by Rick R. Reed
Silence. Dwight needed to be able to think. Once more, his eyes returned to the body. “My heavens,” Dwight said aloud, “I didn’t realize a sledgehammer could do so much damage.” The man’s skull was laid open, the bone beneath the blood-clotted and matted hair split. Greyish-pink brain matter oozed up through the crack to mingle with the greasy dark hair and the blood. All the blood! What a mess that would be to clean up. Dwight placed a shaking hand to his forehead. Things were getting out of control lately.
He grabbed Randy by the back of the coat and yanked his slumped body up and out of Julie’s box. The body fell back, the head hitting the floor with the sound of an overripe melon dropped from above. “Ugh,” Dwight whispered. He squatted down and looked into Randy’s open blue eyes. “You should never have come here, young man. Should never have done that at all. I guess you learned a lesson here tonight.” Bam…Bam…Bam.
The boy was kicking again. Would he never tire of this routine? He must have blisters on the backs of his heels by now. Well, we just can’t have it. Dwight stood and grabbed the sledgehammer. He stood over the box and raised it high, aiming for the terrified boy’s head below.
“This is a way I have of silencing noisy, bothersome troublemakers. Would you like to try it?” Dwight brought the sledgehammer down, stopping just before it made impact with the boy’s forehead. He almost lost his balance in the process. The terror in the boy’s eyes was enough to let Dwight know that he and the boy had a renewed understanding of just who was in charge here. Dwight put the sledgehammer down and looked down on the boy once more. “I see we understand. Very good.” Dwight peered closer and shook his head. “I also see we’ve soiled ourselves again. Need to learn a little self-control, young man. That’s your whole problem. Well, I have more pressing matters to attend to.” With that, Dwight lifted the cover of the box and replaced it.
Hands on hips, Dwight stood over Randy’s body. This wasn’t what he had planned. Well, he could take care of things. He stooped and lifted the young man. Remembering to lift with his legs, he stood with the body in his arms. It was surprisingly light; the guy couldn’t weigh more than 110 pounds.
Getting up the stairs wasn’t easy. But Dwight made it to the top. He stopped in the kitchen and leaned against a wall, holding the body close to him, sweat streaming down his temples and staining his shirt under the arms.
“You always were a little panty-waist weakling.”
The voice cut through the stillness of the house, appearing in Dwight’s mind like type in the air. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t hear you,” he said out loud, almost singsong. “You’re only in my imagination.”
Dwight took a breath and headed toward the bathroom. There, he deposited the body in the bathtub. The body was already beginning to chill and Dwight wished he didn’t have to handle it. Biting his lips, he began to pull the clothes from the body, not as easy a task as he would have thought, since there was absolutely no help from the dead man. Finally, he had the corpse naked and he stared down at it. He traced the thin outline of the lambda scar on the man’s stomach with his fingers. “Did I do this?” he whispered, trying to remember. Nothing came back.
Deciding to give the blood a chance to settle in the back of the body, Dwight left it for a while to go into the kitchen and get what he needed: five Hefty garbage bags (one for the torso, one for each leg, one for the arms, and one for the head), some Saran Wrap, a long length of clothesline, and the big denim duffel bag he threw old rags, socks, and underwear in to be used later for cleaning. He placed everything in a neat pile at the entrance to the kitchen, then crossed back and opened the door to the garage. Dwight needed only to lean inside to grab the hacksaw hanging from a peg near the door. This he stuffed under his arm, crossed back and gathered up everything else and headed toward the bathroom.
In the bathroom, he tuned his radio to NPR and paused for a moment, listening to the first strains of Debussey’s La Mer. “A little music always makes a tiresome job just a tad more bearable.” Dwight knelt beside the bathtub.
Taking up his hacksaw in one hand, Dwight used the other hand to grab a long length of black hair. He used the hair to lift the head up from the porcelain of the bathtub and pulled up to make the neck muscles taut and easier to cut through. Before he even began cutting, he realized he had no leverage and he put the head back against the porcelain. Holding the head against the back of the tub, Dwight placed the hacksaw’s jagged teeth against the man’s neck and began moving the saw back and forth.
The blood ran down Randy’s back as Dwight neared the other side of his neck with the saw. The work was hard and seemed to take forever. Dwight was breathing heavily and bathed in sweat by the time the head detached from the body. He held the head aloft in the air and looked it in the eye. “Human garbage,” he whispered. “Too bad we didn’t have a little time to punish you, cleanse you before you started on your journey outside this world.” He placed the head on the young man’s chest (over the skull and crossbones tattoo), and leaned over backward to pull off a length of Saran Wrap. After wrapping the head in Saran Wrap, he deposited it in a Hefty trash bag and pulled the tie to close the bag. He then wrapped a length of clothesline around the top of the bag and knotted it. “You can’t be too careful,” he grunted, thinking how quickly that little wetback whore’s body was found down by the rocks.
Dwight turned the music up a little and returned to the bathtub, thinking: Such tiresome work. How do butchers do it day in and day out?
*
Later, Dwight sat in the blue corduroy La-Z-Boy recliner, eyes barely open. Earlier, he had loaded the Hefty bags into the cab of his truck, arranging the bags in a neat row, to be disposed of later. Dwight thought three or four in the morning would be a good time for disposal, when there shouldn’t be any annoying witnesses around. He would drive north, on 41, past Lake Forest, Lake Bluff, Waukegan, on up until he found real forests, where he could hide the bags in mounds of dirt and snow, where even the spring thaw wouldn’t reveal his deed (he hoped). By then he would have completed his cleanup mission of Chicago’s uptown.
He closed his eyes, pushing the recliner back, letting his breath become regular and deep, letting his mind float, dimming the memory of the evening’s events. He felt warm now, and clean from a shower. The bathroom and basement had been scrubbed clean, not that that would really matter much anyway: the house would eventually be cleansed by the purifying essence of fire.
Aunt Adele stood in the room with him. Dwight opened his eyes slightly, so he could make out her outline in the dimness of the light filtering in through the window. Even though it had been a month since he saw her last, she looked vibrant and alive. She was wearing the pale peach embroidered gown he had picked out for her to wear at the mortuary. The dress was streamlined, making her 275-pound bulk look more slender, softening the harshness of her farm woman build. Her hair, still dyed brown, was pulled away from her face and she pushed the oval tortoiseshell glasses farther up her nose.
It seemed perfectly natural for the two of them to be together in this room, with his aunt not saying anything. Of course, Aunt Adele would have never worn anything like the dress he’d had her buried in. She was more the jeans and flannel shirt type. Now, he wasn’t even sure she saw him, lying still in the darkness, surrounded by the warmth of the recliner.
“Aunt Adele,” he whispered, and her head turned slowly, trying to locate the source of the sound in the darkness. “I’m over here, in the chair.”
Their eyes met and Dwight felt a chill run through him: the contact had brought him closer to death.
Her step was light as she came toward him, so light, in fact, she seemed to be gliding. She stopped to his left, standing beside his chair. He felt her take his hand, and even though her touch was paper soft, her hand felt like cold marble, hard, unyielding flesh as cold as the snow outside. He didn’t pull away, though.
“Dwight, I never thought you’d amount to much.” Her voice was as strident a
s ever, and it made a slight echo as she spoke too loud as always. Her harsh voice contrasted with the grace of her movements. “But I think that now, you’re doing the right thing.”
Their eyes met and he knew that his aunt had been watching over him all this time, overseeing things just as she had when she was alive and he could depend on her to make all the right choices for him.
Dwight closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing hard on the cold hand. He remembered his aunt Adele as she was when he was eleven or twelve: a hard woman, big and mannish. She had taken care of Dwight since he was three, when his mother got it into her head to go off and work on a cruise ship. Except for Christmas one year and his eighth birthday, Dwight had never seen his mother again.
But he had seen Aunt Adele, who took to his upbringing as she took to the horses she trained back then. She spared him no punishment and if she had any affection to give him, she withheld it.
But Dwight knew he prospered from the experience. Knew she had taught him the importance of doing the right thing, and how punishment played such a crucial part in the learning process. Dwight jumped, feeling something like an electric shock pass through him, as a sudden vision came to him: Aunt Adele, grinning, standing above him with a hot iron. “Dwight, boy, you gotta learn. You don’t lie to me, kid. This’ll make you remember, damn right.” He felt nauseated as he remembered the iron searing into the tender flesh of his stomach, and Aunt Adele’s firm grip as she pressed down on his chest with her other hand, holding him still while he bucked and snorted, riding out the pain.
But she had to do things like that. It was important.
Dwight looked up once more at his aunt. She wore an expression, a dim smile, that told him she knew what he was thinking and that she understood he realized the value of his upbringing. She spoke: “So, if you can manage to not screw this up, then I can be proud of you. Take the whole filthy lot of them out and do it soon, Dwight. Do it soon.”
Her hand grew insubstantial in his, feeling at first cottony, then like gauze and at last nothing more than a cold, wet mist. He watched as she faded into the darkness, knowing now that she was with him always.
“Aunt Adele,” he whispered.
* * *
A half hour later, he awakened with a start. He shook himself, looking around the room, as if the surroundings, so long with him, had at once become unfamiliar. He sat up in the recliner, rubbing his eyes. The little digital clock on the floor across the room read 2:15. Outside, it was still, the steady stream of traffic that paraded by his house finally slowing to a trickle.
The whole world was asleep, Dwight thought, rising. He liked this time of night; it made him feel alone in the world, omnipotent.
Downstairs, the creatures probably awaited their evening meal. It would be late tonight, but they couldn’t complain: he was providing it all free of charge. “Out of the goodness of my heart,” Dwight said. He headed out to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, he took down the big five-gallon plastic bucket he used to feed them. He crossed the kitchen to the cupboard where they kept the 9-Lives cat food for the family tabby, Pitty Sing. When they had left Dwight, his wife and daughter had left behind almost a case of the stuff. Divine Providence. Dwight took down three cans and opened them with the electric can opener. He hadn’t known what to do with them up until now; he found they made an excellent base for the creatures’ evening meals. He dumped the pet food into the bottom of the bucket and then crossed back to the harvest-gold refrigerator. “Let’s see,” Dwight mumbled. “What can we give the little darlings tonight?” He opened several Tupperware containers and found a virtual smorgasbord: bean soup, beef stew, a Pepperidge Farm apple turnover, and some elbow macaroni. And none of the leftovers had even begun to sprout mold. How lucky for them! He grabbed a bottle of Ranch salad dressing (for flavor) and went back to the bucket, where he dumped everything in together and stirred it. For good measure, he returned to the refrigerator and got some milk. Adding the milk moistened the food to a good consistency for eating from a bowl.
Dwight divvied up the food into three separate soup bowls, put them on a tray, and headed for the stairs.
* * *
Julie finds herself upstairs once more. It’s dark. Moonlight filters in through sheer curtains, giving everything a silvery glow. There’s the man’s recliner, tilted back. Julie turns and sees something she didn’t notice when he brought her into the living room the other day: a little TV set on a chrome stand. The TV set glows grey, casting spare light into the room. The glow intensifies, and suddenly the screen is filled with an image of Nana. Behind Nana, Julie can see the cluttered living room of their trailer. Nana looks out of the screen, her face a mask of fear and confusion. Julie runs to the set, peering into it, placing her hands on the screen.
“I’m frightened. Nana. I’m frightened,” Julie says to the image on the screen, the tears beginning to flow.
“Julie! Julie! Where are you? It’s me, Nana. We tried to find you. Where are you?” Nana’s face is creased by worry lines as she looks into the darkness.
“I’m here in Oz, Nana. I’m locked up in the witch’s castle. And I’m trying to get home to you, Nana.” The image on the screen begins to flicker and roll. Static buzzes as Nana’s image fades in and out. Julie presses her hands to the screen, harder, crying out: “Oh, Nana, don’t go away. I’m frightened. Come back. Come back!”
Suddenly the screen is filled with a tight close-up of the man’s face. His eyes are pale and he wears a big smile. He’s mocking her: “Nana! Nana! Come back! I’ll give you Nana, my pretty.” The man’s laughter fills the room as the TV screen blurs, then his image fades away into darkness, remnants of his laughter lingering after.
*
Julie awakened, used now to the smell of her own excrement and sweat. Her hair was plastered to her head. Spending as many days as she had in the darkness of the box, she had become attuned to the slightest sound. Right now, she could hear the man’s footfall on the basement stairs, coming closer. Earlier, she had seen…but she didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to dwell on such things.
She let herself drift back to Chester, West Virginia, where she had been spending most of her time, lately, with Nana. The two of them had talked things over and Nana had agreed to give Julie another chance. Julie would start back to school again and would bring up her grades and make something of herself. Right now, Julie could just visualize Nana above her, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.
The lid, now broken and splintered, slid off the top of her box and Julie stiffened. She looked up, turning her head, feeling her heart pound harder in her chest.
“Time to eat, miss.”
The voice still made her tremble, as shudders ran through her body. No amount of imagination could make him go away. His touch on her legs made her skin crawl, even more than the beetles, roaches, and spiders she felt scurry over her at other times.
He undid the rope that bound her ankles together and she found that moving her legs hurt: The muscles had bunched and tightened. The cramps in her calves and thighs made her whimper, but the food, which she knew from routine was coming, drowned out some of the pain. She could feel herself begin to drool. He strapped the dog collar around her neck and now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, she watched him stoop over to attach the leash to the collar.
“C’mon,” he said, “get up. Don’t make me yank.”
Julie sat up, wincing with the hot bolts of pain the motion sent quivering through her body. The pain was temporarily blocked out by the sharp sting of the man ripping the duct tape away from her mouth.
On trembling legs, she stood.
“Disgusting,” he mumbled as he looked at her, leading her along by the leash.
“I can’t help it.” The tears began to flow. “You should clean us up more often, let us go to the bathroom.”
“I’d like to remind you, miss, that I run the show around here and if you want
to see the meal I’ve so lovingly prepared for you, I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut.”
Julie quieted, trying to ignore the pain in her legs and spine. She followed him to the bowl on the floor, where she would kneel once more and eat with her hands bound behind her back, eat with her mouth, like an animal.
*
Little T listened, waiting for his turn to come out of the box. Perhaps this time he could talk Dwight into letting him go, charm Dwight into letting him be his helper or something, so that escape would be easier. Mentally, Little T went through it all: the same routine that had happened for the last two days (or was it three now?) that he had been here. He always took the girl out first (Little T wondered what she looked like) and there were always the same sounds: She’d usually cry and complain to him, begging to be freed. He’d usually then inform her that he was in charge and then the sound of the bowl being set on the floor.
It was pretty quiet after that.
Until it was his turn.
Now, as the guy slid the top off his box, Little T closed his eyes so the light wouldn’t be such a shock. Through slits, filtered by his eyelashes, he could make out a male form standing above him. The form reached down, blocking out the light, and ripped the tape from his mouth.
“Hi, Dwight,” Little T said, wanting to sound more awake than he did, but it was hard to move when you’d lain in a box for hours upon hours, bound.
“Hungry?”
“Oh, yeah. I could really use some food.” Little T twisted his face into something he hoped resembled a smile.
“Well, good, it’s nice that some people around here show some appreciation.”
Little T felt Dwight loosening his hands. Little T massaged his wrists to bring back the circulation. He knew it wouldn’t be long until they were bound again, behind his back.
The pain shot along his spine when he sat up, white-hot, making him wince. “It’s okay; it’s okay,” he said to Dwight, getting up. He let Dwight lead him across the basement’s concrete floor by the leash, staring at the bowl of whitish-gray pap on the floor. His stomach turned, but he whispered, “I can hardly wait.”
