Secrets at Dillehay Crossing- Chapter 7 - The Escape Hatch
After leaving Relda’s, Lilly stopped her car adjacent to the gazebo; opened the envelope; and devoured Relda’s note, reveling in their kindredship. Although Relda’s rather ominous, parting advice puzzled Lilly, it didn’t dissuade her desire to help John and heal the family. In fact, Relda’s cryptic warning only served to further ignite Lilly’s passionate curiosity about the Mason family, its history, and the secrets that lay waiting for her discovery inside her very own attic.
Lilly didn’t like keeping secrets, though, and now faced a predicament. Her logic told her to be honest with Nick, but she wondered if telling him was the right thing to do. If I tell him, he’ll probably want to know why I want to explore the attic. Since he doesn’t believe in ghosts or spirits, I can’t tell him about seeing Francine; hearing her pleas to help John; and needing to search the attic for clues that might assist me in helping John. And he simply won’t believe I actually saw Francine and most likely will dismiss what I saw as just a figment of my crazy imagination. I could tell him I just want to poke around in the attic to learn more about the Masons and their past, but he’ll more than likely say, ‘Just let the past be’ and all but forbid me from going into the attic.
But logic never worked well for Lilly. Instead, she relied heavily on her intuition and what her instincts told her to do. Although following her intuition wasn’t always easy for Lilly, it was a strong, almost bewitching force that spun a seductive spell over Lilly that even her earnest and hardworking logic couldn’t dispel. Even though Lilly was accustomed to seeing the world differently than other people, she had trouble communicating with other people about what she sensed and understood. Most people, Nick and Grammy included, were uncomfortable with Lilly’s perspective frequently dismissing her as silly, illogical, and foolishly crazy making her feel as invisible as the female ghost she’d seen at the old abandoned farmhouse. From time-to-time, even Lilly herself worried about being a bit crazy. But come what may, Lilly depended upon and trusted in her intuition and how it guided her.
Right now, Lilly’s intuition was telling her that the best way to help John was to delve into the contents of her attic and let them lead her where she needed to go. So she tucked the note and skeleton keys deep inside her jean’s pocket away from prying eyes, deciding to escape into the attic at a time when she wouldn’t be detected. But little did Lilly know that her discoveries would change the course of her life forever. Lilly’s exploration, however, had to wait for another day. She’d promised Hal she’d deliver Frank’s cigars and whiskey. She exited the Mason property and drove down the county road towards Hickory Pines wondering how Frank was coping with his injury.
By mid-morning Frank had returned to his apartment; his current affliction aside, he once again faced the reality of his declining physical condition. Moving without pain, without aches, was just one of the many things Frank once took for granted. But today, like most days, his feet felt as though they had been flash-burned with acid from the inside; and the muscles in his fingers felt like aging rubber bands—stiff, thick, and twisted. It wasn’t that his pain was all that acute; it was more of a gnawing, endless, incurable kind of pain that subsided only when he took his little white pill. Each pill was a trap door into an escape hatch where Frank lived in pain-free bliss and tranquility. He reached for his bottle of white pills, his mind already clamoring for the relief to come. Frank snapped off the cap, reached inside, and fumbled one of the small white pills between his fingers. He placed the pill on his tongue; tilted his head back; and swallowed the pill dry. He then plopped down on his easy chair and waited for the trap door to open.
Within a few minutes the trap door opened; and Frank tumbled down the escape hatch where, for the first few minutes, his breath seemed to stutter in his lungs, and time itself seemed to stall. His breaths deepened and slowed to the point that Frank wasn’t sure if he was even breathing. He closed his eyes, biding his time until the pain diminished. When Frank opened his eyes, his world became aquiver, shaking and blurring at the edges; and he couldn’t tell up from down. Frank blinked, focusing on his surroundings; and for some reason he zeroed in on an easel perched in the corner.
Clamped to it was an unfinished drawing he’d started years ago before moving to Hickory Pines. At that time, he couldn’t visualize what he was attempting to put onto paper. Frank began the drawing like he did most of his sketches, drawing intuitively and sort of watching the process unfold almost like a spectator. He’d draw a line that wasn’t related to anything other than the vague, instinctive feeling of movement, but that line led to another and another. Forms and figures emerged; and at some point, Frank thought about what he was creating and allowed it to come to the surface so he could consciously shape it.
But as Frank scrutinized his unfinished drawing, his mind reeled, unable to comprehend the almost surrealistic picture he’d sketched onto the paper. He looked away, then looked back to see if it was still there. The hair rose on the back of Frank’s neck; it was clear now as he stared at the image, bewildered and horrified. It was the shirtless boy with a kite in his hand running along the shores of Hawkes Pond.
What the hell? There’s that damn kid again! Who are you? Frank snarled at the boy in the drawing. I thought I’d concocted you from the painkillers and whiskey. Come to find out, you’ve been in my head haunting me for years. Stay the hell away from me! You hear me! Frank clenched his hand into a fist and shook it at the shirtless boy as if he was actually in the room. I need a drink! Frank uncorked the stopper from another whiskey bottle and tilted it toward his mouth. Damn! It’s empty! He flung the bottle onto the floor. Where’s that man with the whiskey I ordered? He should’ve been here by now.
Frank lit a cigar and removed a sketch pad from the drawer of his portable easel. From nowhere came a poignant memory of tranquil summer afternoons spent sitting next to his aunt in her gazebo watching her sketch. Frank smiled remembering the summer she gave him his first sketch pad and a mahogany box of assorted art pencils.
“But…but, auntie,” Frank said in a choked voice, “Papa won’t approve; he’ll just get mad at me. He’d rather me fight.”
“Don’t let your father bother you none,” she placed Frank’s hands in hers. “Listen, little man, there are far better things to do with these hands of yours than fight. Remember that!”
“But, auntie, I don’t know how to draw. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“The question is, do you want to learn?”
“Of course, auntie, of course! I want to draw like you.”
“Then the first thing you need to do is open your eyes and look around you. What do you see?”
“I see a willow tree; a gazebo; the nearby creek; and you, auntie.”
“Yes, and that’s what you’d see if you took a quick snapshot with a camera. But to draw, you must look at the world more closely. So, look again and tell me what else do you see?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, auntie,” Frank replied with a desperate appeal in his eyes.
“It’s all in the detail, little man. Notice the textures; the relationships; lights and shadows; spaces between spaces; as well as things unspoken and things unseen. Look again,” she urged.
Frank squinted his eyes and examined his surroundings more closely.
“Now tell me what you see.”
“The leaves on the willow tree are small and wilting in the summer sun; the white paint on the gazebo is peeling; the sunlight is sparkling off the water; and you’re wearing your favorite yellow dress. You’re right, auntie. You’re right!” Frank said with astonishment in his voice. “There’s so much, so much more to see.”
“Very good, little man. That’s the kind of detail that makes a drawing come alive. But you also want to reveal how you see things and how you feel about them, especially people.”
“But, auntie, but…” Frank paused once again searching her eyes for an answer. “I’m not very sure how to do that.”
“Well,” she thought for a moment, “how about I use you as an example. If I could draw you like I see you—”
“—Tell me, auntie,” Frank interrupted her, “how do you see me? Tell me, please!” He lifted his eyes to meet hers, waiting breathlessly for her reply.
“I see an incredibly brave boy with the most magnetic smile, the kindest hands, and eyes that are mostly gloomy but sometimes quite bright. I see a boy who wants to one day see the ocean. That’s the essence of the boy I’d try to capture; and I’d use the beach and the ocean to do just that. So,” she guided her charcoal pencil over the heavy sketch paper while Frank watched. “I’d draw a boy sitting on a beach with the ocean waves lapping at his feet. He’d hold a starfish in one hand and a small bucket in the other. His eyes would sparkle like the ocean when the sunlight hits it; and he’d smile from ear-to-ear as he proudly sat next to the sandcastle he just built with his own two hands. Do you understand?”
“Yes, auntie, I understand.” Frank’s eyes misted with tears. “And you’re right. I’d like to one day see the ocean.”
Frank’s face turned dark and impassive. I’ve never seen the ocean and probably never will. Despite the little white pill, his missed opportunities; his ugly past; and his unpleasant memories never seemed to escape Frank. They were like pin point needles piercing his skin. He wanted to scream but couldn’t; he wanted to fight them like he once did his opponent in the boxing ring but couldn’t. He desperately wanted to change his past but couldn’t. But drawing did what neither the little white pill nor the booze could ever do. It was Frank’s refuge allowing him to escape and even cope with his
painful scars.
Frank extinguished his cigar; opened his timeworn mahogany box of art pencils; and sharpened several of them, letting the curly shavings fall onto the floor. He squeezed a pencil between his fingers; closed his eyes; then paused for a few seconds, finding a little place of stillness before he started.
Frank didn’t know what he was going to draw. He just let the pencils glide across the blank page, and they religiously followed the trajectory of his angst. The choice of colors and the type of strokes were all a reflection of what was going through his mind. The reds were the angry embers within him that refused to die; the blues were the instances when his grief and regrets consumed him; the blacks were the moments of absolute weakness—the color of the bottomless pit within him that he had plunged into, falling through and through. The colors spoke to him in whispers, narrating their own story while he poured out his soul to them. They allowed him to channel his life through them. They listened. They cared. They laughed. They cried. They never argued. They allowed him to stare at his ugly past; they reassured him that life was still worth living; and with eager arms, they urged him forward. It was as if the strokes and colors filled his scars with a hint of hope and a whisper of faith that all was not lost.
The image of her kissing him goodbye at the train station flashed through Frank’s mind. If only he hadn’t boarded the train that day, he would’ve escaped their clutches; married her; and begun life anew, far away from his loathsome past. Frank opened his eyes, slowly tracing the contours of her rounded face onto the paper; he moved his hand over the paper, sketching a detailed picture of how he remembered her on that day—her delicately flawless skin; her soft, curly, dark hair that fell just beyond her dimpled chin; her tiny, precisely-shaped mouth; her small blue eyes; and her eyelashes that fluttered like the wings of a butterfly whenever she shyly glanced his way.
After painstakingly adding subtle color and texture to each of her features, Frank stopped briefly before picking up his blue watercolor pencil, dipping it in water, and carefully shading compassion and love into her eyes. Using a small soft paintbrush and a little bit of water, Frank began lightly brushing water over his entire picture hoping to somehow capture her softness, her simple elegance, her grace, and her quiet humility.
What do you think, auntie? Frank held the drawing up to the light and scrutinized it. I did like you taught me. I captured her likeness and her essence Who is she? Oh, she’s the woman I’d hoped to marry. No, I doubt I’ll ever see her again. I wish you could’ve known her, though. You would’ve liked her. She was a lot like you.
An abrupt knock at Frank’s door jolted him back to reality. That must be that man with my whiskey. It’s about time!
“Come in!” Frank bellowed without looking away from his work. “It’s about time you got here! You should’ve been here hours ago!” he grumbled with contempt in his voice. From behind him, Frank heard his doorknob turn and his front door ease open. “Just put the whiskey on that table over there and be on your way. Your money’s in the envelope.”
Lilly gingerly stepped across the entryway into Frank’s apartment; it was a dreary-looking place that reeked of smoldering cigars and day-old whiskey. She walked past a broken-down battered sofa sleeper then maneuvered her way down a narrow aisle, tiptoeing over shattered glass, stacks of discarded newspapers, and empty whiskey bottles strewn across the floor. Lingering cigar smoke in the air twisted in an artistic manner, forming curls and patterns in the room—illuminated only by a dull lamplight over a table covered in balled up sketch paper and pencil shavings. She quickly scanned the room and eyed a dozen or so drawings that had been thumbtacked to the wall.
“Frank,” Lilly’s voice shook slightly, “it’s me, Lilly.”
Frank lifted his hand off the sketch paper and abruptly turned around. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said confrontationally. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear. I don’t need you checking on me, you hear! Now be gone, sweetheart!”
“I’m not checking on you Frank. I have your whiskey and cigars.”
“What? Why the hell do you have them?”
“I was downtown earlier this afternoon; and,” Lilly’s mouth went dry and her body tensed, “I saw Hal over at Spirits and Smokes. His truck broke down, and he couldn’t deliver your whiskey and cigars to you. So, I offered to bring them to you.”
“Fine! You delivered them!” he snapped. “Just put the sack on that table over there.” Frank turned away from Lilly, hoping to resume his work.
Lilly laid the sack on the table; slowly turned around; and paused, hoping to catch a glimpse of Frank’s drawings.
“You made the delivery, sweetheart, so why are you still here?” Frank’s voice had a cold-hearted edge to it.
“I, um…um…need,” Lilly did an about-face, “to give you a message from Hal.”
“Yes, and…”
“He, um, said, that you could…um…square up with him when he makes your next delivery.”
“Message received. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“—But”
“But what, sweetheart?”
“I’m dying to ask you something,” Lilly uttered, the tiniest waver in her voice revealing her nervousness.”
Frank half turned and faced her. “What the hell is it, sweetheart.”
“Did you sketch each of these drawings, Frank?” Lilly pointed at the thumbtacked drawings on the wall.
“Well, what if I did?” he huffed.
Without asking permission, Lilly inched closer to one of the drawings and lingered in front of it. “That looks an awful lot like Hawkes Pond.”
“And what if it is?” he asked, slowly raising a questioning eyebrow.
“Well, it’s just that Hawkes Pond is my refuge, the place I go whenever I need to escape and be alone. Occasionally, I secretly slip away from work and wander along its shores. Sometimes I stop; take off my shoes; sit down on the bank; dangle my feet in the cool water; and gaze out over the landscape. Listen to me ramble on so. I didn’t really mean to.” Lilly moved her face even closer to the drawing. “Wow! Look at all that detail! There’s that lovely gazebo! I see tadpoles swimming in the shallows; dragonflies and butterflies flittering just above the water’s surface; and trees and clouds reflecting off the water’s surface. You’ve included enough subtle color and texture that I can all but smell the wildflowers; touch the forget-me-nots along the water’s edge; and hear some squirrels scrabbling in the nearby woods. And look over there. You’ve even sketched the old Texas windmill that I sometimes see off in the distance. Magnificent! You’ve truly captured the soul of Hawkes Pond. Tell me,” Lilly’s voice rose with enthusiasm, “how can you draw like that? I can barely draw a stick figure?”
“You do babble on so, sweetheart; and you ask an awful lot of damn questions!”
“I know. Or at least everyone tells me I do. Sometimes it’s a curse being so inquisitive.” Lilly laughed jovially. “Seriously, though, Frank, I mean no disrespect and don’t mean to pry. I’m just curious, and I sincerely want to understand. How can you draw like that?”
“You know, sweetheart, you’re really beginning to get on my nerves! But I’ll answer your damn question anyway. Or at least try to.” He abruptly laid his paintbrush aside. “How? How?” I don’t know if I can even explain it to you. Hell!” Frank’s voice rose an octave. “It’s not something even I understand. It’s just something I do—do without thinking. The pencil just flows across the page making marks, almost as if it has a mind of its own. Most of the time, I don’t know what it’s going to be until it’s finished. Sometimes, though, I can’t even pick up a pencil, let alone move it across the paper and let it do what it’s going to do. At those times, drawing is a real struggle,” he reluctantly admitted.
“So, why do you do it? I mean,” Lilly stammered, “why do you draw? I’d really like to know. And who taught you?” The questions leapt out of Lilly’s mouth almost of their own accord.
Frank’s face mottled crimson; his eyes popped; and his neck strained. She’d probed too much; gotten too close; and Frank felt vulnerable and defenseless, like a battered boxer backed into a corner of the ring. Like the trained boxer he was, it was fighting time. His words became his boxing gloves, and he threw the next punch. “I’m not answering anymore of your stupid questions. You got that! So get the hell out of my apartment; stop bothering me; and stop pretending to care about me.” He spat out with ferocity. “You’ll never understand. As for my drawings, they’re personal; and it’s none of your damn business who taught me to draw. You got that, sweetheart? So if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do. I need to finish touching up this drawing.”
Without wiping Frank’s spit from her now ashen face, Lilly backed away. With as much composure as she could possibly muster, she said, “I didn’t mean to offend you, Frank. I’ll be on my way.”
“Close the door on your way out,” Frank shouted as he turned around, picked up his paintbrush, and continued where he’d left off.
As the door closed behind her, a pained expression clouded Frank’s face. “But wait, Lilly, wait…It was my aunt,” he said under his breath, “who taught me to draw. She would’ve liked you; you’re a lot like her.” But it was too late; Lille was gone. Then in a breath, the words softly filled the void between them. “Come back. Please come back. I’ll show you some more of my drawings.” Frank gripped his doorknob in his hand. He wanted to open the door and explain to her why he drew, but he didn’t have the words. Frank wasn’t good with words; he never had been. Drawing, on the other hand, was easier for him than talking; it was more straightforward and left him little room for lies. When Frank drew, he became absorbed in his work and escaped from his past with its heartache, regrets, and pain. But how could he explain his past to her and his need to escape? Maybe she’d understand, he speculated. After all, she admitted to needing to escape to Hawkes Pond. Frank wanted to believe that Lilly would, and he wanted to believe he could trust her.
Frank yearned to trust her and to once again rely upon his instincts; but he hadn’t trusted anyone, not even himself, in an awfully long time. She’s too young, he thought. Yet there was a maturity in her heart and spirit that Frank couldn’t deny. And there was something comfortable and uncannily familiar about Lilly. Perhaps it was the gentle scent of her perfume. Perhaps it was the softness in her eyes and her quiet humility. Perhaps it was her grace and the tenderness in Lilly’s voice that beckoned him. Lilly’s not like the others, Frank conceded, and she’s not out to get me.
He desperately wanted to escape into her kindness and compassion, but Frank didn’t know how. So instead of going after Lilly, he swallowed another one of his little white pills; washed it down with a swig of whiskey; and waited once again for the trap door to open into the only escape he truly understood and trusted.
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