October 1995
The great nations of the world were in a stalemate when I arrived on some Marine Corps base out in southern California. It was a war consisting of so much but also so little. Or that’s what Daddy said once. He didn’t say it quite like that though. Sometimes Daddy says a lot to say a little, if you know what I mean. And I guess everyone was really cold, cause that’s what they named it. Anyway, we weren’t there for long before the military sent us back home to Texas, the greatest state in all of America. And out there right in the middle of Texas sits a plot of land that my Grandpa bought back in the 1950’s for 60 bucks an acre. We know it ain’t much, but it’s ours, and that’s what matters, I hear.
Lampasas is the kind of town someone might never hear of unless they’d passed through it lost one day or come for the cheeseburgers, like Elvis Presley did a few times back in the day. It lies on a hilly, drawn-out tract of land on the edge of the Texas Hill Country. Outside the northwest portion of town, just a few minutes commute from the old courthouse on the town’s square, sits a triangular plot of land that most members of my family reside on. And just above a crumbling barn in the western corner of that small portion of land, on the highest point in the area, is an even smaller lot. My daddy bought that plat with the money he got from the military in hopes of one day building a house on it. But all that’s out there now is an ashen campfire and a rusted mattress laying over some jagged rocks.
In the meantime, my parents rent a small wooden house in the middle of town. The denim blue siding is rotting in areas and occasionally, in the middle of the night, cockroaches scuttle across the kitchen floor. But Momma still does her best to keep the floors clean enough to eat off and we spend most our time at Grandma’s house anyway.
The road that takes you from the middle of town out to Grandma’s was called Lometa Road back in the day, but they don’t call it that no more. Before they built the highway, this was how people got to and from Lometa. A town for which I’m not sure why anyone would need to go there. People come here from there for things like groceries, supplies, and medicine, but Lometa doesn’t have anything that anyone might ever need. Except for some empty land and cattle, a store or two, maybe a diner, but there’s plenty of that in Lampasas anyway. At some point over beyond the eastern portion of our land they poured asphalt and created another route to Lometa away from us and renamed our roadway a series of insignificant numbers. We pay no mind to that, however. As far as we’re concerned, it’s Old Lometa Road, the road you take when you’re going nowhere particularly exceptional.
Right in the very center of our land is a murky, mossy pond filled with lily pads, frogs, and overgrown cattails. It’s fed by a shallow creek that runs from somewhere, but I’ve never seen where exactly. In the 60’s, when my daddy was only 18 months old, he wandered off from Grandma’s small, stone house and found his way to the pond. And that day he drowned in it.
My uncle, the oldest brother, the shortest brother, says he remembers it like it was yesterday. He fished Daddy from the murky water. He was bottom up; the only part sticking out of the water was the bum of his trousers. He was dead limp and his face was blue and gray just like a stormy sky, my uncle said. Grandpa, slower than my uncle due to a bad leg, yanked Daddy from my uncle’s arms and beat the life back into him. Just a few knocks to his tiny back and some puffs of air, I guess.
Right now I’m at Grandma’s house standing next to the iron stove that heats the house during winter. Above me, mounted on the wall near the furnace, is a black coat rack. Its formed from steel with pretty details welded to it. Grandpa ain’t around no more and I never met him, but I know he made it. I can’t reach the hats that are mounted to the top hooks. They’re dusty and they been there as long as I know. No one ever uses them and I often wonder if they were his too. Hanging from the bottom line of hooks is my coat. It’s not too cold today, but I take it anyway. I stretch upward, hopping a bit to reach it, and yank it off the hook.
“Grandma,” I holler behind me as I push at the screeching screen door. “I’m going outside to play.”
“Watch out for snakes!” she hollers back.
“I will,” I say as the door slams behind me. I twist around and crouch down to grab my rubber boots near the doorway. I knock them upside down against the stairs a few times before yanking them on and eying the rock wall to my right where the granddaddy long legs spiders like to gather into a furry, pulsing nest. If you disturb it, they’ll scatter every direction like a gust of wind whipping into a loose bundle of dog hair. Luckily today the corner is empty. I let out a sigh.
Outside the sun is high in the sky but the area around the house is shaded by a massive oak tree that’s been alive about a hundred years, my uncle, the oldest one, the shortest one, told me once. It’s arms reach high and wide, far above the tin roof of the house.
I hop down the stone staircase, my feet slapping heavily against the concrete slab that stretches from the stairs out to the overgrown yard. My older brother, Scott, and a few of my cousins are sitting in a line on a stone wall with Mountain Dew cans clutched in their fists. The short stone wall encloses the backyard from the wide-open land behind it. I trudge by, hoping my quick pace will deter any questioning about where I’m going.
“Where ya goin, Annie?” the eldest one, Kade, barks at me. The sleeves of his grungy Beavis and Butthead shirt are torn off, curling at the ends. He’s 13 years old and the angriest one of us all. His face is intense with dark irises and thick, dark gashes for eyebrows that are always pulled in at an angle, nearly creating an indignant X across his face.
I shrug, “Just gonna play,”.
“Don’t go near the pond. You’ll drown in it just like your daddy did.” He’s told me this so many times before. They all have.
I perch myself on a large concrete block that sits partially submerged just near the waters’ edge. I heard Grandpa made this seat himself. I stare down at the water beneath me, squinting to see what’s beneath its murky surface. At the edge I spot mud, moss, tadpoles, and small little creatures that look like mushy brown rice who cling to the surfaces of submerged grass, rocks, or whatever else they can anchor to. Further out, the tendrils of the lily pads stretch toward the muddy bottom. I watch them suspiciously. They’ll pull you down. Kade’s voice darts through my head.
My eyes trace the lily pad’s long arms into the water until they are completely obscured by the grime. I lean in, peering further into the muck. A fish drifts toward the surface. I examine it’s empty, dark eyes until it sinks back into the boggy water. I shift my gaze back to the tentacles of the lily pads. Watching for movement. Waiting for them to reach for me. We won’t ever find you down there underneath all that mud and mush.
I lean out further.
If you look closely, Kade’s voice continues, you’ll find one of them with a red eye in the center of its pad. That’s the man who dug out the pond a hundred years ago. It pulled him under, dissolved him, and now he’s part of the pond forever.
I ain’t never seen one with an eye and I have a weird feeling he’s making it all up. I find a long stick that was stacked in a pile awaiting incineration. I go back to the concrete seat and perch myself over the water again, examining it closely. I poke at the sludge on the shore, stirring up the water to see if the lily pads will react. Nothing. I wait a few moments for the water to settle so I can see into it clearly again. And again I poke at the green, slimy tentacles of the closest lily pads, watching them, holding my breath, nagging them to reach for me.
Nothing.
I lean out further, reaching for one of the larger ones. I stretch my arm out, the stick teetering in my small hand. Then suddenly I’m falling forward. Crashing into the once still water that’s now exploding around me, engulfing me, dissolving me. It stings my skin. I suck in a deep breath of air, but cold, wet, mush rushes down my throat instead. …blue and gray just like a stormy sky... Long slimy tendrils curl around my wrists, I scream but the mush won’t let much sound out. I frantically pad around for a solid surface, eventually landing on a muddy, semisolid pulp. I shove against it, my hand sinks, but I’m still able to push my head above the water. I push my other hand against the mush, quickly crawling out. I squirm onto the dry, hay-like grass that surrounds the pond. It pokes and scratches against my skin and there might be snakes in it, but I don’t care. I lay still for a moment, looking up at the empty sky, the taste and texture of muck still in my mouth. I abruptly sit up, my eyes darting toward the lily pads to see if they’re reaching for me. Still nothing.
I wait for several moments. My eyes trace over the gashes I created in the muddy bank. I examine my clothes. They’re soaked and smeared with mud. It will be clear that I was playing in the pond. I spot the barn in the distance. I could go up to the barn to play while my clothes dry out. I crawl lowly through the stiff grass, heading towards the stream that takes the pond water under the roadway and over to the Dickens’ land. I hear my brother and cousins far away, scuffling around, yelling, laughing. I pull myself up and make my way over to a root-wrapped waterfall. It’s about twice as tall as me.
I slide down the embankment towards the bottom of the lazy waterfall, careful not to get my clothes dirtier than they are. I scoop handfuls of water onto my clothes, arms and legs, dissolving the muck until only the stubborn green stains from the algae are left behind. I climb back up the embankment then trudge through the grass, passing my brother and cousins from a distance, staying far enough away that they won’t holler questions at me.
I pass by the large swimming pool. We had the biggest swimming pool in all of Lampasas. The proud words of my uncle, the rich one, the flashy one, marquee through my mind. Your grandpa dug it into the ground himself. It’s completely dry now except for a murky green puddle in the center of the deep end. These days the eastern wall is collapsing with a jagged crack down the center. Daddy said they had a damn-near-biblical flood a few years before I was born. Caused the whole pond to fill up nearly all the way to the house and the ground got so soft it shifted near the pool. No one could use the pool again after that storm. But sometimes I sit on the edge of the stiff, white diving board, perched directly over the green slime, and imagine what it looked like when it was new, clean, and full. My daddy and uncles jumping into it, their friends laughing and shoving each other, and Grandma and Grandpa lounging in the sun chairs that are now withered and crumbling, tiny umbrellas in their lemonade. I bet this place was fancy.
I approach the barn. It’s dilapotato as Momma calls it. And I don’t know exactly what that word means but I assume it must have something to do with the collapsed roof and missing floorboards. My cousins don’t call it that though, they call it creepy, and I know what that word means. I also know that’s why no one comes up here but me.
It sits sagging on a steel and wood platform raised about two feet off the ground. Small trees and large bushes grow throughout its interior. I peer underneath the dark platform. Snakes live under the barn, Kade said, they live in a giant nest, hundreds of them, just slipping and slithering over each other all day long. A shiver runs down my back. The stairs are too damaged to use, so I have to climb up the platform to get inside. I put my hands on the rough wooden planks and hoist my body up, rolling onto the platform. Inside there is an old cash register with a bell that still dings when you open the drawer. I like pushing the buttons, though a lot of ‘em are rusted stiff and don’t work no more. Daddy says they got to keep it after Grandpa demoed an old general store on the edge of town. They had us knock the whole thing down; candy, donuts, cash register and all, Daddy said. He was only eleven back then and he couldn’t believe anyone would buy a store just to knock it all down. Grandpa told him they must’ve had a better idea for the land. But what’s better than candy and donuts?
Shoved up against a scarred wall is an old piano. The kind they played in saloons in the old black and white westerns. Many of the keys are cracked and damaged, but if you bang on them hard enough it’ll still make some pretty good sounds. I crouch in front of the cash register and bang my fingers onto it, opening and closing the drawer. I smile, “Yes ma’am that’ll be one dollar and thirty-three cents.” I nod, “Here’s your change back. Thank you, come again.” I giggle, “Oh and don’t forget your donuts.”
A bird flies through a hole in the roof, scattering dust into the air over me. I stop and peer to the back of the barn. Dust dances through a sunbeam that’s illuminating a gap in the floor. I never go to the very back of the barn. It’s dark and many of the floorboards are missing, leaving a giant hole that’s not easy to get around. I also know that down there is where the snake pit is, it’s gotta be.
I push myself up and walk over to the hole, eying the jagged panels. A shiver runs down my back as I imagine the snakes slithering over each other underneath my feet. On the very right side, up against the western wall is a slender path of sturdy looking floorboards. I step over to it and carefully place one foot on a panel, pressing my weight into it, testing it. It holds. I place my other foot in front of the first, carefully, like I’m walking on a balance beam in gymnastics class. The boards creak underneath my foot. I freeze. It holds. I place the other foot in front and shift my weight forward. The floorboards creak louder. Another step, another creak, but the panels never give out.
Finally, I reach the other side and let out a deep sigh. I trace the water stained walls of the back of the barn, never before seeing them from this point. In the far corner is a brown lump. I’ve noticed it several times but could never make out what it was. I walk towards it, my nose filling with a musty smell coming from it. It looks like old work clothes that are covered in dirt and dust. I pick up a shirt. It’s an old, cream and brown plaid work shirt with tears in it. I can’t tell if the stains had always been there or if they are from being in the barn for so long. I unsnap the pearl button on the flap of the small chest pocket. The threads fray and break at the seam. I push the stiff shirt to the side, eying the less dusty clothes underneath it. A pair of work gloves rests on a small, shaky wooden table next to the pile of shirts and jeans. I’ve seen them before in a picture of Grandpa I found last year under Grandma’s vanity. In the picture he was standing in his workshop, right near where Scott and my cousins are playing right now. He had a button-down shirt on, his sleeves rolled up, dirty jeans cuffed around brown work boots, and these gloves. In my head I re-examine that picture. He was right there in the shop. And it’s all still there, just not him. I trace the clothes piled up here in the barn and suddenly my brain ignites, my eyes grow big. These are Grandpa’s clothes! He’s here! My mind races. This is where he lives now!
I turn to run back to my cousins. I need to tell them I found Grandpa. He’s not in Heaven like they said, he’s just been living right here in the back of the barn. I take a few steps towards the gap in the floor when from the corner of my right eye I notice something move. I freeze.
A man stands deeper into the barn in blue jeans and a dirty shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has beat up leather gloves on his hands just like the ones I saw next to Grandpa’s clothes. His jaw is square and his face looks tired. My eyes grow big and a sharp sensation shoots down my arms and legs. I break into a sprint, running at full speed toward the snake pit. As I approach it, I leap as hard as I can, clearing the gap completely. The floorboards clatter and clank underneath my feet as they slam down, rattling the entire barn. I sprint several more steps and leap off the platform, soaring into the wide-open sunlight. I land in the grass with a thud that shoots pain into my ankles. I ignore that and keep running as fast as I can, darting by the collapsing pool. Ahead, I can see my cousins.
“What ya running for, Annie,” Kade yells as I approach at light speed.
I’m winded so I take a few deep breaths and notice my cousin, Stan, he’s only a few months younger than Scott, has a bloody rag held up to his nose. He don’t talk much ‘cause he got a stutter, so he usually just starts swinging his fists when things get testy and they often end up catching Scott’s chin or kidneys. Scott’s shirt is torn ragged at the neck. They been fist fighting again. Momma gonna be so mad. I suck in a few breaths as Stan shoves Scott yelling, “You can screw off to L-L-L-Lometa!”
Scott shoves him back, “No you can jack off to Lometa, dummy!”
“There’s a man in the barn!” I holler when I’m finally able to form the words. They all frown.
Scott jerks his head toward me, “What?”
Steven squints his left eye and spits on the ground next to his foot then kicks dirt over it. One time Kade shoved him into the Grandpa’s workbench. He been squinting that eye ever since though it ain’t been swollen since last summer. He’s Stans brother and the second oldest of my boy cousins, only younger than Kade. “What ya mean there’s a man in the barn?”
I’m not gonna tell them it’s Grandpa, they’re just gonna have to see for themselves. “He’s there. In the barn,” I say as I point back to the barn.
They look at each other skeptically, “Who?”
“A man!” I yell, exasperated.
Moments of doubtful silence follow and then finally Kade shrugs, “Let’s go check it out,” he says as he hops off the wall, crushing the Mountain Dew can in his hand as he tosses it to the side.
Scott and Steven quickly hop off the wall to follow him, but Stan hesitates as he wipes the blood from his nose. He rolls his head to the sky, mouths a few curse words, then hops off the wall to catch up to the other three.
I hesitate for a moment as I watch them make their way, passing Grandpa’s pool, walking in unison in a horizontal line. I jog to catch up, but stay a few steps behind.
“I’m n-not going in there,” I hear Stan mutter. “ss-shit’s hau-haunted.”
“No it’s not, wuss,” Kade snaps back. “It’s just falling apart ‘cause ain’t no one take care of it these days. Grandpa did ‘til he fell off that roof or whatever and couldn’t walk right no more. Now it’s a dump.”
As we approach, Kade points at the others, silently instructing them. They split up, each going to a different side of the barn. I can’t see them, but I know which entry each is likely using. Steven is entering on the west side, which is the back door. It’s creaky, so anyone inside will definitely hear him coming. Scott’s taking the south side, nearest to me. Here the ground sinks down the furthest, causing the barn foundation to stand up higher off the ground than all the other sides. He’ll have to jump onto the slab and enter where two vertical slats have fallen off. Stan shoves his bloody rag into his back pocket. He’s taking the east side, which is the normal, wide-open front entrance where I entered earlier. Kade will be on the far side, entering through a panel that hasn’t completely fallen off thanks to a single rusted nail.
I wait outside as they all disappear. I’d go too but I don’t want them gettin’ onto me about bein’ in the way. Several silent moments pass. I hear some faint bumping and clattering from inside before they each slowly emerge and reassemble in front of me.
“No one in there,” Kade says to me, shaking his head.
“What’d ya see?” Steven asks.
I frown, “I saw a man; he was wearing dirty work clothes and work gloves. His sleeves were rolled up.”
Stan shakes his head, blood still crusted in the corner of his nose.
“Like Grandpa,” I insist with a nod.
Scott’s eyebrows pull together in a frown. “Like Grandpa?” he scoffs and glances to the boys on either side of him. “How you know what Grandpa looked like?”
I shrug ‘cause that seems like a strange question. Everyone knows what their grandpa looks like, don’t they? I think for several moments. I guess I’ve only ever seen two pictures of Grandpa. But should I not know?
“You ain’t know Grandpa,” Scott says. “You weren’t even alive when he died.”
“We knew him,” Steven chimes in, motioning to himself and the others. “Not you,” he finishes.
I feel my eyes watering up and my throat stiffening cause his words sounded mean.
“Shut the hell up, man,” Kade snaps at Steven, slapping his shoulder.
I push the cryin’ away. I don’t care what they say. I can know him too. I stare at the barn behind them. When he ain’t out somewhere workin’, he’s in there. They just don’t know ‘cause they’re always too scared to go in there.
My cousins look at each other for a few moments. Scott stares blankly ahead. Then Kade finally says, “Some dude was probably in there tryin’ to steal our shit and then ran off when he saw her.”
“Good,” Steven huffs, his eye squinted. “Let him take that shit. Less junk for us to haul to the dump one day.”
They push by me, heading back to Grandma’s house. I hover behind, because what Steven said gots me thinkin’. Gots me thinkin’ that its weird that someone could do something bad to you, like stealin’ your shit, but it really not be a bad thing because you ain’t wanted the shit anyway. My eyebrows pull together.
“Let’s go, Annie,” Kade hollers behind him. “Your momma don’t like you in there.”
I hesitate for a few more seconds. It was Grandpa in there, I know it.
“Come on!” Kade yells again. “You look like you been swimming in the pond. Your momma gon’ be mad as hell!”
I give the barn one last look, scanning for movement, and then swing around to catch up with the boys.
Excellent first chapter! I In my head, I was reading this with an accent - which is a testament to how well you used language to bring the characters to life. And I loved this line: "...they’ll scatter every direction like a gust of wind whipping into a loose bundle of dog hair."
I’m 100% intrigued. What luscious descriptions. Novels or stories which indicate specific dates add an exciting flair as I see it! The settings will remain vividly in my mind.