Dweller

by Jeff Strand

  “Toby…”

  “I can’t let you live, Owen. I can’t put my baby at risk.”

  Owen signed: No.

  “You could hurt him.”

  Not hurt baby.

  “You killed Melissa. She was everything I had and you killed her. I’m not going to let you take Garrett away from me. I hate that it has to be this way, but it does, and I’m sorry, I hate myself for this…”

  Shoot him, Toby screamed inside his mind. Stop talking and shoot him, goddamn it!

  Owen signed: Ice cream.

  “What?”

  Ice cream.

  “Are you asking for a last meal?”

  Yes.

  For a moment, Toby wanted to do it. Go home and make Owen the biggest, sloppiest, most chocolatedrenched banana split ever constructed. He deserved a last moment of happiness before Toby executed him.

  But then he shook his head in disbelief. “You know I can’t do that. Please don’t make this hard for me.” Jesus, what a dumb thing to say. As if Toby were getting the short end of the stick here.

  There was nothing else to say. He needed to pull the trigger and begin a normal life.

  His finger wouldn’t move.

  Attack me, he thought. Rush at me with those claws. Make me do it. Give me no choice.

  Owen just watched him.

  At least look scared! At least freak out! Do something to create a moment of frenzy that I have to end with a bullet!

  Nothing. No mercy.

  “We’ll always be friends,” Toby said. It was another stupid thing to say. They wouldn’t still be friends when Owen lay dead on the ground because Toby shot him in the fucking head, now would they?

  Owen signed: Please.

  “Don’t.”

  Not hurt baby.

  “I can’t put Garrett in danger.”

  Not hurt baby.

  “You killed Melissa.”

  Not hurt baby.

  Toby lowered the gun.

  “God, we just keep having horrible moments, don’t we?” he asked. “We’ve known each other almost our whole lives and I keep pulling guns on you.”

  He couldn’t kill his best friend. Who gave him the most comfort when he was bruised, bloody, and humiliated from the beating by Larry? Whom did he confide all of his secrets to? He loved Sarah, loved her deeply, but did they share the same bond that he shared with Owen?

  Owen understood him.

  Owen knew what he’d done. If Sarah ever found out that he stabbed two kids to death, would she stay with him? Even if he explained that they were awful, mean bullies who made his life a living hell, would she stay with him if he described his moment of blind rage, mimicked the sound of the blade as it plunged into Larry’s chest?

  Not a chance in hell.

  But Owen did.

  He’d have to be insane to give up a friendship like that. Certifiably insane to lose his confidant. Completely bonkers to murder the one friend with whom the grisly past was shared.

  He didn’t have to lie to Owen about the prostitutes, the way he did to Sarah. “Sex for money? God, no. Do you see any green splotches on my penis?”

  If you thought about it, really dug deep, got to the core of the matter, with Sarah he had to lie about his own best friend. He couldn’t tell her about Owen! Even without the gore-drenched aspects, he couldn’t tell her. What would she say? “Gosh, Toby, it’s so sweet that your best friend is covered with fur and has flesh-piercing jaws. Why not invite him over for brunch?”

  She’d never understand.

  He had secrets he could never tell her. What if he killed Owen, and then she found out about the murders? Or even the friendship? He’d be alone again.

  Alone forever, this time. Who the hell else was he going to find?

  Hurt Owen, his only friend for so long?

  Madness.

  Toby cried, apologized, begged for forgiveness. He hugged the beast, promising that it would never happen again, insisting that all of the emotional turmoil had messed with his head, but that he would never do anything to hurt Owen, not ever, and that no matter what, he swore that the two of them would be friends.

  Not hurt baby.

  “I know you wouldn’t. God, I’m so sorry.”

  Ice cream.

  Toby chuckled and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, Owen, I’ll get you some ice cream.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR GLIMPSES

  1988

  “Aw, c’mon, Garrett! Why would you do that to me?”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sarah, peeking into the bathroom.

  “He pooped on the new diaper while I was changing it! That had to be on purpose. There’s no way he just happened to be about to go when I changed the diaper.”

  “You don’t think so? He poops eighty-five thousand times a day. Why wouldn’t one of them be while you’re changing the diaper?”

  Toby recoiled. “Have you ever smelled anything so foul? Maybe he has some sort of digestive problem or something. That can’t be natural.”

  “You’re acting like your own feces have a flowery aroma.”

  “I’m not sayin’ my poop don’t stink. I’m saying that his poop smells worse. Just come in. Come closer.”

  “No, I’m fine out here.”

  “It’s like, I’m worried it’s going to dissolve through the sink. It’s that nasty. I think it’s a specially formulated kind of baby food designed by the government to keep people from having more kids.”

  “It’s not working. I’m pregnant.”

  Toby froze. “What?”

  “Kidding.”

  “I’ll fling some of this at you.”

  “Then I’ll be leaving. I’m proud of you. You’re a good daddy for facing the stinky poo menace.”

  “Do you remember that time in our life, long ago, when we talked about other things? I don’t recall the subjects, exactly, but I have this vague recollection that there actually existed conversations that weren’t related to diaper contents.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. Sorry.”

  “Okay, this is going to be a challenging concept for you to grasp, but I need you to work with me.” Toby held up the jumbo-size bag of beef jerky. Owen sniffed the air and reached for it.

  “No, no, not yet. What we’re going to discuss today is ‘rationing treats.’ There’s no way I’ll be back here for at least a week, and I want you to have some tasty snacks while I’m gone, so you need to learn how to not eat this entire bag in one gulp. What I’m going to do is set the pieces of jerky in different places, and when you feel like a treat, you’ll pick a single piece and enjoy it. If you gobble it all down, there won’t be any treats for a few days. Do you think you can handle that idea?”

  The lesson in rationing treats was a failure.

  1989

  “Toby! I can’t believe it!”

  “Mr. Zack! Hi! How are you enjoying retirement?”

  “Never worked so hard in my life. Janet has me remodeling the entire house, now that I’m a lazy bum and not working for a living.” Mr. Zack cooed at Garrett in Sarah’s arms. “Wow, he’s a handsome little lad, isn’t he?”

  “You say that like you’re surprised,” Sarah said with a grin.

  “Nothing surprises me less! So, Toby, I keep checking the newspapers for you!”

  “Yeah, I’m still working on it.”

  “What was that one you were in? The Cocktail?”

  “The Blender. It ended up going under.”

  “Did you get your ten bucks?”

  “Five bucks. No.”

  “You keep working at it. Those successful youngsters, they have meltdowns. When you make it big, it is going to be the sweetest fruit you’ve ever tasted, and you’ll be able to give your lovely wife and your lovely son a life of luxury.”

  “We do okay,” said Sarah with a smile. “He’s doing great at the newspaper, and I’ve started selling songs.”

  “Songs? You sing?”

  “I write them.”

  “That’s gre
at! Anything I would’ve heard?”

  “Do you listen to folk music?”

  “No, I sure don’t, but I’ll start. Hey, I think your son is about to spit up, so I’m going to bid you adieu, but it was great talking to you.”

  Garrett puked all over Sarah’s shirt.

  Larry and Nick stayed away. Toby thought about them a lot, but in the past tense.

  “Like that—just like that!” Sarah urged as Toby thrust into her. “Oh, yeah, that’s perfect—right there—oh, yeah, right there—don’t stop—oh, God, I’m gonna come—if the baby doesn’t cry I’m gonna come—!”

  “Dear Mr. Florren…”

  Toby crumpled up the rejection letter and threw it against the wall. “It’s one r, asshole!”

  1990

  Owen lay on the floor. His fur was moist and his eyes were glassy.

  “Do you think it’s…I don’t know, the flu or something?” Toby asked. “Do you get the flu? I don’t know what to do here, Owen. It’s not like I can call a vet. Do you feel really bad?”

  Yes.

  “Have you thrown up?”

  No.

  “I’m going to make some calls and find out what I should do. I won’t say who I’m calling for. I’ll just, I don’t know, find out what they would do for a gorilla with your symptoms.”

  Stay.

  “I’ll stay, but I can’t stay for very long. You know I have to get back. You’re not dying, right? If you’re seriously ill, I’ll stay and see what I can do, but I don’t think you look that bad.”

  Though he tried to hide it, Toby felt queasy. How long did forest monsters live? Owen had a lot of white and gray hair now, but so did Toby, and he planned to be around for at least another half century. Owen couldn’t be dying, could he?

  “On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you feel?”

  Sick.

  “I know that. Give me a number.”

  Sick.

  Toby sighed. “Okay. I’ll stay with you.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I lost track of time.”

  “How do you lose track of time when you’re outside? It’s dark out!”

  “I walked farther than I realized, and I turned back when it got dark. What’s the big deal?”

  “I was worried, that’s the big deal! I don’t like you wandering around the forest in the daytime, much less at night. What if you got hurt?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t. But what would happen to Garrett if you did?”

  “You’d write a hit single about your loss and make him rich.”

  “Did you really just say that? You really just made that joke?”

  “No—I mean, I did, but it was thoughtless. You’re absolutely right. I got lost in thought and wasn’t paying attention. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “I just got scared, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “You got me in all kinds of trouble,” Toby told Owen. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  Yes.

  1991

  “Guess what time of the month it is, and guess what I missed…?”

  “Okay, how about Toby for a boy, Sarah for a girl?”

  “Nah,” said Sarah. “I don’t like having two people in the same household with the same name. It’s okay for a boy, I guess, because you could call him ‘junior,’ but what do you call a girl who’s named after her mother?”

  “She could go by her middle name.”

  “Then why not just make her middle name her first name?”

  “You’re right. How about Owen for a boy?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Other kids will make fun of him. They’ll say, ‘You’re Owen us money!’”

  “I bet they won’t.”

  “Sorry. Veto on Owen.”

  “Michael?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hannah for a girl?”

  “Do you know anybody named Hannah?”

  “No, I just like the name.”

  “Me, too. We’ll keep it in mind.”

  “You see, Garrett, when a mommy has a baby in her tummy, sometimes she acts all weird, and it’s best to give her anything she wants. This helps daddies stay alive.”

  1992

  “It was a girl!” Toby announced.

  Owen smiled.

  “I hope everyone in this house is ready, mommies and sons included, because it’s time for…Tickle War! Rrrraaarrrr!”

  “Can I get one?” Garrett asked, eyeing the puppies in the cages at the pet store.

  “Maybe when you’re six,” Toby said.

  “That’s forever!”

  “You say that now. It goes fast.”

  1993

  “Look what came in the mail today!” said Sarah, waving the envelope.

  Toby took it from her. “Wow. I didn’t think there were any still circulating. It’s even my old address.”

  “Open it.”

  “What is it, Daddy?” Garrett set down his tentacled alien action figure and hurried over to join the excitement.

  “Nothing. It’s just Daddy’s dreams being crushed.”

  “Don’t talk that way around him,” Sarah said.

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  Toby tore open the envelope and handed the letter to Garrett. “Do you want to read it?”

  Garrett enthusiastically grabbed the letter. He looked at the words and frowned.

  “Sound it out,” Sarah said.

  “We re…reg-ret…”

  Toby sighed. “Let’s give him some Dr. Seuss.”

  “Guess who got a gold star today?” Toby asked Owen.

  Owen reached for the drawing, but Toby put it behind his back. “Sarah will kill me if you rip it. I just wanted you to see it. Look at that. He’s pretty good, don’t you think?”

  Yes.

  “You’re not just saying that, are you? I’m biased and all, but let me tell you, I was at the open house and I saw what the other kids had up on the wall, and there was some shit. Look at that hand. How many six-year-olds do you know who draw knuckles? I didn’t have any talent chromosomes to pass on, so I don’t know where he got it, but this kid’s a freakin’ Rembrandt. Gold star. Right there, baby.”

  He held the paper behind his back again. “No, seriously, Owen, you can’t touch it. But it’s impressive, right? It’s not just me? I need you to provide a neutral opinion because Sarah and I are flipping out over it. Of course, he did also wet his pants during recess, but when you have immense talent you can’t always focus on bladder control.”

  1994

  “Oh.”

  “You have more to say than ‘oh,’ right?”

  “It just took me by surprise, that’s all. The way you said it. No buildup.”

  “Like they say in the newspaper business, don’t bury the lead, right?” Sarah was practically bouncing with excitement.

  It was, to be fair, outstanding news. A children’s television show wanted her to join the staff and write new songs each week. An incredible opportunity. She could go from being a waitress with a few songs that occasionally got radio play on local stations to a full-time songwriter.

  “But it’s in Chicago.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I’d have to quit my job.”

  “Yes, you would. You don’t have any great love for that job. You never have.”

  “We’d have to pull Garrett out of school.”

  “Yeah, and he’d go to school in Chicago.”

  “He’d have to make new friends.”

  “He’s six. He hasn’t formed lifelong friendships yet.” Sarah stared at him in disbelief. “Why are you giving me crap about this?”

  “I just don’t want to move.”

  “Why? What ties do you have to Orange Leaf?”

  “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “And…?”

  “That’s not enough?”

&nbs
p; “Of course it’s not enough! This is a dream come true. I realize it doesn’t pay that much, but I’d get to write songs for a living. That’s what I’d do instead of bringing people ketchup and extra napkins. I thought that you’d want to grab the suitcases out of the garage and start packing.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  She looked at him with such hurt that Toby wanted to fall to the floor, clawing his eyes out in a fit of self-loathing.

  “Are you jealous?” she quietly asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t have a job there.”

  “You’d find one. That’s not an answer. It’s not like we’re moving to Antarctica—it’s Chicago. It’s two states away.”

  “I can’t leave Orange Leaf. It’s my home.”

  “Your home is with Garrett, Hannah, and me, wherever we are.”

  “We can’t leave.”

  They didn’t speak for a few moments, as her shoulders began to quiver and tears streamed down her face. “You’re really going to take this away from me?”

  Toby couldn’t answer her.

  She called and declined the offer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  1995. Age 50.

  Everything hurt.

  His feet hurt, his back hurt, his brain hurt…the people who’d said that getting old was a bitch knew of what they spoke. Forty was “over the hill,” midlife-crisis time, but regardless of his family history, Toby had plans to live well past eighty. Past one hundred? That was pushing it. It could happen, but more likely than not, Toby had passed the halfway mark. More years behind him than ahead of him.