Twenty-two: Belly of the Bull
***
As was typical during American History class, Keltie fell asleep at her desk.
“Miss Burke!” Mr. Johnson roared, making her almost fall from the chair. He smiled once he had her attention. His big, square head tilted, and for a moment Keltie was blinded by a ray of May sunshine that flared the lenses of his glasses. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“My apologies,” Keltie said.
Mr. Johnson blinked. “Where at?”
And though the joke wasn’t funny in the least, everyone laughed.
“Do you really feel it’s wise,” he then continued, “to sleep in class a mere two weeks before final exams? In the front row? With your desk directly in front of mine?”
“No.”
“Good girl. Now please name for me the five Great Lakes.”
“Erie. Ontario. Superior. Huron. Michigan.”
Johnson’s smile faltered the tiniest bit. Still drowsy from dreaming, Keltie hardly noticed.
His next question came harder. “In what year was the state of Ohio inducted into the union?”
Yawning, Keltie answered: “1803.”
“Who was president of the South during the Civil War?”
“Jefferson Davis.”
“When did the California gold rush begin?”
“1848.”
“Who found gold there that started the whole mess?”
“James W. Marshall.”
Mr. Johnson looked at her for a long time. “Go back to sleep, Keltie,” he growled. “I’ll wake you up when the bell rings.”
It was late night study sessions that exhausted her. Open books under a dim lamp. Coffee stolen from the cafeteria. Often times she would wake at two o’clock in the morning, slumped over her desk like a poisoned philosopher. But at least it seemed to be working. She’d answered Mr. Johnson’s questions by rote.
Towards the end of May—one week before finals—Cameron gave the school permission to let her out for one day. A rummage sale at his church was gearing up, and hands were needed to erect displays and price mark items. At Keltie’s request, he also invited Marty to join. The school allowed it, under condition that neither of the two minors would be left alone together for any reason. Cameron promised to keep them pried apart with a door wedge if necessary. Keltie didn’t think it would be. She hadn’t been seeing much of her boyfriend of late; thus, the very idea of being in the same room with him for an entire day made her giddy enough to be satisfied.
They rode to the church under bright, nourishing sunlight that had the maples in bloom. Air warm enough for summer rushed around them while the radio brayed baseball. In her most casual tone, Keltie asked after Mom. Cameron told her that she’d begun rehab, and things were going to be touch and go for a long, long time.
“I’ll get over to her trailer this summer,” Keltie promised. “Every day if I have to.”
She stole a glance at Marty in the back seat. He flashed a smile to let her know things were a-okay. Then she looked at Cameron.
They’re both mine, she thought, for no ready purpose. I’ve got two men in the truck with me and they’re both mine. Not bad for a bad seed.
Five minutes later they were parked at the church. Cameron led them to a side door that opened onto a flight of basement stairs. The stairs opened onto a large room set with folding tables. Heaped over these tables was the mess they’d come here to sort.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Cameron said, catching the expression on Keltie’s face.
“Said the priest to the altar boy.”
He laughed. “Really, it’s just a bunch of old clothes. All you do is fold them, and Mrs. Haschak will help with the pricing. She’s around here somewhere.”
Keltie went to the nearest table. There were perhaps ten in all, and all were mish-mashed with garments at least ten years out of date. Some were even older. She picked up a poodle skirt from the nineteen-fifties and wondered where the matching bobby-socks were. Not far from that lay a blue checkered blouse from what she guessed could have been World War II.
“You,” Cameron was saying to Marty, “get a fun job.”
“And what’s that, sir?”
“You get to sort toys.”
The Filipino immediately pumped his fist. “All right!”
“Oh come on, Dad!” Keltie whined. “I’m a girl, so I have to do the clothes?”
“That’s right, baby,” he said with a grin.
“Okay, there has got to be a social justice group in this town I can contact about that.”
“Mrs. Haschak will help you.”
She folded a pair of jeans. “Yeah, yeah. When she gets here we’ll brew tea and swap cupcake recipes.”
“Ooh,” Marty called back as Cameron led him away, “let me know when they’re ready to eat.”
At this Keltie gave him the most grown-up response she could think of on the spur of the moment: She stuck out her tongue.
***
But her dad turned out to be right. While all the old clothes and long tables appeared formidable at first glance, they were little more than paper tigers at heart. Mrs. Haschak—a sweet little old lady with eyes that twinkled behind a pair of rimless glasses—arrived not ten minutes after Keltie was left alone. She proved herself helpful not only with doing the work, but with maintaining intelligent conversation as well. She asked Keltie what it was like to be young in 2017; she then told of what it was like to be young in 1967.
“Tumultuous,” she said, gazing across the room as if the girl she’d once been would at any moment appear to lend them a hand. “Ever so tumultuous. All of the 1960s was like that. War. Assassinations. Protestations. Us kids, we were holding on to the end of a rope, being dragged towards a quagmire the magnates made us feel bad about resisting.”
“Did you lose anyone in the war?” Keltie asked, just before realizing what a terrible question that was.
Yet Mrs. Haschak didn’t seem to mind. “Oh yes,” she answered. Her hands flapped out an old t-shirt as she spoke, folded it, placed it back on the table. “An older brother.”
“I’m sorry. That was really stupid of me.”
Her apology brought a smile to the old woman’s lips. “Not at all, dear. I talk about Joseph all the time. To remember him, you see. Because I’m afraid once I stop remembering, why…then he truly will be gone, won’t he?”
By four o’clock all of the folding was done. Keltie excused herself and went down the hall to check on the men. She reached the doorway to the toy room…and froze. Cameron and Marty were sitting on the floor, playing with what looked to be a Fisher-Price parking garage.
Are you fucking kidding me? the crazy bitch asked.
Unable to believe her eyes, she watched as Marty rolled a toy car down a ramp, dinged a bell at a toy gas pump, laughed. Cameron had two wooden Little People posed next to a car wreck, presumably in the act of exchanging insurance numbers.
“I had the right of way,” Cameron made one of the toys insist. Then, in a deeper voice, he answered for the other: “No, sir, you most assuredly did not!”
Not having enough heart to interrupt them, Keltie walked off. She made her way back to the stairs and then outside to light up a smoke. The day was still bright, still warm. Happy with the weather after so much rain and cold, she decided to walk to the end of State Street, where it intersected with West Main. It was a bad idea. Once at the corner, the line to Bolt’s house became direct. A mere quarter mile separated her from its ancient facade.
Puffing away on her cigarette, Keltie gazed down the street. The house wasn’t visible from here, of course, but she didn’t need it to be. It had been standing in the same spot since 1830. Anyone curious enough to knock on the front door needn’t have rushed for fear of time.
Keltie had no wish to knock on the door…but she was curious. Her last contact with Bolt had been three months ago, in February. For the umpteenth time she wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean. Had he died after jumping out Vera’s window that night? Choked to death on Keltie’s cigarette?
In a spur of the moment decision, she struck off towards the house. Her legs moved swiftly. The slim black purse she carried danced on the belt line of her denim skirt. Such confidence was a paradox. Keltie had no idea what she intended to do upon her arrival. Short of brooding at the foot of its front walk, what could she do?
You won’t even catch a glimpse of Bolt. Not if he sleeps during the day like vampires are supposed to.
Yes, but….why on earth would she want to see Bolt anyway?
Understanding less and less of it all by the moment, she kept walking. Minutes later, the house at number 114 seemed to creep into view. Edge out from behind its neighbors like an animal from its den. She saw first the front lawn, with its broken water fountain, then its pillars, then its gargantuan windows. At the intersection of North Pleasant (where she’d waited for the light with Cameron a mere three weeks ago), she stopped.
Directly across from her, on a diagonal line, stood Wooster-Boalt. And oh! Was it huge! How could such a structure be anything but? Its architects had chosen the temple form of Greek styling. Keltie estimated each of its columns to be at least a hundred feet high, supporting a pedimented gable the length of a school gymnasium and more.
She cocked her head in effort to get a look through one of the upper windows. But despite the hour, they were dark. It made sense. She didn’t think a murderous vampire would be terribly receptive to guests popping in at odd hours. He’d not leave the curtains pulled back, nor the front door wide open.
The front door came open.
Flabbergasted, Keltie watched a bald-headed old man step outside and disappear around the far corner of the house. A minute ticked by. Two minutes. Three. The old man did not return.
She trotted across the street in what she hoped was a casual vein, allowing the house to loom above her like an unsparing face on a movie screen. Alongside it she could see the old man’s bald head, shining in the sun. He was knelt in the dirt, a spade in one hand, a hand fork in the other. Gardening time. The spade jabbed, scooped, jabbed again. The man was either planting flowers or pulling weeds. Whichever, Keltie felt certain he’d not noticed—or even come close to noticing—the girl staring at him from afar.
Taking light steps so as to keep her boots quiet, she walked to the front door.
Her hand seized the latch, pulled. It clicked open. Inside was an anteroom. Beyond that lay a wide hall of hardwood, where antique furniture (a rocking chair, a clock, a gramophone) slept the sleep of eternal time. Keltie took a deep breath of musty air, held it, and let the door close behind her.
Okay, girl. What…the fuck…are you doing?
Still holding the breath, she entered the hall. To the left was a living room, a fireplace. More old furniture. Dead ahead, a flight of steps that looked wider than she was tall extended to the next floor.
Are you going to answer me or not?
Keltie entered the living room like a little girl lost. Alice down the deep black hole. Distantly, she could feel her lungs beginning to tighten. She breathed in. Old, dry air filled her chest. Of course it did. Like the hallway, this room had been decorated for a lost era. Nineteenth century furniture stood before a masonry fireplace. More hardwood floors. Candle sconces on the walls.
The room next to it offered more of the same. One oddity caught her eye, however: a chalkboard, three panels long, embedded into the wall. It was cracked. Bone-dry. Old beyond use. To try and write on it, she thought, would likely make the whole thing crash on the floor in a heap of pointed shards.
An archway on the right led her back to the hall. Now she was on the other side of the stairs, looking into a room full of books. A library. Such a room would ordinarily have compelled her to visit. Given the current scenario, she was not so foolish to court temptation here.
So what the fuck did you come for in the first place, you stupid bitch?
At last, the voice began to make sense. Keltie looked towards the anteroom. The front door was still shut. Through its glass panels she could see cars passing on West Main. Assuming her luck held out, she could walk straight down the hall and be gone before anyone knew.
Instead, she decided to open a small door opposite the library. It revealed a flight of steps leading into darkness. The basement.
A black switch on the wall activated the lights. Concrete flooring burst into view. Trying to see more, Keltie craned her head. It was no use. Even from here she could tell that the basement at number 114 was huge. If she wanted to see it all, she would need to go down.
Closing the door behind her, Keltie gave in to temptation. One step. Two steps. Three. Halfway down, she became acutely aware (all over again) of the hugeness of Wooster-Boalt. Except now…now it was right overtop of her. Massive slabs of stone and wood, a hundred and ninety years old. God knew how many shadows. Darkness cringing from slanted rays of dusty sunlight. Giant windows in rooms where time stood still. Forgotten secrets. Anguished entities.
The scene at the bottom did nothing to dispel these unsettling thoughts. Frozen in place, Keltie looked from one piece of furniture to the next. None of it came from the same era as what stood in the living room. All of this stuff, she guessed, was much older.
Older for a reason.
Keltie’s eyes danced. She was in a torture chamber.
Her knowledge of such places did not extend deep. That mattered little here. A rack of molded wood hugged the wall, untouched—she hoped—since the time of its creation. Another rack, this one for the head and wrists, idled nearby. Next to that stood what appeared to be a water torture cell.
And in the center of the room, staring at her with blind eyes, was a large, bronze bull.
This was the piece that commanded her attention from the start. Keltie looked up at its frowning face, unable to get a handle on the moment. The bull had been crafted with loving care. Its huge horns looked ready to stab out at any moment; its snout looked ready to bellow war. Walking around its side, Keltie could see muscles sculpted in mid-ripple, shiny surfaces aglow in the pale light. Its tail, too long for the ceiling, curled around the torture cell instead, as if to fortify the glass.
How had such a magnificent thing come to be in this place?
The answer came less than a minute later, when she noticed a handle on its flank. Curious, Keltie grabbed it and pulled. Nothing happened. The bronze, heavy and strong, defied her. She pulled harder. Still no joy. Cursing, Keltie took the handle in both hands, and with one boot on the creature’s flank, pulled for all her muscles were worth.
The flank broke open. It happened so fast Keltie was thrown backward. She tripped over a torture rack and went sprawling. Dust got into her eyes; gravel sprinkled her hair. But…
“I got the fucking thing open,” she called out.
She stood, brushed herself off, and stared into a now gaping hole on the bull’s side.
Jesus, she thought.
It was big enough for her to crawl into. Who was she kidding? The fucking thing was big enough for two of her to crawl into, stretch out, and read a book. Keltie peered inside. As she’d feared, the basement light did not penetrate deep enough to see. She leaned further. Half her body was now inside the bull. Heavy air smelling of dead animals filled her lungs. But there was nothing to see. Or if there was, lack of light prevented further discovery. Anyhow, she’d gotten the gist. The bull’s purpose had nothing to do with hamburgers or handsome Spaniards in traje de luces. It was a prison cell. Ready to leave, she took a step back—
And was shoved the other way by a pair of large, rough hands.
The bull took her easily. Keltie fell all the way in, hitting her face on cold bronze, and before she could get herself turned around to identify her attacker, the flank cover slammed closed. BANG!
There was a click as the handle locked. In the pitch blackness Keltie became powerless. The bull had her.
“HEY!” she screamed. “HEY!”
Panic rising by the second, she stumbled forward. Her hands touched more bronze. But when they pushed, nothing happened. She’d barely been able to move the cover from outside; in here, blind and running out of breath, she had no chance.
She began to pound on the bronze with her fists. Useless. Her knuckles broke open; sticky blood dripped from the wounds. “HELP ME! HELP ME PLEASE!”
“There’s no one to help you down here, little girl,” a crazed, off-key voice called back. “No one at all.”
Now she tried kicking the door with her boots. The heels struck metal once, twice, three times. But the damned thing refused to budge. And she couldn’t see. She wasn’t even sure where to kick, or how high.
“I can only guess,” the voice continued, “that you are the troublesome Miss Keltie Burke. The master has spoken of you many times. Warned me to keep an eye out. Keep an eye out, shut a girl in.” The voice laughed shrilly at this, though Keltie barely heard. She had burst into terrified tears.
“GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT OF HERE OH PLEASE!”
“I hear you kicking and screaming, but I’m afraid I cannot accommodate your request. The master will be most indubitably pleased by this turn of events. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.”
“MARTY! MARTY!”
“Is the floor getting hot yet?”
Keltie stopped. She’d assumed that the heat—and the increasingly stuffy air—was a product of her own terror at being shut in. Suddenly it seemed like more. She felt along the floor of the prison, fingers scurrying like bugs. And indeed…it was hot. Almost hot enough to cause pain.
“What are you DOING?” she shrieked.
“Burning you alive, little girl!” the voice sang back joyfully. “Cooking you like a fish! A nice, pretty fish, which the master will most indubitably—most indubitably—find delightful!”
Keltie crawled towards what she hoped was the front of the bull. What little air she had left would soon be gone. Groping at the walls, she found—or thought she found—the bull’s neck. There came a reprieve, a light breath of fresher oxygen, and then it was gone.
“Indubitably!” the voice continued to sing. “Indubitably, little lady!”
The wall nearest Keltie suddenly became too hot to touch. She yelped, leaped back, fell sprawling into the bull’s belly. Another scream tore from her throat, wasting precious air.
I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Somebody help me I CAN’T BREATHE!
Heaving the last few gasps left, Keltie stretched her neck back far as it would go. The walls were hotter by the moment