.
In the shadows he walked.
Down the street he walked.
Turning the corner he walked.
All the while following Cillian, who ambled without a destination.
Where’d he park?
In the lawn lining Third Street in front of a sleeping store, Cillian stood. He faced Dennis as if he knew he was coming.
That didn’t stop Dennis. The trees gave them enough darkness. The street didn’t have much traffic.
He walked toward Cillian.
“You get an F for spying,” the voice called out to him.
Dennis approached him and didn’t bother looking around to see if someone else was standing there in the shadows. He didn’t
worry about another car passing by and seeing them. He didn’t wonder if an elderly woman was walking her aged poodle.
He didn’t think of anything except the box with Audrey’s photo inside.
And he thought of this as he launched his fist against Cillian’s creepy, leering face. His knuckles connected with the guy’s
temple, slamming him backward, sending him spiraling to the ground.
For a second Dennis stood his ground, watching the figure sprawled on the grass. Cillian reached for his forehead.
“Heck of a punch for a writer.”
“Get up,” Dennis said.
Cillian laughed as he stood to his feet. “So you didn’t want a beer, huh?”
Dennis punched the guy in whatever tiny gut he had. Cillian keeled over, out of breath. Without thinking, rage and hate filling
him, Dennis grabbed the guy’s oily hair.
“You ever threaten my child again and I’ll kill you. You hear that? I’ll kill you, you sick little freak.” And his hand, now
aching, slammed against Cillian’s nose. He heard something crack.
Cillian fell to his knees, coughing. For a moment he leaned back, making a sound.
What is that?
Dennis didn’t recognize the noise. But then, as Cillian sat back up, his hands covering a nose that gushed blood, Dennis knew
exactly what the noise was.
It was laughter.
“How does it feel, Dennis?”
“Get up.”
“Get up for what, Dennis? For another punch?”
“Get up now.”
Cillian wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood. Even in the muted light Dennis could see it clearly. Pearly white teeth
grinned, the whites of his eyes sticking out like glowing orbs in the night.
This time Dennis slapped him across the face. It seemed far more insulting than a punch. “Get up.”
“Hit me again, writer.”
“Stand up.”
“You hit like a girl.”
Dennis grabbed the collar of Cillian’s T-shirt and jerked it, ripping half of it away.
“Such aggression. How does it feel?”
“Shut your face.”
“How does it feel to taste blood, huh? Feels good, huh? You probably haven’t felt this alive since the day of your wife’s
death, have you?”
Another fist landed against Cillian’s face, sending him crumpling in the wet grass. But this just made the laughter intensify.
“Go ahead, hit me again, Dennis. Go ahead, pummel me. Make me pay. Make me hurt.”
Dennis felt dizzy as tears filled his eyes. His hand throbbed, and his gut raced. He backed away.
You gotta stop this. Gotta stop, Den.
Cillian looked at his bloody hand, then wiped his bleeding nose. “How does it feel?”
“You stay away from me and my family. I mean it,” Dennis said, pointing a finger at the eyes that never strayed away.
“Or what?”
“I mean it,” Dennis said, backing away now.
“Or what? Or what? What are you going to do? What could you possibly do to me?”
The way Cillian said it frightened Dennis. This wasn’t some young fan toying with him.
This was some sick mess of a young man challenging him.
“You can’t do anything anymore, Dennis. You’re weak. Look at you. Look at your face. You’re scared to death, aren’t you? You’re
scared of what you’ve done, but more than that you’re scared because of what you can’t or won’t do, right? I got it right,
didn’t I? I know you, Dennis. I’m a fan and I’ve been a fan for a long time and I can see through your words. You expose your
flaws through your writing, even as lame as your writing has become. I know. I see. I understand.”
Dennis turned and ran down the sidewalk, away from Cillian, from his words, from his smile. Back in his car, Dennis noticed
the bloody gashes on his knuckles. He leaned his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
He just wanted this nightmare to be over.
Everything was set and ready. But he couldn’t go through with it.
Rhonda lay on the couch, waiting for him. He had slipped away from her, masking his shivers and shakes as he walked into the
kitchen, ready to grab the knife. It would be easy, and it would all be over in just a few minutes.
But in the kitchen his hesitations seized him.
He couldn’t even hold the knife straight. It was a butcher knife, a large one that Bob had given him.
For several harrowing moments he stood in the kitchen, listening to the music in the background, then hearing her voice.
“You comin’ back? I’m getting cold.”
And he told her just a minute.
This was his moment. His big moment. It had all been planned out perfectly. He’d spotted her and talked to her and lured her
and convinced her. And now all he had to do was one more little thing.
But he couldn’t.
Instead he ran to the bathroom and found himself throwing up.
He wasn’t sure how long he was in there. He must have blacked out.
When he came back to consciousness, he stood up.
As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed markings on the carpet. The bedroom door was open. He looked back toward the living
room and saw a shadow approaching.
And then Bob filled his sight.
He was going to ask what he was doing, but he knew. Cillian knew that Bob had been waiting for him in the bedroom, waiting
with plastic sheets protecting the bed and the fl oor, waiting with gloves, waiting with tools.
What happened to me?
But as Bob approached him, he could tell that Bob had done what he couldn’t do.
The plastic gloves were dark and wet, his face splattered, his neck torn with something resembling a bite. Bob stared at him
like a disappointed father, not saying a word. He didn’t have to say anything.
“Where is she?” Cillian asked.
Bob didn’t answer. He had that distant look he always carried—a look that seemed void of something vital to the human spirit.
Cillian was afraid for a moment, not sure what the big guy was going to do.
“There’s a little of her remaining in the family room. You can clean up the rest.”
Bob went back into the bedroom and shut the door.
The Saturday sunset was rich with oranges and reds, the sky burning like a pumpkin aglow on a fall night. Dennis drove toward
Ward’s house. He’d be seeing Kendra for the first time since the funeral.
He stopped by a winery to purchase a couple of bottles for the evening. As he drove down Third Street, he saw the spot where
he had beaten Cillian. No police tape surrounded the area, no visible markings in the ground could be seen. Yet Dennis still
felt like he was being watched, like he was in trouble, like someone was going to grab him any minute now.
Ward had e-mailed him several times about coming over and hanging out. They’d finally set a date for this Saturday evening,
almost a week before Halloween. Ward said the kids would be out this evening, so it would just be the three of them.
The three of them.
As soft rock played in the background, the window cracked to let a little air in, the light of the day fading in the west,
Dennis thought of that phrase.
The three of them.
Threesomes weren’t any good. Someone was always left out. You needed a pair. Two or four or more, but never three.
I wish she was by my side, dressed up, holding my hand, holding one of the bottles of wine, carrying a smile on that beautiful
face.
It struck Dennis as he drove past familiar places that maybe he ought to move. Every corner and building and shadow reminded
him of her. The smells and the sounds and sights all acted as a compass pointing due north toward the memory of Lucy. He had
assumed he was strong enough to live in those memories, to breathe and thrive and move through them. But maybe not.