Shadows Burned In (16 page)

David reached over and picked up the TV remote, noticing it controlled
an old-fashioned cathode-ray set. Of course it did. Hospitals didn’t have the
money to invest in higher-end flat-screens, much less 3-D TVs like the one
Larry’s father had bought him. Hell, hospitals didn’t even have the money to
make beds in real time, when they were needed, right? They had to send the bed
leprechauns around to do it in the wee-wee hours of the morning, laddybuck, for
when those emergency patients—all those drunken old people who couldn’t wait
for the nurse to make the bed—needed a place to fall that was soft and
non-liable.

He turned down the volume, and the lack of noise immediately
woke his father.

“Who’s there?” the old man asked. It was the weakest David
had ever heard his voice. It sounded like an old steam engine that lacked the
pressure to start. Instead of lungs driving the sound, it was like the voice
was hitching a ride on some ragged breath that just happened to be passing
through. David had heard of the “death rattle” before, and now he’d
actually
heard it, coming out of his father.
Where’s your bluster and blow now, old
man?
he thought and immediately regretted thinking it. It was disrespectful
somehow. Not to his father. To the natural order of things. To God. To the way
he knew he ought to feel about the old man but didn’t.

“It’s me, Dad.”

“David?” The old man worked his eyes. You could see it. He
was trying to focus.

“Yes.”

“Hello, son,” he wheezed.

“Howdy.”

“It was good of you to come down. I know you’re busy with
school and all.”

David felt guilty for lambasting his father for being sick
during finals. And anger quickly followed that feeling. Anger at whom or what he
wasn’t sure.

“That’s okay, Dad. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” his father said, his eyes going to the TV and only
finding a commercial there.

“Where are you on the list?”

“List?”

“The
donor’s
list, Dad.” Though he’d just turned twenty-one,
a bit of the know-it-all sixteen-year-old crept back into David’s voice.
The
donor’s
list
,
dumbass
, his tone said.

“Oh, that don’t matter anymore,” his father said.

“What do you mean?”

“They tell me I wouldn’t get one anyway. Drunks don’t get
new livers. It’s in The Rules.”

David knew that was reality, but he’d made sure his father
was on the list just the same.

“It’s all right,” the old man was saying. “I won’t be around
much longer anyhow. I don’t need anything from those fuckers.”

David heard the words and, perversely, almost burst out
laughing. Even now, his father’s disdain for the rest of the human race trumped
his common sense. Then again, there wasn’t much to be done, truth be told. What
bothered David the most was how definitive the old man’s voice sounded. Like
they were in a meeting and it was on the agenda in black and white. Next action
item: Death.

“No, Dad, that’s not what we agreed on.”

“We?” said his father. “Since when do
we
make
decisions for
me
, boy?”

“I . . .” David decided not to take the bait for the
argument. “I just think it’s too soon to be talking about—”

“Nobody’s talking about
nothing
.” The old man’s voice
was weak again. He had used up his reserves staking out his position on the
subject. He picked at the sheet, looking for a tighter grip. “This is just the
way it is.”

David’s inner voice raged,
Let the old fucker die! The
sooner the better! Let the old fucker poison his own blood the way he’s done
yours! Idiot!
But another part of him, the part that felt like it had a
debt yet to pay for his two-way ticket into this world, wanted nothing more
than to keep his father alive. At any cost. No matter what. He struggled with
what to say, trying to climb over the years of walls he’d built. But the old
man was asleep again, snoring softly and evenly above the muted celebration of
the TV’s studio audience.

Then his father’s lips began moving. David could hear the
tired mutterings of a conversation. The old man seemed to be speaking to David
in his sleep, perhaps dreaming of a conversation the two of them had had once,
or had never had. David moved closer to catch the words.

“. . . anything else . . .”

Snatches only, partial sentences. And one line, whispered
between breaths, came out very clear. “I lost everything—everything I ever
loved—when you were born.”

David recoiled, as if he’d just seen a snake in his father’s
bed. He bumped into the second bed, knocking it out of its perfect alignment.
He stared at the pasty flesh of the near-corpse clasping the bedcovers to its
chest. The open mouth

(so like Old Suzie’s now, old and soured with hospital food)

spitting its venom at him, even from sleep.

There, see? Told you so, you bleeding-heart idiot!

David leaned backward on the bed and stared at the old man
dying as the TV crowd clapped and cheered without a sound. The flesh might have
been hardly recognizable, but the sheer delight the old man apparently took in
torturing him—even now—was as telling as a fingerprint.
A heartprint
,
David thought.
A black
heartprint.

He turned and fled the room, never looking back. His father
died exactly one week later, alone in the hospital bed.
Wheel of Fortune
was
on TV. It was a Tuesday. The empty bed next to the old man was perfectly made.

Standing at the graveside after the dozen or so locals had
left, David stared down at the headstone. It had the standard name and life
dates on it, then simply “Beloved Father.”

“Well, it’s half-right,” David slurred. He’d slammed three
beers just before the service, so he swayed a little. But this was one of those
times when people forgave that kind of behavior. He was in mourning after all,
so it was acceptable to be a little tipsy in public today.

An exception to The Rules.

His conscience attacked him then, the part of him that
hadn’t wanted to let his father go.
Be respectful to the dead
, it said.
Else
they come back to haunt you
. That made David laugh out loud.

The minister, who hadn’t known his father and who had to be
reminded once of the deceased’s first name during the actual service, stopped
and looked back. He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door to his Cadillac.

But the voice of his conscience had been the old man’s.

What do you mean “come back” to haunt me?
David
replied to the voice.
You think I can forget him anytime soon? Ever?

His conscience seemed to mimic the minister’s shrug. The
other voice in his head merely rolled its eyes in disgust.
Idiot
. A burp
tried to come up and brought up partially digested beer and stomach acid. The
heartburn spread through David’s chest. He grimaced, and it began to recede
slowly back into his gut.

He looked in his paper bag. There were still three beers
there. Shiner Bock, a local Texas favorite. Brown and rough and less sweet than
Guinness. He pulled the first bottle out and twisted off the cap. He slammed
it, nearly choking himself.

And then the second.

And then the third.

He was drunk all right, but he wasn’t stupid. He looked
around several times, almost making himself dizzy. No one was around now that
the minister had driven off.
Fuck The Rules anyway
,
he thought.
Out loud, he chortled the old joke, “Y’know, you only ever really rent beer.”

Slowly, deliberately, he unzipped his fly. His bladder was
so full it took no time at all for the flow to come. He watched it splatter,
yellow on the fresh mud—brown, white, and foamy as gravity did its work. It
formed a little river, charting a course of primordial liquid, carving out a
tiny yellow canal in the dark earth. By the time he’d finished, his urine had
made a small pool of rented, processed beer near the tombstone, helping to pack
down the earth there.

“See, old man?” he sobbed. “You
can
take it with
you.”

Part 3

(15 years from now)

You’ve got to be successful

Just to be all right.

Lest the old man’s ghost come walkin’

In the middle of the night.

—James McMurtry,

“Stancliff’s Lament”

I’m not from here, but people tell me,

It’s not like it used to be.

They say I should’ve been here,

Back about ten years,

Before it got ruined by folks like me.

—James McMurtry

“I’m Not from Here”

Chapter 15

“Hello?”

Elizabeth half
-
whispered the word.

It was the only breath she had. Her lungs were hitched. Her
hands felt wet and cold. She readied herself to rise and run, placing her palms
flat on the floor. They picked up the dusty decay on the floor like magnets.

“Mom won’t like that,”
her 3V voice smirked at her
dirty hands.

Shut up
.

Elizabeth’s mouth hung open. Her eyes sought the dog in the
depths of the parlor, where the voice had come from.

“Hello.” The word croaked into existence. It was rough, the shade
of a voice that hadn’t spoken in years. As if air, breathing through the house,
had created sound.

She was truly frightened now. Before the frog-voice had spoken
a second time, Elizabeth had hoped that hearing it was her mind playing tricks
on her; her 3V voice tickling her fears with a memory from her nightmare. Or
maybe an echo from the past had slipped from the walls around her. An old
ghost, scary but harmless. But then the voice had croaked its second hello, and
Elizabeth knew she wasn’t alone.

“D-dog?”

Pant-pant.

“She’s here,” said the man. The shadow had taken shape. A
thick, tired form. “She brought you to me.” He sounded happy about that.

I know!
Elizabeth wanted to scream.
Bad, bad dog!

“Don’t be such a baby,”
her 3V voice said, mimicking
Michael.

“Where are you?” she whispered. She had pushed herself up
onto her knees now, not quite to her feet. Elizabeth wanted to look around for
the roaches, but something inside countermanded the order. Somehow, a roach
crawling on her had become less fearsome than just a few moments ago.

“Here,” answered the man.

She had one leg under her now. Her hands felt grimy. “That’s
not a very good answer,” she said quietly. “I can’t see you.”

The house seemed to relax around her.

“Don’t mean I’m not here.” It was strange. If Elizabeth
could have heard a smile through the darkness, she thought she might have just
heard one.

Her eyes began to adjust to the room’s low light. She saw the
silhouette of an old man sitting in an old chair.

(Old Suzie’s chair)

Watching her.

(watching her shows)

Elizabeth had both feet under her now and stood up. She felt
a single drop of sweat trail down her left calf. She shuddered as the house
breathed a chill across it.

He motioned toward her. She thought of the old wizards from
her fantasy stories. Perhaps the old man was casting a spell on her. She had
seen news reports. She knew what could happen to little girls. He would
paralyze her and then
. . .

The dog padded over to her slowly, tongue drooping, mouth
pulled back in a dog-smile. She stopped in front of Elizabeth, her eyes gazing
up, flounder-like, at her. Elizabeth took her eyes off the old man and looked
down.
I don’t like you anymore!
she projected.

The dog saw the anger in her eyes and closed her mouth.
Elizabeth was afraid the animal would growl at her, but instead the dog just lowered
her ears and inched forward a bit more to nuzzle Elizabeth’s hand.
Oh no. No
you don’t
. But the dog wasn’t looking at her anymore, so didn’t see the
anger that remained. She moved her head around in Elizabeth’s hand.

Elizabeth suddenly realized she hadn’t been watching the old
man. Maybe he’d moved.

Maybe he’d moved toward her.

Slowly, reaching inward again for Elsbyth’s strength, she
looked back at the chair. There he sat, motionless. Again, and strangely, she
felt more than saw that he was smiling at her.

“I have to go home now,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

The old man breathed out slowly. She’d decided to name him
that—old man. The croak of his deep voice, the wheezing of his breathing told
her that’s what he was. “There’s still sunshine,” he said. “Not much, I admit,
but some.”

The dog was panting again. Elizabeth was unconsciously scratching
her furry head. “Mom taught me never to talk to strangers,” she said.

“Well, she’s right. My name’s Rocky. Now we ain’t strangers.”

Elizabeth was silent. She didn’t want to talk to this man.
She didn’t want to share anything with him at all, not even words. She realized
she’d bent over to more easily scratch the dog’s head and stood up again
abruptly.

“Dog has a way of putting you off your guard, doesn’t
she?”
teased her 3V voice.

“Did your mother teach you manners as well?” asked the old
man.

“Oh, sorry,” said Elizabeth, an automatic response to an
adult’s correction. “I’m Elizabeth.” She was immediately upset with herself for
falling for such an old trick.

“Maybe he’ll offer you candy next,”
her 3V voice
poked at her.

Shut up
.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said, prying his arms from the chair as
he spread them wide around him. “Welcome to my house.”

The girl cocked her head to one side. “This isn’t
your
house. It’s Old Suzie’s. And she’s dead.”

She felt the smile coming again from him. “You’re right on
both counts. But dead people don’t own nothin.”

“And you don’t own this place,” she said matter-of-factly.

A head—more than an outline but less than a face—shook
slowly from side to side. “No, I’m just stayin here awhile.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, awareness suddenly dawning. It seemed
to take the edge off her fear. “You’re homeless?”

The old man chuckled, a slow sound. “You could say that.”
Then he paused before asking, “Did you know your name means ‘oath of God’?”

“No.” What a strange thing to say. “I didn’t know that.”

“He’s a weirdo,”
her 3V voice said.

But then the feeling came to her again that this man—this
stranger
—knew
too much about her already. She was afraid of his knowing so much.

As Elizabeth’s eyes continued to adjust in the waning light
of early evening, she could make out more than a shadow now. He had a thin
face. Grizzled. Unshaven. Dirty.

Like the floor of this house.

“Well,” he said, exhaling heavily as if he wanted to discuss
her name’s significance but knew it would only bore her. “Why not stay awhile?
This place gets lonely. ’specially at night.”

There it was. The invitation. She felt the paralysis
creeping over her again. The wizard was casting his spell. And what was
worse—she was consciously letting herself be spellbound.

“I—”

“The dog would like you to stay.”

Elizabeth managed to break her gaze from the chiseled gray
eyes inside the lined face. She looked down at the dog staring up at her from beneath
bushy brows. The orange eyes with coal centers reassured her for some reason.
He
won’t hurt you. Not while I’m here
, the eyes seemed to say.

And then, within a heartbeat, Elizabeth completely changed
her mind.

“O
kay
, I’ll stay. As long as you
promise not to move from that chair.”

She saw the old face crack, and it took a moment for her to
realize he was grinning. And she could actually see it this time. It was exactly
what she’d pictured when she’d felt him smiling before.
Weird
, she
thought.

“I don’t think I could move from this chair too easily right
now even if I wanted to,” he said. “I’m very tired, you see.”

He motioned for her to sit down on the floor opposite him.
It must have been where Old Suzie’s television had once sat, Elizabeth
realized. But she sat there anyway. The dog walked over and curled up next to
her with a slight creaking of joints and a contented moan as she laid down to
rest.

The old man in the armchair smiled at her. Elizabeth smiled
back, letting her imagination take over. Being homeless, he must’ve traveled to
a thousand different places. She wanted to ask him about all of them. Then she
noticed he was just staring at her—wouldn’t take his eyes off her. It made her
uncomfortable again.

“So you live here,” he said, just when she was getting ready
to stand up again and run out through the kitchen. “In town, I mean.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. She was grateful for the conversation
beginning at last. At least she thought she was. But she’d rather talk about
the thousand other places he’d visited instead of boring old Hampshire. “Just
not very long.”

“Oh? Where did you move from?” The old man’s voice had a
strange quality to it, almost scripted.

“Houston. My dad moved his practice from there. He’s
from
here.” She said the last with a sour voice.

“Practice? He’s a doctor?”

“Lawyer.”

“Ah.”

Again, there was something in his voice.

“You don’t like lawyers?” she asked.

“Shakespeare didn’t,” he
said,
with
a grin that wasn’t quite a smile.

“So?”

“Do you even know who Shakespeare was?”

“Sure. We’ve read some of his plays in school.”

“Really?” The old man seemed genuinely surprised. “You get
better schooling nowadays, I guess.”

“You didn’t read his plays in school?”

“They taught them.”

He left it hanging, and Elizabeth didn’t understand the
difference. Then she did.

“Oh.
You
didn’t read them.”

“Lawyers aren’t so bad, I guess,” he said, changing the
subject.

“They defend people,” confirmed Elizabeth. For some reason she
thought she needed to do the same for her father now.

“Jesus, what’s
wrong
with you?”
asked her 3V
voice.

“Even when they don’t deserve defending,” continued the old
man.

Elizabeth thought about that for a second. “Doesn’t everyone
deserve a chance to tell their side of the story?”

For the first time, she saw the old man shake his head.
“Some people don’t. Those that aren’t sorry for what they’ve done.”

She quietly considered what he’d said, reaching down to pet
the dog pressed against her. The fur was soft, oddly cool. Not knowing really
how to answer the old man, she asked, “So what are you doing here?”

“Just passing through. I found this old house and decided to
stay here awhile. It gets a little chilly for old bones on the road this time
of year.”

“How do you eat?”

The question was a natural one, but it seemed to make the
old man uncomfortable.
I’ll bet he steals and doesn’t like to but has to
because he’s homeless
, she thought.

Then he smiled again. “With my right hand.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Oh,
brother
. You know
what I mean!”

The smile faded. “I get by.”

She decided not to press. “Do you know the story of this
house?”

“No,” he said, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“Well, they say it’s haunted,” Elizabeth explained. Her
voice took on a conspiratorial quality, like when she shared a secret with
Michael.

“Really?”

“Yeah. The ghost of Old Suzie, the witch-woman who used to
live here.”

“
Witch
-woman? Which woman would that be?”

“Huh?” Then she saw the silver moonlight twinkle in his eye,
and she got it. “Oh,” she said, “that’s pretty bad.”

“The witch-woman?” he asked, continuing the joke.

“No, your
joke
. Gawd. You’re worse than Dad. Old
Suzie was supposed to be a witch.”

“Oh. I see now.”

“She used to catch little kids and cook them for supper.”

He looked pensive for a moment. He had the look on his face
a person gets when they’re trying to dredge something up from the back row of a
fallow mind. “Wasn’t that what the witch in
Hansel and Gretel
did?”

Now it was her turn to skim the rows of knowledge filed away
in her head. “Well, that’s probably where she got the idea,” Elizabeth
surmised.

“Oh.”

“
Anyway
,” Elizabeth said in an exasperated voice,
“she died sitting
right where you are now
.” She emphasized the last five
words the way camp leaders do when they’re trying to scare children.

“My goodness!” he said, feigning concern. “Do you think she
minds that I’m sitting here?”

“Dunno,” said Elizabeth sheepishly. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Huh?”

“She’s standing
right behind you
.”

The old man started forward in the chair, twisting and
looking over his shoulder. Elizabeth was laughing as loud as a girl her age
could.

“Got you!” she said.

He slowly turned back around, settling in the chair. “Yes,
you did. A word of advice,” he said, wincing, “don’t make old men move quickly.
We don’t snap back as easily as you do.”

She slowly stopped laughing and her face became concerned.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, holding up a hand. “Let’s just not
scare old Rocky again, okay?”

“Okay. Sorry.”

He nodded, settling back in the chair. “So, tell me about
Old Suzie.”

“Like I said, she was a witch. She used to eat children.
Then she died. Watching her shows.”

“Who told you that?”

“Um
. . .
” She wasn’t sure how to
answer. She didn’t want to get Michael in trouble. “A friend of mine.”

“Not your dad?”

Elizabeth cocked her head to one side.
Another odd thing
to say
. “No.”

“Weird old coot,”
chimed her 3V voice.

“Mmmm,” he said thoughtfully.

“Why did you think that?”

“Well, you said he was from here. Stories like that don’t
start up overnight. I’m guessing Old Suzie was the talk of this town for years
before you were ever born. Stories are like that. They get started and take on
a life of their own. A spirit, you might say. They hang around and haunt you
when the person they’re about is long dead.”