Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (26 page)

“Hey. What’s the matter, Sport?” he asked, scruffing my hair. He called me “Sport” a lot. “You got something against missing school and spending the day with your old man?”

“It’s not that,” I said, and I remember that I was burning inside, dying to ask him if he was okay, or if he was going to die. Instead, all I could manage was a feeble, “So what are we gonna do?”

“I was thinking about taking a drive up north,” he said with a thin smile. The circles under his eyes looked like smears of black shoe polish.

“You mean to Hilton?” I asked, and he nodded.

I remember thinking how his smile looked forced ... not at all natural or normal. And I remember that all I did was nod in agreement and focus as hard as I could on the cereal floating in the milk remaining in my bowl, all the while thinking,
He’s going to die! … He’s sick, and he’s going back home to die!

Crazy thought for a little kid, don’t you think?

Anyway, we finished breakfast, cleaned up the dishes, and got into the car. As we backed out of the driveway, I wanted desperately to ask him why he wanted to drive to Hilton, especially today, but I couldn’t because I was still tingling with the dreadful anticipation that he was going to admit something horrible once we were on the road ... something I didn’t want to hear.

The drive north went okay. I’ve never been much for long car trips, even now. After two or three hours in a car, I start getting a little twitchy. But this particular day, I remember, was mild and sunny. The grass was turning green, and leaves were bursting out all over the place. As we drove, my dad told me he wanted to take the long way and see some of the scenery while we were at it.

My father had been born and raised in Hilton. It’s not much of a town, by any standard, but I always had fun whenever we’d visit. I remember thinking how it must have been kind of a cool place to be a kid. Although I haven’t been back in years, probably only once or twice since he died, I can imagine, even now, that in spite of cell phones, the Internet, and texting, the area has probably retained some of that quaint “small town” charm it had back then. There are places where the Twenty-first Century still hasn’t arrived.

We stopped along the way and ate lunch at Moody’s Diner on Route One before heading west along Route 201. My father didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry, and as far as I could tell, he wasn’t in a bad mood or depressed or anything. I do remember thinking how he struck me as ...
distant
, maybe, is the word. It was like he was preoccupied, thinking about something other than the drive. I’m sure now that it was his dreams he was mulling over. He was living half of his life, and right up to his dying day, I’ll bet he was trying to figure out how those two lives he led—one awake and one dreaming—might coincide.

We got to Hilton a little past three o’clock in the afternoon. Kind of late for a day trip. We drove through downtown but didn’t stop even though my father recognized a couple of people and waved to them as we passed. At the edge of town, I could see Watcher’s Mountain through the trees, off to the west. We turned onto a narrow dirt road that wound through a dense stand of pine trees. I didn’t recognize the road, and I was suddenly afraid.

“Where we going?” I asked.

This wasn’t the road to the old family homestead—I knew that much. My father’s parents were both dead, and my dad had only one brother, my Uncle Mike, who lived with his family in
Saco. I’d been thinking all along that we had come out here so he could drive past the old house, and my dad could reminisce.

“I just wanna check something out,” my father said.

At least now, I remember hearing a certain tension in his voice, but at the time, I think I just shrugged and settled back in the seat, waiting to see where we ended up.

The road was a typical dirt road, the kind you find all over
Maine. It wound through a long corridor of dense pine forest that shut out the sun except at high noon. I had my window open, and I remember the strong smell of pine wafting around me. I’ve always loved that smell, but for some reason, on this particular day, the smell made me sick to my stomach. Birds were singing deep in the forest, but their songs didn’t sound very cheerful. Not today.

“So—uh, where we going?” I asked again.

I wasn’t afraid of my father. I’d never been afraid of him even the few times I’d made him really angry by doing some bonehead thing. I trusted him like I’ve never trusted another person, before or since. But I realize now it was his fear I was sensing.

It was fear for my father as much as fear for myself.

The tall pine trees blocked out the sunlight, and my father’s face was all but lost in inky shadows. I kept trying to think of this excursion as fun, but I remember thinking this was how it must feel when you’re driving to a funeral.

“There’s a small lake out here that I want you to see before I ...”

He stopped before he finished the sentence, but I mentally finished it for him—
before I die!

He was going to die ... at least he
thought
he was going to die, and he wanted to share something with me ... a family secret or something.

“Look over to the south there. See?” My father leaned forward and squinted as he pointed off to the right.

Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of sunlight sparkling on water. It looked like quicksilver flashing between the dense stand of trees.

“That there’s Watcher’s
Lake,” my dad said. “And you see all these woods around here? We own it all.”

“Who does?”

“Us ... Me and Uncle Mike ...” He paused and took a deep breath. “And you.”

“All of it?” I asked, amazed as I scanned the area.

I think now that I should have been more excited than I was. I certainly was impressed, but the deep, cold gloom of the forest had seeped into the car and into my mind. Whatever else you could say about the land, it certainly wasn’t all that pleasant, even on a warm April or May afternoon. I could just imagine what it was like out here on a winter day.

“The old homestead is on the other side of the mountain.”

I knew Watcher’s Mountain well enough. It was a bit of a hike from my grandparent’s house, but there were a couple of times back when we visited in the summer, when my grandparents were still alive, that my dad and I climbed it. I vaguely remember seeing a lake or pond from the mountaintop, but no one ever said anything about it to me ... not until right then.

“So how come we never come swimming or canoeing out here?” I asked.

My father gave me a funny look. It makes sense to me now, but at the time, I remember being confused.

“We just … don’t,” he said, and there was a finality in his tone of voice that made me know that was the end of it, so I let it drop.

My father took a turn onto an even narrower dirt road, not much more than a path, really, with deep ruts. I could see we were getting closer to the lake. Something—probably the suspension—was making a loud bumping sound underneath the car. I was jostled up and down in my seat so much that, when I spoke to my father, my voice sounded all chattery.

“Why we coming down here today, then?” My voice trembled with fear, but if I had known then what I know now—especially after what happened an hour or so later—I would have been a lot more frightened.

“I want to check on something,” was all my dad said.

He frowned as he hunched over the steering wheel and looked up at what little patch of sky he could see above the pine trees.

“We probably should have waited, though,” he said, talking more to himself than to me.

I knew he was worried about it getting dark soon. Plus, the forest had this ... this weird
feeling
to it. Maybe it still does. It was like night came here a lot sooner than it does any place else on earth. I suspect memory and imagination have played tricks on me, on my memories, and I’ve exaggerated this feeling more than I should. But I swear I have a clear memory of feeling like the trees were closing in around us, and the sky was pressing down like it was made of something heavier than air. All around the car, the shadows under the trees were so dense it looked like they were opening up in front of us and then closing back behind us once we were past, keeping us in this kind of bubble that separated us from the real world.

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” I offered.

“It may be too late tomorrow,” my father said, and I could tell—and I’m positive this isn’t something I made up later—that he said the words before he thought them through. He caught himself, and the expression on his face made it clear he wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Too late for what?” I asked, unable to choke back my question even though I was afraid of the answer.

My dad forced a laugh and scruffed my hair.

“Hey, Sport. Don’t you worry about it, all right?” I could tell he was forcing it. The look in his eyes made me feel plenty worried.

The car crested a long, slow hill that curved around to the right. At the top, it dropped off, much steeper. The lake was close by on the right as we started down the hill slowly, the car bouncing all over the place like the shocks were finally gone. The shadows deepened around us like black water, swallowing us even though I could see sunlight reflecting off the water. The narrow dirt road ended at the bottom of the hill, and through a stand of pine trees, I saw a small wooden shack.

“Is that—” I started to say but then cut myself off, knowing my father would eventually tell me what was going on ... if and when he decided to.

As we pulled to a stop, I could see that the building wasn’t big enough to be a summer camp or anything. It was just a tiny shed that looked like it was used either as an outhouse or for storage. Its sides were rotted, some of the shingles having fallen off, giving the shed a funny, gap-toothed look. Dark, black moss was growing up the sides like a fringe of an unkempt beard.

“Want to get out and to take a look around?” my dad asked.

Not really
, I thought but didn’t say.

The car was as close as he could get it to the small shed. I remember thinking I should be excited about being at the lake. It was an adventure. Even though it was too early in the year to go swimming, I could have waded along the edge of the lake and explored.

I looked at my dad, wanting really bad to ask him again what we were doing out here, but I couldn’t get any words out. I could hardly breathe.

“I don’t really like this place,” I finally managed to say. I know my dad heard the tremor in my voice.

The sun was tipping the edge of the western horizon, making the forest on the opposite shore look like it was on fire. After a moment or two, though, I noticed something curious about the lake. The sky was streaked with bright red and orange clouds, but the water was dull and gray. It looked like how I imagined it would on a winter day, just before a blizzard. It was like the lake absorbed rather than reflected the sunset. I wanted to say something to my dad, but I wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

“I just want to have a look around, is all,” my dad said as he snapped open the car door and stepped outside.

I sat where I was for only a second before deciding that I would rather be with him in the woods than alone in the car, no matter how weird and creepy this place was.

The pine needles made a funny crunching sound under our feet as we walked down to the water. A soft, hissing wind whistled high in the trees overhead, but I couldn’t feel even the faintest stirring of a breeze against my face. Even with the sun going down the air was heavy and warm. Even so, a shiver ran up my back, and a cold tightening twisted deep in my gut.

“Dad ... Why’d we come out here?” I asked.

I was trying hard to keep my voice steady, but it was shaking and weak.

“I have to see something,” he replied, and I could tell by the dreamy edge in his voice that, once again, he was talking as much to himself as to me.

“It’s about the ... dreams.”

I wanted to ask him
What dreams?
but I already knew. He meant the dreams where he feels like he’s not asleep, where he feels like what’s happening to him while he’s asleep is
really
happening.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, his voice distant and so low I could barely hear him above the sighing of the wind overhead and the crunching of the pine needles beneath our feet. “And it happened out here.”

I wanted to ask
What happened?
but couldn’t.

We were close to the lake, now. The faint stirring of wind coming off the water carried a damp, fishy smell that just about made me gag. Even with the wind rushing across the water, though, the surface of the lake was as flat and smooth as a polished mirror ... just like a mirror except for one thing: a mirror reflects things. I couldn’t see even the faintest trace of reflections in the water. My eyes weren’t adjusting to this odd lighting. It was like I was looking at something that had a different dimension to it or something. I know how weird this sounds, but something made me really afraid of the water.

“There used to be a summer camp here. Long ago. We came out here ... my friend, Billy Carrol and me.” My dad’s voice got distant and dreamy. “We weren’t supposed to be out here. We knew that, but—you know how kids are. We did it anyway.”