A single teardrop spilled from his mother’s eye but she would not turn to him. Denny was racked with sobs, pent up despair flowing out of him, but no second tear came from his mother. Denny had never before felt so alone. He ran upstairs and flung himself on his bed, shaking with emotion. He was anguishing over the deaths of his father and brother. He was somehow enraged and tormented with grief at the same time at his mother. He had avoided this day ever since his mother had begun slipping further and further away. Secretly he had hoped it would end with his mother coming out of her mourning as she hugged him tightly to her. He had desperately prayed for that ending, yet he had put off the confrontation. Tonight was the reason he had put it off for so long. Out of fear that this would be the real ending, with him all alone and his mother trapped in a world that he was no longer a part of. The part of Janice O’Brien that was his mother had died in that accident, too.
No, he told himself, his father and brother were dead but he was not, and neither was his mother! She was there somewhere, buried beneath so much anger and grief that she couldn’t find her way out. Denny sat up and wiped his face. He could not, would not let himself fall into that trap. He just had to figure out a way to break through to her. It had happened tonight in the driveway with Father McCarthy. That was it! The old priest had gotten through to her by just showing up, maybe that was the key. The hopelessness he had felt only moments before was turning into a dangerous optimism.
Denny knew better than to shatter his new-found hope by going downstairs and talking any more to his mother. He knew he would have to take it slow. He roamed about his room, picking up a football and tossing it up in the air as he paced. A fan hummed away in one of the windows, cutting a helpless, hot breeze through the humid room. He plopped down at his desk and examined the football, unable to make out the faded autograph. It reminded Denny of better times, of Jimmy. He placed it on the floor and sent it rolling slowly across the room, not wanting to think about those times, not now.
Instead, he opened his top drawer and took out his journal. He always felt refreshed by putting his thoughts on paper. The very act of writing things down, seeing them in black and white, helped him to really think about them. Sometimes that was a scary prospect, when it came to the things that hurt, like his dad and Jimmy. Like his mom. But most times it helped him figure things out. So he wrote it all down. He paused when he got to the part about Bear, pen poised over the paper, a hollow feeling in his chest. His dog should be curled up under Denny’s feet, like he was every night when Denny sat at his desk. Denny would absently reach down and pat him or scratch his head. He swallowed hard and kept writing. It didn’t get any easier when he began writing about Father McCarthy and the confrontation with his mom. But it raised a question: what was Father McCarthy doing at the Butcher’s house? Denny figured he must have gone to the wrong house; he could picture McCarthy driving out to talk to his mom but pulling into the wrong driveway.
When Denny was working out something in his mind, he did it in the form of a conversation. He would throw an idea out there, and the other voice in his head, The Voice of Reason or The Great Oz, whatever it was, would reply. Denny didn’t always like the answer, but it forced him to work through the tough spots. Tonight, the answer he got frightened him. But wasn’t he coming out of the house, Denny? Yes, I think he was. And we know what that means, don’t we? He stopped the conversation cold. He knew exactly what that meant. He went back to the journal, finishing up with his idea of asking Father McCarthy for help. Now this was a better conversation to have with his mental advisor. He began planning what he would say, and that’s when the long day finally caught up with him. He put his head down on his folded arms, just for a minute, he told himself, and was asleep immediately.
He woke groggily, stiff from sleeping hunched over his desk. It had become somewhat routine for him to fall asleep while writing in his journal. When he didn’t write them down, his thoughts seemed to swim around in his head, making sleep difficult. He placed the journal back in the drawer and switched off his desk lamp, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. From here, he could see all the way down the hill. Everything. Cat-woman’s house, the Butcher’s, Billy’s, and of course, the lake. The surface shimmered under the quarter-moon’s glow, only an occasional ripple disturbing the glass-like appearance in the stagnant air. Denny often sat looking at the lake; the serenity of the view usually had a calming effect. Not so tonight. The tranquility seemed like a facade. Like there was something else hiding, lurking, just out of sight. His gaze shifted beyond the lake to the silhouette of the old hospital. He never realized how it seemed to loom over the lake. Even though that place had its share of disturbing stories, it never seemed so menacing before. He shook his head, thinking about how lately everything spooked him. The cellar, the woods, now the old boarded-up hospital and the lake. As he watched the smooth water, a stray cloud extinguished the moonlight, turning the lake black. Denny found his way to bed and dreamed of nothing.
(11)
Paul Greymore removed another handful of dead leaves and branches from the gutters of his house and glanced up toward the sky for a moment. The sun was hidden behind a thick haze yet the heat was stifling. Too hot for this time of year, he thought as he threw the debris to the ground. He reached his gloved hands into the gutter and this time what he pulled out sent him down a forgotten path to his childhood. It was an old “pinky” ball, barely recognizable from the years spent in the gutter. Paul remembered spending hours during the summer with his best friend Joe Cummings, playing “off the roof.” It seemed so long ago and so much had happened to him that he wondered if the memory was even real. He felt such a deep sadness that he decided to take a break and began climbing down the ladder.
Paul had been shocked to find out from Father McCarthy that Joe and his family had moved into the Barrows’ old house right down the street, and now an idea was forming. As quickly as it came, the sadness began to dissipate as he considered the prospect of visiting his old friend. What if he thinks I did kill all those people? Why else wouldn’t I have heard anything in seventeen years? He pulled the gloves off his hands and wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. With any luck he would have the house livable in a few weeks. Then what?
The sound of an approaching car caught his attention and his heart skipped a beat when the police cruiser pulled into the driveway. Despite the sweltering heat, Paul felt a chill course through him when he saw Cody Crawford step out of the car. The big man ambled slowly across the yard, and Paul moved forward to meet him. Paul was surprised he recognized the man so quickly because the years had not been kind to him. When he testified against Paul at the trial, Crawford looked like he had been cut from granite sitting up on the stand. He had been tall and broad shouldered but now his muscles were buried beneath layers of fat and he carried an enormous gut in front of him. When Crawford got closer, Paul noticed the deep lines on his face and the blood vessels that looked like fireworks exploding on his nose. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.