Silent Key, Page 2

  Chapter One: Lull’d by the Moonlight

  I used the worn key attached to my Rubik’s Cube keychain and unlocked the door to our temporary residence around 6:30 p.m. on June 8. Before the familiar smell of the musty dorm room hit me, a pillow did.

  "Geez Louise, Foster! Have you been practicing this whole damn time?"

  Reagan. I loved her very much. But in 1988, as she was winding her way through young adulthood, she was quite a pill—one that didn't always go down smoothly.

  We had known each other since we were children, but we didn't find our friendship on our own. Our parents had been college buddies, so our getting to know each other was set before we were even conceived. But honestly, I don't think I would have chosen another for my best friend, warts and all. 

  We had just graduated high school and were in our fourth year of summer music camp at Central University. I had played the piano for five years longer than Reagan. She still liked to consider herself a "pianist," but she only dabbled in the craft. I think her parents tried to keep her involved in as many activities as they could so she wouldn't "get herself in trouble." Unfortunately, that only worked to a point.

  I had been offered a piano scholarship to study at Central in 1987, before my senior year of high school began. Reagan was offered no assistance and therefore was free to choose any school she wanted. She chose Central. Although she would never admit it, I know it was because, in her own way, she needed me.

  "Yes I have been practicing this ‘whole damn time,’" I said, setting my keychain on my desk. "Am I being punished?" 

  Immediately, without answering, Reagan hopped up on her twin bed and smiled down at me, hands posed behind her head. That's when I noticed.

  "Oh! Your hair is ... pink." 

  "Big time! What do you think?" She turned, pink and blonde strands of her naturally wavy hair gracefully lifting and falling back to her shoulders.

  "It's ... big time pink."

  Trying not to break into a fit of giggles, I put my hand over my nose and mouth to hide my amusement, but that never works. It's like trying not to laugh in church when the minister says, "and Jesus rode into town on an ass."

  "Rude. You know I'm awesome."

  "I do," I said, then feigned shock. "But what will your parents say?"

  "Oh, who cares!" she said and jumped off the bed, her feet slamming to the floor. I winced.

  The girls rooming below us were attending a different camp on campus, but they made sure to find me in the lobby of the dorm after the second day we were there.

  "Hello there!" the tallest blonde had said, waving at me and hurrying to catch up before I headed out the front door. "I'm Meagan. This is Leslie. We are rooming in 132."

  I looked from Meagan to Leslie before shrugging. "Okay."

  "You're in 232, yes?"

  "Yes," I said, noticing that Leslie, the shorter blonde, just stood there with a plastic pink smile on her face. I thought of telling her that she had forgotten to put mascara on her left eye, but figured it would be more fun if she discovered it for herself. 

  "Well, we're right below you," Meagan continued, "and it seems like your roommate—Reagan, I think—stomps around quite a bit ..."

  "How do you know it's not me?" I asked, but Meagan continued as if I were simply a fly buzzing around her head. 

  "... and I was just wondering if you could tell her to maybe quiet it down? It seems like she is full of life, bless her heart, but it's really hard for us to concentrate down there."

  Bless her heart. That, for those of you who may not know, is a syrupy Southern way of saying, "What a dumb twat."

  I smiled at both of the neon-clad Barbie dolls standing in front of me. "I'll make sure to pass on your message. Enjoy your cheerleading camp." 

  I never relayed the message to Reagan.

  "Where are you off to?" I asked Reagan, kicking my shoes off. 

  "I'm off to have fun," she said. "Remember? Fun? It's something that happens outside of the practice room, something that ..."

  "I got it. Really. I got it."

  I walked over to my half of the room and to my bed. It was small and squeaky, but warm and padded with an egg crate mattress pad that my mother had insisted that I needed my first year of camp. Although I would never admit it to her face, I'm glad I listened.

  "You wanna come? A few of us are going dancing downtown. Brian is gonna be there."

  "No, because one, Brian and his Star Wars talk wears on me, and two, I just want to crawl into my pajamas, read, and go to sleep."

  I face-planted into my pillow. I practically heard Reagan's eyes roll.

  "Suit yourself. Don't wait up."

  I didn't.

  ____________

  "Foster? Foster? Heeeey ..."

  I opened my eyes and quickly sat up, alarmed.

  "What? What time is it? Didn't you go downtown?"

  Reagan burst into laughter, sending the rancid smell of alcohol into my face. "Good heavens, yes. It's almost midnight!"

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "No! I mean, not really. I'm awesome." Reagan flopped onto my bed and I bounced up in reaction. "We danced and danced and now I'm back. And I feel beautiful!"

  My cheek, damp from the spit on my pillow, clung to a piece of my auburn hair. I pulled away and tucked behind an ear. I could have sworn that only a few moments had passed.

  As I began to fully wake, my eyes focused on Reagan. She was flushed, exuberant, and intoxicated beyond what she was comfortable admitting.

  "Good Lord, honey, who bought you alcohol? You need to go to your bed and lay down. Here, I'll help you."

  "Nonsense! I shall not be moved! All the world is a stage and you are merely a ... a ..."

  Reagan paused, her face distorting into a grimace, before leaping from my bed and into the bathroom. I heard her vomiting and crying. For as long as I can remember, she always cried when she threw up. I hated that.

  I walked to the door and gently knocked. "You need help, Rea?" My head was beginning to throb, my patience dwindling with each ache. "Reagan? Are you alive?"

  "Yes. Barely. No. I mean, yes. I'm cool."

  "What do you need?" 

  "Can you get me a Schweppes?"

  "Sure, Rea," I sighed. "I'll get you a Schweppes."

  I walked away from the bathroom door, frowning. The soda machine in the lobby of the dorm did not carry Schweppes. I would have to walk to the student center. Despite being inebriated, Reagan knew this.

  Selfish turd, I thought, snatching my hooded jacket from the post of my dorm bed. I grabbed a handful of quarters from Reagan's desk and put them in my jacket pocket.

  Before I slammed the door, I heard Reagan call from the bathroom. "You're the best, Foster. Be careful. Don't get mugged or anything!"

  ____________

  There was a chill in the air despite it being June. As any native knows, the weather in Kentucky can never make up its mind. It would be 80 degrees the next day.

  I pulled my red hood down to my eyebrows as I walked through the ravine to the student center. Although it was partially wooded, I felt safe.

  The campus was small and quaint with only 8,500 students. The college had been around since 1923. Nestled between two knobs, it was peppered with log cabin-like buildings and steep stairways leading to the dorms and classrooms. Although I knew I would have opportunities to study music at other colleges after high school, I fell in love with this one from the moment I saw it. 

  The student center was empty, but the doors to the main lobby were still unlocked. Apparently late-night Schweppes runs weren't unusual. I inserted change into the soda machine and pushed the green and yellow button. An ice-cold can tumbled out. I put it in my over-sized jacket pocket and immediately turned to head back to our room, the change from the soda purchase cupped in my fist. Drums were beating in my temples, making me eager to slip back down into my sheets.

  As I began my second trek into the ravine, I pulled my hood down
again. From the late night summer silence, I heard an owl suddenly call in a haunting leap of musical notes. A second hoot came almost immediately. Then a third. I stopped walking and a small smile formed on my lips.

  The historic campus clock chimed twelve times in the distance and the first owl called again. I turned, looking up, and felt chills run down my arms. A small "ha" escaped my throat and I closed my eyes. As if on cue, a jogging breeze blew my hood back. The second owl spoke again. I waited. All was silent, a rest in the unmixed music, a fermata waiting for the conductor to begin.

  What I heard next was neither bird nor any other natural sound. My private concert had come to an abrupt halt.

  My bare ears tried to replay the unrecognizable sound so I could pin it down, unsure if it was human or mechanical. As I stood there with the Schweppes can in my pocket and the remaining quarters clutched in my hand, I suddenly realized how cold I was.

  The trees danced in another gust of wind, and this time I swear I heard them whisper.

  "Run ..."

  I turned back to the pathway and took a few unsteady steps before I heard the sound again. There was no question this time. It was human.

  I turned my head and noticed a large cluster of bushes to my right, which suddenly, violently shimmied. A fringed pink boot jutted out near the base of the bush. Another boot lay on the ground a few feet away. My body tensed.

  The foot-filled boot convulsed once, then again. The third time I heard a hideous stomach-turning sound, like someone gargling with Jell-O. I choked on a dry gasp of my own. Another voice joined the first. This one was clear. This one was male. 

  "No," the voice said. "Not yet."

  The new voice set off an internal alarm that I had never before experienced. Not even the pink boots or the gurgling sound could make my feet work. But this voice, dominant yet calm, lit a fire under me and I sprang into movement.

  My eyes darted around and fell upon a group of round stones that looked like they had been stacked by Art students in some creative sunny-day endeavor, piled in a series of columns and mounds. I might have ignored them in the daylight, but there, in the exposing darkness, they were a Godsend. I scurried behind them.

  The ravine around me was death silent. I sat on my haunches and peeked through a small crevice between the stones. I focused on breathing quietly. My feet tingled beneath me. Several minutes passed, but I didn't dare move. Terror made me part of the formation that concealed me. 

  The bushes came to life again. As my heart pounded my ears, a figure emerged and slowly stood, stretched, and rubbed his hands together. The top of his pants were sagging on his lean hips. His back was to me so I could not see his face as he slowly extended the muscles in his neck from side to side. What struck me was his lack of urgency, as if he had just woken from a satisfying nap. 

  I realized that I could not see the attached pink boot anymore, although the second still lay on the grass, alone. No one else appeared from the leaves and twigs.

  The tall man continued to extend his limbs and muscles. His shoulders rose and fell again and I heard a deep satisfying breath rush out before he took ahold of the sides of his jeans. With a subtle wiggle to put everything into its rightful place, he yanked them up to his waist. I felt heat rise to my face.

  He stood for a moment, looking around, then took a step forward in the opposite direction. I instantly became aware of how my entire body was aching. I didn't know how much longer I could hold my squatting position. I slowly rotated my shoulders, wiggled my toes in my shoes, and began to let go of the stiffness as the unidentified man slipped away into the shadows. He was leaving.

  One by one, my muscles began to ease, from my forehead to my neck, down my arms, and to my hands. Before my brain could register what was happening, my fingers relaxed and the remaining coins slipped from my fist. The sound, though normally a minor one, was deafening in the moment. The metal clinks of the coins hitting the stones seemed to bounce off of trees for eight minutes before dissipating into the night sky.

  The man halted. I stiffened. The yellow light from a ravine lamp shined down on him like a crude spotlight.

  Slowly, he turned sideways and his gaze fell upon the rocks. I saw all of him. He was wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, the top few buttons open to expose a thin layer of chest hair. Although it was untucked, his shirt was still pressed and professional. His red hair glistened in the artificial light, and as he stood there, fixing his eyes in my direction, a slow grin began to spread on his face.

  There was no shame. There was no fear. This was no ordinary man. This was a wolf. 

  For a moment he just stood there, eyes glued on the stone formation. 

  He can't see me, I whispered in my head. My God, there is no way he can see me. 

  Before I could question my own thoughts, he began to turn back around as slowly as before, the grin still smeared across his rugged face. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets and with a casual few steps, slipped back into the shadows, leaving the orphaned pink boot behind.

  I could have sworn that I heard a cheerful whistle escape in the distance.

  Like that, it was over. My head drooped toward my chest and in that moment, I realized that I had pissed myself.

  ____________

  I unlocked the door of our room and crept inside. The dim desk lamp was on but Reagan was nowhere to be seen. 

  I slid toward the bathroom and peeked inside. Reagan was sitting on the floor, forehead resting on her arms, arms atop the toilet seat. She was snoring. I gently sat the Schweppes can beside her. The coins I had dropped were still scattered around the stone formation like an audience in the round.

  Without thinking, I pulled my feet out of my sickeningly wet shoes. I dropped the rest of my clothes, including my hooded jacket on the floor and, hitting the bathroom light switch to OFF as I passed, stepped into the shower stall. The water spurted cold a few times then burst full steam onto my skin. It ran down my body like hot wax and I pushed my hair back under the water, my eyes open and staring into steam. I did not bathe. I simply stood under the warmth of the shower until my skin felt red and tight.

  When finished, I opened the curtain and saw Reagan stir. She snorted and mumbled, "Bite me, Jerome ..." then fell back into an intoxicated sleep.

  Grabbing one of my towels from the plastic shelving over the toilet, I began to dry each part of my body with slow preciseness. I did not sing as I normally did.

  I walked across the bare floor and, reaching under the lampshade to touch the switch, plunged the room into darkness. Without putting on a stitch of clothing, I crawled into bed.

  I didn’t remember falling asleep.

  ____________

  "Aaaaa ..."

  My brain began to wake. My body did not move.

  "Aaaaa ... what the? Oh, sonuva ... Foster? Foster, are you there?"

  I wondered if this is what it felt like to be in a coma. Perhaps you hear what is going on, but you can't move, you can't even open your eyes. 

  "Foster, dammit, are you there? Help me, please."

  I remained still, my entire body under my covers. I had no idea what time it was. I had no idea what day it was. Was I dreaming?

  "Foster? Foster!!"

  I opened my eyes. No, not a coma.

  Slowly, I pushed my covers back. Light was beginning to break through our blinds. As I slid to the floor, Reagan's voice became more panicked.

  "Oh my God, is that you out there? Please come in here, Foster. Please!" 

  I drug myself across the room toward the bathroom and turned on the light. Reagan was still on the floor but had positioned herself up on her knees. Her head was bending over the toilet, her hair falling every which way.

  When she caught sight of me in the doorway, she practically screamed, "Oh, thank God! Can you help me please? My hair is stuck to the commode! I'm totally freaking out! Wait. Are you ... naked?"

  I looked down at my bare breasts and slightly rounded stom
ach. "Yes."

  "Okay. Well, can you help me? I think a few strands of my hair are caught in the lid joint-y things." As I started to move toward her she added, "Just don't get your stuff on me or anything." 

  I moved behind her and placed my hands on either side of her head. "Please be careful. I don't want to make this worse than it ... owwww!" she howled. "Shit fire!"

  In one swift yank, I pulled her head back. Her hair yanked away from the toilet lid with a sickening Twarp! A few strands of pink hair, detached from her head, hung limply into the bowl. She jumped to her feet, lost her balance, and grabbed a wall.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

  Reagan raised her eyes to look me in the face. Quickly anger faded and her lips hung open. "Foster, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

  I nodded, standing there naked as the day before I was born. "I ... I brought you ginger ale," I whispered. Then in one heavy heap, I fell to the floor, landing in a sitting position. My wrists burned as they caught my weight. Pain shot up to my elbows. 

  "Oh!" Reagan squeaked and immediately was at my side, trying to lift me to my feet. "Foster, what in the world?" With her arm around my bare waist, she led me back to my bed, her hangover momentarily subsiding. "Are you sick? What's wrong?" 

  As I eased back onto my feather pillow, I held Reagan's gaze. She covered me up, tucking my sheets and comforter under my chin. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. As my eyelids began to droop, I saw terror cover her face. Then the room disappeared.