The obvious blonde wig, the older woman who outweighed him handily, the bath she apparently took in some god-awful perfume, her face painted in makeup a clown would deem excessive—it could all be accepted as comedy one way or the other, accountability for taste debatable.
But the dress. The thing you can’t stop looking at. Something off about it, right, son? Despite all this madness?
“Hi, Josh,” Tammy Kearns said behind a blush that competed with her excessive rouge. “You look handsome.”
The boy turned and gaped at John. John returned an expression that was a shrug without the shoulders.
Not a joke, son. I wish it was.
“The corsage, Josh,” John said. “Maybe you should give my daughter her corsage now.”
The boy turned back to Tammy Kearns, his frightened eyes filling up. Tammy’s followed seconds later, and she quickly fanned a hand over her face, trying to stem the tears. “Oh, Josh, stop; you’ve got me going now. Daddy?”
John Kearns knew his ‘daughter’ wanted a tissue, but he dared not move. Dared not even speak. It was all he could do to remain still, to keep from breaking out into hysterics over the twisted irony unfolding in front of him.
* * *
Tammy Kearns extended her thick wrist towards the boy. She held it there for several seconds as the boy gawked at it.
John Kearns nudged the boy from behind. “The corsage, son.”
“Daddy. It’s his first time. Be nice.”
Again—although by now, he had to know the gesture held no salvation—the boy turned and looked at John, eyes pleading.
“I don’t want the thing, son,” John Kearns quipped. “You’re supposed to give it to her.”
John and Tammy laughed. John really laughed, released that bottled hysteria he struggled to cork moments ago when the boy and Tammy were both crying for the wrong reasons. Was he enjoying this? Had he tapped into some dark place from within after years of deviant conditioning? Was he becoming like Tammy? Dear God, was he becoming like Tammy?
No. No. He knew what was right. What was wrong. What was the truth. He stopped laughing instantly. That nudge now became a nurturing pat on the boy’s arm.
“Put it on her wrist, son. On her wrist.”
The boy began attaching the corsage. Finished, he couldn’t pull his hands away fast enough.
Tammy Kearns swooned. “Oh, Josh—it’s beautiful.”
“Very,” John Kearns agreed.
Tammy Kearns grinned, her full cheeks bunching up, swallowing eyes that had been floating in pools of shocking blue eye shadow.
And then the boy asked a question. Two questions in fact. And his questions gave John a moment of pause. In the past, not one of them had ever asked such things. Most of them barely even spoke unless John forced them to.
“Where is this prom? How are we getting there?” the boy asked.
And John Kearns had no immediate response. He knew where the prom was being held of course, and of course he knew how they were getting there, but the boy’s simple asking had momentarily pinched his tongue. Normally John would just follow Tammy and a boy down the basement stairs and into the room decorated for the occasion—the room that was the prom. Lights, banners, music—it was all there. On the farm. Even the little bedroom adjacent to the dance floor. The bedroom where he would force the boy to have sex with his wife—their daughter’s first time.
Except no one had ever asked before. So John Kearns hesitated. He hesitated because he’d never been asked before, and he hesitated because he wondered if the boy thought they might be traveling somewhere, thought there might be an opportunity for escape. He couldn’t allow that. The boy was growing nerve, or at least appeared to be; John’s suspicions could just be particularly acute for this one. So he needed to thwart it all right now. On the surface, a fearful boy and a cunning boy may seem no different, John thought. Both would go through the motions, but only one would be scheming, looking for opportunities of escape. A fearful boy was a puppet: as long as you promised him freedom when it was over, you had full control of the strings. John needed the puppet, couldn’t risk dealing with the other. He was too tired and out of shape to give chase if something happened. Mostly, he was just too tired.
So when John Kearns opened his mouth to give a reply that even he was unsure as to what the contents might be, his wife interrupted him. And her response was perfect. Had she been in her right mind, he would have thought the fucking thing had been deliberate.
“Daddy’s taking us,” Tammy said with a chuckle. “He’s a chaperone. You knew that.”
John Kearns inched close to the boy, whispered into his ear. “Daddy’s taking you.” He then removed the gun from his pocket and stuck it hard into the boy’s back, ensuring Tammy was obscured from it all. “I’m your chaperone.” John dug the point of the gun into the boy’s back as though he meant to stab him with it; he needed the puppet. “Now—I told you I’d let you go when this was done. But I’m getting the feeling you might give me problems. If you give me problems, you only need to remember where you are. And that’s nowhere. And I mean that in both location AND mind, son. Believe me; I know…you’re fucking nowhere.”
John lowered the gun, subtly pocketed it as if he’d just stolen it when the clerk’s back was turned.
“What are you two whispering about?” Tammy asked.
The boy swallowed hard. His voice shook when he said, “Your father was just telling me how special you were.”
Tammy Kearns put a hand over her heart, looked at John and glowed. “Daddy…”
John Kearns smiled back, but only because he knew the boy was his puppet again.
8
John Kearns clapped his hands together once. “We all set?”
Tammy Kearns smiled and nodded eagerly. She hooked her arm within the boy’s and squeezed it. The boy did not look at John for help this time. He seemed to be accepting it all, his face holding no affect—a drugged patient blindly following his doctor’s lead. Puppet indeed, John thought.
“Well then let’s get a move on,” John said. Except he did not turn towards the front door behind him. He banked right, out of the foyer and into the den.
The couple followed, Tammy Kearns a radiant ball of anticipation, the boy a zombie in a tuxedo.
Through the den, past the dining room, and then stopping in front of the basement door. Above the door was a giant banner. Tammy Kearns—when she was Tammy Kearns—had done it herself, confident the school would allow her to hang it, assuming John didn’t muck things up when he presented it to them. John had taken the banner, driven to a nearby corner store where he thumbed through a few magazines, and then returned a short while later to tell his wife the school had happily accepted it. The most prestigious high schools in the state should be so lucky, they’d said.
WELCOME SENIORS CLASS OF 2006! the sign read in every color Crayola knew about.
The boy gazed up at the banner, his mouth falling open a crack as he read. There were muffled sounds of music from below.
“We’re here,” John Kearns said, opening the door, the music below becoming more audible. John extended his hand with panache like a maître d’, gesturing for them to follow.
The bottom of the stairs was boxed off. It contained a table of items carefully laid out, a chair fixed behind the table, and a thick pink curtain strung high along the ceiling and all the way to the floor, the music and flashes of light sneaking past establishing the curtain’s role as…the curtain. Behold!
John Kearns hurried around the couple and took his seat behind the table. “Forever Young” by Alphaville was playing. Tammy told the boy that the song was one of her favorites. The boy said nothing.
“Well, hello there,” John Kearns. “Your names, please?”
“Daddy.”
John Kearns wagged a finger. “Tut-tut…I may be your father, but I’m also a chaperone tonight, young lady. Your names, please?”
Tammy Kearns giggled and said, “Samantha Kearns and Joshua G
riggs.”
John searched the name tags on the table—random names he’d gotten from a phone book, all of them. Except for two. “Ah,” he said, scooping them up and handing them over. “Samantha and Joshua.”
Tammy Kearns instantly snatched hers. The boy accepted his as if it was ticking.
John Kearns made his way out from behind the table, inched over to the edge of the curtain, gripped a handful of the material, paused and smiled at the couple. “Are we ready?”
Tammy Kearns grinned and nodded like she was having a seizure.
John Kearns whipped back the curtain and officially welcomed the happy couple to their senior prom.
9
The lighting, the music, the food, the décor—it was all there. John took note of the boy’s expression. The zombie was gone. In its place was a little boy seeing fireworks for the first time. But John knew the boy’s wonder would be fleeting, soon replaced by the frightened bewilderment they all had once things started rolling.
John Kearns hurried towards the DJ booth, grabbed the mic and said: “Hello, seniors…I’d like to welcome everyone here tonight…”
Of course, Tammy Kearns and the boy were the only ones in attendance, and would be, save for the wizard behind the curtain who wielded a gun instead of hopes for a heart, brain, courage, and a way home—the last of which, John mused, drawing freakish parallels to the boy’s situation, right down to the fabricated world he was forced to inhabit.
The boy would surely take note at the lack of other ‘prom-goers,’ had likely expected it, but as far as Tammy Kearns was concerned, there were others in attendance on this night, and then again, there weren’t. It was her and Josh. Only her and Josh. Lost within one another. And it was times like this that John Kearns found himself ironically grateful for the workings of the sick and delusional mind, how it could see what it wanted, hear what it wanted. Had John been required to provide some ‘extras’ at the prom in order to sell the whole farce, he’d likely turn the gun in his pocket on himself.
“…I know this is a very special night for all you guys and gals…”
The boy looked around, looked at John. John smiled back, winked, made a hand-gun and fired it at the boy as he kept talking.
“…so what I’d like to do now is slow things down, find your one and only, and show this dance floor a little bit ‘o ro-mance…”
Tammy Kearns blushed under the strobe light, held her hand out for the boy. “Crazy for You” by Madonna came on. The boy glanced back over his shoulder at John. John fired the hand-gun again, no wink or smile this time. The boy turned back, took Tammy Kearns’ hand, and started dancing.
10
“Crazy for You” ended and “Keep On Lovin’ You” by REO Speedwagon came on next. Tammy Kearns had her head on the boy’s shoulder, eyes closed in blissful content, her thick arms tight around the boy’s skinny waist as they (she) swayed to the music. John caught the boy’s eyes filling up for a second time, but a quick, casual swipe from the sleeve brushed the tears away and alerted Tammy Kearns to nothing. Besides, if she had seen them, she would have likely interpreted them exactly as she’d done before. So John didn’t fret. He did, however, approach the couple when “Keep On Lovin’ You” was finished and “Let’s Get it Started” by The Black Eyed Peas was next. “Let’s Get it Started” was a lively dance song that required far more than just hugging and shuffling. John Kearns had no desire to see his wife attempt such a thing.
“Why don’t you two grab some punch? Relax a little?”
Tammy Kearns looked up at the boy. “Do you want some punch?”
The boy looked at John Kearns who nodded, and so the boy looked at Tammy and nodded.
Tammy Kearns took the boy by the hand and dragged him towards a table that held two punch bowls—pink punch and blue punch.
John Kearns appeared by their side. “Allow me.” He took the ladle from the pink punch, filled a large plastic cup, and handed it to his daughter.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
John Kearns took a second cup, filled it from the bowl of blue punch, and handed it to the boy.
The boy took the cup, looked at it, looked at the two bowls, looked at Tammy’s cup, and then back at his cup again.
“Something wrong?” John asked.
The boy didn’t respond—his gaze shifting from bowl to bowl and cup to cup responded for him. Tammy Kearns chose to register this hesitance. And she chose to address it. Not at its core though—not at the truth behind the reason for the two bowls, the two colors, the two different offerings. The woman, no matter which persona her warped psyche donned, no longer had a grasp of the real truth. So she addressed it as plainly and as innocently as a child might if asked why a girl was given pink punch and a boy was given blue.
“You didn’t want pink punch did you?” she said. “Pink is for girls and blue is for boys.” She took a sip of her pink punch then smiled.
The boy nodded back, seemed to accept her response. And why not? After all the shit he’d seen, that might have been the most logical response he’d gotten all night. And John felt the sudden urge to explain everything to the boy. He didn’t know why. To unburden himself maybe? Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he’d know how. He could go back to how it all started easily enough, explain that without trouble. But this? What had become the now? Even he didn’t truly understand it. His wife may have been the Charlie Bucket who found the golden ticket of suppression, thus inheriting the cuckoo factory, but he was left running the damn place, wasn’t he? He was the fucking Oompa Loompas. The Oompa Loompas who didn’t have the luxury of blissfully deranged ignorance. The Oompa Loompas who did whatever their eccentric master demanded, knew everything that went on behind the scenes, had to live and deal with that knowledge day in and day out, lest the factory implode.
And yet he did it anyway. Did things for his wife that would make most men run and call the police; run and call the asylum; just run. His devotion to his wife’s madness had become his world, because the alternative was the real world—a world beyond the farm. He’d heard of prison men becoming institutionalized after long stays, not wanting to be released, afraid to face the world after years of horrific norms. Was that what was going on here? Had he become institutionalized? The farm his prison? He didn’t know.
Perhaps it was the lingering fear that had occupied his youth and young-adulthood—the fear of being alone. Bad company had now become preferable to no company, the price of placating his wife’s madness with such extremities reasonable when seen through eyes so tainted with a fear of loneliness. He didn’t know.
“Don’t you like it?” Tammy Kearns asked the boy.
The boy hadn’t tried the punch yet; he seemed content to merely hold it until Tammy Kearns had finished hers.
“It’s fine,” the boy said.
John put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezed it, showed Tammy a smile, then casually slid his hand to the boy’s neck and squeezed. “He loves it,” John said. “Go on, son—plenty more where that came from.” John squeezed harder.
The boy drank the cup of punch in one go. John said, “I’ll get you some more.”
11
They were dancing again. “Forever Young” by Alphaville was back on because Tammy had asked for it. The boy was a stalk of despair in Tammy’s embrace.
Defeated, John thought as he watched his wife lead the boy’s lanky frame on the dance floor. The boy is defeated. That’s good. Puppet had been essential for the goings-on thus far. Defeated was crucial for what lay ahead.
John waited until the song died, did not put on another, then approached the couple. Tammy was still dancing, eyes closed, head on the boy’s shoulder, smiling the dreamy smile, the music likely still playing in her head. The boy was limp in her arms, staring off into nothing, allowing it all like a tolerant pet being groped by a child.
“Princess?” John said.
Tammy Kearns lifted her head off the boy’s shoulder and looked at John.
“It
’s getting late. How ‘bout you show Josh your photo album?”
Tammy smiled and looked at the boy. “Do you want to see my photo album?”
The boy didn’t even bother to look at John this time; he nodded on his own accord.
Defeated puppet. Good.
“Come on, kids,” John said. “I’ll show you the way.”
He walked the couple all of six feet towards the only door in the basement, opened it, and extended his arm like the maître d’ again. The couple entered with John close behind.
The room belonged in a dollhouse. Pink and more pink. Antique furniture for looking and never touching. Porcelain dolls on display in every direction. A king-sized bed with more lacey throw pillows at the head than one could count at first glance.
No window.
Tammy offered the boy a seat on the bed. He took it without bother. Tammy happily joined him a second later, her girth squeaking the bed and bouncing the boy.
“Do you have it, Daddy?”
John Kearns handed over a thick album dressed in white material, its ornate texture like a doily. The word “Princess,” sewn in pink lettering and an extravagant font, took up most of the cover. Tammy Kearns opened the album.
The first page:
A little girl, dressed like a woman; looking like neither.
A heavy woman standing next to the little girl.
The little girl smiling a fake smile. The heavy woman next to her, a triumphant smile.
The little girl clearly not Tammy Kearns—because the heavy woman next to the girl, brandishing the first place trophy as if it were her own, clearly was.
And John Kearns watched the boy closely as he did with every boy after the first picture had been revealed. He watched the boy’s glazed expression fall on the picture with no interest, then with a little interest, then with curiosity, and then, like most, with a dawning fear that the nightmare he found himself in was far deeper than he could have ever imagined.
WARPED: A Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction Page 20
