by John Inman
I was grumpy. I hate zits. “Concealer.”
Timmy. “What you sealing?”
Me. “I’m not sealing. I’m hiding.”
“What you hiding?”
“A zit.”
“What’s a zit?”
I turned and glowered at him. “A zit’s an annoying little thing that pops up out of nowhere right when you really don’t want it to. Like you.”
“So I’m a zit?”
He didn’t seem too offended by the prospect, so I let him have it between the eyes. “Yes. You’re a zit. A big pimply one. The kind that hurts. The kind that when you squeeze it hard enough a big glob of cream cheese flies out.”
Timmy took a moment to consider that while he inadvertently smeared Popsicle juice in his ear. “Jack says you’re a butthole.”
“Jack’s a hemorrhoid.”
“Is that like a zit?”
“Yes. Only browner. And when you squeeze it you don’t get cream cheese, you get fudge.”
“I’m confused.”
“So am I,” I said. I set the concealer aside, fluffed my hair, made a Brad Pitt face, which never works out for me, and asked, “So how do I look?”
“Good enough to eat.” Timmy said. Then he thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard so he started howling with laughter. Four-year-olds! He had no sooner started laughing than he clutched his head and screamed, “Oww! Oww! Oww!” all the while making a “brain freeze” face because he had bitten off a really big chunk of Popsicle while he was laughing and the nerves in his teeth had gone into supersensitive hyperdrive. Poor kid. I hate that too.
As soon as he stopped screaming and squeezing his head, I asked, “You ready for bed?”
“No. I gotta poop.”
“Oh, good grief. Well, poop, then.” It’ll probably be blue, I thought.
“You mean now? With you standing there watching?”
“I’ll leave.”
“Okay. Here. Take my Popsicle stick with you.”
“You want me to throw it away?”
“No. I want it back.”
“There’s nothing on it. It’s an empty stick.”
“It’s still got juice in it.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He stuck his little fists on his hips and glared at me.
I rolled my eyes so far up into my head I could see the roots of my hair dangling down on the inside of my skull.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll guard it with my life. Maybe I’ll even take out an insurance policy on it. Just poop already.”
“Not ’til you get out.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” God, that kid was a pain in the ass.
I scooped Thumper off the floor, tucked her under my arm like a football, slammed the bathroom door behind me, and headed for my room to dress. Sam’s bedroom door was closed, and I could hear him muttering into the phone, probably concerning that business he was taking care of for his father. I stopped for a second and leaned in to listen. Then I realized what I was doing and mentally slapped myself and kept walking. The last thing I needed was for Sam to step into the hall and catch me trying to eavesdrop on his telephone conversation. That would most assuredly put a crimp in my plans for the evening.
I laid Thumper on my bed while I dressed, and I swear she never woke up once. I actually stood frozen for a moment, head cocked to the side, naked as a jaybird, towel in hand, watching her to make sure she was still breathing.
When I was convinced she was yet among the living, I threw on a pair of sexy new lounging shorts I’d bought a while back and a T-shirt that didn’t look too beat up and headed down to the kitchen for a beer. I’ve never seen a seduction yet that didn’t go more smoothly with a little alcohol to help grease it along.
I was halfway through my first beer, sitting at the kitchen table, wishing Sam would come downstairs, when Timmy rejoined me. Thumper was dragging along at his heels once again. She looked like she could barely stay awake, but still, she was determined to keep an eye on her charge. She had so many breeds coursing through her veins, her blood was little more than jambalaya. Who knew a mutt like that could be so conscientious?
“Did you clean yourself?” I asked, because I thought I should.
Timmy groaned and covered his eyes, mortified by my callous insensitivity. “Yes.”
“Did you wash up after you cleaned yourself?”
He groaned again. “Yes.”
“Then why is your hand still blue?”
“I only washed the other one. That’s my toilet paper hand. That’s the one I used. This is my Popsicle hand. What’s the point of washing it?”
“How could you possibly wash one hand and not the other?”
“You writing a book?”
That was such an outrageous response for a four-year-old that I burst out laughing. “Do you want your stick back?”
“What stick?”
Good. He’d forgotten about it. “Never mind.” I glanced at the doorway behind him. “Did you see Sam?”
“He’s in the other bathroom taking a shower. You combed your hair.”
“Thanks for noticing. Yes.”
“I’ve never seen it combed before.”
“Shut up.”
I did my uncle-y duties and wet a cloth in the sink. Then while Timmy was squirming around like a worm on a hook and doing a desperate little tap dance, trying to get away from me, I washed the blue Popsicle juice off his hand and face. Then I washed the other hand for good measure. I thought about washing another one of his body parts, the one that doesn’t get a whole lot of sunshine, then decided to trust the kid that he’d done the job properly. I was pretty sure it took a closer relative than an uncle to tackle that job anyway.
“There,” I said, drying him off with a dishtowel. “Much better. Now you can go to bed.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead and Timmy would be in jail for murder. Then his hateful glare turned blatantly shifty. Timmy would suck at poker. His face was an open book, all too easily read.
“What day is this?” he asked, apropos of nothing, faking a whistle, and scanning the ceiling like he was looking for pigeons.
“Thursday,” I said.
He tried to snap his fingers as if he’d just remembered something, but of course, he was too young to make his snapper work. He didn’t let it stop him from lying through his baby teeth however. “Mommy lets me stay up all night on Thursdays. I forgot to tell you. No kidding. She really does.”
“Jesus, kid, how stupid do you think I am? Just go to bed.”
Timmy glowered, pouted, and grumped. Then he got that shifty look again.
“You just wanna be alone with Uncle Sam. You’re gonna kiss him.”
The kid was way too smart for his own good. I plunked my beer bottle down on the table, scooped him up in one arm and Thumper in the other, and hauled them both through the house and up the stairs. By the time we got to the second floor, Timmy was giggling and Thumper was wagging her tail because Timmy was giggling.
As I opened Timmy’s bedroom door, Sam stepped from the bathroom a little farther down the hall with a towel wrapped around his waist. He was all sparkly clean from the shower. There was a delightful bulge in the front of his towel that swayed quite fetchingly as he walked. Jeez, I wondered what that was.
“You’re in trouble,” Timmy told him with a snicker.
And much to my amazement, Sam blushed. His eyes met mine, and he smiled.
“I don’t mind a little trouble now and then,” he said.
Boy, did I like the way he said those words.
I had Timmy and Thumper tucked into bed so fast neither of them quite knew what had happened. I was back downstairs polishing off my beer when Sam strode into the kitchen to join me. He was wearing his same yellow boxers with the roosters all over them. That’s when I realized those were probably his sleeping shorts. And how sexy was that? He was also wearing a muscle shirt that was so wrinkled it looked like it had been chewed on by a goat. Hel
l, on Sam even that was sexy.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Of course not.” I grabbed a beer from the fridge and handed it to him. Again, we sat at the kitchen table, slurping our brews and winding down from the day. Even men in their prime, like Sam and I, were grateful for a little relaxation after a day of chasing a four-year-old around. It’s hard work. It really is.
“No ghost again today,” Sam said, sighing happily with his first sip of beer.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Maybe our butchliness scared him off.”
Sam smiled while shaking his head. “I still think he’s here.”
“So do I.”
Sam rolled the beer bottle across his forehead. It was another hot evening. “Timmy never has mentioned what happened the other night. It’s like he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m not even sure he remembers,” I said.
“Well, until he opens up on the subject, I guess we can never be sure. I sure would like to know what he was thinking when he was standing in front of that basement door while the hound of hell was howling on the other side.”
We both turned to stare past the stove and the refrigerator to where we could see the service porch and the door on the opposite wall of it that led to the basement. When it didn’t burst open, or blow up, or set itself on fire, or levitate up to the ceiling after ripping itself off its hinges, we turned back to consider each other instead.
We sipped at our beers as a comfortable silence fell over the kitchen. It reinforced my contention that my kitchen was the homiest room in the house. Even Sam seemed to think so.
And speaking of Sam, I have no idea what he was actually thinking, but my mind was positively teeming with sexual imaginings. Some stunning pictures were flashing through my head. Me naked. Sam naked. One body part bumping another body part. Juices flowing. Lips smacking. Sam’s rooster shorts hanging on a floor lamp, where I’d thrown them.
I quickly grabbed us two more beers because I knew if I waited another minute I’d have a full-fledged hard-on and then I’d never be able to walk to the fridge without looking like a horny slut.
Sam tilted his chair onto its back legs again and rocked it back and forth, lacing his fingers behind his head. He seemed to enjoy doing that. And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t much mind it either because it gave me a glorious view of his fuzzy armpits and luscious biceps.
I love fuzzy armpits and luscious biceps.
I was just building up my courage to reach across the kitchen table and run my fingers through the foliage in either one or both of those lovely armpits when the phone rang.
This might be a good time to mention that I hate Alexander Graham Bell.
At the sound of the ringing phone, a look of consternation flashed across Sam’s face, which I thought was odd. I reached over to snag my cell phone off the kitchen counter behind me, just as he said, “Don’t answer it.”
I scoffed, figuring he was kidding.
His chair legs crashed to the floor, and he reached across the table to sort of make a half-assed attempt to grab the phone out of my hand. It took me by surprise. “What the fu—”
“Please. Don’t answer it.”
There was a look of desperation on Sam’s face that stopped me cold.
Knowing he had my undivided attention, and probably knowing he was pissing me off as well, he tried one last time. “If it’s your sister, don’t tell her I’m here. Please. I’ll explain later.”
I blinked a few times, staring at him. Half in a fog and pretty much witless with confusion, I yanked away from his grasp, thumbed the receive button, and said, “Hello?”
And damned if it wasn’t Sally.
“How’s the brat?” she asked, almost yelling. I could hear the roar of traffic and a cacophony of car horns in the background. I imagined her standing smack in the middle of Times Square, dodging a bus.
“Uh, he’s good. Sleeping. You don’t want me to go get him, do you?” I was still giving Sam a suspicious look, like “what the hell is wrong with you?”
Sally laughed over the phone. “I recognize that note of panic in your voice thinking I might ask you to wake the kid up. Heck no, don’t wake him up! When that boy wants to sleep, let him! The world is a quieter place when he’s out like a light. So, everything’s okay?”
“Uh, well, yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?” I couldn’t take my eyes off Sam’s face. Now he had his finger up to his lips going, “Shhhhh.”
I covered the cell phone with the palm of my hand and hissed, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her you’re here. But the minute she hangs up, I want you to explain to me why not.”
“Who’s there?” Sally asked. “Sounds like you’re hissing at somebody.”
I coughed up a fake laugh. “Just the dog. So—how’s your trip?” For some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off Sam’s face. He still looked nervous that I would rat him out. “Gee whiz, got any trust issues?” I wanted to say. But I finally directed my comment to Sally instead. “Dickhead still with you?”
“No. I dumped him for a homeless New Yorker. Of course he’s still with me. When are you two going to start getting along?”
“Never.”
“That’s what I thought. Um, is Timmy giving you any trouble?”
“Constantly.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
Sam’s gorgeous eyeballs were burning holes through me. He was tensed, leaning forward, watching me like he still didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut about his presence. It was starting to annoy the crap out of me. Except for the eyes, of course. God, they were sexy.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Sally said. “We just got out of the theater, and now we’re off to grab a bite to eat. Just wanted to check in.”
“What did you see?”
“Kinky Boots.”
“Oh,” I droned. “There’s drag queens in that. Must have been Jack’s idea.”
“Hmm,” Sally hummed. “As a matter of fact, it was. That is a bit suspicious, isn’t it?” I heard her snicker.
Sam laid his hand over my beer hand, which was flopped on the table. When my beer bottle got in his way, he plucked it from my grasp and set it aside. Then he covered my hand again with his. He didn’t seem quite as fearful now that I would spill the beans about him being there, but he still didn’t look like he trusted me much. All I wanted to do was end the conversation with my sister so I could find out what this was all about.
“Well, Sal, enjoy your dinner. Tell Peckerhead I said hello. Or don’t. I don’t care. Don’t worry about Timmy. We’re getting along great. Oh, and next time you call, maybe I’ll have some news for you about the house.” What’s the point of having your very own ghost if you can’t brag about it?
Apparently, Sally was barely listening to me anyway. Or maybe her phone was conking out.
“I didn’t catch that,” she said. “But I’ll call you back in a few days and we’ll have a nice chat. Kiss the brat for me. And if you have to tie him up, don’t leave any ligature marks. The people from protective services get all snooty about that.”
I figured that was probably a joke, so I laughed. Didn’t know what else to do.
Sally’s voice was growing distorted, squelchy. “Jason? Are you still there? I think you’d better recharge your phone. I think you—”
A horrible screeching erupted through the receiver. It was mind-numbingly loud. I flinched away from the sound, holding the phone at arm’s length just to get it away from my ear. Sam could hear it too. I could tell by the way he jumped. Startled, he stumbled to his feet, and his chair tipped over with a crash.
“Holy shit!” he sputtered, scrunching up his face and poking his fingers in his ears.
Unbelievably, the screeching from the cell phone grew even louder. I could feel goose bumps popping up all over my body, from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. The noise was like electronically magnified fingernails scraping across an amplified blackboard. My teeth were star
ting to hurt from grinding them together, the sound was so loud. I jumped to my feet as Sam had done and tossed the phone into the little wastebasket by the sink because I didn’t know what else to do with it. All I knew was I had to get away from that god-awful noise. I grabbed the dish towel and for lack of a better idea, threw that over the damn thing, hoping to mute the sound a little more.
It didn’t work. In fact, the cell phone screamed and wailed all the louder. The wastebasket bounced and rattled against the floor like one of those windup toys that clatter and buzz and jump around. The wastebasket was plastic, and as I watched, a crack split the side of it with a loud snap!
Sam and I jumped straight up into the air when Timmy spoke from behind us. His voice was calm, almost eerie. When I spun his way, I saw that his face was even calmer and eerier than his voice. Where had he come from?
“Hang up the phone,” the boy said quietly. “He doesn’t like her voice. It’s making him mad.”
“Who?” Sam asked. “Making who mad?”
But Timmy didn’t answer. He merely stood there with his butchered hair and his rocket-ship pajamas, rubbing his eyes, staring back, looking cuter than hell and half-asleep. And calm. He was the only one in the room who wasn’t freaking out completely.
I gawked at the boy, then I swung my eyes back to the wastebasket. The noise was so loud now that Sam and I both had our hands clamped over our ears trying to shut it out. The only person that horrible screaming sound didn’t seem to bother was Timmy. In fact, I wasn’t sure if he could hear it at all. He certainly gave no indication he could.
Then another eerie caterwauling erupted in the hallway behind Timmy. Sam and I jumped again. This time it was Thumper, howling to the heavens. The sound emanating from the cell phone must have hurt her ears. God knows it was hurting mine.
Another snap cracked through the kitchen. I turned and saw the little clock built into the top of the stove burst into fragments. Shards of glass flew out across the room, making us duck. One of the flying shards struck my arm like a tiny arrow. I looked down, amazed, and plucked the needle of glass from my forearm.
“Ouch,” I said, as sort of an afterthought. Things were happening too fast for me to keep up. Even pain had a three-second delay before it registered.
