*Note, this is just the first third or so... Also, please tell me if the guy's thoughts and sort of emotional view is accurate..I've never written a story with a male narrator before. Feedback welcomed.
“Hey, honey, how'd you sleep last night?” called Helen over our morning paper.
“Fine, just fine.” I took a sip of my coffee, staring at the TV screen that was turned to our news station.
“Up next, an arson burned a downtown warehouse in Cooreville,” chimed the news-anchor. Then the screen flickered to a GA tech commercial.
Looking down at my shirt, I noticed dark specs on the lapel. “Helen, did you wash my shirt last night?”
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.” Her eyebrows arched in annoyance, and I took a deep breath in, preparing for the coming commentary. “Why have you been so distant, lately?”
I didn’t respond, staring pensively a bagel that lay, half-eaten on my plate.
“I’m starting to think you just don’t care anymore,” she continued bitterly.
My eyes were still trained on the bagel, studying the swirls in the cottage cheese made by a butter-knife.
“I..uh..” my gaze roved back to the TV screen, which showed images of ten-foot-tall- flames that pierced the early-morning darkness.
“Great shit,” I muttered as the images flashed again in my mind, a cold chill tingling my spine. What was going on? I knew it was insane, but I could have sworn-I was nearly sure-I had already seen those flames.
“What is the ‘shit’ that you’re talking about?” Helen snapped.
“I…I-I’ve got a customer in fifteen minutes at the office!” As soon as the words crossed my lips, I wanted to bite out my tongue. It was a total lie. But I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get away, have a few minutes to think. What was going on with me? I felt a strange sense of dread.
………
As I got in the car, I pumped the pedals, spinning wheels as I zoomed down the road. My head hurt, and my thoughts raced. The fire-I knew I’d already seen it. But that was impossible. Was I going crazy?
And of course, Helen. I loved her like nothing else in this world. Yet at times , she seemed nearly inconsolable, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. What did she mean, I’d been distant? What did I do, other than work at the office filing claims and advocating with the Red Guard Health Insurance? I played golf on Sundays, and went to an occasional meeting, but now she said I was ‘distant.’ Maybe she wanted something. What had she mentioned in the last weeks? That question I was at a loss to answer.
I slapped my forehead, almost running a red light. Waiting for the oncoming traffic, I spotted a grey column of smoke in the air. For some reason, I was drawn to it like a needle to a magnet. I couldn’t rationalize my desire, but I knew enough to trust my gut. And why not? I needed something to do in the extra half-hour I had bought myself.
I turned past a church into the down-trodden financial section of downtown. Graffiti-lined brick walls denoted the new generation of rebellious youths. I sighed, wondering if I would ever find out what ailed Helen. As I cut another corner, I came face to face with the charred remains of a large building-the warehouse. What on earth had drawn me here? I parked and got out, not minding the smoldering scent that emanated from deep within the burned building. Somehow, I couldn’t stop staring at it.
The building itself was roped off with strands of yellow tape that read: “Coorville County Police Line: Do Not Cross.”
Later that day, after lunch, I phoned Helen at her workplace; the County School Central Office. “Hello, may I help you?” The receptionist answered. “I’d like to speak to Helen Skrier, the vice-executive for Exceptional Children’s Services.” “One moment please.” I heard a beep, and the line transferred to my wife’s officer.
“Hello, Helen Skrier, Exceptional Children’s Services. “
“Hey, honey.”
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Look I’m sorry about today at breakfast. I was just feeling out of sorts. I’ll be home early today.”
“Good. Listen, Frank…I’m sorry too. I just..it hurts when you ask me to do so much. And you’re never home. Things haven’t been going well here, since Pete from the Special Learning Center left. I’ve had to do a lot of advocating for parents and a lot of meetings. “
“The grand old IEP.”
“Yep. Look I’ve got to go now. Bye.”
I felt much better with the weight of our clash off my chest, but something still didn’t feel right.
True to my word, I was home at four, versus my usual six o’clock arrival. I stopped at the florist’s on my way from the office to buy some lilacs. They were Helen’s favorite.
The next day, I woke up with my pajamas on inside out. I didn’t mention it to Helen, thinking that she’d be pissed off at me for pulling her leg. It was just another weird detail in the life of Frank Skrier.
At the office, I was busy for two hours seeing clients for their claims. Sitting typing in the form letters made my neck hurt and my heart ache. On break, I waved to my friend Hudson who had on his usual green and purple striped tie. To put it nicely, he was idiosyncratic.
“Hey, Frank! I was just telling Adele about your escapade on the golf course last weekend.”
“Yeah, those pigeons were awfully aggressive,” I said lamely, feeling my cheeks burn.
She laughed, and I awkwardly pulled at my tie. Oh, leave it to Hudson to tell people what you don’t want them to know. It wasn’t that I cared about what Adele thought, but she could easily tell her brother, George, whose opinion of me did matter-he was the southeastern branches’ corporate manager!
Later that day, I visited a woman in the hospital who had a tumor that needed removal. The question was whether or not she could get her policy to cover it.
Helen and I both advocated for people, each in our own ways. I filled out forms and made claims and talked to doctors about whether or not a policy’s funds would cover surgeries and treatments. Helen spoke to teachers and parents and read evaluation forms for children with Down’s Syndrome, Autism, and Dyslexia.
The next afternoon, I had an awful headache. Tension, I supposed, but thought little of it-reading all day about other people’s ailments and figuring out how they’re going to pay for them can give anyone a migraine. I sat back in my office chair, massaging my scalp, not minding the fact that my hair would look like a bird’s nest. Oh, when would this mountain of paperwork end? I was already caught in a landslide of claim forms. Sometimes, I didn’t think that all the filing cabinets in North America could hold all the paperwork that crossed my desk. I decided to call Helen.
She answered her phone, “Hey, honey.”
“Yeah. Bad day.”
“I guess. Look, I’m in a meeting, and the parents brought their legal advocate. We’re trying to find a school that uses the Wilson Reading Method.” she sighed.
“Ugh. Headache city.”
“You bet.” she laughed, but it came out as more of a groan.
“I’m filling out the leaning tower of Red Guard Claims.”
“Well, good luck on that. I’ve got to go now.”
When she hung up, I kept holding the phone for a moment longer, wishing she was still there.
Did I ever look forwards to going to bed that night!
Supper was roasted chicken at the Pine Branch; a locally owned outfit, it served stuff that didn’t include words like “dye 40” on the label. It was a good feeling, that is, knowing just what you’re eating.
Still in our suits, Helen and I drank iced tea, waiting for the meal to arrive. Living in Georgia, we have a Southern passion to keep the sugar in our beverages. That’s just another trend in addition to the lazy-tongued drawl of our voices and tobacco fields. We’d started being more health conscious when I first went to work at Red Guard. Seeing the difference a few blood-pressure points could make for the price of insurance-who could resist?
“Gas is so high now, Frank.”
“I know. Please, don’t tell me you want a Prius.”
“No, I was thinking more along the lines of a Camry Hybrid.” Helen allowed herself a little smirk.
“I wouldn’t pay a cent for a Prius. It’s just that ugly.”
“It cost me fifty dollars just to top off today.” She shook her head, making her wavy bob of red hair sparkle in the lamplight.
“In Europe, people take the bus to work. All the environmentalists clamor for mass transit. But where do you find a bus stop in Cooreville?” I ranted.
“At the mall. But it doesn’t go anywhere that we go.”
“Exactly my point.”
At dinner, we rarely talked about ‘us’. That was reserved for late nights in bed or sitting in the living room.
“My mother wants me to visit her next week.” Helen announced abruptly.
“Really? For how long, and when? Are we going to drive or fly to Virginia?”
“She said something about staying a week. But we’d be leaving early Monday morning.”
“Okay. Oh, I can’t go. I’ve got that corporate conference next Wednesday.” My face fell as I realized this.
“I wish you could go. It would be so nice to stop back in Williamsburg, like we did on our honeymoon,” she smiled.
“Of course, it would. It snowed that Christmas, and the woods were all white, like a painting.”
………
The next few days were all but routine, determined not to pass gracefully despite my efforts to have all my efforts.
I was followed by a strange sense of déjà vu, and in the mornings, two and two didn’t always seem to equal four.
The next day, we awoke to the streaming rays of sunlight that seeped in between the curtains of our bedroom window.
“Great shit,” I muttered.
“Helen, wake up!” I shook her, glaring angrily at the display of our alarm clock. It was already nine o’clock!
“What is it, Frank?” she murmured sleepily.
“It’s…” I gestured towards the clock.
“Oh my gosh. Why didn’t it go off?”
“I don’t know.” I snapped.
“Well, we might as well skip work today,” Helen would always see the glass as half full.
“Okay. I’ll go cook some eggs, or something.”
I got up, heading towards the kitchen. When I reached the door, I stopped short. Milk, coffee grounds, water, grape juice, soda, soggy pieces of bread; every sort of food imaginable lay scattered on the floor and counters. The refrigerator door was open, and shattered eggs greeted my eyes, mixed with a variety of sandwich meats, grapes, sliced apples and strawberry jelly were strewn across the shelves.
“Helen..” I called.
She came, staring incredulously at the ransacked kitchen. It took us over two hours just to sort out all the crap, saving bottles of ketchup rinsing slimy egg yolk off of everything that wasn’t ruined. Then the entire refrigerator had to be emptied and wiped out to get rid of bacteria and the food.
The counters were last on our list, with jelly and milk smeared on top of every appliance we owned.
We worked in tandem, mopping and sorting, hauling bags of wasted food. Neither of us spoke, but we both had the same thought: who did this, how, why?
I checked the front door, but it was locked. No one but us had house-keys, and the neighbors weren’t malicious. I sat down on the couch, throwing up my arms in a gesture of defeat. Clicking the on button of the remote, only static crossed the TV screen. An inspection of the set showed that the cable line had been unscrewed. I felt like I was in a scene from a paranormal movie.
Helen called our offices, saying that we had missed work due to a household incident. Nothing could have been truer.
“Frank, I think we should spend the night in a hotel,” she murmured to me.
“Sure,” was my reply as I realized how tired I was. Oh gosh. Just what we need: intruders who can walk through solid walls.
I spent the rest of the day online, researching occurrences like ours. Poltergeists, prank-loving teenagers, psychic powers, goblins, and demons were all on the list of possible causes. Oddly enough, none of them seemed to fit.
At nightfall, we packed our bags and drove across town to a hotel where we checked in, hoping for a good night’s sleep. We didn’t factor in boisterous neighbors and bricks for beds. Albeit, it accomplished our original goal: no strange happenings took place in the wee hours of the morning.
This, we were sure of, for neither me nor Helen slept more than an hour without awakening due to a crescendo in our neighbor’s music, or an excruciating pain in the neck.
“Oh, my poor back,” Helen moaned at six o’clock when our alarm clock went off.
“My neck feels like an elephant tap danced on it,” I replied, managing a chuckle.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll go fix our coffee,” she volunteered.
I spent the next quarter hour pacing the hallway, getting the kinks out of my battered joints.
Then I returned to the room, much relieved and got dressed. The rest of the day was comprised of filling out book-length forms that I’d missed from the day before.
That night, we returned home with a sense of anxiety. I slept soundly, and awoke early. Everything seemed fine. Until I couldn’t find my shoes. I looked everywhere one ever heard of a shoe hiding. Finally, Helen called from the kitchen, brandishing a pair of frosty black dress shoes.
“You found them,” I cried, almost dancing in delight.
“They were in the freezer,” she said, presenting me with the icy footwear.
“What do you mean, in the freezer?”
“Well, I was reaching for that ham I froze the other day, and there they were.”
I slapped my forehead, groaning. When would this end?
I turned on the news, pumping up the volume to hear over the hum of the hair dryer, which was pointed at my shoes in an effort to avoid getting frostbite.
When I noticed something wet on my sleeve, I pulled up the cuff of my grey linen jacket to see a thin stream of crimson liquid-blood. In it was a shining spec of glass. I extracted the minute shard with a pair of tweezers, grimacing as more blood trickled from the laceration.
Our local news station showed a picture of a bank window, shattered. “The attempted robbery took place at two thirty five this morning….”
A chill once again tingled around my backbone, as I stared at the TV screen, a growing sense of dread falling in my stomach like a lead weight. What was going on?
I mulled over this daunting question as I sat, unmoving at the breakfast table across from Helen.
She noticed my silence and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, I’m just tired. Oh, it’s so confusing! This stuff that’s-that’s happening. It’s almost paranormal or something…”
“I know. Just hang in there. Everything will be okay.”
She rose, taking her plate to the trash can, and then went to my place, throwing her arms around me.
I hugged back, praying that she was right.
“What happened to your arm, Frank?” asked Hudson during morning break.
“I don’t know,” I muttered.
“Did you hear about the break-in at Grand National Bank this morning?” he gushed.
“Yes, I did. Strange, huh?”
‘Yeah, anyway, my brother, Filip is the detective on the case!” Hudson sure did love his younger siblings.
“Good for him. But uh..wasn’t it just a window?”
“Yeah, still, it’s a bank.”
“True,” I acknowledged, my head spinning.
“Look, I’ll see you later,” I mumbled, waving goodbye to my friend, whom today, wore a purple polka dotted bow-tie.
Sitting down in my chair, I groaned, unconsciously pulling up my sleeve to eye the tiny cut.
There was just no escape! At home, I worried Helen with my reticence, induced by apprehension.
Here, Hudson gabbed endlessly about his younger brother whom had recently been promoted to detective status.
As for everywhere else-I was out of luck, because your brain just follows you.
In two days, Helen left for Richmond, Virginia, to visit my mother in law, her mother.
Maybe I needed that time to myself, I thought vaguely as I typed Melanoma into yet another blank on the form letter. It was Saturday, and I got off early, thankfully. The headaches hadn’t improved any over the last days. Now I felt like my eyes would pop out of their sockets. Saturday was Helen and my night to do what most married people do. But for the first time since our marriage, neither of us felt like it.
Instead, we ordered out Chinese and watched a re-run marathon of Seinfeld. I drifted off to sleep on the couch, drowsy from eating too much beef and broccoli.
The next morning, we dressed for church. Before we got in the car, I did a double take: there was a large streak on the bumper that hadn’t been there before. A reddish tinge marred the rubber.
I stood, nearly entranced as I ogled at the bumper.
“Frank! Get in here! We’re already running late as it is,” Helen shouted at me, leaning on the car horn.
I obeyed, not daring to think about my discovery. We managed to make a hasty entrance and took seats on the back pew, trying not to scuffle our feet too much.
The morning’s sermon was about having faith. When the prayer list was read, an elderly woman raised her hand to add a person. “Thomas Rainy. He was victim of a hit and run early this morning on his way back from the nightshift.”
At that point, I broke into a cold sweat. Something was clearly not right.
When church dismissed, Helen wanted to stay and chat. I hovered awkwardly, trading words and shaking hands with dozens of people in passing. Finally, she was ready to leave. I obliged, more than glad to depart.
That afternoon, I sat watching football, too perturbed to care which team was winning. What was going on? I wasn’t sure if I wanted Helen to leave or stay. The prospect of being alone was daunting. Still, if something awful happened-what with all the other occurrences-she might be safer so many miles away.
I decided to let her go. We slept with our arms around each other, going over plans for the next day.
I was to drive her to the airport in Atlanta, a good fifty miles away. There, at the airport, she’d board a flight to Richmond where her mother would be waiting. I fell asleep with visions of rush-hour traffic and jet liners bouncing around in my brain.
.....
My head hurt horribly, and my entire body ached, as if I’d gone skydiving-without a parachute.
I opened my eyes, noticing the unusually bright sunlight. Were the curtains open?
Suddenly I was staring out a car window at a field-one I’d never seen before, thick with dead corn stalks. I blinked rapidly, almost denying the credibility of my senses. Surely I was dreaming-how could I be in a car? Then I saw the rust colored material that clung to every inch of my hands, up my wrists-dried blood.
“Oh, no,” I breathed, my words like the whisper of leaves in the wind.
“OH, no. NOO!”
Blood-blood! Words couldn’t describe the incredible dread and guilt which, in that instant, enveloped me. BLOOD. I couldn’t stop staring at my hands. Blood, blood, blood. I shivered, a flashback gripping me. The vague sensation of a scream, perhaps real or imagined. And a crimson liquid that now covered my hands. I saw a tire iron lying on the dashboard, it too stained with the rusty coating. Who had done this? The answer hung in my mind, accusing, pounding in my ears.
I got up, opening the car door. Yes, it was my vehicle. A black Toyota Camry with the tag CW-1658. “Oh, God, no!”
I was wracked by convulsive shivers, the brisk morning air seeping through the thin clothing I wore. Where was I-and what had I done?
I got back in and cranked the keys. The low fuel light came on, and I did a U-turn in the cornfield, following the tire tracks that were the way back. I reached the edge of the field, crossing a ditch to a one-lane gravel road. I revved up, shooting down the path as fast as possible. For some reason, or another, I wanted to get away from there. My vision blurred with unshed tears, and I slammed on breaks as a stop sign shot into view: a paved road. I let them fall. Turning left, I drove much more slowly, my mind reeling. A sign by the shoulder read “Welcome to Clemson, Ecrom County.”
Clemson-Ecrom County? Where? A town came into my line of sight, and I stopped at a gas station, grateful for the pay-at-the-pump service. Looking around the car, I found my wallet in the passenger’s seat, and I snatched out a credit card, sliding it through the machine, pumping the gas as quickly as I could. Had I killed someone? How? And how was I here? Did my Helen know I was gone? I sat back in the driver’s seat, turning the credit card over and over in my blood-stained fingers.
I couldn’t tell her. Not the truth. I’d say I was…what could I say? I had woken up in another town, so I’d left in the middle of the night. Or I’d been taken. No point in talking to her, she’d just want me to come home. No, a text message would have to suffice. I texted her, tears falling on my cell phone screen as I punched the buttons.
Helen, I’m okay. I went to...I paused, not sure what explanation to use. The store to get you a watermelon and met Robby there. Went with him to his house on the river. Fishing trip. Then I pressed send.
By that time, a fellow driver had started blowing his horn at me, signaling that I was hogging the gas pump. I cranked up and pulled away, eyeing the license plates of the numerous vehicles. Florida won the tally, fair and square. So I was in the sunshine state. Big whoop, when you’re literally red handed.
I drove straight along the highway for maybe half an hour, until I realized that I had further business to tend to-my bodily functions demanded attention.
Mc donald’s provided a much needed respite. I spent ten minutes just washing the blood off my hands.
The cracked bathroom mirror startled me with an image of a red-eyed, unshaven man clothed in unseasonable attire. Swimming trunks and a surfing shirt in late November, contrasted the ski boots.
I was about to leave for a Wal-mart when the aroma of coffee reached me. The thin plastic of a credit card between my fingers reassured my stomach that it would have its breakfast. I sat below a plasma-screened television as I ate my mc griddles. The station was turned to CNN.
“Up next, a Florida woman was attacked in her home.”
I decided then that it was a good time to leave for Wal-mart.
A mail carrier’s instructions got me to my destination.
“I’d like to know where the men’s clothes are,” I told the salesperson whom stood near the entrance.
“Yo, what with the outfit,” a passing teen yelled.
“Hawiaan party for my daughter,” I lied.
“Oh, my bad, bro, “ he said, sauntering off with oversized pants trailing.
“The clothes are on aisle twelve, behind the women’s,” replied the saleswoman.
“Thankyou.”
I selected a fleece-lined windbreaker, a navy blue polo shirt, and a pair of khakis and some Nike tennis shoes. Socks, a hairbrush, underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste completed the essentials.
That master card of mine was really getting a workout. By ten o’clock, I was driving down the freeway south towards Orlando. I happened to have an acquaintance there, although we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, with the last family reunion. Emails were exchanged regularly enough, but the map I’d purchased proved to be quite necessary. The woods and other cars rolled by, and the radio blared rock music. I fell into a trance, blocking all thoughts but the few involved in driving. Gradually, my arms grew stiffer and stiffer, until a mental flood wall collapsed. WHAT ARE YOU DOING!
I took the nearest exit highway exit, pulling into a parking lot. Guilt simmered in my mind, not yet equally potent was horror, the fact that I’d done something, then the events of the last days came falling back: the fire, the bank, the hit and run…had they all been me? What had I become? At that moment, reaching Dough Tyler in Orlando became all the more urgent…
At two o’clock, I drove up to James Harp Neurological Center. I walked inside, hoping no one would notice my presence. The tight-faced woman behind the desk looked severe enough that I didn’t feel like lingering. Still, I sat down in the waiting room. I leafed through a magazine, hoping to look natural. After a few minutes, a sharp voice cut into the silence.
“Sir! Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’d like to speak to Doctor Tyler.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until five.”
“Thank you.”
The secretary gave a sharp-eyed glance from behind a bottle of hand sanitizer. At her news, I departed, seeking a restaurant to soothe my hunger. I located a diner and had a satisfactory meal, returning briefly. In the waiting room, I saw not the secretary, but a tall, dark haired man in a blazer sitting in a chair.
“Dough?” I called hesitantly.
“Hey! Frank! It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah,” I offered lamely.
“I’m glad you decided to come visit. I just didn’t expect you here, at the office.”
“Yeah. Sorry, about the short notice, and all.”
“Where’s Helen?”
“At…visiting her mother.” I swallowed hard.
“She doesn’t know where I am,” I pushed the words out the opening in my throat.
“Something happened?”
“Yeah. But not what you would think. It’s insane. Look, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You might regret hearing this.”
“Frank, just answer me: is it something I can help you with?”
“I uh, yeah. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come..”
“Okay, Frank. What is it?” Dough raised his eyebrows, acting like this was no bigger than a stolen cookie.
Seeing his expression, something deep inside of me snapped, and I spilled my guts just like a fish with its ribs slit.
“I’ve been having these-these weird sort of déjà vu things, in the mornings. I wake up and my clean clothes are dirty, my pajamas are on inside out, the kitchen is trashed like a hurricane…and now this.”
I held out my hand, letting him see the dried blood that lingered in my cuticles, sticking in the whorls of my fingerprints. I couldn’t muster the courage to look at his face.
“What….happened?” Dough’s voice was low, a breath in the silent room, making the sound of the heater’s quiet hum stand out like dynamite in a tin can. My mind both raced and stood still, my heart ceasing to beat as I spoke the next words:
“I woke up with a bloody tire iron on the dash of my car, this blood on my hands. My car was in a farm field, and I rode to a town, figured out I was in Florida, not Georgia, got gas, found these clothes, found my way here.”
“Wow. Are you…you’re…”
“I’m not joking, if that’s what you mean! I’ve still got the bloody tire iron. I’ll show you it, if you want. But I couldn’t just turn myself in…”
He seemed to be leering at me, his eyes widening, his jaw quivering like the last leaf that clings to an oak tree in the December gale.
“Apparently. I mean, I…oh, God….”
“Yeah. See why I didn’t want to tell you?” My voice was a flat, hollow, my mind a deep sand-suck of emotionless grey matter. At the moment, nothing in the world would have hurt more than to think.
Dough nodded grimly, almost gagging-just like anyone would have if they found out their cousin was a murderer.
……….
