A Disturbing Nature, page 12
-21-
LANGFORD’S SHADOW
Saturday, 30 August 1975
Mo opens his eyes just after dawn, and though his bed is much bigger and more comfortable, last night’s restless sleep had an eerie similarity to his final six weeks in Virginia—anxious nights spent on the tiny cot in Mr. Branch’s office. He drags himself out of bed, trying to focus on the excitement of his first paycheck, Jake’s letter from home, and playing cards with his housemates, but his thoughts turn to Mrs. Branch’s insensitive note, Mrs. Harrington’s cancer, and Veronica’s hurtful words. Later, striding through the woods, Mo wears gloves to protect his clenched fists from the cold reality of his anger. After three hours, he yields to the scorching heat and gunfire at close range, having resolved, at least temporarily, his inner turmoil.
When he returns, Mo takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and inspects some fresh scratches on his neck. Having been clawed by limbs as he wrestled with nature, he rinses his wounds with cool water before waiting on the front landing for Griffin’s arrival. Following the ten-minute drive to Georgiaville Pond, Mo sees Professor Langford waiting in the parking lot as they arrive.
Stepping out of the pickup, Griffin grabs Langford’s outstretched hand. “Hey, Michael, good to see you. How long you been waiting?”
“Not long.” Langford waves over the cab of the truck. “Hey, Mo, how are you doing? Ready to catch some fish?”
Mo is beaming. “Hi, Professor Langford. I sure am!”
“There’s no ‘professor’ here. Just call me Michael or Mike.”
Griffin collects two fishing rods, a tackle box, and a cooler from the bed of the truck. “I picked up some nightcrawlers and shad.”
“Perfect,” Langford says, handing Mo a fishing rod. “Here you go. You’ll need this. You can keep it. I picked up a new one a few months back. This one’s just taking up space in the garage.”
Reaching for Langford’s present, Mo’s eyes grow wide. “Thank you, Professor Langford.”
“Please, Mo. It’s Mike.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mike.”
Griffin pulls the bill of his cap down. “You still gotta call me Mr. Griffin. Can’t have my workers getting too comfortable.” He winks at Langford. “There’s no ‘professor’ in front of my name.”
Mo nods, studying the ‘B’ on Griffin’s cap. Knowing it’s a Boston Red Sox logo, he hopes to get a team cap himself one day.
When they arrive at a suitable location on the pond, Langford shows Mo how to release the fishing line from the spin-cast reel and thread it through the guides, attach a hook and bobber, and secure a nightcrawler. Mo practices each step with Langford’s help but doesn’t like the feel of the nightcrawler in his hand or skewering it alive. Putting on his gloves, he fumbles with the oversized maggot, oblivious to the irony that his concern for the worm doesn’t extend to the plight of the fish. After numerous attempts, he weaves the hook through several times.
Langford helps Mo stand his pole against a large, square rock with the handle wedged at the base of a tree. He leans his pole next to it. Releasing a little extra line on each, he places a small rock across the excess and winks at Mo. “A little trick my father taught me. When a fish takes the bait, we’ll hear and see the rock fall off.” He stands over Mo, casting a shadow across the water in front of where Mo’s seated. “So, you mentioned you went fishing with your father. What do you remember most?”
Mo watches Langford’s shadow linger, shimmering rather than floating on the water. “Just him and Mr. Johnson talking and drinking, I guess.” He raises a finger. “Oh yeah, I do remember one of his sayings.” He changes his voice to the way he thinks his father sounded. “He’d say: Some people live life like a hooked catfish—they flounder a long time before they die. And then he’d say: Don’t be a dumb old catfish, Son.”
Looking at Griffin, Langford smiles. “Now there’s a thought-provoking observation. I may need to look at adding it to one of my lectures.”
Griffin rolls his eyes, lowers his cap.
Langford grabs a Budweiser and Coke from the cooler. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself,” he says, sitting next to Mo.
Mo takes a sip of Coke, allowing a few thoughtful seconds to pass. “What would you like to know, Mike?” He feels important using his new professor friend’s first name.
“Tell me about your family. Where are you from?”
“I came here from Virginia. I lived with my brother and the Branch family. My brother, Jake, still lives with them. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad died earlier this year. He was sick for a long time, and Jake helped me take care of him after our grandma died last year.”
Langford shakes his head. “Sorry to hear you’ve endured so much tragedy. I lost my mother when I was very young, too. I was three when she died of complications from pneumonia. My father raised me in Rochester, New York, where he still lives.” He pulls the tab on his beer can. “Did you enjoy living with the Branch family?”
Langford’s body language and cut-to-the-chase approach remind Mo of Dr. Winchester, though he likes that Langford also shares his story. “I liked the river out back and being with Jake, Paul, and Dion.”
“So, why did you leave?”
Mo’s body tenses, his words spilling out. “Emily was mean to me, and her mom and dad always believed her instead of me, so they sent me away.”
“How old’s this Emily?”
Mo speaks through clenched teeth. “Fourteen.”
“What mean things would she do?”
Knowing this is a sore topic, Griffin cuts in. “Hey, Mo, did you listen to the game last night?”
Resting his Coke on the ground, Mo smiles. “They won!”
Griffin lifts his cap. “Made a few baserunning mistakes, but they still won handily.”
Humidity curling the points of his shirt collar, Langford presses them down with his thumbs, looking over his shoulder at Griffin. “I’m not much of a baseball fan. They’re doing pretty well, though, right?”
Griffin pushes himself up. “Yes, Michael,” he says, winking at Mo, “we’re doing alright.”
Mo discusses the Red Sox chances with Griffin for an hour, Langford mostly nodding, before enjoying a lunch of the professor’s turkey pesto paninis with a side of Mrs. Griffin’s three-bean salad. Acids and enzymes feasting like a pack of scavengers, his friends become as silent as their fishing poles, so Mo decides to explore the paths along the pond. Drawn by the sound of Langford shouting his name, he returns ninety minutes later, drenched in sweat with mud stains on his elbows and knees, his hair a mess, and his work shirt untucked.
Langford’s voice is hoarse. “Mo, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes.”
Mo takes off his soiled gloves, shoving them in his back pocket. “I’m sorry. I got lost.”
Griffin shakes his head. “I wasn’t worried. But Michael here…” Rolling his eyes, he points with his thumb. “I thought he was gonna start crying.”
Mo rubs his neck. “I’m sorry.”
Langford reaches his hand out. “Why’s your neck so red?”
Putting his hand up, Mo pulls away. “I got some scratches when I was walking this morning, and I’m all sweaty now.”
“I should have something in my glove box to help with that,” Langford says.
Griffin picks up his tackle box and cooler. “Alright, no harm done. Let’s get back. My wife’s gonna need a break from the kids.”
Langford helps Griffin with his poles. “Hey, Derek, I can take Mo back to his townhouse. I’m headed that way, and you’re headed south.”
Griffin looks at Mo. “You good with that, son?”
“I’m okay. I like Professor Langford, uh, I mean, Mike.” Mo appreciates when Griffin calls him ‘son,’ wondering whether it will be on the name patch of his uniform one day. His first outing in Rhode Island has resulted in a new friend and a renewed interest in fishing. A day anchored by two cleansing walks shelves his anxieties for the time being.
-22-
A HOUSE BUILT BY THIEVES
Saturday, 30 August 1975
Mo has never seen a car like Langford’s. Low and wide with two colors splitting it in half, it’s very different. It also doesn’t look very big, but Mo’s surprised by the roominess once he’s in the passenger seat. He rolls down his window, allowing fresh air to replace the smell of vinyl protectant. “I like your car, Mike,” he says.
Langford rubs the dashboard. “Thanks. I bought it a few months ago. It’s a brand-new model. I think they’ll become popular.”
“It’s so shiny and clean.”
“I try to take care of my things,” Langford says, glancing over at Mo. “My house is a little ways north. Would you like to join me for dinner?”
“Sure!” Mo looks at his Timex. “Can you bring me home by eight, though?”
“Not a problem. What’s happening at eight?”
“I don’t want to miss All in the Family. It was my father’s favorite show.”
“Alright, I’ll get you home in time.”
Situated at the corner of two rural routes in Slatersville, about fifteen minutes north of the Bryant campus, Langford’s house is a large, two-story Victorian. Its black slate gabled roof is adorned with a dormer on either side of a viewing terrace on the third story. Wide-eyed, Mo steps out of the car and surveys Langford’s property, impressed by the sculpted bushes and manicured lawn. “Whoa! This place is amazing. Do a lot of people live here?”
“No, Mo, this is my house,” Langford replies.
“How many kids do you have?”
“It’s just me, at least for now.”
Mouth hung open, Mo blinks repeatedly. “You live here alone?”
“I do.” Langford pats Mo’s chest, leading him to the front door. He begins his well-rehearsed presentation with a majestic sweep of his hand. “The house was built in 1901 by Alfred Vanderbilt, great-grandson of the nineteenth-century robber baron Cornelius Vanderbilt. I’ve spent the past eight years restoring it. The upstairs bedrooms aren’t quite the way they were when the place was a vacation home; otherwise, it’s back to how it looked at the turn of the century. It’s been a lot of work,” he sighs, “and money, but it’s almost there. I maintain about two acres. The other sixty-two are overgrown. They used to be beautiful lawns and gardens, but there’s no way I can keep them up. At least they give me privacy. I believe there’s a cemetery on the property somewhere, but I’ve not been back there in years.”
Mo scratches his head, finding it strange that thieves built such a beautiful house.
Langford turns on the four aligned and oversized chandeliers in the main foyer. “Just a little place I like to call home,” he says with a debonair smile.
Artificial light flooding the space, Mo marvels at the heart-shaped staircase leading to upper-level catwalks fully encircling the outer edge of the room. Plaster revival artwork running the perimeter of the ceiling showcases gothic gargoyles. Amazed by their detail, he wonders if they’re figures of the thieves’ ancestors.
Pointing as he walks, Langford leads Mo to the far end of the foyer. “The kitchen, formal dining room, two sitting rooms, a parlor, one guest room, and the master bedroom are downstairs.”
As Langford’s words float by, Mo’s mind drifts to when he would play hide-and-seek with Jake. He can’t imagine trying to find him in this big, empty house. Looking back down Langford’s foyer, littered with doors, a particularly bad recurring dream he had when Jake was four is resurrected.
In his nightmare, Mo stood at the end of a long hallway in Tinpot Alley with fluorescent ceiling lights and endless doors on either side. It was night, and the lights flickered as he played hide-and-seek with Jake, heavy rain scratching against the doors. Mo called out to his brother, but his voice, and Jake’s giggles, echoed through the hall until the wind and driving rain drowned them out. Running down the corridor, he pounded his fists on each door, hollering for Jake, but the Rappahannock’s quickly rising water seeped through the cracks in the doors, filling the hallway and slowing his search.
When Mo did spot his brother, the water was waist-high, Jake’s arms flailing as he struggled to keep his head above water. Swimming over, Mo held onto his brother. At the far end of the corridor, he saw their father sitting in the living room, but the doors could no longer keep the river out, and the waters of the Rappahannock came flooding in. They floated down the swollen river, Jake clinging to his older brother until they saw their father at the islet near Kelly’s Ford Bridge, Ken’s recliner chained to a tree. Seated in his chair, their father floated with his hands held out. Mo helped Jake grip his father’s hand, but his own slipped free. Continuing downstream, Mo saw carcasses of black-haired critters tossing in the rapids ahead of him. Looking back, he saw Sam tangled up in a tree. Mo always woke up at the sight of Sam hanging over his father’s head.
Fingers tapping his shoulder pull Mo from the vision of Sam’s swinging body, blood drained from his face.
Langford touches Mo’s elbow. “You okay?”
Mo nods. “Did you ever get lost when you first moved here?”
“No, but I had to get used to it. I’m sure a lot of people would find it a little creepy living alone in an old house with so many empty rooms, but I’m not afraid of ghosts—at least not the ones that would haunt this house.” A crooked smile crosses Langford’s lips. “Maybe the ones in the old cemetery out back.”
Mo shivers.
Langford stands at the base of the staircase. “There’s another five bedrooms, a billiard room, and four bathrooms upstairs. It’s never hard to find a bathroom. There’s a total of eight to go along with seven bedrooms.”
“You have seven bedrooms all to yourself?” Mo scratches his head. “There’s only three at my house for all five of us.”
Langford chuckles. “I don’t sleep in all of them, of course. I use the master bedroom over there.” He points to a large oak door under the arch to the right of the staircase. “The others are used when I have guests sleep over.”
“Your guests are pretty lucky.”
“You’re welcome to stay over if you like.”
“I can? Really? Okay. Not tonight, though, right?”
“No, not tonight.” Langford puts his arm around Mo’s shoulder and leads him up the grand staircase to the second floor. “But I do have a pretty impressive TV you could watch All in the Family on.”
“My friends are going to watch it with me at home.”
“I understand. Maybe you can stay over another night and watch a Red Sox game.” Langford stops at the entrance to a narrow passageway. Cocking an eyebrow, he speaks in a low tone. “Want to see the real reason I bought this house?”
Mo nods.
“It’s right up these stairs. Follow me.”
As he walks up the cramped spiral staircase, Mo half expects a gargoyle to jump out and yell, “Boo!” When they reach the glass-enclosed room rising above the roof, Mo believes he can see all the way to Virginia.
“Welcome to my sanctuary,” Langford says, arms outstretched. “This is called a cupola, and the railed walkway you see just outside the windows is a widow’s walk.” Langford tugs at his bowtie and pulls it through his collar, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “I come up here late afternoon sometimes to read poetry or a historical narrative as a way to get closer to nature.” Langford stares out the window. “It may seem odd to connect with nature from the inside of a house, but it’s why I bought the place.”
Mo’s attention is drawn away from the view by a brown-and-tan mackerel tabby sprawled on a low perch. Its emerald eyes stare, unflinching, though with fleeting interest.
“That’s Samantha,” Langford says. “Someone gave her to me so I wouldn’t be alone, but she stays up here most of the time. She comes down to the kitchen when she’s hungry, and her litter box is in one of the upstairs bathrooms.” He tosses the cat a dismissive wave. “She’s honestly the worst company. Whether it’s because she’s a female or a feline, I’m not sure, but she thinks she owns the place. Apparently likes the view up here.” He starts down the stairs, waving Mo to follow. “Alright, let’s go get dinner started, shall we?”
Mo sits at the island, watching Langford expertly wield a sharp knife to dice red tomatoes and yellow onions, mince fresh garlic, and crush dried basil. The soiled blade sits gleaming in the light as Langford lays out virgin olive oil, tomato sauce, and white sugar before measuring each ingredient with cups and tablespoons. He thinks back to Grandma Cleveland pouring a jar of Ragu into a saucepan.
Langford tastes the edge of a wooden spoon before mixing cooked spaghetti noodles into the sauce. “I’m sorry, Mo, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve made pasta from scratch.”
Mo watches the deep-red sauce boil and bubble before glancing at the four linen placements on the kitchenette table. “How come you live here all alone?”
“I like it here. I enjoy having alone time.” Langford adds a pinch of salt. “Of course, it would be nice to have someone to share it with, but I haven’t been so lucky.”
“Did you ever get married or have kids?”
“No, I’ve never been married, and I’ve never had any kids. I work with a local foster home where I attend activities with some of the less fortunate children in our community. I’ve also been a scoutmaster in the past, but that’s as close as I’ll get to children of my own.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No, I was an only child.” Langford lays out two place settings. “As I mentioned earlier, my mother died when I was three. My father remarried when I was six, but I wasn’t close to my stepmother. She had long, brown hair and was quite pretty—at least on the outside.” He lights the candles on the centerpiece candelabra before plating the pasta. “But she wasn’t the nicest person, sent me to a boarding school so I wouldn’t be a bother.” He brings warm garlic bread in foil, placing it between Mo and himself. “My father was a great deal older than my mother and quite wealthy, so when she died, and he remarried, he traveled around the world with his new wife, leaving me in the care of nannies when I wasn’t in boarding school. I seldom saw my father until my stepmother left him for a younger and wealthier man. By then, I was in graduate school.” Throwing a dish towel over his shoulder, he grins. “Alright, Mo, let’s eat.”
