Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales

by Fran Friel

  Simon scrambled over the edge, his pain and weariness forgotten. At the boy's side, he reached out to touch him. Was he really there? Or was this another cruel trick of the nightmares? But at his touch, the boy's eyes fluttered open. Shielding his face against the bright morning son, he smiled.

  "Mr. Simon!” He looked around, his expression perplexed. “How I get here?"

  "I don't know, Paulo, but I'm just glad you are.” He embraced the boy, and with a look of surprise, Paulo hugged him back. After an awkward moment, Simon got to his feet and extended his hand to the boy.

  "Come on. Let's get you home."

  "But pictures—did you take pictures of beach?” he said. “Look!” He smiled, pointing to the shore below.

  The beach was the last thing that concerned Simon, but when he turned to see what Paulo was pointing at, he couldn't believe what lay below. After the events of the night, he didn't think anything else could ever surprise him, but there on the shore lay the giant carcasses of the nightmare banquet.

  The Cyclops with his white tie and tails, the Wolfman, Kali—the blue-skinned woman who had blown him a kiss and ripped his leg off. They were all there, all the hungry nightmares in giant living color. But the tide was moving in fast and dragging at the bodies, lifting and pulling them out to sea. Simon felt a tug at his vest.

  "Come on, Mr. Simon. Take your pictures. That what we came all this way to do, yes?"

  Simon stared at the monsters on the beach, watching the billowing linen of the mummy's corpse unwinding into the surf. He pulled his camera from his pocket and removed the plastic bag he had used the night before. That seemed so long ago. He lifted the camera to his eye and pressed the automatic shutter button. The camera whizzed to life, taking a series of photos in rapid fire. When he finished, he hefted the camera in his hand for a minute. Setting it aside, he dug in his pockets and found the rest of his sample bags and tools. He handed some to Paulo. The boy looked confused.

  "Fill them with rocks so the wind can't blow them around, then throw them as far as you can. Throw them out to sea."

  Paulo smiled and grabbed a handful of rocks. Together they filled the bags, taking turns tossing them over the cliff. After a couple of bags, they began to laugh, cheering each other on. Each time they threw a little harder and a little farther, the contents disappearing into the ocean. And with each throw, Simon felt a little more free, a little more whole.

  Maybe it wasn't too late to start again. Karen and Peka, that's what they said. But how? How could they have been there? Perhaps Peka followed them, but Karen? It didn't make sense. Then he remembered the native woman's voice at the nightmare banquet just before he lost consciousness. No, it couldn't have been. But in his heart, Simon knew that Peka was completely capable of giving her own life for her family, her ohana.

  Sadness swept over Simon with the realization of Peka's sacrifice. He watched as Paulo pitched the last baggie into the ocean, this one filled with samples of bright red hair as thick as cables. The young man beamed with the joy of the game, and after his throw, he celebrated with a high-five, a simple gesture, one he'd learned from Simon. In that moment, Simon knew he would spend the rest of his life doing whatever he could to make Paulo's life better, as well as the life of his own son. He'd do it for Peka ... and Karen.

  Standing in the sea breeze, warmed by the sun, Simon sensed the rightness of the moment. He felt alive and glad about it. He could never change the past or make it right, but he could live the present and the future with a new heart and renewed hope. Could his son forgive him? Simon knew that no matter what would come, he'd die trying to make it so.

  He bent down and snatched up the carefully wrapped camera. Without hesitation he wound up like a major league pitcher and rocketed it out to sea with a throw his father could have been proud of.

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  GRAVY PURSUITS

  Gravy is what Leonard loved most in the world. He loved that sweet, slimy brownness on everything he could think of. Fried eggs and gravy; tuna melt and gravy; peanut butter, jelly, and that's right, gravy.

  You could call Leonard Hogtire a bona fide connoisseur of gravydom. He'd tried all the commercial brands, be they from jars or cans, or those concentrated packets of dried gravy dust meant to be mixed with water at a slow simmer. But after dropping out of high school for his dream job at his uncle's factory—Boss Hog's Pig Knuckles and Rendering, Inc.—Leonard moved beyond the commercial gravy fare his tired mama served him, seemingly by the gallon, and started experimenting with fine southern recipes.

  He would have moved out on his own, but his mama was a widow, so rather than leave her all alone, he moved down to the cellar and fixed himself up a bachelor pad complete with a small but well-appointed kitchen for the pursuit of his favorite pastime—the search for the perfect gravy.

  * * * *

  Miss Appledine, the town librarian, was always pleased to see new patrons enter through the doors of Eastville's Dewey Smithers Community Library, the first and only public library for a hundred miles. But when she saw the lumbering form of Leonard Hogtire silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun of the open library doors, she blinked hard in disbelief. Lifting her neck-chained glasses to her cool gray eyes, she took a deep breath and held it. She'd passed Leonard enough times in the street and the grocers to prepare her for the stench that followed the man like a humid cloud of putrid pig guts. Job hazard, she figured. Shame though, he seemed like a nice young man.

  Leonard strolled up to the circulation desk with the silly grin he wore, and Miss Appledine nodded and tried to look natural—while holding her breath.

  "Where's the cookbooks, Miss?” asked Leonard.

  Miss Appledine blinked at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. With a tight smile, she pointed to the last shelf in the far corner of the non-fiction section.

  "Thank ya', Miss."

  Leonard picked up his pace, excited to enter the latest source of his personal joy. As he moved out of hearing distance, Miss Appledine released her held breath, relieved that the threat to her olfactories had passed, only to discover that Leonard had left a trail of his personal scent behind for her smelling enjoyment. Even though the day was cool, she switched on the old wire-cased oscillating fan in hopes that the odor would dissipate before her all-too-sensitive gag reflex kicked in.

  * * * *

  For months, Leonard's gravy studies brought him back to the library with regular frequency. He never noticed the fan strategically pointed in his direction when he came to the desk with his library card and his latest gravy recipe laden cookbook. Eventually, he exhausted the cooking section and moved on to wilderness, hunting, and taxidermy topics.

  He was genuinely touched by the kindness of the librarian, since most folks weren't exactly hospitable to Leonard. She always suggested that he keep his titles as long as he wanted.

  "No rush returning ... them,” Miss Appledine would say.

  Leonard was, however, concerned about the little lady's health, always seeming to have a tissue up to her nose and dabbing at her watery eyes. She was such a sweet woman. Strange how she'd never married. He found a book on the shelf in the health section on allergies and viruses and left it on the counter for her when he checked out his latest title on wilderness survival, the one with the partially eviscerated rabbit on the cover.

  * * * *

  Liberating his father's old rifle from the back of the hall closet, Leonard began his studies in small game hunting. Rabbits, birds, squirrels, snakes—anything that came into his path during his forays into the nearby hills. Leonard experimented with all the small critters he could get his hands on, learning the proper cleaning and rendering, all in pursuit of a gravy to die for—one so mouthwateringly sweet and savory, heaven might open up and swallow him whole. His daddy always loved gravy, and to Leonard, gravy was life—after all, it was a product of live things, their blood, their juices, their essence.

  He found the small game experiment mildly satisfyin
g, but he moved to larger prey like venison and black bear. He was happy for a time, with large quantities of meat to continue his culinary experimentation. He bought a chest freezer and muscled it down the steps to store his meaty trophies along with samples of his best gravies for later comparisons. The freezer was a good tool, but Leonard preferred his meat to still be warm, as close to live as possible. Those batches of gravy were noticeably more alive with flavor as they swirled on his refined palate.

  But something elusive was still missing, and Leonard was determined to discover his gravy masterpiece. He returned to the library with renewed enthusiasm, studying hard for weeks, making notes, collecting spices and the proper utensils for his greatest gravy ever. He had a plan.

  When the big day arrived, he was elated; everything was prepared. He showered extra-long with a special scented soap he'd found at the drugstore. He shaved his cheery round face, aglow with anticipation, and slapped on some fancy aftershave, and dressed in his brand new duds, dress pants and a button-down shirt. With a last look in the mirror to comb his hair, Leonard tucked his library book under his arm and headed out for what would be the best night of his life.

  On his way to the library, he stopped by the flower shop and picked out a delicate bouquet. He'd timed his visit to the library perfectly. Just minutes before closing. The parking lot was empty, with the exception of Miss Appledine's little blue Toyota. Leonard smiled to himself; the perfect car for such a sweet lady.

  He entered the library and strolled up to the counter like he always did, but this time, Miss Appledine looked pleasantly surprised, and there wasn't a tissue or watery eye in sight.

  "Well, Leonard, don't you look handsome this evening."

  "Thank you, Miss.” He looked down at his feet with his usual silly grin.

  "Looks like you just caught me. I was about to close up for the evening."

  "Well,” said, Leonard, “I was wondering if you were busy tonight.” Still looking down, he scuffed the toe of his shoe on the floor. “I was just wondering if you might like to join me for dinner tonight."

  Miss Appledine looked surprised by the offer, but she'd become fond of the young man—he was her most faithful library patron. And his usual stench was mercifully absent.

  "Leonard, what a lovely offer.” It was clear that she was about to decline, but after a thoughtful pause, she cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Oh, why not? I was going home to an empty house and leftovers anyway, and from the extensive cookbook reading you've done, I suspect you must know good eating when you see it."

  Leonard grinned and nodded, thrilled that she accepted his invitation.

  "Oh, I almost forgot!” Leonard pulled the bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “These are for you, for being such a sweet lady."

  "Thank you. They're beautiful, Leonard. You shouldn't have."

  "It was the least I could do,” he said. “Oh, and here's my library book. It's a little overdue. I guess you could say I devoured it."

  "Not to worry. It'll be our little secret.” She stamped the book and when she noticed the title, she chuckled at Leonard's sense of humor.

  "The Dietary Habits of Cannibals. Must have been a fascinating read. I hope you'll tell me all about it over dinner."

  Leonard's grin widened. “It seems they love gravy."

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  MASHED

  1—Cody's Revenge

  Samantha Sommerville licked the frosting from her finger, grinning at the rich taste of chocolate swirling on her tongue. Surrounded by the warmth of her kitchen and the scent of baking, she marveled at how good she felt. It had been two years since her brother's disappearance, but with the support of her family and some good therapy she felt like she was coming back to life. Her curls moved around her face in the breeze from the kitchen window, and she breathed deeply like her therapist had taught her. Taking in the smells of the spring air, she was hungry to fill herself with the moment.

  As she turned back to her work to put the final touches on the birthday cake, Cody slammed through the kitchen door at a trot.

  "Hey buddy, how was school?” she asked.

  On his way to the refrigerator, he whizzed past her in a blur of shaggy hair and baggy denim.

  "Okay.” He shrugged, nabbing an ice cream sandwich from the freezer.

  Samantha looked at the ice cream and then at her son with her patented eyebrow raise. “Sorry, buddy. Birthday or not, there's no junk food before dinner. Besides, you'll be in a sugar coma soon enough at the party tonight."

  The boy rolled his eyes at her and tossed the ice cream back in the freezer, then grabbed an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table. “Happy now?” he asked as he swiped a fingerful of icing from the mixing bowl. Samantha swatted his hand and smiled.

  "You still haven't told me your special birthday dinner request,” she said. “What'll it be, buddy?"

  With a sly grin, Cody answered, “Mashed potatoes!"

  Chill bumps slipped across Samantha's skin—her son knew how she felt about “the evil spuds,” as he called them. But she was obligated by tradition to prepare his birthday request and she knew full well he was taking advantage of the chance for a little “no junk food” rule revenge.

  "You okay, Mom?” He beamed with cherubic innocence.

  "How about some rice instead, Cody?” She strained to maintain a neutral tone, knowing her son's ninja-like skill at detecting any sign of parental weakness.

  "Nah, I've got my heart set on mashed."

  "Fine ... brat.” She mumbled, accepting defeat.

  "See ya'.” The boy headed for the door, calling over his shoulder. “Going skating with Brian and Josh."

  Samantha didn't answer; her mind was quickly drifting toward old, uncomfortable thoughts. She was no longer thinking about the cake in front of her or the birthday dinner. Instead, she was remembering her brothers’ favorite childhood sport—terrifying Sam—and the root cellar on her parents’ farm.

  * * * *

  2—Brotherly Love

  "You heard about Old Lady Carne, the witch, didn't ya'? How she kills people and chops ‘em up?” said Eddie, looming over Samantha. Pretending to ignore him, she stared unseeing at her history book laying open on the kitchen table.

  Eddie continued, “Folks say she's pure evil, Sam. She eats her victims’ hearts, then casts a spell on the leftover bits and stashes ‘em in people's barns and root cellars. Those bits just sit there, waitin’ for a new host to spread her evil. If you touch ‘em,” Eddie whispered, leaning in close, “you're done for."

  "Yeah,” said Danny, sitting across from Samantha. “I heard the evil hibernates in your flesh, and all it takes to wake it up is a little blood.” He slapped his hand on the kitchen table, and Samantha's body jolted. She dropped her chin to her chest, hoping the veil of her hair would hide her flushed face.

  With a satisfied grin, Danny said, “You know, Sam, when you get older, Mom's gonna make you go down in the root cellar—down in the dark all by yourself. We've had to do it."

  Eddie shook his head with regret and stared down at the floor. “Yup, it's just a matter of time before it's your turn, Sammy.” Her brothers stared at each other with concern. “Poor, Sam,” they said in unison as they walked by, patting her shoulder and snickering behind her back. “Just be careful what you touch down there.” Sam listened to them laughing as they ran upstairs, but of course, she knew they were right.

  * * * *

  "Go on down to the cellar and get me some potatoes, Samantha,” said her mother as she dressed a chicken for supper. Samantha froze on the spot and looked at her brother standing in the doorway. He looked back at her and nodded with his eyebrows raised in a “see, I told you so” look. Shaking his head sympathetically, he disappeared from the doorway.

  Samantha dawdled, putting on her jacket and tightening the laces on her sneakers. “What are you waitin’ for girl?” her mother asked, shoving a basket in her hands and chucking her under the chin. “Go on no
w. Those potatoes aren't gonna walk into this kitchen on their own."

  In the waning afternoon light of autumn, Samantha crossed the yard to the root cellar like she was marching to the drone of a funeral dirge. A chill breeze gusted up from behind her as if urging her on toward her fate. Accepting her doom, she sighed, put the basket down at the entrance, and opened the heavy cellar door. It squealed in protest, exposing the wooden steps below.

  The stairway down to the root cellar was littered with shadows from the fading light. With stoic determination, Sam hooked the basket over her arm and clomped down the steps, one by one, feeling her way along the cool wall with her hands. As the darkness closed around her, she felt a sudden prick from something sharp along the wall. She cried out and stuck her finger in her mouth, tasting the rusty tinge of blood and feeling her thin courage slipping away like a ghost. Her face turned hot with tears and anger. Why would her mother put her in such danger? Hadn't she heard about the witch? It didn't matter, she thought to herself, because once her mother gave an order, there was no turning back.

  Resigned to her duty, Sam continued down the steps with her shoulder to the wall until at last she felt the hard dirt floor beneath her sneakers. The damp odor of the room surrounding her smelled like an open grave; she shivered.

  Sam had watched her mother pull the light string at the bottom of the steps many times, so she groped around above her head in the dark, searching for the string. Unable to feel it above her, Sam's fear of what lurked in the cellar escalated. Her already shallow breaths became gasps in her desperation to find the light pull. Her groping turned into flailing, while the cut on her finger throbbed to the rhythm of her pounding heart.

  When Sam finally felt the light string touch her palm, she grabbed and gave it a violent pull. The cellar burst into earthy color. With a heavy sigh, her shoulders relaxed and she looked around at the rows of shelves packed with homemade fruit and vegetable preserves, and baskets and sacks of produce neatly lined along the side walls. She was relieved by the tidiness of the surroundings and infuriated that her brothers had frightened her for so long about nothing. “I'll show them,” she said to herself as she tramped over to the bumpy brown sack marked “potatoes."