Shivers (18 page)

E
RIC
T
HORNE GOT
back from the supermarket to find Hammond with his head in the refrigerator. Hammond pulled out—drumstick in hand —as he heard Eric approaching. Eric put the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and gently chided his guest. “Can’t you wait until I have dinner ready?”

“You said I should help myself, so I did.”

“Just teasing. Thanks for paying for half the groceries.”

“It’s only fair.” He took a peek inside the bag. “Let’s see what we have here. Ah, you got the sweet potatoes! My wife showed me a special way to prepare them. My second wife I think it was. Let me take care of them.”

“What do you think of these steaks?” Eric said as he extracted two plastic packages from the shopping bag. “Nice, huh?”

“They look delicious. I’m starving. This drumstick will make a nice appetizer, but I’ll be gnawing on the sofa if dinner isn’t ready soon.”

“How do you keep so fit?”

“I jog. I find it very useful in keeping my weight down.”

“That’s right. You’ve mentioned it before.”

“What’s
your
secret?”

Eric went to the oven, twisted the dial to the proper temperature. “I’ve never been an especially
big
eater, though I like good food. I guess I’ve always just naturally gravitated toward low-calorie foods. I ate yogurt before it was popular.”

“Skim milk and that sort of thing?”

“Yes, only now they call it Low-Fat Milk and charge twice as much.”

“I’ve noticed.” Hammond headed for the living room. “I have a journal to flip through. Bake the potatoes and call me when they’re done. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Will you make the salad, or shall I?”

“I’m not that fond of salads. You can make some for yourself.”

Hammond went into the next room. Eric took some lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers out of the refrigerator. He was washing the lettuce, tearing it into smaller pieces, when he felt a sudden weariness. His vision began to blur, while his hearing became conversely acute. The sound of the water pouring from the faucet was that of a thundering waterfall; the lettuce snapped in his hands with the crack of a gunshot. He stopped, wiped his sweating forehead, and leaned against the sink for a minute or two until it passed. He had to fight the urge to go into his bedroom and lie down. He couldn’t understand why he was so tired. He had had an excellent night’s sleep the evening before, even making up the hours he had lost the night of his frightful trance. His day had not been especially trying; no unforeseen problems, arguments, or additional work. Why was he so exhausted?

He was about to give up, head for the bedroom, and ask Hammond to make his own dinner, when the spell suddenly passed. He could see clearly again, and the sounds in the room returned to their normal volume. What a strange experience! Still a bit woozy, he continued to wash the lettuce. At least his energy had returned. He didn’t feel tired anymore. He must remember to tell Hammond all about it. Maybe not—he’d like to be spared the man’s protestations of doom during the dinner hour, at least.

He cut up one tomato into several segments and put the other back for another time. He sliced up the cucumber, cutting off the dark green skin. He tossed it all into a small bowl and placed it on the little table by the window. He removed a large can of creamed corn from the cupboard, opened it, and poured the contents into a saucepan. He placed it on one of the burners.

He went into the living room and found Hammond fast asleep on the easy chair. Funny, now
he
felt tired again. He removed the journal from Hammond’s lap and went back into the kitchen with it. He thumbed through it until the oven was hot enough to insert the potatoes. He did so, set the timer, and sat down by the table again. He must remember to put the steaks in the broiler in a little while. He shifted his concentration to an article on telepathy by Mori is Urnheardt, that quack. Eric read it quickly, looking as usual for all the discrepancies in the man’s arguments. As he read, the words became more indistinct with each line. He rubbed his eyes, but it did no good. The weariness was upon him again.

This time it was a dream. In the arms of slumber, his mind was free to drift, drift, out and over the walls of the buildings, high, higher, then down toward the ground. Then low, lower, down to a dark and secret place. He saw none of the things that he had seen that night of his frightening experience—but one. It was the door, that strange, gigantic door. Made of steel, he was sure. Eric murmured in his sleep. He wanted to get closer, much closer, so that he could read the writing on the door.

He could see it better now. Letters—an H? Yes, an H. Followed by a G. Then a C? All capital letters. H.G.C. HGC. What did that mean? The letters were not affixed to the door, but were part of its design, chiseled out of and into it. Eric wanted to open the door, but he saw no handle, no means to get beyond it. He heard voices, scuttling sounds like animals. More voices. Coming closer. Suddenly, he was very afraid. Then a high, screaming sound, an irritating, stabbing sound, like a buzzer . . .

The buzzer on the oven’s timer had turned on, waking Eric up. He jumped out of the chair and shut it off.

While he went about fixing the dinner, he thought about what he had seen so vividly in the dream. He had gotten a sense of
place
this time, though he had actually seen nothing but the door itself, and had no idea where it might be located. And yet? And what about those sounds he’d heard? What could they be?

Hammond was still asleep. The apartment was very silent, except for the crackling noises from the oven. The smell that came from it, warm and delicious, had an identity of its own. Eric felt lonely. He was torn between turning on the television or waking up Hammond. He decided to do neither. Dinner would be ready soon anyway. Hammond would like that—his falling asleep in the middle of Urnheardt’s article!

Eric prepared a drink for himself, and sat down on the sofa, his eyes on Hammond’s chest as it slowly rose and fell. He would have to ask him if he remembered any dreams he might have had. Eric’s dream had left him feeling slightly unsettled. What was the meaning of it all?

He set the table, brought out the dressing for his salad, and poured two glasses of tomato juice. As soon as the steaks were ready, he’d wake up Hammond. He was very hungry now.

But stronger even than his urge for food was his determination to find the door he had seen twice now inside his mind. He was filled with a compelling need to go
beyond
the portal, to discover the taunting secrets it was withholding. He sensed that the door had something to do with the tramp, that lonely, forsaken derelict who had briefly, but eternally, touched him.

Somewhere he would find that door. And that man.

It was only a matter of time.

Detective John Albright had stopped off for a beer before he went home to dinner. He had left the stationhouse early, without comment, sick of papers and disappearances, and gone to the nearest bar and grill. But one glass of beer led to another, which led to a bottle, and then another bottle, and then a third one. He was feeling pretty high at eight o’clock. He was about to order another beer when he glanced at his watch and got off the bar stool with a start. He dug into his pocket for change, left a sizable tip, and went out into the street.

It was quite dark outside, with a slight breeze that made the wind whistle as it went through the trees. He went into the coffeeshop across the street and ordered a strong cup of black coffee and one prune danish. After the man took his order, he went in back to where the phones were and dialed his number. No answer. No goddamned answer. What was the story? The phone at his house hadn’t been answered all afternoon. He’d been trying and trying it, more out of curiosity as to where his wife had gone than out of a need to talk to her.

He let the phone ring for almost two minutes. Disgusted, he hung up, left the booth, and went back to the counter where his hot coffee was waiting. The first sip almost burned his tongue. He used the spoon to stir the liquid around and around, cooling it; then took a big bite of the danish. He felt lousy. He beer hadn’t done much good for his stomach. But he loved beer. Loved being alone in the bar, surrounded by other people. Strangers. That’s what he liked.

He paid the bill fifteen minutes later and walked outside again. It was colder now. Windier. There weren’t many people on the street. He got into his car and drove home.

He lived in a quiet suburb in Brooklyn—with lots of trees and square, similarly shaped two-family houses. He parked the car, disembarked, and walked up the path to his front door. The lights were out and there was no noise whatsoever from within. Usually his son would be watching TV at this hour, getting ready for bed. Where were they?

He let himself in with his key and turned on the light in the foyer. He hung his coat in the closet and went into the living room, turning on the lamp via the switch on the wall. The room was small but comfortable, with well-worn but attractive furniture. Most of it had been given to them from her mother, hand-me-downs. He went into the kitchen and checked the bedroom and the bathroom. The house was empty.

He was starting to worry when he found a note stuck with tape to the refrigerator door:

Johnny—took Bobby to see Grandmama. Not sure when we’ll be back. Will be gone at least a few days. Left fried chicken for your supper. Love, Gloria.

Albright didn’t understand. Gloria’s mother lived in Massachusetts. It was a long trip and she always hated to make it alone. Their
visits
to “Grandmama” were always well planned in advance—the three of them made a day of it, often meeting their other children up there as well. But Gloria hadn’t mentioned it to him. He didn’t remember their being invited. Why hadn’t Gloria mentioned it?

Could it be something else? Was Gloria leaving him?
Not sure when we’ll be back.
Was this the start of a trial separation? He knew their marriage wasn’t the greatest, but surely things weren’t
that
bad, were they?

Yes. Things were pretty bad. He’d noticed the signs but had been too preoccupied to respond to them. So that was it. She had taken their child and left him.

Had she told their other children yet? Should he call them now, tell them what their mother had done? To him? To them? Was he being too hasty? For a moment he hated her, he despised her, he never wanted to see her again. Then the next he felt like sobbing with despair.

Perhaps it was something else, he told him-self. Perhaps her mother had suddenly taken ill. That must be it. An old lady, all by herself, would need a daughter to look after her. But why had she taken Bobby with her? She didn’t want him to miss any school, did she? She could have dropped him off at the office before she’d left He could have stayed with his Daddy all afternoon; they’d have gone out for hamburgers and milkshakes and had a lot of fun. Didn’t Gloria think he was capable of taking care of his own son?

No matter. That was it. Her mother was sick. Should he call? No, Gloria would probably call him later in the evening to explain. He hoped he hadn’t missed her if she’d called earlier. She’d try again anyway. He’d give her until eleven o’clock. She usually went to bed early. Especially tonight, after driving all the way alone. He hoped she had driven carefully—she was a timid driver, like a rabbit, all stops and starts, nervous and shy behind the wheel. He hoped she had driven slowly.

Ah, Gloria,
he thought. Impulsive, dear, sweet Gloria. She hadn’t left him—what a foolish thought. How ridiculous! Why did he jump to such absurd conclusions? He got out the fried chicken and turned on the oven so that he could reheat it. He poked inside the fridge looking for some left-over vegetables. He found plenty of succotash arid a little creamed spinach. Little Bobby’s chocolate soda was in the back, on the lower shelf. Albright could never understand how the kid could drink that stuff.

He ate quickly, still hungry in spite of the danish and the fattening beer he’d consumed not long ago. Gloria always made great chicken. He had another beer with the meal, then heated up a pot of coffee and had some store-bought apple pie for dessert. He put a slice of cheese on top and a big scoop of ice cream. Gloria always told him he was crazy to do that—to put both the cheese and the ice cream—but he had liked it just that way since he’d been a boy.

He watched TV, always the one ear listening for the phone in the kitchen. When it was eleven, he got up and went to the drawer where Gloria kept her address book—he could never remember her mother’s phone number. The book was there. He flipped the pages, memorized the number, and dialed. The old woman answered promptly. He could hear her TV set in the background.

“Hello. Who is this?”

“It’s ‘Sonny.’ “

“Who?”

“It’s Sonny-Boy.
Johnny.”

“Johnny? How are you?”

“Fine. Just fine.” He could imagine her in her tattered old robe, hair in perennial curlers, her glasses falling halfway down her nose. “My back was acting up last week, but it’s fine now.”

“Good. I hope it stays that way.”

“Me, too. Goodness, I haven’t heard from you and Gloria for almost two months. How is my daughter, anyway?”

It took a few seconds for it to hit him.

He was momentarily speechless. All he could think to say was, “What’s that, Mama?”

“I said, ‘How’s Gloria?’ Is she there?”

“No. No, I just wanted to call you up, seein’ as how I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Well, that’s sweet. It has been a while. When you coming up?”

“Thanksgiving for sure. Maybe sooner.”

“Well, you’re always welcome, you know that. How’s my little grandchild?”

His mind was racing, unclear, unsure of what to do. “Bobby’s fine. He’s wonderful. His mom took him to a movie.”

“My, he’s up awfully late.”

“Well, there’s no school tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s right. What did they go see?”