whither Willow? Page 9

Colby's wife, Dawna, cooed in his ear and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

  ***

  That evening Colby visited the building site. It was deserted, barren except for the huge willow tree silhouetted against a full moon. He got out of his car and walked to the tree.

  "So, you're protecting this old house, eh?" He looked around and saw the cut branches on the ground. He kicked at a branch and it moved only slightly. He bent over and tried to pull up a small twig, but it stuck. He pulled again and it came loose in his hand. He shone a flashlight at the twig. It was covered with hundreds of hairy roots. He mumbled, "I'll be damned. Still alive and kicking." He looked up at the tree again and grinned. "Well you won't be kickin long. Next week you'll be just so much firewood."

  The tree shook in a slight breeze and Colby backed away. A branch came rushing to the ground and landed beside him and Colby walked backwards several yards, stumbled and fell, jumped quickly to his feet then turned and ran to his car. For a long time he stared at the dark silhouette out the side window of his car. The tree was swaying in a breeze which had now become a strong wind. He started the car and backed out of the driveway.

  "Bloody tree. Just firewood," he said under his breath. "Wait and see."

  September, 1948

  It towered ten stories high. It was the tallest building in New Bamberg. When the ribbon was cut the crowd cheered and the mayor bowed deeply and gave a little speech. Michael Colby was pleased. He had put a full page ad in the Gazette and most of the apartments had been rented before the building was even completed and now the citizens of the town were clamoring to get in. They were even coming from Baden City to live in these luxury apartments. He would have it fully occupied before the Summer was over.

  Colby pulled his wife Dawna to his side and whispered in her ear. "This Fall we go south for the Winter. We stay there ... waitin' for the rent to come rolling in." She smiled and hugged him tightly. She knew he didn't mean it. After building Willow Towers he'd want to do more, build more, make more money.

  When the mayor left, the crowd left too. Soon, only Colby and his wife were standing by their car in the smooth asphalt parking lot. He looked about. The other houses on the block were dwarfed by Willow Towers and he was happy. They climbed into the car and slowly turned toward the road. Moving vans were pulling into the lot. The tenants had already started to arrive.

  ***

  By late Fall the apartment building was completely rented and Colby was so pleased that he built a walkway around the building with trellises covered in hanging roses. He didn't even increase the rent. The tenants walked there in the cool evenings. They called it Willow Walk. They would stop and chat and describe how they had decorated their rooms, compare views from their windows and complimented themselves on having put their bid in early for an apartment in Willow Towers.

  It was John Mullin who first suggested the New Year's Eve party. It could be held in the basement. There was lots of room down there and he would clean it up and he and his young wife would decorate it. The idea was enthusiastically embraced by all tenants except Shulom. The old man didn't like parties, they were the playground of the devil. But all the other tenants agreed to help with the decorations and would bring snacks and soft drinks. In particular Fran Moller promised to bring champagne. She and her room mate, Kay, would also make little paper decorations to hang from the ceiling.

  Kay and Fran had been friends since high school and decided to share the apartment as they had shared everything else. It was expensive, but together they would manage. They walked about the rooms and admired the clean white plaster walls and molded plaster trim and doors of solid pine. The small kitchen was furnished with a fridge with two doors, one just for frozen food. The counter was longer than they had ever seen. Neat rows of cupboards lined the wall above the counter and the built-in stove looked like it belonged right there. They walked to the window, together. They had been nearly the first to apply for a room and had their choice; they chose the very top floor where they could see the setting sun. From here they could see the town library and city hall. In the distance they could see Tooly Peak and the communication tower and the fields which led to Drumbo Creek and down to the bog.

  They turned simultaneously and looked into the room. There was little furniture, but they were patient. They would save and buy what they needed, little by little. Together, hand in hand, they walked to the bathroom. It was all chrome and yellow and shiny plastic. Even the tub was yellow, with avocado trim. They had bought olive green towels and they each in turn hung their towel on the chrome rack then stood back to admire the effect.

  After a simple meal they relaxed on the single sofa and turned on the radio. The announcer was condemning city council for approving the rezoning which enabled the building of the monstrosity called Willow Towers. The girls listened. The announcer was speaking in an excited voice:

  "This magnificent old house was a landmark. How many houses are there like this in New Bamberg? None! That magnificent willow tree. How many such willow trees in New Bamberg? None! I'll bet that no tree like that exists anywhere in Waterloo County. And where is that magnificent tree now? Gone! Destroyed! It was taken down with backhoe and chain saw. That magnificent tree was removed, for what? To make furniture, wicker baskets, junk!"

  Fran reached over and changed the station. "Magnificent, he says magnificent too many times." Kay nodded. "He wants a willow, we have a willow ... Willow Towers. I think Willow Towers is magnificent," continued Fran. Kay laughed and they both leaned back to enjoy the story which had just started. This was a weekly ritual: they would listen to the story, sponsored by some soap company, then spend an hour discussing it, then go to bed.

  ***

  It was just before midnight when they went to bed. Although the apartment was small it did have two bedrooms and Fran was pleased; she spent at least 30 minutes each night making entries in her diary. Now she curled with knees raised, hair in curlers, leaning against the padded, cream coloured headboard, writing the events and thoughts of the day:

  Kay and I spent at least an hour this afternoon on Willow Walk. The roses are in full bloom except on the front left side of the building where I guess they don't get enough light. I told the superintendent, but he seems resigned to having those nasty weeds sticking up through the marble chips. He said he can't grow anything on that side.

  Kay and I sat on the benches watching the tenants go by. Our neighbours are all such nice people, but we only see them in the parking lot or on Willow Walk. When I mentioned this to the Mullins, John immediately suggested a party. Barbie thought we should have some reason other than getting to know one another and Kay suggested New Year's Eve. I promised to bring champagne - I hope nobody expects some expensive variety.

  December 31, 1948

  When New Year's Eve arrived John and Barbie Mullin greeted everyone at the door to the basement storage rooms. They were all amazed at how bright and clean and festive it looked. In the corner were the storage bins, but even they were hung with little paper bells and white angels.

  "Mostly Kay and Fran," said Barbie Mullin. "They worked most of the night, last night, to get it finished. John and I mostly worked on arranging the tables, the drinks and snacks and things. Over in the other room, just past the furnace room, we've stacked the chairs. Just help yourself, drag them back in here, then have a drink and try John's punch. Be sure to put on a hat and get a noisemaker, they're on the table in the far corner."

  One by one the guests arrived and by 11 o'clock they had finished the punch, the table was now covered with bottles of whiskey and gin. Everyone was talking simultaneously and it looked like a circus with clowns in gaily coloured hats covered in streamers which had fallen from the ceiling. The snacks hadn't lasted long and John had gone out to the corner variety store to buy more potato chips and peanuts. The store advertised 24 hour service, 365 days a year and he was surprised that they were indeed open, even on New Year's Eve. Perhaps it wasn’t so
surprising since the old couple which owned the store lived right in the back.

  When he returned to the party, everyone was singing, the top ten songs on the charts. He never could remember the words and was glad that he could pretend to be busy arranging the chips and cookies and wandering through the group with the tray. He was also glad that everyone had found a chair. Michael Colby had bought a bunch of them from the local furniture store, on sale. Colby said it was for sentimental reasons. John never could understand what was so sentimental about these chairs. They weren't even well built, some were already coming apart, strips of wood spiralling out from the sides, but no one complained. They just leaned back in their wicker chairs and sang the hit songs.

  When it was just minutes before midnight Fran ran to the elevator and pushed the button. She had almost forgotten about the champagne cooling in her fridge. They would toast the new year with champagne. It was a cheap local wine, but nobody would care. They were all pretty drunk. When the door slid open she stepped in, punched for the tenth floor and looked at her watch. It was 11:47 and she must hurry. Why had she forgotten the champagne? Everyone was having a good time. She knew most of the songs and they followed her lead. She had simply lost track of time.

  When the elevator opened she ran down the hall and pushed open the door to her apartment. It wasn't locked, not tonight. In a minute she was in the elevator again carrying a green garbage bag filled with six bottles of champagne. The bag was over her shoulder and her back started to get cold. Maybe she should enter the room shouting Ho! Ho! Ho! and swinging her bag of champagne. But Christmas was over. Maybe singing Auld Lang Syne? Yes. That was good. They would all join in as she passed out the bottles; she knew all the words. She looked at her watch. It was 11:54 and she must hurry. The elevator door opened and she began to sing: For old acquaintance be forgot ...

  She could hear the commotion as soon as she stepped out of the elevator. There were screams, coming from the party room. She ran to the door, her bag of wine clanking at her back. John was pulling Kay from her wicker chair, the chair was wrapped around her arms, long coils of twine covered in hair, wrapped around her arms and Kay was screaming. Fran dropped the bag of champagne. The sound of breaking glass was drowned in the cries of pain. Barbie was shouting, dragging the chair, clinging to her leg. Fran looked about, frantically, holding her hands to her head. Several of her friends were completely entangled in their chairs, gasping for breath, writhing and twisting and she screamed. Everyone was tied into a chair, John was now on the floor with a myriad of cords about his head, serpentine cords covered in a black hairy growth, and there was a sea of bodies, blood-shot, bulging eyes, gasping, screaming bodies. She backed away and fell over the bag of broken bottles. A thin coil spun out of a chair and wrapped about her leg. She screamed and pushed it off; it clung tenaciously. She reached for a broken bottle and slashed the twisting turning vine. It recoiled and she clambered out the door, still on her back, legs pumping. A remnant of the vine still clung to her leg and was growing, spiralling, black hairs rushing out of every coil. She slashed and opened a large wound in her leg and it began to bleed, the blood spurting red and bright onto the concrete floor. She scurried, still backwards, on her buttocks, leaving a waving ribbon of blood across the floor. She slid against the elevator door, pushed, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her hand reached out, poked the button, the door opened and she fell back into the elevator. The door closed and she lay there, panting, gasping. The broken bottle was still in her hand. She threw it to the floor and jumped up to punch the tenth floor button.

  The elevator started with a jerk. She could still hear the screaming below, but it became fainter as the elevator began to rise, slowly at first then more quickly. She closed her eyes. This was a nightmare - she must be dreaming.

  Suddenly the elevator stopped, so suddenly that she fell against the wall and slid to the floor. There was silence. There was no more screaming. She could only hear her heart pounding in her head, her panting. She sat for some time, shaking in disbelief.

  There was a grinding noise from the ceiling which began quietly then grew louder, keeping in time with the pounding in her head. She looked up and saw the single coil, writhing, spiralling down from behind the plastic ceiling panel. Fran looked around, grabbed the broken bottle and waved it frantically in the air. The coil dropped suddenly, directly onto the sharp edges of the bottle. Fran swung the glass from side to side. A piece of vine fell away, the rest spiralled up into the ceiling. She leaned back, still breathing heavily, her hand fell to her side, clinging to the bottle. She waited, staring at the ceiling. No sound except her own heavy breathing. She closed her eyes, only for a moment. This was a nightmare. She would awaken soon. She would make a hot pot of coffee and wait for Kay. Kay always took such a long time to dress, but she always looked neat, hair pulled back without a strand out of place.

  But was that Kay she had seen in the basement, wrapped in the chair, bleeding, hair hanging in strings, eyes bulging?

  This was just a dream. Fran curled up and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Just a little more sleep then she would make the coffee. The blanket kept sliding off, she pulled again, opened her eyes and saw that it was not a blanket wrapped around her, but a tangle of vines. She screamed. The coils tightened and she screamed again. Her face was covered with the hairy roots and she pounded at her face. Her hand held a broken bottle. He face grew red, streaked with blood, her left eye gouged.

  She continued to slash at the vines on her face until she could see no more.

  ***

  When they found her the next morning her body was crushed and slimy, a thousand welts, nearly every bone broken. But it was her face that shocked Inspector Jaffre's assistant. It was butchered, raw, red. In her hand was a broken bottle dripping with shreds of bleeding skin.

  Jaffre himself was staring at something else. On Fran Moller's leg was a twisted, hairy root. He opened his notebook and read the last entry: vines-hairy roots . He pulled out his red pencil and added an exclamation mark.

  Every tenant but one had been to the party, and every single one had been mutilated and crushed. It took over an hour to remove all the bodies and the crowd stayed until they had seen everything. Jaffre could never understand the human urge to observe blood and gore, especially from a safe distance. A car that had run off the highway would create a traffic jam that went back for miles. The gawkers would slow down and peer out hoping to catch a glimpse of some bleeding and broken body. Jaffre shook his head and pulled his ear. People. Who could understand them?

  While the bodies were being removed, Inspector Jaffre spoke to Mr. Saul Shulom. It always seemed strange to Jaffre that this old gent had accumulated enough money to pay the rent for these luxury apartments. It was even stranger that he was the only person unharmed on New Year’s Eve.

  "You're very lucky, Mr. Shulom," he said.

  "Luck? Nothin' to do with luck," said the old man, pulling his baseball cap tightly onto his head. "Drinkin' and all that, it's feed for the devil, know what I mean? I told 'em, I said: a party'll call up the devil and he'll come, sure as shootin'. Do you want to call the devil? No sir, not me, I said."

  "Did you hear anything?" asked Jaffre.

  "Nope. I was in bed, closin' my eyes so I'd see no evil and holdin' my ears so I'd hear no evil and closin' my mouth so -"

  "Uh, Mr. Shulom ... we might ask you to identify some of the bodies. Could you do that? We may be able to contact relatives, but just in case - "

  "No sir!" said Shulom. "That'd put me next to the devil, know what I mean? No sir!"

  Inspector Jaffre left soon after the bodies had been removed, but waited in his car in the parking lot, looking over his notes, scratching his chin and pulling his ear.

  He didn't see the figure in the heavy dark gray coat standing by the corner of the building.

  CHAPTER 8

  Kenneth Leland Jaffre: February, 1955

  Inspector Jaffre stared out the
window for what seemed like hours, then walked slowly to the large red leather chair, dropped the newspaper on the floor and collapsed, his face in his hands.

  "Will I ever see him?" he moaned. "Will I ever hold my grandson?"

  He was alone and life seemed hardly worth the living. How had he come to this?

  ***

  Kenneth Leland Jaffre had dreamed of being on the police force since he was a child. Perhaps he was influenced by the Saturday matinee theatre, perhaps by the weekly radio shows, perhaps by the picture books which he consumed with astonishing appetite. When he finished police training and became a constable, it wasn't nearly what he had expected. In New Bamberg there were no fierce gangs of hoodlums, no sensational bank holdups, no gory murders and no need to shoot it out with the corrupt and the dangerous ... so he spent most of his time visiting schools and teaching children to walk safely, stopping to look both ways at intersections, helping little old ladies cross the street. He became a scout master, an active fundraiser for the Fall Festival and won the 1935 man-of-the-year award.

  Kenneth Jaffre became the darling of the community, his name was part of every conversation and it became politically wise for the mayor to appoint him Chief Inspector, even at the tender age of twenty-seven. If anything, his work became even less exciting. He read and filed reports, assigned duties to the officers, managed the limited funds allocated to the force and gave myriad speaking engagements which involved little more than outlining the history of police work and, for the amusement of his audience, identifying curious bylaws still on the books: the poop-stoop-and-scoop legislation decreed that horse droppings must be removed from the streets by the owner of the animal, before sunset.

  It was Spring, 1936, when Kenneth Leland Jaffre married his childhood sweetheart. Although they had invited only a few close friends to the wedding, nearly all of New Bamberg showed up. He was, after all, a celebrity even at twenty-six and his new bride, Betsy Sue Ann Jaffre was delighted. All the guests were invited for drinks in their yard and the celebration spilled out into the street, and others joined so that by evening most homes in town were deserted.