Peter Straub - If You Could See Me Now

I had just about time enough to get to the near side of Duane’s house; when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw them coming through the fire, two of them. The man in the cap was rolling on the ground. Pieces of scattered fire dotted the lawn all the way to the row of walnut trees. Now they were stopping to kneel by the man in the cap.

If I had been right that Duane’s basement was originally a root cellar like my grandparents I would be able to get into it from the outside.

“Duane ain’t gonna help you, you son of a bitch!” came a distorted, yelling voice.

I came running past the dogwood and sweetpea and onto Duane’s lawn.

“Cuz he’s gone!”

I don’t know what I was picturing: hiding down there, finding a burrow, defending it with an ax. As I raced across the short lawn I saw that I had been right. The white-painted boards of the entrance cover — the old access to the cellar — extended from the base of the house, just visible around the corner on the side facing the road. I came skidding around the corner and the door I yanked on swung easily upwards.

I fell down the earthen steps and rolled beneath the hanging axes. Then I remembered. The far wall, where my desk had been, in cases like mummies. I scrambled up from my knees and ran, crouching, over to the shotguns.

I took one up case and all and dipped my hand into the box of shells and ran back to the earthen steps. Like moving up from water into light, going back toward the slanting rectangle of blue air and sunlight.

I had the twelve-gauge out of the case as the men and Hank Speltz came running around the corner of dogwood and sweetpea. I broke the gun and slotted two shells into the barrels. “Stop right there,” I said, and raised the gun and pointed it at the chest of the man in the plaid shirt. Then I rose up from my belly on the earthen steps and came out of the cellar. My breathing was so harsh that I could scarcely form words. They dropped their arms and stood momentarily still, shock and anger in their faces.

“Now get the hell out of here,” I said.

They were beginning to circle. They were as wary as beasts.

“I’ve never seen that girl,” I said. “I’ve never seen any of them. I only knew about the Michalski girl because Polar Bears told me she was missing.” Put the gun against my shoulder, pointed it at the opening in the plaid shirt. Expected the recoil. “Get together and stay together. Stop moving around like that.”

They obeyed. I could see the man in the cap limping up behind them, his hands in the air. His tan workshirt was flecked with black, blood leaking through some of the holes. His hands were blackened too. He stood by the dogwood with his hands up. “Walk backwards,” I said. “All the way to your cars.”

Hank Speltz took a step backwards into this dogwood, looked around wildly, and then began to edge around to the path. The others moved with him, following me with their eyes.

“If you’re so innocent, how come you stuck around up here?” asked the man in the plaid shirt.

I gestured with the shotgun.

“Screwing that old crazywoman up in the woods,” said Hank Speltz. “That’s how come. And what about Gwen Olson and Jenny Strand?”

“You’re asking the wrong man,” I said. “Now I want you to start moving backwards toward the cars.”

When they did not move I shifted the barrels to the right, flicked the safety, and pulled one of the triggers. The recoil nearly jerked the shotgun from my hands. The sound was louder than the explosion of the gascan. All of them moved smartly away from the dogwood. I saw that I had shredded the leaves and ruined the blossoms, leaving broken twigs and the smell of powder hanging. “You damn near killed Roy back there,” said the one in the plaid shirt.

“What was he going to do to me? Move.” I raised the barrels, and they began to step backwards down the path.

Over their shoulders I could see the mess of the long front lawn. A ragged, irregular black circle yards from the drive showed where the -gallon can had exploded. Smaller burned patches, a greasy yellow in color, were dotted all over the lawn, churned and rutted by their tires. A large hole had been blown in the mesh of the porch screen. The animals had disappeared down into the far end of the side field.

“We ain’t through, yet,” said the man whose name I did not know.

“Hank, get in your pickup and drive out,” I said. “I’ll be coming in to pick up my car soon, and I don’t expect any trouble.”

“No,” he said, and sprinted toward the truck in the driveway.

All three of us watched him roar away scattering dirt as he turned onto the valley road.

“Now you, Roy.” The man in the cap looked at me glumly, lowered his hands, and walked heavily over the lawn to pass between the walnut trees. He stopped to stamp out the small flames licking up at the base of one of the trees.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said to the remaining man.

“Whyn’t you just kill us?” he asked belligerently. “You like killin. We all know about you. You got sumpun wrong in your head.”

I said, “If you don’t get out of here right now, you won’t believe what’s happening to you. You’ll probably live for a minute or two, but you’ll be glad to die when they’re over.” I cradled the gun in my arms and leveled it at his belt. And then I did an astounding thing — a thing that astounded me. I laughed. Self-disgust hit me with such force that I feared for a moment that I would vomit.

July 15

I was standin’ there watchin’ Miles and I says to myself, boy, if you ever get outa this I promise I’ll go to church every Sunday, I’ll pray every night, I’ll never say another dirty word, I’ll be good forever, because you never seen anything like the way that Miles looked, crazy enough to chew glass, eat gunpowder, that’s how he looked. His eyes they was just slits. His hair was flyin’ all directions. When he let go with one of those barrels, I thought, uh oh, the next one’s for me. Because he knew me from the filling station. I didn’t even wanna be there in the first place, I just went because Red Sunderson said, he said we’ll all park in front of his place and scare hell out of old Miles. And we’ll break him down for sure. He’s got that girl put away somewhere. So I said, count me in. Then when the other ones all pulled out, I saw Roy and Don were stayin’, so I thought I’d stick around for the fun.

He was a trapped rat. Like something mean backed up into a corner. Man. He blew shit out of everything with that gascan — he didn’t care what happened. He coulda killed himself too!

So when he let me go I just took off, yessir, right off, and I figured, let someone else find that girl. But I did a little something extra to that beat-to-shit VW of his after I got to town. I fixed it real good. I fixed it so’s he couldn’t go but thirty-forty miles an hour, and wouldn’t run very long at any one time too. One thing I am’s a good mechanic.

But I knew that crazy sonofabitch done it. And if you ask me, he was askin’ to get caught. Else why would he put that name Greening on the repair slip? Answer me that.

A screaming voice: “Miles, you bastard! You bastard!”: Duane.

“Calm down.” Another voice, deeper, lower. “Get the shit out here! Now!”

“Just simmer down, Duane. He’ll come.”

“Goddam you! Goddam you! You crazy?”

I cautiously open the door and see that Duane in fury appears to be reduced in size, a small square jigging knot of redfaced anger. “I told you, goddamit! I said, stay the hell away from my girl! And second, what the hell is all this?” He whirls around, his rage giving him agility, and the gesture of his arms encompasses, as well as the greasy yellowish and black burns on the ripped lawn and the marks of the explosion — the gaping hole in the screen, twisted pieces of the gascan — the figure of Polar Bears in uniform behind him, and Alison Updahl hurrying up the path toward her home. She glances over her shoulder, nearly there already, sending me a look, half fear, half warning.