Mantua Bay (4)
4
Kass had him on hold. An indie film company Jeff never heard of wanted to adapt Debts and Debtors; in Kass's opinion they just weren't up to snuff. He sucked on a lozenge while he waited, Googling phrases like "metal devices buried in backyards" and "New Jersey underground metals,” which brought up disenchanting articles about mining and natural resources. Jeff knew he could call sweet old Dina Mitchell, the previous homeowner. Dina would’ve known something about what was buried out there. He Googled a few other phrases, was met with similar results, then walked out of his study, still on hold.
Much like the short story left blinking on the second page, the latest Fowler residence was a work in progress. Paint cans and rollers sat in an empty dining room where two of three walls had yet to be applied with a deep blue. Mariner’s Tale blue, according to the printed label from Mantua Corner Hardware. Old china and silver sat in boxes in a corner. A little alcove separated the dining room from the kitchen, where a teak end table held plastic dividers overflowing with magazines, menus, receipts, grocery lists, and memos. He picked out a shred of looseleaf bookmarking a Reader's Digest that was Sharpied with Dina’s cell number and stuffed it into his jeans pocket.
He eyed his discovery from the kitchen window, winking ornately at him, lighting up fully the weeds that partially sealed it, like a tacky Christmas decoration. Even as the day reached noon, the phenomenon—at this point, what else was there to call it—glowed conspicuously from the ground, attracting Agnes, who now stalked out from under the back porch. She approached with caution, standing a spare few feet away, bobbing her head with the light’s dissipation. Jeff was reminded of the girl from earlier who had behaved very much like Agnes. He had watched her hop the fence, run through their yard, for a moment wondering whether she needed help. Then she flipped a switch. She stopped to look at the weeds and knelt down in front of them, head lowered, like in prayer.
Agnes started to paw at it then, provoking Jeff onto the porch. “Hey! Aggie, no!” The cat turned in his direction, blindly swatting at the light pulsating indifferently out at her. “Aggie-girl! Come!” Agnes wouldn’t relent. Instead, reinstated a fixation akin to that of the laser toy his son enjoyed torturing her with. Jeff left his iPhone down on the porch railing, speakerphone on. Kass still had him waiting.
Early afternoon sun hung at its zenith in a near-pure sky intermittently streaked with cloud shards. A V-shaped formation of birds—Jeff figured gulls but could never tell for sure—flew overhead. Somewhere a lifeguard blew their whistle in three furious successions.
Agnes paid him no mind until he had her in his arms, and she started to claw. For fifteen she put up a real fight as he steered her up the porch and into the kitchen. She remained on the other side of the screened door, eyeing him indignantly as he shut it in her face.
Kass’s call had been cancelled and he’d left a voicemail: “Jeffrey, good news. Hit me back. Thank me then. Hope you’re writing, you spoiled brat.” But instead of calling Kass back he dialed Dina, wiping at his sweaty brow and the blond bangs that hung there.
Popping a squat on the porch stairs, he faced the kitchen door so he could have a staring contest with Agnes channelling a resting-bitch face back out at him. You’d be roughing it at a Gowanus bodega if it wasn’t for me, old girl.
“Is this Mister Jeff Fowler?”
“The very same, Dina.”
“My gosh! Hello, dear. How’s my old place treating you and your beautiful family?"
"Just fine. Very good. Great. I mean—"
"You seem lost, dear. Writer's block perhaps? Do successful writers really get that?”
The only time he’d met with the widowed Dina Mitchell was after they decided to buy the house. He came to Mantua Bay to sign realtor's papers and she’d asked him for advice on her own short fiction. For years Jeff had been propositioned to read work of fans but never indulged them. For Dina, somehow, he’d obliged. Her short story had been overbearing and self-indulgent by any standard, yet not bad for a woman who claimed to have never written more than a thank-you note. He even encouraged her to send him more of her writing if she so pleased. Though it seemed the craft had taken a back seat to spending time with her grandchildren in Massachusetts.
"No one is too successful to evade writer's block, Dina. It’s kind of like an equal-opportunity gift. Anyhow, sorry to bother you. The reason I’m calling is in regards to something I found in the yard this morning. I had a question about it.”
“By all means, dear.”
“That metal in the yard…buried in the dirt…what is all that out there? What’s it for?”
"Which?"
"The back yard."
“There’s metal?"
"Uh-huh. Buried in the dirt."
"I'm sure I don't know, dear. It never occurred to me to dig up the yard."
"The back yard."
“Yes, dear."
"You don't know?"
"I'm afraid not, dear. Perhaps ask Mara?”
Mara Wheaton, their realtor. Was it possible she knew something? The metal glare flickered assertively, leering at Jeff against the sun, undermining his conversation with Dina, and making him feel like an idiot.
“Surely there is the chance that Mara had seen it during the appraisal? I’ll admit, it does confuse me, dear. Hal and I lived there for…thirty-seven years? Thirty-eight. My god. Not once did we discuss such a thing. In all thirty-eight years.”
Jeff thanked Dina and promised to call back when he got an update on the new find. Hanging up, he peeled off his t-shirt and flung the sweaty cotton at Agnes, who recoiled on the other side of the screen and retreated.
He crouched at the shed, his reflection still shone ridiculously out of proportion in the metallic film. The glare danced on the shed window, exposing every molded nook, tackle box, and rusted fishing pole. The barn door with its rusted hinges gave begrudgingly and he took an inventory of Dina and Hal Michell’s long-forgotten toolshed. A piece of wooded shelving held old versions of Candyland, Risk, and Yahtzee. Craftsman toolboxes underneath. An emptied economy-size paint pail held fishing nets and Wiffle bats in one corner. An old spade leaned in another.
He dug out the weeds with the near-decrepit tool, tossing them toward the fence before dipping into dirt wreathing the edge of the metal fixture. The situation had become like peeling a long paint chip; it wasn't going to get less intriguing until a sense of finality prevailed. He scooped out a shallow tunnel--a shimmering expanse three-feet wide and a foot deep. He dug south, stopping at the fence keeping the Lesko property line. When he got to the fence, he dug west toward the bay, crouching low to avoid low-hanging pine needles he’d meant to have extracted since the day he met Dina. He continued to dig until he hit another fence, having then dug out a backward-seven.
Prior to 2017 Jeff had been an urbanite. Exclusively. Because of this, he clung to the possibility of there still being a valid explanation. Maybe this was a Jersey thing. Or an island thing. Something good for the soil? For the sand underneath it all? He wouldn’t have known.
Maybe he should call Mara. At least send a picture with text.
Jeff returned to the porch for a good snap that captured all the handiwork, and located Mara’s number in his contact list. He sent her the photo with the accompanied text: Any idea what we got here? His inverted seven shined just as brightly and strangely in the picture as it did in real-time.
He took a cold shower after that. If Mara still hadn’t responded he’d call Kass again and get the latest scoop regarding the production company in Torrance, California and their acquisition of book rights. They wanted to make a vignette-style film based on Debts and Debtors. Something like Magnolia, he’d think. In the meantime he stood under the cool stream, eyes closed, attempting to reset. He remembered his family on the beach and considered postponing writing again so he could spend some time.
Outside, storm clouds had begun to roll in, bringing with them grumblings of thunder and sporadic droplets that whispered on the sidewalks, the rooftops, the lawns, and collected within the metal basin he’d created in the backyard.
And far off: the loud, horrendous sound of burning rubber.
