On A Midnight Black Chessie

Publication History:

For the Night is Dark, edited by Ross Warren - March 2013

Things Slip Through, by Kevin Lucia - October 2013

Now

Bradley again turns onto the strange road bathed in the moon’s phosphorescent glow. He understands this place now. Understands what it is, where it came from, and how it came to be.

Ned sits on the passenger side, still drunk, forehead pressing the window as he gazes at the glowing scenery. “Wow. Am I awake or dreamin?”

“Neither,” Bradley whispers. “Or maybe both.”

Toward Ned he feels a resolved sadness. Bradley no longer hates him so much but rather pities him, for he’s caught up in something much larger than himself, much larger than Bradley or anything else, and is completely helpless in the face of it.

As Bradley is.

And as they drive down this softly glowing road, Ned continues to stare. “Geez. Don’ recognize this at all. We lost?”

“No,” Bradley says as he slowly pulls up to the glowing church at the road’s end. “Not at all.

“I’m home.”

Three Days Ago

Friday afternoon

1.

Bradley Sanders had pulled his office door shut and was in the process of locking it when he heard: “Hey, Brad. What’s up?”

He breathed deep, feeling his insides warm.

And he turned, smiling at Emma Hatcher, a colleague in the Mythology Department at Web County Community College. Young and vivacious but also highly intelligent, she’d proven very stimulating company this past year.

Very stimulating indeed.

He regarded Emma’s approach with surreptitious appraisal as she glided toward him. Not swinging her hips, exactly, but swaying in a graceful way that couldn’t be so plainly described as “walking.” She seemed more suited to Broadway than a backwater community college in the Adirondacks.

She smiled. “Heading home?”

He shuffled books and office keys and his satchel. “Well. Urm. Yes. And you..?” He nodded toward the exit, feeling both foolish and wonderful.

“Yeah. SO done with this place for now. Especially with summer session starting Monday.” She smiled. “Walk with me?”

He happily grinned like an idiot. “My pleasure.”

She fell in step with him. “Y’know, some folks from the other departments are meeting at the White Lake Inn tonight. An ‘end of the semester’ mixer around nine.”

She paused.

Offering him a gentle grin. “Of course, you’ll probably be too busy playing with your trains, I suppose.”

He snorted good-naturedly and looked down, heat rising past his collar. “I’ll have you know I enjoy many other stimulating pursuits besides model railroading.”

Her eyebrows raised.

Glistening, playful lips curving upwards. “Such as?”

“Well. Er. There’s perusing yard sales, especially the Commons Yard Sales. Browsing thrift shops. Of course, my studies. And… well…”

“Hah!” She bumped shoulders with him. He shivered, even at this platonic gesture. “Admit it. At heart, you’re a big kid obsessed with his train set.”

“Layout, Emma. It’s a model scale layout of Clifton Heights. A set you put under a Christmas tree for children to play with.”

She chuckled. “Methinks you’ve been working too hard on your layout. Bit overprotective, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s addictive, really. Like building my own world.”

“Well, Maestro… if you’re not too busy building your own world… tonight. Nine. See you, maybe?”

And with that they pushed through the exit into the sunny afternoon. Emma glided off toward her white Mazda Miata, looking over her shoulder, smiling, her eyes dancing.

He waved.

Grinning like a fool.

She grinned, waved back, gliding toward her car. She opened the door, tossed her purse and books and satchel inside and flicked him one more jaunty half-wave.

She got into her car and drove off.

While he stood there staring, satchel in one hand, books pinned under his arm, cursing himself delightfully for being a thousand times an idiot.

But a happy idiot.

Until he considered her parting rejoinder, and felt his joy recede.

if you’re not too busy

building your own world

Subdued, Bradley shuffled to his car.

Friday Evening

2.

Bradley’s train layout filled over half his basement, its wooden tablework skirted with blue cloth that just touched the floor. Underneath he stored his supplies and extra parts. Unused rolling stock: boxcars, flat cars, oil tankers, engines and cabooses. Boxes of automobiles. Unassembled houses, gas stations, stores and warehouses. Miles of track, assorted spare parts (organized into rectangular sorters), shakers filled with powdered terrain of all kinds: grass, dirt and gravel. Bags of shrubs and pre-assembled trees of every size and shape and color. Rolls of plaster, tubes of clay for landscaping. Miniature lights for homes and stores and churches.

Everything he needed.

Packed into green totes, stored neatly under the layout, behind the royal blue curtain.

Over the last few years, he’d spent hours casting plaster streets and roads and sidewalks, stringing electrical lines, aligning buildings to scale and landscaping hills and knolls, applying grass and dirt and gravel, bushes and trees where needed.

He’d spent hours down here.

Cocooned in the peace of his basement every night, or on afternoons like this one, and on holidays and weekends, also. Next to teaching and studying, modeling trains had become his love. An obsession, he freely admitted. He loved every inch of his layout, this version of Clifton Heights that only existed here. Loved it, as a Creator must love His world.

He smiled.

Claiming godship of a model train layout might be petty, but he’d take it.

What else did he have?

He forced himself not to think about that as he poured plaster into the roadbed he’d outlined with molding tape, branching a new road off Front Street, one that didn’t exist in real life, advancing into the layout’s last bare section, the final thing he needed to finish his world.

A section of Clifton Heights all his own, of his making.

Though he’d intended his layout to generally resemble Clifton Heights he’d tweaked his version in places. Most of his alterations were cosmetic, accounting for railroad tracks that didn’t exist in real life. And some buildings he’d moved around simply because he thought they looked better this way.

But that was fine. Realism wasn’t necessarily reality, after all. Realism offered its own reality.

This was his world, wasn’t it?

So he poured one last drop of plaster, picked up a flat length of balsam wood, placed it edge down over the newly-poured street and scraped the excess plaster off the road’s surface. He put the wood aside, grabbed the moist towel hanging from his belt and dabbed the plaster that had leaked under the tape. Tomorrow, he’d paint the road black, lay down some gravel for its shoulders and begin landscaping.

He dabbed away one last spot of plaster, stood and examined the new road. He tucked the damp towel under his belt and grunted, then turned to his workbench, where he’d laid out the buildings he intended on using. Six different styles of residential homes and a church.

But not just any church.

For he’d modified it. Removed the steeple’s cross, painted over marks of mainstream faith with a slate gray, because this was his church. This was his world, after all. This church should worship him.

He smiled. “The First Congregational Church of Brad,” he chuckled.

But of course he couldn’t name it after himself, so instead he’d decided to call it “The Church of Luna.” Dedicated to the various moon gods and goddesses he’d encountered in his studies. Which made wonderful sense, seeing as how tonight was May 5th, the month’s first full moon, which would last until Wednesday night.

His sigil? Carefully painted onto the front and back doors with a toothpick dipped into black paint, a pagan moon symbol:

And he knew exactly how he’d arrange things after he’d finished the road and surrounding forestry. Houses on either side, with varying-sized lawns, and the church at its end.

Yes.

A road leading to his church, The Church of Luna, because all roads in this world lead back to him. And, as a final touch, he’d already decided on a graveyard behind the church, framed by hills and a forest. Of course, many pagan beliefs favored cremation over burial but that didn’t matter. This was his world, one he’d built with his own hands, the product of his toil and care and sweat; his blood, too.

He could do what he pleased.

He glanced at the wall clock.

It read three.

He thought about breaking for an early dinner; reading from Edith Hamilton’s Mythology to prep for Monday. After, he’d cut wire mesh for the surrounding hills, mark out building plots and begin laying ground cover: lawns, shrubbery, and the forest. Perhaps he’d even tinker with The Church of Luna’s graveyard…

Or…

meeting at the White Lake Inn tonight

an ‘end of the semester’ mixer

around nine, you should come

if you’re not too busy building your own world

He rubbed his nose, staring at the completed sections of his layout, at its curving tracks, rolling hills, precise town blocks, brilliantly verdant lawns and forests, and that newly poured road, thinking about building and molding his world, also thinking about how loud and crowded it’d likely be at The White Lake Inn, how he’d much rather spend the evening here, making a world from nothing… but for Emma.

Emma, on one hand.

The train layout on the other.

Everyone needed variety. He was an adult, capable of balancing more than one interest, and he respected and liked Emma, wanted to be around her, learn more about her, maybe even…

take her to bed

… and he’d begun caring for her, personally. That he couldn’t deny.

But did she reciprocate?

Could she reciprocate and feel attracted to him? He was ten years older, stodgy, and spent all his free time building model trains, for goodness sakes. Their only common ground was mythology. The idea of a liaison between them seemed far-fetched. What if he revealed his feelings and she didn’t reciprocate?

He’d feel foolish. Also, if that ruined their pleasant friendship, he’d be devastated.

But what if she did reciprocate?

What then?

He bit his lip, staring at his layout for several more minutes, and then finally decided even a Creator could relax. God took a day off, didn’t He?

But as he left the basement, thrilling at the prospect of seeing Emma socially for the first time (even if in mixed company) he couldn’t repress a small guilty twinge as he shut off the basement lights, casting his unfinished world into darkness.

Friday Evening

3.

Bradley sat at the end of a table at The White Lake Inn, staring at nothing, sipping his Heineken occasionally, cursing himself, for the night had turned out exactly as he’d feared.

It had begun fine. Emma, excited to see him, had squealed, slip-stumbled off her stool and hugged him briefly around the neck with one arm. She’d followed that up with a quick peck on the cheek.

Completely platonic, of course.

As she’d kiss a brother or cousin.

But his heart had swelled with pleasure. And, those present from other departments, folks he didn’t recognize, had acted pleased to meet him.

However, after some small talk Bradley faded into the background, gradually disappearing like he always did. Occasionally Emma glanced his way and smiled, but she seemed far more interested in a young man sitting next to her, a young man with longish, curly black hair and big blue eyes.

So things had transpired as they always did: he became part of the scenery. His attention drifted as they chatted about sports and reality television and the next episode of that zombie apocalypse show; politicians and whether or not the budget will get passed, who was up for tenure, who was a son-of-a-bitch and which son-of-a-bitch was up for tenure.

An idiot.

He was an absolute idiot to think it would’ve gone any differently.

But then things changed. Everyone at the table scattered. The women headed to the lavatory and the men either to the bar for more food and drink or to the jukebox.

Leaving Emma and him alone.

He fumbled over a dozen witty conversation starters but failed to initiate even one. Luckily, after finishing her current glass of wine, Emma asked, “And how are you managing, Quiet Mouse? Hanging in?”

He shrugged and in a rare moment of inspiration, decided on the truth. “Actually, I’m bored to death. Having a dreadful time.” He offered her a jaunty smile that surprised even him. “You?”

To his delighted surprise Emma snorted and had to cover her mouth with both hands. She coughed and managed, “Oh, God. Some of them are kind of shallow, aren’t they?”

He opened his mouth but paused for a moment, realizing he didn’t mean that at all. “No, not really. I’m just a crusty old academic, I suppose, more comfortable in solitary pursuits than social ones. I can lecture eloquently about how our hopes and dreams and fears are reflected in our myths and legends and what that says about being human, but I’m not so good at acting like one, I’m afraid. Or at enjoying their company.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “So not true. Really. We get along, don’t we?”

And there it was.

An invitation for him to broach his true feelings. Did he dare? “Well, yes… but…”

The moment slipped away as she reached over and patted his hand. “I’m sure any single woman your age would be mad about you.”

woman your age

The ladies returned, followed by the men with refilled pitchers and promises of hot wings and chili cheese fries and all too quickly, as if he’d never spoken, Bradley faded into the background once more, occasionally sipping his now lukewarm beer, feeling numb, realizing he was flirting very near to pouting and not sure if he cared.

And then Emma yawned, running a hand through her gorgeous, silky black hair. “I’m done, folks. Bushed. Summer session starts Monday and I’ve done nothing to prepare.”

Knowing chuckles circled the table. Bradley flickered a smile, though he doubted Emma noticed.

But Emma turned and met his gaze, smiled and asked, “Walk me out, Brad?”

He blinked. Stupidly, he felt sure, but he did his best not to stammer. “Yes. Certainly. Really, I probably should get going myself.”

“I bet.” Emma winked as she shrugged into a light spring coat. “Probably eager to get home to your precious trains.”

A slight flush of… anger? pulsed through him. Was she joking, or…

The group’s laughter sounded amiable, the young man who’d sat next to Emma - a Math instructor, he thought – saying he’d love to see Bradley’s layout some time, to which he nodded numbly.

But Emma’s remark bothered him.

Was she mocking him? In public, no less?

But he shook it off. Hell, she’d asked him to walk her out, offering a chance for them to be alone, so he prepared his best face and smiled. “We gods are busy, Emma. Can’t keep my Creation waiting, now can I?”

This reply apparently served well because everyone laughed again and Emma’s smile was rewarding: bright and mirthful. Joking, she’d been. Obviously.

Surely.

As they left The White Lake Inn, Emma flashed him a hopeful look. “So I’ve a favor to ask, one I wanted to pose in private.”

His heart stirred inside, beating faster, making it hard to breathe. As they faced each other, Emma’s red lipstick glistened in the neon glow of the Inn’s beer signs, eyes shimmering in the night. He struggled not to sound too desperate. “Anything. Name it.”

“Could you cover my class next Friday?”

His mouth hung open for a second, stomach twisting in disappointment. He closed his mouth, scrambling to recover. “I… well. Yes, I’m certain I could.” Hating himself for acquiescing so easily, he asked, “What for? No troubles, I hope.”

“Nooo…” she bit her lip. “I have… ah, hell. I can tell you, right?” She cocked an eyebrow. “If you can’t trust a friend, who can you trust?”

At the word “friend” his stomach twisted more. “Of course,” he murmured.

And amazingly enough, Emma looked embarrassed. “I’m sort of… going away next weekend. With a friend. A… work friend.”

“Someone from the college, then.” He understood her reticence, now. Inter-faculty dating wasn’t expressly forbidden but missing class to vacation with a fellow faculty member wasn’t likely to be received well.

“Yes. Ned Simmons, the one who said he’d love to see your layout sometime.”

Bradley nodded. Yes. The one with the curly black hair and blue eyes, whom Emma had shown so much attention.

“We’re going to Maryland for the weekend. Ocean City. We’re leaving early next Friday morning.” She twisted her hands, looking sheepish. “I did sort of tell the Department Chair I had a family affair, so…”

He nodded, hoping the night hid the frustration he felt burning behind his eyes. “I see. Of course. I assume your leave was approved, long as you found your own substitute.”

Emma’s apprehension dissolved, her face breaking into a beautiful smile that crushed him, because he understood that it wasn’t for him. “Yes! You can cover? You’re the best. You were the first person I thought of, because I knew my kids would be in good hands and also figured you wouldn’t blab.”

He forced a small smile. “Of course. As you said, what are friends for?”

She grabbed his elbow, squeezing it. “Great! You’re teaching Intro to Mythology this summer, right?”

He nodded, wanting to something, anything, but caught flatfooted and speechless.

“That’s in the afternoon, I’m always home by then, so we can’t hook up at school. I’ll come by your place, say… Wednesday night? Drop off my lesson plans?”

His place.

Wednesday night.

Faint hope bloomed inside. Emma at his home, at night. Them, alone together…

yes, you idiot, so you can help her go off on a dirty weekend

Still.

Desperate measures.

“Sounds excellent. Maybe we could eat…”

“Sure!” Emma smiled and slapped his shoulder. “I’ll bring over some pizza and beers. The least I can do. And hey – I’ll bring Ned over, if that’s all right. He’s crazy about trains. He’ll love your layout.”

A crippling sense of futility burned in him. “Well, actually, I was thinking more that…”

But she struck him dumb with a heartfelt look of gratitude. “Thanks, Brad! You’re fantastic.”

With that, she headed to the parking lot and her car, leaving him on the Inn’s front walk, fumbling his keys.

“Friends,” he murmured, tolling the word around in his mouth.

And it tasted like ashes.

4.

Bradley had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Hard to believe, having spent hours driving around Clifton Heights’ roads during his layout’s conceptual stages, but there it was: he was lost. Didn’t recognize this road at all. No buildings, no streetlights, and the transition had been instantaneous. One minute, he was passing the Great American Grocery on the corner of Asher and Front Street, the next he was here.

On this dark, murky, hazy road.

He braked gently, parking the car, and sat for several seconds, listening to the night, which sounded curiously empty and devoid of life.

Silly thought.

Then why did his hand tremble at the door handle?

Snorting, Bradley unhooked his seatbelt, opened the door and slid out. The air felt cold on his skin; unseasonably cold for this time of year, even in the Adirondacks.

He stood on the center stripe and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the bright streetlights on Front Street glimmered in the distance. But the other direction, where this road led..?

The back of his neck tingled.

His breath echoed in his ears.

His belly swirled. “This is ridiculous. Just an old road, is all.”

But to the best of his knowledge, no road branched off Front Street here.

Except…

No.

Ridiculous.

He squeezed his hands into fists and turned, looking down the road to where it seemed to disappear into the gray, indistinct haze his car’s headlights couldn’t penetrate… as if there were no more road, or anything, at all.

yet

because it isn’t finished

No.

Ridiculous.

Fog, that’s all. The Adirondacks was notorious for its heavy fogs.

He looked up.

No stars.

Nothing except a bloated full moon, casting the fog and the road itself into an eerie phosphorescence that somehow didn’t make the night any brighter.

Of course, the full moon. May 5th.

But where were the stars?

“Cloud cover,” he murmured, “What was the forecast today? Clouds. That’s all.”

Clouds.

But how could clouds be so selective, shutting off everything but the moon?

He turned and looked back into town, saw the lights of Front Street, which looked farther away than before, saw also the nearly insubstantial red glimmer of Great American, and just barely saw the turn he was supposed to have taken onto Adams Street.

But he’d missed it and kept driving because he was tired, frustrated and depressed, and had driven onto a road he didn’t know, driven into… this.

He faced forward again, trying very hard to shake the impression that the road ahead disappeared into a drifting gray nothingness.

Fog.

That’s all.

And then an immense fatigue weighed him down. What he really needed was to get into his car, turn around, and go home to bed.

So he did exactly that, not thinking about how quickly he got back into his car or how his keys jingled in his trembling hand as he stuck them into the ignition, ignoring the relief that flooded him as the car started and he turned around and drove away.

Saturday Morning

5.

Bradley awoke slowly, pain throbbing in his neck where it bent; his face sore, resting on his forearm…

Wait.

Neck sore where it bent.

Face resting on his forearm.

He blinked and raised his head experimentally, wincing as the pain’s dull throb stabbed down his neck, into his shoulders. He gazed around, confused. Couldn’t be hung-over. Only drank one beer last night… but strangely he couldn’t remember much after leaving the Inn. He’d taken a wrong turn, hadn’t he? Gotten spooked by some weird fog before finally finding his way home.

And as foam crunched under his fingertips, he realized: he’d fallen asleep on his train layout.

He inched his head higher up, feeling his stiff neck pop. Slowly he uncoiled, sitting up and leaning back in his rolling chair.

He closed his eyes.

Cupped his face, kneading his forehead with his fingertips, fumbling his thoughts, groping last night’s fragmented memories. They drifted there in gray mists; he just had to pull them together.

He’d stayed up later than he’d intended after coming home last night. That much he remembered. In a fit of depression over his failure with Emma, he’d started landscaping the area around the new road. He’d laid some ground cover: grass, brush, trees, and gravel shoulders along the new road, then began landscaping. He’d cut some wire mesh, started molding it over mounds of crumpled department meeting agendas, formed some hills, secured the mesh down tight, started laying strips of wet plaster…

He blinked.

Realizing he remembered nothing after that. And when he looked down, he sucked in a hissing breath and stared at the completed mountain range and forestland surrounding the new road he’d poured yesterday afternoon, taking in the ground cover, knolls, rock ledges, brush and trees, lawns, a stand of trees on one side of the road…

And the houses, arranged in varying widths from each other, along a road leading to the Church of Luna, complete with a sign out front and a graveyard behind, through which ran a track he’d extended from the main town line. The track ran to the layout’s end, made a sharp left and joined into another previously unfinished spur, running against the basement wall.

Finished.

It was all finished.

as it should be

He spread and inspected his fingers, spackled with grayish-white bits of crushed plaster, peppered also with glued-on bits of powdered ground cover, stained with faint streaks of black paint.

He rubbed his hands.

Staring at the newly completed hills, forest, track, homes, church… and graveyard, feeling the gritty proof of last night’s manic endeavors on his fingers.

And it looked perfect.

The hills blended into plains seamlessly. The brush and rock face and tree placement looked natural. Houses sat all perfectly aligned with the road and each other, lawns and shrubbery immaculate, driveways pristine…

And that graveyard.

A chill skittered down his spine as he gazed upon the miniature graveyard behind the Church of Luna. A graveyard bordered by brown plastic fencing, replete with rectangular gravestones.

He reached out.

Touched a gravestone with his fingertip, wiggling it. Firm and secure, inserted into the foam base, glued down into the foam. Sound practice, what he did with all his trees and telephone poles and street signs. Based on their width and size and texture, he guessed he’d snipped off Popsicle sticks and painted them. They could be purchased in bulk at hobby stores anywhere. He had a box. There it was, open on his workbench.

The gravestones.

He peered closer.

Of course, he’d painted them gray. But… had he somehow written epitaphs on them, also? How was that even possible? Such detailed work – if he’d managed it – far exceeded dedicated realism.

It bordered on the fanatical.

As he peered closer, however, he saw that he hadn’t written epitaphs but instead inscribed a symbol very similar to the pagan moon symbol he’d painted on the Church of Luna’s doors and sign:

But what did the symbol mean?

He couldn’t remember.

And the reality hit him, then. “Impossible,” he whispered. “Should’ve taken me days. The plaster alone would’ve taken all night to…”

There.

Lying next to the box of craft sticks on his workbench, a hair dryer. At some point in his fugue he must’ve brought it down here and quick-dried the plastered terrain so he could finish everything in one night, which wasn’t necessarily so unusual. He’d heard stories of modelers using a hair dryer to speed up the cementing process; had even done it once himself, in his layout’s trial stages.

But that method was for small tasks: ballast along the tracks, gravel shoulders along country roads, never for an entire plaster mountain range. The work should look sloppy, rushed…

But it looked beautiful, nearly perfect. Maybe the best work he’d ever done.

He stood slowly, pushing up from his chair, rubbing his gritty, plaster-crusted hands, staring at his work, trembling slightly.

Why the alarm? He’d just gone a little overboard last night is all. Consumed by his loneliness.

That’s all.

Which of course didn’t explain why he slowly backed away from the layout, resolving to go upstairs, wash and dress, eat breakfast and study at his campus office, telling himself he needed to work without distraction on Monday’s opening lecture. It didn’t explain why it took such great effort to turn from the layout and walk away.

6.

On the way to campus, Bradley made several trips up and down Front Street, scanning all the side streets he knew, following Front Street as it curved into Old Barstow road, even following Old Barstow all the way to the New York State Electric and Gas Payment Center on the edge of town.

He turned and came back, repeating the circuit several times, but no matter how hard he looked, he found no sign of a side road with a dead end.

None at all.

Saturday Afternoon

7.

Bradley was sitting in his office at his desk and laptop, staring at the results of his Google Image Search when someone rapped on his open office door.

In truth he felt grateful for the interruption. So far, his attempts at study had failed. He’d barely gotten anything done. Granted, he was teaching “Introduction to Mythology” this summer, which he’d taught several times before and could probably teach cold, if needed. But he liked having intimate, fresh recall of the material, no matter how many times he’d taught it.

So it had frustrated him, finding himself doodling that odd symbol he’d apparently painted on those tombstones, and no matter how often he’d crumpled his doodles and refocused on his studies, his attention had drifted again.

To unbidden images of an empty road disappearing into gray mists.

not so empty anymore

No.

Ridiculous.

But the more he tried to repress the memory of the road shrouded in gray mists, a road that he couldn’t seem to find by the light of day, the more he’d doodled that strange symbol, over and over, until he’d finally given up, put his studies aside, opened Google Image Search on his laptop and typed in “moon symbols”, a safe bet because it looked so similar to the image he’d painted on his Church of Luna.

He’d found his answer quickly.

And was still sitting and staring, amazed and maybe a little afraid when the knock repeated, accompanied by a cough and a “Brad? Got a minute?”

He started, slightly relieved for some reason at being interrupted. His relief dimmed, however, when he swiveled in his rolling chair and saw Ned Simmons – that Math fellow Emma was going on holiday with – leaning in his doorway, grinning.

“Hey… Brad. Ned Simmons. We met last night at the Inn.”

Bradley stared, groping for something to say and finding nothing. Ned’s smile faltered. “Ah… uh. Sorry. Were you busy? If so, I’ll just…”

And then as usual – damn them – his manners kicked in. He smiled, waving dismissively. “Not really. Just trying to prep for Monday and failing horribly.”

Ned chuckled, folding his arms. “Yeah, summer session. Used to teach it myself but since I got tenure two years ago I don’t bother with it. Guess I figured I didn’t need to impress folks, anymore.”

“Yes,” Bradley murmured. He’d yet to be offered tenure. “I see your point.”

And as he took in Ned Simmons’ wiry form, rakish curly black hair and big, sensitive blue eyes (eyes that would be gazing upon Emma next weekend), he found that, deep inside, he hated Ned Simmons.

But with great effort he smiled. “What can I do for you, Ned? Also. How’d you figure I’d be here?”

Ned managed to look sheepish. “Well. Ah. I looked you up in the faculty directory, called your home and when you didn’t answer I called Emma, asked her where you’d most likely be, in pretense of wanting to see your train layout.”

“Ah. Interesting. So, in other words, you didn’t want Emma to know why you really wanted to see me.”

Ned held out a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I was totally serious last night. Would love to see your layout sometime. My Uncle Mark had one, filled his whole basement. My cousins and I spent hours playing with it.”

He bristled inside at the idea of playing with a train layout. One didn’t play with someone else’s creation, and he loathed the idea that Ned might want to play with his. But he kept his tone light. “What did you want to talk about, then?”

Ned shrugged and looked away, shuffling like a nervous teen on his first date. He swallowed and looked at him again, that silly grin plastered all over his face. “Well… this is going to sound cowardly, I know. But Emma. She’s rather…”

Bradley raised his eyebrows and remained noncommittal, determined not to make this easy. “Yes?”

“Well, she’s pretty special. Unique. Full of energy and always moving, talking, thinking… so expressive, so alive she makes you feel alive just being around her. Y’know?”

“I suppose,” he remarked dryly, wondering how Ned could miss his sarcasm. “I see her every day. Maybe I’ve built up a tolerance for her.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ned rushed on, clueless, and Bradley despised him even more. “Anyway she’s fun to be around and we’ve had a blast on a bunch of dates…”

Try as he might, Brad couldn’t repress the jealousy stabbing his guts. “Dates?”

Ned waved. “Yeah. Movies. Bowling. Hiking… that sort of thing.”

movies

bowling

hiking

that sort of thing

Sorts of things Bradley had known nothing about; that Emma had never once mentioned at all.

But why would she?

They were friends, of course.

And friends didn’t discuss some things, apparently.

“Go on,” Bradley prompted, unable to keep a chill from entering his voice. Energized by his topic, Ned didn’t seem to notice.

“See, that’s the thing: those dates were all one-shot deals, right? I never really planned on us getting back together, it just kept happening.”

Though he didn’t feel any sympathy for Ned (rather burned inside with a cold envy) he saw the young man’s dilemma. “But spending a whole weekend with her… that’s a bigger commitment. More than fun and games.”

“Well… yeah. Those other dates we were busy doing stuff, having fun. We go away for the weekend… we can’t be busy the whole time…”

“Why yes,” Bradley remarked, raising his eyebrows, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm now, but Ned still missing it, “you’ll have to make intelligent conversation for once.”

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. “Right! The car ride alone to Ocean City will be over four hours. For the first two I figure I’ll manage all right, have enough to say… but after that…”

Bradley sighed, fighting to keep his exasperation in check. God. What did Emma see in this stumbling lout? Past his youngish, rugged good looks, of course. His athletic build, excellent fashion sense…

He forced himself to speak politely. “So. You came to me because…”

Ned shook his head. “I dunno. I know all the right things to say on a date, right? Make them laugh, get them all dewy-eyed, weak in the knees, show them a good time, maybe even…”

Bradley coughed.

Ned blushed and offered a weak grin. “Ah. Don’t suppose you want to hear about that, do you?”

Somehow Bradley kept his face blank, even managed a small, wooden smile. “Well. It wouldn’t be polite to kiss and tell, would it?”

Shock and even embarrassment reddened Ned’s cheeks. At least the man had some sense of propriety, not that it made him any less loathsome.

Ned waved. “No, of course not. I just mean that Emma’s more than someone to share a few good times with. She’s bigger than all that. She’s like…”

“A force of nature?” he offered, still sarcastic and ironic but telling the truth, now. It was how he felt, after all, which of course made this doubly unpleasant, that someone as young and attractive and suave and modern but so damn shallow could feel the same way about Emma.

His Emma.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed at him again. “Exactly, and you feel so small next to her, right? See, I’m a numbers guy. Good with equations and formulas and processes. Can calculate shit in my head instantly, but get past my smooth lines and that’s all I am, Numbers Boy, while she’s so much more, she’s…”

“… one with the universe,” he finished quietly, no trace of sarcasm or irony in his voice now, just a touch of sadness, and, if he admitted it…

Defeat.

Resignation.

“Yes!” Ned finger-snapped-pointed again. “Exactly. It’s like she knows things, like she’s got access to the secrets of life or mystical knowledge or something.”

Bradley smiled, almost genuinely. “She teaches mythology, Ned. ‘Mystical knowledge’ is her thing.”

No finger-snap-point this time. Ned sighed and slumped against the doorframe. “Yeah. So what chance do I have? I mean … how can a guy like me connect with someone like her, on a deeper level? Or at least not sound like an idiot on the way to Ocean City?”

“And you want to pick my brain for ways to connect with Emma, don’t you?”

Ned straightened, smiling nervously. “Well you guys are always together. Eating in the café, talking between classes. You’re so similar, like she’s your little sister or something. I thought…”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell, I know it’s forward but I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner at the Inn and talk.”

A variety of responses occurred to Bradley, most of them involving violence and aggression and profanity and none of them, of course, suiting his nature at all.

So he sighed and stood, grabbing his jacket from off his chair. “Dinner, then. Was getting hungry, anyway.”

“Great! That’s awesome.” Ned fairly beamed. “And I wasn’t kidding about seeing that layout, sometime. I’d love to. Seriously.”

Bradley smiled tightly, nodding at the door. He followed Ned out and locked his office door behind him, quietly, calmly…

like she’s your little sister, or something

… burning inside.

Saturday night

8.

Driving Ned Simmons home late at night after too many rounds of beers and Tequila wasn’t exactly what Bradley had been expecting, especially after dinner had started so tolerably well. Much to his surprise, after seating themselves and ordering Ned hadn’t started prying for advice about impressing Emma. Instead, they’d chatted about strictly mundane things: social matters of the Heights, whether or not the reconstruction from last fall’s flood would be finished by summer’s end, about this town resolution or that, little bits and pieces of gossip from the hallowed halls of Web County Community College.

And, not surprisingly, they talked about model railroading. Ned had yet to build his own layout (not enough space in his studio apartment over in Oakland Arms) but he had boxes of supplies just waiting to be opened. He even attended an annual train show in Steamtown, Pennsylvania and was something of a novice train spotter.

So throughout dinner Bradley had felt stirrings of grudging respect, maybe even (God help him) feeling a reluctant approval of him.

But things changed after several beers, beers that quickly turned into tequila shots, and the Ned Simmons that was revealed after the liquor stripped several layers away…

Well.

Bradley’s hands tightened on the steering wheel thinking about it, how Ned, after his third or fourth shot, looking slightly disheveled, eyes glassy and distant, had burped discretely and said, “Women. Remarkable, wonderful creatures. No wonder we want to hold onto as many of them as possible, even with all the headaches they cause.”

Bradley remembered frowning, not sure if he’d heard correctly. “Sorry. Did you say… many?”’

Ned paused, sucking on his lip in that wary, embarrassed way drunks had. Then he snorted and grinned. “Ah. Probably shouldn’t talk about it, eh? Like discussing my exes with my girlfriend’s Dad.”

And with that all his reluctant affinity for Ned dissipated like fog in the morning sun. A stony coldness crept over him, and he’d had to force his hands to grip each other on the tabletop rather than reaching for Ned’s throat.

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, see,” Ned began with a flourish, warming to the subject, “there’s this girl in Utica, been shacking up with her occasionally over the past year. Dental hygienist. Nice girl. No Emma, mind you. Not even close. But she’d make a solid wife, right? Kinda woman who’d be fine quitting work to raise my kids, attending PTA meetings, running bake sales for the local charities, that sort of thing. See, Emma’s wild, philosophical, alive…

“But she’d hardly give up her studies and teaching to go home and be barefoot pregnant for you, would she?” Bradley muttered.

Too drunk on tequila, Ned had missed Bradley’s verbal jab. “Yeah. Don’t know if she’s the marryin, have-kids-kinda girl. Problem is, she’s like a drug. She gets in your system and is addictive as hell.”

He knocked back his bottle of Guinness, drained it and thumped it onto the table. “Helluva choice. Helluva choice.” He burped again. “Then there’s Haley.”

Ned had gripped his hands tighter, nails biting into the backs of his hands. “Haley?”

Ned had blushed and waved. “Yeah. A junior at Syracuse. Met her at a party, she didn’t tell me her age… but that was months ago. It didn’t mean anything but she keeps calling me, and she was hell in the sack. Hell in the sack.”

In that moment cold and bitter feelings coalesced into a sharp point inside Bradley, but he’d just smiled, raised his hand and beckoned to the waiter, saying to Ned in the most affable tone he could manage, “I know what you need, Ned.”

“More to drink.”

Now

And so here they are on this strange glowing road that only exists at night except now Bradley’s not lost, and instead of turning down an empty, mist-covered road leading into gray nothingness he’s arrived at a place he’s known all along he was coming to, a place made for him, by him.

Bradley parks his car.

Kills the engine.

Wondering if, even before Ned started drinking, he’d planned this. Ned had wanted to see his layout, after all.

So here’s his chance.

But as Bradley gets out of the car and stands before the Church of Luna – glowing with the same phosphorescence covering everything else – he knows, deep down, that he was meant to come here, Ned Simmons regardless.

For all this is his.

Wrought by his hands and heart, and at this moment he calls it “good.”

The passenger door slams shut. Ned mumbles, “Holy… shit. Too much booze. Everythin’s all glowin an shit.”

And then Ned squeals like a kid at Christmas, pointing, his face childlike in the moon’s glow. “Look! Tracks run behind that weird church! And… man! A Chessie! It’s a goddamn Chessie!”

Without another word Ned runs and stumbles across the church’s front lawn, slipping on night-slicked grass into the graveyard and up to the black, sleek engine and its lone passenger car sitting on the tracks behind the church.

Bradley follows slowly, at ease, in no hurry. Of course, he’d half expected the train to be here, once he discovered what that symbol painted on the gravestones meant.

He’s not too long in joining Ned, who’s staring at the thrumming midnight black Chessie. “A Chessie,” Ned whispers. “A Chesapeake and Ohio River Valley engine. But I’ve never seen one all black like this. And this…”

He reaches toward a white symbol like the ones painted on the tombstones. “This is supposed to be the shadow of a cat, the Chessie symbol. What’s this mean?”

He touches it.

And stiffens as if gripped by an immense cold. He trembles, jaw hanging open.

“It’s the mark of Charon,” Bradley whispers. “A moon of Pluto. Also, in Greek mythology, the ferryman of the dead, who transports people across the River Styx to Hades.”

Ned’s hand drops limply to his side. He turns, his eyes blank, gaping slack-jawed at Bradley, the black mark of Charon glimmering on his forehead. “And it looks like you just paid Charon’s toll. Or maybe I did, for you,” Bradley amends. “This is new to me.”

A door to the engine’s only passenger car hisses open. A tall form leans out, dressed in a black rendition of a steam engine-era conductor, and the face beneath its cap is smooth and white and blank. Slightly bumpy protrusions suggest eyes and a nose and cheekbones and craters…

like on the moon

… but no actual face regards them. The voice, however, rings clear. “All aboard.”

Ned Simmons sways like a man sleepwalking. He looks at Bradley and whispers, “Not coming back, am I?”

Bradley shakes head. “I don’t think so. But maybe that’s for the best.”

For Emma.

And me.

Ned blinks and nods sluggishly, lips moving, as if to say more but nothing comes out. So he turns, shambles away and boards the train, disappearing into the passenger car past the faceless conductor, who leans out further. “Will you be coming also, sir?”

Bradley shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

The faceless conductor nods and withdraws into the train and immediately a mournful, low horn blows. Metal shifts deep within the Chessie marked with the sign of Charon.

It chugs away; off on a railroad running through the woods that he’s fairly certain doesn’t exist in the daytime.

And he turns away, leaving the graveyard, knowing that for sure, Emma will be upset – perhaps even distraught – when Ned’s disappearance becomes news. But based on what he’s learned tonight, Bradley feels sure he can share Ned’s sordid past with Emma and convince her that more than likely, the young rake had simply moved on to other pastures.

There will be questions, of course.

Especially because he’ll be recalled as the last person to have seen Ned. But he’s sure he can weather the inquiries. There’s no evidence left behind, after all. Bradley can say that because Ned was drunk he drove him back to his apartment and that was the last he saw of him.

And Emma?

She’ll get over Ned’s apparent abandonment, because he’ll be there. That’s what friends are for, of course, and perhaps this will finally open Emma’s eyes to their potential.

And if not?

That’ll be unfortunate, especially when the next full moon comes around, because despite his peaceful nature, Bradley has a feeling he won’t turn out to be a very forgiving god at all.