Chapter Text
January gusted in upon South Ashfield ungracefully that year. Swollen white clouds pregnant with snowfall buried the sun and stars at every hour. The world had turned colorless. Frank Sunderland awoke to the blaring beep of his bedside clock’s alarm and the sound of garbage trucks clanking about their business. He cursed and wiped drool from his mouth, coughed from deep within his chest. He had only a moment to wonder why he’d set it for such an early hour before remembering the million reasons why he’d had no choice. He needed to go down to the basement and take a look at the furnace, which always acted up when the temperatures dipped. It was a Tuesday, so he always helped the elderly couple on the top floor with their grocery shopping (despite his white hair, he didn’t see himself as truly ‘elderly’ yet). Then there was the new tenant moving in today … to Room 302, no less.
A jolt ran through Frank as unbidden memories of that apartment rose in his sleep-fogged mind. Before he knew it, he was ambling towards the closet. As if still dreaming, he opened the loose panel in its ceiling and retrieved a red shoebox. Beneath the odor of dust, old coats, moth balls, and decay, he swore he could still smell a hint of new baby fragrance. It was a delusion born of memory, he knew, but it comforted him. Beneath the old bad memories, he still had some good ones.
Frank opened the shoebox and unwrapped the sliver of discarded flesh. A funny thing, the umbilical cord. That one string connected two lives, fed creation, was the most important thread a human being would ever be attached to … only to be severed and thrown away without a second thought.
I wonder why we didn’t keep James’? Oh, right. The hospital had already thrown it away by the time I thought to ask. Ironic, my having this instead of his. Was that bad luck? Maybe I really should have gotten rid of it … but I still can’t.
Frank touched the papery dried thing and then wrapped it back up in the shoebox paper, yellowed now, and cotton gauze pads. He returned the red box to its hiding place in the ceiling and left the closet. He didn’t like this dreamy feeling, it reminded him of the drugs he’d taken to get through being overseas during the war. Those drugs … he’d seen far too many things when he was on them, yet he still felt he hadn’t seen enough. The lure of them had haunted his first months back home, beckoning back to the other side of hell. If it hadn’t been for his wife, he didn’t know what might have happened to him.
I need coffee.
Frank put a fresh pot on to brew while he went to the bathroom. His hand shook as he put toothpaste on his toothbrush. No joint pain today, though. He was luckier than a lot of guys his age. He could still take care of the building without much help, handle the stairs on a good day, and go out to do his shopping. Cutting back on the booze back when had been a wise decision, although he felt tonight would be a night for drinking. Something about the new year and the weather … Room 302 going to be occupied again … it was all strangely ominous …
Frank felt better after a steaming cup of black coffee, so much so that he poured himself a second. It was going to be a long day, so he made the effort of scrambling up a couple eggs, some canned beef hash, and buttering toast to go with it. One of the benefits of being the superintendent of an apartment building was that if you helped people out, they were usually willing to give you a hand now and then. After his wife died, a lot of the ladies living around at the time had given him cooking lessons now and then. He’d never be a world-class chef, but he’d learned enough to keep himself and his son well fed. He thought he was a little too well fed, although his doctor said his weight was fine, and James certainly had grown up strong. A little lanky, but tall as you could want. A strong kid, too. Although lately, he should cut down on the booze himself.
I’ll tell him when I—
Frank frowned at the phone on the kitchen wall. Every day, he waited for it to ring. Every day, he was disappointed. When would he speak to his son again? Why hadn’t he called? God forbid, but he knew that his poor daughter-in-law should have passed by this time. He didn’t want that news, but any word from James would be welcome. He just wanted to hear the boy’s—no, the man’s—voice again.
Frank’s mind wandered until he’d finished his meal and coffee. He put all the dishes in the dishwasher, stretched, yawned, and went to get dressed for the day. His stomach churned a little from the extra coffee, so he drank two glasses of water before leaving. Of course, he had to piss again after that. The bladder was the most annoying part to show its age, but better a weak bladder than weak bowels. Everything started to get relative once you passed forty. Had to be grateful for whatever still worked at all, he figured.
Frank spent about half an hour tending to the furnace. Fortunately, he didn’t think he’d need to call anyone in for repairs, it was still doing all right—like him. Cheap building owners had gotten rid of the permanent maintenance staff a few years ago, and they gave him hell whenever there was a problem he couldn’t solve. He missed the little family that used to live across the hall from him, having a partner that would help out. He wondered what had happened to them. He remembered the father had been disillusioned with America, was thinking about moving back to … Where had they immigrated from? He couldn’t even remember anymore. Where did time go, anyway? Now he understood why people compared it to a tide, sweeping moments and people away as it pleased. Cruel and cold as the sea.
Frank was relieved that he wouldn’t have to help the old couple with their grocery shopping this week. It turned out their deadbeat son had finally come around to help out. He hoped the guy would turn his life around and stop neglecting his parents. Too bad kids never realized time’s value until it was too late.
I wonder if James realizes it now? With his poor wife and all. No, not yet, it’s too soon. First you have to piss away even more time drinking. Otherwise the time slows to a crawl, crawls right over your skin. Every moment alone eats away at you. And James doesn’t have any kids to help him keep track of the time being wasted. But he’s still got me. I need to tell him. If I could just make him understand … I know how it goes, I know the score … I … I know. I just want to tell him that I know.
Frank had nothing else to do, so he spent some time checking in on the tenants that didn’t mind. Some tenants just wanted to be left alone until there was a problem, others liked to know the super was looking after them, and some were plain lonely. Frank was finding it harder and harder to deny that he was one of the lonely ones. He appreciated the little bullshit chitchat more, spent more time with the lone tenants (especially if they were ‘of an age’), and found himself often touched nearly to tears by the sight of young families with children. He was glad to be up early today. It was nice watching parents walk their kids out to the bus stop, or the older kids guiding the younger along with them. Every blonde little boy reminded him of James, towheaded little thing that he was. When he was very young, James used to act like the whole building belonged to them. Frank had enjoyed how much power the boy had endowed him with, hadn’t had the heart to let him know being the superintendent didn’t actually make him ‘super’. Frank was the hero of the boy’s whole little world back then.
Frank wanted a beer badly today, but it wasn’t noon yet. He waited outside in the parking lot for the new tenant, letting the cold wind beat some sense into him. All it did was make him miss cigarettes, but he didn’t want to risk his lungs. He hadn’t had a smoke since he’d gotten cigars passed around the bar to celebrate James’ birth. His wife hadn’t been angry, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want the faintest whiff of smoke around the baby once they brought him home. Frank would have given up breathing air if she’d asked it of him back then.
Frank was surprised when a taxi pulled into the parking lot. It could only be the new tenant, but most people from outside the city rented a truck or, most commonly, had their own vehicle. Frank went over to the cab to greet the tenant, trying to recollect the brief conversation they’d had over the phone. The guy had sounded young, a little shy, but clearly used to independence. He wasn’t picky about what he was looking for in a new place, but he wanted to know all the downsides to the building flat out. Frank was an honest man, so he’d mentioned South Ashfield Heights’ most prominent flaws. He was surprised the guy agreed to rent the place, and figured he must be single. Men with wives or important girlfriends were usually forced to be more discerning.
At first glance, Frank decided that his initial impressions had been spot on. The tenant was slightly older than Frank had imagined, but certainly under thirty. His disheveled appearance and painfully small amount of luggage marked him as a single man. He was a bit frazzled from a long drive, but his clear, clever eyes were alert. Frank introduced himself. He was grateful when the tenant spoke his name, which he’d forgotten from the phone conversation: Henry Townshend. The youth was considerate, but he couldn’t manage his six suitcases alone. They split the biggest ones between them, the rest were easy to shoulder. Henry thanked Frank politely. Frank decided to add “well-raised” to his mental image of the new tenant. It helped to keep tabs on who was what when you managed a building, and he’d learned some of the basics of profiling from one of his old friends.
“Not from the city, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Locals don’t use cabs anymore is all.”
“Cheaper than a truck.”
“Heh. You have good sense.”
“Thank you.”
“Good manners, too. I always tried to instill that in my son. He’s about your age, in fact.”
The hallway light flickered as they waited for the elevator. There was a slight buzz as the fluorescent bulbs glowed back to dim white life.
“Don’t worry,” Frank said quickly. “I replace the bulbs as they go. It’ll be taken care of this evening.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. The elevators didn’t even work in my last place.”
As if on cue, the elevator doors opened. They went inside and Frank sent them on their way up with the press of a button. Henry wasn’t put off by the dingy elevator, just let his eyes curiously take in every detail. He was very observant, which made Frank a little nervous. He glanced down at his coat and shirt, hoping there weren’t any obvious stains or tears on them. After the elevator ride, Frank decided he didn’t have much to worry about. Henry was more interested in the building than Frank. He went out into the hallway first, that sharp gaze darting this way and that. Frank felt the tingle in the back of his mind he always got when near that apartment, but Henry was unbothered
“Only been empty about six months,” Frank said. The keys jangled in his jeans pocket as he fumbled for them. A slight tremor in the hand again. He might want to move up the date of his yearly physical exam. “Last tenant left the furnishings. I cleared everything else out. Might have missed a couple things, I don’t know. It was a sudden departure. You said you don’t mind?”
“No, saves me the trouble of having furniture moved in,” Henry said. “How old did you say the building was?”
“Forty years. Built in the ‘60s.”
“Mm. Yeah. Yeah, I can see it.”
Frank managed to jostle the keys out of his pocket and unlock Room 302 without further struggle. They lugged in Henry’s meager belongings and set them down in the living room. Henry slowly made a round of the mid-sized open space, examining every little detail.
“Are you interested in architect or something?” Frank asked. “Afraid the place isn’t very unique in that sense, just another mid-level real estate investment from some big firm.”
“Oh, I’m just … Sorry, looking around is a bad habit of mine,” Henry said sheepishly. “Not just architecture or history, it’s the lighting, certain angles … I’m a photographer.”
“Really? That’s something,” Frank said. “You do the, uh, art stuff? Or magazines? Motion pictures?”
“A little bit of everything,” Henry said with a small, self-conscious laugh. “Whatever pays the bills. I didn’t say I was good.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’re fine. You know, my wife liked photography,” Frank said. He told himself he sounded like an old guy rambling, but Henry looked too curious for him to stop there. “Well, she liked scenic pictures, anyway. Still have the prints she ordered over the years on the walls in my place. My daughter-in-law took that to mean that I like them, too, I guess. She was always sending photo postcards to me … before she got sick. And she gave me a framed print of a place they went on a vacation a few years back. Silent Hill.”
“Silent Hill?”
The sharp interest in Henry’s voice took Frank by surprise. He’d been planning on cutting the conversation off and leaving, but Henry was staring at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and scratched it. He should’ve shaved earlier.
“Yeah, it was a kind of belated honeymoon,” Frank said. “I offered to pay for a honeymoon when they got married, but James wanted to do it on his own. Proud kid, my son. He said they couldn’t do much, but she said they had a great time over in Silent Hill. My own wife and I always planned to take James there on vacation when he was little, funny enough, but we never had the chance.”
Frank watched as Henry opened his largest suitcase on the sofa and removed a large black photo portfolio. He carefully rifled through it until he found some prints in stiff plastic sleeves. Frank came over and sat on the sofa beside the young man. There was a picture of a church, a lighthouse, and a bicycle. Frank glimpsed some smaller shots in the portfolio, but Henry didn’t move to expose these.
“I took these in Silent Hill,” Henry said. “I went there often when I was a bit younger. I really had a great time there, too.”
Frank was stricken by an inexplicable pang in his heart as he looked over the pictures. The memory of a steaming hot summer day in his apartment drifted through his mind, easing the apartment’s chill. Stiflingly hot, but he’d been happy to be visited by James and Mary. James had attentively watched her and kept her supplied with cold tap water while she went on and on about their vacation in Silent Hill. James had held her hand tightly. Frank clearly recalled the way his fingertips delicately traced the smoothness of her pink-painted nails. It was such a tiny, sweet thing. She was glowing so brightly that at first he’d suspected she was pregnant. It had turned out that she was feverish even then, had taken ill during the very last days of their trip. Nonetheless, her radiant joy that one summer afternoon was unforgettable.
“Hey, which one do you like best?”
Frank swallowed hard. When had his eyes gotten so hot? He blinked and the warmth preceding tears cleared. Sentimental old fool, he mentally chided himself. Still, he was too unguarded to answer untruthfully.
“The bike. It reminds me of my son.”
Frank thought of another summer day, when he’d taught James how to ride a kiddie bike for the first time. James already had his long limbs but he was still plump with baby fat. Only five years old. No, he was only four-and-a-half. Mrs. Sunderland had balked, but Frank couldn’t wait until the boy hit the big 0-5 to get him the bike. He still remembered how round the kid’s green eyes had been when he looked up at him with trepidation and hope. Another hot day, so James had only been wearing plastic sandals, a tee, and shorts. Later he would have a little trouble keeping his pants legs from catching on the pedals and chain, but that day he had no such issues. He was weirdly coordinated for such a young child, and focused with comical determination. Frank had found himself as nervous as his wife, needing to hover over James protectively, but that very day James managed to glide some yards here and there alone. Frank’s heart had swelled with pride. He wanted to vocalize all this, but he couldn’t bring himself to.
“Here, you can have it.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“I insist. I have a lot of prints, it’s not a big deal. And I back everything up digitally these days, too. Please, take it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Townshend.”
“Please, just ‘Henry’. That reminds me of dad too much.”
“All right, Henry. Call me ‘Frank’, too.” He looked over the print, gave the young man a nod. “That’s very decent of you. Hey, I have to go get lunch, take care of that bulb. But if you need anything, I’m in Room 105. My phone number is in the lease, too. I mean it, just let me know.”
“I appreciate that. Maybe … ah … When I get the rest of my prints delivered and everything, I could show you more. Not just of Silent Hill. If you want?”
Frank could tell the young man didn’t socialize much. James had become something of a lone wolf when he got older, too. As James himself said often, he would have been hopeless without his wife, Mary. Frank had been the same. Maybe this Townshend kid’ll find his leading lady here in Ashfield, Frank thought. He’s a good one. Meantime, I guess he could do worse than spending a few hours with his old super now and then.
“Sure, I’d like that. You have a good eye, Henry. These are very nice.”
“They’re okay. I was thinking of going back there someday, making a book out of the shots I could get,” Henry said. “But I have other work to do right now.”
“I’ve heard Silent Hill has gotten … a little weird.”
“It’s always been weird.”
“Dangerous, even.”
“Really?”
“You never heard about the drug scandal? Well, it was a short-lived story all the way back in the ‘80s. Investigation went nowhere.”
“I didn’t see any of that. But I just went to Old Silent Hill, mostly. I didn’t visit the big tourist spots,” Henry said. “I was pretty much by myself, just taking photos. It’s a very interesting place.”
“My daughter-in-law said it was special, yeah. … Yeah. Anyway, I need to get back to my work.”
“Of course. It was good to meet you, Frank.”
They stood and Frank shook Henry’s hand. Henry was surprised but returned a firm grip. When their eyes met, Frank glimpsed a hint of dreaminess under Henry’s acuity. Now he knew why the handsome youth was still alone. Being able to see the truth of the world and the dreams beneath it was a hell of a thing. Frank had tasted that while on drugs in the war overseas. Sometimes he still glimpsed it, and he hated it. His daughter-in-law Mary had some of the same perception, but she’d turned everything to the bright side somehow.
“Welcome to South Ashfield Heights, Henry.”
Frank was relieved that Henry Townshend had turned out to be a good guy, but the meeting had made him melancholy. He propped the plastic-sheathed photo of the bike up on his small square dining table, against a plastic-bagged loaf of bread. He looked at it while he made an instant meal for lunch and while he ate it. Then his eyes turned to the kitchen phone again.
Even when Mary was sick, she would use a few precious minutes of her good days to call Frank. They had always gotten along well. She maneuvered her way around Frank’s awkwardness as deftly as she did James’ taciturn nature, drawing both men out of themselves in the way only a good woman could. In her saucier youth, Frank’s wife had once joked that women not only delivered men’s babies, they also delivered their heads out of their asses. She denied she’d ever been so “vulgar” later on, but he’d always thought it was the funniest truism he ever heard.
God knows James needs his head delivered out of his ass sometimes, Frank thought, frustrated. Why doesn’t he call? If she’s too sick to pick up the phone, that’s not her fault. It’s on him to at least let me know things took a turn. I told him that I’d be there no matter what. If he needs me there at the end, I’ll be there. I want to be there for Mary. She’s a sweet woman. I love her as much as I’d have loved my own daughter! If she hasn’t called, it’s because she can’t. But why doesn’t he? And that last call … What the fuck was he talking about? Silent Hill … Silent … Hill … Damn it. I can’t take it. Just hearing the name of that town again … I have to do something. But what the hell can I do? Can’t drive out there, and I … I don’t know. I … I don’t … I can’t … Don’t even like cars, since the wife. Don’t like long drives. James knows that. Why doesn’t he just pick up the goddamn phone? Been months now … Months, and Mary … she was …
Frank left his half-finished lunch abruptly. He dumped his glass of water down the kitchen sink and got a beer out of the fridge. He popped the cap, took a bracing swig, and stomped over to the phone. He punched in James’ number so hard that he thought the buttons might break, but the ancient plastic thing had survived worse. He swore copiously when he was asked to leave a message. He hung up, thought a minute, then flipped through the Rolodex on the counter beside the phone. He’d mirthfully scoffed at the “office kitsch” his wife had gotten him as a Christmas present so long ago, but it had become invaluable over the years. He wondered how many numbers were from tenants long moved out, contacts long since dropped. How many numbers belonged to people long since departed? Ghosts in a Rolodex. It only took him a moment to find the contact he was looking for, though. He dialed the number and held his breath.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Doug. It’s me, Frank. How’re things?”
“Frank? Frank Sunderland? Hell, it’s been a few, hasn’t it? You know, things’re … I’m hanging in there. How are you?”
Frank was happy to hear his old friend’s voice again. Douglas Cartland sounded kind of rough, like he’d started drinking earlier than noon or never stopped since last night. Frank couldn’t judge, sipping his beer like there was no tomorrow. They enjoyed catching up and small talk for a while. Frank noticed that Douglas didn’t mention his own family once, and wondered. When James and Mary came up, Frank admitted that was his reason for calling. He and Douglas agreed to meet up that night at their usual South Ashfield place to talk. Their second usual place, that was. Their former usual place had closed years ago, like so many places now living only in their memories. Like so many people living only in their memories now …
Frank shook off a chill when he hung up the phone. He reheated his discarded food and finished it, grabbed another beer. The dying bulb in the hallway downstairs was forgotten.