“Make sure you fill those up. I’m the only one who ever does.”
She smiles and walks into the living room to turn on the TV. The bizarre lumberjack championship is on again. Jack laughs, still crunching ice.
“Holy crap, this shit has been on all week. How the fuck do you win? Does anyone ever win?”
On the screen, two women are standing on logs and furiously chopping through the wood between their own feet. His roommate peers around the corner for a look.
“How come they don’t chop off their toes?”
“Would you care?”
“Sort of.”
“You’d watch until you saw someone loose a limb at least, right?”
“What? Why do you care?”
“You’re doing it for the wrong reasons,” Jack says, sounding uncertain.
She barks a laugh.
“Wait, wait, wait. I’m watching the lumberjack contest ‘for the wrong reasons?’ And what are the right reasons? You sound like those assholes who defend NASCAR saying, ‘If you’re waiting for a wreck, you don’t deserve to be a fan!’ Well, who doesn’t?” She’s laughing louder now. “And now you’re back over here after being missing for weeks, all like, ‘You are not a real lumberjack tournament fan!’ Fucking nuts, dude.”
“Forget it,” he says.
“No, please, tell me, what are the right circumstances to view this contest?”
Jack turns back to the action, watching husky women swinging their axes faster and faster. He doesn’t hear the chopping or his roommate anymore as the motion of their chopping grows too blurry to follow. Then she reaches past him to change channels, and Jack snaps back to reality. The TV ends up on one of the animal channels, and three dogs are running on logs in a swimming pool. Jack rubs his eyes.
“Jack, one question,” she asks, not laughing anymore.
“Huh.”
“Who’s the girl? She keeps coming by, looking for you.”
Jack says nothing.
“She’s not your type.”
Amusement Park. Same night. Jacki is sitting in the dark, back on the fake Model-T they rode for Toni’s birthday, the same day Anthony disappeared, the same day of the big brawl that ended up on the news. She reaches into her purse and pulls out two small flashlights, the kind you buy for your keychain, and she places them on the ends of the wooden dashboard, pointing them off into the dark, down the track. She clicks her new headlights on and off, watching the rays cut through the fog as she thinks about driving too fast and songs on radios ending too soon. Then a figure walks between the beams, giving her heart a punch in the chest.
It’s Jack, walking fast towards her. She’s still gasping when he leans on her window, grinning.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, heart still hammering.
“I asked you first.”
“I came here to be alone.”
“Me, too! How did you get in here?”
“Good question,” she says. “You first.”
Jack opens the door to climb inside, reaching forward to angle one of her little flashlights so that it points to the tops of some nearby trees.
“What are you looking for up there anyway? Is the sky finally falling?”
She doesn’t answer, instead trying to think of Chicken Little’s real name. She remembers it has money in. He points the light at the nearby fence instead, looking for holes.
“I thought these were real headlights for a second. I actually thought you were going to drive away in this thing. Like in a real car. Did you try to start it…”
Jack is fumbling with the fake dashboard instruments, just like Anthony did, and Jacki slides away from him on the seat, sick to her stomach.
“Did you follow me, Jack?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You can sit here,” she says. “But only if you don’t talk about-”
“Listen,” Jacks interrupts. “I know you don’t trust me, but I need you to hear this. I think that there’s a rapist out there, and he’s both you and your father’s daughter. I mean, you and your daughter’s father. Something like that. Do you have an abacus on you? Motherfucker’s nuts, is my point.”
“Stop. Just stop. You can sit here if you don’t talk about my cursed family tree for five seconds. If you don’t sound fucking crazy for a whole minute.”
“Fine.”
Pause.
“Okay, I’m all wound up though,” he says, unable to stop himself from ruining things. “So how about I talk about me instead? You want a story where you can judge me, so we’re even? Okay, here’s one where I look bad, but it’s for a good cause. Just like now. Long time ago, a couple girlfriends ago, me and whoever were driving on a night like this, and while she was screwing around with the knobs on the radio, she hit this kid on a bicycle. Or maybe it was a tricycle. Whichever is worse. Either way, one minute she’s messing with the static between stations, next minute, boom. A bike rolls over the hood, tire squeaking across the glass, spokes scrape the roof, and then the kid’s gone. She was all hysterical, of course, so I jumped out and found the bike glowing red in the taillights, everything facing the wrong way, tire still spinning. The kid was nowhere in sight, but we were right next to this ditch, you know? So he likely got knocked down there. And that’s when she got out, too, and I thought our date would be ruined if she saw. I had a great night planned, and we still had an hour before we were even close to the party. So I kicked the bike under the car. Then I ran over to the ditch and acted like I was watching the kid ride away. I was like, ‘Damn, tough little bastard. Not even a limp!’ I mean, ‘Not even a flat tire!’ And she believed me, not knowing the bike was right by her feet while I’m saying this, and the kid was probably right down there in the drain water, steam still chugging out of his mouth. And when she calmed down, we got back in the car, and I thought, ‘If I pull this off, I swear I’ll tell the truth someday.’
“Did you tell the truth someday?” Jacki asks, barely listening.
“Right about then, the back tire rolled over the handlebars. If she knew, she gave no clue.”
“She knew.”
Jack keeps going. He’s got the details down pretty good now, like a good, practiced joke.
“I was gonna write a story about it,” he says. “Get it off my chest. But it would be my first story ever, and she’d know something was up.”
“I don’t believe a word of that,” Jacki says after a minute.
“Why not? That wasn’t easy to admit, you know? How do you not feel closer to me right now?”
“You should have someone write a short story about someone writing a short story about this. Then you’d be in the clear. You know, getting it off your chest. Then no one has to listen to it again.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Jacki shakes her head at him then straightens out the flashlight Jack moved.
“Sorry. Okay, what else ya got? You know, this is the most I’ve heard you talk about yourself since-”
“Well,” Jack says, excited, interrupting. “I was thinking that maybe this rapist was originally attracted to your mother, then later to you because of the resemblance. It makes perfect sense if you look at this...”
Jack frantically digs a photograph out of his pocket. Jacki spins her tiny flashlight on it. It’s Jacki’s mother. She snatches it from his hand.
“I told you to give that shit a rest! You know, the only thing creepier than your theories is when you tell me one and POW! you suddenly pull a picture of my mother out of your pocket like a fuckin’ rabbit.”
“Funny you should say ‘rabbit…’”
“Get out.”
Jack is genuinely confused.
“I’m just trying to save-”
Jacki puts both flashlights back in her pockets where they continue to glow.
“You’re really getting scary. At first I thought – You know what? Forget it. You keep talking about the same shit no matter how many times I
ask you to stop. You follow me out here with this mission to “save” me from-”
“I’m sorry!” he pleads. “It’s just... I’m noticing things I’ve never noticed before. On the job. Things that could have been there all along. These things have gotta be connected.”
Jacki opens her door.
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall at this job of yours, Jack. While someone’s coughing up blood under a tire, you’re probably poking a dead frog saying, ‘This is all wrong... someone get me my fingerprint kit and the astrology page. Anyone know what today is?’”
“What is today?”
“You’re nuts, Jack. Stay the fuck away from me. I mean it.”
“A fly on the wall,” he mutters. “At my job, sometimes there are hundreds of flies on the walls…”
She gets out of the Model-T, and he follows her.
“Jacki, wait. You don’t really want me to go, do you?”
“Let me ask you this,” she says. “While we’re still talking about ‘flies,’ do Venus Flytraps grow around these parts? I mean, on their own, wherever, like Kentucky, Florida, Pennsylvania, anywhere in the wild?”
“I have no idea,” he frowns. “Hollywood maybe? Shit’s weird out there. But I’m not convinced you don’t believe this stuff I’m telling you. This stuff about Toni. You already told me you remember what happened at the wreck. If that’s true then why don’t-”
“I don’t know what I remember anymore!” Jacki says, patience gone. “Except one thing. I remember one thing from that night.” She stabs a finger in his chest. “I remember you.”
“Of course you remember me. I was the one who took you to the-”
“‘Three more minutes and it never happened.’”
“Yes. That was me. We’ve been all through this. But I told you that was me. It’s so simple. It really is.” He’s begging now. “I covered up the evidence of your rape. I thought I could make it so it never happened. What’s wrong with that? Nothing.”
Jacki is walking away, and Jack climbs back into the car to try and start the engine.
“I didn’t ask you to do that!” she yells. “If that’s what you did. And if that’s what you did, you probably also destroyed any chance of anyone catching this monster for good, this man that only you swears is still out there.”
“But I’m so close,” he says. “If I could just-”
“Jack, I don’t give a shit. That’s what you don’t realize. You think you saved me, but I didn’t need saving.”
“You did. You still do.”
Jack finds the starter cord and gives it a yank. Jacki’s backing away as the lawnmower engine starts popping. She gets one of her flashlights out again, and aims it at his face. He holds up a hand, squinting.
“Let me ask you a question, Jack. If you had the choice, if you could choose whether your girlfriend or wife or mother or daughter or any female in your life was raped or killed, what would you do?”
Jack squirms in his seat. It’s a question no man should answer. At least not quickly. Which is exactly what he does.
“Raped! But I don’t understand what-”
“Raped, huh? Okay, now, would you rather she was raped or had one of her hands cut off?
“Raped?” Jack says after a second. “What’s your point?”
“Shhh. Last question. Would you rather she was raped or had one of her fingers cut off?”
Jack hesitates. Then he hesitates some more.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Jacki says, clicking off her light and turning away.
“Hold it!” he yells. “Do I get to pick what finger?”
“Bye, monster.”
Jack steps on the accelerator, and his Model-T rebounds against the rail, sending him in the wrong direction.
“Hey, are these ‘bumper’ cars? Or can we take this thing on a real road?”
“Bye, Jack!” she yells over her shoulder. “Think about what I just asked you sometime.”
Jack fights against the steering wheel, still trying follow her, still trying to get the last word.
“Seriously, which finger?! You realize humans don’t even use their little fingers anymore? In a hundred years they’ll be gone completely. We’ll have three fingers and a thumb, just like in the cartoons. That’s the only reason I got that one wrong. I was trying to figure out if you were talking about the little finger. That’s why I hesitated! ‘Cause losing that one is like losing your little toe... meaningless really…”
As Jacki wrestles with the hole, she bends to crawl under the fence and Jack is still rambling in the dark. She shines her flashlight through the cracks between her fingers, studying her blood in the glow, looking for cuts, looking for answers.
“How many times do I have to say this shit?” she asks no one, clicking off the light, leaving Jack to fight the car like Anthony did.
At home that night, Jacki struggles to close a broken window blind, hoping her daughter doesn’t see their newest cat, “Tony Baloney,” rubbing his head on the glass and begging to be brought inside. Toni is directly under the window, taking batteries from the television remotes to power her yellow and black “Blurby.” It was a fuzzy, electronic creature, not quite a cat, not quite a dog, certainly not one of those ridiculously expensive Furbys. More like a bumblebee crossed with a monkey if anything, and it never shut up once it got going. Deciding the cat is the lesser of two evils, Jacki tries to take the hideous mechanical gremlin out of her daughter’s hands before it begins its indecipherable chatter. But it’s too late. The creature stirs, heavy-lidded eyes opening.
“Doo-moh ay-ay kah!” it practically screams. Outside, Tony Baloney howls.
“Fuck,” Jacki says.
“Loud sound! Doo-may-ta!” it warbles.
She tries to stop her, but Jacki’s daughter is already letting in ol’ Tony Baloney, the latest stray they’d been feeding, apparently to increase the likelihood of more random cat attacks in their home. The mewling Blurby, however, Toni only “fed” about once a year, when she noticed or nudged it. This “feeding” consisted of letting its horrid plastic beak suckle a finger tip, a ritual Toni loved.
And the yellow beak is pulsing on Jacki’s little finger before she can stop it, and instinctually, Jacki spikes it like a football. The Blurby squawks, seemingly in pain, but in all English this time instead of Blurbish, a carbon copy of Furbish, really, the only thing the counterfeiters got exactly right.
“Aah! Worried!”
Toni gasps, then starts to cry. But instead of stopping the toy’s whelping, the outburst causes the toy to make even more horrible sounds. And the cat locks onto this abomination rolling across the floor, motors spinning the ghastly ears like radars, buzzing loud like hornets, and Tony Baloney poofs out to twice his size, proving the only thing a cat hates more than a Furby is apparently a cheap-ass knockoff. Toni goes to step over them both, and the cat’s ears flatten as it hisses. Toni panics, and it begins to back her against the television. The toy seems to find this amusing.
“Kah toh-loo loo-loo!” it giggles.
Jacki studied the Furby Phrase dictionary online when her daughter first got the damn thing, so she understands this particular phrase. “Big fun,” is what it is saying. And this is enough for Jacki to decide today is as good a day as any to stomp the beast forever into silence. She brings her heel down hard, feeling first the mechanism snap that registers a child’s fingers pressing into its fuzzy belly, then the damaged toy stops speaking any discernible language at all and just starts warbling nonstop.
“Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah…” it burbles, one eye closed, one half open, beak quivering. This is all too much for the cat, and when Toni tries to run to save the toy, a panicked Tony Baloney locks onto the pink meat of her leg, teeth and claws flashing.
Toni screams. Jacki stomps. And the toy just hums and hums.
Then something clicks in her daughter, and she kicks the cat free with one foot and raises the other high.
“No!” Ja
cki shouts, just as Toni brings her small foot down on the cats spine, snapping it with an ugly twist of her heel. Tony Baloney begins to run for the open door, screeching, dragging its back legs as its urine splashes, and Jacki runs after it, tipping a bag of groceries near the door. The cat disappears under the porch, hissing in the dark, and Jacki comes back inside, not knowing what kind of meltdown to expect from her child. A can of shredded chicken rolls lazily across the floor.
A little chicken? The sky is falling! she thinks, trying not to laugh as she picks up the split paper bag.
But Toni is quiet. She’s rubbing her leg absently, silent tears already drying on her cheek. The toy sits on the floor between them. Broken but still talking.
“I like to dance, too,” it offers as a solution.
Jacki doesn’t know how to turn it off, and she collapses on the floor in defeat, crying freely now. This is the first time her daughter has seen her cry, and she’s ashamed, helpless. Jacki wishes she could be relieved when her daughter calmly takes the toy into the other room and does something to stop its electronic voice and clockwork heart for good.
But she’s not.
Evil only saw the tail end of what looked like a mangy cat robot being murdered on the giant screen, but he heard enough children crying about it, and it started to get him rattled. Picking up speed and weaving through the parked cars, he reached past the snarling dog still hanging on by its mouth and pushed play on his stereo. It was Billy’s tuneless croak that began rapping over his scene, and Evil almost didn’t recognize it.
“I pour whiskey in computers that try to get greedy… got icicles in my beard like R.J. MacReady… wear my cowboy hat sideways on the bottom of the world… crazy fuckin’ Swedes throw grenades like a girl…”
Then Larry crashed through a door directly in front of Evil’s dirt bike, head on a swivel, trying to regain his bearings, as a cop was suddenly stuck to Larry’s shoulders like a magnet. Impossibly, all of them were near the playground now, and the man piggybacking the officer plowed through a gaggle of mothers gathering up their broods when a bubblegum machine surprised Larry’s knees out of nowhere and the glass ball imploded into shards and rainbows. This wave of color washed over Larry’s shoes like he was a giant in a children’s ball pit. Then the two of them pedaled in midair for a split-second like a cartoon, and Larry realized it wasn’t bubble gum they were ice-skating through after all, but Super Balls.
The Last Projector Page 38
