by Darcia Helle
They'd waded through the muck, dragging the canoe out to the water. Kerry shoved Billy over to one end of the boat, telling him to sit and watch the fish or something. Then she had sat on the bench beside Jack and slipped her hand into his shorts.
Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...
Billy began singing, leaning over the edge and splashing his hands in the water. Jack and Kerry had their back to him, but they could hear the kid clearly. Jack wanted to tell Kerry to stop, it wasn't right to do this with the kid in the boat. He might have said those words, though he didn't remember for sure. At some point, Kerry had spun around and shouted, "Will you shut the hell up!"
The singing abruptly stopped then. Kerry worked her hand up and down, and Jack's mind shut down. In that lustful moment, he forgot all about little Billy. She let him touch her in that secret spot women had. Blood rushed in his ears as she wriggled against his fingers.
He didn't last long. When it was over and he realized what they'd just done, he felt his face flush. He glanced over his shoulder, worried the kid had seen everything. But the kid wasn't there.
Jack and Kerry both took too long to figure out that Billy had gone over the side of the boat. He wasn't swimming or playing hide and seek. He was floating face down in the stream ten feet away. Billy drowned while they were busy getting each other off. If there were pleas for help, they didn’t hear them.
Kerry had sworn him to secrecy. There was nothing they could do for Billy now. Telling her parents the truth would get them both sent to one of those brutal juvenile detention places, where the bigger guys would mercilessly and repeatedly rape Jack and the older girls would beat Kerry for being a child killer. They'd dragged the boat back through the marsh and hidden it under the brush. They'd gone home separately, as if they'd never seen each other at all. He'd played basketball with the neighborhood kids. She'd waited at home for her parents, pretending to be shocked when Billy wasn't in his room napping like he was supposed to be.
Later that afternoon, Billy's body drifted up the river where a fisherman was casting his line. The fisherman pulled Billy ashore, but of course it was too late.
Jack stared at the rowboat, hidden away with its secrets, and listened to Billy's voice drifting on the wind.
Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...
Why, Jack, oh why, didn’t you hear me scream?
Forgotten
“They don’t remember you," Ben tells me. His statement is an exasperated huff. Ben is my best friend, but sometimes he pisses me off.
“You don’t know that.” My voice floats on the wind, lacking the conviction I'd been aiming for.
I peer through the chain link fence. A group of girls squeals as a boy chases them. He's gripping a slimy frog in his dirty hands and I worry he'll accidentally squish the thing. I'd been one of those giggling girls once, so long ago.
Seven-year-old Jared hangs upside down on the jungle gym. He pretends not to look at Jade, his six-year-old sister, who is playing tag. Jared pretends not to look, not to care, but I see his eyes dart in Jade's direction every now and then. He is the protector, ensuring his little sister's safety. Despite the tears stinging my eyes, I'm happy they have each other.
"Are you going to talk to them this time?" Ben asks.
"No."
"We can't stand around watching kids on a school playground, like some creepy pedophile couple."
"I know."
"If you're not going to talk to them, what's the point of coming here?"
How can I make Ben understand my need? Just to see them. To watch them play. To hear their giggles and shouts. To let myself imagine a different life for all of us.
I know Ben is right. Still, a part of me clings to the hope that they will remember sitting on my lap on the big rocker. We'd go through the Dr. Seuss collection, reading each book once. Except Green Eggs & Ham. We always had to read that one twice. Jade's downy hair tickled my chin, and Jared clutched his blanket as he fought sleep.
Grilled cheese was their favorite lunch. I used extra butter and made sure the cheese was all the way melted. Jared would pull the cheese off the bread and roll it between his little fingers. Then he'd pop the gooey ball in his mouth, look up at me, and giggle. Jade tried to copy him but her clumsy fingers, greasy with butter, only succeeded in mangling her sandwich. She never cared, though. She'd stuff the pieces in her mouth, grinning proudly at Jared and me.
I know they were too young, that those memories are mine alone. If they looked across the field and saw me here at the fence, their beautiful faces, so familiar to me, would turn away as if I was just another stranger on the street.
That's the way it should be. As much as I want them to remember, it's best they don't.
Ben fidgets beside me. He's not the most patient guy. But he tries his best to support me, even when he's not sure what it is I want. Even when I'm not sure either.
"Emma," Ben says, "you have to decide. We can't keep coming here."
"I know." And I do know. This will be the last time. I'll take their happy faces with me, the memory of them at least. I'll hold on to those images to get me through the dark days, when I feel like collapsing beneath the weight of it all.
"Are you worried their parents will get mad if you talk to them?" Ben asks.
"No. It's just better this way."
I couldn't have handpicked better parents for Jared and Jade. They supported me through the transition. I hadn't expected the kind of heartbreak I felt when it was time to let go. They invited me to visit and never once suggested I cut myself out of their lives. But I’m a painful reminder.
"How about what's best for you?"
Ben knows about the nightmares. On more than one occasion, he's held my trembling body after I awoke screaming.
"I don't know what's best for me," I tell him.
I was fourteen when the man in the blue shirt dragged me into his van. He kept me in a locked room in his damp basement for almost a year. Every day he raped me. Sometimes twice a day. Each month when I got my period, he'd beat me as if it was my fault. I'd hear him and his wife upstairs arguing afterward. She wanted children but couldn't get pregnant. I was supposed to be their incubator but he was having no better luck impregnating me. A bittersweet irony there.
Three days after I celebrated my fifteenth birthday by getting my period and a beating in that dank basement, I was dragged upstairs to a large nursery. The room was decorated with Mickey and Minnie artwork on pale yellow walls. There were two shiny new cribs. And there was Jared and Jade.
My abuser's wife had grown tired of waiting, so my abuser kidnapped brother and sister. Jared was two, Jade one. They were taken because I hadn't gotten pregnant. I hadn't given my captors a child. I will forever hold the guilt inside me. Irrational, I admit. Guilt, though, is not a rational emotion.
Deanne, my abuser's wife, quickly found out motherhood is not easy. Kids cry and get dirty. They need to be fed and entertained.
I moved upstairs and slept on the floor in the nursery. I changed diapers and wiped noses. When the kids woke up crying, I rocked them back to sleep. When Deanne slapped one of them for being too noisy, I cuddled them and we cried together.
Fourteen months is a long time when you're counting in minutes. For every good memory, I have dozens more that torment. I won't describe the abuse to anyone. I can't define those moments with words. My lifeline through it all was the smiles on those two beautiful faces. They saved me and I owe them that same gift in return.
I look one last time at the two of them. The bell rings and a teacher calls the kids inside. Jared hops off the jungle gym. He waits for his sister to skip ahead with her friends. Jade grins at him; a quick and fleeting acknowledgment that her big brother is watching out for her.
I swipe an errant tear and turn to Ben. "Let's take a bus to New York," I say. "Or maybe Chicago. We can work in a blues bar and you can play guitar in a band."
"What about them?" he asks, tilting his head
toward the playground. "I thought you wanted to stick close."
"Not anymore." I give him a sad smile. "Being forgotten is the best gift I can give them."
No Fear
The bet seemed like a good idea at the time. I spend one night alone in some woodsy place. If I make it until morning without calling for help or running back to the car, Tyler pays my tab at the bar for the next six months. If I wimp out, I have to stand on a table in the middle of the bar on a busy Friday night and announce that I believe in monsters.
Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen.
Still, this one night of playing Survivorman sounded a lot easier two nights ago. Proves you should never make bets after drinking five Jack and Cokes.
Tyler and I are more drinking buddies than friends. He’s a good guy, but a little too soft. He talks about his experience in these woods every now and then, especially when he’s buzzed. The story sounds like a bad horror flick. Claims he came out here with a girlfriend back in high school. They were looking for a quiet place to screw. The way he tells it, the two of them had this romantic encounter planned. Soft blanket and a six-pack of Bud. That’s about as much romance as a high school kid gets. He had her pants off and was just about to take the plunge when she screamed. Said she’d seen a monster in the shadows. He heard the rustling, turned, and saw it too. Or so he says. He grabbed their stuff and they ran half-naked back to the car. Never went back. Like I said, a bad horror flick.
Personally, I think Tyler and the chick smoked a little too much weed that night. Tyler claims they’d only had a couple beers. He also says he saw a monster, so believe what you want there.
Anyhow, I’d never been out this way. My high school girlfriends were always happy to sneak me into their bedrooms at night or give me a quickie in the backseat of my Chevy. I’d never been much of an outdoorsman but, hell, it can’t be that hard to sleep on the ground for one night. Tyler and Mark, another dude from the bar, drove me out a couple hours before dusk. The place is about twenty miles from town and only accessible from a narrow dirt road. I didn’t expect it to be quite so desolate out here. Like I said, the woods don’t hold much appeal for me.
Tyler dropped me off midway down the dirt road. He and Mark headed right back out. They’d be spending the night in the car, parked right by the main road. It’s the only way back, so they’ll know if I stick it out or not. I have my phone and can call if I get lost. Or scared. I ain’t never been scared in my life.
To win the bet, I have to walk into the woods and wander a little. Can’t just spend the night on the dirt road by the car. I have to take some photos with my phone to prove I’d been out sightseeing. So I push through the brush and curse nature. Think about all the drinking I’ll be doing on Tyler’s dime.
I have a sleeping bag with me, and lugging it is becoming a major pain in the ass. No whiskey. Only a bottle of water and a freakin’ granola bar. I’d have brought the fifth of Jack but Tyler said I have to stay straight. He doesn’t want me getting hurt out here. Or passing out and missing the monster.
Walking through this shit sucks. The tree limbs are stiff with cold and I have to be careful they don’t scratch my face as I push through. I snap a few photos from different angles. They all look the same. The trees haven’t woken up to spring yet. Everything’s dark and dead in the dwindling light. No way Tyler will know how far out I went, when one picture looks the same as the other. It’s all freakin’ trees and dead leaves on the ground. I figure I’ll walk a little farther, snap a few more photos, then head back. I’ll stretch my sleeping bag out by the dirt road and smoke a little weed. Yeah, Tyler didn’t really think I’d be spending this night straight, did he? I’ll get high and crash for the night. In a few hours, I’ll be doing double shots of Jack and teaching Tyler a lesson about being a betting man. I never lose.
The ground starts getting soggy beneath my feet. My Nikes now have muck all over the sides, which pisses me off. Where the hell is the water coming from? We haven’t had rain for nearly a week. I look through a break in the trees and find the source. A pond or a swamp or something. Creepy-looking place. The water is still as stone, and all the half-dead trees are reflecting off the surface. I snap a couple photos, laughing at how eerie the place looks. Tyler and his freakin’ monsters. If the things did exist, this would be the perfect place for them to hide out. It’s probably a good thing I haven’t smoked any weed yet.
As I turn away, a noise echoes out by the water. The sound is difficult to place and at first jolts me. I’m not scared. I don’t get scared. The noise just surprises me. Must be a bird or something. Maybe I can grab a photo and show Tyler his monster.
I turn back toward the pond but I don’t see anything. Not even a ripple in the water. No birds flapping in the trees. I step close, moving past a tangle of trees. That’s when I see it, though I don’t know what it is. My first thought is it looks like a giant bird’s nest in the middle of the pond. But even I know birds don’t build nests in the water. I move closer, so I’m standing right at the edge of the pond. The ground is soft here and my hundred-dollar Nikes slide dangerously close to the edge. I’m a good swimmer, but ain’t no way I feel like testing this water tonight.
Maybe it’s some sort of well? But that doesn’t make sense, either. Who’d put a well in the middle of a pond? As I’m staring at this oddity, I hear the sound again. A screech or, more fitting, a cackle. The sound I thought was a bird. And it came from inside that hole. So it is a nest?
I want to get closer, maybe see what’s inside. Must be a hell of a big bird to build a nest like that. I walk along the edge of the pond, stepping carefully through the brush. The sun is setting and darkness will come quick out here. I have a flashlight, though I’d rather not be out here when night falls. I’m not afraid. Hell, no. I just don’t want to be tripping my way through this mess at night, when I can be huddled in my warm sleeping bag getting high and looking at the stars.
I make my way through the tangle of vines and fallen branches, and now I’m only about twenty feet from the mound with the huge hole. From here, I see it’s a hell of a lot bigger than I’d thought. The thing must be at least four feet in diameter. And it’s not a nest. The grass and moss are concealing a brick base. It’s old, cracking. But definitely manmade.
A few months ago, I saw a show about tar pits on the Science channel. I’d been drinking and didn’t feel like getting up to find the remote. I passed out about halfway through the show, so I don’t remember the point of it all, but I do remember the swampy places they filmed. At the time I thought it was a bunch of shit hyped up to look freaky on TV. Hell, maybe that’s what this is all about. Someone had come out here to shoot a scene, maybe a music video or some bullshit YouTube video. I should drag Tyler back here, tell him I saw his monster pop out of the hole. The kid would shit himself.
I snap another photo, then figure I’d better get moving if I want to make it back to the dirt road before dark. That sound comes at me again. The cackling. It kind of echoes around that mound in the water. Maybe a bird or a rabbit or something is stuck inside, hurt, can’t get out. Too bad, so sad. I sure as hell ain’t about to wade in there and help it.
I should’ve recorded the sound. That, along with the photos and a little exaggeration of my story, and I’d be a freakin’ hero. Tyler’d be bowing down to me for surviving a night out in the woods with his monster.
I’m laughing about this when the sound starts up again, only louder this time. Damn! The hair on my arms stands on end. I’m not scared, though. Just startled. Sound plays tricks out here, and now it’s like there’s more than one of whatever the hell it is. I fumble with my phone, looking for the recorder. A quick five-second spot and I’m out of here. Not that I’m afraid. I just want to get back while I still have some light. I’ve earned a rest and a good high.
The shadow creeping up over the mound has to be a trick of the light. It’s big and bulky, long, stretching out over the water’s glassy surface. Then it’s not a shadow anymore.
Tyler’s monster.
The phone slips from my hand and plunks into the water. A scream gets lodged in my throat and for a moment I’m frozen to the spot. The dark shape has scaly skin and must be seven-feet tall. Huge arms. Claws instead of fingers. A second monster emerges behind it. Finally my feet start moving, and I slip and slide my way through the marshy brush. The cackling follows me, louder, closer. Right now, I’d happily stand bareass on that bar and proclaim my belief in monsters, aliens, and talking flowers. Anything, just as long as I get out of this place.
I feel the hot stream of air on my neck and smell the rancid, rotted breath seconds before the scaly arms pin me in place. I flail and scream. The monster drops me to the ground and stares at me as if I am an interesting specimen for its science project. I scramble backward like a crab, get caught up in the creeping vines and collapse onto my back. The monster offers what I think is a grin. Its teeth are dark and pointed. It grabs my ankles and drags me back toward the water.
Another monster joins it. Then another. They’re making noises, those cackling sounds. Their finger-claws dance in the air and they stare at me with slime-covered eyes. I flash on my last moments with Tyler, before walking out here on my own. He’d said, “Are you sure you want to do this, Ryan? It’s cool if you want to call off the bet.”
I’d given him my cocky grin and said, “Have no fear, Tyler. I don’t believe in monsters.”
Tiny Dancer
George limped up the steps and set the box by the door. No one noticed the blood on his hands. The city kept its eyes closed.
He didn’t ring the doorbell, didn’t knock. She would find the box there when she walked up those same steps on her way inside.
