The ashes, p.2
The Ashes, page 2
“Oh yeah?” Mike says, folding his hands in his lap. “Like what?”
“Well, for one,” Cuther goes on, “your mom tells me you are already quite the accomplished artist. That you can even draw a person’s face without having to trace it. That’s quite the rare talent you have there.” Then, his eyes shifting to me. “You must take after your mom.”
“Michael Senior . . . that’s my dad . . . he’s a writer,” Mike says.
Cuther’s forehead scrunches. “And who is Michael Senior?”
“I just told you, silly. He’s my dad. He’s dead.”
The mere mention of my ex-husband, Michael, followed by the word dead still throws a cold jolt down my spine. It also makes my stomach cramp, even more so than it has been of late.
“Tell me something, young man,” Cuther goes on. “Why do you call him by his real name, and why do you refer to him in the present tense?”
My boy turns to me. “What’s peasant tents mean, Mom?”
Me, giggling, but somehow feeling the effects of anxiety kicking in. Aren’t I here to relieve anxiety?
“It means, Boo, that you refer to your dad like he’s still alive . . . still with us.”
I sometimes refer to Mike as Boo, just to differentiate him from his father, and not to remind myself of my long-gone ex every time I utter his name.
“But he is,” Mike says. “Sort of, anyway. I just saw him out by the cornfield this morning.”
My son’s admission hits me upside the head. I’m well aware of the voices he hears coming from the cornfield. Voices I can only assume he’s making up with his overactive imagination. But seeing his father out by the cornfield is a new one on me.
A few moments pass before Cuther once more raises the question: “Mike, my boy, when did you first start hearing the voices?”
“It’s not voices really,” he says.
“Not voices?”
“Well, I guess it’s voices. Or, like, a voice anyway.”
“Can you explain more for me?” Cuther goes on, his deep brown eyes shifting from Mike to me and back again.
“It’s music, Dr. Cuther. It comes to me through the corn.”
The psychiatrist shoots me another quick glance.
“Can you tell your mom and me what this music sounds like, Mike?”
He nods. “I don’t have a very good voice. But I can try singing it.”
“You’re very brave, Mike,” Cuther says.
“Okay, here goes.” The boy sits up straight, his legs and feet suddenly very stiff and very still. “Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”
Yet another glance from Cuther.
He says, “Is this the first time you’ve ever heard that song before, Mike?”
The boy shakes his head, starts moving those legs again.
“Nah,” he says. “We used to sing it in kindergarten. It was a game. The teacher would make us get in a circle. We’d sing the song about ringing around Rosie, and then as soon as we said the last word—”
“—Down!” Dr. Cuther interjects, his voice booming, despite those stiff lips.
“That’s right,” Mike says with a smile, delighted to have something in common with Dr. Cuther. “Did you play this game too, Doctor?”
The psychiatrist nods. “Of course. Believe it or not, young man, I was a boy once myself. A long, long time ago. Before cable television even.”
My son steals a moment to digest this information like it’s impossible for him to imagine the short, gray-haired, old man has been anything other than what he is at this very moment in time.
“Well, as soon as we sing the last word, down,” Mike continues, “the last person to fall down was punished.”
Another cold jolt shoots down my spine. “What do you mean punished, Boo?”
He giggles. “Oh nothing bad, Mom. Mrs. Carter, that was my teacher, would make us do an arithmetic problem on the board. Or maybe spell a word. We were all it after a while. It was a lot of fun. You know, for school anyway.”
Cuther nods.
“Mike,” he says, “I promised you we’d have some fun also. So how about you draw me a picture of what you see out by the cornfield. Can you do that? In the meantime, I’ll have a talk with your mom.”
Mike slips off the couch. “Sure, swell.”
Dr. Cuther leads my son to a smaller room located off his office that’s outfitted with art supplies and kid-sized tables. He sets Mike up with some construction paper and crayons, then closes the door, just a little. When he comes back inside, he sits back down behind his desk and sighs heavily.
“Ms. Underhill,” he says. “I think we need to have a serious conversation about your boy.”
Cramps in my stomach.
They’ve been getting worse as of late. It’s not pain I’m feeling, so much as a discomfort. I guess you could say I’ve never been more aware of having a stomach until now. But then, I’m two years shy of fifty, and changes are beginning to occur inside me that I should be expecting. Or so my mom used to tell me back when I was young enough to blow her advice off. But I have to face facts: the end of the road for the reproductive cycle is upon me. What the fuck? I was just twenty-five like last year.
Just the thought of female machinery entering this new, let’s call it a more mature phase, might reduce some women to tears. Women who feel as if they didn’t bear enough children maybe. But I’m jumping for absolute joy at the prospect. What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been seeing someone as of late. A banker who made a small fortune in New York City and who now is living the quiet country life on a farm. He’s a bunch of fun. He’ll be even more fun when we don’t have to worry about contraception.
Screw you and the horse you rode in on, Ms. Menopause...
While Michael creates his masterpiece in the room next door, Dr. Cuther reviews his handwritten notes.
“I hope you don’t mind me bringing the subject up,” he says after a time, “but you were involved in quite the traumatic event a few years back.”
For the third time since entering his office, the cold shockwave fills my spine with all the discomfort of an epidural spinal tap. Images run rapid-fire through my brain. A house in the woods, rust-colored blood spatter on the walls, bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, worn mattresses on the floor, a basement with a dirt floor, something buried under it, a man who dragged me down there, and who dragged my twin sister, Molly, down there, did things to us.
Then the evil man came back. Released from prison. He came after me again. Me and Michael. Chased us through the woods, up the mountain, over the falls. My next-door neighbor, Franny, the autistic savant and brilliant artist, saved me not only with his paintings — images that contained warnings — but also with his strength, his bravery. His life was cut short because of the episode. Michael’s life was cut short too. But I had his child in me. The boy who would become his namesake. And now, I’ll do anything to protect him.
“Joseph William Whalen,” I say. “He’s dead now.”
“I know the whole story.”
“The papers?” I question. “You read about it there?”
He cocks his head.
“Your housemate, Robyn, filled in the details. I was worried about her daughter, Molly. If the little girl was confusing the Boogeyman in her mind for the killer who stalked you. The little girl’s deepest fears appear to parallel your traumatic experiences. A Boogeyman who pulls her down into a hole or a cellar. He does unspeakable things to her.”
“Molly doesn’t know anything about Whalen,” I say.
“You sure about that?”
Me, slowly nodding my head, my eyes locked onto his wet eyes, his pale, stiff face.
“We don’t talk about it,” I assure him.
“No, but other people might. People at school. Children. Teachers. What happened to you, Ms. Underhill, has become the stuff of urban legend. It’s been the subject of many articles, news programs, and even a novel if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“That I have,” he says. “Tell me something. The horrible events of that night with Joseph William Whalen occurred in the woods behind the home you now live in. Why do you stay there if, at the very least, it brings back such awful memories? Why not move away? Far away?”
“My father was a trooper, Dr. Cuther,” I say. “The home was his home. The home I grew up in. That my twin sister, Molly, grew up in. Sure, there are the bad memories, but no matter where I go, I will still have the bad memories. My father taught my sister and me never to run away from fear but to face it. Besides . . .”
“Besides,” he says like a question.
“Molly,” I say. “She’s been dead a long, long time now. But I still talk to her, and she still talks to me.” I smile, laugh a little under my breath. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel if I were to leave that house for good, I would be leaving Molly behind. I’d be abandoning her memory, her soul.”
“Her ghost,” he adds.
“Yes,” I say. “I suppose that’s right.”
“So you and Mike have something in common,” he says. “You talk to people who don’t exist.”
“I guess I never looked at it that way,” I say. “But for me, it’s not just an overactive imagination. It’s memory. Memory is everything. Good and bad.”
“You can run from the bad memories, no matter how hard you try to put them out of your mind.”
“But you can’t escape them. Am I right, Doc?”
The doctor, gently nodding. “What’s happening to little Mike, the songs, his father . . . I agree that much of this can be chalked up to the vivid imagination of a young boy. Especially one so gifted. Many kids have imaginary friends, and your son is no exception. The cornfield and the woods beyond it are lovely but mysterious places, and your son is tapping into that mystery. It entertains him.”
His eyes drift until he’s no longer focusing on me or his notes. Rather, something deep inside the well of his mind. A sharp, youngish mind that exists behind an old mask of a face.
I run my hands through my hair, then rest them on my lap.
“I’m sensing a but here, Doc,” I say.
“But,” he says, “what we need to do for young Mike is keep an eye on him. Especially when he’s playing in the woods or near the cornfield.”
My pulse picking up, stomach cramping tighter. “I don’t allow him to go any farther than the edge of the field.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“Why?” I say as if the last thing I want is for him to validate my suspicion. “Do you think there could be something out there? A man? A stalker?”
He smiles warmly. “No worries, Ms. Underhill. I’m sure what we’re dealing with here is eighty percent Mike’s imagination and twenty percent paranoia on the part of his mom.” The smile fades. “That said, however, I’ll once more stress the fact that lots of words have been written about what happened to you all those years ago. I wouldn’t be truthful if I didn’t tell you I’m worried about copycat stalkers.”
“Trust me,” I say, “I’ve already thought of that many, many times over.”
“Tell me, Ms. Underhill, do you own a gun?”
Jesus H. What I want from the old guy is to tell me my fears are irrational not based in reality.
“I don’t have one,” I admit. “But then, since Whalen’s death, I never felt that I needed one.”
Dr. Cuther shrugs his shoulders.
“Couldn’t help to have one around,” he says. “Especially out in the country.”
Just then, Michael Jr. comes back into the office. In his hands, he holds his drawing.
“All finished,” he says.
Mike slowly walks across the office floor, sets the drawing on the couch so that Cuther and I have no choice but to get up and view it from a standing position. What I see not only takes me aback, it makes me feel as if the floor were turning to mush. Dizziness sets in, and for a brief moment, I feel like I need to return to my chair, sit down.
Dr. Cuther takes notice and holds out his hand, which I take with mine. But as soon as I grab it, I let it go. The hand is cold and hard with calluses. His fingernails are yellowed and far too long. But then, they are the fingernails of an old man who seems to be growing older not by the day, but by the minute.
“Are you okay, Ms. Underhill?” he asks. “Would you like to sit back down? Would you like a glass of water maybe?”
I shake my head, swallow something dry and bitter.
“No thank you, Doctor,” I say. “I think I just got up too fast.”
But I’m lying, and he knows it. Because it’s my eight-year-old son’s drawing that has me so off balance, so distraught.
“What do have we here, Mike?” Cuther says, feigning a tone of optimism when I’m certain that he, too, is disturbed. “You are indeed quite the artist. Your skills are those, not of a boy, but of someone far older. A man.”
I breathe. I also lay my hand flat on my stomach. The move is as much involuntary as it is becoming a habit. My son’s painting summons me like a voice because the image illustrated is one I am very familiar with. It’s my late ex-husband’s face.
Michael Hoffman, Sr.
In the drawing, his torso and head are depicted. He’s standing to the right of a boy. Our boy. Even though Mike’s face can’t be seen, I know it can only be him. Situated directly in front of Mike is the cornfield with the stalks tall, gray, and dead. But there’s something inside the stalks, in the dark spaces that block out the sun. It’s a face, and the vaguest outline of a too thin body to go with the face.
Initially, I am reminded of The Scream, by Yung. That’s how obscurely depicted the man in the corn is. The face is hairless, missing brows and a nose. The mouth is wide open, the head bald, and the body nondescript and featureless. Naked, but without sex. His hands are not held up to his mouth but instead held out for the boy in the picture. As if he is welcoming the boy . . . The monster, encouraging my son to step into the corn.
For the briefest of moments, I try to convince myself that I’m not even seeing a man, or monster, in the corn. But the more I look at the drawing, the more he pops out at me. His obscure face staring into mine.
“Mike,” Dr. Cuther says, index finger pressed gently against the man on the right-hand side, “is that your dad?”
“Yup,” my son says proudly. “That’s Dad. Told you, you can see right through him. It’s kinda weird.”
He’s right. Mike depicted his father as if he were transparent so that you can still make out the landscape behind him, and even the far north edge of the red, art barn.
“Is he a ghost, Boo?” I say. “Is your dad a ghost?”
He smiles. “Aren’t I supposed to be afraid of ghosts?”
“You’re not afraid of your dad?” Cuther presses.
“No way,” the boy says, smiling as if he were saying Duh’uhhhh.
Cuther nods, shoots me a glance. Then, “Mike, the image in the corn. Can you tell us who that is?”
Mike’s composure changes noticeably. Like a switch has been pulled inside his brain. His face loses its color, his eyes glaze over. I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his neck.
“That’s the man who sings to me,” he says.
“I see,” Dr. Cuther says. “Are you afraid of him?”
“Yes,” Mike admits.
“Does he have a name, Mike?”
I see the boy’s eyes well up.
“Yes,” he whispers. “His name is Mr. Skinner.”
My heart beating in my throat, my stomach now in agony. My intestines on fire.
“Mr. Skinner,” Dr. Cuther repeats. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes,” Mike says. “He’s the Boogeyman.”
Once more, Michael is ushered into the playroom off the office so Cuther and I can talk. But first, I ask to use the restroom. The pain that’s come over my midsection is so intense I break out in a cold sweat. When people told me how blessed I was to be having a child all those years ago, they never said anything about the nerves that go along with parenting. And what’s all this about it only getting worse as the kid gets older?
Moments later, the pain has abated, and I’m back inside Cuther’s office. The pale-faced doctor is back to sitting behind his desk, making some notes in what I presume to be Michael’s file. I choose not to sit but, instead, stand before his desk, arms crossed over my chest, my brow pasty, my body still overcome with chills.
“You feeling well, Ms. Underhill?” he says, looking up.
“It’ll pass,” I say. “Women’s issues.”
He bites down on his lip.
“I understand.” Then, “This Mr. Skinner your boy speaks about. Do you know of anyone named Skinner in your neighborhood?”
“It’s not much of a neighborhood. It’s Brunswick. It’s the country. Miles and miles of the most gorgeous farmland and hilly green pastures you ever did see. No Skinners that I know of. Certainly not anyone who lives inside the goddamned corn.” Exhaling. “Excuse my French.”
He holds up his hands as if to say time out, calm down. “There is no cause for alarm, Ms. Underhill. On occasion, I must weigh the theoretical against the practical. In this situation, your son is imagining something good and peaceful to him. Something that gives him security.”
“My husband.”
“Exactly.”
He makes a gesture with his open palm as if to indicate on the other hand.
“But he is also very insecure at the same time. That man in the corn stalks, Skinner, I believe he is the manifestation of that insecurity.”
I can’t help it, the cramps in my stomach are replaced with the slightest pangs of anger.
“Dr. Cuther,” I say. “I am doing everything in my power as a single mother to keep Mike and his sister, Molly, safe. Safe from danger, known and unknown. We are doing everything in our power as single mothers. Meaning Robyn and me.”
He’s emphatically nodding, his pale, almost white face stiff and without expression.
“Oh, please do not misunderstand me, Ms. Underhill. I am not accusing you of any such thing. In fact, under the circumstances of your ordeal back in 2008, I consider you one exceptionally strong and courageous woman.”
