CENSUS_What Lurks Beneath Page 3

  As he walked past the couch, he retrieved his phone and again typed in his password. He set an alarm for 4:30 a.m. then hit the email icon to check his inbox. Sure enough, while he’d been sending out responses in the wee hours, a couple of his clients had taken the opportunity to send him new urgent requests.

  Dave stopped in the short hallway as he opened a couple of the emails and quickly scanned them. He needed another hour of sleep if he was going to be worth anything in the meetings he’d be leading in just a few hours. None of this appeared to be all that important, and emails sent at 2:30 a.m. would just have to wait.

  Dave shut the bedroom door behind him, put the phone on the night- stand, and collapsed onto the bed. He preferred to leave the door open, but had found that Sampson felt the need—a compulsion—to defend the perimeter against unseen foes. This defense came in the form of barking and howling at the front door, and typically took place in the wee hours—like now. With the door shut however, Sampson spent the

  night without so much as a murmur, on a towel parked at the foot of the bed.

  The alarm went off at what felt like thirty seconds later, and Dave wearily fumbled for the phone to turn off the alarm. He was so tired that he felt nauseous, but he’d learned that enough caffeine would eventually make that feeling pass.

  He spent the next hour showering, shaving and ironing a dress shirt

  —with intermittent email checks and large cups of coffee sprinkled throughout. He also let Sampson outside so he could bark at anything foolish enough to attract his attention.

  By the time he’d finished all of his duties and loaded his truck, the sun was coming up. He went around the house, turning off the various lights, putting the air conditioner up to 78⁰, and made sure that the iron and the coffee machine were unplugged, all-the-while apologizing to Sampson for his upcoming solitude.

  As he flicked off the overhead light in his bedroom and prepared to draw the blackout curtains to cut down the heat from the afternoon sun, some- thing caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it earlier when it was pitch dark, but with the light now coming solely from the outside, it seemed like there was something drawn on the large picture window across from his bed.

  The old farm house had been built before air conditioning was commonly available. The solution in those days was tall ceilings to draw the heat upwards. Dave didn’t understand how anyone could have survived with- out air conditioning, and he was glad that one of the prior owners had gone to the time and expense of putting in a system. A subsequent owner had put in oversized picture windows in the bedroom as well as the main room. The windows came within two feet of the ten-foot ceiling and were eight feet wide.

  He walked a couple of steps to the middle of the window. The conden- sation build-up on the outside of the window pane from the air condi- tioner’s never-ending battle with the heat outside created a cloudy, drip- ping palette every morning. In the center of this palette, at the very top of the window, the uniform pattern of condensation was broken by what appeared to be a large, smiling face that had been pressed against it.

  A sick feeling came over Dave as he took a step closer and looked up at the face that was at least six inches taller than him—and Dave was six- feet tall. He retreated and sat on the bed, which allowed him to also see handprints at either side of the window. Sampson, sensing something amiss, whined at the doorway as Dave stood back up and, placing his head beneath the face, tried to mimic the outstretched hands. Stretching his arms to their fullest, his hands fell a foot short of reaching those imprinted on the window. His large hands were half the size of those in the window. He found himself looking up at the face, which was becoming blurred by the water droplets now running down the window

  —turning up the air conditioner, and the heat from the morning sun, had broken the fragile temperature differential that created the condensation.

  Dave backed away from the window, maintaining eye contact with the face, until he bumped into the molding that framed his open bedroom door. He then shook his head to clear it, and to break his gaze, then reached up to his temple in reaction to the pain that once again flared in that spot.

  He took a few additional steps into the bathroom and fumbled in the medicine cabinet for another bottle of aspirin. He gulped a few down, this time with the aid of a handful of water from the tap, and gripped the sides of the vanity. He needed to get going. There wasn’t time for distractions—but his curiosity overcame all his other impulses.

  A few minutes later he trudged around the side of the house. In place of the work dress he’d just had on, he now wore rubber mud boots that

  reached the middle of his calves. His slacks were tucked into the rubber boots to keep them dry in the tall, dew-covered grass. He rounded the corner of the house and stared at the large window from the outside.

  The sun had continued to rise, and the condensation now ran freely down the window. He walked closer to it and could still see the traces of the face and the outstretched hands. He looked down and saw that wherever he stepped he’d made a distinct impression in the blanket of dew that covered the grass. He looked all around and found that the only visible footprints were his.

  He also realized that he’d forgotten that the house sat on pilings and was elevated about two feet above the ground. He looked up at the remains of the face, two-and-a-half-feet above him, and absently bit his lip. Could this have been traced on the window with silicone, as a prank, by the prior owner’s kids? Why wouldn’t he have noticed it before?

  His pondering was interrupted by Sampson, who jumped up onto the lower frame of the window from the inside and barked. Dave felt his heart skip as he jumped back in fright, tripped and landed heavily on his butt among the tall, wet grass. The murky image of Sampson’s nose applying slobber to the inside of the window was framed eerily by the face and outstretched hands.

  Dave slowly got to his feet, wiping at his now soaked slacks that he’d need to change.

  “It’s OK boy. It’s OK.” He wasn’t sure if these words were for Sampson or himself, but they seemed to help a little.

  He turned away from the window and walked back toward the front of the house, then had a better idea and headed towards the utility shed. It was likely overkill but he’d gotten in the habit of turning off the water at the well whenever he left, after having a lousy wet experience with a broken pipe a couple of years before. Since he was already out here, and

  already wet, he might as well flip the lever. He knew that he was just distracting himself, but played along nonetheless.

  As he opened the door to the shed he looked down towards the spot where had previously noticed the small pile of Camel cigarette butts. The doorknob still in one hand, he used his rubber boot to push at the tall, wet grass.

  He then let go of the doorknob, bent down and used his hands to push aside the grass, searching for the butts that he’d seen only yesterday. His manic movements produced nothing but wet hands covered in bits of grass. The cigarette butts were gone.

  Dave walked slowly back to the patio and slumped into one of the thick wooden chairs. He leaned forward so that his head almost reached his knees, then used his hands to squeeze the sides of his head. The pain didn’t subside, but Sampson now barked at him from inside the house and his phone again buzzed in his pocket.

  These episodes of forgetfulness, confusion or misremembering things and events were now happening regularly. He continued to squeeze his head, trying to clear it and move past the pain, while fighting off the idea that maybe there was actually something wrong with him. A drop of sweat rolled off his nose and made a small splatter on the dusty stone floor of the patio. He stared at the pattern of the splatter as another bead of sweat fell beside it, overlapping the splatter of the first.

  The pain in his head hit a crescendo, then leveled off. Dave continued to watch the design his beads of sweat created at his feet.

  CHAPTER THREE: Getting Some Use Out of It

  Over a week later Dave again found h
imself on his cell phone, stuck talking with a client as he tried to gather his laptop, garment and duffle bags together, so he could flee his house for another client road trip.

  Marilyn, still wearing her white, terrycloth robe, sat at the nearby break- fast table sipping coffee out of an oversized yellow mug, and pecking at the laptop in front of her. Dave knew without looking that she was watching him.

  “Yes. No problem. I’ll be on the road all day, but I should have time to pull that together

  tonight.”

  Dave winced at the response he received.

  “Uh huh. I understand. I will do my best but I’m in meetings all day,” was what he said. What he thought was:

  If this report was so important, maybe you could’ve thought about it a day or two before you needed it!

  Dave laid his laptop bag on the table and rubbed his temple. “OK. Sure. No, I definitely see where you’re coming from. OK. We’ll talk very soon. Thank you.”

  He stopped rubbing his temple long enough to punch the button to end the call, and then gently tossed the phone onto the table next to the lap- top bag. He pulled out a chair at the end of the table, opposite Marilyn, and sat heavily, running his hands through his short hair.

  He was still staring at the floor when Marilyn broke the silence. “Are you still having the headaches? I saw you rubbing your head again.”

  Dave focused on a defect, in the form of a small hole in the gray grout between the tiles below him. Was this it? Is this when he unloaded, and it all got real? She watched him struggle with the impossible load he was under while she sipped coffee, surfed headlines and then pretended to feign an interest in his headaches? His monstrous, pulsing, non-stop headaches.

  He shifted his attention to a pockmark on the top of his otherwise blem- ish-free black dress shoes. Adam was already at school. Maybe it was time to end the charade and make a clean break. It would be amicable. There was enough to go around, and even if there wasn’t, anything was better than this—this facade of a life. But Adam…he’d never get cus- tody. She’d get the house and his kid—his favorite thing in the world. Adam.

  “It’s nothing. It’ll pass.” He stood up, shoved his phone into his pocket and began gathering his bags.”

  She stood and walked over to prevent him from leaving without giving her a kiss. A kiss he didn’t mean, and wasn’t even sure he wanted but was expected nonetheless. She pursed her lips and, awkwardly holding all the bags, he leaned down and gave her a peck.

  She smiled at him, potentially oblivious to all the thoughts coursing through his head. “You’re staying at the farm?”

  He willed himself not to change his expression, and nodded. The farm. He hadn’t been there in a couple of weeks as his recent round of client

  What Lurks Beneath

  meetings had all taken place in the eastern and northern parts of the state. He had simply put the farm out of his mind and successfully ignored the doubts and questions it raised.

  Obsessing over details, while ignoring pain and emotion, was his coping mechanism. It was how he had survived his marriage. He stared at Marilyn and wondered if now was the time to stop ignoring the pain inflicted by their marriage. Then he remembered all the things he had already promised, and over-promised, that he would accomplish for his clients today. If he pulled the fragile thread on his relationship he would spend at least the entire morning wrapped up in heated argument and subsequent fall-out. He would fail to deliver for his clients, and probably at least seriously wound, the golden goose that he was going to need, however things went with his marriage.

  His phone broke his internal spell by vibrating, notifying him of yet an- other likely emergency. Marilyn’s stare turned inquisitive. His lengthy internal debate was now creating confusion in the outside world. He re- turned her stare. He had planned on staying at a hotel as a way to avoid dealing with his anxiety at the farm. He still could. But perhaps it would be better for him to try and face his demons there while he kept the rest outside the proverbial gate. Also, telling Marilyn he was not staying at the farm would just lead to another fight over how useless and expensive it was. “Yes, I’ll be at the farm.”

  She nodded, with just a hint of curiosity still in her eyes, “I’m glad you’re getting some use out of it. It’s a lot of money to tie up for something we don’t use.”

  She turned and made the short trek back to her chair and her laptop. His eyes trailed her and he inwardly congratulated himself on dodging the bullet she had been all too ready to fire.

  “Oh, we use it plenty.” He noticed the frown that appeared on her face and rashly upped the ante. “Maybe we’ll even make a weekend of it soon as a family.”

  27

  He watched as her smile morphed into a false smile as she continued to peck at her laptop.

  Yeah, I’ll admit that I’m a little spooked about the place, maybe even more spooked by the state of affairs—poor word choice—between my own ears, but if it makes you even a little uncomfortable I’ll take the pain.

  “That sounds great. Drive safely okay?”

  Dave nodded, a little nauseated at the depths of his depravity, and a little curious as to how she could continue to be oblivious to how he actually felt. He clutched the various bags to his body, stepped over the limp form of Sampson in front of the back door, and left what no longer felt like his home.

  As he placed the bags into the back seat of his truck he continued to think about what came next. He knew Marilyn was cheating on him, and was surprised at how little he cared. But Adam. He needed to be careful with Adam…

  CHAPTER FOUR: Bill Jennings

  Two weeks later, in the fading light of the setting sun, Dave and Samp- son returned to the farm for another round of work. The whole family had come out the prior weekend, but Marilyn forbade chores during family visits, as she and Adam didn’t want to hang around watching him mow fields or chop wood. Adam was too small to push a mower, and the amount of protective gear his mother demanded when he attempted to use the weed-eater made him look like a miniature version of the Miche- lin Tire Man.

  Their family time at the farm had been uneventful. His nervousness at bringing Adam back to a spot that, as of late, had given Dave such mental anguish, had been offset by his childish glee in making Marilyn spend the weekend in the country. Adam, as always, loved his time there and, best yet, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Nothing strange ever seemed to happen in front of anyone besides Dave.

  Dave, parked outside his gate, fumbled with the lock. He absently pulled up on his belt, as his slacks started to slide down. He had lost fifteen pounds in the last month. Losing weight, it turned out, was easy if the only thing consumed was stress. Even with the best efforts to push his worries down to the point where he could no longer feel them, he still had his clients, and his marriage, to contend with.

  The small key resisted his efforts to make it turn, and he made himself a mental note to douse the cranky, likely-rusty lock with oil, as he’d have

  no way to cut through the special edition, cut-proof lock and chain if it seized. As if it had read his mind, the key froze in place. Although it was 6:15 in the evening, the oppressive heat was unrelenting, and a bead of sweat rolled down Dave’s nose and landed on the lock. His dress shirt was still hanging in his truck, which was good, because he’d already sweated through the undershirt he was wearing. He cursed silently to himself, tried jiggling the key one more time, then gave up before he broke the key off in the lock, creating a bigger problem.

  The heavy chain-and-padlock assembly, still very much locked, thudded against the sturdy gatepost. Dave swore again as he regrouped, grabbed the lock, and slowly unwound the frozen key through the ring that held keys for all the various locks around the property. Once he’d freed the keychain, he pocketed it, grabbed the top of the warm metal gate, and gingerly swung himself over to the other side as his dress shoes slipped on the round bars.

  Sampson, who had raced off into the fields when they had arrived
, now emerged from the tall grass to greet him, with a full complement of sticker burrs and other debris tangled in his coat. Sampson leapt in the air to express his joy at returning to the farm, and Dave had to extend a knee to keep him at bay. As Sampson raced away, Dave looked down at his dress slacks and saw that the right leg was now covered in dog hair, sticker burrs, and slobber.

  He hitched his pants up yet again and, sidestepping a large mound of fire ants, walked down the caliche road toward his farmhouse, and the can of household oil in the nearby shed, that he needed to get the lock working again. The twin ruts where tires routinely met the caliche road were kept mostly free of grass by the repeated passing of his truck. For no particular reason, he walked along the left side, putting the grassy area in the middle of the road and its ever-increasing population of fire-ant mounds on his right.

  Normally when he was out on this stretch he would have had his weed- eater in his hand, having just finished battling the grass and vines around the front gate. This time, with nothing to distract him, he took in the view ahead of him and truly realized the visual stain created by the ugly power lines cutting across his property.

  Dave had told himself when he and his wife bought the place that it didn’t matter, and from a physical perspective, unless you were attempting to fly a kite on the property, it truly didn’t. Now, as he walked under the large series of power lines suspended fifty feet in the air by massive, metal transmission towers, he caught himself wondering how he’d ever been so oblivious. The low hum of the lines suspended from the mini Eiffel towers reached out to him. His eyes followed the sound as the lines met up with the next metal tower to the side of the upper pond, he then proceeded down the ragged path the utility company had cut through the woods that made up more than twenty of the thirty acres of his property. He reached up without thinking and absently rubbed the right side of his head. His headache had taken up permanent residence and he’d given up on aspirin and ibuprofen as all they were doing was giving him stomach aches that rivaled the pain in his head.