Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  "Fuck that," Dick snarled as he put the keys in the ignition and placed the apple in his lap. "I'm just going to get a big-ass SUV made for fat people."

  Trey laughed. "That's called a Winnebago, Dick."

  Dick turned to him, his face set in a scowl. "Fuck you, Leger. Goddamned cajun."

  Trey just smiled at him and took another sip of coffee.

  Dick shook his head. "That's it. I'm kicking your ass so bad, you won't even admit the score to your son."

  "Are you kidding? He believes my lies. It's the nature of fatherhood."

  Dick harrumphed and started the car. After several chuffing sounds and squeals from the starter, the engine fired. The radio sparked to life, Pink Floyd smashing through the speakers.

  "Christ, turn that hippie shit down!" Trey yelled above the din.

  With a grin, Dick turned the volume up, put on his seat belt, and pulled out of the driveway.

  Chapter 9

  The disc golf course was mostly empty. A few cars sat in the parking lot, but most of those were from the tennis players. Trey watched as Dick scanned the hills, looking for discs flying through the air. Nothing. He turned and smiled at Trey. "Looks like we're loners today."

  Trey scowled. "I guess you're going to imbibe, then."

  "Well, fuck yeah," Dick said. He headed toward the practice tee beneath the blanket of pines and brush. Trey followed, his bag hanging from his shoulder. When they reached the edge, Dick pulled out a dirty white disc. He dropped his bag to the concrete and held the frisbee between his fingers.

  "Watch and weep," Dick whispered and flung it. The disc flew between the branches, heading toward the metal basket. It hit the dirt just before the basket and spun around in a small circle before stopping. He turned to Trey. "All right, whipper-snapper, try and top that."

  Trey lowered his bag to the concrete and pulled out a blue disc. "Move aside, old man," he said and pushed Dick out of the way. Dick laughed, raised his hands, and moved to give Trey enough room. Trey stood parallel to the basket and flung the disc forehand. The disc took off with an awkward wobble, made a slight left turn, and then struck a tree limb. The frisbee bounced and landed in the brush.

  "Fuck."

  "Not a good start, young'n," Dick said in a flat tone. "Maybe you should try again with a little less suck?"

  Trey turned toward Dick. The man was smiling at him. "Maybe you should drink a big cup of shut-the-fuck-up." He smiled at Dick and then slapped him on the back. "It'll get better."

  "I fucking hope so," Dick laughed. "I don't want to be here all day." The two men grabbed their bags and headed between the trees.

  Dick waited on the path while Trey crawled into the brush and stood where his disc landed. Mindful of the brambles, Trey picked up the blue frisbee, lined himself up, and flung the disc again. It stayed low, barely flying above the branches of an oak, slipped through a pine tree's nest, and landed next to the basket.

  "Told you," Trey said as he walked back to the path.

  Dick harrumphed and then walked to the basket. He didn't even bother dropping his disc in the chains. It was just practice, after all. Dick turned toward the concrete walkway and Trey followed his gaze.

  Dick turned to him. "Yup, it's time." He pulled a small glass pipe from his bag and a Bic lighter. Trey opened his mouth to say something, but Dick already had the pipe to his lips, flaring the flame into the small bowl and inhaling. The smell of marijuana crept through the winter morning. Dick exhaled a large cloud, coughed and then turned back to the walkway. Still no one there. He smiled at Trey and took another hit.

  "Fucking hate it when you do this," Trey whispered.

  Dick shrugged, tapping out the coals while he held in the last of the smoke. He blew a cloud toward Trey, watching it whisk and break apart in the wind. "Well," he said in a gravelly voice, "tough shit." Once the pipe was back in his bag, he bent down, picked up his disc, and headed toward the first tee.

  Trey sighed and followed. "One of these days," he said, "you're going to get busted again."

  Dick rolled his eyes. "Sheriff McCausland ain't gonna throw me in jail," he said. "I don't deal. I don't buy. I just, um, have a medical problem."

  "Right. A medical problem that started in the 70s."

  The older man laughed. "After the old bitch Dawson complained, and he came by, I haven't had any more problems with her. He told her I have chronic arthritis. Old bitch bought it too." He winked at Trey. "One of these days this shit will be legal. Until then, I'll just keep seeing McCausland at the cigar store."

  "Uh-huh," Trey said. "Why don't you throw a goddamned disc."

  "Man," Dick said and looked up at the first basket in the distance, "I need some Floyd."

  Trey laughed.

  Chapter 10

  Trey let himself into the house. Alan and Carolyn were gone. He smiled as he walked up the stairs and to the bathroom. They would bring food. After walking around the 18-hole course for an hour and a half and searching through mud and brambles for his discs, he was damned hungry.

  He stripped off his dirty sweatpants and damp sweatshirt. Dick hadn't even noticed the socks. Dammit, Trey thought. He'd forgotten to find an opportunity to stick them in his face. Maybe next time.

  Naked, he turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower.

  The water cascaded through his long hair, wiping away bits of bark and moss. Although it had been cold, they hadn't yet had a freeze, and everything in the forest was still alive. The oak trees were mostly naked, but the pines still had needles, ferns still had fronds, and brambles were still everywhere. Shit, he counted himself lucky he had managed to skirt the patch of poison oak on hole five.

  He opened his eyes and watched water patter out onto the bathroom floor. He cursed and then pulled the shower curtain shut. The world immediately darkened and his stomach knotted. A wave of claustrophobia hit him and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before the feeling passed.

  Every damned time he got into the shower it was like that. When he'd met Carolyn, he'd only been showering for a few years. Before that, it was the tub or nothing. Two baths, really. One to get the crap off him, drain the dirty water, and then a bubble bath to clean the skin. His hair had been shorter then and he'd used the water from the tub to wash his hair.

  In his twenties, he finally decided to break the habit and take showers. But damn, it was difficult. The claustrophobia was hard to break. And twelve years later, he was still fighting it. Trey longed for the day when he could stand in an elevator and not have his heart trip-hammer in his ears.

  He picked up the bottle of shampoo and slowly lathered his long hair.

  Dick had kicked his ass at disc golf, as promised. Dick had said they should rename the game to "Trey's 18 holes of suck." Trey chuckled as he remembered Dick's laughter. The guy was an asshole. A funny asshole. A good friend.

  Trey washed the shampoo out of his hair and quickly rubbed soap over his skin. Another final rinse of everything and he shut off the water. He reached for the shower curtain and stopped.

  "He's out there, Trey," a voice whispered in his mind. "He's out there and waiting for you."

  Trey shivered, but not from the cold air against his wet skin. He took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled the shower curtain open. He stood there for a moment, naked in the cold, while the voice continued its chant.

  He opened his eyes. The bathroom was empty. No bad man waiting for him. No pair of green eyes staring back at him, or the shadow of a man standing tall against the wall. Just the clothes hamper, the sinks, the toilet.

  The voice went silent.

  He stepped out, water pattering against the tile floor. He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrung out his hair. The water streamed off onto the bath-mat. It was damned cold now. Trey rubbed the water from his chest, back and legs. Once finished, he put the towel back on the rack and walked toward the door.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw the yawning, gaping darkness of the closet. Somethin
g was grinning in there. Watching him. Trey ignored the fear that shook his spine and walked into the bedroom. The moment he crossed the threshold and could no longer see the yawning closet, the fear abated. He took a deep breath.

  The Closet Man hadn't been this visible to him in quite some time. It had been at least a year since he'd been so visible.

  Trey strode to the chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of briefs, slipped them on, and followed them with a pair of old jeans. After putting on a clean T-shirt, he headed downstairs.

  Carolyn and Alan still weren't back yet. Trey headed to the coffee machine and started another cup. The small cupboard caught his eye and he heaved a sigh. He opened it up and pulled his large pillbox out. He popped the lid on the first "S" compartment and dropped five pills into his palm.

  White. Cream. Green. Yellow. Blue.

  After retrieving a glass of water, he threw all five into his mouth and drained the glass. The pills were a miasma of different flavors and textures. The chalky taste of one hit the back of his palate on its way down and he ignored the urge to retch.

  He'd been on the damned things so long he wasn't sure he could remember a time when he hadn't taken them.

  He placed the box back in the cupboard. The coffee maker finished burping out the last of its dark liquid. Cup in hand, he sat at the break- fast table and stared out onto the back deck through the glass door. The water oak he'd planted three years ago had already grown a couple of feet and reached for the sky, desperately trying to climb past the canopy of pines.

  The sun was already high, bathing the deck boards with light. If it wasn't so cold, he'd pull his laptop outside, set up shop on the deck, and maybe get some work done.

  Rattle of keys. Trey looked around toward the living room. The jingling sounded again. Trey stood from the table and walked past the living room and into the foyer. Carolyn's tall form stood next to Alan's. Alan was trying out his new key again. Through the smoked and bent glass, he could barely make out Alan's frustrated expression.

  "Won't turn," the boy said.

  "Try again," Carolyn said with a sigh. "Hurry up, kiddo. These bags are killing me."

  Trey fought the urge to go and unlock the door. He and Carolyn had talked about this. Alan needed to get used to letting himself in and out. That, of course, also meant he had to finally break in the damned key they'd given him. Another rattle echoed in the foyer and then Trey heard the click.

  "Got it, Mommy," Alan triumphed as he opened the door. He held it open for his mother. Trey walked past Alan and took the bags from Carolyn. "See, Daddy? I can open the door all by myself."

  "Yeah," Trey said with a laugh as he headed into the kitchen with the groceries, "I see that." Trey smelled quiche. His stomach growled with delight. He placed the bags on the island, and turned into Carolyn's waiting kiss. "Whoa," he whispered, "what was that for?"

  She smiled. "I'll show you later." She winked and kissed him again.

  Chapter 11

  Just as on Friday, and most other days, the school parking lot was already filled with cars getting ready to pick up kids. Trey stared at the mostly empty bike racks, wondering once again why more of the kids didn't ride to school and back. If it wasn't for the fact Trey enjoyed walking Alan to and from school, he would have suggested they get the boy a bike.

  But that could wait. Middle school was only a couple of years away. By then, Alan would probably be ready to move on from this routine.

  Trey knew it was inevitable, but it didn't make it any less painful to think about.

  He looked past the playground and through the copse of trees. The cream colored ice cream van sat parked at the curb, its sliding door was still closed. From this distance, he couldn't make out any movement behind the tinted windows. The ice cream man was surely getting ready, making sure he had coins and bills for change and whatever else it was Ice Cream men did before serving the children.

  "Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?" a phantom voice sang in his mind.

  Trey shivered. In his peripheral vision, he watched the woman a few feet away from him turn her head to look at him. He ignored her.

  "Scooby?" he thought.

  He fought away the jitters and stared at the school exit. The school bell's buzz would fill the world in a moment and children would start streaming through the glass doors. Alan would run out with them, but not quite be part of them. The thought of Alan's excited face made him smile. But the boy's lack of friends, and the way he always stood apart from the other children, made Trey feel a little sad too.

  The teachers had said not to worry, that one day he'd find his place among the throng. Whenever he and Carolyn asked Alan about it, he just stared at them as if they were speaking Greek.

  The kid was too smart. "Gets that from his mother," Trey thought to himself. "The aloofness? That's all me." Trey sighed.

  His eyes wandered once again to the parked van. It bounced a little, as though someone inside was moving about.

  Trey smirked. "Maybe Mr. Ice Cream is porking Mrs. Ice Cream," he thought to himself.

  The school buzzer sounded, giving Trey a start. The two women waiting to walk their children home both sighed in relief, as though the wait had been excruciating. Trey tried not to glance toward them. He was certain they already thought him a closet pedophile, rapist, or something worse.

  Jesus, didn't anyone talk to one another anymore?

  The glass doors opened and as if on cue, the ice cream van's music began.

  Trey snapped his fingers. "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" That was the song. He had tried so damned hard to remember its name and there it was, just like that.

  The river of children swept through the doors, most heading toward the white van. Trey watched them, their packs slapping their backs in time with their frantic footsteps.

  Trey turned back toward the school.

  Alan walked out the door, his eyes finding Trey almost immediately. The boy smiled at him and quickened his pace. Trey wanted to wave at him, but he knew that wouldn't be the "cool" thing to do. He stood at the curb, the quiet, unobtrusive old fart.

  "Well? You ready to go home?" he said as Alan approached.

  The boy sighed. "I guess so. I mean I'd much rather stay here than play on the Wii--"

  Trey shook his head and growled. "No Wii until homework is done."

  "Ah, Dad," Alan said in his best "poor me" voice. "Sooner we get home, sooner I can get it done and play, right?"

  Trey nodded. "You got it, kiddo." He reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. "Let's do it."

  "Yes, sir," Alan said.

  They made their way to the sidewalk in silence. Trey felt the jitters again. He didn't want to look at the ice cream van, but something glowed in his peripheral vision.

  Alan turned to look at the van. "He sure has a lot of kids today," Alan said.

  Trey kept his eyes straight ahead. "There is no Closet Man," he muttered.

  "What, Daddy?"

  Trey turned toward him and then stopped. His eyes locked on the long arms that jutted from the van, taking money and handing back wrapped treats. Talons. Not fingers. Talons attached to wretched, scaly flesh. He opened his mouth and then closed it.

  "Daddy?" Alan's voice said.

  He looked down at his son. "Yes?"

  Alan shook his head and grabbed Trey's right hand. "Come on, Daddy. The van doesn't like you."

  Trey nodded to him. "Guess you're right. Another one?"

  "Just a little one," Alan said.

  They walked in silence down the sidewalk, Trey fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder. The thing, no, he scolded himself, the man in the ice cream truck was not the Closet Man.

  "Scooby-dooby-doo" the childish voice sang in his mind.

  "Shut up," Trey muttered. Alan said nothing, just squeezed his father's hand a little tighter.

  Chapter 12

  From the study, Trey listened to the sound of Alan reading his homework aloud in the living room.

  During days when Car
olyn wasn't home and his son was in school, every minute was spent listening to music. While he coded, while he debugged, while he posted on forums and tracked down issues, every second was filled with the sounds of electronic beats mixed with guitars. It kept the left side of his brain asleep enough for the right side to work without interruption.

  But when Alan was home, Trey never listened to music. He knew it should have cut his productivity down, but it usually didn't. Just knowing the boy was in the other room was enough to put a smile on his face and keep him focused. Perhaps the music was merely there to reduce the loneliness. Trey didn't know and didn't want to know.

  As he went through the lines of code, his left brain woke up enough to let him know that Alan had stopped reading to himself. There was a new sound. Music. Bells. Trey shivered. He cocked his head to one side. The sound was growing louder. He and Alan had only been home for forty minutes or so, but he'd already forgotten about the ice cream man. Until now.

  The bells. They were the same fucking bells.

  That voice, the phantom child voice, started to sing, "Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?"

  The bells grew closer, their steady shriek silencing the birds tweeting in the trees and blotting out the sound of moving traffic.

  Trey stood, his body wracked with ice cold goose pimples.

  "Daddy?" Alan asked.

  Trey jumped and turned to face the boy.

  Alan's expression wasn't worried, so much as confused. "Did the Ice Cream Man follow us home?"

  Trey gulped. Alan's expression turned fearful. "You're spooking him," Trey thought to himself. With effort, he managed a false smile. "No," Trey said, walking forward to the boy. He ran his hands through Alan's sandy blonde hair. "He's just making the rounds."

  "Trying to sell to all the kids in the neighborhood?"

  "Yes," Trey agreed. "And some adults, I'm sure."

  Alan giggled. "Good business sense," the boy said.

  Trey laughed, a real laugh, and his smile felt less wooden. "Yes, it is. What made you say that?"