“You grabbin a plate?” Clay asks, as they approach the hotel pans of food.
“Nah, I ain’t got time for that shit.”
“You ain’t got time for that shit,” Clay repeats, laughing, as he does grab one, begins heaping it with scrambled eggs, sausage links, a couple of biscuits and some gravy.
“Eh, Kidwell’s already here,” Jeremy explains, and, after ripping off two squares from a paper towel roll, picks up an equal number of breakfast sandwiches. “I would say he’s got me hopping around at this ungodly hour, except it was pretty much my idea.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Clay asks, gesturing with an elbow at the table, “sittin down?”
“Probably not. But ah…well, we’re gonna measure how far that natural spring tunnel goes. By stealing some of Rafael’s yarn.”
“No shit?!” Clay half shouts, grinning broadly, “wow, that’s fuckin hilarious! But kinda smart, too…” Some less enthusiastic diners glance up, shooting stern, partially asleep glances their way. And then back down at their phones again, soon enough.
Despite protests otherwise, Jeremy finds himself straddling the picnic table bench, beside Clay, as he starts tearing into breakfast. “Yeah, well, what did I say,” he shrugs, “I get some ideas every now and then.”
“I should join you guys. I don’t have shit else goin on around here. Especially if Denise decides she’s gonna be an artist today. I’ve got my truck and my guns and…that’s pretty much the extent of it. If she pulls that I might head on home. What else is there?”
“Dude, you should totally go William S. Burroughs mode! Shotgun art. I mean, I’m pretty much in the same boat as you, but I do know that much.”
“Shotgun art?”
“Yeah man. You know – he would line up cans of paint in front of a sheet or a canvas or whatever and blast the living hell out of ‘em. See what developed.”
“No shit? That’s fuckin awesome!” Clay marvels, begins nodding his head with increasing speed as his smile also broadens.
“Yeah I mean we have an absolute assload of paint out at the barn, too. In the back of the barn, along the backside of the barn. And not artist paint, I mean actual paint paint. Buckets upon buckets of it.”
After finishing his first sandwich, Jeremy streaks off out the back door with his second. Suspecting that Rafael would scream bloody murder about cataloging the yarn used, if not denying him access altogether, Jeremy crept in here late last night, to commandeer a bunch, which he’s hidden away in a box, stashing it in the shed behind the smoking area and garden.
Jeremy didn’t tinker with any of the already completed yarn maze, and yet this box still took an hour and a half to assemble. He limited himself to unopened rolls, or whatever they’re called, which have been tossed into this insanely tall, loose mountain, with a number of other rolling hills surrounding, in the room next to the maze. And all the same length, as well: 400 meters. This will make it a simple matter of counting rolls used, and not having to break out a score card, or measure the measurements.
Kidwell is already puttering around outside the barn as Jeremy approaches. When asked, makes a vague reference to tidying up the junk strewn all over, including possibly finding a way to tow this rusty old wagon off the property. He goes as far as to mention the mountain of paint cans stacked along the building’s backside, even, though Jeremy chuckles and tells him not to worry about those, because someone needs those for a project.
Nodding in approval at the box of yarn, Kidwell adds, “I’m glad you thought of that. Cool idea,” as the two of them enter the barn, then make their way over to the hatch. And that might be true, although it was his boss’s thought here to bring along a sack full of plain metal paperweights, which they intend to use in securing the yarn, all the way down.
Taping them had been discussed, and in fact Kidwell’s brought along a pair of duct tape rolls as well, but this idea was eventually discarded. They plan on leaving the yarn in place – there’s no reason not to, and who knew, it could come in handy again, somehow – and there was just no telling how well the tape would stick, nor how long it would do so. Not to mention any future explorers seemed much more likely to kick a section loose or trip on it if taped tightly to the ground. At least with these paperweights in the way, and strings a little bit off the ground, they should be more obvious and easily avoided.
Jeremy has waited for an opportunity to grill Kidwell, about his preexisting knowledge of this place, and this one is ideal. As they carefully mark starting spots, by breaking out a measuring tape on Kidwell’s belt, and ensuring they are starting eleven feet from the wall behind the stairwell, just past the last step. Then each begins, on opposite sides of this underground stream, unraveling the first roll of yarn. This too was something Jeremy came up with, saying they might as well do this in tandem, one to each side, since it doesn’t take two people and they’d at least have a backup section if one becomes unraveled or damaged. So they pace more or less in lockstep, each carrying half the yarn rolls and paperweights, Kidwell with the sack and Jeremy stuck scooting the box along. If nothing else, the load does become lighter over time. During this process, he peppers Kidwell with questions, as conversationally as he can.
“No, I never knew their names. Or specifics. I’d heard there was a fire, but, you know,” he shrugs, before pulling the string for the next light he comes to. “Oh wait, shoot. You know, I just thought of this: I’m not really sure how far those guys got with installing these bulbs.”
He peers into this pitch black distance, as though this will tell him anything. But Jeremy feels like he recognizes a diversion when he sees one and says, “yeah but your grandma snapped up this property right after that. She must have told you something.”
Kidwell shakes his head and says, “not really. I mean, I was pretty young at the time, you have to remember…”
“This was like forty years ago. So you must have been, what, in your late teens I’m guessing? Plus didn’t your family live in this area, like on other side of Stokely?”
“Yyyyyyeah, but…we weren’t really all that close with Grandma Edwina. I mean, yes, she did leave me this property, sure, although…hey, you know, one thing I do remember, I remember they had this intercom system here at one time.” And this time, lends the appearance of being trapped in an abrupt reverie, as he muses, “hmm. I wonder what happened to that. It must have gone up in the fire.”
“Actually, no, everything I’ve read says that was ripped out after the Allensworth incident. That’s why, to be totally honest…I’m not quite buying you never heard anything about him, or the murder here, either.”
“Hey now, clearly, that was before my time,” Kidwell jokes, “I mean, if I were, what, ninety, you’d have to admit I look pretty damn good.”
Frustrated, though aware that he’s clearly not getting anything solid out of the guy, Jeremy drops the matter. Then again, as far as he’s concerned, everything said today merely confirms that the guy is full of shit. So they both draw inward, focusing only on their tasks at hand. He finds it much easier to walk backwards, letting the yard spool out in that manner, though Kidwell prefers facing ahead. They make some small talk, for instance Kidwell mentioning that he’s posted kitchen jobs all over the place online, and mentioned it wherever he can, including an attempt at cribbing help from the Fairlawn Diner. Nobody has firmly committed yet, but a few seemed extremely interested, and he’s sure they’ll have reinforcements on hand by Saturday. Jeremy’s not buying this, either, however, though keeping this sentiment to himself. Although mentioning that he offered a job to some woman up at the marina.
“The marina?” Kidwell fires back, as though aghast at this prospect, or maybe confused as to why Jeremy thought this a good idea.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. I feel kinda sorry for my folks. Or at least I definitely will come Saturday.”
By Jeremy’s calculations, which he committed to memory after studying them online, 400 meters translates to just over 1300 feet. Which means that, coincidentally enough, four such rolls of yarn should represent just about a mile. So clearly it was overkill for him to have loaded twenty-four rolls into that box. This would give them three miles of yarn apiece. They might not have a chance to find out, however, at least not right this second. As Kidwell goes to snap on the latest light, there’s a flash and a momentary, electrical sizzling sound, as every light bulb in sight goes out.
“Son of a…,” he curses.
“Umm…well, this is interesting,” Jeremy says, chuckling, “where is the circuit box, anyway?”
“Another excellent question,” Kidwell tells him.
Reflexively, each stares down the long tunnel, back the way they’ve come. They’ve burned through just three rolls of yarn apiece, are barely into the fourth. Given the flat terrain and this distance of just over three-fourths of a mile, they can make out a small square of light, where they left the hatch open, but only just. In many respects, the pure silence is creepier than any noise could possibly be, leading Jeremy to crack his knuckles, just to hear something. Still, neither says anything for a handful of seconds, nor really moves, as though afraid of disturbing this void.
“Well, I do have my phone’s flashlight feature…,” Kidwell says, extracting it, as a small rectangle of the familiar, bluish white glow appears on that side of this spring.
“Same here,” Jeremy states, following suit. They wordlessly begin retracing their steps toward the entrance, careful not to trip on the yarn they’ve carefully strung as close to the tunnel walls as possible.
“Okay, now, so here’s what I’m thinking,” Kidwell says, after they have walked maybe a couple dozen paces, “someone must have laid underground cable of some sort to get power down here. But…as you mentioned, where this circuit breaker box is located is anybody’s guess. Unless…I didn’t notice anything at the entrance, ever, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Same here, same here. So this means it’s probably either in the barn somewhere, or else – well, it depends how far this tunnel extends. I could almost see it being located in the janitor’s closet in the school, maybe, something like that.”
“Hmm,” Jeremy says, nodding even though Kidwell isn’t looking this way, and it’s unlikely he could see this even if he were. Then, a thought slams the brakes on this train and Jeremy questions, “wait a second – the janitor’s closet? Where would that be?”
“Just inside the side door,” Kidwell tells him, and now does turn to look this way, slightly over the shoulder as he’s a few paces ahead. His tone suggests a fact which should be obvious, and can’t believe it isn’t. “Like, to the right of it. I mean, it’s a slender closet but it actually,” he demonstrates by holding up the first two fingers of both hands, like an airport runway worker with glow sticks, and moves these forwards and backwards, in front of his chest, “it’s narrow, but deep.”
By now, they’ve covered maybe half the distance back to start. First they hear, then glance up that way to see, a pair of legs descending the wooden steps ahead, followed by a female’s voice calling out to them. Owing to the space between them, and the reverberation of this tunnel, it’s initially unclear who this is. Jeremy has at least narrowed it down to one of the Garverick sisters, but only when drawing much nearer does he confirm this is Denise.
“Oh my God! What the hell are you guys doing down there?” she questions, albeit in the manner of someone enthralled by and envious of whatever this deed entails.
“Good timing!” Jeremy calls out to her, laughing.
“Yeah, we literally just blew a fuse,” Kidwell declares, and cackles maniacally at his own corny joke.
“Well, yeah, uh…I mean Emily told me what you’re up to, so I kinda knew already, but…I didn’t really believe it!” Denise explains, still managing to sound completely in awe of this concept, “are you guys seriously running yarn all the way down?”
“Yeah and guess what? I’m tapping out. You just volunteered to relieve me,” Jeremy tells her.
“Serious?”
“Serious,” he insists, adding, “I’ve gotta go investigate where the circuit box might be. We both do, actually. So I don’t know if you wanna hang out here, or…”
Soon enough, they have reached the entrance, where a dumbfounded Denise stands and has also turned on her phone’s flashlight, to alternate illumination upon each path. Jeremy hands her his box of remaining yarn and paperweights, even though she technically hasn’t agreed to anything yet. Despite their leisurely gait, Kidwell sounds about half out of breath, though also telling Denise, “yeah, we’re both gonna head up to ground level and look for this.”
The three of them ascend the stairs. Jeremy, having volunteered already for traipsing over to the school, strikes off in that direction, while the other two set down their gear and begin investigating the barn. Except he is barely outside before nearly colliding with Clay, grinning as he totes a shotgun, a box of shells, and this giant balled up bed sheet, due east, away from the property.
“Noooo…fucking…way…,” Jeremy says, “are you serious? You thought I was serious?”
“Hell yeah, dude!” Clay enthuses, and doesn’t break stride, as Jeremy falls in to a similar march beside him.
“Well, in that case, man, here,” Jeremy offers, “you’ve got your hands full. The least I can do is grab some cans of paint…”
Emily has already completed more than even she would have guessed possible, in the space of just a few hours this morning. The murky, almost blackish blue patch at the bottom of her mural is already complete, and looks perfect. She has lightly sketched the first figure to stand above it, before realizing she can’t really start these people until finishing the backdrop behind them. This led to another miniature break, during which she has popped into the doorway and then entered the room to bug Tom again, though he doesn’t seem to mind.
“So, how did you decide to start putting those…what are they, bird shapes?” Emily asks, as Tom continues painting. This concerns of course the vaguely V shaped, greenish black objects found on just about every canvas he has ever produced.
“You can call them bird shapes,” he shrugs, with his palette holding shoulder, “actually I think that is the common term they’re given, people referring to them as Drucker’s birds.” At this, he allows himself a little self-deprecating if slightly amused laugh.
“Okay, so how did you decide to start putting these bird shapes on all your paintings? Was it a conscious thing? Did you do this from the start?”
“It wasn’t a conscious thing. I don’t know, you can’t really explain something like this. I know it comes up often, when I’m teaching classes, or even in those workshops we had here. People are asking me how I came up with my signature, or whatever you want to call it, and brainstorm, you know, ideas for their own. But I keep telling them it has to come naturally. So to answer your question…I don’t know. It’s something that just seemed to fit in one of my early paintings, and since then, every single one of them has seemed naked without these shapes on there, somewhere.”
He is hard at work on a grayish black rendition of so-called Wooley Swamp, although to Emily’s eyes, the trees look ghostly, like they might evaporate with the next wind gust. She’s thinking about these things when the first, unexpected shotgun blast rings out, startling them with its nearness and volume. Tom is especially rattled, nearly dropping the palette before executing a deft, crouching motion as he regains balance and sets it aside.
“Pray tell what this is all about,” he coolly states, as they stride over to the windows. Up on the edge of the hill, behind this school house, Clay and Jeremy stand, the latter taking aim at some unseen target with a shotgun. Emily opens her mouth in the shape of a gasp, though no sound initially comes out.
“What in the world!?” she says at last.
“What indeed,” Tom agrees, and, setting his painting materials down, begins walking across the room. “I have to know,” he says, and Emily’s still at the windows when she hears the side door open and close, then spots Drucker striding up the hill. Liam shuffles down the hall, meanwhile, to enter and join her at the window, though appearing neither surprised nor alarmed by any of this.
By the time Tom reaches them, Clay has regained control of the shotgun, loaded it, and is now carefully selecting his target. One eye closed, gun pointed at the random paint can array. The sheet, which they have tied in eight places against a strand of trees, is already covered with an impressive assortment of mostly pinks, reds, and yellow, bleeding where they touch. Collateral damage in the form of buckshot riddles the sheet, too, but this only enhances its impressive, abstract state.
“Dare I ask what’s going on up here?” Tom questions as he approaches.
“We’re blasting paint cans!” Jeremy turns and enthuses, as Clay rips off another shot. “It’s art, man!”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t get carried away,” Drucker deadpans, punctuated, as they might expect, by one of his crooked smirks.
Both pivot to inspect Clay’s latest handiwork, however. Jeremy’s disappointed to observe that the shot must have obliterated a can of boring old green, somewhere between primary and pine, which splattered to the extent it pretty much covered all preexisting color. The current result is a drab concoction, all but ruining the striking visuals of a moment ago. Such are the vagaries of art, he concludes. This roulette wheel of a concept can all change with the very next shot.
“Shit! I’m getting sidetracked, here!” he suddenly realizes, having forgotten all about Kidwell and Denise and the circuit breaker box. As he waves a goodbye to these two, and takes off down the hill, Clay offers the gun to Tom, who shakes his head. Drucker then gestures in an as you were manner as he continues to stand at attention, hands clasped behind his back, while Clay fires yet again.
When Jeremy barges into the school, his eyes immediately land on Emily, who is back to work painting her mural. “Why, hello there, darling,” he says to her, then drifting over to appraise her work, enthuses, “hey, that looks pretty cool!”
“Why thank you, darling,” she coos, sarcastic though pleased, before asking, “so what brings you in here?”
“Eh, looking for a circuit box here in this…janitor’s closet…,” he says, trailing off as he glances that way. And sure enough, though its slender door is a flimsy wooden one, painted the same off-white as the cement walls, flush with them, this easily overlooked passage is plain enough, he supposes, once you become aware of it.
“Janitor’s closet?” Emily says, puzzled and having obviously never noticed the door either, as they both stride over for a look. Jeremy works opens the door, which has no handle and instead requires a push, as it swivels open from the middle, its backside extending into the hall. She watches him enter and muses, “hmm! I guess this makes sense. You know, I never thought about it, but this explains why the central classroom doesn’t have any windows.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right…,” he mutters, reaching up to pull the chain for a ceiling light, as she takes a step into the room as well, “because the blackboard wall’s right here…”
He reaches up to pat the interior wall, to his left, while scanning down its length for any sign of a circuit box. Meanwhile, behind them, along the exterior facing one, plain old wooden boards supported by brackets hold all manner of assorted janitorial junk, four levels of such, running the length of that wall. Jeremy doesn’t see what he came here to find, it’s true, although only partially aware of such, as his overriding conscious thoughts have just jumped the track to somewhere else entirely.
Something about this nearly hidden, almost secret passage-like space jogs another similar experience loose in his head, from a few days earlier. That moment he was standing at the window in the gift shop, staring out at a car parked directly in front of it…but then there had been Kidwell’s truck, parked to the left of it, his front bumper more or less congruent with the building’s edge. Except something about those dimensions didn’t add up. This is what had been bugging him that day, though he couldn’t put his finger on it right then. He could have stuck out his left arm and touched the gift shop’s southern wall…from the inside. How was there another, what, eight or ten feet of wall outside, which the truck was parked parallel to?
“Put down your paint brush,” he tells his girlfriend, “there’s something we need to investigate.”
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