Cape Perpetua

By J. Paul Bryan

Shortly after returning to his hometown on the rugged Oregon Coast, Artie O’Bannion begins to hear whispers about his estranged mother and her mysterious past. She is a vexing figure who lives apart from the world on a hillside in a ramshackle house overlooking the ocean. In trying to reconnect with her, Artie soon finds himself drawn to the mystery of the deaths of his three sisters and the father he never knew. Was no else to blame in their deaths, as Artie had long believed? Or was something else behind his father’s fatal plunge from the coast’s rocky pinnacle to the chilling waters below?
Now, as Artie befriends a caring woman wounded by a loss of her own, and they forge the beginnings of what could be a new life together, he is forced to face his past in the looming shadow of a peak shrouded in majesty, tragedy and ancient lore: Cape Perpetua.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Paul Bryan
• Release date: Jul 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301739516

J. Paul Bryan

I live in Oregon with my wife, four kids, two dogs and two mortgages. I love to write and get out to visit the coast, the inspiration for my first novel, "Cape Perpetua." Feel free to contact me at [e-mail] and please consider leaving a review. Thanks.

Book preview

Cape Perpetua

By J. Paul Bryan

Copyright 2013 J. Paul Bryan

Smashwords edition

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Chapter 1

The houses clung to the side of the rocky cliffs above the ocean, packed nearly as tightly and tenaciously as a cluster of barnacles. The sheen of the western sun on soaring expanses of glass enhanced the palatial gleam of the newer vacation homes. But dotted among them, where the old-timers lived, remained a smattering of more humble abodes, still holding strong against the changing tides.

The home of Artie’s mother was definitely one of the latter. Its weathered clapboard, held together by thick stands of moss and a tangle of blackberry and ivy vines, would creak and rattle in the constant battering gusts. He thought of the gaps in some of the joints through which even as a child he could poke his finger and feel the cold. His mother kept the home neat on the inside, organized in her own way as she always was, but on the outside, to the world, it was but a shambles.

Artie could just make out the home in the distance as he pulled his car up and parked along the gravel road. He turned off the motor and his dull brown car rattled to a stop. Artie let out a sigh. He had been dreading this day, but there was no avoiding it now. He was running out of options. His arm rested on the door as he gazed through the trees that lined the cemetery toward the houses on the hill. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the front tails of his flannel shirt.

The little bit of sun they’d had today was a welcome touch of warmth, but the breeze still felt cool now in the spring. Not that the season mattered much. There was always a chill in the air at the Oregon Coast.

Artie wondered if his mother ever looked down at the cemetery from her house. She could see the graves from there if she wanted to, but somehow, he doubted that was an urge she felt to do very often.

Without looking Artie reached his hand over to the passenger seat and stroked the head of his dog, a mix of golden retriever and something less friendly. The dog responded with a mild wag of his tail. I'll just be a minute, Sam, Artie said.

The car door creaked open and Artie stepped out. His boot sank slightly in the sandy soil, the ground still wet from the morning rain. He walked slowly and lit a cigarette on his path to the headstones.

The three white granite pillars were nearly identical and stood slightly askew alongside each other. He ran his hand over the engraved name of one of his sisters, feeling the cool smoothness of the stone. He had never known any of them. As a boy he used to think that they were such large headstones for three tiny babies, but they didn't seem nearly as large to him now. All of his sisters were older than him. He couldn't help to think of a fourth pillar standing among them, one with his name, and though he never liked to think about it for long, he wondered again how he had avoided that fate.

He walked across the grass to the other side of the cemetery. He stopped in front of another grave, a plain metal marker poking into the soil: Richard Arthur O'Bannion. Artie had been named after him, but he never knew his father. Evidently his mother still hadn't gotten around to getting him a proper headstone. He thought again that one of these days perhaps he should.

The cemetery was never very quiet. Drivers could see the headstones from the highway as they rounded the bend. But there was still a peace about the place. That's why Artie liked to stop for a moment whenever he came to town, as rare as it was. It also gave him a chance to gather his thoughts and compose himself before he went to see his mother. She was someone he had best avoided, part of an unspoken, mutual agreement. His draw on the cigarette didn't quite hide his nervousness.

As the sound of each passing car faded, Artie could just hear the distant but soothing deep static of the oceans's rolling waves. He stood there awhile and smoked his cigarette, gazing up at the branches of the gnarled and twisted pine trees that had bent but still stood resolute in the ever blowing wind.

The time had come. In the distance he could see some smoke rising from his mother's home. That old iron stove was fed a constant diet of pine and ash and anything mom had around to burn. At times, it seemed the stove had been the only source of warmth for him in that rickety house.

Artie wondered for a moment: He knew what had to be done, but it was going to be difficult. She was old, and he would be doing her a favor when all was said and done. But after all these years, would she be ready to go? For if the winds, and the rain, and the cold — and even with the ever present reminders of death itself so nearby — if none of those could drive her from her home on the hills above the ocean, just whatever chance could he possibly have?

* * *

A little bell jingled against the glass as Artie pushed the store door open. He walked in, nodding to someone on their way out, and then headed toward the aisles. The town store never changed much. It still had the same slightly musty smell now as it did when he was a boy, and the floor still creaked, though those creaks seemed much louder now than they used to be.

Not that Artie was necessarily a big man. He was on the short side, after all, but his beer belly was ample evidence of a favorite pasttime. He checked the prices and picked up the cheapest six-pack, which he tucked under his arm.

Hi, can I help you find something? a clerk asked, coming toward him. He was an older thin man wearing an apron.

No, I think I'll be all right, Artie said. He rubbed his free hand over the top of his head in thought. His once sandy hair was starting to gray and thinning on top. It looked as if he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days. He rounded another aisle, scanned the shelves and picked up a box of tea, which he then peered at it uncertainly. He had to be careful: he hadn’t seen her in a long time and he didn’t want to make any mistakes. He wished he had thought to buy flowers or something before he left the city.

The clerk passed by the front of the aisle.

Artie turned his head at the sound and called out, Do you have chamomile?

The clerk stopped. Tea? he said as he came to Artie's side. It's here on the next shelf down, he said, grabbing a box and handing it to Artie.

OK, thanks, Artie said, holding the item up for a better look. This the same brand you've always had? It looks a little different. And kinda spendy.

I think so. They do like to change the boxes now and then.

Artie was reading the label. I think this is it. It’s my mom’s favorite. She has to have her tea, but she can be kinda particular.

OK, the clerk said with a slight chuckle. He quickly looked Artie over. Does your mom live around here?

What's that? Artie said as he lowered the box. Oh, yeah, she does. I was born here, too, actually. I haven't been around too much lately. He turned to the clerk. Just wondering, have you seen her in here lately?

I’m sorry, who’s your mother?

Molly, he said. Molly O’Bannion.

The clerk’s eyebrows jumped but his eyes fell to the floor. Artie noticed he had caught the attention of a teenage boy on a stool nearby. The boy had been reaching to put a can on a shelf, but he suddenly stopped and turned his head, still holding the can aloft, when he heard the name.

The clerk cleared his throat. No, she doesn’t come in. Not that I recall that is. But she calls in here regularly.

Artie didn’t understand their obvious unease. He glanced toward the teenager again, who finished putting the can on the shelf, then stepped off the stool and knelt down to straighten some items on the lower shelves.

We have a boy that goes up there, the clerk said, motioning to the teenager with a nod as he noticed Artie’s eyes shift toward the boy. Though he'll only go up there when the sun's up. The man started to chuckle but caught himself when he noticed Artie wasn't laughing.

When the sun's up? Artie asked.

The clerk tried to correct himself. Yeah, you know. Those roads on the hills at night, and all.

Artie looked confused, thinking for a moment, before he suddenly offered a slight, knowing smile. It's OK. Actually, I'm kind of scared of her, too. He glanced at the boy again. But I thought it was just me.

The boy didn’t make eye contact but, feeling Artie’s gaze, offered a meek smile in return.

Oh no, nothing like that, the clerk said. He paused for a moment. It does seem like tea is a regular. And honey. Do you want to get a bottle?

Artie laughed a little. Yeah, guess I'd better.

The clerk grabbed an item from a few shelves over and handed him a plastic bear filled with golden honey. Anything else?

No, I don't think so, Artie said, walking to the counter. The clerk met him there. Artie patted his chest pocket and found it wanting. Some Marlboros.

The clerk reached back to grab a pack of cigarettes from the wall behind him and started to ring him up. You going to be back in town for awhile then?

Hmm? Artie responded, not really paying attention as he scanned the newspapers on a rack by the counter. I’m not sure yet. He threw a paper on the counter and glanced toward the door, looking through the glass toward the hillside dotted with houses, then added, Maybe, we'll see.

Outside the store, as Artie walked to his car, a tall man at a gas pump at the station next door did a double-take. He was leaning against an old rusty green pickup, but he stood up straight as he focused on Artie. His eyes narrowed. He watched Artie get in and start up the car. The man’s silvery hair streaked with black hung far past his shoulders. The dark skin of his face bore deep lines of age. He watched Artie pull out and head off down the highway. Then the man’s gaze, too, turned toward the houses on the hillside.

Chapter 2

Artie's car rounded a corner of the dirt road into a long steep driveway. His mother's house, more gray now than white, appeared. A few towering pines leaned precariously here and there. Artie hunched over the steering wheel, straining to see any signs of movement through the windshield as he approached. His brakes squealed a little as he brought his car to a stop, well short of the house. His engine cut off with its customary rattle, strong enough that he could feel the vibration through the floor. She would certainly know that he was there now.

He thought he saw a curtain move in the top portal window, the one in her sitting room where she could see the ocean, but he couldn't be sure. He grabbed the paper bag from the passenger seat, opened the door and stepped onto the carpet of gravel and pine needles.

A low growl caused Artie to stop just as he was about to close the car door. Sam's ears were perked forward and he had actually raised his head in an expression of interest, a rare enough phenomenon in itself, though a growl from Sam was anything but unusual. It was his usual greeting to strangers, friends, a bird, the sunshine of a new day. Still, Artie found this particular growl a little odd. What is it? he asked.

After a few seconds, Sam seemed to decide he had sufficiently scared whatever it was that concerned him, and his head returned to the seat.

Artie didn't see anything worth getting a rise out of the dog. Good boy, he said sarcastically. He closed the door.

There was no car around but that was to be expected. Molly Margaret O'Bannion had never learned to drive. She said there was no need as she never planned to go anywhere. She had evidently stayed true to her word.

The roof was thick with fluorescent green moss. Vines of ivy wrapped their way up the face of the house. The garage door looked a little warped and it didn't appear to close all the way. A long abandoned rake leaned against a tree. A pile of wood stretched along the house under the large front window, next to the covered wooden porch. An ax was buried in a large block of wood next to the wood pile. Farther out lay his mother's garden beds and her greenhouse, which had also seen better days. A few seams were open to the air and only the strongest of sun rays could penetrate through the murky film on the glass.

Artie had just taken a step or two toward the house when he stopped, suddenly startled. He felt something brush up against his leg. He looked down and saw what looked to be a hungry spotted cat. It met his gaze and meowed. Sam barked once at the noise, and the cat recoiled before scampering off.

Artie didn't pay the creature much mind and he continued across the few stones of the front walkway and ascended the steps of the porch. There was the same old rocking chair, a basket of yarn and knitting needles and some plastic cups on a small table. Artie noticed an empty pie tin on the corner of the porch.

Artie went to push the doorbell, but then caught himself and rapped lightly at the door. The bell hadn't ever rang that he could remember. He listened for any movement. His feet shuffled and he put his hands in his pockets. He quickly pulled them out when he heard the creak of the door.

Hello, Artie, Molly said, making the pronouncement before the door had completely opened. She had a shawl around her neck and appeared to still be wearing her housecoat. Her hair was white but proud and thick. For a second Artie thought he might have even seen a bit of a smile. I wish you'd called, she said.

She began to push the storm door open and Artie pulled on the handle. Hi mom, he said. He reached around the door and leaned in for a hug. She obliged for a moment and patted his back. I would have called, but it seems if I do you're never here when I get here. He awkwardly presented the bag he was holding toward her, but she didn't seem to notice it as she turned to head inside.

Nonsense, she said. I told you I had to go the doctor.

Artie laughed a little and began to follow her in, uttering a disbelieving, Huh-huh, sure, mom. He caught the storm door behind him and closed it. How've you been feeling, anyway?

Oh me? I get by. She was using a cane to help her toward an easy chair. Her right foot dragged slightly behind her. A small TV and some rabbit ears sat in front of a window that looked out over the porch. A few green sprigs in various small planters on aluminum trays surrounded the TV on the bookshelf.

How are you? she asked. Did you find another job?

Artie thought the place looked a little darker and dustier than he remembered. The black metal stove still had a fire going and he could smell the smoke. He made his way to a couch along the wall and pulled the drooping cover up over the