“It’s uncommon strange.”
“That’s from a book.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know but I’ve read it somewhere.”
“Well, it’s appropriate here.”
I nodded and looked about again. The rain was pelting as if it took our existence as a personal affront. I was glad that Ronald was with me.
“Do you want to go back in?”
“No.”
“We may drown out here.”
The shower fell heavier, the sky in the west was black with coiling storm clouds and the wind swirled into a high-pitched wail.
“Man, we’ve gotta go back in there.” A sparking lightening strike stressed Ronald’s words not a few feet from where we stood; the earth shuddered, and we both turned toward the imposing old house.
The door remained ajar. We had burst through it not 30 minutes ago. The entry way’s marble floor was slick with rain.
“Careful.”
“You too.”
Odd how two men become crucial to each other during painful days. Ronald and I worked together off and on for several years. We’d have a beer together after a hard day. Hung out together at the company picnics showing off girlfriends and finally a wife and kids. I went to pay my respects at his father’s funeral, and he shook my hand and even cried when my infant son was laid to rest. Work, life, love, death; we never shared profound words, but we shared life together and it came together as we re-entered that ancient house.
Our tools were still stacked in our toolboxes and my canvas work belt was in a heap next to the front door, soaked in rainwater. Ronald took a deep breath and wiped his dripping wet face. “Man, we need to get this job done and go.”
I picked up my canvas bag and strapped it around my waist, shivering as the water dripped into the pool of water on the floor. “Ronald, let’s call it off. We’ve got a good rep we can appeal this.”
“No. No, we practically have this business finished.”
“Dude, it’s cable, let’s leave!”
“We’ve got this man. Come on. Some little old lady probably wants to see Cary Grant before she meets God, we can’t run out now.” Ronald, soaked to the skin stooped to take up the toolbox, the storm roared outside, and the lights blinked and then snapped off. We were in complete blackness.
“Ronald? Man, you there.?”
Silence.
“Ronald!”
I heard something behind me and whirled around. The front door was wide open, and a figure, dark and stooped, stood in silhouette against the flashing, howling storm. Again, the fracture of white-blue and blinding light rattled the windows in their casements. The image in the doorway did not cringe or jump.
“Hey, who are you?” I strode forward, “Ronald?” The figure stepped back and drew the door shut, leaving me in complete darkness. I surged forward, screaming something inarticulate. Flashing light, electric energy sparked and sizzled all about me. At one point the heavy doorknob appeared to be inside of my hand; my flesh looked translucent. Then complete silence. No rain, no wind, no thunder. I pulled the door open and almost fell. The trees were stooped with rain, the grass looked silvery with rain and looked combed by the wind. I ran to the work van and slid open the side door looking for a large wrench, some sort of weapon.
“Hey!”
I started and spun around. A young man was staring at me, his serious blue eyes narrowed, his body in a defensive posture. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“My partner’s in there. I’ve lost my partner man; he needs my help.”
“Nobody is in there; I just came out to grab some tools and found you getting into my van.”
“No, Ronald Theodore is in there and he needs my help.”
The young man stood up and squared his shoulders, “Ronald Theodore is in the looney bin downstate and has been for seventeen years.”
I gaped at the man. What was he talking about?
“Who are you?” asked the kid.
“I’m Joseph Conrad,” I said walking toward the kid, “I need help, Ronald, my partner is in that hell house and he needs my help.”
The young man stepped back and held up his hands. “Okay, let’s go in but I’m telling you, no one is in there except a frail elderly lady who wants WIFI so she can watch Cary Grant before she dies.”
“What?” I stood cold and shivering. “Cary Grant?”
“Yeah man, she says that she’s a big fan of Cary Grant, whoever he is, and she wants to watch his black and whites before she dies.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. You don’t look so good.”
“Have you called me in, told your supervisor that a guy by the name of Joseph Conrad is here acting strange?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Where is this venerable lady?”
“Upstairs somewhere.”
“Ronald. He’s down state?”
The kid backed away from me. “That’s what they tell me. Hey! Hey, you can’t go in there!”
“Sure, I can kid. I’ve been in there for 17 years. Do me a favor and let Ronald know I’ve finished the job.”