Abaddon

            Michael perceived little eyes at the heart of the fire, points of flame pining for fresh tinder and bursts of existence. The fire spoke into the corners of the dark room with a warm light that described the shadowed spaces of the house. The ravages of flame, a gray smoke devoid of life, escaped through the chimney. Out in the chill of a fall night, smoke dissolved in a stiff breeze. The wind twisted the gray billows out and knocked through an old wooden fence, barely hanging on its hinges.

            From the ceiling he caught the sound of his wife moving upstairs. He imagined her packing darkness. No light flooding the glass. No warmth spilling out into midnight. Familiar groans and creaks with every move, finding her way over steps she'd walked so many times. She closed drawers she'd never touch again, the grain of the wood beneath her fingers a map of unique bumps and grooves.

            He could almost taste the smell of vanilla potpourri faint in the air. A picture of her and Michael sat on the dresser. He often looked at it. It was taken on their wedding day, while they descended the steps of the church, smiles on their faces and the embrace of their hands before the big white doors of the church.

Michael spat into the fire and it snickered back. Behind him, he heard Ravinn descending the steps. A heavy suitcase knocked and scraped against the walls. Wheels skittered across the wooden floor as she moved it to the front door. She walked back up the stairs. A moment later, he heard her lugging more stuff down.

            She put the cases down beside the others. He knew she was standing with the palms of her hands flat against the front of her legs, her black hair tied back, the skin of her thin, pale arms exposed by rolled up sleeves. He didn't turn to see her with the fire's light hiding the years. She'd look just like the night he met her in college, with a bonfire as their light and power.

            “I have nowhere to go tonight,” she said.

            “Don't you?” he asked. “I'll sleep down here.”

            “Alright.”

            After she went upstairs, he fell asleep with the fire warm at his feet.

¬¬¬

            When Michael woke the fire was out. His eyes focused in on the world. Early morning light pulled detail out of shadow. An empty glass rested in his lap. He had two fingers inside its rim, pressed against residual moisture. He didn't remember drinking, but the evidence pushed out from behind his eyes and made him squint. He moved his arm to lift the glass and a cramp twisted his lower back.

            He stood in staggered movements, slow and awkward. His legs remembered how to steady themselves under his weight. Once the room rocked itself level, he turned to look at the door. With a fresh knot of pain in his head, he saw Ravinn's bags still beside it. He stood up. He took a cautious step toward the door. Another step followed, and another and he found his arm lifting the strap of a duffel bag onto his shoulder.

            The biggest suitcase he left for last. He grabbed the other two that rested beside it, and swung open the door. Cold scratched at his face, opening his eyes wider. The air was crystal. It leeched sunlight from the morning horizon and scattered it over the houses in bright waves. The little structures rolled under the light as he swept his eyes over the neighborhood.

            Neither car was in the garage. Her sedan was parked closest to the door. His SUV cast its shadow over the smaller car. He walked over a lawn crisp with morning frost. The ground was hard and cold. He dropped one bag to the pavement as he reached for his keys. He opened the trunk and slid the bags inside. His phone rang as he turned toward the house for the last bag. He whipped the phone out of his pocket and eyed the screen. It was Mark. A sickness stretched itself in Michael's chest. It reached long fingers out into his veins. He answered the call.

            “Mark,” he said.

            “Um, Michael, I didn't think you'd pick it up when you saw my name,” Mark said. “I was gonna leave a message.”

            “What do you want?”

            “I just wanted you to know that it wasn't because she's your wife. It really wasn't.”

            “Okay.”

            “Really, that's not why it happened, and I never wanted her to leave you. I didn't tell her to do that. I don't think I even want something serious with her. Really.”

            “You wanted me to know that?”

            “Yes, I needed you to know that it's not because I resent you. I don't resent you. I wasn't trying to hurt you.”

            Michael hung up the phone. He noticed that Ravinn had come to the door. She stood rested against the frame. She looked older. He slid the phone into his pocket and walked toward her. Some emotion flashed across her face, something that pulled at the corners of her lips, but he couldn't read it.

            “I'll get this last bag,” she said.

            “That's alright, I can get it.”

            “No, I'll do it. Please.”

            “Okay. Listen, I'm going somewhere,” Michael said.

            He looked out over their lawn. The frost had begun to melt. Blades of grass bent with drops of water.

            “Okay,” Ravinn said. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

            “I don't want it. Goodbye”

            He looked over her shoulder, back into the house. The hallway had sucked up some of the darkness being chased from morning.

¬¬¬

            A few hours out of Chester, Michael thought of a Pennsylvania that he had forgotten. He passed small towns and sheets of land smeared with green and brown. Beside the road he saw an old motorcycle, its red and black paint washed out by rust and microscopic grit, the fabric of the seat torn. A silo with a white dome sat beside an old barn. At the curve of a road he looked off into a stream filled with polished rocks that sparkled in the sunlight. The sky bent to take in these same sights, looking bigger and brighter than he'd ever witnessed in the city.

            Abaddon occupied the veiled spaces of his memory. Now, returning there, tendrils of anticipation painted his mind with a future spiced of dread. Route 61 turned off into a long-standing detour, its normal state for more than two decades. Michael didn't take the detour. He drove toward his town.

He drove with his breath echoing in his ears, his heart pounding at the center of his skull. A white sign, warning, it read, underground mine fire. Walking or driving in this area could result in serious injury or death. Eyes on the sign, he kept his SUV rolling for a moment before he looked at the road. He hit the brake pedal. The road ahead had a bowed shape. Smoking rifts ran through it. He smelled it once he opened the door, harsher than the smoke from a normal fire, noxious.

            He stared at the road, an asphalt volcano frozen solid gray. Cracks descended to smaller cracks. Pock marks scarred its skin, and pot holes were dipped into its surface like asteroid craters. Raised, bulging scars belched smoke. Loose scales of pavement broke away at the edges. A thick, toxic smell floated just above the surface as smoke made room for pockets of flame. It seemed to expand and contract, breathing while you breathed.

            He left his SUV and walked on. He felt the choke of the fumes and burning in his eyes all over again. He reached the town's main street. The road there was in better condition, but structures that had framed it in life had been razed. The church, the school, the grocery. As a child he’d ridden his bike down the slope, trying to match the speed of passing cars. The faces inside were always familiar. He kept walking. The street curved to the left at the top of the hill. He rounded the bend and gazed down at a single structure. A white house with thick, brown stripes at its side. As he got closer, he saw that the brown stripes were columns of brick, built to support a structure that now stood alone, divorced from buildings that used to offer support.

            Stan Paulson, Michael realized as he approached the house. The man was already ancient when Michael was a kid, but kind, always kind.

 An American flag swung beside the door. An old red pickup was parked in front of the house. He knocked. Paulson swung the door open, hunched in a posture of stubborn age.

            “Yes?” the old man asked.

            “You might not remember me, I'm Michael Klein. I used to live in this town.”

            He gestured toward nothing but old tree in the distance.

            “I remember the Kleins. You're the little boy that almost got himself taken under.”

            “That's me.”

            Paulson chuckled.

            “Where are my manners, come on in.”

            Michael stepped into the front hallway. Paulson closed the door behind him. The smell of smoke was dampened, but dust was strong in the air. There was no light in the little hall, so he stepped toward the living room. He noticed a picture on the wall. Mrs. Paulson. Michael couldn’t remember her first name. In her picture she wore a floral print dress, pink petals against deep blue. Gray hair pulled back tight against her head, hoops of gold dangled from her ears. Her mouth in a smile, the wrinkles of her face mapped paths to the edges of her lips. The skin of her neck hung in soft folds. Blue eyes like you’re looking right through her, out onto the world, the sky. 

            Wind passes through an open window and stirred records of life lost, fine dust like periods dropped from countless sentences. A chill seemed to bob from the ceiling like a lure. No lights were on, but the blinds were all up, shooting sunlight to all but the few corners obscured by shadow.

            The painted walls had probably been white but had faded to beige over years. The paint had chipped away in some places, revealing a darker surface beneath.

            “It's been years, hasn't it? Let's go to the kitchen,” Paulson said behind him.

            “Alright.”

            Appliances once pastel green lounged about turned browned by dirt. Yellow tiles and cabinetry. A flimsy table in the center of the small kitchen.

            “Want something to drink?”

            “Sure,” Michael said.

            The old man snatched a glass from the shelf. He ran water from the faucet. The glass filled nearly to the brim. He sat it in front of Michael, who looked at the cloudy water. Lips parches and cracked, tongue swollen in his mouth, he took a chance and drank.

            “How many people stayed?”

            “Four now, including me. The others are further out.”          

            “Hard to leave I guess.”

            “Couldn't see a good reason to leave.”          

            “Yeah. After what happened, I barely left the house until the moving truck pulled up. I couldn't leave fast enough”   

            “Yeah, it was the same for a lot of people,” Paulson said.

            “I guess it was still hard to leave. I saw you the afternoon it happened, remember?” Michael asked.

            “Yes, you and the Nathans' girl returned old Bud. He was damned good dog.”

            “Yes, Josephine Nathan.”

            Michael looked around and noticed tiles with bent edges peeling away from the floor. Cabinet doors hung on rusted screws.

            “You two were close, right?” Paulson asked.

            “Best friends, but we lost touch after the move.”

            “Lost touch with a lot of people too. The Nathans was in West Virginia, though. Wheeling, if memory serves.”

            “That's interesting. Good to know, I might look them up,” Michael said.

            “Why are you back here?”

            “I don't know. My marriage just fell apart.”

            “Sorry about that,” Paulson said.

            Michael wrung his hands. The kitchen table was an old card table with a dry-rotted black surface.

            “I shouldn't have come back here. There's nothing here, and this place scares the hell out of me.”

            “Feeling nostalgic?” the old man asked.

            “No, I don’t think I am.”

            “If you say so.”

            “I really should go.”

            Michael nearly tipped his glass of water all over the table as he slid the chair away and stood up.

            “Sorry,” he muttered, already fleeing the room.

            Back through the living room, he didn't hear the old man behind him. Michael was out of the door before Paulson called to him.

            “It was nice to see you. I don't get much company.”

            “You too. Goodbye.”

¬¬¬

“Bud. Bud. Here Bud,” Josephine called.

            A cold gust shook the branches of snow. A heavy dusting of the stuff rested on the grass around them. Michael felt his feet sinking at every step.

            “Bud,” Josephine said.

            “That dog is long gone,” Michael said.

            “He's right around here.”

            “Miles away by now.”

            “No.”

            “Yes, miles. You won't find it.”

            Another gust and Michael dug his fingers into his pockets, looking for somewhere deeper and warmer. Josephine ran in the snow. Michael followed at a slower pace, each step unsteady and nervous.

            “Come on.”

            Her head darted from side to side at every rustle. The array of noise brought on by falling clumps of snow dizzied her. It clung to the branches and teased her at each turn.

            “Bud,” she cried.

            “Stupid mutt.”

            “We have to find him, he'll freeze.”

            “I'll freeze. It's not even our dog.”

            “So? You don't want to help Mr. Paulson?”

            “He never helped me. Let him find his own dog.”

            “He doesn't even know Bud got out.”

            “Well, we can tell him. I'm not saying don't tell him.”

            She narrowed her eyes at him.

            “Okay. Okay,” he said.

            “Bud!”

            A bark.

            “Bud.”

            The bushes burst into a cloud of snow and a dark form bounded toward them. Michael fell on his butt. Josephine pulled the dog into her arms, running gloved fingers over its brown fur.

            She held the dog's collar as they walked back to Paulson's house. Her nose was pink with cold. Her dark hair rustled against her coat. Michael started to say something, but she spoke first.

            “It's Sam.”

            She pointed across the street at a group of boys. Sam was at the center of their huddle.

            “He's an ass,” Michael said.

            “You can't say that, he's your cousin.”

            They walked on without a word. As they neared the house, Paulson pulled into his driveway in an old red pickup. Bud's tail wagged wildly. As Paulson hopped out, he noticed the trio headed up toward him. The dog wrenched itself free and ran toward him.

            “Bud, you rascal,” Paulson said.

            “He got out, Mr. Paulson,” Josephine said.

            “Did he?” Paulson patted the dog's head.

            “Yeah, but we got him.”

            “Well, thanks for that, young lady. You too, young man.”

            “It was nothing,” Michael said.

            “Nonsense, who knows what trouble he'd find. I wouldn't know what to do if I lost him. He was a gift from my wife, before she passed on.”           

            Michael shifted his weight. Cold snaked into his jacket and chilled his skin with a dry caress.

            “He's safe now,” Josephine said.

            They left Paulson and walked to the end of the block, where they headed in opposite directions.

            “See you tomorrow,” she called after him.

            “Alright,” Michael said.

            He walked as fast as he could in the snow and ice. He pulled his jacket tight to his throat, but that only let the chill in through the bottom. He decided to cut through a backyard.

            Off the sidewalk, snow hindered his steps again. His feet sunk. Halfway across the yard, it was suddenly different. He felt it almost immediately and tried to turn, but he lost his footing. He ripped his hands out of his pockets with such force that the fabric tore. There was nothing beneath his feet. The ground crumbled away.

            A scream died in a mouthful of snow and dirt. He was surprised when he stopped falling. His hands ached with effort, and he realized that they had hold of a root. His grip began to slip. The cold numbed his fingers. He tried to see, but it was all either black or a glob of blinding brightness. The air burned his nose and made him cough. Warmth pressed from below.

            A hand had the sleeve of his jacket, then his arm. The hand pulled. He tried to push with his legs, but there was nothing solid. A sharp pain stung his shoulder, but he was moving. His next breath gifted him the cold, crisp air of winter. He felt snow again his face. Someone yelled his name. They rolled him over. Sam's face folded out above Michael as he opened his eyes.

¬¬¬

            On his way back across the burning town, Michael stopped at one of the road's smoking rifts. He took off his wedding ring and tossed it in. Back behind the wheel, he turned his SUV around and drove away from the ruined roads of Abaddon.