by Thomas Scott
When Pam Donatti woke she couldn’t quite believe how late she’d slept. Then again, after a minute or so, she wasn’t all that surprised. Yesterday’s bender had been a little over the top. Time to get your shit together, Pamela. Time to get up, grow up and move on. Had she let Ed down? Yes. Had she hidden the truth from him? Yes. But she’d done it out of kindness so as not to hurt him. Wasn’t that what you did for someone you loved? It’s one thing to deceive someone to hurt them, but what she’d done was the opposite of that. Yes, she’d betrayed her husband, but it was to protect him, not hurt him. It wasn’t selfish. It was brave and bold and responsible. Look how happy they’d been since Jonas came into their lives. Why spoil that? Or worse, why spend the rest of her life second guessing something from the past, something she had no control over in the here and now?
All she could do was move forward and take care of herself and her son. Lawsuits weren’t the answer. Good decisions were. The money situation would work itself out or it wouldn’t. She had good friends who were good people, and they would help her. It saddened her to think of how poorly she’d been handling things. No, don’t kid yourself, Pam. She hadn’t been handling anything, except a bottle of Vodka. That changes today, she told herself.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and went to check on Jonas. She was halfway to his room before remembering that Sandy had taken him for the night. When she checked her phone she saw that the battery was dead.
She plugged the phone into the charger, then headed to the bathroom to shower. She’d get cleaned up while the phone charged, then call Sandy to make arrangements to get Jonas. She took her time with it—the cleaning up—and let the hot water soak into her skin. Hopefully it’d pull some of the toxins away.
After thirty minutes or so she stepped out, wrapped a towel around her head, slipped into a robe, and went to sit and cool off before doing her makeup. When the doorbell rang she smiled to herself and thought: Sandy and Jonas…
The drive to Pam’s gave him time to think about his past, something Decker tried not to do very often. Last time he’d done something like this—not counting the sand niggers in towel-head central—it had been his old man, and his old man had been a walk in the park compared to what lie ahead.
Decker had been raised on a horse ranch in northern Indiana on ten acres by a loving mother whose spirit and soul was so stifled by her abusive husband that she died of cancer when he was about the same age as his own son was now, her own body turning against her when her heart could take no more.
The abuse Decker’s father handed out was predominantly emotional in nature because he was a small man in every sense of the word and to use his fists would have taken a particular type of courage he did not often possess. When Decker thought of those days, the memory that frequented his mind most was the image of his father’s teeth, crooked and razor sharp, browned with nicotine stains. Even when he smiled, which rarely happened, there was a feral nature to it, hidden behind a mask of alcohol induced anger that would reveal itself in an instant. It would happen so quickly Decker sometimes thought he was witnessing a portal to hell, a vortex of rage that could open with the flick of a switch where the eyes would change and take on a peculiar cast, a dullness like the sun sliding behind a layer of clouds. He knew if he looked into those eyes for any length of time his own soul was at risk.
Perhaps that’s why the teeth remained as the one thing he always thought about when he remembered his father. The brownish, yellowed, razor sharp teeth.
Always the teeth.
To drive past the ranch as an outsider on a summer day must have been idyllic. The tree-lined drive with its white crushed limestone, the perfectly manicured lawn and fenced-in pastures that led to the majesty of the main house gave the illusion of peace and tranquility. On either side of the drive they’d see the magnificent creatures galloping playfully within the confines of those fenced-in corrals and eventually their eyes would catch the barn set back near the edge of the woods, its indoor riding arena as big as a soccer field. Decker would sometimes walk out to the road and look at it himself and pretend he was someone else, just another admirer, one who was free from the terror and beauty of it all. But he knew the secrets within and it was hard to see the beauty as anything other than the facade that it was, a veneer of goodwill and harmony that fronted the shame and horrors of everyday life led by a moral bulimic who thought dominance and ascendency were Proverbs that somehow got left out of the bible by mistake.
It was, Decker thought, like living in the garden of the mafia.
One day, when Decker was only fifteen years old, a colt had spent the day playing in the pasture and had muddied itself from pastern to crest and everywhere in between. Decker loved the animal and its playful nature. When it was time to collect the colt from the pasture he’d often have to spend the better part of an hour getting hold of the young horse whose personality was that of a playful puppy.
The colt would stand still, his head bowed, his ears forward, his large brown eyes as warm and seductive as a high school cheerleader sitting alone next to the bonfire after a Friday night football game. He’d approach the colt with the halter in plain sight and as soon as he was within reach the colt would let out a snicker, paw at the ground with a front hoof as a distraction, then take the bill of Decker’s hat in its teeth and gallop away, his head bobbing in delight.
Decker finally learned the only way to halter the animal was on its own terms. He did it by sitting on the ground, his back turned, and let the animal come to him. It worked every time. After a minute or so the young colt would trot over and stand behind him and nuzzle his hair. Decker would then hold the halter out at his side and the colt would lower his head and practically tether himself.
He led the horse inside the barn and cross-tied him to the support beams on either side of the wash bay, leaving enough slack in the rope so the horse could turn his head and see what was happening. Decker took care with the hose, turning the pressure just high enough to loosen the mud. He started at the front hooves and worked his way up slowly. At the back, the colt had a ticklish spot near his gaskin and when Decker sprayed the animal on that spot the colt would smile and stomp his back hoof and let out a snicker that reminded Decker of a child giggling with delight.
These were the times that Decker enjoyed the most, alone and at one with the animals, times where he could almost convince himself that the garden was just that, a thing of beauty and there was no evil nearby, no secrets hidden within the majestic house of horrors, no vortex that could swallow him whole and leave nothing behind save a memory of something that never existed in the first place. But as he was once again about to learn, the endless complexities of humanity hold few boundaries and not only children see monsters.
He’d finished bathing the colt and was sluicing the excess water from the horse’s coat with a sweat scraper, a flexible blade with leather hand grips at both ends. The scraper had a smooth edge on one side and short metal teeth on the other. By flexing the blade and bringing the handles together as one the tool formed a loop that could be dragged across the horse’s coat to wick the water away. Decker was working the scraper when he heard the back door of the house slam shut.
It must have been another bad day at the office because his father was already drunk, shedding his suit as he approached the barn. He removed his coat and let it fall to the ground, then yanked at the front of his vest until the buttons gave way, sailing across the lawn like acorns blown from a tree during a storm. He pulled his tie loose, ripped open his shirt and let them fall in the grass as well. By the time he made it to the barn and the wash bay, he was down to his slacks and undershirt. His wing-tipped shoes were covered with dirt and dust. Decker thought if he ignored his father he might go away, but he was mistaken.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning up the colt. I let him play out in the pasture while I mucked out the stalls. He rolled around in the mud and made a mess of him
self. I think he enjoyed it, though,” Decker said.
“Enjoyed it? You think he enjoyed it?”
“Yeah, you should have seen him. He looked like a giant puppy rolling around in the yard.”
“Let me see that scraper.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got it, Dad. In fact, I’m almost finished.”
“Almost finished? You’re a pathetic piece of shit, you know that? You call that clean? I’ve seen pigs in slop that are cleaner than this.”
The colt was named Broker and Decker’s father now had his hand wrapped firmly around the halter, his knuckles right next to Broker’s right eye. He pulled and twisted the halter, his knuckles grinding into the side of the colt’s face between his eye and jowl. Broker’s eyes were going wide and his ears worked back, almost flat against the top of his head.
“I said give me that goddamned scraper, boy. I’m sick and tired of the half-assed job you do around here. As usual, I’m going to have to handle the hard work.”
Decker could have taken his father. Even at only fifteen years old, he was already bigger and stronger than his father. The problem was, he didn’t see himself that way. He saw himself as a little boy, one who’d been beaten down mentally and emotionally his entire life. He handed the scraper to his father and stepped back out of the way.
“Almost finished? What a joke. Look at this mud…it’s still caked on here.”
“I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
Decker’s father stopped and turned, his teeth bared, his jaw clenched so tight it seemed it might be wired shut. “If you hadn’t gotten to that part yet, then what are you doing with this?” He held the scraper out to his side and when he did one end of the handle slipped from his grasp allowing the blade to become unslung and it hit Broker across the top of his nose, the metal teeth leaving a gash that began to bleed.
“Dad, watch out! Broker’s bleeding.”
“He’s bleeding because of your half-ass work. And because he won’t hold still. Bring me those ropes. I’m gonna tie him off.”
“Dad, let me finish. I’ll take care of it.”
“Like you take care of everything else around here? Forget it. Now get me those goddamned ropes.”
Decker got the ropes while his father picked up the hose and began spraying the colt’s face with water, the blood pouring down across his nose before dripping on the ground and flowing into the drain set in the concrete. By now, Broker was fully panicked, his ears laid flat, his hooves slipping and skittering on the wet concrete. Decker’s father took the ropes and tied one at barrel height directly across Broker’s hind quarters so he could not back up and tied the other between the bottom of his halter and the D-ring on the floor. He then cinched the cross ties tight, effectively immobilizing the colt.
Decker began to panic and back away. He backed up until he bumped into the side of the wash bay in fear and shame as his father began whipping the colt with the scraper, his teeth bared, spit flying from his lips as he shouted over and over, “Who’s the boss? Who’s the boss? I’ll show you who’s boss.”
Broker, unable to move or escape the beating began to grunt, then he did something Decker had never seen a horse do, something he didn’t even know was possible.
Broker began to cry.
He let out a painful combination of neighing and screaming as Decker’s father continued to whip the colt until it was bleeding not only from its face, but from its forehead, muzzle, crest, and shoulders. Broker’s lower lip was extended and stiff, drool spilling from his locked-open jaw, his square teeth that only moments ago had been smiling with delight were now bared in contrast, his eyes full and unblinking and open so wide you could see the sclera. When he could take no more, Broker finally collapsed on his front knees, his head twisted to one side against the restraining cross-ties.
When it was over Decker’s father dropped the scraper and stood bent forward with his hands on his knees, his undershirt covered with Broker’s blood, sweat dripping from his hair. He was breathing hard and fast, taking in huge gulps of air. He finally stood upright, shook a cigarette out and lit up, exhaling smoke into the colt’s face. When he spoke his voice was distant, like he might have been remembering something from long ago.
“Sometimes you’ve got to show them who’s boss. It’s good for them and they don’t even know it.” He had a smile on his face, his cigarette pinched tight between his yellow teeth. “Get this cleaned up. I’m sick and tired of doing your work for you, you half-assed piece of shit.” He walked out of the barn and after a few steps stopped and turned back and pointed his finger at Decker. “That’s how you whip a horse into shape, by the way.”
What happened next changed Decker for good. When he tried to approach Broker, the colt panicked and wouldn’t let him near, as if it had been Decker himself who had whipped the horse. After three or four tries, Decker finally closed all the barn doors and simply cut the ropes and let the animal wander loose in the main arena.
Broker never let Decker get close to him again, and in Decker’s mind the reason was obvious. The horse knew Decker could have stopped the beating, but had been too afraid of his father to do so.
His father, on the other hand, would get drunk and tell that story over and over again to anyone who’d listen until the day he died, four years later. It was the first time Decker killed anyone. He was surprised how easy it was. He simply let him drink until he passed out, took the tumbler of vodka from his hand and replaced it with his father’s pistol, carefully wrapping his index finger around the trigger, placed the gun against the side of his head and blew the top of his skull across the room.
Once that was done, he stripped down to his shorts, put his clothes in a garbage sack, took a quick shower, called his girlfriend and took her to the movies. The garbage sack went into a drugstore dumpster on the way over to pick up his girlfriend, and after the movie was finished they went back to Decker’s house. His girlfriend loved horses.
As they walked in the house Decker opened the door and let her lead the way. When she saw the carnage she began to scream and cry. She was still crying when the cops showed up, explaining between sobs how she’d found her boyfriend’s father. Decker was crying now as well, but his tears came from a sense of relief and liberation. When the cops began asking questions Decker answered them all and even showed them the ticket stubs from the movie.
The cops never even looked at him. A month later he joined the army and was gone…in every sense of the word.
Decker was nuts.
Pam went to the front door, pulled it open…the smile still on her face, one hand holding the door knob, the other holding the towel in place on her head.
Decker pushed her backward, hard. She bounced on her butt and smacked her head on the floor. Even with the towel protecting her skull, it still dazed her. Decker followed her right in, kicking the door shut with his prosthetic leg. He rolled her, quick, then hit her at the base of her skull with the butt of the gun. The blow knocked her out cold.
In the back of his mind, he thought, pretty nice entry.
He took a quick peek though the front window to make sure no one was watching the house—no one was—then turned back to Pam. He pulled her through the house, back to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The noise could be a problem, but he couldn’t really do anything about that. He pulled the hammer back on the gun, then hesitated for just a moment—thinking about the one time they’d had sex, how good it had been. He even remembered thinking that maybe she was the one who could…repair him, return him to some sense of normalcy.
Then he remembered the look on her face when he happened to run into her at the grocery store months later, how she tried to shrink away from him, the swell of her belly and the fullness of her breasts evidence of their single encounter. He tried to explain that he was nothing like his father, that he was a good man who didn’t drink and would care for her and their son. He remembered how all he wanted to do was be open and honest with her. It was the most vulnera
ble he’d ever been with a woman, right there in the grocery store next to the produce, and she looked at him like he was some kind of freak. She told him to get away from her, that she never wanted to see him again. She hissed it at him, then abandoned her cart and ran to her car, one hand holding her stomach, the other covering her bouncing breasts.
Decker had been so stunned he didn’t respond. He looked only at her teeth when she spoke and when she hurried away he simply stood there and watched her go. He stood in the same spot for so long that a grocery clerk finally approached and asked him if he was all right. Decker told the clerk he was going to be a father, then walked away…
He wrapped her hand around the gun, put the barrel against the side of her head and pulled the trigger. He leaned down next to Pam’s ear and whispered, “Who’s the boss? Who’s the boss now?” At least he thought he’d whispered. He may have shouted. The blast from the gun within the confines of the small bathroom had been deafening.
A flood of panic rippled through him. This wasn’t like his old man…out in the country in the middle of nowhere. There were houses right next to each other. Had any of the neighbors heard the shot? There were no windows in the bathroom, so that helped, but if someone had heard…
He let go of the gun and stepped back. He wasn’t quite satisfied with the position of Pam’s body, but he knew that moving her was too much of a risk. He’d have to let that part go. He pulled two strands of her hair from a brush on the edge of the sink. Then he took two vials of morphine and carefully rolled her thumb and forefinger across the containers. The vials and hair went into a separate bag.
Had to hurry now.
He moved to the front of the house, sprinkling a smattering of a powdery substance in his wake. A quick check outside a few windows helped with the panic. No one was running toward the house, no curious neighbors were sticking their heads through their front doors with a ‘What was that?’ expression. In fact there was no one at all. He checked the back windows from the kitchen and saw the same thing. He could see a neighbor three houses down mowing a backyard. If anyone had heard the shot, maybe they’d think it was the mower backfiring.
