Thank you to Divine Arion and Dark Kaneanite for reviews of previous chapter! Just quickly, haha, funny little note to share, I have been soooo caught up in Souless666 story A World Of Darkness….(quick promo, AMAZING story, I am so addicted I love it so!) Anyway I had to take a break because I was starting to get distracted with my own ideas about my Kane story starting to push into my head, and of course, I want to devote my attention to a story when reading it so it can be fully enjoyed, so here I am starting chapter 9 because it was whining at me like a kid demanding me to. But anyway, I'm writing and thinking something doesn't sound right with how I'm writing. I can't put my finger on it. I get about half the story done and suddenly it dawns on me. I was so involved in A World Of Darkness that when I went to start on my chapter I forgot that I was doing it in first person POV and present tense I had just read like…20 something chapters of A World Of Darkness and so I wrote half of Chapter 9 in third person with past tense such as A World Of Darkness is done in before realizing it. I literally slapped myself in the forehead and had a good laugh about it. Then came the daunting task of going back and changing my wording to reflect proper POV and tense. Oy! Lol, that was a long little not before Chapter 9 but it just kind of tickled me and I wanted to share. One more note, I am anal about silly things, and I found out that I spelled the name Kenkade wrong, that it is Kincaid so I went back and changed the name spelling in previous chapters where it was mentioned just incase anyone notices the difference in this chapter and wonders why. One more note, more specifically to Souless666 I am not trying to copy you or steal ideas from you in anyway what so ever. I had this idea a good time ago and already wanted the story to come out a certain way etc. I only started to read your story after I already had the idea for this fic. Just wanted to let you know in case! Now enough of this stuff, you all want the story! Lol. :D On to the chapter. Love you all!
Chapter 9
The drive to Vicksburg lasted hours in the truck but it seemed like forever. I am normally used to driving and rather enjoy it. I have grown immune to the monotony of the broken yellow lines on the pavement that speed past my windows and blur as I drive on. The scenery of Tennessee is familiar to me such as the rocks that have been cut and broken to make way for this roadway to carry me and others to their destinations. Normally I would have the radio tuned on and I would enjoy the music and either hum along or maybe even break out into a few snatches of off key warbling and in some cases when the song really gets me going I may even drum on the steering wheel. Now is not that time. Easy going, laidback, level-headed, fun loving, lovable Glen Jacobs is tense. My fingers which are wrapped tight and white around the steering wheel will testify. My eyes round and dried out from the fact that I am so focused I forget to blink will also tell you, with a sting, that I am on edge. Just what did this photo mean? What is in store for me when I arrive at this address? Would all of my questions be answered? I had a rather strong feeling that I would not find answers but just more unforgiving questions. It's like a pirate digging for treasure in the wrong spot. With each deeper bite of the shovel bites the pirate fellow is filled with more anticipation and electrical excitement as he expects at any moment his hard, painful, sweat inducing labor will pay off and he will hear the thud as the shovel hits the wooden lid of the storied treasure. However, with each thrust of the shovel, there is nothing but more damned dirt. To find the answer you have to dig in the right spot and to do that requires a map and this thing that has launched itself into my life came neither with a map nor an instruction manual. I am just a mere mortal taking blind stabs in the dark at the off beat chance that I just may be able to find out what the hell is happening and save my sorry self before it is too late, whatever that means. I find myself thinking about Jenna. As of late my own problems have been shoving the needs of others out of my mind and I realize I have been less attentive to her than I am normally. I have kept this car trip silent in attempt to think and recall anything that might be in any way significant. I have been surprised to find I have just been thinking of her. I think I am afraid for her. I know that I have to get this taken care of for her.
I blink and my eyes burn as they have been forgotten again and have gone arid without lubrication from blinking up until now. I am so lost in my thoughts I will have to stop and wonder why my eyes hurt and then remind myself to blink. It may also be a good idea if I pay attention to driving rather than zoning out too much. Contrary to what I have witnessed by other drivers, I have found that driving does require some degree of thought and concentration. As if to prove my point this idiot cuts me off and I feel like pushing my foot to the floor and running his ass off the road and then flipping him the bird as his car rolls over the guardrail. I don't know why but this makes me laugh and I am almost startled as I hear my own voice—well sort of, it sounds more like Kane's—boom out in jolly-sick laughter and fill the truck cab. It is somewhat relieving and somewhat unnerving if it is at all possible that something can be both those things at once. I opt for the more rational choice and just switch lanes and send the driver of the Chevy a lopsided, devilish, grin as I pass him. His eyes widen comically as he catches my glance and it obviously doesn't sit well with him. Once again that laughter resounds through the truck cab.
I pass the dumbo driver and go on with my journey to whatever lies ahead. I find that I am watching the back of a semi-trailer. I watch the little sign that asks: How is my driving? Then lists a number to call and bitch about how the semi-drivers are big bullies on the road. I find myself drifting again into thoughts. Now is not a good time to go wondering around in the strange territories that I find have surfaced in my mind. I try to pull myself out but it is difficult. Reluctantly I reach for the knob on the radio. I don't really want to turn it on because I have some odd feeling that when I do some dumb little ditty will blast out and ruin my brooding mood. I remember how Mark used to bug me as a child. It was fine for him to go off brooding on his own and to be left alone in his own dark, quiet, thoughts whatever they may be. But if I should get lost in part of my mind that is chaotic clatter, or the part that is an endless black pool of hate and bitterness, or the section that is a vast, crackled, wasteland of despair, well Mark could never let me be. He would poke, prod, punch, slap, make faces, or dance around singing: "I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves! I know a song that gets on every-bod-ees nerves and this is how it goes!" Then of course repeat and repeat until your brothers' cold stare is broken and his hand is wrapped around your pesky squawking throat. The worst was when we got a bit older and dad let Mark use the record player. I will never know why but Mom had a record of Tiny Tim "Tip-toe Through The Tulips" which is the worst sound ever to reach human ears. Mark discovered this little chestnut and added this to his arsenal of lets annoy Kane things. So many times I would be lost in the recesses of myself to be brought out suddenly by an impossibly high-pitched male voice, as though the owner of said voice had inhaled helium, yowling and yammering: Tip-toe by the window, through the window, that's where I'll be. Come tip-toe through the tulips with me! This was of course accompanied by Mark's gay bunny-hop dancing and the repetitious strum of a lonely and much pitied ukulele or whatever it was that guy strummed on. It was pitied because it was forced to accompany the horrible catterwalling of Tiny Tim. I was just dreading turning on the radio and hearing something of that nature that would really derail my mood like a toy train tipping off its tracks and hurtling to the floor where it would lay turning its wheels uselessly. Sometimes you just want to brood and you don't want to be helped out of it. It seems when I am in such a state the whole world claps its hands and squeals in unison: "Let's annoy Ka--"
I stop and realize I have zoned out again and have recounted a memory to myself. I almost didn't realize that I was thinking of myself as Kane…and…that is not good. I only catch myself on that last little thought. I feel like throwing up but I am driving right now and so that is not really the best idea at the moment. I try to swallow the feeling away. I find my hand still hovers over the radio knob and my other barely clutches the wheel. I'm glad I'm not in heavy traffic or else I think I would be dead in a crumple of twisted metal. Focus Glen! Despite my trepidation that irritating falsetto will bombard me from the radio I turn it on. Instead I find the song somewhat ironic as it is fitting for Kane who would probably like to set the night on fire. Although, it's not night, it's mid day, and the song is not referring to real blazing, dancing, fire but passionate fire between a man and a woman.
"Come on baby light my fire, come and set the night on fi-yaaaaaaah."
I switch the channel and it must be an oldie station because this song has definitely seen a few years. A soft pleasant voice croons: He ain't heavy, he's my brother.
"You don't know my brother." I say as I once again switch the station. What am I talking about? I Glen Jacobs do not have a brother, Kane, shut up and take a hike! I settle on a station that as of now plays Aerosmith.
Just a few hours later I pull up in front of the address that was written…by Kane I suppose…on the back of the half-photo. This is a small town. The homes on North Marshall Street are small. They are not really run down, just unkempt. The neighborhood speaks of families who struggle to put food on the table and gas in the tank and don't have enough extra cash to keep their homes as well maintained as they may like or maybe some of the homes contain elderly folks who can not get out to clean the gutters or trim the bushes and have no offer of help from family to do some of these chores. The house that belongs to 6774 N. Marshall is not scary at all but I feel nervous as I finger the photo that has led me here. The house sports overgrown bushes and a yard turning a bit brown from lack of rain. The steps are covered in that tacky green outdoor carpet stuff that looks kind of like short trimmed Easter grass. It is kind of worn down and frazzled on the steps. The siding was once white but has turned gray from weather and time. There is a cloth poked into a hole cracked in a window at the front. I study the house in attempt to stall what I know must come anyway. I sigh heavily and thrust my frame out from the truck and amble slowly toward the house. I stop at the steps and consider turning tail and running but too much is at stake. Nervous, I knock. I look down at the picture which is dated 1967. I don't know who I will find coming to the door. I see in the photo the young boy pulling the hat over his face. It could be him, he would be middle aged now as would the baby the woman cradles in her arms. It could be either of them. Then again it could be the thin woman, her long hair since turned glittery silver or a snowy white. It could be none of them for that matter after all, half of the photo was eaten by fire. I touch the charred edges and a few ashes flake away and flitter to the tacky carpeted porch below. I actually jump when the door opens. My hand is on my chest in a response to being startled and my heart hammers at my sternum like thundering hooves of a spooked horse. A young woman steps out onto the porch and greets me with a friendly smile.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Um…are you looking for someone?" She studies me with squinty eyes as though trying to place me but she can't quite do so. She bites her lip and regards me sheepishly. She has a resemblance to the woman in the photo. Now that I am here I feel like a boy on his first date. I stutter uselessly and hopelessly as I am just a bundle of nerves.
"Ah, hi…I'm sorry I'm, well see I found this picture and it uh…this address I'm…" I trail off and just hand her the photo. "I'm trying to find out about it…for…um…a project." I stammer and hope she doesn't ask too many questions about how I got this photo or how I know the people in it, because I sure as hell don't have the answers. A rather sad smile curves her lips as she gazes at the poor abused photo.
"This is my Mom…was my Mom" She corrects with tears rimming her eyes. "She passed just a few days ago. You're lucky you caught me, I'm here going through some of her things."
"I'm sorry." I offer. "I should just go."
She waves her hand at me in a 'no' gesture and turns the photo toward me and points at the young woman holding the baby who is obviously her mother.
"She has a copy of this photo inside. Come in." She adds as she goes into the house. I follow her feeling out of place and as though I am intruding. I wait close to the door as she disappears into another room. I look around at the furnishings and decorations. They are reminiscent of the seventies with yellow and orange chairs and couches dressed in plastic slip covers. The room is paneled darkly and the furniture matches the dark color of the paneling. The carpet has seen better days, it was either a pink or a tan, it is hard to tell now, it just looks threadbare. I shuffle from foot to foot wishing my nerves would settle but they decide they would rather buzz like Jeff Hardy on a sugar high. That thought makes me let out a few giggles and they sound strange to me. The young lady comes back in with a photo album. She sits on the orange couch and the plastic crinkles as she does so. She motions for me to sit.
"So, what kind of project is this?"
Great, questions.
"My wife is doing some scrapbooking and family stuff. She's into all of that and she found this and…I guess…she had some relatives with the last name Burrow and she just…wanted to…" Okay, so I am spinning a couple of lies. How do I know what to say? I can't just tell her the truth or she'll call the cops on me and have me escorted to the nearest mental hospital. I feel like I'm trying to tread water and unfortunately I am drowning and sputtering with water leaking into my lungs.
"Oh! Really?" She saves me by speaking eagerly. "My sister is all in to that family heritage stuff…what's it called?" She rolls her eyes upward trying to recover the word that evades her.
"Geneology?" I say as I bend and sit on the plastic cover and hear it creak.
"Yeah, that's it. Too bad she's not here. She'd like to meet you if you're married into the family. We have family all over the place." She opens the photo album and smiles down at the photos. These are more recent photos and she thumbs to the back of the album where the photos have rounded corners and are faded with age. She taps her finger on the photo in front of us. I now see the whole thing. Here is the young woman cradling the baby and the little boy hiding shyly under his hat. They stand in front of a car that is not a station wagon as I had thought at first but a hearse. The other part of the picture shows another woman and a man that I have seen before but this can not be. My fingers begin to tremble and my stomach knots itself and threatens to hurl up what I ate for breakfast. The young woman places a hand on my arm.
"Sir, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah…what do you know about this? Who are the people?"
She gives me a cautious glance and after a moment or two she points to the people and names them.
"This is my mother, Glenda Burrow, maiden name Moody. She used to go out here to visit her brother Bill Moody who worked for the Calaways."
My mind reels at what I am hearing. I'm glad I am sitting because I feel so dizzy I know if I was standing I would just topple over like an enormous sack of potatoes. She goes on, not looking at me to see the expression on my face that must register a shock that would fly off the Richter scale. Calaway? Moody? What do they have to do with…what…how?
"That's Mark Calaway with the hat over his eyes. She said his Mom chastised him for always making creepy faces when they had photos done, so he just hid under his hat. My Mom is holding her nephew who was just born and was the reason she made her visit this year. I guess the whole thing was a bit sticky. Uncle Bill and Mrs. Calaway had a fling and turns out it was fruitful. So she's holding the baby." She stops and admires the photo. Me? I'm just trying to comprehend what she is telling me and not have a complete mental breakdown in this woman's living room (well, her dead mother's living room) it is a formidable task to try to keep it together. "It's not a very good photo really, Mark has that hat over his face and Mrs. Calaway is scowling." She giggles. "Mom said Mark didn't like to call him 'Bill' or 'Mr. Moody' so he used to call him 'the pallbearer guy' because when Uncle Bill started out learning the mortuary business from Mr. Calaway he used to be pallbearer at the funerals if there weren't enough family to do it I guess, what a creepy job. But it became like a little pet name to the family and the Calaways kind of made it into a family joke and called him Paul Bearer as a play on the word pallbearer of course. I always found it funny. I bet I can find some more pictures in here if you like." She starts to turn pages.
"That's okay." I manage to groan. This is when she turns to me and notices that I am just shy of a wreck.
"Sir, are-are you sure you're okay? Did something upset you?"
I try to calm my breathing which threatens to send me into hyperventilating. All I want to do is clutch my knees to my chest and rock back and forth laughing like a madman. Calm down Glen, there is some explanation for this. It's easy…you…somehow…got Mark's photo? Hell, nothing makes sense! There is one thing that crowds out all other thoughts in my mind now. The baby in the picture, Glenda Moody-Burrow's nephew, Bill Moody's son, I am terrified to ask her about him. I never knew Bill to have a son, but Paul Bearer did, at least in the realm of what I had believed to be fantasy. He never mentioned anything to me about having a son. I know he was a mortician at one time but he never, ever, mentioned working for Mark's family save in the kayfabe histories of The Undertaker and myself—I mean Kane. Glen, there is reality, and there is wrestling, which is not reality, get a grip dude! I have to ask her about the baby…it can't be…please, please give me some sort of relief. I am afraid my mind will just implode on itself at the possible answer she could give me. Shore up man, be strong, you are acting like a nut job, be rational and just for the love of Pete (whoever he may be) quit freaking! I take a few moments to attempt to regroup and stabilize myself. Her hand is once again rests on my arm and I know she feels it trembling. She gets up and comes back with a glass of water which I drink quickly and then regret as it rolls around in my stomach like a tumultuous ocean on the verge of tsunami. I groan loudly and rest my elbow on my knee and then prop my head up with my hand. I take a deep shuddery breath and regain some of my self control. I can after all put on acts when need be and so I revert to this which I have learned by my profession and put on a stone face and herd my rampaging thoughts and fears into a cell within myself and then lock the door and shove a mental dresser in front of that door just for good measure.
"Ah…okay, I'm sorry about that." I give her a smile and am surprised that now that I have made this mental shift it is easy to do so. "What about the baby? What's his name?"
"Well, on the back of your picture it says Kincaid. That was his original name given after…I think it was given after Mrs. Calaway's father, I think it was his name. Anyway, it's kind of a cutesy story. I guess Mark would have been about two years old when he was born and Mom said he could never say the name. He pronounced it "Kinkane" and then just dropped the "Kin" and called him "Kane". Mrs. Calaway just thought it was so adorable that she eventually changed the name to Kane." The girl lets out a sigh and that sad bitter-sweet smile comes to her face again. She turns the page in the photo album. Now I can see under the plastic pages are old yellowed papers with sloppy, childish, writing. I see these and find that they are letters that begin with 'Deer Ant Glinda' and end with 'Love Form Kane'. It is almost cute and the little misspellings and reversed letters bring a small grin even to my face. The negative feelings that ravaged my mind earlier are still thankfully contained in that room where I locked them so I am now calmer than I probably should be. I know later all of this will burst out and I will just feel depleted like when you blow up a balloon and then let it go and it goes flying around the room with air escaping from the tail in an exasperated fart until it just lands shriveled and sorrowful on the floor. Yep, that will be me sometime very soon. For now, I gather information.
"He wrote to her?"
The young woman nods.
"I guess they were close. Mom said he was a bit stand-offish and a little odd to others, I never got to meet him or Mark for that matter, but I guess he kind of took to her."
"Why didn't you ever meet them?"
Her bitter-sweet smile fades into a frown and her eyes grow a bit dull. She flips pages some more and a few more of Kane's letters to Glenda fly by. She stops and runs her fingers over a yellowed obituary clipping. I recognize them as the Calaways. Stay calm! I command but I can't. The door rattles as those thoughts bang against it pleading and fighting to escape and hurl me into a state of who knows what.
"It was so sad." She bites her lip as though she may cry. "I was very little when it happened but I do remember Mom and how she cried. There was…a fire."
My emotions and thoughts are like a battering ram against that door. It shutters on its hinges. The dresser I shoved in front of it for extra caution is about to fall over and dump its drawers and then the door will be torn off its hinges and all these things will run rampant and have their way with my fragile head. This is really getting to be an overload. Suddenly, she thrusts the album at me.
"Here, I don't need this, it's all too depressing to me. My sister will probably kill me but…this seems to touch you." She tucks her long chestnut hair behind her ear and pats my shoulder. I think she is just anxious at my odd reactions and wants to get rid of me more than anything. I want to get out of here before I fall to pieces on the plastic slip covered sofa but I fear if I try to stand my bones will turn to jell-o and I will collapse. However, I can not spend the rest of my life as a big ugly decoration in this woman's living room so I force myself to stand and am relieved when I can do so without falling over like a huge tree that can no longer cling to the soil that has slipped away between its gnarled roots.
"Thank you." I manage. She walks me to the door and before I leave I think that I don't even know her name. "By the way, I'm Glen." Ha-ha, I think to myself. I suppose I am.
"Elizabeth Burrow." Her warm brown eyes seem like they want to give comfort but if she only knew the half of it her thoughtful eyes could not even begin to offer solace. I retreat down the steps and my knees start to wobble. I am at last in a sprint to get to my truck as I know I can not hold out much longer. I manage to climb into the truck and then collapse with a hoarse wail. I was right. I am still that pirate digging up nothing but old dirt and new questions and nothing that really answers my original ones. All I know is, I have a picture of Mark's family including his younger brother 'Kane' who is dead. The most rational thought that occurs to me is that Mark and Bill created my character Kane so obviously they used factual things that only they knew about and made them into fiction. There is nothing wrong with this explanation and it should comfort. However, this still does not answer why I am struggling to be myself. Is it just a simple case of living your character? I would love to just dismiss it as this but how can I have Kane's memories? How can I have that button and those other objects whatever meaning they have attached to them, which still remain in the dark. I will have to call Jenna and blabber to her if I can bring my words to make any sense. Maybe she will have some suggestion. All I know is, it's not far from home, I could make it back by evening…that is if I could bring my hand to put the key into the ignition and turn it. Just that small task seems like such a huge effort. I am in no condition to drive home. I remember when coming in to this small town I drove by a Motel 6. I will have to go there and just pass out for the rest of the day. There are no words to describe how empty and exhausted I feel. I can not handle this, my body is simply shutting itself down like a computer that freezes trying to download too much data, my mind is about to crackle and pop like a fuse that blows because too many things are plugged in. I find myself shortly at the Motel 6 and in a room and flopped onto a sagging bed. I honestly don't remember getting here or paying for my room or finding my room but it doesn't matter. I just want to sleep for a very, very, long time, and maybe when I wake up this will be over. Do you know what I like to call that? Wishful thinking.
I hope you liked this chapter, I am really enjoying doing this story and I hope it is also enjoyable to those who read. Please leave me a word or two to let me know your thoughts, comments, etc. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review!