Three Lives of Jury - Chapter 32
Jealousy, murder and a town called Jury. A 40-year saga of life and the afterlife
Three Lives of Jury - table of contents
Bonus material:
The Underworld Vents - table of contents.
A bomb drops. Shutterstock photo
“What do you think, Whit? Is it time we told the world?” Lucy Kloot
Chapter 32
That night, Whit dreamed he lay awake, restless and disturbed by clacks and rustles creeping up from under the cabin.
Swarms of cockroaches rasped in crevices, soft-legged, compressed bodies intruding through ancient wood, scraping the stone, wearing down the lustre.
Whit watched, his skin chaffed and yellowed, his body threadbare, more invisible by the day.
He awoke impatient to make up for lost time. He phoned this daughters. No answer. No place to leave a message. He tried Aster’s number. No answer, no message option. He phone the lawyer’s office, desperate now. No answer. He hung up before leaving a message and called the lawyer’s personal number.
The lawyer sounded groggy. Said he had been awake and was getting ready to head into the office. He had no good news to report.
“I’m afraid this is going to take time,” the lawyer said. “More time than either of us likes.”
“More time than I have,” Whit said and hung up abruptly, just as he heard the lawyer starting to offer stupid advice about not doing anything rash.
Time doesn’t wait. You fade if you wait. Why was his lawyer telling him to wait?
Whit sat on the edge of the bed and reopened the dream. He watched it through again, the parts he remembered. Life is too short for this shit. He had better jump to Plan B if he wanted to see the girls again.
He laid back and composed elaborate schemes involving smugglers and assassins before falling back to sleep.
In the morning, he related the story to Lucy.
She hummed.
“Mice or racoons. Hopefully not skunks,” she said, referring to the noises under the cabin. She said she had a guy who set cages and looked after animal control and she’d talk to him about putting traps around the cabin.
“Welcome to Earth,” she said. “It’s all part of its charm.”
To Whit, the dream couldn’t be explained away so easily. These were no run-of-the-mill animal noises creeping into this overactive imagination. But he dropped the subject.
They sped through breakfast, finished just as Frank emerged from his room.
“We wanted to get an early jump on the day so we could get out to see Hellroaring Falls.” Whit wiped plates and left them in the sink.
“It’ll take us most of the morning to get there. You’ll be OK, hey Frank?” Whit said.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Lucy said.
Before Frank could reply, they tramped out and disappeared down the trail toward Whit’s truck.
Frank minded, he minded a lot. But he couldn’t keep up the pace, leaving him with two unpopular choices: he could whine like a child or slather on the guilt like a grandmother. Lucy and Whit would resent either way.
The only true option was to let them go.
Frank stayed at the cabin for the morning, caught a golf cart to the hot springs in the afternoon, where he soaked in one of the two middle pools when he found space enough to stretch out.
He grew annoyed at the nudists and flagged down another cart at the RV park, which gave him a lift to the lodge gate straddling the only part of the hill where the scarp levelled out enough for visitors to walk up. He flashed his room key card and the gate clicked open. On the other side, a woman working security called the lodge to send down a cart to help Frank make the rest of the trip and he stayed in his room until Whit texted that he and Lucy had returned.
The day after, when Lucy and Whit went searching for the Lost Monk Mine, Frank strolled through the tenting area dressed like a tourist. Maybe he’d find trinkets or crystals to sell when he returned to Gold Rush.
Two preachers, or possibly salespeople, Frank wasn’t sure what to call them, hollered from crow’s nests at opposite ends of the site. One shouted from the roof of a yellow bus, the other balanced on the crown of a gigantic boulder with the words Glacial Erratic scribbled across it in orange paint.
The sweaty man with a dory-skiff midsection on top of the bus championed the power of rebirth as realized through regenerative massage, while foam squeezed out from the corners of his mouth. He offered one-on-one consultations inside the bus for a pittance.
Frank listened, standing among the small flock of 11, as the fat man wearing an untucked and unbuttoned blue-and-white striped nautical shirt, pushed out positive vibes. A woman of about 70, wearing swimming goggles on her forehead and a bathing cap, slid next to Frank.
“Do you think he might help you?” she asked in an accent not quite of the English.
Frank shook his head. “Probably not. I’m only here for the scenery.”
“Oh, tch, tch. That’s no way to think. Let him help and he will help. He helped me.”
Frank inched away and studied her once over. “I’m not like you. I’m just here to watch.”
“My, you’re a salty dog, aren’t you? I may not look it because I’m dressed for the hot springs, but I’m older than you think.”
Frank doubted that was possible.
“Mentor John,” she nodded toward the flapping shirt, standing on the bus, “he’s got the magic fingers, let me tell you.”
Frank shuddered. “Mentor John?”
“Well, I don’t believe that’s his real name, gosh no, but that’s what people call him, and you know, it doesn’t matter; let me tell you why.” She moved closer to Frank, forcing Frank to shuffle back again.
She winked. “Come here, don’t act shy. I can see you’re hurting, you look the death. I don’t like to say it too loud so you need to cozy up.” She scooted up close. “Mentor John can do amazing things that’ll make you feel young again.”
“Like drugs?” Frank said.
She cackled, “No, nothing like drugs. Oh dear, no. Mentor John treats the body like a temple and doesn’t believe in drugs.”
“Too bad.” Frank scratched his head. “I could use some right now.”
The old woman stiffened, seemed to take offence. “I’ll just say this: you ask to see him. He’s a healer. He’ll lay his hands on you and everything will change. You’ll see.”
She tottered toward the path leading to the hot springs.
Frank watched her wander off when a voice on his other side said, “Don’t mind Liz.”
A man in his 20s, with a tattoo of a flaming trout on his neck, looked straight ahead as he spoke. “The old people keep coming back to this guy. He has a pretty steady trickle of clientele.” He nodded at Mentor John.
“I imagine he scratches an itch,” Frank said.
“True enough,” the man said. “But I advise you to be careful around that one.”
“Around the Mentor? He seems harmless. A bit of a con artist, maybe,” Frank said.
“That’s his schtick: harmless and positive on the outside, but rumours say he’s one sick fuck. He’ll draw you into a private consultation where you’ll be consulted with a dick up your ass. He loves the old folks, he loves the handicapped and he loves the young ones. Do you have any kids?”
Frank shook his head.
“Good. I mean if you did, you’d want to keep them away.”
“Jesus. Really? That sounds to me like it might just be the rumour mill working overtime.”
“I give it 60-40, maybe 70-30 that it’s true, but who knows?”
Frank scoffed. “The victims. They’d know. What do they say?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know where you live, but where I come from, the victims never talk.”
“If there are no victims, maybe it’s only rumours and bullshit.”
The man laughed so loudly, it carried to Mentor John, who momentarily stopped his speech and waited for the noise to die down, staring at the man next to Frank.
Frank shot the man a sideways glance. “Does Lucy know?”
“Ha,” he barked. “She never bothers with shit that happens down here at the site.”
Huh? This puzzled Frank. Until now, he had been under the impression that Lucy paid close attention to everything that happened around the hot springs.
He drifted off, headed for a crowd gathered at the other side of the tenting site. Hand-written flyers he’d read called her the Witch on the Rock and she attracted a younger, more raucous bunch, who squealed and shouted “amens” as she chanted into a microphone.
Her sermon floated over the throng, a sing-songy oration that mimicked the chants he had heard Lucy use. It was interspersed with crowd-thumping music. The gang of roughly 30 sang, hummed and swayed. At the end, she fell to her knees as though exhausted by the effort, and directed attention to the tables where she sold crystals and papyrus with script, and warned people away from false gods and idols.
She sold blue jeans too, beaded and decorated with celestial fabric paint, but she had nothing in Frank’s size.
He strolled through the dishevelled camp, hazy with dust, campfire smoke and pandemonium. He stopped numerous times gagging on grease and the stench of bodily waste, becoming weak. He felt his legs soften into jelly, his head swam as he staggered around, suddenly unsure of the way out, until a man wearing a big round sheriff’s hat noticed his struggles and called the Spirit Waters Spa and Lodge security gate to request a golf cart for him, assuming he was a lost resident of the lodge.
From that day on, Frank hung closer to Lucy’s cabin, or he stayed in his room at the lodge while Whit and Lucy went hiking.
Whit and Lucy’s walks became a morning routine, leaving Frank with too much time to contemplate the yawning gap between him and his two friends. Whit and Lucy regularly slipped into conversations about which Frank knew nothing and he studied the looks on their faces, smug and satiated and he wondered what they were up to.
They chattered about Arctic lupins, fireweed and paintbrush and dug out reference books to take along with them on their walks. They shouted with excitement at the wolverine they spotted bustling away from an abandoned copper mine one morning and giggled over locating a long-dead boom town perched on the banks of fast-flowing river grown over and buried deep in the forest.
Several times, Frank caught them staring at each other; flirting when they thought nobody was looking. He saw how they “accidentally” bumped into each other going in and out of doorways and he was certain he saw their hands touch, as they feigned clumsiness when reaching for a glass, fork or condiment.
He felt acid burn at the back of his mouth. His irritation at their stupid game grew daily until he might have flung stones at their heads if he had the strength. But Frank was sliding.
He grew weaker each day. His own reflection shocked him: soft arms, complexion sickly and glistening white, eyes dull like a dead fish, and he wheezed almost all the time. Chills triggered shivers, which triggered spasms of intense sweating. Food ran through him like algae through a garden hose and yet, somehow, he was constipated. Every step sucked a marathon of effort.
Finally, tired of the game and exhausted, Frank called for the game to stop. The three were relaxing on the deck preparing supper.
“You two can stop pretending around me. It’s obvious you’ve been trading fuckleberries for a while. I’m not blind.”
Lucy picked up a drink from the end table and silently carried it to where Whit was working the barbecue, handed it to him and wrapped one arm around his waist.
“What do you think, Whit? Is it time we told the world?” she asked.
Whit glanced from Frank to Lucy and back.
Lucy grabbed him by the chin and turned it her way. “Don’t look at him. This is about you and me. Maybe we have something that’s worth exploring a little more. What do you think?”
“He’s right there, Lucy.” Whit pointed the grilling tongs at Frank, then turned back to the barbecue and flipped a couple of hamburgers onto a plate. “Let’s talk about this later.”
Lucy continued undaunted, “We’re not ignoring Frank, are we Frank? We’re telling Frank. In fact, you’re the first to know, Frank.”
Whit’s comment steamed Lucy. Was that asshole backing out now? Well, no time like the present to find out.
“What’s with you?” she said to Whit. “I thought you’d be excited about telling people. Guess I thought wrong.” She picked up the plate to take inside.
“We said we’d wait,” Whit leaned in to whisper. “I need time to think.”
“You want to know what I think?” Lucy said. “I think if a guy doesn’t already know if we have a chance, that’s the only answer I need.”
Whit dismissed the statement with a wave. “No, it means no such thing. Just because I don’t know, doesn’t mean I’m saying ‘no’.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you ask yourself why you don’t know?
“I believe it’s because I actually don’t know and I need to sort stuff out.”
“Or,” Lucy held up an index finger, “more likely, you don’t have a sniff of what you want because all you ever wanted is what other people told you you should want.”
Whit scoffed. “What are you talking about? You haven’t seen me in 20 years and now you’re an expert?” He stepped toward the door to go inside. “Whatever, this has to wait, I’m hungry.”
“You’re hungry? I can’t believe you just said that. You’re hungry?” Lucy glared at him.
Whit nodded. “Well, yes. But in my head, it sounded better than telling you I’m stalling and I don’t know what else to say.” He smiled stepped toward her and opened his arms.
Lucy punched him lightly in the chest. “Fuck you,” she said, grinning. “I’m only saying it might be worth a try, you and I. Let’s find out where it goes or at least let’s not blow it up before it starts.”
“Sure, sure,” Whit stroked her hair. “A beginning. Why not?”
Frank smiled weakly. The two of them made him sick. “Glad I could be of service but you two getting together wasn’t exactly the plan when I called this reunion.”
“I know, Frank. I guess this is a bonus.” Lucy stepped closer to him and shook his knee. “But, hey, it will always be the three of us. Now, let’s shove that cat back in the bag for now and get this party started.”
They took the burgers inside and set the table.
Frank lingered in his chair outside, fighting to keep a lid on the nausea. Despite Lucy’s cheery promises, the three of them were dead. They can never be the way they were.
His anger boiled. The pain in his gut stabbed him and twisted deeper until he nearly passed out. He coughed till his chest ached and as he gasped for air between coughing spells, a voice emerged from the depths of him, a shrill cry for a growl. Frank lost control and the sentences streamed out.
“What’s wrong, Frank?” Lucy asked. She and Whit heard a racquet and rushed back outside.
“Fucks, fucks sakes. That’s fucking great. Frank, the fifth wheel. Welcome to my fucking, goddamned life. Why didn’t you wait until I was gone to do…,” he waved his arms, “whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Frank, you’re being dramatic. Some things aren’t about you.” Lucy tried to change the subject. “What do you want to drink.”
“Yeah, and anyway, it’s more like the third wheel, Frank,” Whit attempted a joke, which was followed by a long silence. He tried to fill in the quiet. “You see, it’s third wheel because there are three of us.” He pointed to the three of them. “You see, three of us, so a third wheel, not a fifth wheel.”
More silence.
“Never mind.” Whit flopped into a chair. “But seriously, Frank, no matter what happens, as far as the three of us are concerned, nothing changes. Let’s hang out enjoy a few more laughs until it’s time to go home.”
“Take me home now,” Frank snapped.
“Fuck that, you’re staying here. We can talk about it later. Let’s have some food, a drink, go to bed and see how it feels in the morning.” Whit rolled his eyes. Jesus Christ, he thought.
“No, take me back to the lodge. I want to go to my room at the lodge.”
“That room at the lodge where you keep your SuperFrank pills? How is that going to help? You want to run away and be alone in your safe room, Frank?”
“I left some of my shit up there. Some medications and other shit,” Frank said. “I want to go there now.”
“Oh, come on, Frank. Let’s talk about this.” Lucy leaned out and touched Frank’s elbow where it rested on the arm of the chair.
Frank held up his hand. “I’ve stayed too long and I thank you for your hospitality, Lucy. And you, for your friendship Whit. Now, I want to go back. And you know what? Fuck you both for making me feel like such a bother.”
“Here we go.” Lucy rose and made a show of collecting drink glasses as though she was preparing to carry an armload inside. “Here we fucking go. Everybody, stop what you’re doing,” she called out to the void of space around them. “Frank feels hard done by. Call the hurt-feelings police.
“Well you know what, Frank?” She turned to look at him. “This has nothing to do with you. You get zero say over our lives. What Whit and I choose to do, or not do, is none of your fucking business.”
The nerve of that little turd, Lucy thought. She tried to be patient and show sympathy for Frank’s illness but she had limits. He doesn’t get to play the sick guy card whenever it’s convenient.
She dropped the glasses she’d picked up a few seconds ago and pointed a finger in Frank’s face. She was done with the battered puppy act.
“Frank, are you actually jealous? Is that the problem? Did you come here thinking you and I would hop back into bed because we’re still crazy in love after a one-night stand 20 years ago?”
“Fuck you, Lucy. I want to leave,” Frank said.
“Yeah, I know. You want to leave.” Lucy began to clatter glasses together once more. “Big surprise, man-child wants to bail out when he learns the Earth’s rotation doesn’t depend on him. Well fuck off then. Goodbye and good luck. That abortion was the smartest thing I ever did in my life. To be tied to you, even through a beautiful child, would have been a fucking disaster.”
Oh shit, Whit thought.
Oh shit, Lucy thought.
Lucy’s last words swept out through the clearing and downward into the forest, over the river and across the myriad ridges beyond. There was no calling them back.
“What child? What abortion?” Frank asked.
It’s out now. Fuck it, Lucy thought. It’s for the best. It was a harsh way for Frank to find out, but Lucy was in no generous mood.
“I didn’t tell you, Frank, because, guess what, I thought you’d be a colossal asshole about it. Big Man Frank talks a big game, but not so much when reality knocks on his door. So yeah, that night after your prom when you and I had drunken, meaningless sex, I got pregnant and Whit was there to help me.”
Whit squeaked and started to speak, but Frank beat him to it.
“You knew?” Frank looked at Whit.
Whit needed a drink. He nodded. “We lived in the same house, Frank. Of course, I helped her.”
Frank paused, hung his chin, then he lifted his face and spoke off into the dusk: “I know both of you never liked me and I probably deserved it. If I hadn’t been such an ass back then about wanting to hang with kids from my class instead of you guys, we might have stuck together. But that doesn’t excuse this. You had an abortion and you didn’t come to me? You were carrying my fucking baby. It was my baby too.”
A wheezing leak escaped from Frank’s throat.
“It was a fucking cell, Frank.” Lucy had no thought of apologizing. “There never was a baby. Even if there was, what would you have done? Were you ready to settle down and raise a kid? If you think you were, you’re more delusional than I think.”
“I deserved a say. I should have been in on the decision.” Frank grabbed a napkin and coughed into it.
“The hell you deserved a say, Frank. The fuck you did. One of your tiny sperms gets lucky and makes landfall and you think that gives you a say over what goes on in my body? Fuck off, Frank. Whit take him back to the lodge.”
Whit stood. “Lucy, he’s just venting.”
“No, he wants to go and I want him out of here. Take him back up to the lodge now,” Lucy shouted.
“Frank, it might be for the best,” Whit said. “I’ll come back up in the morning and we can talk over breakfast.”
Frank stood, ready to go, rubbing the seams of his pants nervously, considering something. He shook with rage, wanting to throttle that cunt Lucy; if he only had the strength.
They locked eyes and glared at each other. It could have been minutes, it might have been only a few seconds until Lucy nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Big man Frank with nothing to say,” she scoffed.
Frank imagined jumping her, pushing her down to the cold floor, but he lacked the fight.
He felt tears rising, suddenly, Jesus, not now, but the swell was unstoppable and he sank low in the chair. They had no right. Lucy had no right. The outrage burned. Fuck her, he thought, slouched over blubbering in self-pity.
Fuck them both, he thought, struggling to regain composure. Just focus on what’s important, he thought. Get back to the reason for coming in the first place. Focus on that.
He coughed and thrashed his body wildly with every hack, trying to hide his tears in the coughing.
“I don’t know what I thought,” he said once the coughing settled, “but I didn’t come here to get with you,” he lied. He didn’t come here for sex, but in the back of his mind, he hoped.
“I wanted to get the three of us together again because when the three of us were together before, we mattered. We had a mission. I felt like I made a difference.”
Whit interrupted him. “Frank, when this is over we’ll be around for each other. We’ll get together tomorrow and you’ll see. It’ll still be the three of us.”
“Yeah, Frank,” Lucy’s temper cooled. The little turd was doing it again, playing the sympathy card, but she felt like shit for yelling at him. “There’s always a place for you whenever you want to come. You’re a good friend. Let’s take a break tonight, OK. We’ll talk in the morning when our heads are clear.”
A din started. Lucy and Whit were momentarily confused before they realized the source. Frank sounded like an angry bee hive; a faint gurgling from this throat. He started kicking, stamping his feet to boost his courage. It was now or never and he had to know.
“All right, I’ll go. But before I leave, do one thing for me.” Frank wobbled to his feet and stood in front of Lucy, the top of his head reached to her eyes. He tilted his face upward to see her more clearly.
“I want to know what you see Lucy.”
“What do you mean Frank?”
“What do you see when you see ghosts, or spirits, whatever you call them?”
“Forget it Frank. Let’s not talk about that now.”
“I have to know Lucy. I’m at the end. There’s nothing ahead for me.” He hung his head. “I’m scared, Lucy and I got to know what’s coming next.”
“Oh Frank,” Lucy held out her arms; Frank moved in and they hugged.
“It’s OK. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’d see it if a ghost was sniffing around or if your death was near. I’d know about it,” she lied. “But the only thing I see is the man who stepped into the thickest, blackest night and faced down the monster. Not many people could do what you did, Frank. And we’re grateful for it.”
Frank burst into fits of loud sobbing. It was what he’d been waiting for years to hear. Lucy shushed him gently.
“Do you still think about that night in Mud Valley?” Frank kept his faced buried in Lucy’s shoulders.
“Of course. We both do.” She glanced at Whit, a pleading look for him to say something.
“Of course,” Whit said. “I think about it every day.”
“Frank, Frank, we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” Lucy said.
Frank gasped in a long, loud breath, his breathing slowly evened out. This satisfied him. They remember, he thought.
“Will I turn into a ghoul, like the ones you see?” Frank pushed away and wiped his face. “I mean after, when I’m dead. Will I become one of them?”
“Frank,” Lucy pushed him back, “you’re not dying, I’d smell it if you were. I can smell that shit years ahead of your best-before date.” She softened her voice. “And even if you were dying, you’re not, but if you were, you wouldn’t become like the ghosts I see. Those things are nothing but shells, filled with rage and spite. You’re not like that.”
“I’m not like what?”
“You know, cruel and vengeful. The spirits I see, they’re stuck on the wrong side of the curtain and I think the dangerous ones are the way they are because they lived with dark hearts that ate away at their souls until they had nothing else left.”
Frank laughed and pressed his head into Lucy’s shoulder again.
“Why is that funny, Frank?” she asked.
Frank ignored the question. “Tell me what you see when you look at people who come to you for help.”
“I told you, I see shadows of teeth and fingers clawing to get at people. I see smoky outlines, sometimes they look like regular people trapped in a dust storm, and they’re pushing people down, or crushing their backs and necks. But I see none of that around you.”
“And of the afterlife? What happens in the afterlife?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see anything about that, Frank. I simply send ghosts away. Most of them fade when I tell them this isn’t their realm. The worst ones look like they want to gouge out my eyes, but they all leave, eventually. To where? I don’t know.”
“I won’t,” said Frank.
“You won’t what?”
“Gouge out your eyes.”
“Thank you Frank.” Lucy caught Whit’s eyes. Holy shit. “Frank, did you take something? Are you on some different pills besides your medication because you’re talking a little weird right now.”
Frank was slipping toward delirium. They had to get him help. Fuck, they’d better put him on suicide watch, she thought.
Frank burped loudly. Lucy whipped her head away under the stench. Frank reached up and grabbed her on both sides of her head and pulled her face down toward him, crushing his lips into hers. He forced open her lips, then thrust his tongue inside her mouth.
Lucy bit, spit, punched and shoved. Frank was sick. Frank was soft and no match for Lucy. She knocked him to the wooden floor in seconds and pounded his head and face.
“You fucking weasel. You fucking weasel son-of-a-bitch. I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”
Whit grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off. A few punches deflected off his head. Lucy, realizing she’d hit Whit, stopped, signalled Whit to let her go and rose to her feet. She glared down at Frank, who was writhing on the floor, giggling or crying, she couldn’t tell. She faked one direction, as though to move away, then twisted back around Whit and kicked Frank in the groin.
Frank oomphed, then chortled and mumbled. He began howling, then erupted into fits of coughing, spewing phlegm.
“We better get him out of here,” Whit said. “I’ll take him to his room at the lodge. He’s got a portable compression vest thing in the cabin too. Get that for me and I’ll load him into a cart and take him to the truck.”
Lucy retrieved the pack containing the vest and a few other items.
“He’s light as a feather. I can handle him,” Whit said. “If you can carry that shit to the golf cart.”
Lucy stormed across the clearing with them and tossed the gear into the back of the cart. Without a word she stomped off.
“I’ll make sure he takes his meds and uses his compression vest. I’ll text you.” Whit called after her and drove off down the trail.
“Why did you do that, Frank?” he said as they bounced along. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Heh-heh, heh-heh,” Frank mumbled.