Vacation Tales of the Witch - Pt. 3

Well, another lovely autumn day here in New York, where it’s been like – 80 FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE.  Positively balmy.  T-shirt and shorts weather.   Yeah, the Universe really must be yukkin’ it up at MY expense,  having spent my “flu-cation” in the artic, frozen zone just last week.  Yuk yuk YUK.  At least it’s a little colder out today. Takes the sting out a little, but not much.

Ok, so I know I still have this alien thing to get you up to speed on.  But FIRST, while I’m thinking about it, please allow me to reiterate just ONE MORE mystical back-story of mine.  (And I’m just gonna start referring to these on the BLOG here as “Lynn-cidents”  because frankly I’m growing weary of calling them ‘incidents, occurrences’, and what-have-you.)

The following Lynn-cident began early in the morning on one of the darkest of dark days:  September 11, 2001. 

I had my ass in gear earlier than usual that morning, because apparently there was an “oversized package” waiting for me down at the Richmond Hill Post Office.   I couldn’t imagine what it could be or who it could be from.   My goal on that brilliant Tuesday morning was to hit the P.O. on my way to work.  And it truly was just SUCH a brilliant day.  Many a New Yorker will tell you that they can never forget the blue of the sky that morning.  Dazzling.  Clear.  Almost hurt your eyes.  Temperature, perfectly balanced.  Not a speck of humidity nor a cloud to be seen.

I get to the post office at 8:30.  Not much of a line and then I’m signing for my package.  It IS pretty big - perhaps the size of a small guitar amp. But not too heavy – easy to lift. 

I can’t resist offering a corny joke to the mail-gal at the counter: “Wow!  Hope it’s not a bomb!”  She jokes back: “I hope not either, honey!  I’ll cross my fingers for ya!”   And then me and my mystery-package are on our way.

Back at my car I can’t resist opening the package, because now I see that it’s from my dear cousins who live in Boston.  Me and Chris recently provided musical entertainment at a large family reunion, and it’s a thoughtful thank you gift.  I open it and I’m thrilled:  A bottle of sparkling champagne from their local vineyard, along with two beautiful champagne flutes and a couple of cool t-shirts.   Absolutely lovely!

Feeling ever-so-cheerful by this nice surprise, I start driving to work.  I click on the car radio, and Howard Stern and Robin are announcing that the first Tower has just been hit. I know at once that this is not their usual silly banter, and in my heart I feel a queasy tug.

I pull the car over on

Myrtle Avenue -

right by the old JAHN’S ice cream parlor and turn the engine off.  I jump from the car and call my husband from the corner phone booth.  I feel profound relief when he answers after several rings – he hasn’t left for work yet.  (That’s his area, right by The Towers.)   I tell him:  “Don’t get on the train.  Put on the news.  A plane just hit one of The Towers.”

I meet Chris back at home and together we watch the T.V. in horrified, mostly silent disbelief as the rest unfolds and keeps unfolding…unfolding…unfolding:  An insane, never-ending domino course of terror and destruction.   My younger brother works at The Towers and for several unbearable hours we don’t know his whereabouts. But the Gods smiled on him that day, and when our phone rings and it’s his voice I nearly faint with gratitude. 

We can see the smoke from our neighborhood in Queens.  Feel the grit in the air.  For weeks after, we breathe that vile, acrid ‘not just smoke’ smell, too.  So it feels strange that me and Chris are scheduled to leave for vacation on September 14^th.  It feels like we have no business going on holiday, as it were, while our home town sits in grief-paralyzed, smoldering ruins.   But go we do, because we’ve already paid in advance for a private cottage by a lake in the Adirondack mountains and - selfish or not - we’re both thinking: “Fuck it.  It’ll be a relief to get some distance from this awful thing, even if it’s only for the week.”   So the Friday after The Towers fall, we pack up the car and go.

The gift box from my cousins is still in the car.  I never unpacked it, figuring we’d just bring it along on vacation with us.  The night that we arrive at our quiet little cottage by the water, we’re decompressing from our long drive and I decide hell with it all, let’s open this champagne.   I open the box and look at the bottle.  Hadn’t noticed it before, but the label on the bottle is an artfully abstract sketch of two geese, flying side by side. Purposeful.  Twin missiles.

We’d rented this old cottage a couple of time before, from a sweet little lady named Betty.  Found her on the internet.  Very reasonably priced and very secluded.  TOTALLY haunted.   I can usually scope out these vibes, and let me just say that this place was fairly jitter-buggin’ with ‘em.  Nothing terrible, you understand.  Subtle stuff, nothing concrete. 

Except this time.  This time was different.

I guess it was about the 2^nd or 3^rd night at the cottage.  We’d had dinner and some drinks, and I remember it had been a melancholy evening of me and Chris crying and talking about the disaster back in New York.  Finally, we packed it in and went to bed. 

We opted to sleep on a big fold-out bed in the main living room instead of the smaller bedroom.   We had a pup (Ellie) and a cat (Benjamin) with us at the time and it was just roomier.   It got very dark here at night, as this cottage was situated in a small valley and completely surrounded by giant pine trees.  During the day, sunlight could barely filter in, much less moonlight.  And it was quiet…my goodness, was it ever quiet.  Times you could hear your heartbeat loud in the room.  

Anyhow, we were all in a deep slumber.  Until I think I hear Chris say: “Is that you?” Groggily, I turn to him in the pitch dark but he’s snoring.   I ask: “Did you say  something?”  Still snoring.  Hmmmm.  Must be dreaming?  I turn on my side and I feel cold all the sudden, pull the blankets up around my neck…almost start falling back to sleep when THE LIGHTS START FLICKING ON AND OFF and OUR PORTABLE BOOM-BOX that’s sitting on a table across the room TURNS ON BY ITSELF and starts BLASTING  the Eric Burdon & The Animals tune:

“WE GOTTA GET OUTTA THIS PLACE!  IF IT’S THE LAST THING WE EV-AH  DO…”

It is as loud as HELL.  LOUDER than I thought that boom-box could GO.  I am now sitting bolt upright.  My dog Ellie has woken too and she is trembling and blinking in startled confusion.  We both are.  But CHRIS and the cat Benjamin are STILL SOUND ASLEEP. 

“CHRIS.” 

He is snoring and so is the cat.  Just as suddenly as the music started, it cuts off like a knife and the ceiling lights blink OFF, no more flickering.  I am sitting there in bed, almost hyperventilating.  I get up and I turn the lights on. Then I  cross the room to the boom box.   It’s not even plugged in. 

Chris stirs: “Why you getting up?”

Me: “YOU DIDN’T HEAR THAT?”

Chris: “Hear what.”  He goes right back to sleep.

Me and Ellie sat up until dawn, watching and waiting for the sun to come up. 

After that trip, we bought our own cabin so we never went back to Betty’s place.  Don’t think we’d really want to, anyhow.

 To Be Continued….