by Ivan Blake
“Who’s there?” Old Mr. Willard was standing on the front porch, squinting into the darkness.
“Sorry, Mr. Willard, it’s Chris, Chris Chandler,” he called from the side of the house.
“Chris, what the hell are you doing round there?”
“I...I was throwing rocks...uh, at a coyote.” He walked to the front.
“Sounded like you were banging on my walls.”
“Sorry, guess my aim isn’t much good.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be out here at this hour.”
Chris stepped into the light.
“What happened to you? Looks like you got into a fight with the coyote and he won.”
“No...I was...over at a friend’s house, and I slipped walking home.”
“Well, you should get cleaned up. The scrape on your face looks nasty.”
“Yes, sure. Uh, could I speak to Gillian, just for a moment?”
“Not here, son. She an’ her mom are over at the Balzers, to help out if they can.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Have to tell you, son, you put on quite a display at the funeral parlor last evening.”
“I know, I feel awful.”
“None of my business, and I know you’re a good kid, and I know there’s lots of folks been giving you a hard time since you moved here, but you gotta know, you have a real knack for making life more difficult than it has to be.”
“Yeah...”
“Just saying...anyway, good night, son...and get that cut seen to.”
“Would you tell Gillian I came by?”
“Sure thing.” He limped to the door, then turned back and said, “Oh, and Chris, how’s your mom?”
“Fine, I think, why?”
“Well, it’s just she seems...so sad. Wish I could do something to help.”
A bent and broken old man, and he wanted to help Chris’s mom. Nice gesture. Kind of weird as well.
“No, I think she’s fine. Dad’s job is worrying her a bit, that’s all. I’ll say you asked after her.”
“You do that. Well, good night.” He closed the door and turned out the porch light.
* * * *
Chris walked to the back part of the house. His parents’ light was on. The rest of the place was in darkness. He crept inside, stripped off the muddy coat, and went to the fridge, where he found a sandwich and a note from his mom. Eat something. Mallory Dahlman called...several times. Did you go to school today?
Upstairs in the bathroom, he washed and sponged the bloody graze on his face—damn, it stung—then stripped to his shorts.
“Is that you, Chris?” his mother called from the bedroom.
“Yes.”
“See my note?”
“Yes.”
“You in any trouble?”
“No.”
“Good night then.”
“Sure.”
He climbed the ladder to the attic crawl space. The magazines were gone, all of them. Meath had been in the house before dawn according to Felicity, and then broke in a second time after Chris left just to get back his damned magazines? Why? What the hell was he up to?
Chris pushed his bed along the wall to block the small door into the rest of the attic once again. Then it hit him, the door opened into the attic and not into his room. Sliding the bed against the door served no purpose. How had he missed that?
Chris spent the next half hour rigging a rudimentary alarm to the door: a coke bottle perched on a tall pile of books with a long line of shoelaces tied to the bottle and the door handle, the theory being the bottle would fall from the pile of books and smash if anyone tried to open the attic door from the other side. Chris might not be able to stop Meath from killing him in his bed, but at least he’d be awake for the event.
And with that comforting thought, he fell asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, November 22
Gillian didn’t catch the bus that morning; probably helping her mom and Mrs. Balzer again. Mallory wasn’t at her stop either. Helping the Balzers as well? Not bloody likely.
It turned out several girls were missing from school that morning, some because they were at the church getting things ready for Floyd’s funeral and the reception to follow, and others because they were with Mallory Dahlman. Chris overheard a teacher tell several others why Mallory and company were absent.
“Poor Miss Mallory left school early yesterday because grief got the best of her. Friends took her home and stayed to make sure she was all right. Brave young lady that she is, she’ll be back at school this afternoon.”
“Understandable,” another teacher said.
“Must make allowances at a time like this,” said a third.
Did any of them know Mallory’s mother was away in Bangor? Chris sleepwalked through the morning, oblivious to the cracks about the funeral parlor and plans for an encore at the funeral. He ate lunch alone and wandered early to Social Studies.
“Mr. Duncan, can I talk to you, sir?”
“Mr. Chandler, nasty cut on your face. Get in a fight? Is that why you weren’t here yesterday?”
“No, sir, just sick.”
“Have anything to do with what happened at the funeral parlor?”
“No. Well, maybe. Look, you’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with Floyd’s death. I didn’t have a fight with him or anybody else.”
“You did steal his girlfriend.”
“Well, yes but—”
“Look, I don’t think for a moment you had anything to do with Floyd’s death. I know for a fact Floyd and Mallory were never very serious. Losing her wouldn’t have troubled Floyd enough to take his own life. I do believe Floyd’s father was hurting him, and I think you were brave to confront Ed Balzer about it.”
Chris was stunned.
“But if Floyd’s friends knew he was being beaten by his dad, why didn’t they speak up as well?” Mr. Duncan said, bowing his head. “And long ago, for god’s sake? They might have saved the boy’s life.” His tone turned hard. “Instead, a classmate decided to make Floyd the butt of a cruel joke. Why?”
“I would never have humiliated Floyd that way.”
“Would Mallory Dahlman?”
“Mallory?” So, Felix and Gillian weren’t the only ones who suspected Mallory.
“Floyd was a sensitive boy,” Mr. Duncan said. “He’d talk about his feelings if he trusted you, so maybe he said something to Miss Dahlman.”
“I asked her that. She said no.”
“And you believed her?”
Chris didn’t answer.
“So then who told you?”
“A friend of his.”
“A friend of Floyd’s?”
“Someone he’d sworn to silence.”
“So Mr. Chandler, if the only person who will admit to knowing Floyd’s father was beating him is you, and with your reputation for being a trouble-maker—whether it’s deserved or not—is it any wonder the police think you drew the cartoon? And, believe me, you are the only suspect they have.”
“You spoke to the police about me? About what I told you?”
“I said I would. I spoke to Chief Boucher, said I’d heard rumors some graves in the town cemetery had been tampered with. He wanted to know who told me, and I said you. The mere mention of your name gets the Chief fired up. He said you were probably making up stories to deflect attention from the other stunts you’ve pulled.”
“But I haven’t pulled any stunts!”
“Anyway, I got the Chief to telephone the funeral parlor. Gabe spoke with Mr. Brewster, the owner, and asked him point blank whether bodies in his care had been tampered with, and he denied it.”
“Of course he would.”
“And Brewster said he’d sue if he ever heard such charges again.”
“I know Meath is doing it! He’s even getting into my house...at night. He’s taken things from my room. “
“What things?”
“Magazines.”
“Magazines?”
“Yes, chiropractic magazines he lent me.”
“He took back magazines he’d lent you? Mr. Chandler, do you know how crazy you sound?”
“Meath got kicked out of some association in England for performing illegal experiments, and now he’s doing the same thing here...using bodies stolen from the funeral home. I’ve seen him doing it. And now for some reason he’s spying on me.”
“Maybe because you’re spying on him.”
“It’s not right, disturbing a person’s final resting place like that.”
“Now you sound like a Mortman.”
“Well, maybe because they were right. Someone needs to stop Meath if he’s robbing graves!”
“Mr. Chandler, you’ve got to get a grip. You’re a bright young man, your academic performance to the contrary. And you were brave to confront Floyd’s father. Now, however, you need to stop. I gave you the book on Mortsafemen because I thought it might amuse you, not turn you into some sort of vigilante. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. You’re getting paranoid, and you’re starting to worry me. I really don’t think I should discuss this with you anymore. I’m out of my depth. You need to speak to someone better qualified to help you.”
“Yeah, right, so where in this town am I going to find someone to help me?” Chris turned away. “Mallory!”
She was standing in the doorway at the back of the classroom. Crap, how much had she overheard?
* * * *
“Miss Dahlman, how are you?” Mr. Duncan asked. “Things got a bit too much yesterday?”
“Yes, sir. My friends have been wonderful, and I’m feeling a little better today. Oh, and thank you so much for asking.” She smiled ever so sweetly but made no move to approach. Then, in a coquettish voice, she asked, “Can you spare Chris? I just need a quick word before class...if that’s all right?”
“Of course. Mr. Chandler?” Mr. Duncan gestured toward Mallory and turned away.
“Uh, yeah,” Chris said and went to Mallory. “Are you all right? I worried when I heard...”
“What? That I had to go home early yesterday?” Mallory pulled him out into the corridor. She was clearly upset. “So maybe you can imagine how I felt when I’m looking everywhere for my boyfriend, and he’s not around? And then last evening when I’m waiting for him to show up at my house because I’ve got something special planned, and I phone his house a bunch of times, and no one will tell me where he is or why he isn’t here with me?”
“I’m so sorry. I was messed up after what happened at the funeral parlor. I just couldn’t come to school.”
“If you’d told me you were planning to cut school, I’d have cut too, and we could have spent the whole day at my house. You know my mother’s away,” she said, that same sly grin plastered on her lips.
“I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“So, what did you do? And what happened to your face? It’s really gross.”
“I went up in the hills, just walking...and I fell.”
“You went for a walk? You could have spent the day with me, and instead, you spent it walking in the woods? God, what are you? Oh hell, you’re not queer too? So…what did you do, pick flowers, write poems, and look at clouds?” she asked with a sneer. Then her irritation turned to suspicion and then to anger. “Wait, you weren’t alone! You were with somebody else! Who were you with?”
“Nobody.”
“Not Mrs. Holcomb?”
“No, well, I might have said hi to her.”
“What has she told you about me?” Mallory’s eyes narrowed.
“Nothing. Besides, I thought you’d broken up with me, the way you were all cozy with the Balzers at the funeral parlor.”
“Oh, Chris! I was being nice, you idiot! After all, Floyd and I were together for three years. Our relationship was important to his parents.”
“...to his parents? Not to you?” Suddenly something else Mallory had said came back to him. “Wait! What did you just say about me being ‘queer too’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Then, like a thunderbolt, it hit him. “Was Floyd Balzer...you know? Is that what you meant? Is that why his dad beat him all the time?”
“I didn’t say Floyd was queer.” Mallory turned away embarrassed and defensive.
“Gay, I think they prefer being called gay.”
She spun about and lashed out at him. “How would you even know that, if you aren’t gay yourself?” she sneered.
“I’m not gay! I think we’ve established that!”
“Oh, of course, my love.” She tried to turn the warmth back on and pressed herself hard against him. “More please,” she whispered.
Chris didn’t move. “So you knew Floyd’s dad beat him, didn’t you. And you knew why. To punch the queer out of him, right?”
“His daddy said we had to help Floyd get his head straight.” She stroked Chris’s chest and kissed his cheek. Chris wasn’t having any of it.
“You stayed with Floyd even though you knew he was gay.”
She must have realized her charm wasn’t working, so she stepped back, stared at Chris, and said. “I was doing Mr. Balzer a favor! We had, well, kind of a business arrangement. I was helping him...and Floyd of course...and they were helping me.”
“Helping you? Oh no!” Was Mallory for real? “The Balzers, they were paying you?”
“No, not paying me. Just giving me gifts.”
“Like all your nice clothes, so they aren’t from your father?”
“My father sends me gifts as well.”
“Sure, like spells and poisons for your brother’s arm.”
“My daddy loves me,” she whispered, and started to weep.
Not going to work, Chris swore to himself.
“You knew Floyd was gay, and you knew his father wanted Floyd to appear normal at all costs, even to the point of paying you to pretend to be his girlfriend, and all the while, you knew his dad was beating him to a pulp?” Oh Christ, no wonder the poor sap killed himself.
The tears stopped instantly. “Floyd was weak,” Mallory said with such venom. “He expected to be cradled like a baby while he droned on about his father not loving him, and he would sob like a child!”
“So, you’d had enough...and you drew the cartoon. You made Floyd kill himself. It’s like you said the other night, an offering. And I suppose Floyd’s spirit is trapped here! Been to see it yet? Should be good for a laugh, right?”
“I told you, I had nothing to do with Floyd killing himself.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“The police think you put up those posters,” she said. “You knew what Floyd’s dad was doing just as well as me. So perhaps you did. Lots of people think that.”
“Others are beginning to put the pieces together,” Chris said. “They’re beginning to suspect you.”
“Who?”
“Well, Mr. Duncan for one.” Oh crap, he shouldn’t have said that.
“Really.” She glared at him, then turned and walked away without another word.
By the end of the afternoon, Mallory was strolling around school on the arm of some other schmuck, and Chris’s nightmare had become a great deal darker.
* * * *
Sick of all the taunts, Chris had walked all the way home and was now perched on the railing, staring down at the two Willard graves. It had to be well past supper time, and he was starving. He just couldn’t take another interrogation, however, so here he sat, staring at tombstones and freezing his butt off.
The grass rustled behind him. Gillian, carrying a flashlight, moved slowly through the tall weeds toward him. “Hi.”
“You’re speaking to me?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“So you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with the cartoon?”
“Okay, yes. Sorry for yelling at you. It’s just I was so sorry for Floyd. He was a nice guy, once anyway. I used to like him. Crazy, huh? Then, well, he got lost somehow. When the cartoon appeared, I hated to see him in such pai
n. And I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to make him suffer so.”
“Except me,” Chris said. “I didn’t like Floyd, and I did make fun of him in class once, but the cartoon was cruel, and I would never intentionally hurt anybody like that. And besides, I would never lie to you.”
Gillian climbed onto the railing beside Chris.
“Mallory and I broke up,” Chris said.
“Oh yeah, heard that. Rumor is Mallory dumped you because you’re such an insensitive jerk.”
“Oh really?”
“Well, that’s one story going round. Then there’s the fact you humiliated her by making such an ass of yourself at the visitation.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Wasn’t, I guess. I just wanted to tell Floyd’s mother I grieved for her, and then leave.”
“Well, your intentions were good.” She smiled and he smiled back.
“And then there’s the story Mallory discovered you were responsible for Floyd’s cartoon,” Gillian said.
“Bitch.”
“And finally, there’s the story you’re probably gay...oh, and you kept asking Mallory to do unnatural things. Not sure how those two rumors square,” Gillian said with a grin, “but each story has its believers.”
“When Mallory wants to punish you, she doesn’t hold back,” Chris said.
“You mustn’t go to Floyd’s funeral.”
“How can I not? It would be like admitting I’m guilty. I’ll go with my parents, stay in the background.”
“If Ed Balzer will even let you in the church, you mean.”
“You know Floyd’s dad is guilty. Why doesn’t anybody else see that? Floyd’s father was beating him up regularly, probably right up until he killed himself.”
“I think it may be worse than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mom and I have been helping Floyd’s mom with the funeral and everything. Mom and Mrs. Balzer were good friends before all the trouble between our dads. Last night, when we went over there, she was all alone, sitting in the dark. Floyd’s dad was out drinking somewhere. So Mom sat on the couch with Mrs. Balzer, just holding her hand in the dark. After a while, she started talking about the day Floyd died. I was in the hall, but I could hear every word.
