Authors: Robert Swartwood
He needed to get out of the house, too. He was tired of seeing his wife in every aspect of the place—her perfumes and jewelry on her stand in the bedroom, her shampoo in the shower, the matching pillows she’d picked out for the living room couch and the green and blue oven mitts for the kitchen. There was more, of course, so much more that sometimes Kevin walked the house and remembered pieces of the past in every room. Like old grainy footage spliced into the film of the present, he saw Cathy in the chair on the patio, where she’d sit with her legs beneath her as she read a book; he saw her at the stove or the sink, actually humming to herself as she stirred the spaghetti sauce or did the dishes. He was reminded about how many times they’d made love in their house, especially after first moving in, when Cathy said they needed to break in every room—and even every closet—with their lovemaking.
And then there was the den, with his computer and the files inside. Paul, his agent who had somehow managed to sweet-talk a major two-book deal out of Random House after his first two novels sold so well, had been calling the house almost every other day. His excuse was he wanted to check on Kevin, see how he was holding up, but still Paul asked about the new novel, wondered if Kevin had managed to produce any new chapters ... and if no new chapters, then how about some new pages?
Kevin hadn’t written anything in eight months. He hadn’t even opened the Word file his latest novel was saved under.
Last time he’d been at the grocery store he’d stocked up like it was the end of the world, and even that reminded him of Cathy, how during the whole Y2K scare she had been skeptical but still had talked him into going with her to the store, where they stocked up on two carts full of food and water and batteries and snacks. But that had been over a month ago, and he had since run completely out.
Restaurants were out of the question—even small places that weren’t chains like Friendly’s or Denny’s he didn’t want to go to. He didn’t want to have to walk inside and give his name, then say that he only needed a table for one. It would bring the reality of his entire hapless existence down on him even harder. Ordering in was an option but for some reason he just couldn’t decide what he wanted, as he looked up and down nearly every page of the phonebook, his index finger with the cracked nail skimming the names and numbers of takeout places. In the end the finger stopped on Wang’s Chinese Restaurant, which was only a half-mile away and which had been his and Cathy’s favorite place to eat. Sometimes, when Cathy wasn’t working, they’d go there for the lunch specials, where the owner dressed in one of his smart suits would welcome them with a smile and lead them to their table, asking Kevin when his next book was coming out and then telling him he couldn’t wait to read it—even though Kevin very much doubted the man had read any of his books to begin with.
What the hell, he thought. He grabbed a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt, applied some Old Spice to his underarms. He picked up the most recent issue of
The Paris Review
—Number 165, Spring 2003—that had come in the mail only a few weeks before and had gone unread this entire time, then got in his car and made the effortless drive to the shopping mall and the restaurant sandwiched in between a state store and an H&R Block.
It was a Tuesday night, so the place wasn’t busy, and once he walked through the front door—plaques hung on the wall just inside, Wang’s having been voted “Best Chinese Restaurant” by the readers of
Lanton County Magazine
for ten straight years; Zagat had given its prestigious approval—he was seated in no time. They put him at one of the back tables, where he ignored his menu and ordered General Tso’s Chicken and wanton soup, then just sat there, staring dumbly at the pink and white carnations and the bottle of soy sauce resting on the table. He hardly paged through the magazine he’d brought with him, and two and a half hours later, when the last customers left, Kevin barely noticed.
It was almost ten o’clock, which was closing time at Wang’s, but he knew they wouldn’t kick him out just yet. He heard them speaking their Mandarin in the kitchen, even over the Muzak playing quietly from the overhead speakers. Nothing oriental but simple American contemporary. He’d been staring at his plate for a long time, using his fork to push the red peppers around his chicken, and didn’t know how long ago his waiter had left him his check. On top of the black plastic tray rested his fortune cookie.
He thought about the novel he was supposed to finish, the one his publisher was waiting on. His fourth novel, which would end his contract and possibly open another. He had already taken the advance and now worried that he would have to pay it back. The working title was
Walk the Sky
. It dealt with a tribe of modern Native Americans living out in Nevada, the inspiration coming to him years before when he first read Leslie Silko’s
Ceremony
in one of his graduate classes.
“It’s useless,” he whispered. He placed his finger on the cover of
The Paris Review
, pressed his chipped nail down as hard as he could.
The front door opened. Kevin hadn’t realized it until now, because he had never been in this place when it was so quiet and near the back like he was, but the action caused some kind of bell to buzz in the kitchen. One of the waiters came out. In broken English he apologized that they were closing in five minutes.
“That’s all right,” said a voice, a woman’s. “I’m with him.”
At once Kevin stopped punishing his finger and the cover of the magazine. He kept staring at it though, while he wondered who else was here. Obviously no one, but surely the speaker didn’t mean him.
Maybe it’s Cathy, he thought, but he knew it wasn’t, because a) the voice belonged to an elderly woman, not someone in her early thirties, and b) it was highly unlikely that his wife, missing now for eight months, would come walking into Wang’s casually, as if meeting him here for a late dinner had all been part of her plan.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he wasn’t aware that the woman had threaded through the tables toward the back, wasn’t even aware of her standing in front of him, until she cleared her throat and said, “Kevin Parker?”
A fan. Of course it was a fan. Just someone who’d picked up one of his novels in the bookstore or library, someone who’d been impressed by what he wrote and wanted an autograph, wanted maybe to say some kind words. Ever since his last book had been added to Oprah’s Book Club, it seemed his readership had become mostly all women. Not that he minded really, except that recently it seemed those who now saw him felt true pity for him. They would ask him how he was doing, always whispering his wife’s name as if it were cursed. But nowadays it seemed the news had become old, almost taboo, as if speaking it would admit they weren’t up on current events, like that double-homicide that shocked the entire county just four nights back.
She said his name again, and this time he blinked, managed to pull his eyes away from his table and glance up. An old woman in her sixties, maybe even her seventies, with a wrinkled but kind face, and even kinder eyes. She smiled at him, her teeth yellowed, and said, “Kevin, don’t you remember me? It’s Anna Wilbanks, your first grade teacher.”
He stared for a moment, unsure of what to think, but then he remembered back thirty years ago, the woman who’d read to them during story time and let them use the paint brushes during art and who would sometimes give them naptime, even though she wasn’t supposed to.
“Mrs. Wilbanks,” he said, a shadow of a smile crossing his face. “I can’t believe it. How are you?”
“It’s Anna now, Kevin. We’re both adults.”
He smiled and nodded, but said nothing else. This woman was the last person in the world he’d expected to see. Just what was he supposed to say?
Before he could ask anything though, the woman said, “I know you’re probably wondering why I stopped in here. And while I know this will sound silly, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I’m an old woman whose eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in ages. But there’s someplace I need to go, someplace I was hoping you could take me. And don’t think I just happened to see you in here and thought I’d ask because you were the only one around. Kevin, you know how you were one of my favorite students. I always knew if there was anyone I could count on, it would be you.”
He stared up at her, still stunned to see her after all these years. Above them, the Muzak—now playing “Strangers in the Night”—cut off completely.
“What is it?” he asked, because he knew it was true, he
was
the only person she could count on, even after all this time. He didn’t want to disappoint her, not at all.
As it turned out, she was a fan.
Just not a fan of his.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s novella
The Man on the Bench
In the summer of 1922, nine-year-old Ethan’s only worries are chores, having fun, and keeping out of trouble.
But a shadow soon falls over the tiny backwater town of Benton, Pennsylvania that threatens to change everything.
First the cats disappear.
Then the little girls.
After that, the real horror begins.
“I absolutely loved
The Man on the Bench
. It was wondrous, intriguing, sweet, scary, surprising ... everything a good story should be.”
—
David B. Silva
1
The summer of my first kiss was also the summer of the man on the bench.
It was 1922. Three years since the Treaty of Versailles was signed ending the war with Germany. Two years since a little unknown man named Adolf Hitler helped found the Nazi party in Munich. Henry Ford’s Model T was owned by over half the driving population of America, and in Paris James Joyce’s
Ulysses
was first published.
But all of this and everything else meant nothing to me.
I was nine years old, living in the backwater town of Benton, Pennsylvania. The only worries I had besides my chores were having fun and keeping out of trouble at the same time.
Except that all changed within the course of a few weeks.
A shadow fell across our tiny town.
First the cats disappeared.
Then the little girls.
But before that, there were Bobby, Joseph, Curtis, and Melvin. And their need to inflict pain on anyone younger than them.
2
Benton wasn’t one of your normal small towns.
Our general store wasn’t one of those places kids went into with wide eyes, their mouths drooling over all the candy in the jars. It was just some rundown house owned by Mr. Parker, who ordered supplies every week and had them shipped in from Harrisburg.
Our school had one room and was used for church on Sundays. Usually the only kids who attended were from ages six to twelve. The other kids took the three-mile hike into Providence, which was a prosperous mining town to the north. Not quite a suburb yet but getting mighty close.
There was no mayor, no township, and no office to elect a constable, so the one from Providence occasionally made his way into Benton to make sure everyone was keeping civil.
And for the most part everyone was.
Everyone except the children, though there were hardly many of them all told. Just enough to squeeze into that one-room school house, no more.
The only boys my age were William Dukes and Fred Wilson. We were best friends and closer than glue.
Except when Bobby and the rest of them were after us.
Then it was every man for himself.
3
It was a hot Thursday afternoon and we were down by the creek on the other side of Miller Road. It was a narrow thing, not much good for fishing and such, but at least the water was cool and came up to our knees when we stepped in. There were usually frogs in there along with crawfish and we’d try our best to find them, to try to get ourselves a new pet to play with.
We were doing just that when Bobby and the others showed up. They were all older than us, Bobby the oldest at fourteen. It seemed they never really had much to do except chase after us.
In Benton, there really wasn’t much else to do.
“Well, well,” Bobby said, grinning his crooked ugly grin. “What do we have here?”
It was enough for us. We darted out of the water towards the road, leaving our shoes and shirts behind. They weren’t worth getting anyway, and besides, it was a safe bet we’d find them eventually. Even if they would be hanging from a tree.
Though we weren’t a gang or anything, William was our leader. He was the strongest, the smartest, and we always listened to whatever it was he had to say. We’d follow him over a cliff if he led us. He was that kind of guy.
Now he was leading us up the road through the high grass. Behind us we heard Bobby and the rest as they splashed through the creek and shouted after us.
Across the road were the woods, which weren’t really woods at all but only a couple of acres of trees, with an opening in the middle with a small pond and field. Through the woods was Harris Road that led to most of the houses in Benton, ours included.