Poltergeist II - The Other Side (3 page)

For Carol Anne had dreamsight.

And Jess knew about dreamsight, because she had it herself. Dreamsight was a sense—a kind of sight that encompassed different realms. Many children had it, actually, but most lost it by the age of ten—lost it or had it schooled out, or badgered out, or ignored out, or scolded out by a culture that treasured its blinders. It was a second sight that most people unlearned—only Carol Anne hadn’t unlearned it.

Nor, at the unchildish age of seventy-one, had Jess.

So, though Steve and Diane were made uncomfortable by the way Carol Anne spoke to animals or watched the colors of the air, Jess encouraged the girl; she finally had someone who knew her language.

Saturday afternoon, suburban backyard barbecue, burgers and franks sizzling over the coals. Gramma Jess puttered in her garden, talking to the lush flowers that responded quietly to her loving touch; Diane squeezed fresh lemonade in the kitchen; and Steve played whiffle ball with the kids.

Steve was not doing well in his life. After the house had . . . disappeared . . . he’d suffered a serious undermining of his ego; he couldn’t hang on to a job or even take one seriously. He had let his appearance become somewhat slovenly—internal justification for his employment record—telling himself, in a sense, that the reason for his troubles was his long hair, his careless demeanor. That wasn’t the reason for his troubles, though. The reason was the bottle.

He’d taken to the bottle when he had realized he was not in control of his life, his family, himself.

Carol Anne had vanished for a week four years before, in what Steve believed must have been a wave of mass hypnosis. And Steve had done nothing to save the child. Diane and that strange dwarf had broken the spell.

Then the house had disappeared, and the only way Steve could avoid examining
that
catastrophe too closely was to drink the memory away.

Then Dana, the daughter of his first passion with Diane, had begun flying apart, tearing the edges of the family to shreds. The whole fabric of his life began to unravel. Now he was sponging off his mother-in-law.

Unhomed, unmanned, he’d become a creature of last resorts. And his last, best resort was the fruit of the vine; or, more specifically, of the cactus: tequila settled in as his most steadfast friend and demon.

Diane tried to get him to stop, but by now Diane was part of his problem. Her strengths—her sense of self, of family unity, of center—only magnified his weaknesses. So sometimes he drank just to annoy her, to wear her down.

But after all the snipes and skirmishes, Steve remained afloat because of his children. He loved them unconditionally. Watching them grow was his only remaining solace. He felt that, in all his forty years, he’d produced nothing else of value.

So playing whiffle ball with them this Saturday afternoon provided a real, if brief, measure of peace for Steve. For a few hours he could feel ordinary again.

Robbie pitched, Steve batted, Carol Anne ran around like a jumping bean with legs, chasing stray balls and butterflies, and E. Buzz barked general encouragement.

“Carol Anne, come on!” yelled Robbie. She’d stopped short, holding the ball, to sniff a handful of gardenias Jess had just cut.

Steve took advantage of this break in the action to take a long pull on his beer and counsel his son. “Hey, be patient, kiddo. We got all the time in the world.” Then, to Carol Anne: “Sweetpea? The ball?”

Carol Anne had lost interest, though; the flowers were humming to her. “I don’t wanna play,” she announced, dropping the ball where she stood.

Robbie looked disgusted. Steve finished his beer. Diane came out onto the patio carrying a pitcher of lemonade, just in time to notice great black clouds billowing from the barbecue.

“Steve!” she shouted.

They reached it at the same moment. Steve yanked the lid off: on the grill, the charred remains of once-vital hot dogs and hamburgers shriveled pathetically.

“You’ve burned the food,” she said, less an accusation than the remarking of a cheerless inevitability. She might have said, “It’s Monday.”

Steve’s teeth went on edge instantly. “It’s not burnt,” he said with great control. “It’s well done.” There was a note of challenge in his voice, giving way to indignation. “And since when is this
my
responsibility?” He held up a scorched wiener.

She thought: Since when is
anything
your responsibility lately?

He continued, gathering steam. “I suppose you don’t cook anymore.”

She wanted to avoid an argument. “I cook
inside.
You’re in charge of things
outside.
” The coals flamed brightly, crackling with sausage fat.

Steve had a patronizing tone in his voice that she hated. “If I put a roof over the lawn, will you mow it?”

“As soon as you take the roof off the kitchen.” She smiled, trying to keep it light.

He took a big bite out of the still-smoking piece of evidence. “Mmm, just how I like it,” he said tersely. He had to grab another beer, though.

“Good, hm?” She didn’t conceal her sarcasm.

“Why are you arguing?” said Robbie. He’d been watching this interaction, as had Carol Anne. Both looked concerned.

Steve felt pained, seeing himself with his children’s eyes. “We’re not arguing, Robbie . . .” he tried lamely.

Diane helped. “We’re negotiating.”

“Right,” Steve went on. “When you’re married, there’s lots of that.”

The kids didn’t buy it, of course. Kids may be small, but they’re not dumb.

Jess didn’t buy it either, watching sadly from the garden.

Diane took the blackened stump of frankfurter from Steve and examined it like a true marital negotiator. “Gee, honey, I think these could use about fifteen more minutes on the grill. What do
you
think?”

He stared at her, started to say something, then just sipped his beer instead.

Diane walked back into the kitchen. “I’ll get the cold cuts. And call the fire department.”

Later that afternoon, they all sat around the picnic table on the patio, digesting Chinese takeout—except Carol Anne, who didn’t like those slippery little noodles. She was eating an open-faced peanut-butter-and-honey-and-M&Ms sandwich.

Diane couldn’t look at it directly. “Sweetheart, did you think up that sandwich all by yourself?”

“No, Gramma helped,” Carol Anne admitted thoughtfully.

Jess smiled at being allowed to share credit for such a monster creation. She didn’t respond, though; she just continued knitting the sweater she was knitting and asked Carol Anne to reach something for her, as if to say she and her granddaughter helped each
other.
“Honey, grab me the red yarn out of my bag, would you?”

Carol Anne, without looking behind her, reached around her back and pulled a skein of red yarn out of Jess’s bag. Pulled it out of a bag filled with reds, yellows, blues, lavenders and ochers. Pulled out the red without looking.

She handed the wool to Jess with a smile. No one else noticed what Carol Anne had done, but Jess noticed.

Robbie was busy biting down on a giant egg roll that he couldn’t quite get his mouth around. It squirted its mysterious contents out the seams and into his lap.

Diane slipped into her patient-Mom voice. “Rob, try to eat something that’s not big enough to eat you . . . okay?”

Robbie nodded, giggling, as E. Buzz licked the spoils from his lap.

Steve nursed a beer laced with tequila and wondered if he should tell Diane to leave the kids alone.

Jess was concentrating on Carol Anne, though. “Honey, could you get me the yellow yarn now?”

Carol Anne, fascinated with Robbie’s disgusting eating habits, again reached around behind her and again extracted the color Jess wanted. Again, without looking.

Jess took the yellow ball of yarn from the girl and spoke softly. “Thanks, Angel,” she said. But what she thought was: Dreamsight, Angel. Dreamsight, in a world of cataracts.

That evening Steve sat in the living room listening to a ball game on the radio as he read the instructions on the side of a new vacuum cleaner box. Other appliances sat boxed all around him, the arsenal of his current job: door-to-door household convenience salesman.

He was having difficulty with the instructions.

Robbie watched him intently. After the near-disaster with Carol Anne disappearing at the mall this morning (he became extremely nervous whenever Carol Anne’s whereabouts could not be accounted for, even briefly) and the barbecue disaster this afternoon, he was curious to see how things would take shape this evening.

“You gotta be an engineer to figure this stuff out,” Steve was muttering over the advisory warning about shag rugs at beach houses. His attention was distracted, however, by the roar of the crowd over the radio. “Come on, Guerero,” Steve ordered, “hit it outta the park.” He had about as much control over the radio game as he had over the stealthy vacuum cleaner that seemed to be silently laughing at his impotence; as much as he had over anything else in his life, really.

Robbie sensed his father’s frustration and tried to champion him past it. “Yeah, hit it!” he chimed—ostenisbly at the radio, but really at Steve.

Suddenly static washed over the radio announcer’s squeal. Steve dived for the dial. “Not now, damn it.”

Robbie wanted Steve to take this as an object lesson. “Dad, can’t we have a TV like everybody else?”

Steve got the reception back. “No, Robbie, we can’t.” Firm. Bottom line. Television is how their troubles had all started back in Cuesta Verde. Those hypnotic visions—whatever they’d been—had entered Steve’s home through the television. Entered his existence. Ruined his life. “No TV,” he said softly.

“Great. I’ll just grow up retarded.”

“Listen, buddy, people don’t get retarded from
lack
of television . . .” There was a swing, and a hit . . . deep into center field . . . going . . . going . . . “Thattaboy, Guerero!” Steve shouted. “Did you see that, Robbie!?”

“No, Dad,” Robbie sulked, “I didn’t
see
it.” He shuffled off to his room.

“Use your imagination!” Steve called after him. “It’s good for you.” He chuckled at
his
object lesson, and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. Like a suddenly reanimated zombie, the machine inflated its lung with a yowling whine and charged across the floor, attacking the coffee table. A vase fell, crashing onto the thing’s casing. The thing turned, seeking new dirt to inhale.

Steve lunged for the vacuum but couldn’t find the right switch. The thing battered a chair. Steve yanked the plug from the wall. Sparks flew. The machine died. Steve sat down hard on the couch, sighed, and noticed Carol Anne standing in the doorway, watching. “How am I gonna sell these monsters to innocent housewives, Sweetpea?”

“Don’t know, Dad.” She left him there staring at his hands and padded into the kitchen, where she found Gramma cleaning up.

“Hello, hon—want to help me get the kitchen straight for breakfast?”

“Sure,” said Carol Anne. She started wiping the counter as Gramma gathered junk from the table.

“What’s this?” said Jess.

Carol Anne looked over. “Just some stuff I drew yesterday.”

It was a pile of manila papers covered with crayon drawings. “Well, let’s
look
at it!” Jess demanded gently, and sat down at the table with the collection. Carol Anne shrugged but came over to Gramma’s side.

Jess knew Diane was working on art therapy projects with Carol Anne—drawing pictures to help the child work out her anxieties—but Jess was of the opinion that such focus sometimes created more anxiety than it worked out. Still, she loved the child’s artwork, and since some of it was quite abstract, she was curious about what it represented to Carol Anne—not for therapeutic reasons; merely for grandmotherly ones.

“Now. You must tell me what this is,” she instructed with great affection.

It was a big yellow circle with red beads all around it, green scribbles over the entire page, a blue background, a black-violet splotch in one corner.

“That’s looking up at a daisy, if you were a rock—and that’s the grass you’re looking through, and that’s the sky.”

“And what’s this dark purple thing up here?”

“That’s a storm cloud. It’s gonna rain soon.”

“That’s terrific,” Jess said, beaming. She put that one at the bottom of the pile, exposing the next picture. “And what’s this?”

It was a house—a square box, a peaked roof—with flowers all around. It had a square central door and two square, slightly elevated windows to the right and left of the door—looking like nothing so much as a mouth and two eyes.

And there were flames behind the windows.

“Our house . . .” said Carol Anne. But a shadow seemed to cross her face, so Jess put this picture at the back and went on to the next one.

But now the shadow crossed Jess’s face as she looked at the disturbing portrait on the third manila sheet. It was the face of a man, and Jess couldn’t say why it was unsettling, but it was. A man in a black hat, a man with yellowed teeth and a smile like fingernails on a blackboard.

Jess didn’t ask about this one; she just went on to the next. And Carol Anne, who’d drawn it the day
before
she had gone to the mall with Diane and Robbie, looked the other way so she wouldn’t have to see it.

It was a crayon drawing of Henry Kane.

From Cuesta Verde Taylor took his battered blue pickup down to 1-10, then east all the way to Phoenix. It was midnight by the time he made the turnoff onto 17, going north, so he stopped for gas, coffee, beef jerky, donuts, and a carton of Orange Crush, to go.

He made another stop just outside Bumble Bee—ten minutes only, long enough to place a fetish object by the grave of his best friend, John Laughing Water—then not again until he was past Flagstaff, on Interstate 40, headed east, did he pull over. A little beyond the Winona ruins, down a narrow two-lane highway that cut through desert now black as the night, was a bar Taylor knew: The Coyote Hogan. It was nearly three
A.M.
The full moon was just rising.

Two other pickup trucks sat parked in the gravel drive outside the tavern. Taylor stepped down from his bumpy seat and stretched his legs a minute beneath the chilly sky. Dazzling stars spilled overhead, creating their own special order, like a necklace encircling the universe.