After a few seconds, Corbin exhaled. “Me either.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Maybe just goodbye is the only thing to say.”
Barb nodded at that and gently clasped Corbin’s outstretched hand. “Well, goodbye.” They shook on that.
Corbin let go, turned to walk away but paused. “Oh, I almost forgot. You might want to take a peek in the hall closet.” He sustained a stare for a few silent seconds until he was sure the subtext had sunk in. Barb nodded, glanced at the key, and smiled. Corbin waved and said, “There’s an old vacuum in there.”
As he descended the steps in the shadow-dim stairwell on his way to the lobby, Corbin was certain that no one would ever see Barb Whitaker again. And he was happy for her.
Corbin heads south, back home to Colfax, and uses what money he has left to make the first month’s rent on an apartment on the outskirts of town. At night, at ease in the solitude of his surprisingly comfortable apartment, Corbin uselessly contemplates his incompetence as a partner, but thinks he might have been—in some course-corrective scenario—a decent dad. At night, Corbin sometimes wears his hooded sweatshirt to bed. And when his fitful mind grows restless from dwelling on a regrettable succession of images, actions, and words, he pulls the thick cotton hood over his head so that the fabric envelops his face in shadow. And then Corbin feels himself sinking, shrinking, and accepts the sensation of unanchoring his conscience and suspending his perception as he gives himself over to the vast, breathtaking darkness within—an all-embracing blackness broken only by the mercury-glitter perturbation of spangle-swirled starlight. From the empty rhythm of seething silence comes the contented cadence of delicate respiration—the soft susurrations and echo exhalations of a peacefully sleeping baby.
The Hatchet
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o’-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.
—Carl Sandburg, “Theme in Yellow”
It was still dark, just before six in the morning, when Brian Cline steered into the driveway of the Hoffman House. A brisk wind drove dervishes of rust-colored leaves across the beams of his headlights, which partially illuminated the decaying face of the house. After all these years, and as opposed to the meticulously maintained homes in this neighborhood, it was still difficult to decipher whether anyone occupied the dwelling or not.
Despite his bouts of vertigo when gazing at the place, he somehow knew he would not be alone in thinking this place empty, or at least devoid of any human habitants, for a staggering number of decades.
He was certain this was more than just a fragile trick of the mind. If, for instance, he were to ask a mailman about the house, he imagined the man would acknowledge delivering bills and parcels; but when pressed for an address or details about the house, he’d become embarrassed and troubled that he could supply no such thing. Neighbors might swear they’d seen FOR SALE signs fluctuate in and out of the front yard, yet could never name a real estate company, nor would they be capable of providing a description or name of the families who’d lived there throughout the years. They’d frown and think for a few seconds before disregarding it with a mental shrug. It was as if the entire property resided in a faulty pocket of perception, and only solidified in the flat light of unsettled scrutiny.
He’d been doing this a lot lately—these little self-dare staring contests with the house. Each time, he lost. Brian thought about calling his younger brother, Drew, but had no idea of what to say that didn’t sound desperate or unbalanced.
For the past two decades, Brian had intermittently returned to this place—by car only, never on foot—and he rarely pulled into the driveway.
The Hoffman House was one of the first houses built in this subdivision shortly after World War II. Brian’s grandparents—both long dead—had once lived in this neighborhood. So by and large, many houses looked similar, all affecting the one-story uniformity of the ’40s and ’50s. Except this one. This one was an architectural anomaly.
Over the years, and unable to avoid dwelling on the house, Brian had done some research. It was something called a Dutch Colonial Revival, a barnish thing with a steeply pitched gambrel roof and a second floor containing several sharp-edged dormer windows. And as opposed to the ranch- and cape-style houses throughout the neighborhood, this was a two-story anomaly of brick and shingles, yet it somehow remained inconspicuous in its not-rightness.
If asked what bothered him so much about the aesthetics of the property, Brian could certainly point out the untended yard, the broken troughs of gutters hanging askew. But when his mind lingered on these details, the memories would contort themselves, and on his next impulsive drive-by he’d see these things corrected, only to be replaced by a broken window or some other element of neglect.
Brian thought: It does change; it gets bigger by increments, makes asymmetrical shifts from time to time. Its dimensions were the same, but there was something disturbing about them.
Reflection had a way of distorting perception. Brain had read about this phenomenon before, about how dishonest human memories can be. Some scientists asserted that the simple act of recalling an event could actually change the shape of that memory in the brain. Details and narratives become altered. Essentially, the more a person thinks about the memory, the less accurate it becomes.
As is the case with so many structures that existed in the mind of childhood’s memories, things had the tendency to look smaller, shrunken through the eyes of adulthood. Idly, he wondered how he might explain something like this to his fourth-grade social studies class. He could easily make the comparison of returning to a building that had long been severed from one’s mind—a school, a church, a distant relative’s house—but they were just children themselves. And besides, Brian had never left Sycamore Mill, and had grown along with most of the town’s changes.
Something moved up in one of the dormer windows on the second floor. Brian bristled, looking, scouring the upper level of the house, wondering—for the thousandth time—if he was wrong, if people lived here, if he was trespassing. Brian put the car in reverse and was about to take his foot off the brake when he saw the fingers gripping the curtain.
It wasn’t much, barely noticeable, but the longer Brian stared the clearer it became. Four gray fingers were parting a faded drape, exposing a thin slit of the house’s lightless interior.
His heart surged. Brian thought of Drew. Brian thought of their mother.
Brian pressed a button on the driver’s side door and rolled down the window. Squinting into the chill air, he spit into the driveway, afterwards wiping his lip and narrowing his eyes on the window.
Slowly, suggesting no alarm or urgency, the hand slid down and disappeared. The dingy gray curtain swayed for a moment and was still.
Brian took a deep breath and removed his foot from the brake, giving the house one last baleful glance as the headlights crossed over the structure’s façade. With the tree-shadows overlapping against the front of the dwelling, the effect was that of a veil covering the house. And through the veil, the house was staring back. Brian steered away, certain it was watching him leave.
In 1987, Halloween fell on a Saturday night. With no school or getting up to catch the bus the next morning, this—like the Friday-night celebration the year before—promised to be a true holiday for children. But as a twelve-year-old, Brian Cline had a choice to make.
For weeks his father had been hinting that Brian was getting too old to go trick-or-treating. When, at the dinner table, the subject of Halloween emerged, Brian’s father would remind his eldest son about his age:
“Don’t you think you’re getting a little old to be getting dressed up in a costume? Drew’s only eight . . . he has a few more years until he grows out of it . . .”
Brian often relied on his less-overbearing mother for help, and she would always make an effort to soften her husband’s heart. But lately, even to Brian’s pre-teen ears, Kathy Cline’s well-intentioned defenses resulted in a sort of Mary Poppins coddling. And with that doting came shades of shame. Still, he wanted to go. He didn’t want to miss out on the candy, or maybe seeing one of the few friends from school. He didn’t want to miss out on all the fun. Brian understood he could either mollify his father or please himself. But it wasn’t until the night before Halloween that he’d had an idea. Their mother usually escorted them on their annual evening rounds, trailing along in the car or on foot. But if Brian volunteered to watch Drew, to babysit his younger brother, then he’d pacify his dad with the act of appearing as a responsible sibling.
Because they lived out in the country, the Clines only received the occasional trick-or-treater, so it had been a tradition to trick-or-treat in their grandparents’ neighborhood—lots of houses, lots of candy.
After brushing his teeth before bed, Brian found his father working at his lamp-lit desk in the downstairs den. “Dad?”
Gordon Cline made a
hm
sound and glanced up from his papers. Brian was not surprised that his workaholic father was occupied with some business-related task on a Friday night.
“Dad, I have a question.”
“Sure.”
“I still want to go trick-or-treating tomorrow night.”
Gordon slid his glasses to his forehead and passed a hand over his face. “All right,” he exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his expression suggesting disappointment; but it was a familiar disappointment. Brian could cope with that.
“But I was thinking that I could watch after Drew.”
His father’s brow twitched. “What do you mean?”
“You know . . .” Brian fiddled with a pen on the edge of the desk. “Mom usually takes us trick-or-treating, but I thought I could take Drew; that way mom wouldn’t have to.”
His old man smirked—his tone was playful, as if not falling for Brian’s attempted sincerity. “You mean so
you
can still get dressed up and go trick-or-treating.”
Brian was quiet. He thought about answering but could only summon a sheepish smile.
His dad scratched his forearm. And again: “Don’t you think you’re getting too old for this?” Brian shrugged, sincerely not knowing how to say no. “If you’re still trick-or-treating like a kid, how do you expect to watch after another little kid like Drew?”
Brian gestured awkwardly. “I just—” There were no words. There hadn’t been since his father began posing variations of the question:
When are you going to grow up?
It was quiet for a long time before his father spoke. “Do you really think you’re up to taking care of Drew?”
Brian nodded eagerly, trying to contain his glee. “Definitely.”
His father slid his reading glasses back on his face. “All right.” A spring creaked as he rotated his chair and returned to his work. “Just make sure it’s okay with your mom.”
Brian started away from the desk. “No problem. I promise.”
His father concluded the conversation with the same curt
hm
sound that had started it.
The next day was Halloween, and the boys spent Saturday tinkering with their costumes. Brian was going to be a hockey-masked slasher like Jason Voorhees in the
Friday the 13th
movies. He’d found some old coveralls in the basement and was going to use one of his plastic Army knives as an accessory. Drew wanted to be a werewolf after begging for an elaborate mask he’d spotted at the drugstore. It was a bit too big for Drew’s head, but their mother bought it anyway.
Evening settled in after a day-long interlude of gray skies. While their mother was loading Drew into the car, Brian examined the plastic play-knife in his hand. He considered how juvenile the accessory must look in contrast to the rest of his costume. A thought struck him. He ran around to the side of the house and trotted into the shed. His father’s tools were hanging on a neatly arranged shadow board. Brian scoured the wall, settling on a carpenter’s hatchet. Suddenly dizzy with how deadly the thing looked, he imagined the startled glances he might get from passing strangers. He removed the small axe from the wall pegs, checked its weight, and gingerly slipped it into the inner pocket of his overlarge coveralls.
The car’s engine was running as Brian jogged up.
“Forget something?” his mother said, pulling the seatbelt across her chest.
Brian glanced at the plastic play knife, but felt the weight of the hatchet shift inside his jumpsuit. “Yeah. I found it.” He looked over at Drew. His younger brother was clutching an orange pumpkin pail. He was wearing the wolfman mask. The little boy tilted his head back, and from the snarling rubber snout came the child’s version of a howl.
Brian Cline arrived in the parking lot at Sycamore Mill elementary. Daylight was just beginning to tinge the cloud-heavy sky. It’ll be overcast today, thought Brian. Given that it was Halloween, the notion pleased him.
He turned off the car and pulled the key from the ignition. He checked his phone, hoping to see a returned message from his brother. Nothing.
Drew and his family lived down in Florida, far away from the Midwest and its trappings. Shortly after moving to Sarasota, Drew had once joked that he favored the ebb and flow of the ocean as opposed to the ebb and flow of small-town seasons. Brian had sent his younger brother a text message the night before, asking if they planned on coming up during Thanksgiving or Christmas; but what Brian had really been fishing for was an invitation to go visit them, to get away, the get out of town for once. For a long time, maybe.
Now a neuropathologist, Drew was busy most of the time. Brian was used to that. But when his younger brother had not responded to his message, Brian grew antsy, sending him another text. This one was a cheery one about Halloween, and whether or not he was going to take his two girls—Brian’s nieces—trick-or-treating. Brian had no children of his own. And just as sure as Drew always knew he’d become a doctor, Brian knew he’d never be husband material, let alone father material. It was something he’d discovered in the solitary wake of his dozen or so failed relationships. Over time, his students had filled the void.