The Labyrinth

By Steven Arnett

At 3 o’clock in the morning cabin in Wells River, New Hampshire, a man who had called himself John Jones is run over by a car. He had been out walking in the rain miles away from where he lived, and there is no rational way to explain why. A strange drifter, he’d been living in a rundown cabin on Crawford’s Hill for a few months but no one had really got to know him. The local sheriff, Jeremy Wright, searches the cabin but can find only one thing that might help him identify John Jones or that would tell him anything about his life: A pile of manuscript. Could be a novel or could it be an autobiography? There was no easy way to tell, but he knew he’d have to take on the job of reading through it to looks for clues.

The Labyrinth, a romantic adventure wrapped in a thriller, chronicles John Jones’s involvement in a murder when he was 15 years old that shaped his whole life afterward. It tells the story of how he ended up a thousand miles from where he had lived and grown up, in a place where he knew no one and no one knew him. His story ends up getting read by Jeremy, by his precocious 14 year old daughter, Mandy, his widowed mother, Dorothy, and George Teller, his English literature teacher brother-in-law. Each of them ends up with an entirely different picture of who John Jones was and even if that was really his name or if his story was true. They also end up with more questions than answers: Who really was John Jones? Does anyone really have a true identity or does everyone really have a different identity to everyone who knows them or crosses their path in life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Arnett
• Release date: Sep 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370888740

Steven Arnett

Steven Arnett was born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1951 and enjoys writing fiction and poetry. He attended Michigan State University and the University of Maine. He currently lives in Johns Creek, Georgia, with his wife, Delphine, and daughter, Vivienne.

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The Labyrinth

By

Steven Arnett

Copyright 2016 Steven Arnett

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

The Labyrinth

About The Author

Praise for Steven Arnett

In memory of Sally Owen

The Labyrinth

When things go bad, they really go bad. That’s what Jeremy Wright was thinking as he drove home the night after it happened. His job as sheriff of Wells River, New Hampshire, seemed to get harder every year. Every year there were more burglaries and vandalism, and there were crimes that Wells River had never had before. And now the strangest thing of all had happened. At about three am the night before, a man who had called himself John Jones had been run over by a car. Had been out walking in the rain miles away from where he lived, and there was no rational way to explain why. That’s what made it hard on a cop. When there was no logical way to explain something. So Jeremy had a mysterious murder or accidental killing or whatever on his hands and didn’t know quite what to do about it.

This John Jones had come to Wells River the past fall and gone to live alone in a cabin on Crawford’s Hill, having seemed to come out of nowhere bent on withdrawing himself from society. Jeremy had disliked him right from the start. Maybe it was that the kid was too much like what he’d been himself when he was young but had grown to have contempt for, the Jeremy Wright who’d wanted to be a painter, who’d had such a way with form and color. He’d even gone down to Boston to art school for a year when he was nineteen, but he’d had to come back after his father had died to work and help support the family, and it had ended there. He was past fifty now, so almost everybody in town had forgotten what he was like then, or was too young to know anything about it. There were a few women in town, though, who’d never forget the young man with the melancholy eyes who’d played so well the role of the solitary, alienated artist. Now almost everyone thought of him only as the stern but conscientious sheriff of Wells River, who had taken on the burden of raising his daughter alone and caring for his widowed mother without complaining.

It was almost seven o’clock when Jeremy pulled into his driveway. Like most of the people in northern New Hampshire, Jeremy Wright didn’t make much money, and even though he took on extra jobs when he could get them, he struggled to get by. He lived in a cramped clapboard house with faded white paint and black shutters on the outside, and inside, rugs and furniture that were threadbare. His ex-wife, Ann, he hadn’t seen or heard from since shortly after Mandy was born, when she’d run off with a handsome and mysterious stranger who’d come to town with a theater troupe. Chalk up one more reason why Jeremy didn’t like outsiders like John Jones.

Jeremy felt as if he’d been under the gun all day, what with trying to investigate the accident or murder or whatever it was, with trying to figure out what to do with the body, with talking to reporters from newspapers and radio stations and even the TV station from Manchester. It had become quite a story, and the catch phrase The Mystery Man of Crawford’s Hill had been coined for it by a reporter. Early in the afternoon he’d gone up to the cabin where John Jones had lived to try to find some definite identification and to gather up his effects so that he could dispose of them properly. He was surprised and frustrated that he couldn’t find even one piece of identification, even though he’d turned the place inside out. That made the job of handling the case ten times as hard, and he wasn’t even sure how to proceed. It had never happened before, and it wasn’t supposed to happen ever.

The only hope he had of making identification came from a pile of manuscript that he found in a desk drawer. It struck his curiosity the moment he laid eyes on it, and even though he muttered to himself that it would be a pain in the ass and probably a waste of time to read through it, another thankless chore of his underpaid job, it really did interest him. He began reading it in the cabin, and took it with him when he left. Though it was written somewhat like a novel, he felt almost certain after reading for a while that it was autobiographical. He had a hunch that was true right from the first page, and when he found that the protagonist’s name was John Jones and then turned to the end of the manuscript and read that he came to northern New Hampshire to get away from all that had happened to him, there was no doubt in his mind. It fit like a glove, and it made him feel so good he smiled for the first time that day. Surely, he thought, there would be clues here that would enable him to positively identify John Jones and notify his next of kin, and thereby solve some of the problems the case presented. Now he’d be able to show up the state police, with all their laboratories and experts. He was already imagining it, and couldn’t help but smile again.

When Jeremy walked into his house, he had the manuscript under his arm. He could smell the pork and beans and Boston brown bread that were warming on the stove, and Mandy was setting the table as she listened to Elton John’s Saturday Night’s Alright for Fightin’ on her transistor radio.

Turn that damn thing down, Jeremy said.

Mandy frowned but quickly obeyed her father. The light outside was growing dim as the sun set dreamily behind the mountains back of the house. Jeremy set the manuscript, which he’d put in an accordion folder, on a high bookshelf.

What’s that, Dad? Mandy said.

It’s a manuscript I found in John Jones’s cabin when I went up there today. I think it’s autobiographical. I’m going to read through it tonight to see if I can find any clues about who in the hell he really is.

"Can I read it, too?

No, you most certainly cannot. I didn’t bring it home to provide entertainment. And besides, I’ve read enough of it already to know that it’s not the kind of thing I’d want you to read.

Oh, I get it, her curiosity rising.

She was already trying to figure out a way she could read it without her father finding out. She imagined what a coup it would be for her at school to tell all the kids what was in it. She could just see herself the center of attention as everyone gathered around her to hear what she’d read about this man who’d caused such an uproar in the town. But then she felt guilty for wanting to cash in in such a way on John Jones’s death, because she really did feel bad about it.

What was it like up there, Jeremy? Jeremy’s mother, Dorothy, asked during dinner.

Well, you’ve been up there before, when the Weavers still came there. Just imagine it as older and worn down. It doesn’t look like it’s been painted since they left, and the road up there’s so grown over the jeep barely made it. He didn’t have much up there, either. Just some old clothes and a few books. There was hardly even any food. Everything was dirty. He lived like a pig.

Maybe his heart was broken by a woman, and he came up here to forget, Mandy said. That’s what I thought ever since I talked to him once in Wells River. She had bright, dark pixie eyes and a peaches and cream complexion. Her dark wavy hair fell below her shoulders and was held by a gold clasp.

I doubt it, Jeremy said. From what I know so far I’d say he was a drifter and a bum who didn’t have the guts to face up to life.

I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Jeremy, Dorothy said. The man just died yesterday, and it isn’t right. Whatever his faults, it’s up to God to judge him now, not us.

Jeremy didn’t believe in God, but he acquiesced to his mother nevertheless. Right, right, he said, and let it drop.

Jeremy continued reading the manuscript right after dinner. About eight o’clock George Teller dropped by. He was Jeremy’s brother-in-law and often helped out when Jeremy needed an extra man for some job around the house or in the yard, or when Jeremy was sick or too busy to do work that needed to be done at home himself. George Teller wasn’t particularly kind and he didn’t particularly like Jeremy, but his wife was usually able to get him to help Jeremy out by nagging him about their obligation to Jeremy’s family, because Jeremy was supporting their mother. George was 38 years old and taught English and history at Wells River High School, though he considered himself much too bright to be stuck in such a hick town. After all, he often reminded himself, he had a master’s degree from Dartmouth. Tonight he came to Jeremy’s on the pretense of just dropping by, but what he really wanted was to find out more about the investigation of John Jones’s death, so that he too would have some inside information when he went to the school the next morning. Not that he ever minded being there when Mandy was home. He would have been ashamed to admit how attracted he was to her. But the first thing he noticed when he came inside was Jeremy sitting at a table reading the manuscript.

Well, Jeremy, don’t tell me you’ve taken up the writing of novels? he said, considerably amused. Jeremy didn’t look up or deign to answer him. That’s what makes life interesting. Just when you least expect it you find someone doing something totally out of character.

As a matter of fact, I’m doing detective work, disgustedly. I found this manuscript up in John Jones’s cabin. I thought it might help me figure out who in the hell he really was.

I don’t suppose curiosity had anything to do with it, with a goading look.

As you can see, I’m writing down names and places to call tomorrow. If they don’t turn out to all be made up names, that is. It’s like a novel but it doesn’t have any chapters. Just a title, The Labyrinth, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

George’s interest was now definitely piqued, so he walked over to where Jeremy was sitting and started reading the manuscript himself.

You’re making me nervous as hell, Jeremy said. I shouldn’t even be letting you read this.

You really ought to let me have a go at it. I’m good at ferreting information out of books. That’s the sort of thing they taught us down at Dartmouth.

Well, if that’s what they taught you, you wasted your time.

After they had read for a while George said, He claims he was involved in a murder, although he didn’t do the actual killing. He seemed to see himself as sort of a cross between Errol Flynn and Jack Kerouac.

What in the hell has that got to do with anything?

Nothing, I suppose. I was just thinking out loud. Of course we don’t know if this is a true story or not. It could just be a fantasy that he whipped up in the long, lonely hours he must have spent up in that dreary cabin. Or it could be that the story is more or less true except for the names. Or it may all be true. You have all those possibilities, Jeremy, my boy. Take your pick.

What’s it about, Uncle George? Mandy said, coming over to them. I want to read it myself but Dad won’t let me. Are there lots of passionate sex scenes in it or something? laughing.

I can see already why he didn’t want you to. It’s violent and it’s pretty racy. I’d have to give it an ‘R’ rating—if not an ‘X’. I’m sure he made the right decision, as always, with a wink at Jeremy. If I were you, Jeremy, I’d keep this manuscript under lock and key, more than a little amused.

I think I’m old enough to be able to read it. I’m not as innocent as you think I am, looking at her father.

Jeremy looked up at Mandy reproachfully but didn’t reply to her. He and George went on reading more or less constantly until after ten o’clock. Before George left he had talked Jeremy into letting him finish reading it, using the argument that it might be of literary merit, and that of everyone in town he was the most qualified to make that determination. And though Jeremy didn’t give a damn whether it was of literary merit or not, he was glad to agree just so George wouldn’t badger him about it anymore.

Jeremy returned the manuscript to the high shelf before he went to bed. But after everyone had gone to bed and the only sound in the house was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the living room, Mandy got up and took the manuscript down and began reading it. She read for about three hours, until she could hardly keep her eyes open any longer, skimming through it right to the end, and was determined she’d find a way to read the whole thing.

The manuscript didn’t stay where it was long, though. In the morning after Jeremy had gone to work and Mandy to school, Jeremy’s mother took it down and began reading it herself. She was embarrassed and a little amused by her curiosity, but after all the hoopla and talk there’d been about John Jones around town, she couldn’t resist taking a look. So whether surreptitiously or as a matter of official duty or whatever, four persons read the manuscript left by the strange young man who lived alone up on Crawford’s Hill. This is what they found:

OK, so I deserve this: Here I am, living in a rundown cabin in northern New Hampshire, cut off from all the people I’ve ever known. I tried to live a normal life. I tried to be like other people. I even tried to pretend sometimes I was above other people. And in a way I was. I tried not to get close to anyone. Sometimes I pretended I was cool and above the fray, watching and laughing as the fools all around me butted their heads against walls and ran around in circles searching for love and happiness they were never going to find. But what I really was, I suppose, was jealous. I never could be like other people. I never could plan a life with a wife and kids and a house with a white picket fence or any of the other fantasies that people have about their lives when they’re young. I had a terrible secret that I knew would catch up with me sooner or later. I could forget it for a while. I could pretend I was like other people. I could even fall in love. But sooner or later the reality of my situation would catch up with me. It would grab me by the throat and crash me back to reality like a car crashing into a brick wall.

Mostly, my life has been defined by women. I always thought it was me who was in control, me who never got carried away, because I knew I could never really settle down, knew I could never go all in emotionally. No matter what happened, no matter how happy I thought I might be for a while, I knew it would all come crumbling down sooner or later. But I was just kidding myself. They were really in control all the time: When I was with Jan I lived like Archie Bunker, when I was with Heather I lived like Thoreau in the wilderness, when I was with Laurel I went on a wild trip down the coast of California. And so on and so forth. But I suppose that happened almost by default. At least they had some idea of what they wanted or thought they wanted and where they wanted to go. All I could do was go along for the ride.

My life is really two stories: One is a kind of normal story of a guy’s life as a young man. The other is story of a murder. I tried to keep them separated, even though I knew I couldn’t do it forever and knew that once the two stories did finally come together, my life as I knew it would be smashed into little pieces. There’s not a hell of a lot for me to do here at night, all alone in my cabin, so I thought it would be a good time to write about my life. I want to put the story down on paper and try to make at least some sense out of it, so that if I ever have any doubts about why I came up here, I can always go back to it and find out why.

So I’ll begin, as rain taps softly on the roof, and I think back to 1969.

When I came back to Michigan State that fall, it seemed like so much happening, so much change was in the air. But I only did because it was the easiest way out, and I was always taking the easy way out. Then something happened that made it all right for a while, and I ended up being glad I was back, but because of a certain pair of blue eyes and a curious smile, rather than the things that seemed to matter so much then. At my dorm, McDonel Hall, a party was going on, and there I met Lonnie O’Brien. We got to talking, and were feeling good from the wine we’d drunk, and after a while she invited me up to her room. It was small, as dorm rooms are, but she seemed to have put a lot of effort into making it look good. Plants were all over, and on the walls were posters—of Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and a couple of landscapes that looked very definitely like Hobbitland. On the floor she had a deep purple carpet, and beside it, taking up most of the floor space in the room, a waterbed. As soon as we got to her room she got a bottle of Blue Nun out of her little refrigerator. Then we sat on her little sofa and drank it as we listened to the Moody Blues’ On the Threshold of a Dream.

This is unquestionably their best album, I said, after little awkward silence.

That’s debatable, Lonnie replied with a mocking half smile.

Some people prefer Days of Future Passed. It has a different style than their other albums. It’s a lot less like rock ‘n roll.

All in all, I’d have to say that’s my favorite.

I like the way you’ve got your room fixed up. It looks better than any other room I’ve seen up here.

The rooms here are so small, I wanted to do as much as I could to make it livable. These rooms are unbelievably drab when you first walk into them.

With the grace that all her movements seemed to have, Lonnie lifted her wine glass and took a sip from it. She was slender and had long brown hair. Her eyes were as cool and watchful as cat’s eyes, and you could see in then the touch of irony that flavored most of the things she said. When she was about to speak, often she would give her lips an expression of gentle mockery that just seemed to suit her wry way of looking at the world.

How do you like sleeping on a water bed? I asked midway through a second glass of wine.

Great, with a smile that seemed to suggest memories of the fun she’d had on it. It’s a lot of fun and really comfortable.

I’ve never been on one before. Would you mind if I tried it out?

Help yourself.

I took my shoes off and lay back on the waterbed. I’d never been on one before—it was during the time they were first coming in. I felt like I was on an air mattress in the water and I could hear the water splashing a little inside the bed. Then Lonnie came by the bed and fell onto it, which made me bounce up and roll over. She laughed and we both turned so that we were facing each other.

Well, what do you think?

I like it so far. But to know for sure I’d have to spend a night or two on it.

I might be able to arrange that. Maybe if you’re a good boy and put it on your Christmas list, I’ll let you then. Right now, though, all you’re going to find out is what it feels like to get tickled on a waterbed, just as she was reaching her hands out to my stomach. I reached out to tickle her then and we kept trying to tickle each other until we were laughing hard. But when we suddenly came close together one moment we stopped trying to tickle each other, looked into each other’s eyes, and smiled. Then we kissed, a long soul kiss. In a little while I put my hand under Lonnie’s pullover shirt to rub her side and stomach. I didn’t intend to push my luck any further at the moment, so I was really surprised when Lonnie decided that would be a good time to take her shirt off altogether. I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy. Everything seemed easy after that, like we were in a seduction play that we had rehearsed for months, and before long we were making love. It was fun and a little strange on the waterbed, like making it on a boat or something.

Later, we lay under the covers talking, with a candle burning beside the bed. To album after album we listened, mostly music that was meant to be played quietly, like Gordon Lightfoot, Isaac Hayes, the Trois Gymnopedies by Satie, and even Tony Bennett. Lonnie had a little bit of everything in her huge record collection, and we took turns getting up to put on new albums.

You have very interesting eyes, Lonnie said. I think I could look into them all night and never get tired of it.

I don’t suppose we’d get a whole lot of sleep if you did that, though, would we?

I didn’t mean I’d really do that, of course, laughing. And even if I did, we could sleep all day tomorrow, and when we woke up we could have breakfast in bed together, then just start the night all over again.

The ideal way for a perfectly lazy person like me to spend the day.

Your roommate’s really going to wonder what’s happened to you if you don’t go back pretty soon, you know. It could start some terrible rumors. But I don’t care. I don’t think I’m going to let you go, even if you want to.

You really think you can keep me, eh? with mock toughness.

Oh, yes. And it won’t take locks and chains, either. Just a little loving, some romantic music, a little more wine. I think I’ve got your weaknesses figured out already.

We’ll see about that.

We really should get some sleep, you know. That is if you want to stay.

Wild horses couldn’t drag me away, singing it.

Well, that’s good to know. I promise I’ll dream about you and it’ll be a good dream. I’ll dream about us taking a walk through the Tuileries in Paris in the spring, or making love on a cloud, something like that. I’ll even fall asleep in your arms if you want me to.

All right, but I’m warning you. I’ve been known to toss and turn half the night.

Oh, really? Could you give me references?

As Tony Bennett sang the last bars of The Shadow of Your Smile, Lonnie and I fell asleep. But I woke up after a little while. Lonnie was asleep but we were still partly entwined underneath the covers. I was on my back with my arm around her neck and my hand on her side, and she was on her side with her arm draped loosely over my chest. I could hear and feel her breathe, and my hand on her side went up and down with each breath. The Shadow of Your Smile ran through my head again, and I could hear the wind rustle through the trees outside. I imagined I could hear the first leaves of autumn drifting slowly to the ground and scraping along the gutters. I remembered a night when I was a kid sleeping alone in a strange house, listening to the wind in the leaves and hearing a dog barking far away. Suddenly all the doubts I’d had about everything dissolved. Nothing mattered but that moment.

I woke up later when Lonnie opened one of my eyelids and smiled at me.

I’ve got a great idea, she said. Why don’t we take a walk to Beal Garden? The sun’s just starting to come up and it should be beautiful.

I looked at her in a way that she could tell I didn’t want to go.

I know what you’re thinking. But we can come back later and sleep as long as we want to. I still looked skeptical. She stuck her bottom lip way out and I couldn’t help but laugh.

All right, all right, I said. How could I say no to a face like that?

On the way to Beal Garden we stopped at the rapids on the Red Cedar River, in a half circle of juniper shrubs and small birches across from Hannah Administration Building. Sitting down, we listened to the water break over the stones and watched the ducks. A flock of them were always there, except in the spring during mating season, when they would spread out up and down the river. Most of them floated on the water above the rapids, occasionally skimming the water with their bills for insects, but a few slept on the banks with their heads tucked under their wings. Along the bank one strutted up and down the grass, and Lonnie and I laughed when we tried to figure out why. Mist was on the river, drifting in the maples, pines and willows that hung over the water, and a crisp, clean morning smell was in the air. Looking down the river, we saw the sun coming up through the clouds and the trees.

When we left we crossed the river and walked the little way to Beal Botanical Garden, which stretches in a soft S-shape behind the library, with grass and trees in the middle and flower beds on both sides. The garden contains flowers and trees from all over the world, and there are markers before each of the types of plants with their names and the place in the world they come from. We walked by flowers with names like bitter nightshade, wild four o’clock, heart’s ease, and azure monkshood. We passed tulip trees, willows and cedars, and in the middle of the garden a huge hemlock and a little pond with a bench beside it. In the dewdrops a thousand tiny suns were reflected. Standing under a bitternut tree, we put our arms around each other and kissed.

Now aren’t you glad you came here after all? Lonnie said.

Are you kidding? with a look that made any answer unnecessary.

I can’t think of a better way to start a day than this, can you?

We could have taken a walk through the Tuileries, or made love on a cloud.

Yes, but this is just as good as the Tuileries, I’ll bet, and we’ve already made love on the water, which I’m sure is as much fun as a cloud any day.

I’ll buy that.

I’d like to live every day like I’ve lived this last one. Not exactly like it of course, but as spontaneous and carefree and exciting, just taking each day as it comes, with someone as interesting as you.

Don’t you think it would wear you out after a while, that you’d almost want to get into a rut so you could appreciate it a little more? That seems to be what happens to most everyone.

No way. I’ll worry about that when I’m 64.

When we got back to Lonnie’s room we made love again and then went to sleep. Lonnie was gone when I woke up. I looked up at her clock and saw that I’d already missed my first two classes. I got up and dressed and read the note she’d left on the door.

Dear John,

Had to get up to go to class. Would’ve woke you up but you just looked too comfortable. Come on up about five if you want to go to dinner with me.

Luv,

L

I had to hurry even to get to my third class. As soon as the prof started talking, though, I knew that I’d wasted my time coming. Dr. Tower stood in front of the class with his back as straight as a drill sergeant. He looked at the class as if he were a prosecutor and they the defendant. I was afraid he was going to point at me and try to hold me up to ridicule for not paying attention—as I’d seen him do to other students before—by asking me a question about ancient Greece that I never could have answered and making a joke about what I’d done last night. No matter what the subject, he seemed to be able to link it up with some story about himself. At the moment he was talking about education in Greece.

When I was in elementary school, in my class all the desks were arranged in order of I.Q. The closer you were to the door, the higher your I.Q. The student with the highest I.Q. got to sit by the door and open it when someone knocked, and that’s where I sat.

He just blew me away when he said that, almost knocked me right out of my chair, and I knew he’d hit a new low in his bragging, not to mention that I thought the story was highly unlikely. I coughed loudly and he looked at me like he was pissed. A few students chuckled or muffled laughs, but most just sat there like sheep. If they thought what he’d said was ridiculous, they weren’t letting it show. I felt half like throwing up and half like laughing. I mean, I wonder how the kid felt who sat farthest from the door? But Dr. Tower went on with his lecture and soon my mind started to wander again. Every once in a while I’d concentrate on the lecture, but as soon as I’d start listening I’d realize he had nothing important to say, that his mind was a complete vacuum, so I only caught bits and pieces of the lecture as more pleasant thoughts from the night before, or drowsiness, kept crowding it out.

After Dr. Tower said, While I was in England this summer, I had tea with a group of distinguished scholars from Oxford, I remembered Lonnie and me drinking wine, and her smiling in her curious ironic way that made me wonder what she was really thinking. And when Dr. Tower began a story with I broke bread with some of the finest minds in Europe, the distinguished philosophers of the Vienna circle, my mind drifted off to Lonnie saying, I can’t understand why people dwell so much on the future. The more you think about how you’re really going to end up, the less you’re going to like it, and laughing. And when Dr. Tower said after I earned my Ph.D. at Michigan—summa cum laude, I might add, I remembered Chopin playing as Lonnie and I lay back on the bed, floating on the water that seemed to float us above all the mundane junk that fills most people’s lives. Then it seemed like I couldn’t keep my eyes open and…

Before I knew it only five minutes were left in the class, and Dr. Tower was saying, This is your theme: The importance of myth in the fabric of the Greek psyche.

I’d missed almost the whole thing, all the stories about what a genius Dr. Tower is. As far as I could see, though, the only thing he really knew anything about was his own marvelous self. He could have written