Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,53

keys. Wasn’t that what the ghosts had been trying to tell him, that nothing is ever lost, not really, that history accrues and lingers, marking the spaces we move through with its residue? If that was the case, why was this so irretrievable? Why was there no way to take it back?

The sirens were nearly on him now, and down Route 28 he could see the flashing of police lights. He cut across the street, hearing a shout of voices over the ongoing clamor of the alarm. He was running blind now, not even thinking in any conscious sense. All he knew was that he had to get inside.

At the house, he slipped along the driveway and through the back porch to the living room. It seemed like years since he had been here, since that summer maybe, when everything had begun. You happy now? he thought, or said aloud, he didn’t know. You happy now? he thought again, and the noise was like a roaring in his head.

Outside, he could see flashlights. He went through the house, ending up in his old bedroom on the second floor. A bullhorn sounded, squawking words he did not care to hear. As if in a dream state, he opened the closet door and stepped inside, crouching low into the corner, willing himself to disappear.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, just that when he finally heard footsteps, he thought his father had come back. Then he heard the back-and-forth of voices and knew the cops were in the house. Again, without really thinking, he eased down the hall to the bathroom. It took a minute, but he opened the window and fought the screen out of its braces, giving access to the roof. Just like when he was thirteen, except that now his body felt so heavy he could barely bend it. Somehow, though, he managed to get outside, shoes slick on the wooden shingles, the ground a million miles below.

“Hey, you up there,” a voice called out, and he was lit by a flashlight as he tried to work his way around. In his mind, a succession of phrases: The human fly. Why can’t you be normal? What makes you think you have the stones? The light was blinding, and in its glare, he tumbled from the eaves to the woodshed, the flat roof breaking his descent. His back was screaming, ankle twisted, but the fall had freed him from illumination, and he took advantage of the darkness to make a mad dash for the only refuge that remained. Down the ocean path to the dunes and out to the water, sand filling up his shoes. Beneath the evening sky, the beach glowed silver, waves rolling along the surf line with the fury of high tide. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself toward the jetty. Behind him, voices and flashlights cut the night.

They had almost caught him when he reached the great stones of the breakwater and started out. But then, as he knew they would, they hesitated, giving him a second chance. He moved quickly, shoes slipping on the wet rocks, rough water pulling at his feet. Behind him, the officers had begun to follow carefully. He looked back at them, four men in a cluster, and understood, in a way he wouldn’t have expected, that it was they who had been chasing him all along. He took a step back, and then another, thinking that he ought to turn around before he fell.

But as he pivoted, his twisted ankle buckled and he went down. He pulled himself to his knees just as a giant wave broke across the stones. The water was icy, full of needles, and as it pulled at him, he felt himself let go. He was aware of the roughness of the rocks as he scraped across them; he was aware of the beating of the air and ocean as the world went gray. He was aware of the policemen trying to reach him as he slid into the sea. But mostly, he was aware of the vision, aware of the ghosts. In his final seconds, he could see his father and the old man, faces looming like photographs. He could see himself as a boy, in this very spot, glimpsing his own death, he realized now. He could see his whole life whittled to a single instant. He had been here before.

THE OCCIDENTAL TOURIST

BY KAYLIE JONES

Dennis

Last April we were waiting with our twelve-year-old daughter at