It’s one o’clock in the morning.
I’m sitting under the lone light post in the parking lot behind the coffee shop.
Helen Trifauni is long gone. At the sight of hundreds of roaches crawling across the floor, she immediately headed for the exit. I pleaded with her, but what was I supposed to say? She left without a word.
I ran to the office, grabbed a binder from a shelf, and found the number for Envo Exterminators. These aren’t the guys who come to your house to take care of some ants. These are professionals who work in the food service industry. Most health boards give you a grace period of forty-eight hours to solve any violations they find during an inspection. You have to stay closed for those forty-eight hours, but if you can correct the problem, you can open back up, and keep your health grade. If not, you have to live with the health grade they give you, and as everyone knows, when you go out to eat, the difference between an “A” or a “B” on the door makes all the difference in the world.
This is so much worse than a health violation.
I would have rather have it happened during an inspection. Instead, I just watched millions of dollars walk out the door.
After I called Envo, I called Mrs Trifauni to explain that this had never happened before. She didn’t answer. I left messages, begging her to look at the years of pristine health inspections the shop had received. She didn’t respond.
I sat back in the chair in the office in stunned defeat. A cockroach ran across the keyboard. I swore, stood up, and decided to wait outside in the parking lot for Envo to arrive.
I’ve been sitting on the pavement with my back against the light post, my arms wrapped around my knees to guard against the cold. I’m still trying to process the fact that the dream of the franchise is over. Not only that, if this gets out in town, I may have lost everything.
The thing that finally drives it home is a text from Sandy.
Okay. I can’t wait until tomorrow for you to tell me. You have to tell me now. How did it go?!!!
I don’t have the heart to answer.
The white van finally swings into the parking lot. There are no markings. These guys don’t advertise on the side of their van with cheesy graphics of bugs being zapped. They’re discreet professionals, and very expensive.
The van parks, and a crew of four men in white coveralls hop out. I catch a glimpse of the interior of the van through the open sliding door. It’s loaded with sprayers and bottles of chemicals. The driver, a big guy with a full beard, moustache, and hair pulled into a ponytail, walks up with a clipboard.
“Are you Jacob Reese?” he asks, consulting his clipboard.
“Yeah,” I reply, getting to my feet.
“I’m Kyle McGuire with Envo Exterminators and this is my team—Paul, Chuck, and Donnie.”
They nod in acknowledgment and I nod back, even though I’m not concerned with learning their names.
“Dispatch said you have a little bit of a roach problem?”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. Fatigue is crashing down on me. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“I understand, Mr Reese. If I was a restaurant owner, I wouldn’t be happy to see us, either, but we’ll take care of it. Just lead the way.”
I take them inside. I try to explain what happened and how freakish it all is. I’m sure they’ve heard it before and have yet to believe it.
The lights are on, so most of the roaches have gone for cover, but occasionally, one will sprint across the floor and disappear under a counter or behind the bag we use to collect the dirty cleaning rags. The men all have flashlights. As we proceed to the restaurant, they shine their lights into any darkened crevice they find, and small black shapes scatter. The team takes their time as we pass the shelves where we keep our large bins of coffee beans. I show them the refrigerators where we store our cream, milk, and other perishables.
I’m slightly comforted when I hear one of the crew, I think it’s Chuck, mumble something to the effect of, “This all looks good.”
We head out into the darkened restaurant. I’ve pulled all the blinds so no one can see inside. I flip the lights on.
“Oh, there they go,” Kyle says, as small shapes dart this way and that.
I notice him squint, like he’s confused.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
I lead them over to the corner booth.
“This is where it started. They came out of nowhere. It’s never happened before.”
Kyle gives me a sympathetic look. “Mr Reese, we’re not the health board. You can be straight with us. You can tell us if you’ve seen roaches in here before. It’s actually better if you do. It’ll help us do our job.”
“I’m dead serious. We’ve had ‘A’s on every inspection, and I have never seen a single ant in this place.”
“Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean you’ve never had them in here before.”
“I’m telling you, Mr McGuire—”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle. We’ve never had them.”
“Scout’s honor?” he says, attempting a joke that I’m not in the mood for.
“No,” I reply. “And it’s been a very long day, and I just lost an unbelievable amount of money, so I’m not really—”
“Okay, okay, okay. I understand. I’m sorry to hear it. Listen, we’ve got everything we need. Go home and get some sleep. We’ll take it from here. I’ve got your number, and if I have any questions, I’ll give you a call.”
I’m so tired, all I can do is nod, turn around, and leave.
*
It’s past two in the morning when I finally arrive home. I can’t remember ever feeling so miserable—well, once but it’s been years.
“Murphy?” I call out, walking through the door.
He doesn’t answer.
I’ve left him alone for almost twelve hours. I’m a little concerned as to what I might find.
Sure enough, in the kitchen, I find a tight coil of dog shit in the corner and a puddle of urine. I go to the study, and he’s lying on his bed, facing the wall. He turns to look at me with the most guilty, apologetic eyes.
“Not your fault, buddy.”
*
Murphy waits in the entrance to the kitchen, his head hanging in shame, as I clean up his mishap. I don’t know how to tell him I’m not mad. Twelve hours without a toilet, I’d find a corner, too.
Once I’m done, the kitchen aroma is a cocktail of disinfectant and feces. I take the garbage bag out to the bin in the driveway. Murphy follows, carrying his red tennis ball as a sort of peace offering.
Instead of going back inside, I sit down on the porch. Murphy sits in front of me, head lowered, tennis ball in mouth. I scratch behind his ears.
“It’s okay, Murphy.”
He drops the ball and it pathetically bounces on the ground.
I pick it up and toss it onto the lawn. He chases it down by the porch light, and brings it back. We repeat the process a few times, and I start to think about this evening.
The franchise is over. There’s no salvaging that. These past few days are a nightmare. It can’t be a coincidence, can it? But how? How can the events of the past few days have any connection to what happened in the store?
My phone pings with a text. It’s Sandy.
Okay, you’re not answering. I’m worried. I’m not sleeping tonight. Call me as soon as you get this.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to tell her but I don’t want to lie—
“—but you’ve been lying. You’ve been lying this whole time,” Laura said.
We were sitting on a bench in the quad outside her dorm. Some guys were throwing a football on the grass.
Laura and I had hit a wall. We were closed off to one another, at least I was, and it had a lot to do with the news article I had read a few days earlier about a shootout in Lyndon, near the campus, that left five people dead. Among the casualties was Mattie. Reggie had made his move and had been successful, despite my repeated warnings through text messages and phone calls over the last few days to Mattie leading up to the shootout, which had gone unanswered.
I was shaken. Mattie and I weren’t necessarily friends but I didn’t want him to die and I tried to save him. I was getting out—completely out. I didn’t care about the rest of my student debt. I’d find the money somewhere else. I didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with relationship stuff. I didn’t want to lose Laura but I couldn’t tell her what happened. I needed more time. Instead of being honest, I was being defensive.
“What about you?” I said, lamely trying to shift the blame. “You’ve got something you’re not telling me.”
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“You can trust me, okay?”
“No, I can’t, and I need to tell you if we’re going to keep going with this,” she said, glancing around the quad, avoiding eye contact.
I had seen this before. The worry. The fear of opening up. She wanted to tell me that she loved me. I had been in my head, but I had noticed that she seemed more nervous as of late. She wanted to open up.
“Do you want me to say it first?” I asked.
She whipped her head around to look at me. “What?”
“I’ll say it first,” I offered, reassuringly.
She waited.
“I love you, too,” I said. It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a total lie. I did care for her. It just wasn’t love and I wanted to buy some time.
Her mouth hung open and her blue eyes shone, but not with happiness or relief.
“What?”
I awkwardly took her hand. “I love you, too.”
She continued to stare.
“That’s what you were afraid to tell me, right?” I asked. “Fine. I’ll be the first to say it—I love you.”
She looked hurt. No. Worse. She looked a little horrified.
I thought I was being cavalier. I was expecting a laugh, a sigh of relief, or a kiss—anything but that stunned expression.
“You thought I wanted to tell you—?” Her throat caught before she could finish her question. She stared down at the sidewalk, her eyes welling up with tears.
I leaned forward. “Hey—”
“I have to go.” She quickly stood and began walking away.
“Laura?”
She didn’t stop. From behind, I watched her wipe her eyes, and then jam her hands into the pockets of her coat.
“Laura?”
She never looked back, and I didn’t go after her.
“Heads up!” one of the guys called out, and the football skipped across the sidewalk near my feet.
Thump, thump—
—thump.
Murphy’s tennis ball bounces on the ground in front of me.
He looks at me expectantly, waiting for another throw, but I’m spent.
“That’s enough for tonight, Murphy.”
I take the ball, stand up, and head back inside.
I go upstairs, shower, brush my teeth, and crawl under the cool covers. I leave my phone on the nightstand in case the guys from Envo call.
Murphy doesn’t even “ask”. He simply hops up onto the bed and lies down. I don’t argue.
All I want to do is sleep, but for the next few hours, I stare at the ceiling.
*
I must have fallen asleep at some point because the sun is reaching through the curtains. I don’t feel like I’ve slept. Everything hurts. My eyes are dry and irritated. I roll over and check my phone. There are three more messages from Sandy, which I’m not going to answer. There are none from Envo.
I curse and throw off the sheets. I head downstairs for the only thing that is going to get me through the day—coffee. I sit at the table and drink two cups, black.
I have to answer Sandy’s messages, or she’s going to go to the shop. Reluctantly, I take out my phone and type.
Sorry I didn’t get back to you. It’s been a long night. I can’t go into it right now, but we’re going to be closed for a few days. Everything is fine. Everyone will get paid and I’ll let you know what’s going on when I get a little more info.
I put the phone down and wait. I know it’s coming. Sure enough, she calls. Callously, I reject the call. There’s a pause, and she calls again.
“Dammit, Sandy,” I groan and reject it, again.
The screen lights up with a voicemail.
I ignore it. I have to. It’s not fair to Sandy, but I’m so fried that there is nothing I can do. I can’t explain to her what happened, because I don’t even know. Once I get a call from Envo, I’ll get back to her.
I realize that I have no idea what to do with my day.
I look over at Murphy, who has just finished inhaling his breakfast.
“Come on, Murph. Time for a walk.”
*
Murphy pads along the path ahead of me, nose pressed to the ground, enjoying the freedom of being off-leash. At least someone’s enjoying the walk.
I thought the serenity of the woods would give me a chance to clear my head. Instead, it amplifies my thoughts. The events of last night and the last few days have to be connected. Someone’s messing with me. Laura’s messing with me.
“She’s dead,” I say aloud.
Murphy stops and looks back at me, wondering if I have given a command, and he hadn’t been paying attention. I keep walking, and he goes back to exploring.
I look up at the trees. The sun’s light slashes through the skeletal branches as I continue walking. Distant birds chirp. The cold wind hisses past my ears. We’re nearing The Sanctuary. It’s just over the ridge
“Laura’s dead,” I quietly repeat under my breath.
I know this because I watched her die. I watched it happen. I was there. I’m the only one who knows what happened. Then, how? It can’t be her … but people have seen her.
How is that possible?
“It’s not,” I say, louder.
Murphy stops, but not because I spoke. His tail is up. His head is cocked. I stop, too, scanning the trees for what has him so alert.
“Murphy?”
He twitches, like a sprinter anticipating the starter’s gun.
“What is it, Mur—?”
He takes off like a shot. There’s no playful bark, like when he pursues the ducks or chases after his ball. I’ve never seen him move so fast. He sprints down the path and up the ridge.
“Murphy!”
He doesn’t break stride as he disappears over the ridge. There’s one sharp bark that echoes off the trees and silences the birds.
“Murphy!” I call out.
The only sound is the wind.
“Murphy, here! Come on!”
No response.
I start taking quick strides, and then break into a run.
“Murphy!”
I crest the ridge and look off to the right, down the path to the entrance of The Sanctuary. I wait. There’s a horrible silence. I’m about to run down the path, when Murphy suddenly emerges from the pines. He races up the ridge, and darts past me. It’s so quick and startling, that I barely catch a glimpse of the stick in his mouth. He swings in a playful arc off the path, and begins another approach. He has what some people call “the zooms”.
I lean over and put my hands on my knees to catch my breath, unable to contain a small laugh from skipping out between my inhalations. I’ve been so keyed up, his sprinting is comical.
Murphy continues to weave in and out of the tree trunks, kicking up dead leaves in his wake. I can see now that it isn’t one stick in his mouth. He’s got a little bundle.
“Bring it here, Murph!”
Murphy races towards me. I reach out as he nears and he zags to the left, just out of reach. I get a better look at the bundle of sticks in his mouth and my heart stops.
“Murphy, come here!” I command.
My tone catches him. He trots over to me, still wanting to play, but noticing the change in my demeanor. I lean down and take hold of the bundle.
“Drop it.”
Murphy obeys.
I hold it up.
It’s not a bundle of sticks.
It’s a stick doll.
I stare down the path to the opening of The Sanctuary. The birds are still silent. Murphy waits by my side for me to throw it. Instead, I take out his leash, and clip the lead to his collar.
I advance slowly, trying not to make a sound. I’m holding my breath, listening for any sign. As I approach the opening to The Sanctuary, there’s no movement from the trees.
I stop and wait, staring into the darkened glen.
“Hello?”
There’s no response.
I step inside.
The breeze is muted by the dense pine needles overhead. The serenity that I cherished is now unnerving. The path to the clearing looks like it’s a mile long, but I can see it in the distance.
There’s something there, lying on the ground.
I slowly make my way down the path.
I’m thirty yards away when I hear it.
“No …” I whisper.
It can’t be. It’s not possible, but my mind automatically adds the words as the notes reach my ear …
Just close your eyes,
And you and I,
Will brave the dark and go dancing …
I quicken my pace.
The clearing grows larger. I see it, sitting in the middle of the clearing.
The music box.
Laura’s music box.
The tiny ballerina that mesmerized me all those years ago slowly turns as the melody fills the clearing. I approach it like it’s a snake about to strike. I crouch down and my stomach drops. Impaled on the arms of the ballerina is a dead cockroach. I carefully reach out, and close the lid. The music stops. Engraved on the top of the lid in intricate script are the letters “L.A.”.
There’s no mistake.
This is Laura’s music box.
My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding. I raise my head to look around and nearly cry out. I stumble backwards onto the ground and frantically crawl away until my back collides with the trunk of a tree.
Hanging in the trees are dozens and dozens of stick dolls.