Circles and Realms

By Charles Justus Garard

A crop circle appears in a corn field on a farm outside of the small Illinois town of Lakeville. The farmer, Jerry, and his wife, Helen, are expecting family members from the Allison clan to show up for a reunion. These include Helen's father and remarried mother, her sister and husband, her older brother Cale (a college professor) and younger brother Paul (a businessman). The family owns an old movie theatre in town which has been used for channeling illegal immigrants by Cale's high school friend Elliot Weiss (who also owns the local electronics store and has been shooting X-rated videos on his own). His wife, Virginia, learns about this and who all has been involved in the scheme and haltingly reports this to Cale. Paul has already been suspicious. Cale also discovers that a woman who might be an exterrestrial or one of the Anunnaki of ancient Sumer (or both) has been with him since he was in high school when he first saw her. He suspects that he is genetically connected to her, but only she knows his fate which she can influence. Soon the town is inundated with weird events: shadowy figures who appear at key events, duplicates of their loved ones who have passed away, and, finally, the loss of the use of their cell phones and computers. Both Paul and Cale are drawn into a version of their future as seen through the realm of the aliens and know who in their family is going to die. Others in town see themselves in unpleasant circumstances from their pasts when they are shown a film (supposedly) about cross circles by the invisible exterrestrials at the theatre, When Cale begins to track down the truth about the occupation of their town, he also reveals to his Helen his resentment of his parents that has existed since his childhood. He also realizes that he has not let go of his past and may be tied to Lakeville if he does not do so,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Justus Garard
• Release date: Aug 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996445634

Book preview

Chapter One

~

The blackness of the universe.

Cale saw it from behind eyelids. He saw constellations metamorphose into a maelstrom of light and exploding colors. He saw nebulae pulsating. He saw the single ball of light.

The ball of light, sweeping like a spotlight across a black wall, rushed toward him. He ducked, a reflex action. The white fireball widened as it flew at him again; then it flattened out like a two-dimensional image on a screen and seemed to engulf him.

When the light lessened, he saw that he was imprisoned within a giant bubble.

Beyond the bubble unfolded the emptiness of space where humans would be unable to survive. Some sort of platform cradled the bubble, holding it secure below.  Around him, Cale saw five supporting appendages.

Four of the appendages were bunched together. The fifth -– a broader, stubbier support -– stood alone but not directly opposite the four. After a moment, he recognized the supports to be fingers: a woman’s slender fingers joined to the trunk of the hand below.  The platform beneath him, he finally realized, was actually the palm of a hand that held the bubble.

She rubbed the bubble across her large breasts, then lifted him aloft at the end of her out-stretched arm.

A soft wall came into view, and this became a cheek. A mound became a chin, and above it was a closed mouth. A second hand gripped the outside of the bubble and drew it to her cheek. She was a Brobdingnangnian goddess with floating black hair; needle points of light flashed in her eyes. In the depths of those dark Hispanic eyes, he saw the swirling emptiness of a black hole that beckoned him to be drawn past the point of no return, to slide around the rim of the maelstrom of tidal forces. The longer he studied her face, the less clearly he saw her. But, somehow, from some other level of consciousness, he knew who she was.

Gabriella.

*

YEAR

2008

~

Fifteen miles east of the Mississippi River, five miles west of the county seat of Hanlon County known as Lakeville, sprawled the 150-acre farm of Jerry Pearson and his wife, Helen. Corn was their biggest crop, and one morning early in August, Jerry discovered that something had flattened a vast area of the field less than three hundred feet south of their barn. The corn stalks were beaten down to the ground – not smashed or broken off – producing an arena that resembled a football stadium.

Jerry had watched a sufficient number of news reports and specials on television and read stories on computer web sites to be able to guess what it was supposed to be. These phenomena had been appearing – etched into landscapes, using the natural terrain as a canvas – throughout the world. They materialized out of nowhere as large geometric patterns of varying degrees of complexity and sophistication, inviting a full range of speculation regarding their origin.

He also realized that he would not be able to determine the size or design of this particular construct from any position on the ground. He might be able to get a better perspective from the top of his silo or even the windmill platform had either of these structures been positioned nearer to the altered acreage.

His son, Arnold, had climbed to the top of the silo in order to attempt a look, but the distance and the trees between the field and the silo hampered a clear view.

One of these giant cookie-cutter creations – whether square, rectangular, or circular—was what, Jerry Pearson realized, he had on his property in a rural area of Illinois: a crop circle.

For Helen, the discovery was an annoyance. She had been planning, for nearby a year, the family reunion to be scheduled in the middle of August. For their son and daughter, it was the cause of excitement. Extraterrestrials, they were convinced, had visited them from a far-off galaxy. For Jerry, it produced a strange, unaccountable feeling that their lives would never be the same. Unannounced and uninvited visitors coming to their farm – contradictory and unsubstantiated opinions from callers on local radio programs – pronouncements about visitations from angels and demons made from church pulpits in town—had already produced unwanted changes.

So he was beginning to look forward to the arrival of members of his Pearson clan and, like Helen, in-laws from the Allison family: not only her father and mother, Joseph and Miriam, or her younger sister, Wendy, but mainly her two brothers, Paul and Caleb. Paul Allison was a self-educated, widely read businessman. The older brother, who preferred to be called Cale instead of Caleb, was a PhD and professor of classical literature and mythology at Luther Owens College in Atlanta. Should anything of an extreme nature occur, either or both of them might be helpful.

*

Chapter Two

~

Cale Allison climbed the stone steps toward the red brick apartment building at the top of the rise. He balanced a full grocery bag on his shoulder as he shoved his key into the lock of the outer security door. Then he trudged down the hallway to the first apartment on the right, the one with the bicycle chained to a pipe that ran from the floor to the ceiling.

This seemed as secure a place as any to keep his bike. His neighbor upstairs had chained his bike to one of the wooden posts of the banister and an intruder had stolen the bike by merely pulling loose the post. There were no secure places in Little Crossroads.

Cale opened the door and admitted himself to the kitchen. The counter was cluttered with unopened mail and the circular table, which he had purchased from a young neighbor who had moved away after being raped at four in the morning, was covered with textbooks and mail that he had opened but not yet responded to. He sighed as he realized that, once again, he had no available space to set down the grocery sack.

He saw the chair where he had placed his book bag. He moved the bag onto the floor, set the grocery sack down in its place, and returned to the kitchen door to close it. He opened the freezer door of the refrigerator and fitted the package of frozen fish in among the frozen chicken thighs and veggie-burgers. The rest of the items could wait a moment.

He walked along the hallway toward the living room. In the corner, on top of the bookcase, was the telephone and answering machine. A light blinked, indicating two calls. He walked across the living room to the wall switch and flicked on the ceiling fan; then he returned to the machine and pressed the button below a green flashing light.

Number of messages, said the electronic voice, two.

He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead and waited for the series of beeps.

This is Carolyn, said the woman's voice. You need to call and let me know when you're going to get over to your attorney's office and sign the papers.

In the furnace of the afternoon, Cale suddenly felt cold. His stomach twisted and turned on itself.

Carolyn. Androgynous voice. Forceful. Even on the phone, she pulled strings that reached deeper into his insides that any other strings ever had.

The second recorded message was from Bobby’s Import Repairs. This is Bobby. Come get your Volvo. It’s ready.

Good, Cale said to himself. Bobby’s garage was on the other edge of Little Crossroads, but he could hike it from here.

That was your last message, announced the electronic voice.

Cale pressed a button, erasing the messages. He reeled away from the machine and started back toward the kitchen. As he dragged himself down the narrow hallway and peeled off his damp shirt, he glanced at the collage of old black-and white photos on the wall. He and Paul both liked to do this: save old photos in a large frame and hang them on the wall in a prominent place. It was better than squirreling them away in an album that he never looked at. He saw himself in graduate school in southern Illinois; he saw himself posing with his first wife; he even had an old photo of himself in his Navy uniform, one that his father had taken when he was on leave.

He returned to the groceries. After they were all stocked in the fridge and the cupboard, he set the book bag again on the chair.

However jittery he felt at hearing Carolyn’s voice again on the answering machine, he was about 800 decibels calmer living here alone in this bohemian area of Atlanta than when he had been when living with his wife and her moody, self-absorbed daughter out in Cobb County. Margaret Furneax, his therapist before Luther Owens College had switched health providers, had told him this, adding that he had come alive in this bohemian neighborhood.

*

Chapter Three

~

Cale was the only male in the room. Usually, this was all right with him. Only once had a group of women—not this group—ganged up on him as the scapegoat for their feelings about their husbands and significant others.

So, Caleb. . . The leader of the group sat at the other end of the long table. Did you call your wife back?

Cale shook his head at the leader. My lawyer told me not to. He said that the best advice he could give me was to never talk to her again.

The group nodded its approval, almost in unison.

But you didn't decide, the leader told him. Your lawyer decided for you.

Cale tried to avoid squirming in his seat, tried to keep his voice calm. Yes, he said. By the way, I prefer Cale. Don’t really like Caleb, the name my mother gave me.

Oh.

Some people think it is Cale with a K, which sounds like the green vegetable. I constantly have to explain it.

He glanced out the window and saw, against the night sky, the lighted sign that read: CRESTVIEW INSTITUTE. It was a huge place, an aggregation of single-story buildings with wings and numerous rooms. In his mind, he saw the TV monitor mounted just inside the entrance of this particular wing of the institute. On the blue screen were listings of various meetings. One of them had said: Co-dependency Group - 8:00 p.m. Room 4.

What bothers me, Cale continued when he saw the eyes of the women still on him, is that I reacted all over again like I did when I lived with her.

The group leader smiled at him.

Cale tried to smile back at her but failed.

We're not used to seeing you get angry, she told him when she saw his reaction. You're angry because she still has that control over you.

Cale sighed, waited; then he nodded. Maybe you’re right.

Maybe you're also upset because of having to go back for that reunion, she continued. We're all from dysfunctional families, Cale. We know how the bandages come off at these family gatherings and how our wounds are exposed again.

What about your mother? the group leader asked Cale. How does she feel about your situation with Carolyn?

Cale stared at the leader of the recovery group, resenting her. He tried to remember what he had told the group during a session weeks before about shutting down when he talked to Carolyn, just as he had shut down all those years ago around his mother. I can’t tell Mom what is really going on. I have an idea what she’ll say. And I’m afraid I will—

You'll beat up on yourself, a chubby woman seated next to the leader completed his sentence.

Yes! A gray-haired group member blurted out, staring at him through the heavy lenses of her glasses as if studying him. You’re doing it now.

Cale waited. He knew that he didn’t have to answer. None would hear him if he did; they were mumbling among themselves.

They all knew the way it was supposed to go: the spouting of platitudes, the phrases of psychobabble, and the affirmations that they were all supposed to repeat to themselves. They didn't have a group leader who was a professional; this was just a support group. As far as Cale knew, Carolyn had avoided one-on-one therapy on a regular basis; she only relied upon these groups. And all of those in her group had been her friends.

You have to say to her what you feel is right, a woman said who blinked at him from behind glasses with heavy lenses. She took off the glasses and wiped them with a tissue. Not what your family thinks you should say.

Cale stared at his arms as he rested them on the shiny tabletop; then he stared only at the tabletop. I also want to go home because of something that was discovered on my sister’s farm.

Discovered, a younger woman who kept her glasses propped on the bridge of her nose echoed at the end of the table.

A crop circle, Cale told her. You’ve seen them on the news. They’ve been discovered all over the world but usually in England. Wiltshire. Avebury. For centuries.

The young woman nodded, pressing her middle finger to stabilize her glasses on her nose. I’ve seen stories online about circles and other complex shapes. It sounds like science-fiction to me. You know. UFO-type stuff.

Cale thought of his interest as a boy in science-fiction movies showing in his father’s theatre. He would have loved to be presented with the possibility that beings from another world had created the crop circles being discovered around the world. His classmates had laughed at him when he was younger, but that ended when he reached the end of his high school years. Circles and Realms played in town when he was a senior, and by then he was old enough to appreciate the small-town setting that had earlier been used in the original film version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He appreciated the paranoia and claustrophobic atmosphere that would impair the citizens of a village such as Lakeville.

If his elementary school classmates had laughed at him when they saw him drawing comic book stories about alien worlds, his father’s reactions to his creative drawings had hardly been those of interest or amusement.

Cale? The group leader and the other women were watching him.

Oh. Cale looked at each of them. Sorry. My mind was drifting....

Into the crop circles? The young woman who had introduced the word science-fiction to the discussion was again adjusting her glasses. She giggled softly.

Yeah. Right. He smiled at her and snorted. Actually, I was wondering why it is that I want to go back to Lakeville.

*

Chapter Four

~

The screen was white and silent. On this hazy-white, washed-out, late summer afternoon, this screen tower of an old, abandoned drive-in theatre seemed to glow as if it had an inner light, as if by so brightly reflecting the sunlight it could conceal all the scars and cracks that had accumulated through all the years of humid summers and icy, snow-swept winters.

Paul Allison had halted the rental car on the side of the weed-lined highway, crawled out, and stood in the sweltering air, fanning himself with a road map that he didn't really need, at least as a map. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead as his gaze swept across the rows of weed-enshrouded speaker-less posts and rusty playground equipment.

Look at that, Dad. He beckoned for the old man, who sat comfortably in the passenger seat, to roll down the window in order that he could point out what he could see.

His father shook his head. He wasn't about to roll down the window, and he certainly wasn't going to get out of the car.

As Paul pointed toward the marquee, he felt the fabric of his white business shirt stick to the perspiration across his stomach and ribs. Look what it says.

His father squinted at the marquee and nodded wearily. The chipped, badly spaced letters spelled out: CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.

Paul snorted impatiently. Why doesn't it just say ‘closed’?

He walked back around the car to the driver's side. All of the organs in his chest seemed to feel as if they were sinking from too much weight.

His father had once said that the last rites for drive-ins had been given, but over three thousand, Paul had read on the Internet, still operated using the expensive digital projection instead of the film reel method. The most that remained were in states like New York and Ohio, and at least one, according to Cale, still operated in south Atlanta.

On the other side of the highway, positioned in a pasture of tall grass and not far from a rickety old barn, was a white satellite dish.

*

A small boy halted his bike at the end of a sidewalk. The handlebars turned. Sandaled feet slapped down onto the hot pavement. Chewing gum danced between his teeth. As the brand-new car came rolling into Lakeville, past the stockyards, slowing behind a livestock truck that rumbled across railroad tracks, he followed it with his eyes. They weren’t from Lakeville; that much, he could guess. The windows were rolled up, so it must be cool inside.

Across the street from the boy stood an old man in grimy overalls, also watching the car.

The men inside the car wore short-sleeved white shirts, like those men who came to see his father at his tractor and farm-supply business. The driver looked much younger than the one sitting in the passenger seat. Probably, the man in the passenger seat was older than the one who wore the overalls.

The car slowed as it passed the front parking lot of the Lake Tavern. The boy thought they might turn in. On days like this, a lot of men did. But this car didn't; it kept right on moving past the tavern and even past the hamburger stand with its old yellow bulbs, not many of which lit up at night anymore. The driver of the car, the boy saw when the car veered close to him, was looking at the brown short-skirt uniforms worn by the carhops.

*

A girl with light-blonde stringy hair emerged from the side door, balancing a single chocolate-and-marshmallow shake and a wrapped hamburger on her tray. She carried the tray to the red Cabriolet convertible and motioned for the dark-haired girl to roll up her window several inches. I'll be through in fifteen minutes, Jane said. She fastened the tray to the window. Wait for me.

Melanie handed a five to her. Again?

Jane counted out the change. I'm gettin' off early today. Tomorrow night I have to work late.

Melanie peeled off the wax paper from the hamburger. And?

"Tomorrow's Saturday. I'd rather work late tonight than go to that stupid party."

Mom wants us to go. It’s for your dad.

Jane gave Melanie the change. I kno-o-o-o-w. She stroked her sweaty throat and grimaced. But you’re the one he wants to see there.

Don’t kid yourself. You’re his daughter.

Jane pulled her cell phone out of her pink uniform pocket and looked around toward the windows. "He lets you work in a bar."

I’m twenty-one. C’mon, girl. Use your brain. He does everything to protect you.

I’m not a kid.

You think you wanna work in a bar? Truckers. Farm boys. Trying to grab your ass all the time.

Jane curled her upper lip. Well, Dad tries to grab your ass sometimes.

You think I like that?

Jane stood up straight and swept her free hand down the back of her skirt. You can get away from this place when you’re at college.

Melanie bit into her hamburger and cringed.

Jane saw the look on her face. Work here in the kitchen. That’ll really make you—

Don’t tell me. Melanie picked up the milk shake and fitted her lips around the straw. If it’s that bad, get a job down the street Made-Rites or Mega-Burger.

Maybe. I dunno.

Butch not coming to pick you up?

He doesn't know I'm gettin' off early. That's why I want you to wait. Drop me off at the theatre, will you? I can't call him there. Butch says none of the phones are working.

Melanie pressed her lips into a fine line. The phone in the manager’s office is. But Butch can’t get in there, I’ll bet.

Jane frowned. How do you know?

Air bubbles gurgled in the straw and Melanie released her suction hold on it long enough to stare into the depths of the wax cup. I know, she said quietly.

The last of the marshmallow-and-chocolate milk shake had congealed in the circular crevice at the bottom, so she gripped the straw with her tanned fingers. With her tongue, she scraped, scooped, and licked the cold and sweet remnants. She took another bite from the hamburger in her other hand and returned the empty cup to the balanced tray. Cuz Mmmmtuh Weiss woo-nnn geev out haaaaaa keeee to mmmmm ger's awwwfisss.

What? Jane stepped to one side of the tray.

Melanie chewed the clog of meat and bun. Sorry. I said: ‘Because Mr. Weiss wouldn’t give out the key to the manager's office.’

But why not? Butch cleans the rest of the place. Why wouldn’t he have the key to that room too?

Melanie shrugged. Maybe he might find something he shouldn't. Just a guess. Don’t quote me.

Like what?

Never mind. Tell him to be careful.

Whatever, Jane said. I have to go. Will ya wait for me?

All right. I said I would.

*

Chapter Five

~

Paul hit the brake. The front tire of the rental car rubbed against the curb.

LAKEVILLE THEATRE read the white, cracked-glass letters above the marquee on the old, redbrick building. He felt a sickness in his stomach. The wooden poster frames were empty; the black-metal marquee letters spelled CLOSED. A hole about six inches in diameter occupied the lower left corner of the glass behind the marquee strips that supported the letters. After a moment, he turned off the motor.

Joseph looked sleepily at him. You're not going in now, are you?

Why not? Paul left the keys dangling from the ignition while he produced a second set of keys from the pockets of his dress pants.

His father groaned.

Stay here then. Paul turned the motor back on. Icy air again blasted from the panel vents. I just want to see if my old key still works, or if Elliot had the lock changed.

Another groan.

Paul got out and closed the car door, sealing his father in with the air-conditioning. Shut up, you old grouch, Paul said to himself.

A truck with dried mud on its tires rumbled past Paul as he crossed the street. When he stepped into the shadow thrown by the protruding prow of the triangular marquee, he saw something else.

Taped to the streaked window inside the box office was a faded pink paper clock that read: Show will start at— But the clock hands had been torn off.

Paul started toward the box office. Then he stopped and looked back at his father sitting in the parked car. He sighed to himself and returned to the street.

His father gave him an impatient, almost disgusted look through the closed window.

Go on ahead, Paul yelled at him. Check us in at the hotel. Helen made the reservations.

Joseph mumbled under his breath. Then he opened the passenger door to get out.

Paul started across the street to help him.

His father gestured for him to remain where he was. I'm all right, he said with a whining tone. Just leave me alone.

Paul stopped dead in the street. He glared at his father for a moment; then he spun angrily around toward the theatre.

In the reflection in the glass doors on the right side of the box office, Paul could see his father. The old man used his cane to pry himself out of the car. He wheezed loudly and barely glanced toward the theatre as he limped slowly around to the driver's door.

As Paul aimed his key for the lock, his free hand tried the door. It opened.

The smell of the lobby reached him first, that musty odor he had known so well for so many years. It was damp inside, and dark. Before he entered the lobby, he looked back.

Joseph drove the rental car to the intersection just west of the theatre and made a U-turn. Then he drove it past the theatre toward the central square.

*

Chapter Six

~

The downtown business district of Lakeville was a large square with the fronts of businesses on each side facing inward. The gray-stone county courthouse stood in the center of the square, separated from the businesses by streets of worn, red brick.

Across from the courthouse, on the south side of the square, was positioned a building that had long ago been converted into the town library. Two uniformed figures – one wearing the khaki of the county sheriff’s department and the other wearing the blue of the Lakeville police—stood in front of it.

Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. Sheriff Clyde Mottershaw shifted the valise he was carrying from his right hand to his left armpit.

Larry Horne joined him. What?

Clyde directed his attention to the old man driving around the square. You know who that is?

That car? Larry stared at the rental car. Pulling away from the old movie house?

Clyde nodded. Elliot said some of the Allison’s were comin' to town for a family re-union. That's Joseph Allison himself.

Larry squinted in the direction of the Lakeville Theatre. Somebody got out and went inside.

The rental car continued toward the edge side of the town square. The old man’s still in the car, driving himself to the hotel. The Lakeville Hotel had recently been renovated. One of the sons must‘ve gone inside. They’re here for their family re-union, according to Elliot.

Larry shifted his stance. His eyes flicked back and forth as if searching for something in the street to focus on. Sons?

Brothers of Helen Pearson, Jerry’s wife. The re-union’s at their farm.

You mean the farm with the crop thing.

Crop circle. Correct. But Elliot thinks they're also here because they have plans for that old show house.

Sell it?

Of course.

Larry turned his head to one side. Who’d buy it?

Stenglemeier.

"Because his dealership is next