FICTION: THE RETURN

Delano Berry had been sleeping well lately. He was finding his middle years peaceful and fulfilling ones -- so unlike those of his youth. His habits were ingrained into his personality by now. He would finish supper at or around 7:15, watch the late news on the local PBS channel, have a glass of wine, read for an hour, and begin preparing for bed by 10:30. Tonight was no different. Berry felt a certain contentment as he turned his covers over, and stroked the cat, also settling down for sleep in its box beside his bed.

He wound his ancient gold clock -- an heirloom from his mother's side of the family. He knelt and said his brief prayers (What more did he have to pray for at this stage in his life?), then closed his shades and turned out the lights before slipping under the covers.

Delano Berry dreamed of past times, as he only seldom did now. There was the Elmtown Depot, closed for better than ten years even then, looming in front of him. The broken glass of the few windows not yet boarded up, along with the deteriorating black and brown wood, gave the old building a sinister look. The moon was full in his dream -- just as it had been on that cool night twenty-six years earlier. He placed his right hand in the pocket of his old East County High School letter jacket which he would burn immediately afterward, and once again felt the cold, hard form of the knife. He whistled quietly to ease the tension, and saw his breath in the October night air. The old man was there; he knew it.

He had hated the old man with a passion he now could hardly understand. The old man was mean -- but that wasn't it at all. No, it really had nothing to do with that. The old man was proud -- that was it -- just too damn proud for an old beggar to be! Jeremiah McGee had been a derelict as long as Berry could remember. He recalled taunting him as a young boy, before a swat by his mother silenced him. Shell shock, people had said. He had never been the same since returning from Italy. Supposedly he hadn't even been involved in the really heavy stuff either -- like Uncle Roxey had. Then, of course, there was the bottle. The old man had been an alcoholic almost since his return from the war. He would always be seen standing, staring aimlessly on the front porch of Wellgo's Tavern, as you drove over steep Wellgo's Hill, and headed into the old downtown area. If he wasn't standing on that old concrete porch, leaning on the railing, then he could be seen trudging back and forth from Wellgo's to the rundown old stores downtown -- even in the coldest weather.

He must have been 60, figured Delano, although he looked 70 at least. And stink! Maybe that was the real reason. On the rare occasions when Doug had come in close range to him-getting a soda as a boy in the old dime store (long since demolished) while his mom shopped next door at the old P.N. Hirsch store, or passing him in front of the bank where the old man sometimes stood during his last years, Berry would feel sick at his stomach for hours afterward.

Again he peered through the broken window, into the dusty, rotted interior of what had once been the pride of the county. Yes, he was here, all right. That smell! It came from more than rotting wood and rat droppings; it came from him!

Again he felt the jagged edge of the broken window gash his right leg, just above the knee, as he climbed through the rotten window frame. How real it seemed this time. The pain actually surged through his leg like it had that cool night long ago. Again he gritted his teeth in anger to keep himself from cursing loudly and warning the old man. He wiped his right hand, bloody from his own wound, on his jacket, then reached for the knife.

He tiptoed through the rubble of broke paster and old newspapers covered with dust, following the stench. As he came to a corridor leading to the restrooms and the boiler room, the smell was overpowering. Again Berry felt himself shudder, not knowing if it was from the small or the realization that the task was at hand.

The texture of the dream was so real that somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Berry was frightened. He could feel the plaster and dust crunch under his tennis shoes and could see the grime on the delapidated wall. He steadied himself by taking one final deep breath, then peered around the corner. Seeing nothing, he stroked silently forward, his flashlight in his left hand and his knife in his right.

The room was empty -- except for that smell. By the had to be there; Berry could feel him. Suddenly Berry's flashlight beam rested on a mound of nearly rotted newspapers. Him.

Berry tried to swallow, but could not. In his stomach began a fierce battle or control between fear and hatred.

Berry felt helpless -- unable to decide for himself. He numbly felt his feet pushing forward, as if watching himself from nearby bleacher seats. When he was nearly upon the hideous pile, his arms began violently trembling, and he feared he would throw up. The thought of prying fluttered through his mind. Then, however, the realization of what he was about to do made him wince at the irony of that thought.

Taking his breaths in gasps, Berry began carefully uncovering the old man. After removing the top layer of nauseatingly mildewing papers, Berry saw the old man twitch awake. A muffled voice came from under the rest of the covering. Berry was nearly in panic. He had counted on the old man being out cold. He had never considered McGee looking at him as he approached with the knife -- or fighting him!

Now Berry hesitated. The same sick feeling ran through this stomach as he had felt that night in October, when he was 17. He thought he saw a slight movement from underneath the pile. Afraid of facing an encounter, Berry wildly dove at the lump, ripping the papers from around the old man's head. The derelict struggled to sit up, gasping at Berry through dazed blue eyes. He attempted to say something through the nearly toothless mouth which wreaked of wine and rot, but Berry was upon him in an instant. With horror, Berry again felt the blood rushing to his head and his right arm flailing wildly, driving the knife again and again into the filthy neck and chest of the old bum.

As if helplessly watching a late, late show which he was too tired to get up and turn off, Berry again saw himself wipe the knife off on his jacket and re-bury the old man in his papers -- succeeding for the moment in concealing the blood beneath them. The rest of the night's frantic activities were appropriately replayed in feverish speed in Berry's mind, as he narrowly eat the clock to daylight, disposing successfully of all evidence linking him to the depot. When he arose later that morning, the cut had been sustained playing football the night before; the jacket had been loaned to that low-down Donnie Backett -- how unwise, his mother had lectured him, it might never be seen again.

Berry awoke with a start. Sweat had drenched his pajamas and tears ran down his cheeks. He leaped from his bed and quickly replaced the sweaty pajama top with his battered gray bathrobe. Slipping on his house shoes, he hurried to the back door. Had it been a sound in the back yard that had mercifully awakened him? Berry looked forward to seeing the Johnston's cat digging feverishly at his trash can. Instead of tossing water at her, Berry would bring the trouble-making Siamese in and give her some milk, along with his own Persian.

When Berry switched on the porch light, however, he saw an empty yard. The trash can was intact. He forced a swallow.

Berry shuddered in the night air. His dear wife Melissa, departed nearly 10 years now, had been a devout Roman Catholic. She had often told him confession cleansed the soul. But Berry was Protestant! He had successfully hidden his one youthful foible, had talked it out with the Lord in his own way and had made amends by tithing much more than his required 10 percent over the years. He had risen to a position of prominence and respectability within the community. He would be damned if he was going to blurt it all out after nearly 30 years! Besides, Delano Berry a murderer? What local clergyman wouldn't laugh heartily and prescribe one less brandy per evening? No, Melissa had been wrong -- there are some things which must never be confessed.

Berry had strode to the edge of the porch and was staring at the bare limbs of the old hickory tree. He shivered again in the fall air and turned to go back in. The thought of a brandy had given him a good idea as to how to get back to sleep.

Berry suddenly stopped with a fright. A shadow had moved in the corner of the porch, hidden from the fluorescent light. Berry was speechless with horror as a hand came out of the darkness.

The smell! He was back! Berry let out a gurgled cry of fear and dropped the flashlight, hearing the tinkling of the breaking lens. Sounds were coming to him much more clearly now. The brisk footsteps he heard a block away were those of that young Sergeant Perkns, the new policeman who patrolled the neighborhood.

As the specter staggered toward Berry, still dripping blood and caked with layers of rotting newspapers, Berry opted for confession.

NOTE: This was written by the editor about 1984, during his college days. The USA Signal encourages area writers to submit fiction and poems. The alternative is having to read more of the editor's fiction!