He pulled his face away. She touched her lower lip where her lipstick had smeared. Riley’s hand snaked farther under her dress. She clamped her legs closed.
“Don’t, Riley,” she whispered.
“Aw, come on, baby.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Hey, I said I loved you. It’s okay to do it if I love you.”
“I’m scared.”
Riley stopped rubbing her. He spoke so low that Dexter barely heard. “Pretend you’re a princess and I’m a prince, and we’re in a fairy tale. Don’t you love me?”
Tammy Lynn lowered her eyes. Riley cupped her chin and tilted her face up. Her cheeks were pink from shame or fear.
“Don’t you love me?” Riley repeated, and this time he was wearing his jack-o’-lantern face. Tammy Lynn nodded slowly. Dexter’s stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a handful of hot worms.
“If you love me, then you owe me,” Riley said. She shook her head from side to side, her hair swaying against her shoulders.
Riley suddenly drove his hand deeper under her dress. Tammy Lynn gave a squeal of surprise and tried to twist away. Riley grabbed her sweater and pulled her towards the ground. Bits of bark clung to her back.
“No,” she moaned, flailing at his hands as he wrestled her to the ground. One of her silver-polished nails raked across Riley’s nose. He drew back his arm and slapped her. She cried out in pain.
Dexter hadn’t counted on it being like this. He almost ran out from under the bushes to help her. But he thought of Riley and the gun. Dexter could barely breathe, his gut clenching like he was going to throw up, but he couldn’t look away.
Riley pinned her down with one arm and unzipped his blue jeans, then covered her mouth as he pulled her dress up. Riley moved between her legs and Tammy Lynn screamed into his palm. They struggled for a few seconds more before Riley shoved away from her. He stood and fastened his pants. Tammy Lynn was crying.
“I told you I loved you,” Riley said, as if he were disgusted at some cheap toy that had broken. Then he looked at the laurels and winked, but Dexter saw that his hands were shaking. Dexter hoped they couldn’t see him. The shiver in his stomach turned into a drumroll of tiny ice punches.
Tammy Lynn was wailing now. Her dress was bunched around her waist, her panties twisted against her white thighs. Scraps of leaves stuck to her ankle socks. One of her shoes had fallen off.
“Works like magic,” Riley said, too loudly, his voice a hoarse blend of triumph and fear. “I told you I loved you, didn’t I?”
He kicked some loose leaves toward her and walked down the trail. He would want Dexter to follow so he could crow about the conquest. But Dexter’s muscles were jelly. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Tammy Lynn.
She sat up, her sobs less forceful now. She slowly pulled up her panties and pushed her dress hem down to her knees, moving like one of those movie zombies. She stared at her fingers as if some tiny treasure had been ripped out of her hands. Tears streamed down her face, and a strand of blood creased one side of her chin. Her lower lip was swollen.
She stood on her skinny legs, wobbling like a foal. Her dress hung unevenly. She looked around the clearing with eyes that were too wide. Dexter shrank back under the laurels, afraid to be seen, afraid that he was supposed to help her and couldn’t.
Blood ran down her legs, the bright red streaks of it vivid against her skin. Drops spattered onto the leaves between her feet. She looked down and saw the blood and made a choking sound in her throat. She waved her hands in the air for a moment, then ran into the woods, not down the trail but in the direction of the road that bordered one side of the forest. She’d forgotten her shoe.
Dexter lifted himself from the ground and stared at the dark drops of blood. Rain began to fall, slightly thicker than the mist. He parted the waxy laurel leaves and stepped into the clearing.
Blood. Blood sacrifice. On Halloween, when anything could happen. The clearing was alive again, the sky waiting and the trees watching, the ground hungry.
Dexter felt dizzy, as if his head was packed with soggy cotton. He knelt suddenly and vomited. When his stomach was empty, he leaned back and let the rain run down his face. That way, Riley wouldn’t be able to tell that he had been crying.
He looked down at the shoe for a moment, then stumbled down the trail toward home. He expected Riley to be waiting by the porch, the sleeves rolled up on his denim jacket, arms folded. But Riley was gone. Dexter went in the house.
“Hey, honey,” Mom said, not looking up as the screen door slammed. She was watching a rerun of “Highway To Heaven.”
“Find your rabbit?” she asked.
“No.”
“Dinner will be ready soon.”
“I’m not hungry. I’m going to my room.”
“You ain’t going trick-or-treat?”
“I don’t want to.”
“You sick?” She glanced away from the television and looked at him suspiciously. The smell of old beer and the food scraps on the counter brought back Dexter’s nausea.
“No. Just got some homework,” he managed to lie through quivering lips.
“Homework, like hell. When you ever done homework? Your clothes are dirty. What have you been up to?”
“I fell at school. You know it was raining?”
“And me with laundry on the line,” she said. As if it were the sky’s fault, and there was nothing a body could do when the whole damned sky was against them. She looked back to the television, took two swallows of beer, and belched. He wondered what she would give out if any trick-or-treaters dared come down their dangerous street and knock on the door.
On the television screen, Michael Landon was sticking his nose into somebody else’s business again. Dexter looked at the actor’s smug close-up for a moment, then tiptoed to his room. His thoughts suffocated him in the coffin of his bed.
Maybe he should have picked up Tammy Lynn’s shoe. Then he could give it back to her, even if he couldn’t give back the other things. Like in Cinderella, sort of. But then she would know. And that was like fairy tale love, and Dexter didn’t ever want to love anything as long as he lived.
Anyway, Riley had a gun. He thought of Riley pointing the gun at him, that moment in the woods when he thought the tip of Riley’s boot would be the last thing he ever saw. The boot, the shoe, the blood. Dexter finally fell asleep to the sound of whatever movie Mom was using for a drinking buddy that night.
He dreamed of Tammy Lynn. She was splayed out beneath him in the clearing, the collar tight around her neck, the leash wrapped around his left fist. She was naked, but her features were formless, milky abstractions. He was holding his knife against her cheek. Her eyes were twin beggars, pools of scream, wet horror. He woke up sweating, his stomach shivery, his eyes moist. He’d wet the bed again.
Rain drummed off the roof. He thought of the blood, watered down and spreading now, soaking into the soil. Her blood sacrifice, the price she paid for love. He didn’t get back to sleep.
He dressed just as the rain dwindled. By the time he went outside, the sun was fighting through a smudge of clouds. The air was as thick as syrup, and nobody stirred in the houses along the street. The whole world had a hangover.
Dexter went down the trail. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he wanted to relive the day before, the struggle, the tears, the drops of blood. Maybe he wanted to get the shoe.
Water fell off the green leaves overhead as he wound his way into the woods. His shirt was soaked by the time he reached the clearing. The forest was alive with dripping, flexing limbs, trees drinking and growing, the creek fat and muddy. A fungal, earthy stench hung in the air. He stepped into the clearing.
The ground was scarred with gashes of upturned soil. Brown holes. Empty. Where Dexter had buried the pets.
Blood sacrifice. Works like magic. Especially on Halloween.
Dexter tried to breathe. The shivering in his belly turned into a wooden knot.
Twigs snapped damply behind th
e stand of laurels where he had hid the day before.
No. Dead things didn’t come back to life. That only happened in stupid movies.
Tammy Lynn’s shoe was gone. No way would she come back here. It had to be Riley, playing a trick. But how did Riley know where he had buried the animals?
He heard a whimpering gargle that sounded like a cross between a cluck and a growl, maybe a broken meow. The laurels shimmered. Something was moving in there.
“Riley?” he whispered hoarsely.
The gargle.
“Come on out, dickwit,” he said, louder.
He saw a flash of fur, streaked and caked with dirt. He fled down the trail. His boots hardly touched the ground, were afraid to touch the ground, the ground that had been poisoned with blood magic. He thought he heard something following as he crossed into the yard, soft padding footfalls or slitherings in the brush, but his heart was hammering so hard in his ears that he couldn’t be sure. He burst into the house and locked the door, then leaned with his back against it until he caught his breath.
Something thudded onto the porch, clattering along the wooden boards. Behind that sharp sound, a rattling like claws or thick toenails, came a dragging wet noise.
Clickety-click, sloosh. Clickety-click, sloosh.
It stopped just outside the door.
Dexter couldn’t move.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mom stood under the archway leading into the kitchen. Her face was pinched, eyes distended, skin splotched. Greasy blades of hair clung to her forehead.
Dexter gasped, swallowed. “The—”
She scowled at him, her fists clenched. He knew this had better be good. “— I was just out running.”
“You’re going to be the death of me, worrying me like that. Nothing but trouble.” She rubbed her temples. Her smell filled the small room, sweetly pungent like a bushel of decaying fruit. Dexter put his ear to the door. The sounds were gone.
“What are you so pale for? You said you wasn’t sick.”
Dexter shrank away from her.
“Now get up off that floor. Lord knows, I got enough work around here already without putting you in three changes of clothes ever goddamned day.”
Dexter slunk past her into the living room.
“Guess I’d better get that laundry in,” Mom said to no one in particular. Her hand gripped the doorknob, and Dexter wanted to shout, scream, slap her away. But of course he couldn’t. He could only watch with churning bowels as she opened the door and went outside. Dexter followed her as far as the screen door.
The porch was empty.
Of course it was. Monsters were for movies, or dumb stories. He was acting like a fourth grader. Stuff coming back from the dead? Horseshit, as Dad would say.
Still, he didn’t go outside the rest of the evening, even though the sky cleared. Mom was in a better mood after the first six-pack. Dexter watched cartoons, then played video games for a while. He tried not to listen for clickety-sloosh.
One of Mom’s boyfriends came over. It was the one with the raggedy mustache, the one who called Dexter “Little Man.” Mom and the man disappeared into her bedroom, then Dexter heard arguing and glass breaking. The boyfriend left after an hour or so. Mom didn’t come back out. Dexter went to bed without supper.
He lay there thinking about magic, about blood sacrifice. About the open graves in the pet cemetery that should have been filled with bones and decaying flesh and mossy fur and shaved whiskers and scales. He tried to erase his memory of the creature in the bushes, the thing that had followed him home. He couldn’t sleep, even though he was worn from tension.
His eyes kept traveling to the cold glass between his curtains. The streetlight threw shadows that striped the bed, swaying like live things. He tried to tell himself that it was only the trees getting blown by the wind. Nothing was going to get him, especially not all those animals he’d dismembered. No, those animals had loved him. They would never hurt him.
He’d almost calmed himself when he heard the soft click of paws on the windowsill. It was the sound the cats had made when they wanted to be let in. Dexter’s Mom wanted them out of the house, because of the hairballs and the stains they left in the corners. But Dexter always let them in at night to curl on top of the blankets at his feet. At least for a week or so, until he got tired of them.
But he didn’t have any cats at the moment. So it couldn’t be a cat at the window. Dexter pulled the blankets up to his eyes. Something bumped against the glass, moist and dull, like a nose.
No no no not a nose.
He wrapped the pillow around his ears. The noise was replaced by a rapid thumping against the outside wall. Dexter hunched under the blankets and counted down from a hundred, the way he did when he was six and Dad had first told him about the monsters that lived in the closet.
One hundred (no monsters), ninety-nine (no monsters), ninety-eight (no monsters)...
After three times through, he no longer heard the clickings or thumpings. He fell asleep with the blankets twisted around him.
Dexter awoke not knowing where he was. He sat up quickly and looked out the window. Nothing but sky and Sunday sunshine.
Dad picked him up that afternoon. Dexter had to walk down to the corner to meet him. He kept a close eye on the woods, in case anything stirred in the leaves. He thought he heard a scratching sound, but by then he was close enough to get inside the truck.
Dad looked past Dexter to the house. “My own goddamned roof,” he muttered under his breath.
“Hi, Dad.”
“I suppose she filled you up with all kinds of horseshit about me.” His hands were clenched into fists around the steering wheel. Dexter knew what those fists could do. There had to be a way out, a way to calm him. Riley’s words came to Dexter out of the blue: Gotta tell ‘em that you love ‘em.
Yeah. Works like magic. He’d seen how that turned out. Got you what you wanted, but somebody had to pay.
“She didn’t say nothing.”
“Any men been around?”
“Nobody. Just us. We . . . I miss you.”
Dad’s fists relaxed and he mussed Dexter’s hair. “I miss you, too, boy.”
Dexter wanted to ask when Dad was moving back in, but didn’t want him to get angry again. Better not to mention Mom, or home, or anything else.
“What say we go down to the dump? Got me a new Ruger to break in.” Dexter managed a weak smile as Dad pulled the truck away from the curb.
They spent the day at the landfill, Dexter breaking glass bottles and Dad prowling in the trash for salvage, shooting rats when they showed their pointy faces. Dexter felt no joy when the rodents exploded into red rags. Dad was a good shot.
They ate fastfood hamburgers on the way back in. It was almost dark when Dad dropped him off at the end of the street. Dexter hoped none of Mom’s boyfriends were around. He opened the door to hop out, then hesitated, remembering the clickety-sloosh. He had managed to forget, to fool himself out under the clear sky, surrounded by filth and rusty metal and busted furniture. In the daytime, all the nightmares had dissolved into vapor.
Dexter looked toward the house with one hand still on the truck door. Dad must have figured he was reluctant to leave, that a son missed his father, and that no goddamned snotty-eyed bitch had a right to keep a father from his own flesh-and-blood. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again in a week or so,” Dad said.
Dexter searched desperately for something to say, anything to put off that hundred-foot walk across the dark yard. “Dad?”
“What?”
“Do you love Mom?”
Dexter could see only Dad’s silhouette against the background of distant streetlights. Crickets chirped in the woods. After a long moment, Dad relaxed and sighed. “Yeah. ‘Course I do.”
Dexter looked along the street, at the forest that seemed to creep up to the house’s foundation. “You ever been scared?”
“We’re all scared of something or other. Is something bothering y
ou?”
Dexter shook his head, then realized Dad probably couldn’t see him in the dark. “No,” he said, then, “Do you believe in magic?”
Dad laughed, his throat thick with spittle. “What kind of horseshit has she been filling you up with?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“The bitch.”
“Guess I better go, Dad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“See you.” He wanted to tell Dad that he loved him, but he was too scared.
“Say, whatever happened to that little puppy of yours?”
“Got runned over.”
“Damn. I’ll see Clem about getting you another.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Bye now.”
“Yeah.”
Dexter stepped away from the truck and watched the tail-lights shrink as Dad roared away. The people in the few neighboring houses were plastered to the television. Blue light flickered from their living room windows. The trees were like tall skeletons with too many bones.
Leaves skittered across the road, scratching at the asphalt. A dog barked a few streets over. At least, it sounded like a dog. A good old red-blooded, living and breathing turd factory. Never hurt nobody, most likely.
He walked into the scraggly yard, reluctant to leave the cone of the last streetlight. He thought about going up the street and cutting across the other end of the yard, but that way was scary, too. The autumn forest hovered on every side. The forest with its clickety-sloosh things.
He tried to whistle as he walked, but his throat was dry, as if he had swallowed a spiderweb. He thought about running, but that was no good. In every stupid movie where dead things come back, they always get you if you run.
So he took long, slow steps. His head bent forward because he thought he could hear better that way. Halfway home. The lights were on in the kitchen, and he headed for the rectangle of light that stretched from the back door across the lawn.
He was twenty feet away from the safety of light when he heard it. Clickety-sloosh. But that wasn’t all. The gargle was also mixed in, along with the tortured meow and the rustle of leaves. The noise was coming from behind a forsythia bush near the back steps. The thing was under the porch. In the place where Turd Factory had napped during sunny afternoons.
Aberrations Page 8
