Critical Mass

Copyright © 2017 Dan Krzyzkowski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-3353-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3352-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017915313

iUniverse rev. date:  11/13/2017

Contents

Prologue   Leaving Town

Part I   Uncertainty Road

Chapter 1     Interview Day

Chapter 2     Breaking Away

Chapter 3     The Tank

Chapter 4     A Strange Visit

Chapter 5     Rolling Thunder

Chapter 6     Symptoms

Chapter 7     John Falls

Chapter 8     Seesaw

Chapter 9     The Round Table

Chapter 10   Gretchen

Chapter 11   Constance

Chapter 12   Proprioception

Chapter 13   Rookery

Chapter 14   The Cabin

Chapter 15   Brotherly Love

Chapter 16   The Death of Rebecca Barrow

Chapter 17   Things That Go Bump In The Night

Chapter 18   Gregory

Chapter 19   Dennis And Gretchen

Chapter 20   In the Loft

Chapter 21   Year of the Low Tide

Chapter 22   Between the Lines

Chapter 23   The Forbidden Warriors

Chapter 24   Arts and Crafts

Chapter 25   South College Avenue

Chapter 26   The Judas Experiment

Chapter 27   Route 301

Chapter 28   Liza

Chapter 29   Route 71

Chapter 30   Gumshoe

Chapter 31   Middletown

Part II   Critical Mass

Chapter 32   The Dark Angel

Chapter 33   Rising Sun

Chapter 34   Surfacing

Chapter 35   Food For Thought

Chapter 36   The Dragon Slayer

Chapter 37   Final Approach

Chapter 38   Palmer

Chapter 39   Lady of the Lake

Chapter 40   Curt on the Road

Part III   The Clarity of Vision

Chapter 41   The Fugitive

Chapter 42   Lynn

Chapter 43   A Constant Bearing

Chapter 44   Last Dance

Acknowledgments

For Kirk Kjeldsen, who inspired a revolution.

And for Uncle Frank, who left the world

too soon but left it a better place.

People don’t take trips—trips take people.

—Steinbeck

Let me tell you what happened. Let me tell you how things came about. Let me tell you about love and God, death and dying, the nature of evil, and the power of magic. I’ll tell you what it means to me.

In the summer of 1996, I fell in love for the first time. Her name was Gretchen. She had red hair and green eyes … and I found her in the unlikeliest of places.

In the summer of 1989, Curt Tobinesk saw his father come down with terminal brain cancer. It was the summer Curtis found God—or vice versa, you might say. It was the year he discovered faith in the darkest of corners.

On the night in question—the night we left town—a woman named Constance sped across New Jersey in a grocery store delivery truck. She shot and killed a police officer. It was the night she searched and strove for freedom of a most unkindly sort—and somehow managed to find it.

This is our story.

Prologue

LEAVING TOWN

His soul, like bark with rudder lost,

On passion’s changeful tide was tost;

Nor vice nor virtue had the power

Beyond the impression of the hour;

And O, when passion rules, how rare

The hours that fall to virtue’s share!

—Sir Walter Scott

It was 11:00 p.m. when I packed my things and left the E. Rockford Library. I was finished studying for the night. Outside, somewhere in Easton, Pennsylvania, a church bell was tolling somberly—eleven dongs for the hour. I wouldn’t be around to hear it strike twelve.

I made a right turn onto the campus footpath, wending my way through a misty, drizzly night. It was one of those nights in which the world didn’t seem so huge after all, a night in which possibilities crouched half-glimpsed in the darkness. I’d spent the last forty minutes staring out the library window contemplating my purpose on the planet and wondering if, in the grand social scheme, there was a place reserved for me. It was September 16, 1996—the night we left town. The night that changed both of our lives forever.

My roommate’s name was Curt Tobinesk. We lived in room 320 of Swade Hall. We were juniors. How to describe Curt? Consider this: have you seen the picture-joke portraying the three groups of people diverging from a four-way intersection? Look closely. The first group is going south, passing a sign that points toward Prosperity. The second group travels west, past a sign proclaiming Glory. The third group tromps north, past a sign that reads Fame. The arrow-sign pointing east reads Uncertainty … and the one person sprinting headlong down this seldom-used byway is Curt Tobinesk. His hair flies out behind him, and his shoes have holes in them. In one hand is an old book—poems by Rilke. In the other is a small white box. What’s in the box? Magic, pure fucking magic. In the meantime, keep your eyes focused on Curt. Do not lose him. We’re going down this road together.

I withdrew my key and admitted myself into Swade Hall. I rubbed my sneakers on the welcome mat as the glass door swung shut behind me, its locks landing with a double clack. I gauged the silence for several moments and then began climbing the stairs. The stairwell smelled of vague phantom odors. Eggs from dormitory egg fights. Stale beer. Old vomit. Welcome home.

As I ascended the three flights and entered the corridor known as 3-West, it occurred to me that tonight was no different from any other. I’d open the door and find Curt reading some Kurt Vonnegut or Flannery O’Conner, or maybe reworking a poem. I’d toss my bag aside, flip my shoes off, set my alarm for tomorrow’s 8:00 a.m. Industrial Psych class, and then brush my teeth for bed. The next night, we’d do it all again.

Tonight, however, I entered room 320 and found Curt sitting on his campus-issue twin bed with his back against the wall. One knee was drawn up beneath his chin. I should have known right away that something was wrong—that something was bothering him—but for some reason I didn’t. Might it have changed things, you ask? Probably not. The wheels were in motion. The bell was tolling. For whom does it toll?

What’s up, buddy? I asked.

I deposited my knapsack at the foot of my desk. Then I walked over to my bed and sat down on it. Our beds were pushed up against opposite walls, leaving an open space in the center of the room. I opened my little fridge, withdrew a bottle of Tang, and took several deep swallows. I looked down in the fridge for other goodies that might be there. I found an apple, from which I took a heaving bite. My chewing sounds dominated the room. I noticed Curt hadn’t moved from his Zen-like position.

Rough night in the library? I asked him. Mine wasn’t so hot either.

He shrugged absently. I finished my apple.

What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?

I got up and took several steps toward the trashcan behind my desk to toss the core. Da-donk. While over there, I decided to get myself organized for tomorrow morning. This involved removing from my knapsack the notebooks I wouldn’t need and replacing them with those I would.

With my back turned toward him, I said to Curt, Hey, I ran into Brad over at the library. He wants you to give him a call. Said he owes you a twelve-pack. I turned to face him. What’s that all about?

Curt shrugged one shoulder. He refused to look up. Either he was ignoring me or his stock portfolio had bottomed out. Seeing that he didn’t own any stocks, I was guessing the former. Either way, I was fed up. I had tried to be civil.

You know what, Curt? Fucking hello to you, too. I’m sorry I don’t know the password to your secret inner world. I started to walk away—toward the dual closets near the front of the room—but I squeezed off a last, parting shot before I got there. You’ve had a burr up your ass all day, now that I think of it.

The next moment, I was moving into the walk-in closet to fetch my toothbrush and Aquafresh. I slammed the door on my way out.

Down the hall and into the common bathroom I went. I chose a sink and ran the water. I studied my face in the mirror as I brushed high, brushed low, and brushed hard. I didn’t entirely like the face I saw staring back at me—not these days, anyway—but it was a face I was going to have to live with, at least for now. And besides, this was Curt’s doing. Curt had brought this upon himself. He could be so goddamned aloof sometimes that it made me crazy. It made me—

You’ve changed, Dennis. As I continued to brush, I looked long and hard into the mirror, into eyes that were no longer my own. It wasn’t just this one instance, tonight. It was other things as well. It was … Gretchen. This is what she did to you. Sumpter Peaks turned you inside out. None of that was exactly fair, though, was it? It couldn’t all be put on Gretchen’s shoulders. What she had done was lousy, sure, but was anyone denying anymore that something was wrong at Sumpter Peaks? That something was terribly wrong?

Doesn’t matter. You’ve changed, Dennis, and not for the better. Your eyes tell it so.

And suddenly it hit me. No, it floored me. The toothbrush fell from my fingers and clinked into the basin. The water continued to run, but I no longer heard it. What I heard was my own ignorant voice: You know what, Curt? Fucking hello to you, too. You’ve had a burr up your ass all day, now that I think of it.

I looked down into the sink and curled my hands into fists. The worst shots you could give a person were the ones you never meant to deliver. The ones you couldn’t take back.

But it isn’t fair … You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly have known.

This was only half-true, however. We’d been roommates since sophomore year, so I had known—I simply hadn’t remembered. For whom does the bell toll? The bell tolls for me.

I finished brushing and cranked off the water. I left the bathroom and reentered room 320. I shut the door softly behind me. I went over to my dresser in the walk-in closet, dropped my toothbrush and toothpaste into my plastic bucket, then walked quietly back into the mainstay of our room.

I cut across the room to the window, which overlooks a small corner of the Lafayette College campus. You can look straight across and see Marquis Hall, or Easton Hall to the left. Look to the right, and you’ll see a piece of Kirby Hall—the government and law building. As the weather warms late in the spring term, the towels appear on the lawn below, where coeds sun themselves. I understood there could be some very nice views from where I stood.

Finally I turned around to face Curt. I leaned against the wall next to the window and said, Look, I’m … I’m sorry for what I said. I forgot about … I forgot what day it was, that’s all. I hope you’ll accept my apology.

For a while I wasn’t sure he was going to. But gradually he softened. His nod was close to imperceptible.

You shouldn’t be the one apologizing, he said. I’m the one who’s sorry.

How is that?

Because I’m the one who wasn’t there. I’m the sad sack who ran away.

I sighed inwardly. I didn’t particularly want to go down this road just now, at this time of night. And it was a forbidden road anyway. Curt had never told anyone what exactly had happened to him that summer.

How long has your father been gone, Curt? How many years now?

Seven. After a moment’s thought, he added, It doesn’t seem like a very long time, does it? When you say it out loud?

It is a long time, I pointed out. It’s a third of your life.

A third of my life, he reiterated in a trailing voice. I never thought of it that way.

Is it getting any easier, Curt? From one year to the next?

He considered this for a while, then shook his head and replied, I don’t know, Dennis. I thought time was supposed to heal all wounds.

That axiom was invented by a watchmaker.

He smiled grimly. Did they teach you that in psychology?

No. I made it up. Have you spoken to your mother tonight?

He nodded.

Was she able to offer any helpful advice? Does she know where you went that summer? Does she know what you saw?

Same old, same old, he said with a shrug. In the meantime, what happened to you?

What do you mean?

In the library. Rough night, you said.

Oh. Well … I don’t know. Couldn’t stay focused. My eyes kept looking out the window.

You were thinking about Gretchen.

That’s not what I was thinking about.

Bullshit. It’s written all over you.

Knock it off, will you?

You’re a walking Rorschach image in the shape of a girl.

That got me laughing. And how do you spell Rorschach?

"With an r."

They teach you that in economics?

No, he said. I just happen to know what pain looks like.

Suddenly I wasn’t laughing anymore. I spun around to face the window—to cast my gaze into the safety of darkness. We weren’t going down this road either, trust me. This was my forbidden road.

I felt Curt’s eyes drilling into my back. You’ve been a different person since we got back to school, Dennis.

Different is sometimes better.

And sometimes it’s worse.

Look, I’m over her, okay? It’s old news.

It doesn’t have to be old. It doesn’t have to be over. There’s still time to fix it.

Don’t start that silly talk again, Curt. I don’t want to hear it.

But how silly is it? he asked. At what point does silly become real? You’re a practical person, Dennis—that’s what’s holding you down. Practical rhymes with drudgery in my book.

I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, I told him.

"I think you do. It’s ironic that the psych student in the room is the one who’s blind to the fact that the predictable ebb and flow of daily life is what’s making him crazy. You’re being driven to the brink by the evenness of reality. Occasionally you have to do something crazy to help restore reality."

I rounded on him. At what point did this become all about me? You turned the whole conversation onto me somehow. Weren’t we just talking about your father? Isn’t that what all this was about? His anniversary?

I turned to look out the window again, if only to avoid Curt’s rapidly intensifying eyes. A light mist was falling. The booming clamor of a nearby frat house oscillated loathsomely in the night. Elsewhere in the world, latecomers were removing their ties and getting ready for next day’s work. People were clicking TV remotes. Beer bottles were being tipped. A lone siren cut through Easton’s rainy limits. It occurred to me there were people out there who had dreams that weren’t coming true and likely never would. And that one of those dreams could be that siren, turning and wailing to be let loose.

That’s when Curt threw the calculator I hadn’t known he’d been holding. It exploded when it struck the wall above my bed. Metal and plastic chips rained down on my comforter. The defaced housing came out and struck the tile floor, doing a quick tap dance unto death.

This is about my father! he cried, leaping onto his feet, his hands curled into fists. It is about him! Why do you think I’ve been sitting here for the last two hours?

And you say I’m the one going nuts?

Think about our lives, Dennis, he said, pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. Consider what we do here: get up, go to class, eat dinner, go to the library, go to bed. It’s the same thing every day. But time is short, my friend. In two years, even this will look good. In two years, reality will have us in its teeth, and we both know that the real world has no poetry in it. Poetry dies after critical mass, Dennis. In two years, we’ll be ruled by interest rates, credit scores, and earnings forecasts.

You might want to consider switching majors, I told him. Economics to raving lunatic.

He continued making short, back-and-forth walks from my bed to his and back again. His face was red. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

My dad, he began, "never got to do what he wanted. He went to West Point, then on to Harvard Business School. Got a job. Made money. Raised a family. And never got the chance—the real chance—to live life outside the box. He made all the proper choices, but he was gone before he could live."

Some might argue he lived the American dream, I pointed out.

But in the end, it’s still a dream.

You never accepted your father’s death, Curt, did you?

I was never given a chance to accept it—the terms were non-negotiable. What I don’t accept is me following in the same footsteps while deluding myself into thinking I can make a difference. No one man can make a difference, Dennis. The world is too cumbersome.

I’d say you’ve got one foot in the philosophy building.

You know what’s wrong with our corkscrew culture, Dennis? It frowns on passion; that’s what’s wrong. It farts on your dreams, takes a shit on your ambitions, then wipes its ass with your future. We spend the first half of our lives drawing loans and the second half paying them off. Most will be lucky to break even.

So, what are you suggesting, Mr. Whitman?

"What I’m suggesting—he jumped onto his bed, arms poised in the air, eyes alight—is that we take to the road."

We what?

"We go. Tonight. Now." That last word—now—was bolstered with a tight clench of Curt’s fist. I saw his white teeth. Wild teeth. I didn’t like this. Trouble was, I did like it—or at least I thought I was beginning to.

I took a deep breath. I had always considered law and order my allies.

One night, Dennis, to take life by the horns. One night to live outside the box. No rules, no schedules. Free verse only.

It’s eleven thirty at night, Curt. My shoes are off, my teeth are brushed, and I have a quiz at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Your idea is insane. But look, if you wanted to set something up, maybe take a weekend trip—

No, no, no! He jumped off the bed and started pacing again. His gesticulations were borderline frightening. "You’re still inside the box, Dennis. You’ve gotta get outside the box. The deal is you get in your car on the spur of the moment, you pick a place you’ve never been to, and you go there. You make that destination your mission. But it has to be spontaneous. Therein lies the magic."

Asking Dennis Carew to drop everything and head for the door on some impromptu carpe diem crusade is one thing. Getting Curt Tobinesk to talk him into it is something else. The kid was actually winning.

We can find your girl, Curt said, his voice low and controlled. We can find Gretchen, even if it takes us all night. You can get her back, I know it.

I turned around to face the window. I was beginning to shake. I don’t know where she is, I said.

You’re lying. I’ve heard you mention her school more than once.

I bit my lip hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood into my mouth. Gretchen was several years younger than me. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And Curt was most definitely correct—I was not over her. She attends a private boarding school. It’s a long way from here, and I don’t know how to get there.

What’s the name of the school?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Saint Andrew’s.

Location?

I squeezed my eyes shut—harder—and bit my lip again.

Dennis? Location?

Middletown, Delaware.

Your queen awaits you, Curt said. And you know something? There’s no one else in the world who’s presently driving all night to find her. Only you, my friend.

And like that, it was done. The next minute, instead of dousing the light and sliding into our beds, we were scampering about the room, slipping on jackets and stepping into our shoes. Then Curt had something white in his hand, and I had my wallet and keys, and suddenly we were out in the hall, pulling the door shut and locking it. All in a haze. A milky-white haze. But a wonderful haze. We raced down three flights of stairs, giddy with laughter and high on life. We burst out the main door into a warm, drizzly night—the night we left town, the night we turned up Uncertainty Road. A logical part of me couldn’t entirely grasp the notion of what we were doing—it was practically midnight, for God’s sake!—but a part of me had never felt freer. A part of me had never felt more alive.

Beneath the tall campus oaks we ran, our sneakers squelching in the soft, wet earth. As we sprinted past Pardee Hall and raced across the quad, I noticed Curt was getting ahead of me. Slow down, asshole! I called out to him. Slow down, will you?

And that was how our journey began.

PART I

UNCERTAINTY ROAD

Chapter 1

INTERVIEW DAY

I gaze upon the thousand stars

That fill the midnight sky;

And wish, so passionately wish,

A light like theirs on high.

I have such eagerness of hope

To benefit my kind;

I feel as if immortal power

Were given to my mind.

—Miss Landon

Mr. Gorman was a very particular man. Dennis could see that.

Dennis shifted position in the soft leather chair. He surveyed his surroundings while Mr. Gorman perused some papers. The décor adhered strictly to a nature motif. In one corner stood a vertically octagonal fish tank. Dual aerators hummed smoothly. Mounted on the wall above Mr. Gorman’s head was a large green fish. It had a snakelike body the likes of which Dennis had never seen. A small plaque below the specimen read:

Chain Pickerel

6.25 lbs. 27 inches

Caught 5/16/86

Skull Lake

Much of the remaining wall space was occupied by photographs framed in teak. In one of these, three young girls were holding a four-foot water snake. Another showed half a dozen kids roasting marshmallows over a campfire. There was a nighttime shot of a black bear with its head in the dumpster.

It occurred to Dennis that Mr. Gorman appeared out of place sitting in this office. The man carried the air of an accountant. He wore a jacket and tie. His beard was neatly trimmed. His nails appeared to have been manicured. On one corner of his desk, Dennis noticed a glass paperweight. Beneath the paperweight’s domed lens was a ghastly bug plucked straight from a Kafka novel.

Gorman looked up from the papers he was holding. It says here, Dennis, that you enjoy being with nature.

Very much so. Looks like I’ve come to the right place.

A lot of people discover they’ve come to the right place at Sumpter Peaks. What we have is special. Did you know that the Sumpter Creek Marsh encompasses eleven thousand acres of unadulterated swampland? Complete with a twenty-foot observation tower and seventeen miles of boarded trails?

"Seventeen miles?"

Oh, yes. In fact, one local legend claims that the swamp holds a secret for everyone—but that you can only find yours when you’re not looking for it. Gorman leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, There are a ton of legends around this place. It’s one of the reasons I love the job.

He shuffled some papers around. "Now, about the job: Sumpter Peaks is a nonprofit organization focused on the maturational needs of children ages five through twelve. We are divided into two separate camps. Treetop Camp is located on the west corner of the lake. It’s for children ages five through eight. Children nine through twelve stay here at White Oak. Occupancy in White Oak ranges from ninety to a hundred and fifty kids. We employ nineteen senior counselors in White Oak alone. There are fifteen junior counselor positions open to college-level applicants. The prerequisites for those positions aren’t rigid, but we do prefer applicants oriented toward the social sciences.

The job itself, should you be chosen for it, can be demanding. Gorman shifted in his chair, leaning to his left. In one hand, he held a Monticello pen. The other he used to support his chin. Breakfast is served in the dining hall at eight o’clock sharp, so you’d need to be up by seven. After dinner, there are activities transpiring throughout the camp, which typically go until dark. So, save for a one-hour break after lunch, the hours are lengthy. You’ll have one full day off, staggered among the other counselors. The pay is not hourly. It’s a fixed amount, about $280 a week, gross. Bottom line—you’re working a lot of hours for not much money.

Is Sumpter Peaks completely subsidized?

No, no, no. About 20 percent of our yearly operating costs—much of which is insurance—is covered by taxpayer money. The rest comes from tuition and corporate donations. We take what we can get where we can get it.

I see.

"Now, about the children: 80 percent of them are here because they’re experiencing maturational difficulties. It’s a broad-based term that includes behavior problems, communication difficulties, management difficulties, and in some cases learning disabilities. Do not get the wrong idea. This is not a lab setting for acute psychoses. You will not see autistic or schizoid children at Sumpter Peaks. It’s not a clinic. It’s a camp. Our activities focus mainly on superordinate goals, with an emphasis on community. The kids form bonds and learn to trust one another. Many wind up making friends with whom they stay in touch for years to come.

So, what do you think, Dennis? Does any of this sound like fun?

Are you kidding? When can I start?

Gorman laughed. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Dennis shook it. It’ll take some time to process your application. We’ll run a full background check, and we’ll assess your written psychological exam. Realistically, you should expect to hear from us within three weeks.

I have one last question, if you don’t mind.

Of course.

Dennis pointed to the bug in the paperweight. What is that thing?

That’s a cicada.

A what?

"A cicada. Remarkable creatures, really. Depending on the species, it takes either thirteen or seventeen years for an individual to gestate. Then it emerges from the ground and only lives for a few weeks."

A few weeks? That’s all?

That’s all, Gorman said. "Now that you’ve put yourself on the spot, answer this: what would you do with your life if you had only three weeks to work with?"

Is this still part of the interview? Dennis asked.

No, the interview is over, Gorman said with a smile. This is post-interview, which is off the record.

Dennis didn’t know how to respond, so he said the first thing that popped into his head. I guess I would spend the majority of the time flying around the swamp looking for my secret.

Gorman tilted his head back and laughed. "That’s the first time anyone’s given that answer. Remember the legend, though—you can only find your secret when not looking for it."

It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gorman.

The pleasure was mine, Dennis. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you soon.

Dennis left the administration building and moved across the White Oak grounds, relishing the warm spring air. I could get to know this place, he thought. He drove the three hours back to his New Jersey home in silence, thinking about bugs that gestated for more than a decade to live a life of three weeks. Does the cicada find meaning in twenty-one days? Does it fulfill its goals? Establish a legacy? Dennis Carew had been pulling oxygen into his lungs for twenty-one years, and he hadn’t accomplished any of those things. He hadn’t even started.

Chapter 2

BREAKING AWAY

Catch then, O catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies;

Life’s a short summer—man a flower,

He dies—alas! How soon he dies!

—Dr. Johnson

I drove an ’85 Nissan pickup truck. Black, with chrome bumpers. I kept it parked on the edge of campus, close to Blair Hall, where Curt and I had resided as freshmen. We got in and buckled ourselves. Curt placed an object on the dashboard. I got my first full glimpse of the small white box he’d elected to take with him.

What’s in there? I asked him.

Something for later.

I started the engine and hit the wipers. We got going.

As we crested McCartny Street and McKeen Hall slid past our right side, Curt rolled down his window and stuck his head out. Fuck you all! he spat into the night air. He pulled himself back in and smiled at me.

You’re outta control, Curt, you know that? But I smiled back at him all the same. A part of me remained unable to grasp the notion of what we were doing.

We drove down College Hill and onto Main Street. There are two traffic lights that straddle the Route 22 overpass, and the second of these stopped us. I braked to a halt underneath the bridge and looked at Curt.

"Hey, Curt, where are we going? I don’t even know where we’re going."

We’re going to Delaware, he said matter-of-factly. We’re looking for the town where Gretchen’s school is located. Tinseltown, was it?

"Middletown."

"Just drive south. We’ll take care of the fine-tuning as we get close."

I forced my mind to start working. Soon the light was going to turn green. I was going to have to make a decision.

We’ll head for 95, then, I said. That’ll take us through Philadelphia, then into Delaware. But after that, it’s terra incognita.

Do it.

The light turned green. I turned left. We crossed over the Delaware River into New Jersey. We cruised through the outskirts of Phillipsburg. We got onto I-78 heading east. Curt cajoled me to talk about Gretchen. How did you meet her? What happened after the interview?

I didn’t meet her right away. In fact, I almost quit before I ever met her.

Why? I thought you said it was a calling.

It was, from the outside looking in. But I had an unsettling experience soon after I started. Sumpter Peaks has a checkered past.

How so?

I was quiet for a while. We were climbing the west side of Jugtown Mountain. My four-cylinder engine was whining.

I turned to Curt and said, Maybe you should take a turn.

A turn at what? Driving?

No. Talking.

About wh— He turned and looked out his window. In a lower voice: I wasn’t aware that was part of the agreement.

It’s a long trip, Curt. Maybe this whole thing’s not such a great idea.

He turned toward me. Don’t you dare turn this truck around.

You’re the one with the anniversary. That’s how this whole thing started, remember.

In ten minutes, it won’t be his anniversary anymore. He paused, casting a sidelong glance out his window. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me. If I started to tell you … If I told you what really happened, you’d be buttoning up the straitjacket before I could finish. I haven’t told my own mother what happened up there.

Up where?

He seemed to realize his mistake even as he was saying it. He drew himself away from me even further, slumping his head against the door frame. Just drive for a while, Dennis, okay?

I drove. Several minutes into the silence, I told him, You might be surprised by what I can believe, Curt. You might be very surprised.

We took I-78 East as far as Clinton. At 12:01 a.m. we exited onto 31 South. State Route 31 would lead us through Flemington and then Pennington. It would take us to the I-95 interchange. I-95 South would become the lifeline between us and Gretchen. It would take us all the way to Delaware.

For now, we cruised south on 31. At a quarter past midnight, we entered Flemington.

How ’bout some coffee? Curt proposed. I think we could both use some.

I found a 7-11 within the Flemington town limits. Curt and I got out of the truck. We went into the store with a swagger. The clerk was a corpulent fellow in his midtwenties. He had the face of a bowling ball, with a bulldog’s jowls. He stood behind the counter leafing through an issue of Penthouse while simultaneously barking into a telephone. He barely acknowledged our entrance.

Curt and I moved quickly through the aisles. We grabbed up some snacks and poured ourselves 20-ounce coffees. We convened at the counter, where Curt asked the clerk for a pack of Marlboro Lights. The clerk nodded, holding up one finger. He ended his conversation by slamming the phone down.

"Goddamned woman! He began ringing up our items, shaking his head. I mean, give me a break. I tell her one thing, and she turns it all upside down. Before long, my head is spinning 360 degrees, and I can’t even remember what we were fussing about in the first place."

Sounds like a circular argument, I said.

I mean, why can’t women take things at face value? They’re always searching for hidden meanings. Will that be all, fellas?

I glanced at Curt and saw that his mouth was hanging open like a cave entrance. His eyes had drifted askance. Uh-oh.

Have you told this girl exactly how you feel? Curt said to the clerk. Have you laid it out in plain terms? The two of you are speaking in different languages.

Right, the clerk said. I’m speaking sense; she’s speaking nonsense.

You need to stop hemming and hawing, Curt told him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. "Say what you mean and mean what you say. Call her back and tell her. Just tell her. It’ll make your life a lot easier."

The clerk stared for a moment, unsure what to make of Curt’s certitude. What are you, some kinda psychologist or somethin’?

Curt jerked a thumb at me. No, that’s him.

Yes, that’s it for us, I said. We’re in a bit of a hurry, if you don’t mind.

It’s $19.87.

I glanced at Curt to see if he was preparing to proffer any funds—and saw that he was again staring decidedly into nowhere. I opened my wallet and slid a twenty across the counter. Keep the change.

The clerk took the money and slammed the cash drawer shut. Where you guys headed anyways, it bein’ this time of night?

Tinseltown, Curt mumbled.

All right, what was that about? I asked.

The 7-11 was a mile behind us. We had driven out of the heart of Flemington. A string of car dealerships came and went on our right. We passed the state inspection station. A Stewart’s Root Beer. A state police barracks.

Come clean with me, Curt. You were talking about me back there, weren’t you? You were referring to me and Gretchen.

Curt didn’t respond. He continued to stare through the rain-streaked window.

Because I got news for you—

It has nothing to do with you, Dennis. Nothing at all.

Your father then? Something about him?

I was … he began but faltered. He was still looking out the window.

The Nissan had fallen under 60 mph. I was focusing more on him than on driving.

I was listening to that clerk bickering with his girl, and … Well, it reminded me of this girl I once liked—Emma. Emma Stellhurst. This was back in Willow Heights, New York. It was before my dad got sick. I don’t think I’d even turned fourteen.

I see where this is going. At age thirteen, you went right up to this Emma and laid all your emotions on the line—

"No. I didn’t. I did the exact opposite. I hemmed and hawed. I beat around the bush. Emma Stellhurst would sit on her back porch most days, reading and drinking lemonade while rocking back and forth on a porch swing. Her parents were preppy types, which perhaps explained why Emma always wore Sunday dresses, even during the week.

The Stellhursts moved away later that year. But for most of that summer, I hung around their place like a fly on horsemeat. Their house was three-fourths of the way up an abandoned dirt road, on the left side. Stockton’s barns were at the top of the dirt road. My friend Skip and I used to hang out there a lot. In the upper loft of the biggest barn was a square window that overlooked the Stellhurst house. The dirt road made a right-hand swing, passing around all of the barns. It ran for another quarter-mile before reaching the junkyard. Skippy and I used to hang out there also.

I assume there’s a point to all of this.

There is. His name is Old Man Jack.

Old Man who?

Old Man Jack. That’s what everyone called him.

Let me guess—he was the poet laureate who encouraged you to express your emotions to Emma.

He was insane.

What?

He was insane. Clinically.

Says who?

Says me. Says the whole town. This guys was nuts, Dennis. He was cracked. He was Loony Tunes with sugar on top.

I paused, remembering Curt’s Freudian slip from earlier. I haven’t told my own mother what happened up there. Does this have something to do with me buttoning up the straitjacket—?

"Will you let me tell it?" he snapped.

Sorry. Go on.

I followed 31 South as it curled down a sharp exit loop on the right. Above, Route 202 continued into the night. I moved the Nissan up to speed, and then we were going again.

"Old Man Jack lived in a small cabin by himself. He had no visitors except for a neighborhood boy who stopped by once a week to deliver his groceries, compliments of the local Methodist church. His cabin sat on the crest of a hill looking down on Stockton’s barnyard.

Jacker’s wife was killed in a bizarre auto accident. She supposedly drove off a bridge. There were many who claimed that that’s what did it—that that’s what pushed him over the edge. I would ask my parents what was wrong with him, why he was so loony. My mom would waggle a finger at me and say, ‘You haven’t been fooling around by that cabin, have you, Curtis? You sure as hell better not let me catch you, because that’ll be the end of horsing around in those old barns. You mark my words. That old man is crazy, Curtis, do you hear me?’

Sounds serious, I said.

Yes and no, Curt answered. "It wasn’t as if Old Man Jack ever did anything. All he did was sit on his front porch all day. He sat in his rocking chair, drinking Cokes."

Life is good.

Jacker had his own system of dialogue, Curt explained. "It was the English language but without rules. That’s one of the reasons my mom bade me to stay away. Jack spoke of dirty, nasty, horrible things, and she didn’t want any of that trash going into her son’s head. Delbert Flynn, the kid who delivered Jacker’s groceries, sometimes rode past me and Skippy and told us the things Jacker had said to him up there. Things like, ‘Watch not damn fuckers! Ain’t the grain seen! Backin’ out there she will my fine!’ Delbert had been ordered not to reply to the old man under any circumstances. He’d drop the groceries as fast as lightning and peal away on his bike like the devil was after him. We would often see him streaking down the dirt road past the Stellhurst house, leaving a ribbon of dust behind him.

"The point of all this is that Old Man Jack had a bird’s-eye view of pretty much the entire playing field. You know, me and Skippy down by the barns, and me always floating around Emma’s back porch, hoping to attract attention.

And then something happened one day … Curt’s voice was lower now, thinner. "It was near the end of summer, when Skippy and I were poking around down at the junkyard. It was just the two of us, killing time together. But I was secretly hoping to unearth an interesting find that would spark Emma’s curiosity. How pathetic is that? Thirteen years old, hoping to impress a girl with an artifact from a junkyard. But I didn’t know any better, so that’s not the point. The point is that Skippy and I were together that day, we were back by the junkyard with nothing to do, and I had this illogical fancy that I might find …"

Chapter 3

THE TANK

On a hill he sits up high

A throaty grunt and a passing sigh

As madness with its solemn power

Swallows fast the final hour.

—C. Tobinesk’s Eleventh Hour

… Something interesting. Something outlandish.

Yes, Curtis thought as he nosed his foot through mountains of debris. It would be something so fascinating that no mortal human could rightfully ignore it—least of all, Emma Stellhurst. The Purely Unimaginable Object would garner Emma’s attention. She’d rise to her feet and come to the porch railing. She might even walk out to investigate matters.

With Skippy’s help, the Object of Irrefutable Choice would be transported from the junkyard over to the dirt road between Stockton’s barns and the Stellhurst house. Into Emma’s field of vision, in other words. Would Skippy see through the flimsy scheme? Curtis didn’t think so. Curtis didn’t think Skippy would see through a Trojan horse made out of screen doors.

They poked and prodded, kicking things here, turning things there, and taking occasional swipes at the gnats buzzing about their heads. Curtis flipped over an old tire. Furtive brown forms took flight in all directions. Curtis’s first thought was mice, but a second glance revealed they were rats. Curtis wasn’t afraid of vermin. He stabbed at them with his foot as they fled for new cover.

Hey, Curtis, come check this out. Skippy’s voice carried across the junkyard on a late August breeze.

What is it, Skip?

Come look, will you?

Curtis wandered over. Skippy had happened upon an old glass aquarium tank lying on its side. A single crack zigzagged up one of the tank’s walls like a lightning bolt.

It’s a twenty-gallon tank, Skippy said. My aunt Norma down in Rochester has one just like it. This one’s in pretty good shape except for the crack. It probably won’t hold any water.

Curtis knelt down for a closer look. He lifted the dusty, dirty tank with both hands and held it in front of his face. This old baby won’t be holding any water, Skip. Not on my watch and warrant.

Skippy goggled at him. Watchoo gonna do with it, Curtis? His cheeks bulged like beanbags beneath the brim of his Green Bay Packers cap.

I’m gonna drop it, Curtis said.

You’re gonna what?

I said I’m gonna drop it. I’m gonna let it fall. We’re gonna watch this baby explode.

Yeah! Skippy thundered. "Yeah, man, watch it explode!"

"We’ll take it into Stockton’s barn. We’ll climb up