When the police had officially called off the investigation, you’d have thought things would have died down, but no. My mother and I remained pariahs. I think it was a good year before I even chanced venturing past the mailbox. And even then it was only to Wendy’s. The drive-thru window. Hat, sunglasses, even a trench coat with the collar turned up. The lady at the window probably wondered if I was planning to pay for my meal or flash her.
Why didn’t we just move? Simple. With what? And to where? We could barely afford our lives now.
So I started to write. Many things spurred me on, the financial and social status of my mother and me only being one of them. I was doing it for Emma, and I was doing it for therapeutic reasons. My mind was a constant mess. Writing would be the intangible drug (in addition to the many other prescription meds I was growing hooked on) that would keep my head from spiraling out of control.
I developed a pseudonym—Adam Kale—for obvious reasons, and I dove in. Rejections were aplenty at first, but with a little luck, and long, long hours honing my craft and knocking on cyber doors, I eventually landed an agent, and I think you know the rest after that.
Ironically, I think it was being such the pariah that allowed me to make it in the industry sooner rather than later: I had fuck-all to do each day except write and read. If I was an aspiring author who worked nine to five and had a family, writing on the weekends? I’d probably still be on my first query letter to an agent.
I’m nearly done…just one more reason to respect my mom, if you please:
She never wanted a dime from me. When I became a successful writer and offered her everything and anything, she wanted none of it. The only thing she would let me do is relocate us. And that was just fucking fine by me.
I moved her far away—and right next to me. Five miles from me to be exact. I had relocated us to a beautiful suburb in Chester County, Pennsylvania, twenty minutes or so from Philadelphia. I wanted to move her into a palace, but it seemed her limit for gratuity peaked at relocation. The pleasant surroundings were enough; she would take a small modest home, nothing else. According to her, I worked hard for my money and she would not mooch it from me. I tried to explain my gratitude for the years she provided for me, working horrible jobs for horrible pay, but she only closed her eyes and shook her head. “That was my job,” she’d said. “You’re my son; I’m your mother.”
Christ, thinking about it now, I want to cry. I mean really cry.
My mother still works. She waitresses at a lovely restaurant in a swanky little town called Wayne, and she makes a decent income for someone with only a GED. With her house paid for, the only thing she has to worry about are minor bills. Even her car is paid for. Nice car? I’d call it modest. She paid for it out of her own pocket, insisted of course, and the thing gets her “…from point A to point B; that’s all that matters,” she’d tell you.
Suddenly, Villanova University seems a million miles from Berwyn, where Mom lives. I want to see her now. And as soon as I do, I’m going to wrap my arms around her, squeeze for all I’m worth, and tell her how much I love her.
I won’t tell her that I have to kill some fucked-up half-breed in order to keep her from dying a horrible death.
4
My mother is waiting for me by her front door. I had phoned on the way and she sounded eager.
I give her the hug I had been pining for, then tell her how much I love her.
She wiggles out of my arms and looks up at me, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Just telling you how much I love you.”
She continues to eye me curiously. I think it’s harder to lie to her than it is to Him.
She eventually shrugs it off, but I know it’s not gone; she’s logged it away for a later date, when my guard is down. She’s sneaky like that.
“So tell me about your reading,” she says. She then looks at the clock; it’s almost four. “You want tea?”
I don’t tell her that I’d prefer a martini served in a fish bowl—she knows I drink too much, and doesn’t approve—so I say: “Sure. You have any Lapsang?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Only what you leave here. I don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t, Mom. You tell me that every time.”
Lapsang Souchong tea is probably the only thing I drink more than water or alcohol. It’s an acquired taste, very smoky, but I freaking love the stuff. My mother can’t even bear to smell it, says it’s like burnt firewood. She also mentions her distaste for the stuff every single time we have tea together.
She smacks my arm. “You saying I’m getting senile?”
I make a sad face. “Awww…Mommy’s projecting.”
“Your shrink talk is as welcome here as your father.”
My face pops with playful surprise. “Wow—right out of the gate with the serious stuff. Calling him ‘father’ and everything. What happened to The Sperm Donor? Or my own personal favorite—” I do a lame Arnold Schwarzenegger accent and say: “The Inseminator.”
She’s fighting a smile. “I figured ‘father’ might shut you up faster.”
“Well played.”
She yields to the smile and I marvel at how beautiful she still is. A year past her 60th birthday and my mother still has people guessing her in her mid-40’s. You’d think that with the kind of life she’d led, the years would have accumulated everywhere and without remorse.
Nope.
Sure she has some grays and some lines, perhaps a few pounds where they didn’t use to be—but they’re only some grays; some lines; a few pounds.
And today she looks especially radiant. More so than only just yesterday, though I’m certain I can thank Him for affecting my perspective.
Why my mother is still single is a mystery to me. I know she’s lonely and would like to meet someone, despite her expressing indifference on the matter. I think the truth is that she’s shy when it comes to men. Yeah…despite her fearless nature in all other aspects of life, when it comes to men I think it boils down to good old fashioned shyness. When you have a child at seventeen and work dozens of jobs to feed the thing while keeping the heat and electricity on, your social life doesn’t just take a back seat, it ends up in the trunk. While others were spreading their dating wings in college and beyond, Mom had no choice but to keep hers flat to her back. And as the saying goes: use it or lose it. After so many years without, I think Mom, despite any desires, has resigned to…well…going without. Of course she’ll always have me by her side, but as a certain Oedipal caretaker for The Bates Motel once said, a son is a poor substitute for a lover.
“So are you saying you do or do not have any Lapsang in the cupboard?”
“If you didn’t take it home with you last time, then it’s still there.”
“Awesome. Well, then how about I spare your nostrils from my burnt wood leaves, and I go make the tea.”
She gives me that headstrong look of hers. “You will not. Son or stranger, you’re still my guest. Sit your butt down.”
I smile and flop on the sofa. She leaves for the kitchen and my smile fades.
* * *
When I left my mom’s I gave her another extra-long squeeze, and an “I love you” that was unavoidably too heartfelt for just a hello and a cup of tea.
Again I got the curious look, and while the meaning behind my affection was no different than it had been when I arrived, there was also something else; something that hit suddenly and painfully mid-hug.
I might never see her again.
Yes, I was going to go through with His proposal, but some major what-ifs had flashed all at once:
What if the half-breed killed me before I could kill him?
What if I failed, the half-breed fled, and He punished me for my failures by killing my mother?
And what if I didn’t fail? What if I succeeded, killed the half-breed, and He still killed my mother? He gave me His word He wouldn’t, but big-fucking-hairy deal. This is Him we’re talking about
here.
Bottom line? Anyway you rearranged the above scenarios, the final outcome proposed a likelihood that I might never see my mother again.
Unless I successfully kill this thing. And He keeps His word.
And that’s why I squeezed Mom harder on my exit than I did on my arrival.
5
I’m mixing my third vodka martini. The sound of ice and vodka swishing and clanking inside the metal tumbler holds a shameless comfort. After I pour, my glass will predictably frost then shine; and this too will bring a shameless comfort, as though I’m being given something pristine. And in a way I suppose I am. I am also unabashedly and systematically defiling this pristine gift. With each sip I am removing an article of its clothing, whispering sweet nothings in its ear, promising eternal love afterwards if you just keep it coming, please; let me have my way.
The next morning? Christ, the analogy I’m playing with here is so obvious it’s insulting to even elaborate. Onward.
I pour; I watch the frost, the shine; and then I pick it up and sip—perhaps I’m unhitching the bra with drink number three here.
“I’m not sure you should be drinking.”
He’s behind me, lips at my ear. Somehow I didn’t drop the glass, but my drink stood no chance; it was all over my clothes the second He spoke.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Again with your insistence on calling me that,” He says.
“Again with your insistence on trying to give me a coronary.”
“Oh, if I wanted to…” He extends one of his freakishly long fingers and touches my chest. I immediately feel an uncomfortable tingle down my left arm. My chest starts to tighten, breath leaving me.
Now I drop the glass. I’m not sure if it broke when it hit the floor because I don’t care; the pain in my chest is everything. I drop to one knee, struggling to breathe. I place a hand down on the floor to steady myself and a glass shard pierces my palm. I guess it did break.
I’m getting tunnel vision, the circle of light at the end going further and further away. My sternum feels as if it’s being crushed, each labored breath shorter than the last.
Yet somehow, amongst all the pain and fear, I know…
I know He won’t kill me.
The fucker is simply amusing Himself.
And that makes me fight on.
I begin frantically patting at the floor of broken shards, cutting my already-bloodied hand some more. I’m hoping I can find it. I’m also hoping He’s now looking at me, confused, wondering why I would do such a thing. When I finally find it, the long stem to the broken martini glass, palm the circular base, and then ram it for all I’m worth into the top of His foot, I know He doesn’t feel a thing, but it’s the closest my dying body can come to saying: Fuck you, bitch—you can’t kill me and you know it.
And then, just like He’d done with the burning tattoo in my car, He makes everything stop. The pain in my chest is gone, my breath is back, and my vision is no longer a constricting tunnel.
The glass stem is no longer sticking out of His foot—He’s spinning it between His thumb and index finger like it’s a flower, not a trace of blood (or whatever’s inside Him) on it. How it went from His foot to His fingers, I don’t have a clue; I never saw Him move, even after I jammed the damn thing in.
I get to my feet. He’s smiling at me, eyes yellow, still spinning the glass stem in His thumb and index finger.
“You really don’t give yourself enough credit,” He says. “That was remarkably impressive. First your verbal defiance in the car and now a physical response? I believe this evening will run smoother than I’d hoped.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, rubbing my chest even though all traces of pain are incredulously gone. “There was no fucking reason for you to do that.”
“Oh, but there was.”
“Such as?”
“Testing your resolve.”
“Fuck you. I told you I would do it. You didn’t need to test anything.”
He smiles then flicks the glass stem away. “Shall I give you a free one?”
“What?”
He sticks out his chin and taps it. “A free one.”
“Hit you?”
“You don’t want to?”
“I’d fucking come if you let me.”
“I am letting you.”
I shake my head. “No way.”
He sticks His chin out further. “Yes way. No games, no repercussions. Just swing away.”
I don’t think, just throw. Punch after punch, smashing into his face. My right hand is still—and will always be—a mess, and I’ve had enough fights back in the day to know that if you punch someone in the head long enough, you’re probably going to bust your hands.
I feel none of that here.
Each punch cracks then sinks into His face, sparing my hands, like I’m hitting a head made of rubber. With each punch His face caves, only to instantly pop back until the next punch caves it again.
His cheekbone collapses, pops back.
Nose flattens, pops back.
Eye socket caves, pop.
And He’s just standing there, letting me, none of it fazing Him—He may even be smiling…yeah, He’s smiling—but I don’t give a shit.
I’m sure it all looks comical, surreal, grotesque; a fool’s exercise in futility—His face sinking then popping then smiling, sinking then popping then smiling; me punching and punching and punching and punching—but again, I don’t give a shit.
It feels so damn good; I may just come after all.
My wind, not my desire, eventually stops me. I’m pitched over in front of Him, hands on my knees, catching my breath.
“Feel better?” He asks.
I look up at Him, hands still on my knees, still breathing hard. “Only if you don’t retaliate.”
He looks down at me, not a mark on His face, eyes…green, I think? Can’t really tell. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” He says.
I eventually stand upright. “Why’d you let me do that?”
“I wanted to see if you would.”
“More resolve bullshit?”
He points to my cell phone on the kitchen counter. “Don’t you have a call to make?”
6
I snap my phone shut and look at Him. “They gave me an address.” I show Him a piece of paper I scribbled on during the call. “I’m to be here in an hour.”
His long white fingers pluck the paper from my hand.
“I know the neighborhood,” I say. “Town called Broomall. Should take us twenty minutes or so.”
Eyes on the paper He asks: “Do they suspect anything?”
I shrug. “Doubt it. The guy I spoke to sounded excited.”
He smiles and hands the paper back to me. “Excellent. Shall we?”
I take the paper on reflex, my mind elsewhere. “Uh, don’t we need…don’t I need…?”
He looks annoyed. “What?”
Two martinis have numbed my apprehension, so I blurt: “Something to kill your child with.”
He closes His eyes and softly says, “When the time comes…”
7
An hour later.
I’m standing at the front door of an impressive two-story colonial. Not at all what I expected. I ring the doorbell and it’s answered immediately. Same guy who was at my reading. He’s still wearing the alien with the peace sign shirt, and he still looks as if bathing and grooming and exercise were things you only did after losing a bet.
“Are you alone?”
I look behind me. “Far as I know.”
“Were you followed?”
I look behind me again. “Don’t think so.”
He waves me in quickly. I step into the foyer and he locks the door behind me.
I’m lead through a tastefully furnished living room, through a modern and immaculate kitchen (no way this guy lives here), and then to a basement door.
“Down here,” he whispers quickly.
Ah—mom and dad’s place. Wond
er if they know what Junior’s got hiding in his man cave…assuming the thing is even down there.
He opens the door and waves an anxious hand for me to go first. I go down a few steps and he shuts the door behind us. I hear a heavy bolt sliding. It doesn’t sound right given the home’s décor. Surely mom and dad didn’t have something like that installed just so Junior could have his priv—
Something jabs into my back. I don’t turn around, just look over my shoulder. Junior’s got a gun on me.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Kale.”
8
I’m tied to a chair in a finished basement. I normally avoid basements as much as I do sobriety (fifty bucks if you can guess why), and though I feel I can handle it without flashing back twenty years ago, the gag they have stuffed into my mouth is starting to make me panic, hitting on too many memories. At least the thing is cloth and not a rubber ball. If it had been the latter I’m quite sure it would feel like the anvil was on my chest.
The basement is nice. Not elaborate—certainly not like the one on Elmwood—but not humble either. Perhaps the only thing it’s got beat on the Elmwood mansion is a very impressive computer station in the distance that looks as if it communicates with NASA.
Take away my binds, and you’d think I was the guest of honor. I’m sitting in the middle of the room. Three men face me, seated on the rug in a semi-circle, looking up at me like kids about to hear a campfire tale. And who knows, maybe they are. Maybe He was wrong. Maybe these guys just wanted to hear more of “the truth.”
They didn’t have a half-breed.
They didn’t know about Him.
They just got some wild idea about kidnapping an author so he would spin more yarns for their desperate-to-believe ears.
I think about the great Stephen King and his brilliant novel Misery.
Mr. King’s character, Paul Sheldon, is a best-selling author being held captive by Annie Wilkes, a crazed nurse and “number-one fan” who insists Sheldon writes Annie her very own sequel to his best-selling Misery series.
WARPED: A Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction Page 16
