Echoes In The Graveyard 59232w

Echoes in the Graveyard

SJ Calhoun

Copyright © 2012 by SJ Calhoun.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919044 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4797-3187-9 Softcover 978-1-4797-3186-2 Ebook 978-1-4797-3188-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Chapter 1 Echoes in the Graveyard

Chapter 2 Wednesday’s Disappearance

Chapter 3 Windigo

Chapter 4 Finding Coal

Chapter 5 Dogs and Angels

Chapter 6 Pumpkin House

Chapter 7 Going Back

Chapter 8 Nutty

Chapter 9 Deanthra

Chapter 10 The Fire

Chapter 11 Harrison

Chapter 12 Bear’s Den Saturday

Chapter 13 Saturday Afternoon

Chapter 14 Approach of a Rival

Chapter 15 Saturday Night, the Wake

Chapter 16 Nutty’s Father

Chapter 17 Jenna Is

Chapter 18 Friday Night

Chapter 19 Saturday Night/Sunday A.M.

Chapter 20 Sunday

Chapter 21 Deanthra’s Diary Friday

Epilogue

Thanks to Mom and Dad and SJB for patiently reading my drafts.

Chapter 1

Echoes in the Graveyard

Along the ridgeline, seven wolves trotted, as if the ground were hot; their paws skipping in unison as if on military drill, as if on parade; their lupine heads bouncing to the same rhythm, returning home a happy clan. And upon reaching their den, they paused, sensing something odd lurking in the pre-dusk storm. Gray clouds closed in from the northwest like the grim reaper late for a death appointment. Wicked, Arctic winds blew for two days, ultimately clashing with a warm southeast front. The cold air, hot air battle thundered down the valley plain, to the big river and out to sea. The morning’s warmth was gone like a first love, sweet its remembrance but bitter its loss, the once proud life-giving sun obstructed by a jealous vapor. Ethan Allen O’Brien was about to get doused with a cold driving rain. Wind currents of divergent temperature whisked about him as he walked downtown to the Old Mill Stream Tavern. He thought about something he had read—women are attracted to a neat appearance and good clothes. His uncle Harrison drove by in a hybrid, splashing a noontime shower’s mud puddle onto Ethan’s neat beigecolored tros. Harrison was lost in his ego as he sped along to Sinatra’s My Way. A hybrid, where was the black Hummer he usually drove? Outside, people scurried about their yards, calling in wayward pets and children, as if the apocalypse were approaching. The four horsemen had already stormed Ethan’s castle, as his mother had been missing for two days. She was terminal, sick with cancer; went off somewhere to die, he thought, like his dog. Most of the townspeople, including Ethan, had spent the last two days looking for her. They had searched College Woods, the nature preserve, and the river, and now after 48 hours the search was called off, and everyone was exhausted. Mrs. O’Brien’s house, 13 Maple Street, was located off of Main Street in the small college town of West Berlin, Maine, with a population of twenty thousand.

The town was set on the edge of the Kedugkeg River and was adjacent to a large wildlife preserve. The town was quintessential New England as classical Victorians, Greek revivals, Colonials, and Federals lined Main Street, reminding those present of the past masters of construction. His mom’s house was a creaky old New Englander, two-by-four construction. Its odd noises fed Ethan’s imagination. A mind full of ghosts and midnight burglars troubled his sleep. Last night, he had heard something, arose, and inspected each room with a flashlight, concluding it was the wind. Reason seemed to contradict his fears, but ghosts remained to haunt his soul. He hoped a warm fire and a cool lager at the local tavern would wash away the day’s doldrums. It had been a “bad day at Black Rock,” one might say. He taught math at the junior high level, and the teachers sarcastically referred to their school as Black Rock, because a while back a legislator had labeled the school district a diamond in the rough. This was a hopeful phrase, as the dropout and pregnancy rate were high and test results low, an embarrassment for the school given the “mini-Ivy League” college located on East Main Street. Life became especially tough several years back when the textile mill closed and the unemployment rate skyrocketed, leaving promise only for the young who planned to leave. Meanwhile, at the school, massive changes were taking place, and any lack of efficacy on the part of the teachers was not tolerated, but perhaps they had it backwards, for if the patient is sick, you don’t cure the doctor. After school, Ethan met with the vice principal, Ogilvy. He was a middle aged, grizzly-bearded, big-bellied bitter man with no sense of humor and had the personality of an unpolished doorknob. He wore tight white shirts and skinny dark-blue ties every day, chewed gum, had a penchant for flirting with senior girls, and always chaperoned the high school dances. Ogilvy had a look of perpetual disappointment in his eyes, and when he talked to you, it was as if you had some infinite human defect, like you had failed to get your mother out of a burning building. Ethan speculated that Ogilvy wasn’t disappointed with others at all. The vice principal said, “I realize you are going through a lot and Ruther did flip the birds,”—Ogilvy did not get slang right—“but we represent the entire community, so next time, please send him to me before you lose it.” “Sorry, Bill, I lost my temper. I’ve had no sleep. It’s been tough, the last few

days,” Ethan said. “Yes, I can’t believe you didn’t take today off, given everything, but I must it I got some enjoyment out of your diatribe,” he said, thumping the table with a closed fist as his face flushed. “Little bastards.” And then he calmly sighed, looked down, took in a breath, and in a light manner said, “We must keep our tempers under control. You know his dad left town last summer and hasn’t been back since. Anyways, I’ve got one more year to put in, Ethan, one more year and then I’m outta here. Going to travel the US in my custom van, something I’ve put off since the summer of my graduation from UMO when I had the time, but didn’t have the cabbage or the transport. Now I’ve got all three working, God help the young single ladies out there.” Young, Ethan thought. The long Columbus Day weekend was coming up, and hopefully the bully of Black Rock would straighten out, drop out, or the circus. Ruther, who lived on the outskirts of town where the land became swampy, where the houses had as much junk outside as in, would become a good runner, and it would be Ethan who would mentor him, convincing him to temporarily give up smoking and run track. Ethan was an intrepid, slightly built fellow with intense eyes, a scowl his natural countenance, and an olive complexion. A talented runner, his resting heart rate was so low the nurses would often joke, “Are you alive?” and take his vitals again. His running heyday had ed, as after four successful years at Emerill College, running track and cross-country, he had become injured training for the Olympics. He had recently started running again and, at age twenty-seven, was content running in local road races. Walking along Ethan ed the civil war monument and approached the town’s cemetery. The two large grandfatherly oak trees stood guard over the gloomy grounds of the graveyard like sullen wooden sentries. In the swaying, shadowy branches, a trio of crows furtively watched the figure below. They took off and circled him from above. They seemingly cawed “nevermore” and then disappeared in a tangent line behind a dark cloud. A dry windblown leaf echoed across the sidewalk, skidding until it crunched under his boot. A swinging chain fence squeaked, swayed by the wind. As he ed the smoky grounds, a cold breeze cooled the sweat on the back of his neck. It was as if the low-lying fog

was raising the dead from their ancient posts. A whiff of humid air permeated his lungs, stifling his breathing. To his left, something caught his vision. He turned; there was nothing there. A dog barked, and the crows returned, flying swiftly above him, cawing loudly. There was a dead pigeon decaying on the ground.

He pondered the deep darkness of space where perhaps the dead go. Where do we go? His mother Eve was disconnected from this hyper wired society of sound, and no longer would he hear the voice that called him in for supper, no more summer evening conversations on the porch, no more stories of unusual relatives from the old country—“Ethan, did I ever tell you about cousin Siobhan, who had so many kids she called them all Sammy?”—no more religious rants about how he should marry a nice Catholic girl (he had known a lot of Catholic girls, and some weren’t all that nice), and no more homemade apple pie. The void could not be filled, the vacant space, a permanent ache in the heart. The past two days were a lifetime. Eve was not afraid of death, he knew that. As he recalled a recent conversation: “When I go, Ethan, I go, let me go. I am not afraid. By contrast I’m looking forward to it, a rebirth. If it’s not heaven, then it’s some other algorithm of chemistry, and it’s got to be better than being in pain. Strange thing is life, especially when you run out of it,” she said. The emptiness of his last two days contrasted with the poignant dream of his nights. In his dream, Harley, his dead cousin, was sitting by a campfire in College Woods, as if frozen in time, those high school days when they would have a couple beers in the summer, shaking out teenage angst. Ethan noticed others watching them hiding in the forest. “Who are they?” Ethan asked. “Ask your mother?” replied Harley. They seemed to be moving toward him but when he looked directly at them they faded into the dark woods. Harley tried to explain, “They are the unfortunate ones Ethan, taken too early by a spirit. So be alert then, always keep your guard up.” Harley pounded the red coals with a stick. “Why are you so angry, Harley?” Ethan asked. “Ethan, there isn’t anything special about my father. He never gave us the time

of day. And that just isn’t right, not that I give a damn. Good people, the people I like, treat each other the right way,” Harley said. Harrison was Harley’s father. “At least you know who and where he is,” Ethan said. Suddenly the faces in the forest appeared again. He tried to focus on one face, but his eyesight blurred and the faces morphed into a fireball of red and orange. As the mass swarmed closer, it squeezed the oxygen out of his lungs and he felt death within him. At this point in the dream he would wake up, gasping for air. Ethan’s daydreaming was interrupted by a two loud beeps of a horn. Ogilvy drove by and waved. As the van turned to the left, the rolling wheels with shiny new hub caps caught Ethan’s attention. He always had nice wheels. Farther down the street, the welcoming comfort of the Old Mill Stream Tavern was the only light in the early dusk. Salvation lies ahead, he thought.

Chapter 2

Wednesday’s Disappearance

Eve O’Brien lived her life for her son. She got pregnant in the late 1960s at age eighteen. She fell for a fellow two years older and wild as the wind. They spent one summer together, dominating the country roads in his open black jeep. They were a flash of red and black light through town that summer, she in her red kerchief and he with a black Labrador retriever in the backseat. “There goes red and black,” her friends would say. They laughed a lot. She liked red wine, and he liked Carling Black Label. He dove from bedrock cliffs into a quarry pond while she tanned and read novels. He swam across the pond, while his dog stammered on the rocks and she watched. He always came back. Wouldn’t he always come back to her? The end of it came fast. His number came up for Vietnam. And she slept. It was her older sister Audrey who noticed her tight belt, her big belly. She had a child, amidst prayers and services. She went to work for a real estate man named Edgar Gunderson. He owned low-rent apartment buildings and sold houses. It was five years before she let go of that summer. After all, she was twenty-three years old now. Edgar proposed to her, and she accepted, because she had to get out of her parent’s house on Maple Street. She got her real estate license and, a few years later, was excited about a million-dollar commercial listing she got from her brother-in-law Harrison. It went under contract, and when the closing was scheduled, Edgar offered to go to the closing and pick up the check as Ethan had a soccer game. That was not the only thing he picked up, and with the onehundred-thousand dollar check, he took off to Florida with a Ymart swimsuit model all of eighteen years old. Eve never shopped at Ymart again, stating, “I friggin’ hate Ymart.” In the end, it was no great loss. She got the office building in the divorce and kept the real estate business going strong for years to come. When her parents died suddenly, she moved back into 13 Maple for sentimental reasons. A lot of

time and energy went into her work. She spent countless hours showing lakefront property to out-of-state people. Some bought, some didn’t. The workaholic lifestyle caught up with her early at age forty-seven in the form of cancer. She knew it was her diet; she never ate well and she smoked. It didn’t matter now, she thought. Diagnosed with stage four cancer and stamped with an expiration date gave one a reason to contemplate options. There was an expert and advocate of euthanasia, Professor Nutzembaum, living down the street. After a particularly difficult week with chemotherapy, she had attended one of his revival-like “death with respect” meetings and was impressed. She called him Monday. They had a few more conversations before she decided on Wednesday, October 10.

Chapter 3

Windigo

Weeks before the October storm and miles away from West Berlin, Windigo ¹ emerged from the dirt, jealous of the physical world. It was hungry. Waking from its dormant state, it shook the ground heavily, not aware of its origin or destination. Windigo had been buried after a mass murder and spent an eternity tight, clenching, and squeezing as though a film embodied within a wall, trying to escape. It could absorb into different forms from dirt to rock, from plant to air and to animal. It took a longer time to travel in nonliving forms. Now it had caught an air current going west. Camouflaged in this way, it was free to roam and wreak havoc. It affected the precarious balance of nature, threw it off toward a negative polarity. After reaching West Berlin on the westerly winds, Windigo took to a vulnerable form in the woods, a juvenile leader of a small wolf pack of six. Apollo, the black-coated leader of the small pack, was going to challenge Napoleon, the leader of the bigger pack, for the land. Apollo had challenged him before but lost in a quick skirmish. A death grip of Napoleon’s wide jaws ahold of Apollo’s neck had assured the young whelp he was not up to winning leader status just yet. Apollo was big, but not as agile as Napoleon. He would have to wait until the pernicious intelligence that now infected him took hold and formulated a plan.

Chapter 4

Finding Coal

Along the sidewalk, drops of blood led into the graveyard. Ethan followed the blood path uphill, his breath drawing in the heavy water-laden air. He looked back at the welcoming tavern lights and then turned away. The first wave of fall leaves had dropped, leaving the trail multicolored, a beautiful random collage juxtaposed against the rotting odor of dead organic matter. Last week, the leaves had smelled sweet. The front part of the graveyard held the older white gravestones, made out of a lower quality of stone easier to engrave. The illegible names of the past looked like punched tickets to another world. As a kid, he had bicycled these cemetery paths, and he had a scar on his left knee from a skid on the hill, where his head had missed a gravestone by inches. There was a monastery at the top of the hill’s east side where the grounds were immaculate and peaceful. He biked up there sometimes to ire the scenery and the tranquil greens. The monks made beer for the Mill Stream Tavern, and the hops they grew in the back fields were said to be from an ancient monastery in Belgium known for healing. For Ethan, taking a few sips of this monastery beer brought up images of a young Julie Andrews twirling and whirling about the Swiss Alps, losing her attire in the process, and then handing him a monk ale, topless. He had not been in the Old Mill Stream Tavern for a few years now, and he had grown out of the college partying scene, but even a sober man needs a respite from the ever-judging consciousness put in place by the great edifices of society. The wind blew the undersides of the treed oak leaves upward, revealing their lighter shade of green. Some leaves had given up and drifted off in the wind, leaving home in the storm. The high cumulus clouds, a moment before gray, were now a bruised purplish color, like that of a toddler’s face about to lose his/her temper. From a distance below, a Mill Stream bartender on her cigarette break watched a

slumped shadowy figure in a black coat head up to the top of the knoll. The figure piqued her interest, and she watched until he had faded away into the dusk. Atop the hill, Ethan looked over at the other side of town. There was the familiar college union building eastward and a campfire in the northerly direction. Facing town, this was usually a pleasant view, but tonight, those far western mountains seemed like wolves’ teeth encased in fog, ready to bite. Emerill College lay at the bottom of the east side of the hill and was the small prestigious private college that Ethan attended on a cross-country/track scholarship. During this fall semester, one female grad student was missing. Safety pamphlets had been distributed among the dorms and dining halls. Vigils were being held instead of pre-homecoming celebrations, and it had become a very serious place of late. Women were encouraged to travel in groups. The woods had taken more than one life over the years, as a few stressed-out students feeling pressure and failing to meet standards had committed suicide there. Ethan continued to follow the blood path, his eyes adapting to the diminishing light. A rustling of leaves off to the right quickened his pulse, and he felt his chest echo. Without weapons, he was the hunted in these woods. The rumors of past wolf attacks were not documented, but in the dark woods, fear was fact. He stood still for the longest time, slowly picked up a dead tree limb for defense, and bravely looked to his right, raising his arm a bit before determining that the limping figure approaching him was a large black Lab, bloodied about the mouth, but still with a slight tail wag and panting tongue. This was a tamer bloodline in need of help. Overhead, the front moved in and the temperature dropped. He felt coldness in his bones, which he knew was not entirely from the weather. Before the thunder, before the lightning, he heard an ungodly primordial scream from the valley below. The hair on the back of the dog stood up, his tail raised high. Then the storm exploded. “Let’s get out of here,” Ethan said. And as the dog and man joggled down the wet hill, the fire had gone out on the other side, and the wolves had retreated to their den.

Chapter 5

Dogs and Angels

Julie Avalon, a high school teacher and proud dog owner, came home from work to an empty house. “Coal, where are you?” she asked. She would take her dog, Coal, for a walk after work, enjoying the downtime, the exercise giving her the energy to make supper and clearing out her mind, making for a relaxed evening. Julie had named him Coal after his black eyes. Mr. Marquis limped by her house with his black Scottie dog named Blackie. Marquis was a portly, balding middle-aged man with a thick brown handlebar mustache and a crush. To her, he looked like the blue Muppet from Sesame Street that Grover aggravated. She treated him as such. Mr. Marquis fathomed he looked like the actor who played Mr. Hercule Poirot from the PBS series. Mr. Marquis’s right leg was shorter than his left, causing an impediment in his gait, or as his dad had put it, a hitch in his giddy-up. It was OK, though, because his dog had a limp too, and together they balanced each other out. “Markee, have you seen Coal?” she asked. His grade school nickname, Markee, was something she could not let go of. She had tried. “No, I haven’t seen him, but don’t worry, he’ll come back soon. It looks like some nasty weather is coming,” he said. “Oh, I hope so, looks like a doozy,” she said. As he ed her house, the skies opened up and Mr. Marquis awkwardly hopped home, as if his body was being pulled by a string to the right. Julie stared at his determined giddy-up gait and brown-paper-bag-colored baggy pants. By god, I think he has a new pair of shoes. Julie walked to the Old Mill Stream because Coal would sometimes loiter

around its dumpster and, if lucky, make his way into the kitchen, as sometimes the cook gave him an old meat bone before escorting him out the back door. If you were looking for something or someone, the Old Mill Stream Tavern wasn’t a bad place to start. Though to publicize one’s troubles also meant everyone else in town would know your business quicker than a New York minute. Julie’s inquiries at the Mill Stream were unfruitful, so she ordered a gin and tonic with lemon and sat down at the bar, waiting for the rain to let up. Just as if Coal were her footloose man, she had tried everything to keep him in her yard. The electric fence she installed hadn’t worked, as he would tolerate a few seconds of pain for hours of rollicking roll freedom in the mud, the crud, the streams, and the streets of West Berlin. Once, carefree Coal even made friends with the town curmudgeon, Ferris “Meeks” Riley. Skinny Meeks had a fishing line in, on an outlet to the Kedugkeg. The water was high that spring, and Meeks’s six-pack got loose in the icy water and started to float downstream. “Goddamn it,” Meeks muttered. Coal retrieved the beer in his large mouth and dropped the six-pack of beer right by Riley’s feet, tail wagging and eyes looking up at him for approval. Riley, whose bad luck could be chronicled by Murphy of Murphy’s Law, raised his eyebrows. Riley grinned a little and he temperately mumbled “Good boy,” carefully patting the black Lab, cigarette in mouth, as if reliving a boyhood memory when things were good. “I suppose you want a beer now, eh?” said Meeks. “Son of a bitch.” Last summer, Coal had pulled the dog run chain off the pulley and dragged a parade of wire and chain down Main Street. Julie had recently put up an eightfoot stockade fence around the perimeter of her house. How in the hell had he jumped that? As she was contemplating this, Ethan burst into the Old Mill Stream Tavern, carrying Coal in a wet wave of mud-encased hysteria as if the fury of the storm had transferred its energy to the tavern’s interior. “Call old man Kaminski, he needs help,” Ethan said. Julie nearly fell off her stool, only to trip into Coal and Ethan. She fell atop of

Ethan with Coal in between. Her glasses and face were blotted with mud and fogged up from Coal’s hot breath. As luck would have it, the town veterinarian, Kaminski, was having supper at the Old Mill Stream and immediately got up. “Jeez, son, I ain’t that old. Bring him out to the jeep.” Kaminski opened the hatch of the jeep, helped place Coal in, and said, “Julie, get in. Don’t worry, he’ll make it.” And within five minutes, he had his office open and Coal on a table with anesthesia. He began cleaning his wounds. “It looks like a scuffle with wolves, Julie. Lucky he’s a strong boy. A smaller, weaker dog might be dead.” Kaminski felt his collar and laughed. “What’s funny?” she asked. “It’s the frequency collar, it’s vibrating. It’s stuck on, probably scared those damned wolves off if they got close to it,” he said. “They told me it was long range,” she said. Back at the Old Mill Stream, an exuberant young man approached Ethan and offered his chair to him, slapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy, take my seat by the fire, you need to warm up. You look like death warmed over. I’ll get you a monkey”—monkey was local slang for monk ale—“and some chowder; my name is Thomas.” Ethan mumbled a thanks. He slinked off his soaked pea coat, and hung it on a hook by the table. His dress shirt was soaked too, and he took it off. He kneeled before the large stone fireplace with his arms crossed until the fire warmed him. He devoured the chowder and Thomas brought another bowl for him. There were three coat-covered vacant chairs around the sturdy oak table and several empty cocktail glasses with pink umbrellas. Suddenly, as if within a dream, three beautiful, smiling women emerged from the back of the tavern. Beauties always seemed to come in threes, like Charlie’s Angels or the models on The Price Is Right. A heavenly light was shining on them and following them as if all the power of life within the room enveloped itself around this trinity of

loveliness. And now this whirlwind of energy had stopped at this table next to the fire and sat down. The tumult of the room now centered its attention on this one table. “Whoa, great Gatsby,” Ethan exclaimed aloud unexpectedly. “We heard all about you in the bathroom, F. Scott, dog saver,” one of them said. Ethan couldn’t talk but managed a smile. “Would you like my jacket, EA?” Ethan looked at the pink fur-lined parka and declined. The EA reference surprised him, as EA was his college nickname, and no one had called him that for years now. He was thinking, Funny how life is either dessert or desert drought, save a dog, impress a woman. “Where did you find the dog?” one of them asked. “Actually, he found me, up at the cemetery. He was limping and bleeding, scared me half to death,” he said. “Pardon me, aren’t you the new seventh-grade math teacher?” someone asked from an adjacent table. Still new, he thought, after two years. And why in this moment of ecstasy was another male teacher making small talk, taking his attention away from the softness of that table? Of course, the teacher was staring at them as well. “That’d be me,” he replied. “I heard you had a bad day today. You know, you should take heart because Ogilvy’s retiring soon, going to travel the country in a van,” he said. “Oh yes, the blessed van excursion. I’d wish he’d get the trip over with instead of talking about it… Two years now, every lunch break, all I hear is talk about conversion vans, routes, and how much money he’ll save sleeping and cooking in the van, and how chicks dig vans. You know he would have retired last year except gas prices went up, and he said he’d have to work another year just for the gas. I was thinking, good grief, man, all you got to do is sell that 1970s

Corvette, but no, he would not think of doing that. I’m like, Dude, this is the 1990s. Shave the mustache and sell the Corvette. Chicks your age ain’t going cruising with you up to the state park no more,’” Ethan said. The table neighbor added, “I’m not sure he’s looking at women his age. Have you noticed he volunteers to chaperone every high school dance?” “Yes, I noticed,” Ethan said. “Seriously, you are doing a great job and have lasted longer than the last handful of rookie teachers.” “I try.” He shrugged. “We all have days like that, don’t worry,” he said, not making any eye with Ethan, eyes fixed on the redhead. By Ethan’s second monk, it was as if a dark old witch had left his soul and a switch of cheerfulness, like spring, had been turned on. He enjoyed the company of these college kids who were town outsiders, and not encased in the small town grunge of gossip and circumstance that defined one in a small town. They were graduate students at Emerill. In the middle of the trio of girls was Mary, a red-haired beauty with nicely colored green eyes and a happy nature. Mary was from a small town in Central New Hampshire. Anne Marie was a dark-eyed girl of French Canadian descent with long ringlets of black hair and a questioning, scientific, and skeptical nature. Ethan noticed she rolled her eyes a lot. Anne Marie was from Moosemount, Maine, adjacent to Deermount, Maine. Moosemounters were thought to be snotty, uppity, hybrid drivers by the more rural-living Deermounters. Then again, no one itted to being a Deermounter, and when asked where they were from, they’d say western Maine, Eastern New Hampshire. The third woman, Jenna, was light haired and glowed with a radiance emanating from her bright eyes, complemented by a warm smile. Jenna hailed from a small town near Burlington, Vermont. Thomas was certainly popular with some good-looking ladies. Thomas, a

garrulous, energetic, good-looking lad from Ohio, was a technical genius of sorts, sturdily built with a wide smile and a certain genuine character. Everyone liked Tom. He was a Dale Carnegie wet dream. He had a business on campus fixing computers, which brought a boatload of money to his shore. He was driving a Mini Cooper by age twenty-three, and unlike most of the rich kids at the school, he was paying for it himself. Subsequently, he had fallen for his ant, an hourglass-figured strawberry blonde with long flowing hair who drove a red convertible through town in late spring as if to tease the young college boys of Emerill. She had once posed for Playboy, albeit clothed, in the Women of the Little Ivy League issue. In spring, many a male’s telescope was pointed in the direction of Main Street at 12:10 p.m., her lunch break, and again at 5:10 p.m., waiting for that convertible to rumble through town. At the bar, Ethan asked Thomas, “How did you meet them?” “I met them through my business on campus. I fix computers. Can you believe they all lived in the same quad, freshman year? That quad drew a lot of walking traffic on the weekends. Fellas would pull the fire alarm every weekend, thinking they’d get a glimpse of them in sexy lingerie, only to be disappointed when they came outside in pajamas and bathrobes. Of course, my work for them was pro bono. So one day they asked me where to live off campus as they were all sophomores and had to leave the dorms, and I said I know just the place, my place. I told them, ‘I can take you all away from here, away from the puke smell in the stairwell, away from the crowded bath twenty-to-one ratio to a Jacuzzi tub master bath spacio, away from the red bricks, stained with soft serve’s remaining licks.’ When they moved in, I became like an older brother to them, their protector. Well, me and Gump. Gump is my German shepherd. Anyways, it’s worked out well. We have some awesome parties.” He smiled. “So yeah, it’s best we remain friends.” Ethan said, “You are mistaken.” And he paused and said, “Or just stupid,” and he walked back to their table. “So, Ethan, what is your fondest remembrance of Emerill?” asked Jenna. “The fondest, I would say, was the time we dressed up the statue of Phinneas, the night before homecoming.” “That was you?”

“Not only me. I can’t say the idea was mine, in fact it was Jean Claude’s. He now works for a women’s underwear company. Jean Claude borrowed his girlfriend’s clothing, so he claimed, and proceeded to convince us in our drunken state how funny it would be if this distinguished statue was dressed up in drag for Saturday homecoming morning, given its prominent central location.” The statue was located in the middle of town, by the gazebo, and was surrounded by a rotary street so that everyone driving in and out of town had to by it. The bronze statue was of the founding father of Emerill, Phinneas Esthaneus Emerill, or PEE for short. PEE was the unfortunate recipient of a complete body makeover, including lipstick, hosiery, high heels, and a brassiere. It was unknown to these young hooligans that PEE, a rather serious businessman in public, did indeed like to dress up like a woman in private, much to the chagrin of his Quaker wife. “The next morning,” Ethan continued, “PEE’s accoutrements led to rubbernecking, as astonished drivers laid on their horns, some went around twice —it was nuts. Finally, the president of Emerill drove by, stopping his Mercedes off to the side, and started to undress the founding father, but he was having a hard time with the bra, and his wife began to yell at him through the car window to pinch and snap, pinch and snap. And I’ve always ed those words when I’m in a pinch… or a bra.” “Nice for you,” Jenna said. “Yes, it was. How about you, can you top that?” Ethan asked. “Ah.” Thomas cleared his throat. “A couple years ago during the fall semester, there were several complaints of loud partying at the Phi Epsilon Alpha (PEA) house, and they were put on probation for the remainder of the school year. So at halftime of the homecoming football game, when the band was out in the field, a giant pumpkin inflated in the middle of the field with the words PEA and PEE on each side. One band member tripped over the pumpkin, then another, they fell like dominos. Emerill’s marching band’s well-renowned precision suddenly changed to an offbeat, unmelodious, discordant clamoring of metal and stumbling bodies. The mascot, the sheep, somehow got stuck in a tuba, making the scene on field transition from chaotic to the absurd. Well, the sheep got nervous and the tuba played a shitty tune. Soon thereafter a college entrepreneur sold T-shirts exclaiming, ‘Tu-baas are better than one,’ with the sheep and tuba

depicting the unfortunate incident. I think he sold a million T-shirts.” “Yeah, I bought one,” Ethan added. Soon after Thomas finished the anecdote, Julie Avalon, an attractive woman herself, with an understated, bespectacled librarian style, stormed back into the Mill Stream, walked over to Ethan, and promptly bent down to hug him, draining the rain out of his thin T-shirt like a sponge, and thanked him with a soft kiss on the cheek. “Coal is going to be just fine, thanks to you,” she said. “Where is he?” asked Ethan. “He’s in Kaminski’s jeep, still groggy. We’re taking him home. You have yourselves a good night.” She threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and left, smiling. “You know, Ethan, she likes you,” Mary said. The others nodded. “I think she likes her dog, but if you’re right, I wish I had your sensing devices. Where do you get those?” Ethan asked. “It comes with the equipment,” Jenna said. “Well, I like the equipment,” Ethan said. “The equipment requires a license,” Jenna said. “Where do I apply?” Ethan asked. “Justice of the peace,” Mary said. “Sounds expensive,” said Ethan. “It is, very,” Anne Marie said. “Is it worth it?” Ethan asked. “Always,” Jenna said. Tom looked at Ethan as if to say don’t even try getting the last word in.

“Looks like you need a dry shirt,” Jenna said. “Are you offering?” Ethan asked. “No, not actually what I had in mind, and I don’t think my shirt would fit you, but I have an idea.” Jenna went over to the bar and came back with an Old Mill Stream Tavern T-shirt declaring, “I have been through the mill.” “Here you go.” Jenna politely handed him the shirt, glancing at the others with whimsy. “Thanks, how much?” Ethan asked. “I got it for free, but for you, ten bucks,” she said. Mary got up from the table and approached the bar, and came back with two large frosty monk ales, and placed them in front of Ethan. “Compliments of the house,” Mary said. And Anne Marie, not to be outdone, dragged a stunned Ethan to the dance floor and slow-danced very close. Whispering in his ear, she said, “Sorry, I had to do something.” “That’s quite all right,” he said as the two upstaged women stammered and gawked at the two lumbering dancers. “Well, that’s that,” Jenna said. “It’s only a battle, you haven’t lost the war,” Mary said. “It’s tough to win a war sitting not dancing,” Jenna said. When they came back, Thomas said, “Dude, I ain’t dancing with you, but I’ll buy you another monkey.” “While you two were dancing, Mary and I were discussing the cemetery, and how did you get up there anyways?” Jenna asked Ethan. He explained about his missing mother, the blood tracks, and the fire on the other side of the hill.

A little later, Ethan got up to go to the bathroom and, on his way, made eye with Mr. Marquis, the town’s funeral director. The meticulous man had something serious on his mind. Mr. Marquis motioned to Ethan and invited him to sit down, pushing the opposite chair out a bit with his leg. “Sorry you beat me to Coal. I wouldn’t mind getting a hug from her,” he said. Ethan turned his head and lifted his eyebrows, then nodded, noticing Marquis’s raincoat was drenched as well. “Sorry to bother you, Ethan, but I need to ask you a question. But perhaps now is not the time—you are having fun and warming up.” “No, it’s OK, go on.” “I am terribly sorry about your mom, any news?” Mr. Marquis’s tone indicated affection. He had ired her for years from a distance. She was the one main reason he had attended Catholic Church the past few years, hoping her Easter hat would turn his way. “She was a beautiful woman,” he faltered. Harrison stopped by today. I know she’s only been missing three days, but I thought…” “Yes, I suppose we have to do something. I hate not having a body,” Ethan said. “It is not uncommon. There are drownings, fires, explosions, car accidents, boating mishaps, hot air balloon crashes. What I mean to say is we can still hold a service,” Marquis said. Ethan nodded at Mr. Marquis, whose sober expression conveyed a sincere sense of empathy. Ethan got up. Mr. Marquis, usually a teetotaler, ordered three more gin and tonics, observed the lad for a while, and wobbled home numb, wantonly looking at Ms. Avalon’s front porch as he walked by, but the lights were out, and the dog was in. And he, like her dog, was heavily medicated. In the solitude of the bathroom, Ethan thought of his uncle Harrison, such a meddling pain. He ed meeting one of his student’s parents sobbing at a school conference. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Your uncle fired me for undercooking a steak,” she replied. “Well, he fired me too, if that’s any solace.” The woman raised her head and asked, “He did?” One summer as a teenager, Ethan had worked at his uncle’s restaurant as a busboy. He was good at his job. He was quick, attentive, polite. The trouble began when a rich Emerill alumnus parked his Mercedes convertible in the parking spot usually occupied by the garbage dumpster, as the trash company was delivering a new dumpster that day. Ethan took the trash out and, while talking to a co-worker, threw the trash bag blindly, as he had done many times. The bag tore open as it hit the metal frame of the convertible Mercedes windshield and emptied an ungodly goulash of seafood stench into the black leather seats, because the top was down. A forlorn lobster carcass and its swimmeret got caught in the defroster intake and faced the driver with its discolored black detached eyes and its red boiled body. The unfortunate incident left him unemployed but slightly amused, for it was his co-worker who had to clean up the mess. Mr. Harrison had to pay the rich alumnus lawyer back in free meals for years until he was disbarred and ended up serving jail time for stealing money away from wealthy widows. “I still haven’t gotten that seafood stench out of the car,” he would remind Harrison every summer. “I don’t think the stench is from the car,” Harrison fired back. “Anyways, isn’t it time to trade her in, old boy, the car’s ten years old. I swear you keep that car only to torment me.” Ethan flushed the urinal and then washed his hands and left his thoughts of Harrison behind in the bathroom. On Friday nights at 9:00 p.m., the Old Mill Stream had a ritual of playing a karaoke song of the night every hour on the hour, and everyone would stop and stand up and sing along. The most spirited singer would get a free sixteen ounce for his or her troubles. Tonight’s song was the Beatles song “Two of Us,” and a thin white-haired gentleman seemed to especially enjoy the song or the beer, winning the contest in a landslide vote at the 10:00 p.m., the 11:00 p.m., and the midnight playing. He was celebrating his birthday like it was his last.

During the course of the evening, Ethan noticed a familiar-looking, dark-eyed, pepper-and-gray-haired, weather-beaten man in a brown leather jacket with a flag on the arm who was looking in his direction every time he glanced about. The man seemed to be part of the bar itself, the leather jacket and salt-andpepper hair fading into the brown wooden bar. Only the man’s eyes seemed to suggest there was any life there beyond the mass. He was huddled over his glass, barely conscious, but every so often, he would lift his head and yell “Brahma bull.” And in kind, people would echo “Brahma bull.” After getting a dictionary, the bartender fathomed he had the second meaning in mind. Ethan recognized him from somewhere but could not place him. He asked the girls, “You know him?” Jenna answered, “Yes, that’s Lucky Lachance. He works for the university as a maintenance man. Well, he’s more of a maintenance guru, and he’s always around campus fixing things. He’s a nice man. I interviewed him once for a paper I was working on. He flew a rescue helicopter in Vietnam.” “Jezzis, I now, he gave me a ride once in the university’s maintenance pickup truck. I was out in College Woods, running, and then a torrential rain hit. I was three miles from the dorm. I had just come out of College Woods and was freezing.” Ethan ed the incident. “Need a ride?” the man had hollered. “I’m going to area 2, hop in.” Ethan, losing body heat from the cold rain, had managed to say, “Thanks. Yes, I live in area 2 at Allistair.” “No problem, jump in, don’t tell anyone. I could get in trouble with insurance and all that horseshit. Jesus, you’re shivering, man.” He stopped the truck and got a blanket from behind the seat and covered him up. “Don’t worry about the weather. I flew CH6s in worse rain than this in Vietnam.” “Really?” “Yes, they had the rainy season there, muddier than a hot bear in heat. Allistair,

right?” “Yep, I live in A-Hole. I mean Allistair Hall.” “Hey, we call it A-Hole too,” the man said. The brick dorm had not been renovated since being built in the early 1940s, and was made out of concrete, plaster, and lead paint. The man had a friendly face, purple bags under his tired eyes, and a yellow rain jacket over his gray jumpsuit with Emerill above the pocket, and he didn’t look at Ethan but at the road. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth, and there was softness in his manner. “Well, kid, stay dry and good luck in the race. Oh, by the way, name’s Larry Lachance, friends call me Lucky.” “Why’s that?” “Because I was the one helicopter pilot out of three that didn’t crash, get shot down, or get injured. My dad says it was because of this.” And he pulled a Native American necklace out of his shirt. “You see, the Micmacs are a bit superstitious.” He laughed, looked at the charm for a moment, and stuffed it back into his shirt. “He used to hunt all around the park area. You hunt at all?” “Nope, just run.” “I used to run the mile myself in high school.” “Keeps me out of trouble,” Ethan said. “Good.” “I’m Ethan. You probably know my mom, Eve O’Brien.” Everyone knew Eve because she ran the only real estate office downtown. Ethan noticed Lachance’s expression change a bit and sensed he was about to say something. Lachance cornered his mouth to the left as if in pain. He said quietly, “I know her.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat.

“Cool,” Ethan said. The truck stopped. “Christ, these windshield wipers are almost as loud as a CH6.” They were in front of A-Hole, and Ethan put out his hand. “Thanks, Lucky.” Lachance shook his hand, looked at him, and said, “Stay dry, youngster.” He nodded, managed a sad smile, and splashed away. Inside, Ethan watched the white truck fade into the grayish rain, and then ran up the dorm stairs in a beeline for a hot shower. Jenna was trying to get Ethan’s attention for the second time. She pulled on his sleeve and asked, “Do you enjoy teaching?” “Yes, you know, it’s God’s work,” Ethan said sarcastically. “It’s a noble profession,” Jenna stated. “Most of the time. Today was rough. One of the kids flipped me off in class, and I lost my temper. I also coach the boys’ cross-country and track for Leland High, and we’ve got a good team this year. Though some of them want the results without the training, and it doesn’t work that way in anything right. The thing is they only have a short time to train, if not, then the opportunity is lost. You can only get the most out of yourself if you do the training. I’ve seen some talented runners get beat because the other guy trained harder. Of course, our coach at Emerill got the best out of everyone.” “I like the mural of you guys in the student union building.” The school had hired an alumnus, now a famous artist, to paint the mural after the college won the division IIA cross-country championship. It was Emerill’s first and only national championship in any sport, and it made local heroes out of a skinny contingent of trailblazers. “That ugly thing. Jesus, I think if I ate at the student union, it would spoil my appetite,” he replied. “Well, the food does, regardless of the mural,” she said.

“Well, I think it’s great, you should be proud,” Mary added, nudging against him. “Do you still run?” “Look at him, Mary, of course he does,” Jenna said. “It’s in the blood,” Ethan said. He didn’t know if it was the beer or the happy environment, but Ethan was overcome with a deep joyfulness, perhaps one of a handful of moments he would throughout his life as bliss. Ethan continued, slurring his speech a bit, “You know, girls, this may be sacrilegious, but it’s as if I can feel the Holy Spirit moving through my body with this monks’ liquid gold. If I had a million bucks, I’d give them half.” “Well, you know it’s said that the monks use the ale as their blessed sacrament,” Mary commented. From his seat Ethan watched a tall blond woman slap Meeks across the cheek. Lachance immediately turned to Meeks began a lecture on the finer points of romance. When Lachance finished he glanced over at Ethan. Ethan stood up and made his way to Lachance. “Say, you probably don’t , but years ago you gave me a ride once in the pouring rain. Can I buy a round?” “Christ, son, every time I see you, you’re soaking wet. You got a thing for rain? Kidding. Listen, you don’t owe me a damned thing. I’m the one who owes you,” he said in a clear, but slightly stupefied manner. “You see, that dog you saved was from my dog’s litter. But tell you what, if you like, you could buy me breakfast over at the Bear’s Den tomorrow morning around ten a.m., OK?” Meeks, sitting nearby, drunk, leaned into Ethan, his hollow, deep-socket eyes pleading, “Beware the bite of the black wolf. Death is here again, all around here the darkness has come again from the west.” Lucky was taken aback a bit before speaking. “Well, the drunken witch doctor has spoken. Come on, Meeks, time to go home, too much whiskey and not enough food. He gets like this on payday when he starts drinking the hard stuff. Now I’ve got to get home myself, sober up a bit. I guess the walk should help

some. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ethan.” Lucky stood up, patted Ethan on the shoulder, and walked toward the exit. He wore a clean white cotton shirt, a red kerchief around his neck, and clean blue jeans with new penny loafers. He had style, and Ethan noticed that several women had been loitering around his vicinity. There was something oddly familiar about him, and his initial impression of him was wrong. At 2:00 a.m., the five fast friends exited the tavern. Ethan looked at the clouds roving the black sky; the storm brought a nagging, cold, biting wind. It was a good night to have company or at least warm jacket. Outside, he bade them goodbye and started walking home. Thomas asked, “Hey, where are you going? We’re just getting started.” “I’m going home?” he answered. Thomas insisted, “Oh no, you’re coming with us. We’ll party at the pumpkin house.” “Wait.” A look of disbelief came over Ethan. “You’re renting the pumpkin house?” he asked, as if they had said they were rooming at the White House. “That’s where I first got laid,” he said, a bit surprised by his own lack of inhibition and embarrassed by his lack of couth in front of the crowd emptying the pub. The pause was interrupted by a booming voice. It was the song winner. The sixty-something-year-old man asked Ethan, “What year?” “What?” Ethan said. “What year, young man, what year?” “Halloween, 1986,” Ethan answered. “Well, I’ve got you beat, 1968 and 1969 too. New Year’s Eve,” he laughed. “That’s not a bad way to bring in the New Year,” Ethan said. “And you certainly took the frost off the pumpkin,” the man replied.

Ethan added, “After living there, Halloween became my favorite holiday.” The man smiled and said, “Trick or treat.” Ethan said, “And happy New Year to you, sir,” as the white-haired gentleman waved and turned away, singing “We’re on our way home.” “Hey, Romeo, well, are you coming?” Thomas asked. “Abso—” was all Ethan could muster before tripping, but the girls caught him, and they faltered along the windblown sidewalk together, stumbling entangled as one large mass of divergent bodies cartwheeling along in the wind.

Chapter 6

Pumpkin House

The pumpkin house was known to town residents for its lore of haunted mystery. It had been a tavern and boarding house, and its date, circa 1760, was affixed on its front door. Benedict Arnold once slept in the house on his way to Canada. It was believed to be haunted by the daughter of a deserting Hessian soldier. She had died in the boarding house of a mysterious ailment days after being lost in the woods for a few hours. Fleeting vestiges of the young blonde girl were occasionally witnessed by superstitious guests. One guest reported she repeatedly heard, “Ich habe hunger.” The home set on East Main Street, up a small knoll and with river views, was hidden from the street in summer by deciduous trees. It had a comforting feel inside and yet looked haunted from the outside, standing alone atop the lonely hill, daring one to come in. Its wrought iron fencing encased an eighteenthcentury family graveyard, its granite gravestones reminding people of their temporary status. The house was a short walk to campus and the host of many parties past. Its lot was large for being in town, at one and a half acres. The large backyard was fenced in and so it was an ideal place for a party, corralling stumbling drunks within an enclosed space. Ethan’s first visit to the house was during a hurricane party, sophomore year. He was a refugee of the dorms after they closed in anticipation of Hurricane Gloria, and so the Doors’s “Gloria” and the U2’s “Gloria” blasted over radio stations while Ethan and his newfound friends played hacky sack in the rain. The storm petered out by the time it reached New England, and there was little serious damage. The pumpkin house was owned by an eccentric professor named Robert H. Smedley, who had painted the home orange and the blinds black because of his love of Halloween, and because his ex-wife hated the colors. She had said to him, “I hate that color, it’s so gauche, like a pumpkin. It’s me or the pumpkin.” “The pumpkin, as it is much more colorful, sweeter on the inside and less

seedy,” he said. After Smedley and his wife parted company in the early 1980s, he rented rooms out to students and held the best finals parties in late spring, and one could usually find Smedley in the corner of the room nursing a cocktail, smoking a pipe, and playing a game of chess. Occasionally he would look up and gaze around, contemplating, his unkempt hair underneath a maroon beret, his eyeglasses conveying a scholarly presence, a comforting older father figure at home in the chaos. And at the end of the night, when the music was off and the crowd waning, a few remaining party stragglers would gather round Smedley, and he would read to them, for he had a deep baritone voice that seemed to make words come alive off the page, louder than any music. There was some magic in the man, as if the best words in life were meant for him to say. “Friends, and we are all friends here. We are the result of ancient star stuff, and being that, we are all the same, one and the same. We are all miracles, a shot in the dark, one chance in a million. Think of all the swimmers you beat to the egg to win the race! So in effect you have already won the biggest race of all and have been rewarded with life. There’s no need to outduel your neighbor in war or finance as you are a winner already. Don’t dismiss it, don’t regret winning. Go out and do what you were meant to do, what you like to do, and embrace life. Furthermore, don’t be bitter. We deliberate on the negative, what’s wrong, and that’s necessary sometimes but don’t let this dominate your life. For all of their knowledge, there are many bitter professors down that hill, letting their egos dominate the day. Notice how wobbly the ego makes one walk. I am thankful for all of you, teaching me how to be young.” Years ago, after a complaint and the subsequent arrest of underage partiers at his residence (one of which was Harrison’s daughter) and then having been let go from the university, Smedley moved to Upstate New York to teach at a prep school, but he kept ownership of the house and would come back for summer and homecoming every year to visit. Recently, he had decided to rent it out only to grad students, as they were a bit tamer.

Chapter 7

Going Back

At the Mill Stream, they piled into Thomas’s Mini Cooper, the three girls in back and Thomas and Ethan in front. “You OK to drive?” Ethan asked. Thomas replied, “Buddy, I’ve been drinking coffee the last two hours, I could drive to Saskatchewan.” “Please don’t,” Anne Marie said. As they approached the cemetery, Ethan pointed. “Take a right, it’s a shortcut. The monks keep it maintained for emergency vehicles, but it’s wide enough to get through.” “Whoa, Thomas,” the girls echoed, swaying right to left in the back as the car swiftly cut through the narrow cemetery roads. “This place creeps me out,” Mary said. At the top of the hill, Ethan asked Thomas to stop for a moment. “This is where I found Coal and where I saw a fire down the hill earlier before it started raining.” Just then, a dense fog surrounded the car, and it got very cold. “Oh, do you feel that?” Mary asked. “Uh-huh, I feel as if my blood is freezing,” Jenna answered. “You know, I got the same cold feeling earlier when I was up here, right after the scream,” Ethan said. “The scream?” Anne Marie asked.

“Yeah, right before the rain, someone screamed,” Ethan said. “You didn’t tell us that,” Jenna said. “Slipped my mind,” Ethan said. The group lingered there in the fog, hypnotized. Suddenly Thomas’s CD player kicked in and a rap song, “The World is Yours,” woke them up. “I can’t see shit,” Thomas said as he revved up the engine and drove aggressively down the hill as if chased by death itself. Halfway down the hill, Thomas braked hard as a small tree fell on the car’s hood, its branches blocking the windshield’s view. As the two men got out to move it, the fog again surrounded the car. Anne Marie rolled down the window and said, “Hurry up.” By the time Ethan and Thomas made it back, the car was covered with a thin film of ice. “What is with this weather?” Thomas bellowed. “Crank the heat,” the girls ordered. As Thomas hit the gas, the back wheels spun in the mud. “May need a push, guys,” he said, looking back at the girls and then at Ethan. “In these clothes?” Mary asked. “Y’all get out, make the car lighter at least,” Thomas said. “C’mon, let’s move this puppy,” Ethan said. And the girls, New Englanders at heart, helped push the vehicle out of the mud. When the car jerked forward ahead, Ethan and all three ladies slipped, falling face first in the wet mud. “So much for this dress,” Anne Marie sadly said. “What about my ‘been through the mill’ T-shirt, it’s soaked,” Ethan said. “I’ll get you another. Why did I wear my white dress?” Jenna said. They proceeded on and made away from the boggy area to where the fog

cleared. Apollo and his bloodthirsty pack trailed behind. They had only missed them by a few seconds. The monastery land led to College Woods, a fifty-acre open space preservation area the college owned from there to Main Street. To the north and adjacent to College Woods, lay a one-hundred-acre state park and nature preserve. In the past, a stray moose or two could be seen lumbering down Main Street, holding up traffic and keeping professors from their Starbucks espresso and strawberry scones. Real controversy came when the state reintroduced the wolves in 1988. All the professors who lobbied for it were happy until some of their pets started disappearing, and then hypocrisy set in. “Well, I like the wolves, but just the ones who don’t kill my cats,” one professor was quoted as saying during the town meeting. “All I know is since they brought those wolves in, I haven’t shot a deer in three years,” said an orange-clad man in the back. “But then again, Herbert, you ain’t got a deer in ten years anyhow, less you count the one you hit with the Dodge Dart,” said his brother. “Chucky, you know darn well I would’ve shot that deer if it hadn’t run right in front of me,” he answered, a bit perturbed. “To make matters worse, the game warden had to take the deer as state’s evidence, so I says to him, a nice young fellah from Old Town, I says, ‘State’s evidence? Whatcha going to do, arrest the deer for jaywalking?’” said Herbert. The town hall filled with laughter. “Well, you all wouldna think it funny if you got your photo in the weekly town paper, with the caption ‘Herbert finally gets his deer.’ I was thinking of suing them for libel, but I was told by my lawyer I had to be a celebrity.” “For crying out loud, Herbert, have some respect for the public forum. I’m sorry, selectman, Herbert gets a bit excited and loquacious in these settin’s,” Chucky said. In the end, a consensus was reached, and a large multimillion dollar fence was put around the state park preserve, keeping both pets and wolves out of trouble.

Upon entering the pumpkin house’s threshold, Ethan felt as if he were putting on an old comfortable shoe. He had lived there five years ago, and now at twenty seven, his early youth had ed. But within thirty minutes, a fire was going strong, his melancholy dwindled, and he was one of five people in a warm, comfortable, and intimate place. The orange glow of the fire reflected off the women’s faces in a most mellow fashion, and the beauty of the young women hit him strongly, especially one, but he kept those thoughts to himself, however ineffective, as his eyes kept wandering back to her comforting face. “Any of you have Professor Nutzembaum?” Ethan asked. “Yes, we all had Nutty,” Anne Marie said. “Really?” Tom said. “Not in that way,” Anne Marie sighed. “I don’t think that Emerill will ever get rid of him. He’s popular, rich from old money, and his dad set up a trust that gives lots of money to the college on a yearly basis,” said Anne Marie. “I see. And how do you know this?” Thomas asked. “Well, let’s just say my dad is an ant,” she said. “He’s all right, I got an A in his class,” Mary said. “The guy could be a psychopath, Mary, but if you got an A, he’s OK,” Jenna chided her. “Exactly. But if it was an A minus, I might be more critical. Anyway, I don’t think he is long for this world. He’ll probably end up sitting on one of his own euthanasia needles,” Mary said. Jenna added, “You know, if I had to guess about Deanthra’s disappearance, I would say the first person I would look at would be Nutty.” Ethan raised his head and looked at Jenna as if she were a genius. Thomas said, “You know Deanthra is not missing. She’s dancing at Nightspots.

Just found that out tonight, Danny told me.” Danny was the DJ, or music coordinator, at Nightspots, and Thomas’s friend. “She just dropped out of grad school and didn’t bother to tell the school or her roommate. Rumor has it she’s been shacking up with Nutty.” “I knew it,” Jenna said. Changing the subject, Thomas impishly noted, “Say, Ethan, so you lost your virginity here, huh?” “Yes, Thomas, we and everyone else in town within one-fourth mile of the Old Mill Stream heard it,” Anne Marie said. Ethan took a big swig of Meister Bräu, and his pallet cried sacrilege, contorting his face. “Drinking this is like going to McDonald’s after a five-star meal.” “We’re on a grad student budget here, my friend,” said Thomas, who had huddled up next to the fire, his cap well down over his head. “No, Tom, you’re just cheap,” added Mary. “We are the ones on a grad school budget!” “It’s a pity. He takes all the rich kids’ money away, fixing their computers, and he can’t it on to his friends, who do his dishes and clean the house,” Jenna said. “Yes, Thomas cares more about his strawberry blonde-headed ant than he does us, his poor friends,” said Mary. “Based on what I’ve seen, you all can take care of yourselves,” Thomas said. Jenna asked Ethan, “How come we never saw you before at the Mill Stream?” “I stopped going there regularly a few years back because of my dislike of my old college running nemesis from Chaps College, Billy Bassey. He hung out there. Poor bastard never could beat me in a big race, but his personal best times in other races were significantly better than mine. Seemed like he’d always go out too fast against me. Like he was trying to prove something, you know?

Racing isn’t all brawn, you have to think. He’s a jerk when he’s drunk. That was a long time ago and he has beaten me in a couple road races since, so he’s got the hair off his ass about it and actually thanked me one time for pushing him to train harder and think strategically. And I heard he stopped drinking. He’s married and got a kid now.” “How did you get into running?” Anne Marie asked. “I’ve always loved to run. I was always running errands for my mom, running to the store, running downtown to play baseball. I’d win those six-hundred-yard runs we had in gym and it got me respect. Growing up here was fun, exploring fields, streams, every wooded acre, fishing quiet ponds, balancing on timbers laid across the mills falls, biking every square mile, cycling out to the lake, and playing sports. Then the happiness, the innocence, came and went. I think it was around eighth or ninth grade, about the time boys start calling each other horrible names. And so I found solace in running, for it made me feel pure. I don’t think people were made to sit around like we do now. We were made to move. Even if people don’t exercise, they still move, don’t they, in their trucks and cars to the mall. Only thing is with cars you don’t get the benefits, a peace of mind, and a strong body.” There was a break in the conversation. The fire crackled and the coals glowed a bright orange. “Ethan, Jenna wants to know if you are seeing anybody?” asked Mary. Just then a swift elbow from Jenna ribbed Mary playfully in her side, causing her to laugh and giggle. “Yes, my eyesight is perfect, 20/20. I can see you all. In fact I am beginning to see two of you. Must be Tom’s beer.” There were several murmurs from the girls on the couch and then giggling, but he could not interpret this foreign language. “I can’t believe that’s still here!” Ethan said, looking at a big painting above the fireplace. Smedley had bought the painting at a flea market in Vermont. It was by a famous artist. It was near priceless but his ex-wife didn’t like it and left it. “It’s Smedley’s wish that it stay here and he onished us to take good care of it,” Thomas said.

“How do you take care of a painting?” “In plain English, don’t let no one mess with it. Oh yeah, and no baseball inside the house,” Thomas said. “Oh yes, that old well-known strategy they use at the Louvre for taking care of paintings, I’d forgotten that.” The left side of the painting was of an old man holding a young child’s hand, walking down a logging road, both dressed in black. And on the right side, there was a farmhouse high on the hill, a celebration taking place. On the left side of the painting, there was a storm front on its way, and on the right, it was sunny and clear. The women were chuckling over something. “What?” “They’re laughing cause we’ve had more discussion over that damn painting than I care to ,” Tom said. “Tom just doesn’t know how to appreciate the finer things in life, Ethan. You know, like art and beer,” Jenna said. “And us,” Mary added. “What do you think about it, Ethan?” Jenna asked. “It’s like a twisted Norman Rockwell. An allegory for death. Enjoy time on the farm because the walk to perdition is coming. The walkers seem to be heading to the promised land together, hand in hand. Maybe the kid died and is going up the road with his granddad.” “You sound like my art professor,” Anne Marie said dryly. “You know, Ethan, all three of us have heard a child’s laughter in the middle of the night here, and sometimes an old man’s cough. I never stay here alone, so when Jenna and Anne Marie go home, I do too,” Mary said, her eyes flaming with intensity, the fire illuminating her face as her favorite blanket enshrined her in a cozy way. It was close to 3:30 a.m. when the conversation came to a final dry spell. “By the

way, you can crash here tonight, the couch is pretty good for sleeping,” Thomas said. The girls went upstairs to bed, and Ethan said, “Good night, angels, and Tom,” and then cuddled up on the couch and promised to keep the fire going a bit longer. A few minutes later, Ethan faked an old man’s cough. “Very funny,” they called out from above. Jenna said, “Ich habe hunger.”

Chapter 8

Nutty

Professor Joseph Nutzembaum was a maverick psychology professor at Emerill, and he was not liked by most in town. He was a tall, good-looking man and never, according to him, had ever lost an argument about euthanasia. He had lost his psychiatry practice in town after overprescribing a few of the town’s wealthier housewives, including Ethan’s Aunt Audrey, Harrison’s ex-wife. His teaching approach was a bit odd, as he would often get up close to the students, angle his head, and stare at you as he was lecturing and then put you on the spot with a question. One more LSD trip away from the funny farm, Ethan thought. But really, this appearance was more or less his choice in late 1960’s thickbottled glasses. He was a strong believer in euthanasia and was a er of Dr. Kevorkian, and the subject would invariably come up in class. When this happened, Ethan would stretch out his legs, put his arms behind his head, and lean back in his chair for a long respite from the world of book speak, as the discussion would go on until class ended and sometimes after. One day, Nutty, in a condescending manner, asked Ethan, “Does our running guru have any thoughts on the debate?” Ethan answered, “I myself believe in hospice care and allowing sick people to die. Euthanasia itself, no, I don’t have an issue with it. If someone is suffering and in great pain with stomach cancer, why not let them go without suffering. But where I differ from some people is that I would not break the law. What I would do is a state referendum and vote on it.” “Well then, perhaps you’d be willing to help me with that. I’ve got a small army going door to door, trying to get this voted on. But I digress. Mr. O’Brien, based on other causes in the past, wouldn’t you say we need both grassroots as well as people breaking the law in order to get the issue into the lawmakers’ agenda?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but that is not going to be me breaking the law,” Ethan said. “Well then, if everyone was like you, Mr. O’Brien, how would insane laws get overturned?” “That’s the thing, everyone is not like me,” answered Ethan. Then he added, “It depends on how strongly I feel about an issue. For example, I would protest the testing of drugs on the handicapped, which governments have done in the past, and I would break the law in that protest. But you see, I don’t feel as strongly about euthanasia as you.” “Yes, I see. Good, Mr. O’Brien. As always, class, my case for euthanasia can be deeply explored at the Death with Respect meeting, Friday nights. Just look for a fire near the entrance to the state park.” On the first Friday of every month during the school year, he held Death with Respect (DWR) meetings off campus at his home or, during good weather, on the edge of the state park with a campfire, and he would pontificate about the importance of death with respect. There were posters on every common wall of the university about death with respect, right next to the Campus Crusade for Christ posters. In fact, it was almost a rite of age for most freshmen to attend at least one DWR meeting (usually liquored up beforehand) and then recall the event later over a beer. His typical speech went: “To begin to live, we must address death, and yet we avoid it until it knocks us on our ass. We say someone ed as if someone fell off a cliff, as if death is an accident. It’s no accident, my friends, it’s an inevitable result of living. I’m not saying this to bring you down, people, but to enliven you up, to energize you to live, take risks, fight authority if necessary, and celebrate your life now. All we have of the dead are the echoes of their thoughts and deeds, echoes in the graveyard. They live on, you see, so take comfort in that, as its worth is understated. “To that end, I don’t know why we can’t accept the end when it comes. What sense is there in suffering pain from cancer and other diseases? Do you all see where I’m coming from? Listen, I am not advocating rote suicide. And I think we should make sure the person is of sound mind as well when they make the decision. I am advocating self-assisted suicide for terminal cases only. Is not, life liberty and the pursuit of happiness guaranteed? I would argue this thing we call

liberty allows one to make this decision. Let’s take the doctors out of the equation as they take an oath to do no harm. Let’s have the people decide if they have this right. I realize assisted death gets into shady gray areas. There are people with advanced Alzheimer’s for example. What do we do with them? Well let’s talk about it, define it. Right now there are different definitions on the word euthanasia. Let’s get a clear understanding. Hell I’d be happy with a step toward a partial understanding. But for now, let’s get a law ed for the people in pain, physical pain. They all label me this and that, but you yourself judge. And meet me next month, if you’d like to hear more. I ain’t joking you.” Nutty’s firsthand experience with euthanasia was within his own family. His wealthy widowed grandmother, Penelope Cannon, in her old age, had labored on with Alzheimer’s in her New York estate with private nursing care for fifteen years, and it was rumored her end had come only with a little help from her grandson. And though she was wealthy fifteen years ago, the home nursing care had run over $130,000 per year, resulting in a loss of one-twentieth of her assets with no end in sight. Private care attendants at the house later testified that Nutty had ranted and raved throughout his grandmother’s house in front of his mother, Cynthia, now divorced, saying “Mother, we are not losing this house!” Later, in her advanced stage of dementia, Penelope would walk through the house at midnight in her bathrobe, repeating the words, “Where is my house, where is my house?” The state attorney general’s office dropped the case against Nutty for lack of forensic evidence, and it was ruled Mrs. Cannon had died of natural causes. After this Nutty was quoted by the press, “I am glad this is over, but the bigger issue remains ahead of us and we must fight on, fight on for death with respect.”

Dr. Kevorkian was Nutty’s hero. But unlike Kevorkian, he would not, one, consider a nonterminal case and, two, he would not push the death button, for that is where Dr. K became a lawbreaker. In a perfect world, Nutty would supply the equipment, and the patient would set it up and ister the button push that would end their life, and even that would be after the law changed. The law was behind the times, and so his dilemma was drug supply. He was banned from prescribing drugs in the state. As a result, he enlisted a bio student from Pakistan and an avid DWR member to make a nearly undetectable death drug potion for

him to give away. A pharmacist had warned Nutty once at the Mill Stream. “Be careful with enlisting grad students to make drugs. One mistake in the process and you’ve got chicken soup instead of chicken salad.” “Belid is very smart, he doesn’t make mistakes,” said Nutty. “Well, God help you,” said the pharmacist. “God doesn’t have anything to do with it. If he was doing his job, we wouldn’t have this mess down here,” Nutty angrily replied. “Well then, if God makes mistakes, so do we!” the pharmacist said as he got up to leave. The whole drug business was a little distasteful, and Nutty would rationalize it as for the betterment of mankind. For all his rhetoric, his grandmother had been his only case until Eve, as no one quite trusted Nutty in the end. Nutty’s main goal was to change the law and to influence today’s future lawyers. And so, despite the past rumors, despite his personality, despite the controversial topics he eschewed, it was still a surprise when he was found in such a “queer manner” Sunday morning, as one elderly lady stated.

Chapter 9

Deanthra

Nutty seemed to attract women in need of counseling. Ethan ed his freshmen year, when a young woman he knew, Deanthra, had tried to kill herself the previous semester in the very building he lived in. She had taken a semester off from school, but now was back in Nutty’s psychology class like nothing had happened. In fact, she seemed to be happy. Perhaps new meds , Ethan pondered. Everyone knew her because she wore a very distinguishable yellow rain jacket, even on sunny days. She also had a figure like a Greek goddess and long black flowing hair accented with light green eyes. In the semicircular row of desks, every man’s head turned when she entered the room and took off her jacket. She was a knockout to be sure, but there was something quirky about her that turned Ethan off. Perhaps it was the dark eye shadow. She talked to Nutty before and after class. Ethan recalled her engaging smile and enthusiasm toward Nutty and how the Professor seemed to welcome the young woman’s attention. Ethan’s roommate had tried to befriend her, but she had paid him no mind. He was a six-foot-two handsome man who rowed crew, most every girl’s dream, but not hers. So she had an offbeat taste in men, not necessarily a bad thing. He recalled the curious statement she made one time as she sat next to him, “Your uncle is Mr. H, huh? You’re lucky.” Ethan felt a lot of things about being his nephew, but lucky was not one. He mumbled back, “Yeah, lucky me.” Professor Nutzembaum had divided the class into groups of four by subject to give oral presentations, and she was in his group. Each person in the group was responsible for their own part, and they met to set up the order of their presentation and to discuss other details. Deanthra had not shown up to any of these meetings, and so they planned for Ethan to go first and Deanthra third. On Friday afternoon, the week before the presentation was due, Deanthra showed up at his dorm, crying hysterically, “I heard you all set up the order without asking

me.” “Yes, you weren’t there,” Ethan said. “Well, you don’t understand, I have to go first. You all didn’t ask me.” And she started breaking down again… but Ethan had no problem delaying his order. “Hey, don’t worry. You can go first, it’s not a big deal. We’ll switch places.” “You will? Thanks so much.” As if this slight kindness was an incredible sacrifice, she cooled down, thanked him, and left. His roommate looked up from his book. “What was that about?” “I don’t know,” Ethan said. A few weeks later, a feature piece came out in the college newspaper about her abused childhood in foster homes. Deanthra’s roommate at the time worked at the school newspaper and lobbied her strongly for the story. But it was only with Nutty’s encouragement she let her past be known for he said to her in order to defeat the past we must deal with it first.

Chapter 10

The Fire

Friday at 6:00 p.m., as Nutty was getting the fire started, Apollo circled him and attacked. Nutty stood up just as Apollo’s jaws were about to enclose his neck. The wolf’s snout rebounded off his back and then went for Nutty’s arm. He bit long enough to Windigo along and ran. Nutty lay on the dirt gagging, kicking, and muttering, “Damn rabies.” He got a medicine kit from his van and looked at his arm. There were faint reddish marks, a little blood, and it burned. Deanthra pulled into the parking lot slowly with her mint C4 yellow Corvette—earned by tips at Nightspots. But she was too late. “What happened?” she asked. “I was attacked by a rabid wolf. I think your V8 scared him away.” She helped him affix the cotton bandage on his arm. “Good thing you had your leather jacket on. Better get you to the hospital.” “I’ve got something to do first.” “Where is everybody?” she asked, confused. “I cancelled the meeting due to the rain,” he answered. “That’s not like you,” she said. “Well, this one’s going to be bad, two inches an hour,” he said, looking up at the sky, holding the bandage. Her hands were shaking a bit, so she hid them in her jacket. He looked at her, and he thought of the beginning, how much promise she had

then. Now he was not sure of her allegiance to him. Was she all in? He couldn’t say for sure, and it bothered him. She was not like him. She had come along for the ride because she was a wounded animal in search of love, not because of any strong affiliation with DWR. “I think I’ll line up those seminars for DWR in Europe. They are a little more open-minded over there, not so entrenched in the puritanical.” “Yes, I was reading that Oslo is beautiful this time of year,” she said. “How come you’re so late?” he asked. “Working,” she said. “I don’t know why you insist on working there, I’ve got money,” Nutty said. “It’s not about the money, it’s about retribution,” she said. “I don’t understand,” Nutty said. “You will in time. I’ve got a closing Saturday to attend. After that, I’m all yours, I’ll quit.” Nutty began to boil a gallon of Dinty Moore stew on the fire and to Deanthra’s chagrin began to consume the entire gallon with a large spoon. He usually had impeccable manners while eating. “Good. Listen, I need to tell you something, something you must take to your grave,” he said. “Yes, OK,” she answered. “Do you Wednesday morning when Ms. O’Brien came over to list my house for sale?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “She didn’t come over to list my house. She wanted me to inject her with the green. The pain was getting to her and she said if I didn’t help her right then, she would do it herself in another way. That’s all this town needs, another hanging in

the woods. At first I told her another family member would have to set the contraption up, and then she herself would push the button. She insisted on doing it right then and she didn’t want anyone else involved. I told her that would put me in a difficult position.” “Oh my god, and?” Deanthra asked. “What do you think, Deanthra?” He looked at her puzzlingly. Did she suspect or not? He was paranoid, and all the intelligence and love in the world could not help him in a court of law. She ed running out of his house that day, a bit tardy to a doctor’s appointment. Ms. O’Brien had arrived early, while Nutty was in his office. “I didn’t want you to know, to protect you, but now you are an accomplice.” “I would never tell, I mean, it was her idea. She had stage four cancer. What do we do?” “Absolutely nothing, nothing because there’s no body. She didn’t write in her day planner that she was coming over, and there’s no car because she walked to my house. We are practically absolved. There are phone records, that’s it.” “How did you look at her planner?” she asked. “I paid a visit to her office and house in the middle of the night, on Thursday. I just barely got out before her son woke up.” “Well, what did you do with her?” she asked. “I started burying her in the state park’s woods, but I heard wolves and I got scared, lost my nerve, and left her half-buried under some leaves. I’ve got to go back there now and bury her in the dark. Listen, I need you to stay here in your car in case anyone thinks there is a meeting. After it starts raining hard, you can leave. I’ll take care of this. I love you,” he said. “I love you too,” she answered. “Aren’t you scared, she asked.

“I am of it as it is of me, no I am not afraid,” Nutty answered, his blue eyes were paling to a lighter color it seemed to her. She walked quickly to her car. He approached the marked tree and stone wall, turned ninety degrees, and counted off one hundred paces. Wednesday morning’s events replayed in his head. One, two, three—she had entered his home and had drunk from the tea he had dropped the green formula into. Four, five, six—she drank the tea calmly and began to explain how she had changed her mind for now and would like to wait a few more months, before he had a chance to talk to her about it… Seven, eight, nine—he observed the tea go down her throat as she swallowed, and he was without words. “Well, what do you think, professor?” she said as her body went lame and slumped over on his office futon. Ten, eleven, twelve—he had carried her to his van and threw her limp body in the back and drove to the park entrance. As he reached one hundred paces, he stomped the leaves and then got down on his hands and knees, feeling, his arms swathing the ground in wide circles that morphed into a desperate snow angel as he fell to the ground, feeling, forever feeling. “Dammit, Eve, where are you? No, no, no,” he cried. He stood wildly, whipping his arms up to the sky, and let go of the most godawful scream, startling every living thing within one-fourth of a mile away, including the lone figure and the wounded dog atop the hill.

Chapter 11

Harrison

The sun shone brightly through the living room of the pumpkin house, because the windows facing southeast brought in much warmth. Saturday morning, and Ethan awoke to a quiet house. He was not one to sleep in. The morning was bright and crisp, the cool air coming in from Canada like an expected but nonetheless unwelcome guest. He expected to be a bit groggy this morning, but he was as alert as a hungry alligator and had no hangover, a monk’s blessing. Around him were the pumpkin pine floors, his socks, the fire’s embers glowing, the painting, and a sleeping dog. His clothes were matted in dog fur. Gump didn’t seem to hold any grudge toward the stealer of his bed, he slept on without trouble. Ethan had a good sleep here and hadn’t dreamed of the dead. He looked at the painting. Leaving through the front door, he glanced upstairs as if he had forgotten something. Thomas pulled up into the driveway after making a coffee run. “Here you go,” Thomas said, handing him a coffee. “Thanks.” “Don’t imagine the princesses are up?” “Nope, only the princes.” “We’ll see you tonight at the party?” he asked. “Maybe,” he said. Ethan walked home, thinking of a nice hot shower and a nap, but then realized he was late for a 9:00 a.m. appointment with his uncle. Damn it, he thought.

Ethan drove up to his uncle’s estate in his mother’s jeep. The stately house was located in the hilly, lush area of town. The driveway was lined with blue spruce trees, and the lawn was like a golf course. The front of the house had eight white pillars and a large, open, slate patio. Impressive to the eye were the granite steps, the stone wraparound driveway, and the meticulous landscaping and gardens. On the left side of the house, there was a courtyard with two statues, Zeus and Persephone, the goddess of rebirth. The far peaks of New Hampshire roamed in the distance, it being a clear day after yesterday’s storm. It was as if God himself lived here. Ethan knocked at the large oak door, and a tall thin attendant let him in and asked him to have a seat in the parlor. The man looked a bit concerned. The lonely cold house reminded him of Xanadu from the Orson Welles film. Harrison was Ethan’s uncle through marriage and owned the town’s biggest hotel, the Mill Stream Tavern, a restaurant, a golf course, the college bookstore, several student apartment buildings, and the out-of-town strip club. “Alcohol, sex, real estate, and education are businesses that will never go out of style as long as man walks the earth,” he’d say. “To hell with screwing the poor. Screw the rich, that’s where the real money is.” Harrison had come along at the right time, when the small college town was growing. He had built storage units for the students. He bought apartments close to the university and sold them to the college when the real estate cycle was high. The extroverted man attracted bankers and investors that believed in him. They knew he was a bit of an egomaniac as well. Still he was savvy, and in the end, when money was made, money was good. Later on, he had no need for investors, as he could walk into any bank and have millions in credit extended. Recessions would come and go with the hotel full, the golf course busy, and the bookstore’s sales steady. A tall and athletic man, his white hair still thick, he had taken to wearing his hair long lately, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and headbands, all for Deanthra. Harrison had been a world-class rower for Emerill crew. During his time, Emerill came in second in the national collegiate finals in crew, losing in a controversial decision by less than a fraction of a second to Harvard. Harrison failed to make the Olympic team due to Coach Allen’s preference for a less talented rower. The rower, Herb Nutzembaum, was from a wealthy blue blood family from New York, and his parents were alumni and gave a good deal of money to the college.

Harrison was chosen as an alternate for the team but never rowed in the Olympics itself, leaving him jealous and bitter toward life and the powers that be. An undefined hunger for revenge dominated his life, but it never quite came to a resolve. This unquenched anger, this longing for something indefinable deep in his subconscious mind, ate away at him day by day. It was not the Olympic slight itself. It was the man. Years ago, he took a liking to Herb’s wife. One evening when Herb was on the road, he approached her at the bar of his country club. Cynthia Nutzembaum was there, attending a women’s garden club function. They had too much to drink and ended up sleeping together. Ten months later, after the Nutzembaums moved away to be closer to family and the airline hub of New York, a son, Nutty, was born with his mother’s looks and his father’s zeal and looks. Harrison’s personal life was not as successful. His wife filed for divorce because of his many nights of “managing business on the outskirts of town.” His only daughter, Melody, left a few years back to attend Penn State in Happy Valley and, when she returned to town, never saw him. Their fallout was over an argument regarding Professor Smedley. To make matters worse, Harley, his son, and the crew coach’s daughter had fallen for each other. There was a car accident on the way home from a party, which killed Harley and left the coach’s daughter paralyzed from the waist down. His youngest son, Edward, had been born mildly retarded and could be seen hanging out with Meeks. The two were often seen in the center of town on the gazebo benches, playing cards or checkers. Meeks liked to win but he would occasionally let Edward prevail, especially if he got Meek’s coffee from the Bear’s Den Diner. Harrison seemed perplexed by his son’s imperfection and his daughter’s need for attention and often wondered why his luck regarding children had been cursed. Why couldn’t they be like him? The gears turning inside his head were overheating with tension, and the powerful thinking machine, long efficient, headed with wild reckless abandon toward a perilous cliff, making him vulnerable to attack and blind to the past. And that is when Deanthra entered his life.

In five minutes, the attendant came back, looked down at Ethan’s old sneakers, shook his head, and led Ethan to the library, his leather shoe steps echoing musically on the pristine marble, while Ethan’s rubber soles squeaked. Ethan felt like a street rapper at a banquet for classical music. Harrington’s house cat poked his head out of the office, then ran away in the opposite direction. In the office, there were majestic looking mahogany bookcases etched with detail and a large desk that Mr. Harrison sat behind, his face blocked by a large computer screen. “Have a seat, Ethan, just going over October’s numbers from the hotel. Would you believe we are up this month by 10 percent? Must be the homecoming weekend, yes? I was never much for football, too brutal, but it sure brings in the parents,” he said. His booming voice echoed off the high ceilings, cascaded down the walls, and returned to its source like a sound boomerang. There was power in his voice. “Terribly sorry to hear about Eve. She was a kind woman, smart too. Any news?” As if awoken by the question, Ethan answered a quiet “No.” “You know, she always took care of our children when Audrey was having one of her spells. I’ll never forget that, Ethan. Hard to believe those two were sisters. Would you like anything? Coffee?” “No thanks, sir, I have one,” he said raising his cup. Spells was such an oldfashioned or odd word for bipolar, Ethan thought. “Well, the wake’s at five-thirty p.m., but that’s not why I asked you here. I have been thinking about you and I have reached a conclusion that you are the only one left in the family with a competent head around here to manage this after I’m gone. Unless I have another son I don’t know about,” he said, apparently joking. “Eddie certainly isn’t competent enough, and with Harley gone, probably my fault, I know, but Harley wasn’t quite right in the head. He had a lot of Audrey’s makeup, and I’m not sure Melody and I are talking, so…” Harrison’s narrow blue eyes had the winning confidence of a general who had been to war, dealt with the bad as if it were an inevitable report of losses from the front, and had moved on. His nose was prominent, and he had a square jaw. He had the look of an early president, Ethan reflected. His hair long in the back

as if he had missed the bygone ’70s was quite disconcerting for some, given that he had worn a crew cut for years. “I’ll retain ownership, and the businesses are to be put in a trust for Mel and Eddie. But you, Ethan, you would be paid a healthy salary to manage the businesses. Hell, they practically run themselves. I am going to sell off the restaurant anyway, too much bullshit. Hell, I’m going to sell everything eventually, but I need someone up here. Your mother always had a good head for managing and I have been observing the same talent in you as well. Shit, I was planning to let her manage it, but with her illness and her missing now… Well, I want you to think about it, then let me know soon, as we are taking the yacht to Costa Rica to semi-retire. Run an orphanage. Been thinking about changing this place into a group home too. Jesus, I got enough bedrooms. I’ll be back summers. What do you think?” he paused. He didn’t quite trust the steely-eyed codger, family or not. He managed a halfwitted question. “Well, to be frank, sir, I am wondering why you changed your hairstyle.” “My hairstyle?” His face contorted a bit. “Oh yes, indeed. Dee, my fiancée, she likes my hair long in back. Perhaps you’ve heard about her in the news, as the police have reported her missing. Missing,” he laughed. “They are the only ones missing, missing their minds,” he added with emphasis. “Deanthra?” Ethan asked. “Yes, Dee. Ethan, have you been going to places you shouldn’t?” “No, sir, she was in my class at Emerill,” he said “Oh yes, of course, I’d forgotten. She’s a grad student now working on her second graduate degree. Seems like the first one wasn’t enough for her. She was a student I mean, she dropped out a while back to dance here for the money. Then like that we fell in love. You know, for all her reputation, she wants to wait until we’re married to do the horizontal bop. Well, we’re getting married soon in Costa Rica. She’s changed my whole view of things. I’m moving, my man, moving to Costa Rica. We have built a large ‘green’ house on the beach and in the back we have a large building for an orphanage. It’s already built, had the real estate closing this morning. It’s all in her name. My, she was happy. Those kids will be happy too. It’s her dream, and I intend to fulfill it the best I can. We

plan to use this place as a group home here too, for foster kids. It’s going to be great. Guess I said that. I traded my Hummer last Friday morning for a hybrid. Oh, and sorry about the splash. Hell, my dreams have been fulfilled here. I’m going to scull out there in the harbor and train for the over sixty world record. You see, Ethan, I’ve gone about it all wrong, all wrong. I rowed this morning, got up at 5:00 a.m. I forgot how alive you can feel out there in the morning, the calm water, the quiet softness of a morning’s song.” Ethan noticed that he was wearing shorts and yellow crocs. The attendant entered the room. “Excuse me, sir, but you asked me to bring this in when it came.” “Yes, bring it, Carroll. Oh, Deanthra is going to love this. It’s her birthday present.” Harrison opened the large parcel. It was a large color photograph of the Grateful Dead playing an outdoor concert. It was signed by every member. “Too bad we lost Jerry, but the music still stands up, don’t you think?” Harrison asked. “I mean, man can still transcend without the drugs, don’t you think?” Harrison said, iring the photo. “But those guys get any older, the name Grateful Dead will apply,” he said. Ethan felt as though he was witnessing the great unraveling of a once sane and powerful man, as if he was watching an over-the-hill ballplayer strike out for the tenth time in a row. The austere posturing was gone, vanished like wisps of air leaving a hot kettle. It was as if the boyish version of Harrison had come back from the ’60s for one last breath of air. “Getting back to the question at hand, Ethan?” “I don’t know, I’ll need some time to think it over,” he said. “This is a done deal, Ethan. I have decided to put everything in a trust and there’s nothing left for me to do anymore. I’m taking the yacht for a cruise. Oh well, someone will be running things, whether it’s you or the man in the moon, someone will get the job.” The phone rang and soon after the butler entered again. “Excuse me, sir, your exwife is on the phone. She says it’s urgent.”

“Yes, it always is,” he sarcastically commented. “Excuse me, Ethan. Yes, hello, Audrey… No, it’s OK. I’m talking to Ethan… He’s fine… She sends her condolences and says she’ll see you tonight at the wake. She’s broken up about it too, they were so close.” Ethan knew this was hyperbole, but nodded. Ethan could hear a high-pitched stressed voice on the other end of the phone, saying more in a minute than he could in a month. Harrison said, “Old Mr. Meeks and Edward are hardly credible sources, Audrey. I mean, Edward—you know how he is. And Mr. Meeks—well, his eyesight is as good as Poncho’s left nut.” Poncho was Audrey’s Chihuahua, who recently had his cancerous left nut removed. “I know, I know, I will check it out, but please don’t worry about Deanthra.” With that he hung up. “Old Audrey’s got the jealousy bug, I’m afraid, Ethan. Can’t say as I blame her, Deanthra’s quite a looker. Says Eddie and Meeks saw her making out with Nutzembaum in the parking lot of the Bear’s Den. Wishful thinking for Nutzembaum, I suppose, or maybe he has a death wish,” he emphasized. Ethan sat in thought. Harrison’s tone suddenly changed. “Another thing, I think we should get there early tonight, 5:00 p.m., so be on time. Christ, half the town will be there, so wear something clean,” he said, looking at Ethan for the first time since he came in and observing Ethan’s garb from the night before. “I came from—” But he was interrupted. “That’s all, Ethan, think about it and get back to me, and if you decide to keep on with this teacher thing, let me know. Right now, I’ve got some social worker from the state coming over. Wants to ask me some questions about this group home we’re setting up.” “I’ll think it over, a few days, OK?” Ethan asked. “Yes, yes,” Harrison said, going back to his monitor.

And with that, Ethan left out the big door and there was Persephone, pleading to Zeus with an outstretched arm.

Chapter 12

Bear’s Den Saturday

After meeting with Harrison, Ethan went home, showered, changed, and then ducked into the Bear’s Den, looking for Lucky. He found him in the first booth, stirring his coffee. The place was packed because it was homecoming weekend; families were snuggled into the booths, and large tables were arranged in the middle of the breakfast diner. Lucky toasted him with his coffee, his mouth full, and nodded. The waitress looked in astonishment as Ethan sat down in the booth and said, “Mr. Lucky, since I’ve been working here, the only time you sat in a booth… Why you have never sat in a booth before. You always sit over there next to Meeks at the counter.” He replied, “Well then, I guess I need to get some more friends. Hey, let’s start with this guy.” Ethan said, “Hey.” “I thought you forgot,” he said. Ethan looked around at the brightly lit diner; he hadn’t been there in a while, but he ed the coziness, the red swivel stools, the black-and-white tile floors, the 1950 era signs, and the chalkboard menu of breakfast specials. The place had always smelled good. They made fresh donuts here. His mom avoided the place but would occasionally send him there on Saturday mornings to pick up donuts for the real estate office. “Good to see you. Where you been? It’s 10:30 a.m. I read the paper, ate breakfast, heard all the gossip, hiked the mountain, painted the town… you spend all last night at the Mill Stream?” “No, not all of it. Spent the night at the pumpkin house with the friends I met. You make it home all right?”

“Yes, but I got a sore back from helping Meeks into his shack. Are you running tomorrow?” he asked. “Yes, absolutely, are you going to watch?” Ethan asked. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Lucky replied. “Speaking of dreams, the other night I had a weird one, Ethan said. “If you don’t mind tell me more,” Lucky asked. “It was a reunion of people from my past, there was a party inside a house and then a large swarm of water surrounded the house. I wondered if the house would hold. It did and then the water was gone. And then a giant bear, maybe twenty times the normal-sized grizzly, was trying to attack us but he could not get in,” Ethan said. “You have a great challenge ahead with this road race, perhaps, and dealing with your mom’s death, and you are concerned about safety. My advice is to be careful the next few days. Trust your intuition. Say, did Coal bite you last night?” “No, I just got blood on me is all.” “OK good, you’ll be all right.” “All right?” Ethan asked. “I didn’t want to alarm you, but these parts have always been haunted by a bad spirit called Windigo—it is an evil cannibalistic spirit. Often it takes the form of a wolf and a good bite can transmit the spirit to a human. The odd thing about this particular spirit is that he craves attention, so he kills the rich, the famous, and the talented.” “Oh, and you think Coal is infected?” Ethan asked. “Maybe, it’s hard to say. We have to wait a couple days, if it doesn’t take fully there’s no harm, just temporary symptoms that go away.” “Do you believe in those folktales?” Ethan asked.

“Sometimes I believe in things out of boredom,” Lucky said. He pointed down at the newspaper. “This Deanthra. What do you think happened to her?” “Oh her, she’s been working at Nightspots and is shacking up with Nutty, though apparently is also engaged to my uncle as well.” “Ah, you know more about what’s going on in town than I do.” “I just heard about it.” “Says here she was an orphan. She spent a lot of time in foster care, growing up. It’s pretty sad. This article tells it all,” Lucky said. “That’s right, all that was in the college paper years ago,” Ethan said. Lucky leaned over to Ethan and whispered, “OK, now let me tell you something, partner. You know I overheard some Emerill professors talking about Nutty in the cafeteria. They’re convinced he’s got a death shot for patients who want to die. Rumors are, the feds are about ready to storm his place in town here, staking it out already.” Lucky nodded over his right shoulder. Ethan looked, and there sat two men dressed in dark suits and wearing black shades. “You tell me who in this town knows them, and who dresses like that other than Jehovah’s Witnesses.” “Actually, they are Jehovah’s Witnesses, they knocked on my door Wednesday night. During all the commotion at the house, the state police sent them away. Wish they could do that all the time,” Ethan said. “I don’t get it, Lucky, he hasn’t done anything. I mean, I don’t like the guy but he’s never killed anyone. They say his grandmother, but that was never proven. I may be wrong, but with him, I believe his bark is worse than his bite. If my mom went to him with the idea of euthanasia, I can’t say I blame her. She was in an awful lot of pain, the kind of pain you want out of, you understand. She was only a few weeks away from hospice.” “Oh, I understand and then some,” Lucky said, thinking back to the maimed victims he medevaced away from the fighting hills of Vietnam. “I wish I could have helped her,” he said.

Ethan looked puzzled but continued, “You know, Harrison wants to retire to Costa Rica, at least in the winter. He wanted my mom to manage the businesses, but now he’s approached me about managing them.” “Sounds like steady work, you going to take it?” asked Lucky. “I don’t know,” he said. Lachance looked out the small bus-like window at the auburn colored hills. “See that two-toned Ford truck out there, that’s mine. It’s a 1976 and runs like a top.” “Looks new,” Ethan observed. “Yes, I only take it out in good weather. Almost time to garage it. Say, tell me what happened Friday night up at the cemetery.” Ethan proceeded to tell him the story. Just then, around 11:00 a.m., Jenna, Anne Marie, and Mary walked into the Bear’s Den with their parents. Ethan had his back to them and did not notice their approach, but he suddenly became aware that the whole diner was staring in his direction. Lucky’s eyes lit up and he nodded a friendly grin. Ethan turned to look to his right, when a chorus of “Hi, Ethan” came with melodic symphony. “Well hi, girls,” Lucky bellowed, as Ethan was a bit tongue-tied. The parents of the girls and Ethan exchanged hellos and Jenna said, “Hi, Lucky, you know I got an A on that paper I did on Vietnam. Thanks for helping me out.” “Well, I’m glad to hear that, it was my pleasure.” He smiled. “See you at homecoming,” they said. They bid their adieus, and Lucky’s head swiveled around, watching the angels disappear on the way to their table as their parents closed the view, and they were beyond sight. “How in the hell do you rate, kid?” “Just lucky, I guess,” Ethan offered. Lucky shook his head.

“I guess chicks dig a dog saver.” “The bartender over at the Mill Stream was telling me you were the first local track legend,” Ethan said. Lucky nodded and said, “I held the state record in the mile back in the late ’60s for a few years. I ran barefoot. Records are broken, each generation gets stronger, taking the best of each parent.” The waitress brought the bill and said, “I see you drove Elsie today.” “Last month for her, then it’s winter storage.” “That’s a shame, such a fine vehicle should get driven,” the waitress said with a smile. Lucky winked at Ethan in response to her comment but remained silent. Ethan paid the bill, and asked, “Mind if I take a look at the truck?” They sat inside the truck for a few minutes, and then Lucky said, “Ethan, I’ve got something to tell you.” Ethan thought Lucky was about to pitch Amway. “You were asking me about running earlier. You see, Grandfather, I mean my father, was 100 percent Micmac, and he used to take me out into the woods, hiking, hunting, observing nature and animals, and tracking their movement. I had to be in pretty good shape just to keep up with him. A mile race is easy compared to the hikes we used to do. My point is I learned a lot, and the one thing he taught me was you never ignore your instinct, because it could kill you. You can lie to yourself for a short time, but in the end it will get you. And I have an instinct to tell you something, though I promised not to. Some people in this town think things should be handled in a certain way, whether or not it destroys an individual’s life or not. The thing is, stifling the truth is not good, people do good and bad and that’s that. It’s not that complicated. “The thing is, what I am trying to say to you is that a long time ago, when I was twenty and she was seventeen, I was dating your mother and I got her pregnant. I was poor, growing up, didn’t have much. I was a bit of a wise ass too, and her family thought that’s the way I’d always be. Shortly after that, I got drafted and was shipped out to Vietnam. I kept writing her and I got a couple letters back and then none.

“By the time I got back, you were already two and a half and your mom was seeing someone else. She ended up marrying him for a while, then he ended up taking off with another woman. It was a mistake on my part, to let them dictate to me the correct course of action. I knew your mom loved me. I was young and her family kept her away. I also had terrible migraines from several concussions. I’m better now, but back then, wow, I couldn’t be around people or noise. I drank to dull the pain and took painkillers. Anyways, she avoided me, seemed to me she talked herself into it, you know. And I never got to speak my mind, much less to see you grow up. The sad thing is I ended up thinking I had nothing to say she wanted to hear, you know. You see women, Ethan, they won’t tell you to do the right thing, they just expect it. Wish I’d known that years ago.” And then Lucky got quiet as his eyes were moistening up a bit. “I am sorry to hear about your mom, she was good.” Tears started to well up in his eyes. He looked away. Outside, it was starting to sprinkle. Lucky got out of the truck and walked down to a picnic table that sat overlooking the river. Ethan stared out the truck window. He didn’t know what to do. After some time, he walked down to the picnic table. “I don’t know what to say.” He ed a quote from an archeology professor: “Nature can hide secrets for millions of years, yet in a single instant reveal the simple naked wonderful, truth.” “I don’t blame you, life can be tough.” Lucky embraced his son, patted him on the back. After a period of silence, Lucky broke from Ethan and said, “I was going to hike up to the summit of Kohutu, want to come?” Ethan answered, “Yeah, I have no plans.” “Good, getting the blood going will help your hangover.” The two men sat in the truck, heading out of town to the country roads that led to the state park and the mountain trail. The truck’s roomy interior space was different from today’s claustrophobic cars. Their eyes saw the scenery in a new way: the full colors of the fall foliage, the stone walls, the well-made homes, and the warm sun breaking in through the glass.

“What a perfect day, huh?” Lucky asked. Reaching the trailhead, they started the ascent. “I noticed you’re a lefty,” Lucky said. “Yes.” “Grandpops was a lefty,” Lucky said. “We come from a long line of left-handed medicine man. We have powers, dreams that when interpreted mean something important.” “Well, you’ve already told me to be careful,” Ethan said. At the top they rested. In this same place, Lucky had sat with his father years ago. He recalled his father’s words to Ethan: “This is a holy place for me and a place full of spirits, some good, some bad. Sometimes I hear the wolves howling at night all the way down the valley, and I think they are thanking the Great Spirit. An old folktale said the wily white-tailed wolf brought fire to man by stealing it from the gods atop this mountain. He snuck in while they were asleep and put his tail in their fire and in doing so got burnt, and that is the reason why the wolf has a white end to his tail. It is also said the gods were angry at man, so they sent the black wolf down with evil in the form of wind, water, and ice to balance fire. And so now, there is a balance in the world between good and evil. There is some magic up here, all around the area, and I think some of it permeates the town itself, interesting place. When I was thirteen, I spent a few days up here alone, and a big eagle came to me as I lay still. The bird came over, cocked his head and spoke a secret message, and then flapped his wings loudly before taking off of the cliff and circling above. Hence my name became Speaks to Eagles.” “What did the eagle say to him?” Ethan queried. “It was probably more of a subconscious type of message. I’m not sure he could verbalize it. It was not in English.” And Lucky laughed. “Whenever I had a question that couldn’t be answered, it seemed to me the Eagle would appear and soon time would solve my problem.”

Lucky continued, “Man is a spastic flash in the pan. The earth has taken its time, four billion years, but we are always in a hurry. It’s humorous if you think about it.” And so they sat before walking back to the truck. Dropping Ethan off at home, Lucky said, “You know, I usually eat my breakfast at the Bear’s Den. Maybe see you again then.” “A week from today,” Ethan replied. “Here, I got something for you.” He took off his good luck charm necklace and handed it to Ethan. “I believe you need this now more than me,” he said. “But it’s your father’s,” Ethan protested. “My luck has changed, so I am giving it to you, take it,” he said. “Thanks, this is the best gift I ever got.”

Chapter 13

Saturday Afternoon

Late on Saturday afternoon, Harrison sat at his office desk at Nightspots, the gentleman’s club located on the outskirts of town, a smoldering cigar in one hand and a mouse in the other, tabbing through a spreadsheet. He was looking over the books. It had been a good month. He picked up the phone, dialed, waited a while, and then hung up. Ever since his divorce, the forty-something manager of the club had her eye on the wealthy fifty-nine-year-old and followed him around like a kid. He paid her well and liked her, but he was not searching for a soul mate but a mating soul, and he thought he had found perfection in Deanthra. He had grown pessimistic about love, and it was much too late for heroines and martyrs. Still, he looked at Deanthra as a heroine. His marriage had started out with promise. He had met Ms. Audrey O’Brien in the mid-1960s at a sorority party at Emerill. She was attractive, but short, well put together, and always seemed tanned. And he itted to being in love with her when he thought of the past. That was not enough though, and even with wealth as a side , the bottom began to fall out in the mid-1970s when she discovered his secretary’s scarf in the backseat of his Ford Thunderbird convertible. He blamed his distance superficially on the fact her smoking had made her voice mannish and her breath bad. But then most of the younger strippers at the club smoked and drank like fish. Thank God, I won’t be around when they get old, he thought. Gloria, the manager of Nightspots walked into his office to deliver the mail. “Gloria, you had a good month.” He smiled. “But I’d like to see more appetizer sales.” “Well, you know, Bill, they come here to look at the chicks, not eat them,” she

offered. He said, “Do some advertising, chicks with chicken wings, something like that. You can handle it.” She looked the other way and rolled her eyes, but would work hard to sell more chicken wings in the next month, keeping him happy, although she would accomplish this by advertising football games and not chicks. He had not looked at her since coming in, but now she had some inside information, making her feel confident in her spite. “Where’s Deanthra?” he asked. She nodded over in the direction of the dressing room and added, “She’s back there drinking.” “Gloria, can we get the neon lights fixed, the boobs look silly now.” The neon sign at Nightspots was of a topless cowgirl upon a horse with a rope, and recently, the lights had gone out on the most lavish and abundant part of her. “The electrician is coming early Monday morning. Said he would do it for free if we give him a month on the cover charge and free beer,” she said. “Do it, throw in a lap dance if you have to. You know what I like about you, Gloria, is that you think like me,” he declared. “Thank you, I think.” If you only knew, she thought to herself. She was already planning orange beer and witch night for Halloween. “Say, Bill, I just found out something you may be interested in. Did you know Deanthra’s mother was from around here? I think you may have known her. Sandra Brown?” He fumbled with the mouse and stared mindlessly at the monitor. The cigar fell out of his mouth and onto the ashtray and kept slowly burning, its smoke trailing in the air like the past. Miss Brown was an Emerill dropout, a party girl with a penchant for expensive clothes and jewelry, not much different at all than Deanthra. “You may want to look at that letter, Bill. Deanthra asked me to give it to you.”

Miss Brown had left town abruptly in the early 1970s amidst rumors, and had been murdered in her apartment in Boston some years later. She became a stripper and got involved with a violent man. Harrison read the letter and hurried to Deanthra’s door. Once there, he decided to exit the building instead. Her eyes, they were the same. It would have to wait. He had a wake to attend.

Chapter 14

Approach of a Rival

After his mid-afternoon nap on Saturday Ethan was feeling rested and decided to go for a three mile run in the woods of the state park. He ran out on Main Street and up to the cemetery shortcut, climbing the hill and ing the place where the fog had been so thick the past night. It looked innocent enough now. It was muggy out and he took off his shirt. He entered the state forest via a ladder that was attached to the fence. This entry was meant to be used by the ranger’s only and not by the public at large. The ranger’s all knew Ethan and gave him a . The trees closed in on him as the dense forest surrounded the trail, and he felt claustrophobic. The ground was hard in places and soft in others, a characteristic of the fall woods, and the result was muddy sneakers, socks, and shins. He accelerated onto a side trail that led to a pond. The clouds shut out any existing light like a switch in the already dark forest, and he kept his eyes on the trail for roots and rocks, nimbly finding safe foot falls like a running back avoiding a tackler. You had to see a few seconds ahead. He was much better at crosscountry than track because track was all about pure speed, talent, and fitness with some strategy. But cross-country took balance and intuitive field intelligence. A presence felt as if something was bearing down on him, something about to cling onto his back.

He crossed a big suspension bridge over a fast-moving stream. The cool water looked inviting, and after crossing the bridge he made his way down to the edge of the stream for a drink. He splashed the freezing mountain water over his face and continued along a little-used trail along the stream. He looked up at the steep top of the land and saw a dark wolf. It was Apollo. The wolf stepped down and slipped, it was too steep to descend. Ethan took off on the river trail. He knew that if the wolf doubled back to gain access to the trail, he would have enough time to clear the border wall and escape. But instead the wolf followed him on the high ground. Soon there were two or three wolves behind Apollo and two on

his right side as well. The egress from the river trail was one-and-a-half miles ahead up a hill, and at that point the wolves and he would merge. Shortly after the merge point there was a wall, before that a large boulder, it was part of the trail, he must make that boulder approach with one step as he doubted the wolves could ascend it without falling after all the rain. After thirty years his life depended on a clean climb up a slippery rock. He must have a slight lead at the merge point, otherwise he would be toast. He accelerated, he knew that humans had the advantage of endurance over other animals, especially in this heat, he would push the pace and try and get those overgrown dogs overheated. His strategy didn’t seem to work as the wolves kept pace with him. Damn it’s only a mile ahead, and they are still strong. Ethan doubled back. At this point, if the wolves went ahead to the merge point, he would have enough time to escape the route he traveled in. And if they followed him, he would tire them out. I can go twenty miles. Can you, he thought. He made it back to the point where he drank the water and reversed direction. He was going to make them work hard for this meal. He often got a second wind between the third and fourth mile, it was a gift. At this point his body relaxed, got used to the punishment and became a machine. He pushed the pace harder and the wolves were falling back, not far, but twenty yards or so. He came upon the split birches, a landmark he had noted earlier. At this point he increased the pace and accelerated towards the hill. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Apollo accelerate too, damn, it will be close. Committed now to the hill, he was too far away to turn back. He sprinted up and reached the merge seconds before Apollo, he had five steps before the rock and as he jumped he threw his shirt to his left in the wolf’s face, it was just enough of a distraction and delay to allow him to step up the rock without being attacked. The wolf turned his head but the sweaty shirt clung to his muzzle. Ethan had to use a tree root to pull himself up the entire height of the rock and soon there were five wolves below. Some tried to ascend, but it was futile, they slipped on the wet granite and fell; one of them fell on Apollo, drawing his ire. Descending the rock, it was only twenty feet to the chain-link fence, which he climbed with ease. He collapsed and sat down against the far side of the fence, heaving the heavy air in and the bad air out.

Regaining his strength and composure, he walked out of the woods and into town, past fraternity and sorority row. An eagle soared above. He had run in there for years and had never ever seen a wolf. Maybe his father’s tale of Windigo was true.

Chapter 15

Saturday Night, the Wake

After the run in the woods, Ethan had about enough time to shower and get dressed before the wake began. He left for the funeral home around 5:00 p.m., dressed in his only gray suit. The parlor filled quickly, and soon, many stories were told of Eve’s abundant kindness and generosity. The somber but calm atmosphere was interrupted by the appearance of the sick priest, Father Quimby, who had a hacking cough. Father Quimby had a tendency to place emphasis on the first syllable of every word and had a voice like Kermit the frog. And he combined that tendency with an attempt at hipness. And so Father Quimby became Fa—Q when he introduced himself. The young people thought he was swearing at them when they were introduced and became intimidated. Ethan ed his mother’s complaints, saying “Why do we get the leftover priests?” Since Ethan’s existence, the parish had two alcoholics, one womanizer, and one child molester. Ethan himself had been a victim of the latter and had never told his mom. He took his anger out on the trails.

After some time, Father Quimby began the prayer and eulogy. The poor soul could not, however, finish two or three words without a loudly hacking cough interrupting the holy words. “Let us pray… crrrrrr.” The crowd was taken aback after a particularly long coughing spell. The priest let out a painful “Oh Jesus.” He began a prayer.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

The priest coughed again and continued. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever. Amen.”

And then a lengthy coughing spell followed until Ethan brought the priest a cup of water. Ethan asked him, “Father, why do the innocent pay for the powerful’s vices?” “That is a mystery, my son.” Meeks, drunk, stumbled into the wake. “Eddie, where are you? Christ, Eddie, where’s the body? You can’t have a wake without the body.”

Mrs. Mildred White, the town clerk, agreed with Meeks. “Perhaps he’s right. Can we have a wake without Eve?” Harrison bellowed, “She’s been missing for three days with stage five cancer, Mildred!” Mr. Marquis spoke, “Everyone, please let’s honor Eve’s life here tonight with the proper respect she always gave us.” Meeks was on a roll. “But what if she’s in the Caribbean sipping a mixed rum drink? Hell, if I had her money I’d be on the beach drinking.” “You’d be selling Chiclets and begging,” Harrison bellowed. “Get him outta here, he’s drunk.” Harrison pulled Ethan over to the side and asked him quietly, “Have you seen Nutty?” “No,” Ethan replied. “If you do, let me know, it’s important.” And so discussions went on in smaller groups, concerning the viability of holding a wake with a body versus no body. The priest excused himself from the scene after shaking hands with everyone and giving half the town the virus in the process.

Chapter 16

Nutty’s Father

Harrison left the wake and headed to Nutty’s. He hammered on Nutty’s front door. “Damn it, open the door.” Nutty, having been up much of the night, opened the door with his eyes halfclosed, a small blue blanket covering his midparts, as he slept in the nude. “Listen, I’ve got something to tell you. If you’ve got to make some coffee to wake up, go do it,” said Harrison. “I was up half the night, can’t you come back later?” “No, go get dressed and make some coffee.” “OK, chief, sit down, make yourself at home,” said Nutty. Harrison sat down in the large great room with bluish slate flooring and a large fireplace. He thought Nutty’s taste in decor quite gauche. He picked up the paper and took his glasses out. The article was about Dee and he threw the paper down in disgust, but then out of boredom picked it up and read. A few moments later Nutty returned in Bugs Bunny pajamas and a coffee cup stating, “If you’re crazy, I’m your man.” “It’s Blue Hill coffee, you want some?” “Yes, thanks, listen, I’ve just found out Deanthra is most likely my kid. Her mother went to Emerill. She was a beautiful girl, nice, friendly, and we had a fling. She was a party girl, didn’t have much of a family, got to college on her brains and looks. Well, when she told me she was overdue, we agreed to take care of it. I gave her a few hundred and she went down to Providence. I never saw her again and she dropped out. I just assumed she was done with me and given the situation, I understood. I heard she became a stripper and then got

murdered by a psycho boyfriend. I’ve just found out the kid she had is Dee. So now, Professor Freud, how’s your ID? I figured you’d want to know, given she’s your half sister.” “You got some nerve making up a pile of bullshit so you can have her. I mean c’mon, man, you can do better. You think I’d forget your lack of for my tenure? You think I’d forget that? You are your own worst enemy, William B. Harrison. You give no . It’s a pattern, man, you wouldn’t even your own daughter when she asked you to take it easy on Smedley. And, Harley, did you even talk to him when Audrey asked you to? The answer is no. You did not. You couldn’t be bothered with your own son. I guess I know how it feels too.” Harrison withstood the onslaught and handed him her note. He read it. Nutty let gravity take his clay-fired coffee mug to the slate tile and its handle broke off, the hot brown contents splashed Harrison’s yellow crocs and his naked lower legs. “Careful man,” Harrison said. Nutty recognized her handwriting. “Jesus Christ, is this unbelievable? Does she know about me?” “She knows I’m her father, turkey, that’s it,” Harrison answered. “Yuck, I feel like I need to take a shower or something.” “I tried that, it doesn’t help,” Harrison said. “But you never did it, did you?” asked Nutty. “No. Still, the thought of it. What’s that bandage there?” “A rabid wolf attacked me in the woods.” “What? I thought they were fenced in. Anyways, here’s what we are going to do,” Harrison started. Just then a loud Corvette sped into Nutty’s large gravel driveway, spitting loose gravel at the house like shrapnel. “Let me talk to her alone, chief, it will go better,” Nutty stated.

“Yes.” So Harrison headed down the basement steps and out the back addition door, avoiding her, but he could hear her screaming at him out the window, “You fool, you old fool, you owe me, do you hear, you owe me big time. All those years in crummy foster homes abused by fools, you’ll pay for it.” What more could she want, he thought. He had already built a home in her name in Costa Rica and an orphanage. But he was too ashamed to be angry.

Chapter 17

Jenna Is

Ethan walked swiftly toward the pumpkin house after the wake. The moon was full, and the black evening was sultry and balmy. The hedgerows along Main Street flashed by and the sidewalk was a blurred granite mesh. Everything slowed down as his thoughts came flowing out again. He really didn’t feel like going to a party. Ethan was overcome with a feeling of self-loathing, and he wasn’t sure of its source. He was sweating and nervous about seeing Jenna, and he had been thinking of her golden face since Friday. He intended to find out tonight if she had any regards for him. He had ed the house Saturday afternoon on the run of his life and had come upon Jenna walking back home from the library. “Are you OK? You look exhausted.” “I’m OK, I just got chased by some rabid wolf pack is all.” “You want some water?” “No, I’d better get home.” “We better see you tonight at the early Halloween party, stranger!” “Yeah, I’m coming. May even dress like a runner or something.” “Now that’s a stretch,” she joked. “Yeah well, maybe I should dress up like a pumpkin—I look good in orange.” “Well, the house may get jealous, so be careful.” “We better see you tonight at the party, stranger!” “Always,” he said, bounding away, as the short rest had given him his wind

back. He looked back at her white windbreaker and hair blowing in the wind. There was something beautiful and good there. The pumpkin house was rocking with grad students when Ethan arrived. Ethan immediately spotted Thomas’s large square-shaped head. He was behind the bar and pulled Ethan a sixteen-ounce draft of monk ale from the tap. “Only the best for you, my friend,” he said. Tom looked like a pumpkin himself, shining a bright hue. A good-humored partier asked, “Why does he get the good stuff?” “Well, you see, Ethan here is on a mural at the student union, and you, my friend, are not poster worthy.” Ethan grinned. Tom pointed and said, “The girls are over in the corner somewhere, and tell them to close the side door. We have a full house.” He made his way toward the corner, slithering his way through the crowded house, his thigh unintentionally brushing up against the backside of a dress here, his upper arm accidently side-swiping a chest there, a tempting gauntlet of smiles on his way to her. He was a bit put off by the number of tall handsome guys around the trio, but persisted on. He caught Jenna’s eye, and she waved enthusiastically and made her way toward him. A good sign. “I’m so glad to see you. Nice costume,” Jenna said. Adjacent to them up on a small platform, Mr. Smedley was wearing a black vest and sunglasses and looking like a character out of a Jack Kerouac novel as he was bopping his head to the music. He was playing chess with a grad student in a struggle with the black pieces. “My end is near,” Smedley said to the Indian exchange student. “You have counter play, don’t give up,” he answered. “What’s going on?” Jenna asked. “I just attended my mom’s wake,” Ethan answered.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it in the paper, I was looking. I would have gone, you should have told us. Did you just get here?” “It’s OK. The wake was kind of last minute. We decided to…” “I know,” she said. “Say, would you like to take a walk with me? I’d like some air.” “Yes, I’ve had enough of crowds for one night. Let’s go through the gates and out to the river walk,” Ethan suggested. “Let’s,” she said. “Look, there’s even a full moon to light our way.” “Good,” he said, and they went outside. “You OK?” she asked. “I’m fine, it’s good to have some closure. When she went missing I knew why. I know why she wanted to go on her own , not to endure endless suffering. Who needs that, who deserves that?” She gave him a hug and sighed, and their faces slowly met, and they kissed at the end of the pier facing the water, where time became slow and warm. “You OK?” he asked. “I’m sad for your loss, Ethan.” “She had a good life the last twenty years. She was successful, and I think she achieved all her goals. She got me through college, a minor miracle,” he said. “My twin died,” she blurted out. “What?” Ethan asked. “My twin. I had an identical twin. She died, drowned.” “I’m sorry, Jenna,” Ethan said. “It was years ago but I miss her, I think about her every day. She has never left me.”

He embraced her for a long time. “You want to move on, right to a place where this never happened, but that doesn’t exist. You have to move on to a place where this did happen, that’s the thing,” he said. “Time doesn’t heal all wounds. It dulls them,” she offered. “With all this, I’m still glad about one thing—meeting you,” Ethan said. “That’s sweet, I feel the same,” she said. Her eyes revealed a big thought Ethan couldn’t quite gather at the time. “You know, I have kind of avoided people the last few years, especially women and relationships. I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone anymore. You see, after the championship, we were treated like gods in town. Girls would approach me for no good reason. Of course I enjoyed the attention, but it was superficial. I fell for this model girl and it turned out to be only skin deep on her part. She left after the thrill of the moment was gone. It hurt. I realized it wasn’t me she was chasing, but a moment, a feeling, a reputation. It was too early to have this pinnacle. I mean, I’ve got a lot of life to live and here I was at twenty-one, the most popular kid in town.” “There are worse things,” Jenna said. “Of course. But I just made my mind up since then that I wasn’t going to force things, I would let romance happen organically.” “Any luck?” she asked. “Not till real recent,” he said. “How recent?” she asked.

They returned to the house but stayed outside on a bench, talking. After the party dwindled down as the keg run out, they entered the house again. The evening wind was cooling things off.

Inside, the fire was the only spark left from the earlier commotion. The three ladies and two men sat before the fireplace. This time Ethan was nuzzled next to Jenna. Mary asked, “Ethan, why did you stay in West Berlin?” “I don’t know why, I guess it was out of convenience. My mom lives here alone and she had cancer, and I wanted to be around.” “What about your dad?” Anne Marie asked. “He’s around,” he said, looking toward Jenna. He did not wish to go into the long explanation at this point, as he had already told Jenna everything on their walk, and it had exhausted him.

Chapter 18

Friday Night

The alpha wolf, Napoleon, looked over the one-thousand-acre valley and turned his nostrils up to catch the wind’s scent. Napoleon had recently perceived there was something amiss in these woods. He had heard its cries and noises but no odor, puzzling. He was not afraid, for it was part of the landscape to learn and adapt. His mate, Josie, and the pack stood behind him in deference. Napoleon, at five years, was battle-tested and wise. The past winter was a tough one, weeding out the very stock he needed to survive. The deer, beaver, and even the mouse population was down. Food was the dominant motive in this animal, and it permeated his entire body; the tools he had were an incredible sense of smell, curiosity, acute hearing, and large canines. Nearly sunset, a scent told of a distant fire, a man, the wolf Apollo, whisky, blood, food, and sweat. He continued toward the scent and led the pack toward the intrusion. This man had a foul odor, like death. Napoleon saw a man in pain, poking at the fire. The man was holding his arm. Napoleon observed there was no food to be had here and led the pack back to their shelter before the rains began. On the way back, they came upon Apollo’s pack. Napoleon smelled blood. Apollo’s pack encircled Coal and attacked him in pairs. One wolf would bite at his tail and another would bite at his neck. Coal was tiring. Napoleon swiftly led his pack from the high ground down to the conflict, this was his territory. Seeing the movement from above and that he was outnumbered, Apollo led his pack away before getting his jaws on Coal. Two nights earlier, Napoleon had caught the human scent and discovered the ends of a Nutty mistake. Without delay, he and Josie nosed the body, lapped the body’s face. The body awoke, and its listless figure crawled on all fours to the shelter of their den a few yards away, and then collapsed. In the pack that night there would be hunger, so they slept to conserve energy.

After Deanthra left, the man from the fire had become not quite a man, and he too could smell Napoleon and his pack. Finally we meet, my friend, the progeny of the fire stealer. After not finding her body in the woods, the semi-possessed ogre screamed and went back to his van, took out his rifle, and began to track Napoleon’s pack, following their scent in the pouring rain. He became hungry. Halfway up the ridge, the heavy rain began to uncloud his mind, and he wondered what the hell he was doing out in these woods with a rifle in his hand. It was pitch black out, and he could not see. He took out his keychain on which he had a mini-flashlight and made his way to the parking area. The thing, whatever it was, had ed. It had not taken… but a state park entrance gate was left open and the dark wolf regained his hunger.

Chapter 19

Saturday Night/Sunday A.M.

“C alm down, he’s my father too,” Nutty said. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dee asked. “I made a promise of secrecy to him in return for compensation. This house, for one.” “Is everything for sale around here?” She left him. Couldn’t do anything about it now except drink it off her mind. At 2:00 a.m., Meeks and Dee were the last ones out of the Old Mill Stream. He stumbled along in his baggy pants, fumbled a cigarette and it fell on his old worn-out work boots. He cursed himself. After lighting up, he turned to her and offered her a smoke. She took it and said thanks, and he offered, “Walk you home, miss, I mean, if you’re headed to East Main?” She said she was. She still had her apartment key, although she had not been there for a few months since moving in with Nutty. She certainly was not going back to dwell in the misery of Nutty. They took the cemetery route shortcut because it was lightly raining. His head was high, and he was glad he had the time to enjoy a smoke and a walk in his happy condition and in the company of a lady. Looks like you got it made, old man. Indeed, between his social security check and a weekly stipend under the table from Harrison for a part-time janitor job and looking after Eddie, he was getting by. This time of his life was his pinnacle, for his earlier days were colored by sickness, divorce, alcoholism, and jail time as a result of the drinking. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, Meeks. You’re the only one that will spend time with Eddie. Why do you do that?” Deanthra asked.

“Cause he’s my friend, Deanthra, only one I got in this whole godforsaken town. He don’t judge me, he don’t care if I mess up. He laughs at me and I laugh at him, so what? Ain’t nobody like him in this whole damned town, he’s like a fullgrown kid. Town’d be a whole lot better with more like him.” Yes, I suppose so, Deanthra thought to herself. If you’re going to be a fool, might as well be an innocent one. Meanwhile, Apollo lay in wait at the top of the cemetery hill, and his attack upon Meeks and Deanthra left them with a directive for death. The two fell into a deep sleep on the grass. Windigo had entered Meeks but it needed Deanthra’s knowledge so it ed them together like Siamese twins. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they headed for Nutty’s. Deanthra and Meeks shuffled along into Nutty’s basement level concrete addition, and she found the green in the locked refrigerator, in vials. They took three sealed vials and a few needles. Just then, a light came on in the house. Nutty stood at the top of the stairs, naked, and called out for Deanthra. The reaction she had to last night’s news was predictable, but he doubted she would rat him out to the police. Perhaps he had been wrong. He turned the basement light on. “I think I need my glasses… . Dee”? Before Nutty’s eyes the one body became two again and faces of blankness holding full needles of the green came up the stairs, and he bolted out the door and down the street. The Windigo felt tremendous power, the power of life. Deanthra was still under its influence so followed Meeks. Meeks chased him to the Congregational Church. Nutty ran in to the stairwell entry door, opened it, and locked it, and then continued upstairs to the cupola. Their sense of smell was keen, and they followed him to the locked door. They could smell the metal key hidden in a false drawer and unlocked the door. They followed him up the stairs and met Nutty in the cupola right above the clock. It was 6:00 a.m., and the clock’s bell above the cupola rang loudly and staggered the three, especially the two needle holders who had to kneel down, covering their ears. While the bell rang, Nutty managed to climb outside the cupola and down to the clock face and sat on the midsection part of the clock that the hands were affixed to. After the chimes and the bell rang, Meeks got a needle ready and told Deanthra he would lower her down so she could inject him.

“Hurry up, we’ve got other fish to fry,” he said, lowering her down. “Why?” she asked. “For the hunger, for the hunger,” he answered. Nutty tried to wave the needle away but the needle hit his palm, and he slumped over back against the clock, stuck there until the morning light revealed his presence to those below. Meeks had been careless as he had left a needle on the cupola floor, so when Deanthra landed back inside, it went in her ankle and she collapsed. Meeks looked down at the lifeless body—an unintended casualty. He headed back to his place to get ready for Homecoming. His goal now was to take out the rich and talented. To eat Nutty would prove to be too difficult, given his precarious location.

Chapter 20

Sunday

Homecoming Sunday began with the states biggest 5K road race at 7:00 a.m. followed by sorority-sponsored breakfasts, then fraternity and sorority floats down East Main Street, and ending with the rival football game. Ethan was bouncing up and down before the race, waiting for the race to begin and looking in the audience for Jenna and Lucky. The race started at the gazebo and ran up Main Street past the graveyard, took a sharp left after a mile out through a farm and horse fields, past the one-hundred-acre wood, and then looped back to town. The top runners from Emerill were there, as well as Billy Bassey, who was the co-favorite along with another college runner from University of Southern Maine. The morning was steamy as it had just rained, and the temperature was rising, causing the rain to evaporate, an Indian summer day that blesses New England on occasion. Ogilvy was there, the doors open to his conversion van, selling raffle tickets and offering young women a view of his van’s interior if they were interested. Meeks was there too on a moped, wearing a toothless grin and a WW1-era pilot’s helmet and goggles; he held a long wooden pole. Harrison gave a highfalutin’ speech on the importance of Emerill’s Homecoming and how the town was proud to be a part of it and would continue to be as long as he was around. “Let Homecoming begin!” And he fired the shot to start the race. The runners took off. “Wait,” someone shouted as a siren broke the air and an ambulance broke through the pack of runners. Harrison was now unsettled by the ambulance. He addressed the crowd, “Everyone, remain calm please.”

“Oh my god, look.” Miss Avalon pointed at the Congregational Church’s clock. Leaning toward the big hand and tottering in the wind was Nutty’s naked body. “Holy Mother,” said the nearsighted female reverend of the Congregational church. “I always heard he had a big…” “That’s the big hand,” Mr. Marquis said. “Oh,” the reverend said. “Mommy, what time is it now? Mommy, is that Jesus?” asked a confused fiveyear old. “Looks like it’s naked time,” said a callous teenager.

Miss Avalon queried, “How in the heck did he get stuck like that? It’s as if the little hand is stuck up his a—” “You don’t want to know,” answered Mr. Marquis as he walked toward the church. Nutty looked almost Christ-like up there with his beard, and his feet were a bloody mess as a result of death biting at his heels. It had chased him a long way. The paramedics found the lifeless body of Deanthra in the cupola floor, a small syringe stuck in her heel. They took Nutty’s body down as well. On the ground, Meeks took off on his moped, looking like a modern medieval knight charging a foe. On the end of the large wooden stick was a needle filled with green. He also held a second needle in his mouth as he headed for the one-hundred-acre woods, but Harrison, hearing from the paramedic via walkie-talkie that there was a syringe found in Deanthra, deduced that Meeks was up to no good and headed for the moped. Meeks was maneuvering the moped through the running pack, slowly sounding its meager horn. Harrison’s arm took hold of the steering wheel for a moment. Meeks stabbed him. The tall man fell like an old rotted tree. Now the three unlucky family would lie side by side in Marquis’s basement morgue, finally at peace.

Meeks broke from the back of the pack, hell-bent on reaching the front, zigzagging his way through the racers, leaving a serpentine line of emptiness behind. Eddie ran after Meeks, wondering why he had been left behind. As Meeks approached the front, Ethan heard the moped motor and looked back. Meeks came at him like a jousting knight, and he dodged out of the way. To the right atop a grassy hill, Ethan saw Napoleon and his pack, followed by a foggedin figure in white. The large gray wolf sprinted down the hill, leapt from the green grass in full stride and achieved a great height, his gait extended. He flew gracefully like an arrow shot at a target. He hit Meeks with great force. Meeks was knocked out, and the death stick fell feebly on the pavement, the hollow broom handle echoing at its end. Napoleon turned to his left and saw Apollo coming. Apollo went to Meeks side and the Windigo transferred to him. Apollo’s growl rumbled the earth and people cleared away. Napoleon answered Apollo’s low growl with a deeper lower growl. They exhibited their bare teeth to one another, their eyes filled with terror. They circled, then met in a tangle of fury, their shrill sounds of aggression halting the runners in their tracks. Apollo achieved a dominant position, as the earlier great leap had tired Napoleon. The big gray wolf relaxed for a moment, then made a quick decisive move, wrestling away from Apollo. They circled again and then simultaneously attacked, and they were locked when Napoleon suddenly kicked his hind legs strongly, and Apollo fell on his back. Napoleon achieved a dominant position, and as Apollo would not submit, he was forced to kill. It was an unnatural thing, Napoleon sensed. The wind stopped and the cloud cover cleared. It was over. Lucky took the dead animal to the university’s incinerator and burned it. The crowd of runners stood watch as the majestic animal retreated back to the woods. Suddenly, a vague figure in white stumbled in, and Ethan could now see it was his mother. She was alive. Ethan ran over to her side. “Mom, I love you Mom.” “Ethan, everything is blurred.” The paramedics took Eve to the hospital. The shot of green was not deadly, but had induced a three- to four-day long coma. At the hospital, the doctor gave Eve an IV of nutrients and a mild stimulant, and she slowly regained her eyesight.

“Get those bodies out of Marquis’s basement and bring them here. They aren’t dead,” the doctor communicated to the EMTs. After the dust had settled, death had not taken Eve, Deanthra, Harrison, or Nutty. istered a stimulant, they all groggily awoke to the sound of bells and said the same thing. “We can’t see.” “Give it some time,” the doctor encouraged. And so this dysfunctional family began its quest for some type of family consensus, as there would never be normalcy. They all sat there, telling bad jokes and laughing hysterically—some of the side effects of the green and the stimulant. Harrison called out for Eddie. “Where’s Eddie, bring him here, I want to see my boy. Everything will be OK, Eddie. I’m here.” But Eddie seemed to be more concerned with Meeks, who was dying in the other room, than with his father.

Chapter 21

Deanthra’s Diary Friday

Deanthra left for Costa Rica a few weeks after recovering. A copy of her diary was mailed to the newspaper, and after the paper ran several sections it gained a huge following. She agreed to publish it in book form. In it were the details of a haunted soul. She had written,

It is now I feel my life has finally reached its apex and not a high apex but the low of a lowly existence, for from hopelessness I came and from hopelessness I know, I lead. The human I have engaged in has always led to a despondent sense of nothing. Dr. Nutzembaum’s hopefulness is a cause I don’t share, as if peaceful death could give more comfort to the living. I am engaged in a profession of falseness to earn a living. The good money only echoes the hollow lifestyle. I can’t follow in my mother’s footsteps, for the last step is tragedy. I plan soon to embark on an escape of epic proportions, to live the rest of my life in anonymity, and to publish a great story no one could believe, except perhaps other abandoned beautiful women. Perhaps in the environ of my new house I will be able to write it down, the orphanage giving me some peace of mind along the way. Father can go in his yacht, and I will fly there alone or in the company of my crazy half-brother. I do not wish on anyone my revenge. It is spent, and a new energy pervades me, an energy of the good. As far as Nutty, my spirit has no rest from the unease, and this most talented person cannot free me from it. I don’t think the unaffected therapists understand this at all. And the meds they give me just dull the senses, something I cannot

live with. And those who read this may deem me as malevolent and scheming, but I deem myself as a casualty of life, nothing more and nothing less. And so I will do something good, and I will see to it that family-style homes are built in New England for children in need. It will be like a good will franchise, and my goal is to help orphans. I don’t want anyone to feel the way I did, which is without hope.

Epilogue

In time, Deanthra forgave Harrison, made amends with Nutty, and moved back to New England for three seasons. Harrison’s mansion became a twenty-five bedroom group home for orphans and kids in need. Nutty tempered his arrogance and gave money to the local hospital for a new hospice wing dedicated to taking care of the dying. He steered clear from the do-it-yourself mentality. He learned that hospice did quite a good job monitoring pain and giving the patient choices. Though he still believed in the right of an individual to decide his or her fate. Harrison wintered in Costa Rica and concentrated on breaking the over-sixty record in various scull races. He achieved two new records and sold his other businesses to fund Deanthra’s charitable causes. As luck would have it, the green death shot was a cancer-cell inhibitor and interfered with the cancer cell’s ability to reproduce, at least in Eve’s case. So when Ethan brought a healthy Eve and Jenna over to the Bear’s Den next Sunday, there was a happy reunion. An awkward silence soon gave way to Eve’s wit, “You’re still wearing my red kerchief you old fool.” “Christ Eve, it ain’t the same one.” “Someday we’ll talk, Lucky, but now we celebrate life, good times, and family.” It was only a matter of time before they were reminiscing about the old high school days, the late ’60s and West Berlin. At the table a new flame burned and an old one rekindled. After breakfast, Lucky asked Eve, “You want a ride home?” “Yes, as long as you don’t drive like you used to,” Eve replied. They would get married in spring. Ethan looked over at the far right corner of the Bear’s Den, and there was Harrison laughing with Nutty, Melody, Eddie, and Deanthra, and it was a wonderful thing to see.

With the defeat of the dark wolf, and the burning of its body the Windigo’s spirit was destroyed, never to return to this geography of the ledge and barren soil, for it was too hard to harvest here what couldn’t be sowed amongst the good. For the good could always be reborn, and the good led by a quiet man of spirit, of great health, had the soul of his grandfather, the spirit of the eagle. 1 A cannibalistic creature of Algonquian mythology believed to have been a lost hunter forced by hunger to eat human flesh, and thereafter to have become a crazed man-eating ogre roaming the forest.