Farewell Francis

“True! -nervous -very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why                                will you say that I am mad?” - Edgar Allen Poe

The plastic accordion curtain slid back, and he could see into the bathroom. Would it have killed them to install an actual door? Mobile home manufactures in the 1970s needed to get their shit together. Bathrooms need doors, real doors, end of story. When he’d moved into this heap, he’d swore he was going to salvage a door from the dump and install it. That had been 12 years ago. There were two florescent tubes alongside the mirror above the avocado sink. The light they cast was bluish, painting the room in what he had always thought of as a haunted hospital light. Laying on the carpet (gaudy green and yellow and brown carpet! In the bathroom! Another blunder by the seemingly malicious manufacturer) was a girl with red hair. She was laying on her side. There was a needle in her arm, below a leather belt that had come loose. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

He grabbed her shoulder and shook her. Hard.

“Hey! Hey wake up! Frances!”

She rolled around, limp. He was bothered by the way the needle swung around like a cock but remained firmly in her vein. He noticed the skin around her lips was bluish grey. He noticed the tips of her fingers were the same color, but darker. He let go of her shoulder and jumped back.

“FUCK!”

He slammed the accordion curtain shut, a deeply unsatisfying maneuver, and stormed into the living room. There was a huge, framed mirror that cover the entire back wall of the trailer. He caught his reflection in it. Thin man, dark hair, dirty Metallica t-shirt, sinewy arms, clenched fists, blank stare.

“I never should have let her in,” he said to the reflection.

She had left her bag, a big cloth hippie sack, on a chair by the door. Claude grabbed it and dumped it on the kitchen table. He kept looking out the little window above the sink expecting to see headlights flooding his driveway, but it was dark and quiet out there. It was late, after midnight. But still. He’d had shit luck his entire life, why would this be any different? His eyes scanned the dirt yard. Her little blue Camry sat next to his red Subaru. He needed to get her car out of his fucking driveway. Fast.

The contents of her purse were coated in some kind of beige powder that was slightly greasy to the touch. Makeup. Fucking women. He snatched up a set of car keys and stuffed them in his pocket. There was a big bulky blue wallet, with a bulging coin purse attached. He nearly choked when he found 800 dollars in cash inside. Then he found two more twenties hidden in a rip in the lining. Not worth what would need to happen next, but fuck, it was five times what he’d been hoping for. Added to the 80 she’d given him for the bags he’d actually make out alright here. He pocketed the cash and swept everything else back into the bag, which would be leaving. With her.

He looked towards the hall, the accordion door. Fuck. He’d been doing her a favor, he hardly knew her. She’d been hanging around various dope houses since her shithead boyfriend ended up in prison. Zeke. And she’d knocked on his door and flashed that big smile. Did anyone know she was here? Fuck. Were people waiting for her? All that cash. But she only bought 5 bags. But maybe…he felt his chest tighten. He needed a blast, just a little one, to get his head straight and prop him up for what he needed to do tonight. Just his miserable luck. He pulled his kit out.

He’d done more than he intended, but it was helping. He felt loose and disconnected, and that was good. He’d managed to go through her pockets. Nothing. No phone. Five empty bags of heroin sat on the sink. Jesus, she’d booted them all. Why would she…doesn’t matter. He plucked the needle from her arm and grabbed the belt, pocked with her little teeth marks and the empty bags, and her works, and shoved everything in her purse. No phone in the purse either. He grabbed a sheet from the spare room, something he’d used as a drop cloth, and wrapped her in it. He actually stopped and checked for a pulse then. Nothing. Her body was cool to the touch, and no longer loose limbed. He’d never touched a dead person before. It bothered him less than he’d imagined, but then again, he was very high. He felt like he was watching a movie. The man lifts the tiny runt (so light!) onto the sheet. The man holds his finger against her pale neck. The man stares into space as he wraps her up burrito style. The man rummages through the blue car in the dark driveway, cigarette smoke blasting his eyes from the lit knob in his gob. No phone. The man puts something wrapped in a sheet in the trunk of the blue car.

He swept the trailer. There was nothing of her in his home now. He had no neighbors to speak of and not a single car had gone by while he’d been loading her in the trunk. This was going so well! He felt calm and in control. He’d been panicking before. Stupid. That’s how people fuck up. But now his insides felt like stainless steel, cool, smooth. All he had to do was get rid of her. And get that car out of his driveway. She was never here. Who could say otherwise? Junkies disappear all the time. This was going to work.

He was sleepy and not in the mood to do this. It was a risky thing, driving her car, with her in the trunk, but there was no other way. He’d thought of a few different plans, and none of them were great, but he’d settled on Frenchman’s Trail. There was a little dirt parking lot at the head of the trail set back from the road. Reasonable place for a little junkie to pull off and get high. It was seven or eight miles from his house, and over the town line to Rome, but there was a snowmobile trail on the other side of the road that cut back towards the North Road. He’d be able to walk back, and it’d only be like two miles. Maybe a bit more. But whatever. He’d brought a backpack and a flashlight. He had thought about taking her further away, wanted, honestly, to get her and the car a hundred miles from his trailer, but it wasn’t logistical. He couldn’t hitch or call for a ride. He couldn’t get other people involved or be seen.

“I’m at home right now,” he mumbled, as thunder rumbled, and the headlights of the blue car swept across a barren field.

The turn off wasn’t marked and he nearly missed it. A narrow, rough little drive led to the lot. Empty, of course. It was even better than he remembered, completely hidden from the road. It really was a good place to get high. And it was off season. The car could sit here for days, even weeks. He parked and cut the lights as the first few drops of rain hit the windshield.

Sitting in the car as the sky opened up and the rain poured down, he went through her wallet. Her license disturbed him. Deeply. She was 17. She might still be in high school. She might live with her parents. They would notice pretty quick if she was missing. But could she live at home? He’d seen her at dope houses all over. And that boyfriend, Zeke, didn’t they have a place? Now he wasn’t sure. He thought she’d been, oh maybe 24. This complicated things. There was an Augusta address on the license. No idea. The car was now a good 40 miles from her house, if that’s where she actually lived. How soon would someone be looking for her? Impossible to know.

He needed to get moving, get this over with, get the fuck out of here. The rain was actually a good thing, despite its meaning a wet walk home. But he continued to sit, smoking, and looking at her license. Frances Myrtle MacFarland. An old fashioned name. That shock of frizzy red hair. Green eyes. She looked 12 and haunted in her picture. Why had she come to his place? She barely knew him. He looked around the car and found ten empty and rinsed dope bags. She had a pretty serious heroin problem for a 17 year old. But then again, he’d started young too. He remembered his brother showing him how to boot when he was what…15? The year he’d dropped out of school and gone to work for his uncle. A kid, hanging sheet rock 10 hours a day. A kid hanging out with his brother at dope houses and making runs to Mass. His brother in prison now, almost a decade. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“You waiting for a state trooper to pull in? Get the fuck out of here.”

He put his smoked butts in his pocket and put all her shit in her bag along with the keys to the car. He popped the trunk, grabbed the purse, and went out into the rain. He was immediately soaked, and the water was ice cold, but it woke him up. He hauled her out of the trunk. She seemed…heavier. Awkward to carry. He stumbled over, with her sort of hung up on his shoulder, to a little picnic table by the trail head sign. It was already muddy. It was hard to keep his balance and a muscle in his lower back ached. Everything was soaked and heavy and he could hardly see. He wanted another blast and realized he’d left all his dope at home. Stupid. He banged his shin on the bench and dumped her onto the table. He unwrapped her and sat her on the ground, near the table, in the mud, with buckets of water pouring down. It was dark but her pale skin glowed. He dumped the contents of her purse around her, heard the syringe and the spoon clink, threw the bag down too.

“Please Lord, let a fucking coyote eat her.”

Back at the car he used the sopping wet sheet to wipe down the steering wheel, door, anything he’d touched. Would this work, or matter? No idea, but he did it anyway. He jammed the sheet into his backpack, turned on his flashlight and swept the scene. You couldn’t see her from here, the table was tucked in the woods. He bumped the door closed with his hip. Good as it was going to get. There were rivers of water and mud flowing down off the mountain into the lot. This rain was doing him all kinds of favors, washing away any tracks. He darted across the road and into the woods on the other side. He found the snowmobile trail a few hundred yards up the paved road, just as he’d remembered it. Not a single car had gone by. Not surprising given it was now 2 or 3 in the morning and this was a back road to a back road. He walked down the wide trail with ease and a spring in his step despite being miserable wet and shivering. This was working! Whenever and whatever was found back there, by whomever, it was going to be a mess. No ties to him. All he had to do was get home, take a hot shower, get high as fuck, and let the forgetting begin.

“Ok, it’s ok. You’re ok. It’s ok. Ok,” he moaned as he wrenched open his backdoor and leapt in, slamming the door and bolting the lock.

He peered out at his backyard. It was dawn. He crouched there, shivering uncontrollably, scanning the narrow strip of mud, surrounded on all sides by woods. Nothing. A perfectly still scene.

He stripped off his pack and shoes and darted to the front door. Bolted, just as he’d left it. The front yard looked completely normal. His car sat parked in his spot. There were no signs of any tire tracks. It was in fact still drizzling and his dooryard was a pond of mud. He went to the backdoor and checked the bolt again. Locked. He scanned the backyard again. Nothing. He was still shaking.

The walk home had been, simply, a nightmare. Hours. Hours. How long had he been out there? He darted to his phone, charging in the bedroom. No calls, no messages, and it was 4:55am. He laughed but it came out sounding like something else. He started to cough. A wet sound that tore at his chest. What had happened out there?

He took a hot shower. He was still trembling as he dried off though. The cold was in his bones, seeping out of his flesh from within. His heart was beating too hard. He paused, hand on the avocado sink, head down, nude, and listened. Was there somebody there? His bare feet stood on the carpet, right where she had lain. He poked his head out the accordion curtain. Silence. The space was entirely still. It had stopped raining, and golden morning light streamed in the windows. He checked the doors again and then dressed. He started a fire in his little Jotel stove, lighting the kindling with his zippo, hand trembling. He wanted to burn that sheet. Maybe his shoes. He felt a strange raspy moan escape him, put his hand to his chest in surprise.

The thing was that walk. He’d been sure that someone was following him. Or more, that someone was out there with him. Out in the woods. But what had made him think that exactly? Had he seen anything, as his flashlight swept across the endless woods? Had he heard something? It had been pouring, the sound of it filling his head. Pouring the whole fucking time, he’d be lucky if he didn’t get pneumonia. He didn’t feel well. Not at all. This trembling for instance, he couldn’t stop. And why could he hear his heart so distinctly? It seemed to be pounding, but then it also seemed to pause. Slip out of gear. Greasy. He took a deep breath and let it out slow, but that just started him coughing. A wet cough that hurt his chest.

“You’re sick, that’s all,” he whispered, holding his hand to his chest again, tears pricking his eyes. He felt like sobbing.

He put his wet clothes in with the rest and ran the washing machine. He draped himself in a blanket, put on a pot of coffee, and lit a cigarette, then stood staring out the front window. It was a beautiful morning. Everything was drenched and sparkling in the sun. His red car was shiny and clean. He checked the lock again. The coffee pot began to sputter and belch. He went into the bedroom to get his works and a few bags of dope, checking the back lock as he went.

After he lay on the couch under two thick blankets. The Jotel was clicking and creaking with heat. His coffee cup was spraying dancing steam into the strong light coming through the front window. He was warm now, and a deep stillness had bloomed in his chest. You were frantic out there, he thought to himself as he dozed and woke. You thought you saw something, something white, heard something, a voice, but you were being dumb. It was pitch black and pouring. You imagined it. At the end he’d been running. He’d fallen more than once. It made him feel ashamed to think of it now. He’d walked home. No one had seen him. He was fine. It was going to be fine.

He snapped awake. He’d heard something, something that had dragged him up from a dream. Something on dark city streets, sort of European, crowds, trying to hide. But then he’d snapped awake because he’d heard something. A tone. A very distinct tone. Just one note. It was the sound a cell phone made. Not his phone. But a sound he’d heard other phones make. The trailer was bright Sith sunlight, hot, and very still. He was sweating, too hot, and pushed the blankets off, sat up. He coughed and it was wet and deep. He really was sick now. But had he heard something? Was it in the dream? It hadn’t seemed like it.

Her phone.

He reached out and grabbed his own phone off the coffee table. No messages, no missed calls, and his phone was on silent. He always kept it on silent. That tone though, it was a phone notification. But not his phone.

Her phone.

He got up and checked the stove, his hips and back screaming in pain. Jesus he’d pulled a few things. He touched his face, hot, his head was pounding. He took two Tylenol. He looked around for a thermometer, but he didn’t find one. Probably he’d never owned one. He checked the doors again. Locked. He switched the laundry over. He hardly used the old dryer, not wanting to pay the electric on it, but he’d be damned if he was going to hang his shit on the line out back. The thought of it filled him with terror. Going outside. He started the dryer and hung his backpack to drip dry in the tub. He’d washed it too. He grabbed the sheet and jammed it onto the hot coals in the stove. It was damp and smoked as it melted into the red hellscape. He smelled strawberries. A sweet whiff of strawberries. From the sheet. Was it her? Her perfume? He flashed to the knock on his door and her standing there, the smile, the apology, and her moving past him as he let her in. Had she been wearing perfume? Her sitting on the couch, running her fingers through her hair nervously, making small talk before asking direct about the dope. He went over to the couch and sniffed the cushion. Feet. Stale cigarette smoke. God, he needed to clean this place. He found himself running his hands along the cushions, along the bottom of the couch, underneath. He pulled off all the cushions then, checking every inch. He realized he was looking for her phone. He went into the bathroom and got on his hands and knees, checking under and around everywhere. Again, nothing but filth. 17 year old girl must have a phone though. But he hadn’t found one. Last night. He had looked. Her pockets, her bag, her car. And she hadn’t called or texted him, she had just shown up. But would she even have his number? He’d never dealt with her before. Zeke maybe. But she must have a phone. And I heard it. It’s here.

He searched everywhere, tearing the place apart, even rooms she hadn’t been in. He poured hot cups of coffee, lit cigarettes, searched, and paced. The conversation in his head circled around and around. It’s not here, there is no phone, of course she had a phone, well it’s not here, but you heard it, it woke you, but did it?, fool’s errand, it’s here. In the spare room he found an old Nokia brick in a box. His old phone, battery dead for more than 10 years. He thought about trying to plug it in, see what kind of sound it made. But it was madness. The tone he’d heard, it was from an iPhone. Not an old Nokia, and not his piece of shit Samsung. And that tracked because she would have an iPhone. Kids like that always did. She had more than $800 dollars on her, so something was fucking up. It must have been in her car, and he’d just missed it. Or she just didn’t have one. But he’d heard it. He had fucking heard it. As he stood there with the dead Nokia in his hand the blue notification light lit up on his phone, on the coffee table. He jumped, heart hammering.

He felt dread as he checked it. Calamity. But it was a text. From Matt. Looking for dope. Of course. It was noon now, on a Sunday, and Matt was nothing if not predictable. He began typing out, -I am dry, and I think I have the flu sorry bub, but stopped. Truth be told if he hadn’t snagged that cash from her, he’d be hard up. Rent was past due on this tin can. He could cover it now, but wouldn’t the best practice be to act like nothing that happened had happened, meaning he’d need cash. Would passing up on a sale make people suspicious. But who? Who would track that. Fuck. His mind was in knots.

He texted back: lets meet, Cumby’s.

He looked out into the yard, scanning the tree line.

He pulled into the Cumberland Farm’s gas station with his eyes at half-mast and pulled in next to Matt’s truck. He’d decided to boot before coming out and had lost track of time. He’d been surprised when he inventoried his stash how much he’d plowed through in the last 12 hours. But he’d been under duress. He had a few bundles for Matt, and a few stashed back home for himself, to ride out this flu. He’d certainly need some sleep tonight. He kept seeing his trailer, Birdseye, from above. How it sat surrounded by deep woods. I tiny little tin pod absolutely encroached by the woods. Hardly any protection at all. And when night came, and with its darkness, well it made him feel sick. The darkness would bleed out of those woods, enveloping him. Dread.

Matt’s truck was empty, so he lit a smoke and stared and the beige brick wall in front of him. The phone was eating at his mind. If she had one (she had one) it was basically a tracking device. When she was reported missing, they would check that phone, see where had been. If it was physically at his place and on that would be terrible, but even if it was in her car, it had been to his place. Also, not great. How did it work though? He had no idea. He didn’t even know if there was a goddamn phone. He had not seen her with a phone, there had been no visual on this phone, and yet…

“Jesus, dude, you alright?!” Matt held a comically large cup of coffee in one hand and his phone and smokes in the other as he slid into the passenger seat.

“What?”

“You look like shit man, you ok?”

“Fine,” Claude swallowed, his throat clicked.

Matt nodded and lit a smoke. He took the lid off his coffee cup and took a slurp off the side. It was the same beige as the bricks, more creamer than coffee, and the smell of it filled the space. Claude swallowed again, his stomach flipped lazily. He took two bundles out of his pocket and tossed them into Matt’s lap. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and his mouth filled over and over as he swallowed again and rubbed his knees, hard, trying to anchor himself.

Matt peeled an individual bag off the bundle and flicked it, low in his lap, to knock the contents down to the bottom.

“This the same shit you had before?”

“Yep.”

“I only have a hundred.”

“It’s fine, you can owe me.”

Matt already owed him, but Claude was fighting puke now actively as it moved up his throat. He needed to get the fuck out of here.

Matt tossed some dirty bills onto his lap and Claude pocketed them without counting. He turned to give him the ol heave ho when, clear as day, from somewhere in the car, he heard a tone. A very distinct tone. He froze. Matt was still fussing with his bags; his phone was face up on the console and the screen was dark. A Samsung. Was it that phone? It wasn’t. Claude pulled his own phone out of his pocket, no new notifications. Of course. But there had been a tone. Had Matt heard it? He looked up and saw Matt staring at him, right in the eye. Did he know? Could he know? Had he heard it?

“Are you ok, man?”

“Yeah,” Claude nodded, sweat was running down his face.

“Ok, I’m out. I’ll uuuuhhhh, call you, right?” He slid out of the car and stood there. Was there something in his voice? Did he know something? “I’ll get that to you, right?” Matt slammed the door, walking towards his truck.

Claude drove too fast out of town, and pulled into a little boat launch he knew. No one was there. No one was ever there. He got out of the car, opened all the doors and the rear hatch and began tearing the car apart. He searched the footwells, under the seats, between the rear cushions, the entire trunk including in and around the rusted out useless spare. Nothing. Of course, there was nothing because there was no way the phone, if it existed, would be in this car. She hadn’t been in this car, hell he hadn’t even been in this car last night. AND THERE WAS NO FUCKING PHONE. But. He had heard it. Hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he asked Matt? But he knew the answer to that. He slumped on the ground beside the driver’s door. The sky was a peachy swirl, it was late in the day and the sun was going down. His stomach cramped suddenly, and he turned just in time to hurl away from his vehicle. He wretched over and over, black coffee puke covering the pine needles, and filling his throat and nose. His guts twisted and he wondered if he’d shit himself now. But it passed. He broke out in a cold sweat and lay there. What a fucking day.

Back at the trailer it was dusk. The little tin can glowed white. Claude sat in his car staring at it. Vulnerable. He pictured the line that connected his home to her, laying in the mud. It would be nothing for her to come to him. Wild and powerful and full of self-righteous fury, someone like that, something like that, could find him anywhere. And she already knew the way. She’d followed him just last night.

He went in, turning on every light, stoking the stove and locking the doors, checking them several times. He looked into every room, walked the length of the place again and again. He put his porch light on. He smoked. He wanted to boot up, but found himself just pacing, unable to settle. He was wondering when he’d last eaten, standing in the kitchen considering some toast, when he heard it. The tone. One clear note. Coming from the living room to his right. He moved into the room, spinning around, trying to orient to it, when headlights flooded into his driveway. Claude screamed and dropped onto the floor. A car pulled up, idled, turned off. Claude peeked out the window, staying low. It was a maroon Buick. He’d seen it before. The door opened and a scrawny kid in huge pants tumbled out. It was Zeke. Her Boyfriend, Zeke. Out of prison apparently. And in his yard. Claude commando crawled into the back hallway. Footsteps on the front steps. Loud banging on his storm door. Claude felt it on the walls of his heart. Why had he turned on every fucking light. Answer the door. Do not answer the door. Answer the door. Were people just showing up now, no calls! Unacceptable. Certainly, hadn’t gone well last night. More banging. There seemed only one thing for it.

He went to the door.

Zeke was sitting on his couch. Exactly where she had sat. He was lighting a cigarette. Claude stood, body humming. He had no idea what might happen next.

“Sorry I didn’t call, man. I haven’t had time to get a phone yet. I just got out this morning.”

“I thought you were in for longer than that.”

“Well, I been a good boy,” he smiled up like a snake, his eyes sparkling.

“Time to celebrate then, huh?’ Claude said as he went to grab his stash box out of the kitchen. Play it cool. He had no idea what was really going on here. What did Zeke know? It couldn’t be random that he was here. There are a lot of dealers. They didn’t know each other that well. This rat didn’t live nearby.

“Yeah, man, yeah,” Zeke came into the kitchen and sat at the table. He pulled some cash out of his pocket. He’d probably cashed out his commissary. That was probably money his mom had deposited so he could buy candy bars. Claude slid five bags to him and Zeke scooped them up.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?”

Frances had said that exact sentence, in that exact spot, 24 hours earlier. Claude stood and stared at Zeke, looked right into his zitty little face, and felt laughter bubbling up in his throat. He held out his hand, proffering the dark hallway that led to the accordion curtain. Zeke disappeared and the accordion curtain slushed shut. He laughed aloud. My God he’d never been this tired. Claude turned on the kitchen tap for a little white noise and dumped two bags out on the kitchen counter. Chopped them and sorted them into little lines. He pulled one of Frances twenties out of his pocket and snorted them up, ran his fingers under the tap and snorted up some water from his fingertips, and turned off the tap. He never used in front of his clients. It was one of his rules. He was a dealer, not a junkie. But this was madness.

He wondered if Zeke would od on the carpet, if he’d have to live the whole thing over, but he came out pretty quick and flopped onto the couch. Now Claude just wanted him to leave. Was desperate for it. But he knew they weren’t done yet. Cause Zeke knew…something. Maybe not everything, but something. Knew she’d been here, maybe, or…something. Maybe all of it. This was all a game. Zeke was suddenly chatty and began talking about prison. The food, the cold stale air, the thin blankets, the guards, the other inmates. There’s a window on the bathroom and the guards watch you shit. Everybody watches you shit. Crowded conditions, he’d slept on a cot in a hallway much of his stay. He was talking about a female guard he’d definitely had a chance with when the tone went off. Clear as day. And Zeke trailed off. The story was sort of over, but had he heard. Claude stood, frozen.

Zeke appeared at ease, sitting, smoking. Claude watched him. The tone had come from the couch. Underneath Zeke’s scrawny ass. It was in the couch. Her phone. Zeke didn’t have a phone, he’d said that, and he hadn’t reacted to the sound, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear it. Because he must have heard it. And he knew what it was.

“I’m sick,” Claude said, still standing stiffly by the door.

“You are? Like a cold?” Zeke looked up at him cheerfully. But what was underneath?

“I think, I think it might be something worse,” Zeke leaned forward, looking at him blankly, so Claude went on, “You see I was out last night. In the rain. In the woods.”

Zeke looked at Claude, and Claude looked at Zeke. Silence stretched out, thinner and thinner, and then, like blue dye in a glass of crystal clear water, dropped, the tone. The sound of it blossomed all around, so clear, so pure, so unambiguous. Their eyes were locked. No one spoke.

“Do you want to know what I was doing? Out in the rain all night? In the woods? All fucking night?” Claude smiled. Something like ecstasy was rising in him. Zeke stared at him, silent.

There was a loud banging on the back door of the trailer. And explosion of sound. But Zeke was just staring at Claude.

“Do you? Do you want to know why I was out there all night?! In the fucking rain?! In the woods?!” Claude was screaming. The banging on the back door got louder, the entire trailer was rocking. But Zeke just sat there.

“I dumped her in the woods, man! I fucking dumped her at Frenchman’s Trail! And then I RAN home through the fucking FOREST. I was HOUNDED,” Claude was screeching, wailing, “HOUNDED BY HER. Relentless! Hideous!”

The pounding was a cacophony, and Claude grabbed the money, her money, out of his pocket and threw it in Zeke’s face. Claude was shrieking, just noises, like an animal. Raving. As he fell to the floor, he heard the back door crash open, and something scrambled inside.

About the Author