The Calling Page 4

  • • •

  MY GRANDMOTHER’S TRAILER was some luxury model very similar to everyone else’s on The Hill. In a very cramped space it included a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and living room. Outside my grandmother’s trailer was a wooden swing. It was set up so it faced down into the valley. This was where my grandmother and I sat that Friday evening around eight-thirty, watching the fading glow of the sun.

  “Isn’t this nice, Christopher?” Her voice was deep and pleasant, almost somber. She didn’t wait for me to answer before saying, “I’m glad you came. I wish it could have been under different circumstances, but I’m glad you’re here. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you last.”

  I didn’t say anything. There were questions I wanted to ask, questions I’d been holding back since I first saw her this week. Questions like where she’d been for the past ten years, did she ever think of me, did she even care.

  My uncle had already left us, driving to his apartment in Horseheads. He wanted to get a few hours of sleep before starting his midnight shift. He had only one bedroom, or else I’d be staying with him. Instead I was being put up in one of the extra trailers The Hill’s owner kept around. Dean had called him, explained the situation, and the man was more than happy to let me stay there. It was much smaller than my grandmother’s trailer, much more cramped, with only a bed and a shower. Behind an overpowering scent of Lysol was the faint odor of mold and must. I had set my things down and walked the short distance up to my grandmother’s, where she told me she just put a frozen pizza in the oven. She suggested we wait on the swing, and now here we’d been sitting for almost ten minutes.

  Somewhere behind us, in one of the trailers, a window was open. The sound of Wheel of Fortune could faintly be heard.

  Beside me, my grandmother made a noise. It was the kind of noise a person makes when she’s thinking of something happy, something fun, and starts to laugh but then stops.

  “You probably don’t remember,” she said, “because it was so long ago, but one Christmas your parents brought you up here to visit. This was when we lived in our old house. You were six, I think. Your grandpa told you Santa Claus was coming to see you, and you got all excited and—and your face was just so precious. Your smile, I mean.”

  I watched her as she spoke, noticed how her jaw worked and how her eyes stared down at the grass, as if back in time.

  “So Christmas Eve came, and there was this knock at the door. You started running around trying to find your grandpa because you knew, you just knew, it was Santa. Your father answered the door, and sure enough, there he was. His suit wasn’t the best quality, not like the kind you see those men wearing at the mall, but it was red and the old man inside had white hair and a long beard.

  “Well, you just couldn’t believe it. Like your grandpa said, Santa Claus was here. He came into the house and sat down, and you got right up there on his knee. He asked whether you’d been a good boy, and you told him yes you were, that you were a very good boy. Then he asked what you wanted for Christmas. And everything you asked for, Christopher, he pulled right out of his bag.”

  She smiled.

  “I can still remember that costume. Your grandpa’s beard kept coming off, and he kept putting it back in place, but you never said anything. Your father and uncle had to leave the room, they were laughing so hard. And your mother, she just smiled and kept taking pictures. Then when he had given you all your presents, he left, and five minutes later your grandfather without his suit came in. He said he had to go into town for some milk, and when you told him he’d missed Santa, he acted so upset. He asked you to tell him everything that happened, and you did. You told him everything.

  “And watching you, I wondered if you knew. As if the entire time when your grandpa came in with that red suit and beard on, you knew it was him, but didn’t say anything. You just went along like it really was Santa Claus, because you wanted to make him happy. You wanted to make him think that he was actually doing something you’d love him for.”

  She looked at me.

  “Did you?” Her voice had become a whisper. “Did you know the entire time?”

  I remembered what Steve had told me earlier that day, how time changes things, that people get over stuff. And as much as the memory meant to her, as much as the whole thing seemed so important, I shrugged with an I-can’t-remember expression on my face.

  She stared at me for a moment, then smiled. “It doesn’t matter anyway, I guess. Just something I thought about, no big thing. But Christopher, I’ve only been in love twice my whole life. Once when I was just a small girl, and it was really nothing more than a hopeless crush on a man twice my age. The other was your grandpa, and it was true love because he was also in love with me. And when two people are in love with each other, they share a special bond that nobody else can touch. So believe me when I tell you, your grandpa did love you. I don’t care what everybody says he did, you were his only grandchild and he loved you more than anything. You have to believe that.”

  I smiled but said nothing. I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, because I didn’t want to lie to her. And as much as I wanted to believe it, to believe my grandfather had actually been sane and loved me, I simply couldn’t.

  • • •

  MUCH LATER THAT night, Mrs. Roberts—my grandmother’s good friend who lived two trailers up the drive—stopped by. Nancy, she wanted me to call her, but I wouldn’t. She was seventy-something, a few years older than Grandma, and it didn’t feel right calling a stranger much older than myself by her first name.

  “Christopher,” she said, shaking my hand, “it’s very nice to meet you.”

  She smiled and adjusted the dark glasses on her face. She had a severe form of meningitis, my grandmother had told me, which caused photosensitivity to her eyes. Lately the condition had worsened and the antibiotics she normally took had begun failing, so her doctor suggested she keep her glasses on all day and even at night.

  I told her it was very nice to meet her too.

  It was almost ten o’clock, and I was ready to head back to my trailer. The pizza had been good though a little burnt, and the discussion minimal. For the past hour we’d just been watching whatever few stations Grandma’s little Magnavox—with rabbit ears antenna, both stretched wide—picked up. I’d wanted to leave sooner, but didn’t want to hurt my grandmother’s feelings. Now I had my way out.

  I gave my grandmother a hug, told her I’d see her in the morning, and wished both ladies goodnight. Then I was out the screen door and headed down the dirt drive. My pace was fast but then quickly slowed, until I was standing still. Around me, the night was alive with insects, the wind, the sporadic traffic down on 13 that could faintly be heard up here. Many of The Hill’s residents had gone to bed, because there was hardly any noise coming from any of the trailer homes. In fact, only a few had lights on inside.

  For a moment I felt as if this might work out after all. That I could stay up here while Steve and the rest of the police force conducted their investigation and then captured the son of a bitch that killed my parents. For a moment, I actually felt safe.

  Then I had the feeling I was being watched.

  My body suddenly tense, I turned my head slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

  A tall figure stood off in the darkness, right in front of an RV parked across the lane. The figure had a cigarette in its hand; I could see the red of the tip clearly, first at the figure’s side, then lifted up to the figure’s face.

  I don’t know why, especially because it was so dark, but I forced a smile, gave a quick wave.

  The figure didn’t return either. It just stood there another moment, taking one last drag, before dropping the butt to the ground, then turning and opening the door of the RV, the hinges on the screen door rusted so badly that in the dark silence of night it sounded like they were screaming in agony.

  Chapter 5

  Early that morning it had begun to rain. I lay awake in bed—which w
as nothing more than a moldy mattress covered with fresh white linens—for close to an hour, staring at the picture of my parents that I had fastened into the ceiling. Above me, the rain tapped out an irregular but consistent beat on the aluminum roofing, until about nine o’clock, when it stopped completely. Then I waited another half hour before taking a quick shower and dressing into jeans and a T-shirt.

  I was out the door and headed toward Grandma’s trailer, my sneakers squishing in the wet grass and mud, when I first saw Joey Cunningham.

  He was a small black kid, standing no higher than five feet tall. He wore a dark blue windbreaker, the sleeves pulled up, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he walked down the drive. His sneakers were gray but nondescript, something bought from a warehouse or bargain store. The glasses on his plain face were thick and goggle-like, and as we passed each other, he looked up at me and smiled.

  I nodded at him but that was it, and a second later he was behind me. His smile stayed in my mind, though; it was like one of those smiles friends give each other, not strangers. Like this kid somehow knew me.

  The idea was unsettling and I decided to forget him completely, when behind me I heard him say, “Did you ever wonder if the animals in the Garden of Eden could t-t-talk?”

  I paused, my right foot unwillingly stuck in a puddle.

  “I mean, before Eve who else did Adam have t-to t-t-talk to? God was there, I guess, but don’t you think it’d be cool if the animals t-talked?”

  Slowly, hesitantly, I took my foot out of the muddy water and turned.

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. “My name’s Joey. What’s yours?”

  “Chris.”

  “Nice t-t-to meet you, Chris.” His handshake was firm and strong, surprising for his age and size.

  I asked him if he lived around here.

  Joey shook his head. “Nah, not around here. Actually, I don’t live anywhere. Me and my dad travel around a lot. He speaks at churches.” He pointed past my grandmother’s trailer at an RV sitting along the drive on that side—what some of the locals called Lane B. Parked beside it was a blue Geo Metro. “That’s ours.”

  I nodded, thinking briefly of the figure smoking last night. Joey looked to be ten, maybe eleven years old. But the way he spoke, the way he presented himself, he seemed much older.

  Joey asked, “So do you live around here?”

  I told him no, that I was just visiting.

  “Oh yeah? Family or friends?”

  “Family.” The word felt strange to say.

  “Cool,” he said, nodding, but that was it.

  Silence fell between us. It should have felt awkward but for some reason it didn’t. We were just two strangers, standing underneath an overcast sky, while down in the valley some thin fog had settled.

  Finally I motioned toward Grandma’s and said, “Well, I should get going.”

  “Right. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you think the animals could t-talk?”

  I shrugged. “I really don’t know. What do you think?”

  Joey seemed to ponder his own question a few seconds, before saying, “You know, I’m not sure either. But I think it’d be awesome if they did. I’ll see you around.”

  Then he turned and started down the drive, past the various trailers spread out around The Hill. For some reason I expected him to look back and wave, but he didn’t. He just kept walking.

  • • •

  I SPENT A few hours in my grandmother’s trailer, having what she called brunch but which was really just overcooked hamburgers and Tostitos tortilla chips. We played some cards, watched some TV, then she apologized for not being much fun and suggested I check out the Rec House. She said the last time she was inside it was filled with video games and whatnot, stuff I would probably like. I told her I was content right where I was, though in truth I was bored out of my mind.

  Around four o’clock, when Mrs. Roberts stopped by, I stayed for some chitchat and then told them I was going for a walk. Grandma reminded me that we were having dinner with my uncle, and after nodding and saying goodbye, I went outside. The sky was clear for the most part, the grass and drive, except for an occasional puddle, all nicely dried. I started toward the trailer I was staying in when I glanced back toward Half Creek Road, at the cinderblock building resting beside the trailer park’s entrance.

  “What the hell,” I muttered, and started up the drive.

  The only entrance I could find not locked was a screen door located next to an old RC Cola machine. All the buttons were lit up out of order. Opening and closing the door created such a racket that some little dog started barking not too far away.

  The place was dark and cold, the smell of dust everywhere. I tried the switch just inside the door but no light came on. Enough of the sun shone through the dirty windows that I wasn’t walking blind as I made my way around. There were two metal card tables, one with a broken leg. A wide couch that looked retro enough to be from the ’70s, propped in front of an ancient television set. On top of the TV was an original Nintendo console, its gray cover cracked; resting on top of it, two games that I hadn’t played in years: Contra and Duck Hunt. Across the room were three tables: ping-pong, foosball, and pool. The last table’s green surface was marked all over by unforgiving cues.

  Hanging scattered across the ceiling were white paper plates. Written on each in different colored markers were names and locations and short messages. I stopped and read a few, realized they were past visitors to The Hill who’d left these as a kind of memorial to their time spent. One written in wide purple letters read

  We had a GREEEAAAT time! THANKS!!!

  The Trout Family

  Darvills, Virginia, ’93

  while another in blue and yellow read

  The best barbeque EVER hands down

  Can’t wait to come back next summer!

  Bob & Sue Willie

  Luttrell, Tennessee

  All over the walls was a variety of junk, from a chalkboard to framed pictures, to tennis rackets and what looked to be a stuffed armadillo. I walked up to the wall that had Polaroids tacked all over, displaying different activities from organized softball to badminton, to a pig roast and what looked like a marshmallow eating contest. I glanced at these only briefly, trying to catch glimpses of my grandmother or Mrs. Roberts, before deciding to head back out. I turned to leave, not watching where I was going, and stumbled into a card table that had various toys scattered on top. A bright yellow remote control car, balanced on the end, fell off, landing headfirst on the concrete. I didn’t even attempt to check to see if it was okay; I said, “Whoops,” under my breath and headed for the door.

  “Hey, you break it, you buy it.”

  The voice startled me so badly I actually jumped. A soft giggling followed right after, and I turned around, searched the back of the Rec House for the three seconds it took me to spot her. The building was obviously built with greatness in mind—there was a small kitchen, a stock room, and even a single bathroom pushed against the far side. A large opening was in the wall, right above a counter, looking into the kitchen. She sat behind that, a solid shaft of sunlight shining directly toward her. Dust motes floated freely in the glow. For a moment I wondered just what the hell she was doing there, when I noticed the paperback in her right hand. Her left hand was hiding her mouth, before she quickly composed herself.

  “You scared me,” I said, half because it was true, half because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Her hand dropped away from her face. “I scared you,” she said. “This from the guy who could have woke the dead opening a simple screen door.”

  I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but found that I couldn’t. I was stuck. Which was weird, because I never got stuck.

  “It was ... difficult.”

  She nodded, like she understood exactly what I meant. “Yeah, I’m sure it was.”

  There was an awkward silence, so I
asked, “What are you reading?”

  She held the book up so I could see the cover. “Billy Budd by Herman Melville.”

  I made a face. “Good God, why?”

  “It’s on the Summer Reading List for a class I want to take next year. Have you read it?”

  “I skimmed a paragraph or two.”

  “Let me guess, you thought it was boring.”

  “Not really. I just preferred the SparkNotes version more.” I approached her and held out my hand. “I’m Chris, by the way.”

  “I’m Sarah,” she said, shaking my hand. Hers was cold and soft, the fingernails unpainted. “And just because you know my name now, don’t go thinking you’re off the hook. Remember, you break it, you buy it.”

  For a moment my grin faltered. Was she really serious? Who cared for it anyway? It was just a piece of junk in a building full of junk. Then she grinned again and I knew she was joking, and I couldn’t help myself, I started laughing. The first time I’d laughed in a long time.

  • • •

  HER NAME WAS Sarah Porter and she was sixteen years old. Sixteen and a half, really, as she made a point of mentioning that her birthday was in November. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin smooth and white, her nose small. The lighting wasn’t the best where we were inside, but as I later found out her eyes were blue—gentian as my mother the gardener would have liked to say. Her hair was strawberry blond, its length down to her shoulders; every once in a while a lock would fall in front of her face, causing her to push it back behind her ear. She never stood up from behind the counter, so I could only see her T-shirt, which was pink and had some kind of obscure design printed on the front.

  I’ll say this here and now: she was attractive, there was no doubt about that, and any guy in his right mind would have been a fool not to fall for her, but for me I just didn’t feel that way. Who knows, maybe it had to do with my parents, or Mel, or the fact a murderer was supposedly after me, but as I stood there talking with her, I didn’t see her in the back of my mind as someone I could potentially be with. Even that bulk of men’s brains that controls lust—and I’m sure a scientific study has been done somewhere, explaining that particular part takes up ninety-nine percent—wasn’t swayed. Not once did I find myself glancing at her chest, or even wondering what one of her breasts might feel like cupped in my hand. Or the feel of her thighs, her butt, even her tongue inside my mouth. She was just this girl who had scared me, who had actually proved herself just as sarcastic as me, if not more, and I had no problems talking to her. And it wasn’t flirting, either; it was just talk.