JON here.
Five o'clock, quitting time at the newspaper. I'm in my office, two doors back from the receptionist's desk, where I can see the comings and goings on Main Street. I'm doodling, pretending to work, necktie lying loose on my desk, my coffee cup on a coaster, staring out the window toward my route out of town. From 1800 miles away, San Francisco whispers my name. I find myself drifting away into an old teenage daydream, whimsical fantasies of freedom, imagining the scent of espresso, artsy lofts, and beat poetry in that City by the Bay. But each ring of the phone at Helen's reception desk reminds me I'm caged in the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys, scent of ink, newsprint, and cigarette smoke from the bullpen.
I'm waiting for David.
He turned onto Main Street in his sloppy jalopy. Bang! The engine backfired. I flashed on "Wind in the Willows," reckless Mr. Toad riding free in his antique red motorcar. Helen trilled, "Mr. Clarkson" -- that's me -- "brace yourself, your pal's rolling in!"
AAH-OOO-GAH! David's horn honked like an overexcited goose on a caffeine high. A little discretion, please, Dave? I snatched my satchel, uncluttered by the poetry, music, or notes for the novel I was going to write. And oh boy, let's not forget the camera, my companion on this uncharted journey. I stuffed it into my bag, praying that Helen wouldn't unleash an inquisition.
Too late.
"Where are you off to?" she queried, her voice piercing the hallways.
Where was I off to? I had no clue beyond David's advice to wear my Levi shorts, the ones with the button fly.
"Photo assignment!" I blurted out, hoping it sounded plausible.
Helen was incredulous. She pulled a spare tie out of her backup stash. "Your leash, Mr. son-of-the-boss." I thanked her, folded it and put it in my blazer pocket. I was almost out the door before she called out her catchphrase, "Don't waste your wad!"
My wad. Yes, my incredibly valuable and mysterious wad. Destiny was calling. It was written in the stars.
§
David and I took to the hills, bumping over crumbling asphalt roads, the scenery around us breathtaking, lush greenery and towering mountain peaks in the distance. I tasted pine sap and eucalyptus from the wind that whipped my face. David's jalopy groaned and clanked with each pothole, the muffler dragging, but we pushed on, laughing each time our butts left the seat. The road, climbing, gave way to dirt and sharp rocks, increasingly jagged. Boulders of granite loomed like sentries watching over us.
At the top of a hill loomed the remains of Rockhaven Asylum. My spine shivered at the sight before me. Grass had sprouted up around the foundation. The crumbling brick walls were overgrown with vines and weeds. Broken windows revealed the dark interior, a great place for bats to hang during the day.
David drove through the front gate, tires crunching over broken glass and debris. Closer, I could smell mold and decay where water had seeped into the brickwork. He stopped, his hands tapping on the steering wheel. Gave me a sideways glance. Taking a deep breath, he turned off the engine.
Silence. Then the faint twitter of birds nesting, a dance of shadows beneath the vines.
Dave: "My father was a doctor here."
The revelation caught me off guard. My mind raced with questions. Why hadn't he mentioned this before? What kind of doctor was his father? David's eyes were cast down, lost in thought. I sensed he was holding something back.
"What happened?"
"The Feds went after him. He was experimenting on the patients. With LSD. "
David pulled on the parking brake, done talking.
"Where's the surprise?" I asked.
"Down there." His eyes pointed to a grassland hillside, chigger territory. A family of deer grazed on the knoll. Downhill past that, I flashed on a sign: "Private Property -- the Thespian woods."
To me the woods were dark and foreboding, thick trees casting shadows. I imagined mist hovering around the base of the ancient trunks, dark with the musty smell of decaying leaves and moist soil. Something about them made my skin crawl, the creaking and groaning of branches in an unfelt wind, as if nature itself whispered secrets that sent shivers through me.
"What's down there?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Looks spooky."
"It's like, Transylvania," proposed Dave. He climbed out of the car and walked around to my side, wrestling open the door for me. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "That was Dad's land. It's only haunted if you bring your own ghosts."
We gathered all the luggage we could carry: the rumble-seat cushions, Dave's guitar and sketch pad, an army-surplus blanket, and a backpack full of food and camping supplies.
"You loaded?"
"Primed to shoot," I teased.
"Terrible pun," said Dave.
We trekked down to an overgrown clearing in the forest where an ancient, fallen tree lay, its bark stripped off by weather and age, exposing the smooth, sun-bleached wood beneath. We set our burdens beside it, a good place to rest, for us.
"One more thing before we sit," David declared. "Deet."
I put my hand up to stop him, alarmed. "Isn't that stuff poison?"
"Nah. Mr. Ralph Nader, label reader. This is not DDT."
He pulled up my shirt to my ribs and stuck his finger between my waist and the top of my cut-off jeans, aiming the spray can down toward my crotch.
"Gotta grease the piston," he said. His hands fumbled to undo the top steel button.
"Beep beep beep, forgasm warning," I teased. "It might not be poison, but it sure won't taste good."
He tossed the can over his shoulder, then grinned and blushed. "Spare a drop of butter milk, then?"
I chuckled and rolled my eyes. "I'm fresh out of dairy products at the moment."
David snapped his fingers in faux disappointment. "Darn!"
"Tell you what," I murmured, pulling him closer. "How about you and I churn up some fresh butter later?"
"It's a date," he said with a wink.
Unable to resist, David's fingers found their way back to my Levi's, managing to pop the gateway button open. I brushed his hand away. "That's the teaser," I said, buttoning up again. I craved his touch, but the wait would make our union sweeter. "Keep your powder dry." David threw up his hands in mock surrender. We laughed, and I saw myself grabbing his head under my arm and grinding my knuckles in his hair, but I didn't.
His face and voice took on a serious note, ending the game. "Turn around, Jon," he instructed. "Here's the surprise. Ever seen one of these?"
At the edge of the clearing lay the charred remains of a crashed helicopter, a Bell 47, a small 3-seater craft used for rescue and medivac, disintegrating deep in the forest, where oaks formed a canopy and speckled sunlight filtered in. Up close, the chopper's battered metal skin was held together by the exposed bones of internal support beams, saplings growing up through them. Gnarled rotor blades stuck out of the tangled trees. Copper wires hung like vines between the branches.
"My father died here." Dave lifted his gaze. "Chopper didn't make it over the power lines. Flipped him."
"What was he doing?"
"Fleeing the FBI."
"No cleanup and recovery? Why is this wreck still here?"
"It's on Rockhaven property," David explained. "Liability stuff. Owners freaked out about what the feds would uncover. Rockhaven lawyered up, blocked access. The courts won't budge."
The sun hung low over the canopy, streaks of orange and red, spider webbed, blooming in the sky. David pulled out his sketchpad and got busy on the wreckage while I took a pee break in the woods. A small airplane droned overhead. I looked up. A scarlet oak leaf drifted down like a helicopter on fire. I flashed on my brother Buddy when he'd checked out in a chopper crash in 'Nam.
"Remember when I used to tell you about my daydreams?" Buddy asked me one night, on leave from the war.
"Yeah. You were gonna be Teddy Roosevelt at the Battle of San Juan Hill. How's that going?'
"Great, kid," Buddy said. And then he was dead.
The leaf hit the ground spinning and in a flash, young Buddy came rushing back to me - tramping through woods to our secret waterfall, sharing the thrill of chucking M-80's into the glade pool below.
Another flash. I imagined the chopper yoke jammed through Captain Buddy's throat, the dust-up team pulling a tarp over his charred face. The sound of blades chopping air, smoke and heat from the flames, the stench of fuel and burnt flesh.
Muffling my sobs so David wouldn't hear, I let the tears flow until I was hollow, memories of Buddy's violent death swirling among the phantom roar of the flames. Wiping my eyes, I steadied myself with a breath and returned to the clearing where David waited.
David saw my face and took in my grief. He laid down his pencil and shared his darkness - the crash that left a child's delicate bones crushed, his mother forever silenced, his childhood buried alive.
He described the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of his mother's car crushing against the bridge railing, metal screeching as it twisted and collapsed. I saw it all. Glass exploded outward in a glittering spray as the windows shattered. Four-year-old David was ejected, his small body flung loose onto the rocky ditch, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth as he spit broken teeth into his bloody hands.
In a daze, he crawled from the gully, drawn to the ruined chassis. The mangled door hung ajar. Behind the wheel, a bloody horror awaited - his mother's face streaked red, her eyes vacant and staring. This was the woman who had kissed him after she'd buttoned his shirt every morning.
My brother's flaming chopper flashed again in my mind, and here, I imagined David's father in a desperate escape. The trees breaking against the aircraft, his fearful screams, the crash into earth. Three lives cut short -- David's mom, my brother, a hero; and David's dad, a fugitive. Holding David's hand, in silence we connected in grief, shadows spreading deep into the clearing. I turned to find his eyes glistening with barely contained tears. Two souls wounded but no longer alone.
