The East Deptford Gnome

A story by Keith Croes

It was springtime in New Jersey. Spread out and rising up over a napkin holder, a pile of bills and an address book, with the peripheral folds bound down and obscuring possible escape routes east and west, the map of Gloucester County pretty much covered Mike Singletary's small, wobbly dining room table. He had moved into the apartment in October, leaving central Pennsylvania and Penn State behind, and now he sat shirtless in cut-off jeans and sneakers, studying the map with the instinctive zeal of a migratory animal. The door and the two living room windows were open to a light breeze.

"This may be it, Barney." Working out of a shallow trance from its position near the coffee table, the beagle raised its mottled snoot. Mike's eyes followed the line of Kings Highway, which ran in front of the apartment complex, southwest to where five roads intersected, a left there on County House Road, then another left on Cohawkin Road and one more left on Jessup Mill Road. Just off Jessup was the winding blue line of Edwards Run, which formed the eastern boundary of a green patch labeled Hidden Acres Park. "Can't be more than four miles," he said. "Let's go."

They darted out the door, Mike stopping to lock it and then following Barney's clatter down the metal steps to the Jeep in the parking lot. Barney balanced on the passenger seat and waggled a drooling tongue until Mike got a chance to lean over and roll down the window. "Don't worry, boy," he said, giving the dog's head a brief massage, "we'll find one. Always do."

Even the sign for Hidden Acres Park was hidden, planted sooty and brooding at the entrance to a narrow dirt road that skirted a baseball field. Driving slowly down Jessup, Mike passed it and turned around in the gravel lot of a peeling white building harboring a John Deere tractor in its dim bay. The tractor had grass-cutting blades like toothed wings folded skyward ahead of its huge rear wheels.

Two teams--one in red with blue trim and one in blue with red trim--hustled softball in the cool, late-morning sun before a couple of weathered bleachers speckled with wives and kids. About a quarter mile down the dirt road Mike eased by 15 or 20 cars and several pickup trucks pulled off in the grass behind the backstop and dugouts. He noticed one of the pickups, a spotless late-model blue-and-white Chevy with a fire-and-rescue sign propped inside on the dash and a Town Watch sticker on the front bumper.

Hidden Acres Park, another half mile back, was nothing more than the dirt road forking out and looping around a large, scraggy field. Mike stopped at the fork near some stuffed plastic garbage bags stacked like cannonballs at the base of a sign that read, "No Dumping." He went to the right, figuring out the simple geography of the place: if the field were a woman's face, the woods around Edwards Run would be a bushy head of hair. About halfway around the field, at the forehead, he parked the Jeep next to a rusty 55-gallon drum meant for trash.

"Okay, Barney." The dog was off and running across his lap and out the door. The park was deserted. Beer cans and bottles that never made the trash drum fringed a path that disappeared into the shadows of the woods. There had to be a reason that no one was there, Mike thought. His mood darkened a shade.

The path was a line of hard-packed, sandy dirt cresting the spine of a ridge over a brown carpet of dead leaves with black veins of fallen branches, and leading past half a dozen crumbling picnic tables. Barney zigzagged across the path, exploring both sides of the ridge, then followed as Mike headed down the eastern face toward the water. Mike sensed what he would find, and the disappointment grew as he descended, surefooted, through the low vegetation clinging to the slope. He decided not to touch the dingy trunks of the skinny trees.

Edwards Run, the inviting blue line on the map, was a slow-moving swamp, a toilet 25 yards wide and blocked with sporadic weedy mounds of sludge. The trees thinned out along the edge and Mike and Barney stood on a bald spot of the bank, blinking in the sun. The dog nosed toward the impenetrable water and recoiled. Mike was starting to sweat. "Shit," he said.

His glance landed on a tick scrabbling its way across his chest above his left nipple. He picked it off and squeezed, pinching it hard between the fingernails of his thumb and index finger, then found another climbing around the forest of hairs on his right thigh. "We're going to have to check you out real good," he said, reaching down to Barney. "Let's go."

Barney barked, his droopy ears cocking up, squaring off, his eyes focused on the rotten creek. Mike followed the dog's gaze and saw something break the water and disappear in a trace of expanding circular ripples, then reappear closer to shore, rising and dipping toward them. Barney's sharp barks filled his ears and he watched, paralyzed, until the barks became the alarming howls of the hunt and the thing in the water had risen, striding through the brackish muck, to reveal a black leathery head, then bony shoulders, then knurled chest.

Mike ran, and it caught him around the ankle halfway up the slope and brought him down to a sitting position. He kicked violently and clawed backwards, trying to shake the grip, but knew by the feel of it that he couldn't. Whatever it was, it was strong, the kind of strong a grasshopper demonstrates within a hollow fist, a strong out of all proportion to size. The thing was about three feet tall, and, in the din of Barney's singing, Mike watched it, suddenly more curious than afraid. One of its knobby hands muddied his sock, the other was latched around the branch of a small tree, and the creature was stretched between them. Mike tested the grip again and realized he was chained there. The thing had the muscled arms and chest of a giant bullfrog. Its face was a sad caricature.

"Shut up, Barney! It's okay, boy." For some reason, he knew that it was. He slapped his thigh. "Come here, boy. Come on." Growling, Barney approached from the high side of the bank, his ears tucked up like a colonial hat, his eyes locked on the beast. Mike tugged again. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Help." The sound was a squishy croak. "I need your help." The last four words were much clearer. And not quite human.

A wonder seemed to leap into the woods around Mike, a magic he recognized from somewhere, from sometime. He heard a swelling blush of cries from the softball game. "Let me go and we'll talk about it," he said. Barney was now panting calmly beside him.

"You won't run?"

"Promise."

It let go of Mike's ankle and stood, still grasping the tree, its loose, black skin wet and dripping. Its penis was like a hook angled out and down. Mike watched the arm raise and the finger point directly into his face. "You ruin my home and now you fix."

Mike shook his head. "I just moved down here. I haven't ruined anything."

"You ruin my home and now you fix," it said sharply. "People! People!" The hand fished around at the base of the tree and came up with a beer can--Michelob. "People!" With a quick pumping of fingers, the can crinkled into a tight ball and went sailing over the creature's shoulder.

"Yeah, right. But not me."

The finger pointed again, this time upstream. "Consolidated Chemical!"

"So?"

"So--" The thing hunched over and craned a terrible grin toward Mike. "--You care," it hissed. "I care. We fight." Its hands clenched. "You go to township meeting and fight for Reginald. You tell them this is Reginald's home."

"Your name is Reginald?"

"You tell them to clean up Reginald's home or...or people get hurt." It brandished a fist in the air.

Mike stood, brushed dirt off the back of his shorts, and took a slow step up the hill. "Let's talk. Come on. Can you come up here, Reginald?"

Barney scampered down and sniffed the beast, which put one hesitant finger on the dog's head. "Yes. I go anywhere." Mike smiled to see Barney's tail wag.

At the top of the ridge, Mike sat at the only intact picnic table and watched Reginald climb carefully in across from him. Barney investigated the nearby trees. "What are you, Reginald?" Mike asked finally.

The beast shrugged. "I am the last, I think. We care on this place for many years. But you keep coming and we keep dying." Leaning forward, it rested its arms up on the rough planking of the tabletop. "We take many of you with us. And now, I am ready to fight again. I figure out a way."

"Township meetings?"

Reginald nodded.

"How do you know about township meetings?"

"The building is just over there." The finger pointed across Mike's shoulder in the direction of the Jeep. "I listen to many township meetings. Talk, talk, talk. One night they approve zoning for Consolidated Chemical. And now I figure it out." It tapped its head with the finger, making a plunking sound. "Reginald may be slow but is not stupid. They give zoning approval, they can take zoning approval away. Larry with the bushy face is president. You go. You talk."

"Look, Reginald. I...I just moved down here. I don't even know what township we're in."

"East Deptford."

"But I'm not...political. I don't have connections. Consolidated is a huge company. Huge. International. Fortune 500. New York Stock Exchange."

"Your name is Mike. You make animals better."

Mike paused. "Yes. I'm a veterinarian."

"Then you care on Reginald. You make Reginald better. I see your thinking. You know this home is sick. You know this home is dying and is also killing. You go. You stop Consolidated."

"I can't."

The creature leaped onto the table and hopped up and down, cracking one of the gray boards. "You must, you must, you must! People get hurt! Like the men who cut the first forest! Like the farmers who burn the land for their fields!" Its voice screeched and its calloused feet thudded on the table.

"Hey, cut it out. Reginald."

"You go! Tuesday night! They meet every Tuesday night! Every Tuesday night!" Its hopping stopped and it bent forward, bringing its shriveled-prune face close to Mike's. "People get hurt." The brown-and-yellow eyes sought out Barney, who scratched at a mound near the foot of a large tree. "Barney get hurt."

"Hey. It so happens Barney likes you."

"You go Tuesday night." It shook its finger at him. "You are not that shy." Its next leap took it from the top of the picnic table at least 30 feet down the steep bank, and Mike listened to snapping and rustling and its quick, patting footsteps as it made its way down to Edwards Run, and then a loud splash like a big trout jumping.

"Come here, boy." Wagging and panting, Barney trotted to the picnic table. They returned to the Jeep and completed the loop of dirt road, coming upon a sign Mike had missed on the way in:

Park open 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.
* No alcoholic beverages.
* No gunning.
* No swimming.
* No fishing.
These waters are unfit for human contact.
Gloucester County Department of Health

Whatever magic there had been in the woods of Hidden Acres Park faded quickly and by Tuesday the encounter with Reginald seemed an absurd dream. Mike worked late but got home in time to go to the meeting if he wanted to. It started at 7:30. He had looked it up in the local newspaper. Thinking that he just might go, he downed the second half of a turkey sub he had bought the day before. He actually made it to the parking lot, gripped the door handle of the Jeep before he changed his mind. There was nothing he dreaded more than speaking before a crowd. It was something he just couldn't do, had never done without feeling foolish, without regretting it later. He spent the remainder of the evening watching TV and reading.

The next morning he saw the flat tire from across the parking lot and groaned, then swore as he got close enough to inspect it. The stump of a broken beer bottle had been forced through his sidewall. With Barney circling around and occasionally butting in, he jacked up the Jeep and wrenched the spare in place. After work he drove out to Jessup Mill Road and wound past the baseball field, parking next to the 55-gallon drum.

The evening was cool and cloudy. He wore a light jacket and a tie and, as he climbed down the slope to the creek's edge, he was conscious of the mud pressing up around the soles of his only good pair of brown shoes.

"Reginald!" he yelled. Barney's tail wagged as Reginald's head broke through the surface of the water, which ran as gray as a cardboard egg carton. "You slimy shithead!" Reginald stood dripping on the bank and scratched the dog's ears. "That tire's going to cost me 50 bucks!"

"I wait so long." It spoke softly. "I wait for you. I wait for you to talk to Larry with the bushy face. They talk of garbage-collection contracts. Talk, talk, talk. No Mike."

"I don't have 50 dollars."

"Yes you do. You have 600 dollars."

"In savings! That's car insurance."

"Next Tuesday you go. You talk. You care on Reginald." It held out its arms. "This is not my color. I am green, green as summer leaves. I am green. You go. You save my home. You talk. You fight. Or I die. I die of your shyness." It arched back into the water and disappeared.

Mike sat on a folding chair in the back of the room next to an attractive woman with tight dark-brown curls to her shoulders. She wore a yellow blouse and faded blue jeans. The township president was a local realtor named Larry Zuckerman, a distinguished-looking, fiftyish man with a salt-and-pepper beard. Larry with the bushy face. He sat with several other people at a folding banquet table in the front of the room.

"Okay, Mona, will you read the minutes of the last meeting?" Zuckerman asked, scanning a paper in his hand through black-framed reading glasses slid low on his nose. "Al, hit these lights, will ya?" A bone-thin blonde with a page-boy haircut began a bored litany of previous business.

"All right," Zuckerman said finally. "Motion to discuss garbage-collection contract. Second?" Someone raised a hand. "Thank you. Don, any bids?"

"Nope."

Zuckerman removed his glasses. "Look, people, this contract with Hubbard runs out June 30th. Maybe we should get an ad in a Philadelphia paper."

"It's not budgeted," said Mona.

"There's got to be someone other than Hubbard--no offense, Dick--to bid on this. Ted, I thought you were going to try."

A tall bald man stood among the sparse crowd of seated onlookers. "I can't compete with Dick." His voice was squeaky and irritating. "Besides, I've got my trucks tied up with fill dirt this summer from the mall in West Deptford. Can't help ya, Larry." He sat.

And so it went for 45 minutes while darkness wrapped around the township building on Cohawkin Road until Zuckerman opened the floor to comment. Just as a tiny woman rose at the front of the room, Mike heard the snap of a stone against a window not far to his right.

"This damn Brewster is still spreading that rotten Dupont shit on his field next to my property," she said. "I know it's...what is it, PVCs? It's goddamn poison, is what it is..." She whined on, but Mike's attention was drawn to the window. Another snap. He watched. The woman next to him didn't seem to notice.

The small woman had finished and Zuckerman pointed to a man seated across the room in the back. Just then Reginald's grimacing face appeared at the window, and what looked like a broken beer bottle tapped lightly against the pane. "Ah, shit," Mike muttered. The woman next to him glanced over. He stuck up his hand.

"Yes, the chair recognizes the gentleman in the back," Zuckerman said.

Mike stood and cleared his throat. "Uh, my name's Mike Singletary. I'm a veterinarian practicing with Dr. Rostow. On Garwood in Mount Royal? I just moved down here from Pennsylvania last fall and, well, I'd like to complain about conditions at Hidden Acres Park."

"That's a county park," said Zuckerman.

"Yes, well, there must be something the township can do. Everywhere I've ever lived I've had a place to swim and, uh, I was over there the other day and just walking through the woods I was almost attacked by ticks. I mean, I've spent most of my life outdoors and I've never even seen a tick. But I know as a veterinarian the diseases they can spread among animals and humans. And the water--"

"There's no swimming allowed over there."

"That's just it. Instead of doing something about it, you put up a sign saying that the water is unfit for human contact. Now why would you want water unfit for human contact to be flowing through your township? I understand that Consolidated Chemical--"

"That's the county health department. The county health department put up the sign and the county monitors water quality."

"The township okayed the zoning, though, changed it from agricultural to commercial?"

"We rubber-stamped what was already going to be approved by the county. I agree that there's a problem with Edwards Run. I used to swim there myself. But it's a county problem, or maybe a state problem, if Consolidated is breaking disposal or dumping ordinances."

"The township can't do anything?"

"Sure, but it would be non-binding. Or we could take it up through the courts, which would cost a bunch--probably more than we get from Consolidated in taxes."

"Well, I think you ought to do that. I make a motion that you do that."

Zuckerman shook his head. "That's not procedure. Only a member of council can make such a motion. Anybody want to motion that we sue Consolidated?" Shrugs and shaking heads around the folding table. "Where do you live, Dr. Singletary?"

"Kingsdale Apartments."

"You rent?"

Mike nodded.

"Oh. They've got a pool over there, don't they? We suggest you use the pool."

The meeting adjourned a short time later, and Mike was filing out with the others, heading slowly for the Jeep, when he realized he was being followed. "Excuse me." It was the woman who had been sitting next to him. He was shocked at how beautiful she was. "I'd like to second that motion," she said.

"Thanks. All in favor say aye.

"You, uh...I have a cat I take to Dr. Rostow once a year. Maybe I'll bring her in more often now."

"Uh-huh. Oh, I'm Mike."

"Debbie. Debbie Lambert. Maybe you know my brother, Fred. He has the auto body shop in Mount Royal?"

"Haven t had the pleasure. I literally don't know anybody down here yet. I m buying out Dr. Rostow's practice, though, so I guess I'd better get started. Do you work?"

She nodded, curls bouncing in the halogen light of the parking lot. "County housing authority. I'm a secretary."

"That's nice. Well, I gotta get going, Debbie."

"Oh. I thought maybe we could stop somewhere for a drink or something. You're not married or anything, are you?"

"No, uh, that would be nice. I, uh, gotta go see someone...about tonight. A friend. It'll only take a minute."

"I thought you didn't know anyone..."

"Yeah, well, just one. He was expecting a better response, I think, about the park."

"Oh, that place is a mess. Why even bother going over there?"

"I didn't know. I've never seen anything like it. Look, I'll meet you somewhere."

She took his arm and smiled. "I'll go with you."

He shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Why not."

After opening the door of the Jeep for her, he checked out the tires. They were unscathed. "Debbie," he said, scooting into the driver's seat, "meet Barney. Barney, Debbie." She reached back to pat the dog and it dodged, sniffing her hand. "This will just take a minute."

Mike drove down Cohawkin, turned left on Jessup and left again onto the dirt road by the baseball field, which spread under a milky shroud of moonlight. "Where are we going?" Debbie asked.

Mike didn't like the emphasis. "He's meeting us here. It'll just take one minute."

"Fred plays softball here," she said quietly. "He works part-time for the county. I think he mows this field."

They stopped near the trash drum. "I'll be right back. I'll leave the parking lights on. Are you okay?" Debbie nodded unconvincingly. Mike took a flashlight from the glove compartment and stepped out of the Jeep, tilting the seat forward. "Come on, boy." Barney dove into the darkness.

The flashlight beam probed ahead on the path and soon revealed the dark form of Reginald sprawled out on top of a picnic table. Pieces of the moon fell through the trees overhead. Mike sat, shining the light at Barney, whose eyes glowed green briefly, then the brown markings and wagging tail slipped from view.

"You talk. You fight. You don't know procedure."

"Next time threaten a council member. Go slash Larry's tires."

"They don't care."

"I'll go to a county meeting. I'll write some letters, make some contacts."

"No." The creature pushed itself upright and sat with its legs crossed and its hands in its lap. "You don't know...politics." He spat the word. "You just make animals better. This is Reginald's fight. I go to Consolidated Chemical. There is a man at the gate. He stays all night. I kill him. I kill the Consolidated Chemical man."

Without fully listening, Mike had been trying to make out Reginald's face and, curious, he let the light fall on it. The scream behind him threw the beam crazily up into the trees. He drew it quickly around and found Debbie's faded jeans pumping away down the path. "Shit."

He caught up to her as she slammed the door shut and saw her milky white fist come down on the lock. "Barney!" he yelled. "Here, boy!" He followed the dog into his side of the Jeep and started to speak.

"I don't want to hear it," she snapped. "Take me home."

"Debbie--"

She held her ears and screamed. "I don't want to hear it!"

He followed her curt directions toward Mount Royal, finally pulling into the parking lot of a small bar on Kings Highway. He had stopped there once for a six-pack. "You live around here?" he asked.

"My brother's in there. He'll know what to do." She was out of the Jeep before he could respond and he watched her throw open the storm door and whack herself on the hip as she entered the bar.

"Uh-oh, Barney," he said. "I think we'll just sit here awhile." He backed the Jeep into a space at the far end of the lot, doused the lights, and waited. In a few minutes Debbie emerged from the bar with five or six men and followed a guy who must have been six-foot-four to a pickup truck. As headlights and engines fired up around the lot, he recognized the blue-and-white Chevy, the one with the Town Watch sticker. "Good old community-minded Fred," he muttered. "We've got trucks like that back home, Freddy-boy, only we never let 'em get that clean."

With the Chevy taking the lead and the Jeep pulling up the rear, the vehicles quickly launched out onto Kings Highway and southwest, retracing the route to Hidden Acres Park. Mike watched, clenching the steering wheel, as a few more sets of headlights fell in line behind him. Several cars and pickups were already waiting at the peeling-white building when the caravan pulled into the gravel lot. Mike rolled to a stop and yanked up the emergency-brake lever. "Stay here, boy."

Floodlights glared above the open bay, which was illuminated inside by two or three bare-bulb lamps. Footsteps crunched in the gravel around Mike and he was aware of men carrying shotguns or leaning them against car bumpers while they pulled on rubber hip boots, reflections off blue gun metal, coarse laughter, flashlight and lantern beams whipping around. Fred was climbing up the John Deere, mounting a machine as ominous in the yellow light as some mythological predator with blades for wings.

"Listen up, everybody!" he shouted. Debbie stood below him with her arms folded. "We start at this end of the creek and go right up the middle. Everyone just stay in line on each side of the tractor. If you don't have a light or a gun, get lost."

"Wait a second," Mike said loudly. Debbie turned, saw him standing beside her and backed up a step. "You can't do this." Mike noticed uncomfortably the many faces around him. Mustaches. Baseball caps. Chewing tobacco. All of them staring. "That thing is the last of its kind."

"Who is this," Fred said, "that vet?" Debbie nodded. He held out a pointing finger on a thick arm. "Look, buddy, if my sister says it's a monster, it's a monster. It's probably some kind of experiment. Maybe it's your experiment. Who's it going to kill? Why don't you tell us that?"

"I don't know what it is. But it's not dangerous. You simply cannot do this. I'm telling you, you'll all be in deep shit if you go through with this."

The John Deere roared to life. "We know what it is, asshole!" Fred hollered over the din. "It's one dead motherfuckin' strange-ass monster."

The tractor lurched ahead, the front tires scrunching in a tight turn and the blinding headlights flaring up in Mike's face. He backpedalled out of its path, spun and ran for the Jeep. The crowd seemed to follow the tractor almost casually as it wheeled around the side of the white building and toward the weeds along Edwards Run. Mike raced the Jeep's engine, shooting gravel out like jet streams behind him and tearing onto Jessup for several yards and then up the dirt road by the baseball field.

He figured the creek was most accessible at the north end of the park--near the woman's right earlobe--and he took a left at the fork, engaging the four-wheel drive and entering a high bank of weeds. He lost sight of everything and shifted to first gear. The stringy wall of vegetation seemed to slide under the hood as he progressed, but he still could see nothing. "I'm going to have to scout ahead, Barney."

The terrain took a slow downward slope for about 50 feet, then dropped roughly to a mucky flat near the creek. Mike returned to the Jeep and tried to kick the tires through the weeds. "I think I ruined my shoes, boy," he said. "But we can make it. We've got to get down where he can see us." He winced at the distant boom of a shotgun blast.

The Jeep crawled easily down the bank and through the mush to the edge of the creek. Grabbing the flashlight and opening the passenger-side door, Mike straddled the emergency-brake lever and slid across the seat, standing outside in ooze over his ankles. He waved the flashlight. "Reginald! Reginald!" The light played across the black water. The place stunk. Barney's head poked out the door at the base of the passenger seat and Mike put a hand down, cupped the cold nose in his palm, and pressed backward. "Stay, boy. Stay."

Another shot rang out, closer, and another. "Oh, shit. Reginald! Reginald!" Lights blinked through the trees and he could hear the haunting shouts, the tractor's rumble. His flashlight beam seemed puny. He waved it and waved it, shouting Reginald's name.

Soon he could see both headlights of the tractor, jogging and bouncing upstream, and dozens of flashlights splashing reflections off the water. He heard a sound next to him, like a big trout jumping. "Reginald?"

"Mike. Barney."

He lifted the creature by one arm out of the water and deposited it on the passenger's seat, slammed the door and slogged around to the other side. "Shit, I lost a shoe," he said as he climbed in.

"I need a...veteran aquarium."

"What?"

Someone to make Reginald better."

Mike turned on the dome light and leaned over the slumping figure next to him. He peeled the black hand away from the shoulder and saw the pellet wounds. "You're gonna be okay, Reginald. We'll stop and fix that right up. Reginald? You can see my thinking? Can you see my thinking?"

Reginald nodded.

"Then watch." Mike thought of the creek that ran clear and deep through the Allegheny mountains of central Pennsylvania, and even clearer and deeper in his soul. "That's where we're going. Okay?"

The beast nodded again and smiled a sharp-toothed grimace. "We fight," it said, and Mike put the Jeep in reverse.

THE END

MORE STORIES BY KEITH CROES

keith@croes.com