Where I Lay My Head
Dismay
The last three nights of the tour went quite smoothly, in theory. Travis and the band managed shockingly well without Cecil, although he did plague their thoughts from time to time. For most of them, it was difficult to spend too much time worrying about their lost roadie when they were fixated on the tiny glimpse of fame that was presenting itself like a single star in the wafting night sky. Rachel, of course, agonized over his friend's disappearance nearly every minute that passed not on stage. He kept to himself quite consistently, accompanied by only his thoughts of what sort of trouble Cecil could be in and how long it would be before he could resume his investigation back in Tom's River.
Although there is some truth in the saying 'A watched pot never boils', the day indeed came when the exasperated tread of their tour vans rolled onto Tom's River soil once more. It was a long day after that, unloading gear, separating it, and storing it, as well as dropping everybody off, and for some ungodly reason, Rachel was the last one. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the first thing he did when he got home was get back into his car, the velvet driver's seat no more welcoming than the damn leather seats of the van where he had been stewing for months, and drove to Cecil's. The trek up the stairs, and down that same pumpkin chipped hallway which he had known for so many years, was the longest of his life. Yet still, when he reached that flimsy oaken slab reading '63' in faded spray paint, he hesitated, and allowed a million horrific scenarios to devour his mind before opening the door.
As usual, it was not locked, and he allowed it to slowly reveal the cluttered apartment which it had once sheathed. To his surprise and utter relief, the furniture was not thrown waywardly about and no blood splattered the wall. Okay, praise the lord then. It was not that kind of trouble. His feet moved more swiftly now, and he toured the apartment in search of his friend to no avail. The brief bought of relief that his conscience had enjoyed was abruptly demolished and his heart sank. His agonizing had been completely in vain; His investigation would come up dry.
But suddenly, a blinking red light caught his eye on the kitchen counter and his problem-solving instincts herded his body towards it. He pressed the boxy chrome button of the answering machine labelled 'PLAY >' and sat at a bar stool to listen intently.
There was a totally of four messages, the first two of no concern to Rachel, and the third one enough to bring a smile to his face and a brief chuckle to his throat. It was from Cecil.
'Hey man, it's you. Just called to remind you that when you get home, don't drink the milk in the fridge. No matter how loaded you are. You will probably die.'
And then the fourth one was enough to draw himself in, lean forward with his ear toward the speaker as if he couldn't hear it loud and clear before. A deep, stern voice sounded throughout the apartment, so serious, grave and deep, like the voice of god, that the birds outside probably stopped to have a listen.
Cecil... this is your Uncle 'Diah. Your Aunt Rebecca and I need your help very much... it is regarding your cousin Adeline. and at that, the man's voice weakened, along with Rachel's composure. Not only did his stomach flip, his mind seemed to as well, not exactly landing upright again. I won't reveal the details over an automated machine, and we will continue to seek contact with you. I pray that it will be sooner than later. God bless.
A staticy sensation filled Rachel's ears before surrendering to silence completely, allowing him to marinade in panic and dismay. Over the past two years, it hadn't been him, but something foreign inside of him, which knew Adeline Hooley would find her way back into his life one way or another, and it wouldn't be without mess. It couldn't be. And it was beginning to look like that anonymous voice spoke the truth.
Although there is some truth in the saying 'A watched pot never boils', the day indeed came when the exasperated tread of their tour vans rolled onto Tom's River soil once more. It was a long day after that, unloading gear, separating it, and storing it, as well as dropping everybody off, and for some ungodly reason, Rachel was the last one. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the first thing he did when he got home was get back into his car, the velvet driver's seat no more welcoming than the damn leather seats of the van where he had been stewing for months, and drove to Cecil's. The trek up the stairs, and down that same pumpkin chipped hallway which he had known for so many years, was the longest of his life. Yet still, when he reached that flimsy oaken slab reading '63' in faded spray paint, he hesitated, and allowed a million horrific scenarios to devour his mind before opening the door.
As usual, it was not locked, and he allowed it to slowly reveal the cluttered apartment which it had once sheathed. To his surprise and utter relief, the furniture was not thrown waywardly about and no blood splattered the wall. Okay, praise the lord then. It was not that kind of trouble. His feet moved more swiftly now, and he toured the apartment in search of his friend to no avail. The brief bought of relief that his conscience had enjoyed was abruptly demolished and his heart sank. His agonizing had been completely in vain; His investigation would come up dry.
But suddenly, a blinking red light caught his eye on the kitchen counter and his problem-solving instincts herded his body towards it. He pressed the boxy chrome button of the answering machine labelled 'PLAY >' and sat at a bar stool to listen intently.
There was a totally of four messages, the first two of no concern to Rachel, and the third one enough to bring a smile to his face and a brief chuckle to his throat. It was from Cecil.
'Hey man, it's you. Just called to remind you that when you get home, don't drink the milk in the fridge. No matter how loaded you are. You will probably die.'
And then the fourth one was enough to draw himself in, lean forward with his ear toward the speaker as if he couldn't hear it loud and clear before. A deep, stern voice sounded throughout the apartment, so serious, grave and deep, like the voice of god, that the birds outside probably stopped to have a listen.
Cecil... this is your Uncle 'Diah. Your Aunt Rebecca and I need your help very much... it is regarding your cousin Adeline. and at that, the man's voice weakened, along with Rachel's composure. Not only did his stomach flip, his mind seemed to as well, not exactly landing upright again. I won't reveal the details over an automated machine, and we will continue to seek contact with you. I pray that it will be sooner than later. God bless.
A staticy sensation filled Rachel's ears before surrendering to silence completely, allowing him to marinade in panic and dismay. Over the past two years, it hadn't been him, but something foreign inside of him, which knew Adeline Hooley would find her way back into his life one way or another, and it wouldn't be without mess. It couldn't be. And it was beginning to look like that anonymous voice spoke the truth.