Something Rich and Strange: Selected Stories (30 page)

“We’re on our way,” Baroque said. “But we need to know if you feel cold or hot.”

Denton realized that though his teeth chattered and icicles had formed in his hair he actually was, if not hot, at least warm.

“Hot,” he said.

“You got to get back in the water, then,” Baroque said. “You’ve got hypothermia. A boy on one of the shows fell in a pond and being under that cold water was all that kept him from freezing to death.”

Denton tried hard to figure out if Baroque knew what he was talking about. It seemed Denton had heard of such a thing, maybe on the news, and the fact that Baroque had learned a word as long as
hypothermia
, even pronounced it correctly, struck him dimly as some kind of progress. Besides, the water would cool him off.

“You can’t wait any longer,” Baroque said. “In a couple of minutes you won’t be able to move. We’re on our way.”

Denton looked at the pool, covered in ice except around the falls. Somewhere deep inside him an alarm bell went off, but it was so soft Denton couldn’t figure out quite what the warning was. Baroque was still talking, telling Denton he had to do it now. Denton set the cell phone on the bank. Baroque’s words were blurring. It seemed Baroque was talking real fast, though maybe that was because Denton was starting to think real slow. Breaking the ice to enter the pool seemed too much work, so Denton crawled onto the rocks above the waterfall and slid feetfirst into the pool, going in smooth as an otter.

At first they didn’t see him, just the cell phone’s blue-tinged screen.

“If he crawled up in the woods, he’s a goner for sure,” Baroque said.

Then they saw Denton hovering in the pool’s center. The ice was so clear it looked like Denton was part of a magic trick.

“His eyes are open,” Marlboro said.

“Of course they are,” Baroque said, “and he can probably see us and hear us.”

“He’s not blinking.”

“That’s because it’s like a coma, everything’s shut down but his brain. His heart, I bet it’s less than one beat a minute by now.”

“I didn’t think he’d be that blue,” Marlboro said.

Baroque took a football-sized rock and threw it into the pool above Denton’s head. The ice shattered, but Denton’s body drifted only a few feet before it snagged on more ice.

“We’ll have to go in and get him,” Baroque said. Marlboro looked at the water reluctantly.

“I guess so.”

“Let me get his cell phone first,” Baroque said. “He’d be mad at us if we left it. Anyway, we’d better get him to the hospital. I’ve been thinking more about that show. The announcer might have said fifteen minutes, not fifty. I don’t guess you remember?”

Marlboro shook his head.

Baroque picked up the phone and put it in his pocket and they waded in, the water over their ankles as Baroque set his hands beneath Denton’s shoulders and Marlboro lifted his feet. Once on the bank, they set Denton down. Marlboro parted his legs and positioned himself between them as if hauling a stretcher.

“His being stiff does make it easier,” Marlboro said.

They made their way down the trail and arrived at the parking lot. As the day’s last light fell behind the mountains, they leaned Denton against the truck.

“Should we put him in the middle?” Marlboro asked.

“We can’t do that,” Baroque said, “not unless you want to drive all the way to town without heat. A human can’t be thawed out but once.”

Baroque opened the tailgate and they slid Denton in feetfirst, placing two cinder blocks, one on each side, so he wouldn’t shift as much. Marlboro took the lid off the Styrofoam cooler and wedged it gently, almost tenderly, under Denton’s head.

“And he can still see and hear us?” Marlboro asked when they’d finished.

“Sure.” Marlboro stared at Denton.

“I can’t think of anything to say to him.”

They got into the cab and after a couple of tries Baroque found first gear and they made their way down the dirt road.

“He’s been pretty good to us,” Marlboro said. “He can be grouchy but he has let us stay with him.”

“I’ve been thinking maybe we haven’t really held up our end as much as we should have,” Baroque said. “Next week I’m going over to the community college to see about that med tech degree. What we’re doing helping Denton makes me feel useful.”

Marlboro nodded.

“If you do that, I’ll go see about an orderly job.”

The road went downhill and the woods thickened. Everything was shadowy now and at the bottom of the hill was a bridge. Baroque knew from movies this was not the kind of place where anything good ever happened. A maniac or a man with a steel hook for a hand or a mutant could be hiding under the bridge. He risked shifting into second gear and found it and the truck sped up and rattled on across. Baroque let out a grateful sigh as the road rose again and the woods opened up.

“If Denton is okay, do you think they’ll put us on one of the medical shows?” Marlboro asked.

“Probably,” Baroque said.

“And they’ll give us medals?”

“I don’t know about that,” Baroque said, “but if they do they should give Denton one too. The way he got himself under the ice—that was real smart.”

“What do they need to get him going again?” Marlboro asked. “It doesn’t have to be a special kind of hospital?”

“No, they’ve all been trained to do it.”

“That’s good,” Marlboro said, as the dirt road ended at an asphalt two-lane.

The truck stalled when Baroque shifted into reverse instead of neutral. He didn’t try to turn the engine back on but simply stared out the windshield, unsure which way to go. Baroque looked in one direction, then the other, but he couldn’t see much because it was real dark now. The headlights would have helped, but he didn’t know how to turn them on.

P
erhaps if work had been less stressful, Boyd Candler would not have heard the owl, but he hadn’t slept well for a month. Too often he found himself awake at three or four in the morning, his mind troubled by engineering projects weeks behind schedule, possible layoffs at year’s end. So now, for the second night in a row, Boyd listened to the bird’s low plaintive call. After a few more minutes he left the bed, walked out of the house where his wife and daughter slept to stand in the side yard that bordered the Colemans’ property. The cool late-October dew dampened his bare feet. Jim Coleman had unplugged his spotlight, and the other houses on the street were unlit except for a couple of porch lights. The subdivision was quiet and still as Boyd waited like a man in a doctor’s office expecting a dreaded diagnosis. In a few minutes it came. The owl called again from the scarlet oak behind the Colemans’ house, and Boyd knew with utter certainty that if the bird stayed in the tree another night someone would die.

Boyd Candler had grown up among people who believed the world could reveal all manner of things if you paid attention. As a child he’d watched his grandfather, the man he and his parents lived with, find a new well for a neighbor with nothing more than a branch from an ash tree. He’d been in the neighbor’s pasture as his grandfather walked slowly from one fence to the other, the branch’s two forks gripped like reins, not stopping until the tip wavered and then dipped toward the ground as if yanked by an invisible hand. He’d watched the old man live his life “by the signs.” Whether a moon waxed or waned decided when the crops were planted and harvested, the hogs slaughtered and the timber cut, even when a hole was best dug. A red sunrise meant coming rain, as did the call of a raincrow. Other signs that were harbingers of a new life, or a life about to end.

Boyd was fourteen when he heard the corpse bird in the woods behind the barn. His grandfather had been sick for months but recently rallied, gaining enough strength to leave his bed and take short walks around the farm. The old man had heard the owl as well, and it was a sound of reckoning to him as final as the thump of dirt clods on his coffin.

It’s come to fetch me, the old man had said, and Boyd hadn’t the slightest doubt it was true. Three nights the bird called from the woods behind the barn. Boyd had been in his grandfather’s room those nights, had been there when his grandfather let go of his life and followed the corpse bird into the darkness.

The next morning at breakfast Boyd didn’t mention the owl to his wife or daughter. What had seemed a certainty last night was more tenuous in daylight. His mind drifted toward a project due by the week’s end. Boyd finished his second cup of coffee and checked his watch.

“Where’s Jennifer?” he asked his wife. “It’s our week to carpool.”

“No pickup today,” Laura said. “Janice called while you were in the shower. Jennifer ran a temperature over a hundred all weekend. It hasn’t broken so Janice is staying home with her.”

Boyd felt a cold dark wave of disquiet pass through him.

“Have they been to the doctor?”

“Of course,” Laura said.

“What did the doctor say was wrong with Jennifer?”

“Just a virus, something going around,” Laura said, her back to him as she packed Allison’s lunch.

“Did the doctor tell Janice anything else to watch out for?” Boyd asked.

Laura turned to him. The expression on her face wavered between puzzlement and irritation.

“It’s a virus, Boyd. That’s all it is.”

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” Boyd told his daughter, and walked out into the yard.

The neighborhood seemed less familiar, as though many months had passed since he’d seen it. The subdivision had been built over a cotton field. A few fledgling dogwoods and maples had been planted in some yards, but the only big tree was the scarlet oak that grew on an undeveloped lot behind the Colemans’ house. Boyd assumed it was once a shade tree, a place for cotton field workers to escape the sun a few minutes at lunch and water breaks.

The owl was still in the oak. Boyd knew this because growing up he’d heard the older folks say a corpse bird always had to perch in a big tree. It was one way you could tell it from a regular barn or screech owl. Another way was that the bird returned to the same tree, the same branch, each of the three nights.

His family had moved to Asheville soon after his grandfather’s death. Boyd had been an indifferent student in Madison County, assuming he’d become a farmer, but the farm had been sold, the money divided among his father and aunts. At Asheville High Boyd mastered a new kind of knowledge, one of theorems and formulas, a knowledge where everything could be explained down to the last decimal point. His teachers told him he should be an engineer and helped Boyd get loans and scholarships so he could be the first in his family to attend college. His teachers urged him into a world where the sky did not matter, where land did not blacken your nails, cling to your boots or callus your hands but was seen, if at all, through the glass windows of buildings and cars and planes. His teachers had believed he could leave the world he had grown up in, and perhaps he had believed it as well.

Boyd remembered the morning his college sociology class watched a film about the folklore of Hmong tribesmen in Laos. After the film the professor asked if similar beliefs could be found in other cultures, Boyd raised his hand. When he’d finished speaking, the professor and the other students stared at Boyd as if a bone pierced his nostrils and human teeth dangled from his neck.

“So you’ve actually witnessed such things?” the professor asked.

“Yes sir,” he replied, knowing his face had turned a deep crimson.

A student sitting behind him snickered.

“And this folklore, you believe in it?” the professor asked.

“I’m just saying I once knew people who did,” Boyd said. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”

“Superstition is nothing more than ignorance of cause and effect,” the student behind him said.

Rational. Educated. Enlightened
. Boyd knew the same words he’d heard years ago in college, the same sensibility that came with those words, prevailed in the subdivision. Most of his neighbors were transplants from the Northeast or Midwest, all white-collar professionals like himself. His neighbors would assume that since it was October the owl was migrating. Like the occasional possum or raccoon, the owl would be nothing more to them than a bit of nature that had managed to stray into the city and would soon return to its proper environment.

But Boyd did worry, off and on all morning and afternoon. He couldn’t remember Allison ever having a fever that lasted three days. He thought about calling the Colemans’ house to check on Jennifer, but Boyd knew how strange that would seem. Despite the carpool and their daughters’ friendship, the parents’ interactions were mostly hand waves and brief exchanges about pickup times. In their six years as neighbors, the two families had never shared a meal.

Though Boyd had work that he’d normally stay late to finish, at five sharp he logged off his computer and drove home. Halloween was five nights away, and as he turned into the subdivision he saw hollow-eyed pumpkins on porches and steps. A cardboard witch on a broomstick dangled from a tree limb, turning with the wind like a weathervane. At another house a skeleton shuddered above a carport, one bony finger extended as if beckoning. A neighborhood contest of sorts, and one that Jim Coleman particularly enjoyed. Each year Jim glued a white bed sheet over a small parade balloon. He tethered its nylon cord to a concrete block so that his makeshift ghost hovered over the Coleman house.

There had been no such displays when Boyd was a child, no dressing up to trick or treat. Perhaps because the farm was so isolated, but Boyd now suspected it had been more an understanding that certain things shouldn’t be mocked, that to do so might bring retribution. As Boyd passed another house, this one adorned with black cats, he wondered if that retribution had already come, was perched in the scarlet oak.

It was almost dark when he pulled into the driveway behind his wife’s Camry. Through the front window, Boyd saw Allison sprawled in front of the fire, Laura sitting on the couch. The first frost of the year had been predicted for tonight and from the chill in the air Boyd knew it would be so.

He stepped into the side yard and studied the Colemans’ house. Lights were on in two rooms upstairs as well as in the kitchen and dining room. Both vehicles were in the carport. Jim Coleman had turned on a spotlight he’d set on the roof, and it illuminated the ghost looming overhead.