Sketch № 15: What They Found Behind the Wardrobe
Two weeks ago, the flame began wavering on one of the few hopeful candles still lit in Applewood. A cold, cruel breath threatened to snuff it out when the good Dr. Graham Teek was quoted out of context by a dodgy reporter and his sneaky source — a source we have yet to identify. Perhaps it’s because we’re not sure we want to identify him or her, because that could mean the rat is one of our own: Mrs. C, Violet, Roscoe, me, or one of the four members of the literary salon Roscoe runs. Personally, my chips are all in on Reggie, the reporter’s photographer, who could also be the source.
Doc Graham’s been fielding questions rooted in mistrust and apprehension, from patients and colleagues alike, about his research and treatment concerning Syndrome 43, a deadly disease whose first victims fell after the mysterious Quake in April. He’s the only doctor who’s had any success treating Syndrome 43. You’d think that would earn him a little faith, despite the article in The Applewood Timber. You’d think. It feels like that whole situation is speeding like a train toward a roadblock far more catastrophic than suspicious questions and whispers, and all we can do is stand on the tracks and watch it come.
Meanwhile, life goes on, as does Roscoe’s literary salon . . . such as it is.
Still the seven writers of the salon — not including Roscoe — have found no cure for the brain fog that’s afflicted them. But week to week, Roscoe encourages them like the dedicated mentor he is, shifting from the scholarly work and discussion they produced before the Quake to writing exercises that are rudimentary by comparison but that won’t overwhelm them.
This past Wednesday evening, the salon gathered as usual at their round table in Café Confictura’s Riverview Room. The windows are open this time of year, and the rush of the spirited Housatonic out back whirrs like a machine, a reassuring, ever-present force in a town that’s spent the last few months trying to figure out which way is up. With my raspberry latte, I settled in at my table, separate from the salon but close enough to listen, as invited by Roscoe. He hates bloggers, but I think he, like Violet, is starting to warm up to me. A little.
The salon has been critiquing each other’s short stories, and this week it was Brandon’s turn. He nestled his Yankees cap over his blond hair, scratched his close-shaved beard, and leaned back in his chair so its front legs were off the floor, then said to the group, “Okay. Let me have it.”
Everyone waited for someone else to start, which has been the pattern with these critiques, like they don’t trust even their own literary instincts anymore thanks to this brain fog. So, as always, Roscoe drew first blood.
“Well, Brandon,” said Roscoe, “let’s start with the decision to name your main character Brandon.”
“Yeah?” he said, waiting.
His brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and when he peers at you, especially when you’re critiquing him, it feels like he’s either a man of mystery or, you know, demonic.
Portia spoke up, her chin-length natural twists jumping a bit as she spat, “It’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid,” Brandon shot back.
“I’m questioning it,” said Roscoe, raising his voice, “because the whole story feels a little autobiographical, yet it’s got no ending.”
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s to be continued.”
“You can’t continue a short story,” said Roscoe. “Any story, even in a series, must be self-contained.”
“But I ran out of room,” said Brandon. “You told us we had to stick to two thousand words.”
Kaiya brushed her frizzy red hair out of her eyes and offered, “Maybe if you didn’t waste so many on when Brandon first comes to the door of the house he’s painting and has all that small talk with the lady who owns it.”
“Good point, Kaiya,” said Roscoe. “Remember: enter a scene late, leave a scene early. Brandon, you’ve got a page of ‘hi, how are you, how’s your mom, I saw her at the market the other day,’ none of which is necessary, before you get to the action.”
“But it’s real.”
Reserved Samantha murmured, “A little too real.” Her shoulders were hunched forward and her head was down, like maybe she could make a little shell for herself to escape into if she tried hard enough.
“Yes,” said Roscoe, though he did a double-take, giving Samantha a curious look. “You need to give the illusion of reality, not reality itself.” He paused, then added, “But I’m wondering if that’s what you meant, Samantha.”
The volunteers of Father Jack’s Table, a charitable organization, encountered one of the stranger phenomena following the Quake — they stay awake for forty days straight, sleep for nine days, then awaken again for another forty. We’re in their third cycle of this now. What’s even stranger is that during those nine days of sleep, all the volunteers have the same dream over and over. Samantha is one such volunteer.
At thirty-two, she’s the oldest of the salon besides Roscoe, who’s in his sixties, I think. But she’s soft-spoken and hides a lot behind her bob of soft brown hair. Her gaze rested on Roscoe, which gave him the confirmation he sought.
“Your story, Brandon,” he said, “is about an adventurous painter, working on an old house, who goes searching in the house’s basement because he heard a rumor that a scepter with mystical powers is buried there and guarded by an immortal sentry, yes?”
Brandon squinted. “Well, I said he hears about a magic stick guarded by a guardian, but, yeah, your way sounds better.”
“You were working on the O’Connor house with us all,” Roscoe continued. “And, knowing your penchant for seeking out rabbit holes in which to lose yourself, I’m wondering if you, the real Brandon, actually did hear about something buried in the O’Connor basement that you couldn’t resist, just like the Brandon in the story couldn’t resist looking for it.”
The old O’Connor house, one of the oldest in town, was the first house a bunch of the community worked on together to restore from the rot in the Quake’s aftermath. We’d finished work on it a few days before this.
Brandon said nothing to Roscoe’s suggestion.
“Further,” said Roscoe, “based on the events in your story, I’m wondering if Real Brandon, like Story Brandon, also sneaked down to Edna Mary O’Connor’s basement after she let him inside to use the restroom, and he proceeded to find an old wardrobe blocking a doorway. He moved the wardrobe, opened the door, and had a bit of a scare, didn’t he?”
Violet — fashion plate, style consultant to Applewood, and head cashier at Confictura — happened to walk into the room then and catch part of this, and she interrupted in her French accent, “A wardrobe was scary? Why? Mismatched patterns? Last year’s trends?” She gasped. “Mon Dieu, was it gauchos?”
Brandon scoffed, “No, the clothes don’t matter.”
As though the comment were a slap, Violet’s eyes went wide. She shot her hand out and pointed toward the door. “You are banned from this establishment!”
Roscoe said, “I’m sure he just meant that in the context of the story, the clothes don’t play an active role, Violet.”
She muttered, “Then it is a stupid story.”
“Amen,” said Portia.
“You’re stupid!” Brandon told them both.
“What did you see?” Samantha cried out to Brandon.
So startled were we all by her uncharacteristic shout that everyone shut up.
When Brandon found his voice again, he stammered, “It’s more about what Brandon felt — Brandon in the story, I mean. Behind the door, he found a stairway leading down. Built into the rock. And he stared down into this dark hole to nowhere, until he felt a force tugging at him. He leaned forward; he couldn’t help it. Like he was hypnotized. Somehow, he managed to free himself, and he stumbled backward, slammed the door, moved the wardrobe back, and ran away.”
His last words carried a note of shame.
Samantha asked, “Is that what you both found? Story Brandon . . . and Real Brandon?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“It sounds like the stairway in our dream,” she said, “Father Jack’s volunteers. You’re saying it actually exists?” She sounded both curious and utterly terrified.
“Maybe,” said Brandon. “I never had the dream. I don’t know if it’s the same.”
Roscoe said, “Well, who’s up for a field trip?”
Right then the salon — and yours truly — drove over to the O’Connor house, the nine of us divided up between Roscoe’s and Clarke’s cars. It’s quite a sight to see, the only place on the block shining and new, with a fresh coat of the most glorious blue paint. Even the lawn is starting to come back. It seems the trick to restoring buildings from the rot is a concerted effort by lots of hands sharing in the work. If the O’Connor house holds and the rot doesn’t return, we’ll know how to start fixing the rest of the town.
Roscoe knocked on Edna Mary’s door. He tried the bell. We glanced in a few windows. It was dark inside.
“Must be out,” said Samantha. “I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved.” Then she said, “Disappointed. I guess I need to see this.”
“We’ll try again soon,” said Roscoe.
That was five days ago. The salon members have tried calling Edna Mary, stopping by the house again, asking around.
No one’s seen or heard from her. Best we can tell, the last time anyone saw her was the last day of work on her house. Roscoe officially filed a missing person’s report earlier today, and a grim, nervous energy has gathered like storm clouds over those of us wondering what in the world could have happened to her.
So, it seems, another mystery of Applewood has hatched.
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Clarissa J. Markiewicz is also the author of Christmas In Whimsy — a heartwarming, fun novel readers compare to Hallmark Christmas movies, and recipient of Readers’ Favorite 5-star Seal — and the genre-bending new-age mystery The Paramour Pawn.
This and any related blog posts are works of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any reference to living or dead public figures, entities, places, events, and the like, are of a fictional, opinioned, and/or parodic nature. No healthcare professionals have been consulted in writing this. Any advice given or inferred is anecdotal and used at your own risk. Consult your doctor in all healthcare matters. ©2024 Clarissa J. Markiewicz. No portion of this or any related blog post may be used to train any AI application without explicit consent from the author.
