All
Fall Down
by Tim Waggoner
He was being
followed. He was sure of it. A white slash of a face seen
out of the corner of his eye, an animal tingling on the
back of his neck. He whirled, hoping to catch whoever it
was in the act, but there was nothing. Nothing but sidewalks,
empty save for a scattering of brittle autumn leaves, nothing
but station wagons and vans parked in driveways, their owners
safe and snug within their small, comfy suburban homes.
Nothing but trees in the yards and along the street, full
of yellows, reds and browns, leaves dead and dying, barely
clinging to their limbs, ready to fall to earth and decay.
Probably just
my imagination, he thought.
Plenty of places
to hide, his mind whispered in reply.
He considered
that for a moment before finally shrugging and moving on.
If he was being followed, it was probably just some kid
playing hide and seek with a stranger. Whoever it was would
tire of the game soon and go find something more exciting
to do, watch TV, play a video game.
What if it's
not a kid? What if it's something else? Images and sensations
flashed through his mind. Grinning face; cold, rough hands;
sour breath; and dry, dead leaves dancing slow in the air.
Sweat erupted
all over his body and he began trembling. He clamped his
eyes shut and forced the images away, pushing them down
into the darkness where they belonged. When he at last opened
his eyes, the trembling had ceased. He had forgotten all
about the images and the thought that triggered them, as
well as the person who might or might not be following him.
He continued
down the sidewalk, resisting the urge to whistle because
it was such a cliché. It was good to be home.
Home was Ash
Creek, Ohio, and Kevin Chapman hadn't been back for nearly
fifteen years. Not since moving his mother to a "retirement
village" over in Kelton after his dad's funeral. Some things
had changed, of course. Most notably, Kevin. He was thirty-two,
a lifetime away from the little boy who used to run up and
down these streets, laughing and shouting with his friends,
always on the lookout for excitement, always getting into
trouble.
Satellite dishes
had sprouted in backyards, and the streets held more potholes,
the sidewalks more cracks. The houses seemed smaller and
dingier than he remembered, and too many of them needed
painting. But otherwise, it was the same as always. Isn't
that what home was supposed to be?
Kevin tucked
his hands in the pockets of his yellow windbreaker. Despite
being a sunny day, there was a bit of a chill in the air,
a small, crisp taste of approaching winter. Fall had always
been his favorite time of the year. There was something
about the season that was somehow alive and vital, despite
the fact that the whole world was getting ready to sleep
through the coming cold. There was an energy in the air,
as if nature wanted to get in as much living as it could
before being forced to slumber.
As he turned
the corner onto McKitrick Street, there was a flurry of
movement and sound and he was nearly bowled over by three
kids racing along the sidewalk. He jumped out of the way
just in time, almost falling into a hedge in the process.
The children streaked off in a gale of laughter, no apologies,
no acknowledgment that he even existed. He smiled as he
remembered what it had been like. Adults had barely existed
to him, too, at that age. They inhabited a remote, gray
world of jobs and taxes, of bills and worries. A world he
now knew far too well.
He watched the
kids run off to meet the thousand adventures which awaited
them. Two boys and a girl, not one over ten. Arms and legs
pumping, hair flying in the breeze. Kevin took a deep breath
and fancied his lungs filled with the smells of clean sweat
and soap: the wonderful, life-affirming scent of child.
As he watched
them depart, Kevin felt a dull ache within his soul and
wished that he could join them. But childhood was long gone
for him, never to return.
A vision flickered
on the edge of sight, a white face, a grin. Kevin bade it
begone and continued down the sidewalk, the sweet smell
of youth lingering in his nostrils.
Kevin let his
feet take him wherever they would and before too long they
led him down a certain street, a very important street.
Part of his mind -- but only a part -- was aware of the
figure following him, darting from tree to tree, squatting
behind cars, a figure that capered excitedly as Kevin continued
along toward a certain house, a very special house.
During every
autumn of his childhood, Kevin could always count on one
thing. He wondered ....
And there he
was, standing in the front yard, wearing the same lumberjack-plaid
jacket he always did, older by a good bit, but by the same
token, not looking that much different than he had fifteen
years ago. The old man, virtually a scarecrow of sticks
and twigs inside his bulky jacket, was bent over, raking
leaves into a small pile, although only a few leaves had
fallen yet, hardly enough to be worth tidying up. But that
was Mr. McNabb. If there was one thing he loved to do, it
was putter around in his yard.
The picture was
perfect, even down to the same old wood-handled, spread-fan
rake that Mr. McNabb always used. Still, Kevin couldn't
escape the feeling that some detail was missing, but he
couldn't quite figure out what. He decided whatever it was,
it didn't matter.
"Mr. McNabb!"
he called, and waved.
The old man looked
up, frown further wrinkling his features as he tried to
place his visitor.
Kevin left the
sidewalk and crossed the lawn to the old man.
"It's me, Mr.
McNabb. Kevin Chapman. Remember?"
At the sound
of Kevin's name, the old man's face brightened, his slack,
thin features transforming into the good-natured, grandfatherly
face Kevin had so loved as a child. "How could I forget?"
He set his rake down on the ground and shook Kevin's hand
heartily, the bony fingers full of surprising strength.
"My God, it's been what? Ten years?"
"More like fifteen,"
Kevin said.
"Fifteen years."
Mr. McNabb shook his head. "My God." He stepped back and
looked Kevin up and down. "Well, sir, you're certainly a
far cry from the skinny kid I used to know."
Kevin laughed,
a sound echoed by a high-pitched giggling coming from behind
the old oak in Mr. McNabb's yard. Kevin pretended he didn't
hear it.
Kevin ruefully
patted his too-soft belly. "No one's called me skinny for
years."
Mr. McNabb laughed.
"Happens to the best of us, son."
Again the giggle,
louder now. Kevin had a hard time convincing himself he
hadn't heard it. If Mr. McNabb was aware of the sound, he
gave no sign.
"So what brings
you back to Ash Creek after all this time?"
Kevin hesitated.
What had brought him here? The end of his marriage? Getting
too close to forty? Or just simple nostalgia?
"Visiting your
folks?" Mr. McNabb supplied helpfully.
Kevin gratefully
latched onto the convenient explanation. "Yeah," he lied.
He hurried on before Mr. McNabb could ask him how his dead
father was, or inquire after the health of his mother who,
in the nursing home, might as well be dead. "So, how are
you, Mr. McNabb?"
"Fine, fine."
"And Mrs. McNabb?"
"The Missus is
inside baking cookies or a cake or somesuch. Whatever it
is, it's guaranteed to be so sweet it'll rot your teeth
out."
Kevin laughed,
louder this time to cover up any giggling that might come
from behind the tree. "I don't know how many times I've
heard you say that."
Mr. McNabb smiled.
"Too many, probably."
"Do the boys
still come around for Mrs. McNabb's treats, like we used
to?"
"Not really.
They've all grown up and moved on, like you. And not too
many young couples move to Ash Creek. It's become an old
town full of old farts like me."
Every town has
a place where the children congregate, a park where they
play, a pond they throw stones into, a special house where
they're always welcome, always given treats and, depending
on the season, something warm or cold to drink. In Ash Creek,
that place was the McNabbs'.
Some of the happiest
memories of Kevin's childhood were of this place. Of munching
Mrs. McNabb's peanut butter squares, helping Mr. McNabb
rake leaves into piles, Kevin running, jumping, Mr. McNabb
watching and laughing, leaves scattering everywhere, then
he and Mr. McNabb raking again, starting the whole process....
Bone white face
and nasty leer. Hot breath and frigid fingers. Throaty promises,
whispered threats.
Kevin blinked
as the images receded back into the depths of his mind.
Off to the side, peeking out from behind the trunk of the
oak, was a glimpse of white, a hint of distorted smile.
Imagination.
Kevin vowed not to look at the oak again.
"We had some
good times, didn't we Kevin?" Mr. McNabb said wistfully.
Kevin nodded.
"We sure did."
He didn't know
what else to say, then, tried to summon memories he might
share with the old man, but there was nothing specific,
just a series of random pictures. Building snow men and
snow forts, playing tag in the yard, running and through
icy sprinkler jets every summer. Going down to the basement
with Mr. McNabb to help him work on the models he so loved.
Ships and planes, cars and tanks. It didn't matter what,
for Mr. McNabb always gave his models away to the kids --
his kids he called them -- when he was finished. He just
enjoyed the process of putting all those parts together.
Kevin heard a
door open and shut and there was Mrs. McNabb on the porch.
She was wrapped in a light blue sweater, hands tucked under
her arms. Her hair was a bright white and she seemed far
more frail than Kevin remembered, almost as if she were
made of paper and bits of wood, no more substantial than
any of Mr. McNabb's models.
"Can I help you?"
she called, her voice quavery, from fear, age or both, Kevin
couldn't tell.
Kevin waved and
started toward her. "Hi, Mrs. McNabb. It's me, Kevin Chapman.
I used to come around here when I was a kid."
She smiled, said,
"Yes, of course," and gestured for him to come closer.
Kevin walked
up the stairs, stopping two down from Mrs. McNabb so he
would be at her eye level.
"My, my, how
you've grown, Kevin."
From the way
she said his name, Kevin wasn't sure if she remembered him
specifically or if she had just lumped him in with the dozens
of other children who had made the McNabbs' house their
special place over the years. He decided it didn't really
matter.
"You look great,
Mrs. McNabb."
She laughed without
hint of embarrassment and her old, moist eyes twinkled.
"Your mother fell down on the job, Kevin. She was supposed
to teach you not to lie. By the way, how is your mother?"
Kevin didn't
want to get into it, but after her joke about lying, he
found himself telling her a shortened version of the truth.
Mrs. McNabb clucked
her tongue and shook her head when he was finished. "Such
a shame. I thank God every day I still have my health. Especially
now that I don't have anyone to look after me anymore."
Kevin glanced
at Mr. McNabb who had gone back to placidly raking leaves.
Before he could reply, Mrs. McNabb added, "It's been rough
on me the last few months, ever since Owen passed on. But
lucky for me, I still have a sister who comes by now and
again, and her boy. He doesn't visit as often as I like,
but he's good about fixing things for me, doing the yard
work, that sort of thing. With their help, I get by well
enough."
Mr. McNabb's
rake hissed through the grass.
Kevin didn't
know what to say. Maybe she was senile, had Alzheimer's
or something.
"Would you like
to come in for a bit? There's a pumpkin pie in the stove.
I'm not quite the cook I used to be, can't read the recipes
too well, all those small letters, but I don't think it'll
taste too bad."
Kevin thanked
her, but said he should be going, he still had to get over
to Kelton to see his mother. Which was a lie; he had no
intention of visiting his mother, couldn't stand the place
and its smell of antiseptic and death. But he couldn't go
inside. He wanted to remember Mrs. McNabb the way she was,
not like this.
"You're a good
boy for visiting your mother," she said. "You take care,
now."
Kevin mumbled
for her to do the same and then she shut the door and was
gone. He stood on the porch for a moment longer before heading
back out into the yard and Mr. McNabb.
The old man didn't
look up from his raking. "You and the Missus have a good
talk?"
"Yeah," was all
Kevin could think to say.
Mr. McNabb nodded.
The white-faced figure came out from behind the oak tree
and leaned against it. Kevin had to force himself not to
look at it.
"Tell me, son,"
Mr. McNabb said, his attention still on his work, "why did
you really come back here?"
Kevin opened
his mouth to answer and then he realized he didn't know.
He'd just gotten up this morning in the crappy one-room
apartment that he laughingly called home, took a shower,
dressed, and got in his car and started driving. He had
no destination in mind, just felt the need for motion. And
after a couple of hours he had ended up in Ash Creek.
"No idea?" Mr.
McNabb said. "Then let me clue you in, Kevvy." He looked
up then, a strange light dancing in his eyes. "Kevvy," he
repeated, saying it slowly this time, as if tasting both
syllables and finding each delicious. "I always loved calling
you that. Of course, I only said it down in the basement.
With you."
Something large
and dark shifted beneath the surface of Kevin's thoughts,
something that had been sleeping for quite some time and
was now threatening to wake.
"You're here
because I called you," Mr. McNabb said.
Kevin glanced
sideways at the figure with the white face. It had left
the oak tree and was slowly sidling across the grass toward
them, its long, thin limbs bending in ways arms and legs
weren't supposed to, its grin a hideous black gash in all
that white. Suddenly feeling dizzy, Kevin turned back to
Mr. McNabb.
"I don't --"
Musty air, hard
hands, stale hot breath on the back of his neck as a thick
voice rasped out a single word.
"Kevvy ...."
The memory was
echoed by a different voice, this one coming from just behind
his right ear. Its breath was cold, the cold of dying earth,
of coming winter, and he knew it came from the thing with
the white face. He felt hands on his shoulders, the fingers
long and twisted like twigs.
Mr. McNabb bent
down and picked up a handful of leaves from the pile at
his feet and held them before Kevin.
"Each of these
is a child, Kevvy-boy. A child caught at its most beautiful,
in that brief time between childhood and adolescence, between
innocence and knowing." He took a leaf, this one yellow
with streaks of red. "Michael Goodell. He made the most
delightful whimpering sounds." He placed the leaf on his
tongue -- a tongue which was bone white -- and closed his
mouth, chewed and swallowed.
He took another,
this one caramel brown. "Bradley Jonson. His tears were
so salty." Chew, swallow.
The third leaf
was a deep, dark red. "You, Kevvy-boy. Of all my children,
you were my favorite. Do you know why?"
The skin around
the edges of Mr. McNabb's face began to flake.
"Do you?" the
old man insisted and the twig-hands on Kevin's shoulders
tightened.
"No," Kevin's
whispered reply came in a little boy's voice.
Mr. McNabb grinned,
the smile stretching so far that the corners of his mouth
split open. He stroked Kevin's chin with the dark red leaf.
"Because you liked it, Kevvy. Because you always wanted
more."
"No." A denial
this time.
The skin on Mr.
McNabb's forehead began to peel away. Beneath it was ivory
white. McNabb gripped Kevin's face and squeezed until his
mouth opened, and then the old man placed the dark red leaf
on Kevin's tongue. Reflexively, Kevin chewed. There was
a salty-sour taste, and when he swallowed, what went down
was slick.
"Oh, yes." McNabb
released the remaining leaves; they drifted slowly to the
ground, as if falling through water. The old man reached
up, took hold of the flap of forehead, and pulled the rest
of his face away. Beneath it was the leering white face
of a clown. The leering white face of the thing that was
no longer behind him.
"Remember me?"
Kevin did remember
now, the one detail that he had forgotten earlier, how every
fall when Mr. McNabb raked leaves, he always wore a clown
mask, a cheap plastic thing he had picked up at the drugstore
one Halloween to amuse the kids. His kids. Some people marked
the beginning of fall by a date on the calendar, some by
when school began. In Ash Creek, the people marked it by
when they first saw Mr. McNabb out in his yard, wearing
his clown mask and raking leaves.
Only it turned
out the clown face hadn't been the real mask, Kevin realized.
The clown dropped
the sagging bit of flesh that had been Mr. McNabb's face
on the ground next to the pile of leaves.
"I called you
here, Kevvy-boy," the clown said in its jolly voice, "because
the Missus and I never had any children of our own. And
of all my boys, you were my favorite. The closest thing
I had to a son.
"I can't leave
this world yet. There are so many children left for me to
know. And you're going to help me, Kevvy. You see, I know
your secret." The clown leered and winked broadly. "I know
why your wife left you, why she took your son away."
Kevin shook his
head.
"Seems she didn't
like the little games you played with her boy. Such fun
games, too, far more inventive than mine ever were. You
have a real flair for this sort of thing, Kevvy."
"I didn't ...
I would never ...."
"Come now, Kevvy.
Let there be no lies between us. We're about to become very
close, you and I."
The dark thing
inside Kevin came free and he remembered skin softer than
cotton, softer than a cloud, remembered the dizzying, intoxicating
scent of girl child.
"Welcome home,
Kevvy." The clown reached its twig fingers out to him and
Kevin screamed.
When the clown
was gone, Kevin stood for a moment as a cold wind blew through
the yard, sending leaves swirling into the air. Looked like
it was going to be an early winter this year.
He bent down
and picked up the fleshy mask Mr. McNabb had discarded,
a mask whose features were now of a much younger man, and
sealed it against the ivory white flesh of his true face.
He then turned and started down the street, leaves falling
all around him, each one a child he hadn't met yet.
He couldn't wait.
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