This time the little green pillbox was more like a hospital than a madhouse. Lines stretched out of both the restrooms, and people stood with their backs to the walls to make sure there was enough room for other customers. Cheryl went to her line, I went to mine, and we waited.
Everything went like clockwork for a bit. People went in, did their business, and left at roughly equal pace. I was ten from the front when something went wrong on my side, and the grumbling started. Somebody ran for the counter, and a couple of guys came around and headed into the men’s room. They left and came back with a tool box, and whatever they were doing was slow and wet. Shifting feet were added to the grumbles, and those who didn’t have an emergency to deal with decided it wasn’t worth the wait. I thought about joining them, when something in my stomach gurgled in a way I didn’t care for. I suddenly found myself hoping whatever the problem was got resolved sooner rather than later.
“Everything all right?” Cheryl asked.
I glanced over, and noticed the women’s line was nowhere to be seen. I shrugged. “Something needed fixed, I guess.”
She was about to say something, but then took a harder look at me. “Are you feeling all right, Will?”
“Not really, since you ask,” I said, trying for a brave face. “Nerves, probably.”
“Do you need me to wait?”
I was shaking my head before she’d even finished the question, digging into my right hand pocket. “No, it’s no problem. You go on back, I’ll be there in a bit with some more supplies.”
She hesitated, then took the keys, leaning up to give me another quick kiss. “See you in a bit.”
“Don’t start without me.”
I was just starting to get really desperate five minutes later when the ushers came back out, wiping their foreheads and rolling their sleeves back down.
“Everything’s taken care of fellas,” said the older of the two, a man sporting a dark mustache starting to show some gray. “May want to hurry up though. The second picture will be starting shortly, and take my word you don’t want to miss it.”
There was applause, and the line got moving again. I skirted past the urinals, and stepped into the last stall. My stomach gave me half a minute’s warning, and I just barely managed to get my pants down fast enough to avoid serious trouble. I gritted my teeth, and held on as the worst of it passed. Then, just when I thought it was over, it turned out the ride had a few more hills left in it. The restroom went quiet, and after maybe two minutes I was the only one in there.
I considered my options. I liked Cheryl, maybe even loved her a little, but I knew that when she set her mind to something she either would or wouldn’t do it and nothing this side of God and all his angels would change her mind. I sure as hell didn’t want to be the kind of guy who pushed, especially when I’d just told her I wouldn’t. On the other hand I didn’t want to try to pretend nothing was wrong when my privates started taking hostages. It wasn’t a hard decision, and I had plenty of very fresh memories to help me along in the execution.
The door swung open, and the sound of heavy boots made me freeze. I practically held my breath, convinced for a moment that whoever it was would kick in the door and catch me doing something other than what the stalls were made for. The tap opened, the little torrent of water unnaturally loud in the small space. He washed his hands, slapped them dry, and left. I let out a long breath, finished my own business, and stepped out like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. There were pink whorls around the sink’s drain, and I wondered for a moment if the mysterious stranger had washed a bloody nose. I washed, dried my hands, and tossed the wet, wadded sheets into the garbage without a glance as I hurried out.
The movie had already started. Janet Leigh was talking with Anthony Perkins about nothing very much, and looking quite nervous about it. I tried to watch as I walked, the echo from all the posts giving the dialog a strange, muted quality I found disorienting. I managed not to trip over any of the cords, but the light from the screen turned everything else into muted shades of black. When I saw the Commodore’s familiar outline I opened the door and climbed inside.
“Sorry I took so long—”
I turned on the bench, and a dead girl stared back at me. Her skin was milk pale, runny with something thick and dark that looked like drying chocolate syrup in the silver light. Her blouse had been torn open, and her skirt cut to ribbons. A dozen drooling, idiot mouths sat slack and open across her chest, her thighs, and the biggest of the brood just below her chin. Her jaw was broken at an impossible angle, and her tongue lolled like a dead slug. I sucked in breath to scream, and tasted her in the cooling air. Her death was raw, acrid; the tangy, sticky-sweetness of blood mixed with the cloying funk of emptied bowels.
I slammed open the door, driving it into the speaker post as I fell onto my hands and knees. Whatever had been left in me spewed out my mouth as my body tried to expel the smell and the taste of what I’d witnessed. I was crying, breath hitching between heaves as my body tore itself apart. I crawled away through my own filth, making a noise that might have been a name. I couldn’t tell. Then I stopped, and looked back. There was no mirror on the driver’s side door.
The sound of rain covered me, like I was inside God’s own shower even though the skies stayed dry. I forced myself to my feet, wiping at my eyes as I tried to see out into the darkness. Shapes coalesced slowly, and I counted as I tried to pierce the murk. Then I saw my father’s car, sitting two rows back, and three cars over. I coughed, wiped my mouth, and fixated on that car. Violins shrieked, and the car began to rock; back and forth, back and forth.
A hundred tinny screams split the chill night air, and I screamed with them.
IN THE BLOOD
MARK W. COULTER
Crack!
The bat struck true on the baseball, sending it far outfield. Kenneth Anderson dropped the bat and made a bee line for first base. He didn’t watch where the ball actually went or his friends scrambling for it initially, because in that instant he was Mickey Mantle rounding the bases after a home-run hit. Deep down, he knew he could have hit a true homer out of the fence of the vacant lot where they played, but no one wanted to be the guy that sent one of their two baseballs into the tall grass on the other side where they’d have to hunt for it.
So Kenneth had held back just a little bit. It was that sense he always had on just how much power to put into a hit. He’d even hit to try and send it to where Johnny was covering the “outfield” for the other team. Everyone liked Johnny well enough, but he was last picked almost every time, a little pudgy, and refused to wear his glasses when playing with the other guys. So he missed things when the light started to dim, and it was a good bet that Harold would try to rush over and create enough confusion that they wouldn’t get the ball back to home plate. Kenneth knew all these things, and had calculated them in the split second when Ronnie pitched the ball.
Rounding second and heading to third, he watched everything proceeding as he had predicted from the corner of his eye. Harold and Johnny were tripping over each other, making it easy to plow ahead to third and head for home. His thin frame was practically made for running the bases and rounding them quickly, and his legs pumped hard to take all the advantage he’d given himself. He was sliding in like a Major Leaguer just as Ronnie caught the toss in the pitcher’s circle they’d marked out. The other boy rolled his eyes and sighed when Kenneth popped up from the plate, grinning ear to ear.
“And Mantle makes the slide!” Kenneth cried out, imitating one of his favorite radio announcers. “He breaks the tie and the game is over!”
A few gloves were tossed to the ground in frustration, but it wasn’t as bad as the first few times when Kenneth’s teams had made the game a complete shut-out in early innings. He’d learned pretty quickly that he could win every game, but the other team had to feel like they had a chance. Otherwise no one wanted to play with him.
“Jeez, Johnny!” Harold was already yelling, “What are you
doing? I coulda got him out!”
“Shut up, Harold! It was my part of the field, you got in the way!”
“I don’t shut up, I grow up, and when I look at you I throw up. Maybe if you weren’t blind and slow, I wouldn’t have to run after it!”
It was about to come to scuffling when Ronnie shouted over at the two of them. “Guys, it’s Ken. What’re you gonna do?”
“Bah, I gotta get home anyway, my mom’s probably done with dinner. But I don’t wanna be on Johnny’s team tomorrow!” Harold said as he walked towards the bikes.
“Fine!” Johnny retorted. “I don’t wanna be on your team either...asshole!”
Harold stopped for a tense moment while the other boys waited to see if there was going to be a fight. Then he just shot a bird over his shoulder and walked to his bike to ride home. Johnny fumed where he stood, and Kenneth could tell that lurking under the anger was more embarrassment than anything else. Maybe if they played tomorrow, he should hit one right to Johnny, or pick him for his team a little earlier than last. But only after he got a few good players, of course.
“C’mon,” Ronnie said to everyone remaining, “it’s like my old man always says. It’s just a game, it’s not The War.”
“Speaking of that, I gotta get home too,” Kenneth said. “My pop gets really mad if I’m out past dinner time.”
Almost everyone else was in the same boat, and the few boys that didn’t have to go home immediately could always find some other game or mischief to cause on a summer evening. Ronnie and Kenneth always started in the same direction from the lot with its crudely sketched baseball diamond, so they rode together for a mile or so with the constant flap of the playing cards in Ronnie’s spokes. They talked about music and girls and if they’d get together for a game tomorrow and who had the best chance of getting to the World Series. Kenneth naturally thought that the Yankees could do no wrong, while Ronnie wondered why he didn’t root for any of the closer teams. As they parted ways at the usual corner, the boys made an appointment to hit the drug store tomorrow for a fresh batch of baseball cards, comic books, and possibly a soda pop before they checked up with any of the others to see if a game would happen.
“See ya later, alligator!” Ronnie called out as he raced away, showing off how fast he could ride.
“After a while, crocodile!” Kenneth called back before the other boy got out of earshot.
Kenneth rode alone towards the development where his family lived. The wind felt nice against his skin and he found himself humming “Rock Around the Clock” in time to his pedaling. He and his friends loved rock ‘n’ roll, even though his parents always talked about its “moral degradation” and wondered why he couldn’t just enjoy their records with the horns and the crooners. Kenneth had to keep a secret stash of a few records and listen at Ronnie’s place a lot of the time. Thankfully Ronnie’s mom actually liked some of their music and swooned over Elvis Presley, so it wasn’t a big deal.
His humming turned to singing, and Kenneth rode easily in the cooling air. One of the things he loved about the music was that it was one of the best ways to block out the low hum of sound that he sometimes heard in his head. The strange piping—almost like wind through reeds—bothered him whenever it came up, but a good dose of Bill Haley, Jerry Lee Lewis, or even Elvis Presley could drown it out in a way that the older music never could. Now singing the rhythm under his breath was keeping it from swelling again, keeping away the mild headache that always came with it until the sound died away.
He rode up in front of the faded picket fence that went around the modest two-story house where he lived with his mother and father. He couldn’t help but think that pretty soon, his pop was going to steal one of his summer days to repaint it as he walked his bike past his father’s car to stow it in the small garage that sat outside the fence.
Kenneth raced back to the gate that led up to the front door, knowing that he only had precious minutes to spare before he was late. When he opened the door, his father was already standing there, glowering under the close crew-cut that he still kept from weekly trips to his barber. The tall, broad man with the weathered face looked at his watch, then his pale blue eyes looked back at his son, waiting.
“Hey, pop,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. There were times when his father would simply smile and ask him how the game went, would even swell with pride at hearing that his team won.
“Hay is for horses, Kenneth. And you are almost late. You barely have time to wash up, your clothes are filthy, and your mother has been working on dinner for a good hour now.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The game ran—”
“I am not interested in your excuses right now.” His father pointed an arm behind him. “You get up those stairs, mister, and get washed up. On the double, and you best be at that table the moment your mother serves dinner. Hup!”
So it was another of those days. As he made his way quickly and quietly up the stairs, Kenneth knew it would be a dreary night, and he’d probably be banished to his bedroom early. These moods settled over his father sometimes, days where nothing was good enough and everything had to be by his book. When he thought about it, it had been a while since he’d seen the jovial, happy mood that his father sometimes used to enjoy. Those were always great times. The three of them would play games like Monopoly or Clue; he and his pop would talk baseball; they’d even have neighbors over for parties or barbecues. Those were the days when he could be “Pop” and not “Sir”. Days when everything was “Sir” were not days other people knew about.
Changing into a different set of clothes with lightning speed, Kenneth rushed through the bathroom, washing his hands, arms, and face with a practice born from other close calls. Barely avoiding running down the stairs—for there was no running in the house on days like this—he crept up to the dining room and breathed a sigh of relief. He was clean enough for the table and there was nothing on it yet.
He sat quietly down in his seat next to where his father already sat at the head of the table. His father looked at him and made a little sound under his breath that made Kenneth understand he was lucky. And it had just been in the nick of time too.
His mother came through the kitchen door with a bowl of steamed broccoli and set it on a hot pad. Her black hair was set into a perfect curl, and her blue dress was without a spot despite just finishing dinner. She looked at Kenneth and gave him a warm smile.
“Well hello, kiddo, nice of you to join us,” she said with a playful air. For a second, he thought she gave him a little wink. Then Kenneth had one of those realizations that made him love his mother even more. She’d noticed his father’s black mood and waited to bring dinner out until she heard him reach the table.
She bustled back into the kitchen while Kenneth and his father waited in silence, then brought out a huge metal pan. The scent of it set Kenneth’s mouth watering, and he recognized the aroma of freshly cooked lasagna. When it was set down, he began to realize just how hungry the game made him and how good those noodles and cheese looked.
His father just stared at the pan in the center of the table for a few moments. No one said a word as Kenneth’s mother finished sitting down. His father made them wait, and it was understood that neither of them started until he took his portion first.
Staring at the pan still, his face twisted in disgust. “What the hell is this?”
Startled, Kenneth’s mother replied, “It’s...It’s lasagna.”
The table was filling up with the palpable sense of his father’s anger and frustration. Kenneth had felt this before.
“Tonight, we were supposed to have steak. I said I wanted steak,” his father said.
“Well, I know, dear, but when I went to the store there was a sale on the pasta and tomato sauce, we had some cheeses in the refrigerator, and I thought of this to save a little money. It’s my mother’s recipe, Kevin. You love my mother’s lasagna; I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
It was strange when this happened,
and it seemed to be more and more lately. Kenneth could feel the intense emotion from his father, could touch it as if it were one of his own feelings, even if he didn’t share it. Making it worse, he could hear the sound in his head again, that low piping trying to rise in intensity.
“I make the goddamn money! I know how much we have! When I say steak, I mean steak!”
It was getting worse again. He saw how his father regarded his mother. He’d watched them kiss and never felt their love the way he felt the scorn his father was feeling now. It was as if his mother wasn’t even the same species; just some lowly being that had displeased him beyond simply not getting what he wanted, but with her basic inferiority. The sound in his head was trying to grow steadily, as it always seemed to when his father was stressed or angry.
Kenneth tried to help. “I love lasagna.”
“Be quiet, son; children speak when spoken to,” his father snapped before turning back to his mother. “And you. I expect some goddamn respect in this house! I served my time in the war, I work all day to support you, and I when I tell you how to spend my money on my dinner, I expect you to do what I say!”
His mother sighed. Kenneth could tell she was holding back tears, but he didn’t feel her emotion the way he felt the dark shadow of his father’s rage.
With a hitch in her voice she said, “I’m sorry, Kevin. I didn’t realize it would upset you that much, I won’t do that next time. But right now, this is what we have, so we may as well have a nice dinner. Okay?”
She put her hand on his. There was a brief glimmer of his father seeing his mother as the woman he loved, trying to cut through the sense that she was just a failing animal, and for a moment Kenneth thought that the cloying cloud of anger and frustration might recede.
American Nightmare Page 12
