This was the last leg of our father & son trip, to cross the Canadian border and explore the innards of another country, a first for both of us. But Dad always ran his tires into the ground, until they were bald and ready to bust open, and so there was always a 50/50 chance of losing a tire on a long trip. And this time we were on the wrong end of 50/50.
I began hearing the sound earlier, but said nothing, hoping the road was just old and noisy, keeping my eye on Dad’s involuntary expressions. Dad turned towards the driver’s side window several times, looked into the rear view mirror, wrinkling his forehead a bit, and then refocusing on the road. Once or twice he looked at me for a second and said nothing, wondering if I’d been hearing it too, but I said nothing. We did this kind of silent inquisition often, keeping elephants in the room as long as possible before acknowledging them, hoping they’d run off. But this beast was staying and getting bigger, Dad and I finally looking all over, window to window, mirror to mirror, getting more nervous.
The air bubble circled the tire and met the ground in percussive intervals, giving the impression of a helicopter above us. The sound of spinning rotor blades following us without end, its pace in sync with our speed, giving away its true nature, until Dad was finally enlightened and said, “That ain’t no helicopter!”
We abruptly came to a stop and Dad got out to check the tires. He noticed something, looked at it with that concerned look in his tensed eyebrows and wrinkled forehead. I opened the window and leaned head and body over the door, trying to glimpse whatever Dad had honed in on.
“What is it, Dad? What’s wrong?”
“The back tire is bad, Son. There’s a bubble on it making that helicopter sound…it will blow, not now, but later. We can probably make it to the border. It’s not far from here. Come on, you will fall out, get back inside and buckle up.”
Blow? As in explosion? Probably make it to the border?
At 11 years old, I was already preoccupied with a fear of death, my death and Dad’s death, especially being so far away from home, where nobody could save us or recover our bodies if they somehow became lost. I dreaded the idea of being missing and inaccessible to Mom and my sisters, even if we were only dead bodies. Better to be dead somewhere than dead nowhere, where we can’t be found. That was my thought process back then.
Now I’m reminded of Ötzi the Iceman – that body they found in ice on a mountain. He lay there dead for thousands of years, his family and maybe his lover never knowing what had happened to him. Some other guy probably getting into her bed while Ötzi was frozen like a Popsicle. Anyway, I digress…
Dad was not worried about such things, not about death or being lost and forgotten somewhere. And so he started down the road again, and I was terrified in a silent way, anticipating an imminent tire blowout and subsequent spinout of the car, sending our bodies flying into a hidden ravine, turning us into dinner for whatever wildlife stalked the local woods. We were “in the middle of nowhere,” Mom would often say, where these things could happen.
Mom was always scared when Dad drove us through remote or unfamiliar places, the nervousness visible in her fidgety hands and fingers, and in her slow nodding of disapproval. I think some of her fears got transfused into me over the years, as the unknown has always scared me. H.P. Lovecraft once said, “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” And that is what Mom and me feared, the unknown. I still fear it.
This dark road we were on was unknown to me, and Dad had no idea where we were, only that we were “somewhere” on the road to the border. And somewhere is nowhere if you don’t know where it is. There was nothing but dark forest surrounding us…we were in the land of nowhere!
Fortunately, Dad quickly changed his mind. The helicopter sound got louder and the road ahead darker without a car in sight. He decided that we’d spend the night where we found ourselves, which was a remote Maine town that was more forest than civilization. Dad would take care of the tire in the morning.
But you know, nothing is ever clear-cut in my life, not then or now. Dad stopping at a place that looked like the movie set for “Psycho” was the lesser of two evils. On the way to the motel we came upon a road sign alerting travelers to a mosquito transmitted virus in the area, and to take precautions after dark. There were no better alternatives for us though. The sun was gone and there was nothing but more forest and unlit road ahead of us, as far as we could see anyway. So, it was a toss up between dying in the middle of nowhere from a tire blowout, our animal dissected remains being lost for the next few thousand years like Otzi; or dodging diseased mosquitoes in and around our motel room.
The mosquitoes seemed like the better option, since the enemy could be heard and seen, maybe defended against to some degree by swatting at it. And of course if we lost the battle, then our infected or deceased remains would be delivered by the local townsfolk to our families. We would be dead, but not lost. Better deal, I thought to myself.
So, it was 8:00 pm by the time we arrived at the roadside motel – can’t remember the name of it now. By the looks of it, there were only two other guests that night: a couple with a bike occupying the room beside us. I got a first glimpse of the lady guest at the soda machine, dressed like she’d just came from church, wearing a big cross on her. She gave me some change to get a coke, as I was short of it. I thanked her and she invited me into her room for some cupcakes she’d brought along for the trip. I declined though, knowing Dad would not be happy about me fraternizing with strangers, and I was not too keen on eating a stranger’s food in the middle of nowhere – too much of the unknown again, and I visualized Mom’s fidgeting and nod of disapproval. The lady asked if we were there for some religious revival, and then said something about Jesus before letting me go. Didn’t think too much about the encounter or the lady, but was happy to leave with a cold coke and get back to the room, away from the mosquitoes.
Our room was the size of a big closet, with two beds, a tiny bathroom, and one window facing the parking lot. Everything seemed old and original, including the flattened, stained carpeting, WWII era bathroom fixtures and plumbing, and a worn couch with a scattering of burn holes. I wondered why anyone would stay in the middle of nowhere, in a place like this, unless they had a tire bubble or bad night eyes. That road was damn dark…not one street light! Everything was just black, including the motel parking lot, until you got close to the motel lights.
Dad turned off the television and lamps at about 9:30, and for the first few minutes there was just darkness and silence, which bothered me. I needed my familiar, comforting sounds, or I couldn’t sleep. I missed the sounds of Mom’s dishwasher machine. I’d come to rely upon it as part of my sleep routine. Mom would turn it on every night, just after I got into bed, and the rhythmic motion of the wash would lull me to sleep before the final cycle ended. But in this place, there was nothing. No light, no sound, nothing…and Dad could not sleep with the TV on. I could not get up, walk around, turn a light on, read a book, watch TV, or do anything else without disturbing Dad. The night in this place was just like death as I imagined it…darker than dark with a deafening silence…I could hear my heart beating. Maybe this was my sneak preview of death!
The air was thick with heat and humidity, and I was getting bathed in sweat. I craved to feel even the faintest breeze, making myself bare chested and as motionless as possible, hoping to get even the slightest hint of forest cooled air caressing me. But, the breeze puffing up the curtains on the other side was either rerouted by the furnishings or died out before reaching me.
I was dying of thirst, thinking about the soda machine I’d visited earlier, a few rooms down on the outside, sitting next to the ice maker. I had the thought of sneaking out the door to grab another soda, but there was no spare change on me, and the prospect of those mosquitoes stalking me or Dad hollering made the idea mute.
So, there I was, eyes wide open staring at nothing but blackness, my two ears like radars searching for the buzz of killer mosquitoes. Once in a while, though, to my great but short-lived relief, I heard one of those big logging trucks hauling down the highway toward the border, first making a roar on its approach, but quickly falling off into a whine and then a whisper, and then nothing again: not a peep, not even a cricket.
Where are the crickets? I wondered. Seemed like everything was dead there.
I searched for a thought or daydream to distract myself from a night of sensory deprivation, fearing the fears that would arrive to fill the nothingness…that was the way my mind worked, then and now, and why turning on the dishwasher or a TV was essential, but neither of those contraptions were available to me.
After about a half hour of nothingness, my eyes adjusted, making out the faint glow of motel lights from outside the screened window. My eyes locked in on that, like I was waiting to see a horrible face looking in at us, or the shadow of big ass mosquitoes trying to get inside – fearing the decrepit screen was full of entry holes. Nothing changed though and nothing showed itself in front of the window, other than outdoor light bulbs flickering at times, a disconcerting sight in itself – maybe the shadows of them infected mosquitoes.
I obsessed over those bugs for a while, feeling my fear of them, until I first heard or imagined what sounded like the groans of a woman…yes, a woman moaning or groaning – not sure of the exact difference, but it was disconcerting nonetheless…like someone delirious with fever or maybe racked with body pains of some kind. It was very subtle though, the sound muffled by the wall next to me, leaving it barely audible and the validity of it in doubt. Maybe this was imagined by me, I thought, like the sound of helicopter blades above dad’s car; the groaning being a kind of auditory delusion created from a hybrid of distant highway sounds and self-inflicted paranoia. Could have been, huh?
The groans disappeared though, before I considered it further, slowly merging into the hum of logging trucks somewhere in the distance. And so I left it there on the periphery of my thoughts, not dwelling on it, but not discarding it either, leaving it to ruminate in my subconscious – maybe the fodder for future nightmares.
I so wanted to fall asleep and get to the other side of the night…to see the sun coming through the window, restoring my peace of mind and maybe finding something redeeming about this remote town in the light of day. I happily pictured Dad and me at the service station; getting the tire fixed; having a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes following that; making the final run to the border, only a few hours down the road; getting back to the city lights and civilization. But that was all wishful thinking at that point, as there were still many hours of night to suffer through.
The silence was bothering me again, as I lay there staring suspiciously at the various shadows in the room, now becoming more prominent as my eyesight sharpened through dilation. I looked at my watch…only 8 more hours until sunrise…I will make it, I thought to myself. BUT THEN, the silence was punctuated by another groan behind the wall, this time intensifying into a howl and then a sharp yelp, and then abrupt silence again. I’m shocked into full alert, eyes wide open, heart pounding, my body stiffened like a board. This was NO DELUSION! I considered making a run for it, going out the door and turning right, away from whatever was happening, but where would I go? It was all fucking forest surrounding us, with deadly mosquitoes and other predators of the wild. Besides, I figured it was best to just remain frozen, not making a peep, to avoid attracting any attention to our presence there, in case there were bad people next door not wanting any witnesses.
And then it began again, a slow, almost imperceptible groan escalating into a loud, steady howling, more elongated than the last time, and finally reaching to a scream as if something suddenly pierced this woman behind the wall. And then silence again, but not for long. I hear what sounds like sobbing and then the mumbling of a man, lingering for several minutes, but gradually transforming back to a low groaning, undulating in tone and volume, until it disappeared again.
Dad tossed and turned in bed talking to himself, but in mumbles I couldn’t make out. He got up at one point, went to the bathroom for an extended stay, stood over me for a bit while I pretended to sleep, and then went outside for a smoke, his head turned towards the room next door, mumbling again. Dad was clearly agitated by the happenings or maybe the lack of air in the room, or both.
“Dad, come in and close the door! Them mosquitoes will get us!”
“Go to sleep, Son. The critters aren’t staying at this motel, not them kind,” he said with a chuckle, and closed the door behind him, with yet another chuckle.
The groaning emerged again, but this time into something that sounded like a bludgeoning, with cries, awful hollering, swear words that I cannot repeat, and a horrible banging on the wall like two people struggling in a fight. Dad exclaimed from his bed, “Holy fuck!” and then came his childish sounding laugh, a kind of “he he he.”
Dad turned to his side, looking at me – my peripheral vision caught his stare. I sat up abruptly, looked back at him, thinking he was about to clear us out of that room, call the police, or something! BUT he was grinning and made that stupid laugh again…
“He He He”
“Noisy neighbors we have, huh?”
“Yeah, noisy. Sounds like something bad is happening to the lady. I think she is the church lady, the one who bought me the coke.”
“It is nothing like that. We will talk about it soon or maybe Mom will fill you in. Try to get some sleep, so we can get some eggs and pancakes in the morning and get to Canada. Pay no mind to them noisy people. These nowhere towns draw on crude folks like them, bringing them out of the woodwork…no manners. This is why I didn’t bring Mom or your sisters with us. Places like this are for us men only.”
“Okay, Dad, but the lady is nice, not crude. What are they doing over there? It sounds really painful.” Dad didn’t hear this, since my soft spoken voice was just another mumble over the loud banging and screams. But like a plug was pulled, IT ENDED! Just like that. No more banging, no more screams or swear words, the groaning no more! NOTHING. The curtains stopped moving too, no airflow at all. That dead, dark, nothingness again.
It was 11:00 when it all stopped, but I lay there awaiting its continuation, staring with eyes wide open, vividly imagining a dead or dying woman behind the wall, despite what Dad told me. Wondering if the diseased mosquitoes would be drawn to her corpse, finding their way thru our screen holes after finishing with her.
Seven more hours to sunrise. I thought to myself.
Exhaustion finally set in, and my heartbeat finally silenced itself, replaced by a gurgling, followed by irregularly spaced impacts, like marbles falling on top of marbles. I deciphered it as the outside ice machine making new cubes of ice. It went on intermittently, cycling on and off for the next few hours, like it was counting off the time by its own calculations. I chose to be comforted by it rather than haunted by the sound…my surrogate dishwasher machine, but hardly as comforting…too much time and space between falling ice cubes…still reliable though, keeping my attention just enough to get through the next several hours.
I fell asleep for a bit.
Daylight woke me with the sound of cars, trucks and motorcycles hauling down the highway at regular intervals, giving me comfort as people were now just a stone’s throw from me, albeit just passing through. I spread out on the bed with an air of smugness, like nothing was too bad or evil for me now, as I made it to the other side of night in the middle of nowhere, receiving no mosquito bites, and enduring the sounds of a possible bludgeoning next door, even though I knew better by now. The sunlight had revived my rationality, melting away those paranoid fears of night.
Dad’s bed was empty, the room door partially ajar, inviting me to take a peek. Dad was looking at the next door neighbor’s bike, a big machine with those long chopper handles. The owner, a man with a handlebar mustache and big green tats, was pointing something out about the engine, while Dad took every opportunity to glimpse the woman standing by his side, the lady who purchased my coke. She was nothing special or noteworthy, just an ordinary looking woman, but all that noise apparently aroused Dad’s curiosity about her, as it did mine. We both stared her up and down, discreetly of course, wondering about her and all that groaning and screaming in the night.
I suppose it was the juxtaposition of ordinariness and frenzy that both scared and intrigued me, wondering how they could coexist in a God fearing woman, or anyone for that matter. I was profoundly bothered by this, as it was about the unknown again. For Dad, though, I think it was something more familiar and entertaining for him, something to share with his poker buddies. But nevertheless, I was not ready to know the details just yet, of what goes on behind closed doors with regular folk. Nor did I want to know what Dad was thinking and feeling, or what he knew. And Dad was not ready to get into it with me, so we just stared at her and each other. In fact, we stared at each other intermittently all the way to the Canadian border, doing that silent inquisition thing again, creating another big elephant between us.
Note: This story is entirely fictional. All events, situations, circumstances, and characters depicted in this story are the products of my creative imagination. Any similarities between story characters and specific people in the real world are purely coincidental and unintentional. My characters are composites of “possible” personality types, behaviors, and quirks that interest me.
© 2020 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Notes from David 