Bloody Bloody Apple

by Howard Odentz

  The thing bends its neck all the way to one side, and I can hear the bones crackling. Then it bends it all the way over to the other side, and I fear that something on my sister is actually going to break.

  “Six, six, six. One more for kicks,” it says to me. “Six, six, six. One more for kicks.”

  Not-Becky won’t answer my question. “Well you didn’t do it,” I say to it. I’m not asking. I’m stating a fact. My sister, or the thing that pretends to be my sister, didn’t kill Claudia Fish. Becky’s been locked in this room for two years.

  “Oh, no?” It purrs in a guttural, fetid way as it brings my sister’s head erect. This time, I look up, and its pupils are completely rolled back in their sockets. All I can see are wet, white eyeballs. “Look at me, fiddle dee dee. This is what happens to those who see.”

  Okay. That’s something I can work with. I force myself to stare at the blank orbs, red-rimmed and veiny. “Did Claudia see something?” I ask.

  It darts out its brown-stained tongue. “You mean Crawdaddy?” The words crawl out of its mouth like a spider. “Crawdaddy Fish, to die was her wish.” A noxious smell is coming from Not-Becky, and I realize that it’s freaking taking a dump right in front of me. It smiles because it knows I know. Chocolate cookies are caked between its teeth.

  It’s all crap everywhere.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m so far out of my depth that I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “I’m going to call Father Tim,” I tell Not-Becky. “I’m going to call Father Tim and tell him to come over right now.”

  Of course I’m lying. Why would I ever call creepy Father Tim, the man who thinks that having faith is somehow going to cure Becky? I can’t even look at him at church on Sunday mornings. He slithers when he walks. The words that come out of his mouth seem to ooze out of him on a slimy stream.

  “NOOO,” Not-Becky wails and covers its face with its free hand.

  I wrap my arms around myself. I can tell that the nightmares will be bad tonight. I might actually see what Not-Becky looks like underneath my sister’s skin suit, and it will be terrible.

  Terrible and cruel.

  “Why not?” I spit out. “Either you answer my questions, or I’m calling Father Tim. It’s your choice.” My nostrils flare as the smell of shit assaults my nose, but I don’t acknowledge it. I’ll acknowledge nothing that gives it power.

  Not-Becky screams in rage and heaves up another glob of thick mucus to leach out of its mouth. “Ask your questions, boy,” it sputters and bubbles. The words are painful to my ears, and the smell in the room is becoming toxic.

  “How did you know Claudia Fish was dead, and how do you know more will die?”

  Its tongue lolls out of its mouth, and it pulls its legs up so it’s crouching on the bed like I’m crouching on the floor.

  “She wanted death,” it says to me. “I could smell it miles away. She wanted death, so she was granted her wish.”

  “You’re not answering me,” I say as I stand up, sweat pouring off my forehead. My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel as though I’ve run a four minute mile. “How did you know she was murdered? How do you know more will die?”

  Not-Becky looks around in frustration. Its blazing eyes finally land on the plate of Hydrox. It curls its free hand into a fist and brings it down hard on the round chocolate cookies, smashing them to pieces. Over and over again, it hits the plate until there is nothing but crumbs.

  “We know because we are Legion,” it croaks out. “We are Legion. We see everything.”

  Anger shoots out of my eyes. You can’t grow up in a freaking religious household like mine without knowing a thing or two about the gospel. In Mark 5:9 there’s a passage about Jesus talking to this guy in the country of Gadarenes. In it, Jesus says, “What is thy name?” and the guy answers, “My name is Legion for we are many.”

  Creepy Father Tim talked about that passage in study group before I stopped going. I’m not sure what he expected to accomplish by bringing up the fallen angel, but he said in various versions of the New Testament that the name Legion refers to devils or demons.

  Becky’s no demon. She’s just my sick, sick sister.

  I look away from it. I don’t want to hear any more. Everything about Not-Becky revolts me, and again, I wonder how it ever got to this.

  “I’ve told you what you want to know,” it snarls at me, with a nasty, twisted look on its face.

  “No—not really,” I sigh. “You lied like you always do.”

  Not-Becky screams and pulls so hard on the cuffs that I fear that my sister’s wrist will break. A little trickle of blood drips from where the metal is chafing skin.

  “Stop it,” I say.

  “You’ll call the fucking priest.”

  “I won’t. Stop it, and I won’t.”

  Still, Not-Becky writhes and pulls on the bed, the stench of her soiled clothing filling my nose and making my eyes water.

  “We’re through here,” I finally admit and force myself to stand. Not-Becky screams and howls and wails for what seems like hours, but it’s only about two minutes. Finally, it’s spent.

  I wait in silence until I hear a familiar voice.

  “Jackson?” she says. I open my eyes and look at her. Her wrist is bloody, but her eyes, scared and questioning, belong to Becky and not the other one. I pull myself to my feet, go to her, and unlock the handcuffs. Thankfully, the damage only amounts to some deep scrapes on her wrist, but nothing serious.

  “I’m sorry. Wash yourself up,” I say, with as much compassion as I can muster. I take the empty glass and the cookie plate, along with her dishes from breakfast and lunch, and swiftly leave the room.

  Only after I close the door and make sure the three locks are secured, do I allow myself to cry. It comes out silently. I shove my fist into my mouth to keep from making noise and let salty water leak down my face.

  Six, six, six. One more for kicks. The words run through my mind over and over again. Six, six, six. One more for kicks.

  More importantly, a question lingers, and it makes me think that I may actually be losing my mind. Is Becky really possessed after all? If not, then how does she know things?

  How does she freaking know?

  28

  BY THE TIME I wake up my mother to tell her she made pizza for dinner, dole out her pills, feed my grandfather, and tentatively go back down to the basement to bring Becky a plate, she’s taken a shower and is wearing clean clothes.

  Only it’s still not my sister—it’s Not-Becky.

  “Come to gloat,” it says to me through clenched teeth. “Rot in Hell.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ve come to give you dinner.”

  “It smells like shit,” Not-Becky growls. “You smell like shit.”

  I can’t deal with this anymore, at least not today. I’ve done this ride too many times, and I want to get off. “Not me,” I say with a certain smugness that only hides the fact that the skin holding my sanity intact is becoming increasingly thin. “Must be your food.”

  It doesn’t acknowledge me, so I shrug again and leave the plate next to the door, along with a glass of fruit juice laced with medication.

  The room does smell, though. It’s right about that—so I quickly grab the hamper, lock the door, and throw the soiled clothes in the laundry.

  When my father comes home, he stays outside and smokes his cigarettes like he always does before pushing open the back door, hanging up his coat, and sitting down for dinner. My mother’s dressed and is wearing a hint of makeup like nothing’s wrong. We all play the usual masquerade through much of our meal before I put down my pizza and clear my throat.

  “I’m walking Annie home from her job tonight,” I say, breaking the silence. My mother continues to chew. So does my father. “She’s working up at the BD Mart. I told her I w
ould meet her when she gets off work.” Still, there’s silence from my parents. My mother keeps her eyes focused on her plate. I’m sure that she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, or if she has, it hasn’t registered any more than the far-off rumbling of a train passing by.

  My father takes a sip of red wine, because he always has red wine with dinner, and drops the piece of pizza he’s holding onto his plate. “I don’t want you going out tonight,” he says. Frankly, it takes me by surprise, because my father usually doesn’t show much interest in me either way.

  No matter—he’s easy to manipulate.

  “Newie’s coming with me,” I continue, completely ignoring what he said. I don’t even know why I need his permission. I’ll be eighteen soon enough. It’s not like I don’t already run the goddamned household, anyway.

  My father picks up his pizza and nibbles at the crust. A minute later he grunts, which I take for a yes. After dinner, I watch him go back out the way he came in, smoke another cigarette, and head to the garage. I crane my neck to peek out the back door and see if the garage light has flicked on. Once it does, I realize that he’s no longer concerned if I walk Annie home or not.

  Back at the table, my mother lights a cigarette and closes her eyes. I wash and dry the dishes, put them away, then go into the pantry and take out the broom and the dustpan to sweep the floor. My mother doesn’t move her feet as the heavy bristles collect crumbs and dust around her. I gather a small pile, sweep it into the dustpan, and drop it in the waste basket. When I’m through, I pull the cigarette from my mother’s hand, because she’s starting to forget that it’s there, and gently lead her back down the hallway to her bedroom.

  “Mom?” I say, as I push open the door and turn on the light. I notice that at some point while getting dressed for dinner, she’s made the bed and folded two blankets at the foot of it as though it’s looked that way since this morning. “Did you bake something today?”

  She slowly looks at me with glassy eyes. “Bake?” she asks. “Did I miss a birthday?”

  “No, Mom,” I say. “I was just wondering, because there was some sugar on the counter when I got home. It looked like you were baking something.”

  My mother blinks her eyes a few times. “No, I don’t think so. Please tell me, did I miss someone’s birthday?”

  I can tell her she’s missed everyone’s birthday for the past two years, but I figure there’s no point. “No, Mom,” I say as I guide her to the bed and let her sit down on the firm mattress. “Your cakes are the best.”

  Her eyes are half-lidded, but she still manages the faint impression of a smile as she slowly lifts her hand and caresses my face—just like Mrs. Berg and my grandfather. “You’re such a good boy, Jackson,” she says again, like it’s everyone’s go-to catchphrase for me.

  I smile back, but I don’t feel like a good boy at all.

  I feel evil. I feel like a boy who lets girls get murdered in the woods and their eyes scooped out of their heads. I feel like a boy who silently conspires with a sullen, distant father to keep his mother drugged, his demented grandfather condemned to the rooms upstairs, and his mentally ill sister locked in the basement.

  No—I don’t feel like a good boy at all.

  “Goodnight, Mom,” I say and leave her sitting on the side of the bed. I walk quietly through the house and out the front door. It’s starting to smell cold outside.

  I pull out my cell phone and text Newie.

  You there?

  Yup.

  With Erika?

  No. She’s a bitch.

  I smile and call him. It rings twice before Newie answers.

  “You just figure that out?” I ask him.

  Newie snorts. “She didn’t even show up for practice. I think she wigged out about Crawdaddy.”

  “Don’t call her that, man. It’s rude.”

  “Why?” he says. “She’s dead.”

  I don’t feel like getting into it with him, so I change the subject. “Where you at?”

  “Staring right at you,” he says. I look up and see Newie across the street, standing in his window on the second floor of their Victorian. I don’t see the chief’s cruiser in the driveway, but Mary Jane’s car is there.

  “Fuckwad,” I say. “How long were you going to watch me?”

  “Who’s watching? Nothing to look at.”

  “Nice, bro. Real nice.” Newie only chuckles. “So Mary Jane with you?” I ask like a total douchebag. “I mean her car’s out front and all.” I’m sorry before the words leave my lips.

  “Why the hell would Mary Jane be with me?” he snaps, a little too defensively. I guess I’ve struck a nerve. It makes me think that no one really knows what happens behind closed doors—even to best friends. Sometimes there are things you don’t share with anybody—like fantasizing about screwing your dad’s hot girlfriend—or how many people are slated to die in Apple this year.

  “Just asking,” I begin. “Because her car’s . . .”

  “Who gives a shit?” he grumbles. “She’s out with Asshole.”

  Enough said. Messing with Newie when he gets all moody is like playing ping-pong with a hand grenade that’s about to go off. I switch subjects again. “How did you get home after practice—I mean, if Erika blew you off?”

  “Steve Black,” Newie grumbles. Steve has it as bad as the rest of us. His old man beats the crap out of him more often than not, so most everyone calls him Steve Black-Eye. His claim to fame is that he has a motorcycle, so he always has one skank or another willing to go for a ride with him. “And, yes, I know that my father would nail me to the wall if he knew I got on a bike with him. I just didn’t feel like walking home alone.”

  “Scared?” I ask him. Normally it would sound like a taunt, but I’m dead serious.

  “No,” he says. “More creeped out.”

  “Understandable.” I stand there and absentmindedly reach my hand into my pocket. The little present that Mark Zebrowski gave me this morning is still there collecting lint. “Hey, want to smoke a bone?”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” His phone goes dead, and a minute later Newie’s out his front door, shoving his big arms into his letter jacket.

  I check the time on my phone. It’s only a little after eight. There’s plenty of time to catch a buzz before picking up Annie at the BD Mart. There’s plenty of time to get numb.

  Numb is good. Numb is exactly what I need right about now.

  29

  IT’S DARK AND cloudless, but there aren’t any stars in the sky because the moon is full. Everything is that weird gray color that you see on television when they pretend that it’s night but it’s really not.

  I grab my jacket from inside the door and meet Newie in the middle of the street. Together we walk down to the end of Vanguard Lane and cut through the shallow woods to the railroad tracks. A graveled hill leads up a short incline to the rails. I have to hold my arms out for balance as we make our way up the stone.

  “When’s Father-of-the-Year coming home?” I ask Newie as I pull the joint out of my pocket.

  “Who the fuck cares?” he says as he sits down on the rusty rails and stretches out his long legs. “They went to Worcester to see a movie or something. I don’t give a shit.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re quite the angry young man tonight, Mr. Anderson. They have drugs for that, you know.”

  “Yeah, they got drugs for a lot of things.” He nods his chin toward the joint in my hand. “You going to spark that or what?”

  I sit down next to him and pull out a book of matches with the logo for Nick’s Newsstand on them. Old Nick sells cigars and rolling papers in the back of his store, so I always snag a couple books of matches when I’m there. Old Nick’s no fool. Whenever we buy rolling papers he drops a book in the bag. Hey, it’s free advertising.

&nb
sp; “Chillax,” I say as I light the joint, suck the sweet smoke into my lungs, and hand it to Newie. I let it eddy around inside before I blow a cloud of smoke out and let my head get fuzzy. “Sorry about Erika,” I tell him. “Way to ruin a perfectly good Friday night, huh?”

  “No kidding,” he says and coughs as he hands the joint back to me. “She gave me this lame-ass excuse about having to work at Tenzar’s tonight. They’re doing late night inventory or something.”

  I take the joint from him. “Yeah, I saw Annie’s mom. She told me she was working late and asked me to make sure Annie gets home okay. I told her you and me were going to meet her when she’s done work.”

  “Kiss ass.”

  I shrug and stare down at the joint. The pot’s stronger than Ziggy’s usual stuff, so I only take one more quick toke and hand it back to Newie.

  “I don’t want any more,” I say. “I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  Newie blows on the end until the embers glow, then takes a slow, deep drag and holds it for a long time. It must take twice as much weed for him to catch a buzz. I stare at his legs splayed out on the gravel, practically growing right in front of my eyes. Pretty soon he’s going to be seven feet tall, then eight, then nine.

  I realize it’s a good choice not to smoke anymore. The stuff is too good. Newie blows out another cloud and grinds the joint against the metal track.

  “Here,” he says as he hands it back to me. “We can save it for later.”

  The two of us sit there for a moment, listening to the night. There are things moving in the woods—usually normal for around here. Sometimes we’ve seen deer cross the tracks, and once we even caught sight of a porcupine. It was so random and weird that, at first, we didn’t know what we were looking at.

  Finally Newie says, “Like what?”

  “Like what what?”

  “Too much on your mind,” he says. “Like what?”

  Usually we don’t talk about anything more significant than comic books and who we think is hot. Tonight it’s different, and the smoke is loosening my tongue. I can feel the words rising up in my throat, and all I want to do is stuff them back down again, only I know they’ll find a way back out, so I let the flood gates open and hope for the best.