I reached into the cabinet and grabbed a treat for Brutus. I waved a Milk-Bone biscuit in front of him. “Mmmm, sure looks good, huh? I’ll bet you’d like this, wouldn’t you?”
Brutus barked a deep, baritone bark.
“No barking!” I dropped the box to the counter and grabbed the dog by his big fat snout, holding his mouth closed. “Be a good boy and you can have a treat.”
I let go of Brutus, returned the box to the cupboard, and closed the cabinet door. With treat in hand, I walked to the door that opened into the garage. Brutus padded after me. I closed the door behind us. With Brutus at my side, I crossed the cement floor and approached a wooden shelf fastened to the far wall at about chest height. I sat the treat on the shelf, next to a bright yellow jug of antifreeze. I couldn’t help but smile as I grabbed the jug, felt its weight, and unscrewed the top. Supposedly dogs were drawn to the scent of antifreeze. It did smell kind of good.
Brutus sat down next to me, tilted his head again.
“I’ve got a treat for you, boy. And you get to wash it down with a little Prestone punch.” I grabbed a plastic bucket from the floor and dropped the dog biscuit into it. Brutus barked again.
“Goddamn it, dog! Shut up!” I swung at the mutt, but he moved his head.
He stared at the bucket, unfazed by my attempt to hit him. I pushed the bucket toward the dog and filled it with a couple inches of antifreeze. The dog biscuit floated to the top. Brutus stepped up to the bucket, licking his chops. He lowered his head and his snout disappeared into the bucket.
“Say goodnight, boy.”
“What the hell’s Brutus barking at?” Carla’s voice swept into the garage.
I spun around. Brutus’s head popped up and he turned to the sound. Carla stood there, wearing only panties and a T-shirt. Her milky white thighs, as fleshy as they had ever been, fought one another for space.
“What’s in the bucket?” she asked.
“Huh?” I couldn’t think fast enough to come up with anything better.
“I’ll say it a little slower so you can follow along. What’s…in…the…bucket?”
“Oh, I accidentally dropped it. Brutus was just checking it out.” I grabbed the dog before he could turn his attention back to the biscuit. “Get out of here, mutt. I’ve got work to do.” I pushed him away.
“Work? Yeah, right, like you’d know anything about work.” She laughed.
“Hey, I do a lot of work around here. As a matter of fact, I’ve got to finish the lawn right after I finish my glass of ice tea.”
“Uh-huh, whatever,” she said. She looked down to the dog. “Come on, boy. Come back to bed with Mama.”
Brutus wagged his tail. She held the door open for him and together they disappeared into the house.
I grabbed the dog biscuit from the bucket, set it on the shelf, and poured the antifreeze back into the jug. “Maybe next time, huh, Brutus?”
I returned to the kitchen table and my glass of ice tea.
A Little Bit About the Devil
I spent most of my hot summer days as a kid splashing around in a crowded swimming pool. We lived in an apartment complex called Jefferson Manor. I looked up the word manor once. Apparently whoever named our building never bothered to do the same. Our “manor” came with peeling paint, water-stained ceilings, and cracked windowpanes. The complex was made up of two stories built in the shape of a squared-off horseshoe surrounding a courtyard of year-round brown grass. The courtyard wrapped around the heart of the complex: the fenced-in pool. The place would’ve looked rundown even from space.
The pool was the place to be during the unbearable summer months. It was hardly ever cleaned, but we didn’t mind swimming around decaying leaves and floating bugs. Things like centipedes, millipedes, and roaches drifted past once in a while, but they were always dead. It was the yellow jackets you had to watch out for. A lot of times, they were still alive, sitting on top of the water. The coolest thing I ever found in that pool was a hairy black tarantula about the size of my fist. They would occasionally crawl in from the fields bordering town. It was dead and floating against the edge of the pool in one of the far corners. I wanted to keep it, but I knew my dad would just yell at me and throw it away. So I examined it a few more seconds and then splashed it out of the pool.
A faded sign fastened to the chain-link fence around the pool area warned us that there was no lifeguard on duty, so we swam at our own risk. For me, it wasn’t so much the swimming that presented a risk; it was the running on wet pavement.
While running around the pool one afternoon, my feet slid out from under me. I fell backward and hit my head. The next thing I remember was being in the emergency room. My throbbing head rested on a pillow. A doctor leaned over me, looking into my eyes. I tried to sit up but it made me sick so I lay back down.
“Take it easy, Samuel,” the doctor said. “You have a pretty serious cut on the back of your head. I stitched it up nice and tight, so it should heal just fine. But I also suspect you’ve suffered a bit of a concussion.” The doctor turned to my dad, who gave me with a hard look. “I’m sure he’s going to be okay, but we should scan his head and see if there’s any serious injury to his brain. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Scan his head? With what?”
“CT machine. That way we can make sure there’s nothing too serious.”
“Is it expensive?”
“Yes,” the doctor began, “of course there’s a bit of cost associated with it. Scan and reading, you’re looking at about fifteen hundred.”
“Dollars? Who’s going to pay for that?”
“It would be your responsibility, but it would be a good idea. You have insurance, right?”
“No.”
The doctor stared at my dad a moment, then said, “Let’s not worry about the scan right now. But we should keep him overnight for observation. Just for the night. To be safe.”
“You said he’d be okay.” My dad held the doctor’s stare.
“Right. And I also said he’s probably got a concussion. You have to be careful with head injuries.”
“If he’ll be okay here, he’ll be just as okay at home.”
I didn’t feel okay at all. My head felt like it was going to crack open.
“Mr. Bradbury, you need to appreciate something,” the doctor said. “Sometimes with head trauma, small bleeds can occur in the brain, resulting in cerebral tissue damage. If he’s not here, the damage could be extensive. Maybe even life-threatening.”
My dad was quiet a moment. “Well, if that happens, I’ll just bring him right on back.”
“He really should stay here. One night.”
“You really that concerned about him, Doc?”
“Of course I’m concerned about him.”
“Then you’ll pick up the tab for his little sleepover?”
“No. Just like the scan, the cost of the stay would be your responsibility.”
“Oh, I see. You’re only concerned if I give you money.”
“Mr. Bradbury, I don’t get any money if he stays here. The hospital—”
“Samuel, get up. We’re leaving.”
Despite the doctor’s protests, I climbed from the examining table, my head feeling as if a rusty ax were wedged into it. We went home and I was sent straight to bed. My head hurt all that night, the next day, and for a few days afterward.
The part that really sucked about that whole thing was the doctor telling me I couldn’t swim while my scalp was stitched together. So during that time I mostly stayed in my room and looked at the picture of my mom, wondering where she was, wondering how she could have left us. And how she left notes for my dad and Sheila, but not me. That still bothered me. Really a lot. I wanted to find her, to hurt her like she had hurt me. I wanted to let her know how bad Dad had become, and that it was all her fault.
A wh
ole week went by before the doctor finally pulled out the stitches. That stung big time, brought tears to my eyes, but I had them wiped clean before my dad saw.
Later that day, after looking at the picture for the thousandth time, I went swimming. Afterward, I pushed water from my face and hair and moved to the sidewalk surrounding the courtyard. I sat on the cement, knees pulled to my chest. The warmth rising off the sidewalk soothed my drying body. I looked straight up and the sun forced my eyes closed. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground, holding my head, wondering what had just fallen from sky. I opened my eyes and a shadow blocked the sun.
“Samuel, you need to come on back to the apartment.” My dad stood over me, outlined by the blinding sunlight. He grabbed me by the shoulder, yanked me up, and pushed me forward. My head felt like it was about to come apart, just like it had the first time. I gritted my teeth and walked. Each step sent an excruciating shockwave through my brain. He led me to the apartment and shoved me all the way to my bedroom. He closed the door behind us and pulled a crumpled-up photograph from his pocket. “What’s this?”
I stared at it. How did he find it?
“You stole this from the photo album, didn’t you?”
I couldn’t think fast enough.
He grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me backward into the wall. My head bounced off its flat surface. The pain that erupted through my skull buckled my knees.
“Goddamn it, boy, answer me!” He lifted me back into a standing position and shook me. “You stole this, didn’t you?”
No answer on Earth was going to save me from his blows.
“That piece of shit bitch left us behind because she didn’t care about us, remember? We’ve already had this talk. She dumped us like unwanted trash and you save her picture? You try to hide it from me under your pillow? Do you think I’m stupid?”
His question left me without an answer.
“Samuel, do you wish I was the one who left?”
“No, Dad.”
“You know, boy, I bust my ass for you Goddamn kids. I really do. And this is how you thank me? You disrespect me by stealing a picture of the whore that left me and keep it under your pillow like it’s some kind of a treasure? Help me understand, because I’m struggling with this one. I really am.”
He waited for an answer. I had none. His hand raised into the air. I knew where it was headed. I dropped to my knees, my arms covering my head.
Each strike seemed harder than the last one. I couldn’t help it, I threw up. He jumped back.
“What the hell! Have you lost your mind, boy? You know you’re going to have to clean that shit up, don’t you?”
I wiped my mouth, splinted my pounding head between my hands, and nodded. Dad stood over me a moment longer. He tore up the picture and dropped the ragged pieces on me. “This is trash, just like your mom! And if you want to be with her, you’re trash, too!” He shook his head and sighed. “You ever seen the Devil, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
My dad pulled me to my feet. Leaned in close. “Oh yeah? Well then, tell me…what’s he look like?”
A father who was once in the Marine Corps. “He’s red, has a mustache, a pointed beard, and horns.” The words hurt my head, made me want to throw up again. But I knew better; I held it back.
“No, dumb shit, not the stupid Halloween costume. I mean the real one. Let me tell you a little bit about the Devil. He’s got razor-sharp teeth, hooves for feet, clawed hands, twisted goat horns, and a forked tongue like a snake’s. His breath is rotten, like decaying flesh. Maggots squirming between his teeth and everything.”
I fought the nausea.
“He knows your worst nightmares, boy, and he can make them happen.”
“He can?”
“Damn right he can. Hell is right under your feet. He walks on a floor made of charred human skin. When he wants to come up, he does it by clawing through the floor under the beds of kids who don’t mind their parents.”
Many nights after that, I lay in my bed—covers pulled over my head, eyes shut tightly—listening for the slightest sound of claws ripping through the floor.
“And you know what he eats?” my dad asked.
“No.”
“Children, Samuel. He eats children. Pulls their arms and legs clean off their bodies and eats them just like you’d eat a chicken leg. That’s why there’s always maggots in his mouth, eating the leftover meat.”
Bile rose in my throat. I willed it back down.
“He eats kids because they don’t mind their parents, Samuel. Whether they don’t go to bed when told to, or whether they touch things they shouldn’t touch—say, pictures that don’t belong to them.” He tilted his head and suddenly became quiet, like his thoughts had just turned down a new street. “Or if they touch themselves, for that matter.” He paused a moment, looked hard at me, and then asked, “Boy, you don’t touch yourself, do you? Like some little homo faggot. Not in my house, right?”
“No!” A lightning bolt of pain blasted through my brain.
He stared at me a moment longer. “Good. Anyway, some children deserve to be punished. So if you think I’m a hardass, think again. I wouldn’t want to be you if he comes calling. Now, what do you think? You think maybe you better start minding me?”
“Yes, sir.” My head pounded harder and harder. I became dizzy, needing to sit down immediately. I slid into a squatting position, my back resting against the wall.
He stared at me, probably trying to decide whether to hit me for slinking to the floor. I looked up, defenseless. He grinned. “Maybe from now on, when I tell you to do something, or to not do something, you’ll listen. Otherwise, Mr. Satan’s coming to dinner. And you’re on the menu. Now, get on into the bathroom, get yourself cleaned up, and then clean up this mess. It stinks to high heaven in here. And Samuel,” he looked at me, “when I check back later, there better not be a trace of puke anywhere. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded like we had an understanding and left the room. My head felt like it was going to explode. I barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick all over again. Afterward, I staggered back to my room and collapsed onto my bed. I’d clean up the mess. I just needed to rest for a second.
I stared at the ceiling, my hands bracing my throbbing head. Tears made a mess of my cheeks. One day, Dad, it’ll be my turn, I thought. I’ll be the one hurting you.
Serving Up a Lesson
In my dreams I can still hear Carla’s damn dog barking. It was an explosive, deep-from-within bark. Almost rattled the windows. How many times did Brutus wake me before I was finally forced to take real action?
The barking shattered my sleep like a crowbar meeting a windshield. I opened my eyes, looked at the clock on the bedside stand—barely five in the morning. Are you kidding me? The sky wasn’t even lit yet. I dragged Carla’s pillow over my head. She wasn’t using it; she was still at work. Maybe I needed a lead-lined pillow or something, because the noise wasn’t drowned out.
“Shut up, stupid mutt!” I threw the pillow against the wall, wiped sleep from my eyes, and climbed from the bed.
I moved to my dresser, pulled open the drawer second from the top, and grabbed a T-shirt. The front of the shirt displayed a large T. rex skull with Dallas Museum of Natural History printed underneath. It was my favorite shirt. I put it on, stretched, and then grabbed a pair of Walmart’s finest khaki shorts—clearance, $12.97—from the floor and pulled them over yesterday’s tighty-whities.
The barking continued. I slid my feet into my slippers and went in search of Brutus. The infuriating noise led me to the kitchen. I turned on the lights, illuminating the beast. He stood on his hind legs, his front paws braced against the back door, his snout pressed against the glass of the window. He barked like he had information of the utmost importance to relay to me.
“What? You
think you’re fucking Lassie or something? Has little Eddie fallen into the well? Shut up, you fucking mutt!”
He turned, whimpered, and then looked back out the window. I walked to the door, stood next to him, and looked into the backyard. It was still too dark to see anything, but that didn’t seem to bother Brutus. He barked again and again.
“Goddamn it, Brutus! I said shut up!” I kicked him in his backside.
And that’s when that damn thing turned and nipped at me. I don’t know if I caught him by surprise, or if he was finally showing his true colors, but I wasn’t going to stand for that shit. Not in my house. Time to serve up a lesson. And what better for that than an iron frying pan?
I grabbed the pan from the stove and returned my attention to the dog. He had already forgotten about me and had resumed his barking, probably a rabbit hopping across the yard. If Carla had been there, though, she would’ve been positive it was whoever left the skeleton in the sinkhole.
Brutus paid me no attention. That was his mistake. I swung the heavy skillet down as hard as I could. It crashed into the top of Brutus’s head, made a cool cracking sound, and cut off his bark in midstream. The dog dropped like his off switch had just been flipped.
I stood next him, frying pan hanging at my side. “Not so tough now, are you, Brutus?”
Not even a whimper came from the mutt. But was he just knocked out? I debated on how to proceed. Stupid Carla. This is your fault. You wanted a dog, so you got a dog. I’ve wanted a lot of things. But I never got a fucking thing. Not once. Not ever. My whole life could be summed up in three words: “Didn’t get shit.”
I raised the pan over my head and swung down hard a second time. I stared at the lifeless dog a moment and then concluded the Brutus chapter could now be put in the history books.
There was only a small amount of blood on the frying pan. I rinsed it off and placed the pan in the cabinet under the stove, where it belonged. It irritated me how I was the only one who ever put things back in their proper spot. I was always cleaning up after Carla. And you think she ever said “thank you”? Yeah, right.
Criminal Zoo Page 5
