Pillion
I sold myself out for a six hundred dollar pink helmet. It’s a subtle thing, at first, how we become less us, more them. We move closer to their better-paying supervisor’s job. We give up book club and body-sculpting class for night rides. We only end up looking at the gleaming, snarling Harley Sportster for me in Hayward the one time. At seven thousand dollars, it is just too expensive.
My Sean can do no wrong. First, it is Mrs. Ho’s Fault. I have told that stupid immigrant at the post office twice already that no, the package does not need insurance. Don’t you understand the words, “It’s only a t-shirt,” wench? Just mail the goddamn thing. Second, it is that platinum blonde Jay’s fault at the salon. How is it that I can spend $90 on a color and cut and still look almost exactly the same? Minus a few gray hairs up front, yeah, but basically the same? Third, it is the old woman in the parking lot’s fault. Didn’t they teach you how to parallel park back in 1920, granny? Do you know what Sean’s going to say to me when he sees that black scratch on my well-buffed fender? Have you ever heard him yelling clear down Pearl Street?
I do look forward to the dawn rides. We dart and slice through the tendrils of fog. I might also like the bridge driving. On light traffic days. Hell, even Mrs. Ho’s English is probably improving a little. Still, my rage scratches its way out of my pink, protected scalp. I am angry at myself. For not saying, “No” more. For adopting that needy-ass stray. For letting my perpetual fiancée talk me into the cheaper, beige carpeting. (No matter how much I vacuum, it still reveals our muddy boot tracks.) For letting my “flexible” work hours at the clinic, and the four hundred dollars in my checking account, dwindle down to almost nothing.
Someday I should crank up Sean’s baby, hear her purr, fill her tank, and take off for Seattle. Someday.
*
Horror Nanofiction published by webzines:
My loafers stuck on a cracked rock protruding from the forest floor. My breaths quickened. A squirrel froze mid-climb up the trunk of a smooth-barked beech and watched my stumbling steps impassively. Well, what did you expect? Wood nymphs pointing the way to the scene of horror? Christ, I should have worn boots. The squirrel scurried upwards. The shrub and dirt covered ground rolled slightly and I walked up a small hill, craning my neck forward.
My right food slid away from me on a moss covered rock and my right ankle began to turn. I lurched over to the left to right myself. What if the troopers have it all cordoned off? What if it’s some cruel, twisted country thing and they’re just going through the motions before they arrest the local bully? The path wound past a clump of dense green bushes. As I walked by two young pine trees struggling up towards the sun, I brushed their thin needles and they felt soft in my fingers. Then I reached a tall maple tree. A lone cardinal, feathers flaming, perched atop a thin branch, hinting at the brilliant fall to come. My eyes widened. My steps slowed. My right hand reached forward.
Shuf-shuf-shuffle-shuf. A rustling through the woods froze me in my tracks. The image of a white whiskered Canada lynx, stealing off the pages of my near-forgotten guide book, stalked through my mind. I turned from the bird and pushed into the trees. Faster! Further in! Rushing up another shrub covered hill, my gaze scanned the trees as I steered left past a fork in the path. Loose, thin grained dirt scattered around my shoes. I started to jog, pushing out tiny clumps of the soil as I moved, like a miniature version of the sweeping glacier eons before me.
A few minutes in, I huffed into a walk. Shuffle-shuf. Christ, what is that? Deer? Troopers? Shouldn’t they be releasing the scene by now? This is all public property, isn’t it? My ankle whined in protest. Don’t cripple yourself over a deer, idiot. Not before you’ve seen the scene. Shuffle. Dragging my ankle, I shot for a run and managed a trot.
Winded, I had to stop a few feet later. A scrap of color caught my eye. Walking two steps closer, I saw that it was a piece of fabric. I leaned in to touch the cloth with my finger tips. Whoa, Nelly. No gloves! Do you really want to explain to the cops, to that procedure Nazi Rivera, how your fingerprints got on what could turn out to be evidence? I dropped my bag and fished around inside for an appropriate utensil. First my hand closed on something solid but smooth that crunched under my fingers. What the hell? Fishing it out, I saw that it was my battered press pass. The laminated edge was folded and crumpled and a hardened wedge of green peppermint gum clung to the bottom. Nice. No wonder no one up here takes me seriously! I need to clean that shit up. I dropped it into the outside pocket of my dusty bag.
Then I grabbed a pencil. That’s more like it. I reached over and gingerly lifted the scrap of dark fabric off the bramble branch. On closer inspection, it looked like a piece of navy blue elastic. I turned my wrist slightly and saw a white Champion logo on one side. Looks like the cuff of a sweatshirt.
Bleep. A demanding chime alerted me that I had received a text message. Cathy reminding me about the deadline? I leaned in to put the scarp of fabric back on the tree. Nice and easy. Right back where you came from. Bleep. What now? Turning instinctively towards the direction of the sound, my hand shook. The fabric fell free of the pencil and wafted towards the forest floor. I sighed and dropped the pencil.
Rooting around in my bag for my phone, I frowned. There. I pulled my black phone out and flipped it open. A yellow envelope icon flashed on the phone’s screen with the word “open” beneath it. I pressed the green button below the screen and the envelope flipped open. Small black letters popped up on the screen.
Need papers by Friday! Leaving town! Roger.
Asshole! I slammed my thumb down on the red delete button. Then I snapped the phone shut. Doesn’t he know that I have work to do? An innocent boy died for God’s sake! A stand-up, kind to old ladies and puppies kid. A kid who ran track, had a job and a girlfriend. Self-centered shit, Roger would never see how a kid’s death matters as much as his love life. I shoved the phone in my pocket.
I remembered the fallen scrap of fabric. Shit, totally moved the evidence. So off my game. That fucker, Roger, he thinks he can harass me and throw me off? Selfish ass, I should be the one nagging him. Who’s shopping with my half of our money, that slut? The mute fabric stared up at me. Shuf-shuf-shuffle. Fuck. I gotta get out of here! I bent down towards the fabric. Dirt and a few green needles gripped onto the bottom. Christ, the forensics are screwed. I picked the fabric up with my right hand. Could it have come off one of the crime lab guys puttering around out here? A scrap that small? My phone bleeped. Fucking Roger! As I mentally composed a text of just swear words, my hand, of its’ own accord, opened up my bag and dropped the fabric inside. I stood up and started to walk away. I made it five steps. My phone bleeped again. Christ! I looked down at my bag. So I’ve got it. So what? Screw the troopers! They snooze, they lose. This’ll be one hell of an expose if I blow this case open before they do.
The path seemed to end at a cluster of green bushes sprouting red berries. But flattened grass, scattered pebbles, and a few fallen pine needles revealed that booted feet had walked further into the trees. So I followed the trampled plants. Soon a strand of lined birch trees stood on all sides like wary veterans. How far do I go? They offered no answers. From far off, I could hear a faint gurgling sound, perhaps a stream running through the forest floor. I smelled moist leaves. Calmer, I sidestepped around a fallen nest. I marveled at its’ conical structure of twigs and branches and what looked like straw.
The soil beneath the path rose slightly. I veered right, reached a small clearing and looked up at a mammoth red maple. Wide branches shot up from the trunk weaving into the canopy of green leaves. A few random claw marks scarred the bark. I inhaled. There, on two of the wider branches, jutting out on either side, glared the nails. Two on each side. Damn. My stomach churned but I couldn’t look away. Yellow crime scene tape screamed around the trees’ trunk. Chunks of mud and leaves had obviously been dug out around the tree with some kind of small shovel. Probably to remove evidence. The branches again commanded my attention. The towering crucifix of a tree menaced the tiny glen. I took two steps closer to the tape. My eyes returned the nails. Twisted suckers nailed him up right here. I forced myself to look away to the right. Wait a minute, where are the uniforms guarding this place?
My head spun left towards a distinct clomping sound. Feet tromped behind me through the dirt. Fuck! My legs lunged as if to run, but I slowly bent my knees and then crept in past a family of more maples. I slid behind a tree trunk, held my breath, and waited. Nothing to see here, officer. Nothing new in these woods. Just drink your coffee. I breathed out in a short burst. I cocked my head but couldn’t hear anything from the crime scene behind me. Where’s the way out? I scanned the dirt, and a patch of green undergrowth for any faint traces of a path. I skulked past a group of shorter maples, shrubs tinged with brown, a stand of beech. Then a flash of white in the tan tinged soil caught my eye.
Face down in the dirt was a hard cover book with a light cover. I looked behind me. No movement there. I tiptoed towards the book. The cover caught a ray of sunlight through the trees and seemed to glow for a second. What is it? Did someone drop it? I knelt down and hovered above the book. What am I doing here? I looked behind me, then down at the book again. A minute passed. In for a penny, in for a pound. I held out one hand and closed it around the corner of the book jacket. I picked the book up by the corner until I held it in my hand. Then I dusted the cover off against my pant leg. As I turned it over in my hand, a few green leaves skid off the cover. Brushing the last stubborn leaf aside, I checked for a title.
One of Da Vinci’s sketches and the black outline of a cross, a Star of David, and a crescent contrasted with the white background. A Time Honored Fraud: Rational Approaches to Man’s Existence by Nathaniel L. Stanton, Ph.D. read the script. I smiled. Pay dirt. Motive? Maybe, if “the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree?” The book let off a slightly moldy odor. As I opened it, the pages made a soft pfft, pfft sound. The last reader of the book had dog-eared a page at the start of chapter three. The first paragraph was underlined in smudged, brown pencil.
The Genesis of Confusion: Darwin, Huxley, and St. Augustine
The fallacies of current trends in creationism confront the rational thinker. Whether he cloaks himself in ‘young Earth’ or ‘Gap’ creationism, the biblical literalist who shrinks from the truths of modern evolutionary theory exposes the weakness of his thought. One can sympathize with the ways in which classical theorists, not yet possessing scientific tools and trying to renew their faith, might have sought answers in the Book of Genesis. However, Huxley’s blend of Darwin’s and Mendel’s elegant theories no longer allows such intellectual blindness. It is the new century, and man has learned the origins of man. The person who refuses to acknowledge this scientific fact fulfills the definition of the psychological defense mechanism of denial.
The page fell closed. Did Dean agree with his dad? And if so, did Dean tell anyone? Did someone from town or the bar see him with this book somewhere? Would that be enough?
On a hunch, I turned the book over and shook it hard. A ripped scrap of white paper floated to the ground. Again a damp, faint odor of mold drifted towards me. The paper landed blank side up. I put the book down in the dirt and bent to retrieve the paper. Turning it over and found two lines of typed words. They darted in and out of my memory.
“Test all things;
Hold fast to that which is good.”
What is that from? A poem? A novel? I know that I heard that somewhere, when I was a kid, maybe? Some time when I was hanging out with Tim? I read the lines twice more.
Steps echoed. Footfalls trooped behind me. Dirt flew. I slammed the book shut. Shit! Shit! What do I do? My hands moved before my brain acknowledged. One hand let go of the book and moved to the bag on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. Opening it, I dropped the book inside. I took out my notebook and pen. I walked towards the noise. Act calm. They’re not gonna suspect the friendly girl reporter.
“Identify yourself!” Sergeant Rivera shouted.
“Meredith Lansing,” I called back, “from the Boston Bugle.”
In a moment he stood before me, his face scowling at me under his perfectly angled hat.
“What are you doing out here? This is a closed crime scene.”
“I didn’t see any police men…” I protested.
“And now you do! Now get along, miss. This scene is not open to the press.” Rivera snapped.
Questions, ask him questions, that’s your job. “Sergeant Rivera, do you think that the way Dean Stanton was killed suggests a religious motive for the crime?” I managed.
“Any questions you got, ask them through the public affairs liaison.”
“But sergeant…” He’s getting red faced and annoyed now. I’m just another pain in the ass reporter. Nothing unusual.
“You heard me. Now get the hell out of here!” Sergeant Rivera yelled.
“Yes, sir.” I promised. I strode out and never looked back.