Beast

Beast

Also by

Todd Michael Cox

Dizzlemuck

Love in the Time of Wee Folk

After the Death of the Ice Cream Man

For more information visit

toddmichaelcox.com

Beast

Todd Michael Cox

Sybil öPress

Wisconsin

Smashwords Edition

In memory of

Toby.

The biggest little beast I have ever known.

The characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2014 by Todd Michael Cox

Cover photo and design copyright © 2014 by HZB Design

No part of this book, other than small fragments used in reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission in

writing from the publisher.

For information contact: sybilpressbooks@gmail.com

ISBN 978-0-9843661-1-8

Author’s Note

This novel was inspired by events that occurred in southeastern Wisconsin in the early 1990s, but it should be understood that none of the characters are based on real people, and all of the situations and relationships are likewise invented. You will also find no town by the name of Talbot on any Wisconsin map. As for what people were actually seeing when they claimed to be spotting large bipedal dogs running across fields and roads, I will have to defer to Shakespeare: There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

TmC

Aztalon, WI

He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man.

-Samuel Johnson

In the mind and nature of a man a secret is an ugly thing, like a hidden physical defect.

-Isak Dinesen

… in every story the wolf comes at last.

-Beatrice Webb

Beast

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

Other books by this author

Chapter 1

In the mornings he woke early, listening alone to those quiet moments before the first faint blush of sun, the first mournful cries of the doves. He wondered if perhaps it was the stillness that woke him, pulling him easily from restless dreams. It could have been the dreams themselves, he supposed, but by the time he opened his eyes they were long forgotten and there was only the darkness and the silence.

Sometimes there were sounds, of course, the barking of a farm dog, the hooting of a barred owl, the passing of a truck on the old road, all of the various smaller noises that make up the soundtrack of rural life. And sometimes there were other sounds, strange and separate from these, but he knew of them ahead of time and they would not startle him. He would simply lie there until they went away, making sure not to move so that Rachel did not wake and hear them too.

On this morning there was nothing, just that calm stillness he loved. Through the window next to the bed he could feel a slight breeze, chill but welcome. It had been Rachel’s idea to crack the window the night before and he’d protested a little but now found it delightful. A cracked window is a sure sign of Spring. He inhaled deeply the scents on that breeze, as if searching out one particular odor, but of course could do no such thing. He simply took the fresh air deep into his lungs, held it, released it as a soft sigh. In less than a month there would be skunk and flowers on that breeze, smells he found pleasant. They were certainly preferable to the smells of city life, gas and garbage and exhaust and sewer water, the overall bouquet of too many people living far too close to each other.

This was a disingenuous thought, he knew. There was much to be said for the city. There was, however, much more to be said for living like this, in an old but well-cared-for farmhouse off a lonely country highway surrounded by fields and woods and farms. Sure, he could have made a better living as an editor in the city, but he enjoyed life as a country journalist, working on a small-time rural newspaper, covering fairs and football games and the occasional late-night accident out on Lakeview Road. Time was slower here, the second-hand didn’t move quite so quickly. He imagined life as a city journalist and felt instantly tense. The stories might have been more exciting but at what cost? No, this was better. Editor of the Lake Area Gazette was more his style.

Sometimes, when he had these thoughts, he wondered if he was trying to persuade himself that this was true. He didn’t feel like he needed convincing, he enjoyed the life he had, but these thoughts came to him often… often enough to worry him, anyway. Was it his subconscious trying to talk him into the idea that this was the life he really wanted, when in fact the truth lay elsewhere?

You over think everything, he told himself. That’s your problem. You like this life, it’s a good one, you don’t need anything else, you—

There was a sound outside, half-squeal and half-grunt. It lasted exactly two seconds and then ended abruptly, as if it had been swallowed by the pre-dawn’s silence. He listened for a long time, both to the world outside the window and to Rachel’s breathing, which never changed. His own breathing had become quicker, his heart-beat stronger, but he did not move. When he settled down he began to feel angry. There wasn’t supposed to be anything this close to daybreak, goddamn it.

Careful now, relax. It wasn’t the kid’s fault, he had to remember that. He took another series of deep breaths and then slowly swung his legs out from under the comforter, placing his bare feet on the cold wood floor. The bed springs creaked and moaned musically. He slowly stood, trying to be quiet.

What is it…? Rachel mumbled from the bed.

Nothing. Keep sleeping.

She rolled over, took claim to his side of the bed, and snuggled further into the comforter. He thought she had fallen back to sleep but as he slipped into jeans she said:

Was it Lucas?

Just keep sleeping.

Did he do something?

Maybe. Keep sleeping.

She didn’t say anything, but he heard the springs cling and clang and when he looked back he saw she was sitting up. The very faint gray light of the fetal dawn lit her in a silvery silhouette.

Are you sure you should go out there?

I’ll be fine.

Andy, seriously, should you go out there? Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. Maybe….

He walked over and ran a hand through her hair. You worry too much. Just go back to sleep.

It’s my job to worry.

Go back to sleep.

What time is it?

Time to sleep.

She let out a long sigh and fell back to the bed, her head sinking into what had been his pillow just minutes before. Even in this faint light he thought she looked beautiful. Another morning and he might have crawled back in with her, snuggled up, made sweet pre-dawn love until the alarm went off. Not this morning. He left her there safe and tucked in the bed and went down the hall to the stairs, hesitated at the top for a little stretching, and then went down to the kitchen. He flicked on the lights, prepared a pot of coffee so it would be ready when he got back in, and looked around for his cigars. Rachel hated the cigars but they were a comfort in the mornings, a little ritual he’d come to enjoy more and more. You smell like a dirty old man, she always said. I am a dirty old man. You smell dirtier and older than normal. Well….

He found the cigars on the counter by the phone. Cheap cigars, only a touch longer than his thumb and about as thick. Not those big arrogant phallic-type stogies executive assholes suck on. Good workingman’s smokes, small enough to be enjoyed on a lunch hour. He stuck one between his lips and looked around for matches. There was a box of Kitchen Matches (Strike Anywhere) on the little shelf above the sink and he took them down, pulled one out, struck it on the counter, held the hissing little flame to the end of the cigar and inhaled rhythmically. Two things Rachel did not allow: lighting those matches on the counter (or walls or chairs), and lighting a cigar in the house. Well, mornings are for breaking rules. When the cigar’s end was glowing orange he sucked a few times and exhaled a grand sweet blessed cloud to the ceiling. Through the window above the sink he saw the sky was more blue-gray than black. The sun would poke through anytime now.

He slipped on his shoes, then went out the door to his back yard, where the big shape of his one monolithic barn stood, like a headless Sphinx. Around the barn grew trees equally as tall, though they were leafless now and looked no sturdier than the barn itself. Sometimes Lucas went in there, so he headed that way, crossing the cold dew-speckled yard slowly but steadily, making no effort at all to be silent, in fact searching out the odd stick or branch to step on in order to send a nice sharp crack through the morning air. Lucas should know he was coming.

This was not a working farm, and hadn’t been in decades, but they used part of the barn for storage. There were old car parts, lawnmowers, landscaping tools of various types, ancient wood-working equipment, and piles of wood (from two-by-fours to firewood). Plus a vast assortment of junk that had been there since the barn was new, things they had never had the chance to go through, things they would likely never go through. It all gave the barn character. What was the point of living on an old farm like this if you didn’t have piles of rusted jagged shit everywhere? He loved the ambience of the whole place.

He came to the barn and saw the door was open. He slowly stepped in and felt for the light switch. When he found it he waited. Listened.

Lucas? he called out.

Silence. Darkness.

Lucas, you in here?

Nothing.

I’m gonna turn the lights on now. Okay?

Nothing. He flicked the switch and a string of naked bulbs overhead came to buzzing life. He squinted against their weak glow and looked around, checked the rafters, saw nothing. He thought about exploring the whole barn but decided against it.

Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Pause. Okay?

Convinced he was alone he killed the lights and stepped back outside. The Eastern sky was now brighter, he could see the silhouettes of trees on the far side of the Weller land. He looked the other way, over to the old mobile home that sat two hundred feet on the other side of the farmhouse. There was a light on, so he headed that way.

The mourning doves began to call when he was halfway there, that sad soulful sound he nevertheless found beautiful, and before he’d reached the trailer other birds began to join in, just soft peeps and chirps of unseen finches in the bushes close by, and the solitary pip of a cardinal. He stood for a moment when he was close to the mobile home and just enjoyed the morning, the coolness, the crisp clean air, the cigar. He smiled, couldn’t keep from smiling. Sometimes life was good despite everything.

He knocked at last on the mobile home’s door.

Lucas, it’s me. You all right?

At first nothing, then the sound of something being moved, footsteps, a throat cleared.

Yeah, I’m fine, came a thinly ragged voice right on the other side of the door. What are you doing out there?

Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

Pause. Did I wake you?

No. I was awake, but… you took something, right?

Yeah.

What’d you get?

Another pause. Rabbit. Yearling.

Andy nodded. Lot of those around.

I didn’t wake Rachel, did I?

No. I just…. He put the cigar in his mouth, puffed, thought a moment. I just wanted to check on you, make sure you weren’t hurt.

I’m good. Thanks.

Feel all right? Not sick?

No.

You wanna come up to the house for coffee in a little bit?

Maybe.

All right. He puffed on the cigar, nodded. All right, I’m heading back. Sure you’re okay?

Yeah.

Good. I’m going now. He turned and headed back to the farmhouse, taking the route that led him between the trees around the mobile home and the farmhouse’s front yard. He had to zig-zag around all sorts of uncouth bushes and small trees before coming out to the flat land on this side of the house. He stood in the gravel driveway for a time, listening, watching, smelling. All around him the morning was being born. Look at those stars in the West: dimmer, fading slowly, their time was over for now. Like that moon, a faint fragile quarter-crescent nearly lost in the sky. When the sun came out that poor moon would fade completely.

He thought a bit longer, about nothing in particular, and then crushed out his cigar and went inside.

Rachel was already in the kitchen, pulling the carton of eggs from the fridge. She spun around when he came in and he saw, for a moment, a look of anxiety (fear?) on her face.

Is everything alright? she asked.

You should have stayed sleeping.

Is everything okay?

Yes.

What was it? What did you hear?

He hesitated before answering, moving almost instinctively for the coffee-maker. Rachel….

Did he… take something?

Yes. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a ceramic mug.

What was it?

He lifted the pot and filled his cup. I don’t know.

She went to the stove, set the eggs down, picked up the cast iron skillet already on the burner, then turned to look at him.

Is he all right? she asked.

Yeah.

She nodded, thinking about this, taking it in. She shook her head and turned back to the eggs.

I just feel sorry for him, she said. Just… sorry.

He watched her prepare the breakfast for a while, sipping his coffee thoughtfully as he did, and then he turned to look out the window above the sink. Morning now. Full morning, with details to the distant trees and an Eastern sky already blue. He stared out past the tangled run of his backyard to the fields and forest of the Weller property next door. This farm was surrounded by hundreds of acres of such field and forest, a great expanse of land and stream and swamp where wild things could run. The Wellers had a semi-retired dairy farm a mile or two up the road, and there were other farms and rustic little homes set back into the land here and there, some more dilapidated than others, but the center of this rural life, the little town of Talbot, sat twelve miles to the Southwest, with other little towns and villages speckled here and there around it. The highway that led to the City was a solid ten miles west of Talbot, far enough away to be harmless. This wasn’t quite the middle of nowhere but, as they say, you could see it from here.

He might come up for coffee, he said after a while of watching those fields closely and seeing nothing, not a single dark shape, big or small, moving from shadow to light or light to shadow.

Rachel nodded. But not breakfast.

He lifted the mug to his lips, looked out at the new golden-pink sun. No, not breakfast.

*

How’s Rachel, Andy?

Andy was sitting behind his cluttered desk (books on grammar and style, stacks of papers and articles and note-cards and old editions of the Lake Area Gazette, far too many pens and pencils, the typical flotsam of an editor’s daily life) and did not look up right away. He was going over a story on access rights to Stony Lake one of the younger reporters had written and found it to have such a strange rhythm that it was mesmerizing. He didn’t hear Jenny Atkins, associate editor, when she first spoke. She said it again and he looked up.

She’s fine, he said.

Jenny was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest, but she looked pleasant, slightly giddy, a look she always wore. Jenny Atkins was the sort of farm-fresh horse-loving country girl he’d always been fond of, as either bed-mate or friend, and she always looked happy, slightly stoned even, optimistic.

Terry was asking about you two the other night. Said we should have you over again for dinner.

He nodded. Yeah, that would be cool. Pick a night.

I’ll get back to you.

Sounds good. How is Terry?

Same.

He smiled. That bad?

You don’t know the half of it. She gestured to the sheets of paper in his hand. What are you so absorbed in?

He sighed. Some of these kids think journalism is an offshoot of poetry, apparently. There are some odd meters to this thing.

Maybe that’s the route things are taking now. Odd meters, poetry. Strange stuff, no longer just who, what, where, when, and why. Nothing straightforward, that makes too much sense. No, we saw the whole Gonzo thing, all those Hunter Thompson wannabes, maybe now we’re seeing lyricism, pretty little turns of phrase, things like that. Time’s are changing, Mr. Hull, get on board or get out of the way.

You make me sound like an old man, like that editor from Spiderman.

J. Jonah Jameson? she said.

Yes. I’m only forty-two, things haven’t changed that much already, have they?

She shrugged. Things change all the time, it’s the nature of modern life.

I hate it.

You have no say.

I forbid it anyway. No more change.

She smiled. The other day I had to delete a line of commentary from an article. And it was the very first sentence. Some of these kids think they’re blogging.

He winced and leaned back in his chair. Jesus….

Face it, we are old. Everything’s changing around us.

Let’s put an end to it. Now, you and I, just put our foot down and stop all this goddamn change.

She laughed. Me and you? Little old me and you?

Someone’s gotta do it.

I’m busy. Get someone else.

He laughed as she walked away and waited a while before he went back to the story he’d been editing. He thought about change, modern life, the unavoidable immortal monster that was Time, marching and lumbering and clanging its way through your life on its unending quest for the next minute, the next second. It’s true, you reach a certain age and it all seems to speed up, everything seems to run downhill. Before you knew it you were in your elderly years looking back, and life and everything you’d meant to make of it had long since slipped away.

Depressing. He turned back to the article, a red pen poised above it, waiting to strike. When he was done the damn story had so much red it looked like it had been murdered. Slaughtered. No, not quite, it was salvageable. Yet still, he shouldn’t have to do this much work. He stood with a sigh and went to the door of his office.

Ryan, the author of the article, was standing by the copier in the corner. He was one of the newspaper’s college interns, a nineteen-year-old kid… a good kid, but like so many younger people these days he dressed and acted and talked the same way he’d dressed and acted and talked at thirteen. Dark blue skull-cap, baggy jeans, tennis-shoes, some t-shirt advertising a bar or rock band, cheeks and jaw covered in a nearly-pubescent beard neatly (but oddly) trimmed via razor into a puzzling pencil-thin line. Heaven help these kids when they graduated and needed to find real jobs with actual dress-codes and protocols for behavior.

Still, Ryan was a good writer, he just needed some guidance.

Ryan, Andy called out in his boss-voice. The kid looked up. Come in here for a second. He turned and went back to his desk. When the kid came in a few seconds later he looked overly-confident, like he was expecting a raise or promotion.

Sit down, Andy said, and handed the boy’s article to him.

That’s a lot of red, Ryan said, frowning at the sight.

You think? Look it over quickly, you see what I was correcting?

Ryan shrugged. Sentence structure?

Pretty much, yeah. Very little of it was proper for journalism.

Ryan shrugged again and looked only a tad uncomfortable. I was… you know, I wrote it while I was trying to write this other thing for a class, and I guess the two styles got mixed up a bit.

A bit.

It’s not bad, though, is it? I mean, writing-wise?

No, it’s not bad. It’s just incorrect. It doesn’t fit the story, and it doesn’t fit the paper. It distracts. It stands out. Fix it.

Is the story any good?

It’s all right. What do you think of it?

Ryan shrugged again, read a few sentences, and then looked at Andy. It’s not something I was too interested in.

A journalist can’t always write about what they want to write about.

I know. It’s just….

What would you want to write about?

I don’t know. He stopped, bit his bottom lip, played with his thin boy-beard, appeared physically conflicted over whether to continue talking or not.

Yes? Andy prodded.

The kid looked at him, then looked away. Nothing. I’ll rework it.

Ryan, let me ask you something. What kind of writer do you want to be?

A good one.

Don’t we all.

The best one.

Andy smiled. Ah, the wonderful ego of youth. I wish you luck. But do you think your heart’s in journalism?

The kid shrugged. Sure.

Sure. The great one-syllable answer for everything. Sure. Neither yes nor no, and not quite a maybe. He looked at the kid and felt both a little sorry for him and a little disappointed. He considered continuing with this little third-degree soul-searching conversation but decided against it. Instead he gestured at the article.

Make those corrections, all right? And then I’ll tell you what, you come to me at some point with something you’d actually be interested in and we’ll see if it’s something you can do. Sound good?

Ryan nodded.

Andy smiled. Just make sure it’s not something about the Homecoming queen or any of those other asinine small-town newspaper things. We have those kinds of stories covered.

Ryan smiled.

And nothing about one of your buddies running naked down Main Street for Homecoming, either.

Right.

Or how Joe Smith is trying for some football scholarship. Or whatever the hell else the big topic in high-school is these days.

The kid’s face lit up. The Dogman.

The what?

You know, half-man, half-dog. It’s stupid, an urban legend, been going around for a while. People say they’ve seen it out near the old railroad bridge on Hollis Lane.

Andy leaned back in his chair, nodded vacantly. Right. No, not that. We’re not in the business of urban legends. Or rural legends. Dig deeper, give me something you’re interested in that no one else is. And write it good.

Okay.

When the kid was gone Andy leaned over his desk, pulled out the next article, listened to the noises of the office: the hum of copiers and florescent lights, the murmur of voices, the click-clack of computer keyboards, the steady sound of traffic outside his window. He turned to look out there, watched the little town of Talbot going about its business. Talbot, population 4500 (or so), no major employer but a healthy community nonetheless. A gas-station, bakery, hotel, fire-department, a couple art-galleries on the main drag (one should say art galleries, rather), a half-dozen bars within the town limits, a single moderate-sized church (Presbyterian). This whole area comprised what was called the Lake Area, being as it was surrounded by a particularly concentrated group of small-to-large-lakes which attracted both the wealthy (Stony Lake being one of the wealthiest areas of the whole state) and tourists. Catering to those passing tourists was in fact the town’s largest source of income. Tourists had to eat, drink, crap, sleep, buy all their goodies for boating and hiking and fishing. He thought of Rachel, who worked part-time as a clerk for the town and part-time in the gas-station-slash-sporting goods store. She’d be getting in right about now, he could call her, see how she was, but he wouldn’t. He wanted to ask if she was all right after that morning’s coffee with Lucas. Things had gone well, they always went well, but he knew they didn’t have to and that they might not always go well, and he knew that a woman might say she had no problem with something when in reality it was tearing her up inside.

He thought of Megan. It had gotten to Megan, it could get to Rachel.

Rachel’s different, he told himself. She’s stronger.

Still….

But he wouldn’t call her. He turned back to his desk, the next article, the sound of the office around him, and tried to lose himself in it all.

*

It was she who called him, about an hour later.

Hey, how are you? she asked.

Good. You?

Bored.

I’ll give you a word-game: what’s a four-letter word for a good time?

Have I called you a dirty-old man lately?

No.

You’re due. Dirty old man.

He laughed. Someone’s gotta do it.

Hey, what’s going on with the Weller farm?

What do you mean?

I saw a bunch of cars parked just off the road in the big field.

Which big field?

The closest.

How many cars?

Like, three.

What were they doing?

I couldn’t tell. But they were nice cars. Do you think they sold it?

I don’t know. Maybe. He fell silent, thinking.

Andy? You there?

I’m here.

Are you all right?

Yeah. I’m perfectly fine.

*

He left work a little after five, making his way out of Talbot in the five-year old Ford Focus he and Rachel had bought together last year, their first big purchase as a couple. Is that an engagement car? Jenny had asked him when he’d told her about it. Mind your own business, he’d said.

His route out of Talbot was easy and quick, a right turn out of the Gazette parking lot, a half-mile down Y, and then a left onto 23, also known as Hollis Lane. Down 23 for eight miles, over the Crayfish River (which was also spanned by the railroad bridge, like Hollis Lane), and then a right onto the cracked and beaten old gray bitumen of ancient Highway 11, the highway to nowhere on which he lived. A twenty-five minute drive, owing to the curves on 23, sometimes longer depending on the weather.

On this day the drive was more pleasant than it had been in a long while. Winter was good on this route, the way the snow hung all Hollywood on the runs of conifer and deciduous trees, but Spring was officially here and it was a joy to behold. He had the heater on and the window open, just to take in the cool vernal air. At one of the lowest points on 11 he pulled over and killed the engine to listen to the chorus of amphibians in the ponds there: lovely sounds, joyful and horny, the hallmarks of Spring. Some day I’m gonna learn what frogs those are, he thought. Peepers he could recognize, but these were different, most of them ratchety, arrhythmic, with a minority quartet or quintet of something pulsing and purring and melodic in the background. For counter-point. Contrast. Complexity. Just for the hell of it, for whatever Mother Nature had in mind.

He sat there for ten minutes or so before starting the car and driving on, passing the few homes that sat out here before coming to his own property. First he saw the old mobile home set back off the road, a rectangle of dirty-white between the trees, and then the gravel drive and the farmhouse itself. He swung into the other lane to retrieve the mail from the mailbox, giving the trailer a quick glance as he did so. No sign of Lucas anywhere. He flipped through the mail (bills, junk, a catalog for Kohl’s), and then drove up the highway toward the Weller field, to see what Rachel had been talking about.

No cars anywhere, only a single FOR SALE sign about twenty-feet off the road. FOR SALE. WILL SUB-DIVIDE.

Fuck, said Andy.

Chapter 2

It was an ideal environment for anyone, perhaps, but certainly for him: all of that wildness surrounding them, those hundreds of acres of untouched swamp, the open fields of wildflowers and the nearby fields of corn and alfalfa. Plus the depth and complexity of dark old stands of oak and maple and pine, the type of congregations that had held shadows for hundreds of years, where sunlight never touched down except as a vague sort of filtered mist settling to the weed-less floor. He knew of at least two ponds way back there, and he suspected there were more in the spring when the snow melted and pooled in lower areas. In the time he’d lived on the land he’d done very little exploring, only making half-hearted forays into the woods and