Lost Creek Falls

By Todd Michael Cox

The past is past and memories are memories. And moments are meant to be here and gone.But what if you were given the chance to change that?In this memory-haunted novel, frustrated young father Mickey Fisher moves to a country subdivision with his loving wife and one-year-old son to begin a new kind of life for them all. One day he meets Vincent, the grizzled and mysterious neighbor who lives in the old farmhouse up the road. When the strangely magical Vincent reveals that he has the power to offer people the opportunity to live forever in one moment from their past, Mickey is suddenly confronted not only with memories and emotions, but with a growing uncertainty about the life he’s currently living and the person he’s become. Will he choose a moment and leave the here and now? And what does it mean to even contemplate the idea at all?In Lost Creek Falls, Todd Michael Cox (Iowa, Beast, Of Reptiles and Amphibians) explores issues of memory, regret, longing, and the search for contentment and meaning in life. A mysterious and wistful novel that will haunt the reader like a dream of lost days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Michael Cox
• Release date: Aug 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005358969

Todd Michael Cox

Todd Michael Cox was born in the north woods of Wisconsin and grew up (more or less) in a small town very much like Dizzlemuck's Burghville. When not writing he can be found in swamps and fields searching for reptiles and amphibians, or down in his basement making what he likes to call music.

Book preview

Lost

Creek

Falls

Also by

Todd Michael Cox

Novels

Dizzlemuck

Love in the Time of Wee Folk

After the Death of the Ice Cream Man

Beast

Iowa

Of Reptiles and Amphibians

Plays

Bit Players (one act)

For more information visit

toddmichaelcox.com

Lost

Creek

Falls

Todd

Michael

Cox

Sybil öPress

Wisconsin

The characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2020 by Todd Michael Cox

Cover photo and design copyright © 2020 by HZB Design

No part of this book, other than small fragments used in reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission in

writing from the publisher.

For information contact: [e-mail]

For John and Mavis

Chapter 1

It was once a beautiful farm, but time and neglect had played their games with it, turning something vital and alive into a ragged monument to ancient love and long-lost hope. There are other old farms in the area, scattered between the fields and woods, but this one stands out because of the contrast it draws with the clean and neat subdivision next door.

The property that the Fox Hills subdivision sits on had likely once belonged to that old farm, but it had long ago switched hands from farmer to developer. A familiar story around here. We are not good people. Now, instead of something very like a rolling landscape of pastoral beauty, either green and gold with corn or spotted with a herd of lazy, thoughtful cows, there is this: a pointlessly meandering road curving its way around those fourteen homes like a worm through an intestinal tract. And those homes... far too large for a normal family, requiring maintenance that only a masochist could love, and offering little in the way of true character or charm.

The yards of these homes are too big, as well, and will also require sadistic amounts of care. On every summer evening will be heard the chit-chit of water sprinklers to keep the lawn as smooth and green as golf-courses, and most of the bushes will be pruned like army haircuts. The trees around these houses are young and have not yet reached the rooflines. The Fox Hills subdivision was first developed just a decade ago, so there are no large trees within it... no, for those you have to look to the very back of the subdivision, where the woods begin. Those woods of oak and elm and birch outline the roughly rectangular shape of the Fox Hills, and a thin remnant of them serves as a buffer between it and the ancient farm next door.

Impossible not to notice the farm that day nearly two months ago when Tina and I came out here to take our first look at what would end up being our new home.

What an eyesore, she said then. There was still a light covering of leftover snow on this part of the world at that time, and I had thought that the place didn't look too bad, that it seemed in some way more alive than the new homes next door, that the snow made it look rather picturesque, a lovely remnant of simpler times. I could see history in that place. Roots. The strength of familiarity, and the deep knowledge and understanding of a landscape that can only come with being around a long time, with witnessing the changes of seasons and age. But I didn't say any of this, I merely turned my head as we passed the old farm, and then turned back to face my future.

It was Tina's father who had suggested the Fox Hills.

It would be great for you two, he had said. It's got everything you need. You're out in the country, away from the town, but still close enough to make it convenient for schools and groceries.

It wasn't too far from him, either, but Paul Brady didn't live in any subdivision: his home was a grand thing he had mostly designed himself, set back up in a beautiful private run of trees about ten miles away, and though sitting in an area favored by the well-off it was by no means a flat field development like the Fox Hills. Paul and Susan Brady have not only those deep woods around them but a stream in their backyard and a deck that overlooks it. When we visit, he likes to sit me down in a chair on that deck, putting a Scotch in my hand, and saying: Let me tell you where I see you going....

By which he means he is going to tell me where he wants my life with his daughter to go. His plan is simple: I am to stick with my position as scheduler at his landscaping company (his quite successful landscaping company) for at least two years, more likely three, and then he would look into hauling me gently up the ladder... if he could. Those were his words just the other day: If he could. We'll have to see, Mickey, he'd said. We'll just have to see how things go.

Tina loved the home we were shown in the Fox Hills. I think she was certain we would buy it before she even climbed out of the car. She kept looking at everything with this wide-eyed stare that made her appear as if she'd never seen a home before, and the realtor recognized that look as one she could use, matching Tina's enthusiasm with a fake one of her own so that everything they saw, the bathroom, the rec-room in the basement, the built-in cabinets, the kitchen, was transformed into something wonderful, magical, absolutely worthy of buying. Can you believe this? they both kept saying. This is gorgeous. Just gorgeous.

I heard the word so often that day it lost all meaning, and I took to repeating it without emotion. Gorgeous, I said. This bathroom is gorgeous. Look at that toilet. Gorgeous.

In this price range, the realtor said as she showed us the open kitchen leading to the open livingroom and the sliding doors that led out to the patio, in this price range you won't usually find this much room. One of the other homes I just sold in the Fox Hills was ten thousand more than this one, and it didn't have the same square footage. Its basement wasn't as nice, and the furnace was in an awkward place. It had a pool, though, which is where its price came from. But its backyard looks out onto a neighbor, whereas you can see yours here (and she opened the sliding door and stepped out to the patio) looks to the woods.

I don't know if I like that, Tina said.

What's wrong with woods? I asked. As far as I was concerned that view of the trees was the only thing I truly liked about the place. I imagined sitting out there on warm summer nights with a beer in hand, watching fireflies and maybe the odd raccoon or possum. Perhaps, I thought, I could put a small garden in and we might get deer, too. This thought was fat with memories from a time long before Tina, and I found it a little too easy to dwell on them.

Tina just stared out to the trees as if she was unsure about what might lie within their shadows and branches. I don't know, she said hesitantly. What about animals?

What about them?

Well... Toby will be running around out there.

It was Toby, our boy Toby, running around the yard and maybe getting carried off by a coyote, that was what she was worried about.

He'll be fine, I said, not sure where this fear had come from.

I don't think they've ever had coyotes out here, our realtor said.

Nonsense, I thought, but I kept it to myself. They have coyotes everywhere, even running through the streets of New York. Everything Mankind does to get rid of coyotes just leads to more and more coyotes. Coyotes are nothing if not heroic, whereas people are… something else.

What about foxes? Tina asked.

I pulled her close, put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed firmly. He'll be fine. Do you like this place?

She loved it. A few days later and we were signing the papers. Barely two months after that and here we are, moved in but not yet fully unpacked. The American dream.

It's so beautiful out here, Tina kept saying the day we officially moved in. If only that place didn't exist.

She meant the old farm next door. You could barely see it from our house, even with the trees still stark and leafless. It was just a shape between the branches, but every time we passed it on our journey back and forth from the old apartment she would frown at it and look as if she might throw up.

I have been trying to catch a glimpse of some form of life at the place. There is a vehicle, a beat-up old pickup in the farm's gravel driveway. A 1970 Chevy, by the look of it. Dull gray paint, dusty tires, what might be a crack in the back window. A large dent sits smack dab in the center of the tailgate, so neatly centered as to look factory-placed. I have also seen an old brown dog lying in that driveway, but I have never spotted a single human being. The truck moves around, and yesterday it was gone completely, so someone has to be there, but I never see them. Also, a few days ago I noticed a sign in the sickly-looking front yard:

ANTIQUES

SMALL ENGINE REPAIR

OTHER

There are two barns on the property, one right behind the farmhouse, the other further back, nearly swallowed by the woods, slightly smaller than the first and caving in on itself under the weight of weather and time. I keep staring over there each time I pass and expect some man or woman to be crossing the yard with a tool or some ancient piece of junk in their hand, something they're trying to fix up so they can sell it as a valuable antique, but so far there has been no one.

I return home from work this evening and as usual look to see if there is anyone. There has to be at some point, I keep telling myself. But again, there is no one.

I drive through the Fox Hills slowly, taking that stupidly curving road at little more than an idle. I see a few people climbing out of their cars, also returning home from work, and I offer a little wave with my hand still on the wheel, a noncommittal lifting of the fingers and that is all. They all look exactly like the types you'd expect to see in a place like this: the men wear white shirts without ties, khaki pants, dark shoes, the women dark suits or red blouses over dark pants. Their vehicle of choice is a Lexus, Subaru, large black SUV, or brand-new white pickup. My own car is an older Jeep Cherokee with a flat blue paintjob and a disturbingly throaty little growl, the latter a recent development. It takes a moment before some of these people return my wave, they seem to look at me as if to gauge whether I belong here. And then, reluctantly, they either nod or return my little finger-wave with an equally meaningless Hitler salute. Or so it looks to me, anyway. I continue on to my new home at the far end of the subdivision.

It feels strange to come here, to think of this as home. And I won't, likely, for some time. This place is nothing like any other place I have ever lived. Tina and I have moved from our little apartment in town, a decent place but barely bigger than this home's kitchen and livingroom combined. Before that I lived in an even smaller apartment, and before that I lived in an assortment of places, from stinking dorm rooms at Birnbaum University to dangerously run-down flats in Milwaukee. In all that time, while living in those places, I had never envisioned myself having such a large and spacious home... such a conspicuous display of material well-being.

Which doesn't mean we're wealthy, or even well-off. We didn't have a lot of money saved for a down-payment, so our mortgage is fairly large. It would have been larger still if Tina's father, the great humanitarian Paul Brady, hadn't loaned us five grand. A gift, he'd said. But you don't have to pay back gifts. This we have to pay back.

I can't even think of it, not now. I pull at last into our driveway and sit there for a time in the idling Jeep.

It is April. The snow is gone now and there likely won't be any more. My yard, my new yard, like every other one here, is right now a mix of grey and brown with a few weak streaks of green showing through. We haven't yet gotten much rain, but it will come. Soon the yard will blow up in all sorts of green and I will have to get the lawnmower out.

The lawnmower. It's an ancient and beaten-up old thing I scrounged from the neighbor next to our apartment. You're gonna have your own place, he'd said to me one day, you'll need a mower. Twenty bucks and she's yours.

He had started it for me to show it worked, but I have no idea if the blades really turn... hell, I have no idea if there are blades. I assume so, he was a nice guy, but you never know. I will have to pull it out this weekend and go over it. Not that I know much about such things.

The thought of it, the thought of all the work owning a house like this entails, makes me both anxious and excited. I turn off the Jeep and climb out into the late afternoon.

It's cool out, but it smells like spring. Our neighbor to the east is getting out of his own vehicle. There is enough yard between our place and his so I can avoid a conversation... except he sees me, waves, and immediately heads over.

I close the door of the Jeep and wait for him to come, pretending to study my house and yard while he walks. When he comes up, he offers a friendly smile and puts out his hand.

Mikey? he asks uncertainly.

Mickey, I say. Mickey Fisher.

That's right. Gary Sanderson.

We shake hands, nod, and smile. We've met before, briefly, the day after Tina and I had moved in. He and his wife had come over, she bearing a plate of freshly-baked cookies. Nice people, I thought at the time. He looks like a guy who would manage money in some way, very neat and tidy and put-together, with a face at once open and yet not revealing anything he doesn't want you to know. His wife seemed sweet but she had secrets, too. You could tell.

All moved in? he asks now, looking at the front of my house.

Not quite. Close.

It's hard work, moving. Seems you turn around and there's another box to empty.

I look over to his place. How long have you lived here?

Pushing fifteen years now. We were one of the first in here. I think we were the fifth house.

I nod. We fall silent for a time, looking at each other's properties. I don't know what to say.

If you ever need anything, he says, feel free to come knock on my door.

Thanks.

I have a garage full of tools, anything you could think of. He pulls out his phone, a thin little thing that looks like it would make a nice coaster. He holds it in his left hand and slides his right index finger over its screen, scrolling through options and menus. At last he holds up the phone and shows me a picture. It's of a garage. His garage, I assume. The walls are white and there are shelves along it, all neatly organized with tools and boxes and red and green containers for screws and nails. The space looks so clean and efficient it makes my head hurt. Saws and hammers and other things I don't recognize hang on the walls, each with its own designated space. It strikes me that someone would have had to plan it all out, everything, right down to the placement of every hook that held every saw and hammer and wrench. It all seems so mathematical, the same distance between each tool, and each hanging in such a way as to not intrude upon the space of another. I look over to the garage, the actual garage fifty-feet away, and nod.

Nice, I say.

"If you need anything, I mean anything, just come ask."

Thanks. That's better than stealing them from work.

Where do you work? he asks, looking at the picture a moment longer before slipping the phone back into his front pocket.

Brady Landscaping.

Yeah? I have a friend that works there. Andy McIntyre. Know him?

I shake my head. No. I do, though. He's in accounting. I've seen Paul Brady clap him on the back in hallways, the two of them smiling and sharing some private upper-management joke. Andy McIntyre looks like Paul Brady, only younger and with more hair: each of them is a former athlete long since gone soft and prematurely aging. That could be me, I think, if I play my cards right.

He's a good guy, Gary says, and regards me with what I take as suspicion, as if there's no way I could not know such a good guy as Andy McIntyre.

How long have you worked there? he asks.

Year and a half.

Good place to work. This is neither a question nor a statement, so I say nothing.

He seems to realize my reluctance to talk and offers a goodbye smile. Well, I'll let you get in, just wanted to pop over and see how things were going. Like I said, if you need anything, feel free to ask.

Right. You have a garage full of tools. Thanks.

He frowns, begins to turn back toward his house, and then stops. Once you're settled in you might want to join the Association.

The what?

The Fox Hills Association. If for no other reason than to get to know the rules, and the people who've developed them. We could use some new people. Not all of our Fox Hills neighbors are very interested in the community. He glances around at the other homes with a look of mild distaste.

The rules?

Yeah. He frowns. You should have received a booklet with the rules.

I did, but I play ignorant. I think I threw that booklet out the moment I spotted it on the kitchen counter the first day we'd moved in. Rules? Jesus.

Well... we can get you a copy of them, he says. It's simple stuff, common-sense. You can't paint your house purple, you can't let your grass get too tall, can't let noxious weeds overtake everything, no boats in the driveways. Garage doors have to be shut. That kind of thing. Common sense.

I nod and smile. Right. Common.

We part and I watch him walk back to his house, pulling out his phone again, scrolling through it some more, probably about to call his wife in the kitchen and tell her he'll be inside in twenty seconds. He gets to his front steps and when it seems he's going to look back toward me again I turn and head in myself.

And here's my new home: when you enter through the front door (a big wooden thing with a small window of stained-glass at center-top) you are met by a wide and open entryway, a strange combination foyer and sitting room. A big faux-golden chandelier hangs from the twelve-foot ceiling, hung with fake crystals that are going to be a bitch to dust and clean. This chandelier throws a comforting coat of light over this space, however, and entering the home you are already bathed in a soft yellow glow that welcomes you nicely. The floor here is a light-colored tile, and there is a mirror to the left surrounded by several black hooks. The previous owners had a chair against the wall opposite the mirror, a thick-seated straight-backed thing that resembled a museum piece. I couldn't imagine any reason anyone would want to sit there, but I suppose it was all for decoration. Certainly it was better than what we had in its place: a stack of three plastic containers stuffed fat with books and papers. I imagine some day, when we're all unpacked, Tina will want to buy something for that spot. Maybe a chair exactly like our predecessors had had. Maybe a coat rack. I could almost imagine a suit of armor, what the hell… and at this thought, the twelve-year-old inside of me smiled.

When you pass through this entryway you come to the livingroom. The floor here is carpet, a beige color that reminds me of cat puke, and the walls have been painted white. The room is large, twenty-by-twenty, perhaps, and so far contains only our rather ratty couch, two slightly-newer chairs, and our big old out-of-style television. Until last night it had also held seven boxes of towels and dishes, but those had been finally put away.

Beyond the livingroom was the kitchen, open and airy and over-looking the dining area. The cabinets of the kitchen are a light, unpainted wood, with brushed-brass hardware. The counters are a red-brown marble with very tiny flecks of green. One of the counters serves as a bar, and the previous owners had placed three stools on the side opposite of the kitchen itself, so guests could sit and watch you cook. We have no stools, and I don't really see getting them. We are not expecting to entertain many people, not for some time to come. Not with a new child to care for.

There are patio doors on one wall of the dining area, right behind our table (itself piled high with boxes). The doors open onto the concrete slab of the patio. I stand there for a moment looking out to the woods. The dark shape of a crow flies past the trees, headed north, but that is the only sign of life. I watch for more, though, standing there for what finally seems, when I pull myself away, like ten minutes. I look at my house.

The whole thing seems so clean, so well put together, and it makes me a bit uncomfortable. Will it ever seem like home, this place? It's not a McMansion, not by any means, and is dwarfed and shamed by some of our neighbors, but I come from humbler places, and I wonder if we can ever feel comfortable here, truly comfortable. I know I will try.

Right now, at this early stage, it seems like the newest house I have ever set foot in, and it may in fact be. I don't feel like I really belong here, I feel as if this is the kind of home that requires someone equally clean and put together, someone who wants to keep it in this condition, who looks forward to tending its yard, to keeping it in line with the rules of the Fox Hills Association. I don't know if I have it in me. I look at the house and right now I see the potential for making it home, but I also wonder at the uselessness of all this space. There were four of us in a small little two-bedroom ranch home when I was growing up. One bathroom between us all. Now there are three in my family, and so much room in this house of two-and-a-half baths I could actually jog around in it if I wanted. What will we do with it all?

From upstairs I hear the short sharp laugh of my baby son, then footsteps on the stairs in the hallway between the kitchen and the livingroom. Tina comes down carrying Toby, and we greet each other warmly. She hands me the boy and I look into his eyes.

Toby is a little over a year-old. He will learn to walk and run in a cavernous home that will at that point have been obsessively baby-proofed