Lost Echoes

onto a piece of firm paper, picked it up, and tossed it in the garbage can.

Harry moved his chair to the center of the room and sat listening to the summer hail. It slammed against the house for about fifteen minutes, subsided. Then there was a slice of light in the darkness, and it slipped through the curtains and filled the room.

Harry didn’t move.

He sat and listened, and the last of the hail, smaller now, passed, followed by a smattering of rain, then it too was gone, and the light outside grew brighter yet and he could see clearly in the room.

He sat in the chair and listened.

There was nothing now, not even cars out on the road in front of the house.

There was only silence and sunlight, and he sat in the warmth of the light and listened to the nothingness of silence for as long as it lasted.

16

“The Beast in Me” sung by Johnny Cash was playing on the FM station as Harry drove to campus. He thought, the beast is not in me. It’s out there, and I let it in from time to time. A beast belonging to others. That’s the rub. It’s not even my beast.

As Harry drove he navigated according to his knowledge of “bad places.” He felt he was safe in the car if he stayed out on the road. He had never had one of his experiences just driving on the road, but he thought it could happen. Maybe hit a pothole where some tire had hit and blown and the car had gone off the road. If driving into a pothole frightened someone enough, it might be recorded, because things were like sponges when it came to fear; they soaked it up and held it.

And he squeezed it out.

God, was there anyone else in the world with this problem?

He couldn’t be the only one.

He drove onto campus and found a spot. When he got out of the car he slung his backpack over his shoulder, locked the car door, and started walking, keeping himself aware of where “things” had happened, at least the ones he knew about.

He had a path he always took, and he knew it was a safe path. He’d worked it out, followed it for weeks, and nothing had leaped out of the architecture at him, off of the sidewalk.

He avoided touching anything as he walked.

This way he knew he was safe.

Which was why, on this Wednesday morning, he was so upset. The path he usually took was blocked.

Construction. The sidewalk was torn up and there were barriers all about, big, burly men working at banging up the concrete with jackhammers and the like.

For a moment Harry just stood and stared.

Blocked.

Can’t go my route.

Shit.

He thought all manner of things, but none of them were any good.

Like trying to go under the wooden barriers and weave his way through the workmen.

He figured that wouldn’t work out. It would only cause him to possibly be part of a violent moment himself, though, in his own estimation, that was easier to handle. You couldn’t see what was happening to yourself, only feel it. It was seeing their faces, feeling their terror that made him crazy.

He slipped his backpack off his shoulder, laid it on the ground, got his notepad out of his back pocket, studied it.

All right. He could go left, then skirt around all this business, but he didn’t know that territory. Most likely, as was the case with much territory, it would be safe. Nothing hidden.

But you never knew. It was always a struggle.

Shit, he told himself, you go to bars. You do that, and they’re worse places to go than a college campus.

But they’ve got the beer. Enough of that, I’m okay.

It would be easier to blow it all off, buy a twelve-pack, take it home, sit in the dark inside the tested room with the cardboard and egg cartons on the wall.

There had been a rape in the bushes on the right. He had found that out by shaking the shrubs, just passing through, grabbing at them idly, shaking them, going from sunlight to late night and seeing it all, her hand clutching at the shrubs. Some girl coming back from the library most likely. Some guy she knew thought she owed him a piece, and decided to take it.

He had never found any record of it being reported.

The guy got away with it.

Son of a bitch.

From the way they were dressed, or almost dressed, it looked to have happened way back. The seventies, perhaps. Maybe she never told anyone. Maybe the guy bragged about it. Did it again.

Don’t think about that now.

Not now.

You can’t undo the past. It’s not even your past.

He studied the notepad awhile, mapped out some safe spots. Problem was, he had to go over uncharted territory to get to those known safe spots. Anything could happen.

He put up the notebook, grabbed his backpack, and went left.

17

Harry sat down and wrote:

Tad, I’m not drinking.

Right now.

I didn’t drink last night either.

And already good things have come to me.

For one thing, when I woke up this morning I didn’t have a headache and feel like forty miles of bad road.

I know you haven’t been sitting up nights, between drunks, thinking about me, worrying if I was drinking, but there was no one else I could tell but you.

No one else I could turn to.

Well, there are others. I could tell Joey, but he’s a dick and wouldn’t get it. And my mom, but she’s got enough worries. And there’s a special reason I’m writing you.

I want to stop drinking.

No, that’s not true. I like drinking. I need to stop drinking. That’s different.

You see, I don’t really think I drink to forget, like you. I drink to numb, so I won’t have, you know, the experiences.

Okay. I drink to forget as well. I’ve seen some bad business, stuff to do with the ghosts in the noise.

But I’ve told you that.

Let me put it like this: You haven’t always been as fucked-up as you are now. Me, I’ve been pretty much like I am always: insecure, worried, and confused since I was a kid.

My parents didn’t do it.

The sounds did.

I’m not going to tell you what I already told you, and I’m not going to try to convince you I’m not a fruitcake (I’m not, by the way), but I am going to say it again.

You haven’t always been so fucked-up.

Me, I have. For a long time.