Excavation

Chapter 18

He had to go through the operator in Four Corners to make the long distance call to Denver. He’d waited a long time to call; he probably should have called Carol the first night he was in, let her know he had arrived safely. That’s what he would have done a few years ago, and she would have expected it. The first few years they were married they both had had an almost desperate need to touch base after they’d been separated a number of hours, in order to head off fantasies of accidents and murder.

But the last few years they’d gone completely the other way—sometimes they didn’t call each other even when they knew the average person would. It was one way in which they both asserted a new independence, albeit an immature one. Reed had been the worse offender—he’d badly scared Carol a couple of times, and she had been too stubborn, too independent to show it.

Reed waited anxiously as the woman in Four Corners tried to make the connection; the static on the line was so bad tonight he could hardly hear her. He was self-consciously aware of Uncle Ben in the other room, keeping his kids quiet and acting as if this were the most important telephone call that had ever been made, surpassing even that of Bell’s first phone conversation.

“Be just a minute, Reed.” The static popped and crackled under her voice, and she was so incredibly old, so hoarse anyway, Reed thought her undistorted voice must not be much different. Eloise… could that be Eloise? It seemed impossible, but the voice and the manner seemed the same… asking for your first name, then calling you by it, even chatting with you before the other party came on the line. He supposed a lot of rural telephone operators were the same way, but that voice…

“Reed… Reed…” Static filled his name.

“Carol?”

“Just be a minute now, Reed. Say hello to your Uncle Ben for me…”

Eloise had been old when he was a boy. She must be seventy-five, eighty now. There was a loud popping in the receiver and Reed pulled his head away in pain. He wouldn’t be calling Carol very often; the phone system in the county was still impossible.

But that was an excuse. He didn’t want to call Carol. He was afraid if he talked to Carol too often he wouldn’t be able to stick to his decision to stay in the Creeks until he’d solved this thing. Talking to Uncle Ben tonight, seeing the dream house, had started a crack in that resolve. It had made him think of his own house, his particular neighborhood in Denver, where the streets were shaded, all the buildings old, and the people who lived there basically friendly.

Uncle Ben’s dream house… what a travesty. The boards virtually oozed moisture. Death and decay came out of the very ground here—there was just no escaping it. By comparison home life in Denver seemed so normal, so satisfying.

“Reed… Reed…” Eloise? Carol? “Reed, this is Carol. How are you?”

There were tears in his eyes; he couldn’t answer.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah… sure, I’m fine. How are you?”

Static obliterated her answer.

“Carol? Carol, please… I can’t hear you.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice; he knew he wasn’t succeeding.

“I’m here, Reed. I miss you.”

He could barely hear her. “I miss you, too.”

“How’s Michael? Alicia?” The static was getting worse.

“Fine… here…”

“What? Carol… the static…” Damn it, Eloise!

“Have you found out anything?” The static suddenly disappeared. Reed listened intently to her voice. “Will you be out there much longer? I need you home, Reed.”

“I…” Static exploded in his ears. He cried out in pain, dropping the phone. It bounced off the wall; he could hear Carol’s faraway, static-filled voice. He grabbed at the receiver, pulled it quickly to his ear.

Dead air on the other end. Then suddenly, so briefly it might have been an illusion, some distortion of the static… a low crying sound, almost a mewling, such as an animal might make. But Reed felt sure it was a child. Then nothing.

The bear had suddenly gone angry, gone mad… it had happened so quickly he didn’t even have time to puzzle over it. Like when he had been clawing at the old log, and the bees had come, stinging his nose and setting fire to his ears and the softer parts around his eyes. That was the worst time the bear could remember.

But this was worse, far worse. Because the stinging and the fire were inside his head, inside his nose, inside his great tongue and teeth, where he’d never get to them. He clawed at the ground, then at his muzzle, ripping it but not caring, getting some relief from this new outside pain that was easier to manage than his inside pain.

He stopped a moment, suddenly calm despite the raging fire inside, and saw on the edge of his vision the white figure floating into the branches. He turned and charged.

And broke into the brush pile, wood flying everywhere, sharp edges poking him, but they were so far below his awful inside pain he couldn’t think about them. A piece of human cloth hung from a branch. He sniffed at it. Nothing. The human being had not been with it for a very long time.

Something stirred inside him. He did not know why he had attacked the cloth, but there were many things he did now he could not begin to understand. Something stirred inside him. He had thought the cloth a little human being. And one time when he was angry, he had attacked little human beings. Human young. He had this picture inside him. They had made him angry. He had bared his teeth then. He had howled.

As he was baring his teeth now. As he was howling. The pain inside consuming him.