Maybe it was time to pull the gun from Johnny’s hand.
10
“They broke up a couple months after the baby was born,” James said. “It was a boy, I think. Can’t remember the name. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Point is… Harold couldn’t take the bitch any longer and they broke up. Then came the babysitting. He’d have the kid a day or two, and she’d have the kid a day or two. This went back and forth a while without any screw-ups. Then one day Harold makes a mistake. It was February and he was going… wherever. It doesn’t really matter and I don’t honestly know. For arguments sake let’s say he was going to the mall. So Harold gets the kid ready, he bundles the little feller up in his snow-pants and whatnot, and he takes him to the car. And the baby is strapped inside one of those baby seats… sleeping or whatever. Knowing Harold, the baby-seat is probably two sizes too small with three pounds of dried puke on it. Anyways, Harold sits the baby on the ground. He unlocks the car, opens the door, and gets inside. He puts on his seatbelt, turns up the radio… then he drives away, leaving the baby sitting at the side of the road.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yeah. And it gets worse. Harold’s not thinking about the baby, see? ‘Cause deep down, he’s not ready for the baby. He was never ready for the baby. So now the little feller is sitting outside and it’s February. And it’s as cold as tits on a seal out there and Harold’s gone to the mall. After a while he realizes what he’s done and holy shit does he feel bad. Real bad. So he comes racing home as fast as he can, but the guy lives downtown, you know? And when he gets home the cops are everywhere. The baby’s dead, got run over by a truck.”
“Oh shit.”
“Oh shit is right. And when the smoke finally clears, Harold gets two years. Needless to say, the girl hates him and her family hates him. In fact, both families hate him. And worst of all, he hates himself. So guess what? After he’s released from jail the first thing he does is get drunk. Then he phones his mother, says goodbye, and jumps off a fucking bridge. He kills himself.”
“Oh man, that’s hard,” Johnny said.
“Tell me about it.”
James looked at the gun. It was inches away, hanging loosely in Johnny’s hand. Johnny seemed lost in thought. If James wanted the gun bad enough he could take it. He could reach right out and snatch it up. But James wasn’t snatching anything. He was so worried he was trembling. Talking. Keep talking, he told himself. Talking seems best.
He said, “After the funeral I realized something. I’m not ready to be a dad. I decided that I’d never be a dad. And now this happens, and my mom expects me to take care of Mathew. She expects me to be a father. And I’m not ready, Johnny. I love the little guy, but I’m scared shitless. I’m scared I’ll make a mistake, a big mistake. I’m scared I’ll fuck up, like Harold did. I’m telling you, I’m not ready for this. The idea of caring for that kid scares me half to death.”
The two men sat in silence.
Looking at the gun, James ran both hands along his arms. He was cold. The house was freezing.
“You know what?” Johnny said, suddenly smirking.
“No, what?”
“Your five minutes are up.”
Johnny didn’t shoot James. Instead, he slid the gun into his own mouth and tried his luck again. This time, the blast was deafening.
11
Anne sat with Mathew.
A nurse named Patricia––who had a face like a mule if Anne ever did see one––entered the room asking Anne if she would like something to eat.
“A tea would be nice,” Anne said, offering a smile. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is.”
Patricia took a quick glance at Mathew’s chart, which was attached to a board at the front of the bed. She checked the IV, tilted her head to one side, and returned the smile. “No trouble at all, Mrs. McGee.” She spoke with that low-level cheer all nurses seem to be naturally equipped with. She sounded happy, but not too happy. She sounded like she cared but probably didn’t. “Is there a tea you’d like best, any particular flavor?”
Anne considered her options, while running a finger along her rosary beads. “Earl Gray?”
Patricia nodded. “I drink that myself, first thing in the morning. Can’t start my day without it. You like milk? Sugar?”
“Milk please. I don’t take sugar.”
“That’s the way I take it too, with a shot of milk. You and I are peas in a pod, Mrs. McGee. Oh yes we are. We’re two of a kind. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Anne smiled kindly. She noticed, for the first time since she had arrived, how medical everything smelled. She wondered if the woman had brought the medicinal smell in with her somehow. She wondered if something had been spilled in the hallway. The aroma was way beyond strong; it was almost science fiction. “No dear. The tea will be just fine.”
Pat glanced at Mathew one last time with eyes that had seen it all. “One tea, coming up. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll bring cookies. Sometimes I like to have a lemon cookie with my tea.”
Again, Anne smiled. “Thank you,” she said, thinking, forget the cookies; I won’t eat them.
With her shoes skimming the floor, Pat made for the door. Then she hesitated. “Oh, by the way. I met your son earlier. James, is it? He seems very nice.”
“Yes,” Anne said. “He is. James is as nice as they come.”
“Well dressed too.” Patricia smiled, seemly lost in thought.
Anne wondered if the nurse had developed a bit of a crush. It was possible. Lots of women found James attractive. Girls had been chasing him around since he was eight years old.
“Well,” Anne said. “I suppose he is well dressed.”
Patricia laughed lightly and showed her dimples. They made her look younger, and perhaps, they almost made her look pretty. “I’ll see you in a moment Mrs. McGee. I won’t be long.”
“That’s fine. Take your time, dear.”
Patricia left the room and Anne stood up. She placed her rosary on the chair and opened the window. She stood beside the bed and took Mathew’s small fingers in her hand. His skin felt cold and thin. Shallow breathing came from his open lips in slow moving gasps. The bandages around his head needed to be changed once more; his blood and sweat had soaked through.
Anne wondered if Mathew would ever laugh again, or smile again, or be a happy little boy again. She expected that he would, trusting that when this terrible tragedy had passed him by he’d be able to pick up the pieces of his life and continue on without too much sorrow. She knew it would be hard. No child should lose both mother and father in a single stroke. No child should endure such pain.
She squeezed Mathew’s hand and the boy opened his eyes unexpectedly. His fingers wrapped around hers.
“Run James,” he managed to say with a dry voice. Then he fell silent and closed his eyes.
Anne stood above the child, voiceless and distressed. She watched his shallow breathing and waited for him to speak again. But Mathew did not speak. He didn’t budge. He lay unmoving, laboring shallow breaths as if nothing had happened. He looked terrible, like the saddest child in the world.
PART TWO:
RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL
12
After the gun went off Johnny’s head fell back. His suddenly darkened eyes faced the ceiling. A cloud of smoke puffed through the bubbling hole in the back of his skull, and rose up through his nose and mouth. His body slouched; his knees knocked together. Then Johnny’s balance shifted and his shoulders fell forward. His hand slid down his chest and the gun slipped from his fingers. As the gun slapped the floor Johnny’s head slumped and fell to one side. A stream of blood, teeth, and charred tongue, ran over his gums and down his chin. His legs slid apart and his body leaned forward. When he fell, his body hit the floor with a wet, grim thud.
Then a shadow shifted; the hardwood creaked.
James held his breath.
The shadow, James could clearly see, was the size of a small tombstone. I
t shaped like some type of animal, a raccoon maybe. James questioned how this was possible. He wondered if was imagining things, if his eyes were playing tricks. Was stress causing him to hallucinate?
He saw it again, and this time there was no denying it. There was a shadow on the floor and it was moving. But how could this be? James was alone in the ice-cold room, with Johnny—who lay dead and bleeding on the floor.
13
James got up from the couch and walked towards the door. He moved slowly. The shadow followed so he walked faster. Tiny footsteps could be heard beneath the sound of his own. Part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to wave his hands in the air the way a child does when a wasp gets close. Things felt that way now––like a wasp was buzzing, or ten wasps, or an entire hive had come together in battle. And Johnny’s words, which sounded crazy less than five minutes earlier, began haunting him.
Sorry man, Johnny had said. I’m sorry it’s you. But if I don’t pass it on, it’ll be with me forever.
What the hell did that mean? Did Johnny pass something on to him; something worse than angry wasps, something cold and invisible, something so bad that Johnny put the business end of a gun inside his mouth before pulling the trigger?
James walked faster. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted his wrist, and pushed. The door swung open. Wind grabbed it and slammed it against the wall. Brass plated house numbers rattled against the brick.
James was running now, he realized—running down the steps and across the driveway. He threw open the car door and leapt inside. After ramming a hand into his pocket he fumbled with his keys, shifted through them, and slammed a key into the ignition. The car started and James backed out of the driveway at a racer’s pace. Air blew through both open windows. The radio spewed annoying commercials. Changing gears, he tore down Tecumseh Street like a…
A madman, James thought. Jesus have mercy… now I’m the crazy one.
As he followed a bend in the road he turned the radio off. The temperature inside the car dropped five notches and something became crystal clear:
Like it or not, James was not alone.
14
James slapped a hand against the passenger seat like a schoolgirl. He wanted to squish it, kill it; destroy it—whatever it was. But there was nothing to get rid of. How could there be? He was alone––alone with the ice-cold air, the empty seat, and the eerie moving shadow. Fucking hell. Maybe he wasn’t alone! He pounded his fist against the cushion, shouting obscenities. The outline was certainly there, racing in circles and evading his assault.
He pounded his fist again.
James swerved the car left and right. The book inside his mind turned a page and a new bolt of fear hit. He stopped shouting and stopped hammering the seat. His frantic behavior all but vanished. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight enough to be in the army.
The car was colder now; he had made it angry.
“And whatever you do, James,” Johnny had said. “Don’t get it mad. You don’t want it mad. It’ll get the best of you. Trust me. It’ll get even. I know. I got it mad a few times.”
The creature hissed.
Oh shit.
In the corner of his eye he saw a tiny alien; it was foreign in every conceivable way.
Then it was gone.
James wanted to believe that his eyes were playing tricks on him. He wanted to believe it, but he didn’t. His eyes weren’t playing tricks. His eyesight was top notch. He could read a street sign from two blocks away. So what did that mean? What did he see?
James wasn’t sure, but whatever it was—its skin was black and its eyes were huge. James knew that much. Past that, he had no idea what the creature looked like. It came and went too quickly. And it didn’t matter. Not really. The important thing was this: he made the demon angry and now he’d pay for it.
He hit the brake. It didn’t respond.
In fact, the car moved faster and faster.
15
Mathew floated in a sky filled with balloons inside the endless scenery of his mind. He knew things now. He knew that once Johnny died, things would become bad for Uncle James.
And Johnny died.
And things changed.
But time was funny inside Mathew’s mind. Time had become askew. He wasn’t part of the system now; he wasn’t part of the game. He was in a coma and he wandered the compositions of linear time at his own pace, in his own way. He didn’t know how to control this time flux; minutes could be days; hours could be lifetimes; years could be seconds.
Mathew followed a green balloon along an empty street. The balloon floated up a driveway and in through an open door. This was Johnny’s house. He saw Johnny sitting in an old chair. James was sitting beside him. Mathew saw the primordial beast crouched in the corner. The beast grew dull and its shadow lightened. Then came the sudden movement of Johnny’s hand. A red cloud exploded in the air above Johnny’s head. Mathew watched Johnny’s head move back and forth like a pendulum. He saw Johnny grin.
Then the balloon turned red and popped. James was suddenly gone.
Mathew was confused. He didn’t see James leave the room. He didn’t see him run for the door, or disappear, or fade away. In one moment James was there, and in the next moment the reality of the situation had been altered. It seemed possible that James had never been there at all. The room had darkened and the edges of Mathew’s perception felt crusted with a metallic tinge. Like the fabric––the very molecules of the room and everything that was within it––had become alive. And was moving. Slowly. Twisting and turning, changing Mathew’s visuals while keeping everything miraculously unaltered.
He heard the walls creaking around him. He heard voices in the distance that sounded like crying. And there was an odor. He couldn’t put his finger on it but it reminded him of soda in the can.
Motion stood still.
Mathew saw another balloon, a red one. As he reached for it time began rolling again. He watched events happen through the eyes of James. He watched Johnny kill himself. And although time was rolling along now, rolling faster with each implicit second, this was the hang-time between life and death, between here and there, between this world and the next.
Johnny had a never-ending river of blood pouring from his chin. And while the blood bubbled he lifted his head and smiled through a mouthful of jagged teeth fragments.
He said, “Mathew,” his voice sounded unrefined and deep. “He’s with us now, child. James is with us. Soon enough, you’ll be with us too.”
And with that, Johnny laughed. But his laughter sounded a lot like screaming.
16
James drove past crosswalks and driveways and a house his parents considered buying when he was just a boy. He soared by small homes with large yards and trees that were older than the town. He drove under a bridge that was under construction and through an intersection with a STOP sign clearly posted near the corner. He entered a subdivision that was just being developed. Most of the houses were still empty. Unsure of the situation, he looked over his shoulder and gazed into the backseat. Like the houses in developing subdivision, the backseat seemed to be empty too.
The fake leather steering wheel slid through his fingers and James snapped his head around faster than his eyes widened. The car accelerated, the engine revved. The seat shook beneath him. The radio turned on and off.
If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the car was haunted.
James slammed his foot on the brake pedal again and again; it was no use. The pedal went up and down but the car wouldn’t respond. He put a hand on his face and rubbed his eyes. Long moments of dread rolled through his mind. There was an intersection with a stoplight getting larger by the second. The light was green. James closed his eyes and held on tight, wondering if he was about to die. The car ripped along and a few seconds later the intersection was behind him. But it wasn’t over, not by a long shot. There was another intersection coming and without a doubt, another one after that. He drove in a straight lin
e and a squirrel ran in front of the car, did a little dance, and went back the way it came. He zipped past a kid that was tossing a plastic football in the air while leaning against a corner mailbox. Up ahead a green light was changing to yellow.
A bee squashed against the window. It was big; might have been a queen.
The speedometer read: 79 MPH.
The light changed again: RED.
I’m jumping out of the car, he thought. Oh mother of mohair and shit on a stick… help me! I’m jumping out! I’m jumping out of the car!
He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard on the lever. He strained his fingers but the handle didn’t budge. There was no escape.
“FUCK!”
The crossroads drew closer.
James pulled on the handle again. The corner was less than 100 feet away now and he was going to drive right through it. There was no question; physics demanded it.
On his left, James spotted a surprised mother pushing a pink stroller along the sidewalk. She had been reading Vogue magazine, which had a well-dressed, under-fed, teenager on the cover. Their eyes met and her jaw dropped. The woman waved both hands wildly as the carriage came to a rolling stop. The magazine flapped and fluttered around her head with pages blowing in the wind. It looked like a bird was attacking.
James began screaming. His wasn’t a high-pitched siren––not like his sister-in-law’s had been the moment before her face slammed against the windshield. His was a machinegun blast, a burst of screams packed tighter than a roll of American quarters.
The shadow leapt from the seat and landed between his legs. Long, unseen fingers wrapped around his ankles, and although James didn’t know it, the beast opened its mouth, preparing its attack.
The Dead Parade Page 3
