Grouper's Laws

by D. Philip Miller

  “We could stop and confront him,” Feller said. “There are two of us. We should be able to handle him …. ”

  His statement, begun in confidence, faded to a wish. He too had seen Potter working in his yard, shirtless, a miniature bison.

  Blondie didn’t get it. Why did Potter hate him so? Was it because he’d spent his youth in the pen and most of his time since with his humpbacked crone of a mother and hated anyone who appeared to be enjoying life? It wasn’t right. For having a little fun, he and Feller were going to die, strangled by Potter’s stubby fingers or beat to death by his ham-hock fists.

  Blondie ransacked his mind for a way out. Perhaps, they could apologize. But what for? They could hide in the woods that were flying past at dizzying speed on either side of the car. No time for that, though. Or they could stay in the car with the doors locked. But windows were vulnerable to swift-moving tire irons.

  “Isn’t there a dirt road off this one?” Blondie asked.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Feller said. “But I don’t know where it goes.”

  “Doesn’t it connect with Wheelhouse Road?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Why didn’t Feller know? He was the one who’d grown up here.

  “Someone told me it did,” Blondie stated emphatically, hoping assertion would help prove fact.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Feller said. “How far is it?”

  “It’s coming up soon. Can we turn onto it without Potter seeing us?”

  “I don’t know. He’s right behind.”

  Blondie flinched as a bat flew in front of the windshield. The demons were out tonight.

  “Stop!” Feller yelled, as if an elephant had wandered onto the road ahead.

  Blondie jammed on the brakes, skidding on the gravel and catapulting loose stones into the dark. For a moment, Blondie feared he’d stopped too short. The headlights of their pursuer ballooned in size. He was going to crash into them!

  “Now hit it! Let’s lose him.” Feller said.

  Just before the seemingly inevitable collision, Blondie took his foot off the brake and stomped down on the accelerator. A barrage of loose stones clattered against the car behind them as the Dart shot forward. The headlights in the rearview mirror shrank.

  Blondie rounded a corner and Feller screamed, “There it is!”

  Barely visible in the tangle of dead brush along the shoulder was a small gap. Blondie skidded around the turn and onto the dirt road, then killed the lights. For an instant, they careened on the edge of disaster, then the tires caught hold. Blondie stomped on the brakes and looked back. There was a brief explosion of light in the space between the trees, then darkness.

  Blondie turned the lights back on and sped away.

  At first, Blondie felt relieved. He was going to live through the night. Fantastic. Then, anger welled. Why should they have been frightened half out of their wits? Who was Potter to push them around?

  “We’ve got to do something about that asshole,” he said to Feller.

  “Why don’t we run up to him and ram our faces into his fists?” Feller suggested.

  “I’m serious. He’s a menace to society. He’s a psychological cripple, an evil man.”

  “And un-American,” Feller joshed.

  “We’ve got to do something,” Blondie maintained.

  “What are we going to do? Tell the cops?”

  “Why not? Isn’t there a law against following decent people around in the middle of the night?”

  “What decent people?”

  “We were just minding our business,” Blondie argued, his voice rising.

  “We’re two underage guys who were just out in the middle of a pasture drinking,” Feller reminded him.

  “But who knows that?”

  “Anyone who looks in the back seat.”

  Blondie turned to see a six-pack.

  “We can toss it,” Blondie said.

  “WHAT?”

  “Okay, we can put it in the trunk.”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Feller asked.

  “You’re damned right. I’m tired of being pushed around just because I’m a kid. Anyway, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m eighteen now.”

  “That’ll get the police’s attention,” Feller said dryly.

  Within minutes, they were in the parking lot at the highway patrol barracks on Baltimore Pike, the six-pack hidden in the trunk.

  “I’ll do the talking,” Blondie said.

  “It’s your show. Just don’t aim your breath at anyone.”

  Blondie strode into the gray flagstone building, noting the yellow and black Maryland flag over the entrance. He lived in a free state in a free country. He had rights. Feller trudged behind.

  A portly, balding man in uniform eyed them from behind a chest-high wooden counter.

  “What’s the problem, boys?” he asked.

  “Sir, we’re being harassed by a homicidal maniac,” Blondie blurted out. “not to mention a real asshole.”

  Feller lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Is that so?” the officer said. “And where and when did this alleged harassment occur?”

  “On Maidenspring Lane. Just a few minutes ago.”

  The officer held up a buff-colored form. It had been filled in with a pencil.

  “That’s mighty interesting. I just received a report from a gentleman who says two boys in a green Dodge Dart nearly ran him off the road on Maidenspring Lane. I wonder what kind of car you might be driving.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Blondie protested. “Can’t you see what he’s up to?”

  “Who?” the officer asked.

  “The selfsame asshole I was telling you about. Potter, right?”

  The officer’s eyes tightened.

  “Listen boys, I don’t have to tell you anything. A citizen has the right to make a complaint without fear of reprisals.”

  He was protecting Potter from them?

  “But just to rest your mind, I will tell you this. The name wasn’t Potter.”

  “What? Let me see that form.”

  Blondie reached for the paper in the patrolman’s hand. The officer caught his wrist in a steel grip.

  “Son, you’re skating on the edge. I don’t know what happened out there, but I’ll be willing to drop the matter if the two of you leave right now.”

  “That’s not right,” Blondie argued. “We’re law-abiding citizens just out for a drive.”

  “At eleven at night on a dead-end road? Seems a little unusual to me. You know, harassing a citizen with your car could buy you a nice room for the rest of the night — if you don’t mind bars across the windows.”

  “I think we can be big about this,” Feller interjected. “We can forgive and forget.”

  Blondie glared at the officer, his wrist still in his grip. The officer tightened his fingers and Blondie winced.

  “What do you say, blond boy? Can I get back to my paperwork or should I come out and scout around your car?”

  Blondie’s resistance collapsed.

  “Just trying to do our duty, sir,” Blondie whispered through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sure,” the officer replied, releasing Blondie’s arm. “Well, good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Fuck!” Blondie exclaimed as soon as they were outside.

  “Who do you think it was?” Feller asked.

  “It was Potter. He just used another name.”

  After dropping Feller off, Blondie’s mind fastened on a fact that had been lost in the heat of battle. Potter lived next door to him! And he’d had plenty of time to make it home.

  Sure enough, when Blondie turned into their cul-de-sac, Potter’s Buick was parked in his drive. Blondie was surprised that no lights showed through the windows. Had he already gone to bed or was he lurking beneath their front porch? Blondie took a careful look around before he got out of the car. He
saw nothing amiss.

  Once inside, Blondie locked the front door and went upstairs to his parents’ bedroom. He’d been sleeping there during the hot nights of August because it offered better circulation. He pushed his parents’ ancient Capehart stereo against the bedroom door. One couldn’t be too cautious with a lunatic next door. Blondie stripped to his briefs and hopped into bed. There was a faint light on the far wall. Someone was still up at the Tillys.

  Blondie tried to still his mind by thinking of something besides Potter. But his menacing bulk shadowed every thought. Then Blondie remembered what Potter had written his parents … all-night orgies. The idea of that gave him something else to ponder. He could feel his right hand begin to close into a circle. No, he told himself, it wouldn’t be appropriate to flog his dog after such a harrowing encounter.

  Nonetheless, a line of naked girls soon paraded before his closed eyes. He was a sultan and it was time to make his annual selection of harem girls. Each girl showed her wares as she passed. Blondie began to moan. Down the line he could see Tammy coming. Her body was perfect, like a statue come to life. Nessie began pushing against his jockey shorts. Yes, this was the way to get a grip on life, he thought.

  The line of girls stopped. Blondie opened his eyes. His harem girls vanished. He’d heard a creaking noise … like a door opening. Something moved and Blondie’s heart stopped. It was his reflection in the vanity mirror.

  Blondie heard another creak. It sounded like a footstep on the stairs. He cocked his right ear toward the noise. There was no doubt … someone was climbing the stairs!

  Potter was coming for him and he wasn’t going to be denied. Blondie’s imagination sketched every detail of the steel shank he’d be carrying. Potter would disembowel him, then eat his entrails. Blondie felt as if his quivering intestines were trying to crawl out of his body and hide under the bed.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  The words seemed deafening inside his head but were swallowed up in the stillness of the house. He cried out again. The steps stopped outside the door. The doorknob began to turn. The bolt slid open and the door smacked into the Capehart.

  “Y-a-a-gh!” Blondie yelled as he sprang from the bed. He tugged at the handles on the nearest window until it flew open. Tiny wires punctured Blondie’s skin as he dove headfirst through the window onto the shed roof. He’d forgotten to remove the screen.

  “Help! Help!” Blondie screamed, jumping up and down on the shed roof. “Murder!”

  Light burst from the windows in neighboring houses. The first person to appear was Mr. Tilly. He was wearing a bathrobe and house slippers, and carrying a fireplace poker and flashlight. He swung the beam back and forth across Blondie’s back yard.

  “Up here,” Blondie yelled at him.

  Mr. Tilly shone his flashlight on Blondie. He suddenly realized he was wearing nothing but his briefs.

  “What’s the matter?” Tilly asked as other rumpled bodies appeared behind other points of light. Soon, there was a small crowd. Blondie saw Rudy join the group. He was fully dressed.

  “It’s Potter,” Blondie yelled at the growing throng. “He’s gone berserk. He’s got a knife and he’s trying to break into my room.”

  Behind him, Blondie heard the door banging against the Capehart. He leapt to the ground and ran over to Mr. Tilly and the others.

  “Potter?” someone repeated.

  “Yeah. He’s flipped. He’s gone mad from living all alone with his

  mother … incest, I bet.”

  The small band crept toward the front of Blondie’s house in nightgowns, pajamas, and other nighttime apparel, bunched together, as if expecting at any moment the frenzied attack of a crazed ex-con.

  When they turned the corner onto the front lawn, a light came on next door. To Blondie’s astonishment and chagrin, Mr. Potter — in dingy coveralls — strode onto their porch. He crossed his arms and gave the group a malevolent stare.

  Mr. Tilly scowled at Blondie.

  “I thought it was him,” Blondie said sheepishly.

  They heard a shout and the group fell back. The front door opened. Feller backed from its yawning maw.

  “Christ, am I glad to see you, Blondie,” he said when he caught sight of him. “Something awful’s going on inside your house. I heard screaming from your bedroom.”

  “You were in my house?”

  “Yeah, I came back to see if you wanted me to stay over, what with that nut Potter next door.”

  Feller noticed Potter standing on his porch and blanched.

  “How’d you get in?” Blondie asked.

  “You gave me a key, remember? Right at the start of the summer. So I could donate to the Beer Bank if you weren’t home.”

  “Be quiet about that,” Blondie whispered to Feller. For the first time, he noticed the Fellers’ Fairlane parked along the curb below.

  There was an embarrassed rustling as neighbors became aware of their dishabille. Robes drew tighter and eyes turned away. People began heading for their homes.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes now,” Mr. Tilly said, throwing his gaze Potter’s way. A couple of the other neighbors directed vicious looks his way. He guessed next time they’d let Potter have him.

  So Potter hadn’t been the one in his house. Blondie was sure it had been him following them down Maidenspring Lane, though. He’d seen his Buick … well, he was pretty sure he had. Anyway, it had to have been Potter who’d written his parents in New York. Who else would have done it?

  The next time the Club went out drinking, Feller told everyone about their evening, elaborating on every detail. Blondie thought he was way too descriptive of his plunge through the upstairs window. For the first time Blondie could remember, Grouper laughed aloud.

  “Hell hath no furies like a wimp’s fears,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  His folks arrived home two days early. His mom gave him a hug, then a probing look, as if to ask whether he’d been involved in any more mischief. (Blondie was glad he’d scrapped the Beer Bank the week before when they’d topped it off.) His dad’s look was hesitant, as if he were unsure of his standing.

  Blondie had given the matter some thought during their absence. How could he feel the same about Francis knowing he wasn’t his real dad? He decided he couldn’t. The funny thing was he liked him better knowing that. His measuring rod wasn’t as severe for a stepdad as for a father.

  Another good thing. He immediately noticed that his mom and dad were getting along better. The tension that had calcified their every interaction for months was no longer evident. Blondie figured they must have reached some resolution, if only to carry on. Maybe that’s what people meant by commitment. It didn’t seem romantic in the slightest, but Blondie was beginning to wonder if the reality of relationships was ever a matter of romance. Perhaps romance was something within oneself — an aspiration, a figment of the imagination — that one applied to the world rather than discovered there.

  Whatever had changed, Blondie was glad they were back. Since he and Flossie had broken things off, he’d found the house an increasingly lonely place — and the guys weren’t enough. He realized he was beginning to tire of all the nights he spent drinking and bullshitting with them. Most evenings, he came home with his brain in a fog, slept late, and woke up with a hangover. What was the thrill? Where was the gain?

  The only evenings that had seemed fulfilling were those infrequent occasions when he and Grouper had gone up to the Overlook to “ruminate,” as Grouper put it. There, they spoke not just of what was going on, but of the meaning of things. Blondie felt he could tell Grouper anything — his dreams, his most hidden feelings. Thus, he hadn’t hesitated to share his growing disinterest in the B & F Club’s capers.

  “You can’t be a kid forever,” was all Grouper had said.

  After his parents settled in, Blondie decided to ask Francis the question that had been fluttering inside his mind ever
since the night Potter had followed him and Feller home.

  “Dad,” Blondie said. He wanted to use that word.

  His father looked up from the paper.

  “The Birds lost yesterday,” he said.

  “Dad, I need to know something.”

  “What’s that, Bernard?”

  “Did you know about Potter when you bought our house?”

  “Know what?”

  Geez, was he playing dumb or what?

  “About him killing a man.”

  “Killing a man? Mr. Potter never killed anyone,” his dad said. “Who told you that?”

  “Rudy.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  His dad seemed annoyed.

  “He wasn’t in prison?”

  His dad put his paper down. His eyes softened.

  “Mr. Potter was in jail for a few months as a kid. He stole a car and got caught. I don’t think we should judge him too harshly for that. He’s had a hard life, caring for his mother and all. She’s not quite right in the head you know.”

  She’s not quite right in the head? Blondie debated telling his dad about how Potter had been tormenting him. So he hadn’t killed anyone. He was still a bad actor. On the other hand, Blondie figured he didn’t deserve to be called a murderer if he wasn’t. He resolved to straighten Rudy out.

  Blondie excused himself and headed for the Tillys, although he felt a little nervous about seeing Rudy again. He might still be pissed about their encounter at the Cherrys’ pond.

  As he started up the steps to their front porch, Blondie happened to glance at the white Mercury in the drive. It was the same car Rudy’d been driving the night of the prom. One of the front headlights was broken, the glass held together with electrical tape. Blondie felt like a medicine ball had been dropped on his stomach.

  “Why, Bernard, what a pleasant surprise,” Mrs. Tilly said when she opened the door. Mr. Tilly, who was lounging in a Barcalounger in his Sunday pants and a sleeveless tee shirt reading the paper, was less friendly. He curtly nodded his head and went back to the funnies. Blondie guessed he hadn’t forgiven him for his late-night alarm the week before.