Bloody Bloody Apple

by Howard Odentz

  “Grandpa Gill?”

  “What . . . what . . . who’s there?” I hear him say from the living room.

  “I’ve come to rob you blind,” I call out as I walk through his kitchen.

  “Too late,” he croaks. “I’ve already spent all my money on women and liquor. I’m going to be damned to Satan forever and a day.”

  My grandfather’s sitting in his wheelchair by the big window in his living room, the one that looks out onto Vanguard Lane.

  “Is that you, Mother?” he asks. I think he’s talking about my grandmother, or at least I hope he is. His own mother’s long dead, and I’d hate to think he’s forgotten that, too, along with most of the rest of his long life.

  “No,” I say as I walk over to him and bend down on one knee in front of his chair. “It’s me.”

  He studies my face, and a flicker of comprehension flashes through his eyes. “Benny Boy?” he says, calling me by my father’s name. I slowly shake my head, because I won’t lie to him. I refuse to do that.

  “Nope,” I say. “Try again.”

  His eyes seem so small. They’ve shrunken into his face over the years. Now they’re barely buttons sewn onto his thin, wrinkled skin.

  “I know you,” he says.

  “That’s right, you do.”

  My grandfather stretches his thin arm out and runs his bony knuckles along my cheek, stroking my face just like my mother and Mrs. Berg. He stares at me for a long time with his little eyes and his old, loose skin hanging around him in folds. Finally, the little black centers grow big as he reaches into his mind for the name he knows is there. I can see it in his expression. He wants to drag it onto his tongue and bring it to life.

  When he finally does, the room grows cold.

  “You’re Crawdaddy Fish.” he says. “You’re Crawdaddy Fish.”

  25

  SICKENING LAUGHTER erupts from the air vent in the corner—the one that sinks straight into the basement where my sister’s locked away. Becky and I used to talk through the vents when we were little. She’d hide downstairs, and I would come up here, and we could hear our voices echo to each other—telling secrets—giggling all the way.

  Now, all I can see is Not-Becky curled up against the grate in my sister’s duplicate room, listening intently to my conversation with my grandfather.

  “Who told you that name?” I bark at the old man.

  He looks scared and leans back in his chair. The wheels creak against the floor boards. “What name?” he says with a tremor in his voice.

  “Crawdaddy Fish. Who told you that name?”

  His lips quiver as he cocks his head to one side, like he’s listening to something far, far away. “It’s the mice in the walls,” he whispers. “They talk to me.”

  I hear the obnoxious chuckling again. It drifts out of the vent like smoke. It’s Not-Becky playing messed-up head games with our grandfather. It’s whispering horrible things to him, the only way it can—through the cracks in the house—through the cracks in his foundation.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath, but my grandfather hears me anyway, and suddenly, the flat palm of his hand is sailing through the air. He strikes me on the cheek, harder than I think he’s able.

  “Don’t use that language in my house,” he growls with utter clarity. I’m stunned and sorry at the same time. As penance, I let the sting work its way into my face without rubbing the hurt away. I deserve it. I deserve whatever punishment he sees fit to dole out while I’m living under his roof.

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I say to him.

  He leans forward in this chair. “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he sneers. “When was the last time you went to confession, Benny Boy? And don’t you lie to me. I’ll know if you lie. I always know when you lie.”

  “Crawdaddy Fish,” cackles the thing in the basement. “Crawdaddy Fish, Crawdaddy Fish, Crawdaddy Fish.”

  “I’m not Ben,” I say as gently as I can, trying to shut out the rant coming from the vent. “I’m not Ben, Grandpa. I’m Jackson. I’m Ben’s son.”

  More laughter rises from the floor, so I take a lumpy pillow off of the couch and put it in front of the little metal grate. It’s not perfect, but it cuts out most of the noise.

  “I’m going to make the mice go away,” I tell him. “They won’t whisper to you through the walls anymore, Grandpa. Would you like that?”

  He shakes his head yes, but I can already see he’s confused. “Who will talk to me, then?” he cries. His eyes are wet. I don’t know what to say to him. The truth is, there’s nobody left to talk to him. My grandmother’s dead, my mother is lost inside herself, and my father hides in the garage.

  If I take her away from him, then who will be left besides me?

  I can’t do it alone. I don’t have it in me to do any more than I already do. I feed him and make sure his clothing’s washed. I fix his television when he thinks it’s broken. That’s all I can do. I can’t be there for him any more than I already am.

  I just can’t.

  I look at the lumpy pillow I shoved up against the grate and reluctantly pull it away.

  “There,” I say. “I’ll let the mice talk to you, okay?” Secretly, I pray that sometimes it’s my sister who reaches out to him instead of Not-Becky.

  My grandfather nods, but I know he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Besides, he’s so far gone, what harm could come from letting my sister whisper to him through the air ducts? What can she possibly say? What can she possibly do?

  Not-Becky’s laughter goes silent, and my grandfather sniffs. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. I know he’s relieved I took the pillow away from the grate. It’s like his lifeline—his telephone. The truth is, my grandfather and my sister share an old-fashioned connection through the walls, like two prisoners in a dungeon who pass each other notes between a chink in the hard-packed mortar.

  I suppose there’s some kind of comfort in knowing that neither of them is truly alone in their lunacy. At times, my grandfather must think my grandmother’s speaking to him through the grate, or maybe he thinks it’s God, giving him absolution for all the things he’s done wrong in his life—or the Devil, cursing him for them.

  Maybe this is his punishment for whatever he did to my father to make him the way he is.

  I don’t know—but his words ring in my ears. When was the last time you went to confession, Benny Boy? How many times did he make my father do that? How many times did he force my father to his knees in front of a false idol made of wood or plaster and make him pray for his salvation.

  I reach for the remote control and turn on the television. The sound of it filling up his living room is jarring, and my grandfather suddenly looks around and finds the box with the moving pictures on it. In no time, he’s transfixed, so I turn up the sound just a little too much. Maybe it will drown out the voice in the wall, or maybe she’ll hear it, too, and not feel so alone.

  On my grandfather’s kitchen table, I find an empty bowl from breakfast with some dried cereal clinging to the sides. It’s still sticky from the milk that’s evaporated around it. Next to that is an empty plate which probably held a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and maybe some potato chips. I don’t know if we’re supposed be watching my grandfather’s diet or not. All I know is that between me and my father, we make sure he eats three times a day.

  It’s the same with Becky. We make sure she eats, too—but that’s all.

  I take the bowl and the plate, leave my grandfather in front of the television, and quietly go downstairs to the kitchen. There’re still a few hours until dinner, so I decide that I’ll bring Becky a glass of milk and some cookies. She always liked milk and cookies—any kind, as long as they were chocolate.

  We have some Hydrox left in the cupboard. They’re those Oreos that aren’t Oreos at all, just like Not-Becky’s
not Becky at all.

  I pull a handful of them out of their wrapper and put them on a plate and fill a glass with the milk I bought last night at the BD Mart. As I open the basement door to flick on the light, I look down and count the cookies that I’ve set out for my sister. There are five of them, not four or six, but five.

  There’s significance to the number five, and Becky and I are going to have a little talk about that, mostly because I want to know. I want to know why she said, “Five will die,” and I’m not going to listen to any more of her crazy talk until I get an answer.

  Not this time.

  26

  THE KEY TO BECKY’S dungeon isn’t hanging on the nail at the bottom of the basement stairs. For a moment, fear washes over me. I search the floor, even getting down on my hands and knees to slap at the cement. It’s nowhere. What the hell?

  I’m about to dash upstairs to search my father’s dresser when a flash of light catches my eye. It’s the key, sticking out of the bottom lock of Becky’s door. It’s glinting in the afternoon sun, streaming in from the window well above the laundry machine.

  Shit.

  I can picture Not-Becky chewing at its own wrists until they are slick with blood, so it can slime free of its chains.

  I can picture Not-Becky squeezing itself up against the barred door, its tattered hair stringy and wet with sweat, trying to force its bony arm through the narrow spaces to reach down for the little piece of metal—and freedom.

  Who knows what would happen if it got out? I don’t want to think about that because all I can see is blood smeared across my mind, threatening to blot out the world.

  I stand there, holding the cookies and milk, staring at the head of the key as it sticks out of the door, forcing the rational part of my mind to come up with a plausible reason for why it’s there in the first place.

  All I can come up with is my father.

  Why would he do that? He must have left the key there this morning by accident, when he brought her a bowl of cereal for breakfast and a sandwich and chips for lunch.

  Yeah, that must be it. My father just forgot. I shake my head and sneer.

  That will be ten Hail Marys for you, Benny-boy. Screw that—make it twenty.

  I let out a long breath that I don’t even know I’m holding and walk slowly over to the barred door with the milk and cookies balanced in my hands. I can hear my sister inside, muttering something, which is nothing new.

  If my family kept me prisoner in the basement, chained to a wall, I’d probably be talking to myself, too. As I peer through the bars, I see Not-Becky crouched in the far corner near the bathroom. The light above the sink is still on, and the little makeup kit, the one she had out yesterday, is still open and sitting on the counter.

  “Six,” Not-Becky gurgles into the grate in the wall. “Not five.” It scratches at its head with its cracked nails, and some of the scabs on its scalp flake off and fall to the floor. “No more five, no more five, no more five.” It clutches itself and rocks back and forth. “Six, six, six—that’s the number of the Beast, you know. Six, six, six.”

  My hand that’s holding the plate starts to jiggle, and the cookies jitter about as though there’s a tiny earthquake underneath my feet.

  “Six, six, six. One more for kicks,” Not-Becky cackles as it holds the wall with its hands. “Tee hee hee. Tee hee hee. Six, six, six. One more for kicks.”

  Suddenly, it whips its head around to stare at me through the bars. There are sixes drawn all over its face with eyeliner. Some are upside down, and some are right-side up. Others are tilted sideways.

  Across its forehead is that accursed number that everyone knows—666—drawn out in black.

  “You got to be kidding me.”

  “Six, six, six. One more for kicks,” Not-Becky screeches. It leaps to its feet, quicker than I’ve ever seen it move before. The chains clang against the metal bed frame. Before I know what’s happening, it’s at the door, trying to shove its hand through the bars so it can reach down, grab the head of the key, and twist it free—just like I imagined would happen.

  “No,” I yelp, quickly setting the cookies and milk down. I bang desperately at its hand with my fist. One of my hits connects, and it squeals and yanks its hand back though the bars.

  “Ow,” she cries. “Why did you do that?” Becky’s speaking now, not the other one.

  “You were trying to grab the key,” I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “It hurts,” she cries as she shakes her hand. She sticks her middle two fingers in her mouth.

  “Serves you right,” I snap. “What were you thinking? Get back and sit on the bed so I can open the door.”

  “No,” Not-Becky snarls, pulling its hand from its mouth and shaking it again—but I know what it really means is “yes.” Reluctantly, it slinks back to the mattress and plops down on the bed with a hateful look on its face.

  “I have chocolate,” I tell it. “Chocolate cookies.”

  Its face changes, and now she’s Becky again, with an eager smile plastered on her face. She’d wag her tail if she had one. She’s painful to see. How can my sister be reduced to this? How could this have happened? The whiplash change of personalities must be excruciating for her.

  I know it is for me.

  I quickly open up the three locks and drop the key in my pocket. Then I pick up the milk and cookies, step inside the door, and close it behind me. I have to be cautious. I know how quickly things can turn in here.

  Lightning fast.

  “What kind?” she asks me, meaning the cookies.

  “Hydrox,” I tell her. I go over and hand her the glass of milk and the plate. She eagerly grabs one of them and shoves the whole thing in her mouth.

  “Not so fast,” I say as she chews and chews.

  “Look,” she says and smiles at me with a mouth full of chocolate-colored teeth.

  I laugh, a genuine laugh, and so does she, then she takes a long, deep swallow of milk and reaches for another cookie.

  “Becky, can we talk?” I ask. She shrugs and scratches absentmindedly at her head. I think it’s her medication that makes her itch like that, peeling her skin off her skull, bit by bit.

  “That’s what we’re doing, aren’t we?” She shoves a second cookie into her mouth and twists it around so she has a round circle of chocolate surrounded by cracked lips. It’s a bizarre vision, and I look away.

  “No,” I say. “I mean, yeah, we’re talking, but I kind of need to know something.”

  She mashes the second cookie with her teeth and gulps down more milk. As she licks her lips, I pull a set of handcuffs from my pocket. She watches me, rolls her eyes, and reluctantly holds one hand out as she looks the other way. I slip one cuff around her wrist, above the manacle that’s attached to the wall by a long chain, and hook the other end to the metal bed frame.

  This way she can’t get up, even if Not-Becky comes back.

  Of course, though, that’s exactly what I want to happen. I pocket the small handcuff key and back up until I feel the heavy door pressing against my back. Slowly, I sink down until I’m crouched with my knees bent, balanced on the balls of my feet.

  “So?” she says as she pivots her head and stares at me.

  “I don’t want to talk to you, Becky,” I say, staring at my feet instead of at her. “You know who I want to talk to.”

  She’s quiet for a long time. Finally she’s says, “Oh,” and nothing else, so I wait.

  I don’t have to wait long.

  27

  THE FIRST THING Not-Becky does is hock a loogie on the floor near my feet. It’s solid and chocolate-green and makes me want to puke—but I won’t give it the satisfaction. I need to know how it knows five will die. Actually, I need to know how it knows five will die and now maybe six, because six, six, six—on
e more for kicks.

  “Get out,” Not-Becky growls at me through a voice that sounds like its coming from the depths of a sewer.

  “I can’t,” I say. “Not until you answer some questions for me.”

  “I don’t fucking answer questions,” it snarls as it lets a copious amount of chocolate saliva drip from its mouth and onto my sister’s T-shirt.

  “Nice,” I say. “Really nice. You used to kiss our grandmother with that mouth.” The words sting coming out, and I can feel my chest starting to burn again.

  It gurgles and bubbles and licks the slime off of its lips. “And now she’s dead,” it cackles. “Dead and buried.”

  I shake my head, afraid that I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I have to try just the same. “Questions,” I repeat. “I got a few.”

  “Get out,” it roars so loudly that I can imagine Mrs. Owens from across the street, looking up from her knitting needles, wondering if some sort of strange animal is loose in the neighborhood. I don’t move. I just sit there, waiting for Not-Becky to say something—anything of use. Finally, it leans back, dangerously close to the way Margo Freeman leaned back on the living room floor the day she was cut to pieces. Then it chants in a syrupy sing-song:

  “Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie.

  Cut yourself a slice of it and you’ll get really high.”

  “I don’t like pie,” I say, although a good old-fashioned pie with some 420 baked into it sounds good right about now.

  “Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie.

  Eat another piece of it and you will surely die.”

  I sigh and stare at the floor. “Are we into nursery rhymes now?”

  “Get out, or I’ll scratch your goddamned eyes out of your head,” it growls. “Just like Claudia Fish.”

  Crawdaddy Fish.

  A long, low rumble issues from its lips, like the one a dog makes when it gnaws on a bone and you happen to stray too close.

  “Yeah, let’s talk about eyes,” I say to Not-Becky. “What do you know about them? What do you know about eyes being ripped out of a girl’s head?”