Authors: Robert Swartwood
“People will always gossip.”
He smiled and nodded and then his face became serious once again. “Okay, Chris, one last thing. I’ve read all the police reports and news articles about what happened that week in Bridgton. And I don’t know what it is, call it intuition, but something tells me there’s more to what took place than what you’re letting on. I know you say you can’t remember, and maybe that’s the truth, but I think there is one thing you can tell me.”
“What’s that?”
“Is it over?”
I thought about it for a long moment. “I have no idea.”
We stood there behind the church then, alone with the soft summer breeze and the sound of the traffic on the highway. Neither of us spoke a word. And at that moment, the silence between us was the only thing that made sense.
•
•
•
F
ROM
WHERE
I
pulled off along the road I could see the farmhouse very clearly. I thought about all the times I’d been inside it or somewhere on the property, either in Melanie’s room or in the dining room having dinner with her folks. Helping her mom wash dishes in the kitchen. Sitting with Patty and listening to one of her many knock-knock jokes. Then there were the times I’d helped Jack Murphy, with mowing the massive lawn or helping with something in the barn, and how there had been times I would look at him and think what a great man he was, how I would be proud to someday call him my father-in-law.
She was in there now with her mom and sister. I could see both of their cars, as well as Jack Murphy’s pickup truck. I doubted Mel was busy sharing everything she’d seen and experienced while over in Europe. I was sure whatever pictures she’d taken were still on rolls of film, waiting to be developed. It might be a very long time before they were developed, and what then? Would Mel sit down and look at each picture, try to remember what day they were taken, how at that moment in time, while she was on the busy streets of London or Paris, her father had attempted to molest her sister? Just how did you come back from that, with the knowledge that one of your family members—your own father—had that evil inside him?
I had done too much to her already. I may not have been solely responsible for the pregnancy, but I sure as hell was for the abortion. That had been me entirely. And then I’d gone and caught her father before he did something unspeakable. Forever I would be known to Mel as the guy who forced her to have an abortion, the guy who got her father arrested. Sure, I’d saved little Patty from a worse fate, but would Mel see it like that? I wasn’t sure. All I knew for certain was that I needed to talk to her, I needed to tell her I was sorry.
But not today. When, I didn’t know, but not today.
•
•
•
B
Y
THE
TIME
I arrived home it was early evening. For some reason the house looked different without the crime scene tape circling it. I noticed the grass was a bit too high and knew I’d have to mow it either tomorrow or Sunday. It felt so strange, entering back into normality, something I thought I should welcome but didn’t.
Henry Porter’s truck was parked in the driveway, one of the few things Sarah had kept from Bridgton that wasn’t her own. I parked behind it and went inside and found her in the living room. She sat on the couch reading a trade paperback I hadn’t gotten a chance yet to read myself—the same very trade paperback Moses had noticed me looking at in his RV.
She said, “So how’d it go?”
Meaning, how did things go between me and James Young, who’d called last night, asking me to stop by to talk with him.
“Can you come with me?” I asked. “I want to show you something.”
We took my car. I had to help her down the steps and into the passenger seat, as she was already eight months along. Not much longer now before the due date. Not much longer until I found out whether my choice would stick.
It took ten minutes to get there. We played Coldplay the entire ride. I had to take a few back roads that weren’t paved and were bordered by fields. Farms and silos dotted many of them. Finally I came to the point where the sycamore tree marked the crossing. I didn’t have to worry about pulling over, because hardly anyone ever used this road.
I helped Sarah out of the car and then stood with her, facing toward the sun that had already begun to set.
“This isn’t quite Harris Hill Park, I know. But it’s the highest spot in Lanton. When I was younger my parents used to bring me here with the telescope they got me for my birthday. I don’t know why, but I always thought that I’d be closer to the moon and stars right here than anywhere else.”
She smiled at me and looked out at the horizon, at the colors the sun and clouds made together. And as she did my eyes drifted down to her belly, and I thought about the baby inside her. I thought about the night I’d come out of Shepherd’s Books to find my dead father standing beside my car.
“It’s not that simple, Christopher,” Samael said. “The choice is for two lives, one or the other. And if you refuse to decide, both lives will perish. Now, are you ready to see just how innocent you truly are?”
And as I released my grip on the knife, knowing it would be useless, Samael explained to me my choice. That the two lives involved were Sarah and her baby. That childbirth is not always an easy process and sometimes there are complications. Something may happen where the life of the baby is endangered. Or something may happen where the mother’s life is the one endangered. And sometimes both lives become endangered and it’s impossible to save either one.
“So I will give you the chance, Christopher. I will give you the chance to save Sarah’s life, or the life of her unborn child. Both do not have to die, but one must. Which shall it be?”
“What are you thinking about?” Sarah asked.
I blinked and looked at her. “Me? Nothing.”
She grinned and poked me in my side. “I don’t know, Chris. Sometimes I wonder just what goes on in that head of yours. But I do want to thank you. I want to thank you for everything. My baby thanks you too.”
Sarah stared back out at the horizon. It was reddish-orange, the sky above us purple. She took my hand and gave it a slight squeeze.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
But I didn’t answer. I just stood there holding her hand. And even though we were both watching the same sunset, there was no doubt in my mind we were seeing two completely different worlds.
Epilogue
L
ife isn’t fair.
It’s an old adage, a tired cliché, but you know this to be true. You’ve known it all your life, ever since you were a boy.
Your parents knew it too. So did Moses and Joey. So did your grandmother and uncle.
So does Sarah.
Her baby’s name is Joseph Christopher Porter. He’s been born almost a year. You remember just how nervous you were when Sarah went into labor. You didn’t want to go with her to the hospital. You didn’t want to hold her hand. You didn’t want to be there when it happened and the realization of your choice finally came to pass.
But there were no complications.
Neither Sarah’s life nor the baby’s was in danger.
Now the three of you share the house you once lived in with your parents. Together you make a strange but stable family. Because every time you look at Sarah and Joey you remember the night with Samael and the choice you made. You can’t help yourself.
Still, you think you make a good father—which feels strange in itself, because there is nothing romantic between you and Sarah, you are both simply friends. You care for Joey like he’s your own. When you feed him or hold him or change him you are reminded of the baby you would have had with Mel.
When you’re not at home you’re at work. When you’re not at work you’re at home. This is your life now.
But at least you lived through the nightmare.
You keep telling yourself that like it’s something to be proud of.
Then one morning you wake from a new nightmare. You’ve had others similar to this one, though each is unique in its own way. And every time you wake from one you hope it will be the last.
You lie in bed for a long time and stare at the ceiling. When you finally do get around, shower and dress, you grab the sports bag from inside your closet. You’ve only used the sports bag three times before. Each time you came home you packed it again and kept it in the closet, just in case you had another vision.
The last was over three months ago.
Downstairs you find Sarah in the kitchen. She’s feeding Joey, who now sits in a high chair. The bib he’s wearing shows Elmo’s red face. He sees you and smiles. Applesauce drips from his chin.
Sarah notices the sports bag in you hand. Her own smile fades.
“How many?”
“Thirteen.”
“Where?”
“Boise, Idaho.”
She nods once and turns her attention back to Joey. Dabs the applesauce from his chin.
“How long should I tell your boss you’ll be gone?”
“Two weeks.”
“Will you call me when you get there?”
“I’ll try.”
Then you’re outside in your car, sitting behind the wheel. The engine idles. The radio is off. Silence is your only friend now, silence and maybe the sports bag on the passenger seat. Besides clothes, inside it are your grandfather’s Bible, the green ceramic umbrella you once gave your mother, and the plush Tasmanian Devil. You don’t believe in luck, but you’ve taken these items with you each time before, and each time you came back alive.
Waiting in the car, you stare out the windshield at nothing in particular. This has become your ritual every time you get a new vision. Sitting in the car staring ahead like maybe you’ll change your mind and go back inside, try to get on with your life.
But you haven’t yet.
You doubt you ever will.
Sarah seems to understand this too, though she’s never happy when it happens. The last three times she’s asked you the same question when you returned, just like she will ask you when you return this time—if you return this time.
Why do you do it?
She knows the answer but asks anyway. You know why she does. It’s for your benefit, not hers.
You close your eyes for a second and think of the vision you’ve just had. Of the thirteen faceless people in Boise, Idaho whose lives now hang in the balance. You’ve got eight days before they die. And the only thing standing between them dying and living now is you.
Opening your eyes, you put the car in gear. Begin to roll down the driveway, until you’re stopped right before the street. Then you think of the question Sarah will ask you, the same very question you ask yourself at this moment before continuing.
“Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t,” you whisper.
Only then do you ride off into the backwards sunset.
About the Author:
Robert Swartwood’s work has appeared in
The Los Angeles Review
,
The Daily Beast
,
ChiZine
,
Postscripts
,
Space and Time
, and
PANK
. He is the author of several novels and the editor of
Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer
. Visit him online at
www.robertswartwood.com
.
To stay updated on Robert’s latest ebook releases, sign up for his
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@RobertSwartwood
.
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.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s novelette
Spooky Nook
A writer whose wife has been missing for eight months encounters a familiar old woman with an odd request—a request that will introduce him to a surprising evil.
Spooky Nook
is a 10,000-word “prequel of sorts” to
The Calling
I. Road Trip
T
wo nights before, he had run out of all the food in the house—even the expired cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli and frozen Hungry Man dinners he’d eaten despite his brain’s nasty whispers of possible salmonella and freezer burn. The only things left in the cabinets were a half loaf of Wonder bread (the sell-by date showing yesterday), a half jar of Skippy peanut butter (which expired at the end of the month), and just enough jelly to make one and a half sandwiches. And that had been his dinner last night: peanut butter and jelly made on near-stale bread, along with a glass of water from the tap. He knew he needed groceries or at least some food to hold him over for the next couple of days, but he had no desire to go to the store, or even to the gas station where he could get bread and potato chips and maybe even some fresh meat cuts. There would be people there, people who knew his face, his story, and while he’d dealt with them countless times in the past eight months he had begun to want nothing to do with them at all.