by Hunter Shea
“I’m pretty sure we do. You have to check the guide to find it, though. The ones I know are all the sports channels.”
While West flipped around the guide on the big screen, Matt followed James to his room in the back of the house. It was a tidy guestroom with a tightly made bed and spotless wood floor.
Matt whistled. “Your room used to look like a cyclone hit it.”
“I also used to swear I’d never see a naked titty and wrote terrible songs I’d send to Journey, hoping they’d record one and take me on tour.” He laughed for the first time since the cemetery. “Gotta respect my mother, the spawn of Felix Unger. She let things slide when I was young and dumb. Old and dumb means you keep your room clean.”
Matt sat on the bed. “I know you didn’t bring me here to show me you can make your bed well enough to bounce a quarter off it.”
“That I didn’t.” James opened a walk-in closet, rummaging around the shelf over the clothes rack. It was crammed with boxes and luggage. He unzipped a suitcase, along with an inner compartment. “Here it is.”
He pulled out a black handgun.
“You have a gun?”
“For years. I had to get one to protect myself when I owned a Laundromat in West Virginny. People don’t realize how dangerous that job is, especially when it’s time to take the money out of the machines. You’d be surprised by how many owners and worker bees get rolled, stabbed, or shot.”
Matt stared at the gun. “You ever use it?”
“Nope. But I had to flash it a few times to stop some bad shit from going down.”
“Can I hold it?”
“Try it on for size.”
Matt hadn’t had a gun in his hand since before West was born. Going to a gun range when he was in his twenties was just something he did a couple of times a year with his buddies. It was either that or a driving range. Matt always preferred shooting targets to smashing little white balls.
“Smith & Wesson .38 Special. They get the job done at close range.” Matt checked the cylinder, shocked to find it fully loaded. “You been expecting trouble here?”
James leaned against his dresser. “What’s the point of having a gun if it’s not loaded? You think if someone broke in here, he’d give me time to find my bullets and load the gun?”
“If he meant to do you harm, you’d be dropped before you got it out of that suitcase.”
Cocking an eyebrow, James wagged his finger at him. “You’ve got a point there. Anyway, that one’s my spare. Serial number has been scraped off. Totally untraceable. I have a .44, but that one’s legal. I got the .38 from a guy I met at a Coin Laundry Association convention. And before you ask, yes, they have conventions for people who own Laundromats. They’re good for the booze and a chance to see a new city, though they’re usually held in places like Cincinnati and Provo. Anyway, I want you to have it.”
Matt liked the heft of the gun, the cool steel and palm-sized grip. “Hey, man, thanks and all, but I can’t take it. Debi will shit if she sees a gun. I married a pacifist.”
“Then don’t let her see it. If you’re not going to call the cops, you need a way to protect your family. For all you know, those Guardians are getting old and want to make one last splash. That shit back there crossed a line. And you know they’ve been in the house. You shoot them once they’ve crossed that threshold, you’re within your rights.”
A part of him desperately wanted to accept the gun. James was right. Spray painting his mother and sister’s graves was taking things too far.
No, too far was slipping into the bathroom when Debi was showering, Matt thought, feeling his blood pressure rise even further. This is just sick.
The Guardians were getting bolder. What the hell was their endgame? After all these years, they had to have something in mind, a final straw they’d been meaning to break.
“I’d be arrested for possession of an unlicensed firearm. Not to mention, with my vertigo, I can barely see straight most days, much less shoot straight.”
He held it out for James to take it back. His friend refused.
“Then just keep it as a last resort. Like I told you, I only had to let dudes see the gun to put the fear of God in them. These Guardian pussies will turn tail just the same.”
Matt saw there was no returning the gun. And to be honest, he wanted it. The hard part would be the guilt of keeping it from Debi. But that guilt would be wiped clean if the .38 was all that stood between him and his family’s safety.
He emptied the bullets and put them in his pocket, then tucked the gun at his back.
“Man, that’s uncomfortable. They make it look so natural in movies.” Turning his back toward James, he asked, “Can you see it?”
“No, you’re good.”
“Thanks.”
James closed his closet doors. “On another note, you guys are welcome to stay here for the night. You and your wife can take my room. I have a sleeping bag somewhere for West. I’ll be happy on the couch. It’s actually where I sleep most nights anyway. I tend to pass out while I’m watching TV like the old man I’m becoming.”
“We couldn’t put you out. You’ve already done enough. What a way for us to reconnect, huh?”
“It has been exciting, I’ll give you that.”
There was a shrill scream in the living room, followed by the sound of gunfire. Matt reached for the gun, stopping himself when he realized it was just the movie West was watching.
“That’s one tough kid,” James said. “After everything, he’s still watching a scary flick.”
Matt scratched the stubble of his five o’clock shadow. “He doesn’t look at horror stuff like you or me. That’s his security blanket.”
“Like I said: tough kid.”
He was right. West was strong. Every day, Matt saw more glimpses of the man he’d soon become. He was both proud and sad; proud of what he and Debi had created together, and sad that he was rapidly losing the little boy who had been his shadow and his greatest joy.
And now, he was more determined than ever not to let any harm come to him.
Chapter Fifteen
West leapt from the chair to answer the door when the bell rang. It wasn’t his house and anyone could have been on the other side, but he just knew it was his mother. There was a slight hesitation when she saw him, but he opened his arms to let her know this was one of those times it was all right to hug, and hug hard.
“Matt,” she said. She pulled Matt close to her as well. West knew they looked corny as hell, but for the moment, he didn’t care.
“I’m surprised I didn’t get pulled over getting here,” she said.
“Jersey cops like to take naps in the afternoon,” James said.
“Sorry, Debi, this is James, my friend from the bad old days, at least until he left me.”
He shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, James, though I wish it was under better circumstances. Thank you for keeping my boys here.”
“Hey, it’s like nothing’s changed. Matt always spent more time over here when we were kids… for obvious reasons.”
West’s mother exchanged a strange look with James, as if she were looking for some kind of hint to the full meaning of it’s like nothing changed. Instead of elaborating, he said, “I’ll go forage in the kitchen and give you guys some privacy. I told your hubby that you all can stay here. It’s a small place, but we can manage.”
“Thank you again. That’s very sweet of you.”
When James left the room, West’s mother and father sat on the couch. West turned the TV off, preferring to stand.
“Okay, first things first, are you okay, Matt? I know that must have been a shock. You sounded so angry on the phone, I was worried about what you might do.”
He put a hand on her thigh and gave a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, if the person that did it was in the cemetery, I’d either be hiding out or in central booking for murder.”
“He was so red, I thought his head was gonna explode,” West said, pacing.
“A
nd how about you?” his mother asked.
It would be easy to tell her that the idea of being under the secretive, watchful eyes of people who didn’t think twice about desecrating a grave scared the living crap out of him. But as angry as his father was, his mother looked equally as worried. What was the point in adding to her concern?
“I’m fine. It’s kinda weird, but so is everything about Buttermilk Creek. It’s like living in one of those small towns in Goosebumps.”
She turned to his father. “Have you called the house and spoken to your father?”
“I tried once but he didn’t pick up. He either can’t hear the phone or he’s still out at the Post.”
“Maybe we should check the Post and tell him what happened. We’re sure as hell not going back to that house.”
Matt’s father looked down at his lap, shaking his head. “I know James said it’s no big deal, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable staying here, even for the short term. This is his parent’s house. I can’t see six people sharing one bathroom. Plus, James’s father isn’t in the best of health.” That was obvious by the small table filled with pills by the rocking chair. West had glanced at the bottles earlier, unable to recognize any of the names of the medication. They didn’t give him any clues as to what was wrong with the man.
“That’s fine. I agree with you. We can splurge for a hotel tonight. Maybe we need a little separation from the place to figure things out. After we find your father, we really should call the police, if not today, then tomorrow.”
Just the mention of the word police seemed to pain West’s father.
But why?
West’s curiosity wasn’t going to let that one go. No way.
For now, though, it was best he keep out of it.
“We’ll see,” he said. “We passed by a Super 8 before. We could check in there. It’s at the same exit as the Post. Rates should be cheap at least.”
“That sounds good.”
West hadn’t seen his mother and father look at one another with such affection in a long time. It was weird how fear and anger were what was bringing them together.
“Don’t we need clothes and stuff?” West asked.
“That we do,” his father said. “So, we’ll get a room and you can hang there with Mom. James and I will swing by the house and pack some stuff up. After we check the Post.”
His mother was about to protest but stopped herself.
It had been a long time since his dad took charge of things.
He faltered getting up from the couch, but was able to right himself. “James, I have one more favor to ask,” he said as he walked into the kitchen, keeping a hand on the wall.
“I can’t remember the last time we were in a hotel,” West said. Despite everything the day had brought, he couldn’t deny a small thrill at something that seemed so extravagant.
His mother flashed a tired smile. “Don’t set your sights too high. There’s no room service at the Super 8. We’ll be lucky to get clean sheets.”
It didn’t matter.
Sleeping in a new bed without those creepy words hanging over him, even though they were hidden behind the Ash Costello poster, was a vast improvement.
***
After James’s parents returned home, his mother tearing up at seeing Matt and being concerned about his nose, they ordered pizza while James explained what had happened.
“That’s horrible,” his mother said. “Your poor mother and sister.”
“Animals,” his father said. He was shorter than Matt remembered, with loose, sallow skin and bulbous bags under his eyes. “I hope the cops find them and rough them up before they throw them before a judge.”
As much as Matt wanted to get going after dinner, he had to be polite and catch up with Mr. and Mrs. Adams. They had been surrogate parents to him, after all.
The sun was setting when they finally left. Debi tookWest in the loaner car to the hotel.
Matt asked James to stop at the house first. If he could avoid the boozy geezers at the Post, all the better. The farmhouse loomed dark and silent. Matt got out of the car and looked around, wondering who was out there watching them at this very moment.
Did the Guardians take shifts, a pair of eyes always trained on his family?
Fuckers.
“Hold up a sec,” Matt said. He took the gun out from his waistband, keeping it in his right hand, his index finger crooked over the trigger guard. “Just in case.”
James pulled out his .44. “I’m with you on that.”
Together, they entered the still house, the front door unlocked, just the way Matt had left it. What was the sense of locks when the Guardians seemed to have total and free access?
He flicked the hall light on. His father wasn’t home. It was too early for him to be in bed, even if he was sleeping it off. Plus, his omnipresent pungent odor, the smell of booze sweating out of old pores, was missing.
“I can sweep the house,” James said.
“Don’t bother. I just want to pack a bag and get the hell out.”
He packed a couple of days of clothes for Debi and himself, making sure he got work outfits out of the closet for her. They went to West’s room next, the stairs cracking like gunshots. Climbing them with a cane in one hand and a gun in the other was no easy feat. He worried about slipping and the gun accidentally going off.
He was glad James was with him. Everything about the place felt tainted now.
What they were going to do from here on out was anyone’s guess. They had a rock on one side and a hard place on the other and he was feeling crushed by them.
James carried the suitcase to West’s room, plopping it on the bed. It sank several inches. “What’s the mattress made of, quicksand?”
Matt looked at the awful condition of the bed, adding a fresh wave of disappointment with himself. It was the first time he’d been upstairs since they’d moved in. He couldn’t even provide a decent bed for his son to sleep in.
He threw some clothes into the suitcase, along with a couple of books and magazines. West needed them more than the clothes.
“I like your kid’s style,” James said, looking at the horror pictures on the walls. “Especially that.” He pointed at the ceiling. Matt looked up and into the face of a goth girl with hair that was strikingly red on one side and black on the other.
“All horror and no honeys,” Matt joked. The mood needed lightening. “Okay, I’m all set. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They just stepped into the hallway when a dull thump they could feel through the bottom of their feet froze them in their tracks.
“Front door?” James asked.
“No,” Matt whispered. “It would have been louder.”
The day’s heat felt as if it was all trapped on the second floor. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
After a minute of not hearing anything else, they proceeded cautiously. No matter how quiet they wanted to be, the stairs gave them away. One of the steps protested mightily under James’s weight. It was during that creak of distressed wood that Matt thought he heard someone groan.
It sounded as if it came from right behind them.
He looked back so fast, he almost lost his balance.
“You hear that?” Matt said, still not daring to raise his voice above a strangled sigh.
“No. What’d you hear?”
Matt pointed to the upstairs hallway, just outside his father’s room. “It sounded like a person.”
James rushed back up the stairs, the massive .44 leading the charge. He ran into Abraham’s room and pulled the chain on the ceiling light. Matt waited on the stairs, dizzy, flexing his hand on the gun’s grip. This was crazy. If his father was home drunk, they’d end up shooting him for sure.
“All clear,” James said, turning the light out.
“It might have just been my imagination.”
“Well, since I’m already in room sweep mode, I might as well check downstairs.”
“Just don’t
shoot first and ask questions later,” Matt warned him as he passed him on the stairs.
It took him a little longer to make his own way down.
The spins wanted to set him on his ass. His stomach acids gurgled, looking for a way out. Matt refused to give in.
“Nothing down here, either,” James said. “Something could have fallen in that packed living room.”
Matt nodded through gritted teeth. “Probably what it was. The place is a mess, and that’s after we did some straightening up.”
“Post next?”
“Post next.”
Before they left, Matt took another look up the stairs.
The earlier noise distinctly sounded like a woman, the start of a suppressed sob before it was quickly cut off. He couldn’t see the top landing in the gloom.
That’s right where Mom died.
Dad keeps telling West the place is haunted.
Maybe he’s not a total lying sack of shit.
***
They weren’t surprised to find his father at the bar. He had a half-full highball glass of whiskey in front of him and a bottle of beaded Budweiser, playing solitaire. The smoke in the Post was thick as cheesecake. The veterans didn’t give a fiddler’s fart about the new no-smoking laws. As well they shouldn’t. They’d done enough to earn the right to smoke at the bar.
All eyes turned to Matt and James. The Post was a protective enclave of regulars. They were not one of them, in addition to being the youngest people in the bar by a couple of decades.
“Well, if it isn’t Esasky,” his father said, taking a swig from the beer. “I don’t remember calling for a driver, but you’ll do. Though I hope the hairy fella is the one behind the wheel.” He looked to the bartender. “Hey Johnny, that’s my prodigal son. Get him a beer, will ya? You can have a beer, right?”
Matt leaned heavily on the cane, waving the bartender off. “Dad, we need to talk.”
James said, “I’ll take his beer.” He settled down between a couple of gray- haired men that looked old enough to have served in Korea. They started at him as if he were a stone gargoyle come to life.
