Fear and Folly Page 2

  “No problem,” the driver said. “Best of luck out there.”

  I shut the door. The truck sputtered back onto the road and faded into silence, dust, horizon.

  With the bag on my back as empty and limp as my life, I began to walk toward the distant house. I was hungry and tired, both in stomach and in soul. The only thing keeping my legs moving was muscle memory but even that was dying. Failure here was not an option.

  I had to knock a few times before I heard an inner door open. Footsteps approached and hushed whispers jousted just within earshot. Finally the front door opened and a man stood before me, once tall, shoulders still broad but now stooped beneath the burden of decades of toil.

  “Howdy, sir,” I said, doffing my hat. “I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour. My name’s Drew Paterson and I’m an itinerant worker travelling through the county. I was hoping that you might have some jobs around your property which need doing. I’ll do anything there is to be done. All I ask for is food and a roof in return.”

  I’d spoken those words many a time without success, but this man showed immediate interest.

  “Can you drive a tractor?” he asked.

  “Yes, that I can,” I said. I was lying but it would be easier to learn something new than to walk back down that lonely road into the vast drought-stricken emptiness.

  His eyes hovered over me for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Well I like the look of you,” he said finally, “so you’ve got yourself a job.” He shook my hand. “I’m Clark Douglas. This is my wife Georgia.” A tiny lady appeared behind him, flour across her apron, frown across her face.

  “Do you two live here alone?” I asked.

  “No,” said Mr Douglas. “We’ve got a son.” Silence. “Well, let’s not stand on ceremony. Come on through, Mr Paterson.”

  “Please, call me Drew,” I said, as he led me through to a small bedroom.

  “Drew it is then,” he said. “You’ll see it’s not much but you can lay your head here. Now, you look like you could eat a whole herd of buffalo. Come on through to the kitchen and we’ll serve you up some dinner. We were just about to sit down to eat.”

  “That’s mighty welcoming of you,” I said.

  I dropped my bag in the bedroom and followed them to the kitchen table, where Mrs Douglas was busying herself with crockery and condiments.

  Sitting down, I noticed four place-settings. I was about to ask where their son was, when I heard a peculiar noise in the corridor leading to the back of the house. It was the sound of something being dragged along, slowly and heavily. A figure appeared from the shadows. It was a young man, his frame fit and strong but his right leg lifeless and trailing behind him like it was made of lead.

  He gave me a strange look as he sat down.

  “Vern,” said Mr Douglas. “This is Drew Paterson. We’ve taken him in to help out around the farm.”

  Briefly but unmistakably a scowl flashed across Vern’s face before he extended his hand to me in welcome. I hoped it was a grimace of pain.

  Mr and Mrs Douglas did their best to create conversation as we dined but I’m ashamed to say that I was focused on killing my hunger, while Vern seemed focused on me like I was a giant cockroach. The room grew quiet. A chair leg scraping the wooden floor, a knife scratching a plate – each small noise was magnified in the gloom. I felt distinctly uneasy but it was only natural that this family should be hesitant around a stranger who had arrived without warning.

  “So what type of work do you need done around here?” I asked.

  Mr Douglas smiled. “Everything. I’m not getting any younger. Or taller for that matter. And Vern. Well, you can see he’s in no state to do much.”

  Vern scowled again and lowered his head. I was interested to find out what had happened to his leg but now was not the time. When dinner was over, I excused myself. I was exhausted but heartened that this family had taken me in. My troubles might be over for a while. If the work was good, this could be the perfect place to hide out over the summer.

  I bade them goodnight and fell into a deeper sleep than I’d had in weeks.

  The next few days were spent following Mr Douglas around his farm, seeing all there was to be done. Occasionally I would notice Vern’s face at a window, scowling, but otherwise there was no trouble. I worked hard for my bed and board, and I gave the Douglas’s nothing to complain about. On the fourth day Mr Douglas drove me into the nearest town to purchase supplies. Later, he went to visit his brother, so he dropped me at the local diner for an hour.

  The waitress who took my order had noticed that I’d come with Mr Douglas.

  “How do you know him?” she asked.

  I explained my situation.

  “Well that’s awful nice of them to take you in like that,” she said. “We ain’t seen much of them the last months. Not since young Vern had his accident.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked. “I didn’t feel comfortable asking them. Vern seems pretty down about it.”

  “Yeah, he’s a strange one, that son of theirs,” she said. “He was once the most eligible bachelor in the county. All the girls wanted to be his date.” She seemed to blush for a moment. “But now he’s like a shell of his former self. He never comes to town no more. Ashamed of his leg, I guess.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “It was a tractor accident about six months ago. So they say.” She seemed to blush again. “His father found him beside the tractor. Must have fallen from it. He’d shattered his right knee. Like, completely shattered. Crippled for life.” She scrunched her face up in thought. “The thing is, talk went around town that there was more to it. You don’t shatter your leg like that falling off anything. Not when you’re falling onto grass anyhow. And around the same time some folks noticed something about Mr Douglas’s automobile. You see, the fender had fallen off and there was a dent in the hood. Right about knee height.”

  She left the words hanging in the air.

  “But it’s not right of me to be telling stories that mightn’t be true,” and she smiled and walked away.

  I considered her words. This was small-town America. There wouldn’t be a family around that didn’t have rumour and suspicion hanging over their heads, especially one living out in the middle of nowhere who kept to themselves. But this was the family which had taken me in and it was an intriguing story. Why would they lie about how Vern had been injured? And who’d driven the car into him? If it was one of his parents, you’d think he’d be scowling at them rather than me.

  It was a peculiar situation but a whole week passed before I summoned the courage to broach the subject at dinner.

  “So, Vern,” I said, “how long before you’re back on that tractor?”

  I saw his face twitch at the edge of a scowl. His father answered for him.

  “It could be years,” he said with eyes downcast. “The knee was completely shattered. A shocking accident.” He spooned some soup up. “Dangerous things, tractors.”

  I nodded. “So you just lost your footing? Fell?”

  Again silence from the son, followed by a sigh from his father.

  “Yeah, it was terrible,” Mr Douglas said. “But best not to dwell on these things. It happened and we have to deal with it as best we can.” He forced a smile. “What a blessing it is that you should turn up on our doorstep and save us from bankruptcy.”

  “Indeed,” I said, “but it’s as much a blessing for me. I was at my wit’s end. Your generosity has saved my life.”

  And so the subject was absorbed into others and I remained none the wiser. If there was a secret, if the tractor was a cover for something more sinister, did it matter to me? As morose as Vern might be, he didn’t seem to bear any ill will towards his parents. There was great sadness in the house – it was so strong that I could practically taste it – but that was not a presumption of guilt. It was just the natural outcome of a young man ashamed of being dependent and a burden on his aging parents.

 
Grief and depression are never welcome but they are particularly devastating on an isolated farm where there is no real opportunity for escape. Despite keeping busy, I struggled, too. As often as possible I would accompany Mr Douglas to town or make weak excuses for driving there on my own. Anything to have a break. As much as I owed them my life, I had to keep a grip on my sanity.

  It had been a few weeks. The Douglas’s never bought newspapers. They only read from an old bookshelf stocked with nothing published after the 1940s. They didn’t even own a radio or television. So on one trip to town on my day off, I returned with the local paper. The front page was awash with tales of woe from the battlefields in Vietnam, each heading standing out as bold as a black armband. Images hinted at shocking violence through a veil of poor photographic reproduction. I read it at the kitchen table, shaking my head. Mrs Douglas entered and looked at the newspaper over my shoulder. She leant down and whispered in my ear.

  “Best you read the paper in your room,” she said. “Clark don’t care for bad news in this house.”

  I was surprised by what she said but nodded. As she walked out again, I saw that she ran her fingers along a particular drawer by the door. I’d noticed her do this many times. It was always the same drawer, like she was testing the lock, making sure it wasn’t open.

  Her action lingered in my mind as I retired to my room with the paper. Perhaps it held no meaning and was just a random habit formed over time, but I couldn’t help thinking that it was somehow connected to the pall hanging over the house.

  Life was good working for the Douglas family but it was dull. Something sparked in me. I’d picked locks before without much trouble. It was just a matter of finding a moment when I was alone. That would be the most difficult part.

  It wasn’t too long before an opportunity presented itself. Mr Douglas had to take Vern into town for a doctor’s appointment. Mrs Douglas was home but hanging out washing. I checked through the kitchen window that she’d be occupied for some time, then went straight to the locked drawer. It was an old cabinet and my skilled fingers opened the drawer easily, and fortunately soundlessly as well. To my surprise the only contents were some old letters. Most of them were personal correspondences but there was one official-looking paper tucked away at the very bottom.

  The letter was addressed to Mr Vernon Douglas and titled ‘Order to Report for Physical Examination’.

  I looked around nervously.

  The letter, which was seven months old, was calling Vern up for service. He’d been drafted. Obviously he was in no condition to fight across the sea. What really struck me, though, was his birthday. September 14, 1948. The exact same day as mine!

  Obviously I’d been too absorbed in reading. I heard a sharp intake of breath. Mrs Douglas was standing in the doorway, her hands tucked under her apron, her expression hovering between anger and fear.

  I dropped the letter onto the dresser. No words passed between us for what seemed like an eternity. I had to break the silence but I couldn’t point out the glaring fact that her son’s accident had occurred around the same time that this letter would have arrived.

  “Vern and I share the same birthday,” I said.

  Mrs Douglas’s face was drawn. She looked briefly down at the letter. Her features tightened, thoughts trying to constrict emotions.

  “I guess I’ll be on my way immediately,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded but said nothing, continuing to stare at the letter.

  I returned to my room and packed. I heard the car approach and went outside to meet Mr Douglas and Vern on the front porch. As the old sedan stopped, its dented front with missing fender vanished behind a shower of dust.

  Mr Douglas stepped out.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  I watched Vern struggle slowly from the passenger side of the car, like my own thoughts struggling with my situation.

  “It’s time for me to hit the road again,” I said. “I’ve done you wrong.”

  Mr Douglas said nothing. The silence was terrifying.

  “I broke into your locked drawer,” I said. “Out of curiosity, nothing more.” Still no response. “I found Vern’s draft letter.”

  Silence all around me but within there raged a storm.

  “We share the same birthday,” I said. “Same day, same year.”

  I let the words sink in.

  Mr Douglas’s eyes bored into me.

  “So you’re a draft dodger?”

  “I’ve been on the run for half a year,” I said. “You can call the cops. Turn me in if you like.” Mr Douglas didn’t move or speak. I adjusted the pack on my back and took one step down the porch stairs but questions were itching the back of my throat.

  “So. Vern.” I looked at his leg, then at the front of the car where the fender should have been. “Your accident. It wasn’t caused by the tractor, was it? It was that letter in the locked drawer what did it. Being 4-F is better than being killed fighting another man’s war. Isn’t it?”

  Vern didn’t say anything but his face grew red.

  Mr Douglas continued to stare at me, his jaw clenched shut, one hand white-knuckled on the hood of the car.

  “I’ll be off then,” I said. “Thank you for taking me in and treating me well. For saving my life. I feel ashamed to have thrown all that goodwill back in your face with this one stupid action. Just know that I won’t breathe a word of this to nobody.”

  Mr Douglas shoved both hands firmly in his pockets as I walked past, so I touched my hat.

  “I’ll drive you into town,” he said suddenly, gruffly, innate civility briefly overcoming his contempt.

  I shook my head.

  “That’d be too kind of you, sir,” I said. “Thank you, no.”

  And I walked on, out onto the dirt track, out to where direction was meaningless. Despite his offer of a lift, there was a good chance Mr Douglas would soon succumb to the poisonous bite of betrayal and call the police on me. If he did, they wouldn’t have far to search. I’d be visible for miles on this slab of lifeless prairie. Even if I lay down and died.

  The sun and breeze felt good on my skin. I knew trouble awaited me down the road. More trouble, always more. But for now, for these moments while I drifted across the landscape, I was free. The town was five miles yonder but I tried not to think that far ahead.

  As I wandered on, I heard something behind me. The noise grew slowly into a gravelly roar. I turned and saw Mr Douglas’s car coming down the road, its front wheels spitting rocks and belching dust. I stood and watched as it drew nearer, grew larger, its dented front like a broken-tooth grimace.

  I smiled, thinking how kind Mr Douglas was, how I’d been foolish to betray his trust. It wasn’t until the final split-second that I saw it was Vern who sat hunched and scowling behind the wheel.

  DARKNESS

  Swaying fields of grass. Dark woods. Then a squarer darker lump. A house cocooned in shadow. Above, thunder roared like an enraged lion.

  The walls were drab, grey, streaked black with lashing rain. Within, the house was a shell. Nothing stirred. The last occupants had died and now it was up for sale, to anyone with a broom for the dust and the cobwebs. In the main hallway, a grandfather clock stood like a sentinel of the past, the only article not to have been removed. Its dust-wreathed face had been asleep since six o’clock. Perhaps six o’clock that morning. Perhaps weeks earlier. It didn’t matter.

  Opposite the clock, there rose a stairway with a landing in the middle. None of it was discernible to the eye in the total darkness. That is until a light skipped onto the stairs, chasing the darkness into the furthest recesses where it clustered so thickly that it seemed to be a solid mass.

  Just as swiftly, the light vanished beneath a panther of pouncing blackness. Two voices penetrated the walls.

  “It wasn’t dark enough for the lights, Jeff,” a woman’s voice complained.

  “You’re just scared because it lit up the top windows like two big eyes,” a man’s voice rep
lied teasingly.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it looks like the worst has passed. Come on, Linda. Let’s have a look inside.”

  The door screeched in feeble resistance as Jeff unlocked it and pushed it open. He came to a halt a step inside, surveying the hall.

  “Here. Take the key,” he said.

  “Should I close the door?”

  “Yeah, you’d better.”

  “But won’t it be too dark in here?” Fingers fumbled for a switch.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Jeff stood for a moment in silent contemplation. “I’ll get the torch from the car,” he finally decided, and turned back out of the house.

  Linda, one foot over the threshold, squinted into the darkness but it was too dense, like a black mould which needed to be scraped away to reveal the walls. She felt strange inside but convinced herself that she had nothing to be concerned about. It was the middle of the day. She had but to turn her head and there would be the sun peeping through the cloudy sky, the car, Jeff.

  Yet she could not look around. It was fanciful but she thought that, once her head was turned, something would appear out of the gloom. Or maybe the gloom itself would embrace her, crawl over her, consume her. Even as she watched, it seemed to be encroaching slowly upon the light.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Jeff walked past her, holding the light which would hopefully scrape away the suffocating darkness. He turned it on and the hall sprang into existence. A door sat framed on either side. At the farther end, Linda saw a staircase. Once more, the black mass had retreated to the very top. It was vibrating, oscillating with its hatred of light.

  She stepped back in surprise as it sprang out at her with its grasping fingers but it was Jeff spraying the light across the left wall and away from the staircase.

  “It could do with some cleaning,” he said.

  “Like too much,” she managed to reply. “This is no place for us, Jeff.”

  “Huh! We haven’t even seen what’s round the first corner yet.”

  She didn’t really want to see, either. It would be another corridor, branching off into dark rooms and darker closets, and Jeff was absolutely right, of course. Their first house, a temporary arrangement in Oxford, had also seemed horrible at first glance, a dungeon, but now they had grown accustomed to it. That would probably be the case here, too. Once the clouds and dust had both blown away.