Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso by Jeff Vrolyks
INFERNO, PURGATORIO, PARADISO
A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks
Copyright 2012 Jeff Vrolyks
I had no idea where I was. Worse is I had no idea who I am. But that started coming back to me piece by piece, and once it did I had a sneaking suspicion of where I might be, and that scared the hell out of me.
It was as though someone had clubbed me over the head and transported my unconscious body to the middle of nowhere, left me to find my way back or rot under the blistering sun—with rotting under the sun the far more likely of the two. A vast dirt and rock valley with absolutely no signs of life, vegetation or otherwise. Death Valley would have been more aptly named here. It was the kind of heat that you only read about, and ponder about while viewing images of the sand dunes of the Sahara. So hot that I when I looked up I expected to see a sun so enormous and near that I could reach up and touch it. But there was no sun. Surely there was but I couldn’t find it through the gray sky. Low hanging clouds were more like mist than any clouds I had ever seen, and there were no breaks in it. A monochromatically gray sky. The rock I sat upon was darker gray, pitted and abrasive like lava rock, and there were formations of these massive things everywhere. Even the fucking dirt was gray. It was like being in a black and white film.
I’m Jeff, that’s who I am. It came to me all at once. With marginal effort I came up with the rest: Jeffrey Jay Jacobs. Though I couldn’t begin to tell you who my parents are, I can state the obvious: they had an affinity for the letter J.
I felt my head for injury and found none. I kind of wish I had, because that would have answered my ‘how?’ and left me to wonder ‘why?’ Why the hell am I out in the middle of fucking nowhere and how do I have no recollection of it? Jeffrey Jay Jacobs, Jeffrey Jay Jacobs… I live… I couldn’t recall it by name but I visualized a house and sensed it was mine. The more I concentrated on this blurry image of a house, the sharper it became, as if I were looking at it through a camera lens that was slowly focusing on it. A 19th century (perhaps older) white two-story house, with many gables and a high vaulted roof. I could see the covered porch, the wrought iron bench and there was a wooden swing that I could hear if only in my mind, squeaking as it swung in the wind. Potted plants strewn about, and one such plant was against the edifice and tall enough to partially obscure the black iron decorative address. It could have fully obscured the address and I’d still be able to tell you that the number is 1571; the street I couldn’t begin to guess at. It looked like one of those houses you might imagine Thomas Jefferson or George Washington once living in, and because of that I was inclined to guess Virginia.
“Hello!” I bellowed as loudly as I could. There was no echo, which seemed strange considering the plentitude of rock. “Can anyone hear me?”
The idea that someone else was out here was almost as ludicrous as the idea of me being out here. This wasn’t a place for life, it was a place for death. But that didn’t mean there weren’t people in this valley; this low basin baking like an oven. I think what I smelled in the air was sulfur. Some of the rock formations were large enough that they could conceal something as large as passenger jet from my view. One cluster of rocks was so massive that a small village could have been on the other side of it. I stood up and began walking toward it. With some careful climbing I would be able to reach its apex, and from there I’d get a better idea of my greater environment, perhaps spot a distant road or interstate.
It was a ten minute walk to my destination. I traversed it in body only—my mind was working hard on remembrance. Jeffrey Jay Jacobs, I live at 1571 something street… Virginia? Bits and pieces is how I said my memory was returning, but some things came in chunks. I was midway to the rock when my most substantial recollection occurred. So abrupt and profound was this recollection that it impacted my heart to the degree that I feared collapsing. So crystal clear was this revelation of memory that it was like watching a movie in a theater, in 3D IMAX.
I worked at home. I was a writer, perhaps an editor. I had just taken a break from my work to go for a jog, as was my routine. I could see my office with as much detail as I could see the barren wasteland before me now. There was only one picture on my desk, and it was of a young woman whom I could not recall. The frame was real silver, old, and expensive enough to deduce that this young woman once possessed a great deal of my heart. Or perhaps still does, if only I could remember her. I was dressed in sweat pants and a tank top, a pair of running shoes was beside the front door of the house. After lacing them up I stretched my quads for the run. Did I live here alone? I wondered. There was only one set of keys on the rack so either I was a bachelor or my wife was at work or running errands.
I stepped outside and locked the door behind me. I bent forward to stretch my hamstrings. The wind was at my face; the love-swing swung with each gust, metal grating against wood, chirping and squeaking rhythmically. I looked up the street and down the street. The properties were large, houses spaced widely apart. The road was paved and curbed but all the driveways I could see were dirt—save for my own. Oak trees lined both sides of the street, their leaves clapping in the wind. It was mid-afternoon, which was ostensibly the reason why there were few cars parked on driveways, and not a single vehicle was parked on the street.
I began jogging. Before reaching the street to cut north, I glanced south and perceived something on the road in the great distance. The black asphalt had been lightened with age, giving stark contrast to a figure in jet-black. It was no more than a hazy black smudge, but had the basic shape of a person. I disregarded it and put to the street, due north.
The birds were singing. A distant hum of an engine might have been a tractor. A woman in a broad-rimmed straw hat was on all fours pulling weeds out of a flower bed near the street. She looked up and smiled at me, waved.
“Afternoon, Claire”
“Good afternoon, Jeff.”
I strode past her, turned off of Manchester (Ah yes, Manchester Lane is my street of residence) onto Lincoln Drive. One doesn’t tend to appreciate the sweet chorus of the bird, as it is something we take for granted, but it is so lovely and I had been cognizant of it as I reached the next intersection of Grant Drive. It dawned on me that they had ceased singing. I could hear only the distant hum of a tractor motor, whining as it dropped into a lower gear. I glanced south as I crossed the intersection and saw the distant black figure once again. Same image, different street. I stopped, breathing heavily and just beginning to perspire. I squinted at it to better account for what I was seeing. But as before, I couldn’t make it out. It stood center street. I couldn’t be sure it was a person, but I thought it was. Who would dress in all black? I couldn’t even see the flesh color of his or her face. It was a peculiar thing, but I made nothing of it and recommenced my brisk pace.
How far I ran or where I ran from there I could not say. It must not have made an impact on me because my subsequent recollection began at the next day—at least I sensed it was the next day, it could have been longer.
There I was, lacing up my shoes (Reeboks they were, I could identify the insignia on the heel) and stretching for my run. The house phone began ringing but I didn’t answer it. I now wished I had answered it, and asked the caller no small number of questions such as do you know what the hell happened to me? Am I missing person? Of course nothing the hell had happened to me at that time, and a missing person I was not. I let the machine pick up the call as I stepped out the front door and locked it. I bent forward to stretch my hamstrings; a gust of wind swayed the swing much as it did yesterday. The birds were quiet today. The air smelled sweet from the springtime bounty of flowers. I inhaled deeply through my nose and took to a jog. I didn’t look south down Manchester this time, but if I had I su
I raised an arm and waved in broad friendly strokes. It didn’t move. Being that it was a trifle closer than it had been yesterday, there was a distinction now available for me to observe, and that was its face. A face with color, albeit not quite flesh colored. It was gray, or grayish, and some of that had to do with the sun being at its back—his front lost to shadows. I had a hunch that it was a mask he wore over his face. Why else would his face be gray?
I closed the door on this intrigue by turning away and retaking my swift pace.
My next memory was early that same evening. The sun was below the horizon, the sky pink and orange. I was walking to the street with the taste of beer in my mouth. Behind me was a broken Miller Lite bottle and a small puddle of beer. I ascertained that I had dropped it, and why I dropped it was evident: the black figure south on Manchester. Closer it had become, almost imperceptibly closer. A station wagon drove past me, heading in its direction. I watched raptly as the vehicle barreled down toward it. I anticipated seeing brake lights, for the driver would strike the man had he maintained his course. But the vehicle didn’t slow down, and the driver didn’t strike the figure. It was damned close, inches from impact, and I’d be surprised if the side-view-mirror didn’t clip its black sleeved arm. I waved at the interloper. It was staring at me, I was sure of it. It was completely still and might have been a statue donned in a black holocaust robe.
I had arrived at trepidation.
The following day I headed out for my afternoon jog. There was something in my pocket. I couldn’t say what it was, but it was bulky and I think it may have been a Buck knife. I didn’t stretch on the porch today. I ambled down the two steps onto the walkway, peering down the street at the source of my torment. Closer yet. Yes it was wearing a mask, I could see that now, though its detail was lost to the still-great distance separating us. I began my approach toward it, tentatively. With each step my heart beat increased. Every fiber of my being was telling me I’d find trouble if I persevered. My mind retained domain over my body, so my footfalls continued, small as they were. Soon my body became the governing force of my being, not my mind, and thus I came to a stop. I would have felt silly waving at it yet again if I wasn’t so wrapped up in my consternation. This man was trouble. I turned and decided not to run today, went inside my home and locked the deadbolt.
That night I stepped out onto my porch with a high ball glass in hand, scotch on the rocks. My patio light was bright, bringing daylight to