Point Pleasant (62 page)

Ben tapped out a reply, telling Kate he would call her in the evening when she was home from the office. The laptop chimed to herald the arrival of a new message before he had even finished the email to his sister. It was from Elliot,
of course
, because the man was never without his Blackberry.

“
Soon, Golden Goose. Soon. How’s the new book? Started??
”

“
Not yet. Went home to WV. My father died last week. Might take some time before I start the next one. Will let you know. BW
.”

The next one
, Ben thought and snickered. He had no idea what the next one would be about, and Elliot knew that. He was an agent, though. It was his job to badger. Elliot’s next email popped up within a minute of Ben’s reply.

“
Sorry to hear that. My sincerest condolences. Take a week. I’ll write you then
.”

A week,
Ben mused, lingering on the words as if they were directions on a prescription for a course of antibiotics. Perhaps the passage of seven days eased the feeling of loss even after it had settled into your bloodstream like bacteria. He frowned, realizing it had been almost a week since Nicholas strode across the library parking lot with that
look
on his face.

Maybe you should just get back to work, Benji. You’ve almost used up your wallowing allowance anyway.

Ben knew there were no magical or medicinal qualities in any particular number of days even if the number in question was apparently a divine one. He had not felt better the week after Caroline’s death, and he doubted he would experience anything more than the same Novocain-before-a-root-canal sensation after the funeral on Friday.

A sour taste settled in the back of his throat, and he closed Mail. He opened his browser, searched ‘
Hertz + Point Pleasant,
’ and proceeded to fill in the monotonous details necessary to rent a car.

An obnoxious alarm beeped from the utility room to signal the washing machine had finished its cycle. Ben’s coat was surprisingly clean, and he picked at the ghost of a muddy mark when he pulled the garment free. He tossed another load of clothes into the drum, set a new cycle, and took his wet coat to the kitchen.

The scent of burning leaves greeted him when he opened the door that led onto the backyard. He tossed his coat over the clothesline and adjusted its arms to balance the weight. The sun shone overhead, and Ben thought of his mother.

Caroline’s favorite apple tree stood in the westernmost corner of the yard. Ben squinted up at its boughs. Caroline once told him that she had persuaded Andrew to buy the house because of the tree; she had always wanted one.

Both of my parents are dead.

Reality hit Ben like a stalled car crushed by an oncoming train.
Or a SUV on a bridge during morning rush hour.

A squirrel skittered across one of the limbs and wrested Ben from his thoughts. The creature disappeared into a thicket of golden leaves, and Ben craned his neck to gaze up at the tallest point of branches.

Ben wondered how deep its roots went.
How deep are mine?

Unfathomable
, he realized.

The house, as empty as it was now, was home. Ben had been brought to it in the backseat of a ‘68 Chevy Camaro when he was three days old. He had spent nearly every day of his life for twenty years within its walls. He had helped paint its exterior yellow, and he had assisted with the lawn work to ensure the front yard was always as perfectly maintained as his father preferred. He had climbed the apple tree and fallen from a high branch, though he emerged with little more than bruises and scrapes because his father taught him early on how to tuck and roll. He had slid down the bannister of the front staircase hundreds of times despite his mother’s warnings. He had fallen asleep on the living room carpet under an artificial tree with prickly plastic branches decorated with sparkling lights during countless Christmas Eve vigils only to be carried upstairs in his father’s strong arms. He had observed as his mother rolled pastry on the kitchen countertops for her cherry pies every spring. He had wrestled with his big sister in the front yard and told ghost stories to his best friend by flashlight during numerous summer nights spent in a tent in the backyard.

This was
home
.

Even as the house stood devoid of the family that had filled its walls with laughter, tears, and long-forgotten arguments, it was
home
.

Ben ran a hand through his hair and glanced up at his bedroom window. Tears stung his eyes. He paced around in a circle and took a deep breath to calm the swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

He left his coat hanging in the sun to dry and went inside. Warm, golden light seeped into the kitchen. For the first time since he found his mother dead on the floor, Ben felt different about the house. He felt a sense of possession.

Ben grabbed his mug and faced the window while he poured his lukewarm coffee into the sink, wondering if this was how Raziel felt, if this is what he had longed for and what he had been kept from for hundreds of years,
though time passed differently for him
.

Unsettling realization consumed Ben like the torrid light that had exploded from the shield on the dark factory floor. It had taken him leaving and not returning for Nicholas to notice
him
, to notice his absence, to notice his importance. It had taken Ben leaving, abandoning his home and all that it held, for him to notice
its
importance.

He stared out the window as if seeing the apple tree for the first time. Ben had no idea how long he stood there, but the beeping of the washing machine told him it had been far longer than he realized.

His throat tightened when he moved away from the window. He ambled to the utility room and opened the dryer to shift his wet clothes from one machine to the other, but he stilled. The drum was full of crisp, white button-downs.

Ben pulled out one of the garments. Its cotton was both soft and stiff; Andrew had always starched his shirts. The fabric smelled clean and fresh and nothing at all like Ben’s clothes. They used different brands of detergents, but Ben knew with a sickening finality that even though he had just used the same soap on his own laundry in the machine to his left, it would never smell the same as Andrew’s
.

Ben clutched the shirt and slid down the wall behind him. He sat in front of the open dryer full of his dead father’s clothing.

He was probably going to iron the shirts that night he got in from work, the night I showed up
, Ben thought as that Novocain numbness settled in his chest.

Despite his realization in the kitchen, Ben wished he had never come back to Point Pleasant. Andrew might still be alive.

But it was done; Ben was home. He was where he should have been all along, and Andrew was dead. His father was dead.
My dad is dead
. The words looped through his head like a scratched record stuck on the same part of a song.

Oh fucking well
.

Ben’s thoughts fluttered to the archangel who went home to Heaven. When Raziel’s grace burst from Azazel’s chest, no longer bound by the darkness the latter had used to conceal it and wield its power for centuries, Ben had
seen
even with his eyes closed tight. He had
heard
even with his eardrums blown out. He had
felt
something vast and profound, something he still could not find the words to describe.

You have a special soul
, Marietta had told him.

If Ben had a soul, Andrew did too. Did human souls end up in Heaven with the angels? Was Andrew there now? With Caroline, perhaps, and baking celestial cherry pies in a shining incorporeal construct of their home.

Ben smiled at the absurdity of the image in his head. What did Heaven look like anyway?

Home
was the only comparison that Ben could think of, his only point of reference for such a concept.
Heaven had to look like home.

Ben stood, pulled Andrew’s shirts out of the dryer, and piled them on the worktop over the machines. He loaded his damp clothes into the dryer and switched it on to tumble. The soft, gentle turn and hum of the motor filled the small space.

An iron was perched on the edge of the worktop. Ben flipped it on to heat and took hold of one of his father’s shirts. He shook it, pulled the sleeves right-side out, and placed it on the unfolded ironing board in the corner.

Ben spent the next half an hour ironing and folding all of the white shirts until they were pristine and devoid of wrinkles with their collars sharply poised.

Andrew would have appreciated the gesture.

The rental car arrived just after three o’clock. Ben had consumed an unhealthy amount of coffee, tackled most of his emails, and finished all the laundry by the time a balding man with a Hertz t-shirt knocked on the door and offered a cheerful smile with the clipboard of paperwork for Ben to sign.

The Malibu’s interior was spotless, but its fresh, clean smell cloyed at Ben’s nostrils, and the modern dash and automatic gear shift prickled at his sensibilities. It was a Chevy, sure, but it was no Camaro.

“You’re a disgrace,” Ben told the car when he settled behind its steering wheel. He cranked the engine and cringed when the speakers blasted Pearl Jam. With a jab at the power button, he silenced the radio and eyed it with suspicion.

Main Street was business as usual. Mothers and children had taken to the sidewalks, apparently unhindered by the fear that had previously settled over the town and deserted its streets, and Ben realized he still had not asked Nicholas about what had really gone on after the ritual. Stewart must have made some sort of a statement. Perhaps there had been another meeting at Town Hall.

“Note to self,” Ben mumbled to remind himself to ask Nicholas, and he smiled when he passed the Sheriff’s Department. He wondered if Nicholas had tried to call him yet.

Ben’s iPhone might as well have been left in the pit back at the factory. Despite charging for hours, it refused to power up. He knew Kate might try to call again at some point before her flight, so he drove out to Silver Bridge Mall where he was in and out as fast as possible.

The man behind the counter in the AT&T shop stared, unflinching, at Ben’s phone when he placed it on the counter. Ben said the phone had been struck by lightning and hid a snicker as he offered the lie.
It’s kinda true.

“Accidental damage and acts of God aren’t covered in the standard insurance plan,” the man droned, and Ben suppressed the urge to cackle at the phrasing.
What about acts of the scholar of Heaven?

After some hassling and ensuring that Ben’s sim card still functioned, Ben settled on buying a replacement iPhone.
Thank you, The Exquisite Corpse
.

Back in the Malibu, Ben slid the new phone out of its box and charged it in the cigarette lighter. He checked the time on the dash and saw it was after four o’clock. If the traffic from the bridge was decent, he could probably make it to Tucker’s before five.

Luck, as it happened, had aligned itself with Ben, and he thanked the gods of traffic that smiled down on him with kindness.
More like the god of Mason County’s Sheriff’s Department and the officers he stationed to direct traffic flow,
Ben mused, and he enjoyed the pleasant swell of warmth in his chest that accompanied the thought of Nicholas.

Ben could not hide his horror when he saw the flattened wreck of his Camaro in Tucker’s driveway. Ben parked, got out, and slid both hands through his hair as he assessed the damage.

“No, no, no,” Ben muttered. He stepped closer and spread his hands on the Camaro’s bent hood as if he could somehow absorb some of the car’s anguish through touch. The roof had caved in and bowed poignantly in the middle. All of the windows were blown out, and the overall body of the car was as crumpled as an accordion.

“Fuck everything,” Ben exclaimed. “Twice. And sideways.”

“I don’t know if that angel friend of yours would approve of that kinda language, son,” Tucker said from behind Ben. The old farmer had emerged from the direction of his barn.

Ben shook his head and gave Tucker a look of despair. Tucker clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“Now, now, sweetheart,” he said. “We’ll make it all better. I already ordered some of the parts.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Ben said. “I can work on it.”

“Bet your ass you can,” Tucker shot back. “I ain’t doing it all by myself. I expect you over here every afternoon ‘till it’s ready to roll outta my driveway. It’s an eyesore. But not as bad as that tricycle you rolled up in,” he said and gestured to the Malibu.

“It was that or a Kia Rio,” Ben said with dry despondency.

Tucker’s nose scrunched in response. He trudged to his front porch, opened up a faded blue cooler, and pulled out two bottles of beer. When he returned, he offered one to Ben.

“How you doing?” Tucker asked finally.

Ben could only shrug. “How about you?” he asked before he took a swig of beer.

“Keeping busy,” Tucker said and nodded to the barn. “Helps keep the
what-the-everloving-shit
thoughts at bay. Kind of.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Except it’s hard not to,” Tucker said with a knowing tone to rival that of Point Pleasant’s resident psychic and antiques dealer. “I don’t suppose Marietta had any insight to share on the ride home?”

“I think she was just as scared as the rest of us,” Ben said. He scratched his thumbnail against the label of the bottle and regarded Tucker for a moment before he asked, “What did you see?”

“Squat,” Tucker replied. “It was like when someone flashes their brights at you on River Bend when it’s real late, and you can’t see anything for a few seconds because the light’s so sudden and unexpected.”