Love

Newark, New York
October, 1969

I wake up…
            The light streaming in through the windows of my bedroom is brighter than expected and I swear under my breath thinking that I must have overslept. I jump down from the top bunk and survey my bedroom. Something doesn’t feel right; the room is absolutely spotless—neat in a way that suggests someone had a cleaning frenzy during the night.  And my brothers are missing, as are the usual sibling‑droppings of underpants, shoes, and toys. Stranger still is the time on the alarm clock reads exactly 5:00 am.
            Well at least I’ll make it to work on time. In the bathroom, I go through the usual morning ritual—brush my teeth and run a razor over my face. Both are completely unnecessary. My part-time job is foreman on the French bean canning line and who the hell cares?
            I throw open the blinds expecting to see the forested hill behind our house but find instead the window is overgrown with thick vines—some type of ivy, the same kind that grows around the rocks in the backyard patio. I strain to push the vines away from the window so I can get a look outside, but they’re grown in too thick.  Beyond the vines there is only a blinding light. I examine the other upstairs windows but find they are all overgrown with the same thick ivy.
            A shiver of panic as I call downstairs, “Mom, what the hell’s going on?”
            No answer; my words echo through an apparently empty house. Downstairs I find more of the same at every window and door, and I come to the conclusion that our house has somehow become engulfed in a sea of hostile plant life. I pick up the phone to call for help, but the line is dead, not even a dial tone.
            I decide that the sensible thing to do is to somehow chop my way out, make it to a neighbor’s house and call the police or whatever village department is responsible for this sort of emergency. A quick search for tools in the basements turns a small,  keyhole saw. Lucky because my dad doesn’t get tools and a keyhole saw is quite a specialized instrument. Weapon in hand, I run back upstairs, and throw open the front door. The way is blocked by thick, lush vines. I start sawing.
            Sometime later I’ve created an opening some three feet deep and large enough to walk into. It occurs to me that the wall of vines may be too deep to penetrate with a puny keyhole saw, but take some reassurance that the light through the vines seems brighter.
            Hours later I finally break through the last wall of vines. Looking back though the tunnel of plants is my front door, now fifty or more feet away; straight ahead the light is brilliant although there is no sun overhead. I look down to find nothing below; my house seems to be supported by a column of thriving ivy stretching to infinity in either direction. I mumble a sincere “Oh, shit, now what,” when the phone rings.
            I run through the tunnel of vines thinking phone service must have been miraculously restored and I’m not alone in this nightmare after all. I grab the receiver on the fourth ring and pant a labored  “Hello”.
            “Don? Where are you, man?”  It’s Scott—he’ll know what’s going on.
            “Scott, you’re not going to believe this…” I start to explain, but he interrupts me. 
            “Believe what? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. We’re all waiting for you.”
            “Waiting for what?”
            “For what? For Euchre. Dave and Eileen are here, the pizza’s been ordered, but you ain’t here.”
            I have no recollection whatsoever about any Euchre game. Dave and Eileen—who the hell are they? I have this momentary brain fart, as if I’m not really here at all but rather some character in a bizarre story.
            “Don, you there?” Scott says in one of his trademark silly voices. It snaps me back to the present. Eileen is Scott’s sister; Dave Bloom, his bother-in-law. Somehow remembering gives me some reassurance. So, what do I tell Scott?
            “The house has gone mad,” I yell into the phone. The answering silence is terrifying. A thought‑cloud forms overhead, and I see Scott looking into the receiver, puzzled as ever, his pliant face distorting into exaggerated grimaces, his expressive right eyebrow arched high over his head like a misplaced fermata.
            “What are you talking about,” he finally says.
            “Scott, just come over here, please. You won’t believe it.”       
            Before he can answer, there’s a sinister click as the line goes dead. Through the door, through the tunnel of vines, I hear a sharp noise and the rush of a giant wind.  I throw the phone down and run to the front door. The tunnel of vines is on fire, burning horrifically. A blast of hot air and demonic flames flash through my front door into my living room, spreading from the drapes, across the wall, and into the ceiling. I turn to run when the phone threatens with a clangorous ring.

            Then I wake up…
            I lift my head in a daze and glance in the general direction of the clock sitting on my dresser across the room. The luminous hands stretch across Roman numerals and squinting from my top bunk, I see it’s early in the morning, still dark, 5:00 am. The alarm would have gone off anyway, so I jump out of bed, narrowly missing my brothers who are alternating snores and whistles from the bottom bunk and the single bed next to us. Every time I do this, I silently curse my sister for having the luxury of her own bedroom—no brothers who grit their teeth, fart, giggle, or put a damper on my love life. I feel my way out of the cramped bedroom into the hall, grab my hard‑hat, and pick up the phone; a dull “hello” barely escapes the tacky saliva bridge between my lips. 
            A familiar voice replies, singing to a familiar cartoon melody. I want to laugh and scream at the same time, “Scott! Are you crazy man? It’s five in the morning.”
            “Isn’t that some… thing,” he says and then hangs up.
            Now I think I’ve gone crazy, but I remember today’s my birthday, and this must be Scott’s wise-ass way of reminding me.
            My mom shouts from downstairs. “Who was on the phone?”
            “Just Scott being his usual self.”
            Apparently this is explanation enough for my mom and she retires with a “that Scott” trailing in the distance.
            I pick up the phone and dial his number. “I’ll fix his sorry ass.”
            An old woman answers after five rings, “Yeah.”  I recognize Scott’s mom, but she sounds ancient or ill.
            “Is Scotty there?” I ask carefully.
            A pause then, “Scott? Who is this?”
            “It’s Don. Don Bacon.”
            “Don Bacon? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
            I don’t know what to say. “Sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number.”
            There is an unnatural pause; the receiver suddenly feels like a weapon about to explode. 
            “Look, whoever you are, Scott and Don are dead.” She sounds sad, even hopeless. “They died on Don’s birthday in a car accident a year ago today.”  Her voice chokes with rage. “How dare you call at a time like this? You’re sick! Do you hear me, sick!”
            I draw back in terror, drop the receiver and run downstairs to the kitchen. My mother is standing at the stove making breakfast with her back facing me.
            “Better hurry up dear, you’ll be late for work.”
            Something in her voice triggers a wave of nameless fear. I grab her by the shoulders and turn her slowly around. She resists at first but suddenly spins around. The move catches me off guard. I stumble backwards and fall.
            Hovering over me, grinning like a madman, is Scott wearing a wig and dressed in a woman’s blood-splattered nightclothes. He’s the color of death, his face splattered in crusted blood. Deep cuts run down either side of his face, each leaking some black, vile fluid. One eye is missing, the other hangs by a greasy thread on his cheek. It dangles over me for a moment, snaps off, and lands on my chest. Then like some wounded cockroach it starts crawling toward my face.
            He screams at me, waving a spatula over his head like a weapon. “Watch for the car!”
            I open my mouth in terror, trying to scream but nothing comes out. The crawling eye inches up my throat, hops onto my chin, jumps up suddenly, and lands in my mouth.

            Then I wake up…
            …lying on a cushion of grass on a high hill. The setting sun sends beams of light through delicate clouds. The nightmare has left me in a daze, still shaking. I sit up in a panic and look around for Kathy. I find her in the distance, standing at the top of the hill with her back toward me. Her short, blonde hair and denim skirt sway in the cool twilight breeze. As the dream fades, I remember why we’re here.
            I jump to my feet and call out. “Kathy, hey! Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.”
            She turns in my direction for a moment. There’s a small, sad smile on her face but it vanishes as she turns away. I run to the crest of the hill where she’s standing and take her hands. She doesn’t resist, but there’s no feeling in her touch. I look into her eyes, searching for the love that was there just an hour ago. Nothing—only pain and hurt.
            Something I said. I remember now. Six words, that’s all it took. Only six words to kill a relationship. Six words she’ll soon forget, but will haunt me the rest of my life, “Get out of it or else.” I stand there empty and helpless, aching for different words, the ones to make it all go away. But as she turns away from me, I realize that it’s like trying to piece together a shattered glass vase.
            “Kathy, honey, I’m so sorry. Please.”
            “There’s no point talking about it anymore,” she says. “My mind’s made up. I won’t be treated like that, and I won’t see you again.”
            And that’s it.  A myriad thoughts crowd my mind all at once, a way to heal, to somehow turn back time. A wave of nausea, like my insides had just been kicked out, nearly knocks me over. She walks away, down the hill without looking back, dragging a piece of my soul with her.