Bad Games

by Jeff Menapace

  “You’re not crazy,” Amy whispered back. “That was a fucking finger.”

  Patrick ran a hand through his hair and breathed in. “Okay then—let’s go to obvious question number two, shall we? Why was there a finger in our bait container?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Amy replied, her tone exceptionally condescending. “Did the man at the bait shop have all ten of his fingers?”

  “Yes, darling,” Patrick replied, matching her tone, “I believe he did.”

  “Well then Jesus, Patrick, you tell me. Was it that stupid lady who tried to sue Wendy’s by putting a severed finger in her chili? You didn’t happen to notice her at the bait shop did you?”

  Patrick burst out laughing.

  “Are you actually laughing? How the hell can this be funny to you?” She splayed her hands, let them slap back down onto her thighs. “I mean for Christ’s sake, what more can possibly go wrong this weekend?”

  “Whoa, wait a minute,” he said, patting the air before putting a finger to his lips. Her outburst was creeping out of PG territory and about to introduce the kids to PG-13 or possibly R. “Let’s not make too big a deal out of this.”

  “No? Our four-year-old son finding a human finger in your container of worms is an everyday thing?” She was losing the fight at keeping her voice a whisper.

  Patrick’s smile from his recent burst of laughter was gone. He now wore a look of concern; he knew that when his wife got started, their kids’ eager ears and a bus full of nuns armed with rulers would not stop one of her profane tirades.

  “Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.” He put a hand on her shoulder and she instantly shrugged it off. He sighed. “Alright, I’ll go back to the bait shop right now and talk to the owner,” he said.

  “Don’t even bother,” she said. “The thing is in the belly of that stupid dog right now anyway. We would have no proof.”

  “Well someone lost a finger. Maybe it’s someone else who works at the bait shop.”

  “It wasn’t a stupid employee at the bait shop, Patrick. Someone put that finger in our bait container deliberately.”

  “What? Why would someone do that?”

  “Why? I don’t know why. Why would a strange man buy us a tank of gas for no reason and then trade candy to a little girl for a stupid doll? Why would a pervert stalk me in a supermarket then look in on us while we had sex?”

  The whispering was gone, so was the presence of mind to spell out sex (even though he was fairly sure Carrie knew how to spell it). “I thought we decided—”

  “Shut up. Maybe I saw him, and maybe I didn’t. But I did just see that finger, and so did you.”

  “So let me get this straight.” Patrick was still insistent on whispering. “You’re suggesting that one of the two weirdoes we ran into this weekend put that severed finger in our bait container? How and when would they have done that?” Patrick asked.

  “I don’t know but they did.” She turned to Carrie and Caleb.

  “Kids, let’s go. Fishing’s over.”

  17

  “I think this one might be my favorite,” Arty said, getting up from his chair and pushing a tape into the VCR. The image on the TV screen went from black to fuzzy to a woman tied to a chair, facing front. Her surroundings were a small white room as bare as a padded cell. In the far left corner, a solitary lamp sat on the floor providing the only source of light save for the modest one pointing directly at her from atop the video camera recording the incident.

  “Is this the snake one?” Jim asked.

  Arty nodded without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “That fucker was heavy,” Jim added.

  The girl on camera wept softly through her gag. The sound of a door opened off camera. A few labored grunts. The girl’s eyes grew impossibly wide as she screeched through her gag like a wild bird. A circle of urine grew on the front of her blue jeans.

  Jim appeared on camera now, straining and breathing heavily, his perverse grin never fading despite the weight of the enormous python he carried. A few more grunts and the python was eventually draped over the girl’s shoulder and neck, pitching her head forward.

  Arty and Jim watched the film with a delight few knew. At times they became hysterical with laughter; other times they fell mute and gaped wide-eyed with a paradoxical awe at the pleasure and torment they had created.

  When the girl on screen had finally passed out, and when Jim brought her back around by squirting an old-fashioned seltzer bottle into her face in true Three Stooges fashion, the two brothers nearly fell out of their chairs.

  “I’d forgotten all about that!” Arty cried.

  Jim jumped out of his chair, turned to his brother, and wiped alternating hands down his shaved head while spewing “nyuck” after “nyuck” from the side of his mouth—a spot-on impersonation of the late Jerome ‘Curly’ Howard that would have been worthy of a standing ovation amongst devoted fans world-wide, all things considered.

  Arty had full-fledged tears dripping from his eyes. He wiped them away, straightened his posture, and donned a playful frown. “Spread out, you knucklehead,” he said in his best Moe voice.

  Jim dropped to the floor, rolled on his side, and began using his legs to spin himself around and around like hands on a clock: a classic Curly Shuffle, complete with “Woo!” after “Woo!” after “Woo!”

  Arty wiped away the last of his tears, bent forward and grabbed a second video from the base of the TV. He tossed the cassette to his brother.

  “Which one’s this?” Jim asked, catching the tape before getting to his feet.

  Arty hit eject, pulled the snake tape out and set it aside. “That’s the one with the yuppie at the bar who wouldn’t shut up about his golf game. The one with the nail gun and the…ahem…new handicap we gave him.”

  Jim smirked before turning his nose up and speaking in a haughty manner. “I’m sorry, Arthur, but that was an absolutely atrocious pun. However, that particular gem of a video is easily in my top three, so I’m willing to let it pass.”

  “Thank you, James,” Arty replied, his tone equally pretentious. “Now toss it back so I can pop it in. In fact, if the mood should strike you, I’ve even got a few more treasures we can peruse after this to truly set a fitting tone for the evening’s festivities that await us.”

  “Bravo, Arthur. Bravo.”

  18

  “We’re still going to dinner I hope?” Patrick asked Amy.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you still freaked out about the finger?”

  Amy, who was rifling through random drawers in their bedroom as a means to pacify her mind rather than actually pack, replied, “You’re not?”

  Patrick chuckled. “Not in the slightest. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I question whether the damn thing was real.”

  Amy turned and left a drawer hanging open. “Huh?”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly take it to a lab and get it analyzed, honey. The damn thing was probably a rubber prop or something. Some kid at the bait shop probably slipped it in there as a joke.”

  Amy shut the drawer. “It looked real to me.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see—and you’ve seen how many severed fingers in your lifetime, baby?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and squeezed as if trying to hold onto her convictions. “If it was rubber and not…meat, then why did Oscar eat it?”

  “Because he’s a dog, baby. When I was growing up our dog used to go into the cat’s litter box and eat its shit for Christ’s sake. Dogs are loyal and obedient but not too terribly bright, especially when it comes to choosing their cuisine.”

  Amy looked off past her husband. There was a decent pause before she blinked. “So you think it was a rubber finger then? A stupid prank from a kid?”

  To lie or not to lie, Patrick thought. Amy had a good point about the dog eating meat. Dogs will eat anything, but rubber would have likely been chewed up and spat out. Maybe. Still, the rubber f
inger theory had come to him in a flash, and if he could, he would have literally patted his own back for thinking so quick on his feet. So for the time being, he would nurture that spontaneous gem he’d concocted, convince his wife it was a rubber finger. A harmless prank.

  As for him? Just ask the hairs on the back of his neck—the ones he was constantly patting down and giving zero chance to rise up and speak freely. Those hairs felt the finger was real. Very real and very fucking mysterious. Because if you suspect the damn thing was real, Patrick (and deep down you do), then we must now address the next two obvious questions, regardless of how hard you’re trying to shove them into the back of your mind:

  Whose finger was it, and how the HELL did it get inside your bait container? It’s not like the Styrofoam had been packed on an assembly line, where quality control might miss a small rodent, some broken glass, the odd finger…

  Did Edgar do it? He would have certainly had enough time to plant the thing when you took Caleb to the bathroom. But hold on, dummy—he had all the time in the world to plant it before you even GOT to the store. So that makes no sense.

  The guy with the Penn State hat? How fucking ironic would THAT be? No. Edgar was there the whole time. I think he would have spoken up if someone put a goddamn finger in our bait container while we were in the bathroom.

  But wait…Edgar WAS acting strange when we returned.

  No. Stop it, dummy. This is absurd. You don’t have any answers and your paranoia is getting the best of you. Certainly understandable given recent events, yes? Yes. You’re being paranoid.

  But there is one thing you do know, isn’t there? You WILL keep sticking with the rubber finger theory, won’t you? You’ll stick to it and make it damn good for Amy’s sake. Solve the mystery on your own time if you want, but for right now, ignorance will be today’s special. In fact, why not take a big serving of what you’ve been feeding Amy? All this crazy shit so far…it has to be nothing but good old-fashioned bad luck, right? HAS to be. Things like this just don’t happen on purpose. No way. So swallow it down and try not to choke, Sherlock.

  “I’m certain it was, baby,” he said. He patted the back of his neck, walked towards Amy, kissed her lightly on the lips. “We have a wonderful night ahead of us. Let’s not let a silly thing like this ruin it.”

  She hugged him tight. “It was a sick joke?”

  He squeezed her back and replied, “It was.”

  “Whoever did it should be beaten.”

  “They should.”

  “We won’t let it ruin our night.”

  “We won’t.”

  “I feel better,” she said.

  “I’m glad.”

  She lifted her head off his chest, looked up and kissed him. “I love you.”

  “You should.”

  * * *

  Amy was wearing a white, form-fitting dress that flaunted every curve of her impressive figure. Her long dark hair was still damp from her recent shower and gave off the combined scent of flowers and fruit.

  She leaned forward at the waist, her stomach flat against the edge of the sink, applying makeup with a critical eye in the bathroom mirror.

  Patrick walked by the bathroom in dark slacks and a white button-down that was neither tucked nor buttoned just yet. He paused when he got a good look at his wife.

  “Sweet mother of…” he drooled. He entered the bathroom, stood behind his wife, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  Amy put her eyeliner down and smiled at her husband’s reflection. “You like?” she asked.

  “Me love.”

  “I’m gonna blow my hair out the way you like,” she smiled.

  “Mmmmmm…” Patrick leaned in and kissed her neck. “Perhaps we should skip dinner altogether.”

  “What, you didn’t get enough last night?”

  “I will never get enough of you.” He dropped down and sunk his teeth into her butt.

  She let out a yelp, giggled, turned and punched him in the chest. “Get out of here, I need to get ready.”

  As Patrick turned to leave, Carrie and Caleb appeared at the bathroom door. Caleb was holding two flat rocks. He went to hand them to his father but Carrie pushed him aside.

  “I can’t find Oscar,” she said.

  “Carrie, please don’t push your brother like that,” Patrick said.

  Caleb attempted a return shove but Carrie shrugged him off as though he wasn’t there. Her eyes stayed fixed on her father. “He’s been gone since we went fishing. I keep calling for him…”

  Probably off somewhere, barfing up the finger he ate this afternoon, Patrick thought.

  Amy, who had gone back to attending to her face in the mirror said, “He’ll come back when he’s hungry, honey. You and your brother need to get ready to go to the Mitchell’s.”

  Carrie looked down at her attire—a faded Hannah Montana T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans—then back up at her mother with an odd look. “I am ready.”

  Amy kept one eye on the mirror while the other stole a quick glance at her daughter. “Wouldn’t you rather wear something nicer for the Mitchells?”

  Carrie looked at her clothes again. “No.”

  Patrick stepped out of the bathroom (giving his wife a subtle pat on the bottom as he passed), and approached his son. “Whatcha got there, bud? More rocks for skipping?”

  Caleb nodded eagerly and handed them to his father.

  “Whoa, take a look at these beauties.”

  Caleb beamed.

  “Come on,” Patrick said. “Let’s go out to the lake and skip them before your mom and I take you over to the Mitchell’s.”

  Father and son raced outside. Amy put the eyeliner down and tilted her torso out the bathroom door. “Don’t get dirty!”

  19

  The silver Highlander glided along the main road, north of Crescent Lake. As promised, Amy had blown her hair out in the style Patrick liked so much, and he found it damn difficult to concentrate on the wheel.

  “Edible, baby,” he said, stealing his umpteenth glance. “You are looking absolutely edible.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek while he looked out onto the road. “You’re not lookin’ too bad yourself there, sexy.” She ran her fingers down the buttons of his collared shirt.

  Patrick’s white button-down was covered with a jet-black sport coat that accentuated his broad shoulders. His top two buttons were undone (a tie was simply out of the question for Patrick Lambert), and his slacks and polished shoes were the exact color of his sport coat. Even his hair, which usually had the uncanny ability to face all four directions of the globe, was gelled and parted in a neat, trendy fashion, making him look the equal of his wife’s thirty-three years instead of his own thirty-eight.

  “I’m thinking we might stand out once we get to the restaurant, we look so good,” Amy added.

  “We’d stand out anywhere we went, hotness,” he said. “However, both Norm and Lorraine insisted this place was pretty snazzy. Of course that won’t change anything. We’ll still be the sexiest couple there.”

  She smirked, kissed his cheek again, then sat back in her seat. “How far?”

  “Twenty minutes, give or take. It shouldn’t be too bad. It’s more than likely we’ll be back before the kids are,” he said.

  Amy instantly leaned back over and squeezed her husband’s shoulder, excited. “Ooh, then you know what we should do? We should take a moon-lit stroll around the lake as soon as we get back.”

  “In these clothes? They’d get filthy,” he said.

  “Since when do you care about something like that?”

  “Thought I’d try and earn some points.”

  “Nice try. We can stop by the cabin first and change.”

  Patrick put a hand over his mouth and gasped. “You mean…get naked?”

  Amy shook her head. “My poor horny husband—so desperately guided by his rampant hormones.”

  “I know all about hormones, you know,” he said.

  “Stop.”r />
  “I even know how they’re made.”

  “Stop.”

  “Do you know how to make a hormone, honey?”

  She took her hand off his shoulder and sat back in her seat. “You’ve told me this one a million times.”

  “You refuse to pay her.” Patrick grinned at his wife like a schoolboy, always pleased with himself after delivering one of the classics.

  Amy turned away, but smirked out her passenger window. She loved every inch of him.

  20

  Carrie wanted chicken fingers. Caleb wanted a cheeseburger. Lorraine and Norman would eat anything put in front of them if it meant appeasing the Babysitting Gods and keeping the children happy. So the primary goal was as straightforward as straightforward gets: locate a restaurant that serves both chicken fingers and cheeseburgers.

  “I think Charlie’s will have chicken fingers and burgers,” Norman said.

  Lorraine nodded. “I’d bet on it.”

  Norman clapped his hands together. “Alright then. Charlie’s it is.”

  “Who’s Charlie?” Caleb asked.

  Carrie turned to her brother. “He’s the one who makes our food, stupid.”

  “Hey, hey—no name-calling when you’re with us,” Norman said. “Charlie is the owner. The restaurant is named after him.”

  “So then who’s going to cook our food?” Carrie asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Norman said.

  “So it could be Charlie,” Carrie said.

  “I doubt that, sweetheart. I’m sure Charlie hires people to cook for him.”

  “But it could be.”

  Norman chuckled and waved the white flag. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”

  Lorraine sipped the remainder of her tea then placed the empty cup on the coffee table. “Are you two excited for the movie?”

  Only Caleb nodded. Carrie decided it wiser to test the pocketbooks of their temporary guardians first. “Can we get popcorn?”

  “Of course,” Norman said. “Can’t have a movie without popcorn.”