Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “Is your father home?” Jason asked, looking out the window. “Cause he might be able to see the smoke coming out.”

  “Nobody’s home. Don’t be a pussy.”

  “I’m not sure I’m doing this right,” Geoff said, a cough wrenching from his throat. “I think I’m gonna spit my lungs out.”

  “Don’t worry, Thorn,” Oliver said, puffing away. “You’ll get the-”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Martin screamed this, louder than he had ever sounded before. He was standing and pointing.

  There was so much smoke from the cigars that Dale didn’t notice anything at first. Then he looked at the pile of comic books in the corner, and the flame rising from the top.

  “Holy shit!” Oliver jumped to his feet. He shoved Lonny. “Quick, put it out.”

  “Not me!”

  They stood, stunned for a second, as the pile, in a flash, became engulfed. The flames crawled up the wall toward the clubhouse ceiling, as if the whole structure were made of paper.

  Martin was the first one out the trapdoor, before Dale even knew he was gone. Lonny moved toward it but was shoved out of the way by Oliver, who scrambled out. As Dale waited for Geoff and Lonny to get out, his heart thumping wildly inside of him, he thought how lucky they were that Woody wasn’t here, for it would have been now that the fatso would have gotten stuck in the door before the rest of them had a chance to get out first.

  When Lonny’s frightened face disappeared, Dale swung his feet out. He could see the flames stretching across the wall. He looked behind him.

  Jason sat there, staring at the raging fire.

  “Come on, Jason! Out!”

  The boy was frozen.

  Dale could feel the heat on the side of his face, giving him an instant sunburn. The flames were spreading across the clubhouse ceiling.

  “JASON!”

  The boy looked at him, mouth open a bit, but nothing came out. His eyes were unrecognizable.

  “Please,” Dale said.

  A piece of wood cracked with a loud snap and it shook Jason out of his trance. He moved toward the trap door. Before Dale ducked out of the door, he looked up at the wall with the drawing his sister made of the Joker and saw it blacken and curl up in a grasp of red. The Joker seemed to be screaming in pain … or madness.

  When the boys were all on the ground below, they grabbed their bikes and moved away from the huge maple tree. They stood and watched as the searing heat completely engulfed the clubhouse and began dripping onto the branches of the tree. Martin was crying.

  “My mother’s going to kill me,” he said.

  “What are we going to do, Oliver?” Lonny cried, his voice high-pitched with fear.

  “Shut up! Let me think.” It only took him a second. “Let’s just get the hell out of here. Now!”

  They were on their bikes and racing down the street. Nobody knew where they were going, they just followed Oliver. In no time they were on the boardwalk by the lake, gasping for air from their frenzied flight. Oliver got off his bike and paced back and forth. Dale and the rest stood hunched over their bikes, some of them holding their guts and panting. A siren broke the air and they saw the fire truck screaming around the corner and up Autumn Avenue. Normally they would have chased after it, hoping for a chance to see something so cool. Not this time.

  “We’ve really done it now,” Martin said. He had stopped crying, but his eyes were red.

  “We’ve been right here,” Oliver said. He had stopped pacing.

  “What?” Dale asked.

  “We weren’t in the clubhouse at all today. We stay right here. Pretend we’ve been here all the time. They won’t be able to prove we did anything.”

  “They’ll know,” Martin said.

  “They won’t know nothing. Not if we stick together.”

  “I don’t know,” Dale said, shaking his head.

  “It’ll work if we stick together. We have to swear not to say anything about what happened.”

  They all agreed.

  “I mean it,” Oliver said to Jason, who was strangely quiet. He looked pale.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Oliver! Oliver!”

  Dale looked up Autumn Avenue and saw Woody racing madly toward them on his bike. He skidded to a halt when he got to them and almost fell off. He tried to speak but was gasping for air and couldn’t get any words out. No one said a word as they waited for his voice to catch up to his lungs.

  “Christ, Oliver! The clubhouse is on fire! The whole damn thing is burning to bits! Tree and all!” This all came out in sputtered gasps. He was so excited, Dale thought he might pass out.

  “We know,” Oliver said.

  The gasping stopped. “What?”

  They filled him in on what happened, and then swore him to secrecy also.

  “What are we going to do without a clubhouse?” Lonny asked.

  “I don’t know,” was all Oliver could answer.

  * * *

  It was only a few days later that they all found themselves at the fire station in Chief Burns’ office. All of them except Jason. Dale wondered why he wasn’t here.

  Chief Hooper stood behind the desk, right beside Chief Burns who was lecturing about the dangers of fire. One thought kept running through Dale’s mind: They can’t know, they can’t know, they can’t know. Hooper had a smug look on his fat face, as if he wanted to break into a smile, but knew that a stern look was best to intimidate and frighten the boys. When Burns was done, Hooper walked around the desk and stood in front, looking them up and down.

  He’s just trying to scare us, Dale thought. There’s no way he can know anything.

  “Would anyone care for a cigar?” he asked.

  * * *

  “Look at Oliver!” Lonny screamed. He was standing in the middle of Maple Street, pointing across the way at the Rench house. Dale was sitting with Geoff and Woody on the curb across the street. He looked up at Lonny’s cry and saw Oliver crossing his front yard and heading down Maple to Shadow Drive, toward Jason’s house.

  They all ran to him and when they were close, Dale could see the black and blue all around his left eye and cheek. His lip was cut and trickled blood.

  “I’m going to kill that bastard!” Oliver screamed, fighting back tears he refused to show.

  Dale at first assumed he was talking about his father. They had all on numerous occasions heard the screams and yells coming from the Rench household and knew Oliver was getting beat upon, especially if Mr. Rench had been drinking. It was nothing new to them, but the severity had never been this extreme. Usually it didn’t show.

  “Wait up, Oliver,” Lonny said, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

  Oliver spun around and gave him a shove that sent him sprawling on his ass. “Don’t touch me!”

  The whole left side of his face was puffed out and swollen. Three-quarters of the white of his eye was bright red. The look in both eyes was mad.

  Dale didn’t dare speak.

  “That son of a bitch is going to regret the day he was born.”

  “Your father?” Dale questioned.

  “Jason!” Oliver screamed. “He ratted us out! He squealed the whole story to his dad!”

  The others looked at each other with shock on their faces. No one in the group had ever squealed before. Lonny got up from the ground.

  “The little prick,” he said.

  “I can’t believe it,” Woody said.

  “Well, believe it,” Oliver bellowed.

  “What are you going to do?” Dale asked.

  “I’m gonna tear his friggin’ head off!” He started down the street. Dale thought about the praying mantis in the jar.

  “He’s not home,” he said. Oliver stopped and turned around. “We looked for him before.”

  Disappointment spread over his face. “Lucky for him,” Oliver said. “Damn lucky!”

  “Now what?” Dale asked.

  “It’ll give me time to think.” Oliver rubbed his fist i
n his hand. “We’ve got to fix him real good.”

  The black and blue image of Oliver’s face stuck in Dale’s mind that night as he lay in bed. Dark, brooding colors. He thought about his own father’s reaction when he heard about how the clubhouse caught fire. Dale had remained secluded in his bedroom, dreading the moment when his father would arrive home from work. His sister enjoyed teasing him about how he was going to “get it when dad got home.” Maybe she was mad her work of art had gone up in flames.

  Dale heard the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the opening and closing of car and house doors. His stomach trembled as he lay on his bed, listening to the muffled voices of his parents, not able to make out any of the words spoken. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Dale nearly jumped off the bed when the door burst open. The look on his father’s face was something he had never seen before. It was like a stranger had stormed into his room. A mad man.

  He began yelling and screaming and all Dale could do was cringe and shrug his shoulders, giving soft answers of “I don’t know” to the questions spewing from his father’s enraged face.

  Dale tried to crack a smile, because whenever his father was upset with him over something, Dale would try to lighten the situation and his father always ended up smiling along and everything would be all right again.

  But this time, he saw his father raise his hand and an open palm swept across his face, wiping the half-smile away.

  He hit me.

  Dale watched in shock as his father turned and left the room. His left cheek stung and he lifted his hand to feel the warm, tender skin.

  That had never happened before. His father had never hit him. Never. That was something Oliver’s father did, not his own. His father couldn’t be like Oliver’s, could he?

  A short time later, Dale crept quietly down the hallway and sat at the top of the staircase. From below, he could hear soft sobs. He wondered why his mother was crying, but then realized it was coming from his father.

  His father was crying.

  He could hear him tell his mother how ashamed he felt for hitting him. Dale’s stomach ached with guilt. Two firsts in one day: He had made his father hit him and made him cry. He wished he could take it all back, but it was too late. It was all his fault.

  No.

  It was Jason’s fault. He had caused this.

  Now, lying in bed, the image of Oliver’s face with him, he thought of what Oliver had said and agreed.

  We’ve got to fix him real good.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Pounding. The pounding in my head won’t stop.

  I opened my eyes and the room swirled around me. I squeezed them shut, waited a few seconds, tried opening them again. The room oscillated back and forth like a pendulum, then slowed to a stop. The shade was open in my room and I could see the sun was just coming up, bringing what little light there was to the new day.

  Why was I up so early?

  The pounding in my head. That’s what woke me up. But it wasn’t the kind of beating headache I’ve been having lately or the kind a hangover brings. The pounding felt like it was coming from elsewhere, as if something, somewhere, wanted to be let in. Or out. (Don’t open it).

  I realized I’d slept in my clothes, but had only vague recollections of even going to bed. My mouth and throat were dry, and I felt an urgent need for fresh air.

  Vertigo hit me momentarily when I stood up. I paused, closing my eyes until it went away, then gingerly made my way to the window and with strained effort, raised the sash. I sucked the air in deeply. It was cool and quenching, as if I were sucking the moisture off the surface of the lake, and I decided I needed more.

  Not bothering to change my clothes, I went quietly down the hall to the bathroom on our floor. I could feel the frigid tiles through the thin fabric of my socks as I stood before a white pedestal sink. I turned the brass lever with the “C” on it and filled the sink with cold water, rubbing it into my face and eyes, taking handfuls into my eager mouth, feeling it cascade down my throat and scrape away the dryness. I looked at myself in the mirror, tried to make some semblance out of my disheveled hair, but gave up. I brushed my teeth and gums furiously to get the alcohol-laden taste and odor out of my mouth, gargling with the frothy lather before spitting it into the sink.

  I made my way down the stairs after slipping my sneakers on. My body still felt unstable. I held onto the rail for support.

  The inn was quiet.

  I wondered if anyone else was up. As I reached the bottom of the steps, I noticed the basket of apples by the check-in counter and went over to it. I grabbed one, shining it on my shirt front and bit deeply, anticipating its moistness. Instead of a sharp snap, my teeth sunk into something soft and mushy. I pulled away the apple, staring into its brown interior. Rotten. I took the small piece out of my mouth, looked in vain for a garbage pail, and then stuck it in my front pants pocket. I heard footsteps and quickly returned the apple to the basket, bite-side down.

  Bob Wolfe came out of the dining room door followed by the scent of fresh brewed coffee. The look on his face was surprise, either because I was up so early, or I looked worse than I thought.

  “One of your friends is asleep on the porch swing,” he said, his tone bitter. “Could you wake him?”

  It wasn’t really a question.

  I grunted or nodded, maybe both, then headed for the door. When I stepped onto the porch, the air felt more invigorating than before. I looked at the porch swing and saw Dale sitting in it, head leaning back. At his feet lay the bottle we had been drinking, tipped on its side, a dark patch beside it where a puddle had formed and soaked into the floorboards.

  I snuck up behind him carefully, trying not to make a sound. I gave the back of the swing a shove.

  “Wake up you drunken loser!”

  I moved around to the front.

  The swing moved back and forth with a rusty creaking squeak.

  Dale’s eyes met mine.

  I looked at the bottle by his feet, at the wet patch beside it. The patch was red.

  I lifted my eyes and couldn’t take them off the cut that ran from the top of Dale’s chest, down to his belly. The soaked red clothing was ripped open. The jagged edge of the skin formed a long, deep crevasse. Pink muscle and innards showed through.

  His eyes never left mine.

  The porch swing continued to sway slowly back and forth, the chains it was suspended from crying out softly in rhythm: creak … creak … creak.

  Something thick bubbled up from the base of my throat, maybe vomit, struggling as it rose ‘till it reached the surface and erupted from my mouth as, not puke, but a scream.

  * * *

  I sat on the front lawn in one of the white metal patio chairs, my back to the front porch of the inn and the horror resting on it. I stared out at the calm of the lake beyond, two completely polar scenes. Mr. Wolfe had heard my scream, as did everyone else in the inn, and they took up various positions around the porch, keeping a reasonable distance from the body as we all awaited the arrival of the authorities. Nobody came near me at my front lawn outpost, as if they were afraid.

  I didn’t dare look behind me. I had seen the horror and now I just wanted to stare at the serenity of the lake. It reminded me of summer vacations during high school when I would hang out a lot at Meg’s house on the west side of town. Her front lawn had a beautiful view of the water, and we would sometimes sit in wooden Adirondack chairs soaking up the sun. Usually I would give her one of my stories to read, and we would sit quietly, feeling the breeze float up while I waited with enthusiastic anticipation for her to finish and give me her critique. I was always a little nervous about what she would think. I wanted her to like my writing.

  I remembered one time, when she read a tale I had crafted about an abandoned well at an old Wiccan’s farmhouse and a trio of boys who summon a demon that crawls up from its depths. She smiled, she always smiled when she finished, and her milky brown eyes g
lowed.

  “It’s different,” she said at last.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s good, don’t get me wrong. I like it.”

  “But …” I hung on her words in anticipation.

  “It’s not like your usual stuff.”

  “Hmm,” I said, pondering. “How so?”

  She fanned herself with the pages, thinking, and I was sure she was trying to find a delicate way of putting it. That’s Meg, never wanting to say something bad, always looking for the good angle.

  “The ending is pretty creepy,” she continued, “and gave me chills, even here in the bright daylight. I guess,” she shrugged her shoulders and tossed her wavy brown hair, “it’s just not as gruesome as you usually write.”

  I looked at her in silence, thinking it over.

  I remembered the story I wrote about the fishermen in the lake, trying to catch what turns out to be a prehistoric fish. I got pretty graphic with that one, with dismembered limbs and blood-churned waters and the jaws of the lake creature chomping on the helpless fishermen. Yeah, that one was a bit gory.

  At some point the gore seemed to lose its bite. Maybe it was because of that one summer when I came face-to-face with true horror. That had been real and diminished all the grotesque blood-drenched images my mind had conjured up. The Joker in that attic room in my mind had helped me conjure up those visions. He seemed to relish the most absurd demented tortures any soul could bear and laughed as I wrote them down.

  When I entered through the door into that attic room, the Joker was the one really in charge. He knew. He guided me, helping me wade through the tide of blood.

  “That’s what they want,” he’d say. “They want blood. Deep red blood.” And he would grin, his teeth shining, and I would write.

  But once I had seen real horror, I realized the Joker’s tapestry of terror was not nearly as unsettling as what deeper, darker things could scare the human mind. For a while I couldn’t even write at all, thought maybe I’d never be able to again. But the Joker was always there to help me and eventually I was able to get back to it. But things were different now. Maybe it disappointed my muse, maybe the Joker understood, but I tried to write my stories with a truer sense of what was really frightening.