Ben picked up and sniffed his shirts until he found one that was clean. He turned away from his mirror to put it on, and as the box cutter rattled home into its holster, the silence of the rest of the world grew conspicuous. Ben listened hard for the expected hum of the television, the voices of his parents. But there was nothing more than the whispering of his ceiling fan.
The hallway was as dark as the rest of the house. Ben checked his watch to make sure of the time. Usually, his father would be up by now, his stepmother not long for bed. At the back of the hall, his parents’ door sat flush with the wall. Ben took two steps toward his bathroom before he was frozen by a shape at his vision’s edge.
Deidra stood motionless in Eric’s room. Her white nightgown was as still against her back as draped marble, her coffee hair made onyx by the surrounding darkness. Ben could only just make out Eric’s empty bed in front of her. If she had been lying on it, Ben would have felt compelled to check for breath in her statue-still body. Hesitating, he cleared his throat softly to signal his presence, but it was a null transmission, swallowed by the black cube of his baby brother’s room.
Ben began to wonder if he had made a mistake when deciding that he was awake. Bits of light from dingy streetlamps crept through the closed blinds and glistened against the foiled ribbon on some of the presents along the wall. The longer Ben stood there, the more he found himself wondering how long Deidra had been standing in that pose. Her elbows were bent, her hands hidden somewhere in front of her body. Ben didn’t have to see them to know that they were clutching Eric’s old friend. He wished she would move, that she would turn around so that he might see that she was alright. Just a little movement, a little noise. But there she stood. And behind her, there Ben stood, perhaps just as still. Because he was also afraid that the house might creak under the weight of his step and that she would turn. And that he would see that she was very much not alright.
Suddenly, the alarm on his watch sounded. The noise was cacophonous in the vacuum of the hallway. A lock of his stepmother’s hair shifted against her alabaster dress, and Ben disappeared down the hallway and behind the bathroom door. The exhaust fan whirred sickly, like a baseball card clipped to the spokes of a bike tire. He splashed water on his face and let the faucet run long after. With a jerk, he slid the far drawer out of its socket, blocking the door. Inside, Eric’s toothbrush and bathtub toys rolled and collided with one another.
His reflection stared at him as he stood, and at once Ben wanted to look away. But he forced himself to stare back: stare at his stomach overflowing onto the counter, at his stupid round face that drooped low enough to hide his neck, at his quivering and grimacing mouth. It seemed to tremble, but that wasn’t quite right, was it? No, there was a rhythm. Ben could feel it in the tickling wisps of hateful air that spilled past his lips. Soundless words that Ben didn’t need to hear to understand. “Itsmeitsmeitsme.”
And his fuh-fffeet said, “Ok-k-kay, wuh-we’ll take you there, but we’re not bad.” Buh-but when they guh-g-got there, do you know what hhhappened? They STOMPED.
And STOMPED.
And SS-STOMPED until they couldn’t stomp no more. But there was still muh-more that needed doin.
And so he asked his hands…
12
“Trick or treat!”
Ben stirred in his bed and listened to the murmuring through the wall. The next time the doorbell rang, he sat up and stretched his leg, got ready for work, then walked toward the noise.
Clint laughed as he talked to the children and their parents who stood outside. Two little boys, maybe about six or seven years old, dressed as a pirate and a mummy and standing with paper bags dangling from the ends of their outstretched hands. The mummy’s costume was made of toilet paper and was already tattered to the point that it sagged in huge loops, exposing the boy’s clothing underneath.
The three plastic spiders tangled in Clint’s beard appeared to move on their own as he talked. One of the boys noticed and shared his disgust with his cohort. Ben leaned against the wall and watched his father laugh at the squeamish kids. “Dee, come look at this,” he called. But Deidra didn’t move from the couch. Stampie was on the cushion next to her.
The sun had set, and a slow breeze drifted lazily through the thinning trees. Clouds collected somewhere off in the distance, as if the round moon had repelled them like soap in a grease trap. All around were the sounds of children screaming and laughing. Phantoms and ghouls, monsters and princesses, swarmed the usually quiet neighborhoods, outnumbering the houses nearly five to one. They darted and banked like fireflies, stopping only to receive their bounty before rushing to the next house. Ben stepped into the street to allow a large family with five children to avoid the asphalt themselves as they crossed paths, their little girl inconsolable over a broken fairy wing.
The store was teeming. Ben had never seen so many people wandering the aisles. There weren’t many convenient spots in the sprawling and scattered town for families to go trick-or-treating. Eric had had to be driven from neighborhood to neighborhood on his first and only Halloween. Luckily for the town, Bill Palmer never missed a chance to be a part of the community—especially when he could sell tickets.
“He’s charging?” Ben asked, taking a small chocolate bar from Chelsea’s bowl.
“Two bucks,” Chelsea answered. It had actually taken Ben a beat to realize that it was Chelsea under the black wig. Her dark eyeliner swept into points near her temples.
“Cleopatra?” Ben asked, chewing.
“Stock boy?” She smiled, gesturing at Ben’s clothes.
“Think I’ll win the costume contest?”
“Well, it looks pretty authentic.”
“Been workin on it for a few months.” He took another piece of candy and put it in his pocket.
Chelsea laughed. “That’ll be two bucks.”
“Put it on Palmer’s tab.”
Despite how late it was, there were still employees stationed with bowls of candy in most departments. The sounds of “Trick or treat!” seemed to ricochet off every wall. The pharmacy and bakery were vacant, but it took an effort to even notice that much through the rolling waves of hustling children and their visibly fatigued parents. Some costumes were nothing more than masks, a sneering devil or snarling monster draping loosely over the collar of a T-shirt, some so ill fitting that little hands gripped and twisted the latex to realign the eyeholes. Other kids had simply raided their mothers’ bathrooms. Bright red stitches that bore the smeared and glossy shimmer of cheap lipstick and sunken sockets dug with seldom-touched eye shadow turned children into vague ghouls or undead things.
Halloween was always tough. They’d started handing out candy at Ben’s house again only last year. Deidra had been alright. Not quite comfortable, but this year…What had Ben been thinking? What could he have possibly thought would happen when he gave her that toy?
Ben blocked the store for almost an hour, folding into his thoughts until a quick series of prods in his side pulled him out.
He turned gracelessly to see a mask made of newspaper hovering at about the height of his stomach. Small holes had been torn for the eyes, but that was about it. There were no other adornments. The paper enveloped the child’s head and was tied lightly around his neck with a length of twine, the ends curling outward like the bottom of a lollipop wrapper. The rest of the getup was less a costume and more of an outfit. Like many of the other children, this one was celebrating Halloween only from the neck up.
“Hello,” Ben said, then waited for the inevitable “Trick or treat.” It didn’t come. The longer he waited, the more uncomfortable the absence grew, until finally Ben said it himself. The child raised his candy bag, which Ben noticed had come from one of the store’s own registers. Ben also noticed that he appeared to be this child’s first stop.
“That’s quite a costume you got there,” Ben said awkwardly.
The
child responded with a movement rather than words. He held the bag aloft and jostled it with outstretched arms, the newspaper flexing delicately with his breathing. Ben slid his hand into his pocket and retrieved the treat that he had stolen from Chelsea’s supply, dropping it into the kid’s bag.
“Alright then,” Ben said, but the kid lingered. After a while, he shook the plastic sack again. “That’s all I got,” Ben apologized, patting his pockets.
The child’s small hand disappeared into the bag and emerged after a moment, clutching the small wrapped chocolate bar. Ben surveyed the kid briefly before speaking again.
“There are lots more people who have lots more candy,” he said, gesturing back toward the registers. He bent over a bit more and pointed. “See that nice girl there? Go talk to her. You’ll have that bag full in no time.”
The smile on Ben’s face grew uncomfortable as it became something he had to think about. But still the boy didn’t move.
“Okay…” Ben chuckled with bewilderment, shuffling to his left to let a customer by. But the person stopped right behind the boy.
“What’re you doing?” a voice stabbed.
The boy’s body jerked hard to one side.
Ben straightened his back quickly. Beverly’s face was tense and strained with anger as she attempted to wrestle the bag away from the child. “Ms. Beverly, what’s going on? I—”
“What’s going on,” she interrupted, “is this little good-for-nothing snuck right out so he could come get some candy. Ain’t that right?” The boy started to turn away, holding the bag out of Beverly’s reach. “Give it here,” she said sternly.
The child’s arm darted and banked. This was a dance that must have been familiar to both of them, for rather than attempting to flank the boy’s quick hand, Beverly withdrew her own, only to run it down quickly from his bucking shoulder. Her hand moved with his now, rather than at it. “Let go,” she grunted.
Clenching his hand within her own, she pried his fingers apart so that the bag slipped free and floated down to the tile. Beverly’s other hand moved against the boy’s thrashing chest. The child’s shirt shifted, exposing a gnarled necklace of twine that bunched near his throat. As Beverly moved her eyes to Ben, Ben watched the boy put the candy down the front of his pants.
“Where’s it at now, boy?” Beverly snapped louder than before. Customers were gathering at both ends of the aisle now. Some children had even ceased trick-or-treating to watch. “You know your momma’s rules.”
The boy squirmed but hadn’t twisted free of Beverly’s grip. It struck Ben that the boy was surely big enough to resist the weak clutches of the old woman. Without a doubt, he could have pulled free at any point he wished. But he stayed there, ensnared by her brittle hands like an adult elephant restrained by the memory of the rope that stopped it as a calf.
“What’s he sayin?” she snapped at Ben.
Speechless, he shook his head. “Ms. Beverly, it’s just a piece of candy. It’s Halloween.”
Underneath the newspaper mask the boy was heaving audibly now. He still didn’t speak. The newspaper just crinkled and crackled as the boy huffed.
Beverly’s face flushed red with exertion and anger. Her thin, pale lips retreated like window blinds, exposing teeth stained by age and worn by use. As the boy writhed, Beverly’s arm slipped upward, pulling the child’s necklace free from under his shirt. A flat red ring bounced at the end of the grubby string, thudding lightly against his chest. When the boy moved to touch it, Beverly’s arm slid against the newspaper mask and ripped it free from the yellow string that anchored it.
A dark spot had seeped through the thin paper where the child’s mouth had been, obliterating the ink. The mask tore at the puddle of saliva when Beverly’s arm finally slipped up and over the kid’s face, resting just above his eyebrows.
For a moment, Ben thought he had been mistaken in thinking that he had been talking to a little boy. The slender, pointed nose and soft shape of the child’s eyes gave his face a distinctly feminine quality. But when he parted his lips in a snarl, the masculinity was revealed in his jaw. He was about thirteen years old and beautiful, even in this state. His amber eyes flashed wildly; then his body seemed to relax.
“You about done?” Beverly’s voice had quieted after she noticed the crowd. The boy nodded and stuffed the red ring back into his shirt. “Man alive. Just what in the world has gotten into you?” Beverly asked with an exasperated laugh. The white cotton of her nightdress draped over her thin frame like a sheet on a pole.
“Did he ask you for candy?” Beverly turned her attention to Ben, and in the same instant, the boy’s bright golden gaze fixed on Ben’s eyes, which were now oscillating rapidly between the two stares.
“I…” Ben’s esophagus made a swallowing gesture, but nothing moved but time. The boy just looked at Ben, his eyes aflame with anticipation.
“Oh, don’t let him play you,” Beverly said. “He can’t have none. Di’betic, this one.”
The four eyes lingered impatiently on Ben’s fumbling mouth until the words finally sloughed out. “He put it in his pants. Down the front. I didn’t know he couldn’t have it.” Ben attempted to look at Beverly but could see only the angry glower that had washed into the kid’s lips and eyes, eyes that still hadn’t blinked or broken away.
“You can’t make like a demon and think the devil won’t notice, boy.” She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and tucked him behind her. “Thank you for bein forthright with me, Benjamin.”
The two walked past Ben toward the end of the aisle that was closer to the store’s exit. Ben’s shoes squeaked against the tile as he pivoted to watch them leave. His heart was racing with guilt for the boy’s ruined Halloween. Only as they turned to leave the aisle did the kid look at Ben, and when he did, he smiled like he was posing for a photograph.
“I’m sorry,” Ben mouthed.
13
“Down his pants?” Frank asked in disbelief.
The baler shuddered as the ram bore down. Marty held the collar of his shirt over his nose and tapped a button on the baler’s controls to bring the plate down another inch, then two, before he was finally satisfied.
“Of all the nights to be scheduled,” Frank muttered.
“Jesus Christ,” Marty said, walking up to the damages shelves. “You probably woulda missed it anyhow, Frank. Off somewhere avoiding work.” Marty squinted against the half-can of air freshener he was emptying onto the foul racks.
“That don’t make it smell better,” Frank choked out.
“Smells just like”—Marty studied the label—“fresh linen to me.”
“Where you wash your sheets at? The toilet?”
“She said the kid was diabetic,” Ben grunted, sliding a pallet in front of the machine.
“The way you tell it, that kid would’ve been better off eating the candy,” Frank said.
“That kid doesn’t have no diabetes,” Marty said, tapping the bent rebar against the baler.
“How do you know?” Ben asked.
“Like Frank said. You ever see someone go apeshit on a kid for tryin to eat a piece of candy? And all that about the devil watching or whatever? I know you think she’s alright, but Beverly’s crazier than a shithouse rat, Ben.”
“C’mon, man,” Ben objected.
“She sets the table in the break room. Place mats and metal forks and everything,” Marty said, pointing at Frank with the rebar. “Tell him about the time you seen her.”
“Nah, man,” Frank said, smiling uneasily. “C’mon, Marty.”
“You’re the one who seen her. Fine.” Marty sighed as Frank slipped some wires out of the tube near the baler. “Few months back, Frank here says that he was blocking the store when he turns a corner and Queen Muffin is shopping for groceries like it ain’t three in the goddamn morning. Didn’t even know where she was. You
tell me there ain’t something wrong with her.”
“Fuck you, Marty,” Frank shouted.
“Hey, if you’da told it, maybe you coulda told it a little sweeter than I did. I didn’t see you getting all butthurt when you was laughin about the break-room table.”
“That’s a different thing.”
Marty shrugged and Frank whipped the wires to the ground and left the group. The swinging doors thudded as Frank exited the back room altogether.
“You forget his granny’s sick?” Ben asked, scooping up the wires.
Marty jammed the rebar into one of the gutters at the base of the baler. “I wasn’t talkin about his damn granny,” he grunted. “What? I can’t say anything to anyone just because it might remind them of something? Give me a fuckin break. I was just sayin that Beverly’s a little off sometimes. That was it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. But you know how Frank gets sometimes…”
“Of course I do. He storms out all the time over just about everything.” Marty’s words jabbed in rhythm with his efforts to clear the cardboard. “It’s fuckin exhausting, and I don’t need someone tellin me how to avoid something that’s not my fault in the first place. Frank’s granny has Alzheimer’s. Ain’t nothin wrong with Beverly’s brain. She’s just a bitch.”
“Alright,” Ben said, feeding wires into the slots that Marty had burrowed. “I wasn’t gonna tell you to do something different. You guys are friends. We’re all friends. That’s all. Just…”
Marty tied off the wires one by one while Ben watched.
“It’s hard to know how people are gonna take things. That’s all. Good or bad. You remember how I found Eric’s toy? That rhino? I gave it to my stepmom. To be nice. I thought about taking it to the police, but I thought she needed it more. I thought it would make her happy, and I was wrong. She got upset, but whose fault that is isn’t really the point. Still gotta try.”
Marty held the button to run the baler through the rest of the cycle. The block of cardboard shifted and moaned against the metal strings.
Bad Man_A Novel Page 9
