Secrets at Dillehay Crossing - Chapter 2--Memories and Ghosts
Frank awoke with daylight streaming into his bedroom groggy as usual, filled with disdain for his current situation and his new surroundings. He planted his feet on the floor and stared out his bedroom window, focusing on the abandoned farmhouse on the other side of Dillehay Creek. He took solace in knowing that the money and strongbox he’d buried some 20 years lay waiting for him there, hidden inside the fireplace.
Seeing the rickety building and decrepit barn also comforted him, evoking bittersweet memories of his aunt and uncle and their family gatherings at the gazebo. He imagined seeing them again and explaining things to them, hoping they’d understand and forgive him. But his mind quickly turned dark as he remembered sleeping in the barn on cold winter nights, avoiding his father and his drunken brutality.
Frank stumbled to his tiny kitchen and made his customary breakfast—a glass of Johnny Walker Red whiskey with a rum chaser. He sank into his easy chair and swirled the whiskey in his glass, eyeing the bronze liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes. The pain and heartache from his past began to fade, even before the first taste.
Frank raised the glass to his lips and let the amber fluid sit in his mouth a while before swallowing and felt the keen burn on his tongue and throat—the burn that made him recoil as a boy. But now it was a feeling he longed for at the beginning of each day. He closed his eyes, drinking in the loneliness and silence and hoping to find answers at the bottom of the glass. But there were no answers—just regrets, visions of a sordid past, and heartache for the love that fate had taken from him. Each day, Frank opened another bottle; and inside each bottle there was no miserable past to mourn and no mistakes to relive. With each glass, his heartache, too, disappeared. Then it was just him and the bottle. Alcohol, the elixir for his life.
Most days he was content to sit in his easy chair, close his eyes, numb the pain, and forget. Sometimes he dreamed—not the dreams of sleep, but the dreams of memory. The trouble was that most of those memories were unpleasant. There were words he wished he hadn’t said, or clever things he didn’t say because he only thought of them later. There were quarrels he could have avoided and didn’t; there were other quarrels that would have been worth starting if only he’d thought of the witty insults and biting remarks that would have brought him the pleasure of well-earned bloody knuckles or a split lip.
And when quarrels came to blows, he recalled how his father put his all into every punch, his sinewy arm coiling and snapping back with a vengeful punch delivered to Frank’s face. He remembered how his body jarred and how the pain seared through his skin taking away every feeling of safety he ever had. At first, he shed tears. But crying wasn’t allowed. And if he even so much as whimpered or buckled, his father would shove him to the ground and yell, “Stop! Stop you coward, or I’ll give you something to cry about.” And he meant it too. Even now Frank tried to remove the memories of his father’s temper and violent acts from his head. But his father haunted him almost every night, punishing him in his sleep.
Other far more disturbing memories surfaced during the night, especially the ones of killing. And Frank had known his fair share of killing.
“I want my money!” Frank hollers in his dream. “Give it to me or I swear I’ll...”
“Stop!” begs the man. “It’s all been a huge misunderstanding.”
“I’ll say! You’re nothing but a swindler who fled without a word, and took my money and my dreams with you.” Frank pulls his revolver from his holster, “I can’t let you do that.” He aims. “Now give me my money or I’ll shoot you like I did her.”
“You don’t have to do this,” pleads the man, his face turning ashen. “I don’t have your money.”
“You’re a lying, sorry, son-of-a-bitch! You should know better than to con a con man. I know you’ve got my money.” Frank puts his finger on the trigger. “I won’t be played for a fool. You deserve to die.” A split second later, he pulls the trigger; and the bullet spats out of his revolver, red in the inky darkness. It hits the man in the chest, propelling him backward; and he falls onto the sand. For a few moments, the man looks up at the moon as if trying to admire it one last time. Then the desert wind began slowly burying him. A dead woman lays next to him, her auburn hair scattered across her face, stained with dried blood. Her emerald green eyes are wide open and hold a sudden sadness.
Frank bends over and searches through the man’s bloody coat pocket, retrieving a wad of money the man had tucked inside. Frank’s hands begin to shake; they shake so badly that the gun slips right out of his other hand, landing softly on the woman’s body. But he isn’t watching the gun or even the bodies. He’s staring at his own pale hands, covered in scarlet blood. The color burns in Frank’s mind along with what he’d just done, and he crumples to his knees, unable to take his eyes off his hands—his violent, red-stained hands.
He awakened with a start and sat up on the edge of his bed. What kind of a person am I? I didn’t need to kill anyone, but I did. Some 35 years have passed since that horrific night, and still the lifeless images tormented Frank in his sleep. He endured the sleepless, torturous nights; he’d earned each of them. He deserved the loneliness, sorrow, and heartache that came from his painful memories, his reprehensible acts, his missed opportunities, and his countless regrets. They played constantly in his head like the music of an orchestra; sometimes, they were quiet and allowed Frank to function. Occasionally just the violins played, and he felt melancholy, almost depressed. At other times, the music rose to a crescendo, the anger bursting from his chest in a vicious shout of anguish. Right now, though, a flute was playing; and he remembered her with fondness.
Frank met her in a dimly lit uptown nightclub where he stood sipping whiskey and smoking a lit cigar. He saw a shadow that slowly took the form a woman. She was smartly dressed; her lips were carefully tinted cherry red; and she wore just the right amount of makeup on her porcelain skin. He turned his head toward her, and she looked his way. Frank pretended not to notice, fearing too much interest might make her run. But when he returned her glances, she blushed ever so slightly and smiled the most effervescent smile he’d ever seen.
He walked towards her and struck up a conversation. Talking with her was uncomplicated and refreshing, for she lacked the guile and complexity of other women he’d known. At that moment, he knew he wanted to take her in his arms and run, run far away from his complicated life and his despicable past and begin anew. After a whirlwind romance that lasted less than two weeks, Frank pledged his love to her. Then with a promise to return, he left for San Francisco to settle his affairs and put his life in order. He never returned, leaving her to question why he’d abandoned her so abruptly. Almost daily, Frank tormented himself with savage intensity, obsessively wondering what life could have been with her.
Today, memories of her ransacked his mind and haunted him; and the images of her were so acute, so crystal clear, it was like living with her ghost. Most days Frank wished she were still by his side and longed to go back and take a different path. But that was impossible. Instead, he had only his dream of finding her; explaining his mysterious disappearance; and somehow making amends for wasting all the years they’d lost.
rank leaned over in his easy chair and retrieved a slender, dark stick from his box of cigars holding the shaft to his nose and losing himself in the cigar’s intoxicating aroma. He toasted the foot and gently puffed a few times until he felt the smoke fill his mouth, rolling it around like a fine wine relishing the complex bouquet. He leaned back in his chair and took long, deep draws of the cigar letting the smoke spread into his lungs. He slowly blew out the smoke its familiar aroma swelling around him, numbing his anger and fears.
After only a few drags, the smoked seeped into his cells; and the solace he ached for returned. Frank focused on some of his fonder memories—memories of childhood friends and of his mother’s family, all remembered now with tenderness and devotion. The dire fears that consumed him during his youth he now knew were not to be feared at all. And the innocent, childish longings—fulfilled or not—he longed to feel again.
Frank thought about the shirtless boy that frequented his dreams making him restless and anxious. Many nights he chased after the shirtless boy as he ran along the shores of Hawkes Pond shouting, “Save me! Help me!” Sometimes during the day, he found the boy standing at his sliding glass door, hands cupped over his eyes, peering into Frank’s apartment. Many times, the boy knocked on his window and yelled, “You’ve got to save me. You’re the only one who can. Hurry! Please hurry!”
Although he didn’t know the boy or even recognize him, Frank felt a deep, enigmatic connection to him. Sometimes he felt as if the boy haunted him, as ridiculous as that sounded. Day and night, Frank would catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. But whenever he turned, there was never anyone or anything there that could explain it. Maybe it was the boy. Maybe not. Perhaps it was the alcohol twisting his reality. Perhaps it was his medication. Maybe it was a combination of both. Perhaps he was crazy like his father and there was nothing he could do about his own craziness.
Frank took one last drag on his cigar, dropped it onto the floor, stomped on it with his foot, crushing it to smithereens. He picked up the whiskey bottle; threw back his head; gulped down the remaining whiskey; then hurled the bottle to the floor. The bottle exploded; and like his dreams, it lay shattered in a million pieces in front of him. Frank rose unsteadily to his feet; paced around the room; and shouted, “Damn you, father, damn you,” repeatedly ramming his fist into the kitchen wall until a huge hole appeared in the sheetrock and there was no more skin on his knuckles, just raw weeping flesh in various shades of pink and red. “I hate you, father. You ruined me, ruined me forever! And damn you, dreams! You’re worthless!” His voice now hard as steel, shook with anger and rage. “And damn you, boy, damn you! You’re not real, so why do you keep coming here? There’s no point. I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself. So, stay the hell away from me!”
Frank turned sharply in the direction of his easy chair. The room tilted suddenly then blurred. He tripped over a stack of old magazines and stumbled, smashing his knees and elbows onto the floor. Almost immediately, his knee caps swelled, and a sudden gush of pain shot through them. His elbows rapidly turned a garish purple and blue. He grimaced and curled into a ball writhing from his pain and self-loathing. He wanted to scream and release the agony he felt, but he’d known worse anguish than this and prided himself in his ability to ignore his suffering and move on.
He pulled himself up, hobbled over to his easy chair, and wrapped his throbbing, bloody hand in a kitchen towel. But the gashes on his knuckles were too numerous and deep; and no amount of pressure he applied stopped the blood from oozing from them. His elbows and knees were tender to the touch, and everything hurt now. Every damn thing. Hell! Now I’ll have to go to the infirmary. He winced as he crossed the floor, opened his apartment door, and headed toward the infirmary. His legs were unsteady, and he felt more than just a little woozy and wondered if he could get there without passing out. He trudged down the hallway, feeling like his limbs didn’t really belong to him.
When he finally arrived at the infirmary, Frank found the blinds pulled shut and the door locked, but the lights were on. Where the hell are these people? He jiggled the door knob. “Open up!” His voice rose to a scream. “Open up!” No response. “Come on!” He kicked the bottom of the door sending riveting pain up his leg. “Open up! I know you’re in there.” Still no response. “Damn!” Frank turned around and stormed away, hobbling his way to the main lobby where he encountered the receptionist who was just arriving for work.
“Mr. Frank!” she dropped her purse and rushed to his side. “Ya ain’t lookin’ so good, and ya seems jest a wee bit wobbly and washed out.” She placed her arm around Frank’s shoulder to steady him and noticed the bloody towel wrapped around his hand. “Lord a mercy!” Her high, shrill voice vibrated along his nerves, and her stale perfume churned his stomach. “That be one mighty nasty injury. Ya best be sittin’ down!”
“I don’t want to sit down!” Frank spoke through gritted teeth. “I need to see the doctor…now!”
“But the infirmary ain’t open right now, and it don’t open till sometime around 9 o’clock, give or take. So, you best jest have a seat till then.”
“Listen, doll,” Frank said in a condescending tone. “I don’t like waiting. Not one damn bit. And blood’s oozing through this towel onto my pants leg. So you best let me in,” he roared, crossing his arms across his chest. “I can look after myself.”
But, Mr. Frank,” her whole body tensed, “I can’t do that.”
“Listen, doll, you’re stretching my patience, and you don’t want to do that.” His dark eyebrows knitted together. “So, why the hell not?”
“First, my name ain’t Doll. It’s Etta, Etta Montgomery.” Her jaw tightened in anger. “It be real simple, Mr. Frank. I ain’t got no key to that place.”
“No key? Perfect. That’s just perfect.” Sarcasm rang in his raucous voice.
“But…but…,” Etta regained her composure. “Miss Lilly. She gots a key, and she’ll be here dreckly. I’m guessin’ she’d let you in and make ya comfortable till the doc arrives.”
“Agh," he growled wrinkling his face in contempt.” I guess I have no choice.” Frank staggered into the lobby, sat down on one of the sofas, and retrieved a cigar from his shirt pocket. But the end table had flowers and no ashtrays. Perfect! Just perfect! He gazed around the room; a picture hung on the wall depicting a sunny beach with rolling waves. The painting took him far away to another time, another life it seemed, when he strolled along the beach with his aunt picking up seashells and listening to the waves as they lapped along the shore, steady in their rhythm and laced with seafoam. He closed his eyes and dreamed of once again scrunching his toes in the soft sand; tasting the salty air; and listening to the quiet whisper of the ocean waves. What’s the point? Frank opened his eyes. Who am I kidding? My traveling days are over, and I’ll never again see a real beach. The only way I’ll ever be able to enjoy the seashore or any other thing of beauty for that matter is through my drawings. Besides, who’d want to visit on a beach, anyway? Certainly not me!
He tapped his foot impatiently, glared at Etta, and stared at the black-framed wall clock, scrutinizing the second hand which seemed to linger an extra minute at every passing second. I just hate it here! Absolutely, hate it!
“There’s Miss Lilly now!” Etta darted past Frank, startling him. “I’ll be lettin’ her know you’re here.” She bolted out the front door. “Miss Lilly! Miss Lilly! I tells him you be along dreckly. So he’s awaitin’ in the lobby.” She tugged on Lilly’s shirt sleeve. “Come Miss Lilly! Ya gots to come quick! Hurry!”
“Slow down, Etta. Who? Who’s waiting?”
“You know, dat man with dem evil eyes and dat scar above his left eye.” He’s been a sittin’ in the lobby for nearabout 30 minutes.”
“You mean Frank?” she asked in a choked voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Dat be da man, and he be hurt, Miss Lilly; he gots blood all over his hand, and he needs tending to. And I tells him you be lettin’ him in the infirmary and makin’ him more comfortable till the doc comes. But I be worried sick wonderin’ if I did the right thing.”
“You did fine, Etta. Frank’s a tough one to handle, especially first thing in the morning. Just take a deep breath and get me a cup of coffee.”
“Sure thing, Miss Lilly. Comin’ right up!”
Lilly walked into the lobby; took a calming breath; and drew herself closer to Frank. He was gazing out one of the open windows apparently lost in his own thoughts; he soon turned in Lilly’s direction revealing a face gnarled like an old tree with years of unhappiness etched in every deep line and wrinkle. His nose was crooked like a boxer’s, and he had a smooth scar above his right eye, the kind of scar that comes from losing a fight in the ring. The scar above his right cheek was jagged like a washed-out fishbone, the kind of scar that comes from losing a street fight. His lips were turned down slightly, and the deep creases on his forehead pulled his eyebrows down, as if he was always scowling.
Even though a fluttery feeling filled her stomach, Lilly pulled up a chair next to Frank. His breath smelled of whiskey, and his body reeked of cigar smoke making her want to pull back. Instead, she looked him straight in the eye. “Good morning, Frank. Etta tells me you’ve injured your hand. I’d like to help you, but I’ll need to take a look at your hand. Do you mind?”
“I sure as hell do!” Frank glared at her with hard, scornful eyes. “I don’t need your help! But I hear tell you’ve got a key to the infirmary. So, just let me in, and I’ll take care of the wound myself.”
“I wish I could, Frank, but I have to go with you…”
“But—,” he interrupted Lilly, “why do you have to be there?”
“I’m not allowed to let you in the infirmary by yourself. But I can administer some first aid and make you comfortable until Dr. Sean arrives.”
“So you don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“Geez, Frank. No. That’s not at all what I’m saying. It’s not in any way personal. It’s just that no resident is allowed in the infirmary by himself. It’s our policy.”
“That’s nothing but a bunch of hogwash if you ask me!”
“Call it what you like, Frank. But that’s the only way you’re getting into the infirmary before the doctor arrives, and he won’t arrive for at least another 45 minutes. So, you can either wait here in the lobby or go to the infirmary with me. Your choice.” Lilly stood up and planted her hands on her hips, “So, what will it be?”
Frank studied Lilly’s face for a long moment. What the hell? She must not know about my legendary temper. Otherwise, how could someone so tiny stand up to me and not even flinch? “Perfect!” He rolled his eyes. “Just perfect. I sure as hell don’t want to wait here.” He stood up and marched in the direction of the infirmary. “Are you coming or not!” He took a hasty glance back over his shoulder.
“I’ll meet you down there,” she waved him off and walked in the opposite direction.
“Bah!” he snarled, suppressing the rage swelling in his throat.
“Dat man.” Etta handed Lilly a cup of coffee. “He be da meanest man I ever did meet. But Miss Lilly, I gots to say dat you be a mighty brave woman talkin’ to Mr. Frank dat way.”
“I must admit. Frank’s intimidating, and I was afraid of how he’d react.” She took a sip of her coffee, grabbed her keys from her purse, and headed toward the infirmary.
“It’s about time you got here!” Frank’s nostrils flared like a raging bull. “I don’t like waiting!”
“I just had to get my morning cup of coffee, she said with a cheery voice. “I don’t know about you, but I just can’t seem to function in the morning without it.” Lilly unlocked the infirmary door, and Frank followed her inside, struggling to keep his balance. “Here,” she pulled out the sliding foot shelf on the examination table, “why don’t you step up on this and make yourself comfortable while I get the first aid supplies?”
“Oh, alright. If I must.” Frank stepped up on the foot shelf and pulled himself onto the table. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Lilly disappeared and quickly returned with a bottle of saline solution in one hand and gauze and cotton balls in the other. “Frank, I’ll need to remove that towel before I can clean your wounds. Will that be okay?” she asked in soothing tone.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m no wimp! You got that? Just do what you need to do.”
“I wasn’t implying you were some type of weakling or coward, Frank.” Lilly snapped back. “I was just trying to be considerate,” she said fighting back the urge to yank the towel off his wounded hand. Instead, she gently removed the towel exposing raw, pink flesh on his knuckles. “Goodness, Frank,” she tried not to stare. “Etta was right. You do have a pretty nasty wound there.”
“I can do without your sympathy. Just get on with it, would you!” he hissed.
“Okay!” She spoke with pursed lips. “Okay!”
Using saline-soaked cotton balls, Lilly dabbed at the reddish-brown fluid that had collected between Frank’s fingers. She then soaked some gauze in saline solution, wrapping it around his knuckles. She turned over Frank’s hand and discovered a mysterious, black, sooty substance covering it. Although curious, Lilly decided now was not the time to ask him about it.
Frank watched Lilly nurse his wounds. Her eyes were filled with a kindness that seemed genuine and endless. Her hands were soft and porcelain white like his aunt’s, and she smelled like freshly cut gardenias. But he didn’t quite know what to make of Lilly. She was a gentle, petite woman who hadn’t cowered to Frank’s demands and even stood up to him in her own way. That was something few people ever did, and he respected her for that.
Frank wanted to recoil from her care, not from the pain and discomfort and not from the embarrassment he suddenly felt in having acted so violently and stupidly, but from her kindness—kindness he didn’t deserve from her or anyone else for that matter. Frank was broken—broken on the inside—and couldn’t handle compassion, didn’t understand it, didn’t trust it, felt seduced by it, and wanted no part of it. But pain and suffering? He welcomed it, understood it, trusted it, never felt betrayed by it, and preferred wallowing in it.
“All done, Frank.” Lilly stroked his arm. “Your hand is pretty swollen, but I don’t see any broken bones. Then again, I’m no doctor. When Dr. Sean gets here, he’ll x-ray your hand just to be sure and probably suture those cuts. I’ll apply an ice pack. Sit tight until Dr. Sean arrives.”
“I’m doing no such damn thing,” Frank demanded, his voice matching the hardness of his gaze. “I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me.”
“Now, Frank.” Lilly placed her hand on his shoulder with enough strength to restrain him. “The doctor is required to examine you. No sense in trying to escape my clutches.”
“Gah! You’re impossible! You know that, sweetheart? Just impossible!”
“So I’m told,” she braved his eyes and shot him a grin. “Tell you what, Frank. I’m gonna need another cup of coffee and maybe a cheese Danish while we’re waiting. Maybe you’d like to join me. You haven’t lived at Hickory Pines very long so you probably don’t know this, but our cafeteria brews the best coffee; and the pastry chef makes the most delicious cheese Danishes.” Lilly reached for the telephone to call the cafeteria. “Just give me a nod, and I’ll get it here right away. You won’t regret it. Promise!”
Frank looked away momentarily as if glancing at the invisible chip on his shoulders. “I prefer my coffee black, the stiffer the better,” he growled. “And make damn sure they get it right!”
“Stiff coffee and a cheese Danish. You got it, Frank.”
Minutes later one of the cafeteria’s wait staff wheeled a portable coffee cart into the infirmary. Within seconds, the odor of dark, black coffee wafted heavily through the air, piercing through Frank’s drunken veil of crankiness. Lilly handed him a steaming cup. He wrapped his good hand around the warm cup and brought it to his lips, deeply inhaling the rich scent of roasted coffee beans. The mesmerizing aroma temporarily bridged the gap of time between his childhood memories and his present situation. Each sip he took reminded him of waking to the sound of his aunt’s coffee grinder and to the intoxicating smell of her morning brew as she called it.
Lilly watched as a fleeting expression of happiness flashed across Frank’s face, and she knew she’d made a connection. His eyes quickly darkened, though; and she saw in them reflections of a man with a mysterious, shadowy past.
Comments