Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  The big man took Patrick’s hand first. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. Patrick thanked him, and the big man pulled Patrick into a powerful hug, patting his back hard.

  Patrick laughed and politely forced his way out of the man’s arms. “How did you know Bob?” Patrick asked.

  “Gilley’s,” he said.

  The man took one step left and fronted Amy. He held out his hand and Amy took it. It was thick and rough. “I’m very sorry,” he said to her. And then suddenly, the man began gnawing on a fingernail on his free hand, grimacing as he worked. “Sorry,” he said once finished. “Hangnail.”

  Amy fought a puzzled look. She exchanged subtle glances with Patrick who looked equally puzzled. The big man moved down the line.

  “Hangnail?” Patrick whispered to Amy.

  “Dad’s friends,” she whispered back. “He looked about as comfortable in that suit as he would a straightjacket.”

  Patrick smiled. And then his eyes dropped and he blushed. Amy instantly saw why. Ordinarily she would have been hit with a twinge of jealousy, but on this occasion, Amy granted her husband a pardon. The woman standing before Patrick was stunning. Even Amy felt like blushing.

  The woman extended her hand and Patrick took it. She then extended the other hand and cupped Patrick’s hand whole. She looked deep into his eyes and Patrick blushed again. Now Amy was a little jealous.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” the woman said. “I truly am.” She kept hold of Patrick’s hand, still staring into his eyes, unblinking.

  Amy immediately put her arm around Patrick’s waist and pulled him close. Mine! “How did you know my dad?” Amy asked.

  The beautiful woman let go of Patrick’s hand and turned to Amy. “I met him a few times at Gilley’s,” she said, taking Amy’s hand now, a one-handed, limp offering, the antithesis of what she’d given Patrick. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said with a quick, lipless smile that appeared just as suitable to follow “bitch.”

  The beautiful woman returned a smile, hers full and true, and then left the line and headed towards the exit. She stopped by the guest book, signed it, and left.

  “You can roll your tongue up now,” Amy said.

  “Oh stop,” Patrick said.

  “You were blushing.”

  Eric leaned over. “If I was straight …”

  Amy shot her brother a look.

  Patrick smirked at Eric and then rubbed Amy’s neck.

  She shrugged him off. “Whatever. I’ll tell you this though: no way that girl goes to Gilley’s. She’d stand out like a Victoria’s Secret model at a sci-fi convention.”

  Patrick laughed. “Maybe your dad was having a little thing with her.”

  Amy spun towards Patrick, her scowl like a knife slashing at him. She saw on his instantly somber face that he regretted his words; his censor button was on the fritz again. She loved—and always would love—his dry wit, but she was still jealous of the beautiful woman, and, well, this was her father’s funeral for Christ’s sake. A few months later? Maybe she’d smirk or chuckle at his quip. Right now? Patrick was knocking on the front door of the dog house, and by the look of him—the appropriate face of a shamed dog through and through—he knew it. And she knew he knew. And even if she wasn’t really that pissed off at him, she was going to make him sweat for awhile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She ignored him and checked on her mother again.

  • • •

  John Brooks and his daughter, Monica Kemp (no disguises today—flawless dark eyes, flawless dark hair, appropriate yet alluring dress painting her flawless body black), walked towards a beaten Dodge Dakota parked in the church’s lot.

  “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Hangnail?”

  John began pulling at his tie. “I was going to ask if she had a nail file I could borrow.”

  Monica smirked. “I know you were. I’m glad you showed some restraint. That would have been a little too obvious, Daddy-O.”

  They entered the Dakota. Monica lit a cigarette and pulled deep on it. “That was fun,” she said.

  28

  Patrick wondered if he was still a potential resident of the dog house during the quiet ride back to Valley Forge, which, odd as it may seem, was just fine by him. He really didn’t know what to say to his wife. Amy’s father was officially dead and gone. Bringing up the hows and whys of his death would be unnecessary and taboo. Bringing up the good times, the good memories, was too soon. The only thing that seemed logical was a periodic rub of the knee followed by a soft: “How you holding up, baby?” These mostly went unanswered, and sometimes got a shrug followed by a long look out the window. Despite the lack of receptivity, Patrick knew they still meant something. Amy had once told him, after a particularly difficult episode with one of her girlfriends (Patrick had given a simple response to her dilemma, as though the answer was self-evident), that he didn’t always need to fix things—sometimes she just wanted him to listen.

  This was no easy task for Patrick. He was the fixer in the relationship. His own trepidations and worries be damned, Patrick would always assure his stressed wife that all was well and that he would fix things, even if he didn’t have the slightest freaking clue how. He did not do this with robotic replies from someone like an Audrey Corcoran, but with logic (even if Patrick sometimes had trouble believing that same logic himself) and reassurance. And it always seemed to do the job: Amy would feel better.

  This dynamic of their relationship was never more apparent than during the ordeal at Crescent Lake. In hindsight, the writing was on the wall from day one: so much unbelievable bad luck leading up to the tragedy that it simply couldn’t have been a coincidence. Amy had been wary. She’d wanted to leave. Patrick had assured her—again, despite his own misgivings—that all was well, that they were just having shitty luck, that he would protect her if worse came to worst. But by the time worst did come around, it was too late—Arty and Jim Fannelli had sunk in their pre-meditated claws, and hell was about to ensue.

  Patrick liked to think he’d learned from that experience. A hell of a way to learn, but learned nonetheless. Always trust your gut. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. After being discharged from the hospital in Pittsburgh months ago, Patrick and Amy stopped for gas on the ride back to Valley Forge. A young man had asked Patrick if he went to Penn State because of the blue lion emblem on the back of their Toyota Highlander.

  Arty Fannelli had kindly asked Patrick that same exact thing during their first encounter.

  So Patrick answered the inquisitive young man with a right hook that sent the kid tumbling into an unconscious heap. A bit over-the-top, but he’d rather knockout a million maybes than let one yes fuck with his family again.

  Trust your gut. Trust your gut when it comes to the bad stuff. That was the lesson learned. And learned he did.

  So what do you make of this then, Patrick? he thought. How does your gut feel?

  If he was honest with himself, he would admit that a fleeting thought had entered his mind earlier. First Oscar and now this? Is it happening again?

  But that was impossible and he knew it. No need to reassure himself or Amy on this one. Oscar was their fault. Bob was Bob’s fault. There was no need to convince Amy that the boogeyman hadn’t returned; he just had to reassure her that the pain of losing her father would dissipate over time, he would always be there for her, and that he loved her very much. And he welcomed that—it was a cake walk compared to the hell he had to deal with months ago.

  He rubbed her leg again. This time she gave him a small smile. Patrick felt confident the dog house would have a vacancy tonight.

  29

  For the first couple of days, blame had been in abundance. This brought the anger. To Amy and her brother Eric, what had happened to their father felt no different than suicide—his reckless behavior had been selfish, leaving those who loved him
behind to suffer in its wake.

  It didn’t last long though. Anger soon melted into sadness, and Eric and Amy were left with the acceptance of who their father was. Bob Corcoran was not a difficult read. His manner, his lifestyle, his beliefs—all on the table the first five minutes you met him. A fortune teller’s wet dream. And it didn’t take a fortune teller to see the potential for such a tragic end to the man. Perhaps only Audrey Corcoran was blind to it. Intentionally blind of course. Patrick wondered—fascinated by the mind’s ability to block a reality that consistently smacked you in the face—if Audrey would now, in quiet moments of reflection, admit that what had happened to her husband was something she could have seen from miles away, years ago. Or was she such a deeply repressed, suppressed, (depressed?) woman that Bob could have blown his freaking head off in their living room, only to have Audrey immediately and forever blame the gun and not the finger that pulled it. Yes—Patrick believed that. If Audrey had a gripe with anyone in her little bubble she called life, then it was not with her beloved Bob. It was with the booze. The booze was responsible. The booze was as deadly as the damned gun. Never mind Bob’s choice to always drive drunk. To always take Woodmere. If it wasn’t for the booze, those two factors would have been immaterial. The booze was responsible.

  Patrick remembered seeing a segment on some news show a few years back. A twenty-something kid had blown his head off with a shotgun because his character had been killed off in one of those popular online video games. The segment then milked grieving shots of the mother, blaming the video game for “killing her baby.” Of course the mother was suing the mega-successful game for millions, but that wasn’t the point was it? The game had killed her only son!

  When the news crew had gone to the boy’s apartment following the tragedy, Patrick could distinctly remembered one member of the crew holding his nose upon entry, and it wasn’t the remnants of a dead body that had the crew member wincing. It was pizza boxes, burger wrappers, Chinese takeout cubes, half-eaten anythings stacked as high as book cases and spread throughout the small apartment, forming a revolting maze of sorts. The boy had been a shut-in. Had been living in this squalor for months. Job? He had quit his job six months ago so he could play the game day and night. Where was mom during all of this? Patrick remembered wondering. Did you drop in on him at least ONCE during his deep spiral downward? Christ, a blind stranger could have entered the apartment and at least SMELLED something was amiss. But no, you’re right lady; it was the video game that killed your son. His shit was wrapped very tight. His mental stability was as sturdy as an teen’s first boner. The GAME is what put that shotgun into his mouth and blew his head clean off his shoulders. Yup. The game.

  “Hey! Are you listening?” Amy said.

  Patrick snapped to, the hazy images of the news program disappearing. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Amy shook her head and gulped the last of her coffee. She turned her back to him and got a refill from the pot on the kitchen counter. Patrick leaned against the kitchen bar, watching his wife’s back, knowing he’d been caught in one of his notorious daydreams. He was a cerebral guy, Patrick was. Amy loved that about him. Quite often, however, it made him drift when drifting was not appropriate. Now was one of those times.

  Amy faced him again. She was drinking the coffee black, something she usually never did. “I was saying how Carrie and Caleb don’t seem to realize what happened to their grandfather.”

  “I think that’s somewhat normal at their age, honey.”

  Amy frowned. “Carrie sobbed for days when Oscar died.”

  “That’s a little different.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not saying it’s more significant, I’m saying it’s different. Try and think like a seven-year-old for a second.”

  “A dog dying is more important than a grandparent?”

  Amy’s grief was blocking any chance at rationalization. In any other situation, with any other family in the same boat, Patrick felt she would have comprehended what he was getting at without further elaboration.

  “Of course not. You know that, and so do I. But does a seven-year-old child who spent every conceivable moment with said dog know it? She saw Bob how often? Once a month? Maybe less? She’s too young, baby. Remember what Dr. Bogan said about stages of development in children? The ego-centric phase? Carrie’s world stops at the tip of her nose. Oscar was part of that little world. You can’t expect her to absorb the severity of something like this. She’s not capable yet. It’s way beyond her reach at this stage of her life. And of course Caleb is even less capable.”

  “So you’re saying if it was your parents, then they’d be sad?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You implied it.”

  “Well if I did, it was unintentional. And for the record, no—I still think Carrie would have wept more for Oscar than my parents if they were to have suddenly died.”

  Amy put her coffee cup down, covered her face, and started to cry.

  Patrick pulled her close. He had been waiting for this. Amy had yet to truly let go. He hugged her tight and periodically whispered reassurances to her. She sobbed into his chest for a long time.

  30

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Arty in his holding cell, lying on a cot, staring at the ceiling, not seeing the ceiling, seeing only the woman who visited him in the hospital months ago, fantasizing about what she had planned, believing she was the real deal the moment he looked into her eyes, certain when he got word of his adoptive mother’s death, and then, absolutely certain when he got the card in his stack of mail this afternoon.

  The game wasn’t dead. He should have known better.

  Jim’s death had deflated him. The news of his adoption had all but crippled him. For a time he had to face the likelihood that he was not unique, was not an exception to the rules. Facing life in prison was a cold beer and big tits next to this revelation.

  But now. His sister. The woman who could be Jim’s twin. Monica, she called herself. In that one brief encounter between the two, she gave him hope. She would resurrect the game. Arty no longer cared about being an exception to the rules. He was still unique. Still special. How could he not be? Lying half-dead in a hospital, facing an eternity in prison, your brother dead, your life over, and then … and then, a visit from an angel, assuring him he would have his vengeance. Assuring him that he was not done; there was a future.

  Arty was not a religious man, but he believed in evil. He was evil. And to believe in evil he supposed one must believe in good. Was it God and Satan? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. But he knew something wanted him to continue his work. Something wanted him to continue the game. And if there was a God, he was betting it wasn’t him.

  He rolled off his cot, lifted his mattress, took out the card, and read it again. It was a sympathy card. The officers couldn’t make sense of it when it had arrived. They had brought it to Arty, asking him what it meant. At first, Arty hadn’t known either. The officers were wary—there was no return address on the envelope. The card wasn’t signed.

  “It’s fucking addressed to you in a county jail. How could you not know what it means?” they’d asked.

  Arty had just shrugged. He truly didn’t know. He didn’t know anyone named May. And if he didn’t know May, he certainly didn’t know her father.

  The officers stuffed the card back into its envelope and winged it between the bars, hitting Arty in the shoulder. “Well enjoy it. It’s all the fucking mail you got today.”

  Arty had read the card, frowned, and then set it aside. He didn’t get it. He had been in the holding cell a few weeks since leaving the hospital and had gotten all sorts of strange mail during that time. Admirers of his work, death threats, love letters—all straightforward in their intent. This was the first that made no sense. Why the hell should he care if some woman named May lost her father? The messenger hadn’t even left a name. A whacko, he had eventually surmised. Some schizo who would probably swear in
court that his hamster told him to mail the damn thing. Satisfied, he’d picked his book back up, found the dog-eared page, and resumed reading. He got one sentence in, then slammed the book shut, snatched the card, and read it again:

  May.

  May’s father.

  May’s father had died.

  There was a line about the importance of family.

  Family was underlined twice.

  May.

  Amy.

  May = Amy.

  Amy Lambert.

  Amy Lambert’s father had died.

  Family was underlined twice.

  This was a message from his sister.

  His sister had killed Amy Lambert’s father.

  And now Arty sat, reading the card again and again, caressing it, smelling it. Trying to imagine how it was done, how badly the Lamberts were suffering from the loss. The flutter in his belly was so intense it teased his throat, threatening to bring up this afternoon’s lunch.

  He carefully placed the card in its home beneath his mattress, lay back down, and resumed staring at the ceiling, not seeing the ceiling.

  Unique. Special. How could he not be?

  31

  6:30 P.M. Patrick entered the mudroom and couldn’t kick his shoes off fast enough. Exhausted, tie already pulled loose, briefcase feeling like a fifty pound dumbbell—it wasn’t Miller time, it was Glenlivet time. Neat, healthy, and straight to the face. Oh and keep the bottle nearby, please and thank you.

  Caleb leapt from his hiding spot behind the dividing wall of the family room and attached himself to his father’s leg once he came into view. It was ritual, but Patrick always feigned surprise, looking as though he had just gotten the fright of his life. Caleb looked up at his father with loving brown eyes, a big giggling grin, and suddenly Patrick didn’t need that scotch as much as he thought. He dropped his briefcase, bent and picked up his son.