Memories

Memories
by Tresa Martin


Despite the stern warning I had just delivered to my granddaughter, my own eyes betrayed me and strayed again from the antics of the ducks to the old derelict occupying the park bench across the pond from where we stood. Emily, having already forgotten the oddness and I dare say even the existence of this distinctly weird personage, was happily throwing bread to the dozen or so large white ducks vying for her attentions.

The man seemed oblivious to us however, lost in his own world. From the array of expressions that flitted across his face, I could only imagine what was housed in his memories. He looked to be in his sixties, though the present condition of his appearance made it hard to tell. His clothes were so baggy he appeared to be floating in their midst. No disturbance in their outlines did he make. They were gray, like his hair and eyes and as I took him in, I saw that his skin even had a grayish cast to it.

He sat hunched a bit, apparently staring into space. Just as I remembered myself and began to turn away, he looked up and stared straight into my eyes. A slow grin spread across his face and those eyes pierced me like an insect to a specimen board. A low chuckle began welling up from the depths of his being, then built furiously into a raw insane sound that I could not in good faith call a laugh. Try as I might, I could not pull my gaze from his, although my heart was pounding and my knees were quivering with the desire to flee.

Emily, who by now had noticed this strange deadlock of eyes and souls, was pulling on my hand. "Grandma! What is wrong?" Even the fear in her voice wasn't sufficient to break the paralysis with which I had succumbed. Those eyes . . . where had I seen them before? He was standing now, still squealing, shrieking, wailing his siren of a laugh.

Emily was frantic, pulling hard on my arm. "Grandma, come on! What's wrong with you? That guy's coming." And he was I saw. Slowly, one wobbly step at a time he took, his wasted body causing no ripples as he advanced around the small pond. His greasy hair hung in his face, framing his eyes, his bloodshot insane eyes.

Then I could no longer hold back the memories. The lock I had placed so carefully on that door broke and I recognized him. "Charley?" I whispered. "How . . . " As this grinning specter from my past struggled to close the gap between us, my legs were infused finally with a mighty shot of adrenalin and I ran, scooping up my terrified grandchild. I dared not look back as I heard that maniacal laugh again as he threw the words after me.

"Linda! Linda Kasabian. You can't hide from me or the Family. Thought you were done with us, didn't you? As sirens began to fill the air and a far off rhythmic chopping sound signified helicopters, I thought I heard Manson say, "You won't get off so easy this time, bitch."

He's just crazy, I repeated frantically to myself. He can't do anything to me now. The toe of my shoe caught beneath the inert form lying in my path. I fell, sprawling on top of it, losing my hold on Emily and getting blood all over my hands. As I struggled for purchase, I glimpsed the skeletal figure behind me holding his arms up, as if to embrace the arrival of the chopper. The words he chanted so delightedly, sent chills through my entire being. "Blood on her hands then . . . blood on her hands now."