Chapter 11: What Remains and is Forgotten
"We're worried about you, DW, you haven't been yourself lately."
DW glared at her parents, her eyes filled with contempt. She stared out the window as the Read's van made its way down a country road, leaving corn fields and barns in its wake. A faint odor of manure seeped into the van and blended with the ghosts of wedding cakes past that her father used to make back when his catering business flourished. "How fitting," she smirked to herself.
"We only want what's best for you. Hopefully a long stay at Grandpa Dave's farm will do you some good," her parents asserted in an eerie unison. DW was too busy practicing rolling her eyes to notice. She hoped that the old saying was true and that one day her face would freeze like that. "That'll show them," she thought. She glanced at her iPod Nano as Fallout Boy stopped playing. "Low battery" flashed on the screen. "Just like my life," she sighed.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires filled her ears as the car drove down the path towards her grandfather's house. It screeched to a halt as her father narrowly avoided hitting a barn cat that had darted in front of them. DW was slammed back into her seat. It felt good.
"We're here," her parents chimed. Was it some kind of rule that parents had to be so lame all the time? "Also," thought DW, "it's the 21st century. Why can't my mom ever speak for herself?" DW gritted her teeth at the patriarchy.
Immediately upon exiting the car, DW stepped in a large, fresh cow patty. DW found a way to slam the car door shut in a manner filled with teenage snark and angst. Her shoes squelched with every step as she followed her parents to the front door. Along the way, she kept stepping in fresh cow patties.
"Why is there so much shit here?" DW asked, as she stepped into yet another pile. "Is this a shit farm?" she asked, her voice filling with tiny teen rage.
"DW, language!" her parents chided. "As you very well know, this farm has been in the family for 150 years. And yes, manure is a big part of your grandfather's business these days. Cow poop paid for your brother's trip to France and your braces! You should be more grateful! Kids these days are so entitled." DW angrily ran her tongue over the metal in her mouth as her parents took turns knocking on the door and lecturing her about how kids today had no respect for their elders.
The door creaked open an inch as two glowing eyes peered out from the darkness within. Suddenly, the door slammed open. A large figure loomed over the Read family. "Welcome, my children," Grandpa Dave boomed. He placed one hand on Mrs. Read's head, held it there for five seconds, and then placed his other hand on Mr. Read's chest, holding it there for seven seconds, the whole time closing his eyes and mouthing words to some obscure verse. He slowly removed his hand and opened his eyes, turning to look at DW. "This must be the daughter. She will make a lovely bride." DW waited for her grandfather to say "to someone" or "some day," but he never did. "Please come in, your room is right upstairs. I have only one rule. No one is to go into the barn." With that, her parents bowed, sprinted to the car, and sped away.
That night, DW re-read the detective stories Fern had written for her when she was younger. She had always liked Fern – the way her hair ribbon seemed to defy the laws of gravity, her fearless devotion to bangs, how she managed to pull off a yellow and purple wardrobe. The corners of DW's mouth strained and audibly creaked with effort as she attempted a smile. It had been a while. She felt tired afterwards and drifted off to sleep.
That morning DW woke up to the smells of breakfast wafting into her room. "Bacon and eggs, how predictable," she groaned. DW ate meat, but she only did it ironically. After stomping downstairs, DW entered the dining room and found that there were three place settings on the table. After she took a seat, her grandfather burst out of the door to the kitchen, carrying three empty plates. He set one down in front of her, one on her right side, and one across from her. Taking the seat across from her, her grandfather placed his napkin delicately in his lap, and proceeded to mime eating. After he seemed to have finished, he abruptly opened a newspaper and disappeared behind the printed word. "That's upside down," DW thought, "And it's the classified section." DW didn't know what to make of this charade. She got up to investigate, but when she entered the kitchen she found that it was spotless. On the counter were two aerosol bottles labeled "meat" and "eggs." "Whatever," DW thought to herself, "maybe it's just a farm thing. I need to go check Tumblr." It's not that DW was stupid, though she was hardly smart, she was just a typical teenager. Deep down DW knew that this was just a phase and that one day she would be a valuable member of society.
As the weeks wore on, Grandpa Dave's eccentric behavior continued and DW's suspicions grew. One time, she spied on him from her bedroom window. He was sitting on a stump in the backyard, saying something to himself. Using binoculars, which are classic spy tools, DW could read his lips, but the words didn't make sense. He seemed to be saying "And now a word from us kids," but placing emphasis on a different word each time. "AND now a word from us kids. And NOW a word from us kids. And now A word from us kids." At the end of it, her grandfather let out a piercing shriek and ripped his shirt in two. Another time, she had been sitting on the front porch, painting her nails black like her soul, when her grandfather suddenly skipped past her singing "Don't go in the barn. Don't go in the barn. La la la!" Old people were the worst!
One night she had had enough. She looked out her bedroom window and saw that her grandfather had placed a giant, neon billboard in front of the barn, inscribed with the words "Don't Go in Me," and an arrow pointing down to the barn's entrance. "Stupid sign, you can't tell me what to do!" DW thought to herself. She put on her favorite t-shirt, the one with Pete Wentz's face on it, and grabbed a flashlight on her way out the back door.
Her shoes covered in feces, DW paused before entering the forbidden building. "Should I really go through with this?" she asked Pete Wentz. "Yes!" he squealed. "That's weird," DW thought. "My shirt doesn't usually talk to me when I'm sober." Shrugging, DW went along with it, because again, she was a teenager and teenagers aren't very smart. That's why they should listen to their parents more. "Anyway," said DW, as she pushed her way through the entrance.
Upon entering, DW was immediately hit with the most putrid, vile stench she had ever smelled. "Oh my god," she gagged, her eyes watering. Pushing through the pain because she was a tough li'l cookie and don't you forget it, DW followed the trail of her flashlight's beam until her eyes rested upon a truly gruesome sight.
"…red sneakers?" DW questioned out loud. "Wait a minute, is that…?" Before she could finish her sentence, a dark figure with glowing eyes loomed behind her.
Thousands of miles away, a lone boat bobs peacefully on open, blue waters. Sitting on matching chairs, a bottle of champagne between them, the Reads serenely gaze out into the horizon. Seagulls caw in the distance. One splashes into the water a few feet from the vessel. Seagulls only go out into the ocean to die. Suddenly, the couple turn to look at each other. "I feel like we're forgetting something," they scream into each other's faces. In unison, they tilt their heads in contemplation. After a few seconds, they slowly shake their heads. "To us," they say, and clink their glasses in a toast. The boat explodes in a giant mushroom cloud.
Back in Elwood City, the sound of the roof caving in at the Read Manor does not faze the inhabitant inside. Kate sits in the decrepit living room, on the moth-eaten couch, her glazed eyes staring at the blank, dusty television set whose tubes have long burnt out. Her head is filled with images better left unseen, words better left unspoken.