by Joe Hill
“Magnificent,” Bobby said. “People just have to keep on going, because you never know when something wonderful is going to happen.”
George Romero led them to their marks, and walked them through what he wanted from them. Lights pointed into silver, spangly umbrellas, casting an even white glow and a dry heat over a ten-foot stretch of floor. A lumpy striped mattress rested on the tiles, just to one side of a square pillar.
Harriet would get hit first, in the chest. She was supposed to jerk back, then keep coming forward, showing as little reaction to the shot as she could muster. Bobby would take the next bullet in the head and it would bring him down. The squib was hidden under one latex fold of his scalp wound. The wires that would cause the Trojan to explode were threaded through his hair.
“You can slump first, and slide down and to the side,” George Romero said. “Drop to one knee if you want, and then spill yourself out of the frame. If you’re feeling a bit more acrobatic you can fall straight back—just be sure you hit the mattress. No one needs to get hurt.”
It was just Bobby and Harriet in the shot, which would picture them from the waist up. The other extras lined the walls of the shopping-mall corridor, watching them. Their stares, their steady murmuring, induced in Bobby a pleasurable burst of adrenaline. Tom Savini knelt on the floor, just outside the framed shot, with a metal box in hand, wires snaking across the floor toward Bobby and Harriet. Little Bob sat next to him, his hands cupped under his chin, squeezing the spleen, his eyes shiny with anticipation. Savini had told little Bob all about what was going to happen, preparing the kid for the sight of blood bursting from his mother’s chest, but little Bob wasn’t worried. “I’ve been seeing gross stuff all day. It isn’t scary. I like it.” Savini was letting him keep the spleen as a souvenir.
“Roll,” Romero said. Bobby twitched—what, they were rolling? Already? He only just gave them their marks! Christ, Romero was still standing in front of the camera!—and for an instant Bobby grabbed Harriet’s hand. She squeezed his fingers, let go. Romero eased himself out of the shot. “Action.”
Bobby rolled his eyes back in his head, rolled them back so far he couldn’t see where he was going. He let his face hang slack. He took a plodding step forward.
“Shoot the girl,” Romero said.
Bobby didn’t see her squib go off because he was a step ahead of her. But he heard it, a loud, ringing crack that echoed; and he smelled it, a sudden pungent whiff of gunpowder. Harriet grunted softly.
“Annnd,” Romero said. “Now the other one.”
It was like a gunshot going off next to his head. The bang of the blasting cap was so loud it immediately deafened his eardrums. He snapped backward, spinning on his heel. His shoulder slammed into something just behind him, he didn’t see what. He caught a blurred glimpse of the square pillar next to the mattress, and in that instant was seized with a jolt of inspiration. He smashed his forehead into it on his way down, and as he reeled away, saw he had left a crimson flower on the white plaster.
He hit the mattress, the cushion springy enough to provide a little bounce. He blinked. His eyes were watering, creating a visual distortion, a subtle warping of things. The air above him was filled with blue smoke. The center of his head stung. His face was splattered with cool, sticky fluid. As the ringing in his ears faded, he simultaneously became aware of two things. The first was the sound, a low, subterranean bellow, a distant, steady rumble of applause. The sound filled him like breath. George Romero was moving toward him, also clapping, smiling in that way that made dimples in his beard. The second thing he noticed was Harriet curled against him, her hand on his chest.
“Did I knock you down?” he asked.
“’Fraid so,” she said.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before I got you in bed with me,” he said.
Harriet smiled, an easy contented smile like he hadn’t seen at any other time the whole day. Her blood-drenched bosom rose and fell against his side.
Little Bob ran to the edge of the mattress and leaped onto it with them. Harriet got her arm underneath him, scooped him up, and rolled him into the narrow space between her and Bobby. Little Bob grinned and put his thumb in his mouth. Bobby’s face was close to the boy’s head, and suddenly he was aware of the smell of little Bob’s shampoo, a melon-flavored scent.
Harriet watched him steadily across her son, still with that same smile on her face. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, the banks of skylights, the crisp, blue sky beyond. Nothing in him wanted to get up, wanted to move past the next few moments. He wondered what Harriet did with herself when Dean was at work and little Bobby was at school. Tomorrow was a Monday; he didn’t know if he would be teaching or free. He hoped free. The workweek stretched ahead of him, empty of responsibilities or concerns, limitless in its possibilities. The three of them, Bobby, and the boy, and Harriet, lay on the mattress, their bodies pressed close together and there was no movement but for their breathing.
George Romero turned back to them, shaking his head. “That was great, when you hit the pillar, and you left that big streak of gore. We should do it again, just the same way. This time you could leave some brains behind. What do you two kids say? Either one of you feel like a do-over?”
“Me,” Bobby said.
“Me,” said Harriet. “Me.”
“Yes, please,” said little Bobby, around the thumb in his mouth.
“I guess it’s unanimous,” Bobby said. “Everyone wants a do-over.”
MY FATHER’S MASK
On the drive to Big Cat Lake, we played a game. It was my mother’s idea. It was dusk by the time we reached the state highway, and when there was no light left in the sky, except for a splash of cold, pale brilliance in the west, she told me they were looking for me.
“They’re playing-card people,” she said. “Queens and kings. They’re so flat they can slip themselves under doors. They’ll be coming from the other direction, from the lake. Searching for us. Trying to head us off. Get out of sight whenever someone comes the other way. We can’t protect you from them—not on the road. Quick, get down. Here comes one of them now.”
I stretched out across the backseat and watched the headlights of an approaching car race across the ceiling. Whether I was playing along or just stretching out to get comfortable, I wasn’t sure. I was in a funk. I had been hoping for a sleepover at my friend Luke Redhill’s, Ping-Pong and late-night TV with Luke (and Luke’s leggy older sister Jane, and her lush-haired friend Melinda), but had come home from school to find suitcases in the driveway and my father loading the car. That was the first I heard we were spending the night at my grandfather’s cabin on Big Cat Lake. I couldn’t be angry at my parents for not letting me in on their plans in advance, because they probably hadn’t made plans in advance. It was very likely they had decided to go up to Big Cat Lake over lunch. My parents didn’t have plans. They had impulses and a thirteen-year-old son and they saw no reason to ever let the latter upset the former.
“Why can’t you protect me?” I asked.
My mother said, “Because there are some things a mother’s love and a father’s courage can’t keep you safe from. Besides, who could fight them? You know about playing-card people. How they all go around with little golden hatchets and little silver swords. Have you ever noticed how well armed most good hands of poker are?”
“No accident the first card game everyone learns is War,” my father said, driving with one wrist slung across the wheel. “They’re all variations on the same plot. Metaphorical kings fighting over the world’s limited supplies of wenches and money.”
My mother regarded me seriously over the back of her seat, her eyes luminous in the dark.
“We’re in trouble, Jack,” she said. “We’re in terrible trouble.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It’s been building for a while. We kept it from you at first, because we didn’t want to scare you. But you have to know. It’s right for you to know. We’re—well, you
see—we don’t have any money anymore. It’s the playing-card people. They’ve been working against us, poisoning investments, tying assets up in red tape. They’ve been spreading the most awful rumors about your father at work. I don’t want to upset you with the crude details. They make menacing phone calls. They call me up in the middle of the day and talk about the awful things they’re going to do to me. To you. To all of us.”
“They put something in the clam sauce the other night, and gave me wicked runs,” my father said. “I thought I was going to die. And our dry cleaning came back with funny white stains on it. That was them too.”
My mother laughed. I’ve heard that dogs have six kinds of barks, each with a specific meaning: intruder, let’s play, I need to pee. My mother had a certain number of laughs, each with an unmistakable meaning and identity, all of them wonderful. This laugh, convulsive and unpolished, was the way she responded to dirty jokes; also to accusations, to being caught making mischief.
I laughed with her, sitting up, my stomach unknotting. She had been so wide-eyed and solemn, for a moment I had started to forget she was making it all up.
My mother leaned toward my father and ran her finger over his lips, miming the closing of a zipper.
“You let me tell it,” she said. “I forbid you to talk anymore.”
“If we’re in so much financial trouble, I could go and live with Luke for a while,” I said. And Jane, I thought. “I wouldn’t want to be a burden on the family.”
She looked back at me again. “The money I’m not worried about. There’s an appraiser coming by tomorrow. There are some wonderful old things in that house, things your grandfather left us. We’re going to see about selling them.”
My grandfather, Upton, had died the year before, in a way no one liked to discuss, a death that had no place in his life, a horror-movie conclusion tacked on to a blowsy, Capra-esque comedy. He was in New York, where he kept a condo on the fifth floor of a brownstone on the Upper East Side, one of many places he owned. He called the elevator and stepped through the doors when they opened—but there was no elevator there, and he fell four stories. The fall did not kill him. He lived for another day, at the bottom of the elevator shaft. The elevator was old and slow and complained loudly whenever it had to move, not unlike most of the building’s residents. No one heard him screaming.
“Why don’t we sell the Big Cat Lake house?” I asked. “Then we’d be rolling in the loot.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that. It isn’t ours. It’s held in trust for all of us, me, you, Aunt Blake, the Greenly twins. And even if it did belong to us, we couldn’t sell it. It’s always been in our family.”
For the first time since getting into the car, I thought I understood why we were really going to Big Cat Lake. I saw at last that my weekend plans had been sacrificed on the altar of interior decoration. My mother loved to decorate. She loved picking out curtains, stained-glass lamp-shades, unique iron knobs for the cabinets. Someone had put her in charge of redecorating the cabin on Big Cat Lake—or, more likely, she had put herself in charge—and she meant to begin by getting rid of all the clutter.
I felt like a chump for letting her distract me from my bad mood with one of her games.
“I wanted to spend the night with Luke,” I said.
My mother directed a sly, knowing look at me from beneath half-lowered eyelids, and I felt a sudden scalp-prickle of unease. It was a look that made me wonder what she knew and if she had guessed the true reasons for my friendship with Luke Redhill, a rude but good-natured nose-picker I considered intellectually beneath me.
“You wouldn’t be safe there. The playing-card people would’ve got you,” she said, her tone both gleeful and rather too coy.
I looked at the ceiling of the car. “Okay.”
We rode for a while in silence.
“Why are they after me?” I asked, even though by then I was sick of it, wanted done with the game.
“It’s all because we’re so incredibly superlucky. No one ought to be as lucky as us. They hate the idea that anyone is getting a free ride. But it would all even out if they got ahold of you. I don’t care how lucky you’ve been, if you lose a kid, the good times are over.”
We were lucky, of course, maybe even superlucky, and it wasn’t just that we were well off, like everyone in our extended family of trust-fund ne’er-do-wells. My father had more time for me than other fathers had for their boys. He went to work after I left for school, and was usually home by the time I got back, and if I didn’t have anything else going on, we’d drive to the golf course to whack a few. My mother was beautiful, still young, just thirty-five, with a natural instinct for mischief that had made her a hit with my friends. I suspected that several of the kids I hung out with, Luke Redhill included, had cast her in a variety of masturbatory fantasies, and that indeed their attraction to her explained most of their fondness for me.
“And why is Big Cat Lake so safe?” I said.
“Who said it’s safe?”
“Then why are we going there?”
She turned away from me. “So we can have a nice cozy fire in the fireplace, and sleep late, and eat egg pancakes, and spend the morning in our pajamas. Even if we are in fear for our lives, that’s no reason to be miserable all weekend.”
She put her hand on the back of my father’s neck and played with his hair. Then she stiffened, and her fingernails sank into the skin just below his hairline.
“Jack,” she said to me. She was looking past my father, through the driver’s-side window, at something out in the dark. “Get down, Jack, get down.”
We were on Route 16, a long straight highway, with a narrow grass median between the two lanes. A car was parked on a turnaround between the lanes, and as we went by it, its headlights snapped on. I turned my head and stared into them for a moment before sinking down out of sight. The car—a sleek silver Jaguar—turned onto the road and accelerated after us.
“I told you not to let them see you,” my mother said. “Go faster, Henry. Get away from them.”
Our car picked up speed, rushing through the darkness. I squeezed my fingers into the seat, sitting up on my knees to peek out the rear window. The other car stayed exactly the same distance behind us no matter how fast we went, clutching the curves of the road with a quiet, menacing assurance. Sometimes my breath would catch in my throat for a few moments before I remembered to breathe. Road signs whipped past, gone too quickly to be read.
The Jag followed for three miles before it swung into the parking lot of a roadside diner. When I turned around in my seat my mother was lighting a cigarette with the pulsing orange ring of the dashboard lighter. My father hummed softly to himself, easing up on the gas. He swung his head a little from side to side, keeping time to a melody I didn’t recognize.
I RAN THROUGH the dark, with the wind knifing at me and my head down, not looking where I was going. My mother was right behind me, the both of us rushing for the porch. No light lit the front of the cottage by the water. My father had switched car and headlights off, and the house was in the woods, at the end of a rutted dirt road where there were no streetlamps. Just beyond the house I caught a glimpse of the lake, a hole in the world, filled with a heaving darkness.
My mother let us in and went about switching on lights. The cabin was built around a single great room with a lodge-house ceiling, bare rafters showing, log walls with red bark peeling off them. To the left of the door was a dresser, the mirror on the back hidden behind a pair of black veils. Wandering, my hands pulled into the sleeves of my jacket for warmth, I approached the dresser. Through the semitransparent curtains I saw a dim, roughly formed figure, my own obscured reflection, coming to meet me in the mirror. I felt a tickle of unease at the sight of the reflected me, a featureless shadow skulking behind black silk, someone I didn’t know. I pushed the curtain back, but saw only myself, cheeks stung into redness by the wind.
I was about to step away when I noticed the masks. The mirror was supported
by two delicate posts, and a few masks hung from the top of each, the sort, like the Lone Ranger’s, that only cover the eyes and a little of the nose. One had whiskers and glittery spackle on it and would make the wearer look like a jeweled mouse. Another was of rich black velvet and would have been appropriate dress for a courtesan on her way to an Edwardian masquerade.
The whole cottage had been artfully decorated in masks. They dangled from doorknobs and the backs of chairs. A great crimson mask glared furiously down from the mantel above the hearth, a surreal demon made out of lacquered papier-mâché, with a hooked beak and feathers around the eyes—just the thing to wear if you had been cast as the Red Death in an Edgar Allan Poe revival.
The most unsettling of them hung from a lock on one of the windows. It was made of some distorted but clear plastic, and looked like a man’s face molded out of an impossibly thin piece of ice. It was hard to see, dangling in front of the glass, and I twitched nervously when I spotted it from the corner of my eye. For an instant I thought there was a man, spectral and barely there, hovering on the porch, gaping in at me.
The front door crashed open and my father came in dragging luggage. At the same time, my mother spoke from behind me.
“When we were young, just kids, your father and I used to sneak off to this place to get away from everyone. Wait. Wait, I know. Let’s play a game. You have until we leave to guess which room you were conceived in.”
She liked to try and disgust me now and then with intimate, unasked-for revelations about herself and my father. I frowned and gave what I hoped was a scolding look, and she laughed again, and we were both satisfied, having played ourselves perfectly.
“Why are there curtains over all the mirrors?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe whoever stayed here last hung them up as a way to remember your grandfather. In Jewish tradition, after someone dies, the mourners cover the mirrors, as a warning against vanity.”
“But we aren’t Jewish,” I said.
