999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [41]
But Father was increasingly remote, locked away from us. He rarely appeared downstairs before early evening, and sometimes not even then. No words of chastisement had been heard from him since his outburst of rage at Graeme’s traitorous behavior. No words of anger or disgust uttered at Stephen, though sometimes, at the dinner table, he commented sarcastically upon Stephen’s “uncouth, disheveled” appearance or pointedly asked, “Son, when did you bathe last? Can you recall?”
And so, Stephen began slipping away from Cross Hill during the day. Repairing a barn roof, for instance, he jumped down, ran stooped over toward the road, grinning to himself like a wild, willful child. And there was his bicycle he loved, lying waiting for him beneath the tarpaulin; always, it seemed to Stephen a miracle that the bicycle was there, hidden; he jumped on it, and struck off in the direction of Contracoeur. It seemed the most natural, the most inevitable thing in the world, as if a powerful force were drawing him to that small, ordinary city on the banks of the Black River; a former mill town, no longer economically prospering; yet not so depressed as other, similar towns in the Chautauqua Mountain region, for there was a thriving lumber business. Where once he’d scorned Contracoeur as a hick town, not worthy of a second glance, now he strolled happily about the streets, paved and unpaved; he smiled at strangers and was touched that they should smile at him in return. He was a handsome, tanned, amiable boy with sun-bleached wavy brown hair that grew past his collar, and a frank, direct, warmly brown gaze; yet too lacking in vanity to have a clear sense of how he might appear to others. For when he’d come to Contracoeur with our mother on her strained shopping expeditions, people had stared openly at Stephen; now, alone, he felt their eyes move upon him with pointed curiosity, yet not, so far as he could judge, hostility. One afternoon, seeing boys of high school age playing softball, Stephen was drawn to watch; within an hour he was invited to join the game; before long, he became acquainted with a dozen or more Contracoeur boys and girls. Hesitantly he introduced himself as “Steve” at first; only when asked where he lived did he say, “That old stone house about five miles out in the country—Cross Hill.” How peculiar the name tasted in his mouth, like tarnish.
Stephen’s new friends glanced at one another and at him. A red-haired boy said, smirking, “Cross Hill?—hell, man, no one lives there.” Another boy poked this one in the ribs and said, in a quick undertone, “It’s lived in now, man. Must be.”
Stephen was smiling and did not allow his smile to fade. He asked, “Who lived at Cross Hill before?”
The second boy said, “Before what?”
“Well—five years ago? Ten years ago?”
Frowning, the young people shook their heads. Cross Hill had “always” been empty, they said. For as long as anyone could remember.
On other days, in Contracoeur, Stephen asked for work. Hourly labor hauling furniture, unloading trucks at the Buffalo-Chautauqua railroad yard, sawing and helping to stack planks at McKearny’s Lumber. Over the summer he’d grown to a height of almost six feet; his arm and shoulder muscles were filled out and solid; he was unfailingly good-natured, uncomplaining— anywhere that wasn’t Cross Hill, and manual labor in isolation, seemed a cheerful, convivial place to him. His Contracoeur employers liked him very much. He seemed to know (for Stephen was as perceptive as any Matheson) that all of Contracoeur was speaking of him; speculating about him; assessing him. Knowing more about me than I know about myself? One day in late