Stories (2011) (115 page)

He was reminded of a science fiction film he had once seen,
Invaders
from Mars
. A kid had seen a space ship fall from the sky one night and land
in a sandlot in back of his house. Of course no one believed him, and one by
one, the aliens turned his family into zombies.

Lightning again, and Pete saw it this time, recognized it. A
wave of relief washed through him. Halfway between his neighbor’s house and his
own was a large rubber duck. The biggest he had ever seen, but nonetheless, a
rubber duck.

It was clear to him now. The neighbor’s kid had left the
duck out with his other toys and the water had washed it into his yard. That
was why it had seemed larger with each lightning flash. Optical illusion. It
was slowly sliding down the incline, getting closer, and since lightning can
play tricks on the senses, it only seemed to be growing. It was merely getting
closer at a faster rate than he had realized.

The lightning flashed again.

Pete blinked. The duck was very big now, too damned big to
be any optical illusion. It was less than a yard away from his window.

It was some kind of trick, had to be. Someone had inflated a
huge rubber duck and . . .

Lightning flashed again.

The duck’s rubbery bill punched through the glass not less
than an inch from Pete’s face. Fragments of glass flew every which way. Pete
opened his mouth, froze. He could not move. The duck was as big as a cow.

"Quack," it said, revealing dagger-size teeth in
its otherwise duck-like countenance.

And then it grabbed Pete by the head, pulling him through
the window before he had time to scream or see the other rubber-like ducks
falling from the sky, growing rapidly as they touched ground.

"…and the soul, resenting
its lot, flies groaningly to the shades."

The Aeneid, by Virgil

There are no leaves left on the trees, and the limbs are weighted with ice and
bending low. Many of them have broken and fallen across the drive. Beyond the
drive, down where it and the road meet, where the bar ditch is, there is a
brown, savage run of water.

It is early afternoon, but already it is growing dark, and
the fifth week of the storm raves on. I have never seen such a storm of wind
and ice and rain, not here in the South, and only once before have I been in a
cold storm bad enough to force me to lock myself tight in my home.

So many things were different then, during that first storm.

No better, but different.

On this day, while I sit by my window looking out at what
the great, white, wet storm has done to my world, I feel at first confused, and
finally elated.

The storm. The ice. The rain. All of it. It's the sign I was
waiting for.

––

I thought for a moment of my wife, her hair so blonde it was almost white as
the ice that hung in the trees, and I thought of her parents, white-headed too,
but white with age, not dye, and of our little dog Constance, not white at all,
but all brown and black with traces of tan; a rat terrier mixed with all other
blends of dog you might imagine.

I thought of all of them. I looked at my watch. There wasn't
really any reason to. I had no place to go, and no way to go if I did. Besides,
the battery in my watch had been dead for almost a month.

––

Once, when I was a boy, just before nightfall, I was out hunting with my
father, out where the bayou water gets deep and runs between the twisted trunks
and low-hanging limbs of water-loving trees; out there where the frogs bleat
and jump and the sun don't hardly shine.

We were hunting for hogs. Then out of the brush came a man,
running. He was dressed in striped clothes and he had on very thin shoes. He
saw us and the dogs that were gathered about us, blue-ticks, long-eared and
dripping spit from their jaws; he turned and broke and ran with a scream.

A few minutes later, the sheriff and three of his deputies
came beating their way through the brush, their shirts stained with sweat,
their faces red with heat.

My father watched all of this with a kind of hard-edged
cool, and the sheriff, a man Dad knew, said, "There's a man escaped off
the chain gang, Hirem. He run through here. Did you see him?"

My father said that we had, and the sheriff said, "Will
those dogs track him?"

"I want them to they will," my father said, and he
called the dogs over to where the convict had been, where his footprints in the
mud were filling slowly with water, and he pushed the dog's heads down toward
these shoe prints one at a time, and said, "Sic him," and away the
hounds went.

We ran after them then, me and my dad and all these fat cops
who huffed and puffed out long before we did, and finally we came upon the man,
tired, leaning against a tree with one hand, his other holding his business
while he urinated on the bark. He had been defeated some time back, and now he
was waiting for rescue, probably thinking it would have been best to have not
run at all.

But the dogs, they had decided by private conference that
this man was as good as any hog, and they came down on him like heat-seeking
missiles. Hit him hard, knocked him down. I turned to my father, who could call
them up and make them stop, no matter what the situation, but he did not call.

The dogs tore at the man, and I wanted to turn away, but did
not. I looked at my father and his eyes were alight and his lips dripped spit;
he reminded me of the hounds.

The dogs ripped and growled and savaged, and then the fat
sheriff and his fat deputies stumbled into view, and when one of the deputies
saw what had been done to the man, he doubled over and let go of whatever
grease-fried goodness he had poked into his mouth earlier that day.

The sheriff and the other deputy stopped and stared, and the
sheriff said, "My God," and turned away, and the deputy said,
"Stop them, Hirem. Stop them. They done done it to him. Stop them."

My father called the dogs back, their muzzles dark and
dripping. They sat in a row behind him, like sentries. The man, or what had
been a man, the convict, lay all about the base of the tree, as did the rags
that had once been his clothes.

Later, we learned the convict had been on the chain gang for
cashing hot checks.

––

Time keeps on slipping, slipping. . . Wasn't that a song?

––

As day comes I sleep, then awake when night arrives. The sky has cleared and
the moon has come out, and it is merely cold now. Pulling on my coat, I go out
on the porch and sniff the air, and the air is like a meat slicer to the brain,
so sharp it gives me a headache. I have never known cold like that.

I can see the yard close up. Ice has sheened all over my
world, all across the ground, up in the trees. The sky is like a black-velvet
backdrop, the stars like sharp shards of blue ice clinging to it.

I leave the porch light on, go inside, return to my chair by
the window, burp. The air is filled with the aroma of my last meal: canned Ravioli,
eaten cold.

I take off my coat and hang it on the back of the chair.

––

Has it happened yet, or is it yet to happen?

Time, it just keep on slippin', slippin', yeah it do.

––

I nod in the chair, and when I snap awake from a deep nod, there is snow
blowing across the yard and the moon is gone and there is only the porch light
to brighten it up.

But, in spite of the cold, I know they are out there.

The cold, the heat, nothing bothers them.

They are out there.

––

They came to me first on a dark night several months back, with no snow and no
rain and no cold, but a dark night without clouds and plenty of heat in the
air, a real humid night, sticky like dirty undershorts. I awoke and sat up in
bed and the yard light was shining thinly through our window. I turned to look
at my wife lying there beside me, her very blonde hair silver in that light. I
looked at her for a long time, then got up and went into the living room. Our
little dog, who made his bed by the front door, came over and sniffed me, and I
bent to pet him. He took to this for a minute, then found his spot by the door
again, laid down.

Finally I turned out the yard light and went out on the
porch. In my underwear. No one could see me, not with all our trees, and if
they could see me, I didn't care.

I sat in a deck chair and looked at the night, and thought
about the job I didn't have and how my wife had been talking of divorce, and
how my in-laws resented our living with them, and I thought too of how every
time I did a thing I failed, and dramatically at that. I felt strange and empty
and lost.

While I watched the night, the darkness split apart and some
of it came up on the porch, walking. Heavy steps full of all the world's
shadow.

I was frightened, but I didn't move. Couldn't move. The
shadow, which looked like a tar-covered human-shape, trudged heavily across the
porch until it stood over me, looking down. When I looked up, trembling, I saw
there was no face, just darkness, thick as chocolate custard. It bent low and
placed hand shapes on the sides of my chair and brought its faceless face close
to mine, breathed on me—a hot languid breath that made me ill.

"You are almost one of us," it said, then turned
and slowly moved along the porch and down the steps and right back into the
shadows. The darkness, thick as a wall, thinned and split, and absorbed my
visitor; then the shadows rustled away in all directions like startled bats. I
heard a dry, crackling leaf sound amongst the trees.

My God, I thought. There had been a crowd of them.

Out there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Shadows.

And one of them had spoken to me.

––

Lying in bed later that night I held up my hand and found that what intrigued
me most were not the fingers, but the darkness between them. It was a thin
darkness, made weak by light, but it was darkness and it seemed more a part of
me than the flesh.

I turned and looked at my sleeping wife.

I said, "I am one of them. Almost."

––

I remember all this as I sit in my chair and the storm rages outside, blowing
snow and swirling little twirls of water that in turn become ice. I remember
all this, holding up my hand again to look.

The shadows between my fingers are no longer thin.

They are dark.

They have connection to flesh.

They are me.

––

Four flashes. Four snaps.

The deed is done.

I wait in the chair by the window.

No one comes.

As I suspected.

The shadows were right.

You see, they come to me nightly now. They never enter the
house. Perhaps they cannot.

But out on the porch, there they gather. More than one, now.
And they flutter tight around me and I can smell them, and it is a smell like
nothing I have smelled before. It is dark and empty and mildewed and old and
dead and dry.

It smells like home.

––

Who are the shadows?

They are all of those who are like me.

They are the empty congregation. The faceless ones. The
failures.

The sad empty folk who wander through life and walk beside
you and never get so much as a glance; nerds like me who live inside their
heads and imagine winning the lottery and scoring the girls and walking tall.
But instead, we stand short and bald and angry, our hands in our pockets,
holding not money, but our limp balls.

Real life is a drudge.

No one but another loser like myself can understand that.

Except for the shadows, for they are the ones like me. They
are the losers and the lost, and they understand and they never do judge.

They are of my flesh, or, to be more precise, I am of their
shadow.

They accept me for who I am.

They know what must be done, and gradually they reveal it to
me.

The shadows.

I am one of them.

Well, almost.

––

My wife, my in-laws, every human being who walks this earth, underrates me.

There are things I can do.

I can play computer games, and I can win them. I have
created my own characters. They are unlike humans. They are better than humans.
They are the potential that is inside me and will never be.

Oh, and I can do some other things as well. I didn't mention
all the things I can do well. In spite of what my family thinks of me. I can do
a number of things that they don't appreciate, but should.

I can make a very good chocolate milkshake.

My wife knows this, and if she would, she would admit that I
do. She used to say so. Now she does not. She has closed up to me. Internally.
Externally.

Battened down hatches, inwardly and outwardly.

Below. In her fine little galley, that hatch is tightly
sealed.

But there is another thing I do well.

I can really shoot a gun.

My father, between beatings, he taught me that. It was the
only time we were happy together. When we held the guns.

––

Down in the basement I have a trunk.

Inside the trunk are guns.

Lots of them.

Rifles and shotguns and revolvers and automatics.

I have collected them over the years.

One of the rifles belongs to my father-in-law.

There is lots of ammunition.

Sometimes, during the day, if I can't sleep, while my wife
is at work and my in-laws are about their retirement—golf—I sit down there and
clean the guns and load them and repack them in the crate. I do it carefully,
slowly, like foreplay. And when I finish my hands smell like gun oil. I rub my
hands against my face and under my nose, the odor of the oil like some kind of
musk.