Bad Games

by Jeff Menapace

  Their primary motive for what they did was summed up best by Arty years back when a previous female captive asked the all-too common question:

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Arty had thought hard for several moments after the question; he was searching for something clever that would define it all with swift decisiveness. And when the perfect response had finally hit him all at once, and his eyes had settled contently with an odd mix of pride and foreboding, he leaned in close to the female captive and did not give an answer, but instead asked a question.

  “When you see someone trip and fall, what do you do?”

  The female captive had looked at Arty through swollen red eyes that were still capable of projecting confusion.

  “I’ll ask again. When you watch someone slip, trip, or fall in everyday life, what do you often do?”

  When the answer had appeared on the woman’s face, it was obvious. Those swollen red eyes had discarded confusion in order to project shame. Arty wondered if she would tell the truth.

  “I guess I sometimes laugh,” the woman admitted, looking away.

  Arty had been pleased with her honesty; it allowed him to continue with his perfect response.

  “Thank you for being honest. We laugh too. We just raise the bar a little in order to keep laughing.” Arty then stood, smiled, and added, “I hope that helps you understand. And I hope I don’t disappoint when I say…it really is as simple as that.”

  9

  Amy still wasn’t wild about the newly polished terrier, but Lorraine had assured her the dog was safe, and had actually been coined the unofficial mascot of Crescent Lake this past year.

  “So he just showed up one day?” Amy asked Lorraine. “Out of the blue?”

  “Yup. I was out tending to some things in the garden when I heard this pathetic little whimper. The poor thing looked as though it hadn’t eaten in weeks. I stuffed his belly and we haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

  “And people here don’t mind?” Patrick asked.

  “Some do,” Norman Mitchell replied. “But he’s a clever bugger. He knows who to go pouting to—and it looks as if he’s found a winner in your Carrie.”

  “Wonderful,” Patrick and Amy said simultaneously.

  The four adults sat around a large wooden table on the back porch of the Mitchell’s cabin. It was past five and dusk was just starting to gray the light. The grill was fired-up and leaking smoke out of both corners, filling the air with the heavenly aroma of all things char-grilled.

  Carrie and Caleb ran and giggled further back in the yard as the terrier yapped and darted at their heels, both siblings completely oblivious to everything else in life except the newfound joy that was fifteen furry pounds of endless entertainment.

  “I don’t know who’s got more energy, that mutt or your kids,” Norman said. Norman Mitchell was a short, squat man with a cherub face that said friendly no matter which way you looked at it. His black hair was gone save for the long strip that wrapped around the back of his head from ear to ear. Patrick had told Amy a few years back that he was the spitting image of a slightly taller Danny Devito and she had instantly agreed.

  “I’m putting my money on Carrie,” Patrick said. “Caleb will poop out soon. He’s like his old man—prefers to kick back and relax and watch others do the work. Now Carrie on the other hand, she’s my lovely wife’s child. She—”

  Amy reached over and gripped her husband’s ear. “Yes, honey? Please go on.”

  Patrick gave an exaggerated wince of agony. “You see this?” he said, pointing to the ear still in Amy’s clutches. “This happens all the time. Spousal abuse.”

  Amy let go and pushed his head away. “Oh boo hoo, you big sissy.”

  Patrick pointed at his wife again. “Psychological abuse too. I’m a broken man inside.”

  “You’re my bitch. Accept it,” Amy said.

  Both Mitchells laughed. Patrick shook his head in defeat, finished his beer, and raised the empty bottle. “I think I may need a refill here, Norm. Gotta ease the pain on my wounded ear and shattered ego.”

  Norman smiled at the couple and headed towards the back door leading into the kitchen, grilling spatula still in hand. He stopped in the doorway and turned to the group. “Anyone else? Amy? Sweetheart?”

  “Sure I’ll have another,” Amy said, her head now resting on Patrick’s shoulder.

  “Sweetheart?” Norman said again.

  Lorraine smiled at her husband and shook her head.

  “More for us I guess,” Norman said, winking at Patrick and Amy.

  “Bring it on Norm,” Patrick said. “I’ll rent your entire supply.”

  Norman made a face. “Rent?”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Oh God, Norm, I thought you knew better than to feed into my husband’s pathetic cheese he calls a sense of humor.”

  “Ohhh…now I’ve got it,” Norman said. “The old, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it, joke.” He pointed the spatula at Patrick. “The scent of Gouda is strong with you, my son.”

  Patrick bowed his head. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

  “You’re quite welcome. But sadly, I’m afraid I look more like Yoda.”

  Lorraine said, “I always found Yoda to be quite sexy.”

  Norman pointed the spatula at his wife while looking at the Lamberts. “Is there any wonder why I love the woman?”

  * * *

  The grill was off and Patrick’s waistline was stretched to capacity. Amy, who was usually a light eater, was equally stuffed.

  “You missed your calling, Norm,” Patrick said. “You could have started your own barbecue pit up here and made millions.”

  “Why thank you, good sir,” Norman said. “You two sure you had enough?”

  Amy put a hand to her mouth and pretended to stifle back vomit. Patrick chuckled and said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with my charming wife’s subtle gesture.” He then looked at a drowsy Caleb seated on Lorraine’s lap, the toddler struggling to keep his head from rolling off his shoulders. “How ’bout you champ? You had enough?”

  “I don’t think he’s long for this world,” Lorraine said as she stroked Caleb’s fuzzy head as though petting a cat.

  “He always falls asleep too early,” Carrie announced.

  Amy looked at her watch. It was almost eight. “Yeah, well, you won’t be up much longer either, missy.”

  “I want to play with Oscar a little more,” Carrie said.

  The table of grownups exchanged looks. It was Norman who said, “Oscar?”

  “That’s what I’m calling him. Because he used to be dirty like Oscar the Grouch.”

  “Makes sense,” Patrick said with a wink to the rest of the table.

  “So can I go play with him?” Carrie asked.

  Amy looked over her shoulder and out onto the lawn where the now sprawled-out-in-a-blissful-heap terrier resided. “I think Oscar might want to rest for a bit, sweetheart. He ate more than all of us.”

  * * *

  It was past ten, and Caleb was now a wad of ooze in Lorraine’s arms. Carrie had apparently swallowed her pride and decided that her brother was on to something because she too looked equally sedated in her father’s arms.

  Dessert never made an appearance and was happily replaced with more beer and wine. The porch lights were on and did a fairly decent job of allowing more than silhouettes to be visible to one another.

  “My goodness, that’s awful,” Lorraine said. “What a terrible way to start your weekend.”

  “Tell me about it,” Amy replied. “I wanted to leave.”

  Norman shifted in his seat and scratched his bald head. “And you’ve never met these two men before today?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Patrick said. “I met the Arty guy for the first time at the gas station, and then we saw him later at the pizza place with the whole doll and candy debacle. But this guy Amy ran into at the supermarket was something completely unrelated. And the bastard must have been followi
ng her from the moment she arrived at Giant. How else would he have known which car was she was driving so he could play his hilarious little game with the rice on the windshield?”

  Amy nodded at Patrick, sipped her beer, and said, “We encountered a doll-loving weirdo and a rice-giving pervert before we even had a chance to get unpacked.”

  “That’s awful,” Lorraine said again. “My goodness, how long have we been coming up here, Norm? Twenty years? We’ve never met any characters like that.”

  Norman nodded emphatically. “On the contrary, everyone here tends to be too friendly.”

  “Yeah, well, we always felt the same way,” Patrick said. “It’s one of the reasons we love it out here so much.” He took a swig of beer. “Don’t know what happened this time though. Bad luck I suppose.”

  “It was a freak occurrence,” Norman said, raising his beer bottle. “The important thing is that you’re safe now and you’ve got a lovely weekend ahead of you.”

  Only Patrick and Lorraine raised their drink with him. Amy just gave a weak smile then sipped her beer as though it was a pacifier.

  “You don’t agree?” Norman asked her.

  She shrugged. “I guess…” She took another sip. “I think I’m just still rattled about the idea of that pervert at Giant following me without my realizing it. And of course there’s this Arty character and his interaction with my daughter.” Another sip. “I mean the creep even knows where we’re staying for Christ’s sake. Patrick told him.”

  Patrick frowned. “Baby, the guy called this place Crater Lake. And that was after I’d already told him the correct name. Hell, I’ll bet he probably forgot it again the minute he left the station.”

  “But he was right there at the restaurant with us an hour later, trading a blue lollipop for a fucking doll.” She looked away, disgusted.

  Norman and Lorraine exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “I’m not saying it isn’t bizarre, baby—it is—I’m just saying that with a wife, in-laws, and twins on his plate, I doubt the guy’s got any time to pop in for a surprise visit, if he happens to remember the name of the lake.”

  Amy took a deep pull from her beer.

  “Come on, honey,” Patrick began, “we’ve already been over this. I hate what happened too, but it’s done, right? We need to put it behind us now.”

  Norman leaned to his right and rubbed Amy’s shoulder. “Here, here,” he said. “Just dumb luck is all it was.” He then smiled and added, “Besides, you’ve got Oscar to protect you now.”

  All four adults looked out onto the grass where the still-heavily stuffed and clinically zonked Oscar hadn’t moved for the past two hours.

  “Great,” Amy said. “I feel safer already.”

  * * *

  Over an hour had passed before Amy and Patrick were able to crawl under the sheets together.

  Inching over, Patrick placed his lips on Amy’s neck and mumbled into her warm flesh. “You better not be ready to go to sleep just yet.”

  “You’re not tired?” she asked.

  “Does it feel like I’m tired?”

  Amy reached under the sheets and touched the front of her husband’s boxer shorts. “Oh my,” she said. “No, I would say you’re, or should I say, he’s wide awake.”

  They both chuckled. Amy rolled over on top of her husband and began kissing his chest, periodically darting her tongue in and out, flicking his nipples. “Although I’m not sure I gave a good enough inspection,” she said, her tongue sliding down his torso towards his waist. “Perhaps I should take a closer look?”

  “I, I mean he, would like that very much.”

  * * *

  In the twelve years they had been married there was one undeniable truth both Amy and Patrick could never deny: their sex life was amazing. As incredulous as it sounded to other couples in the same chronological boat, their physical attraction and passion for one another had never once dimmed from the first time they’d touched each other’s skin. Tonight’s marathon of intensity proved to extend that streak even further.

  “I think I’m done, baby,” Amy said. She was on top, Patrick still inside her (the sheets long since discarded in a heap on the floor), and panting heavily, perspiration rimming her hairline. “I’m starting to get a little sore.”

  “You okay?” he asked between pants of his own.

  She leaned down and began kissing him, pausing and breathing hard between each kiss to say, “I came twice.” Kiss. “Yes, I’m okay.” Kiss. “I’m very okay.” Kiss. “I think I just need some healing time if we’re ever going to do it again on this trip.” Kiss.

  Patrick laughed and said, “Okay, dismount.”

  She giggled and slowly pushed herself off. He leaned forward and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her onto her side and close to him so they could spoon into one another. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck. “I love you,” he said.

  Amy reached back and rubbed his leg. “I love you too, baby.” She took a deep breath into her nose, and let it filter out slow and heavy through her mouth—any previous anxieties gratefully expelled with her therapeutic sigh. She felt her eyelids getting heavy. “We better pull the sheets back onto the bed,” she said. “If the kids come in…”

  “Good idea,” Patrick mumbled, his eyes already closed. “You do that.”

  “Such a gentleman,” she replied, gently slapping his leg.

  Amy sat up and reached over the side of the bed. She glanced outside through the bedroom window and saw the man with the shaved head staring back at her. She screamed louder than she’d ever done before in her life.

  10

  Patrick and Amy sat huddled together on the steps of their front porch waiting for the local sheriff to arrive. They each gripped a mug of tea prepared by Lorraine who was now next door keeping an eye on Carrie and Caleb until matters could be resolved. Norman stood next to the seated couple.

  “I think this might be him,” Norman said, pointing out in the distance towards a pair of headlights entering Crescent Lake. Seconds later the flashing red and blue left zero doubt.

  “It only took him half an hour,” Amy said. Her bitter sarcasm was anything but subtle.

  “Not much ever happens around here, Amy,” Norman said. “Heck, it’s just the one sheriff and a couple of deputies patrolling the area. Guess they figure they can take their time.”

  Amy had been chatting up a nervous storm the entire time they waited for the sheriff. She fired out questions, each one flowing immediately into the next, giving neither man a chance to answer. This was oddly appropriate; neither man had answers.

  Patrick’s behavior on the porch was the opposite of his wife’s. His rage for what Amy had seen in their bedroom window was consuming him and had taken hold of his tongue. He had stormed outside immediately after the incident, keen on a confrontation. After several minutes of fruitless searching, he eventually broke down and phoned the police. And now, having no other option but to sit and wait (while the son of a bitch in the window was being given ample time to get away), he felt as if a sea of bile was burning holes in his stomach.

  The sheriff’s car rolled to a stop in front of the cabin. The flashing red and blue continued their show while the sheriff exited the car and began his walk to the cabin.

  “You the Lamberts?” he called, still a good ten feet from the couple.

  Amy and Patrick set their mugs to one side, stepped down and walked a few feet forward. The porch held two lanterns on either side of the front door, each one powerful enough to cast a decent light onto the sheriff as he came into view. He was in full uniform, right down to the wide-brimmed hat. His pallid skin was heavily wrinkled, eyes dark and narrow. A long, thick gray mustache touched both corners of his chin. His physique was the odd combination of skinny and fat: a sunken chest, pipe cleaner arms, and a belly that bubbled and hung over his belt.

  “Yes,” Patrick said as he extended his hand. “I’m Patrick. This is my wife, Amy.”

  The sheriff took
Patrick’s hand and gave it a half-hearted shake while looking in Norman’s direction. “That you, Norm?” he asked.

  Norman nodded and gave a small obligatory smile, discouraging drawn-out pleasantries. Patrick was grateful.

  “How’s Lorraine?”

  “She’s fine.”

  The sheriff nodded then turned his full attention to Patrick and Amy. “So who can tell me what happened here tonight?”

  * * *

  Amy and Patrick took turns relaying the bizarre events that took place earlier in the day—Patrick when it came to the incidents with Arty, Amy when it came to the man with the shaved head at the supermarket. When the telling of events ultimately arrived at the episode with the man at the window, Amy took over entirely.

  “And I glanced up at the window for a few seconds and he was there…staring at me,” she said.

  “And you’re sure it was the man you saw earlier in the supermarket?” the sheriff asked.

  “Positive,” Amy said.

  The sheriff fixed on Patrick. “And you say you ran outside after the guy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you didn’t find anyone.”

  “No.”

  The sheriff went back to Amy. “And you’re absolutely sure you saw a man in your window?”

  Amy looked at the sheriff as though he’d told an offensive joke. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The sheriff showed Amy both palms in a placating manner. “Okay, okay, I’m just suggesting that after the ordeal at the market today, maybe this guy’s face might have been on your mind some. Maybe caused you to see something that wasn’t really there.”