"Hey, we're here!"
Greg is jolted awake by Gene's cheerful voice. For one moment he's eight years old and awake after yet another interminable drive to the next base, and his mother shakes him gently as she says Don't keep your father waiting, Gregory. He struggles to sit up and winces as his leg spasms. Too long in one position, he thinks.
"Take your time," Sarah says. He glares at her but she doesn't look at him while she unstraps her safety harness. He waits for her to offer help or sympathy or some comment full of condescension, but she doesn't. She opens the door and gets out, stretches, rubs her arm—the one with the scars. So she's stiff, maybe hurts a little too. For some reason that reassures him. He pushes the button and gets out as the door slides open.
"If you'll wait here," Gene says, "I'll go turn on the lights, then we can bring things in and get settled." He trots off into the darkness. It's Stygian without the ubiquitous glow of city streetlamps. Greg hears the jingle of keys; a door opens with a creak. Then light blooms into existence and streams golden from the doorway, with Gene in the middle of it as he says "Come on in, I'll bring the bags if you two will grab the other stuff."
Greg takes the cooler, he can manage that much at least, and goes up the walk. The steps to the porch are shallow and wide, easily navigated. He enters the house and stops, astonished. There is only one word adequate to describe what's in front of him, and that is amazing. No, actually that would be two words: utterly amazing. The entire interior is timber frame construction, vaulted ceilings supported by enormous hand-cut beams, peeled logs and barn timbers embedded in plastered walls. Everything seems to be recycled, fitted but not shaped or changed much; it's like the interior of the world's biggest, coolest treehouse. He half-expects hobbits to appear around a corner. There's a massive stone fireplace in the center of the room, with tapestry-covered easy chairs and a sofa grouped around it; an enormous stack of firewood and kindling lies piled in a niche beside the hearth. Oriental carpets cover the wide-plank floors, and one entire wall is filled with shelves of books, records, DVDs, a game system and an LCD TV screen. The atmosphere is one of welcome, of unobtrusive and comfortable invitation.
"You—you did all this yourselves." He can barely keep the squeak out of his voice.
"No way, we had plenty of help," Sarah says. She sets the guitar cases by the sofa. "Gene will get the central heat going. Tomorrow we'll stack the fireplaces. It can be pretty cold here even with the furnace, the fires make it a little more comfy."
"You already have someplace for me to kip," he says. "But we can stay warm if we all bunk together. Like saving water by showering with a friend."
"We made the downstairs parlor into a spare bedroom," she says, her tone dry. "Thanks for the offer, but one pirate in my life is more than sufficient." She leads him to the far end of the main room and opens a door. It swings out in an odd way. Greg looks at it closely. There are no metal hinges. There's also no lock, just a latch.
"A closed door means no one enters without permission," Sarah says quietly. "Privacy is respected here. No exceptions."
He puts his hand on the smooth wood, gives it a slight push. It moves easily without sound. That knot deep in his gut is back.
"You are a complete idiot," Amber says in disgust. She stands next to Sarah, arms folded. "You let yourself be dragged out to the sticks with no way of escape unless you steal that piece-of-shit minivan, and you won't even make it to the state line before some Barney Fife hauls you off to jail. How can you trust these two morons? They'll never give you anything remotely resembling privacy."
"Greg," Sarah says. He doesn't look at her. "If you want to spend the whole weekend in this room with the door closed, you can. Put a chair under the latch, if you like. No one will make you do what you don't want to do."
"You say that now," he snarls, and winces at the resentful whine in his voice. Amber laughs. Her pale eyes gleam with malicious amusement.
"I say what I mean," Sarah says, and offers him a slight smile. She's tired and definitely in pain, he can see it in the way she has her scarred arm folded against her middle. Yet she doesn't tax him with it, she simply stands there. He's ashamed of himself for the way he's treated her, but he won't apologize. Instead he looks around the room. It's small but cozy, not cramped. There's a full-size bed with a thick handmade comforter and pillows, a stack of books on the night stand with a carafe of water, and what looks like a new bathrobe laid out ready for use.
"You came up here before this visit," he says. Sarah nods.
"Last weekend. We usually come up at the end of summer to get things ready for cold weather. There's a bathroom next to the mudroom. From here you go straight ahead through the kitchen to the back door. Wear socks or slippers, the floors are cold at night." She turns to go. "If you need anything, just call up the stairs. I'm a light sleeper, I'll hear you." She pauses. "Our home is your home," she says with that slight smile, and closes the door behind her.
Once she is gone Greg sits on the bed. It sinks just enough to let him know it is firm, but not rock-hard. He passes a hand over his face. This is a mistake, he thinks. Above him there's a click, then a rush of stale warm air—the central heating Sarah spoke of has kicked in. He realizes suddenly he's cold and tired and ready to find some oblivion.
"Good luck finding anything besides nightmares in this hellhole," Amber says. She sits next to him. "Take the van and leave. Do it now."
"Shut up," he says, and grits his teeth. "Leave me the fuck alone for once, I don't need you here!"
Silence falls. He looks around and finds he is alone—well, he always was, but there's no figment to torment him. He can feel her presence though, resentful and mocking. Not gone, simply invisible to him now as well as everyone else. Great, he thinks. I've graduated from a symbol of my subconscious to a pooka. Way to go, moron.
Slowly he gets ready for bed. The bathrobe is a little large but fits okay; the flannel is soft against his skin. He can hear the other two upstairs, as they unpack and get ready for bed. He goes to the door, opens it and peers out. The living room is lit by a single lamp, just enough light to get him to the kitchen. He heads for the bathroom, toiletry case in hand.
Half an hour later he's cleaned up and medicated. He lies in the darkness and waits for sleep to come. The bed is sheer heaven, with crisp clean sheets and the comforter for warmth, and extra pillows to support his leg. Unfortunately, the hyper-vigilant child within has taken over. He can hear every creak and groan the old house makes. It's been a long time since he's had to force himself to adapt to a new environment; he's out of practice. Now he can't relax. He waits for that door to open, for someone to come in and—do what? He's not sure, but whatever will happen, it won't be good.
(It is his first night in Guam. They arrived that morning, found their assigned billet in the warren of houses on base, and spent most of the day with boxes and suitcases as they put things away. Now he's in his own room—a first, he's usually had a bed wherever they could make arrangements. It's a tiny little space, stifling and steamy in the tropical heat, but his bed is near the window and he can glimpse the night sky through the screen. As he lies there in the velvet darkness, movement catches his eye. After a moment he can see it's a gecko, perched on the windowsill. He's seen enormous spiders, rodents the size of small cats and scorpions in the various places they've lived, but a green lizard in the house is new. He holds his breath and reaches out slowly. The gecko moves its head, alert to his stealthy arm, and then it's gone with a flick of a miniscule tail, into the night. He smiles, and hears the door latch rattle. Quickly he drops his arm and closes his eyes. Light falls into the room around a tall figure—his father. The figure stands there for a few moments. Greg barely dares to breathe. If he's caught awake at this hour . . . Finally the door closes. He exhales in relief and turns his gaze back to the window.)
Other memories crowd his brain after that, a few good, most not. After a while he gives in and turns on the light, pushes the bedclothes aside and sits up, rubs his thigh. He checks the books on the stand—all fiction, a mix of romance, mystery, fantasy and horror, none of which he has the least desire to read. He doesn't have his GameBoy, it's in storage, as is his guitar . . . Greg remembers the cases in the wayback. Maybe they haven't all been put away; he could borrow one, use it for a while, put it back, and no one would be any the wiser.
The cases are still next to the sofa. He picks one, lays it out, opens it with care. It's a Martin six-string, basic but in good shape and clearly a favorite from the amount of wear on the neck and pickguard. Greg tucks it carefully under his arm and limps back to his room. Gingerly he sits in the big easy chair by the tile-lined fireplace. Despite the smaller size, the thing has plenty of volume, so he uses the old trick of a rolled-up tee shirt inside the body to muffle the sound. Normally he doesn't care if he wakes anyone, but if his shrink comes down she'll want to talk, and right now that's the last thing he needs.
After a quick tune-up he starts to play, just noodling at first, then songs he knows, one he's written. Slowly the tight place within loosens just a little. Music always eases him; it's gotten him through some of the worst times of his life, even if it was a song he played on an imaginary piano, or simply hummed in his head.
As he plays he looks around the bedroom. There are bookcases and a chest of drawers; a window looks out onto part of the front yard and the side as well, with a good view of the woods across the road. It's darker than dark outside. He's not used to the lack of streetlights and buildings. And the silence is weird too—no traffic or car stereos, sirens, brake retarders, or pedestrians. All he hears is the last of the summer crickets, as they give one final shout-out for anonymous sex. It weighs on him, this peacefulness. There are no distractions here. That's very dangerous. He's already begun to remember things he'd rather keep tucked deep inside the cave of his memories; fairly innocuous recollections so far, but that won't last, he knows it won't.
After an hour or so he stands up, sets the guitar in the chair so it won't fall, and climbs into bed. Once he's settled he turns out the light and closes his eyes, lets his mind and body sink into sleep. His last thought is of the music as it vibrates through his flesh, soothing as a lullaby.