The Birth of Bane (15 page)

In 1927, their
daughter, Elizabeth (fifteen), accidentally set fire to the
northwestern portion of the second floor and portions of the porch
and living room were destroyed in addition to a sizable area of the
upper floor. Mr. Gates then rebuilt the damaged portions of the
house, adding a mini-master suite for the girl and the full-time
nurse/nanny he had hired to make certain the accident was repeated
in the future.

By 1934, Mrs.
Gates’ mother became ill and her husband had a second house added
to what was already a substantial toolshed he had built to hasten
the rebuilding of the family home after the fire.

During the
Second World War, Mr. Gates had a part of the front porch
screened-in, so his wife could do her needle-point without pesky
flies and mosquitoes bothering her while she kept a vigilant eye
out for the return of her boys from overseas. Both had seen action
in the European Theater. Young Jack had even survived the first
push onto Normandy Beach, while Franklin scurried about the French
countryside in his “death-trap” of a Bradley, one of the many tank
commanders in Patton’s vaulted Third Army.

Amazingly, both
brothers, did, in fact, make it home after the Nazi’s had
surrendered in those lagging months of the planet-wide conflict.
All that remained was the decision to invade Japan or bomb into
oblivion.

In 1946, Jackson
married and moved to Pasadena. (Franklin was a confirmed bachelor
by then and hadn’t come back home other than to visit. He lived
comfortably upon Mt. Washington in a decent-sized home overlooking
the city).

In 1951,
Elizabeth died of a fever. By then, her health had diminished to
such a degree; her parents had been forced to place her into a
long-term medical facility. Combined with her child-like mental
state, the aging couple had begun to find it difficult to properly
care for her.

From 1952 to
1957, Jackson’s three other children were brought into this world
one right after another, so in ’57, with his wife pregnant for the
fourth time, he decided it was time to move to a larger home. A
month before the baby’s birth, the moved to Altadena and has lived
there ever since.

Over the course
of the ensuing years, the other sheds were added; a wading pool was
constructed, and then torn out when it proved detrimental to the
cesspool sewage system. The Pot Belly stove was replaced by a
furnace and the whole system was upgraded and retro-fitted the same
year President Kennedy was shot and killed in Texas.

In 1967, Mr.
Gates died of a cardiac arrest at one of the many construction
sites he had going on about town.

In 1972, Mrs.
Gates died peacefully, in the sunroom, after having a large cup of
Earl Grey, her favorite tea since childhood.

From there the
house had been sold a number of times until my parents bought it in
the summer of 1986.

It wasn’t a
nefarious past like that of the wicked hotel in
The Shining
.
There were no murders or ancient Indian burial grounds. There was
no
Pet Cemetery
or pumpkin patch under which a vengeful
demon was entombed. There was nothing of that nature involved with
the long history of 1052 Lincoln Drive, nothing.

And yet, since
the death of Mrs. Gates, no subsequent owner had stayed longer than
a year and a half. It was puzzling at first glance.

But, if you
lived there, in that house, after a while, it would begin to make
sense.

I was beginning
to comprehend who hadn’t left…

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>>>~~~~~~~

PART
TWO

BIRTH

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

Chapter Nine: A
Sure Thing

My suspicions
over who was living in our home with us seemed to become more of a
reality over the course of a few weeks. It was toward the end of
January and the first week February, right before my eighteenth
birthday. It was morning and I was watching football in the living
room, on the big TV.

For some reason
Valerie was making breakfast, which was unheard of, despite the
fact she was a descent enough cook. She merely didn’t like the time
it took to prepare a nice meal. I was having a hard time
concentrating. It wasn’t the opening and closing of the cabinets or
the odd squeak of one of the kitchen drawers being pulled along
their wooden rungs. The pots and pans rattling or the running water
or the sound of sizzling bacon – none of that was bothersome. Those
were the typical sounds heard on any ordinary morning.

No, it was
Valerie herself. For some reason, she felt the need to walk back
and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom every five or six
minutes. It was as though she were deliberately trying to annoy me.
She kept stepping heels first, making the entire house shudder
underneath me.

After she’d done
this for the fourth time, I’d had enough. “Valerie, stop stomping
around like you have clod-hoppers on your freakin’
feet!”

There was no
reply, nothing. This was unusual. My sister was always willing to
step up to the combative plate when she felt pressed upon, and yet
– silence.

“
Valerie, do you
her me talking to you?” I got up. I’d seen the last, whisping edges
of her nightgown as she made her way into the bathroom, so I made
my way after her.

The sarcastic
accusation upon my lips went to ash in my mouth when I peered into
the bathroom and found it empty.

There was no one
there.

I turned around,
quizzical, head dipped in the morass of sticky cobwebs that were my
thoughts.

Wait a
minute
. I remember the phrase
skipping across my consciousness like a flattened stone over the
surface of a pond. It was touching, ever so slightly, but it never
penetrated deeper than the uppermost recesses of the waters of my
mind.

My eyes darted
about the dining room, the living room beyond, the snarls and
grunts of the football game barely registering in my ears. I
focused, letting my perception expand. Aspects of my environment
began to register elsewhere than just the automated portions of my
brain.

It was late
morning, not early. There were clouds covering the city, making it
darker than it should’ve been at ten-thirty. There was no sound of
frying bacon. The light in the kitchen was off.

Confusion set in
like a fog. I could see fine, but the meaning, the ability to
cognize what I was seeing was dulled, hampered, muddied.

I shuffled
toward the kitchen, long shadows following. The house had gone
eerily quiet. Even the television seemed as if it had somehow found
a way to walk outside, onto the deck and close the sliding glass
doors behind it. The moment I cleared the dining room hutch, I
peered at the stove as it came into view. It was devoid of all
cookery. There were no pots or pans in evidence
anywhere.

Valerie hadn’t
been making breakfast.

Then,
who…?

No one had been
making breakfast!

It felt like I’d
been struck with a pillow in the dark. In a second I was moving
cautiously, careful with every step, letting the tips of my toes
acclimate to
everything
they touched. My secondary senses were
on high – hearing, smelling.

Then,
BLAMM!
the realization hit me like a slap of ice-cold water in the
face.

I was the only
one here!

My mother,
Valeria and Eli had gone shopping. They weren’t in the
house.

My father hadn’t
come home last night. He’d called the night before saying there was
some sort of emergency in Santa Barbara and his department had been
called-in to remedy. I recalled, when my mom had told us, we’d all
laughed out of the corners of our mouths. We knew where he was
really going. We knew what he was really doing. He was going to
spend the night with Roxanna, screw her until the break of
dawn.

What an idiot.
You’re a glorified accountant, not a fireman or a police officer,
or even a lawyer! What the hell were you thinking? Are we that
stupid to you?
At seventeen,
almost eighteen, he was transparent to me. Yet, how could I blame
him. If I’d been bitch-slapped by something I couldn’t see, I’d
probably stay away as well. Maybe he was scared. Maybe the idea of
sleeping at the house was too much for him right now. I was there.
I had seen what had occurred. I saw the invisible fist clout my
father upside the head, nearly knock him unconscious.

Well, whatever
the reason, it sure gave him one hell of an excuse to stay
away.

My mother hadn’t
so much as lifted an eyebrow. She didn’t care anymore. I guess from
her perspective, Roxanna was doing her a favor.

I was able to
figure that out when I got older. When you abhorred someone, it was
better to let someone else sleep with them, so you wouldn’t have
to. It was survival.

My mother had
been in that mode for far too long.

All of this
flashed through my mind in second. I glanced about again on the
cusp of fright. I knew I should feel a tingle up my spine. My heart
should thud, my breathing increase. The hot flush, followed by the
frozen gooseflesh should’ve come next. My head should’ve darted
back and forth, my expression grim with wary expectation. It
should’ve been there, twisting my gut, a wrenching in my
chest.

I felt none of
it. The very moment another notion registered, it all melted away.
I was nodding now.
I know who
you are,
I thought, comfortable,
knowing it was Her and not someone other sort of presence. She I
could tolerate. She had a right to be here. This place had been
hers since the turn of the century.

“
Sorry, Mrs.
Gates, if I disturbed your cooking,” I said to no one in particular
- other than the dead, of course.

I walked back to
the couch and resumed watching football. It was the playoffs after
all. Thoughts of what had happened out of mind. After all, it was
only
Her
.

As if to answer,
I smelled fresh cooked bacon as if she were capable of preparing it
from beyond the grave. Still, I could almost see it. Long,
straight, uncurled strips of meat she’d cooked over a low flame.
Just the way I liked it.

I smiled,
thinly, then gripped the pillow I’d been holding, my thoughts
flittering away.

Oh god,
go!
I yelled
internally.

John Elway broke
free of a charging linebacker, the pocket about him collapsing. He
scrambled, twisted to the side. He launched an impossible pass at
the line of scrimmage. His receiver had broken free, by one foot,
two feet. The ball was coming down, a beautiful arch, a perfect
spiral – touchdown.

“
Yeeeaaah!” I
howled.

Off to my right,
going from the kitchen to the bathroom, the footsteps sounded once
again.

*****

I heard her
crying in the sunroom. They were small, muffled whimpering’s,
barely loud enough to reach the dining room. I’d come home later
than usual, after spending some time at Myra’s house. It was almost
6 o’clock, the sun was fast toward the horizon. We were still on
Standard Time.

Valerie and Eli
were upstairs. I could hear their footfalls above me.

The lamp in the
far corner of the living room was the only luminance in that part
of the first floor. The rest of house was dimly lit,
subdued.

The only sound
was the soft click of the heating system, the faint swoosh of air
as the furnace system engaged and pushed air through the
walls.

And, her
near-silent sobs.

I strode briskly
toward the sound. I knew it was my mother. I had heard her weep so
much over the years. I knew every nuance of the act. This fact
alone was a physical testament to all the unnecessary bullshit she
had to endure when I was a child. It made my teeth grind together.
I was seething.
What now? What
have you done to my mother?
My
thoughts were narrow, aimed, straight for the very middle of my
father. Why couldn’t he just fuck Roxanna and be done with it? Why
all the torment and torture? Why was he so fucking
sadistic?