“We don’t have to hurry. You must be upset by all this.”
“Dazed. I think I’m dazed.”
“Take as long as you need. Call me when you’re ready to talk about it.”
“I appreciate that,” Catherine said.
Archer put his hand on the door of the car, then seemed to hesitate. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Did your grandmother ever talk much about her neighbors?”
“Not that I remember. I did meet Mrs. Horton from around the corner. Apparently they used to drive to the mall together.”
“How about the house down the other direction—the man who lived there? She ever mention him? This would have been ten or more years ago.”
“I don’t remember anything like that. Why?”
“No real reason.” Something personal, she guessed. He was obviously embarrassed to have asked. “Will you do me one favor, Catherine? If you notice anything strange happening, will you give me a call? My number’s on the card. You can reach me pretty much anytime.”
“What do you mean, anything strange?”
“Odd occurrences,” Archer said unhappily.
“Like what? Ghosts, flying saucers, that kind of thing? Is there a lot of that around here?” She couldn’t help smiling.
“Nothing like that. No, look, forget I asked, okay? It’s nothing important. Just kind of a hobby with me.”
He thanked her, she thanked him, he drove away. How odd, Catherine thought as his car vanished into the tree shadows along the Post Road. What an unusual man. What a strange thing to ask.
She didn’t think more about it. A bank of clouds moved in and a steady, sullen rain fell without interruption for most of a week. Catherine stayed in the house and began to itemize some of Gram Peggy’s possessions, room by room. It was depressing weather and depressing work. She felt lost in this big old house, but the rhythms of it—the ticking of the mantel clock and the morning and evening light through the high dusty windows—were familiar and in their own way reassuring.
Still, she was glad when the sun came out. After a couple of warm days the ground had dried and she was able to move around the big back lawn and some distance down a trail into the woods. She remembered taking some of these walks with Gram Peggy and how intimidating the forest had seemed— still seemed, in fact. There was enough red cedar behind the house to make her feel very small, as if she’d shrunk, Alice-style, to the size of a caterpillar. The trail was narrow, probably a deer trail; the forest was cool and silent.
She took these walks almost every day and before long she began to feel a little braver. She ranged farther than Gram Peggy had ever taken her. Some of this woodland was municipal property, and farther east it had been staked out by the timber interests, but nobody up along the Post Road cared too much about property lines and Catherine was able to wander fairly freely. Most days she hiked south down the slope of the hill, keeping east of the road and the houses.
She bought a guidebook and taught herself to identify some of the wildlife. She had seen a salamander, a thrush, and something she believed was a “pileated woodpecker.” There was the tantalizing possibility of encountering a black bear, though that hadn’t happened yet. Sometimes she brought her lunch with her; sometimes she carried a sketchbook.
She had already found favorite places in the woods. There was a meadow where she could sit on a fallen log and gaze across a thicket of salal and huckleberry, where the forest sloped away toward Belltower. There was a sandy spot by a creek where she thought she might scatter Gram Peggy’s ashes. And another meadow, farther south, riddled with deer trails, where an abandoned woodshed sagged under a growth of moss.
The woodshed fascinated her. There was something inviting about the cockeyed slant of the door. Surely there was nothing inside, Catherine told herself; or only a cord of moldy firewood. But then again there might be an old plough or spinning wheel, something she could clean up and peddle to the antique shops in Belltower. Unless this was somebody’s property, in which case she would be stealing. But she could at least peek.
She had this thought vaguely in mind Wednesday morning, her second week in Belltower, when she packed a bag lunch and went wandering. It was a warm day and she was sweating by the time she passed the creek. She pressed on south, paused to tie her hair up off her neck, hiked past the huckleberry thicket and on down to the woodshed in its sunny meadow.
She approached the door of the ancient structure, high-stepping through berry-bush runners to avoid a stand of fireweed … then she hesitated.
It seemed to her she could hear faint motion inside.
Curiosity killed the cat, Gram Peggy used to say. But she always added the less salutary rider—Satisfaction brought it back. Gram Peggy had been a big believer in satisfied curiosity.
So Catherine opened the creaking woodshed door and peered inside, where a stack of newspapers had moldered for decades, and where something hideous moved and spoke in the darkness.
Eleven
How did it feel to begin life over again, thirty years in the past?
Giddy, Tom thought. Strange. Exhilarating.
And—more often now—frightening.
It wasn’t clear to him when or why the fear had started. Maybe it had been there all along, a subtler presence than now. Maybe it had started when he moved into the house on the Post Road, a steady counterpoint to all the raucous events since. Maybe he’d been born with it.
But it wasn’t fear, exactly; it was a kind of systematic disquiet … and he felt it most profoundly on a hot Thursday afternoon in July, when he could have sworn, but couldn’t prove, that somebody followed him from Lindner’s Radio Supply to Larry Millstein’s apartment.
The day had gone well. Since he’d taken this job Tom had turned in enough reliable work that Max mainly left him alone. The cavernous back room of Lindner’s had begun to feel homey and familiar. Hot days like this, he tipped open the high leaded windows to let the alley breezes through. He was working on a Fisher amplifier a customer had brought in; the output tube had flashed over and one of the power-supply electrolytics was leaking. The capacitors were oil-filled, the kind eliminated under an EPA edict—some years in the future—for their PCB content. The danger, at least at this end of the manufacturing process, was far from mortal. At lunch, Max asked him why he kept the fan so close to his work. “I don’t like the smell,” Tom said.
Toxins aside, Tom had developed a respect for these old American radios and amplifiers. The up-market models were simple, well built, and substantial—the sheer weight of them was sometimes astonishing. Iron-core transformers, steel chassis, oak cabinets, a pleasure to work with. The job was underpaid and offered absolutely no opportunity for advancement, but for Tom it functioned as therapy: something pleasant to do with his hands and a paycheck at the end of the week.
And still—long since the novelty should have worn off— he would look up from his soldering at the calendar on the wall, where the year 1962 was inscribed over a picture of a chunky woman in a lime-green one-piece bathing suit, and he would feel a dizzy urge to laugh out loud.
What was time, after all, except a lead-footed march from the precincts of youth into the country of the grave? Time was the force that crumbled granite, devoured memory, and seduced infants into senility—as implacable as a hanging judge and as poetic as a tank. And yet, here he was—almost thirty years down a road that shouldn’t exist; in the past, where nobody can visit.
He was no younger than he had been and he was nothing like immortal. But time had been suborned and that made him happy.
“You’re always looking at that calendar,” Max said. “I think you’re in love with that girl.”
“Head over heels,” Tom said.
“That’s the calendar from Mirvish’s. They use the same picture every year. Every summer since 1947, the same girl in the same bathing suit. She’s probably an old lady now.”