Seeds of Fear

SYMPATHY CALL Michael Garrett

The impoverished appearance of his hometown came as no surprise to Mark Morgan. It had been years since his last visit, and hell, the whole fuckin' world was going down the toilet, so why should his boyhood stomping grounds be spared? Scanning the streets he'd roamed as a child, he found even long standing landmarks barely recognizable. The neighborhood school looked like an abandoned prison, deserted and vandalized, scarred by broken windows and graffiti. Several houses along the encircling block had been condemned. But just ahead, with bright curtained windows, unretrieved mail spilling from the mailbox, and unopened newspapers scattered across the porch, was her house, or at least the house where she'd lived as a kid. An inhabitable house seemed oddly out of place despite its own deteriorated condition. The roof needed patching, the shutters were rotten, and the lawn and shrubbery were ragged and neglected. It was the same place, though, he was sure. Mark sighed. Tracking Beth over the years hadn't been easy. She'd married, changed her name, divorced, then remarried, changed her name again. Though he and Beth had been apart for almost twenty-five years, Mark had constantly monitored her from a distance, watching the latest developments in her life from afar in hope that still another divorce might create an opportunity for reunion between the two of them. That's why he'd checked the new telephone directory year after year to make sure her parents were still listed. Through them, he'd be able to locate Beth if her name changed again, or if she moved away without his knowledge.

Mark exhaled and slowly shook his head, surprised that her folks had never moved to the suburbs. Couldn't Beth have offered them financial help? Of course, she would have — if she hadn't married an asshole.

Make that two assholes.

Mark, I'm so happy. I've never gone steady before.

Mark sat in silence, her voice drifting through his mind. He cut the ignition of his Jeep Cherokee, the engine ticking as it cooled, while he stared blankly at the house. A youthful image of Beth's face was branded in his memory, and Mark sat in frozen silence until the wind swept a wave of dead leaves across the pavement.

A feverish tingle seared his veins. Having repeated ly parked in this exact spot so long ago, Mark envisioned sitting behind the wheel of his '66 Mustang, his fingers tapping to the rhythm of the Beatles on the AM radio, his high school graduation tassel dangling from the rearview mirror. In his mind he saw her seated in the worn bucket seat beside him, her lips protruding in a playful pout in an attempt to have her way.

A nearby police siren jarred him back to reality.

Glancing around, Mark noted a rusted Chevy parked in the driveway against a ragged row of shrubbery that lined the side of the house. Despite the unretrieved mail and newspapers, there was still a chance that Beth's parents were at home.

As he exited the Jeep, Mark noted the sound of speeding automobiles on a nearby freeway that hadn't even existed when he and Beth dated. A squirrel scampered along the power lines overhead; a dog howled down the street. Mark shook his head, his stomach quivering as he tracked mud up the cracked walkway to the front porch. Anxiety grew with every step.

At the door he hesitated. He'd endured almost a quarter of a century of pain and loneliness since he'd last stood in this very spot and held her in his arms. He rubbed his eyes, recalling the soft texture of her lips, how thick and creamy they felt, and the smell of her freshly shampooed hair. He could almost feel the fur collar of her coat tickle his neck as they kissed good night, the memories so intense, it was as if it had been only yesterday. Though they'd lived separate lives, she had always been with him in spirit.

Always.

Not tonight, Mark. It's… my time of the month.

Mark finally punched the doorbell, imagining the scent of her perfume as he scrubbed his shoes across the welcome mat. He shifted nervously on his feet and swallowed hard as the glass panes of the front door vibrated from movement inside. What if her parents didn't understand? What if they sent him away?

Two dusty white blades of the Venetian blinds separated and an elderly bloodshot eye peeked through, rolling from side to side in a cautious examination of the surroundings. When the blinds were finally released, the door creaked open a couple of inches and the wrinkled face of Beth's mother peered out over a dime-store security chain.

"Yes?" she said, her voice weak and suspicious.

Mark cleared his throat. "Mrs. Arvin, you may not remember me, but I'm Mark Morgan. I was one of Beth's first boyfriends."

The old woman stared at him questioningly until her grim expression finally softened. "Mark? Hmmm. I'm sorry, but it's been a long time." She glanced over her shoulder and called out into the darkened recesses of the house, "Ralph, come in here. One of Beth's friends stopped by." She unlatched the chain and swung the door open. "Come on in," she invited Mark.

We can't do it if you don't wear protection.

The living room was gloomy and not at all as he remembered. But then, he and Beth had spent as little time here as possible, preferring the privacy of his parents' home when they were away or the seclusion of a remote lovers' lane for their many lovemaking sessions.

"Please sit down," Mrs. Arvin offered, motioning toward the sofa. Mark hesitated, then finally sat. Floral arrangements decorated the mantel, clashing with the drab atmosphere of the otherwise dismal room. Unopened envelopes lay scattered on the coffee table before him.

Mr. Arvin hobbled into the room, impaired by a bad limp, and made no effort to shake hands or acknowledge Mark's presence. A faraway look con trolled the elderly man's eyes.

Mark examined the saddened faces of Beth's parents as they stared back at him from a rocker and a straight-back chair near the fireplace. "I was at the funeral," he said softly. "I wanted to talk to you then, but it wasn't the right place. I wanted to see the house again, and remember the way she was." Mrs. Arvin sniffled; her husband hawked a hoarse cough.

I need to date other guys. You're the only boyfriend I've ever had.

"It's all been.. such a shock," she muttered.

Mark shifted on the sofa and exhaled deeply. "You lost her a couple of weeks ago, but for me it's been a lifetime," he said. "I've never hurt so badly in all my life as the day we broke up." Tears leaked from his eyes.

Mr. Arvin mumbled something incoherently as Mark continued. "She's never been far from my thoughts, though." He stopped to sniffle and clear his throat. "That's why I'm here. I want to know what I missed in her life after we broke up. She never confided in me. She didn't understand how much she meant to me." He paused for a deep breath. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see some photos, and swap stories about her with you. It could be sort of like a private memorial service, just between the three of us. One last tribute to her. I owe her at least that much."

Mrs. Arvin sniffled again. "Well…" she began, "it's only been a week since… the funeral…"

"I understand," he whispered, a lingering moment of tension electrifying the atmosphere, "but I've got to pay homage to her in some way. After all we've been through, I think she'd expect it." Mr. Arvin finally stood and ambled feebly to his wife's side.

"We've got to face up to it, Evelyn," he said. "It don't do no good to hide our feelings." He reached toward a nearby bookcase and removed a photo album, then laid it to rest atop the unopened envelopes on the coffee table in front of Mark. "She was our baby," he mumbled in a gruff voice. "Always will be."

Mark leaned over and flipped open the cover. Mrs. Arvin sat stiffly in her chair, finally muttering, "I can't look at the pictures yet. I'm just not ready."

But already selfishly engrossed in the photographs, Mark didn't hear her as he scanned the pages, observing the maturation of a woman with whom he'd always been so desperately in love. Yet these photos spanned a period of her life that began as many as ten or fifteen years after their breakup. "Do you have any photos when she was younger?" he asked.

Without a response Mr. Arvin returned to the bookcase and searched for an older, more worn photo album. Mark tried not to show his excitement.

In the opening pages Beth was younger than when he'd first known her. In one faded photo she stood arm in arm with a friend at the beach, her bust not yet fully developed, but the features of her face becoming more like those of a young woman. He flipped ahead a couple of pages and stared face-to-face with the girl who had dominated his life from afar, whose memory had haunted him endlessly. He felt himself shiver, his reaction so intense.

Please don't call me anymore. I want you to leave me alone.

"She's in high school there," Mr. Arvin said, pointing to a picture at the top of the page. "That's the day she was tapped for the National Honor Society."

But Mark paid no attention, his eyes fixed instead on a photograph mounted at the lower corner of the adjacent page, a snapshot that actually included an image of himself as a teenager. It was a group picture at a family reunion he had long since forgotten. But there he was, in clear view, holding hands with Beth in the forefront, her brother and sister also accompanied by dates, with a stream of her relatives in the back ground.

"She was so beautiful," Mark mumbled with a hint of a sob, perspiration beading across his forehead, "but she never had a mind of her own. She let her friends affect her too much." Page by page he watched her mature, beyond high school and college graduation, through marriage and her childbearing years. "Her daughter is beautiful," Mark exclaimed as he examined a photo of a cute four-year-old in curls. "She has a lot of Beth's features."

Mr. Arvin cleared his throat. "Angie's in college now. She was the Homecoming Queen at Auburn last year."

A tinge of jealousy gripped Mark at the sight of a photo of Beth hugging her husband. "Angie doesn't resemble her father at all," he remarked as if he didn't know.

"Oh, that's not Angie's father." Mrs. Arvin finally spoke up from across the room. "Beth divorced Angie's dad. When she remarried, she wanted all the pictures of Charlie taken out."

Mark nodded, his hatred for the man in the photograph rekindled. A snarl registered in his expression as he scolded, "He should have known how dangerous it would be for Beth to drive those dark roads at night. He should've taken better care of her."

You've got to leave me alone! You need to get on with your life!

Mr. Arvin cleared his throat. "Well, now," he said, "we shouldn't be blaming Tom. He's suffered enough already."

"He didn't deserve her," Mark interrupted. "She could've done much better than him." A nervous tic twitched at his eyebrow.

Mark returned his attention to the family album, watching the love of his life age before his eyes like a flower blossoming in a timed-exposure nature film. Her brown hair showed signs of gray in the more recent shots, but her figure remained trim as she aged. He witnessed a changing culture through variations of her hair length and clothing styles, and in some photos he imagined indications of stress in her face. "I never got over her," he sighed, more to himself than to her parents. "I got married, even had a kid, but I could never get Beth out of my system." Tears seeped more freely from his eyes. "I met her for lunch once, years ago, even followed her sometimes just to watch her shop at the mall. After my divorce I tried to see her again, but she wouldn't even talk to me. This son of a bitch changed her. He fuckin' ruined her."

"Oh, my," Mrs. Arvin said in reaction to Mark's vulgar language.

He flipped back to the earlier photographs, to the way Beth looked when they were involved. Scanning the years was riveting, the hold she'd had on him throughout his life intensified now by the sight of her in the photographs. Mark's skin began to itch and burn; his pulse quickened. He focused on a torn Polaroid snapshot that had been repaired with trans parent tape, a close-up of Beth and her dog. Feeling as if he might burst with emotion, he swallowed hard. He felt hot; he swallowed again and tasted bile in his throat.

Please, Mark. When will this end? Don't you have a life of your own?

"I ran over her dog, you know," Mark confessed without a hint of remorse.

Mr. Arvin scratched his head. "Well, don't worry yourself about that now, son. It was a long time ago, and accidents like that happen all the time."

Mark looked up at Mrs. Arvin, a glazed expression on his face. "No, I mean intentionally. She never knew. It was a couple of weeks after we broke up. I wanted her to see how it feels to lose something you love, so I waited till the mutt ran out into the street and I flattened him."

Mark! Is that you? Help me — please!

The elderly couple sat in stunned silence. Mark's grip on the photo album tightened until pages began to tear loose from the binder's metal rings. Mrs. Arvin rose from her rocker and eased to her husband's side, a look of fear and anger scarring her already stressed face. Her hands shook noticeably.

His mouth dry, his forehead beaded with sweat, Mark saw Beth's ghostly image appear in a vacant chair across the room. She was wearing a miniskirt and crossing her legs, her luminous form teasing him, daring him to say more. "I was the first to fuck her, too," Mark blurted, watching for a reaction from a woman who wasn't even there. "She wasn't my first, but I was hers. And she loved to fuck. Once she wanted to fuck while we were parked outside the airport and I wouldn't do it, just to show her who was in control, and she begged me —»

"Please," Mrs. Arvin interrupted. "This is uncalled for. I think you should leave now."

Mark raised his head, a blank expression on his face, veins bulging from his neck. "But these are things you never knew about her, don't you see?"

"Son, we've heard enough already." Mr. Arvin finally spoke up more forcefully, but his voice still wavered. "You'd better go."

Mark didn't budge. "Can I have a couple of these pictures?" he asked.

"Of course not!" Mrs. Arvin interjected with a bitter tone. "Now, leave. Please."

No, Mark, don't. I'm hurt.

Mark stood, his temples pulsing like the throat of a frog. He reached deep into a pocket and pulled out a tear-shaped gold pendant, clusters of dried dirt spilling onto the floor from the movement. "I'll give you this," he pleaded. "I'll trade this for one picture."

Mrs. Arvin's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Ralph — it's the pendant Beth wore when she was buried!" Visibly shaken, she grabbed for the gold chain, but Mark thoughtlessly snatched it away.

"You don't understand," he growled as he wiped his forehead. "She's lost her looks. I need to remember her like she was."

Mr. Arvin nudged him toward the door, but Mark stood his ground. "Get away from here, you maniac!" Mr. Arvin raved. "You've robbed my daughter's grave!" Then he turned to his wife and stuttered, "C-c-call the p-p-police."

Mark's nostrils flared. "Sure! Go ahead!" he yelled. "You probably made her dump me in the first place. You never liked me anyway." Again he stopped for a deep breath. "Call the fuckin' cops!" he howled. "You don't give a shit about me." He stomped maddeningly around the room mumbling to himself, banging a knee hard against the coffee table without even reacting to the pain.

Mr. Arvin backed away, his eyes reflecting horror. Hyperventilating, Mark ripped several pages from the open photo album, rolled them up, and stuffed them into his dirty pocket, the photo of Beth and her husband slipping free and falling to the floor. Mark leaned over to pick it up. "I hate this son of a bitch," he growled through gritted teeth. "She wouldn't leave him, so I took her the only way I knew how."

Mrs. Arvin squeezed against her husband's side.

Stop it, Mark. That hurts!

"It was no accident, you know," he admitted, the fear in their faces spurring him on. "I ran her off the road. There wasn't any traffic. Not a single car came by." His eyes widened; his cheeks tightened. "The son of a bitch shouldn't have built a house so far out in the woods."

"Oh, my God," Mr. Arvin moaned, a shudder in his voice. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees as his wife cried hysterically at his side. The fear and revulsion in their faces reminded Mark of Beth's expression as she died, encouraging him to continue.

Don't, Mark. I'm hurt. I'm bleeding.

"Even after her car hit the tree, she was still alive," he boasted. "I fucked her right there. For old times' sake, just like I used to do when she was bleeding for different reasons." His eyes were as big as walnuts, and he hardly blinked. "She was hurting too bad to resist. Hell, what did it matter?"

Despite increasingly trembling hands, Mark man aged to light a cigarette. Mesmerized by the glow of the lighter's flame, he took a deep draw, then exhaled a plume of smoke. "I used a rubber, though. She always made me use a rubber. When we were through, she wouldn't stop screaming. She wasn't hurt bad enough to die, so I smashed her face into the steering wheel as hard as I could." He stopped for another draw that filtered through his teeth. "I had to save her from that asshole husband of hers. I had to spare her from any more misery." He stopped suddenly, cocking his head to one side as if straining to hear a voice.

Mr. Arvin fell forward, bracing himself against the floor with his hands and knees. Mrs. Arvin trembled.

Mark flashed a sickening grin. "It took years, but I finally got her back," he said. "We're together again." He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the carpet. "She's waiting in the car. Would you like to see her before we leave?"

Mrs. Arvin bolted for the kitchen, where a telephone hung on the wall. "Go ahead. Call the fuckin' cops," Mark yelled at her. Then he turned his attention to Mr. Arvin on the floor, smiling as the grieving man gasped for air. "That expression on your face. It looks so painful. Beth looked just like that before she died."

Finally Mark stood and stretched, gazing out a window at a shovel visible in the back of his Jeep. With the brilliance of lightning Beth's face reappeared and he imagined her sizzling touch. "I know you're waiting for me," he said to her. "I'll be right there." With a deep breath and a high-pitched maniacal whine he dug into his soiled pocket in search of his keys. "I enjoyed our visit. It's been a blast."

At the sound of movement from behind, Mark turned to stare down the wavering barrel of a shotgun.

The wrinkled, tear-streaked face of Mrs. Arvin stared from the other end of the unsteady barrel, her finger poised at the trigger. "We're still having a blast," she mumbled.

With an explosive roar and a blinding flash, memories of Beth, as well as half of Mark's brain, were gone.