In Dark Corners (12 page)

"You mean your partner's
memory
was haunting you—?"

"
No
," Arthur interrupts, shaking his head vigorously, his speech slightly disjointed now. "It was more than just a memory. It was
him
. But in a different guise, you see…

"His spirit had somehow entered another living form at his death. There's a long word for the concept of a soul transferring from one body to another living creature at the moment of death…But I can't think of it right now."

"Then you actually saw your partner in his new…ah, form?" Dr. Stern asks, adjusting his glasses again and thumbing quickly through the pages on his clipboard, before looking back down at Arthur, his eyebrows lifted questioningly. "And somehow recognized this new form as really being Mr. Tomas Cordoba?"

Arthur nods.

"Later at home that same night. I had gone into the kitchen, and I found a letter traced into some spilled sugar on the counter. The letter, T, you see."

The doctor is quiet, pen at rest.

"Maybe one of the girls trying to be funny, I thought at first," Arthur continues. "But why would they draw a T? The girls?

"I glanced around nervously, but there was no one else there. No one. I was all alone…except for a large fly perched on the sugar bowl."

Arthur stops at that point and swallows dryly, sucking in a deep gasp of air, before Dr. Stern bids him continue, beckoning silently with his pen.

"Then I remembered," Arthur finally whispers hoarsely. It hit me like a blow in the pit of the stomach. There had been a large fly circling over Tommy's head when I dumped him into the garbage truck—"

"A, a…f-fly?" the doctor sputters, unable even to stammer his characteristic second question.

"Yes, the fly was Tommy, and he'd traced the T in the spilled sugar," Arthur explains, grinding his teeth with disgust.

"He just sat there on the lip of that sugar bowl, staring at me arrogantly with his multi-faceted eyes. The filthy little creep.

"I made a sudden swat at him with a rolled-up newspaper—"

"Missed."

"Again and again."

"But I could never hit him. And if I went any place else in the house—upstairs, the bedrooms, the bathroom—he always followed. All over the place, he tormented me with his buzzing presence; and I could never smash him, because he was always too fast…"

Arthur pauses again, a sly look creeping across his features.

"But a clever plan suddenly occurred to me." He nods and grins, as if congratulating himself.

"First, I dashed about the house, making sure all the windows and doors were closed and locked. Then I ran down into the basement where I sloshed kerosene all over everything stored down there, and back up to the first floor, splashing—"

"Wait!" Dr. Stern cries out, holding up the flat of his hand. "You mean to tell me, that's why you burnt down your home, leaving your wife and two daughters trapped inside? To get rid of a fly, one fly?"

The doctor pushes his glasses back up his nose, a kind of tired expression in his watery eyes.

"Yes, to get rid of one special fly, who was really Tommy. I didn't have time to warn the others upstairs." Arthur nods, a look of relief on his red, sweaty face.

"Dr. Sterns?"

The doctor turns away and looks at Eugene, who is pointing down the hallway. "That call you were expecting? In your office."

"Okay, thank you," Dr. Stern says, handing his clipboard to the big tech. He glances back down at Arthur. "Excuse me, Mr. Whithurst, I'll only be a few minutes."

The doctor hurries down the hall.

Eugene withdraws back across the hallway to his chair and picks up his magazine.

I wait and watch.

A minute or two later, the drug obviously dissipating from his blood, Arthur's eyes widen with fear, as he stares up and finally notices me. Then, he twists and turns side-to-side frantically, apparently trying to stand up and escape, but the straitjacket restrains him so much, that he only manages to finally flip himself over in a prone but still vulnerable position, completely exhausted by his efforts. After resting a few seconds he rolls back over supine and gives up struggling, looking up at me again with a resigned expression on his flushed face.

Oh, Arthur, Arthur, after that story you told, you are going to be here a long, long time, I voice silently, as I circle over him, slowly dropping lower and lower.

But I will visit you every day.

Yes, I will.

I land and walk across his cheek, thoroughly enjoying his screams of terror…

Galen Hendry almost had it—the melody bobbing near his threshold of consciousness. Dum, dee, dum…So close, now; but the noise in the classroom increased to a din, jarring the elusive tune from his head.

Brrrring. The din died as the bell rang.

"Thank God, it's the Governor calling," he joked lamely to Pat, the classroom aide, as he slumped down on the corner of the teacher's desk. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, trying to pull the melody back.

"W-w-w…"

Someone was touching Galen's knee. He opened his eyes.

Bobby peered up at him through thick glasses, a blue mustache smeared across his upper lip. "W-wake up, teacher," the chubby boy stammered, "t-t-t…time to go home." He patted Galen's knee affectionately with his stubby fingers. "T-time to go—"

"I know, Bobby, I know," Galen said, escorting the boy to the door of the Special Ed trailer. Outside Pat had the rest of the class boarding the bus.

"Bye, bye, teacher."

"Goodbye, Bobby," Galen answered, watching the boy shuffle slowly out to the curb and waiting bus. Bobby always had all the time in the world.

Galen finally turned back, his eyes sweeping over the mess—wads of butcher paper thrown about, overturned jars of poster paint, dirty brushes scattered everywhere. What a disaster. He should've saved time for cleanup instead of playing name-that-tune with himself.

"Oh, no, Galen." It was Jaime Morris, the classroom teacher. She peeked in at what was left of her room, making Galen feel like a student guilty of a class misdemeanor. She leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. "Boy, it must've been at least a nine on the Richter."

"I guess it got away from me, Jaime," Galen said, shrugging apologetically. "I didn't watch the time. I'll stay over and help clean up." He sighed and added, "I just don't know if I'm actually going to survive the whole year—"

"Hey, Bub," the young woman said, smiling, "forget the big cleanup. Let's go over to the Blue Willow. I'm springing for tea and whatever." She brushed at the wrinkles in her white blouse and ran her fingers through her short, kinky, brown hair. "Come on." She took Galen's arm, marching him down the trailer steps, then across Taner Street to the cafe facing St. Helena Elementary School.

Inside the Blue Willow, Jaime ordered a pot of herbal tea for them. "Hey, don't worry about it," she counseled, pouring tea. "Most teachers get the first year blues—feel ineffective, even consider quitting. Special Ed is even worse, the kids more demanding, more problems—"

"Ah, Jaime," Galen interrupted, "you know it's more than that. Hell, I'm not a teacher. I'm not prepared in any way. Only a provisional art credential."

"Prepared?" She chuckled. "None of us are really prepared. Do you think education courses, or even student teaching, help much?" She held up her hand and continued. "No one is prepared, Galen. Oh, it may be a little tougher for you, being itinerant, seeing all kinds of disabilities, but hang in there, Bub. A year from now you'll be tough and scarred like the rest of us." She grinned, her eyes radiating confidence. "It
does
get easier."

Galen nodded, then sipped his tea.

"Now, forget the kids," Jaime ordered in a mock stern voice. "How's the art coming? Back to sketching yet?"

Galen rubbed his right hand, massaging the stiffened fingers. The drugs helped the pain, but he had been unable to do any art since the arthritis had hit his hands a year ago. He'd given up trying. "Oh, pretty well. I haven't gotten back to my drawing board yet, but the exercises are helping." He dropped his hands out of sight into his lap.

Jaime nodded and changed the subject. She enthusiastically described preparations for a backpacking trip planned for the Sierras during Easter vacation with her friend Stan, an aging mountain climber. The conversation lulled as they sipped their tea. Then Jaime mentioned something about Lynn, Galen's wife, and their property on Oakwood Lane near Napa.

Glancing at his watch, Galen groaned and jumped up from the table. He'd forgotten! "Hey, Jaime, thanks for the tea and everything. I've got to go by the old place today on the way home and put up a for-sale sign. We've got an ad in the
Register
."

He dashed across Taner and slid into the bucket seat of his yellow VW Beetle. He waived at Jaime as he pulled away from the curb. She stood on the curb in front of the Blue Willow, laughing and waving. Great gal, Galen thought, easy-going, helpful…

Pushing the VW down Highway 29 from St. Helena south toward Napa, Galen tried to concentrate on the scenery. He slowed for the villages of Oakville and then Rutherford, the wine country flashing by the windows of the Beetle. Occasional clusters of wood-framed farm buildings interrupted the geometry of the grapevines, rows of gnarly vine stock stretching away from the highway through a continuous carpet of blooming mustard, the rows stopping against the oak-dotted, rolling hills that framed the Napa Valley.

Looks like rain, he decided, after spotting the heavy, gray clouds easing over the western hills, blowing in from the nearby Pacific. He'd have to hurry and get the sign up before it was too dark. He shifted in the seat and took a deep breath, realizing he was bone-tired. That last period had been an ordeal. Most of his classes were a breeze compared to Jaime's. Well, he wouldn't have to contend with them again until next Tuesday.

Galen shook his head, smiling wryly at his own naiveté. Before last September he'd believed that developmentally disabled people often possessed unusual aptitude for art. The idea was probably an example of a belief in a kind of
law-of-compensation
, similar to the popular idea that the blind have exceptional hearing when actually they are just forced to maximize their use of normal hearing. From Galen's short experience—six months—as an itinerant art teacher with Napa County's Office of Special Education, he'd learned it was more like a
law-of-correlation
: If a kid were disabled in one area, the chances were good he was short-changed elsewhere, too. And indeed, multi-handicaps were the rule with his students. Often the secondary handicap was an emotional problem. Galen frowned. Of course his "double-d" students were no more artistically talented than anyone else…At least
he
hadn't stimulated any young Picassos. But maybe that was his fault. He'd seen many of the good classroom teachers, like Jaime, stimulate remarkable achievements, the results often astonishing…

He hit the brakes, spotting the road sign, and turned off 29 onto Oakwood Lane, driving slowly down the bumpy county road until it ended at the driveway to an imposing two-story Victorian. It had been the original farmhouse in the area and was still known as the old Jamison Place, the maiden name of his maternal grandmother. Galen slowed for the driveway bump right next to the magnificent old live oak, slamming his brakes hard as he glimpsed something in the driveway. He flipped open the door and looked back. There, chalked across the mouth of the driveway, was a drawing. An image of Rennie, his daughter, flashed into Galen's head—a smiling round face, shiny wide brown eyes, and cheeks a brushed rose. Good God. He couldn't resist the impulse to stare up into the oak tree where she'd died just a little over a year ago. He couldn't see the tree house through the waxy green leaves, but there was the rope ladder, half its rungs intact. Galen closed his eyes, but he still saw Rennie dangling from the rope ladder, a rung remnant twisted around her neck. He snapped his eyes open to focus. Then he shivered as he eased out of the little car, buttoning his raincoat. Galen stepped closer to the drawing. Of course there had been markings here before: white-chalked, lop-sided squares, with different-sized numbers. He swallowed hard, trying to ease the growing tightness gripping his throat, and he blinked away the tears. She hadn't played hopscotch in the driveway for a long time now.