“Well—” Johnathan cleared his throat. “When we were kids, a little older than you are now, we all liked to collect and read comics.”
Tabitha turned her head at a funny angle, as if she could catch understanding as a drop of water into her ear. “But why is this comic so special?” she prodded.
“Hmm—” Johnathan fought to find the words. Bobby and Jake were of no help. They amused themselves with snickering. ‘Go ahead, Dad, tell your kid how much of a nerd you are,’ they said with their tear gleamed eyes and giggling bellies filled with Maggie’s pulled pork.
“It was a popular comic, sweetie,” said Johnathan, exasperated.
“Maybe in the ’80s, for sure,” said Bobby, finally deciding to join in the fun. “I’ve heard there’s going to be a live action movie.”
Jake turned to look at him, “Where did you hear that?” he asked, sipping on his beer.
“Hey, bums stay up to date on current events.” Bobby winked and guzzled what remained of his beer.
“I hope they do it justice,” said Johnathan, finishing off his beer as well.
“Doubt it,” grumbled Bobby.
“But—” Tabitha started in again. Her eyebrows furrowed in hard concentration.
“But what?” said Johnathan.
“I still don’t get why this comic.”
Karen interjected this time, patience worn away with the to and fro inquisition. Or maybe it was because she didn’t care much to remember the Good Ole Days. “Honey, it was just some dumb comic they’d named their little club after. Kinda like how on Disney, Mickey’s Clubhouse has those passwords? It was like that.” She spoke calmly, an odd contradiction to her glowing red face and her irritated picking at her food.
Johnathan looked at his wife uncomfortably, remembering how when they were kids she’d never really been a part of the group. Never was…
“That’s silly,” said Tabitha, ravished in childhood glee. She laughed. “You had a clubhouse named after a comic book? That’s just silly, Daddy.”
There it was, that word again! Johnathan smiled and then he began to giggle. The cheer spread quickly to Jake who burst into a full hysterical laugh. Bobby joined in next. Even Karen smiled a little. Hands slapped against knees. Tears ran down cheeks. Everyone was in full celebration, feasting on food, feasting on friendship and the remembrance of good times. All but for one who remained stoic and strangely insincere, had anyone paid any attention to her. Before the group knew what was going on, Maggie had already come and gone and returned with more beers, setting one in front of each her guests, offering wine to Karen and milk for Tabitha. Everyone got drunk, all but for Maggie Smith who watched and said nothing, seemingly listening to the group.
CHAPTER 13
HATEFUL WORDS
Johnathan felt warm all over. And it wasn’t just from the roaring fire in the fireplace. He had lost count of the number of beers he’d had around the time Bobby came back from his room with a bottle of Jack Daniels in tow. Though he preferred scotch, whiskey wasn’t a shabby substitute. Ambitions of sobriety were long gone, as was Karen’s patience. She’d vanished to their room carrying a half-asleep Tabitha shortly after Johnathan’s second glass. She hadn’t even finished her wine nor did she say anything to her husband. She walked upstairs, her gaze as cold as ice.
What does she know? Johnathan scowled. This being my last weekend and all, before the hospital and the psych doctors and more pills and straightjackets and group therapy sessions. What does she know? She doesn’t even care! No. Because she doesn’t know; she can’t know. Not yet. Not yet.
—But why?
Cause she’s so goddamn precious. The truth would knock her on her ass. She might even ditch me, or she’d act like it was her idea from the get-go. She’d say she told me to get help dozens of times. But what does she know? Nothing. That’s what. Not a fucking thing. Let one of her dead friends come back from the grave and see how she feels seeing a corpse every time she went to take a dump or wash her face or even something as simple as boarding an airplane.
“Mags, do you mind us smoking in here or do you want us to go on the porch?” Jake asked, pulling out his pack of Camels.
“Might be better to smoke outside, dude. It’s a nice cool night,” said Bobby wistfully. After fetching the booze, he’d changed into a pair of clean looking grey sweatpants. He kept on his moderately used flannel button up. His feet were bare.
“You can smoke in here, I don’t mind,” said Maggie from her chair, facing sideways to the group who lounged on the couch, except for Bobby who sat in an armchair opposite the living room.
“Where’d you get those pants, man? They look new.” Johnathan smirked, sipping on his glass of whiskey. Homeless fuck, where’d you steal them pants, huh?
Bobby frowned. “What?”
“Your pants. They look new.”
“And?”
Johnathan said nothing. He smiled, viciously. Coldly. Mean.
“Oh, I see. Just because I’m a bum I can’t own new clothes, that it?” He grimaced on his own drink. Took a smoke from Jake’s pack when he tossed it at him.
“Don’t be so sensitive, man. I was just asking a question,” said Johnathan smugly, smelling drunk.
“It was a dick question.”
“Whatever.”
“I think you’ve had enough, bro.”
“Your mom’s had enough.”
“Funny.”
“Thanks, I thought so.” Johnathan smiled, pleased with himself. Bobby glared into the fire, watching the logs sizzle and pop, seemingly indifferent. Silence came over the room like a heavy unwanted blanket. Jake flicked his ashes in an empty Miller Lite, as did Bobby. Maggie watched them, curious, her gaze moving from Bobby to Johnathan and back to the fire with a strange glance no one seemed to notice. Each was lost in their thoughts, their own problems, as alcohol often does, after the third or fourth beer, after the second glass of whiskey.
“So, Bobby?” started Johnathan again.
Bobby grunted, annoyed.
“What’s up man? Why, if you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you working? You know, the VA has placement benefits. They could help you find work. Hell, the WWP can set you up too,” Johnathan spoke indirectly, without really looking at Bobby. He waved his hands about as if giving one of his speeches to a crowd of strangers.
“Johnathan.” Jake whispered as he nudged him. Looking almost as annoyed as Bobby, but more embarrassed perhaps than everything else.
“I’m just saying—” started Johnathan.
“—What? You’re just saying what? That I’m lazy? A burden? Well, maybe I am. But at least I’m not an asshole like you, Johnny-Boy.” Bobby finished his glass of Jack in one gulp, sitting on the edge of the armchair. He looked like he wanted to leave, perhaps more than just to his room, but back to Houston, away from here.
“Don’t be like that. I’m just curious is all,” Johnathan hiccupped, feigning innocence. “Why? Why be homeless? Why not work? Are you messed up or something?”
“Jeez—” Jake moaned.
Bobby was silent.
Johnathan giggled. “Seriously. Are you embarrassed or something? Don’t want to talk about it? There are programs, man. That’s all I’m saying. Get on board.” He stared into his empty glass feeling thirsty.
Bobby said nothing. He leaned forward more in his chair, gaze unflinching from the licking flames of the fire. They seemed to dance in his eyes, his near yellow eyes.
Johnathan kept talking. “Did you know that the percentage of homeless veterans went down by thirty-three percent since 2010?” Johnathan said matter-of-factly and slurred.
Bobby stood.
Jake shifted uncomfortably.
Maggie said nothing.
“And did you know that fifty percent have serious mental illnesses? About seventy percent have substance abuse problems,” Johnathan continued. “So the way I look at it, you gotta be on drugs. Am I right?”
“Johnathan—” Jake prodded.
“So, what I want to know, Bobby, simple enough. Which one of those percentages do you fit into? Like I said, there are programs, man. Come on! Get with it. I work with the Wounded Warrior Project, man. We can help you get situated. Get you into a substance-free housing. Get you hooked up. You have to better yourself, man.” Johnathan spoke with his hands, his eyes pressed together in tight narrow slits.
“Fuck you,” Bobby growled, low but audible.
“It’s called tuff love, man. Tuff love.”
Bobby stepped toward Johnathan and stopped half way. He clenched his fists. His chest heaved deeply. His eyes looked near yellow, but perhaps it was simply a trick of the flame. His skin looked tight, as well. Sweat rolled off him. He huffed. Exhaling and inhaling slowly, seeming to calm himself with each breath. When he opened his eyes again his gaze was on the staircase. He walked to the stairs, refusing to look at Johnathan, drunk and laughing quietly.
“I’m done,” is all Bobby would say before turning toward Jake. “Still good for a ride in the morning?”
Jake looked up at his friend. His eyes looked apologetic. “Yeah man, no problem.”
Bobby nodded his thanks and left the room. Before reaching the stairs he tossed the remains of the bottle of Jack he bought for the reunion at Johnathan who caught it clumsily, clutching it to his chest.
“Here, I think you need it more than me,” Bobby said and disappeared up the stairs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johnathan called after him. When no answer came he looked to Jake, confused.
Jake shook his head, rolling his eyes as he did.
“What? Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious what’s going on with him?” Johnathan scoffed.
“Yes, but it’s his business. We have no right to judge him. And we shouldn’t push him. Bobby’s our friend. Not some stranger you bump into at one of your conventions.” Jake set his glass of whiskey on the coffee table, the sour look on his face hinted that he was no longer in the mood.
“I think maybe Bobby needs some tuff love, is all I’m saying.”
“Nice. Real nice. Very compassionate. Is that a WWP policy?”
Johnathan shrugged, filling his glass with the bottle Bobby tossed him. Silence found its way back into the living room. Creeping and unwanted, with only the crackling of the logs and the pop of ambers wafting up the shoot in a grey-red haze. Maggie continued to watch, biding her gaze between the fire and the boys, though neither Jake nor Johnathan noticed her or her smile.
“So—” Johnathan said, interjecting into the uncomfortable stillness. He sipped on his drink. He slapped Jake’s leg.
“So…What?” Jake asked, irritated.
“Fuck any good whores lately?”
Jake rolled his eyes. He looked like a man pretending his face hadn’t turned red, very unsuccessfully. “And on that note,” he said, standing, “I’m off to bed. Enjoy your booze, Johnathan.”
“Awe, big baby! Just like Bobby!” Johnathan cried out, mockingly.
“Goodnight, Mags. See you in the morning.” Jake turned and headed up the stairs without looking at the drunken asshole he called friend sitting lazily on the couch.
“Come on!” Johnathan called for him.
Nothing. After a moment, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed down the steps.
“Fine, more for me then,” Johnathan smiled weakly, sadly. He drank, never bothering once to look at Maggie. If he had, he may have noticed the insects crawling over her body.
***
Johnathan coughed loudly, painfully. The sound of phlegm caught in his throat. His eyes shot open. There was no way to tell how long he’d been sitting on the couch. The fire was almost burnt out, only a few crumbs of amber lay strung about the bottom, glowing red. The living room was dark. Menacing shadows crept in the steadily growing unlit places. Struggling, Johnathan sat upright. His mouth was dry, tasting of cheap whiskey. Looking around he found he was not alone. Maggie remained in the living room, watching the dying fire.
Johnathan licked his crusted lips, “Mags? What time is it? I think I fell asleep,” he moaned.
Nothing.
Silence.
“Mags?”
Still nothing.
Finding his cane beside the couch, Johnathan gritted his teeth as he stood. His residual limb screamed. The blessed numbness from the booze had faded away. Balancing somehow, he hobbled toward his friend, the once wife of Ricky Smith.
“Mags? You okay?”
Nothing.
He reached out and touched her shoulder. Finally she looked at him. Her eyes were hollowed. Black. Abysmal. Johnathan flinched. His skin crawled with ice.
“Mags…?”
She grabbed his arm.
“Maggie!”
She pulled him closer. Her breath tasted of vinegar drowned eggs. Johnathan would have fallen to his knee, if not for the odd placement of his prosthetic leg.
“Mags? What the hell?” Johnathan croaked, panicked, unsure if he was dreaming or hallucinating or both. He preferred neither.
Maggie opened her mouth wider. The sound that came out was not human. Exploding through the living room was the utterance of a thousand clicking things all singing, screeching at once. Johnathan fought her grip, finally falling to the floor. He looked at her in horror. Maggie…? He cupped his ears against the torrent siren of chirps and clicks and rattles, the sound of a dozen bone dry teeth dancing in Mason jars, over and over. He closed his eyes. The barrage continued. Clicking. Clicking. Clicking.
“Mags?” Johnathan whined, terrified.
Maggie stood, still holding his arm. Her posture looked unnaturally straight. She stared at the quivering form on the floor, her mouth further ajar, impossibly wide, like a snake stretching its jaw to gulp down a bird, screeching all the while. Johnathan looked into a darkness he’d never felt before. He looked and was swallowed whole.
CHAPTER 14
SLEEPWALKING
Bobby
Besides his monthly visits with Luna that sometimes stretched into days, Bobby was rarely rewarded with the simple comforts of sleeping on a box spring mattress. His typical bedding was made of what he could find. His ruck acted as his pillow, a blanket he kept rolled in his bag would often be his comforter, newspaper or maybe dried leaves would be his only means of keeping warm. Regardless of the once in a blue moon, no pun intended, visitations to one of Houston’s many shelters, it was always the rock-hard earth greeting his backside more often than not. And no matter how well he fluffed the dirt, it was still dirt. And one had to be careful. Not just with other homeless, but with the police, and other dangers that come with being a vagabond.
In Houston, and even in the lower suburban areas, Bobby had seen plenty of tickets and warnings and arrests made with his ilk for a variety of misdemeanors, including, but not limited to: intoxication, loitering, prowling—or so they say, fighting—it happens, trespassing—dumpster diving, aggressive panhandling—the heat can do things with your mind, soliciting—I’ve seen a few desperate enough; seen a few cops desperate enough too, urinating and defecating, camping and sleeping in parks—plastic slides on playgrounds are especially easy on the back and can be convenient shelter in a storm, littering, obstructing sidewalks, and even living in a parked car on a public street. All it really boils down to is disturbing the peace, so they say. Being an offense, etc., etc., etc.
And now here he was, living the dream in one of Maggie Smith’s guestrooms, between two cotton sheets unable to get one wink of sleep. Ridiculous. It would seem his body had become accustomed to the hard earth and earth perhaps had become accustomed to him. If he placed his ear to the floor, would he hear his Mother calling to him? Or maybe it would be Johnathan’s drunken laughter from below? His belittlement and judgment? To Bobby, it seemed most folk shouldn’t talk about those kinds of things, be it friend or stranger. But what about a childhood friend? Was the drunk right? No. Johnny-Boy struc
k a hard chord that wouldn’t stop vibrating against his heart.
‘Tuff love,’ he had said.
‘Why don’t you work? Is there something wrong with you,’ he’d chastised.
‘You can get help if you want it,’ he mocked. And mocked. And mocked.
Help…was there such a thing for guys like him? Fact is, Bobby wanted nothing more than to find work, but he also knew he couldn’t fully integrate into society, not like he had before the war, before his curse. He’d be a danger to everyone. It was better to live as he did, better for everyone. As a consequence, the jobs he was able to get were few and far between. Not many burger joints willing to hire the homeless. You needed ID. You needed to fill out a W2. You needed to list a place of residence, and while Luna would have been happy to help with that, Bobby simply felt horrible taking advantage of her. And then there was his appearance. He shaved and kept his hair short, at first. You need to look presentable, as they say. But it was hard to keep clean sleeping on the streets. The gutters are so full of muck nowadays, the dumpsters full of grime. With each awkward rejection, his hair grew longer and longer. Hard manual labor was what he’d stuck to. Standing for hours out on El Dorado Road for the off chance of pulling weeds by hand or hauling rock and lumber and mulch for some dentist’s backyard wonderland. Sure, the VA could help. But he’d risk becoming part of the system with health screenings and blood draws. He couldn’t risk it; couldn’t risk someone finding out. Finding him.
Bobby had to stay hidden. And for that he sacrificed a life of normalcy. Not that being what he was could be anything near normal. And even now, he could hear Luna chastising him too. ‘You’re not even trying, Bobby,’ she’d say. ‘You’re just looking for an excuse to run away.’ And maybe he was, but wasn’t it better that way? There was the moon to consider, after all.
Even now from the box spring mattress in the cozy room inside Maggie’s house on Oak Lee Road, Bobby could feel the pull of the near full moon outside, hovering above the earth like a kid with a magnifying glass. Tomorrow night, he thought drearily, gazing up into the fat white globe in the night’s sky. Tomorrow, you will be full. How many more nights can I go on? How many more changes? Even staying on the streets, I’m still a risk. Luna’s cage won’t hold It—me—forever.
Emerging (Subdue Book 2) Page 11
