Lineage(68)

“I watched her die,” John finished, and breathed out.

The caretaker’s eyes were wet and Lance looked away out of respect. He didn’t know how to react or what to say. He felt as if the other man had bared a piece of himself so raw it glistened with newness and pain. The urge to divulge the details of his own childhood to John arose within him. He reflexively shoved the images and longing to reveal his past away, and instead, offered the only words he knew that wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said at last.

John nodded as he stared at the leavings of the meal on his plate. “Me too, son, me too.” A reserved quiet fell over them again, disturbed only by the crickets and the sighing of the pines.

After making sure John had regained his composure, Lance asked the other question that had been nagging him. “Do you know what’s in the room at the base of the stairs?”

John shook his head. “Storage mostly, I think. Always been storage, ever since I’ve known the place.”

Lance frowned. “I can’t seem to get the door open. One of the keys on the ring seemed to fit it, but wouldn’t turn when I put it in the lock. You wouldn’t have the key on your ring, would you?” Lance watched John’s face for a flicker of hesitation that would belie his apparent ignorance.

“No. Haven’t really had to go into the old place as of late. Carrie’s had a cleaning company come in, so I’ve just tended the outdoors. As I said before, I haven’t been as enthusiastic since there’s been no one to appreciate it.” John turned his head toward Lance and rewarded him with a disarmingly genuine smile. “But now that you’ve moved in, that’ll change.”

Lance nodded and finished his beer in a few swallows, as John stood from the table and grabbed each of their plates.

“You feel like some dessert? I picked up a pie from the bakery today. I can’t bake worth a shit, but the gals at that shop sure can.”



The rest of the evening flowed past like an idle stream. Pie was eaten and current events were discussed. The two men shied away from anything resembling a deeply personal issue, so when the topic changed to politics, Lance was grateful that he and John shared similar views.

It was nearly midnight when Lance stepped out the front door, into the yellow glow of John’s yard light. The woods had fallen silent at last and only the occasional snap of a tree settling in the breeze disturbed the peace.

“Thanks so much for inviting me, it was really nice,” Lance said, extending his hand and shaking with John, who swayed above him on the stoop. Lance had stopped drinking after three beers, but John had carried on. After the eighth bottle had been exchanged in the kitchen, Lance quit counting.

“Don’t mention it, son. Glad we figured things out. Not good to have bad blood between people, poisons the soul.”

“You’re right. You’ll be by the house this week?”

“Absolutely. I have some real work to do before she looks as good as she did years ago, but we’ll get there.”

Lance smiled and waved as he walked toward the Land Rover waiting near the garage. He watched the old man turn and hobble back into the house and shut the door behind him. The sight pulled at Lance’s heart. He wondered if that would be him someday, alone with only nights of solitary drinking to look forward to. A voice that spoke only when he wished it wouldn’t chimed in as he turned the vehicle around and headed down the dark driveway. It will be if you don’t let someone in.

Lance flicked the radio on and turned it up close to full volume to drown out any more words of wisdom, should the voice find it prudent to share its opinion again. He could see a light still on in the house behind him, and his mind replayed the evening once again. He could find no fault in John’s words, only honesty and deep sadness.

Before pulling onto the highway, he threw a final look back in the rearview mirror. The light had gone out in the house and only a black nebulousness floated behind the car, as if the world ended just past his bumper and fell away into nothingness.





Chapter 8



“This isn’t coincidence, there’s no such thing.”



—Brandon Boyd



The next two weeks passed by easily, as a routine became established in the large house overlooking the cooling September waters of Superior. Since the night Lance arrived home from John’s, there hadn’t been a single nightmare or invasion. The shotgun, which he’d forgotten in the back of the SUV until the evening of their dinner, remained unused but in an easy-to-reach position a few feet from Lance’s bedside. When he uncased it in the living room to admire its flawless shine of blued metal, he wondered if he was being rash in keeping a weapon on the premises. He had never felt the need to own one before, but after remembering the sight of the face floating in the darkness of his room, he decided that he wasn’t. With a flourish, he’d raised the shotgun in one hand over his head and yelled to the empty house.