Moonbog (7 page)

Main Street was quiet for a Saturday afternoon—at least quiet compared to what David was used to in New York. There was a single car at the gas pumps in the Tulsa station; a few old codgers sitting on the bench in front of Hank’s General Store; a mass of cars parked outside the Sawmill, with its flashing red CHOP SUEY sign. David considered stopping for a bowl of chop suey, but his stomach was still feeling queasy. He drove by and then took the right turn onto the Little River Road.

If the road into town had been familiar to David, he had completely memorized this one. There were a few new houses between the older homes but as soon as he drove past the abandoned sawmill and lumber yard, the houses thinned out. The road wound its way through the scrub brush and swampy lowlands. This was the lower end of the Bog, the southern tip of the vast waterway.

David knew that, up ahead, three bends in the road away, was the old wooden bridge. People who didn’t know about the bridge always went over it faster than they should and often came close to losing an axle or two. David slowed down in anticipation of the bump he would hit going onto the bridge.

As he rounded the last corner before the bridge, David smiled as he remembered Old Man Troll. Old Man Troll lived underneath the bridge; a slimy, foul-smelling man who ate fish and algae—whenever he couldn’t get anything more suited to his taste. Old Man Troll would get you as you crossed the bridge if you were off your guard. Every day, when he walked home from school, David would stamp his foot three times on the bridge planking just to let Old Man Troll, waiting in the dark shadows under the bridge, know that he knew he was there. Then David would cross the bridge at a run, not daring to look back until he was a good hundred feet down the road. Even after he had gotten his driver’s license and long stopped believing in Old Man Troll, David would always tap his foot three times on the car floor whenever he crossed the bridge. He did that now just as his front wheels hit the upgrade of the bridge with a loud thump.

After the first curve in the road beyond the bridge, David knew just where to look to get a glimpse of the old family home. The trees had grown up a lot and now obscured the view, but he could still see a peaked corner of the roof pointing against the sky. The road wound along for another half mile before the entrance to the driveway. David felt a knot of excitement in his stomach as he got closer to the house.

As he approached the driveway, David saw someone walking along the side of the road. He caught just a glimpse of the figure before it rounded the next corner. There was something vaguely familiar about the person, and David pressed down slightly on the gas pedal. When he took the curve in the road, he remembered the figure he had seen the night before, walking along the roadside and throwing the thing he was carrying—Billy Wilson’s body—off into the brush. Was that what seemed so familiar about the person he had just seen up ahead on the road, or was he now elaborating on the memory?

He felt his stomach tighten when he finished the curve and saw the person still there, walking along the road; David had almost expected that this person would dash off into the brush as had the person last night.

A shape—a man’s shape—suddenly loomed up out of the darkness.

David eased up on the gas as his car started along the straightaway. The person walking in front of him was an old man. He swung his walking stick out in front of him with each step as he moved along briskly. David noticed, though, that the old man was favoring his left leg, and if the man’s back hadn’t been familiar, the limp was; David immediately recognized his uncle—Marshall Logan.

Should he stop and offer the old man a ride? He wondered. He was obviously on his way home. David saw the folded newspaper under his arm, and he remembered that Uncle Marshall had always walked into town on Saturdays to pick up a copy of the
Holland Daily Times
. This was something about Holland that had not been changed in the fourteen years he had been away, and that made him feel good. But, in spite of that, David did not really feel pleasure at the prospect of meeting with his uncle after all these years. They had never been close while David was growing up. In fact, David had always felt as though his uncle more or less had it in for him—especially after that night long ago when he had gotten lost in the Bog . . .

—a man’s shape suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. Stumbling backward, David had reached behind his back and grabbed a tree limb. As the black shape of the man towered over him, blotting out the night sky, he swung the stick with all of his ten year old strength. The deafening chorus of spring peepers drowned out all other sounds, but below that noise, almost as if it were from another plane of existence, David heard the sound of a breaking bone. Then he had fainted, falling face down into the stinking muck of the Bog. The next day, lying in bed pale and weak, he had been told that he had swung the tree limb and broken his Uncle Marshall’s leg. Marshall had been out helping David’s father look for him and had not even known David was there in front of him until he felt his legs knocked out from under him.

After that, the nightmares had come; at first a nightly, and then a weekly replay of the massive, looming black shadow. The nightmares had never gone away; they merely became less frequent. After his discovery last night in the Bog, David felt a gnawing fear that the nightly terrors would come again.

And that was why, David guessed, Uncle Marshall rarely if ever spoke to him. Even years later, when David had returned to Holland for his grandmother’s funeral, and after that, when David’s father simply disappeared—left town without a word, the extent of Marshall’s communication with him consisted mostly of grunts and stiff, jerking nods of his head.

He had almost reached the driveway of the old homestead; Marshall’s house was a short way beyond that. As he drove up from behind, something in David told him that he shouldn’t let Uncle Marshall know that he was back in town—at least not yet—David pressed down on the accelerator and sped past both the old man and the entrance to the homestead. His ears were burning as he took another curve in the road and the old man disappeared from his rearview mirror.

About a mile down the road, a short way past Marshall’s house, David pulled over to the side of the road, only glancing momentarily at the house as he jockeyed the car back and forth and turned around. He took his sunglasses from the glove compartment and slid them on before Marshall came into view again. The old man was quite a ways past the homestead driveway; David was impressed by the pace he kept—not bad for a man in his seventies, especially one with a limp. Slouching in his seat and hoping Marshall wouldn’t recognize him if he looked up, David sped by, heading back into town.

He wondered briefly why he was playing this hide-and-seek game with his uncle. There was, after all, no reason to avoid him. But he didn’t wonder for long. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost one o’clock, and he successfully convinced himself that he hadn’t stopped because he had to meet with Sidney Latham, the family lawyer who was handling the Will and all of its related problems.

V

M
arshall glanced up quickly as the car zipped past him. The cloud of dust the rear wheels kicked up, swirled around his head and made him cough. He saw the New York license plates on the car and wondered vaguely who the driver might be; he assumed it was an early summer tourist. He continued walking with a fast, steady pace marked by the sound of his walking stick hitting the pavement.

He had gone into town as usual on Saturday morning to pick up the early edition of the town’s newspaper. Waiting at the register, he had glanced at the headline and been struck by the story of the discovery of Billy Wilson’s body in the Bog. Confused thoughts filled his mind as he walked the four miles to his house; that is why he took so little interest in the car that zoomed past him. If his mind had not been so occupied with Billy Wilson, he would have been more curious about the identity of the driver from New York.

He passed the driveway that led up to the old family homestead, and as he glanced up at the house, he pushed aside the memory that always arose when he saw the house. Some memories were just too damn painful, he thought, as he increased the steady beat of his pace.

When he was well past the driveway, the car from New York roared by him again. This time Marshall was prepared, and he covered his nose with his hand as he looked up at the driver. In spite of the sunglasses the driver was wearing, Marshall immediately recognized his nephew David.

“David—Davie’s back in town,” he mumbled, turning stiffly to watch the car disappear around the bend, the sound of its motor slowly fading. He wondered if David had recognized him.

He knew why David had returned. As far as he was concerned, he was glad that the whole problem with the Will had been passed on to David to figure out.

He thought of the old house a few paces behind him but, with a shiver, resisted the urge to turn around and look at it. David could have title to Grandma Logan’s house, Marshall thought, can have it, keep it, do whatever he wants with it—he didn’t care anymore because it didn’t matter anymore.

Marshall realized, of course, that sooner or later he would have to see David at least once to fulfill his
family
obligations. But now that he knew David was back to settle everything, he would be just as happy if it was
later
rather than
sooner
.

He turned up his driveway and started up toward his house. At the foot of the walkway leading up to his front door, the beat of his walking stick suddenly stopped. He stood there for a moment watching with amazement.

“Those little
bastards
,” he hissed.

There were two of them that Marshall could see. They were so busy that they didn’t notice his approach. When one of the young boys had finished soaping the window he was working on, leaving it covered with thick, white streaks, he turned, laughing, to his friend and saw Marshall out of the corner of his eye. His whimper of surprise got his friend’s attention, but not enough to warn him; by the time his friend understood what was happening, Marshall had closed the distance between them.

“What the hell d’ you think you’re doing?” Marshall shouted, lunging at the boy. The boy who had first seen Marshall had enough of a jump to get away, and his friend, after dodging Marshall’s grasp, almost did. But Marshall swung out low with his walking stick and hit the boy’s ankles with a solid blow. The boy pitched down into the gravel walkway and howled with pain.

“You boys got one hell of a nerve coming up here! Doing this!” Marshall was standing over the fallen figure. The boy was pulled into a fetal position, clasping his knees. His pant leg was torn, and blood was slowly seeping into the material. Tears streaked his face as he looked up at Marshall.

Brandishing his walking stick, Marshall made as if to hit the fallen boy, and this made him start to scramble away from the enraged old man.

“I’ll tan your hides! Caught you red handed! You’re gonna be sorry!”

From a distance, the boy who had gotten away began to shout obscenities at Marshall, but he ignored these as he turned his full attention on the boy in front of him.

“We were just fooling around. Honest. We didn’t mean it. Just a . . . just a harmless prank,” the fallen boy sputtered between tears.

“Harmless prank, huh? I’ll harmless prank your backsides!” Marshall reached for the boy just as he gained his feet and began to run. Marshall’s hand gripped the boy’s shoulder, fingers twisting into the cotton fabric of his shirt. There was a sudden, loud tearing sound, and the boy was free. A few strides away from Marshall, he wheeled around and stuck his tongue out at the old man.

“Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,” he called out. “Can’t catch me, can’t catch me!”

“Just wait’ll I tell your parents what you’ve done,” Marshall yelled, still waving his walking stick over his head like a war-club.

“Oh yeah?” the boy who had escaped shouted. “You think so? Just wait’ll I tell my father what you did.” He took the loose flap of his shirt and waved it in the air.

“Wait’ll I tell him you hit me and tried to rip my clothes off me! You just wait!”

“Old man Logan’s just an old fart face!” the other boy shouted.

Marshall took a few quick steps in the boy’s direction. Suddenly, the boy’s arms shot out. Something white sliced through the air. Marshall ducked his head just as the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. He looked behind him and saw that one of the window panes in the door had been broken by the thrown soap.

“You boys just wait!” he yelled at the two retreating figures, now halfway down the driveway. “Your parents aren’t gonna like it when I tell them!”

But they were gone now, racing swiftly down the road toward town. Marshall turned slowly and looked up at the job they had done on his windows. They must have been just starting when he caught them, because only three windows were caked with streaks of soap—the two kitchen windows on one side of the front door and one of the livingroom windows on the other side.

“Little scoundrels,” he muttered as he walked up to the front door and inspected the broken pane. He continued swearing under his breath as he took his penknife from his pocket and began to pry away the loose putty. He gingerly removed the shards and put them in a pile on the front step.

He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand into the small of his back as he straightened up and wondered whether or not he had some panes of glass in the garage. If not, it would mean another walk into town to get some before the hardware store closed for the day. There was no glass in the garage so he turned and started the walk back into town.