Beloved Evangeline (19 page)

I squealed with delight as these fantastic beasts played with me and lavished me with affection. The four of us played chase, rolled around in the ravine, and laughed and played in the sparkling glen for what seemed like hours, the four of us becoming fast friends.

Without any warning, the beasts turned in alarm and ran, disappearing into the forest. My mother turned to see what had frightened them, fixing her gaze on the figure of a man who had suddenly appeared at the edge of the wood.

I let out a small shriek. The man was dressed all in black and simply did not look
real
. My mother seemed not to notice anything unusual and ran toward him, looking deliriously happy.

I screamed in alarm but she didn’t hear. I watched helplessly. I wanted to tell her somehow there was something very wrong about that man. He looked like a ghost. It was in the air all around.

He was wearing a long black coat, which looked out of place to me even then, but my mother, she looked overjoyed to see him—more delighted than I’d ever seen her.

To my surprise, the reunion soured unexpectedly. Though I would’ve sworn she was about to throw her arms around him, she slapped his face instead. The slap echoed against the enormous walls of the ravine, the sound of it ringing in the air long after her hand had left his cheek.

The two of them seemed to be arguing. My mother said what sounded like,
Leave. Now
. But he wouldn’t leave; the strange, scary man stood his ground, arguing back. He bent down on his knees in front of her and hugged her at the waist.
I’m sorry
, he said, in a very strange-sounding voice.

My mother had always been very tender-hearted, one of the few traits of hers I had inherited, so I’d never known her to really be angry. But she pushed the man backwards, pushing him to the ground. He scrambled back toward her, still shaking his head and reaching for her.

His appearance changed suddenly into a crumpled mess, sobbing into the earth.
Please
,
I need you
, he pleaded. I almost felt sorry for the man, the tone in his voice sounded so sad, but an odd feeling of fear held me at bay. My mother coolly disentangled herself from him and marched over to me. She grabbed my hand, dragging me out of the lovely ravine and onto the path for home. We left the strange man just standing there, watching after us. I stared back at him with unabashed curiosity until I could see him no longer.

She brought me to that magical place a handful of times, but that is the one that stands out. Of course, she never really got the chance to do much more. Soon afterwards, she started to deteriorate. I don’t know if her mental decline can be traced back to that day or not. All I have as evidence are my childish memories, which could certainly be flawed. But, still....

People began to come to the house after that day, people that I’d never seen before and would never see again. My mother hushed me to my room when they came, and they spoke in the living room in whispers. I tried listening in, but of course they were clever enough to outsmart a seven-year-old. She stopped going to work shortly after that. I’ve never known if she quit or got fired. My father never spoke about any of this to me. And my father was at work during that sad strange time, always at work. I don’t know how much he even noticed. I’m quite sure he never saw her stuffing a man into the trunk of her car.

And then later, when the police starting coming by, I never said a word. I told them I hadn’t seen anything. Even when they warned my dad, in front of me, that she might be dangerous, I
lied
. The truth is I didn’t want them looking at me the way they looked at her, when she started telling them any of the men that were missing deserved what they got, so what did they care if they went missing? They looked at her like she was crazy. Of course, I knew better, but who would believe me? And so, I willfully betrayed my own mother with a treacherous lie. With this knowledge I continue to live, as she continues to live, in the state mental hospital. She has every right to withhold her forgiveness.

13.

Weeks blurred past. You’d think the time would’ve slowed, given that I was impatiently awaiting some sort of sign or whatever, telling me what to do next, but just the opposite happened. No deadline had been assigned, but I couldn’t help feeling that sitting around and waiting was a mistake.

I looked for signs in everything. I felt the sands of that hourglass falling so rapidly and was so convinced I’d somehow misinterpret or just full-on miss any sign that was given me that—I’ll admit—I may have gone a little sideways.

If there was a traffic jam on the way to work that must mean I was supposed to have stayed home that day. Surely the sign would’ve presented itself to me had I been where I was supposed to be, instead of driving to work like the sell-out slave to the system that I am. A news story about New Mexico on television? A sign, obviously. I was supposed to be in New Mexico right now. The sign must be there—but I had lacked the courage to take the leap of faith necessary to hop on a plane and would probably miss it. One day I just sneezed, like, 15 times in a row. That must’ve meant.... well, I’m not sure. Maybe I should’ve gone to the doctor.

The point is I just wasn’t enlightened or worthy enough to see anything clearly. Everywhere I turned there seemed to be overwhelming evidence that I lacked the required
vision
.

Meanwhile, I’d fallen back into a pseudo-normal routine at work. Most everyone had resumed their usual behavior around me, and thankfully, I hadn’t run into Steve once. I really wasn’t looking forward to that confrontation but felt strongly I wouldn’t be able to prevent one given my temper and the current state of things.

At that moment I turned in the direction of the dark shadow behind me, which now appeared several times a day, only to see nothing. Usually the form appears out of the corner of my eye, predictably disappearing the moment my head turns to investigate. Despite testing everything from sudden jerks to feigned nonchalance, the resulting emptiness is always the same.

Nobody confessed to the white lie that had been told to my boss. I looked at the faces of my four real friends in passing, but none gave away even a hint.

On one morning out of dozens that began with me on my way to Mr. Oxley’s office to turn in some files, I narrowly missed running straight into Lyle, who had his head buried in a stack of papers.

“
Hey!” he shouted, annoyance in his voice, when he finally looked up at me. “You never stopped by my office! I had everything ready and waiting for weeks...”

Oh
, I sighed mentally. I’d completely forgotten. Too many balls up in the air at the moment, no way to keep them all up there.

“
Sorry, Lyle,” I began with genuine regret, “I
totally
forgot. Can I come by your office now? I really would like to see what you’ve got.”

“
Not my office,” he said more quietly, looking over his shoulder. “Meet me down at the coffee shop. Twenty minutes.” The solemn tone in his voice surprised me.

I nodded, brow furrowed.

Twenty-nine minutes later I was sitting alone in the coffee shop, sipping a gingerbread latte. Lyle tended to get really absorbed in his work and was arguably more of an easily distracted daydreamer than I am, if such a thing is possible, so I half-expected him to stand me up. When I heard a commotion at the door, however, I saw Lyle picking up some papers he’d apparently dropped. He hurriedly picked up the last of them and burst his way into the shop. He placed an order for a triple espresso before rushing over to join me at the table.

He busied himself organizing his research in silence while I watched and waited. I was impressed and astonished by the amount of work he’d put into this. It must’ve taken a considerable amount of time. I immediately had questions to ask, but Lyle is very methodical and meticulous; he wouldn’t have appreciated any interruption breaking his routine, so I allowed him to finish. As soon as his name was called and his espresso retrieved, the murder briefing commenced.

“
What you’re looking at here is a further break-down of my early, crude analysis.” He gestured, pointing to this newer, more sophisticated-looking series of charts and graphs. He gave a very long, very detailed speech. I politely refrained from looking at my watch, though I longed to. The gist of his painstaking hard work was that he had pinpointed the culprit to somebody at our semiconductor partner, or anyone whose work was connected. That part I’d already worked out for myself, given that only one affiliate involved production, but that basically meant anyone and everyone in our office could be affected. All of us have knowledge of their business, and every job revolves around it somehow.

I left him that afternoon with a pounding headache.

A blank sheet of parchment awaited me at my front door. I eyed the neighbors suspiciously. Bruce Vaughn yelled for me to pull my damn weeds instead of standing around all day. With a salute and a poorly disguised grimace, I slipped into the house.

The next two hours were consumed examining the mysterious parchment, with no result. Even my music—the one thing in the world that never fails to give me solace—was not going as well as I’d hoped. Two nights earlier I’d thrown my guitar out the back door in a frustrated rage. Luckily only the strings had been damaged. It’s the one instrument I can’t seem to master. Don’t get me wrong, I can play a few chords on it just fine. But the song,
the
song that haunts me, for unknown reasons I can’t make it sound right on the guitar. The clarinet, violin, harpsichord, and piano came so easily, but the guitar—it’s another matter. Of course, like all of my other hobbies, the one instrument that would actually be cool to play I suck at.

This music in my soul threatens to kill me if I can’t find a way to let it out. As soon as I’ve mastered one instrument, I’m compelled to move on to another—moving farther toward to what I’m not sure. I have an entire bookshelf overflowing entirely with music of my own composing. I’m convinced that if I could hold a tune with my voice, this search would be unnecessary. But, as it is, my singing is so bad that people near me actually turn up the volume just to drown it out.

I restrung the guitar, sat down with my guitar books, sucked up the frustration, and went to work.

The proceeding two weeks flew by faster than ever.

14.

Dear Jack,

I ran off the road driving to work this morning. What I remember hearing was a loud train horn blare. I was so startled I lost control and spun off Hendricks Avenue into someone’s yard—luckily before I reached the river. I cannot even recall getting dressed or driving to that point. Here I sit at my desk—unable to comprehend what’s happening to me.

Evangeline

15.

The following day was Saturday, and I felt adventure calling. Adventure was just what I needed to shake off this gloom. My dad used to take Chris and me down to Gainesville as kids to watch the Gators and go exploring. I drove the two hours to Gainesville with such a feeling of lightness that I even dared to hope—just for a moment—that things could get better.

Where else could I go but to The Reggae Shack for lunch? I’d been dreaming of their chicken curry for ages. The mixture of spices, plantains, and succulent chicken was delectable. An aroma of roasting meat and curry saturated my hair and clothing wonderfully. After devouring every bite, I washed the meal down with very strong sweet tea. I humorlessly considered licking my plate; there were too many onlookers.

After tinkering in a few of the more Bohemian downtown shops, I headed to Devil’s Millhopper for a short hike. The Millhopper is a giant sinkhole, at the bottom of which is something of a miniature rainforest. At the right season, streams trickles down the walls, creating the feeling of being surrounded by a series of cascading waterfalls. The water disappears into the earth through crevices at the bottom; no one knows for sure where it goes.

More than 200 steps down into the earth, I reach bottom. In nature I always find amelioration of spirit—a connectivity with something I can’t quite put into words. The drudgery of my daily routine constantly robs me of this feeling—something that should be a natural part of
life
—and as a consequence I have to go out looking to get it back. Today it took going 120 feet below the earth’s surface into a geological wonder, but I managed the restoration I sought.

Snapping photos of the surrounding limestone waterfalls and delicate ferns to refresh my memory on less naturalistic days, I heard an odd thudding sound coming from the direction of the stairs. I turned just in time to see a man falling down the last flight, landing at the bottom with a very unnatural sounding
crack
. His neck twisted in my direction disturbingly, his eyes lifeless.