A Disturbing Nature, page 25
Mo lingered at the window until a loud cry shook him from his thoughts. He turned and headed into the downstairs bedroom, where a motherless Baby Jacob laid restless on his back. Mo reached into the crib and caressed his tiny hand.
Mo’s father stood at the bedroom entrance. “What are you doing in here? Where’s Clara?”
Spooked, Mo gasped, “Baby Jacob was crying…She left, Dad.”
“She left? What d’ya mean she left?” Ken’s eyes widened as he searched the room for answers, picking up an open book from the dresser.
Mo struggled for words. “There was a light outside. I woke up. She had a suitcase and said she had to go. Then she left in a car.”
Ken sat on the end of the bed, staring at the inside cover of his paperback. Laying the novel on the bed, he rested his face in his hands. “Dammit,” he sighed. “Shoulda known.”
“She just said she needed to get away for a little while,” Mo said, looking at the spine of the paperback, recognizing it as the one his father was reading to Miss Clara.
Ken cleared his throat. “Time will tell, I guess.” Hanging his head, he stood and placed the book back on the dresser.
When his father looked up, Mo could see his eyes were glistening. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said.
Ken shook his head. “Nothing you coulda done, Son. Go wake your grandma so she can take care of this baby. Then, get yourself back to bed.”
Mo stopped in the doorway. Turning back, he saw his father pick up Jacob, Ken’s eyes fixed in deep contemplation.
“Shshshshsh, c’mon now, don’t cry.” Ken held the baby away from his body. “It’s okay. Grandma will be right here.” He looked up at Mo, his brows arched. “Hurry up, get going!”
Staring out the window of Carlton’s car, Mo wonders if Langford’s stepmother was like Ms. Clara. Did his stepmother come to live with him the same way? Does Langford have a half brother or sister he doesn’t talk about? He wonders if all stepmothers are mean and uncaring. Will Mrs. Branch be Jake’s stepmother? Is Jake happy living with Mrs. Branch? Wondering about these things, Mo’s glad he had his grandmother instead of a stepmother.
Carlton drives his Caprice into the parking lot at ten, just as the gates open. Named Midway Park when it was introduced in 1894, Lincoln Park sits on forty-two acres along Route 6 in North Dartmouth. Even before he can see the park itself, Mo notices its most intimidating attraction, The Comet, looming high above and welcoming guests as a harbinger of impending doom. The Comet’s twisting layout has all the features of a thrilling wooden rollercoaster: height, speed, sharp turns, and a head-chopping effect.
As they walk through the entrance gate, Brian rubs his hands together. “Who wants to go on The Comet first?”
Trevor raises his hand. “I’m in. Mo, you gonna join us?”
Mo looks up at the coaster, his heart racing. “No, I don’t think so.” He remembers the last thrill ride he went on when he was young. His father took him on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival and became angry when Mo threw up during the ride. They left the carnival immediately after, driving home with all the windows down. Afraid of ruining their trip, Mo turns to Trevor. “It looks too scary.”
Brian nudges Mo. “Too scary? For a big guy like you?”
“Ignore Brian,” Trevor says. “I’m sure that ride’s more thrilling than any occurring in his bed.”
“Ooh!” Carlton high fives Trevor.
Brian shrugs. “Whatever, man, at least I have something occurring in my bed.”
“Guys!” Kay motions toward Mo. “Not right now.” She puts her hand through Mo’s arm. “It’s okay. You can go on some of the other rides with us. I don’t like the coaster either. Besides,” she says, glaring at Brian, “not all thrill rides are good ones.”
Brian shakes his head. “Touché.”
The park’s crowded on this last day of summer. While Brian and Trevor spend most of the morning testing their patience in line and flaunting their masculinity on the featured attraction, Mo enjoys several of the less perilous rides with Kay and Carlton. Afterward, they try their luck at the ring toss, balloon dart throw, and milk bottle games.
Having played catch with Sam and practiced pitching against the brick sidewall of Sumerduck Elementary when he was younger, Mo’s good at throwing a baseball. He wins a giant teddy bear, holding the prize in front of Kay. “Here, you can have this.”
Kay places her hands over her heart. “Aww, for me?”
“You can hug it anytime you get scared.” Recalling a Winnie the Pooh bear he gave Jake years ago, a surge of nostalgia hits Mo. But it’s swept away by an ocean of warm rising in his chest when Kay gives him an appreciative peck on the cheek.
“Thanks, Mo. You’re the sweetest.” Kay squeezes the bear before pushing it into Carlton’s chest. “Will you carry this?”
“Ugh, why do I have to carry it?” Carlton says. “It’s your bear.”
“Because,” Brian smirks, “that’s what boyfriends do.”
Carlton shakes his head. “Why did you have to go there, B?”
“What? You don’t see any toy bears sucking on my nipple.”
Carlton grumbles as he takes Kay’s bear.
They play miniature golf as a group before agreeing to go on The Comet. Once in line, Mo has second thoughts. Opting to go for a walk instead, he offers to take the stuffed bear to the car. Carlton can’t get the keys out of his pocket fast enough.
The woods behind Lincoln Park are dense, running nearly a half-mile thick to insulate the expanding suburban developments from the noise and lights. Behind the parking lot, several footpaths carved through the trees provide pedestrian access to the park.
It’s dusk when Mo, already gloved, enters one of the primary paths. Midway through his walk, he finds a giant swallowtail perched on a large stone, its black, six-inch wingspan showcasing bright yellow flourishes. Leaning over to observe, he knows the butterfly is late for its southerly migration, too weak to make the trip. He uses Carlton’s key to lure it from the stone.
Several steps into the brush, Mo notices a young girl walking by. When she slows down, he holds the butterfly out for her to see.
She steps closer, reaching for one of its wings, but the butterfly folds it away.
Kneeling, Mo sets the butterfly on several leaves, using the key to hold it down by its thorax. He retrieves a small twig near his feet to hold one of the wings in place so the girl can feel it. Her brown ponytail hangs near his face as she stands beside him.
“It’s okay,” Mo says, “you can touch it.”
“No, thank you,” the girl says. “Please don’t do that. I think you’re hurting it.”
Mo shakes his head. “It can’t feel anything.”
She sees the unrestrained wing flapping against the ground, struggling to break free. “Mister, please stop doing that. You’re pulling its wing.” She takes a step backward toward the path.
Mo stands, leaving the butterfly on the ground. Shushing her, he reaches out to place his hand over her mouth. “You’re going to scare it away.”
“It can’t fly. You pulled its wing!” She backs further away before stumbling over a root.
Mo leans over to help her. Looking back at the butterfly and watching it struggle, he recalls a day along the water behind Earl’s house, the spring after his seizure.
Each year, on the last weekend of May, when purple milkweed, at full maturity, stood erect and red creeping thyme stained the landscape, Grandma Cleveland visited her sister in Charlottesville. That year, 1963, being no different, Mo looked forward to spending a rare Saturday night with his father.
Throughout the previous year, except for Sundays, Mo seldom saw his father in the evening. Mr. Johnson’s second marriage had all but eliminated Earl’s nighttime visits while Ken kept himself busy with sales appointments, often long after Mo’s bedtime. So, Mo spent many nights alone with Grandma Cleveland, finishing homework, reading, or watching television.
Saturday nights, in particular, had become quite busy for Ken. Arriving home from work, he’d devour dinner, clean himself up, and kiss Mo goodnight before departing, the smell of Old Spice lingering long after he left.
On the morning of Grandma Cleveland’s departure, Mo investigated the woods behind Earl’s new house while the men fixed one of the work trucks. He followed a path to Rock Run, one of many streams feeding the Rappahannock in that area. He finished a popsicle, courtesy of Mrs. Johnson, before setting himself down on a boulder by the water. Building a makeshift fishing pole by attaching a hook on some string tied to a small branch, he dropped the line in the water, wedging the branch between several rocks.
After a few minutes, Mo noticed a wolf spider camouflaged on a nearby tree. Intrigued by its size, stretching the length of his index finger, and knowing wolf spiders aren’t poisonous, he decided to take a closer look. Using two pieces of bark to coax the spider to settle on one, he inspected its intimidating fangs, impressive array of eyes, and the two parallel black lines on its back. He pressed the popsicle stick on its abdomen harder than intended. Hearing a squishing sound, he imagined the spider’s tiny but gruff voice howling in pain. Easing up on the popsicle stick, he felt the hair on the spider’s legs as it struggled to get away. When he did release, the spider pounced on his hand, sinking his fangs between Mo’s thumb and forefinger before jumping off and hobbling away. Letting out a faint wail, Mo stomped his foot before sticking his hand into the stream’s cold water to relieve the pain.
Mo spent several hours relaxing on the bank and watching the line. He used the popsicle stick to disrupt the flow of the water while listening to the birds above.
Early afternoon, his father, still wiping grease and oil from his hands, came down the path to retrieve him. He pointed at Mo’s hand. “What happened there?”
Mo looked at his wound. “I got bit by a spider.”
“That looks nasty. Did you see it bite you?”
“Yeah, I was trying to pet it.”
Ken’s brows furrowed. “What color was it?”
“It was brown,” Mo replied. “Pretty sure it was a wolf spider.”
“Wasn’t a black widow then, so that’s good.” Ken leaned over, pulling Mo’s crude fishing pole from the water. “Let’s head back to the house. Let Mrs. Johnson get a bandage on that.” As he straightened up, Ken pointed to a patch of dirt next to Mo’s leg. “That the spider that bit you?”
Looking at the ground, Mo could see spider legs and drying guts. “No, sir.”
“You sure? Looks like a big old wolf spider to me, and one that wasn’t killed too long ago.”
“No, sir. The spider that bit me ran off.”
Ken’s voice grew stern. “Mo, that must be the spider that bit you.”
Mo’s eyes teared up. “No, Dad. Honest, I didn’t kill the spider.”
Ken rose to his feet. “Alright then, show me the bottom of your boots.” He pointed to a detached hairy leg with sticky spider guts in the sole of Mo’s boot. “Son, why would you lie to me?”
“I didn’t, Dad, I don’t remember.”
Ken sighed. “C’mon, let’s go get you bandaged up.”
Twenty minutes later, Mo climbed into the pickup. Like an ominous passenger, the hole in the dashboard stared at Mo as his father checked out his bandage.
Starting the truck, Ken turned to Mo with a smile. “Let’s grab some lunch. We gotta get home so I can take a nap and get changed. You’re gonna come with me tonight. We’re headed to a friend’s house.”
Mo waved to Earl before turning back to his father. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to see Mrs. Willoughby. You know her from church, right?”
Mo thought for a moment before answering. “Uh-huh.” In truth, he only remembered her husband had toys. He hoped he might be able to play with them. “Will Mr. Willoughby be there?”
“No, Son, not tonight.”
“Is Mrs. Willoughby nice?” Mo thought of ‘nice’ in the context of his mother, grandmother, and Mrs. Harrington.
“I think you’ll like her alright.”
His father smiled as he stared down Sumerduck Road, Ken’s mind elsewhere and their talking done.
Mo looks down at the girl, releases her hands, and apologizes before walking away. Silent, she stares back. Still wearing his gloves, Mo checks for the medals hanging from his chain as he heads back to the path, unable to feel the warmth and protection they provide. Hearing a scuffle and thinking it may be a deer, he turns back to look. He no longer sees the girl.
Ten minutes later, Mo crosses the rear parking lot before reentering the main gate. Marveling at the giant, white coaster while appreciating the squeals and screeches of its enthusiasts, he understands how the serenity of a nature walk can be upset by even a single scream. He waits for his friends at the exit of The Comet.
Kay greets Mo from behind. “Did you have fun today?”
“I had a great time,” Mo says. “I’ve never been any place like this before. Did you enjoy the roller coaster?”
“I couldn’t do it. Carlton took me for some cotton candy instead. We ended up playing the nickel-pusher game.” Kay points. “Here comes Trevor and Brian.”
They head out to Carlton’s car. The evening sky shifting from dark gray to black, the parking lot’s lit by pole lights and a million distant stars. Mo imagines the stars falling like fireworks.
“Kay, do you remember where we parked?” Carlton searches for the keys in his pockets before remembering where they are. “Hey, M, toss me the keys.”
Mo throws them harder than intended.
“Whoa, buddy,” Carlton says, laughing as he catches them with his hands and stomach, “I don’t have a glove on.” He looks down. “Hey, what did you do with these?” He looks closer. “They’re all, ew, sticky.”
Mo shrugs. “Sorry, I used them to hold down a big butterfly, but I accidentally poked it too hard.”
“Oh, gross.” Carlton shakes off his hand, wiping it across his pant leg.
Kay points two rows over. “There’s the car.”
Approaching, Carlton notices the rear driver’s side is sloped down. “Come on! Seriously?” He unlocks the door before tossing the keychain over to Trevor. “T, can you help B get the jack and spare out of the trunk?” He sets the parking brake, pointing Kay in the direction of picnic tables several yards away. “Why don’t you wait over there with Mo. This shouldn’t take long.”
Trevor pushes the plush animal aside. “Hey, Carlton, I get the wrench set, floodlamp, oil, transmission fluid, fan belts, jumper cables, and jack, but why’s there an old fold-up shovel in here?”
“I have it in case I get stuck in mud or need to bury a body.” Carlton chuckles. “Nah, my mother gave me that old relic just in case I ever need it. My dad brought it back with him from the war.”
Trevor unfolds the shovel while Brian struggles with the spare. “Sure looks like your dad used it a lot.”
Yanking the shovel from Trevor’s hands, Brian drops it to the ground. “Hey, man, can you please give me a hand getting this tire out? I wanna get home tonight.”
“I’m not kidding; it looks like it’s been used recently—more recent than thirty years ago.” Trevor pulls the center hole of the spare, freeing it and causing Brian to get a tire smudge on his white tee. “Oops, sorry.”
Brian brushes the smudge with his hand. “Come on! This is a new shirt.”
Carlton tosses his hand at Brian. “Relax, it’ll wash out. Roll the tire over here.”
Trevor leans the spare against the side panel. “So, what did your dad do in the war?”
“He was in the Battle of the Bulge. His company got hunkered down in foxholes for like a week in freezing cold and snow. My dad told me the story about a dozen times when I was little, but he didn’t focus on any of the guys who died over there. I’m sure he used the shovel a bunch of times to dig in from France to Germany. Got shot twice, neither hurt him much, but he definitely went through some wicked crazy stuff over there he wouldn’t talk about.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that. Your dad’s like a legit war hero. My uncle died in Italy during the war. It would’ve been nice to ask him about it.” Trevor pauses, staring at the shovel. “Hey, how do Germans tie their shoes?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “In little Nazis.”
The three boys laugh while Carlton tightens the final bolts, Brian waving Kay and Mo back. The drive home’s filled with laughter as each tells their parents’ jokes, hoping the others haven’t heard them before.
Mo listens in silence, his head filled with the sights and sounds, smells and flavors, joy and thrills of an unforgettable day. When a sports update recaps a Red Sox loss to the lowly Tigers, he’s unconcerned. He’ll worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, he revels in what he controls.
-46-
HUNTING WITH CLOSE FRIENDS
Tuesday, 23 September 1975
Palmer grips the cold, hard steel of the handlebar. He follows Osmond and Ross along the cemetery path in his only suit—black for all occasions, black for today. Along with three family members, they rest Murphy’s casket on the bier next to the grave. Huddled under a temporary canopy, he watches mourners struggle through the short memorial, raindrops beating like solemn drums on the canvas above. When the time comes for him to toss dirt on the coffin, he pulls loose tobacco out of his pocket, mixing it with soil before dropping it in.
After the service, Palmer follows the parade of vehicles making their way to Murphy’s wake. Family, friends, and former coworkers listen to clicks of Murphy’s life spin through a projector, each slide offering a stationary point in the arc of a man’s measure. For Palmer, the images blur as he reflects on the past twenty-five years, wondering who will attend his funeral.
