Amy nodded into her pillow.
“Well then let’s not take the stand and show fear or anguish over remembering what happened. You know Arty. You know the kind of sicko he is. He’d love that. It would be the same as congratulating the opposition and telling them what worthy opponents they were. No—we got the last laugh at the hospital when we told the prick he was adopted, and we’re gonna get the last laugh again. Let’s get up on the stand, stick our chests out, and look the son of a bitch right in the eye as we give our testimony. We’re not gonna congratulate our opponent, we’re gonna shove our victory right down his goddamned throat. We’ll even wink at the piece of shit while we’re doing it.”
She laughed.
“We won, baby,” he said. “We won the war. But no war comes without casualties. Right now we’re nursing ours … but I’ll be damned if we’re gonna let Arty-fucking-Fannelli know that.”
She laughed again and kissed him. “I love you.”
He stroked her scarred breast: A raised pink circle the size of a nickel was all that remained months after surgery. “This can be your badge of honor,” he said.
“I think you’re stroking my badge a little too long. It’s becoming inappropriate.”
“Just admiring it.”
“I heard you’ve got one of your own,” she said. Amy brought her hand under the sheet, and ran her fingers over the scar on Patrick’s stomach. “I must say, your badge is rather impressive too.” Her hand continued creeping further south.
Patrick’s hand had since left her badge and began sliding south as well.
“The final fuck you, huh?” she said.
“The final fuck you,” he repeated.
“I like that.”
Patrick’s hand reached its destination first. “I like you,” he said, slipping an innocent finger in.
Amy moaned lightly. Her hand then reached its destination. “Mmm … I like this,” she said as she took hold of him and began stroking.
For the first time since Crescent Lake, Amy and Patrick had great sex.
Chapter 9
Patrick woke up before the alarm. He rolled gently and switched it off.
“What time is it?” Amy’s voice was soft, barely a whisper. She didn’t dare wake the kids. She would savor the calm before the morning storm that was a school day.
“Six.” Patrick’s voice was equally soft. He feared the storm as well.
Amy cuddled close to him and buried her lips into his shoulder. She mumbled: “I would give anything to be able to lie in bed with you all day.”
He cuddled back and kissed her forehead. “That would be amazing.”
Her mouth left his shoulder and started kissing the side of his chest. “I’m still tingling from last night.”
“It was good wasn’t it?”
She rolled over and traced her tongue from his nipple to his belly button. “What time do we have to get up?”
He smirked. “I’m already up.”
“I practically gave you that one. No points.”
“Fair enough.”
“What time?”
“6:30.”
She hovered over his naked groin, her mouth centimeters away. He felt her hot breath on him. She gave his engorged head a flick of her tongue and he all but came right then. 6:30? He’d be lucky to last until 6:02.
“Plenty of time,” she said.
Patrick thought about this weekend’s Sixers game for the first few minutes until he was able to gain some control.
*
7 a.m. The morning storm.
Patrick dressing, drinking coffee, and eating a protein bar simultaneously. Amy’s voice echoing from the floor below, arguing with Carrie about finishing her breakfast, pitching the empty threat that if she missed the bus she was staying home. Carrie’s squeaky voice arguing right back. Caleb silent as always.
Dressed, caffeinated, and full of protein, Patrick headed downstairs. He kissed both kids seated at the kitchen table.
Amy approached him, got close and fixed his tie. “We’ll talk to Carrie tonight?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You thinking about your presentation?”
He was—until Amy mentioned tonight’s conversation with Carrie. “Nah, not really.”
“You’ve still got a couple months,” she said.
“I know. I’m good.”
She kissed him. “I know you’ll kick some ass when it’s time. You always do.”
He smiled. “What about you? What’s on your agenda today?”
“After I drop Caleb off, I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to unload the rest of that software.” She made a dreadful face and added: “Might have to make some cold calls.”
“Ewww … I’m sorry, baby.” He admired his wife’s work ethic. There was no way he could summon the discipline to work from home. Cold calls without a boss holding a gun to your head? Eff that.
“Be thankful you’re in advertising,” she said.
“I’ll be thankful when this presentation is done. Besides, our jobs aren’t so different.”
“No?”
“No—we’re both trying to sell something.”
“Oh, so then you wouldn’t mind helping me with some of those cold calls?”
He looked at his watch. “Gotta go.”
She laughed and smacked him on the chest. He kissed her, the kids at the kitchen table again, then headed towards the garage.
“Wait.”
He stopped and turned.
“We parked in the driveway, remember?”
“Oh—right.” He changed direction and went out the front door.
As he backed out, Patrick never noticed the big green puddle of antifreeze on the driveway.
Chapter 10
The morning storm had nearly passed. Only one more threat of resurgence loomed.
“I can see the bus! Let’s go!” Amy stood at the open front door, the flashing red and yellow lights of the school bus visible two blocks up.
Carrie hurried to the front door, backpack stuffed bigger than her torso making her sway, lunch box clattering against her knees.
“Gimme a kiss,” Amy said bending forward.
Carrie kissed her mother then hurried out the front door and onto the lawn. A furry bullet shot out after her, barking and moving at such a speed that it matched each stride she took with a full circle around her feet.
Amy smiled as she watched the Oscar the dog bid her daughter farewell for the day. It was their morning ritual.
The school bus arrived, slowing to a crawl before finally stopping. Its small stop-sign flapped open from its side like an octagonal fin, the flashing red and yellow igniting once again. The big rectangular doors folded open. Carrie gave Oscar a final pat, waved goodbye to her mother, and climbed aboard.
Amy waved to the bus driver, who waved back. She watched her daughter move from square window to square window along the bus’ length until she took a seat. The flashing lights clicked off, the small stop sign folded back flat, and with a slow rumble, the bus chugged forward until it eventually disappeared.
Amy whistled. “Oscar! You coming in or staying out?”
The dog’s head whipped towards his owner, then back towards an oncoming speed walker. A woman—gray sweats, blonde hair, glasses, headphones.
Oscar immediately approached the woman and jumped on her leg. Amy scolded Oscar from the front door, smiled and waved an apology to the woman. The woman smiled back, gave a reassuring wave that it was okay, then bent forward and began petting Oscar.
Amy called Oscar again, harsher this time, and the dog finally left the women in peace before charging off and out of sight to perform his usual inspections of the front half of the house.
Amy waited a tick, then called his name again (by now he would have usually appeared on the front lawn, paused to do his business, and then darted back inside for breakfast). When he didn’t reappear, Amy shrugged and shut the door, knowing darn well she would hear his incessant whi
ne in less than two minutes.
*
Oscar was busy. He had found something very unusual at the top of the driveway. Something that smelled wonderful and tasted delicious. He lapped away at the green puddle, only pausing for a second to acknowledge the blonde speed walker in the gray sweats approach.
The speed walker had watched and waited from a distance for the Lambert’s front door to close. She knew Oscar would be enticed by the antifreeze. Knew Amy would eventually close the door on such a cold morning if the dog did not return right away. She also knew that she couldn’t rely on a puddle of antifreeze to do the job. Yes, it only took a few tablespoons to eventually kill a dog, but hopeful eventualities had never graced her syllabus—her job entailed acting certainties. Besides, the puddle’s role was not to kill. The puddle was more of a red herring. A red herring that would reek of exceptional guilt when all was said and done.
And so as Oscar lapped away happily at the green puddle, the blonde speed walker squatted down on the driveway, began petting him, looked in all directions, and then pulled a syringe from her pocket and stuck a needle filled with more antifreeze into the meat of Oscar’s scruff. The dog flinched and looked up for a split second, mildly annoyed, then resumed lapping. The speed walker patted Oscar on the head, put the syringe back in her pocket, and casually walked away.
Several blocks down and one neighborhood over, the speed walker entered her car, removed the glasses, the blonde wig and the headphones, and tossed them on the passenger seat. She then lit a cigarette before driving off.
Chapter 11
Amy looked over her son’s shoulder. He sat quietly, staring at the few remaining Cheerios floating in his bowl. She kissed the top of his head and asked, “All done?”
Caleb nodded and Amy took the bowl to the sink. Ordinarily, this would have been Caleb’s cue to leave the table and get ready for pre-school. Instead he remained seated, staring at the table.
Amy noticed and left the bowl in the sink without rinsing. She approached her son and stroked his short brown hair. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Caleb’s elbows were now on the table, his hands holding up his chin. He nodded into them and tilted his head lower until his palms covered his mouth. Amy reached over and took away one of his hands.
“You don’t look okay,” she said. “What’s wrong with my baby boy?”
She let go of his hand and he immediately brought it back to his face.
“Caleb?”
He shrugged.
“Are you upset about last night?”
Another shrug.
“You know that Mommy and Daddy aren’t mad at you after what happened, don’t you? We told you that.”
Caleb opened both hands a split, and kept his eyes on the table as he spoke. His voice was shaky, trying not cry. “Carrie’s mad at me. She says I give her nightmares.”
Amy took a seat and began rubbing her son’s back. Caleb’s eyes became blurred with tears, yet still he would not succumb to a full-on cry. Amy marveled at her son’s strength. She was glad his head was down so that he would not spot, and likely misinterpret, the little smile that pride had placed on the corner of her mouth.
“No, honey, that’s not what she said.”
“I hear her scream at night. It wakes me up.”
Amy now rubbed his shoulders. “Yes, Carrie has nightmares, but they’re not nightmares about what you did to Mommy.”
“But she said they were.”
“No, honey, you misunderstood. Carrie’s very confused right now. She doesn’t understand why you played that joke on Mommy.”
“It was a stupid joke …”
Amy pulled Caleb into her, and he finally started to cry. “It’s okay, honey,” she said while he cried into her chest. “Mommy knows you didn’t mean to hurt her. Daddy knows that too. Carrie is just confused … but Daddy and I are going to talk to her tonight and help her understand.”
His brown eyes, glistening wet, looked up at her with a trust and innocence that swelled Amy’s heart. “You will?” he sniffed.
She wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “Absolutely. Everything’s going to be fine, sweetie—I promise.”
He cracked a small smile, and Amy’s heart swelled even more. “Who do you love?” she asked.
Caleb turned away.
“Who do you love?”
Caleb turned further away, but she could feel his smile growing. She inched closer and started walking her fingers up his back like a spider. “Who do you love?” she sang. He started giggling and she immediately snatched him back into her and started tickling him. “Who?” she asked again, her son’s laughter like a drug.
Caleb eventually squeaked out a “you,” and Amy stopped tickling, grabbed his face, flicked her nose back and forth across his in true Eskimo-kiss fashion, and then finished with a real one on his forehead. “I love you too, honey.” She palmed the top of his head and rumpled his hair. “Now go get ready for pre-school.”
*
Amy had just finished tidying up the kitchen when she heard the sound she had expected to hear sooner than later. She walked to the front door and opened it.
“Well look who finally decided to show,” she said.
Oscar, who would usually respond with wags of his stump and a brief allowance of petting before hurrying off to all things more important (i.e., food), instead strolled casually inside, walked through the kitchen past his food bowl and made his way to his small oval bed in the family room where he immediately curled up and went to sleep.
“Are you kidding me?” Amy said. She turned and looked at his food bowl: a fresh helping of hard and wet food mixed together, prepared only minutes ago—Oscar’s absolute favorite. Amy clapped her hands. “Oscar! Come over here and eat.” The dog looked up at her for a brief moment before settling back down and closing his eyes.
Amy’s chin retracted. “Well that’s a first.” She shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’ll be there when you wake up.”
*
Amy was two miles from the house after dropping Caleb off at pre-school when her cell phone rang.
“Hi, baby,” she answered.
“You won’t believe this,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“I’m at a gas station downtown. I was five minutes from the office when the coolant indicator came up on the dashboard.”
Amy could hear the racket of the gas station in the background. A man was hollering at someone. A loud drill whirred in bursts. She pressed her shoulder over her free ear. “Well that’s not a big deal, is it? Maybe you’re just low.”
“I checked already. I’m not just low, I’m empty. The guy at the station says I have a crack in my hose.”
“It looked okay to me last night.”
“When did you—?” He stopped, sighed.
Amy grinned. Her husband was by far the more juvenile of the two when it came to all things double entendre, but she was in a good mood and couldn’t help herself. Biting her tongue and still smiling, she said, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”
“It’s okay, I’d have done the same,” he admitted. “But I have to get this fixed now.”
“Okay, so … ?”
“I’m gonna be late.”
“Honey, I’m sure they’ll understand. Just call the office and ohhh …” Amy trailed off as she pulled up to the top of their driveway. There it was: a puddle of antifreeze the size of a basketball right where the Highlander had been parked the night before.
“What?”
“I see the puddle. The antifreeze. It’s at the top of the driveway.”
She heard him sigh again. Then more of the whirring drill. Then a horn.
“The hose must have cracked on the way back from Dr. Bogan’s. Leaked dry while we slept,” he said.
“You didn’t notice it when you left this morning?” she asked.
“Did you?”
“Touché.”
Amy pulled into the garage and switched off the engine. “It’s okay,
baby. Just call work, tell them what happened, and that you’ll be a little late. No big deal.”
“Already did.”
“How long is it going to take?”
“Not long—it’s only the upper hose.”
“Okay—call me when you get to work. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Amy hung up and went inside. The first thing she noticed was that Oscar’s bowl was still full. She headed into the family room. He was still asleep in his oval bed. She squatted down and started petting him. His eyebrows arched, but he didn’t open his eyes. His stump didn’t wag.
“What’s the matter, buddy?” She scratched behind his head. “Didn’t get enough sleep last night?” His eyes finally opened to a meager squint. Amy scratched his head some more. He stood, swayed slightly, then immediately lay back down and closed his eyes. “Too much partying, mister,” she said. “Need to watch your drinkin’.”
She gave him a final scratch and headed towards her study, the painful irony of her quip coming back in a cruel instant the moment the veterinarian told Amy and Patrick how Oscar died.
Chapter 12
The veterinarian left the small white room, leaving Patrick and Amy by themselves.
“I can’t believe this,” Patrick said. “How could I have been so goddamned stupid?”
“Honey, it’s just as much my fault—hell, it’s even more my fault than it is yours.”
“How do you figure that?”
“His behavior. I should have known something was wrong. He didn’t even want to eat this morning. And this is a dog that ate a severed finger for God’s sake.”
Patrick flashed back to Crescent Lake. His family on the dock ready to fish. Caleb pulling what was supposed to be a worm from the bait container. Patrick spotting a fingernail, flinging it to the ground. Oscar approaching the finger and gobbling it up as though it were a cocktail weenie.
He closed his eyes and willed the images away, almost angry at Amy for handing him the reel so he could watch them again. “You couldn’t have known,” he said.
Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games Page 5
