“The fog is so surreal,” I said to everyone in the car, but mostly to Rhonda, who sat beside me in the dark back seat of Heavy’s car.
It was almost midnight as the flat-black ’67 Camaro carried us under and through a moving canopy of trees and fog. Evie rolled down her window because Rhonda had lit a cigarette sitting directly behind her. Rhonda gave me a funny look, holding her cigarette like a commandant.
“It doesn’t bother me,” I said.
Between the rolling fog and the occasional clearing of branches, I watched moonlight dart across Rhonda’s face. She went from old to young and back depending on how the light hit through the fog and branches. A thousand tiny wrinkles grew sharp and she looked like an old witch with one eye closed more than the other one, which frightened me. My head tingled. But then she looked classically beautiful, a shining Joan of Arc before the window. Or was it just me?
“Is this where you saw the owl?” asked Evie, in the front passenger seat.
“Wait until you see the owl in the mirror!” proclaimed Rhonda as she cracked open another miniature whiskey.
“The rear-view mirror?” asked Evie.
“No, on the dresser.”
The road carried us up a steep hill until Rhonda and I leaned back in our seats like astronauts fighting G forces. The headlights beamed upward onto an empty tree limb for a couple of seconds, then levelled out. We drove past the row of rickety mailboxes and Heavy eased the car to a stop. A light was on inside the house, on the first floor.
Heavy moved first, out the door, and around the front of the car, opening Evie’s door.
“Fat boy moves fast,” said Rhonda, cigarette in mouth, looking back at me while she exited the back seat.
I drank what remained of the whiskey in the little bottle and followed her out the door on her side of the car. She walked past Evie and Heavy and led us to the door.
The front door opened, and there stood Wallace Breen. Dark hair with gray streaks, pomaded and combed back, greaser style. Toothpick in his mouth, which he removed just long enough to say “come in” and he turned away. He wore a gray mechanic shirt, with a sewn-on name patch. When he turned away, I saw Westside Head & Block on the back.
I didn’t expect the house to look so pleasant on the inside, because the outside was so plain. It was like entering a cabin-style Air B&B. The living room had a vaulted ceiling with wooden beams and arches. To my left, I saw an entertainment center loaded with stereo components and a television. I saw a turntable, a reel-to-reel tape deck, a radio receiver/amplifier, two big speakers and two small speakers, and what was obviously his listening chair – a recliner with headphones on top of the backrest, connected by a black coiled cord plugged into the amp.
The coffee table was glossy lacquered wood with rough, uneven sides. To my right, I saw a bookshelf, couch, grandfather clock, and a door.
Wallace looked at me sullenly, removed the toothpick from his mouth, drank from a bottle of beer, turned and went to his chair and we all sat down. Rhonda acted as host, asking who wanted something to drink.
“Beer or Mountain Dew. The water from the faucet smells like rotten eggs.”
“Mountain Dew?” asked Evie.
“The pop, not the moonshine.”
“Do you live here, too?” asked Heavy.
“Nobody really lives here,” said Rhonda, pulling a cigarette from the pack with her lips. “The bedrooms are full of boxes and furniture. I own the house,” and she lit the cigarette.
“You own the Gregg house?”
“Mr. Gregg sold this house to my father in 1960. He lets us use it to hang out.”
“Incredible,” I said. “My name is Whit, by the way, and I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what you saw.”
Wallace Breen leaned forward to set his beer down on the coffee table, then leaned back and removed the toothpick from his mouth.
He said, “Hi, Whit. I appreciate your interest. I’m going to tell you one story that will disappoint you, and another story that will mystify you.”
The Astral Pages 