Strange Tales for Cozy Nights 1 Read online

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  I drive out to the old public boat access point on the south shore, about a half mile from my house. This is the spot where that summer renter, Keith Anderson, drove his car into the water with his wife beside him and two children in the backseat, drowning the whole family. It was rated a murder suicide; the guy just cracked up for some reason and decided to end it all, for everybody.

  I was the first to notice the Blue Chevy resting on the bottom with its U of M banner on the radio antenna frozen in mid wave. Mom and Dad went to Michigan State and didn’t like U o M, so that particular detail really stuck in my mind.

  Thing was, Anderson drove his car into the lake during early June, four months after I spotted it there in the ice.

  3. Departures

  I leave for home soon afterwards. I was supposed to stay overnight and then drive directly to work Wednesday morning, but another evening with my personal bogey man is not an attractive option. I badly need to see Jodie.

  This coming weekend is my corporate retreat, a pseudo-social annual event during which – while partaking of the manufactured bonhomie – we discuss the coming year’s business ventures. It can be sort of fun, but the knives are still out, just as they are during the regular work week. You can’t let the ‘informal’ atmosphere lower your guard.

  Many of us take off a day or two to prepare for the ordeal. That’s what I was doing at the lake – working on my presentation, contemplating my career path in peaceful surroundings. And so they were peaceful, until the unannounced visitor showed up last night. I’d been “chasing the loons,” as Rex puts it, just cruising a bit from shore to enjoy the night ambiance. I was feeling pressured from my work on the PowerPoint and needed a break. I got a lot more break than I bargained for.

  It had to have been an illusion, some bizarre waking nightmare ... but I know what I saw.

  For someone who spends much of his working day on the phone, I have a peculiar shyness about calling my wife. It seems almost like a lack of trust. I have the feeling that if I call, it’s because I’m checking up on her – and Jodie is an independent woman who does not like being checked up on. She’s with a high-powered law firm and has lots of her own pressures.

  I take the scenic route home, enjoying the Lake Huron views and the slower pace of secondary roads. I pause for a leisurely lunch at a bar / restaurant type place and read the Free Press on a park bench. But, try as I might, I cannot shake the feeling of a haunted presence sharing my trip – riding in the back seat, sitting beside me on the bench hidden by the newspaper.

  I can almost see it, almost smell its damp odor; but, of course, it isn’t there. At one point, I drive onto the gravel shoulder while craning my neck to look at the back seat. So, I resist the temptation to take my eyes off the road and limit myself to occasional glances in the rear view mirror which I have tilted down to improve the view of the BMW’s interior. Music pouring from the sound system helps to occupy my mind.

  It isn’t until I’m in the northern suburbs, late afternoon, that I call Jodie.

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until after work tomorrow,” she says. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I lie, “I just got to missing you.”

  A pause, then:

  “That’s sweet, Ben.”

  “Can you join me for dinner?” I ask.

  “I can’t,” Jodie says. “I’m still at the office for quite a while.”

  It’s past 9:00 when Jodie comes in through the door, exhausted. After a quick welcome-home kiss, she heads into a hot shower. When she comes out, I have a warm oil massage ready for her. She purrs with delight under my fingers and is quickly asleep.