* * *
Late that night, as the last couple slices of pizza grew cold, and his friends cracked jokes and tried to one-up each other with bullshit stories, Ben stood up without a word, stretched, and reached for his jacket.
"Hey, man, you taking off?" Tommy said.
"Yeah, I'm gonna go cash out my tab. You guys want another pitcher of beer or anything?"
Tommy glanced around. "Naah, I think we're good," he said. "You okay?"
"Tired."
"Long day," Zeke agreed.
"Damn long day. Thanks again, guys."
To be honest, something was bothering him. Paulie, of course. He hadn't been able to get his words out of his head all night:
I can't ever go home.
What the hell did that mean? What did that have to do with anything? It bugged him on the whole bus ride home. The words and the look on Paulie's face. When his bus passed Paulie's house, Ben swore under his breath and reached for the cord to ring the bell. He got off the bus and backtracked. Even though it was full on dark out, the air was still hot and unpleasantly heavy and wet.
He turned up the walkway to Paulie's house. I can't ever go home, Paulie said in his head. When Ben got close to Paulie's house, he saw that the front door was standing a couple of inches ajar.
That... didn't look right. Nobody just leaves their door standing open like that.
Leave. Just turn around, leave, get on the next bus that comes and don't look back. Call the police.
And tell them what? That he was freaked out by a door?
"Hello?" he said, and his own voice was so quiet even he could hardly hear it. He reached an uneasy finger out to the doorbell and then let his arm drop back to his side.
I'll call him. He dug the phone out of his pocket.
Oh, right — he left me all these voice messages last night. I should maybe listen to those before I talk to him. He thumbed through the list, deleted the ones from Gary, realizing he never had called in with an excuse for missing work. He pressed play on the first message from Paulie and held the phone up to his ear.
"Hey, it's me," Paulie's voice told him. "Still trying to figure out where the hell I'm gonna come up with the money. I knew I had some savings bonds or something like that my grandparents gave me, but it's not enough — and I looked it up online, and you have to wait for them to mature or something or they're not hardly worth anything. Do you know if there's some way around that, maybe? Call me back."
Next. "Hey, it's Paulie. I just talked to my Grandpa to see if he knew how the bonds worked, and to see if maybe he could loan me some more money and he bitched at me about how those bonds were for college and how I had to stop living in a dreamworld. He's awesome. Anyway, I'm gonna bite the bullet and ask my mom if she can loan me the money. I'll call you and let you know how it goes."
Ben knew none of this was happening right now, but he almost felt like if he stared hard enough through the darkened windows, he'd be able to look back through time. See Paulie pacing in his room.
Next. "Ben, listen, it's Paulie? Can you call me back? I need you to talk to my mom for a minute —" He could hear a woman's voice in the background, shouting and indistinct. Without even thinking about it, Ben reached up and gently pushed on the door, and it swayed quietly open under his touch.
"She keeps telling me this is stupid, and I just need you to talk to her for a minute, tell her this is not stupid, that we've got — we've got a legitimate investment opportunity here and I just need you to — can you please just call me — hang on —" Rustling sounds, and Paulie's muffled shouting —"Mom! Mom, I'm on the goddamn phone! Can you please just —" More rustling, and then Paulie's clear, flat voice —"I need to call you back."
Ben stepped inside the house, dreamlike, disconnected from this moment, riveted to the sounds of the night before. The inside of the house was as dark as the outside. A dim light came from down the hall, from the kitchen. He moved toward it silently.
Next. This next message had no words at all. Just the sound of Paulie crying. Just deep, racking sobs. Ben had never heard anything like it, not from Paulie, not from anyone. It barely even sounded like a person. At the end of it all, it sounded like Paulie was trying to collect himself to say something, but instead he hung up.
Ben drifted along the corridor, drawn moth-like toward the light. What did you do? Paulie, what did you do? He steadied and guided himself by trailing the outstretched fingers of one hand along the wall. The orange-peel texture was cool and comforting under his fingertips.
He squinted at the harsh rectangle of light on his phone. One more message. He pressed 'next' again.
"Ben? Can you pick up the phone? Can you please, please, please just call me back?" He was sobbing. It was hard to make out the words. "Can you — I fucked up, Ben, this is — bad, this is so bad, I can't tell you on the phone, but — can you please, please come over here? Right now?"
There was more, but Ben didn't hear it. He forgot the phone was in his hand.
He was too busy staring at the open refrigerator in the dark kitchen, the broken glass and bent metal that had been its shelves. Broken condiment jars spilled into the pool of blood on the floor, under the body of a middle-aged woman — sprawled in the middle of it all. Her head was — Ben had never seen —
Blunt force trauma, was the technical phrase that drifted through his head, with no single coherent thought to attach itself to.
Ben stared, his mind a blank page, for one timeless moment.
The next thing he knew he'd bolted to the sink, just barely in time for all that pizza and beer to come back on him. When he finally stopped, he ran water in the sink, groped around, and found the switch for the garbage disposal. He stood there, gasping for breath, then wandered away from the sink, tap and disposal still running, forgotten.
Oh, Paulie. Paulie, you really have fucked up this time.
Was he really not here? Had he really run out of the house — no, stolen his dead mother's checkbook and then run out of the house, and just not looked back? Just hoped the problem would go away? What, and left all his stuff here?
Ben made it out to the hallway and finally thought to turn on a light. He made his way up the stairs to Paulie's room.
The door to Paulie's room stood wide open, and a single floor lamp lit the room. Ben stood staring in the doorway.
"Holy fuck."
The poster spread across the wall had a glaring masked face and huge blood red letters. 'I am the voice of the night. I am the answer to the cries of the innocent. I am justice — Dark Justice!'
He never used to have all this stuff. There were other posters along with it, all of them Dark Justice. Like the toys and action figures on the nightstand, the mini-statues and busts — Wait, they used to have that one at the store, that was like a couple hundred dollars, how the hell did Paulie ever afford —
"You little shit," Ben whispered, stepping inside. He knew. All this stuff — this was what Gary had fired Jordan for stealing, but it hadn't been Jordan doing it. Paulie's favorite character — why hadn't Gary figured it out?
Ben looked around wildly. He knew he had to get out of here — he'd half-forgotten the body downstairs, seeing all this, but his nerves were still screaming at him. But first, he had to do something about this, get all of it back to Gary. He spotted a cardboard box full of magazines and mail. He dumped it out on the bed and started gathering the toys and figures into it —
And then the light in the room suddenly spun and shifted in a crazy arc, and Ben had just a second to wonder what the hell was happening before Paulie swung the lamp like a baseball bat into the side of his head.
The box fell out of his hands and crashed to the floor. He dropped to his knees, reaching up into his hair, fingers touching blood and broken glass. He barely had time to think Paulie's name before his eyes fell shut, and he pitched forward onto the floor.
* * *
He woke up, with something covering his eyes, his arms trapped, but knew immediately wh
ere he was. The smell of that old house, the flat beer and ancient smoke was distinct like a fingerprint. And something else, something new, a sharp scent that made him think of summer —
"I am the spirit of vengeance," a voice said.
Ben pulled against whatever was holding him. Plastic? Plastic wrap, it felt like, wrapped around him, binding him to a chair. Bagged and boarded. A strange giggle slipped loose from somewhere deep inside him.
"I am the answer to the cries of the innocent."
"Paulie? What the fuck, man? Get me out of this."
The duct tape over his eyes was suddenly ripped away.
"I," the voice said, "am Dark Justice!"
So it was. The cheap Halloween costume version, at least.
Paulie glared down at him through masked eyes, standing in a way that made him seem as if he were trying to make himself broader and taller.
"Fuck, really?" Ben said.
"You stand accused," Dark Justice said, "of fraud, deception, betrayal. And now theft!" His voice was a low and unconvincing growl. "I have found you guilty. Your time has come to face Justice!"
"Paulie, come on, knock it off. This shit isn't funny."
Dark Justice took a step backward. "I'm... you are... mistaken. I am... I am not..." Paulie tore the mask off. "Shit. You recognized my voice, didn't you? Why didn't I think of that?" He smacked himself hard in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Stupid, stupid." He looked around, pacing like a caged animal. "Listen, I was just going to scare you, make you watch this shit burn."
"Burn?" Ben's eyes darted around. And now he saw them, empty cans of lighter fluid on top of boxes and boxes of comics. "You crazy little — wait, where's Mrs. Grant?"
"Oh, she's here," Paulie said, giggling. "She's here. She's part of this whole collection, now. She's not going anywhere ever again. I made sure of that."
Ben pulled against the plastic wrap. It was stretching, loosening, and Paulie hadn't bound his legs. "Paulie, listen, let's talk about this —"
"Too late." Paulie pulled the mask back on. "I was just gonna scare you, but now, I can't let you go. I have to get away from here. I have to start over. I have to do this. I really have to do this. It's all I have left. But you know."
"I know? What?"
"My secret identity. You can't tell anybody." He reached into a pocket of the cheap vinyl utility belt and pulled out a Zippo lighter. "There are people like you everywhere and I'm going to find them. Goodbye, Ben."
He flipped the lighter open.
Ben was up and out of his chair, pulling his arms free of the last shreds of plastic. He dived full on at Paulie and knocked him to the floor, landing on top of him.
Ben kneeled on Paulie's breastbone, crushing the breath out of him. He hadn't thrown a punch in years, not since fights back on the playground, but it all came back to him. He pounded on Paulie's face with both fists. Right, left, right.
"Bam!" Ben shouted. "Pow! How do you like your superhero bullshit now, huh? Huh?! You crazy little shit!"
Ben grabbed the lighter and stood up, panting. Paulie wasn't moving. He was just laying there, his breath coming in broken sobs.
Ben looked around to see how bad the damage was. Bad. Paulie'd poured lighter fluid on every goddamn box, decades of comics, treasure and trash alike, all ruined, worthless.
Ben was so mad he couldn't see straight, couldn't focus on anything. Swearing under his breath, he flipped open the lighter and brought it to life. "Fight your way out of this, Dark Justice," he said, as he tossed the lighter onto the nearest box, and started edging sideways down the hall, toward the exit.
Or away from the exit!
This was a dead-end. Maybe there was more corridor on the other side of these boxes, maybe a wall… He couldn't tell. Which way did we come in? He backtracked, getting closer than he wanted to the flames that were already leaping and dancing, spreading to the yellowed wallpaper.
There — there, that's the kitchen, with all those stacks of garbage bags, if I can just get past that, out into the hallway, I'll end up —
Back where Paulie was. He didn't look like he was breathing.
The smoke was getting to Ben. How had he gone in a circle? How was that fucking possible?
This house has a way of holding onto people, Mrs. Grant had said. Just as much as it holds on to things.
Ben tried again, a different path. He found a door, but the knob was too hot to hold on to. The door was burning to the touch. He had to turn around again, and this is where Paulie was, wasn't it? Where was he now?
"Paulie? Where are you?" Ben shouted, but raising his voice just made him cough more. It was getting hard to see.
Laughter rang out from somewhere. From everywhere at once. Ben heard the voice coming from down halls, from behind doors —"I am the darkness before dawn!" It wasn't even recognizable as Paulie, anymore, not even human. "I am the spirit of vengeance, the fires of hell!"
Except for the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the beams, that was the last sound he heard before the crooked house came tumbling down.
Let Them into Your Heart by Lee Widener
He was watching me. I was pretty sure. Although he seemed as if he were trying to be inconspicuous, I was a dedicated people watcher, and I could tell when someone was watching and waiting for something to happen. The question was, why was he watching me? I got the answer when I threw a candy wrapper in the garbage basket.
He was sitting on the bench on the other side of the basket and as soon as the wrapper landed, his hand snaked out and neatly retrieved the candy wrapper, depositing it into the cloth bag at his side.
Without so much as a glance my way, he moved to another bench a little farther down and began watching two teenage girls. They were chattering away, texting on their cell phones, and eating candy bars. When they finished, they blithely threw the wrappers on the ground and walked off. He casually reached down, picked up the candy wrappers, and put them in his bag.
The man made a circuit around the park, inspecting the garbage baskets, checking the ground and bushes. He never picked up anything but candy wrappers.
A few days later, the next time I had lunch in the park, I saw him again. I took out a chocolate bar. Even though he was already perched next to someone else, he noticed me. Our eyes met, and I felt like we were dueling. He looked away when a woman placed an empty candy bag in a brown paper bag and threw the whole thing into the garbage basket.
He scooted over to the garbage basket, opened the bag, and snatched up the candy wrapper.
Trying to keep his attention, I ate my chocolate bar deliberately, slowly. I set the wrapper down next to me and took out a book.
The old man hustled over to my bench and sat down. He glanced at the wrapper on the bench, bent over to pull up his socks, and then sat gazing at the sky.
"Hello," I said, in my most unassuming manner, "Nice day."
He half way stood up, but then changed his mind and sat back down. "Um... yes," was his only reply.
What had appeared as a smart, green tweed sport coat from a distance revealed itself, upon closer inspection, to be frayed at the cuffs. The lining poked through at the elbows. His black sneakers were coming apart, but the black beret he wore seemed relatively new. I decided to be bold.
"You like candy wrappers," I said.
He looked at me, as if confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I've been watching you. You pick up all the candy wrappers around here." I held out my chocolate bar wrapper. "Would you like this one?"
Without saying a word, he took the wrapper and stowed it in his bag.
I held out my hand. "I'm Harold."
He stared at my hand as if nobody had offered him this form of friendship in a long time. After a moment he took my hand and shook it. From the look of the wrinkles on his face, I judged his age to be about seventy years old.
"Hampton," he mumbled.
"So, why do you collect candy wrappers?" I asked, "You're obviously not on a mission
to clean up the world or you wouldn't be so selective."
"Art," he said. "I'm an artist."
"Really?" I was intrigued. "You make art from candy wrappers?"
"Yes." His attention wandered. He glanced around, possibly looking for more cast aside candy wrappers.
"I write for an art publication. The idea of art made from candy wrappers piques my interest."
"A writer. About art." I could see the look of doubt on his face.
"Yes. I work for Art Beat. Our office is just on the other side of the park."
"Art Beat. I've seen that." His eyes moved up and down examining me closer.
I took a business card from my pocket. "I'd like to keep in touch."
He took the card and glanced at it before slipping it into a pocket inside his faded jacket.
"Is your work on display anywhere? I'd like to see it."
"No. World doesn't care... about... real art."
"I care. I'm very interested. I'd like to see your work."
For a minute he looked like he was going to run, gripping the side of the bench, ready to take off, but eventually he got control of himself. A gleam came into his eyes. I didn't want to press too hard, but I was excited at the prospect, however slim, of discovering a unique artist.
"My car is parked over at the office. We could go now, and see your work, if that would be convenient."
"Not now. Have work to do. Tonight."
He took my card out of his pocket and wrote an address on the back.
"Eight o'clock. Don't be late," he said, handing me the card.
"I wouldn't miss this appointment for the world." I placed the card back in my pocket. When I looked up, he was half way across the park, searching for more candy wrappers.
Later that night, as I was getting ready to visit what could possibly be a fascinating new discovery for the world of art, or even more possibly, a crazy old man with a bunch of candy wrappers glued onto pieces of paper, I allowed myself a slight glimmer of hope. The magazine needed a discovery, something unique. I checked the address Mr. Hampton had written on the back of my card. To my surprise, it wasn't an address in Felony Flats, as people were wont to call the part of town where derelicts lived. It was an address in a gentrified factory district renowned for its artist's studios. I wondered if any of the artists I knew in the area were acquainted with Mr. Hampton.
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