“Touché.” I change the channel to ESPN.
April
It’s gotten all springy and warm after the long winter, and Bonnie and I are in the car on the way back from the antique barn out on Route 30. Weather’s starting to pick up a bit. We get our fair share of storms out here, but usually nothing too severe until late May. Today’s different. The sky’s starting to turn dark green and there’s a wall of clouds behind us that looks like a mountain range in the rear-view mirror.
Then the classic country station goes dead, and the Emergency Broadcast System alarm goes off. The mechanical voice says it’s a tornado warning. It’s right behind us, and we’re still ten miles from home and there’s no ditches or overpasses in sight.
I floor it and pray.
The rain hits the windshield like bullets, so heavy I can barely see. We make it home, but the storm sirens are blaring full-blast and the street’s empty. Bonnie taps me on the shoulder and points: there’s a big funnel cloud across the cornfield, half the width of a football field. Sounds like a train roaring past the house, and rain and bits of tree branch are hitting me in the face. A few blocks away I see it tear the roof off the Cartwrights’ house and hope to God they aren’t home. We try to get inside to hide in the basement, but I fumble the keys at the door and drop them on the porch. As I bend over to pick them up, I see John stepping out his front door, wearing safety goggles and a black metal box on his back that looks way too heavy for him. In his left hand is what looks like a megaphone, but with a four-foot antenna sticking up from it. He shouts to us to get to cover; I yank the grate off the crawlspace under the porch and we slide inside on our bellies. We’re getting pelted by flying leaves and wood splinters, and right over those trees that tornado’s tearing up everything in its path. I’m man enough to admit I’ve never been so scared in my life.
But John doesn’t run. He just stands there, right in the tornado’s path. I can barely see through all the debris, but I catch a glimpse of him walking slowly toward the funnel. For a second I think he might be one of those crazy storm-hunters who try and get themselves killed just for the thrill of it. Bonnie motions for me to go get him, but the wind’s so strong it’d sweep me away. Chunks of wood and glass smack against the aluminum siding, and I hear something crash through the living room window.
Just when it looks like the wind’s about to take him, he raises that megaphone contraption, points it at the tornado, presses a button. There’s a high-pitched sound like a defibrillator revving up, so loud my eardrums almost burst, then a flicker of light, quick as a camera flash. In front of him the tornado starts to curl up, the wind slowing to a crawl, and in about five seconds it spins itself out, showering him with leaves and cornstalks and roof tiles.
As the wind peters out, a red wig bounces across the lawn and stops right in front of me, and when I look up I see him: bald as a stone, goggles and fake eyebrows blown right off his face. For just a second he turns our way and sees me through the grate. He looks around to see if anybody else is watching, then runs back into his house and slams the door behind him.
Once we’re back inside, I call 911. I’m no fool. He probably caused that tornado to begin with.
The dispatcher asks me if something hit me in the head during the storm, and if I need an ambulance. When I say I don’t, she says, nice as possible, that I ought to get off the line in case there are people with real emergencies.
I don’t sleep much that night, and I keep the shotgun under the bed, just within arm’s reach, in case he tries anything.
Next morning, there’s a knock on the door. It’s him, wearing a wide-brimmed white hat tilted low over his eyes. He hasn’t bothered to put his hair or eyebrows back on. I start to go for the shotgun, but Bonnie holds me back.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. He has a hint of an accent I can’t quite place.
Bonnie opens the door.
We sit at the dining room table while Bonnie serves him a glass of lemonade. For a minute or two he stares into it, then lets out a long sigh.
He takes off his sunglasses and looks at me with those enormous, cold blue eyes. “So,” he says. “You know.”
I play dumb. You never know what he might do. “I don’t know anything,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Yes you do. It was only a matter of time. But this is a lovely little town. I had to do something.”
“So you did save us!” Bonnie says. “Well, then....” She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Thank you so much, John.” I nearly keel over in my chair; I’d never have let her get that close.
He smiles at her, but it’s sort of sad. “No, thank you, Bonnie,” he says. “I know I should have told you, but you’ve both been so welcoming, and I didn’t want to frighten anyone. I know who you think I am, but I haven’t been that man in thirty years.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “Everyone deserves a second chance. Right, honey?”
I nod, but I can’t take my eyes off him, thinking at any second he’ll grab her round the throat and hold her hostage while he escapes. That’s what his kind does.
He says thank-you, finishes off his lemonade, and turns to leave, but stops at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone,” he says, his back still turned to us.
“Of course we won’t, John,” Bonnie says. “Your secret is safe with us.”
He nods, and then he lumbers out the door.
Later, after Bonnie lies down for a nap, I make a few calls. People need to know these things.
That evening we meet at the barber shop—the one place we’re sure not to run into him. There’s me and Len Kofstra from the insurance agency, and Bob Griffin, who runs the bowling alley, and a few others. Shouldn’t have brought Bonnie, but when she saw me going out the door, she knew something was up and told me she’d follow me if I didn’t take her.
I tell them what I saw, and who John J. Johnson really is, and we all agree we can’t have someone like that running loose in our town. Sooner or later somebody’s bound to rub him the wrong way, and that’ll be it for all of us.
Of course Bonnie comes to his defense. “He’s been nothing but friendly,” she says. “He goes to church every Sunday and isn’t stingy with the collection plate. Not to mention saving our lives. How can we be talking about getting rid of him?”
The rest of us ignore her. “Men like that never really reform,” I say, and consider the matter closed.
“So what do we do?” Bob asks. “You already tried the cops. They won’t help.”
I sigh. “I guess we’re on our own.”
Then Len pipes in. “Some of my clients are bikers. They can put the fear of God into him if I asked nicely.”
But Bonnie starts to cry when he brings it up. “That’s horrible,” she said. “You can’t.” That plan dies in a hurry; the last thing we want is to make him angry, considering what he could bring down on us.
“So we’ll be inhospitable,” Bob suggests. “It’ll take time, but he’ll take the hint, eventually.”
We leave to spread the word, thinking we’ve solved our problem. On the way home I tell Bonnie that the plan includes her too.
“I didn’t agree to this,” she insists. “And John’s my friend. I’m not about to treat him like garbage just because you don’t like him.”
I stand my ground this time. “Dear, if you don’t go along with the plan it’ll all fall apart.”
“Then let it!”
We have a good row about it in the car, but by the time we get home she sees things my way.
She sleeps on the living room couch that night.
May
As it turns out, John doesn’t seem to notice the shunning. He still smiles and waves, and if people turn their backs, he just shrugs it off and goes on his way.
Some of the guys decide to lean on him a little more: Len loses track of his homeowner’s insurance statement, and George Gunnarsen, the mailman, accidentally misplaces
his utility and phone bills. But John doesn’t make a peep about it. George says he probably just pays everything online.
Everyone gives him a wide berth in church, and we even get Reverend Hayes to give a sermon on whether evil men can ever really reform. John shoots Bonnie and me a quick look after the Reverend’s speech. There’s no anger in his face, just a little smirk that says, I know you told them.
We sleep in the basement that night, just in case, but nothing happens. You can hardly blame me.
After a few weeks we start talking about giving up on the silent treatment. We agree to keep a close eye on him, hoping that will be enough to ward off any trouble.
And then we notice Sam, the McPhersons’ older boy, spending an awful lot of time at John’s house when school’s out—mowing the yard, trimming the lilacs, walking around without a shirt while John watches from the deck. Then they disappear into the house for a while—just for a lemonade, Sam says when I ask.
On hot days he lets Sam and his friends swim in the lake, diving off the dock in his backyard while he watches from his deck, an iced tea in his hand and that ermine on his lap.
That’s the last straw. Bad enough he could wipe out the whole town if he wanted to, but someone like him could easily have other perversions—those types are into all kinds of twisted things.
I tell Sam who John really is, but he just shrugs. “Cool.”
“He didn’t try to touch you, did he?” I ask, and he looks at me like I’m the bad guy for asking.
“Jesus, no,” he says. “Why would you even think that? He just likes having someone to talk to.”
But Sam’s only fifteen, and kids sometimes lie to protect people when they shouldn’t.
We meet in the barbershop again, though this time I told Bonnie I was going bowling with Len. We decide one of us should have a talk with him, let him know the situation. If he’s really the changed man he said he was, he’ll understand.
“In that case, Charlie, I think you’re elected,” Len says. “He’s your neighbor, and you’re the one who sussed him out.”
“Thanks, asshole,” I say, but he’s right.
The next day I knock on John’s door. He invites me in, fixes me the best cranberry vodka I’ve ever had, and we sit on his deck. He just stares at me for a few minutes, sipping his drink, then lets out a sigh. “What’s on your mind, Charlie?” he says in his real voice, instead of the lilty one he uses to fool everyone.
I finish off my drink with one gulp. And maybe it’s the vodka, but I figure I ought to get right to it. “Listen...some of us were talking, and we think, after that whole tornado thing, it might be better if you moved away from here.”
He raises a prickly, fake red eyebrow. “Who, exactly? Everyone?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “People have a right to be safe in their own neighborhood.”
He stands up, and whatever courage the vodka gave me disappears. “You have nothing to be afraid of. I think you’ve seen that by now.”
I can see he isn’t getting the point. “The thing is,” I say, “reformed or not, some folks wouldn’t be comfortable with a man with your history around. And we all want to know what you’ve been doing with Sam.”
He seems shocked that I’d even mentioned Sam. “I don’t know what you think is happening,” he says, “but I would never do anything inappropriate with him. Sam’s a decent boy, very considerate. After all you’ve told them about me, his parents still let him come here.”
I try to explain, though by then the vodka’s made me a little sluggish. “You have to understand....”
He cuts me off. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but this is my home, and I’m staying.”
“Now look,” I say. “It’s nothing personal...”
He leans over me, so close I feel his breath on my face. He could tear me to little pieces if he wanted to. But he just snatches up my empty glass and turns his back to me. “Good day, Charlie. Give Bonnie my best.”
After that little talk it’s clear we’ve got to do something, and fast, before he gets fed up and flattens the whole neighborhood with grapefruit-sized hail, or worse.
We meet again when Bonnie’s out to lunch with some old friends from high school. Len’s the one who thinks up the plan. Being an insurance agent, he knows how to make it happen quickly, so he won’t have time to get out. He calls one of his buddies in the fire department to make sure they take their time getting there.
I know it seems a bit much, and the truth is, we all have our qualms about it. But it’s got to be done, and if it only costs us a few sleepless nights to keep the neighborhood safe, it’s worth it.
So late that Friday night, after Bonnie falls asleep, I sneak out. She’s a light sleeper, so I have to poke her a couple of times to make sure she’s really out. I haven’t breathed a word of our plan to her; she won’t understand. And if she ever does find out, I’ll be sleeping on the couch permanently.
We gather in the garage, put on black sweatshirts and ski-masks, and wait until all the lights are off in John’s house. Len’s sealing the doors up with industrial glue when that weasel pokes his head out from behind the blinds, makes a high-pitched squeak, then slips back inside. I don’t mind telling you, we all need to change our shorts after that. But Len’s a cool customer, and before long he’s got the fire going. We all run and jump into a ditch to watch it burn. I half-expect John to come bursting out the living-room window any second, the weasel under his arm, and then we’ll have hell to pay. But the flames go higher and start to eat up the roof, and there’s no sign of him. He can’t still be asleep; we hear the smoke detectors inside.
By the time the fire trucks show up it’s too late for anyone to get out, and the roof caves in. The sirens wake Bonnie, but by then I’ve crawled into bed next to her and pretend to be as stunned as she is. Everyone comes out to watch the house burn, and as the firemen finally start to put it out Bonnie shoots me a glare like I’ve never seen before. She’s been annoyed with me plenty, but she’s never hated me before.
In the morning the only thing still standing is a blackened support beam. There are some burned-up tools lying around in the garage, and the husk of a big metal box, but we can’t tell if it had been his weather-control machine or a freezer. The fire department go through the wreckage looking for bodies, but don’t find anything—we thought maybe he’d burnt to ash. They find a big trapdoor in the basement, but the tunnel behind it is collapsed. So we got him, probably.
I have the jitters for a week after that, thinking a tornado could come along at any minute and fling us to God-knows-where. But the weather’s beautiful all week, and I finally start to relax—he’s gone, and we’re finally safe.
June
Bonnie got a call from her church group this morning and is out at the store picking up some butter and brown sugar for yet another batch of blueberry crumble. She’s been gone a long time—must’ve run into one of her friends at the supermarket. Once she starts chatting there’s no stopping her.
It’s starting to look inhospitable out there. The weatherman said it was supposed to be clear and sunny all day. I hope Bonnie gets back soon—she’s not so good driving that big Chrysler in the rain. I call her cell to make sure she’s okay.
She doesn’t answer. Hardly ever does if she’s in the middle of a conversation. I leave a voicemail. She doesn’t call back.
Off in the distance the sky’s turning dark, and I hear the first thunderclap. It’ll be a good one, the kind of storm that knocks down power lines and busts tree trunks and leaves a big mess to clean up in the morning.
Then the storm sirens go off.
I’m a bit slow on the take, but not dense. I know what’s coming.
I try to call Bonnie one last time to apologize, though I know it’s useless, then run for the basement.
The Sound Of His Voice
As Naomi stands in her kitchen, a hypodermic needle in her right hand, a bowl of Cheerios in her left, she wants very muc
h to close her eyes, just for a few seconds. But she must make Andrew’s coffee. Pack Audrey’s lunch. Make Colby’s breakfast. She has been awake for the last thirty hours.
It was supposed to be Andrew’s turn on night-monitor duty, because Colby hasn’t slept in ten months and someone has to stay up with him. But Andrew has an early meeting, so she’s had to take a second night in a row. Tonight, he says, she can go to bed early and he’ll deal with the kids. She doesn’t remember how much coffee she’s had, but her stomach burns and her hands are quivering. Her eyelids flutter a little and the full bowl of Cheerios falls to the black-and-white checkered tile. She keeps a tight grip on the syringe—forty-five dollars a dose, after insurance. Dropping it is not an option.
“Mommy!” Audrey shouts, which causes Naomi’s heart to flutter and her eyes to pop open. “You’re a buttery finger.”
Her first impulse is to growl at Audrey to make her own damned breakfast for once, but she’d just cry. She takes a breath, holds it for ten seconds, releases. The urge subsides. “That’s ‘butterfingers,’ sweetie,” she mutters, pouring a new bowl. She’ll sweep up the mess later.
“Butterfingers,” the girl repeats slowly, exaggerating every syllable. She is seated next to Colby on the white leather couch, holding his hand while petting Scratchy McGee, their orange tabby, with the other. Colby is still in his Spider-Man jammies, cross-legged, his little gray toes just poking out from under his thighs. His rust-orange eyes, nearly whiteless, are fixed on Abby Cadabby as she turns Oscar into a grouchy butterfly. He doesn’t laugh, or even blink. She picks up her smartphone and snaps a quick picture of them together, in case he gets worse. She’s heard stories, unconfirmed, about little ones getting so bad that body parts start falling off, until there’s nothing left but a pile of dried flesh and bone that just keeps on living. The doctors have said that won’t happen to Colby; his case is less severe, and they should feel lucky.
Feral Boy Meets Girl Page 9
