Candy from a Stranger

by Buckner, Daryl;

  Sitting on my knees, I took a few short breathes and lit a cigarette, forcing the feeling away. Looking in all four directions the land was thick with sumac, the trees covering the majority of the two acres, forcing the old garden to have been somewhere near the burnt house. The scythe in the barn, although dirty, had been honed and rust-free.

  After twenty years, who in God’s name owns this property?

  One guess, Ben.

  I forced myself upright and aligned the screws from the hasp with the holes they had come out of. They sunk in easily and once I pounded them with the butt end of the screwdriver the lock looked undisturbed. Gathering up my tools I retraced my steps to my car and drove back to Breakline, stopping only once to fuel the Volvo and to splash my face in the dirty, urine-smelling restroom of a Bob’s Big Stop near the feeder road that led to Highway 79.

  *

  I’ve seen the face. I’ve seen the face and the hunger... the need is strong. There is a feeling of pressure, as if someone or something is bearing down on me and if I don’t hurry up I will fail. I will fail and then Mama will be disappointed and then if Mama is disappointed there will be hell to pay. There can be no failure. After all, I’m the Good One, the Good One – and the Good One cannot fail because if the Good One fails then all the cursers, all the fornicators, all the wicked unclean faces of the world will win and there will be hell to pay.

  The one watching, the one perverting my house be damned. Go-to-hell-and-be-damned.

  *

  “When am I going to meet the little lady of the house?” Charlie said. “Karen is getting worried about you. She says she’s afraid you’ve got her buried in the basement and this book you’re writing is all about ‘How-to-Collect-Her-Pension-and-Get-Away-With-It’!”

  We were standing out on the lawn, me with a garden hose in my hand and Charlie with a greasy fuel pump he was taking to AutoZone to complain about a poor fit on his prized Chevy.

  I tried not to flinch and said, “Jeanie’s a part-time bookkeeper and there isn’t a pension worth getting excited about. I’ve got her in the basement because she wouldn’t let me watch the Astros on Monday nights.”

  Charlie chuckled and said, “Seriously, when’s your main squeeze coming home?”

  I shaded my eyes against the waning sun. “Maybe another couple of days.” Just to put some support to my words, I added: “Her mother’s got pulmonary problems. You know how that is: the doctors get you on steroids for one thing and that just makes you susceptible to other things. She’s trying to fight off a little walking pneumonia right now.” I flicked the hose’s nozzle closed. “How that woman can catch anything, I’ll never know. She’s too mean for any germ to want to live there.”

  “God, I know what you mean.” Charlie lowered his voice, “I’d never say this to Karen but her mother makes Godzilla look like a freakin’ bunny rabbit.” He juggled the fuel pump between hands and looked guiltily towards his front door.

  I said, “You putting a new pump in tonight?” Unlike me, Charlie had a small garage attached to his house and I had seen the light on in it a few nights.

  “Nah, not enough time. I’ve got to go on shift tomorrow and I can’t burn the midnight oil all night long. I’m just going to go to AutoZone and get the replacement tonight. Be back in a jiffy.”

  He started to turn but I said, “Since you’re not going to work on your beast tonight, how about you come over for a few drinks – nothing heavy, I just want to talk to you about something.”

  He looked at me curiously. “Without Karen, you mean?”

  “Right. Just man-to-man. I promise: no porn, no spiked drinks, and no videos of my last vacation.” I tried to smile benignly.

  Shit. When I said “my vacation” Charlie’s eyebrows waggled and his antennae started twitching.

  Charlie stood there for a minute, staring at the motor part in his hands and then he looked up at me and said, “After dinner? Say about seven?”

  I said, “Perfect.”

  With a subtle shrug, Charlie turned to go and said, “See you in a few.”

  As he got in his truck and drove off I thought: stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s a freakin’ fireman, for Christ sakes! He probably smells trouble from a mile off.

  I rolled up my hose and went in to start typing a page of my fake book into my laptop.

  *

  “‘The Magician on the Third Floor’? Oops – sorry, I hope you don’t mind me looking at your book but it was staring me in the face and I promise I won’t steal the idea from you…” Charlie had just settled into the shabby chair I kept next to the table the laptop sits on. He cocked his head and said, “Just what is the idea?”

  I handed him a whiskey and said, “It’s a fictional story about a magician who comes to live in a rest home and... well, that’s all I’ve got so far.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Charlie was sweeping the room with his eyes and I could tell he was uncomfortable. I said, “I know, I know... I haven’t done much with the place yet. I’m afraid I’ve been waiting for Jeanie to get here... a woman’s touch, you know?”

  “Hmm, yes.” Charlie seemed to take a long time studying the ice in his glass. After a minute he said, “There is no Mrs. Cain, right?”

  I’m sure I blanched. I stammered, “What do you mean?”

  He drained his glass and put it out towards me for more. I poured with unsteady hands.

  Taking his new drink, he said, “I may look like the big, dumb jock-type but I’ve been around the block-a-time-or-two. In case you haven’t noticed, not everybody in Breakline is a hillbilly redneck.” His blue eyes searched mine.

  I gave up. “I know... believe me, I know. Hey, it’s nothing sinister – my wife and I are separated and she really is up in Seattle. I’m sorry I misled you... you and Karen.”

  “She’s really up in Seattle. And the mother’s really sick?”

  “No…” I hesitated. “…but she’s really a terror!”

  He took a drink. “Aren’t they all?”

  Charlie settled himself, set his drink down and said, “We’ve only known each other for a short while so I’m not going to pretend we’re good friends, but you got to understand that this is Breakline. We’re not all fussy Dot-Com-ers and college students like in Austin. We’re small towners and we look out for our own. You think I didn’t keep an eye on you when you first moved in? Like I said, we just met you but I’m in a job where you learn to trust your instincts. My impression of you is that you’re not a bad guy, you’re not going to piss in the rose bushes, but there’s also a lot you’re not telling. Am I right?”

  Reluctantly I said, “Yes.”

  “Is your name really Ben Cain?”

  “Yes.”

  “This stuff you’re not telling me... is it in any way going to harm Karen or Kyle or me? The neighbors?”

  “Absolutely not.” I wanted to tell him that I was here to save his son but he would have asked too many questions.

  “Well then,” He leaned back in the chair and draped one cowboy booted leg over the other, “This here is Texas and we don’t give a rat’s ass what you do as long as you don’t piss in our Cheerios. So what’s the big story? What did you want to talk about? Make it pretty snappy because I got to get up early.”

  I took a big breath. “I’d like to ask a favor.”

  “Hmm... okay. Shoot.”

  “There’s a piece of property in Kerrville. I’ve got an address but I don’t know who owns it. I want to find out the registered owner and I thought you might have some buddies in the Kerrville Fire Department who could look into it. There was a fire, a house, many years ago and the property appears vacant.”

  Charlie’s good-ole’-boy face was now dead serious. “Why don’t you go down to the assessor’s office and get the Plat numbers? It’s public record.”

  I hoped my face matched his. “I don’t want anyone knowing that I’m looking.”

  Charlie leaned forward and studied the floor for long, tense moments. Finally he s
aid, “I don’t know too many people over there but we do sort-of honor the Fireman’s Code.”

  “Code?” I said.

  Charlie swallowed a sip of bourbon and winked at me. “Thou shalt pull each other’s ass out of the fire.”

  The deadpan look was back. “I suppose I could say I know a real nice piece of land. A real sleeper. I suppose I could say I’m thinking of making an offer on it but I don’t want to track down an Agent, pay a commission.”

  I said, “You could say that.”

  Charlie paused a moment, then put down his empty glass. He rose and said, “Give me a day to work on it. I’ve got a two-day stretch and I should be able to find out something by then.”

  I said, “Thanks. What do I owe you?”

  I thought he was going to rebuke me but the baby-faced grin appeared. “We have a Fireman’s Ball coming up in two months. Tickets are twenty apiece.”

  “Put me down for two.”

  “Two?”

  I said, “Wishful thinking.” and walked him to the door. I held the door and as he stepped out he turned and said, “Just so’s we understand each other – if I find out this is some kind of stalker bullshit or some jealous boyfriend thing…” His face turned cold again. “…I’ll bury you in the basement.” And with that Charlie left for next door.

  *

  I spent the next few days in the park, aimlessly pecking on my laptop pretending to write the tale of the magician in the rest home and watching the entrance to the park. On Wednesday I put the “Judge” in my computer bag and tagged along with Kyle as he went to the park and skateboarded in the roasting sun, myself parked at a bench under an oak. I typed, drank Cokes, and waited for Arnie. The afternoon came and there was no Arnie, no Bono’s truck. That didn’t lessen my anxiety, I spent every second ready to sprint to Kyle and his skateboard until the both of us had had enough heat and we went back to our respective homes, stopping once briefly so that I could buy Kyle a Dove Bar at the corner Gas-n-Go. The attendant said Arnie had already made his delivery.

  Nights were spent staring out the front window, sipping Jack Daniels, fingering the revolver, and listening for the cell phone that never rang.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There are flecks – flecks of wet grass on my loafers as I turn the corner and run towards the playground. There is only fencing on the far side of the lot and there is nothing to stop me as I race to the idling van but my feet are moving too slow... too slow! My mind screams at my legs faster! Faster! but I can barely move as the whirlwind of candy wrappers rise up in front of me like a hot wall of red plastic. The van starts forward and I see the arm... the hand. Beating, beating against the glass... help me! Help me! Daddy you promised me that you would always protect me – always keep me safe but you lied and you didn’t…

  The place was a wreck. I had awoken from the dream and stumbled into the living room, sweating and panting like a scared animal and realized that my home was a dreary mix of old pizza boxes and fried-chicken containers; glasses and plastic cups strewn everywhere. My head was hurting but I resolved to clean up my mess. Showered and trimmed, I tackled the house room-by-room until I had cleared out enough garbage to fill three big plastic bags and my hands had gone all prune-like from washing everything I could find. Multiple pairs of jeans, shirts, and underwear went into a separate plastic bag and I made plans to go to the Wash-n-Dry and let the heavy machines do their work while I dined at the Golden Wok next door. It took all day but I was finally satisfied that the building wouldn’t be condemned any time soon so at dusk I placed the bags of garbage on the street corner, threw the dirty clothing bag into my car and headed for the cleaners.

  One General Chao chicken and sixteen quarters later, my clothes were folded and back in my Volvo and I was at the Gas-n-Go, picking up a bag of ice for after dinner drinks.

  A green Jeep Cherokee eased out of the entrance to Kennelly Park.

  Dropping the ice into a trash barrel, I ignored my car and ran the two blocks to Prospect, the Jeep turning into the street before mine. All three streets, Common, Prospect, and Pollard run their small distance parallel to the park and I had just enough time to arrive at my house before the Jeep made the turn from Common onto Prospect. Pulling franticly on the garden hose I stared at the bushes alongside the house with one eye and watched the Jeep slowly pass with the other. Sweat from my brow ran into my eyes and the car’s windows were tinted but I knew who was inside. The son-of-a-bitch was hunting. Kyle was inside; no neighbors were out collecting the day’s newspaper or walking the dog. As the Jeep made the turn to achieve Pollard, I sat on my front porch and lit a cigarette, feigning nonchalance and aimlessly spraying the grass.

  Son of a bitch! In the corner of my eye I watched the Jeep slowly come round and head in the direction of the park. I knew if I waited a few minutes the driver would make the rounds of the parking area, reverse his direction and cruise each of the three streets again. Perhaps more than once. I vowed to myself that if he made more than one revolution I would take the rake lying in the lawn and drive it through his windshield and to hell with the consequences.

  Reading my mind, the Jeep paused at each side street, as if to gaze down its length, and then drove on, passing Columbus and the Gas-n-Go on its way to the freeway.

  In a daze I walked back to the gas station, collected my soggy bag of ice, and drove the two blocks home.

  *

  Even when addressing the whole class, Horowitz had a habit of addressing just me, which made me the butt of many jokes and the wearer of many tags like “teacher’s pet” and “Horowitz’s whore.”

  “Mr. Cain, the key to aberrant behavior, if there is one, is perception. You and I look at a pretty girl (the rest of the class tittered) and we see Miss Peterson here…” The Mad Professor placed his hands on Gloria Peterson’s shoulders as she squirmed in her seat, “…but the aberrant personality sees something entirely different. He may see a tormentor. He may see a foe. He may even see a pretty girl the way we see her but also see the thread that’s loose on a button of her coat. The point is: to him or her, the loose thread is just as important, just as real as her blond hair, her way of walking; the small inflections in her way of speaking. His perception is as real to him as is ours viewing a car pass by or the sky starting to rain. Perception is everything. When a person perceives something a little differently than the majority, if that person is driven to sing a song or paint the Mona Lisa, then we call that person eccentric; perhaps even gifted, but when that person is driven to do the socially unacceptable we call that person mad. Certainly murder is mad, violence is mad – but how many violent acts have been supported; how many violent acts have been encouraged by the majority over time? Joan of Arc, on the advice of God himself, led the French to slaughter tens of thousands during the fourteen-hundreds.”

  Feeling combative, I responded, “That was a time of war.”

  Horowitz, moving to sit on top of his desk, was warming to his subject. “So? Isn’t war insanity? Isn’t talking to God a psychosis? My point is the French, for reasons of their own, chose to perceive Saint Joan’s message from God as real. What’s the difference between the French army and the lone gunman who gets up in a tower and opens fire on innocent people? The French chose to perceive Joan’s message as truth. The lone gunman has no choice. He cannot reason it out, he cannot change his mind, and he cannot consider another opinion. The tower gunman, the mother who kills her children, the school girl who kills dozens because ‘she doesn’t like Mondays’ – they have no choice.”

  Feeling the eyes of the class upon me, I said, “Crazy is crazy?”

  Abraham Horowitz, dangling his legs over his teacher’s desk, sadly repeated, “Crazy is crazy.”

  *

  After a fitful night I changed into a fresh outfit that looked exactly like the soiled one: collared shirt, jeans, tweed blazer, and loafers with no socks, when there was a loud knock at the door.

  Charlie: Brown surfer-cut, jeans and ever-present boots,
cradling a six-pack of Amstel in the crook of his arm.

  His expression was unreadable but, holding the beer up to me he said, “I come bearing gifts.”

  We sat as before, the two of us grouped around the window table. Before sitting I grabbed an opener in the kitchen and nonchalantly closed the second bedroom door, shielding the cork bulletin board with its parade of potential blond victims.

  Charlie did the honors with two bottles. He said, “Been away for two days – anything going on around the neighborhood? Did my boy behave himself?”

  I tried to smile as I recalled the Jeep and its exploration. “Of course. I caught him practising some kamikaze turn on his skateboard down at the park a day ago – he’s getting pretty good.”

  “I used to be able to do those tricks, but not anymore. Now you couldn’t get me on one of those things. I think there’s more chance of me hurting myself on a board than there is with anything on the job.” I clinked bottles with Charlie and we fell into an awkward silence. I wanted to read Charlie’s demeanor but with that baby face it was impossible. I wanted his knowledge but I didn’t want to piss the guy off, and there was no way I was going to reveal the danger to his son. If I played my cards right, the whole family will never know what might have happened.

  The Jeep. That damned Jeep.

  Abruptly, Charlie folded one leg over another and fixed me with a serious look.

  “I uhh... I did some snooping around about that property that you mentioned.”

  Oh Christ. Charlie’s acting like the house is bugged and he has to be careful about incriminating himself.

  I said, “Look. Seriously. I’m not up-to-no-good about the place. What did you find out?”

  I might have seen him relax. “They’ve got an old-timer over there, Rudy Grieves, and he’s been with the 58th for over thirty years, though he’s going to retire after Christmas. Anyhow, he’s a pretty sharp old cock and he remembers everything that happened back then. I got the feeling from talking with him that he wasn’t a big fan of the family that owned the place that burned down. To put it bluntly, he called them Schwein Mistshtewks – pig bastards, Rudy’s German or Austrian or something, and he said that no one was surprised when something bad happened to them. Apparently, the place was owned by the Mueller family – Albrecht and Greta or Gerda or whatever and they died in the house that was there sometime in ninety-one. Rudy was in on that one and he said there was no hope that they could save the house – it went up like it was matchsticks. The old couple never made it out.”