She lay ghostly in her own bed, icy cold in my hands; her frayed edges tinged a pale blue.

"Hold me, Gage," she pleaded. "Your hands are so warm."

My hands seemed huge -- Papasan chairs in which her head rested. A rice paper cheek rolled like a wisp of smoke onto my palm. When her arctic eyes fluttered, I shed a single tear that fell and pooled at the corner of my mouth. I wanted to wipe it dry, but my hands held fast to cup a dying bloom. I breathed deeply, inhaling the lilac fragrance of my mother's impending death.

Dr. Meads placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Gage. Why don't you let her rest for now? Nancy here will watch her."

I shook my head no, and he sighed heavily.

"She's exhausted. Let her be," he implored.

I was certain I'd never see her alive again. Once more, I shook my head no, tersely to make my point.

She suddenly gasped, as if awakening from a dream. Her eyes gleamed -- black onyx behind sheets of ice.

"Gage!" she whispered. I sensed her urgency and bent closer.

"Yes, Mama. What?"

"Gage, darling. You must..." and she strained to lift her head. I bent so low as to brush an ear against tremulous lips.

"Go to him... you must."

I withdrew. Her eyes darted about my face, trying to read my thoughts. I was certain my expression revealed nothing, but I thought, why would she wait until this moment to issue such an outlandish request?

"You'll go, won't you?" she asked with a brittle voice. Then her eyes dimmed as death regained its imperious hold.

I flexed and extended a thumb, which I ran along her cheek. I wouldn't answer, save this ambiguous gesture of mystery. Her lids slid shut, so gracefully. Her head then melted back into my hands that parted and released it, like a rare gem, back onto her feathered pillow. I listened (we all did) for a moment to her shallow breathing.

"Please go home, Gage. Nancy will call you."

His request paled in contrast to my mother's. I almost laughed. Instead, I shuddered and silently tracked the tentacles of a late afternoon shadow creeping across the opposing wall. I would honor his request and go home. There, I would sit and listen to the tick of the deathwatches and contemplate that which I had been asked to do.

I remember the long stretches of time he was gone. My sister and I would occasionally prod my mother for information, but little was forthcoming. He was doing important work, she'd say. Work that would take him to faraway, perhaps exotic places. But I doubted that since we lived modestly, and people who associated themselves with exotic places were always rewarded handsomely.

And so, a paradox formed: I loved my mother, but distrusted her on the subject of my father. When he was gone, she was the perfect wife and mother and spoke with devotion about marriage. Upon his imminent return, her mood would darken. My sister and I would be instructed to go to bed early: my father would want peace and quiet after a long absence. She'd run a frantic hand through her hair and pull nervously at her dress. Dread swirled in the house like a deadly gas.

And thus, we rarely saw him. When we did, it was always at night with his face averted and his body, a murky silhouette. To him, my sister and I were irrelevant objects, and sensing that, we kept our distance. His mystery grew. We'd listen to his voice drone indecipherably from down the hall. It never wavered: dull, cavernous tones that threatened to batter and destroy.

We were terrified.

The last time I saw him was the most terrifying. I was thirteen. I waited up on a wintry night, out of sight of my mother's vigilant eye. When the light swords of his approaching headlights slashed across the window, I pressed close to the sill, wanting a glimpse of this abstruse specter. But he must have detected my presence, for he sat many minutes in the driveway, the Dodge Coronet idling and the headlights on high beam. I waited and watched the snow sparkle in the rays and imagined the dark fins of the Coronet were horns of a demon spirit. I grew fearful, unable to move. With a yank of my arm, my mother rescued and shooed me off to bed.

"Get on to bed, boy!" she snapped.

"Yes, Mama," and I scurried off, looking back over my shoulder.

But I didn't go to sleep. I lay awake, harkening to the murmurings that would want to poison our family. His sonorous monotone was maddening, inciting my mother's wrath. A shriek, and I sat up. I heard the quickening of my mother's footsteps in the hall, then the slamming of their bedroom door.

"Gloria!" He had never raised his voice.

I rose and went to my doorway to peer down the hall. His advancing bulk floated like a pall of oil. He halted at their bedroom door, and I swear, steam billowed from his mouth, his face shrouded in darkness. He opened then held the door slightly ajar, as to allow a thin shaft of light to fall upon the side of his face: a horrid disfiguration of seared flesh, receding, as if drawn back from the jaw by hooks, exposing a menacing grimace of diseased gums and teeth. He paused and turned a single ebon and crimson eye upon me. I shrunk back into my room, a drum pounding within my chest.

I froze and listened... silence, save the ticking of the ancient furnace. Erelong, the pallid light from the hall was extinguished with a click of their bedroom door's lock. I crawled into bed, my knees drawn to my chest. The wan light from their bedroom window bathed the ivy outside my window, and I was sure its feeding tendrils sought to ensnare me. The light shone all night, and as I drifted in and out, his voice continued to rumble within the thin walls.

I awoke the next morning, all my senses acute. The Dodge roared in the distance and I ran to catch a parting glimpse. In my haste, I sped past her... oblivious. I watched the car quake within a cloud of exhaust, his lean figure hunched unidentifiably at the wheel. When it pulled away into the gray of morning, I sensed finality.

She lay whimpering on the sofa. A young boy knows nothing of compassion, yet her circumstance compelled it, so I went to her. And in my mind's eye, now as an adult, I witness a most contemptible sight: a boy weeping while he calms and strokes the hair of a defeated woman -- abandoned and granted succor within the lap of a mere child.

My mother survived the night; however, she passed on during my drive over the next morning. I had done all the crying I was going to do the night before, so I was content to simply comfort the normally impassive Nancy who was devastated.

"She found peace in her final days... you should know that," she blubbered.

I thanked her for that, but I was skeptical....

While sorting through my mother's affairs, I found a clue. After seventy-three years, one would think a person would have accumulated more clutter. Her effects were few; most rooms lay barren and musty. The solitary envelope sat upon an antique bureau in her bedroom, as if purposely placed for discovery. It was empty and unstamped. Her quavering hand had scrawled his address -- forty-five miles distant. The disclosure of his proximity unnerved me.

I continued getting mother's estate in order while my sister took care of the other matter. She arranged for a private meditative service after the cremation. Of the twenty invited, only six attended, including my sister, the ever-faithful Nancy and myself. I broke down halfway through the ceremony, consumed by a rage predicated on the belief that he had ordained this paltry testament to her life.

I made my decision. I would confront and interrogate him. While he unraveled some contrived monologue, I'd recline and smile, nodding politely. At its conclusion, I'd rise from my chair, livid, demanding recompense; when he pled for forgiveness, I would deny him the satisfaction.

I left the following weekend.

Chimmack was a difficult drive through winding roads in the foothills. The roads were atrocious. The town had once been a prosperous ski resort until the seventies when its decline began. It now garnered nothing more than an inconspicuous blip on my map. I passed no one the final ten miles into Chimmack.

Upon arrival, I was mildly surprised. There were a few signs of affluence, but it became immediately clear this was old money -- sequestered and well fortified. Their Alpine village-style chalets terraced up a verdant slope above the town, paralleling the trace cuttings of the disassembled ski lifts. I stopped and asked a constable for directions to 107 Opera Drive. He at first directed an airy look up the slope and my heart sped for a moment. But he must have just been getting his bearings, for he then shaded his eyes, as if the destination lay distant, and pointed towards the far end of town, around back of the slope.

"Follow that creek... see it bending through the trees there?"

The paved road ended where the creek turned, leading into a patchwork maze of gravel roads that zigzagged and doubled backed. His instructions were worthless and I went on my instincts. While I searched, an afternoon thunderstorm quickly rolled in over the top of the slope, spraying the town with a cold mist. Forces were at work to subvert my mission.

After ten minutes of driving, I finally stumbled upon Opera Drive. It ran along a rocky, rutted embankment at the foot of the slope. I could tell heavy rains had pushed a lot of debris over the road and onto the lawns of the adjacent residences. The houses bore evidence of the beatings they must have endured over the years. Many suffered from wood rot, and others were well on their way to a shambles. It was as desolate and dismal a place as I had ever seen. He had receded into a dark, moldering corner of the earth.

107 Opera Drive: a small, gray, unpainted wood-shingle house with a tilted covered porch. It, too, had succumbed to wood rot. Its roof was absent quite a few shingles, many of which lay scattered on the ground after having slid off. The grounds were overrun with weeds and tall grasses.

I parked and walked about. Other than a postman running his route further up the street, nothing stirred. The rain intensified. I turned up my collar and sought cover against the back fence that was thick with honeysuckle. From a back window, an amber light shone faintly. I studied it and waited for it to dim or brighten, revealing some presence that I could confront. Amidst this maddening quiet, I could summon no courage.

A rustling startled me. I turned... nothing. Again, a snuffling, rooting sound. It was coming from behind the fence, but I could see nothing beyond the vines. With a gust of wind, a wand of honeysuckle brushed up against my leg. I looked at it striving to cling. Another gust and several more wafted my way. I panicked, and in that moment, a hidden beast snorted a grunt and rammed its body against the wooden fence. I leapt backwards, almost losing my footing in the wet grass.

"Hey there," called a voice.

I stumbled before regaining my balance. A portly, balding man approached, chuckling.

"That's one mean son-of-a-bitch, ain't it?" he said.

I stared at him with astonishment.

"I said, that's one mean bastard," he repeated more loudly.

"Who?" I asked. "Do you see him?" I turned to look back at the house. The light no longer burned.

"That dog. He'll tear you a new one, I tellya. Name's Shockley. Dale Shockley. I live yonder," and he tossed his head backwards.

I extended a reluctant hand to the beet-faced intruder. He was ruining everything.

"Gage Thompkins," I replied, looking away. I'd be curt with him.

"You here about that dog?"

"No. I'm here to see my father."

"Hmm." He folded his arms, resting them upon a shelf of a stomach. "He lives here?"

I nodded, still looking off and up the slope.

"That dog's an interesting story... more interesting than the man who feeds him."

I thought that remark curious. "What can you tell me about him," I asked, now looking squarely at him.

"The dog?"

"No, my father."

"Oh, he comes and goes, I suppose."

I looked. There wasn't a vehicle parked in the drive.

"If that Powell boy was here, he'd tell you about that dog." The man's bullet eyes rotated strangely -- one pulsated on me while the other circulated in the direction of the beast. He was one of those people that needed a ghastly story to maintain his equilibrium. "Damnest thing. Had both him and the Platt boy cornered. I didn't see it, but you get the picture when the boys tell it. They're lucky to be alive."

I decided to appease the man's bloodlust. "What happened to them?"

"Well, nothing much to speak of, I guess. I mean, looking at 'em and all. But it's the way they are now. You know, after being cornered and all... they're not the same," and he wiped the rain away from his eyes as if I might be better able to gauge his meaning.

I sighed and again, looked away. I wanted him gone. Once more, the beast stirred from behind the fence. A lumbering gait suggested a large animal; its pleuritic respirations sawed the air.

"Lookit here," and the fat man began tearing through the vines to get to the fence. "Lookit, right here," and he pointed at a small hole worn through the fence. The man knelt and pressed close, cocking an eye through the hole. The thrashing of the beast became more violent, its body colliding heavily into the fence. It started in on a hideous moan that alternated with spasms of its labored breathing. As the man's frenzy increased, so did the beast's agitation.

"Great God! I can't see him, but I hear him... and smell him! He's 'round here somewhere. Where in the hell is that mongrel?" The man clawed at the vines and jerked about, angling for a better view. "Christ God Almighty, I can't see nothing. He won't show!"

The sight of him was at once frightening and absurd. I thought it impossible he couldn't see the beast. It yowled not three feet distant from where he knelt. When the beast's caterwauling became too unbearable, I pulled the man back.

"Leave it be," I growled.

The man stood and shook himself free. He had a wild, glassy-eyed look, like he had experienced something few had.

"You take a look," he demanded, almost out of breath. "Take a look now before it's too late."

I started to reply, but was interrupted by the abrupt cessation of the beast's protestations. We both looked down at the hole. Its fierce eye, blood red and draped with an insidious veil, glared back at us, exhorting terror with its prescient vision. Something clamped down on my heart. Shockley gasped then giggled in a nervous fit of delirium.

"You see, you see! Like I said. It's a monster!" He practically shrieked and grabbed me by the shoulders. "You've seen for yourself." His small eyes glowed like embers.

I knocked his arms aside and looked again at the hole. The beast had disappeared. I dove into the honeysuckle and pressed my face close. The vines fell in and around me, but I cared little. My eye roved quickly across the yard, an unkempt wasteland. A dark shadow bounced behind a large clump of grass then disappeared. I heard the beast and caught its scent -- a foul, putrescent odor of death. The grasses shifted and bent, but I saw nothing more.

Then there, to my right: a row of tulips rising from a rich mound of soil, immaculately cultivated. They stood vivid and obscene in contrast to this squalor. I was horrified. And now I was certain of the manifestation of his presence. These crimson jewels -- they were and always had been my mother's favorite.

"Dale!" cried a shrill female voice.

"What... huh?"

I scrambled back out of the honeysuckle, drenched and cold.

"Dale! Get back here quick. This roof's leaking bad." A woman of appalling enormity stood a half-block away, gesturing frantically. "Quit your yapping and come help me pull up carpet."

Shockley had trouble recalibrating. "You'll tend to that dog, wontcha?" he sputtered with an expression of pure hopelessness.

"Dale!" and he tottered off without another word.

I had to get in from the weather and trotted back under the covered front porch. I tried peering into a window, but the screen and pane were too filthy. My courage was flagging, so I didn't stop to think before knocking... softly at first, then more loudly and persistently. He was taking too long to answer. My anxiety swelled. I knocked once more despite a voice in my head that petitioned me to flee.

"You there!"

I whirled. A middle-aged woman with severe features stood at military attention with an umbrella, looking at me with black, scornful eyes. I laughed, my legs beginning to buckle.

"No one will answer, you know," she informed.

I struggled to regain my composure. "Do you know the gentleman that lives here?" I asked.

"A gentleman?" she snorted. "What gentleman would allow an animal to terrorize a neighborhood?" She detected my anguish. "No, I haven't met him. He's gone much of the time, I think. But I'm certain I've heard him feeding that thing on occasion, early in the morning, but I've never seen as much as a glimpse of him or it... but I hear things... terrible things. Who are you?"

"How can you know he won't answer?"

She frowned. "Look. I mind my business and so does he. If you want answers, go talk to that snoopy Shockley. He's got his nose in everyone's business. You gonna tell me who you are?"

"Just an old friend. I was hoping he'd be here."

"Well, it's all mighty peculiar," she said with a pinched face. "I suggest you not try knocking around back. That dog isn't to be trusted... there ought to be a law," and she pivoted sharply to march back inside her house.

I waited inside the car for another two hours. A man his age wouldn't stray from home this long. Where would he go?

As I turned all this over in my mind, I began to reflect on her life -- that which I had observed and never understood. How she had waged war against loneliness and inflicted massive casualties. One man after another had drifted in and out. Rejection was her weapon of choice, delivered with calculated precision. And with each foe destroyed, I had taken one step closer to the life I lead today. Nearing fifty, I avoided rejection and lived alone, convinced that I had constructed for myself an ascetic, celibate existence of self-actualization that I wore like a badge -- a complete sham.

At the precise moment I noticed the rain had transformed into a gentle snowfall, a light suddenly burst forth from a single window in the house and pulsed with an alien energy. I bolted and ran to bang furiously upon the door. I shouted his name until hoarse, but it was futile.

I hadn't a choice. I strode purposefully around the side of the house to the back fence. I had to push hard to open the gate against all the tall, wet grass. Edging my way in, I waded cautiously through the growth to cut a path to the backdoor. There was no sign of the beast. The light seemed to strain against the backdoor to get out. The door was locked and again I pounded.

Finally, it emerged into a circular clearing no doubt beaten down by its relentless, maniacal paces. It just stood, with one side turned to me, and watched. I had never seen a more pathetic creature: a Rottweiler mix, I think. It trembled on three legs -- the fourth a jagged stump from some horrific wound that had never healed. A viscous substance clung to its side; its face, viciously scarred: flesh ripped asunder along the jowl and around the eye. I paused and we examined one another... old friends. The creature then shuddered and hobbled off to the flowerbed, where it collapsed amongst the scarlet chalices. It dozed and expired thin clouds of steam, as if at last content with some culmination of events.

And yet, the light persisted to amplify its mystery. My first attempt failed; with redoubled effort, I crashed through the door and rolled onto the floor. I righted myself and stood in amazement. The house was absolutely empty -- not a scrap of furniture or fixture. The light was gone. Every avenue from the back room led to unlit chambers. Whereas the light had beckoned, it now mocked.

From behind, I detected the dog had been roused and there came a low growl. I tore through the house to confirm what I already knew. I groped unseeing from room to room and uncovered nothing -- neither a glimmer of light nor sign of life. The dog now howled in an agonizing, tortured manner. It raged, and I made haste to the backdoor.

There, I observed the most unholy of sights. It lay writhing in convulsions amongst the tulips. Slowly trailing through the snow and into the honeysuckle was the tail of a black serpent. Stricken, I watched until at length, the dog's convulsions ceased, and it lay prostrate with its chest heaving.

I went and lifted it into my arms and beheld the malignant eye that rolled and vanished within its skull. I then carried it to the fence and sat, cradled by the vines that enveloped, and within the honeysuckle, our kindred spirits commiserated. The side I hadn't seen lay face up in my lap: a majestic animal of royal pedigree, its coat glossy and smooth. My mother would have approved.

The light had returned, yet languished behind the dirty panes. When the exposed eye had begun to widen into a pool of ink, I knew there was little time. I sagged into the clutches of the vines and waited and measured the diminishing degrees of the light's luminosity until first the dog, then the light expired altogether. I then cast a look up the fecund slope and counted the number of palaces that soared into the icy, solitary expanse of the clouds and longed for the cold caress of the serpent's skin against the small of my back.

Copyright © 2002 Jefre Schmitz
All rights reserved

About the Author

         Jefre Schmitz's day job is Technical Manager of the automated financial systems for a large state agency in Austin, Texas...spectacularly uninteresting, he says, but "it puts vittles on the table." In the summer of 2001, he developed an itch to start scribbling some words on paper after having read the entire works of Cormac McCarthy and Flannery O'Connor. His aspirations are not to attain the lofty heights of these two authors, but rather to pay homage by practicing an art they perfected and "have a damn good time in the process."
 
        Fiction by Jefre Schmitz has appeared in the July, June and May 2002 issues of Kudzu Monthly. If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment below.