Serpentine Ridge
by
Phil Vas
A good friend of mine—a relatively peaceful guy—once shared a bit of wisdom with me. Divorce brings out the worst in us, he said. This was after he tore a door off its hinges and pummeled the man who’d been sleeping with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
My own situation was not so dramatic. There was infidelity, but that was only the final gasp of our marriage’s “irretrievable breakdown.” I didn’t take much offense to it. Fortunately, there were no children, so custody was not an issue. There were, however, a decade’s worth of financials to be disentangled. This, along with my ex-wife’s obstinacy and my own meticulous nature, might account for the duration of our case. Whether it brought out the worst in me is a matter of opinion, I suppose. Granted, the divorce (and certain events preceding it) did play a large part in what you’re about to read. But there is so much more that simply cannot be explained.
I live in Sycamore Heights and teach history (medieval, preferably) at Sycamore Heights Community College. Although my students refer to me as Professor Brooks, I’m just another grunt in the army of adjuncts that marches the halls of SHCC each day. I have no office. I am on no committees. I remain unknown to all but a few of the full-time faculty in my department. And yet, despite the anonymity, I find my vocation deeply rewarding. It doesn’t happen often, but there are moments when students realize that we are all part of one vast, immeasurable lineage. Our stories, our experiences, have inevitably happened before, in one form or another, over the course of the centuries. And while this realization may seem to undermine the importance of our own personal narratives, I believe it brings us that much closer to our forebears. I’m not referring so much to the stars of our history books—to the great generals and scientists and politicians—but to the simple folk who struggled with the tedium of daily existence—as we all must do—before passing into the ether. Trite as it may sound, an awareness of history connects us all, and I take some pride in facilitating that connection among my students.
It was mild for mid-December. My apartment is near the college, so I left the car parked and took a walk to pick up the exams for tomorrow afternoon’s final. I exchanged some friendly banter with the department secretary, and she mentioned that I’d just missed the annual holiday party. Relieved, I slipped into the faculty lounge and poured myself a cup of leftover coffee before heading back out into the fading day.
Although the sun was setting and the temperature dropping, I had no desire to return home and be alone with my thoughts. (Maybe the approaching holidays were to blame for my recent preoccupation with the divorce.) I decided a walk around the lake in Sycamore Grove Park might be beneficial. The college is adjacent to the park, but to my knowledge there is no direct route between the two. You must exit campus and walk for five minutes along a busy avenue before arriving at the entrance sign that reads, “Forever Wild!” It was nearing dusk, and I was surprised to see a mist so faint it was only visible in the headlight beams of passing cars. Never one for rain, I briefly reconsidered my decision, but my shoes were already crunching along the gravel path, carrying me toward the sycamore groves for which the park is named.
***
Sipping tepid coffee, I passed an elderly woman leaving the park with her Yorkshire terrier. Two squirrels dashed between us, prompting the dog to bark and strain at its leash. We exchanged friendly smiles as the squirrels corkscrewed up one of the towering sycamores that lined the path. The woman’s warm, simple air reminded me of Lisa’s mother, and I soon found myself reliving past holidays in my former in-laws’ second-floor apartment. I recalled that steady parade of friends and family, well-dressed and laughing, bearing gifts and good cheer. Being Lisa’s people, most of them had, by now, drifted out of my life. Did their absence somehow invalidate the memories? Are our shared experiences so fickle? My questions, of course, seemed ludicrous. We’ve all had good times with folks who, for one reason or another, are no longer around. Yet there I was, alone in the dark, feeling cheated. To underscore my dilemma, a familiar melody, faint and delicate, seemed to call out to me through the bare branches. It sounded like the wind-up snow globe I’d bought for Lisa one Christmas, years ago. The tune persisted, and like a terrier chasing squirrels, I was drawn to its source.
Having forgotten all about my leisurely walk, I moved quickly, as if the cup in my hand were a divining rod, guiding me to the other side of the lake. I tried not to spill my coffee as I sidestepped goose droppings that littered the path. For a moment I imagined how comical I must look, performing this absurd dance to the melody that drifted over the water. It wasn’t until I’d passed the bathrooms and commanded a clear view of the perimeter that I realized exactly where the music was coming from.
I tend to avoid the crowds during peak months, so I’d never taken much notice of Sycamore Grove Park’s most beloved attraction—The Majestic Carousel. Standing now before all the brightly painted, exquisitely carved animals, I was reminded of illuminated manuscripts. Like those medieval texts, with their elaborate script and gilded borders, the wooden beasts now seemed to emanate a divine light. Glancing up, I attributed their glow to the Cold Moon—the ancients’ name for a full moon in December. I also spotted four stereo speakers mounted high up near the roof of the enclosure. But why was the music playing? I surveyed the area, hoping to find someone who could provide an explanation.
The carousel began to turn.
I stood transfixed as horses and zebras, rhinos and tigers, gracefully glided by. Some were stationary; others rose and fell with the melody. As if galloping in slow motion, a unicorn approached me on its course. Head raised proudly, horn and mane gleaming yellow, it wore a blue caparison like the jousting horses of medieval times. Imagine my shock when I saw the young girl mounted on its back! Slight frame slung forward, she hugged the unicorn’s ivory neck. She was barefoot and filthy, as if she’d been rolling around for days on the wet earth. Her tank top and shorts were so dirty that I could hardly discern their original colors, and her brown hair was wet and tousled. A trail of dried leaves seemed to follow in her wake. Our eyes met, and the girl’s chapped lips formed a timid smile as she rode past me.
In a panic, I dropped my coffee and ran. Somewhere along the lakeside I slipped in goose droppings and hit the ground. As I tried to spring back up, I felt a piercing pain in my right ankle. Wincing, I lay there in the path, caressing the injury. I looked out across the lake, but the bathrooms blocked my view of the carousel. I listened for music, but heard only the drone of nearby traffic. Carefully, I rose to my feet and limped back toward the park’s entrance. The mist was now a steady rain.
***
I swallowed 800 milligrams of ibuprofen, sank into my couch, and waited for the pain to subside. Still damp and dirty from the fall, I simply could not muster the energy to walk into my bedroom and put on fresh clothes. My entire foot, heel to toes, was swollen. I considered an emergency room visit, but it was difficult to remain focused. My mind kept turning to the girl. Where were her parents? Why was she wearing such little clothing in this weather? What was she doing in the park? The pain and confusion were too much. With little else to do, I leaned back my head, closed my eyes and listened to the rain pelt the awning outside my door….
I was awakened by thunder. According to the cable box, it was 1:20 AM. I turned on the TV and watched an infomercial for a box set of oldies. Smartly dressed in slacks and cardigan, Del Shannon strummed his Strat and lip-synched “Runaway” while a flock of beauties danced around him. Del was elevated on a podium in what appeared to be a TV studio from the 1960’s. The black-and-white scene was soon replaced by a series of brief re-enactments. Kids racing hot rods. Dancing in a malt shop. Pulling into a drive-in. When a narrator began to eulogize “the golden age,” I hit mute and studied my foot. It was now grossly swollen and almost entirely purple, but at least the pain was manageable. I limped into the bedroom, changed into pajamas and sat down at my computer. Still hazy from broken sleep, I pulled up “Runaway” and played it on repeat as I searched for local missing children.
I scrolled through countless images of bright-eyed, smiling kids. They seemed to span decades. Blurry old photos stood beside crisp digital portraits. I assured myself that at least some of these children had been found, their images just remnants of a difficult chapter in their lives. Runaways—like the girl from Del’s song—who eventually ran back home to their loved ones. After an hour of random clicking, I noticed the pain in my ankle beginning to intensify. I limped to the bathroom for another dose of ibuprofen.
Upon returning, I stopped suddenly in the middle of my bedroom, captivated by a black-and-white portrait on the screen. The reserved smile and earnest eyes. The fair skin and parted hair. Could it be?
***
Her name was Rebecca Steinman. She was seven years old. Her parents had sent her to the corner for a quart of milk early one summer evening in 1981. Despite extensive searches, hundreds of leads, and a suspect in custody, the girl was never seen again. Were she alive today, Rebecca Steinman would be roughly 43 years old.
Logic dictated that this was not the girl on the carousel. Yet, for reasons I can not explain, I spent the night studying her photo and the details of her disappearance. Closing my blind to morning light, I learned some unsettling facts. Not only was my campus once home to a state “school” with an ominous history, but one of its former employees, a janitor, was the prime suspect in the girl’s case. And so, before proceeding any further, let us visit the institution and meet the man. Both are forever tied to the tragedy of young Rebecca Steinman.
There is an image of a postcard online. A red brick building, crowned with stately spire, dominates a manicured lawn. Trees and shrubs obscure the parking lot in the foreground. And floating yellow among the clouds are the words “Sycamore Grove State School.” I instantly recognized the building, as it remains unchanged today, housing Human Resources and other departments of the college. I’d been there to file paperwork and inquire about pay. I did not know that thousands of intellectually disabled children had likely walked those same halls over the preceding decades, unaware that they were being enrolled in a state-run dungeon.
Tipped off by a whistle-blower, an ambitious young journalist revealed a world drastically different from the postcard’s idyllic image. Naked children writhed on the floors. Wails of despair echoed through the halls. The overcrowded school reeked of feces, semen, decay. It was later discovered that a team of researchers had been secretly performing medical experiments on the children. They had hoped to find a cure for hepatitis.
Pushing a broom through hell was a balding janitor with a birdlike face by the name of Jacob Mallory. Born in Oklahoma in 1947, he was raised in a Tulsa orphanage until emancipated at the age of eighteen. Not much is known about his young adulthood, but records suggest Mallory wandered the Great Plains states for over a decade. He sold livestock in Texas and life insurance in Kansas. He plowed fields in Montana and snow in Wyoming. To supplement his income, he robbed gas stations, convenience stores, and the occasional home. On his thirtieth birthday, for reasons unknown, Mallory adopted the name Kevin Osgood. It was then that his true criminal predilections materialized.
On a clear spring morning after weeks of rain, he returned to the St. Francis Orphanage in a stolen school bus. How he managed to usher twelve children onto the vehicle and drive to a nearby railroad yard remains a mystery. Fortunately, the authorities were soon notified, the perpetrator arrested, and the children returned safely to the orphanage. Osgood served ten months in Oklahoma State Penitentiary for unlawful imprisonment. Shortly after his release, he made his way to the East Coast and began life anew as a janitor at Sycamore Grove State School.
He was a promising employee, clocking in on time and performing the tasks expected of his position. Had you known Osgood during this brief period, you might have said he was now rehabilitated—a fully functioning, productive member of society. You might also have objected to his firing from the school after only six months of employment. However, a close look at his file would justify the new janitor’s termination. You see, Osgood vanished periodically, and he wasn’t napping in the broom closet. He was exploring the complex tunnel systems beneath the school.
Five local children went missing over the next decade. All were seen with Osgood prior to their disappearance. Only one was found—in a shallow grave in Sycamore Grove Park—not far from the former janitor’s makeshift campsite. Although currently serving a lengthy sentence for this crime, he was never formally charged with the others. It has been speculated that the children, most of whom were developmentally disabled, were traded among the homeless in the tunnels after the school’s closure. There was talk of satanic ritual abuse. My limited research prevented me from addressing these theories. However, there was no doubt in my mind that Rebecca Steinman was buried in that park.
I had met her ghost.
***
It was approaching noon and I hadn’t yet slept. In a few hours my last class of the semester was due to meet for its final exam. Rest was in order.
I swallowed four tablets of ibuprofen, limped to the living room, and eased myself onto the couch. Closing my eyes, I saw her face—a combination of the portraits I’d viewed online and my own confused memory of the disheveled girl on the carousel. Before long, Osgood’s close-set eyes and beaklike nose invaded my mind. To worsen matters, the wind chime in my neighbor’s yard, its four notes tinkling in endless variation, dashed my hopes for sleep. I decided to take a quick shower and be on my way.
The class was waiting for me—scrolling through phones, studying notes, sleeping at desks. It was a typical cross-section of young adults, navigating college to the best of their respective abilities. The final assignment, an in-class essay, asked students to explore the connections between World War I and the influenza pandemic of 1918. They had been thoroughly prepared. This was practically a gift.
About twenty minutes into the period I began to experience abdominal pains. Gripping my pen tightly, I was careful not to reveal my discomfort to the class. I soon realized that all I’d eaten in nearly twenty-four hours was an abundance of ibuprofen. My hands were trembling, my forehead damp. (Was there ringing in my ears?) I heard whispers in the back row, so I decided to casually circulate around the room. I stood, felt faint, and quickly sat back down. My ankle was throbbing like a bass drum.
The door opened and my discomfort intensified. The last time Dolores R. had been present, I was reviewing the syllabus. She loudly declared that adhering to its policies was up to my own “discretion.” To some extent, she was correct. An instructor does have latitude for judgment, depending on the situation. Nevertheless, her objection was uncalled for. Essentially, she believed she should pass the class without completing the work or meeting the attendance requirement. I suggested she make an appointment to see me during my office hour. After this incident Dolores R. attended class sporadically, then not at all. She never followed up for the appointment. I was relieved.
Taking the seat directly in front of me, she pulled her hood over her head, read the assignment on the board and asked, “Is this open book?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s confusing. World War I and the influenza pandemic? They’re, like, two completely different things. What do you mean by ‘explore the connections?’”
“Both topics have been worked on in class. Now it’s up to you to build upon that work with your own thoughts and ideas.”
“But I was absent,” she replied. “I have a doctor’s note.”
I breathed slowly, fully aware that I was being baited. Normally, I might have been less reactive. But today I was sleep-deprived, hungry, in pain.
I shrugged smugly. “It’s a bit late for that.”
Dolores R. sucked her teeth. It was a call to arms. From across the room came another discontented voice: “Yeah, this is totally confusing!”
Katya S.
Over the months, I had learned that she possessed a talent for flashing her eyes in ways that communicated various levels of disapproval. Today, however, she eschewed subtlety for a more direct form of protest.
As a twenty-year veteran, I am no stranger to the lapsed student who reappears in class on the day of the final exam. I have entertained all forms of excuses: from illness and accident, to flat tire and funeral. And I’ve navigated between the spirit and the letter of the law with moderate success. But I must admit, the dual complaints I now faced caught me off balance.
“Once again,” I said. “This was covered in class. We read about it, wrote about it, discussed it extensively. There are no surprises here. In fact, this assignment is little more than a review—an opportunity to boost your grade. And believe me, many of you need the boost. Another thing: the time to have complained about the material was weeks ago, while we were working on it. Of course, that requires you to be here, both physically and mentally. Not simply scrolling through your social media for eighty minutes.”
Students shifted in their seats. They stared at their desks, at my shoes, at the blackboard. I too felt a shift. My voice grew louder as I paced the floor.
“While it might be difficult for you to understand, these were real people. They had families, friends, relationships. Millions of people, just like us. Dead. Maybe mustard gas fried their lungs. Or they went to work, came home coughing blood, and were gone before the next morning. Maybe some of them were your own relatives. Better yet, imagine yourself born a hundred years earlier. It could have been you on that battlefield, in that sick bed. You see, history is not just about important dates. It’s about our common humanity. Is that so fucking hard for you to grasp?”
There were gasps, giggles. I packed my things, opened the door, and without another word, limped out of the classroom.
***
Once again I found myself crunching along the gravel path at Sycamore Grove Park. Today, however, I experienced a strange new sensation here, as if all the park’s inhabitants were conspiring to speak with me. Squirrels, sparrows, even the wind—all combined to form one urgent, yet undecipherable, message. What were they saying? I had no doubt that it involved the tragedy (and perhaps whereabouts) of Rebecca Steinman.
The carousel area was gated off, the ride itself hidden behind faded green shutters. A sign on the gate indicated that it had closed back in October and would not reopen until May. I found this odd, as it was fully operational last night. My gaze shifted in disbelief from the sign to the shuttered machinery, which now stood before me like a colossal tortoise with its extremities withdrawn. I remembered it all so clearly: the music that had attracted my attention from across the lake; the slow procession of animals glowing in moonlight; and, of course, the girl. My hands began to tremble. Could I have imagined the entire situation?
I’d never before doubted my grasp on reality, but now I began to wonder if any of this was “real” in the conventional sense. Like two snakes entwined, indistinguishable from one another, my obsession with Rebecca was tied to an equally strong sense of uncertainty. If the music were never playing, the carousel never turning, the girl simply a construct of my imagination—what then of the rest of my life?
As I left the park, my thoughts naturally drifted to the arc of my marriage and divorce. (Or rather, my perception of that arc.) “It all ended in the hospital,” I heard myself say aloud, to no one in particular. It was a disturbing realization that I chose not to pursue any further.
Although tired and hurting for ibuprofen, I refused to return to my apartment. If I went home now, I would resume my research, as well as read the inevitable email from my department chair, whose calls I’d been ignoring for the past half hour. I lacked the mental/emotional fortitude for such tasks—the reserves were empty. I needed the constant distraction of changing street lights, moving traffic, strangers’ faces. I needed escape, however fleeting.
I needed food.
I was about to enter a grocery store when I noticed a red sign propped against the wall of the adjoining building. The white print read: Psychic Readings by Iris. There was a circle divided into twelve parts, each housing a symbol of one of the astrological signs. Set boldly within the circle’s center was the most important information of all: $20 Special. Checking my wallet for cash, I pushed open the door and climbed the flight of stairs.
***
The peephole glass darkened, tumblers turned, and the door swung open to a riot of blue. Shoes, dress, eye shadow—all the hue of beach sky on a scorching day.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Iris greeted me with a heavy Russian accent.
The line was so tactless; I instantly regretted my visit.
“It’s a joke,” she smirked. The accent was gone.
“Oh,” I laughed awkwardly, disarmed.
She ushered me inside. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
In the center of the room was a dining table draped in white lace cloth. My host removed her container of yogurt (pineapple flavored, spoon protruding) and walked through an indigo-curtained doorway. I glimpsed a modest kitchen beyond the curtain, then closed my eyes and listened to the sound of running water.
She soon returned and took a seat across from me at the table. Espresso eyes, blue-black hair, lips lost between salmon and mauve.
“Your name?”
“Brooks.”
“Twenty dollars, please—Brooks.”
I offered her the bill from my wallet. Slipping it in her dress pocket, Iris silently motioned for my hand. I extended it across the table and she gently turned my wrist until my palm faced upward. She studied the lines, then released my wrist, inhaled deeply, and began:
“For most people, the palm is just a framework. It doesn’t tell the story, but it gives the setting for the story. The messages I receive can be placed into context by the lines of the palm. They work together—do you understand? In your case, these messages carry a great deal of pain. There is someone in your life that you have not reconciled with. You are haunted.”
I nodded politely at her blanket statements. Of course I was in pain. Of course there was someone with whom I had not reconciled. No doubt, this was true of every fool who entered this apartment. My stomach growled loudly. I was embarrassed—and ashamed of myself for coming here. I was ready to go home.
Eyes closed, she continued: “A young girl. She’s trying to reach you—”
A shock coursed through me. “Young girl?”
“Her voice is very faint. She wants you to know she’s all right.”
Rebecca! I gripped the table. “Where is she?”
“There is no more pain.”
“Where is she?” I snapped.
“She never met you, but she heard you. She cherished every word….”
Suddenly, I was confused.
“She wanted so badly to respond. She tried to hold on, but she was weak. Her body was not meant for this world.”
Bitter epiphany—she was not communing with Rebecca, after all.
Uneasily, I stood.
“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “I see something!”
I limped to the door.
“Two snakes. Facing each other. Above a rising sun.”
I descended the stairs.
“We must find out what this means!”
The psychic’s voice faded behind me.
***
The beverage machine hums. A distant airplane moves across the darkened window. On the television a young woman chops red peppers as her companion smiles approvingly. A voice comes over the loudspeaker. It is three a.m. The building buzzes with subdued intensity.
I stand to greet the doctor and nurse who have just entered the waiting room. Gravely, the doctor informs me that my daughter is a stillbirth. They did everything they could. The nurse places a consoling hand on my arm, just above the elbow. My wife is sedated. She will sleep through the night.
***
“It all ended in the hospital,” I uttered once again, at last acknowledging a long-buried chapter of my life.
I recalled relaxing in bed with Lisa, speaking with mock severity into her pregnant belly: “You’d better listen to your mom and me—no backtalk. Eat your vegetables, and clean your room when we tell you!” It was a bit of comedy relief to offset the anxiety of approaching parenthood. Of course, there were concerns about the child’s relative inactivity, but our visits to the doctor revealed no problems. We were told the girl was healthy.
You know the rest.
Once home, I boiled a cup of water and dumped in two packages of instant ramen noodles. I waited three or four minutes, tore open the foil envelopes, stirred in the powder. The half-cooked concoction, eaten from the pot, settled me. Despite my condition, I was well aware of the connection between my past loss and current obsession. Yes, I admit it—I hoped my discovery of Rebecca Steinman would somehow ease my grief. But I was not delusional. The psychic had communicated with my daughter—my Elizabeth. Of this, I was certain.
Swallowing a handful of ibuprofen (I no longer bothered to count them), I sat on the couch to contemplate Iris’s final statement: “Two snakes. Facing each other. Above a rising sun.” I’d heard it (or some variation of it) before. Had she simply cast out a random line of poetry in hopes of reeling me back in? I limped over to my bookshelf and tiredly flipped through volumes of Whitman, Cummings, Frost. None contained the answer. Frustrated, I returned to the couch and removed my shoes and socks. My purple foot reminded me of the dinosaur in that children’s television program. Half-laughing, I closed my eyes….
Unsettling dreams, of which I remember only the last, disturbed my sleep. I was back in my classroom at the college, but I was a child. An adult was holding my hand, and I looked up to see that it was Lisa. Various students were present, mingled with people who would not normally be there, such as the chairman and secretary of the history department. We were approached by Dolores R. and Katya S., both fully adorned in iron age battle regalia. Dolores brandished a longsword and Katya held a black standard that displayed two snakes meeting over a rising sun. Calmly, Dolores raised her sword and brought it down upon Lisa’s neck—
I woke with a gasp and stampede in my chest. For a moment I sat fear-frozen on the couch, trying to regain my bearings. Then, as the stampede subsided, the dream-connection became clear. Breathing deeply, I spoke three words into the darkness: “Conan the Barbarian.” With its knack for juxtaposition, my subconscious had composed a nightmare that echoed the 1982 film—and revealed the source of Iris’s vision. In fact, it was the opening scene, in which young Conan’s village is raided and his parents murdered, that was playing on TV the night I spoke jokingly into Lisa’s belly. It seems I was cast as Conan, Lisa as my mother, and Dolores R. as the murderous cult leader Thulsa Doom. Avoiding Freudian analysis, I focused on what appeared to be the nightmare’s most relevant detail—the standard.
Iris’s vision of the standard was proof that my daughter had used the psychic, as well as a distinct group of symbols, in her attempt to communicate with me. Now I had to determine what she was trying to say. My thoughts bounced between Elizabeth and Rebecca Steinman as I sat at my computer and opened a search engine. With Del Shannon’s “Runaway” playing on repeat, I spent the next few hours typing combinations of “snakes,” “sun,” and “Sycamore Heights,” along with other relevant words or phrases. As expected, most of the results linked to reptiles and astronomy, local businesses and government agencies. It wasn’t until I replaced “snakes” with “serpents” that my search yielded a compelling piece of information.
***
Millions of years ago a chain of volcanic islands collided with what is now North America, pushing part of the oceanic mantle up onto the eastern edge of the continent. Originally peridotite, it eventually transformed into serpentinite, a rock named for its visual likeness to snakeskin. One of the highest points on the Eastern Seaboard, this slab of oceanic mantle is referred to by geologists as a serpentine ridge. The rest of us simply call it Sycamore Heights. My township’s highest point is a 400-foot-tall hill best known for its exclusive neighborhoods, private school, and a cemetery dating back to colonial times. My attention, however, was drawn to the Roman Catholic priory located on the outskirts of the hill’s undeveloped greenbelt. Staring at images of the sprawling edifice, I was reminded of the Sycamore Grove State School. Perhaps that is why I felt the urgent need to visit this place.
As if racing against my own good judgement, I quickly dressed and left my apartment. A light rain was falling—just like last night, when I first saw Rebecca on the carousel. I had been convinced she was buried in that park. Yet here I was, foot on the accelerator, climbing the winding road to the priory. I pulled into a corner of the parking lot and stood for a moment before the four-story building. It sat as a sentinel atop this ancient hill, which seemed intent upon preserving the silent stillness of the Cambrian Period. Crossing a nearby footbridge, I found myself limping along a narrow path in the greenbelt. I followed it for a mile or so, unaware of my destination. Then, for reasons unknown, I departed the path and proceeded through the damp brush. Moonlight shone through the branches, lighting a small clearing among the trees.
I dropped to my knees.
Insulated by dead leaves, the moist earth gave way beneath my fingers. A shroud of decay enveloped me as I clawed past worms and centipedes and pill bugs. I removed my jacket and tossed it past the lip of the deepening trench. Rolling up my sleeves, I tore at the roots of nearby trees; they clung to the ground, biting my dirt-caked palms. As I dug further, fingertips numb and throbbing, the earth became hard, claylike. I wondered how much deeper I could go. Then they appeared—synthetic green threads. The worn hem of a tarp. I clawed and dug until I could gather a bunch of it in my fist. Pulling, I watched the compacted earth crack and rise. Finally, as I folded back a corner of the tarp—
A sneaker.
There was no need to continue. In my heart, I knew I had found her. My work done, I lay there in the trench and cried. I cried for Rebecca Steinman, cold and alone in the earth for so long. And I cried for my own daughter, whose only life was in the womb. I don’t know how much time had passed before the first rays of morning light shone on the hill—only that I looked up to see two small birds perched on a branch. Facing each other. Above a rising sun.
***
The following weeks were busier than usual. Osgood, already in prison, would finally be charged with Rebecca’s abduction and murder. Her parents reached out to me. It was a tough conversation, but they assured me that my discovery had helped them to gain some degree of closure. I also received a call from Lisa, who had heard about everything on the news. We later met at a nearby diner. In a booth, over cups of tea, we acknowledged that the marriage simply could not withstand the strain of our loss. At last, we were untethered.
One morning I visited Rebecca’s gravesite on the hill, not far from where I’d found her. Reclining in a grove of oak and maple, I rambled on about nothing in particular. Sometimes I spoke to her, sometimes to my Elizabeth. Occasionally I sat quietly among the trees, enjoying the first scents of spring. The noon bells of the priory reminded me to return to my car and head to campus. It was the first day of the new semester. I was eager to start teaching the latest addition to SHCC’s course catalog: The Age of Enlightenment.
This story first appeared in Midnight Ink by Livina Press. Check it out here.
