CHAPTER NINE: A Drive North
At the end of October came a festival. Always at this time of year the local amusement park held one, for to summer a final farewell.
The park, called Cedar Point, named it Hallow-weekends, as the festival only ran on those days. This was its third year and Dante had yet to go even once. He had always wanted to (Halloween was his favorite holiday) but could never think of a proper way to ask his parents. He knew from past visits—summertime visits—that amusement parks were not the cup of tea of his mom and dad. The huge roller coasters did not interest them (never once did they pause on the midway to gape at their enormous, gleaming skeletons). The junk food vendors did not please them. They found the smell of Sandusky Bay offensive (unless its odor approached from the hull of a yacht). Icky smells of candy and soda made them nauseous. The place was too noisy. The place was too crowded. All of these things and others Dante could ascertain just by looking at their faces, or listening to their voices when they told him—along with whomever friend had come along for the day—to be careful, and to be at such and such a place by lunchtime.
Hallow-weekends won’t be so bad, Dante wanted to tell them, each and every year. Most of the rides are closed; the vendors sell apple cider; the bay won’t smell because the air is cooler. They would make good rebuttals for the elder Torns’ disapproving stares toward his request. Good, just not good enough. This year they had not taken him to Cedar Point at all. They might have had he asked, but more and more, their acquiescence for his follies seemed too awkward to endure. So Dante had decided upon silence last June. Now, in October, he did the same.
But it wasn’t Dante’s parents who finally took him to see Hallow-weekends. It was Sunny’s.
It happened this way: The Monday after his botched cigarette prank he went to school late. The blame lay totally with him. He’d forgotten to set his alarm clock; thus, both he and it overslept. At eight o’clock he stepped into the principal’s office with an excuse paper from his mother (its message dashed off hastily over coffee and a croissant).
The secretary scowled from her desk. “What do you want?” she groaned.
Dante gave her the paper. “Late for school.”
“Again?”
“I haven’t been late all year.”
Now the woman snorted. “That’s what they all say, kiddo. And what do you want?”
This last was directed over Dante’s shoulder. Her turned to find Sunny walking in the door. As always, she was dressed in black. Her crooked smile dodged around Dante to find the secretary.
“Just a moment of your time,” Sunny obliged. She walked to the desk without looking at Dante, and from a small, neat bag she wore on a chain around her wrist, produced a slip of paper.
“Another excuse paper?” the secretary asked, as if the death of her would soon come about from them.
“Yes,” Sunny told her, “I’m afraid I overslept. Forgot to set the alarm.”
“Shame on you.”
“I know. I’m horrible. Luckily, Dante is here to walk me to class.” She raised her slender arm—the one with the bag on it—to Dante. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” Dante said, in a rush of unexplainable confidence. “You look rather lovely this morning.”
“Why thank you, kind sir!”
“Let me get the door.” He held it open, and in a whiff of shampoo and perfume, Sunny went through. Dante then turned back to the secretary, whose impatient face had turned to something more like one placed in the audience of a frightful magic show, so large were her eyes. “A pleasant day to you, Miss,” Dante sang, pretending to raise an invisible hat, the way gentlemen once did in that city by the Thames whose etymology hides in ancient tablets.
“Thank you,” the secretary got out timidly.
When the door was shut, both Dante and Sunny began to laugh.
“Well played,” Sunny said, “well played!”
“Have you been reading deep literature of some sort over the weekend?”
She shook her head. “No, no. It’s just when your dad drives you to school in a Jaguar every morning you sometimes feel baroque. It passes.”
“Did you really forget to set your alarm?”
“I really did, my dear. Why?”
Dante shrugged. “Coincidence. I forgot mine, too.” His mind went back to the rat in the girls’ locker room. And then there was the biting spider in the blond boy’s bag. Coincidence.
I hope a part of that evil thing died in the basement with her, truly and with all my heart.
They walked slowly down the dormant hall. Sunny put her head on his shoulder. Her boots clicked. “Page 101,” a teacher behind one of the doors called. From more distant still came the rumble of thunder. A storm was coming.
“Sorry about the cigarettes,” Dante said.
Her eyes flicked upward. “We’ll have to do better next time, won’t we?”
By we, of course, she meant you. Dante knew as much but held his tongue.
“Doing anything this weekend?” she asked.
“Nothing planned,” he answered.
They had reached the new wing, top of the ramp. Bright fluorescent lights shined on posters and doors. Two other seventh grade girls passed by in the other direction; both said hello to Sunny.
“Well,” Sunny said, after nodding to them, “why don’t you come with us to Cedar Point? They’re having a Halloween festival.”
Dante’s heart stumbled. Never once had she called upon him outside of school. Now this sudden invitation to an event he’d been wanting to see for years.
“By us,” he said, “you mean you and your parents?”
“That’s right. My dad’s driving.”
She added this final part as if it would make everything perfectly safe. And indeed, why shouldn’t it be?
One reason seemed clear enough. “Do they know about us?” he put forth. “Do they know we’re like…a couple?”
Sunny’s green eyes flashed again in that way that signaled danger. “We’re not like a couple, Dante. We are a couple. And yes, they know.”
“How do they feel about it?”
“It?”
“Yes. The relationship.”
They had passed through the foyer, with its myriad spooky decorations, and were now at the entrance to the cafeteria, where Sunny would go for period one study hall. She stopped. Her grip on his arm tightened.
“Thank you for walking me, Dante. Now then. Would you like to come with us this weekend or…do you have someone better to buy pumpkin spice coffee for?”
“Sunny.”
The green in her eyes continued its vehemence. Such was its capering Dante could only think of imps before their stoning by sublimity. He knew he had only seconds to say the right thing, otherwise she would turn on her heel without a word and not speak to him until maybe Thanksgiving.
“Sunny,” he told her, “I would love to come with you this weekend. What time should I be at your house?”
The capering stopped; the flame went out. Crisis averted. Smiling, Sunny pulled him a little way down the hall, to a place where no one would see. Here she took a small slip of paper from her bag and wrote her address: 911 Wooden Tee Lane, Sycamore Hills. 4PM sharp!
“Sharp,” Dante said after reading it.
“That’s right,” she replied. Her eyes widened crazily. “Sharp as the stakes of Salem. Be there!”
“I will,” he promised. It was always nice to see her so happy.
“Thanks, Dante!” And before dashing off to study hall, she stood on tip-toe to give him the sweetest good-bye kiss, he might have mistaken it for a good and proper girl’s.
∞
The week passed happily enough. Dante walked to class with Sunny when he could (besides homeroom they only shared one other together). He ate lunch with her and her friends. In the afternoon they said goodbye at his locker, or sometimes her locker, always with that entourage of girlfriends standing close, their strange smiles hovering like Valentine’s Day balloons over a haunted dance floor. Every now and then between classes, Maris’ face would appear among the throng of migrating students. At these times the effect on Sunny’s confidence was passing but noticeable. Her chatter stopped; her grip on Dante’s arm tightened. Once, toward the end of the week, Maris drifted near their lunch table to talk with Mr. Wolfe. All of the girls with Sunny went quiet and bowed their heads. Sunny also went quiet. Her gaze, however, was defiant, locked with hatred on the girl she considered her enemy, whether by nature or bad fortune. Curious, Dante tried to get her attention. It was like she didn’t hear. She would not even look at Dante until at last Maris went away, at which point everything returned to normal.
His father okayed the trip to Hallow-weekends. It happened on Wednesday night, after Dante knocked on the door of his study and was told to come in. This room was even more hushed than the rest of the house, with its thick brown carpet and heavy oak paneling. On one wall hung a painting of a tree, ripe with fruit. The opposite wall contained a fireplace, lit for the chill evening, where thumbprints of dead bricklayers could be seen in the mortar.
“Hello, Dad.”
“What is it, Dante?”
The older Torn had turned in his seat. His face was like petrified wood, his dark hair neat as a doll’s. No emotion but vague annoyance at being disrupted (he was an accountant; six papers formed a triangle on his desk) tainted his eyes.
“I was invited by a friend to go to Cedar Point this weekend. Is it all right?”
Almost without hesitation, Mr. Torn said: “Yes, that’s fine.” A silence then burgeoned between them, wherein the only noise came from the fireplace. “Is that all?” Dante’s father wanted to know.
“Yes. Thanks, Dad.”
“Goodnight, Dante.” And without waiting for his son to leave, Mr. Torn returned to his work. He did not even ask on which day of the weekend the trip would fall, or at what time, or for how long.
“Goodnight,” Dante said.
But Mr. Torn was no longer listening.
∞
On Saturday, as the sun neared its unwarming meridian, Dante left number 54 in a black leather jacket. A long walk to Sycamore Hills came next, yet being a summertime paperboy he scarcely minded. The autumn wind lent vigor to his bones. Dry leaves rushed on the sidewalk, trailing scents of sap and wood. Cardboard skeletons danced to jangling wind chimes. When he came to Mr. Donati’s house he saw the old opera singer on the front step, a broom in his hands, sweeping dirt from its threshold. Dante called and waved. The older man smiled and waved back.
“Busy morning?” he asked.
“Busy day. Spending it with Sunny by the lake.”
At this Donati’s head tilted slightly, as if amused by Dante’s insisting proximity to things better left with space. “Sounds romantic.”
“Perhaps.”
The tilt straightened to allow a burst of good-natured laughter. “Perhaps, he says! Perhaps! Come back tomorrow and tell me about perhaps!”
Fifteen minutes later Dante came to the entrance of Sycamore Hills. A pair of wide drives—an entrance and an exit—plunged into a realm of neat, expensive one-level ranch style houses that overlooked a golf course. Keeping to the right side of the entrance lane, Dante entered. Sycamore Hills had only been around since the fifties; thus, none of the homes looked remotely old as his own. Their lawns were large and green and lovingly mowed. BMWs snoozed in many of their driveways, but Dante also noticed Subarus, Saabs, and even the occasional Porsche. Saplings lined the walks; behind the houses, however, loomed larger trees planted for protection against dimpled spheres.
At every intersection he read the signs for Wooden Tee Lane, though he already knew from Sunny that it was further back. Here was Fairway Lane, which led to a parking lot near the clubhouse. Here was Pin Drive, which became a cul-de-sac. Dante walked all the way to a row of elms overlooking the ninth green. The row also provided afternoon shade for Wooden Tee Lane, which Dante now entered, checking the house numbers for 911.
He needn’t have bothered. A girl—Sunny—waved to him from the porch of a blue house with yellow shutters.
“Ciao, Dante!”
From the way she stood at the rail the house might have been a ship approaching port. In fact she was not at the rail but on it, the toes of her boots pointing through the lower plank of wood. Excited to see her after such a long walk, Dante waved back. The wind played with her hair, raising it like a serpent on a pungi’s song. He approached the house at a swift gait while she in turn ran to the top step of the porch, where she did a twirl, fanning the hem of her purple dress.
“Handsome jacket,” she said, feasting her eyes. Then: “Come inside! My mom and dad want to meet you!”
Her hand reached out and fairly dragged him up the steps. Seconds later they were entering a dark, austere living room with hardwood floors and leather furniture. The smell of pipe tobacco greeted him. Wood smoke. Old library books. On a coffee table rested a bowl of fruit.
“Take one, Dante,” Sunny offered. “Go on. They’re delicious.”
“Really?”
“Of course! Daddy!” she shouted towards a flight of stairs. “He’s here!”
The sound of footsteps crossed the ceiling. They reached the stairs, started down. A pair of legs in black trousers appeared at the railing, and then long arms in a blue silk shirt. Dante put on what he hoped was his best smile for the occasion—friendly but not too wide, pleasant but respectful. He felt Sunny’s hand slide around his waist. Her own smile was much brighter. She stood on tip-toe for a moment, dropped back down. Clearly this introduction had been on her mind for a long time.
“Daddy?” she said to the tall, lithe man who was now at the bottom of the stairs. “This is Dante. Dante? Daddy.”
His thick black hair seemed to glow in the dim light, like the space around bodies celestial. Two deep-set eyes regarded him from a pale, smooth face that might have been chiseled from marble. He took a quiet, distinguished step towards Dante, and then another, and another still. His shoes made no sound despite the firmness of the floor. And when he spoke his voice, though lacking a cheerful arc through which to exit, was like that of a fine friend.
“Ah!” he sang, extending a hand. “Dante Torn. I’m very happy to finally meet you. My name is Brenton. My wife will be down in a minute.”
Brenton’s fingers were long and cool as a vampire’s. They slithered through Dante’s own, squeezed, and retreated.
“Hello, sir,” Dante said. “Thank you for having me today.”
The tall man’s eyes widened for a moment. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. We’re glad you could make it. Sunny talks about you all the time.”
“Daddy!” Sunny interjected.
“All the time,” Brenton went on. “You should hear her. Dante this, Dante that, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”
“Okay!” Sunny cut in for a second time. “Thank you, Daddy, for making our guest feel at home.”
“Sunny’s a very special girl,” Dante said, to which she gave a growl of exasperation.
But her dad only laughed. “Oh, don’t I know it. She’s been my daughter for twelve years. Can I get you a drink? We have soda. Juice. Beer.”
“Daddy!”
“Okay I’m just kidding about the beer. We have a fully stocked kitchen though—“
“I’ll fix him something,” Sunny said. “If I let you do it you’d probably burn the house down.”
“Good point,” Brenton said. “I’ll go back upstairs and see if your mother needs anything. Dante?” The long-fingered hand patted his shoulder. “Make yourself at home in the meantime. It shouldn’t be more than half an hour before we leave.”
“That’s fine, sir. Thank you again.”
The older man turned to go, then stopped to give Dante another look. “You’re a well-mannered lad,” he said appreciatively. “Sunny might actually know what she’s doing this time.”
And on that strange observation, he glided back upstairs.
∞
The kitchen was shiny and clean, with everything—pots, pans, dishes—properly arranged. Sunny bade him sit at the table, then fussily set about fixing him a light snack.
“I’m so sorry about my dad,” she all but gushed as she arranged some grapes on a plate. “He’s been sort of worried about boys starting to chase me around. I’m twelve now, getting to be that age, blah blah. And I’m like, Daddy relax, there’s nobody I’m interested in. This was before I met you of course.”
“He seems very nice to me,” Dante said, with more sincerity than he had felt in a long time.
Sunny put a plate of grapes and sliced cheese in front of him. She then took one of the grapes, held it to his lips. “Eat,” she purred.
He opened his mouth to apprehend the fruit from her fingers, yet in jesting reluctance she would not let go, so that his tongue brushed the softness of her skin, his lips the lacquered nail. Smiling now, Dante reached forth to cup her wrist, as one might cup a match to steady the flame. Here Sunny finally let go, only to seize another grape and duplicate the procedure. When two grapes were in his mouth she reached for a cube of cheese.
“One more,” she said, her tone that of a nurse giving medicine to a child. “Come on. I promise it won’t kill you.”
“Promises, promises,” he said around the grapes.
“That’s right. Now eat.”
He took the cheese into his mouth, using special care to let all three flavors—grapes, cheese, and girl—entwine themselves upon the canvas of his palate.
Sunny smiled. Her green eyes narrowed. “Good?”
“Very good. Thank you.”
From the other room came the sound of down-going footsteps. Still smiling, Sunny glanced in their direction. She pulled the plate away, went to the refrigerator, stowed it. Then Brenton entered the kitchen.
“We’re ready,” he said.
“Great,” Sunny told him. “So are we.”
∞
Dawn Desdemona was a short, quiet woman who looked like her daughter. Her hair was red, her eyes green, her skin creamy white. Her smiles were pleasant, her words welcoming. The only, slightly odd thing that Dante could see lay in her dress, which was black like something for a funeral, and her white lace gloves that seemed approximately one hundred years late for a completely different occasion. Nor was Dante the only one who took notice. Upon seeing her, Sunny told everyone to wait while she raced upstairs (her own dress was purple, the cut modern enough) to rummage about for a number of seconds. There came the sound of drawers opening and closing, the shuffling of clothes hangers.
“What are you looking for, dear?” Dawn called.
Then Sunny’s voice, muffled, slightly irritated: “My choker!”
“Top drawer, right side, plastic case!”
“Thank you!”
She came down with her neck wrapped in black lace. Pinned to the middle was what looked to be a tiny silver moth.
“It is a moth,” Sunny said, when Dante asked. “The nocturnal butterfly, that’s me.”
“Shall we go?” Brenton spoke.
The amusement park was about thirty minutes north of Norwalk. Brenton and Dawn made pleasant, desultory chatter with Dante at first, but soon began to ask him a number of innocent, unprying questions. It made sense considering the tilt he had brought upon their daughter’s life. Where did he live? What did his parents do for a living? Did he like school? Who were his favorite teachers?
“Sunny doesn’t like school,” Brenton revealed after Dante answered this last. “Can’t say I blame her. Most teachers know nothing about kids. They’re burned out, bored, irritated. We wanted to home school her—“
“And I said no,” Sunny cut in. She was snuggled close to Dante, holding his hand. “Home schooling is anti-social.”
“You just like making mischief with your friends,” Dawn said.
“It is fun. Right, Dante?” She looked at him with an evil grin.
The Jaguar crossed the Milan Canal, which brought back Donati’s story from the previous week. On the spot Dante decided to give the Desdemona family a brief history lesson. Did they know, he asked, that this huge valley full of trees was once flooded with water?
Sunny peered out the window. “How deep was the water?”
“Deep enough,” Brenton suddenly said, “to anchor good little girls to the bottom and let them drown!”
All three Desdemonas laughed. Dante, stunned, could only blink.
“Well that leaves me out!” Sunny told them
“Beyond all doubt,” Dawn reassured with a mock roll of her eyes. “Beyond all doubt.”
A short drive through open country followed. Dante knew the route well. Pretty white farmhouses dotted forlorn crops of swaying wheat, their porch lights aglow in a day given over to that nymph of the golden ram, so they looked like fires upon a distant gray shore.
The tourist city of Perkins came next. Empty hotels pined for summer along a parkway which would not awake for some thirty days, at which time those celebrants of the Holy Son’s birth planned to stampede with green givings. They passed restaurants, malls, car lots, cycle shops. At one stoplight Dante saw a book with a broken spine lying dead on the curb. Not far down from there stood a new store. Its theme appeared to be adult fulfillment. Candy colored lights glowed in a window set with deviations meant to tempt and tease. A pair of red lips glistened on a pink sign.
“Wow!” Sunny said, in a surprising tone of admiration. “When did this place open up?”
“Maybe a month ago,” Brenton told her. “I read about it somewhere.” He glanced for a moment into the back seat. “Why? Does it interest you?”
If Sunny’s excitement was out of place, her dad’s grin at the headrest was downright perverse. Curious to get the mother’s reaction, Dante looked at Dawn, only to find that her lip, too, had become a crooked whirl, beneath eyes like those of a feline watching her young make a virgin kill.
“It’s cool all right!” Sunny chirruped, spinning in her seat to prolong the moment. When the view became further obstructed, she bounced across Dante’s lap to touch her nose to the glass. “We gotta come back!”
Come back? Dante thought.
He shook his head. The Desdemonas were teasing him, that was all. Breaking in the new guy with silly jokes. Sunny’s weight shifted in his lap. Soft purple fabric brushed his arm. Her eyes were still at the window, though the shop had fallen far back. Suddenly he noticed Dawn again. She had turned to look straight at him, that strange smile still in place, and because Sunny resembled her so much it was as if, at that moment, the perfect adult version of the tween in his lap had stolen his attention for hostage in a wave of red, a flash of green. And then she turned away to pretend like nothing untoward had happened.