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Nostalgia

William Vitka

Nostalgia

  By William Vitka

  Cover design by David Graham

  Copyright © 2013 William Vitka

  Maura Sullivan decided that she'd rather hear dead men.

  The music annoyed her. The radio (a Sirius satellite device given to her by children who should have known better) was tuned to an "oldies" station that seemed to think anything before 1975 qualified. The actual quality of the songs was somewhat dubious in her opinion. Having been born in 1934, this depressed Maura in a far-off way that she recognized but tried to ignore.

  The tragedy of it all was that the noise this "oldies" station blared was nothing like the sweet melodies her late husband James used to queue up on their record player.

  Nowadays, there were no new songs from Glenn Miller, Guy Lombardo, Perry Como, Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra. None whatsoever. Those fellas, the good ones, the real crooners, were quite dead.

  As such, they made no noise Maura hadn't heard before.

  She contented herself in the corner of the living room she and James had once shared. Sitting, sometimes knitting, but more often reading. The "antique" (oldies of a different sort) lights she had on gave the room the look of an old library.

  The house was dim, but in a pleasant way. A quiet way. Shadows stayed where they were and added depth to the place she inhabited. Every shadow that had passed since her husband died never quite left. The oldest shadows had been there for decades, caked on over themselves.

  The music, when it was good, made Maura tap her feet. But that was all. She refused to "rock." She had one staunch belief: Old ladies should not adorn rocking chairs, lest the painters and writers be right. To hell with Whistler's Mother. Her armchair was cozy enough. More comfy than something that could be thrown awry by physics.

  That was all a joke, of course. She enjoyed being atypical. People must be kept on their toes. Surprising folks happened to be a monstrous pleasure – albeit one she only had the chance to play out when the grandchildren were around.

  Would Peter get a new toy or would he get a can with a spring-loaded snake? Would Melissa get that ring she so wanted or a joy-buzzer that shocked her?

  Even if The Good Old Days weren't as good as nostalgia promised, they were still fun to think about.

  Especially those times when her husband James had been around to share in the fun.

  Now, what was there? A radio that played dead men. A bank that demanded payments on the house, even after decades of sending checks. And children who were, for lack of a better word, absent.

  "This sucks," Maura said to no one in particular.

  The radio squelched in response.

  It made a high, screaming sound. Then dropped into a loud, bassy static. Cacophony. Ear-shattering. A noise that raised goose bumps.

  Maura jumped. A frightened gasp escaped her lips. Her anthology of Richard Matheson short stories fell to the floor. The book flopped shut with a dull thud.

  She stood, shaking with fright, and approached the radio on rickety legs.

  Bizarre combinations of letters, numbers and symbols flickered on the radio's blue backlit screen. Most of it was gibberish. Hell, all of it was gibberish.

  The machine continued its manic static scream.

  Maura bent down. Knees creaking. She tried to switch stations. Still static. She hit the station change button harder. Employed the same logic as people who punch the elevator button repeatedly in the hopes of getting a ride faster. She hit the power button. Grimaced. She held the power button down. No cigar. She grunted and reached behind the small end table the radio sat on to yank out the power cord.

  That, at last, killed the horrible sounds.

  "Stupid thing must've lost the signal," she grumbled. Her hands were on her hips, and she looked like a caricature of the old lady she refused to be.

  Maura picked up her book, made sure the door was locked, took one quick moment to check the Queens streets outside, turned off the lights in the living room, and walked into the kitchen.

  She poured a healthy dose of Pinot Grigio into a glass.

  Book and wine in hand, she made her way to the stairs and ascended.

  After the static and station signals, sleep was a brilliant idea.

  The clock read 11:30 p.m., and she was tired.

  She'd turn on Letterman. Curl up. Read a bit. Drift to sleep.

  As perfect a night as she could have now.

  No more excitement. No more screeching radio.

  Sleep. Quiet. Rest.

  Just let the old lady be.

  Maura did drift off to one more bout of sleep, eventually.

  Downstairs in the dark, the radio sputtered once more. It did not wake her. And she never saw what it had to say on its faint blue display.

  ***

  Sleep.

  Darkness.

  The shape. Coming.

  The outline of a man poured into a wrinkled business suit. A faint figure, all black. She couldn't see any features. Just specks of bright white where the eyes were supposed to be.

  She felt her mouth form the question: James?

  No response from the steadfast apparition.

  No. This was something else.

  Moving slow. So slow.

  Moving with an inhuman sureness.

  Be patient, my dear, I'll come.

  James? She asked again, unsure.

  Just open the door.

  She saw it. Watched as its absence of light flowed into the hall. That blackness.

  A flood of it.

  Tentacles. Tendrils of anti-light. Snaking up the way. Curling around her. Speeded by the dark ancient corners that had won their battles against antique lights years ago.

  She stood shivering in her nightgown. Naked except the night gown she wore to prevent embarrassing accidents when the grandchildren were here, though they hardly ever were.

  The shape reached out to her in her slumber.

  Wrapped her.

  And Maura felt it was not just it in the singular sense, but it, plural.

  So many things waiting for the door to elsewhere to open. So many wretched things crawling and scratching there behind the shape. So many things crawling and scratching behind that thin curtain between us and the creatures that want at us.

  Scratching forever, like frenzied animals.

  ***

  Maura woke up feeling depressed.

  She could not think of a single reason why she should be depressed. She simply was.

  If there had been any dreams, she couldn't remember them. This alarmed her, because dreams were something she looked forward to.

  Before James had died, her dreams had been fantastically romantic. Not erotic, per se, but plays that filled her with warmth.

  "Babydoll ... Wake up."

  She stirred.

  She was twenty-five again.

  With James.

  Their house was new. They were still looking for furniture to fill it.

  Still looking for chairs and lamps. And radios.

  He was hunched over her, blue eyes twinkling in the morning sun. He dipped down, and arched his elbows. The hard triceps and biceps built up on the factory floor popped outward as he dropped to kiss her.

  His kiss, so warm.

  She let his hands work their way up her hips.

  And she watched him, smiling, before kissing back.

  She wrapped her arms around him. She felt the slow thrum of his heavy heart. The pounding.

  He felt the heat of her breasts against his chest. The smoothness of her skin.

  She was at his ear.

  "I love you."

  James said nothing, but smiled. He met her eyes and held them with an almost predatory look. His hand reached up to her cheek and caressed it. He gripped the back of her neck and pulled
her lips to his. Their mouths opened. Their tongues explored.

  Maura let her legs fall open. She wrapped them around his waist. He bent and ran his lips just above the line of her pajamas, her soft hairs tickling him. His mouth touched her. Teased her. He put his hands on her hips and she allowed his fingers to slide upward.

  She brought James up to her. She held his head between her soft breasts as he kissed her there between them.

  She gasped. A sharp, happy intake of breath. He slid a hand underneath her, around her waist, as he held her and pushed against her.

  They turned and twisted.

  Now she bent down, buried her face in his neck, kissing, nibbling.

  Maura leaned back.

  James ran his hand up her chest as he sunk deeper into her and she took more of him.

  She moaned. She fell into his neck again and began to shudder. He buried his cries in her flesh, and she hers in his. As she was about to climax, she looked down.

  And was horrified.

  She saw the shape.

  It writhed.

  Pierced her.

  Blackness curled and spread and reached out behind it.

  She screamed in surprise and pain.

  ***

  Maura woke up. For real this time.

  She was a grandmother again.

  She arched her back. Felt the bones in her spine pop into place.

  She touched her body apprehensively with palsied fingers, making sure she was really there. Really awake.

  There was a wetness between her legs. Thick. Sticky.

  Blood.

  Dawn had only just begun scratch at the dark cover of night.

  She didn't see the shape outside fade into the darkness between her bedroom door and its frame.

  ***

  Difficulties of bathroom duties at her age notwithstanding, it took Maura an hour in the shower to get clean. And even when she physically was, her mind felt drenched in a peculiar rotten filth. As though a corruption had taken hold.

  She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wrapped in a red towel, staring at herself. She looked great for her age – a feat she credited to the wine and the good tunes.

  A positive outlook bolstered by booze.

  But how she looked belied how she felt.

  Dirty.

  Violated.

  And something else, deep in her belly.

  Dark movement behind the shower curtain. A black shape creeping along the wall. At the edge of her vision. Perfectly and wretchedly out of true sight.

  Maura turned around.

  There was nothing there, she told herself. Just a shadow. Slinking. Caused by the door, which was rocking in the minor breeze that flowed through the house. Probably.

  It was her nerves. Bits of that horrible nightmare bubbling up inside her brain.

  She decided that wine and music were the cure.

  They had kept her alive and feeling well this far along, hadn't they?

  She took her time getting dressed, trying to avoid stress, and thinking only of relaxation.

  Downstairs, the yellow light of morning was pouring through Maura's kitchen windows. She smiled at the sun as she filled a glass with Pinot Grigio. The clock read 9 a.m. It wasn't as though she was topping herself off before work or school or getting behind the wheel. She had earned the right to drink when she wanted. The perks of old age.

  Maura walked through the living room. Her first stop was the front door. She unlocked it, opened it, and smelled the fresh morning air outside. A faint breeze was blowing. It tugged at her sundress as she stood in the doorway. Grinning still, she watched people as they marched to and fro along the Forest Hills streets. Some of New York City's last tree-lined blocks.

  She left the big oak door open to let the air in.

  Inside, she began to pull open the blinds. As she did so, the living room went from being a dim sepulcher to a bright library.

  Maura walked to one of her many bookcases and selected the day's reading. "Raylan" by Elmore Leonard. Satisfied with her pick, she meandered in the direction of the radio. She fiddled with the tuner. Then nodded satisfactorily as Bing Crosby's "Only Forever" filled the room.

  Perhaps today would be a good day after all.

  For two hours, she sat. Content. Happy. Sipping her wine. Not rocking.

  She could hear children outside playing. Some yelled. Some laughed.

  Maura hardly noticed any of this, though it all tickled her old, mother mind. She was too immersed in the story. Too happy to let any distraction get to her.

  The children. The families outside.

  She felt her mind drift off, toward thoughts of James and the kids.

  So many wonderful times. So many wonderful memories.

  She looked at the wine in her hand and smirked.

  The radio hiccoughed. Sputtered static. Shrieked. Screamed.

  It barked angry electric hell.

  Maura jumped in her seat, glass of wine threatening to spill from her shaking hand.

  The static stopped.

  "I'll Never Smile Again" by Tommy Dorsey poured out of the speakers.

  Maura frowned. "Well I goddamn won't smile again if this static keeps up."

  She downed the rest of her wine and stood. She walked over to the radio and glared.

  The light blue display was stuttering. Flashing in strobes. Odd symbols played across its face, just as they had the night before. But the music played. So long as the stupid machine played her songs, she'd leave it alone.

  Maura stood, hands on her hips, watching it.

  It kept playing.

  I'll never love again

  I'm so in love with you

  I'll never thrill again

  To somebody new

  Within my heart

  I know you'll never start

  To smile again

  The song cut off there. Replaced not by howling static, but by a growing thrum that gave her a tremendous headache.

  She grunted before heading into the kitchen, intent on calling her children and intent on pouring herself another glass of wine.

  But something picked at her mind. The lyrics were wrong. Not wholly wrong. Just off. Different from what sat behind the cobwebs of memory.

  She grabbed the phone from its cradle on the counter (it was a cordless creation with big buttons – another gift from her kids).

  She grabbed another bottle of wine from the fridge.

  As she poured, she dialed.

  Her eldest daughter, Gemma, picked up. "Hi, mom."

  Maura said, "Hi, honey. I know it always seems like I'm bothering you guys –"

  "You're not bothering us, mom. I don't know why you always say that."

  "– but that radio you and Bill gave me is driving me crazy."

  There was a moment of exasperated silence on Gemma's end. "You mean driving you crazy because ... What, mom? I don't know what that means."

  Maura sipped some wine. "It plays songs just fine for a little while and then it goes haywire. I'm sure if your father was here he'd –"

  "He'd what mom?"

  "Well, he'd fix it."

  Another moment of silence. The sound of Gemma's hand rubbing her own forehead. Skin against skin. Then a chuckle. "God, mom. How would dad have fixed it?"

  A heartbeat of silence.

  Gemma said, "By, oh, I don't know … By throwing it at one of us? By breaking it against a wall?"

  "Your father never did any of that."

  A sigh from Gemma. "Bit early for wine, isn't it, mom? Your memory can't be that bad unless it's on purpose."

  "Your father never did any of that," Maura repeated.

  "All right, mom. Whatever you say. Let me talk to Bill. Maybe we can come by tomorrow or Saturday or something and take a look at it. OK?"

  "That would be wonderful."

  "Sure, mom." Gemma said, "love you." Then hung up.

  The music died. Replaced by gibberish and deep bass notes.

  Maura turned t
o the living room, phone still in the hand that wasn't holding wine.

  The radio. Static. Screeching. High and low frequencies. Cacophony.

  Maura dropped the phone. Let it fall to the floor.

  She walked into the living room. Stood before the radio. Watched the insane symbols flash across its screen.

  She reached behind the damn thing to pull the plug.

  With horror, she saw she'd never even plugged it back in.

  She clasped her hands to her chest. She backed away as she listened.

  Behind the noise, words.

  Words she could barely make out.

  The horrible static screaming stopped.

  Sammy Kaye's "Daddy" began to play – the lyrics just a bit off. Just a bit wrong.

  Here's a shocking revelation

  With a bit a bad stimulation

  I'd be a great sensation

  I'd be your inspiration

  ***

  Memories.

  A lifetime ago and Gemma was in middle school. She had been sent home early with an angry note from the English teacher. A note saying that this kind of writing was not acceptable. Even as a Halloween joke. And that Gemma needed to take the class more seriously.

  Maura looked over her eldest daughter's assignment:

  Gemma Sullivan

  October 30, 1964

  I do not have anything great to say about my family solving problems, Mrs. Knight. In my family, we do not talk about problems. If we do not name it, then it is okay. A name gives power.

  If Mommy went to the fridge for wine, she was just refreshing herself. And Daddy never went to a bar. He grabbed a drink. A drink can be anything.

  Daddy never gets angry, he just has moods.

  Daddy said Mommy had a tummy because she was fat, but that was wrong. There was a baby inside her.

  But the baby didn't come out because Daddy had a Mood.

  Mommy had to go to the doctor from the bleeding, because something was wrong inside her tummy. They came home real fast though because Daddy said the doctor kept asking questions and Daddy said it was none of that bastard's business.

  The only good thing is that my little brother and sister were staying with my Gramma. My mom's mom. They did not have to be around any of it.

  So that is nice, I guess.

  ***

  Maura blinked hard, as if awakening from a deep slumber, and looked up from the paper her daughter had written over four decades ago.

  She couldn't remember why she'd gone into the attic. She couldn't remember why she'd started digging through old mementos. She couldn't remember anything that had transpired over the last few hours.

  Golden afternoon sunlight streamed in through the slats of the attic's window grating. Motes of dust floated like little poisonous clouds.