Summer fiction

Ok.  I once promised my agent that I would never mention to anyone in the business that I wrote fiction sometimes.  But this story, written a couple of years ago, resonates with the themes that obsess me, so it seemed worth a gamble to show it the light of day. Besides...it's summer.  And I'm on vacation.  I called it What Spiders Know.

 

High season ends. The weather cools. I remain, stubbornly walking up and down the only road in town, clambering over the rocks on the beaches, kicking at the sand. A man with a rusted dump truck and a worn out hat drops a small mountain of firewood on my driveway. I spend days stacking it in neat piles, having driven slowly past the neighbour’s houses to take mental snapshots of the proper technique. Now, I tell myself, they’ll believe that I’m here to stay. When every piece of this wood has turned to ash in my little stove, I’ll still be here, digging in, fending off the long Maritime winter, walking up and down the road. By then they’ll know I’m serious. By then I’ll be a fixture.

My simple plan to stay and grow roots did not sit well with the ghost of Risser’s Beach. I met her one quiet afternoon in a thick stand of birch trees lying just off the water. All of her possessions sat in plain sight, piled on an old stump in the woods: A plastic deer, a baby bottle, some scraps of ribbon and a few coins, arranged in a crude pentagram. My hands, old and wrinkled like my father’s, hovered over the stump. These were hands worn down by time and love, but as foreign to the winds and tides on this lonely piece of beach as if they had just blown onshore in a hurricane. They hovered over the flotsam shrine but could not touch it.

She made a sound. Not the guttural moans or wails you might expect from an old Atlantic seawitch, but more a gentle coo, a melody. I turned my head, but seeing only empty space, turned away with a shrug. If she became bolder, reached out with icy fingers to touch my shoulder, blew her chilly breath through my hair, I could soar off this beach without a backward glance and never return. So what’s to fear? I walked on, thinking less about what kind of eerie presence might be behind me than of how best to tell the story to my family at dinner.

Darkness falling, I made my way back to our rental house, stumbling along the shoulder of the highway. More than half of the houses along the way were empty. Curtains down, fridge doors propped open, chains across the driveway, the inhabitants fled to the city for the winter or possibly forever. Those who had stayed behind could be seen through their windows, sitting around tables, bathed in yellow light, lost in conversation. They seemed as though they were posing for me, showing off the tight consistency of their lives, proving that, unlike me, they belonged here. I stood before such a house, trying to imagine myself on the other side of the window. It hurt to be outside, looking in. I wanted to share what they had, be inside the neat corners of that room, defined by light and warmth. I convinced myself I could pay the price, rise at four in the morning in January, blue fingers fumbling with a match to light the stove, fending off the gnawing hunger and screaming children.

Who was I kidding? The worst part about inventing the wheel was that it gave us mobility. Ever since then, we’ve been rolling about the globe, scrambling so hard to be somewhere else that we forget where we started out. I’ve tried to find virtue in that kind of drifting, a nobility of detachment. When I broke away from the ground that bore me, flew to

Canada

from a motherland an ocean away, I cut all ties. Now I hover above the earth, looking down on geometric plains of land like a high flying eagle, as I plot great circle routes over the planet. I can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. But no matter how hard I plunge my fingers into the soil here beneath my feet, it is as an interloper, a stranger lurking in the bushes beside the highway, an isolated incident soon to be blown away and forgotten.

A place just has to be more than its water, trees and rock formations. Stories are what glue it all together. Each bend in the road is knit to the next one by a name from the past, and each name joins with others in a song. In some places I imagined rousing anthems, in others, quiet hymns. Bathed in lonely silence, I strained to listen, like an old man nearing the end of his senses. I convinced myself I could hear a note or two, but it might have been nothing more than a stray breeze.

Walking the rest of the way home, I remembered a conversation with my daughter. On a long drive, she asked the timeless question:

“Dad, where are we?” I gave what I thought was a reasonable answer.

“We’re about halfway between

Milton

and

Guelph

.” I could see her rolling eyes in the rear view mirror.

“Yes, but where are we?” she persisted. I smiled. How to explain municipal boundaries, county lines, the miasma of urban politics and how arbitrary borders get defined to a tired little girl looking out the window at a blur of passing trees and grassy hills?

“Well, right now, we’re not really anywhere.”

I deserved the rolling eyes. I was the one who didn’t get it.

Milton

and

Guelph

were places. We’d been to them, roamed the streets drinking coffee, stretching our legs in the middle of a long journey to some other place. This place right here, outside our windows, was nowhere. Empty space. A few clumps of vegetation and a stone farmhouse or two. Not far from the giant neon Schneider’s Meats sign beside the highway which meant that, no matter how tired we were and how bad the weather, we’d be able to make it all the way home to Kitchener. That’s all it meant.

Now, remembering this conversation, I wish I had answered her question by pulling onto the shoulder, stopping the car, taking her by the hand and leading her into the middle of one of those grassy fields where we could lie down, side by side, smelling the soil, listening to the insects crawling and watching the clouds ring the sky like giant pearls on a tangled necklace.

“This is where we are.” I would say.

The trailer home I passed looked rough. One end was held together with old tarps and nylon rope. A scattering of articles around the property formed a crude fence, lit up in harsh monochromes by a single bare bulb dangling in the yard. A car wheel sat collecting rainwater, weeds poking from the bolt holes. The iron door of an old stove stood resting against a post. There had been times when I had puzzled over such sights. Why cling to cold, sodden ground like this when the world waits just around the next corner? How sad to be trapped, to lack the imagination to climb to one’s feet and take flight. What piece of brain were these people missing that chained them to the ground, dooming them to an existence scratched out of the old parts that had fallen off of other people’s possessions? Why didn’t they just move, for God’s sake? Were they alcoholics? Mentally retarded? Now, as the wind flapped at the few tattered bits of laundry hanging from the line, the truth washed over me like the first decent wave sliding up the beach as the tide changes. These people could no more imagine cutting themselves out of this place than they could reach in and rip out their own organs. This lonely stretch of land along the side of the ocean wasn’t just the container that held their souls. It was their skin, blood and bones.

In darkness only pierced by stars, I reached out with tentative fingers to find the front door. My hands swept through a cobweb. The plump spider, unstartled, slipped down a filament of silk to peer at me. Such optimism. They were immense this year, the local residents had told me. It was a sign. I didn’t ask ‘of what’ so as not to give myself away. In movies, spider webs symbolize decline. How did this insect, in two hours, claim this place with such alacrity while I bumbled about in darkness by the side of the road, wishing only for a brief taste of belonging? I know too much. I’ve seen this place from above, even if only in my dreams. I can find it on a map. My web, in sorry tatters, blew into the sky long ago.

The cold doorknob turned with resistance, as though there was a hand on the other side, holding on lightly. The door scraped open, and the thud as it hit the wall echoed through the empty house. All lights were off. I’d forgotten that nobody would be home. Or home but not here. Real home was somewhere else at the moment. Perhaps it always would be. Leaving the lights off, I kicked off muddy shoes and mounted the stairs to the bedroom and let myself fall, face down, on the unmade bed. Fitful sleep took me almost immediately. Still in darkness, I woke to a voice in bed beside me. The words were muffled but insistent, as if she were shouting at me from a great distance.

“I’m here with you,” she might have said. I wasn’t sure.

The sound of the old fashioned twist-bell on the front door was unmistakable and startling. I sidled down the stairs like a cat against a wall. I threw on the light and opened the door. A man stood on the threshold, blinking in the light.

“I didn’t know anyone was living here,” he said. “Saw someone creeping around earlier. Must’ve been you. Thought I should check.” We stood in confused silence for a few seconds. The man shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. He looked past me into a living room littered with toys, newspapers, coffee cups. “Here with family?”

“Yes, but they’re away tonight. It’s just me here. I’m sure it’s me you saw. I’d been walking. I came home.” Still groggy, I struggled to put together a sensible set of words. The man reached out a hand.

“Name’s Finn. I live just across the way. This house is usually empty this time of year.” He gave me a questioning look.

“Colin. I’m renting. For the year.” Finn straightened up and turned his head slightly to fix me with one eye.

“You’re not leaving? Here for the winter?”

“Thanks for looking in,” I said, nodding.

“Got some wood? You’ll need some.” He looked up and surveyed the house, pushing his cap back to get a better view of the roof. “Nine cords, I’d say.”

“I’ve got three.”

“Three?” he fixed me with the sideways glance again, assessing. “Thing is, nobody lives here anymore. Maclean moved away years ago. I’m not used to neighbours. I’m all by myself.” Whatever he was trying to tell me was just beyond my comprehension. It seemed safest to nod. He looked up at the spider, still dangling in the doorway, a new web almost completed. “Sure three’s enough? Oil’s high this year. Sure you’re gonna stay?”

“I’m staying,” I said, feeling more awake now and able to push a hard edge of certainty into the words, “no matter what.” Finn smiled.

“Winter’s miserable here. You’ll hate it. I do. Everybody does.” He turned to leave. “See you again,” he said over his shoulder. I watched him walk down the driveway. When he reached the large rock that marked the house from the highway, he sat down. I waved. He waved back. He took off his hat and crouched forward, elbows resting on knees, fingers running over the edges of his hat. He was rocking slightly as if he was thinking, weighing matters up. I took a step toward him. He looked up at me, waiting. I raised my head, as if I’d stepped outside to look at the stars. I subjected the sky to a thorough, sweeping scan and then let my gaze land on Finn, as if by accident. He straightened his back and shifted, preparing to stand, but it looked effortful. I took a breath, plunged in, and walked the few steps to where he sat.

“Thing is, I wonder if you could drive me into town. I’m not feeling altogether too good.” My reflex was to hesitate, weigh, filter, analyze, ask a probing question or two.
“Sure. Let me get my keys.” By the time I had fumbled through discarded pants pockets, found the keys and met Finn in the driveway, things looked worse for him. Even in the dim light of the yard, I could see the sweat and smell his sickness. He sat in the passenger seat of my car, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

“Finn? Do you think we should call an ambulance?”

“No need. I’ve seen you fellas drive.” Finn had his left shoulder raised and his right hand was pushing hard on his chest. He slumped forward in his seat, head bobbing with every movement of the car. I sprayed gravel as I pulled on to the highway. By the time we reached the emergency entrance at the hospital, Finn was white, drenched with sweat, gasping for air. Before I could get out of my seat, a paramedic had yanked open the passenger door and had poked his head into the car. I could see the top of his head, close shaved and shiny as he looked into Finn’s face. He smelled clean, medicinal, safe.

“Finn, my old son. You’ve cut it close this time I think.” The attendant looked up at me. “Ticker.” he said. “Third time. You must’ve driven here quick. Thank the Lord for those

Ontario

plates,” he chortled, “They sure burn up the highway.” Another attendant had appeared with a stretcher and, with characteristic economy of movement and effort, the two of them had unfolded Finn from the car and had him laid flat on the stretcher. I stood under the awning of the entrance and watched him pass. The second attendant eased me aside. “Staying out at The Point?” he asked.

“Yes, staying….just moved in. New neighbours.” I struggled to explain myself.

“Lucky for him you were nearby,” the paramedic mumbled without looking up, busying himself with the straps on the gurney.

“Yes, lucky,” I replied. Finn raised his head slightly as he passed by and grasped at my arm. His face was ashen. Eyes locked with mine, his lips moved to speak. I leaned in closer to hear him. His voice was a croak.

“Three cords’ll never do her,” he said. I nodded, patted his arm and watched until he disappeared through the sliding doors.