She was still the same Carrie who refused to read Nancy Drew novels on the principle that Nancy Drew was just a feminized version of the Hardy Boys written to placate a disenchanted ‘60’s market demanding the first waves of political correctness. The Hardy Boys have Nancy Drew, DC comic superheroes have DC comic super heroines and so on. Even today it continues. Dora the Explorer and Diego coexist to make everyone happy. As for Sponge Bob … I don’t even know what the hell a Sponge Bob is.
I digress.
I asked Freddy if he liked her – truthfully, honestly liked her.
Freddy’s face, never truly malignant, took on his customary look of nonchalance. He turned away. I was losing him. But I pressed.
Do you like her? Again, I asked him, coming around the fat trunk of an apple tree as old as the town to head him off.
Freddy could have shrugged but it was difficult to tell in the darkness.
What do you like about her? I asked him directly, forcefully. He glanced at me, leaning forward, the light from the porch now casting a cold glimmer in his eyes. He toyed with me, goaded me. It would become one of our fondest games.
Freddy paused. His face turned skyward as another salvo ripped into the night’s soft underbelly. The display reached an explosive crescendo, climaxing in a full twenty seconds of glittering, multi-hued comets screeching skyward, detonating with enough concussive force to rattle window panes and set off car alarms across town. The applause reached us clearly from the lake. A handful of flares and Roman candles followed, paltry and weak in comparison.
The tink and ring of falling glass followed. A bottle. John, his chair heeled deep left like a sailboat racing along a broad reach, clawed his way up from sleep. He rose ponderously and took in the scene in his back yard. His gaze filled only with blank incomprehension. He staggered the five steps to the back door and tore the screen open. He was inside without a second glance.
Freddy had slipped further back into the shadows. It was only me. Just me. John’s confusion must have been the alcohol. It had to have been. He saw me, saw through me to the slowly warping fence boards at my back, with nothing more than the dim awareness of someone realizing nothing more than it was time for a bowel movement.
Just then a stiff breeze came up, dispersing the lingering haze of smoke in the air and returning to us the scents of the night. Once the moment had passed, Freddy crept forward until the weak halo cast by the porch light etched his features out of the darkness. His eyes closed. He inhaled deeply. I suppose one could say he paused to drink in the night, a poetic way of saying he wanted, in this last instant, to catch the fading scent of violence in the night air. If there was more light to see by, I’m sure I would have been able to observe the growing bulge in his jeans I knew was there.
What do you like about her? I repeated for his ears alone. Freddy rarely avoided a question even if we both knew the answer was going to be a lie.
He did not smile when he did respond, although I knew he badly wanted to. “She’s trusting. She’s mine.” He spoke nearly inaudibly. “And she is innocent. God, is she innocent!”
The town was quiet for the moment, a buzzing roar of nothing after the cacophony of bleating pops and thunderous bangs that so punctuated the night only moments before. Soon the silence would be broken by the tread of hundreds of feet and the drunken cat-calls of the citizens of Prince William Falls as they wandered by on their long walk home.
Freddy wanted to finish with me before the vanguard arrived. A hand reached up unconsciously to rub at his left eyelid again. This would become a nervous habit he could not break even into his adult life.
“I like what she offers me, what she is to me.”
What is that? I asked him.
“A veil.”
Freddy talked plainly and openly to me that night as he did only on the rare occasions when we did actually converse after that summer’s tragic conclusion. He held back nothing and made no attempt to deceive me. He knew I was quite possibly the only person who could tell perfectly when he was lying. And soon enough, he would just stop trying.
She can’t protect you, I told him.
Freddy did smile then, a crooked smirk that never quite reached his eyes. He was savoring his words and the smile showed it. The smile was a sign of his decadence. It was also the most casually evil expression in his repertoire left unfiltered by his brain. It was far too charming to for others to consider dangerous. “It’s Carrie who needs protecting – not me,” he replied. “You all do.”
Protecting from what? You? I asked him. A cold sweat was sliming its way out between my shoulder blades and across my rib cage.
Freddy only shrugged. “Do you want to know why I haven’t struck her yet? Do you know why I haven’t gone for her throat?”
I recoiled. In his mind it seemed he made no distinction between Carrie and the dog in the alley. I waited in silence, not trusting my own voice.
The back door clanged open. John emerged again. He offered me, or my portion of the yard, a second blank look and settled back into his chair, forcing the legs straight and free with a grunt and a fart. His eyelids grew heavy in moments. Slack-jawed and drooling, he was asleep shortly thereafter. The first voices could be heard down the block in the direction of the Green.
Freddy glanced at his father with disgust and then to his mother beyond the lighted kitchen windows with something I could not quite decipher. He stepped back into the shadows of the old tree and returned his gaze to me. His eyes glinted like stiletto points in the darkness and I shrank back from him. With his face hidden in shadow his true mien became apparent. I could almost smell the malice like the stench of old sweat wafting from him.
“I am not finished with her yet. Besides, there are too many throats to choose from.”
Ch3. Those Summer Days
Those Days of Summer
Freddy returned to the world on July fourth but he did not widely announce it. He wandered around town for most of the morning, riding his bike slowly, coasting where he could, not really hurrying to get anywhere. He didn’t have a plan or a route in mind. Nor did he have anyone to meet. He stayed on the fringes, looking in, observing and learning. From that vantage he found himself overlooked and ignored yet shown everything. What he did not know was he too was being observed. I was watching him.
For nearly a mile he followed a jogger just to watch and to not be seen watching. Afterward he trailed a woman on her morning errands, first to the bank and then to the video store. Later, after pumping like a maniac to keep up, he followed her into the supermarket where he padlocked his bike and strolled after her through the aisles keeping just out of sight. He fantasized about following her home where he knew she would be waiting for him. She suspected nothing.
He sat on the curb a block from home tying his shoelaces as Donna Anders flirted with her UPS courier. Her husband, Tom, worked down at Clausson’s with John. They were old drinking buddies. After a few minutes’ observation Freddy concluded she was an unhappy woman. She did not receive the same abuse as his mother did but rather the abuse of neglect. She was lonely and unsatisfied. But she only dared go so far. For her, not wearing a bra when the UPS driver showed up was living on the edge. He decided rather quickly she would prove to be an interesting subject.
Perhaps – a new fantasy entered his mind; one he would allow to occupy his thoughts for the remainder of the morning. Freddy stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants as he waited for the brown panel van to pull away. He walked his bike across the street to Mrs. Anders who stood hovering not quite on the tips of her toes, watching the van until it disappeared around the corner a block up the road.
She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties – slender and pale, her brilliant, red hair fashionably styled despite her only being outside to do her gardening. She chewed at her lip as the van disappeared and glanced over at Freddy. The small package in her gloved hands was forgotten. He smiled and leaned his bike against the hip-high picket fence surrounding her perfect f
ront lawn. Her eyes brightened and she smiled back, saying nothing. The courier and the package forgotten, Mrs. Anders stripped off her dirt-spotted, floral print gloves and led him into the house.
Inside was cool, empty and quiet. The only light came from the wide windows in the living room. She looked at him, her eyes almost challenging as she slowly backed her way down the front hall to the base of the stairs. Still she said nothing. Mrs. Anders turned and climbed the stairs in measured strides, her hips swaying sensuously. Freddy followed a step or two behind. In the bedroom she turned to him, her lips slightly parted, her hands relaxed at her sides. Her look said everything.
With a quick snap, her jean shorts slid to the bedroom carpet. A moment later her tank top followed. Her breasts were small, pert and firm, unfettered by a bra. Bright, red and erect, her nipples stood out on her pale skin like two cherries on vanilla ice cream. She took his hands and slid his fingers into the waistband of her white, frilly panties. The panties were the same as Nancy’s but they came off far more easily. At his touch, she moaned softly. Beneath, she was wet, ready and very willing.
“Fuck me, Freddy!” She begged, quivering in ecstasy beneath his touch.
-
Freddy walked his bike nonchalantly passed the picket fence and Donna Anders in her gardening gloves and jean shorts almost but not quite short enough to be called Daisy Dukes. He smiled as she glanced over at him but kept his pace. His T-shirt covered his erection but he made no further attempt to hide it from her. He almost wished she would see it. She failed to notice or if she did, she did nothing about it.
He kept walking until the picket fence fell behind and he could wait no longer. Freddy quickly slipped into a copse of young poplars out of sight of the street and anyone who may happen by. He masturbated while in his mind he made love to Donna Anders, pleasuring her in ways her husband never could.
-
Shortly after noon Freddy made his way to the Green, the park spanning the east end of town from Broad Street in the north to Thirty-third in the south – a distance of about four kilometers filled with ball diamonds, soccer fields, an amphitheater or two and all the deep woods all the lovers in Prince William Falls would ever need to get lost in.
He stopped at a hot dog vendor’s cart and fished through lint and gum wrappers to find enough change to buy a Smokey and a can of Coke. The dog was gone in four bites and only made him hungrier. He contemplated returning for a second but his funds were limited. He could wait until he got home. Instead he walked his bike to a bench in the shade of an elm, sat down and licked mustard from his knuckles before opening his Coke.
He sat, sipped cola, forgot his hunger and resumed watching people. He thought about Mrs. Anders and relived the fantasy in his mind, already believing it, knowing it had just happened instead of hiding himself in some bushes like a harmless pervert. Thinking of her made him think of Carrie and he realized he would probably have to apologize to her. She was likely going to be mad at him for ignoring her. He thought of this and a rush of anger flooded him.
As he watched his thoughts spun aimlessly. He thought of the dog giving itself up as a sacrifice. He recalled the sensation of its bones breaking like a handful of dried pasta in his hands. He recalled how good it felt. Still the anger remained. Why he was able to kill the dog and not his father he did not know. Later I tried to tell him both were wrong, both were evil. He did not even acknowledge my presence let alone my voice.
The afternoon wore on. Shadows marched eastward undaunted. Freddy lingered over his Coke and finished the dregs only as luke-warm, syrupy spittle choked down more to moisten his lips than for any kind of pleasure or enjoyment. He watched and fantasized. In his fantasies blood mixed with semen on sun-warmed asphalt as cries of pleasure and pain mingled in the air. The dog became his mother. Then it was Mrs. Anders and even Nancy Hicks for a time. Later it was even the UPS driver. Such thoughts both scared and excited him.
But Carrie never became the dog – not then. For the time being Carrie was special. Freddy knew he would apologize to her and they would pick up where they left off almost as though nothing had happened. Later she could be the dog. He thought of her fingers and her lips on him and shuddered an involuntary wave of excitement. He wanted to call her, maybe even masturbate again while she was on the phone. He would let her know he was doing it too. She would need quite a bit of convincing to get down in the basement again but it would be worth it.
Freddy stood then, his back creaking from long hours spent on the bench and tossed his empty can at a trash bin nearby. Two points. He pulled his bike upright and prepared to mount.
“Freddy!” He heard his name echoing across the Green. He chose to ignore the cry and swung a leg over the bike.
“Freddy, wait up!” Closer now. It was Carrie.
Freddy cursed and glanced up squinting against the lowered angle of the sun. He had not realized how long he sat on the bench but late afternoon could more easily be called early evening now.
Carrie came jogging across the field, ball cap turned backwards, her bat and glove in tow. She was not alone. Two of her team mates, Jason Burman and another he did not immediately recognize, followed her.
Jason was a cocky, self-important braggart. His dad played line-backer for the Calgary Stampeders and Jason thought that made him the coolest kid in town. Freddy hated him and I must admit I was not overly fond of him either. Everyone either adored him completely or despised the very sight of him. There was no middle ground.
Freddy leaned his bike against the bench and waited for them. He hoped the guys would hold back and he could be alone with Carrie. They did not.
Carrie stopped a few paces short of embracing him. It was a gesture she still believed would have earned her universal ribbing from her team mates, most of whom were watching from the Diamond across the field. She was a beautiful young woman but she was still a tomboy as I have said and, in many ways, she thought and functioned as a boy her age would.
In a perfect world she would have turned out a lesbian and I would likely not be telling this story. But she wasn’t, the world isn’t perfect and I am telling it. Whatever.
“I didn’t know you had a game,” Freddy said. They didn’t of course – he could tell by her jersey. But it seemed a good enough way to break the ice.
“Nah, just a practice,” Carrie replied. Behind her Jason tugged at his own red and white jersey. The game jerseys were a solid red with blue lettering. These were rather plain in comparison. He let his tongue loll out and rolled his eyes.
Carrie did not notice. “I guess you’re not playing this year. You didn’t say anything – I just assumed you were.” She took a hesitant step closer.
I don’t believe Freddy made the conscious choice not to play baseball. The registration day was on the previous Saturday – a day during Freddy’s isolation. The cash had been left out for him on the kitchen counter. He took it. I guess he did not want to explain to John that he wasn’t going to play. As much as John pushed the sports, he didn’t often make it out to games. For a free thirty-five bucks Freddy knew he could fake it for two months.
Freddy shrugged, ignoring her obvious disappointment. “Guess I just felt like taking it easy this summer. I’m not sure if I’m gonna play football either.”
“Freddy, you gotta play football!” Now she seemed nearly devastated. Carrie loved football almost more than she loved baseball. But because of the contact element girls were not allowed to play. This was one equality issue her mother never seemed to mind. Instead Carrie lived vicariously through Freddy. She went to every game and nearly all the practices. If he didn’t play, she had nothing in the fall to look forward to.
“I’ll see how I feel about it then,” Freddy replied. “I’ve still got plenty of time to make up my mind.”
“She’s right, Cartwright,” Jason declared. “You gotta play. No one can warm the pines quite the way you do.” His friend – Gerry, Gerry Robinson, Freddy recalled – cackled a high, unstable laugh.
<
br /> Carrie rolled her eyes but Freddy ignored them.
“Look, I -” She stopped and glanced back at her team mates. “Gimme a minute, ‘kay?”
The two glanced at each other. Gerry shrugged and turned to leave. Jason did not move.
“C’mon, lemme listen. I need a laugh before Freddy heads home to mommy.”
Carrie stomped one foot and, using her bat, gestured back across the field.
Her back to him, Freddy shot Jason a look saying far more than words alone could. His grin faltered and he took an involuntary step backwards.
“Fine,” Jason pouted. Gerry turned him around and gave him a playful shove. “Just hurry up. We can’t wait all day.”
Carrie watched them leave, the bat still held in one outstretched fist. She waited until they had crossed the field, slowing only for a pair of cyclists on the pathway that skirted the ball diamonds before disappearing into the crowd around home plate. She turned to Freddy then, sighed and lowered the bat. “Sorry about that. Jason’s a dick.”
Jason was a dick – which I will concede. He also had a thing for Carrie. Every chance he got he brushed up against her, making clumsy attempts to cop a feel. Behind her back he made obscene gestures, commenting on what he wanted to do to her for the apparent amusement of those around him.
I was certain the time would come when he and Freddy squared up over her. In that meeting I was quite certain Jason would lose but I half hoped Freddy would get his ass handed to him. Freddy was never a bully or a fighter but he was fit, well-built, and taller by a head than most of his classmates. His size alone classified him in the minds of his peers as a bruiser. Consequently, I don’t think Jason was willing to provoke him if it could be avoided.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Carrie said. She set her bat and glove on the bench beside his bike. She stepped up to him, laying one hand on his chest, a finger idly tracing the hollow between his youthful pectorals. “He’s a dick,” she repeated.”
After The Flesh Page 8
