Later that morning, after leaving Danni and her tantrums at Tunes, Rufus wandered the town spotting for potential gigs.
People still stared at the stranger in their midst; he hadn’t expected otherwise.
Despite this, he was getting used to the pace and energy of the town, which seemed to flow at two speeds.
There was a frenetic movement about some people, generally in vehicles, but even on foot, like they were late for something, or somewhere, that always seemed to recede from them, keeping them on a perpetual treadmill.
And beneath this, a more laid-back, slow ebb and flow.
For some reason Rufus couldn’t quite bring into focus, this lower energy was disquieting; odd, given his own preference for relaxed environments and people.
Something cold about this; something muted.
Something very, very far from easy-going.
Quiet, slow energy oozing just below the buzz of frenetic ants.
* * *
As he asked around for potential venues, one name kept repeating: The Loaded Barrel.
It seemed like the music spot in town, a bar a couple of blocks off Main.
When he swung by, it was closed up, neon signs dark, parking lot empty. Hardly a surprise at that time in the morning.
A billboard listed band line-ups for the next few days, including a fair number of solo artists.
Feeling optimistic that he had a good chance of getting a gig, Rufus moved on.
* * *
He headed back to The Lucky Dawn in the early afternoon sunshine, tired from walking.
His thoughts drifted, churning over Danni’s rant that morning. So direct, she might just as well have taken a dagger to him.
She’s wrong, he thought, music does change things! It does!
Her criticism and attacks churned behind his eyes; pressing his eyebrows into a frown, tightening his jaw muscles.
She couldn’t expect me to pay attention to her when I was singing, she couldn’t!
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize he’d come to the corner where the kids had been playing tag the previous evening. It was quiet now; his footfalls loud as he drifted through.
Off to his left, a cat mewed loudly and Rufus glanced in that direction.
One of the kids who had been playing tag was sitting on the steps of a house, reading a book. Slowly, the kid became aware of Rufus’ attention and he looked up, staring. Up behind the kid, a curtain twitched at one of the windows and, a moment later, Rufus wasn’t surprised to see the front door open.
“Honey?” a female voice called, quiet at this distance. “Come on in, okay?”
Frowning, the kid glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to look at Rufus, his fingers moving on auto-pilot to fold the corner of a page.
Rufus and the kid stared at each other.
“Honey!”
Her voice was more insistent this time and the kid turned to go back into the house.
Weird, Rufus thought, suddenly back at The Folded Corner, seeing the boy on the corner, the distorted deputy, the old man.
Michael Ridenour’s eyes.
He shook his head, and continued down the road towards the campground.
* * *
The Lucky Dawn was no busier when he returned than when he’d left.
Rufus looked into the campground from the road, over an aged stone wall, all grey and green with lichens and moss.
His tent, on the far side, was adrift in a sea of emptiness.
“I guess we’ll be able to fit you in,” Mac had said, and the memory brought a smile to Rufus’ face.
He reached the gate and turned to walk in.
Only then did he notice Mac sitting on the porch of the office, tipped back in an old rocking chair. It creaked slightly as he moved back and forth.
Rufus approached the porch.
“Hi,” he said.
“Morning,” Mac replied and, as an afterthought, checked his watch. “Sorry, I guess that should be afternoon.”
“Really?” Rufus said.
“Yup, time’s-a-flying.”
“I guess.”
Mac continued rocking, the creak of the chair in a regular cadence. In nearby fields, crickets chirruped the day.
“How are you finding our little town?” Mac asked, watching Rufus carefully.
“It’s…”
Far-off, a hawk screeched and Rufus turned towards the sound, distracted.
“People look weird,” he finished, hardly aware that he’d spoken the words.
When he turned back, he found Mac staring at him.
And noticed that the rocking chair was no longer moving.
“What?” Rufus asked.
“Weird,” Mac reflected, “interesting choice of words.”
Rufus flushed.
“I didn’t mean…”
“Sit,” Mac nodded, “take a load off.”
Rufus considered for a moment and then sat on the porch, leaning on the wall so that he could join Mac in looking out towards the road.
They were quiet for a moment, and Rufus had a clear mental snapshot of the two of them, sitting here, taking in the sun, the young and the old communing in the sounds of the day. He breathed into it.
Moments like this were a big part of why he was out on the road.
He leant his head back, stared at the stone wall on the far side of the road. Bugs and critters would be moving in those crevices and the grass beneath; a whole world below his own perception.
Rufus rested in the moment, feeling the connection to Mother Earth much the way he did every time he slept in the forest.
She’ll nurture you, he thought, she’ll give it all back.
“They do,” Mac said, breaking the silence between them.
“Huh?”
“People around here,” the old man continued, “they do look weird.”
Rufus turned to look at him.
Mac just shrugged.
Like the distorted deputy and his freakshow mask, Rufus thought, like how his mouth didn’t seem to work right under the harsh light in the interview room.
“Maybe it’s just because this is a small town,” he joked.
Mac was quiet for a long moment.
“And maybe not,” he said finally.
Rufus stared at him.
“It’s not always easy to notice,” Mac continued, “and I’m kinda surprised that you picked up on it so quick. But I guess you stare at people a lot more’n I do.”
“Yeah,” Rufus agreed, “I guess. So, what is it? Genetics?”
Mac shook his head.
“Nope. Well, maybe it is, just not in the way you’re thinking. It’s a small-town, true enough, but it ain’t the deep south.”
Rufus chuckled.
“And it’s not the whole town. You just need to watch for long enough to see them.”
“Them?”
Mac stopped, turned his attention to the road, and Rufus thought that there would be no more, that Mac had decided to shut the conversation down. But, after a moment in which he checked up and down the road as far as eye could see, Mac continued.
“Their faces,” he began, pausing, trying to get his thoughts in order, “they’re close. But they don’t seem to be able to finish the deal. Unless you’re looking for it, you don’t see.”
“What are you talking about, Mac?”
“Their faces… They just don’t work. Like… Like the bones aren’t right, like jello that didn’t quite set right.”
And suddenly, Rufus was back in the interview room, across the table from the distorted deputy as he stood closer to the lamp and the way the freakshow mask had seemed to shift, melting into an altered configuration.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “That’s it! Melted. Exactly!”
“Right,” Mac nodded, his face calm. He began to rock back and forth in the chair once again.
“You notice anything else?” Mac asked.
“There was…” Rufus began, but bit back on the thought.
Mac looked at him, eyebrow raised.
“It was nothing,” Rufus said, “just a kid.”
Mac stopped rocking, sat forward, suddenly alert, hanging on Rufus’ every word.
“A kid?”
Rufus nodded.
“A boy. Last night, while I was playing at the bookstore. But it wasn’t…”
“Did they take him?”
Everything went silent, and Rufus was completely contained in Mac’s eyes. This silence, it stretched and yawned and threatened to swallow him whole. Adrenaline surged and Rufus tasted panic.
“What… What did you say?”
“The boy,” Mac was firm, “did they take him?”
“Who?”
“Them. Did they take him?”
“Them?”
“Forget that,” Mac waved a hand dismissively, “did they take the kid?”
Rufus tasted confusion in amongst the panic, his mind reeled; freeze-frames of the boy on the corner, of Michael Ridenour’s eyes, of the distorted deputy and his freak-show mask.
“I… I don’t know. I didn’t…”
I looked away, he thought, I looked away.
Silence hung for a moment and Rufus fought the urge to jump to his feet.
The rocking chair began to creak again and when Rufus looked up, Mac was leaning back, letting the sun warm his face, eyes closed.
“What is this, Mac? Who are they?” Rufus asked.
Mac opened his eyes, looked down at Rufus, stared deep and long into his eyes.
“You sure you want to know?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
Mac paused for a moment.
“Okay then. They… The first thing you need to know is that they’re not a who, they’re a what…”
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
