CUTTER'S GROVE Read online

  CUTTER’S GROVE

  A Novel

  by

  Patrick Dakin

  1

  Yesterday.

  To borrow an overused phrase from the younger generation, it was a bummer. Actually, it was a bummer of the first magnitude. A bummer to end all bummers.

  The day started out pretty much like any other - un-noteworthy, mundane even. In short order, however, things turned unpleasant, then proceeded to worsen rapidly. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a whiner. Well, that is to say, I do not whine continuously, or without some justification. But some days, like yesterday, are sent to test us I guess. If it was a test I’m afraid I didn’t fare too well. Not my finest hour so to speak.

  So how am I faring today, you ask? Well, let’s just say things haven’t improved much. Okay, scratch that - I’m going to be perfectly honest here. Today is shaping up to be every bit as crappy as the day that preceded it.

  As a consequence of the general direction my life seems to be taking, it comes as no great bolt from the blue that I suddenly realize my six-year-old Jeep Cherokee is running out of gas. The coughing and spluttering are dead giveaways. To make matters worse I am being battered by a vicious-tempered sandstorm, the intensity of which is such that the color of my Jeep - once a rather attractive, emerald shade - is being systematically altered to ... let’s call it vomit green.

  Big deal, you might be thinking. New paint jobs are rarely worth contemplating suicide over and running out of gas is a routine occurrence, certainly not the end of the world. Well, I’ll concede that the Jeep was probably due for a new coat of paint anyway. And running out of gas isn’t a big deal if you’re in or near a city, armed with a cell phone, or within walking distance of a phone booth. Give the old auto club a call and be done with it.

  As fate would have it, however, I am not in a city; nor, it appears, am I anywhere near one. And the last time my cell phone was charged up was … well, let’s just say it’s deader than the raccoon out of which Davey Crockett’s hat was made. And as long as I’m being honest here I might just as well admit that my exact location is pretty much a complete mystery to me. I’m somewhere in the desert country of southern California, that much I know for sure. But as to specifics? Not a clue.

  Some might think it strange that, in this day and age, a grown man can simply not know where he is. After all, there are maps, road signs, places to stop and ask directions. Right?

  Wrong, on all three scores. I have no map, and even if I did it wouldn’t help because I have no frame of reference. It would be like delivering a road map to someone dropped out of a airplane after being driven around blindfolded for a week. You have to know approximately where you are for the map to be meaningful. Wherever I am, there are no road signs that I’ve been able to see. And certainly no places to stop and ask directions.

  I have a sneaking suspicion that I took a bend in the road, maybe twenty miles or so back, I shouldn’t have. With all the sand and dust flying around, taking a wrong turn wasn’t as absurd as you might think. The feeling that I may have done so is reinforced by the fact that the quality of the road surface I am now traversing has deteriorated greatly in the last few miles.

  As I await the death cough from the Jeep that will herald an abrupt halt to my onward if slothful progression, my thoughts drift in cheerless wonderment. It seems impossible to believe that only twenty hours ago I was sharing an apartment in Seattle with a beautiful woman with whom I was deeply in love and engaged to be married. That I was gainfully employed. That I had no intention of undertaking a voyage of any sort, much less one of the magnitude I now find myself embarked upon.

  A lot has changed. Indeed, it has. And may the teeth-sucking, suspender-snapping shithead who once uttered the phrase, ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ rot in hell forever. I needed this much change like Tommy Lee needs more tattoos.

  My speed is now down to ten miles an hour, but even at this pace I can barely keep the Jeep on the road. I’m hunched over the steering wheel, squinting and gaping around in wide-eyed uneasiness. My vision extends to a point mere inches beyond the Jeep's hood ornament, or where the hood ornament would be if the Jeep had one.

  Not knowing where I am, of course, means I have no idea how far I am from civilization. As it’s been at least three hours since I’ve seen another vehicle traveling in either direction, however, I’m finding it somewhat difficult to be optimistic that civilization is close at hand. While I’m contemplating this distressing fact, the Jeep’s wheels catch a cavernous rut, the steering wheel spins out of my grasp, and I veer off the road, striking my forehead on the rearview mirror as I lurch to a stop.

  I take a moment to let the throbbing pain in my temple subside and then touch my hand to what I am sure is a massive head wound. I’m surprised when my fingers come away dry but I can feel the swelling already starting over my right eye. I let go with a lengthy string of expletives in the hope that, when I am through, I will feel better having vented my frustration with all that I’ve endured over the past twenty hours. Unfortunately, once done, I feel not one speck better than I did before my three-and-a-half-minute-long diatribe. Calm down, I tell myself. Things could be worse.

  That might be true but, to be honest, I’d have to work very hard at imagining how.

  Suddenly, my attention is diverted from my troubles by something I find almost impossible to believe. Outside my windshield the roiling mass of dust and sand parts for a fraction of a second. In that instant I’m stunned by the fleeting appearance of a young girl’s face, perhaps twenty feet in front of me. Her image is hazy; I am able to distinguish that she has dark, shoulder-length hair and a pale complexion, but little else.

  To say that I’m stunned by this sudden manifestation would be to understate my reaction in the extreme. A young child’s appearance at this particular moment is roughly equivalent to seeing an elephant in the mirror’s reflection while brushing your teeth. It simply doesn’t compute with the circumstances under which I presently labor. Nonetheless, I did see her.

  I open my door. “Hello,” I yell. “Do you need help?” I feel a bit ridiculous shouting out an offer of assistance. After all, I’m hardly in a position to be of much aid to anyone. But it’s all academic anyway because nothing comes back to me but the eerie howling of the wind. There is no sign of the girl. What the hell? I step out of the Jeep to investigate but the moment my feet touch the ground the wind, which had momentarily abated, comes to life with an unexpected and violent burst of renewed energy. Dirt is blasted into my face and eyes, blinding me. Again, I’m in considerable discomfort. I consider venting once more but quickly decide against it. I’ve already used every curse word I know and repeating myself just seems, well, silly. I climb back in the Jeep, wondering what I did to unleash the unholy chain of events that are afflicting me. I’m also giving some thought to the question of my sanity. Did I imagine the girl? Was the image of her face simply a trick of light, an impression conjured from swirling debris? Or has my tormented mind finally snapped, a victim of excess stress and miserable circumstance?

  I’m rubbing my tortured eyes, trying to clear them of the desert grit, when the girl’s face appears again, inches from my own face, outside my driver’s side window! This time I see her much more clearly than before, and the shriek of alarm that escapes me would be embarrassing, if not outright comical, in any other situation.

  Then, as quickly as the vision of the girl appears, she’s gone.

  Dissolved would be a better word. She didn’t turn and walk away. She vanished before my eyes. But not before I register her ghostly complexion. And dark, sunken, haunted eyes. And bloodless lips.

  I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m holding my breath. I take in a giant lungful of air. The inhalation
s that follow are ragged and choppy; the pounding of my heart is akin to that of an activated food processor.

  And, of course, like it was scripted for a B-movie, the Jeep picks that precise moment to die on me. The abrupt and unexpected silence adds yet another element to the daunting atmosphere that already has me in a state of near panic. An icy chill courses down my spine. I sit stark still, frozen in fear, trying to reason out what I’ve just seen.

  It was … well, it was ...

  I've got to get a grip. I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. Surely I can come up with a rational explanation for what just occurred.

  Several minutes of intense introspection ensue. My mind grapples with the problem, searching desperately for understanding.

  I hit the Jeep’s power lock button, locking all four doors. Oh, good. A thoroughly impressive display of positive reinforcement, not to mention intestinal fortitude.

  Okay, so clearly I fall a tad shy of qualifying as an action hero. But if what I saw was a girl in need of help, she would have called out. She wouldn’t just appear beside me and then vanish. Right?

  And how about that Bela Lugosi thing with the eyes?

  The girl couldn’t have been real.

  But if she wasn’t real then what in the name of all that’s holy was she? Huh?

  Too much has happened to me in too short a time, that’s all there is to it. My mind is playing tricks on me. Maybe if I quietly assess my situation, get some perspective on things, I’ll feel better. So, okay, let’s review.

  I arrived at work yesterday morning, all ready to settle in for another less than gratifying day as a security guard with Telfor Electronics - that’s the giant computer chip manufacturer you hear a lot about - when the personnel manager sidles up next to me. “Lucas,” he says, “could you come down to my office for a minute, please?” All very pleasant and polite, like there’s not a thing in the world to be concerned about. Probably just wants to clarify my holiday schedule I’m thinking as I follow him down the hall to his utilitarian little cubbyhole of an office. “Take a seat,” he says. I do so, becoming increasingly nervous with, I am soon to learn, good reason. “I have some bad news, Lucas,” he utters, looking genuinely unhappy. “Through absolutely no fault of your own, we’re going to have to let you go. I’m terribly sorry about this but senior management have determined we have to make some cutbacks. Unfortunately for you your lack of seniority here means you’re number one on the hit list for this department.”

  Yeah, okay. The company made a mere seven hundred trillion dollars last year and the stock price slipped by almost point zero zero three of a percent. I’m sure the twenty bucks an hour they save by firing me will put an immediate end to the spiraling descent of corporate earnings and inspire a giant and desperately needed turnaround in investor confidence. Bitter? Maybe just a tad. But, what the hell, I can always get another job. And it’s not like I was in love with this particular job anyway.

  “You can leave immediately,“ the personnel manager says, “ and the company will provide a one month severance allowance and continuation of your benefits for the duration of the severance period. Once again, Lucas, I really am sorry about this.”

  Gee, thanks a heap.

  So I head home. I figure I’ll spend the day telling my woes to Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. Drown in self-pity until Karen gets home from work. I phone her at the bank where she works to break the news but I’m told she left early, not feeling well.

  What I discover upon arrival at the apartment I share with my darling fiancée makes losing my job seem like an utterly enchanting experience by comparison. Walking into the bedroom, I find her - the love of my life, the woman who will give birth to my children and comfort to me in my old age - doing a very enthusiastic version of the old bump and grind with Bernie Hagget, a loan manager at the same bank where she works.

  Bernie Hagget, who had never had a date all through high school. Hagget the faggot we called him. Well, I guess we had that one figured wrong, huh? Anyway, after a quick visit to the bathroom where I am blessed with another peek at that morning’s breakfast, I depart Seattle. No going back to the office. No tearful farewell or angry confrontation with either employer or fiancée. Screw em both, I say. I pause just long enough to stuff my clothes and shaving gear in a duffel bag and then storm out of the apartment. A quick stop at the bank and, before I’ve given my plans a minutes thought, I’m driving out of town, headed south.

  I have no destination in mind. I’m in a vacuum, a kind of dazed nowhere land. I alternate between episodes of raging anger at Karen (and Bernie Hagget, too, of course) and intense pity for myself. The miles fly by. I have no real understanding of what I’m doing beyond the basics of pointing the Jeep down an endless expanse of asphalt.

  And that brings us pretty well up to the present. I am here - wherever here is - lost in the middle of God knows where, out of gas, with a lump the size of a tennis ball on my forehead, my eyes filled with what feels like a thousand shards of splintered glass, and - perhaps understandably considering all that has happened to this point - hallucinating ghostly visions of young females.

  Yeah, things could be worse. I could have an excruciatingly painful case of hemorrhoids or a particularly virulent episode of diarrhea to go along with all this. Why not? Bring it on!

  Just kidding, don’t bring it on.

  I think I should be careful what I call forth. Who knows what I might be capable of invoking, given my current state of mind.

  Looking out the window I am now further distressed to see that it is getting dark. It’s also getting very cold. And I have almost nothing with me to eat or drink.

  With all I have to contend with, I am going to make a decision. I am going to decide that I have definitely hallucinated ghost girl. Things like that can happen when you're stressed out and overly tired, and nobody can deny that I qualify on both those counts.

  I have no options here. I’ll wait out the storm and then I’ll find help. I’ve got half a bottle of Evian water, a Snickers bar, and the remnants of some potato chips on the seat next to me. I can survive for a few hours.

  Having made that decision, I’m acutely aware of how tired I am. Exhaustion has descended on me like a tangible weight, sapping my strength and depleting my ability to analyze my circumstances any further. Small wonder really. On top of everything else I’ve gone through, I’ve been driving practically non-stop for better than nineteen hours. I feel as though, if I don’t close my eyes immediately, my heart will stop. I’ll expire right here and now. I grab a blanket from the back seat and pull it around me. I slide the seat back and recline the backrest, stretching my legs to the full extent possible.

  Although still uneasy, I feel slightly better having come to a logical explanation for the visions that beset me earlier. I begin to drift off.

  Just before losing consciousness I peek out the window. It’s darker now and getting noticeably colder. I check the power lock button one more time. Then, blessed sleep.

  Blessed sleep lasts for perhaps four minutes. It’s disrupted by a bump against the Jeep. Not a huge thud or anything, but enough to get my attention. It felt and sounded like it came from the rear passenger side. Instantly wide awake, I shoot a look back there. It’s blacker than tar out now; I can see nothing.

  Fear - blatant, barefaced, and palpable - rockets through me.

  My first inclination is to turn on the Jeep’s headlights, but I decide not to for two reasons. Firstly, if something is out there that has malevolent intentions, there’s little to be gained by lighting myself up like a Christmas tree ornament. Secondly, I’m not all that anxious to catch another glimpse of … of ... whatever.

  I spend the next three hours shivering under my blanket, tensely awaiting the next little nudge from my murky and illusive tormentor.

  It never comes.

  Sometime during the night I fall asleep again after striving frantically to convince myself, for a second time, that the apparitions I beheld earlier were figments
of an overactive imagination brought on by stress and exhaustion. That the bump that awakened me was nothing more than a tumbleweed thrust against the Jeep by the wind.

  2

  Morning arrives without further incident. When my eyes first flicker open - for one or two precious moments - I’m back Seattle. I reach out for the comforting presence of my true love. When my hand strikes the Jeep’s door panel reality sets in quickly. I open my eyes again to find the city of Seattle’s skyline I’m accustomed to seeing from my bedroom window has been replaced by an endless expanse of empty sky.

  After a massive yawn and some stretching I make a conscious effort to fight back the feeling of doom that wants so badly to settle on me. I cast off my blanket and emerge from the Jeep. For the first time I have a real appreciation for just how far off the beaten track I’ve gotten. While I work out the kinks I’ve inherited from spending the night under less than ideal conditions, I scan the horizon all around me. I’m dismayed to find that in every direction I look, for as far as I can see, there is nothing but scrub-infested desert and low-lying hills. I had forgotten until then that the desert of southern California was quite so vast. In fact this area occupies an area of over 54,000 square miles. That little piece of trivia, together with approximately two bucks, will buy you a very tasty cup of coffee at any Starbuck’s in the country. And what, I’m reminded, wouldn’t I give for just such a treat at this moment in time. Accompanied preferably by a double chocolate brownie or six.

  Like I said before, I’m not normally a whiner, but I have to admit the sight of all that desolate wasteland makes me want to whimper just a little.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a vivid and very disconcerting image of ghost girl explodes into my mind. It’s almost like when you’re watching a horror movie and some innocent dupe is thrashing around in a dark, dank cellar. The lights flicker on for just a tenth of a second and you catch a glimpse of the villain, all evil and nasty looking, standing there right next to the dupe. You let out an ‘aaah!’, spill your Coke, tip over your bag of buttered popcorn.