He smiled. “I am indeed a lucky man.”
“I’ll tell you what; you go switch the heat back on. I’ll be in the bedroom to see if I can’t…set the mood.” She winked.
“Believe me, you’ve already set it.”
She patted his butt again. “Go on. I’ll be waiting.”
“Did I say I wanted to leave tonight? I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”
* * *
Lois had initially intended on attacking her husband the second he walked through their bedroom door. She was wearing the silk nightgown she knew he loved so much and had been giddy with anticipation. But he was taking longer than expected. She now sat on the corner of the bed, her legs crossed, palm bracing her chin. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. He’d been gone twenty minutes. Switching the heat back on should have taken no more than five, ten tops.
“Maury?”
No answer.
She stood, walked to the door, called his name again.
Nothing.
Had he taken a spill in the cellar? She was worried now. She pinched the lapels of her gown together and went to the closet to get her slippers. When she turned around Maury was at the door.
“There you are. I was getting worried.”
Maury was pale.
“Maury?”
Maury flew forward into the room, falling to his knees. Lois cried out. A man with a shaved head appeared in the doorway. He was holding a gun.
“Hi,” the man said.
26
The clink of the champagne glasses was an hour ago. A near-empty bottle of Cristal sat in a small puddle of its own condensation on the kitchen counter. Patrick and Amy were taking their time getting dressed in the bedroom. Actually, Patrick was; Amy was keen on dressing and going for that moon-lit walk.
“I’m gonna put on some sweats,” Amy said. She went to roll out of bed and Patrick hooked her at the waist and pulled her back.
“Not yet,” he said, his lips going up and down her bare back and shoulders. “Just a little longer.”
Amy wiggled free and hopped out of bed, her naked body casting a dim, but enticing profile in the moonlight.
“Jesus, baby,” Patrick said, “if you want to get out this bedroom, I suggest you dress quickly.”
She laughed and hiked up a pair of blue sweatpants followed by a gray sweatshirt. “Think I’ll be warm enough in this?”
“If you wear a jacket.”
“Duh.”
He threw a pillow at her. She caught it and dropped it to the floor. “Now you’re pillow-less. Get up.”
He slapped his hands over his face and moaned.
“God you’re worse than Carrie on a school day. My sneakers are in the kitchen. I’ll be right back. Get up.”
Patrick groaned and got to his feet. He scanned the perimeter of the bedroom for discarded clothing that would suffice for a second round; the idea of rifling through drawers for new attire with champagne and recent sex still sapping brain cells was far too daunting.
“What should I wear?” he yelled into the kitchen. “Should I just throw on what I wore at the Mitchell’s last night?”
“No.”
“It was just jeans and a button-down.”
“No.”
He sighed and slumped down onto the corner of the bed. “Is the path around the lake muddy?”
“Huh?”
“Muddy. Are we gonna get dirty or something?”
“Patrick, just find something else to wear please.”
He rolled his eyes at no one, stood again, trudged towards the dresser. He tugged the middle drawer open. “Dog shit?” he called.
“What?”
“Think there’ll be dog shit?”
Amy re-appeared in the bedroom an inch taller, her sneakers snug to her feet. “How the hell should I know?”
“Well I’m sure Oscar isn’t the only dog around here,” he said.
“Well let’s just hope the people around here have enough decency to clean up after their pets. Besides, if you just look where you’re stepping you’ll be fine.”
“It’s dark out,” he said as he pulled on his own pair of sweats.
“The lake will have decent lighting from the surrounding cabins. I’m sure you’ll be able to detect the odd pile of poo if we happen to stumble across it.”
Patrick yanked down a blue sweatshirt, then ran a hand back and forth through his hair—a futile attempt at keeping his cowlicks from behaving after the earlier assault with hair gel. “Yeah, well, if I do step in some I’m gonna scoop it up with a stick and chase you around the lake with it.”
“Grade school reminiscing are we?” Amy pulled her hair into a ponytail and fastened a band around it. “What am I thinking? You need to graduate before you can reminisce.”
Patrick started putting on his sneakers. “And yet you married me.”
“I lost a bet.”
Patrick finished tying his shoes and stood. “I wonder where our dumb dog is anyway. Carrie said she couldn’t find him earlier. I haven’t seen him either. Have you?”
Amy was frowning.
Patrick said, “What?”
“Our dog?”
“He’s been great with Carrie. She loves him to bits.”
Amy’s frown was going nowhere. “There is no way on earth that dog is coming home with us. You know that right? Please tell me you know that.”
Patrick looked away and nodded.
“Patrick?”
“Alright, alright. I guess I’m just thinking about what to say when Carrie inevitably asks.”
“How about ‘no’?”
“Okay fine, but you’re the one who’s telling her.”
“Okay I will. But you know she’ll run right to you afterwards and try again. So prepare yourself, buddy boy.” She ended her spiel with a good-luck-with-that slap to his chest.
“Ouch—stop abusing your husband. He’s very delicate.”
“Well bring your delicate butt along—I want to get a romantic stroll in before the kids come back.”
“Patience, my darling. You can’t rush romance.”
“You can when you’ve got a four- and six-year-old headed back from the movies with sugar in their blood and cartoon animals bouncing around in their heads.”
“Good point. Let’s go.”
27
Maury and Lois Blocker lay next to one another in bed. Lois wept silently. Maury’s pale complexion was now a sickly white. The couple was too scared too even hold on to one another.
“You need to get off the fence here, bro,” Jim said to Arty. “We’re wasting time.”
Arty stood at the foot of the bed. He held an aluminum baseball bat along the length of his leg. Jim was to the right of the bed, a pistol pointed at the couple.
“I’m still thinking,” Arty said.
“What’s to think about?”
“Leaving too big a mess is what. You feel like cleaning up?”
“No, but our choices were pretty fucking limited from the start. Either someone was home or they weren’t.”
Maury Blocker cleared his throat. “Please,” he said. “If it’s money—”
“Shut up,” Arty said. He spoke to the couple as if they repulsed him. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Tick tock, bro,” Jim said.
Arty nodded. “I’m just thinking about efficiency. The less mess, the sooner we can get started.”
Jim shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Well we gotta get rid of their car, right?”
Jim nodded.
Arty tapped the bat against Lois Blocker’s foot. “How tall are you?”
Her fear meshed with a confused frown. “What?”
“How tall?”
“I don’t…five-two?”
Arty tapped the bat on Maury’s foot. “You?”
“About five-seven, I guess.”
Arty brought the aluminum bat down onto Maury Blocker’s head once, then twice. Lois Blocker screamed afte
r the second hit, immediately prompting her turn. Arty crushed her skull with the first swing.
Panting, Arty turned to his brother, bat in both hands. “Sometimes you just get up to the line of scrimmage and need to call an audible, James my boy.”
Jim started laughing. “The fuck are you talking about?”
Arty threw the bat into the corner where it landed with a distinctive twang. “They’re short little fuckers. We can stuff ’em in the trunk before we ditch the car. I really didn’t feel like digging any holes this weekend.” He tapped the side of his forehead. “Efficiency.”
“I’ve got the smartest big brother in the whole wide world.”
Arty held out a fist. “Rock, scissor, paper to see who strips the sheets?”
28
Patrick and Amy were barely down the length of their driveway when Lorraine called to them from next door.
“Shit,” Patrick whispered.
“Told you,” Amy whispered back.
“You guys back so soon?” Patrick called over to her.
The couple met Lorraine halfway, on the strip of lawn between the two cabins.
“Norman decided to take the kids for ice cream after the film. The parlor is a bit out of the way, so you two still have a good deal of time left to yourselves.” Lorraine winked at them.
“Perfect,” Amy said. “We were just about to take a moon-lit walk around the lake.”
“Romantic stuff, ya know?” Patrick said.
Amy elbowed him. Lorraine smiled and looked up at the sky. “Well you couldn’t have picked a better night for it. It’s a beautiful one.”
Amy looked up with her.
Patrick asked about the kids and Norman again. “So wait, what happened? Did Norm come back and drop you off before heading back out with the kids?”
Lorraine nodded. “I was getting tired. Glad I’m a grandmother now and can give them back at the end of the night. I forgot how exhausting it can be.”
Amy gripped her husband’s forearm with both hands and began dragging him away from Lorraine. “Hence the reason we treasure every minute.”
Patrick pretended he was being dragged harder than he actually was and gave Lorraine a silly look. “I guess that means we’re going. Thanks again Lorraine, we’ll be back soon.”
Lorraine laughed and headed back inside.
* * *
They had just finished their stroll around the lake.
“I don’t see Norm’s car in the driveway yet,” Patrick said, squinting towards the Mitchell’s cabin. “We can do another lap if you want.”
“Oh, so you’re liking this now, are you?” Amy asked.
Patrick looked out onto the lake before answering. The smooth black surface of the lake reflected hypnotic patterns of moonlight that held his gaze like a shiny pendulum.
While the serenity of the cabin and its remote surroundings were the primary motives for their sojourn west, Patrick only just realized, to his own surprise, that it was his wife’s suggestion of observing the lake at night that proved to be the most tranquil and soothing element of the entire vacation thus far.
“Yeah,” he sighed. He pulled her close and looked out onto the lake again. “It really is beautiful.” A shimmer of moonlight reflected off the lake and caressed the contours of Patrick’s face as though it appreciated the compliment.
Amy rubbed his chest. “I’ve got such a big, sensitive man.”
“Sensitive but tough, right?”
“Oh of course, baby—the toughest.”
“Good. Because I can be macho too you know. I can belch or fart or punch an animal if you want.”
“Please don’t.” She pulled away and took hold of his arm to start lap number two.
They strolled a good twenty yards more, periodically glancing left at the lit cabins before shifting their gaze east to become entranced once more by the lake’s reflection of the moon.
“Beautiful night for a walk,” a male voice said to their left.
They stopped. Patrick smiled and said, “Sure is.”
Amy squinted and leaned forward towards the voice. When her eyes settled she recoiled as if a bug had flown in her face. She spun into Patrick.
“It’s him,” she said.
Patrick looked down at his wife, then up at the wooden porch from where the man had greeted them. The porch was roughly ten feet away, three small stairs leading up to it. The man who had addressed them was leaning against a banister and periodically flicking a metal wind chime that hung just above and in front of his face. The man’s head was shaved and he was leering, not smiling, at the couple.
“Who?” Patrick asked.
“Him from the store. From Giant. From the fucking window in our bedroom!”
Patrick stared at his wife in disbelief. The man flicked the wind chime again, the ding lifting Patrick’s head towards him once more. He spoke to Amy but kept his eyes on the man on the porch. “What? Are you sure?”
Amy held on to Patrick’s hand with a death-grip and stepped forward, her husband’s arm like a rope while scaling down a mountain. She squinted again. The man with the shaved took a step forward, took a bow, and blew her a kiss.
Motherfucker.
Patrick ripped his arm away from Amy and charged the porch, only to stop instantly on the first step. The man had drawn a gun, Patrick’s head the target. Patrick stood frozen in mid-stride, like a child playing a game of Red light, Green light.
“Whoa, easy there, stud,” the man with the shaved head said. “You’ve got an awfully mean look in your eyes. I’d hate to have to shoot them out.”
Patrick remained still. Amy’s heavy breathing could be heard behind his back. The man with the gun shifted his head to the left and looked past Patrick, towards the heavy breathing.
“Hey, lover,” the man said to Amy. “I take it you remember me then?”
Amy said nothing. She had chosen, like her husband, to stay frozen and silent while the gun was still up and pointed in their direction.
“Of course you do,” the man continued. “I mean a woman who gets that worked up over a few harmless words in a supermarket isn’t likely to forget so easily.” The man kept the gun up, turned his head and wiped his mouth on his shoulder. He’d started to salivate. “But if you ask me, that was nothing to how worked up you were last night when this stud right here was pumpin’ away between those sexy little legs of yours.”
Patrick clenched his jaw. His body was twitching now, begging to let his common sense disappear so he could rush forward at all costs. The man with the shaved head cocked the gun’s trigger, his leer becoming a laugh.
“Am I pissin’ you off, big man? Is it pissin’ you off that I saw your slutty little wife riding your pole, her beautiful titties bouncing up and down like—” He moaned. “—like two scoops of fuck yeah?” He wiped his mouth again, continued leering. “Because I know it would piss me off. I mean if some guy hit on my woman in a supermarket, then returned later that night to watch her get fucked? Jeeeesus would I be pissed.”
Patrick, slow and deliberate, took two steps backwards and stood upright. He paused, then chanced a few more steps until he was beside his wife. He maneuvered Amy behind him to shield her.
“Well maybe you’re not so pissed after all,” the man said after Patrick backed off. “Me? I would have ran up on this porch and taught me a lesson.”
The words were out of Patrick’s mouth before he could snatch them back. “Put that gun down and I’ll show you how pissed off I am.”
The man with the shaved head held the gun up to his face, gave it a curious look and said, “What? This? Is this the reason you won’t grow a pair and come on up to defend your wife’s honor?”
Patrick said nothing.
“You’re thinking I’d shoot you if you came up here?” the man continued. “I couldn’t shoot you, pal. I could never hurt anyone. Just isn’t in me.”
The man walked towards a wicker table in the center of the porch and set the gun down. “There.” He
splayed empty hands. “All gone.”
The man then turned those open hands into fists and put them up in a classic 19th century boxing stance, one fist behind the other, chin ludicrously high. “Come on then, stud. Let’s do a bit of fisticuffs, yeah?” He made small circles with his fists as though ready for the opening bell. “Come on, you don’t want your wife to think you’re a pussy, do ya? Because no matter what they might tell you, it’s always the knight-in-shining-armor shit that gets ’em wet. You see, a woman will make love to a pacifist…” He smirked. “But she’ll fuck a knight.”
Patrick twitched again.
The man exaggerated his stance, raised his fists high. “So what’s it gonna be, stud? You gonna be the knight or the pussy?”
Patrick started forward.
Amy lunged after her husband, grabbed his arm with both hands. “No!” She fronted Patrick and placed both hands on his chest. “No, Patrick, he’ll grab the gun as soon as you go up there. He’s the pussy!” She turned and faced the man, one hand still on her husband’s chest. “YOU’RE the pussy!” She turned back to Patrick. “We’ll call the police. We’ll go home right now and call the police.” Back over her shoulder again at the man, “WE’RE CALLING THE POLICE!”
The screen door to the cabin opened, a metallic bang declaring it shut once the porch’s newest occupant appeared. He was a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a welt on his cheek. He was holding a doll. “What the hell is going on out here?” the man asked. “Can’t a guy play with his doll in peace?”
Patrick’s mouth fell open.
Amy leaned forward and squinted. “Is that…?”
“Arty,” Patrick whispered.
Arty held up Josie the doll. He made one of the plastic arms wave at the stunned couple. “Howdy, Penn State fans.”
29
“We’re leaving tonight,” Amy said. “The second the kids come back, and the second the sheriff arrests those assholes, we-are-leaving.”
Patrick sat at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water. Frequent jabs of ire flooded his limbs and tempted him to squeeze until the glass shattered in his hand.
“They know each other,” he said. “They fucking know each other.”
Bad Games Page 11
