Patrick faced front again. “Okay, we’re off.”
* * *
Arty pulled his white Pontiac to the side of an isolated road not far from the station. He got out and opened one of the back doors.
“Come on, boys,” he said, reaching in and snatching the blankets off his twin sons. He grabbed the children each by a leg and dragged them out of their car seats. Walking off the gravel road, Arty headed up a small hill towards a stretch of woods about twenty yards from where he’d parked. The boys dangled by their ankles in his grip.
Arriving at the most condensed border of the wooded area, he held the boy in his right hand up to his mouth, kissed him softly on the bottom, and punted the child deep into the woods.
The second boy got the same treatment, landing further back into the mass of green and brown than his brother. Arty raised both hands in the air like a referee confirming a touchdown.
“Take care, boys,” he said to the two plastic dolls he had just booted. And then, softly, smiling, “You served your daddy well.”
Arty strolled back to the Pontiac. He opened the driver’s door but did not enter right away. He stood there, eyes closed, breathing in one deep breath of autumn air until his chest could hold no more. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tingle radiate throughout his entire body.
“Fuck yeah,” he breathed.
The start of a new one. The exquisite foreplay. So good.
Arty settled into the driver’s seat. Gunning the engine, he cranked the wheel hard to the left, gravel spitting out from beneath the tires as the car fishtailed before righting itself. Before too long he was back on the main road heading west. He smirked and occasionally giggled the entire drive.
2
“Daddy, Caleb said he was hungry. How much further?”
“No I didn’t!” Caleb took a swipe at his sister that missed.
Patrick glanced at his wife. “You think we should stop somewhere? We’ve still got about a half hour to go.”
Amy looked at the clock on the dashboard then double-checked it with her watch. It was twelve-thirty. They hadn’t eaten since seven. “Yeah, maybe we should. Where though?”
“I’m sure we’ll come across something soon,” he said. “People around here like to eat.”
“Probably because it’s the only thing there is to do around here.”
“Well that’s the whole point, right?”
“To eat?”
“No—to have absolutely nothing to do. Eat, drink, s-e-x, and eat and drink some more. We’re going caveman-style, baby.”
“Just as long as you don’t start dragging me around by my hair.”
“No hair-pulling? I thought you liked that?”
Amy opted for the pinch to the arm instead of the slap to the leg this time. “Would you stop?”
Patrick jerked away from the pinch. “Ouch.” He rubbed his arm. “They won’t know what that one means.”
“Our kids? Don’t be so sure, caveman.”
Patrick turned to the back seat, scratched his head like a monkey would, then grunted, “You kids want food, ya?”
Both Caleb and Carrie exchanged uncertain smiles. Their father’s playful change in manner was not out of character, but this new material—the caveman—had managed to suspend their laughter for a few seconds while they tried to figure out just who exactly their nutty dad was trying to portray this time around. It mattered little anyway. Caveman, pirate, monster—it was the frequent shift in character they loved. There was no need for a formal introduction to the day’s performance; the sincere attention and child-like zeal their father constantly provided was enough.
“What food you want?” Patrick grunted again.
“Pizza,” Carrie giggled.
“What ’bout Caleb? What food Caleb want?” His left hand on the wheel, Patrick reached behind his seat with his right and began tickling his son’s stomach. “Pizza okay with Caleb?” A “yes” managed to squeak its way out of the boy between fits of laughter.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Patrick leaned for a grab at Carrie. The little girl wriggled as far away as her car seat allowed, screeching with delight each time her father’s fingertips grazed her.
Amy, who was finding it near impossible not to smile, couldn’t resist a dig at her husband. “You’re such a dork.”
“You love this dork,” Patrick replied, now in twenty-first century English.
“You have your moments.”
Patrick instantly began crooning Edwin McCain’s “These are the Moments.”
Amy slapped both hands over her ears and winced. “Please make it stop.”
Patrick continued his attempt at singing (a little bit louder now to ensure proper annoyance, of that she was sure) while grinning at his wife like a loon.
She turned away from him, but succumbed to the smile. “Dork.”
3
If one was to drop from the sky and land in front of Tony’s Pizza, one might think it was the only restaurant in existence. At least that was Amy’s opinion. Looking east gave you nothing but mountains and trees, and looking west gave you an infinite stretch of highway that eventually dwindled to a point on the horizon. In addition to that, the restaurant’s spacious parking lot held more cars than a movie theater premiering the newest Harry Potter film.
“Jeez, popular place,” Amy said.
“That’s a good sign,” Patrick said. “Means they have good food.”
Carrie looked out the window, her chestnut eyes shifting from car to car as they cruised for a spot. “Are we going to park?” she asked.
“Daddy’s trying, honey.”
Carrie pulled her head away from the window and wiped her brown bangs out of her eyes. “Mommy, I need a haircut.”
Amy, who was a hawk in her quest to find an empty spot, answered in a slow, dreamy tone—her daughter’s comment finding its way in, but only deep enough for a mechanical reply. “Okay, honey...”
“Can I get one today?”
“Hmmm…?”
“Mommy?”
Amy’s gaze broke with a snap and her tongue was quick again. “Carrie, can you hold on a minute please? Your father and I are trying to find a parking spot so we can eat.”
Carrie huffed and scooped up her doll. She moved its legs back and forth like pistons to pacify her frustration.
Caleb watched his sister with amusement. “I need a haircut too,” he said to her.
Carrie set the doll down and glared at her younger brother, his attempt at camaraderie only appearing to agitate her further. “No you don’t,” she said. “You don’t even have any hair.” She finished her sentence with a hard swipe down her brother’s head of buzzed brown hair. Caleb shoved her hand away and scowled.
“There’s one!” Amy pointed.
“Nice. Good work, baby.” Patrick swung the Highlander to its left and worked it gingerly into the empty space. “I hate parking this damn thing.”
Amy exited first, followed by Patrick, who seemed focused on the task of not banging his car door into the Chevy next to him. Both kids waited for their mother and father to collect them.
Patrick opened the back door and unfastened the belts on Caleb’s child seat. “Let’s go, brother-man.” Caleb leaned forward into his father’s arms. Patrick intentionally grunted as he lifted. “You’re gettin’ huge, dude.” He plopped his son down and kissed him on the top of the head. “You been working out?”
Caleb squinted into the sun as he looked up at his father and smiled. Patrick took his hand, squeezed it twice, and winked at him.
Carrie, who was insistent on making her own way out of the car without the help of her mother, nearly had a conniption once she realized Amy was intending to shut the car door before Josie had a chance to exit.
“Okay, okay, relax.” Amy reached into the car, grabbed her daughter’s doll, and handed it to her.
“Everything okay?” Patrick asked.
“Almost forgot Josie,” Amy replied in a tone ripe with sarcasm. Carrie, who co
uld not define sarcasm for all the toys at the North Pole, could sure as hell identify it when slung. She therefore rewarded Amy with a two-handed grip on her doll and refusal to hold her mother’s hand. Amy snorted and snatched her daughter’s hand up in an instant. “There are too many cars around here for your attitude now my little ain-pay in the utt-bay.”
* * *
As expected, the restaurant was teeming with patrons. Although it was only September, in western Pennsylvania it may as well have been January. Flannel and blue jeans with the occasional wool coat filled every booth, stool, and table. Large, well-fed people walked in and out of the restaurant, each time igniting a small bell over the glass door, something Caleb found damn near impossible to ignore whenever it chimed.
A short, unmistakably Italian woman approached the family. “Hello, four it is?” she asked in broken English.
“Yes, four,” Patrick said.
“A booth, if possible,” Amy added.
The woman smiled, nodded, and then led the family towards an open booth, their route passing by a large candy display near the cash register. Carrie instantly zeroed in on it, and did not hesitate to mention her find once they were seated.
“They have candy here,” she announced.
Caleb’s eyes brightened, only to dim after Amy said, “No candy.”
Carrie was not giving up so easily. “Why not?”
“Because it rots your teeth.”
Carrie turned to her father. “Daddy, can I—”
“Whoa, whoa, are you trying to get Daddy in trouble with Mommy? Mommy said no candy. Sorry, kiddo.”
Carrie let loose her patented huff and turned away from both parents. Patrick glanced to his left and gave Amy a wink. She returned a tired roll of the eyes and ran both hands through her thick auburn hair, pulling tight at the peak of her grip. Patrick rubbed her leg under the table.
“So,” Patrick began, leaning towards his kids, “we’re getting anchovies on our pizza right?”
The kids gazed back in horror.
* * *
Patrick was in the restroom with Caleb while Amy stood by the register, paying. Carrie was tight to her side, eyes stuck on the candy display inches from her face.
“Please, Mommy?” she asked.
Amy handed the cashier two twenties then glanced down at her daughter with a stern face. “I said no. End of discussion.”
The cashier, a man whose appearance and thick accent suggested he was no less Italian than the hostess, asked, “Do you have change?”
Amy looked at the total again. If she gave the man thirty-five cents she could get back an even five. Stuffing her wallet into her mouth, she mumbled, “I think so,” and began digging into her back pocket with a concerted effort.
After retrieving a runaway dime, Amy eventually handed the cashier thirty-five cents. The cashier smiled at her struggle, then handed her back a wrinkled five. Amy tucked the bill into her wallet just as Patrick and Caleb returned.
“Where’s Carrie?” Patrick asked, looking at his wife’s knees.
Amy spun. Carrie was gone. “Carrie!” she called out.
“Your daughter?” the cashier asked.
“Yes,” Amy nearly yelled. “Where did she go?”
“She is out there.” The man pointed towards the entrance where the back of Carrie was visible through the glass door. She appeared to be talking to someone just out of view.
Amy bolted for the door. Patrick quickly scooped up Caleb and followed his wife. With one foot barely out of the restaurant, Amy seized her daughter’s arm, pulling her off balance and nearly to the floor. Carrie’s eyes bounced wide with shock, her mouth falling open…revealing a blue tongue.
Amy looked down into her daughter’s hand, and spotted a large blue lollipop held tight in her fist. Amy’s anger for her daughter’s negligence was stalled with confusion. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
Carrie said nothing, her head down.
“Carrie Lambert, where did you get that candy? Did you steal that from the restaurant?”
Carrie’s head shot up; she looked her mother in the eye. “No, Mommy, I didn’t steal, I swear. A man gave it to me. We traded.”
Now it was Amy’s mouth that fell open. Her next question was obvious, but she balked for a moment. Her daughter’s words made no sense. “What do you mean traded? What man?”
Patrick, still holding Caleb tight to his chest, noticed something. “Where’s your doll?” he asked.
Carrie looked up at her father. “That’s what I traded.”
Patrick frowned, confused.
Amy’s expression was an easier read. She was livid.
“You traded Josie to a man for a piece of candy?” she said. “To who? What man?”
“Whoa,” Patrick said. “That’s a coincidence.” His attention was now off his daughter and further out into the parking lot. Amy’s eyes left Carrie’s and followed her husband’s.
The entire family stood silent, staring at the same white Pontiac they’d seen over an hour ago. Arty was behind the wheel, a big grin on full display as he waved to the four of them.
Carrie pointed her little finger towards the exiting Pontiac and said, “To him.”
4
Arty pulled the Pontiac into the big driveway and stopped halfway. Exiting the car with Carrie’s doll in hand, he took a good long look at the house in front of him. It was perfect, so isolated and serene. Not a hint of worry for miles.
The last few weeks in such a place had been more than he could have ever hoped for, adding many delightful bonuses to the game. New material had been happily introduced without neighbor concern; any screams managing to echo their way outside would have far too much ground to cover before falling on curious ears.
It would be sad to leave such a house. But Arty was no dummy. He knew that the game had time limits, and that planned time limits were the key to successful transitions.
But all was not lost. Yes, they were leaving, however they would be moving on to something Arty believed held far more potential.
Embracing the tingle he’d bathed in earlier, Arty wasted little time unlocking the front door and hurrying up the carpeted stairs. At the top of the landing, to his immediate right, was a bedroom door. It was closed.
“You better not still be asleep.”
Arty turned the knob slowly, paused, then exploded into the room with a bang. His brother Jim jerked upright from a king-sized bed.
“Lazy bastard,” Arty smirked.
Upon recognizing his brother, Jim frowned and let out the breath he’d stifled from the sudden intrusion. “The fuck, man?” He flopped back down onto his pillow and started wiping sleep from his eyes.
The second Jim’s torso was horizontal again, Arty got a good look at the entire bed. He was not pleased. “What the hell is this?”
Jim went to answer but his voice cracked from sleep. He coughed, snorted, then sat upright again, his bare back resting against the headboard. He ran his hand back and forth over his shaved-bald head and looked at his brother through puffy eyes.
“What?” he finally said.
Arty kept his eyes locked on his brother while he eased into the room, eventually standing firm at the foot of the bed.
On Arty’s left was Jim, his torso still upright against the headboard, his lower half covered in blankets.
Next to Jim was a woman, uncovered and stark naked. She was also bound and gagged. The woman was not struggling, whimpering, or even moving, but she was alive. She just lay in a fetal ball away from Jim, her glazed eyes hopeless and defeated like a mental patient doped to the gills, staring out a hospital window.
“What the hell did you bring her up here for?” Arty asked.
Jim looked irritated. “Because every woman in this hick town is a fucking pig.” He motioned to the bound woman next to him. “I miss hot city bitches like this. Thank God these two yuppie fucks decided to build a second home out here in Mayberry.” Jim reached to his right and grabbed his cigare
ttes from the nightstand. He lit one and inhaled deep.
“You took a big risk, Jim. What if the husband put up a fight?”
Jim laughed, choking on his recent drag. “Come on Arty, you know he wasn’t gonna try anything. We practically broke that pussy from day one.” He sighed, flicked a stray ash off his chest. “I miss Philly.”
Arty thought of their mother, their sole reason for being in the western part of the state. “Get over it,” he said.
Jim grunted.
“Yeah, well, whether your dick likes it or not, this is the way it is.”
“I guess,” Jim said. “But the way Mom’s been lately, we could have probably moved her ten fucking feet from the old house and told her she was here…probably wouldn’t have known the difference.”
Arty banged the base of the bed with his knee, rocking it. “She’s not that bad yet, dickhead. Show some respect.”
Jim hung his head and took a short guilty drag from his smoke. “You’re right, my bad.”
Arty and Jim had moved their mother to western Pennsylvania when her condition was demonstrating more off days than on. Her wish was to live her remaining years near her place of birth, and despite the boys’ initial reluctance, they weren’t about to deprive their ailing mother of such a wish. No way.
“Anyway,” Arty began, “we’d been pushing our luck around Philly lately. We’re needles in a haystack out here. It’s perfect for now.”
Jim exhaled both pessimism and smoke. “Yeah, perfect if we can continue to find people like these two to play with.”
Arty’s lips nearly split from the grin that spread over his face. “Well I might just have some wonderful news for you then, little brother.”
Jim’s pessimism dipped, his black eyes flickering hope. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” Arty tossed Josie onto the bed. Jim stuck the cigarette between his lips and picked Carrie’s doll up with both hands.
Bad Games Page 2
