c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-24)
A muted glow permeated the lazy sky, as Evergreen Estates
began to awaken on Wednesday morning. Judson Baines had dressed in camouflage
apparel and an orange, knit beanie, before leashing his Golden Retriever.
Together, they slogged through the muck left after melting snow surrendered to
rising temperatures, an oddity at the end of January. The air tasted fresh and
clear like mountain water. Overhead, geese were traversing the property in a
vee formation. For a moment, the quiet despair of living in a village of mobile
homes dissipated. This evoked a sense of liberation that was rare in that
distant community. Something he needed desperately. Everything else about being
plunged so deeply into the boundless void of poverty and social alienation
rattled his psychology. He hated being perpetually broke.
Soon, they had managed to walk past all of the other homes
on their meandering trail. Both of them came face to face with a deserted,
corner lot that other citizens eschewed with gusto.
Pausing in the midst of their short trek, the retired
mechanic bowed his head and stood in the street. Obediently, his canine
companion waited for direction.
“Quigley? We’ve been out and about a thousand times around
here, I reckon. But not usually so far, to the edge of this scruffy tract in
the country. Until today, I never noticed that slab of concrete over in front
of Dirty John’s abandoned longbox. It’s bare and jutting up like a table rock,
after the last winter storm. Streaked with black soot, cracked and burned. That
just strikes me different somehow. Almost as if it had been used as the base
for a campfire. What ya think boy? Am I losing my marbles?”
The friendly pooch wagged his tail and looked around for tiny
creatures to chase.
Baines crept closer to the fabricated stone, with a sense of
curiosity. He remembered a swarm of yellow jackets guarding the spot during one
of their summer jaunts. His mutt had been naively interested in the aerial zip
of those stinging insects. But a nip at his nose changed that disposition.
Everything else at the lot reeked of mold and decay and stale cigarettes. John
Baughner had died around ten years before, with diabetes and hypertension
causing him to succumb. There was no funeral to commemorate his graduation from
the park roster. No wake with raised alcoholic drinks. No cheers or a
celebration of life. No children or a spouse, to mourn. His body had been
carried out in a zipper bag, by the local EMT crew. A sight that reminded
neighbors of someone moving garbage to the curb, on their pickup day.
Since then, the manufactured hovel sat empty. No one seemed
interested in peeking through ragged curtains in the broken windows. Or poking
around through weeds that circled the perimeter. A storage barn remained on one
side of the dwelling, stuffed with greasy tools and yard implements, and
refuse. Theft in the park was not uncommon, especially when a vacated property
had been allowed to crumble with neglect. Yet no one came near enough to
harvest anything of value. The stench was too great, and a sense of dread
unbearably overwhelming.
Something unexplained had transpired on this patch of
ground, they were certain.
Baines grew bold enough to kneel in the driveway, while
scanning his deceased neighbor’s residence for clues. He freed the loyal hound
while feeling a burst of adventurous spirit.
“Quigley! Go over there and sniff around for a minute! See
what y’all can flush out of the crabgrass. Maybe there’s a squatter living in
that shell, who knows? Times are tough. We’ve had people staying in their cars,
or even tents in the woods. Folks got to survive. Maybe there’s a simple
explanation for me getting the heebie-jeebies today...”
The animal looked sideways and yelped defiantly. Then bolted
to escape. He did not appear to have any interest in playing detective.
The former automotive technician rocked on his bootheels.
“DAMMIT BOY, I NEVER SAW Y’ALL TURN TAIL AND RUN LIKE THAT!
WHAT’S GOT YA SPOOKED? IS THERE SOMETHING WEIRD IN THAT DESERTED BOXCAR?”
His fearless fido had developed a case of the willies.
From farther up the rustic boulevard, Kayleigh Cricket
appeared in her big-tired, Jeep Wrangler. The orange vehicle had been splashed
with mud, after a trip through the local outback of Thompson Township. She had
her platinum mane pulled back with a patriotic scrunchie colored red, white,
and blue. A Marlboro Red dangled from her puffy lips.
“Juddy, what the hell are you doing at Dirty John’s place?
Nobody goes over there, it’s hexed! I wouldn’t let my favorite pet run on the
lawn. There might be shit buried, maybe even a body! Or poison in the water!”
He responded with a drone of embarrassment. She had broken
his concentration.
“I can’t explain it in so many words, but something is off,
today. That mound of inedible hardtack in front of his trailer looks different.
The slab is lifted, like something made the ground swell. It’s been cooked
pretty good, on top. Do ya remember seeing a fire out here in the cold? Things
don’t add up to me...”
Kayleigh wrinkled her perky nose. She flicked ash out of her
window.
“You been alone too long, bro! Any other guy would be on the
prowl for a barfly at one of our hillbilly taverns down the road. I think your
brain is coming unglued! You need some stimulation! Go get it!”
Baines shook his head and spat on the tarmac.
“SCREW THAT NOISE! I KNOW WHAT I SEE! THERE’S SIGNS OF
SOMETHING OVER AT JOHN’S PLACE, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT. Y’ALL CAN BET I’LL
FIGURE IT OUT THOUGH. JUST GIVE ME TIME! I AIN’T AFRAID OF THE CONSEQUENCES!”
After the tattooed woman had pulled away in her bouncy
vehicle, pleasant sounds of nature returned. The weary loner found Quigley
hiding behind a garbage bin at an adjoining lot. He reconnected the leash strap
to his dog’s harness, and turned in the opposite direction. Their minor
adventure was now a boring footnote to be forgotten. But as he moved briskly,
back toward his own strip of acreage in the park, a reflection of light
streamed from inside the barren living space he left behind.
A mirror of some sort was still over the faux mantle and
fireplace, in John’s ruined living room. A glare of rising gold called out from
that interior wall, with strange urgency. Almost as if an invitation had been
given.
Later, while emptying a bottle of Busch lager on his redwood
deck, this unspoken call echoed in his skull. He twirled the longneck container
in his fingers, and crouched on the stadium chair.
Kayleigh messaged his phone as this reflective interlude was
passing.
“You’re a big boy, Juddy. I know there’s no need for a woman
to nursemaid your ass! But seeing you snooping around at Dirty John’s dump made
me wonder. I’d stay away, that’s just my cautious self, talking. That hairy
freak should have disappeared without a trace. Nobody ever came to clear out
his trailer. Even the park owners left it sitting unclaimed. Now what does that
tell you? There’s damn sure bad vibes on that ground. Shit a smart person don’t
mess with! Be one of those dudes, stay away and keep your balls intact! Booyah!”
Her text lecture only muddied the emotional water. He had to
know what secrets waited inside. Once the 12-pack of suds had disappeared, with
a compliment of Evan Williams bourbon, he had enough liquid courage in his bloodstream
to embark on a second excursion.
Quigley stayed behind alone. There was no need for another
being to shadow him on the risky adventure.
John Baughner’s shipping-container-on-wheels had been a
premium build, initially. A Schult design with plenty of extra features. There
were no current residents with enough seniority to remember when it first
arrived at Evergreen Estates. But as years and decades flew by, the glistening example
fell into disrepair. Much like its owner. Both were dragged down by unfavorable
circumstances and bad fortune. When his mortal end came at last, the reclusive
hobo had been mostly forgotten. A quirk of existing in the pines. Someone
thought to be barely human and unworthy of affection or trust.
Baines took a circuitous route to visit the shunned shelter
again. He wanted to be more anonymous as a spectator, on this occasion. Stealthy
in probing beyond the outer bounds of that deserted lot. Once his bold mission
had been accomplished, he slipped into a side door that barely opened on its
rusty hinges. Fluttering wings alerted him to the presence of a bird nest,
above. Then, he strode along a hallway that connected the small rooms. Once he
had found the looking glass, across from a front entrance that had been nailed
shut, he noted must hanging thick in the air.
The carpet was soggy with dripping water and mushy snow.
Outside, it had begun to rain. Lightning flashed through a large hole in the
vinyl siding. This helped him to see the interior conditions, without any
electric light.
Reusable bags and boxes from the Heinen’s market in Chardon
were everywhere. This upscale vendor of foods and necessities was one rarely
patronized by anyone in their neighborhood. Stacked on shelving that had been
cobbled together at both sides of the fake fireplace were rows and rows of reference
books and novels. Biographies of notable figures throughout history, such as Mahatma
Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Nellie Bly. Along
with volumes penned by Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, C.S. Lewis, and
Virginia Woolf.
This library stunned the impulsive intruder with its
considerable variety. He drifted through each cubicle in the prefab home,
noting an assortment of wares and trinkets that did not comport with prevailing
views held about its former inhabitant. In the last space adjoining a closet
and bathroom, there was an upright piano with sheet music sitting regally above
the ivory keys. A candelabra sat on top, with wax droplets scarring the wood
underneath.
Outside, a burst of electric blue struck the concrete pad
that first garnered his attention on the previous day. This caused the trailer
to rock on its foundation, and shed a modified petrichor of desiccated fungal life.
Baines heard bits of the roof disintegrating, as a new storm blew through their
mobile oasis. He ran for the nearest window, which had been stripped of its
glass panes and framework. A dive through this rectangular portal sent him
crashing to the sidewalk, with debris falling swiftly in his wake. He had
escaped just before support beams gave way, and material fatigue felled the withered,
old structure like an oak in the forest.
As he crawled toward the street, a new revelation became
evident. The gray slab that had fascinated him during his dog walk was now
split in half. Buried beneath the shroud was a canvas tote labeled with a
stenciled number. It looked to be a relic from military surplus. Or a
government-issue carrier. An inexplicable find in their humble neighborhood.
As he untied the bag, an odor of vintage paper stock wafted
upward. There were bills stuffed inside, loads of legal tender printed in an
earlier era. A banker’s note accompanied the seedy stash. As if it had been
taken from a vault, or a delivery truck. With surprise, the lonely retiree
realized that this bounty of misappropriated cash must have been hidden for
many years. An Edison bulb illuminated in his imagination, providing a eureka
moment. By chance, he had received a post-deathbed confession from the
mysterious figure. Not unlike a priest dutifully listening to a voice speaking
from beyond the veil.
Perhaps Dirty John had been willfully undercover, all along?
Once the clandestine treasure had been returned to its point
of exile, Baines slid the broken concrete back into place. He crossed himself
while standing at the driveway edge. Lightning from the heavens had provided an
awe-inspiring moment of truth.
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Understand
me, y’all, I’m doing this to keep peace. Money messes with human minds. I don’t
want that on my hands. Yer secret is safe with me brother! Rest easy in the
grave. Now two of us are carrying the burden of omerta. Amen!”
