The Town (23 page)

This time, she told of dreaming about the Molokan cemetery and seeing him crawling up the ridge from the mine below, dreaming about him being trapped in the
banya
and unable to escape, dreaming about him being attacked by the shadow of a dwarf.

It was slightly unnerving, the sheer number of nightmares she’d had recently that involved him, but he still didn’t put any stock in their veracity, and he tried to think of some way to put her mind at ease.

“I don’t think any of those things are going to happen,” he said in Russian.

“No,” she admitted. “But they mean that
something
bad will happen to you. I worry.”

He looked into her eyes. She’d grown so old, he thought. She had not regained her former sprightliness after the minister’s death, and she looked weak to him, frail. He found himself wondering how much time she had left.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind.

She met his gaze. “Just be careful,” she told him.

He smiled, patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Mother. I will.”

Saturday morning, they let Gregory’s mother take care of the kids and met Paul and Deanna at the Country Kitchen for breakfast. They could have gone to the café, but both Gregory and Paul said they’d been spending far too much time in that place and were getting sick of it, so they took a break and went out for a real meal instead of Mocha Joe’s bagels and coffee.

Paul and Deanna were already at the restaurant, and they waved the two of them over as soon as she and Gregory stepped through the door. The Country Kitchen smelled richly of bacon and sausage and buttermilk waffles, and to Julia there seemed something good and wholesome about that. Eateries in California were so trendy and health-conscious these days that far too many of them had the bland scent of a refrigerator filled with fresh fruit. It was heartening somehow to smell these old-fashioned breakfasts, and in a weird way she suddenly understood why Gregory had wanted to move back here.

They greeted their friends, sat down, ordered.

Gregory and Deanna were still a little wary of each other, both of them acting more polite than either of them did normally, and Julia had to smile at that. All these years later, those teenage dynamics were still in place, and the patterns of behavior that had been laid down in childhood had not changed one whit.

Julia wondered if she would act the same way if she encountered some old acquaintance from her high school days. She had not attended her ten-year reunion, but her twentieth was coming up and she was halfway considering going to it. There weren’t a whole lot of people she was interested in seeing, but there were a few, and she figured she was successful enough and had kept herself up well enough that she could lord it over a few former rivals.

But would she still feel intimidated by the girls who had intimidated her back then? Would she still feel close to the girls who had been close to her?

She looked at Gregory and Deanna and wondered.

After breakfast the four of them walked off their calories. They paired off oddly—she and Paul were in the front, Gregory and Deanna behind them. Paul seemed to know quite a lot about the town’s history and heritage, as well as its architecture, and he pointed out the boardinghouse that had once been a house of prostitution and the bookstore and thrift shop that shared what had been a Masonic temple. He knew who used to live where, and he told stories of land grabs and claim jumpers, cuckolds and adulterers as they walked up and down the winding, narrow streets.

Julia was curious about the Molokans, wanted to hear about them from an outsider’s perspective, but Paul and Deanna both said that since they’d grown up with a lot of Molokans around, they hadn’t paid much attention. Molokans had been an accepted part of everyday life. There’d been problems in the past, though, Paul admitted. Like the Mormons before them, Molokans had been relegated to a certain section of town at the outset, and he led them through the narrow drive lined with abandoned shacks that had once been Russiantown, recounting stories of several anti-Molokan attacks and beatings.

“Do you remember this?” Julia asked Gregory.

He shook his head. “Before my time.”

Back in the Country Kitchen parking lot twenty minutes later, Gregory stopped in front of their van, taking out his keys.

“It’s been fun,” he said. “Thanks for the invite.”

Paul grinned, nodded toward Julia. “You got yourself a good one, bud.”

Gregory looked over at Deanna, then offered a half-hearted grin of his own. “I guess you did too.”

“Tough admission,” Deanna teased.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

Julia hit him.

They all laughed.

He didn’t tell anyone about it at first. It was embarrassing, for one thing. And it was weird, for another.

His belly button was growing.

If he’d been married, he could’ve talked about it with his wife. If he’d been a kid, he could’ve talked about it with his mom. But he was a grown single man, living alone, and this wasn’t really something that he could bring up with his buddies down at the bar.

Chilton Bodean turned off the shower and rubbed his washcloth gingerly over the not-so-small nub protruding from the bulging mound that was his belly. He’d always had an “outie,” but in the past week it had seemed to become more prominent. At first he’d thought it was just his imagination, but overnight he’d had to throw that theory out the window.

It was now more than an inch long.

He got out of the shower, used a towel to rub the steam off the mirror, and looked at his body in the glass. The pinkish belly button was now hanging down, like a small second penis, and the thought occurred to him that maybe his umbilical cord was growing back.

That was what it looked like, and the thought scared him. Years ago, he’d taken a wart off his knee with Compound W, and the medicine had indeed worked, but years later the wart had returned in exactly the same spot.

Was something like that happening here?

The mirror was fogging up again, and once more he wiped it with the towel. He knew he didn’t eat right, drank too much, didn’t exercise, didn’t take care of himself, and he’d been worried for several years that he might get cancer or have a heart attack or something. Not worried enough to do anything about it, but worried enough that the thought concerned him. Skin cancer was the most likely, he figured, and for quite a while now, he’d kept a close watch on any moles or pimples or changes in skin tone on his body.

Which was how he’d noticed his belly button.

Which was why he’d thought at first that he might be overreacting.

He touched the protruding piece of flesh, squeezed it between two fingers. He felt nothing. He squeezed harder. No pain. No sensation at all.

He could go to the doctor—he
should
go to the doctor—but he was afraid of finding out that it was something serious. Or, as he really feared, something unknown. He had never heard of anything like this happening before, and it was possible that it was the first time it had occurred, that it had never happened to anyone else. Ever.

He might be the very first victim.

He combed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth, and got dressed.

He went to work, tried not to think about it.

He kept hoping it would go away, but as the days passed, the umbilical cord grew. From one inch . . . to two . . . to three. He knew that it
was
an umbilical cord, and that was what frightened him. It was regenerating itself, but he was no longer inside his mama’s body and there was nothing for it to connect to. It hung down at first, but then it started to curve to one side, following the contours of his stomach. Would it just keep growing forever, trying to find his mama? He prayed that it wouldn’t.

The thought occurred to him that he could cut it off. After all, his first umbilical cord had been cut off after he was born and there hadn’t been any side effects. What if he just got himself some shears and lopped that sucker off?

But the truth was, he was afraid to do that. There was still no feeling in it, but it was a part of him nonetheless, and whacking it off would be like chopping off a finger.

It grew.

Six inches.

Seven.

And then it moved.

This was not just a shift in direction of growth, like before, an unobservable change that occurred over a long period of time or during his sleep. He felt it
wiggle
, and he practically screamed when it happened.
Would
have screamed had he not been in church at the time. He glanced quickly to his left and right, making sure that no one had seen any movement or noticed his reaction, and was gratified to see that everyone’s gaze was focused on the preacher up front.

The umbilical cord was cold, he noticed now, though that was not something that had registered before. It felt like a worm or a snake, and it slithered beneath his white church shirt, the slimy tip of it pressing against his right nipple.

He was filled not only with horrified disgust but with a sudden sensation of panic. What could he do? It felt as though it was growing even now, beneath his shirt, and he half expected it to pop out from the top of his shirt, whipping out from underneath his collar like some overlong pecker.

The cord moved to his left nipple, started down the side of his stomach.

He’d had enough, he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood quickly and excused himself as he passed in front of Jed and Travis and Maybelle, trying not to step on their feet as he made his way out of the pew and into the center aisle. He didn’t know if they could see the outline of the umbilical cord beneath his shirt, and at this point he didn’t really care. It might even be a relief to have his secret discovered. But despite the overwhelming feelings of fear and panic within him, despite the sheen of sweat that draped his head and was soaking through his cotton whites, everyone apparently assumed that he’d had a sudden attack of the runs or something and let him pass without even looking at him.

He rushed out of the church, threw up in the bushes outside.

His truck was parked on the street, but he ran all the way home, the umbilical cord sliding slowly and methodically over his upper torso, exploring.

He ripped the shirt off the second he was inside his house and the door was closed safely behind him.

The umbilical cord whipped out straight, practically pulling him off balance, then, like a tape measure being called back and rewound, slipped faster than the eye could see down his pants. He felt it slide through his underwear and press against his leg before tapping his knee and coming to a stop.

Chilton fell into his recliner, crying, tears coursing down his cheeks and great hiccuping sobs of fear and frustration issuing involuntarily from his uncooperative mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried—he must have been a baby then—and he didn’t want to be crying now, but he just couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, his own freakish body was attacking him, he was embarrassed and terrified and all alone, with no one to talk to. Everything was crashing down on him at once, and he knew that he was cracking under the pressure like some pathetic little pantywaist, but he just couldn’t help it.

He crossed his legs, trying to trap the umbilical cord in place, and sucked in his gut as he unbuckled his belt and then pulled it as tight as it would go, rebuckling. It was uncomfortable and chafing, but he figured it would keep the cord from moving around, and he slumped back, feeling drained. He was still crying, could not seem to stop, but he knew he had to do something about this and he tried to think of something, tried to come up with a plan. His brain seemed fuzzy, though, his thought processes muddled, and the only thing that made any sense to him was to stay here, in the recliner, and wait for it to go away. It
wouldn’t
go away, he knew that intellectually, but remaining here felt right, and he curled up and doubled over, and was grateful that he felt no movement in his pants.

He cried himself to sleep.

He awoke unable to breathe, his windpipe choked off by the umbilical cord that was now wrapped around his neck. The recliner was all the way back, and he was stretched out. His belt was still tight, his waist hurt from the leather digging into his skin, but the umbilical cord had escaped.

And it had grown.

He flailed around, attempting to suck in air but unable to draw breath any deeper than the back of his mouth. His whole head was hot and it felt as though the entire world was pressing in on his body. His feet kicked out at the elevated footrest, and his thrashing hands knocked over a lamp and an ashtray on the table next to him before his fingers curled around a pair of scissors.

He fumblingly tried to fit his fingers through the holes, but he couldn’t seem to work the scissors and was afraid he would drop them and his last and only chance would be gone. His vision was getting fuzzy, and he knew time was running out, so he held the scissors tightly and stabbed at his belly button, but he missed the umbilical cord and the pointed steel sank shallowly into his flesh.

His body jerked with the pain, and he screamed . . . only he couldn’t scream. The attempt seemed to deplete what little air remained in his lungs, and his vision darkened. He was dying, and he pulled out the scissors and stabbed at the cord wrapped around his throat and was gratified to feel movement. He still could not breathe, but the cord was sentient and it wanted to save itself, and it tried to move away from the knife without letting up on its grip.

He succeeded in stabbing the umbilical cord, but he also hit his own neck, and blood was streaming down his shoulder, down his back. He was growing weaker, his brain fogging, and he sensed that his last resort was to get at the source.

He gripped the scissors hard and plunged them into his stomach.